Endlong into Midnight

Author's Notes: Endlong into Midnight uses some concepts and ideas that were originated by Marina Frants in her Harry Potter/Buffy the Vampire Slayer crossover fic, The End of the Beginning. No disrespect is meant to her work, and this fic has no official connections with her work. It is not necessary to read her work to understand this story.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel are copyright persons and entities including, but not limited to, Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, 20^th Century Fox Television, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, and David Greenwalt Productions.

*****

CHAPTER ONE
The City of the Distance

Hermione Granger thought grimly to herself that if this plan didn't work, she might as well stay in the United States: there was nothing left in England worth going back for.

The wizarding war against Lord Voldemort, the most evil wizard ever to walk the British Isles, was not going well. The only person who could have held Voldemort at bay was long dead, and the only person who could have saved them from Voldemort was trapped in a house of shadows, unable to tell friend from foe or real from imagined.

Hermione shoved down the guilt over that and straightened up awkwardly as her seatmate moved out into the aisle, allowing her to step out from underneath the overhead compartment. She winced, feeling her knee pop. It hadn't healed right after she took that curse. Of course, nothing had gone right since she left Hogwarts seven years ago.

When it became obvious early on that Harry's grand plan to defeat Voldemort was spectacularly ill-founded, Hermione did what she always did in times of crisis: go to the library. She was determined to read every book in the wizarding world if she had to, but there had to be a way to help Harry somewhere. It took her years of crisscrossing travels, but finally she stumbled upon mention of a Muggle called a Watcher who had aided the Order with useful magic during the First War. If there was one, there had to be another, Hermione decided, and after innumerable paper cuts, she found mention of a Watcher in Los Angeles. He might or might not have been the same person from the First War, but by this point, Hermione would take anything. She booked her ticket to Los Angeles and didn't look back.

Finally, she made her way out of the plane, down the jetway, and into the Los Angeles International Airport. Following the signs, she found her luggage in Baggage Claim and groaned at the size of it. Muttering a small Featherweight Charm, to make the suitcase easier to handle, she headed out to Ground Transportation and hailed a cab.

"Wolfram and Hart," she said.

***

When the cab pulled up before an imposing skyscraper, Hermione paid the driver with some of the American money she'd had changed at Gringotts, struggling a bit with the unfamiliar bills -- they were all the same size and color. She realized rather grumpily that she wouldn't make her best impression toting a suitcase, so with a quick look to make sure no one was watching, she hit the suitcase with a Shrinking Charm and slipped it into her pocket. Not like these Americans noticed much anyhow.

That taken care of, she strode into the lobby and tried not to be impressed. Very American, she thought, and then, spotting the ornamental grass growing beside the lifts, amended that to very Californian.

A very blonde receptionist spotted her and trilled happily, "Welcome to Wolfram and Hart! Can I help you? Who's your appointment with?"

"I don't have an appointment," Hermione said, coming over to the desk.

"Oh," said the receptionist. "Do you want to make one? You could have just called, you know. You didn't have to come all the way from England."

"I'm looking for someone. He's called the Watcher . . .? A Watcher, perhaps?"

"Watcher, Watcher . . ." The receptionist picked through a Rolodex. "Named Watcher . . . no one named Watcher . . . oh." Her face clouded. "You probably mean Wes. Look, you really don't want to talk to him."

Throwing caution to the winds, Hermione pulled out her wand, not quite sure what she would do with it. "I think I do."

"Whoa, whoa!" The receptionist raised her hands. "Okay, I'll call him. You don't have to go all threatening. God, everyone's always threatening me. I should ask Angel for a raise." She picked up the phone and dialed an extension. "Wes? You have a visitor."

Hermione could hear the angry noise from the receiver.

"I'm sending her back!" chirped the receptionist, hanging up. She pointed toward the stairs. "Behind the stairs, office on the right."

"Thank you," said Hermione, putting her wand away again. Bracing herself for a hostile reaction, she walked to the open office door and paused.

The office was dimly lit. The desk chair was facing away from her, but Hermione could see an arm on the armrest and knew the office was occupied. After a moment, the man spoke. "I'm afraid I'm rather busy right now and can't help you, so you should find someone else to talk to."

"I'm afraid there is no one else to talk to," Hermione said crisply. "You're going to help me."

The man -- Wes -- turned to face her.

Hermione felt her stomach sink. There was no way this was the same man who had helped in the First War. He was far too young, only in his thirties. Still, he was the wizarding world's last shot.

Before she started speaking, however, she noticed one thing: the distinct smell of alcohol. Pulling her wand out, Hermione pointed it at the man and said, "Sobrietus." The man blinked, instantly sober. Satisfied that he would listen to her, Hermione put her wand away, closed the door, and started to tell him why.

