To Find a Home

POV: FLEAMONT

Fleamont notices the way Euphemia exhales as she steps into the living room, rolling the tension out of her shoulders. He sets his book down, studying her carefully.

“Well,” she says, dropping onto the couch beside him. “I shouldn’t have been worried at all.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “The meeting went well, then?”

She nods, lips curving into a small smile. “It did. Ms. Carrington was wonderful. She had nothing but good things to say—she’s seen real improvement in his engagement, his participation, even just his comfort level in class.”

Fleamont smiles at that. “That’s good to hear.”

“It is.” Euphemia exhales again, leaning back against the cushions. “She really seems to like him.”

Fleamont hums in agreement, waiting. He knows that tone—there’s something else on her mind.

Sure enough, after a moment, she frowns slightly. “Though… he was acting a bit odd towards the end of the meeting.”

Fleamont tilts his head. “Odd how?”

Euphemia hesitates. “Quiet. More so than usual. He was fine at first, but after Ms. Carrington mentioned his progress—his behavior, the way he’s adjusting—I don’t know. He just… withdrew.”

Fleamont considers that, rubbing his jaw. “You think it had to do with what was discussed?”

She nods. “I do.”

Fleamont doesn’t answer right away. He’s come to learn that Regulus often needs time to process things, to sort through whatever thoughts are circling his mind before he’s ready to share them.

So, after a moment, he says simply, “If there was a problem, I’m sure he’d tell us.”

Euphemia gives him a look.

Fleamont huffs a quiet laugh. “Alright, eventually he’d tell us.”

That gets a small chuckle out of her. She shakes her head, expression softening. “He might just need some time.”

“Exactly.” Fleamont reaches for her hand, squeezing gently. “He’s figuring things out in his own way. And we’ll be here when he’s ready.”

Euphemia nods, threading her fingers through his. “You’re right.”

She sighs, relaxing just a little. “Thank you.”

Fleamont squeezes her hand again, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Always, love.”

***

Regulus has been acting strange ever since Thursday. Fleamont isn’t sure why—just that something is off.

He’s quieter than usual. Withdrawn. Fleamont has caught him staring into space more than once, his expression distant, like his mind is somewhere else entirely.

And now, as Fleamont steps into the kitchen, he notices Sarah through the window that leads out onto the front porch. She’s sitting across from Regulus, speaking in that calm, measured voice of hers.

Regulus, on the other hand, looks—deflated.

His shoulders are curled in. Even from here, Fleamont can tell something isn’t right.

Euphemia stands by the counter, arms crossed, watching through the window just as he is.

They don’t eavesdrop. They never eavesdrop. But Fleamont can’t help the way his chest tightens as he watches Regulus nod at something Sarah says, then duck his head, hands twisting in his sleeves.

After a few more minutes, Sarah says something else, and Regulus nods again, standing abruptly. He pushes the front door open, slipping past them without a word.

That’s when Fleamont sees it.

The tear tracks staining his cheeks, catching in the light. Regulus walks past without so much as a glance in their direction, heading straight up the stairs.

Euphemia exhales, soft and worried.

Sarah steps inside, closing the door behind her, and offers them a small, tired smile.

“Could I have a word?” she asks.

Fleamont exchanges a glance with Euphemia before nodding. “Of course.”

They all move to the sitting room. Fleamont gestures for Sarah to sit, and she does, resting her hands in her lap.

She doesn’t waste time. “How’s he been?”

Euphemia answers first. “Quiet. More than usual.”

Sarah nods thoughtfully. “I did notice that. Has anything happened recently?”

Fleamont hesitates. “Well, there was the suspension.”

Sarah’s brows lift slightly. “Ah. Can you walk me through what happened?”

Fleamont sighs, rubbing his jaw. “He punched another student. Broke the boy’s nose.”

Sarah frowns slightly. “Do you know why?”

Euphemia shakes her head. “Not exactly. He wouldn’t talk about it in detail. We assumed he lost his temper.”

Sarah hums. “How did he handle the consequences?”

Euphemia’s expression softens. “Better than I expected. He understood what he did was wrong. He wrote an apology to the boy and took his suspension seriously.”

Fleamont nods. “He’s been withdrawn ever since, though. We assumed he was feeling guilty.”

Sarah listens carefully, her expression unreadable. Then she exhales, glancing down at her hands before looking back up.

“I still haven’t found a permanent placement for him.”

Silence.

Fleamont glances at Euphemia, and she looks back at him.

They don’t need words.

This is his placement.

This is his home.

Euphemia turns to Sarah. “He can stay,” she says simply. “This doesn’t need to be temporary. If Regulus wants to stay here—this can be his permanent placement.”

Sarah blinks, like she wasn’t expecting that. Then her lips curve into a small smile. “Alright. I’ll ask him next check-in.”

Fleamont nods.

Sarah stands, smoothing out her skirt. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

They walk her to the door, and Fleamont watches as she steps off the porch, heading toward her car.

As the door clicks shut, he glances up the stairs, where Regulus disappeared minutes ago. They’ll have to talk to him later.

But for now, Fleamont simply places a hand on Euphemia’s back, and she leans into him. They know, without a doubt, that Regulus isn’t going anywhere.

POV: EUPHEMIA

The kitchen is quiet save for the rhythmic sound of running water and the occasional clink of plates against the sink. Euphemia stands at the basin, hands submerged in warm, soapy water, methodically scrubbing a dish before passing it to Fleamont, who dries them beside her. It’s a comfortable routine, one they’ve shared for years.

She hums softly under her breath, focused on her task, until she hears Fleamont’s voice break the quiet.

“Everything alright, kiddo?”

Euphemia stills, the plate in her hands slipping beneath the suds. There’s something in Fleamont’s tone—gentle, coaxing—that makes her turn. She dries her hands on a towel and follows his gaze to the doorway, where Regulus stands, frozen in place.

Her heart squeezes at the sight of him. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, like he’s torn between bolting and forcing himself to stay. His fingers clutch a piece of blue paper so tightly that the edges are crumpling. His knuckles are pale.

“Did something happen at school today, sweetheart?” Euphemia asks, keeping her voice as soft as possible.

Regulus doesn’t answer—not verbally. Instead, he exhales sharply and thrusts the paper forward, his movements abrupt and tense.

She exchanges a glance with Fleamont before gently taking it from his hands, smoothing out the creases. Her husband steps closer, looking over her shoulder as she unfolds it.

It’s an invitation.

Fleamont lets out a thoughtful hum, reading over the details. “A birthday party?”

Euphemia glances back at Regulus, watching the way he stares at the floor as if willing himself to disappear. She softens.

“Would you like to go?” she asks warmly.

His response is a small, almost hesitant nod.

A smile tugs at her lips. “Well, this party’s got perfect timing,” Fleamont muses. “You don’t have a check-in this weekend.”

Euphemia chuckles. “I guess it does.”

That’s when Regulus finally looks up.

She meets his gaze and offers him a reassuring smile. “You can most certainly go, sweetheart.”

His expression is guarded, but she doesn’t miss the way something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe.

She isn’t finished, though. She sets the invitation down on the counter and meets his gaze once more, making sure he hears her next words.

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

Regulus blinks at her, and something shifts in his posture. It’s subtle, but she sees it—the way his shoulders relax just a fraction, the way his grip loosens.

He nods, shyly.

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

There’s a beat of silence, and then—

Regulus smiles. It’s small at first, almost uncertain, but then it grows, unbidden and bright. And before he seems to realize it, he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, a light, repeated movement that speaks of barely-contained excitement.

Euphemia chuckles softly, warmth blooming in her chest.

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

Regulus nods again before hesitating, lifting his hand in a small, awkward wave, then turning on his heel to leave.

“Goodnight, love,” Euphemia calls after him.

“Goodnight, kiddo,” Fleamont adds.

At the doorway, Regulus falters for just a second, then lifts his hand again in another small wave before heading for the stairs.

Euphemia watches him go, her heart feeling full in a way she can’t quite put into words. She turns back to Fleamont, and he’s already looking at her, a knowing expression in his eyes.

She lets out a breath, smiling softly. “Oh my gosh, Fleamont,” Euphemia exclaims like she’s breathless. 

“I know,” Fleamont replies, chuckling lightly, sounding equally as breathless.  

“Regulus, he—” she pauses, letting out another ‘oh my gosh’ under her breath. Fleamont turns to her, “I know,” he mutters again, his smile just as wide as hers. 

Euphemia locks eyes with Fleamont. She tries desperately to keep her happiness and excitement at bay, whilst trying to convey to Fleamont what Regulus just did. 

“I know,” Fleamont says, like he understands what she wanted to say. Like he understood how amazing this moment truly is. 

After some silence, Euphemia murmurs, “we’re getting there, Fleamont.”

Fleamont nods, setting the last plate aside. “Yeah,” he agrees. “We are.”

POV: FLEAMONT

Fleamont swears Regulus has been acting differently around Euphemia. It’s subtle—just the smallest shift in his behavior. A hesitation before responding to her, a certain stiffness when she’s near. It’s not enough to cause an issue, not yet, but it’s there. And it worries him.

He doesn’t think it’s intentional. If anything, it seems more like an instinctive reaction than a conscious choice, like Regulus himself doesn’t quite realize he’s doing it. Fleamont considers bringing it up, but he knows better than to rush these things. Regulus is still settling in, still figuring out what it means to be here, to be part of this family. Pushing too hard could backfire.

So he pockets the thought for now, filing it away for a later conversation. Because right now, they have something else to talk about—something much more important.

Regulus had been invited to a birthday sleepover.

Fleamont had been ecstatic when he first read the invitation, though he had tried to keep his reaction measured for Regulus’s sake. It wasn’t just that Regulus was asking if he could go—it was that he wanted to. It was that he had friends, real friends, the kind that sent out invitations and wanted him there.

That was worth celebrating.

Now, they just needed to go over a few things with him. Not rules, exactly—not in a strict sense—but expectations, reassurances, things that would hopefully make Regulus feel secure about going.

So after dinner, when the dishes were nearly done and Regulus had been lingering in the kitchen, Fleamont turned to him with an easy, warm smile.

“Regulus, why don’t you sit down for a minute?” he said, nodding toward one of the kitchen stools. “We wanted to talk to you about the party.”

Regulus froze, just slightly.

Fleamont didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched, tightening around the hem of his sweater. He had expected some kind of follow-up, of course—he knew things like this came with expectations—but sitting down and discussing it seemed to catch him off guard.

Still, after a moment, Regulus nodded and cautiously perched on the edge of the stool, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

Euphemia gave him a soft smile before speaking. “We just wanted to go over a few things, sweetheart. Nothing bad, I promise.”

Regulus nodded again, barely breathing, bracing himself for whatever was coming next.

Fleamont leaned against the counter, careful to keep his posture relaxed, non-threatening. “So, first things first—you know our house rules still apply when you’re staying somewhere else, yeah? Just the basics: be polite, be respectful, and if anything makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to go along with it.”

Regulus swallowed, nodding stiffly. That made sense. That was reasonable.

Euphemia picked up where he left off, her voice gentle. “And we mean that, Regulus. You don’t ever have to do something just because everyone else is doing it. You can always say no.”

Fleamont watched as Regulus processed that, his brows furrowing just slightly, like the idea was unfamiliar. Like no one had ever told him that before.

Fleamont continued, “We’d also like you to check in once, just so we know you’re okay. A quick text will do—doesn’t have to be much, just a simple ‘all good.’”

At that, he saw Regulus tense again, his fingers curling in on themselves. It wasn’t a protest, exactly, but it was something close.

Euphemia must have noticed too because she reached across the counter and lightly tapped his wrist. “It’s not about checking on you, love. It’s about making sure you’re safe.”

Safe.

Fleamont saw the way that word settled in Regulus’s chest, saw the way he exhaled just a little, something shifting in his posture.

After a beat, Regulus nodded again, though his hands were still curled tightly together.

Fleamont exchanged a quick glance with Euphemia before adding, “And bud, listen—if, for any reason, you need to come home, you can. It doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night, or if you feel silly about it, or if you don’t know why you feel off. If you need to leave, get either Pandora or Evan’s mum and dad to call us. We will come get you.”

Euphemia nodded firmly in agreement. “It doesn’t matter what time it is, sweetheart. We’d much rather pick you up than have you stay somewhere you don’t feel comfortable.”

