Title: Harry Potter and the Walk-In

Rated: PG-13

Summary: Post-GoF, Post-S/7 for Buffy and after the end of Angel. After the final battle with W&H, the Fang Gang is surprised to find that Wes isn't dead. Only probably is, he's not Wes anymore. And the baggage he brings along, pulls the A.I. team into another adventure even before they've recovered from the last one.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Joss owns all things Buffy and Angel. J.K. Rowling owns all things to do with Harry Potter. I'm just borrowing the characters for my own twisted amusement. Please don't sue me.

AN: Just an idea that sprung from an episode of Unsolved Mysteries, the want for yet another HP/Buffy/Angel x-over, and the fact that every time I look at Wesley I always thought he kind of looked like Harry Potter from the movies. Of course that's just my opinion. Some people may ask why. I say why not. Anyway, I've been wanting to try my hand at writing an x-over for awhile, and this gave me the opportunity. And, for anyone who reads my other stuff, I'm still working on them too, this is just a little side something for me to work on. It can also be found over on Twisting the Hellmouth under winterd, though I did a little rearranging from that version. Not much, but a little. Oh, and the prologue is really, really long, so be prepared. So, hope you all enjoy the story. So, let's get on with it and tell me what you think.

Prologue:

New Life, Old Problems

Tonight had been hell. Anyone who was in LA's police department for more than a week knew that odd things happen in the city. It was expected. This was LA, after all. The odd sort seemed to be attracted to the City of Angels for some reason or another. Thusly, cops were taught to handle whatever situation they're in, whether it be a simple giving a traffic ticket or responding to a call about someone who is suffering sever neck trauma, with the utmost care and caution. Tonight, however, tonight would be one of those nights that went down in LA history, right up there with the Watts riots. She should have known better than to come back to LA.

Kate frowned as she walked into yet another building that had been destroyed that night. It was an older building on the far side of town, miles away from the wreckage that was once Wolfram and Hart and the street that had been obliterated due to a 'gas leak', but it had been flattened all the same. She heard one of the forensic guys say that the building looked like it had been tore apart by someone's bare hands. With the things that she knew, Kate wouldn't be surprised if that were actually true.

"Lockley."

She turned to the voice and saw Danny, her new partner, standing next to some rubble. It struck her as odd that he didn't have any dirt on him, but, then, she didn't suppose he was the type to get down on his hands and knees to dig through debris in search of survivors.

Behind him, another uniformed officer pulled tight on a blood hounds leash. Kate doubted that, if anyone had been inside, that they survived, but the dog should at least be able to track down any remains.

"Do we know what happened here?" Kate asked.

Danny shook his head. "Not yet. But I think the head dogs are going to be leaning towards another 'gas leak.'"

Kate's frown tightened a little, but she didn't comment. She knew Danny didn't buy the whole 'gas leak' anymore than she did, but Kate doubted that he knew what she did. He was young still and held out that ideal that their job was to actually find the truth of what happened. He'd learn soon enough, though.

"I take it someone must have already been found if they called us," Kate said.

"Yeah. At least, we think it used to be a 'someone'," Danny said.

He lead her to where several flood lights had been set up and a man with a camera was taking pictures. The plastic sheet that had been covering the body was pulled back, and Kate could make out the very distinct red skin of a demon.

"We think that he must have been burned pretty bad during the explosion," Danny said, kneeling next to the body. "I mean, just look at how red his skin is."

"Yeah," Kate said. "Um…where's his head?"

"We haven't found it yet," Danny said. "But look at his neck. Something must have knocked it clean off his block."

'Or pulled it off,' Kate thought. She could remember seeing Angel fight years back, and she had no doubts that, if he wanted to, he could easily decapitate someone with his bare hands.

"Any idea of who he was?" she asked.

"Not yet. We're looking into who might have been living in the building, but, so far, all we know is that it was owned by - ."

"Wolfram and Hart," Kate said.

"Yeah," Danny said, standing up. "Looks like they're having a hell of night."

"Looks like," she said.

The dog began to howl from the middle of the rubble, causing the two police officers to turn around. The handler bent over to where the dog was and pushed some of the debris aside. Another uniformed policeman got there first and helped the handler pull a large piece of wall off whatever was beneath. A body could be seen under it. As the handler and another officer held the wall up, the policeman bent down and checked the man.

"We've got a live one," he said.

The paramedic, who had been there just to collect the bodies, jumped into action then, gathering the medical supplies and running towards the officers.

Kate caught her breath when she saw who it was. She shouldn't have been surprised, but the large hole in his stomach had caught her off guard.

"You know this guy?" Danny asked.

