Continued from here.
Galen sat on a random park bench in a suburb of London. He did not know where he was, or the name of the park, but he remembered that he had been to this place once when he was younger, while visiting family friends. It stuck in his mind because he remembered that he had pushed Margo in a mud puddle to show off to his friends, and she had cried.
By the time he realized that he needed a place to sleep, it was very dark and very late. In fact, it was too late, and he was not allowed to use magic. The muggle busses weren’t running, and it appeared that he was in a residential area.
Galen slept on the park bench that night, and early in the morning, a muggle police officer nudged him awake and told him to move along. Galen left without argument, because he was carrying a garbage bag and he looked like a hobo.
Once out of sight, he apparated into the city, where he wandered aimlessly. He bartered for a threadbare backpack in a thrift store, which cost him two shirts. Now, instead of a hobo with a garbage bag, he looked like a hipster.
While he considered his life, what to do with it, and where to go next, Galen sat in a dingy pub where he ordered a glass of water and told the bartender he was ‘looking for a friend’. He knew that Helvellyn Mountain was a safe place for werewolves, but he could not face Naomi or the others who lived there. Would they even take him? Galen thought about going to Diagon Alley, or King’s Cross, or Hogsmeade, but he feared the looks he would get. He worried that people would recognize him. Worse, he worried they would call him a murderer.
Perhaps, what Galen feared most, was feeling again. He had spent many days and nights alone in his cell, thinking about what he had done, what he could’ve done differently, how he could’ve done better - prison really was the ultimate time-out. Whatever he got, he knew he deserved all of it: the anger, the outrage, the backlash, the insults, the slurs, the misconceptions. But after so many weeks of this, feeling too much, it began to fade until he only felt empty. Now, back in the world, he couldn’t pretend it was all a bad dream.
When dusk came, he hailed the Knight Bus. He boarded with his head down, hair covering his eyes, and offered the driver a meager fare, made up of mostly knuts and a few sickles. He mumbled the name of an address and found a seat. Despite the hazardous ride, he pretended to be asleep until he reached his stop in Edinburgh near The Meadows.
The bus wooshed away, leaving him standing in a narrow street lined with flats. The house in front of him had a broken door, he knew, because it opened with a thunk when he tugged on it. He trudged up the steps to the second floor, where he paused in front of a door with the number ‘3’. After a few moments of contemplation, he knocked. For some reason, it seemed easier to knock on this door than the last.