On a Wing and a Prayer, DvD Commentary, Part 2
Second part of the commentary. Regulus is having a bad twenty-four hours.
22 December 1976
He'd been running from the Crups for hours. Perhaps days. Time no longer existed. Time was a spinning wilderness of white filled with ice crystals that stabbed and bit and a northeast wind that sliced through the bone marrow.
His clothes were soaked with snow, piss, sweat and blood. He barely noticed, now.
Regulus is being chased by a well-trained pack of Crups. Between nerves and biology...well, I figured he'd end up wetting himself.
He was not entirely sure what direction he was heading. When he had started, he'd been heading in vaguely south, toward James Potter's hometown of Windermere. Now--well, he was just trying to get away from the Crups. They could be chasing him into the North Sea, for all he knew.
Regulus is actually heading in a more westerly direction. He's in one of the National Parks, at this point, though he doesn't know it…and heading away from Windermere.
There wasn't much doubt about what had happened. Lucius had allowed him to escape--this made his face burn, but there was no getting around it. And once he'd done the expected and obvious thing and escaped ("Without even cursing Malfoy, you git," he could hear Sirius say in his mind), Lucius had contacted his parents.
And his parents had sent the Crups to Melrose. To track him. To hunt him down. Like prey.
Told you Regulus's escape was too easy. I'm not really satisfied with this section, though. I got several comments from people who complained that the escape was too easy and who then didn't understand this explanation, even though I went over it with them in a number of e-mails.
/"Unleash the hounds!"/
/"Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war."/
Regulus knows quotes--he's a well-read boy--but the important connections here are that the Blacks are treating Regulus as though they are the hunters and he is the fox. And the fact that Regulus is thinking of the Crups as the dogs of war…well, Reg realises that this is a battle, but he's also attributing immense power and strength to the animals, which is all too accurate.
The pack must have lost the scent in Melrose, thanks to the lift he'd got from the MacGregors. His family hadn't quit, though. Instead, they'd divided the pack into four parts, primed them with Regulus' scent, and Apparated the animals north, south, east and west. Then Apparated again and again, transporting each pack further in each direction as each moved in ever-enlarging circles.
He's assuming this. He really doesn't know for sure.
He'd tried getting away from the Crups. Once, he'd even removed Sirius' Christmas present from his pocket --a new broom, with a Shrinking Charm on it for easy carrying--and had attempted to use that as an escape vehicle. But the attempt had been fruitless. One hand had slashes on the palm (damn Bellatrix for that!) and the other arm was not only broken (and damn Rodolphus too!) but badly swollen, especially at the elbow. It was impossible to grip the broom with one hand, let alone two, and with the broken arm being swollen (not to mention the fact that he had to hold it away from his body, as even touching it made the greyness and dizziness return)...well, his balance was off. Getting on the broom was tough enough. Staying on for more than two seconds simply couldn't be done.
Another suggestion of Thistlerose's. If Regulus has a broom, she asked, why wouldn't he use it? This is what I envisioned happening, but didn't write down until she raised the question.
He'd tried summoning the Knight Bus repeatedly. Either the conductors of the Bus didn't recognise a wizard trying to call for the bus with his wand in the wrong hand, or--more likely--the Bus wasn't picking up passengers in the north of England due to zero visibility. And the snowstorm, of course.
Meanwhile, the Crups were toying with him. Crups were strong dogs, if small; one was enough to kill an adult Muggle. A pack of them against one human--no, he had no chance. If they had really wanted to tear him limb from limb, they could have done it by now. As it was, they appeared to be taking turns. Periodically, one or two would dash forward to bite or claw him. He hadn't bothered to look at his feet since the last attack. He had a feeling that once he saw how badly his ankles had been shredded, his brain would rebel at the notion that he could possibly be walking.
Regulus's behaviour regarding his ankles echoes Sirius's behaviour on his run to James's house in Midnight Conversations #10. Both boys end up with damage to their feet; both avoid knowing the details, fearing that knowing would make walking impossible. They're more alike than they realise.
And then--one way or another--it would be all over. Either the dogs would savage him, or he would be captured and sent back...well, not back home. You can't call a place home if your relatives cast curses on you, or set dogs on you.
Merlin, Sirius, I...
I should never have done this.
Never.
I hope I get to tell you that.
The depth of his guilt is starting to dawn on him. Regulus now knows that not only was it wrong for him to sic the dogs on his brother, but that he actually put Sirius in a situation where he could have--perhaps has--died.
***
23 December 1976 to 24 December 1976
After what felt like forever, but which Regulus figured was probably a day or two later, the snow stopped.
None too soon, as far as Regulus was concerned. The snow was up to his thighs.
Reality clashes with Thistlerose's canon. The snow was up to Sirius's knees in her stories, and Regulus is younger and therefore shorter, so the snow ended up thigh-high on him. As a couple of people correctly pointed out, that would make walking almost impossible, as indeed it does.
He couldn't even feel his feet anymore. He suspected that this was a bad sign. He didn't care. At least he could walk without wanting to shriek in pain every time he moved.
It probably means that his feet are frostbitten. Numbness can also be a sign of infection. Either way, Reg is not in good shape.
