4. Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition.

The Doctor lay panting on the floor, feeling as though he had been turned inside out and then put back together again. He had completely lost track of time since Voldemort had first decided that verbal questioning had been getting him nowhere. It could have been seconds, minutes or hours, and he had no idea. And that thought worried him perhaps as much as his current situation.

Voldemort was still standing in front of him, wand lowered now, and a thoroughly dissatisfied look on his face. Bellatrix was looking at him with slightly sadistic curiosity. Perhaps it really had been hours, then.

"My Lord," Bellatrix muttered in a voice shaking with repressed emotion, sounding like a child asking for a particularly luxurious present, "perhaps, if I were to have a go…?"

Voldemort's nostrils flared. "I think not, Bellatrix. The Cruciatus Curse will not work on him."

"I know many other forms of persuasion, my Lord," Bellatrix said, getting strangely close to pleading.

Voldemort finally turned to look at her. "No. I believe I have a better solution." He turned back to the Doctor. "One that is much more likely to work on this Gallifreyan."

The Doctor gaped. "How?" He coughed when his dried out throat got stuck on the words. "How do you even know that?"

"I told you, Doctor," Voldemort hissed impatiently, "that I had some followers research you."

"And where are these followers?" The Doctor asked, feeling his voice getting stronger. He lifted himself up so that he was kneeling rather than lying on the floor. "Dead, I assume?"

"Enough. Legilimens!"

He was in the clearing again, caged like an animal, and staring back at him were what he now knew to be characters from Harry Potter –

He read the last page and, to his surprise, saw a tear dropping down onto the very last word of book 7 –

Wait till you read book 7! Oh, I cried!

William Shakespeare standing on a stage beneath a swirling purple cloud of Carrionites flying through the air, looking desperately to the Doctor, pleading with him to find the words. But he had nothing, he couldn't think of anything – for once, not a single word came to his mind, and he stood there with his mouth hanging open, wishing desperately for his brain to work, to just work, then looking to Martha, who immediately yelled "Expelliarmus!" and everything would be saved…

Martha, good old Martha, studying to be a Doctor, hadn't even heard of magic, and she had sent them all back with just one word. Good old Martha. Good old JK!

JK Rowling, author. A picture of JK Rowling smiling while holding up the very latest book.

"The Angels should be gone now," he told the terrified monk, "just make sure you don't buy anymore, just in case." He put his hands into his pockets and walked off, marvelling at a world without technology as he went. Just wait a few hundred years, and this place would be teaming with cars…

But that had been a few regenerations ago, now.

The Doctor struggled and fought, the initial surprise of a human managing to break into his mind being chased away by the realisation that this human was a very real threat, and should not be allowed to see anything that the Doctor knew, not if he wanted Earth to remain in one piece. But he was weakened from the curses and his mind's responses were sluggish, making it hard for him to push against the unfamiliar presence.

It hurt, Rassilon how it hurt – he thought his hearts would burst, that his arms would pop out of his sockets, and any minute now, he would be a new man…

"Where are my shoes?"

"…this old body of mine is wearing a bit thin." "What do you mean, 'wearing a bit thin'?"

The only thing he could do was keep him away from any important information, until he got enough strength for one final push…

"What do you think of my new face, by the way?"

"Oh, never mind about the clothes, they're easily changed. What about me?"

And, feeling a sudden burst of irritation that no new information was forthcoming (new information?) the Doctor gave an almighty mental shove and found himself, rather abruptly, in Voldemort's mind.

He really hoped this would be useful in the long run and that he wasn't just cursing with the wrong wand, because so far he was finding this Muggle show completely unbearable. It wasn't even in colour. "Let me get this straight. A thing that looks like a police box standing in a junk yard – it can move anywhere in time and space?"

Davros, sitting in his life support machine, "Are you threatening me? If so it is most unwise."

He had a body, now, and servants to do his bidding. Fortunately, Wormtail had not failed him this time. He had gone to a Muggle library and found him a book – from the science section, it would seem, going by its title – going into detail on the possibilities of alternate dimensions. "It is fairly certain that they exist," he read, in the introduction. "In fact, it is believed that there are eleven. However, this book aims to-"

Before the Doctor could even hope to read any further he found that Voldemort's mind was suddenly off-limits, and that the man himself was standing before him looking livid. Not one to give up, he tried again: "Legilimens!"

This time, the Doctor trapped Voldemort in a maze in the very forefront of his mind, showing no information at all, and watched with bated breath as Voldemort crashed through it, trying to rip it to pieces. The Doctor simply made the destroyed pieces pop back into place, and Voldemort finally withdrew, leaving a mental trail of anger and frustration in his wake, as well as a whopping headache.

The Doctor groaned, finding himself on the floor once more, his hands pressed into his throbbing in his temples. Dimly, he could hear Voldemort cursing and pacing, occasionally stopping to ponder his captive lying on the ground. Finally, the pounding in his head subsided enough for the Doctor to focus on the real world around him.

"Very well, Bellatrix, you may have your way with him. However," he added, his voice becoming more threatening, "you are not to kill him or mortally wound him. If he appears to be willing to share any information, call me immediately." And with that, Voldemort swooped out of the room.

"Too busy to do it himself, is he?" The Doctor heard someone ask. Who would ask such a stupid thing? He looked around the cell. "Ah," he said aloud, "that was me. Right."

Bellatrix stared at him.

The Doctor sighed. "Do you really want to do this?" he asked wearily, knowing it was futile and yet owing it to himself to try. "You could be so much better than this."

Bellatrix cackled. "No, I want to do it very much. Crucio!"

oOo

Sometime later the Doctor stirred, then jerked awake. And immediately wished he hadn't. The motion jarred his exhausted and sore body, making him feel like he had gone several rounds with a train and lost. And his head. He groaned. Don't even mention his head. It felt too heavy and painful to even belong to him anymore. He was positively sure that it had been sat on by an elephant. Or even turned into an elephant. He wasn't quite sure of anything by this point.

