I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Harry Potter. They belong to Joss Whedon and J.K. Rowling. Timeline (not including prologue):
Harry Potter starts during the fifth book, The Order of the Phoenix. To be precise, in the middle of Chapter 27, page 605 (although, depending on the book, the page number will be different) during the end of March. BTVS begins the March after the series ends. A/N:
Originally, this started as a response to the TtH Challenge 1115, however during the course of mapping the story out, it changed drastically and no longer can be considered a response.
This story takes place in the same universe as Off Duty
, however one does not have to read that story to understand what is going on. For more information and other random thoughts on this story, please check out my profile page.
I have been nominated in the 2008 COAs for Best Unfinished Harry Potter Crossover
! I am honored to be competing again this year and I thank everyone who has supported me. Mein Teil
A shirtless Ron Weasley sat cross-legged as he stared at a patch of dirt on the ground. More brown then green, the blades were bent and dry. It was the safest thing to look at for the time being. A foot to his right sat a similarly clothed Dawn who had just finished cutting deeply into her wrists, and was currently letting the blood drain into a bowl. She had barely flinched with the action, although Ron had noted in his peripheral vision that her hands were shaking slightly. Not a sight that he was comfortable watching, and the symbol carved into her chest was even more disturbing. He tried not to look at the blood that oozed from the mark and trickled down her body. The same distance to his left sat his shirtless brother, Bill. A slight breeze stirred Ron’s hair as he watched Bill reach to take the bowl away from Dawn. Her hands were beginning to tremble more noticeably. Not needing to look up, he knew that Bill had dabbed his fingers in it. A foot across from Ron sat Faith, she was staring at the ground and baring her chest as well.
Bill stood quietly and began to walk a circle around the symbol that they sat on, the one mirrored on Dawn’s chest. With a diameter of six feet, it could easily allow the four of them to sit inside. The symbol had taken months to make and without it, the ritual would not be possible. It was etched into the ground and painted in blood, a combination of Dawn’s, Faith’s and his own. Bill retraced the symbol with just Dawn’s contribution now, the fresh blood further darkening the marks on the ground. They had practiced the ritual for weeks upon weeks, making sure that everything was done correctly, that every mark was perfect and every syllable was said correctly. Without Willow, the chances of succeeding were slim. Ron knew that. Her and Bill had meticulously designed the spell. A spell that was originally meant to be chanted by her. Bill had learned on the chance that something might go wrong. Ron was glad they had taken the precaution. Something had gone terribly wrong.
She was captured a month ago, and once taken there was no chance for escape. There hadn‘t been a successful prison escape in four years. The prison camps were now too heavily guarded by vampires and demons. He wasn’t expecting a miraculous breakout. Like the others, he wasn’t expecting anything. One was sent there to work and to die. It was a flawless system for mass murder, one that had been honed, studied, and perfected. Willow, like Faith and himself, was one of the most wanted people in the entire world. He had seen his own face staring back defiantly and sullenly from the wanted posters and newspaper articles. She would have been questioned and killed immediately. They wouldn’t have risked letting her live long enough or staying coherent enough to think of getting away. Any sort of upheaval would have been a direct challenge to their power base. Which meant that what was left of the resistance was short on time. Already living on seemingly borrowed time, it had been so disastrous that Ron hadn’t been sure whether to laugh or cry. Too bad he couldn’t seem to do either. Faith assured everyone that Red wouldn’t talk. That she’d kill herself first before giving away any of their plans. Ron only hoped that the slayer was right.
He looked to the skyline for a second before taking a deep breath and turning his gaze back to the grass. Ron still didn’t want to look. He’d been hardened over time, and this sudden aversion left him slightly baffled. In his lifetime he had seen many more horrific things. For six years they had lived in hell, and he had the memories to prove it. The two years following the decimation of the Wizarding world, the resistance had watched the Muggle governments fall to Voldemort and his army of demons. One by one they had succumbed, like a wound that just kept gaping and festering until the entire body had rotted. The Dark Lord had bargained with the demons, knowing one thing that they had always wanted. A never-ending flow of humans to torture and feed off of. Their desires were so in tune with Voldermort’s line of thinking that it was as if the two had been built to be partners. It didn’t take long for Voldemort to turn their dimension into a demon vacation paradise. Ron once overhead a demon remark that the next time he came back he was going to bring his whole family. That his daughter would freak out and probably want to buy the pet
that she’d been asking about for years. He didn’t have to think too hard to figure out what kind of pet
the girl wanted. The Death Eaters had started a nice little tourist dimension. Apparently they were getting rich off of the endeavor, figured.
The next year the Muggles began to be exterminated or shipped to camps. And he didn’t mean summer camps. These camps Muggles did not come home from after the summer; they didn’t do much of anything after their trips. It was hard to be active when you were a corpse. Any wizard who spoke against the Dark Lord was sent as well, their wand snapped and their privileges revoked. All that was left was Voldemort’s loyal Death Eaters, demons, apathetic wizards, and magical creatures who embraced the new world and quickly cashed in on these changes.
The fourth year after the fall, Voldemort gave a long speech about wizard-demon relations. He stressed projects to further cement the two worlds together. He spoke of the new government. He talked of the overwhelming delight he felt for the pain and suffering that the infidels in the camps underwent. That the new age of a pure world was beginning, and that he would ensure this purity would grow and strengthen. Ron and Hermione had watched this speech together in front of the Ministry of Magic along with hundreds of others. The two had clasped hands, and she’d held his so tightly he’d had bruises for days. The entire crowd had proudly had their dark marks on display. A sea of smiling faces and black cloaks that had just kept cheering and cheering. The thought still made him nauseous. Every human had to get the corrupting smear on their soul if they wanted a chance at life. Without one a person was more than fair game for the death camps. It had to be displayed at all times.
