Fic: Arriving Somewhere (But Not Here) for westernredcedar
Title: Arriving Somewhere (But Not Here)
Author: wanderlight
Recipient: westernredcedar
Prompt: Regulus.
Notes: Sorry for the delay! Title from the Porcupine Tree song of the same name. such_heights betaed this in its early stages. What it was is barely recognisable now, but this story never would have been told without her encouragement, so thank her, too! ♥
--
Arriving Somewhere (But Not Here)
[now]
Regulus takes the Muggle train when he can't stand it any more.
It happens about once a month, maybe more. Today's train is headed somewhere north of London. It doesn't matter where. As long as it's away from the city -- the alley where he tortured a Ravenclaw he'd taken Charms with fifth year; the pitiable flat Sirius forbid him from ever visiting again, slamming the door in his face -- then it's good enough.
Tap-tap, tap-tap. His hands are trembling, wand rapping an irregular staccato against the foggy window-glass. He waits for the solidness of this Muggle machine, the clattering of wheels against tracks, to soothe him the way it usually does. It's a long time coming.
Then: the little boy sitting in the seat ahead turns around. With wide eyes he examines Regulus' wand, puzzled. "What's that?" On his left cheek is a smudge of mud; the brown matches his eyes.
"Nothing." Regulus tucks his wand into his pocket. "You've got a bit of" -- he gestures -- "right -- yes, right there on your cheek."
The boy makes a face, rubbing at it with his sleeve. "I'm off to visit my granddad," he announces. "Mum's dad. He's sick." (His mother is sleeping, head lolling, in the seat next to him.) "Where're you going then?"
Regulus shrugs.
"What?" The boy makes a face. "You don't know? If you don't know then why are you on the train?"
Instead of answering Regulus looks out the window, letting the dizziness take over. The grass and flowers blur together, the fences becoming a continuous line and the occasional barn a smudge on the landscape. Too fast for his eyes to focus. Everything is moving too fast.
"To get away," he answers finally, as the train pulls into the next station.
Hidden under his sleeve, the Dark Mark begins to burn.
[first year]
Regulus waits for Sirius in the corridor of the Hogwarts Express. He's been waiting all year, for a summer of just them and no one else.
Narcissa passes by, with a group of girls -- Regulus darts through the crowd to catch her sleeve. "Are you visiting us this summer?" he asks hopefully, as she waves her friends off. (He is in love with Narcissa, he thinks -- in the way young boys love their beautiful older cousins, who always have a kind word to spare.)
"I'd love to," Narcissa says, an apology in her eyes, "but I promised Lucius I'd visit during July."
"It's all right, Cissy." Regulus doesn't mind much; he'll have Sirius. At Grimmauld Place, Sirius reverts from James Potter's Best Friend back into who he used to be. The boy who pulls faces behind Mother's back, to make Regulus laugh; the boy who pesters the house-elves for midnight snacks.
Not the boy who glances at Regulus and then walks right past him.
"Sirius. Sirius, wait!" Sirius is shoulder-to-shoulder with James Potter; Regulus waits until he has his brother's attention, then folds his hands together in front of him and says, "You have to come now, you know how Mother and Father hate to wait on Platform 9 and ¾."
Sirius and James trade identical eyebrow-raises. "You assume that I'm coming with you," Sirius says.
"But -- you have to." Regulus bites his lower lip. "You have to. Mother and Father would never let you go anywhere."
"Ah," Sirius says, lifting his trunk, "that's where you're wrong. See, I've got it planned out. I can leave before they stop me. And once I'm at James' house, they wouldn't lose face by trying to come get me. So! You'll all just have to pretend that was the plan all along. It's brilliant."
Regulus blinks. "You're not coming home this summer," he says slowly, rolling the words on his tongue. They taste bitter.
"Oh, cheer up." Sirius jerks his head in Narcissa's direction. "You'll have her, maybe even Bella. I'm not spending one more summer with a bunch of inbreeds."
"Speaking of inbreeds," says James. He ducks his head, murmuring to Sirius, but it's just loud enough for Regulus to hear. "You're brother there is a prime example. Just see how he looks at your cousin."
Regulus stands perfectly still. He can't bring himself to look up at Narcissa.
"Well, you know." Sirius grins over at Regulus; it isn't malicious, he means to include him in the joke. "When we were little, you did make us play kings and castles, Reg. I was always the villain, naturally. But you wanted to be the Prince Charming for Cissy --"
Regulus grins, and it is malicious. "At least I didn't ask Bellatrix to marry me when I was ten."
And something -- breaks. Regulus might have made that joke two years ago and Sirius would have just ruffled his hair. Now, an entire crowd of students is watching, and Sirius moves so fast that Regulus doesn't even register the first punch.
Later, he recalls Remus Lupin appearing out of nowhere, pulling him and Sirius off of each other. The wide eyes of the gathering crowd. The furious brushing-away of tears before anyone can see. Narcissa's exclamations, and her small, gentle hands stroking his cheek.
