Harry Potter and the Exiled Sentinel

Standard Disclaimer: The following is a work of derivative fiction. _Harry_ _Potter_ belongs to J.K. Rowling, and _Buffy_ _the_ _Vampire_ _Slayer_ belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. This work also borrows some elements and ideas from _The Dresden Files_, which belongs to Jim Butcher. I claim no compensation for this work, it is for my own enjoyment and the enjoyment of others, free of charge.

I also wish to thank I'd-Rather-Be-A-Winchester, my beta-reader.

So, with out further ado,

_Harry Potter and the Exiled Sentinel_

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><p>Algernon Lepswitch sighed and looked mournfully at his half-drunk glass of pumpkin juice. He was a disappointment to his family. His father's letter hadn't said it in so many words, but he knew that it was true. Last night, Algernon broke a tradition of Slytherin sorting in his family that, as far as anyone could tell at least, stretched back all the way to the Founding. The Sorting Hat had spent a very deliberate five seconds on his head before it had shouted: "RAVENCLAW!" It was now a horribly gray and rainy morning of September the second. Theophilus, the Lepswitch family's ill-tempered Great-Horned Owl, had just swooped down onto the Ravenclaw table at breakfast in the Great Hall, bearing a prickly, cold, and disappointed letter from from the family patriarch, Archibald. How his father had learned of his sorting so quickly, Algernon didn't know and didn't care to find out. He turned to look across the Hall at his two older brothers, Anaxagoras and Anaximander, at the Slytherin table, hoping for some form of support. But it appeared that Theophilus had either made an earlier delivery to them, or they had taken it upon themselves to anticipate Father's request for shunning, and refused to look Algernon in the eye.<p>

And thus it was to be for the rest of Algernon's Hogwarts career: shunned by his family both at home and at school. They didn't kick him out, obviously, that would just not be proper. After all, it wasn't as if he had been sorted into Gryffindor or (Merlin forbid) Hufflepuff. But Algernon stayed at Hogwarts for all the holidays during the school term, and his summers were spent either in his home kitchens with the house elves (Tilly and Pocky were the only members of the household who spoke to him), sneaking books out of the family library when his father wasn't looking, or in the haven he found during the summer after his third year: the Birmingham Central Library.

Earlier in the year, Algernon had overheard one of his housemates, a muggleborn, mention the library while he was reading in the Ravenclaw common room after he had finished his homework for that night. So, on his first full day of that summer holiday, Algernon changed into muggle clothes, asked Pocky to make him a packed lunch, walked the two miles from the family's manse to the main road, struck out his wand, and rode the Knight Bus to Birmingham. Upon seeing the library for the first time, Algernon's mouth quite literally dropped open in awe. He had thought Hogwarts' Library to be large, but _this…_? It was almost beyond his comprehension. Through some engineering marvel, the muggles had managed to create an _upside-down ziggurat!_ As to how it stood up without magic, Algernon had no clue, but he was determined to find out.

He visited the reference desk immediately upon entering, and asked the librarian that very question (of course, omitting the part about magic). The librarian, thrilled at seeing a child so interested in reading and learning about something other than _He-Man_, _Thundercats_, or _Bananaman_, personally showed Algernon a reproduction of the plans for the library's construction, as well as relevant texts on modern architecture. Algernon read as much as he could until the library's closing time, only understanding about half of what was written. Upon leaving, he resolved to return as soon as all of his summer school work was completed (and thoroughly revised) and read more about earlier, and more basic architecture, as well as this strange discipline known as _physics_ that the texts kept making vague references to.

When his summer school work was finished to his satisfaction, Algernon returned to the Birmingham Central Library every single day of the summer holidays. He visited so often partly because he found the quiet and thoroughly _bookish_ atmosphere so comforting. True, he received nothing but frosty silence from his family (aside of course, from Pocky and Tilly) at home, but the silence in the library was much warmer and congenial. He also went every day so as to avoid the active anger of his father. Algernon never signed up for a library card and never borrowed any volumes, knowing that muggle books were absolutely _not_ welcome at the Lepswitch estate.

His inquiries into older architectural styles led him all the way back through the centuries until he came upon a large and beautifully illustrated book about Ancient Roman architecture. This was something he was more familiar with, as a cursory understanding of Latin and Roman history was a mandatory part of his pre-Hogwarts tutoring. From there he found himself diverted into the academic corridor of history, where he laid his hands upon the first volume of Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. That particular work kept him busy for over a week. It was there that he had his first great realization. Muggles weren't just _clever_, they were _sophisticated_. He had never read a history text so professionally written, with almost minimal sensationalism or bias. True, the text bore no references to the magical history of the time, but Algernon found Gibbon's analysis of the reasons behind the Empire's fall to be sound, and found his writing style to be quite engaging.

Algernon's studies of architecture and the _physics_ behind it took him on a tour through scientific and philosophical history, beginning with Aristotle, Archimedes, and Ptolemy, traversing, Copernicus, Newton, and Galileo, and ending with Einstein and his modern critics and disciples. From reading these texts and researching the various technological discoveries that developed alongside them, Algernon came to another astonishing conclusion: Muggles were _more_ sophisticated than _wizards_. In fact, he was beginning to believe that the Statute of Secrecy of 1692 was more beneficial to muggles than to wizards. Forced to find technological solutions to everyday problems without the benefit of a village mage, muggles developed more and more sophisticated machines to relieve them of the burden of the backbreaking and humiliating labor that so often distinguished them from wizards and witches. This outbreak of innovation may not have been a direct result of the Statute (after all, the Parthenon and the Pantheon had no magic holding _them_ up, and they were older than _Hogwarts_!), but, in Algernon's humble opinion the Statute certainly helped. It was a frightening realization really. Magic throttled innovation. It throttled progress. As he had discovered in his independent research in the Hogwarts library, a majority of the wizards and witches famous for magical innovations, such as new spells, ward schemes, enchanted objects, etc., did not have the _purest _of blood. In fact, many of them were muggleborn!

