Title: Oraculum Terminus Terrarum

Author: Calex

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I own nothing. HP characters are owned by JK Rowling, BtVS and AtS by Joss Whedon. I’m just enjoying the ride.

Feedback: Yes, please. Email’s aida(dot)zahar(at)gmail(dot)com.

Author’s Note: I felt like writing, then went to the FFA page and found Wes/Draco. This went a bit over the limit I’d set for myself. Hope you’ll enjoy it. The Latin is translated from English through http://www.sunsite.ubc.ca/LatinDictionary/. All mistakes are mine.



Tap. Tap. Tap.

Pause.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Wesley ignored the noise, his attention solely focused on, it seemed, the essays in front of him, waiting to be graded. The sound of quill scratching over parchment filled the air, interrupted only by occasional pauses, then clinks as he dipped the quill into the pot of ink, and tapped away excess ink. That is, that… and the incessant tapping.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Pause.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Pause.

“If I’d realised this was what I would be spending my Sunday doing, I’d have brought along a book. Treatment of Muggle Electronics would suit this day just fine.”

Wesley lifted his head, glared balefully at the blond sitting across from him, buffing what looked to be perfectly manicured nails on a tailored black robe. Funny how such short nails could create that precise clicking when being drummed on a desk, he thought in mild irritation. His desk. He looked pointedly to a stack of books by Draco’s side, then went back to grading, not looking up as he spoke, tone as dry as the Sahara.

“I’m sure Treatment of Muggle Electronics wouldn’t be quite the thing you’re interested in, Mister Malfoy, but perhaps you could look at those other books instead. You know, the one’s I gave to you an hour earlier for you to look through?”

“Read them.” He said, dismissively. “Wasn’t anything of interest and/or useful. I demand that you find me something that would occupy me with something worthy of my time. This,” he gestured to the pile of books. “Is not it.”

“You read them all?” Slowly, Wesley’s head rose, shock in his eyes. He looked at the rather sizeable stack, then at Draco. “You do realise that what I meant with reading required you to actually open the books and make sure that they are read through, as opposed to giving the titles a dismissive look. Or even a cursory rifle.” One pale, elegant eyebrow lifted up.

“I assure you, Mr. Windham-Pryce, that I have indeed looked through each and every one of the books that you have placed in front of my person. And although the desultory glance was indeed shot, it was read through. Now, if you were to give me free reign through your personal collection and library, I am sure that you’ll find the results beneficient.” He glanced at the perfect nails, not even bothering to look at him. “Perhaps I can allay my boredom from this day by achieving to end something. Salazar knows that left to your own devices, it might not happen. You’re far too preoccupied with things, it seems.”

He seemed entirely too casual. Wesley didn’t trust the blond wizard one bit. He was too polished, too aristocratic, too… Slytherin. Snarky tongue, but he was used to it. No, what bothered him, he had to admit, was that the young man reminded him a bit too much of Spike. Could be his human clone, but for the ridiculously gelled back hair that revealed a face of all planes and angles. Sharp ones, like his glittering eyes. They were grey, not the blue of Spike’s. Another difference, but the two were so close it could hardly be called that. More than once he wondered what Spike’s mortal last name was, for it could very easily be Malfoy. It was possible, Wizard Vampires. Rare, but possible. Plus, he knew what Spike was, how he could be. Bloody Awful Poet indeed, an aristocrat and one of good education. Yes, Spike could very easily be a Malfoy. Except he knew what Spike had been like when Spike was human. Very not like a Malfoy, or so he heard. Now this little delinquent to look to. Did he get no rest, even in the afterlife? Hadn’t he sacrificed more than his fair share in the good fight, had he not lost more than his fair share? He’d even lost his life, but even then it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. The Powers That Be had an insatiable need, it seemed, of making peoples’ lives as difficult as possible. Sadists.

“Of course, Mr. Malfoy,” Wesley said dryly, removing his glasses. “I’d happily give leave you free reign of my highly priced, highly coveted, highly expensive, highly rare collection of books. Besides, the Headmaster would not approve. Entirely too many books of Dark Magic around, best keep away.” Draco’s eyes flashed with anger for a split second before he regained control with admirable speed, but Wesley noticed these things. Watcher, remember? He watched, hence the name.