Sirius' arm, hanging at a funny angle; a bruise blossoming on Regulus' cheek. He's proud of that. Always small for his age, and Sirius has got two years and eight inches on him, but they spent their childhoods running, hiding, wrestling, when Mother wasn't looking. He knows his brother's weak spots.
Someone hands him a jar of balm that tingles and cools the heat of the bruise. Regulus is watching Sirius, though. He walks steps off the train, walks away through the crowds with James Potter. He doesn't look back.
[sixth year]
The compartments door grates a little as it slides open.
Regulus looks away from the window, where he's tracing invisible patterns and promises with his index finger. He's got a handful of NEWTs, the weight of generations' worth of expectations on his back -- introspection is an inhospitable land right now.
A boy enters and closes the door behind him. It's some Rosier or Yaxley or another, judging from the nose and the cheekbones. Regulus remembers the days of stuffy dinner parties and dress robes, when he and Sirius used to guess family names from facial features. "They're so inbred they all look the same anyway," Sirius said one day, and the game stopped after that.
Sirius never answers Regulus' owls. Judging from Mother's angrily scrawled letters and talk of "the family name", he can extrapolate what Sirius isn't doing (his duty as first son). Other news from home arrives, too: Narcissa's wedding to Lucius Malfoy is at the end of the month. Everyone is moving away, onwards to something.
"I'm supposed to deliver a message," says the boy.
It's obvious what the message will be; Regulus pays attention. One-line hints in letters, vagaries in copperplate handwriting. Articles tucked into corners of the Daily Prophet, like they're being hidden. The way Mother and Father look at him sidelong, these days: considering, appraising.
"There are some of us who can see clearly what is happening to the wizarding world," the boy begins, "the dilution of everything we have ever stood for as the numbers of Muggles in our society increase. We are doing something about it, we --"
Regulus smirks. "Is that a prepared speech?"
"Well, then. I won't waste your time." The boy pauses, extracting a letter from a robe-pocket. He tosses it; Regulus catches the letter between two fingers and scans the envelope face. Blank.
"It's your choice, Regulus." The door clicks shut as he leaves.
Travelling to nowhere suspends Regulus in a safe cocoon spun from in-between places. Here, he doesn't have to justify the things he's done, or the things he hasn't. There's no right or wrong. No need to choose. Because of this, he's always liked trains.
But in the end, all trains arrive at their destinations.
--
"Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past
Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or who will arrive at any terminus,
While the narrowing rails slide together behind you ..."
-- "The Dry Salvages" by T.S. Eliot
Author: wanderlight
Recipient: westernredcedar
Prompt: Regulus.
Notes: Sorry for the delay! Title from the Porcupine Tree song of the same name. such_heights betaed this in its early stages. What it was is barely recognisable now, but this story never would have been told without her encouragement, so thank her, too! ♥
--
Arriving Somewhere (But Not Here)
[now]
Regulus takes the Muggle train when he can't stand it any more.
It happens about once a month, maybe more. Today's train is headed somewhere north of London. It doesn't matter where. As long as it's away from the city -- the alley where he tortured a Ravenclaw he'd taken Charms with fifth year; the pitiable flat Sirius forbid him from ever visiting again, slamming the door in his face -- then it's good enough.
Tap-tap, tap-tap. His hands are trembling, wand rapping an irregular staccato against the foggy window-glass. He waits for the solidness of this Muggle machine, the clattering of wheels against tracks, to soothe him the way it usually does. It's a long time coming.
Then: the little boy sitting in the seat ahead turns around. With wide eyes he examines Regulus' wand, puzzled. "What's that?" On his left cheek is a smudge of mud; the brown matches his eyes.
"Nothing." Regulus tucks his wand into his pocket. "You've got a bit of" -- he gestures -- "right -- yes, right there on your cheek."
The boy makes a face, rubbing at it with his sleeve. "I'm off to visit my granddad," he announces. "Mum's dad. He's sick." (His mother is sleeping, head lolling, in the seat next to him.) "Where're you going then?"
Regulus shrugs.
"What?" The boy makes a face. "You don't know? If you don't know then why are you on the train?"
Instead of answering Regulus looks out the window, letting the dizziness take over. The grass and flowers blur together, the fences becoming a continuous line and the occasional barn a smudge on the landscape. Too fast for his eyes to focus. Everything is moving too fast.
"To get away," he answers finally, as the train pulls into the next station.
Hidden under his sleeve, the Dark Mark begins to burn.
[first year]
Regulus waits for Sirius in the corridor of the Hogwarts Express. He's been waiting all year, for a summer of just them and no one else.
Narcissa passes by, with a group of girls -- Regulus darts through the crowd to catch her sleeve. "Are you visiting us this summer?" he asks hopefully, as she waves her friends off. (He is in love with Narcissa, he thinks -- in the way young boys love their beautiful older cousins, who always have a kind word to spare.)
"I'd love to," Narcissa says, an apology in her eyes, "but I promised Lucius I'd visit during July."
