doris @purkiss - Tumblr Blog

spareheir:

“Standard hellos,” Regulus nodded, nose wrinkling since he was quickly reminded of why he didn’t particularly enjoy talking to people. It wasn’t necessarily the woman’s fault, but it was certainly too early for the amount of talking she had done so far.

He absentmindedly tapped his fingers against her mug, head tilting at a sudden thought. “Would you uh, want to swap mugs?” He queried. “Mine’s good as new.” A rather odd request since his was in better condition than hers. If it meant inconveniencing Severus a little extra it had to be a good idea.

“I’m not daft,” He scoffed when she mentioned the amount of time that passed. “Knew enough to ask questions once tossed into here. Surprised they had another war and don’t have a lot of knowledge on it since I didn’t want to answer their questions and figured they wouldn’t answer mine if I didn’t cooperate.”

He shrugged at her question then shook his head. “Certainly not well,” He grimaced. “They seem rather unprepared for… whatever our circumstances are. Lukewarm beverages are doing nothing to help.”

Confusion etched across his expression when Doris appeared to hold her breath, Regulus raising an eyebrow and left uncertain of what to say about the situation. He couldn’t even be certain if it was a warranted reaction given the little he knew about his brother after he passed.

"Yeah?” He murmured. “Sometime before the second war.”

With a furtive glance down at her mug in his hands, Doris raised a brow. Drat, loaning him her mug didn’t put her in any better graces with him if he had his own, handled mug. Maybe she should stop assuming everyone here would be impressed with her mug. “Why would you want to trade mugs? Mine’s got no handle.” What business had he getting rid of his handled mug? But then, what business had she questioning why he was getting rid of his? Anyone else here wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

Her hands went up in defense, “Not calling you daft.” She might have expected him to be a bit naïve, given his age and all, but certainly not daft. “Wanted to make sure you knew, is all. Would give you all the info I knew if I knew much - just know that the Potter boy was right when he said You-Know-Who was back, few months before I died.” And he’d been right all along, even when the Ministry and the Prophet had questioned him - she’d die on that hill (...again). “You have questions, I might be able to answer them. Again, don’t know much, but more than you might.”

He wasn’t the most friendly person she’d encountered in her interrogations (Charity took the cake on that one), that was for sure, but certainly not the least friendly person. In fact, Doris felt she might have a chance of getting somewhere with him.

The subject of Black being dead again brought her chest to compress as she took the information in. “D’you-- d’you know how?” It was odd, this bout of anxiety-fueled thoughts - there was a chance that the man who died could have been Stubby, or Stubby could have gone with him. She shouldn’t have been mournful, even if it was Stubby who had passed; she should have been joyous and celebratory. “Sorry, he was a friend from school.”

#{july 22nd}#{shouting:#MUG SWAP MUG SWAP MUG SWAP}#{chapter one - regulus}

dromedaxtonks:

who: @purkiss where: st. mungo’s when: 07 August, 2002

Normally, Andromeda had the patience of a saint. She’d learned patience through the upbringing of her daughter. Raising Nymphadora hadn’t been a walk in the park by any means. Her daughter had been stubborn. She liked to break the rules and then prove why she was correct in breaking them. She was a spitfire and it had taken years for Andromeda to grow accustomed to her daughter’s way of life. It prepared her for her grandson who was just as troublesome as his mother had been at times. Her patience was immeasurable and it rarely wore down. Today was a different story.

Of course, there were always troublesome patients who wore down her patience. The difficult ones who chose not to listen to medical advice for whatever reason they decided to give. Time, resources, not wanting to. George Weasley was one of them and she’d spent the morning with him, attempting to heal and scold him in equal measure. There was a furrow in Andromeda’s brow that she attempted to rid herself of the moment she walked into her latest exam room. She’d taken a deep breath outside of the door for extra measure.

“How can I help you today?” Andromeda asked as she walked into the exam room, a smile plastered to her face.

Doris had never considered herself much of a hypochondriac. Illnesses, ailments, and rashes came and went, and there truly wasn’t much more to it. However, stepping through that Veil left her with more questions than answers, and more suspicions and doubts that there might be something horribly wrong with her.

Her first headache was the start of it all - it throbbed painfully at the forefront of her forehead. All she could picture was that blasted bludger headed straight for her face, and then darkness. Panicking, Doris had flooed herself to St. Mungo’s right away, staggering to the front desk, and landing herself a prompt exam by way of dramatics.

She never sat, instead, paced back and forth in the room and wrung her hands together. And when the door finally opened, Doris’s head lifted and in a near blur had rushed to other side of the room. “Andromeda,” she clung to the other’s arm, expression stricken and grave.

“I am going to die,” were the only words out her mouth; no explanation, no indication of the underlying problem. Just the simple conclusion she’d come to.

#{aug. 7th}#{chapter one - andromeda}#{you had to wait all this time #and now have to put up with this bullshit #🥴🥴}

ofwhatsleft:

Before George could really put his feet in front of him or even begin to grasp the situation he found himself in, he was being dragged around his own store, learning the history of this woman’s love life and her (…devious?) plans. Coming to the conclusion that getting a word in edge-wise seemed fruitless at this point, he followed her past the aisle of muggle toys and magic tricks.

For a moment, her joyfulness for what could only be some meddling prank for a private eye took him back to his Hogwarts days. It reminded him of when he first found the Marauders Map and the pure joy and excitement it brought to him and Fred. Riddled with possibilities. He was thrilled to see that same enthusiasm exist in this woman’s face. It was a reminder to keep going.

At her rather abrupt question, George gave her a complaisant nod as he continued, keen to help her discover whatever it was she truly wanted to find. “I mean almost anything in here can be used as a distraction. It’s the no potential injuries part that narrows it down a bit.” He made a mental note to maybe update that in the future, if he ever got the motivation to create something new again. “And we’re going to have to turn around to get to the really good stuff you’re after. Unless you’ve decided to take a different approach with that scorned lover of yours,” he gestured with a grin to the shelf Doris was standing in front of which held the line of Love Potions and other various WonderWitch products.

“I’m George, by the way. Reckon you’re smart enough to figure out the rest.”

He took the woman around, happy to be leading a customer this time, through the tall shelves that he could probably navigate with his eyes closed at this point. “So. Distractions sans harm,” he mused. “Fireworks are always a good way to go, you’d just have to be safe with ‘em. Can’t go wrong with a Decoy Detonator. Oh! A good Portable Swamp worked for me back at Hogwarts.”

