As prompted by indiefox
Trembling under the weight of a pile of books stacked higher than her field of vision, the collection swaying in an almost playfully treaturous manner, Hermione Granger couldn’t quite see where she was going. However, the librarian, having worked the job for a moderate four years, was quite confident in her developed sense to avoid obstacles and people whilst transporting a sight-obstructing tower of tomes. It helped that the library was closed - nothing and nobody to trip over or run into. She had a relaxing night of reading to look forward to, curled up with Crooks, perhaps a quick look at her laptop to update her blog. Her twenty followers were sure to be waiting on the edge of their seats to get an update on the state of the endangered subspecies of house fly she had been studying and advocating for.
She sighed as she gently nudged the button for the automatic door with her hip. She wasn’t kidding anybody, especially herself, into thinking her life was some grand adventure of the social justice warrior she’d hoped for when she graduated university. She lived with her cat (NOT alone, thank-you-very-much, mother) in her two room flat, which was perfectly fine with her, but she wasn’t exactly content with the opportunities - or the, ahem, people - in her life. Careful to take the steps one at a time, she made sure she knew exactly where her keys were. Having her hands full wasn’t exactly safe, even though it was only early evening, but she wasn’t above using a book as a weapon, literally. A mugger had once been on the bad end of a hardcover copy of the Complete and Unabridged Works of Shakespeare she’d smacked him in the face with. She’d had to sit with his unconscious body until the police came to make sure he didn’t drown in his own blood from his broken nose. She’d only felt slightly bad - the rat-faced man had apparently been a serial mugger who attacked several women in the area.
“Need a hand, mademoiselle?”
Hermione jumped and swung around, the books in her arms toppling over and falling to the ground. She stared at the young woman who had startled her in disbelief. She was blonde, at least two heads taller than her, and standing in an obnoxiously arrogant stance, her hands in the pockets of a tight leather jacket and her - very long - legs encased in even tighter jeans.
“Je suis desole, cherie. I did not mean to startle you.”
Hermione’s gaze fell to the ground with her books and she huffed, bending over to pick them up. “Where the bloody hell did you come from?” she muttered, stacking the texts angrily. The French woman crouched next to her with a smile that was probably meant to be disarming. The bushy-haired librarian looked at her and frowned.
“Here and there, cherie.” The blonde tossed her hair and her smile widened. Hermione’s heart dropped into her knees, shoving her stomach on its way down. Bloody French tart, she thought, looking back to her work and growling under her breath. Said French tart laughed - well, more like snorted; Hermione was surprised that the woman’s laugh wasn’t a delicate tinkling of fairy wings, but rather something like an ugly grunt of a sow - and stood up. “You growled just now, no? Mon petite lion, so adorable.”
“What - you -” The blonde seemed to perk up, reached behind her back, and produced a black bowler that she fixed upon her head.
“Ah, yes, much better. I knew I was forgetting something.” She flashed a charming - NOT! - smile at Hermione and extended a hand towards her. “I suggest you drop the books, mon petite lion.”
“Are you mad?” Hermione snapped, batting away the proffered hand. “Why don’t you wander on back to the loony bin, I’m sure they’re missing you by -”
“Right, of course - cherie, if you would prefer to carry your books, but it is time to run,” the woman’s words were rushed and Hermione could not quite make sense of them. “I parked quite a ways from here, you see, and you distracted me and made me forget I was fleeing -”
Hermione was beginning to feel less annoyed and more legitimately frightened. “Listen, if it’s money you want, I don’t have any, I don’t even have a purse-”
“Nonsense, cherie,” the blonde started frogmarching her faster than she could keep up with herself, and she began dropping books. She tried to turn and get away, sputtering and flailing, but the frenchwoman ignored her, looking over her shoulder every once in a while and laughing. “Where are you, where are you,” she sang under her breath. Hermione gave up trying to convince the obviously insane woman to let her go and began looking for an opportunity to escape.
They were headed towards an alley, and Hermione was sure that she was going to be murdered, when the crazy blonde halted and twitched her hat. She whipped out a silly looking thing that looked like a useless gadget and pushed her towards the alley way. “Run, little lion, and I shall catch up to you,” she said confidently, flicking the stick up so that the length increased and a little blue light at the end turned on. Hermione stared at her and then shook her head, running down the alleyway and hoping it wasn’t a dead end. Luckily, it opened into a little courtyard with another alleyway leading to the opposite street and a Police Call Box parked right in the middle.
“Thank God,” Hermione huffed and bustled to the box, intent on calling the police and having them sort out this crazy woman’s ramblings. She’d lock herself inside if she had to. She threw open the door, looking behind her shoulder as the frenchwoman came sprinting down the alleyway, and jumped inside, hoping to make it and close the door before her accoster could reach her.
Once inside she rather forgot her original purpose. Her eyes bulged nearly out of her head and her jaw dropped and that was how her strange accoster found her when she jumped inside and closed the door, waving her gadget stick like a wand at the door. The woman gave a relieved sigh and leaned her back against the door, then quirked an eyebrow at Hermione.
“Bigger on the inside, oui. You like?” The woman waggled her eyebrows at Hermione, who was deciding on whether to faint or freak out. She looked around the call box, which was obviously not actually a call box, and then back at the woman.
“Who in the nine bloody hells are you?” she squeaked, clearing her throat.
“I’m the Doctor,” the blonde began with a dashing smile. “I go by Fleur.”