Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1999

Doncaster, England

My name is Louis Tomlinson, and when I was eight years old, I had an imaginary friend.

Or at least, I thought he was imaginary.

Back then, I wasn’t thinking about time travel, or mysterious men with impossible eyes, or the universe being far bigger and stranger than I could ever imagine.

I was just a kid—a kid in his garden, playing football, living in a world that I could understand.

And then, one evening, a man appeared out of nowhere—

And suddenly, nothing made sense ever again.

✨

It was evening, the sky golden with its last sun rays—my mom always made me come in before it got too late, but for now, I still had a little time to play. Everything glowed warmly like a picture from a storybook, and it felt like I was hovering in the moments just before the next page.

I was out in the backyard, as usual, kicking my football around. I had on a big, cozy jumper far too big for me. The sleeves hung past my hands, swinging uselessly every time I moved, but I didn’t mind. It was my favourite shirt. Given to me by my grandfather on my birthday last year. It was red—proper red, though a little faded from too many washes. It featured Mickey Mouse on the front, his smile cracked where the fabric had stretched.

My sneakers were covered in mud, leaving a trail of messy marks as I shuffled through the wet grass. The scent of rain hung in the air, rich and invigorating, while the wooden fence loomed in front of me, solid and comforting.

My football, once a vibrant white but now more of a dull grey, thumped against the wooden fence with every forceful kick, the sound cutting through the stillness around me.

At that moment, my mind was completely focused on the task at hand. 

I had a single aim: to kick it hard enough to send it flying over the fence. 

(For the record, I wasn’t able to do that. Not at that time, at least.)

But then–something strange happened.

One moment, I was playing—kicking the ball into the fence, over and over. 

And then, nothing. 

The ball never hit the fence. 

Instead, it smacked into something solid, with a dull heavy thunk, like the ball had struck something solid, something big, something that hadn’t been there a second ago.

I frowned.

And when I looked up, there it was.

A blue police box, standing exactly where the fence should have been.

I had lived in this house my entire life. I knew every part of this garden, every spot of wild weeds, and the little area where Lottie and I once burned grass with a magnifying glass. The garden was small, so I could easily notice anything unusual. The fence was worn in spots where I’d climbed over it too many times. There was no way a big blue police box could have been hidden here. 

No possible way I could have just missed it.

I was eight, not stupid. I knew for a fact that we didn’t own a police box.

But before I could even consider running inside to tell Mum, before I could figure out if I should be curious or scared–

The door swung open, 

And he walked out. 

It was a man.

He was tall, but not in a fully grown way–more like a kid who had shot up too fast and still hadn’t figured out what to do with his limbs. His hair was a mess of wild curls that looked like they had a mind of their own. His dimples were so deep they looked like they could hide secrets.

He was dressed oddly, at least for around here–in a fitted red coat with big lapels, slightly oversized, hanging off his frame like it had belonged to someone else first. It swayed behind him, not quite a cape, but almost like he wanted it to be. Underneath, a white shirt peeked out, loose and casual, tucked just enough into trousers that looked both expensive and too lived-in at the same time. 

He looked like he belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.

He walked in like he owned the place, as if he had every right to be there, as if this place was his and not mine. 

Which was weird. 

Because it wasn’t. It was mine.

"Oh—oh, that’s not right," he muttered, digging through his pockets, pulling them inside out, then shoving his hands back in like he’d lost something very important. "That’s—no. That was supposed to be a bit more… oh, whatever."

Then, he froze. Not just for a second, not just a simple pause, properly, completely still. Like someone had hit a pause button on him mid-step.

His red coat, still swaying from all his rushing about, finally settled around him, going still as his eyes locked onto me.

But this wasn’t the look of someone who had just noticed a stranger standing there.

It was more like he’d recognized me.

He didn’t react like a normal person would—like saying "Oh, my mistake, wrong garden!" or "Oops, didn’t mean to land here!" (which wouldn’t have made much sense to an eight-year-old either).

Instead, his whole face brightened up. 

His green eyes sparkled bright with something I couldn't quite place—recognition, maybe? Certainty? Something big at least.

And then, just like that, he grinned.

It seemed like I was the most incredible thing he had ever seen. 

"There you are!" 

I blinked, confused. ‘’me?’’

He didn’t answer. He just watched me, head tilted slightly, his face unreadable—as if he was trying to figure something out, anticipating something.

It probably should have felt weird. But It didn’t.

Because something about him felt…safe. Familiar. Like I’d known him forever. Even though I knew I hadn’t.

Then, just as fast as the excitement had come, he shook his head, like he was brushing off a thought that didn’t belong. His face changed too. Still bright, not in a bad way, just… more careful now. More guarded. 

He looked at me, really looked at me, like he was seeing something on me, or like he was second-guessing what he was seeing.

Then, as if correcting himself, as if grounding himself, he spoke again, firmer.

"Not yet."

That was definitely not the kind of answer you should give to a curious eight-year-old. 

"Who are you? Are you a police officer?" I asked, since he wasn’t going to answer my first question.

“Oh, no, no! No policeman here!” he said quickly, waving a hand dismissively, like I was a small child. (I was eight, I was a big kid .),

‘’I’m the Doctor.’’

Like that was supposed to mean something. Why would a doctor come into my backyard?

I squinted at him. "Doctor who?"

"Just the Doctor," he said with a grin, like he’d just won some game I hadn’t even realized we were playing.

Then, just as suddenly, he froze again. 

His smile wavered for a moment, and his eyes flickering away like he was remembering something he shouldn’t have forgotten.

I watched him carefully. “My name’s Louis,” I said slowly, like he was the little kid between the two of us.

He winced. "Right. Yes. That. I know."

But he wasn’t really paying attention to me anymore. His brows were knitted together, lips moving soundlessly, his whole face pinched in… confusion? Focus? Or something else, I don’t really know. 

But then, a flicker of realization.

His eyes widened.

“Wait, no,” The words were barely more than a murmur, spoken more to himself rather than to me. “That’s not what I meant.” 

I jumped, startled. “What?”

He didn’t answer.

But his frown deepened, and he whispered something too soft for me to hear, his fingers twitching at his sides as if his body was struggling to keep up with his thoughts. 

Suddenly, he snapped his fingers, his whole face lighting up like he’d just solved the biggest puzzle in the universe.

“Right! Sorry, just an old habit I can’t break.” His grin was back now, wide and knowing, like he was letting me in on a secret only the two of us could understand.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like it was just for me to hear.

“I’m not the Doctor. Not really. Not this time.” 

He paused for effect, then said, “I’m Harry Styles.”

“Harry Styles,” I repeated, rolling the name around in my mouth. Then I scrunch my nose. “That’s a rubbish name.”

He gasped, hand flying to his chest like I’d deeply offended him. ‘’Oi! I happen to like that name.’’

I shrugged. “S’ just a bit boring.”

He laughed—cheerful and easy, as if it didn’t bother him at all—but there was something strange about it. His eyes showed a feeling that didn’t match his smile. It felt tense. 

It felt just like my mom when she was trying too hard to keep a secret from me.

I watched him carefully as he tilted his head toward the blue box. He rubbed his hands together as if deep in thought, the motion slow and deliberate, like he was turning something over in his mind, something just out of reach.

Then, all of a sudden, like he’d just remembered he was supposed to be doing something very important, he spun on his heels and started scanning the garden.

( By that point, I was getting dizzy just watching him come and go in front of his blue box. )

’’Hmm,’’ he muttered, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet. 

He dropped to the ground so suddenly it made me jump, pressing his fingers into the grass like he expected to feel something hidden beneath it. His hands moved fast, restless, gliding over the damp earth as though searching for something only he knew was there.

It reminds me of how adults often fidget when they are trying to recall something that feels just beyond their grasp, even though it's right there in front of them.

He suddenly jumped back up, hardly taking a moment to wipe the dirt from his hands. He turned quickly and took a few steps down, still bent low and searching, but now his attention was entirely on Mum’s flowerbed. 

What was left of it, anyway.

He moved his fingers through the broken stems, digging in the dirt. His face had changed—no longer filled with frantic energy or bouncing around, but instead determination. Now, he seemed to be on a mission, looking for something significant.

Like he was looking at a crime scene. Or was searching for a buried treasure.

I flinched, picturing how Mum's lips would tighten when she found out her beautiful flower bed was ruined.

“She’s not gonna like that,” I muttered.

He barely seemed to hear me at first, his hands still shifting through the grass, searching, searching—until my words finally caught up with him. He blinked, distracted. “Who?”

Then, softly—cautiously, like he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer—he asked, "Jay?"

I hesitated, suddenly feeling like I was the one in the dark. "Yeah," I answered, watching him closely.

Something flickered across his face—something too quick to name.

Then I asked—quietly, like I was just tossing the question out without thinking too hard—

"Do you know my mum?"

He paused.

Then, in a flash, he was moving again.

He jolted upright, so fast he nearly tripped over himself, dusting the dirt from his hands in frantic little swipes. “Nope! No. Absolutely not. Never met her in my life. Just… Jay! Brilliant name. Fantastic name even! Always liked that name. Really, truly. Good name.”

It was so weirdly specific and overly enthusiastic that I just stared at him for a second.

And yeah. He was lying.

So badly it almost made me laugh—if it hadn’t made my stomach twist instead.

I crossed my arms. “How do you know my mum?”

His face lit up again—too fast, like he’d been waiting for this question, maybe even counting on it. 

“Oh, no, no, no,” he said quickly, wagging a finger at me, his grin stretching just a little too wide—like he thought if he smiled big enough, I wouldn’t notice he was dodging the question.

“That’s a very complicated thing to explain,” he continued, nodding to himself like that made it final. "Not for now. For later. Much later. So much later that by the time we get to it, you won’t even remember what you asked."

’’I won’t forget.’’

’’You might.’’

’’I won’t’’

He let out a low breath. “Forgot you were stubborn,” he muttered, like he was adding it to a mental list. Then, before I could press him again, he grinned, too wide, too forced, and clapped his hands together. “Well, Lewis—”

“Louis,” I corrected.

“Yes, that,” he said quickly, like it didn’t really matter, like he already knew that, but his mind was too busy spinning in a hundred different directions to focus. 

And then, as if nothing had happened, he beamed at me, rocked back onto the ground with a careless flop on his knees— 

“How is she, by the way?”

I blinked. "Mum?"

“Yeah! Jay! Mum! Happy? She’s happy, right?” His voice was rushed, eager, desperate.

A strange feeling crept up my spine. “Yeah…” I said slowly. “She’s fine. Why do you care?”

For just a second, he hesitated—so brief I almost missed it.

Like he was sifting through words in his head, trying to find the right ones.

Then, softer now, as he rummaged around him, he asked—”What’s her full name again?”

I frowned. “Jay. Johannah.” I answered, sceptical now. "Johannah Deakin."

His fingers curled into the grass, grip just a little too tight. His expression barely changed, but something shifted.

"Lovely name, that. Brilliant. Knew some Johannah once—fantastic woman. Absolutely fantastic."

He was lying again. 

I watched him carefully. “How do you know my mum?” I repeated.

He hesitated for half a second before finally saying, "That’s a very complicated thing to explain," his voice was quiet now. Careful. Like he was feeling the weight of it.

But something was wrong.

His smile had shifted.

I frowned, watching as he dug through the flower bed, hands pushing aside crushed petals and dirt, his coat dragging in the mud like he didn’t even care. He muttered under his breath, words I couldn’t catch, moving so quickly it almost looked like he was panicking. 

I crossed my arms. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing!” he blurted out, voice too high, too quickly. He didn’t even look up. His fingers were still moving, searching through dirt and crushed petals, completely focused.

I scowled. “You’re ruining mum's flowers. That’s not nothing.”

“Oh, well, you know,” he said, waving a hand vaguely, like that was a reasonable excuse. But his eyes stayed locked on the ground, his fingers still sweeping aside crushed petals, dirt smudging his knuckles. “Flowers are important. Very important. You’d be surprised how many secrets end up in flower beds.”

I watched him, frowning as he dug frantically around the blue box, his hands moving through the dirt with urgent, restless energy—like he knew exactly what he was looking for, but not where to find it.

He was muttering under his breath, too low for me to hear, his movements clumsy, rushed, knocking over broken stems and loose soil. He wasn’t just digging—he was hunting, searching like there was a clock ticking down, like something was running out.

I shifted on my feet, growing more annoyed by the second. He was ruining the flowerbed, and if Mum saw, I’d be the one getting in trouble, not him. “Harry,” I said, my voice rising in frustration. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing!” he snapped, too quick, too defensive, which only made me more suspicious.

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re digging in the flowers. That’s not nothing.”

He waved a hand at me without looking up, still focused on the dirt beneath his fingertips. “Ah, well, it depends on your perspective, doesn’t it? Could be nothing, could be something, could be everything —"

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Lots of things don’t make sense! That’s what makes them interesting, innit ? ”

I huffed, stomping a foot. “You’re messing up Mum’s flowers! If she sees—”

He waved a hand, still digging. “Oh, well, I’m sure she won’t—wait, no, actually, she definitely will see, won’t she? Flowers, mess, very obvious, very… hmm. That’s unfortunate.”

I crossed my arms. “So stop it.”

“Can’t.”

I groaned. “Why not?”

I frowned, tilting my head. “Tell me what you’re doing. Maybe I can help?”

“Nothing, and no you can’t.” he answered too fast.

Like he had rehearsed.

I scowled. “That’s not nothing. That doesn’t make sense!”

He looked up for half a second, blinking like he’d forgotten I was there. Which was completely insane. “Lots of things don’t make sense Louis. Doesn’t mean they’re not true.” 

Then, just as quickly, he was back to digging.

I huffed, crossing my arms. “Tell me what you’re looking for!”

“Can’t,” he muttered.

I groaned. “Why not?”

“Because.”

“That’s not a reason!”

“Well, that's my reason!”

Frustration burned in my chest, my face growing hot. He was so annoying. Just showing up out of nowhere, stomping all over Mum's flower bed, digging around like some kind of lunatic—and he wouldn’t even tell me why.

I huffed, crossing my arms as he kept going, muttering under his breath, hands working through the dirt like he was racing against time. His movements were getting quicker, sloppier, scattering soil and crushed petals everywhere. 

It wasn’t just random digging anymore—he was looking for something. Something important.

I frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing!” he blurted out, far too quickly.

I hated when grown-ups acted like that and didn’t explain things.

I scowled. “I’m eight, not five. I’m not stupid. You’re wrecking Mum’s flowers!”

He didn’t even look at me—just kept digging like I hadn’t spoken. Then, a beat later, he paused, blinked around, and winced.

“Oh,” he muttered. “Right. Flowers. That’s what we were—yes. Not ideal. Sorry.”

And he went right back to it.

“Then stop.”

“Can’t.”

I groaned. “Why not?”

“Because,” he said, like that explained anything.

I huffed, crossing my arms. “If you don’t tell me, I’m calling Mum!”

That got his attention.

His head snapped up so fast it was like I’d just set off an alarm. His eyes went wide, full of pure panic. “No! No, no, no! No mums! No need for mums! Not now, not ever, no mums allowed!”

I smirked. “Well, I’m going to.” I took a step toward the house.

“WAIT!”

I tried not to laugh at how desperate he sounded. Why was he freaking out all of a sudden? If he knew Mum, wouldn’t he be happy to see her?

He opened his mouth like he was about to argue again, probably to tell me some other nonsense about why I definitely didn’t need to call Mum, but then—

He stopped.

His fingers froze in the dirt.

His whole body went completely still.

And then, very slowly, he pulled something out of the hole he just dug.

A book.

No. Not just a book.

A journal.

It was old, really old. The edges were frayed, the corners torn, the spine cracked right down the middle, like it had been opened and closed a thousand times before. The pages inside were yellowed at the edges, just peeking out from where the cover had been bent back. There was dirt pressed deep into the creases, packed into the seams like it had been buried there for a long time, like it had been waiting for someone to find it.

It was Blue.

Not just any blue.

The same blue as the box.

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice quieter than before.

Harry didn’t answer.

He just held it, his fingers brushing over the cover in slow, careful movements, wiping away the dirt as if the book itself was something fragile, something precious. Something that mattered in a way I didn’t understand. 

The playful energy was gone—no more wide grins, no more frantic movements. Now, he was completely focused, his green eyes locked on the journal like it was the only thing that mattered.

And suddenly, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know what was inside. His singular fixation on the book frightened me.

Harry’s fingers traced the worn edges of the journal, his touch slow, deliberate, like he was trying to pull something from it—some distant memory, or maybe something he didn’t want to remember at all. His expression flickered, his jaw tightening slightly, something unreadable passing over his face.

Then, before I could ask, before I could even try to understand, he snapped the book shut, gripping it tightly in both hands, making it clear that whatever it held inside was for him alone.

Just as quickly, he straightened up, dusting his hands off on his already-dirty coat, shaking off whatever thought had just passed through his head. “Right,” he said, forcing a grin, as if everything that had just happened could be swept away as easily as the dirt off his hands. “That’s sorted.”

I frowned. It had been buried in my backyard. That meant it was mine. Not his. Mine.

“Hey!” I blurted out. “You just found that here! That’s stealing!”

Harry jolted like he’d forgotten I was still there. “What?”

I pointed at the journal. “That’s mine! It was in my garden, under my mum’s flowers! That means it belongs to me.”

Harry looked down at the book in his hands, blinking, then looked back at me. “Ah. Right. Well.” He shifted on his feet, clearly thinking very fast. “You see, technically, it doesn’t work like that.”

I squinted. “Yes, it does.”

“No, no, no—see, things in gardens—" he waved his free hand around like he was explaining the most obvious thing in the world—“sometimes, they just… show up. And sometimes, they were never meant to be there. So really, I’m just… putting it back where it belongs.”

I scowled. “You’re taking it.”

“I’m returning it,” he corrected.

“That’s what thieves say.”

Harry gasped, hand flying to his chest like I’d wounded him. “Oi! I am not a thief!”

I crossed my arms. “Mum says if you take something that isn’t yours, it’s stealing.”

He pointed at me. “That’s a very good rule. Except this—” he lifted the book—“isn’t stealing. It’s borrowing what’s mine. Important difference.”

‘’It’s not yours! It was in our backyard!’’

Harry must’ve noticed, because he crouched down to my level, dimples flashing as he grinned. “Tell you what, Lou—can I call you Lou? Never mind, I’m calling you Lou—you let me borrow this, and I promise I’ll come back and tell you exactly what it is, and bring it back exactly where it was.”

I folded my arms. “I think you’re a thief.”

He gasped, all fake scandal. “Oi! I am absolutely, one-hundred-percent not a thief!”

“You stole a book from my backyard.”

He pointed at me. “Well, technically, I found a book in your backyard.”

“Same thing.”

He scoffed. “Oh, it is not!”

Harry hesitated again, glancing at the book, then at the big blue box sitting at the end of the garden. Then, suddenly, as if remembering something, he straightened up and clapped his hands together. “Right! Well, this has been lovely, really, fantastic, but I should be off.”

I frowned. “Off where?”

He rocked back on his heels, pointing vaguely at the sky. “Oh, you know. Here. There. Everywhere.”

That made no sense.

“But—” I looked at the journal, then at the flowers, then at him. He still hadn’t explained why the book was here. Why he’d been looking for it. Why did he even show up in my garden in the first place? “Are you coming back?”

Just before he left, he promised—

“Oh, absolutely!” he said, grinning again. “I’ll be back in an hour. Maybe two.”

People always came back when they said they would.

So I nodded. “Okay.”

He beamed, spinning on his heel. “Brilliant! See you in a bit, then!” And with that, he strode toward the blue box, pushing the door open like it was just a normal door, like it didn’t matter that the whole thing had appeared out of nowhere.

I took a step forward. “Hey, Harry?”

He paused in the doorway, glancing back. “Yes, Lou?”

I chewed my lip. “Is it a real police box?”

Harry grinned. That big, wild grin like he knew something I didn’t.

And he entered the box without an answer.

He didn’t come back an hour later.

But I never forgot.

Because when you’re eight years old and a madman in a blue box land in your garden—you don’t just forget.

And you never stop waiting.

Chapter Text

London, England 1829, 

Once upon a time, in the sprawling and restless smoke-stained heart of London, the air hung heavy with fog and coal dust and the streets pulsed with the quiet rhythm of a city that never truly slept. 

It was the kind of night where gas lamps sputtered weakly, their light barely cutting through the heavy smog, where carriage wheels rattled over uneven cobblestones, their clip-clop, clip-clop echoing between towering brick buildings. 

The scent of rain-soaked stone filled the air, mingling with the distant promise of warm ale and murmurs from late-night drinkers spilling out from said ale houses, mixing with the scent of burning tallow and the sharp bite of chimney smoke. The scent of damp wood, of burning coal and melting tallow, hung heavy in the air, mixing with the ever-present stench of the city’s underbelly.

Not a soul was around, too afraid the weather would drastically change. The air was cold, biting at exposed skin, turning breath into ghostly wisps that vanished as quickly as they came. The streets were damp, the cobblestones slick with the residue of an earlier rain, reflecting the golden glow of the street lamps. 

A woman, cloaked in heavy wool, hurried across the street, her steps brisk, purposeful, her face buried deep behind the high collar of her coat. She moved like a shadow, slipping between the gaslight and the dark, swallowed whole by the mist before she was ever truly seen.

In the shadows of a crumbling doorway, not far from where she disappeared, a beggar boy sat curled against the biting cold. His coat was nothing but scraps, his fingers stiff and blue, his breath thin as it left him in small, fading clouds. He didn’t shiver–he had long since learned that shivering wasted warmth. 

He sat still, watching, waiting, his dull, knowing eyes fixed on a world that never once stopped for boys like him.

In the distance, the Thames groaned, its sluggish waters dark and restless under the watchful eye of Westminster’s great spires. 

And then–

A sound.

A whoosh. 

Then a hum.

Faint, rhythmic, almost like a small breath. 

Then, at the edge of a forgotten alley where no one was looking, something impossible happened.

One moment, there was nothing but a stretch of empty cobblestone, wet with the night’s chill.

The next–a blue police box stood there, silent and waiting.

It looked out of place, standing there amidst the grime and filth of the alley– too clean, too sharp, too blue against the soot-stained brick and the flickering glow of the gas lamps. It was way different than the ones already dotting the streets, worn and forgotten, blending better into the backdrop. 

Perhaps the TARDIS’s chameleon circuit, broken as it was, would suffice to trick the eye just enough to make it blend in–sitting unnoticed against all the too dull environment. Or perhaps London, with all its mysteries and secrets, will simply accept it. 

Either way, it was there now.

And when the last echoes of its arrival faded into the London mist, the door creaked open.

And out stepped the Doctor.

His boots struck the stone with a quiet but steady rhythm, the soft scuff of well-worn leather against the uneven ground. As he moved, the long sweep of his coat shifted as he moved, the dark fabric catching the glow of the nearest gas lamp. 

Tonight, he was dressed to blend in.

Beneath it, a crisp white shirt with a stiff, high collar, fastened at the throat with a blue silk cravat, though the knot was just slightly undone, as if it had been tied in a hurry. 

(It was. The doctor had no time to spare, actually.)

The faint glint of a pocket watch chain peeked from his waistcoat as he walked, vanishing into the folds of his coat. His trousers were dark, fitted but practical, tucked neatly into polished boots that had just enough wear to blend in with the city’s working class, but lacking the filth that came with true labor. Black gloves covered his hands, though he flexed his fingers restlessly as if unused to the restriction. 

(He was. He never liked gloves.)

His hair, forever too unruly for strict fashion, fell in soft curls across his forehead and shoulders, defying any attempt to tame it. And then there were his eyes–sharp, green, impossibly old, filled with the kind of mischief and knowing that no ordinary man should carry.

He adjusted his coat with a quick flick of his wrists, smoothing out the soft wool, ensuring everything was in its place. A roll of his shoulders, then a flex of his gloved fingers, before reaching up to tip his hat slightly forward. A bowler, tonight.

In his right hand, resting lightly against the damp cobblestones, was a cane.

To any passerby, it was a thing of wealth, an accessory of status rather than necessity. Crafted from glass and gold, its surface twisted in an elegant spiral, catching the dim glow of the streetlamps. The crown of the cane, mounted with small gemstones, gleamed softly, its engravings impossibly intricate, far too complex for Victorian craftsmanship. 

But see, this was no ordinary cane.

Because beneath the gilded elegance, beneath the polished façade, it hummed with hidden, alien technology.

Something not of this time.

The doctor’s sonic screwdriver.

Also dressed for the occasion.

He gave the cane a small, almost fond tap against the door of the TARDIS to lock the box, locking it with a quiet pulse of energy. The soft hum of her acknowledgement vibrated through his fingertips, a familiar presence that grounded him. 

Perfect.

With a deep breath, he stepped forward settling into his newest role.

’’Ahh, London,’’ he murmured, more to himself than anyone, stretching his arms before gripping the cane firmly in his hand. He twirled it absently, the motion smooth and practiced, his fingers spinning it with an effortless sort of grace. 

His nose scrunched a second later.

‘’Late 19th century, judging by the… uh smell.’’ He sniffed the air, tilting his head as if deciphering an invisible code. ‘’Coal smoke, damp wool, a touch of raw sewage’’ He paused, grimacing slightly before forcing his usual cheerful tone. ‘’…LOVELY!’’ 

Then, a flicker of curiosity. His brows lifted, his expression brightening as he inhaled again, slower this time.

‘’And, what’s this? Chestnuts? Oh, now that’s interesting!’’ He turned his attention back to the street, tapping his cane lightly against the ground. ‘’And…Where there are chestnuts, there are people. And where there are people…Well, that’s where the fun begins.’’

He closed his eyes, feeling the information trickle back to him in stride. ‘’Alright, old girl, why here?’’ He murmured to the blue box, caressing the door gently. ‘’What’s got your circuits all tangled up?’’ 

He cracked one eye open, casting a glance back at the blue box, standing impossibly still in the alleyway. Its deep blue frame all but swallowed by the shadows. 

He pointed his cane at him, accusing him of some great mischief. ‘’You dropped me here, which means we’re close to something you wanted me to see, something’s happening–‘’

Then he smelled it.

Smoke.

At first, it was just another thread in the city’s usual tapestry of scents, faint, blending in the usual stench of the city. 

He turned his head, nostrils flaring slightly, eyes scanning the skyline.

It curled dark against the night sky, too thick, too black, rising in columns where there should have been nothing but mist, or at least chimney smoke. The sharp, acrid scent of burning wood and bricks hit him next, unmistakable.

The man’s entire body went still.

Then–

‘’Oh, that’s not good,’’ 

He was already moving before the words had fully left his mouth.

His boots slammed against the wet cobblestones, each step slipping slightly, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The wind snatched at his coat, whipping it around his legs, but the heat ahead was stronger, pushing back against the cold like a living thing.

And then, he heard it.

The voices.

Children . Crying, thin and panicked, their wails cutting through the night. 

Adults . Shouting, barking orders at the older ones, calling names.

The fire, crackling and snarling, wood splitting, snapping, the building groaning under the weight of the heat.

On the streets there was only chaos.

The closer the Doctor got, the louder everything became–the pounding of boots against pavement, the frantic clatter of buckets, water sloshing as it was hurried from hand to shaking hand.

The sharp bite of burning wood and bricks thickened in the air, acrid and smothering. His eyes watered. 

And beyond the smoke, barely visible–

A burning building.

Still standing.

But not for much longer.

He lifted a hand, trying–and failing miserably–to block his nose, but it was useless. The smoke was thick, sneaking past his fingers, clawing at his throat, stinging his eyes, burning his throat.

‘’Should’ve put a mask on,’’ he muttered to himself, voice rough as he coughed into his sleeve. ‘’Or–what do they wear these days? A handkerchief? A scarf? Something dramatic. A velvet cravat, maybe. Would’ve looked fantastic.’’

He inhaled.

Immediate regret.

He coughed, waving a hand in front of his face, trying to clear some of the thick, choking air. As if it would make a difference. 

‘’Bloody smoke,’’ he grumbled. ‘’Horrible stuff. Who even invented fire? Rubbish idea.’’

His cane tapped against the ground, sending out a pulse. He needed to focus. The air was growing hotter, thicker, pressing in from all sides. The wood around him groaned, the structure shifting under the fire’s grip. 

‘’Right,’’ he muttered to no one. ‘’Complaining about smoke later–saving people now.’’

The fire brigade was already there, their helmets gleaming in the firelight, thick wool coats streaked with soot. A handful of men struggled to control the hoses, directing desperate streams of water toward the inferno.

It was definitely not enough.

The fire was raging on. 

That’s when he heard them.

Children–small, terrified, shivering–were huddled together at the edge of the street, clutching each other in silence or sobbing into threadbare nightclothes. Their eyes–panicked–were wide, watching the fire as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing. 

A few older boys, some barely in their teens, hovered near them, trying to be brave, trying to keep the younger ones calm.

The Doctor took it all in within seconds, his gaze flicking from the flames to the firemen to the children.

Then—he moved.

He strode straight toward the nearest fireman, a broad-shouldered man whose face was streaked with soot, beads of sweat glistening in the firelight. He was barking orders, his voice raw from shouting

"How many are still inside?" the Doctor demanded, gripping his cane tighter.

The fireman barely spared him a glance, too focused on the disaster unfolding before them. "Some of the older lads made it out through the back!" he shouted over the roar of the flames. "But there are still some—at least three, maybe more—trapped upstairs!”

The doctor’s grip on his cane tightened. Three. Maybe more. Why aren’t they doing something?! We’re talking about children. 

He needed to move. Now. 

But he couldn’t just run in–not with the firemen watching. They’d try to stop him, drag him back. It was too dangerous. 

Think, Doctor. Think. 

His green eyes darted across the street, scanning the chaos–the firemen focused on their work, the townsfolk gathered in small, frightened clusters, children wrapped in blankets, soot-streaked faces turned toward the flames.

No one was watching him specifically. 

Not yet at least.

He moved. 

Not running, no need to alert everyone. The doctor pivoted sharply, spinning on his heel to face the fireman who he had spoken to. He threw his arms out, cane swaying at his side, and pulled the widest, most dramatic expression of outrage he could muster.

’’Right, Right hold on–HOLD ON!’’ He shouted, loud enough so everyone could hear his rambling, his voice booming over the crackling flames. ‘’What do you mean, maybe more?! You don’t know how many! Have you checked the ledgers? Does anyone have roll calls?! Someone must be running that place down somewhere! They are not just tossing children into random beds and hoping for the best?! They’re not dogs!’’ 

The fireman blinked, startled. ‘’I–what?’’

The doctor threw his hands in the air. ‘’UNBELIEVABLE! No system, no organization–Ty-pi-cal! You’d think someone would have written a number down, maybe drawn a little map or something! What happens if one of them sleepwalks? Hm? Wanders off?’’ He gasped dramatically, spinning on his heels, looking at the burning building. ‘’What if you left one in the coal shed?’’ 

The fireman looked thoroughly baffled, and a few others had now turned toward him, frowning, confused–exactly what he needed.

He pivoted yet again, boots slipping slightly on the damp cobblestones, and he was gone, vanishing into the shadows before anyone could notice.

He slipped behind a horse–drawn water cart, waited, then took three long strides. 

One sharp turn.

He glanced around, searching–there. A side alley, narrow, dark, half-choked with smoke, but leading to the back of the building. 

No hesitation.

The alleyway was tight, the bricks still cold despite the heat burning just beyond them. He could feel the thrum of fire in the walls.

He pressed himself against the far wall, eyes scanning the structure. Back entrance? No, blocked. Windows? No good, flames already reaching them. 

Then he saw it–an iron drain pipe running up the side, rusted but sturdy enough. 

He sighed. ‘’Really?’’ He glared at it, dubious, as if that might make it suddenly not be his best option.

The pipe, as expected, did not answer.

‘’Argh. Alright,’’ He muttered, as he removed his screwdriver from the cane, tucking it in his vest, careful. ‘’Nothing quite like a bit of Victorian-era engineering to put your life in the hands of.’’ He reached out, gave it a firm shake–it groaned, but held. 

He exhaled. ‘’Well, could’ve been worse.’’ He muttered, pulling himself up, boots scraping against the damp brick. ‘’Could be greased. Could be broken. Could be actively trying to kill me. so really–not bad.’’ 

Without another thought, he grabbed hold of the pipe and began to climb. 

The metal was warm to the touch, vibrating slightly as if the building itself was shuddering from the fire inside. The pipe wasn’t exactly made for climbing, but he had done far worse with far less.

He hauled himself up, boots scraping against the brick, muscles burning with effort. ‘’Really should’ve–‘’ he grunted, gripping higher, ‘’–installed a lift in the TARDIS. Could’ve at least–‘’ another pull, ‘’–gotten some practice.’’ 

It shuddered violently under his weight. 

‘’Hey, that’s not encouraging,’’ he muttered through gritted teeth, fingers tightening around the cold metal.

Halfway up, the pipe gave a dangerous creak.

The doctor stilled.

’’Don’t you dare,’’ he warned. ‘’I am in no mood for this.’’ 

A pause. A groan of metal.

‘’Oh, you absolute–‘’ 

Smoke drifted upward, stinging his eyes, curling into his lungs. He gritted his teeth, blinking rapidly as he forced himself up, hand over hand, until–

The window.

Just within reach.

’’Brilliant! Exactly what I needed!’’

He jumped. 

At the last possible second, he threw himself toward the open window, grabbing the frame just as the pipe tore away from the wall, crashing down into the alley below. 

For a brief moment, he dangled, his feet kicking against the side of the building. 

Then, with one last pull, he swung himself through the window, landing in a crouch on the burning floor. 

The moment he hit the ground, the heat crashed into him full force, thick and suffocating– like a living thing, pressing against his skin with an almost desperate intensity.

’’Right,’’ he said, flicking soot from his sleeve. ‘’Let’s not do that again.’’ 

He moved fast, boots slipping lightly on the crumbling floorboards as he closed the distance between him and whatever he’d find. The fire was everywhere now, licking up the walls, devouring the orphanage with a hunger that couldn’t be stopped. 

The structure was moments from giving way–seconds, not minutes.

The doctor needed to act fast.

He moved fast, sonic in hand, the soft blue light flickering through the darkness as he swept it in a quick, urgent arc.

Scan, scan, scan–

There–a light pulse indicating life signs. Three.

A cluster of heartbeats, faint but steady, just beyond the next crumbling hallway. 

‘’Ah-ha!’’ The doctor’s grin was sharp and triumphant, even as he dodged a burning beam, embers scattering over his coat. ‘’found y’all!’’ 

He pushed forward, his boots slipping slightly against the charred floorboards as he shouldered his way through a half-collapsed doorway–a dormitory. 

And there they were. 

Three children, huddled together in the ruins of what had once been their bedroom. 

Smoke curled around them, creeping through the cracks in the scorched walls, licking at the edges of what little remained.

The youngest–a little girl, no more than six–was curled against an older boy, her arms wrapped around his waist, her tiny fingers clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Her shoulders shook with quiet sobs, her face buried, unwilling to look at her impending doom. 

Beside her, another boy, not much older than her, was holding onto the first boy’s sleeve so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The oldest–twelve, maybe thirteen–had his arms protectively around them both, his face set in a fierce determination, but the slight tremble in his frame gave him away. He was scared

They all were.

But they were alive. For now.

The doctor’s stomach twisted, a sharp, familiar knot of urgency settling in his chest. He had seen too much loss, too many endings, too many moments where he had been just a second too late.

But not today.

Not on his watch.

What mattered was getting these children out.

’’Oi!’’ The Doctor called, stepping forward, his voice sharp but kind, cutting through the roar of the flames. ‘’Hello there. I’d ask how we’re doing, but I think I already know the answer.’’ 

He dropped to a crouch, leveling himself with the frightened children. Close enough to be reassuring, but not too close–didn’t want to spook them after all.

The older boy stared at him. Not like the little girl, who was too young and too scared to do anything but cling to the oldest boy. Not like the other boy, who was too busy coughing into his sleeve to even look at him. 

No, the boy with the dirty ginger hair was watching him,suspicious.

Not in the way of a child looking at an adult and deciding whether or not to trust them–but like someone who had learned, far too young, that not all adults came to help.

The little girl, though, let out a soft, whimpering cough, pressing herself tighter into the boy’s chest. ‘’Are we gonna die?’’ 

The older boy’s fingers tightened on the little girl’s sleeve, his body shifting ever so slightly between the Doctor and the others. Protective. Like he thought he might need to fight.

And that–that was heartbreaking.

His eyes darted over the Doctor’s face, to his coat, his shoes, even to his sonic screwdriver in his hand. Where had he come from? Why was he so calm? Why did he look like he already knew they were going to be okay? 

And then it clicked.

The flicker of unease, the way the boy’s breath hitched just slightly, like a thought had just crept into his head that he didn’t want there.

Ah.

The Doctor knew that look.

And it was fair enough.

To the boy, he was just a strange man who had appeared out of nowhere, walking through fire like it didn’t touch him, speaking like he already knew they would make it out alive.

The doctor could practically see the thoughts racing through the boy’s head. Where had he come from? How had he gotten inside when no one else could? 

Why wasn’t he afraid?

’’Die?’’ He repeated, shaking his head. ‘’Nah, my lady. I won’t allow that sort of thing. Very strict rules. Not a fan. Now, tell me–how do you all feel about running?’’

He could picture it now–hushed voices beneath thin blankets, whispered stories passed between orphans in the dark. 

Maybe the matrons had told them about angels coming for lost souls.

Maybe that’s what the boy believed. 

‘’I know that look, you know’’

The boy flinched, his hold on the little girl tightening.

’’I had the same, once. You’re wondering what I am,’’ the Doctor continued, keeping his movements slow, steady, so as to not scare them. ‘’You’re probably wondering where I came from.’’

The little girl blinked at him, her thumb slipping into her mouth.

He tilted his head, offering the smallest. Gentlest smile.

’’I promise you. I’m here to help. And I need you to trust me.’’

The older boy’s throat bobbed, like he was fighting for words, before he rasped, ‘’There’s one more.’’ 

His breath came sharp and quick as he forced his voice to stay steady. ‘’Where?’’ 

The boy hesitated for only a second before coughing violently into his sleeve and forcing out, ‘’He’s–hes on the last bed, to the far left.’’ His fingers curled tighter in the fabric of the little girl’s nightgown. ‘’He refused to move when we ran.’’

One more.

The doctor’s pulse spiked. 

Both his hearts were already screaming at him to move, move, move–

But he paused.

He froze, his grip tightening around his screwdriver as he forced his voice to stay steady. ‘’What’s your name, little lad?’’ 

‘’’m Oliver.’’

’’Alright Oliver,’’He said, scanning their frightened little faces, making sure they were looking at him. ‘’I’m going to get him. But you three? You listen to me, and you listen well.’’ 

Too much time wasted. He had to move.

’’Good,’’ he started. ‘’You see that doorway over there?’’ He pointed toward a narrow, half-broken hall, one that led toward the nearest window facing all the firemen outside. ‘’I want you to run. run fast, and don’t stop until you can scream at the top of your lungs for the firemen to find you.’’

Oliver hesitated, but when the Doctor’s eyes met his, something in them must have convinced him–because he gave a small, sharp nod.

’’Alright!’’ The Doctor stood, tapping his boot softly against the floor. ‘Off you go!’’ 

And they ran

And the Doctor moved, fast. 

His attention was already locked on the last bed. 

Because deep in his chest–

Both his hearts knew what he was about to find.

So, he ran.

His focus had narrowed, locked into the small figure curled up against the last bed. 

The boy was small, curled in on himself, his thin frame barely visible beneath the soot-streaked blankets. He looked beat up–his face streaked with soot and red streaks, his lower lip split, the fabric of his nightshirt torn at the elbows and knees. But a quick scan told the Doctor what mattered most. 

He was alive.

Barely, but alive.

The Doctor exhaled sharply, relief flooding through him.

Before he could even speak, the boy’s eyes fluttered open–bleary, unfocused, but so, so blue. 

And then–his small, cracked lips parted.

’’Are you my mummy?’’

His heart clenched painfully in his chest. The words were soft, barely a whisper.

No. 

For the briefest moment, he wasn’t in this burning orphanage. He wasn’t here, crouching in front of this child, in this time, in this place.

He was somewhere else—somewhere colder, darker, filled with ghosts that echoed that same question over and over and over.

His stomach twisted painfully, but he shoved it down, forcing himself back to now.

This wasn’t then.

This was different.

This was just a scared little boy, alone in the fire, clinging to whatever hope he could find.

"No," he said, voice warmer now, gentler. "But I’m here to take you out of here, yeah?"

The boy blinked slowly, his expression unreadable—like he was trying to decide if the Doctor was real or just another trick of the fire.

The Doctor exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening.

Someone should have helped him.

Before he could say anything, the boy spoke first.

"I can’t move," his voice was dull, empty, as though he’d already accepted his fate. "I broke my leg the other day, and—" He hesitated, gaze dropping, shoulders curling inward.

"The others said I was a waste of time. That it didn’t matter if I got out or not. Just another useless mouth to feed."

The Doctor stilled, something in his chest twisting, sharp and unforgiving.

It came out broken. Small. Like it didn’t belong to a child at all.

"Doesn’t really matter, does it?" The boy’s voice was quiet, almost lost beneath the crackle of flames. He wasn’t looking at the Doctor anymore, his gaze fixed on the ashes curling on the floor, like they held some kind of answer he was too tired to look for. ‘’Not like anyone cares.’’

The boy kept talking, his voice disturbingly even, as if he was simply stating a fact. No urgency, no panic–just a quiet acceptance that dug its way under the Doctor’s skin.

(He seemed to forget that they were trapped in a literal building on fire.)

"I’m just one less mouth to feed, really," he muttered, shifting his weight, as if he wasn’t in excruciating pain. "The matron only kept me because no one else would take me. Too much trouble, she said. Always getting into fights. Always running off."

His fingers curled into the blanket still wrapped around him, clutching it like a lifeline, his small shoulders hunched inward.

"They called me a stray," Louis continued, and there was something ugly in the way he said it, something deeply ingrained, something that had been repeated too many times for too many years. "Said I don’t belong anywhere. That I’d probably end up dead in a gutter before I turned sixteen."

The Doctor’s stomach twisted sharply, his fingers tightening around his sonic screwdriver.

He hated this.

Because The Doctor had met thousands of children across time and space. Some had been scared, some had been brave, some had clung to him like he was their last hope, and some had run the moment they saw him.

But this one? 

This one was something else.

This one didn’t scream, didn't beg to be saved.

He just lay there, quiet and resigned, like he had already accepted his fate before the flames had even reached him. Like he had been waiting for the world to decide he wasn’t worth saving.

And for the first time in centuries, he felt something in his chest crack open.

He knelt down, lowering himself to the boy’s level, his cane balanced against his knee as he flicked his screwdriver, scanning him once more, even though he already knew the answer.

Leg fractured, old injury, untreated. No fresh breaks. No smoke inhalation yet. 10 years old human boy.

The boy’s fingers twitched, gripping the fabric of his nightclothes, pulling it tighter around himself. Not for warmth, not for comfort, but like a shield, like he thought if he just held on tight enough, he could disappear into it.

The Doctor sighed, running a hand through his soot-dusted curls, before leaning forward, voice gentle but firm.

’’Alright, listen,’’ he said, grunting slightly when he standed up. ‘’You’re probably thinking this is it, yeah? You stay here, let the fire take you, no one comes, no one cares, no one remembers.’’

The boy blinked at the Doctor

But he made no move to stand up to escape.

’’Well, bad news for you, kiddo,’’ he continued, flashing him a soft grin. ‘’I’m here. And I do care. And I’m absolutely terrible at leaving people behind, so that plan of yours? Rubbish. Worst plan I’ve ever heard.’’ 

Still, the boy didn’t even blink, didn’t even move. 

The fire crackled, creeping closer. 

They had no time left for suspense. The Doctor exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders, shaking off the weight suddenly pressing on his chest. He wasn’t ready for light conversation in a literal burning building mere seconds away from collapsing, but if it’s what was needed, he’d do it.

’’Okay,’’ he said, shifting slightly, bracing his hands against his knees. ‘’Let’s try this another way. You’re not actually listening to me, are you?’’ 

A long pause. 

Then–

A cough.

’’Why should I?’’ The small child muttered, voice small, hoarse.

Instead of answering, the Doctor took a deep breath, levelling his gaze with the boy’s, making sure he was looking at him.

’’They were wrong, you know.’’

The boy’s fingers twitched, just slightly.

The Doctor tilted his head, making sure the boy’s blue eyes were focused on his sea glass green. ‘’Whoever told you that you weren’t worth saving. That you should stay here. That no one would miss you if you were gone.’’ He let those words hang in the air, all too familiar for the time lord himself, ‘’They were wrong.’’

The boy’s shoulders tensed. 

‘’You don’t have to believe me,’’ he said, reaching forward, slow, careful, like he was approaching a wounded creature. ‘’But I mean it. I don’t leave people behind. Not even my worst enemy. Never.’’

The flames crept closer, dancing along the broken beams, their glow flickering across the boy’s face–small, bruised, streaked with soot and something far heavier than smoke. He was so still, wrapped up in a tattered blanket, curled in on himself like he was hiding from the world.

The Doctor resisted the urge to run a hand down his face, glancing up at their surroundings. No time. The fire was winning.

’’Okay, kiddo,’’ he murmured, shifting slightly. ‘’I can sit here and chat all day, but the building’s got other plans, so here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to pick you up, we’re going to leave, and you can complain about it later. Deal?’’

Another beat.

Another breath.

Then, finally–

‘’Who are you?’’ 

The Doctor stilled. Of course.

A simple question. One he’d answered a thousand million times before, in a million of different ways, across lifetimes and galaxies and histories not yet written.

’’Yeah, well,’’ he said, reaching forward now, slow and deliberate, just enough for the boy to see his hands, see that he wasn’t a threat. ‘’I’m your best chance at surviving!’’

No reaction.

The boy just watched him, eyes still wide, but not scared–not exactly. More like he was waiting, like he was bracing for something else. 

Something that never came.

’’Now come on,’’ he said. ‘’Let me take you home.’’

For a moment, the boy didn’t move. 

He just stared at the doctor, wide-eyed, like the words didn’t make sense, like there was no home for the boy to go to. 

Oh how he knew that look. 

The same look he had worn, lifetimes ago, standing at the edge of the universe, looking back at a planet he once called home. 

The same hollow, unmoored expression he had worn himself, the one he had when he fled Gallifrey, when he realized he would never quite belong anywhere again.

Enough. This wasn’t the time for sentimentality, for old wounds that never quite healed.

Meanwhile, all he did was keep his hands where they were, palms open, fingers loose.

Not a threat.

Not a demand. 

Just his choice. 

‘’Right then,’’ the Doctor was still murmuring, but it was getting hard to be heard with the fire crackling menacingly around them. ‘’It’s your choice. But I’ll stay with you. No matter what.’’

For a long moment, the boy didn’t move. 

The fire snapped and roared around them, heat pressing in like a living thing, but still–he hesitated.

But then–finally–he shifted.

A slow, reluctant nod.

The Doctor didn’t hesitate. 

‘’Good, let’s go, then.’’ He breathed, moving fast.

In one swift motion, he slid an arm beneath the boy’s legs, the other wrapping firmly around his back, lifting him as gently as he could. The boy was light as air, but stiff, muscles tensing instantly the moment the Doctor held him. 

‘’Oi, easy now,’’ the Doctor said, adjusting his grip, making sure the boy was secure, but not trapped. ‘’I know it’s not ideal, but I promise I won’t drop you.’’

The boy didn’t say a word.

But the Doctor felt it–the rigid, braced tension, like he was waiting for something to go wrong.

The air around them was thick with smoke, filling their lungs with every breath, the fire roaring like a beast at the Doctor’s heels. He tried to move fast, dodging splintered wood, hopping over collapsed beams, boots skidding against the ruined floorboards.

And then–

A deafening crack.

The floor was starting to collapse on itself, flames swallowing it whole, cutting off the only way out. The hallway that had been clear just minutes ago was now nothing more than a wall of flame and splintered wood.

Ah.

Right. That was a problem.

Let’s think fast.

’’Okay,’’ he muttered to himself, adjusting the boy’s weight in his arms. ‘’Alright, alright, think–think–what’s left– ‘’

The boy of course didn’t speak. Didn’t even struggle. Just clung to the Doctor’s coat, his face pressed against his shoulder, silent.

They had no time. 

No way back. 

The Doctor needed to be quick.

The smoke was thickening, swallowing the room whole, twisting in hungry tendrils around broken beams and shattered glass. In no time, the fire would engulf them. It was snapping at their heels, greedy for whatever it could take.

They had to go anyway.

His feet moved before his mind did, instinct kicking in, muscles remembering the path back where he came from. Through the wreckage, past the sunken doors, down the hall. 