Fleamont could see the moment that truly sank in, the moment Regulus realized they meant it. There was still doubt in his eyes—uncertainty, hesitation—but also something else. A kind of tentative relief.

Fleamont knew that trust wasn’t built overnight. But as Regulus sat there, processing their words, he felt like maybe, just maybe, they were making progress.

POV: EUPHEMIA

Euphemia stands beside Fleamont and Regulus, her hand resting lightly against her husband's arm as they wait at the mint-green front door. Regulus is still, his posture perfectly straight, but Euphemia notices the way his hands tighten around the carefully wrapped presents he spent so long preparing. His bag is slung over one shoulder, yet he holds himself as if it weighs twice as much as it should.

She glances at him, offering a small, reassuring smile. He doesn’t meet her gaze. His eyes are fixed on the door, his breathing slow and measured. Euphemia can tell he’s nervous.

Before she can say something to ease him, the door swings open.

There is a boy standing there. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with platinum blonde hair and sharp features that mark him unmistakably as the birthday boy and girl’s older brother.

“Hello,” the boy says, polite and even. “You must be Regulus. Come on in.”

Regulus inclines his head in a stiff nod, stepping inside, and Euphemia follows closely, Fleamont beside her.

The entryway is bright and well-kept, with the faint scent of something floral in the air.

“Felix, who is it?” A voice calls from further inside.

A moment later, a woman appears. She has long, platinum-blonde hair—the same as the boy who opened the door—Felix, his name is. Her sharp features soften when she sees them.

“Ah. Hello there.” Her gaze flickers to Felix. “Felix, dear, can you go get your father? Then help your brother and sister upstairs.”

Felix nods, offering a small, tight-lipped smile before disappearing down the hall.

The woman steps forward. “It’s lovely to meet you, Regulus. I’m Marguerite Rosier, Pandora and Evan’s mother.”

Regulus dips his head slightly in acknowledgment, his grip still tight around his presents.

A moment later, another figure steps into the entryway. He’s tall, dark-haired, and sharply dressed, his expression measured but not unkind. Felix trails behind him.

“Ah,” the man says. “You must be Regulus.” He turns to Euphemia and Fleamont, extending a hand. “Cyrus Rosier.”

Fleamont shakes it firmly. “Fleamont Potter. This is my wife, Euphemia.”

“Lovely to meet you both,” Marguerite says warmly. “Pandora and Evan have been talking about this sleepover all week.”

“They’ve been very excited,” Cyrus agrees, glancing briefly at Regulus. “Pandora mentioned you might be a little nervous about coming. But she assured us you were looking forward to it.”

Euphemia notices Regulus shift slightly at that. She knows he trusts Pandora, but she also knows he struggles with people speaking for him.

The conversation flows naturally, and at some point, the topic of Regulus’ situation comes up.

“Regulus is our foster son,” Euphemia says, her voice gentle but firm.

“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Marguerite says easily. “Pandora already mentioned something about that. Our daughter is a very understanding young lady.”

Cyrus nods in agreement, studying Regulus with a calm expression. “She also mentioned you don’t speak much. That you communicate through writing.”

Euphemia feels Regulus tense slightly beside her.

“That’s perfectly fine,” Marguerite assures him. “You can write if you need anything.”

Regulus lets out a small breath and nods.

As they wrap up, Marguerite suggests exchanging numbers in case anything comes up, and Euphemia wholeheartedly agrees. She gives both her and Fleamont’s numbers, watching as Marguerite and Cyrus input them into their phones.

“If he needs to come home, just call, and one of us will come get him,” Euphemia says, her voice firm but kind. “No matter the reason.”

Cyrus nods. “Of course.”

Marguerite glances at Regulus. “You’ll be alright, sweetheart,” she says gently. “We’ll take good care of you.”

Regulus nods again, but he remains quiet, his fingers still curled tightly around the wrapped presents.

Euphemia turns to him. “Do you have everything you need?”

He nods.

She pauses, eyes soft. “Even your stuffed black dog?”

Regulus freezes.

His breath catches, his body going rigid.

Then, slowly, he shakes his head.

Euphemia’s heart aches at the panic flickering across his face. She reaches out instinctively, but stops just before touching his shoulder.

“That’s alright, sweetheart,” she says gently. “I’ll go home and get it for you, okay?”

Regulus exhales shakily, his fingers twitching at his sides. Then, after a beat, he nods.

Euphemia smiles, reassuring, and she watches as he struggles to believe her.

Marguerite and Cyrus offer their final goodbyes, and as Euphemia and Fleamont step outside, the door shuts softly behind them.

***

Euphemia barely waits for the door to shut behind them before she’s moving, her steps quick and purposeful. She doesn’t bother removing her coat, heading straight up the stairs and down the hall to Regulus’ room.

When she steps inside, she pauses.

It’s spotless.

Too spotless.

The bed is neatly made, the pillows perfectly aligned. His books, the few he has, are stacked with near-perfect precision on the desk. The drawers of his dresser are shut tight, no stray articles of clothing in sight. Even the floor—no shoes left out, no evidence of anything out of place. It looks… untouched.

Euphemia frowns, her heart twisting. A child’s bedroom should feel lived-in. Messy, even. But this—this is rigid, meticulous. Controlled.

With a quiet breath, she steps forward, spotting the stuffed black dog sitting neatly on the pillow. She picks it up gently, smoothing her fingers over the soft fur. It’s well-loved, worn down in places to make it softer, but still in good shape. She holds it close for a moment before turning and making her way back downstairs.

Fleamont is waiting in the sitting room, watching her descend. His gaze flickers to the stuffed animal in her arms, then back to her face. “Are you going to drop it off now?”

“Yes, I’ll be right back,” she says simply. She can’t bear the thought of Regulus spending the night without it.

Fleamont nods, his expression understanding. “Drive safe.”

She gives him a small smile, then grabs her purse and keys before heading out the door.

The drive to the Rosiers' home is quick, and soon Euphemia is knocking lightly on the mint-green front door.

It opens a moment later, revealing Marguerite Rosier. The other woman blinks in surprise before offering a warm smile. “Oh, Mrs. Potter. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Euphemia, please,” she corrects gently. “I just wanted to drop something off for Regulus. He left it behind.”

She holds up the stuffed dog, and understanding flickers across Marguerite’s face.

“Of course, come in.” She steps aside, allowing Euphemia to enter the bright, well-kept home.

“I won’t stay long,” Euphemia assures her. “I just didn’t want him to be without it.”

Marguerite nods knowingly. “That was thoughtful of you. Pandora mentioned he was a little anxious about staying over.”

Euphemia exhales softly. “He was. He’s still adjusting to everything.”

Marguerite studies her carefully before tilting her head. “You and your husband—are you considering making this permanent?”

Euphemia stills. The answer is simple. Yes. But saying it out loud feels so much bigger than just a single word.

“I think…” She glances down at the stuffed dog, brushing a thumb over the worn fabric. “I think we’d like to. If he wants that.”

Marguerite smiles knowingly. “You care for him.”

“We do,” Euphemia says softly.

A rustling noise from down the hall catches their attention, and a moment later, Regulus steps into view, following behind Pandora. His eyes land on Euphemia, then on the familiar shape in her hands.

His entire body relaxes.

Before she can say anything, he crosses the space between them and wraps his arms around her in a quick, tight hug.

Euphemia stutters, completely caught off guard. “Oh—”

But just as quickly as it happens, it’s over. Regulus pulls away, clutching the stuffed animal tightly to his chest.

Her heart clenches.

“There you go, sweetheart,” she manages, voice softer now. She wills herself to regain composure, offering him a gentle smile. “I told you I’d bring it.”

Regulus nods, gripping the stuffed dog as though it might disappear if he lets go.

Euphemia swallows past the lump in her throat, watching as Pandora tugs lightly on his sleeve, leading him back toward the living room.

Something warm settles in her chest.

She exhales slowly, trying to gather herself, but when she glances over, she finds Marguerite watching her with quiet amusement.

“Judging by the look on your face,” Marguerite says, voice light but perceptive, “he’s never hugged you willingly before, has he?”

Euphemia lets out a small, breathy laugh, though it’s more startled than anything. She shakes her head. “No,” she admits, voice quieter than before. “Never.”

Marguerite hums, glancing toward the direction Regulus disappeared. “I imagine that must’ve been quite the moment for you, then.”

Euphemia lets out a soft, unsteady breath. “You have no idea.”

Marguerite smiles knowingly, her expression kind. “He’s a reserved boy. But I think he trusts you.”

The words catch Euphemia off guard more than they should. Trust. It’s such a simple word, yet with Regulus, it feels so much bigger.

She swallows again, blinking rapidly. “I hope so.”

Marguerite studies her for a moment before nodding. “Well,” she says, “if that hug was anything to go by, I’d say you’re well on your way.”

Euphemia doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so she simply nods, a small, grateful smile on her lips.

Marguerite walks her to the door, and Euphemia steps outside, the cool night air brushing against her skin.

She glances back once more before leaving, her heart still warm from the unexpected moment.

POV: FLEAMONT

The second Euphemia steps through the front door, Fleamont knows something’s up.

He sets down his book, watching as she hangs her keys up with an almost dazed expression, her eyes still far away, like she’s replaying something in her mind. There’s something different about the way she moves—like she’s still processing whatever just happened. And then there’s the look on her face, an odd mixture of shock and absolute delight, a combination he’s never quite seen on her before.

Naturally, he has to ask.

“What happened?” he says, brows drawing together.

Euphemia blinks, as if only just realizing he’s there. She hesitates for a moment, as though she doesn’t quite believe it herself, and then she says, “Regulus hugged me.”

Fleamont does a double take. “What?”

She nods, almost breathless. “Yeah. He hugged me. On his own. No prompting.”

He stares at her, trying to wrap his head around it. Regulus—the same boy who flinches at casual touch, who stiffens whenever someone so much as brushes past him, who seems to exist in a perpetual state of guardedness—hugged her? Just like that?

“Well,” she amends, running a hand through her hair, “to be fair, I had just given him his dog. And it seemed more like—like a reflex? Maybe a thank you?”

Fleamont nods slowly, listening, but still trying to picture it. Regulus, clinging onto her, even for a brief second. It doesn’t quite compute.

“I just stood there, Monty,” Euphemia says, shaking her head, still visibly thrown. “For a good ten seconds. I didn’t even know how to react.”

Fleamont chuckles at that, because of course she didn’t. He can count on one hand the number of times Regulus has initiated physical affection since arriving here, and none of them were anything nearly as close to a hug.

“So,” he says, amusement lacing his tone, “did it feel good? The hug?”

Euphemia exhales, her expression softening as she sinks onto the couch beside him. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Yeah, it did.”

And Fleamont, watching the warmth spread across her face, can’t help but smile.

Later that evening, during dinner, Euphemia’s phone buzzes against the table. She picks it up, glancing at the screen, and then her brows lift slightly in surprise.

“It’s from Marguerite Rosier,” she says, setting her fork down. “Regulus asked her to text us and let us know he’s alright.”

Fleamont leans back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Well,” he says, a small, pleased smile tugging at his lips. “I’m glad he remembered we wanted an ‘alright’ text.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “Wasn’t really expecting that, to be honest.”

“Yeah, same,” Euphemia admits, locking her phone and setting it aside. “I didn’t think he would.”

Fleamont exhales, thinking about it for a moment. He wouldn’t have blamed the boy if he’d forgotten, or if he simply hadn’t wanted to send word. Regulus has been through so much, far more than any child should, and he still struggles with the concept that there are people who genuinely care about his well-being—people who worry about him when he’s not in sight. But despite all of that, despite the walls he’s built around himself, Regulus had still remembered.

Fleamont isn’t sure Regulus understands the significance of that, but to him, it means everything. It’s not just a text. It’s a step—an unsteady, tentative step, but a step nonetheless—toward trust. Toward belief in the fact that he belongs here, that he matters.

Regulus is amazing, really. He doesn’t even realize it.

Fleamont glances at Euphemia, who’s still looking down at her phone as if half-expecting another message to come through. He can see it on her face—how much she adores that boy, how fiercely she wants to protect him.

“Well,” he says, picking up his fork again. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

Euphemia smiles, soft and knowing. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “It really is.”

