I am leaving I am leaving, but the fighter still remains

[spindleform.livejournal.com]

*Regulus' London is not the one that appears on muggle postcards. His internal landmarks have never been Buckingham Palace or Piccadilly Circus, and the crosswalk at Abbey Road is no more special to him than any other of it's kind. With his second city and all it's magic, history, splendor and comforts hidden always just behind or in between the muggle world, Regulus' London remains incredibly separated from the people inhabiting the other. So much so that, on the rare occasion Regulus, with all his cripplingly shy superiority and cripplingly wizarding clothing, tries to talk a walk on the other side, his mechanisms of shielding himself from their attention simply don't rate.

They had just been curious, four of them even younger than himself, just been amused by this small and strange one-boy fancy dress party who looked like a prick out of a BBC period drama. When Regulus got away from them, however, with only ruffled hair a missing scarf and a bit of a shove for a fond memory, he may as well have been beaten and dipped in a hospital waste bin of filth for all the shaken up he is. He makes it in though his front door, but no sooner does the lock clank into place does he collapse in familiar familiar anxiety, wilting like an inked illustration of the fairer sex.*

Kreacher-

Comments

[walburgisnacht.livejournal.com]

*Not unlike her son, Walburga always encounters some difficulty sleeping. Tonight's no different: her music box has done little but bore her--she's been using it too much lately, perhaps--and she'd really rather not take a potion, not when she feels so very nearly drowsy, so she's reading in the bronze parlor with a glass of milk for company. In her quilted wrapper of amber brocade she bears more than a little resemblance to the antique furnishings of the room, or to the ancient and sinister objets d'art and delicate instruments tucked into the shelves and curios cabinets. She does like this parlor, when she is feeling wakeful: it's warm and homey, lit by candles, and does much to help her along.

A little more of the book and she's suitably drowsy to give the music box another try. After carefully marking her place with a green ribbon, she rises and steps lightly out of the parlor and into the hall, ready to mount the stairs. But once Reg enters, and collapses, her pale hands fly up to her mouth and her eyes become huge. First it's out of simple shock: she thought he was home, somewhere, or in his room, doing whatever it is that he does--but then there's fright, and concern, and she fears the worst.*

--Regulus, what--

[spindleform.livejournal.com]

*Kreacher, who always manages to hear when he's called, appears near Walburga in the hall and only refrains from hurrying to Regulus' side to avoid cutting off Walburga from any caretaking she may chose to be involved with. Regulus, meanwhile, merely continues to cluthch at his cloak and not be able to utilise any strength in his knees.*

Mother! I thought I might not make it home.

[walburgisnacht.livejournal.com]

Kreacher, will you--

*But it trails off into nothing, she doesn't know at all what to do or even what she's trying to say. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to need her direction and bends over Regulus at once. Walburga, on the other hand, has gone pale, her face white as the nightgown peeping out from underneath the hem of her wrapper. One hand has dropped to clutch at her chest and she actually backs away a step.*

--home from what, dear, are you all right--what's happened--

[spindleform.livejournal.com]

*He entirely unharmed, physically, no worse off than after a bit of Quidditch locker room rousing, but he takes Kreacher's wrinkled hand as though he were bleeding from a gunshot wound. It seems that paranoia and long-term quelling of real anxiety from real danger makes for a much more horrified response to some street heckling.*

[walburgisnacht.livejournal.com]

*But that is just too horrifying. Inevitably, inexorably, the back of Walburga's hand goes prettily to her brow precisely as illustrated and she goes down every bit as picturesquely as he. Kreacher now has two fainted Blacks to deal with.*

[spindleform.livejournal.com]

*Regulus tries to sit straight in alarm but Kreacher's orders are to stay still and Regulus follows them as the elf moves to Walburga, transferring completely imaginary muggle germs from son to mother as he does.*

[mysonisgay.livejournal.com]

*Among other things, Orion was bred and raised to have perfectly excellent timing. The ability to walk into a room at just the right moment has been a talent he has honed and displayed all his life. So it comes as little surprise that of all the rooms he could step into, Orion chooses the parlour, appearing through the door with a pipe slung over his lip and eyebrows already rising.*

[walburgisnacht.livejournal.com]

*After decades of long practice, Walburga has mastered the decorous swoon. Her nightgown and wrapper are neat, as if carefully arranged--not even her ankles are showing, just two bronze slippers embroidered with the Black crest peeping out from under her hems. Fluttering, her eyes find Orion, and she looks at him with utter sincerity. Her voice is wavery, drifting up from the floor.*

It was Muggles, Orion.

[mysonisgay.livejournal.com]

Muggles.

*Orion reiterates for a lack of a better response. With his son and wife both picturesquely wilted and no sign of any muggles afoot whatsoever, Walburga's statement does nothing to aide his understanding of the situation. And yet, somehow, it all seems less madcap than it probably should.*

A reasonable reaction, I suppose. Do tell me when you've had enough of the floor and I'll help you up.

[spindleform.livejournal.com]

There were half a dozen of them, I only wanted to take some air but they surrounded me.

[walburgisnacht.livejournal.com]

*Kreacher has conjured a damp cloth out of nowhere and has been applying it to her forehead, but Walburga waves away the elf's hand, now, sitting up, her eyes wide. As far as she's concerned Regulus has now been infected and crushed and cut up into little pieces, regardless of how unmarked he actually is.*

How awful, shall I send for the Healer?

*This is with a questioning look at Orion, very mildly irritated. She's always appreciated his steadiness but can't he grasp the gravity of the situation? Or, barring that, at least kiss her on her forehead?*