Thoughts
Not So Much with the Heaven
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and anything associated with it doesn’t belong to me, but to Joss Whedon. All things Harry Potter are property of J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made (believe me!).
Summary: After Buffy “dies,” she goes not to Heaven, but to Hogwarts. . . in 1977.
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Author’s Note: This story is posted on both fanfiction.net and Twisting the Hellmouth. It should be noted that the formatting (italics for dreams, bold for flashbacks) is preserved on FFN but not TTH.
So it looks like this story is going to be much longer than I originally planned on. I was thinking it would be a seven or eight chapter ficlet, now it looks like it will be a full sized story. Different avenues keep occurring to me, and there aren’t any I care to leave unexplored. So, it looks like Not So Much with the Heaven will be around for a while yet!
Finally, I’d like to thank everyone who is reading my little tale here, and offer special thanks to those of you who leave reviews. They are very much appreciated.
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Somewhere music was playing, the same thing over and over again. It was the lulling, boring notes of the Surprise symphony, and then the jar of the discordant chord.
Rain was lashing on the windows, pouring in torrents against the glass. Lightening streaked the sky at short intervals, so regular Buffy could nearly count it.
“One, two, three. . . .”
STREAK
“One, two, thr-”
STREAK!
CRASH!
BOOM!
STREAKCRASHBOOMSTREAKCRASHBOOM!
She was lying on the bed in the hospital wing. The light was so bright she needed to shield her eyes, but her hands were bound to the bed by red and gold men’s ties. In contrast to the brightness of the room, the objects in it were dark, blurred, and indistinct. She gripped as much of the sheets as she could reach, her eyes wide and horrified. Her memories danced before her, so near she felt she could reach out and touch them.
“Be brave, Dawn. Live, for Me.”
The glow of the white light as the portal pulsed around her. In spite of the pain there was the vague sensation of it cradling her, carrying her up to sleep on the clouds. And then the panic as her safety net was snatched away. She moaned in terror as the dark ground rushed up before her and she realized she was about to die.
The sheet in her hands ripped and she clutched at the mattress pad for a lifeline. She couldn’t breathe, there was a weight pressing into her chest, hands around her neck cutting off her air supply. Someone was stabbing her all over with pins, needles, knives, and as she finally screamed, screamed for dear life, the rhythmic flash of lightening was replaced by a brief, terrifying burst of green light, just as the discordant note sounded again.
“Not Harry, please, not Harry!”
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Buffy’s eyes fluttered open. The early morning sun was streaming in through the window and she stretched, yawned. The weather seemed wrong to her somehow, as if it should be pouring rain, but she couldn’t muster the will to care. She felt as though she’d been in the dark for ages, and she curled like a cat towards the comfort of the sun. She began to push back the covers, intent on going closer to intoxicating warmth, but before she could so much as sit up a soft voice broke through the silence.
“Not so fast, please. I need to examine you.”
Buffy sighed and stopped moving. So close. She watched the older woman carefully, complying with her orders, but not speaking. At last the exam was over and Buffy moved to go to the window. She had been kept away from the sunshine too long already.
Again, the nurse pushed her back. “No. Breakfast first, then a shower. Then you can look out the window all you like.”
Buffy scowled, but still didn’t say anything. A few moments later the woman returned with a tray laden with food. Buffy sighed at the sight of the enormous breakfast. She was quite hungry. Still, to be forced to eat . . . .
“I’m not your prisoner, you know.”
Madame Pomfrey straightened, and Buffy felt slightly ashamed of herself at the sight of the slightly hurt look on the other woman’s face. But then the nurse’s eyes hardened and she sent a quelling, icy glare in Buffy’s direction.
“I’m aware of that, Ms. Summers. And while sunshine will certainly do you good, there’s no point in you getting up at all if you’re only going to fall down because you’re weak from hunger. Eat.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched into her office, shutting the door soundly behind her.
Buffy scowled down at the food. She was half-tempted to throw it on the floor just because she could, but even as she realized how childish that would be her stomach gave a low rumble. She sighed and began to dig in.
A few moments later the breakfast was gone, and the nurse had returned.
“There. Feel better now?”
“Yes,” Buffy replied.
“Good. Let’s get you in the shower.”
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The bathroom in the Hospital Wing was a girl’s dream. It was covered floor to ceiling with white tiles, with deliciously fluffy rugs scattered about for warmth. Everything gleamed and shone with cleanliness, yet the dozens of candles lighting the room kept it from being cold and sterile. The cabinet against the far wall was stocked with every kind of bath product Buffy could imagine.
There was a stack of fluffy towels by the edge of the tub, and as Buffy ran a hand over them, she found they were the softest things she’d ever touched. She longed to wrap them around herself, bury her face in the downy softness, but she held off on the pleasure. The bathtub itself was huge; at least five times the size of a normal one, but Buffy wasn’t interested in it.
