Summary: Buffy Summers was born the elder sister of Harry Potter and given up for adoption. Twenty years later while going through Joyce's effects after her death, Buffy finds her adoption papers and taking Dawn along, goes in search of her birth family.
A/U: Set after The Gift with one change. Buffy beat Glory back with enough time to get to the top of the tower and stop Doc from cutting Dawn to open the portal. So Buffy did not die in this story and go to heaven. Also timelines have been adjusted. The end of Buffy season 5 was in May, I moved it forward to the end of June, beginning of July. So that when Buffy goes to England Harry will not be at Hogwarts. And of course the timeline for Harry Potter has been set back six years as Harry and Dawn both are 14. At the start of the story we are in the summer leading up to the Goblet of Fire.
Pairings: Taking suggestions as currently I have none.
Disclaimer: Disney owns Buffy. J.K. Rowlings owns the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.
Author's Note: This is partial rewrite and partial new story. Originally a lot of what was done in this story was done for my cancelled Harry Potter: The Dawn Chronicles, where Dawn was to be the twin sister of Harry. Which that plot point is still in the story with an explanation on how that is possible. The other part of the story comes from Buffy being the elder sister of Harry. I took inspiration for that change from a story I re-read recently.
Prologue
January 20, 1981 – Tuesday
Elysian Gardens Hospital
Sixteen-year-old James Potter gazed at Lily with a look so profound, it seemed to encapsulate every ounce of love he held for her in his young heart. The sterile, hushed atmosphere of the muggle hospital room added an almost surreal quality to the moment, emphasizing the gravity of what lay ahead. Choosing a muggle hospital had been a practical decision, a discreet choice for the delicate task they were about to undertake.
In the center of the room, Lily Evans lay on a hospital bed, cradling a small, carefully wrapped bundle in her arms. Her eyes were fixed on their newborn baby, a silent connection forming between mother and child. She then glanced up at James, her expression tender, a smile that spoke of both love and sorrow gracing her lips.
Albus Dumbledore, a figure of wisdom and support, stood beside them. He had whisked them away to the hospital using Apparition, a necessary intervention when Lily went into labor. The mere thought of Dumbledore's presence brought a sense of reassurance, as if he was guiding them through a tumultuous journey.
James, holding his child's tiny hand, marveled at the miracle before him. "She looks like you, Lily."
Lily's grin widened with maternal pride. "Her hair is just like your mother's. And her eyes are like yours."
A tender kiss from James landed on his daughter's forehead. "That they are. She will be very beautiful when she gets older. Just like her mother."
Yet, amidst the joy and admiration, a shadow crept into Lily's expression. The smile faded, replaced by a sudden sadness that clouded her features. "We won't even get to see her grow up, James," she uttered, her voice laced with grief. Tears, like twin rivers, flowed freely down her cheeks, each drop a testament to the heart-wrenching decision they had made.
James ran a shaky hand through his windswept hair, the disheveled strands a visual echo of the emotional turbulence within him. His eyes, glistening with unshed tears, betrayed the heartache he felt in the face of an unthinkable decision. "Lily, we have to do this. We're only sixteen. We can't take care of a child. We're still children ourselves. Plus, you said it yourself that your parents would likely never let you keep her. If we give her up to a nice muggle family, she can have what we can't give her."
Lily, her voice tinged with a hint of hysteria, responded, "James, I know that! I've been placing concealment charms on myself for months, so no one would find out I was pregnant!"
Dumbledore, a silent observer to their anguished exchange, finally spoke. "The only reason I know is because of the two of you."
"We know and thank you for your discretion, Professor," James acknowledged, a sense of gratitude underlying his words.
Just then, a soft knock resonated from the open door of the room, drawing their attention. In the doorway stood Joan Carlyle, the adoption agent, her presence marking the beginning of a difficult yet necessary chapter in their lives.
Joan's expression carried the weight of experience, a sympathy etched into the lines of her face. She had walked into many rooms like this one, witnessing the poignant moments of young parents forced to make heart-wrenching decisions. "Am I interrupting?" she inquired, her voice gentle yet acknowledging the gravity of the situation.
James hastily wiped his eyes, a fleeting attempt to conceal the traces of the tears that had welled up in his eyes. "No, please come in," he managed, his voice carrying a mix of vulnerability and determination.
Joan Carlyle nodded understandingly, her gaze shifting briefly to Dumbledore before returning to the couple. "Our professor," James introduced, a note of gratitude evident in his words. "He's been like a rock during this time."
With a gentle smile, Joan took a seat in a chair beside the hospital bed, her demeanor reflecting a balance of professionalism and empathy. "Have you made your decision?" she inquired politely, recognizing the gravity of the moment and respecting the difficulty of the choice before them.