She outlined the wizarding world for him, told him about Voldemort's rise to power and the fateful prophecy linking him and Harry Potter. She described their early, unsuccessful efforts against Voldemort, then, ashamed, tried to skim over Harry's imprisonment in Grimmauld Place. She spoke about the massive casualties in the wizarding world, and choked up as she touched on the losses of dear friends. She poured out everything she had that might possibly convince this Wes to help her and then bit her lip, slightly demoralized after reminding herself just how bad things were.

Wes steepled his fingers and seemed about to speak, when a voice behind Hermione said, "This one is different."

Hermione jumped. Wes's face clouded and went complicated. "I don't know about in ancient times," he said, slightly acid, "but in modern times we knock before entering rooms with closed doors."

"When I was king, there was no door that closed before me." The speaker stepped into Hermione's field of view and she jumped again. Hermione had seen Lord Voldemort up close more than once, but this creature seemed . . . wronger, somehow. Clad in a red leather jumpsuit, with uncannily blue eyes, it cocked its head and stared at Hermione. "This one is different," it repeated.

"We're all different, Illyria," Wes said wearily. "This is Hermione Granger and she's from London."

"I'm a witch," Hermione said. "That's what's different about me."

Illyria tilted its head to one side. "Show me."

Wes looked mildly interested in seeing a demonstration of magic, so, unsure exactly what she had to prove to this blue creature, Hermione pulled her wand out and pointed it at the door. "Colloportus," she said, making a swishing motion.

The door swung shut and sealed itself, a film appearing around its edges.

"Alohomora," she said, the first spell she ever learned.

The film vanished and the door sprung open again.

Illyria looked thoughtful, as did Wes. "Fascinating," said Illyria. "I have not seen magic like this since the days when I walked the earth as a god."

"I think the wizarding world has gone underground since then," Hermione said, dry.

"This one can do magic, also," Illyria continued, indicating Wes, "but he does not wield it as you do. I wish to know more."

"As do I," said Wes, directing a sharper gaze on her than he had previously. "The wand is interesting. I've seen ritual-less magic before, but the style of incantation is different."

Hermione started telling her story again, making sure to highlight the story of the Muggle Watcher who had helped out during the First War. As she spoke, she could see Wes reluctantly become interested in her story.

When she finished speaking, Wes said, "A Watcher helped . . . intriguing. I hadn't heard of - I mean, we're taught some magic at the Watchers' Academy, but certainly nothing like your world is. Of course, I haven't been a Watcher in several years."

"So you'll help me?"

"I suppose -- I'll have to clear it with Angel first, of course. My boss." He reached a hand across the desk. "I'm Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, by the way," he said.

Hermione took it. "Thank you."

***

Wesley excused himself shortly afterwards, saying he had to conference with Angel. Illyria trailed after him like some sort of spooky puppy. She waited an appropriate minute, then resized her suitcase and pulled out a set of Extendable Ears. George was still making them, even though their usefulness was dwindling. Thinking a moment, she added an Extendable Eyeball and whispered the Locator Charm, setting Wesley as the object.

About thirty seconds later, she was seeing and hearing with the Extendables. ". . . really quite remarkable," Wesley was saying to a frowning man. "I don't even know where to start. Her name's Hermione Granger, she's from London, and she's a witch, but she uses a wand to perform magic. She told me about some dictator named Voldemort who's been terrorizing the wizarding population since the 1970s . . ."

Wesley had barely started speaking when someone entered the room. Hermione's view was briefly occluded by a lot of black leather, but the newcomer stepped out of the way, allowing Hermione to see that he had platinum blond hair and a gleeful expression on his face.

"What's this, having a bit of fun without me?" the newcomer demanded. "Should know better than that! What's afoot, then?"

"Get out, Spike," the frowning man said. That must be Angel, Hermione thought.

"I think not. Say, is this about that English bird Harmony was telling me about? What's her story, then? Harmony said she was scary."

With a resigned expression, Wesley began narrating Hermione's story for Spike and Angel. Angel listened with the same frown, while Spike looked happier by the second.

"Well, then!" said Spike, once Wesley was done speaking. "Let me make sure I've got this straight. This Hermione wants us to go over there and help her win her war against someone who makes Peaches here and I look like fluffy bunny rabbits, and the only person who can defeat him is stark raving bonkers, am I right?"

"That'd be right, yes," said Wesley, shooting a look at Angel, who still hadn't changed expression.

"And we're facing incredible odds against us?"

"She didn't say as much, but one would think so."

"Sounds like fun! When're we leaving?"

"Spike," Angel said.

"What?" Spike looked innocent. "Well, clearly we've got to help the girl out! Aren't we here to save the world from the big evil?"