Dismayed only slightly by his lack of non-injury-inducing products, Doris soldiered on, staring into the abyss of the shelf before her. “What’s this?” she questioned, pointing to a box labelled Patented Daydream Charm. The name only gave her some amount of information on the product. Presumably, it made someone daydream - but the image of the pirate ship atop it left her with confusion. “Is the daydream specifically about pirates? Is the charm meant for other people or for the purchaser? How long does it last?” If the charm could be used on other people, it would likely distract them in the most pleasant way, and hopefully distract them enough that she could get on with whatever she ended up planning out.

At his suggestion, she spun around to check out the merchandise, then stuck a hand out in greeting. “Doris Purkiss.” How much more of Prewett’s family would she meet? ...Had Fabian told any of them about their plans? She eyed George surreptitiously, uncertainly, waiting for him to say... well, say something. Maybe she was expecting him to kick her out?

Warily following him now (she appeared rather put off by being the one that was being led, now - Doris was no sheep), she made certain to regard every item he mentioned closely, nodding her head.

Fireworks wouldn’t work. Setting them off would cause too much of a commotion and would also possibly set things on fire or rebound off of walls. Neither of those reactions sounded like they were safe. Decoy Detonator sounded ominous from the name alone; seemed too similar to an item that might cause harm, though a mental note was tacked to revisit the option of one if nothing else seemed promising.

“Portable Swamp?” she questioned, interest piqued. “What’s a portable swamp, and how did it work for you at Hogwarts?”

#{chapter one - george}#{aug. 5th}#{i'm alive #i'm so sorry this took so long #also i promise doris won't get www banned #george's products will NOT become weapons}

nottaciturn:

location: department of mysteries

status: @purkiss

date: 09.08.02

The room Theodore sat in, a large folder open on the table in front of him, was well lit for its position deep underground. Research had shown the sterile environment hadn’t led to many of the Returned being willing to answer questions honestly and unfortunately honesty was something that was required. If they knew how the subjects would respond to veritaserum, it would have been much simpler to slip in into their tea (the cup already set out in the center of the table for his next appointment) but there was always a risk involved of how they would react to Jobberknoll feathers. It was unsettling to be conducting any kind of interview while sitting in an arm chair more fitting in a child’s library. The looming presence of the silent auror in the corner couldn’t be ignored, who was now mandatory, after one too many outbursts, but Theodore tried to settle himself by looking over the file instead. He had spent the previous night reviewing it. He could tell you about Ms. Purkiss’ obsession with one Stubby Boardman. The man had been mentioned so many times that Theo had to dive into the archives to pull out his own documentation. Lead singer of The Hobgoblins, retired after drawing ire from a crowd of supposed fans. No obvious link to Sirius Black. Just medical records of Boardman’s ongoing injuries from the turnip incident. It seemed the blunt force trauma had caused life-long memory issues. It was then he had caught the name Mina Lima which required returning back to the archives for their file. And so on. And so forth. Had Ms. Purkiss harassed every member of the magical community in her short time in the country? She had certainly gone out of her way to accost his fellow Unspeakables. What had caused her to be one of the chosen then? It was only one of the question they had still yet to answer. Yes, there were theories. Unfinished business. A connection to either the Death Eaters or the Dark Lord himself. Violent ends or one someones could consider unfair. There were no conclusive leads yet and Theo supposed it would be a while until they received one. He stood up when Ms. Purkiss entered the room, an old habit drilled into him that he couldn’t seem to break. He didn’t hold out his hand or greet her with overt friendliness but he did give a small nod of his head her way. “Ms. Purkiss. You’re looking well. Would you like some tea before we start?” Not indulging himself, Theo returned to his seat and pulled a different file onto his lap. A quill soon following. “How has your week been?”

There had been very few times Doris had not enjoyed being on the other side of an interview; shying away from the limelight and attention had never been an interest of hers. One of these times occurred in her late 20s, when she’d agreed to come onto a small radio show hosted by a particularly clingy fling (everyone she’d been romantically involved with after Stubby had simply been a fling; she found it fruitless to invest herself in another person who could lie and betray her in the same miserable way Stubby had). The other time happened when she’d been fresh out of Hogwarts and beginning to make a name for herself; she eagerly accepted an interview request from an employee at the Prophet, but realized halfway through that the interviewer wrote nothing but satire. She’d stormed out right then and there, and the piece was never published.

Doris suspected that this interview would be added to the list of those she did not enjoy.

She’d half a mind to stand Theo up; leave him waiting for her to arrive for hours only for no result. Unfortunately, there would be consequences for such an action - consequences that might put a hamper on her and Fabian’s gravedigging excursion. Being late, on the other hand...

Arriving exactly twenty-eight minutes past the scheduled arrival time, Doris sauntered through the door and waved off the employee who’d guided her there. Lips turned down in a small frown, she took a seat at the table.

“No, I don’t.” She was largely suspicious of his professionalism - pomp and circumstance and what have you - and even more suspicious of the Ministry requiring check-ins. Accepting tea from Theo in such an environment differed greatly from accepting a beer from Katie at the Three Broomsticks. Doris had never trusted the wizarding government (or any government, for that matter), and it showed in her guarded response. “Doesn’t really matter how my week’s been, does it? Want to get on with interrogation, or should we keep up cordialities?”

Her gaze fixated on the file in front of him, brain racing to determine how difficult it would be to snag it out from under him and make a run for it. Would he be expecting it? Maybe if she launched the mug full of tea at him first.....

#{chapter one - theo}#{aug. 8th}#{one million years later #i have responded}

fabianprewctt:

WHERE: Bigsweir Grange, Tutshill, the Forest of Dean, Gloucestershire. WHEN: the early hours of 15th August, 2002. STATUS: closed / ( @mollyeweasley & @purkiss )

Tracks of mud, of damp grave dirt and leaf litter, trailed the length of the kitchen floorboards — a conspicuous trail that took harsh lines to the seats upon which he and Doris were now perched, squashed in amidst the old kitchen table. Fabian recognised everything about this place, like a perfectly preserved snapshot in time, but he had never in his life felt unwelcome in this home.

From the room next door his father (so old now, but still sprightly for it) had been arguing through the fireplace for the past half-hour, a tirade that had ranged from, ‘causing havoc across the countryside’ and ‘I warned you, Molly, it isn’t natural’. Fabian’s tongue sat like lead in his mouth, his eyes drifting occasionally to Doris who sat, equally exhausted in her chair despite the late hour. He didn’t know what to say. Not in the harrowing aftermath of what they had accomplished, not with the argument filtering in from the next room.

Now, at least, he knew why all mentions of his father had been kept silent.

“Are we monsters?” he asked suddenly, head turning towards Doris bemusedly as everything about him ached and he echoed a half-heard truth from the room next door.

