To Find a Home

The fluorescent lights buzz faintly above, and Regulus is already on edge before they even step into the store. The space feels too big, too loud, the smells of artificial flowers and plastic wafting in the air, make him feel sick to the stomach. He trails a few steps behind Mr. and Mrs. Smith, clutching the hem of his shirt. He doesn't like this store. He doesn't like shopping. And, most of all, he doesn't like the way Mr. and Mrs. Smith are already annoyed with him.

"Come on, Regulus," Mrs. Smith snaps, her voice sharp like a crack of lightning. "Hurry up. We don't have all day."

His steps quicken, though his stomach churns. The first hour is bad enough—being told to "pick something" when every option feels wrong. Shirts too itchy. Pants too tight. Socks that seem fine until he touches them and feels the rough threads scraping his fingertips. His chest tightens with every choice he's forced to make, his breath shortening.

It happens in the shoe aisle. He's holding a sneaker, trying to pull it onto his foot, but the laces are too stiff, and the fabric pinches. It’s awful. Tears spring to his eyes before he can stop them, and his breaths start coming out in quick, uneven gasps. His heart races, and his vision blurs. Everything feels too loud, too bright, too much.

"Stop it, Regulus," Mr. Smith says, his voice low and warning. But Regulus can't stop. He doesn't know how. The panic surges like a wave crashing over him, and a broken sound escapes his throat.

People are starting to stare.

Mrs. Smith's face hardens, and she hisses, "You're embarrassing us. Stop making a scene."

But he can't. His hands flap, his knees feel weak, and the tears won’t stop. Everything is spiraling, and his head feels like it's going to explode.

"That's it," Mr. Smith mutters through gritted teeth. He grabs Mrs. Smith by the arm and nods toward the door. "We'll let him sort himself out."

Regulus freezes, his tears momentarily halted by sheer disbelief. They’re leaving? He watches as they turn and walk away, their silhouettes shrinking into the distance.

"No," he whispers, his voice shaking. "No, don't go." But they don't stop. They don't even look back. His chest tightens so much it hurts, and his breathing turns into full-blown sobs.

He crouches down by the display of shoes, hiding behind a rack of boots, his hands gripping his knees as he rocks back and forth. Minutes blur into hours. The lights stay too bright, the voices of shoppers too loud, footsteps thudding past him without pause. His throat is raw from crying, and his body feels hollow, drained of energy but still trembling.

Eventually, someone notices him—a woman in a red sweater, holding a shopping basket. She crouches down next to him, her voice soft and gentle.

"Hey there," she says. "Are you lost?"

Regulus shakes his head, his lips trembling. His voice comes out hoarse and barely audible. "They left me... to teach me a lesson."

Her brow furrows, her eyes widening in alarm. "Who left you?"

He swallows hard, his tears starting again. "My foster parents." The words feel sour on his tongue, like admitting it makes it more real.

The woman sets her basket down, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him. "It's going to be okay," she says softly, but he doesn’t believe her. How could it be okay? They're gone, they left him, and he’s here, alone. Again. 

Why didn’t they leave me there? Regulus thinks. It’s a strange concept to wonder about, because, who would leave a child at a store all alone? His mind comes back into focus as they pull up to the house. It’s different in the daylight, he’s noticed. 

The garage is to the left side of the house, its door a sleek dark grey encased in a crisp white wooden frame. The driveway leading up to it is lined with the prettiest yellow flowers Regulus has ever seen. Rocks, of all different shapes and colours, surround the flower bed, like little sentinels guarding their delicate beauty. 

Beauty is a phenomenon too basic, yet difficult to understand. It’s odd, how something everybody is entitled to, to understand, to fundamentally feel, can experience it in ways that are not similar to anothers. Confusing, yet wonderful.

He notices there are two pathways up to the house—one branching off from the top of the driveway and another winding from the sidewalk in a soft curve. The second path catches his attention, bordered by more flowers in shades of purple and orange. The stone tiles of the path are slightly uneven, giving it a quaint, almost storybook feel. 

Stepping out of the car, Regulus hesitates for a moment, unsure which way to go, until he spots Mrs. Potter waiting at the top of the driveway. She smiles at him warmly and waves him forward. Something about the gesture eases him, slightly, even if only a little. 

He shifts the bag with his new school uniform in his hands, the weight of the purchase grounding him. Following the Potters up the driveway feels surreal—like stepping into a place that’s too perfect to be real, too gentle to last. For now, though, he simply takes it in: the quiet hum of the neighbourhood, the soft crunch of gravel under his worn-down sneakers, and the house in front of him that feels more welcoming that any place he’s been in.  

The second he steps past the threshold of the doorway, Regulus is hit with a wave of exhaustion. It isn’t the kind that sleep alone can fix, although sleep does help. It’s a kind of heaviness that comes after a long day of being worked-up—after the lights, the noise, the pressure, and especially after… moments like the one in the clothing store. 

Moments he can’t stop but wishes he could. 

He always feels this way after being around too many people, after school, or after "causing a scene." The weight sits on his chest, thick and immovable, as though his body is reminding him that it’s too much, that he’s too much.

“Regulus,” Mr. Potter says, his voice pulling Regulus from his thoughts, “would you like some lunch?”

The question catches him off guard. He hadn’t even thought about food, too preoccupied with the tightness in his chest and the residual embarrassment from earlier. But as soon as Mr. Potter mentions it, Regulus realises that, yes, he is hungry. He nods once, slowly.

“Alright,” Mr. Potter says warmly. “I’ll get something ready.”

Regulus steps further inside, and Mrs. Potter comes toward him. She gives him a soft smile and gestures toward the bag in his hand. “Would you like me to take your uniforms? I can wash them for you.”

He hesitates, then nods again. It feels easier to let her handle it than to think about what to do with them. She takes the bag gently from him, her movements unhurried, like she’s giving him time to change his mind. But he doesn’t. Once the weight of the bag is gone, he feels a little lighter. Not much, but enough to take another step forward.

He gravitates toward the dining table, heading for the same seat he sat in that morning. It feels safe, familiar. Sliding into the chair, he folds his hands in his lap and waits quietly, the muffled sounds of Mr. Potter moving around in the kitchen reaching his ears.

A few minutes later, Mr. Potter emerges, holding a plate with a sandwich and three small packets of chips. “We only had ham and cheese,” he says, setting the plate down in front of Regulus. “Hope that’s alright.”

Regulus nods. Ham and cheese is fine. He doesn’t need anything fancy.

Mr. Potter smiles and points to the packets of chips. “You can pick whichever one you want. No pressure.”

Regulus studies the options for a moment before reaching for the original flavor—sea salt. It’s simple and safe, like the sandwich.

“Good choice,” Mr. Potter says with a grin. Then he heads back into the kitchen. “What would you like to drink?” he calls over his shoulder.

Regulus pounders for a moment, he’s not sure. Mr. Potter must catch on, because he’s pulled out a bottled jug of apple juice, orange juice, and water. Regulus raises a hand and points a finger towards the apple juice. 

