To Find a Home

Birthdays, within the Black family, have always been important—Regulus’ especially.

He is the youngest. The last child born into the family. The final heir. He has always known that this has shaped the way he is treated, how every birthday of his has been met with careful planning, extravagant gifts, and a suffocating weight of expectation. He is meant to be grateful, to be poised, to accept each offering with grace. But the truth is, he has always hated it.

The attention.

Every year, on his birthday, it is unbearable. The way all eyes are on him, waiting, expecting. He is supposed to smile at the gifts, supposed to react just the right way. But what if he doesn’t like them? What if his face gives something away? That fear has always lingered in the back of his mind, tightening his chest as he peels away layers of carefully wrapped paper.

It never feels natural.

Nothing about birthdays ever does.

Except this year. This year is different.

This year, Regulus knows exactly what he’s getting.

It was Euphemia’s idea—she had suggested that, instead of surprises, he should be the one to choose his gifts. He hadn’t known what to think of it at first. Gifts had always been something given to him, something he was expected to receive with polite gratitude, no matter how impersonal or extravagant they were. The idea of picking something for himself felt… unfamiliar.

And at first, he hadn’t known what he wanted.

It wasn’t as though he had ever been asked before. He wasn’t used to considering it, to having a choice. The thought sat uneasily in his mind, an open-ended question with no clear answer.

That was, until one evening, when Fleamont stepped into his room.

Regulus hadn’t thought much about the room he resides in. It wasn’t as though he disliked it—he just wasn’t used to having a space of his own, one that he could change, one that reflected anything about him. His room had always been just that: a room. A place to sleep. A place to exist.

But one evening, as he sat on his bed, flipping absently through a book, Fleamont leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You know,” Fleamont said, tone light, “this room is looking a bit bare.”

Regulus glanced up, brows furrowing slightly. Before he could respond, Euphemia appeared beside her husband, peeking into the room. “Oh, he’s right,” she said, giving the space a thoughtful look. “It could use a bit of warmth.”

Regulus followed their gazes, taking in the plain white walls, the nearly empty shelves, the gray bedding. He hadn’t really considered it before. This was just how rooms looked to him—functional, unchanging.

“Maybe we could do something about that,” Fleamont suggested. “Pick out some decorations, make it feel a little more like yours.”

Regulus hesitated. “Like what?”

“Well, that’s up to you,” Fleamont said easily. “We could go out this weekend, see if anything catches your eye.”

Regulus hesitated again. He wasn’t sure how to respond. Decorating a room had never been something he had considered before. At Grimmauld Place, nothing had been chosen for him. The furniture, the décor—everything had been predetermined, arranged according to tradition rather than personal taste. The idea of choosing things for himself, of shaping a space into something that belonged to him, felt... strange.

He glanced at Euphemia, who smiled at him. “No pressure, darling. If you don’t want to, that’s completely fine.”

Regulus swallowed, looking around his room once more. It did feel empty. Impersonal. Maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to change that.

He nodded, slowly at first, then with more certainty. “Alright.”

The following weekend, they went out.

Euphemia and Fleamont took him to several different shops, never rushing him, never pushing him to pick something he wasn’t sure about. At first, Regulus didn’t know what to look for, but as they moved through the aisles, he found himself pausing at certain things. An emerald green weighted blanket, a set of dark green curtains, a gold-framed print of constellations. Euphemia noticed and hummed in approval, carefully placing each item in the shopping basket without a word.

Then, in another store, something caught Regulus’ attention.

A pack of glow-in-the-dark stars.

He stopped in front of the display, staring at the tiny plastic shapes through the packaging. He’d never had something like this before. His room had always been dark at night, the only light coming from the hallway when his door was accidently left cracked open. These stars—small, simple—felt like something entirely different.

Euphemia followed his gaze. “You like those?”

Regulus hesitated. He wasn’t sure why he did—there was something almost childish about them. But after a moment, he gave a small nod.

Euphemia smiled, plucking a few packs off the shelf. “Then we’ll get them.”

As they made their way to the counter, Fleamont glanced over at Regulus, his expression considering. “You know,” he said, “if you’d like, we could paint your room. Maybe even add wallpaper, like James has.”

Regulus blinked, thrown off by the suggestion.

Wallpaper? His childhood bedroom had always been covered in dark, intricate patterns—velvet flocked designs that felt suffocating rather than decorative. James’ room, on the other hand, had maroon walls and soccer balls scattered across a white wallpaper. The idea of changing his own walls to something else, something he actually liked, was… overwhelming.

He hesitated, unsure.

Euphemia, however, clapped her hands together excitedly. “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea, Monty! What do you think, sweetheart?”

Regulus looked between them, still hesitant. But the way they were both watching him, waiting—not pressuring, just waiting—made something in his chest loosen.

“…Alright,” he said, almost reluctantly.

Euphemia grinned. “Oh, perfect! I saw a beautiful silver-and-navy celestial wallpaper the other day—moon phases and stars, very elegant.”

Regulus considered it. That… didn’t sound so bad.

Fleamont chuckled. “We can look at a few options. But first, we paint. What color would you like?”

Regulus thought for a moment. The answer came easier than he expected.

“Navy blue,” he said softly.

Euphemia beamed. “Excellent choice.”

And for the first time, as they made their way home, Regulus felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name. Something warm. Something that felt almost like belonging.

Regulus stares at the newly painted walls. Navy blue. Just like he picked. The color is deep and rich, casting a comforting sort of warmth over the room. He trails his fingers along the surface, feeling the faint ridges of dried paint beneath his fingertips.

He remembers how much fun he had painting them. How, for the first time, he had held a brush dipped in thick blue paint and dragged it across the bare walls of what was now his bedroom. The scent of fresh paint had filled the air, and by the time they were finished, flecks of blue dotted his arms, his pants, even his hair.

Fleamont had been the first to make a mess, accidentally smudging a streak of paint across his cheek when he scratched at an itch. James, of course, had laughed at him—only for Euphemia to swipe a playful streak of paint onto his nose with her brush. That had started an all-out paint war.

Regulus had laughed, truly laughed, as James chased after Euphemia with a paint roller, and Fleamont tried to protest the chaos with a barely concealed grin.

By the time they had finally gotten back to actual painting, they were all splattered in navy blue, their laughter still ringing through the room.

Two walls, and the roof were painted, the other two wallpaper. Just like they planned. The wallpaper was dark, subtly patterned with constellations—Regulus’ choice, though he had hesitated at first.

“You have good taste,” Euphemia had told him with a smile when he finally picked it. And hearing that, having someone say it so simply, had made something settle in his chest.

Now, as he stands in his finished room, he remembers how Euphemia had sighed dramatically, hands on her hips, surveying their work.

“Well,” she had said, “that’s the last of my projects. What will I do with myself now?”

James had snorted. “You say that like you don’t start a new one every week.”

Euphemia had turned to him, feigning offense. “Excuse you, young man, I take my time with my projects.”

James had given her a look. “Mum, you sewed three quilts last month.”

Regulus had watched the exchange with quiet amusement, only for Euphemia to suddenly gasp, eyes lighting up with excitement. She turned to him, clapping her hands together.

“Regulus, you have to help me pick out fabrics for my next one.”

Regulus had blinked at her in surprise. “Me?”

“Yes, you! I need someone with a good eye, and I think you’ll be perfect for the job.”

He had hesitated—uncertain, unused to being asked what he thought—but the way she beamed at him, so genuinely excited, made it impossible to say no.

And now, as he stands in his navy-blue room, he remembers that moment clearly. The warmth of it, the way his chest had felt light and full all at once.

He remembers how he and Euphemia went to the fabric store. He remembers the excitement drawn all over her face. 

Regulus walked beside Euphemia through the fabric store, his fingers brushing against the different materials as they passed. Rolls of fabric stood in neat rows, each one displaying a new color, a new texture, a new possibility. The store smelled faintly of dye and cotton, the air thick with quiet murmurs of other shoppers.

“Go on, darling,” Euphemia encouraged softly. “Pick out what you like.”

