To Find a Home

Regulus tells himself it’s not his fault. Realistically, he knows that—or at least, he should believe it. But it always ends up like this. It always ends with him being forced to leave, shuffled off like an unwanted package because he’s “too difficult,” “too different,” “too strange,” or “not the right fit.”

Those words echo in his head, each one sharp and cutting. He knows he’s all those things—or at least, that’s what everyone keeps saying. And honestly, he doesn’t need the constant reminders, thank you very much. He already feels it, every second of every day, like an itch he can’t scratch.

It hurts. It hurts to agree with them, to see himself through their eyes and find nothing worth keeping. They say it like it’s his fault, like he’s choosing to be this way. But he can’t control what goes on in his head—he’s only eleven, for crying out loud. How is he supposed to manage thoughts and feelings and actions and emotions to fit everyone else’s perfect little mold? Yeah, no. Not happening.

It’s not like he gets to decide how this ends, anyway. The adults do. They always do. This time, it’s Mrs. Allen. She’s made up her mind, and there’s no going back now. Regulus liked Mr. Allen—quiet, steady, and predictable—but he never says no to his wife. And Mrs. Allen wants Regulus gone.

Her reasoning? "He’s not following the house rules. He’s too much work, and we’re not equipped to deal with someone like him." Someone like him. That’s a new one. Regulus wonders how many more ways adults will find to say the same thing.

Fine. He broke the rules. He stayed up late reading with a flashlight after bedtime. He avoided family dinners when the noise got too loud. He forgot to look people in the eye when he talked. But could he really help any of that? Could he?

No matter how many excuses or justifications people give him, it never makes the sting any less sharp. It doesn’t make him feel any better. Every rejection just piles on top of the last, each one heavier than the one before.

Sometimes, all he wants to do is curl up into a tiny ball and disappear. Maybe if he stays still enough, small enough, the world will forget about him. Maybe time will rewind and reset, and things will go back to normal. Back to before. Back when he had his parents, his home, his brother.

But Regulus knows better. The world doesn’t work like that. And normal? Normal is just a dream, a thing for other people. Not for him.

The car is parked at the curb, engine idling softly as Regulus stares out of the window, his gazed fixed on the house that had briefly been his home, not that he would ever call it that. He watches the worn brick walls and the overgrown gardens, the white trim that had once looked so neat, now chipped and fading. It all seemed so small, so distant now, like a life that wasn’t truly his. 

Because it wasn’t his, not really. Regulus doesn’t think it ever will be, as he sits stiffly in the back of the car, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. The seatbelt digs into his shoulder, but he doesn’t adjust it. He keeps his eyes glued to the house in front of him, barely blinking.

The front door is closed, but he knows what’s happening inside. He can picture Mrs. Allen, her lips pressed into that thin, disapproving line she always wears when she talks about him. She’s explaining why he has to leave, why he doesn’t belong. Mr. Allen is probably nodding along like he always does, agreeing without saying much. 

And, then there’s his social worker, Ms. McAllister—Sarah, she prefers to be called—trying to sound calm and professional, though Regulus knows by now that her patience with him is wearing thin. 

He doesn’t blame her, he wouldn’t have much patience left either. 

The air inside the car feels heavy, thick with the weight of everything left unsaid. Outside, the early evening sky is tinged with a soft orange and pink, the light stretching shadows across the lawn. Regulus watches as the sun dips lower, wishing it would hurry up and disappear entirely. Darkness feels safer. It always had, for some unknown reason, he can’t quite explain. 

His eyes snap back to the house as the front door creaks open. Sarah, steps outside, phone pressed to her ear. She looks tired, one hand rubbing at her temple as she walks a few paces away from the house, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. Regulus leans forward slightly, his forehead nearly touching the window. He can’t hear what she’s saying, but her body language says enough. Her shoulders are tense, her free hand gesturing sharply as she speaks. 

Regulus’s chest tightens. He knows this isn’t good. It never is. He’s been through this too many times to hold on to hope. He watches Sarah pace in a small circle, nodding at whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying. Her lips move quickly, her tone clipped. 

He slumps back in his seat, his fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. He hates this part—the waiting. It always feels the same, like the moments before a storm hits. The quiet, the heaviness, the certainty that something is about to break.  

His gaze drifts back to the house. The porch light flickers on, casting a warm glow that doesn’t match the cold, empty feeling settling in his chest. He doesn’t know where he’s going next. He never does. And really, what does it matter? Every place ends the same way. Every place ends with him sitting in a car, like this, staring at a house he’ll never see again. 

Sarah ends her call and tucks her phone into her bag. She stands there for a moment, looking at the house, her face unreadable. Regulus wonders what she’s thinking. Does she feel bad for him? Or is she just relieved that this one is almost over? 

He knows, he is. 

The front door opens again, and Mrs. Allen steps out, her expression carefully neutral. She says something to Sarah, who nods and glances toward the car. Regulus shrinks back instinctively, even though he knows they can’t see him through the tinted windows. At least, he thinks so. 

