To Find a Home

He did it.

The final bell rings out across the school, echoing through the halls, signaling the official end of the school year.

Regulus exhales, shoulders loosening just a fraction. He did it. Somehow, despite everything, despite all the complications, he got through Year 7.

He pushes his way through the bustling crowd of students, heading inside the school building and weaving through the chaos toward his locker. Around him, kids are celebrating, laughing, already making plans for the summer.

He doesn’t join in.

Not because he doesn’t want to, but because… he’s still trying to process it.

He actually finished the school year.

After months of uncertainty, of bouncing between different schools, of constantly starting over, he finally reached the end of one. One whole month.

That’s never happened before.

It almost didn’t happen this time either.

His mind flickers back to yesterday morning—walking into school early, gripping his geography assignment for dear life, prepared for the worst.

Because, of course, Colin and his gang had destroyed the first copy before school even started.

It was due that day. That day.

Regulus had spent hours recreating it from memory, staying up later than he should have, forcing himself to finish.

But even then, he had no idea if his teacher would accept it.

He’d braced himself for disappointment, convinced he’d get a zero, that it would tank his final grade.

But then—shockingly—Mr. Grayson had let him hand it in. No questions, no accusations, just a simple “Thank you, Regulus.”

Turns out, Ms. Carrington had emailed him about what happened.

Regulus had been relieved, to say the least.

And now? Now, as he unlocks his locker and starts pulling out his things, he lets that relief settle in fully.

It’s over.

He did it.

And, somehow, somehow, he managed to make friends too.

Real friends.

People who like him, who want him around, who don’t make him feel like he’s constantly one step away from being abandoned.

He still doesn’t quite understand how it happened.

But it did.

He made it. 

The thought lingers in his mind as he steps outside into the courtyard, the warm afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. He’s not just thinking about surviving Year 7—though that alone is an accomplishment—but everything that came with it.

His friends walk beside him, chattering about their plans for the summer, their laughter mixing with the hum of excitement from the other students.

His friends.

That still feels strange to say.

Earlier today, they had each handed him a scrap of paper with their phone numbers scribbled across it, along with a list of plans—movie nights, beach trips, sleepovers—so Regulus would know exactly where they’d be and when he could see them.

A safety net. A promise that this wasn’t just a school-year friendship, that he wouldn’t be forgotten the moment they stepped off school grounds.

It was a small thing, really. But to Regulus, it meant everything.

For the first time, he’s actually excited for the holidays.

One by one, his friends begin to say their goodbyes. Barty is the first to leave, pulling Regulus into a quick, slightly awkward hug before hurrying off to find his parents. Evan follows soon after, offering a grin and a “See you soon, mate.”

Pandora lingers a moment longer. She beams at him, eyes bright with something that looks suspiciously like pride. Then, without warning, she pulls him into a hug. It’s brief but warm, and when she steps back, she gives him a firm nod. “You did it, Reg,” she says, voice softer than usual.

Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that.

Then, it’s just Dorcas.

She hesitates for a second before pulling Regulus into a hug. A proper one. Not the quick, half-hearted kind people give out of obligation, but one that feels real. She doesn’t let go immediately, either.

Regulus stiffens for half a second before forcing himself to relax.

When she finally steps back, she nudges his shoulder. “You better text me,” she says, and there’s no if in her voice, just certainty.

Regulus nods.

And then she’s gone, leaving him standing in the courtyard, blinking after her.

He’s alone now. But it’s… different.

Because this time, he’s not really alone at all.

His grip tightens around the straps of his backpack as he turns, scanning the crowd for James.

Sirius would be proud of him. Regulus knows that for a fact. If Sirius were here, he’d be ruffling his hair and grinning, probably making some grand, exaggerated statement about how Regulus had “officially conquered” Year 7.

But then there’s James.

And James is here.

James, who has only known him for a month, but looks at him like he’s family anyway.

James, who was probably just as excited as Regulus when he got his assignment handed in, who had nudged him in the ribs this morning and whispered, “Almost there, Reggie.”

James, who’s already so proud of him.

And Regulus doesn’t really know what to do with that either.

He spots him near the front of the school’s courtyard, saying goodbye to his own friends, laughing at something one boy, he’s short, with dirty blonde hair, says before clapping, Regulus thinks it’s Remus, on the back.

Regulus heads toward him, weaving through the clusters of students.

James catches sight of him almost instantly. He grins, waving his friends off before turning toward Regulus, slinging an arm around his shoulder as they start toward the parking lot.

Mrs. Potter is waiting in the car.

Regulus lets out a breath.

He made it.

He survived it.

He survived Year 7.

After months of constantly moving, after seven different schools, he finally completed Year 7. Doesn’t that sound like an achievement in itself?

Regulus has never been happier. Never been prouder. Not of himself, at least.

But still—it feels good.

As he slides into the backseat of the car, James claiming the front passenger seat without hesitation, all he can think about is how he survived. He survived.

Mrs. Potter turns in her seat, glancing between them with a bright smile. “You boys glad to be done with school for the year?”

James groans dramatically, letting his head fall back against the headrest. “You have no idea.”

Regulus doesn’t answer. Because his mind is somewhere else. Somewhere stuck on yesterday.

He hasn’t been able to shake it. The way she stood up for him, the way she spoke about him. Like he was hers. Like he was her own flesh and blood.

My son.

The words echo in his head, looping over and over until they don’t sound real anymore.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about it. Because, truthfully? He’s not her son. Not biologically. Not legally.

So why did she say it?

Why did it sound so certain? So natural?

Her voice from yesterday plays in his mind, clear as day. Protective. Fierce. Mine.

Regulus stares down at his hands, fingers curling in his lap.

Does he just… ignore it? Pretend he didn’t hear it? Let it fester in his mind until it becomes something unbearable?

Yeah. That sounds about right. No wonder he can’t stop panicking about it.

He’s tried to find books about this kind of thing. Something to explain why Mrs. Potter said what she did, or why he’s feeling the way he does about it. But unfortunately, nothing has helped.

It makes him wonder—is there anything out there that could help him understand her better? To understand why she chose those words at that exact moment? To understand why he cares so much?

To understand whether it’s okay that he cares this much?

Because, he does.

And he’s not sure what to do about it.

Yesterday, after everything that happened in the principal’s office, Mr. and Mrs. Potter took him to the shops. Why? He still doesn’t know.

Sometimes, people’s actions confuse him. Their reasoning, their logic—it’s all so odd and inconsistent. People as a whole are a perpetual mystery.

But when it comes to people who matter—people who hold importance in his life—Regulus wants to understand them.

Mrs. Potter falls into that category.

And he needs to know more.

Her birthday. How old she is. What her favourite book is. What her favourite colour is. Whether she prefers tea or coffee. Whether she grew up in a big family or a small one. Whether she ever had a stuffed animal she couldn’t sleep without.

He wants to know everything.

It sounds obsessive, but it’s not.

It’s necessary.

Because if she’s going to think of him as her son, then he needs to prove that he’s worthy of it. That he deserves it.

That’s normal, right?

It must be. Lots of kids do this.

Sirius did this.

Regulus learned by watching him—how he used to bend over backward trying to earn their parents’ approval. How he used to do anything to feel wanted by them.

Only difference was… Regulus was better at it.

At the shops, Mr. and Mrs. Potter had let him buy whatever he wanted.

Which, in all honesty, felt suspicious.

Like he was either being bribed or rewarded. He wasn’t sure which, and he didn’t particularly care to find out. He was just happy standing around, taking in the surroundings.

That was, until Mr. Potter started picking up books.

Every few minutes, he’d grab another one, reading the back cover before offering it up to Regulus with an easy “What about this one?”

Regulus turned them all down.

He’s not ready for more books. He hasn’t even finished the Percy Jackson box set Mrs. Potter got him, and he’s only halfway through.

But Mr. Potter was persistent.

So, in an attempt to appease them, Regulus picked out something that looked interesting. Something that might distract them enough to let him be.

Except, apparently, it wasn’t enough.

Because Mr. Potter still ended up grabbing another box set, one labeled Heroes of Olympus.

“You’re going to need it for the summer,” he said, placing it in the cart before Regulus could protest.

Regulus could have argued. He could have told him that he might not even finish the first series before summer is over.

But he didn’t. Because, for some reason, he didn’t really want to.

Want.

Wanting is a strange thing. Regulus isn’t sure how best to describe it.

Because there are many things he wants in life—things he knows, with absolute certainty, that he cannot have.

For starters, he wants his parents back. He really, really wants them back. But he can’t. That’s impossible. It will never happen.

Secondly, he wants his brother back. Regulus knows this is just another impossible dream because, truthfully, even he has no idea where Sirius is.

Which leaves the last thing he wants back: his life.

More specifically, the life he used to live before everything spiraled into madness.

And that? That’s something he can never get back.

So, henceforth—wanting.

Regulus assumes that the definition of want is to have the desire to possess or do something—or, more accurately, to wish for something.

But assumptions are dangerous. Deadly, even.

He assumed Pandora had told Colin about him being a foster kid, and look how that turned out.