The young couple exchanged a solemn glance, a silent acknowledgment of the path they had chosen. "We have," James affirmed, his voice steady despite the emotional tremors beneath the surface. "We're going to go through with it." The words hung in the air, a shared commitment between two hearts burdened with the weight of sacrifice for the sake of a better future.
Joan Carlyle regarded them with a compassionate understanding, her eyes reflecting the delicate nature of the situation. "It's a brave decision you're making," she acknowledged, her tone a delicate balance of empathy and professionalism. "I'm here to guide you through the process and ensure that your child is placed in a loving and caring home."
Lily, her eyes still moist but resolute, spoke up, "We want what's best for her. A chance at a life we can't provide right now."
Joan nodded, appreciating the sincerity in Lily's words. "I'll do my best to make sure she finds a good home. Now, there are some forms to go over, and we'll discuss the details of the adoption process. It's important that you both feel comfortable and informed every step of the way."
Dumbledore, his presence a calming force in the room, offered his support with a reassuring smile. "If there's anything you need, do not hesitate to ask. This is a challenging path, but you are not alone."
As they delved into the necessary paperwork, the weight of their decision hung in the air. The room became a space where emotions converged — the pain of parting, the hope for a brighter future, and the unwavering support from those who cared.
As they finished up the paperwork, the room seemed to hold its breath, suspended in the poignant moment that marked the beginning of an irrevocable change. Joan Carlyle gathered the completed forms with a quiet efficiency, her presence a blend of professionalism and compassion. The weight of the papers, now containing the essence of their decision, seemed to echo the gravity of the situation.
Lily's eyes lingered on the small, carefully wrapped bundle in her arms, her heart heavy with the impending separation. James reached for her hand, offering a silent reassurance that spoke volumes in its shared understanding.
Joan, sensing the emotional undercurrents in the room, approached them with a gentle demeanor. "I'll take good care of her," she assured, her voice a balm to the ache in their hearts.
The newborn daughter, oblivious to the complexities unfolding around her, slept peacefully, cradled in the arms of Joan Carlyle as she prepared to leave.
"Thank you," James whispered, his voice filled with both gratitude and sorrow.
Joan nodded, acknowledging the depth of the moment. "You're doing what you believe is best for her. That's a tremendous act of love."
As Joan left the room with their newborn daughter, a profound silence settled over James and Lily. The empty space left behind was filled with the echoes of a decision made out of love and sacrifice. The room, once filled with the energy of a life newly begun, now bore the imprint of a choice that would resonate through time. James and Lily held onto each other, finding solace in their shared courage and the hope that their daughter would find a future filled with love and possibilities.
October 28, 1988 – Friday
Potter Home, Godric's Hollow, England
In the soft glow of a dimly lit room, six years after the somber day they made the heart-wrenching decision, James and Lily sat side by side at a quaint wooden desk. The room, adorned with traces of the years that had passed, held an air of quiet reflection.
Lily dipped her quill into the inkwell, her movements deliberate and measured. The parchment before her bore the weight of their untold emotions, waiting to be infused with the words that would bridge the gap between them and the daughter they had chosen to part with for a chance at a better life.
James, his expression a mix of love and nostalgia, reached for Lily's hand, their fingers entwining as they began the intimate act of penning their thoughts, dreams, and wishes onto the parchment. The room echoed with the soft scratch of the quill against the paper, each stroke etching the invisible threads that connected their hearts to the daughter who had become a distant but cherished presence in their lives.
As they wrote, the room held the tender essence of a moment suspended in time—a moment that would only find its true resonance years later when their daughter unfolded the pages to discover the unspoken chapters of her origin, the love that had guided their difficult decision, and the enduring connection that had never wavered across the years.
February 27, 2001 – Tuesday
Summers Home, Sunnydale, California
Buffy walked through the front door of the Summers' home, the day's events still lingering in her mind. "Mom!" she called out, her voice carrying a mix of exhaustion and the relief that came with returning home. She hung her coat on the coat rack, dropped her purse next to a vibrant bouquet of flowers, and couldn't help but smile at the card that accompanied them.
"Thank you for a lovely evening. See you soon (?) - Brian."
"Still a couple of nice guys out there..." Buffy mused to herself, appreciating the simple gesture that brightened her day. As she ventured further into the house, her thoughts shifted to the evening ahead. "Hey, flower-gettin' lady!" she called up the stairs. "You want me to make dinner? Mom?"
Silence greeted her, an unexpected void in response. A sense of unease settled in as Buffy cocked her head, waiting for the familiar sound of her mother's voice. When no reply came, she furrowed her brow and scanned the room, her eyes landing on Joyce lying on the couch, a notepad in her hand.
"Oh, Mom. What are you writing?" Buffy inquired, taking a step toward her. "Mom?" The lack of response stirred a growing apprehension within her. She moved closer, realizing Joyce's eyes were fixed not on the notepad but staring upward, unseeing.
