Chapter Text
London
A year and a half since she’d watched the TARDIS vanish with its familiar whoosh — leaving only a fading echo, a shimmer of blue light, and a hollow ache in her chest, her breath misting in the cold.
Dorea Potter had told herself she would not fall apart. She remembered standing there long after the box disappeared, hands deep in her coat pockets, chin lifted like stubbornness alone could hold her together.
Don’t be dramatic, Potter, she’d muttered to herself. You made your choice.
She’d told herself she wouldn’t cry for him. Wouldn’t swear at the empty space where he had been. Wouldn’t rewind all the what-ifs in her mind.
And she hadn’t. Not outwardly.
But logic did not stop heartbreak. Reason did not soften the shape he had left in her life. And knowing she’d done the right thing—knowing she had responsibilities, knowing he had Rose—did absolutely nothing to close the wound.
If anything, the wound learned how to breathe.
Her days became a rhythm. A structure so strict she clung to it like armour.
Up at six.
The mansion was always silent when she woke—Sirius’s house. Not Grimmauld Place, with its gloom and curses and the oppressive weight of ancestry, but the home he’d bought the moment he fled the Black family and Hogwarts behind him. He had shown it to her once with breathless, almost childish pride—racing down the hallway, arms flailing, shouting:
“Look, Pup! No screaming portraits! And a kitchen without seventy cursed knives!”
Now it belonged to her. Large. Echoing. Too empty.
From the street, it looked deceptively modest—whitewashed walls, dark green trim, ivy curling politely around tall windows. Old money, yes, but understated. The kind of house that murmured: We’ve been here longer than you’ve been alive.
But stepping inside was like stepping into another world.
The foyer alone dwarfed her entire childhood room. Warm oak floors gleamed beneath a chandelier that threw tiny rainbows across the walls. Morning light spilt through the high windows, gilding the carved bannisters that spiralled upward like something out of an aristocratic portrait.
She descended the staircase in her running clothes, breath fogging faintly in the cool air, passing portrait frames filled with sunlit dust motes that shimmered as she moved.
Photos of people she loved resting in mismatched frames. Stacks of books leaning in precarious piles. Plants that thrived or died depending on her week. A garland slightly crooked because she’d hung it in a hurry. A knitted stocking Sirius had once teased her about still dangling by the drawing-room mantel.
To the left, the drawing room glowed—bookshelves stretching floor to ceiling, a stone fireplace crackling with quiet life, carpets so plush they swallowed footsteps. A room for stories. For warmth. For people long gone.
To the right, the kitchen sprawled like something out of a glossy magazine—marble counters, a monstrous stove, copper pots gleaming in the soft morning light. The air still carried a hint of cinnamon and cloves.
The house should have felt too big. Too grand. Too lonely.
But somehow it felt lived in. Loved.
A house full of memories—hers and his.
Reaching the bottom of the staircase, she paused, letting the silence settle around her like dust. The place was hers now—her inheritance, her sanctuary.
And still… a little too large for one person’s grief.
Outside, the grounds stretched wide and untamed. Sirius had always preferred freedom over order, and the gardens reflected that—wild roses climbing over stone pathways, wisteria draping itself lazily over brick archways, tall grasses dancing in the early breeze.
She ran through them every morning.
Shoes crunching on gravel. Cold air biting her lungs. Her heart pounding a rhythm just steady enough to drown out thoughts she didn’t want.
She ran until her mind emptied.
Until she stopped hearing the echo of a time machine that wasn’t there.
Until she stopped remembering the sound of his footsteps beside hers.
Back inside, she brewed tea so strong it could have raised concerns at St Mungo’s, leaning against the cool marble counter while the house warmed around her. She stared out through the tall windows at the pale morning sky.
Some mornings, she wasn’t checking for blue.
Some mornings… she was.
As Senior Auror, she Flooed into Level Two, brushing soot from her robes as the familiar rush of noise washed over her—paperwork rustling, boots striking tile, memos fluttering overhead like metallic birds.
Younger Aurors straightened as she passed. Some nodded. Some watched her with that mixture of respect and awe she never quite knew how to receive.
Her office sat at the far end of the corridor, overlooking the Thames. Papers covered every inch of her desk—case files, tracking notices, legislation drafts. A mess, but a purposeful one.
She shrugged off her cloak, rolled up her sleeves, and plunged in.
Meetings.
Briefings.
Dark artefact seizures.
Training sessions.
Policy arguments that threatened to last until the end of time.
Work swallowed hours whole. Which was exactly what she needed.
Because the alternative—the quiet—was worse.
Inevitably, Draco Malfoy appeared in her doorway around midday.
He never knocked. He simply leaned there, immaculate and faintly appalled, as though the room itself had personally offended him.
“Potter,” he sighed, dropping a stack of documents onto her already drowning desk, “your filing system is a crime scene.”
Dorea didn’t look up. Her quill scratched steadily across parchment. “Good afternoon, Malfoy.”
“It’s noon.”
“That counts.”
“Barely.”
He pulled a chair closer and sat with the deliberate care of someone refusing to let the day gain the upper hand. His hair was perfectly arranged, his cuffs crisp—two things he took quiet pride in and never failed to contrast against her chaos.
“You’re drinking that tea again?” he asked, eyeing the dark liquid beside her elbow. “It looks like it’s plotting something.”
“Yes,” she said mildly. “It’s plotting to keep me alive.”
“Well, it’s failing. You look like death warmed over.”
She snorted, finally glancing up. “You’re charming as ever.”
“I try.”
There was a pause. Not an awkward one—just a thin, careful silence. Draco’s gaze flicked over her face, taking in the shadows beneath her eyes, the tension she hadn’t quite smoothed away.
“Rough night?” he asked.
Something in her chest tightened. She still didn’t stop writing—but her hand slowed. Just a fraction.
Draco noticed. He always did. He didn’t press. Didn’t pry. He only added, quieter, “You don’t have to pretend with me, Potter.”
She pretended anyway, offering him a small, neat smile that said nothing at all.
Evenings returned her to the mansion.
The front doors opened onto long corridors and high ceilings, the silence pressing in as she stepped inside. She kicked off her boots, let her cloak fall over the bannister, and wandered through rooms that still remembered Sirius—rooms that had once echoed with his laughter.
The library smelled like him. Old leather. Ink. Joy, he’d pretended he didn’t have.
Sometimes she stood in the doorway and whispered, “I’m doing my best, Sirius.”
Sometimes it felt like he heard her.
Sundays belonged to Teddy.
He arrived in a rush of noise and colour, crashing into her legs with all the force of unfiltered affection. “Auntie Ri!” he shouted—his baby attempt at “Dorea,” fossilised into something permanent and precious.
They baked biscuits that leaned sideways, chased charmed toy dragons through the halls, and turned the grand sitting room into a fortress of cushions and blankets. Teddy changed his hair colour every fifteen minutes, usually to make her laugh.
When he finally curled against her on the sofa, breath warm and even, she brushed his hair back and whispered, “You’re my heart. You know that?”
He always smiled, even asleep.
Holidays meant the Weasleys—chaos wrapped in warmth.
Molly fed her relentlessly.
George teased her without mercy.
