A/N: I got a prompt about Malcolm sleepwalking and this happened. Takes place around Spring of 2012, as well as during the Dreaded S4 timeline; there's a note at the end too but not of much consequence.

Knocking back the bitter remains of his third coffee of the day, Malcolm wondered why the fuck he was so fucking knackered. He didn't need this, not now—not with the run-up to the Olympics making it so that everything was getting fucking scrutinized from top to fucking bottom. Growing paranoia over the elections making the Party now the Number Two in British politics made the stress compound twofold, which was far from what he needed to deal with. More international journalists were coming into the country, staking their claims early so that they would be ready when the Olympic Flame would fly in and then la-dee-fucking-dah, everyone would pretend to hate each other a little less for about a month. It was fucking ridiculous.

Subtle at this point, but his position did not change.

"Sam! Do we have any more coffee? Mine's done!" This summoned his PA, who stared at him from the safety of his office's doorway.

"It's lunchtime, Malcolm. If you don't get some food in you instead of coffee, Clara will have my hide."

"I can't keep my eyes open."

"Take a nap then."

"It won't be a nap—it'll be a fucking coma."

"Suit yourself." Sam went back into her portion of the office and shook her head—something wasn't right and a quick send-off of an owl later, she obliged and sent a beaker of the strongest coffee outside of a naval tanker floating towards her boss's desk.

It was like coming home to madness.

Sam's letter had been what should have been warning enough, but she didn't think it would be this bad. The cookware had decided to get started on dinner without her, which then prompted the vacuum cleaner, the radio, the television, the record player, the mop, a broom, and the duster to all get to work as well. She stepped out of the fireplace to see that everything was in disarray, with a small fire even occurring in the one pan that the duster, of all things, was attempting to put out… all while Malcolm slept on the couch, completely oblivious to his surroundings.

A flick of her wand and everything stopped what it was doing and put itself away. Even the small pan-fire was put out before it could trigger the smoke alarm, which Clara wouldn't've minded if she was honest with herself. At least it would've woken up Malcolm, who seemed completely dead to the world despite the small snores coming from him.

She sat down on his middle and he jolted awake, his snore changing mid-way into a cough. Soon as he caught his bearings, Malcolm looked up and saw Clara's face, instantly seeing that she was not happy.

"Fuck; what time is it?"

"Eight-thirty."

He allowed his head to fall back on the cushion and groaned before sniffing curiously. "What's that smell?"

"Fire—the kitchen decided to make dinner and it was not edible."

"Shit." Malcolm shook his head, clearly irritated with himself. "I was only gonna take a short kip."

"I believe you, though I'm not entirely sure how the cookware decided to get going without you being in there," she mused. "Didn't realize you were so tired lately and wrote it off as just pressure building since that Times piece…"

"No… something else," he said. His wife moved from his chest to the end of the couch, moving to put his head in her lap. As she stroked his hair, he leaned into her touch, craving it more than he did sleep. "It's a coincidence, yeah, but a fucking eerie one if ever…"

"We'll get you settled tonight, yeah?" she cooed. His wedding ring floated over from the mantle and she slid it on his finger. "There; doesn't that feel better?"

"Leagues."

"Now, let's get dinner going before it's too late. We need you in bed by a decent hour or else our Sam is never going to let me hear the end of it."

"Sam'll be fine…"

"…once her boss is back to normal. Honestly, Malcolm, she'd be better off working for me—at least I don't need minding like some overgrown Glaswegian child."

"You fucking take that back!" he laughed, maneuvering so that he could get up on his knees and snog his wife. He tickled her sides mid-kiss, which made her squeal as she pushed him away. He was rejuvenated more than either could have wished for back when Sam had sent Clara the warning letter, which was now completely wiped from their consciousnesses… for the time being.

That night, Clara could have swore Malcolm had gotten up to use the loo and never came back, yet her sleepy hubby in her arms when she woke proved otherwise. Huh… weird.

Granted, it wasn't precisely a normal at-work meeting. Having already gotten the run-around and enough granola-coated New Age bullshit to fill a fucking well of hopes and dreams out of Stewart Pearson, Clara had gotten the go-ahead from Shacklebolt to head on over to Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition and ask if they were willing to help co-sponsor the Muggle-born Acclimation Program in the Government's stead. Malcolm, she knew, could spin whatever she said so that Murray could either understand or approve of—potentially, both!—and it was a shame that she couldn't've gone straight to them to begin with. It was to be a productive morning, to say the least, even if all she got was that she had backing by lunchtime.

