To Find a Home

Silence is a deafening sound, depending on what is being felt. Sometimes, regular silence, sometimes awkward silence, and sometimes even happy silence can be deafening.

But what’s not deafening is the sound of a very loud child—especially when they’re screaming. Well, screaming by Regulus’ standards, that is.

The sudden noise—a muffled shout followed by the sound of something thudding against a wall—shatters the fragile quiet like glass hitting the floor. Regulus flinches hard, his breath catching in his throat. His muscles tighten, and he curls in on himself, drawing his knees to his chest as though he can make himself small enough to disappear. His fingers twist into the hem of his slightly too-large t-shirt, the fabric worn soft under his grip.

He sits frozen, his heart pounding in his ears. The noise downstairs continues—a boy’s voice, rising and falling in bursts of energy. Words are indistinct, too far away to make out, but the tone is unmistakable: excited, carefree, loud. The kind of loud that makes Regulus’ skin prickle, his stomach twist.

It takes him a long moment to remember where he is. This isn’t his house. This isn’t like other homes. There are no harsh footsteps coming down the hall, no sharp voices cutting through the air. The walls here are softer somehow, their edges rounded by the warm lamplight seeping in through the crack under the door.

The noise downstairs quiets for a moment, and Regulus lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His fingers loosen their grip on his shirt, but his body stays tense, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Then his stomach grumbles—loud and insistent, breaking through the fog of his thoughts. The sound startles him almost as much as the shouting had, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment, even though no one else is here to hear it.

He remembers what Mr. Potter said, his voice kind and patient in a way that feels foreign to Regulus. “When you’re ready, come downstairs, and we’ll make you something.”

Regulus glances toward the door. The idea of going downstairs, of leaving the relative safety of this borrowed room, makes his throat tighten. But the ache in his stomach is sharper now, and the memory of Mr. Potter’s words lingers, nudging him forward.

Slowly, he uncurls himself and slides off the bed, his feet, covered in shoes too small for him, clide with the carpet silently. He hesitates for a moment, staring at the door, before steeling himself. He presses his hand against the cool brass of the doorknob and twists it as quietly as he can.

The hallway is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a light from downstairs. The house is unfamiliar, the layout strange, but Regulus keeps his eyes fixed on the staircase ahead. He moves carefully, his footsteps light, his body tense as if expecting someone to jump out and stop him.

The noise from earlier—the boy’s voice—grows louder as Regulus creeps down the stairs. It isn’t gone after all, and now it’s joined by the low murmur of adults talking. The sounds filter up, muffled by distinct: laughter, a light clatter of cutlery, and a boy’s voice tumbling over itself in an endless stream of words. Regulus pauses on the last step, his hand clutching the bannister as his heart pounds. 

The air feels different here, alive with warmth and movement. It’s not heavy and oppressive like other homes are, but it isn’t entirely comforting either. It feels… exposed. Like the house is waiting to see what he’ll do next. 

Regulus doesn’t like that. The feeling of being watched, studied, it reminds him of… of his parents. 

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. But then his stomach twists again, loud and insistent, and he remembers why he’s come down. He takes a shaky breath and steps into the hallway, following the glow from the kitchen. 

The room is bright and inviting, lit by the warm overhead light. Mr. Potter is standing at the counter, leaning against it as he listens to something Mrs. Potter is saying. She’s seated at the table, a mug of tea in her hands, her smile soft and easy. 

At the far end of the kitchen, the boy—a name Regulus doesn’t know—sits cross-legged in a chair, animately waving a half-eaten cookie as he talks. His voice is quick and full of energy, and though Regulus can’t make out the words, the sheer force of it makes his chest tighten. 

He freezes in the doorway, his hands twisting into the hem of his shirt again. He doesn’t know if he should say something or wait for someone to notice him. His breath catches as the boy’s voice crescendos into a laugh, and his fingers tighten on the fabric. 

But then Mr. Potter glances up, and his expression softens when he spots Regulus. “Ah, there you are,” he says warmly, straightening from the counter. “Hungry?”

Regulus nods, though his shoulders hunch as three sets of eyes turn toward him. He focuses on the floor, trying to make himself small. 

“Come in, love,” Mrs. Potter says gently, patting the chair next to her. Her voice isn’t sharp, isn’t demanding. Just… soft. 

Regulus hesitates but steps into the kitchen, his movements slow and cautious. He heads to the chair closest to him, the one opposite Mrs. Potter. He sits stiffly on the edge of the chair, his hands still fidgeting with his shirt. 

“What can we get you?” Mr. Potter asks, already moving towards the fridge. “Would you like some leftover spaghetti? That’s what we had for dinner.”

Regulus nods again, still not looking up. His stomach grumbles again, and he curls in on himself, embarrassed. 

“Spaghetti it is,” Mr. Potter says lightly, as though the sound hadn’t happened at all. He pulls out a container, and starts dishing it up into a bowl, moving with some kind of practiced ease that feels foreign to Regulus. 

The boy, who’s been silent for all of thirty seconds, tilts his head curiously. “Dad, are you going to heat that up? You can’t give someone cold spaghetti,” he says, gesturing toward the bowl on the counter.

Mr. Potter glances at it and smiles. “I was just about to, James. You’re very perceptive, as always.”

James grins, clearly pleased with the compliment, and reaches for a cookie from the plate on the table. “I’m just saying, cold spaghetti’s gross. It’s all stuck together. Not a good first impression.”

“James,” Mrs. Potter says lightly, giving him a knowing look over her mug of tea.

“What?” he says, taking a big bite of the cookie. “I’m helping.”

The microwave hums to life as Mr. Potter places the bowl inside and presses a few buttons. The sound fills the room, blending with the faint clink of Mrs. Potter’s spoon as she stirs her tea.