Ron stole biscuits when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Hermione worried endlessly.
Arthur asked her to explain microwaves again.
It grounded her. But it didn’t fill her.
Because nothing—work, tea, running until her lungs burned, Teddy’s laughter, Weasley hugs, or Malfoy’s dry, steadfast presence—could fill the quiet, aching space the Doctor had left behind.
Some nights she wandered Sirius’s old balcony, jumper pulled tight around her, watching the wind comb through the garden below. The city stretched beyond the walls—dim stars overhead, London lights glowing faintly.
And sometimes, when the night deepened into that impossible shade—the exact, cruel, familiar blue—
Her breath hitched.
She whispered into the cold air, “You’re not coming back.”
The world held its breath.
The wind rustled.
But the sky stayed empty.
And the ache remained—quiet, sharp, unyielding—as real as the stars above her.
Dorea arrived earlier than usual, though she couldn’t have said why.
Perhaps the night had chased her out of bed before dawn. Perhaps the mansion’s silence had pressed too hard against her ribs. Either way, she walked briskly through the Ministry corridors, boots clicking against polished stone, her cloak settling around her shoulders like armour she hadn’t realised she’d reached for.
Level Two was half-asleep. Lights dimmed low. Desks abandoned mid-chaos. Memos drifted lazily through the air like birds that hadn’t decided where to land. She unlocked her office, crossed the threshold, and set her files down with more force than necessary, already skimming the top report when familiar footsteps approached.
“Potter,” Draco’s voice called, clipped and faintly aggrieved, “you’re early again.”
She didn’t look up. “Or you’re late.”
He stopped in her doorway, arms folding. “It’s half seven. Civilised people are still asleep.”
She turned a page. “Civilised people aren’t Senior Aurors.”
A huff. “Good thing I never claimed to be civilised.” He stepped inside, peering over her shoulder. “What is it this time? Another idiot hexed his neighbour’s kneazle?”
“If only,” she murmured.
Draco straightened, studying her more closely. His frown came slowly, thoughtfully. “You’re tense. And I know the difference between ‘I need tea before I commit murder’ tense and ‘I know something you don’t’ tense.”
“I always know something you don’t.”
“Yes, but usually I annoy you into telling me.”
She finally looked up. Just long enough for a corner of her mouth to twitch. Draco brightened, absurdly pleased.
“Better,” he said. “You looked like you hadn’t slept.”
“I haven’t.”
The word landed heavier than she’d meant it to.
He hesitated. Something cautious flickered across his face. “Should I ask why?”
“No.”
He accepted it without comment, surprising restraint for Draco Malfoy. After a beat, he nodded toward the corridor. “Kingsley wants us.”
They walked together, their footsteps echoing too loudly in the early-morning hush. The Ministry felt wrong at this hour—too still, as if the walls themselves were listening.
Kingsley waited in the briefing room, shoulders squared, expression carved from granite. Silver threaded his beard in the low light. He gestured them forward without ceremony.
“Thank you for coming promptly,” he said, and Draco shot Dorea a pointed look that earned no response.
A thin case file slid across the table. “Yesterday at sixteen-oh-eight, two junior Aurors—Eliza Byrne and Thomas Kell—disappeared during a routine patrol.”
Dorea felt Draco go very still beside her.
“Disappeared how?” she asked, voice even. She didn’t open the file yet.
Kingsley’s mouth tightened. “No spell residue. No signs of a struggle. No bodies. Only the impressions of where they’d been standing.”
Draco whistled softly. “That’s unsettling.”
Kingsley hesitated, then added, “Witnesses reported movement. Statues. Statues that weren’t there moments later.”
The room tilted.
Cold flooded Dorea’s veins so fast it stole her breath.
No.
Her jaw locked. She kept her face neutral through sheer will, though her pulse roared in her ears.
Draco scoffed. “Moving statues? Really? What’s next—haunted soup spoons?”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.
Kingsley’s gaze flicked to her, sharpened. “I want you both on-site immediately. Something is wrong. More wrong than standard magical interference.”
Draco glanced sideways. “You’re quiet, Potter.”
She forced herself to open the file, to focus on ink instead of memory. “Where?”
“Southwark,” Kingsley said. “Alley behind King Street.”
The name struck like a blow.
Her breath hitched.
Narrow. Dark. Dead ends. Close enough to feel alive.
She swallowed, but the dread stayed—an icy weight settling behind her ribs.
Draco stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Potter… what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, too quickly.
He didn’t believe her for a second.
Kingsley closed the file. “Portkey leaves in ten minutes.”
They turned to go. Draco matched her stride, watching her reflection in the glass as they walked.
“You know something,” he said quietly. Not accusing. Just observant.
“I hope I’m wrong.”
“If you’re not?”
She stopped. Turned to face him.
For the first time in years, Draco Malfoy saw fear in her eyes—real, unguarded, bone-deep.
“Then,” she whispered, “we’re not dealing with magic.”
His expression sobered. “What are we dealing with?”
Her voice dropped lower still. “Statues that move. When you’re not looking.”
Understanding crept into his face, slow and horrified.
Dorea exhaled shakily. “The Angels are here.”
Southwark — Late Afternoon
Snow drifted lazily between the narrow buildings of Southwark as Dorea and Draco stepped into the alley. The cold hit instantly—sharp, biting, unforgiving. Dorea felt it crawl beneath her Auror robes and settle against her spine like a warning.
Something was wrong.
She felt it the moment her boots crossed the invisible threshold.
A static prickle hummed against her skin—like the air itself was holding its breath.
Draco gave the alley a long, unimpressed once-over.
“Well,” he announced dryly, “isn’t this delightful. Truly picturesque. Shall we do a photoshoot?”
Dorea didn’t bother responding. Her wand was already in her hand, fingers flexed tightly around the handle.
The alley was miserable—two old brick walls leaning inward as if conspiring to crush everything between them. Rubbish bins lined one side, a crooked fire escape on the other. Snow collected in thin strips along the uneven ground. The air smelled of damp stone and something colder… metallic… almost hungry.
Draco crouched near the ground, his breath visible in the frigid air. “No blood,” he murmured. “No scorch marks. No magical residue. Not even a misplaced eyebrow hair.”
“No signs of a struggle,” Dorea added quietly.
Which meant the two missing Aurors hadn’t had time to react.
Which meant it wasn’t magic.
Which meant—
“Potter,” Draco interrupted sharply, rising to his feet. “You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m fine,” she said at once.
“Liar.”
She shot him a withering look, jaw tight.
He held up his hands. “I’m only pointing out that you look like you’ve just spotted the Grim.”
“Worse,” she muttered.
Draco blinked. “Brilliant. Comforting.”
She moved forward, wand raised, each step heavier than the last. The alley narrowed the further they went, shadows stretching strangely along the snow-dim light. The air felt colder here, the kind of cold that seeped into marrow.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.
“Oh, is it?” Draco said. “You mean apart from the missing Aurors and the fact that this place smells like despair?”
“Malfoy, shut up.”
“That’s usually my line.”
But to his credit, he stopped talking.
They walked deeper into the alley—and then Dorea froze.
Her breath caught painfully.
At the far end of the alley stood three statues.
Stone. Tall. Angelic. Hands covering their faces.