***

Fleamont and Euphemia arrive at the Rosier house just past midday, the summer sun casting long shadows across the driveway. As they step up to the front door, the murmur of voices and faint laughter from inside drifts through the slightly open windows. He exchanges a glance with Euphemia—Regulus seemed to have stayed the entire night without issue, which was already a success in itself.

The door swings open before they can knock, revealing Marguerite Rosier, her expression warm and welcoming. “Fleamont, Euphemia,” she greets, stepping aside to let them in. “Come in, come in.”

Cyrus appears a moment later, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Afternoon,” he says, offering a nod.

Euphemia smiles. “Afternoon. How’d everything go?”

Marguerite waves a hand, leading them toward the sitting room. “Oh, he was wonderful. Truly, an absolute pleasure to have.”

Fleamont raises an eyebrow, amused but unsurprised. “Is that so?”

Cyrus chuckles, leaning against the doorway. “Really. You’ve got a good kid on your hands—polite, well-mannered, maybe a little too well-mannered for a boy his age.”

“Didn’t cause any trouble?” Fleamont asks, though he already suspects the answer.

Marguerite shakes her head. “Not at all. He didn’t even hesitate to help clean up after the party. Not that he needed to, of course, but he just… did. No fuss, no prompting. He’s very considerate.”

Something tightens in Fleamont’s chest. He knows why Regulus does things like that—why he steps in to help when no one asks, why he’s always so careful not to be in the way, why he never assumes he’s allowed to just be a child. He glances at Euphemia and can tell she’s thinking the same thing.

“Thank you for having him,” she says softly.

Marguerite waves her off. “He’s welcome anytime.”

Cyrus pushes off the doorway. “I’ll go grab him.”

As the man disappears down the hall, Fleamont glances around, expecting to hear some sign of Regulus approaching—footsteps, rustling fabric, anything. But it’s quiet. Too quiet. Then, as Cyrus returns, Fleamont spots Regulus stepping into the foyer behind him, his bag already slung over his shoulder.

And in his hands—

Fleamont’s gaze catches on the small wooden frame Regulus is clutching to his chest. A photo.

His brows furrow. What could it be? Something from the party? A group picture? No, the way Regulus holds it, fingers curled tightly around the edges, makes it seem more personal. More important.

Regulus doesn’t meet their eyes at first, though he gives a small nod of thanks when Marguerite hands him a folded piece of paper—probably a note from her, or maybe Evan and Pandora.

“Did you have a good time?” Euphemia asks gently as they say their final goodbyes.

Regulus nods once.

Fleamont watches as his fingers press tighter around the frame. He doesn’t ask about it, not yet.

Instead, as they step out into the warm afternoon air and head toward the car, he makes a note to keep an eye on whatever that photo is. Because whatever it is, it clearly means something to Regulus.

POV: EUPHEMIA

Euphemia walks briskly through the quiet school hallways, her shoes clicking against the tile floor. She had dropped everything the moment the school called, and now she’s here, barely restraining the frustration bubbling under the surface.

When she steps into the Deputy Principal’s office, the first thing she sees is Regulus. He’s curled in on himself, head down, fingers twisting into the fabric of his sleeves. Her stomach tightens.

He looks small. Tired.

"Mrs. Potter, thank you for coming in so quickly," Mrs. Lawson, the Deputy Principal, greets with a polite smile.

Euphemia nods and takes the seat beside Regulus, glancing at him briefly before turning her attention to Mrs. Lawson. "Of course. What happened?"

Mrs. Lawson exhales, folding her hands neatly on the desk. "Regulus had an unfortunate run-in with some other students. It seems they locked him in a supply closet. He was found fairly quickly, but it was still an upsetting experience."

Euphemia stiffens. A sharp, immediate anger flares in her chest. "Was it the same student that Regulus punched?"

Mrs. Lawson nods.

Euphemia exhales slowly through her nose, forcing herself to stay composed. "And what is being done about it?"

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

Euphemia turns to him fully this time, studying his face. He keeps his head down, but she can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds himself so tightly, like he’s bracing for something.

"That’s fine," she says gently. "Whatever you need, sweetheart."

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

Regulus hesitates but eventually stands. His movements are stiff, careful, like his body hasn’t quite caught up with his mind yet. Euphemia watches as he leaves the office, her worry growing with every step he takes away from her.

When the door clicks shut behind him, she turns back to Mrs. Lawson. "This is the second time," she says, voice tight. "Why wasn’t more done after the first?"

Mrs. Lawson sighs. "We’ve spoken with the students involved. Their parents have been contacted. It’s being addressed."

Euphemia bites back her first response, knowing that snapping won’t fix anything. "Regulus has been here less than a month, and this keeps happening. He’s not safe here."

"I understand your frustration," Mrs. Lawson says, and to her credit, she does look sympathetic. "But it’s not uncommon for children in his situation to struggle with peer relationships. It takes time to adjust."

Euphemia exhales sharply. "He wouldn’t need to ‘adjust’ if other students simply treated him with basic decency."

Mrs. Lawson gives a small nod. "You're right. But he does need structure, stability—he needs to know that the adults around him are consistent."

Euphemia's expression softens slightly, the fight draining out of her just a little. She presses her fingers together, choosing her next words carefully. "We’re trying. It’s just... sometimes, it feels like he’s afraid to settle in. Like he doesn’t believe this is permanent." She shakes her head, something aching in her chest. "It’s difficult for kids like him."

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

Euphemia sighs, quieter this time. "We want him to feel safe with us. But I don’t know if he believes he can."

The words sit heavy between them.

Then, the office door creaks.

Regulus stands just outside, his bag slung over his shoulders. His expression is carefully blank, but there’s something in the stiffness of his posture that makes Euphemia's stomach twist.

How much did he hear?

Mrs. Lawson offers him a kind smile. "Ready to go?"

Regulus nods, but he doesn’t look at Euphemia.

The walk to the car is quiet. Euphemia glances at him every few steps, searching for any sign of how he’s feeling, but his face remains unreadable.

Once they reach the car, he slides into the passenger seat without a word, staring out the window.

Euphemia settles behind the wheel, hesitating before she speaks. "Did you want to talk about it?"

Regulus shakes his head, still not looking at her.

She doesn’t push. She knows him well enough to understand that forcing a conversation won’t get her anywhere. Instead, she simply sighs, starts the engine, and pulls onto the road.

The ride home is silent, thick with unspoken words.

And Euphemia can’t stop thinking about the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

***

The front door clicks shut, and Euphemia barely has time to exhale before Fleamont steps into the kitchen, loosening his tie. He looks tired, but his expression softens when he sees her.

"Long day?" he asks, leaning in to kiss her temple.

She sighs, pressing her fingers against the bridge of her nose. "You have no idea."

Fleamont hums knowingly, heading toward the counter to pour himself a cup of tea from the pot she made earlier. "James?"

"Fine," she says, waving a hand. "Just being James."

"Regulus?"

She exhales sharply. "That’s… a different story."

Fleamont turns, mug in hand, his brow furrowing as he takes her in properly. She’s perched at the table, hands curled around her own cup, but she hasn’t taken a sip in ages.

"What happened?" he asks, voice gentle.

Euphemia swirls the tea absently, watching the liquid shift. "I got called to the school today. Some boys locked him in a supply closet."

Fleamont’s face darkens instantly. "What?"

"He’s fine," she assures quickly, though the words feel weak in her mouth. "Shaken, but fine. He came home early."

Fleamont sets his mug down, pulling out the chair beside her. "And?"

She sighs again. "And he’s barely been near me since."

Fleamont tilts his head, waiting.

"I think… I think he might have overheard my conversation with the Deputy Principal," she admits quietly. "I don’t know how much, but I know he heard something."

Fleamont leans back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "What did you say?"

Euphemia presses her lips together. "Nothing bad. Just that he struggles to believe this is permanent. That kids like him have a hard time settling in." She pauses. "But I’ve said things like that before, and he’s shut down a bit, but it never—"

"Never made him go cold like this?" Fleamont finishes gently.

She nods.

He sighs, reaching for her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "Effie, maybe he just had a bad day. He was locked in a closet, for bloody sake. If he’s upset, it might not have anything to do with what you said."

She nods again, but it’s automatic, her mind elsewhere. "Maybe."

Fleamont studies her for a long moment. "You don’t believe that, do you?"

Euphemia finally looks up at him, and the worry in her eyes is unmistakable. "I don’t know," she admits. "But I have this awful feeling that things are only going to get worse."

POV: FLEAMONT*

Tuesdays mean either he or Euphemia picks Regulus up. Fleamont had offered today, and now, standing outside the guidance counselor’s office, he’s glad he did.

The moment he steps inside, his eyes find Regulus. The boy is curled in on himself, shoulders tight, gaze fixed on the floor. He’s perched on the edge of a chair, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to disappear. His fingers pick restlessly at his sleeve, twisting the fabric between sharp, thin fingers.

Fleamont’s chest aches at the sight.

Mrs. Carrington, the guidance counselor, looks up from her desk and offers a small, polite smile. “Mr. Potter, thank you for coming.”

“Of course.” His attention flickers briefly to her before settling back on Regulus. He takes the seat beside him, moving carefully, like he might startle the boy if he’s not careful.

Regulus doesn’t look up.

Fleamont keeps his voice soft. “Hey, kiddo. What happened?”

For a moment, he doesn’t think Regulus will answer. His whole body is wound tight, breathing shallow. But then—

“He was called an idiot,” comes a sharp voice from the other side of the room.

Fleamont turns his head. He hadn’t even noticed the other student sitting across from them—Barty Crouch Jr., watching the scene unfold with a kind of restrained fury. His voice is quick, clipped, like he knows Regulus won’t say it himself. “Our computing teacher called him an idiot for needing to write things down.” He hesitates, then, quieter but no less cutting, “And then he called him a retard.”

Silence.

Fleamont goes very, very still.

Something sharp and cold settles in his chest. His fingers twitch against his knee, but he doesn’t react—not outwardly, at least. He doesn’t curse, doesn’t slam his fist against the desk like he wants to. He just breathes through it.

He turns back to Regulus. “Is that why you’d like to leave?”

Regulus nods, small and stiff.

Fleamont hums, pushing himself to his feet. “Alright,” he says, easy as anything. He picks up Regulus’ bag, slinging it over his shoulder like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Let’s get out of here.”

Regulus stands without a word, his movements slow and heavy.

Barty exhales. “See you later, Regulus.”

Regulus only nods before following Fleamont out of the office.

The sign-out process is quick, but the air feels heavier with every step toward the car. Fleamont can see the exhaustion dragging at Regulus, the way his head dips slightly, the unsteady way he moves. By the time they reach the passenger seat, the boy all but collapses into it, head resting against the headrest, hands curled limply in his lap.

Fleamont starts the car, and as soon as the engine hums to life, the tension bleeds out of Regulus all at once. His shoulders sag, his breath shuddering on the exhale.

But his hands tremble.

Fleamont notices the way he presses them against his thighs, trying to ground himself. The exhaustion radiating from him isn’t just physical. It’s deeper than that—bone-deep, soul-deep.

Fleamont grips the steering wheel a little tighter.

He doesn’t know what’s worse—the fact that some teacher thought it was acceptable to speak to a child like that, or the fact that Regulus hadn’t planned to tell him at all.

***

The moment they step inside, Regulus doesn’t stop. He barely shrugs off his shoes before making his way up the stairs, moving slowly but deliberately, like he’s carrying something heavy. He doesn’t say a word.

Fleamont watches him go, lips pressing into a thin line. The weight of the afternoon settles heavier on his shoulders. He knows Regulus has had bad days before, but this—this feels different.

Euphemia steps into the entryway, catching sight of Regulus just as he disappears upstairs. Her brows furrow, concern etched into every line of her face. She turns to Fleamont. “What happened today? He looks so…” She trails off, searching for the right word but not finding it.

Fleamont takes a breath, steadying himself. He rarely gets angry—never sees the point in it—but today has tested that patience in a way he hasn’t felt in years. His jaw tightens. “Well,” he starts, voice carefully controlled, “his computing teacher called him an idiot for needing to write things down.”

Euphemia’s expression darkens immediately.

Fleamont exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “And then—” His throat works around the words, because saying it out loud makes it feel worse, somehow. “Then, he called him a retard.”