Buffy stripped, her arms slow and awkward after their long period of disuse. She stepped into the cavernous shower and pulled the glass door closed behind her. She turned the water on, hot, hotter, still hotter till she could barely stand it. She lifted the soap from its perch by her shoulder, but it was wet already and it slipped through her fingers. Suddenly, she felt overcome with exhaustion, and the act of bending to pick up the soap seemed more than she could ever hope to accomplish. She stepped fully into the hot spray and placed her palms and forehead against the shower wall. The coolness of the tile was such a comforting contrast to the heat on her back that she leaned her entire upper body into it.
As Buffy leaned against the tile her thoughts at last began to organize themselves. She was stuck in the past. She was alone, away from all she knew with no hope of finding it. She was being held prisoner– and whatever the nurse said, she was a prisoner- in a world she had never heard of, where they knew her deepest secrets, but she didn’t know any of theirs. And she was powerless. Buffy wasn’t used to being powerless, but now that she was no longer the slayer-
Buffy let out a moan of frustration. Were the Powers, or whoever was behind this determined to take every last thing away from her? This was worse than when she killed Angel: she no longer had even herself, for she had been the slayer so long that without the slayer there was no Buffy.
Anger coursed through her body at this realization, and she pulled back from the wall and began pummeling the tile in her frustration. She felt pain tearing at her hands and looked down. To her shock, her knuckles were torn and bloody. She had not hurt the wall, she had hurt herself. She moaned in pain and sank to the floor of the shower where she sat sobbing as the water went cold around her.
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“Mr. and Mrs. Pomfrey?”
The Healer’s soft voice cut through the tension in the air, and Poppy got slowly to her feet, her hands clutching at the medal around her throat as she struggled to voice her fears. Julian’s hands dropped onto her shoulders; for her support or his she didn’t know. He too was trying to speak but was unable to. At last he managed a single word, in a strangled voice so unlike his own, usually rich and deep.
“Pamela?”
The Healer shook his head. “I’m so sorry. The damage was too extensive. There was nothing we could do.”
Poppy fell to her knees as behind her Julian gave a low, keening noise.
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Lost in her memories, Poppy stared at the closed door of the bathroom long after Buffy disappeared inside it, waiting for the sound of water hitting tile so she could know her patient was following orders. The girl was so fragile, and so alone. Still, Poppy had the feeling that the little sparks of feistiness that peeked through the girl’s melancholy at times were much closer to the true Buffy.
She sighed, unable to imagine being in Buffy’s shoes; the uncertainty of her position alone would be enough to drive her mad. Even as a young Healing student, newly graduated from Hogwarts, Poppy had demanded security in her life, a compulsion caused by the craziness of her childhood. The drive to create a stable life had only intensified since the death of her family. She was one of the few teachers who lived at Hogwarts year-round, leaving only when absolutely necessary.
And now this girl had come. This little slip of a thing, arriving in the dead of night in the arms of Sirius Black, had turned her world on its end. Oh, she knew they had been wrong. Voldemort wasn’t responsible; Buffy had finally convinced them of that. But he could have been, so easily. She knew that now, and the slow-burning anger ignited in the pit of her stomach refused to be doused by the knowledge that, this time at least, he was not responsible. She wanted him dead, and she wanted to do it.
Finally, just as she heard the listened-for sound of water, Poppy was snapped out of her reverie by the arrival of one of her students in dire need of attention.
“Hester Midgeon, this is quite enough. I know your acne’s is rather severe, but will you ever learn that cursing it off does more damage than good?”
“You will be able to fix it, won’t?” Hester whimpered.
“Yes, yes, but you know, regrowing a face takes time. First I’ll have to stop the bleeding.”
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James walked down the corridor to the hospital wing alone. He had asked the other Marauder’s to come with him, but Remus had pointed out quite sensibly that she would likely be overwhelmed if they all converged on her at once. There would be plenty of time later anyway. It didn’t sound like Dumbledore would be allowing Buffy to leave anytime soon, after all.
Buffy. It was such an odd name for such an odd girl: a vampire slayer from the future. Wasn’t that just the most interesting thing ever? Well, not from her point of view, he supposed. Being stuck in the past was probably not all that fun.
She was so beautiful too, with that bronze California skin. He’d had the hardest time sitting at her bedside and not reaching out to stroke that lovely warm skin, not to mention her hair. He just knew her hair would be golden once she had the chance to clean up a bit. He wondered idly if he’d have the chance to run his fingers through it. Then he remembered her eyes. There was nothing especially remarkable about them he supposed, even the color was one he’d seen before, but on her, taken with the rest of the package, they were perfect.
At last James reached the Hospital Wing, and pushed open the door. He frowned. The girl was nowhere to be soon, and the only indication that anyone at all was in the room was the sounds of pain coming from behind a screen on the far side of the room.
“Madame Pomfrey?” he asked.
The nurse’s head popped out from around the screen. She was sweating, and when she reached a hand up to wipe her brow, she left a smudge of blood on her forehead.
“Is that Buffy’s?” he asked, panic filling his chest. He thought she was fine now.