The Crups were watching him. He could see them from where he was standing--bullet-headed, fork-tailed dogs with dark, predatory eyes and strong jaws, all lying down facing him.
He shifted position slightly. One of the dogs lifted its head and snarled, showing wetly gleaming incisors.
Regulus stopped moving.
The dog put its head down again and ceased snarling.
The dogs know very well who's in charge. They are in charge.
"You can't stand in one place forever, you know."
Regulus blinked, and glanced around, wondering who had spoken so loudly.
And stared into the derisive, pale blue eyes of Phineas Nigellus.
There was certainly nothing ghostly or translucent about Phineas; he looked more like his portrait come to life. His thick black hair glistened in the starlight; his thin black eyebrows were sharply outlined against his pale complexion. He was clad in the silver and green of Slytherin--even his gloves were green silk. And, at the moment, he was stroking his small, pointed beard contemplatively and staring at Regulus.
"What are you doing here?" whispered Regulus, peering at the man who couldn't possibly be standing next to him. "I'm nowhere near Twelve Grimmauld Place, and I know you're not a ghost. You'd have been one long before this."
I'm raising the objections I anticipated from readers. Phineas is, to put it bluntly, a hallucination, brought on by Regulus's hunger, thirst, exhaustion and fear. He's here because I need Regulus to talk out a problem, and Regulus won't talk to himself.
Phineas yawned. "I'm here because you need me to be here. Not because I want to be, or because I particularly cherish your company." He glanced sideways at Regulus. "And you do have to start moving again. If you still want to find your brother, that is."
Phineas may only be a figment of Regulus's imagination, but he is still good at pushing Regulus to do what he doesn't want to do.
"Of course I do," said Regulus indignantly. "Do you think I went through all this for nothing?"
"I don't know," said Phineas in an offensively bland voice. "Did you? After all, you have stopped walking. And you must know that Sirius, even if he lives, isn't going to change to suit your opinions. Whatever he is--and he's been reckless, thoughtless and downright brainless by turns--he's always been himself. Though at times it would have been better, indeed, safer, for him not to be."
It was painfully true, Regulus realised. Sirius was always and forever himself. That self might not be perpetually admirable or unfailingly good, but he was always Sirius.
Probably the most accurate two paragraphs about Sirius that I've ever written.
I've always been exactly what everyone else has wanted, he thought with some bitterness. The good son. The loyal Slytherin. The perfect pureblood. And for the past three years, the brother who used to be everything to me has been my--what? Rival? Enemy?
Scapegoat?
"Don't blame everyone in the world but yourself," said Phineas dryly. "You collaborated.
Naturally, Phineas knows what's going on in Regulus's mind. And the word "collaborated" was deliberately chosen; it still has some very nasty overtones, thanks to World War II. Phineas is telling Regulus that Reg has been cooperating with evil. Not an easy thing to hear, under any circumstances.
You were willing to go along with that reincarnation of a black widow and my worthless great-grandson, whom I suspect to have the conscience of an amoeba--as long as it benefited you.
Phineas is never flattering when speaking of Lavinia Black, so the hallucinatory version can't be, either.
When your brother was punished unjustly, you never spoke up. When that foul spawn of a kappa and a grindylow searched your brother's room, did you protest?"
"Kreacher searched both our rooms periodically."
"True." Phineas stroked his beard. "Sirius protested, though. You never did."
"What is your point?" Regulus demanded, wishing that he could fall asleep on his feet as horses could. Failure to include that in the design plan was a distinct error on somebody's part.
"The point, boy," said Phineas with exaggerated calmness, "is that you've tossed your entire lovely, creamy, planned life aside for the sake of a brother you don't agree with and have never understood. I, for one, would like to see if you know why."
I stole the description of the "lovely, creamy life" from Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited.
"I--" Regulus felt as if he were suddenly flailing in the middle of an endless ocean, being swept out to sea by the undertow. "He's my brother," he said weakly. "I can't explain better than that."
Phineas did not look in the least impressed. "So. He's your brother. And the gold-digging bitch is, for want of a better word, your mother. And my worthless great-grandson is, I presume, your father...I can't imagine anyone else being fool enough to want to take her to bed. Blood kinship isn't a good enough reason for what you're doing. Try again. Why does Sirius suddenly matter to you, after all these years?"
Regulus fumbled for words. "I--I care about him. I like him." Words from a Muggle book he'd found in Hogwarts Library once came back to him now. "I highly esteem him. Well..." he added, frowning, "I used to, anyway."
Phineas raised his pale blue eyes to the heavens in exasperation. "Deliver us from Jane Austen!"
Regulus is quoting Elinor Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility, who, when asked by her sister Marianne what she thinks of a particular man, says the following:
"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him- that I greatly esteem, that I like him."
As Marianne and Phineas point out, these expressions are accurate, but they don't come close to describing the depth of the emotions involved. Regulus, even now, doesn't realise how deeply he loves his brother. He's going to find out, though.
Regulus frowned in perplexity. "Sorry?"
"No matter." Phineas regarded Regulus with irritation and something that Regulus couldn't quite identify. "If you ever admit to yourself what you feel, perhaps you'll be able to say it. Now," and his habitual grouchiness crept back into his voice, "are you planning on continuing on toward the Potters', or have you taken root where you stand?"
