Buffy wandered through the grounds of the school, walking along the side of the lake as the sun set behind the castle, lighting the sky a deep red as it reflected off the cloudy sky above. Over the past month, she had been forced by mere boredom to actually do some of the work set her. She had found that there was nothing whatsoever for her to do in this empty school to distract from her work, and in order to prevent her thoughts from wandering back to Angel, she had starting learning magic. Her time had become spilt between hours of work and, when she felt like her brain was about to explode or she reasoned that sitting staring aimlessly at her books was pointless, long walks in the dark around the grounds and castle.

Unfortunately during the daytime, she couldn’t seem to escape being caught by at least one of the teachers in the corridors of the school, no matter what obscure routes she took and dusty rooms she ducked into. If found about school, she was invariably set more work, or made to demonstrate spells, before she was released. Whenever professor Snape was in the castle such a capture inevitably led to hours in the dungeon in front of a bubbling cauldron and essays on a new dark creature he had thought up, always trying to judge by her reaction to the name, seeing if she knew more about the subject than she had a right to. The teachers, especially Snape were wary around her, Flitwick and Sprout seemed to have taken Dumbledore at his word and acted quite amiably towards her, as did Dumbledore himself whenever he was around, but McGonagall also withdrew more than seemed to be necessary whenever she was about to cast a spell, and could occasionally be caught watching Buffy through eyes narrowed to suspicious slits, as if merely by looking she could tell what or who Buffy was.

Distrust breeds distrust, and her treatment had destroyed any chance that the faculty had of learning her secrets… well unless they slip some more of that stuff in her food anyway. Buffy did contemplate running away, but she worried that they would be able to find her in the same way those wizards in America had. She could definitely overpower three or four wizards if she had to, but that would just lead them to send more to stun her without coming close enough to get hurt. And they would, no doubt, find out who she was. Anyway where did she have to go? The Watcher’s Council? They’d just send her back to Sunnydale with her tail between her legs, or worse; give her a new watcher. She didn’t think she could bear to work with a watcher other than Giles. No, she had to stay here and do what they wanted… if only she had some way to know what that really was.

The lessons themselves had been going… bearably to say the most. Besides animosity from teachers, she could tell that both Snape and Sprout were exasperated by her inability to remember conditions strange plants thrived under or obscure ingredients of potions and their uses, though she did quite well caring for the plants under Sprouts instruction, and could make a potion if given a recipe; it was just remembering the facts that bothered her. Her lessons on Transfiguration were, surprisingly, the ones she did best at. Once she had got past the very basics of how to use her power while doing the transfiguration, it all seemed to click, allowing her to reach, as her head of house had proudly told a snarling Snape at the dinner table recently, the end of a first year’s normal study already. That’s what boredom will do for you. In charms she was soldiering along at the pace professor Flitwick set her. She found it a lot easier to remember that when she said a certain word and waved her wand just so, she could make things happen. It was so much more interesting than trying to learn the dry facts in Potions and Herbology.

She did well enough in the first few lessons of DADA, but due to her terrible work in Potions, Snape had decided that it was better if they concentrated on that, leaving her writing essays on gradually more and more obscure dark creatures and how to vanquish them, but with no practice of the latter. He seemed worried that if she was taught curses and counter-curses, she would use them against the wizarding world. These assignments had sent her delving into the school library. She felt reassured by its familiar surroundings of stacks of books, though it was by far larger than the one at home; it’s tens of thousands of books making the card catalogue extensive indeed. She had attempted to move her work down there, but when found by professor McGonagall, was severely reprimanded. Obviously McGonagall had no jurisdiction over the Ravenclaw common room, but she would keep the rest of the school as tidy as possible.

During the day, she was more or less limited to staring at a book, but once the sun went down it became far easier to elude the professors, her long nights in cemeteries having taught her how to blend into the shadows, and they were less eager to spend their night time hours with her. Over time and a lot of mistakes, she had learnt all the idiosyncrasies of the castle; which staircases just ended in solid walls, the secret to open any door that might be hiding there eluding her, also which of the doors actually opened onto rooms, more often than not containing strange objects, and which doors were simply overconfident walls.

Back in the deepening night, Buffy paused as the curve of the lake approached the forbidden forest. She felt the familiar tug that always seemed to pull her towards its darkness. The craving to let herself go and use up some of the built up frustration that made her long for the fight to the death. That primeval feeling when all that prevents your death is your punches, kicks and skill. The thirst to battle one on one, fists against fists.

