Fixed Points in Time
By
DracoNunquamdormiens
Part Seven
My Darling Guinevere
Or
Why Lily Should be Mad
.
"Awake yet?" James' voice made it through the haze Sirius' mind had been enveloped in until now. But after years of waking up to it, he simply ignored it. Besides, his head hurt.
A lot.
The silence, blissful, quiet silence stretched for the space for a few moments. It was broken only by a distinct sensation of … someone hovering nearby. And breathing. Sirius, however, having shared a dormitory with six loud boys for most of his life, had no trouble ignoring these noises either.
"How about now?" came not three seconds later. Although he was tempted to groan, Sirius didn't move; this, too, was customary. Something told him in no uncertain terms that James was trying him to get up early to test some new Quidditch moves. It was the only time James was up before anyone else, ever. Sirius decided he wasn't in the mood for Woolongong Shimmies or Beater Barrages. It was surely cold outside — which didn't deter James when he was sure his newest idea would blow Slytherin out of the game — and possibly, quite uncomfortably wet as well. So, Sirius did the best he could in these occasions: he lay as still as before,never letting it on he'd heard at all.
"No?"
No. Go away.
But James was impossible to shake off, once he'd set his mind on something. Ask Lily Evans, any time. He thought he was cute when he did that.
He wasn't.
"And now?" A finger pried Sirius' left eyelid open. He wrenched it shut with a groan. When James got hands-on, nothing he ever tried to ignore him worked. He sighed in defeat, but didn't otherwise move. James seemed to view this as an invitation to carry on prodding. So prod he did, at Sirius' sides, his feet, his belly... Gah. "How about now? No? C'mon, man. Wake up already. I'm sure you're feeling better, I mean, you should be feeling better, after Uncle Merlin had at you. Are you better? Eh? Eh? Are you?"
Uncle Merlin, what?
"Mbghh…" Sirius would be better if James just let him sleep for five more minutes… Hours. Days. He was trying to say as much, but his tongue wouldn't respond to commands. Then again, his brain was slurring too, so it was understandable, to him at least, that his tongue couldn't understand what his brain bloody meant. Which was for James to leave and let him sleep on, thanks.
"You know I hate it when you speak only in consonants. Want to rephrase?"
"Mughreeh…" Sirius revised, but all pretence of sleep had vanished. He realised, upon opening his eyes, that he wasn't at Hogwarts. And that James hadn't asked him to get up early for Quidditch practice in years. If that Potter-shaped blur was James at all. Gah, headache…
"Yeah, I can't understand you even now," James said conversationally, and now Sirius saw he was perched on the — vast would be a fair description — side of his bed. "So if you'd explain yourself, Padfoot?"
Sirius would have tried, but his capacity for speech wasn't quite up to par even after he'd sat up, which was surprisingly harder than he'd thought at first. And when he finally looked blearily around, his capacity for speech simply took a hike.
He was in a room that, if described, could only be termed majestic; there were hand-embroidered cushions everywhere, and the warm blankets he'd been covered with were in reality assorted furs of cute woodland creatures. Yummy ones, he was inclined to bet. The four-poster bed with the phoenix and dragon carvings he was lying on was enormous, forget about king size; you could get lost in here. Itshangings were woven of silver and gold, and there was a fireplace floating smack in the middle of the large room, which cast its dancing light on moving tapestries and paintings of — definitely — exquisite taste. As Sirius' eyesight sharpened in time with his wits, he took in the life-like dragon statues, the carvings on walls and ceilings, the coats of arms and banners that completed the decoration.
He decided the room was an all right room.
Bugger if he knew where he was, though.
"Morning."
"Afternoon," James corrected, now coming from somewhere to his right. "I thought you'd gotten petrified. You actually kind of look like you were..."James was peering in on him, grinning widely, and looking very… Medieval Times. He was wearing a leather armour and everything. Sirius decided he'd get one too. It looked cool. "Want anything? Water? Tea? They don't know about coffee here yet, but you never cared much for it anyway. There's no cokes, but they have this cider... Oh, and you have to taste the wine." At the same time he talked his ears off, James decided he needed a drink and levitated a goblet at him.
Sirius blinked a few times.
James watched him expectantly.
Then Sirius' stomach rumbled.
"I'm hungry." He managed after a sip of… was this mulled wine? He decided he liked the wine first thing in the morning, and that he'd make that a habit.
"That's better. Are you, though?"
What, hungry? Yeah… "'M I wha?"
"Feeling alright?"
"I s'pose. Why'd you keep asking?"
"Depends on what you can remember." Oh no. Now he was going all cryptic. Sirius' slurring brain had already had its job cut out for it just trying to coordinate hand and tongue coordination, did James really expect it to actually think on top of that?"What do you remember, then?"
Yes, by all looks of it, he did.
So Sirius racked his brain mercilessly, and gave it some wine — which helped it along loads better than the racking, thanks— and sketchy bits of information came through. He had already established he wasn't at Hogwarts; this was definitely not a Torchwood cell block, either; he frowned, looking himself over. Aside from the fact that he was wearing the longest nightshirt ever seen, nothing seemed to be any different.
"We met the Doctor, didn't we? With the Sontarans?"
"Yes. Go on," James prompted.
"I can't," Sirius complained. "I'm famished."
"Oh, yeah. Sorry, I'll get you an English breakfast... Better yet, I'll make it two. Maybe three," James decided, getting up. "With buns... you'll love them, Rosie the cook makes them fresh every time you fancy a roll." He was at the far end of the room now, grabbing onto... a rope? Was the food up on the ceiling, perhaps?
He didn't do any acrobatics, though. He pulled the rope, which must've been attached to a bell, because next Sirius heard was tolling. York Minster-mass-type tolling.
Gods, my head…
"Gah." He buried his head under a pillow, while bustling followed James' muffled voice, as though an entire –clinking and clanging- regiment had arrived.
When he dared to peek, it was only because the most delicious smells had filled the room. Mouth watering, Sirius looked up from under his pillows. He suddenly knew where he was.
He was in heaven.
There was everything he could have wished for, on a couple of dining room tables which a bunch of strangers in tunics brought in at a trot and lined up next to his hugenormous bed: breakfast sausage, still sizzling from the pan; bacon and eggs and tomatoes, and a block of cheese, and those little slices of bread that come with cream spreads, chips and fish and pork, and beef stew and what looked like roast mutton, and pies and venison, rolls and those buns James had been on about, and jam and tea, and…
And he decided right then, he liked the catering.
