To Find a Home

Oh, the irony.

It’s a fickle thing, irony—capable of being one thing but meaning something completely different.

Which, if Regulus might add, is hilarious.

Why? Well, imagine this: having PE as your last class before getting suspended for three days, only for it to be the first class you attend once your suspension is lifted.

Doesn’t sound like something that would happen to you? Well, it certainly happened to Regulus.

At least, this time, it didn’t end with him getting suspended again. Thank you, Jesus.

No, what did happen was much simpler. Dodgeball happened.

It’s one of those games that only ever makes an appearance under two conditions: when it’s the last day of term, or when it rains.

And today? Oh, it’s raining.

Regulus has always found the phrase " it’s raining cats and dogs " to be completely absurd. Because, obviously, it can’t literally rain cats and dogs. That’s ridiculous. When he first questioned this, Sirius had just rolled his eyes and muttered, “It’s just an expression, Reg, don’t take it literally.”

But how could Regulus not take it literally?

So, yeah. Thanks to the weather, Regulus’ PE class is playing dodgeball inside the hall.

Now, one important thing to note about dodgeball: things can get hairy. Why hairy, Regulus? Well, let him explain.

Four words—Colin and his gang.

Yep, you heard him right. Colin and his gang. And if you’re wondering what they have to do with any of this, the answer is simple. They’re the reason Regulus got suspended in the first place.

And putting Regulus in a loud, enclosed space where kids are actively trying to pummel each other with rubber balls? Well. It’s not ideal.

Fortunately, Regulus has an out. A pass, if you will. A golden ticket that lets him escape situations like this when they get to be too much.

Which is why, instead of dodging balls and risking another run-in with Colin and his gang, Regulus is sitting in the guidance counselor’s office, reading.

It’s peaceful. For now.

Evading Colin and his gang is easier said than done. It won’t last. Peace never really does.

And that, Regulus thinks, is another thing about irony. People want peace. They talk about it, claim to value it, even fight wars over it.

But peace? It never stays for long.

Nor does it last for long.

Peace is an association of temporary . Regulus associates peace with staying in foster homes. It never lasts.

That was until break.

Of course, Regulus gets cornered.

But this time, it’s not the usual suspects. It’s not Colin and his gang, not some teacher pulling him aside for a quiet talk about his behavior, and not even James, who has a remarkable talent for showing up exactly when Regulus doesn’t want him to.

No, it’s Pandora, Barty, Evan, and Dorcas.

Regulus doesn’t notice them at first. He’s in the library, tucked away in his usual spot—third row from the back, second-to-last table by the window. It’s quiet here. Safe.

Or at least, it was.

He hears them before he sees them—the shuffle of feet, a muffled whisper, the creak of a chair being pulled out. By the time he looks up, they’re already there, standing around his table like they’ve been planning this for hours.

Regulus grips his book a little tighter, his posture stiffening.

Pandora stares at him, unimpressed, arms crossed over her chest. "What the hell are you doing here sitting by yourself?"

He doesn’t answer. He just blinks at her, unsure what to say.

Sitting alone is what he does. It’s what he prefers. Isn’t that obvious?

But Pandora doesn’t seem to think so. She tilts her head, waiting, while Barty flops into the seat across from him like he belongs there. Evan drags over a chair without a word, and Dorcas sits on the table itself, arms resting over her knees, looking at him expectantly.

Regulus glances between them, confused. Suspicious.

Pandora rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I can see that. But why are you here ?" She gestures vaguely to the empty space around them, like that should make sense.

Regulus grips his book tighter, shoulders curling in slightly.

Barty snorts. "Boring . "

Dorcas hums, leaning back on her hands. "You could sit with us, you know."

Regulus freezes.

"You don’t have to," Evan adds, his voice quieter than the others. "But you could."

Regulus stares at them. It’s too much, all at once. Too unexpected.

Pandora just huffs, reaching over and flicking the edge of his book. "We’re your friends, you know."

Regulus doesn’t move. Doesn’t react.

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with that—what he’s supposed to say to that. The words echo in his head, looping over and over again.

"We’re your friends, you know."

Friends .

Regulus isn’t sure he even knows what that word means. He’s heard it before, of course—sees it in the way James laughs too loud with his mates, in the way people used to gravitate toward Sirius like planets caught in orbit. But for himself? It doesn’t fit.

People like Barty, Evan, Pandora, and Dorcas... they’re nice to him. They sit with him at lunch, ask him questions, wait for answers he never gives. They hunt him down when he hides away in the library, pull up chairs, and act as if he belongs there, too.

But friends ?

He’ll believe it when he sees it.

The rest of his Friday goes by without a hitch. It’s oddly comforting, in an unnatural sort of way. Regulus doesn’t know how to explain it—if he even could. But then the weekend arrives, and things slow down.

The Potters don’t do much. Maybe that’s because both Regulus and James are about to enter the final weeks of school. The pressure is on—trying to study while still absorbing new topics. It’s exhausting.

If he didn’t have Mr. Potter’s ability to teach, Regulus isn’t so sure he would have made it through.

And yet, despite all of that, despite the studying and the slow weekend and the lingering uncertainty in his mind, he can’t quite shake the memory of the library. Of them. Of Pandora’s bluntness, of Dorcas’ quiet observation, of Barty’s easy familiarity, of Evan’s careful words.

Friends .

And here Regulus thought he’d have a peaceful and relaxing weekend.

It’s a shame peace is such a stupid construct. A lie people tell themselves, a promise never meant to be kept. Peace isn’t real—not in the way people pretend it is. It’s borrowed at best, an illusion at worst. Something dangled just out of reach, only to be yanked away the second he starts to believe in it.

Because the moment he lets his guard down, something always happens. Always.

As if peace, of all things, could let him be.

This, subsequently, leads to his current predicament—his second check-in with Sarah. Right about now.

A sharp knock echoes from the front door, pulling Regulus from his book. He stiffens, fingers gripping the edges of the pages a little tighter.

James, who had been sprawled on the couch flipping through his phone, jumps up at the sound. "I’ll get it!" he calls, already halfway to the door.

Regulus keeps his gaze on the words in front of him, but they blur at the edges, unreadable. He knows what’s coming. It’s fine. It’s just Sarah. But that doesn’t stop the tight coil of anxiety from settling in his stomach.

The door creaks open. "Oh, hello," James says, then glances over his shoulder. "Mum! Sarah’s here!"

"Come in," James adds after a moment, stepping aside.