Being unwillingly entwined in a familial dispute had been the least of her expectations for the evening. She’d gone over the many possibilities that might come from their grave digging excursions - the muggle authorities showing up, the owner of the graveyard chasing them off, even ghosts. Doris knew Molly would likely eventually learn what had occurred, but immediately after? And told by the Prewett father, no less? This was not anticipated.

With her head to the side and rest upon her palm, she yawned. The work of exhuming a coffin left her far too tired to feel as sheepish as she otherwise should have felt, though the vague feeling of secondhand embarrassment did manage to make a minute appearance. “Maybe that’s what we are,” she grunted in response. The barrage of insults and criticisms coming from the other room brought back sharp memories of listening to professors inform her parents of the trouble she’d gotten up to in school. “D’you reckon he’s going to come back and shout some more? You’ve got it worse, of course. Barb’ll leave me alone. But you,” a grimace pushed the sides of her lips down, “are never going to hear the end of it from Molly.”

#{aug. 15th}#{chapter three - fabian}#{chapter two - molly}

fabianprewctt:

18.27PM, St. Luke’s Churchyard, Tutshill.

Fabian was fairly sure there was no amount of money or spare hands that could entice him to carry out the work they were currently engaged in, a task that even the boundless energy he’d always been possessed with seemed to find itself a dubious match for. Much like every task he’d come up against of late, naive and short his best skillset, he’d underestimated how difficult it would be without magic on his side.

If there was one thing that Fabian could maintain had stepped with him through the veil, however, it was his stubbornness and that alone fuelled the gruelling work they set to. Each shovelful of dirt felt like a promise of at least one question being answered. Tutshill felt like home, like all the little pieces of memories that stirred up around him when he walked the earth around here carried pieces of him that he’d taken for granted, once upon a time. Perhaps what lay deep beneath the earth he was digging might tell him something about that feeling, deep in his chest, that told him he wasn’t what he was supposed to be.

He gritted his teeth against a when and dug harder, more fervently into the ground beneath him and the shallow trough they’d begun to mark out. Lately Doris had been making a terrible amount of sense. “We do what we have to,” he replied, as if that meant something other than we’ll figure it out when we get here. Depending on the condition of the wood he supposed it could be a matter of just prying it apart with their hands, or levering it open with the shovels, or—

And perhaps he wasn’t the chattiest of companions today, but he felt like Doris understood. She’d been less .. Doris today than he’d ever seen her. A glance upwards caught her thoroughly engaged in the toil of digging and an odd, momentary feeling of fondness passed through him before he grimaced and turned his eyes back to the soil. It had to be heat exhaustion. Wiping away the film of sweat that was beginning to gather on his forehead with his shoulder, he stomped the blade of his shovel deep into the earth and levered it up again. “Has Charity,” he heaved in a breath, “Has she mentioned — mentioned anything about — unionising.”

12.13PM, The bus stop.

For a brief, glaring moment Fabian thought about Ted hammering on the door to the shed as he’d hurried off out of the garden admonishing Betsy to stay behind, cleared his throat, took a sip from her offered flask before offering it back, and replied, “Found them in Arthur’s shed. Surprisingly uneventful.”

With a hiss of brakes, a large bus pulled up and rolled to a halt in front of the stop against the curb, Fabian reaching into his pocket to check the number against the ticket Janice had bought for them while trying, valiantly, to bring up Spud (an objectively silly name for a dog, if anyone asked Fabian). They matched, so he got to his feet, offering one of the tickets to Doris and awkwardly tucking the shovels beneath his arm.

He could already see the dubious look on the bus driver’s face as he approached.

Fabian’s experience with Muggle forms of transport were limited to the following:

A) A brief and memorable two lessons in which Ted had tried to teach him to drive. B) A confusing afternoon on the underground when he and Gid had imbibed slightly too much at The Leaky Cauldron and decided to go on an adventure. C) The bicycle he’d found in the back of Arthur’s shed.

As with all the things that inherently scared him, Fabian charged straight into the belly of the beast head on.

“Hello,” he offered with a forced sort of enthusiasm that combined with tired eyes and ruffled hair must have appeared more alarming than natural as he lumbered up the steps into the coach at speed, “I have a ticket. For your bus.”

18:34pm. The (un)resting spot of the Prewetts.

We do what we have to do had a vaguely ominous ring to it, especially when put into the context of trying to open a coffin. Doris didn’t put much value on preserving a bunch of wood that didn’t house her own body, and frankly wouldn’t even put much value on one that did; but she knew that others had their own hold ups on the desecration of the dead, or whatever you might call the act of destroying a coffin. Would Fabian falter if they couldn’t simply lift open the lid? Surely it would have been latched together somehow, and if it wasn’t, the weight of the earth atop it would have pushed it all tightly together, sealing it away from the surrounding dirt.

Try as she might, Doris simply couldn’t picture Fabian bashing in the lid of his own coffin.

Preferring not to request elaboration on what he anticipated doing what they had to do meant, she instead remained silent and continued shoveling. Even for Doris, some mysteries were better left unsolved.

She did wonder - and had been wondering this quite a bit more as their grave digging event had grown closer - about what the outcome here might insinuate about her own remains. Taking a trip out to rediscover the small cabin she’d stumbled upon in the woods all those years ago was a bubbling question, curiosity contained only enough to hide it just below the surface. She knew that they had to accomplish their investigation today before she should even consider a visit to her supposed resting place (but then, her “supposed resting place” brought on a whole other slew of questions; was she buried or had her body been tossed into the weeds? Or maybe she’d been incinerated? And this was only the beginning). Whatever the results of the excursion today were, they would determine whether or not she’d want to pursue what came of her body after death.

Charity had not mentioned unionizing. It had been some time since she’d seen Charity, truthfully - not since they left holding. A few owls here and there, but those mostly involved witchy gossip. “Not yet, no. Why? Have you and Cherry been conspiring?” She bit back a hint of jealousy; conspiring was her specialty. “Unionizing... how?”

12:14pm. The bus stop.

“Arthur’s shed?” Doris questioned. Why would a wizard keep a shovel when they could just as easily use magic to dig stuff up? “Why’s he keeping muggle tools in his shed?” Before capping the flask, Doris took another sip, longer than the first, and then pocketed it. The smell of rubber and diesel and black top overwhelmed the fading aroma of meat spices; the telltale groan of a bus sounded near, though this one seemed much quieter than the Knight Bus if her memory served her correctly.

