Chapter 1: The End of May is Always the Beginning of June
Summary:
Regulus has just been kicked out of his most recent foster home. Now, he’s on his way to a temporary, hopefully “permanent” placement. He hates the term “permanent”, it’s as if saying, something can last.
But that’s a lie. Nothing lasts. Not for him, at least.
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Regulus tells himself it’s not his fault. Realistically, he knows that—or at least, he should believe it. But it always ends up like this. It always ends with him being forced to leave, shuffled off like an unwanted package because he’s “too difficult,” “too different,” “too strange,” or “not the right fit.”
Those words echo in his head, each one sharp and cutting. He knows he’s all those things—or at least, that’s what everyone keeps saying. And honestly, he doesn’t need the constant reminders, thank you very much. He already feels it, every second of every day, like an itch he can’t scratch.
It hurts. It hurts to agree with them, to see himself through their eyes and find nothing worth keeping. They say it like it’s his fault, like he’s choosing to be this way. But he can’t control what goes on in his head—he’s only eleven, for crying out loud. How is he supposed to manage thoughts and feelings and actions and emotions to fit everyone else’s perfect little mold? Yeah, no. Not happening.
It’s not like he gets to decide how this ends, anyway. The adults do. They always do. This time, it’s Mrs. Allen. She’s made up her mind, and there’s no going back now. Regulus liked Mr. Allen—quiet, steady, and predictable—but he never says no to his wife. And Mrs. Allen wants Regulus gone.
Her reasoning? "He’s not following the house rules. He’s too much work, and we’re not equipped to deal with someone like him." Someone like him. That’s a new one. Regulus wonders how many more ways adults will find to say the same thing.
Fine. He broke the rules. He stayed up late reading with a flashlight after bedtime. He avoided family dinners when the noise got too loud. He forgot to look people in the eye when he talked. But could he really help any of that? Could he?
No matter how many excuses or justifications people give him, it never makes the sting any less sharp. It doesn’t make him feel any better. Every rejection just piles on top of the last, each one heavier than the one before.
Sometimes, all he wants to do is curl up into a tiny ball and disappear. Maybe if he stays still enough, small enough, the world will forget about him. Maybe time will rewind and reset, and things will go back to normal. Back to before. Back when he had his parents, his home, his brother.
But Regulus knows better. The world doesn’t work like that. And normal? Normal is just a dream, a thing for other people. Not for him.
The car is parked at the curb, engine idling softly as Regulus stares out of the window, his gazed fixed on the house that had briefly been his home, not that he would ever call it that. He watches the worn brick walls and the overgrown gardens, the white trim that had once looked so neat, now chipped and fading. It all seemed so small, so distant now, like a life that wasn’t truly his.
Because it wasn’t his, not really. Regulus doesn’t think it ever will be, as he sits stiffly in the back of the car, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. The seatbelt digs into his shoulder, but he doesn’t adjust it. He keeps his eyes glued to the house in front of him, barely blinking.
The front door is closed, but he knows what’s happening inside. He can picture Mrs. Allen, her lips pressed into that thin, disapproving line she always wears when she talks about him. She’s explaining why he has to leave, why he doesn’t belong. Mr. Allen is probably nodding along like he always does, agreeing without saying much.
And, then there’s his social worker, Ms. McAllister—Sarah, she prefers to be called—trying to sound calm and professional, though Regulus knows by now that her patience with him is wearing thin.
He doesn’t blame her, he wouldn’t have much patience left either.
The air inside the car feels heavy, thick with the weight of everything left unsaid. Outside, the early evening sky is tinged with a soft orange and pink, the light stretching shadows across the lawn. Regulus watches as the sun dips lower, wishing it would hurry up and disappear entirely. Darkness feels safer. It always had, for some unknown reason, he can’t quite explain.
His eyes snap back to the house as the front door creaks open. Sarah, steps outside, phone pressed to her ear. She looks tired, one hand rubbing at her temple as she walks a few paces away from the house, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. Regulus leans forward slightly, his forehead nearly touching the window. He can’t hear what she’s saying, but her body language says enough. Her shoulders are tense, her free hand gesturing sharply as she speaks.
Regulus’s chest tightens. He knows this isn’t good. It never is. He’s been through this too many times to hold on to hope. He watches Sarah pace in a small circle, nodding at whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying. Her lips move quickly, her tone clipped.
He slumps back in his seat, his fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. He hates this part—the waiting. It always feels the same, like the moments before a storm hits. The quiet, the heaviness, the certainty that something is about to break.
His gaze drifts back to the house. The porch light flickers on, casting a warm glow that doesn’t match the cold, empty feeling settling in his chest. He doesn’t know where he’s going next. He never does. And really, what does it matter? Every place ends the same way. Every place ends with him sitting in a car, like this, staring at a house he’ll never see again.
Sarah ends her call and tucks her phone into her bag. She stands there for a moment, looking at the house, her face unreadable. Regulus wonders what she’s thinking. Does she feel bad for him? Or is she just relieved that this one is almost over?
He knows, he is.
The front door opens again, and Mrs. Allen steps out, her expression carefully neutral. She says something to Sarah, who nods and glances toward the car. Regulus shrinks back instinctively, even though he knows they can’t see him through the tinted windows. At least, he thinks so.
He presses his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes. Maybe if he stays like this—still, silent, invisible—they’ll forget about him. Maybe he’ll disappear entirely, swallowed up by the shadows of the evening.
But deep down, he knows better. They always find him. They always make him leave.
He’s not sure how much longer he’s sitting there for, but it must have been long enough because the sun has completely set. The world outside the car is shrouded in twilight now, the orange and pink hues replaced by the deep blues of nightfall. Regulus stares at his reflection in the glass, the dim light catching on his pale face and tired eyes.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening jolts him out of his thoughts. Sarah slips into the seat with a heavy sigh, her phone still clutched in her hand. She tucks it into her bag, then turns to face him.
“What happened this time, sweetheart?” she asks, her voice soft but probing.
Yeah, what happened? Regulus knows what happened. He presses his lips together, his fingers curling into the fabric of his jeans. He knew the rule.
The memory comes rushing back, sharp and vivid.
It wasn’t complicated— don’t touch the bookshelves . But he couldn’t help himself. The jumbled rows of mismatched spines, some leaning, some stacked haphazardly on top of others, gnawed at his mind every time he passed by it. It was chaos. Disorganised. Wrong. So, when the house was quiet, he finally gave in.
He started slowly, pulling the books down, one by one, his fingers tracing the worn covers. His breathing slowed as the disorder began to take shape in his mind—alphabetised by author, then organised by series and standalone. He felt calmer with each movement, as though the world had stopped spinning, just for a moment.
But his peace didn’t last.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The voice startled him, sharp and loud. He froze mid-movement, the paperback he’d just placed perfectly back onto the shelf slipping from his hands and landing with a soft thud on the carpet. He didn’t turn to look.
“I told you not to touch the bookshelves!” Mrs. Allen’s words sliced through the air like a whip. “Why can’t you just follow simple instructions?”
Regulus stood there, mute, as the panic set in. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, his breaths coming shallow and quick. He wanted to explain, to tell her why he had done it, but the words wouldn’t come. They never did when he needed them most.
“Well?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Are you going to say something, or are you just going to stand there like a statue?”
Regulus stared at the floor, his hands trembling at his sides. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but stand frozen as her words became a blur of frustration and anger.
Minutes later, she stormed out of the room, muttering something about how he “didn’t fit in”, how he was “a terrible listener” and how she “couldn’t take this anymore.”
They didn’t wait for him to explain. No one ever did. Instead, Mrs. Allen rattled off a list of complaints—his silence, his strange habits, his inability to adjust. Regulus sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the words as though they were being spoken about someone else.
He wasn’t sure what he felt—hurt, shame, maybe a tangle of both. But mostly, he was tired. Tired of trying to be what everyone else wanted him to be. Tired of hoping that this time might be different, only to be reminded that it never was.
The memory fades, and he blinks back to the present. Sarah is still looking at him, her expression patient but expctant. He shrugs, his shoulders tight.
“I rearranged the books,” he says flatly, staring at his knees. “That’s all it took.”
Sarah sighs, the kind of sigh that sounds like she’s trying not to let her frustration show. “You know they’ve been struggling with you moving things around without asking,” she says carefully, like she’s tiptoeing around glass.
Regulus doesn’t respond. What’s the point? It doesn’t matter what he says. What’s done is done.
After a pause, he shifts in his seat, his voice quiet when he asks, “where am I going now?”
Sarah hesitates, her fingers fiddling with the strap of her bag. “A temporary home,” she says finally. “Just for a little while. But I’m hoping it could become more permanent if it works out.”
“Right,” Regulus murmurs, leaning back against the seat. He keeps his gaze fixed on the window, watching the faint outline of the Allen’s house fade into the night as the car pull away.
Just another house. Another temporary place. Another family he’ll never see again.
***
Regulus sometimes wishes things went his way. That he could get what he wants, when he wants it. Doesn’t every child, though?
Some people might say he sounds bratty—he’s not trying to be, he’s just trying to express how he feels. Like how some might scream, shout, crying, breaking things, he, he has this. Others, though, might not see it that way.
They might think he’s selfish or ungrateful, or worse, a lost cause. He doesn’t like to think about those people. The one’s who gave up on him, who decided he wasn’t worth the effort, but their voices creep into his head anyway, whispering cruel things that he can’t seem to shut out.
The car hums softly beneath him, its engine a steady vibration that matches the faint pulse in his temples. The air smells faintly of Sarah’s perfume—a flowery scene that reminds him of the potpourri bowls Mrs. Allen used to keep in the bathroom. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t say so. What would be the point? He’d get into trouble anyway. Somehow, he always does.
Streetlights blur as they pass, their orange glow streaking across the window like ghosts. Regulus watches them without really seeing, his gaze fixed but unfocused. The world outside is a smudge of dark shapes and dim lights, and it feels far away, like it belongs to someone else. Not him. Never him.
Sarah clears her throat softly from the driver’s seat, breaking the fragile silence. “Are you feeling okay?” she asks, her voice gentle, careful, like she’s afraid to push too hard.
Regulus doesn’t answer. He shrugs, his shoulders tight and drawn up toward his ears.
She tries again after a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Another shrug. This time, he mumbles something that might be “no,” but it’s so quiet even he isn’t sure if he said it out loud.
Sarah sighs—a soft, almost imperceptible sound—but Regulus hears it. He always hears it. Adults think they’re so good at hiding their frustration, but they’re not. Not from him, anyway. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t say anything else. He retreats further into his mind, letting the hum of the engine drown out whatever she might say next.
He knows, she’s going to try again—it’s the same routine every time.
He wishes he could disappear. Not in a dramatic way, like in the movies, but in a quiet, unremarkable way. Like fading into the shadows, unnoticed and unmissed. He wonders if anyone would even care.
The memory of Mrs. Allen’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife: “ You’re too much work. ”
Regulus presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, his breath fogging up a small patch of the surface. The words replay in his head, sharp and cutting, no matter how much he tries to block them out. They always find him.
He remembers the first time he heard those words, a couple of months ago now. The family had seemed nice at first. Too nice, in hindsight. They smiled a lot, made promises they couldn’t keep, and spoke in voices that were too light, too measured. They wanted him to feel safe. To feel wanted. He tried to believe them.
He had done everything right, or at least, he’d tried to. He kept quiet at the dinner table, even when the conversations drifted to things he didn’t understand or care about. He nodded when they talked to him, murmuring polite responses without saying too much. He organized his room meticulously, lining his books and clothes up just so, hoping they’d notice how neat he was, how good he could be.
And he avoided conflict—bit his tongue when their biological son barged into his room without knocking, clenched his fists under the table when they forgot to include him in family plans. He told himself it didn’t matter, that if he just stayed quiet and obedient long enough, they’d accept him.
It wasn’t enough.
The memory shifts, sharp and vivid. It was a weekend trip to some crowded park—a picnic, they had called it, though it felt more like a test. There were too many people, too many sounds. Laughter, chatter, barking dogs, children shrieking as they ran past. It grated on his nerves, each noise digging into his skull until he couldn’t focus on anything else.
He tried to hold it together, really, he did. He sat stiffly on the checkered blanket, his hands curled into fists in his lap, trying to drown out the chaos. But then their son had spilled juice on him—sticky and cold, seeping through his shirt—and the sensory overload became too much.
He didn’t mean to snap. He didn’t mean to shout or push the boy away when he tried to apologize. He didn’t mean to bolt from the blanket, his chest heaving as he fought to breathe.
But he had, and their reactions were worse than the noise.
Confusion at first—furrowed brows and startled glances. Then frustration, sharp and cutting, as the father muttered something about “overreacting.” And finally, the coldness, the unspoken understanding that he had failed.
They didn’t say it outright, not then, but he could see it in their eyes. The disappointment. The realization that he wasn’t what they wanted after all.
A week later, Sarah showed up with her clipboard and that carefully neutral expression, and he was gone.
Regulus clenches his fists, staring down at his lap as the weight of that failure settles over him like a stone. His breathing quickens, but he forces himself to stay still, his nails digging into his palms.
He doesn’t need to remember this. Doesn’t want to. But it’s there anyway, playing on repeat in his mind. Proof that no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never be good enough. Not for them, not for anyone.
The memories come in flashes, sharp and bitter, like shards of glass. He remembers a foster mother who called him “ungrateful” when he didn’t smile enough at dinner. She’d tried so hard to make him like her, to fit into her vision of the perfect little family. But he hadn’t smiled because he didn’t know how to. Not in a way that felt real. That had been enough for her to give up on him.
Then there was a foster father—stern and impatient—who scolded him for being “too quiet, too strange.” The man’s words had cut deeper than he’d expected. “Why can’t you just be normal?” he’d said once, when Regulus had frozen during a family outing, unable to speak or move because of the noise and the crowds. As if it were a choice. As if he could just flip a switch and suddenly be the son they wanted.
And the kids at school. He’d been “the freak” there. The boy who sat alone at lunch, who didn’t know how to join conversations or laugh at the right moments. They’d teased him relentlessly, their words searing into his skin like invisible scars. He’d stopped trying after a while. What was the point?
His fists tighten, his nails biting into his palms until it hurts, but he doesn’t let go. The anger bubbles just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. He’s angry at them—all of them—for making promises they couldn’t keep, for pretending to care only to toss him aside when things got hard. But he’s angrier at himself.
It isn’t fair.
Why can’t he just be normal? Why does he always mess everything up? Why is he always too much for everyone?
His jaw clenches, his hands gripping his jeans tightly as he stares down at them. He can feel the burn of tears threatening to spill, but he blinks them back furiously. He won’t cry. Not here, not now.
He wants to scream. To shout at the top of his lungs, to let all the frustration and anger and hurt pour out of him. He wants to cry, to sob until there’s nothing left inside him but emptiness. But he can’t. He won’t.
Sarah wouldn’t understand. No one ever does.
Regulus’s mind flashes back to another moment, another home. He remembers the foster couple in that house—kind at first, soft smiles that made him believe for a brief moment that this time would be different. He remembers the way their eyes shifted to disappointment when they found him alone in the living room, the coffee table strewn with things he had moved—papers, books, pens—all arranged in a meticulous pattern only he understood. He hadn’t meant to cause trouble. It was just how he processed things. The clutter, the constant motion of his hands, helped him focus. It made everything quieter in his mind. But when they found him, the mother, Mrs. Avery, had looked at him like he was the problem.
“Regulus,” she had said, her voice strained, “Why can’t you be more like Sam?”
Sam was their biological son. He was easy to love—quiet, obedient, neat, with a smile that never seemed to fade. He was everything Regulus wasn’t. And that’s what they always said. Why can’t you be more like them? The words stuck with him like a burr in his skin, rubbing raw every time he thought of them.
Mr. Avery had stood by the door, arms crossed, eyes tired. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” he had said, voice hardening with every word. “We can’t keep doing this.”
Regulus had tried to explain—tried to tell them that he hadn’t meant to make a mess, that the bookshelves were a way of controlling the chaos in his mind, that he needed order to think clearly—but the words stuck in his throat. His chest had tightened, a wave of panic rising. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Avery making him feel like he was a burden, a failure, a child who couldn’t fit anywhere. They didn’t see him. They never saw him.
“You’re just too difficult,” Mrs. Avery had muttered under her breath, her lips pulled into a tight line. “We’re not the right fit for you.”
Those words echoed in his mind long after he had left their home. Too difficult. Not the right fit. He had spent so many nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with him. Why couldn’t he just be normal? Why couldn’t he be the child they wanted?
The words shifted and blurred, transforming into others. To many others, all saying the same, or similar things.
There words, all there words, blended together, the voices mixing together until they felt like one continuous, unbroken line. The same disappointment. The same rejection. The same coldness.
Regulus’s chest tightens, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. His vision blurs as tears sting his eyes, threatening to spill over despite his best efforts to keep them in check. He doesn’t cry often—crying is weakness, and weakness makes people give up on you—but he can’t hold it back this time. The pressure inside him has been building for too long, and now it’s cracking open, spilling out in the form of hot tears that he can’t stop.
Sarah notices almost immediately. From the front seat, she glances back at him, her voice gentle but tinged with concern. “Regulus? What’s wrong?”
He stiffens, turning his face toward the window to hide the tears sliding down his cheeks. He doesn’t want her to see. Doesn’t want her to ask questions he can’t answer. “I’m fine,” he mutters, his voice trembling despite the lie.
“Regulus…” she begins, but he cuts her off with a sharper tone, though it wavers. “I said I’m fine.”
The car falls silent again. Only the soft, rhythmic hum of the tires against the road fills the space, mingling with the sound of his shaky, uneven breaths. Regulus presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, willing himself to stop, to pull himself together before Sarah says anything else, before she starts thinking of him as even more of a problem than she already does.
His hands grip his jeans tightly, the fabric bunching under his fingers as he squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to cry. Doesn’t want to feel like this—raw, exposed, a mess of emotions he doesn’t know how to control.
The tears keep coming, though, and the knot in his chest feels unbearable.
Regulus forces himself to calm down, wiping his face roughly and taking deep, shaky breaths that feel more like gasps. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. It never matters. He’ll mess this one up too. They’ll send him away like all the others.
It’s how it works, right?
He gets pickeed up from one failed attempt at a home, a family, and dropped off at another, just to screw it up for being “too different,” “too much,” or “not enough.” The words repear like a mantra, stabbing into him as his chest tightens painfully. He doesn’t want to care—but he should. He should. He hates himself for even entertaining the idea, but what if this time is different?
What if it’s worse?
Sarah’s voice pulls him back, snapping the thread of his spiraling thoughts. “Alright, Regulus, we’re almost there,” she says gently, her tone softer than usual, sweeter even, like she’s trying not to spook a frightened animal. As if that’s supposed to suddenly make him happy, suddenly fix everything.
Regulus lifts his head slightly, his gaze shifting to the road ahead. In the distance, he can see the outline of a house—large, its warm yellow lights glowing softly in the windows. It looks… inviting, almost too inviting, like it’s pretending to be something it’s not.
His stomach twists sharply, the nausea rising like a wave he can’t push down. He doesn’t want to go in. He doesn’t want to meet them, doesn’t want to start this whole cycle over again. But he doesn’t have a choice. He never does.
The car slows to a stop, the engine’s hum fading into silence as Sarah parks. She turns to look at him, her expression soft, patient, expectant—like she’s waiting for some sign of cooperation.
“Ready?” she asks, her voice as careful as ever, though there’s a faint edge of weariness beneath it.
Regulus stares at her for a moment, his jaw tightening. Then, his gaze flicks to the house. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest, his shoulders hunching defensively as his nails dig into his sleeves.
“I’m not getting out,” he mumbles, anger and panic lacing his voice. If he doesn’t have a choice about any of this, then he’s sure as hell going to make the process as difficult as possible.
Sarah sighs quietly, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Regulus…” she starts, her voice calm but firm.
He cuts her off, shaking his head as his voice rises slightly, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “What’s the point? I’ll just screw it up. They’ll hate me like everyone else does. Just… just leave me here. I don’t care.”
But he does care. That’s the worst part. He cares so much it hurts. And the thought of hoping, even a little, only to have it ripped away again—it terrifies him.
Regulus stiffens as Sarah sighs deeply, her patience evidently reaching its limit. “Fine then,” she says, her tone brisk now, devoid of the gentleness she usually forces into her words. She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the driver’s side door. “You can stay here and sulk. I’ll handle things.”
The door slams shut behind her, leaving Regulus alone in the quiet of the car. He hunches further into himself, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso like a makeshift shield. The air feels heavier, oppressive, like it’s pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
He glares at the dashboard for a moment, his jaw clenched tightly, and then his gaze shifts to the window, where Sarah is walking toward the house. She looks calm—composed in the way only adults seem to manage. Her dark blue coat swishes around her knees as she strides up the brick walkway, her heels clicking softly against the pavement.
Regulus watches her reach the door, his stomach still twisting with that same gnawing dread. Part of him hopes she comes back and says there’s been some mistake, that this isn’t happening. But he knows better.
The door opens before she can knock, and a man steps out onto the porch. He looks young—early thirties, maybe. His skin is a light brown, like polished bronze under the glow of the porch light, and his round, wire-framed glasses catch the faint reflection of the light above him. His dark brown hair is a mess, sticking out in all directions, as if he’s run his fingers through it one too many times.
He’s dressed casually—a soft gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, dark blue jeans, and sneakers that look comfortably worn. His entire appearance feels disarmingly unpretentious, far from the stiff suits or neat cardigans Regulus had grown used to with other foster parents.
Regulus narrows his eyes, his heart pounding harder for reasons he doesn’t entirely understand. Something about this man feels different, but not in a way that makes him feel any better. If anything, it unsettles him more.
The man smiles warmly as Sarah approaches, stepping aside to let her in. His voice carries faintly through the still night air as he greets her, though Regulus can’t make out the words. He frowns, his chest tightening with something that feels too much like jealousy—or maybe it’s resentment.
He doesn’t trust that smile, no matter how genuine it looks. People always smile at first. It’s the same routine every time—smiles, reassurances, promises that this time will be different. But it never is.
Regulus’s fingers curl into fists in his lap as he watches Sarah disappear into the house, the door closing softly behind her. The warm yellow light from the windows spills out onto the lawn, casting long shadows that stretch toward the car.
The lump in his throat grows heavier, and he swallows hard, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t want to go in there. He doesn’t want to meet this man or anyone else inside that house.
Because no matter how kind they seem, no matter how warm or welcoming or friendly, it always ends the same way—with him packing his things, sitting in another car, staring at another house he’ll never see again.
His chest heaves with uneven breaths as he presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, his thoughts spiraling. “Fine,” he mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible. “If they don’t want me, I don’t want them either.”
But deep down, in the part of him he doesn’t like to acknowledge, he knows that isn’t true. It never is.
All he wants, is to find a home. Selfish, isn’t it?
***
Time is a funny construct. Regulus knows this. He knows the sun can be in one place, and then in another, and somehow, it’s been five hours. He knows that he could have sat in this car for ten minutes or thirty. He’ll never know. What he does know, is what is being said about him.
He sits stiffly, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the dashboard as if it’s personally offended him. The hum of the engine has long since faded into the background, blending with the faint chirping of crickets outside and the occasional rustle of leaves. Sarah’s perfume still lingers faintly in the air, cloying and sweet, and it makes his nose itch. He rubs at it absentmindedly, his thoughts already drifting to the conversation inside the house.
He can picture it very clearly.
Sarah is standing just inside the doorway, clutching that worn, leather folder of hers that’s filled with all the things people need to know about him—his case file, his history, his failures. She’s flipping through it, probably skipping the parts about his meltdowns and focusing on the nicer things: “He’s bright, a quick learner. Likes to read. Keeps to himself.”
The man—Mr. Potter, he assumes—stands opposite her, his arms folded, head tilted slightly as he listens. He’s dressed casually: dark jeans, a gray sweater that looks a size too big, and a pair of worn sneakers that don’t seem to match the house behind him. His glasses catch the light, and his messy hair flops into his face every time he nods.
Regulus imagines Sarah saying something about him being “a bit shy” or “nervous around new people,” like that’s supposed to explain everything.
“He’ll come around,” she probably says, smiling that fake, reassuring smile she gives everyone. “It just takes him some time to adjust.”
And Mr. Potter, what would he say? Regulus pictures him frowning slightly, glancing toward the car where Regulus sits, invisible but somehow exposed all the same. He’d sigh, wouldn’t he? Run a hand through that mop of hair and wonder if this was a mistake.
“Is he going to be... difficult?” Regulus imagines him asking, his voice low, hesitant, like he’s already bracing himself for the worst.
Sarah would shake her head, quick to defend him, but it wouldn’t matter. The damage would already be done. It’s the same every time. They always ask. Sometimes they don’t even bother asking—they just look at him and decide on their own.
Difficult.
The word echoes in his mind, heavy and sharp. He presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to go inside. Doesn’t want to meet Mr. Potter or anyone else in that house. Doesn’t want to see the way they’ll look at him after a week, a month, when they’ve decided he’s too much work.
Sarah’s voice floats out from the house, muffled and indistinct, and he tenses, his heart thudding against his ribs. Maybe she’s defending him. Maybe she’s making promises she shouldn’t. Or maybe she’s just making excuses.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what she says, it’s always ends the same.
It always ends with him being difficult .
The word feels like a weight in his chest, suffocating, reminding him of all the ways he never measured up. All the times he tried and failed. All the families that gave up on him, one after another, because he wasn’t what they wanted.
He clenches his fists in his lap, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting, from screaming at the world for making him feel like this. He could stay here forever, hidden in the car where no one could judge him, where no one could see how wrong he was. But he knows that won’t solve anything. Eventually, Sarah will come back out, and he’ll have to face whatever comes next.
The blurred motion of the front door opening makes him freeze. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to know if it’s Sarah or someone else—someone from inside the house, already coming to tell him they’ve made up their mind.
Regulus doesn’t move. He just sits there, tense, eyes locked on the dashboard, trying to breathe, trying to ignore the pressure building in his chest. The seconds stretch on, each one feeling like an eternity. He feels the weight of it all, pressing down on him, suffocating him until he feels like he can’t take it anymore.
And then, the car door opens.
“Regulus,” Sarah says, her voice soft but steady. He doesn’t look at her. He stares straight ahead, his jaw tightening.
“It’s time to head inside,” she continues, crouching slightly so she’s at eye level with him. “They’re waiting for you.”
“No,” Regulus says flatly, his voice low and strained.
Sarah exhales, but she doesn’t back down. “Regulus, I know this is hard, but you have to at least give it a chance. Just come in, meet them, see how it feels. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I said no!” he snaps, his voice rising sharply as he finally turns to glare at her. His chest heaves, his breathing ragged as his frustration boils over.
Sarah stays calm, but there’s a flicker of something in her expression—weariness, maybe. She straightens up, resting her hand on the open door. “I understand you’re upset, but—”
“No!” Regulus screams, cutting her off. The word echoes in the car, sharp and raw. His hands are trembling now, and he presses them into his lap, trying to steady himself. He takes a deep, shaky breath and whispers, “I don’t want to.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Sarah hesitates, her brow furrowing, before she opens her mouth to try again. But before she can, a new voice cuts in.
“Can I try?”
Regulus’s head snaps up, his wide eyes darting to the man standing a few feet behind Sarah. It’s Mr. Potter. His hands are in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but there’s something in his expression—something calm, something patient—that makes Regulus’s throat tighten.
Sarah looks between them for a moment, then nods. “Alright,” she says softly, stepping aside to let Mr. Potter take her place.
He moves slowly, taking a seat on the curb just outside the car door. He doesn’t say anything right away, just sits there with his elbows on his knees, looking at the ground. Regulus glances at him, then back at the dashboard, unsure what to expect.
“Hi, Regulus, my name is Fleamont” Mr. Potter—Fleamont, though it’s rude to call an adult by their first name, he learnt that the hard way, unless if it’s Sarah—says after a moment, his tone quiet and steady. “I know you don’t want to go inside right now. And that’s okay. I’m not here to force you. I just wanted to talk for a bit. Is that alright?”
Regulus doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at him. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, his fingers digging into his sides.
“I get it,” Mr. Potter continues, his voice even. “This is hard. It’s scary, walking into a house full of strangers, not knowing what’s going to happen. I’d feel the same way if I were you.”
Regulus’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything.
Mr. Potter leans back slightly, resting his hands on his knees. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you? More than most people your age should ever have to. And I bet you’re tired of people making promises they can’t keep. Tired of hearing the same words over and over, only for things to fall apart.”
Regulus swallows hard, his gaze flickering to the man for just a second before darting away again.
“I’m not going to promise you that everything will be perfect,” Mr. Potter says softly. “Because it won’t be. I’m not perfect, and neither is anyone else in that house. But I can promise you this—we’ll try. We’ll do our best to make this work. Okay?”
The words hang in the air, heavy and unfamiliar. Regulus feels something twist in his chest, something he doesn’t know how to name. He bites the inside of his cheek, blinking hard against the stinging in his eyes.
“I know you don’t trust me yet,” Mr. Potter says, his voice quieter now. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to trust me right away. But I hope you’ll give us a chance. Just one step at a time.”
Regulus doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. But his grip on his arms loosens slightly, and he risks another glance at Mr. Potter. The man isn’t looking at him anymore; his gaze is on the ground, as if he’s giving Regulus the space to decide for himself.
After what feels like an eternity, Regulus shifts, his hands falling to his lap. He doesn’t say a word, but he reaches for the seatbelt, his movements hesitant and deliberate.
Mr. Potter looks up, a small, warm smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He stands, stepping back to give Regulus room to get out of the car.
Regulus hesitates for a moment longer, then swings the door open and steps out, his arms crossed tightly over his chest again. He doesn’t look at Mr. Potter or Sarah as he starts walking toward the house, his head down, his heart pounding.
Mr. Potter falls into step beside him, keeping a respectful distance but staying close enough that Regulus can feel his presence. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push. He just walks with him, steady and patient, as they approach the warm glow of the front door.
The front steps feel taller than they should, each one an effort, like dragging himself uphill. Regulus keeps his gaze glued to the ground, his arms still tightly crossed over his chest, as though that might hold him together. The warm light spilling from the open doorway feels harsh and too inviting all at once.
He stops just short of the threshold, his feet planted on the edge of the welcome mat. His breath catches, and for a moment, he considers bolting back to the car.
“Take your time,” Mr. Potter says gently, his voice low, almost like he’s speaking to avoid scaring off a wild animal.
He chances a glance inside. The house is... nothing like he expected. It isn’t sterile or overly pristine, like some of the foster homes he’s been in. There’s clutter—a pair of sneakers kicked off haphazardly near the stairs, a jacket draped over the back of the couch, books stacked precariously on a coffee table. The walls are covered with photos, frames in all shapes and sizes, showing smiling faces, some formal, others blurry and candid.
There’s no sign of judgment. No sign of people who have already decided he’s a problem they’ll regret taking on.
But that doesn’t mean it won’t come.
“Do you want to come in?” Sarah asks, her voice carefully neutral, but he can hear the undercurrent of encouragement.
Regulus swallows hard, his nails digging into his skin. He doesn’t answer, just takes one hesitant step forward, then another, until he’s standing in the doorway.
Regulus steps into the house, his shoes making barely a sound against the wooden floor. The air is warm, carrying the faint scent of something sweet—biscuits, maybe. His arms stay crossed tightly over his chest as he takes in the entryway. It’s simple but inviting, with a coat rack near the door and a small table holding a bowl of keys and loose change. The walls are painted a soft, warm yellow, and there’s a framed photo of a boy, roughly Regulus’ age, maybe slightly older, laughing, perched on the table.
“Regulus, this is my wife, Euphemia,” Mr. Potter says, gesturing toward the woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
Regulus glances up quickly, then down again, his heart still hammering in his chest. Mrs. Potter is younger than he expected—early thirties, maybe. Her red-brown hair is pulled back into a loose braid that rests over her shoulder, and her brown eyes are warm, scanning him with a mix of kindness and curiosity. She’s wearing a simple button-up blouse and jeans, casual but put-together, like the kind of person who doesn’t try too hard to impress but still somehow does.
“Hi, Regulus,” she says softly, her voice gentle but not overly sweet. “It’s nice to meet you. We’ve been looking forward to having you here.”
Regulus doesn’t respond, his eyes darting around the space instead. There’s a staircase to his right, leading to what he assumes is the second floor, and beyond Mrs. Potter, the kitchen is softly lit, its counters cluttered but not messy. It doesn’t feel staged or artificial, and something about that unsettles him.
“Thank you for taking him in on such short notice,” Sarah says, her voice breaking through his thoughts. She’s stepped inside now, standing a little awkwardly near the door, clutching her folder like it’s a lifeline. “I know this isn’t your usual placement. You’ve been so wonderful with the older teens, and I—well, I really appreciate this. I’ll be in touch in about a week to check in and see how everything’s going.”
Mrs. Potter glances at her husband, who nods before she replies, “Of course, Sarah. We’re happy to help.”
Sarah looks relieved. “I know younger kids aren’t usually your focus, but... I thought of you two immediately when we needed somewhere for Regulus. I just had a feeling.”
Regulus shifts his weight, his arms tightening over his chest. He hates when people talk about him like he isn’t there, like he’s some problem to solve.
“This is just a temporary placement,” Sarah continues, turning her gaze to Mr. and Mrs. Potter. “But if things go well... maybe we could talk about making it permanent.”
Regulus freezes. The word “permanent” echoes in his head, and his stomach twists. He knows better than to believe in things like that. It never works out. Not for him.
“We’ll see how it goes,” Mr. Potter says evenly.
Sarah nods, then turns to Regulus, holding out his bag. “Here you go,” she says, her tone softening. “I’ll check in soon, okay?”
Regulus doesn’t look at her as he takes the bag, his grip firm. His chest feels tight again, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He nods once, barely.
Sarah hesitates, like she wants to say something more, but then she steps back, giving him a small smile. “Take care, Regulus. You’re in good hands.”
He doesn’t respond.
As Sarah leaves, the Potters don’t push him to say anything. Mrs. Potter steps aside, giving him space, and Mr. Potter gestures toward the stairs. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room,” he says gently.
Regulus glances around the space one last time before following. There’s something about the house—its warmth, its imperfections, its quiet—but he doesn’t let himself think about it too much. It doesn’t matter. It never does.
***
Regulus has never been more anxious to walk up a set of stairs in his entire life. Which is silly because, frankly, he’s done this plenty of times. The only problem is, this time feels different. Something about this house unsettles him—unsettles him in a way he’s never experienced, never felt.
Maybe it’s the warmth, the way everything looks lived-in but not chaotic, or the way Mr. Potter looks at him, patient and steady, as if he doesn’t expect Regulus to fail. That unsettles him the most.
“We’ve set up your room at the end of the hall,” Mr. Potter says over his shoulder, his voice calm, like he’s simply narrating a walk. “It’s got its own bathroom, and we thought it might be nice for you to have some space to yourself.”
Your room. Regulus’s fingers curl into his palms, the words rattling uncomfortably in his mind. It’s not his room. It’s temporary. They’ll realize soon enough that he doesn’t belong here.
The hallway is bright, lined with photos that catch the soft overhead light. Regulus doesn’t let himself look at them. He keeps his eyes on the floor, his shoes scuffing against the polished wood with each step. His hands stay locked at his sides, stiff and awkward, as if they don’t belong to him.
Mr. Potter stops at a door at the end of the hall and pushes it open. He steps aside, gesturing for Regulus to go in.
Regulus hesitates for a moment before stepping forward, his arms wrapped tightly around himself like a shield.
The room is quiet, almost too quiet. The walls are painted a muted gray, and there’s a bed in the corner, neatly made with a navy-blue comforter. A small desk sits by the window, its surface empty except for a lamp, and a wardrobe stands in the corner. It feels clean, organized, and untouched—like no one has ever lived here before.
Mr. Potter lingers in the doorway, his voice low and even. “What do you think?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. He shifts from one foot to the other, his gaze darting across the room but never settling on anything for too long. His arms stay locked around his chest, his nails digging into his sleeves.
“It’s yours for as long as you need it,” Mr. Potter says, his tone gentle but firm, as if the words are supposed to mean something.
Regulus feels his stomach twist. He doesn’t want it to be his. He doesn’t want to stay long enough for it to matter.
After a moment, Mr. Potter clears his throat. “Have you eaten anything tonight?”
Regulus shakes his head, his movements small and stiff.
Mr. Potter doesn’t press. “When you’re ready, come downstairs, and we’ll make you something.” He pauses for a moment, as if waiting for Regulus to respond, but when it’s clear he won’t, Mr. Potter just nods. “Take your time.”
The door clicks softly as Mr. Potter leaves, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
Regulus stands there, frozen, his arms still wrapped tightly around himself. Slowly, he moves toward the desk and brushes his fingers along the smooth surface. It feels sturdy, dependable, unlike the rickety furniture in some of his previous placements.
But the familiarity of it all creeps in anyway. His mind dredges up memories he wishes he could forget: the foster father who scolded him for being too quiet, the foster mother who told him outright, “You’re too much for us to handle.” Their words swirl in his head, mixing with his own insecurities until he feels like he can’t breathe.
He swallows hard, his chest tightening, and forces himself to focus on the present. He moves to the bed, sits on the edge, and presses his hands against the comforter. The fabric is soft under his fingers, but it doesn’t ground him.
He glances at the closed door to the attached bathroom but doesn’t move toward it. Instead, he stays there, sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor as his thoughts spiral. He feels the pressure building again, like a balloon about to burst, but he doesn’t let it. He won’t.
This isn’t his room. This isn’t his house. This isn’t his life.
It’s just another stop. Another place he’ll have to leave behind.
And yet, the silence here feels... different. Not the heavy, suffocating kind he’s used to, but something softer, lighter. It makes him uneasy in a way he can’t explain.
For now, he stays where he is, staring at the floor, letting the quiet wrap around him like a blanket he doesn’t know how to wear.
Notes:
Word Count: 8,300
Published: 2025-01-05Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the following chapters to come!
Chapter 2: His True Self, Take It Or Leave It
Summary:
Day one of Regulus’ living with the Potters—and it is a lot. Unfortunately, for him, things get quite overwhelming, and he accidentally shows Mr. and Mrs. Potter just how difficult he actually is.
That’s it, he thinks, it’s over, before it even starts.
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Silence is a deafening sound, depending on what is being felt. Sometimes, regular silence, sometimes awkward silence, and sometimes even happy silence can be deafening.
But what’s not deafening is the sound of a very loud child—especially when they’re screaming. Well, screaming by Regulus’ standards, that is.
The sudden noise—a muffled shout followed by the sound of something thudding against a wall—shatters the fragile quiet like glass hitting the floor. Regulus flinches hard, his breath catching in his throat. His muscles tighten, and he curls in on himself, drawing his knees to his chest as though he can make himself small enough to disappear. His fingers twist into the hem of his slightly too-large t-shirt, the fabric worn soft under his grip.
He sits frozen, his heart pounding in his ears. The noise downstairs continues—a boy’s voice, rising and falling in bursts of energy. Words are indistinct, too far away to make out, but the tone is unmistakable: excited, carefree, loud. The kind of loud that makes Regulus’ skin prickle, his stomach twist.
It takes him a long moment to remember where he is. This isn’t his house. This isn’t like other homes. There are no harsh footsteps coming down the hall, no sharp voices cutting through the air. The walls here are softer somehow, their edges rounded by the warm lamplight seeping in through the crack under the door.
The noise downstairs quiets for a moment, and Regulus lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His fingers loosen their grip on his shirt, but his body stays tense, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Then his stomach grumbles—loud and insistent, breaking through the fog of his thoughts. The sound startles him almost as much as the shouting had, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment, even though no one else is here to hear it.
He remembers what Mr. Potter said, his voice kind and patient in a way that feels foreign to Regulus. “When you’re ready, come downstairs, and we’ll make you something.”
Regulus glances toward the door. The idea of going downstairs, of leaving the relative safety of this borrowed room, makes his throat tighten. But the ache in his stomach is sharper now, and the memory of Mr. Potter’s words lingers, nudging him forward.
Slowly, he uncurls himself and slides off the bed, his feet, covered in shoes too small for him, clide with the carpet silently. He hesitates for a moment, staring at the door, before steeling himself. He presses his hand against the cool brass of the doorknob and twists it as quietly as he can.
The hallway is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a light from downstairs. The house is unfamiliar, the layout strange, but Regulus keeps his eyes fixed on the staircase ahead. He moves carefully, his footsteps light, his body tense as if expecting someone to jump out and stop him.
The noise from earlier—the boy’s voice—grows louder as Regulus creeps down the stairs. It isn’t gone after all, and now it’s joined by the low murmur of adults talking. The sounds filter up, muffled by distinct: laughter, a light clatter of cutlery, and a boy’s voice tumbling over itself in an endless stream of words. Regulus pauses on the last step, his hand clutching the bannister as his heart pounds.
The air feels different here, alive with warmth and movement. It’s not heavy and oppressive like other homes are, but it isn’t entirely comforting either. It feels… exposed. Like the house is waiting to see what he’ll do next.
Regulus doesn’t like that. The feeling of being watched, studied, it reminds him of… of his parents.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. But then his stomach twists again, loud and insistent, and he remembers why he’s come down. He takes a shaky breath and steps into the hallway, following the glow from the kitchen.
The room is bright and inviting, lit by the warm overhead light. Mr. Potter is standing at the counter, leaning against it as he listens to something Mrs. Potter is saying. She’s seated at the table, a mug of tea in her hands, her smile soft and easy.
At the far end of the kitchen, the boy—a name Regulus doesn’t know—sits cross-legged in a chair, animately waving a half-eaten cookie as he talks. His voice is quick and full of energy, and though Regulus can’t make out the words, the sheer force of it makes his chest tighten.
He freezes in the doorway, his hands twisting into the hem of his shirt again. He doesn’t know if he should say something or wait for someone to notice him. His breath catches as the boy’s voice crescendos into a laugh, and his fingers tighten on the fabric.
But then Mr. Potter glances up, and his expression softens when he spots Regulus. “Ah, there you are,” he says warmly, straightening from the counter. “Hungry?”
Regulus nods, though his shoulders hunch as three sets of eyes turn toward him. He focuses on the floor, trying to make himself small.
“Come in, love,” Mrs. Potter says gently, patting the chair next to her. Her voice isn’t sharp, isn’t demanding. Just… soft.
Regulus hesitates but steps into the kitchen, his movements slow and cautious. He heads to the chair closest to him, the one opposite Mrs. Potter. He sits stiffly on the edge of the chair, his hands still fidgeting with his shirt.
“What can we get you?” Mr. Potter asks, already moving towards the fridge. “Would you like some leftover spaghetti? That’s what we had for dinner.”
Regulus nods again, still not looking up. His stomach grumbles again, and he curls in on himself, embarrassed.
“Spaghetti it is,” Mr. Potter says lightly, as though the sound hadn’t happened at all. He pulls out a container, and starts dishing it up into a bowl, moving with some kind of practiced ease that feels foreign to Regulus.
The boy, who’s been silent for all of thirty seconds, tilts his head curiously. “Dad, are you going to heat that up? You can’t give someone cold spaghetti,” he says, gesturing toward the bowl on the counter.
Mr. Potter glances at it and smiles. “I was just about to, James. You’re very perceptive, as always.”
James grins, clearly pleased with the compliment, and reaches for a cookie from the plate on the table. “I’m just saying, cold spaghetti’s gross. It’s all stuck together. Not a good first impression.”
“James,” Mrs. Potter says lightly, giving him a knowing look over her mug of tea.
“What?” he says, taking a big bite of the cookie. “I’m helping.”
The microwave hums to life as Mr. Potter places the bowl inside and presses a few buttons. The sound fills the room, blending with the faint clink of Mrs. Potter’s spoon as she stirs her tea.
Regulus keeps his head down, his hands twisting the edge of his jumper again. The warm, sugary scent of the cookies wafts toward him, but he doesn’t dare take one from the plate sitting at the center of the table.
Mrs. Potter sets her mug down and smiles gently at him. “Regulus,” she says in that soft voice of hers, careful and deliberate. “This is James, our son.”
Regulus doesn’t lift his gaze, but he feels James’ attention shift to him immediately.
“Hi,” James says brightly, his tone as casual as if they’d known each other for years. “You’re Regulus, right? Mum and Dad said you were staying with us now. That’s cool. I’ve got this game we could play later—if you want, I mean. Or not. That’s fine, too.”
“James,” Mrs. Potter interjects gently, laying a hand on his arm.
James stops mid-thought and shrugs. “Right. Sorry. Nice to meet you,” he says quickly, though there’s no edge of embarrassment in his voice.
The microwave dings, the sharp sound breaking the brief pause. Mr. Potter retrieves the bowl, stirring the contents with a fork before setting it carefully in front of Regulus. Steam curls into the air, carrying the faint smell of tomato sauce and garlic.
“There you go,” Mr. Potter says as he sits down beside Regulus, his voice calm and steady.
James tilts his head again, clearly tempted to say more, but before he can, Mr. Potter turns to him. “James, could you give us a little space to talk to Regulus?”
James blinks, surprised, but doesn’t argue. He grabs another cookie from the plate as he stands. “Yeah, sure.”
Walking over to his mum, James leans down and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. “Goodnight, Mum.”
“Goodnight, love,” she replies, her hand brushing over his curls in a brief, affectionate gesture.
James turns to his dad. “’Night, Dad.”
“Goodnight, James,” Mr. Potter says, smiling at him.
Finally, James glances at Regulus. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers for a moment—curious, thoughtful—before he walks out of the kitchen. His footsteps echo on the stairs, and the house seems to exhale in the quiet that follows.
Regulus stays motionless, his eyes fixed on the bowl in front of him. The warmth of the spaghetti feels both inviting and overwhelming, the smell stirring a faint hunger in his stomach.
“Take your time, Regulus,” Mr. Potter says gently, his tone unwaveringly patient. “There’s no rush.”
Regulus doesn’t look up, but he picks up the fork slowly, his movements tentative. Slowly, he takes a bite of the spaghetti. It’s nice, albeit a bit greasy, but that’s alot of foods. He doesn’t really like the texture, but he likes the taste of it enough to deal with the grease.
He’s probably gotten through about half his meal before Mr. and Mrs. Potter start talking to him again. Their voices are calm, not sharp or scolding, but they still make his shoulders tense. He keeps his eyes on the bowl of spaghetti, fork moving in small, precise motions as he eats.
“We just want to go over a few things,” Mr. Potter begins, his tone measured and gentle. “House rules, expectations—nothing too complicated.”
Regulus doesn’t respond, only nods once. He doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to see their faces while they talk.
“First and most important,” Mrs. Potter says, her voice carrying that same careful softness, “this is a safe space. You don’t have to be afraid to ask for help or speak your mind. If something’s bothering you, we want you to feel comfortable telling us.”
Regulus’ fingers tighten on the fork. He swallows a bite of spaghetti but doesn’t lift his gaze. He’s never heard that before. Other homes didn’t like him asking for help—it was always an inconvenience, something they sighed at or ignored entirely. But here... here he’s allowed ?
They can’t possibly mean that. He can’t possibly be allowed to speak his mind. To tell them when they’re wrong, or when something’s bothering him. That’s just absurd. Adults don’t like to hear things like that, not really. The words make his chest feel tight and his stomach churn with unease.
“And you don’t have to keep everything to yourself,” Mrs. Potter continues, like she can somehow sense the doubt forming in his head. “You’re not alone here.”
He nods again, a quick jerk of his head. He doesn’t know how else to respond, doesn’t trust himself to say anything without sounding wrong.
“Second,” Mr. Potter says, picking up where his wife left off, “we ask that you be respectful of the house and everyone in it. So, that means no slamming doors, no shouting, and if you’re upset, we’ll talk it through together. But if you do slam doors or shout, it’s okay. You won’t be in trouble; however, we will ask you to apologize for your actions to whichever person it was. All right?”
Another nod. Regulus keeps eating, though his appetite is beginning to wane. No shouting? No slamming doors? Those weren’t rules he was used to hearing. If anything, shouting and slamming were expected in the other homes—part of the rhythm of the day. But here, they’re telling him it’s okay to mess up, as long as he apologizes?
It doesn’t make sense. Do they want him to be... normal? Because he can try, if that’s what they want. But sooner or later, they’ll realize he’s not normal. That he’s different in ways that can’t be fixed, no matter how much he tries.
“And finally,” Mrs. Potter says, her voice soft but firm, “we expect you to treat yourself with kindness. That means eating when you’re hungry, sleeping when you’re tired, and letting us know if you’re feeling unwell.”
Regulus blinks down at his bowl. His stomach tightens at the words. Treat himself with kindness? What kind of rule is that?
The idea feels foreign, even ridiculous. Kindness wasn’t something he’d been taught to direct inward. It was something you gave to others, sparingly, when it was earned. Not something you offered to yourself. He tries to imagine doing what they’re asking—telling someone he’s tired or hungry or not feeling well—and the thought feels impossible.
He doesn’t notice when he finishes the last bite of spaghetti until Mrs. Potter stands and gently takes the bowl from him. “Thank you,” she says, as if he’s done something worthy of praise.
Her tone is so genuine that it makes something in his chest twist uncomfortably. He keeps his hands in his lap, fingers curling slightly as he watches her carry the bowl into the kitchen. The sound of running water and clinking dishes fills the room, but it doesn’t distract him from the strange knot of emotions swirling inside him.
When Mrs. Potter returns, she’s carrying a glass of milk and the plate of cookies. She sets the milk down in front of him, her smile kind but not overbearing. “You should have one or two before bed,” she says gently. “They’re fresh.”
Regulus stares at the plate for a moment before reaching out, hesitating briefly before picking up a cookie. It’s warm in his hand, the chocolate chips soft and slightly melted. He takes a small, cautious bite, and the sweetness surprises him, though he keeps his expression carefully neutral.
Mr. Potter leans forward slightly, his voice steady but light. “We’ll also need to talk about school,” he says. “You’ll be attending the same school as James. We’ll get you registered tomorrow.”
The word school makes Regulus freeze mid-bite. A new school. A new place full of people he doesn’t know, with rules he doesn’t understand. The knot in his chest tightens, his breathing shallow as his hands curl slightly around the cookie.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Potter says, noticing the way his shoulders hunch. “We’ll make sure everything is sorted, and James can help show you around. You won’t be on your own.”
He nods stiffly, though his chest feels like it’s caving in. He keeps his gaze down, staring at the glass of milk like it holds answers he doesn’t have.
Mrs. Potter reaches out, her hand brushing lightly against his. “We can finish this conversation in the morning, over breakfast,” she says warmly. “For now, you should head upstairs and get some rest. It’s been a long day.”
Regulus hesitates, but he nods again and stands, his chair scraping softly against the floor. He keeps his eyes on the ground as he steps away from the table, the rest of the cookie clutched in his hand.
“Goodnight, Regulus,” Mr. Potter says, his voice calm and steady.
“Goodnight,” Mrs. Potter echoes softly.
Regulus doesn’t respond as he walks toward the stairs, his steps slow and deliberate. At the bottom of the staircase, he pauses and glances back, his fingers tightening slightly around the cookie. The Potters remain at the table, their voices soft and full of warmth—a warmth that feels like a language he doesn’t know how to speak.
Turning away, he climbs the stairs, the cookie growing warm and fragile in his hand.
***
Regulus wakes up dazed and slightly confused. He’s not too sure where he is at first. The room is unfamiliar—too bright, too neat, too quiet. It takes him a moment to piece it all together. The Potters’ house. The room they said would be his, at least for now.
The remnants of his dream linger in his mind, vivid and soft at the edges. He was at the beach, the last time he’d been there—his eleventh birthday. It had been August, the sun blazing high in the sky, warming the sand beneath his feet. He remembers the feel of the waves, cool and sharp, crashing against his legs and pulling at him as if they wanted to take him with them. The salty breeze stung his face, and the sound of the ocean had drowned out everything else. For a moment, back then, it had felt like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
But dreams like that are cruel. They start sweet, then sour the moment he wakes up, leaving him feeling more lost than before.
Regulus glances around the room. His gaze lands on the small window across from the bed, and he remembers how long it had taken him to fall asleep last night. He couldn’t relax, couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong here. The bed had been too soft, the blankets too clean, the air too still. Everything about the house felt... nice. Too nice.
Nice wasn’t something Regulus was used to. Nice came with expectations, with rules he didn’t understand and couldn’t follow no matter how hard he tried. Nice made his skin prickle with unease, like it was waiting to catch him doing something wrong. The way the house smelled faintly of lavender and lemon polish, the way every surface seemed carefully arranged and cared for—it all felt foreign.
He’d tried to lie still, to sink into the softness, but every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind outside made his chest tighten. He’d been too aware of his own breathing, of the way his pulse seemed loud in his ears. His thoughts spiraled, circling back to the same question: What if he couldn’t stay here? What if they decided he didn’t fit?
So, instead of sleeping, he’d sat by the window, staring out at the night sky.
The stars had been clearer than he’d ever seen them in London. The hazy glow of city lights hadn’t dulled them here. They’d glittered like scattered diamonds on a black velvet canvas, vast and endless. For the first time in what felt like forever, he’d spotted Sirius, his favorite star.
He’d traced its light with his eyes, whispering its name in his mind like a secret. Sirius. The dog star. The brightest in the sky. He liked to imagine it had been watching him, guiding him, even when he couldn’t see it. It had made him feel small but comforted, like maybe he wasn’t completely adrift after all.
That thought had carried him until the first hint of exhaustion finally crept in, pulling him reluctantly back to bed. Even then, sleep had been shallow and restless, with the brightness of the room teasing at the edges of his dreams.
He sighs and rubs his eyes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool under his feet as he gets up and rummages through the bag he brought with him for something to wear. Once dressed, he makes his way downstairs, his steps hesitant and careful, trying not to make too much noise.
The smell of tea greets him as he steps into the kitchen. It’s faintly bitter but comforting, curling through the air like a soft thread. Mrs. Potter is there, standing by the counter with a mug in her hand, steam curling upward. She turns when she hears him, offering him a warm smile that he doesn’t quite know how to return.
“Good morning, Regulus,” she says gently. “Did you sleep all right?”
He shrugs, his fingers brushing against the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t know how to answer that, and she doesn’t push.
She sets her mug down on the counter and straightens. “Are you hungry? What would you like for breakfast?”
He shrugs again, his eyes darting to the floor. The question feels too big, too open-ended. What does he want? He doesn’t even know how to begin answering that.
Mrs. Potter starts listing options. “I could make you eggs? Or porridge? Pancakes, maybe?”
Her voice is kind, gentle, but the words come too quickly, stacking on top of each other until they form a weight he can’t carry. His chest tightens, the air around him suddenly feeling too loud, too much. He grips the hem of his shirt tighter, twisting the fabric in his fingers. He doesn’t want to choose. He’s not used to choosing. He’s used to being handed whatever’s easiest, whatever’s left over, and told to make do. This feels... wrong.
Mrs. Potter seems to notice the way he’s gone still, the way his breathing has quickened ever so slightly. Her tone softens even further, like a whisper cutting through the noise. “How about this,” she says, her voice calm and steady. “I’ll make you some toast, and you can pick the spread. Does that sound good?”
Regulus nods, the relief immediate. One option feels manageable. One choice feels... safe.
She places two slices of bread into the toaster and starts pulling jars from a nearby cupboard. “We’ve got peanut butter, marmalade, and strawberry jam,” she says, setting them on the counter with a small clink.
Regulus hesitates, his eyes flicking between the jars. The choice is smaller now, but it still feels strange. After a moment, he lifts a finger and points to the marmalade.
“Ah, marmalade,” she says with a smile, her tone light and easy. “That’s a good choice.”
When the toast pops up, she plates it neatly and hands it to him along with a small butter knife. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing against the warm edges of the bread, and moves to sit at the table. Slowly, he spreads the marmalade across one slice, the tangy-sweet scent rising as he works.
He takes a bite. The flavor is sharp and bright, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. It’s... okay. He chews slowly, letting the quiet of the kitchen settle over him.
Mrs. Potter joins him at the table with her tea, sitting across from him. She doesn’t say much at first, just sips her drink quietly. The silence feels strange, but it’s not heavy. It’s not the kind that fills every corner of a room and presses down on him.
After a few moments, she speaks again. “Once Fleamont gets back from dropping James off at school,” she says, her voice soft but steady, “we’ll head out to get you registered. How does that sound?”
Regulus nods again, his focus remaining on his toast. He doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t try.
“Good,” she says, her smile warm and encouraging.
Regulus keeps eating, each bite slow and deliberate. The weight in his chest hasn’t disappeared completely, but it feels lighter somehow, like it’s not crushing him quite as much.
***
If Regulus had to choose which was worse, he’d probably choose this. What are his options? Starting a new school or being kicked out of a foster home? He’d pick the former, every time.
Which is odd, isn’t it?
Because Regulus knows how much it hurts to be moved from home to home. To pack up what little he has, pile it into a car, and be driven away like a problem no one wants to solve. But starting a new school—being the “new kid” again—was his worst nightmare. And here he is, on school number seven since February. It’s the first of June.
The car ride over wasn’t as bad as it could have been, surprisingly. It was quiet, the radio set to a low station that played soft rock and oldies, and Mr. Potter hummed along to some of the songs, occasionally muttering a lyric or two. Regulus had stared out the window, watching the trees blur together, trying to focus on the steady movement of the car instead of the anxious knot tightening in his stomach.
Now, they’re here, sitting in the brightly lit school office. Regulus sits stiffly in one of the chairs, his hands folded in his lap, fingers pressing into his knees. His stomach churns as he stares at the counter, where a receptionist is busy typing something on her computer.
He’s done this before. He knows how this goes. His previous foster parents would get annoyed with him, frustrated when he didn’t immediately recite his full name, date of birth, or whatever other information the school needed. One foster mother had scolded him in front of an entire office staff. You’re eleven years old! How do you not know your own information by now? The memory makes his face burn.
Regulus braces himself, already preparing for the same thing to happen here. He’s ready for Mrs. Potter’s kind smile to shift into irritation, for Mr. Potter’s quiet humming to stop, replaced by clipped, impatient words.
But it doesn’t happen.
“Regulus?” Mrs. Potter’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. She’s sitting beside him, holding the stack of enrollment forms, her expression calm and steady. “How would you like to go about this? We can fill it out together if you’d like.”
He blinks at her, caught off guard. “Or,” Mr. Potter chimes in from his other side, his voice light, “if you’d rather, you can write down the details on another piece of paper, and we’ll transfer them over. Whatever feels easiest.”
Regulus stares at them both for a long moment. They’re serious. There’s no trace of irritation, no sign that they’re about to snap at him for not speaking up fast enough.
Finally, he nods, reaching for the blank piece of paper Mrs. Potter offers him and the pen Mr. Potter pulls from his pocket. His hands tremble slightly as he writes. His full name: Regulus Arcturus Black. His date of birth: 16th August 2008.
He keeps his head down, his fingers tight around the pen as he focuses on forming the letters as neatly as possible. He doesn’t want to mess this up.
“Take your time,” Mrs. Potter says softly.
When he’s done, he slides the paper over to her, his shoulders tensing as he waits for some kind of comment or criticism. But Mrs. Potter just smiles gently. “Thank you, Regulus. This makes it much easier.”
She and Mr. Potter work together to transfer the information to the official forms. It doesn’t take long, and when they finish, Mrs. Potter stands, smoothing out her skirt. “I’ll hand these in at the desk,” she says. “I’ll only be a minute. Fleamont, why don’t you and Regulus head to the uniform shop? I’ll meet you there shortly.”
“Of course,” Mr. Potter says, rising from his seat. He pats Regulus lightly on the shoulder, a gesture so casual it almost startles him. “Come on, Regulus. Let’s get you sorted.”
Regulus hesitates for a moment before standing and following Mr. Potter toward the door. As he glances back, he sees Mrs. Potter chatting warmly with the receptionist, her smile as genuine as it had been with him.
It’s strange. Strange that none of this feels like the disaster he’d been expecting. Strange that, for once, the tight knot of anxiety in his chest is beginning to loosen—just a little.
The walk through the office and into the uniform shop isn’t long. Regulus keeps his gaze on the floor as they move, the sound of Mr. Potter’s polished shoes tapping softly against the tile steadying him more than he expects. The shop is tucked into a small corner of the building, neat racks of uniforms lining the walls and a desk at the front where a cheerful-looking woman greets them as they enter.
“Good morning!” she says brightly, her smile widening when Mr. Potter approaches.
“Good morning,” Mr. Potter replies, just as warm. “We need to get this young man sorted for his school uniform.” He gestures to Regulus, who shifts awkwardly under the woman’s gaze.
“Of course, we’ll get him all set up,” she says kindly, her pen poised over the clipboard. She looks up at Mr. Potter. “What size is he in shirts and shorts?”
Mr. Potter pauses, glancing at Regulus. “I’m not entirely sure,” he admits. “Regulus, do you know?”
Regulus hesitates, his fingers twitching at his sides. He doesn’t speak, but after a moment, he holds up both hands, splaying his fingers wide to indicate a size 10.
The woman smiles warmly, her tone light. “All right, let’s start there. We’ll find a size that fits him.” She steps away, moving toward the racks.
Mr. Potter looks down at Regulus with a nod of approval. “Good thinking,” he says softly, like Regulus has done something clever.
Regulus glances away, unsure how to respond. It wasn’t clever; it was just easier than trying to explain aloud. But the words don’t feel patronizing—they feel genuine, and that throws him off.
He steps back, his eyes wandering over the rows of crisp white shirts, navy pants, and racks of neatly folded sweaters. The sight makes his chest tighten, and he has to swallow hard against the wave of unease that rises in his throat.
His mind flashes back to another uniform shop, months ago, with a previous foster mother. She’d been impatient from the start, snapping at the shop assistant to “hurry it up” because she had “better things to do.” Regulus had been handed a shirt that felt awful against his skin—rough and itchy, the seams digging into his shoulders in a way that made his stomach churn.
He’d tried to explain it, stumbling over his words, but she hadn’t understood.
“You’re just being difficult, Regulus,” she’d hissed, her face pinched with annoyance. “It’s a shirt. Just put it on.”
The memory makes his palms sweat, and he rubs them against the sides of his pants, trying to ground himself.
The woman returns with a neatly folded set of clothes: a long-sleeved white shirt and a pair of navy-blue pants. “Here we are. Try these on for size, and we’ll adjust if needed,” she says, handing them over.
Regulus takes the clothes silently, the fabric cool under his fingers, and slips into the small dressing room. As he pulls on the shirt, he’s relieved to find the fabric smooth and comfortable against his skin—no scratchiness, no awful seams. The pants, however, are too big, and he frowns as he tries to tighten the waistband unsuccessfully.
He steps out hesitantly, tugging the shirt down over his wrists. Mrs. Potter is there now, standing beside Mr. Potter, her tea-colored skirt swishing as she turns to face him.
“How does it feel?” she asks, her voice gentle.
Regulus nods quickly but then points to the waistband of the pants, giving it a small tug to show how loose it is.
“Too big, I see,” the woman at the desk says, already reaching for a smaller size. She hands him another pair of pants, her smile easy. “Here, try these on. We’ll get it right.”
Regulus nods again, takes the new pair, and heads back into the dressing room. When he comes out this time, the pants fit snugly but comfortably, and he gives them a small thumbs-up.
“Perfect,” Mr. Potter says, smiling.
The woman sets aside two shirts and two pairs of pants, then hands him the sports uniform: a navy and yellow shirt with matching shorts. “Try these next,” she says.
Regulus ducks back into the dressing room. As soon as he pulls the sports shirt over his head, though, he grimaces. The fabric is stiff, the synthetic material brushing against his skin in a way that makes his shoulders tense.
When he steps out, his expression speaks volumes.
“Does the shirt feel funny?” Mr. Potter asks, his brows knitting together in concern.
Regulus nods hesitantly, tugging at the hem as if that might somehow make it feel better.
“James didn’t like the fabric of these shirts either,” Mrs. Potter says, her tone understanding. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
Regulus hesitates before shaking his head. It’s not unbearable, just… unpleasant.
Mrs. Potter watches him carefully. “Are you sure? If it’s too much, we can figure something out.”
He shakes his head again, this time more firmly.
“All right, we’ll just get one set for now,” she says gently.
They also pick out a pack of navy-blue socks and sports socks before Regulus changes back into his own clothes. At the counter, the woman folds the uniforms into a neat bag while Mr. Potter handles the payment, chatting with her casually.
When they leave the shop, bag in hand, Regulus realizes something strange—this had been the most pleasant uniform shopping experience he’s ever had. No one had snapped at him or made him feel like a burden. He hadn’t even felt pressured to speak.
It’s unsettling, in a way. He doesn’t know how to process kindness when it’s this quiet, this easy. But as they step out into the sunlight, the warmth of the day encases him, and for just a moment, the knot in his chest loosens.
The feeling doesn’t last long, though. By the time they’re back in the car, Regulus feels the knot tightening again. The quiet hum of the engine vibrates through the seat as Mr. Potter starts the car, and Mrs. Potter turns to him from the passenger seat, her voice gentle but clear.
“Regulus, would you like to stop and get your school shoes now, or would you prefer to do it later?”
Regulus freezes. He stares at her for a moment, his fingers gripping the handles of the bag on his lap. His mind spins with the options, each one worse than the last.
Now? That means walking into another store, dealing with more people, more questions, more choices. The thought makes his stomach churn. But later… later would be worse. Later, he’d have time to dread it, time for the anxiety to build and twist until it became unbearable.
Neither option feels good, but he knows he has to pick one. He lifts his hands hesitantly and gestures in a way that says “now,” his movements small and uncertain.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t push, doesn’t ask him to explain. She simply nods, her smile soft and understanding.
“Alrighty, then,” Mr. Potter says cheerfully from the driver’s seat. “Let’s go.”
The car pulls out of the parking lot, and Regulus shifts in his seat, trying to ignore the nervous energy buzzing under his skin. The bag of uniforms feels heavier in his lap than it should, a reminder of the strange, almost unsettling ease of the morning.
He presses his forehead lightly against the window, watching the buildings blur past as they drive. The sunlight filters through the glass, warming his face, but it doesn’t do much to ease the tension twisting in his chest. He closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on the rhythmic sound of the car’s engine, trying to steady himself.
Shoes, he thinks. It’s just shoes. In and out. It’ll be fine.
***
This is not fine, like, at all. The shoe shop is loud. Too loud. Regulus sits stiffly on the bench where people try on shoes, his hands gripping the edge as he tries to ground himself. The fluorescent lights above seem to hum unnaturally, and their sharp, white glow reflects harshly off the shiny tiles, making his head throb.
He glances at the row of shelves lined with black, brown, gray, leather shoes and immediately looks away, overwhelmed by the sheer number of them. Everything feels too much—the bright lights, the echoes of voices bouncing off the walls, the smell of polished leather that lingers in the air. He stares at the floor instead, focusing on the speckled pattern of the tiles.
"Here we go," Mrs. Potter says gently, placing a box of black leather school shoes on the bench next to him. She kneels down, opening the box and lifting one of the stiff, shiny shoes out. "Let’s see if these fit, shall we?"
Regulus reluctantly pulls off his too-small sneakers, his socks bunched awkwardly around his toes. He slides his foot into the new shoe and immediately grimaces. It’s stiff, unyielding, and presses uncomfortably against his heel.
Mrs. Potter notices. "How does it feel? Too tight?"
Regulus shakes his head quickly, not wanting to make a fuss, but the truth is the shoe feels all wrong. The leather is hard, and it pinches in places he didn’t know shoes could pinch.
"Try the other one," Mr. Potter encourages, his voice calm and patient. Regulus slips on the second shoe, but it feels just as bad as the first. He shifts his feet uncomfortably, his hands clenching the hem of his shirt.
"They’ll soften once you’ve worn them a bit," Mrs. Potter says kindly, though she’s clearly watching him closely, as if she can sense his unease. "We’ll take the first pair—they’ll feel better after some wear."
Regulus nods mutely, slipping the shoes back off. The relief is instant, though short-lived as Mrs. Potter picks up his worn-out sneakers and frowns.
"Regulus," she says softly, holding up the scuffed and frayed shoes. "These look a bit too small for you. Why don’t we pick out a new pair while we’re here?"
His chest tightens. He doesn’t want to. The thought of walking through the rows of shelves filled with dozens of options makes his stomach churn. But he doesn’t know how to say no, so he stands and follows them to the aisle of sneakers.
"Take your time," Mr. Potter says gently, gesturing to the shelves. "Pick something you like."
Regulus stares at the options, his heart pounding. There are too many. Too many colors, too many styles, too many choices. His eyes dart from one pair to the next, and the walls feel like they’re closing in.
Mr. Potter must notice the way his breathing quickens because he steps in, pointing to a few pairs. "Why don’t we start with these?" he says, pulling down a black pair and a navy pair.
Regulus nods stiffly, trying to focus on the shoes instead of the rising panic in his chest. He sits back down and tries on the black pair first. They’re okay—not as stiff as the leather shoes—but still not quite right.
"It’s okay to take your time," Mr. Potter reassures him. "We want you to find something that’s comfortable, something that won’t hurt your feet."
Regulus hesitates, then tries on the navy pair. They’re too tight. He shakes his head, and Mr. Potter grabs another box, this one with a sleek black pair that catches Regulus’ eye.
When he slips them on, he pauses. They feel... better. Not perfect, but better. The material is softer, the fit snug but not too tight.
"How do those feel?" Mrs. Potter asks, crouching slightly to look at him.
Regulus nods, giving a small shrug that means "they’re fine."
Mrs. Potter smiles. "If they feel good, we’ll go with these."
They purchase the shows, and as they step out of the store into the hallway of the larger building, Regulus feels the shift from the artificial glow inside to the cooler, dimmer light of the corridor. The air feels fresher here, less cloying that inside the shop. He clutches the bag tightly, his fingers curled around the thin plastic handles like it’s the only thing tethering him. The knot in his chest loosens slightly, but it’s still there, its edges pressing uncomfortably.
Mrs. Potter walks beside him, her pace steady and unhurried. She glances down at him as they pass by a large opening, one he assumes in a door, that leads into another store. “Regulus,” she says gently, her voice cutting through the lingering noise in his head, “do you want to stop and get a couple more clothes while we’re here?”
He stiffens slightly, his eyes flicking to the floor. He knows the answer should be yes. It has to be yes. She’s only asking because she’s noticed—of course, she’s noticed. His shirt is too big, the shoulders hanging awkwardly, the hem brushing too far past his hips. His jeans, though worn and familiar, don’t quite fit right either. But the thought of walking into another store, of standing under more bright lights and sifting through racks of clothes, makes his stomach twist.