Regulus keeps his head down, his hands twisting the edge of his jumper again. The warm, sugary scent of the cookies wafts toward him, but he doesn’t dare take one from the plate sitting at the center of the table.

Mrs. Potter sets her mug down and smiles gently at him. “Regulus,” she says in that soft voice of hers, careful and deliberate. “This is James, our son.”

Regulus doesn’t lift his gaze, but he feels James’ attention shift to him immediately.

“Hi,” James says brightly, his tone as casual as if they’d known each other for years. “You’re Regulus, right? Mum and Dad said you were staying with us now. That’s cool. I’ve got this game we could play later—if you want, I mean. Or not. That’s fine, too.”

“James,” Mrs. Potter interjects gently, laying a hand on his arm.

James stops mid-thought and shrugs. “Right. Sorry. Nice to meet you,” he says quickly, though there’s no edge of embarrassment in his voice.

The microwave dings, the sharp sound breaking the brief pause. Mr. Potter retrieves the bowl, stirring the contents with a fork before setting it carefully in front of Regulus. Steam curls into the air, carrying the faint smell of tomato sauce and garlic.

“There you go,” Mr. Potter says as he sits down beside Regulus, his voice calm and steady.

James tilts his head again, clearly tempted to say more, but before he can, Mr. Potter turns to him. “James, could you give us a little space to talk to Regulus?”

James blinks, surprised, but doesn’t argue. He grabs another cookie from the plate as he stands. “Yeah, sure.”

Walking over to his mum, James leans down and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. “Goodnight, Mum.”

“Goodnight, love,” she replies, her hand brushing over his curls in a brief, affectionate gesture.

James turns to his dad. “’Night, Dad.”

“Goodnight, James,” Mr. Potter says, smiling at him.

Finally, James glances at Regulus. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers for a moment—curious, thoughtful—before he walks out of the kitchen. His footsteps echo on the stairs, and the house seems to exhale in the quiet that follows.

Regulus stays motionless, his eyes fixed on the bowl in front of him. The warmth of the spaghetti feels both inviting and overwhelming, the smell stirring a faint hunger in his stomach.

“Take your time, Regulus,” Mr. Potter says gently, his tone unwaveringly patient. “There’s no rush.”

Regulus doesn’t look up, but he picks up the fork slowly, his movements tentative. Slowly, he takes a bite of the spaghetti. It’s nice, albeit a bit greasy, but that’s alot of foods. He doesn’t really like the texture, but he likes the taste of it enough to deal with the grease. 

He’s probably gotten through about half his meal before Mr. and Mrs. Potter start talking to him again. Their voices are calm, not sharp or scolding, but they still make his shoulders tense. He keeps his eyes on the bowl of spaghetti, fork moving in small, precise motions as he eats.

“We just want to go over a few things,” Mr. Potter begins, his tone measured and gentle. “House rules, expectations—nothing too complicated.”

Regulus doesn’t respond, only nods once. He doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to see their faces while they talk.

“First and most important,” Mrs. Potter says, her voice carrying that same careful softness, “this is a safe space. You don’t have to be afraid to ask for help or speak your mind. If something’s bothering you, we want you to feel comfortable telling us.”

Regulus’ fingers tighten on the fork. He swallows a bite of spaghetti but doesn’t lift his gaze. He’s never heard that before. Other homes didn’t like him asking for help—it was always an inconvenience, something they sighed at or ignored entirely. But here... here he’s allowed?

They can’t possibly mean that. He can’t possibly be allowed to speak his mind. To tell them when they’re wrong, or when something’s bothering him. That’s just absurd. Adults don’t like to hear things like that, not really. The words make his chest feel tight and his stomach churn with unease.

“And you don’t have to keep everything to yourself,” Mrs. Potter continues, like she can somehow sense the doubt forming in his head. “You’re not alone here.”

He nods again, a quick jerk of his head. He doesn’t know how else to respond, doesn’t trust himself to say anything without sounding wrong.

“Second,” Mr. Potter says, picking up where his wife left off, “we ask that you be respectful of the house and everyone in it. So, that means no slamming doors, no shouting, and if you’re upset, we’ll talk it through together. But if you do slam doors or shout, it’s okay. You won’t be in trouble; however, we will ask you to apologize for your actions to whichever person it was. All right?”

Another nod. Regulus keeps eating, though his appetite is beginning to wane. No shouting? No slamming doors? Those weren’t rules he was used to hearing. If anything, shouting and slamming were expected in the other homes—part of the rhythm of the day. But here, they’re telling him it’s okay to mess up, as long as he apologizes?

It doesn’t make sense. Do they want him to be... normal? Because he can try, if that’s what they want. But sooner or later, they’ll realize he’s not normal. That he’s different in ways that can’t be fixed, no matter how much he tries.

“And finally,” Mrs. Potter says, her voice soft but firm, “we expect you to treat yourself with kindness. That means eating when you’re hungry, sleeping when you’re tired, and letting us know if you’re feeling unwell.”

Regulus blinks down at his bowl. His stomach tightens at the words. Treat himself with kindness? What kind of rule is that?

The idea feels foreign, even ridiculous. Kindness wasn’t something he’d been taught to direct inward. It was something you gave to others, sparingly, when it was earned. Not something you offered to yourself. He tries to imagine doing what they’re asking—telling someone he’s tired or hungry or not feeling well—and the thought feels impossible.

He doesn’t notice when he finishes the last bite of spaghetti until Mrs. Potter stands and gently takes the bowl from him. “Thank you,” she says, as if he’s done something worthy of praise.