Hopping to her feet, Doris accepted her offered ticket and followed Fabian up to the bus. After ascending the stairs towards the driver, she loomed uncomfortably close behind her companion, peering over his shoulder to assess what she would have to do in turn with her ticket (which she’d already crumpled like a garbage piece of parchment). The driver stared down at Fabian, took his ticket, and gestured for him to move down the aisle. Doris stepped up and dropped her balled up ticket into the driver’s outstretched hand and confidently brushed past without waiting for approval to move on.

Only a few of the riders looked up in acknowledgement of the newcomers; the others kept their faces down and remained engrossed in their preoccupations. Just one of the riders who’d seen Fabian and Doris, however, took note of the shovels under Fabian’s arm, warily eyeing them. Much to her dismay, Doris sat in the seats right behind her.

Patting the seat beside her, she grinned up to him. “Sort of fun, isn’t it? Never been on a muggle bus before!” Doris swiveled in her seat to look behind her and, after a moment of taking everything in, read one of the large, pasted advertisements aloud, “’Have you or a loved one encountered ah-- ahsbest-- ahsbestus in the workplace? You might be entitled to compensation.’ What’s ahsbestus?”

#tw alcohol #{aug. 14th}#{chapter two - fabian}

eastonks:

⌖

“Sneak it on? Listen, it was a good first attempt. I’ve heard worse but you have to take some of the station’s constructive criticism. They know what they’re talking about. Or they did. I haven’t worked there in years, I guess. Can’t say I know if they’re still putting out good content.” Ted hadn’t been able to bring himself to even tuning in to the station. His show had gotten removed from the air when he had been let go for being a muggleborn, replacing his hour with some kid playing real wix music only. He tried to live his life without a target on his back for years but apparently exposing the magical community to the dangerous influences of muggle rock and roll was a crime.

Rocking on his heels, Ted stifled a grin at Doris’ attention being drawn away from him. Merlin, nothing had changed with the woman. He had seen news of her disappearance in the paper and although he missed seeing her outside the studio it had never occurred to Ted that she had died. He still wasn’t making the connection to her words. It was far more likely in his opinion that she had followed Stubby out on a journey to find himself on a solo album or she had gone to hunt him down if he left the country. Or really any of the other stories that passed through her lips that made Ted grin widely in disbelief and an earnest will to listen. “Can’t say it did but maybe we can rectify that? We could always throw you a listening party if you decide to release it on your own one day.” It’s not like he didn’t have the free time to grab the few remaining friends to give it a go. Doris could have a real career in spoken word if she just put a tad bit more focus to her backing track and tempo. “You thinking about working here now that you’re back in town? I gotta say you definitely have the command of the room. You’d be running the floor in no time.” Looking around and not seeing any new posters of the man of his affections, Ted shrugged her way. “I don’t know if they have it but I have a feeling there might be a new Lockheart book out? It’s been a few years for me and I was hoping he would have released something else by now. If you can’t find that Lima book owl me, alright? We’ve got a mess of books at home left over fro– Just can’t seem to throw anything away.”

Doris had put the most minimal of effort into the track she’d sent in for the WWW’s approval; as soon as she’d figured out the best way to make herself sound remotely like she’d any rhythm at all, she’d sent it in. Truthfully, she’d simply expected that Ted would have played it for her as a favor - he’d seemed so genuine, almost as if he’d actually wanted to share her sage advice and knowledge with his listeners. She’d listened to his hour on the air religiously for months afterwards, convinced that he might change his mind and she’d eventually hear herself - in broken poetry - condemning Gringotts for keeping blast-ended skrewts locked up in various vaults for protection of material possessions.

“Haven’t brought yourself to listen in and hear who replaced your hour, have you? Can’t say it’s as good as what you put on, but I can’t speak to the years I missed of it.”

Doris couldn’t help but imagine that Ted must have passed quite a bit after she did - that, or the war had put many years on the man. Poor bloke must have had it rough. Being locked up after stumbling through the Veil didn’t do much good for the aging process, either. “You enjoy your stay at the Ministry?” Her nose wrinkled. “Wouldn’t be able to say I enjoyed mine, though they did provide room service.” If you could call having a table of magically appearing food for everyone in the room room service.

“Lockheart?” she questioned, arching a brow. “Didn’t peg you as the type to enjoy his work, Tonks. But even I have to admit, would love to read about another one of Lockheart’s encounters with a troll, or maybe an evening in a hippogriff nest. Think they still sell his stuff? Would ask one of the employees but...” she gestured about to the nearly empty room. Doris would never have anticipated the reason for the absence of staff could have been because of her. “Given the situation here, might have to take you up on that offer. Probably would take less time to walk to your place at this point.”

#{chapter one - ted}#{aug. 12th}#{'dangerous influences of muggle rock and roll'}

sand-snake-kate

#{face}

mollyeweasley:

He was quite dramatic. Molly raised an eyebrow – she’d seen quite a bit of drama from both parties, if she recalled the past five minutes – but wisely decided not to say anything. She knew when to and not to pick fights, especially if she wanted to know something, and this woman caught her attention for a reason. She vaguely reminded her of her brothers, actually; they were never quiet and loved to stir up trouble quite a bit too.

Molly was about to open her mouth, maybe offer her a drink elsewhere, when the woman spoke again, catching her attention for an entirely different reason. I died not even two weeks ago. She was one of the Returned, then. Molly thought the novelty of it all would’ve worn off by now, what with living with Fabian and running into several other recently-resurrected people, but each time she ran into someone new her mind stirred again. What was bringing them back? Why were they coming back? Who decided who was worthy of coming back in the first place?

Why weren’t Gideon and Fred worth coming back too?

“Oh dear,” she said, concern flooding in a moment after her curiosity, and Molly took a small step closer. “And you’re being kicked out? Did you do something? Because I feel like coming back from the dead warrants some leniency here.” Molly sighed and gave her a smile. “We can go elsewhere, if you’d like. You look like you need a drink – I’m Molly, by the way.”

What was this woman so interested in? So caught up in thought about? She’d given her her answers, was honest and outright with it all. Too much like Fabian - lost in his mind and sometimes slow to answer. Must have been a family thing... if the two of them were related as she suspected they were.

Did you do something? What was that supposed to mean? Yes, Doris had done something - some 15 years ago, and then she died. Stubby had come to the Leaky Cauldron for a couple of drinks after a gig and she’d done the obvious - follow him, talk to him, end up in a loud and blown out argument with him that got the both of them banned. But this was hardly of any concern to someone else. Whether or not she was the reason she’d been kicked out, it wasn’t reasonable to keep her on a Do Not Enter list after she’d died. She sniffed again, ready to run her mouth until she heard the woman agree with this same sentiment, and promptly

“Agreed. Absolutely agree. Shouldn’t be kicking out any person back from the dead, not after all we’ve been through.” The turn in conversation was far more up her alley. “Would love to go elsewhere-- Molly.” Her intuition was almost definitely correct - Doris knew that Molly was the name of Prewett’s sister. Perhaps she could find out what was happening with those owls she’d been sending.

