N/A - For this story to work, the reader is kindly requested to pretend those bits of The Shakespeare Code didn't happen. They were, indeed, very cool, but would make the whole sandbox a bit too complicated to play with.

Doctor Who and its mad universe belong to the BBC. Harry Potter and its magnificent world are owned by JK Rowling.

Harry Potter and the Fish-Men of Mars

Dudley Dursley stood at the door of his parents' house in Little Whinging and stared at the neighbours' cat in boredom. It had been a little over a month since the Dursleys returned to Privet Drive. Their neighbours had all been told well in advance that Vernon Dursley had accepted a temporary position abroad, and the entire family was relocating for an unknown period of time. It had been a lie, of course. They had spent most of the past year in hiding. After all that time cooped up inside, Dudley enjoyed the fresh air, even when the day was uncharacteristically hot for July and the sun was still baking him, this late in the evening.

Right now, he was most of all trying to avoid his parents' friends and relatives. It took Petunia Dursley over a month to re-arrange the house to her complete satisfaction. That is, to make sure any gossip by the neighbours and friends who would see the house would be one of jealousy, not gloating - or worse, pity. Once she was assured of that, she made sure to throw the biggest party she had ever had. Dudley, then, was not allowed to go out with his friends as he did every night since coming back, but was expected to stay at home for the party. Frankly, he was going mad with boredom.

He took his eyes away from the cats for a second, finishing up the piece of cake in his hand and looking for something to wipe it on. Failing to find anything usable he reached for his trousers, when a surprisingly familiar voice made him jump.

"Hey, Big D," Harry was now standing right in front of Dudley, where a second ago only the empty streets and cats could be seen. "Catch."

A football was thrown at him, and Dudley caught it by instinct, and then proceeded to stare at his cousin for a moment with his mouth slightly open. Deep inside, he never expected to see Harry again. After all, the Dursleys and their nephew had never been on good terms, and with each passing year Harry spent less and less of his summer in Privet Drive, practically saying he couldn't wait to be rid of his family once and for all. But it wasn't just Harry's reappearance on the Dursleys' doorstep that had shocked Dudley. Harry had looked significantly different from the last time they met. He seemed thinner than he'd ever seen him before, his usually messy black hair longer than it had ever been and somehow even more messy than usual, his eyes had black bags underneath, and he had a general air of tiredness radiating from him. It wasn't very hard to guess why, of course. The last time they saw him, Harry made it quite clear he was in mortal peril, chased by the same man who had murdered his parents. He must have been in hiding himself, on the run from that psychopath until that time the wizards told the Dursleys they were finally safe. A little bit over a month ago. And now he was standing there, looking tired but still wearing a small smirk, and Dudley remained with his mouth open, unsure what to say in response. None of the things that came to his mind would work. He seemed unable to think of a single thing he could say to his cousin that didn't sound terrible to his own ears. So, Harry, I take it the psychopath who was after you is gone. Hi, Harry, how was your year? We were in hiding! Say, did you kill anyone lately?

Eventually, it was Harry who broke the silence. "So, feel like a game of one-on-one?"

"Sure," Dudley said, clinging to the one part of this encounter he could make sense of, even if the two of them had never done anything together in their lives.

They played for a while in the setting sun, and he soon learned Harry wasn't very good at football, at least compared to him. He easily blocked most of his cousin's attacks on his goal post, and scored almost as easily against him. When they stopped for a quick drink from the water fountain and to get rid of the sweat-drenched shirts, throwing them next to Harry's discarded bag and wand, it occurred to him his cousin might not be playing to win at all.

The summer sun was now almost gone, but as far as they could tell, it might as well have been high in the sky. The half-dead grass that had absorbed the hot rays all day long seemed to have had enough. Instead of absorbing the heat, Dudley could have sworn it was radiating it at the two of them. The last sun-rays themselves seemed relentless, determined to bake them until the very last moment. But neither one of the two teenagers seemed to care: Harry was running without pause all over the grass, trying to score, or - as Dudley later suspected - trying to find a reason not to stop running. Dudley was also playing brutally, taking advantage of his cousin's complete lack of strategy and using every chance he had to reach the opposite goal.

