The Eighth Weasley

Seeing Things

Notes: By the time this gets online, it'll probably have been sitting in my computer for six months, because I loved the idea for this chapter so much that I had to type it out right away! (Just so I can check back to it - today is Sunday 13th October 2002)

Also, yes, you will find out what happened to dear little Spikey somewhere in this chapter, since I left you in such suspense with the last chapter. Maybe. I might hold it off to the next chapter...I'm evil like that.

And gyah, this is turning out to be a big chapter - I didn't mean for it to be, but it seems to have taken on a life of it's own! Also, minorly higher rating for a rude word or two and potential character-snuffage :) I say potential. Remember that. People might die. Or they might not.

I feel an evil cackle coming on...

Muahaha!

And I'm done.

_____________________

A class of unfortunate fourth years had just climbed in Professor Trelawny's tower room, the dense curls of pink fumes swirling around them, already triggering intense head-aches and feelings of dizziness.

If any of Trelawny's pupils were going to die, it would be because an overdose of lavender incense that killed them.

Like a human-sized, glittering, bespectacled Preying mantis, in search of a victim, the Professor drifted around them, her many gaudy bracelets and necklaces jingling together around her scrawny neck and wrists.

"Sommerset..." she began, only for a voice to interrupt from outside the trapdoor.

"Hey up there!" It was a female voice. Not British, so probably one of those odd, travelling muggle-groups. "Yeah! You at the trapdoor, wanna throw a ladder down so I can see what all this divination stuff is like?"

A visitor interested in divination? Trelawny's bug-like eyes lit up eagerly behind her spectacles. "Do enter, dear."

Immediately, the ladder rolled itself out, the pupils all turning to see if this new adult, who apparently WANTED to know about divination, bore any resemblance at all to the rather frightening, glittering bag of bones that called herself a Professor.

Her head and torso came into their line of sight.

Thuds came from the boys, the sound of their jaws hitting the floor.

A few of the girls reacted the same way.

She most definitely didn't look anything like Trelawny, especially the generous amount of cleavage that was showing as she scrabbled about to try and climb through the hole, without anything to hold onto.

The woman swung precariously up through the trapdoor, landing in a heap on the floor. "Okay, lady...I can understand how that might be fun for the kids," she panted, sitting up. "But word to the wise. Get an elevator."

"Welcome, my dear," speaking in her mistiest voice, Trelawny motioned one of the empty seats nearest her own. "Perhaps you could introduce yourself, for the children, who do not yet know who you are." Her words suggested that she had been expecting this guest all along.

"Me?" Straightening up, the young woman dusted her hands down on jeans so tight they looked like they were painted on, her cream vest-style shirt smoothed back down and adjusted so there wasn't nearly as much breast on display. "I'm Cordelia Chase, American muggle in with the trio who just arrived."

"Do you know that green bloke with Professor Summers?"

Cordelia looked around for the one who had spoken, but all the faces seemed to be asking the question. "Lorne? Sure! He makes my life Hell, when the PTB don't bother sending me a vision."

"A...vision?"

The class groaned.

Their guest had just said the magic word.

"Yeah, vision. You know, vision? V.I.S.I.O.N?"

Trelawny's eyes were narrowed to crusty black blobs of mascara behind her thick, round spectacles. "You have visions?"

"God, yes! On a regular basis," The woman shuddered. "Someone up there decided that I was going to be Angel, my boss' link to the PTB...uh...that's the Powers That Be, so yep. I'm Vision-Girl."

Trelawny pulled a face that made her look like she had been swallowing rusty nails.

"You...are a Seer?" She studied the young woman dubiously.

Hovering towards the younger woman, Trelawny's puckered lips pursed further. She was around twenty-years-old, with far too much glamour, decent make-up and well-styled hair to be a real Seer.

"My dear, I'm afraid you must be mistaken."

One dark eyebrow arched up in a way that suggested the woman didn't like being told that she was wrong. "Mistaken?" she asked, her voice calm, the brow still held up. "Because I don't dress like the stereotype of a gypsy?"

"The art of seeing is..."

"Don't lecture me, Miss I-need-tacky-jewellery-to-make-me-look-seerish!" Perfectly manicured hands came to flawless hips. "For your information, I have mind-splitting, brain-numbing, head-crunching visions on a regular basis."

Trelawny sniffed. "I'm afraid you find me rather sceptical," she remarked with a air of one who knew everything there was to know. "After all, there are so many frauds in the subtle art of Divination."

"Yeah, and I think I might be looking at one," Cordelia Chase narrowed her brown eyes. "Tell me, Professor, if that really is your title, how many of your premonitions have come true?"

