Enter the Demon

Disclaimer in first chapter.

A/N: My New Year's Resolution will be finishing this story... before 2009.

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"Blaise, I don't think this is a very good - "

At his look of burning rage, Pansy decided that that particular comment was best left unfinished. She found herself in the rather unusual position of actually pitying the Gryffs - and the Weasels in particular.

It had not been difficult to deduce who exactly could claim ownership of the car. Lovegood and Longbottom were out, both families were too old and too purely wizard to have such an unwieldy machine (Xenophilius's extreme eccentricity notwithstanding). Much though they loathed Granger, both Slytherins respected her intelligence too much to believe that she would bring a muggle invention to a magical forest.

That left the Weasels and Scarhead.

Arthur Weasley was a longtime employee of the Misuse of Magical Artifacts. A commonly known fact, much to the detriment of his two children. So while the others had merely been sunk into suddenly-mobile earth up to their elbows, both redheads were trussed up with enough magically conjured ropes to encircle the Quidditch pitch.

Pansy sighed and surveyed the bound forms with resignation, "Nothing that'll get you thrown into Azkaban, alright?"

He jerked his head in acknowledgement and raised his wand to begin.

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Albus was used to being summoned by various personages of import throughout his day. An average of twelve ministry owls found their way to his office throughout the course of each and every morning. Not to mention the various missives he received from other countries, schools, or personages unaffiliated with Fudge.

He did not often receive summons from within the household so to speak; he had ears and eyes in every corner of his domain. Dumbledore's timeliness and general knowledge of the happenings and circumstances of Hogwarts was second to none. The Headmaster had a knack for showing up precisely where he was needed at the exact moment those in trouble began to think of asking for help.

Some circumstances, however, are impossible to foresee.

Albus was startled to recognize the nightingale patronus that fluttered onto his desk as Madam Pomfrey's. She was the picture of competence and rarely needed his aid in anything other than possible missives to overly-protective parents. He wondered what could possibly require his assistance.

"TROUBLE. MALFOY. FAMILIAR," was the entirety of the terse note. By the time the third word had finished ringing through the room, Albus was already halfway down the circular stairs.

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Severus cursed, coming as close to sprinting as he was ever likely to be, it was all that damned bird's fault. Stupid pigeon didn't seem to understand the concept of 'walking.' Several students unfortunate enough to be in his path lost monumental amounts of points when they were too slow to get out of the way of the dark professor.

Fawkes had tumbled into the center of an extremely delicate potions working, ruining a good six months of work. Whatever Dumbledore wanted with him had better be important, else there would be hell to pay.

He was mildly surprised to find that Fawkes was leading him towards the hospital wing instead of the Headmaster's office. Despite himself he began to feel slight worry creeping up his spine. Madame Pomfrey was undeniably capable - if not a little bossy. Beyond supplying her with the few potions she could not brew herself, Severus felt little to no need to further their acquaintance.

The Potions Master swept into the infirmary, scowl etched onto his brow, only to feel all his blood flee his face as quickly as his fierce expression when he took in the scene:

Draco looking ashen and about as lifelike as one of the Kissed, sitting hunched against the wall. His eyes were glazed and fixed upon the ceiling and were it not for the slight rise and fall of his chest, Severus would have thought the boy dead.

Albus and Pomfrey were both standing at the foot of one of the beds. The half-drawn curtains blocked his view of the cot's occupant, but nothing could hide the strange violet light that bathed the two adults, obviously emanating from this unseen personage. The eerie brilliance pulsed oddly and seemed to be growing as he watched, the light spreading up the walls and away from the cot to spill onto others.

"Severus, I believe you may want to take a look at this," Dumbledore intoned quietly, no trace of his usual twinkle could be heard in his tone.

Coming closer, Snape blinked as the light's intensity increased, forced to squint a little in order to see. Circling the cot he stopped short at the bizarre thing lying on the bed. Shocked, he looked closer, his black eyes widening to almost comical proportions.

"She's - but that's - Albus, what happened?"

The Headmaster's blue eyes were tired and worried, "That, my dear boy, is something I would like to know as well."

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She was floating in a not-space full of not-things. Well, maybe 'floating' wasn't exactly the best word for it. 'Floating' implied some sort of knowledge of where the ground was, and the recognition that you were somehow, for some reason, hovering above it.