Regulus hesitated, his fingers tightening around the sleeve of his jumper. Pick out what I like. The words felt strange. He wasn’t used to being given a choice.

Slowly, he reached out and traced his fingertips over a deep navy-blue fabric. It was soft, smooth, cool beneath his touch. He liked the way it felt. Next, his eyes landed on a rich emerald green, followed by a darker shade of green—almost black in certain lighting. They were simple, solid colors, safe choices.

Euphemia smiled at him as he placed the rolls in their basket. “Good choices, love. Anything else?”

Regulus nodded, his confidence growing just a little as they continued walking. Then, something caught his eye.

A fabric patterned with stars.

He stepped closer, staring at the design. The stars varied in size, some bright white, others a faint golden hue, scattered across a dark navy background. It was beautiful. His fingers hovered over it for a moment before he reached out and touched it.

Then, just beside it, another fabric drew his attention—a black and white pattern of books stacked haphazardly, some open, some closed. The design was intricate, the fine lines of the pages and spines carefully detailed.

Regulus ran his fingers over the fabric, a strange feeling settling in his chest. He liked these. He really liked these.

He turned to Euphemia, half-expecting her to tell him to put them back. But instead, she was watching him with a soft, encouraging expression.

“Do you want them?” she asked gently.

Regulus nodded, unable to stop himself. “Yes,” quickly muttering, “please.”

Euphemia didn’t hesitate. She added them to the basket like it was the easiest thing in the world. And for the first time, Regulus felt like what he wanted—what he liked—actually mattered.

Regulus sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the walls of his room, remembering what it symbolises, his present. It's not overwhelming. Not like before.

He remembers the way it used to be—how, in the Black family, birthdays were grand, extravagant. How the stack of presents would tower beside him, wrapped in pristine paper, tied with silk ribbons. Gold and emerald, deep crimson, royal blue—never a crease, never a flaw. He was expected to open them carefully, to show gratitude, too react the right way.

It had always been uncomfortable. Too much attention, too many eyes watching, waiting for his response. But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was Sirius.

Regulus remembers looking up from a newly unwrapped gift—something expensive, something he didn’t even care for—and catching sight of his brother across the room. Sirius, slouched in his chair, trying to seem disinterested. Trying to act like he didn’t care. But there was always something in his expression, something quiet. A sadness that Regulus hadn’t understood.

At the time, he had assumed it was selfishness. Their mother had always warned him about spoiled children.

Regulus sat on the thick, plush rug in the drawing room, his small hands resting on his lap as he watched his mother carefully pour herself a cup of tea. The warm scent of bergamot filled the air, mixing with the faint traces of the expensive perfume she always wore.

He hesitated for a moment, then tilted his head up to look at her. “Mother?”

His mother glanced at him over the rim of her teacup. “Yes, my dear?”

Regulus twisted his fingers together. “Is Sirius spoiled?”

His mother’s lips curled into a smile, slow and knowing. She set her teacup down with a quiet clink before smoothing her hands over her elegant robes. “Of course he is, my dearest Regulus.”

Regulus blinked. “Oh.”

She reached forward, brushing a hand gently through his dark curls. Her touch was soft, warm. “Sirius has always been difficult, hasn't he? Always getting himself into trouble, always so reckless. And yet, he is still given so much.” Her voice was sweet, affectionate, the way it always was when she spoke to him.

Regulus nodded slowly. That made sense. Sirius got everything. He was older. He was louder. He took up so much space. It only made sense that he would be spoiled.

His mother never lied.

He believed her.

But now, looking back, Regulus isn’t so sure.

The older he got, the harder it became to believe that Sirius was just being selfish. At first, he ignored it, clinging to their mother’s words, reassuring himself that Sirius was just sulking, just wanting more than he was given.

But doubts crept in—little things he couldn’t explain away. The way Sirius never complained, never reached for the gifts himself, never even looked like he expected anything at all. The way their parents never scolded him for his supposed ingratitude, never told him he’d get something if he behaved better next year.

And slowly, the resentment began to unravel.

Until his eighth birthday.

On one of his presents, Uncle Alphard had written a note.

‘Give this to Sirius.’

Regulus hadn’t thought much about it. He had simply unwrapped the gift, assuming it was something for him. But when he tore the paper away, he frowned. It was something he didn’t even like.

That night, as the house grew quiet, Regulus made his way into Sirius’ bed. Sirius started off the usual way, throwing an arm around him like he always did, but Regulus didn’t snuggle in right away. He was thinking.

After a long pause, he finally spoke. “Sirius?”

“Mmm?”

“That present from Uncle Alphard… it wasn’t for me.”

Sirius stiffened slightly beside him. “Oh?”

“It had a note. It said to give it to you.” Regulus hesitated, then added, “why do you think he did that?”

Sirius was silent for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he said, “You notice how everyone else gets a birthday and I don’t?”

Regulus nodded against the pillow. “Yeah, I do. But you have one too. I know you do.”

Sirius let out a breath. It sounded tired, resigned. “Okay, then,” he said, voice quiet. “When’s my birthday?”

Regulus opened his mouth to answer—only to stop short. He didn’t know. His mind scrambled for an answer, trying to recall a date, a celebration, anything.

But he came up blank.

“Oh,” Regulus mumbled quietly.

“Yeah.” Sirius’ voice was just as quiet.

They lay there in silence for a moment, until a thought occurred to Regulus. He turned slightly to look at his brother. “You don’t get Christmas presents either, do you?”

Sirius shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

Regulus swallowed. “Oh.”

Another silence stretched between them. Then, Sirius spoke again, his voice strained, like he was trying too hard to sound indifferent. “I don’t even want them anyway.”

Regulus, for the most part, bought it. But not completely.

They lay there in silence, the dim light from the hallway casting long shadows on the walls. Regulus stared at the patterns the darkness made, thinking.

Then, he said, “I saw the way your face lit up when I opened that gift from Uncle Alphard.”

Sirius shifted beside him. “What are you talking about?”

Regulus frowned. “That gift. The one that was of those superhero comics.”

“Oh?” Sirius tried to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah.” Regulus turned onto his side, facing his brother. “I see the way you’re always sad on Bella’s, and Cissa’s, and Andy’s birthdays. Even mine.”

Sirius made a sound of protest, but Regulus didn’t let him interrupt. “You’re sad on Christmas too. It’s brief, barely noticeable, but I see it.”

Sirius exhaled sharply. “I’m—”

Regulus cut him off. “I thought you were spoiled. I even asked Mother if you were, because of the way you’d always get sad.”

“Reg—”

“But you’re not, are you?” Regulus’ voice was quiet. “How can you be when you get nothing?”

Sirius didn’t answer. He just stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.

Regulus swallowed again, something uncomfortable twisting in his stomach. “How do you do it?” he asked. “How can you hide the hurt?”

Sirius was quiet for a long time. Then, after a moment, he turned his head to look at Regulus, his expression unreadable.

“I think about you,” he finally said. “And how happy you get every year on your birthday and Christmas. I think about that, when I see everyone else getting gifts and I’m not.”

His voice was soft, almost hesitant. He paused, then whispered, “your smile, your happiness, makes all the pain and hurt worth it, bearable. And I’ll always be happy with that.”

Regulus didn’t know what to say to that.

So instead, he hesitated before finally murmuring, “you should have the superhero comics.”

Sirius blinked. “What?”

Regulus hesitated again, then said, “Uncle Alphard said to give it to you, anyways.”

Sirius’ whole body tensed. “Reg, you can’t—”

“You should have it.”

Sirius sat up slightly. “Our parents will find out.”

Regulus shrugged. “Then we just keep it in my room.”

Sirius stared at him for a long moment, like he wanted to argue. Then, slowly, he exhaled and let his head fall back against the pillow.

Regulus took that as agreement.

Satisfied, he scooted a little closer, pressed his forehead against Sirius’ shoulder, and let himself fall asleep to the quiet sound of his brother’s breathing.

Regulus wishes he had realized sooner.

