CAUTION! To understand this work of fanfiction, you will need to have read Top Dog: Enter the Fnords books 1 (Harry Johnson and the Headmaster's Socks) and Top Dog Intermissions 1 (Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist.)

Otherwise it will not make much of any sense.

Done that? Good; welcome back for another instalment of Top Dog.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This ain't no self-insert fic.

This ain't no slash fic neither.

This is Top Dog.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Say your prayers little one

Don't forget my son

To include everyone

Tuck you in, warm within

Keep you free from sin

Till the sandman he comes

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heroes aren't born that way.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

August 27th, 1997. Harry Johnson, accompanied by the Weasely family and almost the entire CTMA, had just come in to Daigon Alley from the King's Cross entrance.

He glared at the eternal sick orange night, streaked by endless greasy rain, of that pit for a moment, then shook his head and said, "I hate this town."

"Why's that?" Ron Weasely asked, puzzled.

"Take a look around yourself." Harry told him. "What's to like about this shit-hole? Give me An Sleamhnaich or Jurai City or R'harash'gai't'rath any day, at least they occasionally get nice weather. Coronet City, now that's what I call a town. Auckland, Amsterdam, Edinburgh, New Tasmania – they're all REAL towns. You call this a town? Who killed it?"

Arthur Weasely made the wise decision of keeping his mouth shut as he started handing out umbrellas. His wife, on the other hand, didn't.

"Well, almost all the shops we need to stop past are in the covered arcade."

"Small mercies." Harry said with a snort, idly lighting up a cigarette. "The weather? Shitty. The structure? Shitty. The people? Shitty. The products on sale? Shitty. Even the scum and villainy are shitty. Yeah, I hate this town."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sleep with one eye open

Gripping your pillow tight

Exit: Light

Enter: Night

Take my hand

We're off to never-never land

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They don't just randomly occur.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, what's going on over there?" Ron suddenly asked. The group were currently making their way through the covered arcade towards the local branch of the book retailers known by the name of Flourish & Blotts. Said establishment was mobbed out; a mainly-feminine (or camp) horde was swarming around the doorway and half-blocking the walkway, with some kind of commotion at the centre of the mob.

"Pass." Harry said.

"It appears to be some form of book-signing or other such celebrity appearance." S'tarak'hai remarked; his immense height allowed him to see clear over the crowd.

"Gimme your view." Harry said. His eyes went unfocused for a moment, then he nodded. "Gilderoy Lockhart. Author – pretty good at spinning a yarn from what I've heard. Adventure stories, true tales of out-there shit he's got up to, you know the drill. Can't say he looks it; no scars and no thousand-yard-stare. Impressive how well he's held it together; I guess he's got some pals keeping an eye on things from the fact he's only packing one compact pistol."

"Interesting." S'tarak'hai muttered, frowning and swiftly scanning his head around. "If so, their operational security is remarkable."

"Of course it is. Haven't you heard of all the amazing things he's done?" Molly Weasely asked; apparently, she was a fan.

S'tarak'hai gave her a faintly amused sideon look.

"My usual reading material primarily consists of equipment specifications, intelligence reports, and pornography." He said with a hooded-eyed grin.

"Guy's certainly got a fair old rep, though nobody on the circuit seems to know him directly – it's all second-hand knowledge if you get my drift." Harry said with another nod, then he and S'tarak'hai began bulldozing a path to the door by the simple expedient of looming and glowering ominously at people, and where necessary breathing threateningly down necks; in that manner, they quickly got the group into the bookshop.

There was a large display of Gilderoy Lockhart books beside the door, and as soon as Harry saw them he stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed a specific book. He stared blankly at the cover with a haunted look in his eyes, then flipped the book over and read the description on the back with his expression getting increasingly worried.

"Are you okay, Harry?" Hermione asked.

Harry handed her the book; she had a quick scan over the back cover blurb.

It blared about Lockhart's experiences in 'The Hell called Garg's Landing'.

"You were there, weren't you?" she checked, vaguely remembering something from the Sorting Feast the previous year, and a few comments Harry had made from time to time before he'd then quickly changed the subject; it didn't exactly take a degree in psychology to realise he really didn't like talking about it.