Madame Pomfrey gave him a confused look and then looked down at her hand. “Oh! No, no, the girl is fine. Although, she has been in the bathroom for quite a long time now . . . ,” she turned back to her patient and seeming to decide that whatever was going on behind the screen was more urgent than the girl, she turned back to James. “Could you check on her, please? I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”
“Sure thing, Madame P,” he said, heading towards the bathroom. Behind him, he heard a squeaky voice speak between the squeals of pain.
“Who’s- ouch! Buffy – Ouch!?”
“Shush, Hester. It doesn’t concern you.”
James chuckled, and then rapped his knuckles on the bathroom door. No answer. He tried again. Still no answer. “Buffy?” he called, and when there was still no response he turned to get the nurse. However, one glance at the screen concealing Hester Midgeon and her latest acne troubles told him this was one he’d have to solve on his own.
He eased the door open gently and stepped inside. “Buffy?” He gasped and then spun around to face the door again. “Oh, Merlin. I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to-Madame Pomfrey asked me to check on you. I didn’t see anything!”
He waited a moment, but there was no response. “Buffy?” he turned around, trying to keep his eyes averted from her nakedness, but after a moment he realized that she didn’t even know he was there. He faced her then and was vaguely surprised to see that she was pressed against the shower wall, shaking violently under the continuous pounding of the water. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was crying.
He crossed the floor in three steps, flinging the shower door open and stepping inside. The cold water soaking through his clothes took his breath away. He turned the water off and then crouched by her side, brushing her sopping hair out of her eyes.
“Buffy,” he said, tapping her on the shoulder. “Buffy, are you alright? It’s freezing in here. What’s the matter?”
She turned slowly to face him, and held up her hands. His eyes widened at the sight of her bloody knuckles. “My hands. I tried to break the wall. It didn’t work.” she whispered, staring into his eyes.
“Shh,” he said. “Madame Pomfrey can fix that, but we’ve gotta get you out of here before the cold makes you sick.”
She nodded slowly, then looked back down at her hands. “They hurt,” she said, holding them out to James. “Why?”
James couldn’t help it, he grinned. “Yeah well, that’s what happens when you assault tile.”
“Not to me,” she whispered burying her head in her arms and crying again.
James lifted her chin gently and looked into her eyes. “Hey, it’s going to be okay Buffy. We’ll fix it. But we really do need to get you out of here now. Can you stand?”
She nodded, but when she went to stand up her legs folded under her and she would have collapsed if James hadn’t reached out and caught her.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, getting slowly to his feet and pulling her with him. He blushed when he realized that he was holding a very naked girl close against his body. He shut his eyes against the thoughts invading his mind and whispered to himself, “Not the time, not the time.”
“Well, uh, I’ll just go, and let you get dressed,” he said, clearing his throat.
She gripped his arm tightly. “Please don’t. I don’t think- I can’t, Please don’t,” she finished lamely.
James closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay. Yeah, sure.” He sat her gently down on the toilet and then reached for one of the fluffy towels. He wrapped her in it and then began rubbing her, drying her off slowly.
“You’re all wet,” she said.
‘Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
They didn’t speak again until he had gotten her dried and dressed and was running a comb gently through her tangled locks.
“Where did these come from?” she asked, picking at the soft pink sweater he’d brought her.
“One of the girls in my year lent them to me for you,” he answered. “There. All done,” he added, laying the brush down on the sink. “Ready to go.”
She turned to face him. “Thanks,” she said, the hint of a wicked smile playing about her lips. “I’ve never been dressed by a guy before.”
He laughed, and reached out to cuff her affectionately on the shoulder. “Yeah, it was a first for me, too. Well, you ready for me to take you to see Dumbledore?”
The light went out of her eyes as quickly as if someone had flipped a switch. “I guess,” she sighed.
“He’s not so bad,” James said a few minutes later as they walked to the Headmaster’s office. “He really does have your best interests at heart.”
Buffy snorted. “Oh really? Then why do I get the feeling that it doesn’t matter whether I want to stay here or not?”
James grunted. “Look I know-”
“Can we talk about something else?” she interrupted. “I know you’re just trying to reassure me, but . . . .”
A few minutes later she spoke again. “Your year? Is that like a grade?”
“Huh?” James asked, and then he remembered telling her a girl in his year had lent the close she now wore. “Oh, yeah. I’m a seventh year.”
She nodded. “So how old are you?”
“Eighteen,” he said, and she winced. “What?”
“You,” she said, waving her hand in his general direction. “You saw me naked.”
“So? I’ve seen naked girls before. And you can’t be that much younger than me. No big deal.”
Buffy snorted. “I’m not younger than you, I’m older. I’m twenty,” she said.
It was James’ turn to stop suddenly. However, rather than appearing horrified he seemed absolutely delighted. “An older woman,” he said, a rapturous look in his eyes as he resumed walking.
Buffy giggled, and then stopped abruptly when James halted in front of an ugly stone gargoyle.
“We’re here,” he said. “Bubblegum.”