Her heart dropped straight through her boots.
No.
Not here. Not again.
She felt her wand tremble.
Draco frowned, following her gaze. “What is—oh.” He squinted. “Statues? I don’t like them. Very… dramatic. And rude, turning their backs like that.”
“They’re not turning their backs,” she murmured.
He glanced at her. “Potter, they’re bloody statues. Are you—”
“Don’t move.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
Draco blinked. “Sorry—what?”
“Don’t move, don’t blink—don’t look away from them.”
He stared at her as though she’d lost her mind. “You’re having me on.”
Her chest tightened. “Do I sound like I’m joking?”
“…no.”
“They’re Weeping Angels.”
A beat of pure silence.
Draco went very still. “Come again?”
“Predators,” she said, voice low. “They move when you blink. Fast. Too fast. And if they touch you—” Her throat closed. Memories pressed against her ribs like knives. “—you’re gone,” she finished quietly.
Draco’s wand lifted at once. His posture changed—sharp, disciplined, alert, none of the usual dramatic flair. “Potter,” he said slowly, tightly, “how exactly do you know all this?”
She didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
The name sitting on her tongue would break her open if she said it.
Draco stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Dorea.”
She forced a breath. “I’ll explain later. Right now—back away slowly. Keep your eyes on them.”
They inched backwards. One step. Another. Breathing shallow.
The Angels stood perfectly still. Hands covering faces. Silent. Starving.
Draco whispered, “Merlin. They look like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
He swallowed. “Right.”
Dorea’s heartbeat pounded so hard it vibrated in her teeth. Her breath fogged in thin, trembling clouds. Every sense sharpened to a blade’s edge.
She should have seen it sooner.
The missing Aurors.
The lack of magical traces.
The metallic cold.
The wrong shape of the shadows.
Of course, it was them.
Of course.
“You alright?” Draco muttered without looking away from the statues.
“No.”
“Brilliant. Hate being the only terrified one.”
Despite the terror clawing at her throat, a weak, humourless sound escaped her. “Shut up, Malfoy.”
“Yes, Potter.”
They continued backing away. The alley seemed to stretch farther the more they moved. The Angels loomed impossibly still, impossibly patient.
Then—
A sudden flurry of wings overhead.
A bloody pigeon.
Draco’s eyes flicked upward for the barest fraction of a second.
“Malfoy—NO!”
She lunged, grabbing his wrist and yanking him back.
And in that instant—
Stone fingers brushed Draco’s shoulder.
Too fast.
Too silent.
Too late.
Dorea’s heart lurched into her throat.
She blinked.
Just once.
Just once.
And the world vanished around her.
Dorea hit the ground hard.
Cold grass tore at her palms. Damp earth soaked straight through her knees. The air slammed into her lungs—sharp, wintry, wrong—and for a moment she could do nothing but stay there, half-collapsed, breath stuttering, ears ringing as the aftershock of displacement rattled through her bones.
Silence pressed down.
Not the hollow hush of an alley between buildings. This was… open. Vast. Clean in a way that made her skin prickle.
She lifted her head.
A groan sounded beside her. “Potter—what the bloody hell just—”
Draco cut himself off.
He sat up slowly, blinking once. Then again. Colour drained from his face as he took in the view.
“Where,” he said faintly, “are the buildings?”
Dorea forced herself upright, ignoring the tremor in her legs. A breeze brushed her face—cool, fresh, carrying the scent of water and new earth. Her heart stumbled as she turned in a slow circle.
Rolling fields stretched endlessly in every direction. A small pond caught the pale sunlight, its surface rippling gently. Bare trees dotted the land, buds just beginning to form on their branches. No roads. No towers. No smoke, no engines, no magic humming in the air.
This wasn’t London.
It wasn’t even modern England.
Draco staggered to his feet, brushing dirt from his cloak with shaking hands. “Brilliant,” he breathed. “Absolutely brilliant. Middle of nowhere. Potter—what did you do?”
She snapped her gaze to him. “I saved your life, you ungrateful sod.”
“Saved me?” He spluttered. “You blinked!”
“You got yourself touched!” she retorted, jabbing a finger at his shoulder.
Draco’s mouth fell open. “You grabbed my arm—how is that my fault?!”
“You blinked first!”
“I blinked because you screamed my name in my ear like a banshee!”
She threw her hands up. “I screamed because a monster was about to eat your stupid face!”
“Well, excuse me for reacting like a human being!”
“You’re an Auror! You’re meant to have self-control!”
“I had perfect control until you panicked!”
They glared at each other, chests heaving, robes rumpled, hair full of grass and indignation. The wind stirred the dry leaves at their feet. Somewhere nearby, a bird chirped—oblivious.
Draco rubbed his face with both hands. “This cannot be happening.”
Dorea swallowed hard. Her heartbeat had slowed, but only enough for fear to settle properly. The pond’s surface rippled gently in the breeze. A swan drifted lazily near the bank, completely unconcerned by their sudden appearance. The air smelled fresh—too fresh. Too clean.
She scanned the horizon again. No sign of civilisation. No sign of magic lingering in the air. No hum of a city. No shape of a road. Nothing modern. Nothing helpful.
Just wide, open land. Endless. Untouched.
Draco finally lowered his hands and looked at her properly. The anger was still there, yes—but beneath it lay something else: unease.
“Potter,” he said slowly, voice subdued now, “where… where do you think we are?”
She didn't answer immediately. A knot formed in her chest. The Angels didn’t kill their victims. They displaced them—violently, mercilessly—sometimes decades, sometimes centuries.
She inhaled, shaky. “Not where, Malfoy.”
Draco’s expression flickered. “Oh, don’t say it like that.”
Dorea looked over the fields again—the soft sunlight, the absence of city noise, the quiet untouched nature—and dread pooled in her stomach.
“It’s not just where,” she whispered. Her voice felt too thin. Too fragile. “It’s when.”
Draco stared at her, and for once, didn’t have a single sarcastic quip.
The truth settled between them as a stone dropped into deep water.
They were utterly, completely lost.
Draco dragged a shaking hand through his hair—an unmistakable sign, one Dorea unfortunately knew too well. He only ever did it when he was very, very close to a complete meltdown.
“This isn’t London,” he muttered, staring wildly at the rolling fields around them. His voice cracked in a way he absolutely hated. “This isn’t even remotely close to London.”
Dorea stood a few feet away, breathing hard, scanning the horizon with tense, sharp movements. She looked pale, wind-tossed, shaken—yet aggravatingly composed.
“No,” she said quietly. “It isn’t.”
The words sank through Draco like stones.
A cold gust swept across the open land, ruffling his cloak. The pond shimmered, its calm surface a sharp contrast to the panic clawing up his throat. Birds chirped somewhere behind them—far too peaceful for the disaster they were currently living through.
Dorea exhaled, slow and shaky. “The Angels… they don’t kill you. They send you back in time.”
Draco spun toward her. “How far?” he snapped. “A day? A decade? A century? Potter, this is not the time to be mysterious!”
Her eyes flashed. “Do you think I know? I’ve never been thrown by one before!”
“Well, you looked like you knew something!” he shot back.
“I knew enough to keep you alive!”
