To Find a Home

“Mothers are meant to be caring.” 

The drive back from therapy had been… peaceful. No questions, no expectations—just the quiet hum of the car, the occasional soft-spoken comment from Mrs. Potter, and Mr. Potter humming along to the radio. Regulus had sat in the backseat, watching the trees blur past, feeling lighter in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

Now, he sits at the dinner table, waiting for the food to be served. James is talking—animated, excited—about an upcoming soccer match.

“It’s gonna be great,” James says, practically vibrating in his seat. “We’re gonna smash them. Our midfield’s been solid all season.”

Mr. Potter chuckles. “That’s what you said last time, and then they lost by three goals.”

“Okay, but that was because—” James starts to argue, but Mrs. Potter cuts in with a fond smile.

“Less talking, more eating, love,” she says, placing a plate in front of him before moving to set Regulus’ down.

“There you go, love,” she murmurs, her voice warm, like it always is.

Regulus glances at his plate.

The food is neatly arranged, every portion separate—nothing touching.

For a moment, he just stares. He’s never really noticed this before. But now that he has, memories shift into place. She’s always done this, hasn’t she? Since that one time—since that dinner when his vegetables had been piled on top of his potatoes, and something inside him had snapped. He hadn’t meant to freak out, but the sight of his food all mixed together had made his skin crawl, had made eating feel impossible.

He remembers how he’d tried—tried to push past it, tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, but it did. And when he couldn’t hold it in any longer, when his fork had clattered against the plate and his chest had felt tight and awful, Mrs. Potter hadn’t scolded him. She hadn’t told him he was overreacting.

She had just fixed it.

She had quietly made him a new plate, separate, neat, and had simply said, “It’s okay, Regulus.”

Regulus swallows. His mother would have told him to suck it up. Walburga did tell him to suck it up.

Mrs. Potter isn’t his mother.

But she remembers these things. The small things, the little things. The things that feel like they shouldn’t matter, but somehow do.

“Regulus, you alright?”

The voice pulls him back. He blinks, looking up to find Mrs. Potter watching him, brow slightly furrowed.

He nods quickly, turning his gaze back to his plate. 

She doesn’t push. She just gives him a small nod before returning to her own meal.

The conversation picks up again. James is still talking about the soccer match, and eventually, the topic shifts.

“We should watch a movie tonight,” Mr. Potter says suddenly, leaning back in his chair. “We haven’t had a movie night in ages.”

James immediately perks up. “Oh, yes—we should! Let’s watch something good, though, not some ancient film from the eighties.”

Mrs. Potter laughs. “That’s a great idea.”

Mr. Potter turns to Regulus. “What do you think? You alright with that?”

Regulus hesitates, just for a second.

Then, slowly, he nods.

“Alright,” Mr. Potter grins, clapping his hands together. “Movie night it is.”

Regulus looks down at his plate, his food still neatly arranged, and lets out a quiet breath. He thinks… maybe he doesn’t mind this.

“Mothers are meant to be caring.”

Upstairs in his room, Regulus pulls his pajama shirt over his head, his mind still circling around what Laura had said earlier. 

Mothers are meant to be caring.

The words had settled in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar.

Caring.

His mother—Walburga—had never not looked after him. She had made sure he was fed, clothed, taught the right manners, the right way to present himself. She had bought him things. Expensive things. Anything he wanted, really. That was caring, wasn’t it? That had to be caring.

But she had also been cold. Harsh. Indifferent.

He thinks about all the times he had tried to go to her for comfort—when he had fallen and scraped his knee, when he had been sick, when he had cried. “Stop sniveling,” she had snapped. “Black’s do not cry.”

When he had struggled to finish dinner because the texture of something was unbearable, she had merely raised an unimpressed brow and told him to “suck it up.”

When he had been afraid—afraid of the dark, afraid of failure, afraid of her—she had only sighed, long and exasperated, and told him he was being ridiculous.

Regulus swallows, pushing the thoughts away.

He finishes changing and steps out of his room, padding quietly down the stairs. The soft hum of conversation drifts from the living room, but as he enters, he sees Mrs. Potter setting up the couch with blankets and fluffing up the pillows. James and Mr. Potter must still be in the kitchen getting snacks.

Mrs. Potter looks up when she notices him. “Hey, love,” she says warmly. “We’re picking a movie. Do you have a preference?”

Regulus hesitates at the question, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. His first instinct is to grab the notebook from its place on the coffee table and write it down. It’s easier that way. Safer.

But then, Laura’s words from earlier slip into his mind—Do you really think they’re going to judge you?

The thought lingers, uncertain but insistent.

He takes a small breath. And then, gathering all the courage he can muster, he forces the words out:

“I’d like to watch The Croods.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, a horrible wave of self-consciousness crashes over him. It’s so quiet. Barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Potter, who had started to nod, suddenly freezes. Her expression flickers through several emotions—surprise, something else he can’t quite name, and then something warm and fond.

She recovers quickly, smiling at him like nothing happened. “Great choice,” she says, tone perfectly even. “I’ll put it on the voting list.”

Regulus just nods, his face feeling slightly warm.

Mrs. Potter gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder as she passes. “I’ll be right back, love.”

As she leaves the room, Regulus moves to the armchair and sits down, tucking his legs up slightly. His heart is still beating faster than it should be, but there’s something else there, too.

Something that feels a little like pride.

He had spoken. Out loud.

And it hadn’t been awful.

The thought keeps circling in Regulus’ mind as he sits curled up in the armchair. He had done it—spoken out loud—and nothing had gone wrong. Mrs. Potter hadn’t reacted badly. She hadn’t judged him or made a big deal out of it.

He should try again.

Maybe in front of Mr. Potter and James this time.

But the moment he considers it, anxiety curls tight in his stomach.

It’s different with them. Mr. Potter is kind, patient, but Regulus isn’t sure what he’d think. James is loud and excitable and doesn’t stop talking—what if he makes a big deal out of it?

He isn’t sure he’s ready for that yet.

Before he can think about it more, Mrs. Potter walks back into the living room, and Regulus’ brain short-circuits entirely.

Because in her hands are his blanket and his stuffed dog.

He hadn’t thought to grab them. He’d been so focused on coming downstairs, on the movie, on speaking, that he hadn’t even realized they weren’t with him. But Mrs. Potter had.

Without a word, she hands them to him.

Regulus takes them hesitantly, fingers tightening around the soft, yet still slightly stiff fabric of the blanket, around the familiar weight of his stuffed dog. The warmth spreads through his chest before he even realizes it.

Mrs. Potter turns to Mr. Potter and James. “Did you two put the snacks into separate bowls?”

“Yes, we did, dear,” Mr. Potter replies with a smile.

James groans. “I still don’t see why we had to.”

Mrs. Potter rolls her eyes fondly. “Oh, shoosh, James.” She moves to the couch, settling beside Mr. Potter.

Regulus watches the exchange, something quiet and uncertain stirring in his chest.

The movie votes are cast, and The Croods wins. The opening scene begins to play, the familiar animation filling the screen.

But Regulus barely registers it.

His grip tightens slightly on his stuffed dog. His blanket is draped over his lap, warm and familiar.

Mrs. Potter had brought them to him.

She noticed they were missing.

A flash of memory flickers in his mind—his mother, frowning down at him when he was younger, telling him that he was “too old” to be carrying a stuffed toy around. That “Black’s do not need comfort items.”

She had taken them away.

And yet, Mrs. Potter lets him carry his stuffed dog around the house, even lets him take it out, without a second thought. She washes it for him when it gets too dirty. She never tells him to put it away.

She isn’t his mother, but she cares.

The words settle in his mind.

Mothers are meant to be caring.

The sentence echoes in his head, familiar yet foreign.

Regulus slowly lets it sink in.

Mrs. Potter cares about him.

He’s honestly not sure how to feel about it.

***

“They’re supposed to make their children feel safe and loved.”

Regulus stood in the grand Black family manor, but the air was wrong—too thick, too heavy, pressing against his small frame like an invisible weight. He was four years old, standing in the parlor, his hands clasped behind his back the way his mother had taught him. His fingers trembled, but he kept them hidden.

Walburga loomed over him, her dark eyes cold, her expression carved from ice.

"Stop crying," she said sharply.

Regulus hadn’t realized he was. He blinked, but the tears kept coming, silent and shameful. He had tripped in the hallway and scraped his knee. It stung, but that wasn’t why he was crying. He just wanted her to tell him it was all right. That she would help him.

But she only sighed, kneeling before him, gripping his arms too tightly. "Weakness is intolerable, Regulus. A Black does not cry over nothing."

