#voices. Graham's more normal and so it feels like I ought to be able to give a better impression of the music of Josh Keaton's speech | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

myghostmonument · 4 years

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13xReader: Inhibitions

Notes: I’ve been writing a lot more “canon” pieces recently (non-readers, posted on my ao3), but it feels nice to go back to my fandom roots, so to speak, and finish off some requests like this one! Each style has its own challenges to work through, and it’s fun to move between them and keep things interesting. I plan to keep writing for both, so no worries to anyone who prefers one over the other. This is, as always, gender-neutral for the reader, and is also border-line a disaster!reader fic, a loose characterization style created by the incredible @lilaccoats that I stole bc she loves me

Summary: The Doctor takes you and the fam to a trendy bar, promising a night of relaxation and fun. Shenanigans ensue when you maybe-not-so-accidentally get a little too inebriated.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, drunkenness, hangovers, mentions of vomit, and attempted assault. It’s more an uncomfortable conversation than anything, and nothing graphic happens, but please be warned!

WC: 7500 please don’t look at me like that I just picked at it to unwind as I worked on my zine piece and it got entirely out of hand honk honk goes the clown mobile

The decision to go to a bar had been Ryan’s. That alone, that the destination had been picked during his turn, ought to have been enough forewarning; it seemed that whenever a trip went sideways, it almost always fell on Ryan’s turn (or the Doctor’s, but you and the others excluded that data — her choices were always catastrophes and not worth including in the risk analysis amongst yourselves).

But faced with the usual question of “where and when to next?”, Ryan had requested a bar, and the Doctor had delivered. You had landed on an asteroid, which according to the Doctor was the location of a top-notch bar, situated along a very popular intergalactic trading route. It was certainly busy, as you all left the TARDIS in an alley and approached the sleek, shiny building; there was a short queue to get in, but people — aliens and humans both — congregated in clumps around it and as you moved through the line and entered the bar, you even looked up and noticed people on the roof.

“So,” Yaz said, propping a hip against the bar counter and taking in the sights. “This is where the great Ryan Sinclair works his magic.” She let her eyes rove around the noisy crowd, and grinned over at Ryan. “You feeling right at home then?”

Ryan shot her a scowl, his hands shoved firmly in his pockets. “Ha ha,” he said. “This is not what I had in mind when I suggested drinks.”

“What?” The Doctor asked, looking around at him. “Really? I thought I did all right.” She put her hands on her hips, surveying the crowded, noisy bar.

“Well I think it’s great Doc,” Graham said, already perusing a menu with interest. She beamed at him.

“Thank you, I try my best,” she said. She had her hands in her coat pockets, something that usually indicated she was being (or feeling) cautious. In this case, you thought she was merely trying to avoid knocking into anyone, or any drinks; the bar (if that’s what it was, it did seem more like a sort of club) was packed with people, and it would be all too easy to hook an elbow or bump a precarious drink.

Yaz and Ryan were still bickering, and although you generally enjoyed wading into those sorts of things, a menu caught your eye and you pulled it closer. You could read it, thanks to the TARDIS’ help, but translation could only go so far.

“Are these all alcoholic?” you wondered aloud, frowning at something listed as a Greyhound.

“Are they even all drinks?” Graham added, and you glanced up with a smile, knowing he was hoping for food.

“I think so,” the Doctor answered, moving over to you. She reached over to pull your menu towards her, and her sleeve brushed against your shoulder. “Hmm,” she said, still standing very close. “Sorry Graham, all liquid.” She didn’t actually sound all that sorry, you noted. Graham obviously noticed it as well, because he gave a theatrical sigh.

“Every drink has an inebriation agent of some sort,” the Doctor continued, scrunching her nose. “Different sorts for different races and species, this is a very diverse bar.”

“Are they all safe for us?” Yaz asked, also crowding your shoulder to look at the menu.

“Y-e-s,” the Doctor said slowly, followed by an “actually no,” and an eye-roll from Yaz. “Well, sort of. Depends on what you mean by safe. Humans are common enough here, but some drinks will still have a stronger or weaker effect than they would for their intended consumer. They’re coded, see?” She flattened her (your) drink menu on the counter and pointed. “This is the symbol for human, with standard colour rankings. Green means intended for you, yellow means it will have less effect, and red more.”

“Get in,” Ryan said, and you knew without having to look that he was perusing the red-coded drinks.

“You don’t want to try a Red,” the Doctor said sternly. “It could have any number of effects.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Ryan muttered, and then it was Graham’s turn to bicker with him while you and Yaz scanned the menu.

“How do you think we order?” you wondered, after deciding to try the Greyhound, which was coded green. Yaz had decided on yellow-coded drink, which cited a lack of alcohol. Its kick came from the flavor combination and carbonation, apparently. Yaz’s particular choice sounded disgusting, and you were very much looking forward to watching her try it.

“Yeah, I don’t see a barkeep,” Graham added, craning over the counter and apparently done with trying to persuade Ryan to make good choices. “Though I suppose you might not be able to pick one out from this mess.” It was true; though you were congregated around a counter, there was no discernible life-form keeping tabs or otherwise running it, and the crushing ebb and flow of the crowd was a confusing riot of clashing voices and species. Over it all thrummed the heavy beat of music, alien but still somehow recognizable as upbeat and catchy. You had the distinct sense that this was a trendy bar, and wondered how the Doctor even knew about it.

“It’s simple,” the Doctor said, and she bent over you to again point at the menu, her arm resting against yours. “You see this bit here? You press it with your finger, then press the box next to the item you want.”

“How’s that work then?” Ryan asked dubiously.

“It’s DNA activated,” the Doctor said calmly, as if that were in any way a normal thing for a drinks menu to be. “We were all scanned when we walked through the doors, didn’t you notice?”

“Did we notice the DNA scanners in an alien bar filled with aliens?” Graham asked. “No, must have slipped my mind Doc, no idea how I missed them. ”

“Well,” the Doctor said loftily, “you were scanned. So order your drink like I said, and it’ll be brought to you.” She bent over her menu, some of her hair brushing against your face. You sat very still, swallowed, then reached for a menu and dragged it towards you (seeing as how your own had been commandeered.)

