To Find a Home

Monday.

When he went to Pandora and Evan’s birthday party, he hadn’t thought to question whether it was their actual date of birth.

Turns out, the 21st of June isn’t their birthday. The 22nd is.

Why didn’t Regulus think to question this further? Who knows. The point is, when he walked into school on the 22nd, he was bombarded with Barty and Dorcas saying happy birthday to them.

He had to ask. Of course, he had to ask. He wouldn’t be their friend if he didn’t question their date of birth… right?

When he wrote out, ‘How come Barty and Dorcas are saying “Happy Birthday” to you and Evan?’ to Pandora, she simply told him that they were born on the 22nd of June, 2008.

Simple enough.

It’s odd, though. Not having an actual party on your birthday. Regulus had always had parties on his birthday—well, they were just for family, but same thing.

So, he had asked Pandora why they had a party on the weekend instead of on their actual birthday. She had told him that it was easier to have friends over for their birthday on the weekend because her parents didn’t want to interrupt their schooling. And also because their actual birthday was reserved for their family.

It makes sense, in Regulus’ opinion. Quite smart, actually.

So, yeah. That’s how his Monday went. Quite uneventful.

Well, apart from the fact that he got jumped.

Jumped is an overstatement. It was more like… well… yeah, jumped works.

Regulus was just minding his own business, walking down the hallway to return back to class. He had to step out of his science class because it had been quite literally a circus—loud, disruptive, and outright overwhelming.

When, all of a sudden, he was yanked backwards, a sharp tug on the collar of his white long-sleeved school shirt sending him stumbling. He barely had time to process what was happening before his back hit the ground, the impact rattling through his ribs.

“Didn’t think you’d get away that easily, did you, Black?”

Colin’s voice. Of course, it’s Colin.

Regulus blinks up at them—Colin and his usual gang of shadows. They’re grinning like they’ve just cornered a rat, like this is all some big joke. Colin crouches down, his smirk sharp and cruel.

“What were you even doing in the guidance counselor’s office?” Colin sneers. “Crying? Writing a little sob story in that stupid notebook of yours?”

Regulus grips his notebook tighter. He doesn’t respond—not that he would even if he could. He just stays silent, staring up at them, willing them to lose interest and leave him alone.

No such luck.

Colin snatches the notebook from his hands. Regulus immediately lunges to take it back, but another boy—Adam, maybe—shoves him down, holding him in place.

Colin flips through the pages, eyes scanning the words. “Wow, you really don’t talk, huh? What’s the matter, Black? Too scared to use your voice?”

Regulus swallows, pressing his lips together. It’s not worth it. Fighting back never does anything except make things worse. He just has to wait them out.

But Colin isn’t done.

“You know what? I think we should make sure you get some alone time,” Colin muses, shutting the notebook and tucking it under his arm. “Help you focus on your… thoughts. Maybe do some soul-searching.”

Regulus stiffens. That doesn’t sound good.

And he’s right.

Colin grabs him by the back of his sweater and hauls him up. Before he can twist away, hands clamp around his arms, dragging him down the hall. Regulus struggles, digging his heels into the floor, but they’re stronger. There are too many of them.

He realizes where they’re taking him seconds too late.

The supply closet.

Panic kicks in. Regulus thrashes harder, trying to wrench free, but Colin just laughs.

“Relax, Black. You like being alone, don’t you?”

The door swings open. He’s shoved inside. The second he stumbles past the threshold, the door slams shut behind him, the lock clicking into place.

Darkness. The smell of dust and cleaning supplies. The muffled sound of laughter fading as they walk away.

Regulus presses his hands against the door, testing it. Locked.

His breath shudders out of him. He squeezes his eyes shut, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

He’s trapped.

He’s trapped, with no way out. 

This is it, he thinks. 

His breathing turns shallow, his chest tightening as if an invisible force is pressing down on him. The walls feel closer than they should be, the darkness stretching out like a living thing. His back collides with the cold, solid surface behind him, and he pulls his knees to his chest, trying to make himself smaller. Maybe if he disappears, this will stop feeling so unbearable.

His fingers twitch, hands shaking as he presses them against his ears. It doesn't help. His heartbeat thunders in his skull, drowning out every rational thought. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. His skin feels wrong, like he doesn’t belong in his own body. His vision swims, the edges turning blurry.

He barely registers the sound of the door creaking open.

There’s movement in front of him, a shadow blocking some of the dim light filtering in from the hallway. Then a voice, calm and steady, cutting through the static in his head.

“Regulus. You need to breathe.”

He flinches at first, instinctively pressing further into the wall, but the voice doesn’t stop.

“In through your nose,” the voice instructs gently, “out through your mouth. Slow breaths.”

A pause. Then, softer, “You’re safe.”

Safe.

He doesn’t know if that’s true, but the words hold weight. A firm anchor in the middle of chaos. He tries to focus on that instead of the panic clawing at his throat. He sucks in a shaky breath, then another. His chest still aches, but the crushing sensation starts to ease, just a little.

After what feels like forever, the world begins to make sense again.

He’s sitting on the floor, still curled into himself, but his surroundings are no longer a blur. His breathing is unsteady but no longer feels impossible. Slowly, he registers the figure kneeling in front of him. A woman. Kind eyes. Gentle expression.

Deputy Principal Lawson.

She doesn’t push him to speak. She waits, giving him time to collect himself. When he finally nods—barely a movement—she offers a small smile.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable, alright?”

This is how Regulus finds himself sitting in the vice principal’s office, staring down at his hands. They’re still trembling slightly, though the panic has mostly faded into exhaustion. The room is quiet, apart from the faint hum of the overhead lights. It’s a stark contrast to the suffocating silence of the supply closet.

Deputy Principal Lawson sits across from him, her expression calm, patient. She’s nice, Regulus thinks distantly. Nicer than most adults he’s had to deal with in situations like this.

“You weren’t in there for long,” she tells him after a moment, as if sensing his lingering fear. “A fellow student saw the commotion and reported it instantly.”

Regulus blinks. He doesn’t remember making any noise. He doesn’t remember much of anything after the door closed.

Lawson watches him carefully before continuing. “You have a choice, Regulus. You can stay in school, or—if you’d rather—I can call Mrs. Potter to come pick you up.”

The offer makes something in him loosen. The idea of staying here, of walking back into a classroom after this, makes his stomach churn. He doesn’t want to be here anymore.

Regulus nods once, and Lawson doesn’t question it. She simply reaches for the phone on the desk, dialing the number.

As she speaks with Mrs. Potter, Regulus sits still, hands clenched into fists on his lap. The weight in his chest shifts, replaced by something he can’t quite name. A realization settles in, unwelcome and familiar.

This has happened before.

Not the exact same situation, but close enough. The last time he “freaked out,” he had thrown a punch, let his anger take control. That had landed him in a different office, with a different authority figure, and a suspension to go with it.

Lawson isn’t implying he’s going to be suspended now, and that knowledge eases some of the tightness in his throat. But the similarities linger, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

He grips the sleeves of his shirt, grounding himself in the fabric beneath his fingers.

When Mrs. Potter walks into the Deputy Principal’s office, Regulus feels his stomach drop. Not out of fear, but out of the dread of seeing disappointment on her face.

She doesn’t look disappointed, though. Just concerned. Her brows are drawn together slightly, lips pressed into a thin line as she takes the seat beside him. Regulus keeps his head down, fingers tightening around the fabric of his sleeves.

