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Chapter Text

“Oi! Rosier!” A voice calls, and Barty, Regulus, and Evan turn sharply around to see the infamous James Potter and Sirius Black grinning mischievously. Black twirls his wand, eyebrows raised in mirth.

“What do you want, Sirius?” Regulus asks, voice cold. He steps in front of Evan, drawing his wand.

Sirius’s grin seems to grow. “Oh, James-ey and I’ve been working on this new spell,” he says, stalking towards them, eyes glinting. “I was hoping to test it out this afternoon.”

“And what do you need me for?” Evan asks, moving to stand beside Regulus. Barty continues to watch from the side, his wand at the ready, his fingers tense.

“Well I can’t just go and hex my little brother,” Sirius says casually. “And Snivellus is busy. Studying with Evans. And you know how James gets around her.” James sends his counterpart a sharp look, but Sirius ignores it. “All that’s left is you, Evan Rosier.”¹

Evan responds by reaching into his robes and revealing a long wand.

“And what is this hex, exactly?” Barty asks from the side, eyes narrowed. “You do know we’ll retaliate, yes?” He says. “Filthy blood traitor,” he adds as an afterthought.

Regulus sends Barty a sharp look as Sirius’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t even bother to respond before his wand is up and a complicated spell is being lazily muttered at him.

A purple light erupts from Sirius’s outstretched wand and washes over him. Barry expects pain, or any sort of discomfort, but experiences only a soft breeze. His hair flutters. Once it fades, he is pleasantly surprised to find that nothing has changed. At least, not that he’s noticed yet.

Sirius finds himself with two wands jabbed at his throat and magical ropes binding him to the wall. However, he appears rather disappointed.

James has his hands raised in a surrender, eyeing the Slytherins nervously. “Padfoot, I don’t think it worked.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sirius snarls. “Bloody hell. Wasn’t even worth the effort.”

“I told you we needed Moony’s help,”² James says, struggling not to laugh.

Sirius just grumbles unintelligibly and sends Regulus a sharp look. “Untie me then, will you?”

Regulus looks back at Barty, who is incredibly relieved that the spell didn’t work. He looks back at his brother. “No, I don’t think so,” he says. “You tried to hex my friend. I’ll leave you to fix this yourself.”

Sirius sputters angrily and James stifles a laugh. He exchanges a look with Regulus, one that Barty doesn’t understand.

“Get lost, Potter,” Regulus says, hiding a smile. He turns to Barty and Evan. “Come on, we’ve got history homework. And I know neither of you have finished it yet.”

Later, in the evening, as Barty is doing one final once-over on his history essay, Regulus interrupts his train of thought.

“What do you reckon it was?” Regulus asks.

“Hmm?” Barty replies, looking up from his essay.

“The spell Sirius was testing. The one that didn’t work. What do you think it was supposed to do?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Barty says, and decides to leave the essay for tomorrow, setting it aside.

“What if they were lying?” Regulus wonders. “What if it did do something, and we just haven’t noticed yet?"

Barty rolls his shoulders as he ponders this. “I… haven’t noticed anything,” he says slowly. “Regulus, I’m sure it’s fine. You’re just paranoid.”

Regulus frowns, but he doesn’t respond further.

“Come on, Evan’s got a good idea. We should get some sleep,” Barty says, gesturing at their unconscious friend.

“Don’t you have your essay to finish?”

“Ehh,” Barty says, shrugging. “It’s basically done. I’ll look over it tomorrow.”

Regulus snorts quietly and walks towards the bathroom. “Basically done?” He says, poking his head out from the door. “I wonder why I don’t believe you.”

Barty laughs and adds the essay to the pile of unfinished homework next to his bed. Regulus shuts the bathroom door, and Barty closes his curtains. He’ll brush his teeth later, once Regulus is done. He leans back, resting his head on the plush Hogwarts pillow. He doesn’t intend to sleep just yet, content to simply lay and think.

That hex earlier today… what had that been about? What was it supposed to do?

Barty doesn’t think much further on the topic, his eyes drooping. He is overcome with a feeling of tiredness. He rolls over, quickly falling asleep, despite his intention of staying awake.

He awakens abruptly to the feeling of his body being dragged across rough, rocky ground, dust clouding his lungs. He jerks away with a very dignified yelp and coughs harshly, his mind racing.

-

The Doctor bounces along the path, hand in hand with Donna. He leaps forward, pulling her into a spin.

“Woah!” Donna says, surprised.

The Doctor just laughs and grins.

“You’re chipper today,” she remarks as she continues walking. The Doctor, in comparison, is practically frolicking along the dusty orange path.

“That’s because this is exciting, Donna!” He says gleefully. “I haven’t been to this planet in six hundred years! And never at this time. Oh, you should see the sunsets here. Oh, and you must try the local—“ The Doctor makes a complicated alien noise. At Donna’s confused look, he clarifies it as: “That’s a type of food. Similar to human saganaki.”

Donna just rolls her eyes and continues down the path.

The planet in question is incredibly dusty, incredibly orange, and incredibly hot. They landed in the largest desert in its solar system, and Donna is rather unimpressed. They’ve only been here for five minutes, but she’s already thinking of shedding her jacket. She can feel the dust gathering in places she doesn’t want, and she regrets not bringing sunglasses.

The Doctor seems unphased and keeps chattering on about the planet’s history of complicated wars and space drugs.³

“Couldn’t have parked closer?” Donna asks, stopping to catch her breath. She fans herself, desperately trying to cool down. “How to hell do you survive in all those clothes?” She breathes, gesturing weakly at the Doctor’s full pinstripe suit.

The Doctor shrugs. “I’m an extraordinary creature,” he says, grinning and raising his eyebrows.

Donna laughs. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”

The Doctor hands her a bottle of water, which he pulled from his mysteriously large pockets. “The town we’re heading for is only a couple of minutes away,” he says. “They’ll have fans and more water at the market.”

“Ooh, a market,” Donna says sarcastically. “I only have to walk a million miles to get there.”

“It’ll be worth it,” the Doctor reasoned. “Imagine it, Donna- an alien market!”

Donna seems to have successfully caught her breath. “I’m sure it’s great, Doctor, but I’m really not built for weather like this.”

The Doctor frowns. “At this point we’re closer to the town than the TARDIS. No point walking back yet.”

Donna groans. “We have to walk back?”

“Yep! Now come on, it’ll be fun!”

Donna groans again, but moves to stand beside the Doctor. “Fine.”

The Doctor jumps gleefully. “Great! Let’s go!” He starts running.

“Oi!” Donna calls. “Don’t run!”

The Doctor falters and waits for her to catch up. “Right, sorry, yes. No running.”

Donna grins exasperatedly, and shakes her head. “You’re insane.”

The Doctor smiles. “You love me.”

Donna rolls her eyes. “Let’s go, spaceman.”

The Doctor continues leading Donna along the path, pointing out the strange plants or rocks or clouds or anything that catches his attention, really.⁴ The path is gravelly, and each step kicks up a small cloud of orange dust. Eventually, the two start climbing up an intimidating hill.

“Just up here, beyond the hill,” the Doctor says. “There should be the town. Beautiful village. You’ll love it, really.”

They crest the hill and stop atop it to look out at the view beyond.

“That’s strange,” the Doctor says.

It is strange. Rather than a small, excitable village with unique alien inhabitants going about their day, Donna can see a single dead tree⁵ and an odd, threatening machine.

The Doctor frowns. “It was supposed to be here.”

“Forget the village, Doctor,” Donna says, grabbing his arm. “What the hell is that?”

The Doctor squints down at the machine.

It looks almost tank-like, though advanced space technology can be seen modifying its wheels. Perhaps it can fly?⁶ Donna would like to see a flying tank. Though, maybe not within direct killing distance. The machine is metal, sunlight glinting harshly off the surface. On its side, a window, clouded with dust.

“Looks like a 487 sixth edition Ballistic War Tyrant, model X5⁷,” the Doctor explains. “It was invented during this planet’s fourth World War, used against the allies in the Southwest.⁸ It can do a lot of killing very effectively. I wonder why it’s here?”

Donna gapes. “I wonder why we’re here! Doctor, that thing could kill us!”

The Doctor turns and grins at her. “All the more fun!” He says and starts bounding down the hill.

“Doctor!” Donna calls, and huffs exasperatedly before following him.

The Doctor manages to get about halfway down the hill before a humanoid creature exits the model X5 Ballistic War Tyrant and points a gun directly at his chest.

The Doctor falters, and he puts his hands up in a surrender. Donna stops several feet behind him, doing the same.

“Are you Lord Bailey II?” The alien calls.

“Yes,” the Doctor lies confidently. “I am.”

The alien brandishes his gun. “Prove it.”

The Doctor reaches towards his pocket, but stops when the alien grips his gun tighter. “I was just grabbing my ID,” the Doctor explains.

The alien opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the sudden arrival of another figure atop the hill behind Donna.

“I am Lord Bailey II,” the new person calls dramatically. “Who are these? I thought you said we’d meet alone. Just us.” He sounds disappointed.

The Doctor grins sheepishly and ducks just in time to avoid getting shot by the alien’s gun. Donna shouts in alarm, and soon the Doctor is tackling her to the ground.

They both go rolling down the rest of the hill, miraculously missing each shot fired. Clouds of dust erupt around them, each blast sending a shockwave to Donna’s ears and dust into her eyes.

The Doctor manages to find his footing at the bottom of the hill and aggressively pulls Donna to her feet. “Run!” He shouts, pulling her along.

The two time travelers take off immediately, running around a small clump of bushes and darting up another section of the hill they just fell down. The shots behind them stop, which Donna is immediately suspicious of.

“Hurry!” The Doctor yells. He, too, has noticed the cease-fire.

Just as they crest the top of the hill, a loud gunshot rings out, different from the others. Donna barely has enough time to flinch before the Doctor is face-planting and tumbling down the other side of the hill.

Donna’s eyes go wide. “Doctor!” She screams and runs down the hill, scrambling on the gravel and dust.

Behind them, the shots have stopped.

The Doctor has also stopped at the bottom of the hill, his body limp and unmoving.

Donna fears the worst.

She scrambles down to him, hunching over his body and rolling him over to face her with a flop. His eyes are shut, but Donna can see his chest rise and fall with his breaths.

She breathes a sigh of relief. “You had me worried, Doc,” she says aloud, checking him over for injuries. On his shoulder, a burnt piece of his suit lays in tatters, but the wound doesn’t look serious. “Let’s get back to the TARDIS, eh?”

The Doctor doesn’t respond.

Donna groans. “I’m gonna have to drag you, aren’t I?”

The Doctor remains unconscious.

Donna groans again, rolling her eyes, before taking a hold of the Doctor’s armpits and attempting to drag his limp body across the gravelly ground.

She barely makes it a foot before she collapses on the ground, exhausted. “You’re heavy,” she complains, getting to her feet.

The Doctor doesn’t move.

“Useless lump,” Donna says, eyeing the body for a better area to drag from.

This time, she grabs his wrists, but manages to be even less successful.

Donna steps away from the Doctor’s body, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Bloody hell,” she wheezes, giving herself a short break.

She stalks around the body, eventually settling on gripping around the Doctor’s ankles. She gives him a good yank, making her best progress yet.

She starts to twist the Doctor around so he’s being pulled in the direction of the TARDIS, before settling into a dragging rhythm.

