Potter Twins

by Brenna's Urbangirl Projects

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.

11. Chapter 11: Lockhart

Chapter 11: Lockhart

July 27, 1992 – Monday

Diagon Alley

Voldemort walked through the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, his presence a chilling enigma cloaked in the guise of a 12-year-old pureblood girl. His steps were silent, almost imperceptible, as he maneuvered through the bustling crowd of witches and wizards. Their eyes, glazed with the mundane worries of shopping and socializing, failed to see beyond the innocuous facade he presented. To them, he was just another child, but in truth, his malevolent essence thrived within this fragile, youthful form.

He veered off the main street, slipping into the dim, shadowy recesses of Knockturn Alley. The air grew colder and more oppressive as he approached Borgin and Burkes, the infamous shop known for its dark and dubious wares. The narrow alley was barely lit, with flickering lanterns casting eerie shadows on the grimy walls. The shop's sign creaked ominously in the breeze, announcing the sinister nature of its wares to those who dared to enter.

As Voldemort stepped inside, the dimly lit interior of Borgin and Burkes greeted him with its clutter of cursed objects and dark artifacts. The proprietor, a gaunt, nervous-looking man with eyes that darted uneasily, glanced up from behind the counter. His gaze fell upon the small figure of the girl, and he raised an eyebrow in polite inquiry. "Can I help you miss…?"

A malevolent smile curved Voldemort's lips, and his voice, though spoken from the tiny body, resonated with an unsettling authority. "You can address me as the Dark Lord."

The man's confusion was palpable as he shook his head, his voice trembling slightly. "Excuse me?"

Before the man could react further, Voldemort's slender fingers gripped his left arm with an ironclad strength. He brought forth the girl's wand and pressed its tip against the man's skin, a faint sizzle heralding the appearance of the Dark Mark—a sinister sigil that burned into the flesh like a brand. The man's face turned ashen with fear; he knew well that only the Dark Lord himself could summon such a mark. "My Lord, forgive me. I did not recognize you."

Voldemort's cold gaze softened just enough to acknowledge the man's fear. "That is fine; I didn't expect you to, since I have to share this body. Anyways, I want the book I left with you all those years ago. I have a plan. Also, tell me where I can find Lucius Malfoy," he commanded with an air of finality.

As if on cue, a voice emerged from the shadowy recesses of the shop. "He is behind you…." The proprietor extended his arm, displaying the Dark Mark as a silent beacon. Lucius Malfoy stepped forward from the gloom, his imposing figure contrasting sharply with the oppressive darkness of the shop. His gaze locked onto the mark, understanding dawning upon him. The Dark Lord's presence, though hidden within the guise of a child, was unmistakable. He knew that this mark was a signal of his master's intent and that Voldemort's soul had taken refuge in this young form.

"My Lord, how can I be of assistance?" Lucius's voice was a blend of respect and trepidation as he approached.

Voldemort's gaze was unwavering as he motioned for Lucius to come closer. A dark satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as he spoke. "With the help of this book, I shall be able to return to my own body. I want you to find a way to give the diary to Ginny Weasley. I will send you an owl when the Weasley family intends to buy their school supplies for the coming year. That will be, I believe, the best time to give it to her."

Lucius took the book from the girl's hands with a reverent nod, "Yes, My Lord."

With a final, inscrutable glance, Voldemort turned to leave, his mind already calculating the next steps in his dark schemes. "Now I must get back before the girl's parents wonder where she has gotten off to."

July 31, 1991 – Friday

Potter Home, Ottery St. Catchpole, England

Buffy and Harry sat side by side on the front porch, their faces lit by the warm afternoon sun, watching with a blend of anticipation and contentment as Ron and Willow climbed the front steps. Not far behind them trailed Ginny, Fred, George, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, their arms laden with packages and parcels. The Weasley parents moved with practiced ease, carrying their burdens inside the house, while the younger group gathered around the porch, settling themselves comfortably next to Harry and Buffy.

The air was filled with the sounds of cheerful chatter and the soft rustling of leaves. Ron, his face flushed with the excitement of the day, broke the silence first. "So Harry, how does it feel to have a real birthday party?"

Harry grinned, his eyes twinkling with a mix of joy and nostalgia. "Well, I will tell you after it's over. But I can tell you this: having family who wants to celebrate it with you is a wonderful change. It doesn't hurt to have a sister who is turning 12 on the same day you are either."

Buffy's attention was caught by the arrival of Hermione and her parents, and with a burst of enthusiasm, she leapt up from her seat. She bounded over to the new arrivals, wrapping Hermione in a warm hug. "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Granger. My mom is in the kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Dawn. You can put the presents in the living room."

Mr. Granger, with a welcoming smile, replied, "Thank you, dear. So, you must be Buffy. Hermione has told us a lot about you and Harry. She has mentioned plenty of times that she considers you, Harry, Ron, and Willow her best friends." His words were affectionate, but Hermione's cheeks flushed a deep pink, revealing her embarrassment as her parents went inside, leaving her to face the teasing smiles of her friends.

Hermione, shaking her head with a knowing look, posed a question that had clearly been on her mind. "So, I gather your Aunt and Uncle likely aren't coming."

Buffy and Harry exchanged a synchronized glance before replying in unison, "Of course not."

Harry's voice carried a hint of distaste as he added, "I wouldn't invite them if they were the last people on the planet. Just go ask Mom, she'll tell you what they're like. She met them when we were in Diagon Alley last summer getting our school supplies. They make Malfoy look like a saint."

The conversation was abruptly interrupted as Joyce called everyone in for lunch. The dining room had been transformed with magical ingenuity; the table had been extended to accommodate the large gathering. It now gleamed with polished wood, set with a colorful array of dishes and cutlery. As everyone took their seats, the room buzzed with lively conversation about the upcoming return to Hogwarts and various other topics.

After lunch, the Grangers lent a hand in clearing the table, their assistance a testament to the camaraderie and warmth that filled the house. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley reappeared, their faces glowing with pride as they presented the birthday cake. It was a spectacular confection, larger than any Harry had ever seen, its grandeur far surpassing even the elaborate cakes Dudley Dursley had received in his more opulent celebrations.

When the Grangers and Joyce returned to the dining room, the mood shifted to one of eager anticipation. Everyone gathered around the table, the room awash with the soft glow of candlelight as the birthday song filled the air. The cake was a towering masterpiece of sugar and cream, adorned with colorful sprinkles and glittering candles.

Joyce's voice was warm and encouraging as she instructed, "Make a wish you two, and blow out the candles."

Harry and Buffy shared a meaningful look, their eyes reflecting the happiness and contentment they had found. Harry spoke with heartfelt sincerity, "I think Buffy can agree with me that we got our wish last year. My wish had always been to have friends and a loving family. Something I never got at the Dursleys' house. But now I have all that, and I couldn't be happier. So, I already have my wish."

Buffy nodded in agreement, her eyes shining with emotion as they both leaned in to extinguish the candles.

As the cheer from the birthday song subsided, the excitement of opening presents began to fill the room with a new buzz of energy. The living room was a cozy space, adorned with festive decorations that glimmered with the same warmth and happiness that the gathering exuded. The centerpiece, of course, was the heap of wrapped gifts that awaited the birthday twins.

Buffy and Harry settled on the floor in front of the mountain of presents, their faces alight with eager anticipation. The stack of brightly wrapped boxes and colorful bags seemed almost magical in itself, each parcel adorned with shiny ribbons and elaborate bows. The air was tinged with the soft rustle of wrapping paper and the delighted murmurs of friends and family watching the unfolding spectacle.

Harry reached for the first gift, a neatly wrapped box adorned with a bright red bow. With a grin, he peeled back the paper to reveal a set of beautifully crafted quills and ink bottles. The thoughtful gift from Ron was met with a grateful smile. "These are amazing, Ron. I've been needing some new quills."

Ron, looking pleased with the reaction, gave a small shrug. "Thought you could use them. Plus, you can never have too many quills."

Buffy, her eyes sparkling with delight, picked up a gift from Hermione. The box was wrapped in shimmering blue paper, and as Buffy tore it open, she found a stunning leather-bound journal. The cover was embossed with intricate patterns that glinted in the light. Hermione's thoughtful gesture was accompanied by a soft, "I thought you might like to keep a diary for all your adventures."

Buffy hugged the journal close, her smile wide and genuine. "It's perfect, Hermione. Thank you so much!"

As they continued to unwrap presents, each gift seemed to be more enchanting than the last. Ginny handed over a box containing a set of charming, magical creature figurines, each one intricately detailed. Fred and George, ever the pranksters, presented a set of colorful and mischievous trick wands that promised endless fun.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley contributed a large, beautifully embroidered blanket with the Weasley family crest, a warm reminder of the family's love and hospitality. The gift was met with appreciative remarks and heartfelt thanks. Mrs. Weasley, with a maternal smile, added, "It's to keep you warm during those chilly nights at Hogwarts."

Buffy and Harry's joy was palpable, their faces glowing with the happiness of being surrounded by loved ones and receiving such thoughtful gifts. As they unwrapped the final presents, the room was filled with the sounds of laughter, gratitude, and the occasional exclamation of delight. The warmth and affection in the room were tangible, weaving a rich tapestry of shared joy and celebration.

When the last present was opened, and the remnants of wrapping paper lay scattered about, Harry and Buffy stood up, their hearts full. They thanked everyone, their voices echoing the sincerity of their gratitude. Joyce and the Weasleys, with beaming smiles, watched as the birthday twins, surrounded by their closest friends and family, embraced the day with an overflowing sense of love and belonging.

The evening continued with laughter and lively conversation, the atmosphere filled with the comforting and joyous sounds of a family united in celebration. It was a perfect ending to a day that had already been marked by warmth, friendship, and the simple pleasure of being together.

