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Roses To Remember

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Summary: (Moved) Draco's a man on a mission.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Harry Potter > Willow-Centered > Pairing: Draco MalfoyrestiveFR13412,510035,10610 Jul 0410 Jul 04No

Roses To Remember

Title: Roses To Remember (Part 1of 4)

Author: Restive Nature (aka Bavite)

Rated- PG-13 for some mild language

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings belong to either Rowling or Whedon. *sigh*

Summary- Draco’s a man on a mission.

Spoilers- Season 7 of Buffy, Season 4 of Angel. (Pretty much season 5 hasn’t happened yet.)

Distribution: TtH, VSS and my Yahoo group

Dedicated to Inell. Hope you like!

AN- This is a birthday present for Inell, tailor-made. It’s broken into four parts because, you know, they say that anticipation is the spice of life, right? The fic requirements will be posted at the end of the story. Also, this is my very first BtVS/ HP crossover. So please forgive any OOC’s.


"Angel Investigations, we help the hopeless," Fred’s voice chirped as she answered the telephone, then winced. She felt like slapping herself on the forehead. Wes had warned her first thing this morning when they had arrived to just let the answering machine pick up if anyone called. But with all the noise and confusion going on, the slight Texan had responded automatically.

"Good day," a clipped, accented voice came over the line. "This is Mister Draco Malfoy. I should like to procure a room for an extended stay. I will be arriving-!"

"Oh, I’m sorry sir," Fred broke in with a sigh of relief. "I’m afraid you must have the wrong number."

"This is Angel Investigations, is it not?" this Draco demanded swiftly, barely allowing for her affirmation before firing off his next question. "You are operating at the Hyperion Hotel, are you not?" Another affirmative. "Do I need to speak with someone else about a reservation?" A negative. "Then what is the problem?"

"Well, you see sir…" she tried again, but he continued on.

"So, as I was saying, I’ll be arriving at three o’clock sharp. I expect a room to be ready, as I said, for an extended stay. Good day!"

There was a sharp click in Fred’s ear. She pulled the phone away to look at it with a distasteful glare. Yep, Wes had warned her. And now, thanks to her absentmindedness, they had a bit of a problem on their hands. She bit her lip as she replaced the phone in its cradle. What could she do? This Malfoy fellow would show up, no doubt precisely at three, as he said and would expect a room. Here, at the newest temporary headquarters of the Slayers from Sunnydale. Fred watched the girls scurrying about the lobby, all of them attending different things. It wasn’t exactly the atmosphere she believed the English fellow would want. True, they had room. But those rooms that weren’t taken up by teenage bodies, or the Scooby gang were awfully dirty. There was no doubt about it, she’d have to tell Wes what she’d done, or rather hadn’t been able to do.


Draco dropped the telephone as if it were scalding hot. He rubbed the ache that had formed right between his eyes over the last hour. Four blasted tries before he’d finally gotten through to the right place. He’d have to rake Granger over the coals for that one. Granted, she had tried to patiently explain the concept of the Muggle contraption numerous times to him. But he’d brushed her off. What was so hard about a telephone? You lift it up, press the number you wanted and spoke in a moderate tone to the person on the other end. Who knew about international codes and directory listings? Well, Granger did. But she could have tried harder to make him understand.

Draco glanced over at the clock Granger had left for him. He’d studied it quite a bit lately, making sure that he knew how to read it properly. Not that it was difficult; it just wasn’t what he was used to. The clocks in his familial home were more geared towards letting one know that one was late, or that it was time to eat, things of that nature. He turned then and looked over the array of property he was taking along with him. And as he did, a small surge of very unfamiliar panic rose up in his stomach. He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t do this. It was all a mistake. He, a Pureblood Malfoy, could never pass for a Muggle.

"Granger!" he yelled as he dashed from his room at 12 Grimmauld Place.

It took Hermione a good half-hour pep talk before Draco was able to calm down. This past year had been tough on him. First, there’s been the suspicion and rancor from those that didn’t believe his change of heart. And then the trials of proving himself. And then the disbelief when Dumbledore himself had put Draco in charge of Operation LA.

With the rise of Voldemort, skirmishes between the two factions had been on the rise. Everyone had believed that the final battle would come when Potter, good old Scarhead, was still young and vulnerable. But Voldemort seemed to be biding his time, searching for something that would give him the edge. In the meanwhile, both sides were taking casualties. And they all knew that they needed help, outside help. They just didn’t know where from, until a few months ago.

It was reported on the Muggle International news, about the collapse of some little town in Sunnydale. Interesting only in that it sat on a Hellmouth. Draco could recall the thrill that had shot through him at the word, but he’d tamped it down. Some habits died hard. But then, some chance comment in an interview with a survivor had piqued the interest of the wizarding community. In depth studies discovered that it was not a natural disaster that had decimated the town, but some very powerful young people. People that could possibly help them in their struggles.

