AN: So, this is technically an AU of my fic 'Eye of the Storm,' but you don't need to have read that fic to understand this one.
Chapter One
Ten year old Harry Potter was sorting through the things in the attic when he found it.
Dusty, grimy, and very tired after a long day of tidying and cleaning the attic by himself, Harry almost overlooked the object sitting on a stack of old books, except that a clumsy swipe of his broom sent the stack of books flying, and, with it, the old fob watch that was sitting on top.
Harry crouched down to look at the old watch curiously. He'd never seen a fob watch before, and he had no idea what it was; only that it was metal, and old, and with strange circular markings on the front. Turning it around in his hands, he eyed what seemed to be a button on the top.
For a moment the wary instincts drummed into him by the Dursleys told him not to touch, in case he did something he shouldn't and got into trouble: but his natural curiosity won out, and Harry pressed the metal knob.
The watch cover sprang open, and golden light flooded out.
And Harry Potter, remarkable yet entirely human wizard that he would have been, ceased to exist.
In his place was someone who shouldn't exist, created from nothing but stored data and the living descendant of the long-dead being whose data had been stored, a being of fire and fury, like the inferno at the heart of the sun, ancient and forever, who burned at the centre of time and could see the turn of the universe.
The Master.
Harry snapped to wakefulness without any period of confusion or disorientation in-between: one moment he was unconscious, the next wide awake and perfectly alert.
He pressed a hand unconsciously to where twinned hearts beat a doubt-beat inside his chest, eyes wide as he processed what had happened to him. He could feel the Earth turning beneath his feet, rotating around the sun, the warp and weft of the timelines around him, bright and beautiful. He took a deep breath, inhaling so many different scents along with it, his senses so march sharper and more discerning than a human's.
Closing his eyes, Harry tried to sort out the confusion in his mind. He was no longer just Harry, an ordinary ten year old boy. He was the Master, ancient and malevolent, and last of the Time Lords but one. He was the Master, there was no doubt about that – even born anew in this childish body, his sense of self was undeniable – and yet… there was one difference between his newly-reborn self and the one that had come before.
The drums were gone.
The drums, the never-ending drum-beat, that maddening sound which egged him on to violence and ever-greater heights of insanity – it was gone. Harry's mind was quiet and alone, empty of the madness that had haunted the Master for so long.
The Master took a deep breath, and got to his feet. It felt strange to be without the drums, after their endless beat had accompanied him for so long… but his mind felt clearer without them. Calmer. The Master took another deep breath, and marvelled at his clarity of thought. His thoughts came easily, without the turmoil and roiling maelstrom of emotion that he was used to.
It was disconcerting.
The Master shook his head, trying to resolve his lingering disorientation. A quiet, tiny voice in his mind still insisted that he was Harry Potter, that he was ten years old and had lived all his life on Earth and that no part of him was an alien, but that voice was easily drowned out by the immensity of the rest of his mind. The Master's mind was old, and powerful, and no lingering remnant of a child who had ceased to exist was going to trouble him.
Still, the question was, how had the Master ended up in the form of an ten year old human boy?
He could remember using the Chameleon Arch to escape the Time War a second time – oh, those old fools on Gallifrey, they hadn't even worked out how he'd escaped the first time, let alone thought to stop him from doing so again – but he had become a human adult, not a child. He had faint memories of his time in the watch, of being carried in someone's pocket, of waiting for the right time to connect to his human self's subconscious so that he could become himself again. But the time had never been right, and then…
His human self had died, the Master realised with a shock. Died. He could hardly believe it. He'd left it too late, and his human self had died, and the watch had been left to gather dust, no one the wiser as to what was in it. David Evans had died without never knowing who he truly was.
Evans? said the tiny voice that the Master was resolutely ignoring. But that's Aunt Petunia's maiden name.
Petunia, the Master thought. David Evans' daughter. From there it was easy to put together. Petunia had inherited the watch, and put it aside in the attic – the Master felt a flare of anger at that – where little Harry Potter, David's grandson and a direct biological descendant of the Master had opened it. Ordinarily, someone other than the Master opening the watch would have had no effect: but the true Master was dead, and in his absence Harry's DNA was close enough to David's for the repository device to accept Harry as the rightful recipient of everything it contained. Namely, Time Lord DNA and the Master's consciousness.
So here the Master was, sitting in someone else's repurposed body – for the double heartbeat in his chest told him that it was Harry's body no longer – looking like a child, free of the drums that had plagued him for so long. It made sense, the Master thought, considering the issue with cool appraisal. The signal that the Time Lords had implanted in his mind had stayed with David: muted and barely perceptible to a human, but nonetheless there. David had died, and the drums had died with him: and now, the Master could start anew, as though the drums had never been.
