To Find a Home

POV: EUPHEMIA

“You will face many defeats in life, but never let yourself be defeated.”

Euphemia has always tried to embrace this sentiment. To take whatever life throws her way with grace, a steady smile, and the determination to move forward. It’s a mantra that has carried her through sleepless nights with a newborn, the judgment of being a young mother, and every curveball since.

So, when she and Fleamont decided one crisp October evening that they were ready to have another child, Euphemia was filled with quiet excitement. She could already picture it: James with a younger sibling, someone to share his adventures with, a companion who would fill the house with even more laughter.

She had gone to the doctor filled with hope, a warm, buzzing feeling that stayed with her through the drive there. She remembers every detail of that day—the sterile smell of the office, the stiffness of the chair beneath her, the sharp pang in her chest when the doctor looked up from the chart with a kind but apologetic expression. You can’t have more children.

The words had shattered her. She remembers returning home in a haze, barely able to focus on James’s cheerful chatter or Fleamont’s gentle concern. It wasn’t just disappointment—it was grief. A deep, unrelenting ache that stayed with her for days, pinning her to the bed.

She had wanted so much for James, for herself, for their family. They had waited this time, doing everything “properly,” or so the world had said. When James was born, people had whispered about how young they were, about the recklessness of two teenagers having a baby. But they’d proven everyone wrong. They had built a life filled with love, stability, and joy.

But now, the universe seemed to be telling her that her dream of a bigger family wasn’t meant to be. She clutched that thought to her chest like a lead weight. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was as much as she was allowed to have.

And yet, as always, Fleamont had found the words to ground her. “If you think this is the universe’s way of telling you that you shouldn’t be a mother, you’re wrong,” he’d said, his voice steady and warm. “I think this is the universe’s way of saying there are other children out there who need a mother like you—a mother to love them.”

His words had stuck with her, sparking something new. She didn’t have to give birth to a child to be a mother. She didn’t have to limit her love to biology. And so, the very next day, she had picked up the phone, heart still heavy but filled with a tentative sense of purpose. She scheduled an interview with a social worker, unsure of what lay ahead but knowing this was the right step.

That decision had changed everything.

Now, now she’s here. Sitting at the kitchen table, eating dinner with her husband and their fourteen-year-old son. The hum of quiet conversation and the clinking of cutlery against plates fills the space, a warm and familiar rhythm. Euphemia watches James as he reaches for another slice of garlic bread, his hair falling messily into his eyes despite her repeated attempts to trim it just the way he likes. Fleamont chuckles at something James says, their easy banter bringing a small smile to Euphemia’s lips.

Her thoughts drift, as they often do, to how they got here. How fostering had become such an integral part of their lives. She and Fleamont had been fostering since James was six, though it wasn’t the plan at first. James had asked her once, when he was nine, why he didn’t have a baby brother or sister like the other kids at school.

She had knelt down to his level, brushing a stray curl from his face, and said softly, “Not every family looks the same, darling. But that doesn’t mean ours isn’t full of love.”

What she hadn’t told him then—but thought about often—was that their family was full of love. So much love that it hurt sometimes, knowing there were children out there without anyone to give it to them. Especially the older ones.

It was at their first fostering information session that Euphemia learned just how often older children—teenagers, really—were overlooked. Babies and younger children were adopted far more quickly, finding homes faster than teens who were nearing the age to leave care altogether. The thought had stuck with her, lodged like a thorn in her heart.

She’d gone home that night and sat on their bed, hands folded tightly in her lap. “If we do this,” she’d said, voice trembling slightly, “if we open our home, I want to help the ones who need it most. The ones who are about to age out, who don’t have time left to wait.”

Fleamont had agreed without hesitation, his hand finding hers. And so, they’d begun fostering older teens—kids who needed not just a roof over their heads, but guidance as they prepared for their futures. Over the years, their home had become a place of second chances, a stepping stone for those on the brink of adulthood. It wasn’t always easy, but Euphemia wouldn’t have it any other way.

Her attention is drawn back to the present as James lets out a loud laugh, shaking his head at something Fleamont says. She feels a pang of gratitude for moments like this, for the family they’ve built and the lives they’ve touched.

The sharp buzz of her phone cuts through the warm atmosphere, startling her slightly. Fleamont glances at her, his fork pausing mid-air.

“I’ll get it,” she says, rising from her chair and smoothing down her button-up. She crosses the kitchen, the familiar weight of anticipation settling in her chest. Picking up her phone, she presses it to her ear.

“Hello? This is Euphemia Potter speaking.”

“Ah, yes. Hello, Euphemia, this is Sarah McAllister.”

“Oh, hello, Sarah. What can we do for you this evening?” Euphemia glances back at the table, where Fleamont and James are engaged in a mock debate over who gets the last slice of garlic bread. Her tone remains light, though the formality in Sarah’s voice sets her on edge.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your evening,” Sarah begins, her voice slightly strained. “I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t urgent.”

Euphemia’s grip on the phone tightens, her heart sinking slightly. “Not at all, Sarah. What’s going on?”

“Well,” Sarah exhales, and there’s a brief pause. “I have an eleven-year-old boy who needs a temporary placement. Just until I can find him something more permanent.”

Euphemia’s brow furrows. Eleven. That’s outside their usual age range. “I see,” she says carefully. “Eleven, you said?”

“Yes, I know he’s not in your preferred range,” Sarah continues quickly, as if anticipating Euphemia’s hesitation. “But I’m running out of options. The other family I called can’t take him, and I immediately thought of you and Fleamont. You’re both so experienced and patient... I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.”

Euphemia glances back at the table again, catching Fleamont’s eye. He raises a questioning brow, clearly noticing the shift in her expression.

“One moment, Sarah,” she says, lowering the phone slightly. “It’s Sarah. She’s asking if we can take in an eleven-year-old boy temporarily. The other family she called couldn’t take him, and she’s out of options.”

Fleamont sets down his fork, his expression turning thoughtful. “Temporarily?”

“Yes. Just until Sarah can find him a permanent home.”

Fleamont looks over at James, who has stopped mid-chew, now listening intently. “James?” Fleamont says. “Would you be alright with this?”

James swallows quickly and nods without hesitation. “Yeah, that’s fine. No problem.”

Euphemia smiles softly at her son’s easy acceptance, then returns the phone to her ear. “We can take him in, Sarah.”

“Oh, thank you, Euphemia,” Sarah says, and the relief in her voice is palpable. “I’ll bring him by around 8:30 tonight, if that works for you?”

“That’s fine. We’ll be ready,” Euphemia replies.

“Thank you again, Euphemia. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon, Sarah,” Euphemia says, hanging up the phone. She turns back to the table, feeling a mixture of anticipation and nerves settle in her chest.

“Well,” she says, sitting back down. “Looks like we’ll be having a guest tonight.”

Fleamont smiles gently, and James nods, already grabbing another slice of garlic bread as if the evening hasn’t shifted entirely. Euphemia picks at her food absentmindedly, her mind now racing with thoughts about the boy who would soon be stepping through their door.

***

Euphemia wipes her hands on the dish towel, glancing at the clock on the wall. The seconds seem to drag tonight, anticipation threading through the quiet warmth of the kitchen. The faint scent of rain lingers in the air, carried in through the window she’d cracked open earlier. She hears the firm knock before she sees Fleamont move toward the door, his steps purposeful yet calm.

“I’ll get it,” he says, tossing his own towel onto the counter.

Euphemia follows him with her eyes as he crosses the room, the glow of the kitchen light spilling faintly into the dim living room. She finishes draining the sink, setting the dish towel aside as the front door creaks open.

“Good evening, Fleamont,” Sarah McAllister’s familiar voice filters in. There’s something tired about it, though still warm.

“Good evening, Sarah,” Fleamont replies, his tone as steady as always. Euphemia steps closer, lingering by the doorway to the kitchen, drying her damp hands on the edge of her blouse.

Sarah speaks again, quieter this time, and Euphemia catches the words: “He’s still in the car.”

Euphemia’s brow furrows as she exchanges a glance with Fleamont, who nods once before stepping back to let Sarah inside.

“Sarah,” Euphemia greets, stepping forward with a calm smile. Her tone is welcoming but careful. “It’s good to see you.”

Sarah returns the smile, though it’s thinner than usual, weighed down by something Euphemia doesn’t press on—yet.

“Good evening, Euphemia,” Sarah replies. She smooths the front of her blouse, hesitation flickering across her expression.

“Come in,” Euphemia encourages, her voice gentle as she gestures toward the sitting area.

Sarah nods and steps inside, but her gaze flickers briefly toward the car parked on the street. Euphemia notices it, too, spotting the faint silhouette of a small figure in the back seat. Her chest tightens.

“He’s... nervous,” Sarah admits after a moment, her voice lowering. “I won’t sugarcoat it. He doesn’t want to come to the door yet.”

Euphemia presses her lips together briefly, nodding in understanding. “That’s perfectly alright,” she says softly. “We’ll give him as much time as he needs. There’s no rush.”

Fleamont steps beside her, his hands slipping into his pockets as he adds, “We’ll let him come in when he’s ready.”

Sarah exhales, relief softening her posture. “Thank you. I knew you’d both understand.”