"The Crups are too close," moaned Regulus. "They used to keep their distance--well, mostly. Sometimes one or two would bite or claw me but that's all. But now...well, look." He leaned slightly to the right. Instantly, three dogs stood and began growling.
"See?" said Regulus, his face crumpling. "They won't let me move. And if I do try to move, they get angry. If I move anyway, and ignore the warning, they'll be on me in a minute. And if I don't move--well, I guess eventually my legs will go numb and I'll collapse. Either way, I end up on the ground, at the mercy of the Crups--or whoever sent them. And I don't know what to do!" The last word was less word than wail.
That's Regulus's first moment of despair. Honestly, I think he was about due for one.
"Merlin's beard, boy, there are plenty of spells," snapped Phineas. "I can see that standards have truly fallen at Hogwarts since Dumbledore was installed as Headmaster. Why don't you transfigure the snow into meat? I'm sure they're hungry. Come to that, I'm sure you're hungry. Go ahead, try it."
Regulus shook his head. "I thought of that," he said softly. "But I don't know how. That's a sixth or seventh year spell. I've only had two and a half years at Hogwarts. And I don't know how to vanish--Vanishing spells are taught in fifth year, I think--or how to charm them all at once, or how to calm them down, or how to cast a Shield Charm against multiple opponents, or how to heal wounds made by the Scindo curse so that the Crups won't be able to track my blood, or...or anything."
It's easy to forget what year which spells are taught, which is why I pointed out what Regulus couldn't do. Regulus is far from a fully trained wizard; he's only in third year. There's a lot he hasn't learned yet.
"There must one spell you've learned in first or second year that is of some marginal use," retorted Phineas. "Come on, boy. Use your brains. Think. What would you be using to keep them at bay if they were wolves instead of dogs?"
Phineas can't openly tell Regulus what to do, because the portrait wouldn't do so. Nor can he provide Regulus with any spells that Regulus doesn't know, because he's part of Regulus's mind.
Regulus thought desperately for a few minutes. Then he had it.
Something to make this work, he thought frantically. Where--?
Then he spotted a small bramble bush laden with snow.
Perfect.
Regulus fumbled in his left-hand pocket for his wand, retrieved it on the third try, pointed it at the bramble bush and spoke a Severing Charm.
For a minute, he wasn't sure it would work. Then several of the branches snapped cleanly off and fell to the ground.
Regulus suppressed the urge to cheer. He could tell that those branches wouldn't be enough for what he had in mind.
Concentrating, he cast the Charm again. And again. And again. The bush was little more than a stump with roots when he stopped.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
The branches rose into the air.
The next bit took rather longer than Regulus had expected. It wasn't easy, lifting branches, then putting one down in one place and a second in another without dropping all of them, and then trying to lift all the branches but the ones that you had just put down. By the time he was done, Regulus had a pounding migraine, and felt as if he'd been trying to lift the world with one hand.
I'll bet the Ministry sends me ten million owls for violating the directives against underage wizardry, he thought, rubbing his head. I bet I get expelled. The thought made him laugh. When you were starving, bleeding, freezing, up to your thighs in snow, and in danger of being killed by a pack of Crups, the threat of expulsion from secondary school paled considerably.
Anyway, he thought, wiping the sweat from his face before it could freeze, the family will bribe the Ministry not to charge me. He was fairly certain of that. The family might not care for him, but the disgrace of having a Black charged and expelled would be unendurable for them. Not to mention that the last thing any of his kin wanted was for him to tell the Ministry that he had been in life-threatening danger and had had no choice. Some poor but honest idiot might start asking uncomfortable, scandal-making questions about why he'd been in danger in the first place...and who put him there.
The last two paragraphs were suggested by Thistlerose, who wanted to know why Regulus wasn't concerned with violating the Decree Against Underage Wizardry, since the consequences would be dire. So I discussed it, mentioning personal and familial reasons why Regulus wouldn't be afraid.
Next he enlarged the brambles. That, too, proved difficult. Engorgio wasn't a hard spell by any means, but getting something to stay enlarged instead of reverting to its normal size after a few minutes was, for a thirteen-year-old wizard, a formidable task.
Please note that Regulus is not having an easy time with the spells. They're demanding adult strength and adult control from him, just as this journey is.
The Crups had more or less ignored the levitation spell, but the Engorgement Charm upset them. They snarled and bit at the enlarging and shrinking branches, clearly recognising the presence of magic but unnerved by bits of wood that moved. Dead wood was not supposed to move.
Two of the Crups leaped on a bramble that was blowing up like a balloon, and attempted to bite and claw it into submission.
The branch shrank, then abruptly enlarged to the size of a javelin, stabbing one of its would-be attackers through the chest.
Its companion dragged the dying Crup far away from the brambles.
Half the pack followed.
A helpless, hopeless whimper.
A savage, territorial snarl.
Hungry howls.
And then the crunch of splintering bone, the chewing of soft meat.
You know, I got people telling me that this was so graphic that they were almost afraid to read further. And yet it's not graphic or gory at all. It's more impressionistic.