0 – 0 - 0 – 0 – 0

Later that night, as the house settled into a quiet calm, Harry, Buffy, and Dawn were nestled in Buffy's room, their conversation drifting over the events of the day. The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of a lamp on the nightstand, casting gentle shadows on the walls. The warm, cozy space was filled with the comfortable hum of their voices, reflecting the day's excitement and joy. The echoes of laughter from the party seemed to linger in the air, adding a sense of contentment to their evening.

Suddenly, the calm was interrupted by a sharp, sudden crack—a sound that jolted the trio from their comfortable reverie. Their heads turned in unison, eyes wide with surprise, as they saw a small, peculiar figure standing beside them. It was a house-elf that had materialized before them. The elf's appearance was striking; its large, bat-like ears stood out in sharp contrast to its thin, worn body. It was dressed in what appeared to be an old, tattered pillowcase, its surface marred by numerous rips and holes that had been hastily cut to accommodate its small arms and legs.

The house-elf shuffled forward and, with an elaborate flourish, slipped off the edge of Buffy's bed. It bowed so deeply that its long, thin nose touched the carpet, a gesture of profound respect and reverence. The movement was so exaggerated that it seemed almost comical, though the elf's sincerity was palpable.

"Er—hello," Harry managed to say, his voice tinged with curiosity and a hint of confusion.

"Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter!" the house-elf exclaimed in a high-pitched, almost musical voice. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet the three of you, though Harry and Isabella Potter the most… Such an honor it is…"

The elf's tone was both reverent and exuberant, its eyes shining with an earnest fervor. Harry and Buffy exchanged glances, trying to make sense of the unexpected visitor. Since Joyce had moved back to England, she had returned to her maiden name of Potter, and as a result, Dawn's surname had also been changed to Potter.

"Th-thank you," Harry, Buffy, and Dawn stammered in unison, their voices filled with a mix of bewilderment and politeness.

Dawn, trying to piece together the situation, finally asked, "Who are you?"

"Dobby, miss. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf," the creature replied, its voice carrying a note of pride despite its humble appearance.

Dawn looked at her brother and sister, noting the puzzled frowns that had creased their brows. She turned back to the house-elf; her curiosity piqued. "Not that we're not pleased to meet you," she began, glancing at Harry and Buffy, "but, er, is there any particular reason you're here?"

Dobby's expression shifted to one of earnest contemplation. "Oh, yes, miss," he said, his eyes wide and solemn. "Dobby has come to tell you… it is difficult… Dobby wonders where to begin…"

"Sit down," said Harry politely, gesturing towards the bed, his voice gentle and welcoming. He wanted to make the small creature feel comfortable, unaware of the effect his simple request would have.

To his utter horror, the house-elf's large, round eyes filled with tears, and within seconds, those tears became a flood. Dobby began to sob loudly, his tiny frame shaking with the force of his sorrow. The sound was heartbreaking, an anguished wail that filled the room with an intensity far beyond what Harry could have anticipated.

"S-sit down!" the elf cried out, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "Never… never ever…"

Harry, panicked and bewildered, quickly tried to soothe the distressed creature. "I'm sorry," he said, his words rushed and full of concern. "I didn't mean to offend you or anything—"

"Offend Dobby!" the elf choked out between sobs, his voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming gratitude. "Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a witch or wizard—like an equal—"

Dawn, sensing the need to lighten the mood, leaned forward with a kind smile. "You can't have met many decent witches or wizards," she said, her tone gentle and encouraging, hoping to lift Dobby's spirits.

Dobby shook his head slowly, his tears still glistening on his cheeks. But before anyone could react, the elf suddenly sprang up with alarming speed. Without warning, he began to bang his head furiously against the windowpane, each impact producing a sharp, painful thud that echoed through the room. "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!" he shouted, his voice high-pitched and frantic, a self-punishment that was both shocking and heartbreaking to witness.

"What are you doing?" Harry exclaimed, springing up from the bed. His heart raced as he rushed to Dobby's side, grabbing hold of the small creature and pulling him away from the window. He guided Dobby back onto the bed, his hands firm yet gentle, as if handling something fragile.

Dobby, trembling and out of breath, looked up at Harry with wide, sorrowful eyes. "Dobby had to punish himself, sir," he explained, his voice barely above a whisper. "Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir…"

Buffy, who had been watching with a mix of concern and sympathy, leaned in slightly. "Your family?" she asked softly, trying to understand the depth of Dobby's distress.

"The wizard family Dobby serves, miss…" Dobby replied, his voice tinged with a deep, weary resignation. "Dobby is a house-elf—bound to serve one house and one family forever…"

"Do they know you're here?" Harry asked, his curiosity mingled with concern. His gaze was steady, trying to understand the strange mix of fear and loyalty that seemed to rule Dobby's life.

Dobby shuddered, his whole body trembling as if the mere thought of his masters discovering his whereabouts sent a cold, bone-deep terror through him. "Oh, no, sir, no…" he stammered, his voice dropping to a fearful whisper. "Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew—"

"But won't they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?" Dawn asked, her face reflecting a mixture of disbelief and horror. The idea of such punishment seemed beyond cruel, and she couldn't fathom how anyone could ignore such suffering.

Dobby looked at her with sad, resigned eyes. "Dobby doubts it, miss. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, miss. They let Dobby get on with it, miss. Sometimes they remind me to do extra punishments…" His words were spoken with a matter-of-fact tone, as if this was just the way things were—an inescapable part of his existence.

"But why don't you leave? Escape?" Buffy asked, her voice tinged with desperation. The idea of staying in such a situation was unbearable to her; the thought of someone being forced to live like this gnawed at her fiercely protective nature.

Dobby shook his head slowly, his large eyes glistening with a deep, unspoken sorrow. "A house-elf must be set free, miss. And the family will never set Dobby free… Dobby will serve the family until he dies, miss…" His words hung heavy in the air, a sad testament to the life of servitude he was bound to—a life from which there seemed to be no escape.

Buffy, Dawn, and Harry exchanged glances, their hearts collectively sinking. Dobby's plight echoed too closely to Harry's own past, the years he had spent under the Dursleys' roof, treated as little more than a servant. The memory of it was a bitter pill, and the similarity to Dobby's situation was unsettling. The Dursleys had been cruel and neglectful, but even they hadn't reached the levels of cruelty Dobby described.

"Can't anyone help you?" Harry asked, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. "Can't we?"

Dobby's eyes widened, and for a moment, his expression was one of pure astonishment. Then, as the weight of Harry's offer sank in, the house-elf dissolved into a fresh wave of tears—this time, tears of overwhelming gratitude. "Harry Potter asks if he and sisters can help Dobby… Dobby has heard of the greatness of the Potter family, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew…" His voice was choked with emotion, his small body trembling with the force of his feelings.

"Are you referring to how we defeated Voldemort?" Buffy asked, her tone curious yet cautious.

Dobby clapped his hands over his bat-like ears and moaned in distress, his entire small frame quivering. "Ah, speak not the name, miss! Speak not the name!" His voice was thick with fear, as if merely hearing Voldemort's name would summon the Dark Lord himself.

"Sorry," Buffy said quickly, her voice soothing, trying to calm the terrified house-elf. She could see how deeply rooted his fear was, and she didn't want to cause him any more distress. "We know lots of people don't like it. Our friends Willow and Ron—"

But before she could finish, Dobby leaned in closer to them, his large, round eyes widening until they seemed to glow with a strange intensity, like headlights piercing through the dark. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, filled with urgency. "Dobby heard tell," he said, his words trembling with the weight of the secrets he was about to share, "that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago… that Harry Potter escaped yet again. And that Isabella Potter protected Dawn Potter from the hell god Glorificus."

Buffy and Harry exchanged a glance and then nodded, acknowledging the truth of Dobby's words. The memories of those encounters were still fresh, the danger they had faced palpable even now.

Dobby's eyes, already wide, suddenly brimmed with tears. He gasped, the emotion overwhelming him as he dabbed at his face with the edge of the grubby pillowcase he wore like a makeshift tunic. "Ah," he choked out, his voice thick with admiration and sorrow. "Harry and Isabella Potter are valiant and bold! They and Dawn Potter have braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect the Potter family, to warn them, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later… Harry Potter, Isabella Potter, and Dawn Potter must not go back to Hogwarts."

"Why should we not go back?" Buffy asked, her tone laced with concern and confusion. "We have to go back; school starts in a month."

Dobby's reaction was immediate and frantic. "No, no, no," he squeaked, shaking his head so violently that his long ears flapped like the wings of a distressed bat. "Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter must stay where they are safe. Harry and Isabella Potter are too great, too good, to lose. And Dawn Potter must protect that which she possesses. If Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter go back to Hogwarts, they will be in mortal danger."

Harry's brows furrowed in surprise and worry. "Why?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. The idea of Hogwarts being anything but a haven, even with all its dangers, seemed almost inconceivable.

Dobby trembled all over, his small body shaking with fear and the weight of the knowledge he carried. "There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year," he whispered, his voice quivering with dread. "Dobby has known it for several days, sir. Harry, Isabella, and Dawn Potter must not put themselves in peril. They are too important!" His words were desperate, pleading with them to heed his warning.

Dawn, ever the inquisitive one, immediately pressed further. "What terrible things?" she demanded; her voice sharp with urgency. "Who's plotting them?"

Dobby let out a strange, strangled sound—a choked gasp that quickly escalated into a fit of frantic, desperate action. Before Harry, Buffy, or Dawn could react, the house-elf began banging his head against the wall with alarming force, his small body jerking violently with each impact.

"All right!" Harry cried out, his voice rising in panic as he lunged forward, grabbing Dobby's thin arm to stop him from harming himself further. The sight of the creature's distress twisted something deep in Harry's chest, a mix of pity and frustration. "You can't tell us. We understand. But why are you warning us?" Harry's mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of information Dobby had given them. Then, a sudden, unpleasant thought struck him, sending a chill down his spine. His voice dropped, filled with trepidation as he asked, "Hang on — this hasn't got anything to do with Voldemort, does it?"