"It's all yours, Padfoot. Dig in, just skip the venison, there's a lad. I couldn't bear it," James told him happily, nibbling on a truncheon and looking for all the world like he'd cooked it all himself. "And while you're at it, what do you remember?"
"Right," Sirius mumbled in between bites. His headache was gone, and his brain had enough fuel now to actually do its job. "I remember the Tower of London," he said, "and going to the TARDIS…"
"Yep."
"And we were — well, I was, there was no help from your end at all —"
"Oy! I helped!"
"— telling him about the paradox, and… did anyone try and burn a girl?"
"Guinevere, if you please. I think she's not just any girl," James corrected, but Sirius' pie-fuelled brain was re-engaging. He looked shocked all of a sudden. "She's special, I'll have you know," James carried on, happy and obliviously ignoring Sirius' groan. "I think she likes me."
"What the hell happened?" Sirius asked, suddenly alarmed. He'd remembered it all; getting to Pendragon castle, where something told him he was still at; meeting King Uther and Merlin… and then Torchwood had come and everything was blackness from there on out.
"Nothing yet, but I'm sure she's got the hots for me— I mean, did you see her look at me? Like, really look?"
"Not the girl!" Sirius said in exasperation. "The—the — the other lot. Torchwood!"
"Oh them, they're in the dungeons," James said offhandedly from the foot of the bed, where he was lounging. "They were sent packing there by King Uther, just a wave of his staff, and presto. And Uncle Merlin, Sirius— you missed him, he was totally, absolutely, brilliantly, awesome—"
"And you're not going after Guinevere, because she doesn't have the hots for you."
"Uncle Merlin went and zapped Yvonne a new one, with a chicken leg— what? What do you mean she doesn't have the hots for me? Have you seen me lately? I'm so sexy—" James drew himself up and preened a bit. Sirius focused on more important things, such as finishing most of what he'd gotten dished up in record time.
"If she's the Guinevere I think she is, then she's got the hots for Arthur," he pointed out, in between bites. "Not you. She's not supposed to. She can't."
"Can too," James said mulishly. Sirius drained his goblet and stretched. Gods, everything felt like he'd been used as a dummy for Beater practice…
"Nope," Sirius answered lightly. "It would change history, so…"
"But…"
"No." Sirius looked around, shaking his head in a dog-like manner. His tousled hair fell automatically into place, a trait James secretly envied him.
"She's not even married, so in all technicality I could date her…"
"In all technicality… Nope." Now, what to wear? It looked like there were clothes laid out on the other end of the eternal bed of squishiness.
"C'mon… just a bit."
"Nu."
"Gah, Sirius. You're no fun." James was pouting now. Sirius inwardly cackled as he looked through what looked like… the sort of stuff he used to wear at home, really. Only more medievalish. He held up a pair of trousers and wondered what he was supposed to do with all the drawstrings on them. Didn't they have buttons here? Zippers?
"That's not true. I happen to be lots of fun. So, Torchwood are in a cage?" Did the stockings here really need to be this long? He felt like a witch, not a wizard. And did everything here need to be black? Well. The underpants were white…ish. He just hoped they weren't hand-me-downs.
Or recently used.
Ick. Should he go without?
Should he... Sniff?
"Sort of. I said dungeon, not cage." James was grudging, and so was his tone.
"I need to go look. And you, you need to get Guinevere to start fancying Arthur, and do it quick."
"Do I have to?" James whined. "She's the best-looking girl I've ever met!"
"Whoa, what happened to Evans?" Sirius stopped short mid-struggle with what looked like a doublet, which he hoped wasn't underwear and went over the tunic he'd already thrown over what he hoped was an undershirt. "Gah, what's with all these ruddy layers?"
"Nothing's happened to Evans. Literally. She's not even born yet. So there." James was sulking, but in the end took pity on him and helped straighten out his layers of clothing. "Accio belt. It's fashionable to always wear a dagger and your wand on a belt. Otherwise people think you're naked or something," he informed. Sirius grinned toothily at him. There would be no changing the subject here.
"Tsk tsk, that's going to break her heart."
"You're not telling, so no, it won't," James hissed, giving the belt a yank. Sirius winced, then laughed. "Now get your boots on, they're over there."
Sirius all but leered back, "Sure."
"Padfoot, I'm warning you…"
"Set history straight, Prongs," Sirius replied adamantly, putting on a pair of boots that looked like captain Morgan's. They were quite comfortable, though. He decided to keep them. "If I'm right, and I'm usually right, he's like, your ancestor or something. Uther looks eerily like your dad, man. So she's like your great-great-great-great-great-great-something grandmother. Better watch it."
"Ugh. You have to bloody ruin everything."
"I'm just saving your life. Which way to the dungeons?"
"I refuse to thank you for that. Across the courtyard two floors down, by the outhouses and stables. They're on the third of the lower levels, second corridor to the right, fifth cell to the right. Grab a snack, it's a bit of a long walk."
"Gotcha. On both counts," Sirius answered lightly, summoning himself some food for the road. Venison, some rolls, butter and jam along with some apples and a bunch of pork pies flew into a quickly-conjured sack he hauled over his shoulder. Another pie landed in his hand. "Later, thanks for breakfast."
"Yeah, thanks for ruining my day," James groused. Sirius, though, didn't seem fazed by it. He just smirked and headed for the door. "And for eating my kin!"
.
.
"So you see, this is sort of a mess," the Doctor said, finishing his own, rather edited version of the tale Sirius had told him the day before. Merlin, he found, was a good listener, even though he didn't quite stay still for longer than five minutes; this, the Doctor didn't mind at all, being as he did much the same to people all the time — but the famous wizard was hyperactive to a fault. Kind of like the two the Doctor had picked up in 20th century London.
Another thing might be said about Merlin. He was hard as anything to impress. Even after everything the Doctor had told him about the timelines blending into one another, about holes being punched into the universe, about universes melting into one, about the unnameable dangers that could pop up at any given moment, which could already be there, at any point in time, the wizard had only one thing to say.
"Mmm-hmm."
The Doctor ruffled his hair and sighed. Merlin had been full of questions earlier, about how the "witch-hunters", aka Torchwood (aka those bastards, according to James), had managed to get here at all; he was also deeply interested in his 'Grandchild' and what was wrong with him, especially the clucking — "I don't know why he clucks, that's hardly important, get some perspective!" the Doctor had exclaimed — and how the said 'grandchild' and his 'nephew' had managed to master time-travel — "Oy, I brought them here, I'm the Time-lord!" the Doctor had groused — but now the Doctor had given him his point of view on the matter and illustrated everything the best he could, all he got was an affirmative sort of grunt while Merlin tinkered on with some amulet or other.
