To Find a Home

Regulus sits curled up on the far end of the couch, his book balanced carefully in his hands as he reads. The living room is quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock and the occasional rustling of pages as he turns them. It’s peaceful, the kind of peace he’s still getting used to in the Potter household. No shouting. No strict rules looming over him. Just… calm.

He’s lost in the world of his book when movement in the doorway catches his attention. He looks up just in time to see Mr. Potter pop his head in, a warm, easy smile on his face.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mr. Potter says, his tone light. “I’m heading to the bookstore to grab another book. Thought I’d check and see if you wanted to come along?”

Regulus blinks, his fingers tightening slightly on the edges of his book. He doesn’t answer right away. The idea of going out is… well, he isn’t sure how he feels about it. He’s comfortable here. But the bookstore sounds nice. The idea of being surrounded by rows and rows of books, of getting to look through them at his own pace, is admittedly tempting.

Still, there’s always that lingering uncertainty. The what-ifs that whisper in his mind. What if the bookstore is crowded? What if it’s too loud? What if something unexpected happens? He swallows, his eyes flicking back down to the page of his book even though he isn’t really reading it anymore.

He could just say no. Mr. Potter wouldn’t be upset. He never seems to be, not over things like this. But Regulus finds himself thinking about the last time they went out together—how Mr. Potter always gives him time, never rushes him, never gets irritated when Regulus needs a moment to adjust.

It helps ease some of the apprehension.

Finally, Regulus nods, his head shaky but certain.

Mr. Potter’s smile widens just a bit, but he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. “Great,” he says, like it was never in doubt. “We’ll head out in a few minutes, then. No rush.”

Regulus nods, watching as Mr. Potter disappears back down the hall. He closes his book, carefully marking his place before setting it aside. There’s still a small knot of uncertainty in his stomach, but it’s not quite as tight as it was before.

Maybe this will be okay.

The bookstore is massive. As soon as Regulus steps inside, his breath catches in his throat. Tall bookshelves stretch high above him, creating endless rows of books. The scent of pages and ink fills the air, and the soft hum of quiet conversation and shuffling footsteps makes the space feel warm and inviting.

He turns in a slow circle, taking it all in, and his awe must be written all over his face because Mr. Potter chuckles beside him. “Go on and have a look around if you’d like,” he says, resting a hand on Regulus’ shoulder for a brief moment. “This might take me a while.”

Regulus nods and, after a moment’s hesitation, wanders off. His feet lead him to the children’s section, where the books are arranged in colorful, enticing displays. He runs his fingers lightly over the spines, scanning titles, before he begins pulling books off the shelf. Some he flips through, some he reads the blurbs of, and others he simply holds for a moment before carefully returning them to their places.

Before long, he’s found more books than he could possibly read in a year, maybe even two. The possibilities feel endless, overwhelming in the best way. He pulls out his notebook and starts jotting down the titles that intrigue him the most.

He starts with The Trials of Apollo series, then adds Magnus Chase, The Kane Chronicles, Keeper of the Lost Cities, The Land of Stories, and a standalone called Wonder. As he continues browsing, he debates whether some books deserve a spot on his list, completely unaware that Mr. Potter has approached.

Regulus picks up another book, scanning the blurb, when a voice behind him makes him jump.

“Already got a list going, I see.”

Regulus startles so badly that he drops both the book in his hands and his notebook. His face burns with embarrassment as he quickly crouches down to retrieve them, but Mr. Potter beats him to it. His eyes widen in concern as he hands the books back. “Didn’t mean to startle you, champ,” he says apologetically.

Regulus hesitates for a moment before, in a rare show of bravery, quietly murmuring, “That’s okay. I didn’t see you.”

Mr. Potter gives him an easy smile and steps back slightly, giving him space. Regulus exhales, his shoulders relaxing a fraction as he turns his attention back to the book in his hands. It sounds interesting, but maybe for when he’s a little older. He carefully slides it back onto the shelf.

Mr. Potter glances at the bookshelves, then asks, “Have you ever read Deltora Quest?”

Regulus shakes his head.

“They aren’t very long, but when I read them to James, I found them really interesting. Here.” Mr. Potter pulls one off the shelf and hands it over.

Regulus takes it and scans the blurb. It does sound intriguing. He nods and adds it to his list before handing the book back. Mr. Potter barely has it back on the shelf before he’s handing Regulus another book, this one called The Hunger Games.

“I know this one’s better suited for when you’re a little older,” Mr. Potter says, “but I think you might enjoy it. It’s a dystopian story.”

Regulus frowns slightly as he reads the blurb, but his intrigue only deepens. “Why do twelve boys and twelve girls have to die, and only one come out on top?” he asks, bewildered. “What’s the point?”

Mr. Potter chuckles. “I guess for you to find out, you’ll have to read it.”

Regulus nods and jots it down in his notebook. They continue talking, reviewing different books, debating which ones sound most interesting, and before Regulus even realizes it, his ‘To Read’ list has grown absurdly long.

As they make their way toward the exit, Regulus clutches his notebook to his chest, feeling lighter than when he walked in. He didn’t expect to enjoy this trip as much as he did. More than that, he didn’t expect to enjoy the time spent with Mr. Potter quite as much either. He thinks, as they step back into the afternoon light, that maybe, just maybe, he could get used to talking in front of him a little more.

***

Regulus sits quietly in the car, watching as Mr. Potter carefully maneuvers into a parking spot. The soft hum of the engine fades as the car settles into silence, and Regulus tightens his grip on his seatbelt, grounding himself. The air conditioning hums faintly, carrying the crisp scent of leather and the lingering traces of Euphemia’s floral perfume.

“Alright, gang. Listen up,” Euphemia says as she unbuckles her seatbelt, turning to face the three of them. “The plan is, while I go get my hair done, you three will go to the movies. Understood?”

James, predictably enthusiastic, bobs his head up and down. “Yes, Mum.”

Mr. Potter, ever the teasing husband, smirks as he echoes, “Yes, dear.”

Regulus simply nods, his fingers toying with the hem of his sleeve. He feels more at ease knowing that Euphemia will be nearby, even if she won’t be with them. The idea of going to a crowded movie theater still makes his stomach twist, but Mr. Potter will be there. James will be there. That should be enough to keep the anxiety from clawing its way to the surface.

They step out of the car, the warmth of the late morning sun washing over them as they make their way inside the shopping center. The air changes immediately—cooler, scented with coffee and warm pretzels. Regulus inhales slowly, pressing closer to Euphemia’s side as they weave through the small crowds of people. His free hand curls into a fist, fingernails pressing into his palm as a way to keep himself steady.

They stop in front of the hairdresser’s, the glass doors reflecting the bright overhead lights. Inside, women sit in chairs with their hair wrapped in foils, stylists moving around them like a well-rehearsed dance. Euphemia crouches slightly so she’s more at Regulus’ level, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Alright, love, I promise I won’t be too long.”

Regulus nods, though his grip tightens just slightly. “Okay,” he whispers.

Euphemia smiles and presses a light kiss to the top of his head before standing back up. “Have fun, boys,” she says, giving James a pointed look. “That means no getting into trouble.”

James grins. “No promises.”

Mr. Potter sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Why do I even try?”

Regulus feels the faintest flicker of amusement at their exchange, but it’s overshadowed by the fact that Euphemia is now stepping inside, the glass doors closing behind her. He keeps his eyes trained on her figure until she disappears further into the salon, heart thudding a little faster at the separation.

Then, suddenly, there’s a hand in front of him. Mr. Potter’s.

Regulus glances up and meets his warm, steady gaze. “You ready, bud?” Mr. Potter asks gently.

Regulus hesitates for a moment before slowly slipping his hand into Mr. Potter’s. The larger hand closes around his, solid and safe, and just like that, some of the tension in his chest eases.