“I am not one so weak to allow myself to be taken by a few books of power, sir,” he spat out. “If I am not Malfoy in this, I am still very much a Black. Mother was a Black, you know. I’m half, only partially tainted. I hold very much Black characteristics and you’d best watch what you say around us Blacks. We tend to get rather testy, and we hate mindless accusations that question at our control.”

Ah, the royal we, Wesley thought, trying to hide amusement. Well, didn’t he get a right telling off. Put him in his proper place, didn’t it? Black and Malfoy, dangerous combination. The little brat might have a point, he should be careful there. He could see, now, those Black tendencies of his, those that he’d learnt early on to recognise. Volatile temper under all that ice, he could sense the volcanic turbulence of control and temper, see it reflected in the cloudy eyes. Like the kind of clouds that lightning and thunder flashed through, he noted. Tread carefully.

“I appologise. Tell me, Mr. Malfoy. What are the state of your grades?” Draco looked startled at the question.

“I do believe they are satisfactory, sir.”

“Yes, but to whom?”

“Well,” Draco said, slowly. “Me, sir. And my mother. Father, before-” stopped himself before he finished the sentence and Wesley nodded. The unsaid place hung, awkward in the air and Wesley, finally, cleared his throat in order to attempt at dispelling it.

“Your best subjects?”

“Potions, sir. DADA, Charms and Transfiguration.”

“Your favourite?”

“Potions and DADA, but sir, I don’t understand how this could possibly have anything to do with anything,” Draco said, impatiently. “Should I not be doing something, as I’d said, to redeem myself? Well, to spend my time doing, in any case. I was sent here for detention, may I remind you. Though I don’t know why I am. In any case, I am sent in by Professor McGonagall to you for a three hour detention period and so far I have finished my set tasks. If there really is nothing for me to do, it would please me greatly to be able to go back to my rooms… at your dispense, of course.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Wesley said, blandly. “I do believe that handing out punishments for this detention is to be done as is seen fit by me. If I believe that not giving you anything to do is punishment to you, so be it. As I see, it is working rather well.”

“Sir-”

“No buts, Mr. Malfoy.”

There was rebellion there, in his eyes. The mouth had gone hard, straight, the bearing even straighter and overbearing. Draco sat in front of him like a brooding, dark piece of… oh bugger it, he thought, his mouth twitching. Draco was a mix of himself, Spike and Angel. Perhaps that was why he was so taken with the boy. Young man. Person. Thing. He hadn’t quite made up his mind yet as to what category Draco fell under.

Deliberately, Draco slouched. He started bouncing his foot. Rather annoyingly. He could see what Draco was doing, from the movement of his upper body. He was moving, and it was getting damned annoying, especially as the young lord Malfoy had started when he was resuming to grade the Fifth Year essays on Vampires. The essays in itself was giving him headaches, he didn’t think he’d need the snotty Mr. Malfoy to add to that. It had been bad enough, cornered to take the detention because McGonagall had had to rush off to do some mysterial Deputy-Head-type thing. The things that McGonagall disappeared off to do completely mystified him. To be truthful, he didn’t really want to know.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

…

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

“Oh for bloody Slytherin’s sake!” Wesley exploded, using the curse that came like second nature to him, now. He paused, wondered whether he should be worried that the curses he cried out were for Salazar Slytherin and the house of snakes, but waved that thought off. No use being distracted, he was very much happy in attempting to flay this hide. “Will you cease and desist!”

“What?” Draco said innocently. “Doing this?” Deliberately, he drummed his fingers on the polished surface of Wesley’s desk.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The next thing he knew, Wesley’s had his hands tied to the arms of the chair he was sitting in. For good measure, his legs were bound as well. Draco had let out quite the girly little shriek when he’d first noticed it. He’d tried to cover it up, but Wesley stored that information. Draco Malfoy shrieked like a girl.

“Bloody hell, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Draco shouted, bluster and masculinity now.