She let him go. He stayed where he was, frozen in place, watching as she turned away.

The scene shifted.

He was five. His father’s voice thundered in the next room—an argument, sharp and ugly, words he didn’t understand but knew were bad. He sat on the floor of his bedroom, hands clamped over his ears. The door swung open, and Walburga strode in, her face tight with anger.

"You will behave," she snapped, dragging him up by the arm. "I will not have a son who whimpers like a coward every time someone raises their voice."

Regulus swallowed a sob, biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood.

The room melted away again.

Now he was seven. Sirius had broken something—a family heirloom, he thought, but he couldn’t remember what. Their mother’s fury had burned bright, and Sirius had taken the brunt of it. Afterward, he had stormed off, leaving Regulus alone in the drawing room with her.

She had turned to him then, her gaze sharp, searching.

"You won’t be like him," she said, her fingers tilting his chin up. "You will be everything he failed to be. You are my good son."

Regulus wanted to be good. He needed to be good. But the words left something heavy in his chest, something that made it hard to breathe.

The nightmare blurred, the memories twisting together, her voice repeating in his head—Weakness is intolerable. You will behave. You are my good son.

Regulus lies still, his breath shallow, his skin clammy with sweat. The room is dark, the shadows stretching long across the ceiling, but it doesn’t feel safe. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to sleep, but the moment he does, her voice creeps in—sharp, cold, distant. Weakness is intolerable.

It was just a dream. 

His fingers curl around the small stuffed black dog clutched in his arms. The fabric is gentle, familiar, something solid to hold onto. He keeps it close, but it doesn’t help. Not really.

His mother’s presence still lingers in his mind, heavy and unshakable. Even in his dreams, she doesn’t soothe him. She never has. The way Mrs. Potter does, warm and gentle, like she doesn’t mind pulling him close. His mother never would have done that. She never would have let him crawl into bed beside her. She made that clear years ago.

Regulus shifts, pushing the blanket off. His heart is still pounding as he sits up, then swings his legs over the side of the bed. The house is silent as he stands, the floor cool beneath his feet.

He doesn’t know where he’s going at first. He just knows he can’t stay here.

His feet carry him down the dimly lit corridor, and before he fully realizes it, he’s standing outside Mr. and Mrs. Potter’s bedroom door. His fingers twitch at his sides.

He hesitates.

The door is closed, but not locked. If he knocked, Mrs. Potter would probably wake up. She wouldn’t be angry. She wouldn’t tell him to leave. He knows that.

But his mother’s voice echoes in his head—You do not come into my room. You do not wake me up. If you do, you will be punished.

He had learned that lesson young.

His throat feels tight. He doesn’t knock.

As he turns away, a faint glow catches his eye. Down the hall, a sliver of warm light spills from a slightly open doorway. James' room.

Regulus hesitates again, but something in him pulls him forward. He steps carefully toward the door and peers inside.

James is awake, lying in bed, the glow of his phone screen illuminating his face. His expression is relaxed, almost bored as he scrolls through something.

Regulus shifts, and in doing so, his fingers brush the edge of the door. It creaks softly.

James looks up instantly. His gaze lands on Regulus standing in the doorway, lingering like a ghost.

"Everything alright, Reg?" James asks, voice still rough from sleep.

Regulus swallows, not sure what to say. He should nod. Say he’s fine. But he isn’t.

James sits up slightly, setting his phone on the bedside table. His voice is gentler when he asks, "You have a nightmare?"

Regulus nods.

James hums, considering that. Then he scoots over a bit and pulls back the blanket on the right side of the bed. "You wanna come in?"

Regulus hesitates, but James doesn’t look like he’s making fun of him. He’s not smirking or teasing, just waiting. Expecting Regulus to decide for himself.

Regulus nods.

James doesn’t react like it’s a big deal. He just shifts, giving Regulus space as he steps inside and closes the door softly behind him. The room feels smaller, quieter. Safer.

As Regulus walks over, James pats the empty space beside him. "Come here."

Regulus doesn’t think. He just moves, climbing into bed and settling beneath the blanket. He keeps his stuffed black dog tucked against his chest, fingers curled tightly around it.

Instinctively, he lays facing the door. A habit, maybe. One he isn’t quite ready to break. He’s still getting comfortable with James, with the idea of him being someone he can rely on. But, he’s just not comfortable enough yet to sleep facing him.

A moment later, the room darkens as James reaches over and turns off the lamp. The silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable, just there.

After a while, James shifts slightly. "You wanna talk about it?"

Regulus is unsure. He swallows, staring at the faint sliver of light beneath the door. Then, very quietly, he says, "No."

James nods. "That’s alright."

The silence settles again. Regulus lets his eyes close, but he doesn’t sleep. His hands tremble slightly under the blanket, his chest too tight.

Then, after a pause, James asks, "You want a hug?"

Regulus doesn’t answer right away. His throat feels thick, his breath uneven. But then, almost inaudibly, he whispers, "Yes, please."

James shifts closer, wrapping an arm around him, careful and loose, like he’s letting Regulus decide how much to lean in.

And Regulus does.

Regulus clings to James’ warmth, feeling the quiet, steady comfort of his presence. The tension in his chest eases, but only slightly. His tears fall in slow, silent streaks, soaking into the fabric of James’ pillow. He isn’t sobbing, just breathing through the ache, through the weight of memories pressing heavy against his ribs.

He thinks about Mrs. Potter.

She is nothing like his mother.

His mother never pulled him into a soft embrace when he was scared. She never soothed him when he was upset. She never kissed the top of his head or called him love or made sure he knew—without words—that he mattered.

Mrs. Potter did.

He remembers the first time she hugged him, the way he had frozen completely, confused, unsure if he was supposed to react. But she hadn’t let go right away. She just held him, gentle and steady, like she wasn’t waiting for anything in return. Like it was natural.

She makes sure his breakfast is made the way he likes it, without asking, without making a fuss. She ruffles his hair, smiles when he looks at her. She doesn’t scold him for being too quiet or too hesitant or too unsure of where he belongs. She just—accepts him.

She makes him feel safe.

And that is what confuses him most of all.

He sniffles, finally pulling back a little. James doesn’t let go right away, but he loosens his hold, giving Regulus the space to breathe. His voice is quiet when he asks, "Has she always made you feel safe?"

“My mother?” James questions. Regulus nods. 

He hums, considering the question for only a moment before nodding. "I’ve never not felt safe with her."

Regulus nods, staring at the dark ceiling. He shifts slightly, fingers curling tighter around his stuffed dog. His voice is softer when he asks, "Is she always like that?"

James glances at him, brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

Regulus swallows, hesitates. Then, carefully, he says, "Making you feel safe and, I don’t know…" He trails off, unsure how to explain it, unsure if he even can explain it.

James is quiet for a moment, thinking. Then, after a pause, he says, "She’s my mother. Of course she’s always made me feel safe. Always made me feel loved." He says it so easily, like it’s a fact, like it’s obvious. "That’s just what mothers do."

Regulus nods again, but this time, it’s slower, more uncertain.

That’s just what mothers do.

The words settle deep in his chest, twisting into something painful, something heavy.

Because if that’s what mothers are supposed to do…

Then why hadn’t his?

His throat tightens, but he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he stares at the ceiling, fingers running absently over the worn fabric of his stuffed dog.

He thinks about Mrs. Potter.

He thinks about his mother.

And he thinks, 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.”

Regulus' anxiety buzzes in his chest the entire drive to the park, sharp and unrelenting. It twists in his stomach, wrapping around his ribs like a vice. Even as Mr. and Mrs. Potter chat quietly in the front seats, the words don’t register. His mind is too preoccupied, cycling through every possible terrible outcome of this meeting.

What if his friends' parents don’t like him? What if they think he’s too quiet, too odd? What if they decide he’s not worth their children’s time? What if—

The car comes to a stop, and his panic spikes. He feels frozen, stuck in place. His hands grip his sleeves, knuckles white. His body refuses to move.

“Regulus?” Mrs. Potter’s voice is soft, but it reels him back in like a fish on a hook. He blinks, looking toward her.

“Are you alright?” she asks, her gaze gentle but searching.

Regulus nods stiffly. He knows she doesn’t quite believe him, but she doesn’t push. She offers him a small smile before stepping out of the car.

But he still doesn’t move. The fear is too heavy, pressing down on his chest. He doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. He doesn’t want to mess this up.

The car door to his right opens, and Mrs. Potter slides back in beside him. She doesn’t say anything at first, just settles in, facing him fully. There’s no pressure, no demand—just quiet patience.

“Sweetheart,” she says after a moment, “talk to me. What’s going on?”