"Mmm-hmm indeed," the Doctor agreed conversationally. Now he had finished his tale to a most disappointing effect, he decided to have a mosey around at last.
He was presently standing in the most interesting room he'd ever seen… in this incarnation, at least. There was a monster of a contraption at the far end, which looked like a wardrobe (hopefully not going to Narnia, because that would just be too much) that in turn was connected to an equally enormous set of tubes and wires and… things. There was stuff here he'd heard about, or seen in his earlier years, but none of it quite fit in with what he was used to; he could maybe name some items, but most if not all of the contraptions and devices were buzzing and whirring with… magic. He could feel it very palpably, but he could not, for the life of him, define it. Or even properly describe it, and it was boggling him to no end.
If there was one thing the Doctor didn't like, was to lack an answer to anything.
He'd always found a scientific explanation — of sorts — to things he encountered in his many travels and adventures; he had managed to harness time and space and even had a living spaceship— but he couldn't readily explain… magic. Yet this lot, these… wizards, warlocks, witches, whatever— they used it with a simple flick of their fingers or — the Doctor still bristled inwardly at the notion — wands. Or staffs, very much like Gandalf's in the Lord of the Rings (he'd have to watch those films again in case he encountered the real deal), like he'd seen Merlin himself and Uther use yesterday to capture and disarm the Torchwood contingent. And levitate Sirius to a room. And perform what could only be spells that escaped any logical explanation, even though for most of those involved in the… casting… of the said spells, it seemed a quite natural and commonplace thing to do.
In fact, it seemed to him that without magic, they would be rather lost and stranded in the world, incapable of solving the simplest problem.
"You know," Merlin broke the silence that had stretched while the Doctor tentatively prodded at beakers and gears and curious little metal objects and assorted animal appendages lying around all over the place and wondered what they could be used for, "I have been working on a, shall we say, a little project for a while. I was attempting to harness time." He chuckled good-naturedly at the Doctor's sudden interest. "This is supposed to take me to the distant past and the far-off future," he added, striding swiftly to the monstrous contraption the Doctor hadn't gotten to poke at yet. "It's interesting that you should drop by here, and in such a predicament, too. It's encouraging."
"I'm sorry, but I don't see how anything I've told you so far could be encouraging of all things."
"Well," Merlin said, in a tone of utter superiority that the Doctor had all but patented, striking his staff on the ground three times. The contraption shifted, as if it were assembling itself, to show… two giant hourglasses mounted inside the wardrobe of sorts, "just the fact that you're here, now, means that my time-device is going to work. It also means," he added, even as the Doctor wondered how that made sense at all, and why the hourglasses were almost empty, "that we'll solve this misspell, no harm done, everyone will be happy. You didn't land here by chance, and neither did my grandson or nephew. It's them we should focus on, don't you think?"
"Weeell, an argument could be made for that, yeah..." He still failed to see how Sirius and James, coming from over a millenium later, could be either of those things. Merlin, though, didn't seem to give a care. His mind was made up. To him, they were related, and that was that.
"But first, we need to fix some of the, what do you call them? Ah, glitches. Interesting word, that. Has a strange, outlandish ring to it."
"There's a host of new words I could teach you that share that trait," the Doctor offered. "Inter-temporal inter-spatial vortex breach… remote control… telly, there's loads more where those came from—"
"Ah, young Master Black!" interrupted him this time, and he sighed again. This Merlin was so… unidirectional? Family oriented? Obsessive? "Care to come in? This is my very private secret workshop." Sirius had just passed the door, and he backtracked at the address. He looked much better already, which never ceased to amaze the Doctor, and had a large strawberry in his mouth, which vanished and was promptly replaced by an apple before he'd even switched directions and approached them. This last, the Doctor was used to.
"It's not so secret, sir," Sirius commented, looking around with interest and lingering on the hourglasses for all of a second before dismissing them. He seemed more interested in the trinkets lying around a work table. "It's rather too easy to find, there's no trapdoors or hidden tunnels or anything."
"Call me Grandfather, Sirius," Merlin chided gently, looking him over and playing the part of the grandfather surveying a favourite grandson; the only thing he was missing were a hundred or so years of age. "If you will. We are family, after all."
Sirius flashed him a smile that was more confused than anything… and tore a large chunk from his apple with a carefree, "Alright, then." He didn't seem to care much at all for this rather large — not to mention dubious — honour of being directly descended from the greatest wizard who ever lived.
"Besides, it's more comfortable if the place is easily accessible, don't you think? If I have an idea I want to work on right away, I don't want to waste hours getting here to work on it. I might forget what I wanted to do in the first place."
"Beats the purpose of a secret workshop, though. Everyone can get at it if there's no secret to it."
"I… honestly hadn't thought of that." Merlin frowned, and the Doctor bit back a snigger. Logic, then, was something wizards didn't have much of. "I like you," he added, grinning. Sirius shrugged and grinned back.
"So what do you do here, uh, Gramps?" Sirius asked. "Transfiguration and other… secret sort of stuff?"
"I work on the marvels of today and the wonders of the future," Merlin answered proudly. "I have begun on this Time-uh, manipulator, journeying, uh, device. Anyway, it's this one here—" he gestured at the hourglasses on their stand, all wired in.
"Time-turner," Sirius corrected, swallowing a chip. The Doctor frowned. Where'd he get chips from? "That's what it's called in our time. Might as well get the name right from the start."
"Ooh, Time-turner… I like the sound of it," Merlin said excitedly. "I've been looking for a suitable name for ages! This fits. It all fits, ey Doctor?"
"How's it work, then?" Sirius asked, stepping up to the hourglasses and giving one of them a poke. "Do you choose between minutes, hours, years or does it go in greater intervals, like centuries or ages?"
"I haven't quite managed to test it yet," was the answer. Merlin snapped his fingers and scrolls appeared in midair, unrolling themselves and growing larger. There were notes and diagrams of a sort the Doctor hadn't ever seen before. He squinted at the nearest one. Even with the TARDIS' translation, he couldn't make anything out from Merlin's untidy scribbles.
