Chapter Text
The park was nearly deserted, just like the sun-scorched streets beyond it. Dorea Potter sat alone on the rusted swing, her trainers scuffing dry dust as she rocked slowly, back and forth, arms wrapped tight around the chain. The metal was burning against her palms, but she barely noticed.
She had come here to breathe — or maybe to scream — but neither had happened. Instead, she sat in bitter silence, the weight of the summer sun pressing down on her like another punishment.
Cedric was dead. Voldemort had returned. And she had seen it all.
She'd watched Cedric fall — murdered, just for being there — because he'd tried to protect her.
And no one had written. Not Ron. Not Hermione. Not even Sirius. Not one letter in over a month. Just silence, as if she didn’t exist.
Her fingers tightened around the swing chains. Living with the Dursleys again hadn’t helped. Every day was worse than the last. She had considered tying her trunk to her broomstick and flying straight to the Burrow, but that would mean admitting she cared.
Instead, she sat here, trying to pretend she wasn’t listening for whispers in the hedgerows — trying not to hope she'd overhear something about Voldemort, about the world she was still somehow part of.
She didn’t know how long she'd been there before voices pierced her thoughts.
Laughter — loud, crude — drifted across the park. Streetlamps along the edge glowed in a warm haze, casting silhouettes across the cracked pavement. A group of boys sauntered into view, dragging expensive racing bikes. One of them was singing off-key. The rest jeered.
She knew them instantly. Dudley was leading the pack. Of course. He always led when it was safe. When it was cruel.
Dorea stayed still, watching from the swing as they crossed the grass. Her wand was in her pocket. She dared them to see her.
Malcolm caught sight of her first. His lips twisted into a grin. “Hey, Big D. Look who it is. Beat up another?”
“Yeah,” Piers added with a smirk.
“Five against one. Very brave.” Dorea drawled, still swinging lazily. “But then, Dudley always needed backup.”
Dudley sneered. “Think you're tough, do you? Carrying that freak stick?”
“What stick?” she said, tone sweet as sugar.
Dudley narrowed his eyes. “That wand. You're not allowed to use it outside that freak school.”
“How do you know the rules haven’t changed?” she shot back.
“They haven’t,” Dudley said — but he didn’t sound sure.
She smiled, slow and dangerous. But Dudley switched tactics.
“I heard you last night,” he said suddenly. “Crying in your sleep. ‘Don’t kill Cedric!’” His voice rose in a high-pitched mockery. “‘Please don’t kill him!’ Who’s Cedric? Your boyfriend?”
Dorea’s mouth went dry. He couldn't have known — unless he’d really heard her. Unless she'd really said those things in her sleep.
Dudley laughed louder. “'Daddy, help me! He’s gonna kill me!’” he jeered, snorting.
“Shut up,” she said softly, drawing her wand. “Shut. Up.”
“Don’t point that thing at me!” Dudley yelled, backing up fast.
Dorea rose from the swing in one smooth motion. Fourteen years of anger throbbed through her limbs like wildfire. She pointed her wand at Dudley’s chest. “Don’t ever talk about that again. Understand me?”
He paled. “Put it away!”
“I said—do you understand me?”
But then something shifted. The night was swallowed whole. Stars blinked out. The streetlamps died. Even the moon disappeared. The sky became a void — thick, silent, choking. The temperature dropped in a blink. Dorea’s skin prickled. The swing creaked once behind her — and then there was only the cold.
“W-what are you d-doing?” Dudley gasped. “Cut it out!”
“I’m not doing anything!” Dorea snapped. “Don’t move!”
“I—I c-can’t see! I’ve gone blind—” one of Dudley's minion cried as he ran in the opposite direction.
“Shut up!” She spun in place, heart hammering.
There — a breath. Hoarse. Wet. Too close.
No. Not here. Not in Little Whinging.
Dorea’s fingers clenched around her wand.
She heard another voice then — a man’s. Rough, northern. “Oi! You two, get down! Stay down!”
She twisted toward him — a tall stranger with a worn leather jacket, boots thudding against the pavement as he ran toward them. He looked like he'd come out of nowhere.
“Don’t come closer!” she warned.
But it was too late.
Dudley shrieked — a raw, terrified sound — and ran blindly into the dark.
“DUDLEY, NO!” she shouted. “YOU’RE RUNNING RIGHT AT IT!”
There was a horrible yelp. A sickening thud. She felt it then — that breath, that chill — and knew there was more than one.
She darted after him. The man shouted something behind her, but she ignored him.
Her wand hand trembled as she fumbled through her pocket, heart pounding in her throat.
She grabbed it.
Turned—
And froze.
A Dementor loomed right in front of her — its hooded face hidden, its scabbed, rotting hands outstretched. It was so close she could feel the cold leeching from its robes, soaking into her skin, her bones.
She tripped backward, nearly falling. “Expecto Patronum!” she cried.
But the voice was in her head now — high-pitched, shrill, laughing. The air thickened with despair. Her lungs burned. She could smell death, like rotting leaves and wet stone. Her magic flickered, weak.
Something happy, she told herself. Think—anything—
But there was nothing.
Nothing left.
She was going to die.