"Thank you, James." Sarah’s voice is warm, polite as always. A familiar tone that’s meant to be reassuring.

From his spot at the kitchen table, Regulus finally lifts his gaze. Sarah steps inside, dressed in her usual business-casual attire—navy trousers, a neatly pressed blouse, a bag slung over one shoulder. She offers a small, easy smile, though Regulus knows better than to think she’s here for casual pleasantries.

"Ah, Sarah, hello." Euphemia wipes her hands on a kitchen towel as she steps away from the counter, where she’d just been preparing dinner. There’s a faint scent of garlic and herbs in the air. "We were expecting you and not expecting you."

Sarah chuckles. "That’s alright, Euphemia. I know these check-ins aren’t always at the most predictable times." Her eyes flick toward Regulus, assessing but not intrusive. "I hope I’m not interrupting anything?"

"Not at all," Euphemia assures, gesturing toward the kitchen. "I was just about to start dinner."

Regulus stays quiet. He doesn’t need to say anything—doesn’t want to say anything. He sets his book down carefully, marking his page before looking up properly.

Sarah tilts her head slightly. "How about we talk for a bit, Regulus? Nothing formal. Just checking in."

His fingers twitch against the book cover, but he nods. It’s not like he has a choice.

Sarah gestures toward the living room. "We can sit somewhere more comfortable, if you’d like?"

Regulus hesitates, then casts a quick glance at Euphemia. She gives him a small, reassuring nod before turning back to her dinner preparations, as if to say, You’re alright. You can do this.

Still, the tightness in his chest doesn’t ease.

With a quiet exhale, he stands. Sarah gives another small smile before leading the way. Regulus decides he wants to sit outside, so that’s where he heads.

The front porch of the Potters’ house is nice. It reminds Regulus of something , though he can’t quite place what. It’s well-kept but not overly polished, comfortable without being extravagant. It feels like something permanent. Something safe.

The beauty of it is subtle—like the sun setting before him. The sky explodes with vibrant colors, deep oranges and pinks bleeding into soft purples and blues. It reminds Regulus of James, oddly enough. Loud and bright, impossible to ignore. A presence that lingers even when you’re not looking.

Regulus settles onto the steps, drawing his knees up slightly, arms resting against them. Sarah sits beside him, a respectable distance away, not too close, not too far. She’s good at that—at knowing how much space to give him.

For a few moments, neither of them speak. The air smells like cooling pavement and distant flowers from Euphemia’s garden. There’s a faint breeze, carrying the distant sound of traffic.

Sarah breaks the silence first. "How have things been since I last saw you?"

Regulus shrugs, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. "Fine."

Sarah hums, waiting. Regulus knows she wants more than that, but she’s patient. She always is.

He sighs. "Weird, mostly."

Sarah tilts her head. "Weird how?"

Regulus considers for a moment, then gestures vaguely. "The Potters are weird."

Sarah raises an eyebrow, amused. "Weird in a bad way?"

Regulus hesitates. "No. Just... weird." He frowns slightly. "Like, Mrs. Potter bought me a brand-new stuffed black dog and a whole book box set just because mine got destroyed."

Sarah’s expression softens. "That sounds... thoughtful."

"Yeah," Regulus mutters, picking at the thread again. "It was thoughtful. But it was also weird."

Sarah chuckles lightly. "Maybe they’re just trying to make sure you feel comfortable here."

Regulus doesn’t respond to that. He’s not sure how to respond to that. Instead, he huffs a quiet breath and leans back against the step. "And then there’s school."

Sarah glances at him. "How’s school going?"

Regulus presses his lips together, debating. He could lie. Say it’s fine. But she’d see through that. She always does.

He exhales. "I got suspended."

Sarah’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t look surprised. "I see. What happened?"

Regulus doesn’t meet her eyes. His fingers tighten around his sleeve. "I… I don’t know what happened," he says quietly. "It’s like I freaked out or something. I don’t know."

Sarah doesn’t react right away, which somehow makes it worse. She’s quiet, waiting.

Regulus exhales sharply through his nose. "We were in PE. It was loud, and people were yelling, and then—someone, I think Colin maybe, grabbed my arm. And I just… I just hit him." His voice tightens with frustration. "I wasn’t even thinking about it. It just happened. "

Sarah nods, her expression unreadable. "Were you scared?"

Regulus stiffens. "No." But the word doesn’t feel entirely true.

Sarah watches him for a moment before saying, "It sounds like you felt overwhelmed."

Regulus’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t like that word. Overwhelmed. It makes him feel like a little kid who can’t handle things properly. But wasn’t that exactly what happened? He couldn’t handle it.

He shrugs, looking away. "I guess."

Sarah doesn’t push further. Instead, she shifts slightly. "Did you tell the Potters about it?"

Regulus hesitates. "No. The school called them."

"And how did they react?"

Regulus shifts uncomfortably. "They weren’t mad,” He hesitates for a moment. Because if Regulus truly thought about it, they weren’t upset at him, but at the situation. He frowns, like the thought irritates him. "They should have been mad, but they weren’t."

Sarah’s lips twitch slightly. "That bothers you?"

"Yes," Regulus says, frustrated. "Mr. and Mrs. Potter didn’t even say anything about it. Just continued like nothing happened. There was no yelling, no punishments. Nothing.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Sarah watches him for a moment. "What do you think should have happened?"

Regulus doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t know. He just knows it feels wrong—like he’s waiting for the real punishment to come, and it just... hasn’t.

Sarah doesn’t push, but she shifts gears slightly. "So, if you were suspended, how’s your schoolwork going?"

Regulus exhales through his nose. "Fine, I guess. I got a lot done."

"That’s good," Sarah says. "Did you have help?"

Regulus shakes his head. "No. Well… kind of." He pauses. "Mr. Potter set up his laptop for me to use. And he, uh…" He scratches at his sleeve, feeling a bit ridiculous saying it out loud. "They got me ice cream."

Sarah’s lips twitch again, this time in amusement. "Ice cream?"

"Yeah," Regulus mutters, crossing his arms. "Because I finished a lot of work."

Sarah hums. "That doesn’t seem so weird to me. Sounds like they were proud of you."

Regulus scowls at that. "For doing schoolwork?"

Sarah shrugs. "Sometimes, it’s not about what you did but about encouraging you to keep doing it."

Regulus doesn’t have a response to that either. He just sits there, frowning at the ground.

Sarah shifts slightly. "And how are things with James?"

Regulus exhales sharply. "Annoying."

Sarah smiles, but it’s gentle. "Annoying how?"

