Chapter 12: Return to Hogwarts
September 1, 1992 – Tuesday
The Burrow
Joyce, Harry, Buffy, and Dawn arrived early at the Burrow, where the chaos of departure was in full swing. The sky was still hazy with the early morning light as they approached the house, the warmth of the sun barely touching the cool, dewy grass. The Burrow, always a beacon of homely charm, was now a whirlwind of activity and disarray. Mrs. Weasley, with her face set in a determined scowl, dashed about the cluttered kitchen, her arms laden with socks, quills, and other assorted necessities. Her usually bright and cheerful demeanor was overshadowed by the urgency of getting everyone and everything packed.
In the stairwell, the scene was equally frenetic. Half-dressed children in mismatched socks tumbled down the stairs, bits of toast clutched in their hands. The clamor of their hurried footsteps mingled with the occasional squawk of a disgruntled chicken that had strayed into their path. Mr. Weasley, balancing a large trunk on one shoulder, nearly took a tumble as he sidestepped the clucking bird. The scene was a testament to the Weasley family's charming disorganization, a stark contrast to the more orderly routines of Joyce's family.
Buffy, growing increasingly impatient with the seemingly endless delays, turned to her mother with a look of frustration. "Mom, can we just Floo to the Leaky Cauldron and get a taxi from there to King's Cross?" Her suggestion was a practical one, aiming to simplify their complicated departure. Her eyes flicked toward the scene of disarray around them, where Mr. Weasley was engaged in the seemingly impossible task of fitting a mountain of trunks, owls in their cages, a cat in its carrier, and a rat into the magically expanded trunk of the small Ford Anglia. The car, once a modest vehicle, was now packed to the brim, and its magical enhancements were barely noticeable from the outside.
Joyce sighed deeply, her gaze moving to Mr. Weasley, who was hunched over the car's trunk with a look of focused determination. His efforts to squeeze everything into the vehicle were met with a mix of admiration and exasperation. Mrs. Weasley's attempts to comfort and assist seemed to be adding to the chaos rather than alleviating it.
When at last they were all crammed into the car, the scene inside was a curious blend of camaraderie and confusion. Mrs. Weasley, seated beside Willow, Joyce, Dawn, Ginny, and Mr. Weasley, glanced around with a mix of pride and amusement. Her comment, "Muggles do know more than we give them credit for, don't they?" was delivered with a hint of satisfaction. The car's interior, stretched to accommodate the packed group, resembled an oversized park bench. Despite its outwardly ordinary appearance, the car's interior was surprisingly spacious. "I mean, you'd never know it was this roomy from the outside, would you?"
Joyce opened her mouth to explain that Mr. Weasley had used magical enhancements to achieve the extra space, but Mr. Weasley's stern look silenced her. The unspoken message was clear: 'Don't mention the magic.'
With a rumble, Mr. Weasley started the engine, and the car trundled out of the yard. They set off, only to be called back several times for forgotten items. George had left behind a box of Filibuster fireworks, Fred had forgotten his broomstick, and Ginny had absentmindedly left her diary behind. Each return to the Burrow added to the morning's growing list of mishaps, yet despite the chaos, there was an undeniable sense of camaraderie and anticipation as they finally made their way toward King's Cross.
King's Cross Station
They reached King's Cross at a quarter to eleven, the station already buzzing with travelers and the scent of coffee and baked goods mingling in the air. Mr. Weasley dashed across the bustling street, his robes flapping in the wind as he hurried to fetch trolleys for their trunks. The rest of the group followed closely behind, their footsteps echoing off the tiled floor as they entered the station.
"Percy first," said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes darting anxiously to the large clock overhead, which ticked down the minutes with a relentless precision. It showed they had only five minutes left to make their departure through the barrier.
Percy, his expression a mix of determination and impatience, strode forward with brisk efficiency and vanished into the barrier. Willow and Mr. Weasley followed, the latter pausing briefly to ensure that all their belongings were in order. Fred and George, ever the mischievous twins, followed with barely contained grins, their excitement palpable.
"I'll take Ginny and then Buffy come right after us. Then, Harry and Ron, you're after her, and Joyce and Dawn after that," Mrs. Weasley instructed, her voice carrying a tone of practiced authority and nervousness. She grasped Ginny's hand and led her toward the barrier. In the blink of an eye, they were gone.
Buffy, her nerves a tangle of anticipation and anxiety, made sure that Cin's cage was securely wedged on top of her trunk. With a determined glance at her trolley, she wheeled it around to face the barrier. Her heart raced as she bent low over the handles, taking a deep breath and walking purposefully toward the barrier. She could see the blur of the magical threshold ahead, a shimmering veil that promised the excitement of the Hogwarts Express beyond.
But—
CRASH.
The trolley slammed into the barrier with a jarring thud, causing Buffy to stumble backward. The impact knocked her off her feet, and Cin's cage went bouncing onto the polished floor, its contents causing a cacophony of protest. Cin shrieked indignantly, and the clamor drew the attention of passersby. Their curious gazes turned to Buffy, who was now scrambling to her feet amidst the stares and murmurs of the surrounding crowd. A nearby guard, clearly irritated by the commotion, bellowed, "What in blazes d'you think you're doing?"
"Lost control of the trolley," Buffy gasped, clutching her ribs as she hurried to pick up Cin. The owl's distressed cries and the crowd's murmured complaints about cruelty to animals only added to the mounting tension. Once everything was back in its place on the trolley, she made her way back over to her mother, siblings, and Ron, her face a mask of frustration and confusion. "I don't understand; we still have a couple of minutes, but I couldn't get through."
Joyce, who had been watching anxiously from the sidelines, approached the barrier herself. She leaned against the wall, pushing with all her might, but found herself unable to pass through. Her brow furrowed with concern as she returned to her children and Ron. "That's odd. It shouldn't be closed. Dawn, why don't you try?"
Dawn stepped forward, her face a picture of concentration as she leaned against the barrier, trying desperately to pass through. Despite her efforts, the barrier remained stubbornly solid. She walked back to Joyce, Harry, Ron, and Buffy, her face reflecting her frustration. "I can't get through either."
Joyce frowned deeply, her gaze shifting to the clock, which now indicated that the train had just departed. "Well, the train just left. Let's go back to the car and wait for Molly and Arthur. Once they come back, we'll Floo Dumbledore and let him know."
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
Joyce stood by the Ford Anglia, her posture tense and her gaze shifting anxiously between her children and Ron. The noonday light cast long shadows across the parking lot of the train station as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley approached them. Mrs. Weasley's face was etched with concern and confusion, her eyes darting between Joyce and the children.
"Joyce, what's going on? Why didn't you all come through the barrier?" Mrs. Weasley's voice was edged with worry, her hands fidgeting with the edges of her cloak.
Joyce sighed deeply, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on her shoulders. "Well, it's like this," she began, her voice laced with frustration and worry. "Buffy tried going through the barrier and hit a solid wall. I tried going through it and it felt solid to me as well. Then I asked Dawn to try, and she couldn't get through either."
Mr. Weasley looked at the Potters and Ron with a puzzled expression, his brow furrowing in confusion. The Weasleys had just passed through the barrier without any issues, and the discrepancy left him unsettled. "That's weird. We just came through it just fine."
He glanced at his wife, who nodded in agreement, her own face reflecting a mixture of concern and determination. "Let's return home," Mr. Weasley said, trying to maintain a sense of calm despite the growing anxiety. "We'll Floo Dumbledore and get some answers."
