To Find a Home

No one wants you.

Those words play on a continuous loop in the back of his mind, like a song stuck on repeat. It plays and plays and plays, an endless cycle he can’t escape.

He wishes it would stop.

But it won’t.

It never will.

Because Regulus knows the truth. He knows the weight of those words, the way they dig beneath the skin, crawl into the cracks of a person, and take root.

No one wants you.

He wishes—he hopes—he prays it isn’t true. But it is. It has to be.

He’s seen it firsthand.

It started with his parents. They did this. They were the ones who made the choices, who committed the acts that got him and Sirius taken away. They could have stopped. They could have chosen differently. They could have wanted him.

But they didn’t.

They chose to get rid of him.

No one wants you.

Then there was his Uncle Cygnus. For a brief moment, after everything fell apart, Regulus thought maybe—just maybe—he would take him in. 

But he didn’t. 

He didn’t want the responsibility of a broken, abandoned nephew. He didn’t want to raise his sister’s child. He didn’t want him . 

No one wants you.

His cousins—Narcissa, Andromeda, Bellatrix—they haven’t reached out. Not once. Not to see where he ended up. Not to see if he was okay.

Regulus thought, a part of him generally thought, they would reach out. That they would talk to him. That they would fight for him. But they didn’t. 

Which just shows Regulus that they don’t want him either.

No one wants you.

He’s stuck in an endless loop. A cycle of being unwanted, passed from one place to another, like something people try to get rid of.

Not his foster parents. Not his actual parents. Not his aunt or uncle or cousins.

Not even his own brother.

That one stings the most.

Sirius. The one person who was supposed to be there. The one person he loved more than anything. The one person he did everything for— everything.

And yet, Sirius left.

What did Regulus ever do to deserve that?

He did everything for him.

Held his hand when he was in pain. Sat with him after their mother’s yelling left them both shaking.

Covered for him when he snuck out, took the blame for things he didn’t do, tried so hard to be the brother Sirius needed.

And in the end, Sirius still chose to leave. To leave him.

Because even Sirius doesn’t want him.

Regulus curls in on himself where he sits in the guidance counselor’s office, his bag clutched to his chest, hands gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.

His eyes burn from how much he’s already cried today, but the weight in his chest hasn’t gone away.

He wants to go home.

Except—he doesn’t even know what home is anymore.

The door opens.

Regulus doesn’t bother looking up, doesn’t even register who it is—

Until he hears the voice.

“Regulus?”

His whole body tenses.

It’s her.

Mrs. Potter.

And just like that, every emotion he’s been trying to suppress boils over.

He grips his bag even tighter, his nails digging into the fabric. His vision blurs at the edges, but not from tears this time. From anger.

Because it’s her fault.

All of this. Everything that’s happened today— it’s her fault.

If she had just left things alone. If she hadn’t singled him out. If she hadn’t made a plan, hadn’t drawn attention to him, hadn’t made him more different than he already was—

This wouldn’t be happening.

He wouldn’t be sitting here, feeling like his entire world is crumbling beneath him.

He wouldn’t have spent the whole day being mocked, humiliated, torn apart by Colin and his gang.

He wouldn’t have doubted his friends. Wouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Wouldn’t have lost faith in the only people who have ever tried to care about him.

It’s her fault.

And she’s standing there, looking at him like she’s concerned, like she actually cares.

Regulus clenches his jaw so tightly it hurts.

Because all he can see is red.

“Is everything alright, sweetheart?”

No. Everything is not alright. His entire world is ending, and it’s her fault.

Regulus stares straight ahead, his jaw locked so tightly it aches. He refuses to look at her, refuses to acknowledge the concern in her voice.

It’s fake.

She’s fake.

Mrs. Potter sighs softly when he doesn’t respond. “Regulus?”

Silence.

She waits a beat, and then another, but still, he doesn’t answer. Eventually, she exhales, quiet but resigned, and gently says, “Come on.”

Regulus doesn’t move at first, but then she steps aside, waiting for him, and he realizes—he doesn’t have a choice.

So, he stands.

He moves stiffly, his limbs like lead, and follows her out of the office without a word. Every step feels heavier than the last, anger pressing into his ribs, tightening around his throat.

They walk through the school, past students lingering in the hallways, past teachers chatting quietly by their doors. Regulus keeps his head down, keeps his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Mrs. Potter says nothing as they step outside, but Regulus doesn’t miss the way she glances at him every so often, like she’s waiting for him to say something.

He won’t.

He won’t give her that.

The walk to the car feels endless. Every second, his fury builds, twisting and curling inside him like a living thing, something clawing at his insides, desperate to be set free.

His thoughts spin wildly, tangled and dark.

All the nice things she’s done for him.

The gentle words. The soft smiles. The way she pretended to care.

How fake it must have been.

Because if she actually cared, if she actually meant any of it— this wouldn’t have happened.

They reach the car. Mrs. Potter unlocks it, and Regulus yanks the door open, throwing himself inside. He slams it shut harder than necessary, his breathing sharp and uneven as he stares out the window.

The car starts, and they pull away from the school, the building disappearing behind them.

Regulus watches the trees blur past, his thoughts looping, spiraling.

She did this.

She made him stand out. She made him different. She made them notice him, made them see him.

She’s the reason Colin knows. She’s the reason they all know.

And now—now he’s the joke of the school. A charity case. A pity project.

She did that.

Her kindness— fake. Her warmth— fake.

Everything about her— fake.

The car pulls into the driveway. Regulus stares at the house, at the place he’s supposed to call home.

But it’s not. It never has been. It never will be.

He steps out of the car, gripping his bag like a lifeline. Mrs. Potter glances at him, eyes filled with something soft, something concerned, but all Regulus feels is a cold, consuming rage.

Because she hurt him. And he’ll make sure she hurts just as much as she’s hurt him.

When Regulus steps inside, he doesn’t have a plan.

He doesn’t think.

His entire body is thrumming with anger, his chest tight, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Mrs. Potter follows him in, closing the door gently behind them. The house is quiet, warm, filled with the faint scent of whatever she must have been baking earlier. It feels mocking somehow, like the world is pretending everything is fine when it’s not.

Regulus isn’t fine.

And then—Mrs. Potter speaks, soft and careful. “Would you like some chocolate milk and cookies, sweetheart?”

And that— that is all it takes.

Something inside him snaps.

Blind, uncontrollable rage explodes through him like fire, hot and consuming. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing—doesn’t care.

His hands move before he can stop them, grabbing the closest thing—a framed photo on the table—and hurling it across the room. The glass shatters against the wall, shards raining down onto the floor.

The sound fuels him.

He lunges toward the nearest shelf, knocking over books, sending them scattering. A vase—gone. Another picture frame—destroyed. His hands grab anything within reach, throwing, breaking, ruining.