Well… okay, technically it didn’t turn out badly. More accurately, Pandora forgave him and asked him not to assume something like that again.

Regulus agreed.

Which is what leads him to this moment now.

He used to assume that the Potters were just a temporary placement. But now?

Now, he’s not so sure.

The car pulls up in front of the house, the familiar sight of it setting something uneasy alight in his chest. As Regulus steps out, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes, he keeps thinking about it.

Thinking, turning it over in his head, analyzing it from every possible angle like that will somehow make sense of things.

The front door swings open, and the scent of freshly baked cookies washes over him the moment he steps inside.

"I baked cookies for you boys as a little treat for finishing school," Mrs. Potter says from the kitchen, setting down a tray of golden-brown biscuits.

"Thanks, Mum!" James says, already reaching for a handful before darting upstairs.

Regulus lingers in the doorway, uncertain.

"You can have some if you’d like, Regulus," Mrs. Potter says gently, as if she knows he needs permission.

He nods, grabbing a couple before settling at the table. The cookies are warm, soft in the middle with just the right amount of crunch.

He should be enjoying them.

Instead, his mind keeps circling back to her.

Sarah.

Her check-in is this Sunday. And if Regulus is ever going to be honest about anything, it would be this—

He’s terrified.

Scared. Anxious. Worried. Dreading it.

And it’s not just about the check-in itself. It’s about the fact that he’s been here a full month. It’s about the fact that Sarah hasn’t said a word about a permanent placement. Not a single one.

His stomach twists.

There are too many possibilities. Too many things this could mean.

Do the Potters want him? Do they not want him? Are they just holding onto him until he has a more “permanent” placement?

What’s taking Sarah so long?

Is there…

The sharp whistle of the kettle cuts through his thoughts like a knife. Regulus looks up, watching as Mrs. Potter moves around the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of tea. The steam curls in the air.

Sometimes, Regulus wonders if other people ever feel the way he does. If they understand what it’s like to live with this constant, gnawing turmoil in their chest.

He watches as she sits across from him at the table, stirring a spoon through her tea.

He wonders what she’s thinking. Wonders if she’s ever considered what she referred to him as. Because, apparently, he can’t stop thinking about it.

My son.

It sends a shiver down his spine.

Only one person has the right to say that. And that’s his mother.

…Right?

But then again—he got taken away from her. His father, too. Sirius was taken away as well, though…

Regulus doesn’t know where Sirius is. And he doesn’t know if he really cares.

"You alright, dear? You seem a bit… lost in thought."

Regulus blinks, glancing up at Mrs. Potter.

"Is something on your mind?" she asks, voice soft.

He could answer. He could tell her about the twisting dread in his stomach, the fear of Sunday, the not knowing.

But what would be the point? By the end of the week, he could be gone.

The thought makes him sick. Makes him want to scream until his throat is raw, to cry until there’s nothing left in him, to—

He forces the thought down. It doesn’t matter. Not right now.

Regulus shakes his head. Mrs. Potter watches him for a moment, then hums thoughtfully, setting her tea down.

"James already knows this—we do this every year—but tonight, we’re going out to dinner to celebrate the end of the school year," she says.

Regulus’ stomach twists again, but for a different reason.

"You can bring anything you’d like," she continues. "Your book, your black dog—whatever makes you more comfortable."

She pauses, then adds, "Is that alright, sweetheart?"

Regulus stares at her. 

He doesn’t understand why she’s asking. If they go out to dinner after every term, then why would it matter if he’s okay with it?

Unless…

She’s giving him a choice. She’s giving him time to prepare, time to adjust. No one’s ever done that before.

Regulus swallows, the feeling in his chest unfamiliar. He could say no. But he doesn’t. He nods.

Mrs. Potter smiles. "Alright then."

"We go to this smallish place, nothing too crowded. It’s a little out of the way, but Monty and James enjoy it, so I agree,"she explains, sipping her tea.

"We’ll leave around six-thirty. If you want to, of course."

Again, she’s giving him a choice. Regulus isn’t sure what to do with that. But he nods.

Dinner at six-thirty. It’s currently 4:13. That gives him two hours and seventeen minutes to prepare himself.

He can do this. 

He can make it through dinner. Why?

Because he did it. He made it.He survived.

***

Going out to eat can’t be too hard, right?

Regulus knows it involves people and talking and... yeah, okay, this is going to be hard.

He doesn’t know how Mr. and Mrs. Potter do things when it comes to eating out. He doesn’t know what they expect of him. What they want from him.

He doesn’t want to come off as rude by not talking, but they haven’t had a problem with him writing things down so far, so why would they start now?

That thought should be reassuring. It isn’t. The anxiety still courses through his veins, seeping into his bones. He’s just finishing up brushing his teeth when another thought pops into his head.

What if something bad happens?

It’s a simple thought, but it sticks. Grows.

What if something bad happens in the form of him freaking out? What if he embarrasses himself? What if he ruins dinner? Worst of all, what if something bad happens that results in him getting kicked out?

The ‘what if’ spiral can hit at any time. It’s like a tiny ball of snow at the top of a mountain, rolling, growing, gathering speed. It has the power to keep going and never stop.

Regulus hates the ‘what if’ spirals.

But that doesn’t stop him from getting stuck in them.

He spits the last of the toothpaste into the sink and looks up at his reflection. His face is blank, his grey eyes tired.

Tonight could go one of two ways—well or not well.

Regulus sighs. At least it won’t end like the last dinner he went to.

It was a formal dinner to announce Andromeda’s engagement to her boyfriend, Ted. Chaos. Absolute chaos.

See, Ted is from a lower class, which, in Regulus’ opinion, doesn’t matter. His cousin was happy. That’s what should’ve mattered. But it wasn’t what his uncle Cygnus had in mind for his daughter.

Let’s just say Regulus was surprised no one got arrested that night.

Someone still could get arrested tonight, technically speaking, but statistically, it’s highly unlikely.

Regulus grabs his black dog from his bed and his book from the nightstand. He smooths down his dark green collared shirt, the fabric stiff but comfortable. His blue jeans are still new enough that they don’t quite feel like his yet, and his black sneakers are the same ones Mrs. Potter bought him last week.

As he makes his way downstairs, he notices Mrs. Potter is the only one in the living room.

She looks... pretty.

She’s wearing a knee-length white dress with pink flowers, her reddish-brown hair is curled and tied up in a high ponytail. She looks effortlessly elegant, like she belongs in one of those vintage photographs he used to see in his mother’s sitting room.

She smiles at him warmly. “You look nice, dear.”

Regulus feels his face flush and quickly looks away. He’s still trying to get used to compliments. He isn’t complaining, exactly—it’s just... new. He shrugs in response, unsure how else to react.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t seem bothered. “James and Monty will be a minute,” she says lightly. “They have to deal with their unruly hair.”

She sighs, shaking her head with amusement. “It’s a nightmare sometimes, honestly.”

As if on cue, footsteps echo from the stairs. James appears first, dressed in a pastel pink short-sleeved button-up and a pair of black jeans. His hair, as always, remains an absolute mess despite what was likely a valiant attempt to tame it.

Mr. Potter follows, adjusting his collar. He’s wearing a simple green checkered button-down and dark blue jeans, his dark hair neatly combed. His glasses sit slightly askew, as if he’s been too busy to notice.

“Alright, everyone ready?” Mr. Potter asks, giving them all a quick once-over. His gaze lingers on Regulus for a moment, and his expression softens. “You look nice, kid.”

Regulus nods, looking down at his shoes. He doesn’t know why that simple statement makes his stomach twist in an unfamiliar way, but it does.

“Can we please go now before all the good food is gone?” James complains dramatically, throwing his head back.

Mr. Potter chuckles. “Alright, alright, let’s go.”

They head out to the car, Regulus clutching his black dog tightly.

Going out to eat can’t be too hard. 

Right?

The drive to the restaurant is quiet, for the most part. Regulus sits in the backseat, pressed against the door, his book resting in his lap. He doesn’t open it, though. Instead, he watches the way James is glued to his phone, fingers flying across the screen, sending messages at lightning speed. Every so often, James lets out a snicker, completely engrossed in whatever conversation he’s having.

Mr. Potter hums along to the music playing softly from the radio, his fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the steering wheel. It’s consistent, steady, something for Regulus to focus on when his thoughts begin to spiral again. Mrs. Potter, however, keeps turning around to check on him, her eyes full of that same softness he still doesn’t know what to do with. Each time their eyes meet, she gives him a reassuring smile, as if to say everything is okay. Regulus doesn’t know if he believes that, but he nods anyway.

By the time they arrive, the sky is tinged in soft hues of orange and pink, the last remnants of sunlight slipping behind the horizon. The restaurant is surrounded by gardens, a variety of trees stretching towards the sky, their branches adorned with twinkling Christmas lights. It’s… beautiful. Enchanting, even. The soft glow of the lights makes the entire place feel warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold, impersonal restaurants he’s been to before.

The walk inside is quiet, the gravel crunching softly beneath their feet. Regulus stays close behind James, his fingers twitching at his sides. The entrance is grand yet simple, with large wooden doors and windows that let the warm interior light spill outside.

