To Find a Home

A teacher once said to Regulus, “Saturday is a day to do what you want and forget about what you have to do.”

The words had seemed simple enough at the time, lighthearted and encouraging, tossed out at the end of a lesson like a piece of candy meant to sweeten the mood. But the more Regulus thinks about it, the more he realizes he doesn’t know what it actually means to do what he wants. The things he has to do always loom too large, and the idea of forgetting them—even for a single day—feels impossible.

Take his assignments, for example. He has to do his assignments. He doesn’t want to, but he has to. There’s no option to just forget about them, even temporarily. They stack up in his mind, one on top of the other, each one demanding more time and energy than he feels capable of giving.

It’s not like Regulus wasn’t prepared for school to come with a mountain of work—he was. After all, it’s the middle of the term. But he wasn’t prepared for how much of that work would be shoved onto his plate all at once, or how far behind he already feels.

First, there’s the Art assignment. He’s known about it since the day he joined the class: a term-long project with layers of practical and written components. Only, for him, it’s not a term project anymore. It’s a three-week project.

Mrs. Reed, his Art teacher, has been kind about it. She’s adjusted the expectations for him, making sure the project feels achievable in the time he has. She’s even offered to let him come into the art room during lunch breaks to work on it and has said she’ll help him with the written portion if he needs it. Regulus doesn’t know what he would do without her. If only every teacher were as accommodating as Mrs. Reed.

But then there’s Science, and Mrs. Birch.

Regulus stepped into his science class that fateful morning, the fluorescent lights casting a dull glow over the room. He barely had time to set his stuff down onto the desk before Mrs. Birch, his science teacher, approached him, her expression tight with worry. She held out a neatly printed task sheet, her fingers gripping it just a little too tightly.

“Regulus,” she began, her voice low and apologetic, “I need to explain something to you.”

He blinked at her, taking the paper without a word, already bracing himself for whatever was coming.

“I wouldn’t have given you this assignment if I thought there was another way,” she continued, her tone softening. “I know you haven’t had much time to catch up on everything we’ve covered this term. But the alternative was…” She hesitated, as if reluctant to say it aloud. “The alternative was sitting the end-of-term exam.”

Regulus’s stomach sank. He wasn’t sure which option sounded worse.

“I spoke with the head of the department,” Mrs. Birch went on, her voice hurried now, “and I argued that it wouldn’t be fair for you to take the exam, considering how much of the material you’ve missed. They agreed, but only if you completed this assignment instead. It’s designed to cover the key concepts from the term, so you won’t be at a disadvantage. If you finish it, you won’t have to sit the exam.”

Regulus glanced at the task sheet in his hand, scanning the neatly outlined objectives and the due date written in bold at the top. It looked manageable, but only just.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Mrs. Birch said, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I promise to help you as much as I can. I want to make sure you get a good grade.”

Regulus nodded slowly, his grip tightening on the paper. He appreciated her honesty, even if the situation still felt overwhelming. With another nod—this one meant to reassure her—he made his way to his usual seat at the back of the classroom.

As he sat down and placed the task sheet on his desk, he allowed himself a moment to exhale. It wasn’t ideal, but it was something he could work with. And at least Mrs. Birch seemed willing to support him. 

She’s trying, Regulus knows she is. He can see the effort in the way she explained the alternative assignment to him yesterday, how she apologized for putting more on his plate but promised to help him every step of the way. Still, the weight of the task feels enormous. He hasn’t even started it yet, and it already looms in his mind like an insurmountable mountain.

Regulus stares at the ceiling, the words of that teacher echoing faintly in his mind. "Do what you want. Forget about what you have to do."

What would it even feel like to have a Saturday where the weight of everything didn’t press down on him? To have a day where what he wanted to do mattered more than what he had to do?

He sighs quietly, curling his fingers into the fabric of the comforter. Maybe one day he’ll find out. But for now, all he can hope for is to not fall behind. Fall behind like he’s heard so many kids, like him, have.

It’s not fair. None of this is fair. He’s frustrated that he’s even been put in this position in the first place. It wasn’t his choice to be removed from his home by social workers. It wasn’t his choice to be moved from home to home. Seven schools in four months—none of that was his choice.

The endless string of new faces, new routines, and new rules gnaws at him, leaving him perpetually on edge. Every school feels like a race he’s already losing, and no matter how hard he tries to catch up, the finish line keeps moving farther away.

Assignments pile up, expectations grow heavier, and teachers expect him to seamlessly fit into lessons that feel more like foreign languages than anything familiar. It’s like trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Still, there are moments—rare but meaningful—where someone notices. Moments where a teacher doesn’t treat him like a problem to be solved but like a student worth helping.

Regulus shifts on the bed, memories tugging at the edges of his mind. Like yesterday, when Mr. Fletcher had stopped him after math class. At first, Regulus had thought he was about to get told off for something he didn’t even know he’d done. But instead, the conversation had gone differently.

The shrill sound of the bell echoed through the classroom, signaling the end of the math lesson. Students scrambled to gather their belongings, chairs screeching against the tiled floor as they hurried for the door. Regulus moved quietly, slipping his notebook into his arms, hoping to blend into the crowd and escape unnoticed.

“Regulus,” Mr. Fletcher’s voice stopped him just as he stepped toward the door. “Can I have a word?”

Regulus froze, clutching his notebook tightly to his chest, before turning around. He nodded, stepping back into the now-empty classroom, the nervous flutter in his stomach growing stronger.

Mr. Fletcher offered him a small smile, gesturing toward the desk. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. I just wanted to talk to you about the upcoming exam.”

Regulus blinked, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

“I know you’ve barely been here for three days,” Mr. Fletcher began, leaning slightly against his desk. His voice was calm, patient. “And I understand that jumping into a new school in the middle of term isn’t easy, let alone with exams just around the corner.” He sighed softly, as if regretting what he had to say next. “Unfortunately, you will have to take the exam. It’s school policy.”

Regulus swallowed hard, his chest tightening. Of course, he had expected this, but hearing it out loud made the weight of it feel so much heavier.

“But,” Mr. Fletcher continued, “we have two weeks of revision coming up during class, right before the exam, and I’ll make sure we use that time to reteach anything you might need—regardless of how easy or difficult it is. Alright?”

Regulus stared at him, the words slowly sinking in. Mr. Fletcher’s tone was sincere, his expression kind, and Regulus felt the smallest flicker of relief.

The teacher reached into a folder on his desk, pulling out two neatly stapled worksheets. “Here,” he said, handing them over. “These are from earlier in the term—topics we’ve already covered. I thought they might help you catch up. Take a look at them when you have time.”

Regulus took the papers carefully, the edges crinkling slightly under his grip.

“And if you ever want some extra help,” Mr. Fletcher added, his voice steady but encouraging, “you can come find me during lunch. I mean it, Regulus. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

Regulus nodded, his throat too tight to form words. His chest felt lighter now, like some of the pressure had eased, though the looming exam still lingered at the back of his mind.

