No, and no! I own absolutely NOTHING HERE!
Joss Whedon and his fine group own Buffy the Vampire Slayer
and all the characters, settings, and materials associated with it. J K Rowlings created and owns everything to do with Harry Potter
. I OWN NOTHING HERE!
The story that I wrote was suppose to be a decently short one shot drama depicting the thoughts and point of view of the four different members of Number 4 Privet Drive's household. But, I got bored with it, and decided to do something silly with it by adding a Buffyverse character to it via reincarnation. Then chopped it up, giving each character a chapter of their own.
Which, BtVS character did I drop into the HP Universe? Okay, you can guess this one easily--It's Buffy. Why? Aside from the fact that there's damn few, if any, Buffy as Harry stories out there, I just think that they are a lot more compatible then Xander or Giles, the two that usually get the spot for the Blank-as-Harry role. Both of them have to deal with Prophecies; they have come back from the dead, they have trouble with adult authority figures, they have fickle friends; just breathing brings trouble and chaos down on them. And they both want 'normal' lives.
Harry is going to be OOC, but what can you expect when he's got the memories of a twenty-one year old Slayer lodged in his head?
Here's the story, I hope you enjoy it. S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7
After jumping off the tower, Buffy is reborn into a new and dangerous life. S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7
RECYCLE, PLEASE! Summary:
When Buffy jumped off Glory's tower and died, she never considered reincarnation a viable option. For a Southern California gal, Buffy was strangely conservative in that area. It was Heaven or Hell for the ol' Buffster. But to prove the Universe (or the PTBs) had a twisted sense of humor, Buffy abruptly awoke to the familiar: Her Slayer senses screaming in the aftermath of a mystical battle. Naturally, there was the usual smell of blood, burning, spent terror, violent death, and the feel of dissipating magical energies. She was not surprised she had a stabbing pain in the middle of her forehead, or blood running down her face--Injury, even if it was temporary, was a common condition for Buffy since becoming a slayer. Her blinking, smoke blurred eyes viewed a devastated, damaged room, a body on the floor--malignant dark spirit escaping through one of the holes puncturing the nursery room walls--even the wails and cries of grief and loss, had sadly become familiar things in her life.
What was new in her extensive slay experience, was a dark-haired, wild-eyed man sudden shooting into the room, running up to her, scooping her up in his arms and cuddling her against his chest, murmuring softly down on the top of her head a single name--
And that was when a completely stunned Buffy realized two important things: She was not in her usual body--And that she was in serious trouble. NINE YEARS LATER . . .
A wild mop of dark hair popped up from behind a horribly patterned floral wing chair. A few strands of thick, black hair dropped over large round framed glasses that had slipped to the end of his nose. With a single slim finger on the nosepiece, the boy pushed his glasses up the straight nose to their proper place on the bridge of his nose; the thin slivers of transparent crystals strangely distorting the vivid green eyes behind them. Dampening their intensity. At that moment, those green eyes squinted in annoyance. Suspicious arm and hand movements revealed the open back of the over stuffed wing chair--Quickly, small objects disappeared into the interior. Long, nimble fingers flickered over the Velcro edged flap, closing and concealing the hidden compartment.
His pale face schooled into a show of nonchalance, the slim figure of the boy, wearing worn bellbottom jeans and a faded blue and white large stripe shirt, slipped silently from behind the chair clutching a red and yellow featherduster. Inhumanly graceful and silent, the boy crossed the cluttered living room, a rectangular space filled with tasteless and tacky furniture and knick-knacks.
Over the fireplace, on the mantel, sharing space with one incredibly ugly vase, was a collection of pictures recording the history of a family composed of a blond man with a bizarre resemblance to a walrus, including a bushy moustache. A woman with a horsy, simpering face, and a long giraffe like neck. The third blond figure represented in the pictures, depending on progressing age, alternated between the shape and size of a beach ball, to a small baby whale--The only real constant was the figure's nose--It
resembled a piggish snout at all ages.
To the dark haired boy's intense, and absolute, relief and gratitude, not a single picture on the mantel was of him in any
stage of time whatsoever!