"I need not answer that question," Trelawny replied rather indignantly.

"Uh...huh..." Her voice dripping implication, Cordelia smiled. "I think that says it all, Professor Trelawny." She took a step towards the Professor.

Every pupil was on the edge of their seat, watching with excitement.

This was just too good to be true!

"You know what I think, Miss-I-have-to-jingle-to-be-a-seer?" Cordelia's voice wasn't the least bit warm. "I think that..." She swayed a little on her feet, one shaking hand coming to her forehead. "I think...omigod!" Her voice was rising in pitch and intensity. "Great timing!"

Several of the girls shrieked as the brunette woman seemed to be thrown backwards, her hand on her forehead. She crashed down on one of the tables, her face contorted in pain, then she rolled and smacked down on the stone floor, hard.

The boys at the table leapt up to go to her aid, reaching out and stabilising her, every face in the room suddenly as white as chalk.

"Oh God! Spike!" Her voice hoarse with pain, she hunched up on her knees on the floor, her left hand pressed in a fist to her stomach, the other one still clamped hard against her forehead.

Shudders were rocketing through the brunette's body and it looked like she was in the middle of a seizure.

Even Trelawny looked a little frightened by what they were all seeing.

"You..." One of the boys supporting Cordelia's arm leaned around to be in line with her face. Her voice was rasping, barely recognisable as a voice at all. She looked like she was in agony, her face contorted in pain, blood trickling from one nostril, her eyes filled with tears. "Yeah...you...go...Professor Summers...tell her to get to Spike...his room... tell her now!"

The boy was on his feet and down the ladder in a heartbeat, despite Professor Trelawny's cry to ignore the hoax.

Cordelia was panting and shivering. "Oh God..." she whispered weakly. "Oh God..."

"I think you ought to leave my classroom now," Trelawny said in a voice none of them recognised. It was at least an octave lower than usual and was shaking with fear combined with anger.

The girl on the floor turned her head to look over her shoulder at the Professor, an expression of contempt on her face. "Yeah..." she muttered, her long hair sticking to the blood trickling down her chin. "If I could..."

That said, her brown eyes rolled up in her head and she flopped onto her side on the floor in a dead faint.

Her left hand fell away from her stomach.

A deep red stain that could only be blood was spreading rapidly through the creamy cloth that covered her abdomen.

***

"What the Hell has he done this time?"

Having left Giles in charge of her first year Defence Against The Dark Arts class, Buffy was storming down the corridors towards the hallway, where Spike's hidden chamber was.

"Buffy."

"Angel."

"I just heard that something was up," He looked down at her. "Mind if I join you."

Buffy's eyes flicked up to her former lover, a weary smile reaching her lips. "Well, it is kinda your fault," she said. "You brought Cordy and apparently she went to the Divination class and showed them what a real vision was."

Angel's face twisted in horror. "Oh God..."

"Angel?"

"It's Cordy," he looked torn between going with the Slayer or running to Cordelia's aid. "Her visions have been taking physical manifestations...where are you going? Do you know what the vision was about?"

"It was about Spike."

The dark vampire looked down at her. "Spike? As in Spike-Spike?"

"Yes, Spike-Spike," Buffy sighed, rubbing her brow as they walked. "He's been helping us lately and now, you show up with the news that Dru might be heading here..." A frightened look crossed Buffy's face. "Oh God! Angel! Spike knows about Dawn! He knows the password to our room! What if Dru...?"

Before she had even finished speaking, she was running, the vampire having to put on a burst of speed to keep up with her, down several long corridors and a flight of stairs into a windowless passage of dark grey stone lit only by torches.

Dark paintings lined the walls and Buffy started scanning along them urgently, her teeth worrying her lower lip as she looked for the right one.

"Is it this one?" Angel nodded towards a fairly large painting further down the hall, a mirthless smile on his face, as the painting smirked down at him.

Buffy looked up to see Spike's features grinning down at her from the painting, only he had long, sandy-brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and was wearing clothes that looked like they were from a hundred years before.

The setting of the painting looked like it was a study, but the vampire represented in it was leaning back in a chair, which was tipped at a precarious angle, his booted feet propped against the frame, his hands folded behind his head.

The small brass plaque on the frame read 'William The Bloody'.

"All right, Slayer?"

"William."

The figure in the painting looked from her to the other vampire. "Where'd ya dig up the poof?"

"No time, William," she said. "We need to get in."

"In that case, pet, you'll need to give me a password."

"Shit!"

The vampire chuckled. "Close, pet."

Buffy stared at him. Surely even Spike wouldn't be that obvious.