Angel finally showed some expression, looking torn. The idea of saving the world from the big evil clearly appealed to him, but Spike's sheer obnoxiousness wasn't doing much for him.

"There's just one problem," he said after a moment. "How?"

"I beg your pardon?" said Wesley.

"How are we going to do this? What's our plan for winning this thing? I don't want to go over there and just wander around until we stumble on a strategy. We need a game plan intact before we go over there. Too much has happened because we didn't plan enough."

Wesley and Spike were silent. Hermione felt her stomach drop. This was the part she'd been counting on them to figure out: how to beat Voldemort. She had flown across an ocean and a continent with the knowledge that they would help her because they had to, but it was looking as if they were as impotent as she.

Hermione's vision was obscured again, this time by a flash of red, and then Illyria spoke. "I will help."

Judging by the expressions on Spike and Angel's faces, they were as unnerved by Illyria as Hermione was. "Doesn't anyone around here understand what a closed door means?" Angel complained, apparently mostly to himself.

Finally, Wesley said to Illyria, "Why?"

"My reasons are my own," Illyria said, imperious. "But I wish to help. And to see more of this wizarding world."

"Well, that's that settled, then," Spike said. "We'll just take Big Blue here and sic her on this Voldemort. Be home in time for tea, we will."

Angel seemed to be thinking. "All right, we're going. That's the four of us in this room."

Spike looked pleased with himself.

"You're only going because you'd find a way to tag along if I didn't let you," Angel said, and Spike's expression flickered. "Wesley, you're responsible for keeping an eye on Illyria. I'll let Gunn and Lorne know what we're doing and that they're staying here. Get Miss Granger in here, Wesley. I'll call Harmony and tell her to prep the jet."

Hermione recognized this as her cue to extract the Extendables. She had them rolled up again and in the suitcase before the door opened to admit Wesley, here to fetch her.

"Miss Granger?" he said. "Angel would like to meet with you."

She slipped her suitcase back into her pocket and trotted across the lobby behind Wesley. The receptionist -- Harmony, Angel had called her -- was busy making several calls. Wesley tapped on the door, then entered, gesturing Hermione in also.

The occupants had moved around a bit, but otherwise all was as Hermione had seen with the Extendable Eyeballs. Spike sat sprawled on the couch, while Angel was sitting behind a massive desk. Illyria was staring out the window and paid no notice to the door opening.

"Miss Granger?" Angel said. "I'm Angel. I run the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram & Hart. We've decided to help you."

Hermione didn't let on that she already knew this, instead saying fervently, "Oh, thank you."

Angel continued, "We're going to leave tomorrow morning. I'd like to introduce you to the rest of the team. Wesley you know already. That's Spike on the sofa and Illyria by the window."

"Charmed," Spike said. Illyria said nothing.

"I'm sure," Hermione said.

"I'll have a car take you to your hotel, and we'll pick you up when it's time to leave in the morning." Angel stood up and stuck a hand over the desk. "Good to meet you, Miss Granger."

Hermione shook hands. "You have no idea."

***

Wolfram & Hart chauffeured her by limo to a posh hotel in Beverly Hills. Hermione had suspected that their pockets ran deep. She spent a while being both horrified and mollified by the sheer decadence of the accommodations, then decided she had better enjoy this brief break from the war zone. An hour spent flipping through the television channels confirmed her belief that all American television was rubbish.

Exhausted from the jet lag, she made a journal entry and then fell asleep early. She was woken from a restful night's sleep too early by a phone call informing her that a car would be by to pick her up in an hour. Hermione quickly showered and dressed and was waiting in the lobby for the limousine.

She was taken to an airfield she didn't quite catch the name of, where a private jet was waiting. The crew from Wolfram & Hart were all already aboard. Hermione noticed that all the window shades were down and wondered.

Spike was inspecting the contents of the minibar, while Angel was seated already and, Hermione guessed from his scowl, deep in a brood. Illyria was alone at the back of the plane, clearly absorbed in its own thoughts. Wesley stood to greet her and offered a hand. "Good morning, Miss Granger."

"Good morning," she said in return, choosing a place to sit and buckling her seatbelt.

"No luggage?" Wesley asked.

Hermione dug in her pocket and showed him her miniaturized suitcase. "Shrinking Charm," she said. "Far easier to carry this way."

Wesley made what she was beginning to think of as his Mr. Spock face again. He clearly didn't know what to make of this strange magic, but wanted to know more. She couldn't blame him, remembering how she'd felt when she'd found out about magic.

After that, Wesley subsided back into his own thoughts, every now and then watching Illyria. The flight passed fairly quietly, Angel and Wesley spending most of it brooding, Spike spending it toying with the mini liquor bottles from the minibar, and Illyria doing . . . whatever. Hermione spent her time rereading Hogwarts, A History for the umpteenth time in an attempt to calm her nerves. As the plane touched down, she reluctantly admitted it hadn't helped much.