“Apple juice?” Mr. Potter guesses.

Regulus nods.

A few moments later, Mr. Potter returns with a glass of apple juice, setting it down beside the plate. “There you go.”

Regulus nods slightly, a quiet way to say “thank you,” to Mr. Potter and then focuses on his lunch. The sandwich is soft, the ham and cheese fresh, and the chips crunch satisfyingly in his mouth. It’s not much, but it’s good. Comforting.

He eats quietly, the house around him peaceful and still. For the first time all day, he feels like he can breathe. Just breathe. That’s it. The sandwich is gone before he even realizes it, his plate now empty except for a few stray crumbs and the wrapper from the sea salt chips.

Regulus sits back in his chair, his hands folding themselves in his lap. He doesn’t know what to do now. His mind feels foggy, his body heavy with an exhaustion that sinks deep into his bones. He wants to move, to do something, but the thought of figuring out what that “something” should be is overwhelming.

Mrs. Potter’s soft voice interrupts his thoughts. “You look tired, dear,” she says gently, her eyes full of quiet concern. She’s seated at the table now, a mug of tea in her hands. “How about you take a little nap?”

A nap. Regulus blinks at her, unsure how to respond. He hasn’t napped during the day since he was much younger, and even then, he doesn’t think he ever truly liked it. But his body aches with fatigue, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. Maybe a nap isn’t the worst idea, even though the thought of it makes him uneasy. He glances at Mrs. Potter, who’s still watching him patiently, and finally nods.

“That’s a good idea,” she says, her smile warm and encouraging. “Go on, get some rest.”

Regulus stands, his movements slow, and starts making his way upstairs. Each step feels like a small effort, but eventually, he reaches the top and heads toward the room that’s supposed to be his. He opens the door cautiously and steps inside.

The first thing he does is kick off his shoes and place them neatly by the door. It’s automatic, something drilled into him from years of habit. When he straightens, his gaze falls on the bed—and he freezes.

The bedspread is different from before. It’s dark blue, dotted with tiny stars and swirling patterns that mimic the night sky. It’s beautiful, but it catches him off guard. He hadn’t noticed it earlier. For a moment, a flicker of doubt worms its way into his chest. Am I in the right room?

His eyes dart around, scanning the space for confirmation. That’s when he sees it: the black dog he picked out earlier, sitting right on top of the bed. His brain stumbles over itself, the tension in his chest loosening slightly. This is the right room. He’s sure of it now.

He moves closer to the bed, his fingers brushing over the fabric of the new sheets. They’re soft—softer than anything he’s ever felt before. Silky, smooth, and cool to the touch. It’s almost too nice, too luxurious, and it sends a strange pang through his chest. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

Sliding onto the bed, he sits for a moment, letting his fingertips graze the sheets again before pulling the black dog closer to him. The softness of it grounds him in a way he didn’t expect. He lies down, adjusting his position until he’s comfortable, and pulls the blanket over himself. The room is quiet, and the exhaustion presses down harder now that he’s still.

His thoughts are scattered, flitting from the events of the day to the newness of everything around him. It’s hard to process, and he doesn’t try to fight the way his eyes begin to close. His body is too heavy, his mind too foggy.

The last thing he feels is the silky softness of the sheets beneath his fingertips and the warm weight of the black dog tucked against his side. Slowly, Regulus drifts off to sleep, the exhaustion finally pulling him under.

***

Regulus isn’t sure how long he’s been asleep for. It could be thirty minutes, it could be three hours—he might never know. What he does know is that he’s no longer asleep, and the reason why is glaringly obvious. A loud thud from somewhere downstairs jolts him fully awake, followed by James’ unmistakable voice, too loud even when muffled by the walls.

He groans, pressing his face into the pillow. Gosh, does this boy ever know how to be quiet?

For a moment, he debates trying to fall back asleep. But it’s no use; he’s already awake, and the noise isn’t letting up. With a quiet sigh, Regulus reaches for the book on his bedside table—the one Mr. Potter picked out for him earlier.

He sits up against the headboard and opens the book, letting his eyes skim over the first page. But the words blur together, not because he’s too tired to focus, but because the constant commotion downstairs keeps pulling his attention away. A chair scrapes loudly, followed by James’ voice, rising in pitch as though he’s complaining about something.

Regulus clenches his jaw, his fingers tightening around the book. It’s impossible to concentrate with all that racket. He exhales sharply, swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and stands. Book still in hand, he makes his way downstairs, moving carefully to avoid making too much noise.

When he reaches the bottom of the staircase, he pauses, listening. “James,” he hears Mrs. Potter say from the kitchen, her voice calm but firm. “Keep it down. Regulus is asleep.”

“Sorry, Mum, I’ll try,” James replies, his voice quieter now but still buzzing with energy.

“I know you do, sweetie,” she says warmly, her tone full of patience.

Regulus feels an odd pang at that exchange but pushes it aside. He steps into the dining room, which is open to the kitchen, and quietly takes a seat at the table. None of them seem to notice him at first, giving him a moment to observe.

James is sitting at the kitchen table, or rather, half-sitting, half-hovering. He’s bouncing one leg rapidly, tapping a pen against the table, and occasionally leaning back in his chair before being reminded by Mrs. Potter to sit properly. In front of him is a science workbook, open to a page filled with diagrams of circuits and questions about electricity. Regulus watches as James groans loudly and lets his head fall dramatically onto the table.

“James, come on,” Mr. Potter says lightly, his voice encouraging. “You’re almost done. Just two more questions.”

“You said that ages ago,” James grumbles, lifting his head.

“Because you keep getting distracted,” Mrs. Potter says with a small smile. “Let’s focus for just a little bit longer, okay?”

Regulus watches as James fidgets, picks up his pen, then drops it again. His movements are constant, restless, like he physically can’t sit still. It’s distracting, and Regulus feels his annoyance growing. How can someone be so noisy and fidgety and still get anything done?

But what catches Regulus’ attention even more is how calm Mr. and Mrs. Potter remain. Neither of them scold James for his fidgeting or his complaints. They just keep gently redirecting him, as if they’re completely used to this.

James eventually picks up his pen again and starts writing something, muttering under his breath as he works through a question. Mrs. Potter, who has been watching him closely, says casually, “Oh, by the way, James, we have your psychiatrist appointment coming up next week. I’ll ask him about maybe putting you on an afternoon tablet, again.”

James groans, dropping his pen. “Do we have to? The last one made my head feel all weird.”

“I know, love,” Mrs. Potter says gently. “That’s why we’ll ask about a new one. Dr. Mitchels mentioned one that might work better for you. We’ll see what he says.”

James huffs but doesn’t argue further. He scribbles down the last of his answers, then slams his workbook shut with a triumphant sigh. “Finally!” he exclaims. “Can I go outside now?”

Mr. Potter chuckles, shaking his head. “You act like we’ve had you locked in here for days.”

