A Sort of Homecoming (9th June 1997)
But it was also a port key. Activated when its bearer desired a way home.
And Regulus desperately wanted to go home.
Worldly possessions strapped to his back, Regulus checked the departure time on his ticket. When it was time to leave, he bid his small place goodbye and set off on his way. Tossing the lump of coal into the air, he caught it in his right hand, repeating the words 'Home. Home. Going home.'
Silence, then the rush of wind - and for a brief spell he felt the abnormality of weightlessness. A queasy feeling of airsickness overtook him, and when his feet touched ground again, he vomited until the vertigo passed.
It was dark, but he could make out the outlines of the room once his eyes had adjusted. Boxes and crates and…
Regulus sneezed. Dust.
Wherever he was, however he got here, he was in some sort of a storeroom.
There was a staircase not far from where he was standing. Using the rail to steady himself, he made his way down, finding himself, in of all places, a tavern. By the sound of it, he was in Britain - a medley of accents filling his ears. The incomprehension made his head spin.
Luckily, no one had seen his point of entry. Or rather no one cared. Regulus sat at the bar and drummed his fingers, trying his level best to blend. Quite the task considering his Muggle attire.
"What'll it be, stranger?" The accent had a Scottish lilt.
"Whisky, neat. And a menu."
A few of the regulars laughed.
MacManus, the night tender was named, poured him a shot and set a bowl of stew in front of him.
"Leave the bottle."
The whisky was the worst sort of watered down, home-distilled rotgut, and the meat in the stew was suspect. Still, it was not so bad as to decline a second and third ladleful. It was only when Regulus went to leave that he found himself ill at ease. He had not a galleon, a sickle, nor a knut with which to pay the tab.
Regulus feigned searching for money, removing his jacket for a better search of his pockets. When MacManus spied the brand on his arm, however, payment became a non-issue. Regulus was certain he'd heard one of the patrons call him a 'Death Eater.'
Whatever that was.
"Don't suppose there's a place to stay for the night around here?" he asked. He was more than a little pissed.
"Not without Apparating," MacManus replied, "but I've a back room with a cot where I let some of my regulars sleep off their drunkenness. Reckon you could crash there for a night, er…"
Regulus shook his head. Names were never a good thing.
"Right then."
MacManus pointed to the back room, and Regulus took his leave, ignoring the looks and whispers.
The cot was lumpy, the blanket scratchy. In the morning, he'd find more suitable accommodations.
It wasn't long after he'd laid down that he fell asleep, one hand clenched tightly around the wand he neither knew nor understood.
TBC