Summary: Buffy Summers and Harry Potter are twins that were separated upon the deaths of their parents. To protect them from Voldeomrt they are split till they get their letters for Hogwarts when they are finally reunited at long last.
A/U: From the start of Harry Potter. Dawn is in the story from the beginning and is the Key. Also Willow is in the story from the beginning as a daughter of the Weasleys, Ron's twin. Faith takes Buffy's place in Sunnydale.
Pairings: Harry/Hermione. Buffy/Ron, Dawn/Ginny, Willow/Tara
Disclaimer: Disney owns Buffy. J.K. Rowlings owns the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.
Chapter 1: The Twins that Lived
October 31, 1981 - Saturday
Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey
Albus Dumbledore navigated the narrow, unwelcoming street with an air of both weariness and determination. The cobblestones beneath his boots seemed to shift with a grudging resistance, as if the very path sought to impede his progress. The atmosphere, heavy with a damp chill, seemed to reject everything about him—from the dignified sway of his elaborate, starry robes to the well-worn soles of his boots that had trodden countless journeys. Oblivious to the skeptical glances and furtive whispers of passersby, he delved into the recesses of his cloak with a sense of urgency, his fingers moving with a barely contained agitation in search of something elusive.
Caught in the act, Dumbledore abruptly raised his gaze, his penetrating blue eyes locking onto the steady, unblinking stare of a cat perched on a nearby garden wall. The feline's gaze was unyielding, filled with an inscrutable intelligence. A wry smile played on Dumbledore's lips, his eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and resignation as he muttered to himself, "I should have known."
Within the folds of his voluminous attire, Dumbledore unearthed a silver cigarette lighter—a small but significant artifact that gleamed with a silvery brilliance in the dim light. He deftly flicked it open, the metallic device catching the last vestiges of twilight as he elevated it into the air. With a resonant click, the nearest street lamp succumbed to darkness, its warm glow extinguished as if it had been gently extinguished by a celestial hand. Dumbledore continued this arcane ritual; each click sending another section of the once-illuminated street into a deep, impenetrable abyss. Twelve clicks later, the only remaining luminance emanated from the watchful eyes of the cat, which now seemed to hold the only light in the encroaching darkness.
Having completed his enchanting display, Dumbledore carefully concealed the lighter back within the folds of his cloak. With determined yet measured steps, he proceeded down the somber avenue toward number four. Seating himself casually on the stone wall beside the street, his posture was relaxed yet resolute. He acknowledged the feline presence with a sideways glance, a gesture of quiet recognition.
His eyes, though not directly focused on the cat, held a certain warmth and familiarity as he spoke, "Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."
As if in response to an unseen cue, the tabby cat began to shimmer and change, morphing into a stern-looking woman. Her gaze, sharp and intense, bore into Dumbledore, and she inquired with a tone of urgent curiosity, "How did you know it was me?"
Dumbledore's smile deepened, carrying an air of sagacity that spoke of many shared experiences. "My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
Professor McGonagall, her animagus form still fresh in her demeanor, retorted with a touch of exasperation, "You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day." Her tone then shifted, the gravity of her words reflecting the seriousness of the news she bore. "Everyone is saying that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are—are—that they're—dead. Is it true?"
Dumbledore's countenance, usually a beacon of wisdom and composure, now bore the weight of profound sorrow. His eyes, typically alight with mysterious knowledge and warmth, were dimmed as he bowed his head in a gesture of mourning. "I am afraid so, Minerva," he spoke with a voice heavy with grief. "It's also true that Harry and Isabella Potter were the only ones to survive the attack," he admitted, his voice tinged with a glumness that mirrored the gravity of the situation.
Professor McGonagall, her voice a mix of disbelief and anguished bewilderment, struggled to comprehend the inconceivable. "After all he's done…all the people he's killed… he couldn't kill a little boy or a little girl? It's just astounding…of all the things to stop him…but how in the name of heaven did Harry and Isabella survive?"
Dumbledore's response carried the weight of uncertainty, a veil of mystery hanging over his words. "We can only guess," he offered, his expression a canvas of contemplation marked by furrowed brows and a distant gaze. "We may never know." His voice, though gentle, carried the gravity of unanswered questions, and the shadows of the night seemed to lean in, amplifying the profoundness of his statement.
In the face of such unfathomable events, Professor McGonagall, a figure known for her resolute strength, revealed a seldom-seen vulnerability. She produced a delicate lace handkerchief from her purse, its intricate patterns barely visible under the dim streetlight. As she dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles, the dampness of the cloth became a silent testament to the profound grief that lingered in the cold night air. Each gentle pat was a quiet acknowledgment of the sorrow that had woven itself into the fabric of the evening.
Dumbledore, ever composed, gave a great sniff—a subtle, almost imperceptible acknowledgment of their shared sorrow. From his pocket, he retrieved a golden watch, its polished surface catching the muted light in a dance of glimmers and shadows. The watch's intricate details, so carefully crafted, seemed to reflect the weight of time and responsibility upon his shoulders. After a moment's contemplation, he returned it to its sanctuary with a gentle click. "Hagrid's late," he remarked, shifting focus with a minor alteration in his tone. "I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"
"Yes," replied Professor McGonagall, her voice a mixture of curiosity and concern that carried the echoes of her unresolved questions. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"
Dumbledore, a man of guarded secrets and subtle wisdom, offered a fragment of explanation that was as revealing as it was enigmatic. "I've come to bring Harry and Isabella to their aunts and uncles." The simplicity of the statement belied the complex web of destiny and responsibility that wove through his every action, a tapestry of fate that he had long been part of.
Professor McGonagall's disbelief escalated as she sprang to her feet, her finger pointing accusatorially at number four as if the very house itself were to blame. "You don't mean—you can't mean the people who live here?" she cried, her voice rising with incredulity. "Dumbledore—you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry and Isabella Potter come and live here!"