"Mom?" Buffy's voice wavered, a childlike tone seeping in. Her steps quickened, reaching her mother's side. "Mom! Mom!" Panic edged her voice as she shook Joyce, desperately searching for signs of life. Her hands moved instinctively, feeling for warmth, for breath, an urgent mantra playing beneath her breath. Something was terribly wrong, and the realization clawed at Buffy's consciousness.
With a surge of adrenaline, Buffy rushed to the kitchen, her movements fueled by a primal fear. She snatched the phone, trembling fingers dialing 911. The seconds felt like an eternity.
"911 Emergency—"
"Hello?" Buffy's voice cut through, urgency in every syllable.
"Do you have—"
"It's my mom. She's not, she's not breathing!" Buffy's words spilled out, the fear of losing Joyce palpable in her shaken voice.
"Is she conscious?" the 911 operator inquired, a calm but urgent tone cutting through the tension in the room.
"No, I can't - she's not breathing –" Buffy's words tumbled out, a mix of desperation and fear threaded through her explanation.
"Okay, I need you to give me your address – I'm gonna send an ambulance over –" The operator's voice remained steady, guiding Buffy through the necessary steps in the midst of the crisis.
Buffy, her hands trembling as she clutched the phone, slowly nodded in understanding. An ambulance was being dispatched, a lifeline in a moment that felt like it was slipping beyond her control. "1630 Revello. It's a, a house. Revello near Hadley."
"I'm sending a unit right away. Are you alone in the house?" The operator's questions cut through the chaos, seeking to grasp the full extent of the situation.
"Yes," Buffy responded, her voice carrying the weight of isolation in that critical moment. The acknowledgment hung in the air, the stark reality of being alone in the face of an emergency settling heavily on her shoulders.
"And did you see what happened? Did she fall?" the 911 operator probed, seeking details to guide their response.
"I don't know, I just got home - what do I do?" Buffy's voice carried a mix of urgency and confusion, her desperation palpable through the phone line.
"Do you know how to administer CPR?" The operator's calm instructions aimed to empower Buffy in this critical moment.
Buffy's eyes darted towards her mother, lying still on the couch. "I - I don't remember."
"Okay, it's very simple. You want to tilt your mother's head back. Cover her mouth with yours and breathe into her mouth."
"Yeah, yeah, I know this, God," Buffy exclaimed, a sense of frustration in her tone as she put the phone down on the coffee table. Rushing to Joyce's side, she knelt down, her hands hovering over her mother's motionless form. With a deep breath, Buffy tilted Joyce's head back and began CPR, the training from years ago flooding back into her muscle memory.
She blew into her mother's mouth twice and then pumped Joyce's chest rapidly fifteen times, repeating the sequence. It was during the second round of chest compressions that a chilling sound reverberated through the room. Buffy's eyes widened, panic gripping her as she picked up the phone once more. "Oh God... Something cracked!"
"Is she breathing?" the 911 operator asked, urgency still laced in their voice.
"No," Buffy responded, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on her.
"Paramedics should be there in a moment. She might have cracked a rib; it's not important." The operator's words sought to reassure Buffy amidst the chaotic attempt at resuscitation.
Buffy's eyes remained fixed on Joyce, her mother's pallor sending a shiver down her spine. "She's cold."
"The body is cold?" The operator's inquiry held a touch of concern.
"No, Mom - should I make her warm?" Buffy asked, a desperate willingness to do anything to help evident in her voice.
There was a subtle change in the 911 operator's tone, a fraction less urgency. "No, if she's not responding to the CPR, the best thing is to wait for the paramedics, okay?"
"Well, when are they coming?" Buffy wondered, desperation creeping into her voice as she sought reassurance.
"They're very nearby. You just hang on... it won't be long..." The 911 operator's attempt at comfort offered little solace to Buffy, who could feel the seconds ticking away with an unbearable weight.
Buffy, her legs feeling weak beneath her, slid to the floor, the cold surface a stark contrast to the intensity of the situation. "I have to make a call," she declared, a tremor in her voice as she hung up the phone and dialed Giles' number. In the midst of the emergency, she needed him, not just for support but also to fulfill the unspoken responsibility that came with being a Slayer.
As the phone rang, the urgency in her heart matched the urgency of the situation. Giles, her watcher and mentor, had been a constant presence in her life since she first discovered her destiny as a Slayer. Now, in this moment of crisis, she needed him more than ever.
"Giles, it's Buffy," she said, her words rushed yet burdened with a weight that went beyond the supernatural battles they often faced. "I need you to come over. Something's happened to Mom, and I can't leave her alone. I need to go tell Dawn."