"It's all right, Cissy." Regulus doesn't mind much; he'll have Sirius. At Grimmauld Place, Sirius reverts from James Potter's Best Friend back into who he used to be. The boy who pulls faces behind Mother's back, to make Regulus laugh; the boy who pesters the house-elves for midnight snacks.
Not the boy who glances at Regulus and then walks right past him.
"Sirius. Sirius, wait!" Sirius is shoulder-to-shoulder with James Potter; Regulus waits until he has his brother's attention, then folds his hands together in front of him and says, "You have to come now, you know how Mother and Father hate to wait on Platform 9 and ¾."
Sirius and James trade identical eyebrow-raises. "You assume that I'm coming with you," Sirius says.
"But -- you have to." Regulus bites his lower lip. "You have to. Mother and Father would never let you go anywhere."
"Ah," Sirius says, lifting his trunk, "that's where you're wrong. See, I've got it planned out. I can leave before they stop me. And once I'm at James' house, they wouldn't lose face by trying to come get me. So! You'll all just have to pretend that was the plan all along. It's brilliant."
Regulus blinks. "You're not coming home this summer," he says slowly, rolling the words on his tongue. They taste bitter.
"Oh, cheer up." Sirius jerks his head in Narcissa's direction. "You'll have her, maybe even Bella. I'm not spending one more summer with a bunch of inbreeds."
"Speaking of inbreeds," says James. He ducks his head, murmuring to Sirius, but it's just loud enough for Regulus to hear. "You're brother there is a prime example. Just see how he looks at your cousin."
Regulus stands perfectly still. He can't bring himself to look up at Narcissa.
"Well, you know." Sirius grins over at Regulus; it isn't malicious, he means to include him in the joke. "When we were little, you did make us play kings and castles, Reg. I was always the villain, naturally. But you wanted to be the Prince Charming for Cissy --"
Regulus grins, and it is malicious. "At least I didn't ask Bellatrix to marry me when I was ten."
And something -- breaks. Regulus might have made that joke two years ago and Sirius would have just ruffled his hair. Now, an entire crowd of students is watching, and Sirius moves so fast that Regulus doesn't even register the first punch.
Later, he recalls Remus Lupin appearing out of nowhere, pulling him and Sirius off of each other. The wide eyes of the gathering crowd. The furious brushing-away of tears before anyone can see. Narcissa's exclamations, and her small, gentle hands stroking his cheek.
Sirius' arm, hanging at a funny angle; a bruise blossoming on Regulus' cheek. He's proud of that. Always small for his age, and Sirius has got two years and eight inches on him, but they spent their childhoods running, hiding, wrestling, when Mother wasn't looking. He knows his brother's weak spots.
Someone hands him a jar of balm that tingles and cools the heat of the bruise. Regulus is watching Sirius, though. He walks steps off the train, walks away through the crowds with James Potter. He doesn't look back.
[sixth year]
The compartments door grates a little as it slides open.
Regulus looks away from the window, where he's tracing invisible patterns and promises with his index finger. He's got a handful of NEWTs, the weight of generations' worth of expectations on his back -- introspection is an inhospitable land right now.
A boy enters and closes the door behind him. It's some Rosier or Yaxley or another, judging from the nose and the cheekbones. Regulus remembers the days of stuffy dinner parties and dress robes, when he and Sirius used to guess family names from facial features. "They're so inbred they all look the same anyway," Sirius said one day, and the game stopped after that.
Sirius never answers Regulus' owls. Judging from Mother's angrily scrawled letters and talk of "the family name", he can extrapolate what Sirius isn't doing (his duty as first son). Other news from home arrives, too: Narcissa's wedding to Lucius Malfoy is at the end of the month. Everyone is moving away, onwards to something.
"I'm supposed to deliver a message," says the boy.
It's obvious what the message will be; Regulus pays attention. One-line hints in letters, vagaries in copperplate handwriting. Articles tucked into corners of the Daily Prophet, like they're being hidden. The way Mother and Father look at him sidelong, these days: considering, appraising.
"There are some of us who can see clearly what is happening to the wizarding world," the boy begins, "the dilution of everything we have ever stood for as the numbers of Muggles in our society increase. We are doing something about it, we --"
Regulus smirks. "Is that a prepared speech?"
"Well, then. I won't waste your time." The boy pauses, extracting a letter from a robe-pocket. He tosses it; Regulus catches the letter between two fingers and scans the envelope face. Blank.
"It's your choice, Regulus." The door clicks shut as he leaves.
Travelling to nowhere suspends Regulus in a safe cocoon spun from in-between places. Here, he doesn't have to justify the things he's done, or the things he hasn't. There's no right or wrong. No need to choose. Because of this, he's always liked trains.
But in the end, all trains arrive at their destinations.
--
"Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past
Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or who will arrive at any terminus,
While the narrowing rails slide together behind you ..."
-- "The Dry Salvages" by T.S. Eliot