They continue walking, James chattering about all the movie options they have. Regulus listens quietly, still clutching Mr. Potter’s hand as they make their way toward the theater. The scent of buttered popcorn and artificial sweetness hits him before they even reach the entrance, and despite the nerves simmering beneath his skin, he tells himself it’s going to be okay.

Mr. Potter is here. James is here. He can do this.

He can do this. 

Regulus tells himself, over and over again, that he can do this. It’s just a movie theater. It’s just people. He can do this. 

But the second they step inside, the noise hits him like a wave. The hum of conversation, the beeping of cash registers, the crunching of popcorn—it’s overwhelming. His grip tightens on Mr. Potter’s hand as they approach the ticket counter, his other hand managing to grip its hold onto Mr. Potter’s shirt. Mr. Potter doesn’t say anything about it, just gives his hand a reassuring squeeze as he purchases the tickets.

“One adult, two children for Ghostbusters,” Mr. Potter tells the employee behind the counter. He collects the tickets and hands one each to James and Regulus before turning to them both. “Alright, lads, go pick out a drink and a snack each. My treat.”

James grins. “Yes! Thanks, Dad.”

Regulus nods, not trusting his voice, and follows James toward the concession stand.

There are too many choices. His eyes flick between the shelves, the illuminated menu above the counter, the drinks lined up in the fridge. He’s trying to decide when he notices a girl standing next to him, slightly taller and older than him, tapping her foot impatiently. He stiffens.

She sighs loudly and says, “Would you just hurry up and move already?”

Regulus’ stomach twists. He nods mutely and shuffles out of the way, his face burning. He abandons choosing a drink for now and moves toward the snacks instead, keeping his gaze down. He knows what he wants, at least. M&M’s.

But when he reaches up for the bag, his fingers just barely graze the bottom. He tries again, stretching as much as he can, but it’s no use. His stomach tightens, embarrassment creeping in again.

“Do you need any help?” a worker asks, voice bored.

Regulus nods quickly, not trusting himself to speak, and points to the M&M’s. The worker sighs, pulls the bag down, and hands it to him. Regulus nods again, his throat too tight for words. The worker gives him a strange look, like he’s waiting for something.

Then James steps in, out from nowhere. “He says thank you,” James says, smiling at the worker.

The worker just rolls his eyes and walks away.

James turns to Regulus. “He was rude, wasn’t he?”

Regulus nods, feeling relief that James noticed.

James glances at Regulus’ hands. “You got M&M’s.” James simply states, then asks. “Do you have everything?”

Regulus hesitates, then shakes his head. James catches on immediately. “No drink?”

Regulus nods.

James pats his shoulder lightly. “Alright, let’s go get one.”

They return to the drink selection, and James doesn’t rush him. Regulus stares at the options, his mouth dry. He wants lemonade. He knows that. But asking for it is another thing entirely.

He swallows and mutters, just loud enough for James to hear, “Can you get the lemonade, please?”

James doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.” He grabs the bottle off the shelf and hands it over. “Here you go, Reg.”

Regulus takes it, the tension in his chest loosening slightly.

Together, they walk back toward Mr. Potter, who is waiting with his own selection—a large popcorn, a drink, and a KitKat.

James nudges Regulus lightly. “Dad always gets KitKats at the movies,” he says conspiratorially. “It’s, like, his thing.”

Regulus nods, watching as Mr. Potter turns toward them. He notices Regulus’ snack and drink and gives a small nod of approval before turning to James. “You all set?”

James nods. “Yeah, we’re ready.”

Mr. Potter gestures toward the counter. “Alright then, let’s check out.”

As they step forward, James leans in and whispers, “The popcorn’s to share, by the way.”

Regulus glances at the bucket of popcorn in Mr. Potter’s hand and nods. He lets himself focus on that, on the idea of sitting in the dark, eating popcorn, watching the movie. Something safe. Something okay.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

News flash: it is that bad.

As they walk down the dimly lit hallway toward their assigned cinema, Regulus feels the shift in atmosphere immediately. The air is thick and cool, carrying the distinct scent of buttered popcorn and artificial sweetness, but that isn’t what makes him uneasy. It’s the way the shadows stretch and shift along the floor, how the overhead lights flicker just slightly, how the muffled sound of different movies bleeding through the walls creates a warped, eerie hum. A shiver trails down his spine, and he clenches his fists, telling himself, I can do this. I can do this.

Inside the theater, the lighting is dim but not completely dark. That helps.

Mr. Potter gestures for the boys to pick their seats. Regulus hesitates for a moment before slipping into the seat between James and Mr. Potter. He shifts uncomfortably, placing his drink in the cupholder, trying to settle. James and Mr. Potter chat idly as the theater fills with people, their conversation soft but grounding. Regulus listens, the familiarity of their voices a welcome distraction.

“Do either of you need the bathroom before it starts?” Mr. Potter asks.

James shakes his head. Regulus does too.

When the commercials begin, Regulus nearly jumps out of his seat at the sudden explosion of sound. His entire body goes rigid, his fingers gripping the seat’s armrests so tightly his knuckles turn white. His breathing stutters for a moment, too quick, too shallow.

As if sensing his discomfort, Mr. Potter leans in, voice barely a whisper. “If it gets too loud or too much, just tell me, alright? We can step out for a bit if you need to.”

Regulus nods, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. Just knowing there’s an out if he needs it makes him feel a little better.

And then the lights go out. Completely.

His stomach twists. The only source of light now is the glow of the massive screen in front of them. It’s enough to see, but not enough to stop his unease from growing.

Regulus shifts in his seat. It’s fine. He’s fine. It’s just a movie, it’s not real, he can do this.

Without realizing it, he leans slightly toward Mr. Potter. As he’s shuffling closer, Regulus gets jabbed in the ribs by a stupid armrest which separates Regulus from Mr. Potter, keeping him from closing the distance completely. Mr. Potter must notice because, after a beat, he quietly lifts the armrest between them. Regulus hesitates only for a moment before shuffling closer—not enough that they’re touching, but enough that he can feel the warmth of Mr. Potter’s presence beside him.

The movie starts, and at first, he tries to focus, tries to lose himself in the story, but the flashing lights on the screen are dizzying, and the sound is too loud, pressing against him like a physical force. The combination of darkness, noise, and bright flashes makes his skin prickle. His chest feels tight. He can’t concentrate.

At some point, he must have moved closer to Mr. Potter without realizing it because suddenly there’s an arm draped gently over his shoulders, pulling him in just enough to feel steady. Mr. Potter’s thumb swipes lightly over his wrist—a small, grounding gesture.

Regulus turns his head slightly toward him, and Mr. Potter leans in, voice low. “You doing alright there, bud? Need a break?”

Regulus contemplates pushing through it. He doesn’t want to miss the movie. But the weight in his chest, the way the flashing images make his head spin—it’s too much. He nods.

Before he knows it, he’s sitting outside the cinema on a bench, Mr. Potter beside him. The cool air outside the theater is a relief, helping him breathe a little easier.

“Bit much in there, wasn’t it, kiddo?” Mr. Potter says.

Regulus nods, looking down at his hands. He can still hear the muffled sounds of the movie from inside, but it’s no longer overwhelming.

He debates whether or not to say anything else. Adults usually don’t get it, don’t understand. But Mr. Potter hasn’t given him a reason to think he wouldn’t listen.

“I don’t like the dark,” Regulus murmurs, so softly he almost isn’t sure he’s said it out loud.

Mr. Potter turns slightly to face him, his expression unreadable. “You don’t?” A pause. “You afraid of the dark?”

Regulus feels his face heat up in embarrassment. He knows it’s a childish fear. He’s not a little kid, he shouldn’t—

“You know,” Mr. Potter says suddenly, his tone light, “I used to be afraid of the dark as a kid.”

Regulus blinks. He wasn’t expecting that.