The deputy principal, Mrs. Lawson, offers a polite smile. "Thank you for coming in so quickly, Mrs. Potter."

"Of course," Mrs. Potter says, glancing briefly at Regulus before turning back to Mrs. Lawson. "What happened?"

Mrs. Lawson sighs. "Regulus had an unfortunate run-in with some other students. It seems they locked him in a supply closet. He was found fairly quickly, but it was still an upsetting experience."

Mrs. Potter's expression hardens. "Was it the same student that Regulus punched?"

Mrs. Lawson nods. "We're handling it. But I wanted to check in with Regulus. We’ve given him the option to go home, and he’s chosen to do so."

Mrs. Potter turns to him again, eyes searching his face. "That’s fine. Whatever you need, sweetheart."

Regulus swallows, nodding slightly, and Mrs. Lawson clears her throat. "Regulus, why don’t you go to your locker and grab your things while I speak with Mrs. Potter?"

He hesitates but ultimately nods, pushing himself up from the chair. His legs still feel a little shaky as he walks out of the office and down the hall. The school is quieter now, the lunchtime chaos having settled into afternoon classes. He appreciates the silence, but his mind is still buzzing.

By the time he returns, his bag slung over shoulders, the office door is slightly ajar. He pauses just outside, not intentionally eavesdropping but unable to stop himself from catching the tail end of their conversation.

"He's struggling to adjust," Mrs. Lawson is saying. "It’s understandable, given everything he’s been through. But he needs structure, stability—he needs to know that the adults around him are consistent."

Mrs. Potter sighs. "We’re trying. It’s just... sometimes, it feels like he’s afraid to settle in. Like he doesn’t believe this is permanent. It’s difficult for kids like him."

Regulus grips the straps of his bag tighter, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. Kids like him. He’s heard that before—too many times, from too many people. He’s even heard Mrs. Potter say it before, but he had hoped it was a mistake. A slip of the tongue. A one-time thing. But hearing her say it again? That same uneasy, hollow feeling creeps in, followed by something sharper, something restless and aching in his chest.

Mrs. Lawson hums in understanding. "He’s been through a lot. It makes sense that he’s hesitant."

Mrs. Potter continues, softer now. "We want him to feel safe with us. But I don’t know if he believes he can."

Regulus looks away, his throat tight. The way they talk about him—like he’s some kind of puzzle to be solved, like he’s difficult, like he’s too much. He steps back slightly, making enough noise that they realize he’s returned. Mrs. Lawson offers him a kind smile as he re-enters, and Mrs. Potter stands.

"Ready to go?" she asks gently.

Regulus nods, but he doesn’t meet her eyes.

The walk to the car is quiet. He slides into the passenger seat, staring out the window as Mrs. Potter starts the engine. The air between them feels heavy, and his mood sours further with every passing second.

"Did you want to talk about it?" Mrs. Potter asks after a moment.

Regulus shakes his head, still not looking at her.

She doesn’t push, simply sighs and starts driving. The ride home is filled with silence, and Regulus can’t help but think about the words he overheard, the weight of them settling deep in his chest.

He generally can’t believe it. He thought Mrs. Potter was different. But, hearing her, and other adults around him talk about him like that. 

He’s starting to think that maybe, the Potter’s home isn’t the right place for him after all.

***

Tuesday. 

Regulus would like to say his day so far has been going considerably better than yesterday. But, unfortunately, that would be a lie. Because his day did, in fact, turn absolutely horrid.

Any three guesses who?

He had been enjoying his day—English with Mr. Andrews, Art with Ms. Reed. And then, the teacher from hell.

His Computing teacher.

Regulus had severely underestimated his teacher’s pettiness. Ever since Regulus had joined his class, the man had gone out of his way to make learning difficult for him.

For starters, his teacher had refused to help in any way, shape, or form when it came to the assignment. The only person who had been helping was Barty.

If it wasn’t for Barty, Regulus thinks, he might not be able to pass the class.

And, as if life wasn’t already determined to knock him down, his teacher had decided to throw him straight into the deep end.

A presentation.

Or, more exactly, Regulus having to go up to his teacher and explain what he has done so far in terms of the assignment. Which, Regulus would like to point out, requires him to actually speak to this idiot.

Yeah, he’ll say it. His teacher is an idiot. (He’s also heard Barty call their Computing teacher an absolute, stupid—well, actually, he doesn’t want to repeat what Barty said. But that’s beside the point.) 

The point is, Regulus has to communicate with this man.

And, speaking from past experiences when attempting to do just that (which, thankfully, haven’t been frequent, but still), Regulus is fairly certain this is going to end with him crying.

So, when his name is called, he shakily stands from his seat. He spares a quick glance in Barty’s direction—Barty gives him a thumbs up, as if to say, You got this. He really doesn’t, but thanks, Barty.

Regulus walks up to where his teacher is sitting, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“What have you done so far?” his teacher asks, tone already sharp, already impatient.

Regulus swallows, feeling the familiar tightness in his throat. Speaking isn’t an option—his voice won’t come out, not under this pressure. So, instead, he pulls out the small notepad he keeps in his pocket and quickly scribbles down what he wants to say.

He slides the notepad toward his teacher, hoping—praying—that will be enough.

His teacher barely glances at it before scoffing. “What is this?” he sneers. “You’re too stupid to even speak now?”

Regulus stiffens, his fingers curling tightly around the sleeves of his shirt.

His teacher snatches up the notepad and waves it mockingly in the air. “What, you think this is how the real world works? You think you can just write your way through life? How bloody stupid are you?”

Regulus’ throat burns, his vision blurring at the edges. He wants to disappear. To sink into the floor and never have to be here again.

His teacher’s voice rises, growing crueler with every word. “God, how retarded are you? Are you just pretending, or are you actually this useless?”

Regulus doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. He stands frozen, hands clenched so tightly his nails bite into his palms. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow, and there are tears in his eyes—he knows it, can feel them welling despite every effort to keep them at bay.

And then, the final blow.

“Get out of my class, you retard.”

The words slam into him like a physical hit. A sharp sting, a twisting, sick feeling in his stomach.

Regulus swallows hard, turning on his heel and walking stiffly back to his desk. He’s barely keeping himself together, barely holding it in.

Barty is already standing by the time he gets there, his expression dark with something Regulus can’t decipher. “Do you want me to come with you?” he asks, voice low.

Regulus hesitates, his gaze flicking toward the door. He doesn’t know if he’ll make it to the guidance counselor's office in one piece on his own. He nods, barely a movement, but Barty catches it instantly.

“C’mon,” Barty murmurs, grabbing Regulus’ things as well as his own, and steps in beside him. 

They leave the classroom together, neither looking back.

The hallway is eerily quiet, and with each step, Regulus feels his breath coming shorter, his chest tightening more. He doesn’t know how to process what just happened. Doesn’t know what to do with the swirling mess of emotion lodged painfully in his throat.

By the time they reach the guidance counselor’s office, Regulus feels like he might collapse.

Barty knocks lightly on the door before pushing it open.

The receptionist and Mrs. Carrington both look up, with Mrs. Carrington frowning slightly. “Regulus?”

Regulus doesn’t answer. Can’t answer.

Barty nudges him forward gently. “He needs to sit down,” he says firmly.

Mrs. Carrington immediately walks over, gesturing for Regulus to take a seat.