The Burrow
Joyce, Mrs. and Mr. Weasley, Ron, Harry, Buffy, and Dawn sat around the cluttered kitchen table, its surface strewn with half-empty tea cups and remnants of hastily eaten snacks. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of the overhead light, casting long shadows that danced on the walls as the flames in the fireplace roared and sputtered. With a sudden whoosh, Dumbledore emerged from the fireplace, his robes billowing like a curtain of stars against the flickering light.
"Afternoon everyone," Dumbledore said, his voice calm and reassuring despite the gravity of the situation. "Now, what is this about missing the train?"
Buffy took a deep breath and began recounting the bizarre sequence of events. She explained how she had attempted to pass through the barrier first, followed by her mother and then her sister. Each attempt was met with the same unyielding solidity, a stark contrast to the smooth passage Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and their children had experienced. Mr. Weasley added his observations, describing how he and Mrs. Weasley had managed to pass through the barrier. He then told of leaving the station and discovering Joyce, Buffy, Dawn, Ron, and Harry waiting by the car.
"That is quite unusual," Dumbledore mused, his eyes twinkling with concern behind his half-moon spectacles. "The barrier isn't supposed to stop people from going through for at least fifteen minutes after the train has left. That way, parents seeing their children off can get back out. Something must have intentionally stopped you. I will contact the Ministry and have them investigate why you couldn't get through. Now, we should be getting you four to Hogwarts."
Buffy exchanged glances with the others, her brow furrowing in thought before she addressed Dumbledore directly. "So how are we getting to Hogwarts? We can't Floo with our trunks. And Side-Along Apparation isn't possible with so many of us."
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed with a touch of mischief and wisdom as he reached into his robe pocket and produced a coiled rope. "Portus," he said, holding up the rope with a flourish. "There now, everyone going will grab the rope. I would suggest tying the trunks together so that they don't get left behind. Then we will take this portkey straight to Hogwarts."
Buffy, Dawn, Harry, and Ron set to work, quickly but carefully bundling their trunks, Cin's cage, Hedwig's owl carrier, and Joy's cat carrier together. The task was a flurry of activity, with each of them lending a hand to ensure their belongings were securely fastened. Once everything was in place, they gathered around the rope, their faces a mixture of anticipation and nervousness.
With heartfelt goodbyes, they bid farewell to Joyce, Mrs. Weasley, and Mr. Weasley. The warmth of the kitchen and the reassuring presence of their family seemed to momentarily fade as they prepared for their journey. They grasped the rope and felt its cool, smooth texture in their hands.
In a heartbeat, the world around them seemed to shift. There was a sudden, exhilarating jolt, as though an invisible hook had yanked them forward from just behind their navels. A whirlwind of wind and color enveloped them, their senses overwhelmed by the sensation of being pulled through a tunnel of swirling hues. The rope felt magnetic in their grasp, tugging them along with an irresistible force as the surroundings blurred and the sensation of movement intensified.
Hogsmeade Station, Hogsmeade
Suddenly, their feet made a harsh, jarring impact with the solid platform of Hogsmeade Station. The suddenness of the landing took everyone by surprise, and the disorienting transition from swirling chaos to solid ground left them momentarily off balance. Ron, who had been closest to the point of contact, stumbled clumsily into Harry, who in turn collided with Buffy. The cascade of impacts sent them all tumbling together in a tangled heap onto the hard stone floor.
The clamor of their disarray was accompanied by a series of thuds and groans as they tried to regain their footing. Dawn, visibly paling and clutching her stomach, groaned weakly, "Oh, I think I'm going to be sick." Her face had taken on an ashen hue, and her eyes fluttered with the effort to keep her nausea at bay.
Amidst the confusion, Dumbledore remained composed and unruffled. His robes, which had fluttered in the portkey's turbulent journey, were now settling into their usual serene elegance. With a practiced, calm movement, he reached into the folds of his robes and retrieved a small, wrapped piece of chocolate. The simple gesture seemed almost magical in its reassurance as he extended it towards Dawn. "Eat this, it will help," he said with gentle encouragement.
The rich, dark chocolate was a comforting sight, and as Dawn took it gratefully, she could almost feel its soothing effect before even tasting it. The familiar sweetness was both a balm to her unsettled stomach and a signal that they had arrived at their destination, even if the journey had left them all in varying degrees of disarray.
Gryffindor Common Room
Dumbledore led them up the winding path that snaked from Hogsmeade Station towards the towering silhouette of Hogwarts Castle. The castle loomed majestically against the horizon, its stone walls glowing with a warm, inviting light from the myriad of windows that dotted its surface. The path was lined with a delicate scatter of fallen leaves, and the crisp, autumnal air carried the faint, comforting scent of damp earth and wood smoke.
As they approached the grand entrance of Hogwarts, the doors creaked open to reveal the familiar, echoing hallways lined with portraits of long-gone wizards and witches, their eyes following the newcomers with a mix of curiosity and benign interest. The corridors, bathed in the soft, golden light of enchanted torches, seemed to stretch on endlessly, their stone walls adorned with banners and magical artifacts that whispered of centuries of history.
Dumbledore guided them through the castle's winding passageways with a gentle but purposeful stride. His presence, both regal and approachable, seemed to cast a protective aura around the group.
They soon arrived at the entrance to Gryffindor common room. "Get settled in," Dumbledore instructed, his voice carrying the calm assurance that had guided them through their journey. "The train should be here in about three hours. I will see you three at the feast."
With that, Dumbledore turned, his robes swirling behind him as he made his way back towards the castle's heart, leaving the group to acclimate to their surroundings.
Great Hall
A few hours later, the Great Hall buzzed with the lively chatter of students, its enchanted ceiling mirroring the deepening night sky outside. The long tables were adorned with glittering goblets and platters of food waiting to be served. At the Gryffindor table, Buffy, Dawn, Harry, and Ron sat among their housemates, recounting the strange events with the barrier to those who hadn't yet heard the story. The atmosphere was one of eager anticipation as the Sorting Ceremony continued.
The hall fell silent as Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her sharp eyes scanning the room as she called out the next name. "Weasley, Ginevra."
Dawn's head snapped up at the familiar name, and she caught Ginny's eye, offering a supportive wave as the younger girl nervously approached the stool. The room held its breath for a moment, and then the Sorting Hat, barely touching Ginny's head, shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"
The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers, and Ginny's face lit up with joy as she rushed to join her brothers and Willow, settling herself excitedly between them. The sense of belonging and family radiated from her as the older students welcomed her into their ranks.
As the applause died down, McGonagall addressed the hall once more. "And lastly," she announced, her voice carrying through the room, "we have a new student transferring from Ilvermorny. Maclay, Tara."
Willow's attention sharpened at the name, her mind flashing back to the shy, soft-spoken girl she had met in Diagon Alley. Tara's quiet strength and the mystery of her wandless, wordless magic had lingered in Willow's thoughts ever since their brief encounter. She watched intently as Tara made her way to the stool, her steps measured but confident. The Sorting Hat was placed on her head, and for a brief moment, the hall seemed to hold its breath.
"GRYFFINDOR!" the Sorting Hat declared, and the Gryffindor table once again broke into applause, welcoming Tara into their house. Tara's face, usually reserved, brightened with a tentative smile as she joined the Gryffindors, her eyes meeting Willow's for a brief, meaningful second before she took her seat.