The mere mention of the Dark Lord's name made Dobby flinch violently, his entire body recoiling as if struck. His large, round eyes filled with an even greater terror, but still, he remained silent, refusing to answer the question that hung so ominously in the air. His silence spoke volumes, though—his fear was too intense to be mere coincidence.

"You cannot go back," Dobby finally pleaded, his voice trembling with urgency and despair. The intensity of his fear was palpable, saturating every word. "Please take my warning and don't go back."

Before they could utter another word, before they could ask the countless questions swirling in their minds, there was a sudden, sharp crack. The sound echoed in the room, and in an instant, Dobby was gone, leaving nothing but the stillness of the night and the lingering sense of dread in his wake.

August 1, 1992 – Saturday

Potter Home, Ottery St. Catchpole, England

Buffy, Harry, Dawn, and Joyce were busy tidying up the remnants of the party from the day before, the house still echoing with the warmth and laughter of the celebration. The scent of birthday cake lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the fresh aroma of morning as they worked together to restore order. It was a quiet, comfortable morning, each of them lost in their thoughts, when the unexpected sound of a knock at the door broke the peaceful rhythm of their chore.

Buffy, who was closest to the door, instinctively wiped her hands on her jeans and moved to answer it. As she pulled the door open, she found herself looking up at a tall man. He was dressed in a tweed Muggle suit, his demeanor formal yet approachable, with a pair of glasses perched neatly on his nose. There was something distinctly British about him, a certain air of understated authority.

"Yes, can I help you?" Buffy asked, her voice polite but edged with curiosity. She studied him with sharp eyes, always cautious of strangers.

The man offered a gentle smile, one that reached his eyes and softened the edges of his stern appearance. "Are you by chance Isabella Potter?" he inquired, his tone carrying the weight of someone who already knew the answer.

Buffy's heart skipped a beat at the use of her full name, a name that was more a secret than a common reference. Something about the way he said it made her pulse quicken. Without turning away from the man, she called out into the house, her voice echoing down the hall, "Mom!"

Joyce, hearing the note of alarm in her daughter's voice, hurried to the door. She stepped up behind Buffy, her protective instincts already on high alert as she scrutinized the stranger standing on their doorstep. "Good day, sir," Joyce greeted him, her voice calm but with an underlying firmness. "Can I ask what you want with my daughter?"

The man's smile remained, gentle yet somehow knowing, as if he had expected this reaction. "It would be best if we talked about this inside," he suggested, his voice smooth and reassuring. Yet, as he spoke, Joyce's hand instinctively drifted toward her wand, the magical tool always within easy reach. The movement was subtle, but not subtle enough to escape the man's notice.

"You won't need your wand, Ms. Potter," he said, his tone even, showing no sign of intimidation or fear. His words were more a reassurance than a command, but they were effective in making Joyce pause.

Joyce exchanged a look with Buffy, a silent conversation passing between mother and daughter. After a moment of hesitation, Joyce nodded, stepping aside to allow the man into their home. "Sorry about the mess," she apologized, a slight tension in her voice as she led him into the living room. "Buffy and Harry had their birthday party yesterday, and we were just cleaning up."

The man nodded, his gaze sweeping over the room, taking in the remnants of the celebration with a fleeting smile. "That's quite alright," he replied, his tone warm. Then, turning his attention back to Joyce, he introduced himself with a hint of formality, "Now, let me introduce myself. I am Rupert Giles."

At the mention of his name, Joyce's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in recognition. Memories from years ago, from a time when she went to Hogwarts, flooded back. "Rupert Giles," she repeated, her voice filled with surprise and a touch of nostalgia. "I remember you. You were in my year at Hogwarts. Though, last I knew, you had been pulled out by your father."

Giles sighed softly, a shadow of old burdens passing over his face as he nodded. "I was," he confirmed, his voice carrying the weight of that decision. "My father told me that I was destined to be a Watcher and pulled me out of Hogwarts."

Joyce's brow furrowed as she tried to recall what she knew about Watchers. "A Watcher?" she asked, the question heavy with unspoken concern.

"That goes hand in hand with the reason I am here today," Giles explained, his expression growing serious. He glanced at Buffy, his gaze steady and filled with an unspoken gravity. "You see, Isabella here has been called."

Buffy blinked, her heart skipping a beat as his words sank in. She frowned, her mind racing to catch up. "You mean I'm a Slayer?" she asked, her voice a mixture of disbelief and dawning realization.

Joyce looked at her daughter, trying to recall the significance of the word that Giles had mentioned. Slayer. The term was familiar, lingering at the edges of her memory like a forgotten melody. Then, in a sudden flash of recollection, it all came rushing back. The young woman who had bravely protected Dawn last year had been a Slayer. That harrowing time had revealed more about their world than Joyce had ever wanted to know, including the revelation that Buffy was a Potential—a young woman destined to possibly become a Slayer. The weight of that realization hit her like a cold wave. "I thought there could only be one Slayer at a time. Isn't that what you told me, Buffy?" Joyce's voice was laced with a mix of confusion and concern.

Buffy met her mother's gaze and nodded solemnly. "It's true," she confirmed, the words heavy in the air. Her eyes then shifted to Giles, seeking answers to the unspoken questions that were now swirling in her mind. "So, does that mean Faith is dead?"

Giles sighed, a shadow crossing his face as he prepared to explain. "That is a long story," he began, his tone reflecting the complexity of what he was about to share. "A few years ago, Faith drowned and was resuscitated by a friend of hers, Xander Harris. Technically, she was dead for less than a minute. But it was long enough for a new Slayer to be called."

As he spoke, Giles's expression darkened with the weight of past tragedies. "Kendra Young in Jamaica was that new Slayer. She, unfortunately, died recently around the time you were called." His gaze wandered briefly, as if recalling the difficult search that had led him here. "It took us some time to locate you. This house is shielded, isn't it?"

Joyce nodded, the mention of the protective wards around their home stirring a deep-seated fear within her. "Yes, it is. It's to protect Buffy and Harry from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. So, you were saying Buffy is a Slayer now?" Her voice trembled slightly, betraying the calm exterior she was trying to maintain.

Giles's expression softened as he met Joyce's eyes. "Yes, the Watcher's Council sent me to train Isabella," he confirmed, though there was a pause as he seemed to consider something. "By the way, why do you call her Buffy?" he asked, his curiosity evident.

Buffy chuckled, the sound light but tinged with a hint of melancholy. "Because that's my name," she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I haven't gone by Isabella since I was about a year old. Mom changed my name when she adopted me after my birth parents died."

Giles nodded in understanding, a small smile touching his lips as well. "Ah! Then I will endeavor to call you Buffy," he said, the formality in his tone giving way to a warmer familiarity. "Anyways, I was sent to train you. Seeing how you're only 12 years old, the Council decided you should get training before you're put out in the field. Normally, that would mean taking you out of your home to a Council facility."

At this, Joyce's face tightened, her protective instincts flaring up at the mere suggestion of her daughter being taken away. The idea of Buffy being sent to a place where she would be molded into a warrior was terrifying. But before she could voice her objections, Giles continued, "But I am going to go against Council policy, since you are also a witch. I feel being trained as both will increase your potential as a Slayer."

The room seemed to grow still as Giles's words hung in the air. Joyce's mind raced, filled with images of what being a Slayer meant—long nights filled with danger, the constant threat of death, the inevitable loneliness that came with such a burden. She had heard enough from Buffy to know that Slayers lived short, perilous lives, battling demons, vampires, and other dark creatures. The thought of her daughter stepping into that world, so young and already carrying the weight of being a witch, was almost too much to bear.

But even as fear gripped her heart, Joyce knew her daughter well. She knew that Buffy would want the training, would want to do what was right, even if it meant putting herself in harm's way. With a deep breath, she forced herself to accept what she could not change. "Very well," she said, her voice steady though her heart was anything but. "I have my objections, of course—what parent wouldn't? But I know Buffy. She will want to do this if it means protecting the people she loves." Joyce paused, the weight of her words pressing down on her. "I would suggest you contact Dumbledore though."

Giles's lips curled into a knowing smile, a hint of admiration in his eyes for the woman who stood before him. "One step ahead of you," he said, his voice carrying a note of reassurance. "I have already sorted all this out with him."

Joyce let out a small sigh of relief, her trust in Dumbledore providing a faint but necessary comfort. Even as the reality of what this meant for Buffy began to settle in, she took solace in knowing that her daughter would be guided by someone who understood both the magical and the mortal dangers she would face.

August 12, 1992 – Wednesday

Potter Home, Ottery St. Catchpole, England

As the days slipped by, the summer heat began to meld with the routine that Giles had established for them. Each morning, the sun barely risen, Buffy would meet Giles in the backyard, her movements growing sharper and more precise under his watchful eye. But it wasn't long before Harry and Dawn insisted on joining in, their determination unwavering despite Joyce's initial protests. The siblings were resolute—if Buffy was going to learn how to protect herself, then so would they. Joyce's attempts to dissuade them fell on deaf ears, and eventually, Giles had to admit defeat. With a resigned but approving nod, he crafted a training regimen that encompassed all three children, tailoring it to their individual strengths and needs.

It was during one of these rigorous sessions, the air filled with the sound of footsteps on grass and the occasional thud of a training dummy, that an unexpected visitor arrived. An owl swooped down, its wings cutting through the warm afternoon air, and dropped three envelopes into their midst. The children paused, wiping sweat from their brows as they reached for the letters. Dawn, her cheeks flushed from the exercise, tore open hers first. As her eyes scanned the parchment, they widened in surprise. Without a word, she passed the letter to Buffy and Harry, her hand trembling slightly.

The letter was written in McGonagall's neat, precise handwriting:

Miss Dawn Summers,

It is our privilege let you know, that due to your outstanding scores from the previous year that you will be allowed in second year classes this coming term, instead of first year classes with others your age.