Regulus hesitates. Talking is still hard. But it’s getting easier with her. She never judges him. Never pushes too far.

“It’s silly,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Potter shakes her head. “It’s not silly if it’s bothering you, love.”

His hands start to sweat. He rubs them against his trousers, trying to ground himself, but the thoughts keep spiraling. People are confusing, hard to read—like books written in a language he doesn’t understand. It’s terrifying.

Mrs. Potter waits, steady and warm. He wants to cry at how kind she is.

“Regulus?” she prompts again, voice impossibly soft. “You still with me?”

Oh. He hadn’t realized he zoned out. His face heats with embarrassment.

He nods, hoping that will be enough. It must be, because she doesn’t push, just keeps waiting.

Now or never, he thinks. He takes a shaky breath. “I-I’m, uh…” He stumbles, swallows hard. “I’m afraid.”

Mrs. Potter’s expression softens even further. “Oh, dear,” she murmurs, shifting slightly closer, offering everything she has to give.

Regulus shakes a little. He doesn’t want to cry—if he does, he’ll feel gross and sleepy, and he really does want to play with his friends.

“Are you—” she stops herself, then tucks some of his hair behind his ear. “Are you afraid of talking? Because you know you don’t have to.”

He shakes his head. That’s not it. He knows his friends won’t mind if he doesn’t talk.

His throat feels tight, his chest heavy. He hesitates, then reaches out, carefully placing his hand over hers where it rests in her lap.

She responds immediately, her fingers curling gently around his, while her other hand resumes threading through his hair.

“Umm,” he mutters, struggling to voice the fear clawing at him. “I’m—I’m afraid of—of—”

He huffs in frustration. His brain won’t cooperate, won’t let the words come out right. Everything around him is too much. Without thinking, he lifts his other hand, clenched into a fist, and brings it to his head.

Before he realizes it, he’s hitting himself. The pressure is grounding, but his ears start to ring, his breathing grows erratic.

Someone is saying something, but he can’t make it out. There’s a hand on his wrist, stopping him from swinging again.

“Sweetheart?” The voice is urgent, almost upset. “Love?”

He blinks furiously, vision blurry. When he looks up, Mrs. Potter is watching him, worry etched all over her face.

“We don’t hurt ourselves, alright?” she says, impossibly gentle. Her voice wavers just slightly.

Regulus swallows and nods, mortified.

She exhales softly. “Just take some deep breaths with me, okay? In and out.”

He follows her lead, each breath steadier than the last. The buzzing in his mind fades slightly. He can think again.

“I’m afraid of my friends’ parents not liking me,” he admits finally, still looking at the seat in front of him. “I’m afraid they’ll think I’m weird. That they’ll tell my friends to stop being friends with me.”

He huffs, shaking his head. It’s stupid. It has to be.

Silence.

Then, Mrs. Potter cups his cheek, thumb swiping away the lingering dampness on his skin. “Oh, love,” she whispers.

“That’s a very valid fear.”

He freezes. That’s… not what he was expecting.

She continues, “That fear—of wanting people to like you—is very reasonable. Everyone experiences it. Even me.”

Regulus frowns slightly, glancing at her. “Even you?”

“Even me.” She smiles, tucking more of his hair behind his ear. “And I promise you, you have nothing to worry about.”

Regulus furrows his brows. There’s always something to worry about.

“Do you want to know why?” she asks.

He nods hesitantly.

“It’s because of who you are.”

Regulus blinks, confused.

“It’s true, sweetie.” She squeezes his hand. “You are the most caring, kind, creative, intelligent little boy I have ever met.”

He blushes, shaking his head, but she doesn’t let him deny it.

“No, no, it’s true.” Her voice is firm but full of warmth. “Your friends like you. They see how kind and gentle you are. That’s all that matters to them. And trust me, if you weren’t wonderful, they wouldn’t have chosen you as their friend.”

She pauses, then adds, “Parents trust their children. They know their kids have good instincts. So if your friends adore you—and they do—then their parents will, too.”

Regulus swallows thickly. His eyes burn again, but this time, the tears aren’t from fear.

“And if, for some reason, they don’t,” she continues softly, “then it’s their loss.”

She shrugs. “But that doesn’t mean they’ll keep their kids away from you. Because it’s your friends’ choice, not theirs.”

Regulus lets out a shaky breath. The weight pressing on his chest lightens.

He feels like maybe—just maybe—he can step out of the car and face these new people.

“You can do this, sweetheart,” Mrs. Potter says, smiling. “You can get out of this car, with your head held high, and meet your friends’ parents.”

She squeezes his hand one more time. “And at the end of the day, I’m here. And I promise you, I will always be here.”

Something in Regulus settles.

He can do this. He has Mrs. Potter beside him. And, really? If he’s being honest? He doesn’t think he’d want anyone else there with him for this.

***

“They listen when you need them to, and they stand up for you when you can’t stand up for yourself.”

Regulus sits on one end of the couch couch, his stuffed dog tucked into his lap. Mr. Potter sits in an armchair within the direction Regulus is facing, Mrs. Potter settles across from him at the other end of the couch. The living room feels warm, the overhead light casting a golden glow across the bookshelves and the soft rug beneath his socked feet. He knows they want to talk about something—Mrs. Potter had said so at dinner—but his stomach twists as he waits for them to start.

“We wanted to talk to you about the soccer match this weekend,” Mr. Potter begins, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His voice is steady, kind, but that doesn’t stop Regulus from tensing slightly. “The one we got tickets for, for James’ birthday.”

Regulus blinks, tilting his head. Oh, right. He remembers James talking about it—how it’s going to be a huge game, how excited he is to see his favorite team play in person.

Mrs. Potter offers him a smile, gentle and encouraging. “We just wanted to check in with you about it. See if you have any questions before we go.”

Regulus shifts slightly, hugging his stuffed dog a little closer. He does have questions. He just hesitates, for a moment, before quietly voicing them. “Who’s playing?”

“Arsenal and Chelsea,” Mr. Potter answers. “It’s a big match.”

Regulus nods slowly. He’s heard James talk about Arsenal enough times to know it’s very important to him. “What’s it like? Watching a match in a stadium?”

Mrs. Potter smiles. “Loud. Exciting. There’s a lot of energy, a lot of cheering.”

Regulus frowns slightly, running his fingers over his stuffed dog's ear. “How many people are going to be there?”

There’s a brief pause. Then Mr. Potter answers, “It’s a big stadium—probably over sixty thousand.”

Regulus stiffens. His grip on his stuffed dog tightens. Sixty thousand. That’s— that’s so many people. He can’t even begin to picture it properly. Just a mass of bodies, noise pressing in from all sides, nowhere to go, nowhere quiet, nowhere safe. His breathing picks up before he can stop it, chest going tight, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve.

Mrs. Potter notices immediately. “Sweetheart?” Her voice is soft. Concerned.

He swallows, trying to steady himself, but it doesn’t work. The words come out small, hesitant. “I— I don’t—” He shakes his head quickly. “That’s a lot of people.” He barely realizes he’s rocking slightly, pressing his stuffed dog against his chest. “I— I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go.”

Mrs. Potter exchanges a glance with Mr. Potter before turning back to him. She’s not dismissing him. Not telling him to push through it. She’s listening.

“That’s okay,” she says simply. “Let’s talk about it.”

Regulus hesitates. “But— but it’s for James’ birthday. His present.” Guilt prickles at his ribs. James is so excited about this match. What if it’s selfish of him to back out?

Mrs. Potter shakes her head. “James would never want you to go if it made you uncomfortable.” She reaches out, resting a hand lightly over his. “And if it’s the crowd that’s worrying you, we can figure something out. Alright?” 

Regulus bites the inside of his cheek. They’re listening. They’re not brushing him off, not telling him to deal with it, not making him feel ridiculous for being scared.

He looks down at his lap, fingers still clinging to his stuffed dog. His stomach is still uneasy, but there’s something else there, too—something softer. Gratitude.

“Okay,” he whispers after a moment. “Maybe. If— if we figure something out.”

Mrs. Potter squeezes his hand gently. “We will,” she promises. “Together.”

Regulus exhales slowly. His chest still feels tight, but less so. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to go. But at least he knows—really, knows—that if he can’t, they won’t be upset. They’ll understand.

“They listen when you need them to, and they stand up for you when you can’t stand up for yourself.”

When Mrs. Potter had said she would “figure something out,” Regulus hadn’t expected this.

Honestly, he had been hoping—half-expecting—to be excluded. That would have been easier, safer. He wouldn’t have to deal with the noise, the crowd, the pressure of trying to hold himself together when everything around him felt too much. But now, as they approach the massive stadium, dread curls tightly around his ribs.