Dumbledore, his demeanor unshaken by her fervent reaction, met her incredulous gaze with a calm and steady resolve. "Only Harry," he corrected gently, his voice imbued with the wisdom of someone who had seen the intricate patterns of fate unfold time and again. "And it is necessary, Minerva. Just as splitting Harry and Isabella up is necessary. It is to protect them from Voldemort should he return. They will each be staying with the only family they have left. Petunia Dursley is Lily's sister. And Joyce Potter-Summers is James' sister. In the end, it is only temporary; once they discover that they have a twin, I expect they will never want to be separated again. At that time, they will likely choose one family or the other to live with." A faint, knowing smile played on Dumbledore's lips, as though he were in possession of secrets that would soon be revealed. "I have also written letters to both families explaining the situation."
Professor McGonagall's mind raced with the implications. "They'll be famous—legends—I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry and Isabella Potter Day in the future—there will be books written about Harry and Isabella—every child in our world will know their names!"
"Exactly," Dumbledore affirmed, his gaze steady over the rim of his half-moon glasses, which reflected the distant light with a subtle sheen. "It would be enough to turn any boy or girl's head. Famous before they can walk and talk! Famous for something they won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off they'll be, growing up away from all that until they're ready to take it?"
Professor McGonagall, momentarily silenced by the weight of his argument, opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, then swallowed her words before finally saying, "Yes—yes, you're right, of course. But how are they getting to their respective guardians, Dumbledore?" Her gaze shifted to his cloak with a flicker of hope, as though she might find the answers hidden within its folds, contemplating the possibility that he might be concealing Harry and Isabella beneath it.
"Hagrid's bringing them, here," Dumbledore replied, his calm assurance doing little to quell the whirlwind of questions that hung in the night air. His words, though measured and composed, seemed to barely reach the storm of doubts swirling around them.
"You think it—wise—to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?" Professor McGonagall asked, her skepticism etched deeply across her features. Her brow furrowed, reflecting her unease, as she weighed the implications of such a crucial responsibility being placed in the hands of the giant, whose reputation for carelessness was not easily overlooked.
"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore, his response resolute and imbued with an unwavering faith in the giant of a man. His voice held a deep, quiet confidence, rooted in years of experience and shared history, which spoke of a bond forged through countless trials.
"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall, her concession begrudgingly given. "But you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to—what was that?"
The quiet of the street was abruptly shattered by a low rumbling sound that resonated through the air, a deep and persistent vibration that seemed to disrupt the very stillness of the night. The noise grew steadily louder, transforming from a distant growl into a full-throated roar that commanded their attention. Their eyes darted around, searching the darkness for any sign of an approaching vehicle. Then, as if the heavens themselves were parting, a colossal motorcycle descended from the sky with an awe-inspiring descent, landing with a resounding thud on the road before them.
If the motorcycle was colossal, the man astride it surpassed every expectation. Towering over the ordinary, he was nearly twice the height of a regular man and at least five times as wide, a hulking figure of immense presence. His massive, muscular arms, which seemed to belong to a creature of myth rather than a mere mortal, cradled two bundles of blankets with surprising tenderness.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, a note of relief woven into his voice. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, his voice a deep, rumbling growl as he carefully descended from the motorcycle with the grace of a gentle colossus. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got them safely tucked in the sidecar, sir. They fell asleep as we were flyin' over Bristol."
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall leaned in, their curiosity and concern mingling as they peered at the bundles of blankets with a blend of awe and anxiety. Inside the protective cocoon of slumber, nestled together, lay a baby boy and a baby girl. Both were lost in the serenity of dreams, their innocent faces tranquil and untroubled by the world's turmoil. Under a tuft of dark hair on the boy's forehead, a distinctive cut, shaped like a bolt of lightning, caught the eye—a mark that seemed to pulse with a faint, mysterious energy. Similarly, on the girl's cheek, a matching curiously shaped cut whispered of a shared destiny, as though the two marks were part of a greater, hidden narrative.
"Is that where—?" Professor McGonagall's voice carried a hushed awe, her eyes wide with the wonder and gravity of the revelation.
"Yes," replied Dumbledore, his gaze fixed with a profound tenderness on the sleeping infants. "They'll have those scars forever." His voice softened as he spoke, the weight of the moment settling heavily upon him, the scars serving as both a symbol of their past and a portent of the future that lay ahead.
"Couldn't you do something about them, Dumbledore?" Professor McGonagall inquired, her concern etched deeply in the furrow of her brow, a silent plea for a solution to the marks that seemed to carry so much weight and meaning.
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground," Dumbledore chuckled, his voice carrying a hint of warmth despite the somber occasion. "Well—give Harry here, Hagrid."
With a tenderness that seemed to counterbalance his enormous size, Hagrid carefully handed over the baby boy to Dumbledore. The young infant, nestled in a bundle of blankets, was cradled by Dumbledore with an unspoken promise of care and protection. The soft glow of the street lamps cast a subdued light over the scene, creating a quiet, almost ethereal ambiance. Dumbledore's robes, swirling gently in the evening breeze, brushed against the low garden wall as he stepped over it with a practiced ease. As he approached the front door, his steps were deliberate and gentle, a reflection of the gravity of the task at hand. Placing the infant boy with delicate precision on the doorstep, he reached into the folds of his cloak and extracted a letter. With careful attention, he tucked the letter inside the blankets—a silent message destined for those who would discover the precious bundle left behind.
The three of them—Hagrid, Professor McGonagall, and Dumbledore—stood in silent contemplation, the weight of their emotions simmering beneath the surface. Hagrid's shoulders shook with an unrestrained display of grief, his large frame quivering with each silent sob. Professor McGonagall blinked back tears, her usual poise momentarily fractured by the enormity of the moment. The twinkling light that often danced in Dumbledore's eyes seemed momentarily extinguished, replaced by a solemn stillness that reflected the profound sadness of their task.
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, breaking the somber silence with a voice that carried the weight of both farewell and resolve, "give me Isabella, Hagrid. I have to apparate to Los Angeles to take her to James' sister."