Enclosed is a list of what you will need for your second year.

I would personally like to say congratulations as you're now officially the youngest student to ever attend Hogwarts.

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Harry and Buffy exchanged proud, beaming smiles before engulfing Dawn in a warm, celebratory hug. "Good going, Dawnie," Buffy said, her voice filled with pride and affection as she tousled her sister's hair. "I knew you could do it."

At that moment, Joyce walked in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She paused, sensing the excitement in the room, and arched an eyebrow. "What's all this?" she asked, curious. Dawn handed her the letter, biting her lip as Joyce read it. A broad smile spread across Joyce's face as she finished. "Dawn, that's wonderful," she said, her voice thick with pride. "I'll have to get you something special from Diagon Alley when we go to pick up your supplies." She glanced at the calendar hanging by the door. "Which will be tomorrow, by the way. I just talked to Molly by Floo. She said they got their letters too and will be going to Diagon Alley tomorrow as well."

Buffy and Harry shared a conspiratorial glance, their minds already spinning with ideas. "Mom," Harry began, his voice dropping to a whisper as he gestured for Joyce to step aside with them. Once they were out of Dawn's earshot, Buffy leaned in closer.

"We want to do something special for Dawn," she whispered, her voice full of earnestness. "We were thinking of opening up an account for her at Gringotts. Between the two of us, we have more money in our vaults than we could ever need, and we'd like to give her some."

Joyce looked at her children, a tender smile playing on her lips as she listened to their plan. But then, with a slight shake of her head, she gently corrected them. "There's no need for that," she said softly, watching as confusion flickered across their faces. "You remember that I, too, am a Potter. It wasn't your father who earned the money in your vaults. He actually inherited it from our father—your grandfather."

Buffy and Harry blinked in surprise as Joyce continued, her voice carrying a mix of nostalgia and pride. "Father invented Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, which is where our family's fortune comes from. James and I, being his only children, inherited his entire wealth, split evenly between us. And of course, Dawn, as my daughter, will inherit from me one day."

Harry and Buffy exchanged a look of understanding, their expressions softening as they realized the depth of the legacy, they were part of. But before they could speak, Joyce's eyes twinkled with an idea. "I know something you can get Dawn though," she added, her smile growing wider. "Something that will mean more to her than just gold in a vault."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Later that afternoon, the air around the Potter household buzzed with excitement as Ron, Fred, and George arrived, their brooms slung casually over their shoulders. The Weasley brothers had been eager to spend some time with Harry, Dawn, and Buffy, especially since the Potters' secluded property offered the perfect spot for Quidditch practice. The small paddock they would be using was surrounded by dense trees, their leafy canopies forming a natural barrier that shielded the area from the prying eyes of the village below. It was a place where they could indulge in their love of the sport without worrying about being seen—so long as they kept their flying low and didn't risk any unnecessary exposure.

Despite the idyllic setting, the reality of their practice session required some improvisation. They couldn't use real Quidditch balls—Bludgers and the Golden Snitch were far too risky, their enchanted nature making them difficult to control and impossible to explain if they managed to escape over the treetops and into the village. Instead, they opted for a simpler, safer alternative. Apples, freshly picked and solid in the hand, became their makeshift Quaffles, and with a cheer of anticipation, the group headed up the hill.

Five minutes later, the six of them were marching up the incline, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows behind them as they carried their broomsticks like seasoned athletes ready for a match. Fred, however, couldn't shake a frown from his face, his brow furrowing as he glanced back toward the house where Percy had chosen to stay behind.

"Wish I knew what he was up to," Fred muttered, his voice tinged with concern. He, Ron, and George had extended an invitation to Percy, hoping he'd join them for some fun, but Percy had declined, his demeanor unusually reserved. "He's not himself. His exam results came the day before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and he hardly gloated at all."

"Ordinary Wizarding Levels," George added quickly, noticing the puzzled expressions on Harry, Buffy, and Dawn's faces. He grinned, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. "Bill got twelve, too. If we're not careful, we'll have another Head Boy in the family. I don't think I could stand the shame."

The remark was meant as a joke, but there was a tinge of genuine concern underlying George's words. The Weasley siblings had always taken pride in their accomplishments, but the prospect of Percy becoming Head Boy was met with mixed feelings—respect tinged with the fear of seeing their brother drift further away into his own world of ambition and responsibility.

As they crested the hill and the paddock came into full view, their thoughts turned momentarily to the two eldest Weasley brothers who had already left the familiar halls of Hogwarts behind. Bill, the oldest, was in Egypt, working for Gringotts and unraveling ancient curses, while Charlie, the second oldest, was in Romania, studying dragons with a fervor that matched his love for adventure. Harry, Buffy, and Dawn had never met either of them, but their legendary status within the Weasley family made them figures of admiration and intrigue.

"Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this year," George mused aloud after a while, the weight of reality returning to their lighthearted mood. He cast a glance at his brothers, his expression thoughtful. "Five sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny needs robes and a wand and everything…"

August 19, 1992 – Wednesday

Diagon Alley

The bustling energy of Diagon Alley wrapped itself around the Potters, Grangers, and Weasleys like a warm, familiar cloak, the cobblestone streets alive with the vibrant hustle and bustle of witches and wizards going about their shopping. Everywhere they looked, there was something to catch the eye—the flash of colorful robes, the shimmer of spellbooks stacked in storefront windows, and the gleam of cauldrons on display. The air itself was a rich tapestry of scents, woven together from the heady aroma of fresh parchment, the sharp tang of potion ingredients, and the mouthwatering smell of baked goods wafting from nearby shops. It was a sensory feast that never failed to evoke a sense of wonder, no matter how many times they had visited before.

Their first stop was Gringotts, the towering marble edifice of the wizarding bank looming over them with an imposing grandeur. The Potters and Weasleys made their way inside, the cool air of the bank providing a brief respite from the summer heat outside. The Grangers, on the other hand, headed toward a stern-looking goblin, the jangling of British currency in their pockets as they prepared to exchange it for wizarding money.

"Meet you back here," Ron called to Hermione, giving her a quick grin before he and the rest of the Weasleys followed a sharp-nosed Gringotts goblin who was waiting to lead them down to their underground vaults. The Potters trailed closely behind, the cool, dimly lit passageways echoing with the clink of coins and the creak of carts in the distance.

The ride down to the Weasley's vault was swift and slightly jarring as the cart hurtled through the labyrinthine tunnels. When they finally arrived and the vault door creaked open, Joyce couldn't suppress a sigh at the sight that met her eyes. The inside of the vault was stark and nearly barren, with only a very small pile of silver Sickles and a single, lonely gold Galleon resting on the stone floor. Mrs. Weasley's face remained composed, but there was a fleeting look of quiet resignation in her eyes as she bent down and carefully swept the entire contents of the vault into her bag, making sure not to leave even a single coin behind.

The contrast was stark when they reached the Potter vaults. The heavy doors swung open to reveal heaps of gold, silver, and bronze spilling out in all directions, the light from the flickering torches reflecting off the coins and casting a warm glow around the chamber. Harry and Buffy each filled their bags from their respective vaults, the clinking of coins echoing in the cool, musty air as they moved. Joyce took her time in her own vault, methodically filling two bags with enough gold to last them through the school year and beyond. The weight of the coins was a comforting reminder of their financial security, a security that stood in stark contrast to the Weasleys' situation.

Mrs. Weasley looked up, her eyes widening slightly as they fell upon the bag of gold in Joyce's outstretched hand. A wave of emotion passed over her face, a mixture of gratitude and resistance, the latter born from years of making do with what little they had. She shook her head gently, the smile on her lips touched with both appreciation and humility. "We couldn't, Joyce," she said, her voice tinged with that familiar warmth, though it was laced with the underlying strain of knowing just how much this would mean to her family.

Joyce's smile softened further, her resolve unyielding as she took a step closer, the weight of the gold seemingly nothing compared to the weight of her determination. "I won't take no for an answer, Molly," she said, her tone firm yet tender, making it clear that this was not just an offer—it was a gift, one given freely out of love and respect, with no expectations or strings attached.

Mrs. Weasley hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly as they hovered near the bag of gold. Her eyes flickered to her husband, who had been standing a bit behind her, observing the exchange with a thoughtful expression. Mr. Weasley stepped forward, gently placing a hand on Molly's shoulder, his touch light but reassuring. He could see the internal struggle in his wife's eyes, the pride that made her want to refuse and the reality of their situation that made her hesitate.

"Molly," Mr. Weasley began, his voice soft and filled with quiet understanding. "Joyce is offering out of kindness, out of friendship. It's not charity, it's help from someone who cares about us." His words were deliberate, each one chosen to ease the conflict he knew was warring in her heart.

Mrs. Weasley bit her lip, looking from her husband to Joyce, who stood patiently, the gentle smile never leaving her face. There was no judgment in Joyce's eyes, only compassion. Mrs. Weasley knew that the Potters were well-off, their vaults brimming with the wealth accumulated over generations, yet she also knew that Joyce didn't see this as a handout, but as a way to share the burden that life had placed on their family.

For a moment, the bustling sounds of Gringotts seemed distant, muffled by the weight of the decision before them. Mr. Weasley's gaze met his wife's, silently urging her to accept, to let go of the pride that had kept them afloat for so long, but also recognizing that sometimes, it was okay to lean on those who cared about them.

With a quiet sigh, Mrs. Weasley finally allowed herself a small nod, her shoulders relaxing as she did so. She reached out slowly, her hand trembling just slightly as she took the bag from Joyce. "Thank you, Joyce," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "You don't know how much this means to us."

Joyce smiled warmly, giving Molly's hand a gentle squeeze as she handed over the bag. "It's my pleasure, Molly. We're all in this together, aren't we?"

