Somehow, No Matter How Hard He Tries, He will Always be the One Blamed
He’s not sure how it gets to this point. With him, sitting here in the principal’s office, waiting on Mr. and Mrs. Potter. But Regulus can say this—somehow, no matter how hard he tries, he will always be the one blamed… even when it isn’t his fault.
It’s a sign, really. A sign that he has a bad luck charm looming over his head. Because, if he thinks about it, the majority of his incidents revolve around one thing—Sarah’s visits. It’s like seeing her curses him, like she carries all the bad luck in the world and leaves it with him every time she walks out the door.
Maybe that’s not fair. Maybe it isn’t even true. But right now, sitting stiffly in the too-bright office with the ticking clock drilling into his skull, it’s the only explanation that makes sense.
It happened last time, too.
Regulus kept his eyes on the table, tracing the faint scratches in the wood with his gaze. His hands were folded stiffly in his lap, fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans. He hated this—being watched, being asked questions, being expected to answer.
Sarah sat across from him, lowering herself into the chair with deliberate, measured movements. She set her folder on the table and folded her hands over it. “Hello, Regulus,” she said gently. “Do you mind if we talk for a little while?”
Regulus didn’t respond. He didn’t move. His shoulders were drawn tight, the kitchen suddenly feeling too small, too quiet.
Sarah didn’t push. “That’s okay,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I’ll just ask a few questions, and you can nod or shake your head if that’s easier. Does that sound alright?”
Regulus hesitated, his fingers curling slightly. If he ignored her, she wouldn’t go away. That wasn’t how this worked. If anything, silence would only make her ask more questions. After a moment, he gave the smallest nod.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. and Mrs. Potter exchange a glance. “We’ll give you two some privacy,” Mrs. Potter said gently. She touched Mr. Potter’s arm, and together they stepped out of the room, leaving him alone with Sarah.
The refrigerator hummed, the only sound filling the silence.
Sarah flipped open her folder, scanning the pages before looking back at him. “How have things been for you here?”
Regulus shrugged.
Sarah didn’t react, just nodded like that was a perfectly fine answer. “Are you getting along with everyone?”
Another shrug.
James was… fine, most of the time. He liked Mr. and Mrs. Potter. They didn’t yell, didn’t get mad when he struggled to answer questions or forgot to look at them when they spoke. But it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t last. Homes never did.
Sarah marked something down. “Has anything happened this week that’s made you feel upset or uncomfortable?”
Regulus tensed.
The laughter at school. Colin and his friends whispering when they thought he wasn’t listening. The pushing, the teasing.
His fingers twitched in his lap. He shook his head.
Sarah watched him for a moment but didn’t push. “Are you sleeping okay?”
Another shrug. Sometimes he slept. Sometimes he didn’t.
She made another note. “Are you eating enough?”
Regulus hesitated, then nodded. He ate when he had to. When Mrs. Potter reminded him.
Sarah studied him carefully. “Do you feel safe here?”
Safe.
The word stuck in his head.
No one yelled at him here. No one grabbed his arm too hard. No one told him to stop being difficult, stop acting out, stop being strange. But safe?
Safe wasn’t the right word.
But he nodded anyway. It was the answer she wanted.
Sarah paused, barely a second, before marking something down.
Regulus pressed his hands flat against his jeans, his breathing steady. He just had to get through this. Just a little longer, and it would be over. Then she’d leave, and he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.
Wouldn’t have to think about that feeling he hated most. The feeling like he was being talked about without being in conversations. Like they were all trying to solve a puzzle where he was the missing piece.
And now, here he is, just a day later, sitting in the principal’s office again, as if Sarah’s visit had set something terrible into motion.
He sighs quietly, pressing his hands together in his lap, his fingers curling into his palm. He already knows how this will go. The Potters will walk in, the principal will talk, and somehow, in someway, this will end up being his fault.
Regulus remembers how his brother always got into trouble. Sirius.
Maybe it isn’t his fault he’s sitting here. Maybe it’s Sirius’. After all, Sirius is the one responsible for tearing their family apart. They were supposed to be a happy, loving family. That’s what Mother always said. That’s what she always wanted. But Sirius ruined it. Sirius caused it. Sirius destroyed it.
And now, here Regulus is, following in his footsteps—not by choice, of course, but by some cruel twist of fate. No matter how much he tries to stay out of trouble, to keep quiet and follow the rules, somehow, he still ends up here. Just like him.
The thought makes his stomach turn. He stares at his hands, pressing his fingers into his palm hard enough to leave marks. He doesn't want to be like Sirius. He doesn't want to be sitting here. He wants to be good. But no matter how much he tries, it never seems to be enough.
The phone call had been the worst part.
Regulus sat stiffly in the too-large chair, his hands clenched in his lap, fingers digging into the fabric of his sweater. The office was too bright, too quiet, the tick of the clock drilling into his skull like a hammer. His stomach twisted itself into knots, the weight of the principal’s presence pressing down on him like a heavy stone.
He kept his eyes on the floor, staring at the dull shine of the linoleum, willing himself to disappear.
The chair across from him creaked as the principal, a graying man with deep lines around his mouth, leaned forward and reached for the phone on his desk. Regulus didn’t look up. He knew what was coming.
The soft clatter of buttons being pressed filled the silence, followed by the steady ringing of a call being placed. Each chime made Regulus’ chest tighten further, his pulse a steady thud in his ears.
Then, a click.
