Chapter 2
Regulus holds the bridge of his nose tight, muffling a sneeze that shakes his hand off wildly and discloses his black eye bags from where they had been hidden beneath an oversized beanie.
Marlene takes the opportunity to crack a laugh, her own shoulders hiking her buttoned up collar even further in its mission to protect her chin from the cold.
”Aww, is someone thinking about you?”
He can barely glare for a moment before he is overtook by another.
”Only to bemoan my maniac sister,” Regulus does not bite back his spiteful comeback.
”Your dear sister who is taking you on an adventure, Reg. You do really need to start being more positive sometime.” She shakes her head at that and he purses his lips, trying to think of a reply that he hasn’t said before and put off insistent sneezes. The annoyance that flares in him can hardly be distinguished from the fondness; an infuriating prospect in itself and something to reflect upon - later, he begrudgingly adds to the hurtling train of thought.
It may take him a second too long to respond, recovering from his own body’s treacherous blow when he lifts his grip to not sound like a hyperactive child, “Clearly, Marls. Next thing you know, I’ll be dancing with the stranger to put a crusty knife to my neck.”
”If that’s really the only way you can pull anyone then it’ll do.” She says evenly in return, this time turning her face to hide the only slight, yet still no less cheerful, uptick of her mouth.
The small stretch of the woods they had meandered through had evidently left their mark, judging by the twigs Regulus can now see poking starkly from the back of her hair. He points this out with an amused grin and adopts a more slumping posture each time Marlene misses a swipe, only taking pity at the thought that Beth, so nearing now, likely would.
The grateful pout on Marlene’s features make it seem so much more real too, just as if Beth would have said it. And Marlene seems to understand his line of thinking, based off the toothy smile she reserves for moments like this.
”You’ll be seeing James again too, y’know.” The conversation change is sudden but comfortable and they swiftly veer down new tracks.
”Ah yes, the hopeless jock. It’ll be a pleasure.” His voice is painstakingly dry as he says so and his eyes can’t have painted the picture better.
He’s not particularly excited about this new opportunity still, understanding but nevertheless unreasonably - he is aware - fed up with the refusal to acknowledge the glaringly noticeable problem.
His vitriol seeps out into his words however, spreading down deep within the roots of the lilting daisies, and Marlene meets his eyes despite the skittish, guilty gaze about her.
”Give him a chance. If you get sorted into dauntless, he’ll be a better help than me.” Marlene replies with an unexpected steel to her own tone, one that seems to lay another grey building block on grey building block, a rather jolting introduction to a new atmosphere. An atmosphere that seems to lack whatever wondrous spark Marlene has them searching for.
Regulus only nods, smile pasted grimly at that and takes another step from where they had paused.
Marlene takes cue with ease and resumes her ahead position in which Regulus is to the right and behind her, a partial view of her back all he can use to decipher on her thoughts.
They trod over the grass for minutes more, only interrupting the silence with muttering that seems to wash over them, a tsunami considering their height. And for Marlene to call out to a Magpie pecking balefully at the ground, in a synchronised fashion with Regulus’s own kicking of stones, “Hello Mr Magpie, how’s your day been?”
Mood lightening and opportunity scouted, Marlene turns to him and says, “Just like you, innit?”
That’s enough to pull out a few piercing giggles and exaggerated scoffs, drifting away finally from a significantly more relaxed environment.
The sway of the trees follow after them and the winds whistle in a pitch not dissimilar to Mile’s terrible shower-voice, it feels almost like stepping into a new land to the dreary town. It could certainly pass as it with the blooming flowers and sprouted oak, so obviously tended to by children’s rough-housing and pounding soles - who those children could have been however he has no clue; no one gets much fun in the entirety of Pangea so certainly not someone who he can remember crossing paths with.
They don’t seem to have reached their destination by any margin yet but Regulus pauses anyways and let’s slip the first thought to graze his tongue, too quiet to be heard by the distancing Marlene though not intentionally. He’s almost in a trance as he says it, “The meadows look lovely, I’d almost regret smashing your face into them, it feels strangely disrespectful.”
He adds the last bits hastily and even raises his voice to be heard over the wind, even just a murmur, but it is for nought as Marlene doesn’t glance back until a moment later and then only to call him over.