"Yeah," responded Hagrid in a muffled voice, his emotions evident as he handed Isabella to the older man with a careful, almost reverent touch. "Well, I'd best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall—Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid mounted the motorcycle with a sense of finality. The engine roared to life, a thunderous sound that pierced the night air and seemed to carry with it both the weight of the present moment and the promise of a destiny yet to unfold. With a final, heartfelt wave, he ascended into the darkness, the motorcycle's engine fading into the distance.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her with a gesture that combined both farewell and reassurance. Professor McGonagall responded with a muted acknowledgment, blowing her nose with a quiet dignity that underscored her resolve. As Dumbledore turned, cradling Isabella with a gentle, protective embrace, he walked back down the street. Pausing at the corner, he produced the silver cigarette lighter from his cloak. With a single click, twelve balls of light streaked back to their respective street lamps, bathing Privet Drive in a sudden, warm orange glow that cast long shadows on the pavement. With a swish of his cloak and a turn on his heel, Dumbledore and Isabella vanished from sight, leaving the night to reclaim its secrets, their departure marked only by the echo of the motorcycle's roar and the soft, ephemeral glow of the street lamps.
Summers Home, Los Angeles, California
Dumbledore took out the silver cigarette lighter, its polished surface catching the light and casting a soft, ethereal glow. With practiced ease, he flicked it open, the light gently illuminating his features. The enchantment he had cast on Privet Drive was mirrored in this subtle glow, a beacon in the enveloping darkness. As he approached the door of the Summers' Home, the warm, inviting light from within seemed to offer a stark contrast to the solemn task at hand. Cradling Isabella carefully in one arm, he raised his hand to knock on the door, his knock echoing softly against the stillness of the night.
The door creaked open slowly, revealing Joyce Potter-Summers. Her eyes widened in surprise and apprehension at the sight of the distinguished figure standing before her. "Professor," she greeted him, her voice tinged with both curiosity and unease. She glanced around cautiously, her eyes reflecting a mixture of anticipation and anxiety, before stepping aside to invite him inside. As Dumbledore crossed the threshold, the warm glow of the lights within the house cast a comforting halo around him. Joyce's gaze fell upon the bundle he carried, her face a canvas of mounting concern.
"What can I do for you, Professor?" she asked, her voice a whisper of worry.
Dumbledore, his expression heavy with the burden of sorrow, looked down at Isabella with a mixture of tenderness and melancholy. He then turned his gaze back to Joyce, the gravity of his words pressing down on him. With a gentle, almost ceremonial motion, he extended the baby girl towards her aunt, the soft weight of the infant a poignant symbol of the tragic events that had unfolded. "I bring sad news; your brother James and his wife, Lily, are dead," he informed her solemnly. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of profound grief. "He was killed by Voldemort tonight. Harry and Isabella were the only ones to survive the attack. I felt it was in their best interests that they should be split up until it was time for them to attend Hogwarts. Harry will be staying with Lily's sister, and Isabella will be staying with you."
Joyce Summers looked down at her niece, her expression a blend of shock and sorrow as she absorbed the weight of the revelation. The news settled over her like a heavy, unshakable mantle, and she nodded, holding Isabella close with a fierce protectiveness that spoke of her immediate commitment to the child.
"I have here a letter," Dumbledore continued, retrieving an envelope from his cloak. The envelope, carefully sealed and marked with a delicate flourish, seemed to carry its own gravity. He handed it to Joyce with a gentle gesture. "It's for Isabella when you are ready to tell her."
"Thank you, Professor," Joyce said, her voice a fragile mixture of gratitude and the solemn acknowledgment of the task that lay before her. The words were a quiet promise of her resolve to honor the weight of the responsibility she had just inherited.
Dumbledore nodded, his eyes reflecting a deep mix of empathy and wisdom. "Good luck, Isabella," he said softly, his voice imbued with a sincerity that was both a farewell and a benediction. With a final, lingering glance, he turned and made his way towards the door.
"Hank!" Joyce cried, her voice breaking the stillness of the room as she called for her husband.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
Embracing the role of parents, Joyce and Hank had lovingly adopted Isabella, who they renamed Buffy, into their family. The Summers' Home, once shadowed by the weight of tragedy, had blossomed into a haven of warmth and joy, resonating with the laughter and vibrant energy of a thriving childhood. Buffy's presence infused the house with a renewed sense of purpose, and her bright spirit became a beacon of light for her adoptive parents.
Joyce, with an overflowing heart and boundless love, provided Buffy with a nurturing and stable environment. The warmth of familial affection was evident in the everyday moments they shared—the tender hugs, the encouraging words, and the small acts of kindness that wove together the fabric of their daily lives. Their home was filled with the soothing rhythms of family routines, where the simple joys of life were celebrated with enthusiasm and love.
Buffy's days were marked by exploration and discovery in the quaint town of Los Angeles. Her infectious enthusiasm and curious nature drew friends to her side, creating a lively and supportive circle. The town itself became a canvas for her adventures, with each street and park holding the promise of new experiences and friendships.
Recognizing Buffy's innate leadership qualities and boundless energy, Joyce enrolled her in a variety of extracurricular activities. Dance classes allowed Buffy to express her creativity through movement, while art lessons gave her a medium to explore her imagination. Sports provided an outlet for her spirited nature, channeling her energy into physical challenges and teamwork. The Summers' Home was alive with the sounds of her pursuits—laughter from dance rehearsals, the clatter of art supplies, and the cheers from sports events. These activities became a central part of Buffy's life, enriching her with skills and confidence.
Despite the seemingly ordinary nature of her upbringing, Buffy occasionally displayed moments of unique intuition or unexpected strength, hints of the extraordinary legacy that lay dormant within her. Joyce, ever attentive and loving, cherished these glimpses of something beyond the ordinary. She saw them as reflections of the magic of childhood and the indomitable spirit that radiated from her daughter. Each instance was a reminder of the remarkable path that lay ahead, even if it remained just out of reach.