Regulus has never felt more grateful to have such genuine teachers—ones who truly want to help him succeed, who don’t want him to fall behind. It’s not something he’s used to, and the thought alone makes his chest feel a little lighter, even if only for a moment.

Take Mr. Grayson, for example. When he handed Regulus the Geography assignment yesterday, the man had been calm and straightforward, explaining the task in clear, digestible steps. There wasn’t anything particularly warm about the interaction—it was dry and matter-of-fact, the way Mr. Grayson seemed to approach most things—but it was helpful. He’d even gone so far as to suggest a few specific chapters in the textbook that Regulus could focus on to make things easier. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give Regulus a place to start. 

Then there was Mr. Andrews, his English teacher, who couldn’t have been more different. Mr. Andrews had a way of making assignments feel like less of a burden and more of an opportunity, which, frankly, was impressive. When he handed out the class assignment that afternoon, he’d paused at Regulus’s desk, crouching down slightly so they were at eye level.

“If you need anything, Regulus—anything at all—come to me,” he’d said, his tone warm but firm. “This is a big one, but we’ll tackle it together, alright? You’ve got this.”

The assignment itself had been overwhelming at first glance, but Mr. Andrews had stayed behind after class to walk Regulus through the instructions. He even offered to help him brainstorm ideas during lunch if needed. That kind of patience, that willingness to go above and beyond—it was something Regulus wasn’t used to but couldn’t help but appreciate deeply.

Lying in bed now, the dim glow of the moonlight filtering through the blinds, Regulus thinks about how much worse things could have been if his teachers hadn’t been so understanding. None of them have to do this—none of them are obligated to make adjustments or spend their time helping him catch up. And yet, they are. That fact alone makes his chest feel a little lighter, even if only briefly.

He knows he still has other assignments coming—some he’s been warned about, others he’s sure will be sprung on him unexpectedly—and then there are the exams looming at the edge of his mind like storm clouds on the horizon. The uncertainty of it all lingers, but he tries to push it aside.

Regulus holds onto the small sense of relief he feels, even as his mind stubbornly drifts back to the ever-growing list of things he needs to do. Tomorrow is Saturday. And for now, all he can do is hope it’s not too overwhelming.

***

Whoever came up with the word fun was clearly hit over the head with a brick. Probably multiple times. That’s the only explanation Regulus can come up with as he sits stiffly in the backseat of the Potter’s car, his mind spiralling into its usual tangent. 

Fun is supposed to mean enjoyment, amusement, or lighthearted pleasure. Sure, the dictionary gets it right, technically, but in Regulus’ experience, whenever someone throws that word into a conversation, it inevitably leads to chaos: injuries, getting yelled at, or, worst of all, humiliation. 

He shifts in his seat, tapping his fingers silently against his knee. To him, fun feels more like a twisted synonym for torture—an elaborate excuse to make him miserable while everyone laughs. Just thinking about the word sends a faint prickle of anxiety through him. 

The car hums steadily beneath him, the engine vibrating faintly through the floor. James is sitting to his left, bouncing his leg like he can’t possibly sit still for the twenty-minute drive. He’s practically vibrating with energy, occasionally glancing out the window and blurting random thoughts that Mrs. Potter indulges with a patient “Mm-hmm” or a distracted “That sounds great, dear.”

The way Mrs. Potter just casually lets her son constantly talk without being told “enough” makes something inside Regulus uneasy. It’s odd. He’s used to overhearing parents telling their kids to quiet down, that they’ve said too much, or that it’s time to stop talking now—he’s even seen some foster parents do it to their own kids. It feels… wrong, in a way, that she doesn’t. Like James’s chatter is supposed to just fill the space, loud and unfiltered, without anyone minding.

Silence is nice. Silence is predictable. Regulus likes silence. But telling James to be quiet? That’s apparently not okay.

He can still hear Sirius’s voice, low and exasperated, from when he tried once before: “It’s rude to do so, Regulus.” And yeah… thanks, Sirius. That was helpful. Except Regulus still doesn’t know where the line is—what’s rude and what isn’t. It seems so obvious to everyone else, but to him, it’s like looking at a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Regulus shifts in his seat, pressing himself into the corner, trying to focus on the faint hum of the road beneath the tires instead of James’s constant voice. His chest feels tight, like the noise is building up and pressing against him. His mind pulls him back to breakfast.

Regulus had been sitting at the breakfast table, quietly eating his toast and picking at the edges of his plate. James was across from him, wolfing down his cereal with a kind of careless energy that always made Regulus wonder if James ever actually tasted his food. The soft clink of silverware and the hum of the morning light filled the room.

“So,” Mrs. Potter had said, breaking the quiet as she looked between the two boys. Her tone was warm, inviting, like she was trying to include him in a conversation he wasn’t sure he wanted to be part of. “What would you two like to do today? We always try to have a fun day on Saturdays. Something to decompress from the week.”

Regulus had tensed slightly at the word fun. He didn’t like that word. It was too vague, too unpredictable. He’d rather stay here, at the Potter’s, finish his assignments, or get lost in a book where he knew what was coming next. He didn’t know what to suggest, so he kept quiet, tracing the rim of his plate with his finger. When Mrs. Potter’s eyes landed on him, soft and expectant, he shrugged.

“Well,” Mr. Potter had chimed in, his voice kind and calm, “fun for us usually means going out. Getting some fresh air, stretching our legs, doing something a little different. What do you think, Regulus?”

Regulus didn’t know what to say. He didn’t think any of those things sounded appealing, but he didn’t want to be rude either. His heart had tightened uncomfortably in his chest, so he shrugged again, keeping his gaze on his plate.

James had jumped in eagerly, breaking the moment of quiet. “What about the beach?” he said through a mouthful of cereal, grinning as he sat up straighter. “There’s that arcade by the boardwalk, and we could even go on the Ferris wheel if we have time! And the beach itself is awesome—we can dig a massive hole or something!”

Mrs. Potter had smiled brightly. “That sounds like a great idea, James.” She’d turned back to Regulus, her voice softening. “What about you, Regulus? Would you like that?”

He hadn’t liked it at all. He hated sand—it stuck to everything and never seemed to go away. He hated arcades too—too loud, too bright, too chaotic. And the Ferris wheel? Just the thought of it made his stomach churn. But as all their eyes turned to him, waiting, he didn’t know how to explain that without disappointing them.

So, he’d nodded reluctantly, even though every part of him was screaming no. The tightness in his chest hadn’t eased, and the word fun hung over him like a weight.

Regulus focuses on the faint hum of the road beneath the tires, trying to block out James’s voice and the cheerful hum of the radio in the front seat. The air feels heavy and tight in his chest, like he’s bracing for something he can’t quite name.

He doesn’t want to disappoint them. The Potters. They’ve already done so much for him—more than anyone else ever has. It’s only been six days, but in that short time, they’ve been kind, patient, and… different. Different from the other families. They don’t yell. They don’t ignore him. They don’t make him feel like he’s a problem they have to fix.

Even though this is temporary, like every other place before, Regulus doesn’t want to mess it up. He doesn’t want them to regret taking him in, even if it’s only for a little while. The weight of that thought presses hard against his chest, heavier than the hum of the car beneath him.