Mr. Weasley smiled at Joyce, the gratitude in his eyes speaking volumes. "Thank you, Joyce. Truly."

As the weight of the gold shifted from Joyce's hand to Mrs. Weasley's, it felt as though a different kind of burden had been lifted from the Weasleys' shoulders—a burden they had carried silently for so long. It wasn't just the relief of knowing they had a little extra to get through the school year; it was the relief of knowing they had friends like the Potters, who were willing to stand by them, to help them without a second thought.

Back outside on the marble steps of Gringotts, the group began to drift apart, each with their own errands to run. Percy, ever the studious one, muttered something vague about needing a new quill, already lost in thoughts of his next task. Fred and George, with their usual energy and mischief, had spotted Lee Jordan across the street and made a beeline for their friend, no doubt planning some new prank or adventure. Mrs. Weasley, with Ginny, Joyce, and Dawn in tow, was heading toward Madam Malkin's to get the girls fitted for new robes. Mr. Weasley, with his characteristic enthusiasm, insisted on treating the Grangers to a drink at the Leaky Cauldron, eager to share more about the wizarding world with them.

As they separated, Mrs. Weasley called over her shoulder, "We'll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks," her voice carrying a note of authority that brooked no argument. She turned her sharp gaze to Fred and George's retreating backs, adding with a warning, "And not one step down Knockturn Alley!" The twins waved her off casually, already half-distracted by the bustling sights and sounds of Diagon Alley.

Meanwhile, Harry and Buffy exchanged a quick glance, a silent communication passing between them as they led Hermione, Ron and Willow towards the Magical Menagerie. The display window was a riot of activity, filled with cages, aquariums, and all manner of fantastical creatures. The shop's sign swung gently in the breeze, creaking softly as they approached.

"Why are we going here?" Ron asked, his brow furrowing as he eyed the shop filled with creatures that seemed to defy logic and imagination.

"We're getting Dawn a pet, to say congratulations," Buffy explained, her voice carrying a hint of the excitement she felt.

Harry chimed in, "Dawn got a letter stating instead of being in first-year classes with others her own age, she'll be continuing in our year. Her grades last term were that good." His tone was filled with pride, and Ron's expression shifted from curiosity to understanding.

As they pushed open the door, a small bell above the entrance chimed, its delicate sound almost lost amidst the cacophony of animal noises inside. The shop was alive with the chatter of birds, the rustling of small creatures in hay-lined cages, and the occasional low growl or hiss from the more exotic animals. The air was thick with the mingled scents of hay, sawdust, and the earthy musk of various magical beasts.

Buffy and Harry moved slowly through the aisles; their eyes wide as they took in the array of magical pets. Vibrant toads with jewel-like skins, sleek rats with unusual markings, and shimmering snakes with eyes that seemed to glow with hidden wisdom—each creature was more fascinating than the last. But amidst the overwhelming variety, the siblings were focused, knowing they had a mission.

They soon found themselves in a quieter corner of the shop, drawn there almost instinctively. A graceful Siamese cat sat perched in her cage, her fur the color of warm cream, with striking dark points that accentuated her ears, paws, and tail. The cat's piercing blue eyes met theirs with an intensity that suggested a deep intelligence, as if she was assessing them just as much as they were assessing her.

The cat let out a soft, melodic meow, a sound so gentle it seemed to resonate with the very core of who Buffy and Harry were—kind, protective, and full of love for their sister. Buffy and Harry exchanged a look, a silent agreement passing between them. This was the one. This elegant, serene creature was the perfect companion for Dawn, a reflection of her own quiet strength and burgeoning potential.

Without hesitation, they approached the shopkeeper, a wizened old witch with sharp eyes and a knowing smile. She didn't need to ask if they were sure; she could see it in their expressions. With practiced hands, she transferred the cat into a carrier, the soft purring of the Siamese filling the quiet space between them as she nestled into her new home.

As they left the shop, the excitement of their secret gift bubbled inside them. The streets of Diagon Alley seemed even more vibrant now, the colors brighter, the sounds richer, as they imagined Dawn's reaction. They made their way through the bustling crowd, the cat carrier swinging gently between them, until they spotted Joyce, Mrs. Weasley, and the girls emerging from Madam Malkin's.

Harry stepped forward; his smile wide with pride as he held out the cat carrier to Dawn. "She's for you, Dawn," Buffy said, her voice soft but filled with warmth.

Dawn's eyes widened in surprise, her breath catching as she carefully took the carrier from Harry. Peering inside, she found herself gazing into the serene, sapphire eyes of the Siamese cat, the delicate creature blinking up at her as if to say, "Hello, I'm yours now." A radiant smile spread across Dawn's face, her heart swelling with a mix of joy and gratitude.

"She's beautiful," Dawn whispered, her voice tinged with awe as she marveled at the graceful cat. "I think I'll call her Joy." The name felt perfect, a reflection of the happiness and love she felt in that moment, surrounded by her family and friends.

They then headed for Flourish and Blotts, their spirits high despite the thickening crowds that swelled around Diagon Alley. The Potters and Weasleys were soon reunited with Mr. Weasley and the Grangers, the group now a bustling ensemble of excited chatter and exchanged stories. But as they approached the bookshop, they noticed they were by no means the only ones drawn there. A veritable throng of witches and wizards, all jostling and craning their necks to catch a glimpse inside, crowded the narrow street in front of the store.

Their curiosity was quickly explained by the large banner that stretched across the upper windows of Flourish and Blotts:

GILDEROY LOCKHART
will be signing copies of his autobiography
MAGICAL ME
today 12:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.

Hermione's eyes lit up with excitement, and she let out a squeal of delight. "We can actually meet him! I mean, he's written almost the whole booklist!"

Buffy raised an eyebrow, not quite sharing in Hermione's enthusiasm. She cast a dubious glance at the eager witches—most of them middle-aged women, their eyes bright with anticipation—jostling at the entrance, all desperate to catch a glimpse of the famed Gilderoy Lockhart. A harassed-looking wizard stood at the door, his voice nearly drowned out by the eager chatter of the crowd as he attempted to maintain order. "Calmly, please, ladies… Don't push, there… mind the books, now…" he urged, though it was clear he was fighting a losing battle against the tide of excited fans.

As the group prepared to dive into the fray, Joyce stepped forward, offering a solution to one of the day's smaller dilemmas. "Give her to me, Dawn," she said, her voice gentle as she extended a hand toward her youngest daughter. "I'll wait out here with her until you're done inside."

Dawn hesitated for only a moment before nodding gratefully. "Thanks, Mom," she said, handing over the cat carrier with a careful touch. Though she would have been more than happy to carry Joy around Diagon Alley herself, her hands were already full with her new cauldron and a few other items she'd collected during their shopping trip. Knowing that her precious new pet was safe with Joyce allowed her to focus on the rest of the day's activities without any additional worries.

With Dawn's new pet safely in Joyce's care, the rest of the group steeled themselves and squeezed inside the crowded bookshop. The air inside was thick with the scent of parchment and the faint, heady aroma of fresh ink, mingling with the excited buzz of chatter as fans eagerly clutched their copies of Magical Me.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Buffy muttered, her voice tinged with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance as she eyed the sea of eager faces all pressing toward the back of the shop. There, perched at a lavishly decorated table, was none other than Gilderoy Lockhart, his smile flashing like a beacon to his adoring fans. "All this to see some idiot," she added under her breath, unable to fathom the hype surrounding the flamboyant wizard.

Determined to avoid the crush, they each grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and subtly made their way through the throng of people, slipping along the edge of the crowd until they reached the spot where the rest of the Weasleys were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Granger.

"Oh, there you are, good," Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, her voice breathless, her cheeks slightly flushed from the excitement and the effort of navigating the crowded shop. She kept patting her hair, which had become slightly disheveled in the process. "We'll be able to see him in a minute…"

Gilderoy Lockhart slowly came into view, seated at a table that seemed to glow with the sheer force of his charisma. Surrounding him were large pictures of his own face, each one winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd as if the images themselves were enchanted to charm. Lockhart himself was dressed in robes of a forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes, which sparkled with self-satisfaction as he posed for the adoring masses. His pointed wizard's hat was set at a jaunty angle atop his wavy hair, completing the picture of a man who was as polished as he was pompous.

A short, irritable-looking man was darting about nearby, a large black camera clutched in his hands as he snapped photo after photo. With each blinding flash, the camera emitted puffs of purple smoke that added to the chaotic atmosphere of the shop. "Out of the way, there," the photographer snarled at Buffy as he elbowed past her, moving back to get a better shot of Lockhart. "This is for the Daily Prophet—"

"How rude can someone be?" Harry grumbled, noticing that Buffy was rubbing her foot where the photographer had stepped on it in his haste to get the perfect shot.

Gilderoy Lockhart, ever the showman, overheard Harry's comment. He looked up, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Harry and Buffy. For a moment, he seemed taken aback, his smile faltering ever so slightly as recognition dawned on him. Then, with a dramatic flair that seemed almost rehearsed, he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, "It can't be Harry and Isabella Potter?"

His declaration sent ripples through the throng, the crowd parting like the Red Sea, whispers spreading like wildfire. All eyes turned to Harry and Buffy as Lockhart, with the flair of a seasoned showman, dove forward, his hands seizing their arms with surprising strength. With a triumphant grin, he yanked them to the front of the shop, dragging them into the spotlight. The crowd, as if on cue, erupted into applause, their cheers echoing off the walls of Flourish and Blotts.

Lockhart, clearly relishing every second of the attention, leaned in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though it was loud enough for all to hear. "Nice big smile, Harry, Isabella," he said, his own perfect teeth gleaming in the bright lights as he positioned the twins on either side of him. "Together, you two and I are worth the front page."

