History Repeats Itself

History Repeats Itself

By Asha Dreamweaver

Chapter 1: The stage is set

A lone figure casually leaned against the wall of an ornate tomb, impatiently scanned the old graveyard with all his senses on full alert. Black clothes helped him to blend into the shadows, until he was as much a part of the darkness as the unseen spirits that haunted the area. He glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time, trying to curb his annoyance at his friend. It really wasn't in his nature to lose his temper with his friends but in cases like these, he found it very hard not too. He cursed both himself and Wesley for agreeing to this little meeting. Why couldn't they just have met at the Bronze? He could almost swear that the elder man had never heard of the old adage 'safety in numbers', which was predominantly true in this place.

Wes was already late and was coming alone, not a very smart thing for a mortal to do in this particular town, no matter how much experience they had dealing with the things that went bump in the night. No, it was better by far to stay at home, cheerfully oblivious to the darkness that infected every square inch of land in, around and near Sunnydale. He tensed imperceptively as his sharp hearing caught the sound of footfalls - from two people. He reached for the stake in his jacket and pulled it out, craving the safety that the sharp stick of wood brought to his kind. He hoped that they weren't vampires; he really didn't want his watcher to have a run in with a nasty little bloodsucker. The guy had grown on him; it would be a pity for him to end up as one more statistic towards Sunnydale's extremely high mortality rate. Not forgetting the fact that if Wes was harmed, the offending demon would have hell to pay.

There was a loud thud, followed by some extremely colourful cursing and a feminine giggle. Harry relaxed and pocketed the stake.

"You have all the grace of a bull in a china shop Wes," he teased the older man, voice warm with amusement. His watcher picked himself up the ground, reluctantly accepting a helping hand from his companion.

"Not all of us have supernatural abilities, you know," he retorted but the red tint to his face gave away his abject embarrassment.

"True, but not all of us can wake the dead. Literally." Buffy chimed in, years of teasing Wesley providing her with a wide array of witty comebacks.

"So Harry, you're still in one piece. That's usually a good sign. Since you're leaving soon, I thought I'd come with Wes to see you off."

A genuine smile softened the stern look on his face, "I appreciate it B. Did you bring the books?"

"Yes, they're in the bag with a shrinking charm placed on them." Wesley said as he handed the bag to Harry. "You'd best be careful. I doubt your teachers would be happy with your choice of reading material."

"Definitely not. Plus Hermione would throw a fit, most likely after reading them all of course."

"This is not funny Harry. If your identity as the slayer is revealed, it could put you and those around you in great danger."

"'Fraid I got to back him up on this one Harry. Talking from experience, there will be a hell of a lot of things you won't be able to explain because they won't understand."

"I wasn't planning on advertising it in the Daily Prophet. Like I need people to find out how 'different' I really am."

"Yeah, that's a bummer. It sucks when they run in the other direction," Buffy agreed.

Wesley drew himself up to his full height and tried to look imposing to the two slayers. Keyword; tried. "Now Harry, I hope I don't have to remind you of your responsibilities, your duty. If you have any problems you are to send word to me immediately and whatever you do don't let Voldemort find out! If the wizarding world found out about the Watchers' Council, it would be an unqualified disaster. I hope you have fun at Hogwarts and for God's sake, try not to get yourself killed!"

The younger slayer's lips quirked upwards in a smile at the lecturing, "Will do. Good luck to both of you. You know where to find me if you need any help with the current Big Bad."

"Goodbye Harry!" they chorused.

He touched the portkey around his neck and said, "Diagon Alley."

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People stared at him as he made his way through Diagon Alley and for once not because of his scar and not because of the late hour. He'd changed in appearance over the summer and he was betting that even Ron and Hermione wouldn't be able to recognise him at first. He had shot up in height, going from being the shortest boy in his year to five foot eight and growing. Unfortunately, he was most likely still shorter than Ron but at least it was a respectable height for a sixteen year old. He had gotten more muscular, though it didn't show like the guys in Sylvester Stallone movies. It tended to come with the whole slayer package. Speaking of being the slayer, thanks to him being called his eyesight had improved overnight and he no longer needed his glasses.