Extending a hand, she piped up, “Doris. Swell to meet ya. Where were you thinking to take us?”

#{chapter one - molly}#{aug. 1st}#{doris is out here #about to throw hands #with someone who isn't trying to throw hands #god she really does need a babysitter}

ofceridwen:

Charity couldn’t help the grimace that tugged at her features. “Do I want to know the story behind that one?” She wasn’t so convinced that she did. Glancing around the room, she wondered who had been involved. In all honesty, she couldn’t rightly guess. “Smart plan. You don’t want to get too deep in something that you can’t get out of.” She smiled softly at the other woman. “You know I always have.”

Well, that was the Doris she remembered. She had never been one to cushion her blows. But Charity couldn’t blame Doris for her curiosity - after all, she wanted to know what had happened to her after she had disappeared, Doris’ presence there only confirmed the worst. “Snatchers got me.” She began, wringing her hands as she tried to work about the best way to cover it briefly. She was in no mood to go through the details whilst it was still fresh for her. “I was kept in Malfoy Manor for who knows how long. Time just sort of…. loses meaning when you can’t see the sky outside. It was horrible - beyond horrible.” She sighed. “Voldemort himself put me out of my misery eventually, though somehow he managed to humiliate me further. It was in front of the inner circle… he was there.” Her voice lowered, nodding her head in Snape’s direction.

“You and me, we’ll go bother Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks as soon as we can. Sound like a plan to you?” It felt strange, making plans for after their release. What was the date she had been told again? Charity couldn’t remember, so much of the day being a blur to her, but she was sure she’d be reminded soon enough. “Yep, you have. None of this lot are to be trusted.”

“Have you been here long? I haven’t asked you that already, have I?” Charity’s brow furrowed slightly. She needed time to process everything, but she suspected that wouldn’t come until she settled down to sleep for the night. Not that she would be getting any sleep, for that matter. Charity knew that only nightmares would plague her if she did.

“So am I,” She replied, reaching for her friend’s hand. “But we’re not alone in this, we have each other. I don’t think much will be the same, but that’s okay.” Charity still had Doris, someone who would understand how frightening it was to step into the unknown. But her friend had always had a particular gift for ferreting out answers, and Charity had every faith in Doris to find out just what was going on with them.

Doris, of course, had plenty of time to determine who was and was not safe or trustworthy; she’d only been here one night so far. While she didn’t entirely feel lucky to have been here, the luck of the Universe stated that she’d at the very least have her one, truest friend to keep her company and soothe her itching nerves while she endured the situation. “And I will always trust you, Cherry.” Though she would also always want to get too deep into situations she couldn’t get out of, contrary to the other’s suggestion - but Charity already knew that.

Doris had always been skilled at listening as it was a necessary element of her investigations; what she often struggled with in a nonprofessional capacity was her ability to offer genuine condolences. In this case, however, the image of Charity held against her will at the hands of You-Know-Who, Severus Snape watching and not stopping her death - it made her blood boil. Her glare, full of fury and flames, fell upon him; she’d half a mind to stand up now and bash her own mug into his head, but for once, thought better of it. Besides, she’d feel much better watching her friend get her vengeance and do it herself. “Soon as my shiv’s done,” she grated it a bit more ferociously now, “It’s all yours to do whatever you please with it.”

Harassing Rosmerta with Charity again felt miles away, though she nodded glumly in agreement. “Plan on it.” There was something to look forward to, at least. She’d yet to come across something to look forward to. “No; just got here yesterday, actually. Don’t know much more about this place than you, really. Just about the mugs, I s’pose - you’ll have to bother someone for one, if only to defend yourself with.”

Doris clutched her friend’s hand fervently, squeezing it gently in between both of hers. “It’s not the same already. People are different.” The Unspeakables had even been a bit coarse with her right as she’d come to - a little human sympathy would have been appreciated. “Isn’t right, you know? Keeping us all locked up. I’ve tried to figure out plans to get out, but they’ve got us in here good.”

#tw violence mention #{chapter one - charity}#{july 19th}

fabianprewctt:

WHERE: St. Luke’s Churchyard, Tutshill, Gloucestershire / A bus stop outside the Butchers, Ottery St. Catchpole. WHEN: 18.23PM, August 14th, 2002 / 12.07PM, August 14th, 2002. STATUS: closed / @purkiss

18.23PM, St. Luke’s Churchyard, Tutshill.

The graveyard was surprisingly alive, all things considered.

Full of growing, green things overtaking the stone monuments raised to the dead, sprawling trees and prickly rosebushes and thick moss, chirping insects and birdsong. Fabian had spent the weeks since his release from holding desperately searching for something that was always just out of his reach. It lingered in moments—in Molly’s infrequent laughs, in photographs crowded with ghosts—a glimmer of something that’d he’d thought was familiarity, of timelessness, but now in the shadow of the woods he grew up in, amidst the line of stones that marked the resting places of his ancestors, he knew what it was.

Home. He’d felt it the moment he’d stumbled out of the bus onto the grass verge of the road leading into the village, shaking the stiffness from his shoulders and his knees, and been overwhelmed by the rush of it with his first breath. His feet had found the path before he’d even considered it, Doris’s persistent chatter in his ear drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears as he settled the pair of shovels that had earned them so many looks from their fellow passengers over his shoulder and turned to follow the path that circled the edge of the town and led them to the Churchyard.

It felt inherently wrong, to break the hard earth under which he’d been buried, and yet he did it anyway, the stiff ache of his shoulders and cramped legs ignored as the shovel dug hard into the ground again and again, turning the earth beneath it. His grave had been pristine, twin bunches of wildflowers settled into vases at the double headstone. The words on the epitaph were burned into his bleary eyes as he focused on anything but them, on the pinching skin of his palms, the fiery ache of his arms and the short, sharp huffs of air in his lungs.

This should be hard, he’d decided, but it could have been significantly easier with some help.

He glanced up, sweeping the sweaty tangle of hair back off his forehead and eyed Doris pointedly, too out of breath to even make the argument. “It’ll take—” he held up a hand, panting heavily as he stared down at the progress he’d made before glancing up again, “It’ll take all bloody night at this rate. How do Muggles do this?”

12.07PM, outside the Butchers, Ottery St. Catchpole.