Mrs. Potter smiles, giving James a little nudge. “Go on, then. You’ve earned it.”

James bolts for the door, his laugh echoing through the house. Regulus watches him go, then looks back at Mr. and Mrs. Potter. They’re both smiling, completely unfazed by James’ energy or the chaos he brought into the room.

It makes Regulus think about his own “difficult behavior”—the meltdowns, the moments where he couldn’t control himself. How many times had he been scolded or punished for things James just did without a second thought? The way the Potters handled James was so different from what he was used to. It was… strange.

He blinks, realizing he’s been staring at the table, lost in thought. With a quiet sigh, he opens his book and begins to read, letting the words pull him back into a world that feels far simpler than this one.

Dinner comes sooner than expected. Regulus was so engrossed in the world of Percy Jackson that he didn’t even realize Mrs. Potter had been calling his name until her voice softened and came from much closer.

“Regulus, dear, would you like to come up and make your own hamburger?”

He blinks, pulling himself out of the depths of Camp Half-Blood. It takes him a moment to register her words, but then he nods quickly, carefully placing the book onto the seat of the chair beside him. He gets up and approaches Mrs. Potter, feeling the faintest twinge of unease at leaving the safe haven of his book.

Her smile is warm and reassuring. “Regulus, sweetie, do you think you could wash your hands first, please?”

He nods again, keeping his gaze fixed just below her chin as he turns toward the sink. The cool water rushing over his hands is grounding, and he focuses on scrubbing each finger meticulously, though his mind is still half-occupied with thoughts of Percy battling monsters.

Before he’s finished, James comes bounding into the kitchen, already talking about something Regulus doesn’t catch.

“James, can you wash your hands too before you start?” Mrs. Potter asks with a glance over her shoulder.

“On it, Mum,” James replies cheerfully, stepping up to the sink beside Regulus. Regulus edges slightly to the side to make room, keeping his eyes on his hands.

Once he’s done, he dries his hands on a towel and walks back to Mrs. Potter, who is holding out a plate for him. “Here you go, Regulus. Put whatever you like on your burger, there’s plenty to choose from.”

He hesitates for a moment, scanning the spread of toppings laid out on the counter. Slowly, he picks up a slice of cheese, a few thin rings of onion, and some lettuce. He places them carefully on his burger patty, his movements precise and deliberate. After a moment’s pause, he adds a small dollop of ketchup, just to the side of the plate.

When he’s done, he steps back, clutching his plate close to his chest like it’s something fragile.

“Would you like some hot chips with that, Regulus?” Mr. Potter asks from the other side of the kitchen, holding up a bowl of golden fries.

Regulus nods without speaking, and Mr. Potter smiles as he piles a generous handful of fries onto Regulus’s plate.

“Here you go, enjoy,” Mr. Potter says warmly.

Regulus nods his head slightly to say “thank you,” and walks back to the table. He sets his plate down, grabs his book from the chair, and sits with the book balanced carefully on his lap.

A glass of water is placed beside his plate, and the soft hum of chatter starts up as everyone digs into their food. Regulus keeps his eyes on his plate, eating methodically while the conversation flows around him. He’s only half-listening until James turns to him.

“So,” James says around a mouthful of burger, earning a fondly exasperated look from Mrs. Potter. “You ready for school tomorrow?”

The question makes Regulus freeze mid-bite. His stomach twists uncomfortably. He isn’t ready—not even close. This will be his seventh school since February, and none of the others had gone particularly well. His throat feels tight, and he swallows hard before shrugging at James, not trusting himself to say anything.

James doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort, diving back into his burger with the same unshakable energy he always seems to have. Regulus sets his burger down on the plate and picks up a fry, but he can’t bring himself to eat it. His mind is racing now, thoughts tumbling over each other in a frantic spiral.

What if this school is worse? What if he doesn’t fit in? What if he messes up—again?

He glances down at the book on his lap, running his fingers over the edge of the pages. Normally, it’s enough to calm him, but not this time. The weight of tomorrow looms too large, pressing down on his chest.

The morning arrives too quickly. Regulus wakes with a tight knot in his stomach, his chest heavy with the weight of dread. He stares at the ceiling for a long time, trying to steady his breathing. It doesn’t help. His thoughts circle endlessly around the same worries—classrooms full of strangers, teachers who might not understand, and this being his seventh school since February.

Eventually, he forces himself out of bed, moving stiffly. The uniform lies neatly folded on the chair by the window, its clean lines and crisp fabric feeling foreign. He pulls it on piece by piece, his hands trembling slightly. When he reaches the tie, he fumbles with it, his fingers too clumsy to manage the knot. Frustrated, he leaves it hanging loosely around his neck for now.

As he zips his backpack, Regulus’s eyes catch on the recently bought small, stuffed black dog sitting on his bed. He finds comfort with that dog—it reminds Regulus some much of his brother, who would also protect him, from anything, or anyone. He hesitates, biting his lip. Taking it feels childish, but leaving it behind feels impossible. 

After a moment, he reaches out, clutching the dog tightly before slipping it into his bag. Its presence there is reassuring, even if no one else knows.

Downstairs, the house is quiet except for the faint clinking of dishes in the kitchen. He shoulders his backpack and heads down, his footsteps soft on the stairs.

When he steps into the kitchen, he sees Mrs. Potter standing near the counter with James, who’s squirming as she adjusts the knot on his tie.

“Hold still, James,” she chides gently, a small smile on her face.

“I am holding still,” James protests, though his fidgeting doesn’t stop.

Regulus hesitates in the doorway, unsure whether to enter. Mrs. Potter looks up and spots him, her smile softening. “Good morning, Regulus,” she says kindly. “Come on in. Are you hungry?”

He shifts awkwardly, glancing down at the floor and not responding. Mrs. Potter doesn’t seem fazed.

“I’ll make you some toast, shall I?” she offers. When he doesn’t object, she turns to the toaster, busying herself with preparing breakfast.

Meanwhile, she finishes tying James’s tie and sends him off with a playful nudge. James bounds out of the kitchen, muttering something about finding his shoes.

Mrs. Potter turns back to Regulus, her eyes gentle. “Do you need help with yours?” she asks, nodding toward his loose tie.

Regulus hesitates, then nods quickly, his gaze still fixed somewhere near the floor. She steps over, her movements calm and deliberate, and gestures for him to tilt his chin up.

“It’s not too tricky once you get the hang of it,” she says as she loops the fabric. Her voice is soft and reassuring, and she works efficiently, straightening the tie and tucking it neatly into place.

“There,” she says when she’s done. “Perfect.”

Regulus touches the knot lightly, his fingers brushing against the smooth fabric. It feels oddly comforting, like a piece of armor.

By the time he sits at the table, a plate of buttered toast is waiting for him. He picks up a slice and nibbles at the edge while Mrs. Potter sits down across from him with her tea.