A furious, animalistic noise rips from his throat, a sound he barely recognizes as his own.

He’s furious. Livid. And nothing is enough.

Nothing can fix this, nothing can make it better, so he just—destroys.

And then—

It stops.

It’s like he blinks and the world comes back into focus.

His chest is heaving, his hands shaking. His breath is ragged, sharp and uneven, and there’s glass everywhere. Books are strewn across the floor. Broken pieces of ceramic litter the rug. A framed photo—one of James’ first day of school—smashed beyond recognition.

His entire body locks up as his eyes dart around the wreckage, realization slamming into him.

What has he done?

A small, wavering voice cuts through the silence.

“Regulus?”

It’s so soft, so careful, but it destroys him.

His gaze jerks to Mrs. Potter, and—oh. The look on her face—

Her mouth is slightly parted, eyes wide, filled with something he can’t quite name. Not fear exactly, but something close to it—hesitation, uncertainty, like she’s trying to gauge whether he’s still dangerous.

Regulus feels sick.

His stomach twists, nausea rising in his throat. He made her look at him like that. He did this. No one else. Just him.  

Tears well up, spilling over before he can stop them. His breath catches—hitches—and suddenly he can’t breathe, can’t think.

Because she’s going to kick him out.

She has to.

He’s ruined everything.

Just like his parents always said he would. Just like every foster home before this. Just like every time before.

He stumbles back, his legs giving out beneath him as he sinks to the floor. His hands shake violently as he grips his knees, curling in on himself, gasping, choking.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe. 

The room is too small, the air too thick, everything too loud—his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his own jagged breaths, the distant sound of glass crunching underfoot as someone moves closer—

Panic takes hold, vicious and merciless, dragging him under. Dragging him under like the waves at the beach.

The pressure consumes him, claws into his chest, making it impossible to breathe. His lungs burn, his throat tightens, his fingers tremble against his knees.

Stop.

He begs his body to stop, to breathe, to let him go. But the panic doesn’t listen. It never does. It drowns him in the crushing weight of his own mistakes, his own fury, his own hands that have done so much damage.

And then— hands.

Warm hands.

Gently, carefully, grounding.

Mrs. Potter.

The realization makes his stomach churn.

She’s still here. After everything, after the broken glass and the shattered pictures and the destruction he’s left in his wake— she’s still here. And she’s touching him.

He feels nauseous just thinking about it.

He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve her.

Her hands move slowly, soothing, one rubbing soft circles on his back, the other carding gently through his hair. Her voice is low, steady, speaking to him in soft, reassuring murmurs.

“You’re alright, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

He isn’t.

He doesn’t know how to be alright. He doesn’t know why she’s still trying to help him, why she isn’t furious, why she isn’t kicking him out like she should be.

It makes his chest ache.

His breathing is still erratic, uneven and ragged. His hands curl into fists against the floor, nails digging into his palms as he fights for control.

“Regulus.”

Her voice is so soft.

She shifts, adjusting them both so they’re facing each other. She’s warm, solid, one arm wrapped securely around him, the other hand sliding from his hair to cup his cheek, guiding his head until their eyes meet.

He blinks at her, tears still spilling freely down his face.

“Can you follow my breathing?” she asks gently.

He doesn’t know if he can. But he tries.

She inhales, slow and deep. He tries to match it, his breath stuttering, his ribs still aching.

“In…” she says softly.

Regulus breathes in.

“Out…”

He exhales.

Again. And again. And again, until finally, finally, the tightness in his chest eases just enough for air to flow freely. He still feels like he’s falling apart, but at least now, he can breathe.

“Are you back with me?” she asks.

The smallest of nods.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Okay.”

A pause. Then—

“What happened?”

His stomach twists violently. He can’t give her the answer. He doesn’t want to give her the answer. The very thought of explaining himself makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. His body starts to shake, fresh tears spilling over before he can stop them.

Mrs. Potter sees it immediately.

“Okay, okay,” she soothes, leaning back just slightly, just enough to accommodate his body as she pulls him in, arms wrapping around him securely.

Regulus doesn’t resist. He tucks himself into her, burying his face into the crook of her neck, and sobs.

She holds him tight, one hand rubbing slow, gentle circles on his back, the other threading through his hair with soft, careful fingers.

“You’re alright,” she whispers. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve her kindness. Her compassion, her care, her voice speaking gentle reassurances that he is okay when he isn’t.

He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven.

Not after this. Not after what he’s done. Not after what he’s blamed her for.

And yet—she holds him anyway. 

Regulus isn’t sure how long Mrs. Potter holds him on the floor. He only knows that by the time she moves them to the living room, his body is exhausted—wrung out from the sheer force of his emotions.

Now, he’s curled up on the couch, his head resting in Mrs. Potter’s lap. Her fingers comb gently through his hair, the steady rhythm grounding in a way that makes his chest ache. Her other hand traces slow, soothing circles on his back, a quiet reassurance that she’s still here.

They’re waiting.

Regulus realizes this after a while, his sluggish mind piecing together the silence between them.

They’re waiting for Mr. Potter to return.

And James is…

Not here.

Mrs. Potter had told him, in that same soft voice she always used when she was trying to be gentle, that James was at a friend’s house for a play.

Regulus would love to believe that.

But he knows.

He knows James isn’t here because of what he just did. Because Mrs. Potter is protecting him. From him.

And really, can he even blame her?

Regulus isn’t safe —not for himself, not for anyone else. The proof is all around them, in the broken glass that Mrs. Potter had carefully swept up before guiding him to the couch, in the picture frames that once held memories but now lie shattered.

He did that.

And James isn’t here because of it. The thought sits heavy in his stomach. The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating.

Then, finally, the front door opens.

“Euphemia?” Mr. Potter’s voice carries through the house, calm but expectant.

Mrs. Potter answers, still tracing patterns into Regulus’ back. “We’re in the living room, Fleamont.”

Footsteps approach, steady and unhurried. Then, Mr. Potter steps inside, his gaze sweeping over them before settling on his wife. He takes a seat in the armchair beside her, concern written in the lines of his face.

“What happened?” he asks.

Regulus doesn’t move. He stares at a spot on the couch, eyes unfocused, willing himself not to exist in this moment.

Mrs. Potter explains.

She tells Mr. Potter that Regulus came home upset, that when she offered him something to drink, he snapped. She tells him about the broken glass, the shattered picture frames, the destruction.

“Nobody was hurt,” she adds, as if that matters.

Mr. Potter listens without interrupting, his brows furrowing as he processes it all. Regulus still refuses to look at him, curling in tighter on himself, stomach twisting in anticipation.

“Regulus,” Mr. Potter says, his voice steady but gentle. “Can you tell us what happened? What made you so upset?”

Regulus doesn’t move. 