July 4, 2001 – Wednesday
A week after the defeat of Glory
Summers Home, Sunnydale, California
Dawn Summers pushed open the door to her mother's old bedroom, a space that had once been filled with warmth and comfort but now echoed with a haunting emptiness. The soft creak of the door hinges, once a familiar sound, now seemed to carry the weight of sorrow. As she stepped into the room, the air clung to the heaviness of the past four months, each breath a reminder of the pain and grief that had been deferred in the face of more immediate threats.
It had been four long months since Joyce's passing, and the room had remained frozen in time, a silent testament to the Summers sisters' collective struggle to confront the stark reality of their mother's absence. The bed, neatly made and untouched, stood as a monument to the void left by Joyce. In the midst of battling the formidable Glory, the responsibilities of a Slayer had left little room for the luxury of grieving. The looming threat of the hell god and the subsequent struggle to save Dawn from a gruesome ritual had taken precedence over the emotional turmoil that awaited them at home.
Dawn's eyes scanned the room, absorbing the familiar details that seemed to mock the normalcy of a life that was now forever altered. The untouched clothes in the closet hung like spectral reminders of a time when their mother's laughter filled the air. The muted colors, once a reflection of Joyce's vibrant personality, now seemed to fade into a backdrop of sorrow. The room echoed with the whispers of a past that felt both distant and achingly close, a paradoxical tapestry of memories.
With a sense of determination mixed with sadness, Dawn opened the closet door, the soft creak adding a mournful note to the atmosphere. She looked at the clothes still hanging there, a silent testimony to a life that had been abruptly severed. The decision to box up their mother's clothes for Goodwill had been a joint effort with Buffy, a strategy to navigate the emotional minefield. They had devised a plan to take turns, a way to share the emotional weight of the task. Dawn had drawn the short straw, finding herself in the unenviable position of being the first to delve into the tangible remnants of their mother's life.
Her fingers traced the material of a particular dress, the fabric whispering secrets of the woman who had been the center of their world. "Mom. I miss you so much," she whispered, her voice a fragile melody that resonated with the deep well of sorrow that had yet to be fully acknowledged. The room seemed to absorb her words, holding onto the pain that lingered in the air.
Dawn's gaze shifted, and her eyes caught a glimpse of a metal box on the shelf above the clothes. An unexpected discovery in a room already laden with memories and revelations. Determination flickered in her eyes as she fetched a chair, its unsteady surface a metaphor for the precarious balance of emotions she navigated. Standing on the chair, she reached for the mysterious container, its presence an enigma within the familiar setting.
As she tried to open it, a resistance met her efforts. The box was locked. A touch of luck was on her side as she found the key taped to the bottom. A bittersweet smile played on her lips as she held the key in her hand, a small yet significant detail that connected her to her mother's quirks.
"Not very secure, Mom," Dawn remarked with a hint of amusement, her voice carrying a mixture of affection and longing. She used the key to unlock the box, the metallic click resonating through the room. It was more than just the unlocking of a physical container; it was an unraveling of the secrets held within, a poignant moment in the journey of rediscovery.
Riffling through the papers inside, Dawn uncovered a trove of important documents—divorce papers, birth certificates, insurance records—details that painted a more complex portrait of their mother's life. Each document unfolded a chapter of Joyce's story, a narrative that went beyond the familiar contours of their family history. Among them, she found an envelope with Buffy's name on it, a seemingly innocuous piece of the puzzle that held unexpected revelations. Setting everything else aside, Dawn couldn't contain her excitement as she called out, "Buffy! I got that lockbox of Mom's open. There's an envelope here with your name on it."
Buffy entered the room, her expression a canvas of curiosity and apprehension. As Dawn handed her the envelope, Buffy's fingers traced the familiar handwriting on the front. With a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, she pulled out the contents, her eyes scanning the documents. The words on the pages sent a shock through her system, a seismic realization that rattled the foundations of her understanding. Adoption records for a baby named Elizabeth Lilyanne Potter, changed to Buffy Anne Summers.
"Am I reading that right?" Dawn asked, her eyes widening in disbelief. The air seemed charged with a newfound energy, the room holding its breath as the weight of the revelation settled in. "You're adopted?"
Buffy's gaze shifted towards the door leading to their mother's room, the connection forming in her mind between the revelations in her hands and the notepad Joyce had clutched when she died. The notepad, a seemingly insignificant detail at the time, now echoed with profound significance. "That must have been what she was writing."
"Hunh?" Dawn questioned, her confusion palpable as the pieces of the puzzle slowly fell into place. The room seemed to pulse with a shared sense of revelation.
"The notepad," Buffy explained, her voice carrying the weight of realization and sadness. "Remember I told you that I found a notepad in her hand? She had started writing something to me. This must have been what she was trying to tell me."
