A bit of an explanation this chapter. And something to add a little more realism to the story.
In any case, enjoy!
Sorry in advance if Harry seems a little out-of-character towards the end. I was really struggling to write him, for some reason.
"I am telling you, there is no choice in the matter!" Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, demanded. He stood in the Foyer of Hogwarts School, "I must speak with Albus Dumbledore."
"That is not possible, Minister," McGonagall stood a metre away from him, speaking calmly, but firmly.
The two stood opposite each other. Students were in lessons around now; hence why Fudge had chosen this time to visit. The two were alone; McGonagall resolute, facing the Minister, who stood just past the main gates.
"Not possible?" Fudge echoed, incredulous, "Minerva, a boy has died!"
"I am quite aware of that Minister," the teacher pursed her lips, "But the fact remains, you cannot see Dumbledore. I am the acting headmistress; I will be happy to help you in relation to any matters of school policy, but the headmaster must not be disturbed."
"Come now," the Minister of Magic sighed, "There has been a death: you cannot expect the Ministry to stand by."
"The Ministry is not in control of Hogwarts," Minerva retorted, frosty.
The two impassable forces stared at each other. Fudge was silent for a few seconds; exhaling slowly. He couldn't easily get McGonagall to relent, he knew that much; he just didn't understand why he wasn't allowed to speak to Dumbledore.
McGonagall also was silent; for she had nothing to say. She stood, arms held loosely at her sides, with enough presence to barricade the rest of Hogwarts, even from the Minister of Magic himself.
"I suggest you leave," Minerva McGonagall eventually spoke, once the silence had dragged on long enough. Her voice was cold.
"You know I won't. I'm here to talk about the death," Fudge was trying to be equally as resolute as McGonagall.
"I am acting headmistress," she spoke, "You will direct all inquiries to me."
"That's not good enough!" Fudge half-shouted. A timid, unpractised edge was audible in his voice, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it: "I could have you taken to Azkaban if you continue to obstruct the Ministry."
Minerva turned pale; yet she stayed where she was, unmoving. Protecting the possessed headmaster.
"That will, uh, not be necessary," a kindly, elderly voice sounded; drawing closer to the foyer.
Cornelius Fudge looked towards that corridor, relief on his face, McGonagall looked stricken with shock and almost-fear.
Striding along, gait mildly jerky, Albus Dumbledore came into view, stepping easily into the foyer. He looked around, blinking a few times.
Something was off: Dumbledore's voice carried less of the authority it normally held, and while it still bore that inherent kindness, there was a little missing; a little less twinkle in his eyes, a little more frustration, hesitation, in his tone.
Behind the impossible headmaster, Amy and the Doctor followed; carefully watching his steps, and occasionally, subtly, helping 'Dumbledore' move within his flowing robes.
"Er, okay," Fudge spoke again, pausing for a moment, unsure of what to make of the headmaster's odd reappearance. "Your headmistress wasn't letting me speak to you."
"A temporary measure," a ghost of a frown crossed the elderly man's face, "I wasn't feeling…myself. It's okay now Mc- Minerva."
"We'll discuss it later," the teacher had recovered enough composure to shoot an incredulous glare across the room.
A little silence, as the people surveyed each other. Amy, Doctor, Dumbledore, McGonagall and Fudge.
"Headmaster," Fudge began; "Damien Lowe died in one of your classes; under your protection. The Ministry wants to know what you intend to do."
Dumbledore, unusually, hesitated for a moment. He looked back at the Doctor; the Time Lord nodded, urging the headmaster on. Cornelius and Minerva noted the action, but decided to ignore it.
"I, ah," Albus hesitated, "I've decided to call in an expert, you know, being Head and all."
"I've heard nothing of this," Cornelius seemed almost indignant
"That would be because I'm not from the Ministry," the Doctor walked in front of the unsure Dumbledore, looking around and smiling broadly. "Hello, I'm the Doctor," he reached out and energetically shook the Minister's hand.
"You're the expert," Fudge stated, a little disbelieving
"Yep," the Doctor nodded
"On what?"
"The universe," the Doctor shot back, still grinning.
"And that gives you an expertise on the matter of Damien Lowe?" Fudge was distinctly unimpressed by the Doctor's eccentricity
"Yes," the Time Lord replied simply, before launching into another speech; "So, what were you told? That he was tired, kept falling asleep; and then he didn't wake up? Yes? Well, that's about right: only they didn't say why."