"He’s loud. He talks too much. And he’s rude," Regulus says bluntly, scowling at his hands. "And he keeps calling me Reg even though I’ve asked him not to."

Sarah nods slowly, watching him. "Why don’t you want him calling you Reg ?"

Regulus stiffens. He doesn’t mean to say it, but it slips out before he can stop it.

"Because of my brother."

Silence.

The air feels heavier now, thicker. Regulus risks a glance at Sarah, but he can’t quite make out the expression on her face. It’s unreadable, carefully neutral.

"Your brother?" she asks, her voice quieter than before.

Regulus nods. His fingers curl into his sleeves. "Yeah. I thought you knew about him."

Sarah shakes her head. "No, I didn’t." She studies him for a moment. "Do you know if he’s in the system?"

Regulus shrugs. "I don’t know." He stares at the ground, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the wood.

Sarah nods, absorbing the information. "Did you have a good relationship with your brother?"

Regulus barely manages a nod before his throat tightens. He swallows hard, but it doesn’t help. Tears start welling up in his eyes before he can stop them.

Talking about Sirius is hard. It always has been. Because with it comes everything else . The resentment, the sadness, the anger. It knots up in his chest, impossible to untangle.

Sarah doesn’t press. She just sits there, quiet and patient, letting him gather himself.

The sun sinks lower, casting long shadows across the porch. Regulus blinks quickly, staring at the horizon, willing the tears away.

It doesn’t really work.

***

To say Regulus’ dream had been weird was an understatement. In reality, he had been convinced it was real.

How dumb is that?

Imagine waking up and thinking a dream is real, only to realize it isn’t. To want it to be real. To hope it is. Only to find out it was nothing but a figment of one’s imagination.

It was dumb.

Do you know what is even dumber than thinking— believing —a dream was real?

Hope.

The act of simply hoping is a danger to society. It’s what gets people killed. It’s how, like so many before him, people have been misled. Hoping, within the system, is like a death sentence.

Regulus knows better than to hope. To hope something turns out for him. To hope he gets his way. To hope he finds the life he deserves.

He scoffs at that. The life he deserves. How bogus does that sound?

He remembers the first time someone said that to him.

Regulus had been sitting in the police station, waiting to be released into social services’ custody, when the detective sitting with him had said—

"You’ll find a family who’ll give you the life you deserve, kid. Just hang in there."

At first, Regulus had almost believed her. He had wanted to believe her.

But in the coming months, he had been proven, time and time again, just how wrong she was.

But in his dream?

In his dream, the detective had been right.

In his dream, he had a home. A real one. Not just a temporary placement, not just another house with another set of rules. A home.

He remembers Sirius. The way he had hugged him so tight, his arms wrapped around him like he was afraid to let go. He remembers Sirius whispering, "You're safe now, Reg. I promise."

He remembers the Potters. Mr. Potter ruffling his hair, Mrs. Potter setting an extra plate on the table without question, James grinning at him like they'd known each other forever.

He remembers belonging.

He remembers laughter—his own, startled and uncertain at first, but real. He remembers sitting outside with Evan and Pandora, their shoulders pressed against his as they passed a bag of chips between them. Barty and Dorcas arguing over some ridiculous bet while the others just rolled their eyes. He remembers how easy it had felt.

He remembers feeling like he had friends.

But then? Then he’d woken up. And reality crashed over him like a cold wave. 

He wasn’t in a permanent home, he was in a temporary one. He wasn’t sitting and laughing with his friends. And, not matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise… Sirius wasn’t here either. 

He was in bed, in a room, in a world where things like that don’t happen to kids like him. 

So, yeah. After being proven multiple times over, Regulus had stopped hoping. 

That might come back to bite him, but honestly? Who even cares. 

The car ride to school is quiet. It’s always quiet on the mornings Mr. Potter drives them to school. James is half-asleep in the passenger seat, earbuds in, while Mr. Potter drives with one hand on the wheel, the other cradling a thermos of coffee. He hums absently along to whatever old rock song is playing on the radio, but otherwise, no one speaks.

Regulus doesn’t mind. He prefers it that way.

They pull up to the school a little earlier than usual. The digital clock on the dashboard reads 7:40 AM. School doesn’t start until 8:30, which means he has a solid fifty minutes to exist unnoticed before the halls are flooded with students.

He doesn’t rush to get out of the car, but James does, stumbling out onto the pavement, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Mr. Potter says something about "Have a good day, boys," and James makes a noise of acknowledgement before heading inside.

Regulus lingers a moment longer, then steps out, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulders. He starts toward the building, walking slowly. The air is slightly humid, the pavement damp from last night’s rain. He watches as cars drive past, dropping off other students.

Then—

"Regulus!"

He freezes at the sound of his name.

Turning, he spots Evan and Pandora across the parking lot, hurrying toward him. And—there’s someone else. Someone noticeably older, though they look strikingly like Evan and Pandora.

Regulus narrows his eyes slightly, shifting his weight, but he stops walking. Because —and this is important— he does not want another little "lecture" from Pandora about how they like hanging out with him.

Evan and Pandora reach him first, slightly out of breath.

"Good morning!" Pandora chirps.

"Morning," Evan echoes, rocking on his heels.

Regulus doesn’t verbally respond. He just nods.

The older boy—who, up close, looks like he could be Evan and Pandora’s older brother—offers a small smile but doesn’t say anything. Regulus pointedly doesn’t ask. It’s not his business.

They head inside together. Pandora and Evan talk, and Regulus listens but doesn’t contribute. He’s gotten used to this dynamic. They never seem to mind.

Once they reach Pandora’s locker, Pandora rummages around for something, then turns to him with an excited glint in her eye.

"Here!" she says, thrusting a card into his hands.

Regulus blinks, confused but accepts it. The envelope is light blue, slightly crinkled at the edges.

"Read it!" Pandora urges, practically bouncing.

Regulus hesitates, then carefully opens the envelope, pulling out the card inside. The front is decorated with a colorful design—balloons, confetti, a big number 12 in the center. He flips it open, scanning the neatly written words inside.

It’s a birthday invitation.

His brain stutters.

You are invited to Evan and Pandora’s 12th Birthday Sleepover Party!
  When: This Saturday, June 20th - Sunday, June 21st
  Where: Evan and Pandora’s house
  Time: 4:00 PM - 2:30 PM

Regulus stares at the invitation, uncomprehending.

Pandora beams. "We really want you to come!"

Evan nods enthusiastically, shifting on his feet, clearly fidgety. "Yeah, it’d be really fun if you came."