"Bloody hell?" she offered.

"What can I say?" the vampire in the painting called as the painting swung open to reveal a small, dark doorway. "I have a God-awful memory."

Ducking into the doorway, Buffy immediately gagged at the scent of blood and burnt skin. A rasp behind her told her that Angel had matches and the light flickered as he lit a candle sitting on a chest of drawers to the right of the door.

"Oh my God!"

Spike's bloody, burnt face turned weakly in the direction of her voice, the flickering flame making it look even worse. "She wants to know...she wants niblet... I... didn't... couldn't tell...she's..." he coughed, blood splashing down his chin. "She's safe... the Niblet... safe..."

His words almost didn't make it past his lips, trailing off in a gurgle, blood rippling out of his mouth in a torrent, his body limp on the blood-splattered bed, illuminated by the candle-light.

Clambering up onto the bed, Buffy slid an arm under Spike's shoulder, lifting him up against her, trying not to hurt the barely conscious vampire any more than was utterly necessary.

It was virtually impossible not to hurt him, every inch of his body a mass of burns and slashes.

It looked like someone had tortured him with something sharp and possibly Holy Water, as well as a nasty wound to his gut, the perpetrator of which was still sticking out of his stomach. Deep, bloody lacerations visible on his wrists and ankles that suggested he had been bound up tightly, with wire or something similar.

"We need to get him to the medical wing!"

"And they'll do what?" Angel demanded. "He's a corpse, Buffy."

The Slayer shot an anguished look at him. "You don't know the stuff they can do here," she whispered. "I'm taking him to Madam Pomfrey." She swung off the bed, a moan slipping past Spike's slack lips as she lifted him up in her arms. "Get something to cover him with."

Reluctantly, Angel pulled the sheet off the bed and draped it over the blonde-haired vampire, who was limp in his former lover's arms.

In a heartbeat, she was gone and Angel sighed.

Why couldn't she understand that Spike was just a demon? That he couldn't be trusted, because he simply didn't have what it was to make him a good person? That it was only because he couldn't be bad that he was being good?

He would never understand her, he knew, starting to walk after her.

His foot crunched on something and he looked down, startled. Bending, he picked up the pair of glasses and that was when he saw the large, ancient book lying - blood-spattered - on the floor, just under the bed.

Withdrawing it, he carefully picked it up and turned it over in his hands, a frown marring his brow.

Since when did Spike read again?

Ever since Drusilla had turned him, he had pushed his bookish roots as far away from himself as possible, probably because they had done nothing but humiliate him throughout his human existence.

Closing the book over, Angel's eyes caught a glimpse of the title.

His mouth fell open.

The most eloquent thing he could think of to say came in the form of two words:

"Fuck me!"

***

"Sir!"

Snape looked up from the scrolls he was marking in irritation. "Yes, boy?"

A sandy-haired boy, who looked like he was one of the fourth years, was standing at the door, white in the face. Out of habit, Snape's hands flicked down to the hands that were shaking in front of the boy's chest, coming to his feet instantly.

Very few fourth years dared to intrude on him.

Even fewer did so with blood smeared all over their hands and chest.

"What is it?"

"M-M-Madam Pomfrey, Sir," the boy stammered. "She n-n-needs s-s-sanguine potion. As much of it as-as-as you have to spare."

Snape mentally groaned, knowing that he had sent the last he had to her the week before and would have to brew a fresh batch quickly and - even if it only took a few moments - it still might be too late.

"Does she have any left at all?" he demanded, summoning various substances with rapid-fire gestures of his wand.

"She-she-she says she can cope for about fifteen minutes...at most."

"Very good...very good..." Snape muttered, already starting to heat up the larger cauldron, filling it half full of water. His eyes went to the boy. "Tell her I will have it to her in five."

"Y-yes, sir."

"And boy?"

"Y-yes?"

"What is it for?"

The boy looked even whiter. "The S-S-Seer, Sir. She-she had a vision...it m-made her bleed."

Snape's jaw locked. "Tell Madam Pomfrey that I will be with her shortly," he ordered, his voice clipped. The boy nodded and fled, leaving Snape rapidly brewing up the potion as fast as he could.

Fortunately, he had all the ingredients ready.

After the fiasco with Summers, when he had been forced into working with youngest Weasley, who babbled with the same consistency as a boiling cauldron bubbled, he had kept a supply ready, just in case the potion would be needed again.

It was out of sheer instinct that he knew Summers' group would be the one to need it on every occasion it was called for.

So, he would have it ready in minutes and then, he could get back to his work.

***

"C'mon, Spike, dammit..."

