To Find a Home

What people don’t seem to understand—especially those who have never felt this before—is that things like joy, like happiness, can be taken away in an instant.

One moment, it’s there, warm and safe, filling every corner of his chest. And then, just as quickly, it’s gone. Stolen. Vanished, like it was never there to begin with.

It’s happened before to Regulus.

First, it was his parents. His home. His brother. His entire life, ripped apart before he even had time to process what was happening. Then, it was the joy—the rare, tentative happiness—he had been experiencing in the Potters’ kitchen, baking alongside Mr. and Mrs. Potter.

People don’t seem to understand that.

They don’t understand how fragile happiness is. How easily it can slip through his fingers, even without meaning or warning.

He doesn’t believe Mrs. Potter meant to take his happiness away. She didn’t say it to hurt him. She wasn’t cruel. But it happened anyway. One second, he was fine—more than fine. He had been content, at ease, filling cupcake trays, letting himself exist in a moment that felt good. And then she spoke, and the warmth was gone, replaced by something cold and heavy and unbearable.

Regulus knows he shouldn’t blame her. And he doesn’t.

He blames himself.

Because he got too close.

He let his guard down, let himself believe—just for a second—that he was allowed to feel happy. That he was safe in it.

It may sound stupid to other people, but to Regulus, it took away something important. Something he doesn’t have a name for, but he feels the absence of it like a hollow ache in his chest.

And it all started when he came back down the stairs after changing, heading back into the kitchen.

“Back to work, then?” Mr. Potter asked lightly.

Regulus nodded and climbed back onto the step stool. He picked up the scoop again, carefully filling each cupcake liner with batter. The action was steady, predictable. Safe. The weight of the scoop in his hand, the soft plop of batter hitting the paper—it gave him something to focus on. Something to control.

Beside him, Mr. Potter worked at the same pace, filling the tray with ease. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was nice. Warm.

“That looks perfect, Regulus,” Mrs. Potter said from behind him. “You're really good at that.”

Regulus felt his shoulders relax slightly. He didn’t know what to say, so he just kept going, making sure each cupcake had the same amount of batter.

Mrs. Potter stepped closer. “I wanted to tell you,” she said gently, “on Friday, you have an appointment with a therapist. Her name is Laura Williams, and she’s really kind. We think she might be able to help you with… everything you’ve been feeling.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. They didn’t belong here, in the quiet warmth of the kitchen.

Regulus’ hands stilled.

The scoop, still half-full, hovered over the tray.

His stomach twisted, sharp and sudden. The warmth from before—the calm, the quiet, the careful balance of the moment—vanished. It was like being doused in cold water.

Therapist. Appointment. Help.

His fingers curled tightly around the scoop, sticky batter pressing between them.

He knew what therapy was. Talking. Answering questions. Letting someone dig into his head, pull things out, examine them under bright lights. He thought of Sarah. The check-ins. The questions. The way his chest always felt too tight afterward, like something had been taken from him that he didn’t agree to give.

The kitchen, once warm and safe, felt stifling now.

Regulus swallowed hard, staring at the unfinished cupcakes. The batter was thick and smooth, but his hands felt clumsy now. Unsteady.

The happiness from before was gone.

It had been ripped away, leaving only the weight of something heavy and cold in its place.

Dread.

It means to feel extremely worried or frightened about something that is going to happen or that might happen.

The second Mrs. Potter told him he had an appointment with a therapist, it was like tentacles of dread had spread across his body, slithering around his chest, his throat, his limbs. Grabbing. Pulling. Tightening. Consuming his every thought and emotion.

At first, he had tried to keep baking, to focus on the steady rhythm of scooping batter, on the warmth of the kitchen, on the quiet presence of Mr. Potter beside him. But the words had already taken hold, poisoning everything. His hands had felt clumsy, too heavy, too stiff. The batter had looked wrong. The warmth had disappeared.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Seeing a therapist. Talking to a stranger.

The idea burrowed deep inside him, unwelcome and impossible to ignore. It has been there ever since.

Since Sunday, it hasn’t left him alone.

Every spare moment, every quiet second, the thought creeps back in. No matter how much he tries to push it away, no matter how many times he tells himself to stop thinking about it, the tentacles only wrap tighter. They coil around his ribs, pressing into his lungs, making it hard to breathe. They whisper in his ear when he’s supposed to be listening in class, when he’s supposed to be eating dinner, when he’s supposed to be reading before bed.

And now—now—they are suffocating him.

He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep. The room is dark, silent except for the distant hum of the house settling, the occasional creak of the floorboards. His blankets are pulled up to his chin, but they don’t make him feel safe. He tries to focus on his breathing, on the steady rise and fall of his chest, but it doesn’t help. The dread is still there, wrapped around him like a second skin.

It’s Thursday. 

Tomorrow is Friday.

Which only means one thing… 

Therapy.

***

Sleep didn’t come easy last night.

No. Instead, sleep evaded him like a shadow slipping through his fingers—always there, always close, but never quite within reach. It toyed with him, teasing the edges of his exhaustion, only to pull away the moment he thought he might finally succumb to rest.

Regulus tried everything. He shifted positions countless times, curling into himself, then stretching out, then flipping his pillow to the cool side. He counted his breaths, focused on the steady rise and fall of his chest. He even attempted to recall the steps of a potion recipe, clinging to the methodical process in the hopes that it might lull him into unconsciousness. Nothing worked.

The dread wouldn’t let him go.

It wrapped around him like invisible tentacles, coiling tighter and tighter with each passing moment. Every time he closed his eyes, the weight of it pressed down on his chest, suffocating, unrelenting.

Eventually, though, his body betrayed him. His mind shut down, too exhausted to keep fighting. For a brief, fleeting moment, there was silence. A pause. A reprieve from the fear gripping him so tightly.

