Disclaimer: Worlds and characterts - not mine. (But I did make up Mrs. Crouch's first name, the HP Wiki had no information on that.)
1982 (3) B
Everything, wherever he looked, was filled with it.
Burning his eyes with its sheer existence. Magic.
Magic.
Magic.
An abomination to this world. Worse than nuclear energy. Worse than anything even the Daleks had come up with – no, strike tha–
A red sky, burning, distorted, dieing. His wife and his children, burning, distorted, dieing. He had given them a choice. He had given everyone a choice. 'Save yourselves,' he had told them. And then he had killed them.
A red sky, burning, distorted, dieing.
Gallifrey. Burning, burning, burning.
He had killed them.
Over and over, in his head.
Those creatures. Dementors. Killing his species over and over, in his head.
Magical creatures.
Magic.
Why call it magic? Heirs of the Angels, breaking the world apart without realizing what they did.
Magic, a force that tried defying physics. How could they?
Gallifrey, burning, burning, burning.
Those damned Dementors.
"Son, can you hear me?"
Snapping his eyes open, he jerked away from the intruder. He wanted to yell, but found his voice dysfunctional. Ah, he had not spoken in quite a while.
"It's me, my dear," the same voice spoke.
The Dementors were gone for now.
Finally, his eyes focused on a woman he remembered looking much healthier. Cornelia Crouch, the witch he had grown attached enough to call mother during the days of his childlike appearance. The woman he had called mother. The longer he looked at her, the more he realized that…
"You're…dieing," he croaked. His voice rattled painfully, but the realization of him most likely having caused her illness struck much harder. The woman he had called mother.
Martha, Donna, Rose. Wherever he went, pain and destruction in his wake.
She smiled at him. The woman he had called mother. It was the same sad and lonely smile she had worn when he had first met her all those years ago. And then she pulled him into a hug and whispered into his ear.
He stared at her in disbelief. Of course he had realized she would not send the Tardis back, for whichever reasons. He had decided to stay nonetheless. Long ago. Because he had to. Long ago. So long ago.
She withdrew from the hug and sat down in front of him. He kept staring at her. The woman he had called mother. She pulled a vial from her sleeve. What was she doing? "Don't," he whispered. Harshly, brokenly. Whatever she was doing, she shouldn't be doing it.
She drank it, and she was in pain.
"Don't," he repeated.
She started turning into him, and he hated it.
"Don–," his voice died in his throat.
He hadn't noticed him. The man he refused calling father. Standing next to his wife, wand risen, Imperius-curse spoken. The man who had no conscience.
Magic. Disgusting, impossible magic.
"It is her last wish," the man all but hissed as he forced his son to drink the contents of the second vial they'd brought. The man who had no heart.
Oh, the irony. The Doctor might have cried if he had been able to, if he had even been properly aware of his surroundings. So long ago, he had stayed to make the poor woman live her life again – now he was the death of her. Literally. Like a puppet on a puppeteer's strings, he was forced to become her. The man who had no conscience was forcing him to escape, trading in his wife's life.
But worst of it all, he left the Doctor no chance to speak any last words to her.
As he was walked down the corridors of Azkaban, the curse lulled his senses, yet his mind knew nothing else but anger and pain.
Martha, Donna, Rose.
Martha, Donna, Rose, Cornelia. Wherever he went, pain and destruction in his wake.
And all the while, the words she had told him echoed through his mind.
"I'm sorry I won't be able to fulfil my promise," she had whispered, "but I'm so very grateful you stayed with me even though you knew that."
Her name was Cornelia Crouch, and she was the mother who loved.
Part 1: Mother - End
A/N: :'(