Kate blinked and realized that he was looking at her.

"Um, yeah," she said with a small nod. "His name is Wesley. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce."

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He dreamed of girls. Hundreds and hundreds of girls. It wasn't one of those dreams that he would wake up from and pray that no one was in the room with him. No, this one was different from the average teenage boy's dreams of many women. In his dream, the girls weren't waiting to do his every bidding or the things that only a hormonal male's mind could think, they were fighting – battling – darkness and the things that dwell within it; the things nightmares were made of. They were just girls, most his age or only a little older, but they fought as if this was what they were meant to do – as if it were their destiny to fight.

He dreamed of men – warriors. Three men, wielding weapons high in the rain as they ran into a battle they knew they would never be able to win. They had something else with them, something that had once been a woman but was now something else. She had the most power of them all and was certainly not afraid to use it.

Then there was another man. He had been apart of the warriors, but had fallen before the battle had begun. He died, but he lived. It didn't make any sense, but something told him that he would understand someday. Someday soon.

"Harry?"

He opened his eyes when someone began to shake him. Ron still had his hand on Harry's shoulder and offered his friend a smile as he woke. "Sorry to wake you, mate," he said, "but we'll be at Kings Cross soon."

Harry blinked and looked out the train's window. It was getting dark outside and one could make out the city of London they were fast approaching. That was funny. He didn't remember falling asleep. He remember playing exploding snaps and speaking with Fred and George, but he must have drifted off after that.

The twins were pulling their luggage together and exchanging a grin when they took hold of their trunk. After knowing them for so long, Harry didn't even want to know what they could have in there to make them look at each other like that.

"Better get you're stuff together, Harry," Hermione said. Gently, she put the jar that contained Rita Skettler into her trunk and shut the lid. "We'll want to leave as soon as possible after what you three did to Malfoy and his goons."

"Um, right," Harry said. He got up and gathered his stuff like the others, his mind drifting only briefly back to the men and women he had dreamed of, but he shook his head. It had to have been brought on by eating too many chocolate frogs.

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There were memories from that night that he would never get back, and he wasn't very sure if he wanted them anyway. His last clear memory had been standing at the end of the alley with Spike, Gunn, and Illyria, waiting for the demon horde to come at them and claiming the dragon for himself; everything kind of blurred after that. He just remembered bits and pieces; swinging his sword, blood – his or his opponent he didn't know – and heat from a fire. After that, well, he had no idea.

The next clear memory he had was the overpowering smell of closed up must. That was funny. That hundred some odd years he had spent in hell, he never remembered it smelling musty. Burning flesh, yes. Brimstone, most definitely. Old wet sock that had been soaking in used kitty litter, yeah, he even remembered that. But hell smelling like someone's grandmother's house? No, he didn't remember that. Besides shouldn't he be in agony right now instead of in…an extraordinary amount of pain. Okay, maybe this was hell.

"Oh, stop your wimperin'," he heard a distinct and annoying British voice say. "S'not like you haven't been through worse."

Angel forced his eyes opened and found himself staring up at a grandly decorated and familiar ceiling.

The Hyperion? How'd they get here?

With some effort, Angel was able to sit up. Spike was sitting at the round couch they had set up over the pentagram they had used to open a portal and bring Connor back. Two young girls were sitting next to him, one dressing the other's wounds while she watched Spike with a cynical eye. He was ignoring them both and staring at Angel. He nodded his head telling Angel he was right about who he thought they were, slayers.

A few more of the girls walked through the lobby, carrying one of their comrades. They were followed by a familiar looking dark-haired woman dressed in red and who wore long gloves up her arms. They went to his old office where another older Asian-looking woman with tattoos on her cheek held opened the door for them. She caught Angel's eyes for a moment, nodded hello, then shut the door.

Beside the counter stood a group of men, most of which were street kids who looked like they had just been in an all out gang war. The two that stood out, though, was a young man in his twenties wearing a business suit – Angel easily recognized him as Andrew, which explained the slayers. The other was older and someone that Angel hadn't seen before his sea voyage. Even with his head bandaged, Angel recognized the Groosolage.

"What's going on?" Angel asked, slipping his legs off the edge of the couch. God, his head hurt.

"Well, as brilliant as your 'four against an entire army' plan was, Liberache thought we could do with some backup," Spike said.

"Lorne?"

"Right here, Angel Cakes."

Angel looked towards the large stair case and saw the missing member of the A.I. team descending to the lobby. On one side of him was Illyria. Unlike most rest of the group, she had a single scratch on her cheek, the only proof that she had been in any sort of fight. Considering the fighting that she did, it would have been impressive to anyone who didn't know her. To those who did, it came as no surprise.