It had been a huge shock for the Watchers' Council when they found out Harry Potter had been called as the next Vampire Slayer. His name meant nothing to them; no it was the fact that he was a boy that shocked them. It seemed that he had a talent for doing things that were considered impossible. He was the first boy to be chosen. Ever. The watchers were still trying to figure out how it had come about. He was the first and only boy to be called as the Vampire Slayer. He chuckled darkly; he just had to be the first to do everything, didn't he?

He didn't really like the Watchers, they reminded him too much of Cornelius Fudge and the Ministry, especially that prat Quentin Travers. He respected his own watcher, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce because he didn't follow the rules and he respected Buffy's watcher, Rupert Giles for the same reason. Also, Giles in 'Ripper' mode was damn scary. The man had some serious backbone. As for the rest, he considered them pompous idiots.

He entered the Leaky Cauldron and gave a nod of greeting to Tom, the innkeeper, before heading to his room. He changed out of his clothes, which were now nearly all black - a side effect of having to stick to the shadows and skulk around in dark crypts and graveyards - and got ready for bed. Tomorrow the Hogwarts Express was leaving and he had to get to Kings Cross Station in time to catch it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After a solitary breakfast, he shrank his trunk and stuffed it in his pocket. He paid his bill and stepped into the back area that housed the entrance to Diagon Alley. He cast a subtle notice-me-not spell that would make people think of him as inconsequential and a disguising charm to mask his features and his famous scar. Tapping the bricks in quick succession, he watched the wall melt away and rearrange itself into an archway that he stepped through.

The wizarding shopping area was as busy as usual; somewhat surprising considering it was nine o'clock in the morning. Passing the bright, well-populated stores that wouldn't have failed to hold his attention last year; he headed for Knockturn Alley, which in most peoples' opinions was Dark Magic central. Even the Quidditch store didn't slow him down.

Knockturn Alley's reputation didn't bother him as much as it had before when he still saw things in black and white and completely ignored the grey areas in between. The grey area, which he now inhabited. He purposefully entered Borgin and Burkes, bell clanging as he pushed open the door. The oily Mr Borgin slowly approached him eagerly,

"Good day sir! Looking for anything special? We have just received some fine items..." He stopped, trailing off as Harry glared at him, clearly conveying that he didn't want to be bothered. The stooping shopkeeper abandoned his sickening charm and scurried behind the counter.

Harry delved into the book stacks, grimacing at the thick layers of dust. As if he didn't have to put up with enough of the stuff in crypts... He searched for a good fifteen minutes, ending up with a stack of Dark Arts books to suit his needs. He brandished his wand and levitated the rather substantial stack over to the counter. Mr Borgin started adding up the total cost, not blinking an eye at some of the titles, well used to the type of things his clientele bought on a regular basis. Harry lazily examined his watch. Good, there was still plenty of time to get to the train station.

He indifferently glanced around the cluttered shop and a flash of metal caught his eye. Wandering over to the source of the gleam, he found that it was a pair of intricately crafted silver blades. The hilts were in the form of serpents and they were inlayed with emeralds that represented the eyes of the snakes - the exact same shade as his own. He picked one up and studied it. It was a surprisingly perfect grip, as if it was made for him to hold. He couldn't explain his fascination with the weapons; they just seemed to call out to him. Slowly, as if underwater the snake moved, a silver tongue tasting the air and it seemed to hiss at Harry.

"Massster..." He nearly dropped it in surprise and only his newfound skill in hiding his emotions ensured that he retained his composure.

A shuffling sound to his left alerted him to danger and before he could register it, he had spun around, serpent blade raised and poised to strike. Mr Borgin stumbled backwards,

"I didn't mean to startle you good sir. I must congratulate you on a fine choice of weapon. Will you be taking those as well?" Harry's eyes remained locked on the blade; he swore it had to be magical.

"Yes, I will be." His free hand reached across and removed the matching knife from its stand. Something like an electrical shock skittered up his spine as he held them. He put them into the spare holsters strapped to his wrists.

"How much?"

"That will be 150 Galleons." Harry handed over the money and shrunk the books, placing them into his pocket.