Inside, the lighting is dim, casting a cozy glow over everything. It isn’t harsh or overwhelming. It’s… nice. Safe. The darkness calms something inside him, making it easier to breathe. The restaurant has an old-fashioned charm, with dark wood tables and plush chairs, the scent of warm food lingering in the air.

Mrs. Potter approaches the hostess stand, her voice soft but sure. “We have a booking for four at seven.”

The waitress checks the list before offering a smile. “Of course. Right this way.”

She leads them through the restaurant, weaving between tables occupied by murmuring patrons. Their table is positioned in front of massive windows that overlook the gardens outside, the twinkling lights casting a soft reflection against the glass. Regulus hesitates before sitting next to James, across from Mrs. Potter, with Mr. Potter beside her. The seat feels too big for him, or maybe he just feels too small.

The waitress hands them menus and asks, “Would you like something to drink?”

James doesn’t hesitate. “Coke, please.”

Mrs. Potter orders something light, and Mr. Potter gets the same. Regulus, however, freezes. He hadn’t thought about what to drink. He hadn’t planned for this. He reaches into his pocket for his notebook, his safety net—but it isn’t there.

His stomach drops.

Panic claws at his chest, creeping up his throat. He must have left it upstairs, or maybe in the car, or—

“Regulus?” Mrs. Potter’s voice is gentle, cutting through the fog of panic. “Would you like a lemonade?”

He nods quickly, latching onto the option like a lifeline. Mrs. Potter orders it for him, and he lets out a slow breath, forcing himself to refocus on the menu.

James chatters excitedly, listing off all the different options, but the more Regulus reads, the more overwhelming it becomes. There are too many choices. Too many variables. His breathing quickens.

Mr. Potter notices. “Try the back of the menu.”

Regulus flips it over, relief flooding him when he sees the kids’ menu. Considerably fewer options. Manageable. He stares at the choices, torn between the nuggets and the hamburger. He taps the two items, hoping someone will understand.

James does. “You’re stuck between two?”

Regulus nods.

“Well, which one would you enjoy more?”

Regulus shrugs. He doesn’t know.

James considers this. “The nuggets come with chips.”

Regulus tilts his head. That… does sound good.

“Go with the nuggets, then,” James says simply.

Regulus nods, settling on the nuggets and chips. Mrs. Potter gives the waitress his order, along with the rest of theirs. The waitress takes their menus with a polite smile.

“It’ll be a bit of a wait,” she informs them.

Mr. Potter waves it off easily. “That’s fine.”

With that, they settle in, the soft hum of chatter and clinking dishes filling the space around them.

Mrs. Potter turns to the boys. “Are you excited that school’s finished?”

Regulus nods, but James barely gives him a chance to answer before launching into a rapid-fire rant about everything that happened. He talks about the soccer games he played at school, teachers he liked (and didn’t), the ridiculous amount of homework they had, and the time someone let a toad loose in the library.

Regulus only half-listens, absently running his fingers over the edges of his book. The familiar texture calms him, the repetitive motion grounding. He knows James doesn’t expect him to reply much, which is a relief.

Mrs. Potter must notice where his attention is, because she says gently, “You can read if you want, sweetheart.”

Regulus looks up, startled by the quiet permission. He hesitates, then nods. He starts to open the book—

Then stops.

A flash of blonde hair catches his eye.

His breath stutters.

Narcissa?

His heartbeat picks up as he turns his head, gaze searching. But the woman moves before he can be sure, her face hidden from view. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe he’s just seeing things.

He stares a little longer, trying to catch another glimpse.

Apparently, staring for too long is weird, because Mr. Potter’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “What are you looking at?”

Regulus startles. He quickly shakes his head, tearing his gaze away. 

Mr. Potter doesn’t push, just nods and turns back to James, who’s still talking.

Regulus looks down at his book again, but the words blur together. The thought lingers, curling around his mind like smoke. What if it was Narcissa?

Before he can dwell on it too much, their food arrives. The waitress sets their plates down, and Regulus is relieved for the distraction. He picks up his fork, ready to eat—

And then the first scrape of metal against ceramic slices through the air.

Regulus flinches.

The sound is sharp, high-pitched, grating against his ears like nails on a chalkboard. Another scrape follows, then another, the rhythmic screeching making his skin crawl.

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head slightly, as if he can physically force himself not to react. It doesn’t work.

His body starts to rock slightly in his seat, the movement automatic, an attempt to ground himself. But the noise doesn’t stop, and no matter how much he tries to ignore it, each scrape feels like it’s digging under his skin, burrowing deep.

He tightens his grip on his fork, his appetite quickly fading.

Mrs. Potter notices the shift in Regulus immediately. She pauses mid-conversation, her voice soft with concern. “Regulus? Are you okay?”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, not with his throat tight and his stomach twisting uncomfortably.

Mr. Potter, who has been idly twirling his fork between his fingers, stops and studies him for a moment. Then, realization dawns. “Is it the noise?” He picks up his knife and gently scrapes it against his plate in demonstration. The sound is barely audible over the hum of the restaurant, but Regulus still winces.

They understand immediately.

Mrs. Potter’s expression softens with something that looks like guilt. “We’ll try to be careful,” she promises. “It might still happen sometimes, but we’ll do our best.”

Mr. Potter nods in agreement. “We can’t completely stop it, but we’ll be mindful.”

The effort means something. Regulus nods, a small but genuine acknowledgment of their understanding. He takes a few more bites, though he remains tense. Every now and then, when the noise happens, he flinches slightly.

They finish their meals soon after, lingering at the table as conversation flows. James talks animatedly about something—soccer, probably—and eventually convinces Regulus to get ice cream. Regulus almost says no, but… he’s glad he doesn’t. The cold sweetness is actually nice, soothing in a way he didn’t expect.

When they’re done, they push back their chairs and get up to leave. Mr. Potter heads to the counter to pay, and Regulus follows Mrs. Potter and James toward the door.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it again.

Blonde hair.

Regulus spots them before they notice him.

At first, it doesn't feel real—like his brain is playing a cruel trick on him. But no, they're here. Sitting together at a table near the corner of the restaurant. Bellatrix. Narcissa.

His feet move before he fully thinks it through, drawn forward by some invisible force. The noise of the restaurant fades, James’ chatter behind him becomes meaningless, and Mrs. Potter waiting near the exit is entirely forgotten.

Then, Narcissa looks up. Her blue eyes widen in surprise, lips parting slightly as though she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

"Regulus?"

Bellatrix turns next. The air between them stills, stretched tight with something unspoken.

Narcissa is the first to react. She pushes back her chair and stands, barely giving him a chance to process before she pulls him into a tight hug. He stiffens for half a second before melting into it, the warmth of her arms a stark contrast to the cold, distant memories of his past.

“Hi, Cissa,” he mumbles, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

She lets go reluctantly, eyes searching his face, but before he can say anything else, Bellatrix steps forward. Her embrace is quicker, firmer, almost uncertain—like she’s not sure how long she’s allowed to hold on.

“Hi, Bella,” he murmurs.

She pulls back, eyeing him carefully, and for a moment, Regulus feels like a child again, standing before her, waiting for approval. But her lips twitch, just slightly, and she nods.

He sits down with them, feeling both out of place and like he belongs all at once. They waste no time in asking questions—where he’s been, where he’s living, what he’s been up to.

He answers in clipped sentences, short nods, the occasional glance at his notebook. The Potters. School. His placement. How things are… different now. Better, maybe.

Narcissa listens intently, her expression softening with every word. Bellatrix, for all her usual sharpness, watches him with something almost cautious, like she’s afraid to push too hard.

"How was finishing your seventh year?" Narcissa asks.

Regulus hesitates before shrugging. "Fine," he says. "Quiet."

Bellatrix scoffs. "Seventh year, quiet? You must’ve done something wrong."

His lips twitch slightly, just for a second.

The conversation drifts, comfortable in a way he never expected. They tell him about their own lives—small things, nothing too personal. Narcissa mentions her engagement, Bellatrix mutters something about work, but mostly, they ask about him. Like they actually care.

For the first time in a long while, Regulus allows himself to believe that maybe they do.

Then—

"Regulus?"

The voice is sharp with worry. His stomach flips as he turns.

Mrs. Potter stands a few feet away, scanning the restaurant like she had been searching for him. Mr. Potter and James hover behind her, their expressions shifting from confusion to quiet understanding as they take in the scene.

Oops.

Regulus hadn’t meant to disappear.

He pushes his chair back, about to stand, but Bellatrix waves a hand dismissively. "Relax, we weren’t kidnapping him."

Mrs. Potter exhales, relief evident in her posture. She takes a step forward, but Narcissa speaks first.

"Mrs. Potter?" She stands, smoothing out her skirt. "I’m Narcissa Black. This is my sister, Bellatrix. We’re Regulus’ cousins."

Mrs. Potter blinks, glancing between them before offering her hand. "Euphemia Potter. This is my husband, Fleamont."

Mr. Potter shakes both their hands, polite but firm. "We didn’t know Regulus had cousins."

There’s a pause, one that Regulus isn’t sure how to fill.