Euphemia guides Sarah toward the couch, offering her a seat. Fleamont lingers by the window, his eyes returning to the car parked just beyond the porch. Euphemia doesn’t miss the way his shoulders tense slightly, though his expression remains composed. She knows that look—concern and determination wound tightly together.

Once Sarah sits, she smooths her hands over her knees, fidgeting briefly before clasping them together. “Where to begin…” She chuckles softly, though there’s little humor in it.

Euphemia sits across from her, leaning forward slightly. She doesn’t interrupt, letting Sarah find her words.

“Regulus is a quiet boy,” Sarah begins. “Very bright, but... guarded. He’s had a difficult time connecting with people.”

Euphemia’s gaze softens, her heart already aching for the boy who has yet to step inside.

“He’s been in the system since February,” Sarah continues, her tone growing heavier. “Before that, he lived with his parents. But…” She pauses, taking a steadying breath. “It wasn’t a safe environment for him. I don’t know the full extent of it—he doesn’t talk much about what happened. But from what I do know... it was bad.”

Euphemia swallows hard, exchanging a brief glance with Fleamont, who has finally moved to join her. His expression is unreadable, but she knows him well enough to see the storm behind his calm exterior.

Sarah hesitates before adding, “He’s had a few placements since then, but none of them stuck. He doesn’t act out in the way you might expect—not in anger or defiance. It’s more… subtle. He pulls away. Puts up walls before anyone can get close.”

Euphemia nods slowly, her hands resting in her lap. She’s seen children like Regulus before. Children who’ve been hurt so deeply they no longer believe in safety.

“We understand,” she says softly, her voice unwavering. “We’ll do everything we can to help him feel at home here.”

Sarah smiles faintly, her shoulders relaxing just a bit. “I knew calling you two was the right decision,” she murmurs, more to herself than to them.

Euphemia feels a flicker of warmth at the words, though it’s tempered by the weight of responsibility now resting in their hands. She glances toward the window again, the faint silhouette of Regulus still unmoving in the car.

Her heart tightens, and she silently promises herself to do everything she can to make this house feel like more than just a placement. To make it feel like a home.

POV: FLEAMONT

Fleamont has made plenty of mistakes throughout his life, many he regrets. But one thing he has never questioned, never doubted, never regretted, is falling in love with Euphemia and having their son, James.

He remembers the day he met her as clearly as if it happened yesterday. It was a fateful Tuesday morning in January 2006. Fleamont had been the new kid at school, awkward and unsure of himself, sitting stiffly at a desk in his new History class. He’d kept his head down, hoping to blend into the sea of unfamiliar faces, but then he saw her.

She walked into the room, her red-brown hair falling in soft, natural waves over her shoulders, her warm, intelligent eyes scanning the room for an open seat. There was an energy about her—something vibrant and unshakably confident that made it impossible to look away. Fleamont had never seen such beauty, such effortless perfection before.

All he could do was stare, frozen in place as she took the seat beside him, completely unaware of the effect she had on him. He couldn’t even bring himself to say hello.

Her first words to him, though, changed everything. “You’re sitting awfully straight. What are you, part of the Queen’s Guard?”

It was cheeky, bold, and completely unexpected. It caught him so off guard that he let out a startled laugh, the kind that made everyone nearby glance their way. Euphemia grinned at him then, and in that moment, Fleamont was absolutely gone.

It was love at first sight, plain and simple. And, well... the rest is history.

If Fleamont were ever forced back in time, if he could relive his life in an endless loop, he knows with absolute certainty that he would always choose her. In every version of the universe, in every version of himself, he would always fall in love with Euphemia. Forever and always. 

And Fleamont knows he would never trade it for the world. 

Fleamont watches the faint silhouette in the car through the front window, the boy so still it’s as if he’s willing himself invisible. The sight tugs at something deep in Fleamont’s chest—a quiet ache that he’s been carrying since Sarah first called them about taking Regulus in.

He’s tried to picture the boy, to fill in the details the sparse case notes couldn’t provide. A child who’s been shuffled between homes since February. A child who’s seen more pain in eleven years than most people do in a lifetime. A child who, right now, can’t even bring himself to walk through their front door.

It’s not the first time they’ve opened their home to a child in need, but something feels different this time. He wonders if it’s because of the way Sarah’s voice faltered over the phone, or the careful way she’s choosing her words now. Or maybe it’s the boy himself—small, silent, and scared, sitting out there in the dark.

“Fleamont?” Sarah’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, and he turns his attention back to her. She’s sitting upright, her hands clasped tightly together, though she’s making an effort to sound casual.

“I think that’s about it, really,” she says, exhaling a soft breath. Her shoulders drop slightly, but then she glances between him and Euphemia, her tone taking on a careful edge. “Oh, another thing—I know you agreed to this being a temporary placement. However, the door is always open for this to be a potential permanent placement. You two don’t have to decide right now. Take your time, get to know him. And if you can’t click with him, that’s okay too.”

Fleamont feels Euphemia shift slightly beside him, but he doesn’t look at her. His gaze returns to the boy outside, the knot in his chest tightening. He knows what Sarah means. She’s giving them an out, offering them a way to back away if this doesn’t work. It’s logical, even kind. But Fleamont can’t imagine turning away from a child who’s already been turned away so many times before.

“Right,” Sarah says after a moment, her tone shifting as she glances toward the door. “Now, time to get him out of the car.”

Before she can stand, Fleamont rises, brushing his hands against his slacks. “I’ll come with you,” he offers, his voice steady but warm.

Sarah looks at him, surprise flickering across her face before she nods. “Alright,” she says, rising to join him.

Euphemia watches him go with a soft smile, her silent support bolstering him as he moves toward the door. The night air greets him as he steps outside, the weight of what lies ahead settling in his chest. But beneath that weight is something else—a quiet determination to give this boy something he’s never truly had.

The quiet hum of the night surrounds them as they descend the steps. Fleamont’s heart beats steadily, but there’s a faint tremor beneath it—a mix of anticipation and quiet determination. He glances at Sarah as they approach the car, her pace measured but purposeful, and feels a silent understanding pass between them.

She opens the car door, Regulus doesn’t move. He sits in the car, tense and still, his eyes locked on the dashboard. Fleamont watches from a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, the cool night air brushing against his face. Sarah crouches at the open car door, her voice soft but steady as she speaks to the boy.

“Regulus,” she says, her tone patient but firm. “It’s time to head inside. They’re waiting for you.”

The boy doesn’t even look at her. Fleamont can see the set of his jaw from here, tight and unyielding.

“No,” Regulus says, his voice flat but layered with something deeper—fear, anger, exhaustion. It’s hard to tell.

Sarah exhales, shifting her weight slightly. “Regulus, I know this is hard, but you have to at least give it a chance. Just come in, meet them, see how it feels. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I said no!” The boy’s voice sharpens, cutting through the quiet street. He finally turns to glare at Sarah, his face pale and taut with frustration. His chest heaves as though the outburst has drained him, his breathing ragged and uneven.

Sarah doesn’t flinch, but Fleamont notices the faint flicker of weariness in her expression. “I understand you’re upset,” she begins again, her voice calm, “but—”

“No!” The word bursts out of Regulus, raw and unrestrained. The sound echoes faintly in the night, and the boy’s trembling hands press into his lap, his shoulders hunched like he’s trying to fold in on himself. “I don’t want to,” he whispers, his voice cracking under the weight of it all.

Fleamont shifts, instinctively taking a step closer. Something about the boy’s posture—defiant but also heartbreakingly small—pulls at him, and before he fully realizes what he’s doing, he speaks up.

“Can I try?”

Sarah looks back at him, surprise flickering across her face. Regulus’s head snaps up too, his wide, startled eyes meeting Fleamont’s for the first time. He looks younger than eleven in that moment, all sharp edges and brittle vulnerability.

Sarah hesitates, then nods, stepping aside. “Alright,” she says softly, her gaze steady as she moves back.

Fleamont approaches slowly, careful not to spook the boy. He sinks down onto the curb beside the open car door, leaving enough space to avoid crowding him. The pavement is cold under his hands as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, letting the quiet settle around them.

“Hi, Regulus,” he says finally, keeping his tone low and even. “I’m Fleamont. I know you don’t want to go inside right now. And that’s okay. I’m not here to force you. I just wanted to talk for a bit. Is that alright?”

Regulus doesn’t answer. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, his fingers digging into his sides. Fleamont doesn’t take it personally. He watches the boy’s small, tense frame, noting the way his knuckles whiten as he grips his arms.

“I get it,” Fleamont says after a pause. “This is hard. It’s scary, walking into a house full of strangers, not knowing what’s going to happen. I’d feel the same way if I were you.”

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

“You’ve been through a lot,” Fleamont continues, his voice steady. “More than most people your age should ever have to. And I bet you’re tired of people making promises they can’t keep. Tired of hearing the same words over and over, only for things to fall apart.”

For the briefest moment, Regulus’s gaze flickers toward him before darting back to the dashboard.

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

The words hang in the air between them, heavy but sincere. Fleamont doesn’t look directly at Regulus, giving him the space to process.

The boy’s arms loosen slightly, his hands falling to his lap. He stares down at them for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he reaches for the seatbelt, his movements stiff and hesitant.