Still, she’s waiting, her gaze kind but perceptive, as if she already knows what he’s thinking. Slowly, hesitantly, Regulus nods, his movements small and reluctant. He keeps his focus on the floor, not wanting to meet her eyes.
Mrs. Potter smiles softly, not too brightly, as if she knows not to overwhelm him. “Alright,” she says, her tonereassuring. “We’ll keep it quick. Just a couple of things to make sure you’re comfortable.”
Mr. Potter, walking just ahead, glances back and nods. “That’s a good idea,” he says lightly. He flashes him a small, encouraging smile, then gestures toward the nearby store to his right. “We can be in and out in no time.”
Regulus follows hem inside, clutching the bag a little tighter, bracing himself for the next round of decisions…
Clothes.
Clothes are a difficult topic. They’re either too big, too small, too itchy, too scratchy, too silky, too rough, too... well, not right. Regulus doesn’t know how to explain it. He’s never been able to. Some clothes have always felt wrong —like they weren’t made for him at all. And here, under the bright, buzzing lights of the store, everything feels sharper, louder, and heavier.
"Alright, Regulus," Mrs. Potter says gently, her voice cutting through the overwhelming noise of the world around him. "Why don’t we start with something simple? Socks and underwear."
Socks and underwear. Okay. He can do that. Socks and underwear are easy. He nods, stepping closer to the rack where they’re displayed. His fingers graze the packaging, the plastic smooth under his touch. Plain black socks. Basic underwear. Simple choices, safe choices. He hands them over to Mrs. Potter, who smiles warmly.
"Good choice," she says as she places them into the shopping basket.
Next comes the pyjamas. He hesitates as they guide him to the section, his eyes scanning the rows of brightly colored patterns. Some are too loud, the colors too vibrant, the fabrics too shiny. But after a few moments, he spots a set with navy bottoms and a grey top, dotted with tiny stars. He runs his fingers over the fabric—it’s soft, not perfect, but tolerable. He hands it to Mr. Potter, who grins.
"Stars, huh? Nice one," Mr. Potter says, adding the set to the basket.
And then, the shorts.
"Two pairs," Mrs. Potter says, guiding him toward the racks. "Take your time."
He touches the fabrics, his fingers brushing against different textures. Almost immediately, he recoils from one—a stiff, scratchy material that sends a shiver of discomfort down his spine. Another pair feels too slippery, almost slimy. He pulls his hand back quickly, his chest tightening.
The more he touches, the worse it gets. Nothing feels right. Denim feels okay—better than the rest. He pulls down one pair and grips it tightly, but the process of finding another feels impossible. His breathing starts to quicken. The lights seem brighter, the buzzing overhead louder, the air heavier.
His hands begin to flap at his sides, small, jerky movements he can’t stop. He knows he needs to breathe, to focus, but it’s like everything is spiraling out of control.
"Regulus?" Mrs. Potter’s voice is soft, concerned.
He shakes his head, stepping back from the rack. Shirts. Maybe shirts will be easier.
They aren’t.
The textures are wrong— all of them. Too heavy, too light, too stretchy, too stiff. He’s supposed to pick three, but every time he touches a shirt, a wave of discomfort crashes over him. His chest tightens further, his breathing turning shallow and uneven. His hands clutch the hem of his too-big shirt, twisting it as he tries to ground himself, but nothing helps.
He tries to focus on the Potters, on their calm voices, but the weight of it all is too much. The bright lights, the noise, the pressure to choose—it all builds until he feels like he’s suffocating.
And then it happens.
He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. His vision blurs, his chest feels like it’s caving in, and his hands are trembling. He clutches at his hair, crouching down to the floor. He tries to make it stop, but he can’t.
Panic sets in.
This is how it happened before. The last time. When his foster parents told him he was being “too difficult,” that he was “causing a scene.” When they decided he wasn’t worth keeping.
They’ll send me away too, he thinks, panic clawing at his throat. They’ll get rid of me just like everyone else.
He doesn’t remember much after that. Just fragments. The feeling of hands on his shoulders—not rough, but steady. A soft voice—Mrs. Potter’s?—speaking low and soothing.
"Regulus," she says gently, "you’re okay. You’re safe. Just breathe, sweetheart."
Another voice—Mr. Potter’s this time. Calm, steady. "It’s alright, bud. We’re not going anywhere. Just take your time."
The words don’t fully register, but the tone does. Slowly, the tightness in his chest begins to ease. His breathing steadies, the world around him coming back into focus.
When he finally looks up, he’s sitting on the floor in a quieter corner of the store. Mrs. Potter is kneeling beside him, her hand resting lightly on his back, and Mr. Potter is crouched nearby, his expression calm but concerned.
"You alright?" Mr. Potter asks softly, his gaze steady but kind.
Regulus nods shakily, his hands still clutching the fabric of his shirt.
Mr. Potter exchanges a glance with Mrs. Potter before turning back to Regulus. "How about we take a little break? Maybe we can head over to the toy section, check out the soft toys. What do you think?"
Soft toys. That... doesn’t sound so bad. Regulus hesitates, then nods.
"Good idea," Mrs. Potter says with a small smile.
They guide him toward the toy section, keeping a slow, easy pace. The shelves here are brighter, but the atmosphere is quieter, less overwhelming. Regulus gravitates toward the soft toys, his fingers brushing over their fur.
And then he finds it.
A small black dog teddy bear, one that could be taken anywhere, its fur impossibly soft, like clouds beneath his fingers. He picks it up, holding it close, the texture soothing in a way he didn’t expect.
The softness reminds him of something—of someone. Of his brother, Sirius. The way Sirius used to be with him, back when things were simpler, safer.
He doesn’t say anything, but he holds the dog tightly, his breathing finally steady. Regulus continues to stroke the impossibly soft fur of the dog, his fingers running over it again and again. The sensation calms him, almost as much as his brother’s hugs do, the knot in his chest finally loosening just a little after what felt like forever.
"You like the feel of that one?" Mr. Potter asks, his tone light, as though this is the most natural question in the world.
Regulus nods, clutching the dog a little tighter.
It’s only then that he notices Mrs. Potter isn’t there. He glances around the toy section, his brow furrowing slightly as he tilts his head at Mr. Potter.
As if reading his mind, Mr. Potter says, "Euphemia will be back in a bit. She had to grab something."
Regulus nods slowly, his fingers still gripping the dog’s paw. The response reassures him somewhat, though he can’t help the faint hum of uncertainty in the back of his mind.
His gaze drifts behind Mr. Potter to the back wall, where he spots a section of shelves lined with books. Something inside him stirs—a quiet excitement—and without a word, he begins walking toward it, the teddy still in his hand.
Books have always been his favorite.
He steps into the book section, letting his eyes roam over the spines, searching for titles he’s already read and ones he hasn’t. For a moment, the overwhelming buzz of the store fades into the background, replaced by the quiet thrill of being surrounded by stories.
"You like reading?" Mr. Potter asks from behind him.
Regulus nods, his hand reaching for a book. He pulls it off the shelf and flips it over to read the blurb, his eyes scanning the words quickly. Satisfied, he places it back and begins browsing again.
After a moment, Mr. Potter holds up another book. "What about this one? Have you read it?"
Regulus looks at the cover: Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief. He shakes his head and takes the book from Mr. Potter, carefully reading the blurb on the back. The words pique his interest—it sounds like something he’d enjoy. Without thinking, he holds onto the book, his fingers curling around the edges as he continues to scan the shelves.
Mrs. Potter’s voice comes from his left, soft and curious. "What are you two up to over here?"
"Looking at some books," Mr. Potter replies with a smile, his tone sounding somewhat pleased, Regulus thinks. "Regulus likes to read."
Mrs. Potter glances at Regulus, her own smile warm and gentle. "Does he? Well, Fleamont has a knack for reading, too."
Regulus’s lips twitch slightly, almost into a smile. He doesn’t know many people who read, let alone who likes to read.
They linger in the book section for a while longer, Mr. Potter occasionally pointing out titles and Regulus quietly reading blurbs. It’s peaceful, almost enough to make him forget about the rest of the store.
Eventually, though, the hum of his earlier anxiety begins to creep back in. Regulus turns to Mrs. Potter, glancing up at her and then toward the exit.
"Ready to leave?" she asks gently.
He nods.
As they walk toward the checkout counter, the dog and the book are still in his hands. He doesn’t realize he’s holding onto them until they reach the counter, and Mr. Potter gestures toward the items in his arms.
"Can I see those?" Mr. Potter asks lightly, nodding toward the teddy and the book.
Regulus freezes, heat rushing to his cheeks. He’s been holding onto them all this time without noticing, and now it’s obvious—they’re going to buy them for him.
His chest tightens with embarrassment. They were only supposed to be getting clothes. He shifts awkwardly, clutching the items a little tighter before reluctantly handing them over to Mr. Potter, his face burning.
Mr. Potter takes them without comment, his expression calm and kind. He glances at Mrs. Potter. "Why don’t you take Regulus back to the car while I finish up here?"
Mrs. Potter nods, then turns to Regulus, offering her hand lightly in case he wants to take it. "Come on, dear."
Regulus hesitates for only a moment before following her out of the store, his head still ducked slightly from embarrassment. But as the sunlight greets him again, he realizes the knot in his chest isn’t as tight as it was before.
They are sitting in the car, Mrs. Potter makes light, but polite conversation whilst they sit and wait for Mr. Potter to return. Regulus can’t help but feel, weird.
The car is quiet except for the soft hum of Mrs. Potter's voice. She’s saying something light and meaningless—something about the weather or the way the sunlight makes the building across the parking lot shimmer. Regulus stares out the window, nodding faintly at her words, but he’s not really listening.
His thoughts have drifted back to the store, to the sharp brightness of the lights, the endless hum of voices and movement, the weight of all those choices pressing down on him. He still doesn’t know how to describe it. It’s like his chest was caught in a vice, his heart pounding too hard as his thoughts grew louder, faster, until there was no room left to breathe.
And then— that moment. The one where everything tipped over.
Regulus grips the fabric of his jeans, his fingers curling tightly as he replays it all in his mind. He thinks about how Mr. and Mrs. Potter must have felt, how embarrassing it must have been for them to deal with him. A wave of shame rolls over him, hot and suffocating.
He thinks back to another time, another family. They’d gone out to eat—something they’d been looking forward to, they’d said—but the noise in the restaurant had been unbearable. The clinking of cutlery, the scraping of chairs, the endless chatter and bursts of laughter. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from covering his ears, from rocking a little in his chair, trying to block it all out.
And they’d been so angry. So embarrassed. He can still hear the sharpness of their voices, the way they’d told him he was too much, that he’d ruined everything.
What if the Potters feel the same? What if they’re just waiting until they get home to call Sarah, his social worker? To tell her he’s too much to handle?
His breathing starts to hitch, the car feeling smaller, tighter. The walls are closing in, and the thought loops in his mind— I’m too much. I’m too much. They don’t want me either.
He’s on the verge of full-blown panic when the sound of a car door opening pulls him back. He blinks, his head jerking up to see Mr. Potter settling into the driver’s seat.
"You two ready to head out?" Mr. Potter asks cheerfully, glancing at Regulus in the rearview mirror.
Regulus nods quickly, the motion jerky and sharp. His chest still feels tight, the panic lingering just beneath the surface, but it doesn’t spiral out. Mr. Potter’s calm voice, the normalcy of his question—it steadies him, if only slightly.
The car hums to life, and as they pull out of the parking lot, Regulus turns his gaze back to the window.
At least they didn’t leave me in the store, he thinks, a small, fragile thought that’s enough to ground him for now. For now…
Notes:
Word Count: 9,061
Published: 2025-01-09So, I'm trying chapter notes at the end this time, instead of at the beginning. Let me know if you prefer it this way, or at the beginning.
Anyways, I hoped you enjoyed this chapter. I'm enjoying writing this fic so far, and I can't wait to write more! I wanted to ask, whether you guys would like exact word count per chapter in the 'at the end' chapter notes?
Thank you for reading! Enjoy the rest of your day!
Chapter 3: Doomed to Fail, Destined to Endure
Summary:
It’s the seventh, first day of school Regulus has had in the how many months he’s been in foster care. To say he’s nervous, is an understatement, and to top it all off, he may or may not have caused the day to end in misery.
Now he’s done it… he’s doomed…
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights buzz faintly above, and Regulus is already on edge before they even step into the store. The space feels too big, too loud, the smells of artificial flowers and plastic wafting in the air, make him feel sick to the stomach. He trails a few steps behind Mr. and Mrs. Smith, clutching the hem of his shirt. He doesn't like this store. He doesn't like shopping. And, most of all, he doesn't like the way Mr. and Mrs. Smith are already annoyed with him.
"Come on, Regulus," Mrs. Smith snaps, her voice sharp like a crack of lightning. "Hurry up. We don't have all day."
His steps quicken, though his stomach churns. The first hour is bad enough—being told to "pick something" when every option feels wrong. Shirts too itchy. Pants too tight. Socks that seem fine until he touches them and feels the rough threads scraping his fingertips. His chest tightens with every choice he's forced to make, his breath shortening.
It happens in the shoe aisle. He's holding a sneaker, trying to pull it onto his foot, but the laces are too stiff, and the fabric pinches. It’s awful. Tears spring to his eyes before he can stop them, and his breaths start coming out in quick, uneven gasps. His heart races, and his vision blurs. Everything feels too loud, too bright, too much.
"Stop it, Regulus," Mr. Smith says, his voice low and warning. But Regulus can't stop. He doesn't know how. The panic surges like a wave crashing over him, and a broken sound escapes his throat.
People are starting to stare.
Mrs. Smith's face hardens, and she hisses, "You're embarrassing us. Stop making a scene."
But he can't. His hands flap, his knees feel weak, and the tears won’t stop. Everything is spiraling, and his head feels like it's going to explode.
"That's it," Mr. Smith mutters through gritted teeth. He grabs Mrs. Smith by the arm and nods toward the door. "We'll let him sort himself out."
Regulus freezes, his tears momentarily halted by sheer disbelief. They’re leaving? He watches as they turn and walk away, their silhouettes shrinking into the distance.
"No," he whispers, his voice shaking. "No, don't go." But they don't stop. They don't even look back. His chest tightens so much it hurts, and his breathing turns into full-blown sobs.
He crouches down by the display of shoes, hiding behind a rack of boots, his hands gripping his knees as he rocks back and forth. Minutes blur into hours. The lights stay too bright, the voices of shoppers too loud, footsteps thudding past him without pause. His throat is raw from crying, and his body feels hollow, drained of energy but still trembling.
Eventually, someone notices him—a woman in a red sweater, holding a shopping basket. She crouches down next to him, her voice soft and gentle.
"Hey there," she says. "Are you lost?"
Regulus shakes his head, his lips trembling. His voice comes out hoarse and barely audible. "They left me... to teach me a lesson."
Her brow furrows, her eyes widening in alarm. "Who left you?"
He swallows hard, his tears starting again. "My foster parents." The words feel sour on his tongue, like admitting it makes it more real.
The woman sets her basket down, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him. "It's going to be okay," she says softly, but he doesn’t believe her. How could it be okay? They're gone, they left him, and he’s here, alone. Again.
Why didn’t they leave me there? Regulus thinks. It’s a strange concept to wonder about, because, who would leave a child at a store all alone? His mind comes back into focus as they pull up to the house. It’s different in the daylight, he’s noticed.
The garage is to the left side of the house, its door a sleek dark grey encased in a crisp white wooden frame. The driveway leading up to it is lined with the prettiest yellow flowers Regulus has ever seen. Rocks, of all different shapes and colours, surround the flower bed, like little sentinels guarding their delicate beauty.
Beauty is a phenomenon too basic, yet difficult to understand. It’s odd, how something everybody is entitled to, to understand, to fundamentally feel, can experience it in ways that are not similar to anothers. Confusing, yet wonderful.
He notices there are two pathways up to the house—one branching off from the top of the driveway and another winding from the sidewalk in a soft curve. The second path catches his attention, bordered by more flowers in shades of purple and orange. The stone tiles of the path are slightly uneven, giving it a quaint, almost storybook feel.
Stepping out of the car, Regulus hesitates for a moment, unsure which way to go, until he spots Mrs. Potter waiting at the top of the driveway. She smiles at him warmly and waves him forward. Something about the gesture eases him, slightly, even if only a little.
He shifts the bag with his new school uniform in his hands, the weight of the purchase grounding him. Following the Potters up the driveway feels surreal—like stepping into a place that’s too perfect to be real, too gentle to last. For now, though, he simply takes it in: the quiet hum of the neighbourhood, the soft crunch of gravel under his worn-down sneakers, and the house in front of him that feels more welcoming that any place he’s been in.
The second he steps past the threshold of the doorway, Regulus is hit with a wave of exhaustion. It isn’t the kind that sleep alone can fix, although sleep does help. It’s a kind of heaviness that comes after a long day of being worked-up—after the lights, the noise, the pressure, and especially after… moments like the one in the clothing store.
Moments he can’t stop but wishes he could.
He always feels this way after being around too many people, after school, or after "causing a scene." The weight sits on his chest, thick and immovable, as though his body is reminding him that it’s too much, that he’s too much.
“Regulus,” Mr. Potter says, his voice pulling Regulus from his thoughts, “would you like some lunch?”
The question catches him off guard. He hadn’t even thought about food, too preoccupied with the tightness in his chest and the residual embarrassment from earlier. But as soon as Mr. Potter mentions it, Regulus realises that, yes, he is hungry. He nods once, slowly.
“Alright,” Mr. Potter says warmly. “I’ll get something ready.”
Regulus steps further inside, and Mrs. Potter comes toward him. She gives him a soft smile and gestures toward the bag in his hand. “Would you like me to take your uniforms? I can wash them for you.”
He hesitates, then nods again. It feels easier to let her handle it than to think about what to do with them. She takes the bag gently from him, her movements unhurried, like she’s giving him time to change his mind. But he doesn’t. Once the weight of the bag is gone, he feels a little lighter. Not much, but enough to take another step forward.
He gravitates toward the dining table, heading for the same seat he sat in that morning. It feels safe, familiar. Sliding into the chair, he folds his hands in his lap and waits quietly, the muffled sounds of Mr. Potter moving around in the kitchen reaching his ears.
A few minutes later, Mr. Potter emerges, holding a plate with a sandwich and three small packets of chips. “We only had ham and cheese,” he says, setting the plate down in front of Regulus. “Hope that’s alright.”
Regulus nods. Ham and cheese is fine. He doesn’t need anything fancy.
Mr. Potter smiles and points to the packets of chips. “You can pick whichever one you want. No pressure.”
Regulus studies the options for a moment before reaching for the original flavor—sea salt. It’s simple and safe, like the sandwich.
“Good choice,” Mr. Potter says with a grin. Then he heads back into the kitchen. “What would you like to drink?” he calls over his shoulder.
Regulus pounders for a moment, he’s not sure. Mr. Potter must catch on, because he’s pulled out a bottled jug of apple juice, orange juice, and water. Regulus raises a hand and points a finger towards the apple juice.
“Apple juice?” Mr. Potter guesses.
Regulus nods.
A few moments later, Mr. Potter returns with a glass of apple juice, setting it down beside the plate. “There you go.”
Regulus nods slightly, a quiet way to say “thank you,” to Mr. Potter and then focuses on his lunch. The sandwich is soft, the ham and cheese fresh, and the chips crunch satisfyingly in his mouth. It’s not much, but it’s good. Comforting.
He eats quietly, the house around him peaceful and still. For the first time all day, he feels like he can breathe. Just breathe. That’s it. The sandwich is gone before he even realizes it, his plate now empty except for a few stray crumbs and the wrapper from the sea salt chips.
Regulus sits back in his chair, his hands folding themselves in his lap. He doesn’t know what to do now. His mind feels foggy, his body heavy with an exhaustion that sinks deep into his bones. He wants to move, to do something, but the thought of figuring out what that “something” should be is overwhelming.
Mrs. Potter’s soft voice interrupts his thoughts. “You look tired, dear,” she says gently, her eyes full of quiet concern. She’s seated at the table now, a mug of tea in her hands. “How about you take a little nap?”
A nap. Regulus blinks at her, unsure how to respond. He hasn’t napped during the day since he was much younger, and even then, he doesn’t think he ever truly liked it. But his body aches with fatigue, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. Maybe a nap isn’t the worst idea, even though the thought of it makes him uneasy. He glances at Mrs. Potter, who’s still watching him patiently, and finally nods.
“That’s a good idea,” she says, her smile warm and encouraging. “Go on, get some rest.”
Regulus stands, his movements slow, and starts making his way upstairs. Each step feels like a small effort, but eventually, he reaches the top and heads toward the room that’s supposed to be his. He opens the door cautiously and steps inside.
The first thing he does is kick off his shoes and place them neatly by the door. It’s automatic, something drilled into him from years of habit. When he straightens, his gaze falls on the bed—and he freezes.
The bedspread is different from before. It’s dark blue, dotted with tiny stars and swirling patterns that mimic the night sky. It’s beautiful, but it catches him off guard. He hadn’t noticed it earlier. For a moment, a flicker of doubt worms its way into his chest. Am I in the right room?
His eyes dart around, scanning the space for confirmation. That’s when he sees it: the black dog he picked out earlier, sitting right on top of the bed. His brain stumbles over itself, the tension in his chest loosening slightly. This is the right room. He’s sure of it now.
He moves closer to the bed, his fingers brushing over the fabric of the new sheets. They’re soft—softer than anything he’s ever felt before. Silky, smooth, and cool to the touch. It’s almost too nice, too luxurious, and it sends a strange pang through his chest. He doesn’t know what to make of it.
Sliding onto the bed, he sits for a moment, letting his fingertips graze the sheets again before pulling the black dog closer to him. The softness of it grounds him in a way he didn’t expect. He lies down, adjusting his position until he’s comfortable, and pulls the blanket over himself. The room is quiet, and the exhaustion presses down harder now that he’s still.
His thoughts are scattered, flitting from the events of the day to the newness of everything around him. It’s hard to process, and he doesn’t try to fight the way his eyes begin to close. His body is too heavy, his mind too foggy.
The last thing he feels is the silky softness of the sheets beneath his fingertips and the warm weight of the black dog tucked against his side. Slowly, Regulus drifts off to sleep, the exhaustion finally pulling him under.
***
Regulus isn’t sure how long he’s been asleep for. It could be thirty minutes, it could be three hours—he might never know. What he does know is that he’s no longer asleep, and the reason why is glaringly obvious. A loud thud from somewhere downstairs jolts him fully awake, followed by James’ unmistakable voice, too loud even when muffled by the walls.
He groans, pressing his face into the pillow. Gosh, does this boy ever know how to be quiet?
For a moment, he debates trying to fall back asleep. But it’s no use; he’s already awake, and the noise isn’t letting up. With a quiet sigh, Regulus reaches for the book on his bedside table—the one Mr. Potter picked out for him earlier.
He sits up against the headboard and opens the book, letting his eyes skim over the first page. But the words blur together, not because he’s too tired to focus, but because the constant commotion downstairs keeps pulling his attention away. A chair scrapes loudly, followed by James’ voice, rising in pitch as though he’s complaining about something.
Regulus clenches his jaw, his fingers tightening around the book. It’s impossible to concentrate with all that racket. He exhales sharply, swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and stands. Book still in hand, he makes his way downstairs, moving carefully to avoid making too much noise.
When he reaches the bottom of the staircase, he pauses, listening. “James,” he hears Mrs. Potter say from the kitchen, her voice calm but firm. “Keep it down. Regulus is asleep.”
“Sorry, Mum, I’ll try,” James replies, his voice quieter now but still buzzing with energy.
“I know you do, sweetie,” she says warmly, her tone full of patience.
Regulus feels an odd pang at that exchange but pushes it aside. He steps into the dining room, which is open to the kitchen, and quietly takes a seat at the table. None of them seem to notice him at first, giving him a moment to observe.
James is sitting at the kitchen table, or rather, half-sitting, half-hovering. He’s bouncing one leg rapidly, tapping a pen against the table, and occasionally leaning back in his chair before being reminded by Mrs. Potter to sit properly. In front of him is a science workbook, open to a page filled with diagrams of circuits and questions about electricity. Regulus watches as James groans loudly and lets his head fall dramatically onto the table.
“James, come on,” Mr. Potter says lightly, his voice encouraging. “You’re almost done. Just two more questions.”
“You said that ages ago,” James grumbles, lifting his head.
“Because you keep getting distracted,” Mrs. Potter says with a small smile. “Let’s focus for just a little bit longer, okay?”
Regulus watches as James fidgets, picks up his pen, then drops it again. His movements are constant, restless, like he physically can’t sit still. It’s distracting, and Regulus feels his annoyance growing. How can someone be so noisy and fidgety and still get anything done?
But what catches Regulus’ attention even more is how calm Mr. and Mrs. Potter remain. Neither of them scold James for his fidgeting or his complaints. They just keep gently redirecting him, as if they’re completely used to this.
James eventually picks up his pen again and starts writing something, muttering under his breath as he works through a question. Mrs. Potter, who has been watching him closely, says casually, “Oh, by the way, James, we have your psychiatrist appointment coming up next week. I’ll ask him about maybe putting you on an afternoon tablet, again.”
James groans, dropping his pen. “Do we have to? The last one made my head feel all weird.”
“I know, love,” Mrs. Potter says gently. “That’s why we’ll ask about a new one. Dr. Mitchels mentioned one that might work better for you. We’ll see what he says.”
James huffs but doesn’t argue further. He scribbles down the last of his answers, then slams his workbook shut with a triumphant sigh. “Finally!” he exclaims. “Can I go outside now?”
Mr. Potter chuckles, shaking his head. “You act like we’ve had you locked in here for days.”
Mrs. Potter smiles, giving James a little nudge. “Go on, then. You’ve earned it.”
James bolts for the door, his laugh echoing through the house. Regulus watches him go, then looks back at Mr. and Mrs. Potter. They’re both smiling, completely unfazed by James’ energy or the chaos he brought into the room.
It makes Regulus think about his own “difficult behavior”—the meltdowns, the moments where he couldn’t control himself. How many times had he been scolded or punished for things James just did without a second thought? The way the Potters handled James was so different from what he was used to. It was… strange.
He blinks, realizing he’s been staring at the table, lost in thought. With a quiet sigh, he opens his book and begins to read, letting the words pull him back into a world that feels far simpler than this one.
Dinner comes sooner than expected. Regulus was so engrossed in the world of Percy Jackson that he didn’t even realize Mrs. Potter had been calling his name until her voice softened and came from much closer.
“Regulus, dear, would you like to come up and make your own hamburger?”
He blinks, pulling himself out of the depths of Camp Half-Blood. It takes him a moment to register her words, but then he nods quickly, carefully placing the book onto the seat of the chair beside him. He gets up and approaches Mrs. Potter, feeling the faintest twinge of unease at leaving the safe haven of his book.
Her smile is warm and reassuring. “Regulus, sweetie, do you think you could wash your hands first, please?”
He nods again, keeping his gaze fixed just below her chin as he turns toward the sink. The cool water rushing over his hands is grounding, and he focuses on scrubbing each finger meticulously, though his mind is still half-occupied with thoughts of Percy battling monsters.
Before he’s finished, James comes bounding into the kitchen, already talking about something Regulus doesn’t catch.
“James, can you wash your hands too before you start?” Mrs. Potter asks with a glance over her shoulder.
“On it, Mum,” James replies cheerfully, stepping up to the sink beside Regulus. Regulus edges slightly to the side to make room, keeping his eyes on his hands.
Once he’s done, he dries his hands on a towel and walks back to Mrs. Potter, who is holding out a plate for him. “Here you go, Regulus. Put whatever you like on your burger, there’s plenty to choose from.”
He hesitates for a moment, scanning the spread of toppings laid out on the counter. Slowly, he picks up a slice of cheese, a few thin rings of onion, and some lettuce. He places them carefully on his burger patty, his movements precise and deliberate. After a moment’s pause, he adds a small dollop of ketchup, just to the side of the plate.
When he’s done, he steps back, clutching his plate close to his chest like it’s something fragile.
“Would you like some hot chips with that, Regulus?” Mr. Potter asks from the other side of the kitchen, holding up a bowl of golden fries.
Regulus nods without speaking, and Mr. Potter smiles as he piles a generous handful of fries onto Regulus’s plate.
“Here you go, enjoy,” Mr. Potter says warmly.
Regulus nods his head slightly to say “thank you,” and walks back to the table. He sets his plate down, grabs his book from the chair, and sits with the book balanced carefully on his lap.
A glass of water is placed beside his plate, and the soft hum of chatter starts up as everyone digs into their food. Regulus keeps his eyes on his plate, eating methodically while the conversation flows around him. He’s only half-listening until James turns to him.
“So,” James says around a mouthful of burger, earning a fondly exasperated look from Mrs. Potter. “You ready for school tomorrow?”
The question makes Regulus freeze mid-bite. His stomach twists uncomfortably. He isn’t ready—not even close. This will be his seventh school since February, and none of the others had gone particularly well. His throat feels tight, and he swallows hard before shrugging at James, not trusting himself to say anything.
James doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort, diving back into his burger with the same unshakable energy he always seems to have. Regulus sets his burger down on the plate and picks up a fry, but he can’t bring himself to eat it. His mind is racing now, thoughts tumbling over each other in a frantic spiral.
What if this school is worse? What if he doesn’t fit in? What if he messes up—again?
He glances down at the book on his lap, running his fingers over the edge of the pages. Normally, it’s enough to calm him, but not this time. The weight of tomorrow looms too large, pressing down on his chest.
The morning arrives too quickly. Regulus wakes with a tight knot in his stomach, his chest heavy with the weight of dread. He stares at the ceiling for a long time, trying to steady his breathing. It doesn’t help. His thoughts circle endlessly around the same worries—classrooms full of strangers, teachers who might not understand, and this being his seventh school since February.
Eventually, he forces himself out of bed, moving stiffly. The uniform lies neatly folded on the chair by the window, its clean lines and crisp fabric feeling foreign. He pulls it on piece by piece, his hands trembling slightly. When he reaches the tie, he fumbles with it, his fingers too clumsy to manage the knot. Frustrated, he leaves it hanging loosely around his neck for now.
As he zips his backpack, Regulus’s eyes catch on the recently bought small, stuffed black dog sitting on his bed. He finds comfort with that dog—it reminds Regulus some much of his brother, who would also protect him, from anything, or anyone. He hesitates, biting his lip. Taking it feels childish, but leaving it behind feels impossible.
After a moment, he reaches out, clutching the dog tightly before slipping it into his bag. Its presence there is reassuring, even if no one else knows.
Downstairs, the house is quiet except for the faint clinking of dishes in the kitchen. He shoulders his backpack and heads down, his footsteps soft on the stairs.
When he steps into the kitchen, he sees Mrs. Potter standing near the counter with James, who’s squirming as she adjusts the knot on his tie.
“Hold still, James,” she chides gently, a small smile on her face.
“I am holding still,” James protests, though his fidgeting doesn’t stop.
Regulus hesitates in the doorway, unsure whether to enter. Mrs. Potter looks up and spots him, her smile softening. “Good morning, Regulus,” she says kindly. “Come on in. Are you hungry?”
He shifts awkwardly, glancing down at the floor and not responding. Mrs. Potter doesn’t seem fazed.
“I’ll make you some toast, shall I?” she offers. When he doesn’t object, she turns to the toaster, busying herself with preparing breakfast.
Meanwhile, she finishes tying James’s tie and sends him off with a playful nudge. James bounds out of the kitchen, muttering something about finding his shoes.
Mrs. Potter turns back to Regulus, her eyes gentle. “Do you need help with yours?” she asks, nodding toward his loose tie.
Regulus hesitates, then nods quickly, his gaze still fixed somewhere near the floor. She steps over, her movements calm and deliberate, and gestures for him to tilt his chin up.
“It’s not too tricky once you get the hang of it,” she says as she loops the fabric. Her voice is soft and reassuring, and she works efficiently, straightening the tie and tucking it neatly into place.
“There,” she says when she’s done. “Perfect.”
Regulus touches the knot lightly, his fingers brushing against the smooth fabric. It feels oddly comforting, like a piece of armor.
By the time he sits at the table, a plate of buttered toast is waiting for him. He picks up a slice and nibbles at the edge while Mrs. Potter sits down across from him with her tea.
“Just so you know,” she begins gently, “when we get to school, I’ll need to come in with you for a little bit to pick up your schedule from the office. Is that all right?”
He pauses mid-bite, his stomach knotting again. But the thought of having someone there—an adult—makes the idea of walking into the building a little less terrifying. Slowly, he nods.
“Good,” she says, smiling. “We’ll get it sorted together, nice and easy.”
Her words settle over him like a blanket, softening the edges of his fear. He finishes his toast in silence, his mind still racing, but the panic isn’t quite as sharp.
As he pushes the plate slightly away, Mrs. Potter stands and walks over to the counter. She picks up a small stack of items and places them gently in front of him—a set of three plain notebooks and a small black pencil case.
“These are for you,” she says softly, her tone casual but kind. “The school will give you new workbooks for your classes, but I thought you might want these for notes or anything else you’d like to jot down. The pencil case has some pens and pencils to get you started.”
Regulus looks down at the neatly stacked supplies, hesitating for a moment before picking them up. The smooth covers of the notebooks and the compact weight of the pencil case feel oddly grounding in his hands. He nods once in thanks, still not trusting himself to speak, and carefully tucks them into his bag beside the teddy bear.
When he’s done, he slides off his chair, picks up his bag, and adjusts the straps on his shoulders. The weight of the black dog inside is a quiet comfort, reminding him he’s not completely alone. Mrs. Potter gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as they head toward the door.
“You’re going to do just fine today, Regulus,” she says.
He doesn’t respond, but he clings to her words as they step outside, bracing himself for the day ahead.
***
Regulus remembers his first day at a new school with his first foster family, a day that felt impossibly long even as it had barely begun.
He’d woken up in a room that didn’t feel like his own, the walls bare and unfamiliar. The clothes he’d been given to wear were a little too big, and his stomach churned with nerves as he buttoned up the plain shirt and pulled on the trousers. He hadn’t spoken much to his foster mother—he never felt like he could—but he remembered how rushed she’d seemed that morning, her voice clipped as she told him to hurry up.
The car ride to the school was silent, except for the hum of the engine. Regulus sat stiffly in the back seat, clutching the straps of his too-light backpack. He’d packed carefully the night before, bringing only the essentials: a notebook, a pencil case, and the small, worn teddy bear he’d hidden inside, buried deep so no one would see.
When they pulled up in front of the school, the building loomed large and intimidating, its brick façade cold against the gray sky. Regulus’s hands tightened on his bag, his pulse racing. He had so many questions—Where should he go? What if he got lost? What if no one talked to him?—but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.
The foster mother glanced at him in the rearview mirror, her face impassive. “You’ll be fine,” she said flatly. “Just go to the office and tell them who you are. They’ll sort you out.”
Before he could even respond—though he doubted he would have managed a word—she unlocked the doors. “Have a good day,” she added, her tone more dismissive than encouraging.
Regulus slid out of the car, clutching his backpack tightly as the door shut behind him. He turned to say something, though he wasn’t sure what, but she was already pulling away, the tires crunching against the gravel.
And then he was alone.
He stood there for a long moment, frozen on the edge of the pavement, staring at the school. Students moved in groups, chatting and laughing as they walked through the gates, completely at ease in a place that felt like a foreign world to him. Regulus wanted to turn around and run, but there was nowhere to go.
He forced his feet to move, one step at a time, until he reached the office. The receptionist had smiled, her voice overly cheerful as she handed him his schedule and pointed him toward his first class. But even her kindness hadn’t made the knot in his stomach loosen.
That first day had been a blur of awkward introductions, whispered comments from classmates, and the overwhelming noise of crowded hallways. He had barely spoken, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact. By the time the day ended, he felt like he had been holding his breath the entire time.
As Regulus remembers it now, sitting quietly in the back of the moving car, the same knot of anxiety twists in his stomach. It’s a different school, a different situation, but the fear of being the new kid—the odd one out—feels just as suffocating as it did then.
The car slows and pulls into the parking lot. Regulus peers out the window, his chest tightening at the sight of the school. It’s big, bigger than he imagined, with students in uniforms streaming toward the entrance. The air feels thick, like it’s harder to breathe, and his fingers clutch the straps of his backpack so tightly that his knuckles ache.
“Alright, James,” Mrs. Potter says, her voice warm and upbeat as she turns to look at her son in the passenger seat. “You’ve got everything, right? Homework, lunch, all that?”
James nods, barely looking up from where he’s fiddling with the zipper of his bag. “Yeah, Mum, I’m good.”
“Good,” she replies, her tone softening. “Have a nice day, sweetheart.” She leans over to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, which James groans at but doesn’t dodge. He grabs his bag and hops out of the car, waving vaguely as he heads toward the entrance.
Regulus watches him go, his stomach twisting tighter. James moves so easily, so confidently, like he’s done this a hundred times before—which, of course, he has. Regulus feels frozen in comparison, his legs heavy and uncooperative as Mrs. Potter turns to him with an encouraging smile.
“Ready, Regulus?” she asks gently.
He nods stiffly, even though he feels anything but ready. Mrs. Potter steps out of the car and comes around to his side, opening the door for him. Regulus slides out slowly, clutching his bag against his chest as he follows her toward the building.
The hallways are loud and chaotic, filled with the chatter of students and the echoing clang of lockers. Regulus keeps his head down, his gaze fixed on Mrs. Potter’s shoes as she leads the way. The noise feels overwhelming, like it’s pressing in on him from all sides, and he shrinks into himself, trying to take up as little space as possible.
They reach the office, and Mrs. Potter holds the door open for him. The space is quieter, but not by much—phones are ringing, printers are humming, and the receptionist is speaking in a bright, chirpy voice to a parent on the phone. Mrs. Potter approaches the desk, giving the woman a polite smile.
“Good morning,” she says. “I’m here with Regulus Black. He’s starting Year 7 today, and we need to pick up his schedule.”
The receptionist nods, rifling through a stack of papers before pulling one out and handing it to Mrs. Potter. “Here we are,” she says cheerfully, then leans over to look at Regulus. “Welcome, Regulus! You’re in good hands here.”
Regulus doesn’t respond, his throat tight and dry. He shifts his weight nervously, clutching his bag like it’s a lifeline. Mrs. Potter thanks the receptionist before handing the schedule to him, her smile soft and encouraging.
Before they can leave, a tall, friendly-looking woman steps into the office. “Good morning,” she says warmly, her gaze landing on Regulus. “You must be Regulus. I’m Ms. Carrington, the Year 7 guidance counselor. It’s nice to meet you.”
Regulus manages a small nod, though he doesn’t meet her eyes.
“I know starting at a new school can be a bit overwhelming,” Ms. Carrington continues, her tone kind and understanding. “How about I take you to your first class and show you your locker on the way? Would that help?”
Regulus hesitates, his heart pounding. The idea of being alone in the hallways, trying to figure everything out himself, feels unbearable. He nods quickly, relieved when Ms. Carrington gives him a reassuring smile.
Mrs. Potter crouches slightly so she’s at eye level with him, her voice gentle. “I’ll leave you in Ms. Carrington’s care, then. Have a good day, Regulus. James will meet you after school so I can pick you both up, alright?”
Regulus nods again, the movement jerky.
“Okay,” she says with a warm smile. “Take care, sweetheart. You’ll do just fine.”
She waves as she steps back, and Regulus lifts his hand in a small, hesitant wave in return. The door closes behind her, and Regulus feels a pang of longing, wishing she could stay just a little longer.
“Let’s get you sorted,” Ms. Carrington says gently, gesturing for him to follow. Regulus clutches his bag tighter and trails after her, bracing himself for whatever comes next.
The hallway is still bustling, but Ms. Carrington moves through it with calm authority, her presence parting the crowd just enough to make space for Regulus. He keeps close to her, his eyes fixed on the back of her sage green cardigan, the noise and movement pressing uncomfortably at the edges of his senses.
They stop in front of a row of lockers, and Ms. Carrington crouches slightly, gesturing to one near the bottom. “This one’s yours, Regulus,” she says, tapping the number on the metal door, 162 . She pulls a small piece of paper from her pocket and hands it to him. “Here’s the code. Why don’t you give it a try?”
Regulus kneels in front of the locker, his hands trembling slightly as he fumbles with the combination lock, 52 7 24 . It takes him two tries, but eventually, the lock clicks open, and he exhales a tiny breath of relief. He lifts the latch and opens the door, peering inside at the small, empty space.
“Good job,” Ms. Carrington says with an encouraging smile. “One thing to remember—students aren’t allowed to take their bags to class unless they have special permission. You’ll need to leave yours here, but you can take out anything you need, like your pencil case or notebooks.”
Regulus nods, his throat too tight to respond. He unzips his bag and carefully pulls out his pencil case and the three notebooks Mrs. Potter had given him. His fingers brush against the soft fabric of the black dog, and he hesitates, glancing nervously toward Ms. Carrington. She isn’t paying attention, giving him space, and he debates for a moment. After a deep breath, he decides to leave the dog tucked safely inside, zipping the bag closed and placing it neatly into the locker.
Satisfied, Ms. Carrington gestures for him to stand. “Great. Let’s head to your form class—it’s just down the hall.”
Regulus follows her, his steps slow and uncertain. The classroom isn’t far, and when they reach the door, Ms. Carrington steps inside first, motioning for Regulus to follow. The teacher, a tall man with a kind smile and a slightly wrinkled tie, looks up from his desk.
“Mr. Hale,” Ms. Carrington says, her tone cheerful. “This is Regulus Black. He’s new today and will be joining your form class.”
Mr. Hale stands and steps forward, extending a hand toward Regulus. “Welcome, Regulus,” he says warmly. “We’re glad to have you here.”
Regulus stares at the outstretched hand, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He doesn’t like handshakes—or any kind of touch, really. It always feels wrong, too much, like an invisible weight pressing against his skin. The only expectations to that, are his cousins, and brother—and even then, he’s never really liked touch. He shifts his gaze to the floor, not moving to take the teacher’s hand.
Mr. Hale seems to catch on quickly and lowers his hand, his expression remaining kind. “That’s alright,” he says gently, as if to assure Regulus he hasn’t done anything wrong.
Ms. Carrington turns to Regulus, her voice still gentle. “My office is always open if you need anything—a chat, a quiet place to sit, whatever you need, okay?”
He nods, his hands tightening slightly around his notebooks.
“Good,” she says with a reassuring smile. “Have a great first day.” With that, she gives a little wave and slips out of the room.
Mr. Hale turns back to Regulus. “Form time lasts about fifteen, twenty minutes,” he explains. “We go over announcements, hand out any notices, and on Wednesday mornings, we meet in the auditorium for assemblies. Does that sound alright?”
Regulus nods again, his movements stiff but polite.
“Great. Why don’t you find a seat?” Mr. Hale says, gesturing toward the desks.
Regulus glances around the room, his heart hammering. Most of the seats are filled, students chatting quietly or pulling things out from their pockets. His gaze lands on an empty desk near the back right corner of the room, next to a girl with long platinum blonde hair, half tied up into a bun while the rest cascades over her shoulders. Her almond-colored skin glows softly in the morning light streaming through the windows.
He hesitates for a moment, but when the girl notices him standing there, she looks up and smiles warmly. “You can sit here if you want,” she says, her voice friendly.
Regulus nods quickly, his throat too tight for words, and moves to sit down. The girl shifts her things slightly to make room for him, her smile never faltering.
“I’m Pandora, by the way,” she says, her tone light and welcoming.
Regulus gives a small nod in acknowledgment, his cheeks warming as he focuses on arranging his notebooks and pencil case on the desk. Nervous energy buzzes throughout him, making his hands fidgety as he straightens the edges of his notebooks repeatedly.
Pandora doesn’t seem bothered by his silence. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, her eyes curious but kind. “What class do you have first?”
Regulus hesitates, the words caught in his throat. Instead of speaking, he reaches into his stack of notebooks, pulling out the folded timetable Ms. Carrington had given him earlier. He slides it carefully across the desk toward Pandora, his movements deliberate and a little tentative.
Pandora picks it up, her brow furrowing as she scans the paper. Regulus watches her face closely, his chest tight as he waits for her reaction. Her expression shifts, her eyebrows lifting and a small smile curling at her lips. He recognizes the look instantly—she’s happy.
“That’s great!” she says, her voice full of enthusiasm. “We have English together first. Mr. Andrews’ class.”
Regulus blinks, relief washing over him like a cool breeze. He nods quickly, the knot in his stomach loosening just a little.
Pandora folds the timetable neatly and hands it back to him. “I can show you where it is, if you want,” she offers, her tone casual but sincere.
His nod this time is even quicker, almost grateful. The thought of navigating the hallways alone had been gnawing at him all morning, but now it feels manageable.
“And, hey,” Pandora adds, her smile widening, “we also have Art together straight after. I can walk you there, too.”
Regulus glances at her, his fingers tightening slightly on the timetable. For a moment, he just stares at her, unsure what to say or even how to respond. But her smile doesn’t waver, her words gentle and genuine, and something inside him softens.
He nods again, slower this time, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.
Pandora picks up her pen again, doodling absentmindedly in the corner of her notebook. “First days are always weird, huh? But at least now you’ve got someone to help you out.”
Regulus looks down at his desk, a small, tentative thought forming in the back of his mind: Huh. Maybe this first day won’t be so bad after all.
***
The chatter of the class fades into the background as Regulus carefully brushes stray pencil shavings off his workspace. His art project—a rough sketch of a tree under a starry sky—sits before him, unfinished but not terrible. Pandora is next to him, humming quietly as she tidies up her own materials.
As he cleans, Regulus’s thoughts drift back to English class earlier that morning. He wasn’t really sure what he expected when he entered his English class—but it for sure wasn’t a funny teacher. Mr. Andrews had a knack for making the room feel alive, cracking jokes as he took attendance and teasing the students about their half-asleep expressions.
"Alright, everyone," Mr. Andrews said, clapping his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm, "let’s wake up those brain cells and do a quick group recap of what we’ve learned so far. And by ‘group recap,’ I mean I’m making you all do my job for me."
The class chuckled, and Regulus couldn’t help but feel a flicker of amusement. He kept his head low, observing as students raised their hands or called out answers about themes, symbolism, and character arcs from To Kill a Mockingbird. It was a book he’d read before, though not in a classroom setting.
As Mr. Andrews jotted notes on the board, he glanced toward Regulus. “You’ve read the book, right?”
Regulus froze, his throat tightening. He nodded quickly but didn’t say a word, his cheeks heating up.
"Great!" Mr. Andrews didn’t push for more, instead moving on to the next student. Regulus exhaled quietly, relieved.
By the end of class, Mr. Andrews had explained the upcoming assignment: a reflective essay on how personal perspective shapes interpretation. Regulus wasn’t thrilled by the idea of an essay, but at least the class had felt more relaxed than he expected.
It had been… nice, in a way he wasn’t used to. No pressure, no spotlight, just an easy start to the day.
Art had been a different kind of experience. The Art room was a quieter space, with tables spread out and students already settling into their projects. Ms. Reed greeted him warmly, handing him a sketchpad and some basic supplies before explaining what the class was working on.
“We’re in the middle of a term project,” she said, pulling up a chair beside him once the rest of the class was focused on their work. “It’s a combination of visual art and written reflection, exploring themes of nature and the environment.”
Regulus nodded, his hands gripping the edges of the sketchpad.
Ms. Reed offered a reassuring smile. “Since you’re joining us so late in the term, I’m going to adjust the requirements for you. Instead of the full project, which includes a 2,000-word essay, we’ll focus on the art piece. If you’re comfortable, you can write a shorter reflection—maybe 500 words—but if that’s too much, that’s fine too.”
Relief washed over him, and he nodded again, this time with a little more ease. The thought of having a smaller workload was a weight lifted off his chest.
“Good,” Ms. Reed said, standing up. “Just focus on the creative part for now. Let me know if you need anything, alright?”
Regulus watched her walk away, then opened his sketchpad. He stared at the blank page for a long moment, his pencil hovering just above it. Around him, the other students were painting, sketching, and sculpting, the soft sounds of brushes and pencils filling the room.
Regulus glances at Pandora’s work. She’s drawn a vibrant watercolor of a sunrise over mountains, the colors blending seamlessly into one another. Regulus can’t help but think it’s really good—better than anything he could do.
She notices him looking and smiles. “You like it?”
He nods, then looks back at his own work, suddenly self-conscious about his simple pencil sketch.
Pandora puts down her paintbrush and wipes her hands on a rag. “Hey, during the break, do you want me to show you where your other classes are? It might help for later.”
Regulus hesitates for a moment but then nods, his chest loosening with gratitude. Having someone guide him through the maze of the school is far better than wandering alone.
The bell rings, signaling the end of the class, and Pandora starts packing her things. “C’mon,” she says cheerfully, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
Regulus finishes putting away his supplies and follows her out of the room, his mind quieter than it’s been all day. Maybe, just maybe, this place won’t be so bad after all. Which is an odd thought to have, because, really, he’s always been doomed to fail…
Pandora walks at a steady pace, her hair bouncing lightly as she leads him down the hallway. “Math’s a bit further away than Computing, so I’ll show you that one first,” she explains, glancing back at him with a reassuring smile.
Regulus nods, grateful for her guidance. He grips the edges of his notebooks tightly, his thoughts racing ahead to the rest of the day.
The corridors are a maze of identical doors and busy students, and he wonders how long it’ll take him to figure out where everything is. Pandora stops outside a classroom with a large “Mathematics 7B” sign taped to the door.
“This is your math class,” she says, pointing to it. “You’ve got Mr. Fletcher. He’s okay—kind of boring, but not mean or anything.”
Regulus nods again, committing the location to memory. Pandora continues walking, chatting lightly about her favorite teachers and classes. Regulus doesn’t say much—he doesn’t know how to—but she doesn’t seem to mind, filling the silence with ease.
When they reach the Computing classroom, Pandora stops and gestures toward the open door. “Here it is,” she says. “I’ve gotta get to my next class now, but I hope I’ll see you around later, okay?”
Regulus hesitates, then gives her a small wave goodbye. Pandora beams at him before disappearing into the crowd of students hurrying to their next classes.
Taking a deep breath, Regulus steps into the Computing room. The air smells faintly of dust and old electronics, and the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. He glances around the room, his eyes landing on a man sitting at the desk in the corner.
The teacher is older, with a hunched posture and a perpetually grumpy expression etched into his face. Regulus swallows hard, anxiety surging as he wonders how to approach him. Slowly, he walks up to the desk and stands there, clutching his timetable in his hand, waiting for the teacher to notice him.
After what feels like an eternity, the teacher looks up, his brow furrowed. “What do you want?” he grunts.
Regulus shifts uncomfortably. The teacher squints at him, then does a double take. “You’re not in my class,” he says flatly, waving a dismissive hand.
Regulus stares at him, unsure of how to respond. He taps his timetable lightly, trying to indicate that it’s proof he belongs here.
The teacher doesn’t even glance at it. “I said you’re not in my class,” he snaps. “Get out of here.”
Heat floods Regulus’s face as the words sink in. His grip tightens on the timetable as he quickly steps out of the room, his heart pounding in his chest.
He stands outside the classroom for a moment, the noise of students passing by blurring into the background. His mind races, the weight of the interaction pressing down on him. What now?
Then he remembers Ms. Carrington, the guidance counselor. She’d said her office was always open if he needed help.
His legs feel shaky, but he starts walking, retracing the path Pandora had shown him earlier that morning. By the time he reaches Ms. Carrington’s office, his anxiety has eased just slightly—enough to knock softly on the door.
“Come in,” her voice calls from inside.
Regulus steps in, clutching his timetable like a lifeline. Ms. Carrington looks up from her desk, her expression immediately softening when she sees him. “Regulus,” she says warmly, setting down her pen. “What can I do for you?”
He hesitates, then holds out his timetable again, his silent way of asking for help.
She reads the situation quickly, standing and gesturing for him to sit. “Let’s figure this out together, okay?” she says gently. And for the first time since stepping into the Computing room, Regulus feels a little less alone.
Regulus sits stiffly in the chair across from Ms. Carrington’s desk, watching as she types away on her computer. He feels a gnawing sense of embarrassment creeping up his neck. He shouldn’t even be here—it’s his first day, and he’s already managed to screw something up.
Ms. Carrington glances up at him with a reassuring smile. “It says here you’re meant to be in Computing, correct?”
Regulus nods, his fingers tightening on the straps of his bag.
She types a bit more before turning back to him. “Alright. Did you head there?”
Another nod.
“Did you meet the teacher and show him your timetable?”
Regulus nods again, though this time his gaze drops to the floor.
Ms. Carrington’s brow furrows slightly. “And did the teacher kick you out?”
He hesitates but then nods, his face heating up.
She exhales softly and straightens up. “Alright, Regulus. Let’s go sort this out together.”
He nods once more, but the pit in his stomach grows heavier. As he follows her out of the office, his mind starts spiraling. He feels stupid. He could’ve figured this out himself, couldn’t he? Now the teacher is going to think he’s rude—or worse, trouble. He’s already jinxed himself, already doomed to fail.
They arrive at the Computing classroom, and Ms. Carrington knocks firmly on the door. A sharp “What is it?” comes from inside.
She opens the door, stepping partway in with Regulus lingering behind her. “Good morning. I’m Ms. Carrington, the guidance counselor. I’m here about your new student, Regulus Black.” Her tone is polite but firm. “It seems you’ve already kicked him out of your class.”
The teacher, still seated at his desk, looks up and scowls. “The kid didn’t even speak. Just rudely pointed at his timetable.”
Ms. Carrington’s eyebrows shoot up. “Regardless, you should’ve been kinder. He’s new. It’s his first day, and he’s clearly nervous.”
The teacher scoffs but doesn’t argue further.
Ms. Carrington turns to Regulus, her expression softening. “Off you go, Regulus. Head into class.” Then she leans down and whispers, “If he causes you more trouble, you come let me know, okay?”
Regulus nods, his throat tight as he steps past her into the classroom. He keeps his head down, walking quickly to an empty seat at the back of the room.
The teacher doesn’t say anything to him, and the weight of all the other students’ eyes on him makes it hard to breathe. Regulus tries to focus on the teacher’s droning instructions, but he has no idea what’s going on or what he’s supposed to be doing.
Anxiety swells inside of him like the start of a major storm, but instead of panicking, he slowly reaches and pulls out his novel—the one Mr. and Mrs. Potter had bought him yesterday. The familiar words on the page calm him just enough to make it through the rest of the period.
When the bell finally rings, signaling the end of class, Regulus quickly picks up his things and slips out of the room. His heart is still pounding as he walks down the hall toward his Math class, but he feels a little better. At least he’s out of there.
By the time he reaches the next classroom, he’s breathing a little easier. Math might not be his favorite subject, but anything has to be better than Computing. Literally, anything can be better than computing.
***
Math isn’t the worst. Isn’t the best either, but he understands enough to get through the class. The teacher explains the concepts clearly, and Regulus manages to complete the problems without too much trouble. It feels like a small victory, but even as he works, a dull pressure starts building in his chest.
The noise in the classroom is getting to him. The constant hum of chatter, the screech of chairs against the floor, and the loud laughter from a group in the back corner all blend into an overwhelming cacophony. Regulus tries to tune it out, focusing on the numbers in front of him, but it’s like trying to read through a fogged window.
By the time the bell rings, signaling the end of class, he feels like he’s barely holding it together. He gathers his belongings quickly—his pencil case, notebooks, and the new math workbook the teacher handed out. Slinging the items against his chest, he slips out of the classroom, avoiding the crush of students spilling into the hallway.
The noise follows him out, a sea of voices and footsteps echoing off the walls, but at least here, it’s not quite as suffocating. Regulus heads straight for his locker, weaving through the crowd until he reaches the familiar number. He crouches down, enters the code, and opens the door.
Carefully, he places his math book and notebook inside, adjusting the stack of items to make room. The sight of his teddy bear peeking out from the bottom of his bag gives him a momentary sense of calm. He lingers at his locker for a moment, unsure of what to do next.
Then he remembers Pandora mentioning the library earlier. A quiet place. Somewhere he can breathe.
That sounds… good.
Regulus closes his locker, letting the door click shut, and glances around the hallway. He doesn’t know exactly where the library is, but he figures he can find it if he keeps looking. Clutching his timetable in one hand, he starts walking, keeping to the edges of the hallway to avoid bumping into anyone.
The noise around him is still loud, but it feels more bearable now that he has a goal.
Regulus manages to find the library pretty smoothly. It’s lunchtime, so the space is relatively busy, the quiet murmur of voices blending with the occasional scrape of chairs and the soft rustle of pages turning. As he steps inside, he’s met with the familiar, comforting smell of old books. It’s nice in here—cozy, even, he admits to himself.
He moves slowly through the rows of shelves, his gaze skimming over the spines of books without really taking them in. Eventually, he finds a secluded corner by a window, away from most of the other students. It’s quiet here, the noise from the rest of the library muffled enough to let him breathe. He sets his timetable and pencil case aside and pulls out his novel, carefully opening it to where he left off.
The words on the page pull him in quickly. The world around him fades as he reads, and for the first time all day, the knot of anxiety in his stomach loosens slightly. He manages to read three more chapters before the bubble of calm he’s created is abruptly popped.
Voices drift over from a nearby table, louder than the others. At first, he doesn’t think much of it—just more background noise—but then he hears the words.
“Isn’t that the new kid?” one of them says, their voice low but not low enough.
“He’s quite weird, sitting there, isn’t he?” another voice replies, a snicker following.
“Yeah, heard he doesn’t speak. Strange,” a third adds, and they laugh, the sound grating and sharp.
Regulus freezes, his fingers gripping the edges of his book tightly. He’s heard it all before—the whispers, the laughter, the labels. They still hurt, though, no matter how many times he tells himself not to care.
He shuts his book and stands, slipping it into his arms along with his pencil case and notebooks. He doesn’t want to listen to them anymore, doesn’t want to sit there and let their words crawl under his skin. Keeping his head down, he leaves the corner, his footsteps soft as he walks away from the table where the voices are coming from.
As he heads toward the library exit, he accidentally bumps into someone.
“Watch where you’re going, freak!” the boy snaps, glaring at him.
Regulus nods quickly, an automatic response, and continues walking, his face hot and his eyes stinging. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t stop until he’s out of the library and in the quieter hallway beyond.
Tears threaten to spill over, but he takes a deep breath in, then out, trying to steady himself. He’s used to this—he should be used to this—but it doesn’t make it any easier. Clutching his book tightly to his chest, he focuses on his next task: finding the science classroom.
At least that gives him something to do, something to focus on. He sets off down the hallway, his steps quicker now, as if he can outrun the sting of their words.
Regulus finds the science classroom easily enough. The hallway is mostly empty, the hum of lunchtime chatter faint and distant. As he approaches the door, he notices it’s open, which strikes him as strange—most classrooms are locked during lunch.
Curious but cautious, he peeks his head inside. The room is bright, with rows of neatly arranged desks and shelves lined with science equipment. At the front of the room, a woman stands at the whiteboard, writing something in neat, looping handwriting.
She must sense his presence because she suddenly turns, her gaze landing on him. A warm smile spreads across her face. “Why, hello there,” she says brightly. “You must be my new student.”
Regulus nods sheepishly, gripping his book tightly against his chest.
“Come on in,” she says, motioning toward the room.
He hesitates for a moment, unsure if he’s intruding, but eventually steps inside. His footsteps are quiet as he moves past the rows of desks.
“You can sit anywhere you’d like,” the teacher says, her voice friendly and encouraging.
Regulus glances around the room before settling at a desk in the back corner. It feels safer there, away from the center of attention. He places his book on the desk and folds his hands in his lap, his gaze flickering between the teacher and the whiteboard.
She finishes writing and turns to him again, leaning slightly against her desk. “I’m Mrs. Birch,” she says. “And I know it’s tough starting at a new school this late in the year, but we’ll make sure you’re caught up. Right now, we’re covering ecosystems and biodiversity. It’s not too bad, I promise.”
Regulus nods, his anxiety easing slightly at her reassuring tone.
Mrs. Birch continues, “You’ll have an exam at the end of term, but don’t worry about it too much. I’ll help you prepare. I’m one of the teachers who helps run the homework club during the next period. If you’d like, I can sit down with you and go through everything you’ll need to know.”
A small, tentative smile tugs at the corners of Regulus’s lips. He nods again, grateful for her understanding and support.
“That’s the spirit,” Mrs. Birch says with a grin.
Before either of them can say more, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. The noise from the hallway swells as students begin filing into classrooms. Mrs. Birch straightens and glances at the door.
“Well, I’d better get ready for the rest of the class,” she says, turning back to the whiteboard. “I’ll see you in homework club, okay?”
Regulus nods once more, feeling a little more at ease as students start trickling into the room. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.
***
He has definitely jinxed himself. He shouldn’t’ve tempted fate like that. But he has, and now he has to pay the price, to endure it.
Science is Regulus’s least favorite subject, but learning in Mrs. Birch’s class is, well… bearable. No, that’s not fair—it’s more than bearable. It’s actually kind of amazing. Regulus doesn’t want to admit that to himself, though. Science has never been his thing, and he doesn’t want it to be now.
But Mrs. Birch has a way of making it interesting. Her voice is steady and engaging as she talks about ecosystems and food chains, and she somehow makes it all seem less complicated than it probably is. Regulus finds himself scribbling notes, not because he feels like he has to but because he actually wants to remember what she’s saying.
The rest of the class seems to love her, too. No one’s talking over her or zoning out. They’re asking questions, answering hers, and even laughing at her occasional jokes. The energy in the room is different from what Regulus is used to—positive, almost infectious.
He’s not sure about a lot of the material, having missed so much, but there are snippets of things he recognizes. Concepts he learned before that he can piece together with what Mrs. Birch is teaching. It feels good to understand even a little, though he knows there’s still a lot to catch up on.
By the time they’re halfway through the lesson, Regulus has decided that maybe science isn’t all bad. At least, not in this classroom.
But of course, the universe isn’t done punishing him.
It happens near the end of class. Regulus is quietly reviewing his notes when a shadow falls over his desk. He looks up to find the same boy he ran into in the library standing there, smirking.
“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” the boy says, his voice low enough that Mrs. Birch can’t hear. “Still being a freak, huh? Sitting there like you don’t even belong.”
Regulus stiffens, his grip tightening on his pen. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at the boy directly, but the words hit him like a punch to the gut.
“Can’t even talk, can you?” the boy continues, leaning in slightly. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
Regulus’s chest feels tight, his vision blurring as tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He stares down at his notebook, willing the boy to leave, willing himself not to cry.
Eventually, the boy snickers and walks away, leaving Regulus frozen in his seat. He blinks rapidly, but the tears spill over anyway, streaking silently down his cheeks.
The bell rings, loud and jarring, but Regulus doesn’t move. He just sits there, staring at his notes, his chest heavy and his mind blank.
When the room starts to empty, Mrs. Birch notices him still sitting there. She walks over, her footsteps light, and crouches slightly to meet his gaze.
“Regulus?” she says gently. “Is everything okay?”
He shrugs, not trusting himself to speak.
Her brow furrows, and she seems to notice the tears on his cheeks. Without a word, she reaches into her pocket and hands him a tissue. “Take your time,” she says softly. “There’s no rush. When you’re ready, we’ll head to your next class together, okay?”
Regulus nods, dabbing at his face with the tissue. He feels stupid and small, but Mrs. Birch doesn’t seem upset or impatient. She just waits, giving him the space he needs.
After a few moments, he manages to calm down enough to stand. He gathers his things quietly, and Mrs. Birch walks with him out of the classroom. They don’t talk as they head to the homework club, but the silence feels… okay.
For the first time that day, Regulus doesn’t feel completely alone.
Once Regulus and Mrs. Birch reach the homework club, she gestures toward the desks spread across the room. “Find yourself a seat, and I’ll be over in just a moment,” she says with a warm smile.
Regulus nods, clutching his notebook tightly against his chest as he scans the room. There are a few other students scattered about, already focused on their work or chatting quietly, but he makes a beeline for the back corner where no one else is sitting. The desk there feels safe, away from watchful eyes.
He slides into the seat and sets his notebook down, flipping it open to the pages he’d scribbled on earlier. Mrs. Birch returns a moment later, holding a science workbook in her hands. She pulls up a chair beside him, placing the workbook on the desk between them.
“Let’s see what we can cover,” she says, her voice as patient as ever. She flips to a section in the workbook that corresponds to what the class had been learning, explaining each concept in clear, manageable steps.
Regulus nods along, jotting down notes when something clicks into place. She asks him questions occasionally, her tone encouraging rather than demanding, and he finds himself answering, even if only with a small nod or shake of his head. When he doesn’t understand something, she rephrases it or gives an example until it makes sense.
For the first time in a long while, Regulus feels like he’s not completely drowning in schoolwork. He even starts to feel a tiny spark of confidence—not much, but enough to keep going.
The world outside their little corner seems to fade away. Regulus doesn’t notice how quickly time is passing until the distant sound of the final bell startles him.
“Oh,” he mutters softly, blinking at the workbook in front of him.
Mrs. Birch smiles, standing and gathering her things. “Good work today, Regulus. You’ve made some real progress. Keep it up, and I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
He nods, murmuring a quiet “thank you” as he packs up his notebook. Gathering his things, he heads out of the room and down the hallway toward his locker.
At his locker, he carefully packs away the books he doesn’t need for homework and makes sure everything else is in order. His fingers brush against the soft fur of his black dog, still tucked at the bottom of the bag, and he takes a deep breath.
Stepping outside, Regulus pauses on the school steps, scanning the growing crowd for James. His chest tightens momentarily when he doesn’t see him right away, but then he reminds himself to wait. James will be here. Hopefully .
As he stands there, the weight of the day presses down on him, but it feels lighter now than it did that morning. Maybe he really is doomed to fail, but maybe—just maybe—he can endure it. For today, at least, he’s managed to get through. And for now, that’s enough.
Notes:
Word Count: 11,303
Published: 2025-01-14New character alert! New character alert! Finally, another character. Introducing Pandora. Don't worry though kids, we are getting more characters in the next chapter! WOOOO!!!
Chapter 4: It's Called the Snowball Effect for a Reason, Regulus
Summary:
Regulus has never truly believed in fates, and stuff like that. When he first heard the term “the snowball effect” he thought it was ridiculous. He never knew that choosing to sit with someone during form could ultimately change his life.
Yeah, he thinks, maybe the snowball effect is real…
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
Also, I thought I should preface by saying I do have ADHD and Autism (plus some other learning disabilities), so I am trying to incorporate my own experiences into this story, that doesn't mean I haven't done additional research to be more inclusive/informed (I have, nobody come at me). Thank you, I hope you enjoy reading.
Disclaimer: the French translation was achieved through using google translate, so if you are aware it is incorrect, please say so in the comments. Thank you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Regulus is about 95% sure it’s been fifteen minutes since school ended—though that remaining 5% nags at him, telling him it could’ve been less. He glances around, trying to reason it out. There are still plenty of kids milling about, but most of them seem to be waiting for the bus.
What’s worse is the sheer number of students crowding the area, making it impossible to spot James in the throng. The heat doesn’t help either. The sun beats down relentlessly, making Regulus’ uniform stick uncomfortably to his back, his hair damp against his forehead. He swipes at it distractedly, his breathing quickening as his mind begins to spiral.
What if James forgot about him? What if James left without him?
It’s a ridiculous thought, but it digs into his brain and takes root, feeding on memories he doesn’t want to think about. The idea of being abandoned again gnaws at him.
He blinks, and suddenly he’s back in the cold, fluorescent-lit police station.
Sirius’ voice is sharp in his memory. “It’s better this way, Reg. You’ll see. You’re better off without them. We both are.”
He remembers the weight in Sirius’ tone, the way his brother’s eyes wouldn’t quite meet his own. He remembers trying to argue, trying to understand, but Sirius had brushed him off like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.
The memory twists deeper. The police officer’s neutral expression. The scrape of the chair against the floor. The sound of the social worker’s voice—calm, almost rehearsed. “I know this must be a lot for you right now, but I’m here to help.”
The car ride. The temporary home. The realization that Sirius wasn’t coming back.
Regulus squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as if that might stop the rush of memories. James isn’t Sirius, he tells himself. Over and over, like a mantra. James isn’t Sirius.
And yet, his breathing becomes more shallow, more erratic. His chest feels tight, like he’s trapped in some invisible cage. His thoughts twist further, dragging him down into a sea of panic. He barely knows James, after all. Maybe James has already decided he’s too much trouble. Maybe James doesn’t want him around either.
“Regulus!”
The sound of his name snaps him back. He blinks, realizing he’s been staring blankly at the pavement. His hands are clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms.
James is rushing toward him, his face flushed—not from the heat, but from something else. Embarrassment? Guilt? Regulus can’t tell, and he doesn’t have the energy to figure it out.
“I’m so sorry,” James blurts, stopping in front of him. “I didn’t mean to forget you! I just—I got distracted talking to my friends, and I’m not used to picking someone up with me. I’m really sorry, I swear it won’t happen again.”
Regulus doesn’t say anything. He just nods, though the tightness in his chest hasn’t completely eased. James looks genuinely apologetic, but the lingering sting of his earlier thoughts refuses to let go.
They head to the car together, James still rambling apologies as they go. Regulus stays silent, his thoughts a jumble of hurt, relief, and the faint remnants of panic.
When they get to the car, Regulus slides into the back seat, placing his bag on his lap. Mrs. Potter glances over her shoulder from the driver’s seat, giving them both a warm smile. James hops into the front passenger seat, still muttering apologies under his breath, but Regulus barely registers them.
The moment the car starts moving, Regulus reaches into his bag and pulls out his black dog—the painful reminder, yet, ever so comforting. He hugs it tightly to his chest, its familiar texture grounding him, even as his emotions threaten to boil over again.
He stares out the window, watching the scenery blur as they drive. Mrs. Potter and James chat occasionally, their voices light and casual, but Regulus tunes it all out.
James didn’t mean to forget him. Regulus knows that. James came back. But Sirius… Sirius chose to leave.
No matter how hard he tries to shove that thought away, it stays with him, heavy and unrelenting, as he clutches his black dog and keeps his gaze on the passing world outside.
***
To be honest, James is quite annoying, in Regulus’ opinion.
It doesn’t start that way—not exactly. When Regulus first arrives at the Potters’ home, he’s too exhausted to form any real opinions about James. He’s consumed by his own swirling emotions—upset over being kicked out, angry at himself for letting it happen, and overwhelmed by everything that happened at the shops. His mind keeps replaying the moment when Sirius left him behind, and the way Mrs. McAllister gently explained what was going to happen next. There’s too much noise in his head to care about the boy who smiles too much and talks too loudly.