Sirius didn't seem to have a problem though; he gave each scroll a cursory look over, then lingered over the diagrams, while in the background Merlin chattered on, "I need to make Sands of Time; they're a recent invention of mine, but they, well. I have found they take a long time to make."
"Which is rather ironic, if you think of it," Sirius commented, snapping his fingers and making a quill appear.
The Doctor stopped trying to make sense of Merlin's notes and focused on the lad instead, as he made the diagram copy itself on the recently-conjured parchment.
"You'd think they should be quick about it, being Sands of Time and all…" Sirius was quiet for a moment, chewing on a liquorice wand while he added in his own notes to Merlin's diagrams and formulae. The Doctor peered over his shoulder. His eyebrows rose almost to his hairline.
If Merlin's handwriting was a scribble at best, Sirius' could be an archaeological subject; the Doctor couldn't really make heads or tails of the symbols and variables he was using, and even though he had learnt enough of wizardkind to not expect any algebra or physics or even chemistry, the kid's alchemical formulae were eerily similar to what he'd sometimes seen… in Gallifreyan upper education. Not that they meant the same at all. But they looked similar. If he squinted.
"Yes, well I haven't managed to prod them to go faster yet," Merlin admitted, watching Sirius keenly. "The process sort of stalls after six months, and then it's painfully slow…" It was clear he was full of questions but reluctant to interrupt, and the Doctor could plainly see the family air between the two just then; had they been at least fifteen generations closer, he'd have been able to pinpoint who Sirius got his impatience from. "Right now, I have enough for the one journey; I should have enough for the return in oh, five or six years."
Sirius let out a low whistle; the Doctor let out a groan.
"Blazing fast, that," he commented dryly.
"We could accelerate the process," Sirius told Merlin, never stopping his writing. "See, you're using too much Phoenix Ash; those birds really live long, but if you replace it with Dragonstones, you have a longer-lasting stabilising ingredient."
"Dragonstones?" the Doctor mouthed, confused, but went largely ignored.
"Powdered or ground?" Merlin asked at once. When did he get a quill too? The Doctor wanted one as well. Not to copy anything, he had photographic memory, but— just to look like he was in the loop, y'know. He snapped his fingers, but nothing happened.
"Blast," he muttered. No amount of snapping yielded any results.
"Neither, scrape it with a diamond blade and you won't lose the natural prismatic shape of the crystals," Sirius was saying, much to the Doctor's chagrin. Confusing the heck out of people was his job.
"And they stabilise the mixture better than Phoenix Ash? Are you certain?"
"Yeah, we put that in our paradox jar, the thing kept heating up at random, and developing twin timelines, to the side, like. And we wanted the Sands to keep under, y'know, weird circumstances."
"What do you mean, weird?"
"Explosions, direct sunlight, and um, getting jolted around. Maybe they could get wet, sometimes, y'know, surfing… Hey, it happens. And we shrink the jar too, because they're really quite heavy."
"Must be all the humours. I have been trying to get around using them, the smell they give off will make people think there's demons around." Both laughed, but the Doctor didn't see what was humorous about it. He gave Sirius a curious look now, but again, he went ignored.
"Excuse me…"
"Which is good for a joke, but if you put a long-lasting jasmine charm on the humours, mix it with one drop of ashwinder venom per dram, and leave it out on the first ray of the midsummer's crescent moon, you'll get a better smell out of it. They're still as heavy, though. At least there's no sulphur trail afterwards."
"Uh, if I may…?" But again, it was as though he wasn't even in the room. This, the Doctor was unaccustomed to.
"So," Sirius said a while, three pork pies and half a watermelon later, "if you change the process a bit, sort of like this, see…" He gave Merlin his newly-finished diagram. "Right here, decant a bit less, add in some solar flares in the drying process, and sift the resulting sands in Dragonstone, you can knock at least four to five years off your current process." Merlin's eyes flew across the parchment, and he looked like a child on Christmas morning, opening his first present. Next to him and looking quite the younger version of the wizard, Sirius was bobbing up and down on his toes every bit as expectantly as Merlin had been.
"Dominant genetics, I bet," the Doctor murmured under his breath. Sirius gave him a curious look. The Doctor shrugged. He'd forgotten the kid had sharp ears. When he cared to use them, anyway.
"How do you know all of this?"
"Got into your notes at the Ministry for Magic. You should use indelible ink, though… half of them were illegible, so I took the liberty and added to them a bit."
"There's a Ministry for Magic?" Merlin asked. "Hm. I should maybe burn my notes, just like I did for the Philosopher's Stone…"
"You mean it's real?" the Doctor was baffled. "I thought that was just a story!"
"Not just a story," Merlin replied smugly. "I've got one right here."
"Really?" Now Sirius looked as keen as he was hungry.
"Sure. You mean they don't have these in your time?" Merlin pulled a reddish, glowing crystal out of his pocket and showed it to Sirius, who shook his head, but accepted the stone from him. It was about fist-sized, and vibrating slightly with contained magic. The Doctor could make out a faint hum, as if it were singing to itself.
"And there I thought this one bloke, uh… uh… what's he called again… Flamel, yeah that's him. There I thought he'd made it, when all along it's been the same one—"
"I should like to ask him about copyright infringement," Merlin muttered, shaking his head. "That's just cheating."
"What's that then?" the Doctor asked impatiently. Gah, but he hated not knowing things.
"The Philosopher's Stone," Sirius murmured, transfixed. "It's—" he cut himself off when the Doctor shone his sonic screwdriver all over it.
"A cryo-temporal meta-spatial condensed energy accumulator! Sorry, kid, I forgot you don't much like this," he told a cringing Sirius. "I use those as batteries for the TARDIS. Well," he amended, happy to have some input here at last, "backup batteries, for the kettle and such. You never know."
"It's the key to eternal life," Merlin corrected. "And eternal comfort as well; it turns lead into gold, you see."
"And runs time-machines."
"Maybe that's the key," Sirius said abruptly. "If it's got almost endless energy, then we could use it to fix the timelines."
"But …how?" the Doctor asked back. He hadn't thought of that. He should've thought of that, by all rights this was his area of expertise!
"Reverse the polarity of the central rip, it would put everything in place and cancel itself," Sirius answered matter-of-factly.
Merlin thought of it a moment, then nodded, "With the proper containment, you could work it, but only by getting into the rip yourself…"
"What?" the Doctor was a bit lost here. They'd gone off-topic, weren't they on about the cryo-temporal meta-spatial condensed energy accumulator just now?
