By the time he’s left the elevator, he already knows he’s missed them- there are people stumbling away, rushing about in chaos around him, and in his alarm it only takes a glimpse of a familiar face that has Regulus ducking away, pulling himself into the shadows in an effort not to be noticed. It’s sheer panic that overtakes at first, a momentarily beat of incoherent fear that freezes him, presses him to dark corners and tries to make himself unseen, not even for fear of being recognized- because Gods there are so many people too many people and he can’t think-

He doesn’t know how long- seconds, minutes that it takes for the anxiety to force itself back down, and by that time only stragglers remain, and then they too are gone in a rush, and Regulus is alone, and- they’re gone. They’re gone. Relief, first. Somewhere in the mess with his unfocused gaze, he had seen them leave, so that meant they were safe, even if he wasn’t with them. And then. Foolish. Thoughtless. He shouldn’t have come at all. Later he’ll convince himself it was for the best that he missed them, if only by a few, precious moments- but there’s still a what-if that lingers in his mind, a hint of a second longer than it should, berating himself for the lack of thought that only seems to occur now to his mind.

The seconds tick past in the stillness, infinitely slow, but his heartbeat is still too loud in his chest, every breath in the stillness far, far too loud. By the time he can notice it, there’s a sensation at the back of his neck, it’s one he pays no mind to until the feeling draws to his lips, his eyes, tingling and curious, and when he draws up a hand to touch his face he realizes then that he can feel the skin beneath his fingers not quite changing but changing all the same. Morphing. Shit. His breath catches, alarm mixing with controlled panic- and bile claws at his throat when the tingling sensation continues, stretches across his face, and he knows its trying to pull away at these features that are not his. The Polyjuice is wearing off.

So he needs to go, now. He pulls out of the shadows, tries to orientate himself and retrace his steps- an immediate sort of desperation has taken hold, the absolute need for escape. But then just as he steps out, a series of hurried footfalls makes itself known in the silence, someone rounds the corner before he can even step back and-

Rita Skeeter.

He sees her the moment she sees him, eyes widening momentarily and he’s stopped midstep in his surprise, and at least she looks just as shocked as he is to see him (but perhaps he just imagines that)- there’s already something on the tip of his tongue, trapped before it can get out as he looks at her, features settling back into something that refuses to show his alarm. Why is she here. But even as he’s wondering that the scratching sensation continues, slowly and traitorously trails down to his neck- he pushes it back by sheer force of will. He can’t do anything now but pray his features have not yet bled back to their normal contour, and he can’t do anything but pray they won’t during the course of the following few minutes (he’s not sure she’d recognize him even so, but he doesn’t care to find out).