"Mrs. Potter? This is Principal McMillian."
Regulus squeezed his hands together, fingers pressing into his palm, hard enough to leave marks.
"I’m calling in regards to your child," the principal continued, his voice carefully neutral. "There has been an incident. I believe we need to discuss it in person."
A pause. Muffled words on the other end of the line. Regulus couldn’t make them out.
"Yes," the principal said. "As soon as possible, if you’re able."
Another pause. Regulus kept his gaze fixed on the floor, counting the speckles in the tile. One, two, three, four—
"Thank you," the principal said, his chair creaking as he leaned back. "We’ll see you soon."
The line went dead with a soft click.
Regulus swallowed against the lump in his throat. He didn't move, didn't lift his head. The principal sighed, setting the phone back in its cradle with a quiet clack.
"She'll be here shortly," he said, his voice still calm, still steady.
Regulus said nothing.
The clock on the wall ticked on.
And all he could do was wait.
Maybe, if Sirius had never done what he had done, things would be different. Maybe, if Sirius hadn’t turned his back on their family, Regulus wouldn’t have ended up here, in a strange school, with strangers who were trying too hard to make him one of them. Maybe, if Sirius hadn’t been so selfish, Regulus wouldn’t feel like he was falling into the same mistakes.
He tightens his fists. He refuses to be like him. He refuses.
But is Regulus really like him?
After all, they have different names. He is Regulus Arcturus, and his brother is Sirius Orion.
Sirius is named after the brightest star in the sky, the one that burns hot and reckless, the one that refuses to be ignored. It makes sense—Sirius was always loud, always drawing attention to himself, always causing trouble just to see how much he could get away with. He liked the chaos, the rebellion. He wanted to fight back. Even his middle name, Orion, came from their father, tying him to a legacy that Sirius never wanted but still carried, whether he liked it or not.
Whereas Regulus… Regulus is named after a smaller star. A guiding star, Mother had said once. A leader. His name was meant to mean something, to carry a weight that he was supposed to live up to. Even his middle name, Arcturus, belonged to their grandfather—a man Regulus had never met but had always heard was strong, dignified, unwavering.
Regulus had clung to that when he was younger, had told himself that he was meant to follow the path laid out for him. He was supposed to be good, quiet, obedient. He wasn’t like Sirius.
Except… if that was true, then why is he here?
His fingers dig into his sleeves, gripping the fabric tight as he stares at the floor. He knows Sirius actually caused trouble. He did it on purpose, testing limits, pushing boundaries, laughing in the face of authority just because he could. Regulus, for one, had never done that. He followed the rules, did what he was told, and yet—he’s still sitting in the principal’s office, waiting for his guardian to come collect him like some misbehaving child.
It’s unfair.
The door creaks open, and Regulus stiffens instinctively. His stomach twists as he watches Mrs. Potter step inside.
She doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t even look disappointed. There’s concern in her eyes, a softness in the way she scans the room before settling her gaze on him. He drops his head, feeling his ears burn. He doesn’t know what’s worse—the possibility that she might be upset with him or the fact that she isn’t.
She steps forward, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor, and lowers herself into the chair beside him. “Good afternoon, Principal McMillian,” she says, polite but firm. Her voice is steady, not tense or frustrated. Regulus risks a quick glance at her from beneath his lashes.
The principal, a graying man with deep lines around his mouth, nods in acknowledgment. “Mrs. Potter, thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
“Of course,” she replies smoothly. “Fleamont is on his way. He got caught up at work but should be here shortly.”
Regulus curls his fingers into the hem of his sweater, gripping the fabric tightly. The room is too quiet, too waiting. His stomach knots tighter, and he swallows hard, forcing himself to keep still.
Mrs. Potter shifts slightly, angling herself toward him, but she doesn’t touch him, doesn’t try to force him to meet her gaze. Instead, she waits, giving him space, and something about that makes his chest ache. He doesn’t know what to say.
Saying is one thing, seeing is another.
The car door shut behind him with a dull thunk, the sound swallowed by the steady hum of the morning rush. Regulus adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, staring up at the school’s entrance. The sky was a washed-out blue, the early June sun already casting warm patches of light over the pavement. He shifted on his feet, steadying himself, then started walking.
The school grounds were busy, students moving in clusters, voices overlapping in an indistinct buzz. Regulus kept his gaze down, focusing on each step, the scuffed tips of his shoes tapping lightly against the concrete. He had almost reached the front doors when a shoulder slammed into his, knocking him off balance.
His bag was yanked off his shoulder before he even had time to react.
“Waas up, Freak” a voice sneered.
His stomach twisted. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
Colin.
Regulus froze, every muscle in his body tensing. Colin swung his bag mockingly from one hand to the other, a smirk curling on his face. Behind him, Oliver and Ben snickered, their eyes alight with cruel amusement.
“You in a hurry or something?” Colin asked, tilting his head in fake curiosity. He tossed the bag to Oliver, who caught it easily.
Regulus clenched his fingers at his sides. His heart hammered, but he stayed still.
Colin hummed, pretending to think. “Y’know, it’s weird seeing you all alone. Usually got your fierce protectors hanging around, don’t you?”
Oliver chuckled. “Not today, though.”
Ben grinned. “Shame.”
Regulus’ throat felt tight. He focused on the ground, on the cracks in the pavement, the uneven texture beneath his shoes. He wouldn’t react. That’s what they wanted.
Colin sighed dramatically. “Not even gonna try to get it back?” He shook his head. “No fun.”