With the final student sorted, the feast began. Platters of food appeared on the tables, filling the hall with the rich, mouthwatering scents of a Hogwarts banquet. Buffy, however, found her attention drifting to the high table, where the professors sat. Her eyes widened in surprise as she spotted a familiar face among them—Giles, calmly seated beside the other staff members.
"Excuse me for a moment, guys," Buffy murmured to her friends, rising from the bench. She navigated her way through the bustling hall and approached the high table, her curiosity piqued. "What are you doing here?" she asked Giles, her voice low but tinged with disbelief.
Giles greeted her with a warm, knowing smile, standing up to meet her. He subtly motioned her away from the other professors, ensuring their conversation remained private. "I'm the new assistant librarian," he explained, his tone laced with a mixture of pride and reassurance. "I spoke with Dumbledore, who is well aware of your responsibilities as the Slayer. He agreed to hire me so that we can continue your training. Dumbledore has even set aside a spare classroom where we can train in private. Of course, you can bring Harry and Dawn as well if they wish to continue training with you. But for now, why don't you go back and get something to eat? We'll discuss this in more detail tomorrow."
Unbeknownst to everyone, a sinister presence observed from within the bustling Great Hall. Hidden behind the innocent eyes of a girl, Voldemort silently watched the scene with cold satisfaction. His plan was unfolding perfectly. Ginny Weasley now possessed his diary, the fragment of his soul concealed within its pages. Through her, he would slowly gather strength, biding his time until the moment came to reclaim the power that was once his.
September 3, 1992 – Thursday
Herbology Classroom
Buffy, Harry, Dawn, Ron, Willow, and Hermione left the castle together, their footsteps crunching softly on the gravel path as they made their way across the grounds. The morning air was cool and crisp, carrying with it the earthy scent of the vegetable patch they passed. The group exchanged a few quiet words, the anticipation of their Herbology lesson hanging in the air. As they neared the greenhouses, the familiar sight of glass walls reflecting the early light greeted them, and they noticed the rest of the class already gathered outside, clustered in small groups, chatting while they waited for Professor Sprout.
Just as they joined the waiting students, Professor Sprout appeared, her small figure striding purposefully across the lawn. Her usually cheerful demeanor seemed a bit overshadowed by a look of annoyance, and it wasn't hard to see why. Walking beside her, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself, was Gilderoy Lockhart. His robes, a shade too bright for the morning, billowed slightly as he moved, and his beaming smile was as radiant as ever.
"Oh, hello there!" Lockhart called out, his voice carrying across the group as he waved enthusiastically. His dazzling grin swept across the students as if they were long-lost friends. "Just been showing Professor Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! But I don't want you running away with the idea that I'm better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants on my travels…"
Buffy's gaze drifted towards the infamous Whomping Willow, its gnarled branches swaying ominously even in the calm morning air. From this distance, the tree appeared unharmed, its formidable presence unchanged. She frowned slightly, wondering what could have required Lockhart's so-called expertise.
"Greenhouse three today, chaps!" Professor Sprout's voice cut through the murmurs of the students. Her tone was brisk, almost curt, a stark contrast to her usual warmth. It was clear that Lockhart's interference had not put her in the best of moods. The students exchanged intrigued glances; their curiosity piqued. Greenhouse three was known for housing far more interesting—and dangerous—plants than the more commonly used greenhouse one.
Professor Sprout pulled a large, ornate key from her belt and inserted it into the heavy lock on the door. With a satisfying click, the door swung open, releasing a wave of warm, humid air that carried the rich scents of damp earth, potent fertilizer, and the heady perfume of enormous flowers that hung like colorful umbrellas from the ceiling. The interior of the greenhouse was a riot of vibrant colors and textures, with strange and exotic plants filling every available space, their leaves rustling softly as if whispering secrets to each other.
Harry and Buffy moved to follow Dawn, Willow, Ron, and Hermione inside, the excitement of the unknown drawing them in, but they hadn't taken more than a step when Lockhart's hands shot out, halting them in their tracks.
"Harry! Isabella! I've been wanting a word—you don't mind if they're a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?" Lockhart's tone was so breezy, it bordered on dismissive, as if the actual lesson was a mere afterthought.
Professor Sprout's expression darkened, her scowl deepening, clearly indicating that she did mind. But before she could voice her objection, Lockhart had already turned back to the pair, his flawless smile never wavering. "That's the ticket," he said cheerfully, and with a quick gesture, he closed the greenhouse door, shutting out Professor Sprout and the rest of the class.
Harry and Buffy exchanged bewildered glances, both completely in the dark about what Lockhart could possibly want. Before they could even form the question, Lockhart launched into his monologue, his voice full of dramatic flair. "Harry, Isabella," he began, his teeth gleaming in the sunlight as he shook his head in what appeared to be mock dismay. "Harry, Isabella, Harry. Isabella. When I heard—well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked myself."
Buffy and Harry looked at each other again, now even more confused, but before they could ask what he was talking about, Lockhart continued, his tone growing more conspiratorial. "Don't know when I've been more shocked. Intentionally missing the train. Having Professor Dumbledore bring you! Well, of course, I knew at once why you'd done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Isabella, Harry. Isabella. Gave you both a taste for publicity, didn't I? Gave you both the bug. You two got onto the front page of the paper with me and you couldn't wait to do it again."
Lockhart's words hung in the air, laden with self-importance, and it took a moment for Buffy and Harry to process what he was suggesting. The idea that they had deliberately missed the train just to gain attention was so absurd it left them momentarily speechless.
"Oh, no, Professor, see—" started Harry, his voice laced with urgency as he tried to correct the wildly incorrect assumptions Lockhart had spun.
But before he could get another word out, Lockhart interrupted, his voice brimming with exaggerated sympathy as he leaned in, grasping both Harry's and Buffy's shoulders in a gesture that felt more like a performance than a comforting reassurance. "Harry, Isabella, Harry, Isabella," he repeated, his tone patronizingly gentle, as if he were addressing a pair of wayward children. "I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you've had that first taste—and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to your head—but see here, you can't start missing the train just to get yourselves noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you're older."
Lockhart's words spilled out in a rush, as if he were delivering one of his well-rehearsed speeches. His grip on their shoulders tightened momentarily, his bright blue eyes shining with a mix of self-satisfaction and mock concern. "Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking! 'It's all right for him, he's an internationally famous wizard already!' But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I'd say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven't they? All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!"
His gaze flicked to the faint lightning scars on the twins' foreheads, and for a moment, his expression shifted, a flicker of something like envy flashing across his face. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by his usual self-assured grin. "I know, I know—it's not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have—but it's a start, it's a start."
With that, Lockhart gave them both a hearty wink, the kind that might have seemed endearing if it weren't so dripping with condescension. He released their shoulders and turned on his heel, his robes billowing out behind him as he strode off, clearly pleased with himself for having, in his mind, set them straight.
Harry and Buffy stood frozen for a few seconds, Lockhart's bizarre lecture still echoing in their minds. The absurdity of the situation hung in the air, but the urgency of their real task quickly snapped them back to reality. They exchanged a bewildered glance, then, remembering they were supposed to be in the greenhouse, hurriedly pushed open the heavy glass door and slipped inside, hoping Professor Sprout wouldn't notice their tardiness.
Inside the greenhouse, a warm, earthy smell enveloped them, mingling with the faint scent of herbs and blooming plants. The light filtering through the glass roof cast a gentle, greenish hue over everything, creating an almost otherworldly atmosphere. Professor Sprout, short and stout, with her hands already dirt-stained from her morning's work, stood behind a wide trestle bench in the center of the greenhouse. Spread across the bench were about twenty pairs of earmuffs, each one in a different garish color, some looking more comfortable than others.