Thus began Algernon's lifelong quest: magical innovation, in theory and practice both. He knew the wizarding world was stagnating, and, as the first Blood War began to break out during his time at Hogwarts, he suspected Lord Voldemort did as well. When he first heard the name of the mysterious Dark Lord, Algernon immediately began to investigate his identity. Taking every bit of information he could find, from the man's supposed Parseltongue ability, his pure-blood mania, his veiled references to being descended from Slytherin himself, the Chamber of Secrets Fiasco of 1942, and endless scouring of Hogwarts' academic and enrollment records, he came to conclusion: one Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr., b. 31 December, 1926 of Merope Gaunt and the heir to a muggle barony named Tom Riddle. Graduate of Hogwarts, class of 1943, Head Boy, and recipient of the Magical Medal of Merit and the "Special Award for Services to the School." His full name, as Algernon discovered quite serendipitously, was an anagram for "I am Lord Voldemort." Algernon emitted a dry chuckle upon discovering that amusing little tidbit, though in enough of an undertone so as not to arouse the ire of Madam Pince.

As the war progressed, and Algernon graduated Hogwarts and moved immediately into a research position in the Department of Ministries (his N.E.W.T. scores in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes were some of the highest ever-they were rivaled only by the scores of Lily Evans, a muggleborn Gryffindor in his year), Algernon developed deep suspicions about Riddle's real motives behind it. True, muggleborns and blood traitors were the supposed primary targets of Riddle's bloodlust, (however hypocritical it was, him being a half-blood, after all) but from the casualty reports Algernon managed to sneak several surreptitious looks at, it was the pureblood families that took the greatest hits. These purebloods were in either direct, "traitorous" opposition to Riddle's campaign, followers of his that "displeased" him, or, more frequently than one would expect, pureblood sympathizers who nevertheless remained neutral in the conflict. Algernon's parents were among these, as well as such notable families as the Davises and Greengrasses. Archibald Lepswitch was a powerful old wizard who would _not_ submit to some upstart Dark Lord who would not provide proof of his lineage. Riddle killed the old man himself, in a titanic duel that killed Algernon's mother, Tilly and Pocky in the crossfire, and razed the Lepswitch manse in the process. Only grumpy old Theophilus had survived, as he was out hunting at the time. Both Anaxagoras and Anaximander had joined Riddle's ranks upon their respective graduations from Hogwarts several years prior, and Riddle had hoped to gain access to the family fortune through Anaxagoras, the eldest son, after Archibald's rather messy death.

He was frustrated several days later, however, when in a rather twisted turn of fate, both brothers were killed by James Potter in the disastrous Death Eater raid on the Potter estate. The Death Eaters succeeded in killing the elder Potters and burning down the Potter mansion, but James managed to escape. In one of his last spells before he cleared the slowly failing anti-apparition wards, James animated a gnarled old elm tree on the edge of the property as the Lepswitch brothers gave chase. Its now murderous branches twisted and grew rapidly, snapping out to impale each brother in the chest through the heart simultaneously. They died instantly. Riddle was enraged. It was not to be the last time a Potter frustrated his plans.

Algernon was researching and experimenting late at night in the Department of Mysteries, as he was wont to do, when he felt the family magic descend upon him and name him the heir and head of the Lepswitch family. He knew what it meant immediately, and resolved then and there not to leave the Department of Mysteries until the end of the War. He transfigured a cot for his office, and survived on rations from the Ministry commissary for the next several years. He was no slouch of a wizard, but he did not kid himself into thinking he could take Riddle on. He knew it was Riddle that would come for him. The Dark Lord knew enough about the third Lepswitch brother that it would be foolhardy to send any number of Death Eaters after him. Algernon, was, after all, a champion duelist trained by Filius Flitwick no less, and could most likely wipe the floor with even the best of Riddle's rank and file. He was, Archibald Lepswitch's son, and that man had given Riddle pause, even if his two elder sons had left something to be desired. No, Algernon decided not to risk exposing himself for even one moment, trusting in the Department of Mysteries' myriad labyrinthine protections to conceal him from Riddle's eyes. He dealt with the cold grief from the loss of his estranged family in silence and solitude. He shed the most hidden tears for Pocky and Tilly, though he reserved some for his poor mother, a trophy wife caught up in a war she wanted no part of. He knew that she had not approved of her other sons' decisions, but her husband had let them "make their own damn foolish mistakes" as he said. In his mother's last letter to Algernon, she had related more of what Archibald had said: "If they get themselves killed, that's their own problem. I am blessed to be a wizard with three sons. Algernon may be an odd duck, but he's sensible if nothing else, and will bring no shame to this family as its heir and later paterfamilias if the worst happens." It had been gruff, as well as rather left-hand-complimentary, but it was the best that Algernon could expect from the old man. It had endeared his father to him somewhat, even if they still did not speak for the rest of the old man's life. He had toasted his father eventually for his stubbornness and bravery in the face of certain death after he had worked through some of his grief over Tilly, Pocky, and his mother, but that was all he could really afford him after all those years of chilly disapproval and neglect. He never shed a tear for his foolish and bigoted brothers.