And to think he might have had a peaceful night—he would be wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.

Because the moment he finally slipped into sleep, the nightmares came.

They weren’t terrifying in the traditional sense—no monsters lurking in the dark, no faceless figures chasing him. No, these were worse. These were memories, sharp and vivid, dragged from the deepest corners of his mind.

Memories that made his stomach twist. That filled his chest with something heavy and suffocating.

None of it was new. None of it should have scared him.

But the last dream—the last dream was different.

And it scared him real bad.

Regulus jolted awake, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His heart pounded against his ribs, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to him like a thick fog. His skin felt clammy with sweat, and his whole body trembled as he tried to steady himself.

Then he felt it.

The dampness beneath him.

His stomach twisted painfully as the realization crashed over him. No. No, no, no. His hands scrambled at the sheets, panic rising fast and sharp in his chest. He had wet the bed.

Fear consumed him instantly. His breathing turned shallow, his fingers clenched around the blankets as he tried to think. What was he supposed to do? What if someone found out? What if they got angry?

His body moved on instinct, frantic and desperate. He threw the covers back and slid off the bed as quietly as possible, his hands shaking as he grabbed a towel from his dresser. He dropped to his knees, pressing the towel against the soaked sheets, trying to soak up as much as he could. He scrubbed at the mattress, his breath coming faster and faster. Maybe if he got rid of the evidence, no one would notice. Maybe if he—

“Reg? What’s wrong?”

Regulus froze.

James’ voice came from across the room, groggy but concerned. Footsteps followed, the soft creak of the wooden floorboards growing closer.

Regulus’ heart pounded so loudly he could barely hear anything else. His hands clenched tighter around the towel, his whole body locked in place as James walked over.

Then James saw.

“Oh,” James said softly, piecing it together in an instant. But his voice wasn’t mocking or disgusted. It was just… calm.

Regulus squeezed his eyes shut, his throat burning. He wanted to disappear.

“It’s okay, Reg,” James said, crouching down beside him. “These things happen. How about I go get Mum, and you get changed, yeah?”

Regulus shook his head instantly, panic flaring again.

“Regulus,” James said, his voice gentle but firm. “Just get changed into clean clothes. Maybe even have a shower. Trust me, you’ll feel better.”

Regulus swallowed hard, his chest tight, but he didn’t fight back when James stood up. Slowly, he let go of the towel and grabbed a fresh set of clothes before slipping into the bathroom.

The shower helped. The warmth eased some of the lingering panic, washing away the sweat and sticky discomfort clinging to his skin. By the time he stepped out, the tightness in his chest had dulled—just a little.

When he walked back into his room, his bed was neatly remade, as if nothing had happened at all. Mrs. Potter was just walking back in, brushing her hands down her nightdress, looking tired but unconcerned.

She met his eyes, offering him a small, knowing smile. “You alright?”

Regulus hesitated, then nodded.

She hummed tiredly, glancing toward the bed. “Would you still like to sleep in here, or would you rather sleep with me and Fleamont?”

Regulus stood frozen, unsure how to answer. He was exhausted. He wanted to sleep properly, but… He didn’t want to be alone.

Mrs. Potter seemed to understand. “How about I lay with you, then?”

The relief hit him so suddenly that he barely had time to process it before he was climbing into bed.

Mrs. Potter followed, shifting onto the mattress beside him. The bed was small, leaving little space between them, and Regulus felt stiff, awkward, unsure of what to do. But then, she placed a warm hand on his head, gently guiding it down onto her chest.

Regulus tensed for half a second before slowly relaxing into the touch.

With her other hand, she took one of his arms and draped it around her waist, securing him against her. “There you go, sweetheart,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

His breath caught slightly. The warmth of her touch, the quiet steadiness of her heartbeat beneath his cheek—it was overwhelming in a way he didn’t know how to name.

Her fingers combed gently through his hair, soothing and rhythmic. His body, still stiff with lingering shame, slowly unwound. Without thinking, he leaned in a little closer.

Mrs. Potter didn’t seem to mind.

His eyelids grew heavy, the warmth of her presence lulling him into sleep.

Fear swirls inside him.

Regulus doesn’t often feel fear. He’s learned to keep it at bay, to hold it under wraps. But when fear’s due, it comes. And it comes hard.

Regulus is eleven years old. He shouldn’t be wetting the bed. He knows this. He knows it, but it still happened. It just happened. It wasn’t like he meant to—he didn’t want to. But it still happened.

What had he been expecting when it happened?

He wasn’t expecting Mrs. Potter to react the way she did. No. What Regulus had expected was much worse. He’d expected the yelling, the screaming, the belittling. He’d expected to be forced to clean up his own mess. He’d expected to be denied water before bed, or maybe even locked in his room for the night. But none of that happened.

Instead, she was calm. She was caring. She fixed up his bed, no questions asked. She didn’t yell at him, didn’t scream at him, didn’t say a single belittling word. She simply checked to see if he was alright, asked if he wanted to still sleep in his own bed or with her and Mr. Potter.

Regulus hadn’t known how to handle it.

It’s strange, Regulus thinks, as Mr. Potter pulls into the parking lot now. The thought presses on him again, stronger than before: how is it that people can be so kind? So gentle? How can they be so patient with him, when he doesn’t even deserve it?

And yet, here he is. Here they are, giving him things he’s never been given before—things that make his insides twist in confusion.

Regulus can’t quite shake the feeling. Every nice gesture Mrs. Potter and Mr. Potter give him, no matter how small, unsettles him. It feels wrong, almost. Not because they aren’t kind—it’s just… different.

But he’s learned to roll with it, even though it freaks him out.