Soon as she stepped inside the building something felt a bit off. There wasn't the usual amount of terror in place for the natural environment of Malcolm Tucker… it was, dare she say it, less. She didn't let anyone know things weren't right, however, as she kept her head held high and her gait strong as she attempted to stay pace with all the long-legged individuals as they made their way to the lift.

One lift-ride and a check-in at the desk later and Clara was walking into Nicola Murray's office. She had a decent part of her Statute-aware team in that day: Malcolm, that Reeder slime, and the woman she had only met once before. Hatley? Yes, Hatley.

"Ah, there you are," Murray said soon as Clara walked in. "Olly, Helen, Malcolm, you've met Clara Oswald, the… erm… Other Director of Communications."

"It's been a while, Miss Oswald," Reeder grinned. The way he eyed Clara made her wonder what miracle happened to make it so that he hadn't been slapped with several restraining orders and the sack. It honestly made her feel for every marginally-attractive woman whom he came across on a forever-basis, which she was certain was too many for comfort. "Have you been avoiding us since we're no longer the ones technically in charge?"

"It's Missus Oswald now, and just you," she replied. She enjoyed watching Reeder flounder for an appropriate expression, made all the better by catching Murray and Hatley trying not to laugh out loud. If only she could have given him the entire story as to whom she was married to—now that would have been a spectacle nearly worth the trouble—just nearly. "So, to the point of our meeting: a possible co-funding of our MAP Initiative, as having Muggle input and authority would create something leagues more legitimate."

"I like the sound of it, but wouldn't it be better going to the Government?" Murray wondered. "I'm willing to step on toes if I have to, but I want to know that it's necessary first."

"Pearson is a tit that doesn't think it's environmentally friendly to wipe his own arse—trust me when I say that I'll get much further in the planning process with half an hour amongst the Loyal Opposition than the same amount of time with him."

"The PM didn't want it?" Hatley asked, her expression equal parts confusion and worry.

"I didn't even get past Pearson—that's how bad it is," Clara replied. "Both the PM and Pearson have knowledge of the MAP Initiative and what it could do for Muggle-born Britons. Minister Shacklebolt and I have both made our cases and it doesn't seem like something they want to pick it up except maybe as an afterthought if they can find some room between their pet projects and bloated spending bills. Over sixty-million people and they feel like ignoring a significant section of them? A section that can bring them back to nappies with a flick of the wrist and a simple incantation? I want them to regret it."

"How do we do that though?" Murray asked. She turned to Malcolm, who thus far said nothing. "Malcolm? What do you think?"

Everyone glanced over towards Malcolm to see that he was still sitting against a filing cabinet in a sort of half-lean, his arms folded and his eyes glazed over. Olly waved his hand in front of the older man's face and cringed.

"Shit—he's not responding! Should we call 999?" He already had his mobile out, yet Clara put her hand on it and forced it down.

"No, don't," she ordered. "He's breathing, see?" She approached him cautiously, her brow furrowing in confusion. "He's… sleeping…?"

"That's some freaky shit," Olly cringed, taking a large step away from the Scot.

"Is it dangerous to wake someone like that?" Murray asked. There was genuine concern in her voice, which Clara noted for later.

"Whatever the case may be, Malcolm likely should be left alone," Hatley said. "We'll probably get more done without his butting in anyhow."

"Hmm… I wonder…" Clara mused aloud. She pulled her wand out of her suit jacket and bit her lower lip as she thought. Carefully, she pressed the tip of the wand to the center of her husband's forehead, holding steady as she let her magic probe him. No one else seemed to even breathe as she did so, giving her complete and total silence.

Ah-ha, there.

After twisting her wrist, Clara pulled her wand away with a flourish, yanking the spell out of him through his eyes and mouth. She flung it across the room and saw that it was a shadowy, near-ghoulish creature, though too non-corporeal to be properly called such. It attempted to retaliate and she banished it instead, sending the spell-creature to what she hoped was somewhere around an uninhabited island in the Orkneys. She heard Malcolm gasp as he regained his self-awareness, prompting her to move quickly so that he could collapse into her shoulder.

"I think we need to reschedule this for another time," Clara said. She placed Malcolm—now unconscious—onto a chair and smoothed out her jacket, attempting to look as though she was as inconvenienced as possible. "I shall take Mister Tucker with me to Saint Mungo's and have some tests run on him; that wasn't an ordinary spell."

"How will you get him to Saint Mangoes without anyone knowing what's wrong?" Reeder asked. Clara looked and saw he was now quite far away, nearly on the opposite side of the office.