“Just so you know,” she begins gently, “when we get to school, I’ll need to come in with you for a little bit to pick up your schedule from the office. Is that all right?”

He pauses mid-bite, his stomach knotting again. But the thought of having someone there—an adult—makes the idea of walking into the building a little less terrifying. Slowly, he nods.

“Good,” she says, smiling. “We’ll get it sorted together, nice and easy.”

Her words settle over him like a blanket, softening the edges of his fear. He finishes his toast in silence, his mind still racing, but the panic isn’t quite as sharp.

As he pushes the plate slightly away, Mrs. Potter stands and walks over to the counter. She picks up a small stack of items and places them gently in front of him—a set of three plain notebooks and a small black pencil case.

“These are for you,” she says softly, her tone casual but kind. “The school will give you new workbooks for your classes, but I thought you might want these for notes or anything else you’d like to jot down. The pencil case has some pens and pencils to get you started.”

Regulus looks down at the neatly stacked supplies, hesitating for a moment before picking them up. The smooth covers of the notebooks and the compact weight of the pencil case feel oddly grounding in his hands. He nods once in thanks, still not trusting himself to speak, and carefully tucks them into his bag beside the teddy bear.

When he’s done, he slides off his chair, picks up his bag, and adjusts the straps on his shoulders. The weight of the black dog inside is a quiet comfort, reminding him he’s not completely alone. Mrs. Potter gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as they head toward the door.

“You’re going to do just fine today, Regulus,” she says.

He doesn’t respond, but he clings to her words as they step outside, bracing himself for the day ahead.

***

Regulus remembers his first day at a new school with his first foster family, a day that felt impossibly long even as it had barely begun.

He’d woken up in a room that didn’t feel like his own, the walls bare and unfamiliar. The clothes he’d been given to wear were a little too big, and his stomach churned with nerves as he buttoned up the plain shirt and pulled on the trousers. He hadn’t spoken much to his foster mother—he never felt like he could—but he remembered how rushed she’d seemed that morning, her voice clipped as she told him to hurry up.

The car ride to the school was silent, except for the hum of the engine. Regulus sat stiffly in the back seat, clutching the straps of his too-light backpack. He’d packed carefully the night before, bringing only the essentials: a notebook, a pencil case, and the small, worn teddy bear he’d hidden inside, buried deep so no one would see.

When they pulled up in front of the school, the building loomed large and intimidating, its brick façade cold against the gray sky. Regulus’s hands tightened on his bag, his pulse racing. He had so many questions—Where should he go? What if he got lost? What if no one talked to him?—but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

The foster mother glanced at him in the rearview mirror, her face impassive. “You’ll be fine,” she said flatly. “Just go to the office and tell them who you are. They’ll sort you out.”

Before he could even respond—though he doubted he would have managed a word—she unlocked the doors. “Have a good day,” she added, her tone more dismissive than encouraging.

Regulus slid out of the car, clutching his backpack tightly as the door shut behind him. He turned to say something, though he wasn’t sure what, but she was already pulling away, the tires crunching against the gravel.

And then he was alone.

He stood there for a long moment, frozen on the edge of the pavement, staring at the school. Students moved in groups, chatting and laughing as they walked through the gates, completely at ease in a place that felt like a foreign world to him. Regulus wanted to turn around and run, but there was nowhere to go.

He forced his feet to move, one step at a time, until he reached the office. The receptionist had smiled, her voice overly cheerful as she handed him his schedule and pointed him toward his first class. But even her kindness hadn’t made the knot in his stomach loosen.

That first day had been a blur of awkward introductions, whispered comments from classmates, and the overwhelming noise of crowded hallways. He had barely spoken, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact. By the time the day ended, he felt like he had been holding his breath the entire time.

As Regulus remembers it now, sitting quietly in the back of the moving car, the same knot of anxiety twists in his stomach. It’s a different school, a different situation, but the fear of being the new kid—the odd one out—feels just as suffocating as it did then.

The car slows and pulls into the parking lot. Regulus peers out the window, his chest tightening at the sight of the school. It’s big, bigger than he imagined, with students in uniforms streaming toward the entrance. The air feels thick, like it’s harder to breathe, and his fingers clutch the straps of his backpack so tightly that his knuckles ache.

“Alright, James,” Mrs. Potter says, her voice warm and upbeat as she turns to look at her son in the passenger seat. “You’ve got everything, right? Homework, lunch, all that?”

James nods, barely looking up from where he’s fiddling with the zipper of his bag. “Yeah, Mum, I’m good.”

“Good,” she replies, her tone softening. “Have a nice day, sweetheart.” She leans over to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, which James groans at but doesn’t dodge. He grabs his bag and hops out of the car, waving vaguely as he heads toward the entrance.

Regulus watches him go, his stomach twisting tighter. James moves so easily, so confidently, like he’s done this a hundred times before—which, of course, he has. Regulus feels frozen in comparison, his legs heavy and uncooperative as Mrs. Potter turns to him with an encouraging smile.

“Ready, Regulus?” she asks gently.

He nods stiffly, even though he feels anything but ready. Mrs. Potter steps out of the car and comes around to his side, opening the door for him. Regulus slides out slowly, clutching his bag against his chest as he follows her toward the building.

The hallways are loud and chaotic, filled with the chatter of students and the echoing clang of lockers. Regulus keeps his head down, his gaze fixed on Mrs. Potter’s shoes as she leads the way. The noise feels overwhelming, like it’s pressing in on him from all sides, and he shrinks into himself, trying to take up as little space as possible.

They reach the office, and Mrs. Potter holds the door open for him. The space is quieter, but not by much—phones are ringing, printers are humming, and the receptionist is speaking in a bright, chirpy voice to a parent on the phone. Mrs. Potter approaches the desk, giving the woman a polite smile.

“Good morning,” she says. “I’m here with Regulus Black. He’s starting Year 7 today, and we need to pick up his schedule.”

The receptionist nods, rifling through a stack of papers before pulling one out and handing it to Mrs. Potter. “Here we are,” she says cheerfully, then leans over to look at Regulus. “Welcome, Regulus! You’re in good hands here.”

Regulus doesn’t respond, his throat tight and dry. He shifts his weight nervously, clutching his bag like it’s a lifeline. Mrs. Potter thanks the receptionist before handing the schedule to him, her smile soft and encouraging.

Before they can leave, a tall, friendly-looking woman steps into the office. “Good morning,” she says warmly, her gaze landing on Regulus. “You must be Regulus. I’m Ms. Carrington, the Year 7 guidance counselor. It’s nice to meet you.”

Regulus manages a small nod, though he doesn’t meet her eyes.

“I know starting at a new school can be a bit overwhelming,” Ms. Carrington continues, her tone kind and understanding. “How about I take you to your first class and show you your locker on the way? Would that help?”

Regulus hesitates, his heart pounding. The idea of being alone in the hallways, trying to figure everything out himself, feels unbearable. He nods quickly, relieved when Ms. Carrington gives him a reassuring smile.

