Okay, loyal readers, I'd like to hear your valuable opinion on this matter. Do you think Draco Malfoy should be redeemed in this story? Why or why not? Thanks!
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Bleezer's Ice
Cream
I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
I run BLEEZER'S ICE CREAM
STORE,
there are flavors in my freezer
you have never seen
before,
twenty-eight divine creations
too delicious to
resist,
why not do yourself a favor,
try the flavors on my
list:
COCOA MOCHA MACARONI
TAPIOCA SMOKED BALONEY
CHECKERBERRY CHEDDAR CHEW
CHICKEN CHERRY HONEYDEW
TUTTI-FRUTTI STEWED TOMATO
TUNA TACO BAKED POTATO
LOBSTER
LITCHI LIMA BEAN
MOZZARELLA MANGOSTEEN
ALMOND HAM MERINGUE
SALAMI
YAM ANCHOVY PRUNE PASTRAMI
SASSAFRAS SOUVLAKI HASH
SUKIYAKI SUCCOTASH
BUTTER BRICKLE PEPPER PICKLE
POMEGRANATE
PUMPERNICKEL
PEACH PIMENTO PIZZA PLUM
PEANUT PUMPKIN
BUBBLEGUM
BROCCOLI BANANA BLUSTER
CHOCOLATE CHOP SUEY CLUSTER
AVOCADO BRUSSELS SPROUT
PERIWINKLE SAUERKRAUT
COTTON
CANDY CARROT CUSTARD
CAULIFLOWER COLA MUSTARD
ONION DUMPLING
DOUBLE DIP
TURNIP TRUFFLE TRIPLE FLIP
GARLIC GUMBO GRAVY
GUAVA
LENTIL LEMON LIVER LAVA
ORANGE OLIVE BAGEL BEET
WATERMELON WAFFLE WHEAT
I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
I run BLEEZER'S ICE CREAM
STORE,
taste a flavor from my freezer,
you will surely ask
for more.
Jack Prelutsky
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10. A Meeting of Minds
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Sighing, Albus gingerly lowered himself into his cushioned desk chair as he unfurled his newly delivered copy of the Evening Prophet. Two more mysterious disappearances and an unusual derailing of a tube down at Manchester were the top news of the day. Tossing the newspaper carelessly aside, the Headmaster pinched the bridge of his nose with long, tapered fingers of his good hand, at once losing the great energy that others had always perceived in the renowned Headmaster. Muggle baiting and periodic snatchings aside, the past several months had seemed suspiciously quiet to the wizened wizard. If he didn't know any better, Albus would have supposed that they were stalling, just toying with the public's attention while they concentrated on something bigger. This was indeed the calm before the coming storm, he was sure of it.
The only real questions was: would they be ready?
A cold chill raced down the length of the Headmaster's spine as the memory of the dark days of the First Great Wizarding War flitted through his aged mind. Like a plague, the fear of Lord Voldemort and his followers had crept into the hearts of the weak and strong alike, poisoning their minds with foundless distrust and paranoia and disuniting a community that should have been more than capable of banding together to defeat the common threat. Yet, hardly anyone had realized what was transpiring right in front of their very eyes until it was almost too late. It was by no less than a miracle that Tom had finally been foiled at the height of his power by none other than a one-year old boy by the name of Harry Potter. And yet, the circumstances surrounding that fated night were weighing increasingly heavier on Dumbledore's mind.
For many, it would have been considered an lifetime achievement to claim defeat of the Dark Lord even once, but to have the fate of the entire wizarding (and quite possibly Muggle) world resting upon one's shoulders—it was too great a burden for anyone to carry, let alone a mere seventeen year-old boy. And while Albus had been reasonably content to simply observe Harry's astounding progress for the past six years, the Headmaster realized now that he must take an even more active role in the dear boy's education. Too much was dependent on the success or failure of their actions. The whole of the wizarding community's survival was now hinged upon them. I'm getting too old for this, Albus thought grimly as weariness seeped into his ancient bones. Had it been fifty years ago, Dumbledore would have gladly tackled Voldemort head-on, as he had done against Grindelwald. But now...
At the ripe old age of one hundred and fifty-seven, Albus could unashamedly confess that he was no longer in his prime. And while Harry was by no means encumbered with slower reaction times and the draining effects of prolonged magic use, the youth was beset by another set of shortcomings. Namely, the ability to focus one's mind and control one's emotions that usually came after decades of time and experience; luxuries that unlike most of his contemporaries Harry unfortunately did not possess. Still, Albus would do what he could. Take the boy under his wing and rally the resistance, those things he could do. Locate and destroy the remaining Horcruxes? That was a trickier task altogether. The puzzle of the last Horcrux in particular, had kept the wizened wizard awake during many a night. A shadow of a doubt was slowly beginning to take shape in his psyche.