The flight seemed to have gone much quicker than it should have. Angel mumbled something about a special jet when she said something, though, so she let it drop.

It took some time to unload them all off the plane, but somehow they managed to all squeeze into a waiting limousine. "From the London office," Wesley said as he helped Hermione in.

"Well, where to now?" Spike said, once the doors were closed behind them. "Been a few years since I've been out this way. Should be interesting to see how some of the old haunts have fared."

"I need to make some calls," Hermione said. "Not with a phone," she added, forestalling Wesley. "There's somewhere I have to go to make them. Could someone tell the driver . . ."

Angel was knocking on the partition, which obligingly rolled down. "Yes?" asked the driver.

Hermione gave directions to a particular section of Charing Cross Road.

"Yes, miss," said the driver, and smoothly the limousine rolled away.

"We've got a few minutes," Angel said. "I want to know more about this Voldemort, if we're going to be fighting him."

Hermione sighed and launched into the thumbnail history of Lord Voldemort. Born Tom Marvolo Riddle in the 1920s, he made a name for himself at Hogwarts and then dropped out of sight, resurfacing in the 1960s and 1970s as the terrible Lord Voldemort. He had been on a steady rise to dominance until, in the early 1980s, a misheard prophecy sent him to Harry Potter's house in Godric's Hollow. Harry had been only a baby, but Voldemort had been unable to kill him. Hermione skimmed over the fourteen Voldemort-free years and picked her story up again with Voldemort's resurrection in June 1995, almost ten years ago.

"He's been getting stronger ever since," she finished. "He's got an army of followers he calls Death Eaters, and some of them are as bad as he is. We don't even know how many people he and his followers have killed. Muggles, too, not just wizards. He's not too fond of Muggles."

"Muggles?" asked Angel.

"Non-magical people," Hermione said, knowing how inaccurate that description was. "Like you all."

"Somehow," Spike said, "I doubt anyone in this car is a Muggle. Go on then. I want to find out how this ends."

"It doesn't," Hermione said. "We're still fighting him. But we're completely outnumbered -- we're only just holding him off. Everyone thinks it's only a matter of time before he takes over completely. I couldn't live with that, so I went looking for help, and I found you."

Everyone except for Illyria appeared to be processing this. Angel said after a moment, "And there's no one strong enough to beat him?"

Oh dear. She had been avoiding coming to this. The shame over this still kept her up some nights.

"No, there is," said Spike. "Remember, Harvey or some bloke like that. Only you said he'd gone round the twist. How'd he get that way?"

Hermione hesitated. "Harry Potter, the boy Voldemort couldn't kill, had a prophecy about him saying he was destined to kill Voldemort -- or be killed by him. The summer after our sixth year, Harry and Ron and I, we went after Voldemort, trying to track him down and weaken him enough to defeat him. But Voldemort was ready for us, stronger than us. There was a battle --"

She broke off again. Her eighteenth year had not been a happy one. "It was fairly clear that Harry wasn't ready to fight Voldemort, whatever he thought. Voldemort was sending Death Eaters after him. So we . . . after a while we put Harry where the Death Eaters couldn't get at him."

Wesley seemed to understand there was more to the story. Looking at her piercingly, he said, "And when was this?"

"May 1999. It was only supposed to be temporary. We had people coming by every day to check on him, talk to him, train him so he could fight Voldemort. But something happened; no one's sure what, but . . ."

"He's gone round the twist," Spike said. "Lovely. So your mythical hero's been barking for five years now, and nobody's bothered to do anything about it. Well, I have a plan. Let's get him some Prozac and then go sightseeing."

"It's not that simple." Hermione didn't know when she'd last been this ashamed. She had been in on the decision to lock Harry in Grimmauld Place, and while it had seemed the right thing to do at the time, she'd doubted it ever since. At least he's alive, she told herself. As long as he's alive, there's still hope.

"I want to know more about these Death Eaters," Angel said. "So they're, what, Voldemort's acolytes? Followers?"

"They're his followers and his army. Wizards, mostly, a few witches, who believe what he believes -- that pureblood wizards are better than Muggle-borns like me, that Muggles are an inferior race that aren't quite human. They pledge allegiance to him and carry out his orders. There's a mark he makes them get, a tattoo on their left forearm, and he controls them that way."

"Sounds familiar," Wesley said.

"Nature abhors a vacuum."

"How many of them are there?" asked Angel.

"We haven't been able to pin down an exact number. We're fairly sure most of the Slytherins that left Hogwarts in the last five years have joined him, so he's got a base of at least 100 young Death Eaters -- we've managed to capture a few, but we haven't made much of a difference.

