To Find a Home

"Deserve" —to do something, to have or show qualities worthy of a reaction, whether reward or punishment.

In this context, for Regulus, it could mean only one of two things. One: punishment, for getting suspended. Or two: comfort.

The second feels wrong.

Not wrong in the way getting suspended was wrong, not in the way being dragged into the principal’s office with burning cheeks and clenched fists was wrong, but wrong because it doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense. Comfort isn’t what comes next. It never has been.

He’s been punished before. He knows how this should go. Raised voices, disappointment thick in the air, a punishment that lingers long after the initial crime. Maybe grounded for weeks, forced into silence, left to sit alone with his shame. Maybe worse. But never this.

Never gentle questions instead of accusations. Never a sigh instead of an outburst.

Never understanding.

His fingers tighten in his sleeves. He’s waiting for it to turn, for their patience to run out, for someone to finally snap and tell him exactly what he already knows: You messed up, Regulus. You should have known better. You deserve whatever’s coming.

But nothing comes.

Mr. Potter had only sighed—not in anger, not in frustration, just in… something else. Something unreadable.

Mrs. Potter had looked at him—not with disappointment, not with frustrations, but with concern. She had asked if he was alright. As if that matters . 

And James… James hadn’t even looked mad when he found out. Just confused. Just worried.

Regulus swallows hard, trying to make sense of it, but it slips through his fingers like sand. He isn’t used to being comforted after doing something wrong. He isn’t used to people looking at him like this—with patience, with an odd sort of understanding.

It sits heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome, because if he’s not being punished… then what is he supposed to do with this feeling?

Maybe this is just temporary. Maybe it’s a test. Maybe they’re waiting to see if he’ll break under the weight of guilt on his own.

Maybe—

He doesn’t know.

And that’s somehow worse than anything else.

Regulus remembers the first time he cried in front of his mother.

He had been seven, maybe eight, and he had dropped a teacup. Not just any teacup, but one of his mother’s favorites—a delicate porcelain piece with gold trim that she always used when hosting guests. It had shattered on impact, fragments skittering across the marble floor. His breath had hitched, panic settling in his chest as he braced himself for her reaction.

His mother had been silent at first. Then, with a soft sigh, she had crouched in front of him, her hands reaching out.

“Regulus,” she had said gently, brushing his hair back from his face. He had flinched, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of shame pressing down on him.

“You must be more careful,” she had told him, her voice calm, almost soothing. “Clumsiness is unbecoming.”

Regulus had nodded quickly, blinking back tears. His mother wasn’t angry—he should have been relieved.

She had wiped a stray tear from his cheek, her touch light, before standing and calling for Kreacher to clean up the mess. The matter was settled. No punishment. No yelling. Just a simple reminder to do better next time.

And as she walked away, Regulus had swallowed hard and forced himself to stand taller, back straight, hands at his sides. His mother expected more from him—so he would give it to her.

Regulus isn’t sure if there’s an out to this. He knows, logically, there is, but…

He’s received many different types of punishment from foster parents over the course of several months. He’s used to groundings, to being sent to his room without dinner, to being given extra chores until his hands were raw, and even to having his books taken away for weeks at a time.

What he’s not used to is what Mr. and Mrs. Potter are doing.

They’re sitting at the table with him, drinks in their hands. They aren’t yelling. They aren’t lecturing. All they are doing is sitting and waiting. They don’t even expect him to talk—at least, he assumes they don’t. But it’s weird. In every sense of the word.

The tears flowing down Regulus’ face have stopped, for now. There’s silence among them, broken only by the occasional clink of a cup against the wooden table. Mrs. Potter lightly strokes the back of his hand, a small, repetitive motion.

Comfort.

It’s strange.

He’s never received something like this. Not from anyone… not even from his own mother.

But his mother loved him. He knows this. He does. There is not a doubt in his mind that his mother loved him.

She used to let him read whatever he wanted, even when his father said certain books weren’t for children. She used to brush his hair for him at night, humming under her breath, fingers soft against his scalp. She even let him stay up past bedtime on special occasions, without any complaints.

His mother even loved his brother—even if his brother says she didn’t. She did. Regulus definitely, 100% knows this. Without a doubt.

People are just wrong.

The police were wrong—his parents, especially his mother, would never…

“Regulus?” Mrs. Potter questions, her tone gentle, as if it were laced with… something he doesn’t recognize. Something careful. Something safe.

He blinks, startled out of his thoughts, and realizes he’s been gripping his own wrist too tightly. Slowly, hesitantly, he forces his fingers to relax.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t push him to speak. She just waits, her hand still resting lightly over his.

Regulus swallows hard. His throat feels tight.

Maybe this is a punishment, in its own way. Maybe the waiting is meant to be unbearable. Maybe the silence is the consequence.

But if it is… why doesn’t it feel like one?

Regulus had been nine when he got sick.

It wasn’t anything serious—just a fever, the kind that left him weak and shivering under layers of blankets, too tired to move. His mother had checked on him once, pressing a cool hand to his forehead before sighing and reminding him not to cough too loudly. She had left soon after, heels clicking against the hardwood floor, muttering something about germs as she shut the door behind her. His father hadn’t come at all.

But Sirius had.

Regulus remembered waking up in the middle of the night, throat aching, sweat dampening his collar. The room had been dark, silent except for the faint hum of traffic outside and his own ragged breathing. Then, suddenly, there had been movement.

“Reggie?” Sirius’ voice had been hushed, cautious.

Regulus had barely managed a croaky “mmh.”

The mattress dipped a second later, and before he could protest, Sirius had climbed in beside him, radiating warmth. “You’re burning up,” he had muttered, tugging the blankets tighter around them both.