He presses his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes. Maybe if he stays like this—still, silent, invisible—they’ll forget about him. Maybe he’ll disappear entirely, swallowed up by the shadows of the evening. 

But deep down, he knows better. They always find him. They always make him leave. 

He’s not sure how much longer he’s sitting there for, but it must have been long enough because the sun has completely set. The world outside the car is shrouded in twilight now, the orange and pink hues replaced by the deep blues of nightfall. Regulus stares at his reflection in the glass, the dim light catching on his pale face and tired eyes. 

The sound of the driver’s side door opening jolts him out of his thoughts. Sarah slips into the seat with a heavy sigh, her phone still clutched in her hand. She tucks it into her bag, then turns to face him. 

“What happened this time, sweetheart?” she asks, her voice soft but probing. 

Yeah, what happened? Regulus knows what happened. He presses his lips together, his fingers curling into the fabric of his jeans. He knew the rule. 

The memory comes rushing back, sharp and vivid. 

It wasn’t complicated—don’t touch the bookshelves. But he couldn’t help himself. The jumbled rows of mismatched spines, some leaning, some stacked haphazardly on top of others, gnawed at his mind every time he passed by it. It was chaos. Disorganised. Wrong. So, when the house was quiet, he finally gave in. 

He started slowly, pulling the books down, one by one, his fingers tracing the worn covers. His breathing slowed as the disorder began to take shape in his mind—alphabetised by author, then organised by series and standalone. He felt calmer with each movement, as though the world had stopped spinning, just for a moment. 

But his peace didn’t last. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The voice startled him, sharp and loud. He froze mid-movement, the paperback he’d just placed perfectly back onto the shelf slipping from his hands and landing with a soft thud on the carpet. He didn’t turn to look. 

“I told you not to touch the bookshelves!” Mrs. Allen’s words sliced through the air like a whip. “Why can’t you just follow simple instructions?”

Regulus stood there, mute, as the panic set in. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, his breaths coming shallow and quick. He wanted to explain, to tell her why he had done it, but the words wouldn’t come. They never did when he needed them most. 

“Well?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Are you going to say something, or are you just going to stand there like a statue?”

Regulus stared at the floor, his hands trembling at his sides. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but stand frozen as her words became a blur of frustration and anger. 

Minutes later, she stormed out of the room, muttering something about how he “didn’t fit in”, how he was “a terrible listener” and how she “couldn’t take this anymore.” 

They didn’t wait for him to explain. No one ever did. Instead, Mrs. Allen rattled off a list of complaints—his silence, his strange habits, his inability to adjust. Regulus sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the words as though they were being spoken about someone else.

He wasn’t sure what he felt—hurt, shame, maybe a tangle of both. But mostly, he was tired. Tired of trying to be what everyone else wanted him to be. Tired of hoping that this time might be different, only to be reminded that it never was.

The memory fades, and he blinks back to the present. Sarah is still looking at him, her expression patient but expctant. He shrugs, his shoulders tight. 

“I rearranged the books,” he says flatly, staring at his knees. “That’s all it took.”

Sarah sighs, the kind of sigh that sounds like she’s trying not to let her frustration show. “You know they’ve been struggling with you moving things around without asking,” she says carefully, like she’s tiptoeing around glass. 

Regulus doesn’t respond. What’s the point? It doesn’t matter what he says. What’s done is done.

After a pause, he shifts in his seat, his voice quiet when he asks, “where am I going now?”

Sarah hesitates, her fingers fiddling with the strap of her bag. “A temporary home,” she says finally. “Just for a little while. But I’m hoping it could become more permanent if it works out.”

“Right,” Regulus murmurs, leaning back against the seat. He keeps his gaze fixed on the window, watching the faint outline of the Allen’s house fade into the night as the car pull away. 

Just another house. Another temporary place. Another family he’ll never see again. 

***

Regulus sometimes wishes things went his way. That he could get what he wants, when he wants it. Doesn’t every child, though? 

Some people might say he sounds bratty—he’s not trying to be, he’s just trying to express how he feels. Like how some might scream, shout, crying, breaking things, he, he has this. Others, though, might not see it that way. 

They might think he’s selfish or ungrateful, or worse, a lost cause. He doesn’t like to think about those people. The one’s who gave up on him, who decided he wasn’t worth the effort, but their voices creep into his head anyway, whispering cruel things that he can’t seem to shut out. 

The car hums softly beneath him, its engine a steady vibration that matches the faint pulse in his temples. The air smells faintly of Sarah’s perfume—a flowery scene that reminds him of the potpourri bowls Mrs. Allen used to keep in the bathroom. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t say so. What would be the point? He’d get into trouble anyway. Somehow, he always does. 