A voice cut through the laughter.
“Everything alright here?”
Regulus’ breath caught. He turned his head slightly, just in time to see James approaching.
James wasn’t looking at him, though. His gaze was fixed on Colin, his expression unreadable. He stood tall, casual but assessing, hands in the pockets of his school trousers.
Regulus’ stomach twisted painfully.
Colin barely hesitated before breaking into an easy grin. “Yeah, everything’s alright!” he said brightly. He threw an arm around Regulus’ shoulders, squeezing too tightly. “Just hanging with our new buddy.”
Regulus stiffened, his chest constricting painfully.
James’ eyes flickered toward him. Regulus wished, desperately, that he would see, that he would notice.
But James just nodded. “Alright, then,” he said easily. “See you later, Reg.”
Regulus felt his chest cave in.
James walked off without a second glance.
The moment he was gone, Colin shoved Regulus away with a laugh. “Merlin, that was too easy.”
Oliver snorted. “Didn’t even question it.”
Regulus stayed silent, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
“Here,” Colin said, tossing the bag carelessly at his chest. Regulus barely caught it, his fingers closing tightly around the strap. Colin leaned in slightly, his smirk still in place. “Better hurry up, yeah? Wouldn’t want to be late.”
Then, just like that, they were gone, their laughter trailing behind them.
Regulus stood there for a moment, frozen, his grip white-knuckled around the strap of his bag. His throat burned. He forced himself to inhale slowly, then turned and made his way inside.
He hated this place.
He hated himself.
And, more than anything, he hated that he had actually thought James would help.
Speaking is a difficult task, Regulus has found. Forming sentences in front of people he doesn’t know feels impossible, like trying to force words through a locked door. Sirius once told him it would be his downfall—not being able to communicate—but Sirius doesn’t, couldn’t, understand the suffocating pressure that comes with speaking.
Their mother never forced him to. Regulus thinks she preferred it that way. She was always so gentle with him, treating him like a fragile glass ornament that might shatter at the slightest touch.
French has always been easier. Safer. Maybe because it was his first language, or maybe because, when his mother spoke it, her voice was so elegant, so carefully measured, that it made everything sound softer. Safer. Even when the words themselves weren’t kind, even when they carried the weight of expectations too heavy for him to hold, there was something in the way she spoke that made the world feel a little more structured. A little more predictable.
But here, in this office, surrounded by English words that feel too sharp and too heavy in his mouth, Regulus stays silent. He keeps his head down, fingers curling into the hem of his sweater, trying to ground himself in the fabric’s texture. He can feel Mrs. Potter’s presence beside him, steady and patient, but it does little to ease the tightness in his chest.
The door opens again.
Regulus doesn’t need to look up to know it’s Mr. Potter. He hears the steady sound of his footsteps, followed by the slight scrape of a chair being pulled out beside him. A new warmth settles at his left—not suffocating, not pressing, just there.
Mrs. Potter murmurs something, but Regulus doesn’t catch the words. His ears are ringing. His fingers press together in his lap, counting the points of contact. One, two, three, four—
“Hello, Mr. Potter,” the principal says, rising briefly from his desk.
Regulus knows he should look up, acknowledge what’s happening, but he can’t. He keeps his head down, keeps counting.
Mr. Potter’s voice is quiet but steady as he replies. “Thank you both for coming on such short notice.”
Regulus stares harder at his hands. He hears the soft creak of the chair as Mr. Potter sits, hears the weight of silence settle between them. He doesn’t know what they’re expecting from him. Doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.
“Regulus,” Mr. Potter says, voice still gentle.
Regulus swallows. He doesn’t respond.
Regulus presses his fingers together tighter. He barely registers the way Mr. Potter exhales, slow and measured.
Regulus’ stomach twists painfully. He still doesn’t look up. He doesn’t know what’s worse—that they aren’t angry, or that they came at all.
Regulus was angry though, hurt even more so.
Regulus sat at the far end of the science lab, hands folded neatly in his lap, his shoulders hunched slightly inward. The air smelled sterile, a mix of disinfectant and something vaguely metallic.
The lesson had started normally enough. The class had been assigned a biodiversity experiment—identifying different plant species from images on the iPads and recording their characteristics. Simple.
It would have been simple.
Except the teacher had paired him with Colin and his friends.
Regulus had known it would go badly the moment their names were read out. It always did.
He kept his gaze fixed on his iPad, trying to focus on the pictures, on the task, on anything but the snickering whispers beside him.
“Hey, what’s that?”
Regulus barely had time to react before Colin reached toward his desk. His book—Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief, the one Mr. Potter had picked out for him, had bought just for him—had been sitting beside his iPad. Regulus had been reading it before class started, careful with every turn of the page.
Now, it was in Colin’s hands.
Regulus’ stomach dropped.
Colin turned it over, his fingers pressing too hard into the cover. “Percy Jackson? What even is this? A baby book?”
Regulus tensed. He wanted to snatch it back, but his hands wouldn’t move.
“Looks brand new,” one of the others said, peering over Colin’s shoulder.
“Not for long,” another chuckled.
Regulus’ chest went tight as Colin flipped through the pages, bending the spine, smudging the corners with his fingers. One of his friends nudged the book, making it crumple slightly in Colin’s grip.
Regulus reached for it, but Colin pulled it just out of his grasp.
"What's the big deal?" Colin asked, grinning. "Oh—wait." He leaned in, mock surprise on his face. "Are you gonna cry?"