If he could go back in time, he would change the way he thought, the way he had believed their mother’s words so easily. He would have asked questions, paid closer attention—seen Sirius for who he truly was instead of what he had been told.

But it’s too late for that now.

Now, Sirius is gone.

Regulus stares at the black stuffed dog resting on his pillow. He had picked it out himself, though he isn’t sure why. Maybe because it reminded him of Sirius. Maybe because having something, even something small, felt better than nothing at all.

He has never celebrated Sirius’ birthday. Not once. The realization settles uneasily in his chest.

And then, another thought follows, sharper, colder.

He doesn’t even know when it is.

Guilt creeps in, curling around his ribs, pressing against his lungs. How could he not know? He remembers his cousins’ birthdays without thinking—he has watched them celebrate, has given them gifts, has marked the days in his mind. But Sirius?

Nothing.

Why didn’t Sirius have a birthday? Why did no one ever acknowledge it? Why had Regulus never questioned it before?

He exhales shakily, forcing himself to push the thoughts away before they can dig too deep. He’ll ask Bella and Cissa tomorrow. They would know.

The thought of seeing them lightens his mood, if only a little.

Regulus sat curled up on the sofa, his legs tucked beneath him as he watched Euphemia type on her phone. He tried not to stare too obviously, but he couldn’t help it. His fingers twisted together in his lap, his stomach twisting with something that felt suspiciously like hope.

"Alright," Euphemia said, glancing at him with a smile. "I’ve sent the message. Now we wait."

Regulus nodded, pretending to focus on the book resting open in his lap. He wasn’t reading. His eyes kept flicking to the phone in Euphemia’s hands, his heartbeat picking up every time the screen lit up.

It didn’t take long. A few minutes later, the phone buzzed. Euphemia clicked into the message, then turned the screen slightly so Regulus could see.

Bella:Of course! I wouldn’t miss it! When is it? What does he want for presents?

Regulus felt something warm bloom in his chest. His grip on the book loosened. He hadn’t expected such an enthusiastic response—not from Bella. He wasn’t even sure she’d come. But there it was, clear as day.

“She’s coming?” he asked quietly.

Euphemia smiled. “She’s coming.”

Regulus pressed his lips together, trying to suppress the grin threatening to form. His eyes flickered back to the phone.

Another buzz. Another message.

Cissa:That sounds lovely. I’d love to come. Just let me know the time, and I’ll be there.

Regulus swallowed, blinking at the words. First Bella, now Cissa. They were both coming. They were really coming.

Euphemia glanced over at him again, her expression soft. “That’s both of them,” she said gently. “They’ll be there.”

Regulus nodded slowly. His hands smoothed over the pages of his book, but his mind wasn’t on the words. It was on them. His family. His cousins. Coming to see him.

He had expected disappointment. He had expected silence or an excuse, or maybe a half-hearted promise that never came to anything.

But instead, they had said yes.

He felt something he could only describe as excitement blossom within his chest. 

A knock on the door.

Regulus barely has time to sit up before it creaks open, revealing Euphemia. She steps inside, her warm smile soft in the dim glow of his bedside lamp. Without a word, she crosses to his bed and settles beside him, close but not crowding, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight.

“Excited for tomorrow?” she asks gently.

Regulus nods. And for once, it’s true.

This is the first time he’s truly excited for his birthday.

Because this year, he’s in control.

He chose the plans.
He chose the gifts.
He chose the food.
He chose the guest list.

Everything about tomorrow is his choice. And that makes it feel different. Lighter. Safer.

But the happiness comes with guilt.

Euphemia notices.

Her sharp but gentle gaze lingers on him, eyes searching. “Everything okay?” she asks, voice laced with quiet concern.

Regulus hesitates. Then, softly, “Yeah… but…”

She doesn’t push. Just tilts her head, waiting, patient. “You don’t have to say anything unless you want to.”

Regulus swallows, his eyes fixed on his hands, fingers absently picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. He exhales slowly, trying to put the feeling into words.

“This year feels different,” he admits.

Euphemia hums in understanding. “Is it because you’re here and not with your parents?”

Regulus tenses slightly at the mention of them but shakes his head. “No. I mean, maybe. But… not really.”

His fingers still, curling slightly against the fabric of his pajama shirt. “I always felt uncomfortable being the center of attention,” he murmurs. “Like I had to perform.” His voice dips, uncertain. “But this year feels… lighter. Easier.”

Euphemia hums again, thoughtful. She lifts a hand and begins running her fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic. The soothing motion reminds him of when he was younger, curling up in someone’s arms after a bad dream. It makes the words come easier.

“It also feels different because I don’t have—” He stops abruptly, throat tightening.

Euphemia doesn’t let it slide.

“You don’t have what, love?” she asks softly.

Regulus blinks rapidly, his vision blurring at the edges. His mind screams at him to say it. To tell her.

To say Sirius’ name.

But past experiences hold him back.

Regulus had only been in the house for a few weeks when he finally worked up the courage to ask.

It had taken time—long enough to learn the rules of the house, to figure out when it was best to speak and when it was best to stay quiet. His foster parents weren’t cruel, but they weren’t particularly kind either. They were practical, efficient, and expected him to be the same.

Still, the thought of Sirius weighed on him constantly, pressing against his ribs, making it hard to breathe. He missed him. And so, one evening, after dinner, when his foster father was sitting in his chair reading the newspaper, Regulus gathered his nerves and spoke.

“I have an older brother,” he said quietly.

His foster father barely looked up. “That so?”

Regulus nodded. “His name is Sirius. I… I haven’t seen him since I got taken away.” His fingers curled into the hem of his sweater. “Do you think—do you think you could help me see him?”

That got his foster father’s attention. He let out a short, dry laugh and set the newspaper down. “See your brother?” he repeated, like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

Regulus felt his stomach twist.

His foster father leaned back in his chair. “Listen, kid. We don’t need another mouth to feed in this house.” His tone was blunt, dismissive. “Plus, you don’t want a teenager bringing you down. He’ll just stop you from getting adopted.”

Regulus froze.

His foster father shrugged, as if he didn’t notice—or didn’t care. “Teenagers never get adopted. There’s no point in being with your brother. It’s actually better for you this way.”

Regulus’ throat felt tight.

He wanted to argue. He wanted to say that Sirius wasn’t just some teenager. That Sirius was his brother. That being with Sirius was the only thing that mattered.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he stared at his hands, small in his lap, and swallowed down the lump in his throat.

That night, when he curled into bed, he thought about Sirius—about the way he used to throw an arm over him at night, the way he used to ruffle his hair, the way he used to call him little prince like it was some sort of inside joke.

And then he thought about what his foster father had said.

Teenagers never get adopted.

There’s no point in being with your brother.

It’s better this way.

Regulus had never brought Sirius up again.

Regulus didn’t realize he started crying.

Warm fingers brush against his cheeks, wiping away the tears before he can even think to hide them.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Euphemia’s voice is soft, careful, like she’s afraid to push too hard.

Regulus tries to shake his head, to pretend he’s fine, but his throat is too tight to speak. He bites the inside of his cheek, willing himself to stop, to swallow it down like he always has. But the tears keep coming. His breath stutters, uneven, and then he’s gasping—shaking—and he can’t hold it in anymore.

Euphemia doesn’t hesitate. She pulls him into a hug, wrapping him in warmth, in safety. He clutches onto her without thinking, fingers twisting into the fabric of her blouse as he buries his face against her shoulder.

And finally, he lets it out.

“Mon frère me manque,” he chokes, voice muffled and strained. “Je veux qu'il revienne. Je veux le voir demain. Je veux juste Sirius.”

(“I miss my brother,” he chokes, voice muffled and strained. “I want him back. I want to see him tomorrow. I just want Sirius.”)

The moment the name leaves his lips, Euphemia stills.

It’s only for a second, but Regulus feels it—the sharp intake of breath, the way her arms tense around him. A chill prickles down his spine, and panic flares in his chest. He shouldn’t have said it. He shouldn’t have—

But then she moves again, rubbing soothing circles into his back, rocking him slightly, her voice slipping into the same gentle cadence she always uses when he inevitably breaks down. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her fingers threading through his hair. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Safe.

He squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. Little by little, his sobs fade, the weight on his chest easing just enough for him to breathe properly again.

When he finally pulls away, Euphemia studies him, brushing stray curls from his damp cheeks. Her expression is unreadable, something careful and measured lurking beneath her usual warmth.

“So,” she says gently, “this is about Sirius?”

Regulus freezes.

His first instinct is to deny it. To push it down, shove it away, like he’s done for so long. But something about the way she’s looking at him makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

He could lie.

Or he could tell her the truth.

Fleamont once told him that talking about the hurt helps. But does it really?

He searches Euphemia’s face, looking for something—anything—that might tell him what she’s thinking. Would she be upset? Would she tell him it’s better this way, the way his old foster father had?

Would she tell him Sirius isn’t worth it?

“Who is Sirius, sweetheart?” she asks, her voice so unbearably kind that his chest aches.

Regulus’ fingers dig into the blanket beneath him. He wants to tell her.

He wants to say the words.

But fear wins.

“Just a friend,” he lies, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

Euphemia doesn’t react right away. She watches him closely, her expression soft but searching. It feels like she’s giving him one last chance, one final moment to change his mind.

But Regulus doesn’t. He can’t.

After a beat, she nods.

“All right then.”

She leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, but something in her eyes shifts—something almost sad. Like she had been hoping for a different answer.

She stands.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

And then she leaves.

The door clicks shut behind her, and Regulus is left alone in the quiet.

Shame crawls up his spine, heavy and suffocating.

He should have told her. He should have told her the truth. Why hadn’t he? Why was it so difficult to just tell her about him? About his brother. About the brightest star in the sky. 

Maybe he still can.

But then, another thought slams into him, sharp and sudden.

James.

Regulus couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t the first time—it happened often enough that he wasn’t surprised by it anymore. Nights were the hardest. When everything was quiet, when there was nothing to distract him, his thoughts crept in, curling around his chest like vines.

Tonight was no different. He had tossed and turned for what felt like hours, but sleep wouldn’t come. His new bed still didn’t feel like his. The house was warm, safe, but the silence felt strange. The walls were too thin. He wasn’t used to hearing the soft hum of a distant television, the occasional creak of floorboards, the sound of family.

Eventually, he gave up. He slipped out of bed and padded across the hall to James’ room. He hesitated for only a moment before climbing onto the mattress.

James stirred slightly, but didn’t protest. He barely even woke, just made a sleepy, questioning noise before shifting to make room. Regulus tucked himself under the covers, feeling James’ warmth beside him, steady and solid. It wasn’t the same as Sirius, but it was familiar in a way that settled something deep inside him.

As he lay there, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. That’s when he saw it—a blanket, draped over the end of the bed. It was small, too small for a teenager, and maroon in color. The fabric looked soft, well-worn, and in one of the corners, stitched in gold thread, were the words James Fleamont.

Regulus frowned, reaching out to touch it. His fingers brushed against the embroidery, tracing the letters. “What’s this?” he asked, voice quiet in the dark.

James made a sleepy noise before turning his head toward Regulus. He blinked blearily. “Huh?”

Regulus tugged the blanket up slightly. “This. It’s too small for you.”

James blinked again, then seemed to register what Regulus was talking about. He let out a yawn and pushed the blanket toward him. “Oh. That’s my baby blanket.”

Regulus stilled. “Your baby blanket?”

James nodded. “Yeah. Mum and Dad had it made when I was born.” He stretched his arms over his head before letting them drop. “It’s got my name on it and everything.”

Regulus’ fingers tightened around the fabric. The stitching gleamed faintly in the dim light. James Fleamont. It wasn’t just any blanket. It was his.

Regulus couldn’t take his eyes off of it. He had never had something like this—something made for him, something that was his from the moment he existed.

It was beautiful.

James nudged him lightly. “You can have it, if you want,” he mumbled, already drifting back toward sleep. “I don’t use it much anymore.”

Regulus clutched the blanket closer, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “No,” he whispered. “It’s yours.”

James hummed softly, already half-asleep. “You can borrow it, then.”

Regulus didn’t answer. He just held onto the blanket a little tighter, watching the golden letters catch the faint light from the hallway.

Regulus stares at the ceiling, his chest still tight from crying. The thought of seeking comfort crosses his mind—getting up, finding Euphemia again, or maybe even James. Letting them tell him it’s okay, that he’s okay.

But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t deserve it.

He should have told the truth. He should have said Sirius was his brother. But he hadn’t, and now the guilt is his to bear.

Alone.

He turns onto his side, curling in on himself, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders as if that will shield him from the weight pressing against his ribs.

He should suffer with it.

He should suffer like Sirius did.

His thoughts swirl, looping endlessly in his mind. What he should have done. What he should have said. What would have happened if he had just—just spoken.

Maybe Euphemia would have understood. Maybe she would have helped. Maybe—

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut.

It doesn’t matter now.

Sleep tugs at him, slow and suffocating. He resists it at first, but exhaustion drags him under, pulling him into restless dreams where shadows stretch too long and voices whisper just out of reach.

And somewhere, in the depths of his subconscious, Sirius' name echoes through the darkness.

***

Regulus wakes suddenly, his body jolting upright before his mind catches up. The room is dim, bathed in the soft pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains. His breathing is steady, but his chest feels tight, the remnants of uneasy dreams lingering like a weight pressing down on him.

He rolls over, pulling his blankets up to his chin, but sleep doesn’t come. His thoughts churn too loudly, tangled in memories of last night—of Euphemia’s gentle words, of his own hesitation, of the lie that had slipped so easily from his lips.

With a quiet sigh, he pushes himself up. Lying here, drowning in his thoughts, won’t change anything.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, stretching slightly before moving to get dressed. His hands move on autopilot—buttoning his shirt, straightening his sleeves, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles. Anything to keep his mind busy.

Once he’s ready, he steps out into the hallway, padding down the stairs. The house is still and quiet, the kind of peaceful that comes just before the world wakes up. But as he reaches the bottom, something catches his eye.

Shiny green strings dangle from the doorway leading into the living room, swaying slightly in the faint morning draft. Regulus pauses, tilting his head in confusion. It wasn’t there yesterday. He takes a hesitant step closer but doesn’t cross into the room. Instead, he frowns, unsure what to make of it.

Deciding not to dwell on it, he turns and heads toward the kitchen.

The moment he steps inside, he freezes.

Euphemia is sitting at the table, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. The warm kitchen light casts a soft glow around her, illuminating the gentle smile she offers when she notices him.

His stomach twists.

He remembers last night—remembers how he had lied to her. And now, seeing her here, so calm and collected, makes the guilt cling to him like a second skin. He can’t tell if she’s upset. She doesn’t look it, but Regulus knows better than to assume. People can pretend. They can act like everything is fine, only to reveal later—sometimes days, sometimes weeks—that they were angry all along.

He hesitates in the doorway.

“Good morning, love,” Euphemia greets warmly. Then, softer, “Happy Birthday.”

Regulus blinks, caught off guard. He feels his cheeks heat up and looks down, muttering a quiet, “Thank you.”

Euphemia doesn’t seem upset. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t.

“Regulus?” Her voice is gentle, careful.

He lifts his head slightly. She’s watching him now, her expression softening into something like concern.

“I asked if you’d like something to drink or eat,” she says, as though sensing his hesitation.

Regulus thinks for a moment, shifting on his feet. His throat feels dry, his stomach unsettled, but he forces himself to answer. “I’d like some chocolate milk, if there’s some, please.”

Euphemia’s lips quirk into a smile, and she stands, moving toward the counter without hesitation. Regulus slowly makes his way to the table, slipping into his usual seat.

When she returns, she sets the glass in front of him. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, staring down at the drink.

Silence settles over them, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. Regulus wraps his hands around the cool glass, staring at the surface of the chocolate milk without really seeing it.

His mind won’t stop racing.

Why is she being so nice? Is this some ploy? Will she tell him off for lying later? Let him believe everything is fine, only to punish him when he least expects it?

