To Find a Home

POV: EUPHEMIA

When the school calls, Euphemia expects trouble. It comes with the territory of being a mother—especially being a mother to James, whose impulsivity often outweighs his better judgment.

What she doesn’t expect is the principal’s vague wording, the careful way he skirts around the details, as if unsure how much to say over the phone. And when she arrives at the school office, she fully expects to see James slouched in a chair, bracing himself for whatever consequences await him.

But James isn’t the one sitting there.

Regulus is.

The sight of him nearly stops her in her tracks. He’s curled in on himself, shoulders hunched, hands tucked between his knees as if making himself as small as possible. His head is bowed, dark curls hiding his face, but Euphemia doesn’t need to see his expression to know exactly what he’s feeling. She’s seen this before—the quiet tension, the desperate stillness of a child trying to disappear.

Her heart clenches.

She moves carefully, her heels clicking against the tile as she crosses the room. The principal says something—background noise, nothing she’s listening to—but she barely acknowledges him. Her focus is entirely on the boy in front of her.

Euphemia has spent years caring for children that the system so easily dismisses. Kids that people have labeled as “troubled”, “dangerous”, or even “a threat”. That’s what everyone says about foster kids—especially, kids like Regulus. They don’t stop to consider what those labels mean, or who they’re being placed upon. They don’t see the way these children flinch at raised voices, the way they shrink under authority, the way they act out because it’s the only language they’ve ever been taught.

But she sees it.

She sees it now, in the way Regulus refuses to look up. In the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he wants to fidget but doesn’t dare draw attention to himself. In the way his breathing is just a little too controlled, too careful. He is trying not to be noticed.

Euphemia lowers herself into the chair beside him. Slowly, so she doesn’t startle him. She doesn’t speak right away, just takes a moment to study him.

He’s hiding something. That much is obvious. But more than that—he’s afraid.

What on earth could have happened?

Regulus doesn’t belong here. Not in this office, not in trouble. She knows James well enough to expect these kinds of things from him, but Regulus? No. As far as she’s aware, it would take a hell of a lot to land him here.

She exhales, slow and steady, then reaches out—not to touch him, not yet, but just to let her presence be known.

“Regulus,” she says gently. “Can you look at me?”

It’s a simple request, but it carries weight. A moment passes, then another, before he shifts just slightly, peering up at her through hesitant, wary eyes.

And whatever she had been expecting to see, it wasn’t this.

Not guilt. Not defiance.

Just fear.

Her stomach twists.

What the hell happened?

Fortunately enough, Euphemia doesn’t have to wait long. When Fleamont enters the office, she can tell he’s thinking the exact same thing that she just did. 

She watches the exchange take place between the principal and Fleamont. She watches how Fleamont sinks into his seat, how he glances at Regulus trying to see if he can see anything. 

He can’t, Euphemia knows, because she can’t either. 

The principal clears his throat, breaking the silence. “I’m afraid we need to discuss an incident that has occurred today.”

Regulus keeps his head down, his fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt. He hasn’t spoken since she and Fleamont arrived, and Euphemia can feel his anxiety like a second heartbeat.

She shifts slightly beside him, keeping her voice steady. “An incident?”

The principal exhales, his expression unreadable. “More like an altercation.”

Fleamont leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “An altercation?” he repeats, his tone measured but firm. “Over what?”

Regulus flinches—small, almost imperceptible, but Euphemia notices. She always notices.

The principal hesitates, then finally says it. “Regulus struck another student during PE.”

She can feel Fleamont stiffen beside her. “Punched?” he repeats, a note of disbelief in his voice.

The principal nods. “Several students witnessed it. By all accounts, it was unprovoked.”

Regulus still doesn’t move, but the air around him changes—tightens, coils. Euphemia can see the way his shoulders lock up, the way his breath hitches just slightly.

Unprovoked.

She clenches her jaw, anger simmering low in her chest. It’s the kind of anger she’s familiar with—the kind that comes when adults fail children, when they don’t bother to ask questions, when they see behavior but not cause.

“And did you ask Regulus why?” Her voice is sharper now, cutting through the stuffy silence.

The principal barely hesitates. “Regulus has not offered an explanation.”

Of course he hasn’t.

Euphemia exhales through her nose, steadying herself. She knows how this works. She’s seen it too many times before. A child lashes out, a child breaks the rules, and the adults in charge don’t bother to ask why. They see misbehavior, not cause. They see the outcome, not the buildup.

Euphemia glances at the boy beside her. He is so, so still. Too still.

Because she knows what’s happening inside his head. Knows he has words he cannot say. Knows that whatever happened, whatever led to this, it didn’t start with him.

The principal sighs. “Regardless of the circumstances, the school has a strict no-violence policy. I have no choice but to suspend Regulus for three days.”

Euphemia straightens. “Suspension? He didn’t do anything wrong!”

Fleamont 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, his face carefully neutral. “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 lingers in the air.

Regulus swallows hard, his fingers clenching tighter into his shirt. Euphemia watches the way his jaw locks, the way his entire posture screams with something he doesn’t know how to let out.

The principal exhales, rubbing his temple before straightening in his chair. “I was informed that Regulus struck another student, unprovoked, during PE. Several witnesses confirmed it.”

Unprovoked. Again.

Regulus’ reaction is subtle but devastating—the sharp, shaky inhale, the way his fists press harder into his lap, his nails digging into his palms.

Euphemia’s anger flares again.

Because she knows that word is wrong. That it’s missing something.

That something happened.

Her voice sharpens. “Did you even ask what led up to this?”

The principal barely reacts. “Regulus has not offered an explanation.”

Now, everyone is looking at him.

Waiting.

Expecting.

Regulus stays silent.

Not because he doesn’t want to speak.

Because he can’t.

Euphemia can see it—the way his breathing is just a little too controlled, the way he’s fighting to keep his expression blank, the way his body is wound so tight she’s afraid he might snap.

The principal exhales sharply, already scribbling something onto a slip of paper. “Then I don’t see any reason to change my decision. Three-day suspension. Effective immediately.”

Euphemia mutters something under her breath, shaking her head. Beside her, Fleamont’s jaw tightens. “We’ll be speaking to the school board.”

Regulus doesn’t react. Doesn’t move.

And it makes Euphemia’s heart clench. 

***

Euphemia has never been as furious as she is right now—never in her entire life.

The grip she has on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, her fingers stiff and aching, but she doesn’t loosen them. The car hums beneath her, the road stretching endlessly ahead, but all she can think about is that damn office, that damn principal, and the way they had spoken about Regulus like he was nothing more than a problem to be dealt with.

Unprovoked.

The word rattles in her skull, sharp and bitter, filling every inch of her with rage. As if children like Regulus ever lash out for no reason. As if his silence was an admission of guilt rather than the only defense he had left. As if his pain, his fear, his everything didn’t matter at all.

She inhales through her nose, long and deep.

She needs to calm down.

Because Regulus is in the backseat, curled up small, his forehead nearly pressed against the window. She can see him in the rearview mirror—the way he stares blankly outside, his expression too carefully composed. Too still.

She knows what that means.

Knows that he’s shutting down, retreating into himself, convinced that he has done something irreversibly wrong.

And she won’t be another adult who makes him feel like that.