"Then there's his old core of Death Eaters, the ones that were with him the first time around. His leadership structure is drawn from these. There's fifteen to twenty of these that we know about, but many of his Death Eaters the first time around were never caught. He's added more older Death Eaters since he came back. He has Death Eaters throughout the Ministry and controlling the media. We're incredibly outnumbered."

"How many of you are fighting?" Wesley asked.

Hermione ran through the current membership of the Order of the Phoenix in her head before answering. "About 25 of us are seriously fighting, putting most of our efforts towards the war. Then there's maybe another 25, no more than 40, who help out when we ask for it. There's a few members in France, and one in Romania."

Angel and Spike seemed to be processing this. Hermione added, "You might be thinking that 125 to 60 isn't such bad odds, but that's not counting Voldemort's dark creatures. He's convinced the giants to fight for him, plus there's the Dementors, the werewolves, and the vampires."

It couldn't be her imagination that Wesley quirked an eyebrow and Angel looked away when she said the word "vampire."

"He's been making overtures to the goblins," she said, "but so far they've rebuffed him. Rebuffed us too, for that matter."

"Goblins?" asked Spike. "There's a new one on me."

"They run the banks."

Wesley seemed about to ask something else, but the limousine drew to a stop and the driver politely announced that they had arrived. Hermione was both cheered and chilled by seeing the Leaky Cauldron again. The others looked a little blank, reminding Hermione of the first time she'd visited Diagon Alley with her parents.

"You cannot mean to tell me," said Spike, "that the wizarding world is in the back of an HMV store."

"No," said Hermione, irked. Apparently she wasn't the only one annoyed by Spike; Angel's shoulders had a set to them that said he was probably moments from throttling Spike. "The wizarding world is, most of the time, hidden from Muggles. I've got to cast a charm on you. Close your eyes."

Obligingly, everyone -- except Illyria, who continued to stare at a Burger King in fascination -- closed their eyes. Hermione pulled out her wand again and, trying her best to be discreet, waved it at the group and muttered, "Oculus Acuos."

Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about the spell's side effects, which surrounded the group in a brief fuschia haze. Hermione comforted herself with the fact that this was London and even if someone had noticed the group turning purple, they would never have said anything.

"Open them," she said, and watched the bewilderment blossom on Wesley's face as he realized he was now standing in front of a grimy, small pub called The Leaky Cauldron.

"Welcome to wizarding London," Hermione said. "This way," she added, and gestured that they should follow her into the pub.

There were many things Voldemort had changed, but, Hermione thought to herself, he would never be able to change the Leaky Cauldron. According to stories, it had looked exactly this way during the First War, thirty years ago, except that the bartender and owner Tom possibly still had a few teeth then. As usual, it was packed with witches and wizards waiting to get started on their shopping -- the Ministry had limited shopping hours and required all shoppers to have a Ministry escort, although Hermione privately figured it was so they could keep an eye on who was purchasing what.

Tom the bartender came scuttling over as soon as he spotted Hermione and her group. "Miss Hermione!" he said, smiling toothlessly at her. "And what'll it be for you today?"

"A parlor, Tom, and a fire. I've got to see a man about a wolf."

"Ah," said Tom, dropping a gratuitous and knowing wink. He gestured. "This way." He led Hermione's motley group through the crowds of witches and wizards making too-loud conversation to the very back parlor. Tom snapped his fingers and immediately a hearty fire roared into life in the fireplace. "Give it a moment and it should be just right," he said. "I'll be out front if you needs me."

Hermione waited until Tom had closed the door behind him, and then spelled the door again. "Colloportus." It wasn't the most secure of the locking charms, but it would keep most of the ordinary patrons out.

"What's going on?" Angel asked.

"I've got to talk to someone. Be quiet. The walls have ears."

One of the portraits chose that moment to make a rude remark about Angel's hair, which caused him to frown and shut up.

Hermione grabbed a palmful of Floo powder from the jar on the mantel and knelt by the hearth, ruing what this was going to make her knees feel like when she got up. Doubtlessly the Floo Network was being watched -- it had been monitored off and on since her Hogwarts days -- but at the moment she really had no other way to communicate with the rest of the Order. Dumbledore's time-honored method of communication, the modified Patronus, was too risky to use near the Ministry. Aided by Peter Pettigrew, the Ministry had worked out a way to intercept the messages. They couldn't understand them, but they could prevent them from reaching their intended destination, which caused a deal of trouble.

Casting the Floo powder into the fire, Hermione said, "Remus Lupin."

After a moment, Lupin's head appeared in the fire, causing some gasps of surprise from behind her, which she ignored. "Hermione?" he said. "What's going on?" He looked behind her and saw the team from Wolfram & Hart. He raised his eyebrows but otherwise didn't say anything.

