The clock ticked, and sweat rolled down his pale, fine temple. Somewhere in his head, something was throbbing, but he paid it no mind; he couldn't focus on it, because he was too busy thinking about his task, about what the Dark Lord had asked – no, ordered him to do.
Draco was in the Dark Arts room, wand out, practicing his silent hexes. Crabbe and Goyle had left some time ago, sensing that the towheaded boy wanted to be alone. And I do, he'd thought, being surprised at their rare demonstration of brain function. I want some time to think without having to listen to your petty babbling.
However, his silent time was not meant to be – sometime later, he was interrupted by a large, irritating thunk. It came from right outside the window on the far end of the room, and Draco raised his wand, checking his flanks and the door for people who so dared to intrude on him. Finding no one, he checked under the desks and in the corners near the door, around the bookcases too, but no one was there, so he turned. Quickly trotting over to the other side of the room, wand at the ready, he tried to force his mind to stay focused.
A million incessant, nattering thoughts ran through his head in tiny waves; they all traveled in different directions, branching out like a tree made of schemes and worries. Assassinate, whispered one branch. Another: Think of your father. The clock above Snape's desk was ticking obnoxiously. Tickety tock, rickety rock – by golly, he was going to start making up nursery rhymes.
He sidled over to the edge of the window, not yet allowing himself to look out – he could be seen! – and listened. Leaning his head against the wall, Draco shoved away the murmuring, quarreling thoughts that overwrought his brain and concentrated hard. He heard a strange sort of whooshing sound, like one of those Muggle 'vacuum cleaners' to the point where it started to drive him insane.
Grunting a little in annoyance, Draco pushed himself off of the wall and sprung into a defensive position, pointing his wand directly at the window, and stopped. His mind went completely blank, and he was dumbfounded, bewildered; what was that…thing?
So there he sat, trying to make sense of what had just landed on the roof. Obviously, someone hexed it so that it would fly up here, he reasoned. Windgardium leviosa…
He knew about five other spells that could do the same job, but it didn't matter. He wasn't part of the Ministry and this wasn't a crime, so why should he try and figure out which bloody spell had been used? He was a Death Eater, for Merlin's sake – he didn't care about this.
Slowly, he lowered his wand. There was no threat, none that he could see, blimey, and that giant blue thing probably wasn't going to do any damage.
Draco turned his back on the window, walking briskly towards the area of the room where the students were allowed to practice. He felt slightly embarrassed for even having reacted that way; how foolish was he?
He raised his wand and whispered a curse, watching it fly at the wall and lay a scorch mark among many that already resided there. Draco whispered another, then another, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement as he aimed for the door.
Suddenly, three short raps resounded throughout the room, and Draco flinched, his hex going awry and hitting the spot just above the door. Whirling, he surveyed the room again, and when he found nothing, his eyes flicked to the far window.
"Bloody hell," he grumbled, beginning to walk down through the center aisle. He got to the back corner of the room and once again, his mouth fell agape in astonishment. The blue box that had been there previously was nowhere to be found, and instead, Draco saw a…man?
Floppy, brown hair that flapped in the breeze on the roof, dressed in dark trousers and dress shoes, a brown, pleated, plaid jacket. The man was facing the opposite direction, back almost touching the window but not quite, and somehow, it sparked more annoyance in Draco.
He raised his arm to unlock the window, holding his wand steady in his right hand, and then the man turned around and smiled, causing Draco to jump back. His wand flinched upwards, pointing at the man, and a small hex came out of his mouth; one so small that it merely bounced off of the window.
The man grinned and crouched, placing his hand firmly against the glass of the window and pushing. "Good of you to open that for me," he said conversationally as he dropped down onto the floor. Standing himself up, he dusted himself off, although it really didn't help anything.
"Who the fuck are you?" Draco asked, ashamed of how his voice shook. He was completely taken by surprise.
"Not you," replied the man. His voice was strange; not high-pitched, not low-pitched. He sounded as if he was announcing something grand. His tone changed and the first word was loud, then the next word was quiet and secretive. "Not you, I'll bet."
"Of course you're not me. I'm me," said Draco, his eyebrows twisting upward in a mix of emotions. Anger, annoyance, confusion, frustration…
He stepped backward as the man stepped forward. Draco's heel hit the leg of a desk and his left hand found its edge; steadying himself, he watched the man in front of him straighten the jacket he was wearing. For Merlin's sake, he's wearing a bowtie, Draco thought, revolted.
"I'm someone else." The man's hands splayed outward, like he was showcasing something fresh on the market. He smiled again, and his hair flopped irritatingly to the side.
"Obviously," Draco seethed. "Who are you? What is your name?"
"I'm the Doctor," said the man, talking to Draco as if he were an infant; as if the answer were right under the Slytherin's nose.
"Doctor who?" Draco's patience was wearing thin, and he was beginning to feel a hex form on his tongue. It tasted like salt and ash and pomegranate, and his arm's muscles twitched a little, preparing for the necessary swishes or flicks that the spell would require.
"You can call me Doctor. Everyone else does," added the man, murmuring more to himself than to Draco.
"Who are you and how did you get past the shields?" hissed the Slytherin, true to the name of his house.
"I fell," replied the man, blankly.
"You fell." Draco repeated the word flatly, his eyebrows dropping low in sarcasm. "Really."
"I fell from space," the man said, stepping closer to Draco as if he were explaining something privately. Draco raised his wand and the man stepped back, hands up, as if to show he was weaponless. It didn't matter; Draco still didn't trust him.