But once the sting of being forgotten at school begins to fade, it’s replaced by something sharper: anger. How hard could it be to remember? Regulus doesn’t know James well, but James was supposed to look out for him. Wasn’t that the whole point?
The irritation festers, growing worse later that afternoon when they sit down at the kitchen table to do homework. Regulus tries to focus on his math problems, but James makes it nearly impossible. He can’t seem to sit still, constantly tapping his pencil against the table or bouncing his leg under it.
At one point, James leans back so far in his chair that Regulus swears he’s about to topple over, only for James to snap forward again and start drumming his fingers against the wood. The steady rhythm feels like nails on a chalkboard, grating against Regulus’ already frayed nerves.
He shoots James a glare, his pencil pausing mid-problem.
“What?” James asks, blinking at him with wide, innocent eyes as though he has no idea why Regulus is glaring. How could he not understand? Is he that dumb?
Regulus doesn’t answer. He tightens his grip on his pencil, shaking his head slightly, and returns to his work. But the tapping continues, and the bouncing, and the fidgeting—each movement scraping against Regulus’ nerves like sandpaper. Why couldn’t James just sit still? What was his problem?
By the time dinner rolls around, Regulus is already on edge. He doesn’t know how much more of James he can take, and it doesn’t help when James bumps into him on the way to the table. The collision knocks Regulus’ elbow just enough to spill water from his glass onto the floor.
“Sorry!” James says quickly, grabbing a napkin to clean it up. His voice is light and carefree, as though it’s no big deal.
Regulus presses his lips into a thin line, saying nothing as he sits down. He tries to focus on his plate, but the irritation simmers beneath the surface, hot and relentless. He doesn’t even care. He doesn’t even help clean up the mess he caused. How careless could he be?
The final straw comes this morning, as they’re leaving for school. Regulus trips over a pair of sneakers left haphazardly in the hallway. His bag hits the floor with a thud, and he has to catch himself against the wall to avoid falling entirely.
James pokes his head out of the kitchen, a piece of toast in his hand. “Oh, my bad. Those are mine,” he says casually, as though it’s nothing to be concerned about.
Regulus freezes, his jaw tightening as he kneels to pick up his bag. He doesn’t even look at James, keeping his head down as he follows Mrs. Potter out to the car.
The memory fades as the car slows, pulling up in front of the school. Mrs. Potter glances over her shoulder with a kind smile.
“Don’t forget, you have assembly this morning,” she says to James. “Make sure Regulus knows where the auditorium is.”
“Yes, Mum,” James replies, grinning sheepishly. “I won’t forget this time.”
Regulus huffs quietly, pushing open the car door. He waves a small, polite goodbye to Mrs. Potter before slinging his bag over his shoulder and stepping onto the pavement.
“Come on,” James says, already striding ahead.
Regulus follows, his gaze fixed on the ground as they walk toward the school. James chatters away, his voice as loud and energetic as ever, but Regulus doesn’t respond. He’s too busy trying to focus on the day ahead and not the irritating boy in front of him.
They enter the bustling hallway, the sound of lockers slamming and voices bouncing off the walls making Regulus’ head ache. James navigates the chaos easily, weaving through the crowd with a confidence that annoys Regulus even further.
“First stop, my locker,” James announces, glancing back at him. “Then to yours.”
Regulus doesn’t reply, simply trailing after him.
When they reach James’ locker, a boy is already there, leaning casually against the neighbouring locker. He’s taller than James, with honey-coloured skin, hazel eyes, and light brown hair that falls slightly over his forehead. He straightens a little as they approach.
“James,” the boy says with a small smile, “did you want to—” He stops mid-sentence, his gaze flickering to Regulus.
“Sorry, Remus,” James cuts in quickly, fumbling with the lock on his locker. “Not this morning. I have to show Regulus here where the auditorium is.”
The boy—Remus—nods, his expression warm and understanding. “That’s alright. See you after assembly in first period?”
“Yeah,” James mutters, his voice quieter now. He pulls his locker open and shoves a few books inside, grabbing a folder and a crumpled piece of paper before slamming it shut.
Regulus watches the exchange silently, his gaze darting between James and Remus. The boy seems… calm, unlike James, and there’s something almost reassuring about the way he stands there, unbothered by the noise and chaos around them. But Regulus doesn’t linger on the thought.
James turns to him. “Alright, let’s go.”
Remus gives James a small wave before heading down the hall, disappearing into the crowd. Regulus doesn’t say a word as he leads James to his own locker.
“This one’s yours?” James questions, gesturing to the locker Regulus is standing in front of. Regulus nods as he fiddles with the combination lock, his hands steady despite the unease still curling in his chest.
Regulus opens the locker and carefully places his bag inside. He grabs the books he needs for first period, double-checking to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything.
“Ready?” James asks, leaning against the neighbouring locker.
Regulus nods without looking at him, closing the locker door with a quiet click.
They walk toward the auditorium in silence. James doesn’t try to fill the quiet this time, and Regulus is grateful for it. He keeps his gaze focused on the polished floor tiles, the sound of their footsteps blending into the background hum of the school.
The anxiety from earlier still lingers, but it’s dulled now, replaced by a vague uneasiness about the day ahead. He grips the edges of his notebooks tightly, his knuckles whitening, as he follows James through the maze of hallways and people.
When they reach the auditorium doors, James stops and glances at him. “This is it,” he says, his tone softer than before, as if he’s trying to smooth things over.
Regulus nods again, still avoiding his eyes.
“I’ll see you after school,” James adds, hesitating for a moment before stepping inside ahead of him.
Regulus takes a deep breath and steps in after James, the doors to the auditorium already open. As he steps inside, his eyes dart around, quickly taking in the room. Students are scattered across the rows, chatting in low voices or settling into seats. It’s clear the assembly hasn’t started yet—there are still more students filtering in through the double doors behind him.
The room feels vast and imposing, with rows of seats stretching out in every direction. Regulus’ postures stiffens, his chest tightening with the familiar pang of discomfort that always seems to come with crowds.
He scans the room for his form teacher, Mr. Hale. It would be easier to sit near him, maybe even at the edge of a row, where he wouldn’t feel trapped. But Mr. Hale is nowhere in sight. Regulus swallows, his stomach twisting uneasily.
As his eyes sweep across the rows again, they land on a familiar head of long platinum blonde hair near the middle of the room. Pandora. She’s seated by herself, her posture relaxed as she flips through a notebook in her lap.
Regulus hesitates. His first instinct is to find somewhere else to sit, somewhere far away from everyone, where he can blend into the background. But then he remembers Pandora’s kind smile from yesterday, the way she’d spoken to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
For a moment, he wavers, his feet rooted to the spot. What if she doesn’t want him to sit with her? What if he’s just bothering her? But then he forces himself to take a step forward, then another. He can’t avoid everyone forever.
By the time he reaches her row, his heart is pounding in his chest. Pandora looks up, noticing him, and to his surprise, her face lights up with a warm smile.
“Good morning, Regulus,” she says brightly, closing her notebook.
He nods, unsure what else to do. His voice feels caught in his throat, so he simply gestures toward the seat next to her, a silent question.
“Of course,” she says, shifting her belongings off the seat so he can sit down.
He lowers himself into the chair carefully, his shoulders tense as he sets his books down on his lap. For a moment, he keeps his gaze fixed on the stage, unsure how to navigate this interaction.
“How was your first day?” Pandora asks, her tone light and genuinely curious.
Regulus glances at her, then quickly looks away, giving a small nod. It’s easier than trying to find the words.
She doesn’t seem deterred by his silence. “Did you get to all your classes okay?”
Another nod.
“Meet anyone interesting?”
This time, Regulus pauses, his fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers. He shakes his head slightly, unsure if he’s answering the question or trying to end it.
Pandora hums thoughtfully, but her tone remains kind. “Well, that’s okay. It’s only the first week. These things take time.”
Regulus glances at her again, just briefly, and finds her smiling at him—not the forced, awkward smile he’s used to from people trying too hard, but something genuine and unassuming.
And for the first time since he arrived, he thinks that maybe—just maybe—he could get used to her kindness.
***
Whatever was said during assembly goes completely over Regulus’ head. The headteacher’s voice drones on, the words blending into an endless string of noise that feels impossible to hold on to. Why do they even bother with these assemblies? Twenty minutes of vague announcements and empty speeches that no one’s paying attention to—it’s pointless.
He shifts in his seat, his fingers brushing the edges of his notebook in steady, repetitive strokes. The motion is soothing, something to anchor himself while he waits for it all to end.
But then the assembly finishes, and the room erupts into chaos.
Chairs scrape against the floor, overlapping voices spill into the air, and the echo of laughter bounces off the walls. It’s like a tidal wave of sound, crashing down all at once, pressing against his skull. Regulus freezes, his chest tightening as the noise grows louder and sharper, stabbing into him from every direction.
His fingers dig into the edge of the seat, his body stiff and rigid. Without thinking, he starts to rock—just a little, forward and back, the movement barely noticeable to anyone else but enough to ground him.
A sudden burst of laughter behind him makes him flinch. His hands dart up, covering his ears. The pressure of his palms muffles the noise, dulling it just enough for him to take a shaky breath. He stays like that for a moment, his shoulders curled in, blocking out the world until the overwhelming buzz of the room begins to fade.
When he finally lowers his hands, the sounds have softened—not gone, but bearable. He risks a glance to his side and sees Pandora, her expression calm and unbothered as she surveys the noisy room. Her dark hazel eyes meet his briefly, and she offers him a small, understanding smile.
That smile feels… steadying.
The noise thins out as students start to shuffle toward the exits, and Pandora leans closer, speaking just loud enough for him to hear. “Your Geography class is next, right?”
Regulus hesitates, then nods once.
“Great. It’s right next to mine. I’ll walk you there.”
Her offer catches him off guard. He doesn’t want to accept—he doesn’t want to feel like someone who needs help. But the thought of navigating the crowded hallways alone makes his stomach churn. After a moment’s hesitation, he nods again.
Pandora leads the way out of the assembly hall, weaving through the crowd with ease. Regulus follows a step behind, keeping his eyes on the floor, his bag clutched tightly to his side. The din of voices around him is still loud, but with Pandora ahead of him, it feels a little easier to bear.
When they reach the Geography classroom, Pandora stops and turns to him.
“Oh, right,” she says suddenly, as if remembering something. “You’ll be in the same class as Evan.”
Regulus blinks at her, unsure if he’s supposed to know who Evan is.
“My twin brother,” she explains, and almost on cue, a boy steps out of the classroom. He’s nearly identical to Pandora—same platinum wavy blonde hair, same dark hazel eyes—but where Pandora’s expression is calm and reserved, his is bright and open.
“Pandora,” the boy greets her, his grin easy and playful. His eyes flick to Regulus. “And who’s this?”
“This is Regulus,” Pandora says simply. “He’s new. Be nice, Evan.”
Evan raises his hands in mock offense. “Me? I’m always nice.”
Pandora snorts, rolling her eyes. “Sure you are. Anyway, Regulus, Evan’s in this class with you. And History with Mrs. Steveson, right?” She glances at Regulus, who nods stiffly.
“Perfect. Evan can take you to History after this class, seeing as he also has History with Ms. Andrews.” She flashes Regulus another small smile. “See you later, Regulus.”
Before Regulus can respond—if he even could—Pandora is already walking across the hall, into her own classroom.
Evan chuckles softly, shaking his head. “She loves making me sound like an idiot.”
Regulus shifts his weight uncomfortably, unsure what to say—or if he even should say anything at all.
“Come on,” Evan says, motioning to the classroom. “Let’s grab a seat before Grayson decides we’re late.”
Regulus follows him into the classroom, relieved to see an empty desk near the edge of the room. He slips into the seat quickly, keeping his head down and his focus on his notebook as he sets it on the desk.
Evan takes the seat beside him, dropping his books onto the desk with a thud. Throughout the lesson, Evan whispers quiet jokes under his breath—something about how Mr. Grayson’s monotone voice could put a hyperactive dog to sleep, or how the map of Europe on the wall looks like it was drawn by a five-year-old with a crayon.
Regulus doesn’t laugh, but there’s something oddly comforting about the sound of Evan’s voice. It’s easygoing, light, and not directed at him.
When the class ends, Evan is quick to pack up his things. “History next, right? Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”
Regulus hesitates, then follows, staying a step behind as they navigate the busy hallway. The noise is still overwhelming, but Evan doesn’t seem to notice.
Regulus keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, his arms crossed tightly over his notebooks encasing them against his chest, his pencil case clutched in one hand. The cacophony of voices and slamming lockers presses against him, making his head feel foggy and his skin prickle uncomfortably. He’s so focused on enduring the noise that he doesn’t notice the two boys coming straight toward him until they crash into him.
The force knocks him backward, and he stumbles, landing hard on the polished tile floor. His pencil case slips from his grasp, spilling pens and pencils everywhere.
“Watch where you’re going,” one of the boys says with a sharp laugh.
Regulus doesn’t respond. He sits there for a moment, stunned, then leans forward to start gathering his scattered things.
“Look at this,” the second boy sneers. “Not even going to say sorry? Oh, wait, he’s probably too weird to talk.”
“Yeah,” the first boy adds. “Or maybe he’s just a freak.”
The words slice through Regulus like paper cuts—sharp and stinging, leaving invisible wounds. He lowers his head, focusing on the pens in front of him. If he just ignores them, maybe they’ll get bored and go away.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Too much of a loser to stand up for yourself?”
“Leave him alone, Colin.”
The voice is calm but firm, cutting through the noise with the kind of confidence that doesn’t need to shout. Regulus freezes, glancing up to see Evan standing a few feet away. His expression is casual, almost lazy, but there’s an unmistakable edge in his tone.
The boys exchange uneasy looks. “We were just messing around,” Colin mumbles, shuffling back a step.
“Yeah, well, don’t,” Evan replies smoothly. “Go mess around somewhere else.”
The two boys mutter something under their breaths and hurry off, shooting one last glance at Evan before disappearing into the crowd.
Evan watches them go, then turns back to Regulus and crouches down. “You alright?”
Regulus doesn’t say anything, just grabs a few pens near his knees. His hands are trembling, and he feels a prickling behind his eyes that he stubbornly pushes down.
“Here, let me.” Evan starts picking up the remaining pens and pencils, his movements unhurried.
Regulus watches him out of the corner of his eye, unsure what to make of him. There’s something different about Evan—something easy and warm, like sunlight filtering through leaves. It’s strange and unfamiliar, and Regulus doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Once Evan has gathered the last pen, he places it neatly on top of Regulus’s small pile and stands. He offers Regulus a hand, waiting patiently.
Regulus stares at the hand for a long moment before finally taking it. Evan pulls him up with a firm but gentle grip, releasing him as soon as he’s steady on his feet.
“Those guys are idiots,” Evan says lightly, brushing his hands off. “Don’t pay attention to them.”
Regulus shifts his weight, clutching the pens and pencils close to his chest. He doesn’t look at Evan, but his lips press together in what might be the start of a hesitant smile.
Evan doesn’t seem to mind the silence. “Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the hallway ahead. “History’s not going to wait for us.”
Regulus hesitates, then follows, staying a step behind as they navigate the busy hallway.
After a moment, Evan glances back at him. “You’re pretty quiet, huh?”
Regulus keeps his eyes down, clutching the edge of his pencil case tighter.
“Can you talk?” Evan asks, his voice curious but gentle.
Regulus nods slightly.
“You just don’t want to?” Evan’s tone is calm, not prying.
Regulus shrugs, then nods.
“That’s cool,” Evan says easily. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
Regulus glances up at him, surprised. There’s no judgment in Evan’s voice, no awkwardness, just simple acceptance. A tiny, hesitant smile tugs at the corner of Regulus’s lips.
Evan catches the smile and grins back, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he pushes open the door to the History classroom. “Here we are. Let’s grab a seat.”
Inside, Evan takes the desk next to Regulus, still chatting about something Regulus only half-processes. But it doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore.
***
History is a fascinating subject. If you asked Regulus what his favorite subject is, he’d say history. Not just because it’s about the past—though he does like the way old stories and events piece together—but because it feels safe, predictable. Everything has already happened. There’s nothing surprising about facts printed in textbooks.
Mrs. Stevenson, his history teacher, seems to like history as much as Regulus does. She talks about it with this calm, steady enthusiasm that makes the class almost bearable. Today, they’re learning about the Industrial Revolution, and while the other students look bored, Regulus takes notes with neat precision, his handwriting small and tidy.
He finds himself drawn to the idea of inventions transforming the world, how one small idea could ripple outward and change everything. It’s a comforting thought, in a way—that change can start small.
When the bell rings, signaling the end of class, Regulus gathers his things quickly. The familiar feeling of relief washes over him; one more class done, one step closer to getting through the day.
As he steps into the hallway, Evan is waiting by the door, grinning. “Break time. Want me to show you where your next class is?”
Regulus hesitates, then nods, holding out his timetable again. He’s grateful, though he doesn’t say so.
“Alright, let’s stop at your locker first,” Evan says, leading the way. Regulus trails behind, his usual step behind him, keeping his gaze on the floor and tuning out the background chatter of the hallway.
At his locker, Regulus quickly swaps out his books, and as they turn to leave, a boy steps into their path. He has ivory skin, dark blue eyes, and jet-black hair that falls slightly into his face.
“Barty!” Evan greets him easily, giving him a light punch on the arm.
“Hey,” Barty says, his sharp eyes flicking to Regulus. “Who’s this?”
“This is Regulus,” Evan says, gesturing toward him. “I’m showing him to his French class. Regulus, this is Barty, one of my mates.”
Regulus doesn’t respond, just glances at Barty briefly before looking away again.
“French, huh?” Barty says, tilting his head. “Who’s your teacher?”
Evan pulls the timetable from Regulus’s hand and scans it. “Ms. Ellsworth.”
Barty’s expression shifts slightly. “Oh, you’re in my class, then. I can take him if you want.”
Evan looks at Regulus, who feels a flicker of unease but doesn’t object. He doesn’t know where his French class is, and he doesn’t want to get lost. Evan hands the timetable back.
“Perfect. Thanks, Barty,” Evan says with a grin. “See you later, Regulus.”
Regulus nods slightly, his fingers gripping his pencil case tightly as he follows Barty through the crowd. They walk in silence, which only heightens Regulus’s discomfort. He keeps his head down, focusing on his feet, while Barty walks just a little too close for his liking.
When they reach the French classroom, they stop outside the door, where a few other students are milling around. Barty leans against the wall, his eyes narrowing as he stares at Regulus, as if trying to figure something out.
“You’re the new kid in computing,” Barty says suddenly, his tone thoughtful.
Regulus’s stomach drops. He knows exactly what Barty is talking about and feels a wave of shame wash over him. He nods sheepishly, his cheeks burning.
“You’re the one who got kicked out of class for ‘being rude,’ right?”
Regulus clenches his jaw, looking down at the floor. He doesn’t want to think about that incident.
Barty’s expression softens a bit. “Don’t worry about it. That teacher’s a nightmare. He likes bullying his students. Honestly, you’re better off not dealing with him.”
Regulus looks up, surprised. He wasn’t expecting that. He hesitates, then nods a quiet “thanks.”
Barty shrugs, offering a small, lopsided smile. “Don’t worry about it.”
The silence stretches out again, but this time, it’s not quite as suffocating. Regulus still feels uneasy, but there’s a small flicker of relief in knowing someone understands.
The bell rings, jolting them both. Barty straightens up and gestures toward the door. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
Regulus nods and follows him into the classroom.
What some people don’t know about Regulus is the fact that French just happens to be his first language. Which, some find odd—he can’t blame them. Why have your first language be French if you were born and raised in England?
He can’t fault anyone for being confused, or curious. But when taking French as his language subject, it provides him with some… benefits, to say the least.
Like just now, when the French teacher, Ms. Ellsworth, handed out a pop quiz and told him, “It’s okay for you to fail.” The memory of her words makes his grip on his pencil tighten slightly. Condescending. Patronizing. She doesn’t know anything about him, and yet she assumes he’s going to fail.
The moment she moves away, Regulus glances down at the quiz in front of him. A small smirk tugs at his lips. I’ll show her.
The questions are simple, almost laughably so. The first ten questions of the quiz asks students to translate French sentences into English.
Translate to English:
[1] Le chat est sur la table.
His pencil moves swiftly across the page. The cat is on the table .
[4] Il fait beau aujourd'hui.
The weather is lovely today.
[10] Je m'appelle Pierre et j'habite à Paris.
My name is Pierre, and I live in Paris.
The second half flips it, asking them to translate ten questions from English into French.
Translate to French:
[12] The boy is going to school.
Le garçon va à l'école.
[16] Where is the train station?
Où est la gare?
[20] I would like some coffee, please.
Je voudrais du café, s'il vous plaît.
Regulus answers with ease, not hesitating once. He even takes a moment to carefully adjust his handwriting to make it neat and presentable. With every answer, his confidence builds.
When he finishes, he leans back in his chair, the faint smirk still on his face. The rest of the class is still scribbling away, some students groaning under their breath as they struggle with the questions.
After a while, Ms. Ellsworth claps her hands sharply. “Time’s up! Pass your papers to the person next to you for grading. Answers are on the board. Be honest—no cheating.”
Regulus exchanges his paper with Barty, who raises an eyebrow as he takes it.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Barty mutters, scanning Regulus’s answers. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to widen, and he glances over at Regulus, stunned.
“Holy crap, dude,” Barty whispers, leaning closer. “How are you this good at French?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. He just smirks, pulling his pencil case closer. Then, on the top of his quiz paper, he writes in neat letters: French is my first language.
As he slides the paper back toward Barty, Ms. Ellsworth starts making her way down the rows, collecting the graded quizzes. When she stops at their desk, her gaze falls on Regulus’s paper. Her lips tighten when she sees the words he’s written at the top.
Her expression falters as she glances at the perfect score on his paper, and Regulus doesn’t bother hiding his satisfaction.
“Impressive,” she says stiffly, her tone clipped. “I suppose we’ll have to find ways to challenge you more, won’t we?”
Regulus doesn’t respond, but the faint curl of his lips speaks volumes. That’ll teach her to not underestimate me again.
As Ms. Ellsworth moves on, Barty leans closer again, still staring at Regulus in amazement.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he says, shaking his head with a grin.
Regulus just shrugs, his smirk lingering. For the first time all day, he feels a little more in control.
***
The rest of French goes by particularly smoothly… up until just before the bell rings, that is.
Ms. Ellsworth claps her hands together, a faint smile playing on her lips as she surveys the class. “Before you go,” she begins, her tone almost too cheerful, “since we’ve been focusing on conversational texts in French, I’ve decided your term assignment will be to hold a conversation with a partner for three to five minutes entirely in French.”
Regulus freezes.
She continues, as if she hasn’t just dropped a bomb on him. “You’ll also need to write a script for your conversation, but,” she emphasizes, “you are strongly encouraged not to rely on it during your presentation. The goal is fluency and confidence, not reading from a page.”
Regulus’s chest tightens. His fingers grip the edge of his desk as the words echo in his head: fluency and confidence. Speaking aloud. In front of people. For minutes. The panic starts to rise.
It’s not that he can’t do well with this assignment, he knows he can, but it’s the fact that he has to perform infront of the entire class. That’s terrifying.
His breathing becomes shallow, quickening as though there’s not enough air in the room. His hands twitch involuntarily before he begins flapping them slightly, trying to ground himself. He stares down at his desk, willing himself to calm down, but it’s no use.
“Hey,” Barty’s voice cuts through the growing fog in Regulus’s mind. Regulus doesn’t look at him but feels the weight of Barty’s gaze. “Do you, uh, want to be partners?”
Regulus nods once, barely moving his head. His eyes stay fixed on the desk.
“You okay?” Barty asks, softer this time, leaning in just slightly.
Regulus lets out a tiny, involuntary whiny sound, too soft for anyone but Barty to hear.
“Okay,” Barty says simply. There’s no judgment in his tone, just calm acceptance.
The bell rings, sharp and loud, and Regulus flinches at the sound. Before he can even process the movement, Barty grabs his books and pencil case off his desk. “I’ve got these,” he says matter-of-factly.
Regulus doesn’t respond, but he follows Barty out of the classroom. His breathing slows a little, but his hands are still flapping slightly at his sides as they step into the hallway, where the noise and chaos of students switching classes hits him like a wave.
It’s overwhelming. The voices, the footsteps, the lockers slamming—it’s too much. Regulus feels like he’s on the verge of spiraling again when an idea flickers in his mind.
Without saying a word, he veers off toward his locker. Barty notices immediately, adjusting his pace to stay beside him without complaint.
Regulus fumbles with the lock before yanking the door open. Inside, tucked neatly on the top shelf, is his small black stuffed dog. He grabs it and shuts the locker in one smooth motion, clutching the soft toy tightly in his hand.
Barty doesn’t comment, just resumes walking beside him toward English class. Regulus starts petting the dog’s ears with his thumb, the familiar texture helping to calm him. The noise in the hallway is still overwhelming, but the simple motion steadies him enough to keep moving.
When they reach English, Regulus spots Pandora at her usual spot and heads straight for her. He sinks into the chair next to her, his breathing more even now as he continues stroking the stuffed dog.
Barty places Regulus’s things on the desk, then turns to Pandora. He says something to her—Regulus isn’t paying attention enough to catch the words—and then gives a quick goodbye before walking out of the classroom.
Pandora leans closer, her gaze flicking from the stuffed dog to Regulus’s face. She doesn’t ask any questions, though. Instead, she offers him a warm, understanding smile, which Regulus finds oddly comforting.
“I see you’ve met Barty,” she simply says, opening up her notebook and flipping to a blank page. Her tone is soft, like she’s talking to him and no one else. “He can be a little… intense at first, but once you get to know him, he’s actually really nice. He acts all whatever,”—she waves a hand as if to mimic his aloofness—“but deep down, he’s a sweet and protective friend.”
Regulus glances at her, feeling a bit of the tension ease from his chest. There’s something soothing about her voice, and the way she says it makes it sound like she genuinely means it. He nods slowly, still running his fingers over the stuffed dog’s soft fur.
Pandora looks like she’s about to say something else when their English teacher, Mr. Andrews, approaches their desk. He crouches down so he’s at Regulus’s eye level, his face kind but serious.
“Regulus,” Mr. Andrews says gently, his voice quiet enough not to draw attention from the rest of the class. “How are you settling in? Are you feeling okay?”
Regulus pauses, his fingers stilling on the dog for a moment. He nods, but his gaze stays fixed on his desk.
Mr. Andrews doesn’t rush him, waiting for a beat before continuing. “I know being in a new school can be a lot, and sometimes the noise or the pace of things can feel overwhelming. I want you to know that it’s okay if you need a break. If you ever feel like things are too much, you don’t have to ask permission—just step outside and take a moment to breathe. Alright?”
Regulus glances up at him briefly, surprised by the offer. He hadn’t expected that.
“And,” Mr. Andrews adds, his tone still gentle, “if you ever need a longer break, you’re welcome to head to the guidance counselor’s office. It’s a quiet space, and it’s there for exactly that reason. Pandora can go with you if that would help.”
Pandora nods encouragingly, her supportive smile returning.
Mr. Andrews continues, his gaze steady but kind. “It’s also okay if you don’t want to talk. If there’s anything you need, you can write it down or even let Pandora or one of your other classmates speak up for you. No pressure, though. I just want to make sure you know you’re supported, Regulus.”
Regulus looks up at him again, this time holding his gaze a little longer before nodding.
“Good.” Mr. Andrews offers him a warm smile as he straightens up. “You’ve got this, alright? Just take it one step at a time.” He places a hand briefly on the back of Regulus’s chair—a light, reassuring gesture—before heading back to the front of the room to start the lesson.
Regulus sits back in his chair, his breathing more even now. Pandora leans closer, her voice low and kind. “See? He’s one of the good ones. You’ll be fine.”
Regulus glances at her, then back down at the dog in his hands. He gives a slight nod, feeling a bit more grounded as the lesson begins.
***
The bell rings, signaling the end of English, and Regulus begins packing up his things. His movements are slow and deliberate, his mind still processing the lesson while the hum of students leaving the classroom fills the air. As he closes his notebook, he hears Pandora’s gentle voice beside him.
“Hey, Regulus,” she says, gathering the last of her items into her arms. “Would you like to go to the library during lunch? It’s quieter there.”
Regulus pauses, glancing at her. The idea of a quiet space away from the chaos of the cafeteria appeals to him, and after a moment, he nods.
Pandora smiles. “Great. Come on, I’ll show you the spot we usually go to.”
The hallway is bustling with noise as they make their way toward the library. Regulus keeps his gaze fixed ahead, focusing on Pandora’s steady presence beside him. The noise is overwhelming, but the thought of getting to a quieter space keeps him moving forward.
When they enter the library, the atmosphere shifts. The sounds of shuffling books and hushed whispers replace the chaotic din of the hallway. Regulus breathes a little easier, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
“This way,” Pandora says, leading him past rows of shelves and toward a corner tucked away from the main section of the library.
As they turn a corner, Regulus notices a small group already seated at a table. Barty and Evan are there, chatting animatedly, but what catches Regulus’s attention is the unfamiliar girl sitting with them. She has dark brown curly hair that grazes her shoulders, cacao-coloured skin, and eyes as dark as polished onyx. Her posture is relaxed, and she’s laughing softly at something Evan said.
“Hey, guys,” Pandora says as they approach the table.
“Pandora!” Evan exclaims, looking up with a grin. His gaze shifts to Regulus, and he waves. “Hey, mate! Didn’t think we’d see you here.”
Regulus offers a small nod in response, standing a step behind Pandora.
Barty smirks. “Thought you’d be hiding in the corner somewhere.” His tone is teasing but not unkind.
Pandora rolls her eyes. “He’s not hiding, Barty. Anyway, Regulus, this is Dorcas Meadowes, she’s in Year 8.” She gestures toward the unfamiliar girl.
Dorcas leans forward slightly, her gaze warm and curious. “Hi, Regulus. Nice to meet you.”
Regulus hesitates for a moment before nodding in acknowledgment. He doesn’t meet her eyes, instead focusing on the edge of the table as he shifts slightly closer to Pandora.
Pandora pulls out a chair and sits down, gesturing for Regulus to do the same. He takes the seat beside her, his movements small and deliberate as he slides into the seat. He keeps his hands tucked neatly in his lap, his gaze flicking briefly over the others at the table before resting on the edge of the table.
Barty, lounging in his chair as though he owns the place, grins like he’s about to share the juiciest secret of the day. “So,” he starts, his tone dripping with exaggerated mystery, “you’re never gonna guess who completely decimated French today.”
Evan raises an eyebrow, leaning forward with a curious smirk. “Who?”
Dorcas tilts her head, intrigued, her dark eyes glinting with interest. Even Pandora turns toward Barty, though she already seems to know where this is going.
Barty chuckles, drawing out the moment for dramatic effect before jerking a thumb in Regulus’s direction. “Regulus.”
Three heads swivel toward Regulus in unison, their expressions varying shades of surprised.
“Really?!” Evan exclaims, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Dorcas’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow, seriously? How?”
Pandora gives Regulus a small, encouraging smile, but it doesn’t do much to ease the heat creeping up his neck. He ducks his head slightly, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. The attention feels like a spotlight, and he isn’t sure what to do with it.
Barty, however, doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He’s grinning from ear to ear as he leans forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Okay, get this. The teacher—Ms. Ellsworth—tells him it’s fine if he fails the pop quiz. She basically expects him to fail.” He gestures dramatically, his voice dripping with indignation on Regulus’s behalf. “And then, this genius”—he points at Regulus—“goes and smirks like it’s no big deal and gets a full 100%. Perfect score.”
Evan lets out a low whistle, impressed. “No way.”
“Way,” Barty insists, his grin widening. “And it gets better. When the teacher was coming around, I asked him how he did it. You know what he says?” He pauses for effect, looking around the table before turning back to Regulus.
Regulus shifts uncomfortably in his seat, already knowing what’s coming.
Barty’s grin is practically a beam now. “He writes, ‘French is my first language,’ and you should’ve seen the teacher’s face. Priceless. Absolutely priceless.” He leans back, shaking his head like he’s replaying the memory.
Dorcas laughs softly, her expression amused. “Oh my gosh, that’s amazing.”
Pandora chuckles too, glancing at Regulus. “I can’t imagine what she was thinking.”
Barty doesn’t stop there, of course. “And you know what I bet Regulus was thinking? ‘That should teach her.’ Right?” He raises an eyebrow at Regulus, waiting for confirmation.
Regulus hesitates for a moment, but Barty’s teasing grin is impossible to avoid. Slowly, he nods, his face still warm with embarrassment.
“Ha!” Barty exclaims, pointing at him like he’s just won a bet. “I knew it. That’s what I would’ve thought too. Nobody should underestimate anyone just because they’re new, right?”
Regulus nods again, this time with a bit more conviction. It was what he was thinking, after all.
“Exactly,” Barty says, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin.
Evan shakes his head, still impressed. “Man, I wish I’d seen that. Bet Ms. Ellsworth didn’t know what hit her.”
“Serves her right for assuming,” Pandora adds, her tone light but firm. She glances at Regulus, her smile softening. “That’s seriously cool, though. And it’s pretty awesome that French is your first language. I’ve always wanted to learn, instead Evan and I have to take Spanish.”
Regulus glances at her briefly, offering a small nod in acknowledgment. There’s still a flicker of embarrassment simmering under his skin, but there’s also something else—something faint but warm. Pride.
Dorcas tilts her head slightly, studying Regulus with curious but gentle eyes. “So, are you French? Or is your family French?”
The question hangs in the air, and Regulus feels the familiar knot of hesitation tightening in his chest. He doesn’t like to talk about his family very often—it’s gotten worse, even after everything has happened.
He shifts in his seat, his fingers twitching slightly against the edge of the table. The attention is back on him, and he doesn’t know how to answer. Attention has never really been Regulus’ forte, if he had to admit. It was just something that never came naturally to him.
Pandora, ever attuned to his discomfort, reaches into her notebook and pulls out a small stack of lose blank paper. She places it on the table in front of him, along with a pen, her movements calm and unhurried. “Here,” she says softly.
Regulus glances at her, catching the understanding in her expression, and something in him eases. He offers her a small, grateful smile—just a flicker of one, but it’s enough to say thank you.
Carefully, he picks up the pen and begins writing in his neat, deliberate handwriting. The sound of the pen scratching against the paper is quiet, almost soothing amidst the background hum of the library.
When he finishes, he slides the paper toward Dorcas, avoiding eye contact as he folds his hands neatly in his lap.
Dorcas picks it up and reads aloud, her tone thoughtful. “‘I was born and raised here in England, but our family comes from France.’” She looks up at him, her smile warm and genuine. “That’s really interesting. It must’ve been nice growing up bilingual.”
Regulus shrugs slightly, unsure how to respond to that. The thing was, it was fun to speak another language, especially when he needed to have an important conversation with his brother, that he didn’t want others to overhear. Sometimes, it was like a curse, being able to understand others when walking around the home, overhearing the horrible filth that came out of his family member’s mouths. He glances at Pandora, who gives him an encouraging nod, as if to say it’s okay not to answer.
Evan leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “So, does that mean your parents speak French too? Or is it just something you picked up?”
Regulus stiffens. His parents . He tries not to think about them too often. If he does think about them, it results in him having to think about his brother—the worst parts of him.
Regulus hesitates again, his hand slightly shaking brushes against the paper, but Pandora steps in smoothly. “It’s probably just part of their family culture,” she says, her tone casual but kind. “Right, Regulus?”
He nods once, relieved that she’s helped steer the conversation without pressing him further.
“That’s so cool,” Dorcas says, still smiling. “I’ve been trying to teach myself a little French for ages, but it’s not easy. You’re lucky to have grown up with it.”
Regulus glances down, unsure how to respond to the praise. His fingers fidget slightly with the cuff of his sleeve, and he risks a quick look at Dorcas. She seems sincere, not teasing or mocking, and that small, warm flicker of pride returns.
“Alright, alright,” Barty says, clapping his hands together lightly to shift the focus. “Let’s not overwhelm him with a million questions. We already know he’s a genius, no need to rub it in.”
Dorcas laughs softly, and even Evan cracks a grin. “Fair enough,” Dorcas says, leaning back in her chair. “But still, I think it’s awesome. And if you ever feel like teaching me a thing or two, Regulus, I’d be happy to learn.”
Regulus’s cheeks warm slightly, but he doesn’t look up. Instead, he offers a small nod, his way of acknowledging her without inviting more questions.
“Alright, alright,” Evan says, “Pandora, anything new happen in Geography with little miss stuck-up princess?.”
Regulus’s fingers brush against the edge of the table as Evan’s words hang in the air, tinged with mockery and humor. He glances at Pandora, curious despite himself.
Pandora sighs dramatically, tilting her head back as if Evan’s question has physically exhausted her. “Oh, don’t even get me started,” she says, though the twinkle in her eye betrays her amusement. Then, she turns to Regulus. “Remember that girl with the straight brown hair in our art class? The one who refused to tie it up, even though Mrs. Reed told her like five times?”
Regulus’s stomach twists slightly at the memory, and he nods, his movements small and deliberate. Of course, he remembers her. She was the same girl who had sneered at him when he tried to reach for a pencil during class. “Watch where you’re going,” she’d snapped, like he wasn’t even worth the air he breathed.
“That’s the one,” Pandora confirms, her tone laced with disdain. “Daisy Hookum.”
Regulus glances at Pandora briefly, his lips pressing into a thin line. He’s not surprised.
Pandora continues, leaning slightly forward. “She’s always complaining, always whining, and somehow, everyone still worships her because her dad’s loaded. She’s got this little group of snobby brats who follow her everywhere, probably out of fear she’ll turn on them.”
Evan snickers. “Sounds about right.”
Dorcas quirks an eyebrow. “What did she do this time?”
Pandora lets out a huff. “Oh, she decided to go toe-to-toe with Mr. Lowell during Geography today. He was trying to explain something about how all the continents were once together and that’s how people and animals migrated, and she kept interrupting, saying he was wrong, and that he didn’t know what he was talking about.”
Evan leans in, clearly invested now. “No way. What did he do?”
“Oh, he tried to stay calm, bless him,” Pandora says, shaking her head. “But Daisy just wouldn’t let it go. She kept going, all ‘Well, my dad says,’ this and ‘My dad knows,’ that. Then—get this—she actually threatened to fire him.”
Regulus blinks, his eyebrows knitting together slightly.
“Fire him?” Dorcas echoes, her voice rising in disbelief. “She can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but she was,” Pandora says, rolling her eyes. “She said her dad knows the school board and that if Mr. Lowell didn’t ‘learn how to teach,’ he’d be out of a job.”
Evan bursts out laughing. “Oh, that’s rich. What did Mr. Lowell say?”
Pandora smirks. “He just stared at her for a moment and then said, ‘Well, Miss Hookum, when you’ve got your own degree in geography, feel free to let me know how to do my job.’”
Evan howls with laughter, slapping the table. Even Dorcas chuckles, shaking her head.
Regulus doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward briefly. Mr. Lowell’s response is exactly the kind of thing Daisy Hookum deserves.
“She was fuming,” Pandora adds, grinning. “I think her face went as red as a tomato. She stayed quiet after that, though. For once.”
“That’s a miracle,” Evan says, still grinning.
“Honestly,” Dorcas agrees. “She sounds like a nightmare.”
“She is,” Pandora says with a sigh, leaning back in her chair. Then she turns to Regulus, her tone softening slightly. “I’m sure you already know, though. She wasn’t exactly kind to you in art class.”
Regulus nods slightly, his gaze dropping to the table.
“She’s not worth your time,” Pandora says firmly, her voice filled with quiet conviction.
Barty, who’s been quiet for a moment, chimes in with a smirk. “I bet if Regulus gave her the cold shoulder in French, she’d melt like a snowflake. She couldn’t handle being ignored by someone smarter than her.”
Regulus’s cheeks warm again, but this time there’s a flicker of amusement mingled with the embarrassment. He doesn’t dare look up, but the image of Daisy Hookum sputtering and flustered in French class does bring a faint sense of satisfaction.
The rest of lunch passes in a comfortable blur. The steady hum of conversation surrounds Regulus, blending with the soft rustle of pages from nearby library-goers and the occasional distant thud of a closing book. It’s a stark contrast to the lonely, silent lunches he’s grown accustomed to, and while part of him feels out of place—an outsider peering in on something he doesn’t fully understand—another part of him is starting to believe he might belong.
Pandora laughs at something Evan says, her melodic giggle pulling Regulus out of his thoughts. Barty is leaning back in his chair, smirking as he retells a dramatic reenactment of an argument he overheard between two Year 7s over whose turn it was to be the main lead in drama. Dorcas chimes in with her own quips, her sharp wit earning chuckles from everyone.
Regulus doesn’t contribute to the conversation. He’s still not sure how to. But no one seems to mind. Every now and then, Pandora or Barty will glance his way, offering a small smile or a passing comment that includes him, like they want him to know he’s part of this, too.
It’s… strange. Good strange.
Regulus’s gaze drifts to his hands, resting on the table. He traces the grain of the wood with his fingertips, his thoughts wandering. He’s never really had anyone to sit with during lunch before. Never had a group of people who wanted to spend time with him just because. This is new. Different. A nice change.
He risks a glance around the table. Evan is gesturing wildly as he explains some half-baked plan to build a model volcano just for fun, complete with real lava (or something close to it, he insists). Dorcas is laughing softly, shaking her head in amused disbelief, while Pandora leans her chin on her hand, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. Barty, as usual, looks entirely unimpressed, though the corners of his mouth twitch in what might be the beginnings of a smile.
Regulus catches Pandora’s eye, and she gives him an encouraging smile. He doesn’t return it outright, but he dips his head slightly in acknowledgment.
And for a fleeting moment, he wonders—if he hadn’t sat next to Pandora during form yesterday, would he still be eating alone today? Would he even know these people?
The thought sticks with him, weaving itself into the quiet corners of his mind. How one small decision—choosing a seat in a room full of strangers—led to this. The snowball effect, he thinks. One thing leading to another, changing everything.
It’s almost too much to think about, the idea of things being different. The possibility that maybe, just maybe, things aren’t so bad after all. That maybe, he has a real shot at having friends.
The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. Chairs scrape against the floor as everyone gathers their things, the chatter picking up again as they prepare to head to their next classes. Pandora turns to Regulus, her expression soft and warm.
“Ready for art?” she asks, tilting her head slightly.
Regulus nods, clutching the black stuffed dog as he stands.
“Great,” she says, her smile widening.
The group begins to disperse, heading toward the library doors. Pandora lingers for a moment, waiting for Regulus to walk with her. He falls into step beside her, keeping his gaze ahead as they reenter the bustling hallway.
For the first time in a long time, the noise and chaos of the school don’t feel quite as overwhelming.
What a thought, isn’t it? The snowball effect.
Notes:
Word Count: 9,425
Published: 2025-01-18Yay!! More characters!! Regulus has friends!! (I hope? Maybe? I don't know?)
Remus showing up as a little teaser ooooo. Can't wait for what Chapter 5 brings us... anyone notice the tension between Regulus and James... no? Oh, might just be me...
Chapter 5: "Fun" They Say, More Like Torture—Oh Look, It's Sarah...
Summary:
Regulus doesn’t know whether to scream, shout, yell, or cry. It’s his first official weekend with the Potters, and to top it all off, he has his check-in with his social worker Sarah.
It’s going to be one stressful weekend. He’s sorry to Sarah, in advance.
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A teacher once said to Regulus, “Saturday is a day to do what you want and forget about what you have to do.”
The words had seemed simple enough at the time, lighthearted and encouraging, tossed out at the end of a lesson like a piece of candy meant to sweeten the mood. But the more Regulus thinks about it, the more he realizes he doesn’t know what it actually means to do what he wants. The things he has to do always loom too large, and the idea of forgetting them—even for a single day—feels impossible.
Take his assignments, for example. He has to do his assignments. He doesn’t want to, but he has to. There’s no option to just forget about them, even temporarily. They stack up in his mind, one on top of the other, each one demanding more time and energy than he feels capable of giving.
It’s not like Regulus wasn’t prepared for school to come with a mountain of work—he was. After all, it’s the middle of the term. But he wasn’t prepared for how much of that work would be shoved onto his plate all at once, or how far behind he already feels.
First, there’s the Art assignment. He’s known about it since the day he joined the class: a term-long project with layers of practical and written components. Only, for him, it’s not a term project anymore. It’s a three-week project.
Mrs. Reed, his Art teacher, has been kind about it. She’s adjusted the expectations for him, making sure the project feels achievable in the time he has. She’s even offered to let him come into the art room during lunch breaks to work on it and has said she’ll help him with the written portion if he needs it. Regulus doesn’t know what he would do without her. If only every teacher were as accommodating as Mrs. Reed.
But then there’s Science, and Mrs. Birch.
Regulus stepped into his science class that fateful morning, the fluorescent lights casting a dull glow over the room. He barely had time to set his stuff down onto the desk before Mrs. Birch, his science teacher, approached him, her expression tight with worry. She held out a neatly printed task sheet, her fingers gripping it just a little too tightly.
“Regulus,” she began, her voice low and apologetic, “I need to explain something to you.”
He blinked at her, taking the paper without a word, already bracing himself for whatever was coming.
“I wouldn’t have given you this assignment if I thought there was another way,” she continued, her tone softening. “I know you haven’t had much time to catch up on everything we’ve covered this term. But the alternative was…” She hesitated, as if reluctant to say it aloud. “The alternative was sitting the end-of-term exam.”
Regulus’s stomach sank. He wasn’t sure which option sounded worse.
“I spoke with the head of the department,” Mrs. Birch went on, her voice hurried now, “and I argued that it wouldn’t be fair for you to take the exam, considering how much of the material you’ve missed. They agreed, but only if you completed this assignment instead. It’s designed to cover the key concepts from the term, so you won’t be at a disadvantage. If you finish it, you won’t have to sit the exam.”
Regulus glanced at the task sheet in his hand, scanning the neatly outlined objectives and the due date written in bold at the top. It looked manageable, but only just.
“I’m so sorry about this,” Mrs. Birch said, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I promise to help you as much as I can. I want to make sure you get a good grade.”
Regulus nodded slowly, his grip tightening on the paper. He appreciated her honesty, even if the situation still felt overwhelming. With another nod—this one meant to reassure her—he made his way to his usual seat at the back of the classroom.
As he sat down and placed the task sheet on his desk, he allowed himself a moment to exhale. It wasn’t ideal, but it was something he could work with. And at least Mrs. Birch seemed willing to support him.
She’s trying, Regulus knows she is. He can see the effort in the way she explained the alternative assignment to him yesterday, how she apologized for putting more on his plate but promised to help him every step of the way. Still, the weight of the task feels enormous. He hasn’t even started it yet, and it already looms in his mind like an insurmountable mountain.
Regulus stares at the ceiling, the words of that teacher echoing faintly in his mind. "Do what you want. Forget about what you have to do."
What would it even feel like to have a Saturday where the weight of everything didn’t press down on him? To have a day where what he wanted to do mattered more than what he had to do?
He sighs quietly, curling his fingers into the fabric of the comforter. Maybe one day he’ll find out. But for now, all he can hope for is to not fall behind. Fall behind like he’s heard so many kids, like him, have.
It’s not fair. None of this is fair. He’s frustrated that he’s even been put in this position in the first place. It wasn’t his choice to be removed from his home by social workers. It wasn’t his choice to be moved from home to home. Seven schools in four months—none of that was his choice.
The endless string of new faces, new routines, and new rules gnaws at him, leaving him perpetually on edge. Every school feels like a race he’s already losing, and no matter how hard he tries to catch up, the finish line keeps moving farther away.
Assignments pile up, expectations grow heavier, and teachers expect him to seamlessly fit into lessons that feel more like foreign languages than anything familiar. It’s like trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Still, there are moments—rare but meaningful—where someone notices. Moments where a teacher doesn’t treat him like a problem to be solved but like a student worth helping.
Regulus shifts on the bed, memories tugging at the edges of his mind. Like yesterday, when Mr. Fletcher had stopped him after math class. At first, Regulus had thought he was about to get told off for something he didn’t even know he’d done. But instead, the conversation had gone differently.
The shrill sound of the bell echoed through the classroom, signaling the end of the math lesson. Students scrambled to gather their belongings, chairs screeching against the tiled floor as they hurried for the door. Regulus moved quietly, slipping his notebook into his arms, hoping to blend into the crowd and escape unnoticed.
“Regulus,” Mr. Fletcher’s voice stopped him just as he stepped toward the door. “Can I have a word?”
Regulus froze, clutching his notebook tightly to his chest, before turning around. He nodded, stepping back into the now-empty classroom, the nervous flutter in his stomach growing stronger.
Mr. Fletcher offered him a small smile, gesturing toward the desk. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. I just wanted to talk to you about the upcoming exam.”
Regulus blinked, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.
“I know you’ve barely been here for three days,” Mr. Fletcher began, leaning slightly against his desk. His voice was calm, patient. “And I understand that jumping into a new school in the middle of term isn’t easy, let alone with exams just around the corner.” He sighed softly, as if regretting what he had to say next. “Unfortunately, you will have to take the exam. It’s school policy.”
Regulus swallowed hard, his chest tightening. Of course, he had expected this, but hearing it out loud made the weight of it feel so much heavier.
“But,” Mr. Fletcher continued, “we have two weeks of revision coming up during class, right before the exam, and I’ll make sure we use that time to reteach anything you might need—regardless of how easy or difficult it is. Alright?”
Regulus stared at him, the words slowly sinking in. Mr. Fletcher’s tone was sincere, his expression kind, and Regulus felt the smallest flicker of relief.
The teacher reached into a folder on his desk, pulling out two neatly stapled worksheets. “Here,” he said, handing them over. “These are from earlier in the term—topics we’ve already covered. I thought they might help you catch up. Take a look at them when you have time.”
Regulus took the papers carefully, the edges crinkling slightly under his grip.
“And if you ever want some extra help,” Mr. Fletcher added, his voice steady but encouraging, “you can come find me during lunch. I mean it, Regulus. Don’t hesitate to ask.”
Regulus nodded, his throat too tight to form words. His chest felt lighter now, like some of the pressure had eased, though the looming exam still lingered at the back of his mind.
Regulus has never felt more grateful to have such genuine teachers—ones who truly want to help him succeed, who don’t want him to fall behind. It’s not something he’s used to, and the thought alone makes his chest feel a little lighter, even if only for a moment.
Take Mr. Grayson, for example. When he handed Regulus the Geography assignment yesterday, the man had been calm and straightforward, explaining the task in clear, digestible steps. There wasn’t anything particularly warm about the interaction—it was dry and matter-of-fact, the way Mr. Grayson seemed to approach most things—but it was helpful. He’d even gone so far as to suggest a few specific chapters in the textbook that Regulus could focus on to make things easier. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give Regulus a place to start.
Then there was Mr. Andrews, his English teacher, who couldn’t have been more different. Mr. Andrews had a way of making assignments feel like less of a burden and more of an opportunity, which, frankly, was impressive. When he handed out the class assignment that afternoon, he’d paused at Regulus’s desk, crouching down slightly so they were at eye level.
“If you need anything, Regulus—anything at all—come to me,” he’d said, his tone warm but firm. “This is a big one, but we’ll tackle it together, alright? You’ve got this.”
The assignment itself had been overwhelming at first glance, but Mr. Andrews had stayed behind after class to walk Regulus through the instructions. He even offered to help him brainstorm ideas during lunch if needed. That kind of patience, that willingness to go above and beyond—it was something Regulus wasn’t used to but couldn’t help but appreciate deeply.
Lying in bed now, the dim glow of the moonlight filtering through the blinds, Regulus thinks about how much worse things could have been if his teachers hadn’t been so understanding. None of them have to do this—none of them are obligated to make adjustments or spend their time helping him catch up. And yet, they are. That fact alone makes his chest feel a little lighter, even if only briefly.
He knows he still has other assignments coming—some he’s been warned about, others he’s sure will be sprung on him unexpectedly—and then there are the exams looming at the edge of his mind like storm clouds on the horizon. The uncertainty of it all lingers, but he tries to push it aside.
Regulus holds onto the small sense of relief he feels, even as his mind stubbornly drifts back to the ever-growing list of things he needs to do. Tomorrow is Saturday. And for now, all he can do is hope it’s not too overwhelming.
***
Whoever came up with the word fun was clearly hit over the head with a brick. Probably multiple times. That’s the only explanation Regulus can come up with as he sits stiffly in the backseat of the Potter’s car, his mind spiralling into its usual tangent.
Fun is supposed to mean enjoyment, amusement, or lighthearted pleasure. Sure, the dictionary gets it right, technically, but in Regulus’ experience, whenever someone throws that word into a conversation, it inevitably leads to chaos: injuries, getting yelled at, or, worst of all, humiliation.
He shifts in his seat, tapping his fingers silently against his knee. To him, fun feels more like a twisted synonym for torture —an elaborate excuse to make him miserable while everyone laughs. Just thinking about the word sends a faint prickle of anxiety through him.
The car hums steadily beneath him, the engine vibrating faintly through the floor. James is sitting to his left, bouncing his leg like he can’t possibly sit still for the twenty-minute drive. He’s practically vibrating with energy, occasionally glancing out the window and blurting random thoughts that Mrs. Potter indulges with a patient “Mm-hmm” or a distracted “That sounds great, dear.”
The way Mrs. Potter just casually lets her son constantly talk without being told “enough” makes something inside Regulus uneasy. It’s odd. He’s used to overhearing parents telling their kids to quiet down, that they’ve said too much, or that it’s time to stop talking now—he’s even seen some foster parents do it to their own kids. It feels… wrong, in a way, that she doesn’t. Like James’s chatter is supposed to just fill the space, loud and unfiltered, without anyone minding.
Silence is nice. Silence is predictable. Regulus likes silence. But telling James to be quiet? That’s apparently not okay.
He can still hear Sirius’s voice, low and exasperated, from when he tried once before: “It’s rude to do so, Regulus.” And yeah… thanks, Sirius. That was helpful. Except Regulus still doesn’t know where the line is—what’s rude and what isn’t. It seems so obvious to everyone else, but to him, it’s like looking at a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Regulus shifts in his seat, pressing himself into the corner, trying to focus on the faint hum of the road beneath the tires instead of James’s constant voice. His chest feels tight, like the noise is building up and pressing against him. His mind pulls him back to breakfast.
Regulus had been sitting at the breakfast table, quietly eating his toast and picking at the edges of his plate. James was across from him, wolfing down his cereal with a kind of careless energy that always made Regulus wonder if James ever actually tasted his food. The soft clink of silverware and the hum of the morning light filled the room.
“So,” Mrs. Potter had said, breaking the quiet as she looked between the two boys. Her tone was warm, inviting, like she was trying to include him in a conversation he wasn’t sure he wanted to be part of. “What would you two like to do today? We always try to have a fun day on Saturdays. Something to decompress from the week.”
Regulus had tensed slightly at the word fun. He didn’t like that word. It was too vague, too unpredictable. He’d rather stay here, at the Potter’s, finish his assignments, or get lost in a book where he knew what was coming next. He didn’t know what to suggest, so he kept quiet, tracing the rim of his plate with his finger. When Mrs. Potter’s eyes landed on him, soft and expectant, he shrugged.
“Well,” Mr. Potter had chimed in, his voice kind and calm, “fun for us usually means going out. Getting some fresh air, stretching our legs, doing something a little different. What do you think, Regulus?”
Regulus didn’t know what to say. He didn’t think any of those things sounded appealing, but he didn’t want to be rude either. His heart had tightened uncomfortably in his chest, so he shrugged again, keeping his gaze on his plate.
James had jumped in eagerly, breaking the moment of quiet. “What about the beach?” he said through a mouthful of cereal, grinning as he sat up straighter. “There’s that arcade by the boardwalk, and we could even go on the Ferris wheel if we have time! And the beach itself is awesome—we can dig a massive hole or something!”
Mrs. Potter had smiled brightly. “That sounds like a great idea, James.” She’d turned back to Regulus, her voice softening. “What about you, Regulus? Would you like that?”
He hadn’t liked it at all. He hated sand—it stuck to everything and never seemed to go away. He hated arcades too—too loud, too bright, too chaotic. And the Ferris wheel? Just the thought of it made his stomach churn. But as all their eyes turned to him, waiting, he didn’t know how to explain that without disappointing them.
So, he’d nodded reluctantly, even though every part of him was screaming no. The tightness in his chest hadn’t eased, and the word fun hung over him like a weight.
Regulus focuses on the faint hum of the road beneath the tires, trying to block out James’s voice and the cheerful hum of the radio in the front seat. The air feels heavy and tight in his chest, like he’s bracing for something he can’t quite name.
He doesn’t want to disappoint them. The Potters. They’ve already done so much for him—more than anyone else ever has. It’s only been six days, but in that short time, they’ve been kind, patient, and… different. Different from the other families. They don’t yell. They don’t ignore him. They don’t make him feel like he’s a problem they have to fix.
Even though this is temporary, like every other place before, Regulus doesn’t want to mess it up. He doesn’t want them to regret taking him in, even if it’s only for a little while. The weight of that thought presses hard against his chest, heavier than the hum of the car beneath him.
And yet, deep down, something dangerous stirs. He likes the Potters. He likes how nice they are, how safe their house feels, how they don’t look at him like he’s too much or not enough. That’s why hope is deadly. It latches onto small things, burrows into quiet moments, and whispers that maybe, just maybe, this could last. But it never does.
“Regulus?” Mrs. Potter’s warm voice floats from the front seat, cutting through the noise in his head.
He startles, glancing up briefly, his grip tightening on the edges of the book in his lap. She’s looking at him through the rearview mirror, her smile soft but not too much, her tone gentle enough that it doesn’t feel like pressure—at least not yet.
“What do you think? Would you like to go to the beach first, or maybe the arcade?”
Regulus swallows hard, lowering his gaze back to the book. He doesn’t know what answer they want to hear. The beach, the arcade—neither sounds particularly appealing. Both feel loud, messy, overwhelming. He shrugs instead, a small, tentative movement that doesn’t quite feel like enough.
The car goes quiet for a beat, except for the steady hum of the engine and the faint music playing through the radio.
What does he want to do? The question churns in his chest, heavy and suffocating. He doesn’t want to do either. He wants to stay at the Potters’ house where things are quiet, where he can focus on his assignments and feel like he has some control over the day. If he doesn’t finish his schoolwork, he’ll fall behind. If he falls behind, he’ll fail.
And failing isn’t just about bad grades. Failing means disappointing everyone—Mrs. Potter, Mr. Potter, Sarah, maybe even James in some roundabout way. It means proving that he’s too much trouble, that he doesn’t belong here, that they made a mistake by taking him in.
It’s stupid, really, how one decision can spiral into a thousand ways he might ruin this. All because he said yes to a stupid “fun day.”
James doesn’t wait for him to answer. “The beach!” he declares, practically bouncing in his seat, his enthusiasm filling the space Regulus had wanted to stay empty. “We should do the beach first. Get a good spot and all that.”
Mrs. Potter chuckles lightly. “The beach it is, then.”
Regulus forces himself to stare out the window, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. James’s energy feels like static in the air, crackling and restless, while Regulus feels like he’s sinking deeper into the seat, hoping to disappear.
James nudges him with an elbow, grinning like they’ve been friends forever. “You’ll love it, Reg. We’ll dig a massive hole. Like—huge. You can help me bury my legs. Or, I dunno, my whole body if we have time.”
Regulus stiffens immediately, his hands clenching around the hem of his shirt. The nudge feels intrusive, like a breach of the invisible wall he tries so hard to keep around himself. He doesn’t like being nudged—not by James, not by anyone. The small spark of anger flares sharp and sudden in his chest.
Reg. He’s told James, more than once, not to call him that.
The memory creeps in unbidden, like a small crack in the wall of his mind. Just three days ago, he’d handed James a piece of paper—plain, white, folded in half. In neat, careful handwriting, he’d written: Please don’t call me Reg. My name is Regulus.
James had read it, frowned a little like he didn’t understand why it mattered, then shrugged and said, “All right.”
But the next day, and the day after that, and every day since, it had been “Reg.” Always “Reg.”
Regulus had written it down again, and again, sliding the notes across the table when words failed him, only to be met with James’s grin and his dismissive laugh. “It’s just a nickname. Don’t get so worked up about it.”
It’s not just a nickname.
It’s a name that feels wrong, like an itch he can’t scratch. A name that doesn’t belong to anyone else. Because Reg—Reggie—was special. It was a name his brother used, yes, but not just because of who Sirius was. It was the way he said it. Like it wasn’t a nickname but a promise. A small, quiet acknowledgment that someone saw him, knew him, and wasn’t going to let him fade into the background.
When Sirius used those names, it wasn’t teasing or careless—it was protective. Like the nickname itself was a shield against the rest of the world. It meant I’ve got you, and you matter, and you’re not alone.
But when James says it, it’s none of those things. It’s loud and thoughtless, thrown around like a joke or an afterthought. Like it doesn’t mean anything at all. And that’s what makes it unbearable.
“Reg?” James says again now, leaning into his space slightly, his grin as easy and careless as ever.
Regulus feels his jaw clench, heat rising to his face. The spark of anger flickers and grows, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look at James. Instead, he presses himself further into the seat and stares out the window, his chest tightening as the faint smell of salt and seaweed begins to creep into the car.
James doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already babbling about sandcastles and waves and how fast he thinks he can run into the ocean before getting knocked over. Regulus lets the words wash over him like background noise, his gaze fixed firmly on the seat in front of him.
The car slows as they pull into the parking lot, and Mr. Potter announces cheerfully, “We’re here!”
Regulus’s chest tightens. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore is already too loud, even through the closed car doors. He forces himself to take a shallow breath, but the knot of anxiety in his stomach only seems to grow.
Fun. Whoever came up with the word fun clearly meant the word torture instead.
It’s not that he purposefully hates the beach. It’s just… well, he’s not used to this kind of beach—the kind with soft, golden sand and cheerful crowds, with loud children and people sprawled across colorful towels like it’s all some great adventure. The beaches he’s used to are quieter. Rugged.
He stares out the car window as the parking lot fills his view, sunlight glinting off distant waves. The muted roar of the ocean is already too much, pressing at his ears like a warning. His stomach twists, his hands tightening around the edge of his book.
Back home— not home, he reminds himself quickly. Not anymore. Back at the Black family house, they only ever went to the beach during the colder months. It was always the rocky beaches, too, where the sharp edges of the stones poked through the sand, where the wind cut through their coats, and the water looked too grey to ever be inviting. Sirius hated it, always grumbling under his breath about the cold or how the salt stuck to his shoes.
But Regulus? He liked it. The air was crisp, the beach empty except for the occasional bird picking at seaweed. The cold kept everything muted—the waves, the wind, even the sharpness of their mother’s voice.
A memory rises, unbidden, pulling him back.
It’s early December, the sky heavy with clouds, when they arrive at the beach. The rocks are slick with frost, and the wind bites at Regulus’ cheeks, but he doesn’t mind. He crouches near a tide pool, staring at the tiny fish darting between the jagged stones.
“Don’t get your clothes wet,” his mother snaps from behind him. Her voice carries over the crash of waves, sharp and clear, as if it’s the only sound that truly matters.
Regulus freezes, his shoulders stiff. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t dare move closer to the water. He’s careful. Always careful.
“Honestly, why do we even bother?” Sirius mutters from somewhere nearby.
“Because it’s tradition,” their father answers curtly, his tone brooking no argument.
Tradition. That’s what it always came down to. The rocky beaches, the winter winds—it wasn’t about enjoyment. It was about following the rules, doing what was expected, keeping up appearances. And yet, those cold, quiet days by the shore were some of the only moments Regulus didn’t feel entirely wrong in his own skin.
The memory fades, replaced by the brightness of the present.
Here, there are no sharp rocks, no grey skies, no biting winds. Just sunlight and warmth and sand that seems to stretch forever. Regulus’ chest tightens. It feels wrong, too bright and too open, like he’s already out of place before he’s even left the car.
“C’mon, Reg,” James says eagerly, pulling him back to the moment. His grin is wide, his excitement filling the car. “We’re gonna have so much fun. I’ll race you to the water.”
Regulus’ throat feels tight. He doesn’t answer. The thought of running into the ocean—of the cold water rushing over him, the sand sticking to his skin—makes his stomach churn.
Mrs. Potter turns to look at him from the front seat, her voice calm but concerned. “Regulus, are you all right?”
He nods stiffly, even though he’s anything but. He doesn’t know how to explain it—the wrongness, the way this beach doesn’t feel like a beach at all. He doesn’t hate it, not exactly, but he doesn’t belong here, not like James does.
Mrs. Potter’s gaze lingers on him for a moment longer before she smiles. “If it gets to be too much, you just let us know, all right?”
He nods again, even though the words catch in his throat. If it gets to be too much and he says something, they’ll just think he’s being difficult. That he’s ungrateful. That he doesn’t fit in here, either.
The car door opens, and the sound of the waves roars into Regulus’s ears, louder and sharper than he expected. He hesitates for a moment before stepping out, his feet hitting the soft sand. It shifts beneath him with every step, the crunch of it echoing in his head and sinking into his spine, like it’s burrowing there.
It’s not the beach he knows. It’s not the beach he grew up with. It’s louder, brighter, and full of people who belong here in ways he never will.
Belonging is such a stupid concept when he truly thinks about it. Does anyone ever belong anywhere? Even the places that are supposed to feel like home aren’t guaranteed to be safe or real.
Regulus forces his gaze up from the sand. Ahead, James darts across the beach, his head swiveling as he searches for what he’s deemed a “good spot.” He’s grinning, calling out over his shoulder to Mr. Potter, who’s carrying a bright striped umbrella and an oversized bag.
Regulus’s stomach twists. James looks so sure of himself, so comfortable, like he belongs here. Carefree and loud, his voice carries over the sand like it’s meant to, blending seamlessly into the chatter and chaos of the beach. Regulus can’t imagine sounding like that, can’t imagine being like that.
And if something goes wrong today, it’ll be his fault. It always is.
His chest tightens at the thought, the weight of it pressing down on him like the heat of the sun overhead. It’s the kind of weight that burrows under his skin, coils in his stomach, and refuses to let go. It feels like walking a tightrope over an open sea—one wrong step, and everything will come crashing down. He imagines the Potters looking at him the way his parents used to: disappointed, exasperated, like he’s somehow ruined everything just by existing.
The weight of it all clings to him now, just as heavy as it had been then. He slows his pace, letting the Potters pull ahead just slightly. He watches James plant his hands on his hips, declaring something about how “this spot is perfect!”
Regulus doesn’t know what makes it perfect. It just looks like sand to him, stretching endlessly in all directions. He glances down at the uneven trail of footprints he’s left behind him. The sand shifts and crumbles, filling in the shapes where his feet had been, like he was never there at all.
Belonging is a stupid concept, yes. But it doesn’t stop him from wishing he could feel it, just for a moment.
“Reg!” James calls, waving at him from a few feet away. “Come on! It’s perfect here. You’ve gotta see it!”
Regulus hesitates, his fingers twitching at his sides before he shoves them into his pockets. The crunch of the sand beneath his shoes grows louder in his ears as he takes another step. He watches James, so sure of himself, so bright and open, and he tries not to think about how different they are.
So perfect.
So impossible.
***
Regulus shifts slightly on the towel, careful not to disturb the edges where it meets the sand. The book in his hands is brand-new, the cover glossy and the spine still stiff from its recent purchase. Mr. Potter had given it to him a few days ago, handing it over with a curious smile and a soft, “What about this one? Have you read it?”
Regulus had shaken his head, and taken the book from Mr. Potter’s hands. The brightly illustrated cover—a boy with a sword facing down a lightning bolt—had seemed loud and strange, nothing like the dusty classics he’d been taught to read back home.
He’s glad het gets to read it now.
Chapter 14: I Become a Known Fugitive.
He snorts softly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a way that almost feels unfamiliar. Percy Jackson isn’t a bad distraction, he has to admit, even though James had taken one look at the book in his hands yesterday and declared, “You’ll like it, trust me. It’s about a kid with issues too.”
At the time, Regulus had wanted to roll his eyes— issues, as if that summed him up so neatly—but now, flipping another page, he realizes that James wasn’t entirely wrong. Percy feels out of place everywhere he goes, and maybe that’s what hooks Regulus most.
The noise of the beach hums in the background—waves crashing, children laughing, seagulls screeching overhead. It all blends into a white noise that buzzes faintly in his head, not sharp enough to break through the book’s hold. The texture of the sand is a constant in his peripheral awareness, but the towel beneath him forms a thin, safe barrier.
He lets his mind slip, just for a moment, as he turns the page. For now, the chaos around him is distant, as though he’s looking at it through a foggy window.
The words on the page pull him in, and for once, Regulus feels just a little less like a boy sitting stiffly on the edge of a crowded beach. He’s someone else entirely, standing on the deck of a mythical ship, navigating waters full of danger and mystery.
Somehow, that world feels far less overwhelming than this one.
The memory creeps in, unbidden but vivid. He’s standing on the beach, shoes planted firmly on the uneven sand. It’s warm, grainy, and impossibly uncomfortable. The heat seeps through the soles of his sneakers, but the thought of touching it—of sitting in it—makes his skin crawl.
Mrs. Potter notices. She always seems to notice.
“Here,” she says gently, spreading a towel out on the sand. The blue stripes remind him of the ones on the dish towels back at their house, familiar and oddly comforting. “You can sit on this if you don’t want to sit on the sand.”
He hesitates for a moment, then nods. Carefully, he lowers himself onto the towel, his legs stiff and awkward as he avoids brushing against the sand.
“Do you want me to take your shoes?” she asks.
He freezes, his gaze darting to her hands as she reaches toward his feet. He knows she means well, but the idea of someone touching his shoes—or worse, them getting lost or buried—tightens his chest. Still, he nods again, more reluctantly this time.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t seem to mind. She unties his shoes and slips them off with careful hands, setting them aside on her own chair. “There. Safe from the sand,” she says, smiling.
Regulus leans forward, pulling off his socks himself. The air feels strange against his bare feet, cool and prickly. He holds the socks awkwardly, unsure what to do with them, until Mrs. Potter reaches out. “I can keep those safe too, if you’d like.”
Wordlessly, he hands them over. She takes them without a second thought, tucking them neatly into his shoes.
It’s such a small moment, but it sticks. Maybe because she didn’t laugh at him or call him ridiculous for not wanting to touch the sand. Maybe because she didn’t treat him like a problem to be solved.
“Reg.”
