A/N So this little piece takes place about a month after the Potter's die. J.K never really gave the Wormtail episode a particular time so consider this the period in between where Sirius hunts him down and reflects on his life in the middle of Kings Cross. :D Anyway, enjoy.
The Train Station
He stands in the middle of the train station with a trolley and an over packed suit case and he knows that he belongs here. He knows that he should feel that he belongs in the atmosphere he's about to enter but he can't help but stop and feel free in the midst of the puking babies and hurrying business men and overdressed Grandmothers.
He wonders what he looks like to the people around him. A strangely attractive boy with hair too long and attire too strange. He belongs in this world – this real world that doesn't surround the fake and unrealistic world of his parents that revolves around blood and purity and good breeding.
This is the starting block – and he's starting. He pushes his trolley forward, in search of the barrier between the two worlds.
He's not sure why he's here. Practicality wasn't on his mind when he'd stormed out of the house. No, rebellion and hate and anger – he'd been too occupied with those overly occupying feelings to worry about where he was going to go next.
He looks around him. People going places. That's kind of why he's here. And the fact that it's muggle? Well that's a bonus. If he's going to be a family disgrace and an all round fuck up he may as well do it properly. What better way to mark the Black name than travel to the Blood traitor Potter's place by train?
He laughs at the thought and waits patiently to catch his ride to freedom.
He takes a long drag from the cigarette and stares at the trains coming into the station glumly. To the muggles passing by him that have hopes and dreams and families and futures, he's just another face at the train station. Another face that represents what happens when you live in the past and refuse to move forward.
He looks at the cigarette in thought for a moment, gazing at the slightly yellowed fingers that hold it. Lily always wrinkled her nose at those fingers.
Wrinkled. Past tense. Like him.
A bushy haired woman looks him up and down but he doesn't answer her look of interest. He's a cigarette holding homeless looking man in King's Cross and he doesn't even have enough money to pay her way for a night. But he doesn't care. And he doesn't care that he doesn't care.
He wants to get on a train and go somewhere.
He doesn't really care where. Country, city, ocean – just as long as it's not in the middle of London watching all the trains pass him by.
He flicks the cigarette away boredly. The bushy haired woman approaches him boldly.
"How ya doin?" She asks, one hand on her hip.
He doesn't answer.
"Aren't gunna talk huh?"
Nope. Just going to continue watching the trains.
He once liked to think that he could move on from anything. That he could always count on the trains to metaphorically and literally take him forward. But its not the trains that are letting him down – its his legs and the persistent voices in his head that won't shut up no matter how much he drinks, smokes or shouts.
"Lo Padfoot! Dad got me a new broomstick in the holidays!"
"You, James and Peter should be more careful Padfoot. I'm dangerous…"
"Sirius tell the story about…"
"Remember the time we…"
"Do you think McGonagall would…?"
"Slimy git said…"
"Evans is getting friendlier…"
"I'm beat pass the…"
"Sneak into Honeydukes…"
"The death eaters have the…"
"We'll be alright…"
"Real adrenalin rush…"
"Treat it like a game…"
"Sirius you know I don't like it when you…"
"We've just got to keep a sense of…"
"Keep moving forward…"
"It'll be okay…"
He doesn't answer the woman. He lets the monster in his chest tear his innards to smithereens and wonders when he started getting stuck in the past and the fucking misery.
When the train stopped moving.
When the future disappeared.
When they, disappeared.
Any comments will be met with me smiling like an idiot and a big personalised thank you email. And cookies. :D