Only, she’s less than a minute in before the Doctor’s eyes are snapping open and he’s yanking himself out of her grip with a twist and a high-pitched yelp, before delving into a fit of coughing.

Footnotes:

1. Of course, Sirius and James knew about Barty. They just want to target Evan because, in their perspective, he tends to run his mouth more. ^{[ 1 ]}
2. Sirus was rather adamant that they could create a spell without Remus. He didn’t tell James that he just wanted to show off to him. ^{[ 2 ]}
3. The planet has faced five separate world wars in the past two hundred years. The ground is rich in a mysterious element used in a sci-fi equivalent of very strong cocaine. This is both a blessing and a curse, as the planet is both very wealthy and very violent. Every society wants the product and sale rights all to themselves. Hence, world wars. ^{[ 3 ]}
4. Donna did not need to know about the relationship between that weird plant’s roots and the drugs in the dirt, but now she does. ^{[ 4 ]}
5. All of the plants native to the planet rely heavily on the cocaine dirt, and this tree was unfortunate enough to grow in a drug-free patch. ^{[ 5 ]}
6. It can’t. ^{[ 6 ]}
7. All previous models had difficulties with the engine pistons. This is the only one that actually worked properly. ^{[ 7 ]}
8. The Southwesterners were still using model X4s. ^{[ 8 ]}

Chapter Text

The Doctor gasps as he sits up, clawing at his shoulder where a bullet should have passed through. He can only feel one heart.

Only one heart…

He’s human.

How odd.

The Doctor gives the air an experimental sniff. Earth, Scotland, circa 1970s. Why is he back on Earth?

And why is he human?

He grasps at the sheets beneath him, realizing he was sitting atop a bed. He looks around. Not the TARDIS, certainly. He’s never been here before.

He swings his legs off the bed, pushing back the privacy curtains. Upon seeing another human outside, who gives the Doctor a friendly wave, he hastily climbs back onto the bed and shuts the curtains.

Where the hell is Donna?

The Doctor can feel his one human heart start to speed up. He sits there, eyes wide, and thinks over the situation.

Alien illegal weapons deal, shot by a mysterious gun, woken up back on Earth in a human body, Donna nowhere in sight…

He has absolutely no clue. And a part of him is a little terrified.

“You all right?” A voice asks from beyond the bed. Presumably, the same person the Doctor saw.

He supposes he has to keep up the human exterior, and calls back with a strained “Yep! All good!”

There is a slight pause, before the voice slowly asks another question, sounding confused. “…What?”

The Doctor furrows his brow. He’d spoken Gallifreyan, it should’ve translated—

Oh shit.

The TARDIS isn’t translating his speech.

The TARDIS isn’t here.

The Doctor’s heart rate speeds up even more, but he manages to calm down with a couple of deep breaths.

“I’m fine!” He says, this time in English.⁹

The other person, having likely suspected otherwise, pushes apart the curtains and pokes his head in.

The child is a human teenager. Maybe sixteen years old? His features are gaunt, his hair jet black. He stares at the Doctor with cold, worried eyes. “Barty?”

The Doctor ignores the name, and instead waves slowly. “Hello,” he says. “I’m the Doctor.”

The boy narrows his eyes. “What?”

“The Doctor,” the Doctor says, getting to his feet again. “That’s me.”

The boy continues to stare. “No, actually, you’re not,” he disagrees.

The Doctor sends the boy a strange look. “Yes, actually, I am. It’s not often people doubt you when you introduce yourself. A first time for me. Anyway. Care to tell me where, exactly, I am?”

The boy looked at him with increasing concern. “Are you all right? You’re acting weird.”

“Me? Acting weird?” The Doctor exclaimed. “You’re the one refusing to answer me. Now, tell me, please, where are we?”

The boy sits down on the bed, giving the Doctor a pitying look. “You’re at Hogwarts. You seem to be acting a bit odd. You’ve forgotten your name and where you are.”

“No, I’m fairly certain I know my name,” the Doctor says absentmindedly, wracking his brain for any information about Hogwarts, for any explanation of his recognition of the name.

“Barty—“

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hogwarts,” the Doctor mutters repeatedly. “Think, think!” He smacks his head, before leaping to his feet and starting to pace the floor in front of the bed. “Hogwarts, Hogwarts…”

“Barty?”

“C’mon, just think!”

“Barty!”

“Who the hell is Barty?” The Doctor snaps, turning to face the child.

“You are!” The boy shouts, gesturing out with his arms.

The Doctor stalks towards the boy. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you are Barty. That’s your name. I don’t know what’s going on with you, and I’m worried,” the boy explains.

“I don’t know who Barty is,” the Doctor says. “I’m not him. Never have been. Never met someone named Barty.¹⁰ Why do you think I am him?”

The boy gives the Doctor a look. “Because you are. Him, I mean. You look like him, you’re in his spot. You don’t really act like him though—“

“OH!” The Doctor exclaims, jumping excitedly. “The weapon! The gun I was shot with! Oh, I knew I recognized the blast noise! A Master Multiverse Manipulator! Oh, that explains everything!”

The boy pauses. “…What?” He asks again.

The Doctor gestures wildly. “That’s why you think I’m this Barty bloke! Because that’s who I’m supposed to be! Only, I’ve been transported across the multiverse, — presumably he has too — and now I’m in his place! You think I’m Barty, but really I’m the Doctor, a version of Barty from another, parallel universe!”

The boy gives him a look. “You’re completely insane.”

The Doctor winks at him. “I’ve been told that before. Who are you?”

The boy blanches. “You’re being serious?”

The Doctor gives him a grim look. “Dead serious. I have no clue who you are.”

The boy gives him another concerned look in return, before slowly saying “I’m Regulus. Your— Barty’s friend.”

“Regulus, perfect, nice to meet you,” the Doctor responds absentmindedly. “Now where have I heard the name Hogwarts before?” He says, distractedly looking around.

By now, another boy has started climbing out of his bed. “What’s going on?” He asks blearily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His blond hair is messy, sticking up in wild directions.

Regulus groans. “‘Morning, Evan. Barty’s gone mad. I think the hex from yesterday changed more than we thought.”

The boy’s, Evan’s, eyes go wide as he finds himself suddenly perfectly awake. “Is he okay?”

“A hex!” The Doctor calls. “As in magic! As in Hogwarts, school of Magic-something-or-other. Oh, you lot are wizards aren’t you.” He gives them a disdainful look, voice dripping with contempt. “I’ve had bad experiences with wizards. They’re so prejudiced. Completely refuse to improve themselves technologically, years behind the, what, Muggles, you call them?”

“Yep,” Evan says. “Definitely mad.”

Regulus turns to look at Evan, concern painting his face. “Should we take him to the hospital wing?”

“No!” The Doctor interrupts. “No hospitals. They’ll dissect me,” he breathes.

Just then, another student, a girl, pops her head into the room. “Are you dressed?” She calls, entering without an answer. “You’d better hurry, breakfast will end soon. Barty, did you finish your history homework?”

“Dorcas—” Regulus starts to say, but is cut off.

“Breakfast!” The Doctor says, grateful for an excuse to leave the children that are threatening him with a hospital behind. “Yes, yes, we should go. Lead the way, Dorcas!” He gestures wildly.

The girl, Dorcas, gives him an odd look, but complies. “All right. Breakfast it is. And your history homework?”

“No idea,” the Doctor says cheerfully, skipping out of the room. None of the students follow, and he pokes his head back into the room. “Coming?” He asks.

Regulus jumps away from where he had been whispering into Dorcas’s ear. “Right, yes,” he responds awkwardly.

Dorcas gives the Doctor a pitying look, and moves to lead the way. “I suppose you don’t remember where the Great Hall is, then, hmm?”

“I never knew in the first place,” the Doctor responds. “Like I said— multiversal travel.”

“Mhm,” Dorcas hums, placing a hand on his back and leading him down the stairs. Regulus and Evan follow.

The group of four walk towards the breakfast hall, and the Doctor admires the moving portraits. Wizards are certainly fascinating. He wishes he had his sonic screwdriver on hand so he could examine the paintings closer.

The three students are having a silent conversation with their eyes, one that the Doctor has no privy to. He tries to ignore them, but the pitying looks and comforting touches are getting rather overwhelming. He is almost grateful when the group pauses in front of a closed door.

Regulus sends the Doctor a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Right in here,” he says, gesturing. “Breakfast.”

He is lying. His hands shake nervously and he keeps exchanging looks with the others.

The Doctor narrows his eyes. “You brought me to the hospital wing, didn’t you?”

Regulus lowers his arm and gives the Doctor yet another pitying look. “We’re worried about you,” he explains. “We think this is the best course of action, even if you don’t think so. But Madam Pomfrey is nice, and she’ll be able to help you.”

“I specifically asked for no hospitals,” the Doctor says, voice cold. “I told you they’d try to dissect me.”

Regulus reaches out to pat his shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” he says, opening the door and pushing the Doctor inside.

The time traveler looks around, spotting another group of students hovering around a nearby bed. A witch, presumably Madam Pomfrey, is bustling about, handling potions and rearranging supplies. Her robes are white and sterile. Her face is curved into a constant worried frown.

Regulus takes a sharp breath, before reaching out to grasp at the Doctor’s arm. He misses, as the Doctor slowly approaches the group. There is some familiar smell around the child on the bed, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

One of the children turns around and spots the Doctor approaching. “Oi!” He calls. “What are you doing here?”

“James?” The child on the bed asks. “Who is it?”

Regulus approaches the Doctor from behind and grips at his shoulders. “We should leave,” he whispers frantically.

“Some Slytherin filth,” another boy says, his hair and cheekbones rivaling that of Regulus’s.

The Doctor ignores the scathing looks of the boys and approaches the bed further. “Something’s off,” he mutters, sniffing the air.

“Barty!” Regulus stage-whispers.

The Doctor ignores him.

“Barty!”

The mystery of the smell is intoxicating. The Doctor just has to know what it is and where he’s smelled it before.

“Doctor!” Regulus calls frantically.

The Doctor turns to him, Regulus having caught his attention. “You called me Doctor,” he says, grinning.

“Yes, I did. We really should leave,” Regulus says quietly, shooting sharp looks at the others.

The Doctor furrows his brow. “But you brought me here.”

“Which was a mistake,” Regulus snarls, pulling the Doctor back. “Come on. Breakfast.”

“But—” the Doctor starts to say before he is forcibly removed from the hospital wing. Regulus leads him away and down the corridor.

“Wait, what happened?” Evan asks, jogging to catch up with Regulus and the Doctor.

“My brother,” Regulus answers shortly.

“And why is that an issue?” The Doctor asks, shaking off Regulus’s hand.

“Because he’s a bloody prick,” Regulus swears, kicking at a stone on the ground. “And he’s the one that hexed you. Or, Barty. Whatever. He’s the reason we’re dealing with this whole situation.”

The Doctor looks back at the hospital wing’s closed doors. “Shouldn’t we go talk to him then? Figure out what the hex was? Have him reverse it?”

“No!” Regulus shouts. “That’s a terrible idea. They’ll just make it worse.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Regulus says sharply. “Come on.” He leads him roughly down a corner and into another hallway. Evan and Dorcas catch up, having been discussing quietly behind them.

The Doctor isn’t pleased, and would rather have a civil discussion with the people who had supposedly caused the mess he’s found himself in, but at least he’s not being dissected.