The flash of the photographer's camera was blinding, each shot punctuated by puffs of purple smoke that filled the air with an acrid, magical tang. Harry, feeling the weight of the entire shop's gaze upon him, forced a tight smile, while Buffy managed something a bit more genuine, though her eyes hinted at her growing irritation. They barely had time to react before Lockhart's grip tightened, and he steered them away from the flashing cameras. They tried to edge back toward the Weasleys, their minds on the comfort of familiar faces, but Lockhart was having none of it. With a flourish, he flung an arm around each of their shoulders, locking them in place as if they were lifelong companions.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Lockhart's voice rang out, commanding the attention of the entire room as he waved for silence. The crowd obediently hushed, their anticipation palpable. "What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I've been sitting on for some time!"

Buffy and Harry exchanged a wary glance, their unease growing by the second. Lockhart, however, seemed oblivious, his enthusiasm only mounting as he continued. "When young Harry and Isabella here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, they only wanted to buy my autobiography—which I shall be happy to present them now, free of charge—" He paused as the crowd burst into applause, milking the moment for all it was worth.

The twins could only stand there, caught in the whirlwind of Lockhart's grandiosity, as he carried on. "They had no idea," he said, his tone dropping to a dramatic whisper, "that they would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. They and their schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

The announcement sent the crowd into a frenzy, cheers and claps ringing out in waves. Harry's heart sank while Buffy felt a wave of disbelief wash over her. This peacock of a man was going to be their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher? The thought alone was almost enough to make her groan aloud.

Lockhart, not one to miss an opportunity for self-promotion, handed the twins a towering stack of his books, the complete works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry staggered slightly under the weight, while Buffy, bolstered by her Slayer strength, held the pile with ease, though her annoyance was evident in the tight set of her jaw. The twins exchanged another glance, both silently agreeing that they couldn't get out of the spotlight fast enough.

As they made their way to the edge of the room, where Ginny stood awkwardly beside her new cauldron, they finally felt a measure of relief. Mrs. Weasley bustled over, her motherly concern shining through as she took the books from their arms. "Harry, Isabella, now you give me those, and I'll get them signed. All of you wait outside."

Eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere, the group of young witches and wizards headed for the door, the cool air outside a welcome reprieve from the stifling crowd.

"Of all the idiots in the world, that guy just ticks me off," Buffy muttered, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

Just then, they heard a voice dripping with the familiar blend of arrogance and disdain. It was a voice they had no trouble recognizing. "Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potters?"

Buffy and Harry turned on their heels to face Draco Malfoy, who was wearing his usual sneer as if it were a badge of honor. His cold gray eyes flickered with malicious glee. "Famous Harry and Isabella Potter," Malfoy drawled, his tone laced with mockery. "Can't even go into a bookshop without making the front page."

Before either twin could respond, Ginny stepped forward, her small frame radiating defiance. "Leave them alone, they didn't want all that!" she shot back, her voice sharper than usual as she glared at Malfoy, standing up for her friends.

Malfoy's lips curled into a cruel smile as he turned his attention to Harry. "Potter, you've got yourself a girlfriend!" he sneered, his voice dripping with condescension.

Behind Buffy and Harry, Dawn's face turned an alarming shade of scarlet, her anger igniting at the very thought of Ginny being anyone's girlfriend but her own. Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, but she forced herself to stay still, knowing this wasn't the time or place to let her emotions take over.

"Bet you're surprised to see Harry and Buffy here, eh?" Ron interjected, his tone brimming with indignation as he stood beside the twins, his own frustration with Malfoy bubbling to the surface.

Malfoy's sneer deepened as he shot Ron a disdainful look. "Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," he retorted with a venomous edge. His gaze flicked to the stack of books in Ginny's cauldron, and his next words dripped with scorn. "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those."

Ron's face flamed as red as his hair, the insult hitting its mark with brutal accuracy. His books slipped from his hands and landed with a thud in Ginny's cauldron as he took a threatening step toward Malfoy, his anger boiling over. But before he could get any closer, Harry and Hermione were quick to act, each grabbing the back of his jacket and pulling him back, their combined strength just enough to restrain him.

But Buffy was already moving, her Slayer instincts kicking in as her fists balled up. With a fluid motion that spoke of both her training and her anger, she stepped forward and delivered a punch to Malfoy's gut, the force of her blow doubling him over as the wind rushed out of him. Malfoy's eyes widened in shock and pain as he stumbled back, clutching his stomach.

A slow, measured clap echoed through the tense silence, drawing all eyes to the source. "Now, now, Draco, play nicely," came a smooth, cold voice from behind them. They turned to see Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father, his presence as imposing as the dark cane he held in his hand. His pale, sharp features were arranged in a condescending smile, one that didn't reach his calculating eyes. "Mr. Potter, Ms. Potter... Lucius Malfoy. We meet at last. Forgive me, your scars are legend, as, of course, is the wizard who gave them to the two of you."

Harry's fists clenched at his sides, his whole body trembling with a mix of rage and grief that threatened to overwhelm him. His voice was tight with controlled fury as he replied, "Voldemort killed our parents. He was nothing more than a murderer."

Lucius Malfoy's expression didn't change, his cold indifference making Harry's blood boil even more. While everyone's attention was focused on Lucius's face, none of them noticed his sleight of hand as he subtly slipped a small, black book into Ginny Weasley's cauldron. "Hmm. You must be very brave, to mention his name... or very foolish," Lucius said, his tone laced with a dark amusement. "Regardless, Draco, we must be off."

With that, he turned on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he walked away, his son trailing after him, still clutching his stomach and shooting one last venomous look at the group.

As the tension slowly ebbed away, the group released a collective breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding. Without another word, they gathered their things and made their way outside, where Joyce was waiting for them, her eyes scanning their faces with a mother's instinctive worry. The encounter had left a bitter taste in the air, but for now, they were just relieved to be away from the Malfoys and the dark cloud they always seemed to bring with them.

August 19, 1992 – Wednesday

Buffy's Dreamscape

The last rays of the afternoon sun poured into Professor McGonagall's classroom, casting long shadows across the old wooden desks and creating a warm, golden haze in the otherwise cool, stone-walled room. Buffy sat between Harry and Dawn as usual, her attention divided between the lesson and the comforting familiarity of her siblings. The classroom was abuzz with the quiet rustling of parchment and the subdued murmurs of students eagerly absorbing the day's teachings.

Suddenly, Buffy's senses were pulled away from the lesson by an unusual sound—an ethereal humming that seemed to seep through the walls and into her very bones. It was faint at first, almost like a whisper of a melody carried on a breeze, but it grew steadily louder, intertwining with the classroom's ambience. Buffy's brow furrowed as she turned her head slightly, trying to discern the source of the sound. Her whisper, edged with unease, reached her siblings. "Do you hear that?" she asked quietly, her eyes scanning the classroom for any clue.

Neither Harry nor Dawn seemed to respond, absorbed as they were in their notes and the intricacies of Professor McGonagall's lesson. Buffy's curiosity turned to concern, prompting her to rise from her seat. She slipped out of the classroom with a quiet grace, her footsteps barely making a sound on the polished floor. The hallway outside was a stark contrast to the warm, sunlit classroom; its stone walls and cold, grey tiles gave off an almost foreboding chill.

As Buffy walked down the hall, her senses sharpened by the unsettling hum, she spotted a small figure a short distance away. A little girl, no older than eight or nine, stood alone in the dimming corridor. Her appearance was strikingly incongruous with the darkening atmosphere; she wore a simple, yet elegant dress that fluttered slightly as she stood still, her demeanor eerily calm.

"Can't even shout," the girl said in a sing-song voice, her words strangely rhythmic and haunting. "Can't even cry. The Gentlemen are coming by. Looking in windows, knocking on doors... They need to take seven and they might take yours…" Her eyes were wide and vacant, as though she could see something beyond the ordinary world.

Buffy's gaze was drawn to the small, perfectly square box clutched tightly in the girl's hands. The box was carved from dark wood, its surface adorned with intricate, yet unsettling patterns that seemed to twist and shift when viewed from different angles. The girl's voice was an eerie blend of melancholy and menace, sending shivers down Buffy's spine. "Can't call to mom. Can't say a word. You're going to die screaming but you won't be heard."

Buffy's heart raced as she felt the weight of the girl's chilling message. A creeping dread began to settle over her, tightening like a vise around her chest. She turned to see Harry and Dawn, who had followed her out of the classroom. Their faces were etched with concern, their eyes wide as they took in the unsettling scene.

Buffy looked back at the girl, her breath catching in her throat. The once innocent-looking child had transformed before her eyes. A hideous, grinning white face now leered back at her, the features twisted into a grotesque parody of joy. The smile stretched unnaturally across the girl's face, revealing sharp, pointed teeth that glistened with a malevolent gleam.

Leaky Cauldron, London, England

Buffy sat bolt upright in bed, her breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps as her heart raced with the remnants of a nightmare. The dim, flickering light from a nearby candle cast long shadows across the room, creating an unsettling interplay of light and darkness that did little to calm her frayed nerves. Her eyes darted around the unfamiliar room, taking in the faded wallpaper and the heavy wooden furniture that marked the Leaky Cauldron's distinctly old-world charm. The realization that it was only the night after their busy day of shopping at Diagon Alley did little to ease the dread that still gripped her.

Joyce, who had been resting in the adjacent bed, was immediately alerted by her daughter's distress. Her motherly instincts kicked in, and she hurried over to Buffy's side with concern etched across her face. The room, though modest and unadorned, was filled with a quiet comfort that contrasted sharply with Buffy's inner turmoil. Joyce's soft voice cut through the darkness, trying to anchor Buffy to the present. "Buffy?"

Buffy's eyes, wide with the lingering horror of her dream, locked onto her mother's. "I had a dream, Mom," she said, her voice trembling. "I think it may have been another vision."