Regulus had wanted to say something—to tell Sirius to leave, that Mother would be mad if she found them like this—but he had been too tired. Too sick. So he had done nothing as Sirius shifted closer, draping an arm over him, not speaking, not moving. Just there.

And for the first time that night, Regulus hadn’t felt cold.

The next morning, Sirius had been gone, and their mother had never noticed the extra warmth lingering in Regulus’ blankets.

But Regulus had.

Regulus has always had an unusual relationship with silence.

His brother was always there to fill it—even when he never said anything. Sirius was always there, an annoying yet comfortable presence, like a shadow that refused to leave. Regulus thinks his brother always knew when he needed him most, even when Regulus didn’t want him. Even when he pushed him away.

Sirius has always been there.

Always.

In the silence of their home, when their parents' words sliced through the air, sharp and heavy, but never at Sirius. Never at him. In the silence of his mind, where his own thoughts curled around him, whispering things he wasn’t ready to hear. Even in the silence of space—because Sirius was a star, wasn't he? Burning too bright, refusing to be ignored, even when he left. Even when he wasn’t there anymore.

Regulus thinks, maybe, Sirius has never really stopped being there.

But this silence is different.

It’s not heavy. It’s not waiting for him to break. It doesn’t press down on his ribs or crawl under his skin. It just… exists. A silence that asks nothing from him. That allows him to sit, to breathe, to feel without punishment.

He doesn’t know what to do with it.

Mrs. Potter's hand is still on his, her touch so light it’s almost an afterthought. She hasn’t spoken again. She isn’t forcing him to answer. She isn’t telling him what to think or how to act or what he should be feeling.

Regulus swallows. He wants to pull away. He should pull away. But his fingers stay still beneath hers, warm and steady.

There’s something dangerous about this kind of quiet.

Something that makes his throat feel tight, his chest feel heavy.

Because it’s soft. It’s safe. It’s something he has never had and something he does not—should not—deserve.

Regulus isn’t stupid. He knows what kind of child deserves kindness, and it isn’t him. It’s children who don’t talk back. Who don’t cause trouble. Who don’t think the wrong things or feel the wrong things or need the wrong things. It’s children who are better than him.

And yet, Mrs. Potter is still here.

Still waiting.

Still treating him like he’s worth waiting for.

And in some sick twisted way, like Sirius .

But, Sirius isn’t here anymore. Sirius is gone. Just like his stuffed black dog. Destroyed . Torn to pieces . Just like him .  

Regulus shifts his gaze from his and Mrs. Potters hands, and towards his bag. Where it held him— it . His dog. The thing that made Regulus feel whole again. 

Is that what comfort is supposed to do?

Before Regulus can think more of it, Mrs. Potter’s soft, careful voice, pulls him from his mind. “Is there something inside your bag you want, sweetheart?”

Regulus doesn’t answer. He doesn’t shake his head, but he doesn’t nod either. It doesn’t matter. Mr. Potter is already reaching for the bag, pulling it toward him before Regulus can protest.

Panic prickles at the edges of his ribs, sharp and sudden. His hands curl into fists against his lap, his breathing tight. He watches—silent, motionless—as Mr. Potter unzips the bag and starts pulling things out.

First, his formal uniform. Neatly folded, pristine despite having nowhere to wear it anymore. Mr. Potter hesitates, his brows drawing together slightly, but he doesn’t comment. He just sets it aside.

Then, his fingers brush against something else. Something buried beneath the uniform.

Regulus knows what it is before Mr. Potter even pulls it out.

A ruined stuffed black dog.

The fabric is frayed, seams barely holding together. One of the button eyes is missing, leaving a hollow space where it used to be. The stuffing is uneven, lumps forming where it has been squeezed too tightly, held too often.

Mr. Potter stops moving.

His expression shifts—softening, darkening, something Regulus can’t quite place.

“What is this?” he asks, but his voice isn’t harsh. It isn’t accusing. It’s just… gentle. Too gentle.

Regulus’ throat tightens. He stares at the stuffed animal in Mr. Potter’s hands, his vision blurring slightly at the edges.

He should say something. He should take it back. He should—

But he doesn’t.

He just watches. Watches and waits, his breath slow and careful, as if anything more will make the moment crack wide open.

He watches as Mr. Potter inspects the, almost, completely unrecongisable object. Regulus can feel Mr. and Mrs. Potter’s eyes on him, trying to gauge his reaction. Trying to determine what it could be—what it was . 

Mr. Potter places the black dog onto the table with deliberate care, his fingers lingering on the worn fabric for a moment before he looks back into the bag. Regulus watches, his heart thudding dully in his chest, as Mr. Potter reaches in again.

This time, he pulls out something even worse.

A book. Or, at least, what used to be one.

Regulus knows what it is the moment he sees the tattered spine, the warped, crumbling pages. The water stains have bled the ink together, making the words unreadable. Whole sections are missing, torn from the binding, leaving jagged, empty spaces where pages should be.

Mr. Potter turns it over in his hands, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he looks back up at Regulus.

Regulus keeps his face blank. His throat aches. He clenches his jaw, willing himself not to react.

It’s fine. It’s just a book. Just things. None of it matters.

But then Mrs. Potter’s hand moves.

She rubs her other hand up and down his forearm, slow and steady. A simple touch—gentle, warm.

And it breaks him.

The tears come before he can stop them, spilling hot and fast down his face. A quiet sob wrenches its way from his throat, and then another. His breathing quickens, shaky and uneven, no matter how hard he tries to control it.

He ducks his head, hands gripping his sleeves, trying to will himself to stop—to swallow it down before it gets worse. But it’s too late. He’s already spiraling.