The group of four enter a large hall, packed with chattering students and the ambient smell of delicious food. The Doctor looks around, admiring the floating candles and magical ceiling that reveals the stunning Scottish sunrise.

The Doctor is led to a table on the far end, where he sits with the three students. There, he is rushed through a simple British breakfast.

“Hurry,” Reglus says, shoving a bite of toast into his mouth. “We’ve got Transfiguration soon. McGonagall won’t be pleased if we’re late.”

“Transfiguration?” The Doctor asks, polishing off his own piece of toast. “What’s that?”

“Y’know,” Reglus says distractedly, gathering his supplies and getting up from his seat. “Changing stuff.”

“Physically?” The Doctor asks, following suit.

“Yeah,” Dorcas explains. “And it starts in five minutes. We should go.”

Regulus waits impatiently as the Doctor gathers Barty’s school materials, tapping his foot.

“Lead the way,” the Doctor grins, shouldering the bag.

Regulus shares a grim look with Evan and Dorcas, then turns to leave.

As they walk, the Doctor can’t help but wonder how Donna is doing without him, handling Barty…

Footnotes:

1. As some audiences may be aware, the Doctor speaks all languages. However, he prefers Gallifreyan, and tends to default to it. The TARDIS will translate him for his companions, after all. ^{[ 9 ]}
2. It’s entirely possible that the Doctor has met someone named Barty. In 900 years, one tends to meet a lot of people. ^{[ 10 ]}

Chapter Text

Donna jumps back hurriedly as the Doctor suddenly regains consciousness, twisting out of her grip with a yelp. He delves into a cough, scrambling away on the rocks.

After a moment, he recovers, wiping the dust from his face. He gets to his feet, sending Donna a concerned look. “Who the bloody hell are you?” The Doctor asks harshly, stumbling back.

Donna doesn’t remember the Doctor ever saying ‘bloody’ before, but she thinks there might be a bigger problem on hand. “Who am I?” She asks, incredulous. “You better be joking.”

The Doctor continues to stare at her. “Listen, woman. I don’t know what you did, I don’t know who you are, but I’m not in the mood for games,” he snarls.

“Games?” Donna says, outraged. “You, mister, got me trapped on a random planet that’s too hot, mind you, with your unconscious body! I had to start dragging you back to the TARDIS, all while worrying because you’ve been shot! By a gun! You could be dead!”

“Are you mad?” The Doctor asks defensively. “I have done no such thing!” He glares at Donna, before straightening his coat and looking out over the dusty landscape. “I suppose you’re right about this temperature,” he sniffs, brushing sand from his shoulders. “Well?” He asks, annoyed. “Where the bloody hell did you bring me?”

Donna placed her hands on her hips. “The planet that you brought me to! You said something about an alien market? I never wanted to be here in the first place,” she shouts, throwing her hands up in annoyance.

The Doctor groans suddenly. “Muggles,” he mutters. “Always useless.”

Donna has never heard the word ‘muggle’ before, or experienced the Doctor insulting her. She walks closer, suddenly wary. “Are you feeling all right?” She asks. “Was it the gun? Did it shoot you with something that changed your personality?”

The Doctor rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts rummaging around in his pockets. “What the-“ he mutters, becoming increasingly worried. He pulls the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and examines it. Then, he looks up at Donna. “Where’s my wand?” He accuses harshly, stalking forward. His eyes are cold, his expression haunting.

Donna, scared of the Doctor for the first time in her life, slowly backs up.

“What did you do to it?” He accuses, shaking the screwdriver angrily. “What did you do to me?”

Donna puts her hands up. “I promise I didn’t do anything to you,” she placates. “I think something’s gone wrong. You’re not acting like yourself.”

He is acting completely out of character. He is threatening Donna, where before he had been giggling and giving weird planet facts. But now? This man in front of her is not the Doctor.

He points the screwdriver threateningly in her direction. “Fix this,” he orders, snarling. “Put me back where you found me. Give me my wand back. And don’t ever do this again.”

Donna continues to back away, looking around fearfully for the TARDIS. The ship isn’t far, she could run there in case the not-Doctor gets aggressive. Unless he still has control over the ship… Donna may be entirely screwed. She is trapped on a deserted planet, light years and millennia away from home, and her only companion and savior has turned on her.

She is going to have to be very, very careful. However, her sense of self-preservation is rather lacking. “Wand?” She asks.

This man is, apparently, unarmed. He is missing his ‘wand’, whatever that is, and clearly has no clue how to use the sonic screwdriver. Donna is at an advantage.

“You should know, shouldn’t you?” The man says, raising an eyebrow. He looks upon Donna like he would an ant beneath his boot. “Seeing as you stole it.”

Donna is started to get annoyed, and wishes the Doctor were here. Or, at least, acting as himself. “Look, man. I didn’t steal shit.”

He continues to glare. “Lies again. I should’ve expected just as much from someone like you.”

Donna narrows her eyes, stalking forward. “Oi!” She shouts in anger. “And what does that mean, exactly? Actually, nevermind. I’m going to assume something is wrong with you,” she says, pointing her finger accusingly at the man, “because you’re not acting like yourself. And, that it probably has something to do with being shot by that alien’s weird space gun. So, come with me, and let’s go to the TARDIS to have a look at you.” She gestures behind her, hoping it’s the direction of the ship.

The man glares at her. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Donna shrugs. She realizes then, that she can use her apparent advantage over him. “I’m you’re only hope on getting home or returning your wand, whatever that is,” she explains. She hopes this manipulation tactic works.

The man glowers. “I could attack you,” he threatens, voice surprisingly casual. “Kill you, even. I could torture you for information, force you to return my wand.”

Despite the casual tone, Donna knows he’s serious. She is suddenly more uncomfortable. This man, the man who, (for some reason, not the Doctor), is dangerous.

Donna puts her hands up. “Just humor me, okay?” She says. “Come back to the TARDIS with me. I promise everything will be fine.”

The man seethes in anger, thinking over his options. Eventually, he apparently decides he hasn’t got much of a choice.

“Fine,” he spits. “Take me back to your primitive muggle machine. But don’t try anything.” He points at Donna, approaching her.

Donna breathes a silent sigh of relief. If he enters the TARDIS, then the ship will be able to help. Hopefully. She’ll put him right, and everything will be fine.

Donna gestures behind her once more, where the TARDIS is resting peacefully in the sand. “Come along, then,” she says, and leads the man forward.

He follows reluctantly, eyeing the ship suspiciously as Donna approaches the door. She pushes the key into the lock and twists it, looking over her shoulder, afraid to turn her back. The TARDIS door clicks open, the ship lights pulsating in distress. She seems to understand the situation, as she lights up a path down a corridor off-shooting from the console room.

Donna pushes the door further and leads the man into the ship with a flourish. “It may be a bit of a shock-“ she starts to say, before seeing his uninterested look.

“It’s bigger on the inside,” he says nonchalantly, walking up the ramp towards the console. “Simple charm.”

“Oh,” Donna says. “Right. Well, we should-“

“This way, potentially?” He asks, pointing down the specified hallway. The lights flicker in response.

“Yes, actually,” Donna grumbles, and she steers him down the hallway, patting the TARDIS’s console on the way. They didn’t have to travel far before they reached the emergency medical room.¹⁰

“This room,” Donna says, gripping the man’s bicep and guiding him inside. The lights flicker again and the TARDIS whirs, shaking as Donna leads him into a chair.

“Okay…” Donna mumbles, looking around. “Now what?”

The ship grinds, and an image is summoned into her mind¹¹ of the sonic screwdriver.

Donna isn’t quite used to the feeling of the telepathic ship in her mind, but she puts the thought aside in lieu of turning to the man.

“That thing in your pocket,” Donna starts, “the sonic screwdriver. I need it, please.” She holds her hand out.

The man protectively crosses his arms. “Why?” He asks accusingly.

Donna rolls her eyes. “It’s a scientific instrument,” she explains. “I need it to scan you, see what’s wrong, then upload the information to the TARDIS so she can read it.”

The man makes no move to hand over the sonic. “The TARDIS?” He asks instead.

Donna gestures around her. “The ship.”

He narrows his eyes. “Why should I trust you?”

Donna groans. “We’ve been over this. We have literally no other way to get you back. Besides, you don’t even know how to use that thing!”

The man huffs. “Fine,” he grumbles, reaching into his pocket. He reveals the sonic screwdriver and reluctantly hands it over.

She quickly snatches the device before he can change his mind. The TARDIS whirs gently. Donna takes a moment to examine the screwdriver, turning it over in her hands, hoping to understand how it works. She observes the buttons and levers and feels entirely overwhelmed.

“You don’t know either?” The man assumes, smirking.

“Shut up,” Donna snaps, turning away. She leans over to a wall and whispers to the ship. “How does this work?”

The TARDIS flickers the lights in mirth and supplies a new image to Donna’s mind.

This time, she sees the Doctor, staring behind her at some irrelevant enemy. In his hand is the sonic screwdriver. His face is screwed up in concentration. It’s almost comforting, the return of his presence, even if only in Donna’s mind.

“Thanks for that,” Donna whispers. “But I still don’t know how to use it.”

The ship grumbles irritatedly around her, and Donna startles as the Doctor in her mind speaks. “Just point and think about what you want to do,” he narrates, continuing to look past her. The sonic screwdriver starts to whine as he twists it, the tip lighting up a familiar blue. Donna stares for a moment, then diminishes the image and turns back to face the man, walking towards him.

She points the screwdriver, allowing herself a moment to take a deep breath. The man looks at her worriedly, suddenly suspicious, but decides to trust her. Donna presses down on the button with her thumb, and screws up her face in concentration, mocking that of the Doctor. Figure out what’s wrong, she thinks, and the device makes the buzzing noise she’s all so familiar with.

Her mind is suddenly flooded with images and data.¹² She is almost overwhelmed, trying to sift through the information for what she’s looking for. She takes a breath, and patiently asks the screwdriver for a simple diagram.

In her minds eye appears a multi-layered diagram of the Doctor’s body, showing layers of muscles, bones, nerves, organs. Donna puts aside her curiosity over his alien biology, and instead looks for anything out of order. Other than the blast wound caused by the gun, highlighted in red on the diagram, he is perfectly physically healthy.

So what had gone wrong?

Donna lowers the sonic screwdriver and the image disappears. Around her, the TARDIS shudders dangerously, as if trying to warn her of something.

Donna approaches the man and sits next to him. “Does your shoulder hurt?” She asks conversationally, crossing her arms.

He looks at her suspiciously. “Now that you mention it,” he responds. “It does.” He starts to rub at his injured shoulder absent-mindedly. “What did the weird device tell you?”

Donna sighs and rubs at her face. “Not much. But I was thinking of looking over your shoulder, it might tell me more.”

The man eyes her. “Are you going to scan that too, then?”

“Yup.”

“Fine,” the man says, and starts to slide the overcoat off his shoulders, treating the injured side gingerly.

Donna gulps and looks away. She fidgets with her hands for a moment. “What’s your name, anyway?” She asks, not looking up. “I know you’re not the Doctor.”

The man sighs. “Bartemius Crouch Jr.”

Donna laughs. “That’s quite a mouthful.”

He shrugs. “My friends call me Barty.”

She finally looks up, watching as Barty slowly unbuttons his shirt. “Nice to meet you, Barty,” she says. “Even if you’re kind of an arse. My name is Donna, by the way.”

