The characters in this story are not mine. It’d be cool if they were, but alas, they belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy and the very rich J.K. Rowling. I also do not own the title of this piece as it belongs to Led Zeppelin. I think the timeline of this is pretty messed up, but c’est la vie. Buffy is sixteen, but came to Sunnydale at fifteen and was called as a Slayer at fourteen. There is no Oz yet and Buffy and Angel are still in the stage of making googly eyes at each other. Nothing too intense. As for Harry Potter, this begins the summer before his sixth year. This was posted at fanfiction.net before hand, but I’ve made changes and decided that this site is way better for crossovers any ways so without further ado, I bid you to read on!Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more:
It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
- Macbeth Quote (Act V, Scene V).Bergen, Norway
July 15, 2000
She tripped over a large root.
Her hands came up automatically to break the fall, and with a jolt, she hit the ground. For a moment she lay stunned, uncomprehending of her rapid change in position. Mud was seeping into her clothes as icy rain pelted her exposed skin. Her hair hung around her head in messy disarray and her breath was coming out in short bursts. Her skin, she knew, was uncharacteristically and disturbingly pale and she had never been more aware of every cut adorning her abused body.
But she didn’t move.
For just one moment, she stayed perfectly still and silent because maybe…maybe if she just stayed there…maybe if she was very quiet, he wouldn’t find her. She would lie on the hard ground, breathe very softly and all of this would go away. Then she would slowly rise and find a phone and call Giles and everything…everything would be all right. She would be all right.
The air pulsed with magic, causing her Slayer senses to tingle with awareness. A shiver ran up her spine and she choked back a sob, forcing herself to her feet. Legs trembling in absolute protest, she pushed her broken body for everything it had, calling upon strength that shouldn’t exist, and started running again. Branches and trees brushed against her arms, leaving scratches and cuts dotting her skin. She could feel blood running down her legs in tiny rivulets – hundreds of little places, all of them throbbing like their own versions of Hell, but she ignored them and kept running and she didn’t look back and she didn’t dare think too much.
No…she mustn’t think at all.
She stumbled again and this time she felt something on her stomach give a very sharp tug. Swallowing back a gasp of pain, she clutched one hand to her abdomen, her own blood hot and slippery as it came in contact with the cold skin of her hand. Fuck.
She had pulled another stitch. Unbidden, her eyes filled with tears and she wiped angrily at them as they obstructed her vision. Not yet. She could cry all she wanted when she got out of this, but not yet.
. There was no second chance for her. This was it.
He was chasing her. She could feel
it. She could feel it with every fiber of her being, and he was angry. God, he was so angry – seething.
A twig snapped somewhere behind her and her heart gave a jolt. No, please no.
Her legs picked up their unsteady pace. She no longer registered what direction she took. She just ran.
Running became her life, her sole purpose. Running became everything that was ever important because she must get away.
She couldn’t stay in that place any longer…she wouldn’t
stay in that place any longer. She would rather die than stare into his eyes for one more second, than listen to his cruel laugh and cold voice, than feel his hand slide over her face – hard, cruel, and punishing.
There was a clearing, just ahead…a break in the trees. Salvation. Freedom.
If she could just reach that area, everything would be okay. It was so close, so very close. And then she was there, standing at the edge and then plunging into its center, moving swiftly to the other side, and…freezing—
It was a cliff – a dead drop off. Two hundred feet below her, water hit the jagged rock, its waves churning and deadly. But this couldn’t be. This couldn’t possibly
be. She was stuck. She was trapped, and there was no time.
She felt the tears prick her eyes again, a lump forming in the back of her throat, a sob escaping past her trembling lips.
There was a loud pop behind her, but she didn’t turn around.
“You’re a clever girl, Elizabeth.” He sounded gleeful and why shouldn’t he? He had won. She had lost. She had had her chance to escape and she had failed. The Slayer had failed. Her feet felt leaden, her body lifeless, and her mind accepting. She glanced down at the rolling waves, seemingly hypnotized. Turning slowly, she met his eyes with a piercing calm and clarity. He was hideous…evil personified—his eyes sunken and dark, his hands large and thin, his body tall, but disgustingly skeletal. “I’m going to break you. I’m going to make you scream, and cry, and beg for death.” His voice was low and dangerous, and her body shuddered, remembering the pain, remembering the taunts, remembering the promises.
She wouldn’t let it happen again. Wetting her chapped lips, she shook her head slowly. “It’s too late for that, Voldemort.” For a moment, he looked puzzled and the Slayer reveled in the small victory.
But then she was turning and running and nothing else mattered. The Dark Lord watched with growing anger as his latest protégé leapt into the air, plummeting from sight. He stood, shocked and tense, straining to hear the inevitable.
It never came.
There was no splash. Stairway to HeavenBy WittyNinja“And she’s buying a stairway to heaven.”-Led ZeppelinSunnydale, California
May 3, 2000
She was perched on the center table in the library, her legs swinging back and forth as she stared up at her Watcher with wide, innocent eyes. Behind her were stacks of very old looking books, their pages stained and curling. The titles on the front were things of fantasy, yet normal in her life and as she spoke, words spilling from her mouth in rapid-fire succession, she idly fingered the spine of one.