When Riddle finally fell that fateful Halloween, Algernon did not believe for an instant that the poor Potter child had anything to do with it. If James Potter was one of the most powerful wizards in Britain, his wife Lily was most certainly the most _dangerous_ witch. She may not have packed nearly as much of a punch as her husband, but Algernon knew her to be terribly intelligent, knowledgeable, and, above all, _cunning_. There were numerous ways Algernon could think up that she could have used to protect her son against such a mad man as Riddle, (if mad man he truly was-Algernon still held deep suspicions about his motives and methods) all of them ancient, most likely runic, and very, _very_ nasty. Perhaps Riddle _was_ dead, but Algernon remained skeptical. If he was, and the threat was truly gone, why hide the boy away, as many suspected Dumbledore had?

Anyway, it wasn't as if any of this was Algernon's problem, but today was Harry Potter's birthday, and the reminder of it on his magically automated day-by-day-peel-away calendar as the clock chimed midnight had pulled him into his memories. Algernon sighed and rubbed his eyes, turning back to his research on the quantum, and his proposed theory on its effects on magic and the theoretical _thaum_ (basic unit of magic, analogous to an atom). It wasn't long until his eyes began to droop again and he slowly made his way over to his old cot. He had never removed it, even after the War ended. He had used some of his inherited money to build a small (and heavily warded) cottage on the Lepswitch estate, but even in peacetime he slept nearly as many nights in the Ministry as he did at home. He had become so used to living down in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries, that crashing there was second nature to him now. He had used the remaining majority of the Lepswitch money to secretly fund various muggle scientific research endeavors and university physics programs, as much as a final way to stick it to his father and his brothers as it was a part of his great scientific-magical life endeavor.

It seemed as if he had just barely lain down to sleep when an alarm went off throughout the department. The voice that kept repeating the alert was so loud that it made the walls reverberate. Algernon was so startled that he barely managed to keep from falling off of his cot surprise. It was an alarm he had only heard once, during his orientation. It was an alarm that nobody ever expected to go off. In fact, as far as Algernon knew, it had _never _gone off in the whole three-hundred-year history of the Department of Mysteries. "ALERT! ALERT! UNAUTHORIZED ACTIVITY IN THE VEIL CHAMBER! UNAUTHORIZED ACTIVITY IN THE VEIL CHAMBER!" The booming automated voice was rough and deeply male in contrast to the Ministry Lifts' cool female recording. It could only mean one thing: something had _come out of the Veil!_ No one ever entered the Veil Chamber when it was on lockdown during off hours. The _only _way the wards in the room could have been tripped would be if something or, Merlin forbid, _someone_ had come through the Veil, Algernon was willing to bet his bloodstained inherited fortune upon it. He grabbed his wand and nearly ran for his office door.

Algernon strode briskly down the hallway to the Veil Chamber, checking his watch as he did so. Apparently he had slept for longer than he had thought, as it was now 3:47 in the morning. He knew for sure that he was the only Unspeakable still in the department. Even old Croaker normally shuffled and creaked his way out around 2:00. His heart was palpitating rapidly( he refused to think of it as _beating_, his heart wasn't a _drum_ after all-and palpitating made it sound as if he wasn't utterly terrified) and he held his wand stiffly in his sweaty right hand. He normally didn't see much excitement (his dueling days were over) and this was an opportunity, a possible _discovery_ of a lifetime! Some...entity had come _back_ through the Veil!

_Well, _he reminded himself, _it hasn't necessarily come _back. _It may not be anything from_ _this plane of existence. After all, one _must _keep an open mind, especially in these circumstances._

When Algernon arrived at the appropriate door, he took a moment to compose himself. He rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath. He then gripped the doorknob in his left hand, whilst holding his wand steadily in his right. With a swift jerk, Algernon turned the knob, threw open the door and poked his wand into the darkness.

After a brief moment of stillness and silence, Algernon's courage briefly superseded his well-developed sense of self-preservation. He urged his stubborn feet awkwardly into the Chamber. Before he could stop himself, he let go of the door. It swung silently back on well-oiled hinges and shut with a rather ominous "CLICK," leaving the Chamber in near darkness. The only light was the pale luminescence that issued from the Veil itself.

Algernon swallowed. The Chamber was silent. It was, however a suspicious sort of silence, as if some great ruckus had just occurred, and the last shard of proverbial shattered glass had tinkled into stillness precisely before he entered. Algernon's heart was beating (ahem-_palpitating_) its way up into his throat from his chest, and he was starting to notice a foul stench emanating from the foot of the Arch that held the Veil. It stank of blood, death, decay, and...did fear have an odor? (Algernon knew of course that dogs could smell the undetectable pheromones released by humans in a state of fright: he had read about it. But he knew that humans' evolutionarily atrophied olfactory nerves were not that sensitive. Or were they?)

Steeling himself, Algernon called to mind the mantra of one of his favorite muggle authors: "Fear is the mind killer..." He took a steadying breath through his nostrils, drew up his occlumency shields, raised his wand high above his head, and silently intoned _ignis propugnaculus multi!_ Seven orange tongues of flame leapt from the tip of his wand and swirled out into the darkness to light seven great sconces that encircled the Chamber.