After some consideration you ordered your Greyhound, and it arrived in an interesting, fluted sort of glass, delivered by a waiter. The drink was a pleasing sanguine colour, complete with a wedge of fruit on the glass rim. The whole effect was quite good, too, which was more than Yaz could say for her yellow-coded drink, which she almost choked on. You didn’t deign to try it after that, but Ryan and the Doctor both made a big show of tasting it and being subsequently horrified. Graham, equable as ever, took the abandoned yellow in hand and sipped it serenely, something the rest of you took in with an impressed sort of horror. The Doctor drifted away shortly after with no drink of her own, which wasn’t too surprising; you rarely saw her ingest anything more than a taste of food or drink before flitting away, like some sort of overgrown and absent-minded hummingbird. Ryan and Graham wandered off too. You lingered at the counter with Yaz for a while, as she ordered a new (and improved) yellow-coded drink. You found your own glass empty, and after some hesitation, shrugged and ordered another Greyhound. It hadn’t been too strong; you simply felt warm, and bright. It was nice. Second drinks in hand, you and Yaz decided to do a circuit, it was dark and loud and you were quickly separated in the swirling crowd. No matter, you thought cheerfully, as you took another sip. You’d catch Yaz up eventually, no doubt. The music was blasting, and you unconsciously matched your footfalls to the beat, feeling it warm and sizzling in your blood along with the drink. You tipped the glass in your mouth at the end of the song, and were surprised to find it empty. “Well that’s rude,” you told the empty glass, which flashed in your hand in a thoroughly unimpressed manner. You pivoted in the press of bodies around you, trying to find a free table and a menu. You needed replacement drink, seeing as how your current one was clearly faulty. “Must’ve shorted me,” you mumbled to yourself. “Typical. Think I can’t handle my glasses - I mean, hounds. Dogs. Drinks.” You stumbled as you pushed through a group of people, but regained your stride easily enough. You even spotted Ryan in a shadowy corner, chatting with a very lovely alien indeed. She seemed to be trying to entice Ryan to dance; you wished her the best of luck. Ryan was a hilarious dancer. Not bad, but definitely hilarious, and he took some convincing. You reached a table on the edge of the dance floor, and pulled a menu towards yourself. It took you a couple of jabs to correctly order your Greyhound — your finger kept slipping. Or maybe it was the menu, actually. “Faulty drinks, faulty menus,” you complained to the room at large, leaning back against a pillar as you waited. The people swirling around you were difficult to focus on, and you wondered suddenly if the room was tilting — surely the room itself wasn’t faulty! “Have to get the foundations checked,” you informed the alien server who appeared with your drinks. They gave you an odd look and vanished. You reached for your drink, but paused, hand outstretched as you considered the not one but three glasses set before you. Two Greyhounds, and one that was something else, a smaller, opaque glass. The liquid shimmered in a very interesting way indeed, and it was difficult to look away. Well, perhaps they had brought you the extra drinks on the house, in order to make up for all the faults you’d been uncovering left and right. You stumbled as you pondered this, which as far as you were concerned was proof enough of the foundational flaws; you were, after all, standing still, so what other reason would you have to stumble? Unbelievable. You reached for the Greyhound, but your hand paused, then changed course halfway through and grasped the smaller, shimmering cup instead. It was very light in your grip. You tasted it and stumbled again; it had hit your tongue with a wallop, your entire body was fizzing with a bolt of what must be pure electricity, there was no other possible explanation. Everything around you was abruptly brighter, louder, richer. You blinked, fascinated. “Not too many humans can handle their reds,” a voice said next to you, and you set the cup down with a thud, squinting as the alien next to you came slowly into focus. “You usually so squiggly?” you asked him, and he titled his head, dark eyes moving from you to the half-drunk cup, and back again. His smile flashed in the low light, and for a moment it was all you could see, becoming somehow the brightest, sharpest thing in the room. “It’s a curse,” he said, and you nodded sagely, taking another sip. His eyes followed the cup, and his smile sharpened. “Could cut myself on that,” you observed. “Teeth,” you added, when he looked confused. Perhaps he was drunk; it was ridiculous how many people couldn’t hold their liquor! “Want to try?” he asked, and his hand was on your arm. You weren’t sure when it got there. “Excuse me?” you said, loftily, aiming for a bit of the Doctor in your speech. You thought you did quite well, but the alien didn’t look as annoyed as anyone on the receiving end of one of the Doctor’s questions usually did. Rude. “Do I want to try what?” you asked belatedly, and realized that you were being towed towards the dance floor. When had you made that decision? Time seemed to be leaping ahead and then stalling out in great lurches, and everything was fuzzy and dull. You felt the glass taken from your hand, and were vaguely surprised to find that it was empty again. Another faulty glass? Really? You might have to register a complaint. “Not a lot of humans here,” the alien said, and his hands were on your sides, moving you to the music. People pressed all around you, bumping your shoulders and making it difficult to get your bearings. Your shoes squelched on the slightly sticky floor as they moved. You wanted to stop and see if you could get the room to stop spinning so much, but the hands on you kept you in motion. The alien was speaking again, close to your ear so you could hear him over the din. “You come here alone?” he asked, his fingers warm against your side, and tight. You tried to pull back to get a better look at him but he kept you where you were.“No,” you said, blinking as you tried to orient yourself. Your eyes kept sliding in and out of focus. “Came with m’friends.” “And they left you all alone, to drink a red?” he murmured, and his grip tightened. He was pulling you across the dance floor; the light was fading, and you realized all at once, as you moved into a more shadowed section of the room with only the gleaming crescent of his smile visible, that you were actually quite drunk, and didn’t know where any of the others were. “Should - should get back to them,” you tried to articulate, and he laughed, one of his hands sliding lower. “You’re right where you want to be.” You stiffened, and tried to pull away. “No, I want to find my friends,” you slurred, jerking back. He held your arm, and pulled you into him in a great twirl, and suddenly your back was against a dark, slightly sticky wall. He loomed over you, one hand still vise-like on your arm, the other pressed against the wall by your head. He smiled down at you, except it didn’t really look so much like a smile anymore, but just a lot of very sharp, gleaming teeth. Your face was very cold, and you wished the room would stop spinning enough that you could push him off and find the others. “I could be your friend,” the alien said, his breath fanning across your face, his hand sliding lower again. The hand on the wall touched your hair, curled a lock of it musingly through his fingers. “I just love red-drunk humans, all alone and lost and looking for a friend to help them.” You struggled again in his grip, and this time he let you go. You lurched sideways along the wall, falling against the corner in a heap. You thought you should feel sick, but you only felt annoyed, and cold, and something else, something like confusion that was tipping towards fear. The alien lifted you back up, hands on your arms, then pressed you back against the corner, his weight against you. Annoyance flared and you tried to push him away. “Let go,” you ordered, but he only laughed, touched your face. “You don’t want to be alone right now do you little Red?” he asked. “I’m sure that’s true,” a new voice interrupted. It had a familiar, lilting cadence, but you didn’t recognize the sharpness to it, or the way danger simmered beneath the surface. The alien didn’t glance away from you. “We’re busy,” he said, touching your face again. “Find your own —” but then he was ripped away from you in swirl of grey fabric and flashing eyes. You swayed, then jerked back as hands touched you again, but — “It’s okay,” that voice said, “it’s alright, it’s me,” and you recognized it this time. The Doctor tucked you against her side and you inhaled that familiar scent of tea and vanilla, and it cleared your head a little, enough to let out a shaky breath. “He’s being - rude,” you told the Doctor, your voice muffled as you glared at the alien. “Yes, he is,” she answered. Her voice was still light, and soothing, and you weren’t able to see the way she was looking at him. He scowled, gaze darting from you to the Doctor and back before making a dismissive sort of hand gesture and melting into the crowd. The Doctor stood very still for a moment, and you all you could hear was the thunder of her hearts. She let out a breath, then turned you. Again you found your back against that wall, only the hands on you were gentle, and cool. The Doctor touched your face as she looked at you, and that was better too. “Are you okay?” she asked, and you wondered at the appearance of that crease in her brow. She looked dangerous, in the half-light, but her hands were still so light. You nodded, and suddenly her grip on you was tight as she kept you from toppling over. “Wouldn’t - leave me alone,” you told her. “Rude.” “You already said that,” she observed, removing one of her hands to fish in a pocket for her sonic. You blinked at her, swaying on your feet as she ran it over you. She read the output and exhaled. “Tell me you didn’t drink a red.” “I didn’t drink a red,” you repeated dutifully, and watched as her entire face scrunched up in exasperation. It was nice.