She thought about her mum and dad – about meeting Sirius..
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”
Light exploded from her wand — silver and wild and pure. A stag burst forth, galloping, gleaming like a star torn from the sky. It charged the Dementor, antlers lowered, and slammed into the creature with an impact that echoed across the street.
The Dementor screamed — a thin, lifeless wail — before it was flung backward, its form unraveling like smoke as it disappeared into the dark.
She didn’t stop. Didn’t breathe.
“Dudley,” she gasped, turning wildly.
He was crumpled on the ground.
But he wasn’t alone.
The man — the stranger whose voice she’d heard — was lying beside him, collapsed on his side, pale and unmoving. His eyes were wide, staring at nothing, his face blank with terror. And above him, silently gliding toward him—
Another Dementor.
Bigger.
Hungrier.
It descended, arms reaching like slow death. Its rotting fingers brushed the man’s cheeks as it tilted its head — its hood lowering — as if to kiss him.
“No,” Dorea breathed, her heart stuttering.
She raised her wand again, hand steady now.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”
The stag burst out again, brighter than before, hooves hitting the pavement with a thunderous crack. It thundered forward, straight at the Dementor.
Its antlers struck the creature in the chest — where a heart should have been — and hurled it away, tearing the darkness apart.
It vanished with a scream.
And suddenly— The world came back.
The stars returned.
Streetlamps blinked on.
A warm breeze stirred the leaves.
The crickets resumed their song.
The hum of distant cars whispered back through the quiet.
It was like nothing had happened.
But everything had.
Dorea stood in the street, soaked in sweat, gasping for breath. Her wand trembled in her hand. The silver stag faded into mist and vanished into the night.
She turned.
Dudley was curled up, dazed and pale, but alive. His colour was returning. His lips moved, forming half-words. His eyes blinked slowly.
“Good,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You’re okay…”
But the man—
Dorea turned sharply… And her breath caught.
He wasn’t okay.
He was sitting now, hunched over on the pavement, his shoulders drawn in like he was trying to fold into himself. His entire frame trembled. His hands were clutched around his knees, knuckles white, and he was breathing hard — sharp, rapid, shallow breaths, like someone drowning in air.
His face was pale. Not frightened — hollow. Like something inside him had been ripped open.
Dorea ran to him immediately. Her wand was still in her hand, but she barely noticed.
“Hey—hey!” She dropped into a crouch beside him, trying to catch his eyes. “Sir? Are you—are you alright?”
He didn’t move. Didn’t look at her.
She touched his arm gently. “You’re safe. It’s over now. Do you hear me? It’s gone. You’re safe.”
Still no response. His eyes darted side to side, but he didn’t see. They were clouded, distant — like the Dementor had left, but its shadow was still wrapped around him.
Dorea checked Dudley quickly. He was up now, pressed against a wall, shivering and dazed, but awake. Color was starting to return to his face. Good. He would be fine. And honestly, she'd deal with him later.
Her eyes flicked back to the man.
But this one — this stranger — he was not okay.
She grasped his shoulder more firmly this time and gave him a gentle shake. “Come on — look at me. You’re alright. It’s over. You're not alone.”
And slowly — finally — his gaze shifted to her.
It was like watching someone surface from deep, dark water. His eyes, a stormy grey-blue, were wide and wild, still haunted. They locked onto hers like she was the only thing tethering him to this world.
She saw it then — in that look.
Age. Not on his face. In his soul. And pain. Layers of it. Like he’d spent lifetimes collecting grief.
“W-what…” His voice cracked. “What was that?”
Dorea tensed.
He had seen it.
Really seen it.
A Muggle shouldn’t be able to see Dementors. Not like that. Not with that kind of clarity. And yet… he had.
“You… saw it?” she asked cautiously.
He nodded, still trembling. “That thing — it was like… it got inside me. Like it knew every bad memory I had. Every mistake. Every face I lost. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. It was like…” He touched his chest. “Like I didn’t want to live anymore.”
His voice cracked at the end, barely more than a breath.
Dorea’s stomach twisted. She’d faced Dementors before… More than once… So, she knew what its presence could do to anyone…
She swallowed. “It’s called a Dementor.”
He blinked at her. “A what?”
“A dark creature,” she explained gently, “that feeds on happiness. It makes you relive your worst memories. Like you’re stuck inside them.” Her voice softened further. “They are used as prison guards. But they can… do worse.”
His eyes remained locked on hers.
“They can perform something called the Dementor’s Kiss,” she continued. “It takes your soul. Leaves you empty. Alive, but not living.”
He closed his eyes and flinched like it physically hurt to hear that.
“I’ve never heard of anything like that,” he muttered, more to himself than her.
Which was strange. If he was a wizard, he’d know. If he was a Muggle… he shouldn’t have been able to see it.
She studied him. “You’re not… from around here, are you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Are you hurt?” she asked gently, reaching for his arm.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Not sure where I am. Not sure I was anywhere just now.”
She helped him up. He staggered, nearly falling again, and she caught him with a grunt.
Behind them, Dudley — ever the coward — was finally on his feet and sprinting toward home without a word. Typical.
She watched him go; her jaw clenched.