“Donna,” Barty parrots, slipping his arm out of the sleeve. “Nice name.”

“Thanks,” she responds, readjusting her stance to get a better look at Barry’s shoulder. “May I?” She asks, gesturing.

“Right, yes,” he responds, twisting around.

Donna nearly gasps at the sight. The gunshot wound isn’t a deep gouge as one might expect, but rather a superficial burn curling angrily over the skin. It’s a swirl of purples and oranges and greens, stretching across the entire shoulder blade and creeping along the collarbone.¹³ In several spots Donna finds large boils, the skin raised with pus. The edges are crusted. The surrounding skin is dead. It looks incredibly painful. Donna images it will leave one hell of a scar.

“Bloody hell,” she breathes, brushing her fingers over the singed skin. Barty flinches under her.

Donna feels sick to her stomach. The entire situation suddenly feels very real, much more than it did before. Seeing the scorched, ruined skin of Barty’s -- the Doctor’s -- shoulder makes her realize just how desperately she needs him back. She doesn’t know how to deal with situations like this, and it terrifies her. But despite that, she knows he’s counting on her this time. It’s Donna’s turn to save the Doctor.

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a brief moment, allowing herself a few seconds to look away. She knows she can’t hide for long. She opens her eyes, mentally preparing herself. She slowly raises the sonic screwdriver, pointing it at the dark wound. “This might hurt,” she warns. She presses the screwdriver’s button, desperately thinking just scan the wound. Nothing else.

The screwdriver jumps to life, whirring beneath her fingers. Barty winces slightly, but says nothing. Information floods Donna’s brain again, too fast and complicated to be understood. She mentally directs it back into the sonic, relief overcoming her as the screwdriver's presence leaves.

The instrument goes silent and both Donna and Barty find themselves breathing hard. “You all right?” Donna asks, fidgeting with the device.

Barty nods roughly. “Yeah. Fine.” He turns to face her. “What did that thing tell you this time?”

“Not sure,” she responds, getting to her feet. “I’ll have to get the TARDIS to analyze the data. She’ll know what I could never understand.” She moves to exit the room. “Put your clothes back on,” she orders, then leaves.

Once alone in the TARDIS hallway, Donna leans against the metal wall to take a breath. The ship hums comfortingly around her. “Thanks,” Donna whispers, closing her eyes as she rests her head against the wall. She allows herself another moment. “I should go back to the console, eh?” She asks quietly. The ship hums an affirmative.

Donna makes her way down the hallways, quickly finding the correct room. Once there, a spot on the console lights up, and upon observation, appears to be the perfect place to plug in the sonic screwdriver.

“I hope I’m doing this right,” Donna mutters, then shoves the screwdriver into the hole. It lights up, buzzing quietly.

Barty walks through the doorway, now thankfully fully dressed. “Why do you call the ship a ‘she’, anyway?” He asks.

Donna swivels around the screen, watching as the TARDIS analyzes the data in Gallifreyan writing she can’t understand. “Because that’s what she is. According to the Doctor at least.”

A short ding rings out.

Donna gapes down at the TARDIS’s screen, eyes widening. “Oh my god,” she breathes.

“What? What is it?” Barty asks, jumping forward, towards the screen.

“It says…” Donna stutters. “It says the gun was a specifically illegal weapon. Don’t ask me to pronounce that name. It also says that it swapped you and the Doctor from across the multiverse.” She looks up at Barty.

The mysterious man inhabiting the Doctor’s body gnaws on his bottom lip. “Well?” He asks. “How do I get back?”

Footnotes:

1. The TARDIS had sensed the situation and moved the room accordingly. ^{[ 10 ]}
2. The image is summoned by the TARDIS. She’s used to working telepathically, as she and the Doctor are both a telepathic species. ^{[ 11 ]}
3. Much like the TARDIS, the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver also works hand in hand with his telepathy. ^{[ 12 ]}
4. The wound was caused by a blaster rather than a traditional gun. Therefore, the sheer energy seared the skin, rather than burrowing a hole. ^{[ 13 ]}

Chapter Text

The Doctor follows the three students through winding and complicated hallways, up flights of moving stairs, and past chattering portraits. Eventually, they arrive at a door, where the Doctor is led inside a classroom and placed between another girl — one he hasn’t met yet — and Evan.

“That’s Pandora,” Regulus whispers to him quietly, nodding his head at the girl. “You’re— well, she and Barty are friends. We’ll tell her about your… situation after class. Also, the professor is McGonagall. It’s probably best if you stay quiet.”

The Doctor nods in acknowledgement, smiles gently at Pandora, then turns to face the teacher. She is middle aged, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, and her face strict, yet kind.

The teacher, McGonagall, waves her wand, and a small cage of mice floats itself to the front of the room. “I trust you’ve practiced your spellwork,” she says, an air of authority permeating through the atmosphere. The Doctor can’t help but immediately respect her.

The class choruses back a nervous affirmative, which makes McGonagall click her tongue.

“This is OWL year,” she reminds, eyes calculating as they sweep over the class. They settle on the Doctor. “I expect you to work hard in order to pass my class.”

The Doctor is entranced as she turns to the cage of mice. “Today we will transfiguring these mice into salt shakers,” she says, waving her wand. One of the mice quickly morphs into a ceramic salt shaker with a frantic squeak.

The Doctor sits up a little straighter, eyeing the salt shaker carefully as Professor McGonagall continues to explain the process, detailing the spell work and visualization. “Any questions?” She asks, finishing up her speech.

The Doctor carefully raises his hand. In his peripheral vision, he can see Regulus pinch the bridge of his nose disappointedly.

McGonagall seems surprised, but calls on him nonetheless. “Yes, Mr. Crouch?”

The Doctor hesitates until Evan elbows him sharply. “Right, yes,” he says, somewhat startled* “I was wondering what exactly happens to the mouse? When it changes, I mean. Does it hurt? What about the mouse’s consciousness? Will the process effect the mouse’s brain afterwards? Say, hypothetically, the mouse is only halfway transfigured. Will it be in a state of agony, half mouse, half salt shaker? What happens to the nerves? If I pick up the shaker, will the mouse feel it? Well, no, evidently not, as the brain will be transfigured too. Will it just be a visual transformation or are the atoms themselves changing? Speaking of changing atoms, are you combining them to create new materials? That can be a recipe for bombs. And, hypothetically, if you transfigure something into something bigger, are you creating matter? Or are you limited to things of the same mass? Creating matter is against the literal laws of physics, if you do that then we have a larger problem on our hands. Also, do you want the salt shaker to have salt inside?”

The Doctor finishes and stares at the professor inquisitively. He looks around, noticing the stares of the children. And the teacher, for that matter. Pandora coughs next to him.

McGonagall grips tightly to a desk. “That’s quite a lot of questions, Mr. Crouch,” she says, knuckles turning white.

The Doctor shrugs. “I’m just interested, is all.”

Across the room, the Doctor can see Regulus groan and place his head in his hands.

“You haven’t shown signs of interest before, Mr. Crouch,” the Professor says, stalking towards him. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

The Doctor opens his mouth to come up with a lie on the spot, but Pandora beats him to it.

“I showed him a book, professor,” she lies. “About transfiguration theory. I found it interesting, and I was too shy to ask my questions myself. Barty was kind enough to do so instead.”

McGonagall narrows her eyes, but recedes. “They are certainly good questions; don’t feel like you can’t ask. I’d be willing to explain some answers if you come visit me this evening. In the meantime, please focus on your transfiguration.”

With that, she gestures to the class. “Any other questions?” Upon receiving no response, she dismisses the class to begin working.

At once, Pandora turns to the Doctor. “Listen,” she says sharply. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re welcome for covering for you. Now I’ve got extra homework.” She glares at him.

“Right,” the Doctor responds. “Thanks.”

Pandora stares at him more sharply. “This is the part where you tell me what’s happening.”

The Doctor shoots her a look. “Not here. After class, maybe. Ask Regulus. He’ll explain.”

Pandora rolls her eyes, but turns to complete her schoolwork.

At the end of class, after the students pack up and the bell rings, Pandora grabs the Doctor’s elbow and drags him to the hallway wall, barking at Regulus to follow. “Well?” She asks, arms crossed, glaring at the two. “Someone have anything they want to share with the class?”

Regulus scuffs the floor with his shoe. “It’s complicated-“

“Have you heard of the Multiverse Theory?” The Doctor interrupts. At the shake of Pandora’s head, he continues. “Well it’s true, by the way. Basically, your universe is one of many, each different in their own unique way. Sometimes, rifts or openings occur between two universes, and someone may be able to slip through from one to the other. It appears that Barty and I managed to swap places. I’m the Doctor by the way,” he concludes, sticking his hand out.

Pandora ponders over the explanation. “Yeah, makes sense,” she concludes. “Nice to meet you, Doc.”

“What?” Regulus asks. “How do you understand what he’s talking about? I’m lost.”

“It’s easy—“ Pandora starts.

“You three!” McGonagall’s voice interrupts from her classroom doorway. “Get to your next class, please. I don’t accommodate loitering.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Doctor calls, saluting, and confidently walks away down a corridor, ignoring Pandora’s sudden laughter.

“Bar— Doctor!” Regulus shouts after him, exchanging frantic looks between him and the professor. “Wrong way! Oh bloody hell—“

Regulus manages to steer the Doctor into the potions classroom just as the bell rings. He guides him to a table, where he’s sat down next to Evan, who gives him a gentle wave.

“Welcome to Potions, Doctor,” Evan says. “I’ll show you the ropes.”

“Thanks,” the Doctor replies just as the professor enters the room.

“That’s Professor Slughorn,” Evan whispers, pointing.

The Doctor grimaces at the name but doesn’t respond.

“Your task today is to continue working on yesterday’s potions,” Professor Slughorn explains. “Now that they have stewed for twenty four hours, you should be ready for the next step. I trust you know what to do. Get to it!”

“I got it,” Evan says to the Doctor, and leaps to his feet to grab his and Barty’s potion from the shelf, following the other students doing the same.

He returns, placing the bubbling concoction on the table in front of the Doctor, who leans over to admire it.

“Oh, it’s like chemistry,” he says, grinning. “I’m good at chemistry.” He wiggles his fingers over the potion. “What do we need to do?”

Evan slides a textbook over. “Should be on page 616,” he says, rummaging in his bag. “Now where did I put those…?”

The Doctor ignores Evan, opening the book and flipping to the correct page. He slowly scans down the paper.¹⁴ He blinks several times and stares closer at the page. Yes, those are steps, he can see that… there, ‘let potion simmer for 24 hours.’ That’s right. He looks at the step beneath it. “We need a teaspoon of pickled salamander toe juice,” he reads aloud. “Do you have that?”

“Yeah, should be over in the storage,” Evan responds, abandoning his bag searching. “I’ll go get them.”

Over the class period, Evan and the Doctor continue to mix together the potion, the Doctor invested fully in the process. By the time the class ends, the two are standing proudly behind their perfect potion.¹⁵

“Impressive!” Professor Slughorn says upon seeing their creation. “Five points to Slytherin! Class, this is a perfect potion example, if you wish to come see it.”

Some of the classmates, largely the ones dressed in green, gather around the potion to examine it. Most seem unimpressed. Despite that, the Doctor is proud of his work.

“First time doing potions and you’ve impressed Slughorn!” Regulus says proudly, lightly punching the Doctor’s shoulder as soon as the group exits the classroom.