He doesn’t notice the arms around him at first.

Somewhere, distantly, he hears Mrs. Potter’s voice saying, “it’s okay, dear.”

A warmer, larger hand rubs up and down his back, steady and reassuring. The pressure grounds him, though he barely registers who it belongs to.

It doesn’t matter.

All that matters is the warmth, the comfort, the quiet, steady presence around him.

And for the first time in longer than he can remember, he lets himself fall into it.

***

They don’t even try to talk to him about the suspension after his breakdown. No lectures, no disappointment lingering in their voices. But Regulus knows—feels, more accurately—that something has shifted between Mr. and Mrs. Potter.

They aren’t angry with him. That much is obvious. If they were, he’d know. He’s good at recognizing that kind of thing, good at bracing himself for it. But this is different. This is something quieter, heavier. Something that sits between them like an unanswered question.

They know something.

Regulus spent the entire night staring at his ceiling, his mind running in endless circles, trying to figure out how much. Do they know what Colin—the kid he punched—and his friends had done? Or, more accurately, what they had been doing?

His fingers tighten around the blanket.

Probably not.

If they did, surely they would have said something.

Right?

Regulus exhales sharply, rolling onto his side, curling in on himself. His body aches with exhaustion, but his mind won’t let him rest.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s suspended. It’s not like he has to go to school today.

It’s stupid.

Painfully, utterly, ridiculously stupid.

It’s—

“Regulus?”

Mrs. Potter’s voice is soft, careful.

Regulus blinks up at the ceiling, willing himself to move, but his limbs feel heavy, his body sluggish with exhaustion. He spent the entire night staring at the same spot, his mind cycling through endless thoughts, but now… now he just feels drained.

The door creaks open a little farther. He doesn’t look, but he can hear her step inside, her presence quiet but certain.

“Sweetheart, are you awake?”

He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t. He still can’t, the words locked somewhere deep inside him, too tangled, too uncertain. He waits for the familiar frustration, the impatience, the demand for him to speak, but it doesn’t come. It never does with her.

There’s a pause, then the sound of soft footsteps crossing the room. He hears her settle on the edge of the bed, feels the mattress dip slightly under her weight.

“We’re going to drop James off at school soon,” she says gently. “After that, I thought you and I could go out for a bit. Just to pick up some groceries.”

Regulus frowns slightly, finally shifting his gaze from the ceiling. He turns his head just enough to see her sitting beside him, her expression as calm and steady as ever.

Going out?

It’s… unexpected. When he woke up—well, when morning finally came, since he never really slept—he assumed he’d be stuck here all day. That he’d have to stay in his room, avoiding everyone, feeling the weight of his suspension pressing down on him.

But Mrs. Potter doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t look like she wants to lecture him or drag him into some long discussion about his punishment. She just looks at him the way she always does. Like he’s a person. Like he’s worth something.

Regulus hesitates for a moment before slowly sitting up.

“Take your time,” Mrs. Potter says, patting his blanket-covered knee before standing. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”

She leaves the room without another word, giving him space, giving him the choice.

Regulus sits there for a moment, staring at the door. Then, slowly, he pulls back the covers and gets up. His limbs still feel heavy, but he moves anyway, going through the motions. Getting dressed. Running a brush through his hair. Making himself presentable.

Because she’s waiting for him. Because, despite everything, she still wants him there.

And for reasons he doesn’t quite understand, that matters.

The morning drop-off is effortless. Too easy.  

James climbs out of the car, slings his bag over his shoulder, and waves before jogging toward the school entrance. Mrs. Potter rolls down the window, calling out a quick, “Have a good day, darling!” before pulling away from the curb.

That’s it. No fuss. No tension. No hesitation.

Regulus sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window, watching the school shrink behind them. The normalcy of it unsettles him.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

He’s suspended. He’s supposed to be locked in his room, forced to “think about what he’s done.” Or worse—he’s supposed to be given a list of chores, things to scrub and clean and fix until his hands ache. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how punishment works.

But instead, he’s here. Sitting in the car. Going to the shops.

Like his suspension never even happened.

His fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeves, pressing against the material as he stares out at the world passing by. Buildings blur together, cars move like steady streams of color, and the morning sun glows golden against the glass. It’s too peaceful. Too… easy.

She has to be planning something.

Something big.

Maybe she’s waiting until they get home to lay it all out—some consequence he hasn’t considered yet. Maybe this is some sort of test, to see if he lets his guard down before she reminds him of what he’s done.

His stomach twists, uneasy.

Mrs. Potter hums softly as she drives, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. She doesn’t look angry. Doesn’t even seem the slightest bit bothered. But Regulus isn’t convinced.

This isn’t how things are supposed to go.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the window, on the endless motion of the world outside, trying to figure out what she’s up to, why she’s doing this—

The car slows.

Regulus blinks, snapping back to reality as they pull into a parking lot.

“We’re here,” Mrs. Potter says lightly, shifting the car into park.

Regulus stares out at the storefronts ahead.

Right. The shops.

Like this is just another ordinary day.

Once inside, Regulus recognises where he is. He’s been here before. He’s been to this shopping center before. 

It was his first official day with the Potters. The day he showed them who he truly is. 

But, Mrs. Potter does go straight towards the grocery store. Instead, she walks towards the same shop where he had caused a scene. 

He’s confused, as to why they’ve come into this store of all places. His stomach coils with unease, his steps slowing just slightly as Mrs. Potter leads the way.

Why are they here?

She doesn’t say anything, just walks with that same effortless ease she always carries, weaving through aisles like she knows exactly where she’s going. Regulus follows, his shoulders tense, bracing himself.

And then she stops.

Right in front of the toy section.

His breath hitches.