Euphemia forces herself to unclench her jaw, to loosen her grip on the wheel. She swallows back the sharp words, the furious rant clawing its way up her throat. Later, she can rage. Later, she can tell Fleamont every single thing she wanted to scream in that office.

But not now. Not when there’s a scared little boy in the backseat who has spent his entire life bracing for anger, for punishment, for the worst.

So she exhales slowly, steadying herself.

Right now, Regulus doesn’t need to see her unbridled rage. Right now, he needs to see her calm—to know that he’s safe. That everything is going to be okay.

Euphemia keeps driving, the steady hum of the car the only sound between them. The road blurs past, streaked with the warm glow of the afternoon sun, but her mind is still in that office, replaying every word, every clipped tone, every dismissive glance from the principal.

She wonders what Fleamont is thinking. What went through his head when he, too, heard the suspension verdict. He had stayed composed, had barely let his frustration show, but she knows him. Knows that look in his eye, the firm set of his jaw.

Fleamont has always been better at containing his anger—so much better than she is. He rarely, if ever, lets it take hold of him. In all the years she’s known him, only once has she seen him truly, irreparably furious.

The day James was born.

She swallows, her hands tightening briefly around the wheel before she forces herself to loosen them again. That day had solidified everything she had already known about him—that he was the best man she could have ever chosen, that there was no one else in the world she would rather do this with.

Because if she didn’t have Fleamont, her anger would have boiled over in that office. Her fury at the injustice of it all, at the way they had dismissed Regulus’ side of the story without so much as a second thought, would have erupted into something uncontrollable.

She never wants James to grow up the way she did.

In constant fear.

Her chest tightens, the old memories creeping in like smoke beneath a locked door. She doesn’t let them take hold. Not now.

James will never flinch at sudden movements. He will never brace himself for yelling, for something worse lurking just beneath it. He will never feel like love is conditional, something to be earned through silence and obedience.

She has made damn sure of that.

But what breaks her heart is knowing that not every child is so lucky. That too many parents refuse to break the cycle, refuse to see past their own pain.

Somehow, she did.

And she has Fleamont to thank for that.

Because without his patience, his kindness, his love, she isn’t sure she ever would have learned how.

The car slows as she turns onto their street, the familiar sight of home coming into view. The weight in her chest eases just slightly. She glances in the rearview mirror. Regulus hasn’t moved, still curled into himself, still too quiet.

She pulls into the driveway and shifts the car into park. Then, before she even thinks to move, she turns fully in her seat, her voice soft but certain.

“We’re home, Regulus.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t react. Then, something in him shatters.

The first tear slips down his cheek, and then another. His breath stutters, his small frame trembling as the dam finally, irreversibly, breaks. The sobs come slowly at first, then all at once—raw, uncontained, like he’s unraveling right in front of her.

Euphemia doesn’t hesitate. She unbuckles her seatbelt and moves into the backseat, her body aching from the awkward angle, but she doesn’t care. She reaches out, her touch gentle, a steady presence in the storm raging inside him.

“It’s okay, Regulus,” she murmurs, her voice soft and sure. “It’s alright. Everything is going to be okay.”

But he can’t stop. His entire body is shaking, wracked with the weight of emotions too big for him to carry alone. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes as if trying to stop the tears, but it’s no use. They keep coming, spilling over unchecked, years of hurt and guilt and exhaustion bleeding into every quiet, gasping sob.

And then, in a voice so small, so broken, it nearly wrecks her, he whispers, “ Je suis désolé … Je suis désolé … Je suis vraiment désolé …”

Euphemia blinks, caught off guard.

The words—soft, breathless, raw with emotion—are completely unfamiliar to her. She recognizes the cadence, the way it rolls off his tongue, but she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“Regulus?” she says gently, concern threading through her voice.

But he doesn’t respond. He just keeps whispering those words, over and over, between gasping sobs.

Euphemia doesn’t know what they mean, but she knows enough. She believes he’s apologizing. She can hear it in the way his voice wavers, in the way he curls into himself as if trying to disappear.

Oh, this poor boy.

She doesn’t tell him to stop. Doesn’t tell him he has nothing to apologize for—not yet. He wouldn’t believe her, not now, not like this. Instead, she pulls him closer, wrapping her arms around him, offering the one thing he has likely never been given: comfort without condition.

Regulus hesitates for only a second before he leans into her, pressing his face into her shoulder, his sobs muffled against the fabric of her sweater. He is so small, so tense, as if even now he’s bracing for something worse, as if he doesn’t quite trust that she’s real.

Euphemia strokes his back in slow, steady circles, her other hand resting lightly against the nape of his neck. “You’re okay,” she whispers, the words barely more than breath. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

And Regulus clings to her.

Like she is the only thing tethering him to the earth, like he is afraid that if he lets go, he will disappear entirely.

Euphemia holds him tighter, grounding him, steadying him, silently promising that she is here. That she is not going anywhere.

Outside, the house stands quiet and waiting, but she doesn’t move. Not yet.

Regulus needs this.

And, oh, she thinks, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, she will make damn sure he never has to go without it again.

POV: FLEAMONT

Fleamont pulls up to the driveway, his hands gripping the steering wheel more tightly than usual. He hadn’t said much on the drive home, trying to steady himself for the conversation he knew he’d have to have with James. The quiet between them, thick and tense, only deepens his unease, but it’s nothing compared to the knot tightening in his chest at the sight of his wife in the backseat.

Euphemia’s arms are wrapped tightly around Regulus. Her face is soft with concern as she rocks him gently, murmuring something Fleamont can’t hear from where he’s sitting. Regulus is curled against her, eyes squeezed shut, face pale. He doesn’t seem to notice the car pulling into the driveway, too lost in whatever overwhelming moment he’s going through.

Fleamont’s heart sinks as he watches. Regulus’s trembling form in Euphemia’s arms is a sight that speaks volumes—too much for Fleamont to fully grasp in this moment.

“James,” Fleamont says, his voice low, “go inside. I’ll talk to you later.”

James doesn’t argue. He nods, his face full of questions, and opens the door, stepping out of the car without a word. Fleamont watches him go, wishing he could tell him more but knowing it’s not the time.

As James heads inside, Fleamont takes a deep breath, pushing open the door of the car. He walks around to the other side, feeling the weight of every step. Regulus is still clinging to Euphemia, and Fleamont pauses, watching them for a long moment before crouching beside the car.

“Euphemia…” he says softly, not wanting to break the fragile calm in the air but needing to.

She glances up at him, her expression a mixture of sadness and understanding. “He’s still shaken,” she says, her voice gentle. “I don’t know what happened, Monty.”

Regulus’s breath hitches as he clings tighter to her, and Fleamont’s chest tightens. He can’t remember a time when Regulus looked so small, so vulnerable.

Regulus had always been a quiet boy, too well-behaved for someone his age. It was the sort of obedience that made Fleamont uneasy. Children were meant to be loud, to test boundaries, to push and pull until they found their place in the world. But Regulus—Regulus had always been careful. As if he were afraid of taking up too much space. As if he had been taught that his presence was something to apologize for.

After a few more moments, Euphemia shifts slightly, her hands smoothing down Regulus’s hair in slow, steady motions. She speaks again, her tone softer. “Regulus, love, it’s okay. You’re safe now. We’re here.”

Fleamont watches the exchange, unable to tear his eyes away from the way Euphemia holds him. It’s both heartbreaking and reassuring, the tenderness she exudes, the way she calms Regulus with her presence. Slowly, Regulus seems to relax, his body stilling, the tension gradually easing from his shoulders.