Dawn blinked as she took the papers from Buffy, her mind racing as she absorbed the unexpected revelations sprawled across the paperwork. The weight of the newfound knowledge settled in, creating a sense of dissonance between the past they thought they knew and the reality that now unfolded before them. The lockbox felt heavier in her hands as she picked it up again, her fingers tracing its edges, trembling slightly as she began to rummage through its contents once more.
"What are you looking for?" Buffy asked, a mix of curiosity and concern etched across her features. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the weight of untold stories.
"Mine," Dawn replied with a determined focus. "Remember I'm made from you. Which would mean I should have been adopted too, right?"
"The monks may have not known about my adoption," Buffy speculated, her voice a thread of uncertainty woven into the conversation. "Which means they would have likely had no reason to make it so you were adopted."
Dawn looked up at her sister, the complexity of their shared history weaving through her thoughts. The bond they shared, both biological and emotional, felt more profound in that moment. She nodded in understanding, setting the box aside on the bed before enveloping Buffy in a heartfelt hug. "It'll be alright, Buffy. I wonder who they were and why they did it."
Buffy returned the hug, the warmth of their connection momentarily easing the weight of the unknown. Questions lingered in both their minds, and the truth seemed to be a labyrinth they were just beginning to navigate. Determination set in as Buffy pulled away, a resolve in her eyes.
"There's someone who might know," Buffy said, her voice carrying a mix of determination and uncertainty. Without waiting for a response, she got up and headed out of the room. In the months since the funeral, they had finally heard from Hank, their father. He had even left them a current contact number in Spain.
"Buffy?" Dawn asked as she followed her sister, the uncertainty in her voice echoing the uncharted territory their conversation was entering.
"Dad might know," Buffy said at the unanswered question. The sisters made their way downstairs and into the kitchen, where she picked up the phone and dialed. The rhythmic tones of each number seemed to resonate with the gravity of the revelation, the air heavy with anticipation.
"Hello?" came Hank Summers' voice, a distant echo from their shared past.
"Dad, it's Buffy," Buffy said, her voice carrying a mix of vulnerability and determination. She hit the button for speakerphone so Dawn could hear, forging a connection that spanned the physical distance between them. "We were going through some of mom's stuff. Found adoption records for me. First, I just want to know why I wasn't told. Then second if you knew why they gave me up."
The silence on the other end of the line seemed to stretch into an eternity, a void waiting to be filled with the answers that had eluded them for so long. Hank's voice finally broke through, carrying the weight of untold stories and the complexity of decisions made in the past.
"Your mother was a stubborn one," Hank answered, his words carrying the echo of Joyce's presence in the room. "One of the things Joyce and I fought on was telling you. I wanted to do it when you turned eighteen. She wanted to wait. I always had the impression she was afraid you wouldn't love us anymore if you found out. Especially after what you revealed to her going into your senior year."
Dawn looked at Buffy, her eyes widening with a mixture of surprise and realization. The pieces of the puzzle were slotting into place, the portrait of their mother taking on new dimensions. "You knew, Dad?" Dawn said, her voice a blend of curiosity and incredulity, a question that hung in the air like a delicate thread waiting to be unraveled.
"Hello, Dawn. Yes, I knew there were things out there. I've known since you were ten, Buffy. Do you remember when your mother and I asked if you wanted to go to a boarding school?"
"I remember," Buffy said, the memories of that moment flickering in the corners of her mind like fragments of a distant dream.
"I've known since then that there were things out there. Then when you turned fifteen and said you had been fighting vampires. I tried to dismiss it. After all, you hadn't gone to the school, I figured you probably had made it up. Then two years later you revealed to your mother the truth, and that was when I knew you hadn't made anything up. I'm sorry, Buffy, for not believing you at the time."
"Thanks, dad," Buffy said, her acknowledgment carrying a mixture of understanding and acceptance. The room seemed to hold the weight of the past, the echoes of doubt and realization mingling in the air.
"About your birth parents," Hank continued, his voice a bridge between the present and the mysteries of Buffy's origins. "From what I gather, they were underage at the time, around fifteen or sixteen. They did love you, that's why your official birth certificate actually has your birthname labeled on it instead of your adopted name."
Buffy absorbed this revelation, her gaze briefly meeting Dawn's, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. The room held a complex tapestry of emotions, the threads of the past weaving into a narrative neither of them had fully understood.
"Thank you, dad," Buffy said, her voice carrying a blend of gratitude and contemplation. Her father's words resonated in the quiet space, a bridge connecting the past with the present.
"One last thing, Buffy, before I let you both go," Hank said, a note of solemnity in his tone. "You will always be my daughter. That will never change, even if you want to go to England and look them up."
"Thanks," Buffy said as tears came to her eyes. The weight of the moment, the emotions stirred by her father's words, hung in the air like a delicate dance between relief and curiosity. She was grateful that Hank felt that way, a connection reaffirmed despite the revelations that had unfolded. She hung up the phone as Dawn handed her the envelope and paperwork, the tangible remnants of a past they were only just beginning to unravel.