Mrs. Potter scans the shelves before plucking something from one of them—a small, stuffed black dog.

The same one.

She holds it up slightly, tilting her head as she looks at him. “Is this the one you picked last time?”

Regulus swallows, nodding once.

His mind races.

She’s not really going to buy him another one. Is she?

He keeps his expression carefully neutral, but his fingers twitch at his sides.

Mrs. Potter hums in acknowledgment, then continues walking, black dog still in hand. Regulus hesitates before following, more wary than before.

She stops again, this time in the book section. Her eyes scan the shelves, and she glances at him. “Which one were you reading?”

Regulus hesitates, then steps forward, lifting a hand to point at the book on the shelf.

Mrs. Potter nods, picking it up. “Were you almost finished with it?”

He flushes. Another nod.

She hums again, thoughtful, then looks around the shelf before pulling out something else—a box set.

Regulus blinks, staring at the title.

Percy Jackson & The Olympians.

Mrs. Potter holds the box set in one hand, then turns to him, pressing the black dog against his chest for him to hold. “Alright,” she says simply.

Regulus grips the stuffed animal tightly, just staring at her.

Alright?

That’s it?

Why would she buy him a brand-new dog— again —and an entire box set of books?

His mind whirls, trying to make sense of it, to find the catch, the hidden condition. But there’s nothing. Just Mrs. Potter, carrying the books to the register like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He follows, still clutching the dog, still questioning, still searching for some explanation that makes sense.

Because, this, doesn’t make sense. He got his original black dog destroyed, he got his book ruined—granted he didn’t do them himself, but still. He doesn’t deserve this. Regulus doesn’t deserve to get a new black dog and an entire box set of books. 

He just doesn’t. 

She pays for the things without hesitation, then leads him out, toward the grocery store.

When they reach the store, she pulls out a cart and places the books inside carefully, then looks to him. “Would you like to put the dog in too?”

Regulus hesitates.

His grip tightens, fingers curling into the soft fur. He thinks for a moment, does he really want to let it go… again. The answer is no, he does not. He conveys this to Mrs. Potter by a simple shake of his head. 

He watches Mrs. Potter. She nods, like that’s perfectly fine, and continues walking inside the shop. 

Regulus follows, still holding the stuffed dog close.

Still trying to understand.

Trying to understand.

Why?

Why would she do this for him?

Buy him a brand-new copy of the book he was enjoying? Get him another stuffed dog?

It doesn’t make sense.

He hasn’t done anything to deserve this. If anything, he deserves for them to be taken away. That’s what usually happens.

Maybe that’s the punishment.

Buy him new things, let him think they’re his, and then take them away for a week.

That seems fair. That seems right.

Regulus clutches the stuffed dog a little tighter, waiting for the catch.

But Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything about it. She just pushes the cart forward, moving through the store like everything is normal, pausing every so often to glance at shelves, picking things up and setting them in the cart.

Every once in a while, she asks for his opinion.

“Do you like this kind of bread, or do you prefer something else?”

“These apples look nice—do you like apples?”

“James has been obsessed with this cheese lately, but I’d like to get something else, too. Do you like cheddar or gouda?”

Regulus answers each question with a small nod or shake of his head, still waiting for the moment she’ll stop pretending.

When they leave the bakery section, she slows, glancing at a small list in her hand. “Regulus, would you mind helping me pick out some of these?” She gestures to the fruits and vegetables ahead. “I need some oranges, carrots, and potatoes.”

Regulus hesitates for only a moment before moving toward the produce section, carefully selecting the items. He doesn’t miss the way Mrs. Potter watches him, her expression warm, approving.

When he’s finished, she nods in satisfaction and continues toward the cold section.

The moment they step into the aisle, Regulus feels the temperature drop slightly, the chill from the refrigerators lining the walls pressing against his skin. Mrs. Potter barely seems to notice as she scans the shelves, pausing in front of the meat section.

“I was thinking of making shepherd’s pie for dinner tonight,” she says, picking up a pack of minced meat and placing it in the cart. “Would you be willing to help me?”

Regulus stiffens slightly, caught off guard. Help her make dinner?

Maybe she means he’ll be making dinner while she supervises. That would make sense.

He doesn’t mind cooking. He used to help his mother sometimes—when she let him, at least. It had always felt like a test, though, like she was waiting for him to make a mistake.

But Mrs. Potter isn’t watching him like that. She’s just waiting patiently for his answer, her expression open, hopeful.

Regulus nods.

Mrs. Potter’s face lights up, beaming in a way that takes him by surprise.

Warmth blooms in his chest, unexpected and unfamiliar, creeping up his neck.

She’s happy.

Not just satisfied, not just indifferent— genuinely happy that he agreed to help.

His mother never looked at him like that.

The warmth spreads, something fragile and overwhelming, and before he realizes it, his cheeks flush slightly.

He ducks his head, gripping the stuffed dog a little tighter. 

Regulus can’t remember the last time he made someone that happy before without trying. And, that makes a flower of happiness bloom inside of him too. 

Before he knows it, he and Mrs. Potter are standing in the kitchen, unpacking and putting away the groceries.

Regulus takes the items she hands him and carefully places them where they belong. He finds himself liking the rhythm of it—take, put away, repeat. It feels methodical, simple. It feels… helpful. Like he’s doing something right.

Mrs. Potter hums softly as she works, the sound light and pleasant. Every so often, she murmurs a quiet “thank you” when he hands her something, and Regulus finds himself standing just a little straighter each time.

Once everything is put away, Mrs. Potter claps her hands together. “Alright,” she says, smiling at him. “Let’s wash our hands and get started.”