Fawkes, who had been dozing atop his golden perch, awoke at the waves of anxiety radiating from his owner. The phoenix rose gracefully in the air and landed lightly on Dumbledore's lap, trilling a soothing song. The wizened wizard felt instantly rejuvenated with a small measure of strength and hope. "Ever are you a beacon of light in dark and difficult times, my old friend," he smiled down upon his faithful pet. As Albus stroked Fawkes' vibrant plumage with his uninjured hand, he was sharply reminded of another pair of young shoulders that had endured too great a burden and more horrors than he knew. A slow grin broke across his face as the elderly Headmaster recalled hearing Hagrid's animated recount of Buffy's rescue of Ronald Weasley over dinner several nights ago. The veteran Slayer would never know how much her selfless act had lightened his troubled thoughts. But then again, Buffy Summers had always had that effect on him.
Albus hurried down the narrow, graffiti-filled alleyway toward the entrance to the Ministry. The current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had an appointment with Cornelius Fudge to discuss the stationing of Dementors around the school grounds in light of Sirius Black's recent escape from Azkaban. It was not something Dumbledore was looking forward to; in fact he would rather have his beard plucked hair by hair than have another asinine dealing with the bungling bureaucrat. The last thing the wizened wizard had expected to see was a tiny blonde young woman standing inside the shabby telephone booth, peering alternately into the mouthpiece and earpiece of the receiver while jabbing random combinations into the keypad, her nose scrunched up in concentration.
The aura of power that emanated from her was almost palpable to his magically attuned senses. Albus sensed that the petite blonde was not a witch, but most definitely more than a Muggle, or he was a Squib. The Hogwarts Headmaster searched quickly through his memory banks. After several moments of wool-clearing, he concluded that she must be a Slayer, and an exceptionally strong one at that to have survived to her apparent early twenties. Dumbledore waited with practiced patience for the blonde to notice his presence, but she was too preoccupied with trying to figure out the payphone.
Albus couldn't conceal the amusement in his voice when he finally inquired, "Are you done with that confounded contraption yet, my dear?"
The young woman's head shot up quick as a whip at the sound of his voice, her expressive hazel eyes grew wide as saucers. He chuckled inwardly at her deer-caught-in-the-headlights look. She hastily jammed the receiver back on its hook and stepped out from the booth.
"I think it's broken, Gandalf," she informed him.
His clear blue eyes sparkled with laughter.
"Gandalf, I am not. I'm afraid I don't look nearly as sharp in monochrome nor do I own a shiny white horse," he responded in mock seriousness.
The young woman glanced around their surroundings cautiously before replying in a hushed tone, "Actually, you're probably going to think I'm crazy, but I just saw a man go into the booth and disappear through a trapdoor thingy."
She paused, tilting her head slightly to the side in considering the man standing before her. He was tall, willowy, very old, and—very odd. His impeccably bright, blue eyes peered at her over a pair of half-moon spectacles that lay perched atop a long and crooked nose. The stranger had a lifetime's worth of white hair, mustache, and beard, the last of which was tied in the middle with a tiny strip of blue ribbon that ended in tiny bells. But the strangest aspect about him was his choice of clothing, hands down. The silver-haired man wore a roomy long periwinkle dress with flared sleeves and tiny blue stars embroidered at the hems, topped off with a matching pointed cap and lace-up heeled boots. The buzz of energy surrounding him belied his aged appearance.
"Come to think of it, that guy was wearing a dress just like you. You're not members of some freaky cross-dressing cult, are you?"
Dumbledore couldn't for the life of him rein in his amusement any longer. The Headmaster's laughter bubbled forth loud and clear, echoing throughout the narrow confines of the abysmal alley. The blonde, however, merely crossed her arms and raised an expectant eyebrow. When Albus at last regained some resemblance of restraint, he had already decided that Prime Minister Cornelius would just have to wait. After all, he hadn't met anyone this interesting in years.
"I assure you that I am not a cross-dresser—as of late." His mustache and beard twitched ever so faintly. "Although I can hardly vouch for someone I've not met."
"My name is Albus Dumbledore, by the way. And I can answer all of your burning questions over a nice spot of tea and crumpets," he offered with a smile.