The heat of the midday sun was already sticking his t-shirt (freshly-laundered by Molly’s had, but still, somehow, smelling of the chest it had been stowed away in) to his back, the weight of the shovels balanced carefully against his knee as he lent back into the bench of the bus stop that Janice (flustered and bewildered at being called out on the street) had directed him to stopping the nervous jiggling of his leg. He’d been on the brink of something all day. Unluckily for Ted, that something had insisted he leave for the village by 11.40 at the latest and Arthur’s shed had been convenient.

According to the frenzied correspondence of the week, Doris had been supposed to meet him at midday, at the bus stop, next Wednesday. He only hoped Molly’s owl hadn’t gone astray and that she’d gotten his note that morning. There was a wildness to the buzzing beneath his skin today, the kind of feeling that had always overtaken him when he was on the verge of breaking a big story or standing out in the middle of a thunderstorm. Like nothing in the world could get in his path right now.

The shadow that crawled across him before dropping down onto the bench next to him was the first thing he’d paid any real heed to since slipping one of Arthur’s tools through the lock in the shed behind him. “Bus is running late,” he offered after a moment, distractedly, digging his fingers into the grooves of the seat beneath him. “Janice brought us tickets.”

He wasn’t sure she’d actually offered, but Fabian had been distracted today. He’d try and smoke if there’d been any left in the pack.

12:07pm. The bus stop.

Doris would have no clue how severely unprepared she was for a task such as this; she’d learn that later, when she was laboring in exhaustion, stomache growling, over a growing pile of dirt. This was nothing she’d ever done before - and there was no reason, truly, she should have done it before, but this was Doris Purkiss, after all... you couldn’t be too certain of what she’d put herself up to the task of.

She might have been a tad late, in typical Purkiss fashion, due in part to her having to hail what Barb had called a “tack see cab” (she’d been introduced to them on an errands run with Barb, and only knew that they were quite costly), having her driver let her off a few blocks south of her meeting place, and getting caught up by a piece of thin, light parchment which had been floating in the wind past her. Suspicious that it had been a note meant for her (a la the Ministry’s paper planes in lieu of owls), she’d snatched it out of the breeze and spread it open in her palm to scrutinize. Random, printed words in a tidy list and numbers to the far right of each item were under a large title of, “Dickie’s Spirits”. She opted to pocket the paper after deliberating several minutes too long on what the note could mean and at least attempt to meet Fabian before the bus arrived.

She was in luck, it seemed, as she approached her partner-in-crime still waiting patiently for her on a bench. A mixture of spices and iron punctuated the air, aroma drifting towards them in slow wafts as she dropped into the seat beside him. “S’pose that means Janice is good for something.”

The task at hand loomed over them, a dark raincloud threatening lightning. It was possibly one of the heaviest and hardest investigations she’d agreed to, and yet, in spite of it all, she couldn’t help but to feel excited and anticipatory. The end result would do something for them. What that was, she didn’t know, but Merlin was she ready to figure it out.

From a deep pocket in her jeans, she pulled out a flask, took a swig, and passed it along. “Shovels hard to find?”

18:23pm. The (un)resting spot of the Prewetts.

Her forehead fell forward onto her shovel handle, long, low groan emanating from her lips. “’m gonna bet muggles have more than two people shoveling up their graves. And I’d bet they get paid to do it.”

It was about one hour into the bus ride that Doris had realized they were in for a long ride, plagued by the weight of a shovel and antsy legs that yearned to stretch. It was about five minutes into shoveling that she’d realized they were in for a long evening. She would never had said she was unfit, but her arms were certainly not cut out for the repetitive motion of removing heavy dirt from the compacted ground.

“Fabian...” she huffed, heaping more dirt into the pile behind her, “When... if - we make it to your coffin,” another blade-ful of earth, “How are we opening it?” When left to her own devices, left to her thoughts, they began to fester and grow until she’d thought every last thing she could think of. It just so happened that she’d thought of an upcoming dilemma this time. Doris wished she’d sat down and tossed together a list of preparation tactics before they’d left. She’d have, at the very least, worn something a bit looser. The jeans were proving to have been a mistake, as well as the sweatshirt, sleeves now rolled high up her arms in an effort to keep her cool. The only saving graces of the mission was that it would come with answers, and she was beginning to realize that her company wasn’t half bad.

As they dug, Doris thoughts drifted now to the question of what they’d find at the bottom of their hole. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to find. Skeletal remains deepened the question of what am I? - Fabian would undoubtedly launch into an internal crises that she’d be fully incapable of turning around or calming down. On the other hand, no skeletal remains meant they were still built from their own bones, which implied a level of humanity they still had, but then raised the question of how their bones found them once again, and if other future Returned would already have empty resting places.

#{aug. 14th}#{chapter two - fabian}#{hey #do u remember when u said #u had to work on keeping ur replies shorter #and then u produced this monster}#tw alcohol

spareheir:

The woman’s approach earned a wary look from Regulus since the last thing he expected that day was being accosted the moment he stepped out of the bathroom. He masked the surprise he felt with a more disinterested expression, his nose wrinkling when he spotted the mug she held out.

“Oh no I -” He trailed off, realizing he had last seen his mug in Severus’s hands. “Thanks I think?” He grit his teeth and took the mug. With no intention in actually drinking from it, Regulus planned to use it as something to keep his fingers busy with if the woman wasn’t easy to escape from. Fabian had been stubborn enough and his getting through his forced scowls and looks of disinterest apparently meant he was open to the other people in holding talking to him.

“Nice to meet you?” He wrinkled his nose and lightly shook the woman’s hand, frowning since he had only just washed his hands and was going to need to do so again before he went back to sulking on his bed.

“Uh, I don’t know,” He answered her first question then shrugged. “I didn’t ask about the date or much of anything past why they kept asking me questions.” He hadn’t paid much attention outside of feeling incredibly inconvenienced at returning and being bombarded with meaningless questions. Her next question earned a tilt of his head, his look of disinterest faltering since she asked a question that made him think. “Not entirely,” He admitted with a shake of his head.

“One of the others told me my brother died - not the people that did the questioning. And I still don’t know how or why for that matter,” He muttered, relieved he had chanced coffee that morning since he wouldn’t have been happy being bombarded with questions by a woman he didn’t know. “The robes are adding insult to the situation and the first greeting I had from someone here was their hand around my neck and no one doing anything to alleviate the situation.”

Relieved of her mug, Doris clasped her hands tightly behind her back. “You’re very welcome!” Would tacking on a young man to the end of that have been inappropriate? She couldn’t be certain. Maybe she was better off not mentioning his age? But she’d some questions to ask that touched on his youth... this was a dilemma. Her nose crinkled slightly in thought, but brushed off the thought after deciding this was a problem for future Doris.