Silence.

Euphemia blinks once. Twice. Then she straightens, shoulders squaring, fury flashing hot and unmistakable in her eyes. “Nope,” she says, turning on her heel so fast that Fleamont barely has time to process before she’s striding toward the phone.

Fleamont watches as she dials with precise, controlled movements, her lips pressing into a firm line as she waits. The call barely rings twice before someone picks up.

“Ms. Carrington, it’s Euphemia Potter.” Her voice is sharp, clipped, but still polite in the way only Euphemia can manage when she’s furious. “I need to talk to you about Regulus’ computing class.”

A beat. Then, Ms. Carrington’s voice, muffled but firm on the other end.

“I was on it the second I heard.”

Euphemia exhales, tension easing from her shoulders ever so slightly. “Good. I want him out of that class immediately.”

“It’ll be sorted by tomorrow morning,” Ms. Carrington assures her.

Euphemia closes her eyes briefly, relief flickering across her face before she nods, even though Ms. Carrington can’t see it. “Thank you.”

She hangs up, standing still for a moment, hands resting against the counter. Fleamont steps forward, setting a gentle hand on her back.

She lets out a breath, then turns to him, eyes still sharp with lingering anger. “What kind of person says that to a child?”

Fleamont shakes his head. “Someone who shouldn’t be teaching.”

They stand there for a moment, neither saying anything else. The house is quiet, save for the faint creak of the floorboards upstairs.

Finally, Euphemia sighs. “I’ll check on him later. Give him a bit of space first.”

Fleamont nods, though the anger in his chest hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s only settled in deeper.

POV: EUPHEMIA

It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and Regulus is still in bed.

Euphemia has spent the past thirty minutes trying everything to coax him up—gentle encouragement, firm reasoning, even the promise of tea and toast. Nothing has worked. He’s curled up under the blankets, stiff and silent, making it abundantly clear he has no intention of moving.

She’s dealt with her fair share of stubborn older teens before, but Regulus is different. He isn’t just being difficult—he’s shutting down, and she doesn’t know how to reach him.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, she rests a hand on his blanket-covered shoulder.

“Regulus,” she says, voice warm but firm, “I know yesterday was awful. But hiding in bed isn’t going to change anything.”

No response.

She sighs. “If you get up now, we’ll still have time for tea before we leave.”

Still nothing.

She’s about to try again when James steps into the room, dressed in his uniform, bag slung over one shoulder. He takes one look at Regulus buried under the covers, then at her, and tilts his head.

“What if you just sit in Mum’s car until assembly is over?” James suggests, casual as anything. “Then come into school after.”

Euphemia blinks. That’s… actually a good idea.

The blankets shift slightly. Regulus is thinking about it.

A long moment passes before he finally exhales and pushes the covers back, sitting up.

James grins. “There we go.”

Euphemia lets out a breath of relief. She turns to James and presses a quick kiss to his forehead, then another to his cheek.

James groans, pulling away. “Mum—seriously?”

She just smiles, brushing a hand over his curls. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

James huffs but looks pleased as he slings his bag higher on his shoulder and heads downstairs.

Regulus moves slowly, dragging himself through the motions of getting ready. He doesn’t meet her eyes as he pulls on his uniform, and by the time they’re in the car, he’s slumped in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out the window.

Euphemia doesn’t start the car immediately. She watches him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers press into his sleeves.

“I know you’ve been avoiding me,” she says finally, voice quiet but steady. “And I don’t really know why.”

Regulus doesn’t react, but she sees the way his jaw tightens ever so slightly.

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

Silence.

She doesn’t push, just lets the quiet settle between them as she watches students trickle into the school.

When there are only five minutes left until the bell, she reaches for the door handle. “Time to head in,” she says gently.

Regulus nods, unbuckling his seatbelt without a word.

They walk into the office together, and Euphemia signs him in. Before he turns to leave, she rests a hand lightly on his shoulder.

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

Regulus nods again, and without a glance back, he disappears down the hallway.

Euphemia watches him go, her heart heavy. The day has barely begun, and she already knows this isn’t going to be the end of it.

***

The school day has ended, and the usual buzz of students fills the parking lot as Euphemia pulls up. She spots James immediately, his tie loosened, school bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder as he waves, jogging toward the car. Regulus follows behind at a slower pace, his movements sluggish, head slightly bowed, as if he's walking through fog.

Euphemia frowns.

When the boys slide into the car, James greets her with an easy, "Hey, Mum," but Regulus says nothing. He simply clicks his seatbelt in place and stares blankly out the window, his hands curled tightly around the straps of his bag.

"Alright, love?" Euphemia asks gently, turning slightly in her seat to look at him.

Regulus doesn’t react. Doesn’t even seem to hear her.

James glances between them, then shrugs. “Dunno what’s up with him. He’s been like that since assembly.”

Ah.

Euphemia exhales softly, turning her attention back to the road as she pulls away from the school. That explains it. She should have realized—large crowds, loud voices, the expectation to sit still in an overstimulating environment. No wonder Regulus is so out of it.

The drive home is quiet, save for James tapping rhythmically against the door panel. Regulus remains withdrawn, barely blinking as he watches the world blur past the window.

When they arrive home, James immediately kicks off his shoes and heads toward the kitchen, likely in search of a snack. Regulus, however, moves as if on autopilot, trudging upstairs without a word.

Euphemia watches him go, concern tightening in her chest.

Turning to James, she keeps her voice gentle. "Was there anything else today? Anything that might’ve upset him?"

James shakes his head. "Not really. Just assembly. He was fine before that I think."

She nods, squeezing his shoulder briefly before heading upstairs herself.

Regulus’ bedroom door is slightly open when she reaches it. Peering inside, she finds him sitting on the bed, legs drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. His expression is distant, glassy-eyed, as if he’s somewhere far away.

“Regulus?” Euphemia calls softly.

No response.

Concern deepening, she steps inside, keeping her movements slow, deliberate. “Sweetheart, you look exhausted. Why don’t you lie down for a bit?”

Still, no reaction.

Gently, she places a hand on his shoulder. That, at least, seems to reach him—he blinks sluggishly, eyes flicking toward her, but there’s no real recognition there, as if it takes effort to pull himself back into the present.

“Come on, love,” she coaxes, guiding him down until he’s lying on the bed. He lets her, pliant and silent, as she tucks the blanket around him.

His bag is still on the floor, half-unzipped from where he must have set it down upon entering. Kneeling, she reaches inside and pulls out his black stuffed dog. It’s well-loved, fur slightly worn from years of use.

When she presses it gently into his arms, his fingers curl around it automatically.

“There you go, sweetheart,” she murmurs, smoothing a hand over his curls. “Just rest, alright? It’s okay to fall asleep.”

Regulus barely reacts, still caught in that dazed state, but his breathing slows, deepens, as his body surrenders to exhaustion.

Euphemia stays for a while, her hand a steady, grounding presence on his back. She watches as the tension gradually seeps from his features, as his grip on the stuffed dog tightens just slightly in his sleep.

Only when she’s sure he’s resting does she slip out of the room, closing the door partway behind her with a soft sigh.

***

“Regulus?”

His entire body locks up.

Euphemia’s breath catches. Something is wrong. The tension in his frame, the way his grip tightens on his bag, the rigid set of his shoulders—it’s a barricade, one she can’t see past.

She softens her voice. “Is everything alright, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t answer.

His jaw clenches so tightly she can see the muscles straining. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t give her anything at all.

Euphemia’s heart squeezes. “Regulus?” she tries again.

Nothing.

The silence stretches, taut and unmoving. She exhales, glancing briefly at Mrs. Carrington behind the desk, then back at Regulus. Whatever happened today—whatever put that look on his face—it’s bad.

She takes a careful step back, giving him space. “Come on,” she says gently.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, stiffly, he rises to his feet. The motion is mechanical, like his limbs are made of lead, like standing is an unbearable effort.

Euphemia watches him closely as they leave the office, but he refuses to look at her. His hands remain curled into fists at his sides, his shoulders drawn tight, his head ducked low.

Something has happened. Something that’s fractured him, left jagged edges in its wake.

She doesn’t push, doesn’t ask—not yet. Instead, she walks beside him, matching his pace as they move through the school. They pass students lingering in the hallways, teachers chatting by their doors. Regulus keeps his gaze on the floor, his body wound so tightly she thinks he might snap in half.

The walk to the car is suffocating in its silence.

Euphemia glances at him every so often, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t.

Not a word.

When they reach the car, she unlocks it, and he yanks the door open, throwing himself inside. The door slams shut, rattling the frame.

Euphemia’s chest tightens.

She slides into the driver’s seat, starts the car. The school fades into the background as they pull onto the road, trees blurring past.

Still, Regulus says nothing.

Still, he refuses to look at her.

Euphemia’s hands tighten slightly on the wheel. She can feel the anger radiating off him, thick and suffocating. But beneath the fury, beneath the sharp edges of whatever this is, she senses something else. Something more fragile.

Hurt.

Regulus doesn’t speak the entire drive home.

When they pull into the driveway, he stares at the house like it’s foreign to him, like it isn’t the place he’s spent the last few weeks learning to call home.

Euphemia’s stomach twists.

She steps out of the car, watching as he follows suit. His grip tightens on his bag again—white-knuckled, desperate. He’s holding onto it like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

She wants to reach for him. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she steps inside and waits as he does the same. The door clicks shut behind them, enclosing them in silence. The house is warm, filled with the lingering scent of cookies she made earlier. It feels…wrong, somehow. Like the world is pretending everything is fine when it isn’t.

Regulus stands just inside the doorway, unmoving. His chest rises and falls with sharp, uneven breaths. His whole body is too still, too tense.

Euphemia hesitates for only a moment before offering, gently, “Would you like some chocolate milk and cookies, sweetheart?”

It’s meant to be comforting. A small piece of normalcy, a reassurance that he is safe.

But—

The moment the words leave her mouth, something inside him shatters.

Regulus explodes.

He moves before she can process it, his hands grabbing the closest thing—a framed photo on the table—and hurling it across the room. The glass shatters against the wall, splintering into a thousand glittering shards.

Euphemia’s breath catches.

He doesn’t stop.

He lunges toward the bookshelf, knocking over books, sending them scattering across the floor. A vase crashes to the ground, ceramic splintering on impact. Another picture frame—gone. His hands grab anything within reach, throwing, breaking, destroying.

A guttural noise rips from his throat, raw and animalistic. It makes something deep in Euphemia’s chest ache.

And then—

It stops.

Regulus stands frozen in the wreckage. His chest heaves. His hands shake violently at his sides.

Euphemia doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak.

His eyes dart wildly around the room, taking in the destruction, the broken glass, the ruined books. His breath stutters—sharp and ragged.

Then, slowly, his gaze lifts to her.

The moment their eyes meet, he crumbles.

Tears spill over before he can stop them, his breath hitching, his whole body trembling.

Euphemia takes a single step forward.

“Regulus?” she says softly.

The reaction is instant. He stumbles back, legs giving out as he collapses to the floor. His hands clutch his knees, curling in on himself. His breathing turns erratic, gasping, choking.

Panic.

It grips him, merciless and unrelenting. His entire frame shakes, his fingers digging into his sleeves. His breath stutters—shallow, unsteady.

Euphemia moves.

She kneels beside him, hands hovering for only a moment before she presses a steady palm to his back.

“Sweetheart,” she murmurs, low and gentle, grounding. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”

His body tenses beneath her touch. But—he doesn’t pull away.

She keeps her movements slow, careful. One hand rubbing soft circles on his back, the other carding gently through his hair.

His breaths remain jagged, but—he’s trying. She can see it.

She shifts slightly, guiding him into a more stable position. His face is pale, streaked with tears, his whole body trembling violently.

Euphemia exhales softly. “Can you follow my breathing, love?”

Regulus doesn’t answer. But his gaze flickers to hers, wide and unfocused.

She inhales—deep and slow.

He tries to copy her. His breath hitches, stumbles, but he tries.

“In,” she says gently.

Regulus breathes in.

“Out.”

He exhales.

They repeat the process, again and again, until the worst of the panic ebbs. Until his breathing, though uneven, is no longer strangled.

Until his hands loosen, ever so slightly, from where they clutch at his sleeves.

