Happy Birthday to geyer!!!

[talesofspike]

Title: Real Magic
Author: TalesOfSnape / TalesOfSpike
Disclaimer: All writing is on a non-profit basis, purely for entertainment purposes. Use of any non-original material within any stories in no way implies ownership, be it from Harry Potter, BtVS or any other book, film, television, musical or other source.
Pairing: Giles/Anya, possible Hermione/Severus
Rating: All
Summary: Post DH EWE Post Chosen/AtS s5 except for the fact there was one less fatality than in canon.
Giles and Anya receive some surprise visitors on their eldest daughter's eleventh birthday. One is there to represent Hogwarts, Giles' English citizenship making his daughter eligible. The other has come from Durmstrang, thanks to Anya's originally Scandinavian background. Both are surprised when they find out neither parent is a Muggle in the strictest sense, but perhaps they're even more surprised to run into each other. How will things turn out between Professors Księcia and Krum?
Genre: More fluff
Author's Note : Thanks to my beta, t_geyer, for her unending patience, perseverance and support and especially for indulging me in my not so brief change of fandom. Of course, since this is her birthday fic, she didn't actually beta this one (I hope.) In this case, thanks are due to Always JBJ (who also made four different versions of this banner for various different sites and pseudonyms) and Bambu345 for keeping me on the straight and narrow.



Real Magic

For the wonderful, patient and long-suffering Geyer.

Saturnin Księcia set aside the book he'd been reading and stowed it reluctantly in his overnight bag. Visiting Muggle parents was one of his least favourite parts of his job as headmaster of Durmstrang, but he had no one other than himself to blame for the change in the school's intake policy, and therefore much of the burden fell to him. Those teachers who had joined the staff after him had clauses in their contracts that required them to share in the duty, but many of the teachers dated back to the days when Karkaroff had been in charge. One or two helped out, despite the fact they weren't contractually obligated, but most were either reluctant or culturally unsuited to do so. The fact that this particular candidate had been born and raised in America and only qualified for entry through her émigrée mother put the snitch even more firmly in his hands than most, as the faculty's only native English speaker.

He decided that he had time to pen a brief note before he had to leave. The book's author had been kind enough to send him an advance copy and it seemed only polite to respond with as much of a critique as he was able. The fact that the author's work in the field of Transfiguration complemented his own work toward a Unified Theory of Magic was also rather gratifying.

He sorted through the selection of quills in the porcelain holder on his desk until he found the one he sought and positioned it over a fresh roll of parchment.

"Mon cher Jean," he dictated as he stripped away the formal layers of his wizarding garb. "I regret that my duties force me to put aside your book, much as I would love to bury myself in its pages. I have only covered the first five chapters, so far, but I already suspect that this will elevate you even further in your chosen field than your previous works."

He opened his wardrobe door and considered his meagre collection of Muggle clothing, selecting a black Armani suit, black shirt and a silver tie. He might be going to California but it was about as far north as one could be and still come under the heading of Southern California, and a cooling charm would prevent any unsightly perspiration. No gentleman would attend a formal meeting of this sort in shirt sleeves.

"I commend you also on the quality of the translation," he continued, as he dressed. "The volume reads as if it were written in English rather than your native French. However, it is your innovative and unique perspective on the subject which draws me in and inspires me to wonder how your insight could be applied to my own research. Unfortunately, my available time is limited to the extent that I cannot begin to cite individual examples at this juncture, but rest assured that when my duties allow I will return to our usual more detailed correspondence.

"Is it rude of me to wish once again that I could coax you out of retirement to teach here? I am by nature a solitary man, but I can't help but think that our research is so complementary, one to the other, that we would both profit greatly by working in geographical proximity. Yes, I already know that your answer will be a polite refusal, but I would be failing in my duty to the school if I didn't try.

"I really must leave now, but your book is packed and if time allows on my trip, I will take every chance to continue my reading. I also look forward to your reply to my previous letter which you must surely have received by now.

"Ton ami

"Saturnin."

Księcia checked his appearance in the mirror, deciding that a grooming charm was needed to neatly trim his beard and leave his hair tidily coiffed. Once this had been achieved, he rolled up his letter and sealed it with the Durmstrang seal. A click of his fingers brought his personal owl to his arm. "Jean duBois," he instructed the bird, as he opened a window and launched it into the air.

He picked up his bag and went in search of his deputy to offer final instructions and advise her of his departure. He reminded himself to make sure she checked the spells on the magical device which provided them with details of prospective pupils. The date of birth he'd been given for the child's mother was patently ridiculous.