And yet, deep down, something dangerous stirs. He likes the Potters. He likes how nice they are, how safe their house feels, how they don’t look at him like he’s too much or not enough. That’s why hope is deadly. It latches onto small things, burrows into quiet moments, and whispers that maybe, just maybe, this could last. But it never does.

“Regulus?” Mrs. Potter’s warm voice floats from the front seat, cutting through the noise in his head.

He startles, glancing up briefly, his grip tightening on the edges of the book in his lap. She’s looking at him through the rearview mirror, her smile soft but not too much, her tone gentle enough that it doesn’t feel like pressure—at least not yet.

“What do you think? Would you like to go to the beach first, or maybe the arcade?”

Regulus swallows hard, lowering his gaze back to the book. He doesn’t know what answer they want to hear. The beach, the arcade—neither sounds particularly appealing. Both feel loud, messy, overwhelming. He shrugs instead, a small, tentative movement that doesn’t quite feel like enough.

The car goes quiet for a beat, except for the steady hum of the engine and the faint music playing through the radio.

What does he want to do? The question churns in his chest, heavy and suffocating. He doesn’t want to do either. He wants to stay at the Potters’ house where things are quiet, where he can focus on his assignments and feel like he has some control over the day. If he doesn’t finish his schoolwork, he’ll fall behind. If he falls behind, he’ll fail.

And failing isn’t just about bad grades. Failing means disappointing everyone—Mrs. Potter, Mr. Potter, Sarah, maybe even James in some roundabout way. It means proving that he’s too much trouble, that he doesn’t belong here, that they made a mistake by taking him in.

It’s stupid, really, how one decision can spiral into a thousand ways he might ruin this. All because he said yes to a stupid “fun day.”

James doesn’t wait for him to answer. “The beach!” he declares, practically bouncing in his seat, his enthusiasm filling the space Regulus had wanted to stay empty. “We should do the beach first. Get a good spot and all that.”

Mrs. Potter chuckles lightly. “The beach it is, then.”

Regulus forces himself to stare out the window, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. James’s energy feels like static in the air, crackling and restless, while Regulus feels like he’s sinking deeper into the seat, hoping to disappear.

James nudges him with an elbow, grinning like they’ve been friends forever. “You’ll love it, Reg. We’ll dig a massive hole. Like—huge. You can help me bury my legs. Or, I dunno, my whole body if we have time.”

Regulus stiffens immediately, his hands clenching around the hem of his shirt. The nudge feels intrusive, like a breach of the invisible wall he tries so hard to keep around himself. He doesn’t like being nudged—not by James, not by anyone. The small spark of anger flares sharp and sudden in his chest.

Reg. He’s told James, more than once, not to call him that.

The memory creeps in unbidden, like a small crack in the wall of his mind. Just three days ago, he’d handed James a piece of paper—plain, white, folded in half. In neat, careful handwriting, he’d written: Please don’t call me Reg. My name is Regulus.

James had read it, frowned a little like he didn’t understand why it mattered, then shrugged and said, “All right.”

But the next day, and the day after that, and every day since, it had been “Reg.” Always “Reg.”

Regulus had written it down again, and again, sliding the notes across the table when words failed him, only to be met with James’s grin and his dismissive laugh. “It’s just a nickname. Don’t get so worked up about it.”

It’s not just a nickname.

It’s a name that feels wrong, like an itch he can’t scratch. A name that doesn’t belong to anyone else. Because Reg—Reggie—was special. It was a name his brother used, yes, but not just because of who Sirius was. It was the way he said it. Like it wasn’t a nickname but a promise. A small, quiet acknowledgment that someone saw him, knew him, and wasn’t going to let him fade into the background.

When Sirius used those names, it wasn’t teasing or careless—it was protective. Like the nickname itself was a shield against the rest of the world. It meant I’ve got you, and you matter, and you’re not alone.

But when James says it, it’s none of those things. It’s loud and thoughtless, thrown around like a joke or an afterthought. Like it doesn’t mean anything at all. And that’s what makes it unbearable.

“Reg?” James says again now, leaning into his space slightly, his grin as easy and careless as ever.

Regulus feels his jaw clench, heat rising to his face. The spark of anger flickers and grows, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look at James. Instead, he presses himself further into the seat and stares out the window, his chest tightening as the faint smell of salt and seaweed begins to creep into the car.

James doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already babbling about sandcastles and waves and how fast he thinks he can run into the ocean before getting knocked over. Regulus lets the words wash over him like background noise, his gaze fixed firmly on the seat in front of him.

The car slows as they pull into the parking lot, and Mr. Potter announces cheerfully, “We’re here!”

Regulus’s chest tightens. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore is already too loud, even through the closed car doors. He forces himself to take a shallow breath, but the knot of anxiety in his stomach only seems to grow.

Fun. Whoever came up with the word fun clearly meant the word torture instead.

It’s not that he purposefully hates the beach. It’s just… well, he’s not used to this kind of beach—the kind with soft, golden sand and cheerful crowds, with loud children and people sprawled across colorful towels like it’s all some great adventure. The beaches he’s used to are quieter. Rugged.

He stares out the car window as the parking lot fills his view, sunlight glinting off distant waves. The muted roar of the ocean is already too much, pressing at his ears like a warning. His stomach twists, his hands tightening around the edge of his book.

Back home—not home, he reminds himself quickly. Not anymore. Back at the Black family house, they only ever went to the beach during the colder months. It was always the rocky beaches, too, where the sharp edges of the stones poked through the sand, where the wind cut through their coats, and the water looked too grey to ever be inviting. Sirius hated it, always grumbling under his breath about the cold or how the salt stuck to his shoes.

But Regulus? He liked it. The air was crisp, the beach empty except for the occasional bird picking at seaweed. The cold kept everything muted—the waves, the wind, even the sharpness of their mother’s voice.

A memory rises, unbidden, pulling him back.

It’s early December, the sky heavy with clouds, when they arrive at the beach. The rocks are slick with frost, and the wind bites at Regulus’ cheeks, but he doesn’t mind. He crouches near a tide pool, staring at the tiny fish darting between the jagged stones.

“Don’t get your clothes wet,” his mother snaps from behind him. Her voice carries over the crash of waves, sharp and clear, as if it’s the only sound that truly matters.

Regulus freezes, his shoulders stiff. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t dare move closer to the water. He’s careful. Always careful.

“Honestly, why do we even bother?” Sirius mutters from somewhere nearby.

“Because it’s tradition,” their father answers curtly, his tone brooking no argument.

Tradition. That’s what it always came down to. The rocky beaches, the winter winds—it wasn’t about enjoyment. It was about following the rules, doing what was expected, keeping up appearances. And yet, those cold, quiet days by the shore were some of the only moments Regulus didn’t feel entirely wrong in his own skin.

The memory fades, replaced by the brightness of the present.

Here, there are no sharp rocks, no grey skies, no biting winds. Just sunlight and warmth and sand that seems to stretch forever. Regulus’ chest tightens. It feels wrong, too bright and too open, like he’s already out of place before he’s even left the car.