He paused at the exit to the shop, "Tell anyone that I was here Mr Borgin and I shall come back to rip you limb from limb. Is that understood?" The man's face paled,

"O-of c-c-course. I n-never s-s-saw y-you," he stuttered.

"Good."

Harry stepped back out into the dingy alley and immediately disapparated.

Reappearing in the men's toilets at Kings Cross, he checked himself over one more time before realising that he would have to remove the disguising spells on himself. Carefully scouting the area to see if there would be any witnesses to his little display. When he was satisfied that there was no people and no security cameras in sight he removed the spells. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror and mentally compared the Harry Potter that had left Hogwarts last term with the Harry Potter now returning for his sixth year. Groaning, he realised that he was going to be pestered with questions until people got used to the changes in him, which would probably take a long time considering that it wasn't only his looks that had done an about turn, his personality had radically transformed as well. Some would say for the better and some would say for the worse but it was here to stay. The slayer couldn't afford to be naive and trusting if they wanted to live, which he did. Very much so.

He left the bathrooms, walking at a steady pace so as not to attract undue attention. He was a half an hour early for the train so that he hopefully wouldn't run into any other Hogwarts students. Harry really didn't want to have to deal with the inevitable questions and stares. He'd had enough of that over the summer. Vanishing through the wall separating the muggles from platform nine and three quarters, he was pleased to see that he was one of the first people there. He boarded the Hogwarts Express and moved to the end of the train to find a suitably secluded carriage. Once he had found one to his liking, he cast a few subtle spells to make everyone walk right by it without noticing it or its inhabitants.

He didn't want to be disturbed, especially not by people who acted as if they expected him to crack and attack them at any moment. Thanks to Minister Fudge, most people seemed to think he was on the verge of insanity. The rumours had gotten steadily worse during the course of his fifth year and his last encounter with Voldemort hadn't exactly helped his reputation. The Dark Lord had managed to infiltrate the castle and Harry had been forced into another duel for his life. The majority of the school had witnessed Harry using Dark Magic to stave off Voldemort's attack.

Even though Voldemort had been driven back and had eventually fled, the general opinion was that Harry was a Dark Lord in training and something to be shunned. He'd been hurt, confused and angry and he still was. He wasn't evil, he had just realised the necessity of learning the Dark Arts when you were being hunted by the strongest and worst Dark Lord of all time. He'd soon found out that most people didn't see it that way. That bumbling idiot of a minister, Fudge had finally had to admit to Voldemort's return and of course, in true Fudge fashion, he had laid all the blame for the Dark Lord's revival and Cedric Diggory's death neatly at Harry's feet. The only good thing to come out of the exposure of his secret had been the grudging respect from the Slytherins. They seemed to have re-evaluated their view of him as Gryffindors' Golden Boy.

The experience hadn't put him off the Dark Arts though and after he was called as the Slayer, he'd thrown himself into his studies with a vengeance. As well as with a dedication that put book-fanatic Hermione to shame.

He was bitterly disappointed in Dumbledore and for him he felt a fury that not even his hate of Draco Malfoy could rival. The old wizard was keeping vital information from him that was for certain, using him like a pawn and he was sick to death of it. After many attempts to pry some facts out of the man, he had given up and decided to just go and research it himself. Preferably without the headmaster knowing.

He pulled out 'The Standard Book of Spells Grade Six' and began to read it over, even though he had already memorised the material. Hedwig had already flown to Hogwarts so he needed something to occupy him during the ride to the castle and he really couldn't afford to be caught reading up on the Dark Arts. His reputation had suffered more than enough damage last term.