Doesn’t breathe.

He stares down at his hands, where his nails dig into the sleeves of his sweater, and wills himself to disappear.

Mrs. Potter speaks next, just as softly. “You’re not in trouble, sweetheart. But we need to understand. You broke one of the house rules, and that means we need to talk about it.”

Regulus swallows, throat tight. His hands twitch where they rest in his lap.

They need to understand.

But how could he possibly explain?

How could he put into words the way Colin and his gang had ruined him? How they had stripped him of what little dignity he had left? How they had turned school—a place that was supposed to be safe—into a battlefield?

How they had found out?

His stomach churns violently, nausea curling in his throat. He doesn’t want to do this.

But Mrs. Potter’s voice is kind, and Mr. Potter’s presence is steady, and the weight of everything inside of him is so heavy—

His fingers move before he can stop them. Slowly, hesitantly, he reaches for the notebook still resting on the couch beside him.

It feels impossible to start.

His hand trembles as he presses the pen to the page. The words stick in his throat, in his chest, but eventually—painstakingly—he forces them onto the paper.

Colin and his gang. They’ve been targeting me.

The moment the first words are down, the rest start to come faster, tumbling out like he’s vomiting up poison.

They push me in the hallways. Trip me. Corner me. Say things.

They found out about. About James. About… everything.

He hesitates, chest tight.

They said I don’t belong here. That I’m a charity case. That you only took me in because you felt sorry for me. That it’s only a matter of time before you realize I’m not worth the trouble and send me away.

His grip tightens on the pen.

They said worse things too.

Things he can’t write. 

Things he doesn’t want to give life to. He forces his mind away from it, his breathing coming quick and shallow. 

His fingers tighten, and before he can stop himself, the pen scratches out his next thought, raw and unfiltered.

I hate it here.

I hate that everything is different now. I hate that you put me in that school. I hate that if you had just left me alone, none of this would have happened. I hate that you act like you care when you don’t. I hate that I keep falling for it. I hate you for making me think I could ever be safe.

Regulus stares at the words, his stomach turning. The moment they’re written, he regrets them.

But he doesn’t cross them out.

Because part of him still believes them.

Slowly, stiffly, he shoves the notebook forward, pushing it toward Mrs. Potter. Then he curls in on himself, retreating to the farthest end of the couch, as far away from them as possible.

His arms wrap around his legs, his forehead pressing against his knees.

He doesn’t look at them.

He can’t.

Shame creeps up his spine, pressing in on him like a suffocating weight. He waits for the inevitable—waits for their disappointment, for their frustration, for them to tell him he’s wrong.

But the silence stretches.

It’s unbearable.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mrs. Potter whispers, heartbreak laced in her voice.

Regulus flinches. His breathing is sharp, too shallow. His hands curl into fists, nails digging into his palms. He feels sick.

They know now.

They see him.

And he wishes—he wishes he had never written a single word.

Mr. Potter exhales softly, breaking the silence. “Regulus,” he says, careful, deliberate. “I am so sorry you’ve been dealing with this on your own.”

Regulus tenses.

“You don’t deserve that,” Mrs. Potter adds. “You don’t deserve any of it.”

Regulus swallows hard. He doesn’t believe her. But she doesn’t stop.

“We can talk about what to do about Colin and his friends later. Right now, we need you to know something.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to hear it.

“You wrote that we don’t care.”

Regulus twitches.

“That we only took you in out of pity.”

His chest aches.

“That we’ll send you away.”

Tears burn at his eyes.

“Regulus.”

He can’t look at them.

Mrs. Potter shifts beside him, moving closer but not touching. “I don’t know how to make you believe this, sweetheart,” she says, so softly that it makes his throat ache. “But I need you to hear me.”

There’s a pause. And then—

“We chose you.”

His breath catches.

“You are not a burden to us. You are not a mistake. You are not something we took on out of obligation.”

Mr. Potter nods. “You’re a part of this family, Regulus.”

Regulus shakes his head, sharp and sudden. His hands press over his ears, like that might be enough to block out the words.

Mrs. Potter’s voice trembles. “Oh, sweetheart—”

She reaches for him.

Her arms wrap around him, pulling him into her.

And that—that’s what breaks him.

A sob wrenches itself from his throat, his entire body shuddering with it. Then another. And another.

Strong arms wrap around him from the other side, and suddenly, he’s held.

Mr. Potter’s hand rests firm and steady on his back. Mrs. Potter’s fingers thread through his hair, her other hand rubbing soothing circles against his spine.

“You’re safe,” she whispers. “You’re safe, sweetheart. You’re okay.”

Regulus doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve them.

But he clings to her anyway, his fingers curling into the fabric of her blouse, his face buried against her shoulder as he sobs everything out.

And they hold him.

They don’t let go.

***

Guilt can do many things to a person. It can either make them clingy or make them avoidant.

Regulus isn’t sure which category he falls into. 

Sometimes, he supposes, he’s both.

One moment, he’s sticking close to Mrs. Potter, helping with anything and everything just to do something right. The next, he’s shutting himself in his room, keeping his distance, pretending he doesn’t exist. He avoids her whenever he can, but he also finds himself gravitating toward her in ways he can’t quite explain. It’s unhealthy, if he’s being honest.

On some level, he still blames her.

He knows he shouldn’t. But he does. And it makes him sick to his stomach.

Here is a foster mother, trying to do right by her foster son, and all he can do is resent her. And, honestly? The anger is misdirected.

He should be blaming James.

James is the one who told Colin. James is the one who made the mistake. But he isn’t angry at James.

Why?

Because James didn’t know any better. James wasn’t trying to hurt him. Regulus is quick to forgive James, but not Mrs. Potter. And he doesn’t know why.

He also doesn’t really believe them.

We chose you.

You are not a burden to us.

You are a part of our family.

They said the words. But just because someone says something doesn’t make it true. People say a lot of things they don’t mean.

The phrase sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you is a lie.

Words can hurt. 

Colin and his gang hurt him. Broke him.

Piece by piece, they stripped away what little he had left. They crushed the last sliver of hope he had—the tiny, fragile piece of him that dared to believe maybe, maybe things could be okay.

He had told himself he wouldn’t hope again. But he had. And now look where it got him.

The weekend was exhausting. He spent it flipping between emotions, caught in an endless loop of guilt and anger, pushing away and pulling close, trying to balance the warring instincts in his chest.

He did his best to control himself. And, honestly? He thinks he did a pretty good job. He’s even a little proud of himself.

Because right now, Regulus is just about to complete the last question on his Maths exam.

It’s the final week of school, and he couldn’t be happier.

The classroom is silent, save for the occasional scratch of a pen on paper and the faint ticking of the clock above the whiteboard. The air is thick with concentration, students hunched over their desks, some chewing on their pens, others tapping their feet impatiently.