He’d run straight to his parents. She didn’t need magic to know what would happen next. Vernon and Petunia would take one look at Dudley’s trembling, red face and blame it all on her. They’d yell. Threaten. Lock her up again. Maybe throw out her trunk. Again.
Maybe they’d finally throw her out.
Honestly… maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing.
She turned back to the man.
“Where do you live?” she asked, helping him steady himself. “I’ll walk you.”
He was still dizzy and uncoordinated. He glanced around in confusion. “Yeah… yeah, it’s not far. I—I think I parked just a few streets down.”
He leaned on her as they moved forward. Step by step. Quiet now.
And then—
They turned the corner.
And there it was.
Dorea stopped short. Her breath caught in her throat. Her whole body froze.
Under the lamplight, standing quietly at the curb, sat a familiar shape. Blue. Tall. Weathered.
The box.
A blue police call box.
She knew that shape. That shade of paint. Those words.
POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX
It wasn’t just a box.
It was him.
A memory slammed into her — cocoa and triangle sandwiches, the warm hum of lights, the smell of oil and something old and wonderful. The sound of stars. A leather hand taking hers in the dark.
Her throat tightened. She stepped forward slowly, dazed, like if she blinked too hard, it would vanish.
She looked back at the man beside her.
He was still unsteady. Still pale. Still recovering.
She studied him now. Leather jacket. Thick boots. Close-shaved hair. Strong jaw. Eyes full of ghosts.
Not the man she remembered.
But then again…
She looked back at the box.
“I’ve seen it before,” she whispered.
The man — this stranger — blinked at her, startled. “You have?”
She turned sharply to him. Her wand had lowered, forgotten at her side. Her heart was in her throat.
“Where is he?” she demanded. “The Doctor?”
He stared at her.
And then—something shifted in his face.
Recognition.
And grief.
And the barest trace of hope.
“I’m the Doctor,” he said quietly.
Her stomach twisted. “No… No, you’re not.”
Her voice was soft, disbelieving. She took a step back, her eyes scanning his face — the lines, the eyes, the haunted edges — trying to find something familiar, something true in it. But it didn’t fit.
“I remember,” she continued. “The Doctor looked different. Older. Your face—it's not the same.”
“I know,” he said. “But it was me.”
She stared at him, her thoughts scrambling, trying to align two different realities into one impossible truth. “You’re saying that was you?”
He nodded once. “Different face. Same hearts. Same memories.”
She blinked at him, frowning. Did he just say… hearts?
“Wait—what do you mean ‘hearts’? How many do you have?”
He gave her a tired, lopsided smile. “Two.”
She just stared, utterly thrown. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, cautiously, “So… you’ve changed. But you’re still the same man?”
“Essentially, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice dry. “Don’t have much say in it, really.”
She narrowed her eyes, still trying to wrap her head around it. “Are you—” she hesitated, “—a Metamorphmagus?”
“A what-now?” he blinked.
She let out a laugh, small and sharp, more nerves than humour. “Never mind.”
He stumbled slightly as he tried to straighten, and without thinking, she reached out and caught his elbow.
“Let’s get you inside,” she said gently, guiding him toward the door.
The wood creaked open under her touch, and the TARDIS greeted them with a low, familiar hum — soft, steady, welcoming. Like it remembered her too.
She stepped inside.
And froze.
It was different.
Not in a jarring way — not wrong — just… changed. Subtle shifts in colour, in shape. The golden glow she remembered had been replaced with a cooler, coral hue. The walls pulsed with a slower rhythm. Still impossibly large. Still alive. Still humming like a gentle lullaby of space and time.
“I… it’s different,” she murmured.
Behind her, the Doctor sank heavily into the chair by the console, head in his hands. He didn’t say anything, and for a moment, neither did she.
The air smelled like time and oil. Like stardust and memory. And suddenly, she was small again, curled under a threadbare blanket with a hot mug between her palms. Spinning in circles across the metal floor. Chocolate crumbs on her fingers.
Ten years ago.
Her chest ached with the remembering.
She blinked back the blur in her vision and cleared her throat. “Do you have any chocolate?”
He peeked through his fingers. “What?”
“Chocolate,” she repeated, brows raised.
The Doctor gave her a look like she’d grown a second head. “You just watched me get nearly soul-sucked to death and your first instinct is snacks?”
She rolled her eyes and asked impatiently, “Do you have any or not?”
He sighed, waving vaguely to the corridor. “Maybe in the kitchen. That way. Left, then left again, down the corridor, second door on the right. If the toaster’s floating, you’ve gone too far.”
“Right,” she said, already turning.
The TARDIS was even bigger than she remembered. She wandered through long, glowing corridors, every hallway breathing quietly like the ship itself was alive. Eventually, she found the kitchen — cluttered, chaotic, warm — and located an unopened bar of chocolate wedged between a spanner and a half-eaten jelly baby.
She returned a few minutes later and handed it to him.
“Eat this.”
He raised a brow. “Is this a wizard thing?”
“It helps after a Dementor attack.” She ordered. “Eat.”
He shrugged and took the bar, unwrapping it. One bite, two… then the whole thing was gone in about ten seconds.
He blinked. “Huh.”