Regulus follows her to the sink, rolling up his sleeves as she turns on the water. He watches as she lathers her hands, the movements practiced and familiar, before he does the same. The soap is floral-scented, something soft and expensive-smelling.

By the time they’re drying their hands, Mrs. Potter is already moving to gather the ingredients.

She glances at him. “Would you like to peel the potatoes while I start on the filling?”

Regulus nods, and she hands him a peeler and a few potatoes, setting a bowl in front of him for the skins. He gets to work in silence, carefully peeling each one with slow, precise strokes.

Mrs. Potter, meanwhile, starts on the meat, her voice light as she speaks. “Shepherd’s pie is one of James’ favorites. He always gets so impatient waiting for it to cool.” She chuckles. “Last time, he nearly burned his tongue because he couldn’t wait.”

Regulus can almost picture it—James, as loud and impatient as ever, shoving a too-hot bite of food into his mouth and then whining about it afterward. The thought almost makes him smile.

He keeps peeling, listening to the quiet sizzle of the pan as Mrs. Potter cooks. The kitchen smells warm, savory, familiar. He doesn’t mind this. It’s… pleasant.

When he finishes the potatoes, Mrs. Potter turns to look. “Done already?” She grins. “That was fast.”

She takes the peeled potatoes and sets them in a pot of water. As she moves to the stove, Regulus watches, waiting for his next task.

“You can help stir the filling, if you’d like,” she offers.

Regulus steps forward, accepting the wooden spoon she hands him. He stirs slowly, methodically, just as he was taught. He knows how to do this. He knows how to be careful.

Then, his hand slips.

Just slightly—just enough for a small splash of sauce to land on the stove.

Regulus freezes.

His stomach twists, waiting, waiting.

For the sharp intake of breath. The snap of a reprimand. The anger.

But it doesn’t come.

Mrs. Potter glances over, and instead of scowling, she just tilts her head and says, “Oops.”

Then, just as easily, she grabs a cloth and wipes it away.

Regulus stares.

That’s it?

No sharp words. No disapproving looks. No consequences.

Just… Oops.

Mrs. Potter turns back to him, completely unfazed. “It happens all the time,” she says lightly. “James once knocked an entire bowl of batter onto the floor. Took ages to clean up.”

Regulus blinks.

That’s not— That’s not how mothers are supposed to react.

Mothers are supposed to be strict. They’re supposed to expect perfection.

He knows this. Because his mother has only ever wanted perfection from him. Has only ever wanted what was best for him. 

The thought unsettles him. Confuses him. 

But at the same time, the warmth in his chest lingers. They keep cooking. They keep cooking until it’s done. And, Regulus has never enjoyed himself more.

***

He blinks up at the ceiling, his mind still foggy from sleep, the edges of a dream fading too fast to hold onto. For a moment, he feels that strange disorientation, like his body is awake before his brain has caught up. Where is he? His bed is soft. The room is quiet. There’s warmth, not the biting chill of an old house with too many shadows.

Then, it clicks. The Potters. He’s at the Potters’ house. His room.

It’s Wednesday.

Regulus knows this because it’s his second day of his three-day suspension.

He lets out a slow breath, closing his eyes briefly before forcing himself to sit up. The sky outside his window is a soft, pale blue, the sun barely cresting over the horizon. Too early.

Still, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing at his eyes as the events of yesterday flicker through his mind.

Mrs. Potter had taken him out. To the shops.

She had bought him another stuffed dog, the same as the one he had picked out that day—the day he had ruined everything. She had bought him the entire Percy Jackson box set, without hesitation, without asking him to earn it or prove he was worthy of it. Just—because.

And later, they had cooked together. Shepherd’s pie.

Regulus stands, stretching his arms above his head as he pads toward the bathroom attached to his room. He turns the shower on, letting the water warm up as he stares at his reflection in the mirror. His hair is a mess, sticking up in odd directions. He looks tired. But not bad.

He steps under the water, letting the warmth soothe the lingering stiffness in his muscles. His fingers work through his hair, scrubbing at his scalp, but his thoughts wander.

Cooking with Mrs. Potter had been… different.

Not bad. Just different.

Cooking with his mother had been rigid. Precise. Every ingredient measured exactly, every step completed with perfection, or not at all. Mistakes were unacceptable.

Cooking with Mrs. Potter had been… easy.

She hadn’t given him strict instructions or hovered over his shoulder, waiting for him to fail. When he made a mistake, she hadn’t snapped at him, hadn’t scolded or sneered. Just— oops . A simple, fleeting moment. No tension. No fear.

It doesn’t make sense. That’s not how mothers are supposed to be.

Right?

He frowns, rinsing the shampoo from his hair, letting the warm water run over his face before shutting it off.

As he steps out, he grabs a towel, drying himself quickly before heading back into his room. He dresses in quiet efficiency—soft clothes, comfortable ones, not the stiff, formal attire his mother used to insist upon.

His mother.

Mrs. Potter.

Two completely different people.

His mother was strict, disciplined. He was expected to be perfect, to follow the rules, to know better. Mrs. Potter is… gentle. Kind in a way that feels almost foreign.

And Mr. and Mrs. Potter aren’t mad at him.

They should be. He was suspended. He got into a fight. Any other foster parent would have been furious, would have yelled or punished him.

But they haven’t.

He can’t figure out why .

Regulus sighs, running a comb through his damp hair before brushing his teeth. The confusion lingers, sitting heavy in his chest.

By the time he’s done, he pulls on his socks and shoes, then glances at the books stacked neatly beside his bed. His fingers hover over them for a moment before picking up the second book in the series, Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters .

Book in hand, he makes his way downstairs, his steps light against the wooden floor. The house is still quiet—James must still be asleep, and the Potters likely aren’t up yet either.