“It’s true,” Mr. Potter continues, as if reading his thoughts. “Thought I’d grown out of it, too. But then, when I was about—oh, I don’t know—fourteen, fifteen? I went on a camping trip with my mates. Thought I could show them how brave I was.” He chuckles. “Then one of them decided to jumpscare me while I was walking back from the bathrooms. That’s when I realized I was still terrified of the dark.”

Regulus stares at him. Mr. Potter—who always seems so sure, so steady—afraid of the dark? It’s hard to picture. But there’s no mockery in his tone, no judgment in his expression. Just an easy sort of understanding.

Regulus knows why he’s afraid of the dark. But saying it aloud feels like too much. He’s not sure if Mr. Potter would look at him the same way if he knew. Most adults don’t. They either brush it off, tell him he’s being silly, or—worse—look at him like something’s wrong with him.

For now, he keeps that part to himself.

After a quiet moment, Mr. Potter asks, “You ready to head back in?”

Regulus hesitates, but he doesn’t want to waste the movie. Even if it’s overwhelming, he still wants to see it. So he nods.

Mr. Potter smiles, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Alright then, let’s go.”

And with that, they step back inside.

The moment the movie ends, Regulus knows something is wrong. His head throbs with a dull, relentless ache, and nausea swirls in his stomach. Every little sound—the rustling of popcorn bags, the shuffle of feet, the murmur of voices—feels like nails scraping against a chalkboard. It all blurs together into an overwhelming hum that makes it impossible to distinguish individual voices.

As they step into the brighter lights of the theater lobby, Regulus blinks rapidly, but his vision is still off. The edges of his sight are greying, flickering in and out. His clothes suddenly feel unbearably heavy, the fabric rough and suffocating against his skin. The seams itch like needles pressing into him. His breathing picks up, shallow and quick. His skin prickles with discomfort, as if something unseen is crawling over him, and a wave of dizziness makes the floor beneath him feel unsteady.

He has no idea where he is anymore. His brain is shutting things out, reducing the world to a disorienting haze.

“Regulus?”

The voice sounds distant, as if coming from underwater. He tries to focus, but nothing makes sense. They’re still walking, aren’t they? There are hands on him, a firm but gentle grip, but he tenses immediately, his breathing turning frantic. The muffled voices continue—one deeper, the other softer—but he can’t make out the words.

Then, suddenly, the ground disappears beneath him. He’s being lifted, and panic flares in his chest. His breath quickens even more, nearly hyperventilating, but then—

“I’m sorry, bud,” the voice is warm, soothing, familiar. Mr. Potter. “Just a little longer, and you’ll be in the car.”

The heat outside slams into him like a brick wall, suffocating and thick. He squeezes his eyes shut against it, the world pressing in on him too tightly. The feeling doesn’t subside until he’s gently placed into a seat, the fabric cool against his overheated skin. A seatbelt clicks into place across his chest.

Regulus sits there, curled in on himself, for what feels like forever, his brain sluggishly working through the fog. Slowly, things start making sense again. The air is still warm, but not unbearable. The scents around him shift from stale popcorn and artificial butter to something more neutral—the faint smell of leather and whatever cologne Mr. Potter uses.

Regulus blinks, his vision clearer now, and looks around. He’s in the car. He turns his head, finding Mr. Potter in the driver’s seat, hands loosely gripping the steering wheel. His face is pinched with worry, the usual twinkle in his eyes dimmed by concern.

Mr. Potter opens his mouth, and when he speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, just slightly above a whisper. “You back with me, bud?”

Regulus nods, slow and uncertain. Mr. Potter exhales, shoulders dropping slightly in relief.

There’s a moment of silence before he says, “Euphemia and James just went into the grocery store to grab something last minute for dinner. They’ll be back any minute now.”

Regulus nods again. The quiet settles between them, but not in an uncomfortable way. Mr. Potter looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t—not right away, at least. Instead, he lets Regulus sit, lets him breathe.

Eventually, he says, “You got overstimulated there, kiddo.” He pauses, glancing at Regulus. “You started to shut down. Has that ever happened before?”

Regulus shrugs. He’s not sure. His brain still feels slow, still hasn’t completely caught up.

Mr. Potter nods, accepting the answer without pushing. Another pause, then a quiet, “Must’ve been scary.”

It had been. Regulus had no idea what was happening, only that it felt like everything was caving in on him. He nods, this time more deliberately.

Mr. Potter’s voice is steady but gentle. “It’s okay though, kiddo. We’ll figure it out if it happens again.”

Regulus blinks at him, stunned. There’s no judgment in his voice, no frustration. Just understanding. Mr. Potter says it like a promise, like something certain and steady, and Regulus—still shaky, still exhausted—finds himself grateful for it.

They sit in silence after that. Regulus tries to think about what Mr. Potter said, but his brain is too tired, too overloaded. Eventually, exhaustion wins out, and he lets himself drift, the hum of the car and Mr. Potter’s quiet presence lulling him into sleep.

***

Regulus sits stiffly on the couch across from Laura, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The office is quiet, save for the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. The paperwork she had asked him to fill out rests between them on the small table. He watches as she flips through the pages, her expression neutral yet focused. His stomach twists anxiously as he waits for her to speak.

“Alright,” Laura finally says, tapping her pen against the paper. “Let’s go over some of your answers.”

Regulus nods, his throat suddenly dry.

“You answered ‘always’ to this question: ‘Do you avoid doing things because you’re afraid something will go wrong?’ Do you think you can explain why?”

Regulus shifts in his seat. He swallows, then forces out, “Well, I tried to avoid meeting my friend’s parents because I was really scared they were going to hate me.”

Laura’s gaze softens. “Why would they hate you?”

Regulus shrugs, eyes fixed on his hands. “Effie said the same thing. Even told me how amazing I was.”

Laura tilts her head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Effie, huh?”

Heat creeps up Regulus’ neck. “Yeah, I—I—I’ve started calling her Effie.”

Laura’s expression melts into something warm and pleased. “That’s wonderful, Regulus.”

He nods, staring at his lap, but there’s a small sense of pride curling in his chest.

Laura flips a page and hums thoughtfully. “Now, here’s something interesting. You answered ‘sometimes’ to only one question in the social anxiety-specific section: ‘Do you avoid eye contact because it makes you nervous?’” She glances up. “May I ask why you answered ‘sometimes’?”

Regulus freezes. His fingers twitch slightly as he fumbles for an answer. “Well… well… um… it’s—it’s uh, because…” He pauses, takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly. “It’s because making eye contact doesn’t necessarily make me anxious. It’s more that… umm… it makes me uncomfortable.” He shrugs, glancing away.

“Huh,” Laura murmurs, jotting something down on her clipboard.

Regulus tenses. “Is—is that important?”

Laura hesitates, tapping her pen against the paper again. “It’s just…” She pauses, clearly thinking about how to phrase her words carefully. “Your answer indicates something I may have already suspected.”

His stomach churns. “Which is?”

Laura sets the clipboard down on her lap, her voice gentle but steady. “I think you may have Autism.”

Regulus goes completely still. The words don’t process immediately, but when they do, they land heavily in his chest.

“Why I say that is because,” Laura continues carefully, “well, Mr. and Mrs. Potter have noticed some behavioral tendencies that align with the main criteria for Autism.”

Regulus feels his heart beat faster. “What… what have they said?”

Laura studies him for a moment before responding. “They’ve mentioned that you have panic attacks when spaces get too loud or bright. Euphemia also witnessed a pretty brutal meltdown, where you broke a lot of things.”

Shame floods Regulus. His shoulders curl inward as his face burns with humiliation. He remembers that, destroying items, how he blamed Effie for everything that was going on. 

“It doesn’t make you a ‘different,’ Regulus,” Laura says firmly, her tone reassuring. “It just means you see the world differently, that’s all.”

Regulus swallows hard and gives a small, hesitant nod. He isn’t sure how he feels about this revelation yet. But for now, he lets Laura’s words settle, pushing back the rising tide of uncertainty.