“Oh, well done, Potter, except now we’re… wherever the hell this is!” He gestured wildly at the landscape around them. “You do realise how absolutely insane this situation is?!”
“I’m not the one shouting!”
“You are absolutely the one shouting!” he insisted—loudly, proving her point.
Dorea’s jaw clenched. Her eyes—always expressive even when her face stayed calm—were practically vibrating with barely contained panic.
He pointed at her. “See? You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” she snapped.
“That thing where your face goes still, but your eyes scream ‘we’re doomed.’”
“My eyes do not scream.”
“They’re screaming,” Draco insisted, stepping closer. “They’re shouting. They’re—”
“Malfoy,” she said with the hollow patience of someone moments from hexing him, “please stop describing my eyes.”
He huffed, turning away before she saw the tremor in his hands again. Snow dusted the edges of the field, melting into the grass. His breath misted in the bright, unfamiliar morning light.
He’d been in terrifying situations before—war, Dark magic, Ministry crises—but nothing compared to this feeling of being ripped out of his own time. Of standing in a world too quiet, too empty, too untouched.
Dorea broke the silence first. “We need to find someone.”
Draco turned sharply. “Someone?”
“Yes. To ask what year it is.”
He stared at her, scandalised. “You cannot be serious.”
She raised a brow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“You want us to walk up to complete strangers and ask what year it is?” Draco demanded. “Potter, that’s the sort of thing madmen in pubs do before getting thrown out.”
“Got a better plan?” she asked, crossing her arms, chin lifting in challenge.
He opened his mouth.
Paused.
Closed it again.
The wind whipped around them, rustling the branches overhead.
“No,” he muttered at last. “But I reserve the right to complain the entire time.”
Dorea’s lips twitched. “Shocking.”
He shot her a glare—less angry now, more… exasperatedly resigned. She met it with the same stubborn set of her shoulders she wore when facing down a raging curse or an incompetent Ministry official.
The two of them, standing alone in a time neither recognised, surrounded by fields that belonged to no map Draco had ever studied, arguing like they always did.
And despite the fear still gnawing at him, Draco felt something else settle inside his chest—
A reluctant sort of steadiness.
Because if anyone could bicker her way through time itself, it was Dorea Lily Potter.
They walked.
Across open fields brushed with winter frost, their boots sank slightly into the soft ground. Their breaths came out in pale clouds, drifting into the quiet, unfamiliar air. Narrow dirt paths wound between hedgerows, curving gently as though guiding them toward somewhere—or nowhere at all. A small wooden bridge crossed a trickling stream, the water so clear it glittered like spilt glass. Beyond it, a cluster of trees rose tall and proud, their branches budding with fresh life, too healthy and untouched to belong to any part of modern London.
If the situation hadn’t been terrifying, it would have been beautiful.
Draco ruined the peace immediately.
“My shoes are ruined,” he announced, lifting one foot dramatically to inspect the mud clinging to his heel.
Dorea didn’t slow her stride. “You’re alive, Malfoy. Count your blessings.”
“That’s debatable,” he muttered darkly. “I may be dead. Or in hell. Hard to tell in this lighting.”
“It’s perfectly nice lighting.”
“It’s unsettling.”
She gave him a side-eye. “Your legs holding up?”
“No,” Draco replied with the full misery of a man on his way to the gallows. “My legs hurt.”
“You’re an Auror. You chase dark wizards for a living.”
“I am not an Olympian, Potter.”
She snorted. “You ran faster than this last month when that kneazle came after you.”
He stiffened. “That was one time.”
“Twice.”
“Once, Potter.”
She arched a brow. “You sprinted behind me and used me as a shield.”
“That kneazle was feral,” Draco snapped. “And it had murder in its eyes.”
“It weighed four pounds.”
He glared at her. “Keep talking. See what happens when we get home.”
Dorea rolled her eyes so hard she felt it in her neck. “If we ever get home.”
That shut him up.
The words fell into the space between them, heavy as stone.
The wind rustled through tall grasses. A bird landed on the branch of a nearby tree, chirping unconcerned. The pond they’d left behind shimmered faintly under the low sun. But none of it felt comforting—not when the world carried a strange unfamiliarity, as though painted too clean, too new, too empty.
Draco’s expression shifted—less irritated, more uncertain. “Potter…”
She didn’t look at him; her eyes were fixed ahead on the winding path. “I know.”
He exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping just slightly beneath his cloak. The bravado, the snark, the dramatics—all of it dimmed as the truth settled over them fully.
They didn’t know where they were.
They didn’t know when they were.
And every step forward felt like stepping deeper into someone else’s past.
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.
It was thin, brittle—one wrong word away from cracking.
Still, they kept walking.
By the time they reached the clearing, nearly five hours had ground past them. Dorea’s legs burned with every step, her robes heavy with damp cold, the winter wind tugging loose strands of hair from her plait until it was little more than a snare at her neck. Draco trudged beside her, boots caked in mud, nose red from the cold, pride the only thing keeping him upright.
Then—mercifully—life.
A stone cottage lay tucked into the gentle dip of the valley, as though the land itself had folded protectively around it. Its grey walls were weathered and uneven, lichen freckling the stone, ivy clinging stubbornly to the corners despite the season. The slate roof sagged with age, and thin curls of smoke drifted from a crooked chimney, steady and inviting. Leaded windows caught the pale afternoon light, their glass warped just enough to shimmer.
A narrow path of worn flagstones led to a small wooden gate that complained softly in the wind. Beyond it, a fenced yard bustled with chickens strutting about like opinionated old aunties, feathers fluffed against the cold. Two figures tended them: a broad-shouldered man scattering feed with practised ease, and beside him a round-faced woman in a patched apron, humming under her breath.
The scent of woodsmoke and damp earth reached them, warm and grounding. Dorea slowed despite herself, fingers tightening instinctively around her wand. Peaceful places, she knew too well, were not always safe.
Draco sagged a fraction at her side.
“Oh, thank Merlin,” he muttered. “Civilisation. Or… something like it.”
She shot him a sharp look. “Let me talk.”
He bristled. “Why you?”
“Because you look about two seconds from fainting.”
“I do not faint.”
She lifted one unimpressed brow.
Draco exhaled, shoulders dropping. “…Fine. But if they hit us with a shovel, I’m hexing you first.”
They approached the gate carefully. The woman looked up first, her expression shifting instantly to concern.
“Oh! Good heavens,” she exclaimed, hurrying toward them, apron flapping around her legs. “Are you two alright? You look frozen through!”
Dorea summoned a weary, polite smile. “We had an accident. Lost our way. Lost our belongings. It’s been a long day.”
The man straightened, frowning. “An accident? Out here? How’d that happen, then?”
Before Dorea could finish shaping a lie, Draco blurted, “We fell.”
She elbowed him without looking. “On a hill,” she added smoothly. “Quite a steep one. We’re still a bit shaken.”
Draco sniffed indignantly. “She pushed me.”
Dorea’s head snapped toward him. “I did not push you!”
“You stepped on my foot!”
“You walked into my path!”
“I was walking in a straight line!”
“You always say that!”
The couple stared at them—first with alarm, then with amusement as the tone of the argument shifted from panic to familiar irritation.