The boy moved around the desks, nearing the other side of the room; the one that had bookcases instead of windows on its wall. "From space?" he interrogated.
"Well, 'landed' is more accurate." The man waved his hand and laughed, as if it were a small mistake to have said he'd fallen. Shrugging, he looked so completely pleased with himself that Draco had the urge to hit him over the head.
"From space?" Draco asked incredulously, doubtfully, looking at the man as if he were crazy. And he probably is, thought the boy.
"Yes! Space! You know, the moon, Jupiter? Stars? Any of that ring a bell? Surely you must've heard of space. It's all around you!" The man lifted his arms, gesturing everywhere at once, and looked exceedingly triumphant.
Doctor? thought Draco. I guess I'll call him 'Doctor.' Until I can figure out his real name.
"Er, Doctor," he began, stammering slightly. "You can't come from space." He was irritated; the names of unforgivable curses caressing his lips, pleading to be used. He pushed them away.
"And you can't cast spells," replied the man, standing slightly taller. "I suggest you don't tell me what I can and can't do."
"Why's that?" Draco scoffed.
"Because you're the 'Muggle' when it comes to me." The Doctor's voice dropped dangerously low, even though he still looked as cheery as he had the moment he came inside.
Draco became more irritated than he already was as the man grinned hugely at him. Tugging on the lapels of his tweed jacket so that it fell more gracefully across his body, the self-proclaimed Doctor strode across the room; he turned in a circle as he stared up at the ceiling, his mouth agape in something that wasn't quite awe, but not exactly delight either. It looked, to Draco, as if the man had…expected it to look like this, and the expression on the Doctor's face was merely that of a scientist satisfied that his latest hypothesis had proven true.
"Are you, er, a scientist?" Draco asked, deciding to climb along that branch.
"Yes and no," muttered the man, completely turning his back on Draco and walking towards the practice area. "Not really," he breathed, spinning on his heel and staring at the opposite end of the room with an intrigued look on his face.
"Are you a professor?"
"Hmm," went the Doctor, ignoring Draco's query. "This is quite ordinary. Tell me, where are the stairs?" Blank-faced, Draco pointed behind him to the stairs that lead up to the Dark Arts professors' office. The Doctor shook his head, hair flopping about, and made a face. "No, not those. The stairs," he enunciated, as if it would make it clearer for Draco as to what he was asking for.
Scowling, Draco grumbled and brushed past the so-called Doctor; making his way over to the exit of the room and presenting it as if he were one of those silly assistants on Muggle talk shows. "There are more stairs out here," he said, mocking the other man's grandiose tone. He added in a mutter, "Now please leave so I can continue with my practices."
"You're not going to follow me?" asked the Doctor, acting shocked. He blinked in puzzlement, looking over Draco as if he were a Muggle seeing Hogwarts. "They always follow me."
"They? They who?" Draco asked, frowning at the Doctor with as much amazement.
"Ten hundred years, and I've never gotten sick of that word." The man's face grew fond. "Well, maybe sometimes. Only in crises."
"Crises."
"Yes, crises!" The Doctor's eyebrows went up, and he nodded enthusiastically. "Lucky for you, this isn't one of those…yet."
"You're right," Draco scoffed. "I haven't yet had my brain leak out through my ears from listening to you ramble. Merlin's pants, are you going to leave or not?" He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall behind him, frowning so that a fine line formed in between his eyebrows. Pinning the Doctor with a withering look, he impatiently tapped his foot.
The corners of the man's mouth turned down in a grimace, and he shrugged, causing his tweed jacket to flop at his hips. "All right, then," he said. Stepping over the threshold, he made something like significant eye contact with Draco, and then started to whistle as he flopped away.
Draco burned with annoyance; the significant eye contact had been awkward, and he didn't know why it had even happened. When he was sure that the so-called Doctor was out of earshot, he ran to the far window and looked out upon the strange police box.
Are we really going to do this, Draco? he asked himself. Then his father's voice took over in his mind, calling him rash and indecisive. Brushing away the threatening Lucius Malfoy, Draco made a displeased face and opened the window once more.
Stepping onto the window sill, he lifted himself out of the window and braced himself against the outer wall. Balancing himself on only his feet, he took a cautious step towards the mysterious, ridiculous blue box. It looked like it could fit about four people on the inside, but that's not what made him curious.
What made him curious was what had made the awkward, floppy man choose this damnably blue police box as means of transportation. It's probably a portkey, he thought with a grimace. But who would want to come to the rooftop of Hogwarts?
Who could even get past the school's shields without dementors swarming them?
It was true; there were none of the creepy, airborne reapers anywhere in sight. If he didn't know himself better, Draco would say that he felt apprehensive about the whole situation. There was only one person in the school that this man might be visiting: Albus Dumbledore.
Even though he couldn't see it directly from where he stood on the roof, Draco's eyes went in the general direction of the Headmaster's Office. The old snore of a man could still quite possibly be spying on Draco; it wasn't exactly a secret that Draco had something to do with the Dark Lord. In fact, the only reason he wasn't in Azkaban right now, like his father, was because no one dared to cross Voldemort, and no one suspected a teenager to be involved so deeply, so darkly.
As the boy made his way to the box, the corner of his mouth quirked up in dark amusement. They fear me, he thought, recalling how younger students – and even older students – scurried out of his path whenever he walked the halls. Everyone except Potter and the members of that stupid bloody Dumbledore's Army was terrified of him. And they have good reason to be.