And as Regulus sinks into the chair, burying his face in his hands, he wonders if he’ll ever feel okay again.

It feels like Regulus is retreating into his own skin. As sob after sob escapes him. He can’t control it, the tears just keep coming.

His breathing is coming too fast, too shallow, his chest tight and aching. With trembling fingers he grips his hair tugging slightly, slowly rocking back and forth, trying to ground himself. But nothing’s working. The weight of the teacher’s words presses down on him, heavy and suffocating.

Then, something soft brushes the back of his hands.

Regulus flinches slightly, his body still curled in on itself, but the touch is gentle, familiar. Slowly, he lowers his hands from his eyes, though tears still stream down his face, sobs still racking his body. His vision is blurry, but when he blinks through the haze, he sees Barty kneeling beside him, holding out a small, stuffed black dog.

Regulus’ black dog.

For a moment, his breath hitches in his throat, his mind struggling to catch up. He remembers Pandora’s words, how she had told him to give a copy of his locker code to his friends in case of an emergency. He had been skeptical. What kind of emergency could require them to need access to his locker? But now… now, he thinks this is what Pandora meant.

Barty must have gone to his locker, gotten his stuffed animal for him.

Regulus doesn’t hesitate. He reaches out, grabbing the toy and clutching it tightly to his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric. It’s still soft, basically brand new, and something about the familiar texture, the weight of it in his arms, helps pull him back. His breathing remains uneven, but it’s slowing, the panic ebbing ever so slightly.

Barty doesn’t say anything. He just sits with him, his presence steady, reassuring. And Regulus is grateful for it.

After a long stretch of silence, Mrs. Carrington finally speaks. “Regulus, do you want to tell me what happened?”

Regulus shakes his head, pressing his face against the stuffed dog, unable to find the words. But Barty steps in.

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Barty says firmly, turning to Mrs. Carrington. “His teacher—our Computing teacher—he was awful to him. He wouldn’t help him with the assignment, and today, he made him go up and explain what he’s done so far. But Regulus doesn’t talk—and the teacher knows this—and when he tried to write it out, his teacher started yelling at him, calling him stupid. Then he—” Barty swallows, his hands clenching into fists. “Then he called him a retard and told him to get out of his class.”

Mrs. Carrington’s expression darkens. She nods once, tightly, before turning back to Regulus. Her voice is softer when she asks, “Do you need some time here, or would you like to go home?”

Regulus barely thinks before he nods to the second option. He doesn’t think he can handle the rest of the school day. He just wants to leave.

Mrs. Carrington simply nods in understanding, turning to the receptionist. “Can you make the call?”

The receptionist nods and picks up the phone, and Regulus keeps his arms wrapped tightly around his stuffed dog, his head ducked low. Barty doesn’t move from his side, just stays with him, silent but present. And Regulus is grateful. Grateful that he’s not alone in this moment, that at least Barty is here with him, keeping him steady while they wait.

The wait isn’t that long. 

It’s Tuesday, so either Mr. or Mrs. Potter will come to collect him. Regulus hopes it’s the former. 

Ever since yesterday, (and, even when he had that meeting with Mrs. Potter and Mrs. Carrington), he hasn’t felt the same way toward Mrs. Potter as he did before. And yesterday, only solidified that feeling. 

Regulus isn’t exactly sure what the feeling is. All he knows is what Mrs. Potter had said. Kids like him. It’s quite hard to forget, really. 

 The words coil tightly around his thoughts, repeating in a loop. Kids like him.

His fingers pick at the hem of his sleeve as he stares at the floor, waiting. The minutes stretch. The hum of the receptionist’s computer, the faint chatter from the hallway—it all feels distant, like he’s underwater. But then, finally, footsteps. The door opens.

Regulus tenses, his breath hitching as he turns his head.

It’s Mr. Potter.

Thank God.

Mr. Potter walks in, eyes immediately landing on him, his face open and gentle. He steps forward and lowers himself to sit across from Regulus, meeting his gaze without hesitation but without pressure.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mr. Potter says, voice steady, soothing. “What happened?”

Regulus swallows, feeling his shoulders tighten. He should shrug it off. He should say it doesn’t matter—

“He was called an idiot,” Barty says from his spot on the couch, next to Regulus, before Regulus can decide. His voice is sharp, quick, like he doesn’t want Regulus to brush past it. “Our computing teacher called him an idiot for needing to write things down. And then—” Barty hesitates, just for a second. “Then he called him a retard.”

Silence.

Regulus doesn’t look at Mr. Potter, but he doesn’t have to. He hears the way his breath shifts, the subtle tension in the air. But Mr. Potter doesn’t explode, doesn’t get angry in the way other people might have, if they had heard that word. When he finally speaks, his voice is just as soft as before.

“Is that why you’d like to leave?”

Regulus nods.

Mr. Potter hums, quiet understanding in his expression. Then, without a word, he stands, picking up Regulus’ bag as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, and gestures for him to follow.

Barty exhales. “See you later, Regulus.”

Regulus only manages a nod before he follows Mr. Potter out of the office.

Signing out of school is quick. The air feels heavier with every step, exhaustion sinking into his bones. By the time they reach the car, Regulus can barely keep his thoughts straight. He slumps into the seat, head resting back against the headrest, fingers curled loosely in his lap.

The moment Mr. Potter starts the car, the tension bleeds out of Regulus all at once, leaving behind nothing but sheer exhaustion. His hands tremble slightly. He presses them against his thighs, trying to ground himself, but it does little to shake the overwhelming, bone-deep weariness setting in.

He has never felt more drained in his life.

***

Wednesday. 

He does not want to go to school. Not today. Nope. He refuses.

Regulus doesn’t even think anyone can blame him at this point. He’s been living a week straight from hell. After the day he had yesterday, he really doesn’t want to go. And to top it all off, they have a morning assembly.

So, yeah. Regulus is being difficult. He thinks he should be allowed at this point.

Usually, he gets up, showers, dresses, has breakfast, and is ready to go for the day. But today, he doesn’t want to deal with Colin or his gang, and he doesn’t want to deal with difficult teachers. He just doesn’t.

That’s why he’s still in bed at eight o’clock in the morning. And that’s why Mrs. Potter has been trying to get him out of bed for the past half-hour.

She has excellent patience. But even with excellent patience, trying to get a child out of bed for half an hour takes its toll. She’s tried everything—from gentle coaxing to firm reasoning to flat-out bribery. Nothing has worked on him.

That is, until James.

James steps into the room, hands in his pockets, and says, “What about you sit in Mum’s car and wait until assembly is over, then come into school?”

Regulus ponders the idea for a moment. It’s quite smart. Form class is only roughly fifteen to twenty minutes, so he’d only be waiting in the car with Mrs. Potter for that long.

But that’s the thing. He doesn’t particularly want to sit in a car with Mrs. Potter for fifteen to twenty minutes, waiting in silence or, worse, making conversation.

Still. It means skipping assembly. It means still seeing his friends. And he is going to have to go to school eventually, anyway.

Regulus sighs and pushes back the blankets, sitting up.

Things have been icy between him and Mrs. Potter ever since he overheard her say kids like him. He hasn’t let it go. The words have rooted deep in his mind, twisting into something sharp and unpleasant. He doesn’t think she meant it kindly. He doesn’t know what she meant, exactly, but it doesn’t sit right.