“I do believe I warned you to keep still, Mr. Malfoy, and despite my many warnings, you did not heed them. In the end I had no choice,” here he shrugged. “To detain you forcibly. Now, if you’re quiet and still for the next twenty minutes, I might just release you.”

Draco was quiet all of two before he opened his mouth again.

“This research you’d made me do. It has many references to battles. End of the world stuff. Sounds familiar.”

“I expect it does.”

“No, no,” Draco argued. “There’s… it’s something more. Like I’ve seen it before. I recognise it. Like I remember it.”

“Remember?” Wesley frowned. “Were you privy to your father’s books at home? Were there any that seemed… strange? Out of place?”

“Proffessor,” Draco said tightly. “I do not discuss my possessions at home. Especially as of this moment and several weeks ago, I no longer know the full extent of these aforementioned possessions. I am no longer sure if they are mind or…” here his mouth curled in distaste. “the government’s. Now,” he looked dismissively at his ties. “Please do untie me.”

“Of course,” he nodded in acquiesce of his misstep, laying the quill down beside the pile of parchment. The quick flick of the wand came first, and he set Draco free. He watched as Draco rubbed at his hands dramatically, despite the fact that the hand remained unblemished. He looked at the young man steadily, unhampered by the glasses and he could see, just a hint of it, of a squirm, but that was ruthlessly squashed as well. Passion and coolness. Temper and exquisite control. Fire and Ice. Wait. His eyes widened at that thought, the thought coming out in a murmur.

“Fire and ice…” he looked at Draco speculatively, then jumped up, went to the bookshelf closest to his desk and picked out a large tome that looked like any of the others. He saw Draco glancing at the title, lifting brows at it. The Magickal Book of the Dead. In Latin, for the Wizards were nothing if not stifflers for tradition. Wesley flicked hurriedly through the book, then found the page he’d marked. Read the Latin rapidly, the language like second nature to him. Bloody hell… He looked up at Draco, then back to the text. Back to Draco. There was no mistaking the squirm, this time, it came quite openly.

“What? Why are you looking at me as though you’ve… you’ve seen a thestral?”

That gave Wesley some pause.

“You’ve seen the thestrals?”

“I’ve survived past my fifth year, sir, with my father being who he is, and supported who he did. I could not have gone through that life without being open to some sort of darkness. It was not all light and happy.” The sarcasm flowed thick in his tone, but Wesley ignored him, knowing something for sure. They’d made him watch. In his mind’s eye, he could already see it, and knew it for fact. He was always good, always good at deciphering what had happened, how and why. Even without solid clues. He trusted his instinct, his eye, and the subtle clues helped just as well if not more. No, he’d never killed, but he’d watch. Possibly someone close to him, or someone that had reminded him of one whom he knew. He’d never kill again, except to destroy those that had destroyed his innocence, this Wesley knew within an instant. Well, that was that part of the prophecy fulfilled. Fire and Ice had chosen it’s path, chosen Light over Dark. Wesley reached under his table, to the drawer and withdrew another piece of parchment. Dumbledore’s writing, the prophecy that Sybil Trelawney had gifted (or cursed, depended on your viewpoint) him with. There were some new lines to those that had been there previously, added on by he himself. He’d dug, he’d researched, and he’d found the impossible. He’d nearly completed the prophecy that was lost.

“You and Harry… you’ve never been close?”

That hard mouth curled into a sneer at that comment.

“Were I able to feel more than standard contempt for that… thing, I would call us mortal enemies.”

“Ah,” Wesley, made a notation on the parchment. “And have you had any leaning tendencies towards anything red, lately? Perhaps clothing, a book, a boat, a shield… a person? Hair?”

“Red hair?” Draco sputtered. “Everyone knows that red hair means the Weasleys. I’m not sure I like what you are trying to imply, sir.”

“Of course,” he murmured, but amusement and excitement was roaring through him. Yes. Here it was, this break. This reason. He had a reason after all, he’d known. Theoretically he’d known there was a reason, he’d known he would do good but until that moment it had all been so vague, so elusive. he had a chance to redeem himself. He felt it, just as he felt the excitement build. He should the parchment to Draco, making him compare the prophecy to the one in the Magickal Book of the Dead, Veneficus Libri Mortuus. Draco’s eyes narrowed and then he did something that completely surprised Wesley. He read out the prophecy with perfectly enunciated Latin.