"Darling, I've been shopping, only I've gotten too many packages. I can't possibly carry them all home myself."

Lupin's face went amused. "I suppose you'll be needing me to bring the car then, darling."

"Oh, would you? I've got so much to show you -- I think you'll really like what I've bought."

"I'll be there soon, darling," Lupin said. His head disappeared from the fire and the flames darkened and went out.

"Who --" Angel started.

Hermione cut him off. "A friend. Don't ask questions."

The portrait giggled. Hermione was ninety-nine percent sure that portrait was reporting back to the Ministry; why couldn't Tom have put them in the other parlor? Too late now.

***

Lupin was as good as his word, showing up with the car fifteen minutes later. Without saying much, he herded the five of them out to where his tiny and ancient Vauxhall Nova was waiting at the curb.

"Oh no," said Spike. "We are not all fitting in that thing. Look at that! It's smaller than Peaches's --"

"Spike," Angel said again. "Get in."

"You'll fit," said Lupin. "Don't worry. How about we let Hermione have the front seat?"

Wesley climbed in first, followed by Angel and Spike, and lastly Illyria, who had said nothing since they got off the plane. Hermione wasn't sure which was worse, the random imperious observations, or the eerie, staring silence. Once she was seated and buckled, she turned to look at the Wolfram and Hart team over her right shoulder. "Not so bad, is it?" she asked.

The four of them were sitting comfortably in the back seat, which was stretched a la Mr. Weasley's old Ford Anglia (which was still wild in the Forbidden Forest, as far as she knew.) Remus had asked Arthur Weasley to work the spells on his secondhand Nova so the Order had its own secure and Ministry-proof people mover, even if he did tend to get stuck in London traffic. Hermione herself preferred using the Underground to London traffic, but she had considered the feasibility of taking Illyria on the tube and decided against it.

Hermione turned back to the front as Remus climbed into the car, turning the engine over. With some fuss, it sputtered into life.

"'Darling?'" Remus said, putting on his blinker and waiting to pull out into traffic. "Since when have I been 'darling' to you?"

"You know as well as I do that some witch is listening to everything that goes on in that fireplace, even if she doesn't pay attention to who's saying it. And anyway," Hermione said, "I've brought help. This is Angel, and Spike, and Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, and Illyria. We've got a chance now, Remus." She turned back to the backseat. "I'd like you all to meet Remus Lupin. He's also working to defeat Lord Voldemort."

Lupin looked grim at that statement, but said nothing more. A few minutes of idling in the London traffic passed, and he said, "So who are Angel, and Spike, and Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, and Illyria?"

From the back seat, Angel said, "I'm Angel, head of the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart. It's a law firm."

"Yes, I've heard of the London office."

"Miss Granger came to us and asked for our help. She seemed to think there was some way we -- or more particularly, Wesley -- could help you against this Voldemort."

"Your war doesn't seem to be going particularly well," Wesley observed from behind Hermione. "At the very least, we're fresh troops with a different approach to fighting."

"No, it hasn't been going very well for a while now," Lupin said, his tone even.

"Mr. Wyndam-Pryce is a Watcher," Hermione said. "Like the one from the First War."

Remus went still. "Is that what you've been searching for? I don't know how much help Mr. Wyndam-Pryce will be, then. Most of us couldn't do magic like he could."

"Most of us?"

Lupin nodded, checking the traffic in the rear-view mirror. "I knew the Watcher from the First War. Studied with him a bit, but I couldn't do magic his way. I lost track of him about ten years ago."

Hermione frowned. "All the journal I found said was that a Watcher had worked with you, and whatever he did helped, and turned the tide of the war."

"If you don't mind me asking, Mr. Lupin," Wesley said, "who was the Watcher?"

"Giles," Lupin said after a moment. "Rupert Giles."

Spike scoffed. "I'll be damned. Always knew there was more going on with him than we knew. And now we find he was in the middle of a bloody wizarding war. Some gents have all the luck."

"Do you all know him, then?" asked Hermione.

"Yes," said Angel, terse. "Had a run-in with him earlier this year."

Hermione filed this away.

"How are your friends going to help us?" Remus asked, still with the same mild demeanor that could mean several things with him.

"We were hoping to devise a game plan, as it were, once we were on the ground," Wesley said.

"Or, in other words, you're not sure."

"That'd be the sum of it, yes," Spike said, cheerful. "I'm voting for kicking large amounts of ass, but nancy boy here is a little squeamish."

"I'm not --" Angel started, and then cut himself off. "I just want to make sure of what we're doing before we go rushing in here."

"Cause you know what they say, Angel rushes in where fools fear to tread," Spike quipped.

"What are you thinking?" Hermione asked Remus.