This evening the pull was stronger than usual; the full moon rising from behind the forest shone down its silver light onto the trees below making beautiful shadows of the night beneath the boughs that beckoned to her. She could sense the change in the amount of activity between the trunks, things of both night and day playing and hunting among the foliage. This night was the ultimate metaphor for the slayers power, the darkness that her most primal aspect sought in which to hunt, chase kill, a craving that came from the core of the slayers power, and the light, the love of which is as inherent in all daytime creatures.

She felt the signs that she had become almost used to; the signs of the start of a hunt. Her senses sharpened, the noises of the animals among the trees grew in her ears as did her sense of smell, detecting the moisture in the air that told her a rainfall was due. Her sight sharpened in the darkness adjusting to the gloom of the dull light. As she began to feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins, she knew that it was now or never. All too soon she would no longer be able to resist the urge to hunt among the trees.

She glanced around, trying to spot prying eyes behind the bright windows of the castle which merely reflected the image of the moon surrounded by clouds back at her. A moment later she took off at a run, disappearing into the shadows beneath the boughs. She hadn’t realised how much tension she had built up trying to control her powers until she released it all in a flat out run, dodging between the tree trunks. She stopped in the depths of the forest, stilling to see if she could sense anything around her. She could faintly hear the sound of hooves and heavy breathing. Deciding that the centaurs would be unlikely to have anything to do with her prey, she set off in the other direction in search of vampires.

Sitting at breakfast the next morning she felt strangely elated and content. All the stress that had been building up in her was completely alleviated by that one night out hunting.  The disappointment of finding nothing to fight, though she did meet an interesting amount of strange beasts among the undergrowth, not managing to dampen her spirits.  She was surprised to see Professor Snape walk into the hall, his black robes bellowing out behind him as he strode down the centre of the room, but that turned to horror when he came up to sit beside her.

He stretched past her to get a plate of bacon and noticed the pale scar on her tanned skin. Just at the corner of her shoulder and neck was a mark that, to a man who had studied the dark arts and creatures as a passion, couldn’t be mistaken for anything but the bite of a vampire. It had been unnoticeable before now as she usually wore the school uniform, covering her shoulders. How could she have failed to tell him in the lessons they’d had on dark creatures, that she’d survived an encounter with a vampire.

As these thoughts ran through his mind, he unconsciously reached out to the scar that was the centre of his attention. He managed to pull his hand away before he touched the girl, but it was already too late for him to hide his interest in the mark.

“How did you get that?” Snape's eyes bore into her accusingly. Buffy shuddered as she thought of the evening that the scar acted as a constant reminder for. The night that she had died.

She looked straight at the professor, refusing to let him believe that he had intimidated her in any way “Angry puppy”

He looked at her in disbelief, but she refused to let him get to her, she returned to her meal, pretending she didn’t notice him fingering a vial in his pocket as he watched her fork the food into her mouth.

“Where were you last night?” He asked out of the blue, obviously trying to surprise a reaction out of her.

She stopped and looked up at him “What do you mean? I often miss dinner.”

Snape sneered at her obvious distraction from the crux of the question “I mean, why was I awakened at dawn this morning by you coming in from the courtyard?”

“I can’t sleep, bad dreams, so I sometimes wander around” It was true; ever since her breakdown she had been having incessant dreams of Angel. The dream was always slightly different, Angel would come to her and for a moment, in his cold embrace; protected by his strong arms, everything was right in the world, but it always ended with haunting words about his death and blood seeping out through the wound that she had made. These dreams caused her to wake, lost and alone in the strange bed, and had driven her to late night walks or study sessions. It had become almost common for a professor to find her in the morning her head resting on a library book as she forced herself to grow weary enough for a dreamless sleep.

“Then why did you have twigs in your hair?” Snape continued to enquire. Buffy looked down at her breakfast plate and pushed it away; she had lost any appetite in the midst of the Potion professor’s eager questioning.

“Since when did breakfast become a time for the Spanish inquisition?” She stood and made her way down the hall. Snape shouted after her in an almost gleeful tone.

“I need you in the Potions room at eleven, don’t be late.” Buffy silently cursed as she shut the large door behind her. She wouldn’t be able to avoid him by hiding in the castle. Snape seemed to have a disturbing ability to find her wherever she went. If she didn’t know that all the house elves were terrified of him, she’d suspect him of getting one to trail her. No, she was stuck with trying to remember potions for hours while Snape distracts her by attempting to catch her out with her questions. Buffy trudged back to the Ravenclaw tower, grumpily flipping open a Potions book. If she was going to have to spend hours alone with that greasy man, she might as well spare herself the insults on her and her country based on her intelligence.