Mrs. Potter crouches slightly so she’s at eye level with him, her voice gentle. “I’ll leave you in Ms. Carrington’s care, then. Have a good day, Regulus. James will meet you after school so I can pick you both up, alright?”

Regulus nods again, the movement jerky.

“Okay,” she says with a warm smile. “Take care, sweetheart. You’ll do just fine.”

She waves as she steps back, and Regulus lifts his hand in a small, hesitant wave in return. The door closes behind her, and Regulus feels a pang of longing, wishing she could stay just a little longer.

“Let’s get you sorted,” Ms. Carrington says gently, gesturing for him to follow. Regulus clutches his bag tighter and trails after her, bracing himself for whatever comes next.

The hallway is still bustling, but Ms. Carrington moves through it with calm authority, her presence parting the crowd just enough to make space for Regulus. He keeps close to her, his eyes fixed on the back of her sage green cardigan, the noise and movement pressing uncomfortably at the edges of his senses.

They stop in front of a row of lockers, and Ms. Carrington crouches slightly, gesturing to one near the bottom. “This one’s yours, Regulus,” she says, tapping the number on the metal door, 162. She pulls a small piece of paper from her pocket and hands it to him. “Here’s the code. Why don’t you give it a try?”

Regulus kneels in front of the locker, his hands trembling slightly as he fumbles with the combination lock, 52 7 24. It takes him two tries, but eventually, the lock clicks open, and he exhales a tiny breath of relief. He lifts the latch and opens the door, peering inside at the small, empty space.

“Good job,” Ms. Carrington says with an encouraging smile. “One thing to remember—students aren’t allowed to take their bags to class unless they have special permission. You’ll need to leave yours here, but you can take out anything you need, like your pencil case or notebooks.”

Regulus nods, his throat too tight to respond. He unzips his bag and carefully pulls out his pencil case and the three notebooks Mrs. Potter had given him. His fingers brush against the soft fabric of the black dog, and he hesitates, glancing nervously toward Ms. Carrington. She isn’t paying attention, giving him space, and he debates for a moment. After a deep breath, he decides to leave the dog tucked safely inside, zipping the bag closed and placing it neatly into the locker.

Satisfied, Ms. Carrington gestures for him to stand. “Great. Let’s head to your form class—it’s just down the hall.”

Regulus follows her, his steps slow and uncertain. The classroom isn’t far, and when they reach the door, Ms. Carrington steps inside first, motioning for Regulus to follow. The teacher, a tall man with a kind smile and a slightly wrinkled tie, looks up from his desk.

“Mr. Hale,” Ms. Carrington says, her tone cheerful. “This is Regulus Black. He’s new today and will be joining your form class.”

Mr. Hale stands and steps forward, extending a hand toward Regulus. “Welcome, Regulus,” he says warmly. “We’re glad to have you here.”

Regulus stares at the outstretched hand, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He doesn’t like handshakes—or any kind of touch, really. It always feels wrong, too much, like an invisible weight pressing against his skin. The only expectations to that, are his cousins, and brother—and even then, he’s never really liked touch. He shifts his gaze to the floor, not moving to take the teacher’s hand. 

Mr. Hale seems to catch on quickly and lowers his hand, his expression remaining kind. “That’s alright,” he says gently, as if to assure Regulus he hasn’t done anything wrong. 

Ms. Carrington turns to Regulus, her voice still gentle. “My office is always open if you need anything—a chat, a quiet place to sit, whatever you need, okay?”

He nods, his hands tightening slightly around his notebooks.

“Good,” she says with a reassuring smile. “Have a great first day.” With that, she gives a little wave and slips out of the room.

Mr. Hale turns back to Regulus. “Form time lasts about fifteen, twenty minutes,” he explains. “We go over announcements, hand out any notices, and on Wednesday mornings, we meet in the auditorium for assemblies. Does that sound alright?”

Regulus nods again, his movements stiff but polite.

“Great. Why don’t you find a seat?” Mr. Hale says, gesturing toward the desks.

Regulus glances around the room, his heart hammering. Most of the seats are filled, students chatting quietly or pulling things out from their pockets. His gaze lands on an empty desk near the back right corner of the room, next to a girl with long platinum blonde hair, half tied up into a bun while the rest cascades over her shoulders. Her almond-colored skin glows softly in the morning light streaming through the windows.

He hesitates for a moment, but when the girl notices him standing there, she looks up and smiles warmly. “You can sit here if you want,” she says, her voice friendly.

Regulus nods quickly, his throat too tight for words, and moves to sit down. The girl shifts her things slightly to make room for him, her smile never faltering.

“I’m Pandora, by the way,” she says, her tone light and welcoming.

Regulus gives a small nod in acknowledgment, his cheeks warming as he focuses on arranging his notebooks and pencil case on the desk. Nervous energy buzzes throughout him, making his hands fidgety as he straightens the edges of his notebooks repeatedly.

Pandora doesn’t seem bothered by his silence. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, her eyes curious but kind. “What class do you have first?”

Regulus hesitates, the words caught in his throat. Instead of speaking, he reaches into his stack of notebooks, pulling out the folded timetable Ms. Carrington had given him earlier. He slides it carefully across the desk toward Pandora, his movements deliberate and a little tentative.

Pandora picks it up, her brow furrowing as she scans the paper. Regulus watches her face closely, his chest tight as he waits for her reaction. Her expression shifts, her eyebrows lifting and a small smile curling at her lips. He recognizes the look instantly—she’s happy.

“That’s great!” she says, her voice full of enthusiasm. “We have English together first. Mr. Andrews’ class.”

Regulus blinks, relief washing over him like a cool breeze. He nods quickly, the knot in his stomach loosening just a little.

Pandora folds the timetable neatly and hands it back to him. “I can show you where it is, if you want,” she offers, her tone casual but sincere.

His nod this time is even quicker, almost grateful. The thought of navigating the hallways alone had been gnawing at him all morning, but now it feels manageable.

“And, hey,” Pandora adds, her smile widening, “we also have Art together straight after. I can walk you there, too.”

Regulus glances at her, his fingers tightening slightly on the timetable. For a moment, he just stares at her, unsure what to say or even how to respond. But her smile doesn’t waver, her words gentle and genuine, and something inside him softens.

He nods again, slower this time, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

Pandora picks up her pen again, doodling absentmindedly in the corner of her notebook. “First days are always weird, huh? But at least now you’ve got someone to help you out.”

Regulus looks down at his desk, a small, tentative thought forming in the back of his mind: Huh. Maybe this first day won’t be so bad after all.

***

The chatter of the class fades into the background as Regulus carefully brushes stray pencil shavings off his workspace. His art project—a rough sketch of a tree under a starry sky—sits before him, unfinished but not terrible. Pandora is next to him, humming quietly as she tidies up her own materials.