"We—" Narcissa hesitates, exchanging a look with Bellatrix. "We’d like to see him more often. If he wants to, of course."

Regulus’ breath catches. He looks between them, trying to gauge whether this is some fleeting kindness or something real.

Mrs. Potter glances at him, as if to check for any sign of discomfort. "That’s up to Regulus."

Regulus swallows. He glances at Narcissa, at Bellatrix. They’re watching him, waiting.

Slowly, he nods.

A small breath of relief escapes Narcissa, and even Bellatrix relaxes just slightly. They exchange numbers with Mrs. Potter, promises made in quiet voices.

Then, it’s time to leave.

Narcissa squeezes his arm gently before stepping back, offering a small smile. Bellatrix lingers for a moment longer.

Before he can turn away, she asks, "Where’s Sirius?"

Regulus freezes.

The question punches the air from his lungs, his mouth going dry. His fingers twitch at his sides before clenching into fists.

"I don’t know," he whispers.

The truth. The awful, crushing truth.

He doesn’t know where his brother is.

James and Mr. Potter have already turned toward the door, unaware of the shift in atmosphere. Regulus barely notices as Bellatrix and Narcissa exchange glances.

Someone murmurs something to him, but he doesn’t process it. His thoughts spiral. Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?

A gentle touch at his shoulder pulls him back. Mrs. Potter.

"Come on, love," she murmurs, guiding him toward the exit.

He follows, moving automatically, but his mind is elsewhere. His stuffed black dog dangles from his grip, brushing against his leg with each step. His chest feels tight.

The car is warm when they climb inside, but Regulus feels cold. He buckles his seatbelt, staring at his lap.

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Who’s Sirius?" Mrs. Potter asks softly.

Regulus stiffens.

His grip tightens on the stuffed dog, pulling it close like a shield. His eyes sting, and before he can stop himself, tears well up.

He buries his face in the fabric, shoulders trembling.

He doesn’t answer. He can’t.

He just cries.

***

The afternoon sun slants through the grand windows of the Black family estate, casting long shadows across the polished floors. Dust motes drift lazily in the golden light, undisturbed by the usual rigid order of the house. Outside, the sky is clear, a rare, perfect day that should have been spent in the gardens, running freely beneath the open sky.

But they aren’t supposed to be outside today. Not where anyone could see.

Instead, the five of them have taken refuge in one of the lesser-used sitting rooms—a space grand in design but ignored by the adults, making it the perfect hiding place. The heavy velvet curtains are drawn shut, wrapping them in a cocoon of dim, golden light and muffled laughter. Here, the usual rules of the household feel distant, momentarily forgotten.

Regulus, small for his age but quick, darts between the furniture, barely suppressing his giggles. His feet skid slightly on the sleek wooden floor, but he catches himself just in time to dodge around an armchair. Behind him, Sirius is in pursuit, grinning wildly, his dark hair flopping into his eyes as he lunges forward.

“Got you!” Sirius declares triumphantly, catching the back of Regulus’ shirt in his fist.

Regulus yelps, twisting in his brother’s grip. “Not fair!” he huffs between breathless laughter, trying to wriggle free.

“You’re just slow,” Sirius teases, shoving him lightly before ruffling his hair into a hopeless mess.

Bellatrix, perched elegantly on the arm of a chaise lounge, rolls her eyes. “You two are insufferable,” she drawls, but there’s no real bite to her words. Her fingers toy idly with a silver bracelet on her wrist, her usual air of superiority momentarily relaxed.

“Oh, let them have their fun,” Andromeda says with a smile. She sits cross-legged on the floor, watching them with quiet amusement. “Not everyone enjoys sitting around like a statue, Bella.”

Narcissa, kneeling beside her, hums in agreement as she braids Andromeda’s hair with careful precision. “Besides, it’s better than them sneaking off outside and getting in trouble,” she adds, glancing up briefly before returning to her work.

Regulus, still catching his breath, turns to Sirius, his face alight with excitement. “Again?”

Sirius smirks. “Obviously,” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, already gearing up to chase after him. “But this time, I bet I can—”

The door creaks open.

The shift is instant.

Regulus goes still. The laughter vanishes. He can feel the air in the room tighten, see the way the others stiffen in quiet anticipation.

Their mother’s voice slices through the lingering warmth like a knife. “Sirius, don’t do that.”

Regulus turns just enough to see her standing in the doorway, expression unreadable. Behind her, their father lingers, his presence heavier than his voice when he finally speaks. “You’re the heir to this family. Start acting like it.”

Sirius’ jaw clenches. His arms, loose and free just moments ago, hang rigid at his sides. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t move.

The game is over.

Seeing Narcissa and Bellatrix again, after not seeing them for months, makes Regulus feel something. Something heavy, something tangled, something that knots itself deep in his chest and refuses to let go. He doesn’t know what to call it—doesn’t know if he even wants to name it—but it lingers, pressing against his ribs with every breath.

This feeling makes him question things. A lot of things.

One of those things is the way they seemed relieved to see him.

Which is odd. Right?

Because why would they think otherwise? Why would they ever have a doubt in their minds that he wasn’t okay?

Another thing that sticks with him, circling his thoughts like a vulture, is the fact that they want to be in his life. And, even more bizarre, is that they explicitly said it was up to him—his choice if he wanted to see them.

Which, again, is odd. Right?

Like, why wouldn’t he want to see his cousins? Why would they ever think he wouldn’t want to see them again?

What could have possibly happened to make them think this? What did he do to make them think this?

These questions spin round and round in his head as he walks up the stairs, pushing open the door to his room. The house is quiet, the sounds of the Potters settling in for the evening distant in the background, but Regulus barely notices. His mind is still stuck in the past few hours, replaying conversations, searching for answers he doesn’t have.

He sets his stuffed dog on his bed before pulling open his dresser drawers, mechanically going through the motions of changing into his pajamas. The soft fabric does little to soothe the tension in his shoulders. The questions won’t stop. They keep pressing in, thick and suffocating, even as he pads down the hall to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, toothbrush dangling from his mouth, and wonders—not for the first time—who he’s supposed to be now.

Sirius.

His brother. The only person Regulus has left.

Had. The only person Regulus had left.

Had.

Past tense.

Because Regulus has no idea where he is. No idea if he’s alive. If he’s dead. If he’s in jail or somewhere else entirely. He knows nothing.

The only reminder he has is the black stuffed dog waiting for him back in his room.

He spits out the toothpaste and rinses his mouth, gripping the edge of the sink a little too tightly. The thought crosses his mind—he could ask Sarah to find him. She probably could. She could look him up, track him down. Maybe Regulus could see him again, talk to him, finally get some answers.

But then—why?

It was Sirius’ fault. It was Sirius’ fault their family got destroyed. It was all Sirius’ fault. Sirius lied. Regulus knows this to be a fact.

Sirius is a liar. He lies. It’s his entire personality, really.

He lies about everything. He lied about what their parents did. Because there is no reason why they would ever hurt him. There is just no way.

Sirius probably got into a fight, which caused him to end up in the hospital. Which then caused the police. Then an investigation. Then their parents’ arrest. Then Regulus being taken away.

It’s all Sirius’ fault.

Yet—he wants to see him.

Regulus misses him more than anything.

It’s a weird line, the one between blame and longing.

On one hand, Regulus never wants to see his brother again. On the other, all he wants to do is hug Sirius and never let him go.

Regulus hates it.

He drags himself back to his room, feeling heavier than he has in weeks. The moment he sits on his bed, clutching his stuffed dog to his chest, the weight of everything crashes into him all at once. His throat tightens, his vision blurs, and before he can stop himself, tears well in his eyes.

He blinks rapidly, swallowing hard, but it’s no use. He’s overwhelmed, drowning in thoughts and emotions he doesn’t know how to name, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know what to do.

Then—a knock on his door.

Regulus freezes, quickly wiping his eyes, heart hammering in his chest.

He waits, silent, barely breathing.

“Regulus?” a voice calls softly from the other side.

And he doesn’t know if he wants to answer.

The sound of the bedroom door creaks open. He hears another soft, “Regulus.”

He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t move. He just clutches his stuffed dog closer to his chest, focusing on the steady rhythm of his own breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

“Regulus,” Mr. Potter says this time, his voice gentle but steady. “Can we come in?”

Regulus hesitates. He swallows against the lump in his throat and nods once. He hears the door open wider, the soft footfalls of two people stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind them. A shift of fabric, the creak of the desk chair. Mr. Potter has taken a seat.

“We wanted to check in,” Mr. Potter says after a moment. “You were quiet on the drive home. And you came up here pretty quickly.”

Regulus nods again, a jerky movement, but he doesn’t look up. He doesn’t trust himself to.

Mrs. Potter’s voice is softer when she speaks. “Would it be alright if I sat with you, sweetheart?”

Regulus hesitates, then nods again. He hears the bed shift under her weight as she sits at the foot of it. Then, after a moment, a light, warm hand settles gently on his knee. They don’t say anything. They just sit.

Regulus sniffles. He presses his lips together, trying to hold it in, but it doesn’t work. Tears slip down his cheeks, one after another, until his vision is blurred, and his breath shudders on the way out.