The boy's confident glide abruptly became a stomping, jerky gait--A better representation of a ten years old child's uncoordinated, uncertain and hesitant walk. He entered the kitchen, where the horsy face woman from the pictures sat at the kitchen table.
Instead of a simpering expression, the woman scowled--Her eyes and face radiating disgust and disapproval; the ingratiating, sycophantic face was one Petunia saved for 'quality' people. Certainly not for a good-for-nothing freak, like her nephew! The boy in front of her had years of exposure to her spite and malice, he was immune and indifferent to the expression she focused on him.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia?"
The woman's thin lips tightened and her scowl deepened. The nephew, that was ever the source of her discontent and irritation, the freakish intruder in her normal life and house, stood patiently in front of her, his bright eyes, her sister's Lily's eyes, staring at her. Petunia felt an irrational and spiteful urge to scratch and dig them out. Lily's eyes--The girl who received anything and everything just by batting her eyelashes and flashing those unnatural, freakish eyes--! Resentment and jealousy rolled through Petunia's chest and the urge to commit violence against her nephew spewed into her mind. However, Petunia was nothing less then a careful and controlled and extremely cautious woman; but, beyond all those things, she was foremost a coward and a bully. She caught and restrained herself with barely an outward quiver.
Besides, Petunia had to reluctantly, secretly, admit, there was something unsettling in those eyes . . .Something . . .something . . .dark. Something dangerous . . .Something that made Petunia even more cautious then usual, and to some degree, fearful of her nine year old nephew.
Lily's eyes, maybe, Petunia considered uneasily, but there was nothing of her sister's gentle and forgiving nature in those freakishly green eyes. Nothing Lily could have passed on . . .But nothing James Potter could have either, Petunia was solidly confident of that! For all James Potter was an even bigger freak then her sister; born as he was directly to them
! No, no, not James Potter . . .She was certain . . .
Back then, Petunia had the misfortune of having to meet with James Potter on several social occasions she was not able to avoid. She had judged the man to have had been spoiled in the way only the wealthier, and powerful, upper classes could--And for that upbringing, be somewhat selfish and extremely dangerous. Upon a few occasions, Petunia was quite certain she had witnessed flashes of cruelty in his hazel eyes. Not for the first time, Petunia was caught wondering how Lily could ever have come to love a man like James Potter. That never made sense to her at all!
So, if not from Lily, or that freak she married, where did that awful, terrifying Darkness she sensed and saw in the boy come from?
Attempting to suppress the thought and failing, unbidden, frightening stories of fairies and Changelings came to her mind. As usual, whenever she considered that possibility, her stomach turned into a frozen stone at not only hosting one of those creatures, but the very idea that she could possibly be related to those things
! The thought disgusted and appalled her. While the freaks were bad enough, at least They
were Human--If barely! Though, the thought of ridding herself of her nephew on such a narrow technicality gladdened Petunia's heart, until she recalled their grandmother's strange green glowing
eyes--Exactly like the boy's.
No, Petunia was disappointed to acknowledge that her faint of hope of saving herself and her family (her real family
) was a brief, failed dream. Conveniently ignoring the fact that her grandmother's blood ran through both her and her son, Dudley. Mentally Petunia sighed to herself. She would have to wait and endure . . .At least, until the freaks came for the boy, liked that head freak promised.
She silently scoffed--How could a freak be trusted to keep his word? It was not like they were normal people . . .No, not at all. Admittedly, not that it was all bad news--Her freak nephew did at least bring in some cash in the form of a maintenance stipend; while her husband did make a decent salary, things, like food, were so expensive and getting more so. Her Dudders was a growing boy; he needed more food. And Vernon was a healthy, robust man--He needed man-size portions to remain that way.
Other expenses came up. Her Duddikins needed--No, deserved better things. Children could be so cruel; trivial things could cause them to turn on a perfectly innocent likeable child: so nothing but the best for her baby boy. The newest fashions, the best toys--The toys she could defend, Petunia rationalized they were tools, to help her sweet Dudders develop his mental and academic potential.