Harry and Buffy quietly took their places next to Dawn, Willow, Ron, and Hermione, who were already in position. Professor Sprout, noticing their arrival but choosing not to comment, immediately launched into the day's lesson. "We'll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?"
As expected, Hermione's hand shot into the air, her expression one of eager anticipation. "Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative," she began, her voice confident and precise, as though she were reciting directly from a textbook. "It is used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state."
"Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor," Professor Sprout said with a nod of approval. "The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?"
This time, it was Dawn's hand that nearly flew into the air, narrowly missing Harry's glasses as it shot up. "The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it," she responded promptly, her voice ringing with the same certainty as Hermione's.
"Precisely. Take ten points for Gryffindor, Miss Potter," Professor Sprout commended, her gaze warm. Like the rest of the staff, she had been informed of the name change, noting that Dawn now carried the Potter name after Joyce had reclaimed her maiden name. "Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still very young."
As she spoke, she gestured toward a row of deep trays arranged carefully along one side of the greenhouse. The students shuffled forward, craning their necks for a better view. In the trays, about a hundred small, tufted plants were growing in neat rows. Their leaves were a curious purplish-green, and they looked innocuous enough, though everyone knew their dangerous potential.
"Everyone take a pair of earmuffs," Professor Sprout instructed, her tone firm.
A scramble immediately ensued as the students lunged for the least embarrassing pair, avoiding the pink and fluffy ones as if they were cursed. Amid the rustling of fabric and murmurs of discontent, Harry managed to secure a pair of standard black earmuffs, while Buffy ended up with a garish orange pair that clashed horribly with her robes.
"When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered," Professor Sprout continued, watching them closely. "When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right—earmuffs on."
Everyone hurriedly snapped the earmuffs over their ears, the sudden silence enveloping them like a heavy blanket. The bustling sounds of the greenhouse, the rustling of leaves, and even the distant chatter from the castle grounds were instantly cut off, leaving only the muffled thud of their own heartbeats. Professor Sprout, unfazed by the eerie quiet, confidently tugged on her own pair of pink, fluffy earmuffs, the contrast between their ridiculous appearance and the seriousness of the situation going unnoticed.
Rolling up the sleeves of her earthy robes, she stepped forward with the assuredness of someone who had done this countless times. She wrapped her fingers firmly around one of the tufty plants, her knuckles whitening as she gave a powerful yank. Dawn, whose eyes had been intently focused on the professor, let out a gasp of surprise—though it was swallowed by the earmuffs' soundproofing. What emerged from the soil was not the root system they had expected, but instead, a small, muddy, and shockingly ugly baby-like creature.
The Mandrake squirmed in Professor Sprout's grasp, its pale green, mottled skin glistening under the greenhouse lights. Its tiny, grotesque features were twisted in a furious bawl, the leaves sprouting from its head shaking with the force of its silent screams. Although they couldn't hear it, they could almost feel the vibration of its cries in their bones.
With practiced efficiency, Professor Sprout grabbed a large plant pot from beneath the bench and plunged the writhing Mandrake into it. She swiftly buried the creature under layers of dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves remained visible, swaying slightly as though the Mandrake was still thrashing beneath the soil. Dusting off her hands with a satisfied nod, she gave the students a thumbs-up, signaling that it was safe to remove their earmuffs.
"As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won't kill yet," she explained, her voice calm and collected as if she'd just completed an ordinary gardening task. "However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I'm sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up. Four to a tray—there is a large supply of pots here—compost in the sacks over there—and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it's teething."
As if on cue, one of the spiky, dark red plants on the bench nearby twitched its long, snaking feelers, inching toward Professor Sprout's shoulder with a sort of predatory curiosity. Without missing a beat, she gave the plant a sharp slap, making it recoil hastily, its feelers drawing back into the mass of spines. The students watched with a mix of awe and wariness, knowing that their own work could be equally perilous.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were soon joined at their tray by a Hufflepuff boy with curly hair, who approached them with a bright, friendly demeanor. Harry recognized him by sight, though they had never spoken before. "Justin Finch-Fletchley," he introduced himself cheerfully, extending a hand toward Harry. "Know who you are, of course, the famous Harry Potter…" He turned next to Hermione, shaking her hand as well. "And you're Hermione Granger—always top in everything." Hermione beamed with pride, clearly pleased with the recognition. "—and Ron Weasley."
Justin then turned toward the others, his handshake tour continuing with Buffy, Dawn, Willow, and Tara. His eyes widened slightly with recognition as he addressed each of them in turn. "Of course, you're the famous Isabella Potter," he said, offering Buffy a warm handshake before shifting his attention to Dawn. "And you must be Dawn Potter, formerly Harry and Isabella's cousin, now their adopted sister after your mother, their aunt, took them in." He then turned to Willow, smiling brightly. "Willow Weasley."
Finally, he looked at Tara, who had been standing quietly, her gaze lowered in shy uncertainty. "And you're the new transfer student from America, Tara Maclay."
"Y-yes," Tara stuttered, her voice barely audible as she accepted his handshake, her cheeks flushing slightly at the attention.
Justin, seemingly oblivious to Tara's discomfort, continued with unabated enthusiasm. "That Lockhart's something, isn't he?" he said happily as they all began filling their plant pots with the rich, pungent dragon dung compost. The earthy scent filled the air, mingling with the sharp tang of the greenhouse's humidity. "Awfully brave chap. Have you read his books? I'd have died of fear if I'd been cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but he stayed cool and—zap—just fantastic. My name was down for Eton, you know. I can't tell you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made her read Lockhart's books, I think she's begun to see how useful it'll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family…"
After that brief exchange, there was little opportunity for further conversation. As soon as Professor Sprout signaled, they snapped their earmuffs back on, plunging them once more into a world of silence. Now, the task at hand demanded their full concentration, for the Mandrakes were far more troublesome than they had anticipated. Though Professor Sprout had made it look deceptively easy, the reality was quite different.
The Mandrakes were reluctant to leave their earthy beds, resisting with all the stubbornness of a child refusing to go to bed. But once pulled free, they seemed equally determined not to return to the soil. The small, human-like creatures squirmed with surprising strength, their limbs flailing wildly as they kicked, twisted, and fought back against being replanted. Their sharp little fists punched the air, and their tiny mouths gnashed with teeth that, while minuscule, looked more than capable of delivering a painful bite.
Harry, in particular, found himself locked in a battle of wills with a particularly fat Mandrake. The stubborn creature seemed to expand with every attempt to stuff it into its new pot, its green-tinged face scrunched up in a furious, silent scream. Harry wrestled with it for what felt like an eternity, his arms straining as he tried to force the Mandrake down into the dark compost, which resisted like a thick, damp cushion. His fingers ached from gripping its slippery, muddy skin, and sweat dripped down his forehead as he finally managed to press the Mandrake into the pot. Even then, it squirmed stubbornly, its tufted leaves shaking as though it were protesting the entire ordeal.
By the end of the class, everyone was thoroughly exhausted. The once neat rows of students were now a disheveled, weary group, their robes streaked with earth and their faces flushed from the exertion. Muscles ached from the unrelenting tugging and pushing, and the damp warmth of the greenhouse had turned their sweat-soaked clothes into a second, uncomfortable skin. Mud clung to their hands, their arms, even their hair, leaving them looking more like they'd been wrestling in the dirt than attending a Herbology lesson.