Her tone is so genuine that it makes something in his chest twist uncomfortably. He keeps his hands in his lap, fingers curling slightly as he watches her carry the bowl into the kitchen. The sound of running water and clinking dishes fills the room, but it doesn’t distract him from the strange knot of emotions swirling inside him.

When Mrs. Potter returns, she’s carrying a glass of milk and the plate of cookies. She sets the milk down in front of him, her smile kind but not overbearing. “You should have one or two before bed,” she says gently. “They’re fresh.”

Regulus stares at the plate for a moment before reaching out, hesitating briefly before picking up a cookie. It’s warm in his hand, the chocolate chips soft and slightly melted. He takes a small, cautious bite, and the sweetness surprises him, though he keeps his expression carefully neutral.

Mr. Potter leans forward slightly, his voice steady but light. “We’ll also need to talk about school,” he says. “You’ll be attending the same school as James. We’ll get you registered tomorrow.”

The word school makes Regulus freeze mid-bite. A new school. A new place full of people he doesn’t know, with rules he doesn’t understand. The knot in his chest tightens, his breathing shallow as his hands curl slightly around the cookie.

“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Potter says, noticing the way his shoulders hunch. “We’ll make sure everything is sorted, and James can help show you around. You won’t be on your own.”

He nods stiffly, though his chest feels like it’s caving in. He keeps his gaze down, staring at the glass of milk like it holds answers he doesn’t have.

Mrs. Potter reaches out, her hand brushing lightly against his. “We can finish this conversation in the morning, over breakfast,” she says warmly. “For now, you should head upstairs and get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

Regulus hesitates, but he nods again and stands, his chair scraping softly against the floor. He keeps his eyes on the ground as he steps away from the table, the rest of the cookie clutched in his hand.

“Goodnight, Regulus,” Mr. Potter says, his voice calm and steady.

“Goodnight,” Mrs. Potter echoes softly.

Regulus doesn’t respond as he walks toward the stairs, his steps slow and deliberate. At the bottom of the staircase, he pauses and glances back, his fingers tightening slightly around the cookie. The Potters remain at the table, their voices soft and full of warmth—a warmth that feels like a language he doesn’t know how to speak.

Turning away, he climbs the stairs, the cookie growing warm and fragile in his hand.

***

Regulus wakes up dazed and slightly confused. He’s not too sure where he is at first. The room is unfamiliar—too bright, too neat, too quiet. It takes him a moment to piece it all together. The Potters’ house. The room they said would be his, at least for now.

The remnants of his dream linger in his mind, vivid and soft at the edges. He was at the beach, the last time he’d been there—his eleventh birthday. It had been August, the sun blazing high in the sky, warming the sand beneath his feet. He remembers the feel of the waves, cool and sharp, crashing against his legs and pulling at him as if they wanted to take him with them. The salty breeze stung his face, and the sound of the ocean had drowned out everything else. For a moment, back then, it had felt like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

But dreams like that are cruel. They start sweet, then sour the moment he wakes up, leaving him feeling more lost than before.

Regulus glances around the room. His gaze lands on the small window across from the bed, and he remembers how long it had taken him to fall asleep last night. He couldn’t relax, couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong here. The bed had been too soft, the blankets too clean, the air too still. Everything about the house felt... nice. Too nice.

Nice wasn’t something Regulus was used to. Nice came with expectations, with rules he didn’t understand and couldn’t follow no matter how hard he tried. Nice made his skin prickle with unease, like it was waiting to catch him doing something wrong. The way the house smelled faintly of lavender and lemon polish, the way every surface seemed carefully arranged and cared for—it all felt foreign.

He’d tried to lie still, to sink into the softness, but every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind outside made his chest tighten. He’d been too aware of his own breathing, of the way his pulse seemed loud in his ears. His thoughts spiraled, circling back to the same question: What if he couldn’t stay here? What if they decided he didn’t fit?

So, instead of sleeping, he’d sat by the window, staring out at the night sky.

The stars had been clearer than he’d ever seen them in London. The hazy glow of city lights hadn’t dulled them here. They’d glittered like scattered diamonds on a black velvet canvas, vast and endless. For the first time in what felt like forever, he’d spotted Sirius, his favorite star.

He’d traced its light with his eyes, whispering its name in his mind like a secret. Sirius. The dog star. The brightest in the sky. He liked to imagine it had been watching him, guiding him, even when he couldn’t see it. It had made him feel small but comforted, like maybe he wasn’t completely adrift after all.

That thought had carried him until the first hint of exhaustion finally crept in, pulling him reluctantly back to bed. Even then, sleep had been shallow and restless, with the brightness of the room teasing at the edges of his dreams.

He sighs and rubs his eyes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool under his feet as he gets up and rummages through the bag he brought with him for something to wear. Once dressed, he makes his way downstairs, his steps hesitant and careful, trying not to make too much noise.

The smell of tea greets him as he steps into the kitchen. It’s faintly bitter but comforting, curling through the air like a soft thread. Mrs. Potter is there, standing by the counter with a mug in her hand, steam curling upward. She turns when she hears him, offering him a warm smile that he doesn’t quite know how to return.

“Good morning, Regulus,” she says gently. “Did you sleep all right?”

He shrugs, his fingers brushing against the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t know how to answer that, and she doesn’t push.

She sets her mug down on the counter and straightens. “Are you hungry? What would you like for breakfast?”

He shrugs again, his eyes darting to the floor. The question feels too big, too open-ended. What does he want? He doesn’t even know how to begin answering that.

Mrs. Potter starts listing options. “I could make you eggs? Or porridge? Pancakes, maybe?”