"Yeah, but it would only take a tenth of a second. James' reflexes are twice as fast, and if we create a shielding field that withstands the rip for even longer than that, we could even be there for, dunno, a whole second before we'd be obliterated."
"You're correct, my boy," Merlin agreed, his eyebrows rising. The Doctor huffed to himself. Now, now Merlin was impressed. And, it might be added, not at all concerned about the risk of obliteration Sirius had mentioned. "And such a shield we could devise specifically for that use…"
"And for the specific time-space lapse we'd need to place it in to seal the rip—"
"Wha?"
"We can make a scale model of a couple of galaxies, and test it on that first."
"We'd need a lot of those stones, though," Sirius pointed out, scratching himself behind the ear. He had even forgotten to gobble something for a full three minutes. The Doctor was sure it was a personal record for him.
"Well, how many do you need?" Merlin asked. Sirius frowned, confused.
"'Choo mean— There's more?" Merlin nodded. "Uh… well. Um. How many do you have?"
"I've got them by the box. I was going to send them off as Yule presents and such. To some close friends, mind."
"Nice one, Granddad Merlin," Sirius commented, grinning. "I thought there was just the one."
"Blimey, no," Merlin replied, all smugness once more. "This is just the one I'm using to make an amulet. There are many more in my secret store chamber."
"I just hope it's more secret than your workshop," Sirius replied, but the grin hadn't left his face.
"Oh Merlin, finally," Uther Pendragon walked in briskly, his untidy Potter hair standing up every which way. "I've been looking everywhere for you, I should've known you'd be here— Lord Black, it is certainly good to see you so swiftly recovered."
Sirius leaned in on Merlin, "See what I tell you?" he asked in a low voice. "Everyone. Anyone. In here, just like that." He gave him a look that plainly said 'Told you so.' Merlin raised his eyebrows in surprise. Aloud, he added, "Thank you, sir… Er, your…"
"Majesty," the Doctor hissed under his breath.
"Your Majesty," Sirius finished politely.
"Nonsense lad, just call me Uncle Uther. We're family, after all."
"Right…"
"We'll celebrate that fact, and that you're feeling better, with a banquet tonight…"
"I love banquets, thanks."
"Yes, son, we've noticed."
"He's carrying one in that sack of his right now," the Doctor threw in. Uther and Merlin chuckled.
"Just a little snack. I'm feeling peckish."
"Don't we all," Uther agreed with satisfaction, looking Sirius up and down. "Sadly, this might knock even your healthy appetite away."
Everyone was now looking attentively at him, and King Uther went on, "A messenger came in from the Western Marshes. They've spotted dragons arriving in the New Forest for the past three days. The townships there have heard them roar nonstop day and night. People are frightened, thinking it might be the work of witches."
Merlin chuckled, "It's just nesting season Uther, don't blow this out of proportion."
"Tell the Muggle bishopric that," Uther countered. "We need to do something about the dragons. If the Muggles call St. George over, he'll single-handedly put an end to the Welsh Green race."
"That's unfair. Can't they be sent to a reserve or something? A protected area, where they won't be bothered?" Sirius asked. A dragon fan, apparently. The Doctor wasn't surprised.
"It is difficult, they're very territorial," Uther replied. Hearing them talk about this, the Doctor thought, one might be led to believe they were on about deer or hedgehogs… It struck him as funny. "Besides, when they migrate it's an added problem, they tend to take their young to the Alps, over the sea."
"And they could be intercepted."
"Intercepted?" Sirius frowned.
"By whom?" the Doctor asked before Sirius could.
"A dark witch by the name of Morgana le Fey. She could use them to terrorise Muggles."
"Or wipe them out."
"Morgana, of course," Sirius said. "Is it all true then? She's like, the Voldemort of your time?"
"What's a Voldemort?" Merlin wanted to know. Sirius seemed to find it funny. "Is it like, a dish or something?"
"More like a bitter pill."
Everyone turned around, to see that James Potter joined them. Sirius exchanged a glance with Merlin and raised an eyebrow. His look just said, 'Ditto.'
"He's the Dark Lord of our time," James went on. "Hey, what's this place? Is it like a workshop or something? Groovy. Have you been making anything interesting?"
"It's Merlin's private and secret workshop," the Doctor supplied helpfully. James nodded to himself, giving the place a once-over much like Sirius had done. He picked up what looked like a half-finished piece of cameo jewellery.
"Doesn't seem very secret to me, it's like, right here off the main corridor, with a little sign that says 'Merlin's Workshop' on the door." James commented. "There's not even a trapdoor or a hidden passage. Anyone can just walk in and—"
"All right, all right! I get the message," Merlin huffed, snatching the unfinished amulet from James' hands. "I'll do something about it, now stop it with the secrecy."
"Fair enough," James and Sirius said in unison, and then James added, "I overheard something about dragons?"
Uther wasted no time filling him in, and by the time he was done, everyone was frowning, deep in thought. Except for Sirius. He was chewing and frowning at the same time.
"They could be tamed," he suggested after a few moments. "Then they'd breed where we took them."
"But they're impossible to tame," Merlin reminded him. "They're the wildest, fiercest magical creatures in creation."
"I bet it could be done. We just haven't figured out how, really."
"Wha, like you tamed that Hebridean Black that once?"
"Mmmmno," Sirius admitted. "That was a mistake…"
"Oh really?" James' voice was dripping sarcasm. "I didn't notice, busy as I was being turned into its lunch!"
"Yeah, but you weren't eaten, and it was very educational."
"Educational my ar—" James stopped short as Sirius cuffed him in the ribs.
"Ahem. Notinfrontoftheroyalty. So, what did that experience teach us?"
"That… dragons can't be tamed, Black."
"No, just that they shouldn't be tickled. I'm sure there's a way to do it. Taming them, I mean. Differently, like."
James gave Sirius a very sceptical look. Sirius rolled his eyes.
"Didn't you have to be somewhere, Lord Potter?"
"Not really, no."
.
A/N: Let us leave these two to their planning for a moment, shall we… This could go on forever.
.
.
While these discussions were taking place in Merlin's very private and secret workshop of marvels and wonders, elsewhere things were happening as well. Things that would become crucially important in the very near, very foreseeable future.
In a dark, dank basement chamber, the Lady Morgana was plotting without much success.
She would one day be remembered by wizards and Muggles alike as the first Dark Lady of the ages, the one who would make even the famed King Arthur of Camelot tremble. But none of that was presently any of her concern. She was unhappy, for one. For another, she was rather bored and out of sorts. And her followers — who as yet were so few that she had to hire help — had learnt to stay well away from her when she was in a mood.
