fletcher, m .
where – an empty muggle home. who – @dearbrn
Mundungus’ ears were sharp, his paranoia heightened by the joint he’d smoked only moments ago. “We’re being surrounded,” he muttered to Doc, after hearing some noises he couldn’t place. Or maybe you’re you just hearing things, Dung, he told himself, fingers scrambling for his wand. Better safe than sorry. “D’you hear that? Fuck.” He fills a glass with water, downs it, getting up to his feet, liquid sloshing over his stained shirt.
“Why do these shithead Death Eaters have the worst timing?” (Or maybe, he thought, maybe he should just wean himself off the shit he kept smoking, taking, drinking, so there were less times where he was caught of guard.) He shushed Doc, not even sure if the other was talking, trying to hear some footsteps, a creak in the floorboards of the empty muggle home they’d been hanging in, a rustle of wind. Silence. It was fucking quiet. “Alright alright, I don’t hear ‘em any more — maybe ‘t was a false alarm, but don’t get mad, yeah?” A pause. “Or, actually, maybe they’ve just learned how to walk on their tippy toes — can y’imagine that? A Death Eater on their tippy-toes?” He giggled, head shaking, almost forgetting their potentially precarious situation. “A Death Eater in a tutu!”
...
as he blows out a puff of smoke, doc’s unfocused eyes try to find a shape in the ghostly haze. he’s so attentive to this creative effort, that he almost doesn’t hear whatever it is that dung’s mumbling on about. “hear what?” head lolls sideways when his friend lurches to his feet, a brief snort scratching at his throat. there’s a too - long beat before the words death eaters register, leaving doc abruptly sitting up. he’s using his hands against his thighs as leverage to stand, only remembering the still lit joint in his hand when it meets skin -- were this a cartoon, there would have been a sizzle before he haphazardly tosses the blunt at the ash tray in the center of the table with a wince. “you’re so full of sh --” and then he’s being shushed. twat.
for fuck’s sake, he doesn’t even end up hearing anything. paranoia settles within him regardless, so he nudges his wand a touch closer -- just in case. doc stares at dung for a moment before his own laughter slips out. “a tutu, some ballet flats?” he drops back down onto the couch, a grin taking shape. “think they could put on a show for us?”