Euphemia keeps her voice low, soothing. “Are you back with me?”

A small, barely-there nod.

She exhales, relief curling in her chest.

A beat of quiet. Then—

“What happened?”

The moment the words leave her mouth, fresh tears spill over. Regulus’ body shakes, his face twisting as he curls in on himself again, the weight of whatever he’s holding crushing down on him.

Euphemia reacts instantly.

“Okay,” she soothes, shifting, wrapping her arms around him. “Okay, love.”

Regulus doesn’t resist. He tucks himself against her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His small frame trembles violently as broken sobs wrack through him.

Euphemia holds him tighter. One hand strokes slow, calming circles on his back, the other threading through his hair.

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

And she does.

No matter how much he breaks, no matter how much he pushes, she will always be here to hold the pieces.

After a while, once Regulus is more stable, Euphemia moves him towards the couch. His head is resting in her lap, and she’s got one hand on his back, rubbing slow, steady circles in an effort to soothe him. His breathing has evened out, though every now and then, his body gives the smallest tremor, a lingering aftershock of the storm he just weathered. She doesn’t stop the motion, doesn’t even consider it.

She keeps her other hand free, reaching for the phone on the end table. She hesitates only a moment before dialing.

The line rings twice before a warm, familiar voice picks up. “Hello?”

“Hope, it’s Euphemia,” she says, keeping her voice low. Her fingers don’t pause their movement against Regulus’ back, mindful of the way his breathing remains shallow, the tension still holding his small frame taut.

“Euphemia! How are you, dear?” Hope sounds bright, as she always does, but there’s an underlying note of concern. “Is everything alright?”

Euphemia sighs, shifting slightly on the couch. “I—” She pauses, glancing down at the boy curled against her. She lowers her voice even further, mindful that he might still be listening, even if his eyes remain closed. “Something happened at school today. I don’t know exactly what yet, but—Regulus had a meltdown.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Hope murmurs, immediately understanding. “Is he alright?”

“He will be,” Euphemia says, though she doesn’t fully believe it yet. “It was bad, Hope. He broke things. He—he panicked, and then he just—” She stops, exhaling sharply. “He’s exhausted now, but I need to focus on him this afternoon. I was wondering if you could take James for a few hours.”

“Of course,” Hope says immediately. “You don’t even have to ask. Send him over whenever.”

Relief washes over Euphemia, easing some of the tightness in her chest. “Thank you. Truly.”

“You don’t need to thank me, love,” Hope says, voice gentle. “James is always welcome here. Does he know what happened?”

“No.” Euphemia’s fingers still briefly against Regulus’ back before resuming their motions. “I didn’t get the chance to explain, and I don’t want him to be upset before he leaves.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Hope promises. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

Euphemia nods, even though Hope can’t see her. “I’ll bring him over soon.”

“Take your time,” Hope assures her. “And if you need anything—anything at all—just call.”

“Thank you,” Euphemia says again, and this time, she means it in more ways than one.

She ends the call, placing the phone back on the table with quiet care. Her eyes drift down to Regulus. He hasn’t moved, but his fingers have curled slightly in the fabric of her skirt, like he’s grounding himself in her presence. Her heart aches at the sight.

She exhales softly, letting her head tip back against the couch. Now, it’s just waiting for Fleamont to get home.

POV: FLEAMONT

When Fleamont got a phone call from Euphemia asking him to come home as soon as possible, he had no idea that he’d be walking in to. 

“Euphemia?” Fleamont calls, his voice steady but expectant as he steps inside. The house is unusually quiet, which sets something uneasy in his chest.

“We’re in the living room,” Euphemia answers, her voice gentle but firm.

He follows the sound of her voice, his footsteps measured as he makes his way down the hall. The moment he steps into the living room, his eyes sweep over the space, taking in the aftermath. His wife sits on the couch, one arm wrapped protectively around Regulus, her fingers tracing absentminded patterns into the boy’s back.

Regulus doesn’t look up.

Fleamont’s gaze flickers to the broken picture frames near the fireplace, the faint glint of shattered glass swept into a careful pile. His concern deepens as he lowers himself into the armchair beside them.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice calm but laced with quiet worry.

Euphemia doesn’t hesitate. She explains—how Regulus came home upset, how he lashed out when she tried to comfort him, how the glass shattered, how the destruction unfolded.

Fleamont listens carefully, his brows furrowing, but he doesn’t interrupt. He glances at Regulus, noting the way the boy curls in on himself, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on a distant spot on the couch.

“Nobody was hurt,” Euphemia adds, but it’s clear from the way her hand tightens slightly against Regulus’ back that she doesn’t truly believe that.

Fleamont exhales slowly, steadying himself. Then, carefully, deliberately, he leans forward. “Regulus,” he says, keeping his voice even, gentle. “Can you tell us what happened? What made you so upset?”

Regulus doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge the question.

Euphemia 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, his hands twitching in his lap. Something flickers across his face—hesitation, fear, something raw and heavy.

Fleamont watches as the boy’s fingers move, slowly, hesitantly, toward the notebook lying beside him. His hand trembles as he picks up the pen. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then, painstakingly, he begins to write.

Fleamont doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just waits as Regulus pours whatever is inside of him onto the page.

He sees the way Regulus’ grip tightens on the pen, the way his breathing turns shallow, the way his shoulders curl inward as if bracing for impact.

Then, finally, Regulus shoves the notebook forward, pushing it toward Euphemia. He stiffens immediately after, retreating to the farthest end of the couch, his arms wrapping around his legs.

Fleamont catches the way his wife’s face changes as she reads—her breath hitching, her eyes softening with something heavy and heartbroken.

She doesn’t speak right away.

Fleamont takes the notebook when she’s done. His eyes move over the words, his stomach twisting at what he reads.

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

The further he reads, the worse it gets. His grip tightens slightly on the edge of the paper, though he keeps his expression calm. The things they’ve said to Regulus, the way they’ve made him feel like he doesn’t belong, like he’s unwanted—

Then he sees the last part.

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.

Fleamont exhales slowly, forcing down the immediate ache in his chest. He looks at Regulus, watches the way the boy shrinks into himself, shame creeping up his spine like a suffocating weight.

Euphemia is the first to speak. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers, heartbreak woven into every syllable.

Regulus flinches.

Fleamont straightens, setting the notebook aside. He knows the boy is waiting for something—for disappointment, for frustration, for anger.

But that’s not what he feels.

“Regulus,” he says, careful, deliberate. “I am so sorry you’ve been dealing with this on your own.”

Regulus tenses at that.

“You don’t deserve that,” Euphemia adds softly. “You don’t deserve any of it.”

Fleamont watches as Regulus swallows hard, his fingers tightening around his sleeves.

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

Regulus stiffens further, as if bracing himself.

Fleamont glances at his wife before speaking again. “You wrote that we don’t care.”

Regulus twitches.

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

Regulus’ breathing hitches.

“That we’ll send you away.”

Fleamont sees the way Regulus’ eyes squeeze shut, the way his hands curl into fists, as if physically trying to hold himself together.

He leans forward slightly, voice unwavering. “Regulus.”

Euphemia shifts closer but doesn’t touch him. “I don’t know how to make you believe this, sweetheart,” she says gently, voice trembling slightly. “But I need you to hear me.”

She pauses. Then, softly—

“We chose you.”

Regulus’ breath catches.

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

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

Regulus shakes his head sharply, pressing his hands over his ears as if trying to block out the words.

Euphemia’s voice wavers. “Oh, sweetheart—”

She moves before Fleamont can, wrapping her arms around the boy and pulling him in.

Regulus breaks.

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

Fleamont doesn’t hesitate. He shifts forward, wrapping an arm around Regulus from the other side, his hand firm and steady against his back.

“You’re safe,” Euphemia whispers, her fingers threading through Regulus’ hair, the other rubbing soothing circles against his spine. “You’re safe, sweetheart. You’re okay.”

Regulus clings to her.

Fleamont tightens his hold, grounding him, steady and unwavering.

They hold him.

They don’t let go.

***

The bedroom is quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric as Euphemia pulls back the duvet. Fleamont watches her from where he stands by the wardrobe, rolling his sleeves down, fastening the buttons at his wrists. She moves slowly, her hands smoothing over the sheets with practiced ease, but there’s something about the way she does it—too deliberate, too careful—that makes something uneasy settle in his chest.

She’s upset.

He can see it in the tightness of her shoulders, in the way she hasn’t met his eyes since they left Regulus’ room earlier. He’d noticed it then too, the way her hands had lingered in the boy’s hair longer than necessary, the way she’d pressed a kiss to his forehead like she was trying to will him into believing he was safe.

Fleamont exhales softly, stepping toward the bed. “Euphemia.”

She hums, distracted, as she fluffs her pillow. “Mm?”

He watches her for a beat, then shakes his head. “What’s wrong?”

She stills for the briefest moment before shaking her head. “It’s nothing.”

Fleamont’s brow furrows. “Euphemia.”

She doesn’t look at him, just slips under the covers, turning onto her side. “I’m fine, Monty.”

But she’s not. He knows her too well to believe that.

He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for her hand. She lets him take it, but her fingers are loose in his grasp. “We promised,” he reminds her, voice quiet but firm. “We promised we’d always talk to each other when something’s wrong.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

For a long moment, the only sound is the slow ticking of the clock on the nightstand. Then, finally, she exhales, her fingers tightening around his. “It’s Regulus,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

Fleamont had expected as much, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

Euphemia sits up, her free hand coming up to rub tiredly at her eyes. “What he wrote, Monty…” She swallows, shaking her head. “He thinks we only took him in out of pity. That we don’t really care.” Her voice wavers. “How—how could he think that?”

Fleamont’s chest tightens. He had read those words himself, had felt the sharp sting of them settle deep in his bones. He knows Regulus is hurting, knows the boy lashes out in the only way he knows how, but that doesn’t make it easier to see it written out so plainly.

Euphemia shakes her head again, blinking rapidly. “What are we going to do to make him see it’s not true? That we love him?”

Fleamont squeezes her hand, grounding her. “We support him,” he says simply. “We keep showing up. We make sure he knows—really knows—that it’s safe here.”

Euphemia studies him for a long moment, searching his face. Then, slowly, she nods. “Okay.”

She leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder. Fleamont presses a kiss to her hair, his arm wrapping securely around her. They sit like that for a while, the weight of the day pressing down on them.

But then, in a quiet voice, Euphemia speaks again.

“He blames me.”

Fleamont pulls back slightly, frowning. “What?”

She exhales shakily, rubbing at her temple. “For what’s been happening at school. The way the other kids are treating him. He thinks—” Her throat bobs, and she looks down at her lap. “He thinks it’s my fault. That if I hadn’t meddled, hadn’t spoken to his teachers, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.”

Fleamont’s stomach twists, and a sharp protectiveness flares in his chest. “That’s not fair,” he says immediately. “You were trying to help.”

“I know.” She bites her lip. “But he doesn’t see it that way. And maybe—maybe I made things worse—”

“No.” Fleamont shakes his head firmly, cutting that thought down before it can take root. “Absolutely not. This isn’t your fault, Euphemia. You did the right thing.”

She hums softly, but it doesn’t sound convinced.

Fleamont reaches for her other hand, cradling both of hers between his own. “Listen to me,” he says, waiting until she meets his eyes. “You didn’t make things worse. The other kids are being cruel, but that’s not because of anything you did—it’s because they don’t understand. Because they see someone different and they don’t know how to react. That isn’t on you.”

She watches him, eyes searching. “Then why does it feel like it is?”

Fleamont exhales, stroking his thumbs over her knuckles. “Because you care. Because you want to fix it for him. But you can’t control how others behave—you can only control what you do.” He squeezes her hands. “And what you did was fight for him. You saw him struggling, and you stepped in to help. That’s not something to feel guilty over. That’s something to be proud of.”

Euphemia’s eyes shine in the low light. She doesn’t say anything, but this time, when she nods, it’s slow and measured, like she’s finally letting herself believe it.

Fleamont presses a kiss to her temple before they both slip under the covers, the warmth of the blankets pulling them into comfort. Euphemia reaches for his hand beneath the sheets, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze.

But Fleamont doesn’t fall asleep right away.

He stares at the ceiling, his mind spinning.