The young blonde appraised him through narrowed eyes for several long minutes, before apparently deciding that the Gandalf look-alike wasn't some big bad plotting to lead her away like a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. Plus, the girl was feeling too curious to refuse; he could tell that by the way she was unobtrusively scrutinizing him. "Okay, but only if you're buying. And I want coffee or something else instead," she agreed lamely.
"Of course, my dear," Albus replied benignly before leading her on the brisk walk to Diagon Alley.
Dumbledore caught the girl eyeing him suspiciously out of the corner of her eye, but pretended he hadn't noticed. They entered a small, shabby-looking inn by the name of The Leaky Cauldron, which sat sandwiched between a record store and large book shop. She frowned as her hazel eyes fell on the Quasimoto look-alike standing behind the counter. Frankly, his unusual appearance did not assure her that the freaky cross-dressers weren't—well, freaks—in the least.
"A round of butterbeers, Headmaster?" the bald bartender asked, giving them a friendly toothless grin.
"Not today, Tom. We're just passing through," Albus replied politely as he motioned for her to follow him behind the pub and into a small dead-end alleyway lined with trashcans.
"It's a wall—" she trailed off.
Dumbledore simply winked at her before pulling out his wand. Instantly, the seasoned Slayer fell into a defensive stance and watched warily as he tapped the bricks with his wand: three up, two across. He heard a small gasp as the bricks began rearranging themselves, shifting outward until an archway appeared at the center. Albus ducked inside and the blonde followed hesitantly behind.
She stopped short in her tracks as the entirety of the bustling long cobbled street came into view.
"Wow, it's like a secret hideaway!" the girl murmured in evident awe.
The wizened wizard simply smiled at the young Slayer, "Welcome to Diagon Alley, my dear. Come, this way."
He watched as the girl stared wide-eyed at the strange assortment of shops and restaurants and at the throng of odd men and women all wearing those strange dresses in every color and pattern. Judging by the confused look across her face, Albus was sure that she couldn't believe some of the establishment names she saw, such as Quality Quidditch Supplies and Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. The place probably made her Slayer senses prickle in the same peculiar manner his own presence had, only ten fold. And not to mention the weird hooting sounds being emitted from the nearby creature shop down the street.
Albus led her to an outdoor cafe in front of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. By the happy grin that lighted the girl's face, the wizened wizard knew that he'd chosen the right establishment. Mr. Florean himself came to take their orders. Dumbledore asked for a double scoop of strawberry and peanut butter, causing the young blonde to give him a rather funny look. She asked for cookie dough fudge mint chip instead, causing a perplexed look to flash briefly across Fortescue's face in turn before he left to fill their orders. This was how Albus Dumbledore ended up having sundaes under a brightly rainbow-colored umbrella with a blonde American Slayer. They made quite the pair: he in his majestic flowing robes and she in her pretty little sundress.
The small blonde eyed her ice cream closely when it came, and then raised it to her nose for a suspicious whiff.
"Don't worry, my dear. I'd never sink so low as to poison an unsuspecting guest," Albus assured her, dipping into his own sugary confection.
She looked slightly abashed before taking a tentative bite.
"So, are you gonna explain to me what the heck is going on, Bumblebee?" she asked plaintively.
"Yes, of course—it's Dumbledore, by the way. As you've probably already guessed, that was no ordinary telephone booth. What you saw was the Muggle entrance to the British Ministry of Magic."
"The what to the huh?" she blurted out eloquently, then she caught on to his words, "What's muggle? And what's the monastery of magic?"
"Muggle means non-magic and the Ministry of Magic is the wizarding world's own form of government."
The girl stared at him incredulously. "You mean there's a whole secret society of weird dress-wearing people around the world!"
Albus' mustache convulsed violently in mirth. "Those 'dresses' are called robes, my dear, and I assure you that it's custom among our kind for both genders to wear them. But yes, there are smatterings of my kind everywhere."
"So—you're a wizard?" she paused for a moment, "Is that what your skinny stake thingy is for?"
"Yes, we use wands to perform magic."
"Why did that bald guy call you a head master?"
"Because I am the headmaster of a school for young witches and wizards," he explained serenely.
"Oh." Realization dawned on her fair features. "You mean like a school principal?"
Dumbledore nodded.
"And this place, it's like a wizarding haven?"
"Of sorts." Albus surveyed the girl for a beat. "I must say that you are taking this remarkably well."
"Well, I've seen a lot of freaky shi—SHIPS in my lifetime," she scrambled to correct herself, appearing sheepish for almost having cursed in front of a really old man.