Joyce's expression shifted to one of understanding, her own worry mingling with a deep-seated knowledge of what Buffy's visions often entailed. She nodded slowly, her face a mixture of concern and resolve. "First thing in the morning I will get Rupert here," she said, her tone firm and reassuring. She knew that when Buffy referred to a vision, it was a serious matter—reminiscent of the troubling premonitions from the previous year, which had revealed Dawn's role as the vessel for the mystical artifact known as the Key.

August 20, 1992 – Thursday

Leaky Cauldron

Giles had arrived promptly after Joyce's urgent call, his concern evident in his brisk, purposeful stride as he made his way to the Leaky Cauldron. Now, in the dimly lit tavern, he sat across from the Potters at a sturdy wooden table that had seen countless meetings and whispered conversations over the years. The soft glow of the hanging lanterns cast a warm but insufficient light, adding a layer of seriousness to the situation. Giles's gaze was intense as he scrutinized the faces of Buffy, Harry, and Dawn.

"Can't even shout, can't even cry... the Gentlemen are coming by... It sounds vaguely familiar—you're sure you've never heard it before?" he inquired, his tone a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Very sure," Buffy replied, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to recall every detail of her dream. Her earlier fear was now replaced with a sense of anxious anticipation, as she awaited any insight Giles might offer.

Dawn, sitting beside her sister, shook her head slowly. "Not something Mom or Dad would have told us when we were younger," she said, her voice tinged with confusion. She glanced at her mother, seeking confirmation of her own uncertainty.

Joyce nodded in agreement, her face a canvas of worry. "I don't recognize it either," she added, her voice steady but concerned. Her maternal instincts told her that this was no ordinary dream, and the urgency in Giles's presence only confirmed her fears.

"Neither do I," Harry interjected, his expression mirroring the unease of the others. He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Giles, as if willing the man to provide some clarity.

Giles's brow furrowed in thought as he jotted down notes, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the table. "All right... and the girl was holding a box. Nothing else?" he asked, his tone analytical, focused on every detail.

"Just a box," Buffy confirmed, her voice steady despite the lingering apprehension. She recalled the girl's haunting, rhyming words and the unsettling image of her grinning face.

Giles took a deep breath, his mind already racing through the possibilities. "Well, it certainly could be one of your prophecy dreams," he said, his tone authoritative. "I'll check it out, let you know if I come up with anything." He looked at each of them with a reassuring nod, though his eyes revealed the weight of the task ahead.

"We'll be here," Joyce said firmly, her gaze resolute. "Until we know that whatever it is isn't targeting Diagon Alley, I felt it was better to wait." Her protective instincts were in full force, and she was determined to keep her children safe.

"Good thinking, Joyce," Giles acknowledged, a hint of approval in his voice. "Even though I would rather leave Buffy out of anything supernatural till she gets more training, she is still the only Slayer in England." The gravity of his words was evident; Buffy's role as the Slayer made her uniquely valuable and vulnerable.

Diagon Alley

Throughout the day, Buffy, Harry, and Dawn roamed Diagon Alley alongside the Weasleys, who had opted to extend their stay for an extra day, enjoying the lively atmosphere and vibrant shops. The decision was a pleasant one, given that the Potters were not leaving just yet, and it offered an opportunity to explore the bustling street further. The group was in high spirits, laughing and chatting as they navigated through the maze of shops and street vendors, their arms laden with bags of newly purchased supplies.

As they made their way past a particularly crowded corner near the Apothecary, they encountered a blonde-haired girl accompanied by her mother. The girl had a delicate, ethereal quality to her appearance, her long, straight hair catching the sunlight in a halo-like glow. She wore a soft, pastel dress that seemed to shimmer slightly with every step she took. Her mother, a tall woman with warm, welcoming eyes and an air of elegance, walked beside her, holding a small, leather-bound notebook.

Willow, always the friendly one, couldn't help but be drawn to the girl's gentle demeanor. Her curiosity about the new faces, combined with her natural inclination to help, prompted her to approach them with a bright, welcoming smile. "Hi," Willow said, her voice warm and inviting as she made eye contact with the blonde-haired girl, who she found undeniably attractive.

The girl's mother turned toward Willow with a gracious smile, her expression one of mild relief. "Hello," she said, her voice smooth and cultured. "Do you know the way to Flourish and Blotts? Tara here is transferring from Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the United States."

Willow's eyes lit up with recognition and eagerness to assist. She gestured towards the bustling bookshop in the distance, its grand facade adorned with colorful banners and ornate windows. "Of course," Willow said, her tone friendly and confident. "Right over there." She pointed in the direction of the store, where the queue of eager witches and wizards waiting for book signings was just visible.

"T-t-thank you," Tara stuttered, her cheeks flushing slightly with a mix of shyness and gratitude. Her gaze flickered nervously between Willow and her mother, and she clutched the strap of her satchel a bit tighter, as if for reassurance.

Giles Family Home, Westbury, England

In the dimly lit solitude of Giles' home, a sense of quiet urgency pervaded the room. The apartment, adorned with bookshelves crammed with ancient tomes, mystical artifacts, and relics of arcane knowledge, seemed to hold its breath as Giles delved into the mystery presented by Buffy's vision.

Giles sat at his cluttered desk, which was strewn with an array of open books, scattered notes, and half-finished cups of tea. The desk lamp cast a warm, focused light that highlighted the furrowed lines of concentration etched across his brow. His eyes, sharp behind his glasses, flicked from one source to another, trying to piece together the fragments of the vision that Buffy had described.

He muttered softly to himself, the words almost lost in the murmur of the city outside his window. "They need to take seven... Take seven what?" The question hung in the air, as elusive and enigmatic as the vision itself. Giles' fingers absently tapped a pencil against a yellowed page of an old grimoire, creating a rhythmic patter that accompanied his deep thought.

The walls of his apartment were lined with maps and charts, many marked with various symbols and annotations related to the supernatural. One such map, pinned with ancient and modern pins alike, detailed the ley lines and mystical hotspots across the country. A large chalkboard, cluttered with scribbled notes and diagrams, bore witness to many late-night revelations and occult investigations.

Giles' mind raced through possible meanings and interpretations of the vision. His thoughts darted between various ancient prophecies, cryptic texts, and obscure references he had encountered over the years. The phrase "take seven" could signify any number of things—seven items, seven people, or perhaps even seven stages in a ritual or prophecy. The uncertainty gnawed at him, fueling his determination to uncover the truth.

As he reviewed the notes and cross-referenced the texts, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was no ordinary vision. It felt urgent, as though it were a harbinger of something significant. The weight of responsibility bore down on him, knowing that understanding the full meaning of Buffy's vision could be crucial in averting a potential crisis. His gaze flickered between the ancient texts and the modern interpretations, searching for a clue that would tie it all together.

In the quiet of the apartment, with only the soft hum of the city in the background, Giles was deeply immersed in his work, driven by the pressing need to make sense of the cryptic message that had emerged from Buffy's unsettling dream.

August 21, 2003

Leaky Cauldron, London, England

Buffy woke up with a start, her body still heavy with sleep. She yawned widely and stretched her arms over her head, the familiar creak of the bed groaning softly beneath her. As she slowly emerged from the haze of sleep, her gaze fell upon Dawn, who was perched on the edge of her bed, looking groggy and confused. The sight of Dawn in such a state was comforting, a sign of normalcy in the midst of their chaotic lives.

"Good morning," Buffy attempted to say, her lips moving in the familiar shape of the greeting, but no sound emerged. She blinked, a frown of confusion knitting her brows together. She cleared her throat and tried again, her voice catching in her throat like a snuffed flame. Still, there was only silence.

Dawn, who had also tried to speak, mirrored Buffy's struggle. Her mouth moved in the shape of words, but no sound came out. Her eyes widened with panic as she frantically gestured to her ears, her expression growing increasingly frantic. Buffy saw the look of alarm on Dawn's face and, with growing concern, saw the words "I'm deaf!" forming on Dawn's lips.

Buffy shook her head in disbelief and pointed to her own throat, hoping to convey that she was experiencing the same baffling issue. Her heart raced as she opened the bedroom door, her movements quick but silent. She found Joyce standing just outside the door, her hand raised in preparation to knock. The scene seemed oddly surreal, as if they were all trapped in a silent film.

"Mom?" Buffy mouthed, her lips forming the word with a sense of urgency and confusion.

Joyce's expression shifted to one of understanding and concern as she stepped into the room. She immediately noticed the looks of panic on both Buffy and Dawn's faces and began to mouth words in response. "It seems your vision may have been warning you," Joyce's lips formed the sentence with deliberate clarity.

The gravity of the situation sank in as Buffy and Dawn exchanged worried glances, their silent communication underscored by the strange and unsettling quiet that had enveloped them. The normally bustling room was now eerily quiet, the absence of sound amplifying the tension and confusion they felt. The three of them stood in the center of the room, grappling with the implications of the vision and its apparent manifestation in their sudden loss of hearing.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

The Leaky Cauldron was unnervingly quiet as Giles gathered with the Potters to deliver his findings. The usual clinking of glasses and murmur of conversation were absent, replaced by an unsettling stillness. Giles, resolute in his task, had prepared a series of signs to convey his message.

He first held up a sign with bold, black letters: "WHO ARE THE GENTLEMEN?" The question hung in the air, a stark prelude to the gravity of the situation. With deliberate care, Giles moved to the next sign, this one featuring a crudely drawn, but unmistakable image of a Gentleman—a featureless face with an unnerving grin. The sign was labeled "THEY ARE FAIRY TALE MONSTERS." The drawing was simplistic yet chilling, its intent clear: these creatures were no ordinary threat.

Giles then produced a third sign, asking, "WHAT DO THEY WANT?" The sign seemed to pulse with urgency, a visual representation of their desperate need for answers.

Dawn's hand shot up, her eyes wide with concern. She pointed at herself, her gesture both a question and a plea for understanding. Giles, acknowledging her earnestness, smiled and nodded. He then displayed a new sign with a single word: "HEARTS." The word was stark and foreboding, carrying the weight of their grim reality.