When Fleamont sees the faintest sign that Regulus might be ready to move, he gently opens the car door wider. "Let’s get you out of here, son," he says quietly, his voice low and steady, offering an anchor.

Euphemia nods and carefully helps Regulus to his feet. Regulus’s grip on her doesn’t loosen, but his legs are steady enough for her to guide him out of the car. Fleamont reaches out to take Regulus’s bag from the backseat, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the moment.

Together, they walk toward the front door. Regulus’s steps are slow, almost tentative, but he doesn’t resist as Euphemia gently steers him inside. Fleamont watches them go, his heart heavy with a quiet ache.

Somehow, Euphemia gets Regulus into the house. Fleamont helps guide him into the kitchen, keeping his touch light, careful not to overwhelm the boy any more than he already is. Regulus moves like he’s sleepwalking, each step slow and unsteady. They settle him at the table, and Fleamont sets his bag beside him. He doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t move. Just sits there, hands stiff in his lap, face pale and drawn.

Fleamont exchanges a glance with Euphemia. He doesn’t know what to say yet, doesn’t know how to pull Regulus back from wherever his mind has taken him. Instead, he does the only thing he can think of—he puts the kettle on.

The soft hum of it fills the quiet space. It’s a familiar sound, one that usually brings comfort. Fleamont hopes it does now. He moves around the kitchen, preparing tea while Euphemia stays close to Regulus. The boy doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge anything around him. Fleamont knows that look—the way someone folds inward when they think they don’t deserve to be seen.

The kettle clicks off, breaking the hush. Fleamont pours the tea, letting the warmth and steam fill the air. He places a glass of milk in front of Regulus, followed by a small plate of chocolate chip cookies. It’s something simple, something easy. Something that might remind him that he’s safe.

Regulus stares at the cookies, his fingers twitching slightly. He doesn’t reach for them, doesn’t reach for anything. Fleamont sees the way his throat works, the way his shoulders tighten. The guilt is etched into every part of him. He recognizes it, though it’s painful to witness on someone so young.

Fleamont sits down across from him, his own cup of tea in hand. Euphemia follows, her presence as steady as ever. They don’t push. Don’t demand anything from him. They just sit with him, letting the silence stretch. It’s something Fleamont has learned over the years—that sometimes, silence is the kindest thing you can offer.

Regulus grips the glass of milk but doesn’t drink. He’s shaking. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that Fleamont notices. Enough that it makes his chest ache.

Then, Euphemia speaks. “Regulus.”

Her voice is gentle but firm, pulling him back, tethering him to the present. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. But… we’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”

Regulus flinches like the words hurt him. He presses his forehead against the table, his entire frame folding inward. Then, so quietly that Fleamont almost doesn’t catch it, he whispers, “Je suis désolé…”

Again. “ Je suis désolé …”

Fleamont doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know enough French to understand all the words Regulus mutters, but he knows an apology when he hears one. It makes his stomach twist.

Euphemia doesn’t hesitate. She reaches out, resting a hand lightly on Regulus’s arm. “It’s okay, Regulus,” she murmurs, as steady as always. “It’s all right.”

Regulus makes a sound—small, broken. His shoulders shake. He’s crying again, and he’s trying to hide it, curling in on himself as though he can disappear entirely. But he doesn’t pull away from Euphemia’s touch. He doesn’t run.

Fleamont lets out a slow breath. There’s nothing to fix here, nothing to make right with words alone. He looks at Euphemia, and she looks back, her eyes filled with quiet determination. They don’t speak, but they don’t need to.

Regulus may not believe he deserves this kindness, but that doesn’t matter.

They’ll keep showing up for him. Again and again.

***

The television hums softly in the background, filling the quiet space of the living room. Fleamont isn’t really watching it—some old mystery show is on, one he barely follows. Instead, his gaze flickers toward Euphemia, curled up on the other end of the couch, her legs tucked under her. She looks tired, but she always does after days like these.

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The weight of the day sits heavy on his shoulders, but he knows neither of them will sleep until they talk about it.

“So,” he starts, keeping his voice low, “Regulus.”

Euphemia glances at him, then sighs, reaching for the remote to lower the volume. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“Me too,” Fleamont admits. He leans back, arm draped over the back of the couch. He pauses for a moment, letting the silence fall around them. “Didn’t get much out of James when I asked about it, though.”

Euphemia presses her lips together, brows furrowing. “James didn’t even know about the suspension,” she murmurs. “He was shocked when I told him. I think it threw him.”

Fleamont nods. “It threw me too.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Regulus has barely been with us for more than a week, and now this?” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t feel real.”

More than that, it doesn’t feel right. Regulus is quiet, reserved—he doesn’t strike Fleamont as the kind of child who lashes out, not unless something was deeply wrong. But whatever happened at school today had pushed him past his limits. And we still don’t know why.

Euphemia sighs again, this time slower. “I keep going over it in my mind. He was so upset, Monty.” Her voice softens. “He was crying in the car, shaking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that before.”

Fleamont remembers. When he pulled up after picking up James, he’d seen it through the back windshield—Euphemia in the back seat, arms wrapped around Regulus, holding him close as he sobbed. The way his small shoulders had trembled, how he had clung to her, utterly wrecked.

And then, once they had coaxed him out of the car and sat down with him inside, they had found another reason for his devastation.

Fleamont sighs, dragging a hand down his face. His chest aches at the memory. “That book—he’s been carrying it around with him everywhere since we got it for him. I don’t think I’ve seen him without it, not once.”

Euphemia nods, her expression troubled. “I noticed that too. He never even put it down when he wasn’t reading it.”

Fleamont shakes his head. “And now it’s destroyed.” He exhales sharply, voice tightening. “That wasn’t just some book to him. It mattered. ”

Euphemia’s hands curl slightly against the fabric of her pajama pants, her lips pressing together. “And the dog,” she says quietly. “Monty, that really broke him.”

Fleamont doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his mind drifts back to the day they bought it for him—the way Regulus had hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly as he stared at the stuffed animal on the shelf. As if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want it.

But when Fleamont had handed it to him, Regulus had taken it so carefully , cradling it against his chest, his fingers curling into the soft fabric like he was afraid it would be taken away.

Euphemia swallows. “He just—he looked crushed, Monty. Like something inside him had broken along with it.”

Fleamont doesn’t need to be told. He had seen it. The way Regulus had just stared at the ruined remains of something he had loved , his expression blank at first—then crumpling in an instant as the weight of it hit him.

It wasn’t just a stuffed animal. It wasn’t just a book.

They were his .

And now they were gone.

Fleamont exhales sharply. “That’s what gets me,” he says. “He was so attached to those things already, and they were just—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “They should have just been a stuffed animal. A book. But to Regulus, they were more than that.”

They were proof that he belonged here. That someone had given him something without expectation. And now, someone had taken that from him.

Euphemia rests a hand on his arm. “I know,” she says, her voice quiet. “I think—he’s not used to things being his. I think it meant something that they belonged to him. And now they’re gone.”

Fleamont swallows down the lump in his throat, staring past the television. “That poor boy.”

Another stretch of quiet falls between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Fleamont finally shakes his head. “Do you think we should try to talk to him about the fight again?”