He'd never admit it, but he was slightly intimidated at the thought. He could barely remember a time before the drums: his entire life had been defined by their beat and the madness that came with it. That madness had shaped him into the Time Lord he'd become; the question was, was he still the Master without it.
The Master's musings were interrupted by a strident voice.
"Boy!" Aunt Petunia shouted. "If you want any dinner, you had better have finished cleaning the attic!"
Ah yes, the Master thought dryly. His loving relatives. He'd almost forgotten.
He frowned, as another thought occurred to him. Harry had been mistreated all his life, but there was intent behind the abuse he had suffered, the Master was sure of it. To what end his aunt and uncle had abused him for, he had no idea.
The Master vowed that he was going to find out.
The trapdoor that opened into the attic opened, and Aunt Petunia looked around the attic assessingly, without even glancing at the Master.
"Acceptable," she finally sniffed, her tone indicating anything but. "Come downstairs and wash your hands. I don't want you getting dust and dirt everywhere." She disappeared back down the trapdoor, still without looking once in the Master's direction.
So that was his daughter, the Master thought in disgust, and with a faint pang of disappointment. Even by human standards, she was unsatisfactory. He'd hoped that some small element of his natural brilliance had been passed on to his offspring, but apparently not: Petunia was not only entirely human, but a mediocre one at that.
Little thought he wanted to follow the foul woman's instructions, the Master decided that for the moment, it would be prudent to pretend that nothing had changed. So, after climbing down the ladder that led to the attic, the Master headed straight for the bathroom to wash his face and hands. Petunia was right about one thing: after all the cleaning Harry had been doing, the Master had been left a bit of a mess.
After washing his hands and face at the bathroom sink, the Master dried them with a towel, and took a moment to study his reflection. Superficially, not much seemed to have changed: he was still a black-haired, green-eyed little boy (much as that now rankled). To a more observant eye, however, much had changed indeed.
Harry Potter's unhealthy pallor had been replaced with ivory tones, and his scruffy mass of hair now looked more interestingly-windswept rather than as though it had never seen a comb. But the biggest changes were to his countenance. The Master was centuries old, and it showed in his face. His expression was dark and knowing, and his eyes glinted with the promise of violence and mayhem, the brilliant green irises ringed with a thin circle of gold that hadn't been there before.
The Master smirked at his reflection, and went out to dinner.
As usual, his relatives had served him barely enough food to keep him alive. The Master ate in silence, eyeing the three humans at the table with him. There was Vernon, who was even less bright than Petunia, who adhered closely to his own narrow-minded view of 'normalcy' (read: banality); Petunia herself, who wasn't much more intelligent, and possessed of a spiteful temper; and then there was their brat, Dudley, who combined his parents worst traits along with a few unique ones of his own.
His family, the Master thought glumly, and with vast contempt. How lovely. He'd never been fond of them, even as a human, but now… oh, how he loathed them! If they had shown him any kindness, any fondness during his time in their care… but they hadn't, and they would be sorry for it soon enough.
"Aunt Petunia," The Master piped up once he'd eaten (curse his childish voice!), "what, exactly, is the freakishness that you seem so determined to 'beat out of me?'"
Immediately an appalled and angry silence fell. Dudley kept eating, glancing between his parents and the Master curiously, but Vernon and Petunia both froze.
"What have we told you about mentioning freakishness in this house, boy?" Vernon exploded, turning red with anger.
"Well, I just thought that if I knew what it was, maybe I could avoid it better," the Master said, with his best pretence at earnestness.
Vernon raised his hand, as though to backhand the Master across the table, and that was enough. The Master's expression instantly turned deadly.
"I really wouldn't, Vernon," he warned, his voice low and sinister, never taking his eyes from Vernon's.
Vernon blinked, and turned redder still.
"You–!" he blustered, and swung.
A moment later he howled in pain as the Master ducked the blow, and darted forward to hit the nerve cluster in Vernon's shoulder, temporarily paralysing his arm.
"Try that again," the Master suggested, grinning. It wasn't a pleasant grin. It was havoc and mayhem, and behind the grin the Master's eyes glittered, hard and cold.
Petunia's eyes widened, and the Master thought that perhaps she wasn't so stupid, after all.
"What are you?" she asked shrilly, fear making her already high-pitched voice higher. The Master almost winced at the sound. Instead, he smiled lazily.
"You never thought to open your father's watch, did you?" he asked rhetorically. "Never discovered that it was no ordinary watch, but a repository for something older and far greater than you can imagine." The Master threw back his head and laughed. "For which I have to thank you, for I would far rather be reincarnated as itty-bitty little Harry Potter than you, my dear." He smiled again, eyes gleaming. "So I ask a second, Petunia, what was so freakish about Harry Potter than you tried so very, very hard to stamp it out of the boy?"