He gets dressed slowly, dragging his feet all the way to the car. He slides into the passenger seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, staring out the window.

For a few minutes, Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything. The silence is heavy, pressing. Then, finally, she exhales softly.

Things have been icy between him and Mrs. Potter ever since he overheard her say kids like him. He hasn’t let it go. The words have rooted deep in his mind, twisting into something sharp and unpleasant. He doesn’t think she meant it kindly. He doesn’t know what she meant, exactly, but it doesn’t sit right.

He gets dressed slowly, dragging his feet all the way to the car. He slides into the passenger seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, staring out the window.

For a few minutes, Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything. The silence is heavy, pressing. Then, finally, she exhales softly.

“I know you’ve been avoiding me,” she says. “And I don’t really know why.”

Regulus stiffens but doesn’t respond. He keeps his eyes on the trees lining the school parking lot.

“I know I’ve done something to upset you. I just—if I have, I’d rather you tell me than keep it all bottled up.”

Regulus bites the inside of his cheek. He wants to say something sharp, something that will push her away. But he’s too tired. Too drained.

They sit in silence for a while longer. The tension in his shoulders never quite eases, but he doesn’t flinch when Mrs. Potter shifts in her seat, turning slightly toward him.

Five minutes before the bell, Mrs. Potter reaches for the door handle. “Time to head in,” she says gently.

Regulus nods, unbuckling his seatbelt. They walk into the office together, and Mrs. Potter signs him in.

“If you need anything, head to Mrs. Carrington’s office and have her call me,” she says.

Regulus nods again and, without another word, turns and walks down the hallway. The day has barely begun, and he already feels like he’s dragging himself through it.

Things lighten up, however.

Regulus has not even been in his Geography class for ten minutes when Mrs. Carrington pops her head in. "Regulus? Could I have a quick chat?"

His stomach drops instantly. Panic rises in his chest, cold and sharp. He hesitates before standing, gripping the edge of his desk tightly for a moment before forcing himself to move. He barely registers the murmured whispers from his classmates as he follows her out into the hall, his mind racing.

He’s in trouble. He has to be. Why else would she be pulling him out of class?

But Mrs. Carrington’s expression is calm, kind. "I just wanted to let you know that you’ve been removed from your Computing class," she says. "You don’t have to partake in the assignment either."

Regulus stares at her, not quite comprehending at first.

"For your next lesson, instead of going to Computing, just come to my office," she continues. "There’s not much time left in the school year, so you can sit there instead."

Regulus blinks. He expected the worst, but this—this is a relief. He nods quickly, unable to find the words to respond, and Mrs. Carrington offers him a small smile before gesturing for him to head back to class.

When he steps back inside, Evan glances over at him. "Everything okay?"

Regulus nods, slipping into his seat and pulling out his notebook. He writes quickly, Got removed from Computing. Don’t have to do the assignment anymore.

Evan reads it and grins. "Wicked."

Regulus exhales, a small sense of victory settling in his chest. Yeah, that is pretty wicked.

If Regulus thought his day couldn’t get worse, he was wrong.

It happens in front of the library. One moment, he’s heading toward the entrance, shoulders hunched and eyes on the ground, and the next, Colin and his gang are there, stepping into his path like a wall appearing out of nowhere.

Regulus stops short, his grip on his things tightens and he pulls them closer to his chest. His stomach twists, an icy dread creeping up his spine. 

“Where do you think you’re going, Black?” Colin sneers, stepping closer, his voice dripping with mockery. His friends fan out around him, effectively cutting off any possible escape route. Regulus feels trapped, his breath coming just a little faster now.

He doesn’t say anything—he can’t. His throat feels tight, and his fingernails dig into the flesh of his skin. Colin smirks, clearly enjoying his silence.

“What, nothing to say?” Colin tilts his head, pretending to look concerned before his mouth curls cruelly. “Oh, that’s right. You need to write it down first, don’t you?”

The words sting more than Regulus expects them to, but before he can react, Colin reaches for his notebook.

Panic flares in Regulus’ chest. His notebook—his voice, his safety. He yanks it back, stepping away instinctively, his heart pounding. The movement is sharp and desperate, and for a split second, he can feel the weight of their amusement pressing down on him.

Colin barks out a laugh, and one of his friends snickers. “Look at him. Pathetic.” Another one mutters something under their breath, and the others chuckle.

Regulus swallows hard. He knows how this goes. First, the taunts. Then, the pushing. And then, if they feel particularly cruel, they’ll take his things and leave him scrambling to get them back. He’s been through it before. He can feel the moment balancing on a knife’s edge, waiting for that inevitable turn.

And there’s nothing he can do but wait for it to happen.

Just as Colin is about to lung forward, another voice cuts through the tension.

“Oi, what’s your problem, Colin?”

Regulus’ head snaps up, heart stuttering in his chest. Barty.

A moment later, Evan steps up beside him, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, seriously. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Before Colin can respond, two more figures appear—Pandora and Dorcas.

Dorcas looks unimpressed. “I’d move along if I were you,” she says coolly, staring Colin down.

Pandora, who usually wears a dreamy, far-off look, is now frowning. “It’s not a good look, you know,” she says. “Bullying people.”

For a second, Colin looks like he wants to argue, but then he glances around. There are too many eyes on him now. Too many people watching. He scowls, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Whatever,” he mutters, turning on his heel. His friends follow, but not before one of them shoots Regulus a final sneer.

Regulus exhales shakily.

Barty claps a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Regulus nods, a wave of relief washing over him. His things are still in his arms. His notebook is safe. And Colin is gone.

They step into the library together, the weight in Regulus’ chest easing. As he sits down with his friends, something settles deep inside him—something warm, something steady.

He’s learned something today.

He’s learned that no matter what, his friends will always stick up for him. And that warms something inside of Regulus, he didn’t even know could be warm.

Regulus is half paying attention to the conversation, half paying attention to his book.

“So, do Colin and his gang of friends give you grief often?”

This gets Regulus’ full attention. He snaps his head up to figure out where the question came from. It came from Barty. And, as he looks up, all eyes are on him.

He shrugs, hesitant. He doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want them to make a big deal out of it. But he should have known better.

“Oh, don’t lie,” Evan says, raising an eyebrow. “I think they do. On Regulus’ second day of school— I believe it was his second day, anyway— Colin and his friend ran into him during class changes, and I had to step in and make it stop.”

Dorcas frowns. “I heard from my other friends, the ones in Year 8, that Colin and his gang locked Regulus up in a supply closet. Is that true, Regulus?”

Regulus stiffens. The memory creeps up on him uninvited— the claustrophobic dark, the overwhelming panic, the feeling of being utterly helpless. He grips the edge of his book tightly, then slowly reaches into his bag and pulls out his notebook. He flips to a blank page, his handwriting slightly shaky as he scrawls, Yeah, they did.

He turns the notebook around for them to see. A collective gasp ripples through the group.

“What the hell,” Pandora mutters, anger flashing in her eyes.

“I’m gonna get that kid,” Barty declares, pushing back his chair as if he’s about to march out and hunt Colin down right that second.

Evan grabs the sleeve of Barty’s shirt and tugs him back down before he can do something reckless. “No, you don’t.” He levels Barty with a knowing look. “I wouldn’t if I were you. You’ve had one too many suspensions this year.”

Barty grumbles but relents, crossing his arms over his chest.