“Yes, well, it’s very similar to chemistry,” the Doctor explains.

“Oh no, he’s a nerd,” Dorcas groans dramatically, leaning against the tiled wall.

“Come on,” Regulus says, laughing. “We need to get to History of Magic.”

This time it’s the Doctor’s turn to groan. “History? I already know everything.”

“Oh, really?” Evan asks disbelievingly as the group walks through the castle.

“Yes, really,” the Doctor responds. “I’m a time traveler. I know exactly how history played out; even events that haven’t happened yet. For you, at least.”

The group pauses. “Time traveler?” Pandora asks. “I thought that was forbidden by the Ministry.”

The Doctor shrugs. “I don’t follow the laws of the magical ministry.”

Regulus looks at him in awe. “Wicked,” he breathes.

The group arrives at the History of Magic classroom, each member still grating the Doctor for information about his time exploits. He ignores them, and enters the classroom, where he is pleasantly surprised to find a ghost teaching the class. However, he finds it less pleasant that said ghost is a rather terrible teacher.

Even the Doctor is bored out of his mind in History of Magic. He doesn’t know how these students can stand it everyday. He tries to pay attention, grasping bits about ancient cuneiform, but doesn’t learn anything.

Near the end of class, the professor, Binns, turns away from his empty chalkboard and blankly regards the class. “I will now collect your essays,” he says blandly, staring at the back wall.

The students seem to know the drill, collectively reaching into their bags and holding essays aloft. The Doctor blinks, and turns to Regulus. “The essay?” He whispers, frantic.

“Shit,” Regulus responds. “Barty didn’t finish it. I know he didn’t. Here, just, erm,” Regulus fishes out his wand and points it at his own essay. With a quick incantation, the paper is duplicated and Regulus shoves it into the Doctor’s hands. “He’ll never notice.”

The Doctor grins a thanks, then follows the class example and holds his duplicated essay above his head.

Professor Binns floats around the room, passing his hand through each essay individually, gathering none. Each student sits through the process patiently, before a girl the Doctor doesn’t know gets to her feet and gathers the papers herself, placing them upon the ghost’s desk.

The Doctor gives the group a questioning look.

Regulus shrugs. “He needs the essays somehow. Besides, he never even notices he doesn’t collect them.”

The Doctor shoots Professor Binns, who is struggling to look through the essays, a worried look.

“Forget about him,” Dorcas says, grinning. “You’ve got Divination next. I’m sure that will be interesting.”

The Doctor narrows his eyes as the bell rings. “Divination? Like fortune telling?”

Evan shoulders his bag, smirking. “I guess we’ll see if you’re telling the truth about the whole time traveling thing.”

The Doctor grins. “Just you wait.”

Evan and the Doctor meet up with Pandora at the bottom of a precarious ladder leading up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. “The classroom is up here?” The Doctor asks.

“Yep,” Pandora responds, grinning.

The Doctor gestures to her. “After you.”

Pandora leads the trio up the ladder, and they climb up into a small, stuffy classroom. The Doctor looks around, and spots a couple of the students from the hospital wing: the boy that looks like Regulus and the boy with dark, wild hair and askew glasses. The strange-smelling child is missing.

The Doctor waves cheerfully at the group, where the Regulus lookalike scowls. Evan forces the Doctor’s hand down.

“That’s Regulus’s brother and his mate,” he explains, steering him into a seat. “Their lot? You don’t want to mess with them.”

“Right, yes,” the Doctor responds, sitting. “That’s because they brought me here.”

“Allegedly,” Evan corrects, looking back at the two boys nervously.

The professor extracts herself from behind a beaded curtain, gesturing dramatically. “Welcome back to Divination, my dears!” She glances around the room, pointing at various students. “Miss Vogt, good luck finding that lost notebook, it’s long gone, darling,” she says to a horror-stricken young girl. She turns to the Doctor’s table, whispering “Mr. Rosier, I’m so sorry about your—“

Just then, another students arrives through the trapdoor, her eyes wide and necklaces jingling loudly.

“Ms. Trelawney,” The professor scolds. “You’re late.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Trelawney replies, breathing hard. She ducks her head and rushes to her seat, jewelry clanking.

“Right. What was I saying Mr. Rosier? Oh yes. I’m so sorry about your—“

Trelawney suddenly gasps, her fingers gripping the table. She is staring directly at the Doctor, eyes clouded. The professor is interrupted once again, turning to glare at the student.

“Your song is ending,” Trelawney says, voice raspy and eyes clouded. She clutches the table, knuckles white. All of the other students have gone silent, entranced by her. “It is returning. He is returning. Both he, it, and they are returning, but too late. It is returning through the dark and then, Doctor, then he will knock four times,” she leans forward, eyes widening, “and your song shall end.”

The Doctor stares at her with wide eyes as she snaps back, standing upright and shaking out her shoulders. She looks bewildered. “What was I saying?”

He’s heard that prophecy before… the Ood continue to haunt him. But why was it here, in a whole new universe?

Pandora sucks in a breath and grips the Doctor’s shoulder. “I think that was a prophecy. A real, proper prophecy.”

The Doctor looks at her. “I should— I should go—“ he says, standing up.

“Wait, Doctor—“ Pandora calls.

The Doctor hastily gets to his feet and climbs down the ladder, ignoring the looks from the other students. He is trying to distance himself as much as possible from the prophecy and the strange woman that can read his future.

Any person knowing more than they should about the Doctor is a dangerous person indeed.

He rushes down flights of stairs and through hallways. His only goal is to get as far as possible with no endpoint in mind.

He only skids to a stop, catching his breath, when he almost runs directly into Professor McGonagall. She reaches out to steady his shoulders, face taut with concern. “Mr. Crouch?” She asks, worried.

“Professor?” The Doctor says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I teach here, Mr. Crouch,” she replies curtly. “Why aren’t you in class?”

“I— erm,” the Doctor says, looking around desperately for an escape.

“I understand you have Divination, presently,” the Professor says. “Is that correct?”

The Doctor nods.

McGonagall narrows her eyes. “So why aren’t you there? Did something happen?”

The Doctor opened his mouth to make up an excuse, but was interrupted by Evan and Pandora skidding into the conversation.

“Doctor!” Pandora gasps. “I mean— Barty!”

Evan places his hands on his knees and breathes heavily. “Yeah, nice save,” he mutters sarcastically.

The professor looks between the three of them. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

Evan laughs nervously. “Yep. Definitely. Brilliant, even. Totally—“

“Shut up,” Pandora snaps, whispering.

McGonagall quirks her eyebrow. “You three should be getting back to class,” she says. “I need to be on my way; urgent things to discuss with the headmaster.” Her eyes seem to bore uncomfortably into the Doctor’s single, human heart.

“Yes ma’am,” Evan nervously reassures, placing a hand on the Doctor’s back and steering him away. “You go have that urgent conversation. We’ll go back to class.”

The professor laughs quietly. “I should punish you for being out,” she warns.

“It’s my fault,” the Doctor says, turning to look at her over his shoulder. “I got, er, spooked, is all. Divination, and all that.”

McGonagall is suddenly more interested. “Oh?”

“There was a proph—“ Evan starts to say, before Pandora is quickly shushing him.

“Nothing to worry about, Professor,” Pandora placates, patting Evan’s shoulder and sending him a harsh look. “We’ll be on our way now.”

She turns on her heel and hurries the group away, allotting the Professor no time to speak. “Idiots!” Pandora hisses once they’re out of ear shot. She turns to glare at the Doctor. “And what was that, then? The prophecy? Why did you flee?”

The Doctor fidgets nervously. “I don’t— can we just wait out the class period? Go to lunch? I don’t want to go back there.”

“And why not?” Pandora hisses.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” the Doctor replies quietly.

“Pandora,” Evan whispers, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Let it go.”

Pandora takes a deep breath. “I’ve always wanted to skip a Divination class period.”

Evan grins.

Footnotes:

1. No TARDIS means no translation, and the Doctor is rather out of practice with his Latin alphabet. Sure, he can speak every language, but reading them is a whole new obstacle. ^{[ 14 ]}
2. The Doctor is what one may consider being a ‘natural’ at potions. However, he instead has plenty of experience with complicated chemistry, the types of which that would make Slughorn cry. ^{[ 15 ]}

Chapter Text

“Seriously, Donna. What do we do now?” Barty asks worriedly. He examines the screen, watching as facts and information flash across a diagram, alternating between English and a circle-type writing system he can’t read.

Donna doesn’t respond, instead groaning loudly and walking dejectedly down the stairs towards the TARDIS exit. “I don’t know,” she responds quietly, placing her hand on the door. She sighs loudly. “I don’t know.”

Barty half-heartedly moves to follow as Donna pushes the door open, sunlight streaming through. It’s almost blinding on his eyes, so used to the dark interior of the ship. This planet’s light is harsh, stabbing.

Donna seems to ignore the pain of the sheer brightness, continuing to leave the room. A soft breeze drifts through, blowing a cloud of dust into the ship and through the grated flood. In response, the TARDIS shakes in annoyance.

“We have to find a way to get me back, right?” Barty asks, voice laden with concern. “Donna?”

Donna roughly swivels on her feet, turning to glare at her companion. “I’m not the Doctor, Barty,” she says, gesturing wildly. “I’m not the expert. I’m not the beautiful, brilliant, perfect time traveler that has a plan and a solution for everything. I can’t control the TARDIS. I can’t get you home. I don’t know what to do.”

Barty is starting to get steadily more worried about his current situation. His face reddens in anger. “Well, you have to try, don’t you?” He asks, furious, darting down the stairs to join her. “I can’t just stay here! I have a life!”

“You can’t just stay here?” Donna shouts, face scrunching. “I have a family! Back home! A home, which I also can’t get to. You are not the only helpless person here. We’re both stuck.”

Barty stumbles on the steps, offended. “That’s not my fault! If anything, it’s your fault I’m here!”

Donna’s glare sharpens. “My fault? You’re the one who replaced him! Without you, we’d be fine!”

Barty clenches his fist, his blood pounding in his ears. “I didn’t choose to come here, Donna. I would much rather be anywhere else. At least back home I’m surrounded by equals.”

Donna gapes at him. “Excuse me?” She says, offended. “You have the nerve to say that to me? Am I not your equal?”

Barty stalks towards her. “You’re not a wizard,” he explains patronizingly. “You’re simply a muggle. Helpless, magicless-“

Donna slaps him.

Barty is left silenced, in awe. His jaw throbs, his eyes pointed firmly at the floor. He looks up in time to see Donna flex her fist.

“We should go talk to the weapons dealer,” Donna says.

Barty hesitates, bringing a hand up to rub at his sore face. “The what?”

Donna takes a breath. “The alien that shot the Doctor. That’s our best option for a reversal.”

Barty tries to mask his concern. “Isn’t that a bit… dangerous? We could get shot again.”

Donna glares at him. “You got another idea, Mr. I’m-Better-Than-You?”

Barty flinches. “No.”

Donna puffs out her chest victoriously. “Then let’s get a move on, magic man.”

Donna fans herself as the two walk down the path. She’s tied her jacket around her waist. Barty doesn’t really get it; the planet isn’t that hot. He’s handling the temperature perfectly fine.¹⁶

Barty trudges along behind Donna, grumbling angrily under his breath. This bloody muggle is going to get him killed, no doubt. Willingly talking to the weapons dealer? The same one that is the reason Barty isn’t home comfortable in the Slytherin dorms? Is she mad?