Euphemia’s answer is immediate. “I don’t think so.”

Fleamont nods. “Me neither.”

“We don’t even know the full story,” Euphemia reasons. “And even if we asked, he wouldn’t tell us.”

Fleamont tilts his head, thoughtful. “If he wants to talk about it, he will.”

“And if he doesn’t,” Euphemia says gently, “we let it go.”

The agreement settles between them, unspoken but understood.

Then, after a long pause, Fleamont exhales. “We should buy him a new one.”

Euphemia looks over at him. “A new what?”

“A new stuffed black dog,” Fleamont says. “And a new book. If we can, the whole set.”

Euphemia’s lips curve into a small, fond smile. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Fleamont nods. “Good.”

Because if nothing else, they can at least give him that . Give back what he had lost. Give back a piece of Regulus he had lost.

POV: EUPHEMIA

The morning hums with quiet activity as Euphemia moves around the kitchen, the scent of coffee and buttered toast filling the air. Sunlight streams through the window above the sink, casting a golden glow over the countertops. The rhythmic clatter of dishes, the gentle bubbling of eggs in the pan, and the occasional shuffle of James moving about create a familiar kind of morning chaos.

James, still in his pajamas, leans against the counter, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His dark hair sticks up in every direction, a mess he hasn’t yet bothered to tame.

“You’re going to be late if you don’t get dressed soon,” Euphemia reminds him as she plates up his breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and a few slices of apple.

James yawns. “I’ve got time.”

Euphemia hums, not entirely convinced. He always says that, and yet more often than not, she’s the one ushering him out the door at the last second, shoes half-tied and bag haphazardly slung over one shoulder.

She sets his plate down at the table and glances toward the staircase. Regulus hasn’t come down yet. Usually, by now, he’s sitting quietly at the table, picking at whatever breakfast she’s made, careful to keep to his own space. She hadn’t expected him to talk much—he never does, in general—but his absence is noticeable.

James shovels a bite of eggs into his mouth, barely paying attention as she wipes her hands on a dish towel.

“I’m going to check on Regulus,” she says, giving James a pointed look. “Eat properly, and then go get dressed.”

James mumbles something around his food that she chooses to take as agreement.

With that, she steps out of the kitchen, heading up the stairs. The house is quieter up here, the air still heavy with the last remnants of sleep. She stops in front of Regulus’ bedroom door and knocks gently.

Euphemia Potter pauses outside the bedroom door, listening for any sound from within. Nothing. The house is quiet at this hour, the early morning light stretching long shadows across the wooden floors. She knocks gently.

“Regulus?” Her voice is soft, careful.

No answer. She expected that.

She pushes the door open a little farther and steps inside. He’s lying on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, his face drawn and pale from exhaustion. Euphemia can tell he didn’t sleep. He doesn’t move when she enters, doesn’t acknowledge her presence, but she doesn’t take it personally. He’s been like this since yesterday.

She sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath 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.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, and he turns his head slightly to look at her. Not much, but enough.

Euphemia offers him a small smile. “Take your time,” she says, patting his blanket-covered knee before rising to her feet. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”

She doesn’t linger. She leaves him with the choice, the space to decide for himself. And when she hears the soft creak of floorboards a few minutes later, she knows he’s made the decision to follow.

***

When they pull into the parking lot, Euphemia barely spares a glance at the grocery store. It’s not where they’re going first. Instead, she steps toward the shop where, not too long ago, Regulus had his first real meltdown in front of them.

She doesn’t need to look at him to know he remembers. She can feel it in the way his steps falter beside her, just for a moment. But she doesn’t press, doesn’t reach for his hand or tell him it’s alright—just keeps walking, effortless as ever, as though stepping back into this place is as simple as breathing. Because she knows if she makes a show of easing him into it, he’ll recognize the caution for what it is: proof that she knows he struggled here. Proof that she’s watching.

Instead, she keeps her movements light, scanning the shelves of the toy section before plucking a small, stuffed black dog from one of them. Holding it up, she turns to face him. “Is this the one you picked last time?”

Regulus swallows. Nods.

Euphemia studies him carefully. The way his shoulders draw inward, the way his eyes flick between her and the stuffed animal, hesitant. She wishes she could know what he’s thinking, what tangled thoughts are running through his mind.

So much was taken from him. And not just in the big ways, the loud ways—the loss of home, of family as he knew it—but in the small things, too. The things no one would think twice about. A toy, a book. Pieces of a life swept away in an instant, as though they had never mattered at all. But they did matter. They still do.

Without a word, she continues down the aisle, still holding the dog. He follows. Hesitant, but he follows.

When they reach the books, she scans the shelves once more. “Which one were you reading?”

A pause. Then, slowly, Regulus lifts a hand and points to the title.

She pulls it out, then lets her eyes drift further. Something catches her attention—a box set, Percy Jackson & The Olympians. She remembers James tearing through this series a few years ago, the way he had read it at the breakfast table, in the car, even when she reminded him it would make him carsick. She remembers how deeply he connected with the characters, with their struggles and triumphs.

She wonders if Regulus would see himself in them, too.

Plucking the set from the shelf, she turns, pressing the black dog against his chest.

“Alright,” she says simply.

Regulus grips the stuffed animal tightly, staring at her as if trying to solve a puzzle. And for a brief moment, she wonders if he’s waiting for the catch, waiting for some unspoken condition to be revealed. But there is no puzzle. No hidden test. Just the simple reality that he lost something, and she is giving it back.

At the register, she pays without hesitation. When they step outside, she lets herself glance at him again. His grip on the dog hasn’t loosened.

And though he doesn’t say a word, she knows.

This matters.

***

The grocery store is new to Regulus.

Euphemia realizes this as soon as they step inside. He doesn’t look overwhelmed—not quite—but he hesitates, his eyes scanning the aisles, the shelves, the people moving around them. He’s mapping the space, cataloging everything the way she’s noticed he does in new environments.

She keeps her movements slow, deliberate, allowing him time to take it all in.

“This way,” she says gently, leading him toward the produce section.

He follows, staying close. Not in an anxious way, but in a way that suggests he’s not sure what’s expected of him.

She pauses by the potatoes and gestures toward them. “Would you like to pick some?”

Regulus glances at her, then at the display. After a moment, he steps forward, carefully selecting each one before placing them in the bag. His movements are precise, almost methodical. Euphemia doesn’t rush him.

When he hands her the bag, she offers a small smile. “Good choice.”

They move through the store with ease. Euphemia keeps the conversation light, pointing things out as they go—a particularly fresh bundle of parsley, the different types of bread James likes, the way Fleamont insists on the expensive brand of tea even though he can’t tell the difference. “I let him believe I can’t tell either,” she says lightly, placing the box in the cart. “Keeps him happy.”

Regulus doesn’t respond, but she catches the way his fingers flex slightly against the cart handle, as if anchoring himself.

At checkout, she notices something else—he hasn’t let go of the stuffed black dog she bought him. His grip is steady, secure. He doesn’t set it down, not even when she pays.

Back at home, they unpack the groceries together. It’s quiet work, but not unpleasant. Every so often, Euphemia murmurs a small “thank you” when he hands her something, and each time, she sees the faintest shift in his posture. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even nod, but there’s something in the way he holds himself—just a fraction looser, just a little more at ease.