Regulus froze. They're getting hungrier. Whether an animal is magical or not doesn't matter now. Soon...
One more spell, he told himself. Just one more.
He waved his wand at the brambles--which had finally stabilised, becoming the size of branches from a hundred-year-old oak--forming a semicircular fence between himself and the Crups. He took a deep breath.
"Incendio!"
Nothing happened.
Regulus stared at the brambles. It should have worked. He'd done everything right. He knew it.
He tried again.
The barest wisp of smoke emerged from one of the brambles. That was all.
Then it hit him. The snow. The damned snow. It had made the wood wet and hard to burn. A Muggle could have figured it out. Actually, he admitted to himself, Will MacGregor would have figured it out long before this.
This is a big step for Reg, realising that a Muggle can be more intelligent than a wizard. He's starting to grasp that people can be different from him and still have worth.
He didn't know any Charms to dry wood or to melt snow. And the one spell he needed to use wasn't working.
He felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. He'd tried. No one could say he hadn't tried. He'd fought Kreacher, his family, a snowstorm and some Crups. He'd done everything that he had the power to do. But the snow, the damned snow, had stopped him.
A howl of frustration and rage burst out of him. He dropped to his knees, ignoring dogs, pain and numbness, and, his wand still clenched in his bleeding left fist, began punching the snow-and-ice-covered ground.
"It's not fair. It's not fair! It's not FAIR!"
He gazed up at the evening sky, strewn with distant, icily indifferent stars, and screamed. "I've had it, do you hear me? I want Sirius! I want my brother! I want him back, I want him here and I want him NOW! I want to go home, where Sirius is..."
Okay, yes, he's being very young, throwing a tantrum. It's forgivable, even understandable, for Regulus has had three extremely horrible days...but it's a bad mistake.
Choking, hiccuping sobs reduced anything else he might have attempted to say to unintelligible syllables.
Scalding tears streaked down his cold cheeks.
He caught a blur of movement out of the corner of one eye.
What--?
He turned toward it quickly enough to see one of the Crups leaping over one of the brambles toward him, its dark eyes fixed on his throat.
Prey, the eyes said.
Weak, injured, exhausted prey.
Kill.
EAT.
And beyond the brambles, Regulus could see the other Crups eyeing him as they too searched for ways over, under and around the barrier he had constructed.
There was no time. None.
Regulus waved his wand and shouted out the word one last time. "INCENDIO!"
It had to work the third time he tried it, after all.
The spell struck the Crup in passing, singing its coat and two of its paws. It collapsed onto the snowy ground, whimpering in pain.
The brambles all but exploded.
The world was briefly filled with the howls of dogs that had been too close to the explosion.
And then--save for the terrified whines of the few remaining Crups who had had the sense to avoid the branches in the first place--all was quiet.
Regulus staggered to his feet. Somehow.
The Crup that had attacked him was still lying before him, whimpering.
For a second, Regulus stared down at the animal. "I wish I could heal you," he said awkwardly. "But I don't know how. I'm not a mediwizard. And you'd probably try to eat me again the minute I did."
Turning Point #2--feeling compassion for a being who's tried to injure and kill him. Not a sly, cunning or pragmatic response at all.
The Crup looked up at Regulus then, with most of the white of its eye showing. Kill me, then.
Regulus took a step back. "No. Not that spell. I'm not using it."
Notice that he does know the Killing Curse. He just doesn't want to kill.
Kill me. Please.
"No," Regulus whispered. "I can't. It's too easy. First you start by killing dogs in pain. Then you're killing people in pain. Then you're killing people who cause you pain. Then you're hurting and killing people who might cause you pain, or maybe just inconvenience you. And it never stops. And I--" the conclusion surprised him--"I don't want to be like Bellatrix."
Third turning point, and the one that turned this into an AU arc. In deciding not to be like Bellatrix, Regulus has decided against becoming the kind of person who would become a Death Eater. He doesn't know it, but by refusing to kill for the sake of convenience, he's just prevented himself from dying young. This is something I didn't realise until Thistlerose pointed it out.
The dog closed its one visible eye. Regulus was grateful.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
He glanced around, looking for Phineas. The irascible old wizard (ghost, hallucination, dream, whatever he was) had vanished.
Somehow, he was not surprised.
He returned his wand--now cold and slippery with his blood--to his left-hand pocket, and surveyed the sky. He had to head south-southeast, if he was reading the sky right.
Astronomy lessons can be of practical use. I think that the Black boys started learning Astronomy very early.
Or, he thought without much hope, I could try the Knight Bus again. It is supposed to travel to every place on land. If it doesn't arrive...well, I can still walk to the Potters'.
He signalled for the Bus. And waited. For a half hour. Perhaps more.
Nothing. Not a sign of it.
Regulus heaved a sigh, sounding momentarily more like an old man than a boy. Then he checked the sky once more, and began heading south-southeast.
I think this says a lot about Regulus. He's beyond exhausted. He's badly hurt. He's hungry. He's filthy. And he's been lost for a good day or so. And what does he do? He keeps going. Regulus is flawed--he's stubborn, proud, arrogant and homophobic…but he has tremendous amounts of determination, even in an impossible situation like this.