The voice snaps him back to the present. He blinks, disoriented, and glances up to find James crouching near him, hands dusty with sand and an eager grin spread across his face.
“Reg,” James says again, bouncing slightly on his heels. “Come on, help me with the sandcastle. It’s gonna be massive. Like, bigger than any sandcastle you’ve ever seen. You can even be in charge of the moat.”
Regulus shakes his head, pressing his lips together tightly.
James’s grin falters for a moment, his shoulders drooping slightly as he looks at Regulus. “Fine,” he mutters, trying to sound nonchalant. “Suit yourself. I’ll make it epic without you.”
But the disappointment is there, clear in the slight downward tug of his mouth and the way he drags his fingers through the sand as he turns away.
Regulus exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing as James moves back to his castle. He lowers his gaze to his book again, the familiar comfort of the printed words wrapping around him like a shield.
Before long, Mr. Potter’s voice cuts through the background noise. “Need a hand, James?”
Regulus glances up briefly to see Mr. Potter setting his book down and stretching. James perks up almost immediately, his earlier disappointment vanishing as he gestures animatedly to the half-formed castle in the sand.
“Yeah! You can help with the tower! I want it, like, really tall—like as tall as we can make it. And maybe another one over there,” James says, pointing at the far corner of his creation.
Mr. Potter chuckles warmly. “All right, boss. Let’s see what we can do.”
He rolls up his sleeves and crouches down beside James, the two of them already plotting out the next phase of the castle like it’s a grand engineering project. James’s enthusiasm is back in full force, and Regulus notices the way his hands move quickly as he gestures, explaining his vision with animated precision.
But the problem is that James has chosen a spot far too close to Regulus’s towel—so close that every scrape of sand and every pat of a bucket feels amplified.
Regulus tightens his grip on the book, willing himself to block it out. He focuses on the words, the story unfolding before him, but they blur slightly around the edges. He can still hear the dull thud of sand being scooped, the occasional laugh from James, and the soft murmur of Mr. Potter’s voice as they work together.
The noise seems to grow louder, pressing against his thoughts like a tide he can’t hold back. But Regulus stays where he is, head bowed, eyes on the page, forcing himself to stay grounded in the story no matter how hard the world around him tries to intrude. The words on the page are familiar, comforting even, and he clings to them like a lifeline. But the world around him—loud, chaotic, unrelenting—keeps pressing in.
But then, out of nowhere, it happens.
The first flicker of sand hits his leg. It’s small, barely noticeable, but then there’s more—a shower of it coating his book, his arms, his legs, his feet. It’s everywhere.
Regulus freezes, his breath catching in his throat. His chest tightens, and the fine granules crawl under his skin, making his muscles stiffen in discomfort. His skin feels hot, itchy—almost suffocating. He brushes at it frantically, but it only seems to spread, finding its way into the folds of his clothes, into the space between his fingers, across the pages of his book. His throat tightens, panic beginning to rise in his chest as the sensation grows overwhelming.
His heart hammers in his chest, the rhythm quickening as the world starts to spin around him. The sound of the waves crashing, the laughter in the distance, the screeching of seagulls—all of it grows deafening. His head throbs, the buzzing in his brain growing louder until it’s all he can hear. Every sound seems distorted, like it’s closing in on him, drowning him.
Someone is speaking—James, probably—but the words don’t register. All he can focus on is the sand, and how it feels like it’s crawling on him, in his clothes, under his skin, getting everywhere, suffocating him with its presence. It’s invasive. It’s too much.
His breath comes in shallow gasps, his pulse racing, and his hands start to tremble. His vision wavers, the edges of the world turning blurry. It feels like the world is pressing in on him, too many sensations, too many things happening all at once. He can’t escape it. The sand, the noise, the pressure on his chest—it all swarms around him, wrapping tight like a vice.
And then, suddenly, there’s a voice, softer this time, cutting through the chaos.
“Regulus?”
The touch on his arms, his legs, his book—it’s careful, deliberate. It’s not his own. He jerks slightly, but the hands are gentle, sweeping away the sand from his skin, brushing it off with slow, methodical care. The sensation is a relief—gradual, like the tension is being lifted inch by inch, though it still clings to him in places he can’t quite reach.
“Regulus,” the voice says again, clearer now, and his name sounds like a lifeline. He blinks, the sharp edges of the world coming back into focus, and looks up to find Mrs. Potter kneeling in front of him. Her expression is calm, but there’s concern in her eyes, like she’s seeing something he can’t hide.
Her hands hover around him, not pushing, not demanding. She’s waiting for him to give her permission to continue. The sand that had felt like a prison moments ago is now mostly gone, swept away by her careful touch. The weight in his chest lifts, just slightly, enough to let him breathe.
“Better?” she asks gently, her voice like a balm on his raw nerves.
Regulus swallows hard, nodding even though the buzzing in his head hasn’t completely gone away. He feels unsteady, still caught in the edges of the panic, but he looks down at his book, clinging to it like an anchor. The sand is mostly gone now, but he can still feel the phantom sensation of it on his skin, the discomfort lingering.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t push. She simply sits there, a steady presence beside him. Her hand remains just within reach, a quiet offer of support, and he takes a slow, shaky breath, trying to ground himself in the stillness she’s offering him.
Regulus doesn't realize it at first, but as he reaches up to adjust his book, his fingers brush his cheek and come away with a faint trace of moisture. The realization hits him slowly—tears. He doesn't even know when they started, but now, they're there, streaking down his face, unnoticed until now. Quickly, he wipes them away, his face flushing with embarrassment.
His heart is still racing, his breath a little shallow, but the tightness in his chest loosens, bit by bit. Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything, doesn’t comment on the tears, just watches him with quiet patience as he steadies himself.
***
Regulus promised himself he wouldn’t cause any scenes. But he did. He remembers how it took him a long time to calm down after the panic attack. The details are fuzzy—his mind like a haze, the world spinning around him in slow motion. All he knows for sure is that it didn’t happen quickly. The buzzing in his head didn’t fade with a single breath or even a few.
It took what felt like forever, and in the moments after, he’s not sure what happened. He can only remember bits and pieces—fragmented snapshots, like a movie cut into disjointed scenes. He remembers Mrs. Potter’s soft voice, her hands still gentle on him, but now the words are harder to make out. She says something about leaving.
“I think it’s time to go,” she says, her voice soft, like she’s talking to a child, but Regulus doesn’t have the energy to be upset. His head is foggy, spinning.
The next thing he knows, he's walking. Or, more accurately, Mrs. Potter is walking beside him, one hand on his arm, guiding him gently but firmly toward the car. His feet feel disconnected from the ground as if he’s walking through water, each step heavy and deliberate. The world is blurry around the edges. He doesn't remember the actual walk to the car, just the vague sense of motion, the sound of waves still echoing in his ears even though he’s no longer at the beach.
He's vaguely aware of Mrs. Potter helping him into the car, her voice quiet as she asks him to buckle up, and he obeys, though the action feels automatic, like his hands don’t belong to him. He can’t remember her saying much else, just the faintest traces of her voice guiding him through the motions of getting settled in the seat.
The sounds around him come and go, unclear—rustling, soft footsteps, the trunk of the car opening and closing. He thinks he hears Mr. Potter talking, though the words don’t register. They’re gone before his brain can make sense of them.
Regulus’ mind is like fog. He’s there, but not really. And then, the car starts—he hears the engine rumble to life, feels the gentle vibrations under his seat as they begin to move. It feels surreal, disconnected. It’s like he’s in a dream.
Everything blurs together—the sound of the tires on the road, the passing landscape, the hum of the air conditioner. Time feels elastic. How much time has passed? He doesn’t know. It’s just a sensation of floating, of trying to hold on to something that keeps slipping away from him.
The next solid memory he has is of the shower. The hot water, the sound of it cascading over him, the rush of it washing away the sand, the salt, the tension. But even then, everything feels distant, muffled. It’s almost like he’s watching himself from the outside. His hands feel heavy as he dries off, as he changes into pajamas. The motions are familiar, automatic. They don't feel like they belong to him, not really.
He remembers sinking into his bed afterward, the sheets cool against his skin. His head feels thick, heavy, but in a way that doesn’t make sense. It’s not the tiredness of physical exhaustion. It’s something else—something deeper. His eyes close before he can stop them, and then he drifts off. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, only that when he wakes up, the room feels a little clearer, a little less foggy.
And then it’s Sunday.
The reality of it hits him like a cold splash of water. It’s Sunday now.
Regulus groans softly, the weight of it settling heavy on his chest. He’s been dreading today. Not because of what happened yesterday—well, that has something to do with it, yes—but that’s not the real reason. No, the reason he’s dreading today is because of Sarah. His social worker. Sarah is supposed to come today. It’s the first week check-in.
The first week.
He tries to focus on that. Not the lingering anxiety from yesterday, not the panic that still feels like a shadow just behind his thoughts, but the weight of the check-in. Sarah.
What if she thinks he’s not doing well? What if she looks at him and sees someone who doesn’t belong here? What if the Potters think that they’re making a mistake, that he’s too much to handle?
A week of living with the Potters. It feels like it’s been longer. A week of soft voices, kind smiles, of them trying to make him feel welcome. A week of them gently encouraging him, of them giving him space, making sure he’s okay. But still… still, Regulus can’t shake the feeling that he’s doing something wrong. That he’s not getting it right. That he’s failing.
His chest tightens at the thought. He can’t even name the feeling—just this vague, suffocating unease that presses down on him, making it harder to breathe. It’s ridiculous, really. But the anxiety settles in anyway, like it always does.
And so, he sits in bed for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, not really looking at anything, just feeling the weight of everything in his chest. It feels like the calm before the storm.
Sunday.
Regulus wishes it were still Saturday.
Regulus shuffles into the kitchen, the early morning light filtering through the curtains and casting a soft glow over the room. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet he doesn’t mind, with only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clatter of utensils breaking the silence. He glances at the clock on the wall—6:42 a.m. Too early for James to be up, thankfully.
But Mr. and Mrs. Potter are already there. Mrs. Potter stands at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease, while Mr. Potter sets the table, humming under his breath. The smell of pancakes and something slightly sweet fills the air, and for a moment, Regulus hesitates in the doorway, unsure if he should interrupt.
Mrs. Potter notices him first. She turns her head, offering him a warm smile. “Good morning, Regulus,” she says softly, her tone light but not too loud. “You’re up early.”
Regulus gives a small nod, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides.
“Morning, bud,” Mr. Potter adds, stepping away from the table to lean against the counter. “We’re making pancakes. Want some?”
Regulus nods again, slower this time, his eyes flicking toward the plates stacked neatly on the counter.
Mr. Potter’s smile widens. “Great! What would you like on yours?”
Regulus hesitates, unsure how to respond. His gaze shifts toward the counter near Mrs. Potter, where jars of jams and syrups are neatly arranged. He takes a tentative step closer, his socked feet barely making a sound on the tiled floor.
Mrs. Potter seems to pick up on his uncertainty. She sets the spatula down and opens the fridge, pulling out a tub of whipped cream and setting it alongside the jams and syrups. “We’ve got butter, strawberry jam, blueberry jam, golden syrup, maple syrup, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream if you’d like,” she says, her voice calm and patient.
Regulus steps closer, his eyes darting between the options. He lifts a hand slightly, pointing toward the butter and strawberry jam, then glances at the whipped cream, his mouth opening briefly as if to speak, but no words come out.
Mrs. Potter tilts her head, watching him closely. “Butter?” she asks, holding up the tub. When he nods, she spreads a thin layer of it over a pancake, glancing at him for confirmation. “Like this?”
Regulus nods again, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
She reaches for the strawberry jam next, spreading a small dollop across the pancake. “And this?” she asks, pausing to meet his gaze.
Another nod.
Mrs. Potter smiles and gestures toward the whipped cream. “And a little whipped cream on top?”
Regulus nods once more, a faint hint of something close to relief in his expression.
Mrs. Potter finishes the pancake and carefully places it on a plate, handing it to him with a gentle smile. “There you go.”
Regulus takes the plate, his fingers brushing against its edges. “Thank you,” he mutters, so quietly it’s almost inaudible, but Mrs. Potter’s smile doesn’t falter.
Regulus doesn’t often speak. It’s not because he’s rude—at least, he doesn’t think so. It’s just that in a new space, in an unfamiliar situation, his body seems to default to silence. It’s not a choice, not really. Sometimes it feels like the words are trapped somewhere deep inside him, locked behind a wall he can’t break through. The idea of speaking—of opening his mouth and hearing his own voice—makes his chest tighten, makes him feel too exposed, too nervous, too terrified.
He’s learned, too many times, that speaking will only get him into trouble. Saying the wrong thing or saying too much always seemed to lead to anger, disappointment, or worse. So it became easier—safer—to say nothing at all.
Regulus assumes that’s what people mean when they talk about having “issues.” Maybe this is one of his.
Sometimes, though, the words slip out without his permission—like a soft, barely audible “thank you.” But even then, it’s so quiet that no one ever hears him. It doesn’t matter how much effort it takes to say it; it always seems to vanish into the air, unheard and unnoticed.
But Mrs. Potter’s kindness was something Regulus had to acknowledge. Even if it came as no more than that whispered “thank you,” barely louder than a breath, it was a small offering he could make in return for how gently she treated him. How patiently she tried to understand him when others never had. Even if she didn’t hear him, it felt important to say it. Important to let it exist.
He grabs a knife and fork from the counter and moves to sit at the table, the pancake steaming softly in front of him. The chair creaks slightly as he sits, and for a moment, he just stares down at the pancake, his fingers gripping the utensils tightly.
Mr. Potter’s voice breaks the quiet, his tone light. “Would you like a glass of water, Regulus?”
Regulus glances up for a brief moment, then nods once. He doesn’t trust his voice this early in the morning, and besides, water seems like the safest option. Anything else would sit too heavy alongside the sweetness of the pancake.
“Coming right up,” Mr. Potter says easily. He moves to the cabinet, grabs a glass, and fills it from the tap. A moment later, he sets it down on the table beside Regulus’s plate. “Here you go.”
Regulus dips his head slightly in acknowledgment, his hands tightening around the knife and fork. He focuses on cutting a small bite of pancake, the utensils clinking softly against the plate. The first bite melts on his tongue, the tang of the jam and the creaminess of the butter blending in a way that feels strangely comforting.
The kitchen is quiet apart from the faint sounds of the stove as Mrs. Potter flips another pancake and the soft, rhythmic scrape of Regulus’s fork against his plate. He keeps his eyes down, his movements careful, hoping the stillness will last.
But then Mrs. Potter speaks, her voice gentle yet purposeful. “How are you feeling this morning, Regulus?” she asks, glancing at him over her shoulder as she sets the spatula down.
Regulus stiffens slightly, his fork pausing midair. The question lingers in the space between them, and he tries to gauge her tone—kind, curious, not demanding. After a beat, he shrugs one shoulder, keeping his eyes fixed on his plate.
Mrs. Potter seems to understand. “Better than yesterday?” she asks softly, her gaze steady but not intrusive.
He hesitates, then gives a small, quick nod. It’s true, in a way. The heaviness from yesterday has lessened, though it hasn’t disappeared completely.
“That’s good,” Mrs. Potter says with a faint smile as she turns off the stove and comes to sit across from him at the table. “I was worried about you yesterday. I think we all were.”
Regulus’s grip on the fork tightens. He doesn’t know how to respond to that—not with words, at least. He takes another bite of pancake instead, chewing slowly, deliberately.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t press him. She waits a moment, then continues, her tone still light but edged with care. “Maybe we can talk about it later—what happened yesterday, and maybe even what happened in the store earlier this week.”
Regulus freezes for a fraction of a second before forcing himself to continue chewing. His gaze flickers down to his plate, and his shoulders hunch slightly, as if he can make himself smaller. He doesn’t want to think about either moment, let alone talk about them.
Mrs. Potter leans forward just slightly, her voice softening even more. “Does that happen often, Regulus? That feeling—like at the beach or in the store?”
He doesn’t move for a moment, the question circling in his head. Slowly, he gives a small nod. Sometimes. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s enough.
“I see,” she murmurs, glancing toward Mr. Potter, who’s leaning against the counter with his tea in hand. His expression is calm but thoughtful, like he’s weighing every word being said.
Mrs. Potter turns her attention back to Regulus, her hands folded on the table in front of her. “We’re just trying to understand, Regulus. So we can help you if it happens again.”
Regulus presses his lips together, his chest tightening slightly. It’s not that he doesn’t want help—he’s not even sure what he wants. All he knows is that talking about it feels impossible. He gives another small nod, not quite looking at her.
Mrs. Potter’s expression softens even more. “Thank you for telling us,” she says gently. “We’ll figure it out together, okay? You’re not alone in this.”
Regulus doesn’t respond. He picks up the glass of water, the coolness grounding him slightly as he takes a small sip. He keeps his focus on the table, hoping the conversation will drift away.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything else immediately. She just sits there, her presence steady and calm, while Regulus carefully finishes his pancake, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. For now, the silence feels like a small reprieve.
***
The clinking of dishes fades into the background as Regulus stays seated at the kitchen table. The pancake he ate earlier sits warm in his stomach, and in front of him, his science assignment folder lies open.
Mrs. Potter had mentioned it over breakfast, her tone casual yet encouraging. “If either of you boys need help with your homework or assignments today, just bring it down. Fleamont and I are happy to help. No reason to stress over it alone.”
Regulus had nodded faintly at her words, even as James shrugged and mumbled something about already being caught up. Now, with the house calm and quiet, Regulus flips open the folder and stares at the task sheet inside.
The assignment is on biodiversity and ecosystems, a topic that feels both overwhelming and frustratingly vague. He’s supposed to research and write about the importance of biodiversity, its role in ecosystems, and the effects of human activity. It’s not that Regulus doesn’t understand it—he just doesn’t know where to start.
He’s still staring at the sheet when Mr. Potter walks back into the kitchen, a coffee mug in one hand. He spots Regulus at the table and tilts his head curiously.
“Working on your assignment?” Mr. Potter asks, his voice warm and easy.
Regulus nods slightly, his grip tightening on the edges of the folder.
“Mind if I take a look?” Mr. Potter gestures toward the paper.
Regulus hesitates for a moment before sliding the task sheet across the table. Mr. Potter picks it up, skimming over it with an appraising eye.
“Ah, biodiversity and ecosystems,” he says, setting the paper down and taking a seat across from Regulus. “Good topic. Did you know I’m a scientist? Or, well, a professor now—but I’ve spent a lot of time working on things like this. I used to research ecosystems and how we can protect them.”
Regulus blinks at him, surprised, and shakes his head slightly. He didn’t know that.
“Well,” Mr. Potter continues, leaning forward slightly, “if you want, I can help you get started. Let’s take a look at what you need to do.”
Regulus nods again, and Mr. Potter smiles, turning his attention back to the sheet. As he reads, his expression shifts into one of understanding.
“Looks like you’ll need to do some research first,” Mr. Potter says thoughtfully. “And you’ll need to type up your findings for the assignment, right?”
Regulus nods, keeping his eyes on the table.
“All right, then.” Mr. Potter pushes back his chair and stands. “Why don’t I grab my laptop for you? It’ll make it easier for you to gather information and start putting things together.”
Regulus glances up at him, slightly wide-eyed, but nods again. Mr. Potter doesn’t seem to mind the lack of verbal response; he simply heads off toward the study to retrieve the laptop.
Left alone at the table, Regulus fidgets slightly with the edge of the task sheet. He isn’t sure why he feels a flicker of something almost like relief—it’s just an assignment, after all—but the idea of having someone guide him through it, even in the smallest way, makes the task seem a little less daunting.
A few moments later, Mr. Potter returns with a sleek laptop tucked under his arm. He sets it on the table and powers it on, the screen glowing softly as it boots up.
“Here we go,” Mr. Potter says, pulling the laptop closer to Regulus. “I’ll show you how to set up a document, and then we can look up some good resources on biodiversity. Sound good?”
Regulus nods again, a faint flicker of gratitude settling in his chest. As Mr. Potter types quickly to get things set up, Regulus glances down at the task sheet once more, feeling just a little more ready to take it on.
They spend about three hours researching the relevant information for Regulus’ science assignment. By the time they’re done, Mr. Potter stretches his arms above his head and glances at the clock.
“We’ve made good progress,” he says, closing the laptop. “Let’s save the writing for another day. Maybe it’s time to switch your focus to another topic, Regulus.”
Regulus nods faintly, relieved to have a break from the endless scrolling through articles and notes. He gathers his task sheet and organizes his papers into a neat pile before slipping away to fetch his maths workbook.
Math is a subject Regulus feels comfortable with—more so than most others. The numbers and equations follow clear rules, patterns he can trace and solve. And with his exams coming up, he knows he needs to make sure he’s prepared. Settling back at the table, he flips open his workbook to a section on algebra and gets to work.
Mrs. Potter, who has been reloading the dishwasher in the kitchen, glances over and notices the numbers spread across Regulus’ page.
“Math, Regulus?” she says warmly, moving closer. “Good for you—getting ahead on revision. James,” she calls over her shoulder, her tone shifting slightly. “You should be doing the same.”
James groans audibly from the living room, where he’s sprawled across the couch. “Mum, it’s Sunday.”
“And exams are coming up,” she replies firmly. “Come on, bring your workbook over. You’ll thank me later.”
James shuffles into the kitchen reluctantly, clutching his maths workbook like it’s a burden. He slumps into the chair across from Regulus, flipping open the book and staring at the page with a grimace.
“Stupid trigonometry,” James mutters under his breath, jabbing at a problem with his pencil.
Mrs. Potter leans over to glance at the question, her brow furrowing. “Hmm. Let me see—oh, wait, I think I remember this.” She tries to explain the concept but trails off, her confusion evident.
Mr. Potter joins them, peering over James’ shoulder. “Ah, trigonometry,” he says thoughtfully. “Let me take a look.” He reads the problem, scratches his head, and shakes his head with a chuckle. “I’ll be honest—I haven’t worked with this in years.”
James sighs loudly, frustrated. “Great. So no one can help me.”
Regulus, who has been quietly working through his own problems, glances up. His eyes flick to James’ workbook, and curiosity tugs at him. Without a word, he shifts his chair slightly to get a better view.
The topic is clear enough—basic trigonometric ratios. He watches James jab his pencil at the problem again, muttering to himself, and then quietly reaches for a scrap piece of paper.
Regulus writes down the question, his pencil moving swiftly across the page as he works through the solution. The equations and steps feel natural, logical. Within minutes, he’s finished. He glances over his work to double-check it, then silently slides the paper across the table toward James.
James picks it up, frowning at first, but as he reads through the solution, his expression shifts to one of amazement—and a little embarrassment.
“You solved it?” he asks, looking up at Regulus. His tone is incredulous.
Regulus nods, his face calm but slightly flushed under the attention.
Mrs. Potter leans over to take a look and smiles brightly. “Well done, Regulus. That’s impressive.”
“Very impressive,” Mr. Potter agrees, a note of admiration in his voice.
James looks down at the paper again, then back at Regulus. “Uh, thanks,” he mumbles, his cheeks turning pink. “I guess that’s one way to do it.”
Regulus doesn’t say anything, but he dips his head slightly in acknowledgment, returning to his own workbook. James, meanwhile, seems torn between awe and embarrassment, muttering under his breath as he flips to the next problem.
Regulus finishes catching up on at least two maths topics before deciding to tackle one of his assignments. He sets his pencil down, takes a deep breath, and looks over the stack of work still waiting for him. English or Geography?
English feels manageable; he understands it well enough. But Geography… that assignment has been looming in the back of his mind, mostly because his teacher didn’t explain it properly. The task sheet might as well be written in a different language. With a quiet sigh, he decides to focus on Geography.
Sliding his maths workbook to the side, he carefully pulls out the Geography task sheet and accompanying folder of notes. He smooths the papers out in front of him and stares at the assignment instructions, trying to make sense of them.
Mrs. Potter, who’s been tidying up nearby, notices the change. “What are you working on now, Regulus?” she asks warmly, coming closer to the table.
Regulus doesn’t answer out loud. Instead, he picks up the task sheet and holds it out for her to read.
“Geography,” she says with a small smile as she skims the sheet. “Ooo, I used to love Geography back in school. I was actually pretty good at it. Would you like some help?”
He hesitates for a moment before nodding, his grip on the edge of the table tightening slightly.
“Alright,” she says cheerfully, pulling out the chair beside him and sitting down. “Let’s see what we’re working with.” She reads through the instructions again, her brow furrowing slightly. “Hmm. Looks like you’ll need to do a bit of research and write up your findings. Did your teacher give you any examples or explain it much in class?”
Regulus shakes his head.
“No examples,” she says, her tone soft with understanding. “That makes it tricky, doesn’t it? But don’t worry, we’ll figure it out together.” She glances toward Mr. Potter, who is still sitting at the other end of the table helping James with his maths. “Dear, can I borrow your laptop again? Regulus needs to type this one up too.”
“Of course,” Mr. Potter replies without hesitation. He gets up, retrieves the laptop from the living room, and places it gently on the table in front of Regulus. “Here you go, all set.”
“Thanks, love,” Mrs. Potter says before turning her attention back to Regulus. “Alright, let’s start by breaking this down into smaller steps. It’ll feel a lot less overwhelming that way. How about we begin with some research?”
Regulus nods, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. Mrs. Potter logs into the laptop and pulls up a browser, showing him how to search for reliable sources. As she guides him through the first few steps.
Regulus has never been more grateful for the help he’s received with his assignments. He can’t even remember the last time he wasn’t completely overwhelmed by schoolwork. It’s an odd thought—one he doesn’t know how to sit with—but it brings back memories of countless tears shed over not being able to figure out how to break down assignments into smaller, more manageable pieces. Everything always felt like too much.
But today? Today feels different. With Mrs. Potter patiently guiding him through the steps of his Geography assignment, and Mr. Potter helping him earlier with science research, things don’t seem as impossible as they usually do.
The hours slip by quietly, with Regulus alternating between his Geography, Science, and English assignments. He works in focused silence, glancing occasionally at Mrs. Potter for reassurance as she helps him navigate tricky instructions or research. At one point, Mr. Potter steps in to help explain a concept about ecosystems he didn’t quite understand. Even James, still lingering at the table after finishing his maths, asks questions about his own assignment—History, Regulus believes.
By the time Mrs. Potter announces that it’s time for dinner, Regulus feels a sense of accomplishment he doesn’t know how to process. He carries his work upstairs, carefully stacking it on his desk, before heading back down.
When he returns to the kitchen, the smell of homemade pizza fills the air. Plates and napkins are already set out, and James is hovering near the table, eyeing the pizza hungrily. Regulus sits down quietly, his eyes darting toward the steaming trays of pizza. His stomach growls faintly, and he reaches out for a slice just as the doorbell rings.
The sound makes him freeze mid-reach.
“I’ll get it,” Mr. Potter says, pushing back his chair and heading toward the door.
Regulus watches him go, a faint unease settling in his chest. He glances at Mrs. Potter, who doesn’t seem concerned as she fills glasses of water, and then at James, who’s already biting into a slice of pizza. But when the front door opens, and a familiar voice greets Mr. Potter, Regulus feels like his stomach drops.
He shifts in his seat, craning his neck to see past the kitchen doorway.
And there she is.
Sarah, his social worker.
Regulus stares at her, his breath catching in his throat. His pulse quickens as he realizes he completely forgot she was coming today. He’d been so focused on his assignments, so caught up in actually getting things done, that her visit completely slipped his mind.
She steps inside, holding a clipboard and wearing the same calm, professional smile she always does.
Regulus doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
His fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans under the table as he watches Sarah exchange pleasantries with Mr. Potter. He knows what’s coming. The questions, the check-in, the subtle evaluations he can never quite prepare for.
And just like that, the calm he’d felt all day begins to unravel.
Notes:
Word Count: 11,596
Published: 2025-01-22Another chapter! I feel like the ending of this chapter is a little rushed, but oh well. If it does seem like that, I'm sorry, but, I felt like I was kind of dragging this chapter out. Admittedly, this is probably my most favourite chapter I have written (although I do say that about every chapter, this one is different). Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for reading!
Chapter 6: Who Knew A Singular Phone Call Could Change Someone's Life... Twice
Summary:
Euphemia and Fleamont had received two phone calls only eight days from each other. Both, in regards to an eleven year old boy. One, about taking him in, and the other…
It’s funny just how one phone call can ultimately change the course of, not only your life, but the lives of others.
POV: Euphemia and Fleamont Potter
Notes:
Note: This chapter is a dual POV, the line that is used, indicated a POV switch. Just for future reference, the *** is a paragraph breaker/scene change. Euphemia's POV is first, and Fleamont's is second. If you would like me to include who's POV it is, I will change it, just comment below whether you'd like that. Thank you!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
POV: EUPHEMIA
“You will face many defeats in life, but never let yourself be defeated.”
Euphemia has always tried to embrace this sentiment. To take whatever life throws her way with grace, a steady smile, and the determination to move forward. It’s a mantra that has carried her through sleepless nights with a newborn, the judgment of being a young mother, and every curveball since.
So, when she and Fleamont decided one crisp October evening that they were ready to have another child, Euphemia was filled with quiet excitement. She could already picture it: James with a younger sibling, someone to share his adventures with, a companion who would fill the house with even more laughter.
She had gone to the doctor filled with hope, a warm, buzzing feeling that stayed with her through the drive there. She remembers every detail of that day—the sterile smell of the office, the stiffness of the chair beneath her, the sharp pang in her chest when the doctor looked up from the chart with a kind but apologetic expression. You can’t have more children.
The words had shattered her. She remembers returning home in a haze, barely able to focus on James’s cheerful chatter or Fleamont’s gentle concern. It wasn’t just disappointment—it was grief. A deep, unrelenting ache that stayed with her for days, pinning her to the bed.
She had wanted so much for James, for herself, for their family. They had waited this time, doing everything “properly,” or so the world had said. When James was born, people had whispered about how young they were, about the recklessness of two teenagers having a baby. But they’d proven everyone wrong. They had built a life filled with love, stability, and joy.
But now, the universe seemed to be telling her that her dream of a bigger family wasn’t meant to be. She clutched that thought to her chest like a lead weight. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was as much as she was allowed to have.
And yet, as always, Fleamont had found the words to ground her. “If you think this is the universe’s way of telling you that you shouldn’t be a mother, you’re wrong,” he’d said, his voice steady and warm. “I think this is the universe’s way of saying there are other children out there who need a mother like you—a mother to love them.”
His words had stuck with her, sparking something new. She didn’t have to give birth to a child to be a mother. She didn’t have to limit her love to biology. And so, the very next day, she had picked up the phone, heart still heavy but filled with a tentative sense of purpose. She scheduled an interview with a social worker, unsure of what lay ahead but knowing this was the right step.
That decision had changed everything.
Now, now she’s here. Sitting at the kitchen table, eating dinner with her husband and their fourteen-year-old son. The hum of quiet conversation and the clinking of cutlery against plates fills the space, a warm and familiar rhythm. Euphemia watches James as he reaches for another slice of garlic bread, his hair falling messily into his eyes despite her repeated attempts to trim it just the way he likes. Fleamont chuckles at something James says, their easy banter bringing a small smile to Euphemia’s lips.
Her thoughts drift, as they often do, to how they got here. How fostering had become such an integral part of their lives. She and Fleamont had been fostering since James was six, though it wasn’t the plan at first. James had asked her once, when he was nine, why he didn’t have a baby brother or sister like the other kids at school.
She had knelt down to his level, brushing a stray curl from his face, and said softly, “Not every family looks the same, darling. But that doesn’t mean ours isn’t full of love.”
What she hadn’t told him then—but thought about often—was that their family was full of love. So much love that it hurt sometimes, knowing there were children out there without anyone to give it to them. Especially the older ones.
It was at their first fostering information session that Euphemia learned just how often older children—teenagers, really—were overlooked. Babies and younger children were adopted far more quickly, finding homes faster than teens who were nearing the age to leave care altogether. The thought had stuck with her, lodged like a thorn in her heart.
She’d gone home that night and sat on their bed, hands folded tightly in her lap. “If we do this,” she’d said, voice trembling slightly, “if we open our home, I want to help the ones who need it most. The ones who are about to age out, who don’t have time left to wait.”
Fleamont had agreed without hesitation, his hand finding hers. And so, they’d begun fostering older teens—kids who needed not just a roof over their heads, but guidance as they prepared for their futures. Over the years, their home had become a place of second chances, a stepping stone for those on the brink of adulthood. It wasn’t always easy, but Euphemia wouldn’t have it any other way.
Her attention is drawn back to the present as James lets out a loud laugh, shaking his head at something Fleamont says. She feels a pang of gratitude for moments like this, for the family they’ve built and the lives they’ve touched.
The sharp buzz of her phone cuts through the warm atmosphere, startling her slightly. Fleamont glances at her, his fork pausing mid-air.
“I’ll get it,” she says, rising from her chair and smoothing down her button-up. She crosses the kitchen, the familiar weight of anticipation settling in her chest. Picking up her phone, she presses it to her ear.
“Hello? This is Euphemia Potter speaking.”
“Ah, yes. Hello, Euphemia, this is Sarah McAllister.”
“Oh, hello, Sarah. What can we do for you this evening?” Euphemia glances back at the table, where Fleamont and James are engaged in a mock debate over who gets the last slice of garlic bread. Her tone remains light, though the formality in Sarah’s voice sets her on edge.
“I hope I’m not interrupting your evening,” Sarah begins, her voice slightly strained. “I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t urgent.”
Euphemia’s grip on the phone tightens, her heart sinking slightly. “Not at all, Sarah. What’s going on?”
“Well,” Sarah exhales, and there’s a brief pause. “I have an eleven-year-old boy who needs a temporary placement. Just until I can find him something more permanent.”
Euphemia’s brow furrows. Eleven. That’s outside their usual age range. “I see,” she says carefully. “Eleven, you said?”
“Yes, I know he’s not in your preferred range,” Sarah continues quickly, as if anticipating Euphemia’s hesitation. “But I’m running out of options. The other family I called can’t take him, and I immediately thought of you and Fleamont. You’re both so experienced and patient... I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.”
Euphemia glances back at the table again, catching Fleamont’s eye. He raises a questioning brow, clearly noticing the shift in her expression.
“One moment, Sarah,” she says, lowering the phone slightly. “It’s Sarah. She’s asking if we can take in an eleven-year-old boy temporarily. The other family she called couldn’t take him, and she’s out of options.”
Fleamont sets down his fork, his expression turning thoughtful. “Temporarily?”
“Yes. Just until Sarah can find him a permanent home.”
Fleamont looks over at James, who has stopped mid-chew, now listening intently. “James?” Fleamont says. “Would you be alright with this?”
James swallows quickly and nods without hesitation. “Yeah, that’s fine. No problem.”
Euphemia smiles softly at her son’s easy acceptance, then returns the phone to her ear. “We can take him in, Sarah.”
“Oh, thank you, Euphemia,” Sarah says, and the relief in her voice is palpable. “I’ll bring him by around 8:30 tonight, if that works for you?”
“That’s fine. We’ll be ready,” Euphemia replies.
“Thank you again, Euphemia. I’ll see you soon.”
“See you soon, Sarah,” Euphemia says, hanging up the phone. She turns back to the table, feeling a mixture of anticipation and nerves settle in her chest.
“Well,” she says, sitting back down. “Looks like we’ll be having a guest tonight.”
Fleamont smiles gently, and James nods, already grabbing another slice of garlic bread as if the evening hasn’t shifted entirely. Euphemia picks at her food absentmindedly, her mind now racing with thoughts about the boy who would soon be stepping through their door.
***
Euphemia wipes her hands on the dish towel, glancing at the clock on the wall. The seconds seem to drag tonight, anticipation threading through the quiet warmth of the kitchen. The faint scent of rain lingers in the air, carried in through the window she’d cracked open earlier. She hears the firm knock before she sees Fleamont move toward the door, his steps purposeful yet calm.
“I’ll get it,” he says, tossing his own towel onto the counter.
Euphemia follows him with her eyes as he crosses the room, the glow of the kitchen light spilling faintly into the dim living room. She finishes draining the sink, setting the dish towel aside as the front door creaks open.
“Good evening, Fleamont,” Sarah McAllister’s familiar voice filters in. There’s something tired about it, though still warm.
“Good evening, Sarah,” Fleamont replies, his tone as steady as always. Euphemia steps closer, lingering by the doorway to the kitchen, drying her damp hands on the edge of her blouse.
Sarah speaks again, quieter this time, and Euphemia catches the words: “He’s still in the car.”
Euphemia’s brow furrows as she exchanges a glance with Fleamont, who nods once before stepping back to let Sarah inside.
“Sarah,” Euphemia greets, stepping forward with a calm smile. Her tone is welcoming but careful. “It’s good to see you.”
Sarah returns the smile, though it’s thinner than usual, weighed down by something Euphemia doesn’t press on—yet.
“Good evening, Euphemia,” Sarah replies. She smooths the front of her blouse, hesitation flickering across her expression.
“Come in,” Euphemia encourages, her voice gentle as she gestures toward the sitting area.
Sarah nods and steps inside, but her gaze flickers briefly toward the car parked on the street. Euphemia notices it, too, spotting the faint silhouette of a small figure in the back seat. Her chest tightens.
“He’s... nervous,” Sarah admits after a moment, her voice lowering. “I won’t sugarcoat it. He doesn’t want to come to the door yet.”
Euphemia presses her lips together briefly, nodding in understanding. “That’s perfectly alright,” she says softly. “We’ll give him as much time as he needs. There’s no rush.”
Fleamont steps beside her, his hands slipping into his pockets as he adds, “We’ll let him come in when he’s ready.”
Sarah exhales, relief softening her posture. “Thank you. I knew you’d both understand.”
Euphemia guides Sarah toward the couch, offering her a seat. Fleamont lingers by the window, his eyes returning to the car parked just beyond the porch. Euphemia doesn’t miss the way his shoulders tense slightly, though his expression remains composed. She knows that look—concern and determination wound tightly together.
Once Sarah sits, she smooths her hands over her knees, fidgeting briefly before clasping them together. “Where to begin…” She chuckles softly, though there’s little humor in it.
Euphemia sits across from her, leaning forward slightly. She doesn’t interrupt, letting Sarah find her words.
“Regulus is a quiet boy,” Sarah begins. “Very bright, but... guarded. He’s had a difficult time connecting with people.”
Euphemia’s gaze softens, her heart already aching for the boy who has yet to step inside.
“He’s been in the system since February,” Sarah continues, her tone growing heavier. “Before that, he lived with his parents. But…” She pauses, taking a steadying breath. “It wasn’t a safe environment for him. I don’t know the full extent of it—he doesn’t talk much about what happened. But from what I do know... it was bad.”
Euphemia swallows hard, exchanging a brief glance with Fleamont, who has finally moved to join her. His expression is unreadable, but she knows him well enough to see the storm behind his calm exterior.
Sarah hesitates before adding, “He’s had a few placements since then, but none of them stuck. He doesn’t act out in the way you might expect—not in anger or defiance. It’s more… subtle. He pulls away. Puts up walls before anyone can get close.”
Euphemia nods slowly, her hands resting in her lap. She’s seen children like Regulus before. Children who’ve been hurt so deeply they no longer believe in safety.
“We understand,” she says softly, her voice unwavering. “We’ll do everything we can to help him feel at home here.”
Sarah smiles faintly, her shoulders relaxing just a bit. “I knew calling you two was the right decision,” she murmurs, more to herself than to them.
Euphemia feels a flicker of warmth at the words, though it’s tempered by the weight of responsibility now resting in their hands. She glances toward the window again, the faint silhouette of Regulus still unmoving in the car.
Her heart tightens, and she silently promises herself to do everything she can to make this house feel like more than just a placement. To make it feel like a home.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont has made plenty of mistakes throughout his life, many he regrets. But one thing he has never questioned, never doubted, never regretted, is falling in love with Euphemia and having their son, James.
He remembers the day he met her as clearly as if it happened yesterday. It was a fateful Tuesday morning in January 2006. Fleamont had been the new kid at school, awkward and unsure of himself, sitting stiffly at a desk in his new History class. He’d kept his head down, hoping to blend into the sea of unfamiliar faces, but then he saw her.
She walked into the room, her red-brown hair falling in soft, natural waves over her shoulders, her warm, intelligent eyes scanning the room for an open seat. There was an energy about her—something vibrant and unshakably confident that made it impossible to look away. Fleamont had never seen such beauty, such effortless perfection before.
All he could do was stare, frozen in place as she took the seat beside him, completely unaware of the effect she had on him. He couldn’t even bring himself to say hello.
Her first words to him, though, changed everything. “You’re sitting awfully straight. What are you, part of the Queen’s Guard?”
It was cheeky, bold, and completely unexpected. It caught him so off guard that he let out a startled laugh, the kind that made everyone nearby glance their way. Euphemia grinned at him then, and in that moment, Fleamont was absolutely gone.
It was love at first sight, plain and simple. And, well... the rest is history.
If Fleamont were ever forced back in time, if he could relive his life in an endless loop, he knows with absolute certainty that he would always choose her. In every version of the universe, in every version of himself, he would always fall in love with Euphemia. Forever and always.
And Fleamont knows he would never trade it for the world.
Fleamont watches the faint silhouette in the car through the front window, the boy so still it’s as if he’s willing himself invisible. The sight tugs at something deep in Fleamont’s chest—a quiet ache that he’s been carrying since Sarah first called them about taking Regulus in.
He’s tried to picture the boy, to fill in the details the sparse case notes couldn’t provide. A child who’s been shuffled between homes since February. A child who’s seen more pain in eleven years than most people do in a lifetime. A child who, right now, can’t even bring himself to walk through their front door.
It’s not the first time they’ve opened their home to a child in need, but something feels different this time. He wonders if it’s because of the way Sarah’s voice faltered over the phone, or the careful way she’s choosing her words now. Or maybe it’s the boy himself—small, silent, and scared, sitting out there in the dark.
“Fleamont?” Sarah’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, and he turns his attention back to her. She’s sitting upright, her hands clasped tightly together, though she’s making an effort to sound casual.
“I think that’s about it, really,” she says, exhaling a soft breath. Her shoulders drop slightly, but then she glances between him and Euphemia, her tone taking on a careful edge. “Oh, another thing—I know you agreed to this being a temporary placement. However, the door is always open for this to be a potential permanent placement. You two don’t have to decide right now. Take your time, get to know him. And if you can’t click with him, that’s okay too.”
Fleamont feels Euphemia shift slightly beside him, but he doesn’t look at her. His gaze returns to the boy outside, the knot in his chest tightening. He knows what Sarah means. She’s giving them an out, offering them a way to back away if this doesn’t work. It’s logical, even kind. But Fleamont can’t imagine turning away from a child who’s already been turned away so many times before.
“Right,” Sarah says after a moment, her tone shifting as she glances toward the door. “Now, time to get him out of the car.”
Before she can stand, Fleamont rises, brushing his hands against his slacks. “I’ll come with you,” he offers, his voice steady but warm.
Sarah looks at him, surprise flickering across her face before she nods. “Alright,” she says, rising to join him.
Euphemia watches him go with a soft smile, her silent support bolstering him as he moves toward the door. The night air greets him as he steps outside, the weight of what lies ahead settling in his chest. But beneath that weight is something else—a quiet determination to give this boy something he’s never truly had.
The quiet hum of the night surrounds them as they descend the steps. Fleamont’s heart beats steadily, but there’s a faint tremor beneath it—a mix of anticipation and quiet determination. He glances at Sarah as they approach the car, her pace measured but purposeful, and feels a silent understanding pass between them.
She opens the car door, Regulus doesn’t move. He sits in the car, tense and still, his eyes locked on the dashboard. Fleamont watches from a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, the cool night air brushing against his face. Sarah crouches at the open car door, her voice soft but steady as she speaks to the boy.
“Regulus,” she says, her tone patient but firm. “It’s time to head inside. They’re waiting for you.”
The boy doesn’t even look at her. Fleamont can see the set of his jaw from here, tight and unyielding.
“No,” Regulus says, his voice flat but layered with something deeper—fear, anger, exhaustion. It’s hard to tell.
Sarah exhales, shifting her weight slightly. “Regulus, I know this is hard, but you have to at least give it a chance. Just come in, meet them, see how it feels. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I said no!” The boy’s voice sharpens, cutting through the quiet street. He finally turns to glare at Sarah, his face pale and taut with frustration. His chest heaves as though the outburst has drained him, his breathing ragged and uneven.
Sarah doesn’t flinch, but Fleamont notices the faint flicker of weariness in her expression. “I understand you’re upset,” she begins again, her voice calm, “but—”
“No!” The word bursts out of Regulus, raw and unrestrained. The sound echoes faintly in the night, and the boy’s trembling hands press into his lap, his shoulders hunched like he’s trying to fold in on himself. “I don’t want to,” he whispers, his voice cracking under the weight of it all.
Fleamont shifts, instinctively taking a step closer. Something about the boy’s posture—defiant but also heartbreakingly small—pulls at him, and before he fully realizes what he’s doing, he speaks up.
“Can I try?”
Sarah looks back at him, surprise flickering across her face. Regulus’s head snaps up too, his wide, startled eyes meeting Fleamont’s for the first time. He looks younger than eleven in that moment, all sharp edges and brittle vulnerability.
Sarah hesitates, then nods, stepping aside. “Alright,” she says softly, her gaze steady as she moves back.
Fleamont approaches slowly, careful not to spook the boy. He sinks down onto the curb beside the open car door, leaving enough space to avoid crowding him. The pavement is cold under his hands as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, letting the quiet settle around them.
“Hi, Regulus,” he says finally, keeping his tone low and even. “I’m Fleamont. I know you don’t want to go inside right now. And that’s okay. I’m not here to force you. I just wanted to talk for a bit. Is that alright?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, his fingers digging into his sides. Fleamont doesn’t take it personally. He watches the boy’s small, tense frame, noting the way his knuckles whiten as he grips his arms.
“I get it,” Fleamont says after a pause. “This is hard. It’s scary, walking into a house full of strangers, not knowing what’s going to happen. I’d feel the same way if I were you.”
The boy’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything.
“You’ve been through a lot,” Fleamont continues, his voice steady. “More than most people your age should ever have to. And I bet you’re tired of people making promises they can’t keep. Tired of hearing the same words over and over, only for things to fall apart.”
For the briefest moment, Regulus’s gaze flickers toward him before darting back to the dashboard.
“I’m not going to promise you that everything will be perfect,” Fleamont says softly. “Because it won’t be. I’m not perfect, and neither is anyone else in that house. But I can promise you this—we’ll try. We’ll do our best to make this work. Okay?”
The words hang in the air between them, heavy but sincere. Fleamont doesn’t look directly at Regulus, giving him the space to process.
The boy’s arms loosen slightly, his hands falling to his lap. He stares down at them for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he reaches for the seatbelt, his movements stiff and hesitant.
Fleamont hides the sigh of relief threatening to escape. Instead, he offers a small, encouraging smile as he stands, stepping back to give Regulus room to climb out.
Regulus hesitates, his small frame almost swallowed by the slightly oversized t-shirt he’s wearing. Then, finally, he swings the door open and steps out, his arms crossing protectively over his chest again. He doesn’t look at Fleamont or Sarah as he starts toward the house, his head down and his shoulders hunched.
Fleamont falls into step beside him, keeping a careful distance. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t push, just walks with him toward the warm light spilling from the open doorway.
The boy stops short at the threshold, his feet planted firmly on the welcome mat. Fleamont pauses too, glancing at him but saying nothing.
“Take your time,” he says quietly, his tone gentle.
Regulus glances inside, his gaze darting around the entryway. Fleamont doesn’t follow his line of sight, doesn’t try to explain or justify the cluttered warmth of the house. He lets the boy take it in on his own terms.
After a long, tense moment, Regulus takes a step forward, then another. Fleamont follows, his heart heavy but hopeful.
It’s a small step, but it’s a start.
“Do you want to come in?” Fleamont hears Sarah ask, her voice deliberately calm and neutral, as if she’s speaking to a frightened animal she doesn’t want to spook.
The comparison lodges itself uncomfortably in Fleamont’s mind, and he feels a pang of sorrow ripple through him. How many times has this boy been made to feel like prey, always on edge, always anticipating the worst? How many moments like this has he endured, walking into unfamiliar spaces, waiting for the next blow—physical or emotional—to land?
The thought baffles Fleamont in the worst way. It’s incomprehensible to him that someone, anyone, could look at a child—any child, but especially this pale, slight boy who seems so desperate to disappear—and choose to harm them. A quiet, unfamiliar anger begins to stir deep in his chest, a kind of rage he rarely allows himself to feel. It’s not loud or explosive; it’s steady and silent, simmering beneath his typically calm demeanor. He didn’t know he was capable of carrying this kind of fury, and yet here it is, hot and unwelcome.
Fleamont exhales through his nose, pushing the feeling down before it takes hold. Rage won’t help the boy. Calm, steady patience will.
He watches as Regulus steps into the house, every movement deliberate, careful. The boy’s shoes barely make a sound on the hardwood floor, his posture tense and guarded, as if he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. Fleamont notices the way Regulus keeps his arms tucked close to his body, his shoulders drawn up slightly. It’s as though he’s trying to shrink himself, to become invisible, and it makes Fleamont’s heart ache.
“Regulus, this is my wife, Euphemia,” Fleamont says, his voice measured and warm as he gestures toward the kitchen doorway.
Euphemia is standing there, framed by the soft light spilling from the kitchen behind her. She’s wearing a warm, open smile, the kind that always seems to make people feel at ease.
Fleamont notices the smallest movement—a slight tilt of Regulus’s head, a quick upward flick of his gaze toward Euphemia. It’s fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Regulus chances the look as though afraid he’ll be caught doing something wrong, and the way his head immediately lowers again tugs at something deep in Fleamont’s chest.
He doesn’t let his thoughts linger there too long. Instead, he focuses on keeping his tone light and his posture relaxed, hoping to ease some of the tension that clings to the boy like a shadow. As Euphemia steps forward to greet Regulus, Fleamont keeps his attention on the boy, watching for the smallest sign of comfort or unease.
It’s only a start, he reminds himself again, but it’s something. And right now, something is more than enough.
He glances at Euphemia, who smiles warmly, her posture relaxed but deliberate, a careful balance of approachability and respect for Regulus’ space.
“Hi, Regulus,” she says gently, her voice soft but steady. “It’s nice to meet you. We’ve been looking forward to having you here.”
Regulus doesn’t respond, his arms tightening it’s hold on his arms. Fleamont notices the way the boy shifts his weight slightly, his stance almost defensive, like he’s preparing for something unpleasant. He doesn’t miss how Regulus’ eyes flick around the room, scanning the space with quiet intensity, cataloging every detail as if searching for exits or threats.
Sarah steps in then, offering a small smile as she shifts her folder from one hand to the other. “Thank you for taking him in on such short notice,” she says, breaking the silence. “I know this isn’t your usual placement. You’ve been so wonderful with the older teens, and I—well, I really appreciate this. I’ll be in touch in about a week to check in and see how everything’s going.”
Euphemia glances at Fleamont, who nods, and then replies, “Of course, Sarah. We’re happy to help.”
Fleamont catches the slight tension in Sarah’s posture, the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s clear this case weighs on her more than most.
“I know younger kids aren’t usually your focus,” Sarah continues, her voice tinged with something between gratitude and hesitation, “but... I thought of you two immediately when we needed somewhere for Regulus. I just had a feeling.”
Regulus shifts again, his body language growing tighter. Fleamont can feel the discomfort radiating off the boy, his grip on the bag white-knuckled now. He glances at Euphemia, who offers a reassuring smile, then at Sarah, who exhales softly and continues.
“This is just a temporary placement,” Sarah says, her gaze shifting between the two of them. “But if things go well... maybe we could talk about making it permanent.”
Fleamont feels the shift in the room immediately. Regulus freezes, his body going rigid. Fleamont notices the sharp intake of breath the boy doesn’t quite manage to hide, the way his chest seems to draw tighter with the weight of that one word: permanent.
Fleamont keeps his expression calm and neutral, though inside, his thoughts churn. He knows better than to offer platitudes right now—words won’t mean much to a boy who’s been through as much as Regulus has. Instead, he focuses on projecting quiet reassurance, a steady presence that won’t push or demand anything of him.
“We’ll see how it goes,” Fleamont says evenly, keeping his tone measured and warm.
Sarah nods her head, then turns her gaze back to Regulus. “Here you go,” she says, her tone tone soft, as she hands over his bag. “I’ll check in soon, okay?”
Fleamont notices the way Regulus tightens his grip on his bag. He also notices the way Regulus refuses to acknowledge Sarah. He notices the way Sarah hesitates as if she wants to say more, but decides against it. She steps back, offering Regulus a small polite smile. “Take care, Regulus.” Sarah says, stepping back a bit more, “you’re in good hands.”
And like that, she’s gone. Fleamont notices Regulus’ lack of response, as if he’s frozen in time almost. He doesn’t push him to say anything, of course. So, instead, Fleamont gestures towards the stairs. “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”
POV: EUPHEMIA
He had looked so tiny, standing there in the doorway. Euphemia hadn’t been sure what to expect when Sarah had told them about Regulus, but nothing had prepared her for how small and fragile he seemed. The boy had been dressed in a slightly oversized shirt that hung awkwardly on his thin frame, the sleeves nearly brushing his wrists, and a pair of faded blue jeans that looked like they belonged to someone older, someone bigger.
He had stood so still, almost rigid, with his shoulders slightly hunched forward, as though trying to shrink himself even further. Euphemia couldn’t help but notice the way his arms were crossed tightly over his chest, a kind of makeshift shield, his fingers clutching his elbows as if that were the only thing grounding him. It was the way he held himself—the careful stillness, the guarded posture, the subtle tremor in his small hands—that broke her heart the most.
It was clear, painfully so, that Regulus was bracing himself for rejection or worse. He barely looked up, his gaze darting around the space as though cataloging every detail, every possible exit, every potential threat. She wanted to say something right then, to reassure him, to tell him that he was safe now, but Euphemia held back, worried that too much too soon might frighten him even more.
“Hi, Regulus,” she had said softly, keeping her tone warm but measured, careful not to overwhelm him. “It’s nice to meet you. We’ve been looking forward to having you here.”
Her words hadn’t drawn a response. He hadn’t even looked at her. Instead, his eyes flickered briefly toward the staircase to his right, then to the softly lit kitchen behind her, scanning the room like it might suddenly transform into something dangerous. Euphemia had stood still, giving him space, her smile unwavering even as her heart ached for him.
She remembered glancing at Fleamont then, catching his steady, calming presence just behind the boy. She saw the worry in his eyes, mirroring her own, and the silent exchange between them said everything they needed to in that moment: We’ll take care of him. We’ll make this work.
When Sarah spoke, thanking them for taking him in, Euphemia had barely heard her. She couldn’t take her eyes off Regulus. She had wondered what it would take for him to feel comfortable here, to feel safe. Looking at him now, so painfully small and guarded, she knew it would take time. But she also knew they would give him all the time he needed.
Regulus shifted his weight, tightening his arms around himself, and Euphemia’s chest tightened in response. She wanted to reach out, to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but she didn’t. Not yet. She would wait for him to come to them, even if it took weeks, months.
As Sarah finished speaking and handed Regulus his bag, Euphemia stepped aside to give him space, watching him carefully. He didn’t say a word, didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, but he took the bag with a firm grip, his knuckles pale.
When Sarah left, Euphemia had moved instinctively to stand next to Fleamont, offering a soft, unspoken support. Together, they had watched as Fleamont gestured toward the stairs, his voice gentle as he said, “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
She had caught the briefest flicker of hesitation in Regulus’s expression before he followed, his movements quiet and deliberate, as though afraid to disturb the peace of the house. Euphemia had stood there for a moment longer, her gaze lingering on the spot where he had been, and allowed herself a deep, steadying breath.
Euphemia sat on her bed, staring at the book in her hands, going over every little detail she could on Regulus. The memory replayed in Euphemia’s mind, as she turned to place her book on the bedside table.
She remembered the way Regulus had looked when he’d come back downstairs—small and hesitant, his movements cautious, like he was trying not to disturb the air around him. His oversized jumper hung loose on his thin frame, and his dark hair framed a face that looked far too young to carry the weight it clearly did.
She’d noticed him before he stepped fully into the kitchen. He’d lingered in the doorway, his hands twisting the hem of his shirt as though it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. He didn’t look at her or Fleamont, and his eyes darted nervously between James and the plate of cookies on the table.
The boy had seemed impossibly tiny then, like he was trying to shrink himself into the shadows. Euphemia’s heart clenched painfully at the sight. There was something so fragile about him, something she couldn’t quite put into words but felt deeply. She’d seen plenty of children come through their home, each carrying their own scars, their own stories. But there was a quietness to Regulus that struck her, an unspoken fear that lingered in the way he held himself, so tightly wound that it was as though the world might crush him if he let go.
She remembered the way his shoulders hunched further as Fleamont greeted him, her husband’s voice warm and welcoming. Regulus hadn’t said a word, just nodded, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. Euphemia had kept her tone gentle, careful not to overwhelm him. “Come in, love,” she’d said, gesturing to the chair beside her.
He hadn’t taken that seat. Instead, he’d chosen the one furthest away, sitting stiffly on the edge, his hands never leaving his shirt. She hadn’t pressed him, hadn’t drawn attention to his choice. Instead, she’d let the moment breathe, allowing him to settle in his own way.
The memory of his tentative movements, the way he’d avoided looking at anyone, stayed with her. Even as Fleamont prepared his meal, and James—so eager to make a good impression—chattered away, Regulus had remained silent. He seemed to fold further into himself under the weight of their attention. It was only when the food was placed in front of him that he’d moved at all, picking up the fork with slow, deliberate care.
And still, she’d noticed how his shoulders remained tense, how he barely lifted his head, even as he ate. She’d watched him, her heart aching at how he seemed to expect the worst from them, bracing for something that never came.
When they’d gone over the house rules, Euphemia had spoken softly, choosing her words carefully, watching how each one seemed to land heavier on him than the last. The rule about speaking his mind had made him flinch ever so slightly, his fingers tightening around the fork. The mention of treating himself with kindness had made him pause altogether, the concept so foreign to him that she could see the disbelief etched into his features.
She remembered the moment she’d taken his empty bowl, the way he’d watched her with something akin to confusion when she thanked him, as though no one had ever bothered to notice his actions before.
And when she’d set the cookies and milk in front of him, she’d seen the hesitation in his small, trembling hands as he reached for one, like he was unsure whether he was truly allowed to take it.
It had been then, more than at any other point that day, that Euphemia had felt the depth of his vulnerability. It wasn’t just in the way he moved or stayed silent—it was in the way he didn’t seem to expect kindness, didn’t seem to know how to accept it.
Now, sitting in the quiet kitchen with the faint hum of the house around her, Euphemia thought of how much work lay ahead. Regulus had built walls around himself, thick and unyielding. But she’d seen the cracks, seen the glimmers of the boy hidden beneath all that fear.
She’d seen it in the way he’d glanced back at them before heading upstairs, cookie still clutched in his hand. That moment had been fleeting, his expression unreadable, but Euphemia liked to think there had been a flicker of something there—maybe hope, maybe curiosity, maybe just a quiet yearning for something he didn’t yet know how to name.
Euphemia sits on the edge of her bed, legs tucked beneath her as she stares at the soft folds of the duvet. The bedside lamp casts a warm glow over the room, its light spilling onto the book she abandoned on the table. Her fingers fidget absently with the hem of her sleeve as her mind replays the day’s events, the image of Regulus lingering—his wary eyes, the way he clutched his shirt, the quiet resignation in his movements.
The door creaks softly as Fleamont steps in from the bathroom, a yawn escaping him as he runs his hands through his messy hair. He pauses when he sees her sitting there, her gaze distant, her shoulders slightly hunched.
“Effie?” he asks gently, setting the tie down on the dresser. “What’s wrong?”
She glances up at him, her lips pressed into a thin line before she answers softly, “Regulus.”
Fleamont exhales slowly, a quiet sigh that carries the weight of understanding. He makes his way over to the bed, sitting down beside her. “Why?” he asks, his tone calm and patient. “What about him?”
Euphemia folds her hands in her lap, her brows knitting together. “It’s the way he carries himself,” she begins, her voice steady but tinged with worry. “He’s so... careful, Monty. Like he’s waiting for something to go wrong. Watching him tonight, the way he wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t make eye contact, the way he shrank into himself like he didn’t belong—it broke my heart. He’s just a boy, but he acts like he’s carrying the weight of the world.”
Fleamont nods slowly, his gaze dropping to his hands. “I noticed it too,” he admits, his voice quiet. “He didn’t want to get out of Sarah’s car. Took a while to convince him, and even then... he looked so defeated. Like he thought he was being dropped off somewhere to be forgotten.”
Euphemia’s chest tightens at his words, her hand instinctively reaching for his. “He’s terrified,” she whispers. “Terrified of us, of this house, of what might happen next. It’s like he doesn’t believe any of this could possibly be safe.”
Fleamont squeezes her hand gently, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “It’ll take time,” he says softly. “He’s been through so much, Effie. We can’t expect him to trust us overnight.”
“I know,” she murmurs, her voice wavering slightly. “But I just want to take all that fear away. I want him to feel like he’s finally somewhere he belongs.”
“We will,” Fleamont assures her, his tone steady. “We’ll make sure he knows he’s safe here. That he’s not just another responsibility—we care about him.”
Euphemia leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder as the room falls into a brief, reflective silence. The muffled hum of the house surrounds them—the ticking of the clock, the soft creak of the floorboards. Finally, Fleamont presses a kiss to her temple and stands, moving to turn off the light.
“Come on,” he says gently, his hand extended toward her. “Let’s get some rest.”
She takes his hand and lets him guide her beneath the covers. As they settle in, Fleamont switches off the lamp, plunging the room into a comforting darkness. Euphemia closes her eyes, her thoughts still lingering on Regulus, but Fleamont’s steady breathing beside her helps ease the ache in her chest.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont is so proud of his son, of the loveable, spirited person he has grown into—a boy with an infectious laugh, a heart full of kindness, and a boundless enthusiasm for life. James is the type of person who draws others in effortlessly, who makes friends wherever he goes, and who defends those who need it without a second thought.
For all his mischief and energy, there’s a deep goodness in him, a warmth that Fleamont sees in every gesture, every word, every grin that lights up his face. James has a way of making the people around him feel seen, valued, and important, and it’s a quality that Fleamont admires more than he can ever put into words.
Fleamont knows his son will do anything to help others. He knows he’ll do anything to make sure whichever kid comes into their home, for a week, a month, feels safe, and loved.
The hum of the car engine fills the quiet as Fleamont glances in the rearview mirror, watching James in the passenger seat. The boy’s knee bounces restlessly, and his fingers drum a quick rhythm against the strap of his backpack. It’s a small thing, but Fleamont can’t help smiling at how full of energy James always is—an endless bundle of motion. Still, his smile fades as he clears his throat and breaks the comfortable silence.
“James,” he begins, his tone gentle but purposeful. “I wanted to talk to you about something. About Regulus.”
James stops drumming and looks up at him, curious but not alarmed. “What about him?”
“Well,” Fleamont says, choosing his words carefully, “I think you’ve already noticed he’s... different from the other kids we’ve fostered, not just his age. He’s quieter, more reserved. He’s had a hard time, and he’s still figuring things out here.”
James frowns, twisting the strap of his backpack in his hands. “Yeah, I noticed. He hasn’t said much, if anything at all. And last night he looked like he was waiting for something bad to happen.”
“That’s why I need you to be a little more gentle with him,” Fleamont explains, his voice calm and measured. “He’s not used to this kind of environment yet, and he’s going to get overwhelmed easily. Try to be a bit more cautious—don’t get too loud or rush him into things. Give him space when he needs it.”
James nods quickly. “I can do that. I don’t want to freak him out or anything.”
“Good,” Fleamont says, glancing over at his son with a small smile. “I know it’s a bit of an adjustment for you, too.”
James leans back in his seat, his brow furrowing slightly as he processes the request. Then, after a moment, he asks, “Did something bad happen to him?”
Fleamont grips the steering wheel a little tighter, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He doesn’t want to say too much, not yet, but he also doesn’t want to brush James off entirely. “His social worker, Sarah, mentioned that something bad happened when he was living with his parents. We don’t know exactly what, but it’s clear that it left him... hurting.”
James is quiet for a moment, his expression unusually serious. Then he nods again, more slowly this time. “Okay. I understand.”
“Thank you, son,” Fleamont says softly, a warmth in his voice that he hopes reassures James.
The car rolls to a stop in front of the school, and Fleamont shifts into park, glancing over at James with a small smile. “Have a good day, all right? And remember—I love you.”
James grins, already reaching for the door handle. “I love you too, Dad.”
The door shuts with a soft click, and Fleamont watches as James jogs toward the entrance, his backpack bouncing against his shoulders. He lingers for a moment, his thoughts briefly flickering back to Regulus, before shifting the car into gear and pulling away.
***
Fleamont watches Regulus as they walk into the uniform shop, his gaze quietly assessing the boy’s body language. He can see the way Regulus keeps his head down, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. Fleamont’s instinct is to reach out, to say something comforting, but he stops himself. Regulus isn't asking for attention, not yet anyway, and Fleamont doesn't want to overwhelm him.
The way Regulus stands by the racks, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides, reminds Fleamont of when James was younger, fidgeting during uncomfortable situations. He tries to keep his focus on the task at hand, helping Regulus get the right size, but the boy’s subtle unease isn’t lost on him. He doesn’t think much of it at first—some kids take a little longer to settle into new environments. But he notices how Regulus isn’t quick to speak, how he avoids eye contact and clings tightly to the pen when he writes down his name.
“Good thinking,” Fleamont says softly when Regulus holds up his hands to indicate his size, trying to encourage him, trying to make him feel competent. The boy doesn’t react the way he expects. There’s no beam of pride in his eyes, no smile to acknowledge the praise. Instead, Regulus looks away, his posture shrinking just a little more. Fleamont’s brow furrows. It’s a fleeting moment, but he notices it.
When Regulus steps into the dressing room with the first set of clothes, Fleamont leans against the wall, arms crossed. Regulus seems to have a sort of quiet tension that he hasn’t yet been able to ease. Fleamont doesn’t know why it bothers him so much, but it does. When the boy comes out in the oversized pants, Fleamont is quick to reassure him, but he watches Regulus closely. His hands never stop moving, nervously adjusting the waistband, tugging at it as if trying to make it fit somehow.
The second time Regulus returns from the dressing room with pants that fit properly, Fleamont feels a small sense of relief. It’s like he can finally see the boy starting to ease up, even if only a little. But as soon as Regulus steps out in the sports shirt, his discomfort is palpable. Fleamont can see it on his face before the boy even moves.
“Does the shirt feel funny?” Fleamont asks, his voice gentle but concerned. He’s aware that Regulus might not be used to expressing his discomfort. It’s something about the way the boy’s brow furrows, his body stiffening. It’s as if he’s trying to process the feeling but can’t quite get the words out.
Mrs. Potter is the one who understands, offering that familiar, gentle reassurance, and Fleamont watches them work in tandem. It’s easy for him to feel like he’s doing the right thing, but in the back of his mind, something nags at him. He doesn’t question the boy’s discomfort, not in this moment. He assumes it’s just a matter of finding the right fit, the right texture. He doesn’t push.
That was his first mistake.
By the time they got back to the car, Euphemia was talking to him about getting Regulus school shoes. When his wife asked Regulus what he’d like to do, Regulus looked momentarily panicked. Fleamont should have questioned this, should have taken a moment to consider the boy’s slightly brush of panic, his hesitation, his discomfort. But he didn’t.
That, was his second mistake.
POV: EUPHEMIA
Euphemia should have seen this coming… right? Could she have prevented this? Could she have done something—anything—differently?
The thoughts claw at her, an endless cycle of guilt and second-guessing. The irrational part of her mind screams, demanding answers. Telling her she should have seen the signs. They were there, plain as day, right in front of her. And yet, she missed them. Or worse, ignored them.
Her chest tightens with the weight of it all. She exhales shakily, vowing then and there never to miss another sign in her life again.
At first, it’s subtle. Regulus moves through the store like he’s walking on a tightrope, his movements jerky, his shoulders drawn up as if bracing against something unseen. Euphemia watches as he pulls a pair of denim jeans from the rack, gripping the fabric tightly like it’s a lifeline. Her heart aches at the sight, but she hesitates, unsure whether to step in or give him space.
She notices his breathing quicken. The rise and fall of his chest becomes shallow, uneven. He stands frozen in front of the racks, his small hands beginning to flap at his sides in rapid, stilted movements. Her chest tightens as she sees the signs of distress piling up.
“Regulus?” she says softly, trying to keep her voice calm, gentle.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he shakes his head sharply and takes a step back from the rack, his hands clutching at the hem of his oversized shirt. Euphemia watches as he pivots to the shirts section, moving with a frantic kind of urgency, as if searching for something—anything—that will feel right.
But it doesn’t. She can see it in the way he jerks his hands back after brushing against the fabric, in the tightening of his jaw, in the way his small shoulders begin to tremble.
Her heart sinks. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, but she knows that for him, it must sound like a roar. The hum of chatter around them—ordinary background noise—feels suddenly oppressive, suffocating.
He clutches at his shirt again, twisting the fabric in his hands, his breathing quick and shallow now. Euphemia steps closer, concern blooming into alarm as his movements grow more frantic.
And then it happens.
Regulus stops abruptly, his small frame stiffening before crumpling to the floor. His hands fly to his hair, clutching at it tightly as he crouches down, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.
“Regulus,” Euphemia says softly, kneeling beside him. Her voice trembles, though she fights to keep it steady. “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
He doesn’t seem to hear her. His wide, unfocused eyes dart around the store, his chest heaving as if the very act of breathing is a struggle. She sees the tears welling in his eyes and feels a pang of helplessness.
Fleamont crouches beside her, his voice calm and unwavering. “It’s alright, bud. We’re here. You’re safe. Just take your time.”
Regulus doesn’t respond. His panic seems to crest, his small frame shaking as he burrows deeper into himself. Euphemia wants to wrap him in her arms, to shield him from the overwhelming world, but she knows better than to overwhelm him further. Instead, she places a light, steady hand on his back.
“Breathe with me,” she says gently, taking a slow, deliberate breath of her own. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it. Just like that.”
It takes time. Each second stretches into what feels like an eternity, but slowly, she sees the tension in his small body begin to ease. His breathing steadies, the trembling in his hands subsides, and his grip on his shirt loosens.
When Regulus finally lifts his head, his tear-streaked face is pale, his wide eyes glassy with exhaustion.