He swallows. His stomach twists tighter.

“Sweetheart?”

His head snaps up.

Euphemia is watching him closely, concern deepening the lines on her face. “You alright? You seem sort of… in your head.”

Regulus hesitates.

The moment the lie left his lips last night, the shame had taken root, sinking deep into his chest. And now, sitting here, pretending like nothing happened, the weight of it is unbearable.

“I—” He grips the glass a little tighter. “No, I’m not alright.” His voice cracks slightly.

Euphemia leans forward slightly, her full attention on him. “What’s wrong?”

Regulus takes a shaky breath. “I—I lied to you. Last night. And I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Euphemia nods slowly, like she isn’t surprised. “About Sirius?”

Regulus nods, breathing in deeply. “It’s—it’s just so—so—” He stops, struggling to get the words out. His chest tightens, his breathing shallow. “It’s just so hard to talk about him,” he manages, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m so sorry.”

His vision blurs, the telltale sting of tears prickling at the edges. He curls in on himself, trying to make himself smaller, trying to contain the overwhelming wave of guilt. “I’m sorry for lying. I just—”

Before he can finish, Euphemia is moving. In an instant, she’s kneeling beside him, her hands cupping his face.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” she murmurs.

Regulus hesitates, but slowly, he lifts his gaze to meet hers.

“It’s alright,” she says, her thumbs brushing against his damp cheeks. “I’m not mad at you, okay? You have nothing to apologize for, alright?”

Regulus searches her face, looking for any sign of anger, any flicker of disappointment. But there’s nothing. Just warmth. Just understanding.

Relief crashes over him so suddenly, it almost knocks the air from his lungs.

He nods, his body slowly beginning to unclench.

Euphemia smiles softly and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead before standing again.

“Happy Birthday, sweetheart,” she says again, like she’s reminding him. Like she wants him to believe it.

And, he does. He does believe it.  

Regulus sits in the kitchen, his now-empty glass pushed slightly away from him. The quiet hum of the house settling fills the space between him and Euphemia, who is still nursing her tea. The warmth of the kitchen, the steady presence of her at the table, it’s… comfortable.

It’s a strange sort of comfort, one that still feels foreign on his skin but not unwelcome. He keeps expecting the silence to turn stiff, for the moment to break with something sharp and cold. But it doesn’t. It just stretches, easy and soft, like the cushions on the chairs or the warm scent of something sweet lingering in the air from last night.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs catches his attention, and a moment later, Fleamont appears in the doorway. He’s still in his sleepwear, hair slightly mussed, his glasses resting a little lower on his nose than usual. He offers Regulus a warm smile.

“Good morning. Happy Birthday, kiddo.”

Regulus blinks at him before nodding, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you.”

Fleamont moves toward the counter, grabbing a mug and pouring himself some coffee before joining them at the table. The quiet remains, not awkward, just… there. Then Fleamont speaks again.

“Excited to see your cousins today?”

The change in Regulus is immediate. His face lights up, eyes widening with unmistakable excitement. “Yes,” he says, a little too loudly.

Euphemia and Fleamont chuckle at his enthusiasm.

“We asked them to come a bit early,” Euphemia tells him, her voice light. “So you could see them and so they could help set up.”

Regulus smiles, pressing his lips together as if to keep himself from grinning too much. He doesn’t say anything else, but the way he shifts slightly in his seat, fingers tapping against his knee, says enough.

The conversation drifts into idle chatter, mostly between Euphemia and Fleamont. Regulus listens, soaking in the easy rhythm of their voices. He doesn’t feel the need to force himself into the conversation, and they don’t pressure him to. It’s nice.

Then, more footsteps. This time, heavier, less measured.

James.

“Good morning,” James mumbles as he steps into the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face before his gaze lands on Regulus.

A little aww escapes him. “Damn it, Reg, why are you up so early?”

Regulus looks at him, unimpressed. “It’s 8:30, James. That’s not early.”

James snorts, shaking his head. “Right, of course.” He moves toward the table, nudging Regulus’ shoulder as he passes. “Well, Happy Birthday then.”

Regulus just smiles.

They eventually move into the living room. Fleamont and Euphemia settle onto the couch, James drops into one of the armchairs beside Fleamont, and Regulus sits in front of the other armchair, a present resting in his hands.

He feels their eyes on him, and for a brief moment, his stomach knots. It reminds him too much of when he was younger, when his family would watch, expectant, waiting for a specific reaction. Anything less than what they deemed appropriate would be met with quiet disapproval or outright scorn.

But this… this is different. The warmth of the room, the soft anticipation, the lack of pressure—it isn’t like before. It isn’t suffocating. The Potters don’t expect anything from him, not in the way his family did.

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly.

“Well, go on, Reg, open it up,” James says, clearly impatient.

Fleamont chuckles. “Leave the boy alone, James. Let Regulus take the time he needs.”

“Alright, alright,” James relents, though he’s still practically bouncing in his seat.

Regulus exhales, looking down at the gift before carefully unwrapping it. When he sees what it is, his chest loosens further.

Glow-in-the-dark stars. The ones he picked out.

James immediately leans in, eyes gleaming. “Oh, those are so cool! Can I see?”

Regulus hands them over without hesitation. Fleamont passes him another gift.

An emerald green weighted blanket.

Then dark green curtains. Then a gold-framed constellation print.

With each opened gift, more and more of the tension drains from his body. James helps without making it obvious—his immediate enthusiasm, the way he pulls the attention away from Regulus after every gift, the small glances he sends his way as if checking in.

Regulus notices. He appreciates it.

Another present. This one book-shaped.

“This one’s from me,” Fleamont says.

Regulus hesitates, fingers twitching slightly. He didn’t pick this one out.

But Fleamont gives him a small, reassuring smile. Regulus exhales and carefully unwraps it.

Wonder.

“I remember you putting that down on your list,” Fleamont explains. “Thought you’d like to give it a read, considering you’ve nearly finished the series I bought for you for the summer.”

Regulus flushes. It’s true. He’s nearly done with The Blood of Olympus.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“No problem, kiddo.”

Before he can dwell on it, James swaps the book for another box. “This one’s from me,” he says excitedly.

Regulus opens it and stills. A dark green controller.

“It’s your own personal controller, just for you,” James grins. “So you don’t have to keep using the guest one.”

Regulus blinks at him, a little stunned. It’s… thoughtful. More than he expected.

“Thank you, James,” he says, meaning it. “I love it.”

James beams. “You’re welcome!”

Then, another gift.

“This one’s from me,” Euphemia says, handing him a soft bundle.

As he unwraps it, different fabrics catch his eye. When the wrapping falls away, he realizes—it’s a teddy bear.

“I’ve made one for every kid we’ve had, including James,” she says. “It’s more of a keepsake than anything. I hope you like it, sweetheart.”

Regulus clutches it, something warm blooming in his chest.

“Thank you, Effie,” he whispers.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

The last gift. Bigger, but light.

Regulus peels away the paper. Dark green fabric. His fingers brush over something embroidered in the corner.

Regulus Arcturus.

His breath catches.

It’s a baby blanket. His own baby blanket.

Tears well up before he can stop them. He sniffs, gripping the fabric tightly.

“Sweetheart?” Euphemia says softly.

Then he’s moving, latching onto her, blanket still clutched in his hands. He’s crying, the weight of something unfamiliar and overwhelming crashing over him.

“I’ve never had a baby blanket before,” he sobs. “Thank you. I love it.”

She holds him, rubbing his back gently. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s alright. I’m so glad you love it.”

They sit there, quiet, until his breathing evens out.

Regulus wipes at his face, whispering, “Thank you.”

Fleamont smiles. “It’s alright, kiddo. You’re very welcome.”

Regulus nods, sinking into the moment. He’s never felt this before—this warmth, this care.

Maybe… maybe this is what love feels like.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to sit there, basking in the warmth all day. Which, in all fairness, is quite fine. Regulus, despite the nerves, is very excited for his birthday party.