But eventually, both of them had run out of energy. With the last rays of the sun gone into the horizon, the two collapsed on the grass in exhaustion, breathing heavily.

"You know, you're rubbish in this game," Dudley said once he caught his breath, and immediately wanted to kick himself. It was the force of habit, more than anything else - he didn't really know how to be nice to his cousin. Whenever he tried, he ended up not saying a word.

"Yeah, well, it if was Quidditch, I would have kicked your arse," Harry replied, but with a touch of humour in his voice. He seemed to realise Dudley didn't intend to be mean.

"What's Quidditch?" Dudley asked.

"A bit like basketball. Only not really. And you play it on broomsticks."

"Broomsticks?"

Harry gestured vaguely at the sky. "In the air."

"Ah."

They stared at the darkening sky in silence for a bit longer. Dudley couldn't help but sneak a glance at his cousin - in addition to the familiar lightning-bolt scar, he seemed to have acquired something nasty and squiggly on his right hand - almost like handwriting, Dudley realised, except that he couldn't tell what it said. And then, on his neck, something that looked like a white-hot chain was pressed there, or perhaps a burn from a thin line choking him. Harry must have noticed he was looking at the new scar, as he turned away and put his soaked shirt back on. "It's a..." he started saying, but something must have caught his eye. He stared ahead for such a long time that Dudley was beginning to think he had forgotten all about the sentence. But eventually he said "... Long story. It's a long story." Dudley smiled at him, trying to end the awkward moment, and Harry got up on his feet.

"Time to go. It was nice seeing you, Dudley."

"Wait," Dudley said, getting to his feet as well, and not quite sure what he wanted to say. Harry looked at him for a moment, expecting him to explain, and Dudley eventually settled for "Mum and Dad are having a party, there's some pretty good cake."

Harry still didn't say anything, and it suddenly crossed Dudley's mind that perhaps, after all these years, he wasn't quite sure he was understanding Dudley correctly. "Want to drop by? Have a piece? It's a really good cake," Dudley clarified, and Harry smirked.

"Yeah, I don't think Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would be very happy to see me eating their cake," he said.

"Yeah. I know. All the more reason to come," Dudley answered, and Harry's smirk turned into a full blown laughter. Dudley joined him.

"Better not, I guess," he said when the laughter died down. "But thanks for the offer." He picked up his wand and his bag.

"Where are you staying now?" Dudley asked.

"London. My godfather's house."

"Oh. It's going to take a while, to get to London now," Dudley said, and Harry laughed again.

"Wizard, remember?"

"Right. It probably takes you people five minutes."

"More like five seconds," Harry said. "Watch this." He then turned on the spot, and disappeared. Dudley stared for a while in amazement at the place where his cousin had been standing not a moment ago, and shook his head in laughter. He then put on up his own shirt, and kicked the football all the way home, feeling surprisingly lighthearted.

X

The residents of Grimmauld Place were always amused with the silly mistake in their street's house numbers. While most streets had all the range of house numbers, or skipped the unlucky number 13, in Grimmauld Place it was number 12 that had been skipped. Whenever a new neighbour had moved into the street, they would comment on this strange phenomenon, and enjoy the confusion. This was, however, the most the residents of Grimmauld Place had ever communicated with each other. Even comparing to the regular standards of city streets, the various families in Grimmauld Place seemed more concerned with their privacy and peace than with bonding with their neighbours. No one asked too many questions, no one peeped into their neighbours' window or bin, and at nightfall they all went back into their home to watch television and play with their children, and cared little for the world outside. Even their welcoming routine for new neighbours had been limited to the jokes about Number 12, and on special occasions, pie. This was London, after all. They saw millions of people every day, and cared little for them.

It wasn't, therefore, completely expected that they would notice their street's routine had changed somewhat in the recent months. And yet, some of them did. They came home, kissed their spouse, asked the kids how was school and complained about Gareth in the Office, or what That Annoying Lisa did today, as always - and then casually noted once again the number of weird, cloaked fools walking up and down the street at ungodly hours.

The residents of Numbers Eleven and Thirteen were the first to notice - and after a couple of weeks, they even initiated a conversation on the matter with one another as they met near the bins. It wasn't long before Number Fifteen was in on the gossip as well. By the end of the week, they had talked with Number Ten for the first time in their lives about anything other than the noise their children were prone to make. That Friday, all the neighbours gathered together in the living room of Number Thirteen for chips and beer, and watched the street while chatting eagerly.