Fleamont hides the sigh of relief threatening to escape. Instead, he offers a small, encouraging smile as he stands, stepping back to give Regulus room to climb out.

Regulus hesitates, his small frame almost swallowed by the slightly oversized t-shirt he’s wearing. Then, finally, he swings the door open and steps out, his arms crossing protectively over his chest again. He doesn’t look at Fleamont or Sarah as he starts toward the house, his head down and his shoulders hunched.

Fleamont falls into step beside him, keeping a careful distance. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t push, just walks with him toward the warm light spilling from the open doorway.

The boy stops short at the threshold, his feet planted firmly on the welcome mat. Fleamont pauses too, glancing at him but saying nothing.

“Take your time,” he says quietly, his tone gentle.

Regulus glances inside, his gaze darting around the entryway. Fleamont doesn’t follow his line of sight, doesn’t try to explain or justify the cluttered warmth of the house. He lets the boy take it in on his own terms.

After a long, tense moment, Regulus takes a step forward, then another. Fleamont follows, his heart heavy but hopeful.

It’s a small step, but it’s a start.

“Do you want to come in?” Fleamont hears Sarah ask, her voice deliberately calm and neutral, as if she’s speaking to a frightened animal she doesn’t want to spook.

The comparison lodges itself uncomfortably in Fleamont’s mind, and he feels a pang of sorrow ripple through him. How many times has this boy been made to feel like prey, always on edge, always anticipating the worst? How many moments like this has he endured, walking into unfamiliar spaces, waiting for the next blow—physical or emotional—to land?

The thought baffles Fleamont in the worst way. It’s incomprehensible to him that someone, anyone, could look at a child—any child, but especially this pale, slight boy who seems so desperate to disappear—and choose to harm them. A quiet, unfamiliar anger begins to stir deep in his chest, a kind of rage he rarely allows himself to feel. It’s not loud or explosive; it’s steady and silent, simmering beneath his typically calm demeanor. He didn’t know he was capable of carrying this kind of fury, and yet here it is, hot and unwelcome.

Fleamont exhales through his nose, pushing the feeling down before it takes hold. Rage won’t help the boy. Calm, steady patience will.

He watches as Regulus steps into the house, every movement deliberate, careful. The boy’s shoes barely make a sound on the hardwood floor, his posture tense and guarded, as if he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. Fleamont notices the way Regulus keeps his arms tucked close to his body, his shoulders drawn up slightly. It’s as though he’s trying to shrink himself, to become invisible, and it makes Fleamont’s heart ache.

“Regulus, this is my wife, Euphemia,” Fleamont says, his voice measured and warm as he gestures toward the kitchen doorway.

Euphemia is standing there, framed by the soft light spilling from the kitchen behind her. She’s wearing a warm, open smile, the kind that always seems to make people feel at ease.

Fleamont notices the smallest movement—a slight tilt of Regulus’s head, a quick upward flick of his gaze toward Euphemia. It’s fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Regulus chances the look as though afraid he’ll be caught doing something wrong, and the way his head immediately lowers again tugs at something deep in Fleamont’s chest.

He doesn’t let his thoughts linger there too long. Instead, he focuses on keeping his tone light and his posture relaxed, hoping to ease some of the tension that clings to the boy like a shadow. As Euphemia steps forward to greet Regulus, Fleamont keeps his attention on the boy, watching for the smallest sign of comfort or unease.

It’s only a start, he reminds himself again, but it’s something. And right now, something is more than enough.

He glances at Euphemia, who smiles warmly, her posture relaxed but deliberate, a careful balance of approachability and respect for Regulus’ space.

“Hi, Regulus,” she says gently, her voice soft but steady. “It’s nice to meet you. We’ve been looking forward to having you here.”

Regulus doesn’t respond, his arms tightening it’s hold on his arms. Fleamont notices the way the boy shifts his weight slightly, his stance almost defensive, like he’s preparing for something unpleasant. He doesn’t miss how Regulus’ eyes flick around the room, scanning the space with quiet intensity, cataloging every detail as if searching for exits or threats.

Sarah steps in then, offering a small smile as she shifts her folder from one hand to the other. “Thank you for taking him in on such short notice,” she says, breaking the silence. “I know this isn’t your usual placement. You’ve been so wonderful with the older teens, and I—well, I really appreciate this. I’ll be in touch in about a week to check in and see how everything’s going.”

Euphemia glances at Fleamont, who nods, and then replies, “Of course, Sarah. We’re happy to help.”

Fleamont catches the slight tension in Sarah’s posture, the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s clear this case weighs on her more than most.

“I know younger kids aren’t usually your focus,” Sarah continues, her voice tinged with something between gratitude and hesitation, “but... I thought of you two immediately when we needed somewhere for Regulus. I just had a feeling.”

Regulus shifts again, his body language growing tighter. Fleamont can feel the discomfort radiating off the boy, his grip on the bag white-knuckled now. He glances at Euphemia, who offers a reassuring smile, then at Sarah, who exhales softly and continues.

“This is just a temporary placement,” Sarah says, her gaze shifting between the two of them. “But if things go well... maybe we could talk about making it permanent.”

Fleamont feels the shift in the room immediately. Regulus freezes, his body going rigid. Fleamont notices the sharp intake of breath the boy doesn’t quite manage to hide, the way his chest seems to draw tighter with the weight of that one word: permanent.

Fleamont keeps his expression calm and neutral, though inside, his thoughts churn. He knows better than to offer platitudes right now—words won’t mean much to a boy who’s been through as much as Regulus has. Instead, he focuses on projecting quiet reassurance, a steady presence that won’t push or demand anything of him.

“We’ll see how it goes,” Fleamont says evenly, keeping his tone measured and warm.

Sarah nods her head, then turns her gaze back to Regulus. “Here you go,” she says, her tone tone soft, as she hands over his bag. “I’ll check in soon, okay?” 

Fleamont notices the way Regulus tightens his grip on his bag. He also notices the way Regulus refuses to acknowledge Sarah. He notices the way Sarah hesitates as if she wants to say more, but decides against it. She steps back, offering Regulus a small polite smile. “Take care, Regulus.” Sarah says, stepping back a bit more, “you’re in good hands.”

And like that, she’s gone. Fleamont notices Regulus’ lack of response, as if he’s frozen in time almost. He doesn’t push him to say anything, of course. So, instead, Fleamont gestures towards the stairs. “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

POV: EUPHEMIA

He had looked so tiny, standing there in the doorway. Euphemia hadn’t been sure what to expect when Sarah had told them about Regulus, but nothing had prepared her for how small and fragile he seemed. The boy had been dressed in a slightly oversized shirt that hung awkwardly on his thin frame, the sleeves nearly brushing his wrists, and a pair of faded blue jeans that looked like they belonged to someone older, someone bigger.

He had stood so still, almost rigid, with his shoulders slightly hunched forward, as though trying to shrink himself even further. Euphemia couldn’t help but notice the way his arms were crossed tightly over his chest, a kind of makeshift shield, his fingers clutching his elbows as if that were the only thing grounding him. It was the way he held himself—the careful stillness, the guarded posture, the subtle tremor in his small hands—that broke her heart the most.

It was clear, painfully so, that Regulus was bracing himself for rejection or worse. He barely looked up, his gaze darting around the space as though cataloging every detail, every possible exit, every potential threat. She wanted to say something right then, to reassure him, to tell him that he was safe now, but Euphemia held back, worried that too much too soon might frighten him even more.

“Hi, Regulus,” she had said softly, keeping her tone warm but measured, careful not to overwhelm him. “It’s nice to meet you. We’ve been looking forward to having you here.”

Her words hadn’t drawn a response. He hadn’t even looked at her. Instead, his eyes flickered briefly toward the staircase to his right, then to the softly lit kitchen behind her, scanning the room like it might suddenly transform into something dangerous. Euphemia had stood still, giving him space, her smile unwavering even as her heart ached for him.

She remembered glancing at Fleamont then, catching his steady, calming presence just behind the boy. She saw the worry in his eyes, mirroring her own, and the silent exchange between them said everything they needed to in that moment: We’ll take care of him. We’ll make this work.

When Sarah spoke, thanking them for taking him in, Euphemia had barely heard her. She couldn’t take her eyes off Regulus. She had wondered what it would take for him to feel comfortable here, to feel safe. Looking at him now, so painfully small and guarded, she knew it would take time. But she also knew they would give him all the time he needed.

Regulus shifted his weight, tightening his arms around himself, and Euphemia’s chest tightened in response. She wanted to reach out, to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but she didn’t. Not yet. She would wait for him to come to them, even if it took weeks, months.

As Sarah finished speaking and handed Regulus his bag, Euphemia stepped aside to give him space, watching him carefully. He didn’t say a word, didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, but he took the bag with a firm grip, his knuckles pale.

When Sarah left, Euphemia had moved instinctively to stand next to Fleamont, offering a soft, unspoken support. Together, they had watched as Fleamont gestured toward the stairs, his voice gentle as he said, “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

She had caught the briefest flicker of hesitation in Regulus’s expression before he followed, his movements quiet and deliberate, as though afraid to disturb the peace of the house. Euphemia had stood there for a moment longer, her gaze lingering on the spot where he had been, and allowed herself a deep, steadying breath.