Her voice is kind, gentle, but the words come too quickly, stacking on top of each other until they form a weight he can’t carry. His chest tightens, the air around him suddenly feeling too loud, too much. He grips the hem of his shirt tighter, twisting the fabric in his fingers. He doesn’t want to choose. He’s not used to choosing. He’s used to being handed whatever’s easiest, whatever’s left over, and told to make do. This feels... wrong.

Mrs. Potter seems to notice the way he’s gone still, the way his breathing has quickened ever so slightly. Her tone softens even further, like a whisper cutting through the noise. “How about this,” she says, her voice calm and steady. “I’ll make you some toast, and you can pick the spread. Does that sound good?”

Regulus nods, the relief immediate. One option feels manageable. One choice feels... safe.

She places two slices of bread into the toaster and starts pulling jars from a nearby cupboard. “We’ve got peanut butter, marmalade, and strawberry jam,” she says, setting them on the counter with a small clink.

Regulus hesitates, his eyes flicking between the jars. The choice is smaller now, but it still feels strange. After a moment, he lifts a finger and points to the marmalade.

“Ah, marmalade,” she says with a smile, her tone light and easy. “That’s a good choice.”

When the toast pops up, she plates it neatly and hands it to him along with a small butter knife. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing against the warm edges of the bread, and moves to sit at the table. Slowly, he spreads the marmalade across one slice, the tangy-sweet scent rising as he works.

He takes a bite. The flavor is sharp and bright, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. It’s... okay. He chews slowly, letting the quiet of the kitchen settle over him.

Mrs. Potter joins him at the table with her tea, sitting across from him. She doesn’t say much at first, just sips her drink quietly. The silence feels strange, but it’s not heavy. It’s not the kind that fills every corner of a room and presses down on him.

After a few moments, she speaks again. “Once Fleamont gets back from dropping James off at school,” she says, her voice soft but steady, “we’ll head out to get you registered. How does that sound?”

Regulus nods again, his focus remaining on his toast. He doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t try.

“Good,” she says, her smile warm and encouraging. 

Regulus keeps eating, each bite slow and deliberate. The weight in his chest hasn’t disappeared completely, but it feels lighter somehow, like it’s not crushing him quite as much.

***

If Regulus had to choose which was worse, he’d probably choose this. What are his options? Starting a new school or being kicked out of a foster home? He’d pick the former, every time.

Which is odd, isn’t it?

Because Regulus knows how much it hurts to be moved from home to home. To pack up what little he has, pile it into a car, and be driven away like a problem no one wants to solve. But starting a new school—being the “new kid” again—was his worst nightmare. And here he is, on school number seven since February. It’s the first of June.

The car ride over wasn’t as bad as it could have been, surprisingly. It was quiet, the radio set to a low station that played soft rock and oldies, and Mr. Potter hummed along to some of the songs, occasionally muttering a lyric or two. Regulus had stared out the window, watching the trees blur together, trying to focus on the steady movement of the car instead of the anxious knot tightening in his stomach.

Now, they’re here, sitting in the brightly lit school office. Regulus sits stiffly in one of the chairs, his hands folded in his lap, fingers pressing into his knees. His stomach churns as he stares at the counter, where a receptionist is busy typing something on her computer.

He’s done this before. He knows how this goes. His previous foster parents would get annoyed with him, frustrated when he didn’t immediately recite his full name, date of birth, or whatever other information the school needed. One foster mother had scolded him in front of an entire office staff. You’re eleven years old! How do you not know your own information by now? The memory makes his face burn.

Regulus braces himself, already preparing for the same thing to happen here. He’s ready for Mrs. Potter’s kind smile to shift into irritation, for Mr. Potter’s quiet humming to stop, replaced by clipped, impatient words.

But it doesn’t happen.

“Regulus?” Mrs. Potter’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. She’s sitting beside him, holding the stack of enrollment forms, her expression calm and steady. “How would you like to go about this? We can fill it out together if you’d like.”

He blinks at her, caught off guard. “Or,” Mr. Potter chimes in from his other side, his voice light, “if you’d rather, you can write down the details on another piece of paper, and we’ll transfer them over. Whatever feels easiest.”

Regulus stares at them both for a long moment. They’re serious. There’s no trace of irritation, no sign that they’re about to snap at him for not speaking up fast enough.

Finally, he nods, reaching for the blank piece of paper Mrs. Potter offers him and the pen Mr. Potter pulls from his pocket. His hands tremble slightly as he writes. His full name: Regulus Arcturus Black. His date of birth: 16th August 2008.

He keeps his head down, his fingers tight around the pen as he focuses on forming the letters as neatly as possible. He doesn’t want to mess this up.

“Take your time,” Mrs. Potter says softly.

When he’s done, he slides the paper over to her, his shoulders tensing as he waits for some kind of comment or criticism. But Mrs. Potter just smiles gently. “Thank you, Regulus. This makes it much easier.”

She and Mr. Potter work together to transfer the information to the official forms. It doesn’t take long, and when they finish, Mrs. Potter stands, smoothing out her skirt. “I’ll hand these in at the desk,” she says. “I’ll only be a minute. Fleamont, why don’t you and Regulus head to the uniform shop? I’ll meet you there shortly.”

“Of course,” Mr. Potter says, rising from his seat. He pats Regulus lightly on the shoulder, a gesture so casual it almost startles him. “Come on, Regulus. Let’s get you sorted.”

Regulus hesitates for a moment before standing and following Mr. Potter toward the door. As he glances back, he sees Mrs. Potter chatting warmly with the receptionist, her smile as genuine as it had been with him.

It’s strange. Strange that none of this feels like the disaster he’d been expecting. Strange that, for once, the tight knot of anxiety in his chest is beginning to loosen—just a little. 