It was not far. He could already see it–the window, their way out.

Except.

The drainpipe was now gone. 

Not just broken, not just hanging loose, completely torn from the wall.

It layed disfigured down on the cobblestone. 

’’Ok, okay.’’ He breathed, coming to a sudden halt, eyes flicking down to the boy, who was watching him now, tired but still sharp, still waiting for him to figure it out.

The fire roared, menacing, around them. The floor creaked dangerously beneath his feet. They were out of options.

’’Okay,’’ he needed to think fast, his grip on the boy tightening slightly. ‘’Okay, this is fine, we can improvise, we can– ‘’

A hum could be heard.

A vibration in the air, faint but undeniable, familiar to the doctor.

Both their heads snapped toward the alleyway in front of them. 

And there–

Through the smoke–

A blue box. 

Right where it needed to be. 

‘’Ah, now that’s my boy,’’ he breathed.

His blue box stood waiting, her blue bold and unyielding, a beacon in the smoke, a promise in the fire.

The boy in his arms gasped, following the Doctor’s gaze.

’’W-what is that?’’ He rasped, voice hoarse, barely there, looking at the blue box that wasn’t there seconds ago.

The Doctor’s grin widened.

’’That,’’ he said, tightening his grip around the boy as his eyes locked onto the burning ledge ahead, smoke filling the place all around, ‘’is our way out.’’

The child gave a weak whimper, his fingers fisting tighter into the Doctor’s coat, a tiny frame shaking in his arms. He wasn’t crying–not quite–but the Doctor could feel the way he seemed terrified. Of what, he didn’t quite know, but he tried to be reassuring. 

’’Alright, kid,’’ he said, shifting his stance as he carefully backed toward the edge of the crumbling floor. ‘’This next part? Biiit reckless. Bit dangerous. But between you and me–‘’ he shot the boy a quick grin, something just reassuring enough, ‘’–I’m pretty good at being reckless.’’

He felt the boy’s breath hitch again.

’’Now, I’d really appreciate it,’’ the Doctor continued, testing the weight in his heels, bracing himself, ‘’If you didn’t tell anyone about this later.’’

The boy made a small, strangled noise, barely more than a breath.

The Doctor flashed him a bold, bright grin.

’’Or do tell someone,’’ he said. ‘’Just make me sound cooler.’’

And with that–he jumped.

The wind rushed past them, the roar of the flames swallowed by the sheer force of falling. The Doctor kept his arms locked tight around the boy, twisting midair, his coat billowing behind him like a second shadow. 

The TARDIS doors burst open before they even hit it.

The Doctor twisted midair, arms locked tight around the boy, shielding him from the worst of it, turning his back to the impact as his boots slammed against the narrow ledge just outside the window.

For one terrifying second–they slipped.

The boy screamed, his small fingers digging into the Doctor’s coat, clutching at the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

(Well. It was, actually.)

His arms wrapped around the Doctor’s neck in a death grip, his breath shallow, ragged, his entire body locked up with terror. The moment they hit the ledge of the TARDIS, his grip tightened impossibly further, like he was convinced that if he let go–even for a split second–he would fall.

And to be fair, he might have.

Because the Doctor nearly did too.

The boy let out a guttural, choked cry, his hands fisting into the Doctor’s collar, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps as the world tilted sickeningly beneath them. 

The Doctor’s fingers snapped forward, latching onto the window frame, catching them just before they plunged into the concrete below.

’’Hey, hey,’’ the Doctor breathed, voice firm, steady, the words barely carrying over the crackling flames. ‘’I’ve got you, alright? I’ve got you.’

The boy didn’t answer, he just pressed his face deeper into the Doctor’s shoulder, his breath coming in short, broken gasps, his small frame shaking with adrenaline and terror and something else, something deeper.

Something older. 

The Doctor swallowed hard, feeling a painful twist in his chest. Because this wasn’t just terror.

This was a child who had never been held like this before. 

Not with care.

Not with certainty.

Not with a promise that someone was going to keep him safe.

And oh, that thought was going to wreck him later.

They had landed on velvet.

Soft. Warm. Safe.

A plush sofa–one the Doctor kept in the main console room for no particular reason other than comfort and style (and maybe, just maybe for moments exactly like this.) The landing was nowhere near graceful, but it was okay for now. 

The Doctor grunted as he hit the cushions, arms still wrapped tightly around the boy, absorbing the impact for both of them. The TARDIS hummed in quiet recognition, the golden light around them steady, familiar, safe.

For a moment, there was only silence. 

The boy didn’t move at first.

Just stayed curled against him, small hands still tangled in his coat, chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven bursts. His whole body trembled– from exhaustion, from fear, and from the sheer weight of everything that had just happened.

The Doctor didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t jolt, didn’t rush, didn’t move to pry him away.

He was like a small, wounded animal–shaken, fragile, unsure if he could trust the hands that held him. The Doctor knew better than to move at that moment. 

So he stayed still. Gentle, Careful.

No pressure. No urgency. Anyway, the Doctor wasn’t planning on returning the boy back to where he came from. 

Gently, softly, without thinking, he began to rock. 

A slow, rhythmic motion–back and forth, back and forth, like the tide against the short. His hands moved in slow, careful strokes across the child’s back, fingers tracing soothing circles, grounding. 

‘’You’re alright,’’ he repeated, softer this time. ‘’I promise, kid. You’re alright now.’’

The Doctor hummed softly under his breath, an absent, ancient song, as he carefully rubbed circles against the child’s back.

The boy began shifting, just slightly, his grip loosening the tiniest bit. The trembling in his limbs hadn’t stopped completely, but it had dulled, no longer the violent, shuddering panic from before.

Then, slowly–hesitantly–he lifted his head.

Just enough to finally have a look around.

And he froze.

His wide blue eyes darted around the room, blinking rapidly, like his brain couldn’t quite catch up with what he was seeing. 

Taking in the impossible height of the bookshelves, stretching toward a ceiling that wasn’t really there, stretching into an endless expanse of space, a vast, breathtaking canvas of constellations and planets slowly shifting, twinkling, seemingly alive. 

Distant galaxies shimmered in hues of deep blues and purples, golden nebulae swirling like spilled ink across the canvas. It felt real, like if the boy reached up, his fingers might brush against the edge of a distant star.

The golden glow of the navy blue walls cast long shadows, flickering across towering shelves packed with books–thousands, millions of them, some so old their pages had curled, their spines cracked with time. Leather-bound tomes, delicate scrolls, paper wrapped in intricate silk bindings.

Some of them were stamped with symbols of lost civilizations, their titles etched in languages that had long since vanished from the universe. Others bore no recognizable script at all, their covers adorned with runes and signals yet to be deciphered by any mind, human or otherwise. 

A few hovered just above the shelves, suspended in place, as if waiting for the right hands to open them.

And at the heart of it all, suspended above the console like the center of the universe itself, was a giant astrolabe.

Its intricate brass rings moved in quiet, calculated rotations, shifting and aligning with the precision of something both ancient and impossibly advanced. The gears clicked softly, charting the movements of celestial bodies not just in this galaxy, not just in this universe–

But in all of them.

Just under the astrolabe-like structure stood the console. A towering, intricate structure of polished brass, glass, and whirring mechanisms, stretching outward in a circular design that seemed both deliberate and chaotic all at once.

The base was crafted from what looked like dark mahogany, carved with swirling patterns that shifted subtly when the light hit them just right, like they were alive. The console itself was covered in switches, dials, glowing buttons, and levers–some sleek and futuristic, others seemingly pulled straight from a clockmaster’s workshop.

The boy’s eyes flickered over it all, taking in the mismatched buttons, the blinking lights, the curved metal arms reaching out from the center.

It was old. Older than anything he had ever seen. And yet, somehow, it felt new.

It felt alive.

His mouth opened once, then closed.

Opened again.

’’Where–‘’ He rasped, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed, his soot-covered face glowing in pure awe. ‘’Where are we?’’

The Doctor’s grin softened, the usual glint of mischief in his eyes dimming into something more knowing.

He turned his gaze upward, toward the vast, endless ceiling of stars, toward the shifting constellations that stretched into infinity. ’’Everywhere’’

The boy blinked, frowning slightly. ‘’That doesn’t make sense.’’

Harry smirked, tilting his head as he studied him. ‘’No, it doesn’t. And that’s the best part.’’

He turned on the Doctor’s lap, trying to take it all in at once again, his hands gripping the plush velvet of the chair as if grounding himself.

’’Is it a castle?’’ He guessed, voice hushed, like speaking too loudly might shatter the actual illusion. 

‘’No. Not that all. It’s a bit grander than your average castle, don’t you think?’’ The doctor laughed softly. 

The boy’s lips twitched, just a little, but he was still too caught up in trying to solve the puzzle—trying to make sense of something that simply refused to fit into the world he knew.

Then his eyes landed on the console.

On the blinking lights, the humming metal levers, the glass column stretching toward a spinning thing above that looked more like a sundial than anything useful.

The boy’s brow furrowed. “Is it... a machine?”

The Doctor’s face lit up immediately. “Ooh, good guess! Warmer!”

The boy tilted his head. “A... clock?”

“Colder,” the Doctor sang, bouncing slightly where he sat. 

He rubbed his fingers on the armrest, then leaned forward, grinning like someone about to reveal a magic trick. (And that’s probably how it’ll look to the boy anyway.) 

“Tell you what,’’ he said, voice low and conspiratorial. ’’I’ll give you three guesses. And if you get it right—”

He lowered his voice just a notch, to add a bit of drama. “—I’ll let you press one of the buttons.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, now taking it seriously. His small fingers fidgeted with the hem of his night gown as he looked around the room again taking in the soft glow of the lights, the strange hum in the floor, the column of glass that pulsed like a single heartbeat.

He pointed at the ceiling, where the time rotor pulsed softly. “Is it... for measuring storms?”

The Doctor gasped, delighted. “Oh, very clever! Still wrong, but clever!”

Louis chewed the inside of his cheek, thoughtful now. He got to his feet and walked a slow circle around the console, fingertips brushing the edge but never touching. Everything was too strange, too alive.

“…Does it travel?’’

The Doctor snapped his fingers. “YES! Warmer again! One more guess.”

The boy glanced up at him. “Travel where?”

The Doctor grinned, all teeth and trouble.  “Now you’re asking the right questions.”

His fingers hovered over one of the levers. “It’s not a carriage,” he said. “And it’s not pulled by horses.”

“Not unless I’m in a very silly mood,” the Doctor murmured.

The boy squinted. “Is it... for flying?”

The Doctor shrugged. “In a way.” He leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing a dangerous secret. “But not just in the air.”

The boy blinked. “Then where—?”

He trailed off, staring at the strange instruments, the walls that didn’t match any room he’d ever seen, the door that had opened onto nothing and everything.

And suddenly—

His eyes widened.

“Does it go up? Like… into the sky?”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Past the sky.”

A beat.

“Past the stars?” the boy whispered, amazed.

The Doctor snapped his fingers, pointing at him like he’d just won a prize. ‘’Ding ding ding!! Got it in three, not bad, not bad at all.’’

The boy’s mouth parted, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder.

“This whole thing,” he said slowly, “it’s… it’s a ship?”

The Doctor nodded. “A ship with no sails and no anchor. She doesn’t just go up, Louis. She goes everywhere.”

Another pause.

“Even… through time?”

The Doctor raised a brow. “Now who’s getting ahead of his time?”

Louis pulled back slightly, like he didn’t quite believe his own words.

He looked at the Doctor, brows drawn. “…You’re joking.”

“Am I?”

“I mean—people can’t just go up there. Not like this.” He gestured to the console. “This looks like… I don’t know. A clock tower had a fight with a lighthouse.”

Harry wiggled his hand in the air, like the words were stuck somewhere just above his head. “Ehh. He’s a bit more than just a machine.”

He crossed to one of the curved beams near the console and gave it a tap, then a firm, affectionate pat. The floor gave a soft, answering thrum beneath their feet—subtle, but there. Present.

“He’s called the TARDIS,” Harry said, gesturing grandly toward the console. “That means Time And Relative Dimension In Space . Bit of a mouthful, I know.”

He leaned back in his chair, rocking slightly as if he were preparing for a grand performance.

“But he’s not just a time ship,” he continued, eyes gleaming. “No, no—he’s the time ship. Bigger on the inside, temperamental on Tuesdays, and absolutely brilliant the rest of the time.”

He stood and swept one arm out with a flourish, like he was introducing royalty.

The boy raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What?”

Harry let out a full, unfiltered belly laugh. “Hey! I’ll have you know, he’s very stylish.”

He threw his arms wide, spinning slightly as he gestured to the room around them. “Bit of a library aesthetic going on right now, yes, been that way for years—but that’s the magic of it! He changes. Adapts. Feels out the mood and rolls with it.”

He leaned in, voice lowering like he was sharing a wild secret. “He even has a swimming pool. Right next to the wardrobe, of all places. Can you imagine? Nearly drowned myself getting dressed once.”

The boy blinked at him, deadpan.  “But how can something like this fly?”

Harry didn’t let him finish. “It’s bigger on the inside, travels anywhere in time and space, and he’s smarter than both of us put together—except maybe me, on a good day.”

He grinned, eyes twinkling. “He’s alive, you know. Just like us. Thinks. Feels. Knows things before I do, sometimes. Absolutely infuriating.”

Then he tapped the nearest panel with something almost like fondness. “Like an overprotective dad, if your dad had better taste and an incredibly annoying Irish accent.”

The boy stared at him, mouth parted, like he wasn’t really sure whether to be impressed by what the man in a blue box was saying or be absolutely terrified of this.

The Doctor, of course, took this as encouragement.

’’Here, I’ll show you!’’ He announced to the boy, suddenly on his feet, carefully placing the boy on the chair not to disturb his broken leg, his coat flaring behind him as he darted toward the console. His fingers flew across the controls, flicking switches, twisting knobs, tapping random buttons just because he could. The TARDIS hummed under his touch, lights pulsing like he was rolling his eyes at him but indulging him anyway. (He probably was.)

The boy flinched slightly when the console let out a sharp ping, but Harry only grinned wider.

Another mechanical whir, a pop, and then–

CLANG!

A tiny jack-in-the-box shaped like an alien clown sprang up from the console.

The boy yelped, then clapped a hand over his mouth, shoulder trembling–with laughter.

A laugh. A real, bright, breathless laugh, spilling out before he could stop it.

‘’It’s–How!’’

Harry’s grin stretched even wider, utterly delighted. ‘’See? He likes you!’’

The boy tried to smother his amusement, but his lips still twitched, the laughter still lingering in his eyes, lighter now, younger.

Slowly, the moment settled. The sound faded, replaced by the steady hum of the TARDIS, the low, familiar pulse of something ancient and knowing beneath their feet.

Harry just watched him. 

Watched the way his small shoulders curled inward, the way his breaths stayed shallow, like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to relax. Watched the way his fingers curled into the fabric of the chair, gripping tight like it might disappear and he’d be back in that orphanage. 

It’s the way his eyes flickered from the console to the door, as if still trying to piece together whether any of this was real. As if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Poor kid.

The Doctor had seen it before. 

He was in the same exact place the little boy was, many centuries ago. 

The doctor let out a breath, shaking off the thoughts. Instead, he turned back to the console, his fingers moving expertly over the controls, the hum of the TARDIS growing deeper, warmer as the ship responded to his touch.

He wasn’t going to take them too far. He was supposed to bring him back right after this.

Just a small hop–a shift away from the burning orphanage, away from the chaos and the smoke–just enough to give the boy a moment to breathe.

The Doctor reached into a nearby bowl of odd trinkets–a watch with no hands attached to it, a yo-yo (which yes, he had played with for a moment before tossing it somewhere into the depths of the TARDIS), a rubber duck inexplicably wearing sunglasses–until his fingers finally curled around something smooth and solid. 

Gotcha! He thought.

He turned the thing he found over in his palm, inspecting it for a moment before stepping toward the boy–slow, unhurried, deliberate. Then, lowering himself to a crouch, he held it out, making sure they were eye level.

The boy’s wide blue eyes tracked his movement, cautious but not frightened, still trying to decide if this was all real.

The Doctor held out the apple, offering it with an easy grin. ‘’Figured we could use a snack. What do you think–fancy a bite?’’

Hesitantly, he reached out, fingers brushing against the cool skin of the fruit before taking it into his small hands, cradling it like it was the most precious thing in the universe. Like he wasn’t sure if he should eat it or save it for later.

It was a gift. For the boy that never got one.

’’Who are you?’’ He asked again.

The Doctor stilled.

Ah. 

That was always the question.

Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate. Normally, he would flash a grin, spin on his heel like a madman, and say, ‘’I’m the doctor.’’

But this was a special occasion. 

This was a frightened child, sitting in a chair too big for him, his body still covered in soot, hands still tight around his night blouse like it might vanish if he let go. 

This boy had already been through enough mysteries for one night.

He tilted his head, a small easy smile tugging at the corner of his lips and said,

’’I’m Harry Styles.’’

The Doctor had gone by so many names, had been called so many things, had rewritten himself over and over and over again.

The boy didn’t react right away, just stared at him, fingers still curled tightly around the apple, holding onto it like an anchor to the real world. He let the boy sit with the words, let him weigh them in his hands the same way he held onto that apple–like he wasn’t sure if it was really his to keep.

’’Right then,’’ Harry said, keeping his voice light, easy, as if they weren’t sitting inside an impossible ship in the middle of nowhere. ‘’And who have I had the pleasure of saving?’’ 

The boy flinched, just slightly, like he was startled by the question. Like it was the first time he got asked such a question. His lips pressed together, his chest rose just a little too fast, and for a second, Harry thought he might not answer at all.

’’My name’s 28.’’

And…What?

For a moment, he really thought he had misheard this. Because what? 

‘’They… They didn’t want me to have a name,’’ the boy muttered. ‘’Said it was easier for when someone would pick me up for adoption. That way, they could choose one they liked.’’

Harry tried to look into the depth of the boy’s eyes.

Names were important.

Names had power.

Hell, even Oliver hadn’t hesitated earlier–he didn’t give some random number, didn’t rattle off a label assigned to him. 

So why wouldn’t Lo–

Harry caught himself, his jaw tightening around the almost-name, swallowing it back before it could slip free.

Because maybe he was wrong.

Maybe this wasn’t him.

Maybe, this time, it really was just a coincidence.

Even if those blue eyes–far too knowing, far too old for someone so small–told him otherwise.

Harry had seen a lot of things in his lifetime. Entire planets reduced to dust. The first star to ever burn out. A whole universe collapsing in on itself.

But this–this quiet, beaten-down little boy who didn’t even believe he deserved a name–shattered both his hearts.

Harry swallowed, forcing himself to keep steady, even as something inside him fractured. He shouldn’t show signs of weakness in front of the boy. 

But he couldn’t shake that dreadful feeling. 

They took his name.

Not out of cruelty, not out of malice, but out of convenience.

Because it was easier that way.

Easier to be a blank slate.

Easier to be nothing at all.

Because he had seen this before.

Not the face, not the small, soot-covered frame, but the weight of it–the quiet resignation, the way a child could be stripped down to nothing until they believed it, until they accepted it.

Until they were nothing at all.

It reminded him of someone he once knew. Someone brilliant, someone who burned too bright, too fast. Someone who had been left alone for too long, who had lost himself to the thing that had hollowed him out from the inside.

Someone who once told him that when he closed his eyes, all he heard was the sound of drums.

Someone he had taken the name from, just to make sure it was remembered. 

The irony of it all, really. That he had chosen to wear the name of a man who once stood across from him on a battlefield, a man who had let the universe slip through his fingers like sand, a man who had been lost to the sound of drums banging in his head. 

But no. He wasn’t there. This boy still had a chance.

He would be sure of that. 

‘’That’s not a name,’’ Harry said, voice gentle, but sure.

The boy blinked, startled by the certainty in his tone.

Harry tilted his head, then, without hesitation, he scooped the boy into his arms, careful of his injured leg and he moved, feeling the way he tensed at first, unsure, unsteady, then gradually melted against him, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the fire

The boy let out a startled noise, his small fingers instinctively grabbing onto Harry’s coat, but he didn’t fight it.

Didn’t push the man away.

Just held on, like he wasn’t quite used to someone holding onto him.

Harry carried him across the grand, sprawling library of the TARDIS, past towering shelves of books older than the stars, past the humming console that pulsed with quiet energy.

With a flick of his fingers, he tapped a small lever on the console as they passed, and the doors of the TARDIS swung open. 

And there it was, beyond them, an endless expanse of dark, glittering with stars that burned so much brighter than they ever did on back on Earth, swirling clouds of nebulae, the distant shimmer of far-off planets, so much bigger, so much grander than anything a little boy from London, in 1829. 

Had ever been told existed.

And right there, in front of them–

A massive planet of icy blue and shadow, hanging in the void like a lonely marble. Its surface simmering under the distant light of the sun, cold and untouched, a world that no one on Earth had yet named, yet discovered, yet even dreamed of reaching.

The boy gasped, eyes going impossibly wide. His little fingers were tightening against Harry’s coat, gripping like he needed to anchor himself to something real.

Because this–this was impossible.

’’See this planet?’’ Harry murmured, like it was a secret he was giving the boy in his arms. He gestured with his chin to the icy planet in front of them.

The boy only nodded, still clutching hard at Harry, in fear he’ll drop him or something, still caught in the sheer impossibility of it all. 

Because Pluto was still a mystery to mankind. A world unknown to the people of planet Earth, undiscovered, unnamed–at least, not until a hundred of years from the boy’s time. 

But that was a story for another time

Harry could feel that the boy, 28, was unsure, so he adjusted his hold a little, making sure the boy felt secure, steady, before he continued.

’’A decade or so from now,’’ he started, ‘’this planet’s going to lose its name, just like you did when you got dropped at this orphanage.’’

The boy turned his head slightly, confused but curious. Harry smiled at him, dimples flickering in the glow of the stars.

’’They’ll still call it Pluto,’’ he explained. ’’But they won’t call it a planet anymore. Just a rock, floating out in space, a thing that used to be something, like you and me.’’

‘’They can do that?’’

Harry smirked. ‘’Oh, they think they can.’’ He jutted his chin at the planet before them. ‘’But does it look like it’s gone to you?’’

The boy’s gaze flicked back to the dwarf in front of them, watching the way it simply existed, turning in the silence of the vast expanse of the universe around them, unaffected, untouched.

They’re not in 1829 anymore. But the boy doesn’t have to know this, for now.

’’No,’’ he admitted, quieter now.

’’You know why?’’ He said lightly, voice full of something ancient and knowing, reminiscent of one of his past regenerations. ‘’Because even after they take its title away, even after they tell everyone it’s just a lump of ice, floating out in the dark,’’ His arms tightened just a little, gaze steady, unwavering, ‘’It’ll still be Pluto.’’

’’Names don’t stop being real just because someone else decides they don’t matter,’’ he murmured into the boy’s golden-brown hair. ‘’They stay. even when people forget. Even when the whole world moves on without them.’’

’’You have a name,’’ Harry said, quieter now, but no less certain. ‘’And it’s yours, no matter what they told you.’’

For a long moment after that, there was just stillness. 

The two of them standing on the edge of time and space, caught between the quiet hum of the TARDIS behind them and the endless stretch of the universe before them, looking out at a planet that will someday lose its name, just like the boy once did. The silence of space stretched around them, vast and infinite, untouched by the smallness of human decisions.

Someday, humans would decide it didn’t count.

Just like they had decided he didn’t count.

Harry held the boy securely in his arms, feeling the small, steady weight of him, the way his fingers twitched from time to time, uncertain, against the fabric of his coat. The way his chest rose and fell, breaths still a little uneven, still catching like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be where he was. 

Harry knew that feeling.

That hesitation, that waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He had carried it for longer than the boy had been alive, longer than Earth had known Pluto existed. That lingering expectation that no matter where he stood, no matter what name he gave himself, he would never quite belong. That someone, somewhere, would one day look at him and decide he was nothing at all.

It was cruel, how humans did that.

Harry exhaled slowly, forcing himself to unclench his jaw.

He had stood here before, in the open doorway of his ship, looking out at the vast expanse of the universe, at futures waiting to be rewritten, at the moments in between when the universe was still deciding what mattered and what didn’t. And for all his centuries of running, for all the lifetimes spent chasing something just out of reach, this moment felt heavier than the rest.

Because this boy–small and quiet in his arms, watching the stars like he didn’t quite believe they were even real–was history before it had even begun.

And Harry was not going to let the universe forget him.

’’You don’t lose a name just because someone else decides it’s gone, Louis.’’

The boy froze.

‘’H-How…Who told you?’’ 

The moment Harry saw the boy’s blue eyes, he knew.

He had known since the second he pulled him from the fire, since the TARDIS hummed with recognition, since something deep within him–something between the beats of his two hearts–tightened like a string pulled taut.

Of course there had been doubt. There always was. 

Because across the vast stretch of time and space, in every back alley, every lost planet, every forgotten century, there were a million blue-eyed boys with feathery brown hair, with sharp little grins and stubborn chins, with laughter that rang out like a challenge to the universe itself. 

A million faces that almost fit.

But from the moment he had held this boy, from the second he had gathered him up from that burning orphanage, fragile shaking, ribs too sharp and hands too small–he knew.

Not his Louis.

Not quite.

But a version of him.

Because Louis existed everywhere, scattered like echoes across time and reality, tucked away in the corners of universes stacked upon universes.

And Harry–the Doctor–had been chasing them. 

Every single one of them.

Because somewhere out there, hidden in the gaps of what was and what could be, was the one that was his.

The one he had been searching for since the beginning.

And every time, he wondered if this was it.

If this was the moment he would finally stop running.

If this was his Louis–the one from the stories, the one he had been chasing across the million’s stars across lifetimes, across the spaces between what was and what could be.

And yet…

Each one still mattered.

Each one still deserved to be seen, to be named, to be saved.

And this one? This boy who had been reduced to a number, forgotten, erased before he ever had the chance to become something more?

Harry had the power to give him back what had been stolen.

’’Oliver…17, he…He heard it once,’’ he admitted. ‘’From the matrons. Before they…stopped using it.’’

And there it was.

Proof.

Confirmation.

The TARDIS hummed low, the kind of sound that settled into the walls, into the very air, into the space between them.

Harry let everything settle. Let Louis feel the weight of it, let him hear his own name spoken aloud, as if it had never been taken from him, never tucked away in the dark cabinets of a random Londonian orphanage. 

He didn’t rush the boy.

Didn’t press further. 

Just let him rest for a moment.

Harry adjusted his hold again, one last time, before finally stepping back from the open doors of the TARDIS, turning away from the endless expanse of the universe and his quiet stretch.

He glanced down at Louis–still too small in his arms, still holding onto the apple like it was the only real thing in all of this.

Louis didn’t argue, didn’t resist when Harry carried him back across the control room, toward the velvet chair tucked against the far side of the TARDIS.

Gently. Harry set him down, making sure his bad leg was properly propped up, before going back to the console, flicking on some buttons. 

Louis blinked at Harry, wide-eyed and unsure, before finally glancing down at the apple still in his hands.

Slowly. He took a bite

‘’Right,’’ he said, clapping his hands together, forcing his voice into something light, casual. ’’Now that we’ve got that sorted, what d’you say we find you somewhere safe to land,eh?’’

Because he had been thinking. 

Thinking, planning, deciding. 

Because he couldn’t take Louis back to his old life. 

Not back to that place that never really saw him—where the matrons called him by a number instead of a name, where he was just another file to process. Overlooked. Forgotten.

Harry wasn’t giving him back to them.

Not to the people who let him fade into the walls like fading wallpaper.

Not to the matrons who saw him as a burden, a line in a ledger, a boy-shaped in inconvenience.

But somewhere he could finally be Louis.

A small town in Yorkshire–back in 1829. A warm house with hearty meals, loud voices, and a woman with a heart big enough to hold an entire universe. 

Johannah’s house in Yorkshire was the closest thing to a sanctuary Harry could offer, the only place he knew Louis would be safe and loved. 

Because Johannah was–well, Johannah.

She was the kind of woman who could stand toe-to-toe with the universe and tell it off for misbehaving. The kind who would open her door to a lost child without hesitation, without question, with nothing but warmth and certainty that love was meant to be shared, not earned.

Because it was always her, in every universe where kindness had a name, where warmth had a home, where love had hands strong enough to hold even the most broken of souls.

She had travelled with him–once, well, another version of her, long ago.

She had seen the stars, walked among them, and then, when it had been time, had returned home.

Because like Louis, she existed everywhere.

She had been a warrior. A scholar. A queen. A nurse. A friend.

Scattered across universes, timelines, histories rewritten and histories yet to be made, her presence was a constant, woven into the fabric of time itself.

She was a woman who took in lost things, broken things, who healed, who held, who carried the weight of the world in her arms and never once faltered. 

Johannah was the one Louis needed the most. 

Because she knew.

Because the universe was clever like that. 

Harry’s fingers flew over the controls, setting the course with practiced ease. The TARDIS shifted, settling into the motion like he already knew the way, humming in approval. 

(oh that clever boy, he knew.)

He turned, glancing back at little Louis, still curled in the velvet chair, his available leg tucked beneath the other, done with his apple and trying to read an old book–far too big for his small hands–balanced carefully on his laps.

The pages were ancient, filled with images and records from the Sontaran wars that hadn’t happened yet–not for Louis, not for anyone else here. Louis’ fingers trailed across the words, lips parting slightly as he mouthed things he didn’t yet understand, but was trying to.

‘’Hope you’re ready for a change of scenery, Lou,’’ he said, his grin softer now. 

Louis tilted his head, wary but interested. ‘’Where are we going?’’ 

Harry’s smile flickered, just for a second too long. His fingers curled around the final lever, pulling it down in one smooth, practiced motion.

The TARDIS shuddered, the engines roaring as the universe shifted around them yet again, a new sky, a new moment, a new beginning

‘’Home,’’ he murmured

That’s when the doors creaked open, revealing the soft green fields of Yorkshire, the quiet of a backyard bathed in soft morning light, a house with open windows and the faintest scent of fresh bread drifting through the air. 

Johannah’s back garden. 

And there, waiting at the end of said garden, standing in the rising sunlight was the lady herself.

She was framed by the golden light of the rising sun, just like an angel. The morning glow softened the lines of her face, but there was something sharp in her eyes–something steady, unwavering, as if she had been expecting this moment long before it arrived.

In fact, Harry had sent her a message–a quiet, urgent call through the TARDIS phone, just enough to prepare her, to tell her she would be needed. 

That it was time.

She wasn’t a young woman, but she carried herself with the kind of presence that made age irrelevant. Her blonde hair was pinned back in loose curls, a few stray strands catching in the breeze. There was warmth in the slope of her cheeks, in the familiar shape of her smile lines, but her eyes–deep, knowing, the kind that had seen more than she ever let on–were what had caught Harry’s attention first.

She wasn’t fragile, nor was she delicate. She was sturdy in the way only certain people could be–like the kind of person who had spent years carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders and had never once let it show.

She was dressed simply, but there was nothing unremarkable about her. A deep blue shawl draped over her shoulders, the fabric worn from soft years of use, a long dress underneath, practical but elegant, the kind that made her look like she had walked straight out of a storybook. There was a strength in the way she stood, in the way her fingers curled gently at her sides, steady, and ready, waiting.

Not waiting for Harry. 

Waiting for him.

Her eyes scanned the open doors, searching–until they landed on the boy in Harry’s arms.

And something in her face softened, like she already knew. 

Harry adjusted his hold on the boy. Tightening his grip as Louis stiffened, his small fingers curling yet again into Harry’s coat, uncertain, hesitant.

Jay took a slow step forward, the warmth in her gaze never faltering, never wavering.

’’Oh love.’’ She murmured, and the way she said it–gentle, certain, like she had always known him–made something tighten in Harry’s chest.

‘’What have they done to you?’’ She whispered.

Then she opened her arms.

Harry hesitated. 

Just for a moment. 

Because this was the part that always got him.

The part that never got easier.

That split-second before he let go. Before he handed Louis over. Before he gave him a chance at something better, something safer, something he could never offer himself.

To that version of Louis at least.

Because he wasn’t the one from the legends.

He looked down at the boy, still curled into his coat, still gripping onto him like he was afraid to loosen his hold and realized this wasn’t real after all, like he was still bracing for everything to be taken away again.

With one last breath, he stepped forward and, carefully, passed Louis into Johanna’s waiting arms.

The boy tensed. 

But he didn’t fight, didn’t flinch.

Just let it happen. 

Because this was how it was supposed to go.

Harry had seen too many stories end that way.

Had arrived too late too many times.

But not this time.

Johannah held him close, whispering something soft, something only meant for him. The boy hesitated for a moment before turning back his head to the Doctor, a bright, open smile spreading across his face. 

His cheeks were flushed, his blue eyes shimmering like the night sky, reflecting constellations unseen, carrying galaxies in their depths–vast, endless, impossibly perfect.

The TARDIS doors sealed shut, the final click echoing through the vast, empty space around him. 

Outside, beyond the walls of the box that was bigger on the inside, Louis stood with Jay, small but certain, hand raised in quiet farewell, bathed in the golden light of a world that now belonged to him. A world where he could grow. Where he could finally stay. 

Still, he could practically feel that quiet ache. That hollow, weightless sort of feeling that came with letting go. 

Because he knew how this worked. He worked. The TARDIS would pull him somewhere new. Another point in time, another corner of the universe, another set of footprints for him to follow.

And another Louis to find.

Because that’s what he did.

Because he had to.

Because the universe had never been kind enough to let him stay.

The TARDIS let out a low, sympathetic hum, as if he felt it too, as if he was mourning something neither of them could name.

With a deep breath, the Doctor flicked a switch, and the engines roared to life, drowning out the part of him that wanted–just for once–to stay.

And just like that, the Doctor was gone once more, swept away by time and stars, onto another adventure, another story, another version of the boy he was always destined to find.

Louis.

Chapter Text

Nexus-Kar, 2147, Twelve light years from Earth.

The TARDIS finally materialized with a low, grumbling hum, an unnatural presence against the desolation around it. The moment the doors creaked open, the air hit the Doctor like a slap–thick, acrid, clinging to his lungs like smoke. 

It carried the sharp tang of burnt ozone, the metallic bite of rust and scorched circuits, and something bitter that settled on the tongue, something wrong. 

Something like old blood.

Planet Nexus-Kar. 2147. Or at least, that’s where the coordinates had landed him. Though, judging by the skeletal remains of twisted ships, their hulls cracked open like rotting carcasses, and the melted husks of buildings clawing toward a sun choked behind a thick, ashen sky, and the eerie silence that had settled over the ruin, it could have been any war-torn wasteland across the stars.

The ground beneath him was treacherous–shattered glass and twisted metal, patches of earth slick with oil and something darker, something that had long since dried into the ruins of battle.

The once-solid pathways were fractured, deep craters and gaping wounds where bombs had carved their legacy into the planet’s surface.

No wind. No movement. Not even the distant hum of a failing energy source. Just a hollow, stagnant emptiness that stretched endlessly, swallowing sound before it could form.

The entire place was a graveyard of a whole civilization, and the eerie stillness of it all prickled at the base of his spine.

He quickly realized that he was clearly overdressed for the planet he landed on. 

His coat was a lavish emerald green, sweeping and heavy, embroidered with golden threading so delicate it shimmered under the fogginess. His waistcoat–deep navy, with stars stitched into the fabric like the entire night sky had been sewn into it–clashed terribly with the scarlet cravat tied in a perfectly lazy knot at his throat. His boots, polished to perfection, barely showed a speck of dust, and the rings on his fingers caught in the dim light around as he flicked a speck of ash from his lapel.

‘’Bit grim.’’ 

There was no one to hear him, but that had never stopped him before.

He stood in the middle of the devastation, looking utterly out of place. If anything, he looked ready to host a gala–maybe charm his way through high society, steal a few hearts, and, if time permitted, escape a scandalous engagement or two.

Instead, he was here.

Ridiculously overdressed for a wasteland.

‘’Right,’’ he said to himself, rocking back on his heels. ‘’Let’s find out what poor planet I’ve crash-landed in this time.’’

He dusted off his sleeves with a frown, adjusting the cuffs like that was the biggest problem at hand.

His boots sank slightly as he took a step forward, the ground nothing but fine, copper-colored dust. It clung to his soles, stirred with every movement, hanging thick in the air–heavy with the metallic tang of scorched earth and something worse. (Something that the Doctor wants to ignore.

He exhaled slowly, gaze sweeping the ruined expanse ahead of him. Smoke still curled from the wreckage, lazy and thick, painting the already bruised sky in deeper shades of sorrow. The silence was oppressive. No wind, no hum of power, no distant murmur of survivors picking through the remains. Just the weight of what had come before.

The TARDIS had brought him here.

Which meant he had a reason for it.  

He took another step forward—boots pressing into the dust, the weight of the silence pressing even heavier against his ears–he didn’t like to be able to hear his own thoughts–when something shifted at the edge of his vision.

A flicker, a ripple against the stillness, barely there but unmistakable. 

A shadow.

It shifted, barely noticeable against the wreckage, but it was there. 

He barely had time to react before he felt said shadow next to him, swift and deliberate, moving like it had been waiting for him all-along. Then–cold metal, pressed sharply against his temple.

He froze, hands instinctively lifting in a gesture of surrender, though his mind was already racing ahead, cataloguing everything. 

The weight of the weapon, the stance of the person holding it, the way their breath remained steady, controlled. Definitely not an amateur. Someone trained.

‘’Oh,’’ he blinked. ‘’Hi you. Thought I was all alone here. Glad I’m not.’’

Silence.

He sighed, tilting his head toward the cold metal, his expression barely shifting as he glanced sideways at the figure beside him.

’’You know,’’ he mused, ‘’if I had a credit for every time someone greeted me with a gun to the head, I’d have, well…significantly more credits than I do now.’’ He flashed a dimpled grin. ‘’Which, mind you, is still zero, because I’m terrible with currency.’’

Of course, the figure didn’t move an inch, didn’t lower his weapon. He didn’t even laugh. 

’’Well, as much as I hate having a gun pointed to my head,’’ the Doctor drawled, flashing his best disarming grin. ‘’This is still a warm welcome.’’

The Doctor, never one for patience, finally risked turning his head slightly, just enough to catch the edge of a hooded silhouette. Their face was obscured beneath the heavy fabric, but the rigid way they stood, the unwavering grip on the gun–this wasn’t some scavenger looking for easy prey.

’’Alright,’’ he sighed. ‘’You’re obviously not one for small talk. suppose now’s the part where you tell me who you are and what exactly I’ve walked into?’’

’’Silence,’’ the figure snapped, stepping closer, the weapon unwavering. ‘’Who are you?’’

The voice was low, rough, but human. The figure stood tall, draped in a massing hooded cloak that obscured most of their features, save from a glimpse of raven hair and a glinting, battle-worn armour beneath the fabric.

’’Well, that’s silence that you want or not?’’ The Doctor retorted, pulling a sleek, well-worn black Wallet from his inside pocket, flicking it open to reveal a small library card inside. ‘’You have to decide.’’

’’Identify yourself.’’

’’Right, yes, of course! Should’ve known. Paperwork first, pleasantries later,’’ he said, flipping it open and holding it up. ‘’Go on, take a good look. It’s very official, very important. Full of fancy titles and all that.’’ 

’’Special Investigator of Galactic Affairs and–ooh, that’s a new one–Royal Diplomatic Liaison for the High Order of the Celestial Accord,’’ he continued, tilting his head as if even he was impressed by his own credentials. ‘’Fancy title, that. But you can call me the Doctor.’’

The figure didn’t even look at the card before scoffing.

A sharp, humourless sound.

’’Oh, that’s clever,’’ they mused. ‘’Psychic paper. Haven’t seen that in years.’’

The accent hit him first–thick and grounded, vowels stretched and flattened. Northern, definitely, but not the kind that danced lightly off the tongue. No, this was deeper, weighted.

It was a voice that had grown up on Earth. 

Humans.

The Doctor blinked, taken off guard for just a second. It wasn’t everyday he landed in the middle of a battlefield on an alien planet and was greeted by a voice that could have belonged to a bloke standing outside a chip shop, arguing about last night’s footy match (If this was still a thing nowadays.

The Doctor's grin faltered just for a second. ‘’Ah. Suppose that means you’re not as easy to impress as most,’’ he remarked, slipping the paper back into his pocket.

He adjusted his coat, flashing his most disarming grin. ‘’Well,’’ he said, tucking the psychic paper away, ‘’that’s a bit of a surprise. Didn’t expect to run into one of you lot all the way out here.’’

The hooded figure didn’t react to the charm. No flicker of amusement either, no hesitation.

He barely gave him a chance to continue before shoving the Doctor forward, the force behind it enough to make him stumble.

Not exactly enough to send him sprawling on all fours—just enough to make it clear he was in control.

Move.

‘’Oi, Rude!’’ he protested, trying not to fall on the sand. ‘’That’s no way to treat a guest–’’

‘’Shut it,’’ the figure cut in, voice firm, no-nonsense, and still dripping in that unmistakable northern bite. ‘’You talk too much, mate. ’’

The Doctor opened his mouth–because, well, rude–but before he could get another word out, the mysterious hooded man gripped his arm, dragging him forcefully forward. His boots sank into the sand with every step, the fine grains slipping into the cracks of his soles, clinging to the fabric of his trousers.

Another nudge came between his shoulder blades.

The Doctor let out a soft huff, rolling his eyes but obliging nonetheless, boots kicking up dust as he strode ahead. ‘’Alright, alright, no need to be pushy. I can take a hint.’’

But he didn’t move right away. He took his time, watching. Calculating. 

When they started off, they moved carefully, their boots sinking slightly into the loose terrain with every step. The Doctor tried to keep his posture easy, relaxed, as if he wasn’t at all bothered by being marched across an unfamiliar planet by a stranger with a weapon tucked somewhere beneath that heavy cloak.

This place–Nexus-Kar, or whatever remained of it–had been through hell. And not the ordinary, everyday sort of battle. Something much worse. Something that left scars not just on the land, but in the air itself, leaving behind a heaviness that clung to everything.

The kind of war that didn’t just break buildings, but left wounds in the very air, in the bones of the planet itself. The kind of war that didn’t end when the last shot was fired.

The kind of war that required Torchwood to intervene. 

And if they were here, twelve light-years from Earth, then something had gone very, very wrong.

’’Suppose now’s the part where you tell me where we’re going?’’ He tried, throwing a glance over his shoulder. 

No response.

Of course there wouldn’t be.

His captor, the hooded Torchwood agent, offered no reply, just mother firm nudge forward with the barrel of their rifle, a Mark-7 Gauss Rifle. Advanced tech. Overkill, really.

The Doctor sighed, dragging a hand through his curls. ‘’You lot never change, do you? All business, no pleasantries. Always with the ominous shoving. No ‘Hello, Doctor, how have you been?’ No ‘’fancy seeing you twelve light-years away from Earth!’ Nothing?’’ He let out a low whistle. ‘’You must be new.’’

Still nothing.

But that was fine. 

Just the classic moody silence and a bit of aggressive prodding.

After what felt like an eternity of walking–though in reality, no more than seventeen minutes and forty-two seconds –the landscape finally shifted. The ruins gave way to something more intact: an old, crumbling building, its structure worn by time but still standing. 

It wasn’t much to look at. Faded symbols carved into the stone, and a collapsed tower at one side suggested it had once been something important, something grand. Now though, with its cracked walls and broken windows, it was little more than a relic of a world that had already lost too much.

The Doctor studied it as they approached–worn stone, blackened edges, crumbling archways. Far less advanced than Earth’s architecture in 2147.  Reminded the Doctor of old Rome. 

‘’Now, see, this makes sense. Dramatic, imposing ruins. Classic secret base material.’’ He clicked his tongue, glancing sideways at the man. ‘’Little on the nose, but hey, we can’t all be original.’’

Whatever this place had once been, it had long since lost its purpose. 

The Torchwood agent didn’t respond, of course.

But the Doctor wasn’t really expecting them to. 

He knew them.

He half-expected his captor to lead him inside, but instead, the agent veered off to the side, following a narrow path behind the structure. Where were they going? 

His steps finally halted. 

Oh really?

A sewer.

They were standing in front of an entrance to what could only be described as an old, rusted-out drainage tunnel, barely concealed by jagged slabs of stone and twisted metal.

The hooded agent raised their arm and pressed something against the crumbling door of the tunnel. 

And in an instant, the door opened.

Or the illusion flickered, like static on an old television screen. The sewer, the crumbling wreckage, it all shimmered, distorted–then vanished.

A gateway. Sleek, dark metal embedded into the rock, a technology far too advanced for this war-torn landscape. It pulsed softly, a faint blue light sweeping over the hooded figure, scanning, reading, deciding. 

Then, a low hum filled the air, a mechanical voice crackling to life from the unseen speakers embedded in the metal.

‘’IDENTIFICATION: AGENT NUMBER 25.

ZAIN JAVADD MALIK. 

ACCESS GRANTED.’’

Ah. Interesting. 

The Doctor watched as the scanner completed its assessment, the soft blue light pulsing before fading back into the panel. The soldier–Agent Malik–stood unmoving, completely unfazed by the process.

The man shifted slightly, reached up and pushed back his hood. 

Dark hair, mussed and unruly from the movement, fell into sharp, brooding features. A shadowed beard carved along the angles of his jaw. There was ink on his skin, just visible beneath the collar of his uniform, curling like smoke along the lines of his throat.

‘’Let’s go.’’ He said, voice clipped and certain. ‘’Keep moving.’’

The Doctor raised an eyebrow but did as he was told, stepping through the threshold. 

The underground structure stretched far beyond what the eye could see. A carefully concealed operation, buzzing with activity. Soldiers, medics, engineers—a whole town in motion. Low-lit corridors pulsed with strips of blue light embedded in the walls, illuminating holographic maps and tactical displays. 

‘’Oh. So, Torchwood on an alien battlefield, operating in deep space, wielding tech way beyond their jurisdiction.’’ He hummed, as if considering. ‘’Now, either I’ve missed an extremely messy memo, or…’’ His eyes opened wider. ‘’This isn’t exactly an official mission, is it??’’ 

His captor’s shoulders tensed, just slightly, but the agent kept moving ahead without another word. 

His fingers brushed against his coat pocket, feeling for his screwdriver–just in case.

Because this wasn’t normal.

The agent didn’t stop. He led the Doctor deeper into the underground complex, weaving through corridors that twisted and stretched far beyond what should have been possible. 

And yet, even knowing who Torchwood was—and that they clearly knew him—the Doctor wasn’t being taken to a briefing room or an interrogation chamber. He was being led somewhere else entirely.

He wasn’t here as a guest.

The Doctor barely had any time to process anything else before a firm hand landed on his shoulder. The agent–Malik, was it?–didn’t give him a chance to argue. 

His suspicions were confirmed as they reached a reinforced door at the end of a narrow hallway. A single red light pulsed above it.

Containment .

’’Alright, that’s enough sightseeing,’’ the agent, Zain , muttered, steering the Doctor sharply down another corridor. 

‘’Oi,’’ the Doctor huffed, taking a step back. ‘’Right, well, I don’t know what sort of welcome committee I was expecting, but this? Rude. Very rude. ‘’

He barely had time to brace himself before he stumbled forward, landing hard against the cold, unyielding floor of the cell. He let out an exaggerated huff, brushing imaginary dust off his coat as he straightened up. 

The Doctor let out a slow breath, running a hand through his curls as he took in his surroundings. 

‘’Alrighty,’’ he muttered, rocking back on his heels. ‘’Bit rude of you, agent Malik. ’’

Of course, the agent didn’t react. Just hit the panel beside the cell, and the reinforced door hissed shut between them. 

The Doctor sighed. ‘’Brilliant.’’

The cell was small, reinforced with thick, metallic walls that hummed faintly under his touch–likely some kind of energy-dampening field, meant to keep prisoners from interfering with outside signals. The floor beneath him was solid, a cold slate-gray material that, when tapped with his boot, sent a dull, lifeless echo through the enclosed space. No cracks. No weak points.

He stepped closer to the actual door, pressing his palm flat against the cold surface. The metal was sturdy, but the edges…Ah. There. A faint seam, almost invisible to the untrained eye, running along the frame. He knelt, tracing a finger along it, feeling the crack. 

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. 

The doctor hummed in thought, turning to face the nearest camera, he looked at it. ‘’Bit excessive, don’t you think? What do you think I’m gonna do, walk through walls?’’ He laughed softly, before continuing. ‘’You know me. Can’t even do that.’’

No one to answer, naturally.

His grip tightened on his screwdriver as he crouched down, running his free hand along the base of the door. Nothing there. He pressed a palm against the nearest wall, testing for temperature shifts, faint vibrations–anything that might hint at hidden wiring or weak spots. 