“Was it seeing your cousins again?” Mr. Potter asks softly.

Regulus shakes his head.

A pause. “No?” Mr. Potter echoes, and Regulus shakes his head again, more firmly this time.

There’s another silence, filled only with the sound of Regulus’ uneven breathing. Then, Mrs. Potter asks, “Was it them asking about someone named Sirius?”

Regulus stiffens. His fingers dig into the soft fabric of the stuffed dog in his arms.

He could tell them. He could say something. Maybe if he did, the weight pressing down on his chest would lessen. Maybe he wouldn’t feel like he was being slowly crushed by something he can’t even name.

But how? How does he say it? How does he even begin?

“Regulus?”

The way she says his name pulls him back. It’s so soft, so careful. He forces himself to look up—right into Mrs. Potter’s eyes. He’s never done that before. Not with her. Not with anyone, really.

He tries to convey something. Tries to make her understand what he can’t say. That he doesn’t know how to talk about it. That he wants to, maybe, but the words won’t come.

Mrs. Potter nods, just barely. “Okay,” she murmurs.

Another wave of tears slips down his face. He hates it. He hates crying. He curls in on himself, pressing his forehead against his knees, clutching his stuffed dog like a lifeline.

“Would you like a hug, sweetheart?” Mrs. Potter asks softly.

Regulus hesitates. Contemplates. Because her hugs are… different. They’re warm. Safe. Like a weighted blanket wrapped around him, grounding him, shielding him from the outside world. He doesn’t know if it’s love, but it’s something.

Slowly, he nods.

Mrs. Potter shifts, gently maneuvering him so she can slide up onto the bed beside him. Then, carefully, she pulls him into a side hug, wrapping an arm around him.

Regulus goes rigid for a moment. Then he exhales, the tension draining from his shoulders as he lets himself lean into her. He buries his face into the crook of her neck, gripping the fabric of her shirt, holding on like he might disappear if he lets go.

He feels her lean back against the headboard. Hears the low murmur of hushed whispers. Feels the comforting weight of her hand running up and down his back, fingers threading gently through his hair. There’s a soft click as the door shuts. 

Regulus breathes. He lets himself feel it.

And, eventually, he drifts off to sleep, the last thought in his mind a name he can never let go of.

Sirius.

The dream starts softly.

Regulus is home. The Black family estate looms around him, grand and imposing, its corridors stretching endlessly into the dark. But it doesn’t feel threatening. Not yet. There’s warmth here, familiarity. The scent of polished wood and expensive cologne clings to the air, just as he remembers.

Sirius is with him.

They’re in Sirius’ room, the way they used to be before everything fell apart. The heavy, carved bed posts, the dark wooden floors, the windows that barely let in any light—it’s all exactly as it was. Sirius lounges on the bed, arms folded behind his head, grinning that lopsided, cocky grin that always made Regulus roll his eyes. But this time, Regulus doesn’t. He’s too busy taking it in, too busy feeling something close to relief.

“You didn’t leave,” Regulus says before he can stop himself. His voice is small. Uncertain.

Sirius frowns at him. “What are you talking about?” he laughs. “Why would I ever leave?”

Regulus doesn’t have an answer, because—of course. Why would he? Sirius is here. Sirius would never leave him.

But then the room shifts.

It’s subtle at first. The warmth seeps out, the edges of the space stretching, distorting. Shadows creep in, curling along the walls like ink bleeding into paper. The scent of cologne turns sharp, acrid, something rotten lingering underneath.

Regulus blinks, and Sirius is standing now, his back to him.

“Sirius?” Regulus calls.

Sirius doesn’t turn.

Regulus steps forward, but the floor groans under his feet, warping like it's alive. The walls press in, stretching impossibly tall, the ceiling a void above him. The air grows thick, heavy, as if it's pushing against him, keeping him trapped.

“Sirius?” His voice is smaller now, barely above a whisper.

Sirius moves. Not toward him. Away.

“No.” Regulus’ chest tightens. He tries to follow, but his legs feel sluggish, like he’s moving through water. His breath catches in his throat. “Wait—Sirius, wait!”

Sirius walks faster.

The doorway at the end of the hall yawns open, dark and endless, swallowing everything beyond it.

Regulus stumbles forward, panic clawing up his throat. His fingers stretch out, desperate to grab the back of Sirius’ shirt, to hold him in place, to keep him here where he belongs—

But Sirius doesn’t stop.

“Sirius!” Regulus’ voice cracks, raw and terrified. His heartbeat is a frantic, erratic drum in his chest. “Please!”

Sirius finally turns.

But his face is wrong.

It’s empty, hollow, shadowed in a way that makes Regulus’ stomach drop. There’s nothing there—no warmth, no recognition, no Sirius.

“You left me,” Regulus whispers, voice barely audible over the pounding in his ears.

Sirius stares, his expression unreadable. Then he turns again, stepping into the blackness.

And the door slams shut.

Regulus screams.

He launches himself forward, pounding on the wood, but his fists make no sound. The darkness bleeds into the walls, crawling toward him, swallowing the room, swallowing him, swallowing everything—

And then he’s falling.

The floor vanishes beneath him, and the air is gone, stolen from his lungs as he plummets into the abyss. His stomach lurches. His limbs flail, reaching for anything—something—nothing. Cold seeps into his bones. His throat burns from the silent scream locked inside him—

Regulus jolts awake.

His chest heaves. His entire body trembles. The room around him is dark, too dark, but it’s not the same darkness from his dream. He’s at the Potters’. He’s in his bed. His hands fist the sheets, damp with sweat. His heart is still racing, hammering against his ribs so hard it hurts.

His breath stutters, uneven and shaky, as he presses a hand over his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the lingering terror to fade, but the image of Sirius—of that empty, hollow face—won’t leave him.

He’s never been so scared in his life.

Not even his grandparents were as terrifying as that dream. And they were terrifying. His grandmother’s cold, thin-lipped frown. His grandfather’s sharp, calculating eyes that seemed to pierce straight through him. The suffocating expectation that clung to every word they spoke. Even at seven years old, he had known to be wary of them, had learned to keep his back straight and his words carefully measured when they were near. But even they hadn’t filled him with the bone-deep dread that nightmare had.

A choked noise escapes his throat, and suddenly, he’s crying. Hot, silent tears streak down his cheeks as his fingers dig into the fabric of his blanket. It wasn’t real. He knows that. It was just a dream. Just a nightmare. But it felt real. Too real. And now, he can’t shake it. Can’t shake the way Sirius walked away. The way he disappeared. The way Regulus was left behind, completely alone.

He takes a deep breath. Then another. He needs to calm down. He needs to think. He needs—

Mr. and Mrs. Potter.

The thought comes suddenly, unexpectedly. His fingers curl tighter around his blanket. Would he be allowed to wake them up? Would he be allowed in their room? The idea feels almost foreign, but at the same time, there's a pull to it, a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to be alone right now.

But then doubt creeps in.

He’s not their real kid. They wouldn’t want to be woken up by some stupid nightmare. His own parents never wanted to be woken up in the middle of the night, not unless it was for something important. A bad dream was never important enough. And if his real parents never wanted to deal with it, why would the Potters?

He swallows hard and rubs at his face, trying to wipe away the last of his tears. He won’t wake them. He’ll handle this himself.

Regulus decides he wants to read something to get his mind off things, to pull himself out of the lingering remnants of his nightmare. But then he realizes—his book is downstairs. He left it on the kitchen bench earlier.

He sighs, then shifts, pulling his blanket around his shoulders before reaching for the stuffed black dog beside him. His fingers tighten around the worn fabric. Normally, if he had a nightmare, he’d go to Sirius. He’d climb into his bed, shake him awake, and Sirius—grumpy and annoyed—would grumble but let him stay. He would shove his arm over Regulus’ head in a halfhearted attempt to go back to sleep, and Regulus would lie there, feeling safer just knowing his brother was next to him.

The irony isn’t lost on him. The nightmare was about Sirius. And now, Sirius isn’t even here.

His chest tightens, but he shakes his head, pushing the thought away. Instead, he quietly slips out of bed, the cool air sending a slight shiver down his spine. With his blanket wrapped around him and his stuffed dog clutched to his chest, he steps carefully across the room, his socked feet making no noise against the floor. He opens his door and glances down the hall, but the house is silent, dark and still.

Slowly, he makes his way down the stairs, each step careful, deliberate. The nightmare still lingers in his mind, playing on a loop no matter how much he tries to push it away. It was just a dream. Just a dream. But the fear remains.

He reaches the living room first, setting his stuffed dog and blanket onto the armchair before making his way toward the kitchen. The floor is cool beneath his feet as he crosses the tiled surface, his book exactly where he left it on the counter. He picks it up, hugging it to his chest as he makes his way back into the living room.

He settles into the armchair, curling up beneath his blanket, tucking his feet underneath him. His stuffed dog rests in his lap, his book open in his hands. He forces himself to focus on the words, on the story, on anything but the lingering dread coiled in his chest.