Regulus looks between them.

This doesn’t make sense.

Why is he getting an invitation to their birthday party?

He isn’t their friend. He’s—he doesn’t know what he is, but friends? That can’t be right.

But Evan and Pandora are watching him expectantly, so he nods.

Pandora cheers, clapping her hands together. Evan grins, rocking back on his heels.

But even as Regulus’ grip on the invitation tightens, his mind races.

Are they sure?
Do they really want him there?
Why him?

He doesn’t have an answer. Why would he?

He’s never been invited to a birthday party before—let alone a sleepover.

Regulus remembers when Sirius had once asked to spend the night at a friend’s house. He remembers the way their father’s face had twisted, not quite angered but filled with something sharp and disapproving. Disappointed. A look that made Sirius shift his weight from foot to foot, like he was preparing to run.

Regulus doesn’t remember much from the conversation, only that it had been brief. The result, inevitable.

"No."

Firm. Final. Unquestionable.

Sirius had been upset, of course. Argued. Pushed. But in the end, he hadn’t won.

They didn’t go to other people’s houses. They didn’t have sleepovers. They didn’t have friends.

Which is why, standing here, invitation in hand, Regulus is confused.

Because… don’t you give these to friends ?

And Regulus knows for a fact—they aren’t his friends. Right?

They say they are. Barty says they are. Dorcas does too. Even Evan and Pandora insist on it.

But realistically?

Regulus isn’t sure.

He doesn’t know.

And that’s almost worse than knowing for certain they aren’t. Because it means there’s a possibility. It means he could be wrong.

And if there’s one thing Regulus has learned, it’s that being wrong— hoping —only leads to disappointment.

Regulus knows what it feels like to be disappointed. How much pain it causes. He knows what it’ll do to him, so he vowed to himself, never to be disappointed again, no matter how tempting hope can be. 

***

Regulus can’t stop thinking about it. Has stopped thinking about it, even as he sat down for Maths. From the second he received the invitation, his mind has been plagued with constant questions, looping endlessly like a broken record.

The main one—the one that keeps clawing its way back to the forefront of his thoughts—is: what is the true definition of a friend?

He just has to know.

It’s not like he already does.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He doesn’t know what friends are supposed to be like. That’s sad, isn’t it? The fact that he doesn’t even have a frame of reference. That he has to look it up , just to be sure. Just to confirm whether or not Evan, Pandora, Barty, and Dorcas are actually his friends—or if they just feel bad for him.

It’s not like it’s his fault he doesn’t know. Nobody’s ever liked him before. Not in a way that matters. Not in a way that lasts.

Maybe if he had been in one school long enough, things would be different. But constant moving, constantly being the new kid , never having the chance to settle—none of it had helped.

And even if it had , even if he had stayed in one place, he doubts it would have changed much. Because Regulus can’t read people properly. Their words, their expressions, their emotions—it’s all a puzzle missing half the pieces. The person has to be really blunt, really obvious, for him to understand what they mean.

And even then, it’s still difficult.

It’s not like he’s funny. He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t have hobbies outside of reading, and even that’s something he prefers to do alone. Books make sense. People don’t.

People feel like too much, sometimes. Not in a bad way, necessarily—just… overwhelming. Draining. It’s like he’s a battery that depletes the longer he’s around them. And he doesn’t hate being around them, not really. But it’s exhausting in a way he doesn’t think they’d understand.

The only time he ever truly recharges is when he’s alone, tucked away in the quiet, lost in the pages of a book.

It’s not normal, he thinks, having to recharge from social situations, or even from leaving the house. Regulus knows it’s not normal. He knows he’s not normal. He’s come to terms with this fact ever since it was made known. 

Still, sometimes it can be too much. 

It had been too loud. The cafeteria, the chatter, the overlapping voices—too much, too much.

Regulus had tried to escape, but his feet had stopped working, his breath hitching in a way that wasn’t right. His hands had clenched at his sides, fingers digging into his palms.

Then, a hand had found his wrist—gentle, grounding.

"Come on," Dorcas had murmured, voice steady but soft.

He had let her lead him out of the cafeteria, past the noise, into the quieter hall. She hadn’t asked him what was wrong, hadn’t tried to make him talk.

Instead, she had just sat beside him on the floor, pulling out a pack of gum from her pocket.

"Chew," she had said, handing him a piece. "It helps."

And maybe it was stupid, but it had helped.

She hadn’t left until his breathing had evened out.

And she hadn’t brought it up again after that.

This happened last Monday. 

Last Monday.

Last Monday, just before he got suspended. Last Monday, just after his things had been destroyed. That was when Regulus made the mistake of going to the cafeteria.

In hindsight, it wasn’t his smartest decision. He’d been upset— really upset. He probably should have just gone to the library or found an empty classroom instead of putting himself in the middle of the busiest, loudest place in the school. But at the time, the idea of sitting with Pandora and the others, pretending everything was fine, had been unbearable. Even if they would have let him sit with them, Regulus hadn’t wanted to burden them with his problems.

So, that was how he ended up there, sitting stiffly at an empty table, picking apart a sandwich he had no intention of eating, trying—and failing—to block out the noise.

Not one of his brightest moments.

Regulus isn’t sure how he feels about what happened next. About the way Dorcas found him. About the way she sat down beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world and helped him through… whatever that moment had been. A freak-out, maybe—he isn’t sure. He just remembers shaking hands, too many voices, the feeling of everything pressing in on him, and then Dorcas’ voice cutting through it all. Steady. Certain. A lifeline.

He still doesn’t know how she even knew he was there. She’s in a grade above him, so it’s not like they share classes. Maybe she just happened to see him. Maybe she had other friends in the cafeteria and had noticed him falling apart from across the room. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?

Regulus wonders if he should ask Dorcas what it means to be a friend.

The thought is ridiculous, and he knows it. Dorcas already thinks they’re friends. If he asks, it’ll probably insult her. And if that happens, she might decide she doesn’t want to be his friend after all.

Which is ridiculous. Because that would imply they are friends in the first place.

And they’re not .

… Right?

Regulus clenches his jaw, staring down at the desk as he waits for class to start. His English class. The one he has with Pandora.

Pandora.

That’s another thing he doesn’t understand.

She was the one who handed him the invitation. Which could mean a lot of things—like, for instance, she was the one who wanted him there. Or maybe she was just being polite. Maybe she felt sorry for him because he was new.

Which brings him back to the fact that he is new. The new kid. Again.