Professor Summers' voice reached the Matron of Hogwarts seconds before the small blonde woman kicked open the door of the infirmary and stormed in, a limp, sheet-decked bundle in her arms.

"Professor Summers!" Madam Pomfrey cried out, already bent over a patient, who was bleeding profusely from a wound to the stomach, that had no source other than a vision she had apparently had.

"Sorry, Madam Pomfrey. Got a patient."

"Take that bed." The Matron nodded towards the bed on the opposite side of the room, where six empty, sun-drenched beds lined the wall but the blonde Professor shook her head.

"I need one in the shady side of the room," Summers answered tersely, stalking up the middle of the ward to the further bed, which was deep in the shade in the far corner of the room.

Madam Pomfrey muttered something rude about impetuous young tramps under her breath, returning her attention to the wound in the dark-haired girl's belly. Using her healing jelly, she laid some of it on the wound in a solid mass, which fused to the open tear.

If the Matron hadn't known better, she would have claimed for a fact that the young woman had been stabbed by something blunt but with enough force to rip through several internal organs.

She had already forced several potions down the young woman's throat to slow the bleeding and heal what she could, but she was still waiting for the Potions Master to deliver the sanguine potion, a substance which would generate a fresh supply of blood to replenish that which had been lost.

Having done all she could until the potions arrived, she turned her attention to the other patients. A young Hufflepuff was in with a broken leg from the flying lessons, but other than that, there was only Professor Summers.

Sitting at the far end of the ward, the small, blonde Professor was sitting on the final bed, nearest the large fireplace, where a fire crackled in the grate and had a limp body lying in her arms.

The body was mostly covered by a sheet that looked like it was a deep red colour. It was only as Pomfrey neared that she realised that it wasn't red.

It was blood-stained.

"Professor Summers?"

Tear-filled hazel eyes looked up at the Matron. "Someone hurt him," she whispered softly. "We found him...you have to help him..."

Bending down beside the bed, Madam Pomfrey pulled back the blankets from the face of her latest patient, hissing in shock. She had seen the handsome blonde around the school, but now she barely recognised him.

Laying her fingers against his throat, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Summers..."

"He-he's doesn't have a-a-a pulse..." the blonde whispered. "H-he's a vampire..."

Madam Pomfrey recoiled in shock. "What?!"

The Professor's hand was cradling the man's cheek. "He-he's a good vampire...well, not good, but he-he-he helped us..." Tears were spilling down her face and she pulled the sheet further down his body. "You...you have to help..."

Madam Pomfrey wasn't listening any longer. She was staring at the vampire's flat stomach in shock. A poker was sticking out of the flesh, exactly corresponding with the wound on the brunette Seer.

"Good God..." she whispered, then shook herself. "First, we have to get that thing out of him." Maybe that would stop the seer's internal bleeding and allow the wound to start to heal - if the source of the injury was removed.

"Take it out."

"It'll cause him pain, if we don't drug..."

"Take it out! He's a vampire! He can tolerate pain!"

Gritting her teeth, the Matron nodded and gripped the handle of the poker. "You will have to hold him, Professor Summers," she snapped, bracing one foot against the edge of the bed, then yanking.

Both the unconscious vampire and the seer at the other end of the room released a loud groan and Pomfrey dropped the bloody poker to the floor, running back up the room to her other patient.

With one leg tucked up under her on the bed, Buffy couldn't bring herself to let go of Spike, where he was half-seated, half-lying in her lap, his head lolling limply back against her shoulder.

He looked so much paler than usual.

Swallowing a sob, she shifted her arm under his shoulder to support his head. She could feel his blood soaking through the sleeves of her robes, but didn't care, as long as he was all right.

"C'mon, Spike," she whispered hoarsely. "Don't you dare un-die on me just when I start liking you, you asshole..."

The vampire made no response.

He was limp, utterly limp.

Buffy whimpered in her throat. She didn't know how to tell if a vampire was so weak that it was undeader than usual, or if it was just unconscious and Spike didn't look like he would be talking for a while.

Madam Pomfrey bustled back up towards her with some bottles and jars of pastes and lotions that she started smearing on the burns and cuts, tapping them with her wand, but they didn't seem to work.

"What are they meant to do?" Buffy demanded.

The Matron frowned. "They should close up the wounds. Even if he is undead, they have been tested," she answered. "But..."

"They're not working..."

"No, Professor, they're not..."

Hazel eyes stared at her frantically. "What does that mean?"

"I...I'm afraid it means that he's too weak to survive," Madam Pomfrey reluctantly said, looking down at the wand in her hand as if it hand betrayed her. "If the wounds cannot be closed, it is because the body knows there is no point."