The second Regulus steps out of the car, the dread hits him full force. It’s like a weight slamming into his chest, suffocating him with every breath he tries to take. His heart races, and his skin prickles uncomfortably, as if the world has suddenly become too large, too overwhelming. He wasn’t sure it could get worse, but it does. The fear that has been curling like smoke in his stomach for days is now here, wrapping itself around him, choking him.

Mrs. Potter notices, of course. She always does.

“It’ll be alright, sweetheart,” she says softly, offering him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his chest but makes him want to believe it anyway. She reaches for his hand, her voice steady, and begins walking toward the building.

Regulus can’t help it. He grabs her hand, fingers tightening around hers like a lifeline. He doesn’t want to let go, not with the fear wrapping around him like a vice. Mrs. Potter doesn’t seem to mind, her fingers gentle and warm against his. Her presence, though comforting, only makes the dread feel worse, as if her kindness is something he’s not quite allowed to accept.

Mr. Potter is standing at the door, holding it open for them. He greets them with a smile, a smile Regulus is still not used to. A smile that feels too kind, too real, too much for someone like him to handle.

When they walk inside, Regulus is instantly hit with the strong scent of lavender, too strong, too sweet. It fills his nose and makes his head spin for a moment as he looks around. The waiting room is small-ish, the walls painted a soft, calming shade of cream. There’s one other person in the room, a woman sitting in the corner, staring blankly at a magazine in her hands. She doesn’t look at Regulus when they enter, but he can feel her eyes on him nonetheless, even if only in his mind.

Mrs. Potter walks up to the receptionist, her voice smooth as she speaks. “I have Regulus Black here to see Laura Williams, at 4:15. It’s his first appointment.”

The receptionist nods without looking up, already reaching for the computer to check him in. She looks back up, handing Mrs. Potter two clipboards. “One’s for you and your husband to fill out, and the other is for Regulus to fill out.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Potter says, taking the clipboards and guiding Regulus and herself over to the chairs next to Mr. Potter. Regulus can feel the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his chest, but he’s too exhausted to say anything.

Mrs. Potter hands him the clipboard, her hand warm and reassuring as she passes it to him. Regulus takes it but doesn’t look at it, not yet. He watches as Mrs. Potter begins filling out her own form, her pen gliding smoothly over the paper.

Regulus looks down at the clipboard in his hands. The weight of it feels strange, like the paper itself is somehow heavier than it should be, as if it carries the weight of all the things he doesn’t want to think about. His fingers wrap around the pen attached to the clipboard, the metal cold and familiar.

He starts to read through the first few questions, the ones that are easy.

Your Name: Regulus Arcturus Black

Your Age: 11

Your Birthday: 16 August 2008

Today’s Date: 10 July 2020

These questions are easy. Simple. He writes the answers quickly, like they don’t matter at all.

Then, he reaches the section labeled “About You,” and he hesitates for a moment.

1: What are some things you like to do?

Reading.

It’s simple enough. It doesn’t take much thought. He doesn’t feel the weight of it, doesn’t feel like someone’s watching him as he writes it down. He likes to read, and that’s true. He likes getting lost in books, away from everything.

2: Do you have any pets? Yes / No – If yes, what are their names?

No.

That’s easy too. No pets. No need to explain.

3: Who do you live with at home? (Circle all that apply)

Regulus looks at the options and hesitates again. Mum, Dad, Stepparents, Grandparents, Siblings, Other…

He circles Other.

Then he writes, almost reluctantly, foster mother, foster father, foster brother.

It’s strange to see it written down. It’s not the first time he’s written that, but it still doesn’t feel real. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.

3: Do you go to school? Yes / No – If yes, what grade are you in?

 Yes.

Regulus pauses. He’s just finished year 7, and he’s about to go into year 8. It feels strange to think about it. It feels like school is far away, like he might not ever go back.

Year 7 into year 8.

He writes it down. It feels like it means nothing, but it’s something to fill in the blank.

Now, it’s the section about “how you feel.”

4: What makes you happy?

Regulus stares at the question, the words feeling too big. He doesn’t know what makes him happy anymore. He used to know, but now everything’s too complicated.

He doesn’t know what to write, so he leaves it blank.

5: What makes you feel sad, upset, or scared?

That one’s easier. He knows the answer to that. It’s everything. It’s being here, it’s the fear he feels all the time, it’s his memories of things he’d rather forget.

But he doesn’t write that. He doesn’t want anyone to see that. So, he just writes, things.

6: How do you feel most days? (Circle one)

He looks at the options:
😊 Happy
😐 Okay
😞 Sad
😠 Angry
😰 Nervous

None of them feel right. He doesn’t feel happy or okay. He doesn’t feel angry, and he certainly doesn’t feel sad. But he’s not sure what he feels.

Finally, he circles Nervous.

It feels like the closest to what he’s been feeling, but even that doesn’t seem like it fits. He wants to write scared, but the word feels too heavy to put on paper.

7: How do you show your feelings? (Circle all that apply)

Regulus stares at the list. He knows exactly how he shows his feelings, but he doesn’t know if he wants to admit it.

He circles crying, keeping them inside, and drawing or writing about them.

But then there’s other. He can’t stop himself. He writes it down in small letters, hoping no one will notice: he breaks things and yells.

He feels a flush rise to his face, a hot wave of shame sweeping over him. He shouldn’t have written that. He shouldn’t have said it out loud, even if it’s just on paper.

Then, he reaches the last section.

Things You Want to Talk About

8: Is there anything you want to talk about in therapy? Yes / No

Regulus stares at the question. It’s too much. Too big. He doesn’t know what he wants to talk about. He doesn’t know if he wants to talk about anything. He doesn’t even know if he wants to be here.

If yes, what? (It’s okay if you’re not sure!)