The walk through the office and into the uniform shop isn’t long. Regulus keeps his gaze on the floor as they move, the sound of Mr. Potter’s polished shoes tapping softly against the tile steadying him more than he expects. The shop is tucked into a small corner of the building, neat racks of uniforms lining the walls and a desk at the front where a cheerful-looking woman greets them as they enter.

“Good morning!” she says brightly, her smile widening when Mr. Potter approaches.

“Good morning,” Mr. Potter replies, just as warm. “We need to get this young man sorted for his school uniform.” He gestures to Regulus, who shifts awkwardly under the woman’s gaze.

“Of course, we’ll get him all set up,” she says kindly, her pen poised over the clipboard. She looks up at Mr. Potter. “What size is he in shirts and shorts?”

Mr. Potter pauses, glancing at Regulus. “I’m not entirely sure,” he admits. “Regulus, do you know?”

Regulus hesitates, his fingers twitching at his sides. He doesn’t speak, but after a moment, he holds up both hands, splaying his fingers wide to indicate a size 10.

The woman smiles warmly, her tone light. “All right, let’s start there. We’ll find a size that fits him.” She steps away, moving toward the racks.

Mr. Potter looks down at Regulus with a nod of approval. “Good thinking,” he says softly, like Regulus has done something clever.

Regulus glances away, unsure how to respond. It wasn’t clever; it was just easier than trying to explain aloud. But the words don’t feel patronizing—they feel genuine, and that throws him off.

He steps back, his eyes wandering over the rows of crisp white shirts, navy pants, and racks of neatly folded sweaters. The sight makes his chest tighten, and he has to swallow hard against the wave of unease that rises in his throat.

His mind flashes back to another uniform shop, months ago, with a previous foster mother. She’d been impatient from the start, snapping at the shop assistant to “hurry it up” because she had “better things to do.” Regulus had been handed a shirt that felt awful against his skin—rough and itchy, the seams digging into his shoulders in a way that made his stomach churn.

He’d tried to explain it, stumbling over his words, but she hadn’t understood.

“You’re just being difficult, Regulus,” she’d hissed, her face pinched with annoyance. “It’s a shirt. Just put it on.”

The memory makes his palms sweat, and he rubs them against the sides of his pants, trying to ground himself.

The woman returns with a neatly folded set of clothes: a long-sleeved white shirt and a pair of navy-blue pants. “Here we are. Try these on for size, and we’ll adjust if needed,” she says, handing them over.

Regulus takes the clothes silently, the fabric cool under his fingers, and slips into the small dressing room. As he pulls on the shirt, he’s relieved to find the fabric smooth and comfortable against his skin—no scratchiness, no awful seams. The pants, however, are too big, and he frowns as he tries to tighten the waistband unsuccessfully.

He steps out hesitantly, tugging the shirt down over his wrists. Mrs. Potter is there now, standing beside Mr. Potter, her tea-colored skirt swishing as she turns to face him.

“How does it feel?” she asks, her voice gentle.

Regulus nods quickly but then points to the waistband of the pants, giving it a small tug to show how loose it is.

“Too big, I see,” the woman at the desk says, already reaching for a smaller size. She hands him another pair of pants, her smile easy. “Here, try these on. We’ll get it right.”

Regulus nods again, takes the new pair, and heads back into the dressing room. When he comes out this time, the pants fit snugly but comfortably, and he gives them a small thumbs-up.

“Perfect,” Mr. Potter says, smiling.

The woman sets aside two shirts and two pairs of pants, then hands him the sports uniform: a navy and yellow shirt with matching shorts. “Try these next,” she says.

Regulus ducks back into the dressing room. As soon as he pulls the sports shirt over his head, though, he grimaces. The fabric is stiff, the synthetic material brushing against his skin in a way that makes his shoulders tense.

When he steps out, his expression speaks volumes.

“Does the shirt feel funny?” Mr. Potter asks, his brows knitting together in concern.

Regulus nods hesitantly, tugging at the hem as if that might somehow make it feel better.

“James didn’t like the fabric of these shirts either,” Mrs. Potter says, her tone understanding. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

Regulus hesitates before shaking his head. It’s not unbearable, just… unpleasant.

Mrs. Potter watches him carefully. “Are you sure? If it’s too much, we can figure something out.”

He shakes his head again, this time more firmly.

“All right, we’ll just get one set for now,” she says gently.

They also pick out a pack of navy-blue socks and sports socks before Regulus changes back into his own clothes. At the counter, the woman folds the uniforms into a neat bag while Mr. Potter handles the payment, chatting with her casually.

When they leave the shop, bag in hand, Regulus realizes something strange—this had been the most pleasant uniform shopping experience he’s ever had. No one had snapped at him or made him feel like a burden. He hadn’t even felt pressured to speak.

It’s unsettling, in a way. He doesn’t know how to process kindness when it’s this quiet, this easy. But as they step out into the sunlight, the warmth of the day encases him, and for just a moment, the knot in his chest loosens.

The feeling doesn’t last long, though. By the time they’re back in the car, Regulus feels the knot tightening again. The quiet hum of the engine vibrates through the seat as Mr. Potter starts the car, and Mrs. Potter turns to him from the passenger seat, her voice gentle but clear.

“Regulus, would you like to stop and get your school shoes now, or would you prefer to do it later?”

Regulus freezes. He stares at her for a moment, his fingers gripping the handles of the bag on his lap. His mind spins with the options, each one worse than the last.

Now? That means walking into another store, dealing with more people, more questions, more choices. The thought makes his stomach churn. But later… later would be worse. Later, he’d have time to dread it, time for the anxiety to build and twist until it became unbearable.

Neither option feels good, but he knows he has to pick one. He lifts his hands hesitantly and gestures in a way that says “now,” his movements small and uncertain.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t push, doesn’t ask him to explain. She simply nods, her smile soft and understanding.