"Do you want to try and find out more about them?" Dawn asked, her eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and support.
"Yeah, I think I do," Buffy said, her gaze dropping to the paperwork, the adoption papers, a roadmap to the unknown. She saw the phone number and agency listed:
British Agencies for Adoption and Fostering
Buffy's heart raced as she absorbed the gravity of the information before her. The prospect of delving into her origins, of uncovering the threads that connected her to a past shrouded in mystery, tugged at her with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. The room seemed to hold its breath as Buffy picked up the phone again, her fingers dialing the number.
"British Agencies for Adoption and Fostering. This is Gavina Thomas, how may I direct your call?"
Buffy glanced at Dawn, a reassuring smile on her lips. "My name is Buffy Summers, and I'm in Sunnydale, California. My mom passed away recently, and my sister and I found out that I was adopted. I'm trying to find out information on my birth parents."
"Do you have the name of the case worker?" Gavina asked, her voice a steady presence on the other end of the line.
"Yes, it's Joan Carlyle," Buffy said.
"Joan retired five years ago. I will transfer you over to her daughter, Casey, who took over for her."
Buffy's anticipation heightened as she waited, each passing second stretching into a heartbeat. The connection seemed to dance on the edge of the unknown, a transition from one chapter to the next.
"This is Casey Carlyle, Ms. Summers, how may I help you?"
Buffy smiled at Dawn, a silent acknowledgment of the significance of this moment. "I'm calling trying to find information on my birth family. According to my adoption records, my name would be Elizabeth Lilyanne Potter in your records. My mother recently passed away, and my sister found my adoption papers and birth certificate in Mom's lockbox."
Buffy waited as Casey pulled the information up on her computer, the anticipation building in the pregnant pause. The click-clack of keys resonated through the line, a symphony of possibilities unfolding in the digital realm.
"Thank you for waiting, Ms. Summers. Since you are twenty years old now, I don't have to worry about getting your adoptive parents' okay to reveal information. Now I'm afraid, though, I can only give that information to you in person, as I have to see some form of ID to confirm if you're the person in these files. How soon can you be here? You told the receptionist you were in California."
Buffy exchanged a quick glance with Dawn, the gravity of the moment settling in like a silent agreement between them. "Just a second." She muted the call, turning to her sister. "Do you want to go; I can't leave you here by yourself; you are after all underage. I won't go without you."
Dawn smiled, putting a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder. "Yes," she said. "Besides, since I'm made from you, even if I'm not officially adopted, it would still make them my birth parents too. I would like to get to know them also."
Buffy smiled at her sister, a mixture of gratitude and affection coloring her expression, as she unmuted the call. "My sister is a minor, and I'm her legal guardian, so I can't leave her alone. So, I have to try and get plane tickets for us both. If we can get a flight out. We can possibly be there tomorrow, maybe the next day."
"Then we will see you both in say two days' time at 9 am in my office. If for some reason you can't get a flight, please let me know, and we will push the appointment back," Casey said, her voice a reassuring guide through the intricacies of this emotional journey.
"Will do, thank you, Ms. Carlyle," Buffy replied before she hung up. The phone settled back into its cradle, the click echoing through the room like the closing of a chapter. She turned to her sister, who smiled at her with a mix of excitement and support. "Do you still have your passport handy from when we went on vacation with Mom last summer?"
"I'll go look for it while you get us a flight," Dawn said, determination lighting up her eyes as she turned and headed for the stairs. The anticipation of an unexpected journey added a spark to the task at hand. She paused at the door to the kitchen, glancing back at Buffy. "You might call Giles too. Let him know we'll be leaving the hellmouth for a while."
Buffy nodded, her mind already racing with the logistics of their sudden travel plans. As Dawn disappeared upstairs, Buffy dialed the phone, each number a step closer to the departure gate. She called the airlines, navigating through options and schedules until, against the odds, she found a flight with a last-minute cancellation for the next day.
The voice on the other end of the line confirmed their seats, and as she hung up, relief and excitement intertwined in her chest. The journey into the unknown was becoming tangible, a ticket in hand, and a destination ahead. But there was one more call to make.
"Hello?" Giles said, his voice a familiar comfort on the line.
"Giles, it's Buffy," she said, her tone a mix of urgency and determination.
"What is it, Buffy?" Giles inquired; his concern evident through the phone lines.
"Dawn and I are going to be out of the country for a few days," Buffy replied, her words carrying a weight that demanded attention and stirred concern.
"What? Why?" Giles said, the sudden worry evident in his voice. The news disrupted the routine of their battles against the supernatural, introducing a personal quest that transcended the boundaries of the hellmouth.
Buffy sighed, a mixture of emotions swirling within her. "We were going through Mom's stuff. In her safe was some paperwork. I was adopted, Giles."
