Disclaimer: Joss owns Buffy, Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own the shirt on my back and not much else.
Summary: Buffy isn’t the only one who can put her foot in it.
Author’s note: A bit of language, nothing serious. Also, I’m Canadian, and the only British slang etc is what I’ve picked up from HP and various British comedies (mainly red dwarf and faulty towers) so please don’t bite my head off over idiom.
It had been a long day at the Magic Box, and it looked to be getting even longer. Ever since that blasted book had come out, Giles could look forward to questions such as “You mean magic like in Harry Potter?”, “Did you go to Hogwarts? How can you be a wizard if you didn’t go to Hogwarts?” at least twice daily. This had happened no less than twelve times already on this particular day, and it was barely one in the afternoon. With that added to the fight of the night before and the lack of sleep that went with it, Giles was understandably a bit short tempered.
The door chime jingled, and Giles looked up to see a pair of teenagers dressed in.... robes. Like in the Harry Potter books. Oh, bugger, more fans. The boy, a large redhead who wore a purple jumper under robes which looked like they had been patched one too many times, turned to his companion, a slender girl with bushy brown hair, pointed to a jar of powdered lotus seeds, and whispered excitedly. She nodded, and they brought the jar up to the cash.
“Can you wrap this and put a card in?” he asked. Giles let out a breath, feeling some of the tension fade. Perhaps they wouldn’t bring it up, after all.
“Certainly. Who shall I make it out to?”
Giles saw red. This was absolutely the final straw.
“THAT’S IT!” he started shouting, more than a bit of Ripper in his angry voice. “I am sick and tired of hearing about that bloody book! Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that, a man can’t run a simple shop without hearing about Harry Bloody Potter. It wouldn’t be so bad if the books weren’t so bloody ridiculous in the first place, but *wands*? WANDS??? Every stupid bloody magical stereotype is dragged out for display. No mention of the sacrifices a mage makes for his art, not mention of the years of dedication it takes to master true power, no, just wave a wand and speak a few words. I can’t bloody take it anymore.” Giles was shouting himself hoarse, knowing that he shouldn’t take out his frustration on a pair of sixteen year olds, but too angry to care. Running out of breath, he stopped for a moment, and in that interval heard the door chime ring. He looked up, and another young man entered the store, looking worried. He was dressed in a fashion similar to the other two, but wore glasses and had a scar on his forehead which looked like a... lightning bolt. Oh, dear.
“Ron? Hermione? I heard shouting, is everything alright?”
Oh, dear, indeed.