Before long, Grimmauld Place had developed a community of sorts, united in the Secret of the Cloaked People. Soon, everyone stopped bringing Shepherd's Pie, because Susan at Number Thirteen was vegetarian. The recipe John at Number Six provided for his chocolate-brownies-with-amaretto was making the rounds, and no one could stop saying how tasty it was. When Katie-at-Number-Nine's ex-husband stopped paying the money he owed her, they all helped a bit, and Margaret from Number Ten, who was a lawyer, provided some sound legal advice. They still met near the bins and chattered, but now it was all the gossip about the new guy Barbara from Five was dating and how was Katie doing. Sometimes, they still mentioned the Cloaked People.

And in all that time, none of them ever thought to connect this phenomenon - or, indeed, their new found friendship - with the boy, barely out of his teens, who had been seen crossing the street every morning, carrying a bag on his back. And why should they? In his unkempt clothes and messy hair, he looked like any fresh student, going to class or whatever it was boys his age did these days, which probably involved graffiti and anti-social behaviour. After all, they had better things to discuss now.

Had any of them cared to notice, they would have seen the boy - a young man, in fact - appearing as if out of thin air every morning between numbers 11 and 13, walking towards one of the main public gardens of London, sitting down on the grass, and taking out big, ancient books, parchments and quills, reading and taking notes - not so different, in fact, from any other young man in the area. Except that everything about him was completely different.

The squirrels and pigeons, of course, knew otherwise. They had noticed the one thing in their life that had become constant, other than bicker with one another and swim in the small fountain. But squirrels and pigeons could not talk.

To the eight million dwellers of London, that young man was invisible.

Well... eight million bar one.

X

Inside the kitchen of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, the room was dark and messy. A big pot stood on the cooker, with the remains of something that might have been soup but had seen better days at its bottom. A few plates were in the sink, waiting to be washed, while a couple more were still on the table, where their owner had last eaten from them. Some wrappers of pre-prepared meals and sandwiches could be seen in the bin.

The table itself was full of papers, copies of the the recent weeks' editions of the Daily Prophet. The oldest headline read 'SHACKLEBOLT NAMED TEMPORARY MINISTER; MINISTRY AT DISARRAY'. Above it, another headline glared:

'POTTER SHUNTED FROM MINISTRY? THE CHOSEN ONE MISSING by Rita Skeeter'

THE temporary Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, has announced today that he intends to continue in his role. The Minister, who had taken the role on a temporary basis at the end of the war, is said to have 'big plans' to return the Ministry for Magic to its former glory. Commenting on the rumours from the past several weeks that the role would be offered to Harry Potter, Minister Shacklebolt said: "That's nonsense. The boy's eighteen. Any job he would be interested in is his, obviously, but he's no yet up to being Minister, nor does he even want the role. What a ridiculous notion. You people need to find something better to do with your time."

Despite this announcement, the Daily Prophet has learned that Potter is indeed very much interested in the job, and the Minister's men are doing their best to dissuade him from taking this next logical step. A source deep within the Ministry had commented that Minister Shacklebolt has approved any and all means necessary to stop Potter from achieving his ambition. Regrettably, Potter could not be located to give his comment, and rumours have it that the Boy Who Lived has been taken into custody in the Ministry by orders of the Minister himself, supposedly to 'protect' him from any Death Eaters who still remain at large, but no confirmation could be made.

Next to this piece, a message was written in red ink:

'Harry, you might enjoy this. Apparently, we're mortal enemies, and I possibly killed you and fed your body to rabid hippogriffs. I'll try to make it to the Burrow tomorrow on time for your party, but if I can't, happy birthday! Kingsley'.

On the other side of the table sat the subject of the paper's article and speculation, quite free and eating a simple breakfast of toast and coffee while reading the latest headline. The headline itself screamed from the page: 'INCOMPETENCE AT THE MINISTRY; DEATH EATERS STILL AT LARGE STRIKE AGAIN.' Harry Potter was not, however, interested in this headline, but in the smaller piece at the bottom of the page:

'MALFOY TRIAL TO BEGIN IN THREE DAYS AMIDST DISCUSSION OF SLYTHERIN HOUSE ACTION.'

