Prologue.

The tall, deathly pale man stood in a forest clearing surrounded by figures in cloaks and masks. He would have preferred the weather to be cold, thunderous, possibly with a hint of lightning, but he couldn't control everything, sadly. He kept his hood lowered, protecting his eyes from the setting sun, and tried to resist the urge to roll up his sleeves in the late summer heat. His followers shuffled around nervously, some of them periodically reaching up under their masks to wipe away sweat.

Apart from these details, however, they simply did not exist. Followers only existed while they were useful, and until that point they were to be ignored. In the earlier days, when his power had been stronger, he had been a flatterer. He had known exactly which point to find and press – he had been able to read a person's soul within minutes of meeting them.

Of course, he could still do all of those things, but he chose not to, for the most part. Flattery had led to his followers becoming conceited, which had led to them becoming lazy. And that laziness had very nearly killed him, that fateful day. He could still remember the feeling of his body being ripped from the earth, his soul flung into what might as well have been nothingness. No, it was far better to only give them attention when it was due. Good or bad.

His life as the back of the Idiot's head had thankfully been relatively short lived. But much as he had hated the Idiot, he had been useful, if only because he had been ignored in large crowds. The Pale Man had never before truly appreciated the very real power of the quiet, the easily intimidated. But as the Back of the Head, it had shone like a beacon.

Of course, the Idiot had never known that what he was hearing would one day be useful. And that had made it even easier – he had been able to order him into more crowds without raising suspicion, that way. Muggle-born people were, though he loathed saying it, quite interesting, if only because they watched a lot of silly television. But it was that silly television that had brought him here today.

The Pale Man glided forward and inspected the cage in the middle of the clearing, making sure that it was indeed solid and that nothing could break out. He withdrew his wand and performed diagnostic tests. Behind him, the sound of shuffling grew louder, but this time with a distinctly nervous edge to it. Good. The more nervous they were, the more they would fear failing him.

He had heard a whisper here, a whisper there, usually in hushed voices, as though the speakers were afraid of being discovered. I started John Pertwee today. At first, he had been dismissive. He was Lord Voldemort, he did not need to listen to this drivel! But then someone had mentioned alternate universes. And alternate realities.

And that thought, stupid though it had seemed, had stuck in Lord Voldemort's mind. He had often thought of different outcomes to his actions, of things he could have done, had he known the future. If he hadn't gone after the Potter brat, his life would be different. A non-existent possibility now, but it had existed before. His thoughts had, without him really wanting them to, kept circling back to the ridiculous television show.

He had forced Quirrel back into the Three Broomsticks a month later, and with luck had found more Muggle-borns discussing similar things.

If the Doctor went back in time and changed it, doesn't that mean it never happened?

Blimey, he can be really vicious, that one. You can see why the Daleks are afraid of him.

I've heard his real name is too dangerous to say.

With nothing better to do, being the back of a head, Voldemort had found himself ordering Quirrel to find out what this Doctor Who thing was. Quirrel had managed to find a cheap Muggle television, tape player, and Doctor Who tapes. Voldemort was hardly overwhelmed by the First incarnation.

Until, of course, he died. And came back. Younger. And suddenly, Voldemort had desperately wanted the alternate reality theory to be real. For Doctor Who to be real. Because if it was, he could win the war.

He lowered his wand. The cage was secure. He began to pace around it, still lost to the past.

He had researched, had found mention of things that made no sense, scattered across history. Almost as if there had been some external force influencing the way the world developed – whether accidentally or intentionally (how was it even possible that Muggles had built the pyramids?) – before that influence had mysteriously begun to peter out until becoming non-existent in the present day.

And at some points in history, he found mentions of The Doctor and Time Lords. Strange how a 17th century monk with an infestation of moving angels in his church had known of a 20th century television show. And strange how said character from the fictional television show had managed to get rid of the angels.

It was just such a shame that the idea came from Mudbloods.

Voldemort angrily shook himself from his reverie and lifted his head so that his gaze swept around the circle of Death Eaters. "Are you all ready?"

A man he recognised as Lucius Malfoy stepped forwards, his hair shining in the sunset. "We have learnt the invitation, my Lord." He bowed slightly.

Voldemort nodded. "Very good, Lucius. We shall see whether it has been learnt to my satisfaction."

"Yes, my Lord." Malfoy ducked back into the circle of Death Eaters.

"As I explained during our last meeting," Voldemort continued, "concentration is vital. If I feel that any of you have not lived up to your potential, you will be considered to have failed me. And there will be consequences," he added, almost as a malicious afterthought.

A murmur of "understood my Lord" and "yes, my Lord" swept through the increasingly nervous circle.

"Then let us begin."

Voldemort took his place in front of the cage, eyes almost boring a hole in its exterior, and raised his wand. Around him, wands were raised and throats were cleared. He cleared his mind of all distractions, and focused on his intent.

In his cold, high voice, Voldemort began chanting, hearing the slightly nervous voices of the Death Eaters joining him. He could only hope that his efforts had not been in vain.

oOo

The Doctor ran back into the TARDIS and slammed the door shut, ignoring the sound of firing lasers as he dashed up to the control panel. He sent the TARDIS careering into the vortex and sat down on the pilot's chair, panting slightly from all the running.

Ok, so Melody Pond definitely wasn't there, and he was never allowed back while still in this regeneration, or he would become his next one very prematurely indeed. Or possibly end up dead, which was definitely not cool. And wouldn't help him find Melody – River (which one to use?) - either.

He ran a hand over his face and tried to regroup. Ok, he thought. Ok? That's it, that's all you have? What happened to that brain of yours, eh?