***
22 December 1976
He'd been running from the Crups for hours. Perhaps days. Time no longer existed. Time was a spinning wilderness of white filled with ice crystals that stabbed and bit and a northeast wind that sliced through the bone marrow.
His clothes were soaked with snow, piss, sweat and blood. He barely noticed, now.
Regulus is being chased by a well-trained pack of Crups. Between nerves and biology...well, I figured he'd end up wetting himself.
He was not entirely sure what direction he was heading. When he had started, he'd been heading in vaguely south, toward James Potter's hometown of Windermere. Now--well, he was just trying to get away from the Crups. They could be chasing him into the North Sea, for all he knew.
Regulus is actually heading in a more westerly direction. He's in one of the National Parks, at this point, though he doesn't know it…and heading away from Windermere.
There wasn't much doubt about what had happened. Lucius had allowed him to escape--this made his face burn, but there was no getting around it. And once he'd done the expected and obvious thing and escaped ("Without even cursing Malfoy, you git," he could hear Sirius say in his mind), Lucius had contacted his parents.
And his parents had sent the Crups to Melrose. To track him. To hunt him down. Like prey.
Told you Regulus's escape was too easy. I'm not really satisfied with this section, though. I got several comments from people who complained that the escape was too easy and who then didn't understand this explanation, even though I went over it with them in a number of e-mails.
/"Unleash the hounds!"/
/"Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war."/
Regulus knows quotes--he's a well-read boy--but the important connections here are that the Blacks are treating Regulus as though they are the hunters and he is the fox. And the fact that Regulus is thinking of the Crups as the dogs of war…well, Reg realises that this is a battle, but he's also attributing immense power and strength to the animals, which is all too accurate.
The pack must have lost the scent in Melrose, thanks to the lift he'd got from the MacGregors. His family hadn't quit, though. Instead, they'd divided the pack into four parts, primed them with Regulus' scent, and Apparated the animals north, south, east and west. Then Apparated again and again, transporting each pack further in each direction as each moved in ever-enlarging circles.
He's assuming this. He really doesn't know for sure.
He'd tried getting away from the Crups. Once, he'd even removed Sirius' Christmas present from his pocket --a new broom, with a Shrinking Charm on it for easy carrying--and had attempted to use that as an escape vehicle. But the attempt had been fruitless. One hand had slashes on the palm (damn Bellatrix for that!) and the other arm was not only broken (and damn Rodolphus too!) but badly swollen, especially at the elbow. It was impossible to grip the broom with one hand, let alone two, and with the broken arm being swollen (not to mention the fact that he had to hold it away from his body, as even touching it made the greyness and dizziness return)...well, his balance was off. Getting on the broom was tough enough. Staying on for more than two seconds simply couldn't be done.
Another suggestion of Thistlerose's. If Regulus has a broom, she asked, why wouldn't he use it? This is what I envisioned happening, but didn't write down until she raised the question.
He'd tried summoning the Knight Bus repeatedly. Either the conductors of the Bus didn't recognise a wizard trying to call for the bus with his wand in the wrong hand, or--more likely--the Bus wasn't picking up passengers in the north of England due to zero visibility. And the snowstorm, of course.
Meanwhile, the Crups were toying with him. Crups were strong dogs, if small; one was enough to kill an adult Muggle. A pack of them against one human--no, he had no chance. If they had really wanted to tear him limb from limb, they could have done it by now. As it was, they appeared to be taking turns. Periodically, one or two would dash forward to bite or claw him. He hadn't bothered to look at his feet since the last attack. He had a feeling that once he saw how badly his ankles had been shredded, his brain would rebel at the notion that he could possibly be walking.
Regulus's behaviour regarding his ankles echoes Sirius's behaviour on his run to James's house in Midnight Conversations #10. Both boys end up with damage to their feet; both avoid knowing the details, fearing that knowing would make walking impossible. They're more alike than they realise.
And then--one way or another--it would be all over. Either the dogs would savage him, or he would be captured and sent back...well, not back home. You can't call a place home if your relatives cast curses on you, or set dogs on you.
Merlin, Sirius, I...
I should never have done this.
Never.
I hope I get to tell you that.
The depth of his guilt is starting to dawn on him. Regulus now knows that not only was it wrong for him to sic the dogs on his brother, but that he actually put Sirius in a situation where he could have--perhaps has--died.
***
23 December 1976 to 24 December 1976
After what felt like forever, but which Regulus figured was probably a day or two later, the snow stopped.
None too soon, as far as Regulus was concerned. The snow was up to his thighs.
Reality clashes with Thistlerose's canon. The snow was up to Sirius's knees in her stories, and Regulus is younger and therefore shorter, so the snow ended up thigh-high on him. As a couple of people correctly pointed out, that would make walking almost impossible, as indeed it does.
He couldn't even feel his feet anymore. He suspected that this was a bad sign. He didn't care. At least he could walk without wanting to shriek in pain every time he moved.
It probably means that his feet are frostbitten. Numbness can also be a sign of infection. Either way, Reg is not in good shape.