“Better?”
He made a small, uncertain noise. “Hard to say. Still seeing stars. Not in the poetic sense.”
She gave him a half-smile, then sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning her back against the railing.
“You’ve seen these creatures before?” he asked after a moment, his voice quieter now.
“Yeah.” Her eyes dropped. “Three or four times.”
He didn’t speak.
And then softly, almost cautiously, “Is it you, then?”
She looked at him slowly.
He was staring at her now. Really staring. The dazed fog had faded from his eyes, and in its place was something sharper — and for just a moment, she saw it. That same man. The one from so long ago. The one who had knelt in the alley beside her, had handed her a warm sandwich with a cup of hot cocoa… Her first ever hot chocolate.
The man who hadn’t flinched when she told him she lived in a cupboard.
Who had given her a blanket that smelled like stars and tucked it around her tiny frame without saying a word.
Who had looked at her like she wasn’t invisible.
Who had left her a gift — a tiny blue box with blinking lights — just outside her cupboard door before he disappeared.
That box had stayed hidden under her bed for years and then in her trunk, even when she’d stopped believing it had ever happened. She’d told herself it was a dream.
But now…
“It’s me,” she said. But her voice wavered. Wariness crept in around the edges. He didn’t look the same. His eyes, maybe. But his face, his build, even the way he stood — everything was different.
He nodded slightly, reading something in her eyes and asked quietly, “What’s your name?”
Her mouth opened.
Then shut again.
No. She couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not if it meant he’d look at her the way everyone else did. With that weight of expectation. That pity. That fear. She wasn’t ready to be Dorea Potter in front of him.
“Lily,” she said instead, voice careful.
He tilted his head. Something flickered behind his eyes — but he didn’t question it. Just smiled faintly.
“You’re a witch, then?” he asked, still casual.
She nodded.
“I’ve met a wizard before,” he added. “Once. Long time ago. Didn’t like your lot much.”
Her jaw dropped. “Oi—!”
But she stopped herself. Because she got it. Wizards — especially the old blood types — weren’t exactly warm and fuzzy. He’d probably run into someone like Lucius Malfoy and been handed a wand up his nose for breathing wrong.
Instead, she exhaled and said, “I guess you didn’t meet the right one.”
He looked at her, and something like pride warmed the corners of his mouth.
“You’ve grown,” the Doctor said suddenly, his voice quieter now — almost surprised. Like he hadn’t quite believed it until just that moment.
Dorea blinked, then gave a half-shrug and a crooked smile. “It’s been ten years.”
He leaned back against the railing, rubbed both hands over his face and let out a breath. “Only two for me.”
Her brow furrowed. “Wait—how is that even possible? Two years for you, ten for me?”
He straightened suddenly, grinning — manic and delighted, like someone about to explain a joke that absolutely no one else would understand.
“Ohhh, you’re gonna love this.”
She immediately leaned back a little. “Oh no.”
“No, no, no — listen!” The Doctor was already moving, striding toward the TARDIS console like it was a stage and he was halfway through a one-man show. “It’s simple. Well—relatively simple. Okay, it’s actually horrifically complicated, but that’s the fun bit!”
Dorea folded her arms, eyebrow raised.
“Time,” he began, pacing now, “is not a straight line. Not a neat little train track with tidy stops and friendly ticket collectors. Oh no. Time’s a trickster. Time’s a rebel. Time’s a drunk octopus wearing a monocle who forgot what century it’s in.”
She stared.
“Now space — boring. Space is just distance. You go from A to B. Bit of a yawn, really. But time?” His voice picked up again. “Time flirts with itself. Time throws birthday parties it forgets to attend. It argues with gravity and sulks when the stars aren’t looking.”
He gestured wildly toward the glowing coral of the console. “Now the TARDIS, bless her, she doesn’t just move through time. She dances with it. Waltzes through 1864, spins twice through the Blitz — flirts with the 51st century like it owes her flowers — gets into a sulk in 3084 because of a collapsing temporal fold — long story, flammable hat, angry moose — and then, just for fun, skips ahead three centuries and loops back around to check if you were paying attention.”
He beamed, winded but delighted.
“Time is not a line,” he said grandly, “It’s spaghetti. Dropped spaghetti. In a thunderstorm. Sentient spaghetti. Rude, sulky, possibly on fire.”
Dorea blinked slowly.
“Right,” she said carefully. “So… that’s your idea of simple?”
“Course it is,” he said brightly. “You age on your timeline. I age on mine. Meanwhile, the TARDIS plays intergalactic maître d’, sorting out our dinner reservations across multiple millennia and hoping we don’t throw up on the upholstery.”
She stared at him a long beat. “You just described time travel using pasta and a restaurant metaphor.”
“Exactly!”
She opened her mouth, closed it, then said carefully, “Are you actually insane?”
The Doctor gave an affronted scoff. “Not insane. Mad. Brilliant. Bold. Maybe slightly unstable. But in a charming, rakish sort of way.”
He tapped his chest with one hand. “Time Lords. It’s the second heart — it does things to your perspective.”
Dorea shook her head slowly, muttering under her breath, “That explains so much…”
“What was that?” he quired.