Harry nodded stiffly.

"Yeah." he said, still sounding worried.

"Harry, why are you so freaked out?" she asked.

Harry sharply looked round at her, and she suddenly realised he was frightened.

"Hermione," he said, "I know every man, woman and child who got out of Garg's Landing alive, and I know them by name. I know their faces, every last one of them. I know their dates of birth, their blood types, their exact genetic make-up, where they live, their favourite fucking colour – I know everything about them. And not one of them was named Gilderoy Lockhart."

"Are you sure you haven't forgotten about him, Harry dear?" Molly Weasely asked.

Harry gave her a sharp look much like the one he'd given Hermione. "I'm an Arcadian-cross weredragon; I'm cursed with a perfect memory. I vaguely remember being born. I never forget anything, especially if I want to forget it. And… I don't remember him on the list of survivors. Shit… I gotta check this out; I've still got that list in my truck."

"Uh-oh, Ravening Bugblatter Beast of Traal to stern." Tara suddenly remarked, jerking a thumb at a Rolls-Royce that had just pulled up across the road, visible through the gradually-closing gap in the crowd Harry and S'tarak'hai had bulldozed.

Hermione had a peer, and sighed quietly to herself as she saw the trio of blondes stepping out of the limousine; that was Draco Malfoy, and from the familial resemblance the older man was Draco's father, which meant the woman was probably the blonde brat's mother.

"Oh boy, the Malfoys… not what I needed." She said.

"Great, today just gets fucking better." Harry muttered. "Hopefully we can avoid the bastards."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something's wrong, shut the light

Heavy thoughts tonight

And they aren't of Snow White

Dreams of war, dreams of liars

Dreams of dragon's fire

And of things that will bite

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There are no genes to choose them.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Weasely-CTMA group came face-to-face with the Malfoys right when they were leaving the bookshop on their way to a nearby Belgian café for lunch. Arthur Weasely and Lucius Malfoy glared at each other, but the tension got interrupted by Ben:

"Gudday Lucy mate, how's the bollock?"

Lucius went even paler.

"Bastard." He stated. Ben flipped him the bird and went sauntering away towards the café loudly singing 'Hitler has only got one ball' at the top of his lungs.

"Huh. You're one pathetic piece of shit, aren't you, Laver?" Harry remarked, causing the blonde Sith to spin back round.

"Mr Johnson." Lucius snarled. "Hogwarts' resident celebrity, the self-styled Darth Venger, or should I say Slade Morley… disgusting."

"That's Lord Venger to the likes of you, scum." Harry stated. "I'd have some respect for you if you could at least dominate your wife without using cheap toys." The blonde man went as white as a sheet as Harry turned his back; Harry made the motion an unmistakable insult.

It said, 'You're so pathetic I'm going to give you a long look at my spine at short range because I know even when I've given you that advantage you can't touch me.'

"Son. Of. A. Bitch! You're going to get yours, Venger! You hear me?" Lucius roared, going even paler than normal.

"Weakling." Harry fired over his shoulder.

Lucius turned and stormed off towards the back of the shop; there was a yelp as he knocked Ginny Weasely flat on her backside, causing her cauldron to ditch it's contents (her new textbooks) all over the pavement.

The blonde man glared at the frightened girl for a long moment.

"Clumsy." He remarked as she started scrabbling to load all her books into her cauldron again; he picked up one of the Lockhart volumes, contemplated it for a long moment, turned the cover so Harry could see it, cocked an eyebrow, then contemptuously ditched the book into the cauldron.

"You should learn to watch your step, little girl." He stated, and then he was gone, closely followed by his wife and son; Draco shot Ginny an unreadable look as he passed, and Narcissa surprised everyone by giving the girl a brief sympathetic expression.

"What a dick." Hermione remarked, helping a shook-up Ginny recover the rest of her possessions. "Well, I guess now we know where Draco gets it from… Hey, Harry, how come people keep calling you 'Slade Morley'?"

Harry snorted. "Oh, that was an old identity of mine I used for tomb raiding, mostly in Africa, though I also used it for various jobs I did for the Frououshtequoo and a couple Clanlords. I had a couple of run-ins with Lucy-boy, but I hadn't realised what a pathetic piece of shit he is up until…" He shook his head. "Funny the way we all have our illusions, isn't it?"