Regulus spots Pandora sitting in her usual seat and takes the one beside her before he can talk himself out of it. He doesn’t understand how someone like her—someone so effortlessly bright, so put-together , so good —could want to be friends, let alone associated , with someone like him.

It’s funny, he thinks, that he has to unpack Pandora’s box.

He came across the meaning once while researching Greek mythology. The story had been fascinating in a detached sort of way: Pandora, the first woman on Earth, was given a box by the gods. When she opened it, all the evils of the world were unleashed. But at the very bottom of the box, one thing remained— hope.

A metaphor, obviously. A warning about curiosity, about unintended consequences. But also a reminder that no matter how much darkness there was in the world, there was always something left to hold onto.

Regulus glances at Pandora from the corner of his eye. With her long platinum blonde hair woven into intricate braids, she looks like something out of a fairytale.

She is hope, he thinks. The embodiment of it.

How can someone like her embody hope? It’s just a word .

And Regulus knows what hope does to people. It destroys them. Disappoints them. Hope is just another way to set yourself up for failure. Another way to trick yourself into thinking things can be different.

Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. He stays seated next to her, as if by being near her, he might be able to steal a sliver of that hope for himself.

He wants to hope. He wants to believe. But he can’t. He can’t unlearn what’s already been wired into him, can’t rewrite the way his mind has been trained to think.

And he knows himself well enough to realize that no matter how much hope there is in the world, the damage has already been done.

Which, if he thinks about it, is incredibly depressing.

But that’s just how it is.

Mr. Andrews starts speaking at the front of the room, but Regulus isn’t paying attention. He should be—he’s already missed three days of school because of his suspension—but he can’t seem to focus.

Instead, his mind drifts back to Friday.

The day he came back. The day Pandora found out one of his secrets.

He remembers her face when she realized. The horror, the shock. He remembers the outrage on Evan and Barty’s faces when they found out he’d been suspended. He suspects Dorcas had already known—judging by her reaction, at least—but even she had looked slightly horrified.

Some part of Regulus had been glad they reacted that way.

His cousin, Narcissa, once told him, “If you want to know what someone really thinks, pay attention to how they react.”

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But over the years, he’s come to rely on that advice more than he’d like to admit. Reactions are one of the only ways he can tell what people are thinking. Even if he struggles to read people, emotions that strong—shock, anger, horror —are hard to fake.

But still, it had terrified him.

Usually, when people find out—his big secret, that is—things get worse for him. Isolation turns to outright hostility. People whisper, people stare , people talk .

It’s why he panicked the second Pandora found out.

Because no matter how much she embodies hope—no matter how much she wants to be his friend—Regulus knows better than to expect it to last.

Regulus didn’t talk about his placement. It wasn’t that he was ashamed—at least, that’s what he told himself. It was just… easier to keep it to himself.

But now, sitting in the guidance counselor’s office, he feels exposed .

The receptionist looks at him kindly from behind her desk, hands folded neatly over a stack of paperwork. “Would you like me to call your foster mother? Mrs. Potter?”

Regulus freezes.

Panic flares in his chest like a struck match, sharp and immediate. He shakes his head quickly— too quickly—his breath catching in his throat. No. Absolutely not. He doesn’t want that. He can’t have that.

The receptionist only hums in acknowledgment, turning back to her paperwork like nothing is wrong, but Pandora is watching him. He can feel it.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just shifts slightly in the chair beside him, the old leather creaking under her weight. And then, softly, “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

Regulus stiffens.

She isn’t looking at him. Her hands are neatly folded in her lap, gaze fixed on the floor. Like this is just a casual conversation. Like she’s not saying something that makes his chest ache.

“But just so you know,” she continues, voice quiet but certain, “I’m not gonna ask questions you don’t want to answer.”

The words settle between them, filling the silence. Heavy. Uncomplicated. True.

Regulus watches her carefully, searching for any trace of pity, any look he doesn’t want to see. But Pandora only fiddles with the hem of her sweater, waiting, patient as ever.

She doesn’t expect anything from him.

She just… means it.

Regulus doesn’t respond, but something in his chest loosens. Just a little.

Trust is a strange concept.

Regulus has always been taught that trust is dangerous. That to rely on someone is to hand them a weapon they can use against you. It’s not just difficult—it’s impossible. Trust takes time, patience, and a bond strong enough to hold its weight.

But Regulus has never been around long enough to form those kinds of bonds. To trust someone means to let them in. And letting people in? That’s not something he’s ever been allowed to do.

So when Pandora found out his secret—when she realized he doesn’t talk, not because he won’t, but because he can’t —he had braced himself for the inevitable. Questions. Pity. The slow, creeping distance that always comes when people realize he isn’t what they expected.

But the questions never come.

They’re all sitting at the table in the library, books open but barely touched, the warm hum of conversation wrapping around him like a blanket. Nothing is said. Not a word. Pandora doesn’t bring it up. Neither does Evan or Dorcas or Barty.

It’s like, to them, nothing ever happened.

Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t know what to do with any of this.

A part of him wants to ask. Wants to demand an explanation for why they’re treating him like this —like he’s normal. Like his silence isn’t something to be fixed or questioned or picked apart.

But he doesn’t.

Because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t have to explain himself.

Maybe he should be suspicious. Maybe he should still be waiting for the inevitable moment when they realize he isn’t worth the effort.

But for now, he doesn’t push. He lets the conversation flow around him, lets the warmth settle under his skin, lets himself exist in this space without being questioned.

Maybe this is what trust is supposed to feel like.

Regulus wants to believe that this is what trust feels like. He doesn’t want to say the word hope, but, if there was a better word than believe, it’s hope.

Which, is kinda gross, when he thinks about it.

Regulus walks into his Science class, slipping into his usual seat toward the back. He sets his bag down, carefully pulling out his notebook, already thinking about the assignments piling up. He’s been trying to stay on top of everything—Science, History, Computing. The workload feels endless, but he has to keep up. He has to be prepared.

Because the alternative? The alternative is what happened last Friday .

He had walked into French that day feeling completely unaware of what was waiting for him. He had sat down, expecting just another lesson, only for Ms. Ellsworth to place a quiz on his desk—one he hadn’t known about. One he hadn’t studied for.

Regulus had never felt more unprepared in his life.

Panic had hit him instantly, his fingers tightening around the edges of the paper as his mind went blank. He hated that feeling— hates that feeling. Because what’s worse than hope ? Being unprepared.

And that’s exactly what he had been.