Cells like these–high-security, reinforced plating, top-of-the-line technology–always had weak spots. Every lock, every barrier, every clever little security measure had something it depended on. And if you found what that was, well, you could break it.

But he found nothing.

That was irritating.

But irritation was not on the card today.

His gaze flickered to the ceiling–no vents either. A containment space meant to hold someone indefinitely.

’’Well, that’s not ominous at all,’’ he murmured, tapping his screwdriver against his palm.

He turned, scanning the walls, the corners, the floor–mapping out the space in his head. The room was small, certainly not meant for comfort, just efficiency. 

The Doctor tapped a finger against his lips, considering. ‘’Right. Guess we’re doing this the old-fashioned way, then.’’

The door it’ll be, then. It was the most obvious escape route, but that meant it was also the most heavily secured. His best bet? The control panel Malik had used.

He ran his sonic along the base of the wall, listening as the frequency shifted. There. Just a whisper of an echo, a slight change in density–something beneath the plating. Cables? Power lines? A secondary system, maybe. Something important enough to keep hidden but close enough to be accessed for maintenance.

’’Interesting,’’ he hummed, adjusting the screwdriver’s setting.

A quiet beep.

And then–ah. That was good. That was very good.

A faint pulse. Barely noticeable unless you were really listening for it.

With a smirk, he flipped his sonic in his hand, aiming it at the base of the door.

Just a little nudge.

The lock mechanism hummed in protest before releasing with a sharp clunk, the door sliding open just enough for him to slip through. 

He moved quickly, sticking close to the walls as he slipped down the dimly lit corridor, careful to keep his steps light against the metal flooring. The underground facility was vast– far bigger on the inside. 

He ducked into the nearest shadow as a pair of soldiers passed by, their conversation hushed but urgent, footsteps echoing off the steel walls.

’’…found him outside the southern ridge. Nearly bled out before we got there. Lucky he’s still breathing…’’

The Doctor stilled, every muscle in his body going taut. His hearts hammering against his ribs, but he kept his breath even, kept himself pressed against the cold metal, straining to hear every word.

’’…Sargeant. Part of Malik’s squad. His best friend. Zayn’s gonna lose his mind if he–‘’

‘’Zayn will have our heads if we can’t…’

The soldiers’ voices faded as they turned a corner, their conversation cut off by distance and the hum of the underground facility.

The Doctor pressed himself against the cold metal wall, breath held steady, ears straining to hear any words the two soldiers were saying as they moved forward the corridor.

His heartbeats thrummed in his ears, a quiet, insistent rhythm, as he listened to the footsteps fade. He waited a beat–two–until the sounds dissolved into the tunnel’s depths.

Then he moved.

Keeping to the edges, he trailed after them, footsteps light against the metal flooring. The underground structure was deeper than he expected, twisting tunnels leading further beneath the surface.

The deeper he went, the colder the air became, thick with the stale tang of oil and iron, the unmistakable scent of blood clinging to the space like an old wound. 

It wasn’t just a bunker–it was a labyrinth, winding tunnels leading further beneath the surface, built to be hidden, built to keep things in.

Ahead, the two agents turned another corner.

The Doctor followed, careful and silent, slipping into the shadows just as one of them threw a glance over his shoulder.

’’We should’ve left him where we found him,’’ the second agent muttered, voice low now, edged with something close to frustration. ‘’You saw what he did. He didn’t follow protocol. That kind of reckless shit gets people killed.’’

The Doctor stilled, listening. Whoever they had pulled from the battlefield, whoever had set off that feeling in his chest, had done something. 

One thing was certain, it wasn’t just luck that had kept him breathing. He’d done something. Something big enough to make even his own people question if he was worth saving.

’’Doesn’t matter now,’’ the other said, clipped and certain. ‘’Johannah wants him breathing. Orders came from the top. So unless you want to argue with her–‘’

The first soldier sighed. ‘’No, I bloody don’t.’’ 

Johannah. 

What?

The Doctor had moved on instinct, steps light, body slipping between shadows, ready to chase the two agents down, to follow them to whenever they were keeping–

A hand landed on his shoulder.

He spun around, mind already working through a dozen excuses, already calculating how to talk his way out of this mess. He was expecting to get caught, to fight, for being thrown back into a cell, away from him, from Lo–

But it wasn’t a soldier.

It was her. 

Johannah.

No. It couldn’t be.

And yet, there she was. Solid, Real. Unmistakable.

She looked the same as she always did–yet somehow different. Her blue eyes, sharp and knowing, held the weight of lifetimes, just as they always did. But there was something else this time. Something more.

Something that made his stomach twist.

’’Jay,’’ he breathed, barely able to process it. ‘’You–what are you–‘’

She met his gaze, steady and unwavering, like she had been expecting this exact moment. Like she had been waiting for him.

’’About time, Harry,’’ she said, voice calm but firm. Then, without another word, she turned on her heel. ‘’Come with me.’’ 

He hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. 

Harry followed, boots soundless against the cold floor, mind whirring. She was leading him deeper, past the tunnels, past rows of exhausted soldiers, past makeshift operating stations manned by battle-worn medics. The underground base stretched further than he expected, humming with the quiet chaos of wartime desperation.

This was new. 

This wasn’t how it was meant to happen. 

He was supposed to find Louis. He was supposed to bring him to her. That was how it worked. That was how it had always worked.

But apparently, not this time. 

This time, it seems like Johannah had already found him. 

University of Manchester – December 1990

They had stumbled upon it together the first time.

Blindly, unexpectedly, side by side, two people caught in the gravitational pull of something far greater than themselves–something they hadn’t yet understood.

The first time the Doctor had met her, she had been young. A medical student, sharp-minded and endlessly stubborn, working under a professor knee-deep in ancient Gallifreyan texts that should have never made their way to Earth. She had barely spared him a glance, as if she knew what he was, when he had wandered into these enormous archives, idly flipping through scrolls that hummed with the weight of time itself.

Until they found it. 

The legend.

A whisper threaded through time, buried so deep within the fabric of the universe that only those who knew how to look could ever hope to find it. A pattern, repeating itself across centuries, across worlds. A soul splintered across dimensions. 

A boy who would always exist. 

A man that would always find him.

Louis.

At first, it had seemed like nothing more than another legend–another half-forgotten tale buried in the dust of time. A prophecy scrawled in a language only the Doctor could understand, its meaning obscured by centuries of being stuck here and there.

But then, the Doctor–well, he had read those words and felt the weight of them settle into his bones.

And Johannah–

She never asked for this. Never sought out the threads of fate that had wound her so tightly into this story. She had only ever been there at the right time, in the right place. A simple twist of timing, a coincidence that should have meant nothing.

But the Doctor, on the other hand…

He had chosen her. Not because it was fate. Not because it was destiny. 

She had been normal. Perfectly human–untouched by the impossible, unshared by the weight of the universe. She hadn’t been part of some grand design; she wasn’t even part of the legend.

Until he made it so.

Just because he needed her.

She didn’t remember what he had done to her. 

Didn’t know that once, she had lived a different life. A life that the Time Vortex had erased, reshaped, moulded into something new–just as he had wanted it to.

And just like that, the Doctor had rewritten her existence.

Not enough to turn her into a true Time Lord. But enough to bind her to the spaces in between, to make her something fixed, something constant in every universe. 

Her time in the Time Vortex was enough to anchor her in every world, in every version of reality where Louis existed, shaping her into a vessel that would always take care of him.

A fixed point. A constant.

Because that was the only way to keep him safe.

Because he had let it happen.

Or maybe–if he was being honest–because he had made it happen.

Not out of malice. Not out of cruelty.

But out of something far worse.

Selfishness.

For a long time before that, Johannah had been his companion. 

Before what she would become. Before either of them decided the role she would play in the grand design of the universe. 

She was brilliant. 

Sharp as a blade, quick as a match to a flame, with a mind that turned faster than he could keep up with on the best of days. Cunning, in ways that even he–he, with all his centuries of wit and trickery–had to admire.

She saw the universe not with the wide-eyed wonder most companions had, not with the breathless awe of someone who had just stepped beyond the limits of their own small world. 

But she had seen it with strategy. With understanding. With a keen, calculating awareness of how things fit together–how one thread pulled could unravel a thousand others.

She challenged him. 

She was the best companion he had ever had, not because she followed him, not because she admired him, but because she never did.

She was fearless, reckless in a way that wasn’t foolish, but calculated. She could talk her way out of anything, slip through the cracks of time like she belonged there. 

Johannah had travelled with him, but never for him. 

She was only ever in it for the adventure, for the thrill, for the sheer joy of discovering anything new. 

She had never looked at him the way others did. Never with awe. Never with that quiet, unspoken question that lingered behind so many eyes: Will you stay? 

No. 

Johannah had never wanted him to stay.

She had never even asked.

Because she didn’t need him. She had never needed him.

She only needed the stars.

And that was why he had chosen her. 

Because while all the others had clung to him, reached for him, asked something of him–love, guidance, a promise, a place to belong–she had only ever wanted the journey.

She had never been tethered to him. Never been tied to his name, his choices, his fate.

And that—that was precisely why he had needed her for his plan.

She would never ask questions. 

She wouldn’t ask why she kept meeting him in every world. Wouldn’t stop to wonder how she always found herself in the right place, at the right time, get a message from Harry, always the same;

‘’Found him. We’re coming.’’

And she would just accept him. 

Because Johannah had never been one to dwell. She had never been one to look back.

And that was what he needed.

The Doctor barely registered the cold, clinical scent of antiseptic as they stepped into the infirmary. 

A bed that held someone—someone important.

And standing at the foot of said bed, stiff and unyielding, was Agent Malik. 

His broad shoulders were squared, his grip on the foot of the bed was tight enough to turn his knuckles white, his broad shoulders coiled with tension. Every muscle in his body was wound tight, like a string ready to snap, barely holding back the storm brewing behind his dark eyes. 

His head snapped up the moment Johannah and Harry approached, dark eyes locking onto the latter with unfiltered hostility.

His stance shifted, subtly yet deliberately, placing himself between them and the bed, between them and Louis.

‘’What the hell is he doing here?’’ Malik’s voice was low, sharp, edged with an apparent frustration, his posture shifting to hide Louis’ body from view.

Johannah however, didn’t slow. Didn’t even flinch. She simply strode forward to Louis’ bedside, ‘’Leave him be Zayn, he’s our last hope to save Louis.’’

The agent let out a sharp breath, the tension in his frame not easing in the slightest. ‘’We don’t need his help.’’ He spat.

He then exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders rigid, the weight of his resistance pressing into the very air between them. 

But Johannah wasn’t arguing.

She barely spared the agent a glance as she brushed past him, her focus locked on the unconscious figure in the bed. ‘’Now step aside,’’ she said, her voice steady, commanding. ‘’Or get out of the way.’’

But the agent didn’t move. His breath came sharp through his nose, his hands tightening even further on the bed’s frame.

’’Agent Deakin,’’ he said, and this time there was something raw in his voice, something more than just frustration–fear. ‘’You don’t know what he is. What he’s capable of.’’

Johannah squared her shoulders, meeting agent Malik’s gaze head-on. ‘’I know exactly what he is,’ ’she said, voice cutting. ‘’And I know what you’re capable of too, Agent Malik. But you need to move. Because we need the space.’’

Agent Malik exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw cracking from the tension in it. ‘’And trusting this man, will do what?’’ He jerked his chin toward the Doctor, gaze blazing. ‘’You don’t know what he’s hiding. What he’s done.’’

Johannah let out a short, humourless laugh. ‘’I don’t. But I know what you did. You imprisoned him without any valid reason to. He’s a guest. My guest. ’’

She scoffed, before continuing. ‘’If he wanted to hurt us, we’d already be dead. And if you think I’d let anyone –anyone–come near Louis if I thought they were a threat, then you don’t know me at all. And I’m the one that raised you.’’

Zayn’s nostrils flared.  ‘’I want to make sure you don’t trust the wrong person.’’

 ‘’The wrong person? You think that’s what’s happening here?’’ answered Johannah.

"I think he’s dangerous," Zayn said, his voice steady, but his posture tense.

Johannah didn’t flinch. She simply tilted her head, gaze unwavering as she looked at him.

"And I think you’re scared," she replied evenly.

Zayn opened his mouth, ready to argue, to throw back another protest, but that’s when he noticed.

When they both did.

The Doctor was almost at the soldier’s bedside.

Because his attention had already shifted long ago–settling, finally, on the figure lying motionless between them.

Louis.

His breath hitched.

Even battered and still, there was no mistaking him. His body looked small under the weight of the blankets, his face half-hidden by gauze and bruises. His chest barely moved, each breath shallow and strained

Harry barely registered Malik’s seething presence as he pulled the sonic screwdriver from his coat, the familiar whirr filling the tense air. He moved quickly, running the device over Louis’ body, scanning every inch of him, searching for something–anything–he could work with

Weak pulse. Internal damage. Oxygen levels dangerously low.

Not beyond saving. 

Not yet.

He exhaled sharply. There was still time.

’’What the hell do you think you’re doing?’’ Agent Malik told him. Lunging forward, grabbing Harry by the front of his coat and yanking him back. His voice was low, furious, his grip tight enough to bruise. ‘’Get that thing away from him.’’

Harry barely spared him a glance. ‘’Saving his life, if you’d let me.’’

’’You don’t touch him.’’ Agent Malik’s body was coiled tight, vibrating with rage. ‘’I don’t know who or what you are, but I know your kind. Meddling in things you shouldn’t. Playing god–‘’

’’I really don’t have the luxury of time for your little vendetta against me, Zain Malik . That boy, your best friend– ‘’ He pointed at Louis, voice rising. ‘’–is dying. And if you want to stand here, posturing and growling like some glorified guard dog while I try to stop that from happening, be my guest.’’

Harry rarely snapped. He tried to control his emotions, but there was so little time left. His voice wasn’t loud, but it crackled with something dangerous, something unyielding. ‘’Because if you don’t want my help, he’ll die. So don’t stand in my way and please let me do my job.’’

Agent Malik’s nostrils flared. ‘’We don’t need you.’’ 

‘’Really? Because from where I’m standing, you don’t have a lot of options.’’ Harry gripped agent Malik’s wrist before he could shove him further, removing his hands from his coat, before continuing. ‘’Or is your plan just to stand around and glare at him until he miraculously pulls through?’’ 

That’s when Johannah stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension like the sharp edge of a blade.

’’Enough. Both of you.’’

She didn’t raise her voice–she didn’t need to. There was something steady, something absolute in the way she spoke. She wants them to listen. To oblige. 

‘’This is a medical bay, a war medical bay, no less,’’ she reminded them, her blue eyes flickering between the both of them, her tone measured but firm. ‘’So unless either of you suddenly forgot why we’re here, I suggest you start acting like professionals. Otherwise, focus. Because while you two are busy acting like children, Louis is still dying. ’’ 

Agent Malik’s jaw clenched, his breathing heavy, but he didn’t argue.

Harry straightened his coat with a slow, deliberate motion, rolling his shoulders to shake off the weight of the moment. ‘’Thank you,’’ he muttered to her before refocusing his attention on Louis.

’’Jay,’’ he then said, voice steady but clipped. ‘’I need a clear space and no interruptions. ‘’ He was looking sharply at Agent Malik now.

Jay’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded.

’’You heard him, Zayn,’’ she said, but also turned to the lingering medical staff that gathered after their altercations. ‘’Step back. Give him room to work.’’

Harry simply raised a brow, letting the tension drain from his shoulders, slipping back into that easy charm, like an old habit. Then he turned his focus back on his sonic screwdriver, recalibrating the setting as he scanned Louis again, expression sharp with concentration. The reading hadn’t changed.

Too weak. Too much blood lost. 

Harry exhaled, dragging a hand through his curls. ‘’Alright,’’ he murmured, gripping his screwdriver tighter. ‘’Let’s get to work.’’

Of course, the Doctor wasn’t a real doctor–not in the traditional sense, anyway. He had no medical degree, no formal training, no framed certificates to prove he knew what he was talking about. But maybe–just maybe–he could help.

Because if there was one thing he was good at, it was finding solutions when there weren’t supposed to be any.

He crouched beside Louis, eyes scanning over him, cataloguing every detail–the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the blood staining his uniform, the way his fingers twitched like he was fighting against something even unconscious. 

He didn’t waste a second more, turning to Jay. ‘’What have you done so far?’’

Johannah, already expecting the question, exhaled through her nose. ‘’The usual. Sims, plasma infusions, circulatory boosters–everything to stabilize him.’’

Harry’s eyes flickered up, really looking at her. ‘’And?’’

She crossed her arms, her jaw tightening. ‘’And nothing. It’s not working.’’

Harry yet again dragged his hand through his hair, a nervous habit he couldn’t quite stop doing when he’s thinking about solutions, even when they seem impossible

The room was growing tighter around him, the urgency clawing at his ribs. He turned to Johannah and Zayn, who didn’t budge from a chair in the corner of the makeshift room, his gaze still as menacing

Or at least what he thought was menacing. 

There was a pause. A slight hesitation. A look passed between Johannah and Malik.

And that, that was never a good sign.

’’Come on, let’s start from the beginning–what happened? What got him like this?’’

A muscle twitches in agent Malik’s jaw, his fingers tightening against the arms of the chair. He clearly didn’t want to answer. Johannah, however, didn’t hesitate.

’’It was a raid.’’ 

Harry’s brows shot up. ‘’And what happened?’’

Malik’s jaw tightened. ‘’His squad was targeting the supply lines. He was leading the charge.’’

’’Then he got reckless’’ His voice was tight, frustration barely masking the rawness underneath. ‘’Did what he always does. Ran ahead. Got himself shot. ‘’ 

Harry turned sharply toward him, something cold and dangerous curling in his chest. ‘’That’s what soldiers do.’’

Zayn exhaled harshly. ‘’He wasn’t just fighting–he was searching for something,’’ he murmured, his voice raw, thick with something dangerously close to grief. His gaze drifted toward Louis, the tension in his frame barely holding him together. ‘’He was chasing something down, like it mattered more than his own life. And now…’’ His throat bobbed, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. 

Every other time, there had been an escape, a solution, a way to fix it. A TARDIS waiting in the wings, a different timeline, a door leading somewhere safer. There had always been a way to hand Louis off to Johannah, to set him on the right path, to leave the danger. 

It had always been the story, the base–his path had always been that. But now, in the cold stillness of the infirmary, with the weight of the air pressing down around them, with the beeping monitors groaning slower and weaker, there was no clear road ahead.

Harry pressed his hands into the foot of the bed, gripping the edge like it could anchor him, like if he just held on tight enough, the universe would realign itself into something he could work with.

No. This wasn’t how this Louis’ life would end. He refused to accept that.

His eyes flickered over the equipment, the makeshift monitors, the IV lines trailing from Louis’ arms, but it was all human tech, far too primitive, far too inadequate for what was happening to him. His body was shutting down, unravelling. Whatever had hit him had done more than wound him–it was erasing him.

He exhaled sharply. ‘’Then we need something more. Something stronger.’’ His hands were already moving, reaching for something inside his pockets, anything. 

But of course, there was nothing. 

The hum of the machines filled the silence, rhythmic, steady, lying. Because Louis wasn’t steady. He wasn’t stable. He was slipping, thread by thread, his body caught in something far worse than a mortal wound.

They could keep him alive, barely, but they couldn’t fix him.

He stepped closer to the bed, his fingers reaching toward Louis’ wrist, needing to feel a pulse, to confirm that time hadn’t already stolen him away–

His mind spun, calculations unfolding in rapid succession, his thoughts a frantic storm, colliding, shifting, grasping–

But before he could make contact, a hand shot out, shoving him back.

Harry barely caught his balance before looking up sharply, only to find agent Malik standing between him and Louis’ bed, his stance rigid, his eyes dark with something raw, something unrelenting.

’’You don’t get to touch him,’’ the agent snapped, stepping between Harry and the bed, his entire frame tense, his eyes blazing. ‘’You don’t get to act like you care.’’

Harry understood, then.

Agent Malik wasn’t just guarding Louis. 

Even now, even as Louis lay unconscious, slipping away, agent Malik wasn’t ready to let go. He wasn’t ready to put his trust into an alien. 

Harry pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, ignoring agent Malik, before forcing himself to move, pacing back and forth in the little alcove. ‘’There must be something we’re missing,’’ he said, voice tight. He moved swiftly across the infirmary, yanking open drawers, rifling through shelves. ‘’Something alien. Something off the books. A bio stabilizer, a neutral recalibration module, something. ’’

’’Harry,’’ Jay said, voice steady, ‘’we’ve already tried– ‘’

’’No, no, not everything, ’’ he snapped, his patience thinning. He could hear the seconds slipping away. ‘’There’s always a way. We just have to find it.’’

’’There isn’t, ’’ agent Malik sighed defeatedly. ‘?’’ His chest was heaving, his hands clenched at his sides.

Harry turned sharply, his coat flaring with the movement, his eyes locking onto agent Malik’s with unwavering intensity. ‘’And that’s exactly the problem,’’ he said, voice tight but controlled. ‘’You’re trying to fix this with human solutions, but this? This isn’t human.’’ 

‘’Listen, Zayn, you did try,’’ he acknowledged, voice steady but edged with urgency. ‘’You did everything you could with what you have. But what you have isn’t enough. What you have is human. And what he needs–‘’ he pointed sharply at Louis, ‘’ isn’t. ’’

Harry exhaled, his tone softening just slightly. ‘’I know you don’t trust me. I know you don’t think I belong here. But right now, none of those matters. What matters is that I can save him. I need to find out how, but I can. I just need you to let me.’’ 

Well, there had to be something. 

His mind raced through possibilities, but nothing fit. Nothing would work.

’’Besides,’’ Harry inhaled sharply, straightening his spine, his grip tightening around his beloved screwdriver. ‘’Johannah’s the one who called me.’’

Zayn’s nostrils flared, but his jaw stayed locked.

Then Harry turned his gaze to Jay, who met his eyes with something unreadable.

’’You wouldn’t have reached out if there was any other option,’’ he continued, his voice softer now, but no less firm. ‘’If there was any way your people could fix this, you wouldn’t have risked waiting for me to come here on my own.’’

Harry held Johanna’s gaze, something unspoken passing between them, something that Zayn wasn’t meant to hear, wasn’t meant to understand.

There were things that couldn’t be said aloud. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Zayn.

She had known from the start. That was why she called him. Not just because she trusted him. Not because they were out of options.

Her lips parted, just barely, and for a fraction of a second, the mask she always wore, in any timeline they met–steady, unshaken, unbreakable–cracked. 

Something old and knowing passed between them. 

Something only the two of them could ever understand.

Seconds passed. 

Then–

His stomach dropped.

’’Oh.’’

Johannah stepped closer, brows furrowed. ‘’What?’

Harry swallowed, his grip tightening around his screwdriver.

’’He’s not just dying,’’ he murmured.

Zayn’s expression didn’t shift, but the sharp inhale through his nose was enough to show how furious he was. ‘’We know that, genius .’’

Harry shook his head. ‘’No,’’ His haze remained fixed on his screwdriver, watching as impossible readings flickered back at him. ‘’You don’t. Because what the enemy did, this wasn’t just your typical wound.’’ His voice dropped lower. ‘’It’s worse.’’

Johannah exhaled, quiet but shaky. ‘’Explain, Har–Doctor.’’

Harry turned away from the screen, jaw tight, gaze sweeping over the flickering lights of the monitors—then landing on Louis. His body was still. Too still.

He turned back to them, voice low but steady.

 “It’s already started.”

He moved toward the cot, crouching down, hand hesitating in the space where Louis’ ankle should have been.

“Look.” His voice barely carried. “They’re erasing him.”

Johannah stepped forward first, and Zayn followed. Her breath hitched when she saw it—the nothingness swallowing the space below Louis’ knee, like time itself had gone blank.

Louis’ foot–his leg–was vanishing. Not like an injury festering, not like bruises spreading or skin paling. No.

It was almost gone. 

His leg was dissolving, the tips of his toes already gone, swallowed by something beyond even Harry’s understanding.

Johannah sucked in a sharp breath. Zayn cursed under his breath, his hands gripping the rail of the bed as if he could physically hold Louis here, keep him from slipping through their fingers.

Zayn’s brow furrowed. ‘’this isn't what usually happens to our soldiers who are shot in battle’’ 

Harry crouched down, his breath shallow, eyes locked onto the empty space where Louis’ leg should have been. 

It wasn’t just missing. 

It was nothingness. A hollow space where solid matter should be, where flesh and bone had existed mere moments ago. Not burned. Not wounded. Simply…gone. 

His fingers twitched at his sides, resisting the urge to reach out–to confirm what his eyes were already screaming at him. He couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn’t touch him.

He reached for his screwdriver instead, scanning the air just above the absence, watching as the readings flickered wildly, refusing to make sense. His grip tightened. ‘’This isn’t–‘’

And then…

One second later, there was solid matter.

His leg was back. 

Harry exhaled sharply. ‘’Right. Okay. Not to alarm anyone, but– ‘’ He tilted his head, eyes flickering between the monitors and Louis. ‘’Actually, no. Scratch that. To definitely alarm everyone–look.’’

Zayn swore under his breath, taking a sharp step back, his posture rigid. ‘’Holy– ‘’ Zayn cut himself off, stumbling half a step. ‘’What does that mean ? ’’ He hissed, hands still curled into fists, barely keeping himself together. 

Harry’s expression was grim. ‘’I haven’t the slightest. But it might mean,’’ he said slowly, deliberately, ‘’that if we don’t do something–now–there won’t be a body to bury.’’

Johannah moved first.

She hesitated only a second before reaching out, fingers brushing over Louis’ arm–only to snatch her hand back just as fast, like she’d been burned. Her breath hitched, sharp and uneven, something uncertain flickering across her face. For the first time since Harry had stepped into the infirmary, she looked shaken.

Zayn, on the other hand, hadn’t moved. He kept watching.

‘’What the fuck did they do to him?’’ Zayn’s voice was rough now, something torn open underneath all that steel, something fragile and furious and barely contained. His control was tight, but beneath it, something sharp and unsteady threatened to break loose. ‘’He–his leg– gone. And now it’s back. What the flying fuck.’’

Harry reached out instinctively, pressing a firm hand to Zayn’s chest, shoving him back before he could grab Louis, before he could touch the space where his friend was slipping away. ‘’Don’t,’’ he warned. ‘’Don’t touch him.’’

Zayn didn’t fight.

He didn’t shove back, didn’t snap at Harry or at Johannah, but the tension coiled beneath his skin like a storm barely held at bay. His breathing was measured, controlled–but his fists remained clenched, his muscles taut with the urge to do something.

His eyes stayed locked on Harry, then flickered back to Louis–to the space where his leg had been missing, and then suddenly wasn’t.

The way his body looked smaller, like something had taken pieces of him and put them back wrong.

’’This isn’t a wound,’’ he murmured again, not to alarm anyone else but them. ‘’It’s not an infection. Not something that can be stitched or stopped with medicine. It’s–‘’ He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls. ‘’They shot him with something that doesn’t just kill. It erases. It rewrites time at the most fundamental level. His existence is being undone.’’ 

Johannah’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. ‘’You mean…’’

’’Most likely.’’ 

Johannah inhaled sharply.

And then Zayn moved before he could think.

But Harry was quicker and shoved him back again, harder this time, barely keeping him from reaching Louis. ‘’ I said don’t touch him!’’ He snapped, voice sharp, unyielding. ‘’You have no idea what will happen if you do.’’

But Zayn barely registered the words.

Because he didn’t care.

His jaw locked, his teeth grinding together as he glared at Harry, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts.

And Harry couldn’t blame him. 

‘’You don’t get to tell me what to do,’’ he spat, shoving against Harry’s hold. ‘’I’m not letting you waltz in here and tell me I can’t even touch him!’’

Harry exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his curls, patience wearing dangerously thin. His voice was rough, as if he was tired of Zayn already, which didn’t happen a lot with the doctor. ‘’We don’t know what will happen if you touch him. If any of us touch him. ‘’ He repeated 

Zayn’s jaw clenched. His eyes darted back to Louis, watching him like if he so much as blinked, he’d be gone.

His breath came in short, sharp exhales. ‘’That’s ridiculous,’’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘’I’ve been with him this whole time. I carried him out of there. If something was going to happen, it would’ve already!’’

The time lord spun on his heel, pacing again, hands moving frantically as he talked. ‘’No, no, no, you don’t get it. That was before.’’ His words were picking up speed, his mind running too fast to filter. ‘’Before he started flickering.’’

He turned sharply, pointing at louis. ‘’Look at him. Really look at him. You saw it, right? His leg–gone–then back.’’

Zayn nodded sharply, his lips parting.

No need to answer. He’d seen it. He knew.

He started pacing again, his coat flaring behind him, gesturing wildly. ‘’For all we know, physical contact could accelerate the disappearing. Or it could stabilize him. Or it could–‘’ He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, spinning toward Johannah. ‘’You’ve seen people wiped out of time before, haven’t you?’’ His voice was lower now, but just as urgent. ‘’You know what happens.’’

Johannah didn’t answer immediately. 

She simply looked at Louis. 

Her lips pressed together in a thin line. 

‘’Yes.’’

Harry exhaled sharply, shaking himself out of it, forcing his brain to move past the problem. ’’Okay, okay, okay– ‘’ He muttered to himself as he paced, mind turning over itself, ideas colliding together. ‘’He’s not dead, his vitals are… Well not good, but not the worst I’ve seen. He’s not dying– technically– he’s being unmade.’’ 

He turned sharply, pointing at nothing in particular. ‘’Which means it’s not a natural process. It’s being forced. Which means– ‘’

He stopped.

Eyes widening.

’’There’s a way to undo it.’’ 

Zayn scoffed, face unreadable. 

He turned his head slightly, gaze pinning Harry in place. ‘’And how exactly are we supposed to do that? Don’t tell me you got some alien technology with you that can get us back in time to repair this.’’

Harry spun to face him, letting out a sharp, breathless laugh. ‘’That’s the right question to ask!’’ He pointed at Zayn like he’d just solved half the problem. ‘’And no. Because time? Time isn’t just a straight line, not really, you probably learned that during your training.’’

His hands gestured wildly as he spoke, words barely able to keep up with the rest. ‘’Because time is more like a–a tapestry, a woven thing, and if you pull too hard on one thread– ‘’ He mimed yanking something in midair, eyes flicking toward Louis, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

’’It unravels,’’ Johanna finished, her voice soft.

Zayn’s head whipped toward her, more alarmed now. “And?”

Johannah didn’t answer right away. She exhaled slowly, hands clasped in front of her like she was physically bracing herself.

“The moment they start flickering,” she said quietly, “they become… somewhat unstable. The laws of physics don’t apply to them anymore.’’

A muscle twitches in Zayn’s jaw.

‘’That’s not an answer,’’ he ground out, his voice rough, strained, like he was barely holding himself together anymore.

Harry exhaled sharply, running both hands through his unruly curls before shaking himself out of it. ‘’No, it’s not. Because I don’t have one to give yet.’’

He turned abruptly, resuming his pacing, hands moving in quick, frantic gestures as his mind raced ahead. ‘’It’s all theory at this point. This–this isn’t something I’ve seen before. Not like this.’’

He stopped for half a second, pointing sharply toward Louis. ‘’Whoever did this to him? They knew exactly what they were doing.’’

He hesitated, swallowing hard.

“We’ve seen erasure before. Clean cuts. Gone in seconds. But this…”

He gestured again, as if trying to name something that didn’t have a word.

“He’s caught in it. Mid-process. Like he’s stuck between existing and not. That never happens.”

Zayn’s gaze flickered toward Louis again, his posture locked down like he was bracing for something he couldn’t control.

Harry kept moving, his voice speeding up as the pieces started falling into place. ‘’And if they wanted him to disappear, he’d be gone already. But he isn’t. He’s not fully gone. Something is still holding him here.’’ He spun on his heel, eyes narrowing. ‘’But whatever it is? It’s weak. It’s fraying.’’

Zayn exhaled sharply, his fists clenching. ‘’Then stop talking and fix it.’’ 

Harry stilled for a fraction of a second. Then, he moved.

He dropped back into a crouch beside Louis, sonic screwdriver buzzing to life in his hand as he scanned him again. The readings flickered, shifting too fast for his brain to catch up. Too many variables, too many unknowns. 

Not good.

Not impossible. 

But definitely not good.

His eyes flickered toward Louis, looking at him, as if the answer was written just in front of him. ‘’Something is fighting against this, against his whole erasure. That’s why he’s still here. The question is–‘’ He gestured toward the space where Louis’ leg kept disappearing and reappearing. ‘’Is it strong enough to hold?’’

Silence.

They all looked at Louis for a moment. 

Until Johannah spoke. 

‘’And if it’s not?’’

But Harry didn’t answer, because his mind was spinning too fast to slow down.

’’There has to be something…something to pull him back, something to hold him here.’’ His words spilled out in a frantic rush as he paced, his hands moving as if shaping the air itself would help solidify the thought forming in his mind. 

Zayn’s brow furrowed, watching him. ‘’Is there any kind of ADHD on other planets? Because I think the Doctor here, or whatever he is, has it.’’

Johannah shot him a look. 

Harry ignored them both, too lost in the mess of his thoughts, his fingers tugging through his curls.

’’It shouldn’t work like this. If something’s erased from time, it’s not supposed to fight back. It doesn’t leave any traces. He should’ve been gone by now.’’ He scratched the stubble on his chin, thinking. ‘’It doesn’t leave a trace. It just–goes. No resistance. No struggle. Just–poof!’’

He moved again, quicker now, his coat flaring behind him as he spun to face both Zayn and Johannah. ‘’But Louis is caught in the middle, being torn in two different directions. But what is anchoring him?’’

He turned abruptly, scanning the room for something, anything , that might serve as Louis’ anchor. His eyes locked onto something.

There. 

Tucked between medical reports and forgotten files. 

A Book. 

Had it been there a second ago? Probably. 

Has he noticed it before? 

No. 

But it was exactly what he needed.

’’Gotcha!’’ He grinned, taking the book from the shelf and shoving it in their faces. ‘’Snow White!’’

Zayn blinked slowly. ‘’…this is not the time for a children story.’’

Johannah looked no less confused. ‘’Harry–‘’

Harry ignored them yet again, flipping through the pages with furious energy, his eyes darting across the words in front of him. ‘’Classic fairytale, yeah? Evil queen, magic mirror, poisoned apple–‘’ He stopped, tapping a page with a satisfied nod.

’’And, of course, the part where she’s put into a death-like sleep.’’

Zayn didn’t even blink at him, shocked with utter disbelief. 

‘’So?’’

Harry looked at Zayn, closing the book with a sharp thud, his other hand gesturing wildly. ‘’So, it’s the same principle !’’ His words tumbled out, quick and urgent, like Zayn would somehow understand what was happening in his head right now. 

‘’Snow White wasn’t dead, right? She was frozen in time, locked in stasis, waiting for the right thing to wake her up.’’ 

He pointed at Louis, erratic, as he started pacing once before dropping into the couch beside the medical bed, hovering just over Louis’ flickering form. ‘’That’s what’s happening to him. The book must hold an answer.’’ 

He ran a hand over his mouth, staring at Louis like he could see the instability beneath his skin, like he could see the war being waged between presence and absence.

He exhaled sharply, muttering mostly to himself now. ‘’He’s stuck—trapped between existence and nothingness, caught in the process of being erased.’’

His fingers hovered an inch above Louis’ chest, not touching, just feeling the space where time was actively deciding whether or not he should be here at all.

And then, abruptly, he pushed himself back to his feet.

‘’We need to force his body to hold its place in this timeline. We need something to tether him, something stronger than what is keeping him here now. Something so powerful it can override the process trying to erase him.’’

And finally—his eyes locked onto Johannah, something wild sparking behind them.

This was it.

Harry’s regenerative energy was unlike anything this world–or any world, really–had. It was the raw force of life itself, the ability to rebuild, to restart, to heal in a way that went beyond science or medicine. 

This wasn’t medicine.

And to heal Louis, they didn’t need medicine. 

Harry’s regenerative energy wasn’t just a way to heal–it was a way to rewrite history. A way to cheat the code. It wasn’t like human medicine, patching wounds and stitching the body back together. It was something far more fundamental.

It was Time Lord essence, coded into his very being, meant to repair and renew his cells. And this energy could be exactly what Louis needed. Whatever had shot him, whatever weapon had done this was rewriting the timeline to ensure he had never existed at all. And if the Doctor could make Jay exist in every possible timeline with his Time Lord essence, then surely that would be enough to override his erasure.

If he could push that energy into Louis–not enough to regenerate him, not enough to make him something else , but just enough to anchor him here–then maybe, just maybe, he could stabilize him.

Would that work? 

He hoped so.

The time lord straightened, his decision already made.

He turned to Johannah and spoke with absolute certainty. ‘’I can fix this.’’

Johannah was the first to react, stepping forward in front of Harry. ‘’NO.’’

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sheer force of her disapproval. ‘’ Excuse me?’ ’’ 

Her expression was set in stone, her features harder than he had ever seen them. ‘’You are not doing this.’’

Harry’s stomach dropped—not out of fear, not out of uncertainty, but from the absolute revolt he got about the fact that Johannah knew exactly what he wanted to do.

‘’Jo…’’

‘’I said no.’’

There was no hesitation. 

No softness.

She looked genuinely angry at him.

She wasn’t begging him not to do it. She wasn’t even trying to convince him.

It was an order.

But he wasn’t going to listen.

He never listened anyway.

Harry held her gaze, his expression unreadable, his chest rising and falling just as steadily. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.

Then, softly, Johannah said, “If you do this, and it goes wrong…”

Her voice faltered for the first time, just barely. “I lose him faster.”

She shook her head, gaze flicking back to Louis’ fading outline.

“He’s already slipping. But if you push too hard and it… breaks him? I don’t get even a second more.”

Harry held her gaze, his expression unreadable, his chest rising and falling just as steadily. Neither of them spoke, neither of them moved.

The silence between them wasn’t just heavy—it was charged. Like they were having a silent conversation. 

Zayn shifted beside them, his discomfort palpable. His eyes flickered between them, watching the way they stood, locked in a battle neither seemed willing to break. He let out a sharp breath, crossing his arms.

‘’Okay, is someone gonna—’’

No reaction

‘’Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on, but someone needs to start—’’

Not from Johannah. Not from Harry.

They remained locked in place, ignoring him entirely.

Zayn exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back, his frustration evident. ‘’Seriously, what—’’

Neither of them flinched. 

Until Johannah exhaled slowly, her voice barely above a whisper.

‘’You’re still going to do it anyway, aren’t you?’’

Not a question. 

A statement.

‘’...Yes.’’

Johannah closed her eyes for a brief moment, her shoulders barely shifting as she let out a slow, measured breath. When she opened them again, Harry was still there, the same determination burning inside his green irises. 

This was happening.

Zayn let out an exasperated huff. ‘’Oh, for fuck’s sake—can one of you just say whatever it is I’m apparently not getting?’’

Johannah turned to him, making him back off a little, so they would be at a safe distance. ‘’Harry is going to stabilize Louis using his regenerative energy.’’

Zayn’s brows pulled together. ‘’His what? ’’

‘’His life force,’’ she clarified, glancing at the time lord briefly. ‘’It’s not just healing. —it’s rewriting reality. If he does this right, it won’t just stop Louis from fading. It will pull him back completely, anchoring him before the timeline can erase him for good.’

Zayn looked at Harry, sceptical. ‘’And if he doesn’t do it right?’’ 

Johannah didn’t answer.

Harry didn’t need to see Zayn’s reaction to know what he was thinking.

The raven haired boy dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. ‘’You lot are actually crazy.’

Harry rolled his shoulders back, ignoring the exhaustion creeping into his bones as he flexed his fingers, the golden light sparking to life at his fingertips. ‘’Right. Now that we’re all caught up— let the professional work.’’ 

He stepped forward.

The warmth from Louis’ skin was faint, barely there. His breath was shallow, the flickering at the edges of his body weaker now, more unstable. In the moment he and Johannah had their silent war, Louis’ second leg had started to flicker out of reality.

Harry’s body protested already, recognizing the unnatural act he was about to force it through. 

He could feel the golden glow pulsing at his fingertips, warm and alive.

This was it.

Harry leaned down. 

So close to Louis. 

His breath hitched, his fingers trembling just slightly as they hovered over Louis’ skin. The golden glow at his fingertips flickered, hesitant, uncertain—just like him.

Because the truth was that Harry didn’t know.

Harry didn’t know if this would stabilize Louis or tear him away completely. It was a guess, a gamble—a risk he had no choice but to take. 

Harry swallowed hard, his lips pressing together. Both his hearts were erratic, loud in his ears, but he kept his face blank, calm, focused—because he had to. Because if he hesitated, if he let them see even a flicker of doubt—

They would stop him. 

And then Louis would be gone without them even trying.

What if he was wrong? 

No time for doubt. He couldn’t afford hesitation now. He had no other choice, no better solution, nothing else to offer but this.

It had to work. It had to

And then, carefully—so very gently—he closed the distance between them, brushing his lips softly against Louis’.

Please, he thought desperately, just work.

Just like that, the world erupted in blinding gold.

The golden energy exploded between them, raw and untamed, surging out of Harry like a flood breaking past a dam.

It rushed into Louis, wrapping around him, sinking into his skin, pulling at something unseen. A desperate, last-ditch attempt to tether him, to hold him in place, to force time to remember that he belonged here. 

Zayn cursed sharply, stumbling back, throwing an arm over his eyes to shield himself from the glare. ‘’What the hell—’’

Johannah barely moved. Her face was carved from stone, but her hands—she was gripping at Zayn like her life depended on it, as if he would throw himself in the fire. 

Still, this wasn’t enough.

‘’Come on, Louis,’’ Johannah chanted, softly. ‘’Please.’’

And then, as suddenly as it had begun—something shifted.

For a terrifying moment, nothing happened.

Louis remained still.

They all held their breath. 

Then—

Louis’ eyes snapped open.

Blue eyes, clear and bright, staring up at the Doctor, at Harry —filled with confusion, with life, with life.

A gasp tore through his chest, violent and desperate, as if he had been drowning and was suddenly thrust above water.

Louis’ body arched off the bed, muscles seizing, his entire form fighting its way back.

A shaky, relieved breath left Harry’s lungs, nearly a sob, the golden glow around them dimming, receding until it faded completely, his legs giving out beneath him, knees buckling under the sudden weight of exhaustion. The connection between them broke, leaving Harry feeling hollowed out, utterly spent. 

Louis collapsed back against the bed, breathing deeply, alive—truly alive. 

Harry released a shaky breath, the golden glow dimming until it faded completely, leaving him feeling hollowed out, utterly spent. Louis seemed to relax. 

But was it enough? 

Harry forced himself upright, fumbling hastily in his coat pocket for his sonic screwdriver. His fingers shook slightly as he brought the device forward, scanning Louis from head to toe with swift, careful movements. 

The device whirred softly in his hand, readings flickering rapidly before settling into place. Harry’s chest unclenched, a relieved breath escaping him in a quiet rush.

Stable. Completely stable. 

Louis groaned softly, blinking up at him through a fog of confusion. ‘’What–‘’ His voice cracked slightly, hoarse from disuse. ‘’What just happened? Where am I?’’

Johannah was already moving, her expression snapping into professional detachment as she swiftly began checking Louis’ vitals, pressing fingers to his pulse, carefully assessing the steadiness of his breathing.

‘’Welcome Back Louis, you’re safe,’’ she told him firmly, professionally, giving his wrist a reassuring squeeze. ‘’We found you after the attack. You were badly injured on the battlefield.’’

Louis’ gaze flickered nervously around the room, eyes wide and slightly unfocused, clearly trying to piece everything together. His attention however, settled briefly on Harry, confusion furrowing his brows. ‘’Who…Who’s that?’’

Zayn stepped forward, unsure, but trying to answer. ‘’He–‘’

’’He’s a doctor,’’ Johannah cut in swiftly, levelling Zayn with a sharp, silencing glare. ‘’He helped save your life.’’

Louis’ eyes drifted back toward Harry, searching his face carefully. ‘’Doctor?’’

Harry offered him a faint, reassuring smile. ‘’That’s me. You can call me Harry. How’re you feeling?’’ 

‘’Like I was run over by a thousand transport trucks,’’ Louis admitted hoarsely, trying to shift himself into a more comfortable position, he groaned. 

‘’Can you remember anything at all? Anything about what happened out there?’’ The doctor asked, offering a reassuring smile to Louis. 

Louis took a slow breath, trying to piece together scattered memories. He blinked slowly, still groggy, still trying to process. His brows furrowed as he took in the unfamiliar, sterile surroundings. His gaze flickered to the two figures standing nearby–one watching him intently with piercing green eyes, the other lingering at a slight distance, arms crossed over his chest. ‘’We were patrolling–me and some others from my unit. We’d gotten separated.’’ 

Louis inhaled slowly, his body stiffening slightly as the memories came rushing back–flashes of movement, heat, the unmistakable sound of gunfire ringing through the air. His fingers twitched against the sheets, like his body was still reacting to the regenerative energy, still caught in the adrenaline of it.

‘’One of them had this weapon–never saw anything like it before. It didn’t shoot bullets. It shot…Light? Energy?’’ He shook his head, frustration evident. ‘’I don’t know. But when it hit me, everything just…Started slipping away.’’ 

‘’We were pinned down,’’ he muttered, forcing himself to focus. ‘’Had no idea where the shots were coming from. It was meant to be a clean extraction, but the enemy…it’s like they already knew we were coming.’’

Harry’s brows lifted slightly at that, but he said nothing, letting Louis continue.

’’They used our own tactic against us. Our own formations. Like they had been trained the exact same way as we had. We tried to fall back, but they were too fast. Too precise. They weren’t just some rogue fighters–they knew exactly how to counter us.’’ Louis hesitated for half a second before meeting Johanna’s gaze. ‘’Have we lost a lot of people?’’

Johannah’s lips pressed into a tight line, her fingers curling slightly against the sheets. She hesitated. Probably asking herself how she would tell him that no one else was targeted than him. But her thoughts were stopped by Louis continuing, exhaling.

’’Then I felt it–heat, right here.’’ He gestured vaguely to where the wound would have been, but there wasn’t any. ‘’Didn’t hear the shot, didn’t see where it came from. Just pain, sharp, instant.’’ His brows knitted together. ‘’And then… I don’t know.’’

Louis turned his gaze to Harry, eyes still hazy with confusion but sharpened now with something else suspicion. His brow furrowed mouth pressing into a thin line. ‘’Next thing I know, I’m here. And apparently, I’ve got some Doctor Harry here, saving my life’’

Harry tilted his head slightly, lips quirking up in an amused smirk despite the exhaustion creeping into his limbs. ‘’Well, it’s one or the other, thanks. Doctor or Harry–no need to be greedy.’’ He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ‘’And, well, I do have a habit of showing up exactly where I’m needed.’’

Louis didn’t look convinced. His gaze flickering between the three of them. 

And Harry could see the moment Louis realized something wasn’t adding up. 

His fingers twitched at his side–like he was testing something. Then, slowly, his hand drifted to his abdomen, to where the injury should have been. The place where, only minutes ago, he had been bleeding out.

’’What exactly did you do?’’ His voice wasn’t accusing, not really, but there was something wary underneath it–something that told Harry that even if he was still dazed, he was starting to put the pieces together. 

Johannah stepped in quickly, before Harry could say anything more. ‘’Louis,’’ she interjected, calm but firm, her fingers gentle as they checked his pulse once more. ‘’Right now, the only thing that matters is that you’re safe and alive.’’

Louis’ eyes flickered back to the nurse, narrowing just slightly, clearly unsatisfied. ‘’That’s not an answer.’’ 

‘’It’s the only one you need right now,’’ Johannah responded evenly, her tone leaving no room for argument. Harry was silently grateful; he wasn’t sure he had the strength left to navigate that particular conversation just yet. 

‘’Don’t worry,’’ Harry added softly, unable to keep himself from speaking, his voice carrying just enough reassurance to ease Louis’ tension. ‘’You’ll be back to your usual reckless self in no time.’’

Louis gave a dry, humourless chuckle without opening his eyes. ‘’Oh wow, lucky me.’’ 

Harry let a soft laugh escape his mouth, even if unease still simmered beneath the surface. Louis was safe, stable, tethered to reality, but that wasn’t the end of it. He knew too well that this was only a reprieve–whoever had done this, whoever had orchestrated the attack, wouldn’t give up so easily. 

The Doctor lingered for a moment longer, watching as Louis’ breathing evened out, the tension in his face fading as exhaustion finally won over. 

Harry exhaled slowly before pushing himself away from Louis’ bed, straightening his coat as he turned. Once certain that Louis was asleep, he exchanged a brief glance with Johannah before quietly signalling to Zayn to follow him outside, away from earshot. 