As they pull up to the semi-secluded lake, Regulus stares out the window, watching the rippling water reflect the morning light. Excitement thrums in his chest, but there’s an underlying tension there too. He thinks about his past birthday parties—if they could even be called that. It had always been his family, never any friends.

He wasn’t allowed to invite anyone—not that he really had friends to invite. His mother had given some reason for it once, but he can’t recall it now. Maybe he had never truly cared back then.

But now. Right now, it matters.

He finally gets to enjoy a real birthday party.

“Okay, boys, your job is to find the perfect spot, got it?” Euphemia says as she opens the boot of the car, already starting to unload supplies.

“Yes, Effie,” Regulus says at the same time James responds with, “On it, Mum.”

James bumps Regulus’ shoulder playfully before jogging ahead, scanning the area. Regulus follows at a more measured pace, taking in everything. He finds a spot—shaded, right next to a large oak tree, with the lake in front of them and the playground still within view.

“This is perfect,” he murmurs.

James nods approvingly. “Stay here. I’ll go get Mum and Dad.” He takes off running before Regulus can respond, leaving him standing there alone.

Regulus exhales and turns toward the water. There’s something oddly familiar about this place, something that tugs at his memory. He frowns, trying to place it. Then, it clicks.

The photo. The one the Rosiers had. Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa, standing right here, by this very lake.

Regulus’ stomach tightens. He can picture the image in his mind—their crisp dresses, the way Bellatrix had smirked at the camera. He had been here so many times before, and yet somehow, he hasn’t at all. 

Before he can dwell on it too much, he hears footsteps approaching.

“Ah, perfect spot, Regulus,” Fleamont says as he sets down the esky.

Regulus blinks, shaking the thought away, and nods.

“Alright, time to set up,” Euphemia announces, clapping her hands together.

They work quickly, laying out blankets, setting up the table, and unpacking food. The tension in Regulus’ chest eases bit by bit, replaced by anticipation. And then, he spots them.

Bellatrix and Narcissa, walking toward them.

Regulus doesn’t hesitate. He sprints toward them, wrapping his arms around Narcissa first.

“Hey! Happy Birthday!” she says warmly, hugging him tightly.

“Thank you,” Regulus says, before moving to Bellatrix.

Bellatrix chuckles, ruffling his hair as he embraces her. “Can’t believe you’re twelve now.”

Regulus giggles, a rare sound, and pulls away, leading them toward the setup. Fleamont and Euphemia greet them with pleasantries, and soon, the two sisters are helping with the final touches.

As they work, they talk—mostly about little things. Regulus tells them about his morning, about his presents. When he mentions them, excitement floods through him, and he abruptly declares, “Wait here!” before dashing off to the car.

He returns, clutching his most precious gift—his baby blanket.

As he unfolds it for them to see, Bellatrix and Narcissa exchange glances, their expressions softening.

“Oh, Regulus,” Narcissa murmurs. “It’s beautiful.”

Bellatrix nods, tracing the golden embroidery with her fingers. “Very fitting.”

Regulus beams.

With the setup nearly complete, Euphemia suggests, “Why don’t you boys go wait for the guests? Show them where we are.”

James shrugs. “Yeah, sure.” But then, looking at Regulus, he adds, “Unless you wanna stay with them?”

Regulus hesitates. He likes being around Bellatrix and Narcissa. He nods. “I’ll stay a bit.”

James waves him off good-naturedly, and Euphemia and Fleamont head back to the car for the last few things, leaving Regulus alone with his cousins.

They sit in silence for a little while, the gentle breeze rustling the leaves above them. Regulus absentmindedly runs his fingers over the soft fabric of his baby blanket, the warmth of his earlier joy still lingering in his chest. But there’s something gnawing at him, something that’s been bothering him for a while now. And with Bellatrix and Narcissa sitting beside him, the question forms on his lips before he can stop himself.

“Why didn’t we ever celebrate Sirius’s birthday?”

Bellatrix and Narcissa both still. It’s so subtle that most people wouldn’t notice, but Regulus does. He sees the way Narcissa’s fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the picnic blanket, the way Bellatrix’s jaw sets just a fraction too firmly. They exchange a look—one of those wordless conversations adults have that always seem to go over his head.

Narcissa is the first to speak, carefully. “What do you mean?”

Regulus frowns slightly. “I mean... I don’t remember ever celebrating his birthday, and I don’t even know when it is. When we were little, we always celebrated everyone else’s, but never his.”

The silence that follows is heavier this time. More suffocating. Bellatrix exhales through her nose, glancing toward the lake as if searching for the right words somewhere on its rippling surface. Narcissa shifts uncomfortably. Regulus feels his stomach twist.

“Is the reason bad?” he asks, quieter this time.

Narcissa hesitates, but Bellatrix is the one who speaks first. Her voice lacks its usual sharpness. “It’s... complicated.”

Regulus waits, patient but expectant, and Bellatrix sighs. “He’s the eldest boy, right?”

Regulus nods.

Bellatrix’s gaze is unreadable, but there’s something almost guarded in it. “That meant he was being raised to be the heir—the perfect heir. The sole inheritor of the estate, the one meant to carry on the Black name. And our family... they had very specific ideas about how to shape someone into that role.”

Regulus doesn’t move, barely even breathes.

“They thought,” Bellatrix continues, slowly, “that by denying him things like birthdays, Christmas, presents, and anything that brought him joy, they were making him stronger. More disciplined. More obedient. They believed that love and kindness would make him weak. That celebrating him, giving him things just for the sake of it, would ruin him.”

Regulus feels something go cold inside him.

“They wanted him to understand that he wasn’t important as a person,” Bellatrix goes on, voice tight now. “That he was a role. A responsibility. A legacy to uphold. He didn’t need parties, didn’t need affection. He only needed to do what he was told. To be what they wanted him to be.”

Regulus clenches his hands into fists. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this.

“That’s horrible,” he breathes. “That’s—” He swallows hard, shaking his head. “That’s cruel. It’s—it’s—” He can’t even find the words.

Narcissa reaches out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “We know,” she says softly. “It’s why, once you were old enough to understand, Uncle Alphard started sneaking gifts to him. Even our father—your Uncle Cygnus—did, in his own quiet way. They couldn’t undo what had already been done, but they tried to give him something.”

Regulus remembers. He remembers the way, every year, there would be an extra gift tucked in among his own. How Alphard would wink at him when he found it, and how Sirius would always look so stunned when Regulus handed it to him, like he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to have it.

“I remember,” he whispers.

Bellatrix nods. “Good.”

The silence returns, but this time, it’s heavier. More painful.

Regulus presses the baby blanket closer to his chest, suddenly feeling like he doesn’t deserve it. Like it’s proof of something Sirius never had. He doesn’t know why it hurts so much, but it does.

And then, suddenly, a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Regulus!”

He turns quickly, spotting Dorcas waving at him from across the grass, a wide grin on her face. He blinks, shaking off the weight of the conversation, and finds himself smiling back.

“I guess your friends are here,” Narcissa murmurs. “Go on, go greet them.”

Regulus hesitates, glancing back at them one last time. Bellatrix gives him a small nod, and Narcissa squeezes his arm encouragingly.

And so, he runs off, leaving the ghosts of his family’s past behind—if only for a little while.

Regulus clutches his blanket tightly, fingers gripping the soft fabric like a lifeline. He knows he should probably let go, at least for a little while, but the thought of being without it—even for a moment—makes his chest tighten. This blanket means something. It means safety. It means belonging. It means that someone, for once, thought of him.

When Dorcas arrives, he doesn’t even say hello before he thrusts the blanket forward, eager to show it off. Her eyes soften, and she offers him a smile.

“It’s beautiful,” she says warmly. She doesn’t mention how he spoke in English instead of French, and he appreciates that. Dorcas always seems to know when to say something and when not to. He’s grateful.

The next arrival is Barty, alongside his mother. Regulus brightens at the sight of him and eagerly holds up his blanket once more. Barty takes one look at him, a teasing grin forming on his lips.

“Well, at least I can finally understand you now,” Barty jokes, nudging Regulus in the shoulder.