The woman leaned toward her husband and whispered, “Siblings?”
Draco made a strangled sound of horror.
Dorea answered instantly, far too smoothly. “Yes. Absolutely. Sadly.”
The man chuckled. “Aye, that explains the bickering.”
“I take offence to that,” Draco muttered.
Dorea nudged him again. “Shut up and go with it.”
The man wiped his hands on his trousers and extended one. “Name’s Thomas Hargreaves. This here’s my wife, Margaret.”
Dorea nodded. “I’m Dorea. And this is—”
“Drake,” Draco interrupted smoothly, recovering his composure just enough to fake a smile. “Her unfortunately related brother.”
Dorea’s eye twitched with murderous patience. “I should’ve left you in the field,” she muttered under her breath.
Margaret laughed warmly. “Oh, you two are a delight. Come inside—quick now, before you freeze solid.”
The warmth hit them as soon as they crossed the threshold. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a golden glow over the cottage walls. A kettle steamed gently on the table beside chipped mugs. The smell of fresh bread and bubbling stew wrapped around them like a blanket, easing the tightness in their chests.
Dorea exhaled shakily. Draco visibly relaxed, though he tried not to show it.
Thomas poured water and set the cups before them. “So then—where’re you headed?”
Dorea hesitated, exchanging a meaningful glance with Draco.
“We’re… trying to get our bearings,” she said delicately. “It’s been a confusing day.”
Margaret nodded sympathetically. “Happens to the best of us. You’re in the English town of Farringham, love. Norfolk.”
Draco froze mid-sip, water sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Norfolk?”
Dorea felt her stomach tighten. “And… forgive the odd question—but what year is it?”
Thomas blinked, then replied easily, “Why, 1913. March.”
Her stomach dropped so sharply that for a moment Dorea thought she might be sick. The air in the small cottage felt too warm, too heavy, too close. She could hear the fire crackling behind her, smell the stew simmering on the stove—but everything seemed distant, muffled by the single, horrifying truth echoing in her skull.
1913.
Across from her, Draco made an involuntary sound—something between a gasp and the wail of a kneazle being stepped on.
“Potter—” he choked out, voice cracking upward in panic, “We are a hundred years in the bloody—”
“Drake!” she hissed, jabbing his leg under the table. “Shut up.”
He swallowed his panic with visible effort, shoulders jerking as he forced himself back into his chair. His hands curled tightly around his cup as though bracing for impact.
Margaret, blissfully unaware, hummed as she rummaged through a wooden chest. “You poor dears must be chilled right through.”
Thomas nodded, stroking his moustache. “Aye, and lost too, by the sound of it.”
Draco leaned closer, whispering fiercely, “Potter, this is catastrophic. Catastrophic. We are—”
She nudged his knee with hers in warning. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” he whispered, wild-eyed. “Against my will.”
Before their hosts could notice their shared meltdown, Margaret turned with a pile of neatly folded garments. “Here now—proper clothes. You’ll blend in better and stay warm.”
Draco stared at the trousers as if they’d personally offended him. Dorea accepted her plain dress with polite gratitude.
Thomas studied them fondly. “You look like my children, the way you fuss and argue.”
“Yes,” Dorea said instantly, forcing a smile.
Draco twitched. “Unfortunately.”
Dorea stepped on his foot.
Hard.
Thomas didn’t notice—already arranging mugs on the table. “And what surname shall we put down? In case we need to tell the vicar who’s staying with us.”
Dorea and Draco froze.
Their eyes met.
A silent, desperate conversation flashed between them.
Dorea lifted her chin.
“Evans,” she said smoothly. “Dorea and Drake Evans.”
Draco recoiled. Under the table, he hissed, barely audible, “Of all names—you chose Evans?”
“It’s normal,” she whispered back.
“It’s traumatic.”
“It suits you.”
“I hate this timeline.”
Margaret beamed. “Evans! Lovely. Right then—off to change, you two. Warm yourselves up.”
The wooden floor creaked under their boots as they headed down the hallway. Frost-glazed sunlight spilt through the window; chickens clucked softly in the yard beyond. Everything looked peaceful—deceptively so.
Halfway to the small side room, Draco stopped abruptly. The panic finally broke through his composure, trembling along his voice.
“Potter,” he whispered, “what if we can’t get back?”
The question hit her like a blow. She stopped beside him. For a moment, she didn’t speak. The fear in her own chest answered easily enough—but she couldn’t give that fear to him too.
“One disaster at a time,” she murmured. “We’ll find a way.”
He shook his head faintly. “You don’t sound sure.”
“I’m not.” Her voice was quiet but steady. “But panicking won’t get us home.”
He scrubbed a hand through his hair—messy, frantic. “A hundred years… we could die here.”
“We won’t,” she said firmly, though her guts twisted. “We’re Aurors. We adapt.”
“We argue,” Draco corrected.
“We do both brilliantly.”
A choked huff escaped him—half-laugh, half-sob. “I’m never forgiving you for choosing Evans.”
She smiled faintly. “Good. Gives you purpose.”
He groaned loudly enough that a chicken outside squawked in complaint.
Margaret’s voice drifted from the other room. “Let me know if the clothes don’t fit!”
Inside the changing area, separated by a curtain, they began sorting through the garments. Dorea slipped the dress over her head; Draco held up the trousers as though they were cursed.
“These trousers,” he whispered harshly, “are a hate crime.”
“They look fine,” Dorea answered, adjusting her shawl.
“They look hideous.”
“You’ll live.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Too late.”
As he fumbled with suspenders, Draco muttered nonstop. “Are we really pretending to be siblings?”
“Yes.”
“Do we have to?”
“Do you want them thinking we’re… together?”
A horrified silence hit him like a Bludger.
“…pass me the trousers,” he whispered weakly.
Dorea’s shoulders shook with barely contained laughter.
When they finished changing, she pushed the curtain aside and gave Draco a once-over. His scowl deepened at her grin.
“Come on,” she said softly, “little brother. Let’s blend in.”
He glared. “I despise you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes,” he insisted, “I absolutely do.”
She walked past him. “You can despise me after we survive 1913.”
He followed—grumbling, muttering, reluctant but steady beside her.
The truth settled over the next few weeks not like a storm, but like slow-falling snow—quiet, inevitable, suffocating.
They were stuck.
Not temporarily.
Not “until the universe sorted itself out.”
Not “until magic returned.”
Just… stuck.
The farmhouse became their unasked-for refuge. The crackling hearth, the smell of fresh bread, the frost-laced mornings—all of it soothed and strangled in equal measure.
With their wands concealed and their magic off-limits—unregistered, illegal, liable to be confiscated by the Ministry of this era—they adapted. Badly, at times.
Thomas assumed at once that Drake Evans was built for farm work.
Draco—who had never lifted anything heavier than a quill or an enchanted wardrobe—nearly fainted the first time Thomas handed him a shovel. Dorea had laughed so hard she nearly fell into a chicken coop.
Margaret taught Dorea to knead dough, to patch aprons, and to gather eggs without using a grip charm. Dorea adapted more gracefully—even if she kept glancing at her silent wand, wishing she could charm the laundry dry.
They adjusted to another century’s rhythms.