"Indeed?" He paused to study her in consideration. "Well, now that I've answered your questions, will you tell me your name?"
The girl stared deeply into Dumbledore's eyes for a long time, as if searching for any lies or malice. She smiled widely after apparently finding none and deeming it safe. Extending a hand over their table, she introduced herself.
"Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer."
A soft knock on the door jolted the Headmaster out of his reverie. Albus quickly called, "Come in!" Shaking away the memory, Albus turned his attention to the familiar petite blonde who had just entered. She was dressed impeccably as usual this night, her slender tanned frame attired in a snuck-fitting pair of charcoal pants topped off with an off-the-shoulder pale pink blouse. Buffy's long blonde hair was pulled up into a high ponytail that left wisps of gold to frame her heart-shaped face. She was the picture of youth and vitality, yet anyone who spared a second glance would have noticed the maturity that belied her appearance.
"Good evening, my dear! I was just thinking about you," he greeted her with a smile of pleasant surprise.
Buffy arched a golden brow in response. "It wasn't anything bad, I hope."
"It's never anything bad with you," Albus answered honestly, smiling as she settled herself into the armchair opposite his desk. "So, how can I be of service this evening?"
"You can't. I'm here to offer my services tonight," Buffy replied before she paused and grimaced, closing her eyes. "Okay. That sounded so wrong."
At that, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled even more than usual and his mustache was twitched violently as he let out a stream of soft chuckles.
"Anywho," Buffy continued while shooting him a reproachful glare. "I wanted to see if I could help unchar your hand."
Albus stopped laughing at once as he focused his clear blue eyes on the small blonde sitting before him. A comforting warmth spread through his heart suddenly as the wizened wizard caught the veteran Slayer eyeing his injured hand, and at the concerned expression on her normally impassive face, the Headmaster felt a compelling urge to stand up and hug the dear girl. It took a split-second for Albus to remind himself to stay in his seat. Buffy hadn't been much one for the hugging lately. "I'm afraid the damage is permanent, but thank you for the thought," he said after a moment or two.
"So, you've tried fixing it before?"
"Indeed, yes." Dumbledore bowed his head. Tried, he had, and by no small effort at that.
"Have you tried Wiccan magic?"
"No, I haven't," the Headmaster replied as a small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth.
In fact, Albus had never even considered it before. After all, no self-respecting wand wizard studied what was considered a subcategory of the dark arts. At worst, Wiccan magicks were considered backwards pagan mysticism and at best they were an inferior form since any old Muggle could perform spells and curses given the right materials and incantations. Through his acquintance with Buffy, Dumbledore had come to the realization that Wiccan magicks were indeed a branch of magic powerful in its own right. The veteran Slayer had told of many feats accomplished by her Wiccan friend that were considered utterly inconceivable within his own realm of magic. The conventional bias appeared to be just another myth perpetuated by the Ministry to protect their way of life from competing mores. However, even if the thought had occurred to him, Albus was about as wise to Wiccan practices as Buffy was to the courtroom procedures of the Wizengamot.
As if she had read his mind, Buffy said with a knowing grin, "I picked up a few things from Wil over the years. Not enough to open portals or anything fancy but I did help her regrow skin at some point. Since you seem to be missing some as well, I thought it wouldn't hurt to try."
The Headmaster's silvery eyebrows lifted as she reached over his desk to grasp both of his hands in hers tiny ones. Puzzled, Albus was about to ask what she was doing when the petite Slayer shut her eyes and exhaled a deep breath before instructing, "Close your eyes and concentrate. Just take what you need, I've got plenty to spare."
Albus did as he was told, feeling the Slayer's undiluted, primal power that was so different from wizarding magic emanating from the small slip of a girl in intoxicating waves. Tentatively, the wizened wizard reached out with his mind as he felt Buffy allowing him access to the very source of her power. The Headmaster nearly jerked out of her grasp at the immense, raw intensity of it but the veteran Slayer held onto him tightly. Clenching his jaw in concentration, he pulled back slowly from her essence until he was just barely grazing the surface. The wizened wizard briefly let himself rejoice in the overwhelming fact that Buffy had permitted him such a privilege, so intimate an act that it mirrored the sharing of one's soul. Smiling now, Albus focused his attention onto a tiny tendril of that power and harnessed it to mix with his own magicks.
After a few minutes or an eternity, Dumbledore wasn't sure, he noticed with awed wonder tingling and stretching and the sting of a thousand paper cuts as skin, tissue, and nerves gradually knitted together on that which had long lost its sense of feel—and his hand pulsed with blood and life once more.