~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The train ride was reassuringly uneventful and his spells had ensured that he received no visitors. He could easily spot Ron's vibrant red hair, the Weasley trademark when he approached the horseless carriages. Not wanting to deal with his friend's anger at the moment, he hopped into the first available carriage, which happened to contain some Hufflepuff second years who squeaked with fright when they recognised him. The ride to the carriage was spent ignoring the terrified and hate filled eyes of the Hufflepuffs. They never had acknowledged his innocence about the death of Cedric and continued to dredge up memories of the Triwizard Tournament that he'd rather forget thereby compounding the guilt he felt over the rival champion's death.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He hurriedly made his way to the Great Hall, aware that Hermione and Ron were looking for him and dreading what he knew he would have to do. He strode to towards the Gryffindor table and saw that he was one of the last to arrive. There was an empty seat beside Ron and Hermione, which they had obviously kept for him but to their surprise, he didn't join them. Instead, he sat down at the end of the table, as far away from his friends as he could get. He spaced out during the Sorting and Dumbledore's annual start of term speech. And once the food appeared, he concentrated on eating, not looking up from his plate or contributing to the spirited conversation around him once. In truth, he was silent, not speaking even one word to anybody around him.

About halfway through the feast, he felt a niggling sensation at the back of his neck and so he stretched out his senses, which quickly came to one conclusion. He was being watched. Discreetly looking around, he soon found the source of the stare and inwardly groaned. Professor Snape seemed to be glaring at him again, the same as every other year except this time it was disconcerting because he could actually feel it and it couldn't be ignored. The emotions swirling through his dark eyes were unreadable. It made him feel uncomfortable. The Potions Master suspected something, though Merlin knew what, which was so very, very bad for the both of them. If Snape found out his secret not only would the professor end up as a demon's midnight snack but also Fudge would be willing to use any excuse to further discredit Harry and get him thrown into Azkaban.

Going to that hellhole would not be beneficial towards his already short life expectancy, especially if Fudge ordered the Dementor's Kiss, something the sadistic politician would enjoy doing no doubt. He shuddered to think about the effects Slayer's blood or worse; a Slayer's soul would have on the foul creatures. Since it seemed to have a strengthening effect on nearly every other demon on the planet, he really didn't want to find out what sort of a power boost the terrors of Azkaban would receive.

Severus studied the young Gryffindor intensely from his place at the Head Table, the time should be about right and he should have been called. He was proved right when Potter walked into the Great Hall for the start of term feast. He moved with too much grace, had too much of a dangerous, watchful air to be anything but the slayer. Butterflies made his stomach queasy; it would happen soon if he remembered the dates correctly, which he was sure he did. It would be impossible for him to forget about that.

He tried to concentrate on eating his food but his gaze kept being drawn back to Harry. It didn't take long before the boy noticed and began to covertly look around the hall. Eventually his eyes locked with Severus', annoyance visible in the green orbs but his face was blank. He quickly turned back to his plate and didn't look at the Potions Master again or at anybody. Harry obviously thought that Severus was plotting to get him expelled again.

Severus, on the other hand felt a small amount of joy. He had avidly but covertly kept track of Harry's progress since he started Hogwarts. For the first four years, Severus had seen very little to show Harry was the Slytherin he knew him to be. Only after the Triwizard tournament had Harry started to become a force to be reckoned with and no one knew exactly how powerful the Boy-Who-Lived would become better than Severus Snape.

He remembered the first year that Harry had come to Hogwarts. He had expected the powerful, confident wizard with the brilliant mind that he knew. Instead he had found an academically floundering, naive young boy who bore very little resemblance to the Harry Potter that existed now. He had been very disappointed and had taken his anger out on the boy in his treatment of him. The Potions Master had felt an inordinate amount of relief when Harry had begun to let go of his inhibitions and started harnessing the power that existed within him. Started to behave more and more like a Slytherin until he existed in no mans land - not feeling comfortable with the Gryffindors and unwelcome to the Slytherins.

It would happen soon he knew and he both looked forward to it and dreaded it. It had been both the best time and the worst time of Severus' life but he had had nearly twenty years to mull it over. How would Harry take it when he got back? Would he be disgusted that it had ever happened? Would he want nothing to do with him? Severus didn't think he could handle it if that happened. He didn't think he could handle it if his one hope for the past two decades was quashed.

Harry stood up and left the hall with his head down, not really paying attention to his surroundings. His slayer senses would make sure he didn't crash into anything, it wasn't as if he needed to look where he was going.