Once everything is put away, she claps her hands together. “Alright. 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 her movements—careful, practiced—before mimicking them himself.

She starts on the filling while he peels the potatoes. As she cooks, she speaks lightly, weaving the conversation into the air between them, no pressure, no expectation. “Shepherd’s pie is one of James’ favorites. He always gets impatient waiting for it to cool.” She chuckles. “Last time, he nearly burned his tongue.”

She catches the smallest twitch of Regulus’ lips. Not quite a smile, but close.

When he finishes peeling, she hands him the wooden spoon. “Would you like to stir?”

He nods, carefully taking the spoon. His movements are precise, deliberate. She watches as he focuses, stirring in slow, even circles. Then—just for a moment—his hand slips. A small splash of sauce lands on the stove.

Regulus freezes.

Euphemia barely glances at it before grabbing a cloth. “Oops.”

That’s it. Just a simple acknowledgment before she wipes it away. No sharp words, no disapproving sighs. Just an accident. Just something that happened and is now gone.

Regulus stares at her, something unreadable in his expression. She doesn’t pry. Just continues cooking, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Because nothing has.

They keep working, side by side. By the time they finish, the kitchen smells warm and savory, filling the house with comfort.

As Euphemia smooths the mashed potatoes over the filling, she glances at Regulus. “Thank you for your help,” she says simply.

Regulus’ fingers tighten slightly around the stuffed black dog he never once let go of. He nods, and she sees it—the smallest flicker of something in his expression. A quiet sort of contentment.

It’s small, but it’s there.

POV: FLEAMONT

Fleamont sits at the dining table, half-listening to James chatter away while glancing over at Regulus, who is fully absorbed in his book.

James, as always, fills the silence with an endless stream of conversation—something about soccer, then a story from school, then back to soccer again. Fleamont hums in acknowledgment at the right moments, offering the occasional nod, but his focus drifts.

Regulus hasn’t spoken once. Hasn’t even looked up. He just sits quietly, fingers curled around the edge of his book, eyes flicking across the pages with careful precision.

Then, from the kitchen, the smell of something warm and rich drifts over, and moments later, Euphemia appears, carrying the shepherd’s pie to the table. She sets it down with practiced ease, flashing Fleamont a small smile before turning to James and ruffling his hair.

James immediately perks up. “Ooo, shepherd’s pie! My favorite!”

Euphemia smooths her hands over her apron. “Regulus and I made it together.”

Fleamont turns to Regulus. “Did you really?”

Regulus hesitates, just for a second, then gives a small nod.

Fleamont smiles. “Thank you, Regulus. Thank you, Euphemia, for dinner.”

James, already reaching for a serving, mumbles through a mouthful, “Yeah, thanks, Mum. Thanks, Reg.”

Euphemia sighs but doesn’t scold him. Instead, she brushes a hand over James’ shoulder and murmurs, “That’s alright, love.”

Fleamont glances at Regulus just in time to see it—the faintest flush of pink on his cheeks, his fingers tightening slightly around his book. He’s not used to this, Fleamont thinks. The attention. The gratitude. But he doesn’t seem uncomfortable, just… uncertain.

Fleamont doesn’t push. Just reaches for his own plate, the warmth of the meal settling over the table like a quiet sort of comfort.

***

Fleamont wakes slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the bedroom. He blinks a few times, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before stretching, feeling the familiar stiffness in his joints. It’s early when he wakes up—earlier than usual, even for him. Fleamont is typically an early riser, but this feels a bit earlier than he’s accustomed to.

Euphemia’s side of the bed is already empty, the faint scent of her perfume lingering on the sheets. He listens for a moment, hearing the distant hum of movement downstairs. The soft sound of water running from the bathroom hints at where she might be—probably in the shower, as usual, a quiet ritual to start the day.

Fleamont swings his legs over the edge of the bed with a quiet sigh, the cool floor beneath his feet grounding him as he begins to shake off the remnants of sleep. His pajama shirt is wrinkled, and he buttons it absentmindedly as he shuffles to the mirror, pushing his unruly hair back with one hand. It’s no use. His hair, much like James’, refuses to be tamed. He gives up with a small huff, straightens his slightly crooked glasses, and finally makes his way downstairs.

When he steps off the last step, rubbing his face with one hand, his gaze lands on Regulus, curled up in the living room with a book in hand.

“Morning, Regulus,” Fleamont says through a yawn, adjusting his glasses. “You’re up early this morning. Everything alright?”

Regulus nods, his expression unreadable, but something about the way he acknowledges the greeting makes Fleamont smile. He doesn’t press further, just nods back before heading into the kitchen.

The house is quiet, peaceful in a way that mornings often are. He moves through the space with ease, retrieving a mug from the cupboard and setting the kettle to boil. The rhythm of the morning routine is familiar—steady.

As he stirs milk into his tea, he glances up to find Regulus lingering in the doorway, his book momentarily forgotten. Fleamont doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he lifts an eyebrow. “Would you like some juice?”

There’s a brief pause before Regulus nods.

“Orange or apple?” Fleamont asks, pulling both cartons from the fridge.

Regulus points to the apple juice. Fleamont chuckles lightly, pouring a glass before handing it over.

“Good choice.”

Regulus takes the glass but doesn’t drink just yet. Instead, he stands by the counter, watching as Fleamont takes a slow sip of his tea, sighing contentedly. The comfortable quiet lingers between them, unforced, unpressured.

“I’ll be staying home today,” Fleamont says after a moment. “To help you with some of your schoolwork.”

Regulus nods.

Fleamont takes another sip of tea. “I teach at the local university. 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.”

Another nod. Fleamont notes the slight furrow of Regulus’ brow, a flicker of interest. He doesn’t elaborate further, just moves to the stove, cracking a few eggs into a bowl.

The rhythmic scrape of the whisk fills the air as he beats them together before pouring them into the pan. The scent of butter and eggs begins to fill the kitchen, warm and familiar.

Regulus stands by the counter, sipping his juice, watching. Fleamont lets him.

Before long, footsteps echo from upstairs, followed by the hurried sound of movement on the stairs. Then, in a flurry of motion, Euphemia and James appear in the kitchen, both looking slightly rushed.

“Good morning, Regulus,” Euphemia greets, offering him a warm smile before turning to Fleamont. “We’re running a little late for James’ appointment.”

Fleamont doesn’t look too concerned. “That’s alright,” he says, flipping the eggs in the pan with practiced ease.

Euphemia nods, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “See you later, love.”

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

“Have a good day at school,” Fleamont says easily, barely looking up as the front door opens and shuts behind them. The house settles into quiet once more.

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

Regulus holds up two fingers.

Fleamont nods, sliding bread into the toaster, and soon enough, breakfast is served. It’s a simple meal, eaten in near silence, but there’s something enjoyable about the quiet. No arguments. No tension. Just the occasional scrape of cutlery and the rustle of newspaper pages as Fleamont skims through an article. It’s peaceful.

When they’re finished, Fleamont stands and gestures to his laptop, setting it up at the kitchen table. “Let’s start with your assignments,” he says, handing the laptop to Regulus.

Regulus nods, his posture careful but not tense. Fleamont watches as he settles in, fingers hovering over the keyboard before he begins to type. His movements are precise, deliberate. Focused.