As Buffy approached the age of eight, her adventurous spirit flourished. The neighborhood became her playground, a place where she could explore and forge deep connections with her newfound friends. The Summers' Home, once a symbol of sorrow, had transformed into a sanctuary of joy and resilience. Buffy's laughter echoed through the halls, a testament to her unwavering spirit and the loving embrace of her family.
Unbeknownst to Buffy, the tapestry of fate gently guided her toward a destiny that awaited in the years to come.
October 17, 1989 – Tuesday
Summers Home, Los Angeles, California
Celia sprawled dramatically on the bedroom floor, surrounded by a makeshift snowscape crafted from pillows and blankets. Her body was buried beneath the pile, creating a snowy fortress that seemed to trap her in its fluffy depths. She wriggled and squirmed, her voice rising in a crescendo of mock desperation. "Help me, help! Avalanche! Help! Help! I'm trapped! Avalanche! Help! Help!"
Buffy, ever the spirited heroine, burst into the room with an exuberant flourish. Her entrance was marked by a burst of energy and a confident stance—her hands perched on her hips as she struck a triumphant pose. "Power Girl to the rescue!" she declared, her voice brimming with heroic zeal. The room lit up with her infectious enthusiasm as she leaped into action.
With a swift and determined motion, Buffy knelt beside the pile of pillows, her movements exaggerated and full of theatrical flair. She grasped each pillow with a dramatic effort, lifting them as though they were immense blocks of ice and snow. Each toss was performed with a feigned struggle, her arms working tirelessly to clear the path. The room was alive with the sounds of her make-believe heroism.
As Celia's pleas for help continued, "Help me! Help! Help! Please, help!" the tension of the rescue mission built to its zenith. Buffy, fully immersed in her role, made a final, decisive effort. With a flourish, she removed the last of the pillows from Celia's face, revealing her friend's relieved and smiling expression. The room erupted into a joyous symphony of laughter, their playful adventure reaching its heartwarming conclusion.
"You're safe now," Buffy reassured her, her voice softening with the comforting tone of a true protector. The bond between them was palpable, cemented by their shared laughter and the magical world they had created together. The room, once a stage for the cries of help and the turmoil of the avalanche, now buzzed with the joyful hum of childhood camaraderie and the simple pleasure of imaginative play.
November 24, 1989 – Friday
Children's Hospital, Los Angeles, California
Buffy cautiously pulled back the curtain, her movements slow and deliberate, as if afraid of what she might find on the other side. The sterile, clinical smell of the hospital room enveloped her, mingling with the faint scent of antiseptic. There, lying in the bed with its crisp white sheets and glaring fluorescent lights, was her cousin Celia. Celia's body was a small, frail figure beneath the hospital blankets, her face pale and drawn, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. The high fever that had plagued her for several days seemed to have taken its toll, leaving her in a state of exhaustion and vulnerability.
Buffy's heart ached with a heavy weight, her eyes brimming with tears. Each day of Celia's illness had been a torment for Buffy, who had spent countless hours hoping and praying for her cousin's recovery. The absence of their usual playtime, the joyful noise and laughter they shared, had cast a shadow over Buffy's days, making the room feel emptier and the silence more profound. The longing to see her cousin well again gnawed at her, an ever-present reminder of the pain she felt.
As Buffy approached the bed, her gaze fell on Celia, who appeared trapped by an invisible force. Celia's movements were jerky and constrained, her limbs seeming to flail against some unseen restraint. Her eyes were wide with fear, her face contorted in a silent plea for relief. "Celia?" Buffy's voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with concern and a deep-seated fear.
In a frantic gesture, Celia's hand shot out, gripping Buffy's wrist with a desperate and frantic clutch. The intensity of Celia's terror was palpable, her breathing erratic and strained. Buffy's own fear surged, her eyes widening with the enormity of the situation. "What's wrong?" she asked urgently, her voice quivering as she tried to comprehend the desperate situation unfolding before her.
"Get it off me!" Celia's voice was strained, almost a guttural cry of desperation. "Get it off me!" The plea was filled with a raw, visceral terror that seemed to pierce through Buffy's heart.
Buffy's sense of helplessness was overwhelming. Her mind raced, her gaze darting around the room as she tried to find a solution, her own fear magnified by the sight of Celia's distress. "I don't know what to do! Celia!" Buffy's exclamation was a cry of desperation, her wide eyes reflecting the depth of her panic.
The urgency of the situation soon brought medical professionals rushing into the room, their quick, practiced movements stark against the backdrop of Buffy's distress. The door swung open with a hurried clatter as doctors and nurses entered, their faces a mask of professional concern. Joyce and Hank, alerted by the commotion, followed close behind, their expressions a blend of dread and worry as they sought to understand the gravity of the situation.
The room was charged with a tense, oppressive atmosphere as the doctors worked diligently. Buffy's parents, sensing the weight of the moment, pulled her close, their faces etched with the same fear and anxiety that mirrored her own. They huddled together, their shared concern a silent acknowledgment of the dire circumstances.
"Time of Death, 3:00 pm."
The words hung in the air, a devastating proclamation that shattered Buffy's world. In that crushing instant, everything she had hoped and prayed for seemed to collapse. She had not only lost her cousin but her closest friend, someone who had been an integral part of her life. Turning to Joyce, Buffy buried her face in her adoptive mother's shirt, her sobs coming in uncontrollable waves. Tears flowed freely, each one a testament to the depth of her grief and the aching void left in her heart.
The days that followed were a blur of overwhelming sadness and mourning. Buffy grappled with the profound loss, the weight of grief pressing down on her with an intensity she had never known. The world felt dimmer, the joy she once took for granted now overshadowed by the emptiness of her loss.
November 30, 1989 – Thursday
Summers Home
As the shadows of grief enveloped Buffy, she found herself drawn to a cherished photograph that had become a relic of happier days. The room was hushed, the air heavy with an almost palpable silence, as Buffy sat alone, the photograph cradled tenderly in her hands. The image captured a moment that felt almost otherworldly in its purity—Buffy and Celia, vibrant and carefree, caught in a moment of joy that now seemed so distant.