His long, elegant fingers found the handle on the police box's doors; giving it a good tug, Draco found that it was locked. "Damn," he muttered, feeling strangely disappointed. His pulse was going slightly faster, fueled by curiosity (and perhaps the fact that he was standing on the roof of a very, very, very tall castle).
Sticking his hand into the pocket of his trousers and looking over his shoulder as if he were trying to appear inconspicuous, the towheaded boy felt his fingers wrap around his wand. An idea sprung to his head, and he checked inside the windows to the Dark Arts room to make sure that the strange Doctor hadn't returned.
Drawing out his wand, Draco raised it and pointed it steadily at the door to the blue box. This was magic he could do silently, in his sleep. One corner of his mouth quirked up in the only smile that he would allow to be seen, because anything other than this almost-smile, which was made up of cruelty and small amusement, would make him vulnerable.
He couldn't remember if it was his father who had taught him that, or the Dark Lord.
"Alohamora," he murmured, his breath whispering past his lips like one of the many ghosts at the school. A miniscule, gentle flick of his wrist happened almost unconsciously – after all, this was natural to him. He was a prodigy, no matter how much that success was masked by Harry Potter.
A click sounded, and Draco grinned despite himself. Reaching for the handle, he wholeheartedly pulled on it—
—and he couldn't believe it. The door was still locked.
"What…?" he spoke to himself. Then, he became angry. Alohamora was by far the best spell for unlocking things, but this large, stupid box had obviously been charmed against it. Even though he knew it was rash, Draco couldn't help but act on his impulsive feelings. Raising his wand again, he hissed, "Bombarda!"
His wand spit a small explosion at its prey, but as what little smoke he had produced cleared, Draco saw that the doors to the police box were still intact. Fully frustrated, he said the next spell that popped into his head: "Finite incantatem!"
Trying the two previous spells again, the young wizard made an exasperated noise. Much to his annoyance, the man's extravagant tone came swirling back into his memory. Because you're the 'Muggle' when it comes to me.
Draco grunted, straightening his posture and adjusting his shirt cuffs. He wasn't a Muggle to anyone, and whatever type of magic this was, he was going to find out. It'd only been a couple of minutes since the bloody Doctor had gone prancing off; maybe Draco could follow him, study him.
His brow was set quizzically as he let himself back into the Defense Against the Dark Arts room, and as always upon entering the room, he smirked; the Dark Arts were seething in this school, right under the Headmaster's long nose, and not a thing was being done. If it were anyone other than Albus Dumbledore running the school, Draco's father had said the past holiday, I would believe that they weren't aware of us at all.
And by us, Lucius Malfoy had meant the Death Eaters – their families, their blood ran through the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; young and dressed in long black robes with Slytherin House badges sewn in. That didn't mean that every member of Slytherin was the spawn of a Death Eater or at least related to one – no, the Dark Lord was very exclusive about who was allowed into his inner circle. Of course, there was an inner circle in that inner circle, and Draco's father had the honor of being in it.
Lucius is so very sinister. My Lord recognizes that exquisiteness, and of course he allows Lucius to preside above the rest with us. We are ranked higher than our own peers, because we are the ones who love our Dark Lord.
His aunt Bellatrix's voice rang through his head, sounding as always like it was that of a banshee trying to sing a siren's song. Disgruntled, Draco shook his head to clear his thoughts – he found himself doing that quite often lately – and peered out into the hallway.
He heard the Grand Staircase moving in its ever-consistent manner; with a horrified thought that he may have already lost the Doctor, he rushed outward. Eyes wheeling, head spinning, Draco's eyes locked on to the man – thank Merlin – and he attempted to blend in.
The Doctor was having a chat with a painting, and Draco wasn't surprised. It was that hour of the day, past class hours but before the students were supposed to retire for the night, so most of his peers were in the Great Hall, filling up on thousands of servings of whatever smell was wafting upward. That meant it'd be easier for him to sneak after the odd man – less people to interrupt.
Granted, a few stragglers wandered up and down the shifting staircases, but they went unnoticed by Draco as he ascended the stairs, climbing upward towards the Doctor, who was laughing delightedly at a remark given by the painting. That made Draco pause – when was the last time he had heard someone laugh so genuinely?
He waited as the Doctor bid his farewell to the painting and set off further up the stairs. Purposefully allowing some staircases to move so as not to seem too suspicious, Draco put a little more distance in between himself and the other man.
Following the stranger all the way up to the Astronomy Tower, Draco became more and more puzzled; wasn't the man going to visit Dumbledore? Maybe the old git was waiting for the man in the classroom. At any rate, Draco was sure that Voldemort and the Death Eaters should be informed of this.
The self-proclaimed Doctor didn't stop in the classroom; instead, he simply went to the outside portion of the tower, bracing his hands against the marble half-walls and staring up at the sky. The wizard silently tracked him to the outside. It was around seven at night, and the sun was halfway set.
Draco looked up to the sky as well; maybe to see what the irritating man was looking at, or maybe just to look. A light breeze ruffled his light blond hair, and he started to see the stars. Drawing in a breath, he stared up into space, almost forgetting what he was supposed to be doing.
"The stars are so magnificent, even when I'm so far away." The Doctor's murmur was barely audible, but it startled Draco enough that he flinched. When his eyes found the Doctor, the other man still had his back to him. The Doctor continued, as if nothing were odd. "There are whole planets, whole galaxies, that you couldn't even begin to fathom. Even as a wizard."
Draco swallowed noisily, chewing on his lip before asking, "How long have you been aware of my presence?"
"Since you walked out of the classroom," the other man nonchalantly replied. "My friend pointed you out, said you're a student that's always up to no good." At this, he turned around and winked.