Hermione knocked gently on the door to Minerva's private quarters. Even though they had arranged to meet at this horrendous hour, Hermione was wary enough of her mentor's early morning irritability not to want to wake her if she wasn't already up. However, a brusque, "Come in!" sounded immediately through the door, and when she entered, Minerva was already dressed for the day.

Winky finished setting out breakfast for two, giving Hermione a polite nod and passing her a packet wrapped with brown paper, string and sealing wax. "More letters for you, Madam Krum. They is arriving overnight."

"Thank you, Winky," Hermione remarked, tucking the package into her tiny handbag. "I'll read them later."

"Well, sit down," Minerva said. "If we have to be awake at this preposterous hour, then it should be because we're doing something, not for you to hover in the doorway as if you were still a pupil rather than my Head of House."

Hermione smiled and drew out a seat at the small table. "Yes, Professor," she answered with a teasing smile as she lifted the teapot lid and peered inside the pot to determine if the contents were properly brewed. Deciding it could benefit from a few more minutes, she replaced the lid and added cream and honey to her porridge instead. Over the years she'd grown used to McGonagall's preference for oatmeal seasoned with salt, but she still couldn't bear it without some added sweetener.

"I take it you're ready to go," Minerva remarked dryly, her look taking in Hermione's skimpy tie-dye sundress, which clung to the curves of her breasts and waist before flaring out from the hips.

"It's summer, Minerva, and I hear that over there that actually means the sun might make an appearance. Besides, America's West Coast has a reputation for a more relaxed outlook on life. We don't want to scare the girl off before we even get to the part where we tell her she's a witch."

Minerva gave a slight snort. "The girl may be American, but her father is English, don't forget."

Hermione smiled. "Our records say he's been living there for twenty years or more and he owns some New Age shop. I doubt he'll turn out to be a tweed-wearing fuddy-duddy, but, if he does, that may work to our advantage."

"In what way?" Minerva asked.

"The idea of an old-fashioned British education may appeal to him. I'm sure The Salem Institute will probably contact the family, too."

Minerva gave another snort. "Fifteen thousand pupils in one school. I heard they have up to sixty pupils in some of their classes and they have the nerve to charge for it."

Hermione shrugged. "Americans tend to think you get what you pay for. Over here, even though Muggles might complain about falling standards in state-run schools, relatively few people actually send their children to fee-paying ones. Over there, a growing number of parents believe that the only way to get a quality education for their children is to pay for it. Let's face it, if you live in a country where the government doesn't even cover basic healthcare, the idea of quality Ministry-funded magical education being seen as a basic right just isn't going to occur to them."

"You may have a point there, but you still have to persuade them to send their child halfway around the world," Minerva pointed out.

"California is barely more accessible from New England than it is from Scotland," Hermione countered, "but if they do choose Salem, at least the girl will still have a chance to reach her potential. It's the ones who insist on trying to quash their power so that they can pretend to be Muggles that I worry about."

Minerva glanced at the clock on her mantelpiece. "Might I suggest if you want to catch the birthday girl as she's leaving school, then it's time you were on your way?"

"You might, Minerva, but I'm not taking that Portkey until I've had at least one cup of tea," Hermione replied, tipping some of the amber liquid into her cup.

Giles gave a long-suffering sigh, and pulled a brush and a long-handled dustpan from the shop's storage cupboard. "Was that really necessary, darling?" he asked as he began to sweep up the glittering powder his wife had strewn over the floor and their recently departed guest.

"It's not as if I didn't warn him," Anya protested as she grabbed her handbag from the cupboard under the till, "and it was only a teleport. I haven't sent him to another dimension or anything." She took the brush and shovel from his hands for a second, reaching gently up to stroke a non-existent stray hair from his forehead. She wrapped her arms around his neck before drawing him into a simmering kiss. "I'm sorry about the mess, Rupert. I'll make it up to you this evening, but if I don't leave now I'll miss kick-off."

Giles slid his hands into his wife's glossy curls, this month the colour of ripened corn, and drew her mouth back to his. "I shall hold you to that, my love," he whispered, his lips a fraction of an inch from hers, and then he closed that final gap and swept her into a dip in a display of finesse that always left his wife's heart pounding. He smiled his amusement as he set her back on her feet, watching her eyes as confusion was replaced by recollection and then by untempered lust. "Go," he instructed her. "Our daughter inherited her temper from you. You can't be late, today of all days."