“You alright?” Fleamont asks softly, his tone gentle but grounding.
Regulus doesn’t speak, but he nods faintly, his hands still clutching at his shirt.
Fleamont glances at Euphemia, before he turns back to Regulus. “How about we take a little break? Maybe we can head over to the toy section, check out the soft toys. What do you think?”
Regulus nods. Then Euphemia smiles softly and says “good idea.”
They get up and head over towards the toy section. Euphemia gets an idea quickly turns to Fleamont, saying “I’m just going to run to the bedding section. I’ll be back.”
Fleamont nods, and turns back to Regulus. She continues to walk through the bedding isle, touching the fabrics, trying to find the perfect one.
The memory surfaces, sharp and unrelenting. It had started in the shoe shop. She remembers it so clearly now—the way Regulus had tensed as soon as they walked in, shrinking in on himself as though the walls were closing in around him.
Euphemia had noticed his discomfort, hadn’t she? She’d seen the way his shoulders had stiffened, the way his hands had clutched at the hem of his shirt, the way he had avoided looking at the rows of neatly stacked shoes. It was subtle—so subtle she’d dismissed it as nerves. She’d even smiled, thinking she could make the experience easier for him.
“Here we go,” she’d said softly, opening the first box of shoes and holding one out to him. “Let’s see if these fit, shall we?”
Regulus had nodded stiffly, his movements jerky, and slipped off his too-small sneakers. He’d hesitated before sliding his foot into the new shoe, and when he did, the grimace on his face was unmistakable.
“How does it feel? Too tight?” she’d asked gently, though her question had gone unanswered. He’d shaken his head quickly, muttering, “It’s fine.” But the way his hands had clenched, the way his gaze had dropped to the floor—everything about him screamed that it wasn’t fine.
Even then, she’d hesitated. She should have pushed, should have asked him again, should have done something more than reassure him that the leather would soften with wear. But instead, she’d told herself he was just being polite.
The clothing store had seemed to go better. At least, she thought it had at the time.
She remembers how his shoulders had relaxed ever so slightly when they left the bustling shoe shop and stepped into the clothing store. It had been easier, or at least that’s how it had seemed. Regulus had followed her through the aisles, obediently trying on shirts and trousers without complaint.
But looking back now, Euphemia wonders if she missed something there, too. Had he been overwhelmed then as well? Had he simply been better at masking it? The thought makes her stomach churn.
Then it happened.
Euphemia pulls herself from the memory, her chest tightening. She knows now that it wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t just politeness or shyness. It was something more—something she hadn’t understood then but was starting to piece together now.
And with that realization comes a heavy sense of responsibility. She can’t go back and change what happened, can’t undo her oversights or rewrite the past. But she can learn. She can pay closer attention. She can promise herself, and Regulus, that she will do better.
Because if there’s one thing Euphemia Potter knows, it’s this: she will never forgive herself if she misses the signs again.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont stands at the kitchen counter, the soft clink of a teaspoon against porcelain the only sound in the quiet house. Steam rises from the kettle as he pours hot water into two mugs, the faint scent of chamomile wafting upward. He stirs sugar into Euphemia’s tea—one spoonful, no more, just the way she likes it—and sets the kettle back on the stove.
He’s just placing the mugs on the table when he hears footsteps descending the stairs. Euphemia appears in the doorway, her hair slightly mussed from the long day, her expression tired but gentle.
“He’s still asleep,” she says softly, taking the chair across from him.
Fleamont nods, sliding her mug toward her. “Good. He needs the rest.”
Euphemia wraps her hands around the mug, her fingers seeking the warmth. “I’ve been thinking about earlier,” she begins, her voice quiet, contemplative.
“The shops,” Fleamont says, nodding again. He sighs and sits down, his shoulders slumping slightly. “What happened. It was…a lot for him.”
Euphemia nods, her brows knitting together. “I can’t stop thinking about it. What would you call it? A panic attack? Sensory overload?” she pauses for a moment, “all I know is that it was a lot for him.”
Fleamont rubs a hand over his face, humming, the memory weighing on him. “Did you see at checkout…” He trails off, glancing at Euphemia. “He looked so embarrassed, holding onto that stuffed black dog and the book. Like he thought someone would judge him for it.”
Euphemia tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Why do you think that is?”
Fleamont exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly, love…” Fleamont exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair, “I’m not sure. There could be countless reasons why he acted like that.”
Euphemia nods slightly, and he continues. “Maybe he’s worried about seeming…too young. Like he feels he has to act older than he is because of everything he’s been through.” He pauses, frowning. “Or maybe he’s just not used to being allowed to have things like that—things for comfort.”
Euphemia nods thoughtfully, her gaze distant. The silence stretches for a moment, broken only by the faint hum of the kettle.
“When we were in the car,” Euphemia says suddenly, her voice softer now, “he looked like he wanted to cry.” She swallows, her grip tightening slightly on the mug. “It broke my heart, Monty. He didn’t, but…I could see it in his eyes.”
Fleamont leans forward, resting a hand over hers. “It’ll be okay, Effie,” he says gently. “We’ll do everything we can to help him.”
She nods, her lips pressing together. “It’s going to take time, though. For him to feel comfortable enough to talk to us, to let us in.”
Fleamont hesitates, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. “Maybe…” he starts, then pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Maybe it’s not that he doesn’t want to talk. Maybe he can’t.”
Euphemia looks at him, her expression curious but not surprised. “How do you mean?” She asked skeptically.
“I mean,” Fleamont says thoughtfully, stirring his tea, “remember that one teen we had, where he didn’t talk to us, at all, but was able to talk to James like it was the most natural thing in the world.” Fleamont pauses for a moment, looking at his wife, she only nods, urging him to continue. “Well, I did some research, and I found a type of anxiety known as selective mutism.”
Euphemia processes this information. “So,” she starts, taking a sip of her tea, “you think that Regulus might have selective mutism?”
Fleamont nods slowly. “Sarah did mention he wasn’t going to be talking to us, which we expected. But when I went out to help her bring Regulus inside, he was able to talk to her.”
“That would make sense,” Euphemia murmurs, her gaze dropping to her tea. “Do you think we should…seek out a therapist for him? Someone who can help him work through this?”
Fleamont is quiet for a moment, weighing the idea. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he admits finally. “Even if we put him on a waitlist now, just in case. Especially if this placement becomes permanent.”
Euphemia nods, her expression softening. “We’ve only ever done temporary placements before,” she says, almost to herself. “But this feels different, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Fleamont agrees. He glances at the clock on the wall, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “Speaking of which, I should go fetch James in a moment. He’ll be wondering where I am.”
Euphemia smiles faintly, her fingers brushing his as she reaches for her tea again. “Go on, then. I’ll tidy up here.”
Fleamont nods, rising from his chair and pausing for a moment to press a kiss to the top of her head. “We’ll figure it out,” he says softly.
POV: EUPHEMIA
Euphemia adjusts James’s tie with practiced ease, though the boy fidgets incessantly under her hands. “Hold still, James,” she says gently, a small smile tugging at her lips despite his squirming.
“I am holding still,” James retorts, though his shifting movements contradict him entirely.
Euphemia shakes her head fondly. “If this is you holding still, I’d hate to see what happens when you’re actually restless,” she teases.
Movement catches her eye, and she glances toward the doorway. Regulus stands there, hesitating like a shadow caught in the light, his body stiff, his gaze flickering briefly to the floor before settling somewhere indistinct.
“Good morning, Regulus,” she says, softening her voice and offering a kind smile. “Come on in. Are you hungry?”
He shifts awkwardly but doesn’t reply, his silence as heavy as the boy’s small frame. Euphemia doesn’t push.
“I’ll make you some toast, shall I?” she offers lightly, keeping her tone casual. When he doesn’t object, she steps toward the counter, slipping bread into the toaster. The small task feels grounding.
Behind her, James groans dramatically as she tightens his tie. “There,” she says, giving him a gentle nudge. “Go find your shoes before you’re late.”
James bounds out of the kitchen, muttering something under his breath about where he might have left them. The kitchen quiets, save for the soft hum of the toaster. Euphemia turns her attention back to Regulus, noticing the loose knot of his tie.
“Do you need help with yours?” she asks, nodding toward the fabric hanging around his neck.
He hesitates for a moment before giving a quick, uncertain nod, his eyes still fixed somewhere near the floor.
Euphemia steps closer, her movements deliberate and unhurried. “Chin up,” she says gently, gesturing for him to lift his head.
He obeys, and she begins to work, her fingers moving with the precision born of years of parenting. “It’s not too tricky once you get the hang of it,” she says, her voice warm and steady. The tie smooths into a neat knot under her hands, and she straightens it carefully, giving it a final tuck.
“There,” she says, stepping back. “Perfect.”
She watches as Regulus tentatively touches the knot, his fingers brushing against the fabric like he’s testing its presence. The gesture tugs at her heart, a reminder of how small and vulnerable he seems, even when he’s trying so hard to stay composed.
As he moves to sit at the table, Euphemia places a plate of buttered toast in front of him. She takes her seat across from him with her tea, observing quietly as he picks up a slice and nibbles at the edge.
The simplicity of the moment brings back a memory from yesterday morning, one that lingers sharply in her mind.
She’d stood in the same spot, near the counter, listing off breakfast options as brightly as she could: eggs, pancakes, porridge, toast. Each option had been met with silence, Regulus growing visibly tenser with every word. His shoulders had hunched, his hands twitching as they hovered uncertainly near the edge of the counter.
Euphemia had realized too late that she’d overwhelmed him. She had paused mid-sentence, taking in his panicked expression, and softened her tone immediately. “How about toast?” she’d suggested.
His small, hesitant nod had been the only answer she needed, and she had quickly prepared the toast, ensuring not to rush or make a fuss. When she’d placed the plate in front of him, he had nibbled at it, much as he was doing now.
That moment stuck with her, a quiet lesson in how easily he could be unsettled and how careful she needed to be with him.
Today, she had resolved to make things easier. She didn’t ask what he wanted for breakfast or present him with a flurry of choices. Instead, she had simply toasted the bread, spread the jam, and placed the plate on the table, ready for him before he even stepped into the kitchen.
Euphemia sips her tea now, watching him eat, her heart aching and warming in equal measure. The small, subtle nods of progress—like him sitting at the table and eating without hesitation—are victories she holds close.
“Just so you know,” she says gently, breaking the quiet, “when we get to school, I’ll need to come in with you for a little bit to pick up your schedule from the office. Is that all right?”
He pauses mid-bite, his slight frame growing still. She holds her breath, worried for a moment that she’s said too much or asked too directly.
But then he nods, slow and deliberate, his gaze still downcast. Relief unfurls within her, soft and steady.
“Good,” she says, smiling warmly. “We’ll get it sorted together, nice and easy.”
As he nibbles on his toast again, Euphemia sits back, content to watch the moment unfold. Yesterday had been a lesson, and today, she feels a quiet reassurance that they’re finding their way, step by step.
POV: FLEAMONT
This Saturday morning began like any other. They woke up, had breakfast, and discussed their plans for the day.
But this Saturday was a little different. For starters, they had Regulus.
Fleamont remembers how, after asking Regulus what he’d like to do for their “fun day,” the boy’s face scrunched up slightly, his expression unreadable. Fleamont had chalked it up to James enthusiastically suggesting the beach before Regulus could even answer.
He, himself, wasn’t overly fond of the beach—he didn’t particularly like the sand, for one—but it was calm, relaxing, and, most importantly, not too crowded. It seemed like a safe enough choice for Regulus’ first weekend outing with them.
And that’s how they all ended up here.
The sun is warm, and the gentle crash of waves provides a soothing backdrop as Fleamont sits under the shade of their umbrella, engrossed in one of his many novels. Euphemia is a few feet away, reclining in her chair with a wide-brimmed hat shielding her from the sun, her eyes closed as though she’s dozing.
Fleamont’s focus wavers when he hears James’ voice, bright and insistent.
“Reg,” James says again, his voice laced with so much enthusiasm, as if trying to peel Regulus from his contemptment. “Come on, help me with the sandcastle. It’s gonna be massive. Like, bigger than any sandcastle you’ve ever seen. You can even be in charge of the moat.”
Fleamont chuckles softly, turning the page of his book. But when he glances over the top of it, he notices Regulus’ expression. The boy sits stiffly on his towel, his knees drawn up to his chest, and his face looks tight, almost pained.
James, already halfway through constructing the base of his sandcastle, grins at him expectantly. But then, his son’s grin falters, morphing into a frown. His shoulders drooping slightly. “Fine,” Fleamont can just about hear James mutter, trying to sound nonchalant. “Suit yourself. I’ll make it epic without you.”
Fleamont could clearly hear the disappointment in his son’s voice. He felt bad, for his son, and he felt bad for Regulus. He can see the tension in Regulus’ posture, clearly screaming at James to stop asking.
Poor boy , Fleamont thinks. If someone kept pestering me like that, I’d be unhappy too .
So, he does the only thing he can think of the keep the peace.
“Need a hand, James?” Fleamont questions, setting aside his book stands, stretches. If he’s going to make both them happy, he can put up with playing in the sand for a couple hours.
The second he said it, James’ face lit up like a christmas tree, completely disregarding his disappointment he had briefly. “Yeah!” James all but exclaims. “You can help with the tower! I want it, like really tall—like as tall as we can make it. And maybe another one over there,” James says, some other ideas.
Fleamont smiles, at his son’s excitement chuckling warmly. “All right, boss. Let’s see what we can do.”
Fleamont rolls up his sleeves and gets to work. After some time, he takes a peak over at Regulus, clearly a bit more relaxed. Fleamont’s glad he could help with that.
James had been so caught up in his castle-building that he didn’t notice the stray shovelful of sand flying in Regulus’ direction. It wasn’t much—a clump of damp sand scattering as it landed—but the reaction was immediate.
Regulus stiffens, his breath hitching audibly. His hands hover in the air as though afraid to touch himself, his face twisting into a look of sheer panic. Fleamont freezes, his heart sinking as he watches the boy’s chest rise and fall rapidly.
He should’ve seen this coming. He should’ve told James to move the castle farther away, but he didn’t. He let himself get caught up in James’ enthusiasm, and now—now Regulus is trembling, his fingers clawing at the bits of sand clinging to his arms and legs.
Euphemia is there in an instant, moving with calm precision. She kneels in front of Regulus, speaking to him softly, her voice steady and soothing. Fleamont can’t make out the exact words, but he sees her hands gently brushing the sand off his arms, her expression full of quiet reassurance.
Fleamont stays rooted to the spot, feeling a knot of guilt twist in his stomach. He should’ve done more. He should’ve prevented this.
“It’s all right, Regulus,” Euphemia says, her voice carrying over the sound of the waves. “You’re okay. The sand is gone now. Just breathe, darling. You’re safe.”
After a moment, when Regulus seems to calm just enough to stop shaking, Euphemia looks up at Fleamont. “I think it’s time to go,” she says quietly.
Fleamont nods, his throat tight. “Get him to the car,” he says, his voice low but firm. “I’ll pack up here with James.”
Euphemia stands, guiding Regulus carefully toward the parking lot. The boy clings to her side, his head ducked low, his shoulders hunched.
James is already scrambling to gather their things, his movements frantic. “Dad, I didn’t mean to! I swear I didn’t mean to!” His voice cracks, and he looks at Fleamont with wide, panicked eyes. “I—I didn’t think—oh no, did I hurt him?”
Fleamont kneels beside his son, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “James, listen to me,” he says, keeping his voice calm. “It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Fleamont interrupts gently but firmly. “You didn’t mean to upset him. These things happen. Regulus just…gets overwhelmed sometimes. It’s not because of you, all right?”
James nods, though his brow remains furrowed, guilt still etched across his face. Together, they finish packing up, Fleamont taking extra care to ensure everything is accounted for while James carries the lighter bags back to the car.
By the time they’re all seated in the car and pulling away from the beach, Regulus is curled up in the backseat, staring out the window with glassy eyes. Euphemia sits beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
Fleamont grips the steering wheel a little tighter than usual, his jaw clenched as he drives. The image of Regulus panicking replays in his mind, and the guilt he’s been trying to suppress bubbles back up.
He should’ve done more to prevent this. Should’ve thought ahead, been more mindful of where James was building the castle.
I’ll do better , he thinks silently, glancing at Regulus in the rearview mirror. I have to.
POV: EUPHEMIA
Euphemia remembers how her heart clenched when she crouched down in front of Regulus on the beach, his breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. His small frame was trembling, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if he were trying to block out the world. The grains of sand stuck to his skin seemed like an unbearable weight to him, and she could see the sheer panic in his wide, tear-filled eyes.
“It’s okay, darling,” she murmured softly, keeping her tone as calm and steady as possible, though inside, her heart ached for him. “You’re safe. I’m here.”
She remembers gently wiping the sand off his hands, careful not to overwhelm him further. Slowly, his breathing began to even out, though his grip on her arm remained tight.
“I think it’s time to head home,” she said softly, brushing a strand of dark hair out of his face. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet, alright?”
Regulus didn’t say a word, but the way he clung to her as she stood told her everything she needed to know. He pressed his face into her side, his small hands clutching at the fabric of her dress as she led him toward the car. She remembers how light he felt as she helped him climb into the backseat, how his movements were sluggish, as if he were drifting in and out of consciousness.
“Let’s get you buckled up,” she whispered, her voice gentle as she guided his hands away from his chest long enough to fasten the seatbelt. His head lolled against the seat, and though his eyes remained open, they were distant, unfocused.
Once they were home, Euphemia remembers how carefully she coaxed him up the stairs, her arm around his shoulders to steady him as he swayed on his feet. He didn’t protest when she guided him to his room, nor when she helped him sit on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, she stood there, contemplating whether she should change him into his pyjamas. But as she looked at his pale, exhausted face and his heavy-lidded eyes, she decided against it. He needed rest more than anything else.
She eased him back onto the bed, pulling the blanket over him and tucking it gently around his small frame. His breathing was already deepening, his body relaxing as sleep began to claim him. She brushed his hair back from his forehead, lingering for a moment as she whispered, “You’re safe now.”
Even after she left the room, she couldn’t stop herself from checking on him every so often. Each time she peeked in, he was still asleep, his face peaceful but so heartbreakingly fragile. She remembers the pang of worry in her chest each time she saw him, but she also felt a fierce determination to make things better for him.
By the time dinner rolled around, Euphemia had checked on Regulus at least three times, making sure he was still resting. Though she’d known he needed time and space to recover, she couldn’t help but hover, quietly reassuring herself that he was okay.
She was brought back from her memory, from the soft clinking sound of utensils against plates. Euphemia watches James out of the corner of her eye as he pushes a pile of mashed potatoes around with his fork, barely eating. It isn’t like him to be so subdued at the table. Normally, he’s chattering away about school or the latest soccer match he’s followed.
Finally, James breaks the silence. “Mum, Dad…” His voice is hesitant, and he keeps his gaze fixed on his plate. “I just… I’m sorry about what happened at the beach. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident, I swear.”
Euphemia exchanges a quick glance with Fleamont before setting her fork down. She leans forward slightly, her voice soft but firm. “James, it’s okay. We’re not upset with you.”
James looks up at her, his eyes wide with guilt. “But I made Regulus panic! I wasn’t paying attention, and—”
“James.” She cuts him off gently but firmly, reaching across the table to place a reassuring hand on his. “It was an accident. Your dad and I know that, and you shouldn’t feel so guilty over something you didn’t mean to do.”
James frowns, still unconvinced, his shoulders hunched. Euphemia sighs, giving his hand a small squeeze. “If you can’t let go of the guilt, perhaps the best thing to do is to apologise to him tomorrow. But you need to understand that this wasn’t your fault.”
James looks skeptical, glancing between her and Fleamont. “You really think he’d be okay with that? That he’d forgive me?”
Before Euphemia can respond, Fleamont chimes in, his voice warm and reassuring. “Regulus probably isn’t even upset about it, James. It wasn’t something you did on purpose.”
“But he’s not even at dinner,” James counters quickly.
Euphemia smiles gently. “That’s because he’s asleep, not because he’s avoiding you,” she explains.
James pauses, his lips pressed together as he considers this. “You think he’ll forgive me?” he asks again, his voice quieter this time.
Euphemia nods, her smile unwavering. “I know he will. He’ll see that you’re trying to make things right, and he’ll appreciate that. And James, I’m proud of you for taking the initiative to apologise. It shows how much you care. But you also need to understand that it wasn’t your fault. Regulus reacted the way he did because that’s how he responds to certain things. You couldn’t have known.”
For a moment, the table falls into silence. James stares at his plate, processing her words. Eventually, he nods, his shoulders relaxing just a little. “Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you”
“You’re welcome,” Fleamont reaches over and ruffles James’ hair lightly. “And, James, we’re always going to reassure you when we know something was an accident. None of us are perfect, and it’s not fair for you to carry guilt for something that was out of everyone’s control.”
He leans back in his chair, his tone thoughtful. “The best way to move forward is to apologise to Regulus if it’ll help you feel better. But I think you’ll find he’s not holding this against you.”
James nods again, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Okay. I’ll apologise when he’s awake.”
“Good,” Euphemia says, squeezing her hand tighter on James’. “And, James, we love you, ok?”
James blushes slightly. “I know,” he whispers, “love you too.”
With that, the tension seems to lift from the room. James picks up his fork again, and the three of them settle back into the rhythm of their meal, the earlier unease replaced with a quiet sense of understanding.
POV: FLEAMONT
“I’ll get it,” he says, pushing back his chair and heading towards the door. Fleamont pulls the door open, and there stands Sarah—clipboard in hand, wearing her usual tailored blazer and warm, professional expression.
“Fleamont,” she greets him, her voice steady but kind. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all,” Fleamont replies, stepping aside to let her in. “You’re right on time.”
He gestures toward the hallway, closing the door behind her as she steps into the house. Sarah’s gaze sweeps briefly over the interior, landing on the photos lining the walls. Fleamont notices her eyes pause on one of James, his wide grin immortalized in a beach photo from last summer.
“Euphemia’s just in the kitchen,” Fleamont says, motioning for her to follow.
They enter the bright, cozy kitchen, where Euphemia looks up from setting glasses of water on the table. Her smile is polite, though Fleamont doesn’t miss the slight tightening of her shoulders.
“Sarah,” Euphemia says, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” Sarah replies. “Thank you both for taking the time to speak with me before I meet with Regulus.”
James, who’s hovering near the pizza trays, takes a half step back, clearly reluctant to leave but sensing the adults-only tone of the conversation. Euphemia gives him a pointed look, and he grabs a slice of pizza before slipping out of the room with a muttered, “I’ll be in the living room.”
Fleamont catches a glimpse of Regulus still seated at the table, his posture stiff, gaze fixed on his hands.
“We can talk in the study,” he suggests, motioning toward the adjacent room.
Sarah nods, and the three of them make their way out of the kitchen. Fleamont closes the door softly behind them.
In the study, Sarah pulls out a small folder and sets it on her lap, carefully flipping through a few pages before looking up at Euphemia and Fleamont.
“How has Regulus been adjusting to being here?” she begins, her tone calm but direct. “Any signs of distress—difficulty sleeping, changes in appetite, or anything else?”
Euphemia presses her hands together, her fingers curling slightly around one another. “He’s…quiet,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “Very quiet. He hasn’t spoken to us at all yet, but we were prepared for that.”
Fleamont nods, leaning forward slightly. “We’ve tried to create an environment where he doesn’t feel pressured to speak. He keeps to himself and spends a lot of time in his room. But he’s been eating, and he’s completing his school assignments without issue.”
Sarah jots a note down, her expression neutral but attentive. “And James?” she asks, glancing up. “How has he been handling having Regulus here?”
Euphemia lets out a soft sigh, her gaze flickering to Fleamont before answering. “James…means well,” she begins delicately. “But Regulus has avoided interacting with him altogether. He won’t join in on anything James invites him to—games, conversations, even just sitting in the same room. And he doesn’t make eye contact with anyone, not even us.”
“James has tried,” Fleamont adds. “But I think he’s realizing that Regulus needs space, and he’s trying to respect that.”
“That’s good,” Sarah replies, nodding. “It’s a difficult adjustment for everyone involved, but it’s important that Regulus has that space. He’ll engage when and if he’s ready.”
Euphemia frowns slightly. “Do you think there’s anything more we could be doing to help him feel…safe?”
Sarah pauses, considering the question. “What you’re doing now—providing structure and stability without forcing interaction—is exactly what he needs,” she says gently. “It may take a long time for him to feel comfortable enough to engage, and that’s okay. The most important thing is that he knows you’re there for him, no matter what.”
Fleamont feels a flicker of relief at her reassurance, though a tight knot of worry still lingers in his chest. “He’s been through so much,” he murmurs. “We just want him to know he doesn’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
Sarah gives him a small, understanding smile. “And he will. In time.” She glances at her notes again. “How has he been emotionally? Any signs of distress—withdrawal, repetitive behaviors, or heightened reactions to certain stimuli?”
Euphemia hesitates. “He does get overwhelmed,” she admits. “Crowds, loud noises, sudden changes…those seem to unsettle him the most. We’ve been trying to keep things quiet and predictable for him.”
Fleamont nods. “When he’s overwhelmed, he tends to retreat to his room. We’ve learned to give him space when that happens.”
Sarah makes another note. “That’s good to know. It sounds like you’re both being incredibly mindful of his needs, and that will make a difference.”
Euphemia doesn’t respond immediately, her expression pensive. Fleamont reaches over, briefly resting a hand on hers.
After a few more questions, Sarah closes her folder and stands, smoothing out the front of her blazer. “Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions. I know this isn’t easy, but it sounds like you’re both doing a wonderful job.”
Fleamont rises and gestures toward the kitchen. “I’ll take you to him.”
They walk back to the kitchen, where Regulus is still seated at the table, his hands resting stiffly in his lap. His gaze is fixed on the table in front of him, and he doesn’t look up even as they approach.
“Hello, Regulus,” Sarah says gently, lowering herself into the chair across from him. She sets her folder on the table, her movements deliberate and calm. “Do you mind if we talk for a little while?”
Regulus doesn’t respond, doesn’t even glance in her direction. His shoulders are drawn tight, and his fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his jeans.
Sarah doesn’t seem fazed. “That’s okay,” she says softly. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I’ll just ask you a few questions, and you can nod or shake your head if you’d like. Does that sound alright?”
Regulus hesitates for a long moment, his hands flexing slightly before returning to their rigid position. Finally, he gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
“We’ll give you two some privacy,” Euphemia says quietly, her voice laced with concern. She touches Fleamont’s arm, and together they step out of the room.
Fleamont glances back just before the door closes, his chest tightening at the sight of Regulus, still so small and stiff, facing Sarah across the table.
Later, Sarah enters the kitchen, her expression is neutral, professional. “Thank you both,” she says, her tone reassuring. “He’s doing well. I’ll be back next week for another check-in.”
Fleamont walks her to the door, exchanging a few more pleasantries before she steps outside and heads down the front steps. He closes the door behind her, exhaling deeply.
When he returns to the table, the smell of homemade pizza greets him. Plates and napkins are still set out, but now James is seated, animatedly recounting some story, and Euphemia is smiling faintly as she listens.
Regulus is sitting quietly at the table, but there’s something different about him now. His posture is less rigid, his shoulders less tense. He’s even nibbling on a slice of pizza, his gaze flitting between James and the table.
Fleamont sits down, watching the scene unfold. For the first time all evening, Regulus doesn’t look like he’s bracing for impact.
And that, Fleamont thinks, is progress.
***
Fleamont is stepping out of his place of work, his mind already drifting toward what he’s going to order for his late lunch, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, glancing at the screen, and his brows lift slightly when he sees Euphemia’s name. He swipes to answer on the second ring.
“Euphemia?” he says, his tone light but steady, though the urgency of her call gives him pause.
“Fleamont, the school just called,” she says in a rush, her words tumbling over one another. “The principal wants us to come down immediately. He said there’s been an incident.”
Fleamont stiffens, his grip tightening on the phone. “An incident?” he repeats, his voice dropping into a tone of calm concern. He can hear the tension in Euphemia’s voice, the way it quavers ever so slightly. “Did he say what happened?”
“No,” she says, and he can hear the sound of her pacing in the background. “He wouldn’t tell me. He just said both of us need to come right away.” She exhales sharply, her breathing uneven. “Fleamont, what if James—what if he—”
“Euphemia.” He cuts her off gently but firmly, his voice a steady anchor. “Take a deep breath. We don’t know anything yet.”
There’s a pause, and he can imagine her standing there, trying to collect herself.
“I’ll meet you there,” he continues, already moving toward the door, his bag swinging behind him as he grabs his keys.
“All right,” she says, though her voice wavers just slightly.
“Good. I’m leaving now. Drive safe, love.”
“I will. See you soon,” she replies before the call ends.
Fleamont lowers the phone, slipping it back into his pocket as he strides toward his car. The words "incident" and "both of us" echo in his mind, a weight settling over his chest. It isn’t like Euphemia to panic, not unless she has a reason. Whatever this is, it’s serious enough to make her unravel, even a little.
Fleamont strides down the school hallway, his polished shoes clicking softly against the tile floor. His mind races as he approaches the principal’s office, his thoughts circling around James. Euphemia hadn’t mentioned specifics, but given James’s penchant for mischief, Fleamont is already imagining the kind of prank that could have warranted an urgent meeting.
He rounds the corner and sees the principal’s door slightly ajar. Taking a steadying breath, he pushes it open and steps inside.
“Fleamont,” Euphemia says softly, rising halfway from her seat. She looks anxious, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. But it’s not her or the principal that immediately catches his attention—it’s Regulus.
The boy is sitting stiffly in the chair next to Euphemia, his arms folded tightly across his chest as if trying to make himself smaller. His face is pale, and he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, his expression a careful mask of neutrality that doesn’t quite hide the tension radiating off him.
Fleamont blinks, momentarily thrown. Not James. Regulus.
“Hello, Mr. Potter,” the principal says, rising from his desk. He’s a tall, serious-looking man with a kind but firm demeanor.
Fleamont nods briefly, his confusion still lingering as he steps further into the room. Euphemia gestures subtly to the empty chair on Regulus’s other side, and Fleamont moves to take it, lowering himself carefully into the seat.
“Regulus,” he says quietly, his tone gentle as he glances at the boy. But Regulus doesn’t look up.
Fleamont’s stomach twists. Whatever this is, it’s clearly weighing on the boy, and it doesn’t seem like a simple misunderstanding.
The principal clears his throat, drawing their attention. “Thank you both for coming on such short notice,” he begins, folding his hands on the desk in front of him.
Fleamont leans forward slightly, his focus sharpening. Euphemia shifts beside him, her shoulders rigid, but she doesn’t speak, waiting for the explanation they’ve both been desperate to hear.
The principal glances at Regulus, then back at the Potters. “I’m afraid we need to discuss an incident that has occurred today.”
Notes:
Word Count: 15,086
Published: 2025-01-27Wow! This chapter took me a hot second. Chapter 7, will also be a rather long one.
I think in general, I'm going to stick with Euphemia and Fleamont as a dual POV (I have never written a dual POV before, so this chapter could be quite bad).
I might take a little break from posting every 4-5 days, for maybe about a week or two (it depends, really) simply because I want to have some more chapters pre-written, so I am on top of everything.
Sorry for the longer note at the end here. I really do hope you are enjoying the story so far, and a little teaser, we get James' POV next chapter! Thank you so much for all the support! And enjoy your day!!
Chapter 7: Being the Only Sun in the Universe is a Lonely Thing
Summary:
James has been an only child since the day he was born. It’s a lonely thing, being the only sun in the universe. But… what happens when he gets to share that experience?
Let’s just say, he is all for it. Even though he has no idea what he’s doing.
POV: James Potter
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
James has always been told he’s literally the sun. Everything he’s ever know has always revolved around the sun. Everything has always revolved around him.
He knows, he always will come first, no matter what. James knows that his parents value him in everything they do—every decision, every life lesson, it always circles back to him.
So, when his parents wanted to have another kid, they asked him his input. And do you know what he said?
Well, he’s not entirely sure what he said, he was only four years old. But, he does remember how excited he was at the prospect of having a younger sibling. Someone he could play with, someone he could spend time with. Someone he could always have with him so he wasn’t so alone.
Being an only child is lonely… isolating at times. Which, most people with siblings tend to not understand.
Yes, James always gets his parents attention, their love, their support. And, yes, James can always get whatever he wants. But, being by himself, is boring.
It’s like he feels sick, being alone. He knows he’s not really alone. He’s got his parents, and his friends… but he’s always wanted secret inside jokes with people that lived in his house, people that were his age.
So, being ecstatic over getting a younger baby brother or sister, was everything to James.
When James was around seven, he remembers being sat down by his parents to talk. He was confused, at first, but he remembers what they said very clearly.
James sits cross-legged on the living room floor, his favorite dragon toy clutched in his hand, its wings flapping as he makes it soar through the air. The dragon lets out a mighty roar—well, as mighty as a seven-year-old can make it sound—when his mother’s voice interrupts.
“James, sweetheart, can you come sit with us for a moment?” Euphemia says, her tone gentle but carrying the weight of something important.
He looks up, noticing the way both his parents are seated on the couch, side by side. His father pats the spot on the floor in front of them, and James frowns slightly, tucking his dragon under his arm as he crawls over.
“Are we having a meeting?” he asks, tilting his head. Meetings are what they call their family discussions, though they’ve never had one this serious-looking before.
His Dad chuckles softly, ruffling James’ unruly hair as he sits down. “Something like that, champ.”
Euphemia leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees so she’s closer to James’ eye level. Her hands are clasped together, and her smile is warm but tinged with the kind of carefulness James has come to associate with big conversations.
“James, there’s something we want to talk to you about,” she begins, her voice soft and measured.
James shifts, sitting up straighter, his dragon forgotten for the moment. “Okay.”
“You know how we’ve talked about being kind and helping others when we can?” Euphemia continues, her gaze steady but gentle.
James nods. “Like when I helped Mrs. Greene carry her bags?” he asks, remembering the neighbour he’d once helped bring in groceries.
“Exactly like that,” Euphemia says with a smile. “But this time, we’re going to help in a different way. Your father and I have decided to open our home to some kids who might need a place to stay for a little while.”
James’ brow furrows, his seven-year-old mind racing to catch up. “Like…a sleepover?”
“Sort of,” Fleamont answers, his tone light but firm. “But a longer one. These kids might stay with us for weeks or even months.”
James blinks, not quite understanding. “Why?”
Euphemia exchanges a glance with Fleamont before turning back to James. “Because they need a safe place, somewhere they can feel at home. Their own homes might not be safe for them right now.”
“Oh.” James thinks about this for a moment. “So…they’ll live here?”
“For a little while,” Fleamont says. “They’ll come and go. Sometimes they’ll only stay for a short time, and other times they might stay longer. We’ll be here for them as long as they need us.”
James looks between his parents, his confusion giving way to curiosity. “Are they my brothers and sisters?”
Euphemia smiles gently. “Not quite, sweetheart. They’ll be like…guests. But we’ll treat them like family while they’re here.”
James considers this, his young mind trying to piece it all together. “Okay…so I’ll have someone to play with?”
Fleamont laughs, a deep, hearty sound. “That’s one way to look at it, yes.”
“And it’s going to make you and Mum happy?” James asks, his gaze narrowing slightly as he tries to gauge their reactions.
“Yes,” Euphemia says, her voice softening further. “It will make us very happy to help these kids. But we also wanted to make sure you’re okay with it, James. This is your home too, and we’ll always make sure you feel comfortable.”
James grins, the idea fully taking root now. “I’m okay with it. If it makes you happy and I get more people to play with, then it sounds fun!”
Euphemia lets out a small laugh, reaching forward to pull James into a hug. “Thank you, sweetheart. That means so much to us.”
Fleamont ruffles James’ hair again as Euphemia releases him. “You’re a good kid, James. We’re proud of you.”
James beams, his chest swelling with pride. His dragon dangles in his hand, momentarily forgotten as he thinks about all the new kids who’ll be staying in his house. More people to play with, more games to invent—it sounds perfect.
He scrambles to his feet, lifting his dragon into the air again. “Can I tell them about my dragons?” he asks eagerly.
Euphemia smiles, her eyes sparkling. “Of course you can, love.”
James nods, satisfied, and bounds off to continue his game. Behind him, his parents share a quiet smile, relief and gratitude etched into their faces.
And that’s how the whole fostering thing came about. James is obviously aware there was more too it. As he got older, more aware, he understood there was more to it.
At the time, James didn’t understand why his dad came to pick him up from school one day in October. He remembers it was November, because it was a lot colder and it was around the time his parents asked if he’d like a baby brother or sister.
It was odd to James, being picked up from school by his dad instead of his mum. His mum always picked him up from school.
To say he was confused was an understatement.
When they got home from school, James remembers his dad saying that his “Mummy was sick”, and that he needed to “leave her alone for a bit”. It made him quite upset. James had tried to sneak into his parents room every now and again, but his dad was too quick. Always one step ahead of him.
So, one night, when his dad put James to bed, he decided to sneak into his parent’s room. Now, as a four year old, a lot of questions were left unanswered. But one question, that James could answer himself was that his mum was crying.
It broke his heart to see her this upset. So… he did the only thing he could think of. When James was sad, he always got cuddles from his parents to make him feel better. So, James did the exact same thing.
He knew, the next day it made her feel better. Because she was up and out of being making pancakes. And, if James could make his mum happy again, then well… he knew he did a good thing.
The kitchen is warm and bright, the overhead light casting a soft glow over everything. James sits cross-legged in his chair at the far end of the table, gesturing animatedly with a half-eaten cookie as he talks. His words come fast, spilling out in an eager rush, his hands moving just as much as his mouth. His parents listen with practiced ease, Euphemia smiling over her mug of tea while Fleamont leans against the counter, occasionally nodding along.
James doesn’t miss the way Fleamont’s attention flickers toward the doorway. A second later, he follows the gaze and spots the small, stiff figure standing just inside the kitchen. Regulus.
The kid is frozen there, hands twisted into the hem of his jumper, eyes darting around like he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to be here. James stops talking, the last of his words trailing off, and watches as Fleamont straightens, his expression going all soft.
“Ah, there you are,” Fleamont says, his voice warm and easy. “Hungry?”
Regulus nods once, but his shoulders draw up as all three of them turn toward him. He stares at the floor, making himself small. James frowns slightly.
“Come in, love,” Euphemia says, patting the chair beside her. Her voice is gentle, like she’s coaxing a skittish animal closer.
Regulus hesitates, then steps into the kitchen like he’s testing the ground beneath him. His movements are slow, careful, like he’s expecting something to go wrong at any moment. Instead of sitting next to Euphemia, he takes the closest chair—the one across from her—and perches on the edge, hands still twisting his jumper.
“What can we get you?” Fleamont asks, already moving toward the fridge. “Would you like some leftover spaghetti? That’s what we had for dinner.”
Another nod. James catches the way Regulus curls in on himself a second later, his cheeks flushing faintly as his stomach growls.
“Spaghetti it is,” Fleamont says easily, not acknowledging the sound. He pulls out a container and starts dishing food into a bowl. His movements are so natural, so normal, like this happens all the time.
James watches, munching on the rest of his cookie. Thirty whole seconds pass in silence before he tilts his head and says, “Dad, are you gonna heat that up? You can’t give someone cold spaghetti.” He gestures toward the bowl on the counter.
Fleamont pauses, then smiles. “I was just about to, James. You’re very perceptive, as always.”
James grins, pleased, and reaches for another cookie from the plate in the center of the table. “I’m just saying, cold spaghetti’s gross. It’s all stuck together. Not a good first impression.”
Euphemia gives him a look over the rim of her mug. “James.”
“What?” he says around a mouthful of cookie. “I’m helping.”
The microwave hums to life, filling the room with soft white noise. Euphemia stirs her tea. Regulus keeps his head down, hands still twisted in his jumper. James wonders if he even likes spaghetti. Or cookies. Or literally anything.
Euphemia sets her mug down and glances at Regulus. “Regulus,” she says gently. “This is James, our son.”
Regulus doesn’t look up, but James feels his attention shift.
“Hi,” James says brightly, like this isn’t weird at all. “You’re Regulus, right? Mum and Dad said you’re staying with us now. That’s cool. I’ve got this game we could play later—if you want, I mean. Or not. That’s fine, too.”
Euphemia touches his arm, a silent reminder to slow down. James stops mid-thought, then shrugs. “Right. Sorry. Nice to meet you,” he adds quickly.
There’s no awkwardness in his voice, no hesitation. Just a simple statement, like meeting his new almost-brother is the most natural thing in the world.
The microwave dings, the sharp sound breaking the momentary pause. James watches as Fleamont retrieves the bowl, stirring the contents with a fork before setting it carefully in front of Regulus. Steam curls into the air, carrying the faint smell of tomato sauce and garlic.
“There you go,” Fleamont says as he sits down beside Regulus, his voice calm and steady.
James tilts his head again, tempted to say something else, but before he can, Fleamont turns to him. “James, could you give us a little space to talk to Regulus?”
James blinks, caught off guard. He isn’t being scolded, but it’s clear that this is one of those serious adult moments he’s not meant to be part of. He grabs another cookie as he stands. “Yeah, sure.”
Walking over to Euphemia, James leans down and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. “Goodnight, Mum.”
“Goodnight, love,” she replies, brushing a hand over his curls in a brief, affectionate touch.
James turns to Fleamont. “’Night, Dad.”
“Goodnight, James,” Fleamont says with a small smile.
James finally glances at Regulus, hesitating for half a second. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers—curious, thoughtful. Then he turns and heads for the stairs, his footsteps light against the wooden floor. As he disappears down the hall, the house seems to settle, the air shifting in a way James doesn’t quite have words for yet.
***
James is leaning against the car door, watching the steady stream of students spill out of the school gates. He’s tired—tired in a way only school days can make him—but relieved to see his dad’s familiar silver car pull up in front of the school. The car stops with a soft hiss, and Fleamont rolls down the window, giving James a warm smile.
“Hey, bud,” Fleamont calls, his voice light and easy. “How’s school today?”
“Good, I guess,” James says, grinning as he slides into the passenger seat. He tosses his bag into the backseat and buckles up quickly, the routine familiar and comforting. The car starts moving, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. Fleamont is humming along to something on the radio, tapping his fingers on the wheel in time to the beat.
The journey home is short, but it’s enough for James’s thoughts to start racing again. Homework, mostly. He’s got so much of it this week—too much, honestly. It’s like the teachers have decided to dump everything on him at once. He can't help but feel the pressure mounting.
As they pull into the driveway, Fleamont glances over at James. "Hey, just a heads-up," he says quietly, tone softening. "Regulus is asleep upstairs, so let's keep it a bit quieter than usual when we get in, alright?"
James nods immediately, a rush of understanding sweeping over him. "Got it, Dad."
They both get out of the car and head toward the house. James’s shoes thud lightly against the gravel path, his thoughts still on the homework, and he’s already planning to tackle the pile as soon as he’s through the door.
Euphemia is in the kitchen when they walk in, looking up from where she’s sorting through the mail. Her warm smile greets them both. “Hello, love,” she says to Fleamont, before turning to James. “How was school today?”
James drops his bag by the door and stretches, letting out a long breath. “It was good, Mum. But I’ve got so much homework. Like, seriously, it’s like they want me to just live in the library at this point.” He starts rattling off everything he has to do, not even bothering to stop for breath.
“I’ve got an essay for History, a project for Science, and don’t get me started on Maths. I’m pretty sure my teacher has a personal vendetta against me, because how else can you explain that much homework for one class?” His words tumble out in a quick, excited rush, the familiar comfort of home making him feel safe to unload everything at once.
Fleamont chuckles, dropping his keys onto the counter. “Well, sounds like you’ll be busy tonight. You’ll get it done, don’t worry.”
James looks up and shrugs. "Yeah, I guess so."
Euphemia stands up from the table and stretches. "Well, I’ll help you with whatever you need. It’s been a bit of a crazy day, but I’ll make time."
James grins, relieved. "Thanks, Mum." He drops into a chair at the kitchen table, opening his bag to pull out his homework. Fleamont looks over at him, still standing by the counter.
"How about something to eat before you dive into all that?" Fleamont asks, his tone still light but carrying that familiar concern.
"Yes, please!" James says immediately, his stomach rumbling at the thought of a snack.
Euphemia pulls out some leftovers from the fridge, placing them on the counter with a knowing smile. James's eyes follow the plate, already planning his escape from his homework in the form of food.
As he starts picking at his meal, Euphemia sits down next to him, opening a notebook and pulling a pen from the pocket of her apron. "Let’s start with History. You can explain the essay to me while I help you out, yeah?"
James sighs contentedly, feeling the weight of the day lift just a little. "Thanks, Mum. You’re the best."
By the time he finished his homework, dinner was ready.
Dinner is always the best part of the day, at least when everything’s winding down. James leans back in his chair, his plate now empty but his stomach pleasantly full. The burgers had been perfect—crispy hot chips, juicy beef patty, and the best the best tasting cheese he knows his mum loves. He could eat the whole thing again, but instead, he picks up his glass, swirling it around before setting it down, the quiet clink of the glass on the table feeling oddly final.
Fleamont leans back in his own chair, giving a satisfied sigh, his fork resting gently on the edge of his plate. Euphemia is wiping her hands on a dish towel, glancing at James with a smile. “Well, that was lovely, wasn’t it?”
"Yeah, it was great," James agrees, stretching out slightly, feeling the weight of the food sitting comfortably in his stomach. He can't remember the last time he felt this full and content, and it’s probably the reason he can’t stop smiling.
He stands up to help clear the table, his parents busying themselves with putting leftovers away and starting to rinse the dishes. James grabs the empty plates and piles them into his arms, heading over to the sink.
“James,” Fleamont’s voice cuts through the soft noise of clinking dishes. James pauses, looking over his shoulder. His dad is leaning against the counter, one hand rubbing his chin as he watches James carefully.
“You’ve been doing well helping Regulus settle in,” Fleamont continues, his tone lighter but purposeful. “But now that he’s going to be at school with you, we need you to keep an eye on him. Make sure he’s okay.”
James furrows his brow slightly, the weight of his dad’s words sinking in. He’s already been trying to make things easier for Regulus at home, but school? That’s different. He knows how it is to be thrown into a new environment, to not know anyone. He knows how hard it is to adjust when everything’s changing, and he remembers how overwhelming it all felt when he started at his old school.
“I get it,” James replies, his voice steady as he sets down the plate he’s holding and turns to face his parents. “I’ll look out for him. I’ll make sure he’s not left out, or anything.”
Euphemia, still moving around the kitchen, looks up at him and smiles softly. “You’ve been a good brother, James. Just make sure that continues, okay? We know you’re busy, but you can help him feel more at ease. He’s still getting used to everything.”
James nods, feeling that familiar sense of responsibility weighing down on him, but in a good way. “I know. I’ll help him.”
Fleamont places a hand on James’s shoulder, a rare and quiet moment of affection that makes James pause for a moment. “I’m proud of you, James,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Just make sure you’re there for him when he needs it.”
“Okay,” James says again, this time more firmly, a small sense of resolve building in his chest. He won’t let his parents down. He can do this. “I’ll help him. I’ve got it.”
His parents exchange a glance, the quiet trust between them giving James that extra bit of reassurance. They don’t say anything more, trusting him to do what’s right. He might not be the perfect older brother, but he’s going to try. He won’t let Regulus feel alone at school—not if he can help it.
He finishes clearing the table, feeling lighter now, as though the weight of the conversation has given him something new to hold onto. As he walks to the kitchen, he notices Fleamont and Euphemia exchanging a soft, approving look. That’s enough to make James feel like he’s doing something right.
With one last look over his shoulder at them, James goes to finish collecting the last of the dishes from the table, determined to start tomorrow with a new kind of responsibility.
If only he knew, what he’s in for.
The final bell rings, and James couldn’t be more relieved. He slams his locker shut, slinging his bag over his shoulder as Peter falls into step beside him.
“God, that PSHE lesson was so boring,” Peter groans, rubbing his temples dramatically.
James snorts. “It wasn’t that bad.”
Peter glares at him. “Easy for you to say, you actually understood it.”
“Barely,” James admits with a grin.
They weave through the crowded hallway, dodging students eager to get outside. James is mid-laugh at something Peter says when he suddenly hesitates, a weird, nagging feeling settling in his chest. He slows his pace slightly, frowning.
“Hey, Pete,” James starts, glancing at him, “am I forgetting something?”
Peter shrugs. “Not that I’m aware of.”
James nods, brushing it off. He probably just forgot about some minor homework assignment—not the end of the world.
The feeling doesn’t quite go away, though. It lingers, growing more persistent as they step outside. The cool afternoon air is a welcome change from the stuffy hallways, and they spot the rest of their friends near the front steps.
Remus, Mary, Lily, and Marlene are gathered in their usual spot, chatting about something James doesn’t quite catch. He and Peter make their way over, joining the conversation easily.
James still feels… off. It’s like a little tug at the back of his mind, telling him there’s something important he’s missing.
“Okay, be honest,” James says, cutting into the conversation, “am I forgetting something?”
Marlene tilts her head. “Like what?”
“I dunno. Just—something.”
Mary shrugs. “Nothing I can think of.”
Lily raises an eyebrow. “Did you leave something in a classroom?”
“Doubt it,” James says, still frowning.
Peter laughs, nudging him with his elbow. “Mate, you’re just getting paranoid.”
James huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”
Still, the unease sticks to him like gum on his shoe.
They keep talking for a few more minutes, and James is just starting to relax when he spots his mum’s car pulling up to the curb.
“Alright, see you lot tomorrow,” James says, slinging his bag higher onto his shoulder as he waves goodbye.
He jogs toward the car and hops into the passenger seat. “Hey, Mum,” he greets, tossing his bag onto the floor.
“Hey, love,” Euphemia says with a warm smile. “Where’s Regulus?”
James freezes.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
That’s what he was forgetting.
Now, normally, he’s not allowed to swear, but given the circumstances, he should be let off with a warning—a slap on the wrist.
Before he realises it, James is jumping out of the car and looking around like a madman. Funny, isn’t it.
He forgets things all the time, he’s just never forgotten an actual human being before. Let’s just blame it on the fact that Regulus has barely lived with them for two days.
No, James, he thinks, that’s not a good enough excuse. And it’s true, it’s not a good enough excuse. But, now he’s kind of panicking, kind of embarrassed. He shouldn’t have let this happen, but he did. James really needs to start writing things down if he’s going to actually remember things.
James’s heart is pounding, his breath shallow as he stands frozen for a moment. His mind is still stuck on that horrible realization that he forgot Regulus—his own foster brother, for goodness sake. Regulus is standing there. James thinks he looks more annoyed than anything else, which makes James feel even worse.
He never forgets things like this. Well, not people like this. It’s one thing to forget a book for school, but forgetting a person? He’s better than that. Isn’t he?
“Regulus!” The word bursts out of him before he can think it through, and his voice cracks just slightly. His face turns redder than it’s ever been before, and the guilt hits him like a ton of bricks.
Regulus looks up, brow furrowed, and James feels his stomach churn. There’s a long beat where nothing happens—Regulus just stares at him, probably waiting for some kind of explanation.
And, of course, he has no explanation. Well, nothing that will make sense. Nothing that will undo the mortification spreading across his face like wildfire. All James can think about is how this is going to go down in Regulus’s mental record of him: the idiot who forgot him.
“I—I’m so sorry,” James stammers, rushing over to him, his words tumbling out in a panic. “I didn’t mean to forget you! I just—i got distracted talking to my friends, and I’m not used to picking someone up with me! I swear it won’t happen again.”
He winces as his own voice gets higher in desperation. The excuses sound lame even to him, and he’s starting to feel like he might actually drop through the floor and just—disappear.
“I—um—I mean it, really, I promise,” James continues, flustered, his hands gesturing uselessly in the air. “I—I should’ve checked, and I—I can’t believe I—look, this was stupid, I’m sorry, okay?”
Regulus looks at him with an unreadable expression. James could swear there's a faint trace of disbelief in his eyes, and he’s sure it’s because of how utterly ridiculous this whole thing is.
James is practically floating with the overwhelming urge to crawl into a hole. He's rambling now, trying to make everything right, but it's only making it worse.
“I didn’t—I'm sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, promise! I—look, I didn’t mean to leave you there, I was just... I don’t know, I was distracted and—”
James stops himself and blinks rapidly, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. The look on Regulus’s face isn’t angry, but James can’t shake the feeling it’s a quiet kind of disappointment . And that, somehow, is worse than anything.
He knows he shouldn’t make promises he knows he can’t keep. James knows he’s bound to forget Regulus again, and that thought makes James a little sick to the stomach.
By the time they get to the car, James has apologized about three more times, and he feels like his cheeks are on fire. He can’t bring himself to meet Regulus’s eyes, instead focusing on the car door like it holds the key to his own salvation.
He feels like such an idoit. He can’t wait for this day to be over.
***
James feels like he could die right then and there. He cannot generally believe he did what he did yesterday. His embarrassment is eating him alive.
He might puke, if he’s being frankly honest.
And what’s worse is that he knows he won’t hear the end of it from his Mum until she decides it’s enough.
“Don’t forget, you have assembly this morning,” Euphemia says as she parks outside the school. “Make sure Regulus knows where the auditorium is.”
“Yes, Mum,” James replies, grinning sheepishly. “I won’t forget this time.”
James is embarrassed about what happened yesterday. He hears Regulus huffing quietly, pushing open the car door. He watches Regulus waves a small, polite goodbye towards his Mum before slinging his bag over his shoulder and stepping onto the pavement.
“Come on,” James says, already striding ahead.
Regulus follows, his gaze fixed on the ground as they make their way toward the school entrance. James chatters away, his voice bright and energetic as always, but Regulus doesn’t respond. James isn’t sure if he’s ignoring him or just too lost in his own thoughts. Either way, he’s getting pretty used to the silence.
It’s not like James should, get usd to the silence coming from Regulus that is. He’s trying so hard to help build bridges and connect with Regulus, but the kid won’t put in the effort. It infurrates James. It wasn’t that hard for James to connect with the other kids—although, they were older than him, and James did feel like they did indulge him a bit, simply because their were no other kids in the house.
But still.
They step into the building, and the noise of the crowded hallway immediately presses in on them. Lockers slam. Voices echo. The air is thick with the chatter of students catching up after the weekend. James barely notices—he’s been navigating these hallways for years—but Regulus stiffens slightly beside him, his shoulders creeping toward his ears.
James doesn’t comment. He just keeps walking.
“First stop, my locker,” he announces, glancing back at Regulus. “Then to yours.”
Regulus doesn’t reply, just trails after him without complaint.
James reaches his locker and spins the dial, but before he can open it, a familiar figure is already waiting beside him. Remus leans against the neighbouring locker, casual as ever, one hand tucked into the pocket of his pants, the other hanging loosely by his side. He straightens slightly as they approach.
“James,” Remus greets with a small smile, “did you want to—” He stops mid-sentence when his gaze flickers to Regulus.
James doesn’t give him a chance to finish. “Sorry, Remus,” he cuts in quickly, fumbling with the lock. “Not this morning. I have to show Regulus where the auditorium is.”
Remus nods, his expression warm, understanding. “That’s alright. See you after assembly in first period?”
“Yeah,” James mutters, his voice quieter now. He yanks his locker open and shoves a few books inside, grabbing a crumpled paper and a folder before slamming it shut.
James can feel eyes on him. He is clearly, all but aware, that Regulus is watching the exchange in his usual silence, he can feel eyes shifting on him and off him. James doesn’t say anything though, he doubts Regulus even realises he’s doing it.
“Alright, let’s go,” James says, nodding toward the hall.
Remus gives a small wave before disappearing into the crowd. James doesn’t bother looking back—he already knows Remus will be exactly where he always is after assembly.
They head toward Regulus’ locker next.
“This one’s yours?” James asks when Regulus stops in front of a locker a few rows down.
Regulus nods, spinning the combination lock with precise movements. He barely hesitates before pulling the door open, carefully placing his bag inside and swapping it for the books he needs.
James leans against the locker beside him, watching as Regulus double-checks everything. He’s methodical about it, making sure he has exactly what he needs before shutting the door with a soft click.
“Ready?” James asks.
Regulus nods but still doesn’t look at him.
They walk toward the auditorium in silence. For once, James doesn’t try to fill it. He figures Regulus has enough to deal with already, and he doesn’t need James’ endless talking on top of it.
Regulus keeps his eyes on the floor as they move through the hallways. His fingers tighten around the edges of his notebooks, his knuckles whitening. James isn’t sure if it’s nerves or just habit, but either way, he doesn’t comment.
When they reach the auditorium doors, James stops and glances at him. “This is it,” he says, his tone softer than before.
Regulus nods again, still avoiding his eyes.
James hesitates. “I’ll see you after school,” he adds, before stepping inside.
James feels bad for the kid. He clearly appears to be terrified, but there isn’t much he can do. He’s tried. But giving up is not an option, James knows this. So, he’ll keep trying until he can finally break down at least on of Regulus’ walls.
It’s lunchtime, and the cafeteria is loud, filled with the overlapping voices of students and the clatter of trays against tabletops. James weaves through the crowd with practiced ease, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, his strides easy and unhurried. He knows exactly where he’s going—to the table where he and his friends always sit.
Remus falls into step beside him, his lunch tray balanced in one hand. “So,” he says, glancing sideways at James, “who’s the kid with you this morning?”
James doesn’t answer immediately. He kicks at a stray pebble on the tile floor, watching as it skitters away before finally shrugging. “Regulus. He’s the new foster kid living with us. Temporarily, at least.”
Remus hums, nodding as he processes that. “Is he nice?”
James hesitates. He thinks about Regulus standing stiffly in the kitchen last night, hands twisting in his shirt, barely looking up even when Mum spoke to him. Thinks about how the kid hadn’t said a single word to him yet, only responding with small, hesitant nods.
“I don’t know,” James admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “He never speaks. It’ll take time for him to open up enough to even talk to me, I think.”
Remus nods again, thoughtful. “Must feel weird, having a kid younger than you in the house.”
James blinks at that. He hasn’t really thought about it before—not like that, anyway. It isn’t weird, is it? Just different.
“I guess?” he says after a moment. “I dunno, it’s not that big a deal.”
They walk a few more steps before Remus asks, “Are you okay with him being there?”
James pauses mid-step, caught off guard by the question. Is he? He turns it over in his head, trying to untangle the strange mix of feelings that come with having Regulus in his house now—this quiet, wary kid who doesn’t talk, who barely looks at him, who flinches at sudden sounds but always seems to be listening.
Yeah, he is.
“Yeah,” James says, nodding. “I am.”
They round the last corner and spot their usual table, their friends already seated and mid-conversation. James and Remus are the last to arrive, but James doesn’t mind.
For the first time today, he feels sure of something.
That feeling of clarity doesn’t last long.
Over the next two days, James can’t shake a weird feeling. It’s not like him to feel… off. But he does. And the more he tries to ignore it, the more it lingers.
It all started with James calling Regulus Reg.
Regulus hadn’t even noticed the mistake at first. So, naturally, James kept calling him that. It’s hard not to shorten someone’s name. For instance, he calls Lily Lils —everyone does. Same goes for Marlene, who’s Marls , and Peter, who’s Pete .
For Remus and Mary, however, their names don’t shorten as easily. And even if they did, James would ask. When he first met Remus, he’d asked if he had any nicknames he preferred. Remus had told him no, and James left it at that.
It’s not like it’s his fault he keeps shortening Regulus’ name. He doesn’t mean to do it on purpose. It’s like his brain needs to hear something a few times before it actually sticks.
So when Regulus started writing angry little notes telling James not to call him Reg , James had respected it—at first.
But after a while, the passive-aggressiveness of it all got under his skin. If you don’t want me to call you Reg, just tell me like a normal person, he’d thought more than once. The notes kept appearing, each one sharper than the last, and eventually, James just got so fed up with it that he stopped trying to correct himself.
He doubled down instead.
At some point, Regulus gave up on the notes. Simply resorted to glaring at James instead.
One thing James realizes, somewhere around that point, is that Regulus never actually makes eye contact.
It’s kind of unnerving, in James’ opinion. Not making eye contact is just straight-up rude. But he never voices that thought. He just chalks it up to some sort of defense mechanism and lets it be.
By the time lunchtime rolls around on Friday, James is still thinking about it.
The feeling only increased when Peter frowned over his sandwich and said, “Hey, James, that kid—you know, Regulus? He’s kinda weird, right?”
James barely looked up from his crisps. “Weird how?”
Peter shrugged. “I dunno. He never talks. And he walks all quiet, like a ghost or something.”
Marlene, sitting across from them, tapped her fork against her tray. “Yeah, and have you noticed he flinches whenever someone calls his name?”
James tilted his head. “What?”
Dorcas, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, sighed. “Barty mentioned something about that.”
James raised an eyebrow. “Crouch?”
Dorcas nodded. “Yeah. Y’know how I sit with them sometimes? He and Evan were saying Regulus barely speaks, even when they try to include him. And he always seems—on edge, I guess? Pandora thinks he gets overwhelmed easily.”
James frowned. “I mean, he’s the new kid. Maybe he’s just nervous.”
Dorcas didn’t look convinced. “Maybe. But Barty swears he jumps whenever someone touches him, even by accident. And he never looks anyone in the eye. Evan thought he was just rude at first, but now they’re not sure.”
James blinked, chewing over that information. He knew Regulus wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, but was it really that strange?
Lily, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke up. “And I saw some kids messing with him yesterday.”
James’ stomach tensed slightly. “Messing with him how?”
Lily shrugged. “Dunno. Nothing obvious. They just kept crowding him in the hallway, standing in his way when he tried to leave.”
Remus hummed thoughtfully, chewing on his lip. “Maybe he’s being bullied.”
James snorted. “Bullied? C’mon, Remus. No one even knows him.”
“That’s kind of the point,” Remus replied, giving James a pointed look. “He’s the new kid. He’s quiet. He doesn’t look at people. Some kids love to target people like that.”
James shook his head. “He’d say something if he was.”
Lily raised an eyebrow. “Would he?”
James shrugged, grabbing another crisp. “Dunno. Doesn’t seem like it.”
James wishes, now, he never shrugged it off. Because if he hadn’t, Regulus wouldn’t be in this position.
***
He doesn’t know if he can feel worse than this. Even after everything that’s happened over the past week, James believes what happened on Saturday, their “fun day” is like the icing on the cake.
He shouldn’t have pushed. James should have realised he was making Regulus uncomfortable all the times he asked Regulus to help him build a sandcastle.
It truly was an accident, he really hadn’t mean to throw sand Regulus’ way. But, by the time he had realised what he had done, Regulus was breathing funny, and his Mum was comforting him.
Guilt manages it’s way into James’ heart. He tells his parents it was an accident—they reassure him they know, and that it’s not his fault Regulus responded this way. But it still doesn’t stop the guilt festering up inside.
James does manage to get an apology in whilst being driven to school that fateful Monday morning. He watches as how Regulus just nods, clearly not interested.
James wishes he could hide away from his shame, from his guilt. But he can’t. He’s done the responsible adult thing and apologised for his actions. So, he shouldn’t still be feeling like this… should he?
He knows he needs to let go of things. This is one of those things he needs to learn to let go of. If he doesn’t, he knows his guilt and shame will continue to eat him alive, until there’s nothing left.
James waves goodbye to his Mum as she pulls away from the school entrance, then turns and starts heading toward the group of his friends already gathered by the gate. Remus, Mary, and Lily are chatting, their voices carrying over the hum of students filling the yard.
As James nears his friends, he grins at Mary, who waves back at him enthusiastically. Remus gives him a nod, and Lily, as usual, offers a smile and a raised brow, like she’s trying to figure something out.
“Hey, James!” Lily says, her voice bright, though there’s a note of concern in her tone. “How’s Regulus doing so far? Everything alright with him?”
James shrugs, letting his schoolbag fall to the ground with a soft thud. “Yeah, I think he’s okay. Just... it’s a lot, you know?” He glances over at Regulus, who’s standing by the gate a few yards away, looking out of place. He still hasn’t quite blended in, and James is hoping he will soon.
Lily’s gaze follows his, and her brow furrows. “It looks like... he’s being harassed by those three over there.” She nods toward a group of boys hanging around a few feet away, smirking and laughing as they surround Regulus. James’s stomach tightens, his mind immediately jumping into protective mode.
James doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll be back,” he says quickly, already walking away before the words are fully out of his mouth.
The short walk to where Regulus is standing feels longer than it should, and as James gets closer, he can hear the voices, the teasing, the almost mocking tone of Colin’s laughter. James’s heart picks up speed, his steps firm but casual. When he reaches them, the group of boys still hasn’t noticed him, and Regulus is tense, rigid, like he’s bracing for something worse.
Everything about the scene feels wrong. The way Regulus is standing, like he’s waiting for it all to end. The way the boys are looking at him, their attention focused entirely on the him, like they know something James doesn’t. He watches them for a beat before speaking.
“Everything alright here?” James’s voice cuts through the noise, cool and casual, though his stomach twists when he sees Regulus flinch.
Regulus’s eyes flick to him, but they don’t meet his. They dart quickly, nervously, before Regulus turns his head away, his shoulders stiff. James doesn’t miss it, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he looks at Colin, who has his arm wrapped too tightly around Regulus’s shoulders, squeezing, making Regulus visibly uncomfortable.
“Yeah, everything’s alright!” Colin says with a wide grin, his voice too bright, almost a little too eager. He lets go of Regulus for a moment but only to shove him lightly, like it’s some kind of joke.
James stands taller, his hands in his pockets, but his posture shifts slightly—less casual now, more deliberate. He’s watching them closely, but his gaze never wavers from Colin’s. “Alright, then,” James says, his voice flat, the tension thick in the air. He doesn’t want to cause a scene, but he’s already weighing his options.
Regulus looks like he wants to say something, to protest, but his mouth is tight, his chest rising and falling too quickly. James sees it—sees the way Regulus is bracing, the way his stomach is tied in knots. But he doesn’t say anything, and neither do the others.
James gives them a final glance, an almost imperceptible nod to Regulus before turning on his heel. “See you later, Reg,” he says easily, walking away without another word.
The words feel hollow the second they leave his mouth, but he doesn’t look back. Regulus is standing there, and maybe he doesn’t notice that James can feel him still, maybe he doesn’t realize that James can’t walk away from that unease.
James keeps his pace steady, heart racing faster than it should be. Regulus is still there, still standing, and for a moment, James wonders if he made the right choice walking away. But he’s already gone too far, too many steps away from him to turn back now.
When he joins his friends again, he doesn’t mention it, not yet. Not until later.
It’s not until the second break when he truly sees Regulus.
James is walking down the hallway, his footsteps echoing in the quiet space between classes. He’s running a mental checklist of what he needs to get from his locker: textbooks, notes, the usual. The air around him is buzzing with the noise of students heading to their next class, and he’s in his usual zone, hands stuffed into his pockets, thinking about the upcoming quiz in French.
Then, he notices it.
Regulus. He’s standing by his locker, but there’s something... off about him. His shoulders are slumped, and his back is turned to James, like he’s trying to disappear into the wall. At first, James thinks maybe it’s nothing—maybe he’s just tired, maybe he’s daydreaming—but then he sees it: Regulus’s head is down, his hands hanging limp by his sides, and his shoulders are trembling just the slightest bit.
Regulus doesn’t notice him at first. James hesitates, his feet planted in place. He doesn't want to make a scene, but he’s never seen Regulus like this before. The sudden drop of anxiety in his chest makes him push forward.
“Hey, Reg,” he calls, taking a step closer.
Regulus doesn’t respond. His head doesn’t even twitch. He’s staring blankly at something, but whatever it is, it’s clearly holding his attention.
James stands a little taller, his voice softer this time. “Regulus? What’s wrong?”
No answer. Regulus doesn’t even blink, just stares at the floor in front of him, his gaze fixed and unblinking.
Confused and more than a little concerned, James follows Regulus’s gaze. It’s fixated on the bin in front of him, and James’s stomach drops. There’s something inside it, something mangled.
He takes a few steps closer, not quite sure what he’s seeing. His eyes narrow, and it takes a second for his brain to process what he’s looking at: a small black dog toy, torn apart. Its soft fur is shredded, the stitching undone, the limbs cut in jagged pieces. The little stuffed dog is barely recognizable anymore, its eyes gone, its ears ripped off.
James reaches down, his fingers brushing the edge of the toy. He pulls it out carefully, studying the damage. The tiny dog—once something comforting, maybe, something Regulus had kept close—is now reduced to nothing more than scraps of fabric and stuffing.
His breath catches when he hears it—a sharp breath, like Regulus is holding something back. He looks up, and Regulus’s gaze snaps to him, wide-eyed and glassy. For a moment, James is frozen, unsure of what to say. He watches as Regulus’s hands tremble, reaching for the destroyed toy.
“Hey, don’t snatch,” James says, his voice tight, but Regulus is already grabbing the toy from his hands. His fingers curl around it, shaking, but he doesn’t speak.
Without looking at James, Regulus clutches the mangled dog to his chest like it’s something precious, something fragile. He opens his locker with stiff, robotic movements, shoving the torn remnants inside with a hard shove. The locker door slams shut behind it, the sound too final, too cold.
Regulus doesn’t say anything. He pulls out his PE uniform, his movements slow and deliberate, and then turns without a word, heading toward the locker rooms.
James stands there, frozen, the image of Regulus’s hunched posture and the silence in the hallway weighing heavily on him. He opens his mouth to call after him, but the words just sit there, unsaid.
Instead, James watches him walk away, shoulders tense, his face unreadable. It’s like something’s broken in Regulus, something that James can’t quite reach, something that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.
He stares after him for a moment longer, unsettled and confused. He doesn’t know what just happened, or why it’s bothering him so much, but the feeling of something being off lingers in his chest.
Without another word, James turns away and heads for his locker. The weight in his stomach doesn’t go away, and all he can think of is the black dog toy in the trash and the way Regulus walked away without looking back.
James sits at the lunch table with his friends, but he feels disconnected. His food is untouched, his gaze drifting between the conversations around him, but he’s not really part of them. Remus, Mary, Lily, and Marlene are chatting about some homework, but James’s mind is still on what he saw earlier—Regulus, standing there, crying, staring at that ruined toy in the trash.
Marlene’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “Oi, James, you’re awfully quiet today. What’s up?”
Her tone is casual, but James can tell she’s concerned. She’s leaning slightly toward him, studying him with a raised brow. He forces a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, though it’s clear from the tightness in his voice that he’s not.
Marlene doesn’t buy it. “You sure? You’ve been a bit off all lunch.”
James shrugs, not sure how to explain it. How to explain the heaviness that’s settled in his chest. “I just... I saw something. With Regulus.”