He doesn’t repeat himself when he enters hearing range.
He moves to fall into place besides her smoothly but only manages a few steps as he staggers minutely upon the crest she had found, breath swiped by sweeping swathes of sky.
In its glory, it stares back at him from every corner, howling and heeding and whispering and wailing. It seems to have eyes of its own and he has to take more than a meagre moment to steady himself on the grounding grass, tickling his ankles and in position to do little to shield him yet still saving him all the same.
He drags his gaze upwards again from his enchantment at an airy sigh however and watches as Marlene yanks her head around again so as to not be blind when tugging him to stand beside her, “You can admit it’s beautiful, y’know?”
He peers around to see what exactly has caught her attention despite having quickly came to the realisation that it may have been just about anything. The peering peaks stand high above them even after the strenuous climb and the vastness itself could be marvelled at but the clouds graze their fingertips and Marlene seems entranced, having moved on swiftly from the kaleidoscope of blues to threading her fingers through the grey clouds without care, even more amazed at the wisps than the endless blue. She’s been often enough, he supposes, to have encountered the beauty time and time again - now on her last year of sixth form.
”This isn’t looking very good for your whole punk reputation, is it?” He replies with a question in turn, artfully dodging her inquiry he lets himself be lead to believe.
She cocks her head at that, like a bird but much more joyful. The comparison is lost then when she tilts her nose upwards in reply enough and does not dignify him with a direct response, “ We’ll be going down there, you see.”
He follows where her hand is pointing to view a wooden shack, cracks evident even from a distance and his relaxed state ebbs, only slightly he half-heartedly argues; he’s not afraid to say his sister has bad taste in a lot of things and he thinks his gall may come in handy, someone needs to talk to the poor soul.
Her demeanour speaks of a delusional girl, he thinks, side-eyeing her content lean.
“Sod off, you absolute prick,” His whisper is carried by the winds when he voices his incredulity, not exactly useful in only this circumstance where he does not try to hide his disapproval.
His eyes urge to shut but he keeps them peeled open, gazing around at his surroundings, the beauty of the meadows, with a look about him almost as if he is pleading the inanimate to give him reason - sanctuary - to stay.
More concerned though, his mind brings to fore-front the fact Marlene still hasn’t said a word to elaborate in all his minutes of contemplation and instead lingers in a quieted stew, “Oi, don’t be sensitive. Are you going to leave me hanging?”
Marlene reads through the aggression like second nature, maybe because he stole it from her, and instantly a soft sound leaves her lips.
A laugh.
He’s been duped.
She ruffles his hair for that though and leads him further down the hill.
It’s enough for him to centre on the touch and not the heat that had barged beneath his collar whilst he must have been unaware, to have him not turn to chase the previous chill lapping the consuming hill and to take his mind off the prison they’re prancing towards - just for then.
The house is creaking, a fact his brain unhelpfully supplies. He isn’t sure what to do with the thought but ponder and wait.
They had reached the bottom of the hill faster than he would have liked, he can admit; the wind throughout a constant call, sounding out from his peripheral, and beguilingly him with a break.
They didn’t rest their legs then, clear by his current uncomfortable position against withering wood. Instead, they raced onwards, Marlene with a wicked glint in her eyes that could only spell vague arson of which he can only remain speechless, key thrown and all.
Meeting the shack finally was a relief of sorts; hidden away from any imagined pursuers for what surely counted as crimes against sanity.
He was even willing to bypass its decrepit nature which was made even more obvious by lack of distance; the groaning of the wood, the clinging scent of wet dog - he can only assume - and the visible heaving of the floorboards when he peers from underneath his eyelids, the subtle tremors running through his body the only reason he doesn’t completely, at second, dismiss the possessed movement.
It’s a load of crap, he summarises, all of it a decaying tapestry of absolute falsities and holding back the snippy comments gets harder each second he is stuck within the unloved house; a description not completely apt but undoubtedly befitting of his crowding complaints.
He gnaws on the soft insides of his cheek and counts the daisies in a chain, the only bright thing in the room, as Marlene had left for a quick moment; looking for the friend to meet them here in the dark shack structure - he’s given up on putting a name to the abomination.