His efficient calming ritual finished, (Algernon prided himself on his efficiency, most wizards didn't even know the meaning of the word, in his opinion) Algernon stepped up to the dais on which the Arch and Veil rested with restored confidence. There, lying crumpled unevenly across the rough-hewn steps up to the Veil was...a corpse, and an astonishingly quickly decaying one at that. Algernon noted this as he wrinkled his nose in mild distaste. The body was decaying rapidly into a smelly grayish paste. So rapidly in fact, that Algernon was having trouble identifying its nature. He could tell that it was not human, that was for sure, but other than that...It was roughly human-shaped. Bi-pedal at the least. But it had a long, thick tail, and the body was covered in grayish-brown scales. The feet looked like that of a Velociraptor, and the grotesquely large fingers of its hands ended in sharp claws. The head was mostly destroyed, and what was left was melting so fast that Algernon couldn't get a good look-

"Messy, isn't it?" Algernon whirled around, his wand out with a spell ready in his non-verbal, occlumency molded mental firing chamber, only to come face to face with a firearm of the more physical sort. The mental structure of his non-verbal spell dissipated instantly out of shock. Algernon was absolutely flabbergasted. Of all the things one would expect to come forth from the Veil...!?

"Easy now, no sudden moves." The wielder of the sleek, black and deadly Berretta 92f said with a dangerous calm. Algernon recognized the pistol. He had seen it in the hands of John McLane in _Die Hard_, (Algernon happened to be in New York on a assignment from Croaker the week of its U.S. release, and decided not to wait for the November U.K. release-he was quite the action film fan, as a matter of fact) but to see it, barrel first in real life was not something he was prepared for. Algernon's eyes widened and he lowered his wand very slowly. The man (for it was a man, at least, on initial observation) knew how to hold a gun. He had a firm, two-handed grip, no Hollywood-hero-one-handed silliness for this chap. No sir.

"Now you _look_ human, which is a step in the right direction at least." Said the Man With the Gun. "I won't shoot you, so long as you don't cook me all crispy with your magic wand. You mind telling me where, and...well.._when_ I am?" Algernon blinked, and finally looked the Man With the Gun in the eyes...eye. Oh...dear. The fellow seemed to be a young aspiring successor to Mad-Eye Moody. He had all of his limbs (Good Show!) and his nose was intact (though it looked like it had been broken at least once) but he had a fair number of visible scars. Some of them were fresher than others, and he also seemed to be sporting several fresh and bleeding cuts. Almost none marred his face, but Algernon could identify various double puncture wounds (vampire bites!) on the Man's neck, and several pale slashes on his arms and the visible portion of his chest, where his flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves had a few open buttons.

The eye-patch said it all, though. There was something about the loss of an eye that was more visceral, more worrying than even the loss of a limb. After all, most wizards didn't find Mad-Eye Moody's claw-footed peg-leg to be all that disturbing, but even if the grizzled old Auror hadn't replaced his lost eye with that magical monstrosity, an eye-patch or an empty socket would still make more wizards and witches twitch in discomfort (or fear) than hearing Moody's "CLUNK-CLUNK" of a gait.

"Uh...hello? D'ya speak English? Parlez vous francais? Those are the only two I can speak with anything approaching fluency..." The stranger lowered his gun slightly. Algernon blinked again.

"Er, I'm sorry, but _where _you are is...well...classified." Algernon replied with some hesitation , prompting the Man With the Gun to raise his eyebrow...the one above his eye-patch... (shudder) in what looked to be something between amusement and confusion. "But as to _when_ you are..." Algernon continued as he checked his watch again, "I don't suppose it would hurt anything to tell you that it is currently 3:55 a.m. (or 0355 hours according to your preference) on 31 July Anno Domini nineteen hundred and eighty-eight."

It was now the Man With the Gun's turn to blink (again, uncomfortable to watch). "Well, fuck!" the man cursed. He sighed, lowered his gun, clicked on the safety and tucked it into a thigh holster strapped to his faded blue jeans. "Another question for ya." he hedged while running his hand through his hair in resigned frustration. "D'ya like shrimp?"

"Shrimp?" Algernon asked, feeling that this whole situation was getting stranger by the second.

"Y'know, little red-and-white shellfish? They're great with cocktail sauce?"

"I know bloody-well what _shrimp_ are!" Algernon retorted hotly, now becoming more than a little cross. Was this man insane?

"Excellent! That's all I needed to know!" The Man With the Now Holstered Gun's face broke into a cheeky, though somewhat manic grin. He adjusted the straps of the backpack he was wearing, and made for the now visible door. Algernon sputtered.

"Wait! You can't just leave! And what do you _mean,_ 'that's all you need to know?' That doesn't make any sense! And what about the...the..." Algernon hesitated as he stumbled to catch up with the stranger, whose quick, almost military strides had brought him to the doorway in short order.

"The what?" the man shot back over his shoulder, exasperated.

"The CORPSE of that THING at the foot of the Arch! Did you _kill _it?" Algernon practically shouted. "You can't just _leave_ that there! And who in the blazes are you anyway, pointing a bloody _gun_ at me like that? You nearly scared the piss out of me! I'll have you know that-

"AHEM!" The stranger interrupted.

"Bu-" Algernon tried to re-start his tirade, but the stranger cut him off again.

"AHEM!" The Stranger cleared his throat louder and cocked his head in the direction of the dais, having halted his double-time march out of the Chamber. Algernon harrumphed in indignation but finally turned back to the dais, only for his jaw to drop in shock. The corpse was disappearing! After melting down into a bubbly puddle of sickly gray goo, it boiled and steamed until it had evaporated without a trace.

