Disclaimer: Not mine, but Moffat's. And (post-marital) Murray's.

Chapter One

"Sticks and Screwdrivers"

She was a person of reason. A person of logic, and wisdom, and all those things that are meant to set a human being in the right direction. But then again, it went against all logic and wisdom and all those things that are meant to set a human being in the right direction that the existence of magic was something of a truth. And furthermore, that Hermione Granger—plain old Hermione Granger with hair too bushy and brains too big, with dentist parents and a large bookshelf in the corner of her bedroom; Hermione Granger who had managed to survive a war—that this person, of all those in England, simply happened to be gifted with magic.

Now that was a definite oddity.

Perhaps the second greatest oddity of her existence, in fact. Because the first stood right in front of her, teetering on the edge of the Black Lake. The skeleton of a formerly breathtaking school with an equally breathtaking silhouette had smoke billowing out of every orifice, but none of the smog seemed to be having any effect on the striking blue colour of the police box.

It hadn't been there a moment before. Almost like Apparition, but instead of the popping sound of materialization, there was a series of hums and other things Hermione couldn't think of words to describe.

(And if Hermione can't think of something, then it's almost impossible that anybody else in the universe can. Which brings us to what happened next.)

Out of this strange blue box popped a tall young man with clothes that didn't match him. They were several years out of era, and they weren't wizards' robes—tweed jacket, red bowtie, plain striped shirt, slacks and a large pair of shoes. But instead of commenting on this, as would have many normal people, Hermione chose to come out with: "doesn't the door say 'pull'?"

The young man—who had been in the midst of scanning his surroundings with something that looked like a mixture of a wand and a tool, producing a green light and a sound that made Hermione wince out of habit—span around to face the police box again, his limbs following along almost out of sequence, flailing in an eccentric manner. He looked so closely at the sign that his nose could have been touching it.

Then, equally quickly, he turned back to Hermione. "Yeah, guess it does but what's that matter? I've never really set much in store by the rules myself—got me in trouble a few times, actually—but that's not important right now, is it? I don't really know—do you think it's important? Of course not—why am I asking you? I don't know that either; let's add that to the list of things I don't know —which isn't much, to be honest, but lists are fun, can I have a list? 'Things I Don't Know'—and I think that up there would probably be at the top of it, along with your name, age and when we are."

Hermione, who often spoke quite hastily herself, was very nearly caught up in the sporadic, fast-paced, practically non-breathing way in which this man spoke; she only just understood that his finger was pointing to the school (well, what was left of it) and he obviously had not heard about the event that had just occurred.

"Well, there's just been a—a big fight—"

"—ooh," said the man, shooting off across the grass and taking such long strides that Hermione had to run in order to keep up, "just come from one of those myself, actually—did you win your fight? I won mine—I usually win fights; having access to all of time and space might just help, too, but—again—that's not important..."

He came to a sudden stop and Hermione did the same, coming scarily close to hitting a tree root and falling over. But, surprisingly, this mystery man wasn't done talking. Did he ever stop?

"You still haven't answered my questions. Name, age, where and when we are."

Hermione looked at him. "I'm Hermione Granger. I'm eighteen years old. This is Scotland—Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, specifically—and the year itself is 1998."

From this, her companion seemed to have extracted two things. "You said 'witchcraft and wizardry'," he repeated; his tone making it apparent that whatever was going on in his mind was happening very fast, "does that involve—what?—crypts, herbal remedies...?"

"Neither," said Hermione. But then she contradicted herself: "Technically, there are herbal remedies, but they're in potions. No, we do a lot more wand waving than any of that other stuff."

To show him what she meant, the witch produced her wand from her pocket. In this moment, she realized that this probably should have been an earlier reaction: strange man comes out of strange box with strange tool; but perhaps her mind had given over to shock, or something similar.

"That's a stick," said the aforementioned 'strange man' in a quite simple way. "Little kids wave them around pretending to be wizards..."

He very suddenly took out his tool again (for it had been deposited in one of his inner-tweed compartments) and began to run it over Hermione and her wand, then clicking a button and reading some kind of result off of it.

"That's different than any reading I've got before," he said, a mixture of worried and interested. "You look human," continued he; taking long strides around Hermione as if to observe her. "What does that stick do, then?"

Hermione (who was very proud of her spell-casting ability) cleared her throat. It felt strange to be doing a charm so simple, so meaningless, after having to fight for her life with such complex ones just hours before. She straightened her arm and sent a shower of gold sparks into the air; crackling and spitting, then becoming before fluid and vibrant and circling around them both, glittering with life and movement and many other wonderful things.

For once, the tall dark-haired man had nothing to say. He had that look on his face again, like he was thinking briskly; then he turned his twinkling, multi-coloured eyes on Hermione.

"I'm taking you with me," he said.

Her eyes widened. "But I don't know you!"

"Sure, you do; tall bloke with a sonic screwdriver and a cool bowtie. I'm the Doctor," he added significantly.

"The 'Doctor'," Hermione repeated slowly. "And you want me to leave my friends, my life, a war we've all just won and a whole lot of people who've died to... to go away with somebody who calls himself 'the Doctor'?"

The Doctor's face took on a different expression. He looked old, ancient, timeless; filled to the brim with regret. "Not everybody lives, Hermione Granger."

She felt her eyes pricked with tears. "You think I don't know that?"

The Doctor shook his head. "I know you know it, because you seem smart. That's why I want to take you with me."

"Because I'm smart?"

"Because you're smart and lots of smart people want to see the world." He exhaled. "With me, you can see not just the world, but the universe—even outside it —wherever you want, whenever you want. As long as it's incredible."

For some reason (perhaps it was the lost look in his eyes), Hermione believed him.

"Will I come back?" she asked quietly.

The Doctor looked at her. "I can have you back half an hour ago, if you'd like."

The two of them subconsciously began the walk back to the blue police box. Hermione's wand remained in her hand, and the Doctor's 'sonic screwdriver' in his.

"You know," said Hermione, just as they reached the doors of the phone box, "you've left me with more questions than answers."

The Doctor shrugged, pushing the door open and stepping aside to allow her entrance. "I tend to do that."