Euphemia sat on her bed, staring at the book in her hands, going over every little detail she could on Regulus. The memory replayed in Euphemia’s mind, as she turned to place her book on the bedside table. 

She remembered the way Regulus had looked when he’d come back downstairs—small and hesitant, his movements cautious, like he was trying not to disturb the air around him. His oversized jumper hung loose on his thin frame, and his dark hair framed a face that looked far too young to carry the weight it clearly did.

She’d noticed him before he stepped fully into the kitchen. He’d lingered in the doorway, his hands twisting the hem of his shirt as though it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. He didn’t look at her or Fleamont, and his eyes darted nervously between James and the plate of cookies on the table.

The boy had seemed impossibly tiny then, like he was trying to shrink himself into the shadows. Euphemia’s heart clenched painfully at the sight. There was something so fragile about him, something she couldn’t quite put into words but felt deeply. She’d seen plenty of children come through their home, each carrying their own scars, their own stories. But there was a quietness to Regulus that struck her, an unspoken fear that lingered in the way he held himself, so tightly wound that it was as though the world might crush him if he let go.

She remembered the way his shoulders hunched further as Fleamont greeted him, her husband’s voice warm and welcoming. Regulus hadn’t said a word, just nodded, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. Euphemia had kept her tone gentle, careful not to overwhelm him. “Come in, love,” she’d said, gesturing to the chair beside her.

He hadn’t taken that seat. Instead, he’d chosen the one furthest away, sitting stiffly on the edge, his hands never leaving his shirt. She hadn’t pressed him, hadn’t drawn attention to his choice. Instead, she’d let the moment breathe, allowing him to settle in his own way.

The memory of his tentative movements, the way he’d avoided looking at anyone, stayed with her. Even as Fleamont prepared his meal, and James—so eager to make a good impression—chattered away, Regulus had remained silent. He seemed to fold further into himself under the weight of their attention. It was only when the food was placed in front of him that he’d moved at all, picking up the fork with slow, deliberate care.

And still, she’d noticed how his shoulders remained tense, how he barely lifted his head, even as he ate. She’d watched him, her heart aching at how he seemed to expect the worst from them, bracing for something that never came.

When they’d gone over the house rules, Euphemia had spoken softly, choosing her words carefully, watching how each one seemed to land heavier on him than the last. The rule about speaking his mind had made him flinch ever so slightly, his fingers tightening around the fork. The mention of treating himself with kindness had made him pause altogether, the concept so foreign to him that she could see the disbelief etched into his features.

She remembered the moment she’d taken his empty bowl, the way he’d watched her with something akin to confusion when she thanked him, as though no one had ever bothered to notice his actions before.

And when she’d set the cookies and milk in front of him, she’d seen the hesitation in his small, trembling hands as he reached for one, like he was unsure whether he was truly allowed to take it.

It had been then, more than at any other point that day, that Euphemia had felt the depth of his vulnerability. It wasn’t just in the way he moved or stayed silent—it was in the way he didn’t seem to expect kindness, didn’t seem to know how to accept it.

Now, sitting in the quiet kitchen with the faint hum of the house around her, Euphemia thought of how much work lay ahead. Regulus had built walls around himself, thick and unyielding. But she’d seen the cracks, seen the glimmers of the boy hidden beneath all that fear.

She’d seen it in the way he’d glanced back at them before heading upstairs, cookie still clutched in his hand. That moment had been fleeting, his expression unreadable, but Euphemia liked to think there had been a flicker of something there—maybe hope, maybe curiosity, maybe just a quiet yearning for something he didn’t yet know how to name.

Euphemia sits on the edge of her bed, legs tucked beneath her as she stares at the soft folds of the duvet. The bedside lamp casts a warm glow over the room, its light spilling onto the book she abandoned on the table. Her fingers fidget absently with the hem of her sleeve as her mind replays the day’s events, the image of Regulus lingering—his wary eyes, the way he clutched his shirt, the quiet resignation in his movements.

The door creaks softly as Fleamont steps in from the bathroom, a yawn escaping him as he runs his hands through his messy hair. He pauses when he sees her sitting there, her gaze distant, her shoulders slightly hunched.

“Effie?” he asks gently, setting the tie down on the dresser. “What’s wrong?”

She glances up at him, her lips pressed into a thin line before she answers softly, “Regulus.”

Fleamont exhales slowly, a quiet sigh that carries the weight of understanding. He makes his way over to the bed, sitting down beside her. “Why?” he asks, his tone calm and patient. “What about him?”

Euphemia folds her hands in her lap, her brows knitting together. “It’s the way he carries himself,” she begins, her voice steady but tinged with worry. “He’s so... careful, Monty. Like he’s waiting for something to go wrong. Watching him tonight, the way he wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t make eye contact, the way he shrank into himself like he didn’t belong—it broke my heart. He’s just a boy, but he acts like he’s carrying the weight of the world.”

Fleamont nods slowly, his gaze dropping to his hands. “I noticed it too,” he admits, his voice quiet. “He didn’t want to get out of Sarah’s car. Took a while to convince him, and even then... he looked so defeated. Like he thought he was being dropped off somewhere to be forgotten.”

Euphemia’s chest tightens at his words, her hand instinctively reaching for his. “He’s terrified,” she whispers. “Terrified of us, of this house, of what might happen next. It’s like he doesn’t believe any of this could possibly be safe.”

Fleamont squeezes her hand gently, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “It’ll take time,” he says softly. “He’s been through so much, Effie. We can’t expect him to trust us overnight.”

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice wavering slightly. “But I just want to take all that fear away. I want him to feel like he’s finally somewhere he belongs.”

“We will,” Fleamont assures her, his tone steady. “We’ll make sure he knows he’s safe here. That he’s not just another responsibility—we care about him.”

Euphemia leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder as the room falls into a brief, reflective silence. The muffled hum of the house surrounds them—the ticking of the clock, the soft creak of the floorboards. Finally, Fleamont presses a kiss to her temple and stands, moving to turn off the light.

“Come on,” he says gently, his hand extended toward her. “Let’s get some rest.”

She takes his hand and lets him guide her beneath the covers. As they settle in, Fleamont switches off the lamp, plunging the room into a comforting darkness. Euphemia closes her eyes, her thoughts still lingering on Regulus, but Fleamont’s steady breathing beside her helps ease the ache in her chest.

POV: FLEAMONT

Fleamont is so proud of his son, of the loveable, spirited person he has grown into—a boy with an infectious laugh, a heart full of kindness, and a boundless enthusiasm for life. James is the type of person who draws others in effortlessly, who makes friends wherever he goes, and who defends those who need it without a second thought. 

For all his mischief and energy, there’s a deep goodness in him, a warmth that Fleamont sees in every gesture, every word, every grin that lights up his face. James has a way of making the people around him feel seen, valued, and important, and it’s a quality that Fleamont admires more than he can ever put into words.

Fleamont knows his son will do anything to help others. He knows he’ll do anything to make sure whichever kid comes into their home, for a week, a month, feels safe, and loved. 

The hum of the car engine fills the quiet as Fleamont glances in the rearview mirror, watching James in the passenger seat. The boy’s knee bounces restlessly, and his fingers drum a quick rhythm against the strap of his backpack. It’s a small thing, but Fleamont can’t help smiling at how full of energy James always is—an endless bundle of motion. Still, his smile fades as he clears his throat and breaks the comfortable silence.

“James,” he begins, his tone gentle but purposeful. “I wanted to talk to you about something. About Regulus.”

James stops drumming and looks up at him, curious but not alarmed. “What about him?”

“Well,” Fleamont says, choosing his words carefully, “I think you’ve already noticed he’s... different from the other kids we’ve fostered, not just his age. He’s quieter, more reserved. He’s had a hard time, and he’s still figuring things out here.”

James frowns, twisting the strap of his backpack in his hands. “Yeah, I noticed. He hasn’t said much, if anything at all. And last night he looked like he was waiting for something bad to happen.”

“That’s why I need you to be a little more gentle with him,” Fleamont explains, his voice calm and measured. “He’s not used to this kind of environment yet, and he’s going to get overwhelmed easily. Try to be a bit more cautious—don’t get too loud or rush him into things. Give him space when he needs it.”

James nods quickly. “I can do that. I don’t want to freak him out or anything.”

“Good,” Fleamont says, glancing over at his son with a small smile. “I know it’s a bit of an adjustment for you, too.”

James leans back in his seat, his brow furrowing slightly as he processes the request. Then, after a moment, he asks, “Did something bad happen to him?”

Fleamont grips the steering wheel a little tighter, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He doesn’t want to say too much, not yet, but he also doesn’t want to brush James off entirely. “His social worker, Sarah, mentioned that something bad happened when he was living with his parents. We don’t know exactly what, but it’s clear that it left him... hurting.”

James is quiet for a moment, his expression unusually serious. Then he nods again, more slowly this time. “Okay. I understand.”

“Thank you, son,” Fleamont says softly, a warmth in his voice that he hopes reassures James.

The car rolls to a stop in front of the school, and Fleamont shifts into park, glancing over at James with a small smile. “Have a good day, all right? And remember—I love you.”

James grins, already reaching for the door handle. “I love you too, Dad.”

The door shuts with a soft click, and Fleamont watches as James jogs toward the entrance, his backpack bouncing against his shoulders. He lingers for a moment, his thoughts briefly flickering back to Regulus, before shifting the car into gear and pulling away.