As he cleans, Regulus’s thoughts drift back to English class earlier that morning. He wasn’t really sure what he expected when he entered his English class—but it for sure wasn’t a funny teacher. Mr. Andrews had a knack for making the room feel alive, cracking jokes as he took attendance and teasing the students about their half-asleep expressions.

"Alright, everyone," Mr. Andrews said, clapping his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm, "let’s wake up those brain cells and do a quick group recap of what we’ve learned so far. And by ‘group recap,’ I mean I’m making you all do my job for me."

The class chuckled, and Regulus couldn’t help but feel a flicker of amusement. He kept his head low, observing as students raised their hands or called out answers about themes, symbolism, and character arcs from To Kill a Mockingbird. It was a book he’d read before, though not in a classroom setting.

As Mr. Andrews jotted notes on the board, he glanced toward Regulus. “You’ve read the book, right?”

Regulus froze, his throat tightening. He nodded quickly but didn’t say a word, his cheeks heating up.

"Great!" Mr. Andrews didn’t push for more, instead moving on to the next student. Regulus exhaled quietly, relieved.

By the end of class, Mr. Andrews had explained the upcoming assignment: a reflective essay on how personal perspective shapes interpretation. Regulus wasn’t thrilled by the idea of an essay, but at least the class had felt more relaxed than he expected.

It had been… nice, in a way he wasn’t used to. No pressure, no spotlight, just an easy start to the day.

Art had been a different kind of experience. The Art room was a quieter space, with tables spread out and students already settling into their projects. Ms. Reed greeted him warmly, handing him a sketchpad and some basic supplies before explaining what the class was working on.

“We’re in the middle of a term project,” she said, pulling up a chair beside him once the rest of the class was focused on their work. “It’s a combination of visual art and written reflection, exploring themes of nature and the environment.”

Regulus nodded, his hands gripping the edges of the sketchpad.

Ms. Reed offered a reassuring smile. “Since you’re joining us so late in the term, I’m going to adjust the requirements for you. Instead of the full project, which includes a 2,000-word essay, we’ll focus on the art piece. If you’re comfortable, you can write a shorter reflection—maybe 500 words—but if that’s too much, that’s fine too.”

Relief washed over him, and he nodded again, this time with a little more ease. The thought of having a smaller workload was a weight lifted off his chest.

“Good,” Ms. Reed said, standing up. “Just focus on the creative part for now. Let me know if you need anything, alright?”

Regulus watched her walk away, then opened his sketchpad. He stared at the blank page for a long moment, his pencil hovering just above it. Around him, the other students were painting, sketching, and sculpting, the soft sounds of brushes and pencils filling the room.

Regulus glances at Pandora’s work. She’s drawn a vibrant watercolor of a sunrise over mountains, the colors blending seamlessly into one another. Regulus can’t help but think it’s really good—better than anything he could do.

She notices him looking and smiles. “You like it?”

He nods, then looks back at his own work, suddenly self-conscious about his simple pencil sketch.

Pandora puts down her paintbrush and wipes her hands on a rag. “Hey, during the break, do you want me to show you where your other classes are? It might help for later.”

Regulus hesitates for a moment but then nods, his chest loosening with gratitude. Having someone guide him through the maze of the school is far better than wandering alone.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the class, and Pandora starts packing her things. “C’mon,” she says cheerfully, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

Regulus finishes putting away his supplies and follows her out of the room, his mind quieter than it’s been all day. Maybe, just maybe, this place won’t be so bad after all. Which is an odd thought to have, because, really, he’s always been doomed to fail…

Pandora walks at a steady pace, her hair bouncing lightly as she leads him down the hallway. “Math’s a bit further away than Computing, so I’ll show you that one first,” she explains, glancing back at him with a reassuring smile.

Regulus nods, grateful for her guidance. He grips the edges of his notebooks tightly, his thoughts racing ahead to the rest of the day.

The corridors are a maze of identical doors and busy students, and he wonders how long it’ll take him to figure out where everything is. Pandora stops outside a classroom with a large “Mathematics 7B” sign taped to the door.

“This is your math class,” she says, pointing to it. “You’ve got Mr. Fletcher. He’s okay—kind of boring, but not mean or anything.”

Regulus nods again, committing the location to memory. Pandora continues walking, chatting lightly about her favorite teachers and classes. Regulus doesn’t say much—he doesn’t know how to—but she doesn’t seem to mind, filling the silence with ease.

When they reach the Computing classroom, Pandora stops and gestures toward the open door. “Here it is,” she says. “I’ve gotta get to my next class now, but I hope I’ll see you around later, okay?”

Regulus hesitates, then gives her a small wave goodbye. Pandora beams at him before disappearing into the crowd of students hurrying to their next classes.

Taking a deep breath, Regulus steps into the Computing room. The air smells faintly of dust and old electronics, and the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. He glances around the room, his eyes landing on a man sitting at the desk in the corner.

The teacher is older, with a hunched posture and a perpetually grumpy expression etched into his face. Regulus swallows hard, anxiety surging as he wonders how to approach him. Slowly, he walks up to the desk and stands there, clutching his timetable in his hand, waiting for the teacher to notice him.

After what feels like an eternity, the teacher looks up, his brow furrowed. “What do you want?” he grunts.

Regulus shifts uncomfortably. The teacher squints at him, then does a double take. “You’re not in my class,” he says flatly, waving a dismissive hand.

Regulus stares at him, unsure of how to respond. He taps his timetable lightly, trying to indicate that it’s proof he belongs here.

The teacher doesn’t even glance at it. “I said you’re not in my class,” he snaps. “Get out of here.”

Heat floods Regulus’s face as the words sink in. His grip tightens on the timetable as he quickly steps out of the room, his heart pounding in his chest.

He stands outside the classroom for a moment, the noise of students passing by blurring into the background. His mind races, the weight of the interaction pressing down on him. What now?

Then he remembers Ms. Carrington, the guidance counselor. She’d said her office was always open if he needed help.

His legs feel shaky, but he starts walking, retracing the path Pandora had shown him earlier that morning. By the time he reaches Ms. Carrington’s office, his anxiety has eased just slightly—enough to knock softly on the door.

“Come in,” her voice calls from inside.

Regulus steps in, clutching his timetable like a lifeline. Ms. Carrington looks up from her desk, her expression immediately softening when she sees him. “Regulus,” she says warmly, setting down her pen. “What can I do for you?”

He hesitates, then holds out his timetable again, his silent way of asking for help.

She reads the situation quickly, standing and gesturing for him to sit. “Let’s figure this out together, okay?” she says gently. And for the first time since stepping into the Computing room, Regulus feels a little less alone.

Regulus sits stiffly in the chair across from Ms. Carrington’s desk, watching as she types away on her computer. He feels a gnawing sense of embarrassment creeping up his neck. He shouldn’t even be here—it’s his first day, and he’s already managed to screw something up.

Ms. Carrington glances up at him with a reassuring smile. “It says here you’re meant to be in Computing, correct?”

Regulus nods, his fingers tightening on the straps of his bag.