If he had known, he would have studied. He would have been ready . But Ms. Ellsworth never made things easy for him. Because French was his first language, she always made sure to give him harder content, more complex sentence structures, advanced comprehension exercises. It was always just a little more difficult for him than it was for the others.

And that day? That day was no different.

He had been spiraling, his brain locking up, the words on the page swimming before his eyes—until Barty had leaned over.

Barty, who had taken one look at his face and immediately understood.

"Don’t stress," he had whispered, casual and confident as ever. "You’ve got this. You’ll crush it."

Barty’s words hadn’t made the panic disappear. Not entirely. But they had helped. A little .

And after it was over… well… let’s just say Barty had been right.

Regulus had crushed it.

It wasn’t a big deal. Just a quiz. A stupid, stupid French quiz.

Regulus hadn’t even known he was taking it. He had only just returned from suspension, barely settled back into his routine, when Ms. Ellsworth dropped the paper onto his desk during class. Makeup quiz, Black. No exceptions.

And of course, because nothing could ever be easy, the teacher had modified the test— You already speak French, so let’s challenge you a bit.

Regulus had barely processed what was happening before the clock was ticking, and he was forced to scribble down answers without thinking too hard. He hadn’t studied. He hadn’t prepared. But somehow, he’d still managed a literal perfect score.

Not that he cared.

Barty, however, definitely cared.

"Oi, you lot, guess who just crushed that French quiz without even knowing it was happening, " Barty announced, plucking the paper off Regulus’ desk before he could react.

Regulus stiffened. Barty—

"One hundred percent!" Barty declared, brandishing it like a trophy. "And that’s after Ms. Ellsworth cranked up the difficulty just for him!" He grinned. "Did that stop our boy Reg? Absolutely not. "

Dorcas let out a low whistle, leaning over to glance at the score. "Damn, Reg. That’s actually impressive."

"You should’ve seen it," Barty continued, undeterred. "The guy wasn’t even prepared. Just walks in, gets a quiz slapped in front of him, and boom —genius mode."

Pandora smirked, nudging his arm. "Guess we know who to cheat off next time."

Regulus scoffed, rolling his eyes, but before he could stop it, warmth spread through his chest.

It was just a quiz. It didn’t matter.

But… maybe it did. Just a little.

There’s something unexpectedly nice about Barty’s relentless bragging. About the way he held up Regulus’ quiz like it’s a trophy, about the pride in his voice that seemed far too big for something so small. It makes Regulus feel... lighter . Like maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t have to second-guess himself so much. Like maybe he is good at something. Like maybe he can be good at something.

French has always been second nature to him, slipping from his mind as easily as breathing, but hearing Barty and the others talk about it like it’s impressive makes him think—maybe it is . Maybe he is .

He’s never thought that way before. Regulus never let himself think about himself that way. Never let the door open.

Maybe, that’s what having friends is meant to do. Right? They’re meant to bring out the good in yourself and let you see that? 

Regulus isn’t quite sure. The thought clings to him, unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome, even as the shrill ring of the bell yanks him back to reality.

His head snaps up.

Mrs. Birch—his teacher, his teacher—says something about their homework, but he barely hears it, already scrambling to shove his things into his bag. Science. He was in Science. Is in Science.

Well. Was. Class is over now.

He hadn’t even noticed. Hadn’t realized just how lost in his thoughts he’d been until the room around him was already emptying, students filing out into the hallway.

Regulus huffs in frustration, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he bolts upright. He’s going to be late for History. History , which he shares with Evan of all people.

Evan.

That thought makes him hesitate.

Because that leads him back to something else. Something worse.

The birthday party.

Regulus still doesn’t understand why Evan and Pandora invited him. Out of everyone in their year—out of everyone in existence—why him ?

He feels uneasy just thinking about it.

People don’t just invite him to things. People don’t want him at things.

So why them? Why now?

He bites the inside of his cheek, shaking his head as he rushes toward the door. He doesn’t have time to spiral about this now. He doesn’t have time to let himself overthink.

What he does have time for, apparently, is this strange sense of déjà vu creeping up on him as he moves through the hallway. It’s an odd feeling—uneasy, familiar, like he’s walked straight into the past without realizing it.

It was only just Friday when he got cornered. Only just Friday when Colin and his gang had surrounded him, all cruel smirks and sharper words, cutting into him like they always did.

But Evan had been there.

Evan had been there, standing between him and them like it was nothing . Like it was easy .

Like it was just what you do .

Regulus still doesn’t understand why.

Why would Evan—someone who doesn’t need to care, someone who could so easily look away—choose to stand up for him? Why would he go out of his way? Why would he help him ?

It doesn’t make sense.

Nothing about any of this makes sense.

The thought gnaws at him, restless and relentless, even as he slips through the classroom door just before the bell rings. He moves on instinct, making his way to his seat beside Evan, his mind still caught on why, why, why —

Then Evan looks at him.

And smiles.

Regulus stiffens, caught off guard. It’s not a smug smile, not one of amusement or mockery or anything else he’s used to seeing directed at him. It’s just... a smile. Casual. Easy.

Like they’re friends. Like they are friends.

Regulus tears his gaze away, staring down at the desk as his thoughts swirl.

He doesn’t understand any of this. He doesn’t understand Evan .

But most of all—he doesn’t understand why .

It happened after class, in the hallway, when Regulus had been minding his own business. He should have seen it coming. Colin and his gang were nothing if not persistent.

"Look who it is," Colin sneered, stepping in front of him. "Back from suspension, Black? Thought you’d have learned your lesson by now."

Regulus braced himself, fingers tightening around the straps of his backpack. He could already hear the taunts coming, already feel the weight of old instincts creeping in— stay quiet, don’t react, don’t give them a reason—

Then, suddenly, there was a shift beside him. A presence.

"Do you ever shut up?"

Evan.

His voice was calm, almost lazy, but there was something sharp underneath. He stepped forward, just enough to put himself between Regulus and Colin, arms crossed over his chest. His expression unreadable, but his stare unwavering.

Colin hesitated. It was small—just the briefest flicker—but Regulus caught it.

"Relax, Rosier," Colin scoffed, but it wasn’t as smug as before. "Didn’t realize you’d taken in a stray."

Evan didn’t even blink. "Didn’t realize you were so obsessed with him," he shot back. "You always this interested in other people’s business, or is this a special hobby?"

Colin’s smirk twitched. His friends shuffled awkwardly, exchanging glances, and then—just like that—they backed off, turning away like they had something better to do.

Regulus exhaled, barely realizing he’d been holding his breath. His heart still pounded in his ears, but the usual humiliation—the sinking, suffocating shame—never settled in.