“Alrighty, then,” Mr. Potter says cheerfully from the driver’s seat. “Let’s go.”

The car pulls out of the parking lot, and Regulus shifts in his seat, trying to ignore the nervous energy buzzing under his skin. The bag of uniforms feels heavier in his lap than it should, a reminder of the strange, almost unsettling ease of the morning.

He presses his forehead lightly against the window, watching the buildings blur past as they drive. The sunlight filters through the glass, warming his face, but it doesn’t do much to ease the tension twisting in his chest. He closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on the rhythmic sound of the car’s engine, trying to steady himself.

Shoes, he thinks. It’s just shoes. In and out. It’ll be fine. 

***

This is not fine, like, at all. The shoe shop is loud. Too loud. Regulus sits stiffly on the bench where people try on shoes, his hands gripping the edge as he tries to ground himself. The fluorescent lights above seem to hum unnaturally, and their sharp, white glow reflects harshly off the shiny tiles, making his head throb. 

He glances at the row of shelves lined with black, brown, gray, leather shoes and immediately looks away, overwhelmed by the sheer number of them. Everything feels too much—the bright lights, the echoes of voices bouncing off the walls, the smell of polished leather that lingers in the air. He stares at the floor instead, focusing on the speckled pattern of the tiles.

"Here we go," Mrs. Potter says gently, placing a box of black leather school shoes on the bench next to him. She kneels down, opening the box and lifting one of the stiff, shiny shoes out. "Let’s see if these fit, shall we?"

Regulus reluctantly pulls off his too-small sneakers, his socks bunched awkwardly around his toes. He slides his foot into the new shoe and immediately grimaces. It’s stiff, unyielding, and presses uncomfortably against his heel.

Mrs. Potter notices. "How does it feel? Too tight?"

Regulus shakes his head quickly, not wanting to make a fuss, but the truth is the shoe feels all wrong. The leather is hard, and it pinches in places he didn’t know shoes could pinch.

"Try the other one," Mr. Potter encourages, his voice calm and patient. Regulus slips on the second shoe, but it feels just as bad as the first. He shifts his feet uncomfortably, his hands clenching the hem of his shirt.

"They’ll soften once you’ve worn them a bit," Mrs. Potter says kindly, though she’s clearly watching him closely, as if she can sense his unease. "We’ll take the first pair—they’ll feel better after some wear."

Regulus nods mutely, slipping the shoes back off. The relief is instant, though short-lived as Mrs. Potter picks up his worn-out sneakers and frowns.

"Regulus," she says softly, holding up the scuffed and frayed shoes. "These look a bit too small for you. Why don’t we pick out a new pair while we’re here?"

His chest tightens. He doesn’t want to. The thought of walking through the rows of shelves filled with dozens of options makes his stomach churn. But he doesn’t know how to say no, so he stands and follows them to the aisle of sneakers.

"Take your time," Mr. Potter says gently, gesturing to the shelves. "Pick something you like."

Regulus stares at the options, his heart pounding. There are too many. Too many colors, too many styles, too many choices. His eyes dart from one pair to the next, and the walls feel like they’re closing in.

Mr. Potter must notice the way his breathing quickens because he steps in, pointing to a few pairs. "Why don’t we start with these?" he says, pulling down a black pair and a navy pair.

Regulus nods stiffly, trying to focus on the shoes instead of the rising panic in his chest. He sits back down and tries on the black pair first. They’re okay—not as stiff as the leather shoes—but still not quite right.

"It’s okay to take your time," Mr. Potter reassures him. "We want you to find something that’s comfortable, something that won’t hurt your feet."

Regulus hesitates, then tries on the navy pair. They’re too tight. He shakes his head, and Mr. Potter grabs another box, this one with a sleek black pair that catches Regulus’ eye.

When he slips them on, he pauses. They feel... better. Not perfect, but better. The material is softer, the fit snug but not too tight.

"How do those feel?" Mrs. Potter asks, crouching slightly to look at him.

Regulus nods, giving a small shrug that means "they’re fine."

Mrs. Potter smiles. "If they feel good, we’ll go with these."

They purchase the shows, and as they step out of the store into the hallway of the larger building, Regulus feels the shift from the artificial glow inside to the cooler, dimmer light of the corridor. The air feels fresher here, less cloying that inside the shop. He clutches the bag tightly, his fingers curled around the thin plastic handles like it’s the only thing tethering him. The knot in his chest loosens slightly, but it’s still there, its edges pressing uncomfortably. 

Mrs. Potter walks beside him, her pace steady and unhurried. She glances down at him as they pass by a large opening, one he assumes in a door, that leads into another store. “Regulus,” she says gently, her voice cutting through the lingering noise in his head, “do you want to stop and get a couple more clothes while we’re here?”

He stiffens slightly, his eyes flicking to the floor. He knows the answer should be yes. It has to be yes. She’s only asking because she’s noticed—of course, she’s noticed. His shirt is too big, the shoulders hanging awkwardly, the hem brushing too far past his hips. His jeans, though worn and familiar, don’t quite fit right either. But the thought of walking into another store, of standing under more bright lights and sifting through racks of clothes, makes his stomach twist. 

Still, she’s waiting, her gaze kind but perceptive, as if she already knows what he’s thinking. Slowly, hesitantly, Regulus nods, his movements small and reluctant. He keeps his focus on the floor, not wanting to meet her eyes. 

Mrs. Potter smiles softly, not too brightly, as if she knows not to overwhelm him. “Alright,” she says, her tonereassuring. “We’ll keep it quick. Just a couple of things to make sure you’re comfortable.”