In moments of painful honesty with herself, Petunia had to admit her sweet little Duddicoo was not as brilliant as she or his father, Vernon, hoped or expected him to be. But he was not stupid; all he needed was a little confidence, and her baby Duddies could shine! But how could he feel the slightest bit confident when that freak pulled in perfect grades, and just had to, spitefully enough, rub them in Dudders face?
Vernon, good father that he was, tried to 'correct' the freak. Tried to get the freak to fail a few tests, to get lower grades--That would have been the proper, decent thing for the freak to do, to show his gratitude for everything they had done for him. Instead, instead . . .Vernon . . .somehow ended up with a broken nose. And his head and shoulders wedged into the oven, with an apple shoved into his mouth, while his rear sported a dusty and tiny foot imprint!
When that horrible, evil
, freak of a boy was threatened with an orphanage for his unspeakable acts, all he did was smirk, and reminded them that his maintenance checks would be forwarded to the orphanage as well!
They should have just sent him packing to an orphanage, right there and then--Petunia recalled, nearly shaking in self-righteous fury. Except, except . . .Duddikins new educational toys . . .How were they going to pay for them then?
Honesty and reality were rarely factors in Petunia's life. She believed what she believed and that was that. But the reality and the black and white honesty reflected on a bill was too pressing and harsh to ignore. They had gotten used to a lifestyle that had only been made possible with the boy's money. And the boy--Petunia knew she would have to hire someone to take over the boy's physically demanding 'chores'. The yard work alone was beyond her means to manage by herself. But without the money, they had no alternatives or options, except to try and do those jobs themselves. Now, how could they do that? Vernon, poor man, was usually too tired from working all day. Have him take up extra chores, after he arrived home from work? Just to cruel and scandalous to be considered! As for her Dudders, he needed the time to play and be a child. After all, a childhood, a precious childhood came only once in a lifetime.
That left the ungrateful boy. The boy who did cooperated, who did the chores, but did them with a surly attitude--And a dangerous glint in his green eyes. Freakish eyes, that had been muted, a relieved Petunia thought, by those ridiculous glasses the boy had found. She quietly scoffed at the audacity of the child, coming to her with that nurse's note, demanding new glasses while wearing a set on his face! Glasses the boy admitted he had found in a dustbin, on his walk home from school. Why, why should she pay for new glasses when he had provided a pair for himself already?
Regardless of his attitude, at least the boy did do the work. Rationalizing, and repressing any cautionary voice within her, the thin, sour woman soothed over her concerns; knowing how important the next day was going to be for her standing in the neighborhood, utilizing the boy's labors was just an unavoidable and necessary evil.
"Boy." Petunia ground out harshly. Regardless of his perfectly respectful stance, she was certain he was mocking her--Somehow.
Petunia gave her 'nephew' a suspicious glare. She snapped out, peevishly. "Mrs. Bull-Rush, head of the gardening committee, and some of the ladies from the committee, will be coming over for tea tomorrow. For their visit, not only will you be cleaning this house from top to bottom today, but you will also mow the lawn, pull out the weeds in the back and front flowerbeds, trim back the hedges in the backyard--And
dust, clean, and polish the lawn furnishings until they shine! Those are in addition to your other chores for today! Is that clear, Boy?"
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," the Boy acknowledged, seemingly respectful enough. But there was a hint, a subtle hint, of a derisive undertone.
"Well? Get to work!"
The Boy's glasses suddenly slipped down his nose, and he caught Petunia's eyes with his own unobstructed green orbs. Petunia's irritation was abruptly replaced with breath stealing, heart-clenching terror, as that part of her brain that was still sitting in the trees screamed and ran away in the face of a hunting predator. Shadows moved into the bright, cheery kitchen darkening everything except those nearly glowing green eyes. The Boy held Petunia's gaze while slowly backing away in a smooth, silent gait until he disappeared past the kitchen threshold. Only then did the darkened kitchen regain its usual Sun brightened appearance.
Leaving alone, sitting in her own kitchen, a shuddering and sweating Petunia, (a completely
normal and properly brought up woman, thank you very much!). S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7S7
Yeah, that’s that for Petunia. Harry is coming up next. And I did tell you Harry is OOC.