Regulus is one of the last students still writing.

The hardest question stares up at him from the page, numbers blurring slightly as he stifles a yawn. His brain is tired. His body is tired. But he forces himself to focus.

One more question.

Just one more.

His pencil hovers over the paper as he rereads the problem, carefully working through the equation in his head. The logic of numbers is soothing—structured, predictable. Unlike people.

Unlike life.

He exhales slowly, pressing the pencil down.

And he begins to write.

He works through the equation step by step, careful and methodical, checking and double-checking as he goes. Maths isn’t his strongest subject, but he’s decent at it when he applies himself. And Mr. Potter has been helpful. More helpful than any other adult has ever been.

Regulus isn’t sure how he feels about that.

He’s mad at everyone right now. Mrs. Potter. James. Even himself.

But not Mr. Potter.

For some reason, he’s the exception.

Maybe because he never pushes too hard. Maybe because he doesn’t try to fix things, doesn’t try to smother Regulus in reassurances that everything will be okay. He just listens. He just helps. And maybe that’s enough.

Regulus finishes the last calculation, double-checks his answer, then sets his pencil down.

A moment later, the teacher calls out, “Time’s up. Please hand in your exams.”

Regulus gathers his papers, sliding them into the pile on the teacher’s desk before grabbing his bag and heading for the door. His next class is English.

Technically, he still has this lesson to finish his final assignment.

But he already finished it over the weekend.

He had printed it out at home, making sure it was formatted perfectly, no mistakes. He doesn’t know why he put so much effort into it, but he had. Maybe because it was something he could control.

As soon as he steps into the English classroom, he walks straight to the teacher’s desk and hands over his assignment.

Mr. Andrews raises an eyebrow. “Finished already?”

Regulus nods.

“Well, that’s one less thing to worry about.” Mr. Andrews smiles, setting the paper aside. “Go on, take a seat.”

Regulus turns, making his way to his usual spot next to Pandora.

The second he sits down, she eyes him curiously. “Did you seriously just hand in your assignment?”

He nods again, pulling his book out from between his notebooks and pencil case.

Pandora chuckles. “Lucky.”

Regulus almost smiles. He is lucky . But not in the way she thinks.

He’s lucky because he has friends now. He’s lucky because Pandora doesn’t hate his guts. He’s lucky because, somehow, despite everything, he’s still here.

He flips open his book, eyes scanning the first page.

The Titan’s Curse.

He’s just started the third Percy Jackson book, and he can’t wait to see what happens next.

***

To think the rest of Regulus’ Tuesday was going to go well is a lie. His day had started off relatively fine, considering what came later.

It began with English, where they watched a movie. Mr. Andrews, more specifically, had put it on to distract the students while he marked their assignments. Regulus thought it was quite smart—Mr. Andrews knew his students well, maybe better than they knew themselves. So, they watched a movie.

After English, Pandora and Regulus headed to Art, where they were expected to hand in their assignments. Regulus had been holding onto the written part of his so he could turn it in at the same time as his art piece. Once he did that, instead of reading, he decided to watch Pandora. Her skills were literally a work of art—pun intended.

Regulus was generally amazed by her talent. He was also a little jealous, but that was natural. Pandora was effortlessly brilliant, something Regulus could only dream of.

You might be wondering how Regulus' day could get worse after all of that. Well, he’ll tell you.

After Art, there was the usual fifteen-minute break. You’d think nothing could possibly go wrong in such a short amount of time, right?

Wrong.

Things did go wrong, and they only worsened the longer Regulus thought about it.

What happened? Well, Regulus will tell you.

Colin and his gang of friends decided to torment him, and yes, you heard him correctly—torment. But how could they torment him more than they already had? Well, this time, they decided to take Regulus’ black stuffed dog. Not to destroy it, no. Instead, they decided to hide it.

If that black dog hadn’t been Regulus’ lifeline, he might have been fuming. But instead, he cried. Not his fault, really. What else was he supposed to do? It was the one thing that made him feel safe in this chaos of a school day.

When lunch finally came, Regulus enlisted his friends to help him search for his stuffed dog. But when they couldn’t find it, he started to panic.

Luckily, Dorcas had an excellent idea—head to the lost and found.

Regulus was thankful for Dorcas, as that’s exactly where they found his beloved black dog.

But that wasn’t the end of what Colin and his friends had in store for him. No, what they did next was what truly broke him.

He was walking to Science, his assignment in hand, when Colin and his gang surrounded him. This time, they didn’t take his usual belongings. Instead, they ripped his assignment from him and tore it to pieces right in front of his face.

Regulus desperately needed that assignment in one piece. The head of the Science department had threatened him with the exam if he didn’t turn it in on time. His teacher had fought for him, but it was no use.

Naturally, Regulus panicked.

Like him, Colin and his gang were all late to class. When they finally entered, Mrs. Birch, the teacher, gave them all a disappointed look. She scolded them for being late before turning to Regulus, who was holding the shredded remnants of his assignment. Without saying a word, he handed them to her.

Mrs. Birch’s gaze softened when she saw what had happened. She told him to bring her a new copy by tomorrow.

Regulus was just glad he had a teacher who cared. He might be surrounded by bullies, but at least there was someone on his side.

Which now leads him to this point—sitting in French class, trying to focus on the presentation ahead. He and Barty are about to be called up to speak for their assignment.

It’s not like Regulus is worried about the French itself. He’s fluent in it—it’s his first language, after all. No, what he’s terrified of is speaking in front of the class. The thought of everyone staring at him, waiting for him to mess up, makes his stomach twist.

"Alright, thank you, Georgia and Avery," Ms. Ellsworth says, her voice pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. "Next, we have Regulus and Barty."

Regulus' heart stops. No, really. It feels like it physically stops for a moment, like it’s stuck in his chest. His breath hitches, and his hands go clammy. His palms press into the desk in front of him, but it doesn't help. His fingers feel too cold to grip anything properly.

His eyes dart around the classroom, and it's like the walls are closing in. His classmates’ faces blur together, but the eyes—he can’t escape those eyes. They're all watching him. He can practically feel them digging into his skin, and his throat tightens. He’s not even sure if he's breathing anymore.

Then Barty stands up beside him, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape, and Regulus follows him mechanically, his legs like jelly. He can't focus on anything but the faces staring at him, those eyes that seem to bore straight into his soul. It feels like they’re all just waiting for him to fail.

Regulus freezes. His heartbeat thrums loudly in his ears, like it’s going to burst out of his chest. Sweat forms along his brow, slipping down the back of his neck, and his breath comes in shallow bursts, like he can’t get enough air. He’s not even sure if he can speak at all.

"Regulus?" Barty’s voice breaks through the fog of panic. "You alright?"

Regulus opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. His breath is coming faster now, frantic little gasps. He feels like he might suffocate right there in front of everyone.