But both of them knew they couldn’t remain hidden and unemployed forever. Money ran out. As did the patience of fate.
It happened over supper—potato stew, warm bread, and a cosy lamplight glow that made the room feel gentler than their situation deserved.
Margaret placed a fresh loaf in the centre of the table. The look on her face was decisive—the set of someone who had been thinking about this for days.
“You’ll be needing proper work, ducks,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Can’t drift forever. The school always needs hands.”
Draco froze mid-bite. The spoon hovered comically between mouth and bowl.
“The… Muggle school?” he choked, voice jumping half an octave.
Thomas arched a brow. “What now?”
Dorea jumped in quickly. “He just means—yes—the local school. We’ve heard it’s lovely.”
Draco shot her a betrayed look that very clearly said: How dare you speak for me.
Margaret continued obliviously, her tone bright. “The headmaster’s a kind soul. They always need help with the little ones. And the grounds, too.”
Draco made a noise Dorea had only ever heard from near-death curses.
The moment the door shut behind the Hargreaves, Draco rounded on her, hands flying up dramatically.
“Dorea, we are Aurors. Trained professionals. Highly skilled—”
“—and completely without magic,” she reminded sharply. “Which means if you want to eat again, we take what we can get.”
“I refuse to educate small children,” Draco muttered. “They bite.”
“Chickens bite too,” Dorea replied calmly. “But you survived that.”
“That was one time.”
“Three.”
His eye twitched. “You kept count?”
“Of course I did.”
Before Draco could continue his meltdown, Margaret reappeared in the doorway, smiling as though the two were the sweetest, most harmless siblings ever born.
“It’s honest work,” she said warmly. “And Drake, dear—you’re a strong lad. You can help with the grounds.”
Draco inhaled sharply.
“Strong—? Me?”
Dorea bit her tongue to keep from laughing.
“And you, Dorea,” Margaret continued, “you’ve a steady presence. You’d be wonderful with the little ones.”
Dorea smiled politely. Draco looked like he’d swallowed a live frog.
Thomas nodded. “Evans siblings working at the school—now that’ll put folks at ease. You’ll fit right in.”
Draco leaned closer, whispering so low only she could hear him. “We are going to die. Truly. If the time travel doesn’t kill us, the muggles will.”
Dorea elbowed him discreetly. “At least you’ll die employed.”
He glared. “You think you’re amusing.”
“I know I am.”
Margaret beamed. “I’ll speak to the headmaster tomorrow morning. Don’t you fret. You two are hardworking young people.”
Draco mouthed hardworking? with such utter offence that Dorea nearly burst out laughing.
Outside the window, dusk deepened to a lavender purple. Frost glinted on the grass. Thomas’s old dog snored by the fire, and smoke drifted lazily from the crooked chimney. The scene was almost painfully peaceful.
It felt wrong for them.
Too safe for what they carried. Too quiet for what they feared.
Draco nudged her elbow, voice barely a whisper. “Dorea… if we’re truly stuck here—”
“We’re not giving up,” she murmured, firm.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You thought it.”
He looked away, jaw tightening, panic flickering behind his eyes like a trapped flame.
She softened. “Work gives us a place to start. A way to move. People trust teachers. From there… we look for answers. For cracks. For anything.”
“A start to what?” he whispered.
“To get home.”
He let out a slow, shaky breath. His shoulders relaxed—not fully, but enough.
Margaret hummed as she cleared the table. Thomas poked the fire, adding another log. The world outside settled deeper into the night.
Draco sighed. “If any child throws something at me, I’m quitting.”
“You can’t quit.”
“I can and I will.”
Dorea’s lips twitched. “You won’t.”
He looked affronted. “This entire timeline hates me.”
She nudged him lightly. “It’s mutual, Drake.”
A reluctant, fragile smirk tugged at his mouth.
They were stuck. Out of time. Magicless. Terrified.
But they weren’t alone.
And in 1913, that was everything.
Farringham School for Boys
Farringham School for Boys looked, to Draco, like someone had stared at a child and thought, How can we terrify that?
Tall stone walls. Narrow slitted windows. A courtyard that echoed far too loudly, as if the building enjoyed tattling on everyone who crossed it.
He hated it immediately.
Inside, the corridors were colder than the outdoors, and the smell—chalk dust, damp wool, and something indefinably old—clung to the air like a curse.
The library, his designated domain, was worse.
Dim.
Drafty.
And full of books so ancient they looked ready to dissolve into dust if anyone breathed too hard.
“Why,” Draco muttered darkly, “do all Muggle places smell like damp socks?”
“They don’t,” Dorea said, barely glancing at him as she adjusted a stack of exercise books on a nearby table.
“This one does,” Draco insisted, wrinkling his nose. “Wet socks. Abandoned socks. Socks that perished in a tragic laundry accident.”
She gave him a flat look. “Behave, Drake.”
“I will absolutely not.”
Before she could retort, a small boy wandered up to Draco—a thin, freckled thing with an oversized jumper and hopeful eyes.
“Sir?” the boy asked shyly. “Are you the new librarian?”
Draco straightened reflexively, Pureblood pride snapping him into a posture far too grand for 1913 Norfolk.
“Yes,” he declared. “And you will treat books with respect, or I shall—”
The boy blinked. “Shall what, sir?”
Draco froze.
He couldn’t use magic. No authority. No terrifying reputation to lean on.
He was just a man in borrowed trousers, surrounded by Muggle children.
“…recommend extra reading,” he finished feebly.
The boy lit up. “Brilliant!”
He scampered away.
Draco pressed a hand to his face in despair. “This is an outrage.”
Dorea patted his arm as she passed. “You’re doing beautifully.”
“This is punishment,” he muttered. “Time itself is punishing me.”
Dorea had feared she wouldn’t be able to do it.
Not the tending to children—she’d done that in her world. Not the fevers, nor the cuts, nor the frightened tears—those were simple, almost familiar. It was the quiet that frightened her.
The stillness of this century.
The gentle rhythm of washing sheets and taking temperatures.
The soft creak of wooden floors, the muted hum of school corridors.
Quiet left space for thought—too much of it.
Teddy’s laugh.
The crushing weight of a home she could no longer reach.
The Doctor’s last look before she let him go—before the TARDIS vanished, leaving only the echo of its departing hum.
And the choice she had made, the one she replayed over and over, hoping one day it would hurt less.
But nursing forced her hands into steadiness, her breaths into calm, her mind into presence.
Her first day in the infirmary was colder than she expected. The medical room was a narrow space with large windows, iron-framed beds, and unbearably stiff blankets. A washbasin steamed in the corner. The scent of soap and coal dust clung to everything.
Boys filed in and out—scraped knees, headaches, nerves, half of them pretending to be sicker than they were to escape lessons.
“Miss Dorea?” a small voice whispered.
She turned. A young boy lay curled beneath a blanket, cheeks flushed too bright, his breath shallow. Fever glistened at his brow.
She sat beside him, brushing his hair back gently, “Yes, sweetheart?”
“Am… am I going to die?” His lower lip trembled.
Dorea’s heart squeezed painfully. She cupped his cheek, steady and warm.
“No, love,” she said softly. “Not today. Not on my watch.”