His friend…? thought Draco. Then he remembered that the Doctor had been talking to one of the many paintings on the staircase. Dammit. You're so stealthy, Draco. He forced himself not to grimace at his mistake. Amateur.
As if reading the Malfoy boy's mind, the Doctor smiled politely. "If you're wondering, that's all he said about you. Not much of a gossip, that one. Which is lovely, really."
"Oh, shut up," Draco muttered. "What are you doing?"
"Always with the questions."
"What are you doing up here?" The young wizard's voice was full of vehemence that surprised even him. Even though he felt slightly bad about it, it was best to stick with his pride and ride his venomous tone. Pulling his wand out of his jacket, he held its point to the ground, just wanting to show that he still had it. Implication was scarier than full-on threats, his father had told him once.
The Doctor made a displeased face, staring down at Draco's wand. "It's going to rain," he warned. "A storm's coming."
Draco fought the urge to glance up at the clouds. "I'm aware," he hissed. "But I don't really care what the hell you have to say."
"Then why do you ask so many questions?" The man adjusted his hideously maroon bowtie, frowning slightly.
"That's not what I meant — Oh, forget it. Who are you and what are you doing here?" Draco demanded, pointing his wand threateningly at the stranger.
"Who are you and what are you doing here?" The Doctor asked in reply, his raised hands going outward as he shrugged. Despite the fact that he was being held at wandpoint, he smiled. It was a close-lipped smile; one that suggested he had a secret worth knowing.
"I'm Draco Malfoy and I'm a student here—"
Draco was shocked as he realized his own voice had hitched and cut off, without his permission. Scowling, he dropped his face in something like shame. What am I doing here? he thought despite himself. I'm smart, I'm a prodigy; I should be out there, working with my father and the rest of the Death Eaters. I'm not a child anymore.
"Lower your wand, please," murmured the man in front of him. Even though Draco glared at him, he put his arms down, tugging on his tweed jacket.
"Why?" Draco spat.
"Because it's polite," replied the Doctor. "Why do you ask so many questions?"
"Why don't you answer any? You just change the subject—"
"May I tell you a story?" interrupted the man. His eyes were round and hopeful in the dim light, and he raised his face to look at the stars. "It's such a beautiful, cloudy night."
"That's what I'm talking about," Draco muttered angrily. Gripping his wand even tighter, he ordered, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't report you this instant."
"Well, I'd be gone by the time anyone got here to stare at me like you're doing." The Doctor's voice was comically defensive, and he gave Draco a once-over as if he couldn't believe the ignorance of the boy he was viewing. "You're starting to put me out of my good mood."
Good moods don't exist, Draco thought bitterly. There's just the idea of a good mood, and then someone comes and crushes it. "I don't care."
"Oh, but you do," the Doctor breathed whimsically. "You care more than you can imagine."
"What?" Draco asked, exasperated. It'd been the shortest amount of time, and he was positive that the man standing in front of him was the most irritating person he'd ever met.
"Once upon a time," began the strange, lanky man with the floppy hair. "There was a boy."
Draco groaned, letting his wand hand drop to his side. This stranger was definitely not a threat, despite the odd magic surrounding his portkey. "I've already heard this story," said Draco, rolling his eyes. "The boy is young and abused and then he gets chosen or something and becomes a hero, saving lives and getting the girl. I've already heard it, so save it for someone who cares. "
The Doctor didn't appear to be taken aback at all; instead, he gave the teenage wizard a wry smile and a wink, opening his mouth to reply.
"But you haven't heard the ending."
"Neither have you," Draco retorted, face scrunching up in revulsion. "Why are you here?"
"Once upon a time, in this galaxy, there lived a boy. He was cold and close-minded, apathetic and cruel." The Doctor's voice was merely a murmur; as if he were reading Draco a bedtime story. He might as well have been, because Draco was starting to nod off. "Well, that's what everybody thought about him, anyway," continued the other man.
Draco heaved out a breath, wondering why he couldn't bring himself to just leave already. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter what was in the giant blue police box, or who this man was. Both of them – the man and his box – meant nothing to Draco.
All that mattered to him was himself. Where he would be after he finished school. Would his father, his mother, the Dark Lord, and all his Death Eater peers honor him as one of their own? There was no doubt about it; he could be just as faithless, unmerciful, and tenacious as the rest of his soon-to-be friends.
Much higher than Crabbe or Goyle, although I'll have to deal with those buffoons, anyway. Draco scowled a little bit, trying to keep an eye and an ear on the Doctor in case the man made any movements to attack.
A small word formed on Draco's lips, and he wondered: Maybe asking him who he is isn't the way to get the truth out of him? Dozens of spells came to mind, but Draco again found himself oddly intrigued by the strange man.
"And of course, he proves everyone wrong," Draco finished sarcastically. He knew very well that the Doctor was implying that he – Draco – was the boy in this story. He smirked at the idea of how right everyone was; he was, after all, a wicked, wicked boy. I won't prove anyone wrong. I'll prove them all right, a thousand times over. "And then he becomes the hero."
"He wasn't the hero, no." The Doctor's words made Draco's shoulders sag, as much as the pale-haired, pale-skinned boy hated to admit. He'd hoped, at least, that the boy could have that. But the man continued, "No, he wasn't a hero at all. He was…well, the best word to describe it is an anti-hero." The Doctor made it sound mystical, magical, more than even Harry Potter could sound.
Draco scoffed, turning halfway towards the doors that led back inside to the Astronomy classroom. "Please. Anti-heroes only exist in stories. This isn't a story."