Barty must notice the way his face pales, the way his hands are shaking. He steps closer, gently placing a hand on Regulus' arm, his voice low and steady. "Come on, mate. Let’s step outside for a second, yeah?"

Regulus doesn’t think, just follows Barty's lead, his feet moving without his mind catching up. They walk quickly to the door, Barty guiding him, and before anyone can notice, they slip out of the classroom. The cool air in the hallway hits Regulus like a splash of water, sharp and bracing, but it’s still not enough to calm the panic flooding his system.

Barty stands in front of him, not saying anything at first, just watching him with an unreadable expression. Regulus tries to slow his breathing, tries to force the air into his lungs, but it feels like there’s something heavy pressing against his chest. His vision blurs, and he grabs onto the door frame for support.

"You’re alright," Barty says quietly, his tone gentle but firm. "Just breathe with me, okay?"

Regulus nods desperately, focusing on Barty’s voice. In and out. In and out. It feels like it’s working, like the panic is starting to ebb away, little by little.

Before Regulus can fully catch his breath, Ms. Ellsworth appears at the door. Her gaze flickers between Regulus and Barty with a soft understanding, though her eyes are full of concern.

"Everything alright out here?" she asks, her voice calm but gentle.

Barty gives a small nod, not looking back at Regulus. "Yeah. It’ll be fine."

Ms. Ellsworth hums thoughtfully, then glances at both of them, her expression softening. "I think it’s best if you head to the guidance counselor’s office for a bit. Regulus, you can take some time to calm down, and you two can come back at lunch, alright?"

Regulus opens his mouth to protest, to tell her he’s fine, but the words get stuck. He’s not fine. Not yet.

"Go on," she adds kindly, her smile reassuring. "I’ll let your classmates know what’s going on."

Regulus nods, finally allowing himself to breathe a little easier as Barty pats him on the back, guiding him down the hallway. Ms. Ellsworth heads back inside, the sound of the door closing behind her feeling like a weight lifting off Regulus’ shoulders.

They don’t talk as they walk toward the guidance office. Regulus is still shaky, but the panic has receded, just enough for him to breathe again. And, for now, that’s all he needs.

Regulus is quite freaked out, if he’s being honest. He can’t shake the feeling that he and Barty are about to walk straight into detention. He’s sure of it, actually. He freaked out before the presentation even started, and now, the consequences are looming over him like a dark cloud.

After spending the rest of their French lesson in the guidance counselor’s office, Regulus feels even worse. They sat there in silence, the quiet hum of the office only broken by the occasional shuffle of papers and the soft ticking of a clock. It was a brief relief, but now they’re headed back to class, and he’s convinced it’s all going to catch up with him.

Barty walks beside him, seemingly unaffected, but Regulus can’t help the tight knot forming in his stomach. His mind is still replaying the panic from earlier. What if they’ve been marked down for his freak out? What if Ms. Ellsworth thinks he’s unreliable?

When they reach the French classroom, Regulus takes a deep breath and steps inside. His eyes immediately dart to Ms. Ellsworth, who’s standing at the front of the room, looking far more relaxed than he expected.

She looks up as they enter, her expression kind but firm. "Ah, Regulus, Barty. I’m glad to see you back," she says, her voice steady. Regulus opens his mouth to apologize, to explain, but she raises a hand to stop him.

"You don’t need to apologize," Ms. Ellsworth says, her tone gentle but confident. "Sometimes people can’t speak in front of others. It’s alright."

Regulus blinks, caught off guard. He had fully expected to be scolded, maybe even given detention for disrupting the class. But here she is, being understanding.

"We’ll try again," she continues, giving him and Barty a soft smile. "Take your time, alright?"

Regulus feels a rush of gratitude flood through him. He can’t quite put into words how much relief that brings. He wasn’t expecting kindness, not after everything, and yet here it is. A second chance.

Barty gives him a brief, reassuring look, and together, they walk up to the front of the class. Regulus feels his nerves stirring again, but he takes a deep breath and focuses on the task at hand.

Ms. Ellsworth nods at them. "Remember, this is a conversation. You two are discussing French cuisine, so let it flow naturally."

Regulus nods and looks at Barty. He’s not sure if he can make it through this, but he’s willing to try. Barty smiles at him and then starts speaking, easing Regulus into it.

Barty begins: “ Regulus, que penses-tu de la cuisine française? ”

(Regulus, what do you think of French cuisine?)

Regulus takes a moment, but the words come easily. It’s his first language, after all. He responds with confidence, even though his palms are still a bit sweaty.

“ J'adore la cuisine française. Il y a tellement de variétés ! Par exemple, j'aime beaucoup les croissants. Ils sont simples mais délicieux. ”

(I love French cuisine. There are so many varieties! For example, I really like croissants. They're simple but delicious.)

Barty nods, his turn to speak. “ Moi aussi. Les croissants sont parfaits pour le petit-déjeuner. Et toi, Régulus, as-tu déjà essayé le coq au vin? ”

(Me too. Croissants are perfect for breakfast. And you, Regulus, have you ever tried coq au vin?)

Regulus is surprised that he’s feeling calmer now, as they slip into their conversation. The words come with ease, and his anxiety fades into the background.

“ Oui, j'ai essayé le coq au vin. C'est délicieux. Le poulet cuit au vin rouge avec des légumes, c’est un plat parfait pour le dîner. ”

(Yes, I’ve tried coq au vin. It’s delicious. The chicken cooked in red wine with vegetables, it’s a perfect dish for dinner.)

Barty looks impressed. “ Je suis d'accord. C'est un plat traditionnel. Mais j'aime aussi la soupe à l'oignon. Le savez-vous? ”

(I agree. It’s a traditional dish. But I also like onion soup. Do you know it?)

Regulus feels more relaxed with every word exchanged. “ Oui, je connais la soupe à l'oignon. C’est délicieux aussi, surtout en hiver. ”

(Yes, I know onion soup. It’s delicious too, especially in the winter.)

Ms. Ellsworth is watching them with an approving smile, and when they finish, she gives them both a nod.

"Excellent job, Regulus. Excellent job, Barty," she says, clearly impressed. She grabs a stack of papers from her desk and begins marking their work.

Regulus holds his breath, waiting for the verdict. Ms. Ellsworth looks over their presentations quickly, then hands them their grades.

"Regulus," she says, offering him a small nod of approval, "you did an outstanding job. You didn’t have to look at your sheet once. A+."

Regulus feels a rush of warmth in his chest. He can hardly believe it. An A+? After everything?

"And you, Barty," Ms. Ellsworth adds, handing him his paper with a smile. "You did a great job as well. You get an A-."

Barty grins and gives Regulus a quick, congratulatory clap on the back. They walk back to their seats, and Regulus feels a pride he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.