Her eyes were fixed on the photograph, tracing the contours of their radiant faces. The sunlight in the picture had cast a warm, golden hue over their beaming smiles, imbuing the scene with a sense of eternal summer. Buffy's fingers lingered over the glossy surface, almost as if she could will the captured moment to spring back to life, to fill her room with the echoes of their laughter and the carefree abandon that had defined their childhood days.
The weight of her loss pressed heavily on her chest, an unyielding heaviness that seemed to suffocate the breath from her lungs. Tears brimmed in her eyes, threatening to spill over as she allowed herself to be swept away by the flood of nostalgia. The sheer innocence and exuberance radiating from the photograph only served to amplify the ache in her heart, as Celia's absence loomed large and foreboding, a gaping void that seemed impossible to fill.
Buffy's gaze lingered on the picture, her mind awash with memories of shared secrets and whispered giggles. She recalled the unspoken bond that had defined their friendship, the endless summer days spent in joyful exploration, and the comfort of knowing that Celia was always just a heartbeat away. The photograph had become more than just an image; it was a portal to a world where Celia's laughter still echoed and their adventures seemed as boundless as the sky.
In the quiet solitude of her grief, Buffy clung to the tangible memory of their friendship as encapsulated in that photograph. It served as a lifeline, connecting her to a time when joy prevailed and the burden of loss was an unimaginable concept. As she stared at the frozen moment of happiness, Buffy whispered a silent goodbye, seeking solace in the enduring legacy of a friendship that transcended the constraints of time and space.
Suddenly, the gentle voice of her adoptive mother, Joyce, cut through the stillness with a soothing warmth. "Buffy," Joyce called, her tone tender and understanding, reaching out through the quiet and gently pulling Buffy back from the abyss of her thoughts. Buffy looked up, meeting Joyce's compassionate gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the shared sorrow between them.
Joyce, with a deep empathy that spoke volumes, spoke softly, "It's time for the funeral." Her words were a gentle reminder of the reality that awaited Buffy beyond the confines of her room, the solemn duty that now called for her presence.
Buffy nodded, her acknowledgment a quiet acceptance of the gravity of the moment. With a final, lingering glance at the photograph, she set it aside with care, as though reluctant to part with the tangible memory of her cousin. The heaviness of the occasion settled upon her shoulders as she rose to her feet, each movement laden with the weight of her grief.
As they made their way to the door, Buffy felt the oppressive weight of her sorrow cling to her like a shroud. The realization that she was about to say her final goodbye to Celia heightened the ache in her heart. Joyce walked beside her, a steadfast source of comfort in the midst of overwhelming sorrow, offering a silent support that spoke volumes.
The journey to the funeral was a silent procession, each step echoing with the solemnity of the occasion. Buffy clutched the memories of her cousin close, grappling with the harsh reality that those cherished moments had been relegated to the past, the future now forever altered by the profound loss.
Evergreen Cemetery
The air at the funeral was heavy with grief, a palpable weight that pressed down on everyone gathered. The mournful whispers of those in attendance seemed to blend into a symphony of sorrow, each voice a note in the collective lament that hung in the air. Buffy, flanked by her adoptive parents Joyce and Hank, moved through the somber crowd with a heavy heart. The gray sky above mirrored the emotions that enveloped them, casting a muted, somber light over the scene, as though nature itself was mourning the loss.
As they approached Celia's casket, the reality of the loss became more acute with each step Buffy took. The sight of the floral arrangements, meticulously arranged yet laden with a sense of finality, and the hushed condolences exchanged around her, only deepened the sense of loss. The vibrant colors of the flowers seemed to stand in stark contrast to the overwhelming sadness that filled the space. Buffy clutched a small bouquet of flowers, her humble offering to the cousin she had cherished and lost. The bouquet, with its delicate petals and sweet fragrance, felt like a fragile testament to the bond they had shared, now severed by the cruel hand of fate.
Joyce and Hank, standing on either side of Buffy, offered silent support with their steadfast presence. Their hands rested gently on her shoulders, their touch a silent promise of solidarity amidst the sea of mourners. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on them all, an unspoken understanding passing between them, binding them together in their shared sorrow.
The eulogy, delivered with a melody of compassion and reflection, wove through the air, resonating with the depth of shared memories and heartfelt tributes. Each word was a tribute to Celia's life, a mix of reverence and remembrance that added to the emotional tapestry of the day. Buffy's eyes remained fixed on the casket, her thoughts swirling with a storm of emotions as she revisited the playful moments, whispered secrets, and the unbreakable bond she had shared with Celia. The eulogy, though beautiful, only served to underline the finality of the loss, each tribute a reminder of the irreplaceable absence.
As the ceremony unfolded, Buffy found a measure of solace in the presence of her adoptive parents. Joyce's eyes, red-rimmed and full of shared grief, reflected her own sorrow, while Hank's comforting touch was a steadying force amid the turbulence of emotions. Together, the trio stood united in their grief, their collective strength a testament to the bonds of family forged through both joy and sorrow.
When it came time to say their final goodbyes, Buffy approached the casket with a heart weighed down by the burden of loss. With a trembling hand, she gently placed the bouquet on Celia's final resting place. The flowers, a symbol of the blossoming friendship now cut short, rested softly against the polished wood of the casket. The tears that had been held back finally spilled over, streaming down her face as she whispered a silent farewell, her voice barely a whisper amidst the stillness of the cemetery.
Joyce and Hank stood by her side, their hearts heavy with the shared pain of losing someone who had left an indelible mark on their lives. Their presence, though marked by sorrow, was a steadfast reminder that they were not alone in their grief. The shared sorrow, though profound, served to strengthen the bond of family, providing a fragile yet resilient foundation to face the storm of loss that surrounded them. Together, they faced the painful reality of saying goodbye, their united front a beacon of support in the midst of their mourning.
