Author's Note: As promised, here's chapter 11. It's a little short but I needed to cut somewhere, 'cause the next chapter is going to be rather involved/ long. Review and give me advice, particularly on the ethical issues that may come up (you'll understand when you read the chapter).
A not-so-vague Disclaimer: I own nothing, all belongs to Joss Whedon, to do with as he wishes, though I would hope that he'd ask first.

That day he made the necessary calls to Los Angeles. By the mid-afternoon Willow had called to tell him that Dawn had died. She had cried over the phone, in a voice that made her seem like a child, not an incredibly powerful witch. He went to the Summers house where all of the Scoobies were gathered and each mourning and feeling powerless. Spike itched to tell them what was really happening but stopped himself, reminding himself that they would not let him carry out his plan if they knew, and that, in the end, they had failed Buffy. Everyone but Spike had failed Buffy. He stayed for as long as was necessary, chain-smoking in the living room, for the first time not told off. He left Sunnydale in the DeSoto, bringing with him all of Dawn's belongings from the motel room and some pictures he had taken from her dresser. The music he chose for the journey was a lot more subdued than he was used to, songs about losing everything and saying goodbyes. Part of him felt like he was going to a funeral.

When he came to Angel's apartment he was led inside by Cordelia Chase, a girl that he had only ever met in passing before. She spoke to him in hushed tones; she had been a friend of Buffy's and still saw Dawn as the younger sister. They walked through the apartment and into a large bedroom, inside which lay the still-unconscious Dawn, surrounded by the equipment from the hospital. Angel was sat in a chair next to her, his eyes fixed on her face. He looked up at Spike.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He asked, keeping his voice down as if he was afraid of waking her up. Spike's blue eyes locked on his grandsire's brown ones.

"I promised Buffy." He said, not looking away. Angel stared at him for a minute before he looked away. He removed all of the tubes and wires from Dawn's body and stood back, allowing Spike to get closer to her. He lifted her so that he could get a good grip on her body and she slumped against him. He brushed her hair to one side, away from her neck and paused, as if he was psyching himself up to doing it. With a deep breath he clamped onto her neck with his teeth and drank from her. He was careful only to take what was needed for the transformation, unwilling to risk any complications. When he had finished drinking he held his wrist in front of his mouth. He bit into the veins so that they bled and put his wrist to Dawn's mouth. For a moment she was still unmoving and both vampires were sure that they had been too late in transforming her. But her mouth began to move, sucking down the blood without opening her eyes or moving the rest of her body. When she had had enough Spike tucked her back under the covers, conscious that she needed to rest for the next twelve hours for the change to take place.

They left her to rest alone; she wouldn't be awake for hours, at least. Angel led him to the living room and gave him a drink.

"You need to tell me what happened." He said, sitting in the seat across from Spike. It took the next twelve hours for Spike to explain everything that had happened to Angel. It was strange, he had always been so irritated by Angel, (or, indeed, Angelus) but it seemed that that had been because they had always been vying for the same women's affections. Sure he found the older vampire a bit overly- serious but that seemed to come with the whole having-a-soul-after-killing-countless-people package. Although they disagreed on some points of the past few years, Angel could understand Spike's motivations and was willing to help him, for Dawn's sake. They skirted around how Dawn was going to turn out, what her and Spike were going to do when she was well enough to leave the apartment, not wanting to vocalize the risk that she would come out of the transformation a monster, a demon. They didn't want to think about what they would have to do if she started killing humans.

When exactly eleven hours and forty-five had passed, a scream filled the apartment.