"I'm not sure what I'm thinking, Hermione," he said. "Bringing Muggles in to fight a wizarding war -- you understand, Giles stumbled across this by accident; he wasn't our idea. Our world isn't designed for Muggles, Hermione. You know that. But . . ."

He sighed. "They are something different. And you know we need something different. What we've got certainly isn't working very well."

He turned the car into the little side street that held his dingy apartment block and found a parking spot just wide enough to fit the Nova. "We're here."

***

Hermione Granger had first met Remus Lupin when he taught her third year Defense Against the Dark Arts class at Hogwarts, the premier wizarding school in the Western Hemisphere. Back then he had merely been her shabby but incredibly competent professor, the first true Defense professor she had ever had at Hogwarts. After Voldemort's resurrection in 1995, though, she found that he was more than that: he had fought Voldemort in the First War, although everyone suspected him of being a spy for Voldemort towards the end. Lupin took up his duties with the Order of the Phoenix, the group Albus Dumbledore organized to fight Voldemort, once more.

Hermione only knew some of the things he had done for the Order of the Phoenix, but he had done enough that when Dumbledore was killed, Lupin stepped in and took over as the leader of the Order of the Phoenix. He had been running it well enough since 1997, but he was tired and fighting a losing battle. Albus Dumbledore had been the greatest wizard of the age and her much-beloved headmaster, but if she had a mentor she would say it was Lupin.

He was also a werewolf, but no one really thought much of that anymore. They had more important things to worry about than how Remus Lupin spent one night every twenty-eight days.

Lupin lived in a tiny, shabby flat in the back ways of Lambeth, useful because it was unremarkable. The flat, although dingy, was one of the most secure places in London because of the many charms that had been placed upon it by the Order of the Phoenix. The precautions made it a pain to get in sometimes when one was in a hurry, but they'd kept Lupin from being murdered in his bed.

He led the group up three flights of stairs to his third story flat, ushering them all in and locking the door's many locks behind them. With six people in it, the flat seemed even smaller than normal.

"Now then," said Lupin. "If any of you have any ideas for winning this war, I'd like to hear them, because I've been fighting it off and on since 1978 and you can see how well it's going. Thousands dead, let alone the Muggle deaths. A Death Eater as Minister for Magic. He's got Death Eaters in every department at the Ministry . . . save two," he added thoughtfully. "Arthur's kept them out of his. Not a single family in wizarding Britain has not lost at least one family member. Some families have been completely eliminated. Voldemort doesn't like to go by halves, you see."

Wesley looked slightly dismayed by this news. Spike seemed to have taken it as a challenge. Angel was brooding again. Hermione didn't know what to make of Illyria.

"What have you tried so far to defeat him?" Wesley asked.

"During the First War? Nearly everything. It was hardly a war for the first few years of it. He started coming to power just as I went off to school. It was a terrible time. It seemed like no one was safe from him and his Death Eaters. Dumbledore was working against him, of course, but it wasn't always easy. My friends and I helped out once we left school, but we were only children," Lupin said. "There were me, and Sirius Black, and James and Lily Potter, and Peter Pettigrew, all in the first Order of the Phoenix. It wasn't anything we did that stopped him, though. I'm sure Hermione's told you about how Voldemort couldn't kill Harry Potter."

"She has."

"Neither could Harry kill Voldemort, though, not at the time," continued Lupin. "No one was sure why. But Voldemort was reduced to a spirit. He managed to grow a body back, however. That was in 1995. Dumbledore took up the fight immediately, but it was hard convincing people that Voldemort was really back. We lost a lot of ground the first few years because of the Ministry. And once we had our feet under us, Dumbledore was killed. It's been down ever since. We've never even come close to killing him."

"The problem is," said Hermione, taking up the narrative, "is that he can't be killed, not as he is right now. Voldemort managed to find a way to split his soul into seven pieces and store them in these objects called Horcruxes. Destroy all the Horcruxes and you destroy Voldemort. Naturally, he's hidden them very well. Out of seven we've done . . ." She hesitated. "Two."

Spike looked a little dubious.

"Dumbledore was tracking down the Horcruxes before he was killed, and he got two of them done fairly quietly. Harry tried to take up and carry on, but Voldemort got wind of what he was doing and . . . things didn't go well. There was a fight, and people were hurt, and we had to retreat. Voldemort moved all the rest into even more secure locations, and killed everyone who might have known where they were. With no leads --" and no Harry, she added to herself -- "we were pretty well stuck."

"I want to meet this Voldemort," Illyria said, speaking for the first time in hours.

Remus startled, evidently surprised that Illyria could speak at all.

"I want to meet this impostor who dares to walk in my power."

"Probably should have warned you, mate," Spike said. "Blue here always talks like this."