"Yeah, Shiranis demons may be a bear to kill, but they make up for it with an easy clean-up." the Man said with an air of nonchalance, as if evaporating demons (_demons_!) were just old hat. "Honestly, I can't tell you how many hours of my life have been sucked away by scrubbing demon slime and monster goo out of my digs."

Algernon took a deep breath, counted backwards from ten in Sanskrit, and prudently elected to disregard the vanishing corpse (of a demon?) for the moment. "Regardless...sir...you can't just waltz on out of here after coming OUT of the Veil! This is unprecedented. You need to be questioned about your...plane?...of origin, as well as inspected for quantum anomalies. We still have only a very thin grasp of the Veil's function, and what little we know now needs to be reassessed...I need to call in the Chief Unspeakable..." Algernon trailed off at the look of pure fury on the stranger's face.

"And just _what_ makes you think I'll cooperate?" he asked quietly, with an underlying menace to his voice

"Er..." Algernon was a bit startled by the conversation's sudden shift in tone. The stranger narrowed his eye and stepped slowly away from the door, gradually getting closer and closer to Algernon until his face was barely an inch from Algernon's own at his last word.

"Let me make myself perfectly clear: I am _nobody's_ lab-rat!" The final "t" of "lab-rat" was aspirated and forced through gritted teeth. Algernon, swallowed, straightened his shoulders and stubbornly stood his ground. This maniac may have caught him by off-guard, but, he reminded himself, he wasn't the champion of the Hogwarts dueling championship of '78 for nothing.

"I am afraid that I can't just let you leave." Algernon said with artificial steadiness.

"Oh?" the stranger asked. "And why's that?"

"You've just come through the _Veil_. Who knows what kind of contamination from the extra-dimensional fields, or infectious diseases you might carry? There is a distinct possibility that nobody on this plane of existence has any immunity to them. For all I know you could cause a plague if you leave here! I'm afraid I must insist upon quarantine!"

The stranger snorted derisively. "If you'll notice, _I'm_ not the one who melted. And besides, all of my shots are up to date. I did my human pincushion impression before I left for Africa."

"Again you're spouting utter nonsense!" Algernon nearly shouted, getting more and more riled up. "What does Africa have to do with anything?! Now I really must insist that you stay here while I alert the off-duty Unspeakables." Algernon drew his wand, his heart beginning to thump rapidly. He noticed the other man tense ever so slightly, readying himself for a fight. Algernon swallowed again, trying to moisten his suddenly parched throat. The man cocked his head again, but made no move to leave or attack. Algernon's nerves began to fray and he had to force his knees not to wobble. This wasn't the dueling arena, he was beginning to realize. There were no rules or regulations. This man could do anything to him with no penalty, and Algernon was not fool enough to believe the stranger weak or helpless simply because he did not carry a wand. The man practically radiated danger.

Algernon braced himself, his wand at the ready, waiting for the tension between the two of them to snap. But instead, the stranger began to laugh with a dry, amused chuckle. "Wow, talk about that good old British stiff upper lip!" The man said with a grin. "Boy, I've missed that. I think I'm going to regret putting you down...at least a little bit."

Algernon bristled. "That is enough! I've had quite enough of you, you crazy…person!" Algernon jerked his wand out, a stunning spell just about to leap from the tip of his wand, when the stranger _moved_. In what seemed to be the blink of an eye, the one-eyed man grabbed Algernon's left wrist and, in one fluid movement, yanked Algernon forward. He then twisted Algernon's arm behind his back, turned him around and trapped Algernon in a chokehold. The arm twisting was so abrupt and so painful, that Algernon dropped his wand. Vainly, he scrabbled at the stranger's iron grip around his neck, struggling to breathe. He tried desperately to pry the man's arm away with his free arm, but the stranger's hold was just too strong.

"Look," the man hissed into his ear." I really don't wanna do this, but you're leaving me no choice. Now why don't you just take a little nap? You look pretty beat anyway."

"Hrk!" was all Algernon managed in reply. He struggled to break free again, but this time his arm was all sluggish, and why was everything getting...so...fuzzy?

* * *

><p>Xander gently lowered "Wesley-in-a-dress" to the floor and laid his body out in as comfortable a position as he could manage. What was with the dress, robe, or whatever his getup was anyway? True, he had seen Willow don similar garb while working elaborate and archaic mojo before, but this stuff looked…lived in. Worked in. Willow's were always in pristine condition, seeing as she rarely wore them. As he searched the dork for anything that could inform him of where he was, he found frays, tears, patches, faded splash-shaped bleach marks, and a seemingly endless array of pockets all over his…robes. Yes. Robes sounded a bit more dignified than a dress. The man was obviously some sort of wizard or magician, so robes fit.<p>

In one of the pockets he found an ID card that read: Algernon Lepswitch; Unspeakable; Department of Mysteries. Ohhhhhkaaaay…From the top of the ID, Xander could tell that it was issued by something called the "Ministry of Magic," whatever in the Hellmouth _that _was. He had never heard of such an association before. The wiggins he had had since he went through that arch were making him feel less and less like he was in Kansas anymore. He wasn't going to give into dimensionally displaced despair just yet, though. If the magic nerd's dialect was any indication, that funky arch had sent him all the way from Ethiopia to Merry Olde Watcher Land! Xander rolled his shoulders and grinned. He was Watcher's Council Headquarters-bound! Giles would be so surprised to see him. He might just polish his glasses in confusion hard enough to give himself a new prescription.