“You’re so pretty,” you informed her. It was important that she knew in that moment how pretty she was, with her face all scrunchy and the flashing lights making a halo of her head. “So pretty. Too pretty.” You stumbled, and again she caught you. “Okay, I think it’s back to the TARDIS with you.” “Says who,” you slurred, even as she steered you away from the wall and towards the exit. “You’re not — you’re not the boss of me.” “I certainly am,” she muttered. “Especially when you’ve gone and had a red, and I explicitly told you it was a bad idea.” Her grip on your arm was firm and cool, and infinitely preferable to the alien’s. The other alien, that was, because obviously she was alien too. So many aliens! “You’re the best alien though,” you mused aloud, and she darted a quick look at you, tongue poking briefly out of her lips. You liked that quite a lot. You wanted her to do it again, in fact, but she had drawn her lips back into a thin line as she watched you. She steered you towards the exit, but the crowd seemed to have doubled in size, and she was forced to shove her way bodily through the dancing, yelling patrons. A much larger person staggered into her and she grunted as she took the blow. “I think I hate bars,” she said, her voice all but inaudible over the din. “That’’s new. Maybe.” Someone else knocked into her, and the force was heavy enough to jar your arms from her grip. She receded from you in a blurry tunnel of light and sound, and then it was just you, pressed between strange bodies on the dance floor while the music thundered through your bones. Huh. Almost everyone was taller than you, and you had no idea which way the exit was, or the Doctor. You didn’t care much about the exit, but it’d be good to find the Doctor; you had felt less…. fuzzy, when her hands had been on your arms, and more like yourself again. And also she was just so pretty. Wandering in a blurry haze of music and voices, you began to wonder if maybe you might locate another drinks menu. You weren’t so sure about another red, but it also didn’t seem like quite as bad of an idea as it had an hour ago. That was interesting. Weaving and stumbling, you tried to push through the press of bodies, and had made a little bit of progress when — — hands, there were hands on you again — You lurched sideways as you tried to bat those hands away, but there was nowhere to go, the wall of people bounced you back, and the lights were flashing and people were shouting and there were hands on you again — “ - alright? Hey?” The hands succeeded at spinning you around, and a person loomed out of the crowd. Two things followed in short order: you recognized Yaz, and you threw out a defensive fist. They didn't happen in the optimal order, however. “Oi!” Yaz cried, dodging your fist and catching it in her own. “It’s me, what the hell?” She was still sliding in and out of focus, but you were aware of the fact that she was quite pretty too. "’M sorry,” you told her, wondering why she was pulling away from you. You hadn’t actually hit her, after all. Had you? “Sorry,” you repeated, swaying.She was peering at you, her hands firm on your arm. Her eyes were very dark, but they reflected the dancing lights all around you and you blinked, fascinated. “Are you okay?” she asked cautiously. “Absolutely corking,” you slurred, proud to remember the phrase you had heard Graham use (and Ryan mock) earlier. You weren’t sure why it made Yaz look so alarmed. “Yaz — oh, good —” The Doctor popped into your view as she squeezed between two dancing aliens who took no notice of her, which was probably good because her expression was quite stormy indeed. She still looked quite pretty. How’d she manage that? It wasn’t fair. “Doctor,” Yaz said, turning, “I think something’s wrong —” “Someone decided that they should have a red,” the Doctor said, grim. “I also had two - three - I had - greens!” you told them both, proud. Yaz’s look of alarm deepened, and it was so comical that you couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up. When that did nothing except make her and the Doctor’s brows both snap into synchronized, angry little v shapes, you only giggled harder. “Right, TARDIS,” the Doctor said ominously. “Yaz, can you find Ryan and Graham and let them know?” Yaz nodded and between one blink and another, she had vanished again. “Just like magic,” you told the Doctor, wondering why your lips were numb. She gave you a swift, searching look, her eyebrows still angry little vs and her tongue still poking between her lips. “Come on,” she said, wrapping a cool hand around your wrist. The contact was steadying, and very nice. She kept you close, clearly not wishing to be separated again as she towed you towards the exit. “Don’t want to go,” you told her abruptly, and you couldn’t hear your voice over the crowd and the music. You didn’t even know why you said it; it wasn’t true, strictly. You still felt like you could fit in another drink or two worth of fun, but you didn’t really care where you went, not if the Doctor was with you. Even if she looked so angry as she glanced back over her shoulder. She had heard you, evidently. She had very good hearing; you and Ryan and Yaz had been working on an experiment to test the limits of it, but hadn’t put it in action yet. Someone bumped into the Doctor hard and she grunted, but her grip on you remained iron-clad and she pulled you closer, actually folding you into her arms to protect you from the jostling crowd.“This is not what I had in mind,” she muttered, her lips very close to your ears as she spoke. It was nice, and extraordinarily distracting. “Do people actually enjoy these places?” “Ryan does apparently,” you said, remembering him chatting up that pretty alien. “This was his idea wasn’t it?” the Doctor mused, moving again and pulling you with her. You were still very close. “I don’t suppose we’ll be letting him choose the next adventure. Ah. That’s better,” she added as she stepped out of the bar and into the night, towing you with her. A blast of cool, humid air hit you, wrapping around your body and cooling your cheeks. Even though the bar itself had been fairly dark, your eyes still relaxed as the flashing lights fell away.The Doctor let go, and the sobering effect of the night seemed to pull back, a little, as if you’d lost your anchor. The world tilted around you, the stars overhead wheeling and dancing. It made you feel a little bit sick, but it was also beautiful. The Doctor was talking, and you struggled to focus.“Think we parked just over there, yeah, must’ve. Let’s go — where are you going?” The last was delivered with an air of extreme exasperation as she turned in time to witness you bolting away. “I want to be colder,” you told her as you stumbled through the night. You were on pavement (alien pavement, anyways) but in the distance you could see the shadow of what had to be trees (alien trees) and maybe some grass (alien grass). You wanted nothing so much as to lay down on that grass. The Doctor’s protests followed you as you reached the tree and hurled yourself down at the cool earth. Well, not earth. Whatever passed for earth here. What was dirt on an asteroid called? A shadow fell over you, blocking the stars, and you turned your cheek in the grass to look up at the silhouette of the Doctor, hands on her hips, stray hairs blowing in the wind.“You’re sick, you need to get back to the TARDIS,” she said. “You’re sick, you need to get back to the TARDIS,” you replied cheerfully, and even though you couldn’t see her expression very well in the darkness and swirling stars, you could feel the scrunched-up scowl she leveled at you. “Come on,” she said, and her voice was exasperated but her hands were gentle as they lifted you off the ground. Gentle again, as they caught you when you stumbled sideways. “Careful, now. Come on.” “Don’t feel - so good -” you told her, and it was true; the fuzzy, warm glow was fading and the whirling of the stars wasn’t so much aesthetically pleasing as it was now sickening. “I expect not,” the Doctor muttered. “What could have possibly possessed you to drink so much? To drink a red?” “I didn’t mean t’ order it,” you defended yourself. “It was just - just there.” “And you drank it? Something you hadn’t ordered?” the Doctor demanded. “Surely you know not to do that!” “Just trying to have fun,” you mumbled, guilt rising up in you alongside the nausea. “Just wanted — didn’t mean to — I wasn’t —” “Okay, it’s okay, I know,” the Doctor said, her voice softening. She shifted you against her as she spoke, and you realized she was fumbling for the TARDIS key. The blue box was humming at an almost inaudible frequency, but you could feel it moving through you bones, cooling your blood, steadying you. “Thanks,” you said weakly, patting a hand on the wood as the Doctor steered you through. The interior slights dimmed as you came in, and it was a soothing balm on your eyes and raw nerves. “She’s spoiling you lot,” the Doctor muttered, but you could hear the fondness threading through her voice. “She likes us,” you thought, or maybe said. The Doctor made a soft sound, not quite a word, and you weren’t sure if she’d heard you. Weren’t sure if you’d spoken. “Okay, try and eat this,” the Doctor said a few moments later. Or maybe hours, you still weren’t entirely sure how time was progressing. Her fingers brushed your lips as she placed a fizzing sort of tablet on your tongue, and you realized all at once that your lips weren’t numb anymore, but blazing with sensation. “Swallow it, it’ll help,” she added. You blinked, looking into her face, so close to yours. There was still that furrow by her eyebrow but she didn’t seem angry, anymore. Not like she had with she’d stared down that rude alien. Her eyes were bright, glittering like the star field outside of the bar. “Too pretty,” you complained, then promptly choked on the tablet you had forgotten on your tongue. “Swallow,” she repeated, placing two fingers on your mouth. Your breath hitched, which did not help the choking one bit. You did, at least, in the midst of the resulting coughing fit, manage to swallow the tablet, but it burned and your eyes streamed as you blinked at the Doctor. “Good,” she said, placing fingers under your chin. Her touch was somehow both cooling and blazing, comforting and so very distracting. You made an indeterminate sound, and her eyes flicked to yours, a brief touch, before flicking over your face. “That should kick in soon,” she said, dropping her hand. “Is it — gonna cure me,” you asked, and the breathless quality to your voice was due to the lingering affects of drunkenness, surely, and not the Doctor’s touch. She snorted, pushing hair out of her eyes.“It’ll speed up the process, burn the chemicals out of your system faster,” she said. “And it’ll make for a quicker hangover.” She fixed you with an amused look. “Quicker, but not easier. You’re in for a fun night, I think.” You groaned, throwing yourself down on the couch. You regretted it at once, as your head spun and your stomach roiled, but the drama of the moment had dictated.“I didn’t mean to,” you complained, shutting your eyes as the lights spun around you. The spinning didn’t stop, in the darkness behind your eyelids, but it was a little bit better. Maybe. A cool hand brushed your forehead, and that definitely was better. “I know,” she said, and you could hear the gentleness in her voice. “Am I going to die?” you asked, not because you thought that you were — you’d been sick before, though admittedly not from alien alcohol — but it had the right flair of drama to it. It also made the Doctor snort again, and regrettably, her hand slid from your brow. “You’re drunk, not dying,” she said, and her voice was receding as she moved around the room. “Humans and their substances, honestly.” Something was placed on your brow, cool and damp and soothing. The Doctor tucked the cloth against your head with deft, gentle fingers even as she continued to explain her thoughts on humans and all of their myriad of flaws. “You’ve never been drink — you don’t drunk —” You stumbled over the words, and felt her fingers still, then fall away from the cloth. You opened your eyes and with the room spinning and the dim light and the serious, difficult to read expression on her face, she looked as remote and otherworldly as she actually was for all that she was your friend. “Time Lords are an advanced race, we certainly don’t have the same genetic predispositions towards inebriation or the desire to attempt so,” she said finally, still looking down at you. You grunted, considering her words as they slid in and out of your head.