James walks into the living room, flopping onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm bored."

Regulus hums in acknowledgment, barely looking up from his book. He's curled up in the armchair, his legs tucked beneath him, absorbed in the pages. James isn't really expecting a response anyway; he just wants to announce his boredom to the universe.

Grabbing his controller, James turns on his PlayStation, and the sound of the game fills the room. Regulus tries to stay focused on his book, but his attention drifts as the menu music and commentary pull him in. He glances at the TV screen just as James starts a match.

"What game is that?" Regulus asks quietly.

James, eyes still locked on the screen, responds, "It's called FIFA. This version is the 2018 one. I just recently got it for Christmas, same time I got my PlayStation."

Regulus watches as James moves the players with precision, passing the ball, sprinting down the field. It looks... interesting, but not something he thinks he’d be any good at.

"You wanna try?" James offers, holding out the spare controller.

Regulus shakes his head. "No thanks. Thank you, though."

James just smiles and nods, returning to his game. The two of them sit in companionable silence, with James occasionally cheering when he scores. The first time he does, it's loud, sharp, and startling. Regulus flinches, and James must notice, because his next few cheers are noticeably softer, more controlled. Regulus assumes James is doing it for him, but he isn’t entirely sure. Still, he appreciates it.

James is about to start another round when Regulus speaks again, his voice just a little above a whisper. "It kind of reminds me of the match we went to."

James lights up. "Yeah! It does, doesn’t it? Some of the players in the game aren’t the same as the ones we saw, though."

Regulus nods. He remembers the match well, the energy of the crowd, the rush of excitement when the losing team started making a comeback. "I did enjoy it," he admits.

"Really? What was your favorite part?" James asks, grinning.

Regulus, completely deadpan, responds, "When I went to the bathroom."

James stares at him. Regulus manages to hold his expression for a beat longer before breaking into laughter. James bursts out laughing, nearly dropping his controller.

"Okay, okay, I thought you were being serious for a second! Oh, that was good," James wheezes between laughs.

Regulus chuckles, shaking his head. "No, really, my favorite part was when the losing team started scoring a bunch of goals."

James grins. "I know, right?! That was an epic comeback!"

Regulus nods in agreement. He hesitates for a moment before asking, "Have you ever played?"

Regulus shakes his head. “You’ve never played soccer?” James gasps, placing a hand to his heart in mock-offense.  "Oh my gosh, you mean to tell me you've never played? I just have to teach you, then. Come on."

James is already up and heading out of the living room. Regulus blinks after him, then sighs, placing his book down. He follows, though he's more interested in watching James play than actually playing himself.

Outside, James is setting up makeshift goalposts using two cones. "Alright, do you know how to dribble?"

Regulus shakes his head.

James nods, then starts demonstrating, kicking the ball lightly with each step, keeping it close to his feet. "You wanna keep control, move with it, don’t let it get too far from you. Like this."

Regulus watches carefully, then hesitantly tries it himself. He’s a little stiff at first, but James’ explanation is clear, and after a few attempts, he starts to get the hang of it.

"Wow," James says, genuinely impressed. "You're a natural!"

Regulus' cheeks flush, but he simply nods, keeping his eyes on the ball.

"Alright," James says, "now that you know how to dribble, let’s start. Your goal is over there." He points. "Mine’s over here. The aim of the game is to get the ball into my goal while stopping me from getting it into yours. Got it?"

Regulus nods. "I watched the game, James. It's pretty logical, really."

James chuckles. "Alright then, smart guy. Want to start us off?"

Regulus shrugs. "Sure, I guess."

James rolls the ball to him, and Regulus starts moving. He remembers some of the moves he saw in the professional match and tries to execute them. His first attempt is a little awkward, but soon, he starts finding a rhythm. When he manages to score a goal against James, James just stands there, mouth slightly open in shock.

"Dude. You're really good. You should play with me more often."

Regulus shrugs, but there’s a small, satisfied smile on his face. "I try."

They continue playing, and for the first time in a long while, Regulus is simply enjoying himself.

***

Regulus sits on the porch steps, his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. The evening air is cool, the sky painted in the soft hues of an impending sunset. Beside him, Sarah sits with her hands folded in her lap, her presence steady and quiet. They’ve been sitting like this for a while, the silence stretching between them, neither feeling the need to fill it.

Then, Regulus exhales and murmurs, “It’s been another month.”

Sarah turns her head to look at him, blinking as if surprised. “It has, hasn’t it?” she says, almost in amazement.

Regulus nods.

“How do you feel about that?” she asks, her voice soft, inviting.

He considers it for a moment before answering simply, “Good.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Sarah’s lips. “Good,” she echoes. “What have you been getting up to?”

Regulus shifts slightly, adjusting his grip around his legs. “I’ve started therapy.”

Sarah raises her eyebrows slightly, interest piqued. “Oh? How’s that going?”

“Well,” Regulus says. “I like my therapist. And…” He hesitates for only a second before adding, “I got diagnosed with social anxiety disorder.”

Sarah tilts her head, studying him carefully. “How do you feel about that?”

Regulus glances down at the ground, toes digging absently into the wood of the porch. “I thought I’d be upset. Angry, maybe. But I’m not.” He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug. “I actually feel… at peace with it.”

Sarah’s expression softens. “That’s really good, Regulus.”

He nods, the conversation naturally settling into quiet again. The air hums with the sounds of the early evening—distant voices, the rustling of trees, the faint chirping of birds.

Then Sarah speaks again, hesitantly. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this.”

Regulus immediately stiffens. His grip on his knees tightens slightly, and he doesn’t look at her. “I’m not being moved, am I?”

“What? No, no.” Sarah shakes her head quickly. “Nothing like that.” She pauses, inhaling slowly before continuing. “I’ve been looking for your brother. Sirius.”

Regulus’ breath catches. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react, just waits.

Sarah hesitates again, like she’s searching for the right words. “And—I’m sorry, Regulus, but I’ve been having trouble tracking him down.”

Regulus zones out.

He knew this was coming. He knew, eventually, she would say it. But knowing and hearing it aloud are two very different things. And now that the words are out there, tangible and real, he realizes he hadn’t actually been prepared to hear them.

Regulus stands in the doorway of the Potters’ bedroom, gripping the hem of his pajama shirt. The room is dimly lit by the bedside lamp, casting a warm glow over Mr. Potter, who is sitting up in bed with a book resting in his lap.

“Couldn’t sleep, bud?” Mr. Potter asks, glancing up from his reading.

Regulus shakes his head. He shifts from foot to foot, unsure of what he wants to do. He hadn’t meant to come here—at least, not to Mr. Potter. He had wanted to find Euphemia, to curl into her side like he sometimes does when things get too heavy in his chest. But she isn’t home. James had forgotten his medication at a friend’s house, and Euphemia had gone to drop it off.

“I know Effie’s not here, but if you want to, you can lay here until she gets back,” Mr. Potter offers gently, closing his book and setting it on the nightstand.

Regulus hesitates. He hadn’t actually intended on crawling into bed with Euphemia, he actually wanted to be with James. He’s only ever done it once or twice before, on the nights when the hurt was too big to hold on his own. James, who is loud and wild and so different from Sirius, yet somehow still eases the ache in Regulus’ chest. But James isn’t here. And his heart still hurts. 

His fingers tighten around the stuffed black dog clutched to his chest.It’s soft, gentle, the fur only now really starting to wear from holding it too tightly. A silent comfort, one of the truly first items he was given intended for him. 

Finally, he nods, moving hesitantly to the bed before climbing in beside Mr. Potter. The bed is warm, and the scent of parchment and something woodsy clings to the blankets. He lays stiffly at first, fingers curled into the duvet, but the warmth helps ease the tension in his body.

Mr. Potter watches him for a moment before asking, “Did you have trouble falling asleep?”