Regulus glances down at his hands, debating whether or not to say more. He’s already revealed so much— but there’s something else, something he hasn’t told them yet. He shifts in his seat, feeling the weight of their expectant gazes. Slowly, he picks up his pen again and writes, They are also the reason why I was suspended.

He hesitates before adding, I don’t remember what happened. But I was having one of my ‘freak out’ moments, and I punched one of them.

He flips the notebook around again. A beat of silence follows as his words sink in. He doesn’t dare look up at their faces, afraid of what he might see. Judgement? Pity?

During my suspension, Mrs. Potter and Mrs. Carrington had a meeting with me to develop a plan so I can leave class and stuff, he writes next, tapping the page lightly before showing them.

“Well, that’s good, right?” Dorcas says carefully. “Helpful, I mean. For you.”

Regulus nods slowly, he writes. Yeah, it is. It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps.

Pandora reaches out and places a hand on his arm, her touch light, reassuring. “We’ve got your back, you know.”

Evan nods. “Always.”

Barty huffs. “And if Colin so much as looks at you wrong again, I swear—”

“Barty,” Evan warns, though there’s amusement in his voice.

Regulus watches them, something warm settling in his chest. It’s strange, really—he’s not used to this, people standing up for him, people caring. But maybe, just maybe, he can start getting used to it.

That’s another thing he’s learned. His friends will always stand by him. Will always help him, protect him. Even when he least expects it. 

Because they’re his friends. And friends would do anything for each other.

***

Thursday.

Colin and his gang had been acting weird.

Weird, strange, unusual. The works.

It started to put Regulus on edge, to say the least. The looks, the whispers—he could see it all. Every time he passed them in the hallway during class changes or when one of them deliberately blocked his way during break, it made his stomach twist.

If Regulus had to pinpoint when it started, he’d say Science. Something shifted then, but he couldn’t figure out what. Maybe they were finally leaving him alone after what happened yesterday. But that didn’t seem right. Bullies don’t just stop bullying. It’s in their nature.

Apart from that, his day had been surprisingly good. It wasn’t until lunch, sitting in the library with his friends, that he realized just how good.

Regulus barely registers where his friends are sitting before he drops into his usual seat at the library table, practically bouncing as he sets his book down with a thud. He doesn’t even notice that he’s cutting off whatever conversation they were having—he’s too excited, his thoughts spilling out faster than he can stop them.

“Je viens d'arriver au moment où Percy Iris envoie un message à Camp,” he blurts out, eyes wide with excitement. “Et… je veux dire, j’ai vu venir la confession de Luke. Type de. Il était évident qu'il n'était pas qu'un héros incompris, mais je ne pensais pas que Percy montrerait réellement la conversation au camp comme ça ! Genre, il a juste... il a juste envoyé un message direct à Chiron et aux autres ! Pouvez-vous imaginer? L'audace. C'était génial.”

(“I just got to the part where Percy Iris messages Camp,” “And—I mean, I saw Luke’s confession coming. Kind of. It was obvious he wasn’t just some misunderstood hero, but I didn’t think Percy would actually show the conversation to camp like that! Like, he just—he just straight-up Iris messaged the entire thing to Chiron and the others! Can you imagine? The audacity. It was brilliant.”)

His hands move animatedly as he speaks, flipping through the book to find the exact scene. “Et Luke – oh mon Dieu, Luke ne s’en rend même pas compte au début ! Il ne fait que répéter à quel point son plan est génial et à quel point les dieux méritent de tomber, et pendant ce temps, tout le camp l'écoute ! Et quand s’en rendra-t-il compte ? Son visage ! Eh bien, je veux dire, évidemment, je ne peux pas le voir, mais je peux juste imaginer à quel point il devait être absolument furieux. Percy est vraiment idiot, mais c'était en fait du génie.”

(“And Luke—oh my God, Luke doesn’t even realize at first! He’s just going on about how great his plan is and how the gods deserve to fall, and meanwhile, the entire camp is listening! And then when he does realize? His face! Well, I mean, obviously I can’t see it, but I can just picture how absolutely furious he must’ve been. Percy is such an idiot, but it was actually genius.”)

Regulus barely pauses for breath, his excitement too strong to contain. “Et autre chose : cela prouve à quel point Luke est dangereux, n'est-ce pas ? Ce n’est pas seulement un enfant en colère, il croit vraiment en ce qu’il fait. Il est complètement convaincu d’avoir raison, et c’est ce qui le fait peur. Ce n’est pas seulement un traître, c’est un croyant, et c’est pire. Et Percy – il est tellement doué pour être imprudent, mais il y parvient d'une manière ou d'une autre, et je me demande…”

(“And another thing—this just proves how dangerous Luke is, right? Like, he’s not just some angry kid, he really believes in what he’s doing. He’s completely convinced he’s right, and that’s what makes him scary. He’s not just a traitor, he’s a believer, and that’s worse. And Percy—he’s so good at being reckless but somehow pulling it off, and it makes me wonder—”)

It isn’t until the silence stretches out that he stops. The words catch in his throat as he looks up and sees his friends staring at him. His stomach drops.

“What did you say?” Barty asks, blinking.

Regulus frowns. “Quoi?”

Evan leans forward, his expression confused but amused. “We couldn’t really understand you, mate. You are... uh, speaking French.”

Regulus freezes. His face flushes bright red. He hadn’t even realized. His first language had slipped out without a second thought, completely unnoticed by him in his excitement. He clutches his notebook, hesitating, but his friends just watch him, patient and expectant.

Slowly, he scribbles down what he had said, passing the paper over. They read it, nodding along.

Basically, what I said was, I got up to the part in my book where Percy Iris messages Camp Luke’s confession. I said how I saw Luke’s confession coming, kind of, but I didn’t expect Percy would show the conversation he had with Luke to camp. Luke goes on and on about his plan and stuff, whilst the entire camp listens, and, Luke didn’t even realize it until the end. Percy is such an idiot, but it was genius. 

Dorcas leans in, offering him a small smile. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed for speaking French. Let alone for speaking in general.”

Regulus swallows.

“If you’re worried about us not understanding, you can always write it down after. It’s no big deal. You do what makes you comfortable.”

Regulus takes in her words, thinking them over. He hesitates, then turns back to the conversation.

And, without thinking, every now and then, he adds something in. Each time, he quickly writes it down afterward, but his friends never complain. They just listen, reading intently, treating his words like something worth waiting for.

It’s odd, in a nice way.

Regulus has never had anyone give him their full attention before. Not even something as trivial as rambling about a children’s book—obviously, Regulus doesn’t think Percy Jackson books are dumb, it’s just… he’s making a point. Having that undivided attention on him… it felt good. Regulus knows he shouldn’t have cut someone off; he apologized for that, but his friends didn’t care. They don’t care. Not at all. Not one bit.

He likes it. He knows he still has a lot to learn when it comes to friendships, and he knows this is one of the things he’s going to have to get used to. But still, it’s nice.

The only other person who ever listened to him like that was… Sirius.

Regulus really doesn’t want to be thinking about his idiot brother. So, he focuses on listening to his friends instead.

Time passes quickly, and before any of them notice, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. As they all walk out, Regulus wonders what else he’s going to learn because of his friends.

And that thought excites him.

English had been amazing.

Regulus and Pandora walk side by side, still discussing their lesson as they make their way to the auditorium for assembly. He’s brimming with excitement, words tumbling out onto his notebook as he writes about how the class had gone, how engaging the discussion was, how much he actually enjoyed himself.