"You know why?" this time, McGonagall spoke, getting a word in before Fudge could speak.
The Doctor had spent the last day, with Rory, running around Hogwarts with Moody's Foe-Glass, seeking out shadows like the one Moody had mentioned seeing.
Apparently, there'd been one over the TARDIS.
Once he'd returned from the exploration, he'd locked himself away in Dumbledore's Office, still keeping the password a secret. Amy had exhausted every possibility from duck ponds to bow ties to fezzes, in an effort to guess the word.
Only now, it seemed, was he going to speak up about the strange foe. The redhead listened keenly; even Dumbledore took an ungainly, curious, step forwards.
"Life," the Doctor began, "At its most basic level, it's just an amalgamation of waves. Ooh, I like that word, amalgamation! Amalgamation! Well, there are some species which feed on that; they feed on the essence of life, draining it away from a victim. Sometimes it can be quick, sometimes it can take days: maybe weeks or months, depending on how alive the victim is."
The Time Lord paused for breath, looking from face to face. They were all listening, wondering.
"Amalgamation," he sung again, "Then there's one species, an incredibly, incredibly rare kind of leech; they're not physical at all, just a cloud of thoughts. Can't touch them, can't really sense them in any way, except of course, if you're reading those thoughts: like a Foe-Glass reads intent. You can't really say they're conscious, not in any real way: it's their nature, no, it is nature, a force of nature in itself. They float around, then latch on to someone, slowly draining life force from them."
By now, Fudge was nodding slowly, understanding. Amy was frowning; the Doctor had mentioned a shadow on the TARDIS. One of those…leech things was stealing the life energy of the TARDIS?
Carefully, she removed a TARDIS key from her pocket; the teeth were almost completely eroded, and it was softening. When she squeezed, a vague, visible imprint was left behind.
Not good.
"They find someone, and whoosh," the Doctor clapped his hands together, breaking the almost hypnotizing atmosphere, "It follows them around, non-stop. If you're tired, struggling to stay awake, then you've got less life in you: either it's a school-day, there's the Dream Lord hiding around the corner, or you've got one of those little things following you."
A moment of silence. The Doctor let his words sink in; he looked from Dumbledore, to Fudge, to McGonagall. All of them were serious; recognizing the danger he spoke of, and how it applied to Damien.
"So, they're kind of like outer-space stalkers?" Amy quipped, trying to break the solemn, noiseless atmosphere
"Exactly," the Doctor nodded enthusiastically. "Only a lot rarer; remember? I said they were very rare: only ever one or two in the same place at the same time."
"How many of these…'Stalkers' are at Hogwarts?" Fudge asked, trying to regain some semblance of understanding, trying to bring the conversation down to his own level.
"I think it's just the ones I found yesterday," the Doctor grinned uneasily
"Which was?" Fudge repeated his question.
A pause; then the Doctor replied in what was best described as an embarrassed croak: "Seven."
"Seven?" Fudge spluttered; "So much for rare! And how are we to get rid of these Stalkers?"
"That much I don't know," the Doctor shrugged; "I'm working on it."
With that, the Doctor's role was finished. He inherently figured it out; and stepped backwards, out of the main conversation, and behind Dumbledore, to the side of Amy. He watched as they continued.
The Minister for Magic stood still for a moment; ignoring the Doctor's oddness and the oddity of the explanation, focusing in on just his words, and the ideas and consequences therein.
"I must protest at this taking of an advisor," Cornelius eventually said, to Dumbledore, trying to move the subject to an area he understood.
"Oy! It's my castle, I am the headmaster," the man's words were very much unlike Dumbledore's, but the stuttering Fudge didn't seem to notice. "I can choose who advises me, and who doesn't."
"But-" Fudge began
"Can we continue some other time?" the 'headmaster' spoke, interrupting the Minister for Magic, "I need a lie down."
With the, in all honesty, awful excuse left behind, the man calling himself Dumbledore turned, stumbling his way out of the foyer. The Doctor, Amy and McGonagall followed; leaving Fudge alone in the foyer. It took the Minister a couple of minutes to regain his wits, and decide to leave.
"I think that went pretty well," 'Dumbledore' muttered, resting one arm on the corridor wall.
"Oh it did," the Doctor was grinning like a child, "Well done Rory!"
It was finally too much for Minerva McGonagall. She spoke, impatient and irritated.