“Didn’t answer the question,” you observed, and were rewarded with a scowl. “Hm,” was all she said, but she was smiling slightly. “Try to rest now, and if you need to be sick —” she kicked something on the floor that gave a hollow thud. “Try to aim in here, yeah?” “I am not going to be sick,” you said firmly, and the Doctor’s smile flashed in the dim light. “I hope not, the pill’s supposed to help with that but,” she shrugged expansively, and even through the spinning room you were able to focus in shocking clarity on the pull of her shirt across her frame she did so, “I don’t really know what combination of ingredients you drank, and how they’ll react to the other things you drank or your own biology. So. Bin.” She nudged it with a boot again. “I’m going to check on the others, and you’re going to stay here. I’ll be right back.” You didn’t want her to go, but you were feeling worse by the moment as the alcohol was burned out of your system and, as far as you could tell, migrated to your head. You could feel each heartbeat rattling in your skull like knives, and your roiling stomach kept speed with it. You moaned something that the Doctor took for agreement. Time passed, although you weren’t in any way able to keep track of it. You suspected it had been a century based on the pounding in your head, but it could have only been a few heartbeats. Either way, you were still alone when you realized that what you really needed was some water. Nobody was around to hear you, but you still complained and groaned and generally made a spectacle as you swung your legs off the couch, sitting upright. Your stomach made a solid pass at leaping out of your throat, but you steadied yourself with a snarl; you were not going to need the bin, you were not going to be sick. And you were right; all thoughts of nausea fled as you pushed yourself to your feet, because your skull might as well have shattered. Your headache pounded so violently that you thought it might be slamming you through the floor; it felt too heavy, too thick, too white-hot with blinding pain. Death was infinitely preferable to this miserable thing called life. “Never — drinking — again —” you vowed, swaying, hoping the floor might just swallow you whole and end your suffering. “A noble sentiment,” the Doctor said from behind you. “But one rarely adhered to, I suspect. What are you doing off the sofa?” She appeared at your side, a steadying hand on your elbow. “You didn’t sick up somewhere did you,” she added with sudden trepidation, looking around your feet apprehensively. “I just wanted something to drink,” you told her, wretched. Your head was still pounding, and even the dimmed lights were still too bright. They stabbed your eyes with sharp, splintering shards of pain. You groaned, and leaned your head instinctively against the Doctor’s shoulder. “I think you’ve had quite enough to drink,” she said, with a touch of asperity, but her hand was gentle as ever as she smoothed hair back from your forehead. “Water,” you clarified, your voice muffled from the folds of her coat. It was soft, and cool, and smelled like home. “Ah,” the Doctor said, steering you back to the couch. She eased you down again. “Stay, I’ll get you some water and a new cloth.” “Where are the others? Are they coming?” you asked miserably as she reappeared, setting a glass of water in your hands. It had a truly spectacular bendy, swirly straw that was almost as long as the glass itself, a vibrant purple and orange that hurt your eyes to look at, but you appreciated the gesture as you lifted it to your mouth with weak hands. “They’ll be here soon, they’re trying to find Ryan,” the Doctor said. The cushions dipped as she settled on the other end of the sofa. “They might have to expand the search,” you said, thinking of that alien he had been speaking with. You groaned as your head gave another spike of pain, and slid down the couch as sitting became too much effort. “Just rest,” the Doctor said. “It’ll pass.” “Promise?” “I promise,” she said, and your eyes were closed, but you could hear the slight smile in her voice. “I am the best alien, after all.” You could definitely hear the smile, now, and something niggled at your memory; you suspected that the Doctor was poking fun at something you had said while in the bar, but the memory was sliding in and out with tremendous spikes of pain and you let it go. You suspected that you had said many unfortunate things, and you could only hope that the Doctor hadn’t heard or remembered most of them. You drifted for a time, after that, surfacing to occasional bursts of pain or nausea or, more welcome, cool hands on your brow as they took your temperature or readjusted the the damp cloth. Clarity — and more importantly, an absence of that all-encompassing pain — arrived abruptly. You sat up gingerly, feeling weak and shaky and not even remotely good, but it was a normal not-good, not I’m going to die and if not I wish it would hurry up about it not-good. “Ah, here we are,” the Doctor said, and you looked over to see her curled up at her end of the couch, a book in her hand. She closed it and tucked it in the cushion. “Feeling better?” “Yeah,” you said, peeling off the now warm and dry cloth from your head. You looked down at it, then the mercifully empty bin at your feet. Something else rolled in your stomach, almost worse than the earlier nausea: shame, with a side of guilt. “Ah. Sorry, about all that,” you mumbled, darting another look at the Doctor. She was watching you, a slight smile curving her lips, but her eyes were sharp as they flicked over you, still assessing. “Accepted,” she said, scooting over to you and fishing her stethoscope out of her pocket. “Deep breath,” she said, resting it against your chest. “You don’t have anything to apologize for anyways,” she added. “It’s not your fault you got served a red, or that someone tried to take advantage of you for it.” You had forgotten about that, had forgotten about that other alien and his heavy, unwelcome hands, and his sharp, hungry smile. You shuddered, and the Doctor’s eyes touched your own, a welcome distraction. “I’m okay, you don’t need to waste time on me,” you muttered, but she was pushing a fresh glass of water into your hand. “Drink. And yes I do, or do you not remember bolting up and trying to climb the TARDIS console?” You goggled at her. “Apparently not,” she said with a wicked grin. “No, don’t apologize again, it’s okay. You got me out of that bar anyways, I really wasn’t vibing with it. ”You had been awash in horror at your actions, but the Doctor’s last words snapped you out of it. “Vibing with it?” you repeated, incredulous. She shot you a look, tongue poking slightly between her lips.“Yeah, am I using that right? Ryan taught me.” You were still goggling at her, but the sound of a door opening and a rush of voices distracted you both. “Ah, finally,” the Doctor said, brushing off her legs and standing up. “I wonder what kept them. We’re in here,” she added, pitching her voice to carry to the others and making no effort to define where “here” was; it was obvious to her, and that apparently was to be enough for everyone else. It was very her. Everything she did was very her, you mused. Not just because it was her doing them, but because she did everything with such one-hundred percent commitment, energy, and enthusiasm. You smiled slightly, watching her as she stood with her hands on her hips. She’d taken off her coat at some point, and she looked smaller without it, more wild and fleeting, something ephemeral. She glanced over her shoulder at you and smiled when she met your eyes. That smile was also wild, fleeting and ephemeral, but it grounded her, a little bit, in the here and now. And you, too. “Hello,” Yaz said, stepping into the room. She looked tired, her hair coming out of its braids, her jacket mussed, but it was a happy sort of tired. “Have fun?” The Doctor asked as Yaz threw herself down on the couch next to you. “Yes,” Yaz said, leaning her head back on the cushions. “Not as much fun as some other people, though,” she added, and turned her head to fix you with her dark, glittering eyes. “How are you doing?” “I feel like death,” you told her, and stuck out your tongue when she grinned. “That’s what you two get for going off-book,” she said smugly, wiggling her shoulders deeper into the couch and kicking off her shoes before lifting her legs and curling them up on the couch. “Oi, I didn’t drink a red,” the Doctor said, indignantly. “Not that I would have been affected, if I had. You humans are so — ” “She been going on like this the whole time?” Yaz asked you, and the Doctor gave her a dark look. You giggled, and it only made your head split down the middle a little bit. It was worth it, for the expression on the Doctor’s face. “Definitely,” you confirmed, wincing as you lifted a hand to rub your temples. “This is the thanks I get, for spending my night chasing after red-drunk humans? Mockery and false accusations?” “Not you,” Yaz said, rolling her eyes. “I was talking about — “ “Hellooooooo TARDIS!” “That,” Yaz finished, turning to watch as Ryan crashed into the room, with an aggrieved Graham in his wake. The Doctor groaned, throwing her hands up. “Ryan! Not you too!” “Guilty your honor,” Ryan crooned, spinning a wild circle and narrowly avoiding the couch with his flailing feet. You hastily copied Yaz, drawing your feet up onto the cushions and settling in to watch the show. “I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love! Congratulate me.” “You’re not in love, son, you’re drunk,” Graham said wearily, trying to grab Ryan, but he spun out of reach. And fell over. The room shuddered. You gasped, Yaz clapped a hand over her mouth, Graham cursed. The Doctor closed her eyes. “Ow,” Ryan said, but he was smiling beatifically up at the ceiling. “What happened?” The Doctor asked resignedly, crouching by Ryan and taking his pulse, then pulling out her sonic. He ignored her, still smiling happily up at the ceiling, his toes clicking together as he hummed. He was still firmly in the “fun” stage of the Red inebriation, it seemed. “What do you think, Doc?” Graham answered tiredly, moving to stand by them. “He wanted to impress a pretty girl.” “Did he?” you asked, interestedly. The situation was a lot funnier when it wasn’t happening to you, it turned out. “Well, he chugged a red and challenged some bloke to a dance contest,” Yaz said. She was grinning, and it was the grin of a sober woman witnessing the carnage wreaked by foolish friends. “We almost didn’t get him out of there.” The Doctor stood up, pinching her nose. She came to a decision.“Right. I’ll get him a pill, but I’ve done my babysitting duty for the night. He’s your problem after that.” She stode from the room, and you heard her mutter something about never going to a bar again. Yaz heard her too, and you shared a grin. Ryan, it turned out, had very little interest in taking the hangover-speed-up pill from the Doctor. It also turned out that red-inebriation or no, he could still move very quickly, and it took the combined efforts of Yaz, Graham and the Doctor to get the pill in his mouth. You filmed most of on your phone you'd fumbled quickly out of a pocket, which as far as you were concerned did just as much to help the situation as any of them. The Doctor threw herself down on the sofa next to you with an explosive sigh. “I am never,” she said, tipping back her head, “taking humans to a bar. Ever again.” Ryan moaned from the floor, punctuating the statement with eloquence. Yaz sat down on the Doctor’s other side, then scooted over to make room for Graham who was looking silent and shell-shocked. You found your shoulders rubbing the Doctor’s, and you curled your feet up under you to make more room while leaning your head against her shoulder. You could hear her twin heartbeats, and after a moment she rolled her head so that her chin was resting in your hair.“You’re all on probation,” she said, firmly. You hummed skeptically, and Yaz snorted. Graham was still grimly silent, but you knew he’d come around. Silence, for a moment, interrupted only by Ryan’s increasingly pathetic moans.“Shall I pop in a movie?” Yaz asked finally. “Go on then,” the Doctor said, resigned, but you could hear the smile in her voice. “We’re going to be here for a while.” “‘’m never drinking again,” Ryan groaned from the floor. He clapped his hands over his ears as you all began to laugh, which did exactly nothing to help. “Humans,” the Doctor said to the TARDIS ceiling, but she was still smiling. “You love us,” Yaz said, standing up and moving to put on a movie. “Yeah,” the Doctor said after a moment, so softly that you thought you might be the only one who heard it. “I do.”