He writes nothing. Blank.

9: Is there anything you don’t want to talk about? Yes / No

If yes, what? (It’s okay if you don’t want to write it down.)

He hesitates, the pen hovering over the paper. He thinks about everything he doesn’t want to talk about. He thinks about the fear in his chest, the memories that haunt him, the things he’s been hiding for so long.

But he doesn’t write anything down. Nothing.

He doesn’t want to say any of it out loud.

Once he finishes the form, he sets the pen down with a heavy inaudible sigh, feeling exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with his body.

A few moments later, a woman with light brown hair, dressed in jeans and a black shirt, steps out into the waiting room. She’s smiling at him in a way that feels too warm, too open, like she’s already expecting him.

When Regulus looks around the room, he realizes that he and the Potters are the only ones left. The other woman has already left, and it feels like the room has gotten smaller.

The woman looks at him kindly, her smile widening as she approaches.

“You must be Regulus,” she says softly. “Hi, my name’s Laura.”

Regulus doesn’t say anything, just nods quietly, shrinking in on himself, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. 

Mrs. Potter is the first to speak. “It’s lovely to meet you, Laura,” she says, her voice warm but steady. “I’m Euphemia, and this is my husband, Fleamont.”

Mr. Potter nods, offering a polite smile. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Laura smiles back at them before turning her attention to Regulus. “I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask before we get started with Regulus. If you could all follow me back?”

Regulus’ grip tightens slightly around the clipboard in his hands. He doesn’t move.

Mr. Potter reaches over, gently taking the clipboard from him before heading in the direction Laura had motioned toward. Mrs. Potter follows suit, walking after them without hesitation.

Regulus, however, stays rooted in place. His body feels heavy, uncooperative.

Mrs. Potter turns, immediately noticing his hesitation. “Everything’s going to be okay,” she says softly, her voice calm and sure. “If anything gets too much, you can stop.”

Regulus swallows, looking down at the floor. Slowly, hesitantly, he steps forward. His fingers twitch at his sides before he reaches out, grabbing onto Mrs. Potter’s hand again. She doesn’t react beyond giving his hand a gentle squeeze, guiding him forward as they follow the others into the room.

The first thing Regulus notices is the colors. They aren’t overwhelming, but they stand out in contrast to the stark, plain walls he’s used to. The room is filled with dark blues, aquas, greens, peach, and deep pinks. The colors blend together in a way that feels deliberate, soft rather than harsh.

Then, his eyes land on the bookshelf. It’s filled with games, coloring books, and neatly arranged pens. There’s a couch and an armchair, along with a coffee table in between them. Beanbags and pillows are scattered across the floor, and there’s a soft-looking rug beneath it all. Amongst the furniture, he spots sensory toys—fidget items, weighted plushies, things that he recognizes but isn’t used to having easy access to.

Mrs. Potter guides him inside, leading him further into the room before she and Mr. Potter take a seat on the couch. Laura closes the door behind them, turning back to Regulus with an easy smile.

“Sit wherever you’d like, Regulus.”

Regulus hesitates, glancing between the available spots. The couch. The armchair. The beanbags. It feels like too many choices.

Finally, he decides to sit on the floor, right between Mr. and Mrs. Potter. It feels safer there.

Laura doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she crouches down slightly, offering him a pillow. Regulus nods, accepting it without a word. He moves the pillow underneath him, he shifts slightly to get into a comfortable position. 

Then, Laura turns her attention back to Mr. and Mrs. Potter. “So, what brings you here today? Can you tell me a little about why you’re seeking therapy for Regulus?”

Mrs. Potter glances at Regulus before answering, her voice measured and careful. “Regulus has been through… a lot,” she says. “He was placed in our care a little over a month ago, and we just want to make sure he has the support he needs. He’s been adjusting well in some ways, but in others… we’re a bit worried.”

Laura nods, her expression warm but professional. “What are your main concerns?”

Mrs. Potter shifts slightly, her hands resting lightly in her lap. “He doesn’t talk,” she says gently. “Not verbally, at least. And we don’t want to push him to do anything he’s not comfortable with, but we also don’t want him to feel like he can’t communicate at all.”

Mr. Potter clears his throat. “We’ve also noticed that he gets overwhelmed easily,” he adds. “Sometimes, it leads to a meltdown or a panic attack. Other times, he just… shuts down completely. It’s like he disappears inside himself.”

Laura hums softly, jotting down a note on her clipboard. “How often do these happen?”

Mrs. Potter hesitates. “Often enough that we’ve noticed patterns,” she admits. “They’re more frequent in new environments or when there’s too much going on at once. We’ve learned some ways to help, but we don’t always know what to do.”

Mr. Potter nods. “And we don’t want to do something that makes it worse,” he adds.

Laura offers a small, understanding smile. “That makes a lot of sense,” she says. “It’s good that you’re paying attention to what’s happening and how he’s responding.” She glances at Regulus, who remains silent, curled slightly inward on the floor between them. “Would you like for them to stay for a little bit, Regulus? Just until you get more comfortable?”

Regulus stiffens, staring down at the rug. He doesn’t know the right answer.

Mrs. Potter leans in just slightly, lowering her voice so only he can hear. “We’ll be right outside otherwise, sweetheart. It’s okay if you don’t want us in here. If having us here makes you uncomfortable.”

Regulus swallows. He glances at Mr. Potter, then at Mrs. Potter. He doesn’t want them to leave, but he also doesn’t want them to stay. He isn’t sure which one feels worse.

Still, after a moment, he nods.

Mrs. Potter hums softly. “Alright. We’ll be right outside, okay?”

Before she stands, she suddenly reaches for her handbag, as if remembering something. “Oh, before I forget,” she says, her voice light but affectionate. “Here’s your dog.”