The Ministry of Magic, as Xander came to realize was the strange, perhaps extra-dimensional building he had found himself in, was oddly empty for what seemed to be a fairly byzantine bureaucracy. By the time he had managed to find the visitors entrance, which he was beginning to believe was the only non-magical way out (he had observed from the shadows in the "Atrium" as a small group of people in red robes stepped out of a _fireplace _from _nowhere!_) Xander felt that he had truly fallen down the rabbit hole. Just finding his way out of the "Department of Mysteries" was difficult (and _mysterious_-nyuk,nyuk) enough. He had trudged through a massive hall with high shelves full of glass orbs, a weird-ass room that housed a tank of _swimming brains_, and several other attractions at the carnival of horrors before he found an old fashioned elevator complete with the fold back metal grille. And that was where its similarities with an old-fashioned elevator ended. The grille itself appeared to be painted gold, and there was no old-timey elevator operator to greet him and give him the tour of this department store from _The Twilight Zone_. Instead, a cool disembodied female voice announced his arrival to "The Atrium" on the first floor up from "The Department of Mysteries." Thinking that an atrium was probably close to an exit, Xander stepped off the lift and crept into the dark, but beautiful hall. Xander repressed a low whistle when he got a look at the finely polished hardwood floor. It was there that he saw the security desk and the visitor's entrance. Xander made his way silently across the hall (after witnessing the mind-bending arrival of the fireplace-people) and ghosted past the sleeping security guard at his desk to find…a telephone booth? Seeing that beat up old thing standing in the middle of the hard wood floor behind golden gates bent his mind even further. Xander had a high tolerance for the weird and, well, _wyrd_, having fought the forces of darkness alongside the Slayers for over ten years now, but this pushed him dangerously close to his breaking point. "Please don't be bigger on the inside; _please_ don't be bigger on the inside, I don't think I could handle that right now…" He muttered to himself as he opened it, seeing no other exit behind it. When it closed with an audible click behind him and nothing...stranger immediately occurred, Xander let out a breath in relief.

"The Ministry of Magic thanks you for your visit and wishes you a pleasant day." Said the same automated voice from the elevator, interrupting Xander's relieved reverie. The phone booth then slowly rose up into the ceiling, through the darkness of what Xander assumed was the earth (he had felt from the beginning that this Ministry of Magic place was underground; at least most of it) and into the gray early morning light of an abandoned side street in what he was guessing was London (why would a ministry in what was probably England be based anywhere else?) When he stepped out of the phone booth, he saw that, other than being mildly dirty, the street he found himself in was quite innocuous. It was edged by tall, drab, gray-stoned buildings, and was empty save for an overflowing dumpster nearby and loose newspaper pieces flapping about in the breeze.

Xander stooped over to grab one of the newspaper pieces that had wrapped itself around his foot. It was the front page of _The Times_. Ah. He was right. He _was_ in London. But his small amount of self-satisfaction deflated as he read the date: 30 July 1988. So Wesley-in-a-_robe_ wasn't just spouting nonsense about the date. He'd travelled back in time. Twenty _years_ back in time to be precise. Xander groaned quietly. He was _so _screwed.

Xander made note of the street signs as he left, just in case he would have to come back to the Ministry of Magic for any reason. He walked for several minutes to the nearest tube station, before realizing that he had no money to pay for the fare. He slapped his hand to his forehead, sighed, and resigned himself to a long walk through London. At least it wasn't raining…for once. Xander had spent about a year in England with Giles helping him rebuild the Council headquarters on the same plot of land where the former one had stood before it had been blown to smithereens by agents of the First. Visting Ye Olde Watchere HQ didn't sound all that great (he had very little desire to encounter that…pillock…yes, pillock-that was polite and watchery enough… Quentin Travers) but it was honestly his best bet at…well, anything really. He could identify himself as watcher at least. Giles had provided him with sufficient means of getting himself recognized as a Watcher anywhere and _anywhen_ (don't ask- the IWC dealt with some _weird_ shit) so perhaps Quentin and his crew could lend a hand to a temporally displaced fellow of theirs. Xander wasn't going to keep his hopes up (he was sure the Council had rules-oh how they loved their rules, especially back in the day- about temporal distortion and continuum meddling and whose-a-what's-it-bob's-your-uncle such-and-such) but the Watchers' Council honestly sounded safer than that crazy Ministry of Magic place, and that was saying something.

When Xander arrived, about two hours later, he was pleased to find that the building matched the photographs of the former Council HQ of his day. He was not pleased, however to see that the signs out front did not say _Greater London Antiquities Dealers_ as per the old Council's cover organization, but _Mulder and Brennan, Attorneys at Law_. Xander moaned. _Alright, alright._ He thought to himself. _So at the very least, I'm in a parallel world, like where Willow's kinky vampire twin was from. Maybe the Council just uses a different cover here. There's an easy way to check._ Xander leaned against a nearby bus stop and looked at the building. Hard. Reaching deep within himself, he called upon what Giles had called the _Mage Sight_. After the fall of Sunnydale, Giles had insisted Xander study and train his magic at least to some extent. After the fiasco with Caleb and the First, Giles had Xander take some crude magical aptitude exams. From the results, it appeared as if Xander had a talent for passive Divination. This did not mean, as Giles was forcefully clear to point out, that Xander could see the future. "Divination," as Xander remembered Giles saying "has very little to do with telling the future. That belongs more in the realm of prophecy. Divination involves things more along the lines of scrying, aura reading, magical tracing and tracking, and seeing through deception, both of the magical and mundane persuasion." So Caleb, however bat-shit-crazy and homicidal he was, was right about Xander in the end. He could _see_ things. He really was "The One Who Sees." Needless to say, Xander was rather ambivalent about the ramifications of this at first, but he learned to accept it, at least on a pure utilitarian basis. He still preferred mundane over magical solutions, but he recognized he had at least _some _talent and that it would be foolish to waste it.