“It’s not much farther,” Donna narrates, looking back. “Just over that hill, there.”

All the sooner until they get shot and killed. Yippee.

The two continue, Donna’s shoes trudging up dust and Barty lagging distrustfully. Eventually, they start climbing the hill, scrambling for footholds and breathing hard. Donna reaches the top first, crouching below the crest. She looks back, gesturing for Barty to hurry.

He joins her, knees protesting as he crouches nearby. “Why aren’t we going?” He asks.

Donna shushes him frantically. “I still don’t know if this’ll work,” she whispers. “We don’t want them to see us just yet.”

Barty groans and rolls his eyes, getting to his feet. He ignores Donna’s protests as he moves over the crest of the hill.

“Barty!” Donna whispers angrily, following him.

Barty stares below at the empty landscape, save for a scraggly tree and a large, metal machine. “There’s no one here,” he says.

Donna peers nervously at the structure. “They might be inside,” she explains.

Barty glances over at her. “Isn’t that what we want?”

Donna crosses her arms. “Well, excuse me for being a little nervous. Last time I was here, I got shot at.”

Barty rolls his eyes. “If only they’ll shoot you with a ‘shut up’ gun.”

“Oi!”

Before Donna has a chance to yell at him, Barty is darting down the hill. His shoes slip on the sand, orange clouds billowing behind him. He almost tumbles, but manages to catch himself before he looses control. He squats down, laughing. Behind him, Donna is following, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “See?” Barty calls. “We’re fine.”

“Well don’t jinx it, arsehole!” Donna shouts, coming up next to him.

Barty grins. “I can’t. I don’t have my wand.”

Donna slaps his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

Barty gets to his feet. “Let’s get a move on, then, shall we?” He puts his hands in his pockets, leaving Donna to get up by herself.

“Good riddance,” she replies, scowling.

The two continue down the hill, approaching the vehicle. The harsh sun casts a glare off the metal surface, causing Barty to squint in discomfort. Donna peers closer, looking through a window in the side.

“No one’s in here,” she says, brushing the dust off with her sleeve. She peers inside again. “Yep. Empty.”

Barty frowns. “Let me look.”

“What? Don’t trust me?” Donna replies, but she moves aside anyway.

“Not particularly,” he responds, looking inside. As Donna said, the interior of the vehicle is empty, save from a few weapons Barty doesn’t want to meet the business end of. There are no live inhabitants.

Donna worriedly glances around. “Maybe they abandoned it?” She speculates.

“With the weapons inside?” Barty says. “I don’t think so. They’re probably around somewhere. Keep a look out. Constant vigilance.”

Donna breathes nervously. “Okay, well, look non-threatening.”

Barty carefully examines the surroundings, watching with sharp eyes. The breeze lifts small whirls of sand. The dry grasses rustle. Donna’s shoes scuffle along the ground as she moves. He can’t hear anything out of the ordinary. He tenses. “Something feels wrong.”

“Yeah,” Donna agrees, whispering. “It’s too quiet.”

Barty narrows his eyes against the sun, watching as a silhouette appears above the hill. The features are shifting in the humid air, but it is undeniable humanoid. “There,” he whispers, pointing with his chin. “On that hill. We have company.”

“Think it’s the alien we need to talk to?”

Barty shrugs. “let’s hope so.”

The alien, for that’s what it was, stops atop the hill and tenses noticeably. He raises his arm, leveling a weapon at the two travelers. He opens his mouth, shouting indecipherably, his words stolen by the breeze.

Donna and Barty don’t need to hear what he says to understand him. They quickly duck for cover behind the vehicle, hands raised in surrender, shouting in alarm. Metal bullets ping loudly off the machine.

“Don’t hurt us!” Donna shouts, peeking around the structure. “We just want to talk!” A bullet whizzes by her ear, and she quickly hides away again with a startled shout.

The alien speaks again, words twisting into indistinct gibberish. Barty scowls, turning to Donna. “Can you understand that thing?”

Donna frowns, brushing stray hair out of her face. “No, I can’t. Which is a bit of a problem. The TARDIS should be translating us.”

“So, what, it can’t understand us either?”

Donna groans. “Shit.”

“What the hell do we do now?” Barty asks, angered. “We’re being shot at and we can’t even reason for our lives.”

Donna runs a hand down her face, distraught. “I don’t know. I thought this would work.”

Barty flinches as a bullet pings off the machine particularly loudly. “We have to figure something out, and quick. It won’t take long for that… thing to find us.”

Just then, Donna looks over at Barty, an idea sparkling in her eyes. She grins, holding her hand out. “Sonic screwdriver, please,” she says.

Barty narrows his eyes at his companion, but reaches into the Doctor’s infinitely large pockets to retrieve the screwdriver, relieved that she’s apparently had an idea. “What do you have planned?” He asks.

Donna snatches the screwdriver and excitedly adjusts her crouching position. “Just watch,” she grins. Turning to the machine, she starts to run the instrument down a seam in the metal panels. Slowly, screws and bolts start to remove themselves from the body of the machine, clanking loudly but landing softly in the sand below. Barty watches in wonder as an entire panel of the metal vehicle is slowly removed from the body, revealing an interior full of weapons and bags of mysterious power.¹⁷

Donna grips the panel, hefting it onto the ground behind them. She gives Barty a smug look. “Not so helpless now, eh, magic man?”

Barty ignores her, instead moving to climb into the machine. The inside is cramped and cold, the metal hard and unforgiving. Various guns and knives line the walls. He examines them closely, admiring the shapes and potentials. If only wizards had access to things like these…

Donna climbs in behind him. “Gotta find the reverse gun. If it exists, that is, which we’re kind of relying on right now. Be quick about it.”

Barty rolls his eyes. “And how are we supposed to know which one it is?”

“I could shoot you with them all, see which one works,” Donna jokes.

Barty glares at her. “I’m being serious. How do we know?”

Donna shrugs. “I’ll use the screwdriver again.”

Barty watches as Donna scans the weapons, running the sonic across the walls. It makes an annoying buzzing noise. It’s starting to get on Barty’s nerves. He passes the time by sitting on the floor, absent-mindedly running his fingers along the edges of a sand bag.

Donna hums discontentedly, taking a moment to examine the screwdriver. “I found the original weapon, not a reverse one. Think I can reprogram it?”

Barty’s fists clench. “How the bloody hell would I know?”

Donna ignores his angry tone, instead wiggling her eyebrows at him. “Only one way to find out.”

Footnotes:

1. Unbeknownst to him, the Doctor’s biology is literally designed to withstand different temperatures. ^{[ 16 ]}
2. The bags are, predictably, the planet’s space drugs. Expectations don’t change much from planet to planet. ^{[ 17 ]}

Chapter Text

“Mr. Crouch,” McGonagall says, approaching the Slytherin table during lunch. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

Regulus roughly elbows the Doctor to get his attention, who looks up at the professor’s inquisitive gaze. “Oh?” He asks. “About what?”

“About your behavior during class,” she explains, threading her fingers.

The Doctor’s eyes narrow. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Quite the contrary,” McGonagall says. “Follow me, please.” The Doctor gets to his feet hesitantly, the rest of his little group following suit. “Just Mr. Crouch will do fine,” the professor interrupts, putting out a hand to stop them.

“They’re coming with us,” the Doctor corrects.

McGonagall gives him a knowing look that the Doctor doesn’t understand. Then, she inclines her head and gestures for the group to follow. “Very well,” she says. “Come along, then.”

The students leave their lunch behind as the professor leads them through the hallways and down corridors the Doctor has not seen before. Her shoes click on the floor and her robes swish against her heels. The Doctor is reminded vaguely of the teachers at the Academy on Gallifrey.

Eventually, they reach a door guarded by two stone gargoyles, their faces curved into menacing snarls. McGonagall gives them no second thought, quietly leaning forward and muttering a word the Doctor does not hear.

The gargoyles move to the side, allowing the small group to pass through. Once inside, the floor starts to rise, and they arrive at the top.

The door slides apart, grinding loudly, to reveal a vast office and an old man sitting at the desk. His beard his long and white, the spitting image of a stereotypical wizard. The Doctor has to resist a snort at the sight. Next to him stands Professor Slughorn, the man the Doctor met in potions class earlier that day.

“Take a seat, Mr. Crouch,” the headmaster says, waving his wand. A chair materializes, placed neatly before the desk. On top, a name plaque sits neatly. Headmaster Dumbledore, it reads.

The Doctor steps forward, leaving his new friends behind to stand. McGonagall follows, eyes watching like a hawk as he sits.

“We’re going to need you to be honest with us, Mr. Crouch,” Professor McGonagall says, crossing her arms and leaning back against the headmaster’s desk. Her eyes are cold and unforgiving, staring at the Doctor with thinly veiled suspicion.

The Doctor fidgets nervously in his seat, glancing around at his friends. “Well… erm…” he stutters.

“Don’t look at them,” McGonagall says. “Look at me.” She leans forward, flexing her fingers threateningly. Behind her, the headmaster watches on with mirth in his eyes, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Slughorn stands beside the Doctor’s friends, observing anxiously.

The Doctor stares directly into McGonagall’s eyes, unblinking. “Is she trustworthy?” He asks, not daring to look away.

“She can help,” Regulus jumps in to say, eyes darting between the adults carefully. “Really, there’s no use in hiding.”

“Hiding?” The professor repeats, straightening her back and looking between the two apprehensively. “Hiding what?”

Regulus gulps. “Yesterday, erm, Barty got hexed,” he explains, wringing his hands. Dumbledore gets to his feet, quietly approaching, eyebrow quirked in interest. “We didn’t know what it was,” Regulus continues. “We thought it just… didn’t work. But, er, today, it wasn’t, erm…” he trails off.

“It wasn’t Barty who woke up,” The Doctor pipes up. “It was me. Hi, sorry. I’m the Doctor.” He holds out a hand for a shake, which McGonagall takes absent-mindedly. “I’m from a parallel universe in which Barty Crouch and I are different versions of each other. We accidentally switched places. I’m currently on a bit of a mission to get back to my respective universe, ideally returning Barty as well. We were hoping maybe you could help with that.”

Dumbledore chuckles quietly and strides forward, his robes swishing around his ankles. His attire, his poise, reminds the Doctor of some of his own professors back at the Academy. He almost feels like a kid on Gallifrey again. He almost feels as if he’s about to be scolded by one of his teachers. Dumbledore gives off the air of a Time Lord. The Doctor can’t help but respect him in a way that slightly terrifies him.

The wizard extends his arm forwards in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” he says, shaking hands. “It’s not often you come across a man from another universe.”

The Doctor grins. “Likewise.”

McGonagall shifts impatiently. “Who was it that hexed you?”

The Doctor lets the headmaster’s hand go. Behind him, Regulus speaks up. “It’s— we’re not sure—“ he stutters.

McGonagall fixes her eyes on him. “We need to know, Mr. Black,” she says. “Only they know what the hex was, which we need in order to find the counter-curse.”

Regulus fingers the hem of his robe sleeves. “I just— I don’t want him to get into any trouble,” he explains quietly.

McGonagall sighs. “Mr. Black, a student is missing. Possibly hurt or in danger. We have an unauthorized person who was roaming free in the school. We are in incredibly lucky that we didn’t get a more…” she pauses to search for a word. “…suspicious individual. Whoever it is, they need to be taught the dangers of self-created magic.”