On the other side of were Connor and Anne. The two had been speaking until they realized that Angel was now awake. Angel frowned. He remembered telling Connor to leave, but, judging by his bandages and the small limp he was walking with, he hadn't listened to him. Somehow, Angel hadn't thought that he would.

In Anne's arms was an infant only a few weeks old. He was small and easily hid in the blankets she had wrapped around him, with only his bald head exposed. Angel knew who the child was and was curious as to why he was here. He turned to Spike, who looked at him as if he were stupid.

"Didn't think I was going to return the sprout to his mother, did you?" He snorted. "Bloody woman sold him to be a sacrifice. Not exactly mother-of-the-year material there."

"You live," Illyria said, stopping with Anne next to where Spike and the slayer sat while Lorne and Connor continued their path to Angel. "I am glad of this." She tilted her head to the side. "Though I do not know why."

"Are you okay?" Connor asked, sitting down next to him.

"I'm fine," Angel said, still trying to take in all the people who were in his hotel. "But where'd all these people come from?"

"California mostly," Lorne said. He glanced over at Andrew and Groo as they approached, followed by Gwen and Jhiera, who had left the slayers in his former office. "Though, I did have to go out of town to get some of the others."

"Hello, Angel," Groo said, bowing. "It is good to see you have started to recover from your injuries."

"Angelus," Andrew said, using his 'I'm cool, let me prove it to you with the tone of my voice' tone. "You have awake, I see."

"Wouldn't be talkin' to him if he weren't, you git," Spike said.

"Yes, true," Andrew said, not changing his tone to save face from Spike calling him on his stupidity. "I'm sure Buffy will be pleased when I inform her that I arrived in time to help save you and the others."

"I wouldn't call standing on the sidelines, calling to your slayers to 'Remember Sunnydale' helping, tweed boy," Gwen said, crossing her gloved arms.

"Indeed," Illyria said, her cold gaze resting hard on Andrew. He squeaked and took a step back to hide from her on the other side of Groo.

"But what are you all doing here?" Angel asked.

"Big Green here got us," Gwen said, stretching her arms over head and pulling them to the side.

"He said you were in need of assistance," Jhiera said. "We agreed to help."

Angel blinked and looked to Lorne. He smiled and waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "Yeah, that was why I was a little late for the party, but it took longer than I thought to find some of these lovely people."

"You came to help me?" Angel asked. "Why? It wasn't any of your fight."

Jhiera adjusted her coat and tossed some of her now long, jet black hair over her shoulder. Even though he had not seen her in five years, she still looked the same as she had before; still young, still beautiful, and – if she is still standing – still just as deadly. Angel wondered how Lorne had been able to find her and made a note to ask him later when the others were gone.

"I owed you a debt," Jhiera said. "I have repaid it this day."

"Yeah," Gwen said, regarding Jhiera with an equal amount of curiosity and contempt before turning back to Angel. "Speaking of debt, you now owe me fifty-g's."

"Yo, she's getting' paid," one of the street kids said. Angel had never seen him or any of the others with him before, though there was something familiar about them. "That ain't right, man."

Spike had pulled out his cigarettes and was about to light one when he must have seen the confused look on Angel's face. "They're part of Matlock's old crew."

Matlock? Gunn. "Where's Gunn?" Angel asked, looking around the room as if he would appear. "Is he okay? Did he make it?"

"Relax, Dumpling, he made it though with the rest of us. We just had to take him along with some of the slayers and Sushi's girls to hospital is all," Lorne said.

Jhiera glared at Lorne's nickname for her, but didn't say anything.

Angel nodded his head and let out a sigh of relief. At least he hadn't lost another member of his men. "How did we do on casualties?"

"It wasn't as bad as it could have been," Connor said. "The news is already claiming that the destruction was caused by a gas leak that occurred after the earthquake."

Shaking his head, Andrew said with faux sadness, "Victims of Sunnydale Syndrome."

Spike snorted. "Yeah, when are people goin' learn that, sometimes, a gas leak is just an evil demon army tryin' to enact revenge on a group of white hats for taking out their evil henchmen."

"Well," a new voice said. "That's unexpected in an expected sort of way."

Turning rather painfully in his seat, Angel blinked when he saw the blonde-haired woman standing in the hotel's doorway. Much like Jhiera, Kate hadn't changed much over the years. In fact, he would swear she had the same frown on her face when he last saw her.

What was this, anyway? Angel, This Is Your Life day? All that was left now was for Drusilla and Buffy to come bouncing down the stairs, arm-in-arm, congratulating each other on the marvelous kill they each performed in battle last night. Of course, if that did happen, it would either mean that he actually did die last night, along with everyone else in the world, or the apocalypse to end apocalypses was about to happen.