The interior looks to have been swept into by unforgiving whirlwinds though none of their signature cold lingers to ease the burning of his throat. As a result, what looks to be left of mahogany furniture legs instead are strewn across the floorboards, each also riddled with quietly gaping holes only a fool could call personality.
The exterior, even out of view now, haunts with its falling appearance, crumbling down in a spectacular freeze-frame of impending doom.
All in all, he is unafraid to make the general, sweeping statement that this place had been forsaken, every rotting inch.
Its a surprise it hasn’t croaked yet.
Thankfully, Marlene disrupts his darkening thoughts when she pops back in and brings yearned for reassurance with her loud motions perhaps more thankfully not causing the frail building to topple,“They’ll be here any minute now.”
“They?” Regulus can already feel the headache forming, an aching rubbing that fills his head with static, only distractable by the jump of his heart.
”He decided to bring a friend.” Reg is slightly worried by the fact of Marlene’s tired tone indicating protest of her own but before he can question it a smooth voice cuts in.
“Three actually.” The boy sounds unbearably smug with more than a tinge of exaggerated friendliness, a sign that easily along with his tousled hair alerts Regulus to just who interrupted their conversation.
James Potter.
“Speak of the devil.” Regulus mutters morbidly but he still seems to hear, laughing with squinted eyes at the younger boy. It’s almost inhuman, these peoples senses, he thinks and can’t quite disregard the boy’s position as long-time student at Hogwarts.
James stands by the doorway almost anxiously, soaked in dancing shadow, jumping minutely from foot to foot and looking like he’s strenuously restraining himself from making a bee-line to his self-proclaimed younger brother.
”Cmon Marlene. You don’t think I could just leave them behind?” James directs the comment clearly at the obviously put-off Marlene instead and it allows Regulus to study the two boys stepping out slightly from behind him.
The ginger one, hair bright and bold like warnings of poison in prey - a comparison Gideon and Fabian have heard before - adds on to his friend’s reasoning, “He’d get lost without us to guide his way, Marls.”
The spilling nickname is a tell of its own, second to the shared remainder of their childhoods.
He‘s the Peter Marlene needs not to recount discouraged disasters fondly with and so Regulus is surprised at the mousy demeanour the boy holds himself with - the boy being a friendly trickster, a - dare he ever say it - big brother to him, larger than life and all.
He quickly shakes off the idea of meekness; Marlene’s childhood friend, their extended family even, and surprisingly sane-ish arson-partner definitely holds a few tricks up his sleeve, no matter how reluctantly they may have been learned.
His eyes rest for another few seconds on Peter and wander slowly over the animosus red wrapped around the boy’s throat before moving on for the time being.
He allows his gaze to travel to the tallest person in the room; the one standing furthest back.
His clothing choices first draw Regulus’s bored inspection, comfortable but practical; all aside from boots with football spikes, sharp enough for Regulus to welcome the feeling of phantom wounds.
There’s not much else to decipher, a thick coat and anxious demeanour Reg can only assume is common - and another animosus choker, this time barley covering an eighth maybe of his neck, hanging tight at the base.
Jagged scars cross the boy’s features and yet they are very soon passed over, acting to enhance the softness of the boy’s face. They only serve to draw Regulus‘s eyes to the final hogwarts student’s own - wasn’t there supposed to be one more?
Regulus is grateful for the direction the scars provide though as he realises the boy who he can’t quite put a name to is staring straight back at him with a likely unintentional intensity.
His breath catches subtly in the back of his throat at being caught and he almost swings his eyes back to Marlene in forced causality until the unknown boy speaks softly, “Hey. Regulus, right? I’m Remus.”
Reg weighs out the chances of the tone being mocking but can’t seem to find any reason for a harsher response and so he matches the introduction, “Hey,” a small smile and squinting eyes as he had been taught and “Isn’t there supposed to be another one of you?”
The words seem to do something to the other boy, his body shuddering slightly with little concealment and yet Regulus thinks he’s smarter than that; the way he spoke to him, like talking to a frightened little kid showed at least some emotional intelligence. It did almost make Regulus lower his guard so slightly, after all.
The reactions shatter that minuscule trust though, it can’t have lasted when Peter’s head turned slightly and he subtly kicked James in the ankle to catch his attention; a chain reaction - one that evidently none of them wanted him to know was going on.