She types a bit more before turning back to him. “Alright. Did you head there?”

Another nod.

“Did you meet the teacher and show him your timetable?”

Regulus nods again, though this time his gaze drops to the floor.

Ms. Carrington’s brow furrows slightly. “And did the teacher kick you out?”

He hesitates but then nods, his face heating up.

She exhales softly and straightens up. “Alright, Regulus. Let’s go sort this out together.”

He nods once more, but the pit in his stomach grows heavier. As he follows her out of the office, his mind starts spiraling. He feels stupid. He could’ve figured this out himself, couldn’t he? Now the teacher is going to think he’s rude—or worse, trouble. He’s already jinxed himself, already doomed to fail.

They arrive at the Computing classroom, and Ms. Carrington knocks firmly on the door. A sharp “What is it?” comes from inside.

She opens the door, stepping partway in with Regulus lingering behind her. “Good morning. I’m Ms. Carrington, the guidance counselor. I’m here about your new student, Regulus Black.” Her tone is polite but firm. “It seems you’ve already kicked him out of your class.”

The teacher, still seated at his desk, looks up and scowls. “The kid didn’t even speak. Just rudely pointed at his timetable.”

Ms. Carrington’s eyebrows shoot up. “Regardless, you should’ve been kinder. He’s new. It’s his first day, and he’s clearly nervous.”

The teacher scoffs but doesn’t argue further.

Ms. Carrington turns to Regulus, her expression softening. “Off you go, Regulus. Head into class.” Then she leans down and whispers, “If he causes you more trouble, you come let me know, okay?”

Regulus nods, his throat tight as he steps past her into the classroom. He keeps his head down, walking quickly to an empty seat at the back of the room.

The teacher doesn’t say anything to him, and the weight of all the other students’ eyes on him makes it hard to breathe. Regulus tries to focus on the teacher’s droning instructions, but he has no idea what’s going on or what he’s supposed to be doing.

Anxiety swells inside of him like the start of a major storm, but instead of panicking, he slowly reaches and pulls out his novel—the one Mr. and Mrs. Potter had bought him yesterday. The familiar words on the page calm him just enough to make it through the rest of the period.

When the bell finally rings, signaling the end of class, Regulus quickly picks up his things and slips out of the room. His heart is still pounding as he walks down the hall toward his Math class, but he feels a little better. At least he’s out of there.

By the time he reaches the next classroom, he’s breathing a little easier. Math might not be his favorite subject, but anything has to be better than Computing. Literally, anything can be better than computing. 

***

Math isn’t the worst. Isn’t the best either, but he understands enough to get through the class. The teacher explains the concepts clearly, and Regulus manages to complete the problems without too much trouble. It feels like a small victory, but even as he works, a dull pressure starts building in his chest.

The noise in the classroom is getting to him. The constant hum of chatter, the screech of chairs against the floor, and the loud laughter from a group in the back corner all blend into an overwhelming cacophony. Regulus tries to tune it out, focusing on the numbers in front of him, but it’s like trying to read through a fogged window.

By the time the bell rings, signaling the end of class, he feels like he’s barely holding it together. He gathers his belongings quickly—his pencil case, notebooks, and the new math workbook the teacher handed out. Slinging the items against his chest, he slips out of the classroom, avoiding the crush of students spilling into the hallway.

The noise follows him out, a sea of voices and footsteps echoing off the walls, but at least here, it’s not quite as suffocating. Regulus heads straight for his locker, weaving through the crowd until he reaches the familiar number. He crouches down, enters the code, and opens the door.

Carefully, he places his math book and notebook inside, adjusting the stack of items to make room. The sight of his teddy bear peeking out from the bottom of his bag gives him a momentary sense of calm. He lingers at his locker for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

Then he remembers Pandora mentioning the library earlier. A quiet place. Somewhere he can breathe.

That sounds… good.

Regulus closes his locker, letting the door click shut, and glances around the hallway. He doesn’t know exactly where the library is, but he figures he can find it if he keeps looking. Clutching his timetable in one hand, he starts walking, keeping to the edges of the hallway to avoid bumping into anyone.

The noise around him is still loud, but it feels more bearable now that he has a goal.

Regulus manages to find the library pretty smoothly. It’s lunchtime, so the space is relatively busy, the quiet murmur of voices blending with the occasional scrape of chairs and the soft rustle of pages turning. As he steps inside, he’s met with the familiar, comforting smell of old books. It’s nice in here—cozy, even, he admits to himself.

He moves slowly through the rows of shelves, his gaze skimming over the spines of books without really taking them in. Eventually, he finds a secluded corner by a window, away from most of the other students. It’s quiet here, the noise from the rest of the library muffled enough to let him breathe. He sets his timetable and pencil case aside and pulls out his novel, carefully opening it to where he left off.

The words on the page pull him in quickly. The world around him fades as he reads, and for the first time all day, the knot of anxiety in his stomach loosens slightly. He manages to read three more chapters before the bubble of calm he’s created is abruptly popped.

Voices drift over from a nearby table, louder than the others. At first, he doesn’t think much of it—just more background noise—but then he hears the words.

“Isn’t that the new kid?” one of them says, their voice low but not low enough.

“He’s quite weird, sitting there, isn’t he?” another voice replies, a snicker following.

“Yeah, heard he doesn’t speak. Strange,” a third adds, and they laugh, the sound grating and sharp.

Regulus freezes, his fingers gripping the edges of his book tightly. He’s heard it all before—the whispers, the laughter, the labels. They still hurt, though, no matter how many times he tells himself not to care.

He shuts his book and stands, slipping it into his arms along with his pencil case and notebooks. He doesn’t want to listen to them anymore, doesn’t want to sit there and let their words crawl under his skin. Keeping his head down, he leaves the corner, his footsteps soft as he walks away from the table where the voices are coming from.

As he heads toward the library exit, he accidentally bumps into someone.

“Watch where you’re going, freak!” the boy snaps, glaring at him.

Regulus nods quickly, an automatic response, and continues walking, his face hot and his eyes stinging. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t stop until he’s out of the library and in the quieter hallway beyond.

Tears threaten to spill over, but he takes a deep breath in, then out, trying to steady himself. He’s used to this—he should be used to this—but it doesn’t make it any easier. Clutching his book tightly to his chest, he focuses on his next task: finding the science classroom.

At least that gives him something to do, something to focus on. He sets off down the hallway, his steps quicker now, as if he can outrun the sting of their words.

Regulus finds the science classroom easily enough. The hallway is mostly empty, the hum of lunchtime chatter faint and distant. As he approaches the door, he notices it’s open, which strikes him as strange—most classrooms are locked during lunch.

Curious but cautious, he peeks his head inside. The room is bright, with rows of neatly arranged desks and shelves lined with science equipment. At the front of the room, a woman stands at the whiteboard, writing something in neat, looping handwriting.

She must sense his presence because she suddenly turns, her gaze landing on him. A warm smile spreads across her face. “Why, hello there,” she says brightly. “You must be my new student.”