A sharp breath hitched in Regulus’ throat.
The others laughed.
"Aww," one of them taunted. "Are you a baby?"
The heat rose fast—his face burning, his chest aching, the pressure behind his eyes unbearable. He could feel it building, the horrible, suffocating weight of it.
Then—
A sharp clatter.
Regulus barely had time to process the movement before cold liquid seeped across his desk, creeping toward his iPad, his bag—his book.
"Oops," one of Colin’s friends said, not even trying to sound apologetic.
Regulus snatched his book away too late. Water soaked into the cover, bleeding into the edges of the pages, warping them. His hands trembled as he wiped at it uselessly, but the damage was already done. The once-pristine book, the one he had been so careful with, was ruined.
The laughter around him only grew.
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped against the floor. The laughter didn’t stop, but it faded beneath the noise of students gathering their things.
Colin tossed the book onto Regulus’ desk carelessly, the cover bent where his fingers had pressed too hard.
Regulus grabbed it with trembling hands, shoving it into his bag without checking the damage.
Then, before anyone could say anything else, before he could fall apart right there in front of them—
He ran.
The office is too bright. The artificial light glares down from above, harsh and unrelenting, making the room feel even smaller than it already is. Regulus stares at the floor, hands curled into his lap, fingers pressing into the hem of his shirt. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, pressing against his ears like cotton.
His parents had always been tough on Sirius. No matter what he did, Sirius always received some sort of punishment. If he stayed out too late, he was grounded. If he talked back, he was locked in his room. If he failed a test, his mother would take his things away—his guitar, his headphones, his books, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. It never mattered how small the infraction was.
And his father—his father had always been especially hard on Sirius. Regulus remembers the sharp crack of Orion’s voice, the cold edge to his reprimands, the way his hands gripped too tight. He remembers the way his mother used to stand there, silent and still, watching it happen, her face unreadable. She never stopped it. She never interfered.
But it had never been like that for Regulus.
To his parents, Regulus was the golden child. The favourite. He had never endured the same treatment, never felt the brunt of their anger the way Sirius had. They praised him for his quiet obedience, for following the rules, for being everything Sirius wasn’t. He had been safe. Untouched.
Until now.
Now, he’s sitting in the principal’s office, waiting for the inevitable disappointment, the anger, the something that has to be coming. Because it always comes. It has to.
The door clicks softly as it closes. Mrs. Potter sits beside him, hands folded in her lap. Mr. Potter lowers himself into the chair to his left. Neither of them speak. They don’t yell. They don’t look at him with anger or frustration or even disappointment.
They are calm. Too calm.
It makes his stomach twist.
The principal clears his throat, breaking the silence. “I’m afraid we need to discuss an incident that has occurred today.”
Regulus keeps his eyes down.
Mrs. Potter shifts slightly beside him. “An incident?” she asks, voice steady.
The principal exhales. “More like an altercation.”
Mr. Potter leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “An altercation?” he repeats. “Over what?”
Regulus swallows hard. The way they speak, the way they react—it’s wrong. Off. Where is the anger? The immediate assumption that this is his fault? Where is the disappointment, the punishment?
They aren’t angry.
They aren’t even upset.
It’s odd. Weird. Unsettling.
His stomach churns. The quiet concern in their voices, the steady patience—it makes him feel sick.
He wants them to be angry. He expects them to be angry. If they were, at least it would make sense. At least he would know what to do, how to prepare. But this? This strange, patient calmness?
He doesn’t know how to handle this.
He grips the hem of his shirt tighter and stares at the floor, waiting for the inevitable shift, for the moment everything snaps into place and things go back to how they’re supposed to be.
But it doesn’t come.
And that, somehow, is even worse.
What transpired during break, though, was even worse.
Regulus stood at his locker, hands shaking as he carefully placed his ruined book inside. His fingers lingered on the warped cover for a moment before he reached for his bag, still sitting inside the locker. His face was still damp, tear stains cooling against his skin. He sniffled, rubbing at his eyes quickly before focusing on the bag.
He needed something—something to calm him down before he could even think about making it to the library.
He unzipped his bag and reached in with trembling hands. His fingers curled around the soft, familiar fabric of his new stuffed black dog.
It was new, bought just recently along with the book Mr. Potter had gotten him, but it was already something that made him feel safe. Small enough to fit into his bag, but comforting all the same. The dog reminded him of his brother, of simpler times when things hadn’t been so complicated.
He clutched it close, feeling the softness of the fabric against his palm, the tightness in his chest easing a little. He focused on the dog, grounding himself enough to close his locker—
Only to freeze.
Colin and his friends stood there, blocking his path.
Regulus’ stomach dropped.
Colin grinned, his gaze flicking down to the stuffed animal in Regulus' arms. "Aw, look at this," he said mockingly. "Didn’t know you still carried around baby toys, Regulus."
Regulus tightened his grip on the plush, his pulse roaring in his ears.
One of the other boys smirked. "What's it supposed to be? A rat?"
"A dog, obviously," another snickered. "Think it reminds him of someone?"
Regulus stiffened, throat tight.
Before he could react, hands grabbed him. A sharp yank on his sleeve sent him stumbling back against the lockers, and in the same moment, another pair of hands ripped the stuffed animal from his grasp.
His breath caught.
His bag, still open in his locker, tipped forward, spilling onto the floor—pencils, notebooks, his water bottle clattering against the tile.