As the eerie, ethereal world that was revealed by _Mage Sight_ appeared, Xander scanned the building all over for the various wards that the Watchers would have in place. No colors that screamed of magic in an otherwise black-and-white vision of the world around him appeared. _Well, shit._ Xander thought despairingly. _There's no Watcher's Council here, and I have no idea where else they could be, if they even exist here. _He was now even _more_ screwed.

Xander's stomach growled. This short moment of levity helped to clear his head of some of the doom and gloom of being truly dimensionally displaced. Thinking that it was no use despairing on an empty belly, Xander headed for the nearest currency exchange he knew of. The sun was almost completely up. By the time he got there, it should be open, and then he could change his Egyptian pounds and Ethiopian birrs for some nice crisp English money with which to get himself a full English breakfast. It seemed like an appropriate thing to have.

After a belt-loosening meal, Xander decided to spend the day relaxing in London. He knew he would have to go back that Ministry place sooner or later, as they seemed to be the closest local equivalent of the Watcher's Council. Besides, that Lepswitch fellow seemed like he knew something about dimensional displacement. Perhaps he could be of help. _Wait, I choked him out. He may not be that willing to help me_. Xander frowned as he turned down Charing Cross Road, intent on basking in the quite, dusty, and comforting atmosphere of a bookshop (All his years hanging out in the Sunnydale High Library still had an effect). _I'll have to make it up to him. Maybe a late night pub-crawl on my tab? _His exchange had netted him about three thousand pounds, so he would be more than covered for that, but he needed to do something about getting some more cash. He had…other resources, but he didn't think that a normal bank would appreciate him trying to get cash for the bag of diamonds he had liberated from a South African vampire. Still, he wasn't all that comfortable carrying (literal) blood diamonds around, so he would have to find a safe place for them soon.

He took a sip of tea and leaned back in his squashy armchair in the cozy old bookstore he found himself in. Rain started to patter against the window Xander was gazing through, the book on his lap momentarily forgotten. He was beginning to notice an odd trend across the street. It was something that appeared to be completely normal and benign, but, on closer inspection, it was…_off_. Between another bookstore and a run-down record shop stood a grimy old pub. In and of itself, this was not so odd. London had _lots _of grimy old pubs. True, it looked a little out of place on Charing Cross road, but even that was not what was catching Xander's eye. Hundreds of people were walking by it, going about their business, but nobody seemed to notice it. Now, even still, that wasn't so strange. It could be perhaps the building or shop equivalent of the ragged homeless person on a street corner that people largely ignored, but this…people ignored it almost too perfectly. In fact, Xander saw one pedestrian stop in front of the bookstore flanking the pub and turn her head. It seemed as if she was going to look at the pub, but as soon as her gaze met it, her head turned sharply further left to gaze at the record shop. Xander's eye narrowed. This was a little too forced to be active ignorance. No, something about the pub suggested that it didn't want to be seen, as if a building could have such a desire.

So somebody was hiding something, huh? Xander chuckled darkly under his breath. Nothing could hide from him. Not anymore. He took a deep breath, closed his eye and settled his mind into readiness for _Mage Sight_. When he opened his eye, he nearly spewed out his tea in shock. Those were some _serious_ wards. Xander cocked his head, trying to get a better look. Ah, yes. There was some sort of contained perception filter, somewhat similar to the field that had surrounded Sunnydale before its demise. He hadn't seen it there of course, until near the end. He suspected it was one of the Mayor's enchantments that for some reason hadn't faded with his death, but by the time Xander was fully aware of its existence, the majority of the civilian population of Sunnydale had already left. It always intrigued him how passive the field was. It never actively discouraged people to question mysterious dangers out in the Sunnydale night, but it went out of its way to subconsciously suggest more mundane explanations of arcane happenings. Thus, the Sunnydale Effect, and its trademark "gangs-on-PCP" excuse.

This perception field, though, was contained to one building, and perhaps the space behind it, thus making its effect more potent. The Sunnydale Effect had been spread out over several square miles, so it was a bit weaker. Besides the perception filter, Xander could also make out some rather old but strong protective wards, and some other things he didn't recognize at all. His curiosity piqued, Xander finished his tea, paid for his book and set off across the street in rain, the bookstore's door chiming behind him as he left.

Even though he grew up in Southern California, with perhaps the balmiest and tamest weather on the planet, Xander didn't mind a little rain at all. It probably had something to do with the year he had spent in the Congo. This little drizzle was nothing compared to a rainforest, even in its dry season. Xander made his way across the road to take a look at the place. Hanging near the door and facing down the street either way was an old-fashioned pub sign with what looked to be an old and leaking cooking pot on it. The sign on the door read "THE LEAKY CAULDRON." Ah, a cauldron it was, then.

Xander opened the door and stepped in. The place was even grimier and older looking on the inside. He saw a number of people dressed in similar garb to Al Lepswitch from the Department of Mysteries. Ok, so was this where he got wasted on Friday nights with the other magic nerds? _Nerds don't get wasted_. Xander reminded himself with a snicker. _They play Dungeons and Dragons._ Perhaps Dungeons and Dragons here was a bit more realistic. Al certainly had the _real magic_ thing going for him. Xander pulled up a barstool and regarded the creepy looking bartender, who was looking at him in suspicion. _Oh, right. I guess I look a little out of place without the robes…_ "You sure you in the right place, son?" the man asked.