Time passes. Slowly, gradually, his eyes grow heavier. The book slips slightly in his grasp, his blinks becoming longer, slower. The weight of exhaustion finally presses in, drowning out the remnants of fear and unease.

And eventually, Regulus drifts back off to sleep.

***

The first thing Regulus notices is the sun. Soft and golden, it filters through the curtains, warming his face. The sensation tugs at the edges of his awareness, but it’s not what fully wakes him. That comes a moment later—when he hears the faint sound of someone using the kettle.

His eyelids flutter open. He’s curled up in the armchair, his book resting on his chest where he must have left it last night. The quiet hum of the house in the early morning feels distant, like he hasn’t quite returned to reality yet.

He blinks, shifts slightly, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. Then, after a beat, he decides to see who’s in the kitchen.

Padding softly down the hall, he steps into the warm space just as Mrs. Potter turns from the counter, two mugs sitting beside her. She smiles when she sees him.

“Good morning, Regulus.”

He nods in greeting, still lingering in the doorway, watching as she moves with practiced ease. She sets out plates, reaches for the jam, the routine feeling effortless.

Then, after a pause, she glances at him again, something more intent in her expression. “I saw you slept on the armchair,” she says, her voice gentle but edged with concern. “Are you alright?”

Regulus nods.

Mrs. Potter studies him for a moment, like she’s deciding whether to believe him. He half-expects her to press further, but instead, she just hums softly and turns back to her task.

Regulus thinks that’s the end of it. That she’s letting it go.

Until—

“You boys think you can all lie to me, honestly.”

Regulus blinks. He frowns slightly, thrown off by the sudden shift. He hums, confused. 

Mrs. Potter sighs, shaking her head with something that’s almost amusement. “Fleamont and James think they can lie to me,” she says, setting two pieces of toast on a plate. “They think I won’t notice when something’s wrong. But I do. I always do.”

Regulus isn’t sure what to say to that, so he just nods.

Mrs. Potter smiles again, softer this time, and gestures toward the table. “Sit,” she says.

He does.

They eat breakfast in quiet companionship, the warm, sleepy kind of silence that feels safe. Regulus finds himself thinking about what she said—how certain she had been, how easily she saw through things. It lingers in his mind, even as the kettle whistles and Mrs. Potter hums along to some tune under her breath.

For now, though, the moment is peaceful. And Regulus lets himself enjoy it.

Regulus continues to think about what Mrs. Potter said all throughout breakfast and as he walks up the stairs to get dressed for the day.

“They think I won’t notice when something’s wrong. But I do. I always do.”

The words loop in his head, circling back no matter how much he tries to push them aside.

What does she mean she always notices when something’s wrong?

He never told her anything. Not really. Not about why he freaks out sometimes. Not about why sleeping is hard. Not about why he can’t speak to anyone. Not about why Colin and his gang were picking on him. Not about why he’s been acting so weird around her. She shouldn’t know. She can’t know.

But what if she does?

What if she’s noticed other things? Things he hasn’t said out loud, things he’s tried to keep buried?

Regulus pulls his shirt slowly over his head, methodical movements, still caught up in the thought. He frowns, the nagging feeling in his chest growing stronger.

How much does she see?

By the time he’s dressed, the question still hasn’t left him. It lingers as he walks down the stairs, each step measured, his mind still tangled in the uncertainty.

What else does she know?

He shakes his head, trying to clear it as he steps into the living room.

Then he stops short.

James is sitting in his spot.

The armchair, the one Regulus fell asleep in last night. His place. And not only is James in it, but he’s completely at ease, controller in hand, playing a video game like he has every right to be there.

Regulus’ stomach twists. The irritation is sudden, sharp.

James looks up when he notices him. “You wanna play?”

Regulus doesn’t answer. His eyes flick to the side table where he’d left his book—only it’s not there.

His book is gone.

A sharp flare of frustration rises in his chest. His seat is taken. His book is missing. And he’s exhausted.

James, oblivious, turns back to his game.

Regulus clenches his fists. His breathing quickens.

He huffs angrily, his voice clipped. “Où est mon livre?”

(“Where is my book?”)

James glances at him, confusion written all over his face. “Umm,” he hums, clearly trying to formulate words. “What did you say?” 

Regulus feels something hot and angry crack through him.

“Vous êtes assis à ma place et maintenant mon livre a disparu?!”

(“You’re sitting in my spot, and now my book is missing?!”)

James startles, blinking at him. “Uh—what?”

“Où est-il? Je l'ai laissé ici!”

(“Where is it? I left it right here!”)

James looks completely lost. He puts down the controller, holding his hands up. “Stop yelling at me! I don’t understand you!”

But Regulus can’t stop. His frustration has tipped over into something else—something panicked and overwhelming. He searches the room wildly, but the book isn’t there.

James is still in his chair.

Before he even thinks about it, Regulus grabs the nearest thing—a throw pillow—and hurls it at James.

It smacks him square in the chest.

“Hey!” James yelps. He looks at Regulus with wide eyes. “What the hell?”

Regulus doesn’t stop. He grabs another pillow and throws it just as James scrambles up, arms raised in defense.

“Woah, woah, woah!” James shouts, backing up. “Calm down! I don’t even know what you want!”

But Regulus isn’t calm. His heart pounds, frustration clawing up his throat. He needs his book. He needs his space. He needs things to be where they’re supposed to be.

James reaches for a pillow—then, to Regulus’ absolute fury, throws it back at him.

It bounces off Regulus’ shoulder, and something inside him snaps.

He lunges forward and hits James with one.

“Oi—Reg!” James protests, stumbling back, trying to shield himself. “Stop it!”

But Regulus doesn’t stop. He keeps swinging, the pillows landing with dull thuds against James’ arms and sides. James, now fully panicking, grabs another and swings back, trying to block the attacks.

The commotion is loud enough that it only takes seconds before—

"BOYS!"

Both freeze at the sharp voice.

Mrs. Potter stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised, hands on her hips. Mr. Potter is right behind her, his gaze immediately locking onto Regulus.

James drops the pillow like it’s on fire.

Regulus barely has time to register the situation before Mr. Potter steps forward.

“Alright, enough of that.” His voice is calm but firm as he moves toward Regulus, reaching out carefully. “Come here, son.”

Regulus jerks back, heart hammering. But Mr. Potter is faster.

Before Regulus can retreat, strong arms wrap around him from behind, firm but not forceful. The warmth of Mr. Potter’s hold is steady, grounding.

Regulus fights. He twists, struggling against the grip, his breath coming too fast. He doesn’t want to be held, doesn’t want to be restrained.

“Regulus,” Mr. Potter says, his voice steady. “It’s alright. Just breathe.”

Regulus shakes his head, pushing against the hold, but Mr. Potter doesn’t let go. He keeps his arms around him, unmoving.

Gradually, the struggle fades.

Regulus’ limbs grow heavy. His breathing evens out.

He slumps slightly, the last of his fight draining away.

Only then does Mr. Potter loosen his grip.

Regulus blinks, his mind catching up with what just happened. He notices, suddenly, that James and Mrs. Potter aren’t in the room anymore.

Everything is quiet.

Mr. Potter shifts, turning him slightly. His voice is still calm but carries an edge of authority. “Are you calm enough for me to let you go?”

Regulus hesitates. Then, slowly, he nods.

Mr. Potter releases him, stepping back. Regulus stays where he is, arms wrapped around himself, exhaustion pressing against his bones.

Regulus doesn’t know what to say.

The silence stretches between them.

Regulus shifts uncomfortably, arms still wrapped tightly around himself. Mr. Potter remains seated on the couch, his expression calm but expectant.

After a while, he speaks. “What happened, kiddo?” His voice is steady, patient. “What made you so upset?”

Regulus stiffens.

He doesn’t know.

The anger had been so instant, so overwhelming—like a fire that flared up out of nowhere.

His body goes rigid, breath caught in his chest. He can’t explain it, can’t pick apart the tangled mess of emotions still curling inside him.

Slowly, he steps toward the armchair. He pulls the blanket aside, and there—underneath it—he finds his book.

Right where he left it.

His throat tightens.

James had been sitting on it.

The frustration flares again, but this time it’s smaller, just an ember compared to the firestorm from earlier.

“Regulus?” Mr. Potter prompts gently.

Regulus shrugs.

Mr. Potter watches him for a moment before exhaling softly. He leans back into the couch, waiting. He’s not going to push—but he’s also not going to leave without an answer.

Regulus hesitates, then reaches for his notebook and pen from where they sit beside the armchair.

Sitting down, he flips to a blank page and writes:

James was sitting in my spot, and I couldn’t find my book.

He pauses, then carefully writes beneath it:

I don’t know why I got angry like that.

Regulus stares at the words for a long moment, then silently hands the notebook to Mr. Potter.

Mr. Potter takes it, his eyes scanning the page. His lips press together, and he sighs. “I see.”

Regulus looks down at his lap, guilt gnawing at him.

Mr. Potter sets the notebook aside. “Regulus,” he says, his tone gentle but firm, “violence like that isn’t the solution to your problems. I understand you were upset, but if something’s wrong, you say it. Or write it down, like you just did. But lashing out, throwing things—that’s not how we communicate here.”