Dumbledore smiles again, eyes twinkling. “It was our resident Marauders, wasn’t it, Mr. Black?”

Regulus hangs his head. “Yes, it was, sir.”

The Doctor opens his mouth to speak. “About the whole danger thing— Barty Crouch is currently in the presence of my friend, Donna Noble. She’s great. She’ll take care of him, no problem. They’re also out with the TARDIS, I’m sure they’ll be fine. Though, now that I think about it, they are trapped on a desert planet… near a weapons deal… and a history of war… and dirt made of cocaine… and we were mid gun fight—“

“Gun fight?” McGonagall repeats, horrified.

“I think I was shot,” the Doctor murmurs, frowning.

The silence that follows is heavy.

Eventually, the professor sighs heavily and places her head in her hands. “I’ll go fetch the boys then, shall I?”

“I think that’s a good idea, Minerva,” the headmaster replies, his smile faltering. McGonagall’s heels click on the tiled as she exits, the heavy door closing with a bang. Dumbledore sits heavily at his desk, looking upon him as mutual old men. The headmaster understands his position much more than anyone previously, and it’s a breath of fresh air for the Doctor. The man is wise. He understands the Doctor, despite his current appearance. Two old men, staring at each other. The Doctor hasn’t felt this seen in years.

“The Multiverse Theory, I presume?” Dumbledore asks. “I don’t pretend to be an expert. Please, tell me more.”

The Doctor laughs quietly and leans back in his seat. “The physics I know don’t have words to describe them in English, and if the could, I wouldn’t be able to use them. I’m disconnected from my TARDIS translation circuits. I’m fluent, not perfect.”

The headmaster’s smile widens, and he absent-mindedly rearranges trinkets on his desk. “Very well,” he says. “Tell me more of your universe, then. Similarities? Differences?”

The Doctor chuckles. “Are you making conversation or assigning an essay?”

Dumbledore’s smile widens and he leans back, gesturing. “Tell me of you, then. Your life.”

The Doctor shrugs. “Oh, you know. Simple stuff. Time travel. Universal knowledge. Dimensional physics. Unlimited rice pudding.” The Doctor laughs. Dumbledore looks on in awe.

The two continue to discuss theory and dimensional displacements, though their conversation is interrupted when the office door opens with a creak, and both their heads swivel to greet the incoming Marauders. Professor McGonagall enters first, her face stone cold. Following, four students that the Doctor had met briefly in the hospital ward earlier that day. The same smell he’d been pondering over returns, and the Doctor is confused as ever.

Dumbledore waves his wand and four more chairs magically appear, finding themselves placed before the grand desk.

“Take a seat, boys,” McGonagall barks harshly, glaring at the newcomers. The do as such, appearing entirely confused as to why they’d been brought to the headmaster’s office. The Doctor makes awkward eye contact with the one in glasses as he sits.

Once the four are settled, the one with the smell starts to say: “Professors, why exactly—“

McGonagall’s glare sharpens. “I think you know perfectly well, Mr. Lupin.”

Lupin exchanges confused looks with the blond boy, the nervous fidgeting of the other two going unnoticed.

“Actually, Professor,” the boy with glasses speaks up, “Remus was no part of—“

“James,” Remus interrupts. “I don’t know or care what you did. But we’re Marauders. We take the fall together.”

James winces. “Maybe not for this one, Moony.”

“I understand you four attempted yesterday to hex Mr. Crouch with a self-made spell?” McGonagall interrupts.

The Doctor is suddenly being stared at with four new sets of eyes, two of which noticeably widen in shock.

“You did what?” Remus asks, aghast, twisting towards his friends.

“You told her‽” Regulus’s brother says, disbelieving. “It didn’t even work. Nothing happened. I didn’t think you were that petty.”

“I didn’t tell them, actually,” the Doctor responds, shifting in his seat. “It was pretty obvious that something was off. And, congratulations! Your spell did end up working. I’m the Doctor, by the way.”

The four Marauders are silent.

“And that’s why we need answers,” McGonagall says, anger lacing her voice. “This-“ she gestures wildly at the Doctor- “is unacceptable. He should not be here.”

“James. Sirius.” Remus’s voice is cold. “What did you do?”

Sirius, Regulus’s brother, hangs his head sheepishly. James scratches at the back of his neck. “We might’ve…” he starts.

Remus looks at them expectantly, unknowingly doing a fantastic impression of McGonagall.

James sighs. “We tried to make our own spell. Sirius saw it in a book, thought it would be fun. If we can make our own spells, we can do anything, right?”

McGonagall glowers. “That’s incredibly irresponsible—“

Remus looks hurt. “Why didn’t you include me?”

Sirius scrabbles for an explanation. “I just— I wanted to, erm. Impress you? I guess? I just thought—“

Remus leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I could’ve helped. It might’ve gone better, then.”

McGonagall looks between the boys. “Helped? No! This was a terrible idea, and you’re lucky no one is dead. You’ve managed to get a classmate lost in another universe, for Merlin’s sake! Don’t you understand what you’ve done? It was irresponsible. I’m ashamed of you. All of you.”

The four marauders hang their heads. The Doctor’s group looks on in silence.

McGonagall huffs. “Two hundred points from Gryffindor. Each.” She pauses, letting the information sink in. “I’m shocked, boys. I thought you were better than this.”

Dumbledore speaks up. “There’s more information we need, isn’t there, Minerva?”

McGonagall’s nostrils flare. “Yes. What we need to know is what the intention of the spell was, the incantation, and if it’s reversible.”

James gulps, his Adams apple bobbing in his throat. “We just wanted the— the victim to be temporarily transported somewhere new. Not far, just… somewhere they had a connection to. For the incantation, we used onerariis reponere. I, erm. I don’t know if it’s reversible.”

Dumbledore just smiles, looking upon the students in amusement. McGonagall turns to start pacing. “Onerariis reponere,” she repeats under her breath.

“I imagine Madam Pomphrey will be able to fix it, Minerva,” the headmaster reasons.

“Most likely,” McGonagall agrees. She turns, pointing her finger at the marauders. “You four are still in trouble. Meet me in my office this evening; we shall discuss your detentions.” She then faces the Doctor. “Come with me,” she says. “Let’s get you back home.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Doctor replies, getting to his feet. He exchanges glances with his Slytherin friends.

“Good luck,” Regulus mouths at him, eyes wide.

“You’re not coming?” The Doctor asks, halting.

“They have class,” Dumbledore explains, placing a comforting hand on the Doctor’s shoulder.

The headmaster and Professor McGonagall proceed to lead him out of the room, guiding him to the hospital wing.

The Doctor pokes his eyes open. “It’s kind of difficult to fall asleep when you’re all staring at me,” he says, annoyed.

“Good thing I have this, then,” Madam Pomphrey responds, having approached with a small vial of potion in her hands. She pushes aside Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore beside his bed, and guides the bottle towards the Doctor, who is rising into a sitting position on his elbows. “This will put you right to sleep, dear,” Pomphrey explains.

The Doctor sniffs at the concoction experimentally. He pulls a face, and darts out his tongue for a quick taste test of the potion. “What all is in this?” He asks, suspicious.

“Nothing to worry your head over, my dear,” Madam Pomphrey says, patting his shoulder and smiling.

The Doctor gives the potion another apprehensive look, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “It’s just— I’m allergic to—“

“You’re in Mr. Crouch’s body, Doctor,” Madam Pomphrey interrupts. “Anything you’re allergic to won’t matter.”

The Doctor doesn’t like that idea and hesitates, but he downs the potion nonetheless, his face contorting into a grimace. He feels the effects of the potion almost immediately. His eyelids droop and his limbs grow heavy, and before he knows it, Madam Pomphrey is pushing him back into the bed.

His mind is hazy, but he suddenly has an idea. A realization. That boy, the one who smelled… “Werewolf,” the Doctor whispers aloud. He grins; the mystery solved.

His mind goes dark.

When he wakes up, the Doctor doesn’t have to even open his eyes to know that he is home. His second heartbeat has returned, beating comfortingly in his chest. His shoulder aches. The TARDIS whirrs pleasantly in his mind, welcoming him home.

“Doctor!” A familiar voice calls.

Chapter Text

Barty worriedly looks around, eyeing the entrance. “I don’t like this,” he says. “We should leave. That thing will find us soon. I don’t want to know what it’ll do to intruders.”

Donna looks up from the weapon in her hands. “Oh, good point. We can do this back at the TARDIS.”

Barty notices then that the constant metallic pinging from the bullets has stopped. The machine is quiet. Eerily quiet. He feels uneasy.

“Something’s wrong,” Donna says nervously.

“We’re not being attacked anymore,” Barty whispers. “Listen. No bullets.”

“Think it left us alone?” Donna asks half-heartedly.

“Unlikely,” Barty responds, inching towards the entrance. Cautiously, he pokes his head out from beyond the hole in the wall. Outside, the sand continues to blow. The breeze, soft and silent. The sun drifts lazily across the horizon. The grasses rustle gently. Discarded and misshapen bullets litter the ground. It’s quiet. Gentle, relaxing.

Barty’s stress heightens. It shouldn’t be this peaceful.

“Anything?” Donna asks.

He continues to fruitlessly examine the terrain. “No. Nothing.” He turns to see Donna frown.

“That’s odd.” She pauses, listening for any sounds, before making a decision. “We should head back to the TARDIS.”

“Is it safe?” Barty asks, worried.

Donna shrugs. “Apparently. Besides, I’ve got this.” She holds aloft her gun. “Maybe you should grab one too.”

He hesitantly reaches for a small weapon nearby. “I don’t even know how to use this.”

Donna pokes her head out to the silent expanse of sand. “Probably just pull the trigger, magic man.”

He rolls his eyes but follows Donna outside. The sand crunches softly beneath his feet. The two observe the surroundings, carefully examining the landscape for any movement. There’s none. The desert is barren.

Donna creeps forward, steps carefully quiet. She grips the weapon in her hands, tense.

It is with this cautiousness that they slowly make their way back to the TARDIS, leaving the alien machine behind. They climb the same hill they’ve traveled over several times yet today, scrambling on the loose sand grains.

They crest the hill. Donna pauses, taking a moment to admire the view before them. Scraggly trees and bushes dot the landscape, the TARDIS nestled neatly in a cozy grove of branches. A soft breeze blows sand across the ground, pelting softly against their ankles. The sun approaches the horizon. If it weren’t for Donna and Barty’s constant vigilance and fear of the alien, it would be peaceful.

“Come on,” Donna says, moving down the hill. “We should hurry up.”

Barty doesn’t respond, but he follows. He’s careful to avoid sand-smoothed stones and loose drafts in the dunes, but also keeps a lookout for any danger. There’s no movement in the shadows; only the soft swaying of branches and the shifting of sand.

They reach the bottom of the hill and start along the path, eyes remaining wary. The sun has started to set, sending long shadows that creep towards them. The sky turns an angry orange. Here, in the small valley of the path, the landscape is suddenly formidable. It sends a chill down Barty’s spine.

He feels even more on edge and speeds up his walking pace. Donna quickly follows suit, eyes darting around nervously.

“Shouldn’t be far,” Donna narrates. “Just around this bend, I should think.”

The path ahead takes a turn, the shadows imposing, taunting them forward. They have no choice but to follow, pulled ahead by the promise of the TARDIS’s safety.