Everyone, that was, except for her favourite: Mordred. At barely fourteen, he was close to coming of age, and he too, was a wizard who shared her views and hatred of the happy, rowdy bunch at Camelot. He and Morgana shared similar views on what Wizardkind was all about — namely (you guessed it) subjugating Muggles or better yet, wiping them out altogether — they also shared a liking for Dark Magic, the same pointy noses and thin lips, an inclination for black pudding, and, most importantly, the same tempers.
Which usually meant much breaking of crockery and stamping of feet whenever they had a disagreement, only without the Greek singing as a backdrop.
However, today was not such a day — which was good, because they were down to the good dishes reserved for parties. Today, was a very special day for both of them; one that would propel their names throughout history as the darkest pair ever to live. One that would romanticise their every last deed and exploit in the eyes of the dark-minded and power-hungry of all times to come, and one that would make every last aspiring Dark Lord or Lordette try to obscure them with his/her/its own deeds for every age in the future.
Not to mention, it would put an end to Morgana's little pout. It was contagious.
"Hey, 'Gana," Mordred said, his footsteps echoing properly eerily off the humid, cold basement walls, followed by a patter of several pairs of feet. It is said that Dark Lords like the dark and cold, and this notion too, comes from this pair and this; in reality, however, it wasn't a liking to dampness what made them meet here, but the leaks in the top floors of their house, which had rendered them inhabitable for the rainy season.
With all the expenses the vase-breaking entailed, Morgana hadn't been able to afford a proper thatching of the roof after her last angry fit. This was, of course, before the Dark Side was a profitable business.
Mordred, who still lived quite comfortably at home with his parents, privately believed it served her right.
"What do you want?" she asked in a bored, long-suffering drawl (did I mention she also set the drama standards for the Dark? Well, she did).
"I have news that will cheer you up," Mordred replied in his boyish tone that mellowed her three times out of every ten (and thus, was used at every chance). "There are new arrivals at Camelot."
"There are new arrivals there every other day," Morgana groused elegantly, a trait few have ever managed to match since. "I am sure they are having a splendid time there, all dry and well-fed and entertained by buffoons—"
"You should've gotten the thatcher, as I recall suggesting," Mordred said loftily. "Then you'd at least be dry and wouldn't have to pout here in the cold and wet. As for food, the rat stew's ready. Add a little seasoning, it'll taste just like chicken. And," he added, before she could complain, "I have brought you the entertainment you so crave." This cut her tirade short before it even began; Morgana's languid expression morphed into disgust at the mention of supper, and then into undisguised interest as she peered over Mordred's shoulder to look at the newcomer.
"Where is the entertainment, then?" she asked Mordred expectantly. He only shook his silver-blond mop of hair out of his eyes and stepped aside. "All I see is Severance, and he's hardly entertaining."
"Milady," Severance Prince greeted her in a tone that was as greasy as his dark, shoulder-length hair, which grazed a puddle on the stone floor as he bowed low in total subservience.
"Is this a jest, Mordred? If so, it's hardly entertaining."
"Not a jest, Morgana. It's a break in the clouds. You'll see."
"I was sent to spy on Camelot," Severance said, his sallow cheeks wibbling as he spoke. Morgana looked away. Gods, but he was disgusting. If he weren't a decent cook, she'd have fired him ages ago.
"Yes, I remember. What of it?" Was he going to report, the new treacle-filled cake he made for that twerp Uther and his little guests? He'd done so before, much to her undisguised anger, usually followed by the breaking of plates and cups.
"They have new guests, Milady… Most… unusual guests."
"Will you get on with it or will you bore me to tears?" Morgana shot impatiently at him. Severance flinched, Mordred snorted.
"Yes, Milday. Sorry, Milady." Severance groveled some more, but it did little to curb her impatience. "These guests are… from some other time. One of them is Lord Black," he added. Morgana yawned.
"That little rat has been bothering us for ages, but he's ten. Is that all?"
"No…" Severance Prince shuffled uncomfortably. "Lord Gryffindor is there as well… they… they seem to be from the future."
"The future?"
Mordred smirked. Morgana was definitely interested now.
"Yes, Milady… One more was with them. They called him the Lord of Time."
"Lord of Time?" she echoed. "I have not, I think, heard this title before. Who is he?"
"He looks like one of the Crouches from Devon, Milady."
"I should have been made aware he was getting a title," Morgana mused idly. "I haven't got one, and I should. But… the future… I do not believe I have heard of that before either. How long in the future do they hail from?"
"Not much, I don't think, Milady. The Lord Black looks fourteen, maybe fifteen at the most. I believe it is the young lord Black at the castle."
"Interesting."
"Yes, Milady," Severance allowed himself a grin that showed yellowing, crooked teeth. He was more comfortable, now she had almost, almost praised him.
"How do they travel through time?"
"Er." This he had not been prepared for; Severance paled, if possible, even further. "They, uh. Uh… they…"
"Yes? They, uh, what, exactly?" Morgana asked sweetly.
"They have a blue box, Milady!"
"Do they, now?"
"Yes, I saw it. It's uh, large, and blue. And made of wood. They all walked out of it for the welcoming feast!"
"A box. How quaint. Trust Barthold Crouch to be a lunatic."
Severance Prince smiled tentatively up at her. He was hoping, no doubt, for his interrogation to be over.
"Why would they come here now, of all times?" Morgana asked nobody in particular. She tended to think aloud, but the greasy cook clearly didn't remember that.
"I overheard the Lord of Time—"
"Lord Crouch, if you please. One little time-trip isn't enough to make him a lord."
"Very well, yes— I overheard the lord Crouch," Severance amended hastily, "talking about a rip. Something ripped, anyway, not quite sure what, and—"
"What ripped, then?"
"His underpants?" Mordred suggested with a snicker. He'd been bursting to comment in some manner for ages now.
"No, not his underpants, Mordred," Morgana cast her pale blue eyes to the ceiling and sighed prettily. "I am certain that lord Crouch would not come to see Uther about torn clothing. Severance!"
The thin man jumped, "Y-yes, Milady?"
"What else did you find out?" Oh gods. Morgana was getting impatient. Mordred tried not to roll his eyes. There went the basement. "You overheard them talking, and…"
"He was banging on about a rip in… in something important. I cannot recall what."