"Would you kindly explain the meaning of this?" the teacher said, lips pursed, "The headmaster is, to my knowledge, unable to leave his office."
"Huh? No," the Doctor turned shaking his head; "Dumbledore's still in there. I couldn't cure him that quickly, sorry. We whipped up a batch of Polyjuice Potion quickly; it was the only way to get rid of Fudge, and we'll probably need it, for the Triwizard tasks at least."
Minerva froze for a moment; the wind had been taken from her sails by the Doctor's genuine apology/explanation.
"If the TARDIS was working," the Doctor mused, "We could probably get Michael Gambon to give it a go."
"I wasn't that bad!" Rory/Dumbledore protested, tripping over the hem of the headmaster's robes.
The Doctor coughed awkwardly, beginning to walk away. McGonagall followed; she had a lot more to say to the Time Lord.
Behind them, Amy moved up very close to the transformed Rory.
"I know you were talking about having children earlier," she murmured, "We're not trying until you stop looking like a bearded Kazran, ok?"
O
"Anything wrong?" Harry said.
The Boy Who Lived was sitting a little distance away from the blonde, pale, Draco Malfoy. They were in a relatively deserted stretch of corridor; it was an unwritten rule between them; they only met up in the less-frequented places.
The unorthodox friendship they'd struck up couldn't stand scrutiny. Or maybe it could; and they were afraid of knowing that.
"No," Draco shook his head, before sighing, relenting; "Maybe a little. Just freaked out; some woman I met earlier."
It was odd, Draco reflected. He hadn't been able to tell anyone this; now he was telling it to the boy who should be his enemy.
Come to think of it, maybe he was saying it because Harry should be his enemy; you always cared more about what enemies thought of you, than what friends thought of you.
"Who?" Harry frowned.
"No idea," Draco muttered, "She wore some kind of iron mask."
"Iron mask?" Harry echoed, "That's a bit odd."
"Might not be iron," Draco admitted, "Some kind of metal though."
They were silent for a little time; unsure of what to say. They enjoyed each others' company, enjoyed meeting and talking, but so rare were their opportunities to do so, that they didn't always have much to discuss.
"What happened with that Damien?" Draco remarked
"I'd have thought you'd heard," Harry frowned, looking over at the Slytherin
"I have," Malfoy spoke, almost defensive, "Just, you were there. I want to know what actually happened."
"Ok "Harry muttered, casting his mind back. They weren't exactly happy memories; but the sudden shock of the student's collapse made it stay with him. "He was tired, and that's really it. Fell off his chair in the lesson; it was a while until they realized he was dead."
Draco hesitated, wincing. It didn't sound fun; there were worse ways to die, but with Damien, it seemed hard to notice what was wrong, until too late. If someone was tired, they could just not be getting enough sleep, or they could be in danger of whatever happened to Damien.
Not a pleasant thought.
"Things aren't going well for you this year, huh Potter?" Draco observed.
Inwardly, he was wondering why he wasn't amused. In the first year, he'd found it almost funny when Potter and his friends were in detention; yet from then, he'd been less sadistic. More, if he could say it, compassionate: more pitying.
"Huh?" Harry frowned. He hadn't really been paying attention; distracted by his memories.
"Damien, and the Triwizard thing," Draco elaborated, rolling his eyes in impatience. "Not a great year."
Harry nodded, shivering at the memory of the Goblet. The flaming chalice always made him jump, whenever fire had flared from it; seeing his own name come out of it was just unsettling.
"I wanted to talk about that," Harry spoke up, after a few seconds.
"Go on," Draco prompted
"Back in the Second Year, you know, Lellorian, you knew a lot of spells which we hadn't learnt," Harry hesitated, the word that best described him was shy; guilty almost at speaking, "Could you teach me some of them?"
Malfoy paused for a few seconds; he hadn't expected that. Maybe it was because he was too used to dealing with Slytherins, but not many people came to him for help.
"You don't have to," Harry rushed on, "Just, you've got a Wizarding family," Harry hesitated there, not sure as to what other adjectives to add or omit, "And Hagrid showed me the first task. It's dragons."
Dragons; Draco blinked. It definitely wasn't a good year for Harry.
"You uh- You don't have to. Hermione's teaching me too; it just sounds better if more people help." Harry stopped, unsure as to how much more he could or should say.
The blonde Slytherin tilted his head, appraising Harry for a moment.
"Sure," Malfoy shrugged, "Why not, Potter? Not like I've got anything better to do."