James walks ahead of them, practically buzzing with excitement, but Regulus barely registers it. His focus is on the sheer number of people swarming around them, the echoing chatter, the overlapping voices, the way the sound bounces off the concrete walls and presses in on him from all sides. His fingers twitch, and he clenches his fists, trying to ignore the creeping panic.

Mrs. Potter holds his right hand, Mr. Potter his left, their grips steady but light. Regulus squeezes both without thinking. The closer they get to the entrance, the harder his heart pounds. His breathing turns shallow, and by the time they reach the security checkpoint, it spikes into full-blown restlessness. He shifts on his feet, his grip tightening, his entire body going tense as his chest starts to feel too tight.

Mrs. Potter notices immediately. She always does.

"Hey," she says softly, tilting her head toward him. "Everything's going to be okay."

Regulus wants to believe her. He really does. But he can barely hear himself think over the noise, let alone convince himself he’ll be fine. 

Then Mrs. Potter reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of noise-canceling headphones.

“These are for you,” she says, holding them out to him. “I suggest putting them on now, if you’d like.”

Regulus hesitates. He wants them—desperately—but something in him wavers. He’s never used noise-canceling headphones in a place like this before. He’s afraid of how noticeable they’ll be. Afraid of what people might think.

But the stadium is so loud, and everything is pressing in, and his hands are shaking, so he swallows hard and nods. Slowly, he takes them from her and slips them over his ears.

The effect is instant.

The noise disappears.

Not completely—he can still feel the vibrations of the crowd in his chest—but it’s distant, muffled. The weight of it lifts almost immediately, leaving a strange, empty quiet in its place.

Regulus blinks, his whole body going still. The change is so sudden it feels like whiplash. He turns to Mrs. Potter, wide-eyed, and she gives him a bright smile and a thumbs-up. He assumes it’s a question, so he nods. She grins even wider, looking pleased with herself, then mouths something to Mr. Potter. Regulus barely catches any of it, but before he can even try to piece it together, Mrs. Potter takes his hand again. A moment later, Mr. Potter’s grip returns to his other hand, warm and grounding.

They make it through security without an issue, and soon, they’re walking toward their seats. Regulus still feels the buzz of energy around him—the pulsing excitement of the crowd, the rush of movement, the sheer size of everything—but it’s distant now. Manageable.

Until they reach their row.

Regulus stops short.

There are at least ten people sitting between them and their seats.

His stomach drops. His heart starts hammering again. His hands tighten into fists before he even realizes it.

He hesitates, tugging on Mrs. Potter’s hand.

She turns immediately, kneeling close to his right ear. Gently, she pulls one side of his headphones away. "What’s wrong, sweetheart?" she asks. "I forgot to grab your notebook, so I need you to try and use your words, okay?"

Regulus swallows hard and nods. He tries—he really does—but his voice won’t work. The words won’t come out. His throat feels too tight, his mind too jumbled.

Instead, he lifts a hand and points to where James and Mr. Potter are already sitting, deep in the row.

Mrs. Potter frowns slightly. "Is it the seats?"

Regulus nods. His face burns with embarrassment. He doesn’t want to be a problem. Doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone. But the idea of squeezing past all those people, of being trapped in the middle of the crowd, makes his skin crawl.

He knows what happens when he gets overwhelmed in places like this. He remembers what happened at the movie theater that one time—how the people around him got upset, how he got in trouble, how the staff had to remove him. The humiliation still clings to him, the fear of repeating it twisting his stomach into knots.

“Okay,” Mrs. Potter says, more to herself than to him. Regulus can see the gears turning in her head, trying to find a solution. “Okay,” she says again.

Before she can act, someone taps her on the shoulder.

Regulus looks up, startled. It’s a young woman, maybe in her early twenties, sitting on the aisle seat. There’s something kind in her expression, something familiar—like she understands.

“Excuse me,” the woman says. “But I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. If you’d like, you and your son can take mine and my boyfriend’s end seats.”

Mrs. Potter opens her mouth to protest, but the woman continues before she can.

“Look, I know what it’s like to have to accommodate someone with sensory needs,” she says gently. “My brother’s exactly like your son. I know how hard it can be. I wish someone had helped us out once or twice, but they didn’t. So please—take these seats. It’s really no hassle.”

Regulus barely processes what she says. He just blinks up at her, stunned.

Mrs. Potter looks equally thrown. But then her expression softens, and she gives the woman a grateful smile. “Thank you so much.”

The woman waves it off. “Honestly, it’s no problem. We actually wanted mid-section seats, but we couldn’t get them.” She laughs, turning toward her boyfriend. “C’mon, babe, we’re moving down a few seats.”

Regulus glances at the boyfriend, who has a brief moment of fondness on his face before it morphs into exaggerated excitement. “Woohoo!” he exclaims, pumping a fist in the air. He turns to the older woman next to him—his mother, maybe?—and grins. “See ya, Mum, got the mid-section seats like I wanted.”

The older woman rolls her eyes, looking vaguely displeased, but Mrs. Potter and the young woman chuckle.

Regulus just stands there, still processing what just happened.

Then Mrs. Potter gently nudges him toward the seat, and he sinks into it without protest.

As soon as he’s settled, he pulls the noise-canceling headphones back into place. The relief is instant. The overwhelming pressure of the crowd dulls again, leaving only a manageable hum. He exhales slowly, the tension in his chest easing just a little.

He swings his legs back and forth as he waits for the game to start, his hands fidgeting in his lap. With the noise gone, he starts noticing things—tiny details, like the way the field looks impossibly green, the patterns the players make as they warm up, the way the banners ripple in the breeze.

Movement catches his eye. He glances to his right just in time to see the head of his stuffed black dog poking out from Mrs. Potter’s bag.

She wiggles it slightly, making it look like it’s moving on its own.

Regulus giggles, reaching for it. Mrs. Potter hands it over with a small smile.

And as the game begins, for the first time since they arrived, Regulus feels something close to okay.

Not just because of the headphones. Not just because of the quieter seats.

But because, for once, he doesn’t feel trapped.

Fifteen minutes into the game, Regulus shifts in his seat. He’s been too focused on managing the noise and trying to keep himself grounded to notice the growing discomfort in his bladder. But now, it’s impossible to ignore. He swallows hard, tapping Mrs. Potter on the shoulder. She turns immediately, giving him her full attention.

Regulus hesitates, unsure how to ask. He lifts both hands, mimicking a gesture he hopes conveys ‘bathroom.’ Mrs. Potter tilts her head slightly, then nods.

“Alright, love, let’s go,” she says, standing and offering her hand. Regulus exhales in relief. She did understand.

She leads him through the stadium, weaving through the crowds with practiced ease. The closer they get to the restrooms, the quieter it becomes. By the time they step inside, most of the outside noise is muffled. It’s… calm. So calm, in fact, that Regulus decides to take off his headphones. The silence feels lighter now rather than suffocating.

“Pass 'em here, I’ll hold them,” Mrs. Potter says, holding out her hand.

Regulus hesitates for only a second before placing them in her outstretched palm. She tucks them under her arm as he heads into one of the stalls.

As he steps out and makes his way to the sinks, he can still hear the distant roar of the crowd through the stadium walls. Mrs. Potter, now in a stall of her own, calls out, “Are you enjoying it?”

Regulus isn’t sure at first. But as he recalls the way the players move, the energy of the crowd, and even the excited way James had been explaining things to him before they left their seats, he realizes—he actually is.

To his own surprise, he very, very quietly says, “I get why James likes it so much.”

Mrs. Potter chuckles. “He’s a bit obsessed, isn’t he?”

Regulus nods, continuing to wash his hands. Once, twice—he can still feel the germs clinging to him. Public places are disgusting. He turns the tap back on, intent on scrubbing them a third time.

The door swings open.

The woman who was sitting next to Mrs. Potter walks in.

Regulus tenses. She doesn’t look pleased. In fact, she rolls her eyes the moment she sees him.

“Oh,” she says, her voice dripping with condescension. “You’re in here. You do realize this is a ladies’ restroom, not the men’s? You don’t belong in here.”

Before Regulus can process the words, the sound of a toilet flushing echoes through the room. Mrs. Potter steps out of the stall, fixing the woman with a sharp gaze.

“Yes, he is,” she says firmly. “If he’s in here with a parent or guardian.”

The woman rolls her eyes again, but Mrs. Potter ignores her, moving to wash her hands.

The woman, however, doesn’t drop it. “Is he even your real son?” she sneers. “Because he looks nothing like your husband. Is he your little affair baby?”