As the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, Regulus feels a sense of accomplishment flood through him. He did it. He made it through the presentation. He didn’t fall apart. And, most importantly, he didn’t get into trouble.

He walks out of the classroom with Barty, his heart light. For the first time today, he’s not thinking about the next disaster. Instead, he’s thinking about how proud he is of himself.

***

The rest of his classes go surprisingly well.

Art is first, with Pandora, and then Drama with Pandora, Barty, and Evan.

In Art, their teacher, Ms. Reed, announces that the Year 8 Drama class is putting on a performance, and she gives them a choice: stay behind and help clean out the Art classroom in preparation for the end of term, or go watch the show. The decision is unanimous—everyone votes for the performance.

Everyone except Regulus.

Judging by the way Pandora crosses her arms and scowls at the table, she isn’t too keen on the idea either.

When they arrive at the performance space, Ms. Reed gathers them all and reminds them to be on their best behavior. "Anyone who misbehaves can come back to the Art room," she warns, leveling a look at a few of the more notorious troublemakers in their class.

Then, just as the group starts filing into the room, she pulls Regulus aside. “Would you like to stay or come back?” she asks quietly.

Regulus hesitates for only a second before gesturing toward the hallway—toward leaving. Then, after a moment’s thought, he points at Pandora.

Ms. Reed watches him carefully before nodding. “Alright, you two can come help me clean.”

Relief floods Regulus as he and Pandora return to the empty classroom.

The next forty minutes are some of the most peaceful he’s had all day. He busies himself sorting through the paint supplies, throwing out the dried-up containers and arranging the still-usable ones by color. Pandora tests all the markers, tossing the dried-out ones into a box labeled ‘dead texters.’ Ms. Reed inspects every paintbrush, sorting them into piles of salvageable and unusable.

There’s no loud talking. No sudden movements. Just the quiet scratch of markers against paper and the occasional murmur of conversation. It’s nice.

At the end of the lesson, Ms. Reed thanks them both with a small chocolate each.

Drama is just as enjoyable.

With fewer students showing up now that exams are over, the room feels less chaotic, less suffocating. Their teacher gives them free rein of the costume box, letting them pick out silly hats and use them as inspiration for an improvised scene. It’s easygoing, playful, and—most importantly—it isn’t overwhelming.

For the first time all week, Regulus actually has fun.

What isn’t fun is the ride home.

The moment he gets into the car, he knows it’s going to be one of those afternoons.

James is bouncing with energy, talking a mile a minute about something that happened in his last class. Regulus tunes most of it out, focusing instead on staring out the window, counting the cracks in the pavement as they drive.

It doesn’t last long.

“Oi, Reg, are you even listening?” James nudges him with his elbow.

Regulus clenches his jaw and shifts away, making a point to keep his gaze fixed on the window. He isn’t in the mood for James’ boundless energy right now.

James huffs. “You’re so boring.”

Regulus rolls his eyes.

Mrs. Potter glances at them through the rearview mirror. “James,” she warns lightly.

James throws his hands up in exaggerated surrender but doesn’t say anything else. 

For a few minutes, there’s silence, aside from the hum of the car engine. Then Mrs. Potter starts talking about her day.

Regulus doesn’t pay much attention—he’s still staring out the window, watching the buildings blur past—but then she says it.

“…And I had to pick up a new vase today, which wasn’t exactly on my to-do list.”

Regulus’ stomach drops.

He knows exactly which vase she’s talking about.

The one he broke.

His grip tightens around the strap of his bag, guilt clawing at his insides. She isn’t saying it in an accusatory way—her tone is light, casual, as if it’s just another minor inconvenience in her day—but it doesn’t matter.

Regulus knows it’s his fault.

He shouldn’t have snapped. Shouldn’t have lost control. Shouldn’t have shattered something that didn’t belong to him.

He feels sick.

Mrs. Potter keeps talking, but Regulus doesn’t hear the rest. His head is buzzing, and suddenly, he doesn’t want to be in the car anymore.

When they finally pull into the driveway, Regulus is the first one out. He shoulders his bag, ducks his head, and heads straight inside, doing his best to avoid Mrs. Potter entirely.

It doesn’t matter that she hadn’t sounded upset about the vase.

It doesn’t matter that she hadn’t even directed the comment at him.

Regulus knows what he did. And no matter how much he tries to ignore it, the guilt still festers in his chest, heavy and suffocating.

Guilt is a weird emotion.

Regulus can go all day without feeling it, can go months without feeling it—until suddenly, something is said, and it brings it back full force.

The definition of guilt is also weird.

The internet defines guilt as feeling responsible or regretful for a perceived offense, real or imaginary. Guilt can also be part of the grief reaction.

For all the things Regulus has had to research, he has never been as stumped as he is with the definition of guilt. He has always been able to understand what something means, but for this? He doesn’t quite get it.

And yet, it gnaws at him, sharp and heavy, when Mrs. Potter drops James and him off at school the next morning.

It’s an early drop-off—Mrs. Potter has to go into the city for something, though Regulus hadn’t asked why. He hadn’t really spoken much at all this morning.

Because he’s still angry at James.

He had moved past the initial “forgiveness” and “understanding” stage, and now all that was left was raw, simmering anger.

James told Colin.

Even though it was a mistake, even though James hadn’t meant to, it didn’t matter. Regulus doesn’t think James had the right to share something that personal with anyone—let alone Colin.

And now, thanks to James’ slip-up, school has become even worse.

Not just the comments. Not just the sneaky trips past his locker where they grab his books and toss them in the bin, or the way they smirk when he has to dig them back out. Not just the cruel jokes whispered behind his back or the way they find new and creative ways to ruin his schoolwork.

Colin and his gang have managed to one-up themselves.

Regulus is walking toward his locker when it happens.

A hand grabs the handle of his bag, yanking him backward. Regulus stumbles, caught off guard, and before he can regain his balance, another hand grips his arm—tight and unrelenting.

His stomach twists unpleasantly. He already knows who it is before he even turns around.

Colin. And, judging by the laughter ringing in his ears, the rest of his gang.

“Didn’t see us there, huh, mute boy?” Colin sneers, his fingers digging into Regulus’ arm hard enough to bruise.

Regulus clenches his teeth. His heart starts hammering.

Colin’s grip tightens as he pulls Regulus further away from the main hallway, steering him toward an empty corridor.

“Thought we’d stop by and say good morning,” another boy, Adam, says mockingly. “But you don’t say much, do you?”

“Bet he’s got plenty to say when he’s crying like a little baby,” someone else laughs.

Regulus stiffens.

He should fight back. He should pull away. But there are too many of them, and they’re stronger, and he’s already surrounded. One of them reaches into his bag and tugs out his notebook.

“Oh, what do we have here?”

Regulus’ stomach drops.