"Severance Prince! Can't you get anything straight?" Morgana erupted. "For a third-generation spy, you leave a great deal to be desired. I pity the Dark Ones your descendants will serve in the future."
"My apologies, Milady. I shall strive to do better."
"Then tell things like they happened!" she shouted at him. "Is there more to this tale of yours or should we be intrigued by some ripped underpants?"
"There's more, yes…" Severance licked his chapped lips, clearly thinking fast. "There's more… The lord Black is under some sort of spell, cast by, by Muggles!"
"Muggles." One delicate eyebrow rose in disbelief. "I am in no mood for jests."
"Well, tis true!" Severance squeaked. Gone was his smile, replaced now by a rather panicky look. "I saw the Muggles myself, Milady! They just appeared from a far distant future, led by a woman—"
"Come on, you silly old goose. Even you don't believe yourself now," Mordred was losing his temper now, but clearly still thinking of the integrity of the basement so he limited himself to mocking. "Muggles casting spells? What's next, flying deer?"
"I saw them with mine own eyes!" Severance argued. "Witch hunters. They have a spell on the Lord Black, Myrddin is trying to find a cure—"
"Witchhunters casting spells? That's even better!"
"It seems like they managed to harness magic, Lady. They came out of a tunnel of wind and darkness, hailing from a far, distant future!"
"What sort of spell did they cast?"
"Morgana, surely!" Mordred argued, "Surely you don't believe a word of this!"
"Hush now, darling. I am talking."
Mordred's mouth snapped shut. He huffed under his breath and flopped down on a nearby barrel.
"That's better," Morgana said primly. "Now, Severance, where were we? Ah, yes. The spell these… Muggles of yours cast. What sort of spell was it?"
"A... clucking spell. Lady Morgana," Severance said gravely.
"Huh."
"He sounded just like a rooster."
"Huh."
"Honest. And then he just keeled over. The witch hunters wanted him handed over as a hostage," Severance went on, increasingly nervous at He glanced over to where Mordred was — he wasn't quite sure which one of the two was more dangerous— but he was having a sulk. "But King Uther… Well, he… he, uh. Ref-refused."
"I still have trouble believing you, Severance." Morgana gave him a sharp look. In the background Mordred muttered something in the affirmative. It sounded something like, "Well, duh."
"… However, I shall look into it." Morgana rose from her raised armchair and walked to a basin half-filled with something… briny. She tossed the contents out with a flick of her wrist. "Go now, Mordred, and get me a fresh goat, there's a dear."
"A goat?" Mordred echoed, exasperated. "Why always goats? You always need blippin' goats, can't you need, oh I don't know, a bunny every now and then? A rat, maybe? They're easier to keep and don't bump you around—"
"Goat, I tell you. Don't make me tell you again."
"Going... going..."
"And you, Severance, you useless maggot. Go back to Camelot Castle, see if you can find out what ripped that is so important if you want to keep that nose of yours intact; if you fail me, every last one of your descendants will have large, crooked noses to go with your worthless name."
"Yes, Milady. At once."
"No, not 'at once', don't be stupid. It's supper time. Bring us our meal down first. With a great deal of… seasoning and spices. And hope you did not leave any paws or tails in the stew or I'll give your descendants crooked yellow teeth to go with their noses. Then go to Camelot and do your spying."
.
.
"So." After a rather heated debate about the docility of dragons, Sirius found himself doing something equally daunting. In fact, he'd quite prefer the dragon to coming down here. He surveyed Uther's handiwork, and found that the Camelot dungeon could easily compete with Voldemort's. And that it was eerily reminiscent of another, where he'd been locked up for weeks, getting 'tested' and… things. But now it wasn't him in a tiny little cell, was it?
Nope, it was them.
The more vindictive part of him revelled in the thought. The rest of him didn't quite like it, but he didn't let it show. Served Yvonne the Hag quite right, after all. She was a nightmare, one that should be put in a box and forgotten all about, just like she was now.
"So?" Yvonne got to her feet to greet her newcomer. She had to duck in the low ceiling of her dinghy little cell. This, of course, wasn't the case in the ample, well-lit corridor where Sirius was standing, having at a roast beef sandwich.
"How's Camelot treating you?" Sirius asked sweetly. "Are you quite comfortable here? Do you like the catering? The… view, perhaps?"
"I think you can see for yourself that this place is completely substandard. I order you to get us out."
"Chyeah, I think I won't," Sirius waggled his head. "But you're right, it's not quite up to par with the one you have at home, Yvonne. I mean, we have the wet and cold and cramped, badly-lit and worse-ventilated bits down, I reckon. But it's pretty dull down here, don't you think? I'll ask the head torturer to come over and provide you with some entertainment that will certainly match the one you have at Torchwood. So, no worries, you'll never even know the difference."
"Torture?" Yvonne echoed. "That is barbaric!"
"What do you call what you did to me?"
"Science!"
"Alright, I'll call our chief scientist over then so he can science you up too." Sirius turned on his heel and started walking. Just the sight of the hag was enough to make him want to try his hand at Unforgivables. But then, he idly mused, she was a walking Unforgivable herself.
And, hate her and her lot as he might, he needed them. Even Merlin hadn't managed to break that thrice-damned bracelet on his foot.
"You get us out of here! You get us out of here this instant!"
Ooh, nice. A screech.
Sirius stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. Yvonne Hartmann, Torchwood's most feared torturing agent, had her face pressed into the bars of her cell. Sirius flicked his fingers, and some foul-smelling slime dripped down them. She didn't let go even after that.
"Or else what?"
"You will pay for this, you little freak."
"You see, that's where I think you're wrong," Sirius replied, wondering, off-task, how he was managing to sound conversational of all things. "It's you who's going to pay. In full. Unless…" He turned around again and resumed his way back to the courtyard. "Meh, never mind."
"Unless what?" Yvonne's voice had acquired a rather shrill undertone to it. Sirius decided he liked it. He backtracked until she could glimpse him, grinned as insolently as he could and shrugged. "Unless what? Tell me, kid!"
"Get the thing off my foot, and we can strike a deal."
"What? Without any equipment? That's impossible!"
Well. At least she hadn't flat-out refused.
"Oh. Right. Well that's a crying shame, that is. I'll settle for the science then." Once again, he turned to leave. He hadn't gone three steps when Yvonne's — and another three voices — echoed off the walls again.
"No— wait! WAIT! Don't go!"
He smirked, but backtracked when they got too loud to comfortably bear.