They round the corner, and there she stands, all in her blue glory. The shadows make her seem slightly menacing. She’s silent, motionless.

Donna approaches the ship. “Something’s wrong,” she mutters.

Barty feels it too: the crawl beneath his skin, a chill in the air, surroundings too still, too quiet.

A snarl sounds behind them, and Barty whips around to find the alien from before pointing a gun directly in his face. The creature is a disgusting monstrosity, slime and tusks protruding from its face, which is twisted into a expression of fury. Its eyes are a blinding purple, and they seem to stare directly into the very fiber of Barty’s being. He is dumbstruck, motionless, paralyzed with fear.

Bang!

Barty flinches, and the awful creature falls back into the sand. There is a sort of wetness on his face, in his clothes, on his hands. He looks down. The liquid is dark, oozing between his fingers and pooling onto the ground. It seeps into the sand, staining it a dark, menacing red.

He stares at it, silent, unmoving.

Donna curses loudly behind him, voice shaky. He hears her weapon fall to the sand behind him, cracking on a loose stone. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t look away.

“Barty…” She whispers cautiously. “Shit, I’m sorry. We— we should get inside.”

Barty says nothing. The blood drips from his chin. It runs in rivulets from his fingers. The shadows grow.

Donna’s hand snakes around to grip his arm, careful but firm. Slowly, she guides him away. She pulls him towards the TARDIS, softly pushing aside the door and leading him inside. The ship’s lights are dim, the center console pulsating softly. She hums worriedly.

The weapon is back in Donna’s hands. He doesn’t know when she grabbed it again. He doesn’t care.

She guides him to the ship’s railing, seating him down to lean against it. He follows.

Donna peers at him, worried. Her eyes are also wide with shock, but she seems to be handling it much better than Barty. She reaches up carefully to wipe some of the blood away with her sleeve. It stains her jacket. Barty is grateful.

They sit there for a moment, breathing. Several minutes pass, or maybe several hours. Barty doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

They just breathe.

Eventually, Donna gets to her feet. She runs the sonic screwdriver along the weapon, altering it. Then, she turns back to Barty, her face grim. “We should get this over with. I imagine you want to get home.”

Barty swallows. His hands feel clammy. His hearts beats unnaturally in his chest. He’s recovered, somewhat. Enough, at least. A bead of nervous sweat rolls down his temple. “Shoot me whenever.”

Donna examines him, concerned. “Are you sure?”

Barty takes a deep breath. “Well. I want to say, before you shoot me back to my universe, that I, er…”

“What?” Donna prompts.

“Well. I’m sorry called you a useless muggle,” Barty confesses.

Donna shrugs. “That’s all right. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“It’s okay. Something tells me you yell at everyone.”

Donna barks a laugh. “Well you got that right, magic man. What is a muggle anyway?” She asks, sitting down. She lays the gun across her lap.

Barty frowns. “Just someone without magic, I guess.”

Donna narrows her eyes. “So, a normal person.”

Barty thinks for a moment. “Yeah,” he decides. “Pretty much.”

“So, you’re the weird one, then?”

Barty shrugs. “I guess.”

Donna blows out a breath. “Sorry this whole situation happened. It wasn’t anyone’s fault except for that alien.”

“Sorry you got stuck with me. I can be a total arse, sometimes,” Barty confesses.

Donna laughs. “Sorry you got stuck on this planet. With me. I’ve also been known to be a bit much.”

Barty laughs too. he leans his head against the TARDIS railing, rubbing his shoulder. The blood on his hands smears. “Sorry I clammed up, there.”

Donna takes a deep breath. “It’s okay. It’s totally, completely, entirely all right. I shouldn’t— I shouldn’t have shot it. I don’t— I don’t know what to do.”

“Let’s hope your Doctor has a cure, eh?” Barty jokes, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Let’s hope,” Donna repeats softly. She examines the gun in her lap. “This is it, then?”

“Yep,” Barty responds. “You should probably hurry up. Get it over with.”

Donna runs a finger down the weapon’s side. “And if it doesn’t work?”

Barty shrugs. “Pray that it does.”

“There would no Doctor,” Donna continues. “Nor you. I would be alone. Stuck here, forever. Left by myself, with that god-forsaken alien body outside.”

“The TARDIS could keep you going for a while,” Barty reasons.

Donna shakes her head. “I wouldn’t be happy like that.”

Barty sighs. “We should get it over with. Stop overthinking it. It’ll be fine.”

Donna gnaws on her bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

“Do you want an honest answer or a reassuring one?”

Donna rolls her eyes. “You’re not helping.”

“Come on,” Barty says with a tone of finality. He gets to his feet, spreading his arms. “Shoot me.”

Donna’s eyes widen. “Right now?”

“Yep,” Barty replies. He scrunches his face up nervously, closing his eyes. “Do it before I change my mind.”

“Okay,” Donna breathes. “I’m gonna count.”

“Okay.”

Barty hears soft clicking as Donna rearranges the gun in her grip. “One—“

Barty’s face scrunches harder.

“Two—“

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.

“Three—“

A loud blast. Barty falls back. One split second of blinding hot pain and then—

Barty opens his eyes.

Chapter Text

Barty slowly blinks his eyes open. Yellow sunlight streams through tall windows above, casting a glow through the room. Around him, he can feel soft blankets and a pillow supporting his head. His heartbeat feels oddly comforting. Leaves rustle outside. Birds chirp softly. A nightingale, far in the distance. Waves lap onto a rocky shore. It’s quiet. Peaceful.

His mind is foggy, but he doesn’t mind. He just can’t seem to place what exactly had happened…

“Oh, dear,” a voice calls, and a face enters Barty’s vision. Madam Pomphrey’s expression is curved into a worried frown. “I see no change. Did it work?”

“Did what work?” Barty asks, blinking slowly.

Why is he in the hospital wing?

The nurse pokes her wand into his face. “I’m going to ask you some questions, dear, all right?”

“Okay…” he responds slowly.

“What’s your name?”

Barty thinks for a moment. “Bartemius Crouch Jr.”

Madam Pomphrey leans back with a smile.

“Is it him?” Another voice calls. “Is he back, Poppy?”

Madam Pomphrey continues to wave her wand in Barty’s face. “Looks like it, Minerva,” she responds.

Barty scrunches his face up. “What happened? Where are my friends?”

Professor McGonagall enters his field of vision, staring down with a face of carefully disguised worry. “They’re outside,” she explains. “We didn’t want them crowding.”

Barty reaches up, absent-mindedly rubbing at his shoulder. It doesn’t hurt anymore. He finds it strange. “Send them in,” he requests. “I want to see them.”

Madam Pomphrey hesitates. “Are you sure—?”

Barty rubs his fingers together. They’re dry. “Yes. Please.”

“I don’t think—”

“Poppy,” McGonagall interrupts. “Let them in.”

Madam Pomphrey glowers, but relents. She waves her wand, and the grand wooden doors open. Almost immediately, Regulus and Evan are at Barty’s bedside.

“What happened?” Regulus asks, eyes wide in wonder. “We heard so many stories from the Doctor, but what did you do?”

Barty hesitates. “The Doctor? What was he like?”

Evan glowers light-heartedly. “A right pretentious prick, that one,” he says. “But we don’t want to talk about him. What about you?”

Barty gnaws on his lower lip. “Maybe not right now,” he replies. “Did you turn in my history essay?”

-

Donna paces the TARDIS nervously, watching and waiting for the Doctor to wake up. She has already checked his vitals several times and everything is in working condition, yet she can’t help but worry that something went wrong.

He’s been shot by a gun, for God’s sake! Donna is terrified she’s accidentally killed him.

Just then, he awakens with a gasp, and she jumps, swiveling around to see him. “Doctor!” She shouts, rushing to his side. “Are you okay? Back in one piece?”

He doesn’t respond, simply groans and rubs at his sore gunshot wound. “I missed my other heart,” he croaks, peeping an eye open. He starts to sit up, before doubling over with another pained groan. “What- what happened?”

Donna hurriedly pushes him back down. “The special gun—“

“—Master Multiverse Manipulator, yeah I know,” the Doctor interrupts. “This must be the, ngk, aftermath of getting shot, eh?” He pants out.

“Twice,” Donna corrects, worriedly watching as he winces in pain.

“Twice,” he repeats. “I take it I’m back home, then?”

“That’s right, spaceman. You’re welcome, by the way.”

The Doctor grins. “I’ve missed that voice.”

“I’d never thought I’d miss your annoying arse, but here we are,” Donna retorts softly.

The Doctor winces and rubs at his side. He glances down, eyebrows furrowed. “Donna…” He starts. “Why am I covered in blood?”

Donna hesitates. She fidgets with her fingers.

The Doctor grabs her hand, staring at her. “Donna. Am I hurt?”

Donna looks up sharply. “No! No, it’s not yours.”

The Doctor raises an eyebrow. “Then whose blood is it? Donna, is it yours? Are you hurt?”

“No, Doctor, I’m fine.” She isn’t.

He narrows his eyes. “You don’t seem fine. Uninjured, but not fine.”

He always sees right through her. Donna stays silent.

The Doctor sighs. “Follow me,” he says, then slowly gets to his feet, savoring his injured shoulder. He approaches the console, carefully pressing several buttons without his usual excited fervor. The ship whirrs.

The Doctor leads Donna to the doors, pulling them open. He sits, looking outside the TARDIS door, swinging his legs over the open abyss beneath them. Before them, the planet glistens in the starlight, bright and orange.

It’s much prettier from afar, Donna thinks.

“I’ve always liked this planet,” the Doctor says, leaning his head against Donna’s shoulder. “I’ve been here before, a couple of times. It just reminds me of Gallifrey, I suppose. The orange, mostly. Gallifrey was always very orange. Less desert, though.”

Donna says nothing, just reaches over and gently clasps his hand in hers. The alien’s blood smears between them, and Donna’s heart clenches.

“Can’t ever stay for very long, though,” he continues, sniffling. He takes a breath, then turns to Donna, a fake smile plastered on his face. “Well?” He asks. “How did you manage? I’ve heard Barty is quite a handful.” He doesn’t bring up the blood again.

Donna snorts and lets the Gallifrey conversation float away. “A handful is an understatement. That man was an arse. But fun, sometimes. And I think I got though to him a bit, in the end.”

The Doctor wraps her up into a hug. “I can always count on you, Donna,” he says into her shoulder. “You make people good. Even me.”

“I killed him,” Donna confesses.

The Doctor holds her at arms length, staring with concern painting his expression. “Who? Barty?”

Donna looks down at her hands. “No, the alien. The one that shot you. It was guarding the TARDIS and I got spooked and— and the blood—”

The Doctor captures her in another embrace. “Oh, Donna, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s my fault.”

The Doctor holds her closer, arms firm. “No, Donna. You can’t let this control you.”

Donna sniffs. “Have you killed people, Doctor?”

He stiffens. “Yes.”

“Do— does it ever get easier?”

A pause. Donna fears he won’t respond, but he does. “No.”

They stay silent. Two friends, hugging each other, comforting each over, hovering gently over the desert planet’s expanse.

Eventually they break apart. “I saved you, spaceman,” Donna says. She lets the previous conversation go.

“More than once.”

Donna smiles. “Thanks for being my friend, Doctor.”

The Doctor leans back, holding her by her shoulders and looking into her eyes. “And thanks for being mine, Donna Noble.”