“C’mon, Reg,” James says eagerly, pulling him back to the moment. His grin is wide, his excitement filling the car. “We’re gonna have so much fun. I’ll race you to the water.”

Regulus’ throat feels tight. He doesn’t answer. The thought of running into the ocean—of the cold water rushing over him, the sand sticking to his skin—makes his stomach churn.

Mrs. Potter turns to look at him from the front seat, her voice calm but concerned. “Regulus, are you all right?”

He nods stiffly, even though he’s anything but. He doesn’t know how to explain it—the wrongness, the way this beach doesn’t feel like a beach at all. He doesn’t hate it, not exactly, but he doesn’t belong here, not like James does.

Mrs. Potter’s gaze lingers on him for a moment longer before she smiles. “If it gets to be too much, you just let us know, all right?”

He nods again, even though the words catch in his throat. If it gets to be too much and he says something, they’ll just think he’s being difficult. That he’s ungrateful. That he doesn’t fit in here, either.

The car door opens, and the sound of the waves roars into Regulus’s ears, louder and sharper than he expected. He hesitates for a moment before stepping out, his feet hitting the soft sand. It shifts beneath him with every step, the crunch of it echoing in his head and sinking into his spine, like it’s burrowing there.

It’s not the beach he knows. It’s not the beach he grew up with. It’s louder, brighter, and full of people who belong here in ways he never will.

Belonging is such a stupid concept when he truly thinks about it. Does anyone ever belong anywhere? Even the places that are supposed to feel like home aren’t guaranteed to be safe or real. 

Regulus forces his gaze up from the sand. Ahead, James darts across the beach, his head swiveling as he searches for what he’s deemed a “good spot.” He’s grinning, calling out over his shoulder to Mr. Potter, who’s carrying a bright striped umbrella and an oversized bag.

Regulus’s stomach twists. James looks so sure of himself, so comfortable, like he belongs here. Carefree and loud, his voice carries over the sand like it’s meant to, blending seamlessly into the chatter and chaos of the beach. Regulus can’t imagine sounding like that, can’t imagine being like that.

And if something goes wrong today, it’ll be his fault. It always is.

His chest tightens at the thought, the weight of it pressing down on him like the heat of the sun overhead. It’s the kind of weight that burrows under his skin, coils in his stomach, and refuses to let go. It feels like walking a tightrope over an open sea—one wrong step, and everything will come crashing down. He imagines the Potters looking at him the way his parents used to: disappointed, exasperated, like he’s somehow ruined everything just by existing.

The weight of it all clings to him now, just as heavy as it had been then. He slows his pace, letting the Potters pull ahead just slightly. He watches James plant his hands on his hips, declaring something about how “this spot is perfect!”

Regulus doesn’t know what makes it perfect. It just looks like sand to him, stretching endlessly in all directions. He glances down at the uneven trail of footprints he’s left behind him. The sand shifts and crumbles, filling in the shapes where his feet had been, like he was never there at all.

Belonging is a stupid concept, yes. But it doesn’t stop him from wishing he could feel it, just for a moment.

“Reg!” James calls, waving at him from a few feet away. “Come on! It’s perfect here. You’ve gotta see it!”

Regulus hesitates, his fingers twitching at his sides before he shoves them into his pockets. The crunch of the sand beneath his shoes grows louder in his ears as he takes another step. He watches James, so sure of himself, so bright and open, and he tries not to think about how different they are.

So perfect.

So impossible.

***

Regulus shifts slightly on the towel, careful not to disturb the edges where it meets the sand. The book in his hands is brand-new, the cover glossy and the spine still stiff from its recent purchase. Mr. Potter had given it to him a few days ago, handing it over with a curious smile and a soft, “What about this one? Have you read it?”

Regulus had shaken his head, and taken the book from Mr. Potter’s hands. The brightly illustrated cover—a boy with a sword facing down a lightning bolt—had seemed loud and strange, nothing like the dusty classics he’d been taught to read back home. 

He’s glad het gets to read it now. 

Chapter 14: I Become a Known Fugitive.

He snorts softly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a way that almost feels unfamiliar. Percy Jackson isn’t a bad distraction, he has to admit, even though James had taken one look at the book in his hands yesterday and declared, “You’ll like it, trust me. It’s about a kid with issues too.”

At the time, Regulus had wanted to roll his eyes—issues, as if that summed him up so neatly—but now, flipping another page, he realizes that James wasn’t entirely wrong. Percy feels out of place everywhere he goes, and maybe that’s what hooks Regulus most.

The noise of the beach hums in the background—waves crashing, children laughing, seagulls screeching overhead. It all blends into a white noise that buzzes faintly in his head, not sharp enough to break through the book’s hold. The texture of the sand is a constant in his peripheral awareness, but the towel beneath him forms a thin, safe barrier.

He lets his mind slip, just for a moment, as he turns the page. For now, the chaos around him is distant, as though he’s looking at it through a foggy window.

The words on the page pull him in, and for once, Regulus feels just a little less like a boy sitting stiffly on the edge of a crowded beach. He’s someone else entirely, standing on the deck of a mythical ship, navigating waters full of danger and mystery.

Somehow, that world feels far less overwhelming than this one.

The memory creeps in, unbidden but vivid. He’s standing on the beach, shoes planted firmly on the uneven sand. It’s warm, grainy, and impossibly uncomfortable. The heat seeps through the soles of his sneakers, but the thought of touching it—of sitting in it—makes his skin crawl.

Mrs. Potter notices. She always seems to notice.

“Here,” she says gently, spreading a towel out on the sand. The blue stripes remind him of the ones on the dish towels back at their house, familiar and oddly comforting. “You can sit on this if you don’t want to sit on the sand.”

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. Carefully, he lowers himself onto the towel, his legs stiff and awkward as he avoids brushing against the sand.

“Do you want me to take your shoes?” she asks.

He freezes, his gaze darting to her hands as she reaches toward his feet. He knows she means well, but the idea of someone touching his shoes—or worse, them getting lost or buried—tightens his chest. Still, he nods again, more reluctantly this time.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t seem to mind. She unties his shoes and slips them off with careful hands, setting them aside on her own chair. “There. Safe from the sand,” she says, smiling.

Regulus leans forward, pulling off his socks himself. The air feels strange against his bare feet, cool and prickly. He holds the socks awkwardly, unsure what to do with them, until Mrs. Potter reaches out. “I can keep those safe too, if you’d like.”

Wordlessly, he hands them over. She takes them without a second thought, tucking them neatly into his shoes.

It’s such a small moment, but it sticks. Maybe because she didn’t laugh at him or call him ridiculous for not wanting to touch the sand. Maybe because she didn’t treat him like a problem to be solved.

“Reg.”

The voice snaps him back to the present. He blinks, disoriented, and glances up to find James crouching near him, hands dusty with sand and an eager grin spread across his face.

“Reg,” James says again, bouncing slightly on his heels. “Come on, help me with the sandcastle. It’s gonna be massive. Like, bigger than any sandcastle you’ve ever seen. You can even be in charge of the moat.”