His Geography assignment.

The one that’s due today. The one he spent hours working on. The one he needs to hand in because if he doesn’t, he’ll fail the unit.

“Give it back.” The words don’t come out. They never do. But he thinks of them, wills them, prays that for once, they will just stop.

Colin grins, flipping through the pages.

Then he rips one.

Regulus lurches forward, but another set of hands grabs him, yanking him back as Colin tears out another page.

And another.

And another.

The loose sheets flutter to the floor, ruined and crumpled and useless. Regulus’ breathing gets shallow. His ears start ringing.

Something hot and unbearable builds inside his chest, pressing against his ribs like a living thing. His hands shake. His vision blurs.

“Look at him,” Colin laughs, shoving the torn notebook into Regulus’ chest. “He’s about to cry—”

Regulus snaps. 

His fist swings before he even realizes what he’s doing. His knuckles connect with flesh. A sickening crack echoes in the hallway.

For a split second, everything is still.

Colin staggers backward, clutching his face, eyes blown wide in shock.

Then he makes a sound—half groan, half enraged snarl—and Regulus realizes, through the haze of panic gripping his chest, that he just hit Colin.

Again.

Colin’s shock wears off quickly, replaced by rage.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that,” he spits. He straightens, wiping blood from his nose, and glares at Regulus with pure hatred. “You lot hear that?” He turns to his gang. “I think we should teach the orphan a lesson.”

Regulus freezes.

Colin’s eyes gleam with something cruel as he looks back at his friends. “What do you think?”

Laughter erupts around him.

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

“Teach the orphan a lesson, Colin.”

“Oooh, this is gonna be fun.”

Two of Colin’s friends seize Regulus by the arms.

Panic slams into him, sudden and all-consuming.

They’re dragging him. He twists and jerks, trying to pull free, but they’re stronger, and his chest is getting tighter, and he can’t—he can’t breathe—

He doesn’t even realize where they’re taking him until he sees the sign above the door.

Boys’ Bathroom.

His stomach lurches.

They’re going to shove his head down a toilet.

Regulus thrashes harder. He digs his heels into the floor, but they keep pulling him forward, and he can’t—he can’t—

“Help!”

The word tears from his throat before he can stop it.

Colin and his gang just laugh. “Oh, so you can speak?”

“That’s a shame, though.” Colin grins. “Nobody’s coming to help you.”

One of the boys pushes open the bathroom door.

Regulus’ feet skid against the tile as they try to force him inside.

And then—

Footsteps.

Loud. Sharp. Coming straight toward them.

Regulus twists his head around, heart pounding.

And there—at the end of the hall—

Principal MacMillian. Deputy Principal Lawson. And the Year 7 guidance counselor, Ms. Carrington.

Principal MacMillian’s voice booms through the corridor. “What the hell is going on here?”

Deputy Principal Lawson crosses his arms, looking at the group with sharp, unimpressed eyes. “Well, Shaun, I think it looks like bullying to me.”

Colin and his gang freeze.

Regulus can barely breathe. His entire body is still shaking, and the panic hasn’t quite left his system, but—he’s safe.

They all get dragged to the office.

Ms. Carrington walks with Regulus to retrieve his things, the ones they’d taken from him. She picks up his bag, placing it gently in his hands.

She studies him carefully. “Are you alright, Regulus?”

Regulus shakes his head. Because he isn’t. He was just about to have his head shoved down a toilet.

Ms. Carrington doesn’t push him to speak. She simply walks beside him as they return to the office.

Regulus gets placed near the Deputy Principal’s office.

Ms. Carrington hesitates, then crouches slightly to meet his gaze. “Would you like me to sit with you?”

Regulus nods, because he doesn’t want to be alone.

Ten minutes after the bell rings, the first set of parents filter into the office.

Regulus, still jittery from earlier, decides to distract himself with a game: match the parents to the kid.

The first pair is easy. A woman with curly, copper-colored hair walks in beside a man who has the same stiff, upright posture as Ethan. Mannerisms are taught, Regulus knows that. Passed down, just like genetics. Ethan’s parents. Definitely.

A minute later, Ethan’s name is called, and sure enough, he disappears into the Principal’s office with them.

Regulus counts that as one point for himself.

Another five minutes pass, and two women enter together. Neither of them immediately resemble any of the boys sitting in the waiting area, which makes it trickier. But then Oliver shifts uncomfortably beside Colin, eyes darting toward the women before he quickly looks away.

That’s enough confirmation.

Oliver’s parents. Or, at least, one of them is biological. Not that it matters.

Oliver gets called next. Two for two.

A couple of minutes later, a singular woman arrives. Straight, dark brown hair. A tired expression, like she’s already had a long day and it’s barely past nine in the morning.

Adam’s mum. Without a doubt.

She barely acknowledges her son before she’s summoned into the Principal’s office.

Three for three.

The last to arrive is a man who looks like Colin and a woman who acts like him. Her eyes scan the office, sharp and assessing, lips curling slightly in distaste. The man, meanwhile, strides in with an air of entitlement, chin tilted up just a little too high.

Colin's parents.

Four for four.

Regulus watches, expression blank, as each set of parents takes turns disappearing behind the Principal’s door. He wonders what’s being said. If the parents are defending their kids or if they’re disappointed. If they even care.

By the time the second student is called into the Principal’s office for a chat, a familiar voice cuts through the low murmuring of the office.

“Oh, there he is.”

Regulus' head snaps up.

Mr. and Mrs. Potter have arrived.

Mrs. Potter is already scanning the room, eyes landing on him immediately, while Mr. Potter speaks briefly with the receptionist.

Regulus sits up a little straighter, suddenly tense.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything right away. She just watches him, gaze sweeping over him carefully, like she’s trying to assess how bad things are.

Deputy Principal Lawson steps into the waiting area, looking between them. “Come in,” she says. “We’ll talk in my office.”

Regulus hesitates.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t rush him, but she waits, clearly expecting him to follow.

After a moment, he does.

They step inside the Deputy Principal’s office. The space is tidy, with a large wooden desk at the center and two chairs in front of it. There’s a framed photo on the desk of the Deputy Principal with what Regulus assumes is her family.

She gestures for them to sit.

Ms. Carrington takes a seat beside Regulus, and the Potters settle in next to him.

Lawson clasps her hands together, exhaling before speaking. “Now, Regulus, I want to start by saying that you are not in trouble. You are not being punished for what happened today.” She levels him with a steady gaze. “But I do want to help you. That’s the only reason we’re having this conversation. Alright?”

Regulus nods, stiffly.

Deputy Principal Lawson exchanges a glance with Ms. Carrington before continuing. “We saw what happened this morning, but we need to understand the full picture. Can you tell us what Colin and his friends have been doing to you?”