What else can they do?

Regulus needs time, patience, reassurance—but is that enough?

Something gnaws at him, a quiet whisper at the back of his mind.

You’re not doing enough to help him.

He swallows against the thought, shaking it away. No. He refuses to believe that.

This is a boy who needs love and support.

And that’s exactly what he’s going to give him.

POV: EUPHEMIA

Euphemia doesn’t know what to do.

Since Friday, Regulus has been caught in a cycle of extremes—one moment, he’s by her side constantly, quietly inserting himself into every task she does, and the next, he’s avoiding her entirely, shutting himself away in his room.

Saturday morning, she had woken to the sound of soft footsteps in the kitchen. At first, she’d thought it was Fleamont, but when she stepped into the room, she found Regulus instead. He hadn’t looked at her, hadn’t said a word—just carefully set a mug of tea on the table and turned back to the counter, methodically wiping away the already spotless water droplets near the sink.

She had thanked him, gently, but he had only given a small nod and continued cleaning, even though there was nothing left to tidy.

That same afternoon, he had followed her around the house, lingering just close enough to help but never quite meeting her eyes. He had passed her the laundry pegs as she hung the sheets to dry, reached for dishes before she could, even hovered in the doorway while she sat in the living room knitting, as if waiting for something to do.

And then, by Sunday evening, he was gone.

Not physically—he was still in the house, of course—but he had locked himself away, refusing to come down for dinner until Fleamont urged him to. Even then, he barely touched his food and muttered a quiet, polite “Thank you, ma’am” before slipping away again.

By Monday, he was glued to her side once more. When she sat at the table to go over her schedule, he stood behind her chair, reading silently over her shoulder. When she went to water the plants, he trailed after her, carefully refilling the watering can without being asked. She had tried to encourage him to go sit with James, to go read, to do something for himself, but he had just shaken his head and stayed.

Then, come Tuesday, he was gone again.

Wednesday had been much of the same.

And now, Thursday morning, as Euphemia stirs milk into her tea, she watches him carefully. He’s sitting at the table, shoulders drawn tight, eyes locked on the open book in front of him. He isn’t reading—she can tell from the way his gaze stays fixed to the same spot, never moving.

She exhales softly, moving to sit across from him. He doesn’t react, doesn’t look up.

She wants to say something.

But what?

What can she say that won’t send him further into himself?

Fleamont steps into the kitchen before she can decide. “Morning, you two,” he greets, dropping a kiss to the top of her head before glancing at Regulus. “Ready for school?”

Regulus doesn’t answer. He just nods stiffly, shutting his book and standing, his movements too controlled, too careful.

Euphemia’s stomach twists.

Because this isn’t normal.

This isn’t just a boy who is quiet.

This is a boy drowning in guilt, and she has no idea how to help him.

***

The phone rings just as Euphemia is finishing up the breakfast dishes. She wipes her hands on a towel, glancing at the clock—9:15. It’s far too early for anything urgent.

Still, a strange sense of unease settles in her chest as she picks up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Potter?” The voice on the other end is calm, professional—but something about it makes the unease tighten. “This is Deputy Principal Lawson.”

Euphemia stills. Her grip on the phone tightens. “Good morning, Deputy Principal. Is everything alright?”

There’s a pause, brief but noticeable. “I’m calling regarding Regulus. I was hoping you and your husband could come down to the school as soon as possible. There’s been… an incident.”

Euphemia’s stomach drops.

An incident?

It’s only 9:15. What could have possibly happened?

She forces herself to stay composed. “Of course. I’ll be there shortly—my husband as well.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Potter. We’ll see you soon.”

The call disconnects with a quiet click, and for a moment, Euphemia just stands there, gripping the receiver, staring at the wall as her heart beats unsteadily in her chest.

She exhales sharply, setting the phone back on the hook before pulling out her mobile to call Fleamont.

It rings twice before he picks up. “Euphemia?”

“The Deputy Principal just called,” she says, wasting no time. “We’re needed at the school. Another incident with Regulus.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, a steady, “Alright. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

She nods, even though he can’t see it. “Drive safe.”

“I will.”

The call ends, and Euphemia exhales, pressing the phone lightly against her chin as she gathers herself.

Then, with a steadying breath, she grabs her keys, steps out of the house, and settles into the driver’s seat of her car.

For a long moment, she doesn’t start the engine.

She just sits there, hands resting on the wheel, mentally preparing herself for whatever is waiting for them at that school.

POV: FLEAMONT

Fleamont steps into the school office with his wife at his side, glancing around the waiting area. It takes only a moment before he spots Regulus, sitting stiffly in one of the chairs.

“Oh, there he is,” he murmurs.

Regulus’ head snaps up at the sound, his posture going rigid.

Euphemia is already scanning the room, and the moment she lays eyes on Regulus, she zeroes in on him with sharp, assessing eyes. She doesn’t speak, but Fleamont knows that look—she’s already trying to determine how bad things are, how much damage has been done.

Fleamont pauses to exchange a quiet word with the receptionist while Euphemia moves toward Regulus, her presence warm but unwavering. He follows her just as Deputy Principal Lawson steps into the waiting area, gaze shifting between them.

“Come in,” she says. “We’ll talk in my office.”

Regulus hesitates.

Euphemia waits, not pressuring him, but expecting him to follow nonetheless. Fleamont watches closely as Regulus straightens slightly and, after a beat, stands.

Good lad.

They step into Lawson’s office, a tidy space dominated by a large wooden desk. Framed photos sit on the surface—presumably of Lawson’s family—but Fleamont barely glances at them. He’s more focused on Regulus, who looks wound tight enough to snap.

Lawson gestures for them to sit. Fleamont and Euphemia take the seats beside Regulus, while Ms. Carrington, the school counselor, settles next to the boy.

Lawson folds her hands together and exhales 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.” Her voice is steady, reassuring. “But I do want to help you. That’s the only reason we’re having this conversation. Alright?”

Regulus gives a short, stiff nod.

Lawson glances at Ms. Carrington before continuing, tone gentle but firm. “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 goes still. His hands twitch slightly in his lap.

Fleamont doesn’t miss the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard. The words are there—he can see them hovering behind Regulus’ eyes—but they won’t come out.

The silence drags.

Fleamont clears his throat. “He told us a little bit about it the other day,” he says carefully, keeping his tone neutral. He doesn’t want to overwhelm the boy, but he also won’t let this be brushed aside. “About what these boys have been doing to him.”

Euphemia picks up where he leaves off. “They’ve been taking his things. Destroying them. Teasing him. Making school miserable.”

But they don’t know everything. Fleamont watches as Regulus stares down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them like he’s trying to ground himself.

Euphemia’s voice softens. “You don’t have to say anything out loud if you don’t want to,” she tells him gently. “But we don’t know the full story. Do you think you can tell us the rest?”

A long pause.

Then—Regulus swallows again. His fingers twitch once more before he reaches for his bag, pulling out a notebook. Without a word, he flips to a blank page and starts writing.

Fleamont watches the way the pen moves fast, the strokes sharp and pressed hard into the paper. He knows, instinctively, that whatever is being written is worse than what they imagined.

He waits.

When Regulus finally finishes, he hands the notebook over.

Lawson reads first. Ms. Carrington leans in beside her. As they scan the pages, Fleamont sees their expressions darken. Ms. Carrington’s lips part slightly, her brows knitting together.

“This,” Lawson finally says, looking up, voice tight, “is unacceptable.”

Ms. Carrington shakes her head, exhaling sharply. “I knew it was bad, but I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

Fleamont glances at his wife.

Euphemia has one hand pressed over her mouth, eyes glistening. She breathes in slow, like she’s trying to control herself.

Fleamont clenches his jaw, steadying his expression before he looks back at Regulus. The boy isn’t watching the adults—he’s watching them. Watching him and Euphemia, as if trying to gauge their reaction.

Fleamont meets his gaze. He keeps his own expression calm, reassuring.

It’s alright. You’re safe.

Regulus doesn’t look away.

Lawson takes a breath, regaining her composure before turning back to them. “We’ve already decided on consequences,” she says. “The boys involved will be suspended for the rest of the school year.”

Fleamont sees the way Regulus frowns slightly at that—he isn’t satisfied.

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. His fingers twitch against his knee.

Fleamont watches carefully as something shifts in the boy’s posture.

Relief.

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

Fleamont crosses his arms. “Actions have consequences. And these are appropriate ones.”

Lawson nods. “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 lowers his gaze, staring at his hands. The tension in his shoulders hasn’t fully left—but something is different now. Less sharp. Less suffocating.

Fleamont lets out a quiet breath.

The meeting wraps up shortly after.

But when they step out of Lawson’s office, a new problem awaits them.

The boys’ parents have arrived.

And they are furious.

“This is an outrage!” one man bellows. “Suspending them for the rest of the term? Failing them? You have no right to do this!”

“They’re children!” a woman snaps. “This will ruin their records! Their futures!”

The shouting is immediate. Heated. Fleamont doesn’t react—not yet. He stands beside Regulus, keeping a careful eye on him.

And then—

Colin’s mother spots Regulus.

Her eyes blaze.

She storms toward them, heels clicking sharply against the tile.

Fleamont tenses.

She stops directly in front of Regulus, pointing a manicured finger in his face. “This is your fault!” she hisses.

Regulus freezes.

His breath catches, shoulders locking. He takes a step back on instinct, reaching out blindly—

His fingers grasp the fabric of Euphemia’s shirt.

Fleamont doesn’t get the chance to move before Euphemia does.

She steps forward, planting herself between Regulus and the woman. Her entire body hums with fury, shoulders squared, back straight. When she speaks, her voice is low and dangerous.

“The second he stepped foot onto the school grounds, your son has tormented mine.”

Fleamont watches as Regulus’ eyes widen behind her.

Mine.

Euphemia doesn’t stop. “Your son has spent the entire month destroying his belongings. Humiliating him. Belittling him. And you dare to stand here and blame him?”

Colin’s mother splutters, but Euphemia doesn’t wait for an answer.

She exhales sharply, then turns on her heel. “We’re done here.”

Fleamont nods, adjusting the strap of Regulus’ bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Regulus follows immediately.

When they reach the car, Fleamont notices something.

Regulus is still holding Euphemia’s hand.

He doesn’t let go.

And neither does she.

Something inside of Fleamont shifts. He’s not sure what, but, what he does know is that something has changed. 

***

Fleamont leans back against the headboard, stretching out his legs as he watches Euphemia go through her nightly routine. She’s slower than usual, distracted, though he doesn’t think she’s realized it yet.

His mind drifts back to earlier in the afternoon, after the chaos of the school meeting, after the confrontation in the office. They’d left the school and gone straight to the shops, mostly because Fleamont had insisted.

Regulus hadn’t argued, not really, but he had protested in his usual way—hesitant, reluctant, almost as though accepting something good was foreign to him. Fleamont had been persistent.

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

Regulus had stood stiffly beside him, gaze flickering between the books and the floor, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his pants. 

Euphemia, standing just behind them, had shot him an amused, knowing look, but she didn’t intervene. She never did when Fleamont set his mind to something like this.

Regulus had caved eventually, though he still looked unconvinced when Fleamont added a few more trinkets to their purchases—a small keychain with a tiny metal star, a soft navy blanket that Euphemia pointed out and Fleamont insisted would be perfect for reading in bed. Regulus hadn’t asked for any of it, but that didn’t matter. He deserved nice things.

Now, hours later, the house is quiet. Regulus had gone to bed a while ago, curled up with his new blanket, and Fleamont finds himself lingering on something else. Something that’s been at the back of his mind since they left the school.

“Euphemia.”

She hums, distracted as she ties her hair back. “Mhm?”

He watches her for a moment before speaking. “About what happened today. In the principal’s office.”

That gets her attention. She turns slightly, brow furrowing. “What about it?”

Fleamont exhales. “That woman—Colin’s mother. The way she went after Regulus.” His jaw tightens at the memory. “She was out of line.”

Euphemia’s face hardens. “I couldn’t let that woman blame Regulus for something her son did.”

Fleamont nods slowly, studying her. “I know. But that’s not what I meant.”

She gives him a quizzical look. “Then what?”

“You called him yours.”

She blinks. “What?”

Fleamont tilts his head, watching as the realization doesn’t quite land yet. “You called Regulus your son.”