Regulus nods sheepishly, gripping his book tightly against his chest.

“Come on in,” she says, motioning toward the room.

He hesitates for a moment, unsure if he’s intruding, but eventually steps inside. His footsteps are quiet as he moves past the rows of desks.

“You can sit anywhere you’d like,” the teacher says, her voice friendly and encouraging.

Regulus glances around the room before settling at a desk in the back corner. It feels safer there, away from the center of attention. He places his book on the desk and folds his hands in his lap, his gaze flickering between the teacher and the whiteboard.

She finishes writing and turns to him again, leaning slightly against her desk. “I’m Mrs. Birch,” she says. “And I know it’s tough starting at a new school this late in the year, but we’ll make sure you’re caught up. Right now, we’re covering ecosystems and biodiversity. It’s not too bad, I promise.”

Regulus nods, his anxiety easing slightly at her reassuring tone.

Mrs. Birch continues, “You’ll have an exam at the end of term, but don’t worry about it too much. I’ll help you prepare. I’m one of the teachers who helps run the homework club during the next period. If you’d like, I can sit down with you and go through everything you’ll need to know.”

A small, tentative smile tugs at the corners of Regulus’s lips. He nods again, grateful for her understanding and support.

“That’s the spirit,” Mrs. Birch says with a grin.

Before either of them can say more, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. The noise from the hallway swells as students begin filing into classrooms. Mrs. Birch straightens and glances at the door.

“Well, I’d better get ready for the rest of the class,” she says, turning back to the whiteboard. “I’ll see you in homework club, okay?”

Regulus nods once more, feeling a little more at ease as students start trickling into the room. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.

***

He has definitely jinxed himself. He shouldn’t’ve tempted fate like that. But he has, and now he has to pay the price, to endure it. 

Science is Regulus’s least favorite subject, but learning in Mrs. Birch’s class is, well… bearable. No, that’s not fair—it’s more than bearable. It’s actually kind of amazing. Regulus doesn’t want to admit that to himself, though. Science has never been his thing, and he doesn’t want it to be now.

But Mrs. Birch has a way of making it interesting. Her voice is steady and engaging as she talks about ecosystems and food chains, and she somehow makes it all seem less complicated than it probably is. Regulus finds himself scribbling notes, not because he feels like he has to but because he actually wants to remember what she’s saying.

The rest of the class seems to love her, too. No one’s talking over her or zoning out. They’re asking questions, answering hers, and even laughing at her occasional jokes. The energy in the room is different from what Regulus is used to—positive, almost infectious.

He’s not sure about a lot of the material, having missed so much, but there are snippets of things he recognizes. Concepts he learned before that he can piece together with what Mrs. Birch is teaching. It feels good to understand even a little, though he knows there’s still a lot to catch up on.

By the time they’re halfway through the lesson, Regulus has decided that maybe science isn’t all bad. At least, not in this classroom.

But of course, the universe isn’t done punishing him.

It happens near the end of class. Regulus is quietly reviewing his notes when a shadow falls over his desk. He looks up to find the same boy he ran into in the library standing there, smirking.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” the boy says, his voice low enough that Mrs. Birch can’t hear. “Still being a freak, huh? Sitting there like you don’t even belong.”

Regulus stiffens, his grip tightening on his pen. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at the boy directly, but the words hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Can’t even talk, can you?” the boy continues, leaning in slightly. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Regulus’s chest feels tight, his vision blurring as tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He stares down at his notebook, willing the boy to leave, willing himself not to cry.

Eventually, the boy snickers and walks away, leaving Regulus frozen in his seat. He blinks rapidly, but the tears spill over anyway, streaking silently down his cheeks.

The bell rings, loud and jarring, but Regulus doesn’t move. He just sits there, staring at his notes, his chest heavy and his mind blank.

When the room starts to empty, Mrs. Birch notices him still sitting there. She walks over, her footsteps light, and crouches slightly to meet his gaze.

“Regulus?” she says gently. “Is everything okay?”

He shrugs, not trusting himself to speak.

Her brow furrows, and she seems to notice the tears on his cheeks. Without a word, she reaches into her pocket and hands him a tissue. “Take your time,” she says softly. “There’s no rush. When you’re ready, we’ll head to your next class together, okay?”

Regulus nods, dabbing at his face with the tissue. He feels stupid and small, but Mrs. Birch doesn’t seem upset or impatient. She just waits, giving him the space he needs.

After a few moments, he manages to calm down enough to stand. He gathers his things quietly, and Mrs. Birch walks with him out of the classroom. They don’t talk as they head to the homework club, but the silence feels… okay.

For the first time that day, Regulus doesn’t feel completely alone.

Once Regulus and Mrs. Birch reach the homework club, she gestures toward the desks spread across the room. “Find yourself a seat, and I’ll be over in just a moment,” she says with a warm smile.

Regulus nods, clutching his notebook tightly against his chest as he scans the room. There are a few other students scattered about, already focused on their work or chatting quietly, but he makes a beeline for the back corner where no one else is sitting. The desk there feels safe, away from watchful eyes.

He slides into the seat and sets his notebook down, flipping it open to the pages he’d scribbled on earlier. Mrs. Birch returns a moment later, holding a science workbook in her hands. She pulls up a chair beside him, placing the workbook on the desk between them.

“Let’s see what we can cover,” she says, her voice as patient as ever. She flips to a section in the workbook that corresponds to what the class had been learning, explaining each concept in clear, manageable steps.

Regulus nods along, jotting down notes when something clicks into place. She asks him questions occasionally, her tone encouraging rather than demanding, and he finds himself answering, even if only with a small nod or shake of his head. When he doesn’t understand something, she rephrases it or gives an example until it makes sense.

For the first time in a long while, Regulus feels like he’s not completely drowning in schoolwork. He even starts to feel a tiny spark of confidence—not much, but enough to keep going.

The world outside their little corner seems to fade away. Regulus doesn’t notice how quickly time is passing until the distant sound of the final bell startles him.

“Oh,” he mutters softly, blinking at the workbook in front of him.

Mrs. Birch smiles, standing and gathering her things. “Good work today, Regulus. You’ve made some real progress. Keep it up, and I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

He nods, murmuring a quiet “thank you” as he packs up his notebook. Gathering his things, he heads out of the room and down the hallway toward his locker.

At his locker, he carefully packs away the books he doesn’t need for homework and makes sure everything else is in order. His fingers brush against the soft fur of his black dog, still tucked at the bottom of the bag, and he takes a deep breath.

Stepping outside, Regulus pauses on the school steps, scanning the growing crowd for James. His chest tightens momentarily when he doesn’t see him right away, but then he reminds himself to wait. James will be here. Hopefully. 

As he stands there, the weight of the day presses down on him, but it feels lighter now than it did that morning. Maybe he really is doomed to fail, but maybe—just maybe—he can endure it. For today, at least, he’s managed to get through. And for now, that’s enough.