"Yes?" Sirius pretended to be mildly interested in what they had to say, just barely enough to keep them wanting to please him and strike a bargain. Yes, so he was a lion; that didn't mean he hadn't been raised by snakes and picked up a thing or three from his family. Negotiation and manipulation tactics were just the tip of an iceberg of abilities he usually made a point of not using.
"We'll do it," Yvonne said in a rush. "Just… just don't kill us or anything."
"That's not up to me," Sirius replied. "King Uther runs this here show, not me. But if you really do it and take this crap thing off my foot, then maybe he'll be more inclined to set you free. Otherwise he'll accuse you of being witches and burn you at the stake."
"We need a special sort of lab… And our equipment… So we need to go home first, and then—"
"We have a TARDIS. Everything you need is there," Sirius replied. "If you deliver, and only if you do it and never bother us again, you'll be taken home. Otherwise, it'll be science every day until Uther grows bored with his research and leaves you to the Inquisition."
"No! No, please, kid. We'll do it." Ah, begging. He finally understood why his family liked to hear it.
"Okay, good." He shrugged one shoulder.
"Just… just no torture. Please." Merlin's frilly knickers, this was fun.
"Eh, I'll see what I can do. The henchman is bored and looking for entertainment. No tellys here, no internet either. I really wonder what they do for fun other than maim people and burn them and stuff… But I'll see what I can do. See to it that you live up to your end of the deal."
He walked out of the dungeons, a skip in his step for the first time in ages. Finally, something was going his way. He didn't usually make a point of complaining about it— mainly because there was nothing anyone could do about it at all — but he didn't like being famished and on the run all the time. Or passing out like he did. Or clucking, what the hell was up with that anyway? Or, in fact, having been captured by Torchwood in the first place.
But now, at last, he could hope for improvement in every sense; he'd be rid of the bracelet, and thus the hunting and the constant feeling of near-starvation. Things would make sense again.
It was something to feel good about, wasn't it?
He decided it was.
And he wanted to celebrate this milestone of sorts. Hmm, maybe Merlin's workshop held some manner of explosives? Or should he be a little less conventional in his celebration? Maybe lead Yvonne and her lot on for a bit?
He passed the guards on his way out, enjoying the way they saluted him like he was a king or something, and told them to go past the Torchwood cells every so often wielding large knives and sharpening stones.
"Make sure they can see and hear you, it'll be a blast," he said, and to judge by the mischievous looks on the guards' faces, they were pretty eager to play along.
"That should keep Yvonne entertained," he murmured to himself, rummaging in his sack for the pudding he'd saved for last and looking around the large courtyard as he ate; there were several little hovels along a side wall, next to what could only be the stables. It looked like Uther — Uncle Uther — had like, a hundred or more horses.
Suddenly, Sirius had the best of ideas. He finished his pudding, and made his way to the haystack, evil grin smacked firmly on his face. Oh, this would be good.
.
.
In the meantime, a very miffed James was grumpily stomping around the castle's back gardens. It was just his luck, that Sirius had gone and reminded him — as if he ruddy needed the reminder — to set things straight with Guinevere. And it was also his luck that the Doctor sided with Sirius, the bottomless pit of raving hunger, and told him in no uncertain terms he'd probably disappear from all worlds if he didn't make Guinevere fall in love with that sleeping potion, Arthur ruddy Pendragon. It was just his rotten luck that the prettiest-ever girl in this world had to be his ancestor.
Maybe.
She maybe was his ancestor.
Well, he could sort of understand that bit; Potters were, as a rule, the very picture of charm and handsomeness and wit. And he was a perfect example of a Potter, irresistible to a fault.
So was Guinevere, couldn't Sirius see that? Couldn't he see that James was in love here? That Guinevere was as irresistible as he was?
But noooo. Of course not. Guinevere, so Sirius said, was taken.
Sort of.
Gah.
What was wrong with a little loving anyway? She was fit, she liked him, it was only for a little while anyhow...
"No, I do not want to walk with you!" yanked him out of his musings, which were presently shaping up into quite the pity-party. He followed the raised — a bit shrill — voice that was music to his ears to a labyrinth of bushes, and slipped inside with his Invisibility Cloak over his head.
"But Gwen, you promised—"
James was now glad he'd gone invisible; he followed the labyrinth for a turns and twists, and ended up spying on a scene he hadn't quite expected: Guinevere was arguing with Arthur.
"Don't Gwen me," she snapped back. "You, Prince Arthur, you didn't come and rescue me! You were so late, and I was so scared, and I'm not walking with a lad who stands me up!"
"I was trying to get there in time—"
"Well Lord Potter did manage!" she said heatedly, "now there's a real man, not a boy like you. He rescued me, so I have no intention of going anywhere with you."
James grinned. He was a real man! Who had ever said that before about him? Ah, he was in love.
"I said I was sorry! C'mon Gwen, let's talk it out—"
"Ever."
"Come on, Gwen, be reasonable—"
"What is there to talk about or be reasonable over, Arthur Pendragon? Nothing, I tell you— Nothing! I shall have my Tuesday morning picnic with him, because he's brave and handsome, and he rescued me while you were partying and hadn't even noticed I was gone, and I want a real man taking me places."
"I could do all that," Arthur offered at once.
"No. I said no!" she huffed, furious. Hiding in the open, James couldn't but feel very smug.
He flattened himself against the bushes as Gwen stormed past him, leaving a very mixed-up Arthur behind.
It wasn't until later that he realised he'd have his work cut out for him. He couldn't safely date her, could he? Sirius' words came to mind, unbidden; she was his great-x2345676654 grandmother.
Gah.
And she didn't seem to have any interest in Arthur at all.
Gah, gah, gah. Gah.
James Potter then realised that he wouldn't be able to fix this on his own. He needed Sirius' help here, he wouldn't manage to succeed in Operation Granny otherwise.
He half wished he wouldn't. Would Sirius be mad at him if he was just... outnumbered by her?
.
TBC.
Up next, hopefully soon: Sirius gets his payback on Yvonne. And a duplicate. And a Dragon. And a date, as does James. And pretty much everyone. James gets into trouble, Morgana hatches a plan, Merlin blows something up. Sirius blows some things up. James razes half a village to the ground, and the Doctor runs a lot. Uther gets a loo, Mordred gets a sword, and Arthur gets dumped. Oh, and Severance finds his true calling. No Rose yet, but soooon, preciousss. Soon.
You read? You liked? Now review so I can read something too.