"A simple enchantment, which won't cover up any other magic that has been done to him recently," she explained. She then turned towards Murray and Hatley, giving them a small nod. "He should be back within the week—claim he's off having a shout somewhere local. That'll scare off anyone into not asking… though tell his PA the truth, as she's aware of things. When's your next available appointment?"

"Friday at two," Murray said, her voice small in horror. "Are… are you sure he's going to be alright?"

"I've known him for long enough to know that he'll bounce back from this," Clara said, keeping things ambiguous. She then turned towards Malcolm, swished her wand, and he opened his eyes again, silently standing up. Although he looked more awake and alert, he was certainly far from it as he scowled and placed his hands in his pockets. "I will see you ladies on Friday then."

After getting Malcolm out of the building, Clara acted quickly and got him into the nearest alleyway she could in order to Apparate into Saint Mungo's. She brought him directly to Receiving and was able to get him up to one of the Fourth Floor's temporary wards quickly. It was there that a kindly Pakistani wizard told her precisely what she had feared: that thing that she had forcibly pulled from him wasn't a ghoul or a simple spell gone awry, but a curse meant to look like something else.

"I've seen magic like this at home, but not since I was a boy—before the Partition—this is dark, dark-hearted magic," he explained. The ward was nearly empty, save for them, the sleeping Malcolm, and a witch who was cleaning on the other end. "You're lucky that you banished it without irreparable damage done to your husband. Tell me: when did the sleepwalking begin?"

Clara scrunched her nose. "Sleepwalking?"

"Yes; this curse is meant to wear someone out while they sleep, not allowing them time to get much-needed rest. It usually kills within two weeks."

"Malcolm has been sleeping at work a lot lately, so I couldn't say," she frowned. "He usually gets up in the middle of the night at least once anyhow—he's getting to that part of life."

"Do you know of anyone who would want this sort of curse placed on him?" the Healer asked. "Last I paid attention, this sort of curse was outlawed in use against Muggles."

"A vast majority of Malcolm's potential enemies are Muggles like him," she replied. "There aren't that many Squibs on his bad side, and magical folk just plain stay away from him." She pondered things for a moment, trying to piece things together. "It might've been at the press conference he needed to attend last week; there were plenty of international people there."

"The secrets that involve this curse have spread far beyond the hills where I grew up, for reasons I hope do not need explaining," the Healer said, shaking his head. "You must rule out no one if you wish to treat this as an attack and not an accident. Shall I alert the Auror Office or do you wish to?"

"I will—Potter owes me anyhow," Clara said. She thanked the Healer and signed off on some paperwork before she was left alone with her husband. Cursing the fact that her mobile wouldn't work inside the hospital, she pulled a book out of her bag and began to read. At least she could catch up on something, and the owl that had come in the meantime from Sam said that everything was being taken care of in Malcolm's office by either her or Jamie, with threat of Tucker's Unknown Return enough to keep people in line for the time being.

It was nearly past teatime before Malcolm began to stir. Clara put her cuppa down on the side table and gently held his shoulder in place while she held his hand with her free one.

"Hey, don't get up," she said gently.

"Where the fuck am I?" he asked, his voice little more than a slurring mumble.

"Saint Mungo's; someone placed a curse on you that made it so that you were sleepwalking so much it nearly negated all rest you normally would've gotten at night."

"How did you…?"

"Sam went in and modified everyone else's memories to make it so that you had an emergency in some shire and I was called back to my office on account of a snap reshuffle—clearly neither of these things are true."

"I was… cursed…?"

"Yes—I contacted the Auror Office and they're going to put a team on it. Whether you're connected to me or not, you're a high-ranking member of a major Muggle political party—the Opposition, even—and it needs to be looked into while you recover."

"Fuck, does that mean I have to talk to that Worst Witch goon squad?"

Clara blinked at that. "Uh… yes, eventually. I guess the more pressing question right now is how you know about The Worst Witch…"

"Just because I'm a man doesn't make me an idiot," he chuckled. "Thought Tash might like them… when He then closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, falling back asleep with ease. Clara kissed the back of his hand and put it down, letting him rest in silence.

His sense of humor was still there—things weren't too dire after all.

A/N: I find it extremely interesting that The Worst Witch predates the Harry Potter franchise by quite a bit. I'd think that the adventures of Millie Hubble would be rather popular in the HP verse, though in a different way than in real life (as in, I'm sure that Hermione read the first three before starting Hogwarts and therefore had very clear expectations for her future schooling that both came to fruition and were wildly inaccurate).