As they finally removed their earmuffs, the sudden return of sound was almost jarring. The soft murmur of the outside world filtered back in, mingled with the collective sighs of relief from the students. They were all eager to leave the greenhouse behind and return to the castle, where the promise of a quick wash and a change of clothes beckoned like an oasis in a desert.
Great Hall
They headed down to lunch, their footsteps echoing faintly in the stone corridors as they made their way to the Great Hall. Despite the delicious aromas wafting through the air—roast chicken, warm bread, and pumpkin pasties.
"What've we got this afternoon?" Harry asked.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Hermione replied promptly, her tone brightening at the mention of their next class.
Ron, however, was still fixated on something else. He reached over and snatched Hermione's schedule from her, his eyes narrowing as he examined it closely. "Why," he demanded, holding up the parchment accusingly, "have you outlined all Lockhart's lessons in little hearts?"
Hermione's face turned a brilliant shade of red as she hastily reclaimed her schedule, clutching it to her chest as though it were a treasured secret. She muttered something under her breath, but her embarrassment was clear to everyone at the table.
The awkward moment passed quickly as they finished their meal, though Ron's sulky demeanor lingered. Once they had eaten their fill, the group made their way outside into the courtyard, the cool, overcast sky casting a dull light over the stone walls and flagstones. A faint breeze rustled the leaves of the nearby trees, carrying with it the crisp scent of approaching autumn.
Hermione, still flustered from the earlier exchange, sought solace in the familiar comfort of her book. She perched herself on a cold stone step, pulling Voyages with Vampires from her bag and burying her nose in its pages. The heavy tome looked even larger in her hands as she lost herself in the fantastical tales within, her brow furrowing in concentration.
Buffy, who had been quietly observing Hermione's behavior, settled down beside her. She glanced at the book in Hermione's hands, her expression thoughtful. The cover, with its flamboyant illustration of Gilderoy Lockhart battling a rather tame-looking vampire, seemed almost laughable.
She leaned closer to Hermione, her voice gentle but firm. "Hermione," Buffy began, trying to choose her words carefully, "you do know that book is lies."
Hermione looked up from the pages, her eyes narrowing slightly in a mix of confusion and defensiveness. "How would you know, Buffy?" she shot back, her tone sharper than she intended.
Buffy hesitated for a moment, remembering the conversation she'd had with Giles after she had shown him the book. He had taken one look at the cover, and after skimming through a few pages, had pronounced it absolute rubbish. When he pointed out the absurdity of a vampire that could only eat lettuce, Buffy knew immediately that the book was more fantasy than fact.
Buffy's thoughts lingered on the memory, the way Giles had sighed in exasperation as he handed the book back to her, his words filled with disdain for the inaccuracies within its pages. She knew Hermione's admiration for Lockhart wasn't just about the information in the book—it was something more personal, something tied to the image of the charismatic wizard that Lockhart projected.
Buffy leaned in closer to Hermione, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, the seriousness of her words contrasting with the usual light-hearted atmosphere of the courtyard. The sky remained overcast, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror the weight of the secret she was about to share.
"Promise you won't tell?" Buffy said, her tone urgent yet cautious.
Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. "Tell what?" she asked, her curiosity piqued by the intensity in Buffy's gaze.
Buffy hesitated for a fraction of a second, as if weighing the risk of revealing something so profound, something that had been a closely guarded part of her life. She glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot before she spoke again. "I'm a Slayer," Buffy finally confessed, the words coming out in a hushed rush. "Only Harry, Dawn, Mom, and my Watcher know."
Hermione's eyes widened in shock, her hand instinctively tightening around the book in her lap. "Faith died?" she asked, her voice filled with a mix of disbelief and concern. The name carried weight, a name that Hermione knew well from Buffy's stories, but the reality of it being connected to death was startling.
"Yes and no," Buffy explained, her expression somber as she clarified. "I was told that she drowned and was revived with CPR some time in the past. Her replacement was called, and this last summer, she died. I am the replacement of the replacement."
The enormity of Buffy's revelation hung in the air between them, the implications slowly sinking in. Hermione had always known there was something extraordinary about Buffy, but this was beyond anything she had imagined. It wasn't just about magical talent or bravery—Buffy was part of a legacy that spanned generations, a lineage of warriors bound by duty and destiny.
Buffy glanced around again, her eyes scanning the courtyard as though expecting someone to be listening in. The courtyard, usually bustling with the sounds of students chatting and laughing, seemed unusually still in that moment. Even the overcast sky seemed to press down on them, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
"My Watcher is the new assistant librarian," Buffy continued, her voice steady despite the gravity of her words. "I showed him the book. He said while vampires can eat foods like us, they can't live on it. They have to have blood to survive."
Hermione's eyes went even wider, darting down to the book she had been so engrossed in moments before. The thick volume, filled with tales of Lockhart's supposed adventures, suddenly felt different in her hands—less a treasure trove of knowledge and more like a collection of embellished stories. She slowly closed the book, her fingers lingering on the cover as if trying to reconcile what she had read with what Buffy had just told her.
Her gaze shifted back to Buffy, her mind racing with questions and uncertainties. But before she could ask anything else, she noticed Buffy's expression change—her friend's face tightening with a sudden alertness. Buffy's eyes flicked around the courtyard, scanning the area with a sense of heightened awareness that Hermione had never seen in her before.
"What is it?" Hermione asked, her voice tinged with concern as she followed Buffy's gaze.
"I feel like we're being watched," Buffy murmured, her eyes narrowing as she continued to survey the courtyard. Her Slayer instincts, honed over months of training and experience, were rarely wrong about such things. There was a prickling sensation at the back of her neck, a subtle but unmistakable warning that something—or someone—was paying them too much attention.
Just then, Buffy's eyes landed on a small, mousy-haired boy standing a short distance away. He was staring at her, his gaze fixed as though he couldn't tear his eyes away. Buffy recognized him as the boy who had tried on the Sorting Hat the previous night—Colin Creevey. He stood there, rooted to the spot, clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera. The moment Buffy's eyes met his, his face flushed a deep crimson, his embarrassment as vivid as a burst of color against the dreary sky.
Buffy barely had time to register the small, mousy-haired boy before he was suddenly standing right in front of her, his face flushed with excitement and nervous energy. His words tumbled out in a breathless rush, as if he feared that if he didn't speak quickly enough, the moment would pass him by entirely.
"All right, Isabella? I'm—I'm Colin Creevey," he said, his voice trembling slightly as he took a tentative step forward. His eyes were wide, almost too bright with admiration and awe, as though he couldn't quite believe he was speaking to her. "I'm in Gryffindor, too. D'you think—would it be all right if—can I have a picture?" He raised the camera hopefully, the metal glinting dully under the overcast sky.
"A picture?" Buffy repeated, caught off guard by the sudden request. She could feel the weight of his anticipation, his eagerness pressing down on her like an invisible force.
Colin nodded fervently, edging even closer as if proximity would somehow guarantee her agreement. "So I can prove I've met you," he explained, his voice quivering with excitement. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you and your brother survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you both and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your cheek and your brother on his forehead and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move."
He paused for a moment, drawing a great shuddering breath as though the sheer thrill of being at Hogwarts—and talking to Isabella Potter, no less—was almost too much to contain. "It's amazing here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman, he couldn't believe it either. So, I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you"—he looked up at Buffy with such hope, his eyes practically pleading—"maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"
Before Buffy could even begin to formulate a response, a loud, scornful voice cut through the air like a knife, dripping with derision. "Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?"