The boy blinked at her—scared, hopeful—and managed a tiny smile.
She stayed beside him until sleep finally pulled him under, his breathing evening out, his fingers relaxing from their tight clutch on the blanket. Only then did she let herself exhale.
Margaret peeked in from the doorway, arms full of folded linens. “You’re a natural, dear,” she whispered, pride in her voice.
Dorea smiled faintly. “He’s just frightened.”
“As most are at that age,” Margaret agreed. “Kindness goes a long way.”
Dorea nodded, eyes drifting back to the sleeping child. Kindness… It was something she had learned in battle, in loss, in love.
She stood, smoothing her apron as she crossed the room. The floor creaked softly beneath her boots. Outside the window, boys chased each other on the frosted field—laughing, stumbling, alive.
For the first time since she’d landed here—since her world had been torn away—the ache in her chest fluttered, softened, shifted.
Purpose.
It wasn’t the purpose she had in her own time. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t saving the world. But it was something.
Later that afternoon, Draco appeared in the infirmary doorway, dust on his sleeves and a book under his arm, looking like he’d survived some unspeakable literary catastrophe.
“You look troubled,” he declared. “I assume someone sneezed on me again.”
She huffed a quiet laugh. “Poor you.”
“Yes, tragic.” He paused, studying her face more closely. “You alright?”
The question caught her off guard—soft, genuine, uncharacteristically thoughtful.
She nodded. “I… think so.”
“Good,” Draco said, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Because I am having a crisis and require moral support.”
She gestured around the infirmary. “This is not the place for your dramatics.”
“It’s always the place,” he argued.
She rolled her eyes. “What now?”
“A boy hugged me.”
She stared. “…and?”
“And I didn’t hate it,” Draco confessed with horror. “I need someone to explain what’s happening to me.”
She snorted. “You’re growing a conscience.”
“Disgusting.”
“Terrifying.”
“Can we go home now?”
“Not yet.”
Draco sighed dramatically and slumped against the doorframe. “Fine. But if any of these children cry on me again, I’m quitting.”
“You won’t,” Dorea said, turning back to her patient.
“Try me.”
She smiled faintly. “You’d feel guilty.”
Draco sputtered. “I would not!”
“You already do.”
He groaned.
She didn’t turn to look at him—because she knew that if she did, she’d see that reluctant warmth he was trying so desperately to hide. And she wasn’t ready for him to see the small, quiet warmth in her, either.
But as the infirmary settled into soft afternoon light, as the boy slept peacefully, as Draco continued muttering complaints he didn’t mean—Dorea felt something she hadn’t since the TARDIS disappeared.
She felt needed. Grounded. Useful.
For the first time in 1913, she felt like she could breathe.
Days Later
Something unexpected happened.
The library—initially his personal hell—slowly shifted into something else.
A refuge.
It was quiet. Predictable. Shelves stayed where he put them. Books behaved. And unlike the war he had survived, nothing here screamed or exploded or vanished in terrifying bursts of light.
Draco found himself clinging to that structure with a desperation he would never admit aloud.
He spent hours cataloguing books with meticulous precision, reorganising entire sections simply because he could, dusting shelves while muttering insults at inattentive students, and—against all odds—developing a soft spot for the younger boys who struggled with reading.
He refused to acknowledge this weakness, of course.
One afternoon, a boy of perhaps nine stood beside his desk, brow furrowed in fierce concentration as he stared at a page.
“Sound it out,” Draco said, leaning over his shoulder.
“It’s too hard, sir,” the boy whispered, cheeks pink with embarrassment.
“It’s English,” Draco replied. “Everything is hard.”
The boy giggled—actually giggled.
Draco looked away quickly, pretending to reorganise quills so the child wouldn’t see the reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.
From across the room, Dorea watched him with a knowing look—half soft, half amused. She had never seen Draco Malfoy look so… settled.
He noticed her gaze and snapped, “Don’t start.”
She lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I think many things,” she said sweetly. “Most of them unflattering.”
He scoffed, returning to his shelf. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re soft.”
“I am not.”
“Mm.”
He glared at her until a boy dropped a stack of books, and Draco immediately pivoted—neatly, efficiently—straightening the pile and offering the child a stern but gentle warning about proper book care.
When the boy left, Dorea murmured, “They like you, you know.”
“They fear me,” he corrected.
“No,” Dorea said, watching another boy wave shyly at Draco, “they really do like you.”
Draco inhaled sharply, as if unsure how to process the idea. He turned away. “Disgusting.”
But the faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Every evening, when the last bell faded and the boys scattered across the courtyard, Dorea and Draco set off along the dirt road that wound between the fields toward the Hargreaves’ farmhouse.
It became their ritual.
The sky always stretched wide and pale above them, spring winds sweeping across the grass. Their boots crunched softly on gravel. Lanterns glowed in cottage windows as dusk settled over Farringham.
And without fail, Draco started the bickering.
“I swear half those boys are feral,” he declared one evening, tugging irritably at the borrowed suspenders he still hadn’t forgiven 1913 for inflicting upon him.
“They’re children, Draco,” Dorea replied, adjusting her shawl against the wind.
“So? I was a child once. I was never feral.”
“You turned a girl’s hair into feathers when you were twelve.”
“That was self-defence.”
“It was Millicent Bulstrode.”
Draco hesitated. “…She was terrifying.”
Dorea snorted before she could stop herself. Draco shot her a scandalised sideways glare—as if laughter at his expense were an unforgivable violation of human decency.
They walked on, lamp-lit windows twinkling through the trees. Their breath misted faintly in the cool evening air.
Between the teasing, small cracks appeared.
Sometimes soft ones.
Sometimes sharp.
“War is coming,” Dorea whispered one grey evening, her voice barely more than a breath.
“In a year,” Draco murmured back, eyes fixed on the horizon. “We need to get out before then.”
“We don’t know how.”
“We will.” His jaw tightened, his breath catching on the words. “We have to.”
Other nights were quieter.
“I miss Teddy,” she admitted once, the admission slipping out unexpectedly, soft as falling ash.
Draco didn’t answer.
He simply walked a little closer until their shoulders brushed—a silent offering, a grounding weight.
The infirmary became her world.
She learned the difference between fevers and fear. Between boys who lied about stomach aches and boys who hid real pain. Between those who needed extra blankets and those who needed gentle threats to get back to lessons.
She learned to brew primitive tinctures by hand, grinding herbs in a mortar instead of conjuring remedies with a flick of her wand. She learned to stitch torn shirts. She learned to write neat notes for parents in a century without magical quills.
And she grew fond of them.
Far too fond.
The bright-eyed boys.
The shy ones.
The stubborn ones.
The ones who clung to her hand when frightened.
Every time she tucked a blanket under a small chin, or wiped a fevered brow, or listened to whispered fears in the dimly lit infirmary, a quiet ache ran through her like a fault line.
Because she knew what 1914 would bring.
These boys—these sweet, rowdy, hopeful boys—would become soldiers.
Their names would appear in newspapers.
In casualty lists.
In graves.
Sometimes Dorea looked at them and felt her heart crack in slow, careful lines.
Meanwhile, Draco became… frighteningly efficient.
He bullied order into the library with the zeal of a man avenging a personal insult.