Her focus was on something that was in her opinion much more important than the prophesy Giles seemed determined to analyze in excruciatingly boring
detail. Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer extraordinaire and sixteen year-old Californian, was determined to win this argument. She just had to make her stuffy, British, tea-drinking Watcher see reason, something that was much easier said than done. “Giles,” she began slowly, trying to sound both logical and convincing. “You don’t understand. We’re not talking about a concert. We’re talking about the concert
! This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Do you really want to be responsible for making me miss a once in a lifetime opportunity?”
Rupert Giles massaged the bridge of his nose and warily met his Slayer’s eyes—eyes that were currently focused solely on him.
“Buffy, Pink Floyd is the concert of a lifetime. The Beatles are the concert of a lifetime. Bob Dylan
is the concert of a lifetime. I can assure you, Mighty Mouse is certainly not—“
Buffy rolled her eyes and dropped the book with a loud thud on the table, blonde hair drifting off her shoulders to rest against her back. “Yes, I’m sure Mighty Mouse lacks stunning musical talent, but Modest
Mouse certainly doesn’t and to my generation this is
the concert of a lifetime, my
concert of a lifetime. C’mon! Weren’t you one of those music-concert-marijuana smoking guys who—“
“I did not smoke—“
“Fine! Magic dabbler or whatever. Either way…Giles, it’s one concert! For one night! I’m not asking to take a vacation to the Bahamas. I just want to see a band play with my friends for one night.” Her lower lip jutted out in a classic pout meant to break down his steely resolve, but Rupert Giles was immune to her ploys. He knew this girl and it was his duty to make sure she hunted the forces of darkness and saved the world from its utter and complete destruction.
The lip jutted out a little further and Giles grimaced, removing his glasses quickly and avoiding eye contact.
“Giles! Xander’s friend has backstage passes.
Do you realize what that means
He placed his glasses back on his nose. “I would imagine something about going backstage.”
“I would get to meet the band!”
“That’s not exactly guaranteed—"
“Do you have any idea what the lead singer looks like?” she interrupted loudly, reminding Giles that yes, she was only sixteen years old. He warily massaged his suddenly aching forehead and leaned back against the library checkout counter, crossing his arms and trying to look stern.
“Buffy,” Giles said seriously. “Patrol has been heavy lately. You know that.” He watched as the girl’s smile faded. “And with this prophesy about brewing evil, I can’t have you running off to Los Angeles.” He tried not to meet her eyes, not wanting to see the hurt. “I’m sorry, but you can’t leave right now. Sunnydale needs you here.”
“But it’s just one—"
“You know if there was any way, I’d let you go. But there just isn’t. You have a responsibility and—"
She jumped off the table with more grace than a normal person possessed and approached him pleadingly. “Willow and Xander are going and my mom said it was okay. I’m sure there are vampires in LA. I can just fight the forces of darkness there for a night. And hey, you haven’t found out where that prophesy takes place so for all you know, it’s not even in Sunnydale. It’s in L.A.” She smiled hopefully at him. He only stared back at her sadly.
Buffy nodded in resignation. “Fine. I get it. Buffy can’t take a night off. Buffy can’t do something she may never get to do again. Buffy has to go out and possibly die
instead.” Angrily, she walked over to the library’s counter and grabbed her backpack. Without saying goodbye, she stormed out of the library, the doors swinging long after she was gone.
Giles let out a long breath and tried to ignore the guilt brewing at the pit of his stomach. At the end of the day, he agreed with her. She was sixteen and she should be allowed to act her age. But she was also a Slayer and as such, rules changed. Feeling dejected and angry at her plight he moved towards the library table and once again opened the book Buffy had mere moments ago been playing with. Flipping to the relevant page, he tiredly let his eyes run over the first line.“He will come in the darkness and the light shall cry…”~*~“Beware the ides of March.”
-William Shakespeare “Julius Caesar”
“I mean it’s not fair!” Buffy cried out in frustration. “It’s like he wants to destroy any possible chance I have of maintaining a social life!” She punctuated these words with a hard punch to her reluctant listener’s nose and was rewarded with a very satisfying crack. “Would it be so hard for him to say, ‘sure Buff, you’ve been working mega hard lately, take a break, kick up your heels, stop and smell the god damned roses?’ Would that be so
“I know! He’s so unreasonable!” Her attacker made the foolish choice to rush her at this point and Buffy tripped him with ease. The vampire lay sprawled out on the ground, staring up at her, ridges drawn and yellow eyes blazing. Did all slayers talk this much?
“He’s like a Nazi!” Her brow furrowed, searching for the right words. “A Nazi in tweed!” Seemingly pleased with this assessment, she focused on her opponent, driving a stake quickly through his heart and watching with wavering interest as he exploded into a cloud of dust. She stared at the ground for a couple seconds and mumbled to herself with little emotion, “And the world will live to see another day…go me.” Dusting off her new pair of jeans, she glanced around the cemetery to find it utterly deserted. Maybe she should have been more discreet with that last one. Mentally shrugging, she began to make her way to the entrance of Shady Hill Cemetery. The night had been slow, Buffy only seeing two fledgings that she disposed of easily.
