Harry enjoyed travel by train more than possibly any other means of transportation, and Charles had made sure he could travel in style, too. It had been a bit of a rush to get through London in the heat of morning travel, especially with the suitcase he had to drag along, but once he settled in the burgundy red, plush seat all his thoughts of the hustle and bustle of the city had disappeared. Now, he was leaning backwards, a notebook in his lap, a pen in his hand and gazing longingly out of the window as he saw the English countryside pass him by.

The tale that he spun in his head did not take place in the fields he was coursing through, but if he allowed his vision to go blurry it was not difficult to turn the rolling hills into roaring waves, with a ship battling the mighty sea. His pirate captain stood on deck, for where else would a brave captain be, and was shouting at the crew. His loyal followers were skittering across the deck, tying ropes and hauling sails as they went. The captain himself firmly held the helm with both hands, having difficulty to voice his commands loud enough to carry over the howling wind and the ravishing sea.

His eyes fell shut. He had meant to write all of these things down, but he much rather allowed the fantasy to take him along, and then suddenly, he no longer studied the pirate captain, he was the pirate captain, and he felt the wind against his face like the lashes of a whip, and the pull of the wooden helm under his hands. It was difficult to keep the ship straight but he knew, deep inside, that if he let go it would not only be his own life that was forfeit. He had to save his crew, his friends, his…

His stop.

He frowned, still in the midst of his dream. No, that could not be right: his crew, his friends, his…

"...stop," someone said, shaking his shoulder, "Sir, you will miss your stop!"

The train whistled loudly. They were approaching the train's final stop before crossing into Scotland, and he shot up. The gentleman that had woken him stepped backwards with a wry smile.

"Sorry," he said, and Harry knew he ought to respond with something like not a problem, Sir, thank you plenty for waking me before making a fool of myself by travelling into Scotland after all but could only manage for a stare that was a little less impolite than his usual one.

Ten minutes later, he stood on the platform as the train abandoned him. Due to his distant day dreaming, he had been entirely oblivious to the fact that the skies had been torn open and rain now poured down in a steady stream before he could utter as much as Hexham, which was the name of the station he had been told to get off at.

Almost Scotland indeed.

His task had been easy: get on a train, get off at Hexham, step into the car provided by the Marchmain estate, and travel to the mansion in relative awkward silence. Harry prides himself on following instructions to the letter, with the small exception that there is no car waiting, and as such, he cannot get into one.

He gazed at the skies. The eternal optimist in him, inherited from his mother and usually quiet, piped up and told him it might clear up soon, and the car is probably delayed.

Thirty minutes later, even that eternal optimist was cold, wet, and grumpy.

Harry threw one glance at his leather suitcase, and closed his hand around the handle. With a determined intake of breath he lifted it. He'll start walking.

Charles told him it would be a short trip by car, and with short, Harry supposed anything between five and twenty minutes was fair game. As such, he expected a walk of an hour, three hours max, and he'd done worse in his life, even if the circumstances did seem to piss on him rather spectacularly. 

He knew the name of the town he had to get to, and used the map plastered to the site of the station as a guide. It was hard to pinpoint the exact distance, but he still reckoned he could do it, and if he was lucky, he might find an inn on the way. If he started walking now, he might get there before his flesh had been rained off his bones. He even supposed that, while walking, he might think about his book. The coming few months he would have precariously little time to work on it, and it was not like he had been able to bring his typewriter with him. He did, of course, carry the notebooks he always took everywhere in his suitcase, but they were more of a way to keep track of thoughts.

As such, Harry set off, thinking of pirates and seas, and imagining the rain on his skin was nothing more than the foam that bursted from the waves in a thunderstorm. His clothes got soaked, his shoes got wet, and he really ought to have felt terrible about it, but by the time - some two hours later - he passed the sign that announced he had arrived in Roaton. The sun had began to set, and he was shivering a bit, but he also had three new plot points he couldn't wait to jot down.

Roaton only had four houses and an inn, but at this point it was hardly worth stopping there to wait out the rain, which seemed to be endless anyway. Harry did, however, step inside, the little bell by the door tinkling softly, and the barman looking up gruffly.

'Afternoon,' he said, and Harry just nodded his head.

'I am looking for the Marchmain estate,' he said, in return, then chided himself for not repeating the greeting. 'And afternoon, to you too.'

There was some chuckling from a table in the corner. Harry ignored it.

'The Marchmain estate, huh?' the barman took a glass to polish and gestured with his chin to the door. 'Just follow the road and you'll run into the driveway. It's ten minutes or so, if you hike quick.'

'Has the Lord lost his willpower to fetch 'em from the station now?' one of the men in the back yelled. The barkeep raised an eyebrow.

'Scheduling conflict,' Harry said, as if he wasn't bloody soaked.

'Wasn't a conflict last…'

'Shut up, Pete,' the barkeep said, and then turned back to Harry with an apologetic smile, 'you wanna borrow an umbrella?'

Harry looked down at himself, at his soaked trousers, his squeaky shoes.

'Think that might be a tad late,' he said, 'but thank you for the offer.'