#this isn't exactly an example of uh #good writing #but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless #it WAS fun to write #request #mine #writing #13th doctor x reader #thirteenth doctor x reader #nb reader #back to my regularly scheduled circus performances now

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bbyx · 4 years

Text

ripple effect - part seven

Summary: During her fourth year at Hogwarts, (y/n) Deauxville falls for none other than Cedric Diggory. But it's not easy when you have to deal with protecting your family's fortune, keeping your father's illness a secret and having two of your closest friends catch feelings for you.

Pairings : reader x cedric, reader x draco, reader x harry

"I don't believe it!" Ron said, in a stunned voice, as the Hogwarts students filed back up the steps behind the party from Durmstrang.

"Krum, Harry! Viktor Krum!"

"For heaven's sake, Ron, he's only a Quidditch player," said Hermione.

"Only a Quidditch player?" Ron said, looking at her as though he couldn't believe his ears. "Hermione — he's one of the best Seekers in the world! I had no idea he was still at school! (y/n) think you could introduce me?"

"(y/n)?" Harry said worriedly waving his hand in front of your face. "(y/n) you okay?"

"What?"

"You think you could go introduce me to Viktor Krum?" Ron asks, his eyes sparkling.

"Krum's here?"

As you recrossed the entrance hall with the rest of the Hogwarts students heading for the Great Hall, you try to spot Fleur's silvery hair in the crowd. Several sixth-year girls were frantically searching their pockets as they walked

"Oh I don't believe it, I haven't got a single quill on me"

"D'you think he'd sign my hat in lipstick?"

"Look it's his girlfriend." The other whispers.

"She looks awfully stunned, doesn't she?"

The other shrugs. "Maybe they've broken up."

When you enter the Great Hall, you follow your friends to the Gryffindor table without paying attention. You're still searching for Fleur in the crowds of students.

"Over here! Come and sit over here!" Ron hissed. "Over here! Hermione, budge up, make a space"

"What?"

"Too late," said Ron bitterly just as you spot your cousin at the Ravenclaw table.

"I have to go." You say distractedly.

"Where are you -" Harry starts but you're already gone.

There's a large herd of Ravenclaw students surrounding Fleur and her friends. You try inching your way forward when a girl stands in your way.

"Go back to your table, you're crowding us." Marietta Edgecombe says, flicking her nose as far up as it would go.

You sigh. "Could you please move."

"I ought to go tell Professor Flitwick that you won't stop harassing the Beauxbaton students.

"Marietta, I don't have time for your shit right now. Seriously move."

"Ah girlz tis is my couzin (y/n)" Fleur says coming behind Marietta. Marietta looks between you and Fleur and her eyes flash in understanding. The other Beauxbaton girls look at you bitterly, their faces reading Not another one. Fleur grabs you in a hug that feels more like a chokehold.

"Fleur! It is so nice to see you again." You tell her in French.

"You as well, my mother and father, send their warmest regards." She flashes a strained smile.

"Tell them I say thank you." Fleur obviously has no wish to continue this conversation and gets up from her seat.

"Do you know if there's any more Bouillabaisse?" Fleur asks, her eyes cold.

"Check the Gryffindor table."

You glance at the Slytherin table where Daphne and Millicent are practically dying of laughter. Krum! Daphnee mouths pointing to the brooding boy next to Draco.

Oh shit.

If the dating rumours were bad before, they were about to get a lot worse. You roll your eyes at her and try to find your brother in the crowd. He finds you before you can find him and leads you out of the Great Hall.

"Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?"

Harry noticed it was the girl from Beauxbatons. A long sheet of silvery-blonde hair fell almost to her waist. Ron went purple. He stared up at her, opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out except a faint gurgling noise.

"Yeah, have it," said Harry, pushing the dish toward the girl.

"You 'ave finished wiz it?"

"Yeah," Ron said breathlessly. "Yeah, it was excellent."

The girl picked up the dish and carried it carefully off to the Ravenclaw table. Ron was still ogling at the girl. Harry started to laugh. The sound seemed to jog Ron back to his senses. "She's a veela!" he said hoarsely to Harry.

"Of course she isn't!" said Hermione tartly. "I don't see anyone else gaping at her like an idiot!" But she wasn't entirely right about that. As the girl crossed the Hall, many boys' heads turned.

"I'm telling you, that's not a normal girl!" said Ron, leaning sideways so he could keep a clear view of her. "They don't make them like that at Hogwarts!"

"They do," said Harry without thinking, jutting his chin to (y/n) who was walking out of the hall with her brother.

"Harry, you have no chance mate, I heard she went out with Diggory last week. And (y/n)'s part veela so my point still stands." Ron says proudly while Hermione scoffs at him.

"Why is Fleur here?" His eyes darting to make sure no one else was around the pair.

"Hate to state the obvious but she's here for the tournament."

Nick ponders his words for a moment. " So what do we do?"

" Nick you do nothing, I'll take care of it. Just stick to the story okay? Dad's in Europe buying properties. And try not to tell anyone else about his disease."

"Ced told you? (y/n) i'm so sorry I was having a rough time and"

"I don't need your half assed apology right now. Listen last time Fleur saw us, me and you were on" You fumble for words. "Better terms. If she sees how...distant we are right now she might get suspicious and report that back to the rest of the family. So we have to... to look like a team. A united front."

You look up from your feet, your brother's face looks torn between heartbreak and shock. You knew that the dynamics of your relationship had changed but it felt as if saying it out loud made it concrete.

"United front yeah that sounds good." He stutters back.

(y/n) can't bear looking at her brother's face and the mixed feelings his expression is brewing. The doors to the Hall start looking more inviting with each passing second.

"(y/n/n) wait" Nick says, flashing you his brotherly smile " if anyone gives you shit about Krum, you call me alright?"

He gently tugs your ponytail as he passes you.

Despite all your new problems you smile all the way to the Slytherin table because that was one of the longest interaction you've had with Nick in months. You sit in between Theodore and Blaise.

"Is your cousin entering?" Draco asks as you shovel food onto your plate.

"I'm not sure. We barely had time to talk, Edgecombe was practically slobbering all over her."

"Cousin??" Millicent questions while pouring herself more pumpkin juice.

"Yeah my cousin Fleur's here. See, at the Ravenclaw table. The tall blonde one, next to Cho."

"Holy fuck" Blaise whispers.

"She's...really hot." Theo says, eyes fixed on Fleur.

"It's not fair, why is your whole bloody family so freakishly beautiful." Daphne pouts. "I mean even your dad makes half the school drool."

"Not to mention your brother." Millicent sighs dreamily. You laugh quietly to yourself because you know your brother is interested in someone very... different from Millicent.

When dinner disappears, you finally dare to take a peek at Viktor Krum. Instead you meet eyes with his friend. Krum's friends nudges him and points to you. You look down at your plate quickly like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

Holy shit this can't be happening.

"(y/n) I think Krum's coming." Theodore laughs quietly.

"Theodore save me." You whisper to your neighbour, feeling Viktor Krum's eyes on the back of your head.

"What do you want me to do!?"

"I don't know! Think of something!"

" You could kiss me." Says Theodore with a wicked grin.

"Or me!" Blaise adds on the other side of you.

"What!"

"Just saying, love" Blaise says, putting his hands up. "It would be a great deterrent."

Theo adds smugly "Any bloke would know he doesn't stand a chance if he saw you snogging a young James Dean like myself."

Before you could throw insults at the two of them, you feel a presence behind you.

" Hello, I do not believe ve have formally met. I am Viktor." He says holding his hand out, you give him your hand, not wanting to offend him. He plants a small kiss on it and you hear tremendous cheers and whistles ripple through the hall. You catch Cedric's eye at the Hufflepuff table just as the glass he's squeezing bursts into shards.

"Oh hi. I'm (y/n). Listen, I'm sorry about the whole article girlfriend thing."

"Don't apologize, it is not your fault, reporters make up ridikulous things about me all ze time."

"Ah." (y/n) says, not sure how to end this conversation quickly since every pair of eyes were on her and him. "Are you entering?"

"Yes of course. Are you?"

"Me? No. I'm too young."

"Hmm vell zen I hope you vill cheer for me vhen I get picked."

And with that he walks away.

Everyone starts filing out of the Hall when Dumbledore finishes introducing the Goblet of Fire.

"(y/n)! Wait" You hear Cedric's bright voice in the crowd. " I brought you this." He hands you a small vial with a thick orange paste. "It's crushed Dittany, it'll help with your burn."

"Cedric, that's so thoughtful!" You say giving him a quick hug before his friends appear behind him.

"Dr.Diggory has to live up to his reputation.' He whispers attractively.

Nick raises his eyebrows at you in a questioning way but you brush him off.

"We're putting our names in tomorrow morning! You have to come watch." Says Peregrine, barely able to contain his excitement.

"If you bring a quill I might let you get my autograph. Who knows, it might be worth millions when I win." Jeremy says, his nose still wrapped in a thin baddage.

"If you come, I'll make sure to include you in my acceptance speech when I become champion." Graham adds, sliding between you and Cedric.

"Will you come? Please?" Cedric says, looking you straight in the eyes and erasing all coherent sentences from your brain.

"Y-yeah" You say flustered.

"Of course she answers Pretty Boy Diggory." Graham mumbles jokingly.

"No, he was just the only one who said please." You say before tossing your hair back and strutting off, making half the group's jaw drop. You smile devilishly to yourself.

Always works.

(y/n) waits in the Great Hall for Cedric, her brother and his friends, already regretting having gotten up so early.

"Anyone put their name in yet?" Ron asks a third-year girl eagerly.

"All the Durmstrang lot," she replies. "But I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts yet."

"Bet some of them put it in last night after we'd all gone to bed," says Harry. "I would've if it had been me . . . wouldn't have wanted everyone watching. What if the goblet just gobbed you right back out again?"

Someone laughs behind Harry. Turning, you see Fred, George, and Lee Jordan hurrying down the staircase.

"Done it," Fred says in a triumphant whisper. "Just taken it."

"What?" asks Ron.