***

Fleamont watches Regulus as they walk into the uniform shop, his gaze quietly assessing the boy’s body language. He can see the way Regulus keeps his head down, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. Fleamont’s instinct is to reach out, to say something comforting, but he stops himself. Regulus isn't asking for attention, not yet anyway, and Fleamont doesn't want to overwhelm him.

The way Regulus stands by the racks, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides, reminds Fleamont of when James was younger, fidgeting during uncomfortable situations. He tries to keep his focus on the task at hand, helping Regulus get the right size, but the boy’s subtle unease isn’t lost on him. He doesn’t think much of it at first—some kids take a little longer to settle into new environments. But he notices how Regulus isn’t quick to speak, how he avoids eye contact and clings tightly to the pen when he writes down his name.

“Good thinking,” Fleamont says softly when Regulus holds up his hands to indicate his size, trying to encourage him, trying to make him feel competent. The boy doesn’t react the way he expects. There’s no beam of pride in his eyes, no smile to acknowledge the praise. Instead, Regulus looks away, his posture shrinking just a little more. Fleamont’s brow furrows. It’s a fleeting moment, but he notices it.

When Regulus steps into the dressing room with the first set of clothes, Fleamont leans against the wall, arms crossed. Regulus seems to have a sort of quiet tension that he hasn’t yet been able to ease. Fleamont doesn’t know why it bothers him so much, but it does. When the boy comes out in the oversized pants, Fleamont is quick to reassure him, but he watches Regulus closely. His hands never stop moving, nervously adjusting the waistband, tugging at it as if trying to make it fit somehow.

The second time Regulus returns from the dressing room with pants that fit properly, Fleamont feels a small sense of relief. It’s like he can finally see the boy starting to ease up, even if only a little. But as soon as Regulus steps out in the sports shirt, his discomfort is palpable. Fleamont can see it on his face before the boy even moves.

“Does the shirt feel funny?” Fleamont asks, his voice gentle but concerned. He’s aware that Regulus might not be used to expressing his discomfort. It’s something about the way the boy’s brow furrows, his body stiffening. It’s as if he’s trying to process the feeling but can’t quite get the words out.

Mrs. Potter is the one who understands, offering that familiar, gentle reassurance, and Fleamont watches them work in tandem. It’s easy for him to feel like he’s doing the right thing, but in the back of his mind, something nags at him. He doesn’t question the boy’s discomfort, not in this moment. He assumes it’s just a matter of finding the right fit, the right texture. He doesn’t push.

That was his first mistake. 

By the time they got back to the car, Euphemia was talking to him about getting Regulus school shoes. When his wife asked Regulus what he’d like to do, Regulus looked momentarily panicked. Fleamont should have questioned this, should have taken a moment to consider the boy’s slightly brush of panic, his hesitation, his discomfort. But he didn’t. 

That, was his second mistake. 

POV: EUPHEMIA

Euphemia should have seen this coming… right? Could she have prevented this? Could she have done something—anything—differently?

The thoughts claw at her, an endless cycle of guilt and second-guessing. The irrational part of her mind screams, demanding answers. Telling her she should have seen the signs. They were there, plain as day, right in front of her. And yet, she missed them. Or worse, ignored them.

Her chest tightens with the weight of it all. She exhales shakily, vowing then and there never to miss another sign in her life again.

At first, it’s subtle. Regulus moves through the store like he’s walking on a tightrope, his movements jerky, his shoulders drawn up as if bracing against something unseen. Euphemia watches as he pulls a pair of denim jeans from the rack, gripping the fabric tightly like it’s a lifeline. Her heart aches at the sight, but she hesitates, unsure whether to step in or give him space.

She notices his breathing quicken. The rise and fall of his chest becomes shallow, uneven. He stands frozen in front of the racks, his small hands beginning to flap at his sides in rapid, stilted movements. Her chest tightens as she sees the signs of distress piling up.

“Regulus?” she says softly, trying to keep her voice calm, gentle.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he shakes his head sharply and takes a step back from the rack, his hands clutching at the hem of his oversized shirt. Euphemia watches as he pivots to the shirts section, moving with a frantic kind of urgency, as if searching for something—anything—that will feel right.

But it doesn’t. She can see it in the way he jerks his hands back after brushing against the fabric, in the tightening of his jaw, in the way his small shoulders begin to tremble.

Her heart sinks. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, but she knows that for him, it must sound like a roar. The hum of chatter around them—ordinary background noise—feels suddenly oppressive, suffocating.

He clutches at his shirt again, twisting the fabric in his hands, his breathing quick and shallow now. Euphemia steps closer, concern blooming into alarm as his movements grow more frantic.

And then it happens.

Regulus stops abruptly, his small frame stiffening before crumpling to the floor. His hands fly to his hair, clutching at it tightly as he crouches down, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.

“Regulus,” Euphemia says softly, kneeling beside him. Her voice trembles, though she fights to keep it steady. “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

He doesn’t seem to hear her. His wide, unfocused eyes dart around the store, his chest heaving as if the very act of breathing is a struggle. She sees the tears welling in his eyes and feels a pang of helplessness.

Fleamont crouches beside her, his voice calm and unwavering. “It’s alright, bud. We’re here. You’re safe. Just take your time.”

Regulus doesn’t respond. His panic seems to crest, his small frame shaking as he burrows deeper into himself. Euphemia wants to wrap him in her arms, to shield him from the overwhelming world, but she knows better than to overwhelm him further. Instead, she places a light, steady hand on his back.

“Breathe with me,” she says gently, taking a slow, deliberate breath of her own. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it. Just like that.”

It takes time. Each second stretches into what feels like an eternity, but slowly, she sees the tension in his small body begin to ease. His breathing steadies, the trembling in his hands subsides, and his grip on his shirt loosens.

When Regulus finally lifts his head, his tear-streaked face is pale, his wide eyes glassy with exhaustion.

“You alright?” Fleamont asks softly, his tone gentle but grounding.

Regulus doesn’t speak, but he nods faintly, his hands still clutching at his shirt.

Fleamont glances at Euphemia, before he turns back to Regulus. “How about we take a little break? Maybe we can head over to the toy section, check out the soft toys. What do you think?”

Regulus nods. Then Euphemia smiles softly and says “good idea.”

They get up and head over towards the toy section. Euphemia gets an idea quickly turns to Fleamont, saying “I’m just going to run to the bedding section. I’ll be back.” 

Fleamont nods, and turns back to Regulus. She continues to walk through the bedding isle, touching the fabrics, trying to find the perfect one.

The memory surfaces, sharp and unrelenting. It had started in the shoe shop. She remembers it so clearly now—the way Regulus had tensed as soon as they walked in, shrinking in on himself as though the walls were closing in around him.

Euphemia had noticed his discomfort, hadn’t she? She’d seen the way his shoulders had stiffened, the way his hands had clutched at the hem of his shirt, the way he had avoided looking at the rows of neatly stacked shoes. It was subtle—so subtle she’d dismissed it as nerves. She’d even smiled, thinking she could make the experience easier for him.

“Here we go,” she’d said softly, opening the first box of shoes and holding one out to him. “Let’s see if these fit, shall we?”

Regulus had nodded stiffly, his movements jerky, and slipped off his too-small sneakers. He’d hesitated before sliding his foot into the new shoe, and when he did, the grimace on his face was unmistakable.

“How does it feel? Too tight?” she’d asked gently, though her question had gone unanswered. He’d shaken his head quickly, muttering, “It’s fine.” But the way his hands had clenched, the way his gaze had dropped to the floor—everything about him screamed that it wasn’t fine.

Even then, she’d hesitated. She should have pushed, should have asked him again, should have done something more than reassure him that the leather would soften with wear. But instead, she’d told herself he was just being polite.

The clothing store had seemed to go better. At least, she thought it had at the time.

She remembers how his shoulders had relaxed ever so slightly when they left the bustling shoe shop and stepped into the clothing store. It had been easier, or at least that’s how it had seemed. Regulus had followed her through the aisles, obediently trying on shirts and trousers without complaint.

But looking back now, Euphemia wonders if she missed something there, too. Had he been overwhelmed then as well? Had he simply been better at masking it? The thought makes her stomach churn.

Then it happened. 

Euphemia pulls herself from the memory, her chest tightening. She knows now that it wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t just politeness or shyness. It was something more—something she hadn’t understood then but was starting to piece together now.

And with that realization comes a heavy sense of responsibility. She can’t go back and change what happened, can’t undo her oversights or rewrite the past. But she can learn. She can pay closer attention. She can promise herself, and Regulus, that she will do better.

Because if there’s one thing Euphemia Potter knows, it’s this: she will never forgive herself if she misses the signs again.

POV: FLEAMONT

Fleamont stands at the kitchen counter, the soft clink of a teaspoon against porcelain the only sound in the quiet house. Steam rises from the kettle as he pours hot water into two mugs, the faint scent of chamomile wafting upward. He stirs sugar into Euphemia’s tea—one spoonful, no more, just the way she likes it—and sets the kettle back on the stove.

He’s just placing the mugs on the table when he hears footsteps descending the stairs. Euphemia appears in the doorway, her hair slightly mussed from the long day, her expression tired but gentle.