He had searched all the places he could think of, knowing that she would have been raised on Earth but not knowing when. Or, for that matter, where. Finding out who she was had been surreal, he had to admit, even for him. There was just something odd about meeting your… whatever River was, he still hadn't quite decided… when she was a baby, and then find that you've been kissing said baby when she's older. And that River Song was a Pond? He flushed bright red whenever that thought popped into his mind.

He had popped into Stormcage several times since losing Melody, just to touch base, to make sure that she really did still exist and hadn't been murdered in cold blood by Kovarian. And it definitely didn't have anything to do with begging River to tell him where to find her. Not. At. All.

He huffed. Why did time travel have to be so difficult, and why did River Song/Melody Pond have to be so good at keeping spoilers secret? Sometimes he thought the universe was laughing at him.

"You know I can't tell you, Sweetie," he mimicked in a high pitched voice, annoyed. Stupid preserving the timelines. He was just about to continue the impression, having worked up the perfect facial expression to go with River's particular way of saying "spoilers" when the console went berserk.

"Hey, oh, ok," he exclaimed, flailing around the console, not really knowing where to begin, "Sexy, calm down! What is it?"

The monitor flashed red and black, and the TARDIS jerked to the side, throwing the Doctor into a railing, where he clung for dear life. As he tried valiantly to climb up the near vertical floor of the console room, the Doctor briefly pondered the possibility of grappling hooks and ice picks. It would certainly make his job easier when the TARDIS had one of her funny turns. Eventually he reached the console, and pulled himself up on it, staring at the screen.

"That can't be right!" He shouted to himself over the sound of flying sparks and frantic engines. "How can that even be happening?"

He was about to add more when a sudden image of Donna Noble appearing on his TARDIS flitted through his mind. "Oh. Right. But in reverse?" He frantically pushed buttons and pulled levers. "Can you reverse it?" He asked the TARDIS.

The engines growled louder, telling him that she was desperately trying to get away from whatever power was infiltrating her, but was unable to. Before the Doctor could even react, he saw the console room fading from his vision-

But this is impossible!

-and he was roughly deposited on the ground. He bounded to his feet immediately, whipping out his sonic screwdriver and using his other hand to get his hair out of his eyes so he could see where he was.

A cage. He stepped forward and sonic-ed it, looking at the readings in confusion. Wood. Well then. He tried to force his way out, but the wood would not budge. He frowned.

"I really need to invent a setting for wood," he muttered to himself, willing himself to remember this time, but knowing he would forget. Perhaps it was his trademark, not being able to sonic wood. Should he even have a trademark, and if so, was that even a good one?

He threw himself at the cage and promptly bounced off and onto the floor, reeling from the impact. "Ow!" That had felt like concrete.

"Ohhh-kay," he muttered to himself, sonic-ing the wood again and this time paying more attention. There was something around, in or on the wood that the sonic was not identifying. "Oh, this is very not good."

He whipped around, examining his surroundings for the first time, squinting slightly in the dim light, and his jaw very nearly went slack with confusion. All around him were people in masks and cloaks. And they were staring at him. And were those sticks they were pointing at him?

"Who are you?" he asked, raising his voice, and trying his best to sound non-threatening and, more importantly, extremely not worried. "What do you want?"

A man without a mask walked forward. He was humanoid in appearance, the Doctor noted. Abnormally pale, though that could be normal for his species, whatever that was. The Doctor sniffed the air.

Earth. Though with a slight twang that didn't quite ring true. Very, very not good. He remembered the last time he had noticed a twang.

The pale man came closer, standing just outside the Doctor's cage, now. The Doctor absently wondered if he had misplaced his nose, given that the masks on all the others were shaped to accommodate them.

"Ah, hello. You must be the leader," he said conversationally. "Guess I don't have to ask someone to take me to you, now. Which is a shame," he added as an afterthought, when the man simply stared at him. "I've always loved saying that phrase."

"You are the Doctor."

"Er… yes, that's me, the Doctor," he agreed. "Hello." He stopped himself from waving. Now probably wasn't the time. Cults didn't really like it when you waved at them. He had never really understood why.

"You are not familiar to me."

"Oh!" he exclaimed, making several of the Maskies jump. "Is it the new face? I get that all the time. I really should send round a memo. Though if it makes you feel any better, I don't know who you are either."

The pale man narrowed his eyes. "Yes, it is you."

The Doctor nodded. "Ok. Good. But who are you? You haven't told me yet, and that's just rude."

The man turned away from him.

"Then again kind of expected for a man who puts his guests in cages," he muttered to himself.

"We have succeeded," the man said in a cold, high voice. "You may now leave. Except for you, Lucius, and for you, Bellatrix. Your services are still required."

The Doctor noted without surprise that most people seemed fairly eager to leave, a relieved sigh almost echoing at the strange man's words. What he didn't expect, however, was for them to walk out of the clearing – which shimmered – and to simply disappear. If he was right – and he usually was, eventually – the period of Earth's history that he was in did not yet have the technology for that.

He filed it away in his mind under the label "interesting".

"Bellatrix, Lucius, I need you both to take the prisoner to his new quarters." He paused for a moment to make sure they had understood, before adding, "Do not let him out of his cage until necessary. I will know immediately if he escapes."

Both Bellatrix and Lucius bowed deeply. "Yes, my Lord."

The man nodded and turned away, walking out of the clearing, which shimmered again – how can a clearing shimmer on Earth? – before disappearing. The Doctor looked back to the two assistants.

"So," he asked with false cheer, "either of you feel like telling me what's going on?"

oOo

Author's Note: So what do you think? Like it or hate it? As always, reviews are appreciated, and please do tell me if you feel the characters are out of character, or if you have spotted a plot anomaly, because it will help me to make the rest of the story better. :)