Regulus’ face heats up in a blush, but he chuckles nonetheless. It’s true, after all. For the last couple months, he’s only ever spoken in French or not at all, but things have changed now. He’s more comfortable, less anxious. He’s able to speak more freely, knowing he won’t be judged for doing so. 

Mrs. Crouch gives her son a sharp whack on the head before turning to Regulus with a kind smile.

“That’s a wonderful blanket, Regulus,” she says, her voice gentle.

Regulus beams, hugging the fabric to his chest.

Pandora and Evan arrive together with their parents, and Regulus immediately rushes over, blanket in hand. He presents it proudly, as if showing off a great treasure. Evan glances at it briefly before nodding.

“It’s nice,” he comments, but Pandora reacts with far more enthusiasm. She reaches out as if to feel the fabric and gasps.

“Oh, Regulus, it’s wonderful! I love the color. And it’s so soft! Where did you get it?”

Regulus beams, thrilled by her excitement. “Effie and Monty,” he tells her, his voice filled with pride.

“They got it just for you?” Pandora asks, eyes wide.

Regulus nods, clutching the blanket even tighter. “Yes.”

Pandora grins. “That’s so special. You must feel so happy.”

He does. He really does.

Just then, a thought pops into his mind. “My cousins are here.”

He sees the way Mr. and Mrs. Rosier stiffen slightly at his words. He quickly adds, “It’s just Bellatrix and Narcissa, nobody else.”

Their shoulders relax at that, and Pandora and Evan don’t react at all, instead diving into excited chatter about how great it must be to see his family again. Regulus nods along, but he still notices the way the adults react. He doesn’t understand it fully, but he understands enough.

By now, almost everyone has arrived, except for Sarah, of course. It’s getting loud—voices overlapping, laughter ringing through the air—but it’s a kind of loud that feels warm. Tolerable. He knows, if it ever becomes too much, he can slip away to the car or put on his noise-canceling headphones. Euphemia had told him so, and the knowledge settles comfortably in his chest. He’s safe here.

He talks with his friends, never once letting go of his blanket. Every so often, he holds it up again, showing it off with pride. He doesn’t care if people find it strange. This blanket is proof that the Potters want him. That they don’t see him as some temporary burden or extra money from the system. They want him. Not because they have to, but because they choose to. Because he is their son.

The thought alone makes his chest feel warm.

He’s so caught up in it that he doesn’t even hesitate when he finds Euphemia and Fleamont speaking with the other adults—Mr. and Mrs. Meadows, Mrs. Crouch, Mr. and Mrs. Rosier, Bellatrix, and Narcissa. Without a second thought, he approaches them, holding up his blanket once again like a prized possession.

He expects their responses—kind words, small smiles, gentle hums of approval—but before anyone can say anything, James suddenly appears beside him.

“Hey, Reg, wanna come play on the playground for a bit?”

Regulus hesitates, looking down at his blanket. He wants to play, but he doesn’t want to risk getting it dirty.

As if reading his mind, Euphemia reaches out with a reassuring smile. “I can hold onto it for you, sweetheart. I’ll keep it safe.”

Regulus glances at her, then back at the blanket. He doesn’t want to let go, but… this is Euphemia. If anyone can be trusted to keep it safe, it’s her.

Slowly, hesitantly, he nods and hands it over. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, darling.”

Regulus carefully hands his blanket to Euphemia, who folds it gently over her arm. He hesitates for only a second before dashing after James, his heart pounding with excitement. The playground is alive with laughter and movement as he and his friends swarm the jungle gym, each one eager to claim victory in their game.

They quickly settle on a mix between tag and king of the hill. James, the fastest and most eager, scrambles to the highest platform and plants his feet firmly. He spreads his arms wide as if claiming a kingdom and grins down at them.

“You lot have to take the throne from me!” he announces dramatically.

Barty doesn’t wait for a signal. He lets out a determined cry and charges forward, scaling the climbing wall with surprising agility.

“Not so fast, Crouch!” James shouts, dodging his reach at the last second.

Evan is close behind, sprinting up the rope ladder, but James is quick, ducking low and slipping past both of them as he maneuvers across the playground’s bridges and platforms. Pandora is giggling as she follows after them, her long blonde braid swinging wildly behind her.

Regulus lingers for a moment, eyes darting across the playground, calculating the best route. He grips the monkey bars and swings himself up with practiced ease, aiming to flank James from the side. The others are too focused on chasing James head-on to notice.

“Regulus is flanking!” Pandora yells in warning, spotting him at the last moment.

James turns sharply, eyes wide. “Oh no, you don’t—”

Before he can react, Barty lunges and tags his arm.

“You’re it, Potter!” Barty crows triumphantly before leaping off the platform to escape retaliation.

James huffs but grins, immediately whirling to chase after Barty. Barty lets out a shriek of laughter and dashes down the slide, but before he can reach the ground, Evan tags him on the back.

“Gotcha!” Evan grins, already running in the opposite direction.

“You little—” Barty growls playfully, but the chase moves on.

Evan doesn’t last long as James recovers quickly, weaving between the jungle gym’s poles and sneaking up on Evan while he’s catching his breath. “Tagged!”

“Aw, come on!” Evan groans, but he’s already scanning for a new target.

Dorcas, who had been hanging back, suddenly springs into action. She dashes forward and taps James' arm while he’s distracted. “Ha! You’re it again!”

James lets out a dramatic wail. “This is betrayal!”

Dorcas only laughs and darts away, weaving expertly through the climbing nets. James grins, clearly enjoying the challenge, and after a short chase, he manages to tag her back.

Dorcas skids to a stop and groans. “Fine, fine! I’ll get someone else.”

Regulus has been watching the pattern carefully, choosing his moment. The second Dorcas moves toward Pandora, he sprints forward. James, still catching his breath, doesn’t even see him coming.

Regulus reaches out and taps James’ shoulder with a triumphant grin.

“Got you.”

There’s a beat of silence before James groans in defeat. He throws his hands up dramatically.

“Regulus is the new ruler!”

The others cheer, and for the first time in a long while, Regulus feels like he truly belongs. But before he can bask in his victory, a movement at the edge of the playground catches his eye.

He turns his head—and freezes. 

Sirius. 

There he stood, hands shoved into his pockets, familiar messy black hair, grey weary eyes, watching the scene with an expression Regulus can’t quite read. 

It takes only a second for Regulus to react. 

He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think. He simply takes off running, abandoning the game entirely, without a second thought. 

Regulus slams into Sirius with such force that it nearly knocks them both over. His fingers clutch desperately at the back of Sirius’ shirt as he buries his face into his brother’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. All he knows is that Sirius is here—solid and warm and real, and he’s holding onto him like he’ll disappear if he lets go.

Sirius doesn’t hesitate, arms wrapping around Regulus just as tightly, his own face pressing into the crook of his little brother’s neck. He feels the way Regulus is trembling, the way his breathing is already turning uneven, and he tightens his grip, anchoring him, keeping him safe.

“Sirius,” Regulus breathes, voice cracking, like the very name itself is too much to bear.

Sirius swallows, his own throat tight. “Happy birthday, Reggie.”

The second the words leave Sirius’ mouth, Regulus breaks. A sob tears from his throat, sudden and raw, and his entire body shakes. His fingers fist into the fabric of Sirius’ shirt, clinging to him like he’s afraid Sirius might vanish. The noise that leaves him is something close to a wail, a sound so small and broken that it makes Sirius’ chest ache.

Regulus tightens his grip, pressing himself impossibly closer, as though if he holds on tight enough, he can make up for all the lost time. “You’re here,” he chokes out. Another sob wracks through him, and then another. “You’re alive.”

Sirius sways them gently from side to side, his arms unwavering. One hand moves up to thread through Regulus’ curls, the way he used to when they were little, when Regulus would curl up beside him after nightmares. “I’m here,” he whispers, his voice barely steady. “I’ve got you, Reggie. It’s okay. You’re alright. I’m here.”