Petunia had turned pale, understanding on some level that she was conversing with something far more dangerous than her unwanted nephew. Vernon, unfortunately, had yet to clue into the situation.
"Now listen here, boy!" he roared, getting to his feet. His face had turned purple, and his tiny eyes were squinty with anger. He was so angry that he could barely construct a cohesive sentence. "You will stop asking your aunt these – these ridiculous questions –"
The Master sighed, and wondered if he still possessed his old knack for hypnotism. Vernon should be weak-minded enough to it to take effect.
"–and – and go to your room – I mean, cupboard–"
"I think not," the Master drawled, making eye contact, and stepping forward. "For I am the Master, and you will obey me."
Vernon's spluttered words came to a stop; he went still.
"I will obey," he said, in a monotone.
There was a squawk from Petunia.
"Wow," said Dudley, staring.
"What have you done to him?" Petunia screeched.
The Master shrugged.
"Just rudimentary mind-control, he'll be fine," the Master said, waving a hand dismissively. "I mean, unless I tell him to jump off a bridge or something, but why would I do that, after almost a decade in your loving care?" His smile showed all his teeth, as he put a hand to his chin and struck a thoughtful pose. "Oh, wait–"
"Please!" Petunia pleaded. "Don't hurt my husband! Don't hurt my son! I'll tell you everything you want, just don't hurt my family!"
Now that was what he wanted to hear. The Master smiled again, pleasantly this time.
"Go on," he said invitingly.
Petunia began to speak, and the story she told was a long and fantastic one, of witches and wizards, of a sister who was different, and a magical madman bent on murdering his brethren. The Master listened to Petunia's tale, and when it finally came to an end, he began to laugh.
"Oh, this is fantastic!" he howled, clutching his sides. This body was still a little too thin and frail from malnourishment for a proper maniacal laugh – he just didn't have the lung capacity. "Oh!" he wheezed, still doubled over. "Just fabulous! It's like Christmas!"
"W-what is?" Petunia asked, watching him with frightened eyes. The Master wiped away his tears of laughter, and straightened.
"All of it," he explained condescendingly. "The fact that I'm some sort of wizarding saviour, for one." He started laughing again. "The irony is priceless."
"What are you going to do?" Petunia ventured.
"Well, for one, I'm going to ask Vernon to give me all the money he has in this house," said the Master. "Vernon, I want all the loose currency you have in this house."
"Yes, Master," Vernon droned, and left the room.
The Master took the opportunity to move closer to Petunia, and leaned into her space until they were almost eye-to-eye. Petunia sat frozen, hardly daring to breathe, but her eyes were defiant.
"The only reason I am going to let you live," said the Master quietly, "is that you are the daughter of my human self." He smiled at Petunia's evident confusion. "You see, Petunia," he began to explain, walking around the room as he slipped into lecturing tones, "the man you knew as your father wasn't truly human. Oh, he thought he was, but he really wasn't. Everything he thought he knew about himself was a lie, a false memory, designed to help him hide among the humans better. Because what better disguise is there, than one where you yourself don't know that you're disguised?"
The Master glanced at Petunia, who still looked uncomprehending. He sighed.
"Okay, let's put it another way. Once upon a time there was a being of might and power, who wanted to hide from the other beings like him. There was a war, the last great Time War, and this being of power wanted to escape the war. So he decided to hide, until it was over. An ordinary disguise wouldn't do, however; the other beings of power would hunt him down and find him. So instead, the being of power used a device that rewrote his memories and his DNA, storing his true self inside a magical fob-watch, to be opened when the war was over. In the mean time, he seemed to be an ordinary human being, with no idea of the truth. Things don't always go as planned, however, and the being of power died in human form, before he could ever open the watch. So it sat there, waiting for someone with similar enough DNA, until one day the grandson of the being of power found it, and opened it."
The Master looked at Petunia, whose face was a mask of horror.
"Do you understand, now?" he asked mockingly. He held his arms out in triumphant display. "Everything that being of power was, I became when I opened the watch. Harry Potter was overwritten, and only I, the Master, am left!"
"You're still tiny, though," said Dudley, whose expression was fascinated.
The Master deflated, and sent Dudley a glare.
"Dudley? Shut up before I rip out your spine through your throat," he said sweetly. Dudley gulped, and shut up.
Vernon returned just then, and the Master pocketed the wallet Vernon handed him.
"So this is goodbye, dear Petunia," he said, smirking. "Be grateful for my restraint. Sleep," he told Vernon, who immediately dropped to the floor in a snoring heap.
He turned and headed for the front door. Outside night was falling, and the air was cool and fresh.
Smiling, the Master left the Dursley house behind, and stepped out into the wide world that was waiting for him.