I wrote this months ago now, and have been fiddling with the idea ever since. I've got four chapters written so far, but no guarantee that I'm going to be able to keep this going on a reasonable time scale. Medical school – while deliriously exciting – is also the biggest time sink since cable tv.

To all network people: I own nothing. Harry Potter & co. belong to that marvelous J.K.Rowling, and Buffy and friends is eternally Joss's property. I am but a humble admirer of their work, and shamelessly worship them both. Enjoy!

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Prologue

One Year Ago …

" … I hear there's a Hellmouth in Cleveland …"

"We destroyed the Mall! Dammit, I fought on the wrong side!"

" … you're just another Slayer now, Buff. What are you going to do?"

Buffy Ann Summers stood and surveyed the sinkhole that was – that had been – Sunnydale. Moonlight glinted off the wreckage, smoke curled through the broken streets, and yet a strange peacefulness had settled over the scene. Very slowly, her gaze still fixed on some distant place only she could see, the girl who had saved the world – again – smiled.

And miles away, in a small office crammed with two desks and a mountain of paperwork, in a box no one had thought to examine in almost three years, an ear-splitting alarm began to scream.

Arthur Weasley was not having a good day.

And smile, and nod, and "Hey Pete! Heard about those biting tea-cups down in Bristol? No, no - no one hurt. Just more paperwork to fill out!" Wave and keep walking. Good. A few more minutes and you just might make it …

Arthur turned to smile at another long-time Ministry employee, slowing but not stopping his (hopefully) inevitable nearing of the lift gate. Reaching the small crowd surrounding the Level Two lift, he forced himself to smile and make small-talk while he waited. The lift seemed to take forever to arrive. When the heavy jangling and clanging announced his freedom, the small cue was forced to wait while a flood of fluttering memos exited the grates first. Arthur tried not to stare at the bewitched papers, paying strict attention to Bob's newest cross-species misadventure in an effort not to wonder if one of those memos were for him.

He could easily imagine what it might say: ARTHUR WEASLEY – DO NOT LEAVE THE BUILDING. ARTHUR WEASLEY – REPORT TO THE MINISTER OF MAGIC'S OFFICE. ARTHUR WEASLEY – DEMENTOR GUARDS HAVE ARRIVED TO ESCORT YOU TO AZKABAN, PLEASE RELIGUISH YOUR WAND AND HAVE A NICE DAY.

Bloody knuckle-cracking, You-Know-Who-Denying, oblivious Cornelius Fudge. Arthur struggled to look impressed as Bob held out his hands ("It was this big! Don't know how they even managed to hatch the thing!") and somehow managed a low whistle. The lift made several stops before reaching the Atrium. Every time the doors opened, Arthur would wonder if Fudge and a claxon of Aurors stood on the other side. His pulse would quicken and sweat began bead on his brow. But only memos fluttered in and out of the clattering doors, and once a witch completely absorbed in the most recent edition of the Quibbler entered the carriage without looking up. Arthur recognized the cover at once – hard not to with poor Harry's face splashed across it like that – as the edition where You-Know-Who's return had been published.

Arthur knew the story, of course. As a member of the Order, he had heard it all last summer. Still, it had been chilling to read the account as told by Harry himself. At the memory, Arthur's esteem of the boy rose even higher, were that possible. After all, Harry was practically a son to him, and had saved his life only weeks ago.

But though he had already heard the story, most of those working at the Ministry had not. Fudge was doing everything he could to discredit it, but he couldn't very well stop the mail from coming and most people at the Ministry subscribed to the Quibbler. Still, it was rather risky to read the article within the Ministry hallways. Arthur glanced over at the witch, but couldn't make out her face behind the paper. He wanted to look over and ask Bob what he thought, but the two of them had made an informal decision not to talk politics at work. It was too dangerous. Bob had children to support too.

Conversation continued in the lift much as it had before, but Arthur was paying even less attention to it now. They were approaching the Atrium, and sweat was beginning to swim across his forehead again. If Fudge was going to arrest him, he would do it here …

But the lift doors opened without revealing a phalanx of Aurors. Arthur forced himself to glance only casually around the open space. Dozens of witches and wizards dashed about, some glancing at the centre fountain as they did so, but most concerned only with the hustle and bustle that was their daily lives. Arthur walked quickly as he darted towards one of the fireplaces on the left side of the Atrium. Several co-workers greeted him by name, and he stopped to chat for a moment with each of them. Above all, it was imperious that he act normal. Nothing was amiss. There was nothing to be concerned about. Spies were everywhere in the Ministry these days. Arthur wanted desperately to trust those he talked too, but as each conversation dragged he could not help but grow suspicious.