"Uh, this is the Leaky Cauldron, right?" Xander asked, slipping quickly into the role of a wide-eyed tourist. The barkeep nodded, his suspicion fading slightly. "I heard it was the best wizard's pub in Britain. Just flew in from New York, I'm on vacation. Dj'ya think I could get one of those…butterbeers?" Xander peered up at the rather sparse menu above the bar.

"Ah, a yank then, eh?" The barkeep picked up on Xander's dialect, and suddenly seemed a lot friendlier. "That would explain the lack of robe. I've heard that you yanks tend to blend in a lot more with the Muggles over there, suppose it's easier on your Obliviators."

"Yeah, that's right." Xander answered easily, having absolutely no clue what the man was talking about. He took a sip of the butterbeer. It was surprisingly good, although it was a little too weak to be called beer, in his opinion. Like somebody had somehow made O'Dhoul's taste good, but still kept it a virgin drink. A pretty neat if he said so himself. "I just came from a tour of you Ministry of Magic, and thought I'd finish off my tour of Magical ol' England with a round at the famous Leaky Cauldron." Xander said with enthusiasm.

The barkeep nodded. "I guess you've already been to Diagon Alley then?"

"Uh, no. Haven't made it there yet." Xander replied with a small amount of hesitation. _Crap. I've missed something important, haven't I?_

The barkeep looked at him strangely. "Well you can't leave the Isle without seeing Diagon Alley! It's only the best magical shopping district in all of Britain! You know how to get there?"

"I think so, but I've forgotten. I misplaced the guide too. Do you think you could tell me how to get there?"

"I can do better than that. Once you finish your drink I'll show you. The entrance is just out back." The barkeep said with a jovial grin. " M'name's Tom, by the way. You got a name, yank?"

"Paul Bunyan, at your service." Xander rattled off the fake name without effort. British people shouldn't recognize the name, right? Xander was quite aware of the power a name could hold, especially in a bar full of _magic-users._ The floating candles and trays and self-stirring mugs of tea were just a little too much for him. Was there anything these people _didn't _use magic for? To be honest, it scared him a little. From where he came from, magic wasn't something to be taken for granted or used lightly like this. The way these people were carrying on made it look like they treated magic like a cheap tool. He had seen first-hand what a casual and flippant attitude towards magic could do to a person, and it was nothing good. It spoke volumes to him that no matter how much these people used magic, the bar itself looked kind of run-down and a bit grungy. No matter how friendly Tom seemed to be, and no matter how harmless the people around him probably were, Xander couldn't help but feel uneasy.

"And that would be great if you could show me the way, thanks a million." Xander finished the drink fairly quickly. It was, after all, pretty weak. Xander pulled out his wallet. "That's...four pounds?" He asked the barkeep.

"Two sickles, actually. And why're your carrying Muggle currency there, Mr. Bunyan? Did you visit some of their sights as well?"

"Oh, yeah I did." Xander said quickly, thinking he might be caught out in his lie pretty soon. "Spent some time in the British Museum and the Tower of London. They were pretty interesting, but nothing on the Ministry of Magic."

Tom scratched his head. "Well I suppose the Ministry doesn't charge for tours, and if you haven't been to Diagon Alley yet, I guess you haven't had a chance to change your money at Gringotts." Xander gaped inwardly. It was as if the man was going out of his way to justify Xander's utter bull of a story, filling in all the appropriate holes when they came up. Perhaps the pub's perception filter was leaking in through the walls? "Well no matter," Tom went on. "It's on the house. Not every day we get a yankee wizard in here. I'll be pleased to show you the way to Diagon Alley, and point you to Gringotts. Come on then!"

Tom let himself out from behind the bar and headed towards the back of the pub, gesturing to Xander to follow. The barkeep led "Mr. Bunyan" into a small walled courtyard with a dented old dustbin in the far corner, up against the bricks. Tom pulled out his wand (_do all of these guys use wands?_ Xander wondered.) and showed Xander which brick to tap to open an archway in the brick wall that led to…what looked like a Charles Dicken's novel set in Terry Pratchett's Ankh-Morpork.

The place was truly mind boggling. There was no way it could exist in real space. It had to be some form of pocket dimension or an expanded space within a space. There was no way this block of Charing Cross road could fit…_this_. "That's Gringotts down at the end of the main drag." Tom interrupted Xander's thoughts, pointing to an imposing building of white marble that seemed to be more solidly constructed than any of the others. Honestly, most of the buildings seemed to get bigger as they got taller, leaning precariously over the street and obstructing the sky somewhat. It was like walking down a road lined with trees, except more structurally unstable. _Probably held up with_ magic_, I suppose._ Xander thought darkly. Putting a building together with magic just seemed so unnatural to him. Xander thanked Tom heartily for the beer, the warm welcome, and the directions. He made his way up to the front steps of Gringotts, ignoring the rest of the alley for now (he really needed a safe place for those diamonds, and fast) and read the message on the main doors:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

Xander shuddered visibly. This place meant business. He walked up the steps to enter, and nearly did a double take when he saw the guards. _Kvorlak demons!_ _Okay now I _know _these guys are wacko. They let_ demons _guard their bank!_ As the guards made no threatening gestures, Xander decided to let well enough alone and stepped into the lobby, only to clutch the bag of diamonds inside his jacket in shock. It appeared that the demons didn't just guard the bank. They _ran_ it. Xander gulped. This was going to be…interesting.


End file.