Regulus watches as Mrs. Potter’s jaw tightens. He recognizes that look—it’s the same one James gets right before he argues with a referee. But she still says nothing, focusing on scrubbing her hands with slow, deliberate movements.

The woman presses on. “That’s probably why he’s not the one sitting with the boy,” she continues, tone laced with cruelty. “You’re being punished for having another man’s problem child.”

Regulus’ hands shake. His chest tightens, his breath quickening. He shouldn’t let this bother him. He shouldn’t care. But the words dig into him like barbs, and before he can stop them, tears prick at his eyes.

Mrs. Potter sees it immediately. “That’s enough,” she says sharply.

But the woman isn’t finished. “No, no, let’s hear from him.” She suddenly reaches out, grabbing Regulus’ shoulders and forcing him to turn toward her. His breath catches in his throat as her fingers dig into his arms.

“Did you put on the sad little eyes just so my son and his girlfriend moved for you?”

Before Regulus can react, before he can pull away, Mrs. Potter steps between them.

Her presence is immediate and solid. “First of all,” she snaps, her voice low and furious, “get your hands off my son.”

The woman recoils like she’s been burned, snatching her hands back and taking a step away from Regulus.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t stop. “And secondly, it’s none of your damn business where, or how, I got my son. The point is, you have no right to talk to my child—or any child—or their parents like that.”

The woman opens her mouth, but Mrs. Potter barrels on.

“And, for the record, your son’s girlfriend offered up their seats. Not my son forcing them. I wasn’t even going to take them, but she insisted. Because she knows what it’s like to help a special needs child cope.”

The woman’s face twists, but Mrs. Potter doesn’t let her get a word in.

“She has more sympathy, kindness, and empathy than you. Because she offered. I don’t see you offering your seat, or your husband’s seat, so my family could stay together.” Her voice hardens. “No, instead, you sat there and judged us. You judged us when you didn’t even know the full story.”

Regulus stands frozen, watching in awe as Mrs. Potter tears into this woman without hesitation. His chest feels strange—tight, but not in a bad way. It’s different. It’s something warm, something safe.

The woman’s face is red with anger and embarrassment as she huffs and storms out of the restroom.

Mrs. Potter exhales, turning to Regulus. “You alright?” she asks, voice softer now.

Regulus nods. He doesn’t trust his voice, not with the way his emotions are twisting together—upset from the woman’s words, pride in what Mrs. Potter just did, gratitude that she stood up for him.

Mrs. Potter rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Take your time,” she tells him.

Regulus nods again and turns back to the sink. He still needs to wash his hands one more time.

By the time they return to their seats, they’re met with an unexpected sight—

Mr. Potter and James are sitting exactly where that woman had been.

Regulus has never been more grateful to have Mrs. Potter by his side because of it. 

***

“A mother should love her children unconditionally.” 

Regulus sits cross-legged on the floor, the soft carpet pressing against his legs as he slowly fits a puzzle piece into place. The picture is beginning to take shape—a forest scene, muted greens and blues, the edge of a deer just starting to emerge. He focuses on the pieces, on their shapes and colors, but his mind is elsewhere.

Laura sits in the chair nearby, not too close, not too far. She watches, but not in a way that makes him feel like he’s being observed. Just present, waiting.

After a few minutes of silence, Regulus asks, "What does love mean?"

Laura tilts her head slightly. "How do you mean? Because there’s a bunch of different types of love."

Regulus shifts, his fingers fidgeting with a puzzle piece. "I mean, as in motherly love. And, I guess… love in general… I don’t know."

Laura nods slightly. "Well, I think it’s a valid question."

Regulus glances up at her, blinking. "You do?"

"Mhm."

"Why? Why do you think it’s a valid question to ask?"

She leans back a little, resting her hands on her lap. "Because of what we talked about last session."

Regulus nods. He looks down at the puzzle again, turning a piece over in his fingers. He knows why he’s asking. He just doesn’t know if he wants to say it out loud.

"I think…" He hesitates, searching for the right words. "I think I want to believe that Mrs. Potter really cares about me. I want to trust her."

Laura watches him carefully. "So, what’s holding you back?"

Regulus shrugs. He keeps his eyes on the puzzle. There’s a long moment of quiet before he mutters, "Fear."

Laura doesn’t say anything right away. She waits, and after another pause, he exhales, picking at the edge of a puzzle piece.

"And I feel like I can’t read people properly. Like they—I don’t know how to describe it."

Laura’s expression remains open, thoughtful. "Like they say one thing but mean another?"

Regulus considers this but shakes his head. "Not exactly."

"Like their faces don’t match their words?"

He hesitates, then nods a little. "Yeah. That. Like, sometimes I don’t know if people actually mean what they say. It’s like… I can’t tell if they’re just being nice because they have to be."

Laura hums softly. "That sounds frustrating."

Regulus shrugs again. He doesn’t know how to explain it beyond that. It’s not that he doesn’t want to trust Mrs. Potter—it’s just that he doesn’t know how to. What if she’s only being kind because she has to be? What if she doesn’t really care? He doesn’t know how to tell the difference.

"I think about it all the time," he admits quietly. "Like, when she makes sure my breakfast is how I like it, or when she makes sure I’m warm enough, or when she reminds me it’s okay if I don’t want to talk. She doesn’t get mad about it. She just… accepts it. But what if she’s just doing it because she thinks she has to? What if she doesn’t really care?"

Laura nods thoughtfully. "That’s a fair question. When someone has let you down before, it’s natural to wonder if the next person will do the same."

Regulus presses his lips together. He places another puzzle piece into its spot, watching it click into place.

"Trust isn’t something that happens all at once, Regulus. It’s something that builds, little by little. You’ll know when you trust her."

Regulus frowns slightly. "Will I?"

Laura gives a small smile. "It might not feel obvious at first, but yes. You’ll notice it in the little things. Like when you stop questioning whether she means it when she says she’s happy to have you there. Or when you realize you don’t feel the need to keep waiting for her to change her mind."

Regulus thinks about that. About trust. About love.

He wants to believe her. He wants to believe Mrs. Potter means it when she places a reassuring hand on his shoulder, when she smiles at him like he belongs there. But belief is difficult. Trust is difficult.

"I don’t think my mother ever loved me like that," he says suddenly, voice quiet but firm. "She said she did, but it didn’t feel like it."

Laura’s expression softens. "What did it feel like?"

Regulus stares at the puzzle, his fingers motionless against the pieces. "Like something I had to earn. Like if I did the wrong thing, or said the wrong thing, it would just… go away."

Laura nods, not pushing him to continue but giving him space if he wants to. After a few moments, Regulus exhales softly.

"That’s not what love is, is it?"

"No," Laura says gently. "Love isn’t something you have to earn. It’s something that should be given freely."

Regulus stays quiet, processing that.

He’s not entirely sure if he’ll know that he trusts her. It’s not like it’s a physical object or being—no, it’s imaginary, it’s invisible.

It’s a feeling so hard to detect by regular human beings that he’s wary of actually thinking he’ll know.

Regulus also knows trust can be broken within seconds.

He learned that the hard way.

***

“She should make them feel safe, not just physically, but emotionally too.” 

Regulus stands in the cramped changing room, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The long-sleeved rash guard clings to his skin in all the wrong ways—tight across his shoulders, suffocating around his neck. The fabric feels stiff, unyielding, wrong. He shifts, rolling his shoulders, trying to adjust, but it doesn’t help. The more he moves, the more he can feel it—every inch of it pressing down on him like a second skin he can’t peel off.

His fingers twitch by his sides. It’s fine. It’s just clothing. He’s being stupid. He should just go out, show Mrs. Potter, and be done with it.

Regulus takes a breath and steps out. The store lights are too bright, reflecting off the polished tile floor. The air hums with conversation and rustling clothes. Too much noise, too much movement. His heart is already beating too fast when he spots Mrs. Potter’s waiting just outside the changing rooms.

Her warm smile is immediate. "Let’s have a look then."

Regulus opens his mouth, but his throat is tight, words tangled. He shakes his head instead. The fabric is pressing in, crawling up his arms, gripping his chest. It’s too much. Too much. He tugs at the rashy, trying to get it away from his skin. Get it off. Get it off.

Mrs. Potter’s expression shifts—concern, understanding. "Regulus, love, what’s wrong?"

His breaths come faster now, short and sharp. He shakes his head again, pulling harder at the fabric, fingers clenching the collar. He tries to say something, but his voice won’t come, stuck behind the weight in his chest. The world tilts—too many colors, too many sounds—

"Alright, alright, breathe, sweetheart," Mrs. Potter says, voice gentle but firm. "Slow breaths. You’re safe."