Streetlights blur as they pass, their orange glow streaking across the window like ghosts. Regulus watches them without really seeing, his gaze fixed but unfocused. The world outside is a smudge of dark shapes and dim lights, and it feels far away, like it belongs to someone else. Not him. Never him.  

Sarah clears her throat softly from the driver’s seat, breaking the fragile silence. “Are you feeling okay?” she asks, her voice gentle, careful, like she’s afraid to push too hard. 

Regulus doesn’t answer. He shrugs, his shoulders tight and drawn up toward his ears.

She tries again after a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Another shrug. This time, he mumbles something that might be “no,” but it’s so quiet even he isn’t sure if he said it out loud.

Sarah sighs—a soft, almost imperceptible sound—but Regulus hears it. He always hears it. Adults think they’re so good at hiding their frustration, but they’re not. Not from him, anyway. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t say anything else. He retreats further into his mind, letting the hum of the engine drown out whatever she might say next. 

He knows, she’s going to try again—it’s the same routine every time. 

He wishes he could disappear. Not in a dramatic way, like in the movies, but in a quiet, unremarkable way. Like fading into the shadows, unnoticed and unmissed. He wonders if anyone would even care. 

The memory of Mrs. Allen’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife: “ You’re too much work. ”

Regulus presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, his breath fogging up a small patch of the surface. The words replay in his head, sharp and cutting, no matter how much he tries to block them out. They always find him. 

He remembers the first time he heard those words, a couple of months ago now. The family had seemed nice at first. Too nice, in hindsight. They smiled a lot, made promises they couldn’t keep, and spoke in voices that were too light, too measured. They wanted him to feel safe. To feel wanted. He tried to believe them.

He had done everything right, or at least, he’d tried to. He kept quiet at the dinner table, even when the conversations drifted to things he didn’t understand or care about. He nodded when they talked to him, murmuring polite responses without saying too much. He organized his room meticulously, lining his books and clothes up just so, hoping they’d notice how neat he was, how good he could be.

And he avoided conflict—bit his tongue when their biological son barged into his room without knocking, clenched his fists under the table when they forgot to include him in family plans. He told himself it didn’t matter, that if he just stayed quiet and obedient long enough, they’d accept him.

It wasn’t enough.

The memory shifts, sharp and vivid. It was a weekend trip to some crowded park—a picnic, they had called it, though it felt more like a test. There were too many people, too many sounds. Laughter, chatter, barking dogs, children shrieking as they ran past. It grated on his nerves, each noise digging into his skull until he couldn’t focus on anything else.

He tried to hold it together, really, he did. He sat stiffly on the checkered blanket, his hands curled into fists in his lap, trying to drown out the chaos. But then their son had spilled juice on him—sticky and cold, seeping through his shirt—and the sensory overload became too much.

He didn’t mean to snap. He didn’t mean to shout or push the boy away when he tried to apologize. He didn’t mean to bolt from the blanket, his chest heaving as he fought to breathe.

But he had, and their reactions were worse than the noise.

Confusion at first—furrowed brows and startled glances. Then frustration, sharp and cutting, as the father muttered something about “overreacting.” And finally, the coldness, the unspoken understanding that he had failed.

They didn’t say it outright, not then, but he could see it in their eyes. The disappointment. The realization that he wasn’t what they wanted after all.

A week later, Sarah showed up with her clipboard and that carefully neutral expression, and he was gone.

Regulus clenches his fists, staring down at his lap as the weight of that failure settles over him like a stone. His breathing quickens, but he forces himself to stay still, his nails digging into his palms. 

He doesn’t need to remember this. Doesn’t want to. But it’s there anyway, playing on repeat in his mind. Proof that no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never be good enough. Not for them, not for anyone. 

The memories come in flashes, sharp and bitter, like shards of glass. He remembers a foster mother who called him “ungrateful” when he didn’t smile enough at dinner. She’d tried so hard to make him like her, to fit into her vision of the perfect little family. But he hadn’t smiled because he didn’t know how to. Not in a way that felt real. That had been enough for her to give up on him. 

Then there was a foster father—stern and impatient—who scolded him for being “too quiet, too strange.” The man’s words had cut deeper than he’d expected. “Why can’t you just be normal?” he’d said once, when Regulus had frozen during a family outing, unable to speak or move because of the noise and the crowds. As if it were a choice. As if he could just flip a switch and suddenly be the son they wanted.

And the kids at school. He’d been “the freak” there. The boy who sat alone at lunch, who didn’t know how to join conversations or laugh at the right moments. They’d teased him relentlessly, their words searing into his skin like invisible scars. He’d stopped trying after a while. What was the point?

His fists tighten, his nails biting into his palms until it hurts, but he doesn’t let go. The anger bubbles just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. He’s angry at them—all of them—for making promises they couldn’t keep, for pretending to care only to toss him aside when things got hard. But he’s angrier at himself.

It isn’t fair. 

Why can’t he just be normal? Why does he always mess everything up? Why is he always too much for everyone?