Mr. Potter, walking just ahead, glances back and nods. “That’s a good idea,” he says lightly. He flashes him a small, encouraging smile, then gestures toward the nearby store to his right. “We can be in and out in no time.”

Regulus follows hem inside, clutching the bag a little tighter, bracing himself for the next round of decisions… 

Clothes.

Clothes are a difficult topic. They’re either too big, too small, too itchy, too scratchy, too silky, too rough, too... well, not right. Regulus doesn’t know how to explain it. He’s never been able to. Some clothes have always felt wrong—like they weren’t made for him at all. And here, under the bright, buzzing lights of the store, everything feels sharper, louder, and heavier.

"Alright, Regulus," Mrs. Potter says gently, her voice cutting through the overwhelming noise of the world around him. "Why don’t we start with something simple? Socks and underwear."

Socks and underwear. Okay. He can do that. Socks and underwear are easy. He nods, stepping closer to the rack where they’re displayed. His fingers graze the packaging, the plastic smooth under his touch. Plain black socks. Basic underwear. Simple choices, safe choices. He hands them over to Mrs. Potter, who smiles warmly.

"Good choice," she says as she places them into the shopping basket.

Next comes the pyjamas. He hesitates as they guide him to the section, his eyes scanning the rows of brightly colored patterns. Some are too loud, the colors too vibrant, the fabrics too shiny. But after a few moments, he spots a set with navy bottoms and a grey top, dotted with tiny stars. He runs his fingers over the fabric—it’s soft, not perfect, but tolerable. He hands it to Mr. Potter, who grins.

"Stars, huh? Nice one," Mr. Potter says, adding the set to the basket.

And then, the shorts.

"Two pairs," Mrs. Potter says, guiding him toward the racks. "Take your time."

He touches the fabrics, his fingers brushing against different textures. Almost immediately, he recoils from one—a stiff, scratchy material that sends a shiver of discomfort down his spine. Another pair feels too slippery, almost slimy. He pulls his hand back quickly, his chest tightening.

The more he touches, the worse it gets. Nothing feels right. Denim feels okay—better than the rest. He pulls down one pair and grips it tightly, but the process of finding another feels impossible. His breathing starts to quicken. The lights seem brighter, the buzzing overhead louder, the air heavier.

His hands begin to flap at his sides, small, jerky movements he can’t stop. He knows he needs to breathe, to focus, but it’s like everything is spiraling out of control.

"Regulus?" Mrs. Potter’s voice is soft, concerned.

He shakes his head, stepping back from the rack. Shirts. Maybe shirts will be easier.

They aren’t.

The textures are wrong—all of them. Too heavy, too light, too stretchy, too stiff. He’s supposed to pick three, but every time he touches a shirt, a wave of discomfort crashes over him. His chest tightens further, his breathing turning shallow and uneven. His hands clutch the hem of his too-big shirt, twisting it as he tries to ground himself, but nothing helps.

He tries to focus on the Potters, on their calm voices, but the weight of it all is too much. The bright lights, the noise, the pressure to choose—it all builds until he feels like he’s suffocating.

And then it happens.

He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. His vision blurs, his chest feels like it’s caving in, and his hands are trembling. He clutches at his hair, crouching down to the floor. He tries to make it stop, but he can’t.

Panic sets in.

This is how it happened before. The last time. When his foster parents told him he was being “too difficult,” that he was “causing a scene.” When they decided he wasn’t worth keeping.

They’ll send me away too, he thinks, panic clawing at his throat. They’ll get rid of me just like everyone else.

He doesn’t remember much after that. Just fragments. The feeling of hands on his shoulders—not rough, but steady. A soft voice—Mrs. Potter’s?—speaking low and soothing.

"Regulus," she says gently, "you’re okay. You’re safe. Just breathe, sweetheart."

Another voice—Mr. Potter’s this time. Calm, steady. "It’s alright, bud. We’re not going anywhere. Just take your time."

The words don’t fully register, but the tone does. Slowly, the tightness in his chest begins to ease. His breathing steadies, the world around him coming back into focus.

When he finally looks up, he’s sitting on the floor in a quieter corner of the store. Mrs. Potter is kneeling beside him, her hand resting lightly on his back, and Mr. Potter is crouched nearby, his expression calm but concerned.

"You alright?" Mr. Potter asks softly, his gaze steady but kind.

Regulus nods shakily, his hands still clutching the fabric of his shirt.

Mr. Potter exchanges a glance with Mrs. Potter before turning back to Regulus. "How about we take a little break? Maybe we can head over to the toy section, check out the soft toys. What do you think?"

Soft toys. That... doesn’t sound so bad. Regulus hesitates, then nods.

"Good idea," Mrs. Potter says with a small smile.

They guide him toward the toy section, keeping a slow, easy pace. The shelves here are brighter, but the atmosphere is quieter, less overwhelming. Regulus gravitates toward the soft toys, his fingers brushing over their fur.

And then he finds it.

A small black dog teddy bear, one that could be taken anywhere, its fur impossibly soft, like clouds beneath his fingers. He picks it up, holding it close, the texture soothing in a way he didn’t expect.

The softness reminds him of something—of someone. Of his brother, Sirius. The way Sirius used to be with him, back when things were simpler, safer.

He doesn’t say anything, but he holds the dog tightly, his breathing finally steady. Regulus continues to stroke the impossibly soft fur of the dog, his fingers running over it again and again. The sensation calms him, almost as much as his brother’s hugs do, the knot in his chest finally loosening just a little after what felt like forever.

"You like the feel of that one?" Mr. Potter asks, his tone light, as though this is the most natural question in the world.

Regulus nods, clutching the dog a little tighter.