With this, Giles began to explain the nature of the threat. He described how the Gentlemen arrived in a town, stripping its inhabitants of their voices so that no one could scream. In the suffocating silence that followed, they would claim the lives of seven people, extracting their hearts as trophies. Giles then presented another sign with the information from the Daily Prophet: "THEY HAVE AT LEAST TWO."

Harry, deeply engrossed, scribbled frantically onto a piece of parchment. "How do you kill them?" he asked, his handwriting jagged with urgency.

Buffy, not to be left behind, wrote a similar question: "Like a vampire?" Her words were tinged with a mixture of hope and dread, searching for a familiar solution to an unfamiliar problem.

Giles shook his head, his expression grim. He produced a new sign, clearly stating, "BUT THE PRINCESS SCREAMED ONCE AND THEY ALL DIED. THEY CANNOT STAND THE HUMAN VOICE." The implication was clear: the Gentlemen were vulnerable to the power of the human voice, an echo of the classic tale that might hold the key to their defeat.

Joyce frowned deeply as she processed the information. She quickly scribbled down her thoughts: "That's not going to work without our voices." Her concern was evident, the realization dawning on her that their current predicament made the traditional solution unfeasible.

Dawn's eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope as she wrote, "Maybe that's what the box is for. Maybe that is where our voices are stored. Break the box and we can scream." The idea was both simple and profound, a potential solution to their dire situation.

Giles nodded in agreement, acknowledging Dawn's insight. He held up a final sign: "BUFFY and I WILL PATROL TONIGHT." The sign was a declaration of their next steps, a commitment to confront the menace lurking in the shadows. The room remained enveloped in an uneasy silence, the weight of their shared resolve pressing heavily upon them.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

That night at the Leaky Cauldron, the atmosphere in the dimly lit corridors was thick with an uneasy stillness. Tara had retreated to her room, where she sat at a small wooden desk littered with school supplies. Her new textbooks were spread out before her, their crisp, fresh pages illuminated by the soft light of a bedside lamp. The glow cast long, shifting shadows across the walls, creating an almost hypnotic dance of light and dark.

She was deeply engrossed in studying, her focus narrowing to the spells detailed within her textbooks. Beside her school materials, an older, worn book lay open—a gift from her mother. The book, its cover faded and edges frayed from years of use, was dedicated to "Spells of Speech and Silence." Tara's eyes flitted over the intricate symbols and arcane notations, her brow furrowed in concentration. The pages of her mother's book whispered secrets of the magical realm, a stark contrast to the more structured content of her school texts.

Tara, feeling the weight of her studies, decided to take a break. She carefully closed her school books and picked up the cherished tome from her mother. With a determined stride, she exited her room and began making her way down the corridor toward her mom's room, hoping for a brief respite from her scholarly pursuits.

As she walked, an inexplicable sense of dread washed over her. Her senses, finely tuned from years of training, picked up on an ominous presence. She turned abruptly and her heart nearly stopped. The Gentlemen and their eerie Footmen were advancing towards her, their silent, spectral forms gliding effortlessly across the floor. Panic surged through her veins. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, but no sound emerged. Desperation fueled her movements as she darted down the hall, frantically pounding on doors with a sense of frantic urgency, each thud a desperate plea for help.

In Willow's room, the rhythmic banging on the door shattered the silence, a sharp, discordant sound that echoed through the quiet of the night. Willow, already on edge from the eerie atmosphere, hesitated momentarily. Summoning her courage, she opened the door cautiously. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw Tara, eyes wide with terror, standing on the threshold.

Before she could react further, Willow's gaze swept past Tara and landed on the approaching Gentlemen and their Footmen. The sight was enough to propel her into action. She yanked Tara into the safety of her room, closing the door with a decisive slam. The sound of the Footmen crashing against the door was deafening, the force behind their assault clearly threatening to break through.

Inside the room, the atmosphere was tense and charged. Tara's mind raced as she remembered the books she had been studying—particularly the spells related to silence and protection. Without hesitation, she grabbed Willow's hand, their shared fear forging an unspoken pact of survival. Together, they began to move objects telekinetically, pushing aside anything they could to create a makeshift barricade. Furniture, books, and miscellaneous items were hurled into place with frantic energy, forming a desperate barrier between them and the relentless Footmen.

Streets of London

Across London, the night was thick with the eerie silence that heralded danger. Buffy and Giles moved through the shadowy streets, their senses alert for any sign of the sinister creatures that haunted the city. As they advanced, the familiar dread of the Gentlemen and their Footmen weighed heavily upon them.

Buffy's sharp eyes caught sight of one of the Gentlemen looming in the distance. Before she could react, two Footmen materialized out of the darkness and launched themselves at her and Giles. The sudden assault was brutal and immediate. Buffy engaged one of the Footmen with a decisive twist of her body, snapping its neck with a forceful jerk. The creature crumpled to the ground, lifeless. The second Footman, witnessing the swift and brutal death of its companion, fled in terror, its retreating form quickly vanishing into the night.

Giles and Buffy gave chase, their footsteps echoing off the cobblestone streets as they pursued the fleeing Footman. They followed its trail into an old, decrepit clock tower, its structure looming ominously against the night sky. The interior of the tower was a maze of gears and shadows, the large pendulum swinging rhythmically in the dim light.

Buffy and Giles moved with precision and speed. Buffy tackled one of the Footmen that had reappeared, her body moving with the grace and power of a seasoned fighter. She kicked the Footman away with a powerful strike and threw another across the room, its body crashing against the walls with a sickening thud. Giles, meanwhile, expertly fired his crossbow, the bolt finding its mark and sending a Footman to the ground in a cloud of dark, swirling dust.

As they battled, two more Footmen emerged, joining the fray. The combat became a frenetic blur of movement and violence. The Footmen attacked in a coordinated, frenzied assault, closing in on Buffy and Giles. There was no space for their weapons; it was a fight of sheer physical prowess. Giles threw one Footman with all his strength, sending it crashing into the cluttered machinery, while Buffy focused on her own adversary. She spun and delivered a fierce kick to the Footman's head, followed by a precise strike with the heel of her hand to its chest. The force of her blow sent the creature flying backward, slamming into a wooden beam with a splintering crack that echoed through the tower.

Buffy's sharp eyes tracked one of the Footmen heading up the stairs. With determination, she took after it, Giles close behind. They climbed the winding staircase, their breaths coming in harsh gasps as they ascended past the swinging pendulum, which sliced through the air with a rhythmic, almost hypnotic motion.

At the top of the stairs, Buffy's gaze was drawn to a shrine nestled against the wall. It was an unsettling sight: five jars, each filled with a dark, viscous substance, stood arranged in an eerie display. But no sooner had Buffy's eyes settled on the shrine than she was ambushed by four more Footmen. The sudden attack was overwhelming. Buffy fought back with fierce determination, kicking and shoving the Footmen away, trying to keep them at bay.

Giles, recognizing the importance of the shrine, made his way toward it. As Buffy continued to fend off her attackers, Giles pulled out his crossbow and swung the butt of it with all his might, smashing it into the box at the center of the shrine. The impact shattered the box into fragments, sending a cascade of dark, mystical energy swirling into the air.

In that moment, Buffy's voice, previously lost, surged back with a powerful, primal scream. The sound erupted from her lungs, reverberating through the clock tower with a force that seemed to shatter the very air. The Footmen, caught in the piercing resonance, writhed on the ground in agonized contortions. The Gentlemen, who had been silently observing, clutched their ears, their faces contorted in excruciating pain. The cacophony of Buffy's scream reached a crescendo, and the Gentlemen's heads exploded in a burst of dark, vaporous energy, their forms collapsing into inert, lifeless heaps.

All across London, the same horrific events unfolded. Anyone who encountered a Footman or Gentleman was struck by a similar compulsion to scream, their voices joining in a city-wide symphony of agony and destruction. The relentless and sinister creatures fell to the ground, their reign of terror brought to a shattering end by the power of human voice and unyielding courage.

Leaky Cauldron

In the dimly lit room of the Leaky Cauldron, Willow's gaze was fixed intently on Tara. The atmosphere was heavy with the aftermath of the battle, a tangible silence that seemed to hum with unspoken questions. The room, once a sanctuary of calm, now felt charged with an electric tension, every shadow and flicker of light casting long, anxious shapes against the walls.

Willow's eyes were wide with a mix of awe and confusion as she observed Tara. The young witch, still visibly shaken from the terrifying encounter with the Footmen, stood in the center of the room, her presence radiating an unexpected calm. Despite the chaos that had unfolded around them, Tara's composure remained unshaken. Willow's mind raced to piece together the inexplicable feat she had just witnessed—Tara performing powerful magic without uttering a single word, without the aid of a wand. The sheer impossibility of it was almost too much to grasp.

"How?" Willow's voice broke the silence, trembling slightly with the weight of her curiosity and wonder. Her question hung in the air, a beacon of her disbelief and fascination. It was not just the act of magic itself that astounded her, but the very essence of how Tara had achieved it under such dire circumstances. The idea of performing magic without the traditional tools and methods was something Willow had only ever read about in the most obscure and ancient texts, and even then, it was regarded as almost mythical.

Willow's eyes searched Tara's face, hoping to find some hint or explanation, some insight into the mysterious power that had allowed her to defy the very nature of magic as they knew it. The light from the single lamp in the corner cast soft, golden hues on Tara's features, making her look both ethereal and resolute. Tara's hands, now resting at her sides, seemed to hold an invisible weight, a quiet testament to the magic she had wielded.

Tara's expression was thoughtful, as if she were contemplating how best to convey the depth of her abilities to her friend. There was a serene but intense look in her eyes, a hint of something ancient and profound. The room, filled with the soft rustling of old linens and the faint, distant hum of the Leaky Cauldron's ambiance, seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Tara to reveal the secrets she had unlocked.