The Crups were watching him. He could see them from where he was standing--bullet-headed, fork-tailed dogs with dark, predatory eyes and strong jaws, all lying down facing him.
He shifted position slightly. One of the dogs lifted its head and snarled, showing wetly gleaming incisors.
Regulus stopped moving.
The dog put its head down again and ceased snarling.
The dogs know very well who's in charge. They are in charge.
"You can't stand in one place forever, you know."
Regulus blinked, and glanced around, wondering who had spoken so loudly.
And stared into the derisive, pale blue eyes of Phineas Nigellus.
There was certainly nothing ghostly or translucent about Phineas; he looked more like his portrait come to life. His thick black hair glistened in the starlight; his thin black eyebrows were sharply outlined against his pale complexion. He was clad in the silver and green of Slytherin--even his gloves were green silk. And, at the moment, he was stroking his small, pointed beard contemplatively and staring at Regulus.
"What are you doing here?" whispered Regulus, peering at the man who couldn't possibly be standing next to him. "I'm nowhere near Twelve Grimmauld Place, and I know you're not a ghost. You'd have been one long before this."
I'm raising the objections I anticipated from readers. Phineas is, to put it bluntly, a hallucination, brought on by Regulus's hunger, thirst, exhaustion and fear. He's here because I need Regulus to talk out a problem, and Regulus won't talk to himself.
Phineas yawned. "I'm here because you need me to be here. Not because I want to be, or because I particularly cherish your company." He glanced sideways at Regulus. "And you do have to start moving again. If you still want to find your brother, that is."
Phineas may only be a figment of Regulus's imagination, but he is still good at pushing Regulus to do what he doesn't want to do.
"Of course I do," said Regulus indignantly. "Do you think I went through all this for nothing?"
"I don't know," said Phineas in an offensively bland voice. "Did you? After all, you have stopped walking. And you must know that Sirius, even if he lives, isn't going to change to suit your opinions. Whatever he is--and he's been reckless, thoughtless and downright brainless by turns--he's always been himself. Though at times it would have been better, indeed, safer, for him not to be."
It was painfully true, Regulus realised. Sirius was always and forever himself. That self might not be perpetually admirable or unfailingly good, but he was always Sirius.
Probably the most accurate two paragraphs about Sirius that I've ever written.
I've always been exactly what everyone else has wanted, he thought with some bitterness. The good son. The loyal Slytherin. The perfect pureblood. And for the past three years, the brother who used to be everything to me has been my--what? Rival? Enemy?
Scapegoat?
"Don't blame everyone in the world but yourself," said Phineas dryly. "You collaborated.
Naturally, Phineas knows what's going on in Regulus's mind. And the word "collaborated" was deliberately chosen; it still has some very nasty overtones, thanks to World War II. Phineas is telling Regulus that Reg has been cooperating with evil. Not an easy thing to hear, under any circumstances.
You were willing to go along with that reincarnation of a black widow and my worthless great-grandson, whom I suspect to have the conscience of an amoeba--as long as it benefited you.
Phineas is never flattering when speaking of Lavinia Black, so the hallucinatory version can't be, either.
When your brother was punished unjustly, you never spoke up. When that foul spawn of a kappa and a grindylow searched your brother's room, did you protest?"
"Kreacher searched both our rooms periodically."
"True." Phineas stroked his beard. "Sirius protested, though. You never did."
"What is your point?" Regulus demanded, wishing that he could fall asleep on his feet as horses could. Failure to include that in the design plan was a distinct error on somebody's part.
"The point, boy," said Phineas with exaggerated calmness, "is that you've tossed your entire lovely, creamy, planned life aside for the sake of a brother you don't agree with and have never understood. I, for one, would like to see if you know why."
I stole the description of the "lovely, creamy life" from Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited.
"I--" Regulus felt as if he were suddenly flailing in the middle of an endless ocean, being swept out to sea by the undertow. "He's my brother," he said weakly. "I can't explain better than that."
Phineas did not look in the least impressed. "So. He's your brother. And the gold-digging bitch is, for want of a better word, your mother. And my worthless great-grandson is, I presume, your father...I can't imagine anyone else being fool enough to want to take her to bed. Blood kinship isn't a good enough reason for what you're doing. Try again. Why does Sirius suddenly matter to you, after all these years?"
Regulus fumbled for words. "I--I care about him. I like him." Words from a Muggle book he'd found in Hogwarts Library once came back to him now. "I highly esteem him. Well..." he added, frowning, "I used to, anyway."
Phineas raised his pale blue eyes to the heavens in exasperation. "Deliver us from Jane Austen!"
Regulus is quoting Elinor Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility, who, when asked by her sister Marianne what she thinks of a particular man, says the following:
"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him- that I greatly esteem, that I like him."
As Marianne and Phineas point out, these expressions are accurate, but they don't come close to describing the depth of the emotions involved. Regulus, even now, doesn't realise how deeply he loves his brother. He's going to find out, though.
Regulus frowned in perplexity. "Sorry?"
"No matter." Phineas regarded Regulus with irritation and something that Regulus couldn't quite identify. "If you ever admit to yourself what you feel, perhaps you'll be able to say it. Now," and his habitual grouchiness crept back into his voice, "are you planning on continuing on toward the Potters', or have you taken root where you stand?"