"Look at him," one of them snickered. "About to cry over a stupid stuffed dog."
Regulus' chest heaved, panic creeping in fast.
Colin held up the plush, turning it over in his hands. "You actually carry this thing around?" He scoffed. "No wonder you don’t have any friends."
Regulus barely heard them. His chest was too tight, his breath too shallow. He needed it back—
Colin smirked and pulled something from his pocket. A metallic glint caught the fluorescent light.
Scissors.
Regulus froze.
His stomach lurched. His hands clenched uselessly at his sides.
Colin grinned. "Let’s see what’s inside, yeah?"
A quick, deliberate snip.
Then another.
And another.
The soft fabric split beneath the blades, stuffing spilling onto the floor. Piece by piece, the plush was shredded, the seams ripped apart, its face unrecognizable.
Regulus let out a choked, strangled sound, tears spilling freely down his cheeks. His entire body trembled, every breath short and panicked.
The laughter only grew louder.
Colin held up the destroyed remains for a moment before letting them drop into the nearest bin.
"That'll teach you to keep baby things around," he said smugly.
Someone shoved Regulus lightly as they stepped past him, knocking him back against the lockers.
Then they were gone, their laughter fading down the hall.
Regulus didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
The world blurred, his breathing uneven, his hands still outstretched as if he could somehow reach for something that was already gone.
Just like his brother.
He was gone. Sirius was gone, and he was never coming back. Never.
Regulus knows—knows with absolute certainty—that it wasn’t his fault. But his. Sirius’. It was all Sirius’ fault, and no one, no one, could ever convince him otherwise.
It was Sirius’ fault that Regulus is sitting here, in this chair, in this office, with the principal’s stern voice droning on like a judge delivering a sentence. It was Sirius’ fault their family had shattered. It was Sirius’ fault for being himself.
And that—that makes Regulus feel hurt.
Hurt in a way he never thought possible. Hurt in a way a person shouldn’t hurt. A deep, aching, hollow kind of pain, like something has been ripped from him, leaving nothing but raw edges and silence where something whole used to be.
The principal clears his throat. "This altercation occurred during PE," he says, his tone clipped and professional. "I was informed by another teacher that... Regulus punched another student."
Mrs. Potter’s eyebrows lift. "Punched?" she repeats, as if the word itself doesn't quite make sense.
"Yes, punched," the principal confirms.
She exchanges a glance with Mr. Potter before turning back to the principal. "Are you sure?" she asks, skepticism laced in her voice. "That Regulus punched another kid?"
"Yes," the principal says with a nod. "There are multiple eyewitnesses."
Mrs. Potter exhales sharply. "Okay," she says, though the doubt in her voice remains.
Mr. Potter leans forward slightly. "And what, exactly, transpired for Regulus to 'punch' the other student?"
Yeah, Regulus thinks. What really happened? How could the principal possibly know?
And no matter what happened… somehow, it was all his fault.
PE was already too much. The sun was too bright, the sky too open, the field too loud with shouting voices and the sharp blasts of the coach’s whistle. The scent of grass and sweat filled the air, and the wind carried the distant chatter of other students lingering near the school building.
And now, as if the day wasn’t already unbearable, the coach had paired him with Colin and his friends—Oliver and Ben.
Regulus’ stomach churned. His fingers curled into the hem of his shirt.
Not them. Not after what they had done during break. Not after he had found his stuffed dog—his last real comfort—ripped to shreds behind the school. The soft fabric, torn apart like it was nothing. The stuffing scattered in the dirt.
He hadn’t even had time to process it before the laughter had started.
"Didn’t think you were still a baby, Black."
"C’mon, it’s just a stupid toy."
"You gonna cry about it?"
Regulus had barely been able to scoop up the ruined pieces before the bell rang, his hands shaking, his chest so tight it hurt. He hadn’t cried. Not then. Not when they sneered at him. Not when they walked away like it hadn’t even mattered.
But now, standing on the field with them again, his whole body felt wrong. His skin prickled. His breathing came too fast. The wind seemed harsher, the sunlight too sharp, the noise deafening.
Oliver clapped him on the back—too hard, too sudden. Regulus flinched.
“You paying attention, or what?” Oliver laughed.
Colin smirked. “Maybe he’s still thinking about his little toy.”
Ben grinned. “Bet he wishes he had it now.”
Their words tangled with the shouts around them, blending into a crushing wall of sound. The coach’s whistle shrieked. A ball hit the ground with a heavy thud. Someone yelled for a pass. His teammates bickered over positions. Footsteps pounded the dirt. The grass swayed, flickering in and out of focus.
Too much. Too loud. Too fast. Too much.
His breath hitched. His hands trembled. His heart slammed against his ribs.
Everything blurred.
The world splintered into fragments—shouting, movement, heat, wind, voices, laughter—spiraling, pressing, drowning him.
Then—
Impact.
A gasp. A stumble.
Regulus’ vision snapped back into focus just as Colin clutched his nose, his eyes wide with shock. Blood dripped down his face, splattering against the dry grass. Oliver and Ben took a step back, stunned. The entire field had gone silent.
Regulus blinked, his own hands still clenched into fists, his knuckles burning. His chest heaved.
He didn’t understand.
He didn’t remember.
But then the coach was striding toward him, voice tight with authority.
"Regulus Black!"
Regulus flinched. His stomach twisted. His ears rang.
And then the coach was grabbing his arm, steering him toward the school building.