Her brows knit together. “No, I didn’t.”

He gives her a flat, unimpressed look.

She stares back. “Really?”

Fleamont nods. “Yeah, yeah you did.”

Euphemia goes still for a moment, her expression unreadable. Fleamont doesn’t speak, giving her the space to process it. He knows what’s happening—he’s watching it unfold right in front of him.

“He actually held my hand?” she asks after a beat, voice softer now, uncertain. “Like, for real?”

Fleamont hums in acknowledgement. “Even as we walked all the way to the car.”

She looks away, staring at the wall as if it holds answers. Fleamont studies her, knowing full well that they’re both coming to the same conclusion.

Euphemia called Regulus her son. Not in a distant, detached way. Not in the way she speaks about the children they foster. No—she claimed him, instinctively, without hesitation.

And Regulus had reached for her. Willingly. Without being prompted.

Fleamont clears his throat. “You’ve never called one of our foster kids your child this early before.” He pauses, then adds, “You do realize we’ve only been fostering Regulus for a month?”

Euphemia finally looks back at him, expression shifting, as if she’s only just beginning to understand the weight of it.

Fleamont presses on. “What would happen if he got removed from our care?”

He knows the answer before she says anything. He sees it on her face—how she stiffens, how her fingers curl slightly against the fabric of her nightshirt.

She would fight. She would move mountains, tear apart the system if she had to. Because Regulus isn’t just another placement anymore.

“I’d…” Euphemia exhales sharply. “I’d fight it. I’d try everything to keep him here. He—” She stops, swallows. “He belongs here.”

Fleamont watches her carefully. He knew this was coming, but seeing her come to terms with it in real time is different.

“Well,” he says after a moment, his voice lighter, but no less firm. “I guess we better make sure it won’t happen, will we?”

Euphemia turns to him fully now, eyes searching his. “Are you sure? That you’d want to eventually adopt him? Because I know we agreed that we’d only foster older teens, and this is like forever, Fleamont, and if you don’t want this, I won’t—”

Fleamont cuts her off gently. “I know we only ever agreed to foster older teens, to give them a home and a chance. I know we only agreed to have him stay temporarily, and then we agreed we’d let him be here permanently if he wanted. But, Regulus is already a part of this family.” He holds her gaze. “So, I don’t mind changing our already agreed-upon discussion from when we first started fostering.”

Euphemia studies him, searching for any hint of hesitation. She won’t find any.

Slowly, a smile spreads across her face. Soft, small—but real.

“Alright then,” she says, voice lighter now. “I think we can do that.”

POV: EUPHEMIA

Euphemia smiles as she watches James and Regulus finish off their ice cream, the remnants of the meal sitting on their plates. James is talking animatedly, hands moving as he recounts something about soccer, and though Regulus is quiet, there’s a faint trace of amusement in his eyes. It’s progress. Small, but undeniable.

When they finish, Fleamont stands to pay, and she ushers the boys toward the exit, lingering near the door as James chatters beside her. Regulus is quiet, but that isn’t unusual. He’s probably tired. It’s been a long day.

She glances at the parking lot through the restaurant’s glass front, mentally going over their evening plans. They’ll head home, maybe put on a movie. Something light. Something that won’t pull Regulus too deep into his own head.

James tugs on her sleeve. “Mum, can I sit in the front?”

She huffs a laugh. “That depends. Has your father already claimed it?”

James groans but doesn’t argue, and they step outside into the cooling evening air. Fleamont joins them a moment later, pocketing his wallet as he walks up.

“Alright, let’s get home.”

Euphemia hums in agreement, moving toward the car. James yanks the passenger door open before Fleamont can protest, and she laughs, shaking her head. She reaches for the back door handle—

And freezes.

Something feels wrong. Off. Her stomach twists.

She turns sharply, scanning the area, expecting to see Regulus standing nearby, quiet as ever.

But he isn’t there.

Her heart lurches. “Where’s Regulus?”

Fleamont straightens, eyes darting around. James looks up from the front seat, confused.

“What do you mean? He was just—”

But he isn’t.

He’s gone.

Panic claws at her throat, an awful, sinking feeling crashing through her like ice water. Without another word, she turns and rushes back into the restaurant. Her heart pounds in her ears as she scans the space, desperately searching for a familiar head of dark curls.

And then she sees him.

Relief slams into her so suddenly that her knees nearly buckle. Regulus is sitting at a table in the corner, his back to her, with two women who look strikingly like him.

Euphemia exhales sharply, pressing a hand to her chest to steady herself before making her way over. As she approaches, she takes in the scene—the way one woman has her hand gently wrapped around Regulus’ arm, the way the other watches him with an almost wary fondness. There’s a familiarity between them, something old and complicated and tender all at once.

She steps closer. “Regulus?”

He stiffens immediately, shoulders going taut as he turns. His expression is unreadable, but something flickers in his eyes—guilt, maybe.

Euphemia glances at the two women. They’re watching her carefully, assessing, measuring.

One of them stands, smoothing her skirt. “Mrs. Potter?” Her voice is polite, but there’s an unmistakable tension beneath it. “I’m Narcissa Black. This is my sister, Bellatrix. We’re Regulus’ cousins.”

Cousins.

Something settles into place in Euphemia’s mind. She blinks, recovering quickly, and offers her hand. “Euphemia Potter. My husband, Fleamont, is just outside.”

Fleamont steps up beside her, as if on cue, and shakes their hands. His expression is polite but measured. “We didn’t know Regulus had cousins.”

A pause. Regulus looks down at the table, his grip tightening around his stuffed dog.

“We—” Narcissa hesitates, glancing at Bellatrix. “We’d like to see him more often. If he wants to, of course.”

Euphemia’s gaze flickers to Regulus instinctively, searching for any sign of discomfort. His eyes dart between his cousins, uncertainty and something achingly fragile written across his face.

Slowly, he nods.

A quiet breath of relief escapes Narcissa, and even Bellatrix relaxes, if only slightly.

They exchange numbers, quiet promises lingering between them, and then it’s time to leave.

Narcissa squeezes Regulus’ arm gently before stepping back, offering a small smile. Bellatrix lingers just a moment longer. Then—

“Where’s Sirius?”

The question drops like a stone in the middle of a still lake, sending ripples through the air.

Regulus freezes.

Euphemia sees it immediately—the way his fingers twitch, then clench, the way his shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly. His face doesn’t change, but there’s something—something fractured in his expression.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

Euphemia’s stomach twists at the raw honesty in his voice.

James and Fleamont have already turned toward the door, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere. Regulus doesn’t move.

Narcissa and Bellatrix exchange glances, something unspoken passing between them.

Then, Euphemia steps forward, placing a gentle hand on Regulus’ shoulder. “Come on, love.” Her voice is soft, careful.

Regulus follows without resistance, but his mind is elsewhere. The stuffed dog in his arms dangles limply, brushing against his leg with each step.

They reach the car, the warmth of the interior a stark contrast to the cold creeping into Euphemia’s chest. Regulus buckles his seatbelt, staring down at his lap.

Silence settles.

Then—

“Who’s Sirius?” Euphemia asks, keeping her voice gentle.

Regulus flinches.

His grip tightens on the stuffed dog, pulling it close as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His breath hitches, and before she can say anything else, tears well in his eyes, spilling over silently as his shoulders tremble.

He buries his face into the fabric, curling in on himself.

He doesn’t answer.

He just cries.

***

Euphemia steps out of Regulus’ room, her heart aching with the weight of his pain. The door clicks shut behind her, muffling the soft, uneven breaths of the boy who had cried himself to sleep in her arms. She exhales slowly, pressing her palm against the wood for a moment longer before turning away, the dim hallway stretching before her.

One question refuses to leave her mind.

Who is Sirius?

She had never heard the name before tonight, but Regulus had whispered it in the midst of his tears, a quiet, desperate plea wrapped in sorrow. There had been such grief in the way he said it, such longing. Whoever Sirius was, he mattered. Deeply. And Euphemia needs to know why.

As she steps into their bedroom, she finds Fleamont already inside, loosening his tie. He glances up at her, his brow creasing immediately at the look on her face.

“What’s wrong?”

Euphemia sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I can’t stop thinking about something.”

Fleamont tugs his tie the rest of the way off and sits beside her. “What is it?”

She hesitates, folding her hands in her lap. “Who is Sirius?”

Fleamont tilts his head slightly. “Sirius?” he repeats back. 

She nods. “Regulus said his name when he was falling asleep. He sounded… broken, Monty. Like the name itself hurt.”

Fleamont hums thoughtfully, considering. “Maybe an old friend?”

“Maybe,” Euphemia says, but doubt lingers in her voice. She turns to look at him. “Or maybe…” She trails off, trying to form the thought properly. “What if Sirius is his sibling?”

The room falls silent.

Fleamont’s expression shifts as he processes the thought, and after a beat, he nods slowly. “Well, it makes the most logical sense.”

Euphemia frowns. “But how does that even happen? How do siblings not get placed together? Isn’t that a rule?”

“It usually is,” Fleamont says, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “But I suppose there could be exceptions. Different foster homes, different circumstances.”

Euphemia crosses her arms, frustration flickering beneath her worry. “That’s awful. If he has a sibling, he should be with them.”

Fleamont exhales. “There could be a reason why he isn’t. We don’t know the full story.”

Euphemia looks down at her hands. “Do you think we should ask Sarah about it? See if she knows anything? See if Regulus ever mentioned anything?”

Fleamont considers this for a moment, then nods. “Yes, I think we should. But I also think we should let him tell us.”

Euphemia hums, deep in thought. “I don’t know what the right choice is.”

Fleamont nods, looking just as uncertain. “Yeah, me either.”

Neither of them speaks for a moment, lost in their thoughts. Finally, they climb into bed, but Euphemia finds no comfort in the silence. As Fleamont drifts off, she stares up at the ceiling, her mind racing with possibilities.

Should they ask Sarah? Should they wait? What if Regulus never tells them? What if he wants to but doesn’t know how? And if Sirius truly is his brother… does he even know where he is?

The weight of the unknown settles heavily in her chest, and sleep remains frustratingly out of reach.

POV: FLEAMONT

Fleamont stands in the doorway, taking in the scene before him. James and Regulus are frozen in place, the remnants of their scuffle still evident—the discarded pillow, the tension thick in the air. Euphemia stands beside him, hands on her hips, her sharp voice still ringing in the room.

James drops the pillow like it’s burned him. Regulus, however, remains tense, his posture rigid, his eyes darting between them like a cornered animal.

Fleamont steps forward, keeping his voice even. “Alright, enough of that.” His gaze settles on Regulus. He doesn’t want to spook the boy, but he can already see the panic rising in his shoulders, the barely-contained fight in the set of his jaw.

“Come here, son.”

The reaction is instant. Regulus jerks back, eyes wide, body coiling as if prepared to bolt. Fleamont doesn’t hesitate. He moves quickly, wrapping his arms around the boy in a firm but steady hold before he can flee. Regulus struggles—wild and desperate, twisting in his grip, breath coming too fast—but Fleamont holds steady, unwavering. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his hold beyond what’s necessary.

“Regulus,” he says, voice calm but certain. “It’s alright. Just breathe.”

Regulus shakes his head sharply, still fighting against the contact, but Fleamont doesn’t let go. He keeps his arms around him, offering a steady, immovable presence.

Gradually, the thrashing slows. The tension in Regulus’ muscles gives way to exhaustion, his weight growing heavier against Fleamont. The fight drains from him in slow, uneven breaths.

Only when he’s sure the moment has passed does Fleamont loosen his grip.

Regulus doesn’t pull away immediately. He blinks, dazed, as though catching up to what just happened. James and Euphemia are gone now, leaving only the two of them in the quiet room.

Fleamont shifts, turning Regulus slightly so he can look him in the eye. “Are you calm enough for me to let you go?”

A beat of hesitation, then a small, stiff nod.

Fleamont releases him fully, stepping back just enough to give the boy space. Regulus stays where he is, arms wrapped around himself, looking small and wrung out.

The silence stretches between them. Fleamont doesn’t rush it. He lets the boy gather himself, waiting.

“What happened, kiddo?” he asks finally, his voice steady but patient. “What made you so upset?”

Regulus stiffens. His fingers clench around his sleeves, his breath shallower now.