His jaw clenches, his hands gripping his jeans tightly as he stares down at them. He can feel the burn of tears threatening to spill, but he blinks them back furiously. He won’t cry. Not here, not now.

He wants to scream. To shout at the top of his lungs, to let all the frustration and anger and hurt pour out of him. He wants to cry, to sob until there’s nothing left inside him but emptiness. But he can’t. He won’t.

Sarah wouldn’t understand. No one ever does.

Regulus’s mind flashes back to another moment, another home. He remembers the foster couple in that house—kind at first, soft smiles that made him believe for a brief moment that this time would be different. He remembers the way their eyes shifted to disappointment when they found him alone in the living room, the coffee table strewn with things he had moved—papers, books, pens—all arranged in a meticulous pattern only he understood. He hadn’t meant to cause trouble. It was just how he processed things. The clutter, the constant motion of his hands, helped him focus. It made everything quieter in his mind. But when they found him, the mother, Mrs. Avery, had looked at him like he was the problem.

“Regulus,” she had said, her voice strained, “Why can’t you be more like Sam?”

Sam was their biological son. He was easy to love—quiet, obedient, neat, with a smile that never seemed to fade. He was everything Regulus wasn’t. And that’s what they always said. Why can’t you be more like them? The words stuck with him like a burr in his skin, rubbing raw every time he thought of them.

Mr. Avery had stood by the door, arms crossed, eyes tired. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” he had said, voice hardening with every word. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Regulus had tried to explain—tried to tell them that he hadn’t meant to make a mess, that the bookshelves were a way of controlling the chaos in his mind, that he needed order to think clearly—but the words stuck in his throat. His chest had tightened, a wave of panic rising. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Avery making him feel like he was a burden, a failure, a child who couldn’t fit anywhere. They didn’t see him. They never saw him.

“You’re just too difficult,” Mrs. Avery had muttered under her breath, her lips pulled into a tight line. “We’re not the right fit for you.”

Those words echoed in his mind long after he had left their home. Too difficult. Not the right fit. He had spent so many nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with him. Why couldn’t he just be normal? Why couldn’t he be the child they wanted?

The words shifted and blurred, transforming into others. To many others, all saying the same, or similar things. 

There words, all there words, blended together, the voices mixing together until they felt like one continuous, unbroken line. The same disappointment. The same rejection. The same coldness. 

Regulus’s chest tightens, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. His vision blurs as tears sting his eyes, threatening to spill over despite his best efforts to keep them in check. He doesn’t cry often—crying is weakness, and weakness makes people give up on you—but he can’t hold it back this time. The pressure inside him has been building for too long, and now it’s cracking open, spilling out in the form of hot tears that he can’t stop.

Sarah notices almost immediately. From the front seat, she glances back at him, her voice gentle but tinged with concern. “Regulus? What’s wrong?”

He stiffens, turning his face toward the window to hide the tears sliding down his cheeks. He doesn’t want her to see. Doesn’t want her to ask questions he can’t answer. “I’m fine,” he mutters, his voice trembling despite the lie.

“Regulus…” she begins, but he cuts her off with a sharper tone, though it wavers. “I said I’m fine.”

The car falls silent again. Only the soft, rhythmic hum of the tires against the road fills the space, mingling with the sound of his shaky, uneven breaths. Regulus presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, willing himself to stop, to pull himself together before Sarah says anything else, before she starts thinking of him as even more of a problem than she already does.

His hands grip his jeans tightly, the fabric bunching under his fingers as he squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to cry. Doesn’t want to feel like this—raw, exposed, a mess of emotions he doesn’t know how to control.

The tears keep coming, though, and the knot in his chest feels unbearable.

Regulus forces himself to calm down, wiping his face roughly and taking deep, shaky breaths that feel more like gasps. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. It never matters. He’ll mess this one up too. They’ll send him away like all the others. 

It’s how it works, right?

He gets pickeed up from one failed attempt at a home, a family, and dropped off at another, just to screw it up for being “too different,” “too much,” or “not enough.” The words repear like a mantra, stabbing into him as his chest tightens painfully. He doesn’t want to care—but he should. He should. He hates himself for even entertaining the idea, but what if this time is different?

What if it’s worse?

Sarah’s voice pulls him back, snapping the thread of his spiraling thoughts. “Alright, Regulus, we’re almost there,” she says gently, her tone softer than usual, sweeter even, like she’s trying not to spook a frightened animal. As if that’s supposed to suddenly make him happy, suddenly fix everything.

Regulus lifts his head slightly, his gaze shifting to the road ahead. In the distance, he can see the outline of a house—large, its warm yellow lights glowing softly in the windows. It looks… inviting, almost too inviting, like it’s pretending to be something it’s not.

His stomach twists sharply, the nausea rising like a wave he can’t push down. He doesn’t want to go in. He doesn’t want to meet them, doesn’t want to start this whole cycle over again. But he doesn’t have a choice. He never does.