"Principal’s office. Now."
The office feels too small, too stuffy, like the walls are pressing in on him. The principal’s desk is cluttered with paperwork, a half-empty cup of coffee going cold near the edge. The smell of ink and stale air clings to everything. Regulus keeps his hands in his lap, fingers twisting the hem of his shirt, his knuckles still smarting from the impact.
He can feel Mrs. Potter’s eyes on him, sharp but not unkind. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see whatever expression is on her face—concern, disappointment, confusion. He doesn’t want to see Mr. Potter either, sitting stiffly beside her, the weight of their attention pressing down on him like a second gravity.
Regulus swallows, his throat dry. He wishes he could disappear, sink into the floor, vanish like smoke. But instead, he sits, silent, waiting.
The principal leans forward, folding his hands on the desk. “Regulus,” he says, voice firm but not unkind. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Regulus doesn’t move. What is there to say? That the other kid deserved it? That he had to do something? That it felt good, just for a second, to let all the anger and pain and everything explode out of him?
He presses his lips together, staring at a spot on the desk. The principal exhales through his nose.
“Well?”
Regulus clenches his jaw. He doesn’t owe them an explanation. They wouldn’t understand anyway.
The principal sighs, rubbing his temple before straightening in his chair. “Very well, then.” His gaze shifts to Mr. and Mrs. Potter. “As you both are aware, this school has a strict no-violence policy. Regardless of the circumstances, I have no choice but to suspend Regulus for three days.”
Regulus barely processes the words at first. They slip through the haze in his mind, settling somewhere just out of reach. Three days. Suspension. Punishment. Like he did something wrong.
Mrs. Potter straightens. “Suspension? He didn’t do anything wrong!”
Mr. Potter frowns, his voice calm but edged with disbelief. “Hold on. Suspension? It sounds to me like Regulus didn’t deliberately do anything wrong. Why should he be punished for something that wasn’t intentional?”
The principal folds his hands on the desk, the picture of practiced patience. “I understand your concern,” he says, though his tone is clipped. “But intent doesn’t change the fact that another student was injured.”
Injured.
The word sticks in Regulus’ head, looping over and over like a record skipping on a broken turntable. Injured. Hurt. Because of him.
He hadn’t meant to.
Had he?
No. No, he hadn’t.
But that doesn’t matter, does it?
The principal exhales, as if this whole thing is a mild inconvenience rather than his whole life. “I was informed that Regulus struck another student, unprovoked, during PE. Several witnesses confirmed it.”
Unprovoked.
Regulus’ stomach twists violently. A sharp, hot kind of nausea rolls through him, and for a second, he thinks he might actually be sick. His jaw locks, his eyes burning, his nails digging into his palms.
Unprovoked. Like none of it mattered. Like the noise, the pressure, the taunts, the ripped-up fabric of his stuffed dog, the laughter—like it wasn’t real.
Mrs. Potter’s voice sharpens. “Did you even ask what led up to this?”
The principal barely reacts. “Regulus has not offered an explanation.”
They’re all looking at him now. Waiting. Expecting.
Regulus stays silent.
Not because he doesn’t want to speak. But because he can’t. The words aren’t there. Nothing is there except the twisting, crushing feeling in his chest and the roaring in his ears.
The principal exhales sharply, already scribbling something on a slip of paper. “Then I don’t see any reason to change my decision. Three-day suspension. Effective immediately.”
Mrs. Potter mutters something under her breath, shaking her head. Mr. Potter’s jaw tightens. “We’ll be speaking to the school board.”
Regulus doesn’t move. He doesn’t react.
He just sits there, staring at the edge of the desk, his mind looping over the same thought.
Unprovoked.
Like none of it mattered. Like what they did to him didn’t count.
Like he was the only one to blame.
***
By the time the meeting with the principal was over and Regulus had gathered his things from his locker, there were only ten minutes left until the end of the school day. The bell would ring soon, and all the students would flood out, but Regulus had already lost his place in that world. He wasn’t part of it anymore—not now, not after everything.
Mr. and Mrs. Potter had decided that Mrs. Potter would take Regulus home, and Mr. Potter would wait for James. So now, Regulus sat in the backseat of the car, his hands folded tightly in his lap, his eyes fixed on the passing scenery, though he wasn’t really seeing it. He hadn’t been at the school for long, and already he was suspended—for three days. Three days for punching someone. It was stupid. He was stupid.
Why couldn’t he just be normal? He could hear the laughter of Colin and his friends echoing in his mind, feel the heat of their whispers press against him like a physical thing. He could still see the way Colin had looked at him—smiling like it was all a joke, like he was the punchline. It hurt, and Regulus had known it would, but he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop himself. And now, here he was—driving home, suspended, knowing they were all probably thinking the same thing: he’s broken.
Maybe they were right.
Regulus clenched his jaw, his eyes burning with something like shame. There had to be something wrong with him. Something that couldn’t be fixed. No one would keep him around if they knew the truth. If they knew how easily it was for him to snap, how he couldn’t control himself when everything got too loud, too much. They’d get tired of him, of dealing with his mess. They’d see how wrong he was, how wrong he’d always been. He didn’t belong here, not with the Potters. They should hate him too. They should send him back to the orphanage, or even worse—just kick him out on the streets. That would be fair.
He didn’t deserve any of their kindness. He wasn’t good enough.