Zayn hesitated for only a second before silently complying, stepping out into the quiet, dimly lit corridor. The distant hum of machinery was their only company. 

Harry didn’t waste time. He turned toward Zayn, voice low and serious. 

‘’We need to figure out who did this,’’ he said firmly, eyes sharp with determination. ‘’Whoever attacked your team–whoever tried to erase Louis–they’re still out there. And we both know they’ll try again.’’

Zayn exhaled heavily, frustration evident in the tight set of his jaw. ‘’ So we’re both on the same page, someone wanted Louis dead. Not my whole team.’’ 

Harry nodded gravely. ‘’Yes. He wasn’t just unlucky out there. They wanted him erased–gone. For a reason. ’’ 

He glanced back toward Louis’ room, reassuring himself once more that they couldn’t be overheard. Then he continued, voice steady but urgent. ‘’We both saw what happened there. This was calculated.’’ Harry started to pace before continuing. ‘’ And now we find out exactly who they are. But not with Louis. With your most trusted men. Because they’ll be watching him, expecting us to move through him. We need to do this quietly, separately.’’ 

Zayn frowned slightly. ‘’How?’’ 

‘’Talk to Johannah. She’ll know what to do.’’

Before Zayn could respond, a familiar sound–soft, distant, but unmistakable–rang through Harry’s consciousness, reverberating like a pulse in his chest. 

The TARDIS.

He exhaled slowly, reluctantly taking a step back. ‘’I have to go. But you’ll hear from me.’’

Zayn’s posture stiffened. ‘’What?! But–‘’ 

‘’Goodbye Zain Javaad Malik. Protect him from here, and I promise, I’ll handle the rest.’’ 

He entered the TARDIS, the doors shutting softly behind him. Once alone, Harry let out a slow, heavy exhale, his shoulders dropping as the tension finally eased–at least a little. For a moment, he simply stood there, eyes closed, breathing in the comforting hum of the ship, allowing himself a rare second of peace.

Just a moment, he thought. Just one moment to breathe. 

He stood there for several seconds, the quiet hum of the TARDIS wrapping around him like a warm embrace. Then, pushing himself away from the doors, Harry crossed slowly toward the console, his fingers tracing carefully along its edges, its controls worn smooth by centuries of adventures.

When he finally opened his eyes, his gaze settled warmly on the softly glowing console in front of him, the soft pulse of the engines familiar beneath his fingertips as he moved toward the control panel. 

His gaze fell on the small dial at the far side of the console–a silver knob marked with elegant Gallifreyan script that, if he squinted and tilted his head just right, spelled out something close to ‘’Niallometer’’ Harry chuckled softly to himself, tracing his fingers affectionately over the engraved letters. 

‘’You know,’’ he murmured quietly, addressing the TARDIS as if the latter could respond–and perhaps, in some way, it always did. ‘’I still remember the day we put that in. Completely useless, really, I don’t even know the purpose of this. Calibration, maybe?’’ 

A soft vibration thrummed through the floor, a pulse of recognition, of understanding.

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. ‘’Yeah, yeah. I know. You don’t have to say it.’’ He tilted his head, smirking. ‘’No, I didn’t do anything stupid. Risky, maybe. Clever, definitely. But not stupid…Well, I hope.’’

’’You felt it too, didn’t you?’’ Harry murmured, softly patting the central panel. ‘’It was close this time. Far too close.’’ 

The TARDIS hummed back at him, a low, reassuring vibration beneath his fingertips–steady, calm, comforting in a way only the TARDIS ever could be.

Harry smiled to himself, nostalgic and tender, giving the switch a small affectionate flick just for the hell of it. 

A familiar, playful chirp rolled through the TARDIS, warm and fond.

Then he straightened, rolling his shoulders back, brushing away the exhaustion of the almost regeneration clinging to him. ‘’Alright, then,’’ he murmured, more to the ship than himself. ‘’Where to next?’’ 

The TARDIS sprang gently to life beneath his fingertips, guiding him forward once more.

Chapter Text

Somewhere Along the Balkans seas - 1348

The TARDIS wasn’t landing so much as it was crashing. 

The Doctor barely had time to grip the console before the entire room lurched violently to the side, the golden glow of the time rotor flickering erratically as the engines roared in protest. 

A terrible grinding noise echoed through the control room, something between a groan and a shriek, like the ship itself was struggling against the fabric of time.

‘’Whoa, whoa, whoa—!’’ Harry yelped, hands flying across the controls as he fought against whatever turbulence had them spiralling out of control. 

‘’All right, all right, I get it —bad idea, shouldn’t have let you autopilot, that one’s on me!’’

He twisted a dial sharply, flipping a lever at the same time, trying to steady their descent. A sudden drop sent his stomach lurching as the TARDIS plummeted downward, the sound of rushing wind filling the space as it jolted violently.

Then—a crash.

The Doctor went flying backward, his coat whipping around him as he crashed onto the grated floor. A dull, metallic thud echoed through the control room.

For several seconds, Harry just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, dazed. His ears ringing from the force of the landing. 

‘’Ow,’’ he muttered, rubbing the back of his head before sitting up with a groan. ‘’Okay. That was rough.’’ 

‘’Well, wherever you brought us, you clearly aren’t happy about it either,’’ he sighed. ‘’Which means it’s probably exactly where we need to be. TO THE WARDROBE!’’

With renewed energy, the Doctor spun on his heel, striding across the TARDIS, his bots thundering against the metal grating as he made his way through the winding corridors, his coat swishing behind him in a theatrical flourish. 

The wardrobe room was, as always, a chaotic marvel–a vast, sprawling space lined with towering shelves of garments from across time and space. 

With racks of period-accurate suits, elaborate capes and shimmering aliens’ fabrics, and at least three dozen pairs of suspenders (a few of which he’d gladly loaned to some of the versions of Louis he ends up saving)–the wardrobe was a chaotic masterpiece of style and sentiment. 

‘’Alright then,’’ he said to no one, eyes scanning the endless collection of clothes in front of him, the scent of old velvet and dust-tinged wood welcoming him like an old friend. ‘’What kind of fashion crime are we committing today?’’ 

His hand trailed over the fabrics absently, until something called to him.

Moments later, dressed and ready, he stepped in front of the full-length mirror, eyebrows rising as he took in the sight before him. The reflection that met him was…well.

He glanced down at himself, a smile instantly tugging at the corners of his mouth. Yet another costume. He shook his head lightly, amused. 

’’Oh, come on,’’ he muttered, stretching out his sleeves to get a proper look at it. 

A deep navy coat hugged his shoulders, lined in rich gold thread and weighted with unnecessary—but undeniably fabulous—embroidery. The cuffs flared dramatically, the buttons gleamed like stolen treasure, and around his neck… a ridiculously ruffled collar so extravagant it could double as a sail.

His gaze travelled down the rest of his ensemble. Fitted trousers, sturdy leather boots, the long-embroidered coat that fell past his knees, complete with brass buttons down the front. It was a little elaborate for his taste, perhaps, but he had to admit he wore it well.

He had a hat this time. 

Not just any hat. A wide-brimmed, feather-adorned monstrosity, complete with a plume so long it nearly whooped as he moved.

He exhaled through his nose, amused despite himself, and adjusted the hat with mock dignity.

He plucked the wide-brimmed, feather-adorned thing off his head, turning it over in his hands with a mix of exasperation and begrudging admiration. Not the worst look the TARDIS had thrown on him, but still.

‘’You know, darling ,’’ he muttered, addressing the ship as he placed the hat onto a chair, ‘’you could just let me land in my normal clothes once in a while. No need for the dramatics.’’ 

The TARDIS hummed–a noise that could only be described as smug.

The Doctor sighed. ‘’Yeah, yeah. I know. I like it very much too. ’’

Because, well. 

He had long since accepted that he had a flair for theatrics. If he was going to travel through time, across galaxies and dimensions, why wouldn’t he dress the part? It was half the fun.

But he really needed to stop letting the TARDIS pick his outfits for him. 

Then again, dressing up was part of the fun. 

There was just something inherently satisfying about fitting seamlessly into a time period, the feel of an era stitched carefully into every seam and thread, that he couldn’t resist.

And this one? He gave the hat another looks, feather and all.

This one was rad. 

Do people say that in the 14th century? 

He grinned to himself, and finally made his way to the doors, flipping a few switches on the console as he moved. The central column let out a low hum–no danger alerts, no hostile atmospheric readings, just a quiet, vibrating presence. 

The kind of energy that meant mystery. 

The Doctor loved that.

With one last glance at the console–still humming like it knew something he didn’t–he moved decisively toward the door, curiosity overtaking his earlier unease. His hand found the door. He pulled it open without hesitation.

And stopped.

Mid-step.

One foot on the threshold, the other still anchored inside the TARDIS.

’’What the–‘’ he whispered, the rest of the words caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder.

The moment the door swung open, the scent hit him first—salt and sea rot, thick with damp wood and something older, like rope left too long in rain.

Then the sound: creaking timbers groaning beneath a slow, relentless sway, the floor shifting underfoot like a living thing. The walls were narrow and close, lined with aged planks wrapped by years of brine and use. 

Lanterns hung at uneven intervals, their flames flickering against the dark, casting long, restless shadows that danced like ghosts along the corridor.

He’d expected chaos. Explosions. Possibly monsters, or at least something suitably alarming to match the urgency of their landing. 

But a boat? 

More specifically, the hold of a ship.

He frowned, glancing back toward the softly glowing console room of the TARDIS behind him, the contrast stark and bewildering.

Then he stepped out fully, boots echoing softly on the boards, heart still thudding with leftover adrenaline from a landing that had felt far more urgent than this scene suggested.

’’Well, this is…unexpected,’’ he murmured, squinting into the shadows around him. ‘’Doesn’t exactly match the dramatic entrance.’’

It was quiet. Suspiciously quiet, save for the low creaking and groaning of ancient wood surrounding him. And–was the ground gently swaying beneath his feet?

He took another cautious step forward, letting his eyes adjust. Barrels, crates, rough beams, and cargo nets–all the hallmarks of a ship’s hold. Harry tilted his head slightly, brows knitted in confusion. 

The doctor sighed softly, stepping further into the shadowed space, curiosity steadily replacing confusion. He ran his fingers along one of the damp wooden beams, feeling the moisture seep against his skin. It felt wrong, mismatched–far too ordinary and quiet a place for the kind of chaotic arrival he’d just endured. 

He wrinkled his nose as he stepped around a leaking barrel. Somewhere above, faint footsteps thudded across the deck–fast-paced, tense. 

So it’s not an abandoned ship then.

Each creak of the wood beneath his boots seemed louder than the last, echoing softly around him. He traced his fingers absently along the rough barrels and crates stacked haphazardly against the walls. 

He’d barely taken three more steps forward when, in one swift movement, he felt a cold steep press sharply against his throat, stopping him abruptly in his tracks.

A low voice rasped close to his ear. ‘’Who the hell are you, and what are you doing aboard this ship?’’

‘’Oh, brilliant,’’ he muttered. ‘’What is going on with weapons pointed at my throat lately? It’s becoming redundant.’’ His hands rose slowly in the air. Waiting. 

The blade stayed firmly in place.

The man behind him didn’t respond. Tall, broad, and unamused, he stood rigid in the half-light of the hold, his dagger steady in his grip, his expression set in stone.

’’Speak,’’ growled the voice behind it. ‘’Who are you, and how’d you get aboard?’’ 

His dark eyes were sharp, calculating, and he had the sort of square jaw that made you think he rarely needed to speak to be obeyed. His boots were scuffed and soaked through at the edges, the laces frayed, like everything about him had been worn down by the sea–but nothing had managed to break him.

Most definitely the second in command.

Harry exhaled through his nose, eyeing the shadows out of the corner of his eye. ‘’I’m the Doctor. And technically, I walked.’’

The man didn’t laugh. 

‘’Well, not a funny man, are ya?’’ 

‘’Shut up.’’ 

‘’What is it with people that want me to be silent right after they ask a question! It’s annoying.’’ Harry grumbled, his voice only slightly muffled by the dagger still uncomfortably close to his throat.

The mercenary didn’t respond.

His blade didn’t waver from the Doctor’s neck, resting just under his jaw, sharp and cold.

The Doctor rolled his eyes upward in the direction of the roof. ‘’Alright, Alright. You’re very intimidating. Congratulations.’’

He exhaled slowly. ‘’You know, usually by now someone either ties me up, throws me in a cell, or drags me to their brooding captain. Is this one of those ‘figure out what to do with him later’ sort of situations? Because I’m not great at waiting games. Just ask time itself.’’

The dagger pressed in slightly–more warning than harm. The pirate leaned in, close enough that Harry could feel the warmth of his breath. ‘’You talk too much.’’

The Doctor’s lips twitched. ‘’I get that a lot yeah.’’

Then another figure emerged from deeper in the hold, stepping into view with a bit more ease. He was leaner, with a mop cropped short on the sides, longer on top of sun-bleached curls, a lazy slouch to his posture, and a smirk that was clearly habitual. 

His eyes were lighter than the other man’s, amused, appraising the Doctor with easy curiosity.

’’Seriously, Li?’’ the other pirate said, tilting his head. ‘’You pulled a knife on this guy? He looks like he got lost on the way to a costume ball.’’

’’I found him snooping around the powder barrels,’’ said ‘’Li’’.

‘’And talking to himself.’’

’’Well, I was having a perfectly good conversation with myself, ‘’ the Doctor interjected. ‘’Until I was rudely interrupted with cold steel.’’

The man with the dagger didn’t move. He didn’t speak. 

The Doctor huffed. ‘’Thank you. Finally, someone who appreciates that I’m charming, not dangerous.’’

The smirking one raised a brow. ‘’Didn’t say charming, but whatever rows your boat.’’ Then he turned to the other one, ‘’Bring him up. Let’s see what Cap will say.’’ 

And that earned the Doctor’s full attention. 

‘’Wait,’’ he said, blinking. ‘’You’re not the captain??’’ 

The taller man behind him finally spoke, voice like gravel. ‘’Do we look like captains?’’

The Doctor considered for a bit. ‘’Honestly? With that posture over me? A bit.’’

In response, his arms were seized, and he was shoved forward toward a steep wooden staircase. Boots thudded behind him as they guided him upward through the narrow passage. 

‘’Easy,’’ the Doctor complained, stumbling slightly over his elaborate coat. ‘’This is vintage!’’ 

The taller pirate laughed again, gesturing upward with a dramatic flourish. ‘’Better keep quiet, stranger. Wait until the captain gets a look at you.’’

With a shove, the Doctor emerged onto the main deck, the light hitting him like a slap–bright, open, the scent of salt and wind rushing in all at once. The deck stretched out before him, bustling with crew, sails snapping overhead.

For a moment, the Doctor simply took it all in–the rhythmic shouts of sailors coordinating their tasks, the vast sea stretching endlessly around them, sunlight shimmering off waves like scattered diamonds. 

It was oddly breathtaking; there was a kind of chaotic beauty to the controlled frenzy of activity, ropes tightening and sails swelling as the ship sliced gracefully through the water.

And yet, for all the movement, the moment felt suspended–like the ship itself was pausing to take measure of the newcomer. 

Because there, at the helm, radiating authority beneath the blazing sun, stood the captain.

Louis .

He stood proud at the helm, framed by the full blaze of morning sun—and somehow, he didn’t shrink beneath it. He radiated in it.

It clung to him as it had chosen him, catching on the tousled waves of his unruly chestnut curls, turning them copper-gold where the light struck just right. It danced across his cheekbones, kissed the slope of his fairy-like nose, hallowed his silhouette in something that wasn’t quite divine, but close enough to make your breath catch. 

He didn’t squint, didn’t shy away from the brightness—if anything, he wore it like a crown. Like the sun followed him.

He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, though he stood like someone who’d live twice that—chin high, spine straight with the kind of confidence that came from surviving things most men wouldn’t walk away from

And gods above, his outfit. 

His coat—long, gold-trimmed and jet black—billowed behind him with every breeze, sharp against the brightness of the day. The lapels and cuffs were embroidered with deep red thread, and over one shoulder hung a leather bandolier, dotted with brass buckles and a sheath that held a gleaming dagger. 

Underneath, a crimson shirt, loose, unbuttoned low—clung damp to his chest in places, open enough to reveal sun-warmed skin and the start of a constellation of tattoos that sprawled across his collarbones and arms.

A blood-red sash wrapped low around his hips, knotted at one side, the end torn and fraying. His sword hung from it casually, as if it was an afterthought. His breeches were fitted and tucked into tall, worn leather boots—the kind of boots you fought in. Bled in. Ran in, if you were lucky.

His eyes were striking ice-blue and sharply observant, flicking between his crew with purpose, then landing on the stranger being marched toward him. 

His crew moved around him like orbiting planets—silent, respectful, utterly aware of his presence. He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t need to. He simply was, and that was enough. 

The Doctor blinked, slowly.

And then again. 

Because it couldn’t be. 

Louis was clearly not the damsel in distress here.

He was also not staring.

Definitely not.

No. The Doctor was just…assessing the situation. Not the cutted sharp jawline. Not the tattoos. Not the way the sun turned Louis into a dangerously beautiful creature. 

It was definitely for observational purposes. Strictly time-travel-related.

The Doctor cleared his throat, forcing his eyes away from the captain’s jawline and back up toward his eyes–which, on second thought, might have been worse. 

His gaze was cold, penetrating, the kind of blue that made ice seem warm by comparison. The Doctor swallowed, suddenly aware of how very sharp that cutlass at Louis’ hip was, and wondering instantly what exactly he’d done to warrant such blatant hostility.

He looked at Louis descending from the helm with an easy, dangerous grace, every movement reminding The Doctor of a cat. Crew members stepped aside without being asked, instinctively clearing his path. 

The Doctor watched him approach, fascinated–purely from a scientific standpoint, of course. 

In fact, there was just something about this Louis that felt different, like a blade sharpened too many times: polished, lethal, and close to breaking.

The Doctor barely registered the rough shove that pushed him forward, bringing him directly into the captain’s space. Louis moved fast, and in a single breath, he was next to them.

The captain’s gaze swept sharply over him, sizing him up in seconds. He stopped mere inches away, the sun catching every line of his intricate tattoos as he regarded Harry with cold suspicion. 

The Doctor held his breath, caught somewhere between concern and something decidedly less professional. 

‘’Interesting choice of colours, mate,’’ The captain finally drawled, voice deceptively soft. He lifted one eyebrow, fingers slowly brushing the hilt of his sword. ‘’Did your captain send you dressed like this as a message, or are you just that stupid?’’

Harry glanced down at his outfit, then back up, confusion written plainly all over his face. ‘’I beg your pardon?’’ 

‘’You’ve got exactly ten seconds,’’ Louis warned softly, but menacingly, ‘’to tell me who you’re working for, and what you’re doing aboard the Rogue, before I cut your pretty throat.’’

In one swift movement, the captain drew his sword, pressing the blade firmly beneath The Doctor’s chin. He went quiet instantly, pulse suddenly racing, the tip of the blade just enough to force him to tilt his head back and meet the captain’s gaze.

The Doctor swallowed, pulse speeding up–though perhaps not entirely from fear. ‘’Ah, right. Misunderstanding,’’ he said, voice tight. ‘’I’m not an enemy. Or working for anyone, for that matter. Just landed here by mistake. A complete accident.’’

Louis’ eyes narrowed sharply, suspicion deepening as he pressed the blade ever so slightly closer, forcing the Doctor to hold perfectly still.

’’Forgive me,’’ Louis said coldly, leaning in close enough that his breath ghosted over his face. ‘’But I don’t believe in accidents.’’

He swallowed, though he definitely wasn’t nervous. Or thrilled. Or fascinated. He certainly wasn’t any of those things.

Still, he found himself meeting Louis’ intense stare, utterly captivated by the raw danger–and undeniable beauty–of the man before him. He allowed his voice to soften, just enough to imply honesty. ‘’I promise, captain Louis, if this were a deception, I’d be doing a much better job at it.’’

’’We’ll see about that,’’ Louis murmured, his tone dripping with menace and something else entirely–something way darker, more intriguing. ‘’One way or another, you’re going to tell me exactly who you are and what you’re doing here. And if I don’t like your answer…’’

His voice trailed off, letting the implied threat hang in the salty air. 

But they didn’t quite have the chance to continue their interaction. 

Just as Louis’ sword pressed a little more insistently under Harry’s chin–his gaze cold, questioning, ready to strike–a voice rang out across the deck. 

Sharp. Commanding. Dripping with scorn.

’’Lower your blade, boy, before you embarrass yourself.’’

The Doctor felt the sword against his throat ease slightly as Louis turned toward the voice, eyes narrowing instantly.

Johannah.

In this universe, Johannah was nothing less than a queen–a Pirate Queen at that, fierce and striking in black, gold and crimson. A tailored black coat, trimmed in shimmering gold embroidery, cascaded down to mid-thigh, flaring dramatically behind her as she moved. Beneath it, she wore a deep scarlet blouse, silk sleeves billowing in the breeze, the neckline plunging just enough to showcase a necklace of gleaming golden coins, each one a trophy from a past conquest. 

Her black breeches hugged her legs, tucked firmly into knee-high boots polished to a light shine, heels clicking sharply against the deck.

A curved sabre rested comfortably at her hip, its ornate hilt glinting with gold detailing in the sunlight, silently speaking volumes about her skill in combat. Her hair, streaked golden by the sun, was bound loosely behind her head, a few unruly curls falling free, framing an expression that tolerated absolutely no nonsense–least of all from Louis. They were threaded with strands of gold and crimson, a silent crown for the undisputed pirate queen.

Gold rings adorned her fingers, glinting menacingly against the pommel of the sword strapped confidently to her waist.

Her piercing eyes, blue and relentless as the ocean itself, fixed squarely on Louis. ‘’I gave you orders to deal swiftly with intruders. Not to play with them.’’

‘’At that,’’ Johannah said, voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the thick silence settling over the deck, ‘’you really ought to know better than to handle intruders yourself.’’

She tilted her head slightly, her mouth curving into a teasing smile–sharp, yes, but unmistakably playful. Her eyes glittered with amusement as they briefly flickered between Louis and the Doctor.

’’then again, reckless isn’t exactly new for you, is it, pup?’’

The air between them crackled–not with anger, but something sharper, older. Louis didn’t respond, but the flick of his eyes–equal parts irritation and restrained amusement–said enough.

Louis’ jaw tightened, the corner of his mouth twitching into a reluctant smirk as the tension eased just slightly. Despite the air of danger, it was clear the pirate queen enjoyed prodding Louis, affection mixed with authority beneath her words.

The Doctor, watching the exchange, slowly lifted a brow.

Well. This was getting interesting.

Louis’ expression flickered–just for a second–like a little boy caught red handed with his fist in a jar of sweets. But his voice, when he spoke, was steady, cool, and laced with defensiveness as he never fully lowered his sword. 

‘’I was simply interrogating him. Figured you might want to know who sent him.’’

Johannah arched a single brow, barely sparing the Doctor a glance. ‘’And have you learned anything useful?’’ She asked, her voice lilting with dry amusement, ‘’Or just that he’s particularly fond of talking?’’

The Doctor opened his mouth, hand half-raised as if to object–only for Johannah to finally turn her full attention toward him. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, swept over him again before she gave a short, decisive nod.

Louis pressed his lips together, clearly biting back a retort as his sword slowly, reluctantly lowered further. ‘’Not yet mother . But I was getting there.’’

Harry blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Mother?

Of all the twists and turns, he’d experienced, he never expected this sweet creature to be the one. 

He turned to Louis so fast it nearly gave him whiplash, eyes wide with unmistakable shock. ‘’She’s your–? You’re–? That’s–?’’ He pointed between the two of them, utterly baffled. ‘’– That explains absolutely nothing but also somehow everything. ’’

Johannah’s lips curled into an amused smirk, entirely unbothered as she kept ignoring the Doctor. ‘’I’m sure you were, darling .’’ She finally, finally, turned fully toward him, pinning him with a sharp gaze, eyes flickering over him in brief assessment before she let out a soft, faintly irritated sigh. ‘’Well, Harry, since you’ve so kindly interrupted our voyage, I suppose we’d better have a proper chat.’’

Louis’s eyes darted sharply between them, suspicion flaring once more as he caught his mother’s casual use of Harry’s name. ‘’Harry?’’ Louis repeated, tone edged with renewed distrust. ‘’You know him?’’

Johannah waved off the question lightly, already turning toward her cabin. ‘’Come, Harry,’’ she said coolly, dismissing Louis’ confusion entirely. ‘’We have quite a bit to discuss.’’

’’Well,’’ he murmured to himself, feeling distinctly off-balance. ‘’This is certainly getting interesting, isn’t it?’’

He straightened his coat, still blinking in shock, and cast Louis a quick, slightly dazed smile as he stepped past.

The deck around them was alive—ropes tightening with sharp jerks, sails flapping high overhead, boots thudding against the planks.

The crew didn’t exactly stop to gawk, but they watched. Eyes trailed on them as they descended to the main cabins, each one gauging whether he was a threat or merely a fool. 

He could feel it—the suspicion hanging in the air like storm clouds. They weren’t men and women that trusted easily. One particularly broad-shouldered sailor—a man with a silver tooth and a jagged scar slicing through his eyebrow—narrowed his gaze as Harry passed and muttered something low to his crewmates ‘’ 'to što držiš u ruci, u dupe zavuci'’’ [1]. The others around him chuckled darkly.

Harry offered a polite nod in return, understanding what he’d said. ‘’Friendly bunch,’’ he whispered for only Johannah to hear.

Johannah didn’t even look back. She spoke as if sensing Louis trailing behind them anyway. ‘’You’re not needed for this conversation, Louis.’’

’’Clearly, I am,’’ Louis retorted coolly, voice edged with defiance, ‘’since our visitor seems to have caught your attention.’’

Harry bit back a smirk. He could feel the palpable tension between the mother and son, and it didn’t seem to bother Johannah in the slightest. 

She pushed open the door to her chambers without another word. Inside, said chamber was striking, every inch of it reflecting the refined taste and ruthless efficiency of its occupant. Warm daylight streamed through intricately designed stained-glass windows, painting patterns of amber, crimson, and gold across polished mahogany furniture.

An expansive looking desk dominated the centre of the room, maps and nautical charts scattered across its surface like carefully orchestrated chaos. Shelves lined the walls, filled with rare artifacts, gold and brass instruments, and faded books that spoke of distant travels and secrets kept. 

Just like it was her own TARDIS.

Johannah herself moved to stand behind her desk, fingertips lightly tracing the edge as she fixed Harry with a sharp, assessing stare. ‘’Well, Harry,’’ she said, voice low and deceptively calm, ‘’Would you explain why you are dressed in the enemy’s color? And please–‘’ Her tone sharpened like a freshly honed blade, ‘’make it convincing’’

Harry adjusted the elaborate cuffs of his coat before answering. ‘’Oh, you know Jay,’’ he said smoothly, eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘’How I do enjoy making an entrance.’’

Louis scoffed quietly behind them, drawing Harry’s attention briefly. He met his icy stare with a crooked smile. ‘’And your delightful son here was most accommodating. I must say. Lovely welcome—him and his team of lost boys.’

‘’The colours, of course, were pure coincidence. Although,’’ he tilted his head playfully, letting his gaze linger on Louis for just a fraction too long, ‘’I must admit, they seem to have stirred quite the reaction.’’

Louis’ expression seemed to darken, his jaw clenching visibly. Johannah, however, merely tilted her head with a quiet amusement, a faint smile tugging at her lips. 

‘’As much as I adore that stubborn fool,’’ she said lightly, eyes flicking affectionately toward Louis, ‘’he’s only my adopted son.’’

Harry arched an intrigued eyebrow. ‘’Adopted?’’

Johannah nodded, her expression briefly softening. She looked at Louis, who was looking everywhere but at them now, before she continued, ‘’He was a scrappy thing—eight years old, maybe nine—when we found him. He was on one of the ships I’d… uh commandeered.’’

‘’Commandeered," Harry repeated, whistling, clearly impressed. ‘’Impressive.’’

She turned her gaze back toward Louis, something fond and fiercely protective warming her expression. ‘’The crew wanted to toss him back ashore at the next port.’’ Her eyes softened, growing distant with nostalgia. ‘’But I saw myself in him—someone defiant enough to carve out something. So, I kept him, raised him like my own.’’

She smiled then—sharp, satisfied. 

‘’And we tossed my old crew ashore instead.’’

Harry barked a laugh, head tipping back as it escaped him, uncontained and sudden. ‘’Of course you did. Classic you. Adopting a stowaway and mutinying your own crew just because they didn’t like him. Wow.’’

Johannah shrugged, utterly unbothered. ‘’He bit one of them.’’

Louis rolled his eyes dramatically, pushing off the wall with a huff. ‘’He was an idiot, mother.’’

Jay raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but clearly amused. ‘’An idiot with a knife.’’

Harry watched the two of them banter back and forth, smiling faintly to himself. He didn’t want to interrupt the easy rhythm they’d clearly established, but he had to. He needed answers, and Johannah was the only one who might have them.

‘’Okay. Now,’’ he said gently, drawing her attention away from Louis. ‘’Jay, as much as I’m enjoying your mother-son power dynamic—Kind of iconic, by the way—I also need a moment with you.’’

Johannah’s expression immediately sobered, something knowing settling behind her eyes. ‘’Louis. Leave us alone for a moment, son.’

Louis narrowed his eyes, clearly unamused at the idea of letting them two alone, but he nodded curtly. ‘’Fine. I’ll wait above deck.’’

Harry smiled charmingly. ‘’Just a quick chat, Captain. Pirate to Doctor.’’

‘’Go on, Lou’’’ she said calmly, a faint smile playing at the edges of her lips. ‘’Go and see what Isaac and Liam are up to. Make sure they’re not planning a mutiny behind your back.’’

Louis huffed softly, rolling his eyes, clearly unhappy about being excluded, but eventually nodded, turning reluctantly toward the door. 

He paused next to Harry, shooting him a lingering, wary glance over his shoulder, before finally leaving the room. 

‘’If she stabs you,’’ he said flatly, ‘’I’m not bandaging it.’’

Harry gave him a theatrical bow. ‘’Captain. Ever a gentleman.’’

The moment the door clicked shut, Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘’So.’’ he began, softly this time. ‘’First things first—this version of you is badass. I love this.’’

Jay tilted her head slightly, a small, amused smile breaking through her carefully maintained neutral expression. ‘’But I guess you’re not here only to tell me this, aren’t you?’’ 

‘’You lied.’’ Harry told her quietly, no accusation in his tone–just quiet certainty. ‘’Why?’’

Johannah didn’t flinch. But she closed her eyes for a moment, her jaw setting in that familiar, infuriating way it always did when he was trying to decide how much truth to give him. Then she opened her eyes again to look at Harry.

’’You know I can tell, Johannah.’’

She said nothing. Just watched him.

He motioned toward the door Louis had disappeared through. ’’What was it like when you found him?’’

She hesitated–just a second–before moving toward the table. Harry followed her. A compass rested there, its needle spinning like mad, trembling as though trying to escape its own casing. She didn’t look at Harry as she spoke. 

‘’He washed up on a broken raft off the coast of Corsica. Covered in salt and blood.’’ she said, her voice low and steady. ‘’Didn’t speak for days. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. The wreck he came from? No other survivors. No names. No flag. No explanation. He was barely twelve.’’

Harry stepped closer to the compass, scanning it with his sonic screwdriver. ‘’He had this with him, didn’t he?’’

She glanced at him, surprised. Then nodded. ‘’Strapped to his chest in a soaked leather pouch. It was the only thing on him. It’s never worked right. But lately...’’

‘’It’s responding to something. Or someone.’’ Finished Harry.

Jay folded her arms. ‘’It always has. Constantly turning. But not like this. Not this fast.’’

Harry hummed, eyes narrowing at the frantic spinning needle. ‘’I saw the floor earlier, beneath his feet. He leaves a trail. Damp, clean. Like he’s…leaking the ocean.’’

She folded her arms across her chest, defensive yet not hostile. ‘’He can’t stay on land,’’ she admitted softly. ‘’No longer than a day. Any longer, and something goes terribly wrong–storms, illnesses, accidents. The sea always finds a way back to him.’’

Harry lifted his brows. ‘’That’s unusual.’’ 

‘’It’s consistent.’’ Johannah corrected firmly. ‘’Relentless. It started immediately after we found him. But he doesn’t know why, or at least, he claims he doesn’t.’’

Harry leaned forward, tracing a finger around the edge of the sinning compass. ‘’And this?’’ 

‘’He had it clutched in his hand when I first pulled him aboard. Never lets it out of his sight,’’ Jay explained. ‘’But he’s never spoken of it–not once. He pretends it’s broken, meaningless. But it’s always spinning when he’s around, only today he started to spin uncontrollably like that.’’

Harry started at the compass thoughtfully. ‘’Your old crew, what really happened?’’ 

She sighed, her gaze hardening with determination. ‘’They discovered what he was. Some saw him as cursed, others as a monster. They’d planned to throw him overboard to save themselves, to appease the sea. But I couldn’t. ‘’

She looked Harry in the eye. ‘’No. I killed them. Every last one. My first mate, my quartermaster…anyone who thought he was something to be purged.’’ 

Harry’s brow furrowed. That’s not Johannah’s character to be this relentless with humans. He didn’t know she was capable of such a thing. ‘’You knew about the curse? When you did that?’’

She hesitated for the first time, then shook her head. ‘’I was having my own suspicions. But I needed help.’’

Harry looked at her sharply. ‘’You asked someone?’’

’’I went to someone,’’ she said. ‘’A shaman. A month ago. On an island in the Balkans. No maps led there–just instinct. Locals whisper about it, but no one sails there anymore. Something told me she’d understand.’’

’’What did she say?’’ He asked, quieter now.

Her gaze drifted toward the spinning compass. Her voice lowered, hushed as if the words still held power, and not to be heard by anyone but him.

’’She called him sin mora. Son of the sea. She spoke of an ancient curse–older than any sailor’s superstition. Said he was marked, not by choice, but probably because his ancient crew was too. Cursed with the Siren’s song.’’

Harry’s mouth parted slightly. ‘’The Siren’s Song?’’

Johannah nodded once. Then, with eerie clarity, she recited it in a low voice, her accent shifting just slightly into the cadence of the woman who’d taught her:

Čuj vjetar, nit se odmotava,

duša koja plovi preko svih vremena.

zvijezde pamte, nebo još plače,

za imenima zaboravljenim u dubini.

srebrna nit i zlatan ključ,

prokletnik plovi morem.

izgubljen kompas, nedovršen put,

tvoje srce znaće kada je on došao.

on hoda kroz oluje u strančevom ruhu,

kradljivac vremena sa drevnim očima.

njegov glas će iskriti ono što je nekad bio plamen, ali još uvijek, on neće reći tvoje ime.

čuvaj se neba, čuvaj se kopna,

kletva se vraća, kao nekada. 

naći ćeš ga blizu, pustićeš ga blizu,

ali će nestati s godinom.

ukoliko pitaš, ukoliko vidiš,

da je on ti, da si ti on.

ključ, zvijezda, širok eho--

doktor stoji gdje sudbina mora da se krije.'

By the end, Harry’s breath caught. ‘’She was talking about him,’’ he whispered. ‘’But she was talking about me too.’’

Both of his hearts were hammering in his rib cage.

Johannah nodded solemnly. ‘’And that’s why I called you.’’

Johannah’s words should have grounded him. 

It didn’t.

Instead, Harry’s thoughts fractured–spinning, scattering, snapping apart faster than he could catch them. His pulse roared in his ears.

Never–at least not in any of the timelines he has visited–had one of the Louis’ he was meant to save been entangled in the myth.

And not just entangled–but marked by it.

In a new way. With a different voice, the one of a siren, but with the same damn threads.

His stomach flipped. He turned away from Johannah abruptly, pressing both hands flat against the table, head bowed. His curls fell into his face, and he let them. His breathing was shallow. Controlled. Barely.

‘’It’s the legend. But told differently. Rooted to something.’’ His voice dropped, barely audible. ‘’Like a pattern. A construct.’’ 

‘’He won’t tell me everything,’’ Johannah answered, tone low, not ashamed–just honest. ‘’What I’ve told you, that's all I know.’’ She paused, eyes sharpening. ‘’But I know it’s not all. He’s holding something back.’’ 

Harry frowned, eyes narrowing. ‘’Why would he–?’’

’’Because he doesn’t trust what it might mean,’’ she cut in. ‘’He’s trying to protect us, but from what? I’ve asked before. He completely deflects. He lies well.’’ She shook her head softly. ‘’But not to you. Not if you use your ‘Doctor’s charisma’’’ 

Harry raised a brow at her. ‘’Doctor’s charisma?’’

 ‘’You have a way–you ask the right things. You make people want to open doors they’ve nailed shut.’’

Harry blinked. ‘’That sounds very dramatic.’’

’’Because it is,’’ she shot back, not unkindly. ‘’But be aware that he’s not going to hand it from a silver plate. You’ll have to pull it from him. Gently. Carefully. Like a loose thread in the dark.’’

He looked at her sharply before answering. ‘’Well, he doesn’t exactly strike me as someone who wants to talk to me Jay.’’

Harry exhaled, sharp through his nose, and turned back to face her.

’’He’s been glaring at me like I insulted his ship since the moment I got here. I’m fairly certain he’d like my head on a spike,’’ he muttered. ‘’Or overboard. Possibly both’’

Johannah laughed. 

A full on, belly laugh. 

‘’If that were true, Harry ,’’ she said evenly, ‘’we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.’’

Outside, the ship rocked gently with the tide, but something in the air had shifted. A stillness before a storm. Inside the cabin, the lantern light danced across the walls. Harry’s fingers twitched against his coat sleeve. 

The silence stretched—awkward— full of everything unspoken.

Johannah stepped closer to him, really looking him in the eyes. ‘’You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ Plenty of times. Unravelled people. Not with brutal force. With questions. With kindness. With that maddening curiosity of yours.’’

He didn’t respond.

’’You make people want to tell you things. Even the things that hurt,’’ she said.

She looked at him– really looked at him –and for a second, Harry forgot how to breathe. 

There it was again, that same flicker behind her eyes. That sharp, unguarded rawness he’d come to recognize in every version of her across time. No matter the century, the setting, the role she played–Johannah was always one of those rare people whose emotions didn’t hide behind a mask. They lived at the surface. Honest. Brutal. Readable.

It struck him how familiar that expression was. That same stubborn, fire-bright honesty. She was one of those rare people who never learned to guard her emotions, who never wanted to. Probably why she was the perfect candidate for all of this. 

She was an easy read in a galaxy full of encrypted faces.

He held her haze a moment longer, unsure if he was searching for absolution or just trying to remember what it felt like to be known without needing to explain himself. 

Because not many people actually understand him without complex equations and old readings. 

He muttered, more to himself than to her. ‘’She’s still in there,’’ his voice was above a whisper at that point. ‘’The woman who used to laugh at my terrible jokes. Who told me I talked way too slow and still let me talk anyway.’’

He was about to turn back to her to continue the conversation when the deck above them groaned sharply. A muffled shout echoed from the upper level in a chorus of confusion and fear. 

A sickening creak ran the length of the hull, high and low, as though the entire ship had taken a breath it couldn’t hold. The ship heaved violently again–louder, sharper, as if something deep in its belly had cracked. 

The lanterns hanging in Johannah’s chambers swung like pendulums, their light stuttering with every shudder of the hull. 

Johannah didn’t hesitate. She was already at the door, her boots slapping the floor. 

Harry snatched the maddening compass from the table–still spinning wildly, needle vibrating like it was trying to escape his grasp–and sprinted after her, two steps behind, coat flaring with the wind rushing in through the stairwell. 

The air had shifted.

He felt it instantly—too wet, too dense, too charged for open water. They were miles from land, yet it was as if the ship had slid straight into the belly of a storm. The air clung to his skin like salt, and when he opened his mouth to breathe—

He tasted the ocean.

And then they broke onto the deck.

Chaos met them.

The wind hit them like a brutal slap, tearing at his coat, dragging hair into his eyes. Rain lashed sideways, cold and sharp, driven by a gale that screamed across the deck like it wanted to tear the ship apart plank by plank. The sails were half-collapsed, ropes snapping and coiling like struck vipers, crewmen barely holding on to them, slipping across the slick boards, shouting over the roar.

The ship pitched violently again, one side plunging deep before lurching back–waves crashing over the rails, drenching everything in icy spray. Thunder cracked overhead, so loud it shook in his chest. The sky was pitch black, as if night had fallen in a single breath.

But amidst the chaos, Harry’s gaze locked on Louis, and everything around seemed to fade.

The shouting from the crew, the violent crashing waves, the frantic rush of the crew around them–it all fell into a distant hum, muffled beneath the pulse in his ears and the static in his chest. 

Louis was tragically beautiful. 

Framed by the sky like a painting come to life–red and black and gold soaking through with rain, collar blown back by the wind, curls whipping back from his face, rain cascading down his cheeks like tears the sky hadn’t earned the right to cry. His eyes, half-lidded, stare straight ahead, distant and fierce, like he could see something beyond the edge of the world. 

The storm, it was bending around him, not even touching him.

He was the eye of it.

And he was furious.

Harry could feel it.

The air crackled with something worse than lightning. Worse than magic. It was pure, raw emotion radiating from Louis in crushing waves–an anger so sharp it felt like it could split the ship in half. His fists were clenched, jaw locked tight, his entire body taut like a rope ready to snap.

Harry had seen beauty before. Endless versions of Louis etched into starscapes, shadows of him painted across time. But never like this. Not in this light. Not as a being born of myth and chaos, standing like he’d risen from the ocean’s spine and told the sky to hush.

He stood like something meant to be worshipped or feared, Harry wasn’t sure which. And he understood why Jay acted like she did–killing thousands of men because she had to protect this beautiful creature. 

And Harry, for all his years, for all the horrors and wonders he’d seen–had no words for it. Only awe. Cold, helpless awe. 

At the same moment, Johannah’s voice rang out, sharp and desperate. 

‘’LOUIS!’’

She was moving forward, trying to reach for him.

But Harry’s arm shot out, grabbing her wrist before she could cross the invisible line between them. ‘’Don’t,’’ he said, firm, low. ‘’You can’t . Not now.’’

Johannah stilled, her face pale. ‘’He’s never–he’s never done this before.’’

‘’He’s angry,’’ Harry said. ‘’The curse, it’s taking control of him. Something, or someone made him snap. He’s lost in it.’’

Johannah’s mouth opened, but no word came. 

Harry pressed on. ‘’He overheard us,’’ he murmured. ‘’Back in the cabin, the door was cracked open after he was gone. He must’ve been listening.’’ 

Her eyes widened. 

‘’He must have heard what you asked me to do,’’ Harry added. ‘’About getting him to talk, gaining his trust. And now…’’

Harry turned back to Louis, his gaze cutting through the storm. ‘’He knows. Knows you are trying to figure him out.’’

Johannah shook her head, whispering, ‘’No, no–he’ll think it was all behind his back–he’ll think we don’t trust him–‘’

’’He already wasn’t feeling trusted, Jay,’’ Harry corrected, his voice dark and low. ‘’If he eavesdropped, it’s because he wasn’t putting his trust into you at all. The storm isn’t reacting to him. It’s reflecting him.’’

They both looked at Louis as the storm continued bending around him like a crown of water and wind.

This was the part where it could all go wrong. But they had to do something. 

He handed the compass carefully to Johannah, his hands now free.

‘’I’m going,’’ he simply said.

Johannah’s eyes widened. ‘’Harry–no!’’

She tried to grab his arm, but it was vain, as Harry already was going for Louis. He smiled at her, soft and infuriating and entirely the Doctor. 

Each step he took felt like pushing through a wall of crashing waves and roaring sky. Rain lashed against his skin, cold and relentless. His boots slid on the soaked deck, but he kept moving–one foot, then another–closer to the storm’s centre. Closer to Louis. 

The pressure in the air was unnatural–too heavy, too electric. The kind of pressure you feel in your teeth. It was hard to go forward, but the Doctor kept pushing to get through. 

Louis stood there, chest heaving, rain slicking down his coat, crimson and black fabric aclinging like a second skin. His fists were clenched, his body trembling–but not with fear.

No. 

With power.

Louis then looked directly at Harry, and the Doctor froze. 

His eyes were glowing.

Not blue. 

Not green.

They were white. Solid white. No pupils. No emotion. Just light glowing like the moon underwater. Like the ocean had swallowed him whole and spat him back glowing with rage.

He wasn’t quite Louis anymore.

He was a siren.

‘’Louis,’’ he called out, raising his voice just enough to pierce the wind.

No response. Just the crash of water against the ship’s hull. The storm was howling—and so was Louis.

And he stared through Harry as a wall of water surged up, slamming into the dock between them, as if the water was protecting him. Harry stepped back, trying not to be the target.

‘’Okay,’’ he muttered under his breath, blinking saltwater from his lashes. ‘’We’re doing it this way then.’’ 

He stepped forward, with unwavering determination. But Louis–the siren–seemed to be faster. A sharp flick of his hand–and the wind slammed into Harry, sending him staggering. Not far. But enough to get the message across.

But Harry was not one to listen anyway.

’’You’re angry,’’ Harry called out, forcing his voice through the roar of the wind, because it seemed like it was louder now. ‘’You’re furious. I get it. You heard us.’’

The sky split open above them, white-hot lighting tearing behind Louis in cascading waves.

The wind curled tighter, the rain stung sharper–but the Doctor didn’t flinch. He took another step forward, almost touching Louis, his boots sloshing through ankle deep water he ignored how it got there, as the ship lurched again beneath him. 

‘’I know what that feels like, you know? But she only wanted your wellbeing. She wasn’t plotting in your back. You just didn’t let her help you.’’ Harry shouted. ‘’She was just taking the matter in her own hands to try and protect you Louis.’’

Louis didn’t answer.

Didn’t even blink. 

But his jaw–his jaw clenched. Just slightly. A flicker.

Then he snarled–a guttural sound that didn’t sound quite human. It echoed wrong in the air. Too low. Ancient. Like something that belonged in the deepest part of the sea.

His shoulders rolled back, spine too straight, too rigid, like he wasn’t used to his own limbs anymore. His head tilted, slow and deliberate, the movement almost reptilian. His fingers twitched at his sides–sharp, curved, like claws preparing to strike.

Harry stood his ground. 

Didn’t duck. Didn’t reach for his screwdriver. Didn’t move.

He watched as the rain slid off Louis’ skin in streams instead of droplets. It wasn’t soaking him like it should. It glided over him. Refused to cling. Like the water knew its master now. 

Harry knew it at that moment. That he had to pull Louis back, like he had countless times prior, before there was nothing left to save.

He could feel the storm tightening around them, like a fist curling toward destruction–it wasn’t even aimed at the other pirates. Just at Harry. His gaze stayed locked on Louis. On the white-hot glow of his eyes. On the silence behind them. 

Harry had met gods and monsters. He had seen universes bend and break. He had watched stars die and come back again. 

He also never–ever–walked away from someone he believed he could save. 

So he took another step forward.

Just one. 

‘’Someone once told me,’’ he called out, voice strained through the chaos, ‘’that being cursed felt like being invisible and too visible all at once. That every kindness felt like pity. That every step felt like it might be the one that finally sent the world crashing down.’’

The wind snapped around him, but Harry pressed forward. Louder now. Firmer. 

‘’I don’t know what they did to you. I don’t know why you have to carry this. But I see it. Johannah sees it too. You are Louis. The boy who watches everyone like they might leave. The man who walks the deck like he owns it, but never stops listening. You are NOT a curse.’’

The glow behind his eyes finally flickered. Dimmed.

Harry took a careful step forward. 

Louis did nothing to stop him.

‘’Whatever this thing is,’’ he said, voice raw with emotion, ‘’It’s trying to pull you under. It’s trying to make you forget who you are.’’

He was closer now. Close enough to feel the cold radiating off Louis’ skin. Close enough to see his fingers twitching, like he was fighting with himself.

‘’You don’t have to hold it all. You don’t have to carry it alone.’’

The storm pulsed. 

Like the heartbeat of the sea.

Then–it hitched, like something faltering. A crack.

Harry saw it. 

Louis flinched.

‘’Come back,’’ he said–not a plea, not a command. Something quieter. More sacred. A thread of hope. 

His posture then twitched–rigid shoulders sagging half an inch like a weight pressed down on him. 

The white glow in his eyes flickered again. It wasn’t gone, but it was faltering. 

‘’That’s it,’’ he whispered, voice trembling as it carried into the charged air. ‘’That’s you, isn’t it? You are back with us.’’

He was dangerously close now. He could see the way the man was fighting. He could see the black lines bracketing his mouth, carved by the curse. He could see the shiver that worked its way down his arms–his body struggling to keep up. To not crumble under the force of something trying to own him from the inside out.