The others stop talking, turning their attention to him. There’s an unspoken understanding in their eyes—everyone knows that Regulus hasn’t exactly been settling in easily. James doesn’t know how to phrase what he saw without making it sound like something bigger than it was. But the image of Regulus, so small and broken in that moment, has been gnawing at him.
“I... I saw him crying earlier,” James says quietly, staring down at his half-eaten sandwich. “He was by the bin, just standing there. And he was staring at this little black dog toy that was all... ruined. Like someone had cut it up or shredded it. I don’t know, I just... I don’t get it.”
There’s a pause as his friends take in what he’s said. Remus, who’s sitting across from him, frowns thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything right away. Lily and Mary exchange glances, but it’s Marlene who speaks first.
“That’s... a lot,” she says, her voice softer now, like she’s trying to be careful. “Maybe it’s something he’s holding onto from home, you know? Like, that toy could’ve meant something to him. But now, with everything going on...” She trails off, shrugging like she doesn’t quite know the answer either.
“Yeah,” Lily chimes in, nodding slowly. “Regulus doesn’t really talk about it, does he? Whatever’s going on with him, he doesn’t let anyone in. It’s not like he’s the type to open up easily.”
James huffs a small breath, not sure how to respond. “I don’t know, I just... I don’t want to push him. But it’s like I don’t know what to do when I see him like that. I don’t know what’s going on in his head.”
Remus looks at him then, his eyes calm and steady. “You don’t have to fix everything, James. Sometimes, just being there—letting him know you see him, that you care—is enough. He might not show it, but... people like him, they notice. They need someone to just be around.”
James chews on that, nodding slowly, trying to understand. He feels a little better hearing Remus’s words, but the knot in his stomach hasn’t quite loosened.
“Yeah, and it’s okay not to have all the answers,” Mary adds with a small, reassuring smile. “Just... don’t stop being his friend, even if he’s acting distant. It’ll make a difference in the long run.”
James nods again, the weight on his chest feeling slightly lighter. He looks at his friends—at their concern, their understanding—and he feels a little more grounded.
The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, and the usual chaos of students moving to their next class fills the air.
“Well, I guess that’s lunch,” Marlene says, standing up and grabbing her bag. “But seriously, James, just don’t overthink it, alright? You’re doing alright.”
James smiles, a bit more genuinely this time. “Thanks, guys.”
He stands up with them, trying to shake off the lingering thoughts of Regulus, but they still sit in the back of his mind. He hopes that, maybe, the next time he sees him, things will be a little easier.
Oh, how wrong he was.
James stands outside the school gates, idly chatting with Remus as the last of the students file out of the building. He’s a bit distracted, still thinking about the conversation he had with his friends earlier and wondering if he did the right thing by not saying more to Regulus. He barely registers the sound of a car pulling up until it stops right in front of him.
His Dad.
It’s not unusual for Fleamont to pick him up, but today feels different. James blinks at the car, his stomach flipping in a way he can’t quite place. The first red flag, he thinks, is that his Dad is here so early. James is usually the one who waits for him at the gate, but it’s barely the end of the school day.
Fleamont’s smile is there, but it looks a little tired, the corners of his eyes creased with something James can’t quite read. "Hey, kiddo," his Dad greets him, the usual warmth in his voice, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” James asks, trying to mask the growing unease in his stomach. He’s about to get in the car when he realizes something else is off.
They’re not waiting for Regulus.
He glances around, frowning. It’s not like Regulus to leave the school without anyone. James doesn’t remember seeing him earlier, but he would’ve expected his dad to be picking him up, too.
“Dad... where’s Regulus?” James asks, his voice unconsciously tinged with concern.
Fleamont sighs, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. The smile vanishes, replaced by a more serious expression. “I’ll explain everything when we get home, James,” he says, his voice steady but carrying a weight that immediately puts James on edge.
There’s something in his Dad’s tone—something measured and careful—that makes the hair on the back of James’s neck stand up. This isn’t the casual, easygoing Fleamont James is used to. This is... different. It’s not the kind of answer James was expecting.
James watches his Dad for a long moment, searching his face for any clues, but Fleamont looks resolute, his eyes forward, unwilling to elaborate.
That’s when the second red flag hits him: Whatever it is, it’s not good.
His heart skips a beat, a cold sense of dread settling in his chest. He can’t shake the feeling that something has gone wrong, something he wasn’t prepared for. Something that involves Regulus. He wants to press further, but he knows from the look in his Dad’s eyes that it won’t help.
“Alright,” James mutters, climbing into the car. He buckles his seatbelt, but the unease doesn’t go away. It only deepens, curling in his stomach, as they pull away from the school.
As they drive home, James’s mind races with all the possibilities. What could have happened? Why hadn’t Regulus been picked up, too? His thoughts keep spiraling, each one darker than the last, and he knows whatever his Dad is about to tell him... it’s not going to be good.
Notes:
Word Count: 9,214
Published: 2025-02-02Ok, ok, ok. Guilty as charged. I might have lied just only a little. I was gonna wait to publish this chapter til the 16th, however, I have to much free time on my hands to the point I have pre-written chapter 8 and 9... so.... here you go!! Enjoy!!!
Chapter 8: Somehow, No Matter How Hard He Tries, He will Always be the One Blamed
Summary:
It shouldn’t have been this way, Regulus thinks, this shouldn’t have happened. But it did. He tried, and tried, and tried so hard to be good. To do everything right… but it still happened… and now he’s at fault.
Just like always.
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
Disclaimer: the French translation was achieved through using google translate, so if you are aware it is incorrect, please say so in the comments so I can change it. Thank you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He’s not sure how it gets to this point. With him, sitting here in the principal’s office, waiting on Mr. and Mrs. Potter. But Regulus can say this—somehow, no matter how hard he tries, he will always be the one blamed… even when it isn’t his fault.
It’s a sign, really. A sign that he has a bad luck charm looming over his head. Because, if he thinks about it, the majority of his incidents revolve around one thing—Sarah’s visits. It’s like seeing her curses him, like she carries all the bad luck in the world and leaves it with him every time she walks out the door.
Maybe that’s not fair. Maybe it isn’t even true. But right now, sitting stiffly in the too-bright office with the ticking clock drilling into his skull, it’s the only explanation that makes sense.
It happened last time, too.
Regulus kept his eyes on the table, tracing the faint scratches in the wood with his gaze. His hands were folded stiffly in his lap, fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans. He hated this—being watched, being asked questions, being expected to answer.
Sarah sat across from him, lowering herself into the chair with deliberate, measured movements. She set her folder on the table and folded her hands over it. “Hello, Regulus,” she said gently. “Do you mind if we talk for a little while?”
Regulus didn’t respond. He didn’t move. His shoulders were drawn tight, the kitchen suddenly feeling too small, too quiet.
Sarah didn’t push. “That’s okay,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I’ll just ask a few questions, and you can nod or shake your head if that’s easier. Does that sound alright?”
Regulus hesitated, his fingers curling slightly. If he ignored her, she wouldn’t go away. That wasn’t how this worked. If anything, silence would only make her ask more questions. After a moment, he gave the smallest nod.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. and Mrs. Potter exchange a glance. “We’ll give you two some privacy,” Mrs. Potter said gently. She touched Mr. Potter’s arm, and together they stepped out of the room, leaving him alone with Sarah.
The refrigerator hummed, the only sound filling the silence.
Sarah flipped open her folder, scanning the pages before looking back at him. “How have things been for you here?”
Regulus shrugged.
Sarah didn’t react, just nodded like that was a perfectly fine answer. “Are you getting along with everyone?”
Another shrug.
James was… fine, most of the time. He liked Mr. and Mrs. Potter. They didn’t yell, didn’t get mad when he struggled to answer questions or forgot to look at them when they spoke. But it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t last. Homes never did.
Sarah marked something down. “Has anything happened this week that’s made you feel upset or uncomfortable?”
Regulus tensed.
The laughter at school. Colin and his friends whispering when they thought he wasn’t listening. The pushing, the teasing.
His fingers twitched in his lap. He shook his head.
Sarah watched him for a moment but didn’t push. “Are you sleeping okay?”
Another shrug. Sometimes he slept. Sometimes he didn’t.
She made another note. “Are you eating enough?”
Regulus hesitated, then nodded. He ate when he had to. When Mrs. Potter reminded him.
Sarah studied him carefully. “Do you feel safe here?”
Safe.
The word stuck in his head.
No one yelled at him here. No one grabbed his arm too hard. No one told him to stop being difficult, stop acting out , stop being strange. But safe?
Safe wasn’t the right word.
But he nodded anyway. It was the answer she wanted.
Sarah paused, barely a second, before marking something down.
Regulus pressed his hands flat against his jeans, his breathing steady. He just had to get through this. Just a little longer, and it would be over. Then she’d leave, and he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.
Wouldn’t have to think about that feeling he hated most. The feeling like he was being talked about without being in conversations. Like they were all trying to solve a puzzle where he was the missing piece.
And now, here he is, just a day later, sitting in the principal’s office again, as if Sarah’s visit had set something terrible into motion.
He sighs quietly, pressing his hands together in his lap, his fingers curling into his palm. He already knows how this will go. The Potters will walk in, the principal will talk, and somehow, in someway, this will end up being his fault.
Regulus remembers how his brother always got into trouble. Sirius.
Maybe it isn’t his fault he’s sitting here. Maybe it’s Sirius’. After all, Sirius is the one responsible for tearing their family apart. They were supposed to be a happy, loving family. That’s what Mother always said. That’s what she always wanted . But Sirius ruined it. Sirius caused it. Sirius destroyed it.
And now, here Regulus is, following in his footsteps—not by choice, of course, but by some cruel twist of fate. No matter how much he tries to stay out of trouble, to keep quiet and follow the rules, somehow, he still ends up here. Just like him .
The thought makes his stomach turn. He stares at his hands, pressing his fingers into his palm hard enough to leave marks. He doesn't want to be like Sirius. He doesn't want to be sitting here. He wants to be good . But no matter how much he tries, it never seems to be enough.
The phone call had been the worst part.
Regulus sat stiffly in the too-large chair, his hands clenched in his lap, fingers digging into the fabric of his sweater. The office was too bright, too quiet, the tick of the clock drilling into his skull like a hammer. His stomach twisted itself into knots, the weight of the principal’s presence pressing down on him like a heavy stone.
He kept his eyes on the floor, staring at the dull shine of the linoleum, willing himself to disappear.
The chair across from him creaked as the principal, a graying man with deep lines around his mouth, leaned forward and reached for the phone on his desk. Regulus didn’t look up. He knew what was coming.
The soft clatter of buttons being pressed filled the silence, followed by the steady ringing of a call being placed. Each chime made Regulus’ chest tighten further, his pulse a steady thud in his ears.
Then, a click.
"Mrs. Potter? This is Principal McMillian."
Regulus squeezed his hands together, fingers pressing into his palm, hard enough to leave marks.
"I’m calling in regards to your child," the principal continued, his voice carefully neutral. "There has been an incident. I believe we need to discuss it in person."
A pause. Muffled words on the other end of the line. Regulus couldn’t make them out.
"Yes," the principal said. "As soon as possible, if you’re able."
Another pause. Regulus kept his gaze fixed on the floor, counting the speckles in the tile. One, two, three, four—
"Thank you," the principal said, his chair creaking as he leaned back. "We’ll see you soon."
The line went dead with a soft click.
Regulus swallowed against the lump in his throat. He didn't move, didn't lift his head. The principal sighed, setting the phone back in its cradle with a quiet clack.
"She'll be here shortly," he said, his voice still calm, still steady.
Regulus said nothing.
The clock on the wall ticked on.
And all he could do was wait.
Maybe, if Sirius had never done what he had done, things would be different. Maybe, if Sirius hadn’t turned his back on their family, Regulus wouldn’t have ended up here, in a strange school, with strangers who were trying too hard to make him one of them . Maybe, if Sirius hadn’t been so selfish , Regulus wouldn’t feel like he was falling into the same mistakes.
He tightens his fists. He refuses to be like him. He refuses.
But is Regulus really like him?
After all, they have different names. He is Regulus Arcturus, and his brother is Sirius Orion.
Sirius is named after the brightest star in the sky, the one that burns hot and reckless, the one that refuses to be ignored. It makes sense—Sirius was always loud, always drawing attention to himself, always causing trouble just to see how much he could get away with. He liked the chaos, the rebellion. He wanted to fight back. Even his middle name, Orion , came from their father, tying him to a legacy that Sirius never wanted but still carried, whether he liked it or not.
Whereas Regulus… Regulus is named after a smaller star. A guiding star, Mother had said once. A leader. His name was meant to mean something, to carry a weight that he was supposed to live up to. Even his middle name, Arcturus , belonged to their grandfather—a man Regulus had never met but had always heard was strong, dignified, unwavering.
Regulus had clung to that when he was younger, had told himself that he was meant to follow the path laid out for him. He was supposed to be good, quiet, obedient. He wasn’t like Sirius.
Except… if that was true, then why is he here ?
His fingers dig into his sleeves, gripping the fabric tight as he stares at the floor. He knows Sirius actually caused trouble. He did it on purpose, testing limits, pushing boundaries, laughing in the face of authority just because he could . Regulus, for one, had never done that. He followed the rules, did what he was told, and yet—he’s still sitting in the principal’s office, waiting for his guardian to come collect him like some misbehaving child.
It’s unfair .
The door creaks open, and Regulus stiffens instinctively. His stomach twists as he watches Mrs. Potter step inside.
She doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t even look disappointed. There’s concern in her eyes, a softness in the way she scans the room before settling her gaze on him. He drops his head, feeling his ears burn. He doesn’t know what’s worse—the possibility that she might be upset with him or the fact that she isn’t.
She steps forward, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor, and lowers herself into the chair beside him. “Good afternoon, Principal McMillian,” she says, polite but firm. Her voice is steady, not tense or frustrated. Regulus risks a quick glance at her from beneath his lashes.
The principal, a graying man with deep lines around his mouth, nods in acknowledgment. “Mrs. Potter, thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
“Of course,” she replies smoothly. “Fleamont is on his way. He got caught up at work but should be here shortly.”
Regulus curls his fingers into the hem of his sweater, gripping the fabric tightly. The room is too quiet, too waiting . His stomach knots tighter, and he swallows hard, forcing himself to keep still.
Mrs. Potter shifts slightly, angling herself toward him, but she doesn’t touch him, doesn’t try to force him to meet her gaze. Instead, she waits, giving him space, and something about that makes his chest ache. He doesn’t know what to say.
Saying is one thing, seeing is another.
The car door shut behind him with a dull thunk , the sound swallowed by the steady hum of the morning rush. Regulus adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, staring up at the school’s entrance. The sky was a washed-out blue, the early June sun already casting warm patches of light over the pavement. He shifted on his feet, steadying himself, then started walking.
The school grounds were busy, students moving in clusters, voices overlapping in an indistinct buzz. Regulus kept his gaze down, focusing on each step, the scuffed tips of his shoes tapping lightly against the concrete. He had almost reached the front doors when a shoulder slammed into his, knocking him off balance.
His bag was yanked off his shoulder before he even had time to react.
“Waas up, Freak” a voice sneered.
His stomach twisted. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
Colin.
Regulus froze, every muscle in his body tensing. Colin swung his bag mockingly from one hand to the other, a smirk curling on his face. Behind him, Oliver and Ben snickered, their eyes alight with cruel amusement.
“You in a hurry or something?” Colin asked, tilting his head in fake curiosity. He tossed the bag to Oliver, who caught it easily.
Regulus clenched his fingers at his sides. His heart hammered, but he stayed still.
Colin hummed, pretending to think. “Y’know, it’s weird seeing you all alone. Usually got your fierce protectors hanging around, don’t you?”
Oliver chuckled. “Not today, though.”
Ben grinned. “Shame.”
Regulus’ throat felt tight. He focused on the ground, on the cracks in the pavement, the uneven texture beneath his shoes. He wouldn’t react. That’s what they wanted.
Colin sighed dramatically. “Not even gonna try to get it back?” He shook his head. “No fun.”
A voice cut through the laughter.
“Everything alright here?”
Regulus’ breath caught. He turned his head slightly, just in time to see James approaching.
James wasn’t looking at him, though. His gaze was fixed on Colin, his expression unreadable. He stood tall, casual but assessing, hands in the pockets of his school trousers.
Regulus’ stomach twisted painfully.
Colin barely hesitated before breaking into an easy grin. “Yeah, everything’s alright!” he said brightly. He threw an arm around Regulus’ shoulders, squeezing too tightly. “Just hanging with our new buddy.”
Regulus stiffened, his chest constricting painfully.
James’ eyes flickered toward him. Regulus wished, desperately, that he would see , that he would notice .
But James just nodded. “Alright, then,” he said easily. “See you later, Reg.”
Regulus felt his chest cave in.
James walked off without a second glance.
The moment he was gone, Colin shoved Regulus away with a laugh. “Merlin, that was too easy.”
Oliver snorted. “Didn’t even question it.”
Regulus stayed silent, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
“Here,” Colin said, tossing the bag carelessly at his chest. Regulus barely caught it, his fingers closing tightly around the strap. Colin leaned in slightly, his smirk still in place. “Better hurry up, yeah? Wouldn’t want to be late.”
Then, just like that, they were gone, their laughter trailing behind them.
Regulus stood there for a moment, frozen, his grip white-knuckled around the strap of his bag. His throat burned. He forced himself to inhale slowly, then turned and made his way inside.
He hated this place.
He hated himself.
And, more than anything, he hated that he had actually thought James would help.
Speaking is a difficult task, Regulus has found. Forming sentences in front of people he doesn’t know feels impossible, like trying to force words through a locked door. Sirius once told him it would be his downfall—not being able to communicate—but Sirius doesn’t, couldn’t, understand the suffocating pressure that comes with speaking.
Their mother never forced him to. Regulus thinks she preferred it that way. She was always so gentle with him, treating him like a fragile glass ornament that might shatter at the slightest touch.
French has always been easier. Safer. Maybe because it was his first language, or maybe because, when his mother spoke it, her voice was so elegant, so carefully measured, that it made everything sound softer. Safer. Even when the words themselves weren’t kind, even when they carried the weight of expectations too heavy for him to hold, there was something in the way she spoke that made the world feel a little more structured. A little more predictable.
But here, in this office, surrounded by English words that feel too sharp and too heavy in his mouth, Regulus stays silent. He keeps his head down, fingers curling into the hem of his sweater, trying to ground himself in the fabric’s texture. He can feel Mrs. Potter’s presence beside him, steady and patient, but it does little to ease the tightness in his chest.
The door opens again.
Regulus doesn’t need to look up to know it’s Mr. Potter. He hears the steady sound of his footsteps, followed by the slight scrape of a chair being pulled out beside him. A new warmth settles at his left—not suffocating, not pressing, just there.
Mrs. Potter murmurs something, but Regulus doesn’t catch the words. His ears are ringing. His fingers press together in his lap, counting the points of contact. One, two, three, four—
“Hello, Mr. Potter,” the principal says, rising briefly from his desk.
Regulus knows he should look up, acknowledge what’s happening, but he can’t. He keeps his head down, keeps counting.
Mr. Potter’s voice is quiet but steady as he replies. “Thank you both for coming on such short notice.”
Regulus stares harder at his hands. He hears the soft creak of the chair as Mr. Potter sits, hears the weight of silence settle between them. He doesn’t know what they’re expecting from him. Doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.
“Regulus,” Mr. Potter says, voice still gentle.
Regulus swallows. He doesn’t respond.
Regulus presses his fingers together tighter. He barely registers the way Mr. Potter exhales, slow and measured.
Regulus’ stomach twists painfully. He still doesn’t look up. He doesn’t know what’s worse—that they aren’t angry, or that they came at all.
Regulus was angry though, hurt even more so.
Regulus sat at the far end of the science lab, hands folded neatly in his lap, his shoulders hunched slightly inward. The air smelled sterile, a mix of disinfectant and something vaguely metallic.
The lesson had started normally enough. The class had been assigned a biodiversity experiment—identifying different plant species from images on the iPads and recording their characteristics. Simple.
It would have been simple.
Except the teacher had paired him with Colin and his friends.
Regulus had known it would go badly the moment their names were read out. It always did.
He kept his gaze fixed on his iPad, trying to focus on the pictures, on the task, on anything but the snickering whispers beside him.
“Hey, what’s that?”
Regulus barely had time to react before Colin reached toward his desk. His book— Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief , the one Mr. Potter had picked out for him, had bought just for him—had been sitting beside his iPad. Regulus had been reading it before class started, careful with every turn of the page.
Now, it was in Colin’s hands.
Regulus’ stomach dropped.
Colin turned it over, his fingers pressing too hard into the cover. “ Percy Jackson ? What even is this? A baby book?”
Regulus tensed. He wanted to snatch it back, but his hands wouldn’t move.
“Looks brand new,” one of the others said, peering over Colin’s shoulder.
“Not for long,” another chuckled.
Regulus’ chest went tight as Colin flipped through the pages, bending the spine, smudging the corners with his fingers. One of his friends nudged the book, making it crumple slightly in Colin’s grip.
Regulus reached for it, but Colin pulled it just out of his grasp.
"What's the big deal?" Colin asked, grinning. "Oh—wait." He leaned in, mock surprise on his face. "Are you gonna cry?"
A sharp breath hitched in Regulus’ throat.
The others laughed.
"Aww," one of them taunted. "Are you a baby?"
The heat rose fast—his face burning, his chest aching, the pressure behind his eyes unbearable. He could feel it building, the horrible, suffocating weight of it.
Then—
A sharp clatter.
Regulus barely had time to process the movement before cold liquid seeped across his desk, creeping toward his iPad, his bag—his book.
"Oops," one of Colin’s friends said, not even trying to sound apologetic.
Regulus snatched his book away too late. Water soaked into the cover, bleeding into the edges of the pages, warping them. His hands trembled as he wiped at it uselessly, but the damage was already done. The once-pristine book, the one he had been so careful with, was ruined.
The laughter around him only grew.
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped against the floor. The laughter didn’t stop, but it faded beneath the noise of students gathering their things.
Colin tossed the book onto Regulus’ desk carelessly, the cover bent where his fingers had pressed too hard.
Regulus grabbed it with trembling hands, shoving it into his bag without checking the damage.
Then, before anyone could say anything else, before he could fall apart right there in front of them—
He ran.
The office is too bright. The artificial light glares down from above, harsh and unrelenting, making the room feel even smaller than it already is. Regulus stares at the floor, hands curled into his lap, fingers pressing into the hem of his shirt. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, pressing against his ears like cotton.
His parents had always been tough on Sirius. No matter what he did, Sirius always received some sort of punishment. If he stayed out too late, he was grounded. If he talked back, he was locked in his room. If he failed a test, his mother would take his things away—his guitar, his headphones, his books, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. It never mattered how small the infraction was.
And his father—his father had always been especially hard on Sirius. Regulus remembers the sharp crack of Orion’s voice, the cold edge to his reprimands, the way his hands gripped too tight. He remembers the way his mother used to stand there, silent and still, watching it happen, her face unreadable. She never stopped it. She never interfered.
But it had never been like that for Regulus.
To his parents, Regulus was the golden child. The favourite. He had never endured the same treatment, never felt the brunt of their anger the way Sirius had. They praised him for his quiet obedience, for following the rules, for being everything Sirius wasn’t. He had been safe. Untouched.
Until now.
Now, he’s sitting in the principal’s office, waiting for the inevitable disappointment, the anger, the something that has to be coming. Because it always comes. It has to.
The door clicks softly as it closes. Mrs. Potter sits beside him, hands folded in her lap. Mr. Potter lowers himself into the chair to his left. Neither of them speak. They don’t yell. They don’t look at him with anger or frustration or even disappointment.
They are calm. Too calm.
It makes his stomach twist.
The principal clears his throat, breaking the silence. “I’m afraid we need to discuss an incident that has occurred today.”
Regulus keeps his eyes down.
Mrs. Potter shifts slightly beside him. “An incident?” she asks, voice steady.
The principal exhales. “More like an altercation.”
Mr. Potter leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “An altercation?” he repeats. “Over what?”
Regulus swallows hard. The way they speak, the way they react—it’s wrong. Off. Where is the anger? The immediate assumption that this is his fault? Where is the disappointment, the punishment?
They aren’t angry.
They aren’t even upset.
It’s odd. Weird. Unsettling.
His stomach churns. The quiet concern in their voices, the steady patience—it makes him feel sick.
He wants them to be angry. He expects them to be angry. If they were, at least it would make sense. At least he would know what to do, how to prepare. But this? This strange, patient calmness?
He doesn’t know how to handle this.
He grips the hem of his shirt tighter and stares at the floor, waiting for the inevitable shift, for the moment everything snaps into place and things go back to how they’re supposed to be.
But it doesn’t come.
And that, somehow, is even worse.
What transpired during break, though, was even worse.
Regulus stood at his locker, hands shaking as he carefully placed his ruined book inside. His fingers lingered on the warped cover for a moment before he reached for his bag, still sitting inside the locker. His face was still damp, tear stains cooling against his skin. He sniffled, rubbing at his eyes quickly before focusing on the bag.
He needed something—something to calm him down before he could even think about making it to the library.
He unzipped his bag and reached in with trembling hands. His fingers curled around the soft, familiar fabric of his new stuffed black dog.
It was new, bought just recently along with the book Mr. Potter had gotten him, but it was already something that made him feel safe. Small enough to fit into his bag, but comforting all the same. The dog reminded him of his brother, of simpler times when things hadn’t been so complicated.
He clutched it close, feeling the softness of the fabric against his palm, the tightness in his chest easing a little. He focused on the dog, grounding himself enough to close his locker—
Only to freeze.
Colin and his friends stood there, blocking his path.
Regulus’ stomach dropped.
Colin grinned, his gaze flicking down to the stuffed animal in Regulus' arms. "Aw, look at this," he said mockingly. "Didn’t know you still carried around baby toys, Regulus."
Regulus tightened his grip on the plush, his pulse roaring in his ears.
One of the other boys smirked. "What's it supposed to be? A rat?"
"A dog, obviously," another snickered. "Think it reminds him of someone?"
Regulus stiffened, throat tight.
Before he could react, hands grabbed him. A sharp yank on his sleeve sent him stumbling back against the lockers, and in the same moment, another pair of hands ripped the stuffed animal from his grasp.
His breath caught.
His bag, still open in his locker, tipped forward, spilling onto the floor—pencils, notebooks, his water bottle clattering against the tile.
"Look at him," one of them snickered. "About to cry over a stupid stuffed dog."
Regulus' chest heaved, panic creeping in fast.
Colin held up the plush, turning it over in his hands. "You actually carry this thing around?" He scoffed. "No wonder you don’t have any friends."
Regulus barely heard them. His chest was too tight, his breath too shallow. He needed it back—
Colin smirked and pulled something from his pocket. A metallic glint caught the fluorescent light.
Scissors.
Regulus froze.
His stomach lurched. His hands clenched uselessly at his sides.
Colin grinned. "Let’s see what’s inside, yeah?"
A quick, deliberate snip.
Then another.
And another.
The soft fabric split beneath the blades, stuffing spilling onto the floor. Piece by piece, the plush was shredded, the seams ripped apart, its face unrecognizable.
Regulus let out a choked, strangled sound, tears spilling freely down his cheeks. His entire body trembled, every breath short and panicked.
The laughter only grew louder.
Colin held up the destroyed remains for a moment before letting them drop into the nearest bin.
"That'll teach you to keep baby things around," he said smugly.
Someone shoved Regulus lightly as they stepped past him, knocking him back against the lockers.
Then they were gone, their laughter fading down the hall.
Regulus didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
The world blurred, his breathing uneven, his hands still outstretched as if he could somehow reach for something that was already gone.
Just like his brother.
He was gone. Sirius was gone, and he was never coming back. Never.
Regulus knows—knows with absolute certainty—that it wasn’t his fault. But his. Sirius’. It was all Sirius’ fault, and no one, no one, could ever convince him otherwise.
It was Sirius’ fault that Regulus is sitting here, in this chair, in this office, with the principal’s stern voice droning on like a judge delivering a sentence. It was Sirius’ fault their family had shattered. It was Sirius’ fault for being himself.
And that—that makes Regulus feel hurt.
Hurt in a way he never thought possible. Hurt in a way a person shouldn’t hurt. A deep, aching, hollow kind of pain, like something has been ripped from him, leaving nothing but raw edges and silence where something whole used to be.
The principal clears his throat. "This altercation occurred during PE," he says, his tone clipped and professional. "I was informed by another teacher that... Regulus punched another student."
Mrs. Potter’s eyebrows lift. "Punched?" she repeats, as if the word itself doesn't quite make sense.
"Yes, punched," the principal confirms.
She exchanges a glance with Mr. Potter before turning back to the principal. "Are you sure?" she asks, skepticism laced in her voice. "That Regulus punched another kid?"
"Yes," the principal says with a nod. "There are multiple eyewitnesses."
Mrs. Potter exhales sharply. "Okay," she says, though the doubt in her voice remains.
Mr. Potter leans forward slightly. "And what, exactly, transpired for Regulus to 'punch' the other student?"
Yeah, Regulus thinks. What really happened? How could the principal possibly know?
And no matter what happened… somehow, it was all his fault.
PE was already too much. The sun was too bright, the sky too open, the field too loud with shouting voices and the sharp blasts of the coach’s whistle. The scent of grass and sweat filled the air, and the wind carried the distant chatter of other students lingering near the school building.
And now, as if the day wasn’t already unbearable, the coach had paired him with Colin and his friends—Oliver and Ben.
Regulus’ stomach churned. His fingers curled into the hem of his shirt.
Not them. Not after what they had done during break. Not after he had found his stuffed dog—his last real comfort—ripped to shreds behind the school. The soft fabric, torn apart like it was nothing. The stuffing scattered in the dirt.
He hadn’t even had time to process it before the laughter had started.
"Didn’t think you were still a baby, Black."
"C’mon, it’s just a stupid toy."
"You gonna cry about it?"
Regulus had barely been able to scoop up the ruined pieces before the bell rang, his hands shaking, his chest so tight it hurt. He hadn’t cried. Not then. Not when they sneered at him. Not when they walked away like it hadn’t even mattered.
But now, standing on the field with them again, his whole body felt wrong. His skin prickled. His breathing came too fast. The wind seemed harsher, the sunlight too sharp, the noise deafening.
Oliver clapped him on the back—too hard, too sudden. Regulus flinched.
“You paying attention, or what?” Oliver laughed.
Colin smirked. “Maybe he’s still thinking about his little toy.”
Ben grinned. “Bet he wishes he had it now.”
Their words tangled with the shouts around them, blending into a crushing wall of sound. The coach’s whistle shrieked. A ball hit the ground with a heavy thud. Someone yelled for a pass. His teammates bickered over positions. Footsteps pounded the dirt. The grass swayed, flickering in and out of focus.
Too much. Too loud. Too fast. Too much.
His breath hitched. His hands trembled. His heart slammed against his ribs.
Everything blurred.
The world splintered into fragments—shouting, movement, heat, wind, voices, laughter—spiraling, pressing, drowning him.
Then—
Impact.
A gasp. A stumble.
Regulus’ vision snapped back into focus just as Colin clutched his nose, his eyes wide with shock. Blood dripped down his face, splattering against the dry grass. Oliver and Ben took a step back, stunned. The entire field had gone silent.
Regulus blinked, his own hands still clenched into fists, his knuckles burning. His chest heaved.
He didn’t understand.
He didn’t remember.
But then the coach was striding toward him, voice tight with authority.
"Regulus Black!"
Regulus flinched. His stomach twisted. His ears rang.
And then the coach was grabbing his arm, steering him toward the school building.
"Principal’s office. Now. "
The office feels too small, too stuffy, like the walls are pressing in on him. The principal’s desk is cluttered with paperwork, a half-empty cup of coffee going cold near the edge. The smell of ink and stale air clings to everything. Regulus keeps his hands in his lap, fingers twisting the hem of his shirt, his knuckles still smarting from the impact.
He can feel Mrs. Potter’s eyes on him, sharp but not unkind. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see whatever expression is on her face—concern, disappointment, confusion. He doesn’t want to see Mr. Potter either, sitting stiffly beside her, the weight of their attention pressing down on him like a second gravity.
Regulus swallows, his throat dry. He wishes he could disappear, sink into the floor, vanish like smoke. But instead, he sits, silent, waiting.
The principal leans forward, folding his hands on the desk. “Regulus,” he says, voice firm but not unkind. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Regulus doesn’t move. What is there to say? That the other kid deserved it? That he had to do something? That it felt good, just for a second, to let all the anger and pain and everything explode out of him?
He presses his lips together, staring at a spot on the desk. The principal exhales through his nose.
“Well?”
Regulus clenches his jaw. He doesn’t owe them an explanation. They wouldn’t understand anyway.
The principal sighs, rubbing his temple before straightening in his chair. “Very well, then.” His gaze shifts to Mr. and Mrs. Potter. “As you both are aware, this school has a strict no-violence policy. Regardless of the circumstances, I have no choice but to suspend Regulus for three days.”
Regulus barely processes the words at first. They slip through the haze in his mind, settling somewhere just out of reach. Three days. Suspension. Punishment. Like he did something wrong.
Mrs. Potter straightens. “Suspension? He didn’t do anything wrong!”
Mr. Potter frowns, his voice calm but edged with disbelief. “Hold on. Suspension? It sounds to me like Regulus didn’t deliberately do anything wrong. Why should he be punished for something that wasn’t intentional?”
The principal folds his hands on the desk, the picture of practiced patience. “I understand your concern,” he says, though his tone is clipped. “But intent doesn’t change the fact that another student was injured.”
Injured.
The word sticks in Regulus’ head, looping over and over like a record skipping on a broken turntable. Injured. Hurt. Because of him.
He hadn’t meant to.
Had he?
No. No, he hadn’t.
But that doesn’t matter, does it?
The principal exhales, as if this whole thing is a mild inconvenience rather than his whole life. “I was informed that Regulus struck another student, unprovoked, during PE. Several witnesses confirmed it.”
Unprovoked.
Regulus’ stomach twists violently. A sharp, hot kind of nausea rolls through him, and for a second, he thinks he might actually be sick. His jaw locks, his eyes burning, his nails digging into his palms.
Unprovoked. Like none of it mattered. Like the noise, the pressure, the taunts, the ripped-up fabric of his stuffed dog, the laughter— like it wasn’t real.
Mrs. Potter’s voice sharpens. “Did you even ask what led up to this?”
The principal barely reacts. “Regulus has not offered an explanation.”
They’re all looking at him now. Waiting. Expecting.
Regulus stays silent.
Not because he doesn’t want to speak. But because he can’t. The words aren’t there. Nothing is there except the twisting, crushing feeling in his chest and the roaring in his ears.
The principal exhales sharply, already scribbling something on a slip of paper. “Then I don’t see any reason to change my decision. Three-day suspension. Effective immediately.”
Mrs. Potter mutters something under her breath, shaking her head. Mr. Potter’s jaw tightens. “We’ll be speaking to the school board.”
Regulus doesn’t move. He doesn’t react.
He just sits there, staring at the edge of the desk, his mind looping over the same thought.
Unprovoked.
Like none of it mattered. Like what they did to him didn’t count.
Like he was the only one to blame.
***
By the time the meeting with the principal was over and Regulus had gathered his things from his locker, there were only ten minutes left until the end of the school day. The bell would ring soon, and all the students would flood out, but Regulus had already lost his place in that world. He wasn’t part of it anymore—not now, not after everything.
Mr. and Mrs. Potter had decided that Mrs. Potter would take Regulus home, and Mr. Potter would wait for James. So now, Regulus sat in the backseat of the car, his hands folded tightly in his lap, his eyes fixed on the passing scenery, though he wasn’t really seeing it. He hadn’t been at the school for long, and already he was suspended—for three days. Three days for punching someone. It was stupid. He was stupid.
Why couldn’t he just be normal? He could hear the laughter of Colin and his friends echoing in his mind, feel the heat of their whispers press against him like a physical thing. He could still see the way Colin had looked at him—smiling like it was all a joke, like he was the punchline. It hurt , and Regulus had known it would, but he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop himself. And now, here he was—driving home, suspended, knowing they were all probably thinking the same thing: he’s broken .
Maybe they were right.
Regulus clenched his jaw, his eyes burning with something like shame. There had to be something wrong with him. Something that couldn’t be fixed. No one would keep him around if they knew the truth. If they knew how easily it was for him to snap, how he couldn’t control himself when everything got too loud, too much. They’d get tired of him, of dealing with his mess. They’d see how wrong he was, how wrong he’d always been. He didn’t belong here, not with the Potters. They should hate him too. They should send him back to the orphanage, or even worse—just kick him out on the streets. That would be fair.
He didn’t deserve any of their kindness. He wasn’t good enough.
The car slows, and it takes a moment before Regulus realizes they’ve pulled into the driveway. The house. Their house. He doesn’t know how long he’s been lost in his own thoughts, but the world outside the window feels so distant now, so foreign. Mrs. Potter’s voice cuts through the fog of his mind. “We’re home, Regulus.”
Something in him breaks. It’s the smallest thing, the sound of her voice, the way she says his name with such softness, such warmth. It hits him like a wave— home , a place he doesn’t belong, but a place that’s giving him a chance. A chance he doesn’t deserve.
Before he can stop himself, the tears spill over. The knot in his throat tightens, and all the pent-up emotions—anger, guilt, shame—come pouring out. He can’t hold them in anymore. He cries, quietly at first, but it’s like a dam breaking. His breath comes in ragged sobs, the tears streaking down his face.
He doesn’t notice that Mrs. Potter has climbed into the backseat with him, her presence gentle, her touch calm as she reaches out to him. Her voice is soft, comforting, a balm against the storm inside him. “It’s okay, Regulus,” she whispers. “It’s alright. Everything is going to okay.”
But Regulus can’t stop. He’s shaking, the rawness of it all, the way she’s being kind, the way she’s not angry, just… there … it breaks something in him. The kindness that he doesn’t deserve—it’s too much.
His voice cracks, barely above a whisper, as the words tumble out, over and over, between sobs. “Je suis désolé… Je suis désolé… Je suis vraiment désolé…”He doesn’t know what he’s sorry for—everything, maybe. For himself, for what he’s done, for what he’s sure he will do again.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t pull away, doesn’t try to calm him with words that might make it better. She just pulls him closer, wrapping her arms around him, letting him lean into her warmth. Regulus doesn’t know where his courage comes from, but suddenly he’s leaning in further, pressing his head against her shoulder, still crying, still whispering sorry like it’s the only thing he can say.
And for the first time in so long, he lets himself feel something. The comforting weight of her embrace, her gentle hands running over his back, it’s enough to break through the numbness. And Regulus doesn’t know why, but he clings to it.
He clings to it like his life depends on it. Like it is the only thing making him breathe easier.
He hates himself. That much is obvious. He hates himself even more for allowing himself to seek comfort. To lean into it. It feels like a betrayal to something deep inside him, like he doesn’t deserve the warmth of her arms or the softness of her voice. But he can’t stop. He wants to, but he can’t. It’s like a boat drifting toward a lighthouse, pulled in by something stronger than he is.
Regulus isn’t sure how long they sit in the car. His thoughts blur together in a haze, and all he’s aware of is the rhythmic movement of Mrs. Potter’s hand in his hair, the soothing, constant motion. It’s nice, he thinks. It feels like nothing for a moment—just softness and warmth and... care. But that doesn’t make sense. Not for someone like him.
He doesn’t know when the car door opens, or when Mrs. Potter carefully helps him out, steadying him when his legs feel weak beneath him. Her hand is gentle on his arm, and he lets her guide him toward the house. He’s barely aware of Mr. Potter’s voice greeting them, or James’s cheerful footsteps rushing inside from the front door. All Regulus can focus on is the weight of the tears that haven’t fully stopped, the tightness in his chest, the feeling of being unmoored, of being somewhere he shouldn’t be.
Somehow, Mrs. Potter gets him into the house. She and Mr. Potter guide him into the kitchen, where he’s placed at the table. His bag is set next to him, but he doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t want to move. His fingers are stiff, his heart is heavy, and his thoughts keep spiraling. He doesn’t deserve any of this. He doesn’t deserve their kindness. He doesn’t deserve anything.
The sound of the kettle fills the air, a comforting, steady hum. Regulus barely notices it at first, lost in his own thoughts. But when the kettle clicks off and the sound of cups being filled breaks through the fog in his mind, he realizes that they are making tea. The gentle clinking of porcelain, the soft hum of conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Potter, feels like a distant echo, like he’s not fully in the room with them.
A glass of milk is placed in front of him, followed by a small plate of chocolate chip cookies. Regulus’s gaze flickers down at the treat, his stomach twisting in guilt. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve something sweet, something kind, not after what happened today—not after crying all over Mrs. Potter in the car, making her feel like she had to take care of him. He doesn’t deserve this. Not at all.
But the cookies are there, and he’s hungry, his body telling him things his mind refuses to accept. He can feel the cold of the milk against his fingertips as he wraps his hand around the glass. He doesn’t drink it yet. He doesn’t know what to do with it, or the cookies, or the feeling that everything is too much, but too little all at once.
Mrs. Potter and Mr. Potter sit down across from him, the two of them holding their cups of tea, watching him quietly. Regulus tries to focus on them, tries to ignore the knot in his throat and the way his hands feel trembling against the glass. He can’t stop the thoughts from swirling.
How long will it take for them to get tired of him? How long before they see that he’s not worth it? That he’ll never be anything but trouble, broken, always breaking things, always disappointing everyone?
“Regulus,” Mrs. Potter’s voice is soft but steady, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. But... we’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”
Her words sink into him like a weight, pulling him deeper into that familiar, suffocating feeling. The kindness they show him is too much to handle, and he doesn’t know how to bear it. He doesn’t know how to be this person they see. The person who doesn’t mess up everything, the person who is worthy of being cared for.
His throat tightens, and his eyes sting again, but this time, he doesn’t stop it. He can’t stop it. He swallows hard and then lets the tears slip out in quiet waves. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see their faces, to see the pity or the concern or the patience. He’s not worthy of their patience. Not after what he did.
He presses his forehead against the cool surface of the table, hiding his face, feeling like he might drown in everything. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want them to see him like this. He doesn’t want to need them.
But he does.
“Je suis désolé...” The words come out, barely audible, but they hang in the air, fragile and broken. “Je suis désolé...” He repeats it again, quietly, as though saying it will somehow make it better.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything at first, just watches him, her voice soft and steady when she finally speaks. “It’s okay, Regulus. It’s all right.” She reaches out again, just a gentle touch on his arm, offering the comfort he’s afraid to accept.
The words don’t fix anything. Nothing can. But when her voice is that soft, when she says it’s okay , it feels like a small piece of something he didn’t know he needed. Maybe it’s enough for now. Maybe he doesn’t have to fix everything all at once.
Regulus can’t think of anything to say, so he just leans forward, slowly, still crying, still whispering apologies he doesn’t even understand. And for the first time, he doesn’t feel the weight of his mistakes crushing him quite so much.
Is this what it feels like to be cared for? To be… to be loved ?
The thought floats through Regulus’s mind, distant and alien, like a strange, foreign word that doesn’t fit into the space around him. His chest tightens at the thought, the idea of love filling him with unease, a sick churn in his stomach. He can almost taste it, like something that doesn’t belong, a foreign substance that he can’t swallow. Love . It’s so simple, yet so… overwhelming, like a weight he isn’t sure he can bear.
It makes him think of that one line he remembers from a passage in the Bible, one that keeps returning in fragments when he’s lost in his head: Love is patient, love is kind .
Mr. and Mrs. Potter have shown him nothing but patience and kindness. They’ve never faltered, not when he’s retreated into himself, not when he’s pushed them away or when he’s been impossible to talk to. They’ve never raised their voices at him, never lost their temper. Even when he does something as stupid as punching a student or crying like a helpless mess in front of them, they’ve never judged him. Instead, they keep reaching for him, gently coaxing him back, offering the very thing he thought he could never have.
Regulus’s fingers curl into the hem of his shirt, the fabric stiff and new under his touch. His breath is slow, shaky, but steadying as he lets the memory of their kindness sink in. They don’t have to do this . They shouldn’t have to do this .
But they do. They’re here. They’ve been here, from the moment he arrived, from the moment he felt so completely lost and broken. He remembers the soft, gentle words, Mrs. Potter would utter to him when everything he felt was too much. And Mr. Potter—Mr. Potter, with his easy smile, quiet demanour, who would let him sit and read in peace, who always seemed to know when Regulus needed space.
That quiet, constant patience.
It’s never been earned, not by him, at least.
But it’s always been there.
He shifts slightly, his gaze still fixed on the table, trying not to look at them too much, trying not to let the weight of their gazes press too hard into him. The kettle, now cool, still hums faintly in the background, the sound like a reminder of how simple their actions have been. The simple act of sitting with him, giving him the space to cry, offering him milk and cookies as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And in a way, maybe it is.
It’s not supposed to feel this overwhelming. He should just accept it. Just let it happen. But he can’t.
“Je suis désolé,” he whispers again, his voice trembling with the weight of everything that’s unsaid. It feels so small, so insignificant, but it’s all he can offer.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t rush to fill the silence with words, doesn’t try to push him to stop crying or stop apologizing. Instead, she lets him feel it, lets him be. It’s the kind of patience that Regulus has never known, never experienced, and it makes him want to crawl out of his skin.
Her hand is still resting lightly on his arm, a grounding presence, something that keeps him tethered. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t say anything to make it stop. She just sits with him, like she understands that sometimes, there’s nothing to say but to let the quiet moments stretch on, to let him just be .
He knows he doesn’t deserve this. He’s spent years learning that there’s something wrong with him, that there’s a limit to how much someone can tolerate, how much someone can care. His parents—his real parents—had shown him that much. He wasn’t worth the effort, wasn’t worth the space. He was always too much—too loud, too quiet, too angry, too strange. And when they gave up on him, it didn’t feel like a surprise. It felt like it was meant to happen.
But now, here, with these people who have no reason to show him the kindness they do, it’s harder to breathe. Because he should have learned by now that this doesn’t last. That nothing ever lasts. People always leave, always get tired of trying.
But they haven’t.
The realisation sits heavy on him, but there’s a small crack of something new in his chest, something fragile and tender. Maybe it’s hope . Maybe it’s the beginnings of something that’s too terrifying to understand.
“Regulus,” Mrs. Potter says softly, pulling him out of his spiral once more. She says his name like it’s the most important thing, like he matters enough for her to say it in that way. He doesn’t know how to respond to it, but he feels something warm bloom inside him despite himself.
She doesn’t rush him. She waits. And in the waiting, Regulus can feel the tension in his chest begin to loosen, little by little. The tears slow, and for a moment, he isn’t sure if he’s ready to pull himself together yet.
But somehow, he does. He wipes at his eyes, his breath still uneven. He doesn’t look at them—can’t look at them—but he sits up straighter, still feeling like he’s holding onto something fragile, something unfamiliar.
The kindness that keeps reaching for him, even when he feels like a mess.
“You’re not alone, Regulus,” she says, her voice like a balm to the raw parts of him. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Her words settle over him like a blanket, but it’s not the same as before. This time, he doesn’t push them away. This time, he lets them settle into him, into the cracks that have always been there, into the quiet spaces he’s never allowed anyone to touch.
And for the first time, Regulus doesn’t feel so sure that he doesn’t deserve it.
Notes:
Word Count: 8,730
Published: 2025-02-04Je suis désolé = I’m sorry
Je suis vraiment désolé = I’m so sorryYou guys are bloody spoilt let me tell you. So, here you have it folks. Please, take a minute to give a round of applause to my Dad, without him, you wouldn't be recieving this chapter today.
He has literally listened to me rambling about this fic non-stop for the past month. I love him to death, honestly, and he generally has no fucking clue what I'm on about. He did call me this morning and asked, "have you hit 900 (hits) yet?" and I told him, "almost", and he said, "well, you should post chapter 8 today."
If I was to ever deciated anything to someone, this fic would be just for my Dad. I love him so much. Thank you for reading, and stay entuned for Chapter 9!!
Chapter 9: Is There Ever an Out to Something He Didn't Even Do?
Summary:
Regulus can’t see a way out from all the trouble he has caused. He can’t even see a way to show people what really happened.
Like it will ever make a difference.
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Deserve" —to do something, to have or show qualities worthy of a reaction, whether reward or punishment.
In this context, for Regulus, it could mean only one of two things. One: punishment, for getting suspended. Or two: comfort.
The second feels wrong.
Not wrong in the way getting suspended was wrong, not in the way being dragged into the principal’s office with burning cheeks and clenched fists was wrong, but wrong because it doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense. Comfort isn’t what comes next. It never has been.
He’s been punished before. He knows how this should go. Raised voices, disappointment thick in the air, a punishment that lingers long after the initial crime. Maybe grounded for weeks, forced into silence, left to sit alone with his shame. Maybe worse. But never this.
Never gentle questions instead of accusations. Never a sigh instead of an outburst.
Never understanding.
His fingers tighten in his sleeves. He’s waiting for it to turn, for their patience to run out, for someone to finally snap and tell him exactly what he already knows: You messed up, Regulus. You should have known better. You deserve whatever’s coming.
But nothing comes.
Mr. Potter had only sighed—not in anger, not in frustration, just in… something else. Something unreadable.
Mrs. Potter had looked at him—not with disappointment, not with frustrations, but with concern. She had asked if he was alright. As if that matters .
And James… James hadn’t even looked mad when he found out. Just confused. Just worried.
Regulus swallows hard, trying to make sense of it, but it slips through his fingers like sand. He isn’t used to being comforted after doing something wrong. He isn’t used to people looking at him like this—with patience, with an odd sort of understanding.
It sits heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome, because if he’s not being punished… then what is he supposed to do with this feeling?
Maybe this is just temporary. Maybe it’s a test. Maybe they’re waiting to see if he’ll break under the weight of guilt on his own.
Maybe—
He doesn’t know.
And that’s somehow worse than anything else.
Regulus remembers the first time he cried in front of his mother.
He had been seven, maybe eight, and he had dropped a teacup. Not just any teacup, but one of his mother’s favorites—a delicate porcelain piece with gold trim that she always used when hosting guests. It had shattered on impact, fragments skittering across the marble floor. His breath had hitched, panic settling in his chest as he braced himself for her reaction.
His mother had been silent at first. Then, with a soft sigh, she had crouched in front of him, her hands reaching out.
“Regulus,” she had said gently, brushing his hair back from his face. He had flinched, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of shame pressing down on him.
“You must be more careful,” she had told him, her voice calm, almost soothing. “Clumsiness is unbecoming.”
Regulus had nodded quickly, blinking back tears. His mother wasn’t angry—he should have been relieved.
She had wiped a stray tear from his cheek, her touch light, before standing and calling for Kreacher to clean up the mess. The matter was settled. No punishment. No yelling. Just a simple reminder to do better next time.
And as she walked away, Regulus had swallowed hard and forced himself to stand taller, back straight, hands at his sides. His mother expected more from him—so he would give it to her.
Regulus isn’t sure if there’s an out to this. He knows, logically, there is, but…
He’s received many different types of punishment from foster parents over the course of several months. He’s used to groundings, to being sent to his room without dinner, to being given extra chores until his hands were raw, and even to having his books taken away for weeks at a time.
What he’s not used to is what Mr. and Mrs. Potter are doing.
They’re sitting at the table with him, drinks in their hands. They aren’t yelling. They aren’t lecturing. All they are doing is sitting and waiting. They don’t even expect him to talk—at least, he assumes they don’t. But it’s weird. In every sense of the word.
The tears flowing down Regulus’ face have stopped, for now. There’s silence among them, broken only by the occasional clink of a cup against the wooden table. Mrs. Potter lightly strokes the back of his hand, a small, repetitive motion.
Comfort.
It’s strange.
He’s never received something like this. Not from anyone… not even from his own mother.
But his mother loved him. He knows this. He does. There is not a doubt in his mind that his mother loved him.
She used to let him read whatever he wanted, even when his father said certain books weren’t for children. She used to brush his hair for him at night, humming under her breath, fingers soft against his scalp. She even let him stay up past bedtime on special occasions, without any complaints.
His mother even loved his brother—even if his brother says she didn’t. She did. Regulus definitely, 100% knows this. Without a doubt.
People are just wrong.
The police were wrong—his parents, especially his mother, would never…
“Regulus?” Mrs. Potter questions, her tone gentle, as if it were laced with… something he doesn’t recognize. Something careful. Something safe.
He blinks, startled out of his thoughts, and realizes he’s been gripping his own wrist too tightly. Slowly, hesitantly, he forces his fingers to relax.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t push him to speak. She just waits, her hand still resting lightly over his.
Regulus swallows hard. His throat feels tight.
Maybe this is a punishment, in its own way. Maybe the waiting is meant to be unbearable. Maybe the silence is the consequence.
But if it is… why doesn’t it feel like one?
Regulus had been nine when he got sick.
It wasn’t anything serious—just a fever, the kind that left him weak and shivering under layers of blankets, too tired to move. His mother had checked on him once, pressing a cool hand to his forehead before sighing and reminding him not to cough too loudly. She had left soon after, heels clicking against the hardwood floor, muttering something about germs as she shut the door behind her. His father hadn’t come at all.
But Sirius had.
Regulus remembered waking up in the middle of the night, throat aching, sweat dampening his collar. The room had been dark, silent except for the faint hum of traffic outside and his own ragged breathing. Then, suddenly, there had been movement.
“Reggie?” Sirius’ voice had been hushed, cautious.
Regulus had barely managed a croaky “mmh.”
The mattress dipped a second later, and before he could protest, Sirius had climbed in beside him, radiating warmth. “You’re burning up,” he had muttered, tugging the blankets tighter around them both.
Regulus had wanted to say something—to tell Sirius to leave, that Mother would be mad if she found them like this—but he had been too tired. Too sick. So he had done nothing as Sirius shifted closer, draping an arm over him, not speaking, not moving. Just there.
And for the first time that night, Regulus hadn’t felt cold.
The next morning, Sirius had been gone, and their mother had never noticed the extra warmth lingering in Regulus’ blankets.
But Regulus had.
Regulus has always had an unusual relationship with silence.
His brother was always there to fill it—even when he never said anything. Sirius was always there, an annoying yet comfortable presence, like a shadow that refused to leave. Regulus thinks his brother always knew when he needed him most, even when Regulus didn’t want him. Even when he pushed him away.
Sirius has always been there.
Always.
In the silence of their home, when their parents' words sliced through the air, sharp and heavy, but never at Sirius. Never at him. In the silence of his mind, where his own thoughts curled around him, whispering things he wasn’t ready to hear. Even in the silence of space—because Sirius was a star, wasn't he? Burning too bright, refusing to be ignored, even when he left. Even when he wasn’t there anymore.
Regulus thinks, maybe, Sirius has never really stopped being there.
But this silence is different.
It’s not heavy. It’s not waiting for him to break. It doesn’t press down on his ribs or crawl under his skin. It just… exists. A silence that asks nothing from him. That allows him to sit, to breathe, to feel without punishment.
He doesn’t know what to do with it.
Mrs. Potter's hand is still on his, her touch so light it’s almost an afterthought. She hasn’t spoken again. She isn’t forcing him to answer. She isn’t telling him what to think or how to act or what he should be feeling.
Regulus swallows. He wants to pull away. He should pull away. But his fingers stay still beneath hers, warm and steady.
There’s something dangerous about this kind of quiet.
Something that makes his throat feel tight, his chest feel heavy.
Because it’s soft. It’s safe. It’s something he has never had and something he does not—should not—deserve.
Regulus isn’t stupid. He knows what kind of child deserves kindness, and it isn’t him. It’s children who don’t talk back. Who don’t cause trouble. Who don’t think the wrong things or feel the wrong things or need the wrong things. It’s children who are better than him.
And yet, Mrs. Potter is still here.
Still waiting.
Still treating him like he’s worth waiting for.
And in some sick twisted way, like Sirius .
But, Sirius isn’t here anymore. Sirius is gone. Just like his stuffed black dog. Destroyed . Torn to pieces . Just like him .
Regulus shifts his gaze from his and Mrs. Potters hands, and towards his bag. Where it held him— it . His dog. The thing that made Regulus feel whole again.
Is that what comfort is supposed to do?
Before Regulus can think more of it, Mrs. Potter’s soft, careful voice, pulls him from his mind. “Is there something inside your bag you want, sweetheart?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. He doesn’t shake his head, but he doesn’t nod either. It doesn’t matter. Mr. Potter is already reaching for the bag, pulling it toward him before Regulus can protest.
Panic prickles at the edges of his ribs, sharp and sudden. His hands curl into fists against his lap, his breathing tight. He watches—silent, motionless—as Mr. Potter unzips the bag and starts pulling things out.
First, his formal uniform. Neatly folded, pristine despite having nowhere to wear it anymore. Mr. Potter hesitates, his brows drawing together slightly, but he doesn’t comment. He just sets it aside.
Then, his fingers brush against something else. Something buried beneath the uniform.
Regulus knows what it is before Mr. Potter even pulls it out.
A ruined stuffed black dog.
The fabric is frayed, seams barely holding together. One of the button eyes is missing, leaving a hollow space where it used to be. The stuffing is uneven, lumps forming where it has been squeezed too tightly, held too often.
Mr. Potter stops moving.
His expression shifts—softening, darkening, something Regulus can’t quite place.
“What is this?” he asks, but his voice isn’t harsh. It isn’t accusing. It’s just… gentle. Too gentle.
Regulus’ throat tightens. He stares at the stuffed animal in Mr. Potter’s hands, his vision blurring slightly at the edges.
He should say something. He should take it back. He should—
But he doesn’t.
He just watches. Watches and waits, his breath slow and careful, as if anything more will make the moment crack wide open.
He watches as Mr. Potter inspects the, almost, completely unrecongisable object. Regulus can feel Mr. and Mrs. Potter’s eyes on him, trying to gauge his reaction. Trying to determine what it could be—what it was .
Mr. Potter places the black dog onto the table with deliberate care, his fingers lingering on the worn fabric for a moment before he looks back into the bag. Regulus watches, his heart thudding dully in his chest, as Mr. Potter reaches in again.
This time, he pulls out something even worse.
A book. Or, at least, what used to be one.
Regulus knows what it is the moment he sees the tattered spine, the warped, crumbling pages. The water stains have bled the ink together, making the words unreadable. Whole sections are missing, torn from the binding, leaving jagged, empty spaces where pages should be.
Mr. Potter turns it over in his hands, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he looks back up at Regulus.
Regulus keeps his face blank. His throat aches. He clenches his jaw, willing himself not to react.
It’s fine. It’s just a book. Just things. None of it matters.
But then Mrs. Potter’s hand moves.
She rubs her other hand up and down his forearm, slow and steady. A simple touch—gentle, warm.
And it breaks him.
The tears come before he can stop them, spilling hot and fast down his face. A quiet sob wrenches its way from his throat, and then another. His breathing quickens, shaky and uneven, no matter how hard he tries to control it.
He ducks his head, hands gripping his sleeves, trying to will himself to stop—to swallow it down before it gets worse. But it’s too late. He’s already spiraling.
He doesn’t notice the arms around him at first.
Somewhere, distantly, he hears Mrs. Potter’s voice saying, “it’s okay, dear.”
A warmer, larger hand rubs up and down his back, steady and reassuring. The pressure grounds him, though he barely registers who it belongs to.
It doesn’t matter.
All that matters is the warmth, the comfort, the quiet, steady presence around him.
And for the first time in longer than he can remember, he lets himself fall into it.
***
They don’t even try to talk to him about the suspension after his breakdown. No lectures, no disappointment lingering in their voices. But Regulus knows—feels, more accurately—that something has shifted between Mr. and Mrs. Potter.
They aren’t angry with him. That much is obvious. If they were, he’d know. He’s good at recognizing that kind of thing, good at bracing himself for it. But this is different. This is something quieter, heavier. Something that sits between them like an unanswered question.
They know something.
Regulus spent the entire night staring at his ceiling, his mind running in endless circles, trying to figure out how much. Do they know what Colin—the kid he punched—and his friends had done? Or, more accurately, what they had been doing?
His fingers tighten around the blanket.
Probably not.
If they did, surely they would have said something.
Right?
Regulus exhales sharply, rolling onto his side, curling in on himself. His body aches with exhaustion, but his mind won’t let him rest.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s suspended. It’s not like he has to go to school today.
It’s stupid.
Painfully, utterly, ridiculously stupid.
It’s—
“Regulus?”
Mrs. Potter’s voice is soft, careful.
Regulus blinks up at the ceiling, willing himself to move, but his limbs feel heavy, his body sluggish with exhaustion. He spent the entire night staring at the same spot, his mind cycling through endless thoughts, but now… now he just feels drained.
The door creaks open a little farther. He doesn’t look, but he can hear her step inside, her presence quiet but certain.
“Sweetheart, are you awake?”
He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t. He still can’t, the words locked somewhere deep inside him, too tangled, too uncertain. He waits for the familiar frustration, the impatience, the demand for him to speak, but it doesn’t come. It never does with her.
There’s a pause, then the sound of soft footsteps crossing the room. He hears her settle on the edge of the bed, feels the mattress dip slightly under her weight.
“We’re going to drop James off at school soon,” she says gently. “After that, I thought you and I could go out for a bit. Just to pick up some groceries.”
Regulus frowns slightly, finally shifting his gaze from the ceiling. He turns his head just enough to see her sitting beside him, her expression as calm and steady as ever.
Going out?
It’s… unexpected. When he woke up—well, when morning finally came, since he never really slept—he assumed he’d be stuck here all day. That he’d have to stay in his room, avoiding everyone, feeling the weight of his suspension pressing down on him.
But Mrs. Potter doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t look like she wants to lecture him or drag him into some long discussion about his punishment. She just looks at him the way she always does. Like he’s a person. Like he’s worth something.
Regulus hesitates for a moment before slowly sitting up.
“Take your time,” Mrs. Potter says, patting his blanket-covered knee before standing. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”
She leaves the room without another word, giving him space, giving him the choice.
Regulus sits there for a moment, staring at the door. Then, slowly, he pulls back the covers and gets up. His limbs still feel heavy, but he moves anyway, going through the motions. Getting dressed. Running a brush through his hair. Making himself presentable.
Because she’s waiting for him. Because, despite everything, she still wants him there.
And for reasons he doesn’t quite understand, that matters.
The morning drop-off is effortless. Too easy.
James climbs out of the car, slings his bag over his shoulder, and waves before jogging toward the school entrance. Mrs. Potter rolls down the window, calling out a quick, “Have a good day, darling!” before pulling away from the curb.
That’s it. No fuss. No tension. No hesitation.
Regulus sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window, watching the school shrink behind them. The normalcy of it unsettles him.
It’s not supposed to be like this.
He’s suspended. He’s supposed to be locked in his room, forced to “think about what he’s done.” Or worse—he’s supposed to be given a list of chores, things to scrub and clean and fix until his hands ache. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how punishment works.
But instead, he’s here. Sitting in the car. Going to the shops.
Like his suspension never even happened.
His fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeves, pressing against the material as he stares out at the world passing by. Buildings blur together, cars move like steady streams of color, and the morning sun glows golden against the glass. It’s too peaceful. Too… easy.
She has to be planning something.
Something big.
Maybe she’s waiting until they get home to lay it all out—some consequence he hasn’t considered yet. Maybe this is some sort of test, to see if he lets his guard down before she reminds him of what he’s done.
His stomach twists, uneasy.
Mrs. Potter hums softly as she drives, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. She doesn’t look angry. Doesn’t even seem the slightest bit bothered. But Regulus isn’t convinced.
This isn’t how things are supposed to go.
He keeps his gaze fixed on the window, on the endless motion of the world outside, trying to figure out what she’s up to, why she’s doing this—
The car slows.
Regulus blinks, snapping back to reality as they pull into a parking lot.
“We’re here,” Mrs. Potter says lightly, shifting the car into park.
Regulus stares out at the storefronts ahead.
Right. The shops.
Like this is just another ordinary day.
Once inside, Regulus recognises where he is. He’s been here before. He’s been to this shopping center before.
It was his first official day with the Potters. The day he showed them who he truly is.
But, Mrs. Potter does go straight towards the grocery store. Instead, she walks towards the same shop where he had caused a scene.
He’s confused, as to why they’ve come into this store of all places. His stomach coils with unease, his steps slowing just slightly as Mrs. Potter leads the way.
Why are they here?
She doesn’t say anything, just walks with that same effortless ease she always carries, weaving through aisles like she knows exactly where she’s going. Regulus follows, his shoulders tense, bracing himself.
And then she stops.
Right in front of the toy section.
His breath hitches.
Mrs. Potter scans the shelves before plucking something from one of them—a small, stuffed black dog.
The same one.
She holds it up slightly, tilting her head as she looks at him. “Is this the one you picked last time?”
Regulus swallows, nodding once.
His mind races.
She’s not really going to buy him another one. Is she?
He keeps his expression carefully neutral, but his fingers twitch at his sides.
Mrs. Potter hums in acknowledgment, then continues walking, black dog still in hand. Regulus hesitates before following, more wary than before.
She stops again, this time in the book section. Her eyes scan the shelves, and she glances at him. “Which one were you reading?”
Regulus hesitates, then steps forward, lifting a hand to point at the book on the shelf.
Mrs. Potter nods, picking it up. “Were you almost finished with it?”
He flushes. Another nod.
She hums again, thoughtful, then looks around the shelf before pulling out something else—a box set.
Regulus blinks, staring at the title.
Percy Jackson & The Olympians.
Mrs. Potter holds the box set in one hand, then turns to him, pressing the black dog against his chest for him to hold. “Alright,” she says simply.
Regulus grips the stuffed animal tightly, just staring at her.
Alright?
That’s it?
Why would she buy him a brand-new dog— again —and an entire box set of books?
His mind whirls, trying to make sense of it, to find the catch, the hidden condition. But there’s nothing. Just Mrs. Potter, carrying the books to the register like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He follows, still clutching the dog, still questioning, still searching for some explanation that makes sense.
Because, this, doesn’t make sense. He got his original black dog destroyed, he got his book ruined—granted he didn’t do them himself, but still. He doesn’t deserve this. Regulus doesn’t deserve to get a new black dog and an entire box set of books.
He just doesn’t.
She pays for the things without hesitation, then leads him out, toward the grocery store.
When they reach the store, she pulls out a cart and places the books inside carefully, then looks to him. “Would you like to put the dog in too?”
Regulus hesitates.
His grip tightens, fingers curling into the soft fur. He thinks for a moment, does he really want to let it go… again. The answer is no, he does not. He conveys this to Mrs. Potter by a simple shake of his head.
He watches Mrs. Potter. She nods, like that’s perfectly fine, and continues walking inside the shop.
Regulus follows, still holding the stuffed dog close.
Still trying to understand.
Trying to understand.
Why?
Why would she do this for him?
Buy him a brand-new copy of the book he was enjoying? Get him another stuffed dog?
It doesn’t make sense.
He hasn’t done anything to deserve this. If anything, he deserves for them to be taken away. That’s what usually happens.
Maybe that’s the punishment.
Buy him new things, let him think they’re his, and then take them away for a week.
That seems fair. That seems right.
Regulus clutches the stuffed dog a little tighter, waiting for the catch.
But Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything about it. She just pushes the cart forward, moving through the store like everything is normal, pausing every so often to glance at shelves, picking things up and setting them in the cart.
Every once in a while, she asks for his opinion.
“Do you like this kind of bread, or do you prefer something else?”
“These apples look nice—do you like apples?”
“James has been obsessed with this cheese lately, but I’d like to get something else, too. Do you like cheddar or gouda?”
Regulus answers each question with a small nod or shake of his head, still waiting for the moment she’ll stop pretending.
When they leave the bakery section, she slows, glancing at a small list in her hand. “Regulus, would you mind helping me pick out some of these?” She gestures to the fruits and vegetables ahead. “I need some oranges, carrots, and potatoes.”
Regulus hesitates for only a moment before moving toward the produce section, carefully selecting the items. He doesn’t miss the way Mrs. Potter watches him, her expression warm, approving.
When he’s finished, she nods in satisfaction and continues toward the cold section.
The moment they step into the aisle, Regulus feels the temperature drop slightly, the chill from the refrigerators lining the walls pressing against his skin. Mrs. Potter barely seems to notice as she scans the shelves, pausing in front of the meat section.
“I was thinking of making shepherd’s pie for dinner tonight,” she says, picking up a pack of minced meat and placing it in the cart. “Would you be willing to help me?”
Regulus stiffens slightly, caught off guard. Help her make dinner?
Maybe she means he’ll be making dinner while she supervises. That would make sense.
He doesn’t mind cooking. He used to help his mother sometimes—when she let him, at least. It had always felt like a test, though, like she was waiting for him to make a mistake.
But Mrs. Potter isn’t watching him like that. She’s just waiting patiently for his answer, her expression open, hopeful.
Regulus nods.
Mrs. Potter’s face lights up, beaming in a way that takes him by surprise.
Warmth blooms in his chest, unexpected and unfamiliar, creeping up his neck.
She’s happy.
Not just satisfied, not just indifferent— genuinely happy that he agreed to help.
His mother never looked at him like that.
The warmth spreads, something fragile and overwhelming, and before he realizes it, his cheeks flush slightly.
He ducks his head, gripping the stuffed dog a little tighter.
Regulus can’t remember the last time he made someone that happy before without trying. And, that makes a flower of happiness bloom inside of him too.
Before he knows it, he and Mrs. Potter are standing in the kitchen, unpacking and putting away the groceries.
Regulus takes the items she hands him and carefully places them where they belong. He finds himself liking the rhythm of it—take, put away, repeat. It feels methodical, simple. It feels… helpful. Like he’s doing something right.
Mrs. Potter hums softly as she works, the sound light and pleasant. Every so often, she murmurs a quiet “thank you” when he hands her something, and Regulus finds himself standing just a little straighter each time.
Once everything is put away, Mrs. Potter claps her hands together. “Alright,” she says, smiling at him. “Let’s wash our hands and get started.”
Regulus follows her to the sink, rolling up his sleeves as she turns on the water. He watches as she lathers her hands, the movements practiced and familiar, before he does the same. The soap is floral-scented, something soft and expensive-smelling.
By the time they’re drying their hands, Mrs. Potter is already moving to gather the ingredients.
She glances at him. “Would you like to peel the potatoes while I start on the filling?”
Regulus nods, and she hands him a peeler and a few potatoes, setting a bowl in front of him for the skins. He gets to work in silence, carefully peeling each one with slow, precise strokes.