He alphabetised books. He reorganised shelves. He corrected grammar with a precision that made older students flee in terror. He banned whispering. And sneezing. And “breathing suspiciously loudly.”
Yet, without fanfare—
He helped shorter boys reach high shelves. He mended torn pages with delicate care. He read to the youngest boarders on rainy evenings when storms made them nervous.
When Dorea caught him doing so, he snapped, “It’s community service.”
She raised an eyebrow. “It’s caring.”
He glared. “You’re insufferable.”
Despite the words, his ears turned pink.
Sometimes, Dorea cried quietly after the house had gone still—silent, shaking, the weight of stolen years and impossible futures pressing hard against her ribs. She never made a sound loud enough to carry, but Draco always knew.
He never mentioned it. Not once.
But every morning, without fail, she found a chipped mug of dreadful 1913 tea set neatly beside her bed—the closest thing he could offer to comfort in a world where neither of them dared use magic. Where a wand, if discovered, would be confiscated and questioned by a Ministry that didn’t know their names and shouldn’t.
Sometimes it was Draco who faltered—staring at some grim headline on the breakfast table, fingers whitening on the newsprint. Rumours of unrest on the continent. A rising tension neither of them could warn anyone about.
Dorea would ease the paper from his hand, nudging him gently.
“We’re Aurors,” she reminded him softly. “We survive things.”
“We can’t even use our wands,” he muttered. “One wrong move and they’d take them from us. They’d take everything.”
She met his eyes—steady, warm, unwavering. “We’ve faced worse,” she said. “And we’re not alone.”
He looked at her for a long moment—lost, uncertain, a boy pretending to be a man. Then he nodded, just once. His shoulders loosened. And he breathed easier.
The staff hall smelled of chalk dust, ink, and the faint bitterness of over-boiled tea — a scent Dorea had learned to tolerate, though she still missed proper British tea from her own time. Afternoon sun slanted through tall windows, turning drifting dust into floating gold. She sat among the nurses with her hands neatly in her lap, fighting exhaustion from a morning of rugby-related chaos: bruises, sprains, and one spectacularly foolish boy who had attempted a tackle half his size.
Her back ached. Her head throbbed. She longed for silence.
Headmaster Rocastle marched to the front with the heavy-footed authority of a man carved out of discipline. His boots struck the wooden floor like thunder, and all conversation died instantly. Even after months in this century, Dorea still found him imposing—broad-shouldered, stern, a man whose posture alone could frighten misbehaving students into repentance.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he barked, “a brief announcement. A new History master will be joining us from Monday. Two days hence.”
Dorea half-listened, her mind already drifting to infirmary duties. Bandages needed to be boiled. The permanganate tub was low. Several uniforms needed soaking.
“—Mr John Smith, formerly of—”
The world stopped.
Her breath hitched. Her spine locked. Her heart lurched violently against her ribs.
John Smith.
No.
Her pulse hammered so loudly she couldn’t hear the rest of Rocastle’s sentence. Her hands, folded politely a moment ago, trembled in her lap.
It’s a coincidence, she told herself. Just a common name. The most common name.
It meant nothing.
But something deep inside her — something she had buried, locked, sealed away — surged painfully to the surface.
She forced her gaze downward, staring at her white-knuckled fingers.
Don't react. Don't hope. Don’t be a fool.
But the room tilted slightly, as the world had shifted under her.
A few rows ahead, Draco sat with the assistant masters, clearly bored and unimpressed with everything Rocastle said. He drummed his fingers on his desk — until something made him glance back.
He froze when he saw her.
Dorea’s face had gone pale, too pale. Her breath shallow. Her hands shaking.
Draco straightened subtly, a frown creasing his brow.
She tried to school her features into calm and mouthed, I’m fine.
He gave her a flat, unimpressed look and mouthed back, liar.
She looked away.
When Rocastle finally dismissed them, conversations filled the hall like ripples spreading through water. Teachers gathered papers; maids whispered about schedules; two nurses beside Dorea murmured:
“John Smith… sounds respectable.”
“Hope he’s better than the last one. Horrid man.”
Dorea forced a small, brittle smile and stood — slowly, carefully — as if her legs might give out if she rushed.
Draco appeared at her side almost immediately; his expression cleverly schooled into annoyance so no one would notice the concern beneath it.
“You look like you’ve swallowed poison,” he muttered quietly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, too quickly.
“Dorea.”
The softness in his tone startled her.
“It’s just a name,” she said, forcing steadiness she did not feel.
“A name that clearly knocked the life out of you,” Draco countered. “Who is he?”
“No one,” she said sharply.
Draco’s brows knit. “You’re lying.”
She inhaled slowly through her nose. “Just—leave it, Draco.”
He stared at her for a moment, jaw tight, clearly wanting to pry but restraining himself—barely.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But you look like you’re about to faint.”
“I’m not.”
“Of course you’re not,” he said dryly. “Because that would be far too simple.”
She moved for the corridor, desperate for air, and Draco followed — not out of nosiness now, but something quieter, steadier.
The corridor was dim, cool, lined with old wood panels that creaked in the draft. A few lanterns flickered. Their footsteps echoed.
Dorea pressed a hand to the wall, grounding herself as her pulse continued to race.
Draco stood across from her, arms folded, but worry was unmistakable in his eyes.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly.
“It’s cold,” she murmured.
“It’s panic,” he corrected bluntly.
She shut her eyes. “I can’t afford to fall apart here.”
“No one said you had to.”
“I cannot—” She swallowed hard. “I cannot let myself hope for something impossible.”
Draco frowned. “What hope? About a teacher you’ve never met?”
Her lips tightened. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is with you,” he muttered. But his tone lacked its usual bite. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Will you talk about it?”
“No.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Then I’ll simply stand here and be annoying until you stop shaking.”
A startled breath escaped her — half-laugh, half-sob. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’ve heard.”
Dorea opened her eyes. Draco’s posture softened a fraction.
“Whoever this John Smith is,” Draco said quietly, “he cannot control you. So, breathe.”
His words shouldn’t have helped. But they did. Just a little.
They walked back toward the infirmary together. Their shoulders brushed once, and neither commented.
When they parted ways, Draco nudged her elbow. A small gesture. A grounding one.
She managed a faint smile.
That night, the world was too quiet.
In her small room at the Hargreaves’ farmhouse, Dorea sat at the edge of her bed, candlelight flickering against the glass. Outside, the wind brushed the window, carrying the distant hoot of an owl. Her hands shook in her lap.
John Smith.
Monday. Two days.
A coincidence. It had to be.
The universe didn’t grant miracles. It didn’t return people who were lost. It didn’t reward impossible hope.
If the Doctor were near — if he were anywhere at all — she would feel it in her bones.
Wouldn’t she?
She pressed both palms to her eyes, breathing through the ache in her chest.
“Don’t hope,” she whispered into the quiet. “Don’t you dare hope.”
Her heart did not listen.
Because somewhere inside her — the part that had once run wild through time and space — whispered:
What if?
She lay down slowly, pulling the blankets over herself, candlelight dimming as she closed her eyes.
Two days.
She dreaded them.
She feared them.
More than any monster. More than any battle.
Because this time, the enemy was hope.