He settles onto the couch in the living room, curling up against the armrest.

His mind drifts.

If Sirius had been suspended, how would their parents have reacted?

Their father wouldn’t have cared. Not really. He might have grumbled, might have made an offhand comment about how it was embarrassing to have a son who couldn’t even behave properly.

Their mother, though—

Regulus swallows. She would have raged .

And Sirius… Sirius would have taken it. Would have stared her down, jaw tight, shoulders squared. Would have made it worse just because he refused to bow.

And Regulus—

Regulus would have watched. Helpless.

But here, at the Potters’ house, it’s not like that.

Here, there is no rage. No punishment. Just understanding that he doesn’t quite know how to accept.

Regulus shifts, curling his legs closer, and opens his book.

His eyes land on the first line of Chapter 1.

"My nightmare started like this."

It’s funny, really. Regulus doesn’t know why he finds the first line so relatable. He just does.

Regulus manages to get halfway through Chapter 3: We Hail the Taxi of Eternal Torment before he hears any signs of life.

The first person Regulus sees walk down the stairs is none other than Mr. Potter. His dark brown hair sticks up in every direction—in that kind of way hair gets when it’s static or when someone’s been tossing and turning in their sleep. His glasses are slightly crooked on his nose, and his pajama shirt is wrinkled, the buttons slightly misaligned, as if he threw it on in the dark.

Regulus watches as Mr. Potter steps off the last step, rubbing his face with one hand, before his gaze lands on Regulus, still curled up in the living room, book in hand.

“Morning, Regulus,” Mr. Potter says through a yawn, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “You’re up early this morning. Everything alright?”

Regulus nods.

Mr. Potter looks pleased by that, giving him a small, tired smile before continuing into the kitchen.

Regulus glances down at his book, rereading the last sentence he just finished. He should keep reading. He should stay sitting here, like he always does.

But, against his better judgment, he abandons his book for the moment and stands. His feet carry him toward the kitchen, curiosity outweighing hesitation.

Mr. Potter is already moving around the space, pulling a mug from the cupboard and filling the kettle. He moves easily, like he’s done this a hundred times before—because he has .

Regulus lingers in the doorway, watching as Mr. Potter makes a cup of tea, adding a splash of milk before stirring it with a spoon.

Then, Mr. Potter glances over at Regulus. “Would you like some juice?”

Regulus hesitates, thinking for a moment, then nods.

Mr. Potter hums, setting his tea down before pulling open the fridge. “Orange or apple?” he asks, holding up both cartons.

Regulus points to the apple juice. He prefers it. No matter how hard his brother has tried to get Regulus to drink, or even to like orange juice, he never does. It’s too sour for Regulus’ taste. 

“Good choice,” Mr. Potter says easily, pouring a glass before handing it to Regulus.

The kitchen falls into a comfortable quiet. Regulus holds his juice, not drinking just yet, and watches as Mr. Potter takes a slow sip of his tea, sighing contentedly.

After a few moments, Mr. Potter speaks again. “I’ll be staying home today,” he says. “To help you with some of your schoolwork.”

Regulus nods.

Mr. Potter takes another sip of tea. “I teach at the local university,” he continues. “Some days I have lectures, other days I focus on research. Wednesday’s usually one of my research days, but since I just finished a project, I don’t have to start a new one until the next school year.”

Regulus nods again. He finds that… interesting. He isn’t entirely sure what Mr. Potter does , exactly, but he supposes it must be important if it involves research.

He watches as Mr. Potter sets his tea down and moves toward the stove, cracking a few eggs into a bowl. The rhythmic scrape of the whisk fills the air as he beats them together, then pours them into the pan. The scent of butter and eggs fills the kitchen, warm and familiar.

Regulus stands by the counter, sipping his juice, watching.

Before long, more movement sounds from upstairs. Then, the sound of feet on the stairs—two pairs, coming down in quick succession.

Mrs. Potter and James appear in the kitchen, both looking slightly rushed.

“Good morning, Regulus,” Mrs. Potter greets with a warm smile before turning to Mr. Potter. “We’re running a little late for James’ appointment.”

Mr. Potter doesn’t look too concerned. “That’s alright,” he says, flipping the eggs in the pan.

Mrs. Potter nods, leaning up to press a quick kiss to Mr. Potter’s cheek. “See you later, love.”

“Bye, Dad,” James calls, already making a beeline for the door.

“Have a good day at school,” Mr. Potter says easily, as the front door opens and shuts behind them.

Regulus watches them go, the house suddenly quieter again.

Then, Mr. Potter turns back to the stove, glancing over at Regulus. “Would you like one or two slices of toast with your eggs?”

Breakfast was quite enjoyable. 

Regulus can’t quite remember the last time breakfast was this quiet, this peaceful. It has always been something else —loud, chaotic, tense, rushed. But this morning, it was just… simple. He and Mr. Potter ate in near silence, the only sounds being the occasional scrape of cutlery or the rustling of newspaper pages as Mr. Potter skimmed through an article. There were no arguments, no raised voices, no expectations beyond just eating . It was nice. Almost strange, but not in a bad way.

Now, he’s sitting at the kitchen table, Mr. Potter’s laptop open in front of him. His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before he begins typing, working on the written portion of his art assignment. It’s not difficult—he only needs to write 500 words, and the ideas come easily enough. His thoughts flow smoother than they usually do when it comes to writing assignments, probably because art is something he actually enjoys.

By the time he finishes, he’s written a little more than the required word count, but he doesn’t mind. He rereads it once, correcting a couple of typos, and just as he’s about to go through it again, Mr. Potter reappears, dressed for the day.