"Oh, but isn't it?" asked the Doctor, a coy smile playing on his lips. He didn't budge from where he was, although Draco had thought the man might try and stop him from leaving.
"No, it's not," he replied, wondering why his voice sounded strangled. He didn't feel anything, so how come his throat seemed so tight?
"And that is where you're wrong," replied the Doctor, wagging a finger as if he were giving a lecture to a misbehaving child. "We all have stories."
"This is uninteresting," Draco spat. "I'm finding that I don't give a single fuck." Forcing himself not to roll his eyes, he spun on his heel and walked away briskly. Nobody was going to make a fool out of him; he was the Death Eaters' apprentice. If he got lucky, he might someday become more fearsome than Voldemort himself.
Suddenly, a small jolt of a realization went through him. It was half-baked and completely preposterous – But I don't want to be fearsome. I want to be loved. It came to him like a child crying out in the middle of the night, as if it were afraid of some monster under its bed. Swallowing hard, Draco thought harshly, like a father would, like his father would: Their fear is what will make them love you. You'll have complete control.
Becoming aware that he'd stopped at the doorway, he hastily stepped over the threshold and into the darkening tower. He must've wasted a whole hour chasing that strange, stupid man; he cursed out loud, quickening his pace. At this rate, everyone would be retiring to the dormitories, and he'd wanted to be alone before his fellow Slyherins came…slithering in.
Draco had no idea what was making him so angry, but he couldn't stop it. He felt how deep his scowl was, how harsh and bright his eyes were. He was almost stomping as he stormed into the hall, towards the Grand Staircase.
His father's voice rang in his head: Control yourself, Draco. It's unbecoming to behave so rashly. Are you trying to embarrass me?
But Lucius Malfoy wasn't anywhere nearby. Dumblesnore had made sure of that. Instead, Draco found out rather unpleasantly, Potter and his two ugly followers were parading up the Staircase, probably heading towards the Gryffindor common room.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed past the three, almost knocking the Mudblood over. "Out of my way," he hissed. His hand automatically went to his pocket; if Potter bothered him, he was prepared to draw his wand and hex the idiot right then and there.
Yet Potter and the redheaded moron just asked Granger if she was okay, then continued heading up the staircase. They're probably going to go see that nitwit who thinks he's a doctor, Draco thought bitterly. And he couldn't care less. Let them have their secret Dumbledore's Army, Order of the Phoenix bullshit in private. Just do your part and report it to the Dark Lord.
He decided not to go to the 'Dark Arts classroom again, because that blue box was probably still perched on the roof. He was out of the mood for practice anyway; although his anger would fuel a hex rather well.
So he descended every inch of the Grand Staircase until he was on the ground floor, and then he was working his way towards the dungeons. He passed Professor Snape's old classroom; that new twit Slughorn was a downright bore. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Harry Potter was the top student in any of Slughorn's Potions classes.
He felt his lip draw up in a sneer as he swung past a group of babbling first-year Hufflepuffs. Ignoring them as they stared at him in awe – his reputation always preceded him – Draco wondered vaguely why they were here so late. Classes were over and the Hufflepuff common room was definitely not right next to the Slytherins'…oh well. They weren't anyone he was to be bothered with. He was an acolyte of the Dark Lord Voldemort; he was, of course, the most dangerous student in the school.
More dangerous than any of Potter's crew. More dangerous than any of the whimsically intelligent Ravenclaws. Draco smirked. Potter was too stupid. Granger was too good. He wouldn't even begin to discuss the unflattering traits of the Weasley boy. Draco knew that because he was, more or less, a junior Death Eater, that he was superior to the Ravenclaws – although brilliantly gifted, they could never join the Death Eaters. That's why all the Death Eaters, or at least all of the Death Eaters that had gone to Hogwarts, were from Slytherin.
I've a certain disregard for the rules, Draco thought smugly as he approached the Slytherin common room. He said the password, ducked behind the wall…
…and instantly, he felt wrong. Something was wrong.
Whirling, he raised his wand, flicking a hex at the nearest form that resembled a human. The hex hit a small statue with a clack, and the statue fell to pieces on the floor. "Hello?" Draco asked, remembering to control his voice. He sounded like an authoritative adult, and he might as well have been. He repressed the urge to giggle at that; finally, he was in his sixth year, and a lot of students skipped out on their seventh year. After all, they could finally Apparate.
The dark, green-tinted common room was eerily quiet, but the feeling of wrongness faded a little. Cautiously making his way around each black or dark green leather sofa, Draco checked to make sure that he was completely alone.
That's it, he realized. I'm completely alone.
Where were all his fellow Slytherins? They can't all have been in the Great Hall, still stuffing their faces. "Hello?" he called tentatively. There came no reply. "What the bloody hell is going on?" First the so-called Doctor, now this…
Draco eyed the stairs that led up to the boys' rooms, the girls' rooms. There were two smaller rooms that weren't quite cut off from the common room, and each had a stairwell that led to one gender's dormitory. Leaning gently to one side, and then to the other, he felt the direction that the eerie feeling pulled him towards; it was the boys' section of the Slytherin dorms.
Crossing over to the right side of the room, he passed the mantle and entered the room that held the boys' staircase. He held his wand ready because he hated surprises, and he carefully made his way past several black-painted wooden cupboards and dressers. Draco really had no idea what they were there for, since no one ever used them. Everyone expected that any personal belonging that they might place in one of the pieces of furniture would be stolen; Slytherins were true to their name.