Regulus swallows and nods.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Regulus shakes his head immediately. But it isn’t really true. He does want to talk about it—he just doesn’t know how.

Mr. Potter doesn’t press. He just shifts slightly and picks his book back up, letting the silence settle between them. Regulus stares at the ceiling, trying not to think, but his mind won’t stop turning. The check-in earlier. His birthday, next week. The possibility of not seeing Sirius. The way his chest aches so much he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Before he realizes it, tears are slipping down his face. His breath hitches as he sniffs, trying to hold it in, but the ache is too much. A quiet whine escapes him before he can stop it. “It hurts,” he whispers, barely audible.

Mr. Potter’s head snaps toward him, concern instantly shifting his posture. “What hurts?” He sets his book aside, fully turning his attention to Regulus now.

Regulus wipes his face quickly, but more tears fall. He presses his hand against his chest.

“Your heart?” Mr. Potter asks, voice gentle.

Regulus nods.

Mr. Potter exhales, his shoulders easing slightly. Regulus knows he was worried it was something physical—something he could fix with medicine or a doctor. But this kind of pain doesn’t have an easy fix.

Regulus clenches his jaw, trying to keep more tears from coming, but Mr. Potter catches on. “Let it out, kiddo,” he murmurs. “Let it all out. It’s the only way for your heart to stop hurting.”

Regulus doesn’t know if that’s true, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it anymore. A sob wracks through him, and then another, until he’s heaving, breath hitching as the weight of everything crashes over him. In his frantic state, he blindly reaches out, grasping at nothing—until suddenly, he’s being lifted.

Mr. Potter shifts him with ease, pulling him into his arms, cradling him against his chest. Regulus curls into the warmth, his small fingers fisting into the fabric of Mr. Potter’s shirt as he sobs. The stuffed dog is caught between them, squished but not let go. A strong hand pats his back in slow, steady movements.

“It’s okay,” Mr. Potter soothes. “That’s it. Let it out.”

Regulus isn’t sure how long he cries—only that, eventually, the sobs lessen, leaving him sniffling and exhausted. He slumps against Mr. Potter, his body too drained to move.

“Feeling a bit better?” Mr. Potter asks after a moment.

Regulus nods weakly. Mr. Potter shifts, moving as if to lay him back down on the bed, but Regulus instinctively grips onto him tighter.

“Oh,” Mr. Potter murmurs, not expecting it. But he doesn’t question it, just adjusts them both so that they can lie down properly.

Regulus presses his head against Mr. Potter’s chest, right over his heartbeat. His left hand clings to the fabric of Mr. Potter’s shirt like a lifeline, his other arm wrapped securely around the stuffed dog. One of Mr. Potter’s arms is wrapped securely around his back, the other resting gently across his waist.

The silence settles again, softer this time, and just as sleep begins to creep in, Mr. Potter asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Regulus doesn’t know. He’s so tired, but the steady, rhythmic beat of Mr. Potter’s heart lulls him into a state where his thoughts slip out unfiltered.

“My heart still hurts,” he mumbles.

“How so?” Mr. Potter asks.

Regulus hesitates. “I don’t know. But it hurts. It’s been hurting since I…” He falters, voice dropping to a whisper. “Since I got taken away.”

Mr. Potter nods, staying quiet to let him speak at his own pace.

“It’s always been hurting, but in small amounts. But… it really hurts in a big amount right now.” Regulus sniffles as fresh tears spill over.

Mr. Potter rubs slow circles on his back. “Is that why you wanted Euphemia?”

Regulus shakes his head.

“No?”

“No,” Regulus murmurs. “I wanted James.”

Mr. Potter stills for a fraction of a second. “James?”

Regulus doesn’t answer at first, then whispers, “Being around him sometimes makes the hurt go away. That’s all.”

Mr. Potter is quiet, letting the words settle before asking, “The hurt… what’s it about?”

Regulus thinks. If he talks about it, will it go away?

“Missing someone,” he admits quietly.

Mr. Potter nods. “Missing someone will always hurt, bud. It’s a part of life.”

Regulus sniffles. “But I don’t want it to.”

“I know,” Mr. Potter says gently. “But talking about them helps take some of the hurt away. It helps to ease it.”

Regulus doesn’t respond, just sniffles again.

“You don’t have to talk to me about it,” Mr. Potter continues. “You could talk to Effie. And if you don’t want to talk to her, you could talk to Laura.”

Regulus is quiet, listening.

“But you should talk to someone,” Mr. Potter says. “Whoever it may be, they will be able to help, alright?”

Regulus nods slowly.

“Alright.”

The words linger in Regulus’ mind. He thinks about what Mr. Potter said—about how talking about someone might help make the pain a little lighter.

And, maybe, that might not be such a bad idea.

***

Regulus wouldn’t admit this to anyone else—apart from himself, of course—but he was excited to go to the museum.

Euphemia had asked the night before at dinner what everyone wanted to do. Mr. Potter had chimed in with, “How about the museum?”

And that’s how they ended up here.

James hadn’t been too happy when Euphemia agreed to the museum trip, but secretly, Regulus was thrilled. He could hardly contain his excitement anymore. It felt like he was buzzing out of every point of entry in his body.

Now, sitting in the car as they pull into the underground parking garage, Regulus grips his black stuffed dog tightly in his lap. As the car comes to a stop, Euphemia turns in her seat and asks, “You’ve got everything, sweetheart?”

Regulus nods.

Stepping out of the car, he immediately feels the shift in the air—the cool, slightly damp underground atmosphere replaced by the hum of distant chatter and the echo of footsteps. Euphemia glances at the stuffed animal in his hands and asks, “Would you like me to hold onto that for you?”

Regulus hesitates for only a second before nodding again. He doesn’t want to risk dropping it or losing it. Euphemia tucks it safely into her bag with a reassuring smile before they head toward the lifts.

Regulus unknowingly gravitates closer to Mr. Potter as they walk, while James and Euphemia take the lead. As they step into the lift, Mr. Potter glances down at him and asks, “Excited?”

Regulus nods, the enthusiasm bubbling up in his chest. “I love museums,” he admits, letting the excitement slip into his voice. “They have so much history to explore and learn. It’s always fun to learn things.”

Mr. Potter hums in agreement. “I agree with that statement very much, bud.”

The lift doors slide open, and they step into the museum’s main lobby. The space is vast, with towering ceilings and an open floor plan leading to different exhibits. The ticket counter stands just ahead.

As they approach, Mr. Potter casually asks, “So, what do you want to see first?”

Regulus thinks for a moment. “I want to follow where the arrows take us. But, preferably, if they go floor by floor, I want to start at the top and work my way down. If there’s no particular structure, then we just follow the layout.”

Mr. Potter groans dramatically. “Ugh, I know! Museums only get that right about forty-five percent of the time. It’s so dumb.”

Regulus giggles and starts bouncing on his toes as they get closer to the counter. “You’d think for scientists and specialized history professors, they could at least have a method to their disorganization. Granted, it’s mostly the scientists’ fault.”

Mr. Potter lets out a mock-offended gasp, clutching his chest as if Regulus has personally wounded him. “You wound me,” he says dramatically. “How dare you call us scientists out? I get that we suck at organizing things, but you don’t have to be so blatant about it.”

Regulus laughs a little louder, shaking his head. The warmth in his chest only grows as they step up to the counter, where Euphemia is already handling the tickets. Without thinking, Regulus reaches out and grabs Mr. Potter’s hand, holding onto it as they wait.

Euphemia steps up to the counter, speaking with the attendant as she pulls out her wallet. Regulus shifts on his feet, his excitement thrumming beneath his skin. He knows exactly what he wants to see first. There’s too much to explore, but the thought of following a structured path, seeing everything as it’s meant to be seen, fills him with an anticipatory thrill.

Before he can get too lost in his thoughts, James grabs his wrist, dragging him away from the counter. Regulus stumbles but quickly regains his footing, throwing James an unimpressed look. James just grins at him, entirely unbothered, before darting ahead toward the entrance.