"No..." Buffy shook her head, crying in earnest, hugging the vampire's limp body to her chest. "No...you can't die, Spike...Dawn would kill me... don't you dare die... don't you dare..."

Madam Pomfrey worried her lower lip for a moment. "There is only one suggestion that I can make and that is to use Professor Snape's sanguine potion, when he gets here. It is a blood substitute..."

"Will he be in time?"

"I...I..."

"WILL HE?"

The Matron avoided Buffy's eyes. "I'm afraid it may already be too late. I am sorry, Professor Summers..." Lowering her head, the Matron turned and walked away, to attend to her living patients.

Buffy could feel Spike's chin rubbing against her shoulder as she rocked him, her sobs shaking her body. His lips were practically brushing against the scars left by the Master, Angel and Dracula and she wished that, right now, he could bite.

If it would save his life, she knew she would let him, like she had with Angel, but even if he had been conscious enough, she was sure the chip in his head would fry his mind before giving him a chance to drink.

"Oh God...Spike..." she whispered. "I-I...wait here...I need to get something..."

As she darted out into the main medical area, ignored by Madam Pomfrey, she almost laughed at the stupidity of her comment. Of course he wasn't going anywhere right now, but if she didn't hurry, he wouldn't be going anywhere ever again.

***

"So what kind of demon are you?"

Sitting in on the Slayer's Defence Against the Dark Arts classes had actually seemed interesting to Lorne, but his presence had only served as something of a distraction, so the classes had rapidly developed into a question and answer session with him.

Sitting on the Professor's desk, Giles watching from the windows, where he was perched on the deep sill, Lorne pulled a face. "Not the kind of demon you'd normally wanna meet, sweetie," he replied.

"Does it hurt having horns?"

Lorne reached up and tapped them. "Not at all," he replied genially. "They came with the package, along with the emerald look and red eyes. Its kind like asking you if it hurts having ears."

"Where are you from?"

The demon beamed at the boy. "Los Angeles, city of the stars."

"No, I mean really from? I mean, were you born in Los Angeles?"

A pained look crossed the demon's green face. The boy who asked the question was immediately punched on the arm by his neighbour for being insensitive. "Lemme just say it's a bad place and leave it at that, okay?"

From that point on the lesson was a little more subdued and Giles could see that the demon was visibly relieved when the pupils trailed out of the room, leaving him sitting on the desk.

"Are you all right?"

"Me?" Red eyes looked at the Watcher. "Oh, sure. Fine and dandy."

"Lorne..."

"Okay, so I'm not," he sighed heavily. "Home was a bad place and I really don't like to think about it unless I really have to. Usually, I make pretty darn sure that I don't really have to..."

Giles flashed a half-smile at the demon. "Believe it or not, I can appreciate the sentiments," he said. "My home wasn't exactly my idea of a happy place, although I would imagine a-a-a Hell dimension is something worse."

"I'll say!" Lorne exclaimed. "I mean, there's no music!"

Giles raised his eyebrows. "That's your reason for hating your hell dimension?"

"That and the clothes. I mean, ew!" He gestured to the brilliant, bright red suit he was wearing. "Looks good on me, right? Now, imagine me in sackcloth and without hair gel. You starting to see why home is my own personal hell?"

"I'm getting the picture," Giles was hard-pressed to smother a chuckle.

"The lack of music was the worst thing, though," Lorne pushed himself to his feet and joined the watcher as they made their way towards the door. "I mean, before I got here, I didn't even know what music was and you only imagine how bad that was! I just knew I could hear this sound and that I couldn't be crazy if my mind was telling me that something so beautiful could exist." He shook his head, a faint smile coming onto his lips. "There's something about music that is so magical that nothing could ever take it away."

"Dumbledore often used to say that," Giles agreed.

Lorne laughed. "Somehow, hearing that about him doesn't really surprise me, y'know. Rainbow-Santa looks like he's got the right idea about the world and how we should live in it."

"Rainbow-Santa?"

"Hello? Have you seen the clothes that guy wears? Sweetie, I've seen less colours in an Eighties fitness video!"

Unable to help himself, Giles burst out laughing.

***

With half a dozen large bottles of sanguine potion in a small crate, Snape swept up the long flight of stairs towards the medical wing, the afternoon light cutting in through the high windows and over the white marble.

It had taken him less than five minutes to brew the potion, then it had taken another agonising two minutes for it to cool enough to move it into the bottles which he had waiting, before placing a charm on the crate and leading it to Pomfrey in the wing.

