MARLENE MCKINNON (spitfired) wrote in reoccurrence, @ 2020-07-14 15:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | macdonald mary, thomas dean |
WHO: Mary Macdonald and Dean Thomas
WHAT: RISING FROM THE DEAD.
WHEN: 12 July 2005
WHERE: Outside a Sainsbury's in Muggle London
RATING: PG-13 for language
STATUS: Complete
Mary blinked in confusion, in an attempt to clear the blur of colors and sound surrounding her. She felt dazed and out-of-sorts. Heavy-headed. Was she hung over? Her wand was in her hand. When had she taken it out? Cars honked and circled around her. She stumbled forward, exiting the public lot of the - what was it, a grocery? - and turning the corner onto the sidewalk. She couldn’t remember coming here. Or much of anything. She remembered apparating home after her work shift, but what day had that been? Monday? Tuesday? The world seemed to spin underneath her feet and she staggered. It wasn’t until she automatically looked to the sidewalk under her feet that she realized she wasn’t wearing shoes. Or pants. Or much of anything. Was that blood? God, it was still wet….
She’d been… where was she? Maybe she should try to get away from the crowds of people currently staring at her and apparate home… or to her parents. Or… somewhere? Her stomach growled loudly. Somewhere with food. Someone bumped into her from behind and muttered an apology as they continued walking, talking rapidly into some sort of small device tucked between their ear and shoulder like a telephone. Mary’s grip tightened on her wand and her heart-rate quickened, her chest tightening uncomfortably.
It was because of his work at the RRC that Dean was vigilant about keeping his eyes and ears open no matter where he was. He knew that the chances of him bumping into someone who had reoccured were slim, especially because besides the Leaky and Diagon and the RRC, he didn't tend to spend that much time in places where he figured wizardfolk might turn up. Even so, it wasn't like he didn't pay attention.
He left the Tube station, earphones in, hands in his pockets, on his way to meet up with his oldest sister and her new boyfriend. He turned the corner, passing by the grocery on the left, when he spotted her. Everyone else, despite her appearance, passed by or crossed away from her, likely assuming she was homeless or something, and maybe she was. But Dean spotted the wand in her hand before much else, and he clicked off the music from his iPod, full attention now on her as he hurried over to her.
"Um, hullo," he said, trying to keep himself looking pleasant even as he was clearly concerned. "Are you all right?" he asked. He kept space between them but leaned in, worried. "I'm Dean," he said. "Dean Thomas." She didn't look familiar, and she also didn't look out of her time, not like he imagined the Founders had when they turned up. But that didn't mean she wasn't from some years ago, either.
Mary tried to take in a series of slow breaths, fighting against hyperventilating. All she could do was shake her head at first, eyebrows furrowed in frustration at her own panic and inability to communicate. Dean Thomas. An unfamiliar name, an unfamiliar person. Her throat felt hoarse when she finally spoke. Like she’d been shouting. Or screaming. “I just… I’ve got to get home.” She choked hoarsely. She could feel her heart thudding violently in her chest, her entire body buzzing with adrenaline. She wasn’t sure if home meant the tiny studio flat she rented monthly or her parents’ home, the home she’d grown up in. Anywhere would be better than standing here, half naked and vulnerable. Her eyes narrowed at Dean and raised her wand raised in warning, the hand holding it surprisingly steady. “Don’t touch me.”
Dean nodded once, then again. "Right," he said. He wanted to ask her name or where home was but she had gone on the defense and he stepped back. "Hey, I'm not going to hurt you, yeah?" Slowly, he lifted his hands in "I come in peace" fashion, but also in the hopes that she'd notice his wand sticking out from inside his trousers pocket. "Might not want to go waving that about so visibly, Miss -" Maybe that could at least open her up to giving him her name, since his introduction hadn't in the first place.
Her gaze drifted down to the wand tucked into his pocket and her own wand lowered a few inches. “Macdonald.” She mumbled. “Mary Macdonald.” She added, slightly louder and clearer. “I’d rather keep it out, ta muchly.” Her head turned, noticing a street sign. “Tottenham Court and Bedford. My flat’s supposed to be… Where is… There’s a laundromat…” Her tone shifted to something wry. “Well. Do you know where my flat is, Dean Thomas?”
He tried not to look pained but he figured his face must look it a bit. After all, he was going to have to ask her some questions that weren't all that great. "I've never been to your flat," he said, somewhat cheekily. Then he shrugged. "So this is going to sound like a really odd question, all right, but just go with me. What year is it?"
“And I thought I was the confused one.” She snapped back. “1978. There’s supposed to be a laundromat here. And apartments. And…” Mary trailed off, wild eyes scanning the street.
Dean counted backwards from ten and shuffled his feet a little. "Yeah, um, sorry," he said. "You know, it's pretty lucky I found you. I work for the Ministry. Well, for one part if it, it's not like I'm an Auror or pushing papers or whatnot. Do you think you're up to apparating? If not, we can just go to my sister's place. I should text her about it though, as I think her boyfriend's with her. I just mean, maybe you want to get something better to wear and we can have a cuppa and I can - well, I'll try to explain what's going on, at least."