Euphemia, catching up with them, hands Regulus a folded museum map. “Alright, where to first?” she asks with a smile.

Regulus eagerly unfolds the map, scanning it carefully. His brow furrows slightly when he sees that the suggested route moves from the bottom floors upward. He had wanted to start at the top, but he supposes it makes more sense this way. He looks up and says, “The Earth exhibit. The summary about Earth is first.”

“Sounds good to me,” Mr. Potter says, and with that, they head toward the exhibit.

The moment they step inside the interactive room, Regulus is absorbed. There are models of the Earth at different stages of its development, touchscreens with animations of shifting continents, and glowing infographics explaining geological processes. Regulus moves toward a large display about Pangaea, reading the text with keen interest.

His thoughts spill out before he can stop them. “If you take a closer look at the continents, say South America and Africa, you can tell they used to be connected,” he says, tracing the shapes with his finger against the glass.

Mr. Potter hums, clearly interested. Regulus takes that as encouragement to keep going. “Did you know that Australia and India used to be connected, and that Australia is slowly moving closer toward India?” He glances up at Mr. Potter, who shakes his head.

“Scientists predict that Australia is moving around ten centimeters each year, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but, in reality, it is,” Regulus continues. “The only reason why the Earth is constantly moving is due to the tectonic plates.” He keeps rambling, reciting facts he’s read in books and online articles, hardly aware of how much he’s talking.

Mr. Potter listens intently, nodding along, never interrupting. It makes something warm bloom in Regulus’ chest—the simple act of being listened to, of someone caring about what he has to say.

They move on to the next section, where a large display details the ocean and its vast ecosystems. Regulus immediately zones in on the part about coral reefs, his eyes lighting up as he reads. “The Great Barrier Reef is the largest coral reef in the world,” he says, stepping closer. “But it’s slowly dying. Coral bleaching is happening at an alarming rate because of climate change and pollution.”

He turns to another display and reads aloud again, “The Mariana Trench is the deepest part of the ocean, almost eleven kilometers deep.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Potter chimes in. “The trench was formed by subduction—when one tectonic plate is forced under another. The Pacific Plate is sliding beneath the Mariana Plate, creating a deep trench over millions of years.”

Regulus nods, fascinated, filing that information away. They continue moving through the exhibit, lost in discussions about the Earth, the ocean, and everything in between. It’s easy, effortless. 

Regulus barely registers James’ grumbling as they finally take a lunch break. He’s too preoccupied with the sheer amount of knowledge still left to absorb. He’s practically bouncing in his seat, still caught up in the excitement of what they’ve seen so far.

“I can’t wait to get to the dinosaur exhibit,” he says, barely touching his food as he stares off, already thinking about the fossils waiting for him.

Euphemia chuckles softly, shaking her head. “We won’t be able to get there if you don’t eat your food.”

Regulus blinks, realizing that his plate is still mostly full, and a faint blush rises to his cheeks. He ducks his head slightly but obediently picks up his fork and starts eating. He doesn’t want to risk slowing them down.

Once everyone finishes their meal, they make their way to the dinosaur exhibit, and the moment they step inside, Regulus feels a spark of joy settle in his chest. The towering fossils, the intricate displays, and the carefully reconstructed skeletons are incredible. He dives into reading every sign and informational plaque he can, completely enthralled.

But then—

A sticky sensation smears across his arm.

Regulus stiffens instantly, his breath hitching. He barely processes the little kid who had run past him, leaving behind a streak of whatever was on their hands. His entire body tenses, and the feeling of the residue on his skin makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. He doesn’t think—he just moves, his feet carrying him toward where he last saw Euphemia and Mr. Potter.

Only Mr. Potter is there when he arrives, and Regulus heads straight for him, still slightly panicked.

“What’s up, champ?” Mr. Potter asks, his tone casual but immediately attentive when he sees Regulus’ expression.

Regulus exhales sharply. “Some—some little kid wiped his sticky fingers all over me,” he says, the words rushed and slightly incoherent. The sensation of the unknown substance clinging to his skin makes him feel unbearably uncomfortable, like his own body isn’t quite his anymore.

Mr. Potter doesn’t laugh or tell him to brush it off. He just nods and says, “Alright, nothing a little soap and water can’t fix. Let’s go clean up.”

Regulus follows him to the nearest bathroom, his breathing uneven as they step inside. Mr. Potter helps him wash the stickiness off, making sure he gets every spot, and Regulus finally relaxes when his skin feels normal again. He exhales, tension draining from his shoulders, and as they leave the bathroom, he wordlessly reaches for Mr. Potter’s hand. Mr. Potter doesn’t comment on it—he just squeezes gently and continues walking with him back into the exhibit.

They read in comfortable silence, side by side, until they stop in front of a massive dinosaur fossil. Regulus tilts his head back, staring in wonder at the sheer size of it.

“How could something like that live so many years ago?” he wonders aloud. “Don’t you find that a bit strange?”

Mr. Potter hums thoughtfully. “It is strange. And kind of amazing, too, don’t you think?”

Regulus considers this. Mr. Potter didn’t dismiss his thoughts or brush off his curiosity. He actually engaged with him, provided his own opinion rather than shutting him down. His own father never did that. Whenever Regulus had tried to share something he found interesting, his father had always looked at him with mild disdain, uninterested in entertaining his thoughts.

But Mr. Potter listens.

Mr. Potter treats him differently.

And Regulus thinks that maybe he could get used to that. Like, really get used to it. 

***

Breakfast at the Potter household is usually a lively affair. James chatters between bites of toast, Mr. Potter occasionally comments on the morning paper, and Euphemia gently reminds them not to speak with their mouths full. Regulus is still adjusting to it—the warmth, the noise, the ease with which they exist together. It’s different from what he’s used to.

Today, though, his grip on his fork tightens when Euphemia says, “It’s going to be quite hot today. I was thinking we could go to the public pool.”

James immediately brightens. “Yes! Can we? Please?”

“Of course,” Euphemia says, smiling. “It’ll be a nice way to cool off.”

Regulus barely hears the rest of the conversation. His heart stutters. His breathing comes quicker, shallower. He grips his fork a little too hard, his knuckles paling. He doesn’t know how to swim. He’s never even been to a public pool. His parents always dismissed swimming as something crude, unnecessary. Not befitting a proper upbringing.

What if he sinks? What if the water is too deep? What if people notice he doesn’t know how to swim and laugh at him? He pictures himself floundering, gasping, drowning—

“Reg?”

He blinks. James is looking at him, head tilted. “You okay?”

Regulus forces a nod and returns his focus to his plate, though the food in front of him has lost its appeal.

As he gathers his things upstairs, his hands tremble slightly. He hesitates before packing his towel. What’s the point? He won’t be in the water long enough to need it. His mind cycles through every worst-case scenario. Slipping on wet tiles. Sinking under the water. Embarrassing himself in front of foster-family.

A knock at the door startles him. He turns to see Mr. Potter standing in the doorway, concern etched into his face.

“I noticed you seemed a little hesitant at breakfast this morning,” Mr. Potter says. “Wanna tell me what’s up?”

Regulus shrugs, avoiding eye contact.

Mr. Potter steps further into the room and settles into the chair at Regulus’ desk. His posture is relaxed, open. “Come on, bud. You can talk to me.”

Regulus hesitates. Shouldn’t swimming be something everyone knows how to do? What if Mr. Potter thinks less of him? What if he laughs? His father would have laughed. Or sneered. Or ignored him entirely.

He looks up at Mr. Potter, studying his expression. There’s no judgment there. Just patience.

“I—” Regulus swallows, then whispers, “I don’t know how to swim.”

Mr. Potter’s eyebrows lift slightly in surprise. “What? You don’t—” He stops himself, taking a breath, then nods. “You’ve never been before?”