She pulls out the familiar black stuffed dog from her bag and hands it over to Regulus.

Regulus takes it quickly, gripping the soft fur between his fingers. He curls it against his chest, the weight of it grounding him just a little.

Mrs. Potter gives him a small smile before finally standing. Laura gets up and walks over to the door, holding it open for them. Mr. and Mrs. Potter exchange one last glance with Regulus before stepping out into the hallway. Laura closes the door behind them.

There’s a brief pause before she looks back at Regulus. “Would you like to play with something?” she asks gently. “I have some sensory toys, or if you’d like, I can give you a coloring page.”

Regulus looks between the two options. He doesn’t particularly want to do either, but the idea of fidgeting with something feels less overwhelming than talking.

After a long moment, he decides. Coloring.

Laura nods, moving toward the bookshelf. She takes out a coloring book, flipping through the pages before settling on one. Then, she grabs a handful of pens and walks back over, handing them to him.

“Okay then,” she says, settling into the armchair across from him. “Take your time.”

Regulus stares down at the page in his hands. It’s a simple design, something floral. His fingers twitch as he picks up one of the pens, hovering over the paper but not yet starting.

His stuffed dog rests in his lap, its soft fabric a small source of comfort.

Laura doesn’t say anything, doesn’t pressure him to speak.

She just waits.

Regulus focuses on the coloring page in front of him, carefully filling in the lines with slow, deliberate strokes. The floral design begins to take shape under his pen, lavender purple petals surrounded by soft, dark green leaves. The repetitive motion is grounding, his mind narrowing to the gentle scratch of ink against paper.

For a while, the room is quiet. The only sound comes from Laura shifting slightly in her chair, the soft rustle of her notebook as she flips a page. Then, she speaks.

“I realized I haven’t properly introduced myself yet,” she says, her voice warm but casual, as if they were simply having a normal conversation. “I’m Laura Williams, I’m thirty-five, and I have two kids—Milo and Sophie. They’re ten and six.”

Regulus doesn’t react, but he listens. He doesn’t know why, but it’s easy to listen to her talk.

“I also have a dog—his name’s Jasper. He’s a golden retriever, very fluffy, very excitable. And I have a cat named Olive, she’s a tabby. She mostly ignores me unless it’s dinnertime.”

Regulus shifts slightly, still coloring.

“Oh, and I speak French,” Laura adds, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Not fluently, but well enough. Took classes for years and still practice when I can.”

Regulus doesn’t mean to say anything. He doesn’t even realize he does until the words are already out.

“French is my first language.”

His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, but the moment the words leave his mouth, he freezes, his hand tightening around the pen. He hadn’t meant to speak—he’d been too focused on coloring and listening and—

“Oh, really?” Laura asks, her tone the same as before, easy and light. “Must be cool, right?”

Regulus shrugs, keeping his gaze locked on the paper. He doesn’t find it that cool.

Laura hums. “Well, I suppose you might not find it cool, but others might.”

Regulus nods slightly. After a beat, he murmurs, “Yeah. My friends find it cool.”

Laura leans back slightly. “Oh yeah? Tell me about them.”

Regulus hesitates, but then, slowly, he does.

“Pandora’s the kindest person I know,” he says quietly. “She’s really artsy—she’s always drawing something or making things. She’s quiet, but… not in a bad way. Just—comfortable. She listens a lot.”

Laura nods, listening intently.

“Dorcas listens too. She’s… steady. Always knows what to say, or when not to say anything at all. She doesn’t really like talking about herself much, but she’s always there when you need her.”

He shifts slightly, picking up another pen, now moving onto the leaves of the design.

“Evan plays hockey. He’s really good at it. He’s good at keeping me, especially Barty, out of trouble too. I don’t know how he does it, but he always seems to know when something’s a bad idea.”

Laura hums softly, encouraging him to continue.

“And Barty?”

Regulus huffs, something almost like amusement flickering across his face. “He’s… loud. And dramatic. But he’s funny. He always has some ridiculous plan for something. And he’s really—” He pauses, frowning slightly before finishing, “—really protective.”

Laura doesn’t comment, just nods, letting him sit with his words. 

After a moment, Laura smiles. “Well, sounds like you’ve got a great group of friends.”

Regulus nods.

After a pause, Laura asks, “Do you talk to them?”

Regulus shakes his head.

“Have you ever talked in front of Mr. and Mrs. Potter?”

Regulus hesitates, then shakes his head again. After a moment, he adds quietly, “A couple words. In French.”

Laura nods like that makes perfect sense. “Does talking feel hard sometimes?”

Regulus nods.

“Does talking in front of others scare you?”

Another nod.

She doesn’t push him right away. She gives him a moment before she asks, “What about it scares you the most?”

Regulus stops coloring. His grip on the pen tightens. He doesn’t know how to answer that. He just knows that it does. That there are so many things people could think, so many things they could notice, so many ways he could get something wrong.

He stares at the paper, frozen.

“Regulus?” Laura says gently.

He glances up, not quite making eye contact.

“Just say the first thing on your mind,” she tells him. “Don’t overthink it.”

The words slip out before he can stop them.

“I’m afraid of people judging me.”

Laura nods like she was expecting that answer. “Why’s that?”

Regulus shrugs. But then his mind drifts, unbidden, to the memories he usually tries to keep buried.

When he first started school, he kept mixing up French and English. The other kids laughed at him.

He remembers overhearing his mother and Uncle Alphard arguing, Alphard’s voice tight with frustration. “There’s something wrong with him, Walburga. Please don’t ignore the signs.”

His grandparents used to tell him off for speaking a certain way.

Sirius used to tell him to “shut up” whenever something broke and their mother came into the room.