He dragged himself into a sitting position and squeezed his eyes shut, one arm clamped around his nauseous stomach, willing it to stop flipping. He swallowed furiously, desperately, and willed himself to ride it out.

He constructed a beach in his mind: palm trees, swinging hammocks, a blue, blue sea – the bluest he had ever seen – and a nice, healthy green sky. He took a running jump at his hammock and landed triumphantly in it, relishing in the relaxing swinging movement from his momentum. He crossed his arms behind his head and lay back for a moment, staring up at the alien birds in the sky. He could name them all, every single one.

He opened his eyes to find that the nausea had receded to a bearable level along with the aching in his joints and head. Voldemort and Bellatrix were good at what they did – they knew how to inflict a world of pain without the smallest scar, knowing that keeping the captive alive, without a single hint of escape by dying from hideous injuries, was the best way to break them. And he hated that he knew why they did it that way.

All those lives lost, all those lives that he had taken, all the worlds that he had burned…

He pulled himself to his feet and walked over to the door. Force field. No… not force field. Magical, remember?

Right, so what was it, then? Protection Charm? He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was too tired to remember what it was, and that worried him. How long had he been here? He couldn't lose track, it would mean that they were winning, that he was breaking. An infallible sense of time was both pride and necessity for a Time Lord, and losing it was a sign of… well. Not being all there, he supposed. Like a human who talked to themselves aloud in a public place.

Ok, so he had been here… He screwed his eyes up and worked backwards, playing the events that he could remember through his mind as though watching a film on rewind. He span around and stared at the window, counting on his fingers at he stared at his small patch of sky, and nodded.

"Five days, now. That's how long you've been here."

Great, his brain replied. Remember what you just said about a human talking aloud to themselves?

"Yeah, but in fairness I'm not human and I'm not in a public place."

And how do you know? They might have bugged the room.

He thought about that for a moment, then hobbled around the room, searching for anything out of the ordinary. He reached inside his pocket, intending to find the screwdriver and analyse the results of scanning the cell, but it wasn't there. He quickly patted himself down. Nope, ok, not there. They must have finally taken it.

He tutted at the door. "You lot really are sloppy, you know! You don't leave a man with his screwdriver!"

Silencing Spells?

Oh, right. There had been silencing spells on the cell that Bellatrix had shown him when he'd first arrived here. Well, that was wonderful. He could be screaming and dying in here, being attacked by a giant –

A giant?

Only thing I could think of that could break in – and no one would know!

They also wouldn't care.

Yes, well, there was that as well.

You're very Muggle, aren't you?

He span around, at that, an expression of utter confusion plastered on his face. How dare he insult himself! "Sorry, what?"

Your escape plan. It's too Muggle. In case you haven't noticed, you're not in a Muggle prison.

Yes, I had noticed, thanks. I'm pretty sure a Muggle prison of this era would at least give me decent facilities and food. And water, come to think of it. I am a bit parched…

Shut up and listen to me, his angry inner voice commanded.

The Doctor raised his hands. Alright, calm.

Think magic.

Yes, magic. That thing they've been torturing me with. Yes, you know, I had almost forgotten about that, but I'm glad one of us remembers. Well, part of me remembers, since you're not even a real voice, you stupid inner monologue.

Silence filled the cell for a few moments as the Doctor processed what he had just said to himself. So he had insulted himself a few times, but that was hardly different. Giving advice to himself without even knowing what he was going to say before he was going to say it, however, was different. And it was very interesting. He was having trouble, however, working out what it was that he had meant, given that it was hard to think straight all cooped up and tortured.

You've done it before.

Oh, so you're listening now, are you?

Think magic? Why do I even have to explain this?

Of course! He hit himself on the forehead, and promptly wished he hadn't. Magic! They used magic, and he hadn't seen a single Muggle since arriving here – though in fairness not many Muggles were likely to wander through his cell. Which meant that this was definitely real and not a hallucination brought on by too many bananas. And he had to do something about it, and fast.

He'd read the books and seen the films, so he knew the correct words and movements, and the principle seemed the same. Wand plus words and waving equals magic. He didn't have a wand, unfortunately, but he remembered reading about wandless magic. It was for very powerful and well-practiced wizards, yes, but what choice did he have?

The Doctor stood on the opposite side of his cell and breathed in and out slowly, as though he were about to run a race. He stretched his arms. He wiggled his fingers. He cleared his throat, ignoring the pain of a throat that had been screaming for hours. He lifted his hands and stood with his legs slightly bent –

A ridiculous image from a film he'd seen once, Bruce Almighty, popped into his mind. Bruce was standing on a table, in much the same position as the Doctor was in now, commanding his ex to love him.

-And curled his fingers slightly inwards. "Accio bucket!" he shouted at the top of his voice, hoping that yelling would be an appropriate substitute for a missing wand.

Apparently it wasn't, because the bucket had stubbornly not moved a single inch.

"Lumos?"

Nothing. Ok, but that might have been because he had sounded more inquisitive than authoritative. He tried again, but in a slightly stronger voice. Still nothing.

What did you expect, fire springing up from your fingertips?

Alright, there's no need to gloat. And why are you gloating, anyway? You're me. If I can't do it, neither can you, and that means you're just as stuck as I am.

Just shut up and keep trying. But try the useful ones.

oOo

Author's Note: As always thanks to those of you who are reading this story, and even more thanks to those who are reviewing - they help keep me motivated :) Remember, if there's something you see that doesn't add up or if you think there is a section (or entire thing) that could be improved upon, please let me know so that I can make the next chapter better than the last. :)