WHILE the trials of the apprehended Death Eaters continue, the Ministry of Magic has been urged to act against the sons and daughters of known Death Eaters, who have been involved with He Who Must Not Be Named in the most recent war. The best example of these would be the son of known Death Eater and once the Dark Lord's right-hand man, Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy, who has already been given a life sentence in Azkaban Prison, has raised his only son, Draco, to the same beliefs. Indeed Draco, 18, is now about to stand trial for his own actions during the war, and is rumoured to have been a key player in You-Know-Who's plans and the murder of Albus Dumbledore, and to have been initiated as a full Death Eater as early as two years ago. Malfoy is currently at the centre of a new campaign led by Ministry officials to disband Slytherin House and prevent all those students currently in Slytherin and the children and siblings of known Slytherin Death Eaters from attending Hogwarts. No comment has been made by the Ministry.'

Harry threw the paper away from him in disgust, and looked again at the letter that had arrived in the post that morning.

'Dear Mr. Potter,' it said, 'you are hereby requested to appear in front of the Wizengamot on the 28th of August, 1998, to testify in the case against Mr Draco Malfoy. Yours, Esmeralda E. Allen, Wizengamot Administration Office.'

He read the letter again in silence, his toast forgotten on the plate. Next to him, an already opened letter from the Ministry of Magic, written by the Minister himself, had announced he would be visited by ministry officials later that morning. Harry noted irritably that Kingsley Shacklebolt did not even bother to ask, merely stated as fact that they would be coming. Well, that was his morning wasted.

But Harry had learned to expect this. Kingsley Shacklebolt - and other ministry employees - had been coming in and out of Grimmauld Place for the past couple of months. Voldemort had been defeated for good, but the magical community was far from healed. And there were still Death Eaters out there. The cleverer ones fled, trying to hide from the long arms of the Ministry. But there were others - ruthless, stupid, evil, who preferred to continue fighting rather than hide.

And, as Harry was constantly reminded by his surroundings, he was their number one target. And so, he had to deal with more security measures than he ever dreamed were possible - in a way, the protection around him felt more comprehensive than during the time Voldemort was still alive. But it wasn't just security measures that Kingsley wanted to discuss.

There was a moment when Harry thought it would be different. Then, in the morning after the big battle, the one people were calling now The Battle of Hogwarts, everyone was tired, when the euphoria was slowly passing and the sheer numbers of the dead became visible. And in their tiredness, just for a couple of hours, just for a morning, no one seemed to be looking for Harry. In those few hours, he had allowed himself the hope that things would be different, that now Voldemort was dead, the wizarding world would not need him anymore.

He was, of course, mistaken. Soon, request after request came to the Weasleys, where he had stayed immediately after the battle. It started with the Daily Prophet, but it wasn't long before Arthur Weasley came home from work, sat Harry down, and told him that the Minister would like to have a word. They needed him - of course they did. They wanted everyone to know he was happy with the Ministry; who he thought should be the permanent Minister; what did he want to do and how the Ministry could help him; and so on and on. Right now, he said, all he wanted to do was to sit his N.E.W.T.s so that he would be eligible for Auror training. They all laughed. If that's what he wanted to do, they said, of course he could, after all, it's not like he didn't have any experience fighting dark wizards. But he wanted to do it properly.

And if he was going to do it properly, he couldn't afford wasting the day sitting on more boring Ministry things that did not really require anything from him, other than the assurance that Harry Potter is involved in the Ministry's plans. He put the letter down on the table, and picked up his books. When the Ministry wizards would arrive at 12 Grimmauld Place, they would find the house deserted, and Harry would have some peace and quiet outside. He took one last bite of the now cold toast and picked up his books. His gaze fell again on the court summons. He picked it up angrily, and crumpled the paper into a small ball, which was then thrown unceremoniously into the fireplace. Harry opened the door and left the house.

X

"D'ya mind if I sit here?"