“Nothing,” she said sweetly. “Just reevaluating reality and the fact that I’m standing inside a magic time box with a man who thinks time is spaghetti.”
“Sentient spaghetti,” he corrected.
She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. There was something warm in her chest now — that quiet, unspoken relief that yes, this was him. Different face. Same mad grin. Same soul.
They were quiet for a beat, the TARDIS humming softly around them like it was listening in.
And then, a little more cautiously, she asked, “You said you’re a Time Lord?”
“Ah, yeah. That.” He straightened. “Well — I'm not human.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I gathered.”
“I’m from a planet called Gallifrey. Red skies, silver leaves, two suns. Beautiful. And dangerous. We were the Time Lords — custodians of history. Watchers of everything.” he said, voice lower now. “We weren’t supposed to interfere.” he paused. A shadow crossed his face. “Until I did.”
Dorea said nothing realising that he was talking more to himself than her.
She just looked at him and said, gently, “You’ve got two hearts. That’s real?”
He nodded. “Two. One for running, one for remembering. Beats faster when I lie. Or when I’m angry. Or when someone reminds me that life’s still surprising.”
She swallowed. “You’re still mad, you know.”
“Thank you,” he said brightly.
And she laughed. Just a little. Then, she looked at him — really looked.
Despite the new face, the leather jacket, the strange wariness in his posture and the shadows in his eyes… she could see him now. The same man who had once knelt in the dark beside her, cold and hungry and small, and offered a sandwich like it was a miracle.
The Doctor.
Different face. Same madness.
Same heart.
She didn’t say any of it aloud.
She didn’t need to.
They sat in silence for a while. Not the awkward kind. The other kind. The sort that only comes after fear has ebbed, and grief has been folded down into quiet corners. The kind of silence that breathes with you.
The TARDIS hummed around them — low and steady, like an old friend’s voice in another room. The golden lights above pulsed gently, casting soft shadows over the coral walls. The air inside smelled faintly of ozone, copper, and something ancient. Time, maybe.
Dorea sat on the floor with her legs crossed, one hand absently toying with her wand, the other resting over her knee. She’d stopped shaking. But her heartbeat hadn’t quite settled.
The Doctor stood a few feet away, leaning back against the console like he wasn’t entirely sure whether to speak or stay silent. There was something odd in the way he looked at her — not pity, not concern. Something closer to awe.
And then finally, like a leaf falling from a too-heavy branch, she spoke.
“I go to school now,” she said softly, her eyes still fixed on the glowing column at the heart of the room. “A proper school. For magic.”
He glanced over, surprised. “That so?”
She nodded, brushing her thumb over the carved handle of her wand. “It’s a bit mad. There's a giant squid in the lake, the stairs have this thing where they move when they feel like it, and one of my professors used to be a werewolf.”
The Doctor blinked. “Used to be?”
“The parents didn’t want him near the children.” She informed with a heavy heart.
He narrowed his eyes. “Right. That sounds completely safe.”
“He is a good man,” she informed sharply. Then, said with a sheepish smile, “I’ve only nearly died four times. Five if you count the troll.”
He blinked again. “Trolls in a school?”
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Big one. Bathroom incident. Long story.”
He made a face, making her laugh.
“I’ve got friends there,” she added, a little quieter now. “Not many. But enough. A few good ones.”
The Doctor nodded slowly. “Good. That’s what matters.”
She hesitated — just a flicker of doubt crossing her face — and then said, almost shyly, “And… I found my godfather.”
That made him look up properly. “Your godfather?”
“Yeah,” She smiled, small but real. “Sirius. He’s mental. Reckless. Broody. Stubborn as a mountain.”
The Doctor tilted his head slightly. “You sound proud.”
“I am,” she said. “He’s mine, you know?”
There was something in her voice — stronger than before. A certainty. Like something in her that had been cracked for too long was starting to knit back together. Not fully. Not yet. But trying.
The Doctor didn’t answer immediately. He looked away, resting one hand lightly against the console, his other in the pocket of his coat.
“I’m glad you found him,” he said eventually.
Dorea nodded. “I think…” She paused. “I think I finally belong somewhere.”
He was quiet for a long moment, and then — with a voice softer than she'd ever heard from him — he said, “Everyone deserves a place. Even the impossible ones.”
She turned to look at him, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “Like you?”
He grinned, lopsided and sharp and a little broken around the edges. “Exactly like me.”
And there it was again — the quiet ache of belonging. A pause stretched between them. Neither uncomfortable nor empty. Just full.
Then, with a little shake of his shoulders, the Doctor straightened abruptly and cleared his throat like he was physically shoving the emotion back down.
“Anyway,” he said briskly, clapping his hands, “magic school. Moving staircases. I bet they don’t even teach interdimensional physics, do they?”
“Not unless it’s disguised as Potions,” she said.
“Pity.”
“Just Transfiguration and hexes.” Dorea said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, and how not to get eaten by a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”
The Doctor blinked at her. “That sounds completely made up.”
She raised her eyebrows. “It’s very real. Nasty little things. Look like someone crossbred a dragon with a firework and gave it an attitude problem.”
He gave her a horrified look. “And this is part of the curriculum?”