"You good?" Evan asked, like this was nothing. Like it was just what he did.

Regulus didn’t know how to respond. He just nodded.

Things could have turned out a lot worse if Evan hadn’t been there. Regulus knows things would have turned out worse. 

He doesn’t dwindle on it for too long, because the second the bell rings, Regulus is practically sprinting out of his History class. He’s moving with a determination he rarely allows himself to feel. He doesn’t slow down until he reaches the library, the familiar scent of paper and ink wrapping around him like a safety net.

He needs to know.

He beelines to the section where he remembers seeing it last—a thick, dusty book filled with definitions, explanations, meanings. He flips through the pages feverishly, heart pounding, until finally—finally—he finds it.

Friend (noun):A person with whom you share a bond of mutual affection, trust, and support.

Regulus stares at the words.

Affection. Trust. Support.

He swallows hard. Mutual affection. Mutual trust. Mutual support.

Does that mean…?

His eyes scan the next part.

Friends provide companionship, emotional support, and often engage in activities together.

Companionship. Pandora .

She’s been there from the start—always patient, always understanding. She’s the one who handed him the invitation. The one who let him sit next to her in English, even when he barely spoke. The one who never pushed, never demanded more than he could give. She’s been there through the overwhelming mess that is school, standing steady like a lighthouse in the storm.

Evan .

Evan, who never hesitates to step between Regulus and Colin’s gang. Who throws out casual reassurances like they cost nothing, but somehow, they mean everything .

Barty .

Barty, who turns the dullest moments into something to laugh about. Who makes French class bearable and helps Regulus get through Computing without making him feel stupid.

Dorcas .

Dorcas, who noticed him having one of his moments in the cafeteria and just… helped. Without asking. Without expecting anything in return.

Regulus grips the edge of the page.

He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t know if he’s the kind of person who gives emotional support, but… but he listens . He tries. That counts for something, doesn’t it? That’s what a friend is supposed to do— right ?

His gaze drops to the final part of the definition.

They are there for each other in times of need, celebrate successes, and help navigate challenges.

Regulus’ breath catches.

They have been there for him.

And in his own way—hesitant, uncertain—he’s been there for them too.

It’s mutual .

Something inside him shifts, like the pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

Regulus hadn’t expected them to sit with him. He had assumed their first encounter in the library was a one-time thing—a brief interaction before they inevitably moved on. But the very next day, when he took a seat at the far end of the cafeteria, tray of food untouched in front of him, they showed up again.

Pandora slid into the seat beside him like she belonged there, nudging his tray closer with an expectant look. "You should eat."

Regulus stared at her, then at the others as they took their places around him. Barty stole one of his grapes without asking. Evan offered him half of his sandwich. Dorcas rolled her eyes and muttered something about Regulus looking like a ‘broody Victorian ghost.’

They talked amongst themselves, filling the silence with an easy back-and-forth, but never once did they try to force Regulus to join in. They just... let him be.

And maybe that was the strangest part—how normal it felt.

It clicks. 

Regulus has friends. Real friends.

He shouldn’t be this surprised… but honestly? He thinks he’s allowed.

That’s a first.

Being allowed .

In all eleven years of his life, he’s never been allowed to have things. Not really. Not things that mattered. He’s never been allowed to want something, to keep something. To feel something without consequence.

But maybe now he can.

Is that so bad? Letting himself have this? Allowing himself to believe—just for a second—that he might deserve it?

Regulus swallows hard. No. It is bad. Allowing things is just as dangerous as hoping for them. And hope… hope only leads to disappointment.

He vowed a long time ago never to let himself be disappointed again.

But still… maybe this is the one exception. Maybe—just maybe—he does deserve to have friends.

The thought makes his chest ache.

He scoffs at himself. No. He doesn’t deserve them. He doesn’t deserve the patience, the kindness, the ridiculous warmth he’s been given. He doesn’t deserve the Potters. He doesn’t deserve Sarah. He doesn’t even deserve his own brother.

That last thought makes him freeze.

No.

That’s not right. That’s never been right.

Regulus clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. He isn’t the one who’s undeserving. Sirius is.

It’s Sirius’ fault he never had any friends.

People call him spiteful for thinking that. Maybe they’re right. But why shouldn’t he be? Sirius never let him have friends. Sirius isolated him—kept him close, like Regulus was something to own , something that only he could have.

And for what?

Because Sirius wanted to protect him? Because Sirius wanted to keep him safe? Because Sirius wanted him to need him?

No.

Regulus isn’t going to let Sirius win. Not now. Not ever. Never again .

So, yeah. Maybe he’s doing this out of spite. Maybe this is about proving something. Maybe it’s about hating his brother for ruining his life.

But it doesn’t feel like spite when he turns back toward the table where Pandora—no, where his friends sit.

His friends .

The thought settles in his chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. They’re his .

And Sirius—his brother —can never take them away from him.

Regulus breathes in, then out, steady and sure. And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself smile. Because, now? Now he actually has people to count on. His friends.

***

It took Regulus—a little longer than he cares to admit—to come to terms with the fact that he has friends. Like, actual friends.

It’s a crazy concept to comprehend. Even now, walking through the crowded hallway at the end of the day, it still doesn’t feel real . It doesn’t feel like something that belongs to him. But it does.

He has friends.

Wow.

The rest of his day moves like clockwork—classes, assignments, the occasional wave from Barty or nod from Dorcas. Before he knows it, the final bell rings, releasing the flood of students into the halls.

Regulus grabs his things, barely having time to process the relief of another school day being over before Pandora falls into step beside him. They weave through the rush of students, heading toward his locker, when she nudges his arm lightly.

“So,” she whispers, tilting her head toward him, “are you going to ask your foster mother if you can come to the party?”

Regulus stiffens.

He hadn’t thought about it. At all. He’s spent so much time just trying to wrap his head around the fact that he has friends— that they want him around —that the idea of actually going to the party hadn’t even registered.

His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of notebook. He shrugs, a small, uncertain movement, and nods once.

Pandora watches him, her sharp gaze missing nothing . There’s no judgment in her expression, no impatience, just understanding. Pure, simple understanding.

“Look,” she says, her voice softer now, “if you can’t come, Evan and I won’t be mad. Evan might be a little upset, but he’ll get over it. It’ll be okay if you can’t.”

Regulus swallows. He doesn’t know what to say to that.

Because she means it. He can tell. There’s no pressure, no expectation, no demand hidden in her words. Just the quiet reassurance that he’s not going to lose them over this .