Fleamont lets him work for a moment, sipping his tea as he reads over a few emails. Every so often, he glances up, watching as Regulus rereads his words, corrects a typo, then continues. There’s something satisfying in seeing him work like this—engaged, interested. It’s a small thing, but it feels important.

Once he finishes his breakfast and feels ready to head upstairs, Fleamont stands, gathering his things. Before he leaves, he looks over at Regulus, who’s still engrossed in his work. When he returns downstairs later, he finds Regulus sitting at the kitchen table, his gaze focused on the screen.

Leaning in slightly, Fleamont asks with a curious smile, “What are you working on?”

Regulus points to the task sheet for his art assignment, then turns the laptop toward him.

Fleamont scans the screen, nodding approvingly. “Nice. Art—good way to start.”

Regulus watches as he reads through the assignment, expression unreadable. After a moment, Fleamont straightens. “This sounds good. Is it finished?”

A nod.

“Okay,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Do you need to print it?”

Another nod.

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

Regulus picks up the laptop as Fleamont gestures for him to follow. They walk down the hall into his study. It’s a neat space, the walls lined with bookshelves, a large desk against one side.

Fleamont presses a couple of buttons on the printer before motioning Regulus closer. “Alright,” he says, pointing at the laptop screen. “First, open the print settings, select the right printer, and then—” He clicks a few more things. “—hit print.”

Regulus watches closely. The printer hums to life, and Fleamont notices the way the boy shifts slightly, his eyes following the paper as it feeds through, ink appearing line by line.

Fleamont chuckles. “Printing is fun, isn’t it?”

Regulus nods, picking up the fresh page carefully, making sure it doesn’t crinkle. Fleamont gestures for them to head back, and together they return to the table, settling in once more.

They work through science next. Regulus wants to get it done before any of his other assignments, and Fleamont doesn’t argue. Instead, he shows him how to format the information properly, using one of James’ old assignments as an example.

Fleamont doesn’t rush him. Doesn’t criticize him when he hesitates or stumbles over a section. He just offers quiet guidance, steady and patient.

It’s not something Regulus is used to. That much is clear. But as they continue working, Fleamont catches something else—something small, but there.

Regulus is learning that here, there is no pressure. No expectation beyond effort. And, slowly, he is starting to trust that.

POV: EUPHEMIA

Euphemia sighs as she looks down at the email on her phone, her lips pressing together in frustration. She’d been so sure James’ psychiatrist appointment was at eight-thirty, but no—the email clearly states nine-thirty. She glances over at James, who’s sitting next to her in the hospital waiting area, his leg bouncing with restless energy.

“Well,” she says, tucking her phone back into her bag. “I got the time wrong.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Unfortunately.” She sighs again, but it’s more amused this time. “Looks like we have an hour to kill. Want to grab some breakfast?”

James brightens at that, immediately jumping to his feet. “Yes, please. I’m starving.”

They make their way to the small café just outside the hospital, finding a table in the crisp morning air. The place isn’t too busy, and the scent of coffee and fresh pastries drifts through the air as they settle into their seats.

James barely glances at the menu before deciding on pancakes with extra syrup, while Euphemia orders an omelet and tea. As they wait, James launches into a rambling story about his latest school assignment—something about an English essay that he was initially dreading but then realized he had so many opinions about.

“It’s actually kind of fun,” he admits, waving his hands as he talks. “I mean, I didn’t think I’d care about the themes in Of Mice and Men , but once I got started, I had like… too much to say. Mary and Peter were like, James, it’s not that deep , but it is that deep. And my teacher said I had a lot of enthusiasm, which I think is a good thing?”

Euphemia smiles, sipping her tea as she listens. She loves moments like this—just the two of them, James talking a mile a minute about something that excites him.

Their food arrives, and the conversation slows as they start eating. Euphemia watches her son for a moment, warmth filling her chest. He’s such a good kid. Loud, energetic, always moving at full speed—but also so kind, so deeply caring in a way that makes her proud.

But as she watches him cut into his pancakes, she notices a familiar look on his face—one she’s seen many times before. His brows furrow slightly, his mouth presses into a thin line, his fingers fiddle absently with his fork. I know something, but I don’t know whether or not to tell you.

Euphemia sets her tea down and leans in slightly. “What’s wrong, love?”

James pauses, his fork hovering over his plate. He hesitates, clearly debating with himself, and then, finally, he says, “It’s about Regulus.” His voice is quieter now, more careful.

Euphemia keeps her expression calm. “Okay,” she says. “Is there something wrong?”

James nods, pushing his food around on his plate. “I’ve noticed—well, my friends and I have noticed—that some boys have been bothering him.” He glances up at her, then back down again. “I asked Dorcas—she sits with Regulus and her other friends. I think they’re friends? I don’t know, I’m not really sure. Anyway, we think he’s being bullied.”

Euphemia’s chest tightens.

James continues, “But he hasn’t said anything. And I don’t really know what to do if he won’t say anything.”

She reaches across the table, squeezing his hand gently. “Thank you for telling me,” she says, her voice steady despite the quiet storm brewing in her mind. “Keep an eye on him, alright? If you see anything, try to get him away or find a teacher.”

James nods, looking relieved. “Okay.”

They go back to eating, the conversation shifting to lighter topics, but Euphemia’s thoughts remain stuck on what James has just told her.

It all makes sense now.

The destroyed stuffed black dog. The ruined book. The punching another student. It makes sense. Regulus is being bothered, and he won’t say anything about it. 

And, Euphemia can’t stop thinking, why? Why won’t he say something? Why won’t he ask for help? Why won’t he tell her and Fleamont?  

There could be countless of reasons as to why, Regulus won’t say something. A part of her is saddened at the thought that he might be too afraid to say anything. 

And, that thought makes her stomach churn. 

The appointment had gone well. They had managed to get James put on a different afternoon tablet to help him focus. Euphemia had felt good about the whole appointment—even James seemed to be on board with the new medication.

Now, she stands in the school reception, signing James in for the day. He shifts impatiently beside her, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Alright, you’re all set,” the receptionist says, sliding the sign-in sheet back toward her.

James grabs his bag. “Okay, see you later, Mum.”

Euphemia ruffles his hair. “Have a good day, love.”

As James heads off, Euphemia turns—and that’s when she spots a familiar face.

Ms. Carrington, the Year 7 guidance counselor, is walking through the hallway, a stack of folders in her arms. She hasn’t noticed Euphemia yet, but as soon as their eyes meet, recognition flickers across her face.

“Mrs. Potter,” Ms. Carrington greets, adjusting the folders in her grasp. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hello, Ms. Carrington,” Euphemia says warmly. “Do you have a moment?”

Ms. Carrington hesitates, then nods. “Of course. Let me just drop these off at my office.” She gestures toward the hallway. “Walk with me?”

Euphemia falls into step beside her.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about Regulus,” she says, keeping her voice light but purposeful. “I have some concerns.”

Ms. Carrington hums in acknowledgment. “I’m glad you brought him up. I’ve been meaning to reach out to you, actually.” She glances over at Euphemia, expression serious. “I wanted to schedule a meeting to discuss a support plan for him.”

Euphemia’s stomach twists slightly. “A support plan?”

Ms. Carrington nods. “Some of his teachers have noticed he gets overwhelmed in certain situations. A few have mentioned instances where he’s completely shut down in class.” She exhales softly. “I think having something in place—some strategies to help him when things get too much—would really benefit him.”