Then he let out a sound–sharp and low, something guttural and half-swallowed, like it had ripped from his chest without permission. He was trying to grasp onto himself, to hold the thing that was possessing him.

‘’Come back to me, Louis.’’

And just like that–

Silence.

The storm vanished. The glow of Louis’ eyes dimmed, like a star ready to become a supernova. The white died down into ocean blue. Real. Wild. Terrified.

“That’s it,” Harry whispered, breathless. “You’re stronger than it. You always were.”

Louis’ knees buckled.

And Harry didn’t hesitate.

He caught the man mid-fall, arms wrapping tightly around him, dragging him close, bracing for his full weight. Louis collapsed into his chest, soaked to the skin and shivering so violently Harry could barely hold him steady. 

So, they fall together on the dock. 

But he still held him. 

He held him like it meant everything. And it did.

His hand curled around the back of Louis’ head, fingers threading into sea-wet hair, and his other arm tightened around his waist, anchoring him as the last of the storm drained from the air. 

‘’I’ve got you,’’ Harry murmured into his hair, kissing it softly, his voice shaking with a mix of exhaustion and something else. ‘’You are safe now.’’

‘’LOUIS! DOCTOR!’’

The voice tore across the deck–sharp, cracking, human. 

Johannah.

She reached them in seconds, dropping to her knees beside them with a thud that echoed through the silence the storm had left behind. Her hand instinctively reached for Louis’ face, then paused just inches from her son’s cheek, trembling.

She was afraid to touch him.

Harry shifted, lowering Louis gently so his head could lay on his shoulder, his breath ghosting across his throat. ‘’He’s okay,’’ he murmured, voice hoarse. ‘’He’s back. I think… Yeah, I felt it.’’ 

His free hand moved quickly, already pulling his sonic screwdriver from his coat. The familiar hum cutting through the quiet, turquoise light dancing over Louis’ chest, scanning–checking.

Searching.

The scanner began to scroll data across the tiny screen as he watched. Waiting. 

Vital signs: weak, but stable.

No temporal bleed.

No dimensional drift.

Harry exhaled slowly, like someone had just taken a weight off his chest that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. That’s when his eyes lifted, suddenly aware of something–someone–beyond Johannah’s crouched, wind-shaken form.

They weren’t alone. 

Isaac stood just behind her, tall and silent, chest heaving like he’d run the entire length of the ship. His soaked hair clung to his forehead, but his eyes weren’t on Harry–they were locked on Louis. 

Liam was there too, jaw tight, one hand curled around the hilt of his sword, though it remained sheathed. He wasn’t facing them. 

Because behind them, filling the deck in a growing half-circle, stood the rest of the crew.

Ten. Maybe fifteen of them.

Their backs were straight, boots sunk in shallow puddles left by the storm. Rain still dripping from the ends of their coats, their hair plastered to their faces and temples, their chests rising and falling in quiet unison. 

None of them looked shocked.

They weren’t frozen with fear. They weren’t wide-eyed with terror. There was no muttering, no stepping back, no glance toward a possible escape route or toward each other in search of answers. If they were surprised by what they’d witnessed–by the sudden storm erupting from their captain’s body–they didn’t show it.

These were men and women that had just witnessed a miracle. 

Something holy. 

They had seen Louis–their Louis–stand at the bow like he had summoned the ocean itself, like the clouds had been called to crown him. They saw how he had summoned the waves; how they’d responded to him. And how when he’d collapsed, it was as if the sea itself had exhaled and let go.

They’d also seen how he now lay motionless, curled in the arms of a man none of them knew but somehow trusted all the same. 

There was a certain wonderment in their eyes. 

And slowly, Harry understood. 

They weren’t asking what Louis was.

They were accepting that he was something more.

That he was not a monster.

They looked at him like they would look at a star, falling from the heavens and landing on their deck, real and glowing and theirs.

Then, Johannah’s voice boomed like cannon fire through the hush.

’’If anyone has a single problem with my son,’’ she said, low and fierce, her chin lifted, her coat still dripping, ‘’I’ll behead every single one of you so fast you won’t even have time to step off your bloody spot.’’

The silence that followed, eerie, was immediate. Some gasped. Others stiffened. A few lowered their gazes–not in fear, but in respect, in submission. It wasn’t a threat, not really. It was a promise. A declaration. And no one in their right mind would test her. 

And then, quietly, from the back of the crew, a voice rose.

‘’Sin Mora,’’ she said, barely louder than the hush of the sea. She stepped forward, short and broad-shouldered, her belly round beneath her dampened sash, her dark curls pulled into a thick plait that hung down her back. Her accent was strong, thick with some kind of reverence.

“We always thought he might be,” she started, breath catching in her throat. “There was extraordinary stories about the ship he was found in, that we used to tell each other when we couldn’t sleep.’’

She looked around—not at Johannah, not at Harry, but at her crewmates. Her people. And one by one, the rest of the crew agreed.

‘’We all knew,’’ the woman said. ‘’We felt it.’’ The woman’s gaze returned to Louis, limp but breathing, curled in the arms of the Doctor. “He’s not cursed,” she said, softer now. ‘’He’s marked. And the sea chose him.’’

And as it left her lips, the rest of the crew bowed their heads—not in fear, not in sorrow, but in reverence.

Not one of them stepped away.

Because to them, whatever Louis was, they would still follow him. Not out of duty.

But out of respect.

Unshaken. Unwavering.

The deck remained silent, suspended in a moment that felt carved out of time itself. The air still smelled of sea salt and something older, magic, maybe. 

Liam and Isaac stood among the crew, their shoulders finally relaxing, the tension that had coiled in their spines a moment ago now visibly melting away. There was no more edge in their stance, no flicker of defence in their eyes, even though they wouldn't let anyone pass if they tried.

“Okay!” he announced, the volume of his voice jolting the stillness. “That’s all very touching, and I love dramatic group vow as much as the next Time Lord—but your captain here nearly drowned us all, and I’d prefer he didn’t do it again in my arms while everyone’s processing their epiphany.”

He turned swiftly to Johannah, his gaze already asking what his mouth didn’t: Where can I take him?

Without hesitation, followed by Liam and Isaac, she turned and started toward the lower stairwell. ‘’This way,’’ she said, her voice clipped but firm. 

Harry followed immediately, boots slipping slightly on the drenched planks. Behind them, the crew remained still—not out of fear, but respect. 

They had seen the storm. 

Yet, they’d made their choice.

Down the narrow steps and through a dimly lit corridor, the ship groaned lowly around them, still adjusting after what it had endured. The air was warm and close, a sharp contrast to the wind-soaked chaos outside. 

Johannah reached the door first, pushing it open with a quick glance behind her to be sure no one else had followed. Inside, the captain’s cabin was sparse but well-kept–heavy with salt, polished wood, and a quiet that hummed with withheld breath. 

Johannah moved quietly to the edge of the room, fingers brushing over the mounted oil lamps one by one. Warm light bloomed in soft bursts, pushing back the shadows that clung to the corners of the cabin. 

Behind her, Harry leaned over the bed, lowering Louis with care, easing him down as though the storm still hummed beneath his skin. As soon as Harry’s hands left him, Louis stirred–just a little, shifting toward the now-absent warmth, curling in on himself, legs drawing closer to his chest, fingers curling loosely against the blanket. 

Harry paused, watching the motion–the subtle vulnerability of it. 

He smiled as Johannah joined him, the golden glow from the oil lamps casting a warm like across Louis’ sleeping form. He looked like a child there, snoring softly. Johannah glanced down at him, something soft and worn settling behind her eyes. 

‘’It’s his cabin,’’ she said quietly, as though raising her voice might wake him up. ‘’He prefers this,’’ Johannah continued, ‘’says he sleeps better when he hears them breathing beside him. Laughing through the walls. He’s always been like that. Always close to his crew.’’

Harry smiled faintly at her, taking in the space around them. 

It wasn’t exactly what he expected from a captain’s quarters–but that was so much more…Louis, in a way.

The cabin was modest, worn from years at sea, but every inch of it felt lived in. There was a hammock folded against the wall, clearly unused for some time, replaced by a simple narrow bed bolted securely into the boards. A trunk sat at its foot, its lid half open to reveal layers of spare shirts and an old, weather-beaten journal with the leather peeling at the spine. 

Dozens of books were scattered across every available surface around, some neatly stacked, some cracked open mid-reading. Navigation manuals with dog-eared pages, scrap-bound logs filled with hastily inked notes and even what looked like a poetry collection, the spine almost broken from rereading. 

But what stood out most was a few astronomical paraphernalia here and there among the chaos. 

An astrolabe perched carefully on a shelf above the desk, polished just enough to show it was used often. Beside it sat an old, scratched sextant and a series of rolled maps tied with fraying ribbon. It smelled faintly of salt and ink, of candle wax and old brass–definitely Louis. 

Harry took a step closer to the desk, fingertips brushing one of the open books. It was about star charts. Constellations and coordinates plotted across rough seas. Not just maps to guide a ship, but maps for finding something else , or perhaps someone.

The soft scratch of paper beneath Harry’s fingertips was the only sound, the hush of the room settling like dust in a sunbeam. He traced the edges of the star map with a quiet reverence, still awed by how accurate they were considering most of those stars and constellations weren’t even discovered yet.

Harry was in utter awe. 

Then he heard it, Louis stirred.

His body seemed tense at first, fingers twitching in the folds of the blanket, shoulders shifting slightly. Then a soft, instinctual noise escaped him, a groan deep in his throat as his legs curled reflexively toward his best, seeking warmth now gone. 

He blinked. 

Then groaned again—eyes heavy, but open now, stormless. His gaze landed on Harry first, and even in his dazed, half-conscious state, a grin began to pull at the corner of his mouth.

‘’You know,’’ he rasped, voice raw but unmistakably smug, ‘’I don’t usually bring men into my quarters unless I plan on seducing them.’’

Harry blinked, caught off guard.

Johannah, still in the corner of the room, had frozen mid-movement, watchful as a wolf, measuring threat from the shadows. ‘’Louis! He just saved your life!’’

But both men ignored her as Harry smiled faintly, kneeling beside the bed again, resting his arm on the edge of the mattress. 

“That so?” he replied, tilting his head.

Louis shrugged—or at least tried to. It came out more like a slow, aching shift. ‘’A pirate’s got standards’’

‘’Bloody Hell,’’ Harry murmured, voice warm and low, meant only for Louis, ‘’I’m flattered. Though for the record, I usually prefer a dinner invitation first.’’

Louis chuckled—then winced, groaning as the laugh caught in his chest. ‘’Don’t make me laugh. My everything hurts.’’

Harry leaned closer again, his voice softer now, words falling like something secret. ‘’You summoned a storm that swallowed the whole sea. Honestly, it’s a miracle Poseidon didn’t fight you at all.”

That’s the moment Johannah choose to cross the room in that same feline way she always moved when worried. She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for Louis’ wrist, her fingers hovering, trembling slightly in the space before contact. Still scared to touch him. 

Still unsure of what would happen.

Louis blinked at her–exhausted. His body barely moved, but his gaze found hers, clouded with the remnants of the storm and something far quieter beneath it.

’’Mum,’’ he breathed, barely louder than the soft sound of the flames around them. ‘’You won’t kill them, will you?’’ 

There was an inch of vulnerability in his voice now, subtle but unmistakable. A soft break in his armour. The charming smugness in his eye was now gone–replaced by fear, confusion, and the unspoken question. 

Do you all still see me the same?

Harry could see it–feel it in his chest. That flicker of hesitation, the barest trace of fear in Louis’ voice. The kind of fear that had nothing to do with storms or curses, and everything to do with being seen for who you are–and wondering if it’s still enough. 

Johannah leaned in without hesitation, brushing her fingers through his soaked hair, smoothing it back with the kind of tenderness that came from years of knowing every version of his face. It was careful, practiced–like muscle memory. 

‘’You’re alright my boy,’’ she whispered, kissing the side of his head softly. ‘’You’re still you.’’ 

She leaned closer, her fingers still combing through his hairs. ‘’And no, I’m not going to kill anyone,’’ she added gently, with the faintest, teasing lilt in her voice. ‘’Not this time.’’ 

‘’They’re with you, all of them,’’ she said, her thumb brushing his arm softly. ‘’Even the ones who weren’t sure before. You felt it, didn’t you?’’ 

He didn’t answer, but something in his shoulders eased. Just slightly.

Behind them, Harry shifted. 

He hadn’t meant to make a sound, letting them talk, but it was kind of hard to stay still. 

Louis’ head turned slowly toward him. Not defensive, not startled. Just waiting. 

And he stepped forward. His boots moved quietly over the wood, careful not to intrude too much on the space between mother and son. But he couldn’t hold it back anymore. 

‘’I’m so sorry to break the quiet,’’ he said softly, his voice lower than usual. ‘’But we need to talk about what happened.’’

Louis didn’t say anything. His gaze, half-lidded and unreadable, rimmed red from exhaustion, fell on Harry with a kind of softness that you wouldn’t give to a ferocious pirate of the thousand seas. 

No fire, no fury. No storm.

Louis was just a tired boy. Something fractured and raw beneath the sharp bones of his face, the set of his mouth. His hand, still curled loosely in the blanket, trembled once before going still again. 

Harry’s gaze softened, as he crouched back beside the bed so their eyes were level. ‘’I need to know what you felt, Louis. I need to understand what is happening with the curse. Because I want to help you. But I can’t if I don’t know what we’re really up against.’’

He carefully placed the compass on Louis’ bed, near his hand, where the latter was spinning softly, with no direction in mind to stop at.

Louis exhaled softly, suddenly looking rather at the compass than at Harry, but just for a second, as he looked at Johannah, long enough for her to nod, gentle and wordless. 

‘’That,’’ he said hoarsely, looking back at the compass, ‘’is where it started.’’

Harry followed his gaze. ‘’The compass?’’

Louis nodded, eyes unreadable. ‘’T’was my old captain’s possession.’’ His breath hitched a bit, before he pushed on. ‘’He found it during a raid. A small island, looked abandoned, nothing but trees and wreckage. He was kinda obsessed with it–said it wasn’t pointing north, despite us being heading north, said it was ‘drawn to something.’ Like it could find things no map could.’’

Harry’s brows furrowed, thinking alien’s technology. His fingers curled over the compass face, watching the needle continue to spin, erratic, searching. 

‘’First, it was him,’’ Louis continued. ‘’He started hearing things. Said the ocean talked to him. Stopped sleeping. Then the weather turned. It followed us. Wouldn’t let go. Lightning. Fog. Wind we couldn’t sail against.’’ 

His voice dropped. His jaw tensed. His eyes flickered from the ceiling back to the compass, then closed like he was bracing against something heavy pressing on his chest.

The words were sharper, harder. Like they were something he’d rehearsed before.

Too rehearsed.

Harry noticed it–not in the words themselves, but in the rhythm of Louis’ breathing. Too measured. The slight drop of his eyes just before speaking, like he was recalling not memory, but a story from a book.

The Doctor tilted his head, saying nothing, but listening.

He watched the lines around Louis’ eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the blanket in fists too tight for someone that calm. 

He wasn’t recounting a memory.

He was reciting something.

But after a moment, it was like something came undone. 

’’There’s something else,’’ he murmured so low Harry and Johannah had to listen carefully. ‘’Something I’ve never told anyone. Not even you,’’ he added, without looking at Johannah, nor Harry. 

Her hand stilled on his, stroking it softly, to encourage him to continue. He exhaled slowly, like the words had been sitting in his lungs for years.

Louis didn’t meet their eyes.

Then, Harry saw it, now–clearly. The earlier tale had been a veil, one worn too long. He didn’t know why, not yet. But Louis was unravelling in real time, and whatever he was about to say next would be the thing that mattered.

The truth.

’’The captain…he was my father.’’ 

The room went utterly still. Even the groan of the ship’s hull seemed to hold its breath. 

‘’I didn’t know at first. He never claimed me. But I heard the crew whisper about it. I saw the way he looked at me sometimes–like I was something he couldn’t quite hate but never wanted to love.’’

Louis kept speaking, voice hollow now, like he wasn’t even here anymore. He had brought his knees under his chin, holding them secured there. 

‘’It was my mother who raised me. She wasn’t supposed to be on the ship, not really. She was a ‘’ fille de joie’’ She snuck aboard during a port stop. Said she’d rather be at sea with him then left behind again. She was incredibly kind, just like you Jay, she smiled way too much for a life like that.’’

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

‘’ And then… one night, everything changed. We were just off the coast of Greece. The water was calm. Clear sky. No storms. He woke up screaming. Kept yelling about voices. Songs. That something was coming for him.’’

His voice broke just slightly, a fracture barely there.

‘’I was only four.’’ 

Johannah froze. 

Harry barely breathed.

’’I remember the night she died.’’

He didn’t look at either of them. Just stared past the walls of the cabin, past the years that stood between him and the memory.

’’She was singing me to sleep. Soft, low. I’d been seasick–couldn’t sleep. She held me close, rocked with the sway of the ship. And then…he bursted in.’’

Harry suddenly realized where he was going. Gulped. 

‘’He…He wasn’t right. Something had twisted inside him. His eyes–wild, like he wasn’t seeing us at all. He said she was calling him. That she was a siren meant to drag him down. That she was never supposed to follow him onto the ship’’ 

His jaw tensed. His hands balled in the thin blanket pooled over his waist. 

‘’She screamed. I screamed.’’ Louis’ voice broke around the edges now, fraying with the weight of it. ‘’But no one came.’’ 

He swallowed hard, eyes locked on the shadows dancing along the cabin wall. 

‘’I still don’t know exactly how he managed this without the whole crew seeing it. He…He just dragged her up by her hair. And…’’

His voice shook. 

‘’I remember the sound she made,’’ he whispered. ‘’Right before he cut her throat. Right before he pushed her into the water.’’

Silence fell over them again, deep and suffocating. The single candle on the nearby shelf sputtered slightly, casting jagged shapes along the wall. Harry didn’t move. Johannah’s face had paled; her jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked in her cheek.

‘’And the shipwreck?’’ Johannah asked gently, though her voice was tight, barely more than a breath.

Louis gave a hollow laugh. ’’Well… We fought.’’

It wasn’t the kind of answer they’d expected. His eyes flicked to Harry’s–there was no boast in the words. No pride. Only the ghosts of something he didn’t quite understand himself. 

‘’He tried to come at me–screaming about some curse, about how I’d finish what she started.’’ His eyes flickered up to Harry, not defensive–just worn, like the memory itself was a dead weight. 

‘’No one knew,’’ Louis said, his voice rough with something that hovered just beneath infinite grief. ‘’Not the crew. Not even me. What she was. What I was.’’

He shifted slightly, knuckles whitening around the edge of the blanket wrapped around his legs. His eyes were locked somewhere on the wooden floor, but his mind was leagued away.

’’But he saw it.’’

There was an edge sharper in his voice now. His eyes darkened to match the mood. ‘’I didn’t really understand it then,’’ he went on, quieter now. ‘’Not really. I just knew something was wrong with me. Or different. I’d fall into the sea and never choke. I’d wake from dreams drenched in salt.’’ He looked at Johannah then, deeply. ‘’ I cut myself once, on the edge of a broken bottle–and when I looked down, there wasn’t blood.’’ 

Johannah finished from him. ‘’It was water. Seawater.’’

Louis exhaled hard through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. ‘’When we fought, that’s when he told me.’’

He swallowed thickly. 

‘’He said I was just like her. A monster born to finish what she started.’’ There was a moment–barely there–where he didn’t speak. Just sat with it. Let it take up space. ‘’I think that was the moment I stopped being afraid of the sea,’’ he said, finally. ‘’Because I realized it wasn’t chasing me.’’ 

He then looked at Harry, his eyes burning blue under flickering candlelight.

’’It was calling me home.’’

For a long beat, no one spoke. Only the slow groan of the ship and the quiet pull of their breathing filled the space between them. It was the kind of silence that didn’t beg to be broken–but needed to be.

Harry was the first to shift, drawing a slow breath. Then he straightened, and his voice cut gently through the weight in the air.

‘’It’s not a legend,’’ he said.

Louis didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just looked at him, tired and still. 

Harry stepped forward, careful not to crowd him, his gaze drifting to the compass next to Louis on the bed. ‘’What people whisper in taverns, what they tattoo on their arms, what they call when storms roll in,’’ Harry murmured. ‘’They think you’re a myth, but nothing is your fault.’’ 

Louis blinked, but said nothing.

He then glanced at Johannah, something silent and shared passing between them. Then his eyes found Louis again. 

‘’There is no legend. Because it was easier than to explain the ocean was calling back to you.’’ Harry murmured, voice flat, but not cold.

‘’It’s…It’s just what people made up when they needed to explain what they saw. When they saw what I was capable of.’’ Louis told them, letting the words hang in the air a moment, then continued, bitterness creeping into the edges of his voice. 

‘’They didn’t know what I was. I didn’t either, not at first. Just a kid with salt in his blood and a voice that made the wind turn. But they needed a name. They needed a reason. So they told stories. Spread them.’’ His voice was rougher now, like he was forcing the words through something caught in his throat.

His jaw clenched.

’’They needed a monster. Just like him. ’’

Harry’s chest ached. Because he knew exactly what Louis was telling them. 

‘’I know what that’s like.’’ 

Louis looked up, eyes sharpening, watching him.

’’Harry…’’ 

Johannah’s voice cut in, soft but urgent–an edge buried beneath the syllables, like a blade tucked under silk. 

It was a warning.

He knew that tone. He’d heard it before, across lifetimes and timelines and alternate versions of her–always the same when she was afraid of what he would tell this version of Louis. When she thought he might reveal too much. 

He glanced at her, and for a heartbeat, the storm wasn’t outside or behind them. It was between them. 

The air in the cabin stilled.

Louis looked up, at both of them, eyes sharpening. 

‘’What are you not telling me?’’ He asked. His voice was low. Steady. And aimed like a blade.

His gaze shifted to Johannah. ‘’Who is he? To you?’’ 

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the time to do so as Harry spoke.

’’They say a name enough times across enough planets,’’ he started, tone unhurried, looking at Jay, carefully, ‘’and suddenly, you’re not a person anymore. You’re a warning. A threat.’’

His hand moved, almost unconsciously, toward the compass–its needle still spinning wildly, as if it knew something no one else dared say aloud. 

‘’And sometimes,’’ Harry added, finally meeting Louis’ eyes, ‘’you get so used to running toward the fire that people forget you were ever trying to put it out.’’ 

Harry's voice then softened. ‘’So when you ask who I am to her…The answer might surprise you, but it’s complicated. But right now? I’m someone who understands what it’s like to be turned into a legend.’’

Something passed between them–subtle but seismic. 

Not a simple glance, not a single word, but a shift in the air itself. Like the deck beneath them tilted slightly. Like the sea beyond the walls held its breath, and probably Louis’ held his too. Something weightless but undeniable passed between them. A zip. 

Harry felt it settle in his bones.

A thread of connection, tight and golden, pulled taut between them.

That’s when Harry knew.

Not in a dramatic, prophetic way–but with a quiet, bone-deep certainty that his part in this story, for now, was complete. He’d come to stop a disaster. To pull a boy from the teeth of an upcoming storm–only to find the storm was part of him all along. 

He’d helped Louis come back from the brink, not by fighting the curse, but by reaching the boy buried beneath it.

The boy drowning quietly in silence and myth.

Louis was safe now.

But that knowledge didn’t make leaving any easier. 

Harry lingered in the doorway longer than he should have, letting the silence wrap around them all. Louis didn’t break it. Neither did Johannah. They just watched him.

Louis held his gaze, blue eyes still tired, but grounded for now. Real. There was something there behind them–something soft, like unspoken gratitude or quiet understanding. 

A question, maybe. A thank you. Or a plea he wouldn’t say aloud.

Stay.

But Harry couldn’t. He knew this was the time for him to go.

He wanted to say something–anything–to make the moment softer. Something meaningful. But every word he could think of felt too small, too weightless for what they’d just learned. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he was going without a single word. Silence was, after all, always been his gentlest parting gift, the only kind of mercy he knew how to offer without breaking something in the process.

But this time was different.

This time, Louis wasn’t asleep.

And he wasn’t unaware.

But he always left when the work was done.

This was no different.

And yet, it was.

So he gave them the only thing that felt right. 

He nodded to them. 

Goodbye. 

A quiet goodbye. A farewell without weight. 

Then he turned. 

And left.

The TARDIS was waiting for him.

Right where Liam and Isaac had found him. 

Unbothered. Still. Quiet.

Waiting for him to come home.

Harry approached slowly, boots heavy against the planks that had rocked with chaos hours before. The air was calmer now, the ship finally still. But the weight inside his chest hadn’t shifted with the tide.

He reached out and pressed his hand to the door. Not to unlock it. Not yet.

Just to anchor him.

He smiled. A soft, sad thing that barely reached his eyes. The kind of smile he only ever wore for him– for the Louis who never quite remembered. The Louis that he had to leave behind.

It never got easier. 

Then –

Out of the corner of his eyes, movement. 

‘’DOCTOR–HARRY, WAIT!’’

The voice cut through the heavy silence like a rope snapping taut. Urgent. Hoarse.

Louis. 

Harry stopped. His fingers hovering just shy of the TARDIS door, breath caught in his throat as he turned slowly toward the sound. 

There, backlit by the flickering lanterns and the pale wash of dawn over the sea, stood Louis. 

Unsteady, shirt clinging to his frame from sweat or storm or both, one hand braced against the wall for support, the other clutching something tight. He looked like a man still dragging himself back into his body. 

‘’I…’’ he stopped right in front of Harry, his naked feet touching Harry’s boots. ‘’Thank you.’’ He said, breath hitching, eyes bright beneath the weariness. 

Harry barely had time to process before Louis took the final steps and pressed something into his hand.

The compass.

Its brass surface was warm from Louis’ palm, the needle spinning wildly–untamed, aimless. 

‘’I do hope that stupid thing will work properly one day,’’ Louis added, mouth twitching with something like a smirk. ‘’I want you to have it.’’

Harry stared down at it, the weight of the compass far heavier than its size. It was ridiculous, really–this broken thing with no true direction. 

That broken, wild, impossible compass–its needle still spinning like it had a mind of its own, as if it couldn’t settle without an anchor.

Just like him. 

He swallowed. 

Hard. 

Louis held his gaze, and even though the storm behind his eyes, there was a flicker of something unmistakable. 

Trust. 

Something impossible coming from a pirate at sea.

He looked at Louis, and for a moment—just a moment—the world quieted.

The tide held its breath.

Harry reached up, gently—just gently—fingertips brushing damp curls from Louis’ forehead. Louis didn’t pull away. His breath hitched. 

Then Harry closed the distance between them.

They kissed.

It was soft. Sure. Nothing demanding—just something he’s been dying to do since he first laid eyes on the boy centuries ago. 

A quiet storm pressed between them. A heartbeat wrapped in starlight. Not a promise, not a goodbye. 

When he pulled back, Harry’s forehead lingered against Louis’ for the briefest second, as if reluctant to part. Then he smiled, small and aching.

Then he whispered, ‘’You were never a monster.’’

His voice cracked on it.

Harry exhaled, tucked the compass carefully into his coat, and turned toward the blue box.

And just before he opened the door to the TARDIS, just before the hum of the time rotor could swallow him whole–

He smiled at Louis. 

And allowed himself one final thought:

No matter how many timelines. No matter how many versions.

Not him.

Not yet.

Then he stepped inside.

And just like that, he was gone.

Chapter Text

Somewhere in Scotland - 2099

The TARDIS didn’t land so much as it crashed sideways into reality. 

Alarms whined. Lights flickered in protest. The floor pitched hard left, and the Doctor tumbled into the console with a theatrical oof and a very undignified flail. 

‘’Oi!’’ He barked, clutching a lever like a life-raft. ‘’We settled on Scotland, not somewhere between the seams of the bloody universe!’’ 

The TARDIS didn’t answer–of course it wouldn’t. Instead, it groaned deep in its core. The kind of sound it made when it was digging in its heels. When it was right and the Doctor was wrong. 

‘’Don’t give me that,’’ he muttered, pushing himself upright. ‘’You’ve been twitchy ever since we passed the Horsehead Nebula, and now you’re trying to land us in a place that doesn’t even show up on the maps. ’’

The TARDIS protested. The Doctor punched a dial. 

Every screen around him blinked static. Coordinates wouldn’t hold. The star charts fractured like glass.

’’What the fuck?’’ The Doctor stilled. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

He squinted hard at the monitor in front of him, frowned, smacked the side of it for good measure–then leaned in closer.

Still nothing.

’’DAMN IT!!‘’ He slammed both palms onto the control panel hard enough to rattle the time rotor. Every control was resisting him. The screen was unreadable static still. 

The machine bucked like it was being throttled from the outside–metal screaming, glass fracturing, circuits shorting out in bursts of blue light. 

The TARDIS was fighting him. For some reason.

The Doctor’s hands flew across the console, adjusting stabilizers that refused to hold. The time rotor groaned, the lights overhead flickered in and out of phase. Something sparked near the floor with a crack like splitting bone.

’’This isn’t funny,’’ he snapped, yanking back a lever and twisting a dial hard enough to bruise them both. ‘’Come on. We either land right or I’m closing you and we’re crashing.’’

Another jolt. The TARDIS tilted hard. The console screamed, lights surging white-hot before flaring to black. Smoke curled up from somewhere beneath his feet. 

He grabbed a handhold just as the floor pitched sideways again. À warning klaxon went off–brief, desperate, and useless. This wasn’t turbulence. 

It was an actual refusal. 

But not from the TARDIS. 

From the universe itself. 

The TARDIS was fighting it. 

And fighting, the Doctor knew. 

The metal groaned under a certain pressure it wasn’t designed to survive. Sparks spat across the console, lights flickered in stuttering bursts, and somewhere inside the other rooms, something cracked–sharp and final. 

The Doctor’s knuckles were white around the flight lever. ‘’No, no, no– pull back!!!’’

The entire control room shuddered again, violent and uneven, like the TARDIS was dragging itself through a tunnel that didn’t want to exist. The time rotor howled overhead, spinning way too fast, out of rhythm. 

Ready to implode. 

‘’Don’t you dare–don’t you DARE force it.’’

He slammed a series of switches with the flat of his hand. One of them caught fire. The scanner blinked nothing but static and red noise. The world outside wasn’t visible. Wasn’t registering. Wasn’t there at all. 

The Doctor’s voice rose to a snarl. ‘’You’re going to tear us apart! Just stop–STOP!’’ 

He was met with another impact. The console surged with light before snapping dark. The floor heaved sideways. The Doctor fell hard, his shoulders slamming into the railing, a sharp pain lacing up his arm. 

He didn’t have time to process it. 

Because they were still falling.

That’s why the silence that followed felt wrong.

Not like relief. Not like stillness.

Just wrong.

Heavy, collapsing quiet–like the ship had stopped fighting because there was nothing left to fight with. No groans. No sparks. No protest.

Only the deep, hollow echo of pressure finally giving out. 

The Doctor forced a breath through the smoke. His ears rang. His shoulder throbbed. He stayed frozen on the floor for a beat, hearts pounding in his ears. (Having two hearts beating in your ears is hard, I’ll have you know)

He hadn’t heard the time rotor stop. Hadn’t noticed the console go fully dark. He was too busy trying not to die. 

He rolled onto his side, coughing hard, pain lancing through his shoulder and up his ribs. He winced but kept moving, dragging himself toward the console like he could will it back to life just by touching it. 

He pushed himself upright slowly, knees shaking, hand dragging across the scorched edge of the console for balance.

No more shaking. No lurching.

He blinked once, then again, the realization slicing through the smoke. 

‘’…Have you landed?’’ He said aloud voice hollowed with disbelief.

He looked around, scanning the shadows like they might answer for him.

’’You actually landed.’’ 

Not smoothly. Not safely. But they were down. 

Wherever they were. 

It took some time before the TARDIS finally began to breathe again. 

Not truly breathing–but something close.

The lights came back first. Flickering, uncertain. One at a time, like they were testing the air. Then the faint pulse of the rotor followed, low and uneven, whirring like an old record trying to spin.

The Doctor now stood at the edge of the console room, jacketless, ash still clinging to his shirt. One hand braced on the railing, the other hovering near the console’s cracked edge like he didn’t trust it to stay there.

He exhaled through his nose, turned from the console, and made for the wardrobe corridor with the slow, stiff steps of someone who’d only just remembered how to walk. 

As he passed beneath the archway, he let his hand trail against the wall–just briefly, just once.

Then, under his breath, low and bitter:

’’Let’s see what you’ve dragged me into this time.’’

Fifteen minutes later, he still stood in front of the TARDIS door, silent. 

The console lights still flickered, uncertain, behind him, steadier now, though faint–like the ship was resting, not recovering. The rotor whirred in slow intervals, still dragging in breath. 

It was stable. For now. But healing.

He knew that once he stepped through, he wouldn’t be able to return to the TARDIS—not until everything was back on track. 

Just because he’d lock him out while he repaired himself, the way he always did when something fractured too far to function. He’d go silent. Close his doors, trapping the Doctor whenever he was. 

If he left–and he had to–he wouldn’t be coming back until he let him. 

If he could let him. 

He adjusted the front of his jacket, trying not to think about it.

He looked at his outfit. Not quite his usual madness. No frayed velvet, no gravity-defying collars. 

The TARDIS, in its infinite (and sometimes questionable) wisdom, had decided on something more practical for him.

It looked…normal? 

The Doctor wore a soft, faded flannel shirt, dark rust red crossed with muted black lines, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The fabric hung loose around his frame, stitched sturdily enough to survive rough work, but soft enough not to be annoying. 

Over it, he wore faded charcoal overalls, the kind with deep pockets stitched at the hips and knees, fraying slightly at the seams from years of hardware. They were loose enough for comfort but cinched in at the waist with a worn canvas belt, keeping the fabric close to his body when he moved.

The overalls zipped up the front with a near-invisible seam, the zipper concealed behind a clean fold of fabric, ending just below the middle of his flannel shirt. 

Atop his curls sat a flat cap, dark and battered, tilted slightly off-centre like he hadn’t bothered checking a mirror before stepping out into the day.

His booths were heavy-soled and scuffed, the kind meant for long walks and longer days hauling nets, patched at the sides with worn leather.

He looked like…

A ship boy.

A fisherman’s apprentice.

The fit. The lines. The quiet utility masked as style. The kind of look someone might have worn in the early 2000s if they had access to smarter fabric and a slightly better tailor. Familiar, but refined. Human. 

The TARDIS wasn’t giving him answers–but he was giving him context.

Maybe that was all she could do.

He exhaled slowly, smoothing the fabric at his hip–half a nervous tick, half a grounding touch.

He then pulled the lever.

The doors creaked open–slowly, reluctantly, like they were just as unsure as he was.

Cold air rushed in. 

All in at once, sharp against his face. Thin and clean. It carried no scent of life. No warmth. Only the brittle edge of stone and wind. 

The Doctor stepped out slowly, boots crunching on ground that felt too still. 

He then looked up. 

They’d landed in a vast, open stretch of moorland–flat in places, rolling in others, ringed by distant hills and mist–patches of frost still clinging in the shadowed hollows. The sky was a dull silver, clouded and endless. Wind swept across the field in long, steady waves. 

It was endless, wind-lashed moorland, stretching in every direction. 

He turned on the spot, slowly. 

No buildings. No power lines. No sky rails or flickering signs. 

Just grass. Sharp wind. Sky. And silence. 

He ignored why the TARDIS dropped him somewhere that could’ve passed for 1799–dressed in modern attire. It was odd.

’’…Right,’’ the Doctor said quietly, glancing once over his shoulder at the box behind him. 

The door was still open. But he was stuck here anyway.

So he stepped forward. Into the cold, into the quiet, into the moor.

In search of something. 

He walked. 

Miles. 

The ground dipped in uneven waves, sloping low where frost clung in patches, rising again in soft, muddy ridges. The wind didn’t howl–it pressed. Constant. Whispering nothing. 

The moorland rolled out around him in every direction–grey, soft, endless. No markers. No actual roads. nothing but the quiet hush of a world left untouched for too long. 

And then, in the distance, something cut the horizon.

A tower.

Faint at first–just a looming shadow through the mist. But as he crested a shallow ridge, it finally came into focus. A lighthouse. Weathered. Not in ruins, but not untouched. Leaning slightly in the wind, its pale surface streaked with moss and weather. It stood tall at the very edge of a cliff–sharp and sheer, dropping into a stretch of black rock and crashing sea far below. 

The ocean roared quietly beneath, too distant to be thunderous, too close to be ignored. The air pulsed with it–wet, heavy, unrelenting.

A small, narrow path had been worn into the grass leading up to the base–crooked and wild, but walked. 

Someone lived there.

The Doctor exhaled slowly, chest tightening as the wind surged again. 

He stared at the door set into the stone, its paint long since peeled away. There was a faint light that was flickering inside the upper window, Faint–but real.

The wind picked up as he reached the battered door, sharp and sudden, pushing against his back like it wanted him to be there. To usher him inside. 

The Doctor hesitated for only a second. Then he raised his hand and knocked–three short raps against weather-work wood. 

For a beat, nothing. 

Nothing apart from his ragged breathing and the swoosh of the water behind him. 

He hesitated; one hand raised against the wind. The cold bit through the seamless vest he’s wearing like it wanted him gone.

He finally knocked again—harder this time—bracing himself as the wind surged against his back.

Then, the door creaked open. 

The woman on the other side looked like she’d been expecting him. 

She stood tall in the doorway, wrapped in a thick cardigan smelling faintly of tea and salt. Her hair was wind-swept and braided loosely over one shoulder, silver streaks catching the lantern light inside. Her face was weathered, but her eyes were sharp—and when they met his, they softened.

‘’Oh, thank God,’’ she murmured, her breath catching on something that might’ve been relief. ‘’You made it.’’

The Doctor blinked. He stepped back a fraction, instinctively scanning her. Her tone was too familiar. Not quite casual. Not quite intimate. Like they were somewhere in the middle of a memory he didn’t have.

But he had no memories of her.

‘’…I’m sorry,’’ he said carefully. ‘’I don’t think we’ve…’’

‘’We’ve met,’’ she said smiling, not quite sad, not quite joyful either. ‘’I knew it would happen.’’

Before he could ask what she meant by this, she stepped aside and motioned him in. ‘’Come in. It’s not safe to stand out there for long.’’

He hesitated, just for a beat. Then crossed the threshold.

Inside, the lighthouse was warmer than it had any right to be. The wind died the moment the door shut behind him. Old stone walls curved around them, shelves lined with tools, books, and yellowed maps that curled at the edges. A kettle hissed softly from a small stove in the corner. The air smelled like burnt tea leaves and worn metal. 

A small bed was tucked into the corner—thin blanket, perfectly folded, barely slept in. A table stood in the centre of the room, cluttered with maps, loose pages, tools that looked like they’d been repaired a dozen times over.

It didn’t feel like a home.

It felt like a place built to wait. 

A tiny television—dusty, boxy, old enough to belong in a museum—sat on a milk crate across the room, screen flickering in grayscale. The Doctor glanced at it just long enough to catch a brief, flickering scene.

Men in a basement. Bloody shirts. An explosion of fists.

“…Is that Fight Club?” he asked, brow wrinkling. “How ancient is this thing?”

The woman didn’t look up from where she was setting down the mugs.

“About a hundred years old,” she said, not missing a beat.

He blinked.

“…What?”

She finally looked over at him, steady and patient. “It’s 2099.”

Because somehow, it all felt like it had been arranged for him.

Across the room, the woman moved with quiet certainty—like she'd lived through this moment before. She lifted the kettle from the small stove, steam curling softly from its spout, and poured two mismatched mugs with the kind of practiced care that came from repetition. No hesitation. No question of how he took it.

Then she turned and offered one to him, her eyes steady, like she was watching for something.

The Doctor hesitated—but took it.

The mug was warm in his hands. The tea was… exactly how he took it. Two sugar and no milk. 

He didn’t ask how she knew.

He glanced down at the cup—and then paused.

The mug was utterly hideous. Bright floral print faded by time, a chipped rim, and a looping cursive scrawl that proudly proclaimed, World’s Best Aunt.

The Doctor blinked.

He tilted the cup slightly in his hand, studying it with a frown. Something about it tugged at him—not the mug itself, but the feeling. The familiarity. Not déjà-vu exactly, but something older. Something that had happened too many times before to feel strange anymore.

Across the room, the woman watched him over the rim of her own mug.

“You recognize it,” she said gently.

“I… maybe.” His voice was quiet. He turned the cup again, thumb brushing the lettering. “I don’t know why.”

She gave the smallest smile. “You always do. Eventually.”

Then, something inside his head finally clicked and gently slammed into him all at once.

“Oh—OH!”

He staggered back half a step, nearly dropping the cup, one hand thrown dramatically to his forehead.

“YOU!”

She arched an eyebrow, unfazed. “Me.”

“You’re—you’re you!” He pointed the mug at her like it was a weapon of truth. “You’re JOHANNAH!”

She inclined her head, lips twitching. “There it is.”

Johnnah shrugged lightly. ‘’Welcome to 2099 Scotland, Harry.’’

Harry dragged a hand down his face, then reached for the mug again. He took a long sip, of what tasted like bergamot tea, staring into the middle distance like the tea might somewhat reorganize his neurons.

’’…I knew something was off,’’ he muttered. ‘’The Clothes, meant to look old and worn, but that doesn’t match the year at all. The TARDIS nearly tore himself apart on landing. And that telly– Fight club, really? ’’ 

Johannah crossed back toward the counter, folding her arms as she leaned against it. ‘’Well… It’s more than that.’’ 

He blinked at her, incredulously. ‘’Well…I’ll have you know, It’s always more than that Jay.’’

She gestured loosely around them–at the stone walls, the frozen horizon, the whispering wind. ‘’This place is protected. But this Scotland–this stretch of land around the lighthouse, the village near–it’s stuck in the 2000’s. Frozen. Trapped in a version of time that’s been looped, folded in on itself. UNIT called it a pocket. A loop.’’ 

‘’Typical,’’ he muttered in a quiet breath.

’’They sent teams in, at first, ‘’ she continued. ‘’The first few came back with scrambled senses of time. Hours turned into weeks. Days into moments. But the worst part…’’ She looked up at him. ‘’Was the forgetting.’’ 

He stilled.

’’Some people came back missing chunks of themselves,’’ she continued. ‘’Memories’ out of order. Familiar things made strange. Others didn’t come back at all.’’

His throat tightened. ‘’Like I didn’t recognize you.’’ 

She nodded. ‘’Exactly.’’ 

Then, a pregnant pause later.

‘’It’s actually the third time already you’ve landed here, Harry.’’

That stopped him cold. 

She continued gently, ‘’Each time, I wait. Each time, you forget. Just like clockwork.’’

He swallowed. ‘’But I–how?’’ 

She gave a small, tired smile. 

‘’The first time, you thought if you anchored yourself to the TARDIS–linked neural sync, like a breadcrumb trail through the interface–you’d beat it. The second time, you tried leaving messages for yourself, coded through the vortex stream.’’ 

She shook her head. ‘’Neither worked. Not exactly.’’

Harry’s eyes narrowed, thoughts already racing.

’’But you remember me,’’ he said suddenly, cutting her off. ‘’You always do.’’

She nodded. ‘’Because I never leave the Lighthouse.’’ Her voice was softer, honest. 

‘’What?’’

She gestured gently around them–the thick stone walls, the floor, the ceiling arches overhead. ‘’This place. It’s not just a lighthouse. It’s a shell. A failsafe. Built by UNIT to protect against the effects of the fold.’’ 

His eyes widened. ‘’Temporal shielding.’’

‘’Exactly. The further out you go, the more the loop pulls at you. But in here–’’

’’At midnight, it resets. And you forget.’’ He completed, like an evidence. ‘’The loop reasserts. No matter what you’ve done or learned, the day starts over.’’

He tapped his temple once.

’’But you stay inside the shell. And memory holds.’’

Johannah nodded again. 

‘’That’s why I remember you, Harry.’’

That’s why we’ve decided on the ‘’Best aunty’’ trick. ’’

Harry’s hands tightened slightly around the ugly mug . The chipped ceramic felt heavier now. 

He looked down at the gaudy flowers, at the faded ‘’World’s Best Aunt’’ lettering. 

She gave a small shrug. ‘’You chose it. Said if all else failed, it had to be something too ugly to ignore. ’’ 

He huffed a laugh, bitter and fond at once. ‘’That does sound like me.’’

’’You said it had to be absurd. Familiar. Something tied to comfort and confusion.’’ She nodded toward the mug. ‘’ You got it out of the TARDIS right after saying that, you’d said I’d know it worked if you looked at that hideous thing.’’

’’And I did,’’ he smiled. 

That’s when Johannah crossed to a shelf and pulled down a battered file folder–UNIT-stamped and weather-worn. She laid it flat on the table and opened it, revealing a hand-drawn map of the surrounding moorland. Of a village in the north. Faint lines marked the safe zone around the lighthouse. Beyond that–spirals, jagged arrows, erratic notations and smudges of ink, as if someone tried to erase something they couldn’t. 

‘’UNIT spent fourteen years trying to chart the loop,’’ she said. ‘’It expands and contracts unpredictably. It rewrites time, overlaps events, folds memories into themselves. Only in that village.’’ She pointed at the part where the spirals were more pronounced, almost darkening the whole name ‘’Brae–‘’

’’The fold moves,’’ she said. ‘’It stretches and retracts. It rewrites landmarks, blurs the edges of time. But UNIT tracked its epicentre.’’

She tapped the faded name. 

‘’Here. This is where it’s strongest.’’

Harry leaned closer, frowning. 

‘’Is that a village?’’ he asked, pointing to the blurred spot under the thickest spiral of ink. ‘’Why is it smudged?’’

’’Yes,’’ Johannah murmured, voice low, like she wasn’t sure they were alone. ‘’It was. And we don’t think it’s accidental. It’s like the fold swallowed it. Like it wanted it hidden.’’

Harry squinted closer. Beneath the spirals, a few ghostly letters remained. He brushed his fingertips over the letters, a timeless shiver running down his spine.

’’Brae…’’

Just that. The rest was lost beneath layers of scratched ink and smear.

’’They tried to log the name dozens of times,’’ she said. ‘’Every copy came back corrupted. UNIT eventually gave up.’

She looked up at him then, and something in her face made him go still. 

‘’The fold didn’t just move into the village,’’ she said softly. ‘’It’s trying to hide it.’’

He dragged his eyes away from the map, unsettled.

‘’And when exactly did this start?’’ he asked, voice sharper now.

Johannah hesitated, looking at the documents, then said with no hesitation, ‘’About sixteen years ago.’’ 

He pulled back, a sour taste rising in his mouth.

‘’Sixteen?’’ he echoed. 

She nodded. ‘’First reports came through from UNIT in late 2083,’’ she said. ‘’December 24th to be exact. Time distortions. Lost patrols. Broken transmissions. And then the Fold grew. Wrapped itself around the land. The village was the first thing to vanish from public record.’’

He stared at her. "Sixteen years… it’s been growing that long?"

"Not growing," she said. "Waiting."

"And the energy?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"It spikes when you’re close," she said. "It flattens when you’re gone."

His mind raced ahead.

"Something’s hiding from me," he said.

Johannah nodded once.

"And UNIT lost people here?"

"Teams. Agents. Whole search parties," she said. "No bodies. No signals. No explanations."

He stared at the broken name again.

And finally, quietly:

"Someone’s still inside."

Johannah didn’t look away.

"I think it’s Louis."

Harry stared at the ruined map. The village’s name’s half-buried under spirals and smears. 

Sixteen years.

Sixteen years trapped in a day that never ended. 

He stepped back sharply, heart hammering in his chest.

‘’I have to go,’’ he said, throwing on his jacket without hesitation, his determination already carrying him toward the door. ‘’I need to find it. I need to find him.’’

Johannah stayed where she was, mug cradled loosely in her hands.

‘’You always say that,’’ she said softly.

Harry froze halfway to the door. 

‘’You said it the first time, ’’ Johannah continued. ‘’Said you had it under control, that the TARDIS would save you.’’

Her words were steady. Not cruel. Just heartbreakingly true. Because Harry knew she was right. 

‘’But you know better, don’t you?’’ she continued, voice like a low ache. ‘’You know the TARDIS can’t get to you once you’re inside. You’ll be on your own.’’ 

Harry shook his head once, sharply, like he could physically reject the truth.

"I can't just stand here! " he said, voice cracking against the walls. "He's out there, Johannah. He's been out there for sixteen years! Waiting—for me! "

She held his gaze, sadness blooming behind her calm.

"And if you stay out there too long," she said, "you'll forget him."

Harry's fists clenched tight at his sides.

"I won’t," he said, but it sounded more like a plea than a promise.

"You always say that," Johannah whispered.

The silence between them after that was thick, heavy with everything they both couldn’t afford to say. 