Regulus shakes his head, pressing his lips together tightly.

James’s grin falters for a moment, his shoulders drooping slightly as he looks at Regulus. “Fine,” he mutters, trying to sound nonchalant. “Suit yourself. I’ll make it epic without you.”

But the disappointment is there, clear in the slight downward tug of his mouth and the way he drags his fingers through the sand as he turns away.

Regulus exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing as James moves back to his castle. He lowers his gaze to his book again, the familiar comfort of the printed words wrapping around him like a shield.

Before long, Mr. Potter’s voice cuts through the background noise. “Need a hand, James?”

Regulus glances up briefly to see Mr. Potter setting his book down and stretching. James perks up almost immediately, his earlier disappointment vanishing as he gestures animatedly to the half-formed castle in the sand.

“Yeah! You can help with the tower! I want it, like, really tall—like as tall as we can make it. And maybe another one over there,” James says, pointing at the far corner of his creation.

Mr. Potter chuckles warmly. “All right, boss. Let’s see what we can do.”

He rolls up his sleeves and crouches down beside James, the two of them already plotting out the next phase of the castle like it’s a grand engineering project. James’s enthusiasm is back in full force, and Regulus notices the way his hands move quickly as he gestures, explaining his vision with animated precision.

But the problem is that James has chosen a spot far too close to Regulus’s towel—so close that every scrape of sand and every pat of a bucket feels amplified.

Regulus tightens his grip on the book, willing himself to block it out. He focuses on the words, the story unfolding before him, but they blur slightly around the edges. He can still hear the dull thud of sand being scooped, the occasional laugh from James, and the soft murmur of Mr. Potter’s voice as they work together.

The noise seems to grow louder, pressing against his thoughts like a tide he can’t hold back. But Regulus stays where he is, head bowed, eyes on the page, forcing himself to stay grounded in the story no matter how hard the world around him tries to intrude. The words on the page are familiar, comforting even, and he clings to them like a lifeline. But the world around him—loud, chaotic, unrelenting—keeps pressing in.

But then, out of nowhere, it happens.

The first flicker of sand hits his leg. It’s small, barely noticeable, but then there’s more—a shower of it coating his book, his arms, his legs, his feet. It’s everywhere.

Regulus freezes, his breath catching in his throat. His chest tightens, and the fine granules crawl under his skin, making his muscles stiffen in discomfort. His skin feels hot, itchy—almost suffocating. He brushes at it frantically, but it only seems to spread, finding its way into the folds of his clothes, into the space between his fingers, across the pages of his book. His throat tightens, panic beginning to rise in his chest as the sensation grows overwhelming.

His heart hammers in his chest, the rhythm quickening as the world starts to spin around him. The sound of the waves crashing, the laughter in the distance, the screeching of seagulls—all of it grows deafening. His head throbs, the buzzing in his brain growing louder until it’s all he can hear. Every sound seems distorted, like it’s closing in on him, drowning him.

Someone is speaking—James, probably—but the words don’t register. All he can focus on is the sand, and how it feels like it’s crawling on him, in his clothes, under his skin, getting everywhere, suffocating him with its presence. It’s invasive. It’s too much.

His breath comes in shallow gasps, his pulse racing, and his hands start to tremble. His vision wavers, the edges of the world turning blurry. It feels like the world is pressing in on him, too many sensations, too many things happening all at once. He can’t escape it. The sand, the noise, the pressure on his chest—it all swarms around him, wrapping tight like a vice.

And then, suddenly, there’s a voice, softer this time, cutting through the chaos.

“Regulus?”

The touch on his arms, his legs, his book—it’s careful, deliberate. It’s not his own. He jerks slightly, but the hands are gentle, sweeping away the sand from his skin, brushing it off with slow, methodical care. The sensation is a relief—gradual, like the tension is being lifted inch by inch, though it still clings to him in places he can’t quite reach.

“Regulus,” the voice says again, clearer now, and his name sounds like a lifeline. He blinks, the sharp edges of the world coming back into focus, and looks up to find Mrs. Potter kneeling in front of him. Her expression is calm, but there’s concern in her eyes, like she’s seeing something he can’t hide.

Her hands hover around him, not pushing, not demanding. She’s waiting for him to give her permission to continue. The sand that had felt like a prison moments ago is now mostly gone, swept away by her careful touch. The weight in his chest lifts, just slightly, enough to let him breathe.

“Better?” she asks gently, her voice like a balm on his raw nerves.

Regulus swallows hard, nodding even though the buzzing in his head hasn’t completely gone away. He feels unsteady, still caught in the edges of the panic, but he looks down at his book, clinging to it like an anchor. The sand is mostly gone now, but he can still feel the phantom sensation of it on his skin, the discomfort lingering.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t push. She simply sits there, a steady presence beside him. Her hand remains just within reach, a quiet offer of support, and he takes a slow, shaky breath, trying to ground himself in the stillness she’s offering him.

Regulus doesn't realize it at first, but as he reaches up to adjust his book, his fingers brush his cheek and come away with a faint trace of moisture. The realization hits him slowly—tears. He doesn't even know when they started, but now, they're there, streaking down his face, unnoticed until now. Quickly, he wipes them away, his face flushing with embarrassment.

His heart is still racing, his breath a little shallow, but the tightness in his chest loosens, bit by bit. Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything, doesn’t comment on the tears, just watches him with quiet patience as he steadies himself.

***

Regulus promised himself he wouldn’t cause any scenes. But he did. He remembers how it took him a long time to calm down after the panic attack. The details are fuzzy—his mind like a haze, the world spinning around him in slow motion. All he knows for sure is that it didn’t happen quickly. The buzzing in his head didn’t fade with a single breath or even a few.

It took what felt like forever, and in the moments after, he’s not sure what happened. He can only remember bits and pieces—fragmented snapshots, like a movie cut into disjointed scenes. He remembers Mrs. Potter’s soft voice, her hands still gentle on him, but now the words are harder to make out. She says something about leaving.

“I think it’s time to go,” she says, her voice soft, like she’s talking to a child, but Regulus doesn’t have the energy to be upset. His head is foggy, spinning.

The next thing he knows, he's walking. Or, more accurately, Mrs. Potter is walking beside him, one hand on his arm, guiding him gently but firmly toward the car. His feet feel disconnected from the ground as if he’s walking through water, each step heavy and deliberate. The world is blurry around the edges. He doesn't remember the actual walk to the car, just the vague sense of motion, the sound of waves still echoing in his ears even though he’s no longer at the beach.

He's vaguely aware of Mrs. Potter helping him into the car, her voice quiet as she asks him to buckle up, and he obeys, though the action feels automatic, like his hands don’t belong to him. He can’t remember her saying much else, just the faintest traces of her voice guiding him through the motions of getting settled in the seat.

The sounds around him come and go, unclear—rustling, soft footsteps, the trunk of the car opening and closing. He thinks he hears Mr. Potter talking, though the words don’t register. They’re gone before his brain can make sense of them.