His footsteps sounded deafening on the white stone. Everything seemed to be too quiet, but that was always the case when something had happened of this severity. It seemed that even the birds had stopped singing.

Reaching the top of the staircase, he directed the hovering crate into the medical room, to find Madam Pomfrey waiting for him and taking a bottle straight to an unconscious brunette girl, who was lying on the bed nearest the door.

She looked almost deathly pale, her lips barely having any colour at all, her dark hair spread around her on the white pillow.

"What happened?" Snape demanded.

"She apparently reacts to the visions she has," the matron answered, attaching a drip to the girl with a wave of her wand. "This one was a particularly nasty one, that had a poker rammed through her gut."

"Good grief..."

Madam Pomfrey's eyes lifted to him, a strange expression in them. "How much of that sanguine potion have you got?"

"Six large bottles. Why?"

"We have another patient in dire need of blood. Professor Summers is waiting with him," She nodded around the drapes, towards a curtained-off bed at the far end of the ward. Snape returned the nod, taking one of the large bottles and walking swiftly down the ward.

He pulled the curtain open.

There was a crash of the bottle slipping from his hands and smashing on the floor.

"What the HELL?"

Madam Pomfrey must have sprinted the length of the ward because she was by his side before he even finished the wild yell of shock and outrage, her own mouth dropping open.

Buffy Summers had her head tilted to one side, a bloody scalpel gripped in one hand, and blood was trickling from a cut on the left side of her neck, which was pressed against the mouth of the barely-conscious Spike.

"What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?" Snape gasped.

"Can it, Snapey," the girl sighed, stroking the vampire's hair. "He's a friend and he needs it."

Spike's lips were twitching weakly, his throat's movements suggesting that he was trying to swallow, but the quantity of deep red staining his swollen and bruised face suggested he was having difficulties.

Shifting a little, she lay the vampire back and leaned over him, the cut on her neck dribbling blood straight onto his parted lips, her hair pulled back from the wound by her right hand.

"Professor Summers!"

"I know, Madam Pomfrey, I know," a faint smile was flashed at the Matron. "You can lecture me when you give me some of that sandwichy stuff."

"Sanguine solution," Madam Pomfrey corrected faintly.

"Poppy, go and see to your patient. I will see to Professor Summers," The Matron nodded, letting the drapes slide back into place, as Snape folded his arms over his chest, gazing down at her.

"Don't even think of lecturing me, Snapey," the blonde sighed, still looking down at Spike's face as best she could. "Its not like I haven't given blood to a vampire that I care for before."

She physically jumped when one of Snape's hands caught her one that was tangled in her hair. To her utter shock, her was holding her hair back for her. Lowering her hand, she raised her eyes to him.

There was an odd expression on his face.

"What? Do I have dirt on my nose?"

"You are feeding an unconscious vampire your own blood from an open cut on your throat inflicted by your own hand," he remarked dryly. "And you can't imagine why I would be staring at you?"

"That's not why you're staring and you know it."

The Potions Master released a sigh. "I think I understand you, Summers, then you go and do something ridiculous and idiotic like this," he replied, his fingers brushing her neck as he gathered loose tendrils of her hair back.

It didn't go unnoticed that the Slayer shivered at the contact.

"He...he's a friend, Snapey," she murmured, her eyes returning to the vampire. "I-I couldn't face losing someone...not this way...not when I had something that could save him...I couldn't ignore it...it's not like I haven't done it before..."

"The scar on your throat..." he whispered. "It was Angel?"

"The clearest, deepest one, yes. He had been poisoned. My blood was the only antidote," she said, then laughed, although it was a tremulous sound. "I hit him...kept hitting him...told him to drink... he tried to fight, but he was so weak..."

"And he drank."

"Yes," The muscles in Snape's cheeks contracted. He decided, right there, that he liked the obnoxious dark vampire even less than he had before. "And don't you pull your growly face."

"I am not."

"Snapey, I know you were and I made him drink to save him, so don't you get any ideas about hurting him," she said, her voice sounding sleepy. "And...I...I think I should stop now..." Sitting up, she fell back against Snape's chest unsteadily. "Oh, God... dizzy..."

Bending, Snape lifted her easily up in his arms, reminding her that he was actually a lot stronger than he looked in his dress-like robes, and carried her through the drapes to the next bed, laying her down on the white sheets and dark cream blankets.

Using his wand to pull the drapes closed, he looked down at her with an expression that wouldn't have looked out of place on a very exasperated Giles. He withdrew a white handkerchief from his robes and pressed it on the wound on her throat.

"Summers," he said, shaking his head, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. "You are going to be the death of me, one of these days."