Regulus’ throat feels tight. He nods again but doesn’t speak. The words are there. He knows what they are. But forcing them out is harder.

There’s a pause.

Then, Mr. Potter clears his throat. “He told us a little bit about it the other day,” he says. “About what these boys have been doing to him.”

Mrs. Potter picks up from there. “They’ve been taking his things. Destroying them. Teasing him. Making school miserable.”

But they don’t know everything. Regulus stares at his hands. He clenches them into fists, then releases. Mr. and Mrs. Potter both turn to him.

“You don’t have to say anything out loud if you don’t want to,” Mrs. Potter says gently. “But we don’t know the full story. Do you think you can tell us the rest?”

Regulus swallows hard. His fingers twitch. He doesn’t trust his voice, it’s not like he ever does. So instead, he pulls his notebook out of his bag.

He flips to a blank page and starts writing. His pen moves fast, pressing into the paper with sharp, heavy strokes.

He writes about the insults. The stolen and destroyed belongings. The cruel jokes. The time they ripped his novel apart, page by page, until it was just scraps on the floor, how they poured water all over it. The black stuffed dog—his first one, the one Mr. and Mrs. Potter bought him—that Colin and his friends tore apart at recess and laughed about afterward.

He writes about what they did. And what they were going to do.

If Principal MacMillian, Deputy Principal Lawson, and Ms. Carrington hadn’t arrived when they did.

By the time he’s finished, his hand is cramping. He hands the notebook over. Deputy Principal Lawson reads silently. Ms. Carrington leans in, glancing at the pages.

Their expressions darken.

When Lawson finally looks up, her face is a mask of barely restrained anger. “This,” she says, “is unacceptable.”

Ms. Carrington looks just as disturbed. “I knew it was bad, but I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

Regulus doesn’t look at them. He just watches the Potters.

Mrs. Potter has one hand pressed against her mouth, eyes glistening. Mr. Potter’s jaw is tight, and when he meets Regulus’ gaze, his expression softens.

Lawson takes a steadying breath before turning back to the Potters. “We’ve already decided on consequences. The boys involved will be suspended for the rest of the school year.”

Regulus frowns. That’s only two more days. That doesn’t feel like enough.

But then—

“Because we have a zero-tolerance policy for bullying and violence, we are also implementing additional disciplinary actions,” Lawson continues. “They will fail their exams and be required to complete the summer school program.”

Regulus blinks.

That—

That’s actually something.

Something real.

Something that actually feels like a consequence.

The guilt creeps in, just a little. But he pushes it down. Because they deserve it. And for the first time in a long while, Regulus doesn’t feel helpless.

Mrs. Potter exhales, pressing her lips together before nodding. “That sounds like a reasonable punishment, considering everything they’ve done.”

Mr. Potter, standing beside her with his arms crossed, nods in agreement. “Actions have consequences. And these are appropriate ones.”

Deputy Principal Lawson leans back slightly in her chair, hands folded on the desk. “I’m glad you both think so. We don’t take bullying lightly here, and based on what we’ve seen and what Regulus has written, I have no doubt this is the right decision.”

Regulus glances between them, then down at his hands. There’s a tension inside him that hasn’t quite settled, but it’s different from before. Not as sharp. Not as suffocating.

It almost feels like relief.

The conversation wraps up soon after, and when they step out of Deputy Principal Lawson’s office, Regulus stiffens.

Colin’s parents—and the parents of the other boys—have arrived.

And they are outraged .

“This is an outrage !” Colin’s father is saying, his voice loud and sharp, cutting through the otherwise quiet office. “Suspending them for the rest of the term? Failing them? You have no right to do this!”

“Over what?” Oliver’s mother demands, throwing a hand up. “Some child who probably won’t even be here next year?”

Regulus clenches his jaw, heart pounding.

“You can’t make them take summer school,” Ethan’s father barks. “This will ruin their records. This will ruin their futures!”

“We can ,” Principal MacMillian says firmly, standing near his office door. “Bullying and violence are not tolerated at this school. Your sons are being held accountable for their actions.”

Ethan’s mother scoffs. “They’re kids. This is too much for kids.”

Regulus barely hears the response, because suddenly—

Colin’s mother’s gaze lands on him .

Regulus barely has time to process it before she’s storming toward him, heels clicking sharply against the floor.

She stops directly in front of him, pointing a manicured finger in his face.

“This is your fault!” she snaps.

Regulus’ breath catches.

His body locks up, terror flashing white-hot through his chest. He takes a step back without thinking, reaching blindly—

His hand finds fabric, fingers gripping tight.

Someone moves in front of him, blocking him from Colin’s mother entirely.

Mrs. Potter.

She plants herself between them, her body tense, shoulders squared, and Regulus can hear it in her voice when she speaks—

The anger.

Sharp. Cutting. Furious.

“The second he stepped foot onto the school grounds,” she says, voice shaking with barely restrained rage, “your son has tormented mine. Every single day. Without fail.”

Mine.

Regulus stares at the back of her head, heart racing.

She’s—she’s wrong. He isn’t—he isn’t hers. 

But—

Something strange twists in his stomach at the words.

Colin’s mother splutters, but Mrs. Potter doesn’t give her a chance to argue.

“You want to talk about fair ?” she continues, stepping closer, voice rising. “How about the fact that your son has spent the entire month destroying my son’s belongings? Humiliating him? Belittling him? How about the fact that they were the reason he was suspended in the first?”

She takes another step forward, forcing Colin’s mother back. “And you dare to stand here and blame him ?”

Colin’s mother opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Mrs. Potter doesn’t wait for a response. She exhales sharply, then turns on her heel.

“Come on,” she says, voice clipped. “We’re done here.”

Mr. Potter, who has been standing beside Regulus the entire time, gives a firm nod. He adjusts the strap of Regulus’ bag over his shoulder and looks down at him.

“Let’s go.”

Regulus doesn’t hesitate.

He follows them out of the office, through the halls, past the students still lingering on campus. The farther they get from the office, the looser his chest feels, but it isn’t until they step outside into the open air that he truly exhales.

It’s over.

It’s finally over.

They walk in silence toward the car, Mr. Potter carrying Regulus’ bag, Mrs. Potter leading the way.

Regulus’ head is still spinning, his hands still curled into fists—

And then he realises something. His right hand isn’t clenched. His right hand is holding onto something warm. He looks down. His fingers are wrapped around someone else’s hand. His stomach lurches, and his face instantly heats. Who—

His eyes trail up the arm, up to the shoulder, and his stomach flips when he realises—

It’s Mrs. Potter .

And—

He hadn’t even realised . His first instinct is to yank his hand away, but before he even thinks about it, her grip tightens, just slightly, like she knows —

And doesn’t want him to. Regulus swallows hard. His ears burn. But he doesn’t let go. 

He never wants to let go.