She mindlessly began humming “Yellow Submarine” under her breath, all the while cursing Xander who had been singing it all day at school. Her friends were leaving at six the following morning. They would be staying with a friend of Xander’s who lived in what he had described as a loft.
She had never even seen
And they would be in Los Angeles, a place she was more than familiar—her childhood home, the place that her dad still lived…
This thought gave her brief pause. Okay, yes, maybe that was the crux of the issue. Buffy conceded with reluctance that although her love for Modest Mouse was indeed genuine and her desire to meet the lead singer of the band severe, the chance to see her father for the first time in months was more appealing than she cared to admit. He had stopped coming to Sunnydale. He had stopped calling. Hell, he had even stopped sending checks to her mother. He had become the typical absentee father and she hated how much it was hurting.
She just wanted to hate him.
Hate was simple.
With a heavy sigh she turned onto her own block, her house coming into view. Reaching the door, she tiredly slipped in the key and walked inside, shedding her coat and draping it over the living room couch. Stomach rumbling, Buffy walked into the kitchen and began searching the freezer for the last of the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.
She was halfway through a container of Phish Food before she realized something was wrong. Pausing from her perch on top of the counter she glanced around the room, which suddenly seemed much darker. There was something in her house. She felt it with every fiber of her being. The silence became deafening, the darkness engulfing, and the draft from the open window freezing. Something was very, very wrong.
In a flash she was off the counter and running up the stairs. “Mom?” she called out. When nobody answered her heart began to beat louder until it was all she could hear, drumming in her ears like some absurd war beat. The door to her mother’s room was open. Inside there was a very dim light and off in the corner –
“Who are you?”
The man in the corner smiled, his lips curling into something that looked hideous and evil.
“Hello, Miss Summers.” His voice was soft and had a slight hissing quality to it. Buffy took a step back, trying not to be too obvious. “I must say, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” His eyes ran up and down her body. “I imagined you’d be taller, but you look so…fragile.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Buffy said, eyes flashing dangerously.
He nodded his head in approval, looking pleased, and Buffy felt her stomach drop. “Yes. There she is. There’s the girl I’ve heard so much about.”
She raised her chin and forced herself to look him square in his empty eyes without flinching. “Well if you’ve heard of me, you know what I can do to you.”
The man, if she could call him that, smirked and said nothing. An obvious silence descended upon the room. Buffy’s hand fell to the pocket of her jeans where she still held a stake, its presence comforting. Attempting to be discreet, the Slayer allowed her eyes to dart around the room, desperately searching for any signs of—
“You’re looking for your mother,” the man stated.
Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “Where is she?”
His eyes drifted over towards her mother’s bathroom. Buffy followed his gaze, her heart beating rapidly, her breath coming faster. Deceptively calm she walked over to the door of the room and pushed it open, the hinges creaking jarringly in the too quiet room. The body that lay on the floor looked like it had been there for hours. Her mom’s eyes were open and lifeless and for a moment Buffy just stood there in shock. This was not real. Her mother could not be dead. With sudden clarity she dropped to her knees and began to shake the body in front of her. “Mom,” she spoke loudly. “You have to wake up now. You can’t…” She was crying. When had she started crying? “Mom?” she said weakly. “The floor is cold and you have to…you have to get up.”
She shook her harder, desperate, scared, and so very alone.
“Mom! MOM!” She let out a choked sob. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” she muttered, her voice sounding weak. She was shaking.
“Mommy?” Tears ran down her cheeks. This was not real.
“Please don’t leave me alone…”
“Don’t worry Elizabeth. You won’t be alone.”
The man was standing directly behind her. He placed his hand on her shoulder and Buffy’s entire being rebelled at its presence. She jerked away.
“What did you do to her?” she whispered brokenly.
“I killed her.”
No no no no no no no no. This was not happening. She needed her mom.
God, she needed Giles
because he would know what to do, how to fix this because her mother simply could not be dead.
Somebody was going to pinch her and tell her that everything was okay.
This was not real. This was not real.
She felt sick. Everything was becoming hazy. Bile was rising in the back of her throat. Tears ran down her cheeks, hot and salty. Was the world spinning?
She looked at the lifeless body on the ground and at the man above her and then she doubled over, heaving, gasping, her lungs desperate to suck in air. The bile that had been in the back of her throat was suddenly in her mouth and she was puking up ice cream and acid and blood. When she finally sat back on her heals, she felt sick and light headed.
“Who are you?” she demanded with no emotion in her voice.
The man bent down to her level and smiled. Buffy’s stomach churned. “My name is Lord Voldemort.” He reached out and grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You and I are going to get to know each other very well, Elizabeth.”
And then he was muttering something in a language she didn’t understand. The world began to fade around her.
She didn’t fight the darkness.
Uh oh…This does not look good for our heroine.