"The Aging Potion, dung brains," says Fred.

"One drop each," says George, rubbing his hands together with glee. "We only need to be a few months older."

"We're going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins," says Lee, grinning broadly.

"You guys are idiots." You say in between yawns.

"I'm not sure this is going to work, you know," says Hermione warningly "I'm sure Dumbledore will have thought of this."

Fred, George, and Lee ignored her. "Ready?" Fred says to the other two.

"C'mon, then " You watch, as Fred and George successfully get past the Age line and drop their pieces of parchment in the cup. For a split second it looked as though it had worked but then both boys were ejected into the air and fell hard on the cold stone floor. Immediately after, long white beards sprouted out of their faces and the entire hall erupted in laughter.

"Ladies and Gentleman, you're about to witness history." Graham says, his chest puffed out as he walked past the age line and dropped his name inside.

"D'you reckon they'll let us keep the Goblet if we win?" Xavier says, hypnotized by the blue flames.

"When I win i'll have enough money to buy you a thousand goblets." Your brother says writing his name on a piece of parchment.

"Uh you already have enough money to buy all of us a thousand goblets." Peregrine reminds him.

You roll your eyes at the boys but grab your brother's wrist just as he's about to cross the golden line.

"Are you sure about this? You know you don't have to enter just because all your friends are doing"

"Whatever you say Mom." He says before dropping his paper in with ease. " Calm down i'll be fine." Nick says, ruffling your hair.

"Nick stop! My hair is priceless." You say theatrically while smoothing out the top of your head.

" Speaking of hair obsessed people." Peregrine says as Cedric and Jeremy walk in.

"Sorry we slept in." Cedric says sheepishly.

"Ced said he would wake me up but at 10:30 i'm ready to go and this asshole's still sleeping like a baby and then I said-" Jeremy starts.

Cedric walks up next to you.

"Need a quill?" You say holding up the parchment and quill the other boys had used.

" No, I already wrote my name with my lucky quill." He mumbles the last part, clearly not wanting the others to hear.

"Ooh (y/n) wanna see my lucky quill." Peregrine says snaking an arm around your shoulders. You slap him on the back of his chestnut hair. "Ow! Ow! Damn you hit hard!"

Cedric walks up to the cup, the blue light reflecting off his face, accentuating his perfect features. A quick glance around the room confirms what you already know, every girl at school has shown up to watch Cedric Diggory put his name in the cup.

Just then the Beauxbaton girls file in, being led by Madame Maxime. Fleur smiles at you as she walks past, a smile that would look unbelievably gorgeous to anyone else but it sent a shiver down your spine. At the sight of your cousin, Jeremy's bandaged nose starts to bleed.

"Ah fuck!" He says blood getting on his Hufflepuff sweatshirt.

"Well boys, off to the infirmary." Nick declares.

As Cedric brushes past you, he slips you a note.

Tomorrow night, hallway outside kitchens.

I'm gonna give you a tour of the best common room.

Cedric.

P.S: there will be chocolate frogs

#cedric diggory #harry potter #draco malfoy #hp and the goblet of fire #cedric diggory x you #cedric diggory x reader #cedric x you #cedric x reader #harry potter x reader #draco malfoy x reader

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derrickperegrine · 7 years

Photo

come back down to my knees gotta get back, gotta get free

a continuation of the last meal

(click ‘keep reading’ or read on ao3)

‘It’s that house, right around the corner,’ Millicent’s voice confirmed through the legilimency link, authoritative despite the wavering connection.

Graham rolled into the cobbled streets from the shadows. ‘The red brick one, right?’ he asked as he tip-toed forward, although no one would have been able to hear him even if he had been walking normally.

‘Did you have to do a forward roll?’ Millicent hissed at him.

Graham grinned impishly. ‘Got to get into the character and mood, Hellcat.’

‘You’re not even that type of assassin! You’re a demolitions expert!’

Graham sighed dramatically. ‘A man can dream, though.’

‘You chose to be a demolitions expert, Cracker.’

Graham shrugged even though Millicent couldn’t see him. ‘Many of us hold down more than one job nowadays,’ he contended.

‘We have to, because there are no jobs for Slytherins!’ Graham could hear her rolling her eyes. ‘That’s the reason why we’re in fucking Norwich, in the middle of the night, hunting down a fucking ex-Death Eater, ex-Ministry employee.’

‘A doubly unsympathetic character,’ Graham shook his head as he melded into the shadows of the house. ‘Honestly, he deserves to know that we’re coming for him. Put fear in his heart for once,’ he commented as he snapped open the briefcase he carried with him. He stuck his hand into its endless maw and groped around for his first bomb.

‘Angel already explained; we obviously can’t,’ Millicent hissed, ‘Travers is too cautious and too skilled for us to hope to take him out, one-on-one, without causing a huge ruckus.’

‘Hellcat, I’m planting bombs. We’re causing a huge ruckus.’

‘Yes, I am aware, but at least we’re not going to be putting on a huge laser show for everyone while we’re at it.’

Ah, yes. How could Graham forget their near-detection at one of their earlier missions, in which an agent and a mark engaged in some serious dueling, resulting in colours of various kinds bursting at the windows, loud incantations ringing into the night, and a mess of magical signatures? It took them so long to cover up all their tracks from that one. Graham didn’t remember who was the agent for this mission. He paused to recollect as he fished his bomb out of the briefcase.

It might have been him.

‘I don’t remember exactly either but it was probably you,’ Millicent confirmed.

‘Laser shows are cool, though,’ Graham argued weakly.

He stuck his other hand into the briefcase and found a pair of spectacles in a side pocket. He slid the spectacles out of the bag, unfolded them by shaking them roughly, and slid them over his eyes.

A world of black and white, bones and shadows flashed before him. Pellucidity Lenses. Graham had snatched up a pair from Zonko’s during his school years and held on to them; who knew that they’d be useful tonight, years after, in the assassination of an ex-Death Eater?

The main supports of the building showed themselves before Graham, thick and sturdy wooden posts, exposed and vulnerable to Graham’s attacks. Taking out his wand, Graham levitated his bombs to the strongest parts of the building; which were simultaneously the weakest parts. For once you take down the sturdiest parts of a building, the more fragile parts inevitable cave in and collapse. Spectacularly.

The figure of Travers reclined above Graham in his bedroom, unknowing of his immediate fate, and unbothered by his identity. Graham smirked; it was just like Travers to be so arrogant, thinking that no one could find him, an ex-Death Eater, in lovely Norwich, so seemingly tranquil and un-evil, with its numerous cute tea rooms and colourful bookshops.

But Lucian could sniff out anyone. How he did it, Graham didn’t want to know.

Though, that being said, Travers was quick and slippery; after all, it took skill to be able to wriggle out of the rubble of the Battle of Hogwarts, to lie low for so long, and to make it away, undetected -- by most. Graham raised his wand and the words tumbled liltingly from his mouth; the air around the building shimmered with the faint glitter of a force field. Didn’t want anything coming out of the house, or hitting anything beyond the perimeter.

‘I hope he doesn’t see that,’ Hellcat commented boredly.

‘He won’t, he’s probably sleeping,’ Graham reassured her. Even if he were awake, it would be really strange for him to stare out the window, Graham thought to himself, He’s a known Death Eater, not some Emily Dickinson type.

Something crackled on Millicent’s end of the link, and it sounded like muffled laughter. Graham smirked to himself and got back to work.

To the casual observer, it may seem that bombing a house was simple and facile work; it did not require the exertion that physically murdering a person required, nor did it call for extensive magical skill and knowledge to execute.

However, to truly pull off serial bombings, it took skill.

Planning explosions are much like choreographing theatre, Graham considered. One must not place bombs at too obvious of locations for then the end result ends up looking evidently rehearsed, premeditated, unnatural; the goal was not to simply take out a victim, but to do it most discreetly.

Enough to pass under the noses of certain aurors. Minimalist enough to make it look like an accident; although with a varied enough arsenal to produce diverse effects, masking distinctive patterns and tell-tale signs; to eliminate all evidence.

Bombing a target was an art. It required imagination, technique, and vision; and of course, personality. A certain flair, a half-signature -- or else, how would people pick up that the Organisation was out there taking them out?

Graham placed his weapons strategically around the building, his mind whirring to figure out how they would detonate and how the building would collapse in onto itself; and how it would inevitably crush the mark inside, no blood on Graham’s hands.

It was simple, detached business; as simple as being a rogue assassin gets. You kill your mark from a distance, watching it all happen like you’re a bystander; you kill them without touching them, hearing them, seeing them.

That was good, Graham thought to himself; he never wanted to see a Death Eater again in his life. His chest burned with a feeling of annoyance at the thought.

‘You alright?’ Millicent asked.

‘Yep, m’alright; I’m almost done.’ Graham responded. He took one last sweeping glance over his work, and then checked to see if Travers was still in bed. He hadn’t moved an inch. ‘Hellcat, I’m on the move,’ he reported as he packed away his things and started walking quickly away from the house.

‘Keep to your side of the road, the Muggle cameras won’t see you as long as you keep to the shadows. The churchyard should be an adequate location.’

‘I copy you, thanks Hellcat.’ He lurched forward in the dark, until he saw the headstones of the old churchyard jut out of the ground like jagged dark teeth. He tiptoed behind the tallest one he could find -- one ought to be careful around old burial grounds, for frequently the dead are buried shallowly upon one another, and the ground will cave in under pressure -- and pressed himself against the cool stone.