Then Johannah moved.

She crossed to a cabinet, setting her mug down on the table with a quiet clink. She knelt beside one of the lower drawers, rifling through its contents until she pulled out something small— a slim, battered wristband.

She held it out to him. He recognized it instantly.

‘’UNIT tech?’’

‘’Prototype. It’s…messy. Won’t stop the Fold from touching you, of course. But it might hold your memories together longer. Give you few extra minutes to come back here after the clock turns twelve.’’

He stared at it. A slim, scratched-up thing—unremarkable, but humming faintly against her palm. He reached for it but then stopped, frowning. 

‘’Why now?’’ he asked, voice sharp. ‘’Why are you giving me this now?’’

‘’I didn’t think you’d need it,’’ she said quietly. ‘’I thought you were… unstoppable.’’

Harry blinked, throat tight. The words hurt. 

Because if there was one thing Harry wasn’t—one thing he had never been—it was unstoppable.

If only she knew.

If only she understood that he had stopped so many times before.

Stopped by grief, by fear, by the terrible, suffocating knowledge that sometimes, no matter how hard he fought, it wasn’t enough.

He’d been stopped by guilt too. 

Guilt for every version of Louis he couldn’t protect.

For every Johannah he had watched fall. 

For every vessel of her, across every fractured timeline, every broken reality, who had placed their faith in him—who had stood their ground, held the line, and fallen anyway.

Faces blurred and sharpened in his mind, a carousel of loss he could never step off.

To every version of Louis across every broken shard of reality who had looked at him with trust and hope—

And whom he had left behind, over and over again.

He wasn’t unstoppable.

He was breakable. 

Harry closed his eyes, breathing through the sharpness slicing into his chest. 

When he looked back at Johannah— this Johannah—the weight of a thousand broken promises stared back at him through her steady, patient gaze. 

‘’And yet,’’ he said, voice low and scraped raw, ‘’here we are.’

She didn’t flinch. 

Because she knew. She stepped forward and carefully, almost reverently, fastened the wristband onto Harry’s wrist. 

Harry flexed his hand once, feeling the small thrum of the device against his skin—a heartbeat that wasn’t quite coming from his two hearts. 

‘’This time,’’ Johannah said, her voice threading through the heavy air, ‘’you’re not doing it alone.’’

He gave her one last look—a silent thank you, a promise, and a thousand regrets bundled behind his eyes—before turning back toward the door. 

The heavy iron latch gave way with a groan, and the sea-wind rushed in, cold and sharp, snatching at the edges of his coat as if trying to pull him 

back.

The wind hit him the second he pushed open the heavy lighthouse door. 

The Doctor gritted his teeth against it and stepped out into the world beyond the lighthouse, the door thudding shut behind him like the closing of a vault.

He stood for a long moment on the worn stone step, his hand still pressed against the doorframe, as if it might pull him back inside if he let go.

He squinted into the mist stretching out before him–a wall of grey so dense it could have been a wall of stone. Only the sound of the sea, distant and endless, reminded him he was still somewhere real.

Or as real as this place could even be.

’’Right. I need to find a village that doesn’t exist, avoid getting stuck in a perpetual time loop, and possibly rescue a boy the universe seems determined to erase.’’

He groaned against the wind then, ‘’Just another Thursday then.’’

Ahead of him, there was nothing. 

Only the wind, the churn of mud, and the wet rasp of his own breath clawing out against the cold. 

The silence swallowed everything else–thick, heavy– and Harry hated it.

Hated the way even his own breathing sounded like an intruder here, a reminder he was alone where he shouldn't be.

The mist thickened the further he pushed. 

It clung to his coat, slicked his hair against his forehead, crawled damp fingers along the cuffs of his sleeves. 

He pressed on, boots squelching, hearts pounding a stubborn rhythm against his ribs. 

Minutes quickly blurred. 

Ten.

Fifteen.

Maybe twenty. 

He didn’t check. 

But somewhere between the twelfth muttered insult to the universe and fifteenth stumble into a hidden puddle, something shifted. 

Not the ground.

The air.

The mist didn’t clear, it was still pressing in on him. 

But something had clearly just shifted. 

Harry slowed without thinking, boots sinking into softer ground, breath catching tight in his throat. 

Ahead, something flickered into view —

Gradually, like a painting rising out of smoke.

Roofs. 

Cracked chimneys.

Crumbling fences leaning like toy soldiers.

The mist thinned as he walked, peeling back like stage curtains, revealing the unexpected. 

Because what unfolded before him wasn’t the ruins he had anticipated.

Brightly painted doors.

Colourful market stalls strung with drying herbs.

Worn stone streets bustling gently with life.

People moved between shops and houses, arms full of bread and supplies, laughter spilling into the cool air.

A girl with a dog waved cheerfully at a passing fisherman.

An old woman set fresh pies on a windowsill, steam curling into the grey sky.

One minute Harry was trudging through wet nothingness,

coat soaked, boots heavy,

the world pressing against him from every side—

The next, he stumbled into colour.

Not sharp, fresh colour —

not the electric shock of neon or the glossy brightness of new paint —

but weathered colour.

Worn reds.

Faded greens.

Stone buildings washed soft by rain and years.

A village.

Alive.

“What the–”

Nobody stared at him.

Nobody questioned the stranger dripping water onto the street.

They saw him, yet they didn’t.

A boy zipped past, laughing, nearly bowling him over.

Harry blinked after him, stunned for a moment.

And then he felt it.

That pull, low in his gut, sharp behind his ribs. An ancient instinct older than memory.

He turned sharply, heart lurching, eyes scanning the crowd.

The boy was already halfway across the square, bare feet slapping against the stones, a flash of muddy trousers, a crooked grin tossed carelessly over his shoulder.

Looking right at Harry.

The boy slipped around another corner, vanishing from sight — but this time, Harry caught something.

A handprint smeared in the mist along a crumbling brick wall.

Small.

Deliberate.

Waiting.

Harry dragged in a breath, chest burning.

"Louis," he whispered, the name slipping out before he could stop it.

He ran.

‘’Wait!’’ He called, desperate and ragged.

Harry chased after him, dodging carts, slipping into the cobblestone, skidding around corners so tight the stone scraped against his shoulder. 

He pushed harder, muscles screaming, lungs burning with the earlier cold mist. 

And then–

DING. DONG. DING. DANG.

The Clock tower.

Deep and hollow, vibrating through his being.

Harry stumbled, the noise sharp.

It echoed in his chest, in his teeth, in his bones. 

He looked up. 

The clouds overhead were still thick, unmoved, stubbornly grey.

But the light had shifted.to that strange, end-of-day hush that falls over everything, when the world doesn’t darken all at once, but leans that way.

The sun that certainly didn’t show itself behind its thick blanket of clouds was setting kind of fast.

Dragging itself down behind the hills like it didn’t want to be seen.

It was eight o’clock.

Four hours.

Four hours to find Louis.

Four hours to try and break the pattern.

Four hours before the world wound itself backwards and erased the path beneath his feet.

He tried to press forward–

Chapter Text

Somewhere in Scotland - 2099

The TARDIS didn’t land so much as it crashed sideways through the time vortex. 

A warning siren wailed, the lights above him flickering in and out of sync. 

The floor dropped out under the Doctor, sending him flying into the console with a curse and a crack of bone against steel. 

‘’Oi!’’ He barked, scrambling upright, irreverently gripping a lever with both hands, ‘’Where the hell are you sending me?! Are you mad?!’’ 

He squinted at the monitors. Every screen blinked erratically, bleeding static.

No coordinates. No labels. 

The time rotor was spinning erratically, faster than it should. Faster than he’d ever seen it. The whirr was too high-pitched, too desperate.

He smacked the console. Hard. 

Nothing.

A deeper groan rattled through the ship. Nothing metallic, not even mechanical. It only sounded tired.

No. Not tired. More like frightened. 

And it takes a lot to frighten a Niall-XV. Trust the Doctor.

The Doctor lunged forward, slamming a switch with the side of his hand. ‘’Stabilize…Come on, mate…’’

The stabilizer shorted out in a burst of smoke. 

He coughed hard, choking, eyes watering, one arm over his face as the lights above him blew out, one by one.

Each bulb around him burst in a pop of glass and heat, until only darkness and red-light sirens remained.

’’Hold it together,’’ he said to the ship, stumbling to the stabilizer panel, flipping switches with urgency. ‘’Come on. Just a soft landing. Just give me–‘’

Then the silence. 

The one he came to dread. 

And that silence could only mean one thing.

He licked his lips, throat raw.

’’…Have you landed?’’ He asked aloud, barely above a whisper, gently stroking some button he will need to push if not.

He was met with no hum of arrival.

No welcome groan or coordinates indicating he’s landed.

Just with a soft tick of cooling metal and a low red glow still pulsing across the console.

He looked down at himself–

and that’s when he noticed the faint glow.

A bracelet. 

A bracelet that was definitely not there before the TARDIS decided to crash full Titanic mode on him.

It was leather. Thick. Worn. Fastened tight to his wrist like it had always been there. 

Except it hadn’t.

’’…Oh,’’ he said into the void.

Then a spark of recognition.

Johannah. The Lighthouse. 

Louis.

A couple of minutes later, he was dressed to go. 

This time, The TARDIS had handed him something oddly charming: high-waisted pink plaid trousers, sharp at the pleat, flared just enough to flirt with the past. A woven belt cinched at the waist. His shirt was patterned and bold, layered under a retro-style knit polo that looked like something someone cooler might wear to a seaside casino in the ‘70’s. 

The shoes were two-toned and impractical. 

Naturally. There was always something impractical with his outfits.

He glanced at himself in the reflection of the darkened screen.

It was ridiculous. 

He looked perfect.

He exhaled once–then pulled open the TARDIS doors and stepped into the wind.

It was time to run.

The moment he stepped out of the TARDIS itself, the wind sank its teeth into him–cold, sharp, soaked in salt. It roared off the sea and slammed against his chest, pushing hard, like it wanted to send him straight back inside. 

His breath caught in his throat as he stumbled forward, the gale lashing at his face, fingers going numb almost immediately. 

The TARDIS should’ve thought about giving him a coat or something. 

His hair whipped back, stinging his cheeks. The sea below boiled against jagged black rocks, angry and endless, the white caps slamming again and again into the cliff side like fists.

The bracelet on his wrist pulsed again, steady and sure.

He didn’t think.

Just moved.

His shoes–two-toned, polished, entirely useless–slid against the moss-slick stone. Mud grabbed at his heels as he ran, trouser soaked at the hems, his arms pumping hard at his sides. The air burned cold in his lungs.

The wind howled louder the further he pushed, like it was warning him, begging him to turn around. But his body was already past the point of reason.

And then–

Far ahead, rising out of the mist–

The lighthouse.

So the Doctor ran harder.

His legs burned. His chest heaving hard. The wind clawed at his back, chasing him up the hill like a living thing.

He didn’t slow down.

He charged up the hill, shoes slipping on wet stone, the wind shrieking behind him like a creature in pursuit. The bracelet throbbed hard against his wrist, each pulse louder than the last.

He hit the door at a full sprint.

BANG.

’’JOHANNAH!’’

His fist slammed into the wood, over and over, harder each time. ‘’Jay! IT’S EIGHT O’CLOCK!! It’s the reset! I know it’s happening–let me in!’’

His voice cracked, raw from the TARDIS smoke, from the cold, from having to run. 

He pounded once more. 

Then–

The latch clicked.

The door creaked open, slow and cautious.

She stood here–only a sliver of her face in the gap, like she wasn’t sure it was really him. Her cardigan was different, clinging to her frame, braided hair wind-swept across her shoulder. Mug in hand.

She blinked once. Then again.

’’…Harry?’’ Her voice was small, careful. ‘’You remember?’’ 

Harry nearly collapsed into the doorway, chest heaving, hard. ‘’Yes.’’ He panted. ‘’I remembered Braewood.’’

Before she could answer him, he was already on the move, pushing past her, stumbling into the foyer of the lighthouse like there was a fire behind him. 

‘’I remembered it–I saw everything!’’ He said, the words tumbling out too fast, too loud. ‘’It’s there. It’s stuck into the loop. And he was there Jay, Louis was there! And he saw me! He looked at me.’’

He finally reached the cluttered table, hands already moving. 

He shoved aside a mess of papers and snatched the first blank scrap he could find–an envelope, folded twice, still creased. He didn’t care. He grabbed a pencil and started sketching fast, erratic strokes, his hand shaking slightly from cold and pure adrenaline.

’’Here, see?’’ He said, drawing a line that bent like a river and slammed his pencil into the bottom of it. ‘’That’s where I entered the fold. I think it was near a bakery, or it smelled like one. Did you know I worked in one once? Flour in my lungs for weeks. Anyway, not the point, sorry. This street here, it loops weird, like it bends back on itself. Doesn’t match at all any layout I’ve ever seen.’’

He circled it hard. Then he drew a line. ‘’It’s like… Like someone tried to rebuild it from memory and got bored halfway through.’’ 

Johannah leaned over the map, watching him piece everything together like it would escape his mind if he didn’t sketch it. 

‘’I walked through the whole place, which is crazy, considering it’s supposed to be a village, and no one paid attention to me.’’ Harry went on, breath catching. ‘’No one even looked. They passed me like I wasn’t even there.’’

He paused, the pencil still hovering in his hand.

‘’Like they weren’t even real people. ’’

His hand hovered over the page. ‘’…Except him.’’

Johannah didn’t flinch. Waiting for him.

He dropped the pencil, stared at the spot he hadn’t drawn. 

‘’He ran past me. Fast. Laughing like it didn’t matter. Barefoot .’’ Harry let out a short, breathless laugh, somewhere between disbelief and awe. ‘’ Which is insane! Isn’t it? Who runs barefoot on cold stone, like that’s just…normal?’’

’’Everyone else, they just moved like … like they were in a play. But he looked at me. Just for a second.’’ 

His voice dropped lower, ‘’then the clock hit eight.’’

Harry dragged a hand through his hair, still damp from the run, pacing now, back and forth across the lighthouse floor like the movement could keep his thoughts tethered.

’’There’s a weak point,’’ he said suddenly, like the realization is the best thing he had in a long time, spinning on his heel to face Johannah. ‘’I felt it.’’ 

Johannah arched a brow, arms crossed. ‘’A what?’’ 

‘’A tear. A glitch in the matrix. I’m not exactly sure what to call this thing yet. But I felt it.’’ He returned to the table, taking a red pen, scribbling all around the area where he entered from. ‘’Here. The Orchard. When I entered the village, I felt it. A shift. Some kind of resistance. Just like I wasn’t welcome.’’ 

He looked up, eyes sharp. 

‘’It’s not wrapped in a perfect sphere. The force field, I mean.’’ He tapped a place with the tip of his pen, then marked it with an X. ‘’It’s fractured. Asymmetrical. That’s why I got in. It’s also probably the reason why the UNIT agents never came back.’’ 

‘’…They were zapped by the force field.’’ Johannah finished for him. 

He pointed to the window, beyond the mist. 

‘’Whatever this is, it wants Louis. It’s keeping him.’’ 

Harry had barely stopped moving since he finished the map. He circled the table like the storm outside, words spilling faster than his thoughts could catch them. ‘’But the force field is weak. It’s not a clean containment field. It’s patchy. Aggressive. It doesn’t hold. It hunts.’’

He looked back at Johannah, eyes wide. 

‘’That’s why the UNIT agents who came back were all wrong. It doesn’t just stop people from leaving. It punishes them for entering.’’

He began pacing back again, playing with his hair, like it would help him. 

‘’The ones who made it out ? Their minds were fried. Scrambled into believing the village never existed. Can you imagine? Knowing you walked through something, only for your brain to tell you it was all a dream.’’

He pointed toward the door. 

‘’And the others?’’

He paused, for the dramatics. 

‘’They were killed.’’

His fists clenched, his whole-body tense, vibrating like the storm outside.

’’It lures people in. Because they know the oddness of it would gather the attention of people. It lets them walk through the calm, the warm bread smell, the birdsong, the friendly shopkeepers. It’s a trap made for comfort. But NOTHING is real. Its villagers aren’t real.’’ 

He tried to take a breather but couldn’t contain his words. ‘’It’s like that colony on Centauri-9. I told you about them once. Those smiling robots and the sunflowers. The only difference here is the loop doesn’t need you to keep smiling. It just needs you to forget what’s inside.’’ 

Johannah was staring at him, the colour draining from her face.

He turned to the clock.

1:00 PM. 

‘’And we’ve got seven hours before it resets,’’ he told Johannah, voice quiet and deadly serious. ‘’Seven hours to find him. To break it open from the inside. Or we’re going to lose this Louis forever. ’’

Johannah didn’t answer him as he expected. 

She just stared at him, holding his gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Like she was looking at a man she hadn’t seen in years, even though he was standing right here, in front of her. 

Then, with a slow exhale, and without a word, she crossed the room, and knelt beside an old wooden desk, pushing it aside.

Harry stepped closer. His shadow falling beside hers.

She pulled back the faded rug underneath with a swift motion, revealing a heavy floorboard beneath. Her fingers found the groove instantly. Lifted. The hinges groaned in protest.

Harry stepped forward. 

Inside it wasn’t storage.

Inside it was war. 

A plethora of technology, organized chaos, every item nestled in lined compartments: sonic pulses, neural disruptors, containment grenades, pulse-tracking lenses, magnetic latches, emergency displacement anchors, even a sleek, prototype-phase time fracture stabilizer.

Some of the items glinted faintly with UNIT markings.      

Johannah reached in without an ounce of hesitation, she pulled free a slim, dark matte black case. 

‘’This is what they left behind,’’ she told Harry at last, her voice level but thick with weight. ‘’Or what I made sure they didn’t take.’’

She flipped the lid open. 

Inside, a compact rail-blade, one of UNIT’s covert issues, serrated with anti-temporal etching. It shimmered faintly, the metal humming softly. 

Beside it, two compact stunners, chrome-barrelled with programmable pulse widths. 

‘’How long have you been waiting to use this?’’

Johannah didn’t answer. Instead, she reached in the case and unlatched a smaller box. Inside, a cluster of thin discs, humming faintly blue.

She lifted one between her fingers. ‘’This one’s for you,’’ she said, handing it to the Doctor. ‘’It’ll get you out if the fold collapses too fast. Stick it to your chest. Last resort only.’’

Harry turned it over in his palm, it was a flat disc, barely thicker than a coin. His eyes flicked to the faint inscription. It wasn't a standard UNIT issue. It was hand etched.

In Johannah’s handwriting. 

He stared at it. ‘’You customized it?’’

She didn’t meet his eyes. ‘’You’ll see.’’

‘’Jay…’’

She reached again into the bottom of the chest, this time, into a hidden recess under it, so expertly hidden that Harry hadn’t even registered it as part of the case. She pulled out a small container—flat, smooth metal shaped like the one she just gave him.

She placed it into his hands with careful intentions. It felt heavier, though it couldn’t have weighed more than a few grams.

‘’This one's for him.’’

Harry stared down at it for a moment, already feeling something presses against his chest. He unclasped the seal, and the moment it broke open, the air around them shifted.

A hush fell over the room, the doctor holding his breath.

Inside the container, a thin strip of fabric, coiled tightly. At first glance it looked insignificant faded, the colour hard to name, maybe once blue or purple. 

‘’What is it?’’ Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

Johannah watched him turn the strip over in his fingers–touching it softly, like it might vanish.

’’It’s a tether.’’

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing over the fabric in his hand, gentle and sure. Then, with a quiet motion, she turned the strip over to reveal what had been hidden on the underside––three small letters, stitched by hand in faded green thread.

L.W.T

Louis William Tomlinson. 

Of course, there was no way this worn-down thing had ever belonged to this version of Louis. Not in this timeline. Not in this fractured fold of reality. But the Doctor didn’t say it out loud. 

He just stared at the soft square in his hands, the faded stitching catching the dim light.

He blinked, heart thudding. The initials shimmered faintly under the bunker’s low light, as if the thread itself remembered more than the world around it did.

Harry looked up at her. ‘’You’re gambling with physics.’’

Johannah finally met his gaze. Her expression unreadable.

“No,” she said softly. “I’m gambling with love.”

Johannah’s voice came soft, like she didn’t want to break the air between them.

“I made it while you were gone. Yesterday. Used the TARDIS to bind it. It’s not perfect, not stable for long—but if the fold pulls again, it’ll help him stay.”

He took a breath, waiting. Hoping she’d say more.

But she just turned away, fingers ghosting over the edge of the chest like she needed to steady herself. Then, finally, as she reached for the next tool in silence, she added, barely above a whisper:

“You’ll understand when it’s time.”

Johannah didn’t offer explanations. She didn’t even try to make it make sense. 

He took a breath, waiting. Hoping she’d say more.

But she didn’t. 

She pulled out a slim holster first, with no weapons on it, dark leather wrapped around a strip of tungsten, pulsing faintly with blue light. ‘’Wear it under your arm. Right side. You won’t feel it until you need it.’’

He nodded, slinging it over his shoulder, adjusting it tight against his ribs.

Next, she offered a black capsule sealed with copper rings. ‘’Displacement anchor. One-time use. Only if the fold pulls. Will buy you thirty seconds. Maybe less.’’

Another moment passed in silence before she lifted something small, a pressure-locked tube no longer than her hand, cold to the touch.

‘’Fold spike,’’ she said, her voice quiet, clinical. ‘’Break the seal. Slam it into solid ground. Don’t think about it, just do it.’’

He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t have to.

Time was running out.

✨

The weather hadn’t shifted. 

The wind was still howling–louder, angrier somehow, lashing at the cliffs like it meant to rip the coastline apart piece by piece. The rain was coming down in sheets, not heavy but persistent. It soaked through his jumper, his trousers, his hair matted to his forehead in dripping curls. It wasn’t a cold one, not exactly, but there was a weight to it. 

Pressing down on him. 

The sky was a smear of grey and black, clouds bruised and roiling above the cliffs. Thunder cracked, distant but growing, and the sea roared far below, a constant, furious drumbeat echoing against the rocks.

He didn’t remember the weather being this bad on the way down earlier. 

The lighthouse loomed behind–now just a silhouette in the gloom, its glass eye long shattered. No light to guide him. No sign of it being cozy and lived inside. 

It was looking like a sentinel in the storm. 

The tracker on his wrist pulsed, erratic now. Distorted. Like it was picking up interference from something. Harry glanced down. It was as if the machine was trying to warn him of something it couldn’t name.

Something was wrong. Not just with the storm. Not just the unnatural pressing now hanging in the air like the world was holding its breath. 

But with Johannah. 

He trusted her. Of course he did. She’d been his companion once—fierce, brilliant, unstoppable. She’d devoted her life in time and space to save Louis more times than he could count.  

He trusted her. With his life, with Louis’. 

She’d been with him through the worst–when the first Louis died, through time ruptures and collapsing stars, through Louis slipping in and out of timelines.

The thought settled slow and cold at the base of Harry’s spine, blooming wider with each step down the winding path to Braewood. Doubt, creeping in like damp beneath his collar.

Why would Johannah have all those UNIT-grade weapons? 

Sonic charges stripped of proper ID, anti-temporal blades etched with markings UNIT had banned two decades ago. Blades lined with anti-temporal etchings so old, so illegal, they may as well have been relics from a war no one was allowed to remember. Hacked tech, blades etched in anti-temporal code, weapons that felt like bootleg copies of the original. 

And then there was the lighthouse.

Isolated. Silent. NO uplink. Why would she live alone? UNIT didn’t isolate their own, and they sure as hell didn’t let them live off-grid without a handler. Especially not one like Johannah–part of a scheme, brilliant, volatile, deeply embedded in too many universes. 

Johannah Deakin who was part of a legend. A fixed point written into the seams of time itself. All the same, yet so different, from time and spaces.

UNIT never left an anomaly unsupervised.

And Johannah Deakin was the worst kind of anomaly.

She had walked through more timelines than any humans ought to. She had seen things that twisted lesser minds inside out. And now, somehow, she was tucked into a forgotten corner of the coast, miles from anyone, living beneath a dead beacon, alone.

Where Louis existed, there was always a Johannah to wait for him. 

Kate Stewart wouldn’t allow it.

They didn’t allow custom mods. And they certainly didn’t hand out experimental gear to retired agents with no known command. 

UNIT protocol didn’t bend. Not even for an anomaly like Johannah.

If Johannah had stepped off the UNIT grid…

If she had built her own arsenal…

If she had gone off the charts—

Then what, in all the spiralling madness of time, had she found?

And more pressingly, what was she trying to stop?

The doubt was throbbing just behind Harry’s ribs, an ache he couldn’t soothe, as if his body was trying to warn him before his mind could catch up. 

He kept moving, shoulders hunched against the relentless wind. Rain lashed sideways across the cliffs, the path to Braewood narrowing to little more than slick stone and earth. He pressed on anyway, breath catching at the string of the cold and something heavier–a wrongness, pulsing at the edge of the air. 

Then he saw it.

Just ahead, where the hills dropped low into the valley. A shimmer. 

The Fold.

He slowed. Lifted his wrist.

01:10:18

The countdown blinked bright and blood-red against his skin. 

He stepped into Braewood like a man stepping into a dream–too bright, too still, too warm. The storm that was raging around him a minute ago was gone without a trace. No more wind, no rain, not even a puddle in the cracks of the cobbled street. 

It was peaceful. Unnervingly so.

Harry stopped cold. 

The shift was too complete. Too deliberate. 

He turned slowly in place, scanning the quiet village. Everything was still–no blur, no glitch, no time distortion–just the oppressive normality of a place playing pretend. 

Like an amusement park ride, the animatronics running in their never-ending loop after hours regardless of who has been locked inside.

The time lord moved slowly through the village, the sun warm on his face, the cobblestones dry beneath his boots–too dry, considering the storm he’d just left behind. Braewood looked…normal.

Normal like a whole simulation.

There was the sound of sweeping–bristles against stone. A distant bark. The metallic clang of a horseshoe being hammered into place. A market stall bursting with flowers of every colour possible. Laughter, even.

It looked like a postcard. It sounded like it.

But it wasn’t. 

The Doctor could feel it.

His eyes darted from face to face, posture to posture–too fluid, too clean. The fisherman across the street waved to a woman who passed by. The man hammering at the forge wiped his brow and smiled–but the soot on his skin didn’t smear at all.

Curiously, every time Harry walked past one of them, they seemed to falter. Only for a breath. But it was enough.

A man polishing the brass handle of the apothecary paused mid-circle. A woman pinning linens to a clothesline hesitated with her arms raised. The butcher behind the window–cleaver lifted–stilled like a statue.

Their heads turned.

Too fast. Too smooth.

Only a second, but long enough for Harry to realize they were watching him. Their heads would turn–too sharp, too precise–and their eyes would track his movement. Blank, empty. Alert.

Then they would resume their tasks, seamless and smooth, like they’d never looked at him at all.

Harry’s guts twisted. He didn’t stop moving, but his hand slid into his inner jacket pocket, fingers curling around the familiar weight of his sonic screwdriver.

He kept walking, heart racing, casting the tool low near his thigh to avoid drawing attention. A quick flick of his thumb and it began to hum softly in his grip, blue-green tip glowing faintly beneath his fingers.

His breath caught in his throat upon reading the conclusion;

Not human. 

Not a single one of them.

He pocketed his screwdriver quickly, subtly. 

Then, as if something had re-engaged behind their sockets, they resumed. Polite. Precise. Flawless.

Harry's pace quickened, the sensation crawling down the back of his neck like static. His fingers closed around his sonic screwdriver, thumb flicking the activation node. He held it low, discreetly, letting the soft hum vibrate against his palm.

No biological life signs detected.

He didn’t stop walking.

He was being watched–he knew it by now. Not just by the automatons, but by whatever had built them.

“Brilliant,” he muttered under his breath. “They’re not people. They’re a play.”

The whole town was an act. A mechanical ballet. Every motion timed and looped, a performance for no audience.

Except him.

He rounded another corner, his mind racing through protocol, weapon specs, emergency containment strategies—but then he paused.

Froze.

Something curled in the air. Thin. Subtle. A whisper under the metal tang of artificiality.

Bread.

Freshly baked. Slightly sweet, yeasty, alive.

Harry inhaled sharply, like he’d been plunged into water and found the surface. He turned his head, chasing the scent on instinct.

And then he was running.

The scent grew stronger as he turned the corner—less like perfume, more like proof.

A crooked sign swung gently above a narrow shopfront.

A bakery. 

He ran.

Past mannequin smiles, through the narrow lane, the scent thickening with each breath.

It was real.

There—nestled between ivy-covered stone walls and a hand-painted sign swinging gently in the breeze, stood the bakery.

The windows were golden-lit. A touch of steam against the panes. The door, slightly ajar.

Alive.

He pushed open the door with more forces than necessary. A bell chimed overhead.

He stepped inside.

And the warmth hit him like a memory.

And behind the counter—

Louis.

Real.

He was thinner than Harry remembered—though remembered wasn’t the right word, not when he’d only ever glimpsed him through the fractured haze of other lives, other timelines. Still, this version was unmistakable.

Slim, wiry, the sharp angles of his cheekbones drawn even more pronounced by what must’ve been weeks—months? —on rations meant for preservation, not nourishment. His shirt clung to narrow shoulders, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour like it was ordinary, like he belonged here. Like any of this was real.

But Harry saw it. The tension in the way he stood.
The way his hands paused mid-motion, fingers buried into soft dough, flour dusting his forearms. He looked up, startled, probably because no one ever came into the shop at that time of the day. 

Louis’ hands froze over the dough, flour clinging to his fingers, eyes wide as they met Harry’s.

‘’You,’’ he said quietly, voice low but steady, like it had been waiting for him all along. ‘’From a few days ago, in the square.’’

Except it was yesterday.

Harry blinked, chest tightening. ‘’You saw me?’’

Louis didn’t answer right away. His eyes narrowed, like he was trying to bring something into focus that wouldn’t stay still. His hands dropped to his sides, smearing white streaks against his apron as he stepped back from the counter.

The bakery was warm. Way too warm. The smell of bread and sugar clung to the air. 

‘’I thought you were part of it,’’ Louis murmured. ‘’Like the rest of them. But I never saw you. In all the time I was stuck here.’’ 

‘’You mean the automatons?’’ Harry asked entry, stepping closer, careful.

Louis flinched at the word. ‘’Don’t. They watch you when you say they’re not real.’’ He wiped flour off his cheeks, spreading it instead, gaze never leaving Harry’s. ‘’You’re the first one I see, that doesn’t ignore what they are.’’

Harry nodded slowly, his eyes drifting to the rising clock on his wrist.

00:57:49

“I don’t have time to explain,” Harry cut in, voice sharp and low. Urgent. His eyes were wide, desperate. “But you need to come with me. Right now.”

Louis stared, brow creased. “I saw you. A few days ago. I thought—”

“This place isn’t real, Louis,” Harry hissed, stepping forward. “Every move you make, they see it. The village, the people–they’re part of something that is trapping you here. You’re not safe here.”

Louis stared back, uncertainty blending into something sharper–fear, or perhaps recognition. He shook his head, voice brittle. ‘’I’ve always been here; I was born here. ’’

“I’m the only one who got in.” Harry raised his wrist, showed the glowing countdown— 00:55:06 , blinking red like a warning. “And I’m the only one who can get you out.”

“You’ve seen me before,” Harry continued, glancing behind him, knowing the clock was bleeding down fast. “You know I’m not from here. And you know this place isn’t right.”

Louis’s fingers twitched.

’’I know it’s not real,’’ Louis answered, voice low but steady. ‘’I figured it out a while back. The bakery restocks itself every Monday. The same three people walk by at the same time every day. Nothing changes.’’ 

Harry said nothing, but his expression cracked open–just slightly. 

‘’Their patterns shift every year. I think… to match me. Like my mum–or whatever she’s supposed to be–she changes as I get older. New memories. New habits. Like she’s updating to keep up.’’

He looked past Harry, toward the sun-drenched window. ‘’Sometimes they drop things off. Bread flour. Fruit. A pair of boots once. But no one talks to me. No one looks me in the eye.’’ He turned back to Harry, something raw creeping into his voice. ‘’Until you did.’’

“There’s no logical reason for you to follow me,” Harry said, softer now, stepping closer. “But I know a way out.”

That did it. 

Just a flicker in Louis’s expression—doubt, fear, hope —and he moved.

Slow at first–like something deep inside him had to unlock before he could follow–but then his steps quickened. Something in him knew, even if the memory didn’t reach all the way. Even if he couldn’t place Harry’s face, couldn’t explain the feeling tightening in his chest.

Because even if he didn’t remember why…

Even if he didn’t remember Harry…

He knew .

‘’You’re the first one who sees me,’’ Louis whispered. ‘’Not just like I’m part of the system. Not like I’m a mistake they’re trying to feed and forget.’’

He took a shallow breath, flour dusted fingers curling into fists. ‘’So if you’ve got a way out…I’ll follow.’’ 

Harry’s eyes flickered to the countdown still pulsing red against his wrist. ‘’Good. Then let’s move. We’ve got less than an hour before the fold resets.’’

As soon as they stepped out though, something appeared to shift. 

It was subtle at first, definitely easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. The sunlight dimmed, just slightly. The air held still, thick and too warm. 

He slowed, one hand instinctively curling around his sonic in his coat. ‘’Don’t stop,’’ he muttered under his breath. ‘’But something’s changed.’’

Across the street, an old man carrying a sack of grain froze mid-step. His head twisted, too smooth, too slow–until both his eyes locked on Harry.

‘‘…Well, that’s no good,’’ Harry muttered.

Another turned. Then another. Expressions slackened. Smiles dropped. All of them–every single one of them–had now their attention on Louis and Harry. 

Across the street, an old man carrying a sack of grain froze. 

His head cracked around, far too slow to be natural, until both eyes, empty, glassy, locked onto Harry. Onto Louis.

‘’Oh, that’s very not good.’’

Louis backed tracked behind his back. ‘’What’s happening?’’

’’They know,’’ Harry answered. ‘’They know I cracked the code and that we’re trying to make you escape.’’ 

He then grabbed Louis’ wrist. ‘’Run!’’

They bolted.

The street blurred beneath them, cobblestones flashing by. Behind them came the sound of feet—too many, too fast, all wrong. Mechanical.

They tore around the corner, shoes slamming against stone, breath tearing out of them in ragged bursts.

Up ahead of them, the fountain loomed on the main square, mid-spout, water arcing perfectly into the air.

The water hung frozen, caught mid-bubble-like time had suddenly hiccupped. No ripples. Not splashing. Just suspended.

Louis skidded to a stop, eyes wide. ‘’What the—’’

Harry yanked him forward. ‘’Not the time, RUN! ’’

The moment they passed the edge of the square, the illusion shattered.

The water collapsed all at once, crashing down with a deafening splash. A surge of cold mist hit their backs and pushed them to run faster. 

“Left!” Harry shouted, already veering.

Louis darted right. 

“No, the other left!”

‘’I panicked!’’

‘’Then panic faster!! C’mon!’’

They sprinted into an alley, breathless and wild. A figure stepped out from the far end. The automaton villagers had begun to chase them.

Harry risked a glance over his shoulder. Their faces were blank. Not angry. Not afraid either. Just resolute. Programmed.

‘’Brilliant,’’ he muttered. ‘’They’ve activated pursuit mode. Love that for us!’’

Louis looked at him, panting. “Now what?!”

Harry scanned the wall beside them with the screwdriver—stone, fake, flickering. “This way!”

He slammed his shoulder into a hollow wooden door. It burst open. They crashed into a storage cellar filled with stacked crates and sacks of flour—half real, half wireframe. Some of them flickered.

They tore through a narrow gap in the wall, ducking under an archway that flickered in and out of phase, stone one second, nothing the next. Louis nearly tripped on a repeating patch of cobblestone, where his foot landed twice in the same puddle.

‘’It’s falling apart!!’’ Louis shouted, dodging an abandoned cart in the middle of the street.

“No—they’re rewriting space now!” Harry said, breathing quickly and clipping. “Trying to corral us. Herd us into a loop. Typical containment protocol—close off variables.”

They burst out the back into another looping street—same fruit stall. Same dog. Same old woman with the parasol.

Louis’s eyes widened. “We just ran in a circle.”

“No, we didn’t,” Harry snapped. “ They did. They moved the map.”

A chime echoed through the village. Loud. Flat. Like an alarm for something that didn’t care who heard it.

“Go, go, go! ” Harry yelled.

They turned sharply into a street Harry hadn’t taken before. The ground shook. Somewhere far above, the sky rippled —not clouds, not weather. 

Code.

Louis stumbled again, but Harry caught him, dragging him up. “We need to find the orchard,” Harry gasped. “Find the breach. It’s the only way out.”

A high-pitched keening filled the air, like metal slashing metal. The sky above them rippled yet again—harsh red lightning streaking across the horizon as if reality itself was bleeding.

“Do you even know where you’re going?!”

“No, but I look fantastic doing it!”

They ran. 

Then up ahead, though the distortion, the orchard emerged. 

Real.

So, they ran faster. 

Branches clawed at their arms as they crashed into the orchard. It didn’t flicker like the rest of the village. No stuttering shadows, no skipped frames. It was completely still, unnaturally still. 

‘’This part’s real,’’ Harry shouted over his shoulder at Louis, who was struggling to follow. ‘’The Fold’s anchor, it’s where it’s tethered!’’

Louis nearly tripped over an exposed root, catching himself on the bark of a tree nearby. ‘’Then why does it feel like it’s watching us?” 

‘’It is! There are cameras everywhere!’ Harry’s voice was clipped, focused. ‘’The village, it’s a dome. Made to be holding you.’’

Behind them, the sound of pursuit exploded into full force.

Not footsteps.

Stomps . Dozens of them, relentless, mechanical. The ground trembled beneath their weight, every stride in perfect, unnatural rhythm. And beneath, a rising chorus of garbled voices, layered and broken:

‘’halt—contain—reset—error—halt—halt—contain—’’

The simulation was no longer regenerating; it was reclaiming control. The automatons were coming. Louder now. Faster. 

Whatever intelligence had been quietly running things behind the curtain had taken full control.

Harry grabbed Louis’ arm, hauling him forward toward the shimmering breach ahead.

‘’We’re almost out! Don’t stop!’’

They reached the edge of the Fold, the shimmer buzzing in the air like static caught in a loop.

Louis hesitated for a moment, breath caught, eyes wide with fear and something deeper. Harry turned to him, voice low and steady. ‘’This is it, Louis. We need to go.’’ 

He held out his hand, open, waiting.

‘’You step through, and it’s over. You’ll be free.’’

The younger boy nodded, determined, and took Harry’s outstretched hand in his.

Their fingers locked.

And they jumped.

They landed hard. Wet grass. Real air. A gull screaming somewhere far off, slicing through the silence like it didn’t care they’d just escaped a literal prison.

Louis hit the ground on his side, gasping, a sound ragged and sharp, like it was the first breath he’d taken in years that actually belonged to him. He coughed violently, clutching at his ribs, trying to ground himself from the fall.

Harry collapsed beside him, chest heaving, every nerve singing with the aftershock. The tether on his wrist was still glowing faintly, the skin beneath it scorched red, the countdown was showing 00:34:27, meaning they’d have plenty of time to escape before the reset.

Harry didn’t stay down. 

He pushed to his feet, spun on his heel, shoved a hand in his satchel pocket and yanked a small metallic device from it—furiously glowing hot now, lines of gold light racing along its surface like veins pulsing with panic.

Louis glanced over through his coughing. ‘’That’s your genius plan?? A yoyo toy? ’’

Harry scowled. ‘’It’s not a yoyo! It’s a time-fold spike!’’

’’What the hell is it then? A space Tamagotchi?’’

Harry gave him a look. ‘’I’m surprised you even know what a Tamagotchi is.’’

Then he answered more seriously. ‘’It’s a spike.’’ 

‘’A glittery Beyblade.’’

’’It’s designed to implode the Fold,’’ Harry snapped, twisting the rings, making the device spin and lock into place with a heavy click. ‘’Turn it inside out. Collapse the perimeter and eject it into a time vortex. Gone. Permanently.’’

Louis pushed himself upright, rubbing his chest, eyes narrowed. ‘’Right. So, you’re saying we’re tossing that small thing into a whole village, then it’s gonna trap it down?’’ 

Harry turned to him, deadpan. ‘’I’ll have you know that most of the universe’s deadliest weapons are small. Doesn’t mean they can’t do something huge.’’

Louis just shrugged. ‘’Looks like something you’d lose between sofa cushions.’’ 

‘’Good thing I don’t own a sofa. Or probably, I don’t really remember. ’’

Louis tilted his head, unimpressed. ‘’Are we really sure this isn’t going to make everything worse?’’

Harry shot Louis a flat, unimpressed look and said, deadly serious. ‘’Would you prefer we go back in?’’

Louis threw his hands up, laughing—a sharp, breathless sound that bordered on hysterical.  ‘’No, I mean—yes. I do love the plan. Fully onboard, I– Ijust didn’t think my day would end with a glowing hunk of metal swooping in to save me. And, you know, I'm really hoping it doesn't explode.’’

Harry was already winding up his arm. ‘’This is why I usually work alone.’’

Suddenly, the breach behind them surged—automatons forcing their way forward, eyes glowing, jaws slack like they were mid-sentence but had forgotten how sound works. 

Harry didn’t wait.

He turned, wound back, and hurled the spike straight through the breach.

It spun through the air in a clean arc, bright and fast—

It passed through the Fold—

And then—

Nothing.

5 seconds…

Louis stood frozen, chest heaving. He blinked at the breach.

Then at Harry.

10 seconds…

Still. Nothing.

“...That’s it??” Louis barked, voice cracking with disbelief. “That’s all?? That was supposed to make me free??’’

Harry opened his mouth—closed it again. 

The truth was—Harry didn’t actually know what the spike would do.

How Johannah had programmed it.

‘’You said it would collapse,’’ he said, voice tight.

Harry gave a small nod, watching the automaton still struggling to get out. 

15 seconds…

‘’I had… a strong theory.’’

‘’You lied to me?!’’

‘I tried to comfort you.’’

He’d told Louis it would collapse the fold in on itself, seal it clean as a last resort for the boy to believe him. 

Louis stepped closer to him. ‘’You said it would implode—bend in on itself. That we’d be safe.’’

‘’I believed you!’’

Harry sighed, gaze fixed on the Fold. “If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t have jumped.’’

‘’...You absolute LIAR!’’ 

Harry glanced at him, just a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I mean… yeah.’’

And then—

The Fold detonated.

A shockwave tore through the hillside, ripping the air open with a sound like the sky had been punched inside out. The ground lurched, the trees bowed, and the air turned gold-white for a single impossible second.

Louis screamed—no sound resonated. 

Harry grabbed him, pulled them both down as the blast rushed over to them, through them. The world around them twisted, bending in impossible angles. The light turned white-hot, then violet, then it was gone. 

Louis ducked, arms thrown over his head, as reality tore apart behind them.

The Fold was gone.

One second, a shimmer in the orchard.

The next—nothing.

Where the orchard once stood still and perfect, full of fruits and blooming in greens, there was now only charred space. 

The trees remained—rooted to the earth— but stripped of their illusion. Their trunks blackened and many were splintered. The leaves were gone. The grass beneath them had withered to a sickly yellow, flattened and brittle like paper in an old book. It looked as if a giant had taken a great step onto the land where the fantasy prison had once been.

Above them, the sky was Storm-Grey now, thick and roiling. It stretched wide and cold and far too open.

And then—

The rain hit them both. 

A curtain of water falling all at once—slamming into them like it had been held back for years and finally let go. The air around them shifted with it, sharp and wild. 

The temperature dropped instantly. The air changed. It was sharp. Wild.

Louis gasped at the harshness, arms lifting instinctively to shield his face. ‘’What the—?!’’

The rain didn’t stop.

It poured so hard it felt like the sky was trying to knock them flat. Heavy. Relentless. It hit them in waves, stinging their skin, soaking them though their clothes. Cold.

Louis tried to wipe his eyes, but the rain kept pouring. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself, uncertain.

Instead, he just looked ahead.

Where the lighthouse stood in the distance, barely visible through the sheets of rain. The door was open, the lights on. 

Johannah was waiting for them already.

‘’We need to move,’’ he said, loud over the wind. ‘’Come on, the lighthouse is not that far from here.’’

Louis didn’t move. He looked shocked. 

Harry reached out for him, grabbing his arm–not rough, just steady. ‘’Hey. Lou. You’re out. It’s not the same as inside, the fold was weather controlled. You’ll freeze if you stay out here, come on.’’

Louis blinked but said nothing.

Harry let out a breath and nodded toward the lighthouse. ‘’Let’s go.’’

Louis’ whole body was shaking–cold, soaked, overwhelmed. 

‘’We have to move now. Just to the lighthouse, I have a friend waiting for us. You’ll be dry in a minute.’’

Louis blinked at him, finally realising where they were. Then he nodded, just once. 

Harry took his hand in his, comforting, then he turned, starting toward the lighthouse, and Louis followed–quietly, still shaking, still stunned. 

The orchard was behind them now. The Fold was really gone. And for the first time, Louis could feel the difference—everything was louder, messier, real .

No more silence. No more safety. Just the world, raw and unfiltered.

Up ahead, the lighthouse stood through the rain—tall and still, just barely visible. The door was open, light glowing from inside like it had always been waiting.

✨

They stumbled down the narrow path toward the lighthouse, half-running, half-sliding, the rain lashing sideways in thick sheets that turned the world to a smear of grey. Louis was struggling to stay upright, the wind was howling at their backs, funnelling through the cliffs and turning every breath into a choke of salt and water.

Their shoes squelched with every step, mud clinging to their ankles, the ground sucking at them like it didn’t want to let them go. 

Louis tripped once. 

His foot slipped on the muddy grass and he went down hard, knees hitting small pebbles. Harry caught him under the arms before he could fully collapse, hauling him upright with a grunt, more out of instinct than strength. ‘’Got you,’’ he half screamed, voice hoarse. “You’re alright. Come on—we’re almost there.”

Louis swayed, breath hitching, eyes wide and dazed—but he nodded.

And then—

The door to the Lighthouse swung open.

A warm glow spilled into the storm, golden against the cold, gray hillside. Johannah’s frame was waiting inside, coat buttoned high, one hand braced on the wood as she had waited for them the whole time. As soon as she saw them, she stepped back without a word, holding the door wide for them to enter. 

Harry guided Louis up the steps, nearly carrying him inside.

The shift was immediate.

Heat wrapped around them the second they crossed the threshold. The wind cut off. The storm dulled behind the thick stone walls. Inside, the lighthouse glowed–a new glow, the one that made it feel lived-in, warmer. 

It was different.

Different as in not as it was earlier when Harry arrived. 

Everything held the same outline as before, but something had shifted. The space felt softer now. Blankets were draped across the back of a burnt-orange sofa he was certain hadn’t been there last time.

The small telly he’s seen earlier hummed from the corner, static lines running faintly down the screen as two characters argued about a wedding or a funeral–Harry couldn’t tell which, but the accents were unmistakable.

EastEnders.

He blinked.

The last time he’d stepped inside, everything was different, indeed. Like a prop version of the lighthouse. Now, it felt like someone’s nan had lived here for years.

Like it was Johannah’s actual house. 

A fire crackled low in the hearth, the scent of something herbal drifting faintly through the air. 

Tea.

‘’Jay,’’ he said, stepping in behind Louis, water still dripping from his flannel sleeves. ‘’What are you not saying?’’ 

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him.

Instead, she reached for Louis first. 

Her hands went straight to his shoulders, firm but gentle, easing him inside like she was afraid he’d fall apart if she let go. ‘’Come on, darling.’’ she said softly, voice low and coaxing, like he was something fragile. ‘’There you go.’’ 

Louis didn’t protest. Couldn’t. He was shaking so badly he could barely walk, drenched to the bone, rain clinging to his lashes, hair plastered to his face. His steps wobbled as she guided him toward the fire, wrapped him in a towel, and started rubbing warmth back into his arms without waiting for permission.

Harry stayed back, still dripping, watching as she guided Louis inside like it was instinct. No hesitation. No questions. Just action.

She reached for a towel draped over the banister and wrapped it around him in one smooth motion, she then started to dry him off without even asking, hands working briskly, rubbing warmth back into his arms, then carding gently through his dripping hair. 

Harry caught the way Louis looked at her then, like he was trying to figure her out. Like he didn’t understand what she was or how she wasn’t part of the script he’d been living in.

He stepped inside, water trailing behind him, the cold still clinging to his skin. She handed him a second towel, wordless, then vanished into a room he hadn’t noticed before. When she returned, she held an oversized knit jumper—soft, thick, the sleeves worn out at the cuffs like it had been mended more than once.

‘’Here,’’ she said, handing it to Louis. ‘’Dry clothes, It’ll get you warmer.’’