Pandora grins at him. “Told you you’d like English.”

Regulus just huffs, nudging her lightly with his elbow. She laughs, and they step into the auditorium together.

The moment they walk in, the noise hits him like a wave.

Loud. Too loud.

Hundreds of students moving around, shouting, laughing, scraping chairs against the floor. Teachers trying—and failing—to herd them into their seats. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, bright and sterile, adding to the overwhelming chaos.

It’s doing him in.

Regulus sits down beside Pandora, gripping his notebook tightly. His leg starts bouncing under the seat. His fingers twitch against the cover of his book, then against the fabric of his sleeve. The sounds are everywhere, pressing in on him from all sides. Too much. Too much.

His hands move up to cover his ears. He rocks forward slightly, trying to ground himself, trying to block it all out. It doesn’t work. The noise is in his skull, rattling inside his brain, making it impossible to think. His breathing hitches. His chest tightens.

And then—a hand on his shoulder.

Regulus flinches, head snapping up to see his form teacher, Mr. Hale, kneeling in front of him. His lips are moving, but Regulus can’t make out the words, can’t hear anything past the static flooding his senses.

Mr. Hale’s expression is calm, patient. He glances at Pandora, then back at Regulus, speaking again. Regulus watches his mouth form words he can’t process.

Slowly, the noise starts to fade, or maybe he just manages to pull himself out of it enough to focus. Mr. Hale’s voice comes through, steady and measured. “Regulus, are you alright?”

Regulus shakes his head.

Mr. Hale nods once, like that’s exactly what he expected. He turns to Pandora again, speaking low. Regulus watches, still breathing too fast, still feeling like everything is too much. Then, Mr. Hale looks back at him and says, “Pandora is going to take you to the guidance counselor’s office. You can stay there for as long as you need, alright?”

Regulus swallows, nodding. Mr. Hale stands, giving Pandora a small nod before stepping back.

Pandora nudges his shoulder gently. “Come on, let’s go.”

Regulus doesn’t hesitate. He stands, keeps his eyes on the floor, and follows her out of the auditorium, away from the noise, away from the overwhelming chaos.

Somewhere he can breathe.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach the guidance counselor's office. Pandora walks beside him, her steps light, but her presence grounding. She doesn’t rush him, doesn’t fill the silence with unnecessary words. Just stays close, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When they step inside, the office is quiet—blessedly so. The hum of the overhead lights is a low, constant thing, a background noise that is infinitely better than the overwhelming clamor of the auditorium. Regulus exhales slowly, his shoulders loosening ever so slightly as he moves toward the small seating area near the bookshelves.

Pandora plops down beside him, setting her bag on the floor with a soft thud. She doesn’t leave. Regulus hadn’t expected her to, but a part of him had worried anyway. People always leave eventually. But she just sits there, pulling out her math notebook and flipping it open.

Regulus watches for a moment, hesitant. Then, slowly, he follows her lead, retrieving his own notes. He traces his finger along the familiar numbers, letting the predictability of formulas settle his nerves. The rhythmic order of mathematics is comforting—stable, reliable. Unlike words. Unlike people.

They work in silence for a while, the occasional scribble of a pencil the only sound between them. Every now and then, Pandora mutters something under her breath, tapping the end of her pencil against her chin as she puzzles through a problem. At one point, she glances over at Regulus' paper, then nudges him lightly.

"You're way ahead of me," she says with a huff, smiling.

Regulus shrugs, but there’s a small tug at the corner of his lips. He taps his pencil against the edge of the page, considering. Then, instead of writing out a reply, he points to her notes, tilting his head in silent question.

Pandora catches on quickly. “Oh. Yeah, I don’t get this part,” she admits, pointing to a problem on her worksheet. “It’s the fractions. They never make sense to me.”

Regulus quirks an eyebrow, then takes her pencil and carefully writes out a simpler version of the equation. Pandora leans in, watching as he underlines the key steps.

“Ohhh,” she breathes. “That actually makes sense.” She looks up at him, grinning. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”

Regulus ducks his head, ears burning. He isn’t, not really. But he lets the warmth of the compliment settle anyway.

They keep working, the silence between them comfortable. Every so often, Pandora asks another question, and Regulus answers the best he can, writing things out when needed.

At some point, he glances up and watches Pandora for a moment. She’s still frowning at her paper, tapping her pencil absently as she works through a problem. There’s something easy about sitting here with her, something natural.

Regulus is grateful. Grateful that she stayed. Grateful that, for once, he doesn’t feel like too much.

And as he turns back to his work, a quiet thought settles in the back of his mind.

Maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to go through things alone anymore.

***

Friday. 

Remember how he said Colin and his gang were acting weird, strange, and unusual? Yeah? Well, turns out they know something.

The snickers, the whispers, the looks—it all makes sense now. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t nothing. It was calculated. Planned.

And it was all to do with them knowing something extremely personal about him.

Something only his friends should know.

It happens during PE. The class is split into teams for some stupid game Regulus couldn’t care less about. He stays at the edge, trying to keep his head down and just get through the period without incident. But, of course, Colin and his gang have other plans.

They start with little things. Just enough to dig under his skin.

“Oi, Black, looking a little tense over there,” Colin drawls, stepping closer as Regulus grips the hem of his PE shirt, trying to ignore him. “Something on your mind?”

Regulus doesn't react. He won’t give them the satisfaction.

But then one of Colin’s friends chimes in, voice sing-songy and taunting. “Oh, come on, Reg, aren’t you curious on what we know?”

His hands tighten into fists. He’s curious, sure, but not enough to play their game.

“Yeah,” Colin continues, grinning. “We know something about you. Something real personal.”

Regulus stiffens.

They notice. Of course, they do.

Colin’s smirk widens, sensing weakness. “Bet you wanna know what it is, don’t you?”

Regulus doesn’t move. He keeps his expression blank, unreadable. But inside, his stomach is twisting.

“Bet it’s eating you up, yeah?” Colin presses, voice lowering, laced with cruel amusement. “Bet you’re wondering who told us.”

Regulus’ breathing picks up. He hates this. The not knowing. The control they have over him right now.

One of Colin’s friends chuckles. “Think we should tell him?”

“Nah,” Colin says, drawing it out. “Let’s keep him guessing a little longer.”

Regulus wants to scream. His entire body is rigid with tension, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. He clenches his jaw so tight it hurts.

Then, finally, Colin steps in close—too close—and whispers, “I didn't know you were a foster kid.”

The words hit him like a slap.

Regulus’ stomach drops, the world narrowing to just those few syllables.

“Had it confirmed, too,” Colin adds, voice smug. “You’ll never believe who told me.”

Regulus’ mind blanks.

His first thought—his only thought—jumps straight to Pandora.

She knew. She knew, and now they know.

The realization slams into him like a freight train, his thoughts spiraling too fast to catch. His breathing turns shallow, chest tightening like a vice.

Pandora. Pandora. Pandora.

How could she—

How could she do this?

He feels sick. Feels like the ground beneath him is shifting, breaking apart. He can barely hear whatever else Colin is saying over the blood rushing in his ears. His vision is tunneling, hands shaking at his sides.

And then—Pandora is there.

Her voice is distant, but it cuts through the noise. “Regulus.”

He barely registers her kneeling in front of him, her hands hovering near his wrists but not touching. “Reg, breathe.”