Regulus nods stiffly, shame settling heavy in his stomach.

He shouldn’t have reacted like that.

Mr. Potter must see the guilt on his face because his expression softens. “You’re not in trouble,” he reassures. “You made a mistake, but mistakes don’t define you. What matters is what you do next.”

Regulus looks up at him, startled.

That—that isn’t what he expected.

Back home, mistakes were met with punishment. Severe punishment.

Mr. Potter studies him for a moment, then sighs, rubbing his hands together. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s talk this out as a family.”

Regulus hesitates but follows when Mr. Potter stands and gestures for him to come.

Mrs. Potter and James are already sitting in the kitchen. James looks uncertain, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve, while Mrs. Potter gives them both a small, expectant smile.

“Alright,” Mr. Potter starts as they all sit down. “Let’s figure out what we can do better next time.”

Regulus shifts in his seat, uncomfortable but listening.

Mrs. Potter turns to James first. “James, what do you think you could’ve done differently?”

James makes a face. “I dunno,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t know Regulus was gonna be mad. He didn’t say anything—he just started yelling at me.”

Regulus frowns and quickly writes in his notebook:

It wasn’t just that you were in my spot. I couldn’t find my book.

He slides the notebook over for James to read.

James sighs, leaning back. “Okay, but you didn’t even know where your book was. It’s not like I stole it or something.”

Regulus clenches his jaw, then reluctantly nods.

Mrs. Potter hums. “So maybe next time, Regulus can say something before getting upset, and James can be more mindful of what might bother Regulus?”

James nods. “Yeah, I mean, I would’ve moved if he just told me.”

Regulus stares at the table, gripping his pen tightly. He doesn’t know how to explain that speaking up isn’t as simple as they make it sound.

“I know it’s hard,” Mrs. Potter says gently, as if reading his mind. “But we can work on it. You don’t have to be perfect—you just have to try.”

Regulus swallows and nods.

Mr. Potter claps his hands together. “Good. And if you two do run into an issue you can’t sort out, what do you do?”

James groans. “Come to you or Mum.”

“Exactly.” Mr. Potter gives them both a pointed look. “No more throwing things at each other. Understood?”

Regulus nods, guilt creeping back in.

He picks up his notebook again and writes:

I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m sorry.

He turns the notebook toward James.

James reads it, then shrugs. “It’s alright.”

Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that. He expected more—anger, frustration, something.

But James just drops onto the couch like nothing happened.

After a moment, James tilts his head. “What language were you speaking?”

Regulus blinks, caught off guard.

James frowns. “When you were yelling at me. It wasn’t English.”

Regulus flushes, heat creeping up his neck. He hadn’t even realized.

Quickly, he scribbles: French. It’s my first language.

James leans over to read it. “Oh. Cool.”

Mrs. Potter, clearly curious, steps forward and glances at the page as well.

Mr. Potter hums. “If you two have problems with each other, talk about them. Or come to one of us, and we’ll help you sort it out.”

James nods easily. Regulus hesitates, but after a moment, he nods, too.

The tension in the room eases.

James flops back onto the couch, grabbing his controller, and Regulus pulls his book into his lap.

Just like that, everything goes back to normal.

James plays his game. Regulus reads.

And yet—Regulus can’t stop thinking about it.

If this had happened before—if he’d lashed out before—it would have ended differently. He would’ve been in serious trouble, locked away somewhere, left to stew in his own resentment.

But this—this was different. 

There was no punishment. No cold dismissal.

Just communication. Problem-solving. Compromise.

Regulus stares down at his book, the realization settling deep.

Maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this.

***

It’s Sunday.

A fashionable Sunday, if Regulus might add.

The sun filters through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the polished wooden floor. The air is warm but not stifling, carrying the lingering scent of fresh laundry and something faintly floral—probably from whatever candle Mrs. Potter had lit earlier.

Regulus shifts slightly where he sits, glancing down at himself. His clothes are neat, carefully chosen, though he supposes he isn’t the only one putting thought into appearances today. Mrs. Potter is effortlessly elegant, as always, dressed in a flowing blouse and tailored trousers, her jewelry understated but tasteful. Even Mr. Potter, in his relaxed weekend attire, somehow manages to look put together in a way Regulus can’t quite understand.

It’s the kind of morning that feels slow and unhurried, filled with quiet chatter and the occasional clink of dishes as breakfast is cleaned away.

Mrs. Potter grabs her keys from the hook by the door. “Alright, I’ll be back soon,” she calls over her shoulder. “Try not to burn the house down while I’m gone.”

James, already halfway out the door, smirks. “No promises.”

Regulus sits curled up in the armchair by the window, a book open in his lap. He isn’t really reading, just staring at the same paragraph, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the page. The house is quiet the moment the door shuts, leaving only the hum of the summer evening pressing in from the open window—the distant chatter of neighbors outside, the rhythmic chirping of crickets.

And then—a sound.

A cupboard opening. A soft clatter. The faint rustle of packaging being unrolled.

Regulus shifts slightly, glancing toward the kitchen. He hadn’t noticed Mr. Potter get up.

He hesitates. He doesn’t want to intrude. But curiosity tugs at him, and before he can second-guess himself, he slides off the chair and pads toward the doorway. Peering inside, he catches sight of Mr. Potter standing at the counter, pulling ingredients from a bag. He’s focused, humming under his breath, and there’s an easy sort of comfort in the way he moves around the kitchen.

He doesn’t look up, but his voice is warm when he speaks.

“Caught your interest, have I?”

Regulus startles slightly. He hadn’t thought Mr. Potter had noticed him.

There’s no expectation in his voice, no pressure to respond. Just a simple, open-ended invitation.

Regulus hovers for a second longer before stepping inside, lingering near the edge of the room.

Mr. Potter turns, holding up a bag of flour. “I was thinking of baking. Seemed like a good night for it.” He sets the bag down, watching Regulus for a moment before tilting his head toward the counter. “Would you like to help?”

Regulus hesitates. He’s never really baked before—he’s watched, he’s memorized the steps, but he’s never actually done it himself.

But he isn’t doing anything else.

Slowly, he nods.

Mr. Potter smiles, looking pleased. “Good man.” He moves a mixing bowl onto the counter, rolling up his sleeves. “Baking’s a bit of a science, you know,” he says conversationally. “Lots of people think it’s just following a recipe, but it’s more than that. It’s chemistry, really—different ingredients reacting together to create something new.”

Regulus watches as he measures out the flour, leveling it with practiced ease before tipping it into the bowl.

“Take flour, for example,” Mr. Potter continues. “That’s what gives structure to whatever you’re baking. But if you just used flour and nothing else, you’d end up with a rock. Sugar adds sweetness, sure, but it also affects the texture—it helps keep things soft. Baking soda and baking powder? Those help it rise, trap air inside, make everything light and fluffy.”

He pauses, glancing at Regulus. “You following so far?”

Regulus nods. He is. It makes sense—more sense than he expected.

Mr. Potter smiles. “Alright, good. You want to measure the cocoa powder?”

Regulus steps forward, and Mr. Potter hands him the measuring cup. He hesitates only briefly before scooping up the powder, leveling it carefully, then dumping it into the bowl.

Mr. Potter nods approvingly. “You’re a natural.”

Regulus ducks his head, focusing on the ingredients. It’s nice, the way Mr. Potter explains things. No condescension, no impatience. Just steady, easy instructions.

They work in quiet harmony, measuring and mixing, Mr. Potter occasionally explaining something as they go. When they get to the eggs, he cracks one open with a swift, practiced movement.

“There’s a trick to this,” he says. “Too hard, and you’ll shatter the shell. Too soft, and the egg won’t break cleanly. But if you hit it just right…” He demonstrates again, splitting the egg perfectly. “See?”

Regulus nods again, intrigued.

“Want to try?”

Regulus eyes the egg in his hands, adjusting his grip. He taps it carefully against the side of the bowl, then splits it open. Some of it dribbles down the shell, but most of it makes it into the bowl.

“Excellent,” Mr. Potter says, beaming. “That’s better than my first try.”

Regulus feels something unfamiliar flicker in his chest at the praise. He quickly wipes his hands on a towel, hiding the small hint of satisfaction curling in his stomach.

They keep going, and soon enough, the brownie batter is nearly ready. Just as Mr. Potter reaches for the pan, the front door opens, and footsteps sound in the hallway.

Then—

“Boys,” Mrs. Potter says, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Her gaze flicks to the ingredients spread across the counter, then to the two of them. Slowly, she raises an eyebrow. “Are we about to be making a mess in my kitchen?”

Regulus freezes. Mr. Potter, mid-motion, straightens like a guilty schoolboy caught red-handed. “It’s my kitchen too, dear.”

Mrs. Potter doesn’t blink. “Uh-huh.”

She just stands there, staring.

Mr. Potter swallows.

Regulus glances between them, uncertain.

Then, without warning, Mrs. Potter bursts into laughter.

Regulus blinks.

Mr. Potter exhales sharply. “That’s not funny.”