“Apparently,” she said with a shrug. “Educational trauma builds character, or something.”
The Doctor snorted, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was getting a headache. “I feel deeply sorry for your generation.”
“I’ll send you a textbook.” She grinned before leaning back, her shoulder brushing the metal railing, the console lights glowing faintly gold across her face. “Is it always like this?” she asked.
He tilted his head. “Like what?”
“This feeling. Like… you’re nowhere and everywhere at once.”
He looked around the TARDIS — the glowing coral walls, the humming core, the way the air felt just a bit different than anywhere else. Then he looked back at her.
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
A silence settled between them again, warm and full. The TARDIS hummed softly beneath them, low and steady, like it was listening. Approving. The lights above pulsed gently, casting both of them in shifting gold and amber, and the air felt thick with stories — all the ones they hadn’t told yet, and all the ones they might.
For a little while, there was no war. No monsters lurking at the edge of reason.
Just a mad man with a box and a witch.
Even after all she’d seen — magic, the Triwizard Tournament, dragons, mermaids, ancient enchantments — this was something else entirely.
Time travel.
Yes, she’d used a Time-Turner once. Gone back a few hours. Saved a life or two. But that was… methodical. Magical. Contained.
This? This was mad. Chaotic. Ridiculous. And utterly brilliant.
And she loved it.
She sat on the floor of the TARDIS beside the console, knees tucked up, watching the lights blink and pulse like a heartbeat. The walls breathed in warm, gentle hues of gold and bronze, casting soft shadows across her face.
They’d talked for hours. Nothing too deep. Nothing too painful.
He asked what she liked to study.
“Charms and Defense,” she’d said. “Divination’s useless.”
“Tell me about it,” he muttered. “I once got into a fistfight with Napoleon because some seer said I’d steal his omelette.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Long story. Weird breakfast.”
She stared at him.
He just grinned.
She still didn’t know if he was joking. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
But she found herself laughing. Really laughing.
And for the first time since Cedric’s death, since she’d watched the light vanish from his eyes, since the world changed — Dorea Potter felt something like life again.
Something like herself.
She rested her chin on her knees as he told her about a two-headed goat who ran a poetry slam on a lunar outpost.
And then — somewhere between the quiet hum of the ship and his rant about bad rhyming aliens — he tilted his head, almost like he was hearing a thought before she said it.
“Wanna see something?” he asked.
She blinked. “Like what?”
He straightened, eyes gleaming. “Anything. Stars being born. Planets that shouldn’t exist. A sunrise on the edge of time. Alien poetry. Space whales. Take your pick.”
Her heart leapt — and then dropped slightly, reality tugging it back down.
“I have to go back to school in a month,” she said softly.
He shrugged like it was the easiest thing in the universe. “I’ve got a time machine. I can drop you back five minutes before you left. You could live a year and still be home in time for breakfast.”
She hesitated.
She thought of Hogwarts — of feasts and books and banter across the Gryffindor table. She thought of her bed in the dormitory, of flying. Of Sirius. She missed him. Missed him more than she could say. Missed the way he laughed like he’d forgotten how once and was making up for it now.
But she also thought of the Dursleys. The cupboard. Dudley’s screams. Her aunt’s coldness. Her uncle’s fists.
No letters. No explanations. Not even from Ron or Hermione.
Her eyes darkened for a moment.
Then she stood.
The Doctor didn’t say a word.
“I’ll be back,” she said quietly, and then turned and bolted for the door.
The sprint back to Privet Drive felt longer than it should’ve. Her feet barely touched the ground.
Her wand was tucked deep in her pocket, gripped so tight her knuckles had gone white.
She slammed through the front door — Aunt Petunia was crying, dabbing Dudley’s forehead with a wet cloth like he’d been hexed by Voldemort himself. Uncle Vernon was pacing, red-faced and muttering murder.
The moment they saw her, Vernon roared.
“YOU!”
Dorea didn’t even flinch.
“What did you do to him?!” he bellowed, finger shaking.
“Saved his life,” she said calmly, brushing past them and heading for the stairs.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me—!”
“I’m leaving.”
She grabbed her trunk from the cupboard under the stairs, flicked her wand to shrink it, shoved it in her bag.
“You ungrateful freak!” Vernon was purple now. You’ll be thrown out—!”
She didn’t respond. Didn’t look back as she walked out the door without looking back.
The TARDIS was still parked where she’d left it — quiet and blue and glowing softly under the streetlamp like it had always belonged.
She jogged the last few steps, heart pounding, lungs burning.
She pushed the doors open.
Inside, the Doctor was fiddling with a lever, squinting at a screen and muttering to himself about “vortex turbulence” and “gravitational indigestion.”
She dropped the trunk with a soft thud near the railing.
He looked up.
And her voice was light — almost like wind.
“All right, then,” she said. “Let’s go see something.”
The Doctor’s expression shifted — from curiosity to surprise, and then into something quietly profound.
He smiled — that real smile, all teeth and trouble and something warmer underneath. Like she’d just handed him back a part of the universe he thought he’d lost.
“Fantastic,” he said, flipping a switch.
The TARDIS began to groan — that glorious, impossible sound of magic and machine colliding.