For a long moment, Fleamont isn’t sure he’ll answer. Then, slowly, Regulus moves toward the armchair. He pulls back the blanket draped over it, revealing a book underneath.

Right where it had been all along.

His throat tightens, and Fleamont watches as frustration flickers across his face. The anger is still there, but smaller now, dulled at the edges.

“Regulus?” Fleamont prompts gently.

Regulus doesn’t speak. Instead, he crosses the room, grabbing his notebook and pen before settling into a chair. He flips to a blank page, then writes:

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

He hesitates, then adds:

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

Regulus stares at the words for a long moment before silently handing the notebook to Fleamont.

Taking it, Fleamont scans the page, his lips pressing together in thought. “I see.”

Regulus ducks his head, guilt settling into his posture.

Setting the notebook aside, Fleamont speaks carefully. “Regulus, violence like that isn’t the solution to your problems. I understand you were upset, but if something’s wrong, you need to say it. Or write it down, like you just did. But throwing things—lashing out—that’s not how we communicate in this family.”

Regulus nods stiffly, shame written in every tense line of his body. Fleamont recognizes it immediately—the way the boy braces, like he’s waiting for something worse to come.

He softens. “You’re not in trouble,” he reassures gently. “You made a mistake, but mistakes don’t define you. What matters is what you do next.”

Regulus’ head snaps up, startled. There’s something raw in his expression, something uncertain and searching.

Fleamont sighs, rubbing his hands together. “Come on,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s talk this out as a family.”

Regulus hesitates but eventually follows as Fleamont leads him toward the kitchen, where James and Euphemia are already waiting. James looks uncertain, his hands fiddling with his sleeve, while Euphemia gives them both a small, expectant smile.

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

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

James shrugs. “I dunno. I didn’t know Regulus was gonna be mad. He didn’t say anything—he just started yelling at me.”

Regulus frowns, grabbing his notebook and quickly scribbling:

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

He pushes the notebook toward James.

James sighs, reading the words. “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 nods reluctantly.

Euphemia 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 grips his pen tightly, uncomfortable. Speaking up isn’t as easy as they make it sound.

Euphemia seems to understand. “I know it’s hard,” she says softly. “But we can work on it. You don’t have to be perfect—you just have to try.”

Regulus swallows and nods.

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

James groans. “Come to you or Mum.”

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

Regulus nods stiffly. He picks up his notebook again and writes:

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

He slides the notebook to James.

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

Regulus looks surprised by the easy forgiveness. Fleamont watches him carefully, noting the way he processes it, as if waiting for a harsher consequence that never comes.

The tension in the room eases. James flops onto the couch, grabbing his controller, and Regulus pulls his book into his lap.

Fleamont watches them settle, his heart aching for the boy who still doesn’t quite believe in second chances.

But maybe, just maybe, they’re getting somewhere.

***

Fleamont watches over the rim of his coffee cup as Regulus shifts slightly in his chair, glancing down at his neatly pressed clothes. The boy is always careful in his presentation—buttoned up, precise. Not in a vain way, but in a way that speaks of expectation, of needing to be just so. It’s something Fleamont recognizes, though he wishes the boy didn’t feel the need for it here.

Euphemia, as ever, is effortlessly elegant, dressed in a flowing blouse and tailored trousers, her jewelry understated but tasteful. Even James, for all his constant motion, looks put together enough in his casual weekend attire. Fleamont supposes they all put thought into their appearances today, though for different reasons.

The morning stretches slow and unhurried, filled with quiet chatter and the occasional clink of dishes as breakfast is cleared away. The sort of morning that makes the house feel full in a way he has come to treasure.

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

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

Fleamont chuckles as the door swings shut behind them, leaving the house quiet save for the hum of the summer evening creeping in through the open windows. He exhales, enjoying the peace for a moment before pushing himself up from his chair. His body reminds him that he’s not quite as young as he used to be, but he ignores it, making his way into the kitchen with purpose.

He hums under his breath as he pulls out a bag of flour, then a few other ingredients, lining them up on the counter. He’s just rolling up his sleeves when he hears a faint shift from the sitting room—a quiet, hesitant movement. He doesn’t turn, but he knows who it is before the boy speaks.

“Caught your interest, have I?”

There’s a slight startle from the doorway. Fleamont smiles to himself before glancing over, finding Regulus lingering at the threshold. The boy is cautious, watching him with that sharp, considering gaze of his. No pressure, no expectation—just an open-ended invitation.

“I was thinking of baking,” Fleamont continues easily. “Seemed like a good night for it.” He studies Regulus for a moment, then tilts his head toward the counter. “Would you like to help?”

There’s hesitation, something flickering across the boy’s face. Fleamont doesn’t push. Instead, he simply waits, letting Regulus decide for himself.

Slowly, Regulus nods.

“Good man,” Fleamont says, pleased. He moves a mixing bowl onto the counter, reaching for the flour. “Baking’s a bit of a science, you know. 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 closely as he measures the flour, leveling it with practiced ease. His curiosity is clear, his focus sharp.

“Take flour, for example,” Fleamont continues, tipping it into the bowl. “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 does more than add sweetness—it changes the texture, keeps things soft. Baking soda and baking powder help it rise, trap air inside, make everything light and fluffy.”

He glances at Regulus, waiting for a sign of understanding. The boy nods, thoughtful.

Fleamont smiles. “Alright, good. Want to measure the cocoa powder?”

Regulus steps forward, and Fleamont hands him the measuring cup. He hesitates only briefly before scooping up the cocoa, leveling it with meticulous care before adding it to the bowl.

“You’re a natural,” Fleamont comments lightly.

Regulus ducks his head, his hands carefully dusting off any stray cocoa powder. Fleamont pretends not to notice the small flicker of satisfaction in the boy’s expression.

They work in quiet harmony, measuring and mixing, Fleamont offering small explanations as they go. When they get to the eggs, he cracks one open with an easy, practiced movement.

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

Regulus nods, eyes sharp with interest.

“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. A bit dribbles down the shell, but most of it makes it into the bowl.

“Excellent,” Fleamont says, grinning. “That’s better than my first try.”

Regulus presses his lips together, but there’s a flicker of something pleased in his posture. They keep going, and soon enough, the brownie batter is nearly ready.

Just as Fleamont reaches for the pan, the front door opens, and footsteps sound in the hallway.

“Boys,” Euphemia 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?”

Fleamont straightens instinctively, feeling for a brief, ridiculous moment like a schoolboy caught red-handed. “It’s my kitchen too, dear.”

Euphemia doesn’t blink. “Uh-huh.”

She just stands there, staring. Fleamont swallows.

And then she bursts into laughter.

Fleamont exhales sharply. “That’s not funny.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Regulus clap a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with barely-contained laughter. Euphemia only laughs harder, and even Fleamont lets out a begrudging chuckle.

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

Regulus giggles again, and Fleamont finds himself absurdly pleased by the sound.

Euphemia steps forward, still grinning. “Alright, alright, I’ll allow it—if I get to help.”

Fleamont sighs dramatically. “If you must.”

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

The kitchen fills with warmth again, laughter threading through the air. Someone turns on the radio, and music drifts through the room. Euphemia stirs the batter, swaying slightly to the beat, nudging Fleamont with her hip until he huffs a laugh and does an exaggerated twirl in response.

Regulus watches them for a second, hesitant—then, slowly, he relaxes. And when Euphemia dusts a bit of flour onto Fleamont’s sleeve, and he retaliates by flicking water at her, Regulus lets out another quiet giggle.

They bake. They dance. They make a mess.

And Fleamont, watching the boy settle into the warmth of their home, feels something deep and certain settle in his chest.

Regulus is starting to believe he belongs here.

And that, Fleamont thinks, is worth every bit of spilled flour and every smudge of chocolate in his kitchen.

POV: EUPHEMIA

The sound of someone knocking at the front door pulls everybody in the kitchen out of their laughter. Euphemia wipes her hands on a clean tea towel, still chuckling at something Fleamont did, and walks toward the front door.

Regulus and Fleamont continue filling the cupcake batter into the tray. The process is messy, and despite being an adult, Fleamont 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 Euphemia hears footsteps returning.

“Sarah’s here,” she says, stepping back into the kitchen with a small smile.

Regulus looks up as Sarah steps inside, offering him a gentle nod. “Hey, Regulus. Mind if we have a chat?”

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

“Off you go, bud,” Fleamont says with an easy smile. “I’ve got this.”

Regulus swallows, mutters, “Okay,” and wipes his hands on a towel before following Sarah out of the kitchen, through the hallway, and toward the back door.

The moment the door shuts behind them, Euphemia turns to Fleamont, eyes wide. “Did you hear that?”

Fleamont is already looking at her, his expression mirroring hers. “Yeah, I think I heard him say ‘okay.’ Please tell me he spoke.”

“I think he did,” she breathes, a mixture of shock and overwhelming joy flooding her chest. They stare at each other, suspended in disbelief, before a slow, warm smile spreads across Fleamont’s face. Euphemia feels a rush of emotion she can barely contain.

A few minutes pass before the back door opens again, and Regulus steps inside. Without a word, he heads straight upstairs. Sarah lingers in the doorway, watching him go before turning to Euphemia and Fleamont. “Do you mind if we have a quick chat?”

“Not at all,” Euphemia says, gesturing for Sarah to sit. She and Fleamont take their seats at the kitchen table, waiting as Sarah pulls out her notebook.

“I wanted to check in and see how things have been going this past week,” Sarah starts. “Any updates I should be aware of?”

Euphemia and Fleamont exchange a glance before Euphemia sighs. “On Thursday, some kids at school were suspended for bullying Regulus.”

Sarah’s expression hardens. “I was afraid something like that might happen. How did he handle it?”

“He didn’t tell us what was really going on,” Fleamont admits. “We only found out when we were called into the Deputy Principal’s office to discuss it.”

Euphemia nods. “We’re trying to help him communicate better—so he knows he doesn’t have to deal with things like that alone. It’s… a work in progress.”

Sarah scribbles something down. “That makes sense. And Friday?”

Euphemia hesitates, then says, “We met some of Regulus’ cousins—Bellatrix and Narcissa.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“They were actually lovely,” Fleamont says, a bit surprised himself. “Bellatrix was very protective of him, and Narcissa seems to care a great deal. Regulus was happy to see them.”

Euphemia watches Sarah’s reaction carefully. She nods, taking a moment before asking, “And yesterday?”

Fleamont exhales. “James and Regulus had a bit of a… moment. They argued.”

“But it turned into something productive,” Euphemia adds. “We realized that Regulus struggles to put what he’s feeling into words, and when he gets overwhelmed, he doesn’t know how to express himself properly. So we’re working on that—helping him learn how to communicate what he’s thinking before it builds up.”

She smiles faintly. “James is helping him with it, in his own way.”

Sarah listens intently, nodding along as she takes notes. Then, after a pause, she looks up and says, “Regulus would like to stay a little more permanently.”

Euphemia feels her breath catch. For a moment, all she can do is stare. The words settle over her like a blanket, warm and overwhelming, filling up spaces she hadn’t even realized were empty.

Fleamont is the first to recover. “That’s… that’s wonderful.”

Sarah smiles at them. “We’ll still check in regularly, of course. I’ll come by again in a month, see how things are progressing. But for now, we’ll move forward with making this more official.”

Euphemia grips Fleamont’s hand beneath the table, squeezing it tightly. “That sounds perfect.”

Sarah stands, closing her notebook. “I’ll see you both in a month, then.”

Euphemia walks her to the door, exchanging goodbyes before stepping back inside. As soon as the door clicks shut, she turns to Fleamont, barely able to contain her joy. “Regulus wants to stay. Did you hear that?”

Fleamont chuckles, shaking his head in quiet amazement. “Yeah, I did.”

A moment later, footsteps sound on the stairs. Regulus reappears, now dressed in different clothes, and walks straight back into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything, just steps up beside Fleamont, eyeing the half-filled cupcake tray.

“Back to work, then?” Fleamont asks lightly.

Regulus nods. Euphemia watches as he carefully picks up the scoop again, resuming his work beside Fleamont. Her heart swells as she watches them, warmth blooming deep in her chest.

Regulus wants to stay.

She can’t stop thinking about it.

He wants to stay.