Euphemia processes this, her mind flicking back to James’ words over breakfast. “Of course,” she says without hesitation. “What time were you thinking?”

“Would tomorrow morning at nine work for you?”

“That’s perfect,” Euphemia agrees.

Ms. Carrington smiles, a hint of relief in her expression. “Great. I’ll see you then.”

As Euphemia watches her disappear down the hall, her chest tightens, slightly. All she wants to do is help Regulus. She wants to make sure he’s okay, that he’ll be alright. 

But, she can’t shake the feeling that there is something else not being said. That there’s something she’s not telling her. And, that makes Euphemia falter. All she can do is pray that whatever is said within that meeting, that it helps solve this problem. That it helps fix this situation Regulus has found himself in.  

POV: FLEAMONT

Fleamont leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head as he watches the last document save on his laptop. He rolls his shoulders, glancing at the time. “Well,” he says, smiling, “I’d say that was a productive day.”

He looks over at Regulus, who sits rigidly in his chair, hands still resting on the keyboard as if uncertain whether he’s actually finished. Fleamont softens his voice, keeping it light. “What do you think about heading out for some ice cream? A little reward for all your hard work?”

Regulus stills.

Fleamont doesn’t miss the way his fingers twitch slightly against the laptop keys, the way his posture shifts—tense, guarded. The boy doesn’t answer right away, and something in his expression flickers, too quick for Fleamont to fully read.

It’s not excitement. It’s not relief.

It’s something closer to hesitation. Maybe even doubt .

Fleamont waits, giving him space, but Regulus doesn’t speak. His eyes dart downward, his mouth pressing into a thin line, and Fleamont frowns. He had expected at least some kind of response—a quiet agreement, perhaps, or even just a nod. But Regulus doesn’t look pleased at the idea. He looks… unsettled.

Before Fleamont can say anything else, footsteps sound from the stairs, and Euphemia enters the room. She glances between them, then smiles warmly as she catches the tail end of the conversation. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

Regulus’ shoulders tighten slightly, and Fleamont’s frown deepens.

Something is wrong.

And whatever it is, it has nothing to do with ice cream.

Once James had gotten home from school, they were off to the ice cream parlor.

Fleamont drives, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other adjusting the volume of the radio as James chatters from the passenger seat. “I swear, if I have to look at another algebra problem, my brain is going to melt . There is absolutely no reason for numbers and letters to mix. It’s unnatural.”

Fleamont chuckles. “You’ll survive.”

“Doubt it,” James mutters, slouching dramatically. “Lily’s already got everything memorized, of course. I asked her how, and she just said ‘it makes sense when you practice.’ But I have been practicing! And it still makes no sense!”

Fleamont hums in amusement, but his gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, landing on Regulus. The boy is sitting stiffly in the back seat, hands in his lap, shoulders just a bit too straight. His expression is unreadable, his gaze unfocused.

Fleamont studies him for a moment.

The tension is still there—subtle, but present. He can’t quite tell what’s running through Regulus’ mind, but he has a feeling it has nothing to do with ice cream. Maybe he’s still stuck on the idea of a “reward.” Maybe he’s still thinking about everything that happened at school. Or maybe, he’s just trying to figure out how he’s meant to act in a situation like this—how to be in this family, after spending so long in places that didn’t quite feel like home.

Fleamont’s grip on the wheel tightens slightly, then loosens as he exhales.

They pull into the ice cream parlor parking lot, and as they step inside, the cool air carries the scent of sugar and waffle cones. The place isn’t too busy, just a few families scattered around the shop, children excitedly peering into the glass display of flavors.

Fleamont watches as Regulus hesitates near the counter, eyes scanning the endless rows of ice cream. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t press against the glass like James does—he just stares , as if unsure where to start.

“Chocolate,” James declares, leaning against the counter. “No, wait—strawberry. No, wait! Do you still have that weird one with the caramel swirls?”

Regulus doesn’t say anything. His fingers twitch slightly at his sides, his gaze flicking from one flavor to the next, scanning the labels but not seeming to process them. Fleamont recognizes the look—overwhelmed, uncertain, caught in the sheer number of choices.

Before he can say anything, Euphemia steps in beside Regulus, her voice gentle. “Cookies and cream is always a safe choice,” she suggests. “Do you like that one?”

Regulus looks at her, then back at the ice cream case. After a long pause, he gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Fleamont watches the way Euphemia orders for him, how she keeps her tone light, as if it’s nothing—just a simple decision, just ice cream. He watches the way Regulus relaxes slightly, just enough to finally step forward and accept the cup when it’s handed to him.

They take their seats outside, the warm evening air wrapping around them as James immediately launches into a story.

“So, Peter and I may or may not have gotten detention today—”

Fleamont raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

James waves a hand. “Totally worth it. We were in class, and Peter dared me to say ‘nice’ every time the professor wrote ‘69’ on the board. Which, obviously, I did. And obviously , Peter started laughing—except he’s got that awful snort-laugh that just explodes out of him when he’s trying to hold it in, so we both got kicked out.”

Euphemia sighs, shaking her head, but Fleamont just smirks. “You’re lucky I was worse at your age.”

James grins, clearly pleased with himself, and Fleamont turns his attention to Regulus.

The boy is quiet, but Fleamont can see it—the slight curve of his lips, the way his posture isn’t as stiff as before. He’s eating his ice cream, listening. Enjoying himself.

It’s small, but it’s there.

Then, just as quickly, the moment slips away. Regulus’ shoulders tense again, his expression flickering back to something more guarded, more uncertain.

Fleamont exhales softly, watching as Regulus takes another quiet bite of ice cream, his gaze dropping to the table.

One step forward, two steps back.

But at least, for a little while, Regulus had something —a brief moment of ease.

And right now, Fleamont will take that.

***

By the time they arrive home, the house is quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as they step inside. The afternoon had been… nice. A rare, small success in the midst of everything. But as Fleamont follows Euphemia into the kitchen, he can’t shake the feeling that it won’t last long.

Euphemia moves easily around the space, placing her purse on the counter and rolling up the sleeves of her blouse as she starts on dinner preparations. Fleamont leans against the counter, watching as Regulus walks toward the stairs. Before he can disappear up them, Euphemia speaks.

“Regulus,” she says gently.

He stops.

Fleamont watches as Regulus turns just slightly, enough to show he’s listening.

“I wanted to let you know—you’ve got a meeting with the guidance counselor tomorrow morning.”

It’s barely there, but Fleamont sees it—the flicker of tension in Regulus’ posture, the way his fingers twitch at his sides before curling into fists. His breathing, already quiet, seems to still completely for just a moment.

Then, without a word, Regulus nods once. And just as quickly, he turns and heads upstairs, his steps light but hurried.

Euphemia exhales, a quiet sigh that lingers in the silence left behind. She turns back to the counter, placing her hands on the edge as she lets out a slow breath.

“James told me this morning,” she murmurs. “He thinks Regulus is being bullied by some kids at school.”

Fleamont straightens slightly. “Bullied?”

She nods, pressing her lips together. “He said he’s seen some boys bothering Regulus before. He didn’t have much detail, but… I don’t know, Monty. It got me thinking.” She glances up at him, worry flickering in her eyes. “And then, when I was dropping James off this morning, the guidance counselor pulled me aside. She said she wanted to talk to me about Regulus.”