The others who had never meet Kate bristled at her presence, but the only one she seemed concerned about was Illyria. The demon god tilted her head to an unnatural angle as she considered the lady cop, as if she were trying to decide if Kate were some sort of threat to the others that needed to be taken care of. When Kate's hand started to drift towards her gun, Angel decided it would be best if he stepped in before things got out of hand.

"Kate," he said, standing. He winced as a sharp pain shot up his side, but did his best to ignore it. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," she said, her eyes cutting back and forth between Angel and Illyria. "We found your friend last night in one of the destroyed building's downtown. Thought you might want to tell me what really happened since I know it wasn't another 'gas leak'."

"You speak of Wesley," Illyria said, her tone as even. Kate held her breath and nodded her head slowly. For a moment, Angel wondered if Illyria would try and harm her for speaking about Wesley. Instead, the demon god simply said, "He was mortally wounded in battle with a demon wizard. I avenged his death by taking the demon wizard's life."

"What are you talking about?" Kate asked, tilting her head to the side. "Wesley's alive."

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The place smelled like a strange combination of a Buddhist temple and a candy shop. Buffy supposed that the sent would normally make a person more relaxed and comfortable, but the fact that she knew that this place was a principal's office – or the magical equivalent to one – put her on edge. See, most people believed that the natural enemy to a slayer was the vampire; she was born to fight them after all. Most people would be wrong. The natural enemy to the slayer was not some undead that stalked the night, or even a demon bent on world destruction. No, the slayer's worst enemy was something far more human than that. Her mortal enemy was the high school principal, and no matter how much this guy reminded her of a kindhearted Santa Claus, she had to remember that.

Buffy shifted uncomfortably in her chair, sucking on the lemon drop that the old wizard had offered her. Giles sat next to her, fidgeting in his seat and trying not to look in the direction of the guy with the wacky eye as he and Bubblebee – Dundledee – whatever talked about nothing in particular.

They were waiting for others to come and, though the office was quit large, Buffy couldn't help but wonder how they expected to fit everyone in here. So far, not counting herself, Giles, Wacky Eye, and Mr. I Wannabe Merlin behind the desk, there were at least ten other people pilled into the office. A wicked-looking witch, who reminded Buffy of her mother whenever she was in that I've-Made-My-Decision-And-That's-Final-Young-Lady mode when she was teenager, stood near the desk with her arms crossed, frowning at the two Council members. There was also a greasy looking man dressed in black by the fireplace. Three very redheaded men and a woman were spread about the room, but trying to stand as close together as they could. There was a Samuel L. Jackson impersonator by the windows, and a young woman with baby-blue shoulder length hair next to him. She wasn't much older than Buffy, and was looking from wizard to wizard with a noticeable amount of awe. And the last two people, a witch dressed in green – God, didn't these people ever read fashion magazines? – robes whispered to an older man who was stroking his beard as opened stared at Buffy. Unable to resist, Buffy sneered nastily at the wizard, then slouched down as far as she could in her seat with her arms crossed.

This was stupid. She shouldn't be here. She should have been in LA with Andrew, helping Angel fight Wolfram and Hart. She always knew, deep down, that Angel hadn't turned against them, and that's where she should have gone. Andrew had even asked if she wanted to go, but Giles had talked her out of it. He just had to remind her that she didn't fight in battles anymore, at least not in the way she used to. Now, now she was a leader who fought battles in the off-hands kind of sense. Well, that was she always wanted, wasn't it? Yeah.

So, instead of being in the thick of things, she was here, talking with Beard Boy about the Council's possible involvement in some old wizards war that was threatening to start up again after being on the back burners for the past fifteen years. God, could these guys hold a grudge or what? How sad was it really that – unless it was concerning Angel's doings in LA – that this was the most exciting thing she had heard in the year since she 'officially' retired?

Stupid retirement.

Okay, so retirement hadn't been everything she thought it would be. It was boring and tedious, and, more than once, she had gone on patrol even though she didn't have too; it was still more exciting than sitting here listening to Giles and Mummblemore here discuss the finer points of why physical training in martial arts can be just as important as – God, she couldn't believe she was hearing this – dueling with wands. For a brief second, she had to press her lips together to keep from laughing. Somehow, she didn't that anyone here – besides maybe the younger redheads and blue girl – would find the humor that she saw in dueling wands.

"Is everything alright, Ms. Summers?" the old man asked, his blue eyes twinkling. "Perhaps Rupert or myself said something that you find amusing."