She gripped the railing, her heart soaring.
And as the world tilted sideways and time began to fold in on itself, Lily smiled.
Because for the first time in weeks, maybe in months… she didn’t feel lost.
She felt hope.
And it sounded like a blue box breathing through the stars.
He sat slumped against the cold wall of the alleyway, the taste of ash thick on his tongue. His hands trembled in his lap like they didn’t belong to him.
Every breath scraped raw through his chest.
Every heartbeat felt like it might crack open his ribs.
He had faced monsters.
Real ones. The worst kind.
Daleks — soulless and screaming, forged in war and hate.
Cybermen — cold, calculating, hollow things that once were human.
He had stared into the eyes of devils that wore human faces, listened to the silence of entire civilizations that he couldn’t save. He had walked through fire. Through centuries of grief. Through time itself.
But nothing—nothing—had ever touched him like this.
This— this was something else. This was different.
It wasn’t just the cold that brought him to his knees.
It was the weight.
The unbearable, bottomless grief.
One second, he was running — trying to get to the kids before whatever was hunting them reached them — and the next, the universe… vanished.
Gone.
No stars. No sound. No breath. Just… absence.
And then the cold came.
Not the kind that chaps your skin or numbs your fingers.
This cold was inside. A slow, creeping chill that poured through his veins like ink. It pressed behind his eyes, coiled around his hearts, and dragged jagged nails down his spine.
And then the worst part—
It hadn’t attacked him with force or speed or teeth.
It had looked.
Inside his mind. Inside his memory. It peeled him open like pages in a history book no one should ever read.
No teeth. No claws. Just a hunger that found guilt and fed on it.
And he had centuries of it.
They were there. All of them.
Gallifrey’s skies, burning red.
Children laughing in the fields beneath twin suns—before the screaming started.
The ground cracking open. Fire rising.
The last day. His last day.
The moment he pressed the button.
His own hand shaking.
His voice breaking.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The silence that followed was the loudest thing he’d ever heard.
And here, in the darkness, he felt it again. Every second. Every scream. Every face he’d failed. Every friend. Every companion. Every life.
Time didn’t move here. It simply ached.
He tried to resist. Of course he did. But the thing — this creature, this Dementor — it fed on it. Not fear. Not death.
But guilt.
And he had centuries of it.
It pulled the strength from him, ripped the breath out of him, and he… broke.
He collapsed. Knees to concrete. His hands shaking like paper in a storm.
And then—
Light.
Not warmth. Not at first.
But power. Silver-bright and searing, like defiance made real.
Something charged.
Something pure.
There was a scream — high and inhuman and angry.
The cold shattered like glass.
Air slammed back into his lungs. He gasped, choking on it, chest heaving.
His body buckled again, but this time, he felt it.
He was back.
He didn’t know where, or when, or even who, for a minute.
Just that he was alive.
A voice reached him through the haze. Soft. Firm. Steady.
Someone touched his shoulder.
Gentle.
A girl’s voice. She was helping him sit up, guiding him away from the ground. Talking to him like he mattered.
The Doctor blinked, eyes unfocused, still not quite seeing the world. His hands trembled violently in his lap. His breaths came in short bursts. He couldn’t form words. Couldn’t move.
Just sat there.
Haunted.
Frayed.
And slowly — painfully — his senses returned. Like light bleeding in through cracks.
He looked at her. The girl kneeling beside him.
And even then, he didn’t see her. Not at first. Not fully.
She was a witch — that much he gathered — which should’ve made him suspicious. Defensive.
Because he knew her kind.
Wizards. Witches. He’d met them once. Long time ago — proper past. Ancient Britain. Pointy hats and smug faces, throwing spells around like they owned the place. Changing things. Breaking things. Playing gods with sticks and words, they didn’t fully understand.
They were arrogant. Reckless. Vain.
He’d never trusted them.
And now here was one, kneeling beside him, speaking like he was something fragile.
When he asked, she explained.
He blinked slowly. Her words filtered in like they were being broadcast from a galaxy away.
“A dark creature,” she was saying gently, her voice barely above the hum of the night. “That feeds on happiness. It makes you relive your worst memories. Like you’re stuck inside them. Trapped.”
He looked at her now — really looked.
Her face was pale but calm. The kind of calm that only comes after you've seen something worse and made peace with the screaming.
Her eyes met his — green, familiar, ancient for someone so young.
“They’re used as prison guards,” she continued, carefully. “But they can… do worse.”
He stared.
She took a breath. Her voice was almost a whisper now. “They can perform something called the Dementor’s Kiss. It takes your soul. Leaves you breathing but empty. Alive — but not really living.”
The Doctor didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
He just felt it again — that cold, skeletal hand hovering at his chest, ready to strip him of everything he was.
And that light, silver and bright, cutting through it.
She’d saved him. Helped him up and walked him towards the Tardis.
A witch. With a wand. With compassion.
He didn’t know what to make of that.
His mouth opened slightly. He meant to say something. Ask her name. Ask what sort of child carried that kind of power.
And then she asked about the Doctor.
And he turned to look at her properly.
Not the wand. Not the robes.
Her face.
The glasses — round and a bit too big for her nose.