Her shaking hand rose to his neck, where dark bruises where still visible over the edge of his high collar. "Same here," she whispered. "Sorry about Angel. I didn't know he... he's been in a bad place lately..."

"And yet," Snape replied quietly. "Something tells me he would have done exactly the same thing, had he been himself."

"You got that right," Buffy mumbled, wincing as he lifted handkerchief away from her neck, looking down at the wound that was still oozing. "So what's the diagnosis, doc? Will I live?"

"Unless I wring your neck first."

Foggy hazel eyes squinted up at him and she smiled weakly. "That mean you're not gonna kiss me better?"

"Good God, woman!" he almost laughed, unable to help himself. "You've just been feeding yourself to a vampire and you still want..."

"Hot lip service," she replied, that sleepy smile still on her lips. "Give it."

"I think no..." Her hand was in his hair and yanked his mouth down on hers before he could finish the sentence. He tried to pull away, but the Slayer growled in her throat in caution, initiating a punishing kiss. Breaking apart, panting moments later, Snape fingered the back of his neck, wincing at the bruises that he could already feel forming. "Still as strong as ever, I see..."

"Oops..." Buffy mumbled, her eyes a little glazed. "My bad..."

Her eyes closed and a squeak of a snore escaped her.

"What am I going to do with you, you absolutely nutty little tart?" he sighed to the girl, unheard, as he rose to his feet to call Madam Pomfrey. "You are impossible... utterly impossible."

***

"Hey..."

With a grimace of pain as she struggled into a sitting position, Cordelia turned to look in the direction of the owner of the very familiar voice, smiling weakly up at him. "Hey, Xander."

She was still tucked up in the bed in the medical wing, pale as the sheets that covered her. Sanguine potion was still replenishing her blood supply, but she looked a lot better than she had only an hour earlier.

"Mind if I hang here and bug you?" he asked, carefully sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking one of her cold hands between his. She shook her head, her eyes closing briefly. "Is that a yes you mind or yes I can stay?"

"Yes, you can stay and be your annoying self, dorkbrain," she whispered the old nickname with a stronger smile. Her fingers squeezed his gently and she looked down at her stomach with a wince. "Why is it that whenever I think I'm in love with you and nothing can go wrong, I end up impaled on a spike?"

"I don't know," Xander chuckled, then froze. "Um...did...what...huh?"

Brown eyes glinted at him. "Nice to see I can still scare you," she murmured, a tired grin on her lips. Xander blinked at her, mouth hanging open. Cordelia arched an eyebrow. "Is it that bad?"

"You mean when we...back then, when you and I...you loved me?"

Patches of faint pink blossomed in her cheeks. "Um..."

"You did?"

Cordelia nodded, averting her eyes awkwardly. "Yeah," she replied quietly. "You were the only one who didn't seem to notice it, though."

"I always have a talent for screwing things up, don't I?" Xander ran one of his hands through his hair, exhaling a sigh. Waiting until she lifted her eyes, he gave her a lop-sided half-smile. "Is it too late to say I'm sorry and that I was an idiot?"

"Probably," she smiled slightly. "But don't let that stop you."

"Want me to beg and crawl on my knees?"

A wicked glint that he remembered well appeared in the brunette's eyes. "I think I could deal with that," she replied, laughing aloud as he dropped off the bed and knelt, trying to look as sincere as possible, while grinning like an idiot. "Don't make me laugh, you dork!" she exclaimed, one hand going to her stomach. "It hurts!"

Immediately returning to his position on the edge of the bed, he flashed a concerned look at her stomach. "You want me to get someone?"

One hand spreading over place where the healing wound was located, she shook her head. "Nah," she replied. "I'm okay." Patting the edge of the mattress, she sighed as he sat back down. "I've missed having you around to make me smile."

"Or to bust a gut?" he offered, then ducked a swat. "HEY!"

"What? Are my slaps more manly than you're used to?"

"That's unfair!" he exclaimed, then flashed his familiar half-grin at her. "True, yeah, but unfair!"

"You still fight like a sissy-girl, huh?"

"Unashamedly," he replied, grinning. "You wanna see manly, hand-to-hand fighting, you ask for Buffy or Wills or even Dawnie. You want someone who punches like a girl, you ask for me."

Cordelia couldn't smother a chuckle. "Is that how you try and impress me, Xander Harris?" she inquired.

"Nah," he answered cheerfully. "This is how I impress you."

Leaning in, he kissed her.

One of her hands came up to rest on his shoulder, neither drawing him closer nor pushing him away, and he pulled back, staring at her apprehensively, as if expecting to receive a slap across the face for being so presumptuous.