It was the end of summer, and Harry was trying to make the best of the warm sun. He was sitting on the grass, overlooking the water fountain in which a flock of pigeons and several small children were chasing each other and enjoying the cool water. The Square was packed with families, tourists, and even some students who, like himself, were catching up on their reading, undoubtedly preparing for the next term. They were filling the benches, the grass and the small café on the other side of the fountain. The bustle of people coming and going, of the cars and buses just outside the square and of the various shops nearby was deafening, but Harry didn't mind - all around him was life, and that was worth the noise. Harry himself was sitting by himself until that moment, surrounded by books, looking like the typical student. He had done so every day for the past week, catching up on spells, charms and potions, re-reading about past events and various dark creatures, and was mostly undisturbed - until today. But with the brilliant sun, it was only to be expected his peace would not last for long. He did not begrudge the Muggle who interrupted him, just shrugged and buried himself deeper in his book.

It wasn't three seconds before the Muggle spoke again. "Heavy reading, huh?"

Harry raised his eyes for just a moment. "Studying," he said and immediately returned to the book, hoping to make his point clear.

"Anthology of Eighteenth Century Charms?"

He was clearly unsuccessful, then. Harry just remained quiet, with the hope the man would miraculously go away.

"A bit late in the year to study for your N.E.W.T.s, isn't it? I thought the exams are in June," the man mused, and for the first time, Harry really took his eyes off the book and looked at him. He was tall, with a shock of brown hair that, much like Harry's own, seemed to refuse to rest in one place, and interested, kind eyes. He was wearing a striped brown suit - and trainers. Unlike wizards, he seemed comfortable enough in his Muggle clothes, but that combination did raise Harry's suspicion.

"You're a wizard," he stated flatly.

"Me? Nah. Just know a couple of people. They all took their N.E.W.T.s in June," he added unhelpfully.

"Yeah, well, I missed the exams."

"Pity," the man commented. "I'm the Doctor, by the way. And you are?"

"Harry. Harry Potter."

"Nice to meet you, Harry Potter," the Doctor said enthusiastically and shook his hands. To Harry's relief, there was no sign of recognition, either in his eyes or in his voice. Not being recognised was starting to become a novelty. "Anyway, I'll be off now. Don't want to interrupt. It was a pleasure, meeting you."

"Yeah, you too," said Harry, and returned to his book, back to the fascinating world of portkeys and the various ways of creating and fine-tuning them.

But something kept on bugging him, in the back of his head, shouting to be heard. Harry snuck another look around the Square, trying to see if there was anything out of the ordinary - that is, more out of the ordinary than a wizard would expect - anything that might have caught his attention without him realising it. But the place was peaceful. On a bench near him, a couple were sitting and talking. Next to them, a squirrel was running up a tree, chased by a small terrier. A child ran in and out of the small fountain, and the two wizards in the corner were watching him intently.

The two wizards... Harry jumped to his feet. The curse was quick to follow. Another second, and it would have hit him. He knew their faces. He'd seen them before. Not all Death Eaters had been caught, after all.

History forever repeats itself, a part of his mind reminded him as he grabbed his bag and ran for his life. Just like last time, like Alice and Frank Longbottom. The mad hope of those who refused to accept that they lost...

He ducked just in time to avoid another curse, and tried to send a hex at them himself, but missed. Were they trying to kill him, here in broad daylight? Or just capture him? He wasn't going to stick around to find out, not with all these Muggles around. But he could hear them behind him. If he could just overrun them...

"Ouch!" he screamed as he fell to the ground, his leg completely numb. They've hit him with something, and now he knew, they weren't going to kill him - not yet. Muggles stood and watched, not understanding what's going on, but he couldn't call for help, not to any of them. Anyone who would help him would only end up dead. He had no way to get away, unless...

"Harry!"

Don't - you idiot - the man who talked to him earlier didn't seem to understand the danger. And Harry's leg was no longer numb, it felt like it was on fire. Blood dripped all over his trousers and onto the earth beneath him.

"Go, they'll just kill you - can't move," he whispered towards the Doctor. But his saviour didn't hear - or didn't care.

"Come on," he pulled him up by the arm and started carrying him. A curse missed them by inches. With his hand shaking, Harry tried to cast a shield charm between them and their attackers. The pain in his leg was becoming unbearable.

"Go! Save yourself! They're only interested in me! They won't hurt you if you're not with me," Harry said again, clenching his teeth.