"Dear lord," Giles exclaimed, his surprise and concern mingling in the single phrase.
Buffy chuckled; the irony not lost on her. "My thoughts exactly. Anyways, I want to try and find them, meet them if I can. I have a flight booked out of Sunnydale to Los Angeles tomorrow and then continuing on to London."
"Of course, I completely understand. I will see if Angel might be able to swing by and help out with patrolling. I'm sure Willow and Xander at the least will want to help as well, and maybe Tara and Anya as well. Is there anything you need?"
Buffy felt a surge of gratitude for Giles' understanding and support. The bonds forged in the crucible of their battles extended beyond the hellmouth, and in that moment, the sense of a chosen family became even more pronounced.
"Can you or Willow come over and get the keys," Buffy said. "So, one of you can watch the house while we're gone."
"I will come over this afternoon, Buffy," Giles answered, his commitment to their shared responsibilities unwavering. "And Buffy, just because you were adopted. Never think for a second that Joyce never loved you. I know she did."
"I know," Buffy said, her voice carrying a mixture of gratitude and reflection. The reassurance from Giles provided a comforting anchor amid the whirlwind of emotions that accompanied her newfound revelations. "Thanks, Giles. Oh, and, Giles, when I get back. You're going to have to teach me how to be British."
Giles chuckled on the other end of the line, the sound a familiar echo of their shared banter. "I look forward to it, Buffy. Safe travels, and may you find the answers you seek."
As the call ended, Buffy couldn't help but smile at the prospect of future lessons in British etiquette from the Watcher who had become not just her mentor but a father figure in the absence of her biological parents. The journey ahead was not just a quest for her roots but a tapestry of shared experiences, blending the past and the present in a way that only family could. The keys, symbolic of the responsibility Giles would undertake in her absence, awaited their handover, and with that, the preparations for their departure continued, each action a step closer to the unknown.
Dawn's Dreamscape
Dawn's dream unfolded in a surreal dance of shadows and whispers. The ethereal voice murmured, "Harry Potter," a name that resonated with an air of destiny. In the dream, Harry, caught in a spectral struggle, felt the weight of unseen forces constricting around him.
"See what I have become?" the haunting face intoned. "Mere shadow and vapor….I have form only when I can share another's body…but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds…Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks…you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest…and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own….Now…why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"
An otherworldly tension gripped Harry, attempting to tether him to a fate he resisted. His legs refused to obey, rooted in place as the malevolent presence continued its whispered entreaties.
Feeling suddenly surged back into Harry's legs. He stumbled backward.
"Don't be a fool," snarled the face. "Better save your own life and join me… or you'll meet the same end as your parents. They died begging me for mercy…"
"LIAR!" Harry shouted suddenly.
Quirrell, a mere vessel for this malevolence, approached, the face's smile taking on a sinister delight.
"How touching…" it hissed. "I always value bravery… Yes, boy, your parents were brave…I killed your father first; and he put up a courageous fight… but your mother needn't have died… she was trying to protect you… Now give me the Stone, unless you want your mom and sister to have died in vain."
"NEVER!"
Harry, fueled by a surge of determination, lunged toward the flame door, but the face screamed "SEIZE HIM!" The dream world shifted, and suddenly Harry felt Quirrell's grip on his wrist. A needle-sharp pain seared across a scar on Harry's head, intensifying the dream's surreal agony. He struggled against Quirrell's hold, his vision blurred by both the ethereal pain and the relentless pressure to yield.
"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked the face again, and Quirrell, consumed by the malevolent force, lunged with ferocity. Harry was knocked off his feet, the world spinning as Quirrell's hands closed around his neck. Amidst the spectral chaos, both combatants writhing in agony, the dream danced on the precipice of reality and nightmare.
"Master, I cannot hold him — my hands — my hands!" Quirrell's voice echoed through the dream, a cry of despair entwined with the ethereal struggle that had woven itself into the fabric of Dawn's subconscious.
Summers Home, Sunnydale, California
Dawn woke up screaming, the echoes of her distress reverberating through the stillness of the night. Buffy, ever alert to her sister's every nuance, bolted upright, instantly by Dawn's side. Concern etched across her face; Buffy's voice was a soothing balm as she sought to unravel the source of Dawn's turmoil.
"What's wrong, Dawnie?" she asked, the words tinged with a mixture of worry and sisterly care.
Dawn's hand instinctively sought the lightning scar on her forehead, her fingers tracing the contours of the mysterious mark that seemed to pulse with an inexplicable pain. It was a peculiar scar, one that had always been a part of her, etched into her skin since infancy. To both sisters, it had long been dismissed as an ordinary birthmark, its origin shrouded in the mists of uncertainty.