The car slows, and it takes a moment before Regulus realizes they’ve pulled into the driveway. The house. Their house. He doesn’t know how long he’s been lost in his own thoughts, but the world outside the window feels so distant now, so foreign. Mrs. Potter’s voice cuts through the fog of his mind. “We’re home, Regulus.”
Something in him breaks. It’s the smallest thing, the sound of her voice, the way she says his name with such softness, such warmth. It hits him like a wave—home, a place he doesn’t belong, but a place that’s giving him a chance. A chance he doesn’t deserve.
Before he can stop himself, the tears spill over. The knot in his throat tightens, and all the pent-up emotions—anger, guilt, shame—come pouring out. He can’t hold them in anymore. He cries, quietly at first, but it’s like a dam breaking. His breath comes in ragged sobs, the tears streaking down his face.
He doesn’t notice that Mrs. Potter has climbed into the backseat with him, her presence gentle, her touch calm as she reaches out to him. Her voice is soft, comforting, a balm against the storm inside him. “It’s okay, Regulus,” she whispers. “It’s alright. Everything is going to okay.”
But Regulus can’t stop. He’s shaking, the rawness of it all, the way she’s being kind, the way she’s not angry, just… there… it breaks something in him. The kindness that he doesn’t deserve—it’s too much.
His voice cracks, barely above a whisper, as the words tumble out, over and over, between sobs. “Je suis désolé… Je suis désolé… Je suis vraiment désolé…”He doesn’t know what he’s sorry for—everything, maybe. For himself, for what he’s done, for what he’s sure he will do again.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t pull away, doesn’t try to calm him with words that might make it better. She just pulls him closer, wrapping her arms around him, letting him lean into her warmth. Regulus doesn’t know where his courage comes from, but suddenly he’s leaning in further, pressing his head against her shoulder, still crying, still whispering sorry like it’s the only thing he can say.
And for the first time in so long, he lets himself feel something. The comforting weight of her embrace, her gentle hands running over his back, it’s enough to break through the numbness. And Regulus doesn’t know why, but he clings to it.
He clings to it like his life depends on it. Like it is the only thing making him breathe easier.
He hates himself. That much is obvious. He hates himself even more for allowing himself to seek comfort. To lean into it. It feels like a betrayal to something deep inside him, like he doesn’t deserve the warmth of her arms or the softness of her voice. But he can’t stop. He wants to, but he can’t. It’s like a boat drifting toward a lighthouse, pulled in by something stronger than he is.
Regulus isn’t sure how long they sit in the car. His thoughts blur together in a haze, and all he’s aware of is the rhythmic movement of Mrs. Potter’s hand in his hair, the soothing, constant motion. It’s nice, he thinks. It feels like nothing for a moment—just softness and warmth and... care. But that doesn’t make sense. Not for someone like him.
He doesn’t know when the car door opens, or when Mrs. Potter carefully helps him out, steadying him when his legs feel weak beneath him. Her hand is gentle on his arm, and he lets her guide him toward the house. He’s barely aware of Mr. Potter’s voice greeting them, or James’s cheerful footsteps rushing inside from the front door. All Regulus can focus on is the weight of the tears that haven’t fully stopped, the tightness in his chest, the feeling of being unmoored, of being somewhere he shouldn’t be.
Somehow, Mrs. Potter gets him into the house. She and Mr. Potter guide him into the kitchen, where he’s placed at the table. His bag is set next to him, but he doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t want to move. His fingers are stiff, his heart is heavy, and his thoughts keep spiraling. He doesn’t deserve any of this. He doesn’t deserve their kindness. He doesn’t deserve anything.
The sound of the kettle fills the air, a comforting, steady hum. Regulus barely notices it at first, lost in his own thoughts. But when the kettle clicks off and the sound of cups being filled breaks through the fog in his mind, he realizes that they are making tea. The gentle clinking of porcelain, the soft hum of conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Potter, feels like a distant echo, like he’s not fully in the room with them.
A glass of milk is placed in front of him, followed by a small plate of chocolate chip cookies. Regulus’s gaze flickers down at the treat, his stomach twisting in guilt. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve something sweet, something kind, not after what happened today—not after crying all over Mrs. Potter in the car, making her feel like she had to take care of him. He doesn’t deserve this. Not at all.
But the cookies are there, and he’s hungry, his body telling him things his mind refuses to accept. He can feel the cold of the milk against his fingertips as he wraps his hand around the glass. He doesn’t drink it yet. He doesn’t know what to do with it, or the cookies, or the feeling that everything is too much, but too little all at once.
Mrs. Potter and Mr. Potter sit down across from him, the two of them holding their cups of tea, watching him quietly. Regulus tries to focus on them, tries to ignore the knot in his throat and the way his hands feel trembling against the glass. He can’t stop the thoughts from swirling.
How long will it take for them to get tired of him? How long before they see that he’s not worth it? That he’ll never be anything but trouble, broken, always breaking things, always disappointing everyone?
“Regulus,” Mrs. Potter’s voice is soft but steady, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. But... we’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”
Her words sink into him like a weight, pulling him deeper into that familiar, suffocating feeling. The kindness they show him is too much to handle, and he doesn’t know how to bear it. He doesn’t know how to be this person they see. The person who doesn’t mess up everything, the person who is worthy of being cared for.
His throat tightens, and his eyes sting again, but this time, he doesn’t stop it. He can’t stop it. He swallows hard and then lets the tears slip out in quiet waves. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see their faces, to see the pity or the concern or the patience. He’s not worthy of their patience. Not after what he did.