The red hair — longer now, tangled from running.
The eyes.
Those eyes.
Wide and green and ancient. The kind of eyes that had already seen too much.
And behind her fringe—
He knew what was hidden there.
And the memory ignited like a flash of lightning in the dark.
An alley.
Cold.
Dark.
A tiny girl curled under a broken awning; her arms wrapped around her knees. Skin pale, ribs visible through a thin oversized shirt. Hair like copper thread, tangled and matted.
She hadn’t cried. Not once. Just sat there, small and still and quiet as a ghost.
The people who “cared” for her didn’t call her by name.
Just girl.
She hadn’t spoken until he offered her toast and cocoa.
She’d taken the mug like it was gold.
And when she asked, in the smallest voice imaginable, if the stars were real — something in him had cracked.
He gave her a toy TARDIS before he left.
And then time had moved on. As it always did.
He hadn’t expected to see her again. Hadnt expected a child to remember him.
And now—
The girl — no, not quite a girl anymore, he realised — looked up at him, startled when he spoke.
And for a second, he just... looked.
Not at the wand in her hand.
Not at the smudges on her jeans, or the ridiculous too-big jumper swallowing her arms, or the way she was clearly trying not to flinch from the lingering echo of what they’d just survived.
He looked at her.
Really looked.
And it hit him.
Right there — like someone had driven a pulse of artron energy straight into both hearts.
This wasn’t just some witch in a too-big jumper, wand still trembling in her hand, Patronus fading like the last note of a song that shouldn't have been possible.
This was the child.
The tiny one. Curled in on herself like she was trying to disappear into the floor. Face half-hidden behind old sleeves, skin like parchment, eyes too wide, too knowing.
He remembered the cocoa. The blanket. The ridiculous triangle sandwiches.
He remembered thinking — in the quiet, just before he left — Someone should have loved you better.
And now here she was. Fifteen. Taller. Stronger. Wiser. Still sharp-eyed. Still guarded.
Still her.
The TARDIS thrummed softly behind him, a steady pulse like a distant drum — or a heartbeat in the dark.
They sat there a while in the alley. The world slowly rebooting around them — streetlamps flickering back on, cars mumbling past at the far end of the block, as if the universe had only stepped out for tea and was now pretending it hadn’t noticed the chill.
But he hadn't come back. Not fully.
Something still hurt. Deep. The kind of hurt you don’t speak out loud — the kind you swallow and call by other names. That creature — Dementor, she’d called it — had torn straight through centuries of walls. Had looked inside and known.
Gallifrey.
The children.
The fire.
The silence.
His voice echoing in that broken space between seconds — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
He rubbed at his face like he could wipe the memory off. But it clung, like ash.
And then he looked at her again.
Fifteen. And she’d stood between him and that creature with a wand and a spell made of light.
And she'd won.
He watched her now as she sat on the TARDIS steps, legs curled in, thumb absently tracing the carved wood of her wand. Like she was grounding herself with the only magic that hadn’t left her behind.
He wanted to ask about it. About the spell. About her magic. Her world. Her life.
What kind of child grows up wielding that kind of power?
But he didn’t ask.
He never did, not at first.
No — he had a better idea.
Something flickered in his chest. Not joy — no, not that. Not yet.
But curiosity. And maybe… maybe a scrap of something that could grow into hope, if given enough time and space.
He turned, flipping a few switches on the console, not looking at her yet.
“Right then,” he said, his voice still rough around the edges but steadier now. “You’ve got a wand. I’ve got a box. Let’s see what sort of trouble we can get into before tea.”
She blinked.
And then, slowly — cautiously — she grinned.
And for a moment, he swore the universe breathed easier.
He grinned back.
He hadn’t expected her to say yes. Not really. She was too young, too wary.
But she stood up.
Brushed herself off.
And nodded like she was stepping into battle.
“I’ll be back,” she said, and ran.
Didn’t even wait for him to respond. Just dashed off down the street, coat flapping behind her like a makeshift cloak.
He didn’t follow.
Just leaned against the railing, watching the door long after it clicked shut.
Then he turned back to the console, flicked one last switch, and murmured, “She’ll be back.”
Nineteen minutes later, the door creaked open again.
She was breathless, cheeks pink, dragging an ancient-looking trunk behind her that looked like it had fought a war of its own.
She dropped it with a thud and stood in the threshold.
“Alright then,” she said. “Let’s go see something.”
The Doctor straightened, hands already dancing across the controls. That old buzz thrummed through his bones as the TARDIS growled into motion, light flooding the walls like starlight bottled and spilled.
“Fantastic,” he said, grinning like a madman.
The TARDIS took off with a glorious wheeze — the kind that made the whole universe pause and look up for a second, just to say, Oh. It's him again.
She stood next to him, one hand gripping the railing, eyes wide with wonder.
He glanced sideways.
And there it was.
That look. The one that said she wasn’t just here for fun. She wasn’t running away — not really.
She just needed a breath.
A space between heartbreaks.
So did he.
He didn’t know how long she’d stay. A day. A week. Maybe a month.
But right now?
He wasn’t alone.
Not tonight.
Not this time.
And that — well.
That was brilliant.