His black, polished shoe made a quiet tap on the first stone step; it was best to be silent, and Draco gripped his wand. Curling his toes against the bottom of the inside of the shoe, he drew in a calming breath, and then took the next step, then the next. His heart wasn't pounding, his mind wasn't racing…he focused solely on the silver doorknob that was part of the black, lacquered door at the top of the stairs. The knob was engraved with a serpent that always looked alive, if you didn't stare straight at it.
For all he knew, it could've been magic playing the tricks on his peripheral vision. In fact, he hardly doubted that that was the case. Draco turned from the door briefly; his dark, grayeyes cast out over the rooms behind him. He sensed no threat, but he felt weird enough that he should inspect. It was his duty as a technically-senior Slytherin.
That thought tugged at his consciousness: Technically-Senior Slytherin. That's what he'd called himself. Slowly, Draco raised his head from its bowed position, staring straight ahead with a calculating expression. Apprentice to the Death Eaters, Junior Acolyte of the Dark Lord, Slytherin Prefect, Son of Malfoy, Son of Black…and the Most Dangerous Student in the School.
He closed his eyes, scowling as if it would help him block out what he was realizing: all these titles, and no one knew anything about him. Was that what would be put in the newspapers when he became a prominent Death Eater? Or, maybe, when he became the new Dark Lord? In his obituaries?
No, he thought, the vehemence behind the word almost scalding to his mind. I don't want to be known and remembered for those titles. The seventeen-year-old entertained the idea of reading a headline about himself. And the titles were atrocious.
I don't want to be a Death Eater. I want to be the Death Eater. I want to own this school and all the others in the world. I want to be the Malfoy that the wizarding world fears…instead of my father. I want to be feared.
But most of all…Most of all, Draco realized with a cringe, chastising himself for the grave error of making a hypocritical statement just minutes before this. Most of all…I want to be a hero. I want to surpass the Boy Who Lived. I want to be far greater.
He wanted to be a hero.
So let's be a hero, he thought, placing his hand on the cool, smooth doorknob. Twisting it quickly, he thrust it open with his shoulder, spilling gracefully into the room, wand at the ready. "Show yourself," he hissed, noting that he almost sounded like a Parselmouth.
Pushing down the surge of pride at that fact, he spun, checking the corners of the room – Professor Lockheart had said that the marvelous practice of checking corners was his own invention, but every one of the kids in his classes had known that the idea came from Muggle police series, on television.
Honestly, it wasn't a bad practice. Draco certainly wouldn't have claimed to be its creator – he wasn't foolish – but it helped in dire situations, such as the one he felt he was in. And going through the motions had rewarded him – there, to his right, hiding unsuccessfully behind the curtain on one of the first-years' beds, was the silhouette of a tall, gangly man.
"Who are you?" Draco asked, bracing himself for an attack. His eyes flitted to what he could make out of the man's clothes – the dark trousers, possibly brown, held no wand in their pockets. There was a strange cylindrical shape, though, but it was probably just a cigar. Gray eyes traveling upward, the blond-haired, pale-skinned Malfoy boy studied the man's jacket – tweed, old-looking, and—
—"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Draco growled, flicking a lumos spell towards the lantern that hung from the ceiling. "First you land your fucking police box on the roof and ask me to let you in, and then you traipse up to the Astronomy tower like you've got business here, then you ramble about nothing and bore me to death, and now this—"
The room was illuminated because of the lantern; and Draco noticed how…gaunt the man looked, compared to before.
"Er…" he managed, chastising himself for stammering. "What happened to you?" He didn't lower his wand, but he didn't threaten the man with it either. Instead, he just stared at the man, slightly aghast.
The Doctor took one haunting, sauntering step forward, his floppy hair flapping slightly, as if the bouncy liveliness had been drained out of him – and for all Draco knew, it had. The man was covered in what looked like dust, or soot. It was too black to be dirt, and too light to be ink powder. Slowly, quietly, as if he were murmuring a warning to the blond-haired wizard standing a careful distance away from him, the Doctor said, "You should have never let me in."
"Probably correct," Draco mumbled under his breath, his wand hand wavering in the air.
"Time can be rewritten," the man nodded, as if trying to convince himself. "I grew to know that by the easiest terms, but I still learned it the hard way."
"The hard way?" Draco repeated, half-listening. This was just another nonsensical babbling fit.
"Yes, with Amelia."
"Am—?"
"Never mind that," the other man said suddenly, taking two quick, quiet steps forward and raising his hands as if to brace Draco for whatever was coming. Draco flinched, raising his wand to hex the bastard, but the man hissed, "I need you to go back to the Astronomy tower. That's where I was, right?"
"Er, yeah," Draco grumbled. "I'm not going to go back there. I'm tired, and I've a curfew." That last part was a lie; he was a prefect for Merlin's sake, but it didn't matter because the Doctor shook his head.
"Break it," he whispered fiercely, an intense look in his eyes. It was strange how he had looked so dead and gray before, and now, his whole face was alive with some sort of madness. "Break it and run there, as fast as you can, Draco Malfoy. Break it, because time can be rewritten."
"I don't understan—"
"Go!" bellowed the Doctor in his grandiose tone. He grabbed Draco by the shoulders and spun the seventeen-year-old, pushing him in the direction of the stairs that Draco had just ascended. Descending the stairs clumsily, Draco growled roughly.
Straightening his green-and-silver striped tie against his white shirt, he stood erect and stared at the Doctor, who gazed back valiantly. "Why?" Draco asked stubbornly, even though he had no intention of doing what the man wished.