“Oraculus Terminus Terrarum.

Quinque electus pugno nocens:

Unus inducare

Unus medicor

Unus ulciscor

Unus doctum

ed Unus fulgeo flamma vindis.

Possumdat…” he broke off his muttering, eyes impatient. “I can’t read your writing.”

“Well, I do beg your pardon,” Wesley shot him a look, but the man had already gone back to readin.

“Something nocens. Si quando nocens hominis venio, cruoris mos emersum. Homanis mos pessumdat ed terminus terrarum.”

“Well?” Wesley prodded. “What do you think of that?”

“A bit overdramatic, isn’t it? Prophecy of the end of the world, indeed. Five chosen, to lead. If we’re going by this coinciding with us, then that would be Scarhead. The one to heal… again, if we’re going to go by this, I’d say the girl Weasel. She’s good, and she’s close to them. Unus ulcisor. One to avenge, or take vengeance on. One to teach and…” here he frowned. “This I do not understand. To flash green flame. Odd, that sentence, then again olden wizards were a barmy lot. Blah- blah- blah, to destroy the evil and bring peace. Blah- blah… oh, hello. If ever evil man arises, bloodshed will occur. Humans will destroy and end the world.” He looked up at Wesley. “What cheerful stuff.”

“They often are.” The tiredness was a little obvious in Wesley, now. “What do you think?”

“That most of them are probably written by cheerless, masochistic/sadistic bastards.” The matter of fact tone had made him blink, took his brain some time for the words to sink in. When it did, he cracked a smile, but tried to smother it.

“I meant about the prophecy. What it entails.”

“Oh,” he didn’t look very remorseful. “Well, that’s as far as I could go, really. The one that seeks revenge, possibly towards the dark. I could name everyone in the wizarding world against Voldemort for that but…” something dark passed through his eyes. “I think it’s a little closer to home. Their home.”

“Yes,” Wesley murmured, watching Draco’s face carefully. Didn’t work very well, though, a mask fell over the features, obscuring his thoughts… except for his eyes, his eyes betrayed the racing mind behind the cool face. “What else?”

“I believe it’s on their side, sir. Probably someone who had turned tail on them, for something or other that they did. It’s… it’s quite a number, sir.”

“Survivors, Mr. Malfoy. Those that would be sent to end the war.”

“Well,” he sounded doubtful. “Professor Snape certainly, sir.”

“Yes,” his mouth curled a little in competition. “Might be. Who else?”

“Mother.”

“A little more closer to home, Mister Malfoy,” Wesley said, almost impatiently.

“You?”

Despite the fact that the answer was not, he felt a little insulted at the incredulous tone loaded into that one word. It could be. Okay, so maybe not much for the wreaking of vengeance, but it could be him. Wesley just crossed his arms and watched in mild satisfaction as Draco backtracked after seeing the glint in Wesley’s eyes.

“Uh, not that it couldn’t, of course, but I’d thought that, uh. That is to say…” he licked his lips. “Maybe you were the next one. It seems slightly more probably you already had a role in this. The teacher.”

Wesley glanced down. Then back up at him. Good point. He had been zapped into this existence almost at once after his death, hadn’t he? He hadn’t even gotten the chance to see Winnifred, not even once. Instead a deamon that had called himself Whistler had sent him on his next mission. In England. In all likelihood he did have a part in the charade, er, prophecy, but he’d have to do his research. He liked to be thorough. He figured he’d made Draco suffer enough, and shot him a condescending look.

“I meant you.”

…

“You know,” Draco said after a healthy length of pause. “I always did think you were bonkers. I think this just proved it.”

“Think about it. The pieces fit together. In the version by Sybil, it says those that were mortal enemies shall be combined in effort to vanquish evil. You and Harry hate each other, you’ve said so yourself. And you have a reason to want to wreak vengeance.”