“He’s still asleep,” she says softly, taking the chair across from him.

Fleamont nods, sliding her mug toward her. “Good. He needs the rest.”

Euphemia wraps her hands around the mug, her fingers seeking the warmth. “I’ve been thinking about earlier,” she begins, her voice quiet, contemplative.

“The shops,” Fleamont says, nodding again. He sighs and sits down, his shoulders slumping slightly. “What happened. It was…a lot for him.”

Euphemia nods, her brows knitting together. “I can’t stop thinking about it. What would you call it? A panic attack? Sensory overload?” she pauses for a moment, “all I know is that it was a lot for him.” 

Fleamont rubs a hand over his face, humming, the memory weighing on him. “Did you see at checkout…” He trails off, glancing at Euphemia. “He looked so embarrassed, holding onto that stuffed black dog and the book. Like he thought someone would judge him for it.”

Euphemia tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Why do you think that is?”

Fleamont exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly, love…” Fleamont exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair, “I’m not sure. There could be countless reasons why he acted like that.” 

Euphemia nods slightly, and he continues. “Maybe he’s worried about seeming…too young. Like he feels he has to act older than he is because of everything he’s been through.” He pauses, frowning. “Or maybe he’s just not used to being allowed to have things like that—things for comfort.”

Euphemia nods thoughtfully, her gaze distant. The silence stretches for a moment, broken only by the faint hum of the kettle.

“When we were in the car,” Euphemia says suddenly, her voice softer now, “he looked like he wanted to cry.” She swallows, her grip tightening slightly on the mug. “It broke my heart, Monty. He didn’t, but…I could see it in his eyes.”

Fleamont leans forward, resting a hand over hers. “It’ll be okay, Effie,” he says gently. “We’ll do everything we can to help him.”

She nods, her lips pressing together. “It’s going to take time, though. For him to feel comfortable enough to talk to us, to let us in.”

Fleamont hesitates, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. “Maybe…” he starts, then pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Maybe it’s not that he doesn’t want to talk. Maybe he can’t.”

Euphemia looks at him, her expression curious but not surprised. “How do you mean?” She asked skeptically. 

“I mean,” Fleamont says thoughtfully, stirring his tea, “remember that one teen we had, where he didn’t talk to us, at all, but was able to talk to James like it was the most natural thing in the world.” Fleamont pauses for a moment, looking at his wife, she only nods, urging him to continue. “Well, I did some research, and I found a type of anxiety known as selective mutism.” 

Euphemia processes this information. “So,” she starts, taking a sip of her tea, “you think that Regulus might have selective mutism?”

Fleamont nods slowly. “Sarah did mention he wasn’t going to be talking to us, which we expected. But when I went out to help her bring Regulus inside, he was able to talk to her.”

“That would make sense,” Euphemia murmurs, her gaze dropping to her tea. “Do you think we should…seek out a therapist for him? Someone who can help him work through this?”

Fleamont is quiet for a moment, weighing the idea. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he admits finally. “Even if we put him on a waitlist now, just in case. Especially if this placement becomes permanent.”

Euphemia nods, her expression softening. “We’ve only ever done temporary placements before,” she says, almost to herself. “But this feels different, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Fleamont agrees. He glances at the clock on the wall, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “Speaking of which, I should go fetch James in a moment. He’ll be wondering where I am.”

Euphemia smiles faintly, her fingers brushing his as she reaches for her tea again. “Go on, then. I’ll tidy up here.”

Fleamont nods, rising from his chair and pausing for a moment to press a kiss to the top of her head. “We’ll figure it out,” he says softly. 

POV: EUPHEMIA

Euphemia adjusts James’s tie with practiced ease, though the boy fidgets incessantly under her hands. “Hold still, James,” she says gently, a small smile tugging at her lips despite his squirming.

“I am holding still,” James retorts, though his shifting movements contradict him entirely.

Euphemia shakes her head fondly. “If this is you holding still, I’d hate to see what happens when you’re actually restless,” she teases.

Movement catches her eye, and she glances toward the doorway. Regulus stands there, hesitating like a shadow caught in the light, his body stiff, his gaze flickering briefly to the floor before settling somewhere indistinct.

“Good morning, Regulus,” she says, softening her voice and offering a kind smile. “Come on in. Are you hungry?”

He shifts awkwardly but doesn’t reply, his silence as heavy as the boy’s small frame. Euphemia doesn’t push.

“I’ll make you some toast, shall I?” she offers lightly, keeping her tone casual. When he doesn’t object, she steps toward the counter, slipping bread into the toaster. The small task feels grounding.

Behind her, James groans dramatically as she tightens his tie. “There,” she says, giving him a gentle nudge. “Go find your shoes before you’re late.”

James bounds out of the kitchen, muttering something under his breath about where he might have left them. The kitchen quiets, save for the soft hum of the toaster. Euphemia turns her attention back to Regulus, noticing the loose knot of his tie.

“Do you need help with yours?” she asks, nodding toward the fabric hanging around his neck.

He hesitates for a moment before giving a quick, uncertain nod, his eyes still fixed somewhere near the floor.

Euphemia steps closer, her movements deliberate and unhurried. “Chin up,” she says gently, gesturing for him to lift his head.

He obeys, and she begins to work, her fingers moving with the precision born of years of parenting. “It’s not too tricky once you get the hang of it,” she says, her voice warm and steady. The tie smooths into a neat knot under her hands, and she straightens it carefully, giving it a final tuck.

“There,” she says, stepping back. “Perfect.”

She watches as Regulus tentatively touches the knot, his fingers brushing against the fabric like he’s testing its presence. The gesture tugs at her heart, a reminder of how small and vulnerable he seems, even when he’s trying so hard to stay composed.

As he moves to sit at the table, Euphemia places a plate of buttered toast in front of him. She takes her seat across from him with her tea, observing quietly as he picks up a slice and nibbles at the edge.

The simplicity of the moment brings back a memory from yesterday morning, one that lingers sharply in her mind.

She’d stood in the same spot, near the counter, listing off breakfast options as brightly as she could: eggs, pancakes, porridge, toast. Each option had been met with silence, Regulus growing visibly tenser with every word. His shoulders had hunched, his hands twitching as they hovered uncertainly near the edge of the counter.

Euphemia had realized too late that she’d overwhelmed him. She had paused mid-sentence, taking in his panicked expression, and softened her tone immediately. “How about toast?” she’d suggested.

His small, hesitant nod had been the only answer she needed, and she had quickly prepared the toast, ensuring not to rush or make a fuss. When she’d placed the plate in front of him, he had nibbled at it, much as he was doing now.

That moment stuck with her, a quiet lesson in how easily he could be unsettled and how careful she needed to be with him.

Today, she had resolved to make things easier. She didn’t ask what he wanted for breakfast or present him with a flurry of choices. Instead, she had simply toasted the bread, spread the jam, and placed the plate on the table, ready for him before he even stepped into the kitchen.

Euphemia sips her tea now, watching him eat, her heart aching and warming in equal measure. The small, subtle nods of progress—like him sitting at the table and eating without hesitation—are victories she holds close.

“Just so you know,” she says gently, breaking the quiet, “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 slight frame growing still. She holds her breath, worried for a moment that she’s said too much or asked too directly.

But then he nods, slow and deliberate, his gaze still downcast. Relief unfurls within her, soft and steady.

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

As he nibbles on his toast again, Euphemia sits back, content to watch the moment unfold. Yesterday had been a lesson, and today, she feels a quiet reassurance that they’re finding their way, step by step.

POV: FLEAMONT

This Saturday morning began like any other. They woke up, had breakfast, and discussed their plans for the day.

But this Saturday was a little different. For starters, they had Regulus.

Fleamont remembers how, after asking Regulus what he’d like to do for their “fun day,” the boy’s face scrunched up slightly, his expression unreadable. Fleamont had chalked it up to James enthusiastically suggesting the beach before Regulus could even answer.

He, himself, wasn’t overly fond of the beach—he didn’t particularly like the sand, for one—but it was calm, relaxing, and, most importantly, not too crowded. It seemed like a safe enough choice for Regulus’ first weekend outing with them.

And that’s how they all ended up here.

The sun is warm, and the gentle crash of waves provides a soothing backdrop as Fleamont sits under the shade of their umbrella, engrossed in one of his many novels. Euphemia is a few feet away, reclining in her chair with a wide-brimmed hat shielding her from the sun, her eyes closed as though she’s dozing.

Fleamont’s focus wavers when he hears James’ voice, bright and insistent.

“Reg,” James says again, his voice laced with so much enthusiasm, as if trying to peel Regulus from his contemptment. “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.”

Fleamont chuckles softly, turning the page of his book. But when he glances over the top of it, he notices Regulus’ expression. The boy sits stiffly on his towel, his knees drawn up to his chest, and his face looks tight, almost pained.

James, already halfway through constructing the base of his sandcastle, grins at him expectantly. But then, his son’s grin falters, morphing into a frown. His shoulders drooping slightly. “Fine,” Fleamont can just about hear James mutter, trying to sound nonchalant. “Suit yourself. I’ll make it epic without you.”

Fleamont could clearly hear the disappointment in his son’s voice. He felt bad, for his son, and he felt bad for Regulus. He can see the tension in Regulus’ posture, clearly screaming at James to stop asking. 