The car slows to a stop, the engine’s hum fading into silence as Sarah parks. She turns to look at him, her expression soft, patient, expectant—like she’s waiting for some sign of cooperation.

“Ready?” she asks, her voice as careful as ever, though there’s a faint edge of weariness beneath it.

Regulus stares at her for a moment, his jaw tightening. Then, his gaze flicks to the house. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest, his shoulders hunching defensively as his nails dig into his sleeves.

“I’m not getting out,” he mumbles, anger and panic lacing his voice. If he doesn’t have a choice about any of this, then he’s sure as hell going to make the process as difficult as possible.

Sarah sighs quietly, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Regulus…” she starts, her voice calm but firm.

He cuts her off, shaking his head as his voice rises slightly, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “What’s the point? I’ll just screw it up. They’ll hate me like everyone else does. Just… just leave me here. I don’t care.”

But he does care. That’s the worst part. He cares so much it hurts. And the thought of hoping, even a little, only to have it ripped away again—it terrifies him.

Regulus stiffens as Sarah sighs deeply, her patience evidently reaching its limit. “Fine then,” she says, her tone brisk now, devoid of the gentleness she usually forces into her words. She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the driver’s side door. “You can stay here and sulk. I’ll handle things.”

The door slams shut behind her, leaving Regulus alone in the quiet of the car. He hunches further into himself, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso like a makeshift shield. The air feels heavier, oppressive, like it’s pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

He glares at the dashboard for a moment, his jaw clenched tightly, and then his gaze shifts to the window, where Sarah is walking toward the house. She looks calm—composed in the way only adults seem to manage. Her dark blue coat swishes around her knees as she strides up the brick walkway, her heels clicking softly against the pavement.

Regulus watches her reach the door, his stomach still twisting with that same gnawing dread. Part of him hopes she comes back and says there’s been some mistake, that this isn’t happening. But he knows better.

The door opens before she can knock, and a man steps out onto the porch. He looks young—early thirties, maybe. His skin is a light brown, like polished bronze under the glow of the porch light, and his round, wire-framed glasses catch the faint reflection of the light above him. His dark brown hair is a mess, sticking out in all directions, as if he’s run his fingers through it one too many times.

He’s dressed casually—a soft gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, dark blue jeans, and sneakers that look comfortably worn. His entire appearance feels disarmingly unpretentious, far from the stiff suits or neat cardigans Regulus had grown used to with other foster parents.

Regulus narrows his eyes, his heart pounding harder for reasons he doesn’t entirely understand. Something about this man feels different, but not in a way that makes him feel any better. If anything, it unsettles him more.

The man smiles warmly as Sarah approaches, stepping aside to let her in. His voice carries faintly through the still night air as he greets her, though Regulus can’t make out the words. He frowns, his chest tightening with something that feels too much like jealousy—or maybe it’s resentment.

He doesn’t trust that smile, no matter how genuine it looks. People always smile at first. It’s the same routine every time—smiles, reassurances, promises that this time will be different. But it never is.

Regulus’s fingers curl into fists in his lap as he watches Sarah disappear into the house, the door closing softly behind her. The warm yellow light from the windows spills out onto the lawn, casting long shadows that stretch toward the car.

The lump in his throat grows heavier, and he swallows hard, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t want to go in there. He doesn’t want to meet this man or anyone else inside that house.

Because no matter how kind they seem, no matter how warm or welcoming or friendly, it always ends the same way—with him packing his things, sitting in another car, staring at another house he’ll never see again.

His chest heaves with uneven breaths as he presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, his thoughts spiraling. “Fine,” he mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible. “If they don’t want me, I don’t want them either.”

But deep down, in the part of him he doesn’t like to acknowledge, he knows that isn’t true. It never is.

All he wants, is to find a home. Selfish, isn’t it?

***

Time is a funny construct. Regulus knows this. He knows the sun can be in one place, and then in another, and somehow, it’s been five hours. He knows that he could have sat in this car for ten minutes or thirty. He’ll never know. What he does know, is what is being said about him.

He sits stiffly, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the dashboard as if it’s personally offended him. The hum of the engine has long since faded into the background, blending with the faint chirping of crickets outside and the occasional rustle of leaves. Sarah’s perfume still lingers faintly in the air, cloying and sweet, and it makes his nose itch. He rubs at it absentmindedly, his thoughts already drifting to the conversation inside the house.

He can picture it very clearly.

Sarah is standing just inside the doorway, clutching that worn, leather folder of hers that’s filled with all the things people need to know about him—his case file, his history, his failures. She’s flipping through it, probably skipping the parts about his meltdowns and focusing on the nicer things: “He’s bright, a quick learner. Likes to read. Keeps to himself.”