Hermione watched from a distance as the girl waved at her mother before she joined her coach and her teammates. Even from her own scant five foot four, every fresh crop of eleven-year-olds seemed incredibly tiny. This young girl, with her mother's fine bone structure, seemed like no exception, though she tackled the opposition as if she were six feet tall. Hermione had a feeling that the girl would take to flying as if she had done it all her life.

She made her way over to join the blonde on the sidelines. "Your daughter?" she asked as the dark-haired girl booted the stolen ball half the length of the pitch to land almost at the feet of her teammate.

Anya nodded as the home team's striker dribbled her way around the last defender and slotted the ball into the goal. "Go Laguna!" she shouted, earning a glance and a smile from her daughter as the away team's goalkeeper fished the ball out of the back of the net. "Are you a parent?"

Hermione smiled. "Yes, but my sons go to school back in Britain. I'm just visiting Santa Barbara for a day or two. Hermione Krum."

Anya's eyes narrowed slightly, but she shook Hermione's hand. "Anya Giles."

Hermione's brows knotted together. "I thought Giles was her father's name. I was hoping you were Aud Gunthersson. You must be Audrey's stepmother?" she suggested.

Anya dragged Hermione away from the sidelines and out of hearing of any of the other nearby parents. "Where did you get that name?" she demanded.

"Isn't it correct?" Hermione asked. "I was informed that Audrey Giles is the daughter or Rupert Giles of Bath, England, and Aud Gunthersson, née Eriksson, wife of Olaf Gunthersson, of Sjornjost."

"I haven't been Aud Gunthersson for more than a th- For a very long time. Who are you, Ms Krum? Hogwarts?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to look suspicious. "How do you know about Hogwarts?"

"Well, we've already had a visitor from the Salem Institute this afternoon, and you said your sons attended school in Britain, so I took a lucky guess," Anya answered.

"And the person from The Salem Institute mentioned Hogwarts?" Hermione asked.

"As if!" Anya rolled her eyes. "Let's just say that I had cause to visit occasionally as part of my previous employment. Hogwarts, Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, Salem. I've visited them all from time to time, though I was always most proud of the work I did at Salem."

"So you're a witch?" Hermione asked.

The blonde looked around making sure that no-one was within hearing distance. "Anya Giles formerly Anyanka, patron saint of scorned women, and vengeance demon, and, before that, Aud of Sjornjost. Now, can we please watch my daughter's soccer game? I don't really think this is an appropriate venue to discuss this any further."

Hermione finally managed to close her mouth and nod. "Just one question. What happened to the professor from Salem?"

"I sent him away," Anya answered. "He wouldn't listen when I told him I had to leave to get to my daughter's soccer game." She lifted one eyebrow, keeping it cocked until she was sure that Hermione had got the message, and moved back to her position on the touchline, where she was soon cheering on her daughter's team again.

Several long minutes passed in silence, but, finally, Anya decided that Hermione wasn't going to push. "What ages are your sons?" she asked Hermione.

"Dimitar will be eleven next month and Nikolay's nine," Hermione answered, her face softening at the thought of her children.

"So Dimitar would be in the same year as Audrey?" Anya asked.

Hermione gave a rueful sigh. "He's still making up his mind whether to go to Hogwarts or Durmstrang. His dad was Bulgarian, so he went there, and Dimi's not keen on the idea of having his mum for a teacher, or even Head of House."

"And you don't object?" Anya asked.

"I'd rather have him close, but his grandparents would be nearby and he might do better if he isn't getting picked on for being teacher's pet," Hermione admitted. "And Durmstrang doesn't have the reputation it used to have."

"You said his father was Bulgarian?" Anya looked pointedly at the rings Hermione wore on her wedding finger.

"I'm a widow. I think Dimitar remembers him, but Nikolay... Just photographs and stories."

"That's hard for them," Anya remarked. "And you."

Hermione shrugged. "We get by. They have about half a dozen honorary uncles, and all the other teachers and the house-elves spoil them."

"And you haven't thought of remarrying?" Anya asked.

"Viktor was a hard act to follow," Hermione said with a rueful smile. "Maybe one day I'll meet someone, but so far no one's measured up."

"Oh!" Anya said in a knowing tone. "I used to date someone like that," she said, holding up both her hands with her index fingers extended a good few inches apart, "but then I realised that other things were important, too, and if he was too blind to see that I was good enough for him when he had two eyes, then he didn't deserve me when he only had one."