Regulus’ mind is like fog. He’s there, but not really. And then, the car starts—he hears the engine rumble to life, feels the gentle vibrations under his seat as they begin to move. It feels surreal, disconnected. It’s like he’s in a dream.

Everything blurs together—the sound of the tires on the road, the passing landscape, the hum of the air conditioner. Time feels elastic. How much time has passed? He doesn’t know. It’s just a sensation of floating, of trying to hold on to something that keeps slipping away from him.

The next solid memory he has is of the shower. The hot water, the sound of it cascading over him, the rush of it washing away the sand, the salt, the tension. But even then, everything feels distant, muffled. It’s almost like he’s watching himself from the outside. His hands feel heavy as he dries off, as he changes into pajamas. The motions are familiar, automatic. They don't feel like they belong to him, not really.

He remembers sinking into his bed afterward, the sheets cool against his skin. His head feels thick, heavy, but in a way that doesn’t make sense. It’s not the tiredness of physical exhaustion. It’s something else—something deeper. His eyes close before he can stop them, and then he drifts off. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, only that when he wakes up, the room feels a little clearer, a little less foggy.

And then it’s Sunday.

The reality of it hits him like a cold splash of water. It’s Sunday now.

Regulus groans softly, the weight of it settling heavy on his chest. He’s been dreading today. Not because of what happened yesterday—well, that has something to do with it, yes—but that’s not the real reason. No, the reason he’s dreading today is because of Sarah. His social worker. Sarah is supposed to come today. It’s the first week check-in.

The first week.

He tries to focus on that. Not the lingering anxiety from yesterday, not the panic that still feels like a shadow just behind his thoughts, but the weight of the check-in. Sarah.

What if she thinks he’s not doing well? What if she looks at him and sees someone who doesn’t belong here? What if the Potters think that they’re making a mistake, that he’s too much to handle?

A week of living with the Potters. It feels like it’s been longer. A week of soft voices, kind smiles, of them trying to make him feel welcome. A week of them gently encouraging him, of them giving him space, making sure he’s okay. But still… still, Regulus can’t shake the feeling that he’s doing something wrong. That he’s not getting it right. That he’s failing.

His chest tightens at the thought. He can’t even name the feeling—just this vague, suffocating unease that presses down on him, making it harder to breathe. It’s ridiculous, really. But the anxiety settles in anyway, like it always does.

And so, he sits in bed for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, not really looking at anything, just feeling the weight of everything in his chest. It feels like the calm before the storm.

Sunday.

Regulus wishes it were still Saturday.

Regulus shuffles into the kitchen, the early morning light filtering through the curtains and casting a soft glow over the room. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet he doesn’t mind, with only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clatter of utensils breaking the silence. He glances at the clock on the wall—6:42 a.m. Too early for James to be up, thankfully.

But Mr. and Mrs. Potter are already there. Mrs. Potter stands at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease, while Mr. Potter sets the table, humming under his breath. The smell of pancakes and something slightly sweet fills the air, and for a moment, Regulus hesitates in the doorway, unsure if he should interrupt.

Mrs. Potter notices him first. She turns her head, offering him a warm smile. “Good morning, Regulus,” she says softly, her tone light but not too loud. “You’re up early.”

Regulus gives a small nod, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides.

“Morning, bud,” Mr. Potter adds, stepping away from the table to lean against the counter. “We’re making pancakes. Want some?”

Regulus nods again, slower this time, his eyes flicking toward the plates stacked neatly on the counter.

Mr. Potter’s smile widens. “Great! What would you like on yours?”

Regulus hesitates, unsure how to respond. His gaze shifts toward the counter near Mrs. Potter, where jars of jams and syrups are neatly arranged. He takes a tentative step closer, his socked feet barely making a sound on the tiled floor.

Mrs. Potter seems to pick up on his uncertainty. She sets the spatula down and opens the fridge, pulling out a tub of whipped cream and setting it alongside the jams and syrups. “We’ve got butter, strawberry jam, blueberry jam, golden syrup, maple syrup, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream if you’d like,” she says, her voice calm and patient.

Regulus steps closer, his eyes darting between the options. He lifts a hand slightly, pointing toward the butter and strawberry jam, then glances at the whipped cream, his mouth opening briefly as if to speak, but no words come out.

Mrs. Potter tilts her head, watching him closely. “Butter?” she asks, holding up the tub. When he nods, she spreads a thin layer of it over a pancake, glancing at him for confirmation. “Like this?”

Regulus nods again, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

She reaches for the strawberry jam next, spreading a small dollop across the pancake. “And this?” she asks, pausing to meet his gaze.

Another nod.

Mrs. Potter smiles and gestures toward the whipped cream. “And a little whipped cream on top?”

Regulus nods once more, a faint hint of something close to relief in his expression.

Mrs. Potter finishes the pancake and carefully places it on a plate, handing it to him with a gentle smile. “There you go.”

Regulus takes the plate, his fingers brushing against its edges. “Thank you,” he mutters, so quietly it’s almost inaudible, but Mrs. Potter’s smile doesn’t falter. 

Regulus doesn’t often speak. It’s not because he’s rude—at least, he doesn’t think so. It’s just that in a new space, in an unfamiliar situation, his body seems to default to silence. It’s not a choice, not really. Sometimes it feels like the words are trapped somewhere deep inside him, locked behind a wall he can’t break through. The idea of speaking—of opening his mouth and hearing his own voice—makes his chest tighten, makes him feel too exposed, too nervous, too terrified.

He’s learned, too many times, that speaking will only get him into trouble. Saying the wrong thing or saying too much always seemed to lead to anger, disappointment, or worse. So it became easier—safer—to say nothing at all.

Regulus assumes that’s what people mean when they talk about having “issues.” Maybe this is one of his.

Sometimes, though, the words slip out without his permission—like a soft, barely audible “thank you.” But even then, it’s so quiet that no one ever hears him. It doesn’t matter how much effort it takes to say it; it always seems to vanish into the air, unheard and unnoticed.

But Mrs. Potter’s kindness was something Regulus had to acknowledge. Even if it came as no more than that whispered “thank you,” barely louder than a breath, it was a small offering he could make in return for how gently she treated him. How patiently she tried to understand him when others never had. Even if she didn’t hear him, it felt important to say it. Important to let it exist.

He grabs a knife and fork from the counter and moves to sit at the table, the pancake steaming softly in front of him. The chair creaks slightly as he sits, and for a moment, he just stares down at the pancake, his fingers gripping the utensils tightly.

Mr. Potter’s voice breaks the quiet, his tone light. “Would you like a glass of water, Regulus?”

Regulus glances up for a brief moment, then nods once. He doesn’t trust his voice this early in the morning, and besides, water seems like the safest option. Anything else would sit too heavy alongside the sweetness of the pancake.

“Coming right up,” Mr. Potter says easily. He moves to the cabinet, grabs a glass, and fills it from the tap. A moment later, he sets it down on the table beside Regulus’s plate. “Here you go.”