Marlene seems to catch on too but she makes no move but to rid her eyes of a sudden glaring cloud aimed at James when he clasps his hands together in a move that could have been deafeningly loud with they way they all look at him.
James takes a moment to survey the people around him, eyes snagging on each in turn and going clockwise until they land on Regulus.
He walks forward or more accurately struts, akin to a peacock maybe.
”Everyone else has met him already but I think it’s time you do too.” He offers a beckoning hand and when Regulus pushes himself up to reach for it, his vice grip feels anticipating.
Reg with caution thrown to the wind for him follows James out closely, steps mimicking him almost without mistake despite his want to drag his feet: it wouldn’t make a good impression on Remus.
They walk all the way around to the back and Reg can feel his own confusion grow, an irritating mist his brain half-heartedly tries to swat away, failing obviously.
His expression shows none of this though and his untelling stare remains complete.
James turns around finally in the middle of a clearing, hands wide apart as if welcoming something but there is nothing but the two boys, the wind and the grass where they stand.
Regulus doesn’t allow his gaze to wander as he shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly itching with the need to guard himself.
The silence remains loud between the two of them and James’s knowing twists and exasperated eyes only bring to Regulus a slow apprehension.
Finally, James spots a black blur through the woods and slides on a triumphant grin, a kindness visible as his tension seeps away.
The black blur doesn’t stop though, it barrels straight into James with the force of a great typhoon, vicious and motivated, and Regulus almost says he deserves it until he realises just what he is looking at.
Glistening teeth.
Thats not all but it’s what steals his attention, along with the glinting red gum. If it were to cross over, colour dripping forward, he doesn’t think it would look too outlandish.
The black is just a backdrop, messy and voluminous, but still keeping on theme; intimidating.
James simply hoists the dog up, wincing apologetically as he tugs on his collar, hesitation unable to be read, not even in fingers scrabbling due to the weak grasp.
Both dog and boy turn to look at him when he finally voices the most acceptable of his thoughts, “What the fuck, James?”
He believes himself to sound remarkably calm about it too, terror dulled by his general confusion, he’d rather give that away then anything else right then. Not to say that the weakness is appreciated but he just assumes he’ll have to trust his ‘brother’.
James finally takes cue to speak, seeing the whipping energy in the situation, eerily mirrored in the dogs whines, “Hey. Reg, this is Padfoot. Padfoot, this is Reg.”
His eyes remain widened throughout, scanning Regulus’s face and smiling encouragingly. Luckily though, Regulus does not have to respond to the oaf or stars-forbid go close to the brute in his arms as their other three companions make their way into the clearing.
Marlene certainly isn’t an angel, but Regulus thinks her cosplay as one isn’t half-bad, when she walks into the crossfire, Peter and Remus on either side.
Regulus finally leans back at the other three’s presence, breaking the stupefied state of the previous three occupants and providing a suitable distraction as the fear of his vulnerability being exposed replaces the dislodged fear of the beast.
Peter proves to be the best of them all as he exclaims, “Sorry Marls, sorry Reg. Somethings come up. We have to ditch.”
He sounds proper distressed as he says it, arms flailing to the side slightly and eyes comically widened. It’s enough to sell Reg on it, even for him to dismiss the idea that Peter wouldn’t be that worried - not the Peter who only quipped as Marlene and Miles had them chased by enforcers, grabbing Regulus’s arm hurriedly and groaning curses at the idiotic siblings and himself. Brave enough to dare the wrought iron gates at the northern most tip of fisher, at an age Regulus had considerably wisened up.
It’s enough for him to consider that they may have only opened the envelope containing the news just then, their disgruntled states certainly account for it.
The excuse makes itself up.
There are boats by a dozen. Each one with slightly different shades of grey with one or two of them standing out to bring inexplicable irritation to him, to think of all the effort gone into the scraped messes and it still not coming out perfect: a tragedy in its own right.
Regulus acknowledges the unfairness but can’t find the bother to not discover fault in everything around him; mind protesting only to his disagreeable self, lashing and beating unforgivingly.
The lanterns are too bright, too many in number. The pavement is uneven, he’s seen at least five other kids face-plant admittedly humorously. The other kids - they’re all packed in together, tall, short, older and younger, like a heaving mass, giant hands ready to squeeze the life out of him.