Louis blinked at her, then at Harry, like he was silently asking permission. Then, slowly, he started peeling off his soaked hoodie, then his jeans, fingers trembling with the cold. He didn’t ask for privacy. Just did what made sense for him.

Harry looked elsewhere, gaze snapping to the window like something outside was more interesting. It wasn’t, not really. But he kept his eyes there anyway. His ears turned pink.

Johannah didn’t respond. Instead, she stepped away, grabbed a thick blanket from the couch, and draped it around Louis once he was dressed. She tucked it in gently around him, hands moving like it was something she’d done a thousand times before.

‘’Now sit,’’ Johannah told them, motioning toward the couch. ‘’Both of you. We need to talk’’

Louis obeyed.

He slumped into the far corner of the couch, the blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. When Johannah handed him a steaming mug of tea, he took it with both hands, fingers clenched so tightly around it his knuckles went pale. He looked out of it, like the Fold was still clinging to the edges of him, refusing to let go.

Harry settled on the opposite end of the couch. He kept a careful distance, but their knees almost brushed. He didn’t say anything either. He just took the mug Johannah gave him, though he didn’t drink from it. His eyes were on Louis, as if he could get an answer to the millions of questions running into his head.

Johannah then sank into the worn armchair across from them, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. Her expression was steady, composed, but still sharp with something unspoken. 

‘’I know what you’re thinking Harry,’’ she said, finally breaking her silence. ‘’But we’re safe here. The lighthouse is protected.’’

He turned to her, brows drawn. ‘’How?’’

She smiled, not smug—but close. ‘’It has its own chameleon circuit.’’

That made Harry blink. Hard.

‘’What?’’

‘’Built it myself.’’ She lifted a shoulder. ‘’Not quite TARDIS-grade, but close enough. Cloaks the whole structure into a lighthouse. UNIT won’t see us, won’t scan us. To their tech, this lighthouse doesn’t even exist.’’

Harry leaned forward, the tea long forgotten in his lap. ‘’You had access to a chameleon circuit. How? That tech isn’t—’’

‘’Harry.’’ Her voice cut in, calm but pointed. ‘’You’re not the only one with access to alien technology.’’

He opened his mouth, shut it again. Because no, she shouldn’t have been able to do whatever this TARDIS tech was. And yes, it made everything more complicated. But Johannah didn’t flinch beneath his stare.

The silence that followed stretched thin, filled only by the clink of ceramic and the low murmur of the telly in the corner. 

From the corner of his eyes, Harry glanced at Louis. The boy hadn’t moved much, still curled up in the blanket Johannah had wrapped him in, tea untouched in his hands. Some of the colour had returned to his face, but he was fidgety. Fingers tapping the mug. Shoulders stiff. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to exhale yet. Like he still didn’t believe they were out.

Then Louis’ voice broke, barely more than a whisper at first.

‘’Who are you?’’ he asked, his gaze fixed on the floor, eyes wide and unsure. ‘’Both of you.’’

Harry felt himself go still. 

A thousand versions of Louis, scattered across a thousand timelines–and yet, none of them had asked quite this question.

Harry felt like a pull–low, in his chest. All the answers he could give this kid right now lining up at the back of his throat. Yet, there was only one real answer he could give;

‘‘I’m the Doctor,’’ he could’ve said.

And maybe Louis would’ve replied with the usual, boring ‘’Doctor who?’’ Sceptical, even more curious. But Harry couldn’t give him that answer, based on the simple fact that this Louis had spent sixteen years trapped in a loop that lied to him daily. What he needed now wasn’t a title. He needed something real. 

Something he could hold onto in his new normal.

But how do you explain the truth to someone who’s been lied to their entire life? In every reality they’ve been in.

Before the silence could stretch too long, Johannah answered for him.

’’I was sent to watch you,’’ she said gently, her eyes never leaving Louis. ‘’Sixteen years ago, I was one of UNIT’s embedded agents. My assignment was simple: confirm the anomaly’s presence and report back to headquarters. Nothing else.’’

Louis blinked at her, a certain dazed and confused look, clutching the blanket tighter around him.

’’You didn’t go back?’’ Harry’s voice came low– quiet, like the question had been burning a hole in his mouth.

Johannah looked at him, then at Louis. Her expression didn’t shift, but something in her voice did.

’’I could’ve,’’ Johannah admitted, tone darkening. ‘’If I wanted to. If I’d followed orders.’’

‘’I saw what they were doing to him, and it was no use for me. Sooner or later, I would become their enemy.’’ She then looked at Louis, really looked at him. ‘’As soon as I saw you and was certain, I wouldn’t have been able to bring you home with me.’’ 

She leaned forward, resting her hand on Louis’ knee, he flinched at her touch, barely, but she didn’t pull away.

’’At first, I followed orders– tried to– I sent you packages–books, food, music–little things to see how you reacted. But then, you started noticing the resets. You started remembering.’’ 

She turned fully to Louis now.

’’And that wasn’t supposed to happen.’’

Harry’s brow furrowed. ‘’But your memory wasn’t affected.’’

He settled on that–for now. There’re so many other things he could’ve said, questions he would have pushed, especially since time doesn’t affect Johannah the way it did with Louis or the UNIT agents. But he didn’t. 

Maybe because he knew she’d explain it later.

Or because Louis wasn’t meant to hear that part yet.

‘’No’’ she said. ’’I had to pretend I was forgetting. It was torture at first. But then that’s when I started stealing old tech, rewiring it into something new. I did it all hoping you’d show up, Harry. So, we could save him–together.’’

She glanced at Harry then, something quiet and expectant in her eyes, like she was asking for his permission without saying a word. Harry gave a small nod. That was all she needed.

’’I wasn’t even sure a Time Lord could break through their defences,’’ she said carefully. ‘’Especially not him. UNIT’s most valuable anomaly. But then…the cracks started showing.’’

That’s when Louis locked eyes with Harry, gaze narrowed like he was trying to pin him to a memory that wouldn’t quite settle.

’’You,’’ he said, blinking. ‘’That’s what they used to show me on the telly, when I was really young. It was you, drawn like a comic. Weird colours, always a different appearance, shifting panels. Voiceovers that didn’t really match the mouths. Like–kinda like some sort of propaganda.’’

Harry frowned, sitting forward. ‘’They showed you me?’’

Louis gave a slow, unsure nod. ‘’Sometimes. Not always. Just some glimpses. As if they didn’t want me to realized that you were real.’’

Harry’s voice was gentle now. ‘’What was it like? Inside.’’

Louis hesitated a moment, then looked down at the cooling tea in his hands.

’’It changed a lot.’’ He said eventually. ‘’Every time I thought I figured it out, it started over. Same orchard. Same house. Same weather. But not quite the same at the same time. Something always different.’’

’’I didn’t notice at first,’’ he said. ‘’Not really. It just felt like life. Bit quiet. Bit weird. I never really had friends to begin with. I got bored of them always saying the same stuff all over again.’’

Neither Johannah nor Harry interrupted him.

’’But then…’’ Louis huffed a humourless breath. ‘’It started adding up. My– ‘’ He stopped, visibly choking on the word. ‘’–The one playing my mum. She never answered properly when I asked her hard things. Like what my favourite food was. Or if I ever had a birthday party’’

His fingers tightened on his mug. ‘’She’d just smile and say something like ‘of course you did’ but never say when. I don’t even know my own birthday.’’

Harry’s stomach turned. The urge to say something flickered– December 24th –but he swallowed it down. Saying it out loud would shatter something delicate. It wasn’t the time.

He glanced at the boy, and saw the way his hands curled tighter around the mug. His own thoughts spun, how it was actually the first time he was having an actual conversation with humans being instead of robots. This was clearly a boy who’d lived through fiction turned fact, day after day, loop after loop. A boy who’d survived a prison disguised as a life.

Louis didn’t seem to notice the doctor had drifted. Or maybe he did, but he pushed through anyway.

’’…every night it would reset,’’ Louis continued quietly. ‘’No matter what I did. Even if I ran. Even if I hid. Morning came, and it would all start again. Like a dream trying to remember itself.’’

Harry looked at him, stricken. 

‘’And when I did remember…’’ Louis’ voice dropped, bitter. ‘’It punished me for it. Glitches. Static. Whole days missing. And then eventually–I didn’t know if it was real anymore. I would push the simulation to its breaking point, but that would serve nothing. Because of course, it is what it is.’’

There was a pause. Heavy. Only the sound of the rain was audible from the exterior.

Then the Doctor turned toward Johannah. ’’How did I get in?’’ He asked, voice tight. ‘’If it was supposed to keep out everything else? If it was a prison.’’ 

‘’That’s what scared them,’’ Johannah answered. ‘’You weren’t supposed to be able to enter. No outsider could, if they didn’t get permission, or a code, or clearance. But you did. You appeared like a…a variable inside a closed equation. You disrupted the math. The fold didn’t know what to do with you. A 2 in a land of 0s and 1s.’’

She leaned forward, eyes steady on both of them. ‘’So, it glitched.’’

’’But why the glitch?’’ Harry pressed. ‘’Wasn’t it supposed to just eject me? Like the others?’’ 

Johannah exhaled, like she’d been waiting for him to ask. ‘’Because the Fold, this one, wasn’t meant to contain both of you. ’’

Louis blinked, his head slowly turning to Harry. Harry was already looking at him. 

She looked at them each, her voice low now, as if she was afraid someone would hear them. ‘’It was built to trap one anomaly. But there are two. Or three, if you count me in. But they aren’t aware of me. The second your code touched its boundary, it fractured. Because it wasn’t strong enough. Strong for your nature, Harry. It was a net meant to hold one storm–not two.’’

Harry’s jaw clenched. ‘’Then what does that mean?’’

’’There’s a deeper layer,’’ she answered him. Her voice dropped into something like reverence–or more likely like dread. ‘’Older. Hidden beneath this one. Buried so far down even UNIT barely remembers it exists. That’s the real prison. The one that was designed for you both.’’

Johannah took a long breath, like she was bracing herself for what’s to come. Her eyes flickered between them–Harry, tight-jawed and pale, like he knew where she was heading to and to Louis, still curled beneath the blanket, fingers trembling around his mug.

Once UNIT found the legend tied to this place. They thought uniting the two of you would trigger the end of everything. But they misunderstood it—because they only ever saw half the tale.”” she said quietly. “I was going to show you–‘’

Knock. Knock. 

It wasn’t loud. But it cut clean through the room like a blade.

All three of them stilled. 

Another knock. Slower this time.

Louis flinched. Harry’s spine went rigid. He looked at Johannah, with a glint of panic in his eyes.

Something had found them.

Chapter Text

Cycle 728 of the sc. light - 6167

Velmira, The Ormen Cluster

The curtain ripped with the hush of electric light. Somewhere beyond it, the audience was humming–alien murmurs in a dozen dialects, glittering eyes fixed on the ring beneath two lavender suns. 

Harry exhaled slowly.

His red suit clung to his frame like a second skin, the one with the high waist and wide-legged pants, shoulders sharp and so nostalgic. It shimmered slightly under the backstage lights, still speckled with powder from the wire he’d chalked earlier. A heartbeat tapped violently against the base of his throat. 

Tudumdum dudum dum . 

Not nerves–never nerves. Just the excitement before the big leap.

‘’Wait!’’ A voice called, sharp against the hush.

Harry turned just as Louis appeared–half-wild, flushed, hair going in every direction possible, a streak of sawdust on his cheek. His navy-blue ringmaster coat swung open, half-buttoned over bare skin. One of the tigers must’ve thrown a fuss again. 

Louis didn’t say anything else. He just crossed the space between them in three long strides and kissed him on the mouth–quick, certain. Like a soft promise. 

Something then brushed past Harry’s calves, light as a silk ribbon.

Myrrh. 

A great white tigress from Thaxion-5, padded by with the grace of a ghost, one eye icy-blue, the other forest-green, both catching the stage lights as if she knew the moment belonged to them only. 

She circled once behind Louis, slow and sure, just to push him more into Harry’s open arms, then disappeared into the shadowed wings, leaving behind the scent of dust and wildness.

Born in the bioluminescent jungles of Virellia, deep in Thaxion-5’s untamed south, she had survived where others hadn’t. Most tigers, her size that is, never made it past the first training ring–let alone into the lights of performance. But Myrrh hadn’t been tamed. She had chosen Louis.

Too young to snarl, already impossible to command. She listened to no one else. Trusted no one else. She grew with him, trained with him, reformed like she could read his thoughts. When the nights got too loud, too heavy, she curled around his cot like a living shield.

She was family.

“Break a leg, my fabulous flying angel,” Louis murmured, voice low, just for him.

Harry smiled faintly, adjusting the strap of his red suit. ‘’You always say that,’’ he replied, soft, bopping his nose softly.

And then, the spotlight found him. 

He stepped into it. 

The spotlight on him hummed as it tracked his every move. He stepped onto the tightrope like muscle memory. 

Below him, the stage opened like a yawning mouth, all velvet and smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. Around him, the vast area glowed under the twin suns of Velmira–the pale lilac sky filtering through the open domed canopy of the Cirque Étoile’s traveling tent. Tonight’s audience, the Elavari, watched in perfect silence. Silver-skinned. Glitter-eyed. Their gazes silent and unblinking, like statues forged from starlight.

Harry didn’t notice them anymore. Not really. 

He’d been doing this for as long as he could remember. Acrobat. Star performer. The boy in red who walked the wire like he belonged on it.

The tightrope trembled beneath his steps, but his body knew the rhythm. Anchored at opposite platforms high above the stage. Below, faint music began to rise–an old tune, one they’d specifically chosen for him. He couldn’t name it. But his body responded to it anyway. 

High above the world, Harry was light. 

Sequins catching the spotlights and scattering red stars across the tent’s canvas ceiling.

From his high perch, Harry took a brief glance—just long enough to admire the view, like a performer greeting the gods.

A sea of shimmering matters.

The Elavari were truly beautiful creatures.

They never moved. Just watched, always watched, with that strange, serene intensity.  No cheers. No applause. Just quiet, crystalline attention.

Then, among the sea of alien faces, a woman stood perfectly still. Human. Out of place. 

It was like his mind tripped over her. Like a skipped heartbeat or a broken cord. One face, impossibly ordinary—and it shattered the entire illusion.

She stood out like a wrong note in a perfect chord. Her eyes found his, and for a breathless moment, something flickered there—familiarity, or memory, or warning. Whatever it was, it knocked the air from his lungs.

Harry slipped.

Gasps rippled through the tent like a sudden gust of wind—every Elavari mouth opening at once, soft and eerie. It wasn’t panic. It was awe. 

Like watching a star misstep from its orbit, as his body plummeted toward the net below.

For a moment, everything tilted. His breath caught. 

He fell.

The invisible net caught him with a brutal bounce, knocking the air from his lungs. Shouts erupted backstage. A flash of white— Myrrh . And Louis—

“Harry!”

But Harry didn’t hear it. Not right away.

All he could do was stare up at the canopy—at the emptiness where she’d been.

And the question that burned in his throat.

Who was she?

✨

The second time it happened; Harry saw her in a dream.

Their trailer was quiet except for the soft creak of cooling metal and the occasional hum of shifting gravity. Myrrh, curled at the foot of the bed, snored in gentle puffs, one ear flicking now and then as if guarding them even in sleep.

Louis lay draped against Harry’s torso, one leg thrown over Harry’s hip, hand splayed over his ribs like a paperweight keeping Harry from floating off entirely. The rhythm of Louis’ breath was slow, untroubled.

Outside, the Cirque Étoile caravan had left orbit hours ago, floating along the starlit current of the Celestion Pathway, headed toward their next destination: Vortari Nine, a planet known for its crystal valleys shrouded in frost and echo-chambers of eerie songs. 

Harry hadn’t really slept since the fall.

Not properly. He’d drifted in and out, his body warm under the weight of Louis against his chest, Myrrh curled along the line of his legs, but his mind refused to follow. 

Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw her again—standing among the Elavari, too human, too still. Her mouth never moved. But her eyes did. 

Remember.

He lay still, trying not to shift to wake Louis—or Myrrh, who twitched her ear slightly like she knew he was awake. 

That single word thrummed in Harry’s blood like a thread pulled too tight.

Harry hadn’t told Louis about the woman. 

Not how she’d stared straight through him during the performance, so piercing it knocked something loose in his chest—so sharp it sent him tumbling down. He hadn’t explained how her eyes were the last thing he saw before the fall, or how they followed him into his dreams after.

Because it was probably nothing.

A trick of the lights. A glitch in the brain. A ripple from his overworked brain.

He told himself it was fatigue. Maybe the fall had shaken him more than he thought. Maybe he’d twisted something, pulled at something. That’s why, yesterday, during rehearsal, when he stepped onto the wire—it wobbled, and so did he. It wobbled. 

He wobbled.

He laughed it off. Everyone else did too.

But the truth was: he never wobbled.

Now it felt like his body was resisting. Like gravity had turned personal. Like something inside him was trying to return to a place he didn’t remember, but missed all the same.

He hadn’t told Louis that either.

Louis, who worried even when there was nothing to worry about. Even knowing Harry was the best acrobat in the known universe—could walk a wire in his sleep, could dance on a breath of air—he still watched every performance from the wings, arms crossed too tightly, jaw set too hard. 

And ever since that fall, the quiet worry he was sensing from Louis sharpened. 

He hovered toward Harry more. Checked the rigging twice. Asked if Harry had eaten enough. Touched his back just a little longer before each show, like he was trying to ground himself into thinking Harry was safe.

He hadn’t said anything—not directly. But Harry felt it in the way Louis would watch him now, like he was waiting for something to crack.

Remember. 

That day, across the universe, Harry gave up on sleep before it gave up on him. After a brief doze off, he carefully sat up, rubbing his face with both hands, and padded softly across their trailer. A dull light glowed in the kitchenette. They’re sat Louis at their tiny fold-out table, hunched over a scrap of parchment with a pencil in hand, focused. 

Harry stopped right before the kitchenette for a moment, caught for a beat by the soft quiet around them. The table lamp cast a low glow across Louis’ face, picking out the sharp curve of his cheekbone, the mess of hair that fell over one of his eyes.

He looked sleep-rumpled in that way that made Harry’s heart flutter–barefoot, legs drawn up in his chair, drowning in his favourite oversized jumper, sleeves frayed from many wears. 

He looked way younger than he actually was.

Harry’s gaze lingered. There was something in the way his boyfriend held himself–even now, in the stillness of their intimacy, he was sketching quietly. 

‘’Could stare at you all night doing that, you know,’’ Harry murmured finally, a quiet smile tugging at his lips as he stepped into the light. ‘’You’re really not real sometimes.’’ 

Louis didn’t look up. But a slow grin curved his mouth. ‘’Tell that to my cold feet.’’

Harry chuckled softly and came to stand behind him, the floor cool under his feet, the trailer somewhat protected from the temperature variations from space. He leaned over slightly, letting one hand settle on the back of Louis’ chair, he pressed a gentle kiss into the crown of Louis’ hair before he glanced down at the sketch the man was doing. 

He blinked. His breath caught in his lungs.

The woman on the page–sharp-boned, with wild-eyes and hair like a storm cloud caught mid-motion. It was her. The same woman from the audience. From his dream. 

Rendered in crisp charcoal lines, her face stared out from the paper, still and too knowing. Her features were clean and sharp, but it wasn’t her beauty that unsettled him. It was her eyes. Louis had drawn them to perfection. Too perfectly. Like he’d seen them just as clearly as Harry had.

A cold thread worked its way down his spine. He reached out instinctively, fingers hovering just above the paper. ‘’Who’s that?’’

Louis didn’t look up. ‘’Dunno. Dreamt of her a couple nights ago.’’

’’She was in the crowd during my set,’’ Harry continued, gaze fixed on the sketch. ‘’Saw her before my fall and then she was gone.’’

Louis didn’t react, not much. ‘’Weird. Maybe she was an attendee.’’

Harry’s mouth felt dry.

He didn’t speak, just stood there behind Louis, shadows pooling at his feet. 

Outside, the caravan hummed along the starlit current. Myrrh let out a low huff from the bed.

And the woman watched them from the page.

✨

Vortari Nine shimmered under its low moon, pale light brushing over the frost-glass valley like a whisper. The Cirque Étoile had landed hours ago, and already the crew buzzed with that exciting urgency, constructing tents, rigging wirelines, calming beasts disturbed by the long starlit journey. 

Crystals underfoot cracked like dry ice, chiming softly with every step.

Performers were shouting across the tent bones, their voices echoing weirdly in the vastness of Vortari Nine’s glimmering valleys. 

The Cirque Étoile was settling in. 

And Harry was unsettled.

Practice had been…difficult. Again. Like he was losing the muscle memory that came from a lifetime as an acrobat. His foot had slipped on the wire, only slightly–but enough for Louis to see it. He’d hidden the shake in his hands well enough, but not from Louis. 

Harry had laughed it off. 

But not Louis.

Louis hadn't said much after that. Just looked at him with that same quiet tension–like he was trying to keep the world from cracking open around them.

The circus grounds were chaos–ropes half-hauled, stakes hammered into frostbitten ground, performers barking orders, beasts howling against the cold new gravity of the planet. 

Harry walked past it all. 

He moved through the camp like a ghost, boots crunching crystal dust, arms wrapped tight to protect himself against the wind. He passed the practice tent. He didn’t feel like practicing today. 

More like, he didn't need to see Louis’ worried expression.

Instead, he headed toward the far end of the encampment, where the trailers grew sparse as the performers arrived from their travels. 

Niall’s trailer didn’t match the others. It never had. 

This was the trailer of Cirque Étoile’s fortune teller—a legend in every system they toured, even if Niall always laughed off the title. Said he only told stories, not futures. 

Painted deep navy like the heart of space, its woodwork was lined with thin, silver inlays that flickered when stared at too long. Symbols curled around the frame in ancient spirals–a forgotten language from many years ago. Stars were painted around the windows like they could spin.

A small wooden sign swung lazily from a rusted nail: 

POLICE BOX

FREE

FOR USE OF

PUBLIC

ADVICE & ASSISTANCE

OBTAINABLE IMMEDIATELY

OFFICER & CARS

RESPOND TO ALL CALLS

PULL TO OPEN

A wind chime made of mismatched keys twinkled as Harry approached. The door was already open.

From the inside, Niall’s voice floated out, ‘’You gonna stare all night or come in, clever boy?’’

Harry stepped through the doorway.

The trailer smelled of lavender smoke and warm old metal hit him instantly. Inside, thick navy curtains draped the windows and the walls, stitched with golden thread and star charts in looping scripts. The ceiling was cluttered with maps and systems Harry didn’t recognize—constellations not from this galaxy. Maybe not even from any galaxy.

In the centre sat a round table with a deck of shimmering cards spread half-shuffled. And there was Niall, seated cross-legged on a pillow, his back to the door, cloaked in that too-big navy coat, frayed at the cuffs and stitched with more strange constellations. 

His cards sat in front of him, untouched. But his fingers hovered above them like they ached.

The man didn’t turn around. Just said, ‘’You’re thinking too loud again.’’ 

Then he looked up as Harry approached, eyes tired but kind. One grey, one flickering a brilliant cosmic blue.

Harry hesitated, then pulled a folded paper from the inside pocket of his red coat and laid it gently on the table: the sketch Louis had made of the woman.

Niall went still.

His hand moved toward the drawing, slow and careful—then stopped just before touching it, as if a single graze might undo something tightly wound inside him.

‘’You’ve been dreaming of her, don’t you?’’ Niall only said.

Harry blinked.

‘’How did you—’’

But Niall wasn’t looking at him anymore.

His gaze was fixed on the page, a deep ache darkening his expression.

‘’...And who drew her?’’ Niall’s voice had a calm lilt, but something underneath it trembled.

‘’Louis did.’’ Harry faltered. ‘’A few nights ago. He said he saw her in a dream. I—’’ He looked again at Niall. ‘’I think I saw her first. In the crowd. That’s what made me fall.’’

‘’I know her,’’ Niall said, barely above a whisper. 

Niall looked up, and for a second—just a second—he seemed younger. Brighter. Like the weight of millennia flickered through him. 

‘’But I don’t. Like not in the way I should. It’s like…’’ He swallowed, brow furrowing. ‘’Like I lost her. A long time ago. Or maybe she lost me. I shouldn't feel it. I’ve never even met her, have I?’’

The question wasn’t for Harry.

He glanced down at his hands—fingers curled slightly, nails chipped and painted in fading shades of cosmic blue and violet. Like little galaxies cracked at the edges.

A silence settled between them, dense and weighty.

Then Niall blinked, his galaxy-coloured eyes swirling softly. 

‘’You didn’t ask for a reading.’’

Harry frowned. ‘’I didn’t.’’ 

‘’You might,’’ Niall murmured, already reaching for the cards layered on the table. ‘’But the cards knew. I felt the pull. That’s why you came to me.’’

Harry opened his mouth to respond—but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure how to argue with what Niall just told him. It was weird. 

That’s when Niall noticed the table.

The cards were already out.

Three of them. Face-down. Perfectly placed in a triangle of old intent.

Harry’s breath caught. ‘’Wait…You already pulled it?’’

Niall blinked slowly, like he was surfacing from something far away.

His gaze dropped to the table, to the three cards. 

‘’That’s what I was looking at just before you came in,’’ he said, voice low, almost puzzled.

‘’I think I did it in my sleep.’’

His fingers hovered over the nearest card, not quite touching it, not flipping it.

He was waiting for Harry to say to flip it.

‘’It’s like I knew you were coming before you did.’’

Niall’s words settled heavily between them. Harry glanced down at the cards—three of them, their backs shimmering faintly under the candlelight, inked with strange constellations that seemed to shift when he blinked.

‘’Go on, then,’’ Harry said, voice barely above a breath. ‘’Let’s see what she wants us to know.’’

Harry sat across from Niall, the table between them buzzing with something unspoken. 

‘’You sure?’’ Niall asked.

‘’Yes.’’ 

Niall reached for the first card and flipped it over.

The ink illustration was showing a tower, elegant and ancient, split clean down the centre. Fire spilled from its base like it was trying to escape. At the top, lightning cracked the stone sky in two, jagged and merciless. 

Niall frowned. ‘’The Tower. Something is unravelling, perhaps.’’

Harry blinked at him.

‘’No.’’ Niall said, eyes locked on the image. ‘’It’s not just destruction,’’ His voice had shifted—quieter, but heavier somehow. 

‘’It’s the breath before the fall. The kind that starts small, but feels heavier, somehow. The tower doesn’t burn because it was struck. IT burns because it was asking for it.’’

His gaze settled onto the astrolabe on a shelf behind Harry, its brass gears silent.

‘’Some structures are born to shatter. Some truths build like scaffolding—tall, hollow, bigger on the inside, humming with the weight of what was never said.’’

His gaze found Harry again.

‘’The fall took time. Because time was the lock. And now—’’

He tapped the edge of the card.

‘’Now the key’s in.’’

Niall flipped the second card.

‘’Ah. The Veil.’’

The artwork was colder. A woman cloaked in dark rags stood in front of a doorway made of stars. Her face wasn’t visible. Half in shadow. One hand rested gently on a frame, the other hidden behind what we can presume is her back. The stars behind her were drawn like pinpricks in velvet.

‘’That’s her. She’s not a threat,’’ Niall began, softly. ‘’She’s not the question. She’s the pause after it. The guardian. ’’

Niall’s fingers hovered just above the card. He tilted his head at the veiled figure on it, shadowed beneath a starlit arch.

‘’A door that doesn’t open unless you ask the right thing. Or the wrong one. She’s the guardian of the in-between. The place where names go missing, and answers wear other faces.’’

He traced the outline of the arch with one finger, never quite touching the card.

‘’She appears when something old begins to stir. When memory and forgetting blur together. When the question is not what you see, but what you’ve been taught not to.’’

The flickering light made the drawn veil shimmer faintly. ‘’You’ve already met her.’’

Another pause. Then softly:

‘’Not every veil is meant to be lifted. Some are meant to be woven into your life.’’

Then, without any wind to do so, the third card shifted before Niall could touch it. 

Two mirrored figures danced inside a broken ring of moons. One cloaked in red. One in black. Neither fully drawn. The background shimmered with kinetic energy, as if they were spinning, caught in orbit. Forever chasing, never touching.

Niall leaned forward, eyes narrowing. ‘’That’s not from my deck…’’

‘’What does it mean?’’

Niall didn’t answer right away. Let the silence stretch for a long while, Harry stopped counting, his hand was hovering above the card, which seemed to react to him, like two opposite magnets. 

Then, when he finally did, his voice was different. Lower. Measured. Like he was reciting something already written, like the words had waited in his mouth for a while.

‘’The twin suns. They call this one a love story,’’ he said quietly, as if he was speaking in another language, ‘’but it’s not.’’

Harry blinked. He could feel something shifting in the air around them—couldn’t be the gravity, their device was preventing that. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the edges of the cards. Harry watched him, frowning. 

‘’Two souls. One born to burn, to move through time like a melody with no end. The other one, stitched into place by something older than fate.’’ Niall went on, voice slow, like recalling a dream. ‘’They meet, always. And always too late. They remember each other in dreams. In touches that echo. In stories no one knows they’re writing.’’

Harry swallowed, throat dry. His fingers curled in his lap.

Niall’s eyes flicked up to meet his.

‘’One always runs. One always waits.’’

Niall’s eyes flickered to Harry, then quickly away again, like he wasn’t supposed to look at him too long.

He looked back up at Harry, gaze flickering strange and bright.

“Someone once read the story wrong.” A pause. A breath. “Thought it was a warning. But it never was. It’s a map.”

His hand hovered above the thread between the suns.

“They don’t destroy what they touch. They bring it back. Rewritten. Reborn.”

Harry felt the words drop into him like stones in deep water.

Niall closed his eyes. But Harry could still feel his gaze on him.

‘’One day, the traveller will stop searching. One day, the soul will stop waiting. But not yet. Not in this life. Not in the next.’’

He opened his eyes again, his cosmic eyes swirling wildly. 

‘’Not until the stars remember their names.’’

✨

The stars looked different on Vortari Nine. 

They didn’t blink or shimmer. They weren’t white or gold, like the ones that Earth’s skies once held—they pulsed in hues of mauve and deep viridian, clustered like glimmering fruit in a sky that hummed with soundless static. Some swirled faintly in place. Others drifted slowly, like they might be swimming in a vast ocean. 

Vortari Nine held no warmth, not even after a full cycle under its twin moons, Deimos and Phobos, that hung low in the sky. One was pale green, the other a bruised shade of plum, casting long shadows and soft over their rigging poles, over the flapping tents, over the silent hush of a circus between shows. 

The rooftop of their trailer groaned softly beneath the weight of three—Harry curled around Louis, arms wrapped tight around his middle, his face pressed between his shoulder blades. Louis curled around Myrrh, sprawled like on a throne across their laps. Her warmth seeped into their legs, but it wasn’t enough. The blankets wrapped around them fluttered faintly at the edges.

They still hadn’t spoken about the fall. 

Or about the woman they both saw.

Not even about the cards Niall pulled from his dream.

Harry had told the others he was injured. Let them believe it. It was easier than explaining the kind of ache that made the wire reject him. Easier than naming the weight in his chest that hadn’t eased since that night on Velmira.

Louis stirred. His voice was quiet when he spoke. ‘’Do you think there’s other versions of us somewhere?’’

Harry blinked against the back of Louis’ jumper. ‘’What?’’

"Versions of us," Louis murmured. "Out there. In other places. Other times." He tilted his head slightly, just enough that Harry could see the moonlight touch his cheek. “Like echoes. Or… shadows wearing our names.”

Harry’s breath caught.

He’d heard something like that once. In the way Niall looked at the cards. In the silence between heartbeats. In the eyes of the woman who said nothing, but made his bones remember.

Harry felt it again—that low pull inside him. Like memory knocking at a door inside his mind. Something hummed lowly inside his bones.

“I don’t know why I said that,” Louis admitted. “It just felt real, for a second.”

Harry didn’t answer—not out loud. But he pressed his face deeper into the curve of Louis’ back, fingers gripping his jumper tighter, pressing a kiss to the nape of Louis’ neck. He let his eyes drift closed. Let the cold take his thoughts.

And somewhere, just beyond the sky, something watched. And waited.

✨

The warmth of Myrrh purring at his feet and Louis carefully asleep on his side quickly faded.

Not all at once, it just slowly unravelled . 

Harry’s breath caught, frozen mid-inhale.

And then, he wasn’t there anymore. 

Now he stood somewhere else.

The ground beneath him was smooth, cold. Too smooth. Too cold. Not quite metallic, not even stone, just something in-between . Sterile. The air felt wrong. It smelled like lavender just after fire—just like in Niall’s trailer. 

There was no starry night, it was replaced with endless white–blinding and depthless. Like someone had scraped all colour from the world and left only white and silence behind. There were no doors. No windows. Only corners that didn’t quite meet and a hum so deep it pressed against Harry’s bones. 

The air buzzed faintly, the way it does around locked timelines. Why Harry knew that was beyond him, he just knew. 

It wasn’t a dream. Not exactly. But it wasn’t reality either.

Because he didn’t remember stepping into this place.

He knew, somehow— this was a place people weren’t supposed to reach. Not without keys. Not without purpose. Not unless time itself lets you in.

A place where she was.

Johannah.

She stood barefoot on the pale floor, wrapped in a long grey shift that hung like mist from her frame. Her hair was longer, tangled around her shoulders, wild like the sea she used to command in another life. But her eyes were the same, piercing, tired, far too old for any timeline.

She didn’t glow—but something in her did, like Starfire buried deep beneath her skin. As though she were stitched from starlight someone had tried to bottle but never could.

‘’Doctor.’’

The word echoed gently in the nowhere.

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He didn’t need to ask how she knew.

Because he remembered.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. He didn’t even feel his lips move. It was like breath wasn’t required.

Johannah blinked slowly at him, her eyes shimmering with something more ancient than sorrow.

’’I don’t have long,’’ she whispered, casting a glance over her shoulder at nothing. ‘’Time doesn’t like when I twist its boundaries this far.’’

His hearts stuttered, then thundered in unison.

She moved toward him—weightless, like memory. “I shouldn’t be here,” she said, voice low and fierce. “Not like this. But you must remember. For Louis.”

His name struck like a pulse through the silence.

Louis.

The legend.

Buried deep, now calling him home.

’’You’ve seen him before,’’ she said, voice flickering like a fading frequency. ‘’Not this one. The first. The true one.’’ Her voice caught like static. 

Louis? Her son.

Something shifted in him—sharp and deep, like a chord struck in the dark. Not quite a memory. But not unfamiliar, either.

But the first Louis died. In his arms. He’d watched the light leave his eyes. That can’t be possible.

“Not this one. Not the one who died in your arms.” she echoed, like she could read into his mind. His breath caught, painful.

Johannah’s gaze didn’t waver. “No. I mean the boy in the garden.”

Harry’s breath hitched.

“He was just a child,” he murmured, the image unspooling—mud on his knees, a scuffed ball at his feet, wide eyes filled with caution and something older than they should have held.

Harry could barely speak. “He didn’t even trust me.”

“He didn’t have to,” Johannah said gently. “He knew you. Somewhere in his bones, even then. And you knew him. You just didn’t understand what you were seeing.”

She took a breath that seemed to shake the sterile air itself.

‘’I broke him into echoes,’’ she told him, reverent. ‘’To protect him. From what was coming. From what they’d gathered. They looked at the legend and saw a weapon. But he was never that. He was never meant to destroy anything.’’

Harry’s thoughts tangled—visions of corridors, deserts, battlefields, quiet rooftops, dying stars. A hundred lives. A thousand versions of him.

The book.

He remembered the book now. The one he’d taken from the chambers aboard the ship haunted by storm light and whispers, where Louis had been cursed by the elements themselves—wind, wave, and sky all tangled in his blood.

At first, he thought it was a logbook. A relic. The kind of thing forgotten on cursed decks, left to rot under years of salt and sorrow. But when he opened it, the pages were blank.

Utterly blank.

He took it because he was drawn to it. With reasons.

And yet, his hands had moved. As if guided by something older than memory. He began to write.

Names. Places. Moments. A boy with bright eyes on a fractured moon. A man with calloused palms holding wildflowers in a meadow that burned in the next hour. A voice laughing across lifetimes. Sometimes cautious, sometimes cruel. Always the same soul. Always Louis.

It had poured out of him. Words he didn’t remember living. Faces he hadn’t seen. But his handwriting was there, ink bleeding slightly through the thin pages. His notes. His maps. His proof.

He didn’t know why he was keeping them.

Only that every version he met, every Louis he tried to save, was trying to point him forward. Trying to lead him to something. Someone.

Descriptions of a boy. A man. Always the same soul. Always Louis.

Encounters he'd had—and forgotten. Or maybe ones he hadn’t lived yet.

His voice cracked through the stillness. “But why not him? Why isn’t he the first? The boy in the garden. Why isn’t he the beginning?”

Johannah tilted her head, the corners of her mouth soft with sorrow and knowing. “Because it’s not about who came first,” she said. “Not in time. Time doesn’t work like that. Not for you.”

She stepped closer, and for a moment, Harry thought he saw stars flickering behind her eyes.

“It’s about when the heart is ready,” she said. “When the thread is strong enough to remember it’s part of a whole.”

“You found pieces of him in every corner of the universe,” she said. “You wrote them down. Again, and again. Even when you didn’t know why.”

A breath. A beat.

“You were looking for your way back.”

Harry’s hands trembled. He remembered how it felt when he first opened that book, when recognition had sliced through him like a blade dulled by time.

“You were always meant to find him,” Johannah whispered. “Not when it was easy. But when it mattered.”

’’There’s more to the legend than we’ve seen.’’ She whispered. 

Harry’s throat tightened.

‘’When you sacrificed me,’’ she continued gently, ‘’you didn’t know. The moment you chose me, I was already carrying him.’’

A silence that felt like death followed.

She stepped closer, and her voice dropped to a trembling hush. She looked directly into Harry’s eyes, where he finally saw it. She had the same eyes as him, clear as crystal. ‘’I was already a mother. Already a thread in the weave. You just made the legend possible.’’ 

She blinked, and golden cracks shimmered faintly along her skin. The glow of the Time Vortex pulsed there, steady and strange.

’’The prophecy speaks of the soul who waits,’’ she said. ‘’But the real legend, it wasn’t just about waiting. It was about guarding. About hiding the seed before it could bloom.’’

Her hand hovered just beside Harry’s chest, palm trembling.

’’They feared what would happen if he remembered. If he became whole. Not because he was evil, not because he would destroy the world, but because he was yours to have.’’

’’He is the key,’’ Johannah whispered. ‘’The child born of starlight and sacrifice. The last ember of a legacy long lost in the fire. The Time Lords will rise again.’’ 

The walls around them pulsed. The hum deepened.

‘’And UNIT…’’ she breathed, ‘’they won’t let that happen. Not after what they did to you Doctor.’’ 

Harry’s knees nearly buckled under the weight of it.

‘’You’re not just his protector,’’ she finished, her voice burning with something like hope. ‘’You’re his match made of stars. His mirror. His reason to survive.’’

’’Every Louis you’ve saved,’’ she said,’’ Even the one in this universe has led you to him. This one. That one. All of them are steps across the storm.’’

‘’You’ve forgotten the words,’’ she whispered. ‘’But they haven’t forgotten you.’’

She reached for him–not by touch. But in spirit. 

Then slowly, like the turning of the planets, she began:

’’There will come a time when the stars whisper

of a love lost between the ticking of eternity

and the fleeting breath of man…’’

Harry–The Doctor’s–eyes widened.

He knew this.

Somewhere–somewhen–he’d heard this before.

‘’One will burn bright–

a traveller of time, a storm in the cosmos,

a song sung across the ages–

never still, never silent,

never meant for one place, one life, one love…’’

Her voice was now filling the white space.

‘’The other will be bound to the earth–

a heart woven into the fabric of time itself,

echoing across centuries, across universes,

forever reborn, forever waiting.’’

The Doctor’s throat tightened.

‘’They will meet again and again.

In fire, in moonlight,

in forgotten dreams and half-remembered stories…’’

Flashes filled his mind–Louis on a pirate ship, the compass. Louis in the snow, Louis in the dark, Louis through fire, the regeneration that worked on one of them. 

Louis in the bakery, covered in flour. 

This universe’s Louis. Stuck in a fold bigger and bolder than the previous one he was stuck in. 16-year-old Louis, who got stuck for 6 years in a circus that never quite existed.

‘’They will know one another.

Across battlefields and quiet gardens,

across lifetimes where the sky meets the sea.’’

He staggered. But Johannah’s words held him.

‘’And yet–

The traveller will always leave.

The soul will always stay.

For time is not kind to lovers born on different roads.

One will always run.

One will always wait.’’

Her eyes gleamed now, glowing faintly with fractured gold from the Time Vortex.

‘’And though the universe may twist itself a thousand times over,

though fate may carve new paths,

though every story ever told will try to bind them–

The stars cannot hold the earth,

and the earth cannot chase the stars…’’

Harry fell to his knees. Not from pain–but from the unbearable beauty of it all.

‘’He is meant to fly.

He is meant to stay.

And so, they will always find each other.

And so, they will always part.’’

Tears blurred the edges of his vision. The hum of the space grew louder. He could even hear the hum of his TARDIS– Niall.

‘’One day, the traveller will stop searching.

One day, the soul will stop waiting.

But not in this life.

Not in the next.

Not in any written before or after.’’

She knelt in front of him now. Not a being of power like Bad-Wolf was once. Just Johannah. A mother who gave everything.

‘’For theirs is the love that time itself will mourn.

And still–he will search.

And still–he will wait.’’

A pause.

Then a final breath.

‘’For they are bound, even as the universe sways to pull them apart.

But nothing is given without cost.’’

Silence swallowed the last syllable.

Harry’s mouth opened.

A halo of light bloomed behind her.

’’You saved me and through me, you gave him a way to be born.’’ Her eyes glistened with something ancient and aching. 

‘’You only ever knew this ending. The stars. The soul. The loss.’’ Johannah says voice trembling with both warning and wonder. ‘’Remember–the page was torn, the ink dissolved by time. But I found it. I carried it.’’ 

She stroked his cheeks softly, and suddenly the air tastes like dust and stars. The hum of time rings louder in Harry’s bones. ‘’They feared the part they didn’t understand. So, they tried to erase it. Hide it. But the truth was never lost–only waiting.’’

‘’The Traveler will make a choice, blind in mercy.

A vessel will be sacrificed for the soul to take form.

A mother before she was known, a guardian forged from fire and grace.

The child will be scattered across time like shards of starlight—

A hidden legacy bound by silence.

When the soul remembers, and the traveller stays,

their union shall bloom a spark long extinguished–

a seed from ash, a heart from silence,

to breathe new life into the ruined clockwork of Gallifrey.

For theirs is the love that time itself will mourn.

And still— he will search.

And still— he will wait.

For they are bound, even as the universe sways to pull them apart.

The Time Lords shall rise again–

Not from war, but from love.

Not by force, but by choice.

And when the earthbound boy is ready,

When the stars remember their names,

When the fragments find each other—

They will create the life the traveller has lost.

The legacy reborn not from power,

But from love.’’

Johannah’s image flickered—just once, like static—her silhouette fraying at the edges before stitching itself back together with golden light.

’’I don’t have long. I’ve borrowed power I shouldn’t touch–from the TARDIS core. You’ll feel him tremble when you wake, so you know where to find him.’’

Harry closed his eyes, throat tightening. Behind his eyes bloomed a memory. He saw how selfish he thought he was when he pushed her into the vortex. How he’d thought it had been a choice. A sacrifice. His.

Except, it wasn’t.

’’You were always meant to choose me,’’ she said softly. ‘’Because even then, even before he had a name, your heart was reaching for him.’’

’’He was already there,’’ she whispered. ‘’Inside me. And you didn’t just open the path, Doctor…’’

Her form flickered again, and for a breath, she was made of stars.

’’You set it ablaze.’’

✨

France, 1916

Western Front

It was bitter cold on the front.

That kind of cold that settled deep into your bones and hollowed out your lungs. Smoke hung low over the trenches, unmoving in the frozen air, thick enough to blur the line between man and shadow. 

The Doctor moved carefully, boots crunching through frost-laced mud. His coat–navy wool, flared at the hem, silver buttons dulled by time–dragged behind him like a shadow of its own, collecting ash and blood. 

They weren’t supposed to land here. Well… Not exactly.

His TARDIS had thrown a fit and spat them sideways through the vortex and dropped them in the middle of the First World War. They’d been tracking something else entirely: a parasite burrowed into the minds of commanding officers, turning ambition into violence, feeding on war and power. Terrible that is. 

But the moment his boots touched earth, he felt it.

A low, magnetic pulse tugging in his chest. Not physical, not quite temporal. 

Johannah was beside him, younger with eyes as fierce as any companion he ever had. Her hands were faintly crackled with energy as she crouched low, scanning the ground. 

The Doctor didn’t speak.

Didn’t properly breathe. 

He just listened to the pulse in his chest.

And he followed it.

He followed it through the half-destroyed trench, past twisted rebar and shattered field equipment, over frozen dead bodies and half buried boots. The scent of blood and rot clung to the air like smoke.

The sound of gunfire cracked somewhere far off, but it felt like another world.

He couldn’t care less that Johannah was calling him and was shouting that it was very reckless and dangerous to go alone. 

Nothing mattered but that pull inside his chest.

Johannah’s voice rang out–sharp, urgent, furious. ‘’DOCTOR! Listen to me, you can’t just–’’ 

He didn’t stop. Didn’t turn back. Her warning dissolved into the wind. He moved through the trench, boots sinking into frozen muck, stepping over shattered crates and rusted bayonets. 

The pull in his chest had grown stronger. Louder. More alive than anything else on the battlefield.

He had to follow.

The trench finally narrowed around him, choking off the sky. Smoke coiled low, mixing with frost and rot, clinging to every breath. The Doctor pressed forward, running as fast as he could.

Then he saw him.

Curled beside the remains of another soldier, barely shielded from the wind, a boy barely more than a teenager, lay motionless. His coat was too thin, his cheeks pale with the grey of leaving. One arm draped over his middle, the other curled tight against his chest. 

The Doctor dropped to his knees, heart hammering.

He reached into his coat and drew out his screwdriver, its soft hum cutting through the stillness like breath in the snow. He hovered it over the boy’s chest–scanning.

Cracked ribs. Blood loss from an injury on the internal organs. 

It was too late. 

The boy stirred faintly. One eye blinked open—sea-glass blue and too clear for a place like this.

“You’re not one of ours,” he rasped, voice like frost on stone.

A pause. Then, a tight-lipped smile. ‘’You look like you fell out the sky.’’

The Doctor tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that.”

His two hearts were beating wildly, the pull bringing him closer and closer to the boy. 

The boy coughed, weakly. “You here to fix it?” he asked, eyes barely focusing. “The war?”

The Doctor shook his head. Once. “No. I’m just passing through.”

“What’s your name?” the Doctor asked, voice low and breaking.

The boy blinked slowly. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” the Doctor said.

For a second, it looked like he wouldn’t answer. Then he whispered, “Louis. Louis Tomlinson.”

The Doctor’s throat clenched around the sound. Louis.

Louis managed one more breath, a sliver of a smile on chapped lips. “It’s a good name, yeah?”

The Doctor nodded. “It’s brilliant.”

‘’Do I know you?’’ Louis whispered.

‘’Yes,’’ The Doctor said, the lie tasting bad on his tongue.

A pause. A snowflake landed in Louis’ hair. ‘’Well. That’s nice. It’s nice not to be alone.’’

The Doctor took his hand in his, dirt and blood crusted under his fingernails. ‘’You’re not.’’

Louis smiled faintly. ‘’Tell me something good.’’

The Doctor swallowed hard. ‘’The stars. They’re waiting for you. All of them.’’

Louis blinked one last time. “Don’t forget me,” he murmured.

Then—nothing.

His chest stilled. His limbs slackened. His head tipped slightly toward the frozen earth.

And just like that, Louis was gone.

The Doctor didn’t speak.

He stayed there long after the bombings stopped. 

The world was unnaturally still, the kind of quiet that only followed catastrophe. Gunfire had fallen silent, and in its absence, the faint crackle of distant fires and the soft rustle of falling snow became deafening.

Somewhere beyond the trench wall, faint singing began—tentative voices in broken English and halting German, joining across No Man’s Land like ghosts calling to one another. 

The Doctor didn’t move.

Only when he looked up did he realize the date.

December 24th, 1914.

The Christmas Truce.

The moment when soldiers laid down their guns and, for one night, remembered they were human.

And still… he had not arrived in time.

He bowed his head, pressing cold lips cold to colder knuckles, and whispered something in Gallifreyan. 

Behind him, footsteps crunched behind him as Johannah arrived, silent and solemn. She said nothing as she crouched beside the body and laid a hand over Louis’ brow.