Regulus dips his head slightly in acknowledgment, his hands tightening around the knife and fork. He focuses on cutting a small bite of pancake, the utensils clinking softly against the plate. The first bite melts on his tongue, the tang of the jam and the creaminess of the butter blending in a way that feels strangely comforting.

The kitchen is quiet apart from the faint sounds of the stove as Mrs. Potter flips another pancake and the soft, rhythmic scrape of Regulus’s fork against his plate. He keeps his eyes down, his movements careful, hoping the stillness will last.

But then Mrs. Potter speaks, her voice gentle yet purposeful. “How are you feeling this morning, Regulus?” she asks, glancing at him over her shoulder as she sets the spatula down.

Regulus stiffens slightly, his fork pausing midair. The question lingers in the space between them, and he tries to gauge her tone—kind, curious, not demanding. After a beat, he shrugs one shoulder, keeping his eyes fixed on his plate.

Mrs. Potter seems to understand. “Better than yesterday?” she asks softly, her gaze steady but not intrusive.

He hesitates, then gives a small, quick nod. It’s true, in a way. The heaviness from yesterday has lessened, though it hasn’t disappeared completely.

“That’s good,” Mrs. Potter says with a faint smile as she turns off the stove and comes to sit across from him at the table. “I was worried about you yesterday. I think we all were.”

Regulus’s grip on the fork tightens. He doesn’t know how to respond to that—not with words, at least. He takes another bite of pancake instead, chewing slowly, deliberately.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t press him. She waits a moment, then continues, her tone still light but edged with care. “Maybe we can talk about it later—what happened yesterday, and maybe even what happened in the store earlier this week.”

Regulus freezes for a fraction of a second before forcing himself to continue chewing. His gaze flickers down to his plate, and his shoulders hunch slightly, as if he can make himself smaller. He doesn’t want to think about either moment, let alone talk about them.

Mrs. Potter leans forward just slightly, her voice softening even more. “Does that happen often, Regulus? That feeling—like at the beach or in the store?”

He doesn’t move for a moment, the question circling in his head. Slowly, he gives a small nod. Sometimes. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s enough.

“I see,” she murmurs, glancing toward Mr. Potter, who’s leaning against the counter with his tea in hand. His expression is calm but thoughtful, like he’s weighing every word being said.

Mrs. Potter turns her attention back to Regulus, her hands folded on the table in front of her. “We’re just trying to understand, Regulus. So we can help you if it happens again.”

Regulus presses his lips together, his chest tightening slightly. It’s not that he doesn’t want help—he’s not even sure what he wants. All he knows is that talking about it feels impossible. He gives another small nod, not quite looking at her.

Mrs. Potter’s expression softens even more. “Thank you for telling us,” she says gently. “We’ll figure it out together, okay? You’re not alone in this.”

Regulus doesn’t respond. He picks up the glass of water, the coolness grounding him slightly as he takes a small sip. He keeps his focus on the table, hoping the conversation will drift away.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything else immediately. She just sits there, her presence steady and calm, while Regulus carefully finishes his pancake, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. For now, the silence feels like a small reprieve.

***

The clinking of dishes fades into the background as Regulus stays seated at the kitchen table. The pancake he ate earlier sits warm in his stomach, and in front of him, his science assignment folder lies open.

Mrs. Potter had mentioned it over breakfast, her tone casual yet encouraging. “If either of you boys need help with your homework or assignments today, just bring it down. Fleamont and I are happy to help. No reason to stress over it alone.”

Regulus had nodded faintly at her words, even as James shrugged and mumbled something about already being caught up. Now, with the house calm and quiet, Regulus flips open the folder and stares at the task sheet inside.

The assignment is on biodiversity and ecosystems, a topic that feels both overwhelming and frustratingly vague. He’s supposed to research and write about the importance of biodiversity, its role in ecosystems, and the effects of human activity. It’s not that Regulus doesn’t understand it—he just doesn’t know where to start.

He’s still staring at the sheet when Mr. Potter walks back into the kitchen, a coffee mug in one hand. He spots Regulus at the table and tilts his head curiously.

“Working on your assignment?” Mr. Potter asks, his voice warm and easy.

Regulus nods slightly, his grip tightening on the edges of the folder.

“Mind if I take a look?” Mr. Potter gestures toward the paper.

Regulus hesitates for a moment before sliding the task sheet across the table. Mr. Potter picks it up, skimming over it with an appraising eye.

“Ah, biodiversity and ecosystems,” he says, setting the paper down and taking a seat across from Regulus. “Good topic. Did you know I’m a scientist? Or, well, a professor now—but I’ve spent a lot of time working on things like this. I used to research ecosystems and how we can protect them.”

Regulus blinks at him, surprised, and shakes his head slightly. He didn’t know that.

“Well,” Mr. Potter continues, leaning forward slightly, “if you want, I can help you get started. Let’s take a look at what you need to do.”

Regulus nods again, and Mr. Potter smiles, turning his attention back to the sheet. As he reads, his expression shifts into one of understanding.

“Looks like you’ll need to do some research first,” Mr. Potter says thoughtfully. “And you’ll need to type up your findings for the assignment, right?”

Regulus nods, keeping his eyes on the table.

“All right, then.” Mr. Potter pushes back his chair and stands. “Why don’t I grab my laptop for you? It’ll make it easier for you to gather information and start putting things together.”

Regulus glances up at him, slightly wide-eyed, but nods again. Mr. Potter doesn’t seem to mind the lack of verbal response; he simply heads off toward the study to retrieve the laptop.

Left alone at the table, Regulus fidgets slightly with the edge of the task sheet. He isn’t sure why he feels a flicker of something almost like relief—it’s just an assignment, after all—but the idea of having someone guide him through it, even in the smallest way, makes the task seem a little less daunting.

A few moments later, Mr. Potter returns with a sleek laptop tucked under his arm. He sets it on the table and powers it on, the screen glowing softly as it boots up.

“Here we go,” Mr. Potter says, pulling the laptop closer to Regulus. “I’ll show you how to set up a document, and then we can look up some good resources on biodiversity. Sound good?”

Regulus nods again, a faint flicker of gratitude settling in his chest. As Mr. Potter types quickly to get things set up, Regulus glances down at the task sheet once more, feeling just a little more ready to take it on.

They spend about three hours researching the relevant information for Regulus’ science assignment. By the time they’re done, Mr. Potter stretches his arms above his head and glances at the clock.

“We’ve made good progress,” he says, closing the laptop. “Let’s save the writing for another day. Maybe it’s time to switch your focus to another topic, Regulus.”

Regulus nods faintly, relieved to have a break from the endless scrolling through articles and notes. He gathers his task sheet and organizes his papers into a neat pile before slipping away to fetch his maths workbook.

Math is a subject Regulus feels comfortable with—more so than most others. The numbers and equations follow clear rules, patterns he can trace and solve. And with his exams coming up, he knows he needs to make sure he’s prepared. Settling back at the table, he flips open his workbook to a section on algebra and gets to work.

Mrs. Potter, who has been reloading the dishwasher in the kitchen, glances over and notices the numbers spread across Regulus’ page.