‘I’m ready whenever you are,’ he said.

‘Detonate at will,’ she said.

Graham pointed his wand at the house, and twisted it in a quick circle. He cast a quick muffliato around his ears, and ducked.

There was a blinding flash of white light -- like that of lightning -- that briefly lit up the night, and a loud, angry bang; and then the dying sound of crumbling brick and rising dust; ashes to ashes. The building crunched apart easily and loudly; Graham needed to get out of here fast.

He stuck his head out from behind the gravestone to observe the devastation one last time. The top floor of the building had been blown to bits, and caved into the first floor,. The entire structure lay in jagged ruins. There’s no way Travers could have survived that. Graham waved his wand and performed a quick check for sign of life -- none. ‘Target neutralised,’ he reported.

He just caught the beginnings of Millicent’s ‘Good,’ before he apparated away.

The door chime pinged as Graham touched his card to the reader. He gripped the handle and pushed the door open; as he walked in it clicked shut behind him, and he threw himself onto the bed.

It would be too suspicious if there was surveillance camera footage of him coming into Norwich the day of the explosion and leaving right after it, so the Organisation had agreed that he should stay a few nights at a cheap hotel, laying low and pretending to be a traveller.

Graham flipped over onto his back and surveyed the room. It was a small, plain deal, with beige walls and brown curtains, and just big enough for a bed, a desk, and a closet-sized bathroom. Almost feels like a box, Graham thought, sighing. He sat up and removed his clothes, draping them over the chair by the desk. He crawled under the covers, and with the snap of his fingers extinguished the light.

What am I going to do tomorrow? he questioned himself boredly; then he realised that he asked himself this everyday. What was there to do for his kind? Sure, he still had his parents’ fortune and estate, but what’s a full vault if no one will take your gold, and what’s an enormous mansion if there’s only one person? What’s a home if your family will never come back, and your parents will grow old and die far away, in Bourges, where they went to hide from the worst of the War? Thanks to the current political atmosphere, it’s likely they’ll never come back.

Perhaps it’s all well that they didn’t come back. Graham imagined that it would be awkward to explain to them what he’s been doing. It was even awkward for Graham; in all his school-time daydreams about his future, being a rogue amateur assassin was definitely not on the list.

However, despite the nature and reputation of this sort of ‘occupation’, surprisingly it wasn’t totally objectionable, Graham decided. He didn’t mind the killing; it was necessary, he believed. Former Death Eaters definitely deserved to die, and moreover Graham wasn’t willing to let them live in order to incite another pureblood elitism movement. But he did not reap enjoyment nor righteousness from killing these Death Eaters; he wasn’t fueled by vengeance like Pansy, or indignation like Peregrine, or opportunity like Lucian. He was simply doing his part to prevent all their fates from befalling future generations. It wasn’t fair that their lives had to be decided by the actions of people who didn’t give two shits about them.

So Graham decided to take things into his own hands; to let his actions better the lives of those who came after him, because he cared. He had hope; after all Voldemort was finally dead, and wounds would heal. There could be a day when Slytherins were forgiven and pardoned; but that day would not come if Death Eaters had been allowed to exist, crusts of salt over old cuts. He had to remove them.

He sighed, turned to his side, and closed his eyes. He felt like he was nothing; he felt like a tired heaviness. Who knew how weighty nothing ended up being?

Tomorrow he would do something to lighten himself up; after all life is wasted if you spend all your time wallowing in your thoughts and marinating in your sadness.

Sun streamed through the big window panes of the tea room, a rare treat in the middle of March. Graham sipped his cup of assam placidly, feeling the aromatic warmth fill him up from his core to his fingertips. He put the cup down onto its saucer, and set them both on the table. Picking up the butter knife, he cut open one of his two fruit scones, and smeared it with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

As he bit into the buttery, sweet goodness, his mobile pinged with a local headline. He was sure it was about the job last night, and he knew that he really shouldn’t read it if he didn’t want to spoil his good mood; but he couldn’t help it. What if it’s something important? Setting down the half-eaten scone back onto the plate, Graham picked up his phone and tapped at notification.

BOMB ATTACK AT FORMER DEATH EATER’S SECRET RESIDENCE, the headline blared, with a smaller line of all-caps words along the bottom of it, AURORS ARE BAFFLED. Graham picked up his cup again and sipped nervously. It was not ideal that the aurors picked up on it being a targeted attack. It was alright, though -- the Organisation needed to remind people that they were out there, once in a while. Spook them out, make the chase interesting; or else assassination would just become a bore.

Graham put down his cup, and picked up his scone again. Between bites he read the article, and felt his heart grow cold despite the warmth of the freshly brewed tea. The aurors picked out Graham’s pattern-less pattern, correctly concluded that the house belonged to Travers although the body should be beyond recognition after the ordeal, and correctly identified the perpetrators as ‘The Last Meal’ -- which, actually, was not altogether unexpected, as they were the only known rogue assassin group. But, worst of all, they found bomb fragments at the site.

That was impossible. None of Graham’s bombs left any trace -- in fact, they were less traditional bombs, and more alchemical concoctions that he brewed in his parents’ empty estate; he encased them in a thin shell that usually crumbles to dust with the force of the blast; and any last remnants would dissolve with the evening dew. The fact that aurors found fragments at the site meant something very, very bad.

Someone was interfering with their assassinations.

Graham’s hand shook as he drained his cup and read on. The next line nearly had him spluttering.

‘The body was not identified to be Travers’. Aurors suspect that it belonged to an ordinary Muggle. There was no residual magic around the body.’

Graham’s heart sank so low that he was sure it rested under his feet, beneath the cold stone floor of the tea room. How could the body have been a Muggle’s? Travers lived in a Wizarding neighbourhood? Graham pondered to himself. Had he killed a Muggle?

The rest of the article yielded no more information. Nervously, he closed the application and asked the waitress for the bill. After paying for his breakfast, he walked briskly out of the tea room, hoping not to look too suspicious, straight to his tiny hotel room again.

As soon as he burst through the door, he dialed Lucian’s secure number, and tapped his feet impatiently as he waited for Lucian to pick up the phone. It rang a couple of times before Lucian managed to find it; Graham heard Lucian shutting off the coffee grinder in the background.

‘Cracker, what is it?’

‘Lumos, have you read the news today?’

‘No, not yet. Why?’

‘We’re in deep shit. Read it and get back to me.’ He hung up before Lucian could answer; rude, he knew, but he was too paranoid to stay on the phone for too long, even if their numbers were all secure. Supposedly.

He called Millicent next. ‘What have you done?’ she seethed through the receiver right after she picked up. So she had read the news.

‘It wasn’t me,’ Graham explained, ‘You know that I clean up a scene like no one else. I think someone has set us up. Or used us to set someone else up, rather.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘I have no idea,’ Graham confessed, ‘But I’m having Lumos look at it.’

‘Shit. We should tell Angel.’

‘Probably, yeah,’ Graham nodded to himself.

‘I’ll call him. Stay put, keep a low profile.’

Graham nodded even though she couldn’t see him. Millicent hung up.

‘Fuck!’ he cursed softly as he threw his phone against his bed. It bounced off and fell onto the carpeted floor. Graham didn’t pick it up.

This was impossible. They had pulled off the perfect hit. The most the aurors should have been able to do would be to figure out that it was on purpose, and done by the Organisation. That was supposed to be the worst case scenario. It wasn’t even supposed to get there.

What they got instead was incredibly fishy. Various theories raced through Graham’s mind -- it was possible that someone had the body replaced with one that was less mashed-up and more identifiable; after all, the bomb fragments were all placed after the deed. On the other hand, it was possible that ... someone had planted the wrong body there before hand. The thought left a bad taste in his mouth -- someone was out to screw them, why? They were doing the community a service, taking out these bastards. Or ... they might have really killed the wrong person. Graham immediately rejected that conclusion; no, something was definitely planted, or else how would the bomb fragments be explained? Moreover, Lucian was never wrong when it came to target locations ...

Graham’s phone began buzzing on the ground. Speak of the Devil. He picked it up and quickly dusted it off his trousers. ‘Lumos?’

‘What the fuck have you done,’ Lucian’s voice teetered along the edge of disgruntled and absolutely furious.

‘Listen, you know my methods, you know this wasn’t me,’ Graham argued defensively.

‘Are you saying I found the wrong target?’

‘No, no!’ Graham shook his head. ‘No, you’re never wrong.’

‘Then whose fault is it?’

Graham took a deep breath. ‘I think it’s an outside party.’

Lucian said something muffled that sounded a lot like Fuck!

‘I think someone is either using us to set someone up, or actually setting us up,’ Graham continued.

Graham heard the sound of things being kicked, and something that maybe sounded like Perry and bastard. Was Peregrine behind this? Graham frowned. It wasn’t like Derrick to do something like this; did he know something that Graham didn’t?

‘I’ll look into it,’ Lucian said suddenly, his voice seeming louder after the prolonged disturbed non-silence that he had performed. ‘I’m going to catch this fucker.’

‘Keep me updated,’ Graham said.

‘I’ll keep you in the loop. When are you coming back to London?’

‘The day after tomorrow,’ Graham answered.