"Hmm," Cordelia delicately licked her lower lip. "I dunno."

"Dunno what?"

"If I'm impressed," she replied, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Her hand slid up to his face, fingers tangled through his hair, as she raised a brow in challenge. "You up to refreshing my memory?"

Xander's grin could have lit up the room and he moved closer, kissing her again.

***

Professor Trelawny was more than a little irritated.

It was several hours since that rather over-dramatic American girl had entered her class, performed her over-acted rendition of what a vision was like, then got the whole school in a furore.

They had believed what the young muggle had said, when they never believed her, the teacher of Divination! It was ridiculous!

Bustling around her tower room, she tidied up some of the tea-leaves scattered here and there. She would never let the filthy little house elves into her classroom, because they upset the psychic vibrations.

Moonlight was glowing mistily through the gauzy drapes that hung over the small windows, giving the dim little room a mysterious shine, with just enough light to make it look suitably supernatural.

Trelawny sniffed.

How dare they say she was a fraud!

She picked up one of the incense sticks, long since burned out of any scent, and dropped it into the small, round red canister beside her large chair, the one with the winged back.

Adjusting her silvery shawl around her shoulders and over the pale green dress she was wearing, she sat down in the chair.

She would show them!

She would have a vision!

"Buzz, buzz, buzz...busy like a little bee..." a lilting voice sang from somewhere in the room, making the Divination Professor's eyes pop open behind her glasses and look around. "You can't see for the swarms in your mind..."

"Whose there?" Trelawny demanded, a little startled.

No one was meant to be able to get into her room without her knowing.

There was a giggle. "You'll see...see in pretty colours...right...now!"

Had any of her pupils been in attendance, not a one of them would have recognised the Divination Professor.

Rigid in her chair, her eyes were wide open, her lips slack. She was shaking and the colour had washed from her face, even beneath the thick crusts of make-up. When her voice did escape, it was octaves lower than her usual one.

"The dark seer will fall and the second will come," There was another giggle from the shadows. "The old one, slayer of the untrue child. She will take the false believer by the hand and teach her to see visions of glory. Together, they will do great things... terrible... but great..."

Her head drooped forwards on her necklace-covered breast and she snorted, shaking herself, her head coming up sharply. She clearly remembered nothing of what she had just said.

"Who was that?"

"The one who writes the songs that sing in your mind," an eerie voice whispered a moment before a waif-like figure drifted from behind the drapes that were rustling in the light wind, long dark hair swaying around an elfin face.

Trelawny came to her feet, more than a little concerned. "I'm afraid the lessons are over, dear. Perhaps tomorrow..."

"You don't remember what you saw...oh...next time, the melody will be different..."

"I beg your pardon?" There was nothing remotely misty about Trelawny's voice now, her already wrinkled brow furrowing in confusion and consternation. "What on earth are you talking about, young lady?"

"Young...like a babe...naive...like a child in the dark...scared and lost and wanting her mummy..." The mysterious young woman, whose frighteningly slim form was emphasised by the tight black gown she wore, was drifting around the room, tracing her fingertips along the drapes and over the moon-shined tabletops. "I am old as the ages, Sybill..." Her fingers brushed along her temples. "Well secluded...I see all..."

"It's just a jump to the left..." Trelawny shook herself. What the devil had possessed her to say that? Before she could consider it further, an arm wrapped around her waist from behind, the girl - who had been in front of her a second before - gone.

A cool cheek pressed against her neck. "Are you frightened, kitten?"

"H-how?" The girl had been on the other side of the room was now right behind her, gripping her tightly around the waist. There was a humming sound as if the girl was waiting for an answer. "Y-yes..." she said, quite honestly, terrified.

"You're not nearly frightened enough," the voice breathed in her ear and she as convinced she felt a tongue brush against her neck.

"That is enough!" She jerked forwards, turning to face her assailant.

The girl stood there, pouting at her. "Someone else who doesn't see..."

"Wh-what?"

The woman's head oscillated from side to side in a strange, reptilian fashion, her blue-grey eyes on Trelawny's constantly. Very unusual eyes. Like a cat's. "I seek one who sees what I can't..." she whimpered softly. "No one sees..."

"But I see!"

Oh!

At last!

A kindred spirit.

A slightly insane and scary one, but a kindred spirit none-the-less...

Suddenly, that slim, frail-looking arm was around her waist again, in a vice-like grip that she had no hope of breaking, the girl's other hand catching her chin and jerking her head up.

"Good kitten..." she purred.

Trelawny saw a flash of molten gold eyes - gold? - then released a scream of pain as fangs plunged into the flesh of her throat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~