The sneering tone could only belong to one person. Buffy's heart sank as she turned to see Draco Malfoy standing behind Colin, his pale face twisted into an ugly smirk. Flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, who loomed like oversized shadows, Malfoy's presence was an unwelcome storm cloud in what had been, until now, an awkward but manageable situation.
Buffy could see that Ron, Willow, Harry, and Dawn had noticed the commotion and were starting to head in her direction, their faces set with concern. She quickly waved them off, not wanting to escalate the situation further. This was her fight.
Malfoy, reveling in the attention now focused on him, raised his voice to a mocking roar. "Everyone line up! Isabella Potter's giving out signed photos!"
Buffy's fists clenched at her sides, her knuckles turning white with the effort of holding back. She could feel the familiar rush of anger rising within her, the urge to put Malfoy in his place as she had done in Diagon Alley. She met his sneer with a steady gaze, her voice low and controlled as she spoke. "Do you remember what happened in Diagon Alley?" she asked, her tone carrying a warning that Malfoy would be wise to heed.
Before the situation could escalate further, Gilderoy Lockhart appeared, striding toward them with his usual exuberant confidence. "What's all this, what's all this?" he called out, his booming voice silencing the crowd as he approached. "Who's giving out signed photos?"
Buffy opened her mouth to protest, to deny that she had any intention of giving out autographs, but she was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around her shoulders with a familiarity that made her skin crawl. "Shouldn't have asked! We meet again, Isabella!" he thundered jovially, oblivious to her discomfort.
Buffy tensed, every muscle in her body coiled with the instinct to shove him away, to use just a fraction of her Slayer strength to make it clear that his touch was not welcome. But she held back, forcing herself to remain still, at least for the moment.
"Come on then, Mr. Creevey," Lockhart continued, beaming at Colin as though this were the most natural thing in the world. "A double portrait, can't do better than that, and we'll both sign it for you."
"No, I won't," Buffy muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the excited chatter of the students gathering around them.
Colin's hands shook slightly as he fumbled for his camera, the metal cold and slick with his perspiration. The shutter clicked just as the bell rang loudly behind them, its sound slicing through the courtyard and signaling the start of afternoon classes. The echo of the bell reverberated through the stone walls, a reminder that the school day was moving on, indifferent to the spectacle that had just unfolded.
As the students began to disperse, moving toward their respective classes with a mix of relief and bemusement, Lockhart's voice rang out with an authoritative cheerfulness. "Off you go, move along there," he called to the crowd, his tone carrying a dismissive finality. His arm remained firmly draped around Buffy's shoulders, a gesture that seemed both intrusive and possessive.
Lockhart began walking back toward the castle, his stride purposeful and confident, with Buffy still awkwardly tethered to his side. "A word to the wise, Isabella," he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that only she could hear. "I covered up for you back there with young Creevey—if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won't think you're setting yourself up so much..." His eyes twinkled with the satisfaction of having orchestrated a minor victory, his face splitting into a self-satisfied grin.
Buffy glanced sidelong at him, her expression a mixture of exasperation and reluctant curiosity. Lockhart continued, oblivious to her discomfort, his tone shifting to one of professorial admonishment. "Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn't sensible—looks a tad bigheaded, Isabella, to be frank." His words were delivered with the kind of blunt honesty that left no room for misinterpretation. "There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but"—he gave a little chortle, as though sharing an inside joke—"I don't think you're quite there yet."
Buffy's eyes narrowed slightly as she listened to his commentary, the edges of her frustration softening just enough to let in a sliver of understanding. Lockhart's comments, while certainly patronizing, were not entirely without merit. The idea of being constantly pursued for autographs and photos was not something she had anticipated when coming to Hogwarts, but Lockhart's knack for turning every situation into a lesson about his own supposed greatness was becoming increasingly familiar.
Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom
They reached Lockhart's classroom, and the door swung open with an air of theatrical flourish. As Buffy was finally released from Lockhart's overbearing presence, she straightened her robes with a small, relieved tug. She made a beeline for a seat at the very back of the classroom, her sanctuary from the extravagance that seemed to follow Lockhart wherever he went. As she settled in, she began stacking all seven of Lockhart's books in front of her with a determined efficiency. The book covers, each adorned with Lockhart's smug grin, were arranged in a fortress around her, a barricade against the reality of his ego.
The classroom began to fill with the clatter of students finding their places. Willow, Dawn, Harry, Ron, and Hermione settled around Buffy, their chairs scraping against the worn wooden floor. The murmur of their conversation was a comforting background noise, a shared solidarity in their collective dismay.
"Bells?" Harry's voice, laced with concern and curiosity, cut through the ambient noise.
"If it's the last thing I do, I will hit Malfoy with full Slayer strength and send him to the hospital wing," Buffy whispered fiercely. "If not for him I would not have had to endure Professor Idiot there."
The chatter in the room subsided as Lockhart, with his characteristic flair, cleared his throat loudly. The noise fell to a hush, a reverent silence that seemed to only amplify the absurdity of the situation. Lockhart reached forward, theatrically lifting Neville's copy of Travels with Trolls from the desk. He held it aloft like a trophy, the cover's illustration of his winking portrait beaming out at the class.
"Me," Lockhart said, pointing at the portrait with a flourish. His finger paused on the image of his grinning face, and he winked in exaggerated fashion. "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award—but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"
Buffy's eyes rolled in a mixture of disbelief and annoyance, her patience fraying. "Just get on with the lesson," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the general rustling of papers and shifting of students.
Lockhart's voice boomed with self-importance as he continued, "I see you've all bought a complete set of my books—well done." He seemed to bask in the collective awe, his smile widening with satisfaction. "I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about—just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in—"
He began distributing the test papers, his movements deliberate and filled with a showman's grace. When he was finished, he returned to the front of the class and declared, "You have thirty minutes—start—now!"
Buffy stared down at the test paper, her eyes scrolling through the absurdly mundane questions that seemed more suited for a fan club meeting than a Defense Against the Dark Arts exam. The questions went on for three entire pages, each one probing into the minutiae of Gilderoy Lockhart's life with an almost obsessive fervor.
1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?
2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?
3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?
And on it continued, each question more inane than the last, culminating with:
54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?
Buffy's irritation flared as she scanned the paper. She couldn't help but wonder how these questions could possibly be relevant to their education in defending against dark forces.
"Professor, what do these questions have to do with Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Buffy called out; her voice laced with frustration. But Lockhart, ever the showman, merely smiled and waved off her question with a dismissive gesture. He was already too absorbed in his own self-importance to offer a meaningful answer.
So, Buffy turned back to her test paper with a resigned sigh and began to answer the questions as honestly as she could, given the situation. For the first question, she wrote, "Who cares, what does this have to do with Defense Against the Dark Arts?" For the second, she penned, "You really are full of yourself, aren't you? I don't see what this has to do with Defense Against the Dark Arts." Her responses continued in a similar vein for each question, culminating in the final query where she wrote, "Ideal gift, I know what my ideal gift would be. To not have an idiot for a professor."
Half an hour later, Lockhart sauntered around the classroom, collecting the papers with a flourish. He rifled through them with exaggerated interest, making a show of scrutinizing each one. His voice rang out with mock disappointment.
"Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully — I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples — though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogdeds Old Firewhisky!"