"Nah - almost there. Come on!"

But there was nothing there. Nothing but a blue box.

The Doctor almost pushed Harry inside, and it would give them the cover - for all of three seconds - from the Death Eaters outside.

Harry's mind barely registered the difference in size inside the box when the Doctor slammed the door, smiled - and then jumped as a curse hit the wooden doors, making the whole thing shake.

That part of Harry that was still too shocked to fully understand what was going on was impressed. He'd expect the wooden box to fall apart after the first curse - whatever it was that they were hitting them with, it was powerful. He clutched the railway to keep on standing.

But then, this was no ordinary box, wasn't it? He eyed the Doctor in suspicion, but his saviour - or maybe his captor? - rushed to a console a the centre of the room, pressed a button, and all of a sudden, as the column started rising up and down, the noise from outside died. There were no more curses. No more Death Eaters.

Just a mysterious man who claimed to be a Muggle, and a mysterious blue box, and Harry's leg that felt on fire.

"You lied to me," he said, trying to ignore the excruciating pain.

"Yes."

"You're a wizard."

"No."

"It's bigger on the inside!"

"Yes."

"That's magic!"

"No, that's science."

Harry snorted. "Science? What, like television and laptops and - "

" - genetics."

"Genetics?" Harry stopped, confused.

"Genetics," the Doctor repeated. "What do you think magic is? Why some humans can do it while others don't? It's the latent abilities that exist in any human. But most of you can't harness them. And then, for some of you, it's not latent."

"Magic."

"Yup."

"So what you're saying it, Muggles have managed to figure out how to do magic without - magic."

"Nah, they're centuries away from it. Millennia, even," the Doctor sniffled. "They're going to go insane trying to crack some of it, I would suggest to stay away from any laboratories if I were you."

"But how can you know this? Wizards don't know genetics, and Muggles don't know magic. There's no one with enough knowledge to make the connection."

"Ah."

"Who are you?"

"I'm the Doctor, hello!"

X

It was later. Things have happened.

One thing, for example, included Harry discovering he can't use magic inside the Tardis. At all. There was only one time in his life he felt so scared.

He learned to rely on magic. Got used to it. Why not? After all, it was always there, always available, comfortable, and in the past year since he's come of age, available had a whole different meaning. After seven years of using magic, his wand became as much a part of him as the hand holding it. And now he was vulnerable. Naked. Given to the mercy of a stranger - a stranger who might as well want him dead.

"I'm not a Death Eater," the man who would only introduce himself as The Doctor said softly.

Harry didn't come any closer, but remained in his corner of the magic box next to the door. As painful as it was to stand - and he was eyeing the seats at the other side of the column with ongoing desperation, sure his leg would give way any moment - he remained standing. "Why should I believe you?" he demanded. "I can't even use magic here!"

"It's the temporal field. It'll pass. And to be honest... you don't have much of a choice."

"Let me out," Harry said, summoning all of his self control. He faced the worst already. There was nothing more they could do to him. Except that now he stood to lose Ginny; the first chance he had ever had at a normal life - and not just for himself, he owed Teddy one, too; the Weasleys won't be be able to take another loss, and...

"No," the Doctor said quietly.

"Why not?" Harry retorted, defiant. He will not give in, he will not let them -

"Well, first thing, we're in flight at the moment, which means that if you go outside now, you'll fall into the Time Vortex. We don't want that. Not after I saved your life, anyway."

Harry considered this for a moment. It made no sense. Flight? Time vortex? It sounded like - like magic would sound to a Muggle, the thought occurred to him. He was a wizard, that didn't mean he knew everything. Maybe there were some things in the world that had managed to remain hidden from the wizards, just as the wizards managed to remain a secret to Muggle society. The man seemed honest enough, and besides, he truly could not stand any longer. The leg wasn't bleeding anymore, but Harry felt as if all of his blood was slowly flowing out of his body, and tiredness was slowly overcoming him. And so, instead of answering, he half-limped, half-dragged himself towards the chairs, in silence. But he was still resentful, still suspicious. He didn't understand this - he didn't understand any of this. Riddles, clues, mysteries. When Voldemort was around, at least he knew who he was facing - what he was facing. Not that it made it easier, or pleasant, but it was clear. Ever since it all ended, all rules were off. He thought that would be good. Finally, a normal life - as normal as he could live with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead and the name of Harry Potter. With the constant admiring looks, wherever he went. With the meetings - what other eighteen year old, who didn't even pass his N.E.W.T.s yet, sat in special councils with the Minister for Magic and the head of the Auror office?