It was fairly obvious who'd won that little posturing match, despite Ginny getting run down.

"I guess you hired Bill for a job, right?" Hermione checked, receiving a terse nod.

"Yeah, Slade Morley's final ride… I'll tell you about it some other time – careless words cost lives, don't you know."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sleep with one eye open

Gripping your pillow tight

Exit: Light

Enter: Night

Take my hand

We're off to never-never land

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They don't come from training.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harry arrived in his road-train, closely followed by Hermione, who was worried about him. He'd been in a weird mood ever since he saw the stand of Lockhart books; his frame of mind had got fouler as the day went on, to the point that, by the time they left the Alley he'd barely had a good word for anyone, and even went as far as to snarl at Michelle.

She seated herself as he stalked over to a bookshelf full of ring-binders and snatched a specific one; a decidedly dog-eared dossier in a charcoal grey sleeve which he proceeded to carefully go through.

"Something is seriously wrong here." He finally said, snapping it shut and flinging it on an available sofa.

"What?" Hermione asked.

"The only L-surname in the list of survivors is Tortwiggly Levvet, and she's a black-furred female Frognorfian who lost both legs." Harry stated. "The only blonde Sahal'venics are Daniel Newcomb, Terry Bogard, Deunan Knute, and Kenjiro Batou. Out of the lot of 'em, Batou was injured so badly he had to have a full conversion; he's working for the Japanese government these days. Terry's someplace in Asia training in the martial arts, last I heard he was hanging out with Ryu Toriyama and the Musk. Deunan's with An Sleamhnaich Police Department SWAT. Duke's with the US Marine Core. There's another twenty Sahal'venics on the list who got smashed up to the point of full conversion, but from his magnetic anomaly signature that Lockhart character's fully meat."

"What are you talking about?"

"Garg's Landing." Harry said. "I can't find Lockhart or anyone who looks like him on the list of survivors."

"What's this leading up to, Harry?"

Harry set the dossier down and glared out the window.

"I'm not sure, yet." He said. "I can think of three options. First off, maybe he's had some serious biosculpting and changed his name – Gilderoy Lockhart, huh? Who the fuck does he think he is, Casanunda? Second off, maybe he got out of there before the Kenti showed up, in which case he was Twelfth Section and I owe the son-of-a-bitch a hell of a kicking; those fucks took off with nine tenths of the armoury, all the support weapons we had, and left us to die; it's thanks to them that so many poor bastards got blasted to bloody rags without us being able to lay down any counter-battery fire, and if I ever catch up with any of them I am going to bleed the bastards slow. Third off… maybe he's lying about having been there, in which case the worthless fuck's spitting on the memories of the poor bastards who didn't make it out alive, in which case, one way or another, I am going to make him wish I'd just shot him."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Now I lay me down to sleep

Pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I die before I wake

Pray the Lord my soul to take)

Hush little baby, don't say a word

And never mind that noise you heard

It's just the beasts under your bed

In your closet, in your head

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They don't get selected in audition.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A figure slid through the window and landed lightly beside Ginny's Weasely's bed. The figure reached into his bulky jacket, withdrew something, and placed it over the sleeping girl's mouth and nose; the object was held there for a few moments then returned to the jacket, and the figure cuffed Ginny's hands behind her back, gagged her, secured her ankles with a second set of cuffs, slung her over one shoulder, and slipped back out the window.

Someone was waiting for him; a certain tall, athletic-looking dark-haired young man with long fluted ears that flopped out to the sides of his head.

Harry stepped out of the shadows and placed the barrel of his E-Mag against the back of the figure's head.

"Say monkey, motherfucker."

The figure calmly passed something over his shoulder; Harry accepted it, backed off a bit and, still keeping the figure covered, squeezed part of it.

To his magically-attuned senses, it blazed alight like a small star. He critically examined it for a few moments, then holstered his gun and handed the object back.

"Fancy meeting you here." He sneered. "I assume you've got a damn good reason for this." The 'you'd better' was unsaid but blatantly obvious.

The figure nodded, and carried on walking. Harry watched him go, then shook his head.