She didn't know where the ground was, she didn't even know if there was ground here, wherever 'here' was. She felt as if she ought to be somewhere, with someone, but she wasn't and she didn't know why.

Frustration welled up in the teen, and she shouted, screaming her pent-up anger out into the blankness, the gray area that surrounded her. Abruptly the sound cut off, her blue eyes going wide with shock as her hands - her hands! - slowly rose to touch her mouth, neck, arms, torso, all the way down her body.

She was human again!

She frowned, had she been not-human before? She couldn't remember much of that, much of anything really. She searched through her brain, trying to ferret out a little bit of something, some tiny tidbit that would help explain why she was in this not-place.

"Hullo, kitten."

She looked up in surprise to find a man standing - floating? - before her where there had been only not-space before. He was short and dressed in an outfit that even she, with her complete un-knowledge - could classify as 'bad.'

The stranger tipped his dark-purple bowler hat to her before seemingly sitting down, though upon what was a question for more scientific minds. "You got screwed, kitten, and we're trying to make it up to you."

"I got screwed?" She tried out her voice, finding that it worked for something other than screaming brought a smile to her face before she remembered what the odd man had just said. "How did I get 'screwed'?"

"The monks," he answered succinctly.

"Monks? I'm sorry, I don't understand."

He sighed and rolled his eyes up - was that 'up'? - muttering something about 'no easy way.' Suddenly a beam of bright light appeared and bathed her in its violet glow. Her body thrummed with recognition and seemed to spread out to soak up every stray bit of this strange illumination until every last drop had absorbed inside of her and they were surrounded by darkness once more.

Dawn glowered at the balance-demon, "Whistler..."

"Kitten..."

"Don't call me that! That's Blaise's name for me!"

He shrugged, "What d'you want me to call you?"

"How about 'goodbye'? What are you doing here? Where IS here? Why was I 'screwed' by the monks? How come I couldn't remember anything until after that light? What happened to me?" Her eyes widened as she recalled the last few minutes before she had ended up here in the not-place, "Ohmygod, I died, didn't I? I DIED! That's why you said I was screwed - "

The hand pressed firmly across her mouth effectively halted the epic-babble that had just spewed from her lips. Whistler was looking at her with a combination of admiration and exasperhation.

"Geez kid, you sure got some lungs on you. Ok," he took a deep breath, rubbing his hands together, "Here goes: I don't want to call you 'goodbye' until after I'm done explaining things to you; I'm here to tell you why YOU'RE here; 'here' is a pocket-plane connected to your mind and one of the neutral dimensions; because they didn't think they had any other choice, unimaginative idiots; I thought it would be easier for me to deal with you without getting threatened; you were hit by a car; no you didn't die - or at least, you're not gonna STAY dead."

Dawn mulled that over in her head for a few minutes, "Huh?"

Whistler sighed, "Look kid, would you just shut up long enough for me to say my piece? Then you can ask me to answer all your stinkin' questions, capiche?"

"Capiche," she muttered reluctantly.

"Alright then, kid, it's like this: the Powers feel they sort of owe you one for, well, a lot of things really. First off, the whole Key-thing - you weren't supposed to be dragged into that, free will and all - "

"Wait, what do you mean? I was created as the Key, how was I supposed to have a choice in that?" She ignored his glare at her interruption and folded her arms across her chest, giving him her best 'resolve face' as she waited for his answer.

"You weren't always the Key. What, you think the Monks made a body from scratch? They were priests, not mages, they hijacked another being and made you from it." He held up a hand to forestall the interruption he knew was coming, "Yes, they made you from Buffy and Joyce, but most of your 'you' is from this other thing."

"'Being'? 'Thing'? 'It' You make it sound like I wasn't human," she shifted uncomfortably.

"Well..." Whistler cocked his head to the side and studied her intently, "See, that's the thing kid: you weren't."

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A/N2: Like it, love it, loathe it with the fiery intensity of a thousand hot suns? Lemme know! This chapter is dedicated to all the wonderful reviewers who encouraged without demanding, you guys kick serious Dementor ass! Also, a shout-out to whoever nommed me for this story and others - thank you, from the bottom of my sentimental soul...

Happy Holidays!