But normal of some sort. No one chasing him, no one after him, no longer having to hide, to scheme, to search for Horcruxes and Hallows, seeing everyone he cared about in mortal danger or dying or -

He didn't even notice the Doctor was right next to him now, examining his leg. So deep in thoughts, and by now so drowsy and tired and confused, he lost track of what was going on around him.

"Don't fall asleep, Harry," the Doctor said softly, poking his leg with a small, wand-like device. "Stay with me."

Harry didn't have the energy to reply. He didn't have the energy to keep his eyes open. He didn't even have the energy to be afraid anymore.

"Harry? Harry?" said the voice, but it was becoming more and more distant. Harry closed his eyes.

It took him about five minutes to open them again. For a moment, he was disoriented. He could hear a weird humming all around him - a sound that was almost mechanical. Most of all it reminded him of the sound the Dursleys' refrigerator made every once in a while. Not a sound that was likely to be heard in any wizarding home - not one he had ever heard in Grimmauld place. And then he remembered, and opened his eyes.

The man - the Doctor - was kneeling next to him, brandishing a wand of metal at his leg. No, not a wand. A mechanical device. Their earlier conversation came back to his mind, science and magic. Maybe it really was a wand, but one that worked on electronic principles rather than magic. If he could believe a word this man had said.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

The Doctor looked up, realising for the first time Harry was awake, and smiled. "Trying to make you better," he said. "And looks like I'm succeeding. I am very good, mind," he sniffled and got up. "That was one jinx they hit you with," he said, gesturing at Harry's leg.

It was Harry's first opportunity to have a look at his leg. His trousers were cut above the knee, undoubtedly in order to give the Doctor a better look at the leg. Underneath the knee, Harry's leg seemed to change colours like a chameleon. Some of it was purple, other parts yellow. He could have sworn there was a green bit, but preferred not to dwell on colours that had no business appearing on human legs. And all the while, the Doctor kept on brandishing his mechanical wand at him.

Whatever he was doing, it really did seem to be working. The purple bits were turning yellow. The yellow was turning a faded blue, and those areas that were already faded blue seemed to become more and more pink by the second. Even the green bits had completely disappeared. The numb feeling was also gone - Harry could feel his entire leg now. It wasn't necessarily a good thing, as it hurt terribly, but then the pain was slowly fading as well. Soon, Harry could stand again, and the only sign there was ever something wrong with his leg were his mutilated trousers.

"Thanks," he muttered, and the Doctor smiled at him, getting up. "What is it, anyway? Your wand. Is it a mechanical wand? One of those things that can imitate magic by science?"

"Oh, no," the Doctor said. "It's not a wand at all. It's a sonic screwdriver."

"Sorry?"

"A sonic screwdriver. A screwdriver that's... sonic."

"A screwdriver?" Harry asked sceptically.

"That's sonic. Look," the Doctor replied and waved the thing around. A light shone briefly at the edge, and the same hum he woke up to could be heard again.

"But it healed my leg," Harry insisted. "I've never heard of a screwdriver that can heal legs."

"It's a very good screwdriver." This, apparently, was the most the Doctor was willing to volunteer on the subject. He left Harry's side, and turned back to the column at the centre of the room.

"Where are we?" Harry asked.

"I told you, the Tardis."

"And what is 'the Tardis'?"

The Doctor turned back to him, wearing a smile from ear to ear. "My spaceship. It stands for Time And Relative Dimensions In Space."

"And it's bigger on the inside," Harry said.

"Yup. That's the 'Relative' bit," the Doctor offered.

"So 'time' would be..."

"It's a time machine."

"I thought this was a spaceship."

"It's also a spaceship, yeah."