Buffy blushed and cleared her thought, hoping that she was wrong and that this guy couldn't read minds. "No, sir. Just, er…something caught in my throat."

She would have sworn that Greasy Guy was sneering at her even more than he had been before. God, did she ever hope that wizards weren't able to read minds because the thought of both Dumbbell and Hook Nose knowing what she just thought…eww.

The door to the office opened, rescuing Buffy from another line of unpleasant thoughts. "Sorry we're late," a man said, entering the office with an overly large dog trotting behind him.

"Remus, dear boy," Dumbledore – that's it! – said. "So glad that you could make it."

"You weren't followed, were you?" Wild Eye asked, his magical eye zooming from one side to the other looking past Remus and his pet.

"No, but you should have warned us about how long your path would take, Mad-Eye," Remus said.

Mad-Eye, that name was fitting, grumbled under his breath as the new guy and his dog – was it staring at her legs? – approached her and Giles. Getting to his feet, Giles adjusted his jacket and extended his hand. "Rupert Giles. And this is Buffy Summers."

"Pleasure," he said, shaking Giles and nodding at Buffy. "Remus Lupin."

Buffy tilted her head to the side. There was something off about this Lupin guy, she just didn't know what. He was making her spidey senses tingle, but not in the way that a vampire or a demon would. Still, there was something about him…

"You're a werewolf, aren't you?" she said.

Remus paled considerably, which was quit a feat considering that he was almost completely pasty white anyway. Some of the others in the room bristled, as if she had said the exact wrong thing and had insulted there friend terribly. Even his dog - who had been staring at her legs - she knew he had, began to growl at her. The only who hadn't been insulted – besides Dumbledore – was the Grease Ball, and he was smiling like a child on Christmas morning. It was a frightening sight.

Beside her, Giles sighed and pinched his nose. Okay, so it must have really been the wrong thing to say.

"Hey, look, I have no problem with it if you don't," she said, holding up her hands. "It was just you were making my spidey senses go nuts, and your obviously not a vampire or demon, so it was either a werewolf or a half-demon. I thought the werewolf would be less insulting thing to ask."

"You can sense that I'm a werewolf?" Remus asked.

"Well…yeah. It's kind of part of the slayer package."

If everyone hadn't been staring at her before, they were doing so now. Buffy shifted uncomfortably on her feet, and looked over to Giles. He was just as perplexed by their reaction as she.

"She's the slayer?" someone asked, though Buffy didn't know who.

"Um…yeah, one of them," Buffy said before turning around to Dumbledore. "Didn't you tell them before who we are?"

"Oh, did I forget to mention to you that Ms. Summers is the slayer from Sunnydale?" he asked innocently. The wizards became even more slack-jawed than before – even the dog – and were somehow managing to stare at Buffy and Dumbledore at the same time. "How forgetful of me," Dumbledore said. "Lemon drop anyone?"

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He remembered green.

No, red.

No, no, it was definitely green. Bright. So bright. It was blinding.

Oh, God, Lily run. He's coming. Run. Get Harry and run. He's going to kill us.

Kill. Kill him. He killed Fred.

Fred? Who was Fred?

Love Fred.

No! Love Lily. Love Harry. Love my wife and child.

Wife and child. Run! He's coming!

He's here!

He has red skin.

No, he's human. Voldemort. He's a monster.

They're both monsters. Both want to kill me. Kill us.

He's choking me.

He's standing at the door. His wand is pointed at me. Going to die. Must protect Lily and Harry. All cost.

All cost. Have to destroy him at all cost. Angel's counting on me.

Angel? She looks like an angel. My angel.

Have to protect her.

Protect Harry.

Protect the world.

God, he has a knife. Where'd he get that?

Throw a curse. Get out of the way.

Oh, God…pain.

Move! Move! He's going to kill you!

Dying. Look like her. Want to see her.

Want to see her again. Want to see her smile. Want to see Harry grow up. Got to give them a chance. What I want does matter. They do.

Green. Green coming at me.

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Nancy Lynn walked through the I.C.U., her green scrubs a stark contrast to the sterilized white of the room. There were several rows of bed, all of which were full with patients of varying degrees of critical health. The patients who had just gotten out of heart surgery were there. The girl who had been injured in a deadly car accident. There was even a man here who had survived a cougar attack a few days ago. Her job was to check on them every so often and make sure that their vital signs were good. She was also in charge of taking blood samples, but only in the morning.

She was checking on Mr. Springler when one of the heart monitors started beeping rapidly. It was coming from their newest patient, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce. He had been stabbed and was in one of the building that collapsed. When he came in, he was barely clinging to life, but now the doctors were sure that he would recover. If he'd wake up, that is.