“What are you up to?” Mr. Potter asks, running a hand through his still slightly disheveled hair.

Regulus points to the task sheet for his art assignment, then turns the laptop toward Mr. Potter so he can see the document.

Mr. Potter leans in slightly, scanning the screen. “Nice,” he says, nodding approvingly. “Art—good way to start.”

Regulus watches as Mr. Potter reads through the assignment, his expression thoughtful. A moment later, he straightens. “This sounds good,” he says. Then, “Is it finished?”

Regulus nods.

“Okay,” Mr. Potter says, then tilts his head. “Do you need to print it?”

Another nod.

“Alright,” Mr. Potter says, “let me teach you how to use our printer.”

Regulus picks up the laptop as Mr. Potter gestures for him to follow. They walk down the hall and into Mr. Potter’s study.

The room is neat, the walls lined with bookshelves, a large desk sitting against one side. Mr. Potter moves toward the printer, pressing a couple of buttons before motioning for Regulus to come closer.

“Alright,” he says, pointing at the laptop screen. “First, you open the print settings, select the right printer, and then—” He clicks a few more things. “—you hit print.”

Regulus watches closely, memorizing each step. The printer hums to life, and he shifts a little where he stands, watching as the paper feeds through, the ink appearing line by line.

He’s always liked watching the printer work. There’s something satisfying about the way it moves, the way the paper slides out, warm and fresh with ink.

Mr. Potter chuckles lightly. “Printing is fun, isn’t it?”

Regulus nods, still watching.

Once the page is done, he carefully picks it up, holding it neatly as to not crinkle it. Mr. Potter gestures for them to head back, and together they walk back to the table, sitting down once more.

They work through his science assignment first, as Regulus wants to get it done as soon as it’s due before any other of his assignments. Mr. Potter shows Regulus how to formate his assignment, grabbing a copy of James’ science assignment as a template. 

Mr. Potter is calm, gentle. Giving advice when appropriate, when he can see Regulus struggling. He doesn’t judge Regulus for needing help. He doesn’t sigh in frustration or tell him to figure it out on his own. He just explains things—simply, patiently.

When Regulus hesitates over how to phrase something, Mr. Potter doesn’t rush him. He just waits, letting Regulus take his time. And when Regulus messes up a section, Mr. Potter doesn’t get annoyed, doesn’t criticize him. He just hums, tilts his head slightly, and says, "Hmm, let’s see if we can fix this part together."

It’s… strange.

Not bad. Just strange.

Regulus can’t remember a time his own father ever helped him with homework. If he ever asked, his father would always wave him off, saying, “That’s your mother’s job, not mine.” And if his mother was too busy or didn’t feel like dealing with him, then Regulus was left to figure it out alone.

The few times his father did bother to help, he was never interested . He’d skim through Regulus’ work, barely reading, pointing out random mistakes without much thought. If Regulus asked a question, his father would sigh heavily, as if the mere act of explaining something to him was a chore.

But Mr. Potter isn’t like that. He’s focused. Engaged.

He actually wants to help.

Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that realization.

It’s weird.

But… not bad.

Slowly, they work through the assignment together. Mr. Potter walks him through each section, showing him how to format the information properly. He uses James’ old assignment as a guide, not as a shortcut but as an example, letting Regulus figure out how to apply it to his own work.

Regulus likes that. It makes him feel capable. Like he’s learning rather than just copying.

By the time they’re halfway through, Regulus notices something else—how calm it is. There’s no pressure, no looming sense of do this or else . It’s just… working. Together.

It’s nice.

By the time the end of the school day rolls around, Regulus has managed to get out a complete—though rough—draft of his science assignment. He’s planned out his English essay and finished his research booklet for geography. It’s more work than he thought he’d get done, and yet, he doesn’t feel particularly accomplished . It’s just schoolwork. It’s what he’s supposed to do. He should be at school, doing this there, not sitting at home on suspension.

As he saves the last of his work on Mr. Potter’s laptop, Mr. Potter stretches, glancing at the time. “Well, I’d say that was a productive day.” He smiles down at Regulus. “What do you think about heading out for some ice cream? A little reward for all your hard work?”

Regulus stills. A reward ?

That doesn’t seem right.

He doesn’t deserve a reward for this. He’s not even supposed to be here. He got suspended. He punched someone. Shouldn’t he be punished instead?

Back in his previous foster homes, something like this—getting his schoolwork done while stuck at home—wouldn’t have earned him anything. If anything, it would have been expected. No distractions, no excuses. Just do your work and be quiet. At most, he would have gotten a dismissive good before being handed another list of chores.

Even in his real home, his mother never rewarded him for something so basic.

But here, Mr. Potter is looking at him like he’s done something worth celebrating. And Mrs. Potter, when she comes downstairs and hears the plan, just smiles warmly and says, “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

Regulus doesn’t argue. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t want to go, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to refuse and upset them. So, he doesn’t protest when James gets home, practically buzzing with excitement over ice cream, or when they all pile into the car and drive to the ice cream parlor.

And that’s how he ends up sitting outside at a small table, slowly eating a scoop of cookies and cream—the flavor Mrs. Potter suggested when he couldn’t decide. It’s sweet, creamy, the bits of cookie soft but slightly crunchy, and—Regulus has to admit—it is good.

James, sitting across from him, is talking animatedly about his day, about school, about his classes, about a stupid joke Peter made in math that got him and Peter both detention. Mr. and Mrs. Potter listen with amused smiles, occasionally chiming in, but mostly just letting James talk.

Regulus listens too, but he doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t belong here. Not really.

And yet, as he takes another bite of ice cream, the afternoon sun warm on his skin, the sounds of laughter and conversation all around him, he doesn’t feel like he’s being punished.