But Regulus isn’t sure he believes that yet. He still feels like he’s dreaming, like if he opens his eyes, Sirius won’t be there anymore. He shakes his head, fresh tears slipping down his cheeks. “I thought—I thought—” But he can’t finish the sentence. He can’t say it. Because if he does, it makes it real. It makes all those months apart, all those nights spent wondering where Sirius was, wondering if he was safe, hurt, dead—

Sirius hushes him, pulling back ever so slightly, pressing his forehead against Regulus’. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know, Reggie. I’m sorry. I should’ve—” But he cuts himself off. Now isn’t the time. Regulus needs him whole, and right now, that’s what he’s going to be.

They stand there, wrapped in each other, as the world continues around them. The laughter from the playground fades into the background, the voices of the others mere echoes in the distance. Right now, it’s just them. Just two brothers clinging to each other in the middle of a birthday party, as if the universe has finally decided to give them back what they lost.

Regulus sniffles, pressing his forehead against Sirius’ shoulder, still unwilling to let go. “You’re here,” he whispers again, softer this time, like he’s finally starting to believe it.

Sirius nods, his grip never faltering. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Regulus isn’t sure how long he and Sirius have been standing there, holding onto each other like their lives depend on it. Time has blurred, the world around them nothing more than a distant hum of voices and laughter. He’s finally stopped crying—though his chest still aches, and his throat still feels raw. He sniffles quietly, pressing his forehead against his brother’s shoulder for just a second longer before they slowly, reluctantly, pull apart.

Sirius doesn’t let go completely. His hands come up to cup Regulus’ face, thumbs brushing gently over his cheeks as if committing every detail to memory. Regulus stares up at him, taking in every familiar feature—the sharp angles of his face, the grey eyes that hold so much unspoken emotion, the way his lips twitch up in the faintest ghost of a smile.

“Gosh, you’ve grown,” Sirius murmurs, his voice thick with something Regulus can’t quite name. “When did you get so tall?”

Regulus blushes, ducking his head slightly. “Well, I am twelve now, so…”

Sirius chuckles at that, his grip on Regulus’ face softening. “Twelve,” he repeats, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “You’re practically ancient.”

Regulus giggles, and for the first time all day, it feels easy. Natural. Like something heavy has lifted from his chest.

Sirius lets his hands drop but doesn’t step away. Instead, he wipes the last of Regulus’ tears away with the sleeve of his jacket before nodding toward the party. “Come on, then,” he says, nudging Regulus lightly. “Can’t have a party without the birthday boy.”

Regulus nods, still smiling, and without thinking, he reaches out, grasping Sirius’ hand tightly in his own. He doesn’t want to let go—not now, not ever. He tugs Sirius forward, leading him toward the gathering, his heart still hammering in his chest from the sheer overwhelming reality of it all.

The first person Regulus notices is James, standing off to the side, watching them approach. His expression is… odd. There’s something in the way his mouth presses into a thin line, the way his hands are clenched at his sides. It isn’t quite anger, but it isn’t happiness, either. A strange pang of guilt twists in Regulus’ stomach, though he isn’t sure why.

Before he can dwell on it, Sirius leans down and murmurs, “You gonna introduce me, then?”

Regulus nods quickly, focusing back on the moment. But before they reach his friends, they’re intercepted halfway by Euphemia, Fleamont, and Sarah.

Sarah is the first to speak, offering Regulus a warm smile. “Happy birthday, Regulus.”

“Thank you,” Regulus says, suddenly shy under all their gazes. He glances between Euphemia and Fleamont, unsure of what to say. Sirius nudges him lightly, urging him forward. Taking a breath, Regulus squeezes his brother’s hand tighter before saying, “This is Sirius.”

Euphemia steps forward, her tone gentle but measured. “Hello, Sirius. I’m Euphemia, and this is Fleamont.”

Sirius shifts his weight slightly, hesitating for only a moment before nodding. “Hello.”

A beat of silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then Sarah clears her throat, stepping in to fill the void. “Sirius, I’ve actually been trying to track you down for a while now,” she says, her voice calm but firm. “We weren’t sure where you were, and, well… there’s a lot we need to discuss.”

Sirius’ expression doesn’t change much, but Regulus feels the slight tension in his grip. His brother’s voice, when he responds, is neutral—maybe too neutral. “Yeah. I figured.”

Sarah glances toward Euphemia and Fleamont, who exchange a look before Euphemia speaks again. “You’re welcome to stay,” she says, her voice warm yet cautious, like she’s carefully weighing each word. “We weren’t expecting you, but we’re glad you came.”

Sirius looks at her for a moment before nodding again. “Thanks.”

Sarah takes a small step forward, her tone softening. “You and I will need to talk soon, Sirius. There are… things we need to sort through. But not right now.”

“Right,” Sirius mutters. He exhales through his nose, then adds, “Later.”

There’s a quiet agreement among them, an unspoken understanding that now isn’t the time for heavier discussions. Regulus watches as Euphemia’s gaze flickers to him, then back to Sirius, something unreadable in her expression. But she doesn’t push.

“Go on, then,” Fleamont says with an encouraging nod toward the party. “It’s not a party without the birthday boy.”

Regulus giggles slightly at that, and finally, the tension eases. Sirius lets Regulus tug him forward, away from the conversation and toward the rest of the celebration.

Regulus doesn’t hesitate to introduce Sirius to everyone—Pandora, Evan, Barty, and Dorcas all greet him with varying levels of enthusiasm.

Pandora is the most excited, practically bouncing in place as she grins up at Sirius. “You’re Regulus’ brother? That’s so cool! You kind of look like him—but taller. How old are you? Where do you live? Are you staying?”

Sirius chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “One question at a time, yeah?” He glances at Regulus with a smirk. “Are they always this full of energy?”

Regulus nods solemnly. “Yes. Always.”

Barty, lounging back in his seat, snorts. “Makes sense now. I was wondering where Regulus got his stubbornness from.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And here I was thinking he was the easygoing one.”

That gets a laugh from the group, even from Sirius himself. Evan, who has been observing quietly, offers a nod and a simple, “Nice to meet you.”

Dorcas, ever straightforward, tilts her head. “So, are you sticking around for a while?”

Sirius hesitates, but before he can answer, James finally speaks up—his tone sharp. “So, what’d you do to get separated?”

The table falls silent.

Regulus feels Sirius tense beside him, the amusement in his expression vanishing in an instant. A wave of panic rises in Regulus’ chest—what if Sirius leaves? What if this is too much? But Sirius just exhales slowly, his face going blank in a way Regulus recognizes too well.

Instead of answering, Sirius shifts his attention, turning to Barty. “You were saying something about stubbornness?” he prompts, smoothly steering the conversation away.

There’s a brief pause before Barty picks up the thread, and slowly, the tension fades. Regulus releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, glancing at Sirius. His brother meets his eyes for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Regulus to understand.

Later.

For now, the conversation returns to normal, but the weight of James’ words lingers.

Regulus busies himself by making sure Sirius has something to eat, only to realize, with a sinking feeling, that there’s nothing here Sirius actually likes. He leans in, whispering, “I’m sorry. There’s nothing—”

Sirius shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he murmurs back. “Wasn’t really hungry anyway.”

Regulus frowns but lets it go for now. He refuses to let go of Sirius, keeping a tight grip on his brother’s hand as the party continues around them. They sit together, listening, talking, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Regulus doesn’t feel alone.

Then, it’s time for presents.

Pandora and Evan give him a beautifully wrapped box containing a book about astronomy, something he’s been wanting to revise for ages. Barty hands him a sleek new leatherbond notebook, engraved with silver stars all over the cover. Dorcas gifts him a handmade bracelet, woven with deep blues and silvers. Each gift fills him with warmth, making him feel more loved than he ever has on a birthday before.

Finally, the cake is brought out. The candles flicker brightly as everyone sings to him, their voices loud and joyful. Regulus stares at the flames, a lump forming in his throat. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and makes a wish.

But as he blows out the candles, he realizes he doesn’t need to wish for anything at all.

Because his wish is already here.

His brother, Sirius.