"I hate that smug bastard."

And with that, he faded back into the shadows as an engine rumbled into life and drew away.

About ten minutes passed, broken only by the rumble of a Tardis arriving, then the figure returned with a now awake Ginny struggling in his arms; the figure returned her to the bed, pressed the something against her face causing her to very promptly go back to sleep, unchained her, and paused, holding a compact spell focus over her forehead.

"Sorry, kid." He whispered. "I didn't have a hell of a lot of choice; Oblivius."

And with that he slipped off out the window.

Hermione Granger, asleep on a mattress in the middle of the floor, hadn't noticed a thing.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Exit: Light

Enter: Night

Grain of sand

Exit: Light

Enter: Night

Take my hand

We're off to never-never land.

- Metallica, 'Enter Sandman' -The Black Album-

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Enter the Fnords Book 2:

Harry Johnson and the Deathtrap Girl.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heroes are built from blood sweat and tears.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Outside, the tall figure slipped into the parked Tardis, which vanished with that legendary grinding noise; he stumbled across the spick-and-span control room, watched with concern by his daughter, and scrambled into the toilets, where he proceeded to empty his guts.

Reeling back upright, his face pale, he caught sight of his own reflection; wild green eyes stared back at him out the mirror.

"Not good enough, you son-of-a-bitch." He hissed. "Not. Good. ENOUGH!"

And then he drove his fist into the centre of the mirror with all his considerable might, blowing fragments of powdered glass around the room.

"Dad…?"

He shook his head and staggered back into the control room, where he sprawled into the sofa with a cry that was a mix of frustrated sigh, despairing moan, and howl of rage.

His daughter closed the toilet door and thumbed the reconstruction switch, then squatted down beside him.

"Dad, are you okay."

"First Jenna, then Anastasia, then Carley, then Hermione, now Ginny – I just had to backstab a little girl who trusts me. Again." He bit out. "This does not exactly make for the happy in my pants, how in the fuck 'okay' do you think I am? Ginny Weasely is a nice kid; she doesn't deserve what my stinking luck and that sack of shit Malfoy have in store for her – and there's goddamned nothing I can do to stop it… shit, the only thing I can do is ventilate the worthless motherfucker who forced my hand, and make sure my people survive this crap… if only I'd cottoned onto what old mono-bollock was playing at sooner, goddamnit!"

"If only." His daughter sighed. "If only the Ruinous Powers hadn't got wind of the Primarch program. If only the Emperor had kept a better eye on Horus. If only the Tyranids hadn't cost the Imperium so much. If only we'd realised what Beryl was doing before she did it. If only the Nalfers had wiped the Norfs out when they had the chance. If only the Grand Warlord hadn't lost his mind. If only Son Wukong hadn't killed Ryuunosuke Tendo. If only we'd drilled Tommy soon as he started the Dark Lord crap. If only Ben had cut Lucius Malfoy's other ball off too. If only your parents' Secret Keeper hadn't sold them out. If only your dad had been quicker on the draw when Tom came calling. If only your great-granddad had kept better tabs on things in Surrey. If only we'd never booked you a holiday on Shenth. If only the jimcracks weren't such backstabbing fucks. If only we'd realised what she was up to in time. If only we hadn't trusted the Baron. If only we'd gone with your instincts and sent Hermione to Jurai City. If only one of us had stayed with her that night. If only we'd caught Tom last year … if only this, if only that. If wishes were Ultramarines, all of our problems would be over."

"I know, sweetie… I know. Still… can't help but wonder, y'know?"

"Been there, Dad. Done that. Got the T-shirt. The past is gone, and even we Time Lords can't do fuck-all about that." She shook her head. "We could have all the Tardises in the multiverse, and the things that made us would still be the same. I pray to the Emperor there's a better tomorrow at the end of all this – a light at the end of the tunnel, daybreak after the longest night – but we're stuck in the nightmare and holding out for a hero."

Harry's tired, haunted eyes finally met Setsuna's sad gaze; he grinned humourlessly and shook his head.

"Ain't temporal paradox a bitch?"

=COMING SOON=–

(And oh boy is it unnerving how well 'Enter Sandman' fitted there)

Cheers,

Cal.