Hermione flushed red to the tips of her ears in a way that was distinctly reminiscent of Ron Weasley. "That wasn't what I meant," she insisted. Then, she cleared her throat and made a new approach. "Does this have anything to do with how you feel about your daughter going to Hogwarts?"

"Directly, no," Anya said, "but it helps establish trust and rapport, and you will need my trust and rapport if you want me to help you convince my husband to ship our eleven-year-old daughter off to boarding school in Scotland."

"It would make my life easier, I admit. The chances of Audrey being happy are a lot higher if you and Mr Giles give her your support," Hermione pointed out, "but in the end, you're in the same position I am. I can try to give you and your husband the information you need to help your daughter make an educated decision. That's about as much as any of us can do. The final decision is your daughter's and hers alone. If she chooses to join the wizarding world, she will attend the school of her choice."

"And if she chooses not to join your world?" Anya asked.

Hermione's brows drew together. "Then she's free to say no. Personally, it's not an option I would recommend. I'm sure you've noticed that when your daughter gets upset or angry her magic will tend to manifest itself in unpredictable ways. As she gets older, her powers will grow stronger. Without the training that would allow her to channel those powers effectively, either the magnitude of these incidents will also grow, or your daughter will endeavour to quash her powers and that could lead to a dangerous backlash when she loses control. She'll spend her life trying to be normal, instead of learning to be herself. It isn't a recipe for a well-adjusted and happy person."

Anya snorted. "I've seen what happens when a teenaged witch doesn't have anyone to slap her down when she goes on a power trip. I think it's safe to say that we don't want Audrey to go resurrecting anyone."

"That's an urban myth," Hermione interjected quickly. "Magic can't actually raise someone from the dead, not really."

This time Anya laughed out loud. "I wouldn't repeat that in front of Rupert or he'll decide you're too stupid to teach anyone, let alone his daughter. He gets very snotty about teaching standards."

"I can assure you-"

"Assure all you want," Anya scoffed. "Buffy's still walking around."

"What's a Buffy?"

Giles finished wrapping the amber pendant for the young college student he was serving, rang up the sale, gave the girl her change and saw her to the door with an assurance that if the gift wasn't to her friend's taste, then he would be glad to offer an exchange.

Then, he turned his attention to the man who for the last ten minutes had been single-handedly dismantling his book display, piling expensive volumes on the floor.

"Is there anything in particular that you're looking for?" he asked pointedly.

"I was merely browsing," the dark-haired man replied. "Would it be possible to have you put these items to one side for me until tomorrow? I'm afraid I wasn't expecting to need much in the way of local currency."

Suddenly the untidy mess on the floor looked very different in Giles' eyes. "Certainly. Let me bag these up for you. By the way, we keep our rarer and more potent volumes on the mezzanine floor, if you would like to look there, too." He indicated a roped off stairway, leading to a loft area up above. "You're English?"

"By birth and upbringing, if only partially by genetics," Księcia answered, "but I've been living in Eastern Europe for so long now, that I'm not sure the British would let me back in."

Giles' brows furrowed as he fetched several large expensive-looking carrier bags emblazoned with the store's logo. "And what brings you to Santa Barbara?" he asked.

Księcia turned to look the man in the eyes and lifted a quizzical brow. "Your daughter. I've come to offer her a place at the school where I am headmaster. I believe she has a special gift."

Giles gave a long-suffering sigh. "Not another one!"

"Another what?" Saturnin asked cautiously.

"We've already had some awful American trying to get us to send her to New England."

"I take it you failed to reach an agreement?"

"Actually, my wife sent him off to heaven knows where with a flea in his ear," Giles admitted. "She doesn't appreciate hard sell, unless she's the one selling." He held up his hand when the other man looked as if he might speak. "Whatever you have to say, you might as well wait until Anya and the kids get back. There's no point having to repeat yourself. In the meantime, perhaps, once we put these books to one side, you'd care to join me in a pot of Assam, Mister..."

"Księcia," the darker man extended his hand and gave a slight bow. "Doctor Saturnin Księcia. And I'd be honoured."

The sound of the men's quiet laughter was all but drowned out by the jingling of the wind chime positioned behind the store's front door.

"Rupert?" Anya called out.

"Up here, darling!" her husband replied, coming over to the rail that bounded the loft area.

There was a crash of shattering china as his companion let fall his drink, and drew his wand. He pointed it at the bushy-haired woman, who accompanied the blonde and her two children.

Hermione's reactions were almost as quick, pointing the vinewood and phoenix feather wand she had purchased after the war at the neatly tailored and bearded man.

"You!" they spat out in unison.