So it became Draco’s very first mission, to go to these people and sound them out. He had a month to get a feel for them. There had been protests, of course that there were many other qualified people. But it had been Dumbledore’s thought that of all available, only Draco would be able to sense lies, deception and concealed evil in these people. Probably because he knew them so well in himself.

He’d been excited at first. A chance to get away from the dank, oppressive atmosphere that pervaded his late relative’s home. But then he’d learned that Granger was going to be tutoring him on all things Muggle. He began to wonder then if Dumbledore hated him. But surprisingly, when all things were put aside, he and Granger were able to get down to the nitty gritty with a minimal amount of snarking at each other. He never would have admitted it in school, but Draco had a natural love of learning, anything. So he’d applied himself and after a few months was declared ready.

But faced with the near moment of truth, he wasn’t so sure he was ready. "All right," he heaved a big sigh and approached the bed. He gathered some of the maps and tourist information they’d gathered about LA. "Calm down Draco, old boy. You can do this. Malfoy’s can do anything." He glanced up at the clock again. He had three hours before he needed to apparate to the secure location Dumbledore had provided. It would be up to him to get to the hotel. "A little more study and then we’ll be good to go."

The calming act of reading had steadied Draco’s nerves. Mrs. Weasley, really not a bad sort once one got to know her, called him down for dinner. So it was a collected, purely arrogant, in other word’s, familiar Draco that sauntered into the kitchen and took up his usual position at the end of the table, removed from the others. Draco smiled to himself as talk resumed around him. Yes indeed, there would be no problems at all.


There was a problem! A big problem. Dumbledore never bothered to tell Draco that taxicabs didn’t venture into this part of LA unless called. And after lugging his baggage for six blocks, only to find the public telephone would not accept the pounds he’d forgotten to exchange for American coinage, Draco was pissed. He mentally reviewed the map he’d memorized of the area. The landing point was seventeen blocks from the Hyperion. That meant he still had eleven blocks to go. With heavy bags, if they weren’t stolen out from under his nose. For a moment, Draco considered a loco-motor spell, but dismissed it with a sigh. Magical Decree something or other forbade use of magic in areas loaded with Muggles. Or he could hide them and cast a blending spell on them to keep prying eyes from seeing. But there was the problem of the transients wandering around, possibly tripping over them. And again, Magical Decree whatever would have his hide nailed to the wall. So with a sigh, he hefted the bags once more, cursing himself silently for priding himself on being impeccably dressed, whatever the occasion.

At long last, the sight of the Hyperion loomed up in his view. Relief caused his tired, aching feet to hurry now. Just a few more minutes and he could drop the bags and put up his weary limbs. But as he neared the hotel, the piercing shriek of a young girl caught his attention. Without second thought, he dropped the luggage, whipped his wand from its hidden locale and ran towards the noise.

Given the little they knew about these people and what they dealt with, there was the very real possibility that someone was in danger. Draco raced through the wide double doors of the hotel that had been thrown open to catch the lackadaisical breeze. And stopped short. There before him, in scant shorts and tiny, cropped t-shirts, were a gaggle of teenage girls. One of which, a petite blonde was soaking wet.

"Dawn Summers!" she screeched, "when I catch you I am going to whoop on your ass eight ways from Sunday!" The rest of the girls were laughing and pointing, some slipping off, holding what appeared to be balloons. The soaking wet girl turned to face the newcomer. "What are you staring at?" she demanded petulantly.

Draco could feel the blush starting at the roots of his pale blonde hair, running down his face until he greatly resembled a tomato. "Uh, buh…" Did all Americans dress so skimpily? Not to mention the effects the cold water seemed to be having on the girl’s anatomy. To his immense relief, a young man popped up from the middle of the group and looked around.

Hey!" he greeted with a smile.

"Hey," he returned the greeting weakly. The wet blonde was advancing on him now. Without thought, he raised his wand arm, completely forgetting about the wand in it.

"You better put that away before you poke someone’s eye out," the blonde instructed with a grin.

"Buffy!" the young man exclaimed. "Uh, remember what we’re learning about, you know, with the not so rude anymore."

She turned back to the fellow. "I’m referring to his stick, Xander." The man’s eyes widened.

"Okay then," he sputtered. "Maybe we need lessons on appropriate behavior." The blonde rolled her eyes and pounced the last few steps to yank the wand from his suddenly nerveless hand.

"No Xander, a stick," she sighed, holding it up. "As in, made of wood, non-pointy, actually fairly straight, more like a wand than a stick." Draco froze even more when he heard her use of the word wand. Were these people aware of more than what the Order had assumed. The blonde, Buffy, turned back and tossed the wand to him. "Careful where you whip that out. Obviously some people can take it the wrong way," she ended with a cheeky grin. Draco glanced down at the wand he’d caught and hastily stuffed it in his back pocket.

"Again with the rude, but who are you?" the man, Xander demanded easily.

"Uh, Draco Malfoy," he replied dazedly. Xander beamed at him and gestured him in.

"Well Drake, welcome to Estrogen Central!"
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