Laura watches him carefully, then speaks again, her tone thoughtful. “You know, sometimes the way we feel about something—like talking—comes from past experiences.”

Regulus processes that slowly. It makes sense. He thinks.

Laura tilts her head. “Do you think something happened to cause that fear of talking?”

Regulus nods. “There’s… there are many things.”

Laura doesn’t push. “Would you like to talk about them? Maybe one specific memory?”

Regulus hesitates, but something about Laura makes it feel… possible. He grips his stuffed dog a little tighter, then, finally, he says, “When I first started school, I used to mix up French and English. The other kids laughed at me.”

Laura nods, her expression soft with understanding. She doesn’t say anything right away, just gives him space to let the words sit between them.

Regulus keeps his eyes on the colouring page as Laura shifts slightly in her chair. “How did that make you feel?” she asks, her voice gentle, steady.

Regulus swallows. He knows the answer. He’s always known the answer. “Embarrassed,” he admits, barely above a whisper. His grip tightens on the pen. “That’s when I stopped talking in school. I didn’t want people to judge me for speaking two languages.”

Laura nods, not saying anything right away, just giving him time to sit with the admission. Regulus realizes that saying it out loud makes him feel… lighter. As if he’s let go of something that’s been pressing down on his chest. He exhales quietly and goes back to colouring, the soft scratch of the pen filling the silence.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Laura write something down, but she doesn’t stay on the topic of talking. Instead, she asks, “Can you tell me about the people you’re living with now?”

Regulus tenses for a second before forcing himself to answer. He keeps his voice level, factual. “Euphemia Potter, thirty. Fleamont Potter, thirty. James Potter, thirteen.” 

Laura nods, waiting.

Regulus doesn’t elaborate. He keeps colouring.

“You said Mrs. Potter first,” Laura notes. “Can you tell me a little more about her?”

“She’s…” Regulus hesitates. He’s not sure what he should say, or, for the matter, how to say it. How can he describe Mrs. Potter without sounding weird? 

Regulus shifts, feeling the weight of Laura’s gaze on him. “She doesn’t—” He stops himself, pressing his lips together. 

Laura doesn’t push, just waits.

Regulus swallows and forces himself to say it. “Mrs. Potter isn’t like my mother.”

Laura tilts her head slightly. “How do you mean?”

Regulus presses his lips together, staring down at the colouring page. “Well…” he starts, then hesitates. His grip tightens slightly around the pen. He doesn’t know how to say what he wants to say, doesn’t even really know what he means. After a moment, he glances up at Laura and asks, “How are mothers meant to act?”

Laura seems to consider this for a second before responding. “Mothers are meant to be caring. They’re supposed to make their children feel safe and loved. They comfort you when you’re sad or hurt, they encourage you, they take care of you. They listen when you need them to, and they stand up for you when you can’t stand up for yourself.”

Regulus listens, his brows furrowing slightly.

“Why’d you ask?” Laura prompts gently.

Regulus shrugs. “Well… because my mother doesn’t act like Mrs. Potter, and well…” He trails off, unsure. Comparing them feels strange—they’re different people, raised differently, lived different lives. It feels wrong somehow, unfair. But something about it still sits in his chest, heavy and undeniable.

Laura waits a beat, then asks, “What’s one thing Mrs. Potter and your mother do differently?”

Regulus thinks. His first instinct is to say ‘everything,’ but that isn’t exactly true. So he picks something small. Something easy. “Hugs,” he says finally. “Mrs. Potter hugs me.” He pauses, fingers tapping against the pen. “My mother never really did.”

Laura nods. “And how do you feel about that?”

Regulus shrugs again, but this time, it’s slower, more thoughtful. “I was fine with it,” he says after a moment. “I didn’t… I didn’t really think about it. But I think—when I was little—I did wish she did.”

Laura hums in understanding. “Anything else?”

Regulus hesitates. Then, slowly, he starts to think about all the other ways Mrs. Potter is different. How she speaks softly, how she never raises her voice—not even when James is loud or annoying. How she always seems to notice when he’s overwhelmed, how she doesn’t push him to talk, just lets him exist without expectation. How she tells him ‘goodnight’ and ‘good morning’ like it’s just something natural, something expected. How she calls him ‘sweetheart.’

One by one, the differences pile up in his head, until suddenly, he realizes—Mrs. Potter is more of a mother to him than his own mother ever was.

The thought makes his stomach feel strange. Heavy. Real.

He must be quiet for too long because Laura asks, “What’s on your mind?”

Regulus grips the pen a little tighter, then murmurs, “I think… I think Mrs. Potter acts more like a mother to me than my own mother did.”

Laura nods, not looking surprised. “How do you feel about that?”

Regulus doesn’t know. He should be upset, maybe. Or angry. Or sad. But instead, all he feels is something quiet, something settled. Like he’s known it for a long time but never had the words for it until now. “…Okay,” he says simply, because it’s the only thing that fits.

Laura watches him for a moment, then hums in acknowledgment.

Regulus is still thinking about it when another thought pushes forward, unbidden. He shifts slightly, looking down at the page in front of him. Then, after a long silence, he says, almost hesitantly, “Mrs. Potter called me her son.”

Laura tilts her head slightly. Before she can get another word in, Regulus hesitantly swallows, but says. “It felt… wrong.”  The words are out before he can stop them. His fingers tighten slightly around the pen. “Like she shouldn’t have meant it.”

Laura doesn’t dismiss his words, doesn’t tell him he’s wrong to feel that way. Instead, she asks, “Why do you think that is?”

Regulus shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t know how to explain it, not really. It’s not like he didn’t like hearing it, but it also—it didn’t feel like it belonged to him. He looks down, voice quieter. “I don’t know.”