‘Shit. I guess they can’t have you coming back quite so soon after the incident,’ Lucian reasoned, ‘In the meantime, can you comb the Norwich wizarding community for possible clues?’

‘I suppose my Glamour skills aren’t too rusty; I could cast a passable disguise,’ Graham agreed. Of course, a Glamour wasn’t ideal, but he did not have the resources nor the luxury to attempted something like a Polyjuice potion; he couldn’t be seen shelling out that amount of cash, for those very specific ingredients neither.

‘Good,’ Lucian said, ‘Be careful, Cracker. Something’s been afoot and this could be connected,’ he continued.

‘What? When were you going to tell --’

‘Don’t tell anyone,’ Lucian hissed, and Graham could hear the blade’s edge in his voice. ‘I’m trusting you. Don’t betray us.’

Us? Who was us? Graham decided not to press on further. Lucian would tell him all in time, he was sure. He trusted Lucian as well; though if something is truly happening around the Organisation, he wasn’t sure who to trust anymore.

‘Alright, we’ll keep in touch,’ Lucian said by way of goodbye and hung up.

Graham put the phone on his bedside table, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.

He needed to fucking reset his brain. This was all too much.

Norwich was very pretty at sunset. The sky stretched on for many hues, smooth and warm, filling Graham with a sense of lightheartedness and strange wistfulness. As he walked down the cobbled paths, twisting into winding alleys, he looked up at the sky, looming reassuringly above him. He would have liked to seen it on a better day than today.

He reached up to scratch his head and found his fingers tangled in long, coarse, and unfamiliar hair; he still was not used to his Transfigured wig from an old cotton shirt. He let his hand drop back to his side, and sauntered up to the gate of the Alchemists’ Alley.

The wrought iron, recognising his magic, parted easily like soft wire for him, and he slid into the Alley. Graham surveyed the scene before him, and decided to head towards the busiest pub he could see -- usually there was good information to be picked up there.

He dropped into the Facetious Friar, and slid into a table in the corner. He ordered a gnome-brewed stout from the barmaid, and wandlessly cast a hearing enhancement spell. After being a part of the Organisation for so long, magic like that came naturally.

The barmaid brought him his stout and he nursed it slowly whilst eavesdropping on everyone’s conversations. There was quite a lot of talk about the bombing, unsurprisingly. A place like Norwich did not get many bombings or assassinations.

It seemed to Graham that the residents were mainly worried that there had been a Death Eater amongst their midst, and they had not noticed it. ‘Truly a slimy Slytherin,’ one man said disdainfully, and Graham felt annoyance twist sharply at him. It was annoying because it was true -- the Organisation was just as slimy and slippery, if not more so, than Travers and his type. Only Slytherins can capture Slytherins.

Hours passed as Graham listened patiently to fragments of conversations. Nothing important or significant came up, and Graham was about to leave, when someone suddenly sat down across from him, and looked him straight in the eye.

‘Graham Montague,’ Harry Potter said, ‘It’s been a while.’

Graham’s immediate instinct was to get up and run, as fast as he could; but of course that was a fucking foolish idea, Potter would catch him in no time. It’d just make him look guiltier. Not that wearing a Glamour and a wig wasn’t guilty enough; though how did Potter see through his Glamour? Graham looked at Potter’s bright red uniform with the Head Auror badge over his heart. Shit, he should have put more effort into his disguise if he was supposed to evade someone of that rank.

Nevermind, he can try his best to play along with it; if Potter ever asked him, it was for an amateur theatre production he just came from. Yes, theatre was plausible. Graham cleared his throat and tried to form a polite greeting in his head. ‘Potter, how nice to see you. Certainly wasn’t expecting to see you again, after school.’

Harry laughed, and the corners of his eyes crinkled up amiably. Graham wondered how this man became the mascot of all those who hated Slytherin. He looked so relaxed, so approachable; which struck Graham as odd, given what Potter had gone through. What was his game?

‘Nice? Oh it’s certainly not nice to see me. I’m here on official business,’ Potter gestured at his auror uniform, ‘Unfortunately there’s been an explosion here, I’m sure you’ve heard already.’

‘Well, yes,’ Graham confirmed. He did not want to talk more about the incident; if Potter were to delve into the details of the case, he would have no choice but to lie even more, which would lead to more storylines for Lucian to follow and for everyone to continue playing. It would be a mess.

‘It’s not a nice way to go,’ Harry commented, and looked into his own drink. He was drinking some kind of ale, Graham decided. Harry wore a sort of expressionless look, but it could have easily been exhaustion from work, or his way of showing pity. He used to be an easily readable person in school; and Draco Malfoy delighted in driving him obviously nuts, but Harry after the death of Voldemort seemed much more like a guarded, impartial person. Graham wondered what he was afraid of, and what he believed in, for he could not see either fear nor belief in the post-War Harry Potter.

He tried to not watch Harry too conspicuously as he drank more of his stout. Harry still looked the way he did when they were at school; he had the same smooth brown skin and green eyes, and messy black hair which he now wore rather long. His face was sharper and older looking, but he was still the same boy from Hogwarts.

‘But he was dead before he got to the house,’ Harry said, and Graham nearly spit out his drink.

‘I don’t know if you’re supposed to be telling me that,’ Graham pointed out, although he did not object to Potter divulging extra information to him. Perhaps the bloke had a bit much to drink; but Potter didn’t look drunk. He looked perfectly lucid.

‘Of course I’m supposed to,’ Harry replied, ‘We’re on the same side.’ Graham looked at him unsurely, but Harry’s gaze was adamant.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Graham said quietly.

‘I know of your Organisation,’ Harry explained. ‘I admire your work.’

Graham shook his head. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he lied, ‘I know of no such organisation, I’m merely passing through Norwich on my way to see my uncle and aunt.’ Shit shit shit shit, how did Potter know? Were they exposed or something --

‘If I didn’t know about you and the Organisation, how would I have been able to find you?’ Harry continued.

‘F-find me?’ Graham stumbled. ‘You mean, you didn’t just bump into me right now, you’ve been ... looking for me?’ Shit, was it me? Was it me again?

Harry nodded. ‘I’ve been looking for all of you. The time is about to come,’ he explained opaquely.

‘How do you mean?’ Graham’s heart was thumping uncomfortably in his chest. Fuck, did Lucian know this?

‘It’s nearly time for dessert,’ Harry said simply. He whipped out his auror’s notebook and a quill, and wrote down a number on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s my number; let’s keep in touch.’

Graham accepted it and started at the scrawl of numbers. His mind was wooden, unable to process all that was happening right now. Harry Potter? On the side of the Organisation? While it wasn’t hard to believe that Potter had interests in taking down Death Eaters, it was unlike him to be in contact with a rogue assassination association ... and to be so forward about it ... it’s possible that this is someone else, Polyjuiced as Potter. But how?

‘You can trust me, Graham,’ Harry reassured him. ‘I never meant for it to be this way. I’m going to help you all get back your lives.’

‘But why?’ Graham asked as Harry got up, about to leave.

‘You don’t deserve it,’ Harry explained curtly, and turned around; walking away into the darkening alley.

Graham was filled with an uneasiness for the rest of the evening. He walked back to the hotel slowly, thinking over everything that has happened to this point. Things just seemed to unravel, and any answers he received only turned into more questions. Half-afraid, he didn’t want to know the truth behind any of this; but he also felt compelled to uncover all this, even if it was just for his peace of mind. His curiosity always got the better of his common sense.

But, if it was something far more nefarious, horrifying ... Graham wanted to get out whilst he still could. He could still live a passable life; Draco, Blaise, Theodore, and Terence were all getting along alright ... it wasn’t a ideal life, but it was structured and normal; it was still something.

But part of Graham would miss his personal agency. The hope that he carried with him always. And a part of him that he hated knew that he would miss the thrill; the rush of euphoric fulfillment after a successfully executed hit, the knowledge that he made a difference in the world.

But Harry Potter promised him more of a future. Graham mulled over it in his head. It was true, he supposed that Potter could grant immunity to anyone; but if he truly wanted to, he would have done it ages ago. There’s no way this is fucking legitimate. Fuck off Potter, I’ll never trust you, Graham thought to himself.

His phone pinged beside him, on the bedside table. Graham picked it up and saw that the text was from Lucian. ‘Any new findings?’

Harry Potter visited me today, Graham typed out swiftly.

Fuck, Lucian responded immediately. Don’t trust him. He’s involved. Wait, when was Lucian going to tell him about this? How did Lucian already know about Potter? Graham stared distressfully at his screen. Could he not even trust his own teammate?

I know. And wasn’t going to, Graham wrote, finally.

Lucian’s side fell silent. Perhaps he had said all he needed to say. Graham put the phone back onto the table, and snuffed out the light.

He drifted off towards sleep, heavy with consternation and unfinished thoughts. For the first time since Hogwarts, Graham felt lost; disengaged and baffled. He could no longer trust what he knew to be true anymore; he could no longer control the outcome of his own life.

Man is truly never a master of his own fate.

#graham montague #millicent bulstrode #lucian bole #harry potter #hp fanfiction #saladstuff #saladfic #saladedits #the last meal #me: i'm going to write an interesting actiony chapter with explosions and shit!!! it's gonna be fun!!!!#me at 6 am: graham montague has an existential crisis #gjdkfjslgdf not quite but close

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