She almost skipped right past the (albeit uncertain) greeting, eager as she was to ask questions and receive answers, “Right, yeah, nice to meet ya, lovely day, and etcetera - standard hellos.”

It was an attempt at general niceties. For Doris, it didn’t have to be good.

Didn’t ask for the date when he came back? Did he know what day it was now? How could he not be curious enough to ask on the first day? Her brows furrowed together. “It’s a new millennia, y’know. 2002. Not sure when you passed, but ‘m gonna assume it was before the end of the war. July, now.” What she’d give to feel that sweltering July sun again. “Don’t find this entirely ethical myself. Would you say that you’ve been treated well? Or more like a criminal?”

One of the others told me my brother died.

Doris’s breath caught in her throat.

His brother. Sirius Black. Sirius Black -- who was his brother -- had died. Black didn’t have other brothers. She knew this from the research she’d done on him after her sordid split from Stubby; so it had to have been Sirius. Her chin lifted as she took a deep breath in, her mind racing. Did he really die? Was he still living in disguise as Stubby? How could anyone be sure? How did he die?

“Your-- your brother died?” she finally choked out.

#{july 22nd}#{chapter one - regulus}#{why are u the way u are doris}

who: @unspeakablecharm where: the three broomsticks when: 6th of august, 2002

Flooing to The Three Broomsticks seemed Doris’s best chance at getting uninterrupted time at a bar (uninterrupted by her standards meant not getting kicked out - was it that she was better behaved here? or perhaps that The Three Broomsticks didn’t have as strict of rules as other bars?), and so she did -- some several hours prior, now. She’d occupied her time by chatting overzealously with the bartender, slurping on foaming butterbeers, and giving unsolicited advice to other Wixen who entered the restroom after she’d taken to perching sloppily upon the sink counter.

"--cannot understand how the whole lot of you never once believed Harry when he said You-Know-Who was back. Was right there with ‘im all along. Didn’t question it for a minute; and meanwhile the Ministry’s out saying he’s full of it,” Doris had accosted a wizard right as he’d entered the room; he still had not used the toilet, visible in the way he was shifting uncomfortably from leg to leg. He seemed too polite to excuse himself, but cast a pleading look over his shoulder as the door opened to a newcomer.

“Nope! Tell ya who’s full of it. The Minis-- oi!” Doris’s voice was directed towards the woman who’d walked in, “Don’t use the first stall. Someone’s left their mug in the toilet, tried to flush it or something.” She’d never admit that it was she who’d accidentally dropped her own half-drank pint and thought to flush it down to get rid of her mistake (it clearly had not gotten rid of it, but instead suctioned the bottom of the glass into the water drain). She looked up finally when the wizard had taken advantage of her distraction and rushed to a stall; Merlin, did this woman’s face look familiar.

Scrutinizing her for a moment longer, Doris decided it was much too difficult to place her and abruptly stood up. “Hold on. I know you. Don’t I?”

#tw alcohol #tw alcoholism #{aug. 6th}#{chapter one - katie}#{i---#listen #traumatizing experience in the three broomsticks for katie #take 2 #i'm not proud}

fabianprewctt:

It occurred to Fabian, as the slowly rising tide of soap suds crept up his legs, that this exact scenario was perhaps why Molly had been so cheerfully doing everything for him, as if she simply sensed in that way that older sisters do that there was a disaster pending the moment he tried to exert his own questionable judgement into a scenario involving detergent and a washing machine.

“This is wrong,” he acknowledged aloud, watching another errant soap bubble float away over his head, “How are we supposed to just — move on — live like muggles under their mindful eyes, when we don’t even know what we are or why we’re here?”

And wouldn’t this all be so much simpler with magic on his side? He’d been good at magic. Exceptional, even. It had been so natural he’d hardly had to think about it and now here he was, stuck in a laundrette with Doris Purkiss of all people, finding that everything she was saying made far more sense to him than it had any right to and without even the smallest clue of how to handle the steadily growing overflow of soap suds cheerily erupting from the washing machine containing all the worldly possessions he had left.

He blinked dumbly in the face of an assault of soap suds, swiping away bubbles from his eyelashes and staring down at the tiny pile that had settled on his nose and decided, in the way that Fabian often decided things, that this may as well happen. Sweeping an armful of suds from the lip of the battling machine, he tried to direct its natural floating progression towards Doris instead, watching as it drifted aimlessly down upon her head and settled in her hair.

At the very least, Doris was far better company than he’d ever given her credit for.

“Did I?” he replied absently, swiping away the foam beard that was dripping down his chin and stooping to lift a great armful of bubbles up from the floor and catapulting them into the air. Somewhere nearby, Rick cleared his throat meaningfully but Fabian paid it little attention. “It’s just — I think that someone needs to do something and if the Ministry isn’t going to give us answers than we need to get them for ourselves. To go back to the source.”

Not quite believing the proposition that was sitting on the tip of his tongue he swiped soap-damp hair back from his forehead, wondering if he could possibly go through with the inevitable conclusion that was resolving in his mind. He knew exactly whose grave would be waiting next to his should he venture back to Tutshill and the endless stream of memories that waited for him there. He also knew that he’d not had a word from his father since his release and the question of why was something he was finding harder and harder to ignore.

“I think I want to go to Tutshill and dig up my grave,” he offered swiftly before he could retract it, the odd vulnerable feeling in his chest that he’d never acknowledged in his life before at having to ask someone to come with him (to have his back, because it had never not been a sure thing) stirring, “Do you want to come with me?”

Again, Rick cleared his throat loudly, meaningfully, and Fabian waved a hand irritably in his direction as if to say, not now, Rick.

“Roy’s coming,” Rick hissed back at him, seemingly offended by the dismissal and all of a sudden the occupants of the laundrette seemed to come to life. Across the line, Janice bundled her unfolded washing atop the carefully folded collection into her basket and made a hasty beeline for the exit. In the corner, Nana shrunk down behind an ancient edition of a Home and Garden magazine and Rick promptly lifted his copy of The Truthseeker up in front of his face like maybe if they couldn’t see him, Roy wouldn’t see them.

The doors jingled merrily in Janice’s wake and Fabian glanced over at Doris to ask uneasily, “Who’s Roy?”