September 26, 1990 – Wednesday
Summers Home, Los Angeles, California
Buffy, in the midst of her morning routine, pushed open the door to her room with the intention of grabbing a sweater. Her brow furrowed in confusion as she found a young brunette girl seated on her bed, a sight that was both unexpected and perplexing. The girl looked up with a hint of curiosity in her eyes, her presence adding an unfamiliar element to the otherwise familiar space. "What are you doing in here?" Buffy asked, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and mild irritation.
Just then, Joyce's voice drifted in from the hallway, cutting through the air with a tone of authority and purpose. "Buffy," she called, "Why don't you take Dawn with you to Jill's birthday party."
Both Buffy and the mysterious brunette, who Buffy now recognized as Dawn, turned toward the doorway in surprise. The synchronized exclamation of "Mom!" from both girls filled the room, their voices merging into a chorus of astonishment and dismay.
Buffy's eyes flickered back to Dawn, who was sitting on her bed with an air of casual nonchalance, despite the surprise of the morning. "But Jill didn't invite Dawn, Mom," Buffy protested, her voice tinged with a note of whining discontent, as if the exclusion from the party was an affront to the fairness of the situation.
Joyce, her presence now filling the doorway, exuded a sense of command and determination. Her gaze was steady as she addressed Buffy, her tone brooking no argument. "Be that as it may," she declared, stepping into the room with a purposeful stride, "Your father and I have some business to take care of this afternoon. And we would appreciate it if we didn't have to worry about your sister while we're out."
Buffy sighed, the weight of parental expectations settling heavily on her shoulders. Her shoulders slumped in reluctant acceptance, the responsibility of the task before her becoming more apparent. She turned her attention back to Dawn, who was now staring at her with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. "Okay, Mom," Buffy agreed, her voice carrying a reluctant resignation. "Dawnie, you better get dressed in something nice then."
July 31, 1991 - Wednesday
Summers Home, Los Angeles, California
Buffy lay in bed, cocooned in the gentle warmth of her blankets, her eyes still closed as she slowly emerged from the embrace of sleep. The faint rays of morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the room. The quiet of the early hour was interrupted only by the faint rustle of Dawn's footsteps as she stealthily entered, a twinkle of mischief dancing in her eyes. Her little hands gripped a small box, which she clutched tightly, her excitement palpable as she prepared to surprise her sister.
With a burst of youthful energy, Dawn leaped onto the bed, her movement swift and decisive. The sudden jolt of her landing caused Buffy to stir, her sleepy state quickly giving way to a startled reaction. "Dawn!" Buffy exclaimed, a blend of annoyance and amusement coloring her voice, her disoriented eyes blinking open to meet her sister's beaming face.
Dawn's grin widened, her eyes sparkling with a blend of triumph and joy. "Happy Birthday, Buffy," she announced with a flourish, holding out the small box. "Here, I got this for you. Well, actually, Mom got it, but I picked it out."
Buffy, her irritation melting away in the face of her sister's enthusiasm, took the box with a soft chuckle. As she lifted the lid, her gaze fell upon a delicate locket nestled inside, its surface catching the light with a subtle sheen. Opening it, she was greeted by a photograph of herself and Dawn, their faces frozen in a moment of shared happiness. The thoughtful gift touched Buffy deeply, and she sat up, her heart swelling with affection. She embraced her sister, her voice sincere. "Thank you, Dawn," she said, her smile broadening. "I love it. I will never take it off."
Dawn's smile broadened further, her eyes shining with satisfaction as she helped Buffy fasten the locket around her neck. "Mom wants you to get dressed and come downstairs."
Buffy nodded, the weight of the day ahead filling her with a renewed sense of anticipation. She turned her attention to the dress she had selected the night before, carefully laid out across the chair in front of her desk. Within moments, she was dressed and ready, the promise of the day's celebrations infusing her with a burst of energy.
Descending the stairs, Buffy entered the living room to a sight that filled her with warmth and joy. Her parents, Hank and Joyce, stood beside Dawn, their faces alight with smiles. They were gathered around a birthday cake, its candles flickering in a soft, inviting glow. As Buffy stepped into the room, the collective cheer of her family rang out in unison, "Happy Birthday!"
Buffy's heart swelled with gratitude as she rushed over to her parents, enveloping them in a heartfelt hug. "Thank you," she expressed, her smile a reflection of the pure joy of the moment. The embrace was filled with the warmth of family, a tangible reminder of the love and support that surrounded her.
As the familial celebration continued, an unexpected visitor made its grand entrance. An owl, its wings spread wide, swooped gracefully into the living room through the open window, drawing the attention of everyone present. With a swift, practiced motion, the owl dropped an envelope onto the coffee table before landing on the window sill.
Buffy, her curiosity piqued, approached the mysterious envelope with a hesitant but intrigued step. The envelope's pristine surface held an air of secrecy, and as she turned it over, her frown deepened upon reading the name written in elegant script—Isabella Lilyanna Potter. The name was unfamiliar and evoked a sense of puzzlement. She instinctively assumed it must be intended for someone else, perhaps an error in delivery.
Turning to her parents, Buffy voiced her confusion, her tone a mixture of perplexity and concern. "I think this is meant for someone else at another address."
Joyce took the envelope from Buffy's trembling hands, her eyes softening with a knowing smile. "No, dear, it's not. It's meant for you." She exchanged a meaningful glance with Hank, a silent but profound agreement passing between them. The gravity of the moment was palpable, and Joyce's heart ached as she prepared to unveil a truth that had been long guarded. "I think it's time we told her."
Hank, his expression a mixture of concern and resolve, suggested they sit down to discuss the unfolding revelation. "Let's sit down and talk," he proposed, his voice steady as he motioned towards the couch. The weight of the conversation hung heavily in the air as they made their way to the comfortable seating area, their movements deliberate and solemn.
Buffy's curiosity, now tinged with apprehension, was palpable as she took her place beside her mother on the couch. Her eyes darted between her parents, searching for answers in their expressions. "What is it, Mom?" she asked, her voice quivering slightly as she braced herself for the news.