The man—Mr. Potter, he assumes—stands opposite her, his arms folded, head tilted slightly as he listens. He’s dressed casually: dark jeans, a gray sweater that looks a size too big, and a pair of worn sneakers that don’t seem to match the house behind him. His glasses catch the light, and his messy hair flops into his face every time he nods.

Regulus imagines Sarah saying something about him being “a bit shy” or “nervous around new people,” like that’s supposed to explain everything.

“He’ll come around,” she probably says, smiling that fake, reassuring smile she gives everyone. “It just takes him some time to adjust.”

And Mr. Potter, what would he say? Regulus pictures him frowning slightly, glancing toward the car where Regulus sits, invisible but somehow exposed all the same. He’d sigh, wouldn’t he? Run a hand through that mop of hair and wonder if this was a mistake.

“Is he going to be... difficult?” Regulus imagines him asking, his voice low, hesitant, like he’s already bracing himself for the worst.

Sarah would shake her head, quick to defend him, but it wouldn’t matter. The damage would already be done. It’s the same every time. They always ask. Sometimes they don’t even bother asking—they just look at him and decide on their own.

Difficult.

The word echoes in his mind, heavy and sharp. He presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to go inside. Doesn’t want to meet Mr. Potter or anyone else in that house. Doesn’t want to see the way they’ll look at him after a week, a month, when they’ve decided he’s too much work.

Sarah’s voice floats out from the house, muffled and indistinct, and he tenses, his heart thudding against his ribs. Maybe she’s defending him. Maybe she’s making promises she shouldn’t. Or maybe she’s just making excuses.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what she says, it’s always ends the same. 

It always ends with him being difficult .

The word feels like a weight in his chest, suffocating, reminding him of all the ways he never measured up. All the times he tried and failed. All the families that gave up on him, one after another, because he wasn’t what they wanted.

He clenches his fists in his lap, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting, from screaming at the world for making him feel like this. He could stay here forever, hidden in the car where no one could judge him, where no one could see how wrong he was. But he knows that won’t solve anything. Eventually, Sarah will come back out, and he’ll have to face whatever comes next.

The blurred motion of the front door opening makes him freeze. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to know if it’s Sarah or someone else—someone from inside the house, already coming to tell him they’ve made up their mind.

Regulus doesn’t move. He just sits there, tense, eyes locked on the dashboard, trying to breathe, trying to ignore the pressure building in his chest. The seconds stretch on, each one feeling like an eternity. He feels the weight of it all, pressing down on him, suffocating him until he feels like he can’t take it anymore.

And then, the car door opens.

“Regulus,” Sarah says, her voice soft but steady. He doesn’t look at her. He stares straight ahead, his jaw tightening.

“It’s time to head inside,” she continues, crouching slightly so she’s at eye level with him. “They’re waiting for you.”

“No,” Regulus says flatly, his voice low and strained.

Sarah exhales, but she doesn’t back down. “Regulus, I know this is hard, but you have to at least give it a chance. Just come in, meet them, see how it feels. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I said no!” he snaps, his voice rising sharply as he finally turns to glare at her. His chest heaves, his breathing ragged as his frustration boils over.

Sarah stays calm, but there’s a flicker of something in her expression—weariness, maybe. She straightens up, resting her hand on the open door. “I understand you’re upset, but—”

“No!” Regulus screams, cutting her off. The word echoes in the car, sharp and raw. His hands are trembling now, and he presses them into his lap, trying to steady himself. He takes a deep, shaky breath and whispers, “I don’t want to.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Sarah hesitates, her brow furrowing, before she opens her mouth to try again. But before she can, a new voice cuts in.

“Can I try?”

Regulus’s head snaps up, his wide eyes darting to the man standing a few feet behind Sarah. It’s Mr. Potter. His hands are in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but there’s something in his expression—something calm, something patient—that makes Regulus’s throat tighten.

Sarah looks between them for a moment, then nods. “Alright,” she says softly, stepping aside to let Mr. Potter take her place.

He moves slowly, taking a seat on the curb just outside the car door. He doesn’t say anything right away, just sits there with his elbows on his knees, looking at the ground. Regulus glances at him, then back at the dashboard, unsure what to expect.

“Hi, Regulus, my name is Fleamont” Mr. Potter—Fleamont, though it’s rude to call an adult by their first name, he learnt that the hard way, unless if it’s Sarah—says after a moment, his tone quiet and steady. “I know you don’t want to go inside right now. And that’s okay. I’m not here to force you. I just wanted to talk for a bit. Is that alright?”

Regulus doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at him. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, his fingers digging into his sides.

“I get it,” Mr. Potter continues, his voice even. “This is hard. It’s scary, walking into a house full of strangers, not knowing what’s going to happen. I’d feel the same way if I were you.”

Regulus’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything.

Mr. Potter leans back slightly, resting his hands on his knees. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you? More than most people your age should ever have to. And I bet you’re tired of people making promises they can’t keep. Tired of hearing the same words over and over, only for things to fall apart.”