It’s only then that he notices Mrs. Potter isn’t there. He glances around the toy section, his brow furrowing slightly as he tilts his head at Mr. Potter.

As if reading his mind, Mr. Potter says, "Euphemia will be back in a bit. She had to grab something."

Regulus nods slowly, his fingers still gripping the dog’s paw. The response reassures him somewhat, though he can’t help the faint hum of uncertainty in the back of his mind.

His gaze drifts behind Mr. Potter to the back wall, where he spots a section of shelves lined with books. Something inside him stirs—a quiet excitement—and without a word, he begins walking toward it, the teddy still in his hand.

Books have always been his favorite.

He steps into the book section, letting his eyes roam over the spines, searching for titles he’s already read and ones he hasn’t. For a moment, the overwhelming buzz of the store fades into the background, replaced by the quiet thrill of being surrounded by stories.

"You like reading?" Mr. Potter asks from behind him.

Regulus nods, his hand reaching for a book. He pulls it off the shelf and flips it over to read the blurb, his eyes scanning the words quickly. Satisfied, he places it back and begins browsing again.

After a moment, Mr. Potter holds up another book. "What about this one? Have you read it?"

Regulus looks at the cover: Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief. He shakes his head and takes the book from Mr. Potter, carefully reading the blurb on the back. The words pique his interest—it sounds like something he’d enjoy. Without thinking, he holds onto the book, his fingers curling around the edges as he continues to scan the shelves.

Mrs. Potter’s voice comes from his left, soft and curious. "What are you two up to over here?"

"Looking at some books," Mr. Potter replies with a smile, his tone sounding somewhat pleased, Regulus thinks. "Regulus likes to read."

Mrs. Potter glances at Regulus, her own smile warm and gentle. "Does he? Well, Fleamont has a knack for reading, too."

Regulus’s lips twitch slightly, almost into a smile. He doesn’t know many people who read, let alone who likes to read.

They linger in the book section for a while longer, Mr. Potter occasionally pointing out titles and Regulus quietly reading blurbs. It’s peaceful, almost enough to make him forget about the rest of the store.

Eventually, though, the hum of his earlier anxiety begins to creep back in. Regulus turns to Mrs. Potter, glancing up at her and then toward the exit.

"Ready to leave?" she asks gently.

He nods.

As they walk toward the checkout counter, the dog and the book are still in his hands. He doesn’t realize he’s holding onto them until they reach the counter, and Mr. Potter gestures toward the items in his arms.

"Can I see those?" Mr. Potter asks lightly, nodding toward the teddy and the book.

Regulus freezes, heat rushing to his cheeks. He’s been holding onto them all this time without noticing, and now it’s obvious—they’re going to buy them for him.

His chest tightens with embarrassment. They were only supposed to be getting clothes. He shifts awkwardly, clutching the items a little tighter before reluctantly handing them over to Mr. Potter, his face burning.

Mr. Potter takes them without comment, his expression calm and kind. He glances at Mrs. Potter. "Why don’t you take Regulus back to the car while I finish up here?"

Mrs. Potter nods, then turns to Regulus, offering her hand lightly in case he wants to take it. "Come on, dear."

Regulus hesitates for only a moment before following her out of the store, his head still ducked slightly from embarrassment. But as the sunlight greets him again, he realizes the knot in his chest isn’t as tight as it was before.

They are sitting in the car, Mrs. Potter makes light, but polite conversation whilst they sit and wait for Mr. Potter to return. Regulus can’t help but feel, weird. 

The car is quiet except for the soft hum of Mrs. Potter's voice. She’s saying something light and meaningless—something about the weather or the way the sunlight makes the building across the parking lot shimmer. Regulus stares out the window, nodding faintly at her words, but he’s not really listening.

His thoughts have drifted back to the store, to the sharp brightness of the lights, the endless hum of voices and movement, the weight of all those choices pressing down on him. He still doesn’t know how to describe it. It’s like his chest was caught in a vice, his heart pounding too hard as his thoughts grew louder, faster, until there was no room left to breathe.

And then—that moment. The one where everything tipped over.

Regulus grips the fabric of his jeans, his fingers curling tightly as he replays it all in his mind. He thinks about how Mr. and Mrs. Potter must have felt, how embarrassing it must have been for them to deal with him. A wave of shame rolls over him, hot and suffocating.

He thinks back to another time, another family. They’d gone out to eat—something they’d been looking forward to, they’d said—but the noise in the restaurant had been unbearable. The clinking of cutlery, the scraping of chairs, the endless chatter and bursts of laughter. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from covering his ears, from rocking a little in his chair, trying to block it all out.

And they’d been so angry. So embarrassed. He can still hear the sharpness of their voices, the way they’d told him he was too much, that he’d ruined everything.

What if the Potters feel the same? What if they’re just waiting until they get home to call Sarah, his social worker? To tell her he’s too much to handle?

His breathing starts to hitch, the car feeling smaller, tighter. The walls are closing in, and the thought loops in his mind—I’m too much. I’m too much. They don’t want me either.

He’s on the verge of full-blown panic when the sound of a car door opening pulls him back. He blinks, his head jerking up to see Mr. Potter settling into the driver’s seat.

"You two ready to head out?" Mr. Potter asks cheerfully, glancing at Regulus in the rearview mirror.

Regulus nods quickly, the motion jerky and sharp. His chest still feels tight, the panic lingering just beneath the surface, but it doesn’t spiral out. Mr. Potter’s calm voice, the normalcy of his question—it steadies him, if only slightly.

The car hums to life, and as they pull out of the parking lot, Regulus turns his gaze back to the window.

At least they didn’t leave me in the store, he thinks, a small, fragile thought that’s enough to ground him for now. For now…