His chest is so tight. His thoughts are too loud. His heart is slamming against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“Hey,” Pandora’s voice is steady. Gentle. “It’s okay. Just breathe, alright?”

Regulus sucks in a shaky breath. It barely helps. The betrayal is still there, lodged deep like a knife between his ribs.

His vision blurs, and—no. No, no, no. He refuses to cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

Without thinking, he turns and walks. Just walks away.

Pandora calls his name, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look back.

He just walks. Past the PE field, past the changing rooms, past the buildings, until he finds somewhere—anywhere—he can be alone.

And then, finally, the weight of it crashes over him.

His back hits the wall, legs pulling up to his chest as his breath comes in ragged, uneven bursts. His hands grip his sleeves tightly, knuckles white.

The betrayal is suffocating.

It feels just as bad, if not worse, than what Sirius did to him.

Because this was Pandora.

And he trusted her.

And now—he doesn’t know what to think.

Regulus doesn’t make it to his next class.

In fact, he makes a point to avoid Pandora and the rest of his supposed friends when he gets the chance. Luckily, the first break is only fifteen minutes, so it’s easy. He keeps his head down, slipping through the crowds, making himself small. Unnoticeable.

But the feeling doesn’t go away.

It sits heavy in his stomach, curling and twisting like something rotten. He feels sick. Like he’s going to vomit. Like he can’t breathe properly.

He hates it. Hates the feeling.

Hates the feeling of betrayal. Of being betrayed. He promised himself he wouldn’t ever be put in a position like that again. But now… he has. And it sucks.

By the time he gets to science, he’s convinced he can push it down, ignore it, pretend nothing happened. He sits in his assigned seat, pulling out his notebook, determined to focus.

And then Colin speaks.

“Still sulking, Black?”

Regulus stiffens.

Across the table, Colin and his friends are watching him, smirking.

“Thought you’d be used to it by now,” one of them says, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “All that bouncing around from house to house.”

Regulus’ grip tightens on his pen. He doesn’t look up.

“Wonder why, though?” Another voice chimes in. “Like, what did you do? Set a fire? Steal something? Oh—what if he hit his mum?”

Regulus sees red.

The anger is sudden and sharp, surging through him like a storm. He clenches his jaw so tightly it aches.

Colin grins. “Yeah, you do seem the type, don’t you? Reckon that’s why they took you?”

Regulus grips the edge of his desk, knuckles white. He wants to hit them. He wants to scream.

But then—

“Oh, and get this,” Colin’s voice lowers, but not enough. “Guess what else we know?”

Regulus says nothing. His pulse pounds in his ears.

Colin leans forward, smiling like this is all some big joke. “We know about your little ‘time outs.’”

Regulus’ stomach drops.

“Bet you were there today, weren’t you?” Another one adds, snickering. “Crying your eyes out like a little baby.”

Regulus’ hands are shaking now. His whole body is rigid with tension. Before he can listen to another word, a voice cuts through the taunts.

“Regulus?”

Mrs. Birch.

Regulus blinks, his vision blurry. His science teacher is standing at the front of the room, watching him carefully.

“Can you come up here for a moment?” she asks, nodding toward her desk.

Regulus hesitates. His first instinct is to say no—to stay rooted in his seat, to prove to Colin and his gang that they don’t get to him.

But Mrs. Birch isn’t looking at him like a teacher calling on a student. She’s looking at him like she knows something is wrong.

Slowly, he stands, making his way to the front.

Mrs. Birch lowers her voice. “Are you alright?”

Regulus swallows. The lump in his throat is too big to speak around.

Mrs. Birch studies him, then nods, like she understands. “Do you need to leave?”

Yes. The answer is yes.

But in the back of his mind, he knows what Colin will say. He knows this will only give them more fuel.

Mrs. Birch notices the hesitation. “It’s alright,” she says gently. “You can go.”

That’s all he needs.

Regulus grabs his things and walks out.

The tears start the moment he steps into the hallway. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, only that he needs to be anywhere but here. He wipes at his face, but it’s no use. His vision is swimming.

He rounds a corner too fast—

And crashes straight into someone.

Regulus stumbles, head snapping up just in time to hear:

“Oi—watch where you’re going.”

The voice is familiar. Regulus blinks, and through the blur, he sees James.

James’ expression shifts immediately. “Reg,” he says, softer now. “You alright, mate?”

Regulus shakes his head.

James doesn’t ask anything else. He just tilts his head toward the side hall. “C’mon.”

They walk.

James doesn’t say much—just leads them somewhere quieter, somewhere away from the crowd. They settle near the staircase at the back of the building, where no one ever goes during class.

Regulus tries to breathe. His hands are still shaking.

James watches him for a moment, then digs into his bag, pulling out a scrap of paper and a pencil.

“Here,” he says, handing it over. “Write it down.”

Regulus hesitates, then grips the pencil tight. His hand moves on its own, words spilling out in messy, rushed handwriting.

He tells James everything.

How betrayed he feels. What Colin and his gang said. Every cruel word, every taunt.

When he’s done, he pushes the paper toward James and stares at the floor.

James reads it, and then—for a long, long moment—he says nothing.

Then, finally, in a voice so quiet it almost gets lost in the silence, James says, “I told him.”

Regulus’ head snaps up.

James won’t meet his eyes. “Colin. I—I was the one who told him.”

Regulus can’t breathe.

James runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to,” he says quickly. “I thought—I thought he was one of your friends, and I was just trying to help—”

Regulus stops listening.

He feels sick. He feels stupid.

Pandora never told them. She never betrayed him. And instead of believing in her, he’d immediately assumed the worst.

Regulus grips his sleeves, looking away. His face is burning, his throat tight.

James swallows hard. “I’m sorry, Reg,” he says. “I didn’t—I never meant for this to happen.”

Regulus nods, but it’s stiff.

James keeps talking, keeps apologizing, but Regulus doesn’t want to hear it. He just sits there, staring at the floor, heart still hammering in his chest.

James falls silent after a while, and they just sit there together.

Then the bell rings, signaling class change. 

James stands. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Regulus doesn’t answer. James waits for a second longer, then walks away. Regulus watches him go, his mind still a tangled mess of emotions.

He stays there, unmoving, long after James disappears.

Regulus manages to gather himself together enough to make it to French.

His eyes still sting, and his throat feels raw. His whole body is heavy, exhausted from everything—the betrayal, the anger, the crying. But he forces himself to move, to push forward. He doesn’t have a choice.

He slips into his seat, heart still racing, hands still trembling slightly.

Barty is already there, flipping through his notes. When Regulus sits down, Barty glances at him, and immediately, his expression changes.

Regulus doesn’t know what he looks like, but it must be bad, because Barty’s eyes narrow in concern.

“What happened?” Barty asks, voice low.

Regulus swallows. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Instead, he shakes his head, blinking rapidly against the threat of more tears. He’s already cried too much today. He doesn’t want to cry again.

Barty doesn’t press, but he keeps watching him.

Regulus focuses on his notebook, pretending to read over his notes. They’re supposed to be working on their speaking assessment—practicing dialogue, making sure their pronunciation is right. Normally, Regulus would be nervous about it, but right now, he doesn’t have the mental energy to think about standing in front of the class.

He picks up his pen with shaking fingers.

Barty nudges him.

Regulus glances up, and Barty just raises an eyebrow, waiting. He’s not going to let this go.