Regulus swallows hard, his gaze flickering to the man for just a second before darting away again.

“I’m not going to promise you that everything will be perfect,” Mr. Potter says softly. “Because it won’t be. I’m not perfect, and neither is anyone else in that house. But I can promise you this—we’ll try. We’ll do our best to make this work. Okay?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unfamiliar. Regulus feels something twist in his chest, something he doesn’t know how to name. He bites the inside of his cheek, blinking hard against the stinging in his eyes.

“I know you don’t trust me yet,” Mr. Potter says, his voice quieter now. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to trust me right away. But I hope you’ll give us a chance. Just one step at a time.”

Regulus doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. But his grip on his arms loosens slightly, and he risks another glance at Mr. Potter. The man isn’t looking at him anymore; his gaze is on the ground, as if he’s giving Regulus the space to decide for himself.

After what feels like an eternity, Regulus shifts, his hands falling to his lap. He doesn’t say a word, but he reaches for the seatbelt, his movements hesitant and deliberate.

Mr. Potter looks up, a small, warm smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He stands, stepping back to give Regulus room to get out of the car.

Regulus hesitates for a moment longer, then swings the door open and steps out, his arms crossed tightly over his chest again. He doesn’t look at Mr. Potter or Sarah as he starts walking toward the house, his head down, his heart pounding.

Mr. Potter falls into step beside him, keeping a respectful distance but staying close enough that Regulus can feel his presence. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push. He just walks with him, steady and patient, as they approach the warm glow of the front door.

The front steps feel taller than they should, each one an effort, like dragging himself uphill. Regulus keeps his gaze glued to the ground, his arms still tightly crossed over his chest, as though that might hold him together. The warm light spilling from the open doorway feels harsh and too inviting all at once.

He stops just short of the threshold, his feet planted on the edge of the welcome mat. His breath catches, and for a moment, he considers bolting back to the car.

“Take your time,” Mr. Potter says gently, his voice low, almost like he’s speaking to avoid scaring off a wild animal.

He chances a glance inside. The house is... nothing like he expected. It isn’t sterile or overly pristine, like some of the foster homes he’s been in. There’s clutter—a pair of sneakers kicked off haphazardly near the stairs, a jacket draped over the back of the couch, books stacked precariously on a coffee table. The walls are covered with photos, frames in all shapes and sizes, showing smiling faces, some formal, others blurry and candid.

There’s no sign of judgment. No sign of people who have already decided he’s a problem they’ll regret taking on.

But that doesn’t mean it won’t come.

“Do you want to come in?” Sarah asks, her voice carefully neutral, but he can hear the undercurrent of encouragement.

Regulus swallows hard, his nails digging into his skin. He doesn’t answer, just takes one hesitant step forward, then another, until he’s standing in the doorway.

Regulus steps into the house, his shoes making barely a sound against the wooden floor. The air is warm, carrying the faint scent of something sweet—biscuits, maybe. His arms stay crossed tightly over his chest as he takes in the entryway. It’s simple but inviting, with a coat rack near the door and a small table holding a bowl of keys and loose change. The walls are painted a soft, warm yellow, and there’s a framed photo of a boy, roughly Regulus’ age, maybe slightly older, laughing, perched on the table.

“Regulus, this is my wife, Euphemia,” Mr. Potter says, gesturing toward the woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

Regulus glances up quickly, then down again, his heart still hammering in his chest. Mrs. Potter is younger than he expected—early thirties, maybe. Her red-brown hair is pulled back into a loose braid that rests over her shoulder, and her brown eyes are warm, scanning him with a mix of kindness and curiosity. She’s wearing a simple button-up blouse and jeans, casual but put-together, like the kind of person who doesn’t try too hard to impress but still somehow does.

“Hi, Regulus,” she says softly, her voice gentle but not overly sweet. “It’s nice to meet you. We’ve been looking forward to having you here.”

Regulus doesn’t respond, his eyes darting around the space instead. There’s a staircase to his right, leading to what he assumes is the second floor, and beyond Mrs. Potter, the kitchen is softly lit, its counters cluttered but not messy. It doesn’t feel staged or artificial, and something about that unsettles him.

“Thank you for taking him in on such short notice,” Sarah says, her voice breaking through his thoughts. She’s stepped inside now, standing a little awkwardly near the door, clutching her folder like it’s a lifeline. “I know this isn’t your usual placement. You’ve been so wonderful with the older teens, and I—well, I really appreciate this. I’ll be in touch in about a week to check in and see how everything’s going.”

Mrs. Potter glances at her husband, who nods before she replies, “Of course, Sarah. We’re happy to help.”

Sarah looks relieved. “I know younger kids aren’t usually your focus, but... I thought of you two immediately when we needed somewhere for Regulus. I just had a feeling.”

Regulus shifts his weight, his arms tightening over his chest. He hates when people talk about him like he isn’t there, like he’s some problem to solve.