Poor boy , Fleamont thinks. If someone kept pestering me like that, I’d be unhappy too . 

So, he does the only thing he can think of the keep the peace. 

“Need a hand, James?” Fleamont questions, setting aside his book stands, stretches. If he’s going to make both them happy, he can put up with playing in the sand for a couple hours. 

The second he said it, James’ face lit up like a christmas tree, completely disregarding his disappointment he had briefly. “Yeah!” James all but exclaims. “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, some other ideas. 

Fleamont smiles, at his son’s excitement chuckling warmly. “All right, boss. Let’s see what we can do.”

Fleamont rolls up his sleeves and gets to work. After some time, he takes a peak over at Regulus, clearly a bit more relaxed. Fleamont’s glad he could help with that. 

James had been so caught up in his castle-building that he didn’t notice the stray shovelful of sand flying in Regulus’ direction. It wasn’t much—a clump of damp sand scattering as it landed—but the reaction was immediate.

Regulus stiffens, his breath hitching audibly. His hands hover in the air as though afraid to touch himself, his face twisting into a look of sheer panic. Fleamont freezes, his heart sinking as he watches the boy’s chest rise and fall rapidly.

He should’ve seen this coming. He should’ve told James to move the castle farther away, but he didn’t. He let himself get caught up in James’ enthusiasm, and now—now Regulus is trembling, his fingers clawing at the bits of sand clinging to his arms and legs.

Euphemia is there in an instant, moving with calm precision. She kneels in front of Regulus, speaking to him softly, her voice steady and soothing. Fleamont can’t make out the exact words, but he sees her hands gently brushing the sand off his arms, her expression full of quiet reassurance.

Fleamont stays rooted to the spot, feeling a knot of guilt twist in his stomach. He should’ve done more. He should’ve prevented this.

“It’s all right, Regulus,” Euphemia says, her voice carrying over the sound of the waves. “You’re okay. The sand is gone now. Just breathe, darling. You’re safe.”

After a moment, when Regulus seems to calm just enough to stop shaking, Euphemia looks up at Fleamont. “I think it’s time to go,” she says quietly.

Fleamont nods, his throat tight. “Get him to the car,” he says, his voice low but firm. “I’ll pack up here with James.”

Euphemia stands, guiding Regulus carefully toward the parking lot. The boy clings to her side, his head ducked low, his shoulders hunched.

James is already scrambling to gather their things, his movements frantic. “Dad, I didn’t mean to! I swear I didn’t mean to!” His voice cracks, and he looks at Fleamont with wide, panicked eyes. “I—I didn’t think—oh no, did I hurt him?”

Fleamont kneels beside his son, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “James, listen to me,” he says, keeping his voice calm. “It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Fleamont interrupts gently but firmly. “You didn’t mean to upset him. These things happen. Regulus just…gets overwhelmed sometimes. It’s not because of you, all right?”

James nods, though his brow remains furrowed, guilt still etched across his face. Together, they finish packing up, Fleamont taking extra care to ensure everything is accounted for while James carries the lighter bags back to the car.

By the time they’re all seated in the car and pulling away from the beach, Regulus is curled up in the backseat, staring out the window with glassy eyes. Euphemia sits beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

Fleamont grips the steering wheel a little tighter than usual, his jaw clenched as he drives. The image of Regulus panicking replays in his mind, and the guilt he’s been trying to suppress bubbles back up.

He should’ve done more to prevent this. Should’ve thought ahead, been more mindful of where James was building the castle.

I’ll do better , he thinks silently, glancing at Regulus in the rearview mirror. I have to.

POV: EUPHEMIA

Euphemia remembers how her heart clenched when she crouched down in front of Regulus on the beach, his breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. His small frame was trembling, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if he were trying to block out the world. The grains of sand stuck to his skin seemed like an unbearable weight to him, and she could see the sheer panic in his wide, tear-filled eyes.

“It’s okay, darling,” she murmured softly, keeping her tone as calm and steady as possible, though inside, her heart ached for him. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

She remembers gently wiping the sand off his hands, careful not to overwhelm him further. Slowly, his breathing began to even out, though his grip on her arm remained tight.

“I think it’s time to head home,” she said softly, brushing a strand of dark hair out of his face. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet, alright?”

Regulus didn’t say a word, but the way he clung to her as she stood told her everything she needed to know. He pressed his face into her side, his small hands clutching at the fabric of her dress as she led him toward the car. She remembers how light he felt as she helped him climb into the backseat, how his movements were sluggish, as if he were drifting in and out of consciousness.

“Let’s get you buckled up,” she whispered, her voice gentle as she guided his hands away from his chest long enough to fasten the seatbelt. His head lolled against the seat, and though his eyes remained open, they were distant, unfocused.

Once they were home, Euphemia remembers how carefully she coaxed him up the stairs, her arm around his shoulders to steady him as he swayed on his feet. He didn’t protest when she guided him to his room, nor when she helped him sit on the edge of the bed.

For a moment, she stood there, contemplating whether she should change him into his pyjamas. But as she looked at his pale, exhausted face and his heavy-lidded eyes, she decided against it. He needed rest more than anything else.

She eased him back onto the bed, pulling the blanket over him and tucking it gently around his small frame. His breathing was already deepening, his body relaxing as sleep began to claim him. She brushed his hair back from his forehead, lingering for a moment as she whispered, “You’re safe now.”

Even after she left the room, she couldn’t stop herself from checking on him every so often. Each time she peeked in, he was still asleep, his face peaceful but so heartbreakingly fragile. She remembers the pang of worry in her chest each time she saw him, but she also felt a fierce determination to make things better for him.

By the time dinner rolled around, Euphemia had checked on Regulus at least three times, making sure he was still resting. Though she’d known he needed time and space to recover, she couldn’t help but hover, quietly reassuring herself that he was okay.

She was brought back from her memory, from the soft clinking sound of utensils against plates. Euphemia watches James out of the corner of her eye as he pushes a pile of mashed potatoes around with his fork, barely eating. It isn’t like him to be so subdued at the table. Normally, he’s chattering away about school or the latest soccer match he’s followed.

Finally, James breaks the silence. “Mum, Dad…” His voice is hesitant, and he keeps his gaze fixed on his plate. “I just… I’m sorry about what happened at the beach. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident, I swear.”

Euphemia exchanges a quick glance with Fleamont before setting her fork down. She leans forward slightly, her voice soft but firm. “James, it’s okay. We’re not upset with you.”

James looks up at her, his eyes wide with guilt. “But I made Regulus panic! I wasn’t paying attention, and—”

“James.” She cuts him off gently but firmly, reaching across the table to place a reassuring hand on his. “It was an accident. Your dad and I know that, and you shouldn’t feel so guilty over something you didn’t mean to do.”

James frowns, still unconvinced, his shoulders hunched. Euphemia sighs, giving his hand a small squeeze. “If you can’t let go of the guilt, perhaps the best thing to do is to apologise to him tomorrow. But you need to understand that this wasn’t your fault.”

James looks skeptical, glancing between her and Fleamont. “You really think he’d be okay with that? That he’d forgive me?”

Before Euphemia can respond, Fleamont chimes in, his voice warm and reassuring. “Regulus probably isn’t even upset about it, James. It wasn’t something you did on purpose.”

“But he’s not even at dinner,” James counters quickly.

Euphemia smiles gently. “That’s because he’s asleep, not because he’s avoiding you,” she explains.

James pauses, his lips pressed together as he considers this. “You think he’ll forgive me?” he asks again, his voice quieter this time.

Euphemia nods, her smile unwavering. “I know he will. He’ll see that you’re trying to make things right, and he’ll appreciate that. And James, I’m proud of you for taking the initiative to apologise. It shows how much you care. But you also need to understand that it wasn’t your fault. Regulus reacted the way he did because that’s how he responds to certain things. You couldn’t have known.”

For a moment, the table falls into silence. James stares at his plate, processing her words. Eventually, he nods, his shoulders relaxing just a little. “Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you”

“You’re welcome,” Fleamont reaches over and ruffles James’ hair lightly. “And, James, we’re always going to reassure you when we know something was an accident. None of us are perfect, and it’s not fair for you to carry guilt for something that was out of everyone’s control.”

He leans back in his chair, his tone thoughtful. “The best way to move forward is to apologise to Regulus if it’ll help you feel better. But I think you’ll find he’s not holding this against you.”

James nods again, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Okay. I’ll apologise when he’s awake.”

“Good,” Euphemia says, squeezing her hand tighter on James’. “And, James, we love you, ok?”

James blushes slightly. “I know,” he whispers, “love you too.”

With that, the tension seems to lift from the room. James picks up his fork again, and the three of them settle back into the rhythm of their meal, the earlier unease replaced with a quiet sense of understanding.

POV: FLEAMONT

“I’ll get it,” he says, pushing back his chair and heading towards the door. Fleamont pulls the door open, and there stands Sarah—clipboard in hand, wearing her usual tailored blazer and warm, professional expression.

“Fleamont,” she greets him, her voice steady but kind. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” Fleamont replies, stepping aside to let her in. “You’re right on time.”