Regulus shakes his head.

“Alright.” Mr. Potter’s voice is even, steady. “Are you afraid to go swimming?”

Regulus nods immediately.

“I’m afraid I’ll drown,” he whispers.

Mr. Potter hums in understanding. “A lot of people fear drowning, kiddo. It’s a natural fear.” He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “Would you like me to teach you?”

Regulus hesitates. He does, kind of. But the idea of getting into the water is terrifying. At the same time, the idea of just sitting there while James and everyone else has fun is… unbearable.

Mr. Potter must see the indecision on his face because he adds gently, “You don’t have to learn if you don’t want to. You can always sit with Effie and read your book. Whatever feels most comfortable.”

Regulus blinks. That’s not what he expected. His father never offered choices. He never gave options. He simply demanded. Mr. Potter is sitting here, giving him solutions, helping him navigate his fear instead of dismissing it.

For a moment, Regulus just stares at him. Then, finally, he gives a small nod. “Okay.”

Mr. Potter smiles. “Okay. We’ll take it slow, yeah? Just a little at a time.”

Regulus nods again, a little more certain this time. He’s still nervous. Still dreading stepping into the water. But somehow, with Mr. Potter’s reassurance, it doesn’t seem quite as impossible.

The second Regulus steps past the entrance of the pool, all the courage he’d built up on the way here vanishes. As though it’s been stripped from him and left outside the gates. His heart pounds, his breath quickens, and his grip on Mr. Potter’s hand tightens, desperate and unyielding. He doesn’t care if it looks childish—he just needs something to ground him, and Mr. Potter had promised to stay by his side.

The pool area is overwhelming. There are too many people, too much movement, too much noise—the sharp splashes of water, the shouts and laughter, the shrill whistles of the lifeguards. His stomach twists. He wants to turn around, walk back out, pretend this isn’t happening. But then Mr. Potter gently tugs him forward, leading him toward a shaded area near the pool’s edge where Euphemia begins setting up their things. James, buzzing with excitement, barely drops his towel before sprinting toward the water, diving in without hesitation.

Regulus stays rooted in place, his fingers still locked around Mr. Potter’s. But Mr. Potter doesn’t pull away or even shift uncomfortably. He just lets him hold on, as if he understands that Regulus needs this, that letting go isn’t an option just yet.

While Mr. Potter busies himself setting their things up, Euphemia turns to Regulus with a soft smile. “Would you like to put your sunscreen on yourself, or would you like me to do it?”

Regulus opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. He swallows hard and simply points to Euphemia. She hums in understanding and kneels in front of him, her hands gentle as she applies the sunscreen to his face. She rubs it in carefully, her touch delicate, almost soothing. When she finishes, she asks, “Can I do the backs of your hands, your legs, and your feet too?”

Regulus nods, and she does so just as carefully, making sure to be gentle. “Alright,” she says once she’s done, “lastly, your neck.” He turns around, and she applies the sunscreen with the same softness as before. When she pulls away, Regulus is still gripping onto Mr. Potter’s hand.

Mr. Potter glances down at him. “You ready, bud?”

No. He isn’t. He’s never been less ready for anything in his life. But instead of admitting that, he just nods, because backing out now feels impossible.

Mr. Potter leads him to the ladder of the pool, stepping into the water first. Regulus watches, his chest tightening, his throat dry. Mr. Potter turns back, standing in the water with his arms outstretched toward him.

“I’ll be right here, kiddo,” he reassures. “You can do it.”

Regulus stares down at the water, his whole body tense. His breath starts coming in short, shallow bursts. He grips the metal railing like a lifeline as he places one foot on the first step of the ladder, then the next. The second his toes touch the cool water, he flinches, instinct screaming at him to retreat.

Mr. Potter’s hands are on his back now, steady and firm. “It’s okay, buddy,” he murmurs. “You’re doing such a good job, bud.”

Regulus turns so he’s facing Mr. Potter, and his whole body is trembling. The panic is creeping up his spine, clawing at his throat. He’s shaking, breathing too quickly, the edges of his vision blurring. And then—without thinking—he moves, dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around Mr. Potter’s neck, burying his face there, clutching onto him like a lifeline. His legs wrap tightly around Mr. Potter’s waist, his breathing ragged and uneven.

Mr. Potter doesn’t hesitate. He just holds him, strong and unwavering, one hand rubbing slow, calming circles on his back. “You did it,” he says softly. “You’re doing such a good job, kiddo.”

Regulus barely registers it at first, too caught up in his own panic. But then he feels movement—gentle, unhurried. He can feel the water rising around him as Mr. Potter lowers them both further in. It shocks his system at first, making him suck in a sharp breath, but Mr. Potter just tightens his hold, his voice low and soothing.

“Breathe with me,” he says. “Deep breaths, in and out.”

Regulus tries. It’s shaky at first, but he follows Mr. Potter’s lead, matching his slow inhales and exhales. Bit by bit, his breathing steadies, though he still clings onto Mr. Potter like a lifeline.

Mr. Potter chuckles, airy and light. “How’re you doing, bud?”

Regulus nods against his shoulder but makes no move to let go. Mr. Potter huffs out a small laugh. “Alright.”

They stay like that for a while, just floating, just breathing. Regulus listens to the sounds around him—the laughter of children, the splashing of water, the occasional sharp whistle of a lifeguard. But it doesn’t feel as overwhelming anymore. Not when he’s being held like this, safe and secure.

After a while, he shifts slightly, pulling his face from where it’s buried in Mr. Potter’s neck. He rests his head under Mr. Potter’s chin instead, blinking slowly as he adjusts to his surroundings. Mr. Potter is still holding him just as tightly, but Regulus has, without realizing it, loosened his grip slightly.

Mr. Potter tilts his head slightly. “Do you want to stay like this, or do you want to try swimming?”

Regulus barely hesitates before whispering, “Stay like this.”

“Alright,” Mr. Potter says easily. “That’s alright. We can do that. You’re doing such a good job.”

They float in silence, and Regulus lets himself relax against Mr. Potter’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Then he feels a hand on his back—smaller, softer. Euphemia. He barely has time to register it before she presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.

He opens his eyes, meeting her warm, affectionate smile. Something eases in his chest. He’s still not comfortable in the water, still wary of it, but… it’s not as bad as it was before. The anxiety is still there, but it’s fading, softening around the edges.

And he realizes—it’s because of Mr. Potter. Because of the way he holds onto Regulus even when Regulus has started letting go. Because he’s making sure Regulus knows he’s safe, that he won’t let him go until he’s ready.

And maybe—just maybe—Regulus is starting to trust him a little more because of it.

***

Regulus sits across from Laura in the familiar, quiet therapy room, the checkerboard between them. He absentmindedly moves a black piece forward, his fingers hesitating over the smooth surface before letting it go. His mind is elsewhere. He has a question that has been pressing at the edges of his thoughts for two weeks now, but saying it out loud feels impossible.

Finally, as Laura moves her red checker piece, Regulus forces himself to speak. “What’s fatherly love and affection meant to feel like?” His voice is soft, almost unsure, like he is worried the very question is wrong.

Laura pauses slightly, studying him with that careful expression she always wears when he asks something important. “Well,” she says gently, “fatherly love is meant to feel safe. It’s when someone supports you, not just in what you do, but in who you are. It’s feeling protected and knowing someone is looking out for you, even when you don’t ask for it. It’s kindness, patience, and care.”

Regulus swallows, thinking about the last two weeks. How Fleamont Potter had never hesitated to help him, never pushed him too far, never made him feel small for his fears.

Laura tilts her head slightly. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugs, staring at the checkerboard. “I just needed to know, I guess.”

Laura moves another piece before speaking again, her voice soft but knowing. “The same reason you asked about what motherly love and affection was meant to feel like?”

Regulus nods, moving another piece, feeling strangely exposed.

“So, tell me about Mr. Potter then.”