Joyce's gaze lingered on her daughter, her heart heavy with a mix of sorrow and love. As she looked at Buffy, she couldn't help but see the striking resemblance between her and Lily, her late brother's wife. With a deep breath, she gathered the strength to reveal a decade-old secret that had shaped their lives. "Buffy, we aren't your biological parents," she began gently, her voice trembling with the weight of her words. "We adopted you when you were a year old. We're actually your aunt and uncle; your real parents were my brother and sister-in-law, James and Lily Potter."
Buffy's eyes widened in stunned disbelief, the revelation hitting her with the force of a sledgehammer. The world she had known, built upon the assumption of her parentage, seemed to crumble around her. The foundation of her identity, previously solid and unshakeable, was now a shifting mass of uncertainty. "What do you mean were?" she asked, her voice a blend of confusion and trepidation.
Joyce hesitated, the anguish of the truth evident in her eyes as she struggled to meet Buffy's gaze. The pain of loss was etched deeply in her expression. "They died the night you were brought to us," she said softly, her words laden with sorrow. The weight of the revelation pressed down heavily on the room, enveloping them in a somber silence.
The revelation struck Buffy with the force of a tidal wave, her mind reeling as she tried to process the enormity of the truth. The life she had lived under the assumption of Joyce and Hank Summers as her biological parents was suddenly shattered. The realization that her real parents had been victims of a violent crime, their lives cut short in a horrific manner, left her grappling with an overwhelming sense of loss and disbelief.
As Buffy struggled to comprehend the weight of her parents' tragic fate, Hank stepped in to provide further context. His voice was grave, carrying the solemn weight of the truth. "Buffy, they were murdered by a very evil man," he explained, his words resonating with a deep sadness. "He was never caught. You and your brother were separated when your parents died to protect you from him."
The room seemed to constrict around Buffy as she absorbed the gravity of the revelation. Not only had her understanding of her family been based on misconceptions, but the truth that emerged was also fraught with tragedy and danger. The knowledge that her parents had been victims of a heinous crime, their lives abruptly ended by an unknown assailant, left Buffy grappling with a profound sense of loss and a disquieting fear.
As the realization continued to settle in, Buffy's world tilted further on its axis. The shock of learning she had a brother, a sibling she had never known about, overwhelmed her. The rush of questions and the dizzying swirl of emotions left her feeling unmoored. She stood up abruptly, the room seeming to spin around her as she tried to process the staggering new information. "I have a brother? Do I know him? Have I met him before?" Her voice was tinged with desperation and confusion, reflecting the turmoil of her newly unsettled world.
Joyce met Buffy's gaze with a profound mixture of empathy and sorrow, her eyes reflecting the weight of the secret she had just unveiled. "No, honey, you haven't met him. He lives with your mom's sister in England." Her voice softened as she continued, "There is more, Buffy," she added, the unspoken revelations hanging heavily in the air. Her expression conveyed the depth of the truth yet to be revealed, a silent prelude to the additional complexities that lay ahead.
Hank, perceiving the gravity of the situation and the silent signal from Joyce, stepped forward to provide further explanation. His demeanor was serious yet gentle as he addressed Buffy. "You, your brother, your mom here, your real parents, even Dawn, are witches." He paused, letting the information sink in before clarifying, "Well, your dad and brother are wizards, actually." He then held up the mysterious envelope, which had arrived with the owl, emphasizing its importance. The envelope seemed to pulse with an enigmatic energy, its presence a tangible connection to the magical world they were discussing.
Buffy, overwhelmed by the flood of revelations, felt a surge of confusion and need for solitude. "Can I go to my room, please? I just need a little time to absorb all this," she requested, her voice tinged with the strain of processing so much information at once. Her parents, recognizing the need for space and reflection, nodded in understanding, granting her the quiet she sought.
Once upstairs in her room, Buffy sought comfort among the familiar objects that had been a part of her everyday life. Her room was a sanctuary filled with photographs, mementos, and the comforting presence of her life with the Summers family. Her gaze settled on the broom tucked in the corner, once considered a whimsical birthday gift, now taking on an entirely new significance. With a sense of tentative curiosity, she reached out, and to her amazement, the broom floated effortlessly into her hand.
"Wow," Buffy whispered, her astonishment palpable. The reality of her magical heritage began to settle in as she marveled at the broom's levitation. The surreal nature of her newfound abilities left her grappling with the implications of her magical lineage. The room seemed to shimmer with a new light, reflecting the magical potential now open to her.
Just then, Dawn entered the room, her face lighting up with excitement at the sight of Buffy's newfound skill. "That is just so cool what you did with that broom," Dawn exclaimed, her voice bubbling with admiration. "If Mom and Dad are right, and I am like you, then I wonder when I will be able to do that." Dawn's enthusiasm provided a momentary distraction, her excitement blending with Buffy's own astonishment and curiosity about their shared magical heritage.
Hank and Joyce soon followed, entering Buffy's room with a renewed sense of purpose. They carried the envelope from the owl, which Buffy took with trembling hands. As she carefully opened it, her eyes scanned the letter's contents, each word adding to the growing sense of wonder and anticipation.
Dear Miss Isabella "Buffy" Lilyanna Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Please find enclosed a list of all the necessary books and equipment.
The term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress
Buffy's astonishment lingered as she absorbed the contents of the letter, her excitement bubbling to the surface. "You mean I get to go and learn how to do magic?" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with a newfound sense of wonder and anticipation.
Joyce nodded, a nostalgic smile dancing on her lips as she reflected on the parallel between her own youth and Buffy's impending adventure. "Just as James, your birth father, and I did when we were your age," she said, her voice carrying a warm, wistful tone. She paused, her gaze softening with memories of the past. "I've already taken the liberty of sending the owl back..." Her words were cut short by the sudden, sharp screech of another owl. The bird swooped gracefully into the room, its wings fluttering with urgency, and deposited another envelope into Joyce's outstretched hands.
Buffy watched with growing curiosity as Joyce tore open the new envelope. Her mother's face lit up with a radiant smile as she scanned the letter inside. Looking back at Buffy, Joyce's eyes sparkled with excitement. "How would you like to meet your brother? He will be getting his school supplies tomorrow with Hagrid."