He gestures toward the hallway, closing the door behind her as she steps into the house. Sarah’s gaze sweeps briefly over the interior, landing on the photos lining the walls. Fleamont notices her eyes pause on one of James, his wide grin immortalized in a beach photo from last summer.

“Euphemia’s just in the kitchen,” Fleamont says, motioning for her to follow.

They enter the bright, cozy kitchen, where Euphemia looks up from setting glasses of water on the table. Her smile is polite, though Fleamont doesn’t miss the slight tightening of her shoulders.

“Sarah,” Euphemia says, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Sarah replies. “Thank you both for taking the time to speak with me before I meet with Regulus.”

James, who’s hovering near the pizza trays, takes a half step back, clearly reluctant to leave but sensing the adults-only tone of the conversation. Euphemia gives him a pointed look, and he grabs a slice of pizza before slipping out of the room with a muttered, “I’ll be in the living room.”

Fleamont catches a glimpse of Regulus still seated at the table, his posture stiff, gaze fixed on his hands.

“We can talk in the study,” he suggests, motioning toward the adjacent room.

Sarah nods, and the three of them make their way out of the kitchen. Fleamont closes the door softly behind them.

In the study, Sarah pulls out a small folder and sets it on her lap, carefully flipping through a few pages before looking up at Euphemia and Fleamont.

“How has Regulus been adjusting to being here?” she begins, her tone calm but direct. “Any signs of distress—difficulty sleeping, changes in appetite, or anything else?”

Euphemia presses her hands together, her fingers curling slightly around one another. “He’s…quiet,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “Very quiet. He hasn’t spoken to us at all yet, but we were prepared for that.”

Fleamont nods, leaning forward slightly. “We’ve tried to create an environment where he doesn’t feel pressured to speak. He keeps to himself and spends a lot of time in his room. But he’s been eating, and he’s completing his school assignments without issue.”

Sarah jots a note down, her expression neutral but attentive. “And James?” she asks, glancing up. “How has he been handling having Regulus here?”

Euphemia lets out a soft sigh, her gaze flickering to Fleamont before answering. “James…means well,” she begins delicately. “But Regulus has avoided interacting with him altogether. He won’t join in on anything James invites him to—games, conversations, even just sitting in the same room. And he doesn’t make eye contact with anyone, not even us.”

“James has tried,” Fleamont adds. “But I think he’s realizing that Regulus needs space, and he’s trying to respect that.”

“That’s good,” Sarah replies, nodding. “It’s a difficult adjustment for everyone involved, but it’s important that Regulus has that space. He’ll engage when and if he’s ready.”

Euphemia frowns slightly. “Do you think there’s anything more we could be doing to help him feel…safe?”

Sarah pauses, considering the question. “What you’re doing now—providing structure and stability without forcing interaction—is exactly what he needs,” she says gently. “It may take a long time for him to feel comfortable enough to engage, and that’s okay. The most important thing is that he knows you’re there for him, no matter what.”

Fleamont feels a flicker of relief at her reassurance, though a tight knot of worry still lingers in his chest. “He’s been through so much,” he murmurs. “We just want him to know he doesn’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

Sarah gives him a small, understanding smile. “And he will. In time.” She glances at her notes again. “How has he been emotionally? Any signs of distress—withdrawal, repetitive behaviors, or heightened reactions to certain stimuli?”

Euphemia hesitates. “He does get overwhelmed,” she admits. “Crowds, loud noises, sudden changes…those seem to unsettle him the most. We’ve been trying to keep things quiet and predictable for him.”

Fleamont nods. “When he’s overwhelmed, he tends to retreat to his room. We’ve learned to give him space when that happens.”

Sarah makes another note. “That’s good to know. It sounds like you’re both being incredibly mindful of his needs, and that will make a difference.”

Euphemia doesn’t respond immediately, her expression pensive. Fleamont reaches over, briefly resting a hand on hers.

After a few more questions, Sarah closes her folder and stands, smoothing out the front of her blazer. “Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions. I know this isn’t easy, but it sounds like you’re both doing a wonderful job.”

Fleamont rises and gestures toward the kitchen. “I’ll take you to him.”

They walk back to the kitchen, where Regulus is still seated at the table, his hands resting stiffly in his lap. His gaze is fixed on the table in front of him, and he doesn’t look up even as they approach.

“Hello, Regulus,” Sarah says gently, lowering herself into the chair across from him. She sets her folder on the table, her movements deliberate and calm. “Do you mind if we talk for a little while?”

Regulus doesn’t respond, doesn’t even glance in her direction. His shoulders are drawn tight, and his fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his jeans.

Sarah doesn’t seem fazed. “That’s okay,” she says softly. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I’ll just ask you a few questions, and you can nod or shake your head if you’d like. Does that sound alright?”

Regulus hesitates for a long moment, his hands flexing slightly before returning to their rigid position. Finally, he gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

“We’ll give you two some privacy,” Euphemia says quietly, her voice laced with concern. She touches Fleamont’s arm, and together they step out of the room.

Fleamont glances back just before the door closes, his chest tightening at the sight of Regulus, still so small and stiff, facing Sarah across the table.

Later, Sarah enters the kitchen, her expression is neutral, professional. “Thank you both,” she says, her tone reassuring. “He’s doing well. I’ll be back next week for another check-in.”

Fleamont walks her to the door, exchanging a few more pleasantries before she steps outside and heads down the front steps. He closes the door behind her, exhaling deeply.

When he returns to the table, the smell of homemade pizza greets him. Plates and napkins are still set out, but now James is seated, animatedly recounting some story, and Euphemia is smiling faintly as she listens.

Regulus is sitting quietly at the table, but there’s something different about him now. His posture is less rigid, his shoulders less tense. He’s even nibbling on a slice of pizza, his gaze flitting between James and the table.

Fleamont sits down, watching the scene unfold. For the first time all evening, Regulus doesn’t look like he’s bracing for impact.

And that, Fleamont thinks, is progress.

***

Fleamont is stepping out of his place of work, his mind already drifting toward what he’s going to order for his late lunch, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, glancing at the screen, and his brows lift slightly when he sees Euphemia’s name. He swipes to answer on the second ring.

“Euphemia?” he says, his tone light but steady, though the urgency of her call gives him pause.

“Fleamont, the school just called,” she says in a rush, her words tumbling over one another. “The principal wants us to come down immediately. He said there’s been an incident.”

Fleamont stiffens, his grip tightening on the phone. “An incident?” he repeats, his voice dropping into a tone of calm concern. He can hear the tension in Euphemia’s voice, the way it quavers ever so slightly. “Did he say what happened?”

“No,” she says, and he can hear the sound of her pacing in the background. “He wouldn’t tell me. He just said both of us need to come right away.” She exhales sharply, her breathing uneven. “Fleamont, what if James—what if he—”

“Euphemia.” He cuts her off gently but firmly, his voice a steady anchor. “Take a deep breath. We don’t know anything yet.”

There’s a pause, and he can imagine her standing there, trying to collect herself.

“I’ll meet you there,” he continues, already moving toward the door, his bag swinging behind him as he grabs his keys.

“All right,” she says, though her voice wavers just slightly.

“Good. I’m leaving now. Drive safe, love.”

“I will. See you soon,” she replies before the call ends.

Fleamont lowers the phone, slipping it back into his pocket as he strides toward his car. The words "incident" and "both of us" echo in his mind, a weight settling over his chest. It isn’t like Euphemia to panic, not unless she has a reason. Whatever this is, it’s serious enough to make her unravel, even a little.

Fleamont strides down the school hallway, his polished shoes clicking softly against the tile floor. His mind races as he approaches the principal’s office, his thoughts circling around James. Euphemia hadn’t mentioned specifics, but given James’s penchant for mischief, Fleamont is already imagining the kind of prank that could have warranted an urgent meeting. 

He rounds the corner and sees the principal’s door slightly ajar. Taking a steadying breath, he pushes it open and steps inside.

“Fleamont,” Euphemia says softly, rising halfway from her seat. She looks anxious, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. But it’s not her or the principal that immediately catches his attention—it’s Regulus.

The boy is sitting stiffly in the chair next to Euphemia, his arms folded tightly across his chest as if trying to make himself smaller. His face is pale, and he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, his expression a careful mask of neutrality that doesn’t quite hide the tension radiating off him.

Fleamont blinks, momentarily thrown. Not James. Regulus.

“Hello, Mr. Potter,” the principal says, rising from his desk. He’s a tall, serious-looking man with a kind but firm demeanor.

Fleamont nods briefly, his confusion still lingering as he steps further into the room. Euphemia gestures subtly to the empty chair on Regulus’s other side, and Fleamont moves to take it, lowering himself carefully into the seat.

“Regulus,” he says quietly, his tone gentle as he glances at the boy. But Regulus doesn’t look up.

Fleamont’s stomach twists. Whatever this is, it’s clearly weighing on the boy, and it doesn’t seem like a simple misunderstanding.

The principal clears his throat, drawing their attention. “Thank you both for coming on such short notice,” he begins, folding his hands on the desk in front of him.

Fleamont leans forward slightly, his focus sharpening. Euphemia shifts beside him, her shoulders rigid, but she doesn’t speak, waiting for the explanation they’ve both been desperate to hear.

The principal glances at Regulus, then back at the Potters. “I’m afraid we need to discuss an incident that has occurred today.”