Nancy Lynn had barely reached his bed when Mr. Wyndham-Pryce's eyes flew opened. He gasped and thrashed in his bed, fighting off some imaginary force that his mind had convinced him was a threat. That happened every so often, especially when the patient had suffered a great trauma before he was brought in.

"Where am I?" he asked, his voice cracking from not having drunk anything for awhile. He tried to clear it and rubbed against it as he did so.

"It's alright, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce. You're safe now," Nancy Lynn said in her soothing, bedside manner. "Can you remember what happened?"

He blinked his eyes several times and squinted at her. She knew that his chart had said he was nearsighted, but she had realized he was that bad.

"What?"

"What happened last night," she said. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I…" His face tightened as if he were trying to remember something, but couldn't quit make it out. Apparently giving up on the task, he shook his head and asked, "Where am I? And who's Mr. Wyndham-Pryce?"

Nancy Lynn frowned. This was not a good sign. "You're at Sisters of Mercy Hospital," she said. "And you're Mr. Wyndham-Pryce."

He tilted his head to the side and looked at her as if she had jus told him that the Tooth Fairy was real and had invited him to have tea with her and the Easter Bunny. "Are you daft?" he asked. "I'm not Mr. Wyndham-Pryce. And where in the sodding hell is the Sisters of Mercy Hospital? And where's Lily?"

Blinking, Nanny Lynn said, "Of course you're Mr. Wyndham-Pryce. That's what your ID says. And we've had someone confirm that identity, and she's a police office."

"Well, this poe-lees officer is mistaken," he said, sounding rather aggravated. "Find my wife, Lily. She'll tell you who I am. Or Sirius or Remus will. Where are they, anyway?"

"If you're not Mr. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, than who are you?" Nancy Lynn asked.

Groaning, he placed his hands on either side of his head, as if she were causing him to have a headache. "By Merlin, woman. My name is James. James Potter."

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The seventh floor of the North Tower was generally not a place that people ventured to unless they had business; class, question, teacher meeting. There was always a reason for traveling to the tower, but never for pleasantries. For the first few years, Dumbledore had made effort to come visit the divination teacher, but not so much now. Not that she was surprised by that. She had long ago seen in the stars that he would stop those causal visits eventually. Of course, when she told him as much at the Christmas Feast a few years ago, McGonagall – the nasty woman – didn't have say it was because he was just to old to climb that many steps and the latter. It was written in the stars, she had seen it and that should have been all there was to it.

Trelawney sipped her tea, staring into the crackling fire. True, it made the already hot room nearly unbearable in the summers, but she had found that the heat helped opened up her inner eye to supernatural realm. The sweet, heavy scents helped as well, but that was mainly to make the kids and herself relax. She often found that the students here were far too tense. It was probably why so many of them had such bleak, dark futures. Stress just invites darkness into one's life.

When she drank the last of her tea, Trelawney looked down to see what the tea leaves would tell her. She frowned at what she saw. That couldn't be right.

Placing the cup down, she picked up another clean one, poured herself some more tea, and quickly drank that. When that tea was gone, she looked to its leaves. They, too, said the same as the last cup.

Well, that was certainly unexpected. She wondered briefly if she should say something to Dumbledore, then thought better. The leaves said nothing about telling the Headmaster, and he would find out soon enough as is. No, best let fate play this out as she wished.

In the meantime, she would consult her crystal ball about Professor Snape's future. The last time she had seen him, she had seen a very dark times ahead. Strangely enough, his love life looked like it was about to pick up. Though, she foresaw that the girl would be dead before anything could be made of it, the poor dear. Still better than spending a life with Snape, the awful man.

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It was always so cold, even on the hot days. Winter, spring, summer, fall, they were all the same here. Always bleak. Always cold. Always with the breath of death and of insanity lingering in the air. But it had to be cold. Cold as sin. This was where sin lived.

This was hell.

Did she deserve to be here? – 'NO, FATHER! NO! LEAVE US ALONE!' – She couldn't see how. She was only doing – 'RUN, CISSA! RUN ANDROMEDA! HIDE IN OUR SECRET PLACE!' – what any witch or wizard in their right mind would do. These muggles, they kill themselves all the time. They were weak minded and – 'MERLIN OR GOD OR WHOEVER IS LISTENING, DON'T LET HIM FIND US.' – dangerous. No better than cattle. Not fit to rule over anything or one. They only know how to kill each other. – 'I'LL KILL ALL THREE OF YOU IF YOU DON'T GET OUT HERE NOW!' – The mudbloods come from them. They're just as weak. Just as dangerous.