Mrs. Potter, meanwhile, starts on the meat, her voice light as she speaks. “Shepherd’s pie is one of James’ favorites. He always gets so impatient waiting for it to cool.” She chuckles. “Last time, he nearly burned his tongue because he couldn’t wait.”
Regulus can almost picture it—James, as loud and impatient as ever, shoving a too-hot bite of food into his mouth and then whining about it afterward. The thought almost makes him smile.
He keeps peeling, listening to the quiet sizzle of the pan as Mrs. Potter cooks. The kitchen smells warm, savory, familiar. He doesn’t mind this. It’s… pleasant.
When he finishes the potatoes, Mrs. Potter turns to look. “Done already?” She grins. “That was fast.”
She takes the peeled potatoes and sets them in a pot of water. As she moves to the stove, Regulus watches, waiting for his next task.
“You can help stir the filling, if you’d like,” she offers.
Regulus steps forward, accepting the wooden spoon she hands him. He stirs slowly, methodically, just as he was taught. He knows how to do this. He knows how to be careful.
Then, his hand slips.
Just slightly—just enough for a small splash of sauce to land on the stove.
Regulus freezes.
His stomach twists, waiting, waiting.
For the sharp intake of breath. The snap of a reprimand. The anger.
But it doesn’t come.
Mrs. Potter glances over, and instead of scowling, she just tilts her head and says, “Oops.”
Then, just as easily, she grabs a cloth and wipes it away.
Regulus stares.
That’s it?
No sharp words. No disapproving looks. No consequences.
Just… Oops.
Mrs. Potter turns back to him, completely unfazed. “It happens all the time,” she says lightly. “James once knocked an entire bowl of batter onto the floor. Took ages to clean up.”
Regulus blinks.
That’s not— That’s not how mothers are supposed to react.
Mothers are supposed to be strict. They’re supposed to expect perfection.
He knows this. Because his mother has only ever wanted perfection from him. Has only ever wanted what was best for him.
The thought unsettles him. Confuses him.
But at the same time, the warmth in his chest lingers. They keep cooking. They keep cooking until it’s done. And, Regulus has never enjoyed himself more.
***
He blinks up at the ceiling, his mind still foggy from sleep, the edges of a dream fading too fast to hold onto. For a moment, he feels that strange disorientation, like his body is awake before his brain has caught up. Where is he? His bed is soft. The room is quiet. There’s warmth, not the biting chill of an old house with too many shadows.
Then, it clicks. The Potters. He’s at the Potters’ house. His room.
It’s Wednesday.
Regulus knows this because it’s his second day of his three-day suspension.
He lets out a slow breath, closing his eyes briefly before forcing himself to sit up. The sky outside his window is a soft, pale blue, the sun barely cresting over the horizon. Too early.
Still, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing at his eyes as the events of yesterday flicker through his mind.
Mrs. Potter had taken him out. To the shops.
She had bought him another stuffed dog, the same as the one he had picked out that day—the day he had ruined everything. She had bought him the entire Percy Jackson box set, without hesitation, without asking him to earn it or prove he was worthy of it. Just—because.
And later, they had cooked together. Shepherd’s pie.
Regulus stands, stretching his arms above his head as he pads toward the bathroom attached to his room. He turns the shower on, letting the water warm up as he stares at his reflection in the mirror. His hair is a mess, sticking up in odd directions. He looks tired. But not bad.
He steps under the water, letting the warmth soothe the lingering stiffness in his muscles. His fingers work through his hair, scrubbing at his scalp, but his thoughts wander.
Cooking with Mrs. Potter had been… different.
Not bad. Just different.
Cooking with his mother had been rigid. Precise. Every ingredient measured exactly, every step completed with perfection, or not at all. Mistakes were unacceptable.
Cooking with Mrs. Potter had been… easy.
She hadn’t given him strict instructions or hovered over his shoulder, waiting for him to fail. When he made a mistake, she hadn’t snapped at him, hadn’t scolded or sneered. Just— oops . A simple, fleeting moment. No tension. No fear.
It doesn’t make sense. That’s not how mothers are supposed to be.
Right?
He frowns, rinsing the shampoo from his hair, letting the warm water run over his face before shutting it off.
As he steps out, he grabs a towel, drying himself quickly before heading back into his room. He dresses in quiet efficiency—soft clothes, comfortable ones, not the stiff, formal attire his mother used to insist upon.
His mother.
Mrs. Potter.
Two completely different people.
His mother was strict, disciplined. He was expected to be perfect, to follow the rules, to know better. Mrs. Potter is… gentle. Kind in a way that feels almost foreign.
And Mr. and Mrs. Potter aren’t mad at him.
They should be. He was suspended. He got into a fight. Any other foster parent would have been furious, would have yelled or punished him.
But they haven’t.
He can’t figure out why .
Regulus sighs, running a comb through his damp hair before brushing his teeth. The confusion lingers, sitting heavy in his chest.
By the time he’s done, he pulls on his socks and shoes, then glances at the books stacked neatly beside his bed. His fingers hover over them for a moment before picking up the second book in the series, Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters .
Book in hand, he makes his way downstairs, his steps light against the wooden floor. The house is still quiet—James must still be asleep, and the Potters likely aren’t up yet either.
He settles onto the couch in the living room, curling up against the armrest.
His mind drifts.
If Sirius had been suspended, how would their parents have reacted?
Their father wouldn’t have cared. Not really. He might have grumbled, might have made an offhand comment about how it was embarrassing to have a son who couldn’t even behave properly.
Their mother, though—
Regulus swallows. She would have raged .
And Sirius… Sirius would have taken it. Would have stared her down, jaw tight, shoulders squared. Would have made it worse just because he refused to bow.
And Regulus—
Regulus would have watched. Helpless.
But here, at the Potters’ house, it’s not like that.
Here, there is no rage. No punishment. Just understanding that he doesn’t quite know how to accept.
Regulus shifts, curling his legs closer, and opens his book.
His eyes land on the first line of Chapter 1.
"My nightmare started like this."
It’s funny, really. Regulus doesn’t know why he finds the first line so relatable. He just does.
Regulus manages to get halfway through Chapter 3: We Hail the Taxi of Eternal Torment before he hears any signs of life.
The first person Regulus sees walk down the stairs is none other than Mr. Potter. His dark brown hair sticks up in every direction—in that kind of way hair gets when it’s static or when someone’s been tossing and turning in their sleep. His glasses are slightly crooked on his nose, and his pajama shirt is wrinkled, the buttons slightly misaligned, as if he threw it on in the dark.
Regulus watches as Mr. Potter steps off the last step, rubbing his face with one hand, before his gaze lands on Regulus, still curled up in the living room, book in hand.
“Morning, Regulus,” Mr. Potter says through a yawn, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “You’re up early this morning. Everything alright?”
Regulus nods.
Mr. Potter looks pleased by that, giving him a small, tired smile before continuing into the kitchen.
Regulus glances down at his book, rereading the last sentence he just finished. He should keep reading. He should stay sitting here, like he always does.
But, against his better judgment, he abandons his book for the moment and stands. His feet carry him toward the kitchen, curiosity outweighing hesitation.
Mr. Potter is already moving around the space, pulling a mug from the cupboard and filling the kettle. He moves easily, like he’s done this a hundred times before—because he has .
Regulus lingers in the doorway, watching as Mr. Potter makes a cup of tea, adding a splash of milk before stirring it with a spoon.
Then, Mr. Potter glances over at Regulus. “Would you like some juice?”
Regulus hesitates, thinking for a moment, then nods.
Mr. Potter hums, setting his tea down before pulling open the fridge. “Orange or apple?” he asks, holding up both cartons.
Regulus points to the apple juice. He prefers it. No matter how hard his brother has tried to get Regulus to drink, or even to like orange juice, he never does. It’s too sour for Regulus’ taste.
“Good choice,” Mr. Potter says easily, pouring a glass before handing it to Regulus.
The kitchen falls into a comfortable quiet. Regulus holds his juice, not drinking just yet, and watches as Mr. Potter takes a slow sip of his tea, sighing contentedly.
After a few moments, Mr. Potter speaks again. “I’ll be staying home today,” he says. “To help you with some of your schoolwork.”
Regulus nods.
Mr. Potter takes another sip of tea. “I teach at the local university,” he continues. “Some days I have lectures, other days I focus on research. Wednesday’s usually one of my research days, but since I just finished a project, I don’t have to start a new one until the next school year.”
Regulus nods again. He finds that… interesting. He isn’t entirely sure what Mr. Potter does , exactly, but he supposes it must be important if it involves research.
He watches as Mr. Potter sets his tea down and moves toward the stove, cracking a few eggs into a bowl. The rhythmic scrape of the whisk fills the air as he beats them together, then pours them into the pan. The scent of butter and eggs fills the kitchen, warm and familiar.
Regulus stands by the counter, sipping his juice, watching.
Before long, more movement sounds from upstairs. Then, the sound of feet on the stairs—two pairs, coming down in quick succession.
Mrs. Potter and James appear in the kitchen, both looking slightly rushed.
“Good morning, Regulus,” Mrs. Potter greets with a warm smile before turning to Mr. Potter. “We’re running a little late for James’ appointment.”
Mr. Potter doesn’t look too concerned. “That’s alright,” he says, flipping the eggs in the pan.
Mrs. Potter nods, leaning up to press a quick kiss to Mr. Potter’s cheek. “See you later, love.”
“Bye, Dad,” James calls, already making a beeline for the door.
“Have a good day at school,” Mr. Potter says easily, as the front door opens and shuts behind them.
Regulus watches them go, the house suddenly quieter again.
Then, Mr. Potter turns back to the stove, glancing over at Regulus. “Would you like one or two slices of toast with your eggs?”
Breakfast was quite enjoyable.
Regulus can’t quite remember the last time breakfast was this quiet, this peaceful. It has always been something else —loud, chaotic, tense, rushed. But this morning, it was just… simple. He and Mr. Potter ate in near silence, the only sounds being the occasional scrape of cutlery or the rustling of newspaper pages as Mr. Potter skimmed through an article. There were no arguments, no raised voices, no expectations beyond just eating . It was nice. Almost strange, but not in a bad way.
Now, he’s sitting at the kitchen table, Mr. Potter’s laptop open in front of him. His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before he begins typing, working on the written portion of his art assignment. It’s not difficult—he only needs to write 500 words, and the ideas come easily enough. His thoughts flow smoother than they usually do when it comes to writing assignments, probably because art is something he actually enjoys.
By the time he finishes, he’s written a little more than the required word count, but he doesn’t mind. He rereads it once, correcting a couple of typos, and just as he’s about to go through it again, Mr. Potter reappears, dressed for the day.
“What are you up to?” Mr. Potter asks, running a hand through his still slightly disheveled hair.
Regulus points to the task sheet for his art assignment, then turns the laptop toward Mr. Potter so he can see the document.
Mr. Potter leans in slightly, scanning the screen. “Nice,” he says, nodding approvingly. “Art—good way to start.”
Regulus watches as Mr. Potter reads through the assignment, his expression thoughtful. A moment later, he straightens. “This sounds good,” he says. Then, “Is it finished?”
Regulus nods.
“Okay,” Mr. Potter says, then tilts his head. “Do you need to print it?”
Another nod.
“Alright,” Mr. Potter says, “let me teach you how to use our printer.”
Regulus picks up the laptop as Mr. Potter gestures for him to follow. They walk down the hall and into Mr. Potter’s study.
The room is neat, the walls lined with bookshelves, a large desk sitting against one side. Mr. Potter moves toward the printer, pressing a couple of buttons before motioning for Regulus to come closer.
“Alright,” he says, pointing at the laptop screen. “First, you open the print settings, select the right printer, and then—” He clicks a few more things. “—you hit print.”
Regulus watches closely, memorizing each step. The printer hums to life, and he shifts a little where he stands, watching as the paper feeds through, the ink appearing line by line.
He’s always liked watching the printer work. There’s something satisfying about the way it moves, the way the paper slides out, warm and fresh with ink.
Mr. Potter chuckles lightly. “Printing is fun, isn’t it?”
Regulus nods, still watching.
Once the page is done, he carefully picks it up, holding it neatly as to not crinkle it. Mr. Potter gestures for them to head back, and together they walk back to the table, sitting down once more.
They work through his science assignment first, as Regulus wants to get it done as soon as it’s due before any other of his assignments. Mr. Potter shows Regulus how to formate his assignment, grabbing a copy of James’ science assignment as a template.
Mr. Potter is calm, gentle. Giving advice when appropriate, when he can see Regulus struggling. He doesn’t judge Regulus for needing help. He doesn’t sigh in frustration or tell him to figure it out on his own. He just explains things—simply, patiently.
When Regulus hesitates over how to phrase something, Mr. Potter doesn’t rush him. He just waits, letting Regulus take his time. And when Regulus messes up a section, Mr. Potter doesn’t get annoyed, doesn’t criticize him. He just hums, tilts his head slightly, and says, "Hmm, let’s see if we can fix this part together."
It’s… strange.
Not bad. Just strange.
Regulus can’t remember a time his own father ever helped him with homework. If he ever asked, his father would always wave him off, saying, “That’s your mother’s job, not mine.” And if his mother was too busy or didn’t feel like dealing with him, then Regulus was left to figure it out alone.
The few times his father did bother to help, he was never interested . He’d skim through Regulus’ work, barely reading, pointing out random mistakes without much thought. If Regulus asked a question, his father would sigh heavily, as if the mere act of explaining something to him was a chore.
But Mr. Potter isn’t like that. He’s focused. Engaged.
He actually wants to help.
Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that realization.
It’s weird.
But… not bad.
Slowly, they work through the assignment together. Mr. Potter walks him through each section, showing him how to format the information properly. He uses James’ old assignment as a guide, not as a shortcut but as an example, letting Regulus figure out how to apply it to his own work.
Regulus likes that. It makes him feel capable. Like he’s learning rather than just copying.
By the time they’re halfway through, Regulus notices something else—how calm it is. There’s no pressure, no looming sense of do this or else . It’s just… working. Together.
It’s nice.
By the time the end of the school day rolls around, Regulus has managed to get out a complete—though rough—draft of his science assignment. He’s planned out his English essay and finished his research booklet for geography. It’s more work than he thought he’d get done, and yet, he doesn’t feel particularly accomplished . It’s just schoolwork. It’s what he’s supposed to do. He should be at school, doing this there, not sitting at home on suspension.
As he saves the last of his work on Mr. Potter’s laptop, Mr. Potter stretches, glancing at the time. “Well, I’d say that was a productive day.” He smiles down at Regulus. “What do you think about heading out for some ice cream? A little reward for all your hard work?”
Regulus stills. A reward ?
That doesn’t seem right.
He doesn’t deserve a reward for this. He’s not even supposed to be here. He got suspended. He punched someone. Shouldn’t he be punished instead?
Back in his previous foster homes, something like this—getting his schoolwork done while stuck at home—wouldn’t have earned him anything. If anything, it would have been expected. No distractions, no excuses. Just do your work and be quiet. At most, he would have gotten a dismissive good before being handed another list of chores.
Even in his real home, his mother never rewarded him for something so basic.
But here, Mr. Potter is looking at him like he’s done something worth celebrating. And Mrs. Potter, when she comes downstairs and hears the plan, just smiles warmly and says, “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
Regulus doesn’t argue. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t want to go, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to refuse and upset them. So, he doesn’t protest when James gets home, practically buzzing with excitement over ice cream, or when they all pile into the car and drive to the ice cream parlor.
And that’s how he ends up sitting outside at a small table, slowly eating a scoop of cookies and cream—the flavor Mrs. Potter suggested when he couldn’t decide. It’s sweet, creamy, the bits of cookie soft but slightly crunchy, and—Regulus has to admit—it is good.
James, sitting across from him, is talking animatedly about his day, about school, about his classes, about a stupid joke Peter made in math that got him and Peter both detention. Mr. and Mrs. Potter listen with amused smiles, occasionally chiming in, but mostly just letting James talk.
Regulus listens too, but he doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t belong here. Not really.
And yet, as he takes another bite of ice cream, the afternoon sun warm on his skin, the sounds of laughter and conversation all around him, he doesn’t feel like he’s being punished.
And that’s what unsettles him the most.
***
What’s more unsettling, however, is sitting here, in the guidance counsoler’s office, with Mrs. Potter, to talk about his “behavioural issues.”
It’s not like Regulus didn’t already know he had issues with his behaviour. He’s definitely heard it enough from countless of people.
Last night, just after they had gotten back from their ice cream run, Mrs. Potter had told him that he has a meeting with the Year 7 guidance counsoler, Ms. Carrington.
Ms. Carrington is a nice lady. She helped Regulus deal with his unpleasantly rude Computing teacher on his first day. She’s even checked up on him a couple times since he’s been here, to make sure he’s adjusting alright.
She doesn’t feel like a threat. Not like some of the other adults who talk about his “behavioral issues” with disappointment thick in their voices, like he’s a problem that needs to be fixed .
But that doesn’t make this meeting any easier.
Regulus sits stiffly in the chair next to Mrs. Potter, his hands curled in his lap, fingers twisting at the fabric of his brand new dark green t-shirt. Mrs. Potter sits beside him, calm, her presence warm but not overwhelming. She’s listening as Ms. Carrington talks, nodding occasionally.
"So, about Regulus’ suspension,” Ms. Carrington starts, folding her hands atop her desk. “ I know the principal went over everything with you, but… I have a feeling there was something missing from that report.”
Mrs. Potter hums, glancing at Regulus before responding. “I was thinking the same thing. From what I understand, Regulus was provoked.”
Ms. Carrington nods. “That’s what I’ve gathered, too. But beyond just this incident, I’ve been speaking with some of his teachers to get a better sense of how he’s been adjusting in class.” She flips through a few papers, her expression thoughtful but not unkind. “Some of his teachers have noted that he gets overwhelmed in certain situations. Sometimes, he completely shuts down.”
Regulus keeps his gaze trained on the floor. He doesn’t need to hear this. He already knows .
“His English teacher, Mr. Andrews, mentioned that Regulus sometimes brings a small stuffed black dog to class,” Ms. Carrington continues. “Which isn’t an issue, of course. But he also noticed that Regulus had a moment where he was in tears from being overwhelmed. Mr. Andrews suggested that we consider putting together a plan for him, in case he needs a break when things get too much.”
Regulus tenses.
A plan ?
For him ?
Mrs. Potter tilts her head slightly, her voice light when she asks, “What kind of things would be in this plan?”
Ms. Carrington flips to a different page. “It could be as simple as a five-minute break outside the classroom if he’s feeling overwhelmed. Maybe a pass he can show the teacher if he doesn’t feel comfortable speaking. Or a designated quiet space where he can go if he needs to step away.”
Mrs. Potter nods thoughtfully, then looks at Regulus. “Would that be something you’d like?”
Regulus stares at his hands. He doesn’t know how to answer. A part of him feels like saying no—he doesn’t need special treatment. If he gets overwhelmed, he should just deal with it, shouldn’t he? That’s what he’s always been expected to do.
But another part of him thinks back to the moments when everything became too much —when the noise pressed in on him, when his hands trembled, when he had to fight to keep his breathing steady, when he couldn’t even think .
Slowly, hesitantly, he nods.
Mrs. Potter smiles softly. “Alright, then. Let’s figure this out together.”
Ms. Carrington starts listing possible accommodations, and every once in a while, she and Mrs. Potter ask for Regulus’ input. He nods or shakes his head in response, not trusting himself to speak. They settle on a plan: a break card he can use if he needs to leave class, a quiet space in the library where he can go if he needs a moment, and a check-in system with Ms. Carrington so she can see how he’s doing.
“This is to make sure you don’t get suspended again,” Mrs. Potter tells him gently.
Regulus swallows. That’s the goal, isn’t it? To stop him from being a problem . To manage him. To deal with him.
But then, towards the end of the meeting, Mrs. Potter looks at him again, something soft and warm in her expression. “This isn’t a punishment, Regulus. There isn’t anything wrong with you. Sometimes, kids like you just need a break every now and then. And that’s okay.”
Kids like you.
Regulus blinks, the words settling into his mind.
Kids like you .
Regulus blinks, the words settling into his mind like lead. His fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt, twisting and pulling until it stretches beneath his grip. Kids like him.
He hates that phrase.
He has heard it before, too many times in too many places, spoken in too many different tones. Sometimes with irritation, sometimes with pity, and worst of all, sometimes with the thinly veiled relief of people who were glad to be rid of him.
It’s why he got moved around so much. Why no foster home ever kept him for long. They’d try at first, try to be patient, but then something would happen—he’d freeze up, he’d snap, he’d cry when he wasn’t supposed to, he’d struggle to understand something he should have gotten right away. And then they’d say it: Kids like him are just too much to handle.
And now Mrs. Potter is saying it, too.
Regulus doesn’t look at her, doesn’t dare, because he doesn’t want to see the truth in her face. That she’s finally realizing what everyone else has. That it won’t be long before she and Mr. Potter decide he isn’t worth the trouble either.
He swallows hard, forcing down the sharp, bitter taste in his throat.
He doesn’t know why he thought Mrs. Potter was different.
Now, all he feels is stupid.
Stupid for trusting. Stupid for hoping.
Hope is a dangerous thing. Regulus learned a long time ago never to hope for things, because they never come true.
The meeting continues, voices droning on around him, but he barely hears them. He nods when expected, but the words don’t register. His thoughts circle back, again and again, to the same thing.
Mrs. Potter is just like the rest of them.
She might be nice now, but that won’t last. It never does.
And yet…
There was no irritation in her voice. No pity. No relief. Just something quiet, something even, something—
Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that thought.
Notes:
Word Count: 8,969
Published: 2025-02-07Hello, hello! How is everybody? I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, I kinda don't know how I feel about it. But, eh.
Chapter 10 is kinda a "filler" chapter, if that makes sense. I didn't want to jump straight into the next thing without having Euphemia and Fleamont's perspective, but I feel like the placement of it is a bit off. But, the ideas for Chapters 11 and 12 are perfect. So, I guess it from my perspective Chapters 9 and more specifically 10 are limbo-y. If that makes sense.
Anyways, thank you for reading, and I really do hope you enjoyed this chapter!!!See you at the next update!!!
Chapter 10: Every Situation can be Fixed; Every Problem can be Solved
Summary:
It may seem impossible but every situation can be fixed, every problem can be solved. All you have to do is think outside the box. Unfortunately, the outside of the box thinking has caused a new problem.
Not to worry, Euphemia and Fleamont can fix it… right?
POV: Euphemia and Fleamont Potter
Notes:
Disclaimer: the French translation was achieved through google translate, if you are aware that it is incorrect, please say so in the comments so I can change it. Thank you.
Note: Euphemia's POV is first, Fleamont's is second, and the chapter ends with Euphemia's perspective.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
POV: EUPHEMIA
When the school calls, Euphemia expects trouble. It comes with the territory of being a mother—especially being a mother to James, whose impulsivity often outweighs his better judgment.
What she doesn’t expect is the principal’s vague wording, the careful way he skirts around the details, as if unsure how much to say over the phone. And when she arrives at the school office, she fully expects to see James slouched in a chair, bracing himself for whatever consequences await him.
But James isn’t the one sitting there.
Regulus is.
The sight of him nearly stops her in her tracks. He’s curled in on himself, shoulders hunched, hands tucked between his knees as if making himself as small as possible. His head is bowed, dark curls hiding his face, but Euphemia doesn’t need to see his expression to know exactly what he’s feeling. She’s seen this before—the quiet tension, the desperate stillness of a child trying to disappear.
Her heart clenches.
She moves carefully, her heels clicking against the tile as she crosses the room. The principal says something—background noise, nothing she’s listening to—but she barely acknowledges him. Her focus is entirely on the boy in front of her.
Euphemia has spent years caring for children that the system so easily dismisses. Kids that people have labeled as “troubled”, “dangerous”, or even “a threat”. That’s what everyone says about foster kids—especially, kids like Regulus. They don’t stop to consider what those labels mean, or who they’re being placed upon. They don’t see the way these children flinch at raised voices, the way they shrink under authority, the way they act out because it’s the only language they’ve ever been taught.
But she sees it.
She sees it now, in the way Regulus refuses to look up. In the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he wants to fidget but doesn’t dare draw attention to himself. In the way his breathing is just a little too controlled, too careful. He is trying not to be noticed.
Euphemia lowers herself into the chair beside him. Slowly, so she doesn’t startle him. She doesn’t speak right away, just takes a moment to study him.
He’s hiding something. That much is obvious. But more than that—he’s afraid.
What on earth could have happened?
Regulus doesn’t belong here. Not in this office, not in trouble. She knows James well enough to expect these kinds of things from him, but Regulus? No. As far as she’s aware, it would take a hell of a lot to land him here.
She exhales, slow and steady, then reaches out—not to touch him, not yet, but just to let her presence be known.
“Regulus,” she says gently. “Can you look at me?”
It’s a simple request, but it carries weight. A moment passes, then another, before he shifts just slightly, peering up at her through hesitant, wary eyes.
And whatever she had been expecting to see, it wasn’t this.
Not guilt. Not defiance.
Just fear.
Her stomach twists.
What the hell happened?
Fortunately enough, Euphemia doesn’t have to wait long. When Fleamont enters the office, she can tell he’s thinking the exact same thing that she just did.
She watches the exchange take place between the principal and Fleamont. She watches how Fleamont sinks into his seat, how he glances at Regulus trying to see if he can see anything.
He can’t, Euphemia knows, because she can’t either.
The principal clears his throat, breaking the silence. “I’m afraid we need to discuss an incident that has occurred today.”
Regulus keeps his head down, his fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt. He hasn’t spoken since she and Fleamont arrived, and Euphemia can feel his anxiety like a second heartbeat.
She shifts slightly beside him, keeping her voice steady. “An incident?”
The principal exhales, his expression unreadable. “More like an altercation.”
Fleamont leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “An altercation?” he repeats, his tone measured but firm. “Over what?”
Regulus flinches—small, almost imperceptible, but Euphemia notices. She always notices.
The principal hesitates, then finally says it. “Regulus struck another student during PE.”
She can feel Fleamont stiffen beside her. “Punched?” he repeats, a note of disbelief in his voice.
The principal nods. “Several students witnessed it. By all accounts, it was unprovoked.”
Regulus still doesn’t move, but the air around him changes—tightens, coils. Euphemia can see the way his shoulders lock up, the way his breath hitches just slightly.
Unprovoked.
She clenches her jaw, anger simmering low in her chest. It’s the kind of anger she’s familiar with—the kind that comes when adults fail children, when they don’t bother to ask questions, when they see behavior but not cause.
“And did you ask Regulus why?” Her voice is sharper now, cutting through the stuffy silence.
The principal barely hesitates. “Regulus has not offered an explanation.”
Of course he hasn’t.
Euphemia exhales through her nose, steadying herself. She knows how this works. She’s seen it too many times before. A child lashes out, a child breaks the rules, and the adults in charge don’t bother to ask why. They see misbehavior, not cause. They see the outcome, not the buildup.
Euphemia glances at the boy beside her. He is so, so still. Too still.
Because she knows what’s happening inside his head. Knows he has words he cannot say. Knows that whatever happened, whatever led to this, it didn’t start with him.
The principal sighs. “Regardless of the circumstances, the school has a strict no-violence policy. I have no choice but to suspend Regulus for three days.”
Euphemia straightens. “Suspension? He didn’t do anything wrong!”
Fleamont frowns, his voice calm but edged with disbelief. “Hold on. Suspension? It sounds to me like Regulus didn’t deliberately do anything wrong. Why should he be punished for something that wasn’t intentional?”
The principal folds his hands on the desk, his face carefully neutral. “I understand your concern,” he says, though his tone is clipped. “But intent doesn’t change the fact that another student was injured.”
Injured.
The word lingers in the air.
Regulus swallows hard, his fingers clenching tighter into his shirt. Euphemia watches the way his jaw locks, the way his entire posture screams with something he doesn’t know how to let out.
The principal exhales, rubbing his temple before straightening in his chair. “I was informed that Regulus struck another student, unprovoked, during PE. Several witnesses confirmed it.”
Unprovoked. Again.
Regulus’ reaction is subtle but devastating—the sharp, shaky inhale, the way his fists press harder into his lap, his nails digging into his palms.
Euphemia’s anger flares again.
Because she knows that word is wrong. That it’s missing something.
That something happened.
Her voice sharpens. “Did you even ask what led up to this?”
The principal barely reacts. “Regulus has not offered an explanation.”
Now, everyone is looking at him.
Waiting.
Expecting.
Regulus stays silent.
Not because he doesn’t want to speak.
Because he can’t.
Euphemia can see it—the way his breathing is just a little too controlled, the way he’s fighting to keep his expression blank, the way his body is wound so tight she’s afraid he might snap.
The principal exhales sharply, already scribbling something onto a slip of paper. “Then I don’t see any reason to change my decision. Three-day suspension. Effective immediately.”
Euphemia mutters something under her breath, shaking her head. Beside her, Fleamont’s jaw tightens. “We’ll be speaking to the school board.”
Regulus doesn’t react. Doesn’t move.
And it makes Euphemia’s heart clench.
***
Euphemia has never been as furious as she is right now—never in her entire life.
The grip she has on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, her fingers stiff and aching, but she doesn’t loosen them. The car hums beneath her, the road stretching endlessly ahead, but all she can think about is that damn office, that damn principal, and the way they had spoken about Regulus like he was nothing more than a problem to be dealt with.
Unprovoked.
The word rattles in her skull, sharp and bitter, filling every inch of her with rage. As if children like Regulus ever lash out for no reason. As if his silence was an admission of guilt rather than the only defense he had left. As if his pain, his fear, his everything didn’t matter at all.
She inhales through her nose, long and deep.
She needs to calm down.
Because Regulus is in the backseat, curled up small, his forehead nearly pressed against the window. She can see him in the rearview mirror—the way he stares blankly outside, his expression too carefully composed. Too still.
She knows what that means.
Knows that he’s shutting down, retreating into himself, convinced that he has done something irreversibly wrong.
And she won’t be another adult who makes him feel like that.
Euphemia forces herself to unclench her jaw, to loosen her grip on the wheel. She swallows back the sharp words, the furious rant clawing its way up her throat. Later, she can rage. Later, she can tell Fleamont every single thing she wanted to scream in that office.
But not now. Not when there’s a scared little boy in the backseat who has spent his entire life bracing for anger, for punishment, for the worst.
So she exhales slowly, steadying herself.
Right now, Regulus doesn’t need to see her unbridled rage. Right now, he needs to see her calm—to know that he’s safe. That everything is going to be okay.
Euphemia keeps driving, the steady hum of the car the only sound between them. The road blurs past, streaked with the warm glow of the afternoon sun, but her mind is still in that office, replaying every word, every clipped tone, every dismissive glance from the principal.
She wonders what Fleamont is thinking. What went through his head when he, too, heard the suspension verdict. He had stayed composed, had barely let his frustration show, but she knows him. Knows that look in his eye, the firm set of his jaw.
Fleamont has always been better at containing his anger—so much better than she is. He rarely, if ever, lets it take hold of him. In all the years she’s known him, only once has she seen him truly, irreparably furious.
The day James was born.
She swallows, her hands tightening briefly around the wheel before she forces herself to loosen them again. That day had solidified everything she had already known about him—that he was the best man she could have ever chosen, that there was no one else in the world she would rather do this with.
Because if she didn’t have Fleamont, her anger would have boiled over in that office. Her fury at the injustice of it all, at the way they had dismissed Regulus’ side of the story without so much as a second thought, would have erupted into something uncontrollable.
She never wants James to grow up the way she did.
In constant fear.
Her chest tightens, the old memories creeping in like smoke beneath a locked door. She doesn’t let them take hold. Not now.
James will never flinch at sudden movements. He will never brace himself for yelling, for something worse lurking just beneath it. He will never feel like love is conditional, something to be earned through silence and obedience.
She has made damn sure of that.
But what breaks her heart is knowing that not every child is so lucky. That too many parents refuse to break the cycle, refuse to see past their own pain.
Somehow, she did.
And she has Fleamont to thank for that.
Because without his patience, his kindness, his love, she isn’t sure she ever would have learned how.
The car slows as she turns onto their street, the familiar sight of home coming into view. The weight in her chest eases just slightly. She glances in the rearview mirror. Regulus hasn’t moved, still curled into himself, still too quiet.
She pulls into the driveway and shifts the car into park. Then, before she even thinks to move, she turns fully in her seat, her voice soft but certain.
“We’re home, Regulus.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t react. Then, something in him shatters.
The first tear slips down his cheek, and then another. His breath stutters, his small frame trembling as the dam finally, irreversibly, breaks. The sobs come slowly at first, then all at once—raw, uncontained, like he’s unraveling right in front of her.
Euphemia doesn’t hesitate. She unbuckles her seatbelt and moves into the backseat, her body aching from the awkward angle, but she doesn’t care. She reaches out, her touch gentle, a steady presence in the storm raging inside him.
“It’s okay, Regulus,” she murmurs, her voice soft and sure. “It’s alright. Everything is going to be okay.”
But he can’t stop. His entire body is shaking, wracked with the weight of emotions too big for him to carry alone. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes as if trying to stop the tears, but it’s no use. They keep coming, spilling over unchecked, years of hurt and guilt and exhaustion bleeding into every quiet, gasping sob.
And then, in a voice so small, so broken, it nearly wrecks her, he whispers, “ Je suis désolé … Je suis désolé … Je suis vraiment désolé …”
Euphemia blinks, caught off guard.
The words—soft, breathless, raw with emotion—are completely unfamiliar to her. She recognizes the cadence, the way it rolls off his tongue, but she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what he’s saying.
“Regulus?” she says gently, concern threading through her voice.
But he doesn’t respond. He just keeps whispering those words, over and over, between gasping sobs.
Euphemia doesn’t know what they mean, but she knows enough. She believes he’s apologizing. She can hear it in the way his voice wavers, in the way he curls into himself as if trying to disappear.
Oh, this poor boy.
She doesn’t tell him to stop. Doesn’t tell him he has nothing to apologize for—not yet. He wouldn’t believe her, not now, not like this. Instead, she pulls him closer, wrapping her arms around him, offering the one thing he has likely never been given: comfort without condition.
Regulus hesitates for only a second before he leans into her, pressing his face into her shoulder, his sobs muffled against the fabric of her sweater. He is so small, so tense, as if even now he’s bracing for something worse, as if he doesn’t quite trust that she’s real.
Euphemia strokes his back in slow, steady circles, her other hand resting lightly against the nape of his neck. “You’re okay,” she whispers, the words barely more than breath. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
And Regulus clings to her.
Like she is the only thing tethering him to the earth, like he is afraid that if he lets go, he will disappear entirely.
Euphemia holds him tighter, grounding him, steadying him, silently promising that she is here. That she is not going anywhere.
Outside, the house stands quiet and waiting, but she doesn’t move. Not yet.
Regulus needs this.
And, oh, she thinks, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, she will make damn sure he never has to go without it again.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont pulls up to the driveway, his hands gripping the steering wheel more tightly than usual. He hadn’t said much on the drive home, trying to steady himself for the conversation he knew he’d have to have with James. The quiet between them, thick and tense, only deepens his unease, but it’s nothing compared to the knot tightening in his chest at the sight of his wife in the backseat.
Euphemia’s arms are wrapped tightly around Regulus. Her face is soft with concern as she rocks him gently, murmuring something Fleamont can’t hear from where he’s sitting. Regulus is curled against her, eyes squeezed shut, face pale. He doesn’t seem to notice the car pulling into the driveway, too lost in whatever overwhelming moment he’s going through.
Fleamont’s heart sinks as he watches. Regulus’s trembling form in Euphemia’s arms is a sight that speaks volumes—too much for Fleamont to fully grasp in this moment.
“James,” Fleamont says, his voice low, “go inside. I’ll talk to you later.”
James doesn’t argue. He nods, his face full of questions, and opens the door, stepping out of the car without a word. Fleamont watches him go, wishing he could tell him more but knowing it’s not the time.
As James heads inside, Fleamont takes a deep breath, pushing open the door of the car. He walks around to the other side, feeling the weight of every step. Regulus is still clinging to Euphemia, and Fleamont pauses, watching them for a long moment before crouching beside the car.
“Euphemia…” he says softly, not wanting to break the fragile calm in the air but needing to.
She glances up at him, her expression a mixture of sadness and understanding. “He’s still shaken,” she says, her voice gentle. “I don’t know what happened, Monty.”
Regulus’s breath hitches as he clings tighter to her, and Fleamont’s chest tightens. He can’t remember a time when Regulus looked so small, so vulnerable.
Regulus had always been a quiet boy, too well-behaved for someone his age. It was the sort of obedience that made Fleamont uneasy. Children were meant to be loud, to test boundaries, to push and pull until they found their place in the world. But Regulus—Regulus had always been careful. As if he were afraid of taking up too much space. As if he had been taught that his presence was something to apologize for.
After a few more moments, Euphemia shifts slightly, her hands smoothing down Regulus’s hair in slow, steady motions. She speaks again, her tone softer. “Regulus, love, it’s okay. You’re safe now. We’re here.”
Fleamont watches the exchange, unable to tear his eyes away from the way Euphemia holds him. It’s both heartbreaking and reassuring, the tenderness she exudes, the way she calms Regulus with her presence. Slowly, Regulus seems to relax, his body stilling, the tension gradually easing from his shoulders.
When Fleamont sees the faintest sign that Regulus might be ready to move, he gently opens the car door wider. "Let’s get you out of here, son," he says quietly, his voice low and steady, offering an anchor.
Euphemia nods and carefully helps Regulus to his feet. Regulus’s grip on her doesn’t loosen, but his legs are steady enough for her to guide him out of the car. Fleamont reaches out to take Regulus’s bag from the backseat, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the moment.
Together, they walk toward the front door. Regulus’s steps are slow, almost tentative, but he doesn’t resist as Euphemia gently steers him inside. Fleamont watches them go, his heart heavy with a quiet ache.
Somehow, Euphemia gets Regulus into the house. Fleamont helps guide him into the kitchen, keeping his touch light, careful not to overwhelm the boy any more than he already is. Regulus moves like he’s sleepwalking, each step slow and unsteady. They settle him at the table, and Fleamont sets his bag beside him. He doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t move. Just sits there, hands stiff in his lap, face pale and drawn.
Fleamont exchanges a glance with Euphemia. He doesn’t know what to say yet, doesn’t know how to pull Regulus back from wherever his mind has taken him. Instead, he does the only thing he can think of—he puts the kettle on.
The soft hum of it fills the quiet space. It’s a familiar sound, one that usually brings comfort. Fleamont hopes it does now. He moves around the kitchen, preparing tea while Euphemia stays close to Regulus. The boy doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge anything around him. Fleamont knows that look—the way someone folds inward when they think they don’t deserve to be seen.
The kettle clicks off, breaking the hush. Fleamont pours the tea, letting the warmth and steam fill the air. He places a glass of milk in front of Regulus, followed by a small plate of chocolate chip cookies. It’s something simple, something easy. Something that might remind him that he’s safe.
Regulus stares at the cookies, his fingers twitching slightly. He doesn’t reach for them, doesn’t reach for anything. Fleamont sees the way his throat works, the way his shoulders tighten. The guilt is etched into every part of him. He recognizes it, though it’s painful to witness on someone so young.
Fleamont sits down across from him, his own cup of tea in hand. Euphemia follows, her presence as steady as ever. They don’t push. Don’t demand anything from him. They just sit with him, letting the silence stretch. It’s something Fleamont has learned over the years—that sometimes, silence is the kindest thing you can offer.
Regulus grips the glass of milk but doesn’t drink. He’s shaking. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that Fleamont notices. Enough that it makes his chest ache.
Then, Euphemia speaks. “Regulus.”
Her voice is gentle but firm, pulling him back, tethering him to the present. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. But… we’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”
Regulus flinches like the words hurt him. He presses his forehead against the table, his entire frame folding inward. Then, so quietly that Fleamont almost doesn’t catch it, he whispers, “Je suis désolé…”
Again. “ Je suis désolé …”
Fleamont doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know enough French to understand all the words Regulus mutters, but he knows an apology when he hears one. It makes his stomach twist.
Euphemia doesn’t hesitate. She reaches out, resting a hand lightly on Regulus’s arm. “It’s okay, Regulus,” she murmurs, as steady as always. “It’s all right.”
Regulus makes a sound—small, broken. His shoulders shake. He’s crying again, and he’s trying to hide it, curling in on himself as though he can disappear entirely. But he doesn’t pull away from Euphemia’s touch. He doesn’t run.
Fleamont lets out a slow breath. There’s nothing to fix here, nothing to make right with words alone. He looks at Euphemia, and she looks back, her eyes filled with quiet determination. They don’t speak, but they don’t need to.
Regulus may not believe he deserves this kindness, but that doesn’t matter.
They’ll keep showing up for him. Again and again.
***
The television hums softly in the background, filling the quiet space of the living room. Fleamont isn’t really watching it—some old mystery show is on, one he barely follows. Instead, his gaze flickers toward Euphemia, curled up on the other end of the couch, her legs tucked under her. She looks tired, but she always does after days like these.
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The weight of the day sits heavy on his shoulders, but he knows neither of them will sleep until they talk about it.
“So,” he starts, keeping his voice low, “Regulus.”
Euphemia glances at him, then sighs, reaching for the remote to lower the volume. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
“Me too,” Fleamont admits. He leans back, arm draped over the back of the couch. He pauses for a moment, letting the silence fall around them. “Didn’t get much out of James when I asked about it, though.”
Euphemia presses her lips together, brows furrowing. “James didn’t even know about the suspension,” she murmurs. “He was shocked when I told him. I think it threw him.”
Fleamont nods. “It threw me too.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Regulus has barely been with us for more than a week, and now this?” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t feel real.”
More than that, it doesn’t feel right. Regulus is quiet, reserved—he doesn’t strike Fleamont as the kind of child who lashes out, not unless something was deeply wrong. But whatever happened at school today had pushed him past his limits. And we still don’t know why.
Euphemia sighs again, this time slower. “I keep going over it in my mind. He was so upset, Monty.” Her voice softens. “He was crying in the car, shaking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that before.”
Fleamont remembers. When he pulled up after picking up James, he’d seen it through the back windshield—Euphemia in the back seat, arms wrapped around Regulus, holding him close as he sobbed. The way his small shoulders had trembled, how he had clung to her, utterly wrecked.
And then, once they had coaxed him out of the car and sat down with him inside, they had found another reason for his devastation.
Fleamont sighs, dragging a hand down his face. His chest aches at the memory. “That book—he’s been carrying it around with him everywhere since we got it for him. I don’t think I’ve seen him without it, not once.”
Euphemia nods, her expression troubled. “I noticed that too. He never even put it down when he wasn’t reading it.”
Fleamont shakes his head. “And now it’s destroyed.” He exhales sharply, voice tightening. “That wasn’t just some book to him. It mattered. ”
Euphemia’s hands curl slightly against the fabric of her pajama pants, her lips pressing together. “And the dog,” she says quietly. “Monty, that really broke him.”
Fleamont doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his mind drifts back to the day they bought it for him—the way Regulus had hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly as he stared at the stuffed animal on the shelf. As if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want it.
But when Fleamont had handed it to him, Regulus had taken it so carefully , cradling it against his chest, his fingers curling into the soft fabric like he was afraid it would be taken away.
Euphemia swallows. “He just—he looked crushed, Monty. Like something inside him had broken along with it.”
Fleamont doesn’t need to be told. He had seen it. The way Regulus had just stared at the ruined remains of something he had loved , his expression blank at first—then crumpling in an instant as the weight of it hit him.
It wasn’t just a stuffed animal. It wasn’t just a book.
They were his .
And now they were gone.
Fleamont exhales sharply. “That’s what gets me,” he says. “He was so attached to those things already, and they were just—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “They should have just been a stuffed animal. A book. But to Regulus, they were more than that.”
They were proof that he belonged here. That someone had given him something without expectation. And now, someone had taken that from him.
Euphemia rests a hand on his arm. “I know,” she says, her voice quiet. “I think—he’s not used to things being his. I think it meant something that they belonged to him. And now they’re gone.”
Fleamont swallows down the lump in his throat, staring past the television. “That poor boy.”
Another stretch of quiet falls between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Fleamont finally shakes his head. “Do you think we should try to talk to him about the fight again?”
Euphemia’s answer is immediate. “I don’t think so.”
Fleamont nods. “Me neither.”
“We don’t even know the full story,” Euphemia reasons. “And even if we asked, he wouldn’t tell us.”
Fleamont tilts his head, thoughtful. “If he wants to talk about it, he will.”
“And if he doesn’t,” Euphemia says gently, “we let it go.”
The agreement settles between them, unspoken but understood.
Then, after a long pause, Fleamont exhales. “We should buy him a new one.”
Euphemia looks over at him. “A new what?”
“A new stuffed black dog,” Fleamont says. “And a new book. If we can, the whole set.”
Euphemia’s lips curve into a small, fond smile. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Fleamont nods. “Good.”
Because if nothing else, they can at least give him that . Give back what he had lost. Give back a piece of Regulus he had lost.
POV: EUPHEMIA
The morning hums with quiet activity as Euphemia moves around the kitchen, the scent of coffee and buttered toast filling the air. Sunlight streams through the window above the sink, casting a golden glow over the countertops. The rhythmic clatter of dishes, the gentle bubbling of eggs in the pan, and the occasional shuffle of James moving about create a familiar kind of morning chaos.
James, still in his pajamas, leans against the counter, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His dark hair sticks up in every direction, a mess he hasn’t yet bothered to tame.
“You’re going to be late if you don’t get dressed soon,” Euphemia reminds him as she plates up his breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and a few slices of apple.
James yawns. “I’ve got time.”
Euphemia hums, not entirely convinced. He always says that, and yet more often than not, she’s the one ushering him out the door at the last second, shoes half-tied and bag haphazardly slung over one shoulder.
She sets his plate down at the table and glances toward the staircase. Regulus hasn’t come down yet. Usually, by now, he’s sitting quietly at the table, picking at whatever breakfast she’s made, careful to keep to his own space. She hadn’t expected him to talk much—he never does, in general—but his absence is noticeable.
James shovels a bite of eggs into his mouth, barely paying attention as she wipes her hands on a dish towel.
“I’m going to check on Regulus,” she says, giving James a pointed look. “Eat properly, and then go get dressed.”
James mumbles something around his food that she chooses to take as agreement.
With that, she steps out of the kitchen, heading up the stairs. The house is quieter up here, the air still heavy with the last remnants of sleep. She stops in front of Regulus’ bedroom door and knocks gently.
Euphemia Potter pauses outside the bedroom door, listening for any sound from within. Nothing. The house is quiet at this hour, the early morning light stretching long shadows across the wooden floors. She knocks gently.
“Regulus?” Her voice is soft, careful.
No answer. She expected that.
She pushes the door open a little farther and steps inside. He’s lying on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, his face drawn and pale from exhaustion. Euphemia can tell he didn’t sleep. He doesn’t move when she enters, doesn’t acknowledge her presence, but she doesn’t take it personally. He’s been like this since yesterday.
She sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight. “We’re going to drop James off at school soon,” she says gently. “After that, I thought you and I could go out for a bit. Just to pick up some groceries.”
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, and he turns his head slightly to look at her. Not much, but enough.
Euphemia offers him a small smile. “Take your time,” she says, patting his blanket-covered knee before rising to her feet. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”
She doesn’t linger. She leaves him with the choice, the space to decide for himself. And when she hears the soft creak of floorboards a few minutes later, she knows he’s made the decision to follow.
***
When they pull into the parking lot, Euphemia barely spares a glance at the grocery store. It’s not where they’re going first. Instead, she steps toward the shop where, not too long ago, Regulus had his first real meltdown in front of them.
She doesn’t need to look at him to know he remembers. She can feel it in the way his steps falter beside her, just for a moment. But she doesn’t press, doesn’t reach for his hand or tell him it’s alright—just keeps walking, effortless as ever, as though stepping back into this place is as simple as breathing. Because she knows if she makes a show of easing him into it, he’ll recognize the caution for what it is: proof that she knows he struggled here. Proof that she’s watching.
Instead, she keeps her movements light, scanning the shelves of the toy section before plucking a small, stuffed black dog from one of them. Holding it up, she turns to face him. “Is this the one you picked last time?”
Regulus swallows. Nods.
Euphemia studies him carefully. The way his shoulders draw inward, the way his eyes flick between her and the stuffed animal, hesitant. She wishes she could know what he’s thinking, what tangled thoughts are running through his mind.
So much was taken from him. And not just in the big ways, the loud ways—the loss of home, of family as he knew it—but in the small things, too. The things no one would think twice about. A toy, a book. Pieces of a life swept away in an instant, as though they had never mattered at all. But they did matter. They still do.
Without a word, she continues down the aisle, still holding the dog. He follows. Hesitant, but he follows.
When they reach the books, she scans the shelves once more. “Which one were you reading?”
A pause. Then, slowly, Regulus lifts a hand and points to the title.
She pulls it out, then lets her eyes drift further. Something catches her attention—a box set, Percy Jackson & The Olympians. She remembers James tearing through this series a few years ago, the way he had read it at the breakfast table, in the car, even when she reminded him it would make him carsick. She remembers how deeply he connected with the characters, with their struggles and triumphs.
She wonders if Regulus would see himself in them, too.
Plucking the set from the shelf, she turns, pressing the black dog against his chest.
“Alright,” she says simply.
Regulus grips the stuffed animal tightly, staring at her as if trying to solve a puzzle. And for a brief moment, she wonders if he’s waiting for the catch, waiting for some unspoken condition to be revealed. But there is no puzzle. No hidden test. Just the simple reality that he lost something, and she is giving it back.
At the register, she pays without hesitation. When they step outside, she lets herself glance at him again. His grip on the dog hasn’t loosened.
And though he doesn’t say a word, she knows.
This matters.
***
The grocery store is new to Regulus.
Euphemia realizes this as soon as they step inside. He doesn’t look overwhelmed—not quite—but he hesitates, his eyes scanning the aisles, the shelves, the people moving around them. He’s mapping the space, cataloging everything the way she’s noticed he does in new environments.
She keeps her movements slow, deliberate, allowing him time to take it all in.
“This way,” she says gently, leading him toward the produce section.
He follows, staying close. Not in an anxious way, but in a way that suggests he’s not sure what’s expected of him.
She pauses by the potatoes and gestures toward them. “Would you like to pick some?”
Regulus glances at her, then at the display. After a moment, he steps forward, carefully selecting each one before placing them in the bag. His movements are precise, almost methodical. Euphemia doesn’t rush him.
When he hands her the bag, she offers a small smile. “Good choice.”
They move through the store with ease. Euphemia keeps the conversation light, pointing things out as they go—a particularly fresh bundle of parsley, the different types of bread James likes, the way Fleamont insists on the expensive brand of tea even though he can’t tell the difference. “I let him believe I can’t tell either,” she says lightly, placing the box in the cart. “Keeps him happy.”
Regulus doesn’t respond, but she catches the way his fingers flex slightly against the cart handle, as if anchoring himself.
At checkout, she notices something else—he hasn’t let go of the stuffed black dog she bought him. His grip is steady, secure. He doesn’t set it down, not even when she pays.
Back at home, they unpack the groceries together. It’s quiet work, but not unpleasant. Every so often, Euphemia murmurs a small “thank you” when he hands her something, and each time, she sees the faintest shift in his posture. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even nod, but there’s something in the way he holds himself—just a fraction looser, just a little more at ease.
Once everything is put away, she claps her hands together. “Alright. Let’s wash our hands and get started.”
Regulus follows her to the sink, rolling up his sleeves as she turns on the water. He watches her movements—careful, practiced—before mimicking them himself.
She starts on the filling while he peels the potatoes. As she cooks, she speaks lightly, weaving the conversation into the air between them, no pressure, no expectation. “Shepherd’s pie is one of James’ favorites. He always gets impatient waiting for it to cool.” She chuckles. “Last time, he nearly burned his tongue.”
She catches the smallest twitch of Regulus’ lips. Not quite a smile, but close.
When he finishes peeling, she hands him the wooden spoon. “Would you like to stir?”
He nods, carefully taking the spoon. His movements are precise, deliberate. She watches as he focuses, stirring in slow, even circles. Then—just for a moment—his hand slips. A small splash of sauce lands on the stove.
Regulus freezes.
Euphemia barely glances at it before grabbing a cloth. “Oops.”
That’s it. Just a simple acknowledgment before she wipes it away. No sharp words, no disapproving sighs. Just an accident. Just something that happened and is now gone.
Regulus stares at her, something unreadable in his expression. She doesn’t pry. Just continues cooking, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Because nothing has.
They keep working, side by side. By the time they finish, the kitchen smells warm and savory, filling the house with comfort.
As Euphemia smooths the mashed potatoes over the filling, she glances at Regulus. “Thank you for your help,” she says simply.
Regulus’ fingers tighten slightly around the stuffed black dog he never once let go of. He nods, and she sees it—the smallest flicker of something in his expression. A quiet sort of contentment.
It’s small, but it’s there.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont sits at the dining table, half-listening to James chatter away while glancing over at Regulus, who is fully absorbed in his book.
James, as always, fills the silence with an endless stream of conversation—something about soccer, then a story from school, then back to soccer again. Fleamont hums in acknowledgment at the right moments, offering the occasional nod, but his focus drifts.
Regulus hasn’t spoken once. Hasn’t even looked up. He just sits quietly, fingers curled around the edge of his book, eyes flicking across the pages with careful precision.
Then, from the kitchen, the smell of something warm and rich drifts over, and moments later, Euphemia appears, carrying the shepherd’s pie to the table. She sets it down with practiced ease, flashing Fleamont a small smile before turning to James and ruffling his hair.
James immediately perks up. “Ooo, shepherd’s pie! My favorite!”
Euphemia smooths her hands over her apron. “Regulus and I made it together.”
Fleamont turns to Regulus. “Did you really?”
Regulus hesitates, just for a second, then gives a small nod.
Fleamont smiles. “Thank you, Regulus. Thank you, Euphemia, for dinner.”
James, already reaching for a serving, mumbles through a mouthful, “Yeah, thanks, Mum. Thanks, Reg.”
Euphemia sighs but doesn’t scold him. Instead, she brushes a hand over James’ shoulder and murmurs, “That’s alright, love.”
Fleamont glances at Regulus just in time to see it—the faintest flush of pink on his cheeks, his fingers tightening slightly around his book. He’s not used to this, Fleamont thinks. The attention. The gratitude. But he doesn’t seem uncomfortable, just… uncertain.
Fleamont doesn’t push. Just reaches for his own plate, the warmth of the meal settling over the table like a quiet sort of comfort.
***
Fleamont wakes slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the bedroom. He blinks a few times, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before stretching, feeling the familiar stiffness in his joints. It’s early when he wakes up—earlier than usual, even for him. Fleamont is typically an early riser, but this feels a bit earlier than he’s accustomed to.
Euphemia’s side of the bed is already empty, the faint scent of her perfume lingering on the sheets. He listens for a moment, hearing the distant hum of movement downstairs. The soft sound of water running from the bathroom hints at where she might be—probably in the shower, as usual, a quiet ritual to start the day.
Fleamont swings his legs over the edge of the bed with a quiet sigh, the cool floor beneath his feet grounding him as he begins to shake off the remnants of sleep. His pajama shirt is wrinkled, and he buttons it absentmindedly as he shuffles to the mirror, pushing his unruly hair back with one hand. It’s no use. His hair, much like James’, refuses to be tamed. He gives up with a small huff, straightens his slightly crooked glasses, and finally makes his way downstairs.
When he steps off the last step, rubbing his face with one hand, his gaze lands on Regulus, curled up in the living room with a book in hand.
“Morning, Regulus,” Fleamont says through a yawn, adjusting his glasses. “You’re up early this morning. Everything alright?”
Regulus nods, his expression unreadable, but something about the way he acknowledges the greeting makes Fleamont smile. He doesn’t press further, just nods back before heading into the kitchen.
The house is quiet, peaceful in a way that mornings often are. He moves through the space with ease, retrieving a mug from the cupboard and setting the kettle to boil. The rhythm of the morning routine is familiar—steady.
As he stirs milk into his tea, he glances up to find Regulus lingering in the doorway, his book momentarily forgotten. Fleamont doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he lifts an eyebrow. “Would you like some juice?”
There’s a brief pause before Regulus nods.
“Orange or apple?” Fleamont asks, pulling both cartons from the fridge.
Regulus points to the apple juice. Fleamont chuckles lightly, pouring a glass before handing it over.
“Good choice.”
Regulus takes the glass but doesn’t drink just yet. Instead, he stands by the counter, watching as Fleamont takes a slow sip of his tea, sighing contentedly. The comfortable quiet lingers between them, unforced, unpressured.
“I’ll be staying home today,” Fleamont says after a moment. “To help you with some of your schoolwork.”
Regulus nods.
Fleamont takes another sip of tea. “I teach at the local university. Some days I have lectures, other days I focus on research. Wednesday’s usually one of my research days, but since I just finished a project, I don’t have to start a new one until the next school year.”
Another nod. Fleamont notes the slight furrow of Regulus’ brow, a flicker of interest. He doesn’t elaborate further, just moves to the stove, cracking a few eggs into a bowl.
The rhythmic scrape of the whisk fills the air as he beats them together before pouring them into the pan. The scent of butter and eggs begins to fill the kitchen, warm and familiar.
Regulus stands by the counter, sipping his juice, watching. Fleamont lets him.
Before long, footsteps echo from upstairs, followed by the hurried sound of movement on the stairs. Then, in a flurry of motion, Euphemia and James appear in the kitchen, both looking slightly rushed.
“Good morning, Regulus,” Euphemia greets, offering him a warm smile before turning to Fleamont. “We’re running a little late for James’ appointment.”
Fleamont doesn’t look too concerned. “That’s alright,” he says, flipping the eggs in the pan with practiced ease.
Euphemia nods, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “See you later, love.”
“Bye, Dad,” James calls over his shoulder, already making a beeline for the door.
“Have a good day at school,” Fleamont says easily, barely looking up as the front door opens and shuts behind them. The house settles into quiet once more.
Then, he turns back to the stove, glancing at Regulus. “Would you like one or two slices of toast with your eggs?”
Regulus holds up two fingers.
Fleamont nods, sliding bread into the toaster, and soon enough, breakfast is served. It’s a simple meal, eaten in near silence, but there’s something enjoyable about the quiet. No arguments. No tension. Just the occasional scrape of cutlery and the rustle of newspaper pages as Fleamont skims through an article. It’s peaceful.
When they’re finished, Fleamont stands and gestures to his laptop, setting it up at the kitchen table. “Let’s start with your assignments,” he says, handing the laptop to Regulus.
Regulus nods, his posture careful but not tense. Fleamont watches as he settles in, fingers hovering over the keyboard before he begins to type. His movements are precise, deliberate. Focused.
Fleamont lets him work for a moment, sipping his tea as he reads over a few emails. Every so often, he glances up, watching as Regulus rereads his words, corrects a typo, then continues. There’s something satisfying in seeing him work like this—engaged, interested. It’s a small thing, but it feels important.
Once he finishes his breakfast and feels ready to head upstairs, Fleamont stands, gathering his things. Before he leaves, he looks over at Regulus, who’s still engrossed in his work. When he returns downstairs later, he finds Regulus sitting at the kitchen table, his gaze focused on the screen.
Leaning in slightly, Fleamont asks with a curious smile, “What are you working on?”
Regulus points to the task sheet for his art assignment, then turns the laptop toward him.
Fleamont scans the screen, nodding approvingly. “Nice. Art—good way to start.”
Regulus watches as he reads through the assignment, expression unreadable. After a moment, Fleamont straightens. “This sounds good. Is it finished?”
A nod.
“Okay,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Do you need to print it?”
Another nod.
“Alright, let me teach you how to use our printer.”
Regulus picks up the laptop as Fleamont gestures for him to follow. They walk down the hall into his study. It’s a neat space, the walls lined with bookshelves, a large desk against one side.
Fleamont presses a couple of buttons on the printer before motioning Regulus closer. “Alright,” he says, pointing at the laptop screen. “First, open the print settings, select the right printer, and then—” He clicks a few more things. “—hit print.”
Regulus watches closely. The printer hums to life, and Fleamont notices the way the boy shifts slightly, his eyes following the paper as it feeds through, ink appearing line by line.
Fleamont chuckles. “Printing is fun, isn’t it?”
Regulus nods, picking up the fresh page carefully, making sure it doesn’t crinkle. Fleamont gestures for them to head back, and together they return to the table, settling in once more.
They work through science next. Regulus wants to get it done before any of his other assignments, and Fleamont doesn’t argue. Instead, he shows him how to format the information properly, using one of James’ old assignments as an example.
Fleamont doesn’t rush him. Doesn’t criticize him when he hesitates or stumbles over a section. He just offers quiet guidance, steady and patient.
It’s not something Regulus is used to. That much is clear. But as they continue working, Fleamont catches something else—something small, but there.
Regulus is learning that here, there is no pressure. No expectation beyond effort. And, slowly, he is starting to trust that.
POV: EUPHEMIA
Euphemia sighs as she looks down at the email on her phone, her lips pressing together in frustration. She’d been so sure James’ psychiatrist appointment was at eight-thirty, but no—the email clearly states nine-thirty. She glances over at James, who’s sitting next to her in the hospital waiting area, his leg bouncing with restless energy.
“Well,” she says, tucking her phone back into her bag. “I got the time wrong.”
James raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Unfortunately.” She sighs again, but it’s more amused this time. “Looks like we have an hour to kill. Want to grab some breakfast?”
James brightens at that, immediately jumping to his feet. “Yes, please. I’m starving.”
They make their way to the small café just outside the hospital, finding a table in the crisp morning air. The place isn’t too busy, and the scent of coffee and fresh pastries drifts through the air as they settle into their seats.
James barely glances at the menu before deciding on pancakes with extra syrup, while Euphemia orders an omelet and tea. As they wait, James launches into a rambling story about his latest school assignment—something about an English essay that he was initially dreading but then realized he had so many opinions about.
“It’s actually kind of fun,” he admits, waving his hands as he talks. “I mean, I didn’t think I’d care about the themes in Of Mice and Men , but once I got started, I had like… too much to say. Mary and Peter were like, James, it’s not that deep , but it is that deep. And my teacher said I had a lot of enthusiasm, which I think is a good thing?”
Euphemia smiles, sipping her tea as she listens. She loves moments like this—just the two of them, James talking a mile a minute about something that excites him.
Their food arrives, and the conversation slows as they start eating. Euphemia watches her son for a moment, warmth filling her chest. He’s such a good kid. Loud, energetic, always moving at full speed—but also so kind, so deeply caring in a way that makes her proud.
But as she watches him cut into his pancakes, she notices a familiar look on his face—one she’s seen many times before. His brows furrow slightly, his mouth presses into a thin line, his fingers fiddle absently with his fork. I know something, but I don’t know whether or not to tell you.
Euphemia sets her tea down and leans in slightly. “What’s wrong, love?”
James pauses, his fork hovering over his plate. He hesitates, clearly debating with himself, and then, finally, he says, “It’s about Regulus.” His voice is quieter now, more careful.
Euphemia keeps her expression calm. “Okay,” she says. “Is there something wrong?”
James nods, pushing his food around on his plate. “I’ve noticed—well, my friends and I have noticed—that some boys have been bothering him.” He glances up at her, then back down again. “I asked Dorcas—she sits with Regulus and her other friends. I think they’re friends? I don’t know, I’m not really sure. Anyway, we think he’s being bullied.”
Euphemia’s chest tightens.
James continues, “But he hasn’t said anything. And I don’t really know what to do if he won’t say anything.”
She reaches across the table, squeezing his hand gently. “Thank you for telling me,” she says, her voice steady despite the quiet storm brewing in her mind. “Keep an eye on him, alright? If you see anything, try to get him away or find a teacher.”
James nods, looking relieved. “Okay.”
They go back to eating, the conversation shifting to lighter topics, but Euphemia’s thoughts remain stuck on what James has just told her.
It all makes sense now.
The destroyed stuffed black dog. The ruined book. The punching another student. It makes sense. Regulus is being bothered, and he won’t say anything about it.
And, Euphemia can’t stop thinking, why? Why won’t he say something? Why won’t he ask for help? Why won’t he tell her and Fleamont?
There could be countless of reasons as to why, Regulus won’t say something. A part of her is saddened at the thought that he might be too afraid to say anything.
And, that thought makes her stomach churn.
The appointment had gone well. They had managed to get James put on a different afternoon tablet to help him focus. Euphemia had felt good about the whole appointment—even James seemed to be on board with the new medication.
Now, she stands in the school reception, signing James in for the day. He shifts impatiently beside her, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Alright, you’re all set,” the receptionist says, sliding the sign-in sheet back toward her.
James grabs his bag. “Okay, see you later, Mum.”
Euphemia ruffles his hair. “Have a good day, love.”
As James heads off, Euphemia turns—and that’s when she spots a familiar face.
Ms. Carrington, the Year 7 guidance counselor, is walking through the hallway, a stack of folders in her arms. She hasn’t noticed Euphemia yet, but as soon as their eyes meet, recognition flickers across her face.
“Mrs. Potter,” Ms. Carrington greets, adjusting the folders in her grasp. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Hello, Ms. Carrington,” Euphemia says warmly. “Do you have a moment?”
Ms. Carrington hesitates, then nods. “Of course. Let me just drop these off at my office.” She gestures toward the hallway. “Walk with me?”
Euphemia falls into step beside her.
“I actually wanted to talk to you about Regulus,” she says, keeping her voice light but purposeful. “I have some concerns.”
Ms. Carrington hums in acknowledgment. “I’m glad you brought him up. I’ve been meaning to reach out to you, actually.” She glances over at Euphemia, expression serious. “I wanted to schedule a meeting to discuss a support plan for him.”
Euphemia’s stomach twists slightly. “A support plan?”
Ms. Carrington nods. “Some of his teachers have noticed he gets overwhelmed in certain situations. A few have mentioned instances where he’s completely shut down in class.” She exhales softly. “I think having something in place—some strategies to help him when things get too much—would really benefit him.”
Euphemia processes this, her mind flicking back to James’ words over breakfast. “Of course,” she says without hesitation. “What time were you thinking?”
“Would tomorrow morning at nine work for you?”
“That’s perfect,” Euphemia agrees.
Ms. Carrington smiles, a hint of relief in her expression. “Great. I’ll see you then.”
As Euphemia watches her disappear down the hall, her chest tightens, slightly. All she wants to do is help Regulus. She wants to make sure he’s okay, that he’ll be alright.
But, she can’t shake the feeling that there is something else not being said. That there’s something she’s not telling her. And, that makes Euphemia falter. All she can do is pray that whatever is said within that meeting, that it helps solve this problem. That it helps fix this situation Regulus has found himself in.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head as he watches the last document save on his laptop. He rolls his shoulders, glancing at the time. “Well,” he says, smiling, “I’d say that was a productive day.”
He looks over at Regulus, who sits rigidly in his chair, hands still resting on the keyboard as if uncertain whether he’s actually finished. Fleamont softens his voice, keeping it light. “What do you think about heading out for some ice cream? A little reward for all your hard work?”
Regulus stills.
Fleamont doesn’t miss the way his fingers twitch slightly against the laptop keys, the way his posture shifts—tense, guarded. The boy doesn’t answer right away, and something in his expression flickers, too quick for Fleamont to fully read.
It’s not excitement. It’s not relief.
It’s something closer to hesitation. Maybe even doubt .
Fleamont waits, giving him space, but Regulus doesn’t speak. His eyes dart downward, his mouth pressing into a thin line, and Fleamont frowns. He had expected at least some kind of response—a quiet agreement, perhaps, or even just a nod. But Regulus doesn’t look pleased at the idea. He looks… unsettled.
Before Fleamont can say anything else, footsteps sound from the stairs, and Euphemia enters the room. She glances between them, then smiles warmly as she catches the tail end of the conversation. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
Regulus’ shoulders tighten slightly, and Fleamont’s frown deepens.
Something is wrong.
And whatever it is, it has nothing to do with ice cream.
Once James had gotten home from school, they were off to the ice cream parlor.
Fleamont drives, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other adjusting the volume of the radio as James chatters from the passenger seat. “I swear, if I have to look at another algebra problem, my brain is going to melt . There is absolutely no reason for numbers and letters to mix. It’s unnatural.”
Fleamont chuckles. “You’ll survive.”
“Doubt it,” James mutters, slouching dramatically. “Lily’s already got everything memorized, of course. I asked her how, and she just said ‘it makes sense when you practice.’ But I have been practicing! And it still makes no sense!”
Fleamont hums in amusement, but his gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, landing on Regulus. The boy is sitting stiffly in the back seat, hands in his lap, shoulders just a bit too straight. His expression is unreadable, his gaze unfocused.
Fleamont studies him for a moment.
The tension is still there—subtle, but present. He can’t quite tell what’s running through Regulus’ mind, but he has a feeling it has nothing to do with ice cream. Maybe he’s still stuck on the idea of a “reward.” Maybe he’s still thinking about everything that happened at school. Or maybe, he’s just trying to figure out how he’s meant to act in a situation like this—how to be in this family, after spending so long in places that didn’t quite feel like home.
Fleamont’s grip on the wheel tightens slightly, then loosens as he exhales.
They pull into the ice cream parlor parking lot, and as they step inside, the cool air carries the scent of sugar and waffle cones. The place isn’t too busy, just a few families scattered around the shop, children excitedly peering into the glass display of flavors.
Fleamont watches as Regulus hesitates near the counter, eyes scanning the endless rows of ice cream. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t press against the glass like James does—he just stares , as if unsure where to start.
“Chocolate,” James declares, leaning against the counter. “No, wait—strawberry. No, wait! Do you still have that weird one with the caramel swirls?”
Regulus doesn’t say anything. His fingers twitch slightly at his sides, his gaze flicking from one flavor to the next, scanning the labels but not seeming to process them. Fleamont recognizes the look—overwhelmed, uncertain, caught in the sheer number of choices.
Before he can say anything, Euphemia steps in beside Regulus, her voice gentle. “Cookies and cream is always a safe choice,” she suggests. “Do you like that one?”
Regulus looks at her, then back at the ice cream case. After a long pause, he gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Fleamont watches the way Euphemia orders for him, how she keeps her tone light, as if it’s nothing—just a simple decision, just ice cream. He watches the way Regulus relaxes slightly, just enough to finally step forward and accept the cup when it’s handed to him.
They take their seats outside, the warm evening air wrapping around them as James immediately launches into a story.