“He was brave,” she murmured. ‘’Our Father, who art in heaven, please keep his boy’s soul warm in your arms.’’

She looked down at the boy’s face, snow clinging to his lashes like frost. Her breath hitched. “Do you know him?” she asked softly.

He shook his head slowly, snow catching in his curls. “He looked at me like he knew. And I—I didn’t know why, I just felt something. The pull. Like…it was the soul from the legend.”

The Doctor stared at the boy’s face, unwilling to look away.

“I won’t let it happen again,” he said. Not to her. Not to himself. Not to him. “Every Louis I find after this,” he whispered, “I’ll save him.”

Johannah reached out, her touch gentle as snowfall as she laid her fingers over his. “Come on,” she murmured. “This peace is only borrowed. It won’t hold for long.”

✨

The sky above Vortari Nine had shifted, softening from deep violet to something paler, thinner, but never quite bright. Just a pale shimmer that ghosted over the crystal valley, casting everything in washed-out purple and blue. The wind had stilled. The tents below no longer creaked.

Harry stirred.

Cold ached through his limbs, but warmth pressed in from both sides. To his right, Myrrh, purring in a heavy sprawl against his side, and to his left, Louis, still curled into himself beneath a thick blanket. His arm was slung around Harry’s belly; fingers tucked loosely at his hip. It was as if he had not enough of his own warmth and he had to steal it from Harry. 

He didn’t even remember falling asleep there.

For a moment, he didn’t even move. Just lay there, letting the dream–or what felt too vivid to be one–settle over him like mist.

Her voice still rang in his ears.

Johannah.

‘’Doctor’’

His chest tightened.

He sat up slowly. His hearts–yes, hearts, he remembered that now–beat out of sync. He pressed his hand to his face and felt the sweat, cold and real. His throat burned like something had torn through it.

He turned his head slowly, grazing at Louis. 

At this version of Louis. 

Not the boy from the garden as told by Johannah, but one of his echoes.

Carefully, The Doctor slid out from under his touch. The blankets rustled softly. Myrrh stirred, blinked once, then shifted closer to Louis like she knew he’d left cold behind.

Louis murmured something in his sleep. The tigress let out a low purr behind him. It smelled like heat and sleep and something like lemon soap. It smelled like the life he had built here– this borrowed life.

Harry rose onto his feet, skin prickling against the damp chill of the trailer roof under his toes, biting gently as if to remind him that he was really awake. His bones felt heavy. The kind of heavy that didn’t come from the cold.

He and this version of Louis had made a habit of sleeping up there, like it was their own quiet ritual under the stars. It had always felt comforting–familiar, even. Now he understood why – but choosing to do it on a planet cold enough to freeze breath midair probably wasn’t their best idea.

He reached down, gathered one of the blankets tangled around them, and wrapped it around his own shoulders. The fabric was still warm with shared sleep and Myrrh eternal warmth, carrying traces of Louis’ scent, of safety, of stillness. 

He bent, tugging the edges of the blankets higher over Louis’ features, smoothing them gently across Myrrh’s flank with a quiet kind of reverence. A selfish part of him wanted to crawl back beneath them and pretend he’d never woken. 

They looked too peaceful to disturb–too warm to let the cold steal in around their edges.

He stood there for a moment, blanket draped over his shoulders, toes curling against the frost-glazed roof of their caravan.

The world hadn’t woken yet–not properly, it was too early for day, too late for night. A few artists were already at work below, quietly adding last-minute touches to tonight’s show, but the air still hummed with the hush of sleep–soft, subdued, not buzzing yet.

His gaze wandered–not up to the sky this time, because the sky held no answers now, but across the crooked scatter of circus trailers and tents below, soft and half-lit in the glow of distant lanterns, a pale little box in the frost. Their caravan looked smaller from up here. Fragile. 

But something in him had stirred. He was the Doctor and he wasn’t meant to stay.  

He let his eyes roam farther–beyond the glow of their own lantern, past the frost-bitten footsteps leading away from the trailer, washed in cold morning hush. Posters clung limp to canvas walls. The edge of their own trailer had begun to frost over. Below, the mug he’d left was still on the steps, steam long gone. His boots, scuffed and dirty mud from a thousand travel, waited beside it.

What kind of man forgets he’s not meant to stay?

This life wasn’t for him to live.

A shiver ran through him–not from the cold, but from somewhere deeper. Lower.

He sucked in a breath and turned back to the horizon–

And he had it again.

That feeling.

Something that prickled at the base of his neck, buzzing just beneath the skin like a memory waking up.

He blinked once. Twice.

And his eyes landed on Niall’s trailer.

Something twisting inside his chest. Recognition or warning. Maybe both.

Niall. 

He had to find Niall.

He didn’t know why. Not yet.

Only that he had to go.

✨

Harry wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there.

He remembered standing on the roof of their caravan.

Louis curled at his side, Myrrh pressed close for warmth. The cold biting his toes, the stars stretched out above like they might speak to him. 

And then, he was here.

Still barefoot. Still wrapped in the same blanket as earlier. But now standing in front of Niall’s trailer, breath fogging faintly in the still air. 

Only–

The cold didn’t bite at his feet like it should have.

Which was strange. 

Assuming they were still on Vortari Nine and the planet was real.

Niall’s trailer sat crooked on its axles, paint peeling in long, tired strips. The curtains were drawn tight, faded from sunlight that never really shine right. Nothing unusual, not to the eye—but Harry, with his freshly restored memory, could see it. 

Now that the pieces had begun to stitch themselves back together, he could see it.

The trailer wasn’t just blue–it was this specific shade of blue. The kind of blue you didn’t find in paint shops or old fairground parts. not quite weather-worn by rain and wind, but blurred by time itself. 

Something about the way the corners of the trailer didn’t align. Like the thing had been forced into something it didn’t agree with. The way the shadows fell wrong. The roof sagged, but not under any weight. It sagged like it was pretending to. 

Its door looked like it should swing inward, but something in the hinge said it never would. The windows weren’t fogged from the temperature difference; they were just glazed with intergalactic debris. 

And the steps–three of them, narrow, metal, slightly uneven–weren’t even attached. They just sat there. Not quite resting, not even balanced. Just present. Like someone had declared them necessary. 

It wasn’t just a trailer, Harry realized. It was a shell. A skin. A box with a functioning chameleon circuit. 

He paused just at the threshold. Unsure.

That’s when the door creaked open and Niall stepped through. 

His hair was damp at the ends, like he’d only just stepped out of the shower. A long, trailing scarf was looped loosely around his shoulders, the fabric soft looking and slightly frayed. Mismatched socks peeked out from worn-in boots, one slipping lower than the other. The whole look felt accidental–but unmistakably curated, like something pulled straight from the TARDIS wardrobe, and probably was, without a second thought.

Then he spoke.

Not in English. Rolling like music, strange. It looked broken, ancient.

Gallifreyan.

Harry blinked. ‘’Sorry?’’

Niall’s cosmic eye twinkled with something unreadable. ‘’Ah,’’ he said, switching languages with the ease of breath, the next words folding cleanly into English. ‘’You’re still waking up, then.’’

Harry squinted. ‘’That was Gallifreyan, wasn’t it?’’ 

‘’Of course it was.’’ Niall tugged at his long scarf stepping down from the trailer threshold, without using the steps. His boots didn’t crunch on the frostbitten earth. ‘’Last time we spoke like that, you had no trouble understanding me. Hm. It must be the translator again. It’s always the translator.’’

Harry stared. ‘’What translator?’’

Niall’s smile grew. ‘’Exactly.’’

Then, quietly, he added, ‘’Come inside.’’

Harry hesitated. Something about the way Niall talked to him maybe, the uncertainty. 

Niall didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and stepped back through the crooked door, into the TARDIS. Harry then followed, blanket still wrapped tight around his shoulders. 

The moment he crossed the threshold, it hit him. That shift in the air. The wrong-angled geometry. 

Inside, unlike the previous day, the room was bigger. Stranger. Familiar in ways it shouldn’t be. 

The walls curved inward. Shelves stacked unevenly, cluttered with celestial maps, tarnished sextants, and books that seemed to be written in a thousand unknown languages. There was a smell, too–like old wood and stardust and something sweet rotting in the corners.

A brass astrolabe spun lazily from the ceiling on a chain, casting fractured light onto a cracked globe below it, which was a smaller representation of Gallifrey. The globe shifted slowly, continents drifting, oceans pulsing faintly. 

Near the back wall sat a squat wooden table with a chipped ceramic bowl in its center–filled with buttons, gears, feathers, coins from different planets he visited, always the one to steal one up. 

Harry blinked. He remembered that bowl. He’d pulled an apple from it–long ago, to hand it to a version of Louis, the one from the orphanage. 

This wasn’t just Niall’s trailer. 

This was his TARDIS.

He looked up, past the old rafters veined with copper wiring, past the floating orreries and the chandelier made from broken time rotors and spoons. He felt it now. 

His heart skipped.

He carefully put his hand on a book about ‘’The Harmonics of Living Worlds’’–a slim, battered volume bound in velvet soft to the touch, embossed with constellations that shimmered faintly in the low light. 

Then, softly, so softly it almost broke him, he whispered:

’’Hello, you.’’

He wasn’t really expecting an answer, because his TARDIS never answered properly. He’d said it out of instinct, out of ache–like he always did. 

But this time…

’’Hi,’’ Niall had answered. Just that. Bright-eyed. His cosmic eye shining with unshed tears. 

Harry stared at him, throat tight.

’’You– ‘’ He paused, brow creasing. ‘’I wasn’t talking to you.’’

‘’You were,’’ Niall answered, head tilting with that unreadable smile.

And that’s when it hit him. His breath caught in his throat. He looked around again–not just at the space, but into it. Then he looked at Niall, really looked at him. 

“You’re him,” Harry breathed. “You’re—oh.”

Niall’s smile was small but steady. “I’m me,” he said. “But I’m also… more than I was. Enough for now. Not everything should be said. Not yet.”

He tilted his head, voice threaded with something warm and ancient.

“Welcome back, Doctor.”

Niall crossed to the low table and lowered himself onto a faded cushion, the motion as fluid as breath. He glanced over his shoulder and nodded for Harry to sit.

“You’re the TARDIS,” Harry said, breathless. “Or what’s left of him.”

Niall smiled, fingers hovering just above the table. “I prefer ‘embodied consciousness,’” he said with a tilt of his head. “But yes. Close enough.” His hand swept gently around the space. “This is the shell. And I’m the soul inside it.”

Harry’s eyes flicked around the trailer—the strange angles, the echo of starlight where there shouldn’t be any, the bookshelves that looked far deeper than the walls should allow.

“You’ve always been drawn to me,” Niall added, quieter now. “Even when you didn’t know why.”

On the table, three cards lay in a perfect line, already waiting.

Face-down.

Silent.

Waiting.

The cards were already chosen. Already drawn. Like they had been waiting, just like Harry.

“The Tower,” he said, turning over the first card. The structure on the face of it cracked open with lightning, flames licking up toward the sky. 

“Collapse,” Niall murmured. “Everything you built, everything you thought would hold—gone. Not because you failed, but because it was never meant to last.”

Harry’s throat bobbed. He remembered this card. It was the first one they drew yesterday.

Then Niall turned the second.

“The Lovers.”

Two mirrored figures stood at the centre of the card, reaching toward one another—not touching. Light on one side. Shadow on the other.

“It’s not about romance,” Niall said softly. “Not always. It’s about choice. About duality. The one you’ve been looking for.”

Then he turned the third.

“The Moon.”

A fox and a hound flanked a narrow path that wound toward a sky hung with stars—but the moon stared down like an eye. All-seeing. All-hiding.

“Illusion,” Niall said, voice hushed now. “Things are not what they seem. Something you thought was real—maybe it isn’t.”

The table suddenly felt too small to hold the weight of it. Harry stared down at them. Not just the symbols. 

It was three pieces of truth he wasn’t ready to face. 

The Tower. The Lovers. The Moon.

The End. The Choice. The Lie.

His throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to ask Niall. The air shifted, heavier somehow–like the gravity inside the trailer had doubled around them

Slowly, he realized that he didn’t want to see them. Didn’t want to believe them.

Then Niall stood. His shadow stretched across the floorboards.

“Now that you’re conscious,” he said, gaze steady, “we need to find the breach.”

But Harry didn’t move.

‘’I can’t,’’ he said, voice broken. ‘’I can’t Niall. I can’t leave. Louis—he’s…He’s gonna wake up and—he’ll be cold, and confused, and I won’t be there—’’

‘’Doctor,’’ Niall said, rising to his feet. His gaze met Harry’s–steady, cutting through him like light through glass. ‘’He’s not an echo’’ 

Harry didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The words didn’t land right–they were scattered inside him like splinters.

Niall took a long breath, gentler now. ‘’Like everything else around here, he’s a projection. Built from memory. From longing. From the version you saw last, the one you pulled out from the Fold. You couldn’t bear losing him like the one on the trenches, so your mind did what it always does–it created a pocket to keep him safe.’’

Harry stood frozen. The cards on the table blurred from the tears that threatened to fall. 

His lips parted. ‘’What…?’’ His voice caught halfway, like it didn’t belong to him. ‘’What does that mean?’’ 

Niall took a breath, patient, ‘’That means that this version of Louis isn’t real. You created it.’’ He was softer now, as if breaking it slowly would hurt less. ‘’He’s not your Louis. Not even an echo. Everything inside of here is shaped to your liking. Because it’s the super Fold Johannah warned you about.’’

Harry’s shoulders tensed, his breath hitched. ‘’But…he felt–he feels real.’’

’’I know,’’ Niall said. ‘’That’s what the Super Fold does. It builds comfort out of grief. Safe houses out of longing. UNIT has you. You’re currently in one of their prison cells.’’

Harry blinked slowly, like it took everything in him to stay anchored. His throat burned. ‘’He–he smiled at me. He told me he liked my hands. He…’’ His voice broke. ‘’I can’t just leave him.’’

’’You’re not leaving him,’’ Niall said, kneeling in front of him now. ‘’You’ll find him again. The real him. The one who looked at you in the garden and knew. This Louis…he was never meant to last. Just long enough to help you find your way back.’’

The next part came barely audible. ‘’And Myrrh? She felt real too…’’

Niall’s voice softened even more. ‘’A projection too. But she’s actually more than that.’’ He said, barely above a whisper. ‘’She’s Johannah’s core. Directly from the Vortex.’’

Harry’s breath hitched, eyes wide, still not daring to blink. 

‘’You created her once to protect him,’’ Niall continued, ‘’And here–your mind needed her again. Needed someone to keep him safe. So she came. Not all of her. Just enough. She slipped in through the cracks like light through old wood. The Fold wasn’t built for her, too dangerous–but she found a way anyway. She always does.’’

Harry blinked, slowly, like coming up from underwater. He looked at Niall–really looked at him. His being. 

The long scarf draped around his shoulders– his scarf. From his fourth face. The ridiculous length, the patchwork of colour and warmth he used to twirl like a cloak. 

The boots too. Too battered. Too familiar. His eleventh self had worn them on a hundred planets, leapt across time in them, left scorch marks on the TARDIS floors with them when he’d danced too hard. 

Niall wasn’t just dressed in these remnants. 

He was made of them.

It hit him, slow and aching. 

‘’Niall,’’ Harry whispered, ‘’What are you doing here?’’ 

It came out hollow, like he was afraid of the answer.

‘’You’re the only one who talks to me like you remember me,’’ he added, almost to himself. ‘’Like I was still myself.’’

Niall held his gaze, calm and kind. ‘’Because I’ve never left.’’ 

Harry’s chest ached. ‘’I don’t understand.’’

’’I had to take shape. Something steady. So I became what you needed more than Louis.’’

’’A person?’’ Harry asked, incredulous.

’’A friend. A part of home,’’ Niall answered. ‘’You trusted me before you even remembered who I was.’’

He then reached out, tapped two fingers against the space just over Harry’s two hearts. ‘’I’ve always followed wherever you go. Even now. Especially now.’’

Harry’s eyes burned.

’’You chose Louis. You always do,’’ Niall said. ‘’And I chose you. That’s why I’m here.’’

A beat.

’’To help you find your way out.’’

Everything after that moved quickly–too quickly. 

Harry barely registered the way Niall stood, already moving toward a worn coat rack that wasn’t there a second ago tucked behind a leaning shelf of star charts and tangled wire maps. 

‘’You’ll want these,’’ Niall said, lifting a bundle of folded fabric, giving them to Harry. ‘’I know you don’t need to. But you’ll want to.’’

Harry hesitated–then nodded. Maybe dressing felt like something solid, something real. Something he could do while the rest of the world slid sideways.

It was red. Deep and dramatic, with a black fluffy collar. The coat. It was heavy in his hands, familiar in a way that made his breath hitch. 

Harry ran his fingers down the lapels. ‘’This is the first thing I wore when I found him.’’

Niall gave a small nod. ‘’You’ll find the breach in the main tent. Top of the wire.’’ 

Harry’s throat went dry. ‘’What??’’

’’You’ll climb all the way there, and right in the middle, you’ll let yourself fall. ’’

The silence was immediate. Sharp.

Harry looked at him, eyes wide. ‘’ Pardon me? And what if I don’t make it? What if I fall wrong?’’

Niall stepped closer, not smiling. 

‘’You won’t. You’re the galaxy’s best acrobat.’’

The words hit like something sacred. It wasn’t encouragement. Not even comfort. It was a Truth. 

‘’You always fall,’’ Niall added, voice barely above a whisper. ‘’Always known how to, now you just have to remember how to land.’’

And that was it. No time left for questions.

For doubts.

Harry stepped into the cold.

✨

The main tent was silent.

Too silent. 

He pushed past the tent flap as if stepping straight into a memory–one laced with warmth that had long since gone cold. The air hit him at once: colder than expected, dense with silence, like walking into the moment after a dream has vanished.

By now, the space should’ve been alive–canvas rippling, ropes creaking, murmurs rising from workers fine-tuning the wire. There should’ve been the scent of greasepaint, of sweat and sawdust and chalk. 

But there was none of it.

Just vastness. A still, aching quiet that pressed in on all sides.

It felt staged–like everything had been cleared away to leave him alone with his decision.

His breath echoed louder than it should’ve. 

The illusion was breaking. He could feel the edges fraying, the construct unravelling with every beat of his stubborn, two-hearted chest.

Harry stepped toward the ladder.

One hand curled around the rung.

He looked back once. At the empty tent. At the quiet ghosts of the life, he had to leave behind.

Then he began to climb.

Each rung groaned softly beneath his weight; the metal colder than it should have been–like it too had been waiting just for this.

The world below him shrank, canvas dimming into an eerie blur. The tent stretched open like a ribcage around him, hollow and vast, holding its breath.

He finally reached the top where the platform was waiting for him.

He stepped onto it, windless air curling around his coat, still heavy with the warmth of dreams. 

His foot hovered over the wire for a breath–just one–and then settled. He balanced there, arms out, coat fluttering softly behind him. The hush held. Even gravity seemed unsure what to do with him.

He swallowed. 

One foot.

Then the other.

The wire stretched across nothing–impossibly thin, impossibly sure. It didn’t tremble. But Harry did. 

He looked straight ahead, hearts knocking wild against his ribs.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. ‘’I’m sorry,’’ he breathed, to no one, but to the only person that could hear him. ‘’I wish I could’ve stayed.’’

It wasn’t meant for the silence.

It was for him. 

For Louis.

For every version of him Harry had touched and lost. For the boy in the garden. The one in the storm. The one he still couldn’t let go.

And then–

He exhaled.

Tipped forward.

And gave himself to the fall.

✨

He woke up choking on air.

The air hit him sharp and wrong–thin, chemical, artificial. His eyes snapped open, light flooding in too fast. Harsh, sterile white bars cut across his vision. He blinked. Metal, ice cold under his back. 

He flinched.

His hearts were pounding. Fast. Hard. Like they were trying to kick their way out of his chest.

For a split second, he didn’t know where he was. How he ended up there. 

The ceiling was smooth, too smooth. Not canvas. Not sky. No stars. Just flat grey. Buzzing faintly with electricity. No movement. No warmth.

He shifted, tried to sit. His arms dragged, heavy with whatever wires they’d stuck to him. His back screamed against the cold slab he’d been lying on. 

He looked down. The red coat was still on him–the one Niall had given him. 

It felt out of place here. Too soft. Too bright.

And just like that, he understood. The crystal lakes. The frost. That whole world.

His brain had made it up.

He forced himself upright, limbs stiff and trembling as they obeyed. The metal beneath him screeched softly as he shifted, echoing too loud in the sterile silence.

The walls were smooth—unnervingly so. Seamless panels, uniform in colour and texture. No bolts. No hinges. No sign of a door. Just flat grey, like someone had taken the idea of a room and stripped it of anything human.

So typical for UNIT.

Harry pushed himself upright, breath shaky, muscles sluggish and sore. 

He staggered to his feet.

His red coat swaying around his knees, and crossed to the nearest wall.  He pressed his hand to it. Cold. Unyielding. He knocked. Once. Twice. The sound barely echoed.

“No way in, no way out,” he muttered, scanning the corners. “Classic trap.”

He spun on the spot, fast. Looking. Searching.

“Where is it? There’s always a door,” he growled.

He pounded a fist against the panel. “HELLO?”

Nothing.

He turned again, frantic now. Dropped to his knees to scan the baseboards, tapping along with a rhythm only he could hear.

“Think, think, think—someone built this. Someone put me here. Which means there’s a way out. ”

He pressed his ear to the wall. Static. A hum. Electricity, faint, buried. But no voices. No machines. Just… silence pretending to be something else.

He sat back hard on the floor, breath ragged, every cell in his body screaming to move, to act —and then—

His fingers brushed against something.

Inside the coat.

His hearts stopped.

Blue. Battered. The kind of blue that had travelled across galaxies and lives, kissed by stardust and the Doctor’s own history. The kind of blue you couldn’t mistake, not if you’d ever seen his handwriting. Not if you’d ever lost something in time.

The cover was cracked. Worn soft at the edges. It smelled like dust and rain, like old paper and TARDIS oil. He flipped it open with shaky fingers.

He tugged it free, breath catching. His pulse thundered in his ears.

The notebook.

Blank—at first. Then a page turned on its own. Then another.

His handwriting. Skipping, fast, urgent. Names. Places. Louis. Over and over. Pages stained and dog-eared, some underlined. Symbols he half-remembered. Warnings he didn’t recall writing.

And there it was.

Every version of Louis.

Every place they'd been.

Drawings. Scrawled margins. Little notes he couldn’t remember writing—until he could. Until they unfolded inside his mind like keys, tumblers clicking into place, the lock of his memory snapping open.

And then—there. A map. Instructions. His way out.

His jaw locked.

Whoever put him here thought they’d cut him off from everything that mattered. But they didn’t know this. Didn’t know what he always did—every version of him.

Sketches. Maps. Sentences written in his own hand. Dates that didn’t match. Drawings of Louis—different versions, different timelines, all scrawled with care. A star. A phrase he had underlined three times:

“When you forget who you are, read this.”

His hand hovered over the panel.

A whisper in his head, Louis’ voice: “Come on, Doctor. I’m waiting.”

And with that, he pressed the page flat against the seam.

The wall shuddered. The lights pulsed. And a hidden door hissed open with a sound like breath held too long.

He ran.

He always left himself a failsafe.

Always.

✨

Finding Johannah wasn’t easy.

Not like he'd hoped, not like he’d half-believed in that fleeting moment of triumph when the wall hissed open behind him. The corridors weren’t empty. They pulsed with red lights, echoing footsteps, metallic barks of orders ricocheting off concrete walls. UNIT agents swarmed like bees. Too many. Too fast.

The facility was a warren. Steel and shadows. White lights that buzzed too loud. Cameras that blinked red as if they could see him remembering. Sirens hadn’t gone off yet, but Harry knew they would. Soon. The notebook pressed heavily against his side inside the red coat—Niall’s parting gift, his failsafe—and with every breath, he felt it humming like a live wire.

He ran anyway.

Boots slamming the floor. Red coat flaring behind him. Alarms started to shriek overhead as if the building itself had caught wind of his disobedience.

Twice, he ducked into shadows—once behind an old, decommissioned med-pod, once beneath a flickering staircase that led nowhere. Each time, his hearts beat louder than the sirens.

He was cornered once. A guard saw him, raised a stunner—but Harry didn’t flinch. He didn’t have time for flinching. He grabbed the man’s sleeve, twisted, shoved, ran . He’d remember the wide-eyed confusion on that guard’s face forever. Like seeing a ghost.

Maybe he was one.

But it didn’t matter now. What mattered was to find Johannah. 

And if he found her, to get to Louis as fast as possible.

He turned a corner.

And then another.

Too many blank walls. Too many doors that didn’t open.

He ran.

She was here. He could feel it—like gravity bending toward her.

Three flights down. Two silent corridors. A left turn where logic screamed for a right.

His lungs burned, breath ragged in his throat from all the running and hiding as he skidded to a halt in front of a sealed bulkhead–wrong, too thick, too secure. He doubled back.

He dropped to his knees, fingers scraping at the edge. Then yanked the panel free with a sharp grunt. Metal screamed, it echoed in the corridor.

Behind it: a dark, narrowed space, barely wide enough for his shoulders, even less for his tall and lanky frame. 

But he didn’t hesitate.

He dove right in. 

Dust clawed at his coat as he dragged himself forward, elbows grinning against cold steel. Every one of his movements echoing in the cramped-up space. His hearts hammering in his ears. 

He wasn’t even sure what he would find, only that his instinct was screaming at him to continue, that he had to keep going.

Then, ten meters in, the crawlspace opened up–barely. 

A faint light was pulsing.

Something deep in Harry snapped into focus. A jolt of resolve shot through him–pure, urgent clarity. He shifted, pulled himself faster now, scrambling toward the light with a speed he hadn’t known he still had. 

And froze. 

Standing tall on the other side of the grate, as if she’d always known he’d come this way. Her shadow fell over the vent, framed in that flickering, holy-like light.

Johannah.

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood with her arms crossed, chin lifted in quiet defiance, her silhouette bathed in sterile light. Her eyes locked onto his—and they were the same. Exactly the same. She also had the same poise, the same calm defiance. Her hair had streaks of grey now, and her posture bore the weight of years she was never meant to carry. But it was her.

Her.

The real one.

The Johannah he had lost.

The Johannah who once ran through stars beside him, laughing louder than any galaxy, holding the reins of a time machine and calling it home .

Harry froze. His breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. His mind, so recently fractured and stitched back together with threads of a dream to find his soulmate, stumbled on her presence only.

Older, maybe. But not diminished. Still wrapped in that quiet gravity that pulled stars out of orbit. Still full of something ancient, something unbreakable.

“Jay,” he said, and the name caught in his chest like it didn’t want to let go. “Oh—Jay.”

Harry reached up, gripped the edge of the vent, and hauled himself upright.

It felt like emerging from a grave.

His coat was torn, his fingers were trembling, but he stood. Slowly. Like someone crossing into sacred ground. Ready for any UNIT agents waiting for him, probably.

And before he could think to stop himself, he was moving.

He crossed the space between them in three desperate steps and wrapped his arms around her–fierce, unthinking. One arm across her back, the other curled behind her head like he was anchoring her to this exact moment. 

She didn’t hesitate. Her arms wrapped around him just as tightly.

’’You look awful,’’ she said, lips twitching like she wanted to smile, but didn’t.

He didn’t laugh. He couldn’t. ‘’Is it the real you?’’ He whispered into her hair. ‘’I thought you were gone.’’

‘’It is.’’ She crossed her arms. “Took you long enough. I was wondering how long it’d take you to find me.”

All he saw was her.

“Jo,” he whispered, voice cracking like glass. 

She was real.

She was not a dream. It was really her. The first and only one. 

‘’What are you doing here?’’ He asked, taking her face into his hands, just to be sure she was real.

’’I always knew,’’ she answered. ‘’That UNIT would come. That they’d misread the legend. They thought we were a threat–that if they isolated us, locked us away, they could prevent it all.’’

’’But they got it wrong,’’ Harry whispered.

’’Yes.’’ She answered. ‘’They thought keeping us apart would stop the chaos,’’ she said bitterly. ‘’Well… You and Louis.’’

’’Where is Louis?’’ He tried to swallow around the panic in his chest. If Louis was here, that would complicate things. 

“Not here.” Her tone shifted—soft to steel wrapped in velvet. “The sun rises west of the fold now. Hidden under false stars, in a place where names don’t stick. I taught him to burn without catching fire. The brushstroke they want to erase isn’t on the canvas anymore.”

Harry blinked, processing.

“Is he safe?”

She nodded once. “As long as the cat sings and the sky listens, he’ll remember what I gave him. But if they find the melody—if they crack the box—we’re out of time.”

He exhaled slowly. “You mean—”

She nodded once. “Ready. And waiting. But the key only fits if we survive long enough to reach the door.”

The hum of the containment fields behind them continued—low, unrelenting—but Harry heard nothing but the sound of her voice, still echoing in his chest. She met his eyes again, and in the silence that stretched between them, he understood.

No more questions.

His hearts gave a hard, stuttering beat against his ribs.

She was being watched.

But what unsettled him more than the surveillance, more than the blinking red light in the ceiling corner, was the fact that Johannah hadn’t looked surprised to see him.

Not really. Not fully.

And then—like she’d peeled the thought right out of his mind—she spoke.

“They thought I was talking to myself,” she said, calm and even, like she was explaining the weather. “Most days, I was.”

Harry frowned, just as she tapped two fingers to her temple.

“Reflected memory phantoms,” she murmured. “And a bit of performance. Routines. Pauses. I found the rookies were easier to fool—they flinch when they think something’s off.”

His brow furrowed deeper.

She went on. “But some days, I wasn’t alone. Not really. I got good at pretending you were here.”

“You projected me,” he said slowly.

Her eye twitched—just barely—to the corner of the ceiling. A tiny red light blinked in rhythm. Watching.

She then dropped her gaze to the floor as if the words might break if spoken too loudly.

“I was changed by the Time Vortex,” she said softly, like someone remembering a dream they weren’t sure had been theirs. “Not like her, like Bad Wolf. Not that powerful. But enough. It left fingerprints on me. Subtle shifts. My chemistry, my presence, the way I hold space. I’m not normal anymore. Haven’t been for a long time.”

She looked at him now—really looked.

’’The same way you decided to fracture me to find Louis, the same way I divided echoes of him across time, I learned to focus. To hold onto the imprint, you left behind. And from that…I made projections of you. Not whole. Never solid. But just enough to make them think you were visiting. So, the day you would really come down here…’’

’’…They wouldn’t know it was the real me.’’ He finished. 

She met his eyes again, sharper now. “They’ve been chasing a ghost so long, they won’t recognize the living man standing in front of them.”

He swallowed.

“You’re not just clever,” he whispered. “You’re dangerous. ”

Her smile didn’t falter. “You taught me.”

✨

19 years ago

The storm churned outside, a furious twist of impossible colour, seething with raw, blistering energy. It was a wound torn open, bleeding time itself into the universe. The noise was unbearable—not a sound, but a primal scream of something ancient and broken.

The Doctor felt none of it.

He saw only Louis.

He could still see the soldier—lying shattered on that battlefield, uniform soaked dark with blood and mud, eyes already fixed on a sky he’d never see again. The Doctor had been there. He'd reached for Louis, felt the weight of the boy slipping away through his fingers. His voice, his warmth—all of it ripped away, leaving only silence behind.

And silence was unbearable.

He stood there, at the edge of the TARDIS door, hearts hammering, vision blurred by more than just the chaos around him.

That silence—that loss—was still screaming inside The Doctor’s bones.

He couldn’t lose him again.

Johannah’s voice cut through the roar of the Vortex. Her hair whipped around her face, panic flooding her eyes—not for herself, but for him.

“Doctor! You said we had more time!”

She meant more time to plan. To prepare. To ensure their survival. But his mind was already made up, locked into the raw pain of a Louis-shaped void that swallowed everything else.

“There is no more time,” The Doctor whispered, voice cracked, desperate. He barely recognized it as his own. “I already lost him once.”

Johannah’s face shifted instantly—from confusion to sharp clarity. She saw his intent before his body moved, saw the reckless grief in his eyes, the wildness of a decision already made.

“No—Doctor, stop—”

His eyes didn’t meet hers. He didn’t answer.

She took a shaky breath, stepped closer, and reached for him—not in defence, but in hope.

“There’s something I need to tell you,”She said.

“There’s no waiting—” he snapped, still fixated on the roaring void. “We’ve already lost too much.”

She shook her head violently, stepping toward him even as the wind whipped at her hair, clawed at her jacket. Her eyes were wide, desperate, pleading.

“You don’t understand—I need you to listen—”

But her words were torn away, ripped from her lips by the wind, swallowed by the scream of collapsing time.

He reached out. Grabbed her arm.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “But I can’t lose him again.”

But Johannah grabbed his sleeve with her other hand, frantic now. “No, please—you don’t understand—I think I’m—” she cried, voice breaking with the weight of everything she couldn't say, everything he wouldn't hear.

He grabbed her wrist, turned sharply, and—

—shoved her backward.

When silence finally returned, he stood alone, unaware of what he had truly sacrificed—and how much deeper his loss had just become.

It had been a reckless equation, scrawled in grief and desperation. He knew he might lose her—knew it, down to the bones of him—but in that moment, the chance to save Louis outweighed the cost. Even her. 

Even Johannah. And that was the worst part: he didn’t hesitate. Not because he didn’t love her—but because he did. Because she was the one piece he could spend and still live with himself.

Or so he thought.

✨

Johannah didn’t move. She stood completely still, framed by the cold, metallic walls of the cell. The red light of the surveillance camera blinked above her, steady and uncaring, as if none of it mattered. As if this wasn’t something impossible.

Harry hovered just inside the doorway, coat rumpled from crawling through the maintenance shaft, dirt streaked across his cheek. His chest rose and fell, breath tight in his lungs.

She faced the wall, arms loosely crossed, like she was simply waiting. Like no time had passed at all. Like she hadn’t burned. Like she hadn’t been lost.

For a moment, he couldn’t trust what he was seeing.

Not because she was alive.

But because she looked exactly the way he remembered.

The weight in his chest settled into something sharp.

He wanted to speak. He needed to speak.

To apologize.

To confess.

To reach for something he wasn't sure he still deserved.

Harry’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. His hearts hammered uncomfortably—he’d run from a thousand dangers, escaped a thousand traps, but facing her now felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done.

He took a cautious breath, the words heavy on his tongue.

“Johannah,” he finally said, voice low and rough, “I never—”

“I know what you did,” she interrupted gently. “I was there, Harry. And I know why you did it.”

He swallowed hard, pain pulling at the edges of his voice. “I was wrong.”

Harry couldn’t stop looking at her—couldn’t stop tracing the lines of her face, older now, carved sharper by years and sacrifice. She had survived. She had endured. 

And it made what he'd done feel even heavier. He wanted to find the right words, but none felt strong enough. None could heal that wound.

“You deserve to hear it,” he insisted softly. “I betrayed you. I used you. You deserved better than that.”

She looked at him steadily, her gaze unwavering. Her voice softened, but her resolve didn’t.

“You didn’t betray me, Harry. You did exactly what you had to. Exactly what we both knew you’d eventually do. I knew who you were when I chose to travel with you—I knew you’d always put saving Louis first. That’s why I stayed. That’s why I trusted you.”

He shook his head slightly, unable to accept her forgiveness so simply. “You were never supposed to pay this price. Not for him. Not for me.”

Johannah stepped closer, closing the space between them. Her eyes held a quiet intensity, a clarity born from years spent alone with the echoes of his choice.

“Listen to me,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the storm beneath her words. “You pushed me into the Vortex because you had no other choice—not really. You were drowning in grief, lost to guilt over losing Louis on that battlefield, and I saw that clearly enough. But Harry, you weren’t the only one who made a decision that day. You might have pushed me into the Vortex, but I chose to let it take me.”

She paused, letting the truth settle.

“Because the moment I fell—the moment the Vortex consumed me—I understood why. I knew, deep down, that whatever came next, it had to happen this way. You turned me into exactly what he needed, into something UNIT couldn’t control, couldn’t predict. I became the thing they fear most: something they don’t understand. Something powerful enough to hide Louis from them forever.”

Harry swallowed hard, her words crashing over him like a tide of truth.

“You’re here now,” he whispered. “But he’s not. You’re suffering because of my choice.”

She tilted her head, softening.

“No, Harry. I’m not suffering. I’ve just been waiting. And Louis—he is. He exists because of all of this.”

Her gaze flicked downward, briefly, to her own body as if it could still echo what had once been there.

Then she added, with a soft, almost bewildered wonder, “And Harry… in order for that Louis to exist, you would have had to do it anyway. I don’t know how it works, not really. I was already carrying him when you pushed me. But somehow, he was there, no matter what. Some things—some people—are inevitable.”

Harry swallowed hard, her words crashing over him, a tide of truth he’d avoided for too long.

She touched his arm—just briefly.

“So don’t feel guilty for something you never had control over. Time made that choice before either of us did.”

He opened his mouth to object, but she shook her head, that old stubborn spark shining through.

“Harry,” she said softly. “I’m here because that choice means Louis is safe. He’s hidden, protected, and ready. Everything we’ve done—every painful step, every sacrifice, every silent year in this cell—was worth it, because it means Louis can survive. It means he has a chance to be everything the universe fears him to be.”

She reached out then, gently placing a hand over his coat pocket, feeling the faint outline of the notebook inside.

“He’s ready, Harry. And he’s waiting for you. Don’t let the past slow you down. I never blamed you—not for a single second. Neither should you.”

’So what now?’’ He asked, falling into her rhythm.

’’Now?’’ She echoed, her gaze flicking to the surveillance lens in the corner of the cell. Her stare went sharp–unblinking.

’’Now we misbehave.’’

He glanced over his shoulder, back toward the narrow vent he’d crawled through.

Then frowned.

“Wait—how do we get out through there? It doesn’t open from this side.”

Johannah raised an eyebrow, amused despite the stakes–it was a look Harry knew too well. It was the look she always wore when facing impossible odds.

’’We don’t,’’ she said. ‘’That’s why it works so well as a cell. They built it to hold people like us.’’

She then turned her back to the Doctor without waiting, crossing to the far wall with a precision that told Harry this was rehearsed. That this was a carefully threaded plan.

’’Fortunately, I didn’t spend years in here wasting my time.’’

She pressed one palm flat against the wall. Then she reached into her sleeve and produced a slender rod–jagged wire spiralling around its length, humming faintly with unstable light.

Temporal static flickered at the edges.

Her own Sonic Screwdriver.

’’I’ll need your help lifting this,’’ she then said, crouching down and digging her fingers beneath one of the floor tiles. ‘’They thought I wouldn’t check the floor. No doors, no handles? No problem, when you are a mastermind born from the time vortex.’’ 

He watched, hearts pounding, as Johannah pushed her sonic through a barely visible gap on the floor, the thing pulsing gently. 

‘’You’re going to short-circuit it?’’ Harry asked, catching on quickly.

’’Meh. No,’’ she said. ‘’I’m going to remind it that nothing UNIT builds is stronger than time itself.’’

The crack seemed to vibrate for a moment. Then begin trembling. 

Then, abruptly, the metal shivered. The sealed edges fractured with a sharp hiss, metal curling ward like burnt paper, the tile folding open on itself. Cold air rushed in from the corridor beyond, tinged with ozone and urgency.

Harry turned to Johannah, already halfway through the gap.

’’Come on,’’ he said, reaching for her. ‘’We can still make it out together – ‘’

But she didn’t move. Only smiled.

’’I can’t go with you.’’ 

‘’Excuse me?’’ Harry’s voice was sharp with disbelief. ‘’Jay– ‘’

’’I said I can’t go. I need to stay here,’’ she said firmly, like a mother talking to her child. ‘’If I’m gone when they arrive, they’ll know you were real. They’ll know we found a way out. But if I stay– ‘’

He cleaned his jaw, ready to argue–but he knew better. She was right. She was always right.

’’Listen to me,’’ she continued voice low and urgent. ‘’Your TARDIS–he’s in the east wing, sub-level two, maintenance bay nine. They haven’t figured out how to open him, they haven’t cracked him, but they’ve tried. They’ve used me–ran diagnostics, ran threats, thought maybe I could force him to obey. UNIT has spent months trying to crack his defences. So, I did the one thing they couldn’t anticipate: I set him into sleep mode. He’s dormant, locked down tight, and completely unreachable by their methods.’’

Harry stared at her in quiet amazement. The sheer brilliance, the elegant simplicity of her solution stunned him.

“You’re brilliant,” he breathed.

Johannah’s mouth curved faintly tired, fierce, and utterly unbreakable. “I learned from the best.”

Harry nodded sharply, committing her words to memory. "What about the UNIT agents?"

Johannah's mouth curled into a faint, weary smile. "They won't touch you. Right now, every scanner in this place is convinced you're just another one of my projections. They’ll be confused, suspicious—but they won't risk destabilizing the entire containment field just to chase down a phantom."

Harry’s hearts skipped as understanding settled over him. "That's why the agent I passed didn't stop me earlier," he murmured. "I thought it was luck."

"It wasn't luck, Harry," she replied softly. "It was a carefully constructed lie. One I’ve maintained for years, exactly for this moment."

He hesitated, lingering for one heartbeat longer. "They'll punish you."

"They'll try," Johannah said, lifting her chin defiantly. "But I've handled worse. Now go. Find the TARDIS. Find Louis."

Her smile softened—tired, brave, and utterly unshaken. 

✨

The corridor beyond the crawlspace was colder than he remembered. Sterile. The hum of the facility’s internal systems buzzed just beneath the walls, vibrating faintly through the soles of his boots.

Harry stepped out into the open like a ghost. His coat settled around his ankles in a sweep of red, catching the dim hallway lights with every step.

His hands stayed loose at his sides. If UNIT’s sensors picked up his bio-signature, if anyone realized the field around him wasn’t digital static but Vortex residue and grief... it would all fall apart.

He ran like someone who’d done this before.

A door at the end of the hall hissed open.

Two UNIT officers turned the corner.

Harry didn’t slow down. He threw his arms wide, chin lifted, dramatic as a stage actor mid-monologue.

“Don’t mind me!” he shouted, voice high and sweet. “Just another glitch in the matrix!”

The first guard flinched. The second raised his gun, finger twitching over the trigger—then hesitated.

There it was: that flicker of doubt.

Was he real? A projection? A test?

Harry winked as he passed them, fast as a comet. “Try shooting. See what happens.”

They didn’t.

He was going to use that for exactly another ninety seconds.

One more corner. One more turn through a darkened access tunnel that reeked of ozone and failed experiments.

And then—like a lighthouse cutting through a storm—

There he was.

The TARDIS.

Nestled in the centre of a cavernous vault, lights low and humming like he’d been sulking in silence this whole time. Cables had been hooked into his base, scanners orbiting him in frustrated loops—but he looked untouched. Unimpressed. Entirely himself.

He moved toward him.

But he wasn’t alone.

A single UNIT agent stood posted near the threshold, half-shadowed, rifle drawn. Too young. Too tense. Barely out of academy, if that. His uniform was crisp but his hands were shaking.

Their eyes met.

Harry slowed, raised both hands with exaggerated calm. “Easy now,” he said, voice light, almost breezy. “Let’s not ruin both our days with a misfire.”

The agent didn’t respond, but his grip faltered just slightly.

“You’re wondering what I am,” Harry continued, stepping forward one careful pace. “I’d be wondering too. It’s the eyes, isn’t it? Too bright. Too knowing. Holograms always get the eyes wrong.”

The agent’s brow furrowed, just enough to read as doubt.

Harry took another step.

“No one told you to stop me, did they?” he asked gently. “Because I’m not real, not officially. Just another one of her ghosts. You’ve seen me pacing in her cell before, haven’t you? Talking to her, laughing, making tea with nothing.”

The agent blinked. His rifle lowered by a fraction.

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Pull the trigger. See if it works this time.”

He tilted his head, watching the boy flinch at the implication.

Harry knew the agent wouldn’t even think about firing. Harry was too much important for that.

The barrel dipped slightly.

“You know right, that if I’m not a hologram…” His voice dropped. “If I’m flesh and blood, and you shoot me in the back as I go for that blue box behind you... well.”

He stopped just out of range. Just enough space for a decision.

“That would make you the one who lost the Doctor.”

Harry smiled. “What’s your name?”

The agent blinked, thrown by the question. “What?”

“Your name,” Harry said again, softer this time. “I like knowing who’s about to shoot me.”

The silence stretched.

Finally:

  “…Chris.”

Harry smiled—small, sincere, and utterly unexpected. 

“Chris,” he said softly. “That’s a good name. Kind sort of name. Honest. One you grow into.”

He took a slow, deliberate step forward. Chris didn’t raise the rifle—but he didn’t lower it either. His finger twitched on the trigger.

“You’re standing there wondering if I’m real,” Harry continued, voice light but low. “Wondering if I’m just another ghost her mind cooked up. Another flicker in the system.”

Another step. Chris’s grip tightened.

“Here’s the problem with that,” Harry murmured, eyes never leaving his. “If I’m not real and you shoot—well, waste of a bullet. A black mark on your file, maybe. 

He tilted his head, eyes sharp but kind. “But if I am real—and you shoot—do you know what that makes you?”

Chris said nothing.

Harry held the silence like a blade between them.

“History,” he murmured. “The worst kind.”

Silence. Just the low, humming light of the vault. Just the sound of Chris breathing through his nose.

And then—

Chris stepped aside.

No fanfare. No words. Just one slow, reluctant shift of his boots.

Harry nodded, as if he expected nothing less. “Good lad.”

He turned to the TARDIS, reached out.

His fingers brushed the wood, warm as ever. 

The light above the doors shimmered softly, the glow shifting with something close to relief. The blue was deeper here, richer—as though the old girl had been holding her breath since he left.

Harry stepped forward with reverence in his limbs. His hand hovered for just a second and then touched the wood.

The hum met him instantly.

Warm.

Alive.

The lock clicked, gentle and sure, like it had been waiting just for him. 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Then lower, just for his TARDIS,

“Thank you, Niall.”

Inside, the golden light of the TARDIS core poured out—brighter than memory, warmer than logic. A storm in a bottle. A heartbeat caught in amber. Home.

He paused, one foot on the threshold, and glanced back over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Chris,” he said, sincere. Quiet.

And then he stepped inside.

The doors shut behind him with a soft, final thud.

Chris didn’t move.

And just like that, the Doctor was gone.

Inside, silence greeted him–brief, suspended. The console hummed, waiting.

Harry exhaled, leaning back against it, chest still heaving from the run, his hands trembling slightly more from memory than exhaustion. He closed his eyes, just for a second.

That’s when he remembered. 

He reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing worn leather.

The journal.

His journal.

He opened it, and his breath caught. 

Scrawled in neat, looping ink–

Johannah’s handwriting.

’’Find the boy who believes in the stars.’’

He stared at it, silent.

Somehow–impossibly–he already knew who that boy was.

And now, he knew exactly where he had to go.

✨

Sometime between timelines | A garden in Doncaster | Late Afternoon | December 24th 1991

The sun was setting when he stumbled into the garden.

Behind him, the TARDIS wheezed out of sight with a tired flicker–more sigh than spectacle. The sound of it folding away left only stillness behind. 

Harry–The Doctor–stood still for a moment, boots pressing into soft, familiar British frostbitten soil. 

Harry—The Doctor—stood motionless, boots sinking into familiar British frostbitten soil.

So, this was Doncaster. Midwinter. Years too early. 

Before him.

The backyard was quiet. Stark.

The house behind the garden was clearly new to someone–recently moved into, but not yet lived in. The kind of place where boxes still waited to be unpacked, where cutlery drawers were arguments yet to be had. No muddy boots by the back step. No curtain hooks installed. No history.

Just potential.

The grass was long and patchy, its tips glassy with frost. A narrow patio had been poured but not levelled right, so it sloped toward the house like a quiet threat. A plastic slide stood at an angle by the back fence, one leg sinking into the frozen mud, bolts still tucked in the Tesco bag dangling from its frame.

And near the back border, a flowerbed. Poorly dug. Three stubborn rosebushes clawed up from cracked soil, their thorned limbs bare and defiant.

Harry remembered this place. But not like this. Not this empty.

He reached into his coat and pulled out the journal. 

The same journal Niall had given him inside the Fold.

Blank when he first received it.
But not now.

Now it was full. Every timeline. Every version of Louis. Names and places, dreams and broken fragments. Written in his own handwriting—things he hadn’t remembered until he’d met her.

Johannah.

UNIT had her locked in that cell like she was a weapon. But she wasn’t. She was a mother with fire in her blood and time in her bones. She told him the truth—what Louis was, what he had always been. And what must come next.

She also told him where to look. Not when. Where.