Laura waits a beat before gently prompting, “Do you feel like you don’t deserve it?”

Regulus blinks. He hadn’t thought about that. But maybe. Maybe part of him thinks he hasn’t earned it, that being called ‘son’ is something that has to be given, and he hasn’t done anything to deserve it.

“…Maybe.”

Laura nods thoughtfully, then asks, “Or do you feel like it betrays your mother?”

Regulus hesitates. That… that makes sense too. Because no matter how much he wishes things were different, Walburga Black is still his mother. And even if she wasn’t a good one, even if Mrs. Potter is better—she’s still the one who raised him. The one who gave birth to him.

“I don’t know,” Regulus finally says, voice small. “Maybe both.”

Laura nods, her expression understanding. “Okay, then.”

She lets the silence settle for a few moments, giving Regulus space to think. Then, gently, she asks, “Tell me about your mother.”

Regulus hesitates, fingers twitching slightly around his pen. He keeps colouring, gaze locked on the page. “…Her name is Walburga.”

Laura waits patiently, and after a beat, Regulus exhales softly. “She… she wasn’t like Mrs. Potter,” he murmurs. “She—she treats me differently than Mrs. Potter does.”

Laura doesn’t interrupt, just listens, and maybe that’s why Regulus keeps going.

“She—” He frowns slightly, pressing the blue pen a little harder against the page. “I don’t know. She felt… indifferent towards me, I think. Like, I was there, and she looked after me, but…” He trails off, trying to find the words.

“But?” Laura prompts gently.

Regulus shrugs, but it’s more uncertain than dismissive. He hesitates. His grip tightening around the coloured pen in his hand. He presses the tip against the page, focusing on the way the ink bleeds into the paper. “I was her baby,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Not the trouble-maker. Unlike Sirius.”

Laura stays silent, listening.

“She always said that.” He swallows, brows furrowing slightly. “She called me her good son. Said I was different from him. I didn’t—” His fingers twitch. “I didn’t argue, didn’t make things difficult for her, so she… liked me more. I think.”

He doesn’t know why he says that last part. It just slips out, and it feels strange because he isn’t sure if it’s true.

“She bought me things,” Regulus continues after a beat. “Anything I wanted. Toys, books, whatever. I never had to ask twice. She’d dress me up for pictures and tell me how handsome I looked, how perfect I was. But I don’t think—” He hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t think she really… knew me.”

His voice drops, and he doesn’t look up from his colouring. “I think she just liked the idea of me. Because I wasn’t Sirius.”

Laura exhales softly, but she still doesn’t interrupt.

Regulus swallows again. “She was never unkind to me. Not in the way she was to Sirius. She never yelled at me like she did at him, never punished me. But she never…” He trails off, gripping his stuffed dog a little tighter before shaking his head. “That means she cared about me, right?”

Laura’s voice is gentle when she finally speaks. “Caring about someone isn’t just about buying them things,” she says. “A mother should love her children unconditionally. She should make them feel safe, not just physically, but emotionally too. She should care about their thoughts, their feelings, what makes them happy and what makes them sad. She should support them, comfort them, and—most of all—make them feel loved, without them ever having to earn it.”

Regulus stays quiet, staring down at his colouring. His chest feels tight, like something is pressing against it, something too big and too complicated to make sense of.

Laura gives him a moment to process before asking, “Does Mrs. Potter do those things?”

Regulus swallows. Thinks about the way she makes him hot chocolate when he’s overwhelmed, how she keeps bandages in her bag because she knows he picks at his skin when anxious, how she talks to him like his thoughts matter, like he matters.

“…Yes.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Yes, she does.”

A pause settles between them. Regulus keeps colouring, his mind turning over Laura’s words, thinking about his mother. Thinking about Mrs. Potter.

Then, Laura speaks again, her voice still soft. “You mentioned someone before, when talking about your mother. I was wondering—who is Sirius?”

Regulus freezes. His breath catches slightly, and his grip tightens around his stuffed black dog. The fabric wrinkles under his fingers.

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything.

Then, so quietly it’s almost inaudible, he whispers, “He’s my brother.”

Silence settles over the room, heavy and unmoving.

Laura lets the silence linger for a moment before speaking again, her voice as soft as ever. “Would you like to tell me about him?”

Regulus’ hand stills over the page. His grip on the coloured pen tightens, and he stares at the half-finished design without really seeing it.

Sirius.

He swallows, emotions rising so fast they feel impossible to contain.

He wants to talk about him—he does—but as soon as he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. His throat tightens, his chest aches, and before he can stop himself, tears well up in his eyes, blurring the colours on the page in front of him. His breath hitches, and his body tenses, curling in on itself as he clutches his stuffed dog against his chest.

Laura immediately notices. “Regulus,” she says softly, leaning forward slightly. “Are you feeling overwhelmed? Would you like me to get Mr. or Mrs. Potter?”

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut, biting down on his lip, and through the tears, he nods.

Laura stands up and steps out of the room. The wait is short—barely a minute—before Mrs. Potter enters.

The moment she sees him, she moves to sit on the floor beside him without hesitation. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice filled with warmth and concern. “Do you want a hug?”

Regulus hesitates, fingers digging into the soft fabric of his stuffed dog. He isn’t sure, but the moment stretches between them, and he finds himself slowly, tentatively, wrapping an arm around her.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t rush him. She just gathers him close, holding him securely, her hand rubbing soothing circles along his back. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s okay to feel things.”

Regulus lets out a shaky breath, burying his face in the space between her neck and shoulder. The warmth of her embrace, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way she rocks them ever so slightly—it’s grounding. Safe.

His tears come in quiet, shuddering waves, and Mrs. Potter just holds him through it, her touch never wavering.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there like that, but eventually, his breathing evens out. His body feels heavy, drained, but lighter in a strange way, too.