His self-satisfied grin was met with a range of reactions from the students. Ron gaped at Lockhart with clear disbelief, his expression one of utter bemusement. In the front row, Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas shook with silent laughter, their shoulders quivering as they struggled to keep their mirth contained. Hermione, however, hung on Lockhart's every word, her face a mask of eager attention. She gave a sudden start when Lockhart mentioned her name, her eyes widening with surprise and pleasure.
Lockhart's gaze shifted to Hermione's paper, and he beamed with approval. "…but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In fact," — he flipped her paper over with a flourish — "full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"
Hermione raised her hand, her cheeks flushing with pride.
"Excellent!" Lockhart declared, his smile widening. "Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor!" He then turned his attention to Buffy's paper, his smile faltering as he frowned down at it. "Where is Isabella Potter?"
Buffy sighed; her patience worn thin. She looked out from behind her fortress of Lockhart's books and raised her hand, her voice resigned but clear. "Right here."
Lockhart's gaze was stern as he surveyed Buffy's test paper. "Detention, Miss Potter. Really, some of the things you wrote down are downright rude. I should show this to the Headmaster, but I won't. You will serve detention tonight in my classroom."
Buffy's shoulders slumped in resignation. The announcement was a crushing blow. Tonight was supposed to be her scheduled training session with Giles, a crucial part of her preparation as a Slayer. She was looking forward to honing her skills and gaining insights from him, but now she had this new complication to deal with.
Harry leaned over, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Why did you have to egg him on, Bells?"
Buffy shot her brother a sharp, irritated look. She remained silent, her frustration evident. Her irritation was as much directed at herself as at the situation; she had allowed Lockhart's vanity to provoke her into defiance, and now she was facing the consequences.
"And so — to business —" Lockhart announced with an air of grandiosity. He bent down behind his desk, his movements deliberate and slow, and lifted a large, covered cage onto the surface. His eyes twinkled with the anticipation of unveiling something truly spectacular. "Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."
Despite her irritation, Buffy's curiosity got the better of her. She leaned around her precarious stack of Lockhart's books, eager for a better view of the cage. As a Slayer, she had learned that knowledge of every magical creature—be it a demon, vampire, or otherwise—was crucial to her understanding of the world and her role within it.
Lockhart placed a dramatic hand on the cover of the cage and leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I must ask you not to scream," he said with an air of foreboding. "It might provoke them."
The entire class held its breath in collective anticipation. Lockhart, with a flourish befitting a stage magician, whipped off the cover with a dramatic flourish. "Yes," he declared triumphantly, "freshly caught Cornish pixies!"
Buffy's attempt to stifle a laugh was futile. A snort of amusement escaped her lips, louder than she intended, causing a ripple of suppressed giggles to spread through the classroom. Even Lockhart, for all his self-importance, couldn't mistake her reaction for a scream of terror.
Lockhart's gaze fixed on Buffy, a knowing smile curling his lips. "Yes?" he asked, his tone suggesting he was both pleased and slightly peeved.
Buffy, still choking back her laughter, managed to ask, "They're not very dangerous, are they?"
"Don't be so sure!" Lockhart chided, wagging a finger at her in an exaggerated manner that only added to the absurdity of the situation. "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!"
The Cornish pixies were a dazzling shade of electric blue, standing about eight inches tall with pointy faces and voices that shrieked with the intensity of a dozen arguing budgerigars. Their tiny wings fluttered furiously as soon as the cage cover was lifted, and chaos erupted. They darted around the room with reckless abandon, their movements a blur of motion as they collided with everything in sight. Their high-pitched chattering and wild antics filled the room with a cacophony of noise and color.
"Right, then," Lockhart bellowed over the din. "Let's see what you make of them!" He flung open the cage door, and pandemonium ensued. The pixies erupted into the classroom like a swarm of miniature rockets. Their shrill cries and erratic flight patterns made it almost impossible to keep track of their movements.
In an instant, the classroom was transformed into a scene of utter devastation. Two of the pixies latched onto Neville's ears, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. His surprised yelps only added to the commotion. A group of pixies shot through the open window, sending a shower of glass fragments onto the students seated in the back row. The rest of the pixies wreaked havoc with a fervor that surpassed even the most destructive forces of nature.
Ink bottles were upended and their contents splattered across desks and students alike. Books and papers were torn apart with wild abandon, their shreds floating through the air like confetti. Pictures were yanked from the walls, their frames crashing to the floor. The waste basket was overturned, spilling its contents in a chaotic mess. Bags and books were snatched and hurled out of the broken window, creating a whirlwind of debris. Within moments, the classroom was a disaster zone. Most of the students took refuge under their desks, cowering from the mayhem, while Neville swung precariously from the iron chandelier, which swayed ominously above.
"Come on now — round them up, round them up, they're only pixies," Lockhart shouted, his voice strained as he tried to assert control over the situation. He rolled up his sleeves with an air of misplaced confidence, brandishing his wand with exaggerated flair. "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!" he commanded. The spell had no effect whatsoever. In a moment of comical misfortune, one of the pixies snatched the wand from his grasp and flung it out the window with a triumphant squeal.
Lockhart's face turned pale as he dove under his own desk, narrowly avoiding the falling Neville who tumbled down as the chandelier gave way. The scene was one of utter chaos, with Lockhart's bravado vanishing in the face of the pixies' unrestrained havoc.
Buffy, with her Slayer agility and precision, sprang into action. She darted across the room, her movements swift and calculated. As the pixies zipped past her, she grabbed them out of the air with deft movements and swiftly returned them to the cage. Her expertise and speed were evident as she managed to recapture the frenzied creatures even as the classroom continued to deteriorate around her. The bell rang, signaling the end of the class period, but the chaos was far from over.
Lockhart, now making a hasty retreat toward his office, glanced back with a mixture of relief and lingering bravado. "You are doing a good job, Miss Potter," he said with a strained smile. "I'll ask you to just nip the rest of them back into their cage."
Buffy cast a disbelieving glance at the retreating figure of Lockhart. "Can you believe him?" Ron roared, rubbing his ear where one of the pixies had bitten him painfully.
"He just wants to give us some hands-on experience," Hermione replied, expertly immobilizing two pixies with a deft Freezing Charm before stuffing them back into the cage. Her face was a mix of frustration and determination as she worked to restore order.
"Hands-on?" Harry asked, still trying to catch a pixie that darted out of reach with its tongue sticking out in mockery. "Hermione, he didn't have a clue what he was doing—"
"Hermione, remember what I told you about his Voyages with Vampires?" Buffy asked, catching a particularly elusive pixie and shoving it into the cage.
"I remember," Hermione said, her tone a mix of exasperation and resignation as she continued to work alongside Buffy.
"Remember what?" Ron asked, his face still a mix of confusion and frustration as he surveyed the wreckage of the classroom.
Buffy let out a heavy sigh, noticing that it was just her, Ron, Harry, and Hermione left in the chaotic aftermath of the pixie ordeal. Dawn and Willow had already made their hasty exit, leaving the four of them amidst the scattered debris and overturned desks. "That I am a Slayer and the new assistant librarian is my Watcher," she explained, her voice tinged with a blend of determination and exasperation. "I showed him the Voyages with Vampires book. He read it and told me it was fiction. Vampires have to drink blood to survive. They can't survive on lettuce alone." Her gaze shifted toward the door through which Lockhart had hurriedly exited, the sound of the last few pixies' frantic chattering fading into the distance.
Buffy's expression hardened with resolve as she added, "And I don't care if I get expelled, I am not going to his detention. I will go straight to Dumbledore first."
