They're in Diagon Alley the first time he sees her, Dennis chatters happily away about brooms and he glances aside and there she is, half familiar in a bookshop window, in a simple gold robe that speaks as much of wealth as it does of cultured elegance. She catches him looking and, just before the crowd comes between them, arches an exquisitely perfect eyebrow.
Draconians invade Earth, they see them off, days slip into weeks, and they're on Dagobah when Dennis says, "you've never seen a professional Quidditch game ever?!" Ten minutes later they're cheering Krum in the Belgium National Arena and the Doctor happens to glance down.
"That's Narcissa Malfoy," Dennis says promptly when asked but is far more interested in taking his omnioculars apart with the sonic screwdriver than gossip, so the Doctor doesn't learn much.
Wizarding population is very small. It's not really a surprise how often they see her. It's like a perception filter in reverse. You notice her even when you're not trying. The way she leans in to whisper to her companions. Her secret half-smile. The red flick of nails when her hands move.
"She's evil," Dennis says cheerfully. "Where next?"
There's a thing with Frobisher, a side-bar in the Rutan empire, an unexpected Peri (woman slap him a lot in this regeneration, he's not sure why), twelve hundred Sontarans, a platoon of Judoon converts to the Church of Shoot People A Lot ("It's not actually called that, Dennis. Well, mostly not. Sometimes."), Doctor Martha Jones's investment ceremony, a living planet, and Dennis somehow being mistaken for an Indus prince despite only having the two arms and legs.
He sees Narcissa Malfoy in the street, passing in a carriage, in a distant audience, in a shop window, down an adjoining alley, in the Prophet, rather more often in the Quibbler, in a portrait, in a miniature, and in person, standing in front of his table in the Hog's Head, faint, almost regal smile on her face, hair pulled up in a way that's almost familiar, saying, "if you work for the Ministry, you're the least stealthy minder I've ever had."
"Uh," he manages, reminds himself he's a genius, says, "uh, no, I d-don't work for the Ministry."
"Then perhaps I should call for an officer of the law," she says.
"I'm not stalking you. You're just everywhere I go. Well, everywhere on Earth. Well, England. And Scotland, obviously."
----
They're in Diagon Alley the first time he sees her, Dennis chatters happily away about brooms and he glances aside and there she is, half familiar in a bookshop window, in a simple gold robe that speaks as much of wealth as it does of cultured elegance. She catches him looking and, just before the crowd comes between them, arches an exquisitely perfect eyebrow.
Draconians invade Earth, they see them off, days slip into weeks, and they're on Dagobah when Dennis says, "you've never seen a professional Quidditch game ever?!" Ten minutes later they're cheering Krum in the Belgium National Arena and the Doctor happens to glance down.
"That's Narcissa Malfoy," Dennis says promptly when asked but is far more interested in taking his omnioculars apart with the sonic screwdriver than gossip, so the Doctor doesn't learn much.
Wizarding population is very small. It's not really a surprise how often they see her. It's like a perception filter in reverse. You notice her even when you're not trying. The way she leans in to whisper to her companions. Her secret half-smile. The red flick of nails when her hands move.
"She's evil," Dennis says cheerfully. "Where next?"
There's a thing with Frobisher, a side-bar in the Rutan empire, an unexpected Peri (woman slap him a lot in this regeneration, he's not sure why), twelve hundred Sontarans, a platoon of Judoon converts to the Church of Shoot People A Lot ("It's not actually called that, Dennis. Well, mostly not. Sometimes."), Doctor Martha Jones's investment ceremony, a living planet, and Dennis somehow being mistaken for an Indus prince despite only having the two arms and legs.
He sees Narcissa Malfoy in the street, passing in a carriage, in a distant audience, in a shop window, down an adjoining alley, in the Prophet, rather more often in the Quibbler, in a portrait, in a miniature, and in person, standing in front of his table in the Hog's Head, faint, almost regal smile on her face, hair pulled up in a way that's almost familiar, saying, "if you work for the Ministry, you're the least stealthy minder I've ever had."
"Uh," he manages, reminds himself he's a genius, says, "uh, no, I d-don't work for the Ministry."
"Then perhaps I should call for an officer of the law," she says.
"I'm not stalking you. You're just everywhere I go. Well, everywhere on Earth. Well, England. And Scotland, obviously."
"Obviously," she says and smiles.
(contd.)
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