1978 (2) C
Hiding behind corner, he waited for himself to exit the store. When he was sure not to run into a paradox, he finally strode over to Borgin and Burke's.
"Although, then again," he chattered upon entering to continue a conversation he had held twelve years ago even though only seconds had passed in linear time, "let me take another look at the Hand of Origin."
Burke was speechless.
The Doctor had not exactly bothered appearing young enough to match the wizard's expectation. As a matter of fact, he had not even changed out of the clothes he had been forced upon under the Imperius Curse. It didn't matter.
What did matter was the Hand of Origin – and the one remaining opportunity it represented.
The world in 1994 was too broken to save, but so was 1978. If a wand with a phoenix feather core could rip a whole in the universe, then the phoenix itself had the potential to do so. The problem's roots lay even deeper than the Doctor had feared, but he saw it clearly now. The infestation was not something he could have rectified in time, for it encompassed everything.
But maybe, just maybe, under the assumption that there was one palpable origin to magic, he could keep the cracks from occurring altogether.
Burke was speaking in the background, but the Doctor did not even listen. He was busy scanning the artefact with a brand new sonic screwdriver and made sure to save all the readings. "Thanks," he announced at last and strode out of the store without another word.
It was time to meet the weeping angels… or at least some Neanderthals.