He squeezes his eyes shut, but that only makes everything worse. He feels her hand hover near his shoulder—not touching, just there. A grounding point.

"Can you tell me what’s wrong?" she asks.

Regulus forces a breath through his nose, then another. He lifts a trembling hand and grips the sleeve of the rashy, tugging. His fingers curl around the fabric. "It’s—it’s—," he tries to get the words out, his voice croaky, but he just can’t. Mrs. Potter seems to understand though.

"Too tight?" she asks. "Uncomfortable?"

He nods frantically.

"Alright, love, let’s get you out of it, then. Come on, let’s head back inside—"

"Excuse me."

The voice is sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

Regulus’ whole body stiffens. He turns just enough to see a woman standing nearby, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

"I just have to say," she continues, eyes sweeping over Regulus like he’s something unpleasant stuck to her shoe, "that it’s disgusting how soft you’re making him."

Regulus freezes.

The woman shakes her head. "Back in my day, children were raised properly. You’re coddling him. He should be able to handle something as simple as clothing without—"

"That’s enough," Mrs. Potter cuts in, voice cold as steel.

The woman blinks, clearly taken aback. "I’m just saying—"

"I don’t care what you’re ‘just saying.’" Mrs. Potter’s tone doesn’t waver, but there’s a dangerous edge to it now. "You do not speak about my son that way."

Regulus’ breath catches.

"My opinion is valid," the woman insists.

Mrs. Potter lifts her chin. "No. It isn’t."

The woman splutters, looking indignant, but Mrs. Potter doesn’t give her the chance to continue. "You do not know him. You do not know what he’s been through. You do not know what he needs. And frankly, your opinion does not matter."

The woman huffs, muttering something under her breath as she turns and storms off. Euphemia watches her go, shoulders tense. When she turns back to Regulus, her face softens immediately.

"Let’s get you out of that rashy, sweetheart," she says gently.

Regulus swallows, still struggling to process what just happened.

He doesn’t know what to do with it.

He doesn’t understand why she did it.

He was always expected to handle things himself. If he was uncomfortable, he was supposed to push through. If he was struggling, he was supposed to keep quiet about it. If he was upset, well—he wasn’t supposed to be upset.

Walburga never protected him—she told him to deal with it or act like a proper Black. Weakness was unacceptable. He was never allowed to need anything.

But Mrs. Potter saw his discomfort, understood it without him having to say anything, and acted on his behalf.

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t tell him to toughen up. She didn’t dismiss him or scold him for causing a scene. She stood between him and that woman like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The realization unsettles him more than it should.

Because he doesn’t know what to do with protection that comes without conditions. He doesn’t know how to handle the idea that someone is willing to fight for him without expecting anything in return.

But she is.

And that scares him more than anything else.

“She should make them feel safe, not just physically, but emotionally too.” 

Regulus is trapped.

The air is thick and suffocating, pressing against his lungs like a heavy weight. His feet won’t move, his limbs won’t respond. The world around him is blurred—dark walls stretching endlessly, flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across the marble floor. The air smells of smoke and something acrid, something wrong.

And then he hears her voice.

"Regulus."

His whole body tenses. The sound is sharp, cold, slicing through the silence like a knife.

"You are a disgrace."

He flinches, but he can’t move. He can’t run. His throat burns as he tries to speak, to defend himself, but there’s no sound. No words. His voice is gone.

He can see her now—his mother standing over him, her gaze filled with quiet fury. She doesn’t raise her voice. She never has to. Her anger is in the stillness, in the cold precision of every syllable.

"You should be better than this. You should be stronger."

Something wraps around him, pulling tight—ropes? No, chains. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.

"Weak."

He’s drowning in it.

"Pathetic."

No air, no escape.

"If you cannot act like a Black, then you are nothing."

He wants to scream. He tries—tries so hard—but nothing comes out. His chest is tight, his lungs burning. He needs to get out. He needs—

"Regulus."

A different voice, softer. Warmer.

The darkness cracks.

Regulus jerks awake, his body tensed like he’s still trapped in the nightmare. His heart slams against his ribs, breath shallow and uneven. The room is dark, but it’s different from the one in his dream—softer shadows, moonlight spilling through the window. He’s not there anymore.

But it doesn’t feel like enough.

His skin is damp with sweat, his blanket twisted around him. He feels the tears pricking at his eyes, his chest rising and falling too fast.

He grips the blanket, too tightly. Grips his stuffed dog, too tightly.

It’s fine. He just needs to calm down. He doesn’t need anyone. He’s handled worse.

His hands tremble. His breathing won’t settle.

The panic lingers, creeping under his skin, and suddenly the thought of staying alone—of lying here, waiting for the feeling to pass—feels unbearable.

But the idea of getting up, of knocking on someone’s door, is terrifying.

He’s never done that before. He’s never been allowed to.

But Mrs. Potter had stepped in for him today, without hesitation. She had protected him.

Maybe… maybe she wouldn’t mind.

Regulus pushes his blanket aside, moving quietly. His hands are still shaking as he slips out of his room and into the hallway. The house is silent, dark. He hesitates outside the Potters’ bedroom door, his heart hammering.

He shouldn’t be here.

But he doesn’t want to be alone.

His fingers curl into fists at his sides. He stands there for a long time, frozen, caught between the urge to knock and the instinct to run back to his room. He shouldn't do this.

And yet—before he can talk himself out of it, he knocks.

The sound is barely there, his hand unsteady. He holds his breath.

Nothing.

He shouldn’t have done this. He’s about to step back, to turn around and leave, when—

"James?" The voice is thick with sleep, groggy.

Regulus feels his stomach drop.

He should leave. He should go.

But his feet stay planted.

A soft rustle, then movement. Mrs. Potter blinks blearily at the doorway, her expression shifting as she realizes. "Oh, sweetheart," she says gently. "Is everything alright?"

The question makes his chest tighten. The nightmare presses in again, and before he can stop it, a small, broken sound escapes him—a weird, high-pitched whine that he immediately wants to take back.

Mrs. Potter is sitting up now, more alert. "Come here, love," she says, her voice soft but firm, and she gestures for him to come closer.

Regulus hesitates. But then his legs move on their own.

He steps forward, barely breathing as he stops beside the bed. Mrs. Potter watches him carefully, eyes kind even in the dim light. "What happened?"

He drops his gaze, ashamed. It was just a nightmare. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be waking her up for something so stupid. But the memory of it is still there, lingering under his skin, pressing into his ribs.

"I had a nightmare," he mumbles, voice hoarse. "It—it wasn’t real."

Mrs. Potter tilts her head slightly. "No?"

He shakes his head. "She—my mother—she wouldn’t say those things. She never… she never called me weak."

She called him other things. Disobedient. Difficult. But never weak.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t argue. She doesn’t say ‘But she still hurt you’, even though he thinks she might want to. She just shifts, pulling back the blanket slightly. "Come here," she says again.

Regulus stares at her, uncertain.

But she’s waiting. Not pushing, not demanding—just waiting.

His hands tighten around his stuffed dog. And then, slowly, he moves. He climbs into the bed, stiff and unsure, but Mrs. Potter doesn’t seem to mind. She pulls the blanket over him, making sure he’s tucked in, her arm resting lightly around his shoulders.

The warmth of it is startling. He’s never been held like this before.

"You’re alright," she murmurs, running gentle fingers through his hair. "It was just a dream, love. You’re safe."

Regulus doesn’t mean to cry. But he does. The sobs are silent at first, but then his body starts shaking, and suddenly he can’t stop. He buries his face against her chest, gripping his stuffed dog tightly as the tears come faster.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t tell him to stop. She doesn’t scold him.

She just keeps holding him, rubbing slow, soothing circles against his back. She presses a soft kiss to the top of his head, then another to his temple. "It’s alright, sweetheart," she whispers. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Regulus clenches his fingers into the fabric of her nightgown, grounding himself in the warmth, the scent of her. She’s solid. Real.

And after a while, his breathing slows. His heartbeat evens out.

He feels like he should say something. Thank her? Apologize for waking her? He doesn’t know what the right thing to do is.

Instead, he just nods, gripping his stuffed dog a little tighter.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything about it—she never does. Instead, she just gives him a small smile and says, "It’s alright, love. You’re safe."

Safe.

It’s a strange word—one he never associated with home before.

But sitting here, in this quiet space, wrapped in warmth and steady, comforting hands, with someone who didn’t get angry at him for needing comfort…

Maybe this is what safe is supposed to feel like.

***

“She should care about their thoughts, their feelings, what makes them happy and what makes them sad.” 