"The Crups are too close," moaned Regulus. "They used to keep their distance--well, mostly. Sometimes one or two would bite or claw me but that's all. But now...well, look." He leaned slightly to the right. Instantly, three dogs stood and began growling.
"See?" said Regulus, his face crumpling. "They won't let me move. And if I do try to move, they get angry. If I move anyway, and ignore the warning, they'll be on me in a minute. And if I don't move--well, I guess eventually my legs will go numb and I'll collapse. Either way, I end up on the ground, at the mercy of the Crups--or whoever sent them. And I don't know what to do!" The last word was less word than wail.
That's Regulus's first moment of despair. Honestly, I think he was about due for one.
"Merlin's beard, boy, there are plenty of spells," snapped Phineas. "I can see that standards have truly fallen at Hogwarts since Dumbledore was installed as Headmaster. Why don't you transfigure the snow into meat? I'm sure they're hungry. Come to that, I'm sure you're hungry. Go ahead, try it."
Regulus shook his head. "I thought of that," he said softly. "But I don't know how. That's a sixth or seventh year spell. I've only had two and a half years at Hogwarts. And I don't know how to vanish--Vanishing spells are taught in fifth year, I think--or how to charm them all at once, or how to calm them down, or how to cast a Shield Charm against multiple opponents, or how to heal wounds made by the Scindo curse so that the Crups won't be able to track my blood, or...or anything."
It's easy to forget what year which spells are taught, which is why I pointed out what Regulus couldn't do. Regulus is far from a fully trained wizard; he's only in third year. There's a lot he hasn't learned yet.
"There must one spell you've learned in first or second year that is of some marginal use," retorted Phineas. "Come on, boy. Use your brains. Think. What would you be using to keep them at bay if they were wolves instead of dogs?"
Phineas can't openly tell Regulus what to do, because the portrait wouldn't do so. Nor can he provide Regulus with any spells that Regulus doesn't know, because he's part of Regulus's mind.
Regulus thought desperately for a few minutes. Then he had it.
Something to make this work, he thought frantically. Where--?
Then he spotted a small bramble bush laden with snow.
Perfect.
Regulus fumbled in his left-hand pocket for his wand, retrieved it on the third try, pointed it at the bramble bush and spoke a Severing Charm.
For a minute, he wasn't sure it would work. Then several of the branches snapped cleanly off and fell to the ground.
Regulus suppressed the urge to cheer. He could tell that those branches wouldn't be enough for what he had in mind.
Concentrating, he cast the Charm again. And again. And again. The bush was little more than a stump with roots when he stopped.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
The branches rose into the air.
The next bit took rather longer than Regulus had expected. It wasn't easy, lifting branches, then putting one down in one place and a second in another without dropping all of them, and then trying to lift all the branches but the ones that you had just put down. By the time he was done, Regulus had a pounding migraine, and felt as if he'd been trying to lift the world with one hand.
I'll bet the Ministry sends me ten million owls for violating the directives against underage wizardry, he thought, rubbing his head. I bet I get expelled. The thought made him laugh. When you were starving, bleeding, freezing, up to your thighs in snow, and in danger of being killed by a pack of Crups, the threat of expulsion from secondary school paled considerably.
Anyway, he thought, wiping the sweat from his face before it could freeze, the family will bribe the Ministry not to charge me. He was fairly certain of that. The family might not care for him, but the disgrace of having a Black charged and expelled would be unendurable for them. Not to mention that the last thing any of his kin wanted was for him to tell the Ministry that he had been in life-threatening danger and had had no choice. Some poor but honest idiot might start asking uncomfortable, scandal-making questions about why he'd been in danger in the first place...and who put him there.
The last two paragraphs were suggested by Thistlerose, who wanted to know why Regulus wasn't concerned with violating the Decree Against Underage Wizardry, since the consequences would be dire. So I discussed it, mentioning personal and familial reasons why Regulus wouldn't be afraid.
Next he enlarged the brambles. That, too, proved difficult. Engorgio wasn't a hard spell by any means, but getting something to stay enlarged instead of reverting to its normal size after a few minutes was, for a thirteen-year-old wizard, a formidable task.
Please note that Regulus is not having an easy time with the spells. They're demanding adult strength and adult control from him, just as this journey is.
The Crups had more or less ignored the levitation spell, but the Engorgement Charm upset them. They snarled and bit at the enlarging and shrinking branches, clearly recognising the presence of magic but unnerved by bits of wood that moved. Dead wood was not supposed to move.
Two of the Crups leaped on a bramble that was blowing up like a balloon, and attempted to bite and claw it into submission.
The branch shrank, then abruptly enlarged to the size of a javelin, stabbing one of its would-be attackers through the chest.
Its companion dragged the dying Crup far away from the brambles.
Half the pack followed.
A helpless, hopeless whimper.
A savage, territorial snarl.
Hungry howls.
And then the crunch of splintering bone, the chewing of soft meat.
You know, I got people telling me that this was so graphic that they were almost afraid to read further. And yet it's not graphic or gory at all. It's more impressionistic.