Fleamont listens carefully, his arms crossing over his chest. “Did she say why?”

Euphemia shakes her head. “Just that she wanted to meet. I figured it was a good opportunity to bring up what James said… and about the suspension.”

Fleamont doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting her words settle. When she speaks again, he hears it—that slight edge of panic, the quiet unease beneath her composed demeanor.

“I just…” She hesitates. “I don’t know, Monty. I’m a little concerned.”

Fleamont nods, stepping closer. His hands find her waist, thumbs brushing gently against the fabric of her blouse. “Take a deep breath,” he murmurs.

Euphemia exhales slowly, closing her eyes for a brief moment before drawing in another breath, deeper this time.

Fleamont waits until she lets it out, then squeezes her waist lightly. “Everything is going to be okay.” His voice is steady, certain. “The guidance counselor is there to help Regulus succeed at school. They’re not looking to kick him out.”

Euphemia chuckles quietly, shaking her head as some of the tension eases from her shoulders. “You always know what to say.”

Fleamont smirks. “I try.”

She leans up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Thank you.”

They both turn back to the counter, slipping into the rhythm of preparing dinner together. But as Fleamont reaches for a knife to start chopping vegetables, his mind drifts back to the conversation, to the panic he swore he saw in Regulus’ expression.

He can only hope this meeting is just to help Regulus—not to cause more trouble

POV: EUPHEMIA

It’s not like she’s a little skeptical—okay, she’ll admit she’s a little skeptical about this meeting. After all, she was planning on speaking with Ms. Carrington yesterday. That was, until she asked for a meeting at nine in the morning the next day. 

So, yeah. Euphemia would say she’s nervous. Regulus has only been living with her and her family for almost two weeks now, and to say she’s noticed some habits, would be an understatement. 

Because, truth be told, Euphemia has taken notice of some behaviours that other people, other parents would deem “odd” or “annoying.” But she hasn’t. She’s seen how Regulus suffered a meltdown of sorts, whilst shopping. And she’s seen how he’s had a panic attack over having sand on him. 

She’s noticed he’s quiet, that the only time he’s talked was to apologise in a completely different language. She’s noticed how he doesn’t make eye contact. Or how emotionally attached to that stuffed black dog he was. 

She’s taken notice, and if she has, others have also.

So, yeah, Euphemia is nervous for this meeting. Who wouldn’t?

Euphemia walks down the school hallway, the heels of her shoes thud softly against the carpet floors. The air carries the faint scent of old books and cleaning supplies, a strangely familiar combination.

Beside her, Regulus walks in silence, his hands curled tightly into the hem of his dark green t-shirt. His shoulders are hunched, and he keeps half a step behind her, as though he’s hoping to disappear altogether. She doesn’t push him to talk. He’s nervous—she can see that much—and no amount of reassurance will change that right now. Instead, she offers a small smile when they reach the door marked Ms. Carrington, Year 7 Guidance Counselor and knocks lightly before stepping inside.

Ms. Carrington looks up from her desk, a warm smile spreading across her face. She’s a woman in her late forties, with kind brown eyes and a cluttered workspace filled with papers, stress balls, and a mug that says World’s Okayest Counselor in chipped blue letters.

“Good morning, Mrs. Potter. Regulus.” She nods to each of them, her tone gentle. “Come in, sit down.”

Regulus hesitates for half a second before following Euphemia inside. He keeps his gaze low as he takes a seat beside her, his fingers still twisting at his shirt. Euphemia sits with ease, offering Ms. Carrington a polite nod.

“Good morning, Ms. Carrington,” she greets, keeping her voice light. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.”

“Of course.” Ms. Carrington folds her hands together on the desk, glancing between them. “How are you feeling this morning, Regulus?”

Regulus gives a tiny shrug, eyes still downcast.

Euphemia takes in the moment, noting the tension in his posture. This isn’t easy for him. She had worried about this meeting—about what might be said, about how Regulus might react—but now that she’s here, she pushes those concerns aside. One thing at a time. Right now, her focus is on him.

“So, about Regulus’ suspension,” Ms. Carrington begins, her voice gentle. “I know the principal went over everything with you, but… I have a feeling there was something missing from that report.”

Euphemia nods, glancing at Regulus before responding. “I was thinking the same thing. From what I understand, Regulus was provoked.”

Ms. Carrington sighs. “That’s what I’ve gathered, too. I spoke to a few students who witnessed the incident, and they mentioned that the other boy had been targeting Regulus for a while. It doesn’t excuse what happened, of course, but context is important.”

Euphemia hums in agreement. She’s not excusing the fight, but she knows there’s more to it than just an outburst.

Ms. Carrington continues, flipping through a few papers. “Beyond 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 pauses before adding, “Some of them have noticed he gets overwhelmed in certain situations. Sometimes, he completely shuts down.”

Regulus’ shoulders stiffen. Euphemia doesn’t react outwardly, but she notes the way he curls in slightly, making himself smaller. A protective instinct rises in her, though she tamps it down. He doesn’t need her to shield him from this conversation—he needs her to understand.

Ms. Carrington glances at Regulus but doesn’t press. “His English teacher, Mr. Andrews, mentioned that Regulus sometimes brings a small stuffed black dog to class.”

Euphemia’s lips twitch slightly. A stuffed black dog. She wonders if it holds special meaning for him. After all, some would consider, for a child his age, his attachment to be… unhealthy, to say the least. 

“Which isn’t an issue, of course,” Ms. Carrington clarifies. “But he also noted 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.”

Euphemia tilts her head. “What kind of things would be in this plan?”

“It could be as simple as a five-minute break outside the classroom if he’s feeling overwhelmed,” Ms. Carrington explains. “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.”

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

Regulus doesn’t answer right away. He stares at his hands, his fingers still tightly gripping his shirt. Then, after a long moment, he nods, barely perceptible, but a nod nonetheless.

“Alright, then,” Euphemia says with a small smile. “Let’s figure this out together.”

Ms. Carrington makes a few notes and starts listing possible accommodations. Every once in a while, she and Euphemia ask for Regulus’ input. He never speaks, only nods or shakes his head, but it’s enough. They settle on a plan: a break card he can use to leave class when needed, a quiet space in the library, and check-ins with Ms. Carrington to see how he’s doing.

Euphemia rests a gentle hand on Regulus’ arm. “This is to make sure you don’t get suspended again.”

He swallows, his expression unreadable.

She waits a beat before adding, “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.”

Regulus tenses. His fingers tighten around his shirt, twisting it until the fabric stretches. Euphemia watches him closely, her heart aching at the reaction. Had no one ever told him that before?

Ms. Carrington clears her throat softly, her gaze warm. “We just want to make sure school is a safe place for you, Regulus.”

The meeting wraps up not long after. Ms. Carrington hands Euphemia a copy of the agreed-upon plan and thanks them both for coming in. Euphemia thanks her in return, standing up and waiting for Regulus to follow. He moves stiffly but follows her out the door, his silence heavy but not unfamiliar.

As they step outside the school, the summer air is warm around them. Euphemia glances at Regulus, offering him a small smile. “Well,” she says, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Regulus doesn’t respond, but his hands are no longer clenched so tightly. She takes it as a small victory.

They walk in silence toward the car. Euphemia doesn’t press him to speak, doesn’t try to fill the quiet. Instead, she lets it settle, content just to be beside him.