“In the version of the prophecy that you’d written.”

Wesley looked at him blandly, but this time Draco didn’t backtrack.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said through clenched teeth. Pushing himself out of the chair, he stood ramrod straight and stared down his aristocratic nose at Wesley. “I do not take very well to teasing, but outright manipulation of my time and the waste of it is intolerable. This malicious and utterly petty deed of you proved nothing and wasted your and my valuable time. I beg to take my leave.” He offered Wesley a stiff bow, and prepared to retreat when Wesley sighed and froze him in place. Draco’s eyes burned and inferno right at Wesley, but the man took no noticed, standing up and walked over to the other side, then leaned a hip on the edge of his table.

“Mr. Malfoy, were I to set some prank or trick on you, rest assured it would be of better taste and executed with little or no flaws. And certainly,” here his mouth pulled up in a sneer that made Draco’s eyes cloud. He’d taken lessons from Cordy, after all. “would not bother with “malicious and utterly petty” deeds. No, Mr. Malfoy, you will not take your leave of me yet, as I still require your presence. You do not take this prophecy seriously, and you should have learnt earlier on that prophecies are not to be taken lightly, and all possibilities are to be looked into. Added to the fact that I am owed three hours of detention with you, of which only…” here he looked at his watch. “Two hours has taken place. If you please return to your seat in order for us to begin again. When I let you go, you will follow my instructions. Are we clear?”

Draco’s eyes were rebellious, but also showed assent. He had to, didn’t he. Looking into Wes’s steely eyes, he knew the Professor would leave him frozen like that until he cracked. Dammit, that was part of the reason he respected him. Liked him, even. At times. There wre times, like this, when Professor Windham-Pryce made him feel like breaking a heavy chair or table over his head. Repeatedly. Still. The man did a neat flick with his wrist, Draco noted, eyes wide in shock. He was doing wandless magic.

“Blimey.”

He immediately felt like kicking himself. Bloody hell. He sounded like the Gorilla-Weasel. What an utterly obtuse thing to say, and put his back up even more when he heard Professor Windham-Pryce’s quiet snort of laughter.

“Indeed. Now, Draco. Sit. I may call you Draco? Well, from what I gather from the prophecy, the three of the chosen named are of similar age.”

“We don’t know that I’m one,” Draco interjected, then saw Wesley’s look. Realisation dawned, bright and quick. “You know of another?”

“Perhaps,” he sighed. Wesley went back to his chair, sat back and watched the ceiling. “I think that I have a pretty good idea of who it could be. A high possibility of who this person is. But I am not fully certain if it indeed her. I would have to do some… research.”

“Such as?”

Wesley leveled a look at Draco, considering. Thoughtful. This time, Draco didn’t squirm. He met Wesley’s gaze full on, as if he understood the import, the need Wesley had for this time. Finally, Wesley sighed, nodded, and turned to stare out of the window.

“What I am about to tell you cannot be told to anyone else. As it stands, three people only know this: Poffessors Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape.” Wesley swiveled to him. “Now you.”

“Why,” Draco found his throat suddenly dry. Found himself suddenly afraid. “Why me?”

“Because,” all businesslike, now, Wesley bustled to clear his desk. “I have a feeling that to get through this, we need honesty. To understand. To accept. To be open. What I’m about to tell you, Draco, would seem fantatic, impossible.” Here, his mouth quirked. “Even to a wizard.”

“Alright,” Draco nodded slowly. “I think I can accept that.”

“Good,” Wesley sighed. “Because if I’m right, then you need to be. If I’m right, both of us are in this. Both of us hold important responsibilities, places in this war, in this fight. Because if I’m right,” now his blue eyes narrowed at the parchment. “If I’m right, not only are the two of us of the chosen, but we’ve almost completed the cycle. To complete it, we have to embrace what I’m about to tell you.”

“Is this about the last of the chosen? The Green Flame?”

“You catch on quick,” Wesley’s mouth twitched. “How useful.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, then abruptly stopped them, locking his gaze on Draco’s. “Have you ever heard of The Slayer?”



[ end part 1]