From their tone of voice, Harry felt as if they were arguing. It didn't seem right. The Doctor had just saved his life, a complete stranger in the street who just happened across a man being attacked and decided to save his life. Except it wasn't like that at all. Harry now realised the Doctor knew perfectly well who he was when he first approached him. For all he knew, those Death Eaters were sent by the Doctor himself, a ploy to gain his trust, so they could avenge their fallen leader.

As the thought passed through his mind, Harry felt tired, just as tired as he felt earlier, when that spell was draining away his consciousness and energy, bit by bit. He was tired of being suspicious, and tired of wondering whether the people in front him were telling the truth or lying, whether they had his best interests at heart or were trying to use him. He had learned not too long ago: sometimes it was hard to tell which was which. And after learning the truth about Dumbledore, a different truth every time, or perhaps the same truth cast in a different light with every new piece of information, Harry had stopped believing he could tell the difference anymore. In a way, only suspicion remained: the only way to believe he's not being unwittingly used by another wizard was to automatically assume that he was. His mind wondered to the Daily Prophet's headlines, their speculations about his role in the Ministry and his relationship with Kingsley Shacklebolt. Others had expected him to be used, too.

And he was tired of it.

He didn't realise it, could not put it into words. But at that moment, he decided to trust the Doctor, to believe that what he was saying was true, because he was too tired to do anything else.

"It's a cool spaceship," he said, then. He was only silent for a moment longer before he replied, but his demeanour changed in that minute: no longer was he immediately retorting and dismissing the Doctor's words, looking for the fallacies, for where the tapestry would fall apart. This comment was made of pure interest. And after all, a time-travelling spaceship that was bigger on the inside was cool, if nothing else.

The Doctor seemed to understand Harry's decision. He obviously relaxed, stopped eyeing Harry as if afraid of what Harry might do any moment, and this time his big smile was genuine. "Oh yes, it's fantastic!" he patted the column. "It's the most brilliant ship you could ever wish for."

"And where are we now?" Harry asked.

"Nowhere," said the Doctor cryptically.

"Nowhere?" Harry wasn't quite capable of raising an eyebrow, but he was giving it his best shot.

"Nowhere... ish. We're inside the Time Vortex."

"And what does that mean?"

"It's... nowhere. Sort of in-between dimensions. But not really. We're travelling from one point to the other."

"And where are we going?"

"I don't know yet," the Doctor said. "I could take you back home. The Ministry put protections over Grimmauld Place - there won't be any Death Eaters waiting for you there. And I'm sure they would like to know you're alright."

"They probably don't even - " harry started, but was interrupted by the Doctor.

"Oh," said his companion, "they do."

He was right, of course, the Doctor. The level of protection over Harry was high, the tightest protection any single wizard got from the Ministry, tighter than the security given to the Minister itself. Kingsley joked about it. Back in the war, he said, they knew where the danger was coming from, even though it turned out to be anyone they didn't know was completely trustworthy. These days, all they knew was that the last remaining Death Eaters were doing the best they could to hurt the Ministry - and Harry Potter, the man responsible for their fall from grace.

Of course the Ministry would know. And they would come rushing, worried, and tell him he was being irresponsible. And insist he stays inside Grimmauld Place, or with the Weasleys, who were still mourning the lose of their son, and Harry couldn't help but feeling responsible even when everyone kept on telling him it wasn't his fault, because he had survived against all odds while Fred -

"No," he said. "Don't take me back to Grimmauld Place."

The Doctor turned a keen eye towards him. "Where to, then?" he asked.

Harry looked around him. The central column, which he now recognised as the controls for the spaceship, was glowing gold and green. Warm gold and green light radiated from the walls all around him. A structure, almost tree-like, stood to his left. Through the grating on the floor, he could see machinery. He gave another look around, and an idea formed in his mind.

"You said this was a spaceship," he said.

"And a time machine," the Doctor confirmed.

The image of the Wizengamot court subpoena swam into Harry's mind. "How about somewhere in space and time?" he asked, to drive the image away. "Somewhere far far away. Somewhere I've never seen before."

The Doctor smiled a big smile, and for a moment radiated the same amount of soft light as his impossible spaceship. "Thought you'd never ask," he said, and pressed a button.

The column went up and down, and a whizzing sound was heard. The spaceship rocked, and Harry was flown back to the seats behind him. They were on their way.