The mention of her brother and the prospect of meeting him ignited a bright glimmer in Buffy's eyes. Her anticipation was palpable, and she nodded eagerly. "I would like that a lot."
Joyce's smile widened, reflecting her own happiness for her daughter. "Then this evening, you better go to bed around 7 pm so you can get up by 3 in the morning," she advised with a tone of practicality. "We will be traveling by Floo and will arrive at 11 am their time."
Buffy's brow furrowed in confusion, her curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar term. "Floo?"
Joyce's chuckle was gentle and reassuring, a melodic sound that eased Buffy's uncertainty. "It's the fastest way to get there from here," she explained with an air of confidence. "Near-instantaneous travel from here to there, that's how we will arrive, and it will still be early in the day there." Her explanation painted a picture of magical efficiency that contrasted with Buffy's previous understanding of travel.
As the day unfolded, Buffy found herself enveloped in the festive spirit of her birthday. She spent time unwrapping presents from her parents, each gift a token of their affection and anticipation for the magical journey ahead. Moments of laughter and shared joy with Dawn filled the hours, each interaction weaving a tapestry of warmth and connection.
As evening approached, the excitement of the forthcoming adventure led Buffy to follow Joyce's advice with earnestness. She prepared for bed promptly at 7 pm, her mind abuzz with the promise of the extraordinary. The prospect of meeting her brother, coupled with the allure of the magical world of Hogwarts, danced in her thoughts and dreams.
August 1, 1991 - Thursday
Summers Home, Los Angeles, California
Before she knew it, Buffy was being gently shaken awake. The sensation of warmth and comfort wrapped around her like a snug cocoon, making her groggy and reluctant to part with her dream-filled slumber. With a half-hearted grumble, she mumbled, "One more minute, please?" and rolled over, hoping to snatch a few more precious moments of rest from the encroaching morning.
Joyce's soft, amused chuckle broke through the haze of sleep. Her mother's gentle voice, filled with warmth and good-natured urgency, coaxed Buffy out of her reluctant cocoon. "Come on, Buffy, time to get up. We leave in fifteen minutes." The words, while familiar, carried a sense of thrilling anticipation that stirred Buffy from her drowsy state.
In an instant, the reality of the day ahead hit Buffy with a jolt. The promise of meeting her brother and the adventure that awaited filled her with a burst of excitement. The thought of stepping into a world brimming with magic and wonder propelled her out of bed. With a sense of urgency, she dressed quickly, her movements a flurry of activity as she prepared for the journey ahead.
Descending the stairs with a mix of eagerness and trepidation, Buffy found Joyce, Hank, and Dawn already gathered in front of the fireplace. The room was abuzz with the soft hum of anticipation, and the fireplace, now a focal point of the morning, stood like a portal to the unknown.
Joyce, her expression a blend of reassurance and instruction, took a moment to explain the process of using Floo powder. "This is fairly easy, honey. Grab some Floo powder here and then step into the fireplace. As you throw it down, say plainly 'Leaky Cauldron, London.' You don't want to mess it up, dear; you could wind up someplace else." Her voice carried a note of both practicality and care, ensuring Buffy felt prepared for the magical transition.
Buffy nodded, absorbing the instructions with focused attention. Her heart raced with a mixture of excitement and nerves as she approached the fireplace. The reality of the magical world she was about to enter seemed almost tangible, a thrilling edge to the ordinary routine she was leaving behind. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the fireplace, her determination crystallizing as she prepared for the leap into the unknown.
With a clear, determined voice, Buffy uttered, "Leaky Cauldron, London." As the words left her lips, a puff of vibrant green smoke enveloped her, swirling around in a dazzling display of magical energy. The familiar warmth of the Summers' living room seemed to dissolve into the mist, and in an instant, Buffy was transported from the comfort of her home into the realm of enchantment and mystery that awaited her.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
As the green smoke dissipated in the fireplace, Dawn and Hank were left behind in the familiar living room, a stark contrast to the swirling enchantment that had just whisked Buffy and Joyce away. The room, now quiet, felt almost still as Dawn stood there with a wistful expression, her gaze fixed on the empty space where her sister and mother had vanished. Her eyes reflected a mixture of wonder and longing, revealing her desire to be part of the magical journey they were embarking on.
Hank, observing the unspoken emotions in his daughter's eyes, approached her with a comforting smile. The father's tender gaze and gentle demeanor offered a sense of reassurance amidst Dawn's evident yearning.
Dawn let out a sigh, her voice carrying the weight of both excitement and a touch of melancholy. "I wish I could go to London and Hogwarts too. It sounds amazing." Her words floated through the room, mingling with the lingering traces of magic that had just departed.
Hank, understanding the depth of his daughter's desire, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. His touch was warm and steady, a tangible reminder of his support. "You'll get your turn, Dawn. From what your mom told me, new students don't start until they're eleven. Buffy just turned eleven, so you've got another year before you can attend Hogwarts." His words were meant to be soothing, an attempt to bridge the gap between anticipation and the reality of waiting.
Dawn's eyes lit up with the prospect of her future adventures, yet a trace of impatience remained. The thought of waiting another year seemed almost unbearable, her imagination already vivid with dreams of the magical world. "Eleven seems so far away," she mused aloud, her voice tinged with a mix of excitement and frustration. Her mind was undoubtedly teeming with images of spell-casting, enchanted creatures, and the mysteries that awaited her at Hogwarts.
Hank chuckled softly, a gentle sound that seemed to chase away the clouds of impatience. He reached over to ruffle her hair affectionately, a small gesture of love that conveyed his understanding. "Time will fly, and before you know it, you'll be on your way to Hogwarts, just like your sister." His words were meant to offer comfort, a promise of the wonderful experiences that awaited her in the not-too-distant future. The warmth of his reassurance provided a balm to Dawn's restless longing, gently reminding her that the magic would come in its own time.