"Well, I'm sure Miss Granger and Mr. Lupin can ring Voldemort up and he'll make room for you in his busy social calendar," Wesley said to Illyria.

"Do not mock me, mayfly. I will help find this pretender. And then he will know real power."

"Sure that's godking-ese for 'crush him like a bug'," said Spike.

"Well, that seems settled then," Remus said, dry, but Hermione could tell he was unnerved. "Where are we going to put them up, Hermione?"

She hadn't thought this far ahead. Angel saved her by saying, "It would probably be best if we stayed at the Wolfram & Hart London office. I'm sure they have guest rooms, and we can use their transportation rather than you having to fight the traffic, Mr. Lupin."

Lupin considered this, then nodded approvingly. "Seems like it. You do know there's a Tube stop right by here, though."

Angel looked uncomfortable. "The Tube is . . . not good. Look, there's something I gotta come clean about, because we're obviously going to be spending a lot of time together and you've gotta know. I'm a . . . a vampire," he said. "Pointy fangs, blood drinking -- no bad accent, though," he added.

Hermione blinked, shocked by this revelation. Angel was nothing like the vampire she'd met during her sixth year at Hogwarts, nor was he like the vampires she had fought during battles with Voldemort's minions. "But I saw you standing in sunlight in your office!"

"Necrotempered glass. I don't understand it, but Wolfram & Hart came up with it. Lets the sunlight in, keeps the ashy death out. Kinda nice, actually. One of the perks of working there. The cars are all equipped with it, so Spike and I can get around."

"Spike's a vampire too?"

"My biggest mistake," Angel said, sighing. "Go on, Spike, show her the face. I know you want to."

Spike looked to be thinking, just for a second -- and then his face changed, thick ridges growing in over his eyes, which turned yellow, and an impressive set of fangs growing in. Hermione studied him for a moment, and could see Remus also looking academically bemused by Spike. Dark creatures were his specialty.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Hermione finally said.

Spike shook his head and reverted back to his human face. "You get used to it. Besides, who's to say I don't like the pain?" He looked entirely too mischievous.

"You don't have to worry about us going all 'grr' on you, like Cordelia, my -- Cordelia would say," Angel said, looking pained when he mentioned Cordelia, whoever she was. "It's just -- you know. We're still sunlight challenged and all that."

"Well," said Remus, who appeared to have said it just because he couldn't think of anything else to say. "It does explain the lack of people in the rear-view mirror."

Angel nodded. "We don't reflect."

"Makes doing your hair a bit of a bother," Spike added. "Just looking at Angel here ought to make that obvious, though."

"My hair is not --" Angel reached up to touch the back of his head, probably unconsciously. "There is nothing wrong with my hair."

"Really? Cause I heard a client the other day -- forget their name, sorry -- say your hair looked like you'd cut it with a weedeater."

"At least I don't look like I got lost on the way to a Billy Idol impersonator convention," Angel shot back, still worriedly touching his hair.

"Ah, Billy Idol again." Spike rolled his eyes. "I live in hope of the day that someone thinks of someone else to compare me to other than soddin' Billy Idol. Tired of hearing about him. Everywhere I go, it's always, 'You know, you look a bit like Billy Idol.'"

Remus, who had been watching the entire exchange with quiet amusement, cleared his throat and said, "It sounds like Wolfram & Hart should be able to take care of you. Do you need to use the phone to call a car?"

"Please," Angel said, giving Spike a dirty look. "If you wouldn't mind."

"This way." Remus stood and indicated that Angel should follow him.

Hermione, Wesley, and Spike were left sitting together in a slightly uneasy silence, Spike still grumbling to himself. Illyria had returned to its state of pretending everyone else didn't exist. After a moment, Wesley seemed to choose to ignore Spike and said, "I probably should have mentioned that my boss is a vampire before now. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Hermione said. "Mine is --" She paused. By rights, this was Lupin's secret to reveal. She settled on a wording. "-- differently abled also."

Wesley smiled, a little wryly. "Always interesting, lives like ours."

Angel came back in then, announcing that the car would be there shortly. The Wolfram & Hart team elected to wait outside for it, evidently having things to discuss -- some possibly related to hair -- so there were a flurry of goodbyes and then Hermione and Remus were left alone.

"What are you thinking?" Hermione repeated her earlier question.

Remus sighed and thought a bit. "If they really can help, Hermione . . . if they really can do something, then maybe, for the first time in a while, we might have a chance."

"If."

Remus smiled, slightly crookedly. "Chocolate Frog before you go?"

***

Hermione Apparated back to her small flat in Stepney and sat for a moment, considering the situation. "I don't know, Crookshanks," she said out of habit, although Crookshanks had died a few years ago. "I think all may yet be very well. The vampire thing, though, that's a bit odd."

Then she lay back and fell asleep.