It’s suffice to say none of it is very pleasant. Marlene agrees, thankfully he thinks with more than a pinch of bitterness, until she turns around and declares, “The Year 11’s boats are over there, you’ll have to go on your own. Us six formers are all on the other side.”
Well, shit. He can only nod sullenly, no valid protest coming to mind and she is eagerly swallowed by the sea of people with a swish of her skirt.
Navigating through the crowds seem to be another trial the fates decide to put him through mercilessly today. He plays with the idea that they’re angry with him for something in his past, something he can’t remember but then decides they better get in the cue; if anyone, he’s been affected the most by whatever dumbassery he must have pulled. Surely he deserves to sock himself in the face first, they can take the leftovers of his self-sabotage, the hungry vultures that they are.
Lost in his thoughts and drifting, there’s no need to pay much attention to who exactly he’s jostling, he almost jolts out of his own skin - in the imperceptible way that Beth does - when a stampede arises. Moments later, the dregs of a deafening horn slither by. The fates spare him to another doom as he manages to duck into a nearby awning before the horde of children reach where he once stood.
Around him, fellow kids cry out - indignant and frightened, irritated and unprocessing, and the subsequent cacophony strips him of his senses. It’s like a banger thrown at the feet of unsuspecting kids, taking chunks out of the street and blinding the closest with its bright flash. The last only applies as his eyes scrunch shut in a useless last-ditch attempt to block out the ear-shattering noise.
It’s not over, not truly over, when the noise thins. The volume still ricochets inside his head and his knees still feel as though they should be spurting with blood any second, the pandemonium that would cause as Beth bustles for the bare-bones of medical supplies that make up all they have fitting. Miles would be leaning to him with restrained fingers, a guilty look in his eyes as he doesn’t say something. And Peter and Marlene would be cracking jokes until not one was left untouched - and hot cocoa, too. Pete always makes the best.
He’s not in their little home. Not anymore, a distant poking reminds him of the fact, tearing him away from the swirl he had begun to descend.
It’s annoying enough, even if helpful, that he fixes a tired glare to his face on instinct. He lifts his eyes up, not expecting anything but cautious nonetheless, only to be met with a firm grasp to his shoulder that sends him reeling forward.
He’s quickly righted. Saved by the person who pushed him in the first place, his mumbling thanks doesn’t detract from his discreet observation of his fellow hider.
His eyes trail their way up the girl, snagging first on the hands still holding him steady, touch deathly warm, and then on his saviours face, framed by messed cornrows free to lay across and split up her features.
She stares back at him, dark brown eyes with a mesmerising honey glaze, for only a moment, until she tugs him closer and ducks their heads together with swift movements.
His pretty-eyed saviour, as he takes to calling her quickly, says in an easily loud voice, emerging through the leftover daze, “The horns, the horns signal the end - so we should move quickly. There’s only been one so far, right?”
Her voice startles him from the fog and he grasps onto the beacon, suddenly aware of just how close the two of them are - body-heat mingling in the cramped alleyway, breath an almost imperceptible distance. Close enough for him to feel the presence of another life, a single grain amongst the sand. It shocks him into escaping the submerging waves.
Their little hide-out is disrupted soon after, time shattered or more accurately stitched back together, by the horns once more and so out they go. She grabs his hand and with caution discarded along their cobbled way, their feet beat against the stone floors. It’s a little like running through fields, barefooted and breath stolen - if the fields were an elaborate labyrinth of greys, twisting and turning with shadows lingering menacingly, threatening to grab or asking falsely for a trust fall.
They finally come across a problem, carried by the wind the echoes of real laughter gleefully taunt at the issue, still so far away.
A cart blocks their way and suitcases have spilled outwards, handles poking out roughly. He doesn’t even consider playing a tough game of twister as he eyes the spikes sticking out from behind the wood, someone - or potentially many - must have brought their mace - animosus no doubt, he can say without having even attended.
His saviour seems to be having similar thoughts as she turns to say, again loudly, “Those animosus pricks will be the death of me. And you. Unless you’re willing to take a risk?”