The Order had first tried to use a strong glamour to make the mark appear on their arms. They’d learned the hard way that it simply did not work. What had followed was months of arguing, theorizing, and testing. Ron shook his head as if trying to get rid of the thoughts; he did not want to dwell on it. He didn’t like to think of the past ever anymore. The precautions that had to be taken sickened him. What the Order had done to survive sickened him. But the Order was different then the crowd of people he was with during Voldemort’s wizard-demon relations speech. The last straw for him occurred when he saw the masses wear their mark without shame but with pride and excitement. All of them had cheered because they had agreed. Because they had the same goal as Voldemort. It was then that Ron realized that this world was already lost. It was during the fourth year of the Dark Lord’s reign that Willow, Bill, and Hermione had begun to draft the spell. Hermione died soon after.
The fifth year into Voldemort’s new world era there were only eight members left of the Order of the Phoenix. A fraction of their original number. Minerva McGonagall. Dawn Summers. Faith Lehane. Bill Weasley. Ronald Weasley. Dean Thomas. Kingsley Shacklebolt. And Willow Rosenberg. They spent their time running, hiding, and killing demons and Death Eaters in the shadows. They had gotten quicker, sneakier, and had created a style that was reminiscent of guerilla warfare. With so few though, it had been a difficult, uphill battle the entire way. However, they spent all the time they could developing a plan. Since then, they had only lost Willow.
Six years had passed since the fall. Six years of hell.
“I’m ready,” Bill murmured forcing Ron to drop his train of thought and look up. He had completed drawing the designs and the circle, and his face was hard and set. “How are you holding up Dawn?”
“We need to start now, or I won’t last the entire time,” she replied. She had gotten very pale.
Bill nodded and turned to Ron, his movements purposeful, precise, and unhurried. It was what made him a perfect stand-in for Willow. Ron stared at Dawn’s blood on his brother’s hands and flinched when it contacted his chest. Although the blood was warm, the symbols that Bill drew felt cold on his skin. He felt a shiver crawl through his shoulders and down his spine. The design was a mirror of the symbol that they were sitting on. He glanced down at the image even though he already knew what it would look like. They had drawn the symbol on his chest before with animal blood. It was much easier to look at then.
Bill walked over to Faith and drew the same marks on her chest. She stared straight ahead, her mouth in a hard line. It seemed that she too didn‘t like the idea that this ink
belonged to Dawn. Their eyes connected and she tried to give him a reassuring smile. Her crooked grin didn’t have any effect on him though, and his mouth remained in its flat position. It was hard to smile back at someone who obviously hadn’t put any heart into it.
Once Bill was finished with Faith, he walked over to his spot in the circle.
“Ma’at, God of justice and harmony in the universe.” His voice cut through the silence. “Hear me now and answer your children.”
Bill dipped his fingers into the bowl and painted a line on his forehead. The red horizontal slash stood out in sharp relief against his pale skin. Across from him, Dawn repeated the gesture with blood from her open wrist.
“With this sacrifice we will correct the ill of the universe.”
Dawn smeared blood in a diagonal line across her naked chest. She seemed to be struggling with her balance.
“With this gate we make things right.”
Dawn repeated the act below her breasts.
“Take these children as your servants.”
On cue Ron and Faith each pressed a hand to the other’s chest. The blood on Faith felt cold and slippery beneath his fingers and palm. Faith’s hand felt unaccountably warm on his own chest. As they connected, the symbols began to expand and contort, like vines twisting and spreading. They traveled up Ron’s arm to his shoulder and he took deep breaths to control the sudden increase in his heart rate. Invisible thorns pricked his skin, and blood oozed and trickled from the fresh wounds. It mingled with Dawn’s. He bit back a scream as the vines enveloped his entire body. It was more painful then he’d thought it would be. He kept his gaze locked with Faith’s, her eyes hard and her brow furrowed in concentration. In his peripheral vision he could see the vines creep up onto her face. Ron could feel them begin to crawl up his own neck, and was certain that the vines on him echoed the ones on her.
“Ma’at accept them into your womb and let them travel.”
Bill submerged his hand in the bowl and it came out colored a deep red. As he raised it, he flung the warm blood onto the top of Ron’s head. It landed in small drips, running down his forehead and over his nose. Ron tried once again not to think of where it had come from. His brother repeated the action with Faith. She didn’t even start when it ran over her eyebrow and dangerously near an eye.
“Ma’at take them!”
Ron felt cold and tingly. His brother watched them with a determined gaze, nodding once as his eyes met Ron’s. His brother, the last of the Weasleys, trusted him to make things right. The world was going black even though his eyes remained open. His sense of balance became uncertain, and the top of his head prickled and burned.
“Say hi to Harry for me,” Dawn whispered weakly from his right. The words made his heart uncomfortably stutter. He could no longer see her.
The darkness shrouded all of his senses and the world went very quiet.
It was not unusual for the fifth year Gryffindor boys to wake up to screaming. Indeed, it had become almost a weakly occurrence. This time though was different. This time the shrieking and shouting was not coming from Harry Potter. It was coming from the bed next to him. It was coming from Ron Weasley.