Regulus hesitates, then lowers his gaze back to his notebook and starts writing.

His hand moves quickly, scrawling out everything in messy, uneven handwriting. Everything that happened with Colin and his gang. What they said. How much it hurt. How he thought Pandora had betrayed him. And then—how it was James. How guilty he feels for assuming the worst about his friends. How he doesn’t know what to do now.

When he’s done, he pushes the notebook toward Barty and looks away.

Barty reads silently, his expression unreadable. He gets to the end, then nods once. And then, without a word, Barty pushes his chair back and walks straight over to the teacher.

Regulus stiffens. What is he doing?

He watches, stomach twisting, as Barty leans in and says something to their teacher. He can’t hear the conversation, but whatever Barty is saying—it’s working.

The teacher nods, then looks toward Regulus briefly before turning back to Barty.

A few seconds later, Barty is walking back over, picking up his bag. “C’mon,” he says simply. Regulus frowns, Barty continues. “I got us permission to work on our assignment in the library.”

Regulus blinks. He doesn’t question it—he just gathers his things and follows Barty out.

The library is quiet.

It’s a relief after everything—the noise of the hallways, the constant hum of voices in class. Here, it’s just them, tucked into their usual spot by the window.

Regulus sits down heavily, his head throbbing from all the crying he’s done. He feels awful. Sick, even.

Barty doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just watches Regulus, his expression softer than usual. And then—

Barty moves closer and wraps his arms around him. Regulus freezes.

Barty isn’t the type to do this—he isn’t the type to give comfort like this. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He just holds him.

Regulus clenches his jaw. His whole body is still tense, but after a moment, he lets himself relax. Just a little.

Then, suddenly, the weight of everything crashes down again, and Regulus buries his face in Barty’s shoulder.

And he cries.

Not silent tears this time, but full-body, shaking sobs. He grips Barty’s hoodie, trying to muffle the sound.

“Je me sens tellement coupable,” he whispers. His voice is thick with emotion. “J'ai supposé le pire à propos de Pandora. Je ne lui faisais pas confiance.”

(“I feel so guilty,” “I assumed the worst about Pandora. I didn’t trust her.”)

Barty doesn’t pull away.

Regulus swallows hard. “Et James... il n'en avait pas l'intention, mais... j'ai juste…” His breath shudders. “Je ne sais pas quoi faire.”

(“And James—he didn’t mean to, but—I just—” “I don’t know what to do.”)

Barty exhales slowly.

“Regulus,” he says, voice calm, steady. “It’s going to be okay.”

Regulus shakes his head, throat burning. How would Barty know that? 

“Because you’re not alone,” Barty says simply. “You’ve got me. And Pandora. And James—even if he’s an idiot. You’ve got people who care.”

Regulus grips his sleeves, breathing unsteady. He doesn’t respond, but he lets Barty’s words settle. 

They sit there for a long time, just existing in the silence.

The feeling of being alone is a tough emotion. Alone implies abandonment, distance, a severing of ties. But is anyone ever truly alone?

Regulus isn’t sure.

For a long time, he thought he was. It was easier that way. If he kept people at arm’s length, they couldn’t hurt him. Couldn’t betray him.

But then—Pandora. Evan. Barty. His friends. They made him believe, just for a little while, that maybe he wasn’t alone. That maybe he had people.

And then James. And Colin. And everything else that followed.

Now, he doesn’t know what to think.

For the next little while, he and Barty continue working on their French speeches. Barty makes an effort to act normal, and Regulus appreciates it. The last thing he wants is to keep talking about his feelings.

He still feels raw. Tired. Like if he lets his guard down for even a second, he’ll fall apart again.

So, he focuses on the assignment. On perfecting his pronunciation, on making sure his sentences are structured correctly. He writes and rewrites lines, underlines words, and forces himself to keep his mind occupied.

Eventually, the others show up for lunch.

Pandora is the first to walk in.

Regulus stiffens the moment he sees her, guilt hitting him full force.

She doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t look hurt. But she looks—different. A little more guarded, maybe.

He swallows hard, grabs his notebook, and immediately starts writing.

I’m sorry.

I should have had more faith in you. I didn’t mean to doubt you, I was just—angry. Confused. And I know that’s not an excuse. I just—I’m really sorry, Pandora.

He pushes the notebook toward her, hands shaking.

Pandora looks down at the page.

Then, she sighs, looking back up at him. “Reg, you don’t have to apologise.”

He nods but keeps writing.

I do. I hurt you.

Pandora reads the words carefully. Then, she exhales and sits down across from him.

“I won’t lie,” she says. “It hurt that you didn’t trust me. That you believed—even for a second—that I would do something like that.”

Regulus lowers his gaze. Shame burns in his chest.

“But,” Pandora continues, her voice softer, “I also understand why you thought that. And I’ll get over it. So, just—don’t do it again, okay?”

Regulus nods quickly.

She smiles at him, small but genuine. “Good.”

Just like that, the weight on his chest lifts, just a little. They all settle in together, their usual routine falling back into place.

For a moment, it feels normal. Safe.

But then—

Regulus decides to grab his black stuffed dog from his locker.

The minute he steps out into the hallway, he regrets it.

Because Colin and his gang are there, waiting for him.

Regulus doesn’t have time to react before they’re on him.

“Well, well, well,” Colin drawls, stepping forward with that same smug grin he always wears. “If it isn’t our favourite little charity case.”

Regulus clenches his jaw and moves toward his locker, ignoring him.

Colin doesn’t like that.

“Hey, we were just wondering,” he continues, voice dripping with fake innocence, “what exactly got you taken away from your parents? I mean, there’s gotta be a reason, right?”

His stomach twists.

“Maybe they just didn’t want him,” one of Colin’s friends sneers.

“Or maybe he was a little freak,” another adds. “A little problem child. The kind of kid no one wants to keep around.”

Regulus forces himself to breathe evenly, to grab his bag from his locker and not react.

Because that’s what they want. They want him to break.

But then—

Colin steps closer, lowering his voice. “I hope you get taken away again.”

Regulus freezes. Colin grins. “Seems to be a pattern with you, doesn’t it? No one wants you.”

The words cut deeper than they should. Because the truth is, Regulus already believes them.

His grip tightens on his bag. He doesn’t look at them, doesn’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

Instead, he turns and runs.

The plan.

It haunts him.

It follows him around like a hanging knife above his head, ready to be cut.

And he knows whose fault it is. Mrs. Potter’s.

It’s Mrs. Potter’s fault he’s in this predicament. It’s her fault they know. It’s her fault for making him stand out, for making him even more “different” than he already is.

He hates it. And the worst part?

It’s all because she believes he’s like them. Kids like him.

Regulus doesn’t stop running until he’s back at the library. He shoves his things into his bag, head down, ignoring his friends’ confused questions.

Then, without a word, he walks out.

He doesn’t stop until he reaches the guidance counselor’s office.

Regulus sits in the waiting area, his bag clutched to his chest, hands trembling.

He’s hurt. Angry. Scared. Betrayed.

His mind keeps replaying Colin’s words over and over again.

No one wants you.

And worse than that—the thought of who caused this.

Mrs. Potter.

If she had just left things alone, if she hadn’t drawn attention to him, if she hadn’t made things worse—

This wouldn’t be happening. 

And that thought stays with him, heavy and unshakable, as he waits to be picked up.