"Because it involves you," answered the Doctor, his voice barely calm. "I know that now, and if you run, I'll know it then."
His involvement piqued Draco's interest. He arched a beautiful, light brown eyebrow at the man and then shrugged, turning towards the exit. Not bothering to look over his shoulder or even show that he might still be apprehensive of the Doctor, he strode out of the smaller room, then the larger room, maneuvering around chairs and sofas until he got to the wall.
Touching it simply so that it would open, he called, "I don't know why I'm doing this, but I'm bored and everyone's gone, so why not?" Stepping through, he found himself in the dungeon corridor he'd gone through just moments before.
Draco, you're a downright fool. But, as the door closed, he heard the man reply, ever so softly, "Hurry, Draco Malfoy."
He didn't know what made him run, what made him dash up the stairs, passing Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs – and urgh, most of the Slytherin house – until he got to the Dark Arts room's floor.
Skidding into that hallway, he pushed open the door to the classroom and stuck his head in, eyes wheeling towards the far window. Yes, the blue police box was still there. For some reason, he'd had to check.
Closing the door gently before racing down the same hallway towards the Grand Staircase yet again, Draco thought, Why am I doing this? I don't care. I don't care about any of this – this man, this blue box, this involvement of mine…
But the Doctor's words rang in his head: Oh, but you do. You care more than you can imagine. And for that, he was angry. He was an exceptional liar, but this man had known the truth. The only other person that could tell when he was lying was his father, but this man was definitely unlike his father in every way.
Swallowing, Draco could just tell that if he decided to lie to Voldemort ever, the Dark Lord would see straight through him. And he'd probably end up dead, or worse.
Pushing past the three dimwits, Potter-Granger-Weasley, he snarled an insult at them and continued his journey up the stairs. He wasn't even tired of running all over the place; his endurance was rather marvelous, if he did say so himself.
One of the idiots, presumably the redheaded, called something back to him. It was probably the most laughable comeback he'd ever heard, but he had no time to quarrel with the Gryffindor scum.
No, he had something important to do. Or, at least, more important than bothering his least favorite people in the entire world. So Draco pushed past a few others, staring upward and ahead until he got – finally – to the Astronomy classroom.
He burst through the doors like one of those fireworks that had been played as a prank on Umbridge last year, wand in his right hand, tie over his left shoulder. Pulling it down and again, straightening it, Draco paced briskly across the room, towards the doors that led out to the outside portion of the tower.
And, to his slight astonishment, the Doctor was still standing on the balcony. He wasn't covered in dust, nor was he talking like the world was about to end. Suddenly unsure of what to do, Draco took a few hesitant steps towards the other man.
"I see you've come back," said the Doctor, amusement lacing his tone. "It's October sixth."
"Er, yeah," Draco managed. "It's a month and five days into the school year." He watched the back of the Doctor's head as the man nodded. His hair flopped in what appeared to be its natural way, compared to the Doctor that Draco had seen just moments before.
Strange, he thought. I've been all over the school in about fifteen minutes.
"Listen," said Draco. "Uh, time can be rewritten," he quoted. "I'm supposed to tell you that."
The Doctor turned slightly. "Were you," he murmured thoughtfully. There was a moment of silence, then he continued, "I suppose you'll want to see the TARDIS?"
"What?" Draco blanched. Did the man just call him retarded? He huffed a breath; the air slid out of him and into the cold air in the familiar shape of a serpent. Draco tried not to smirk at the marvel.
"The TARDIS."
"What's that?" The blond-haired boy scowled, once again annoyed. It was so easy for this idiot to irritate him. On a scale of one to Harry Potter, this man was…about an eleven.
Of course, Harry Potter was infinity, if this man was an eleven.
At any rate, Draco followed the Doctor out of the Astronomy tower – why had the man gone there? To look at the stars?Draco scoffed; he doubted it.
This is definitely the most irritating thing I've done in a while, thought Draco as he trailed behind the Doctor, wand raised slightly so that if others saw the two, they wouldn't think anything was suspicious.
"Where are we going?" he asked at one point, as they stood on the stairs waiting for them to shift. The Doctor was tapping his foot as if he were in a hurry, and Draco crossed his arms, trying to look as if he weren't associated with the man at all.
"To the TARDIS," the Doctor replied as if the strange word held all the secrets to the universe. He grinned a bit, and Draco was again taken aback at how different he had seemed in the Slytherin common room.
This brought forth two questions: One, how had the man traveled so quickly so that Draco wouldn't have seen him? And two, how had he gotten into the Slytherin common room? He definitely was not a Slytherin, and had never been.
The answer to the first question probably had to do with time: Maybe, somehow, the Doctor had gotten his hands on a time-turner – dangerous things; Draco had read about them once, over his holiday break.
The answer to the second question didn't bother him too much – although he had no idea how the stranger could've intruded like that, the Doctor had gotten onto Hogwarts grounds without any trouble. And trouble meant hexes, alarms, dementors…Maybe Dumbledore's given him an all-access pass, Draco mused with a sneer.
"What's the TARDIS?" he questioned, sighing heavily.
"Time And Relative Dimension In Space."
Draco scoffed. "What is it, a rocket ship?" He wondered vaguely if they were traveling to the Room of Requirement. Eyeing the Doctor, he saw no time-turner; it probably hidden. But what had made the Doctor so worried, so dirty? He looked as fine as a crazy person with no fashion sense could; like the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
Instead of the Room of Requirement, the Doctor headed towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts room – the first-years and second-years had taken to calling it DADA, like infants, and Draco was suddenly tired of acronyms.