'QUIET, QUIET. IT'LL BE OKAY.'

They had to be stopped. Why couldn't the Ministry see that? Why couldn't that fool Dumbledore – 'DON'T MAKE A SOUND. DON'T BREATHE.' – see that? They're locus, a plague on the world, devouring everything in their path. They don't know how to give. Just take. Everything. There's no peace – 'STOP IT! STOP IT!' – while they were still among them. There couldn't be. Not while they were still being give such great power – 'ONE DAY I'LL HAVE MORE POWER.' – so easily. Power they'll never use for anything worth wild in the long run but to destroy one another and to pull the wizarding world down with them in the process. They kill them all one day.

'I'LL HAVE MORE POWER AND I SWEAR BY MERLIN THAT I'LL KILL YOU.'

Her Master has the right idea. Keep them out. Keep the lines pure. At least then when they kill off each other completely – 'DON'T YOU LAUGH! I WILL! I SWEAR IT!' – their world would be spared from the savages destruction. They had to protect their world.

Was it their fault that muggles and mudbloods could only understand brutality? That violence was the only way they could clearly see that their sort should not be mixed among their betters? She didn't think so. So, no, she didn't belong here.

Her arm had begun to burn again over the last…month? Year? Second? Her Master was back – 'HELLO, FATHER. IT'S BEEN TO LONG.' – just as she knew he would return. His mission was to important not to be carried out. He must succeed if they were to survive.

"The strong survive," Bellatrix said with a cracked voice.

'AVADA KEDAVRA!'

Her empty, shrilled laugh echoed off the stone cell walls.

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James shifted irritably in his bed, wishing for the millionth time since he woke up that he was in St. Mungo's instead of this muggle hospital. Oh, he knew it had to be a muggle hospital because no magical hospital would treat their patients as pin cushions like these people were determined to do. He had been poked, prodded, and scanned so many times that it was a wondered that he was still alive. Didn't Poppy always say that muggle medicine was next to archaic and far more dangerous than the aliments of the patient? After spending just three days here, James believed it.

Though, he would admit that these muggles devices were far more advanced than he previously thought they were. When Lily had talked him into going to that muggle peditishon or whatever she called that baby doctor, the devices they had used on her to see if Harry were alright were no where near as advanced as the things they used on him. They must have made tremendous strides in last couple of years.

But the muggle medicine wasn't what was really bothering him. What bothered him was the fact that no one would tell him anything and were treating him as if he were mad. It was just so aggravating. No one believed him when he said he was James Potter, they kept insisting that he was this Wyndham-Pryce bloke, and no one would tell him where Lily or Harry where.

He had at least gotten out of them why he was there, though, he highly doubted what they said. Stabbed and being in a building that exploded? That couldn't be right. The last thing he remembered was…

Damn, he had a second ago. He remembered that he had to protect Lily and Harry, but why? What was so dire? If he could only just remember.

"Good evening, Wesley," a chipper woman's voice said.

James looked up and did his best impression of Snivellous trademarked scold he had used against the Marauders since first year, but it fell flat when he saw that it was Sarah and not that awful Nurse Hennessey – or, as James liked to refer her to as, Voldemort in a dress.

Voldemort. Something to do with Voldemort. That's why he and Lily and Harry had to hide. Wasn't it?

Sarah walked around his bed and pulled up a chair, which screeched horribly as she did so. Sarah was a nice enough. She was a little older than James, probably somewhere in her early thirties, though she dressed like the muggle Queen Mum. Her reddish brown hair – no where near the vibrant fire color of Lily's hair – was often pulled back into a loose ponytail and her oversize glasses gave her an owlish look. It reminded him of the time Harry had gotten his glasses and tried them on. Merlin, that seemed long ago.

"How are you feeling, Wes?" she asked, pulling out her pen to write on the clipboard she carried.

Did he forget to mention that Sarah was also one of those doctors that muggles went to when they went crazy? A psychiatrist, he believed they called them. And one who had worked with this Wesley fellow to boot at something they called the Watcher's Council, whatever that was. Another Watcher – Lord, these muggles were strange – had heard that poor Wesley had lost his mind and asked her to come try and get his memories back. So far, she had determined that he was having what she called a 'disassociate disorder' brought on by the stress of a near death experience. She didn't seem to understand he was James Potter, and, if she would just get him a wand, he would prove it to her. No luck there, yet, though.

In her attempt to prove to him that he was this Wesley bloke, she had made him look in the mirror so he could see that he wasn't James Potter. James admitted, when he saw the stranger's reflection staring back at him, it was alarming and confusing because he knew who he was, but not the face staring back at him.