Surveying the increasing amount of bubbles, Doris nodded in agreement. “Yes, absolutely wrong. As I said.” She waved off some of the assaulting suds, but missed a great many that draped over her head and slowly crackled away, popping in her curls. “Think there’d have been a greater investigation into all that on the Ministry’s end -- which is why I think they might have something to do with it. ‘sides, who keeps that many extra cots around?” And robes, for that matter, nevermind the fact that they were all secondhand. It was also proving quite difficult for Doris to wrap her head around the Ministry having an extra room, as large as it was, to house people in.

“You did. Something along the lines of me being something. Any idea what you might think I am?” Right. She was right and he’d thought it! Sure, among the crew of other investigators and theorists she’d met in her time, it was common enough to hear them call her right. But here, in a launderette, having one Fabian Prewett - not your everyday, resident conspirator - say she was right (even if he was apt to denying it).

Doris leaned over the washer, dipping her hands deep into the soap and water, as if to see if his clothing had gone missing amidst all of the pandemonium. She wasn’t sure what drove her to do so beyond genuine curiosity and the need to act on it immediately; her hands pulled up the same green pair of pants from earlier and promptly launched them at Fabian. Her chuckle was disguised by a cough as she watched them splat flatly across his chest. “So what you’re suggesting is--” she was interrupted by him.

"Yes!” The words were hardly out of his mouth before she’d answered him with similar enthusiasm of someone responding to a proposal. “Would love to come with you,” a steadying breath, yet her eyes were still crazed and eager. “How would we get there? When would we go?” There were about a million questions Doris could ask, but Rick kept interrupting them with impatient coughs. It was hardly polite, and for someone like her to consider someone impolite....

Finally turning to take note of Rick, she squinted hard at him, lips parting, poised and ready to unload a barrage of insults. This attack was halted only when the door to the launderette did not slam shut behind Janice, and was instead held open. All she saw in those first few moments was a spotted, wrinkled hand against glass. Did the temperature get cooler? Doris gulped. Her head swiveled to take in the expressions of all three remaining companions, and while Fabian seemed vaguely nonplussed, the other two were entirely distanced and avoidant.

She smelt trouble brewing.

As a scuffed and worn leather boot stepped through, she suddenly felt as though she shouldn’t have been playing in the bubbles. A second boot stepped through, even patchier than the other. And finally... the head of a man, face ragged as the boots that had preceded him, patchy scalp of wispy gray hairs, and a five o’clock shadow that only deepened the creases in his gaunt face.

“Dunno, but ‘m gonna say he’s Roy,” Doris hissed back at Fabian. Something told her to stand at attention, and thus, she straightened, pushing her shoulders back and lifting her head. Though the old man’s expression began neutral, as he took in the scene of chaos before him, it changed very quickly to one of distaste and ... “Merlin, he looks furious,” she whispered under her breath.

Roy’s eyes flickered between the two stuck in the mess of suds; if looks could kill, the two of them would be dead for a second time. He spoke, words slow, pointed, and barely concealing his boiling ire, “Would someone... like to explain... just what is going on here?” Nana managed to shrink lower behind her magazine, and Rick became further engrossed in his.

“We were just--” Doris began, but faltered and drifted off when she couldn’t think of an explanation. She looked helplessly to Fabian.

#{aug. 2nd}#{chapter one - fabian}#{i can't believe you would leave roy's grand entrance to me #this was v intimidating}

eastonks:

⌖

A smile plastered on his face, Ted held up a hand in a wave as Doris shouted at him from across the shop. Well, it looked like there was no keeping his head down in this shop. Not now. With a curious glance, he watched the shop worker nearly run away from Doris and more true grin took over his face. “Doris Purkiss. Purkiss - back from the dead - how could I forget?” He had interviewed hundreds of people over the years. Read owls from listeners from all over the country but never had he had someone as enthused about the radio as Doris Purkiss. He’d never gotten put on probation before Doris Purkiss. Any plans of books forgotten, (Not that there were plans. The goal had been to take a moment away from the busy street. He hadn’t seen Diagon Alley this packed since before the war and the press of bodies against his was throwing Ted for a loop. A duck into a shadowed aisle near the back to collect himself and maybe to to take a peek at what Lockheart books he had missed out on. The man wasn’t done writing. No matter what anyone said. Ted knew in his heart he had to be making a comeback some day.) he gladly made his way over to see what the heck Doris had gotten up to since she had last written or, well, passed on. Doris had been a staple of the WWN for a few years. A warning before you went outside for a smoke break. She was always waiting for someone to talk to her about the radio station and he had never been one to turn someone away empty handed. “Tell me you’re working on another demo. I haven’t forgotten the first. Words of Wisdom. Still a great working title.”

In the realm of everything that could happen, Doris had not expected that Ted would have waved and grinned at her. Rather taken aback at the amicable nature of the returned greeting, she hesitated to respond and instead took a half-second to search for any apparent danger if she were to appear similarly friendly. Of course there was none; this was the same, warm Ted that had gotten himself into trouble when he’d given her a spot too much information about the Wizarding Wireless Network.

Of course she’d never actually ended up on the WWN, try as she might. But the only person who’d put any effort into getting her on was the man who’d had no sway with the news and only controlled what might play for music. Her spoken word exposé had, unfortunately, not made the cut. “No, haven’t worked on another one. First one didn’t air, and ‘m not about to waste time working on another one if you’re not about to sneak it on.” There might have been a hint of bitterness in her tone.

An unsuspecting stocker walked past, spurring Doris to her feet. “Oi, back here! Have any of you checked up on what you have back there? ‘m still here, waiting, anytime you find my book. Monster Book of Monsters. Edwardus Lima. Kids at Hogwarts needed it years ago -- in case you forgot.” She gave the stocker a long, sharp glare. Being nice to the youth be damned. This was a book she needed.

“Don’t suppose my tape became a radio sensation after my disappearance, did it, Tonks?” Doris turned back. There’d been a short time in holding that she’d expected she’d been fondly remembered - like Van Gogh - after she hadn’t shown back up. Her hopes were dashed when hardly anyone seemed to recognize her name. “D'ya need help finding something? I’m probably more useful than anyone else here. Flourish and Blotts makes a habit of hiring teens who can’t read, apparently.”

#{chapter one - ted}#{aug. 12th}

🐫

Do I know your muse(s): yes | no | a little | tell me about your muse

Pre-established relationships? yes! | no, let’s see where they go! | not yet; let’s plot!

#{i'm not sure where they might go!!#but i love seeing katie on the dash}#{meme response}#unspeakablecharm

🐫

Do I know your muse(s): yes | no | a little | tell me about your muse

Pre-established relationships? yes! | no, let’s see where they go! | not yet; let’s plot!

#{why do i feel like ginny could teach doris smth #and vice versa #i don't know *what*}#{meme response}#firebloomcd

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