Laura waits until he’s ready before speaking again. “Would you like Mrs. Potter to stay, or would you rather she leave?”

Regulus hesitates. Then, without speaking, he reaches for the piece of paper and writes: Leave, please.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t look hurt. She just gives him a gentle squeeze before slowly pulling back. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, love.” With one last soft look, she stands and slips out of the room.

Once she’s gone, Laura’s voice is careful, measured. “You don’t talk in front of Mrs. Potter.”

Regulus stiffens slightly. His fingers curl tighter around his stuffed dog, the familiar softness grounding him, though he feels an unfamiliar tension in his chest. He doesn’t respond immediately, unsure how to express something that feels so tangled up inside him.

Laura, sensing his hesitation, doesn’t press. She simply sits back, her gaze warm and patient, giving him the space he needs. The silence stretches between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.

After a long moment, Regulus exhales, his breath shaky, and nods slightly, still holding onto his stuffed dog as if it might keep him tethered.

“Can you tell me why?” Laura asks gently, her voice not demanding but open, inviting him to share.

He swallows, trying to find the right words. “I…” He hesitates, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t want her to judge me.”

The words feel like an admission, like letting something out he’s held in for a long time. He wishes he could explain it better, but even now, with Laura’s kind attention, it feels difficult.

Laura’s expression remains soft, understanding. “Do you think she would?”

Regulus remains silent for a moment, his thoughts swirling. He doesn’t think Mrs. Potter would judge him—she’s never given him a reason to believe that. But still, the fear lingers. The thought of speaking, of sharing more than he’s ready for, feels risky.

“I don’t want her to expect too much,” Regulus murmurs, the words slipping out before he can fully grasp what he’s saying. His hands tremble a little, the tightness in his chest making it harder to breathe.

Laura nods, her eyes never leaving him. “I understand,” she says quietly, acknowledging his fear without trying to minimize it. “Do you think speaking will change how they see you?”

Regulus’s fingers twitch in his lap. That question digs deep, making him pause. Does he think it will change how they see him? The truth is, he doesn’t know. He’s spent so long keeping his guard up, learning how to be quiet, how to stay invisible. He hasn’t had to show the parts of him that might make people uncomfortable, and the thought of letting that barrier down, even just a little, feels like stepping into unknown territory.

But…

Regulus thinks back to everything Mrs. Potter has done for him. The way she never pressures him to speak, how she always gives him the space to be himself. How she’s always there, patient and kind, never demanding more than he’s able to give.

He thinks about Mr. Potter too—the way he never seems to mind the silence between them, never forces conversation. And James—always energetic, always talking, but never expecting Regulus to do the same. He just accepts him, no matter how quiet he is.

They don’t expect him to speak. They don’t judge him for not speaking.

Regulus swallows again, the realization settling in his chest. It’s like the weight of everything he’s been carrying is finally starting to ease, but it’s overwhelming too. It’s a mix of comfort and uncertainty, all tangled up inside him.

Laura watches him, her eyes soft with understanding. “That’s a big thing to process,” she says gently. “But I want you to know—you’ve done really well today.”

Regulus glances at her, meeting her gaze for just a moment before looking down at his hands, still holding his stuffed dog tightly.

“It’s okay if things feel heavy,” Laura continues. “We’ll keep working through them. Together.”

Regulus exhales slowly, the tension in his body starting to release. He doesn’t have all the answers yet, but for the first time in a long time, he feels like maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t have to have them all right now.

He nods, his small gesture full of quiet understanding. The weight of the moment, of everything he’s shared, still lingers, but it’s a little lighter than before. A little more manageable.

“Well, that’s it for today,” Laura says softly, her voice warm but final. She rises from her spot in the armchair and walks towards the door, opening it with a soft creak. She glances back at Regulus with a gentle smile. “You can take the colouring-in page with you,” she adds kindly.

Regulus picks up the paper slowly, folding it carefully in his hands. He feels a small sense of accomplishment from his work, a tiny weight lifting off his chest.

Together, they walk back into the waiting room, where Mr. and Mrs. Potter are sitting. Mrs. Potter immediately looks up, concern in her eyes.

“How’d he go?” she asks, her voice soft, as if she’s already anticipating the answer.

Laura gives a reassuring smile. “Well,” she says simply, looking at Regulus with a nod.

Mr. Potter, sitting beside Mrs. Potter, gives a small smile. “That’s good to hear,” he adds warmly.

Laura turns to the Potters, standing with her hands resting on the back of the chair. “We’ll definitely book another appointment and more after that. How does the same time next Friday sound?”

Mrs. Potter smiles at the suggestion. “That sounds good,” she agrees, but then turns to Regulus. “Is that alright with you, Regulus?”

Regulus hesitates for a moment, his gaze flickering between them. Then, very quietly, barely more than a whisper, he says, “Yes.”

Mrs. Potter’s eyes widen slightly in surprise as she hears Regulus’s quiet response, her expression softening with a hint of disbelief. But she quickly composes herself, her smile returning just as gently. 

“Alright, then,” she says, her voice warm, before turning back to Laura.

Laura smiles and types a few things into her computer. “Perfect,” she says with a satisfied nod. “Your appointment is booked, Regulus. I’ll see you next week.”

Regulus gives a small, hesitant wave, feeling both grateful and a little shy. Mrs. Potter gently takes his hand in hers, her grip warm and steady. They both walk toward the door.

As they step outside, Regulus takes a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs. The world outside seems a little less heavy, and he realizes, with surprising clarity, that he can breathe a little easier now. 

Holding Mrs. Potter’s hand, he feels a quiet comfort in the warmth of her touch, and for the first time today, he doesn’t feel so alone.