Regulus barely has time to process what just happened before a quiet giggle escapes him. He slaps a hand over his mouth, but Mrs. Potter only laughs harder, and even Mr. Potter lets out a begrudging chuckle.

“She does this all the time whenever I want to bake,” Mr. Potter says, shaking his head.

Regulus giggles again. He doesn’t mean to. He can’t help it. Something about the whole thing—Mr. Potter looking seconds away from sweating, Mrs. Potter’s dramatic stare, the way the tension snapped into laughter—strikes him as undeniably funny.

Mrs. Potter steps further into the kitchen, still grinning. “Alright, alright, I’ll allow it—if I get to help.”

Mr. Potter sighs dramatically, as if this is some great inconvenience. “If you must.”

Mrs. Potter smirks, reaching for a wooden spoon. “I must.”

And just like that, the kitchen is full again. Full of warmth, of easy conversation, of laughter. Someone turns on the radio, and music drifts through the air. Mrs. Potter stirs the batter while swaying to the beat, nudging Mr. Potter with her hip until he laughs and does a ridiculous twirl in response.

Regulus watches them for a second, hesitant—then, before he can overthink it, he lets himself relax, lets himself get pulled into the moment.

They bake. They dance. They make a mess.

And for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—Regulus has fun.

It’s effortless, this kind of fun. The kind that sneaks up on him, that settles somewhere light and warm in his chest before he even realizes it’s there. He doesn’t have to force a smile or carefully measure his reactions, doesn’t have to keep himself small or quiet or perfectly in line. He just is, moving with the rhythm of the moment, caught up in the laughter and the music and the scent of chocolate filling the kitchen.

Honestly? Regulus can’t remember a time he’s had fun baking.

Come to think of it—he’s never baked before at all.

Not with his parents, at least.

His mother ran her kitchen like a well-oiled machine, spotless and efficient, every movement precise. Meals appeared as if by magic, perfectly plated and untouched by anything so chaotic as joy. His father never set foot in the kitchen, of course. That wasn’t his place. That wasn’t what men did.

Regulus wonders, distantly, if he ever would have been allowed to help. If he had asked—if he had stepped into the kitchen and reached for a spoon—would his mother have shooed him away? Would she have told him it wasn’t for him, that he would only be in the way?

Probably.

But here—

He glances up, watching as Mr. Potter dramatically flips a dish towel over his shoulder, waggling his eyebrows at Mrs. Potter, who huffs a laugh and swats at him with a wooden spoon. Flour dusts the front of her sweater, a smear of chocolate clinging to the back of Mr. Potter’s hand. The counter is a mess—batter splattered, sugar spilled, measuring cups stacked haphazardly—and neither of them seem to care.

No one is tense. No one is stiff-backed or silent.

There is no fear here, no looming expectation.

Just warmth. Just laughter. Just two people who seem to enjoy being around each other, who have folded Regulus into their world so seamlessly it makes his chest ache.

Is this what it’s meant to be?

This easy, steady kind of affection?

This thoughtless kind of love?

His throat feels tight, but not in a bad way.

He swallows past it, focusing on the way Mrs. Potter grins at her husband, the way Mr. Potter nudges Regulus lightly with his elbow, like they’re in on some kind of joke.

Regulus doesn’t know the answer. 

But for now, he lets himself wonder.

***

3:29 PM. 

That’s what the clock is saying.

The sound of someone knocking at the front door pulls everybody in the kitchen out of their laughter.

“I’ll get it,” Mrs. Potter says, still chuckling at something Mr. Potter did. She wipes her hands on a clean tea towel and walks toward the front door.

Regulus and Mr. Potter continue filling the cupcake batter into the tray. The process is messy, and Mr. Potter, despite being an adult, isn’t much better than Regulus at keeping the batter from dripping onto the counter. Regulus is focused on scooping out the right amount when he hears footsteps returning.

“Sarah’s here,” Mrs. Potter says.

Regulus looks up as Sarah steps into the kitchen, offering him a small smile. “Hey, Regulus. Mind if we have a chat?”

Regulus hesitates, shifting his gaze toward Mr. Potter, as if silently asking for permission.

“Off you go, bud,” Mr. Potter says, giving him an easy smile. “I’ve got this.”

Regulus swallows and mutters, “Okay.” He wipes his hands on a towel and follows Sarah out of the kitchen, through the hallway, and toward the back door. They step outside, just like the last check-in, and head toward the garden. The fresh air feels nice after being in the warm kitchen, and Regulus takes a slow breath as they sit down on the patio bench.

Sarah watches him for a moment, then asks, “So, how’s school been?”

Regulus shrugs at first, but then he says, “Colin and his friends got worse.” His voice is quieter now. “They kept pushing things, saying things, and then… well, they got suspended.”

Sarah nods, her expression calm and understanding. “I see. That must’ve been a relief.”

Regulus hums in response. It was, in a way. But it also made him feel exposed, like he’d been thrown into a spotlight he didn’t ask for.

Sarah tilts her head. “And how has it been staying here with the Potters?”

Regulus stiffens slightly. “Weird,” he admits. “With Mrs. Potter, I mean.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

Regulus frowns, trying to put it into words. “She doesn’t act like my mother did,” he says after a pause. “She doesn’t get angry like my mother would. She doesn’t make me—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “It’s just confusing.”

Sarah listens patiently, nodding. “That makes sense. You’ve spent years in a different kind of household, so adjusting to something new—something safe—can feel strange.”

Regulus swallows, not sure what to say to that. He doesn’t even know if he believes it.

After a moment, he sighs. “I got really upset because of everything Colin and his gang were doing to me, and I blamed her.” His voice is quiet, as if he’s ashamed to admit it. “Because she did this. She got me here. And it felt like… if I wasn’t here, it wouldn’t be happening.”

Sarah doesn’t look surprised. “It’s normal to feel that way,” she says gently. “Change is hard, and sometimes, when bad things happen, our brains want to find someone to blame. But Regulus, none of this is her fault. And it’s not yours either.”

Regulus nods slowly, but he doesn’t say anything. He just lets the words sit there, pressing against his ribs.

After a beat, Sarah shifts the conversation. “Have you made any friends?”

That question makes Regulus sit up a little straighter. He nods quickly. “Yeah, I have.”

And then, before he can stop himself, he starts talking. He tells her about his friends—how kind they are, how easy they are to be around. He tells her about the birthday sleepover he went to, how they stayed up way too late and played games and laughed until their stomachs hurt. He talks about how his friends include him, how they check in on him, how they don’t make him feel out of place.

Sarah chuckles as she listens to his rant, amusement clear on her face. “They sound very lovely.”

Regulus nods enthusiastically. “They are.”

A pause settles between them, and Regulus fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. He hesitates, then says, “I ran into my cousins the other day.”

Sarah lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Regulus shifts slightly. “We were out at a restaurant—me and the Potters, I mean. We were celebrating the end of school. And when we were leaving, I saw them. So I… talked to them.” He hesitates before adding, “Mr. and Mrs. Potter met them.”

Sarah’s expression remains neutral, though there’s a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “And how did that go?”

Regulus shrugs. “It was… okay, I think.” He frowns slightly. “We didn’t talk for long. But it wasn’t bad.”

Sarah nods thoughtfully, then waits, letting the silence stretch between them. After a moment, Regulus finally asks, “Am I staying with the Potters more permanently?”

Sarah’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the directness of the question. She stutters before answering, “If you’d like, you can.” Then, more gently, she adds, “It’s up to you. They made that very clear to me, last check-in, that it was your choice.”

Regulus processes that, staring down at his hands. The idea of permanence is still strange to him, but… it doesn’t feel bad. If anything, it feels kind of good.

Sarah studies him carefully. “Do you want to stay? More permanently, that is?”

Regulus hesitates, because does he want to? The answer is obvious, but saying it out loud makes it real. Still, after a moment, he nods. “Yeah. I think I would.”

Sarah smiles. “I think I can make that happen.”

They talk a little more, about smaller things—how he’s settling in, how things are going at home. And then, at the end of their conversation, Sarah glances at her watch and says, “Well, Regulus, I think this is goodbye for the month.”

Regulus blinks. “What?”

Sarah smiles. “You’ve been with the Potters for a month now. And I won’t be checking in for another month.”

Regulus stares at her. He knew it had been a month, but… it only just started to feel real when Sarah said it out loud.

A sudden thought strikes him, and before she can stand, he blurts out, “Wait! Can you come see me on my birthday?”

Sarah’s expression softens. “Of course.”

That reassures him more than he expected, and as they head back inside, Regulus feels a lightness in his chest.

Mr. and Mrs. Potter are still in the kitchen, now cleaning up some of the mess they made baking. When they see Sarah, they exchange a look and nod.

“I’d like to speak with you both for a moment,” Sarah says.

Mrs. Potter nods, setting down the dish towel. “Of course.”

Regulus doesn’t stick around to listen. Instead, he heads upstairs, deciding he wants to change into clean clothes. He stands in his room for a moment, looking around, feeling the warmth settle into his bones.

Because he did it. He made it. He survived.

An entire month in a home. An entire month with a family. And that feels like the greatest achievement of all.