The first morning of September saw Hermione Granger visibly shaking on her makeshift bed at The Burrow. The newspaper she was clutching trembled with its reader's emotions.
The headline and accompanying photograph had been what made Hermione abruptly ask Mr Weasley if she could borrow it to read on the train. She ended up scanning the story in the room she shared with Ginny as soon as she was alone.
"MYSTERIOUS BLUE CUPBOARD SEEN AT QUIDDITCH DISASTER"
Her eyes burned. The photograph slapped across the double-spread showed a shuddering image (as the camera holder dashed about in the panic) of that blue box, clear as daylight, gradually fading from sight.
He hadn't helped anyone. He'd watched, or ran away.
"Hermione?" called a deep voice.
She slammed the Prophet shut and looked up to see Ron Weasley in the doorway, watching her with a rare expression of concern.
"What is it?" she asked, a little unkindly.
He balked. "Time to go."
"Oh... I'll be down in a minute."
"...you alright?"
"Yes."
"Kay," and he left. She listened to his heavy footsteps clunk down the stairs before stuffing her newspaper into her handbag before hauling her suitcase off the bed and disappearing from the room.
Hollywood, USA, 1920.
The sounds of superficial laughter and weary jazz music filled the crisp night air. There were the entrails of party streamers strewn across well-manicured hedgerows and floating in the luminous pool. Couples were kissing, tired men were smoking and drunken women were stumbling around.
"Doc? Hey, Doc! You out here?" called a familiar voice. Mr Fairbanks. The Doctor shrunk back into the shadows of the vast mansion.
"Say, anybody seen the Doctor?" called Fairbanks to his semi-conscious guests, none of which acknowledged his arrival. Fairbanks turned his head left quickly, and the Doctor cringed further into the shadows.
"There y'are!"
Too late.
"Here I am," the Doctor sighed. "Did you want me for something?"
Fairbanks' mouth was huge. His white teeth practically glowed in the dark with a fat cigar jammed between them, burning orange at the tip. He swaggered over to the Doctor with open arms.
"Only to thank you, buddy," he grinned. "We couldn't think of a better man to walk my Mary down the aisle. Today was special to her. It was lucky you were around!"
The Doctor smiled dryly. "No worries, Douglas."
"Mary would come out and thank you in person, but she's uh..." as he trailed off, the sound of a female vomitting into a shrubbery echoed throughout the garden. Both Douglas and the Doctor chuckled.
"Say, Doc..." began Douglas, with a more serious tone. "You're not yourself today. What's bothering you?"
The Doctor shrugged. "Nothing. I'm sorry I'm being a misery. I don't want to spoil your wedding day."
"Bullshit, Doctor!" Douglas snapped, wrenching the cigar from between his lips. "Let me get you a drink. We'll talk."
"No, Doug, really."
"Uh uh, none of that crap! Hey, Charlie! Charlie!"
Mr Chaplin appeared from behind another shruggery, a skinny girl dangling off his arm, groaning into his shoulder. He looked tired. "Yes, Doug?"
"Get the Doctor a scotch, will ya? He's a bit down tonight."
Charlie's eyebrows furrowed. "You alright, old sport?"
The Doctor snapped. "Yes, I'm fine, now will you both shut up?!"
Douglas and Charlie exchanged a bewildered glance. The Doctor sighed.
"Beat it, Charlie," said Douglas eventually. Charlie rolled his eyes and dragged the woman away. As soon as he was gone, Douglas threw an arm around the Doctor's shoulders.
"Doc, I might come across as a little dense at times, ya know... but I know what's bothering you."
"Really?" asked the Doctor doubtfully.
To his surprise, Douglas laughed. "Course I do, old sport! I've been there myself! You got a lady on the brain!"
The Doctor grimaced. "You're half-right."
"Ha! Come on, Doc, we're both sensible guys! I know the score: forlorn expression, isolatin' yourself, getting all feisty and what not. It's a lady, my friend. Otherwise, you wouldn't be such a frickin' girl about it."
The Doctor chuckled. "I see."
"Go to her."
He grimaced again. "It's not that simple, Doug."
"Bullshit. It's perfectly simple. How d'ya think I got darlin' Mary to marry a corny movie stiff like me? I stopped being a drag and I just went for it. It might work for you too."
The Doctor sighed. How could he explain his situation to one of the most vapid humans in existence? "She's... got her own life. I don't want to invade it."
That worked.
"Buddy, if it's meant to be..."
"But I know that it's not meant to be! I know that she survives it all without me, I know what happens to her, I know who rescues her, I know she ends up happy..." he froze.
"Old sport, you're not making any goddamned sense. I can only assume that your love for this girl is making you delirious."
"It's not what you think."
"Don't insult my intelligence, Doc. You're a love=stuck man. Even if you don't... ya know... get it on with her..."
The Doctor cringed. She was twelve.
"...at least talk to her again. Maybe it'll help."
The Doctor swallowed. He was listening to the advice of Douglas Fairbanks.
"Listen, buddy, I better get back to my Mary. She'll be, uh... she'll be needing a shoulder to cry on by now. You know how she is at these events..."
"Her own wedding?"
"Hey, it's happened before..!"
"Oh. Yeah."
Douglas started to walk back to the mansion. "I'll see you around, Doc! If ya find Chaplin, tell him from me that he's a useless crook who wouldn't know what a glass of scotch was if he goddamned sat on one!"
The Doctor watched Douglas stumble back inside, and listened to the crowd cheer upon his return. Instead of looking for Charlie, he ducked back into the shadows and hastily snuck back into the TARDIS. One brief glance upwards at the starry sky strengthened his resolve.
What a weak, anchored man.
A/N: ok so that was a bit short 'n' shit, but I promise the next bit's coming up fairly soon.
Historical reference: 1920, United Artists Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford got married. Their wedding was attended by every single 20's celebrity you can think of.
Thanks for all the reviews. I appreciate them, do keep them coming.