She seems to have startled herself even with her boldness, a barely perceptible falter in her words. But he accepts the offer and returns it with an awakened challenge. He’s not sure if he’s just repaying her kindness or if his wild streak, nurtured by Marlene and ignited by his utter hatred of the the school, is speaking for him. Maybe it’s neither, but he still retorts, “Of course. It’s big enough a risk following you around, anyways. It’s like you’re trying to get us killed.”
His saviour is pleasantly surprised by his response, he thinks, not trying too hard to read her in worry of finding disappointment. “Dying with me would be the happiest you’d ever be.”
He feels a vaguely amused offense at that.
The banter doesn’t distract her much as she pulls the two to tumble down another alley, making their way towards boats that distinctly aren’t of the year 11’s.
”Don’t doubt me, pretty boy.” She reassures when he loosens his hand slightly from her tugging grip, pulling it closer to her body. He doesn’t doubt that even if it weren’t for his startled reaction, either way his hand would have melded into hers so comfortably.
“How old are you?” He asks hurriedly, considering just how lost he is going to get. He uncharacteristically doesn’t even barter with his brain about fear, focused not even on the likely beltings to follow for disobedience but instead what feels like their little game.
”I’m in year 11, too!” She calls back with an amused quirk to her tone, lost quickly to the wind and his memories, he is instantly playing it on repeat in his mind.
”How did you know I was-“ He gasps out as they come to a stop, glaring weakly at his saviour when she slaps a hand over his mouth to hide from a patrolling student. The fingers that find purchase against her own, half-hearted in their escape attempt, and the body curling back into hers speak for the resting hysteria, laughter held back for just then.
When the patrolling student is finally gone, she pulls him down low to the shadows, skimming them with quick movements and clenching onto his hand even tighter.
They duck into a boat, already occupied and his guard is raised from where it had fallen. Until the new redhead simply says amusedly, “Are you insane?”
Thats when the giggles spill, building up from a stream to a sea, as the girls laugh, the redhead cackling and his saviour floodingly, and he allows himself muffled amusement.
“Lily Evans. You’re lucky I’m head girl,” offers the red-head, an infectious grin and energy matching her tone.
In return, he responds with politely-coloured words, edging on an inappropriate level of respect, “Regulus Rehman. Mckinnon.”
Interest piqued, he returns the smile given to him and lazily awaits a name to call his saviour - the quicker he gets it, the less likely he is to slip up and actually call her saviour. He already doubts he would ever live that down - if they get the chance to speak again, the sullen realisation comes with a startled start, swept back by her smile.
She seems to have other ideas though as her full lips pull into a pout, “I’ve been liking to call you pretty boy in my head. I think I may as well continue, what with such an old fashioned name.”
He brushes off the comment on his name and pulls his lingering mind away from the indirect promise of something further, eyes instead narrowing with a childish playfulness at the amused drawl. “And your name?”
The wicked glint in her eyes is absorbing as she looks right back at him, dark eyes taking in his features carefully before replying with lacklustre for the buzzing air that encircles them, “What have you been calling me?”
Lacklustre for Evans maybe, he ponders upon when he finally leans back, but for the moment it’s bewitching for him, “.. My saviour.”
His suppressed cringe has more than one origin when both girls break into laughter and hollers, only punctuated by a remark from the not-Evans he stubbornly refers to her as, “I like that. You can continue calling me your saviour.” Her mouth moves around the words in a way that transfixes him, bestowing them with intoxicating allure. She swipes a grape off Evans plate with her final words and swallows it, following his gaze with her own as she lays back.
”Just his?” Evans mockingly exclaims, a good nature to her voice.
She receives a similarly teasing sentence in return, dark lips quirking up in a way his eyes quickly begin to assimilate to, “Say that when you haven’t knocked a bludger into my face.”
The post-danger hysteria dies down in bursts after that, emerging from its grave whenever he catches his saviour’s sky-dark eyes. They are mesmerising, more enchanting than the day sky, up on that mountain.
He discards the implicating thought, laying it down with a building denial. Instead, he finds himself deciding all the same, her laugh is addictive and she brings a brightness to his own dreariness that only his friends have previously. He, likely foolishly, doesn’t deny himself to hope, clasping a forbidden desire, that he’ll get sorted to the same branch as her.