He presses his forehead against the cool surface of the table, hiding his face, feeling like he might drown in everything. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want them to see him like this. He doesn’t want to need them.
But he does.
“Je suis désolé...” The words come out, barely audible, but they hang in the air, fragile and broken. “Je suis désolé...” He repeats it again, quietly, as though saying it will somehow make it better.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything at first, just watches him, her voice soft and steady when she finally speaks. “It’s okay, Regulus. It’s all right.” She reaches out again, just a gentle touch on his arm, offering the comfort he’s afraid to accept.
The words don’t fix anything. Nothing can. But when her voice is that soft, when she says it’s okay, it feels like a small piece of something he didn’t know he needed. Maybe it’s enough for now. Maybe he doesn’t have to fix everything all at once.
Regulus can’t think of anything to say, so he just leans forward, slowly, still crying, still whispering apologies he doesn’t even understand. And for the first time, he doesn’t feel the weight of his mistakes crushing him quite so much.
Is this what it feels like to be cared for? To be… to be loved?
The thought floats through Regulus’s mind, distant and alien, like a strange, foreign word that doesn’t fit into the space around him. His chest tightens at the thought, the idea of love filling him with unease, a sick churn in his stomach. He can almost taste it, like something that doesn’t belong, a foreign substance that he can’t swallow. Love. It’s so simple, yet so… overwhelming, like a weight he isn’t sure he can bear.
It makes him think of that one line he remembers from a passage in the Bible, one that keeps returning in fragments when he’s lost in his head: Love is patient, love is kind.
Mr. and Mrs. Potter have shown him nothing but patience and kindness. They’ve never faltered, not when he’s retreated into himself, not when he’s pushed them away or when he’s been impossible to talk to. They’ve never raised their voices at him, never lost their temper. Even when he does something as stupid as punching a student or crying like a helpless mess in front of them, they’ve never judged him. Instead, they keep reaching for him, gently coaxing him back, offering the very thing he thought he could never have.
Regulus’s fingers curl into the hem of his shirt, the fabric stiff and new under his touch. His breath is slow, shaky, but steadying as he lets the memory of their kindness sink in. They don’t have to do this. They shouldn’t have to do this.
But they do. They’re here. They’ve been here, from the moment he arrived, from the moment he felt so completely lost and broken. He remembers the soft, gentle words, Mrs. Potter would utter to him when everything he felt was too much. And Mr. Potter—Mr. Potter, with his easy smile, quiet demanour, who would let him sit and read in peace, who always seemed to know when Regulus needed space.
That quiet, constant patience.
It’s never been earned, not by him, at least.
But it’s always been there.
He shifts slightly, his gaze still fixed on the table, trying not to look at them too much, trying not to let the weight of their gazes press too hard into him. The kettle, now cool, still hums faintly in the background, the sound like a reminder of how simple their actions have been. The simple act of sitting with him, giving him the space to cry, offering him milk and cookies as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And in a way, maybe it is.
It’s not supposed to feel this overwhelming. He should just accept it. Just let it happen. But he can’t.
“Je suis désolé,” he whispers again, his voice trembling with the weight of everything that’s unsaid. It feels so small, so insignificant, but it’s all he can offer.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t rush to fill the silence with words, doesn’t try to push him to stop crying or stop apologizing. Instead, she lets him feel it, lets him be. It’s the kind of patience that Regulus has never known, never experienced, and it makes him want to crawl out of his skin.
Her hand is still resting lightly on his arm, a grounding presence, something that keeps him tethered. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t say anything to make it stop. She just sits with him, like she understands that sometimes, there’s nothing to say but to let the quiet moments stretch on, to let him just be.
He knows he doesn’t deserve this. He’s spent years learning that there’s something wrong with him, that there’s a limit to how much someone can tolerate, how much someone can care. His parents—his real parents—had shown him that much. He wasn’t worth the effort, wasn’t worth the space. He was always too much—too loud, too quiet, too angry, too strange. And when they gave up on him, it didn’t feel like a surprise. It felt like it was meant to happen.
But now, here, with these people who have no reason to show him the kindness they do, it’s harder to breathe. Because he should have learned by now that this doesn’t last. That nothing ever lasts. People always leave, always get tired of trying.
But they haven’t.
The realisation sits heavy on him, but there’s a small crack of something new in his chest, something fragile and tender. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s the beginnings of something that’s too terrifying to understand.
“Regulus,” Mrs. Potter says softly, pulling him out of his spiral once more. She says his name like it’s the most important thing, like he matters enough for her to say it in that way. He doesn’t know how to respond to it, but he feels something warm bloom inside him despite himself.
She doesn’t rush him. She waits. And in the waiting, Regulus can feel the tension in his chest begin to loosen, little by little. The tears slow, and for a moment, he isn’t sure if he’s ready to pull himself together yet.
But somehow, he does. He wipes at his eyes, his breath still uneven. He doesn’t look at them—can’t look at them—but he sits up straighter, still feeling like he’s holding onto something fragile, something unfamiliar.
The kindness that keeps reaching for him, even when he feels like a mess.
“You’re not alone, Regulus,” she says, her voice like a balm to the raw parts of him. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Her words settle over him like a blanket, but it’s not the same as before. This time, he doesn’t push them away. This time, he lets them settle into him, into the cracks that have always been there, into the quiet spaces he’s never allowed anyone to touch.
And for the first time, Regulus doesn’t feel so sure that he doesn’t deserve it.