Regulus froze. They're getting hungrier. Whether an animal is magical or not doesn't matter now. Soon...
One more spell, he told himself. Just one more.
He waved his wand at the brambles--which had finally stabilised, becoming the size of branches from a hundred-year-old oak--forming a semicircular fence between himself and the Crups. He took a deep breath.
"Incendio!"
Nothing happened.
Regulus stared at the brambles. It should have worked. He'd done everything right. He knew it.
He tried again.
The barest wisp of smoke emerged from one of the brambles. That was all.
Then it hit him. The snow. The damned snow. It had made the wood wet and hard to burn. A Muggle could have figured it out. Actually, he admitted to himself, Will MacGregor would have figured it out long before this.
This is a big step for Reg, realising that a Muggle can be more intelligent than a wizard. He's starting to grasp that people can be different from him and still have worth.
He didn't know any Charms to dry wood or to melt snow. And the one spell he needed to use wasn't working.
He felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. He'd tried. No one could say he hadn't tried. He'd fought Kreacher, his family, a snowstorm and some Crups. He'd done everything that he had the power to do. But the snow, the damned snow, had stopped him.
A howl of frustration and rage burst out of him. He dropped to his knees, ignoring dogs, pain and numbness, and, his wand still clenched in his bleeding left fist, began punching the snow-and-ice-covered ground.
"It's not fair. It's not fair! It's not FAIR!"
He gazed up at the evening sky, strewn with distant, icily indifferent stars, and screamed. "I've had it, do you hear me? I want Sirius! I want my brother! I want him back, I want him here and I want him NOW! I want to go home, where Sirius is..."
Okay, yes, he's being very young, throwing a tantrum. It's forgivable, even understandable, for Regulus has had three extremely horrible days...but it's a bad mistake.
Choking, hiccuping sobs reduced anything else he might have attempted to say to unintelligible syllables.
Scalding tears streaked down his cold cheeks.
He caught a blur of movement out of the corner of one eye.
What--?
He turned toward it quickly enough to see one of the Crups leaping over one of the brambles toward him, its dark eyes fixed on his throat.
Prey, the eyes said.
Weak, injured, exhausted prey.
Kill.
EAT.
And beyond the brambles, Regulus could see the other Crups eyeing him as they too searched for ways over, under and around the barrier he had constructed.
There was no time. None.
Regulus waved his wand and shouted out the word one last time. "INCENDIO!"
It had to work the third time he tried it, after all.
The spell struck the Crup in passing, singing its coat and two of its paws. It collapsed onto the snowy ground, whimpering in pain.
The brambles all but exploded.
The world was briefly filled with the howls of dogs that had been too close to the explosion.
And then--save for the terrified whines of the few remaining Crups who had had the sense to avoid the branches in the first place--all was quiet.
Regulus staggered to his feet. Somehow.
The Crup that had attacked him was still lying before him, whimpering.
For a second, Regulus stared down at the animal. "I wish I could heal you," he said awkwardly. "But I don't know how. I'm not a mediwizard. And you'd probably try to eat me again the minute I did."
Turning Point #2--feeling compassion for a being who's tried to injure and kill him. Not a sly, cunning or pragmatic response at all.
The Crup looked up at Regulus then, with most of the white of its eye showing. Kill me, then.
Regulus took a step back. "No. Not that spell. I'm not using it."
Notice that he does know the Killing Curse. He just doesn't want to kill.
Kill me. Please.
"No," Regulus whispered. "I can't. It's too easy. First you start by killing dogs in pain. Then you're killing people in pain. Then you're killing people who cause you pain. Then you're hurting and killing people who might cause you pain, or maybe just inconvenience you. And it never stops. And I--" the conclusion surprised him--"I don't want to be like Bellatrix."
Third turning point, and the one that turned this into an AU arc. In deciding not to be like Bellatrix, Regulus has decided against becoming the kind of person who would become a Death Eater. He doesn't know it, but by refusing to kill for the sake of convenience, he's just prevented himself from dying young. This is something I didn't realise until Thistlerose pointed it out.
The dog closed its one visible eye. Regulus was grateful.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
He glanced around, looking for Phineas. The irascible old wizard (ghost, hallucination, dream, whatever he was) had vanished.
Somehow, he was not surprised.
He returned his wand--now cold and slippery with his blood--to his left-hand pocket, and surveyed the sky. He had to head south-southeast, if he was reading the sky right.
Astronomy lessons can be of practical use. I think that the Black boys started learning Astronomy very early.
Or, he thought without much hope, I could try the Knight Bus again. It is supposed to travel to every place on land. If it doesn't arrive...well, I can still walk to the Potters'.
He signalled for the Bus. And waited. For a half hour. Perhaps more.
Nothing. Not a sign of it.
Regulus heaved a sigh, sounding momentarily more like an old man than a boy. Then he checked the sky once more, and began heading south-southeast.
I think this says a lot about Regulus. He's beyond exhausted. He's badly hurt. He's hungry. He's filthy. And he's been lost for a good day or so. And what does he do? He keeps going. Regulus is flawed--he's stubborn, proud, arrogant and homophobic…but he has tremendous amounts of determination, even in an impossible situation like this.
***