[I am a shy creature plagued by self-doubt. If you are enjoying the fic, please let me know. Thank you. xxo, HitW]

Chapter 8

"Mum, it will be okay. I'll find a way to do it."

Narcissa Malfoy continued to cry. She wept elegantly, in a way that didn't mar her beauty, but Draco wished she would stop, because seeing her like this made him feel even more sick and panicked. It was bad enough that his father was in Azkaban, but he didn't know how he would survive if his mother had a breakdown. Being strong for others certainly wasn't one of Draco's skills, and he was aware of it. In fact, he was one of the weakest and most cowardly people he knew. Loath as he was to admit it, he envied those he had previously looked down upon; Potter, Granger, Weasley, even Longbottom all seemed like giants compared to him now. Deep down, he knew which side he would rather be fighting for, though he would much rather not have to fight at all.

Having a sense of status, superiority, and pride in one's family lineage wasn't evil. Even some amount of bullying was forgivable. But killing in cold blood was another matter. Yet, he was left with no choice. He had been ordered to murder Dumbledore, his first official act as a Death Eater. If he failed, and he suspected that he was being set up to do just that, his family would die at the hands of the Dark Lord or go to Azkaban for the rest of their lives, stripped of reputation and property. Draco wasn't sure which fate was worse.

The only way out was to give in, and willpower wasn't very high up on Draco's list of traits, either. When Voldemort had decided it was time to brand him with the Dark Mark, he hadn't voiced a single word of protest.

Wincing, he leaned in close to his mother and whispered, "Please stop crying. I don't think the Dark Lord will like it very much, if he sees you like this."

Narcissa made an effort. Her tears stopped for a minute, before erupting again, like a tap had been opened. "I'm s-sorry," she said.

He could bear the sight of her no more. He turned away, and gazed at his own reflection, gaunt and ghostly, then through the large glass windows of Malfoy Manor, out across the sprawling grounds. A thunderstorm had rolled in; an appropriate, even redundant, portend of doom. The sky was dark grey and low, washing out and deadening everything below, trees dotting the landscape like charred skeletons. Suddenly, his pale eyes were drawn to an eruption of blood red in the gloom. "What is that, on the lawn?"

Sniffling, his mother rose from the couch to look. "It's a…Muggle phone booth," she said, still managing to sneer despite her grief and confusion.

"Look, there's someone getting out. He's not one of ours, is he?"

"I don't know."

"Well, he can't get in, the doors have been-"

Draco was interrupted by a loud sizzling noise that echoed from downstairs, followed by the distinctive, stately creak of the great front doors being swung open. Mother and son exchanged a terrified glance. "I'll see who it is, and hold him off if necessary. You go warn the Dark Lord," said Narcissa.

Draco swallowed hard, and nodded. He left the side of the house where he and his mother had been living, hiding, really, and ventured into the wing where their uninvited guest had decided to take up residence. Draco knocked on the open door of the library before stepping inside. Voldemort was sitting in a gigantic chair by the fireplace, his bone-white hand gently stroking Nagini's head. The scene was almost domestic. The fire was roaring, even though it was late July. Draco wondered if, like a snake, Voldemort had a special love of heat. "Excuse me, my Lord, but there is an intruder in the manor. I don't know how he got through the wards, but he's downstairs. My mother is attempting to subdue him," said Draco.

Voldemort turned slowly to face Draco, red eyes glinting in the firelight. "You haven't told anyone that I'm here, have you, Draco?"

"No, sir. This man is a stranger…he arrived in an odd vehicle. A…Muggle phone booth."

The Dark Lord rose from his seat and crossed towards the blond boy. "What did you say?"

This is it. He's going to kill me, thought Draco. "A Muggle phone booth, my Lord. It's out on the lawn."

Voldemort crossed to the window, examined the object below, and said, "Let's go meet him, shall we?"

The Master was in the kitchen, eating a pheasant piece by piece. He was as ravenous as he'd been when he was resurrected by that mysterious cult, when he had finally forced the Doctor to really hear the drums. He'd almost forgotten about the incredible hunger and the extraordinary strength that went with it –he supposed he really had been depressed– but now it began to return.

Looking back on it, the Master saw that simple exhaustion was to blame for his lack of judgment. He had used up his excess energy killing Rassilon, then subconsciously loaded up on biscuits and tea at Amy's to stay alert long enough to talk to the Doctor. By the time his mind started working correctly, he was already trapped, and had had to burn irreplaceable regeneration energy in order to escape from the Doctor's prison cell.

The Master knew there was no true escape from his nemesis, other than death. The Doctor would find him soon enough, and try to capture him again. The Master was ready to die, once and for all, but not without a fight. In order to resist, he required power, and this place he had come to felt nearly bursting with it.

The Master ate his way through the large pantry, hurriedly consuming anything he could. He was halfway through a jar of strawberry jam when he noticed a startled-looking woman standing in the doorway, pointing a short stick at him. Moments later, a pale, frightened young man stepped into view, and between them appeared a figure that gave the Master pause. A few reptilian alien species leapt to mind, but he said nothing, and continued to lick his fingers. "What are you?" asked the snake-man.

"Still hungry," said the Master, smiling.

"How did you get through my wards?"

"Through what? Your front door?"

The Master pulled from his pocket a new laser screwdriver, which the red TARDIS had been kind enough to make for him.

"A most unusual wand," said Voldemort. "What is your name?"

"I'm the Master."

Voldemort's slit-like nostrils flared at that. "Has the Master come to serve his Dark Lord?" he asked, voice low and dangerous.

The Master raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Not sure. What do you need?"

"Harry Potter."

"Sorry, never heard of him."

Narcissa said, tentatively, "My Lord, do you think this man escaped from St. Mungo's?"

"Perhaps, but he seems to possess rather powerful magic. Draco, summon the others. We'll soon get to the truth."

The boy rolled up his sleeve and pressed his wand onto the Dark Mark, face contorting in pain as he did so. The Master watched this all with casual indifference, more focused on finding the next thing to devour. Voldemort looked at him and smiled, happy to have something to entertain him that evening.