And that’s what unsettles him the most.

***

What’s more unsettling, however, is sitting here, in the guidance counsoler’s office, with Mrs. Potter, to talk about his “behavioural issues.” 

It’s not like Regulus didn’t already know he had issues with his behaviour. He’s definitely heard it enough from countless of people. 

Last night, just after they had gotten back from their ice cream run, Mrs. Potter had told him that he has a meeting with the Year 7 guidance counsoler, Ms. Carrington. 

Ms. Carrington is a nice lady. She helped Regulus deal with his unpleasantly rude Computing teacher on his first day. She’s even checked up on him a couple times since he’s been here, to make sure he’s adjusting alright. 

She doesn’t feel like a threat. Not like some of the other adults who talk about his “behavioral issues” with disappointment thick in their voices, like he’s a problem that needs to be fixed .

But that doesn’t make this meeting any easier.

Regulus sits stiffly in the chair next to Mrs. Potter, his hands curled in his lap, fingers twisting at the fabric of his brand new dark green t-shirt. Mrs. Potter sits beside him, calm, her presence warm but not overwhelming. She’s listening as Ms. Carrington talks, nodding occasionally.

"So, about Regulus’ suspension,” Ms. Carrington starts, folding her hands atop her desk. “ I know the principal went over everything with you, but… I have a feeling there was something missing from that report.”

Mrs. Potter hums, glancing at Regulus before responding. “I was thinking the same thing. From what I understand, Regulus was provoked.”

Ms. Carrington nods. “That’s what I’ve gathered, too. But beyond just this incident, I’ve been speaking with some of his teachers to get a better sense of how he’s been adjusting in class.” She flips through a few papers, her expression thoughtful but not unkind. “Some of his teachers have noted that he gets overwhelmed in certain situations. Sometimes, he completely shuts down.”

Regulus keeps his gaze trained on the floor. He doesn’t need to hear this. He already knows .

“His English teacher, Mr. Andrews, mentioned that Regulus sometimes brings a small stuffed black dog to class,” Ms. Carrington continues. “Which isn’t an issue, of course. But he also noticed that Regulus had a moment where he was in tears from being overwhelmed. Mr. Andrews suggested that we consider putting together a plan for him, in case he needs a break when things get too much.”

Regulus tenses.

A plan ?

For him ?

Mrs. Potter tilts her head slightly, her voice light when she asks, “What kind of things would be in this plan?”

Ms. Carrington flips to a different page. “It could be as simple as a five-minute break outside the classroom if he’s feeling overwhelmed. Maybe a pass he can show the teacher if he doesn’t feel comfortable speaking. Or a designated quiet space where he can go if he needs to step away.”

Mrs. Potter nods thoughtfully, then looks at Regulus. “Would that be something you’d like?”

Regulus stares at his hands. He doesn’t know how to answer. A part of him feels like saying no—he doesn’t need special treatment. If he gets overwhelmed, he should just deal with it, shouldn’t he? That’s what he’s always been expected to do.

But another part of him thinks back to the moments when everything became too much —when the noise pressed in on him, when his hands trembled, when he had to fight to keep his breathing steady, when he couldn’t even think .

Slowly, hesitantly, he nods.

Mrs. Potter smiles softly. “Alright, then. Let’s figure this out together.”

Ms. Carrington starts listing possible accommodations, and every once in a while, she and Mrs. Potter ask for Regulus’ input. He nods or shakes his head in response, not trusting himself to speak. They settle on a plan: a break card he can use if he needs to leave class, a quiet space in the library where he can go if he needs a moment, and a check-in system with Ms. Carrington so she can see how he’s doing.

“This is to make sure you don’t get suspended again,” Mrs. Potter tells him gently.

Regulus swallows. That’s the goal, isn’t it? To stop him from being a problem . To manage him. To deal with him.

But then, towards the end of the meeting, Mrs. Potter looks at him again, something soft and warm in her expression. “This isn’t a punishment, Regulus. There isn’t anything wrong with you. Sometimes, kids like you just need a break every now and then. And that’s okay.”

Kids like you.

Regulus blinks, the words settling into his mind.

Kids like you .

Regulus blinks, the words settling into his mind like lead. His fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt, twisting and pulling until it stretches beneath his grip. Kids like him.

He hates that phrase.

He has heard it before, too many times in too many places, spoken in too many different tones. Sometimes with irritation, sometimes with pity, and worst of all, sometimes with the thinly veiled relief of people who were glad to be rid of him.

It’s why he got moved around so much. Why no foster home ever kept him for long. They’d try at first, try to be patient, but then something would happen—he’d freeze up, he’d snap, he’d cry when he wasn’t supposed to, he’d struggle to understand something he should have gotten right away. And then they’d say it: Kids like him are just too much to handle.

And now Mrs. Potter is saying it, too.

Regulus doesn’t look at her, doesn’t dare, because he doesn’t want to see the truth in her face. That she’s finally realizing what everyone else has. That it won’t be long before she and Mr. Potter decide he isn’t worth the trouble either.

He swallows hard, forcing down the sharp, bitter taste in his throat.

He doesn’t know why he thought Mrs. Potter was different.

Now, all he feels is stupid.

Stupid for trusting. Stupid for hoping.

Hope is a dangerous thing. Regulus learned a long time ago never to hope for things, because they never come true.

The meeting continues, voices droning on around him, but he barely hears them. He nods when expected, but the words don’t register. His thoughts circle back, again and again, to the same thing.

Mrs. Potter is just like the rest of them.

She might be nice now, but that won’t last. It never does.

And yet…

There was no irritation in her voice. No pity. No relief. Just something quiet, something even, something—

Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that thought.