“Math, Regulus?” she says warmly, moving closer. “Good for you—getting ahead on revision. James,” she calls over her shoulder, her tone shifting slightly. “You should be doing the same.”

James groans audibly from the living room, where he’s sprawled across the couch. “Mum, it’s Sunday.”

“And exams are coming up,” she replies firmly. “Come on, bring your workbook over. You’ll thank me later.”

James shuffles into the kitchen reluctantly, clutching his maths workbook like it’s a burden. He slumps into the chair across from Regulus, flipping open the book and staring at the page with a grimace.

“Stupid trigonometry,” James mutters under his breath, jabbing at a problem with his pencil.

Mrs. Potter leans over to glance at the question, her brow furrowing. “Hmm. Let me see—oh, wait, I think I remember this.” She tries to explain the concept but trails off, her confusion evident.

Mr. Potter joins them, peering over James’ shoulder. “Ah, trigonometry,” he says thoughtfully. “Let me take a look.” He reads the problem, scratches his head, and shakes his head with a chuckle. “I’ll be honest—I haven’t worked with this in years.”

James sighs loudly, frustrated. “Great. So no one can help me.”

Regulus, who has been quietly working through his own problems, glances up. His eyes flick to James’ workbook, and curiosity tugs at him. Without a word, he shifts his chair slightly to get a better view.

The topic is clear enough—basic trigonometric ratios. He watches James jab his pencil at the problem again, muttering to himself, and then quietly reaches for a scrap piece of paper.

Regulus writes down the question, his pencil moving swiftly across the page as he works through the solution. The equations and steps feel natural, logical. Within minutes, he’s finished. He glances over his work to double-check it, then silently slides the paper across the table toward James.

James picks it up, frowning at first, but as he reads through the solution, his expression shifts to one of amazement—and a little embarrassment.

“You solved it?” he asks, looking up at Regulus. His tone is incredulous.

Regulus nods, his face calm but slightly flushed under the attention.

Mrs. Potter leans over to take a look and smiles brightly. “Well done, Regulus. That’s impressive.”

“Very impressive,” Mr. Potter agrees, a note of admiration in his voice.

James looks down at the paper again, then back at Regulus. “Uh, thanks,” he mumbles, his cheeks turning pink. “I guess that’s one way to do it.”

Regulus doesn’t say anything, but he dips his head slightly in acknowledgment, returning to his own workbook. James, meanwhile, seems torn between awe and embarrassment, muttering under his breath as he flips to the next problem.

Regulus finishes catching up on at least two maths topics before deciding to tackle one of his assignments. He sets his pencil down, takes a deep breath, and looks over the stack of work still waiting for him. English or Geography?

English feels manageable; he understands it well enough. But Geography… that assignment has been looming in the back of his mind, mostly because his teacher didn’t explain it properly. The task sheet might as well be written in a different language. With a quiet sigh, he decides to focus on Geography.

Sliding his maths workbook to the side, he carefully pulls out the Geography task sheet and accompanying folder of notes. He smooths the papers out in front of him and stares at the assignment instructions, trying to make sense of them.

Mrs. Potter, who’s been tidying up nearby, notices the change. “What are you working on now, Regulus?” she asks warmly, coming closer to the table.

Regulus doesn’t answer out loud. Instead, he picks up the task sheet and holds it out for her to read.

“Geography,” she says with a small smile as she skims the sheet. “Ooo, I used to love Geography back in school. I was actually pretty good at it. Would you like some help?”

He hesitates for a moment before nodding, his grip on the edge of the table tightening slightly.

“Alright,” she says cheerfully, pulling out the chair beside him and sitting down. “Let’s see what we’re working with.” She reads through the instructions again, her brow furrowing slightly. “Hmm. Looks like you’ll need to do a bit of research and write up your findings. Did your teacher give you any examples or explain it much in class?”

Regulus shakes his head.

“No examples,” she says, her tone soft with understanding. “That makes it tricky, doesn’t it? But don’t worry, we’ll figure it out together.” She glances toward Mr. Potter, who is still sitting at the other end of the table helping James with his maths. “Dear, can I borrow your laptop again? Regulus needs to type this one up too.”

“Of course,” Mr. Potter replies without hesitation. He gets up, retrieves the laptop from the living room, and places it gently on the table in front of Regulus. “Here you go, all set.”

“Thanks, love,” Mrs. Potter says before turning her attention back to Regulus. “Alright, let’s start by breaking this down into smaller steps. It’ll feel a lot less overwhelming that way. How about we begin with some research?”

Regulus nods, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. Mrs. Potter logs into the laptop and pulls up a browser, showing him how to search for reliable sources. As she guides him through the first few steps. 

Regulus has never been more grateful for the help he’s received with his assignments. He can’t even remember the last time he wasn’t completely overwhelmed by schoolwork. It’s an odd thought—one he doesn’t know how to sit with—but it brings back memories of countless tears shed over not being able to figure out how to break down assignments into smaller, more manageable pieces. Everything always felt like too much.

But today? Today feels different. With Mrs. Potter patiently guiding him through the steps of his Geography assignment, and Mr. Potter helping him earlier with science research, things don’t seem as impossible as they usually do.

The hours slip by quietly, with Regulus alternating between his Geography, Science, and English assignments. He works in focused silence, glancing occasionally at Mrs. Potter for reassurance as she helps him navigate tricky instructions or research. At one point, Mr. Potter steps in to help explain a concept about ecosystems he didn’t quite understand. Even James, still lingering at the table after finishing his maths, asks questions about his own assignment—History, Regulus believes. 

By the time Mrs. Potter announces that it’s time for dinner, Regulus feels a sense of accomplishment he doesn’t know how to process. He carries his work upstairs, carefully stacking it on his desk, before heading back down.

When he returns to the kitchen, the smell of homemade pizza fills the air. Plates and napkins are already set out, and James is hovering near the table, eyeing the pizza hungrily. Regulus sits down quietly, his eyes darting toward the steaming trays of pizza. His stomach growls faintly, and he reaches out for a slice just as the doorbell rings.

The sound makes him freeze mid-reach.

“I’ll get it,” Mr. Potter says, pushing back his chair and heading toward the door.

Regulus watches him go, a faint unease settling in his chest. He glances at Mrs. Potter, who doesn’t seem concerned as she fills glasses of water, and then at James, who’s already biting into a slice of pizza. But when the front door opens, and a familiar voice greets Mr. Potter, Regulus feels like his stomach drops.

He shifts in his seat, craning his neck to see past the kitchen doorway.

And there she is.

Sarah, his social worker.

Regulus stares at her, his breath catching in his throat. His pulse quickens as he realizes he completely forgot she was coming today. He’d been so focused on his assignments, so caught up in actually getting things done, that her visit completely slipped his mind.

She steps inside, holding a clipboard and wearing the same calm, professional smile she always does.

Regulus doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

His fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans under the table as he watches Sarah exchange pleasantries with Mr. Potter. He knows what’s coming. The questions, the check-in, the subtle evaluations he can never quite prepare for.

And just like that, the calm he’d felt all day begins to unravel.