Buffy, Harry, Ron, and Hermione worked together to finish stuffing the last of the mischievous pixies into the cage, their faces smeared with ink and grime. Buffy, her mood set on defiance, grabbed her quiz paper from Lockhart's desk with a swift, purposeful motion.
With the last pixie securely caged, Buffy made a beeline for the door.
Dumbledore's Office
Because of her unique position as the Slayer, Buffy had a special password to access the secret passage behind the statue in case she needed urgent assistance and Giles was not available. She recited the password with a steady voice, and the statue slid aside to reveal the hidden staircase. She climbed the winding steps with purpose, the oak door at the top looming ahead. She paused for a moment, straightened her robes, and then knocked firmly on the door.
"Come in."
Buffy turned the handle and stepped into the Headmaster's office. The room was as grand as always, filled with an assortment of magical artifacts and curiosities, their presence lending an air of both wisdom and whimsy. Dumbledore looked up from behind his desk, his twinkling blue eyes meeting hers with a warm smile.
"Miss Potter, how nice it is to see you. How are your training sessions going?"
Buffy offered a bright, if somewhat strained, smile. "I was supposed to have my first one tonight. That's the reason I am here," she began, her tone carrying a hint of frustration. She handed him the crumpled quiz paper, which bore her blunt and candid responses. "I have a detention because of this for tonight. I also wanted you to see the quiz he gave us today. Forgive my answers, but I was rather ticked off by having to take a quiz that has nothing to do with the subject of the class he is teaching."
Dumbledore chuckled softly as he perused her answers, the edges of his mouth curling into an amused grin. "While I understand why you wrote what you wrote, Miss Potter, you do need to try and respect the professors even if you don't agree with their teaching methods." His eyes twinkled with an unspoken understanding. "I will talk to Professor Lockhart about this quiz, though, as you are right; the questions do not align with the subject he is meant to be teaching. You will serve your detention tomorrow, then. That way, your training session will not be interrupted."
Buffy had hoped that Dumbledore might consider waiving the detention altogether, but she understood that this was not a feasible request. "Thank you, Professor," she said, her voice tinged with relief. "One other thing, Professor. Did you know his required textbook Voyages with Vampires is not true? Being the Slayer, I had Professor Giles—"
"Professor Giles," Dumbledore interjected gently.
"—Professor Giles look through it," Buffy continued. "He came across one entry in the book that is completely untrue. There was a mention of a vampire surviving solely on lettuce. Professor Giles said that was impossible; vampires need blood to survive."
"I will look into it," Dumbledore assured her, his expression thoughtful. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention."
Buffy gave a nod of appreciation and turned to leave the office, feeling a mix of relief and lingering frustration. The door closed behind her, and she headed back down the staircase, her mind still preoccupied with the events of the day and the challenges yet to come.
September 12, 1992 – Saturday
Quidditch Pitch
It was the end of the second week of term, and the Quidditch Pitch lay stretched out before Buffy like a vast, inviting canvas, its expanse illuminated by the gentle, golden light of the afternoon sun. The field, with its freshly mown grass and the distant roar of the crowd, was alive with a palpable sense of anticipation. Students, clustered around the edge of the pitch, murmured excitedly, their eyes fixed on the trials that were about to begin.
Buffy sat on the grass, her broomstick resting beside her like a trusted companion, its polished surface gleaming in the sunlight. The broom was a gift from Harry, an excellent model he had chosen during their shopping trip to Diagon Alley. Just a week earlier, Oliver Wood had posted a notice announcing tryouts for the Chaser position, a slot opened up by the graduation of the previous team member. The announcement had sparked a flurry of interest, and now, the pitch was buzzing with hopeful candidates.
The past fortnight had been a whirlwind of intense Quidditch practice. Harry, ever the dedicated coach, had worked with Buffy tirelessly, guiding her through a rigorous regimen of drills and maneuvers. They had spent countless hours on the pitch, perfecting her flying technique and honing her agility. Buffy's reflexes, sharp and precise thanks to her Slayer training, had been put to the test, and her skills had improved markedly under Harry's watchful guidance.
As her name was finally called, Buffy's heart raced with a mix of excitement and nerves. She gave Harry a reassuring wave, her cheeks flushed with the thrill of the moment. Her focus was unwavering as she prepared for her turn.
With a deep breath, Buffy mounted her broom—its sleek, aerodynamic design fitting comfortably in her hands. She kicked off from the ground, the broom responding eagerly to her touch. As she soared upward, the wind rushed past her, carrying with it the crisp scent of autumn and the distant cheers of her fellow students. Harry, already on his broom and hovering nearby, gave her a supportive pat on the back. "Good luck, Bells," he said, his voice a warm note of encouragement in the chill air.
Buffy's face lit up with a determined grin as she took her place on the pitch. Her movements were fluid and precise, each maneuver a testament to her exceptional reflexes. As she navigated through the tryout course, her skills were on full display. Her turns were sharp, her catches flawless, and each goal she scored was met with appreciative murmurs from the gathered spectators. The other candidates, though skilled, could not match the finesse with which Buffy handled herself.
Her performance was nothing short of spectacular, showcasing her natural talent and the hours of practice she had invested. It didn't take long for Oliver Wood to make his decision. The look of approval on his face was a clear indication that Buffy had made a strong impression.
"I think we have our new Chaser, Isabella Potter. Everyone else, thank you for trying out and better luck next time," Oliver announced, his voice ringing with authority and enthusiasm.
The words were met with a burst of cheers and applause from the gathered students. The autumn air was crisp and invigorating, and the vibrant colors of the surrounding trees seemed to mirror the excitement in the crowd. Buffy floated momentarily in the sky, allowing herself a brief moment of triumph. The sun cast a warm glow over the pitch, making her feel as though she was basking in the golden light of her victory.
As she finally touched down, the soft thud of her feet meeting the ground was accompanied by the fervent clapping of her fellow students. Her brother, Harry, was there immediately, waiting with an enthusiastic embrace. His arms wrapped around her in a tight, reassuring hug. "I knew you could do it, Bells," Harry said, his voice brimming with pride and admiration.
Buffy's cheeks flushed with a warm blush at the heartfelt compliment. The sense of accomplishment was overwhelming, and she felt a swell of joy that seemed to lift her off her feet. She basked in the moment, savoring the satisfaction of her hard work paying off.
Harry, with a playful grin that could only mean he was about to tease her, turned to Oliver. "Hey, Wood, you know this is becoming a family sport, don't you? Two Potters and Two Weasleys out of all seven players. Two families make up half the team now."
Oliver chuckled, the sound light and good-natured. He nodded in agreement, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Indeed," he said. "Practice will be held on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings after classes, as well as Saturday afternoons. There will be no practice during Hogsmeade weekends."
Buffy's excitement was tempered with a hint of longing. She sighed softly, imagining the day she would finally become a third-year student and get her chance to visit Hogsmeade. Until then, she resolved to channel all her energy into Quidditch practice, eager to prove herself on the field. The thought of making her mark as a new member of the Gryffindor team filled her with determination and anticipation.
Author's Note: I hate debated putting Tara in Hufflepuff as she seems to fit more with them than she would in Gryffindor. I even found a article done by Screen Rant placing Buffy characters into Hogwarts houses and it said Hufflepuff as well. So did a post by a user on Reddit. But I felt since I have her paired for this story with Willow that it would be easier for them to be in a relationship if they were in the same house.