Regulus hesitates for a moment before speaking. “Well… he’s been very helpful.”

Laura hums, moving a piece.

Regulus continues, finding it easier to speak the more he thinks about it. “Mr. Potter has been very kind too.” He moves another checker, feeling warmth spread in his chest. “We went swimming the other day, and I’ve never swam before. I was scared, but he let me hold onto him. He never let go of me, even though I let go of him.” He glances up at Laura. “He also made sure I was okay after the movie theater incident. He comforted me when I cried. And he never pushes me to talk about things I don’t want to.”

Laura nods, her expression thoughtful. “He sounds like a very lovely person.”

Regulus thinks about that statement long after therapy ends.

Later, at dinner, the house smells of roasted chicken and herbs, warm and comforting. Fleamont and Euphemia move around the kitchen, cooking together with the ease of people who have spent years in sync. James sits at the table, drumming his fingers against the wood, waiting impatiently for the food to be ready. Regulus lingers near the entrance of the kitchen, shifting on his feet.

He wants apple juice. He should ask Euphemia—it would be easier, safer—but something inside him whispers that he should try asking Fleamont instead. That he should push himself, just a little. He clenches his fists at his sides, his heartbeat picking up as the little voice in his head tells him this is a mistake. But then he remembers Laura’s words, remembers Fleamont’s steady grip in the pool, and he forces himself forward.

“M-Monty,” Regulus says, barely above a whisper. The name feels strange in his mouth, like it doesn’t belong to him yet. It’s too quiet, though, lost in the sounds of cooking.

Regulus hesitates, then takes a step closer and tugs on Fleamont’s shirt.

Fleamont turns, his face immediately softening. “Ah, Regulus, everything alright?”

Regulus swallows down the anxiety clawing at his throat. He takes a deep breath, grounding himself. “I was just wondering…” He stops, exhales, then forces himself to keep going. “I was just wondering if I could have a glass of apple juice.”

Fleamont smiles. “Of course you can, bud.”

Regulus watches as Fleamont moves to the fridge, pulling out the juice with practiced ease. There is no hesitation, no reluctance. He pours the glass and hands it to Regulus like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“There you go, kiddo.”

Regulus takes the glass, the cool condensation against his fingers grounding him. He looks up at Fleamont, heart fluttering with something unfamiliar, something warm.

“Thanks, Monty,” he says, and it slips out effortlessly, like it was always meant to be there.

Fleamont’s smile widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He reaches out, ruffling Regulus’ hair lightly before turning back to help Euphemia.

Regulus clutches the glass in his hands, standing there for a moment longer.

Maybe this is what fatherly love is supposed to feel like.

***

Regulus sits at the kitchen table, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the wooden surface. He doesn’t know why Euphemia and Fleamont wanted to talk to him, but something about their expressions makes his stomach twist with unease. Euphemia reaches out, placing a warm hand over his own.

“We wanted to talk to you about something, sweetheart,” she says gently.

Regulus stiffens. “What about?” he asks, his voice wary. His mind is already racing through possibilities. Did he do something wrong? Is he in trouble? Are they sending him somewhere else?

Fleamont clears his throat. “Well… it’s about your birthday next week.”

Regulus blinks, his fingers stilling against the table. “What about it?” he asks slowly.

Euphemia offers him a soft smile. “We wanted to know what you’d like to do.”

Regulus furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, would you like to have a party? Would you like to go out?” she clarifies, watching him carefully.

Regulus stares at her. The question doesn’t make sense. Yes, his birthday has always been a big deal within his family, always getting spoiled for being the youngest. But, he isn’t with his family. He’s in foster care. And the rule is, you don’t celebrate foster kid’s birthdays. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Why?” he asks.

Fleamont tilts his head. “What do you mean, kiddo?”

Regulus looks down at his hands. He doesn’t want to say it, but the words come out anyway. “Well… I mean… I’m just a foster kid, not your real kid. So why would I get to celebrate my birthday?”

The room goes silent. When he finally glances up, both Euphemia and Fleamont look horrified. He shrinks back slightly, unsure of what he said wrong.

Fleamont is the first to recover. “Who gave you that impression?” he asks, his voice unusually serious.

Regulus shrugs. “All the other homes I’ve been in did that. They only really celebrated their real kids. Or the adopted ones.”

Euphemia’s eyes soften in a way that makes his chest ache. “Well, sweetie, we don’t do that here.”

“Oh,” Regulus murmurs.

“Yeah,” she says, squeezing his hand lightly. “We’re asking you because it’s your birthday. We want to do something special for you. To celebrate you.”

Regulus blinks. “Celebrate… me?” he echoes, confused. “But… why?”

Fleamont shakes his head with a small chuckle. “Why?”

Regulus nods. “Yeah. Why would you want to celebrate me?”

Fleamont leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Because it’s your birthday, buddy. You deserve to have a birthday.”

Regulus hesitates. “Why?”

Euphemia exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I think we’re getting off-topic.” She gives him a playful look. “The point is, sweetheart, we want you to have the birthday you want, however you want it.” She raises an eyebrow. “And before you say anything, it better not be another ‘why’ or I might just have to tickle you.”

Regulus giggles, ducking his head. “Okay.”

Euphemia grins. “Okay?”

He nods. “Okay.”

Fleamont claps his hands together. “Awesome. So, what would you like to do?”

Regulus bites his lip, thinking. He’s never been given a choice before. His birthdays, when acknowledged, had always been dictated by others. But now…

“I can do anything?” he asks hesitantly.

Euphemia nods. “Yes, love, anything.”

Regulus swallows before saying, “My family always took me to this lake every year. Could we go there?”

Fleamont smiles. “Absolutely we can. Is there anyone you’d want to invite?”

Regulus hesitates again, then murmurs, “I want my cousins there… if that’s okay.” He glances at them sheepishly.

Euphemia nods without hesitation. “Of course that’s okay. Anyone else?”

Regulus shifts slightly. “Well, I asked Sarah if she could see me.”

Euphemia hums in thought.

“But,” Regulus continues, “could I also have my friends there?”

“You’re more than allowed to,” Euphemia assures him.

Regulus smiles. “Cool.”

Euphemia smiles back before tilting her head. “Another question.”

Regulus nods.

“What would you like for your birthday? As in, gifts.”

Regulus feels his face heat up. He shrugs, whispering, “I don’t know.”

Fleamont rubs his chin thoughtfully. “That’s okay if you don’t know.”

Regulus nods, but his shoulders remain tense. The idea of receiving gifts feels… strange. He’s never particularly liked opening gifts in front of others. Not only had it made him extremely anxious, but he’s also been afraid he doesn’t respond appropriately to a gift that makes him look like a spoiled brat… so, yeah. Strange. 

Euphemia seems to notice. “What about this—if you’d like, we could take you out shopping so you can pick out exactly what you want. Maybe it’ll ease some of the anxiety you might experience when opening them?”

Regulus thinks about it. That… actually sounds nice. He nods, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

Fleamont grins. “Perfect! Now that we’ve got that sorted, I just have one more question for you.”

Regulus frowns slightly. “What is it?”

Fleamont leans forward, his expression serious. “It’s a big one. It’s the most important decision of your entire life.”

Regulus tenses. “What is it?” he asks again, a little nervous now.

Fleamont pauses for dramatic effect before saying, “What flavor cake would you like?”

Euphemia groans and swats at his arm. “Fleamont! That build-up was completely unnecessary.” She rolls her eyes, “honestly.”

Regulus giggles. “I would like a chocolate cake. But um… not just any chocolate cake.” He hesitates, then glances up at them. “I would like the same chocolate cake my cousin Cissa had on her birthday. If… if you can get that.”

Fleamont grins. “Of course we can, kiddo. That’s not a problem.”

Regulus smiles, a warm feeling settling in his chest. Because this year, he might actually be able to enjoy himself on his birthday.