And Regulus revels in that.

Because it’s something he’s never had before—this safety in friendship, this room to breathe .

Still, he thinks about it.

And maybe… maybe he should try.

Maybe it’s the least he can do.

Because they’re his friends . And they want him there.

He exhales slowly, nodding again—firmer this time, more resolute—before stepping outside.

James is waiting for him by the school gates, leaning casually against the fence, scrolling through his phone. The sight of him—this constant presence at the end of the day—grounds Regulus more than he expects.

And as he walks toward him, something settles in his chest.

He’ll ask.

He has to try.

Regulus steps up to the school gates, his bag hanging off his shoulders, as James looks up from his phone.

“Hey,” James greets, slipping the device into his pocket. “How was your day?”

Regulus shrugs, nodding once in response. He’s not sure what else to say. It was a day. Like the others before it. A little different, but still the same.

They stand there for a moment, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. The schoolyard is noisy with the sounds of students talking, laughing, and rushing off to their buses or parents' cars. But between them, it’s quiet.

James exhales, tilting his head back slightly. “Mine was kind of sucky. Boring. Assignments, studying—so much studying . If I have to read one more page of my History textbook, I think I’m going to die .”

Regulus nods when expected, offering a vague hum of acknowledgment. He’s not particularly invested in the topic, but he knows James likes to talk, and he doesn’t mind listening. Even if the finds the other boy extremely irritating at times. 

Before long, a familiar car pulls up at the pickup zone. Mrs. Potter is behind the wheel, smiling as she waves them over. James moves first, sliding into the front seat, while Regulus climbs into the back.

“Hey, boys,” Mrs. Potter greets as James clicks on his seatbelt. “How was school?”

James doesn’t hesitate, launching into a near-identical recap of his day. Regulus tunes it out almost instantly, his gaze drifting out the window as the scenery blurs past. He already knows what James is going to say. He just heard it.

His mind, instead, fixates on something else.

Asking.

He’s going to have to ask Mrs. Potter if he can go to the party. That’s simple enough. She’s nice. She likes him. There’s a good chance she’ll say yes.

But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes—it’s not just Mrs. Potter he has to ask.

It’s Mr. Potter, too.

Regulus sits a little straighter, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.

He didn’t think about that.

Of course, Mr. Potter isn’t mean . Not even close. But there’s something about asking him that feels more… complicated.

Regulus isn’t sure why.

Either way, he needs a plan.

After dinner. That seems like the right time. A good time.

It can’t be that hard. Right?

Wrong. It is that hard.

Regulus can’t stop his thoughts from spiraling. The more he thinks about it, the worse it gets.

It’s just one simple question. A yes-or-no question. Nothing complicated. Nothing difficult.

But it is difficult.

Because asking means opening the door to uncertainty, to rules he doesn’t fully understand.

He doesn’t know the expectations here. Doesn’t know if there are rules about birthday parties or sleepovers. He hasn’t seen any of James’ friends over. What if that means James isn’t allowed to have friends over? What if he’s not allowed to go to birthday parties?

In previous homes, there had been strict rules about these things. Friends weren’t really a consideration. Sleepovers? A privilege he hadn’t earned.

What if it’s the same here?

The sick feeling in his stomach builds with every passing hour. By the time dinner rolls around, Regulus can barely focus on his food. Every bite feels heavy, like it’s going to come right back up if he forces himself to swallow.

The conversation around him fades into the background. James is talking about something—school, probably—but Regulus barely hears it. He’s too busy gripping the invitation in his lap, the paper growing slightly crumpled under the pressure of his fingers.

It’s fine. He just has to ask .

Except the moment dinner is over, his resolve cracks.

The plates are cleared, the sound of running water fills the kitchen, and Regulus stands frozen in the doorway, invitation still clenched in his slightly trembling hands.

This was a bad idea.

He should just forget about it. He should go upstairs, pretend this never mattered, pretend he never even thought about going. It’s not that important.

Regulus is just about to turn around when Mr. Potter glances up from where he’s drying a plate. His gaze lands on him almost instantly.

“Everything alright, kiddo?”

Regulus stiffens. Damn it.

He must look nervous. That’s the only reason Mr. Potter is asking. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, fingers tightening around the invitation, his palms growing clammy. He looks down at the paper, willing himself to say something , to just ask —

Mrs. Potter turns from the sink, wiping her hands on a towel. “Did something happen at school today, sweetheart?”

And before Regulus can talk himself out of it, he moves.

With a sharp exhale, he thrusts the invitation forward, still not looking up. The movement is quick, almost desperate— take it, before I change my mind.

Someone takes the paper from his hands. He hears the soft rustle of it being unfolded, the low hum of Mr. Potter reading over it.

Mrs. Potter’s voice is warm when she asks, “Would you like to go?”

There’s a lightness to her tone, something hopeful. He ignores it. Forces himself to nod, just once.

“Well,” Mr. Potter says, “this party’s got perfect timing. You don’t have a check-in next weekend.”

Mrs. Potter chuckles. “I guess it does.”

Regulus finally looks up.

They’re both smiling.

He doesn’t understand why.

Mrs. Potter meets his gaze. “You can most certainly go, sweetheart.”

Oh.

She continues, “But if you need anything, or if it gets to be too much, you can always come home. No questions asked.”

Regulus blinks .

That—he wasn’t expecting that .

He stares at her, his brain struggling to process the sheer… understanding in her words. There’s no but be on your best behavior or but don’t be a bother . Just—if you need to come home, come home .

Can Regulus even call this place his home? Is he even allowed to?

Something warm coils in his chest. It’s unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.

He nods, shyly.

Mr. Potter closes the invitation. “We’ll talk about the details later, but yeah, you can go.”

A quiet rush of excitement bubbles up before Regulus can stop it. The smile spreads across his face before he even realizes he’s smiling, and his body follows before he can think. He starts bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, a light, repeated movement—

Mrs. Potter chuckles softly.

Mr. Potter grins. “Thanks for telling us about this, bud.”

Regulus nods again. Then, a little awkwardly, he gives them a small wave before turning to leave.

“Goodnight, love,” Mrs. Potter calls.

“Goodnight, kiddo,” Mr. Potter chimes in.

Regulus hesitates for just a second before lifting a hand in a small wave again, then heads for the stairs.

As he climbs them, his mind is still reeling—processing, adjusting, settling.

But one thought sticks, looping over and over again in his head.

Now I have something to tell my friends about tomorrow.