Finally he neared the left-hand wall. Joining the cue, Arthur reached into his pocket and withdrew a pinch of Floo powder. He was fifth in line – a quick glance revealed nothing out of the ordinary – fourth in line – was that Fudge emerging from the lift? – third in line – no it was just another wizard, bowling hats had become quite the fashion once Fudge began to acquire power. The witch in front of him stepped up and announced her destination with a brisk shout ("Number ninety three, Diagon Alley!"), and then it was his turn.

Arthur stepped into the fireplace. Ashes licked at his scuffed and beaten boots. He removed the floo-powder from his pocket … he had thrown it on the ground … the words were out of his mouth before he dared to hope he was free … the fireplace took him and he spun and spun, tucking in his elbows out of habit, one thought fluttering memo-like around his brain:

I made it. I'm out.

There were times when Albus Percival Wulfric Brain Dumbledore hated to be proven right. Guessing that Tom Riddle – now styling himself as Lord Voldemort – would return was one of those times. This was another.

Arthur Weasley stood before him, his receding hairline decorated with sweat, his hands shaking slightly as they waited in the Entrance Hall of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Dumbledore sighed and averted his eyes, the blue orbs traveling to the ceiling as if he could read how to proceed from there. After a ponderous moment, he again lowered his gaze to Arthur Weasley, a good and decent man if there ever was one.

"And the alarm went off just as you entered work? No one else noticed it that you could tell or perceive?"

Arthur shook his head. "I wanted to send word immediately, but I got a flood of owls that morning and didn't want to appear acting out of the ordinary. Fudge has watchers all over the Ministry nowadays. I waited until the end of work, but couldn't bring it with me. It was too large to fit in my pocket, and even common spells are being monitored …"

Dumbledore shook his head, sending his white beard swinging softly side-to-side. "There is no value in the object now anyways, you acted correctly Arthur. I can only hope Lord Voldemort has not yet acquired this information," he ignored the sharp intake of breath that followed the mentioning of an unmentionable name, "but I trust you when you say no one else heard the alarm. Even if they did," he continued, a slightly twinkled coming back into his eye, "they would not necessarily notice it for what it was. That was why I asked for it to be stored in your office in the first place."
Arthur laughed as only one strung too long on too short a rope could laugh, "A muggle alarm clock – I have several boxes full of them. Even the night guards don't react anymore."

Albus Dumbledore smiled and reached forward to pat the younger man on the shoulder. "Go into the kitchen and eat now, Arthur. You have done well, and are not quite recovered yet, I think. Molly will have my head if I keep you from your dinner much longer."

With a grateful look, Arthur Weasley handed the responsibility baton to the man most capable of wielding it, and disappeared down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen. He had done his job and done it well, it was now in the hands of an older and wiser wizard to decide what to do next. And he might even still have a job come Monday. Dumbledore's plan, yet again, had proven secure. No one should be able to implicate his family in this newest information leak.

But the twinkle in Dumbledore's eye died the moment Arthur walked away. The elderly Headmaster walked to the wall and put a steadying hand on it, drawing strength from the solidity of the wood and the magic lying active therein. The House rejected him, of course, but that was only the surface impression. The deeper wood knew him as all things knew him, and lent him what strength it could.

More time, the elderly headmaster thought despondedly to himself. If only I had more time.

But he – they – did not. He wanted to put off his journey, to investigate this alarm, confirm for himself if it was true. But such a cross-continental journey would be taxing, and he would need all his failing strength now.

Yes, there was no way to put it off. He would have to begin his journey soon, would do his own part in this escalating war. And Harry … Dumbledore allowed himself a small smile. Harry would understand. At least, he would with time.

Pushing himself gently off the wall, Albus gave the fortifying wood a comforting pat before he turned and made his own way to the kitchen. All great adventures, after all, begin with a sound lunch.

And he had some time. He could ask a friend to investigate. Yes, Albus nodded absently to himself as he walked away from the hall, he could do that indeed.

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hey guys! Sorry about the edit there: I forgot to add the last bit to this prologue. Best to put the past all together and leave it there, then move on to the present, eh?

But review please! Good or bad – let me know what your thinking!

-- raiining