Mary stared directly at Dean, jaw set firmly. It was clear from her expression that she didn’t feel especially ‘lucky’ at the moment. To be honest, she wasn't sure if she could apparate. She felt dizzy, sick, and disoriented. Not that she planned on sharing any of that with him. “Sorry, total stranger I just met, I’m not going to your sister’s house or wherever else you think you’re taking me. If you have something to explain, start now. If not, you’ll excuse me as I head off to try and find some bloody pants.”
Dean sighed with his whole body. She seemed to want a direct approach, and he figured he could give it to her. "All right, then," he said. "The year is 2005 and since you turned up and think it's 1978, that means you died, somewhere around here, because people who died are somehow coming back. All of the Hogwarts founders are alive again - you went to Hogwarts, yeah? - so that's a thing." He kept his voice down, trying not to draw any more attention to them, to her. "So how about that cuppa now?"
The arm that had been holding her wand up fell limp at her side. “It’s… no.” 2005. How ridiculous. She did the math quickly in her head: 27 years. If it were 2005, her mum and dad would be 67 and 70 years old, respectively. She would be 45! Proper middle aged. Or would have been. If she hadn’t… had she died? She looked down at the blood-stained, oversized t-shirt she was wearing, pressing a tentative hand to the Rolling Stones logo on the front. She couldn’t remember how it might have gotten like this. Ripped on the shoulder, a thin slash by her ribs. Nothing hurt, but when she lifted her hand up, it was wet. A small, scared whimper escaped her throat and she stumbled back a couple steps, nearly falling backwards. “Why would you say that? I’m not dead. I’m not…” An edge of panic started to creep into her voice. “Prove it. Prove it and I’ll… and I’ll go with you.”
He hated this part. Even if he hadn't come across a reoccurred like this on his own, out in the wild, as it were, he still had the disbelief, the uncertainty, the outrage they were all feeling once they got to the RRC. He hated it so much.
Dean swallowed painfully and looked around. "Prove it?" he echoed. "Er, all right, hold on then." He put a hand up to keep her from running and then turned to a row of local newspaper stands along the sidewalk. The only one that probably would make a difference was the Times and - "Bollocks," he muttered, fishing for a few coins in his pocket so he could buy a copy. "Here," he said, turning back to Mary. "Here, the - date's on here." He thrust the paper at her.
Mary reluctantly accepted the paper from Dean and turned her attention down to it, the largest headline splashed across the front page catching her focus. “A grieving world in one city as many nations suffer loss. The list of those killed, missing or wounded in the Tube and bus bombing last week provides a grim echo of the boast that helped to bring the Olympics to the capital — that London is the world’s most culturally diverse city.” Her mouth twisted, as though she’d taken a bite of something sour. Her gaze skipped to the next column beside it. “Britons feel need for speed as broadband overtakes dial up. Broadband internet connections have surpassed the number of dial-up connections in Britain for the first time, heralding a new stage in the digital revolution.” And underneath that, “Unlimited digital access free for 1 month. Visit our website at www.timesonline.co.uk.” Her eyebrows furrowed, bewildered.
She glanced back up to the very top of the page. There. Centered just under the top heading. Sunday July 12, 2005. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. When she opened them, she’d be back in her apartment. When she opened them, this would all be some sort of dream. She opened her eyes.
“I think I can apparate.” She said quietly, after a moment. “Where do we need to go?”
Dean watched the emotions move across her face and frowned. He hoped she didn't have a freak out or something like that. He wasn't equipped for that and didn't want to apparate her away without her permission. And he certainly wasn't about to do any magic here, in broad daylight, outside of a Sainsbury's.
He nodded. "Are you okay with going to my flat? My sister's great and all, and we could walk, but she's a Muggle and I'm don't want to put her out or anything. But we could pop back to my flat and I can find you something to wear and then I can take you in with the others, so you can get all set up and the like. Just thought maybe you'd want a cuppa and to relax first." He knew protocol likely dictated he take her in straight away but another hour or so would be just fine, he thought.
Mary shot him a brief, skeptical look at the mention of his flat, but didn't say anything. Instead, she nodded. She’d gotten lost once in Market Row when she’d been a little girl. Her mother had been preoccupied with her grocery list and had only turned her head away for a moment when Mary had adventured off, oblivious to the fact that she would eventually need to find her way back, as children often are. Thirty minutes later, as her mother was arguing with a security officer, an older woman came around, holding Mary’s little hand in hers. Mary didn’t remember many of the details. She’d been so young. But she remembered that old woman. She remembered taking her hand easily, when she’d offered to help Mary find her mother. Immediate faith.
She wasn’t sure she was still that same little girl, or capable of that kind of trust. But she was definitely lost. And this man, Dean Thomas, seemed as though he wanted to help her. She’d let him.