Regulus stands at the sink beside Mrs. Potter, carefully drying a plate as she washes. The warm scent of dish soap lingers in the air, mingling with the fading aroma of dinner. The house is quiet except for the faint murmur of voices from upstairs—James and Peter, likely laughing about something Regulus won’t understand. Mr. Potter is in his study, working. That had left just Mrs. Potter to clean up, and Regulus had felt bad about it.

Even though she’s told him countless times he doesn’t need to help, he had lingered anyway, picking up a dish towel and falling into step beside her. She hadn't stopped him.

“You know,” Mrs. Potter says after a few minutes, “we’re going to the aquarium tomorrow. With James and Peter.”

Regulus stills, his hands gripping the plate a little tighter. He carefully sets it down on the drying rack before responding. “I don’t know.” His voice is quiet, uncertain. “I’ve never been to an aquarium before.”

Mrs. Potter hums, rinsing a pan. “Well, then it’ll be a new experience.”

“Won’t it be loud?” Regulus asks. Mrs. Potter nods as well as hums in response. Regulus shifts his weight. Processing her words, Regulus is unsure on what to say next. 

If it’s going to be loud—and if it’s going to be a new experience—won’t that cause one of his “freakouts”? Regulus thinks. And, if that’s the case… won’t that ruin everyone’s good time? 

Regulus glances at her before looking down at his hands. “Wouldn’t that ruin everyone’s time?”

She sets the pan aside, drying her hands on a tea towel before turning to him fully. “First of all,” she says, her voice soft but firm, “you won’t ruin anything, sweetheart.”

Regulus stiffens at the endearment. It’s not like he’s not heard her say it before, it’s just that this time it feels… the word feels different. Like she’s trying to say something, to convey something. That something, well… he’s not sure what it is. 

Though he stiffens, he doesn’t pull away when she steps closer, placing her hands gently on his shoulders. “Secondly,” she continues, rubbing her thumb in slow, reassuring strokes against his shoulder, “do you remember those noise-canceling headphones I bought for the match?”

Regulus nods.

“Well, if the aquarium is too loud, you can wear those,” she tells him. “Or, you can start without them and put them on whenever you’d like.”

Another nod.

“You can even bring your stuffed dog and your book with you, if that helps,” she adds, her tone casual like it’s not a big deal. “Not like I was going to leave them behind if you decided against it.”

Regulus flushes, looking away, but she just smiles.

“The point is,” she says, her hands moving to gently cup his cheeks, “there’s always a solution to things. And if it does become too much, we can leave. James and Peter won’t mind, and you’re not inconveniencing anyone if you need to go.”

Something warm stirs in Regulus’ chest, unfamiliar yet oddly comforting. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods.

“Okay?” she asks.

He nods again, unable to trust his voice.

“Okay.” She repeats it softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead before turning back to the sink.

Regulus watches her for a long moment, gripping the dish towel in his hands. He’s not sure how he feels. He’s definitely not sure what this strange warmth is, spreading through his ribs like something trying to take root.

All he knows is that she listened to him. She didn’t dismiss his concerns, didn’t make him feel like a burden. She reassured him, like it mattered to her that he felt safe.

Maybe this is what it’s meant to be like. What care—and something else he’s not quite ready to name—are supposed to feel like.

Regulus might go as far as to call it love. But that word still doesn’t sit right with him. Not yet.

All in due time, he thinks, remembering Laura’s words from their last session.

All in due time, he agrees.

“She should care about their thoughts, their feelings, what makes them happy and what makes them sad.” 

The aquarium is bigger than Regulus imagined. The ceilings arch high above him, giving the place an almost cavernous feeling, like they’ve stepped into an entirely different world. The air smells of saltwater and something else he can’t quite name, and there’s a constant hum of murmured voices, the occasional excited squeal of a child, and the rhythmic rush of water filtering through massive tanks.

Regulus stays close to Mrs. Potter, his stuffed dog tucked securely in his arms, as they walk through the dimly lit corridors. James and Peter are ahead of them, talking animatedly about something Regulus doesn’t quite catch. He doesn’t mind. His attention is drawn to the creatures swimming on the other side of the thick glass—schools of fish darting in synchronized movements, the slow, drifting glide of a stingray, the way the light filters through the water, casting rippling reflections on the floor.

They move into the deep-sea exhibit, where everything glows in eerie blues and purples. The water is dark, nearly black, except for flickers of light—bioluminescent creatures pulsing like tiny stars in the abyss. Regulus stops in his tracks, staring, utterly mesmerized. The air smells faintly of salt, cool against his skin, and the low hum of the filtration systems fills the space.

“Did you know that some deep-sea fish produce their own light using a chemical reaction in their bodies? It’s called bioluminescence,” he says suddenly, not quite realizing he’s spoken aloud.

Mrs. Potter hums in interest, tilting her head toward him. “That’s fascinating. I didn’t know that.”

Encouraged, Regulus keeps going, shifting his stuffed dog under one arm as he gestures. “There’s this fish called the anglerfish, and it has a little glowing lure on its head to attract prey. And the gulper eel—oh! It can unhinge its jaw to swallow things way bigger than itself. It’s actually kind of terrifying, but also really cool.” His words tumble over each other, breathless and fast. “And then there’s the vampire squid—it’s not actually a squid, more like a mix between a squid and an octopus, but it can turn itself inside out to scare predators. Imagine if people could do that—just flip inside out when they’re scared.”

Mrs. Potter chuckles, shaking her head. “I think that might be a bit inconvenient.”

Regulus barely notices when his fingers slip into hers. It happens naturally, without thinking, his grip firm but absentminded. He squeezes slightly, not for reassurance but simply as an outlet for the energy buzzing in his chest.

“How cool would it be if people could hear animals talk?” he wonders aloud, his thoughts jumping ahead before he’s fully finished the last one. “Like in Percy Jackson! He can talk to sea animals because he’s the son of Poseidon.” His grip on her hand tightens slightly as his excitement builds. “There’s this part in The Sea of Monsters where he’s at an aquarium for a school trip, and the sharks tell him to pull the lever to set them free. Can you imagine? Just walking past a tank and hearing a shark say, ‘Hey, help me out here’?”

Mrs. Potter gives his hand a light squeeze. “That sounds like quite the adventure.”

Regulus nods eagerly. “It is! I just finished The Titan’s Curse, and—” He slips into French without realizing, the words coming too quickly to filter. “C'était si triste quand Zoë est morte. Elle méritait mieux : elle a sauvé tout le monde et puis…”

(“It was so sad when Zoe died. She deserved better—she saved everyone and then—)

He stops, switching back to English mid-thought. “I was sadder about her than Bianca, even though I knew Bianca dying would mess Nico up. And I kind of figured he was a child of Hades, but when Percy and Annabeth figured it out, it still felt like a plot twist.”

His words finally slow, just a little, as he takes a breath, still gripping Mrs. Potter’s hand without thinking. He glances up at her, half-expecting to see boredom or polite disinterest in her face. But she looks at him like she’s actually listening—really listening. Not just nodding along to be nice.

And for some reason, that makes his chest feel weirdly warm.

Before he can continue, James lets out an exaggerated sigh and rolls his eyes. “Can’t you just be quiet for, like, I don’t know? Two seconds, Reg?”

Regulus stops talking immediately. His mouth snaps shut, and a deep, horrible heat crawls up his neck. He’s a bit hurt—though, really, it’s not like he hasn’t heard that before. But mostly, he’s embarrassed. The kind of embarrassment that makes him wish he could shrink into nothingness. His body tenses, his fingers tightening around his stuffed dog as he slowly starts to rock back and forth on his heels. His breathing turns shallow. His gaze drops to his feet.

Mrs. Potter stops walking. “James.” Her voice is firm but not sharp. “Regulus has never told you to be quiet when you go on about something you love. He listens, even when you get carried away. I think it’s only fair that you do the same for him.”

James' face flushes. He shifts awkwardly before nodding. “I understand.” He turns to Regulus, looking properly apologetic. “Sorry, Reg. You have lots of interesting things to say. Keep talking. I’m sure whatever you were about to say next is cool. I know some of the things I talk about must bore you to death.”

Regulus hesitates. His voice is barely above a whisper when he finally says, “Soccer seems cool.”

James’ lips twitch into a small smile. “Yeah, it is.”

They move on, but Mrs. Potter doesn’t let go of Regulus’ hand. After a few minutes, they reach a quiet viewing area. The glass wall stretches from floor to ceiling, giving an unobstructed view of the massive tank beyond. It’s peaceful, the gentle movement of the water and the slow glide of the fish calming. Mrs. Potter sits on a bench and gently tugs Regulus closer until he’s standing directly in front of her.