"Oh," he realized. "The police box? Is that where we're going?"
"Yes, the TARDIS," answered the Doctor. He adjusted his bowtie, and, looking over his shoulder at Draco, winked. "You'll be amazed."
"Saying something like that always ruins the reaction, you know," Draco replied tiredly. "What's in it?"
"Asking what's in it always ruins the surprise, you know." The Doctor's tone bordered on sarcastic, and Draco rolled his eyes as the man pushed open the Dark Arts room's door. Following a few steps behind him to the inside, Draco watched as the Doctor strode over to the opposite window.
Déjà vu, he told himself. Except not really. He smirked. Clearing his throat, he went to stand next to the strange man, lifting his wand. "Cistem aperio," he murmured, and the windows delicately fell open. If I were still a member of the Inquisitorial Squad…he mused.
Suddenly, Draco went pale, and gooseflesh covered his skin. His heart and stomach both sank. The Dark Mark on his left forearm had twinged. His brow furrowed; he hadn't thought about the symbol all day. He remembered receiving it; the burning sensation that had sent ice and darkness through his veins, crawling with demonic fingers towards his heart and his mind, and leaving him cold as death.
Here he was now, shivering, remembering the Dark Lord, remembering his mission. He didn't have time to play games with the Doctor, he had to prove himself worthy; had to restore his father's honor.
Draco, He Who Must Not Be Named had whispered to the young wizard. You must find a way. This is a special task…
And indeed it was. Swallowing, Draco looked at the man in front of him with new eyes. I'm supposed to find a way, he repeated to himself, in Voldemort's voice, in his father's voice, in his own voice. I'm supposed to find a way into Hogwarts, for the Death Eaters.
He watched as the man stepped out of the window onto the roof, then followed, a sneering, malicious grin forming on his face. "Colloportus," he whispered, raising his wand to the windows behind him. He heard them latch, and he blinked, allowing the smile to fade from his face.
This man – this Doctor had gotten onto school grounds unnoticed, without apparition, without Dumbledore's permission, no doubt. That must be the reason that he's not in Dumbledore's office, Draco mused. Because he's not supposed to be. He's not visiting the Headmaster, or anyone here.
The Doctor produced a key from his jacket, waving it around like he'd found it in some sort of scavenger hunt, but Draco ignored his stupid grin and pondered the use of telling the Dark Lord – perhaps this man was allied with the Death Eaters? The gray-eyed boy grimaced; to be honest, this man seemed too…happy to be anywhere on what the wizarding world liked to call 'the dark side.'
But he was still curious as to what lie on the other side of the locked doors, so as the Doctor inserted his key into the TARDIS's keyhole, Draco studied the motion mildly. His pulse jumped at the thought of reporting all this to his masters…I should see this through, he thought. This man has invited me into his parlor, no doubt. I'll let him do his parlor tricks, and then I'll leave.
The doors fell open, and Draco followed the man inside, eyes flitting about to make sure no one else was around, no binding charms or hexes being cast – oh. Draco stopped just inside the door, looking around uninterestedly. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as the other man turned to stare at him.
"What," spat the Doctor, seemingly insulted. He raised his thin, floppy arms, as if he were presenting the inside of the TARDIS to Draco. "Are you not impressed? It's bigger on the inside," he added in a stage-whisper, speaking from behind the back of his hand and nodding and winking.
"Of course I'm not impressed," scoffed Draco, feeling rather like his younger self all of a sudden – before all this…responsibility was laid upon him. "I've seen this type of magic loads of times."
"Er, what?"
"It's the Undetectable Extension Charm," Draco said, as if bored. Rolling his eyes, he explained, "It's a sophisticated spell, but maintains itself as soon as it's cast, if cast correctly."
"It's like you're trying to explain it with science," the Doctor giggled. "No, no, this isn't magic – well, not your kind, anyway."
"Really." His tone was more stubborn than since before he'd become a Death Eater; last year it would've been completely normal, but now, it was as if maturing and becoming an adult to his teachers' and family's eyes, maybe even the Death Eaters' eyes as well, had changed him more than he could admit. Draco didn't allow the realization to make him falter; he continued as best he knew how: snobbish. "Well, you've landed from space – you were flying, that's magic. You fucked with time – you probably have a time-turner somewhere, that's magic. And now this, as I've already told you, is an Undetectable Extension Charm. Magic."
"You don't understand," replied the Doctor, his face more serious now. "This is my kind of magic."
"If I don't understand, then teach me," Draco replied scornfully. "It's not as if I'm a Muggle. I can learn." He pushed away the thought of the Doctor saying that, compared to the strange man, the wizard was a Muggle. Of course, that wasn't true, seeing how Draco Malfoy obviously knew more than the man before him.
The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Close the door," he requested offhandedly. "We're going somewhere."
And for the first time in a long time, Draco obeyed someone who wasn't his father or the Dark Lord himself. With that realization came the memory of getting Marked – branded, like Muggle livestock. Draco was one of many of the Dark Lord's followers, he was a Malfoy, a Black, and he was a prefect.
His back to the Doctor as he studied the now-closed door of the TARDIS, Draco thought of how much power those titles seemed to give him. Am I beyond those titles, or am I not enough for them? With contempt, like bile, rising in his throat, he knew that the latter was the answer.
I'll become enough. I'll become more than enough. I'll be worthy, he thought to himself. I'll be worthy of the Dark Lord's trust, of my father's trust…
…And all he had to do was kill Albus Dumbledore.