He then remembered the time Sirius had 'accidentally' cast that spell on Remus so he looked like himself as a female for a week. Sirius had been aiming for Snivellus, but Remus had gotten in the way. Poppy was thrown for a real loop that time. What made it worse was the fact that Sirius couldn't understand why Remus was so mad for having to pretend to be Renee Lunar - a student visitor according to Dumbledore. After all, the male student body, who didn't know who Renee really was, had concluded that she was hot and done all they could to catch her eye. Plus, Sirius pointed out, he could look at himself naked anytime he wished. Still, Remus never saw the humor or the advantage of being a girl.

But, back to the point at hand, James knew that there were spells out there to make one look like someone else, even for a long amount to time. And with the spell that he and Lily had used to hide, he wouldn't be the least bit surprised if alteration in appearance was a common side effect. That was also probably the reason why they couldn't find Lily. She just looked like someone else right now, but she was fine. She just had to be. And when he got out of there, he would find her, and they would go to Dumbledore and get him to lift the spell so he could look like his old self and all would be normal again. Yes, that's what he'll do.

"My name is James," he said. He might like Sarah well enough, but he wasn't about to let her call him by someone's name.

Sarah's smile wavered a bit. "I'm sorry – James. But how are you feeling?"

"As well as could be expected being stuck in this bloody muggle hospital," he said.

He had quickly found that, unlike most the rest of the staff, Sarah was not ignorant to the magical side of the world. In fact, she seemed quit versed in. She still didn't believe him, but at least he was able to speak freely around her.

"You know as well as I do that there aren't any suitable magical hospitals around here," she said. "And they wouldn't admit you anyway, being muggle and all."

"I'm not a muggle!" James said. "I'm -."

"James Potter, I know," Sarah said. "But, really, Wes, how can you be James Potter? You know he's dead."

"I am not. I'm right here," he said. "If you would just find my friends, they'll tell you and we can get this whole thing sorted out."

Sarah drew in a deep breath and smiled at James. "Capital idea," she said, putting the clipboard on the bed and heading towards the door.

"You found my friends?" James asked. "You found Lily?"

Sarah shook his head. "We didn't find her, but I do have your friends here. They would like to see you, too, if that's alright."

James nodded his head. Thank Merlin she had found Remus and Sirius and Peter – no, not the rat! Keep him away. James shook his head, freeing himself from the thought. Why wouldn't he want to see Peter? He was his friend as much as Remus and Sirius were. Wasn't he?

Shrugging the thought off, James pushed himself up as much as he could in the bed. At least with the others here, they could finally start to get to the bottom of things.

However, when Sarah opened the door, two men that James had never seen before walked in. One was large and had his hair gelled back. He was much larger than the other fellow, who wore a long black duster and had shockingly blond hair. James bristled at the sight of him. He wasn't a Malfoy, he could tell since his hair had to have been altered, but he still looked enough like one to put James on edge.

"Who are you?" James asked, looking from one to the other. There was something off about them. Something…dark.

The men exchanged a look, then the taller one said, "Wes, it's us. Your friends."

"Well, he's your friend," the blond one said. "I'm not."

James blinked. A fellow English man. Maybe he was wrong about the 'not a Malfoy' thing.

"That is not Wesley Wyndham-Pryce," a new voice said.

James peered around the two men and saw a woman standing there. She was holding a vase full of flowers that had several balloons attached to it. If she smiled, the brown-haired woman would have appeared friendly. However, the frown that she directed his way made James reflectively reach for his wand, even though it wasn't there.

She charged forward, shoved the vase and flowers into the big ones arms, and glared at the James. "You are not Wesley," she said. "Who are you?"

"Blue," the blond one said. "That's Wes. Just look at him."

"You dare trust those pathetic half-breed senses over my judgment?" she asked him coldly. The challenging words caused everyone in the room to move away from her. "That is not Wesley. He is an imposter." She tilted her head to the side and James would have sworn that her hair and face flashed blue. "We must kill the imposter."

She began to take a step towards James, but the larger man placed his hand on her shoulder. "How about we find out who he is first," he said.

"How about you talk like I'm bloody well here," James said.

The dark haired man at least had the decency to look embarrassed, but the woman continued to stare at James as if he were something stuck on her shoe that she needed to be rid of. From beside the door, Sarah was watching the exchange with a great deal of curiosity. And the blond shrugged as he flopped down into one of the seats the hospital provided.

"Well, if he ain't – eh, sorry, mate. If you're not Watcher Boy, than who are you?"

James groaned and pressed his palms into his eyes. Here they go again.

Merlin, help him.

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