"I don't know. I had this weird dream, but I wasn't in it. It was like I was in someone else's dream, a boy named Harry. I think it may have been our brother," Dawn explained, her voice carrying the weight of confusion.
Buffy's brows furrowed with curiosity and a touch of skepticism. The notion of an unknown brother, especially one named Harry Potter, was as fantastical as it was perplexing. The connection between the dream and a sibling they had never met seemed improbable.
"Why would you think that?" Buffy questioned; her concern now mingled with a hint of disbelief.
"His name was Harry Potter," Dawn replied, her words hanging in the air like an unspoken mystery.
The room, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, held an air of surreal uncertainty. Buffy pondered the inexplicable link between Dawn's dream and the elusive brother who, until now, had been relegated to the realm of nonexistence. The surreal notion of dreaming about an unknown sibling raised questions that lingered, leaving the sisters grappling with a puzzle that defied the boundaries of their reality.
"How could you dream about a brother we've never met?" Buffy wondered, the question lingering like a whisper in the quiet space between them, as the enigma of Dawn's dream beckoned them into uncharted territories of the inexplicable.
"I don't know, Buffy," Dawn said, her voice tinged with an unsettling mix of confusion and distress as the pain from the scar subsided, leaving a residual ache in its wake. The room felt heavy with the weight of the revelation she was about to share, a revelation that eclipsed even the mysterious connection to a brother from a dream.
"But that's not the worst of it," Dawn continued, her gaze fixed on Buffy, the gravity of her words hanging in the air like an ominous cloud. The room seemed to tighten, the atmosphere thickening with anticipation. "I think your mom and dad are dead."
Buffy's jaw dropped, aghast at the abruptness and severity of Dawn's statement. The words echoed in the room, each syllable carrying the weight of a truth too staggering to fully comprehend. Time seemed to momentarily freeze as the magnitude of the revelation settled upon Buffy's shoulders, casting a shadow over the once serene moment.
The gravity of Dawn's proclamation hit Buffy like a tidal wave, sweeping away the ordinary concerns of the night and replacing them with an overwhelming sense of grief and disbelief. The mere suggestion of the loss of her parents, a reality that had been unimaginable until this moment, left Buffy grappling with emotions too profound to articulate.
In that suspended moment, the room became a crucible of emotions. Dawn, haunted by the connection to a brother in a dream, now bore the burden of delivering news that transcended the boundaries of the surreal. Buffy, her eyes wide with shock, found herself suspended between the ordinary world and the harsh truth that had just been thrust upon her.
The air in the room crackled with tension, and the sisters, bound by blood and shared experiences, now stood on the precipice of a new and unimaginable reality. The weight of Dawn's words lingered, casting a pall over the once-ordinary night, as Buffy grappled with the seismic shift in her understanding of family and the profound implications that the words "I think your mom and dad are dead" carried.
July 5, 2001 – Thursday
Sunnydale Airport, Sunnydale, California
Buffy tapped her foot impatiently, her eyes fixed on the departure board as she and Dawn sat in the bustling airport terminal. The distant hum of conversations, the constant shuffle of hurried footsteps, and the electronic murmur of announcements created a symphony of travel around them. Buffy couldn't shake the feeling of restlessness that had settled in her bones, fueled by the anticipation of what lay ahead in London.
Dawn, engrossed in her book, occasionally glanced up at her sister, sensing the nervous energy emanating from Buffy. Finally, unable to contain herself any longer, Buffy let out a frustrated sigh. "Come on, Dawn. How much longer until they call for boarding? I feel like we've been waiting forever!"
Dawn closed her book, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Buffy, it's just a few more minutes. Take a deep breath. We'll get on that plane, and before you know it, we'll be in London."
Buffy nodded, attempting to follow her sister's advice, but her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. London represented more than just a travel destination; it was the key to unraveling the mysteries of her adoption and discovering the family she had never known. The weight of her anticipation pressed on her, making each passing second feel like an eternity.
As the boarding call echoed through the terminal, Buffy shot to her feet, her excitement palpable. "Finally! Let's get going, Dawn."
They joined the line, Buffy practically bouncing on her toes with impatience. Dawn chuckled, recognizing her sister's eagerness. "Easy there, Buffy. We'll be on the plane in no time."
The line moved steadily forward, and soon they found themselves settling into their seats. Buffy stared out of the plane window, her mind already reaching ahead to the moment they would touch down in London. The journey was not just a physical one; it was a pilgrimage into her past, a quest for answers that had eluded her for far too long.
Dawn, ever attuned to her sister's emotions, placed a comforting hand on Buffy's arm. "We're on our way, Buffy. London awaits, and I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for."
Buffy managed a grateful smile, the anticipation and uncertainty blending into a potent mix of emotions. As the plane taxied down the runway, she couldn't shake the feeling that every mile brought her closer to the truth about her origins and the family she had never known.