“This is just a temporary placement,” Sarah continues, turning her gaze to Mr. and Mrs. Potter. “But if things go well... maybe we could talk about making it permanent.”

Regulus freezes. The word “permanent” echoes in his head, and his stomach twists. He knows better than to believe in things like that. It never works out. Not for him.

“We’ll see how it goes,” Mr. Potter says evenly. 

Sarah nods, then turns to Regulus, holding out his bag. “Here you go,” she says, her tone softening. “I’ll check in soon, okay?”

Regulus doesn’t look at her as he takes the bag, his grip firm. His chest feels tight again, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He nods once, barely.

Sarah hesitates, like she wants to say something more, but then she steps back, giving him a small smile. “Take care, Regulus. You’re in good hands.”

He doesn’t respond.

As Sarah leaves, the Potters don’t push him to say anything. Mrs. Potter steps aside, giving him space, and Mr. Potter gestures toward the stairs. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room,” he says gently.

Regulus glances around the space one last time before following. There’s something about the house—its warmth, its imperfections, its quiet—but he doesn’t let himself think about it too much. It doesn’t matter. It never does.

***

Regulus has never been more anxious to walk up a set of stairs in his entire life. Which is silly because, frankly, he’s done this plenty of times. The only problem is, this time feels different. Something about this house unsettles him—unsettles him in a way he’s never experienced, never felt.

Maybe it’s the warmth, the way everything looks lived-in but not chaotic, or the way Mr. Potter looks at him, patient and steady, as if he doesn’t expect Regulus to fail. That unsettles him the most.

“We’ve set up your room at the end of the hall,” Mr. Potter says over his shoulder, his voice calm, like he’s simply narrating a walk. “It’s got its own bathroom, and we thought it might be nice for you to have some space to yourself.”

Your room. Regulus’s fingers curl into his palms, the words rattling uncomfortably in his mind. It’s not his room. It’s temporary. They’ll realize soon enough that he doesn’t belong here.

The hallway is bright, lined with photos that catch the soft overhead light. Regulus doesn’t let himself look at them. He keeps his eyes on the floor, his shoes scuffing against the polished wood with each step. His hands stay locked at his sides, stiff and awkward, as if they don’t belong to him.

Mr. Potter stops at a door at the end of the hall and pushes it open. He steps aside, gesturing for Regulus to go in.

Regulus hesitates for a moment before stepping forward, his arms wrapped tightly around himself like a shield.

The room is quiet, almost too quiet. The walls are painted a muted gray, and there’s a bed in the corner, neatly made with a navy-blue comforter. A small desk sits by the window, its surface empty except for a lamp, and a wardrobe stands in the corner. It feels clean, organized, and untouched—like no one has ever lived here before.

Mr. Potter lingers in the doorway, his voice low and even. “What do you think?”

Regulus doesn’t answer. He shifts from one foot to the other, his gaze darting across the room but never settling on anything for too long. His arms stay locked around his chest, his nails digging into his sleeves.

“It’s yours for as long as you need it,” Mr. Potter says, his tone gentle but firm, as if the words are supposed to mean something.

Regulus feels his stomach twist. He doesn’t want it to be his. He doesn’t want to stay long enough for it to matter.

After a moment, Mr. Potter clears his throat. “Have you eaten anything tonight?”

Regulus shakes his head, his movements small and stiff.

Mr. Potter doesn’t press. “When you’re ready, come downstairs, and we’ll make you something.” He pauses for a moment, as if waiting for Regulus to respond, but when it’s clear he won’t, Mr. Potter just nods. “Take your time.”

The door clicks softly as Mr. Potter leaves, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

Regulus stands there, frozen, his arms still wrapped tightly around himself. Slowly, he moves toward the desk and brushes his fingers along the smooth surface. It feels sturdy, dependable, unlike the rickety furniture in some of his previous placements.

But the familiarity of it all creeps in anyway. His mind dredges up memories he wishes he could forget: the foster father who scolded him for being too quiet, the foster mother who told him outright, “You’re too much for us to handle.” Their words swirl in his head, mixing with his own insecurities until he feels like he can’t breathe.

He swallows hard, his chest tightening, and forces himself to focus on the present. He moves to the bed, sits on the edge, and presses his hands against the comforter. The fabric is soft under his fingers, but it doesn’t ground him.

He glances at the closed door to the attached bathroom but doesn’t move toward it. Instead, he stays there, sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor as his thoughts spiral. He feels the pressure building again, like a balloon about to burst, but he doesn’t let it. He won’t.

This isn’t his room. This isn’t his house. This isn’t his life.

It’s just another stop. Another place he’ll have to leave behind.

And yet, the silence here feels... different. Not the heavy, suffocating kind he’s used to, but something softer, lighter. It makes him uneasy in a way he can’t explain.

For now, he stays where he is, staring at the floor, letting the quiet wrap around him like a blanket he doesn’t know how to wear.