“Sweetheart,” she says softly, looking up at him. “Just because one person doesn’t want to hear you speak, that doesn’t mean others don’t.”

Regulus swallows. He nods, but the embarrassment still lingers, coiled tight in his chest.

Mrs. Potter continues, her tone impossibly gentle. “What I mean is, I’d love to hear what you have to say. It’s quite—oh, what’s the word for it? Enlightening? Educational?” She smiles. “Either way, you’re teaching me something new, and that’s special.”

Special.

That word has never felt good before. It’s always made his stomach twist, made his skin prickle uncomfortably. But now, for some reason, it doesn’t feel bad. It doesn’t make his stomach drop. It makes something light flutter inside of him instead.

Regulus sits down beside her—on her left, shuffling close. She wraps an arm around him, pulling him into her side, and they sit together in the quiet.

Regulus thinks about everything she’d said. About how she listens. How she cares. How she’s willing to sit with him in the silence, not expecting anything in return.

He looks up at her, and he feels… 

Regulus doesn’t actually think he knows the word, or, if there even is a word, to how he’s feeling. But, whatever it is, he isn’t sure if he’s ever felt it for another person before. But all he knows is that he’s glad he gets to feel it.

And he’s glad he gets to feel it with her.

***

“She should support them, comfort them, and—most of all—make them feel loved, without them ever having to earn it.” 

Regulus sits in Laura’s office, hands folded neatly in his lap as she watches him with that patient, knowing look. He’s gotten used to this—her waiting, giving him space to decide how much to say.

“How’s talking going?” she asks gently.

Regulus shrugs, the motion small. “Good.”

Laura doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head slightly, waiting for him to go on. He shifts, fingers twitching against his knee. He can feel the words pressing at the edges of his mind, waiting to be spoken. So he lets them out.

“I’ve gotten more comfortable talking in front of Mrs. Potter,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

Laura’s expression stays neutral, but he sees the way her eyes soften, how she nods like that’s exactly what she expected to hear. Encouraged, he keeps going.

He tells her about the aquarium the other day, about how he couldn’t stop talking. The memory makes his face heat up, but the words don’t stop coming. He had been so caught up in the tanks, the movements of the fish, the colors, the facts—he had talked and talked, and he hadn’t even realized it until James had told him to shut up.

The sting of that moment still lingers. He ducks his head slightly. “That’s one of my fears. Talking too much. Making people bored.”

Laura hums thoughtfully. “And James saying that confirmed it for you?”

Regulus nods, shoulders hunching inward just a little.

“What happened after that?”

Regulus glances down at his lap. “Mrs. Potter told him off. Said I wasn’t being annoying.” He hesitates, blushing slightly, then adds, “She told me she likes hearing me talk.”

“And what did that feel like?” Laura prompts gently.

He doesn’t know how to describe it. Warm. Confusing. Like something he doesn’t know how to accept. “Weird,” he says finally. “Good. But weird.”

Laura gives a small smile. “That makes sense.”

Regulus swallows and moves on, because it’s easier than sitting with that feeling.

He tells her about the shopping trip, about the woman who had told Mrs. Potter she was coddling him. Making him soft. The words had clung to him, wrapping around his ribs and squeezing tight. Maybe she was. Maybe he was.

But then there were the nightmares.

Regulus’ fingers twitch in his lap. “I’ve been having nightmares,” he says quietly.

Laura nods, as if she’s been expecting this too. “That’s not surprising, given everything you’ve been through.”

He keeps going, tells her about the night Mrs. Potter let him sleep in her bed. How strange it had been that she didn’t get angry, didn’t punish him. Just let him crawl under the blankets and go back to sleep like it was normal.

“My mother never let me do that,” he admits, voice barely audible. “If I woke her up, I’d be punished.”

Laura’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something softer in her eyes. “Punished how?” she asks gently.

Regulus swallows, his fingers tightening around the hem of his sleeve. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Not in detail. “She’d—she’d yell. Tell me I was selfish. That I was bothering her. And if I didn’t leave fast enough…” He hesitates, staring at his lap. “She’d make sure I didn’t do it again.”

Laura doesn’t push, just nods slowly. “And Mrs. Potter? What did she do when you woke her up?”

Regulus thinks back to that night. The warmth of the blankets, the way she simply shifted over and pulled the covers back for him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “She just… let me in. Told me it was alright. And then she went back to sleep.”

A pause. Then Laura states, simply, “Sounds like you’re confused on the meaning of affection.”

Regulus frowns slightly, looking up at her. “What does it mean?”

Laura folds her hands in her lap. “Affection is when someone cares for you and shows it. When they want you to feel safe and loved, not because you earned it, but because you deserve it just by being you.”

Regulus shifts uncomfortably. “But I didn’t do anything.”

“You shouldn’t have to do anything, Regulus,” Laura says, her voice gentle but firm. “Affection isn’t something you work for or prove yourself worthy of. It’s something that should be freely given.”

Regulus lets that sink in, and the words settle deep in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar. Freely given. Not earned. Not bargained for.

He swallows. “I’ve never had that before.”

Laura’s expression turns sad. “I know,” she says. “But you do now.”

He thinks about that, even as she invites Mr. and Mrs. Potter into the session.

He moves to the floor, sitting between them while Laura takes her seat across from them. The room feels smaller now, heavier. He doesn’t know why.

Laura doesn’t waste time. “Over the past few sessions, I’ve noticed several indicators of anxiety,” she begins. “More specifically, Social Anxiety. And based on everything we’ve discussed, I also believe Regulus experiences Selective Mutism, which is a form of anxiety as well.”

The words twist something in Regulus’ stomach. His hands clench in his lap. He swallows hard, but the feeling doesn’t go away.

Laura hands some paperwork to Mr. and Mrs. Potter. “I’d like you two to fill these out. If there are questions you can’t answer, that’s okay. Just leave them blank.”

They both nod. Then she turns to Regulus, handing him his own set of papers. “I’d like you to fill these out. Be as honest as you can, alright?”

Regulus nods, even as his hands shake when he takes them.

Mrs. Potter speaks then, drawing his attention. “Regulus.” Her voice is steady, gentle, and he looks up at her.

“You’re not broken,” she says firmly. “This diagnosis isn’t the end of the world. If anything, it might help explain things—things that other people find ‘not normal.’ But normal is a concept, and everyone has a different level of normal that fits who they are. This just happens to be yours.”

Regulus stares at her, and suddenly, he remembers what Laura had said in his first session.

Mothers should support their children. Comfort them.

And in that moment, something clicks. Mrs. Potter has done all of that and more. Since his very first therapy session, since the very first day he stepped into her home, she has been everything his own mother never was. She has been kind, caring, protective. Loving.

He’s never had to prove he deserves it. Never had to earn it.

Mrs. Potter shouldn’t just be Mrs. Potter anymore.

Because ‘Mrs. Potter’ is formal. Distant. A title of respect, but also a title of separation. And she—she is more than that. She’s—

“Alright,” Laura says, standing up. “That’s time. Thank you both for coming in again.”

“Of course,” Mr. Potter replies easily.

Laura turns to Regulus. “See you next week?”

He nods.

As they drive away, the papers still in his lap, Regulus listens to the quiet murmur of conversation between Mr. and Mrs.—no, Effie—in the front seats.

“Well, that went alright,” Mr. Potter says, his tone light but thoughtful. “Didn’t know we’d be walking out with paperwork, though.”

Euphemia huffs a soft laugh. “Me neither, but it makes sense. Laura’s thorough.”

“Still, anxiety and selective mutism.” Mr. Potter’s voice dips slightly, a tinge of concern threading through it. “I don’t like the thought of him struggling with that.”

“I know,” Euphemia murmurs, gentle but certain. “But this isn’t a bad thing, Monty. It’s just a name for something that was already there. Now, at least, we can understand it better. He can understand it better.”

Mr. Potter exhales through his nose. “You’re right.” A brief pause. “I just want to make sure we do right by him.”

“We will,” Euphemia reassures. “We already are.”

Regulus’ fingers tighten slightly on the stack of papers in his lap. He wants to believe that. That this diagnosis isn’t something wrong with him. That it won’t change anything. But there’s still that little voice in the back of his mind, whispering doubts.

One question lingers, curling in his chest. It sticks to his ribs, heavy, uncertain.

He hesitates, then, more like stutters out, “Can we—can we get ice cream, p-please, E—Effie?”

The car goes silent. Then, slowly, he feels Euphemia turn in her seat, looking at him with something almost like surprise before it melts into warmth.

“Of course we can, love,” she says, and Regulus lets himself smile.