A shout came from behind him, "Harry! Wait up mate!" Ron and Hermione ran up to him,

"Harry! Why weren't you on the train?! It wasn't You-Know-who was it?" Hermione babbled at the same time that Ron said,

"Why didn't you sit with us?! We saved you a seat and all!" One of his hands rubbed his temple slowly; he could feel a very big headache coming on.

"Will you please be quiet?!" he snapped at them and they abruptly shut up. "I was on the train, no it wasn't Voldemort and I didn't want to sit with you!"

Ron's face went an alarming shade of red that quickly turned into purple, "Harry, what is wrong with you?! First, you learn the Dark Arts without telling us, and then you won't answer any of our letters all summer! We were worried sick! You wouldn't sit with us on the train or in the Great Hall because you didn't want to! Now you won't even talk to us! We're supposed to be your best friends!" he bellowed.

"That is debatable." Harry answered.

"What do you mean by that?!" Ron yelled. Hermione decided to add her two cents in and back up her boyfriend,

"Harry, if you won't tell us what's going on, I don't know if we can still be your friends."

Harry looked at the duo sadly, he really didn't want to lose their friendship but he had no choice. They would never understand the role of the slayer and remaining friends with them would only make them targets to his numerous enemies.

He couldn't risk it so he said the damning words, "I don't have any friends. We are not friends, I don't even remotely like you let alone care about a Mudblood and a weasel." He could see the hurt and shock mingling on their faces, swiftly tinged by anger but he continued, "Do leave me alone. I have no wish to have two losers harping on at me."

Without a glance backwards he strode from the hall, leaving most present dumbfounded, save a few sharper people, who sensed something more behind the exchange.

He went straight to Gryffindor Tower; he had a lot of work to do before the rest of his housemates came back from the feast. Stopping in front of the Fat Lady, he gave her the password, "Caritas."

The portrait swung open and he clambered inside. He had never been more thankful that prefects got their own rooms, as then his dorm mates couldn't keep track of his comings and goings.

He ran a hand through his unruly hair, spiking it up even more, trying to remember the words to the incantation. Raising his right hand, palm first, he stepped into the centre of the room. Runes painted themselves on the floor as he muttered a stream of rapid Latin. There was a golden flash and the runes disappeared. He stretched out his magic to see if the protective wards would hold, which they did. That should stop any busybodies from entering, namely Dumbledore, Hermione and Ron.

Flopping down on the four-poster bed, he surveyed the room in slight disgust. It had been fine in his fifth year before he had started appreciating the darkness but now the bright shades of red and gold were revolting. He thought they were garish, dark colours being better matched to his tastes at the moment. After all, wearing horrendously bright and vivid clashing colours were not suited for fading into the crowd or into the shadows.

He flicked his wand and everything changed from Gryffindor colours to muted shades of black and dark emerald green. Much better. He melted into the downy softness of the black duvet he was laying atop of. Full marks to the house elves; they sure knew their stuff.

His mind drifted back to the incident in the Great Hall; no doubt it would be all over the school by tomorrow. It had hurt, like a hot poker through the heart but he'd dealt with it. Ron and Hermione just wouldn't fit into his new world, wouldn't understand it and he'd have been offended if they had pretended to. There was no understanding the shadows unless you spent a considerable amount of time in them. They'd all be better off breaking ties with each other, he wouldn't have to worry about them getting killed because of them and they wouldn't have anything getting in the way of a normal life.

His eyelids drooped, being the slayer was a nocturnal job mostly and he'd gotten too used to sleeping during the day and hunting at night, much like the demons he killed. Deciding that it wouldn't hurt to let himself take a short nap before his patrols that night and the questions he was bound to be bombarded with that evening, he fell into a deep sleep, still on top of the bedcovers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry's internal clock woke him up as the sun went down. He shucked off his robes and changed into his regular slaying gear - black leather pants, black polo neck, three quarter length black denim jacket and his own arsenal of weapons. He chose leather for his clothes because it didn't tear easily and gave him some protection from cuts and abrasions, especially when aided by a few judiciously applied strengthening and defensive spells.

Fluidly, he jumps out the window, nimbly scaling the outside walls. His feet make no sound as he drops to the ground. The Hunt is on.