“So, Peter and I may or may not have gotten detention today—”
Fleamont raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
James waves a hand. “Totally worth it. We were in class, and Peter dared me to say ‘nice’ every time the professor wrote ‘69’ on the board. Which, obviously, I did. And obviously , Peter started laughing—except he’s got that awful snort-laugh that just explodes out of him when he’s trying to hold it in, so we both got kicked out.”
Euphemia sighs, shaking her head, but Fleamont just smirks. “You’re lucky I was worse at your age.”
James grins, clearly pleased with himself, and Fleamont turns his attention to Regulus.
The boy is quiet, but Fleamont can see it—the slight curve of his lips, the way his posture isn’t as stiff as before. He’s eating his ice cream, listening. Enjoying himself.
It’s small, but it’s there.
Then, just as quickly, the moment slips away. Regulus’ shoulders tense again, his expression flickering back to something more guarded, more uncertain.
Fleamont exhales softly, watching as Regulus takes another quiet bite of ice cream, his gaze dropping to the table.
One step forward, two steps back.
But at least, for a little while, Regulus had something —a brief moment of ease.
And right now, Fleamont will take that.
***
By the time they arrive home, the house is quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as they step inside. The afternoon had been… nice. A rare, small success in the midst of everything. But as Fleamont follows Euphemia into the kitchen, he can’t shake the feeling that it won’t last long.
Euphemia moves easily around the space, placing her purse on the counter and rolling up the sleeves of her blouse as she starts on dinner preparations. Fleamont leans against the counter, watching as Regulus walks toward the stairs. Before he can disappear up them, Euphemia speaks.
“Regulus,” she says gently.
He stops.
Fleamont watches as Regulus turns just slightly, enough to show he’s listening.
“I wanted to let you know—you’ve got a meeting with the guidance counselor tomorrow morning.”
It’s barely there, but Fleamont sees it—the flicker of tension in Regulus’ posture, the way his fingers twitch at his sides before curling into fists. His breathing, already quiet, seems to still completely for just a moment.
Then, without a word, Regulus nods once. And just as quickly, he turns and heads upstairs, his steps light but hurried.
Euphemia exhales, a quiet sigh that lingers in the silence left behind. She turns back to the counter, placing her hands on the edge as she lets out a slow breath.
“James told me this morning,” she murmurs. “He thinks Regulus is being bullied by some kids at school.”
Fleamont straightens slightly. “Bullied?”
She nods, pressing her lips together. “He said he’s seen some boys bothering Regulus before. He didn’t have much detail, but… I don’t know, Monty. It got me thinking.” She glances up at him, worry flickering in her eyes. “And then, when I was dropping James off this morning, the guidance counselor pulled me aside. She said she wanted to talk to me about Regulus.”
Fleamont listens carefully, his arms crossing over his chest. “Did she say why?”
Euphemia shakes her head. “Just that she wanted to meet. I figured it was a good opportunity to bring up what James said… and about the suspension.”
Fleamont doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting her words settle. When she speaks again, he hears it—that slight edge of panic, the quiet unease beneath her composed demeanor.
“I just…” She hesitates. “I don’t know, Monty. I’m a little concerned.”
Fleamont nods, stepping closer. His hands find her waist, thumbs brushing gently against the fabric of her blouse. “Take a deep breath,” he murmurs.
Euphemia exhales slowly, closing her eyes for a brief moment before drawing in another breath, deeper this time.
Fleamont waits until she lets it out, then squeezes her waist lightly. “Everything is going to be okay.” His voice is steady, certain. “The guidance counselor is there to help Regulus succeed at school. They’re not looking to kick him out.”
Euphemia chuckles quietly, shaking her head as some of the tension eases from her shoulders. “You always know what to say.”
Fleamont smirks. “I try.”
She leans up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Thank you.”
They both turn back to the counter, slipping into the rhythm of preparing dinner together. But as Fleamont reaches for a knife to start chopping vegetables, his mind drifts back to the conversation, to the panic he swore he saw in Regulus’ expression.
He can only hope this meeting is just to help Regulus—not to cause more trouble
POV: EUPHEMIA
It’s not like she’s a little skeptical—okay, she’ll admit she’s a little skeptical about this meeting. After all, she was planning on speaking with Ms. Carrington yesterday. That was, until she asked for a meeting at nine in the morning the next day.
So, yeah. Euphemia would say she’s nervous. Regulus has only been living with her and her family for almost two weeks now, and to say she’s noticed some habits, would be an understatement.
Because, truth be told, Euphemia has taken notice of some behaviours that other people, other parents would deem “odd” or “annoying.” But she hasn’t. She’s seen how Regulus suffered a meltdown of sorts, whilst shopping. And she’s seen how he’s had a panic attack over having sand on him.
She’s noticed he’s quiet, that the only time he’s talked was to apologise in a completely different language. She’s noticed how he doesn’t make eye contact. Or how emotionally attached to that stuffed black dog he was.
She’s taken notice, and if she has, others have also.
So, yeah, Euphemia is nervous for this meeting. Who wouldn’t?
Euphemia walks down the school hallway, the heels of her shoes thud softly against the carpet floors. The air carries the faint scent of old books and cleaning supplies, a strangely familiar combination.
Beside her, Regulus walks in silence, his hands curled tightly into the hem of his dark green t-shirt. His shoulders are hunched, and he keeps half a step behind her, as though he’s hoping to disappear altogether. She doesn’t push him to talk. He’s nervous—she can see that much—and no amount of reassurance will change that right now. Instead, she offers a small smile when they reach the door marked Ms. Carrington, Year 7 Guidance Counselor and knocks lightly before stepping inside.
Ms. Carrington looks up from her desk, a warm smile spreading across her face. She’s a woman in her late forties, with kind brown eyes and a cluttered workspace filled with papers, stress balls, and a mug that says World’s Okayest Counselor in chipped blue letters.
“Good morning, Mrs. Potter. Regulus.” She nods to each of them, her tone gentle. “Come in, sit down.”
Regulus hesitates for half a second before following Euphemia inside. He keeps his gaze low as he takes a seat beside her, his fingers still twisting at his shirt. Euphemia sits with ease, offering Ms. Carrington a polite nod.
“Good morning, Ms. Carrington,” she greets, keeping her voice light. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.”
“Of course.” Ms. Carrington folds her hands together on the desk, glancing between them. “How are you feeling this morning, Regulus?”
Regulus gives a tiny shrug, eyes still downcast.
Euphemia takes in the moment, noting the tension in his posture. This isn’t easy for him. She had worried about this meeting—about what might be said, about how Regulus might react—but now that she’s here, she pushes those concerns aside. One thing at a time. Right now, her focus is on him.
“So, about Regulus’ suspension,” Ms. Carrington begins, her voice gentle. “I know the principal went over everything with you, but… I have a feeling there was something missing from that report.”
Euphemia nods, glancing at Regulus before responding. “I was thinking the same thing. From what I understand, Regulus was provoked.”
Ms. Carrington sighs. “That’s what I’ve gathered, too. I spoke to a few students who witnessed the incident, and they mentioned that the other boy had been targeting Regulus for a while. It doesn’t excuse what happened, of course, but context is important.”
Euphemia hums in agreement. She’s not excusing the fight, but she knows there’s more to it than just an outburst.
Ms. Carrington continues, flipping through a few papers. “Beyond this incident, I’ve been speaking with some of his teachers to get a better sense of how he’s been adjusting in class.” She pauses before adding, “Some of them have noticed he gets overwhelmed in certain situations. Sometimes, he completely shuts down.”
Regulus’ shoulders stiffen. Euphemia doesn’t react outwardly, but she notes the way he curls in slightly, making himself smaller. A protective instinct rises in her, though she tamps it down. He doesn’t need her to shield him from this conversation—he needs her to understand.
Ms. Carrington glances at Regulus but doesn’t press. “His English teacher, Mr. Andrews, mentioned that Regulus sometimes brings a small stuffed black dog to class.”
Euphemia’s lips twitch slightly. A stuffed black dog. She wonders if it holds special meaning for him. After all, some would consider, for a child his age, his attachment to be… unhealthy, to say the least.
“Which isn’t an issue, of course,” Ms. Carrington clarifies. “But he also noted that Regulus had a moment where he was in tears from being overwhelmed. Mr. Andrews suggested that we consider putting together a plan for him, in case he needs a break when things get too much.”
Euphemia tilts her head. “What kind of things would be in this plan?”
“It could be as simple as a five-minute break outside the classroom if he’s feeling overwhelmed,” Ms. Carrington explains. “Maybe a pass he can show the teacher if he doesn’t feel comfortable speaking. Or a designated quiet space where he can go if he needs to step away.”
Euphemia nods thoughtfully, then looks at Regulus. “Would that be something you’d like?”
Regulus doesn’t answer right away. He stares at his hands, his fingers still tightly gripping his shirt. Then, after a long moment, he nods, barely perceptible, but a nod nonetheless.
“Alright, then,” Euphemia says with a small smile. “Let’s figure this out together.”
Ms. Carrington makes a few notes and starts listing possible accommodations. Every once in a while, she and Euphemia ask for Regulus’ input. He never speaks, only nods or shakes his head, but it’s enough. They settle on a plan: a break card he can use to leave class when needed, a quiet space in the library, and check-ins with Ms. Carrington to see how he’s doing.
Euphemia rests a gentle hand on Regulus’ arm. “This is to make sure you don’t get suspended again.”
He swallows, his expression unreadable.
She waits a beat before adding, “This isn’t a punishment, Regulus. There isn’t anything wrong with you. Sometimes, kids like you just need a break every now and then. And that’s okay.”
Regulus tenses. His fingers tighten around his shirt, twisting it until the fabric stretches. Euphemia watches him closely, her heart aching at the reaction. Had no one ever told him that before?
Ms. Carrington clears her throat softly, her gaze warm. “We just want to make sure school is a safe place for you, Regulus.”
The meeting wraps up not long after. Ms. Carrington hands Euphemia a copy of the agreed-upon plan and thanks them both for coming in. Euphemia thanks her in return, standing up and waiting for Regulus to follow. He moves stiffly but follows her out the door, his silence heavy but not unfamiliar.
As they step outside the school, the summer air is warm around them. Euphemia glances at Regulus, offering him a small smile. “Well,” she says, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Regulus doesn’t respond, but his hands are no longer clenched so tightly. She takes it as a small victory.
They walk in silence toward the car. Euphemia doesn’t press him to speak, doesn’t try to fill the quiet. Instead, she lets it settle, content just to be beside him.
Notes:
Word Count: 11,916
Published: 2025-02-11Je suis désolé = I’m sorry
Je suis vraiment désolé = I’m so sorryOMG!!! Chapter 10!!! What an accomplishment! Thank you to everyone who has been reading so far, and I really do hope you enjoyed this chapter.
Just a quick thing, if you would like me to include "POV: Euphemia" or "POV: Fleamont" just before their perspective takes place, I am happy to do so, if it makes reading their dual POV chapters easier!
Chapter 11: If He's Not Their Friend, Then What Is He?
Summary:
Having friends and being friends are two very different things. So, when Regulus gets to school early on the usual cloudy and rainy day, he’s surprised to find out he’s been invited to a birthday party.
And, for him, something clicks inside his brain. Because really, who would invite a non-friend to their birthday sleepover party?
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Oh, the irony.
It’s a fickle thing, irony—capable of being one thing but meaning something completely different.
Which, if Regulus might add, is hilarious.
Why? Well, imagine this: having PE as your last class before getting suspended for three days, only for it to be the first class you attend once your suspension is lifted.
Doesn’t sound like something that would happen to you? Well, it certainly happened to Regulus.
At least, this time, it didn’t end with him getting suspended again. Thank you, Jesus.
No, what did happen was much simpler. Dodgeball happened.
It’s one of those games that only ever makes an appearance under two conditions: when it’s the last day of term, or when it rains.
And today? Oh, it’s raining.
Regulus has always found the phrase " it’s raining cats and dogs " to be completely absurd. Because, obviously, it can’t literally rain cats and dogs. That’s ridiculous. When he first questioned this, Sirius had just rolled his eyes and muttered, “It’s just an expression, Reg, don’t take it literally.”
But how could Regulus not take it literally?
So, yeah. Thanks to the weather, Regulus’ PE class is playing dodgeball inside the hall.
Now, one important thing to note about dodgeball: things can get hairy. Why hairy, Regulus? Well, let him explain.
Four words—Colin and his gang.
Yep, you heard him right. Colin and his gang. And if you’re wondering what they have to do with any of this, the answer is simple. They’re the reason Regulus got suspended in the first place.
And putting Regulus in a loud, enclosed space where kids are actively trying to pummel each other with rubber balls? Well. It’s not ideal.
Fortunately, Regulus has an out. A pass, if you will. A golden ticket that lets him escape situations like this when they get to be too much.
Which is why, instead of dodging balls and risking another run-in with Colin and his gang, Regulus is sitting in the guidance counselor’s office, reading.
It’s peaceful. For now.
Evading Colin and his gang is easier said than done. It won’t last. Peace never really does.
And that, Regulus thinks, is another thing about irony. People want peace. They talk about it, claim to value it, even fight wars over it.
But peace? It never stays for long.
Nor does it last for long.
Peace is an association of temporary . Regulus associates peace with staying in foster homes. It never lasts.
That was until break.
Of course, Regulus gets cornered.
But this time, it’s not the usual suspects. It’s not Colin and his gang, not some teacher pulling him aside for a quiet talk about his behavior, and not even James, who has a remarkable talent for showing up exactly when Regulus doesn’t want him to.
No, it’s Pandora, Barty, Evan, and Dorcas.
Regulus doesn’t notice them at first. He’s in the library, tucked away in his usual spot—third row from the back, second-to-last table by the window. It’s quiet here. Safe.
Or at least, it was.
He hears them before he sees them—the shuffle of feet, a muffled whisper, the creak of a chair being pulled out. By the time he looks up, they’re already there, standing around his table like they’ve been planning this for hours.
Regulus grips his book a little tighter, his posture stiffening.
Pandora stares at him, unimpressed, arms crossed over her chest. "What the hell are you doing here sitting by yourself?"
He doesn’t answer. He just blinks at her, unsure what to say.
Sitting alone is what he does. It’s what he prefers. Isn’t that obvious?
But Pandora doesn’t seem to think so. She tilts her head, waiting, while Barty flops into the seat across from him like he belongs there. Evan drags over a chair without a word, and Dorcas sits on the table itself, arms resting over her knees, looking at him expectantly.
Regulus glances between them, confused. Suspicious.
Pandora rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I can see that. But why are you here ?" She gestures vaguely to the empty space around them, like that should make sense.
Regulus grips his book tighter, shoulders curling in slightly.
Barty snorts. "Boring . "
Dorcas hums, leaning back on her hands. "You could sit with us, you know."
Regulus freezes.
"You don’t have to," Evan adds, his voice quieter than the others. "But you could."
Regulus stares at them. It’s too much, all at once. Too unexpected.
Pandora just huffs, reaching over and flicking the edge of his book. "We’re your friends, you know."
Regulus doesn’t move. Doesn’t react.
He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with that—what he’s supposed to say to that. The words echo in his head, looping over and over again.
"We’re your friends, you know."
Friends .
Regulus isn’t sure he even knows what that word means. He’s heard it before, of course—sees it in the way James laughs too loud with his mates, in the way people used to gravitate toward Sirius like planets caught in orbit. But for himself? It doesn’t fit.
People like Barty, Evan, Pandora, and Dorcas... they’re nice to him. They sit with him at lunch, ask him questions, wait for answers he never gives. They hunt him down when he hides away in the library, pull up chairs, and act as if he belongs there, too.
But friends ?
He’ll believe it when he sees it.
The rest of his Friday goes by without a hitch. It’s oddly comforting, in an unnatural sort of way. Regulus doesn’t know how to explain it—if he even could. But then the weekend arrives, and things slow down.
The Potters don’t do much. Maybe that’s because both Regulus and James are about to enter the final weeks of school. The pressure is on—trying to study while still absorbing new topics. It’s exhausting.
If he didn’t have Mr. Potter’s ability to teach, Regulus isn’t so sure he would have made it through.
And yet, despite all of that, despite the studying and the slow weekend and the lingering uncertainty in his mind, he can’t quite shake the memory of the library. Of them. Of Pandora’s bluntness, of Dorcas’ quiet observation, of Barty’s easy familiarity, of Evan’s careful words.
Friends .
And here Regulus thought he’d have a peaceful and relaxing weekend.
It’s a shame peace is such a stupid construct. A lie people tell themselves, a promise never meant to be kept. Peace isn’t real—not in the way people pretend it is. It’s borrowed at best, an illusion at worst. Something dangled just out of reach, only to be yanked away the second he starts to believe in it.
Because the moment he lets his guard down, something always happens. Always.
As if peace, of all things, could let him be.
This, subsequently, leads to his current predicament—his second check-in with Sarah. Right about now.
A sharp knock echoes from the front door, pulling Regulus from his book. He stiffens, fingers gripping the edges of the pages a little tighter.
James, who had been sprawled on the couch flipping through his phone, jumps up at the sound. "I’ll get it!" he calls, already halfway to the door.
Regulus keeps his gaze on the words in front of him, but they blur at the edges, unreadable. He knows what’s coming. It’s fine. It’s just Sarah. But that doesn’t stop the tight coil of anxiety from settling in his stomach.
The door creaks open. "Oh, hello," James says, then glances over his shoulder. "Mum! Sarah’s here!"
"Come in," James adds after a moment, stepping aside.
"Thank you, James." Sarah’s voice is warm, polite as always. A familiar tone that’s meant to be reassuring.
From his spot at the kitchen table, Regulus finally lifts his gaze. Sarah steps inside, dressed in her usual business-casual attire—navy trousers, a neatly pressed blouse, a bag slung over one shoulder. She offers a small, easy smile, though Regulus knows better than to think she’s here for casual pleasantries.
"Ah, Sarah, hello." Euphemia wipes her hands on a kitchen towel as she steps away from the counter, where she’d just been preparing dinner. There’s a faint scent of garlic and herbs in the air. "We were expecting you and not expecting you."
Sarah chuckles. "That’s alright, Euphemia. I know these check-ins aren’t always at the most predictable times." Her eyes flick toward Regulus, assessing but not intrusive. "I hope I’m not interrupting anything?"
"Not at all," Euphemia assures, gesturing toward the kitchen. "I was just about to start dinner."
Regulus stays quiet. He doesn’t need to say anything—doesn’t want to say anything. He sets his book down carefully, marking his page before looking up properly.
Sarah tilts her head slightly. "How about we talk for a bit, Regulus? Nothing formal. Just checking in."
His fingers twitch against the book cover, but he nods. It’s not like he has a choice.
Sarah gestures toward the living room. "We can sit somewhere more comfortable, if you’d like?"
Regulus hesitates, then casts a quick glance at Euphemia. She gives him a small, reassuring nod before turning back to her dinner preparations, as if to say, You’re alright. You can do this.
Still, the tightness in his chest doesn’t ease.
With a quiet exhale, he stands. Sarah gives another small smile before leading the way. Regulus decides he wants to sit outside, so that’s where he heads.
The front porch of the Potters’ house is nice. It reminds Regulus of something , though he can’t quite place what. It’s well-kept but not overly polished, comfortable without being extravagant. It feels like something permanent. Something safe.
The beauty of it is subtle—like the sun setting before him. The sky explodes with vibrant colors, deep oranges and pinks bleeding into soft purples and blues. It reminds Regulus of James, oddly enough. Loud and bright, impossible to ignore. A presence that lingers even when you’re not looking.
Regulus settles onto the steps, drawing his knees up slightly, arms resting against them. Sarah sits beside him, a respectable distance away, not too close, not too far. She’s good at that—at knowing how much space to give him.
For a few moments, neither of them speak. The air smells like cooling pavement and distant flowers from Euphemia’s garden. There’s a faint breeze, carrying the distant sound of traffic.
Sarah breaks the silence first. "How have things been since I last saw you?"
Regulus shrugs, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. "Fine."
Sarah hums, waiting. Regulus knows she wants more than that, but she’s patient. She always is.
He sighs. "Weird, mostly."
Sarah tilts her head. "Weird how?"
Regulus considers for a moment, then gestures vaguely. "The Potters are weird."
Sarah raises an eyebrow, amused. "Weird in a bad way?"
Regulus hesitates. "No. Just... weird." He frowns slightly. "Like, Mrs. Potter bought me a brand-new stuffed black dog and a whole book box set just because mine got destroyed."
Sarah’s expression softens. "That sounds... thoughtful."
"Yeah," Regulus mutters, picking at the thread again. "It was thoughtful. But it was also weird."
Sarah chuckles lightly. "Maybe they’re just trying to make sure you feel comfortable here."
Regulus doesn’t respond to that. He’s not sure how to respond to that. Instead, he huffs a quiet breath and leans back against the step. "And then there’s school."
Sarah glances at him. "How’s school going?"
Regulus presses his lips together, debating. He could lie. Say it’s fine. But she’d see through that. She always does.
He exhales. "I got suspended."
Sarah’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t look surprised. "I see. What happened?"
Regulus doesn’t meet her eyes. His fingers tighten around his sleeve. "I… I don’t know what happened," he says quietly. "It’s like I freaked out or something. I don’t know."
Sarah doesn’t react right away, which somehow makes it worse. She’s quiet, waiting.
Regulus exhales sharply through his nose. "We were in PE. It was loud, and people were yelling, and then—someone, I think Colin maybe, grabbed my arm. And I just… I just hit him." His voice tightens with frustration. "I wasn’t even thinking about it. It just happened. "
Sarah nods, her expression unreadable. "Were you scared?"
Regulus stiffens. "No." But the word doesn’t feel entirely true.
Sarah watches him for a moment before saying, "It sounds like you felt overwhelmed."
Regulus’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t like that word. Overwhelmed. It makes him feel like a little kid who can’t handle things properly. But wasn’t that exactly what happened? He couldn’t handle it.
He shrugs, looking away. "I guess."
Sarah doesn’t push further. Instead, she shifts slightly. "Did you tell the Potters about it?"
Regulus hesitates. "No. The school called them."
"And how did they react?"
Regulus shifts uncomfortably. "They weren’t mad,” He hesitates for a moment. Because if Regulus truly thought about it, they weren’t upset at him, but at the situation. He frowns, like the thought irritates him. "They should have been mad, but they weren’t."
Sarah’s lips twitch slightly. "That bothers you?"
"Yes," Regulus says, frustrated. "Mr. and Mrs. Potter didn’t even say anything about it. Just continued like nothing happened. There was no yelling, no punishments. Nothing.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Sarah watches him for a moment. "What do you think should have happened?"
Regulus doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t know. He just knows it feels wrong—like he’s waiting for the real punishment to come, and it just... hasn’t.
Sarah doesn’t push, but she shifts gears slightly. "So, if you were suspended, how’s your schoolwork going?"
Regulus exhales through his nose. "Fine, I guess. I got a lot done."
"That’s good," Sarah says. "Did you have help?"
Regulus shakes his head. "No. Well… kind of." He pauses. "Mr. Potter set up his laptop for me to use. And he, uh…" He scratches at his sleeve, feeling a bit ridiculous saying it out loud. "They got me ice cream."
Sarah’s lips twitch again, this time in amusement. "Ice cream?"
"Yeah," Regulus mutters, crossing his arms. "Because I finished a lot of work."
Sarah hums. "That doesn’t seem so weird to me. Sounds like they were proud of you."
Regulus scowls at that. "For doing schoolwork?"
Sarah shrugs. "Sometimes, it’s not about what you did but about encouraging you to keep doing it."
Regulus doesn’t have a response to that either. He just sits there, frowning at the ground.
Sarah shifts slightly. "And how are things with James?"
Regulus exhales sharply. "Annoying."
Sarah smiles, but it’s gentle. "Annoying how?"
"He’s loud. He talks too much. And he’s rude," Regulus says bluntly, scowling at his hands. "And he keeps calling me Reg even though I’ve asked him not to."
Sarah nods slowly, watching him. "Why don’t you want him calling you Reg ?"
Regulus stiffens. He doesn’t mean to say it, but it slips out before he can stop it.
"Because of my brother."
Silence.
The air feels heavier now, thicker. Regulus risks a glance at Sarah, but he can’t quite make out the expression on her face. It’s unreadable, carefully neutral.
"Your brother?" she asks, her voice quieter than before.
Regulus nods. His fingers curl into his sleeves. "Yeah. I thought you knew about him."
Sarah shakes her head. "No, I didn’t." She studies him for a moment. "Do you know if he’s in the system?"
Regulus shrugs. "I don’t know." He stares at the ground, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the wood.
Sarah nods, absorbing the information. "Did you have a good relationship with your brother?"
Regulus barely manages a nod before his throat tightens. He swallows hard, but it doesn’t help. Tears start welling up in his eyes before he can stop them.
Talking about Sirius is hard. It always has been. Because with it comes everything else . The resentment, the sadness, the anger. It knots up in his chest, impossible to untangle.
Sarah doesn’t press. She just sits there, quiet and patient, letting him gather himself.
The sun sinks lower, casting long shadows across the porch. Regulus blinks quickly, staring at the horizon, willing the tears away.
It doesn’t really work.
***
To say Regulus’ dream had been weird was an understatement. In reality, he had been convinced it was real.
How dumb is that?
Imagine waking up and thinking a dream is real, only to realize it isn’t. To want it to be real. To hope it is. Only to find out it was nothing but a figment of one’s imagination.
It was dumb.
Do you know what is even dumber than thinking— believing —a dream was real?
Hope.
The act of simply hoping is a danger to society. It’s what gets people killed. It’s how, like so many before him, people have been misled. Hoping, within the system, is like a death sentence.
Regulus knows better than to hope. To hope something turns out for him. To hope he gets his way. To hope he finds the life he deserves.
He scoffs at that. The life he deserves. How bogus does that sound?
He remembers the first time someone said that to him.
Regulus had been sitting in the police station, waiting to be released into social services’ custody, when the detective sitting with him had said—
"You’ll find a family who’ll give you the life you deserve, kid. Just hang in there."
At first, Regulus had almost believed her. He had wanted to believe her.
But in the coming months, he had been proven, time and time again, just how wrong she was.
But in his dream?
In his dream, the detective had been right.
In his dream, he had a home. A real one. Not just a temporary placement, not just another house with another set of rules. A home.
He remembers Sirius. The way he had hugged him so tight, his arms wrapped around him like he was afraid to let go. He remembers Sirius whispering, "You're safe now, Reg. I promise."
He remembers the Potters. Mr. Potter ruffling his hair, Mrs. Potter setting an extra plate on the table without question, James grinning at him like they'd known each other forever.
He remembers belonging.
He remembers laughter—his own, startled and uncertain at first, but real. He remembers sitting outside with Evan and Pandora, their shoulders pressed against his as they passed a bag of chips between them. Barty and Dorcas arguing over some ridiculous bet while the others just rolled their eyes. He remembers how easy it had felt.
He remembers feeling like he had friends.
But then? Then he’d woken up. And reality crashed over him like a cold wave.
He wasn’t in a permanent home, he was in a temporary one. He wasn’t sitting and laughing with his friends. And, not matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise… Sirius wasn’t here either.
He was in bed, in a room, in a world where things like that don’t happen to kids like him.
So, yeah. After being proven multiple times over, Regulus had stopped hoping.
That might come back to bite him, but honestly? Who even cares.
The car ride to school is quiet. It’s always quiet on the mornings Mr. Potter drives them to school. James is half-asleep in the passenger seat, earbuds in, while Mr. Potter drives with one hand on the wheel, the other cradling a thermos of coffee. He hums absently along to whatever old rock song is playing on the radio, but otherwise, no one speaks.
Regulus doesn’t mind. He prefers it that way.
They pull up to the school a little earlier than usual. The digital clock on the dashboard reads 7:40 AM. School doesn’t start until 8:30, which means he has a solid fifty minutes to exist unnoticed before the halls are flooded with students.
He doesn’t rush to get out of the car, but James does, stumbling out onto the pavement, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Mr. Potter says something about "Have a good day, boys," and James makes a noise of acknowledgement before heading inside.
Regulus lingers a moment longer, then steps out, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulders. He starts toward the building, walking slowly. The air is slightly humid, the pavement damp from last night’s rain. He watches as cars drive past, dropping off other students.
Then—
"Regulus!"
He freezes at the sound of his name.
Turning, he spots Evan and Pandora across the parking lot, hurrying toward him. And—there’s someone else. Someone noticeably older, though they look strikingly like Evan and Pandora.
Regulus narrows his eyes slightly, shifting his weight, but he stops walking. Because —and this is important— he does not want another little "lecture" from Pandora about how they like hanging out with him.
Evan and Pandora reach him first, slightly out of breath.
"Good morning!" Pandora chirps.
"Morning," Evan echoes, rocking on his heels.
Regulus doesn’t verbally respond. He just nods.
The older boy—who, up close, looks like he could be Evan and Pandora’s older brother—offers a small smile but doesn’t say anything. Regulus pointedly doesn’t ask. It’s not his business.
They head inside together. Pandora and Evan talk, and Regulus listens but doesn’t contribute. He’s gotten used to this dynamic. They never seem to mind.
Once they reach Pandora’s locker, Pandora rummages around for something, then turns to him with an excited glint in her eye.
"Here!" she says, thrusting a card into his hands.
Regulus blinks, confused but accepts it. The envelope is light blue, slightly crinkled at the edges.
"Read it!" Pandora urges, practically bouncing.
Regulus hesitates, then carefully opens the envelope, pulling out the card inside. The front is decorated with a colorful design—balloons, confetti, a big number 12 in the center. He flips it open, scanning the neatly written words inside.
It’s a birthday invitation.
His brain stutters.
You are invited to Evan and Pandora’s 12th Birthday Sleepover Party!
When: This Saturday, June 20th - Sunday, June 21st
Where: Evan and Pandora’s house
Time: 4:00 PM - 2:30 PM
Regulus stares at the invitation, uncomprehending.
Pandora beams. "We really want you to come!"
Evan nods enthusiastically, shifting on his feet, clearly fidgety. "Yeah, it’d be really fun if you came."
Regulus looks between them.
This doesn’t make sense.
Why is he getting an invitation to their birthday party?
He isn’t their friend. He’s—he doesn’t know what he is, but friends? That can’t be right.
But Evan and Pandora are watching him expectantly, so he nods.
Pandora cheers, clapping her hands together. Evan grins, rocking back on his heels.
But even as Regulus’ grip on the invitation tightens, his mind races.
Are they sure?
Do they really want him there?
Why him?
He doesn’t have an answer. Why would he?
He’s never been invited to a birthday party before—let alone a sleepover.
Regulus remembers when Sirius had once asked to spend the night at a friend’s house. He remembers the way their father’s face had twisted, not quite angered but filled with something sharp and disapproving. Disappointed. A look that made Sirius shift his weight from foot to foot, like he was preparing to run.
Regulus doesn’t remember much from the conversation, only that it had been brief. The result, inevitable.
"No."
Firm. Final. Unquestionable.
Sirius had been upset, of course. Argued. Pushed. But in the end, he hadn’t won.
They didn’t go to other people’s houses. They didn’t have sleepovers. They didn’t have friends.
Which is why, standing here, invitation in hand, Regulus is confused.
Because… don’t you give these to friends ?
And Regulus knows for a fact—they aren’t his friends. Right?
They say they are. Barty says they are. Dorcas does too. Even Evan and Pandora insist on it.
But realistically?
Regulus isn’t sure.
He doesn’t know.
And that’s almost worse than knowing for certain they aren’t. Because it means there’s a possibility. It means he could be wrong.
And if there’s one thing Regulus has learned, it’s that being wrong— hoping —only leads to disappointment.
Regulus knows what it feels like to be disappointed. How much pain it causes. He knows what it’ll do to him, so he vowed to himself, never to be disappointed again, no matter how tempting hope can be.
***
Regulus can’t stop thinking about it. Has stopped thinking about it, even as he sat down for Maths. From the second he received the invitation, his mind has been plagued with constant questions, looping endlessly like a broken record.
The main one—the one that keeps clawing its way back to the forefront of his thoughts—is: what is the true definition of a friend?
He just has to know.
It’s not like he already does.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He doesn’t know what friends are supposed to be like. That’s sad, isn’t it? The fact that he doesn’t even have a frame of reference. That he has to look it up , just to be sure. Just to confirm whether or not Evan, Pandora, Barty, and Dorcas are actually his friends—or if they just feel bad for him.
It’s not like it’s his fault he doesn’t know. Nobody’s ever liked him before. Not in a way that matters. Not in a way that lasts.
Maybe if he had been in one school long enough, things would be different. But constant moving, constantly being the new kid , never having the chance to settle—none of it had helped.
And even if it had , even if he had stayed in one place, he doubts it would have changed much. Because Regulus can’t read people properly. Their words, their expressions, their emotions—it’s all a puzzle missing half the pieces. The person has to be really blunt, really obvious, for him to understand what they mean.
And even then, it’s still difficult.
It’s not like he’s funny. He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t have hobbies outside of reading, and even that’s something he prefers to do alone. Books make sense. People don’t.
People feel like too much, sometimes. Not in a bad way, necessarily—just… overwhelming. Draining. It’s like he’s a battery that depletes the longer he’s around them. And he doesn’t hate being around them, not really. But it’s exhausting in a way he doesn’t think they’d understand.
The only time he ever truly recharges is when he’s alone, tucked away in the quiet, lost in the pages of a book.
It’s not normal, he thinks, having to recharge from social situations, or even from leaving the house. Regulus knows it’s not normal. He knows he’s not normal. He’s come to terms with this fact ever since it was made known.
Still, sometimes it can be too much.
It had been too loud. The cafeteria, the chatter, the overlapping voices—too much, too much.
Regulus had tried to escape, but his feet had stopped working, his breath hitching in a way that wasn’t right. His hands had clenched at his sides, fingers digging into his palms.
Then, a hand had found his wrist—gentle, grounding.
"Come on," Dorcas had murmured, voice steady but soft.
He had let her lead him out of the cafeteria, past the noise, into the quieter hall. She hadn’t asked him what was wrong, hadn’t tried to make him talk.
Instead, she had just sat beside him on the floor, pulling out a pack of gum from her pocket.
"Chew," she had said, handing him a piece. "It helps."
And maybe it was stupid, but it had helped.
She hadn’t left until his breathing had evened out.
And she hadn’t brought it up again after that.
This happened last Monday.
Last Monday.
Last Monday, just before he got suspended. Last Monday, just after his things had been destroyed. That was when Regulus made the mistake of going to the cafeteria.
In hindsight, it wasn’t his smartest decision. He’d been upset— really upset. He probably should have just gone to the library or found an empty classroom instead of putting himself in the middle of the busiest, loudest place in the school. But at the time, the idea of sitting with Pandora and the others, pretending everything was fine, had been unbearable. Even if they would have let him sit with them, Regulus hadn’t wanted to burden them with his problems.
So, that was how he ended up there, sitting stiffly at an empty table, picking apart a sandwich he had no intention of eating, trying—and failing—to block out the noise.
Not one of his brightest moments.
Regulus isn’t sure how he feels about what happened next. About the way Dorcas found him. About the way she sat down beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world and helped him through… whatever that moment had been. A freak-out, maybe—he isn’t sure. He just remembers shaking hands, too many voices, the feeling of everything pressing in on him, and then Dorcas’ voice cutting through it all. Steady. Certain. A lifeline.
He still doesn’t know how she even knew he was there. She’s in a grade above him, so it’s not like they share classes. Maybe she just happened to see him. Maybe she had other friends in the cafeteria and had noticed him falling apart from across the room. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?
Regulus wonders if he should ask Dorcas what it means to be a friend.
The thought is ridiculous, and he knows it. Dorcas already thinks they’re friends. If he asks, it’ll probably insult her. And if that happens, she might decide she doesn’t want to be his friend after all.
Which is ridiculous. Because that would imply they are friends in the first place.
And they’re not .
… Right?
Regulus clenches his jaw, staring down at the desk as he waits for class to start. His English class. The one he has with Pandora.
Pandora.
That’s another thing he doesn’t understand.
She was the one who handed him the invitation. Which could mean a lot of things—like, for instance, she was the one who wanted him there. Or maybe she was just being polite. Maybe she felt sorry for him because he was new.
Which brings him back to the fact that he is new. The new kid. Again.
Regulus spots Pandora sitting in her usual seat and takes the one beside her before he can talk himself out of it. He doesn’t understand how someone like her—someone so effortlessly bright, so put-together , so good —could want to be friends, let alone associated , with someone like him.
It’s funny, he thinks, that he has to unpack Pandora’s box.
He came across the meaning once while researching Greek mythology. The story had been fascinating in a detached sort of way: Pandora, the first woman on Earth, was given a box by the gods. When she opened it, all the evils of the world were unleashed. But at the very bottom of the box, one thing remained— hope.
A metaphor, obviously. A warning about curiosity, about unintended consequences. But also a reminder that no matter how much darkness there was in the world, there was always something left to hold onto.
Regulus glances at Pandora from the corner of his eye. With her long platinum blonde hair woven into intricate braids, she looks like something out of a fairytale.
She is hope, he thinks. The embodiment of it.
How can someone like her embody hope? It’s just a word .
And Regulus knows what hope does to people. It destroys them. Disappoints them. Hope is just another way to set yourself up for failure. Another way to trick yourself into thinking things can be different.
Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. He stays seated next to her, as if by being near her, he might be able to steal a sliver of that hope for himself.
He wants to hope. He wants to believe. But he can’t. He can’t unlearn what’s already been wired into him, can’t rewrite the way his mind has been trained to think.
And he knows himself well enough to realize that no matter how much hope there is in the world, the damage has already been done.
Which, if he thinks about it, is incredibly depressing.
But that’s just how it is.
Mr. Andrews starts speaking at the front of the room, but Regulus isn’t paying attention. He should be—he’s already missed three days of school because of his suspension—but he can’t seem to focus.
Instead, his mind drifts back to Friday.
The day he came back. The day Pandora found out one of his secrets.
He remembers her face when she realized. The horror, the shock. He remembers the outrage on Evan and Barty’s faces when they found out he’d been suspended. He suspects Dorcas had already known—judging by her reaction, at least—but even she had looked slightly horrified.
Some part of Regulus had been glad they reacted that way.
His cousin, Narcissa, once told him, “If you want to know what someone really thinks, pay attention to how they react.”
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But over the years, he’s come to rely on that advice more than he’d like to admit. Reactions are one of the only ways he can tell what people are thinking. Even if he struggles to read people, emotions that strong—shock, anger, horror —are hard to fake.
But still, it had terrified him.
Usually, when people find out—his big secret, that is—things get worse for him. Isolation turns to outright hostility. People whisper, people stare , people talk .
It’s why he panicked the second Pandora found out.
Because no matter how much she embodies hope—no matter how much she wants to be his friend—Regulus knows better than to expect it to last.
Regulus didn’t talk about his placement. It wasn’t that he was ashamed—at least, that’s what he told himself. It was just… easier to keep it to himself.
But now, sitting in the guidance counselor’s office, he feels exposed .
The receptionist looks at him kindly from behind her desk, hands folded neatly over a stack of paperwork. “Would you like me to call your foster mother? Mrs. Potter?”
Regulus freezes.
Panic flares in his chest like a struck match, sharp and immediate. He shakes his head quickly— too quickly—his breath catching in his throat. No. Absolutely not. He doesn’t want that. He can’t have that.
The receptionist only hums in acknowledgment, turning back to her paperwork like nothing is wrong, but Pandora is watching him. He can feel it.
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just shifts slightly in the chair beside him, the old leather creaking under her weight. And then, softly, “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
Regulus stiffens.
She isn’t looking at him. Her hands are neatly folded in her lap, gaze fixed on the floor. Like this is just a casual conversation. Like she’s not saying something that makes his chest ache.
“But just so you know,” she continues, voice quiet but certain, “I’m not gonna ask questions you don’t want to answer.”
The words settle between them, filling the silence. Heavy. Uncomplicated. True.
Regulus watches her carefully, searching for any trace of pity, any look he doesn’t want to see. But Pandora only fiddles with the hem of her sweater, waiting, patient as ever.
She doesn’t expect anything from him.
She just… means it.
Regulus doesn’t respond, but something in his chest loosens. Just a little.
Trust is a strange concept.
Regulus has always been taught that trust is dangerous. That to rely on someone is to hand them a weapon they can use against you. It’s not just difficult—it’s impossible. Trust takes time, patience, and a bond strong enough to hold its weight.
But Regulus has never been around long enough to form those kinds of bonds. To trust someone means to let them in. And letting people in? That’s not something he’s ever been allowed to do.
So when Pandora found out his secret—when she realized he doesn’t talk, not because he won’t, but because he can’t —he had braced himself for the inevitable. Questions. Pity. The slow, creeping distance that always comes when people realize he isn’t what they expected.
But the questions never come.
They’re all sitting at the table in the library, books open but barely touched, the warm hum of conversation wrapping around him like a blanket. Nothing is said. Not a word. Pandora doesn’t bring it up. Neither does Evan or Dorcas or Barty.
It’s like, to them, nothing ever happened.
Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t know what to do with any of this.
A part of him wants to ask. Wants to demand an explanation for why they’re treating him like this —like he’s normal. Like his silence isn’t something to be fixed or questioned or picked apart.
But he doesn’t.
Because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t have to explain himself.
Maybe he should be suspicious. Maybe he should still be waiting for the inevitable moment when they realize he isn’t worth the effort.
But for now, he doesn’t push. He lets the conversation flow around him, lets the warmth settle under his skin, lets himself exist in this space without being questioned.
Maybe this is what trust is supposed to feel like.
Regulus wants to believe that this is what trust feels like. He doesn’t want to say the word hope, but, if there was a better word than believe, it’s hope.
Which, is kinda gross, when he thinks about it.
Regulus walks into his Science class, slipping into his usual seat toward the back. He sets his bag down, carefully pulling out his notebook, already thinking about the assignments piling up. He’s been trying to stay on top of everything—Science, History, Computing. The workload feels endless, but he has to keep up. He has to be prepared.
Because the alternative? The alternative is what happened last Friday .
He had walked into French that day feeling completely unaware of what was waiting for him. He had sat down, expecting just another lesson, only for Ms. Ellsworth to place a quiz on his desk—one he hadn’t known about. One he hadn’t studied for.
Regulus had never felt more unprepared in his life.
Panic had hit him instantly, his fingers tightening around the edges of the paper as his mind went blank. He hated that feeling— hates that feeling. Because what’s worse than hope ? Being unprepared.
And that’s exactly what he had been.
If he had known, he would have studied. He would have been ready . But Ms. Ellsworth never made things easy for him. Because French was his first language, she always made sure to give him harder content, more complex sentence structures, advanced comprehension exercises. It was always just a little more difficult for him than it was for the others.
And that day? That day was no different.
He had been spiraling, his brain locking up, the words on the page swimming before his eyes—until Barty had leaned over.
Barty, who had taken one look at his face and immediately understood.
"Don’t stress," he had whispered, casual and confident as ever. "You’ve got this. You’ll crush it."
Barty’s words hadn’t made the panic disappear. Not entirely. But they had helped. A little .
And after it was over… well… let’s just say Barty had been right.
Regulus had crushed it.
It wasn’t a big deal. Just a quiz. A stupid, stupid French quiz.
Regulus hadn’t even known he was taking it. He had only just returned from suspension, barely settled back into his routine, when Ms. Ellsworth dropped the paper onto his desk during class. Makeup quiz, Black. No exceptions.
And of course, because nothing could ever be easy, the teacher had modified the test— You already speak French, so let’s challenge you a bit.
Regulus had barely processed what was happening before the clock was ticking, and he was forced to scribble down answers without thinking too hard. He hadn’t studied. He hadn’t prepared. But somehow, he’d still managed a literal perfect score.
Not that he cared.
Barty, however, definitely cared.
"Oi, you lot, guess who just crushed that French quiz without even knowing it was happening, " Barty announced, plucking the paper off Regulus’ desk before he could react.
Regulus stiffened. Barty—
"One hundred percent!" Barty declared, brandishing it like a trophy. "And that’s after Ms. Ellsworth cranked up the difficulty just for him!" He grinned. "Did that stop our boy Reg? Absolutely not. "
Dorcas let out a low whistle, leaning over to glance at the score. "Damn, Reg. That’s actually impressive."
"You should’ve seen it," Barty continued, undeterred. "The guy wasn’t even prepared. Just walks in, gets a quiz slapped in front of him, and boom —genius mode."
Pandora smirked, nudging his arm. "Guess we know who to cheat off next time."
Regulus scoffed, rolling his eyes, but before he could stop it, warmth spread through his chest.
It was just a quiz. It didn’t matter.
But… maybe it did. Just a little.
There’s something unexpectedly nice about Barty’s relentless bragging. About the way he held up Regulus’ quiz like it’s a trophy, about the pride in his voice that seemed far too big for something so small. It makes Regulus feel... lighter . Like maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t have to second-guess himself so much. Like maybe he is good at something. Like maybe he can be good at something.
French has always been second nature to him, slipping from his mind as easily as breathing, but hearing Barty and the others talk about it like it’s impressive makes him think—maybe it is . Maybe he is .
He’s never thought that way before. Regulus never let himself think about himself that way. Never let the door open.
Maybe, that’s what having friends is meant to do. Right? They’re meant to bring out the good in yourself and let you see that?
Regulus isn’t quite sure. The thought clings to him, unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome, even as the shrill ring of the bell yanks him back to reality.
His head snaps up.
Mrs. Birch—his teacher, his teacher—says something about their homework, but he barely hears it, already scrambling to shove his things into his bag. Science. He was in Science. Is in Science.
Well. Was. Class is over now.
He hadn’t even noticed. Hadn’t realized just how lost in his thoughts he’d been until the room around him was already emptying, students filing out into the hallway.
Regulus huffs in frustration, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he bolts upright. He’s going to be late for History. History , which he shares with Evan of all people.
Evan.
That thought makes him hesitate.
Because that leads him back to something else. Something worse.
The birthday party.
Regulus still doesn’t understand why Evan and Pandora invited him. Out of everyone in their year—out of everyone in existence—why him ?
He feels uneasy just thinking about it.
People don’t just invite him to things. People don’t want him at things.
So why them? Why now?
He bites the inside of his cheek, shaking his head as he rushes toward the door. He doesn’t have time to spiral about this now. He doesn’t have time to let himself overthink.
What he does have time for, apparently, is this strange sense of déjà vu creeping up on him as he moves through the hallway. It’s an odd feeling—uneasy, familiar, like he’s walked straight into the past without realizing it.
It was only just Friday when he got cornered. Only just Friday when Colin and his gang had surrounded him, all cruel smirks and sharper words, cutting into him like they always did.
But Evan had been there.
Evan had been there, standing between him and them like it was nothing . Like it was easy .
Like it was just what you do .
Regulus still doesn’t understand why.
Why would Evan—someone who doesn’t need to care, someone who could so easily look away—choose to stand up for him? Why would he go out of his way? Why would he help him ?
It doesn’t make sense.
Nothing about any of this makes sense.
The thought gnaws at him, restless and relentless, even as he slips through the classroom door just before the bell rings. He moves on instinct, making his way to his seat beside Evan, his mind still caught on why, why, why —
Then Evan looks at him.
And smiles.
Regulus stiffens, caught off guard. It’s not a smug smile, not one of amusement or mockery or anything else he’s used to seeing directed at him. It’s just... a smile. Casual. Easy.
Like they’re friends. Like they are friends.
Regulus tears his gaze away, staring down at the desk as his thoughts swirl.
He doesn’t understand any of this. He doesn’t understand Evan .
But most of all—he doesn’t understand why .
It happened after class, in the hallway, when Regulus had been minding his own business. He should have seen it coming. Colin and his gang were nothing if not persistent.
"Look who it is," Colin sneered, stepping in front of him. "Back from suspension, Black? Thought you’d have learned your lesson by now."
Regulus braced himself, fingers tightening around the straps of his backpack. He could already hear the taunts coming, already feel the weight of old instincts creeping in— stay quiet, don’t react, don’t give them a reason—
Then, suddenly, there was a shift beside him. A presence.
"Do you ever shut up?"
Evan.
His voice was calm, almost lazy, but there was something sharp underneath. He stepped forward, just enough to put himself between Regulus and Colin, arms crossed over his chest. His expression unreadable, but his stare unwavering.
Colin hesitated. It was small—just the briefest flicker—but Regulus caught it.
"Relax, Rosier," Colin scoffed, but it wasn’t as smug as before. "Didn’t realize you’d taken in a stray."
Evan didn’t even blink. "Didn’t realize you were so obsessed with him," he shot back. "You always this interested in other people’s business, or is this a special hobby?"
Colin’s smirk twitched. His friends shuffled awkwardly, exchanging glances, and then—just like that—they backed off, turning away like they had something better to do.
Regulus exhaled, barely realizing he’d been holding his breath. His heart still pounded in his ears, but the usual humiliation—the sinking, suffocating shame—never settled in.
"You good?" Evan asked, like this was nothing. Like it was just what he did.
Regulus didn’t know how to respond. He just nodded.
Things could have turned out a lot worse if Evan hadn’t been there. Regulus knows things would have turned out worse.
He doesn’t dwindle on it for too long, because the second the bell rings, Regulus is practically sprinting out of his History class. He’s moving with a determination he rarely allows himself to feel. He doesn’t slow down until he reaches the library, the familiar scent of paper and ink wrapping around him like a safety net.
He needs to know.
He beelines to the section where he remembers seeing it last—a thick, dusty book filled with definitions, explanations, meanings. He flips through the pages feverishly, heart pounding, until finally—finally—he finds it.
Friend (noun): A person with whom you share a bond of mutual affection, trust, and support.
Regulus stares at the words.
Affection. Trust. Support.
He swallows hard. Mutual affection. Mutual trust. Mutual support.
Does that mean…?
His eyes scan the next part.
Friends provide companionship, emotional support, and often engage in activities together.
Companionship. Pandora .
She’s been there from the start—always patient, always understanding. She’s the one who handed him the invitation. The one who let him sit next to her in English, even when he barely spoke. The one who never pushed, never demanded more than he could give. She’s been there through the overwhelming mess that is school, standing steady like a lighthouse in the storm.
Evan .
Evan, who never hesitates to step between Regulus and Colin’s gang. Who throws out casual reassurances like they cost nothing, but somehow, they mean everything .
Barty .
Barty, who turns the dullest moments into something to laugh about. Who makes French class bearable and helps Regulus get through Computing without making him feel stupid.
Dorcas .
Dorcas, who noticed him having one of his moments in the cafeteria and just… helped. Without asking. Without expecting anything in return.
Regulus grips the edge of the page.
He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t know if he’s the kind of person who gives emotional support, but… but he listens . He tries. That counts for something, doesn’t it? That’s what a friend is supposed to do— right ?
His gaze drops to the final part of the definition.
They are there for each other in times of need, celebrate successes, and help navigate challenges.
Regulus’ breath catches.
They have been there for him.
And in his own way—hesitant, uncertain—he’s been there for them too.
It’s mutual .
Something inside him shifts, like the pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.
Regulus hadn’t expected them to sit with him. He had assumed their first encounter in the library was a one-time thing—a brief interaction before they inevitably moved on. But the very next day, when he took a seat at the far end of the cafeteria, tray of food untouched in front of him, they showed up again.
Pandora slid into the seat beside him like she belonged there, nudging his tray closer with an expectant look. "You should eat."
Regulus stared at her, then at the others as they took their places around him. Barty stole one of his grapes without asking. Evan offered him half of his sandwich. Dorcas rolled her eyes and muttered something about Regulus looking like a ‘broody Victorian ghost.’
They talked amongst themselves, filling the silence with an easy back-and-forth, but never once did they try to force Regulus to join in. They just... let him be.
And maybe that was the strangest part—how normal it felt.
It clicks.
Regulus has friends. Real friends.
He shouldn’t be this surprised… but honestly? He thinks he’s allowed.
That’s a first.
Being allowed .
In all eleven years of his life, he’s never been allowed to have things. Not really. Not things that mattered. He’s never been allowed to want something, to keep something. To feel something without consequence.
But maybe now he can.
Is that so bad? Letting himself have this? Allowing himself to believe—just for a second—that he might deserve it?
Regulus swallows hard. No. It is bad. Allowing things is just as dangerous as hoping for them. And hope… hope only leads to disappointment.
He vowed a long time ago never to let himself be disappointed again.
But still… maybe this is the one exception. Maybe—just maybe—he does deserve to have friends.
The thought makes his chest ache.
He scoffs at himself. No. He doesn’t deserve them. He doesn’t deserve the patience, the kindness, the ridiculous warmth he’s been given. He doesn’t deserve the Potters. He doesn’t deserve Sarah. He doesn’t even deserve his own brother.
That last thought makes him freeze.
No.
That’s not right. That’s never been right.
Regulus clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. He isn’t the one who’s undeserving. Sirius is.
It’s Sirius’ fault he never had any friends.
People call him spiteful for thinking that. Maybe they’re right. But why shouldn’t he be? Sirius never let him have friends. Sirius isolated him—kept him close, like Regulus was something to own , something that only he could have.
And for what?
Because Sirius wanted to protect him? Because Sirius wanted to keep him safe? Because Sirius wanted him to need him?
No.
Regulus isn’t going to let Sirius win. Not now. Not ever. Never again .
So, yeah. Maybe he’s doing this out of spite. Maybe this is about proving something. Maybe it’s about hating his brother for ruining his life.
But it doesn’t feel like spite when he turns back toward the table where Pandora—no, where his friends sit.
His friends .
The thought settles in his chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. They’re his .
And Sirius—his brother —can never take them away from him.
Regulus breathes in, then out, steady and sure. And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself smile. Because, now? Now he actually has people to count on. His friends.
***
It took Regulus—a little longer than he cares to admit—to come to terms with the fact that he has friends. Like, actual friends.
It’s a crazy concept to comprehend. Even now, walking through the crowded hallway at the end of the day, it still doesn’t feel real . It doesn’t feel like something that belongs to him. But it does.
He has friends.
Wow.
The rest of his day moves like clockwork—classes, assignments, the occasional wave from Barty or nod from Dorcas. Before he knows it, the final bell rings, releasing the flood of students into the halls.
Regulus grabs his things, barely having time to process the relief of another school day being over before Pandora falls into step beside him. They weave through the rush of students, heading toward his locker, when she nudges his arm lightly.
“So,” she whispers, tilting her head toward him, “are you going to ask your foster mother if you can come to the party?”
Regulus stiffens.
He hadn’t thought about it. At all. He’s spent so much time just trying to wrap his head around the fact that he has friends— that they want him around —that the idea of actually going to the party hadn’t even registered.
His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of notebook. He shrugs, a small, uncertain movement, and nods once.
Pandora watches him, her sharp gaze missing nothing . There’s no judgment in her expression, no impatience, just understanding. Pure, simple understanding.
“Look,” she says, her voice softer now, “if you can’t come, Evan and I won’t be mad. Evan might be a little upset, but he’ll get over it. It’ll be okay if you can’t.”
Regulus swallows. He doesn’t know what to say to that.
Because she means it. He can tell. There’s no pressure, no expectation, no demand hidden in her words. Just the quiet reassurance that he’s not going to lose them over this .
And Regulus revels in that.
Because it’s something he’s never had before—this safety in friendship, this room to breathe .
Still, he thinks about it.
And maybe… maybe he should try.
Maybe it’s the least he can do.
Because they’re his friends . And they want him there.
He exhales slowly, nodding again—firmer this time, more resolute—before stepping outside.
James is waiting for him by the school gates, leaning casually against the fence, scrolling through his phone. The sight of him—this constant presence at the end of the day—grounds Regulus more than he expects.
And as he walks toward him, something settles in his chest.
He’ll ask.
He has to try.
Regulus steps up to the school gates, his bag hanging off his shoulders, as James looks up from his phone.
“Hey,” James greets, slipping the device into his pocket. “How was your day?”
Regulus shrugs, nodding once in response. He’s not sure what else to say. It was a day. Like the others before it. A little different, but still the same.
They stand there for a moment, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. The schoolyard is noisy with the sounds of students talking, laughing, and rushing off to their buses or parents' cars. But between them, it’s quiet.
James exhales, tilting his head back slightly. “Mine was kind of sucky. Boring. Assignments, studying—so much studying . If I have to read one more page of my History textbook, I think I’m going to die .”
Regulus nods when expected, offering a vague hum of acknowledgment. He’s not particularly invested in the topic, but he knows James likes to talk, and he doesn’t mind listening. Even if the finds the other boy extremely irritating at times.
Before long, a familiar car pulls up at the pickup zone. Mrs. Potter is behind the wheel, smiling as she waves them over. James moves first, sliding into the front seat, while Regulus climbs into the back.
“Hey, boys,” Mrs. Potter greets as James clicks on his seatbelt. “How was school?”
James doesn’t hesitate, launching into a near-identical recap of his day. Regulus tunes it out almost instantly, his gaze drifting out the window as the scenery blurs past. He already knows what James is going to say. He just heard it.
His mind, instead, fixates on something else.
Asking.
He’s going to have to ask Mrs. Potter if he can go to the party. That’s simple enough. She’s nice. She likes him. There’s a good chance she’ll say yes.
But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes—it’s not just Mrs. Potter he has to ask.
It’s Mr. Potter, too.
Regulus sits a little straighter, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.
He didn’t think about that.
Of course, Mr. Potter isn’t mean . Not even close. But there’s something about asking him that feels more… complicated.
Regulus isn’t sure why.
Either way, he needs a plan.
After dinner. That seems like the right time. A good time.
It can’t be that hard. Right?
Wrong. It is that hard.
Regulus can’t stop his thoughts from spiraling. The more he thinks about it, the worse it gets.
It’s just one simple question. A yes-or-no question. Nothing complicated. Nothing difficult.
But it is difficult.
Because asking means opening the door to uncertainty, to rules he doesn’t fully understand.
He doesn’t know the expectations here. Doesn’t know if there are rules about birthday parties or sleepovers. He hasn’t seen any of James’ friends over. What if that means James isn’t allowed to have friends over? What if he’s not allowed to go to birthday parties?
In previous homes, there had been strict rules about these things. Friends weren’t really a consideration. Sleepovers? A privilege he hadn’t earned.
What if it’s the same here?
The sick feeling in his stomach builds with every passing hour. By the time dinner rolls around, Regulus can barely focus on his food. Every bite feels heavy, like it’s going to come right back up if he forces himself to swallow.
The conversation around him fades into the background. James is talking about something—school, probably—but Regulus barely hears it. He’s too busy gripping the invitation in his lap, the paper growing slightly crumpled under the pressure of his fingers.
It’s fine. He just has to ask .
Except the moment dinner is over, his resolve cracks.
The plates are cleared, the sound of running water fills the kitchen, and Regulus stands frozen in the doorway, invitation still clenched in his slightly trembling hands.
This was a bad idea.
He should just forget about it. He should go upstairs, pretend this never mattered, pretend he never even thought about going. It’s not that important.
Regulus is just about to turn around when Mr. Potter glances up from where he’s drying a plate. His gaze lands on him almost instantly.
“Everything alright, kiddo?”
Regulus stiffens. Damn it.
He must look nervous. That’s the only reason Mr. Potter is asking. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, fingers tightening around the invitation, his palms growing clammy. He looks down at the paper, willing himself to say something , to just ask —
Mrs. Potter turns from the sink, wiping her hands on a towel. “Did something happen at school today, sweetheart?”
And before Regulus can talk himself out of it, he moves.
With a sharp exhale, he thrusts the invitation forward, still not looking up. The movement is quick, almost desperate— take it, before I change my mind.
Someone takes the paper from his hands. He hears the soft rustle of it being unfolded, the low hum of Mr. Potter reading over it.
Mrs. Potter’s voice is warm when she asks, “Would you like to go?”
There’s a lightness to her tone, something hopeful. He ignores it. Forces himself to nod, just once.
“Well,” Mr. Potter says, “this party’s got perfect timing. You don’t have a check-in next weekend.”
Mrs. Potter chuckles. “I guess it does.”
Regulus finally looks up.
They’re both smiling.
He doesn’t understand why.
Mrs. Potter meets his gaze. “You can most certainly go, sweetheart.”
Oh.
She continues, “But if you need anything, or if it gets to be too much, you can always come home. No questions asked.”
Regulus blinks .
That—he wasn’t expecting that .
He stares at her, his brain struggling to process the sheer… understanding in her words. There’s no but be on your best behavior or but don’t be a bother . Just—if you need to come home, come home .
Can Regulus even call this place his home? Is he even allowed to?
Something warm coils in his chest. It’s unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
He nods, shyly.
Mr. Potter closes the invitation. “We’ll talk about the details later, but yeah, you can go.”
A quiet rush of excitement bubbles up before Regulus can stop it. The smile spreads across his face before he even realizes he’s smiling, and his body follows before he can think. He starts bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, a light, repeated movement—
Mrs. Potter chuckles softly.
Mr. Potter grins. “Thanks for telling us about this, bud.”
Regulus nods again. Then, a little awkwardly, he gives them a small wave before turning to leave.
“Goodnight, love,” Mrs. Potter calls.
“Goodnight, kiddo,” Mr. Potter chimes in.
Regulus hesitates for just a second before lifting a hand in a small wave again, then heads for the stairs.
As he climbs them, his mind is still reeling—processing, adjusting, settling.
But one thought sticks, looping over and over again in his head.
Now I have something to tell my friends about tomorrow.
Notes:
Word Count: 10,261
Published: 2025-02-15As requested/suggested, I will go back to Chapters 6 and 10 and add which character's perspective it is, this will also be the case for previous chapters that have the dual POV of Euphemia and Fleamont. I hope it makes reading the chapter(s) easier.
Also, if you saw, I have placed down the number of chapters the fic will be out of. This is just an estimation, there might be more chapters, depending on what I write. You should have also saw this fic is part of a series. I do have a plan to write another fic that links with this one, and maybe even a third, depending on where the storyline takes me.
Thank you everyone, and I hope you enjoy reading!
Chapter 12: Happy 12th Birthday Evan and Pandora!
Summary:
Regulus has never been to a sleepover before, let alone a birthday party! Okay, well that one’s a lie. Technically, he’s been to a birthday party before. But he doesn’t think his cousin’s count.
As he gets ready, all he can think is, nothing can go wrong… right?
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
To describe the word happiness , Regulus likes to think of light . The way it filters through leaves on a summer day, or the way the sun catches on the water’s surface, making everything shimmer. It perfectly sums up the expression on Pandora’s face when he told her— well, wrote down —that he could come to her and Evan’s birthday sleepover.
It had been Wednesday, during lunch. He had been sitting in the library, at their usual table, waiting for Barty and Dorcas to show up. The invitation had been tucked safely inside his notebook, the edges slightly curled from how many times he had unfolded and refolded it, just to make sure it was real .
Pandora had been the first to arrive. She had slid into the seat across from him, setting her lunch down with a familiar, gentle presence. Regulus had hesitated, fingers twitching slightly as he reached for his pen. He had already thought of how he was going to say it—or rather, write it—but that didn’t make it any easier.
His hands were a little unsteady as he wrote out the words on a scrap piece of paper. Simple. Direct. Just enough.
I can come.
He had barely finished setting the pen down when Pandora picked up the paper. Her eyes skimmed the words, and for a moment, there was nothing. Just silence.
And then—
Her entire face lit up .
Her mouth parted in a quiet gasp, her eyes going wide with excitement, and then a beaming, unmistakably joyful smile stretched across her face.
“Yay!” she had all but squealed, bouncing slightly in her seat. “That’s amazing! ”
Before he could process it, she had shot up from her chair, practically vibrating with excitement. “Evan is going to freak out when he hears—” She cut herself off with a giddy laugh, pressing her hands against the table to ground herself.
Regulus hadn’t known what to do with all of that. He had just sat there, blinking at her, watching as that pure happiness radiated off her in waves. It had been…
Strange.
Not a bad strange, just new .
He wasn’t used to people reacting like this to him . Wasn’t used to his presence, his choices, making people happy . But watching Pandora—seeing the way her joy was so genuine, so bright—made something warm settle deep in his chest.
Evan had come storming into the library not long after, and the second Pandora had told him—“ He’s coming to the party! ”—Evan had looked at Regulus like he had just declared he’d discovered the meaning of life itself.
“No way! ” Evan had nearly shouted , before immediately lowering his voice when the librarian glared at him. He had rushed over to the table, dropping into the seat next to Regulus, his grin wildly enthusiastic. “Mate, that’s— you’re —this is awesome !”
Regulus had barely been able to nod before Evan reached over and clapped him on the shoulder, shaking him slightly, like he couldn’t physically contain his excitement.
It was overwhelming.
It was also kind of… nice.
Regulus had tucked that feeling away, unsure what to do with it.
But now, walking through the halls towards his next class, he replays the moment in his head, letting the warmth of it sink in.
They were happy.
Because of him .
Regulus isn’t sure he’s ever been the cause of someone’s happiness before. Not like this . Not in a way that feels so… pure . Uncomplicated. Like it isn’t attached to expectation or obligation, like it isn’t something he’s supposed to earn .
He doesn’t quite know what to do with that.
The idea that he, just by existing in their lives, by showing up, by saying yes , could bring someone joy— real joy—is foreign. Unfamiliar in a way that makes his stomach twist. It feels too big, too impossible.
And yet, he had seen it so clearly on their faces. Had watched the way Pandora’s eyes had gone wide with excitement, how she had beamed at him like his answer had been the best thing she’d heard all day. Had seen the way Evan had thrown his arms in the air, barely restraining the urge to cheer.
And Regulus had just stood there , staring at them, completely at a loss.
Because what was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say ?
The tightness in his chest had made it hard to breathe, the sheer weight of their happiness pressing down on him, unfamiliar and overwhelming in equal measure. But there had been something else beneath it too. Something softer. Something warm.
Something that lingered long after they had moved on.
It’s strange to think about, realistically. That one simple act—one tiny decision—could have that much impact. Could mean that much .
The thought stays with him as he reaches for his bag, lifting it from the floor. His fingers brush against the folded paper on the desk—the packing list Pandora had given him, sitting right where he left it.
He hesitates for only a second before picking it up.
The Potters had had this conversation with Regulus the night before he told Pandora and Evan he could attend their birthday party.
They had waited until after dinner, after the table had been cleared and the dishes were nearly done. Regulus had been lingering in the kitchen, hovering at the edge of the room, when Mr. Potter turned to him with that easy, warm smile of his.
“Regulus, why don’t you sit down for a minute?” Mr. Potter had said, nodding toward one of the kitchen stools. “We wanted to talk to you about the party.”
Regulus had frozen slightly at that. He had expected some kind of follow-up, of course—he knew things like this had rules , even if he wasn’t sure exactly what they were—but the idea of actually sitting down and discussing it made his stomach twist.
Still, he had nodded and cautiously perched on the edge of the stool, hands clasped together tightly in his lap.
Mrs. Potter had given him a soft smile before speaking. “We just wanted to go over a few things, sweetheart. Nothing bad, I promise.”
Regulus had nodded again, barely breathing, bracing for whatever was coming next.
Mr. Potter leaned against the counter, folding his arms in a way that made him seem relaxed , not intimidating. “So, first things first—you know our house rules still apply when you’re staying somewhere else, yeah? Just the basics: be polite, be respectful, and if anything makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to go along with it.”
Mrs. Potter had picked up where he left off, her voice gentle. “And we mean that, Regulus. You don’t ever have to do something just because everyone else is doing it. You can always say no.”
Regulus had swallowed, nodding stiffly. That made sense. That was reasonable .
Mr. Potter continued, “We’d also like you to check in once, just so we know you’re okay. A quick text will do—doesn’t have to be much, just a simple ‘all good.’”
Regulus had felt his muscles tighten at that. It wasn’t that he minded checking in—he just… wasn’t used to people wanting him to.
Mrs. Potter must have seen the way he tensed, because she had reached across the counter and lightly tapped his wrist. “It’s not about checking on you, love. It’s about making sure you’re safe .”
Safe.
The word had lodged itself somewhere deep in his chest.
He had nodded again, forcing himself to loosen his grip on his own hands.
Mr. Potter had exchanged a glance with his wife before saying, “And bud, listen—if, for any reason, you need to come home, you can . It doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night, or if you feel silly about it, or if you don’t know why you feel off. If you need to leave, get either, Pandora and Evan’s Mum and Dad to call us. We will come get you.”
Mrs. Potter had nodded firmly in agreement. “It doesn’t matter what time it is, sweetheart. We’d much rather pick you up than have you stay somewhere you don’t feel comfortable.”
Regulus had stared at them then, really stared, searching for any hint of something else . A trick. A test. A hidden condition.
But there was nothing. Just open sincerity. Just understanding .
Just… care .
It had been overwhelming in a way he hadn’t expected.
And now, thinking back on that conversation, Regulus still isn’t sure how to process it.
Because they meant it.
They really, genuinely meant it.
And that realization settles inside him like something solid, something warm—something safe .
Because for them, Regulus being safe is their main priority.
Which, in Regulus’ opinion, is odd.
Not because safety itself is strange, but because his safety has never been anyone’s top priority before. Not like this. Not in a way that feels like a promise rather than an obligation.
The Potters had told him, if, for whatever reason, you need to come home, it doesn’t matter what time, we’ll be there.
And they had meant it .
It’s a concept so foreign to him that he doesn’t quite know how to process it. The idea that he has a safety net now, that there is someone — two someones —who will always come for him if he needs them. Who want him to be safe, simply because he is .
His fingers tighten around the packing list, the paper crinkling slightly in his grip.
He has never really had this before. This feeling. This certainty .
And he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Instead, he focuses on something else. Something simpler. Something easier to understand.
A gift.
Because he needs to get Pandora and Evan the perfect birthday gift.
Only—he doesn’t know what the perfect gift would be. Because he doesn’t know them well enough to make that kind of decision on his own.
The thought makes his stomach twist uncomfortably, anxiety curling tight in his chest. They’re his friends. He should know these things.
But he doesn’t.
And the last thing he wants is to get them something meaningless, something that will make it obvious how little he really knows about them.
So, he had decided on the next best thing.
He had asked.
Specifically, he had asked Evan .
Not because he didn’t care about finding the right gift. But, because Regulus already had an idea for what he was going to get Pandora.
It had taken him longer than it should have to do it. He had spent the better part of their lunch break staring at the blank page in front of him, tapping the end of his pen against the table, trying to come up with the right way to phrase the question.
Because he needed to get them the perfect gift. That was just how birthdays worked.
Right?
Eventually, he had scrawled out the words in neat, deliberate handwriting:
What do you want for your birthday?
And then, after another moment of hesitation, he had slid the paper across the table toward Evan.
Evan had looked down at it, blinking, then up at Regulus, before his face split into a slow, confused grin before saying, “You don’t have to bring anything, Regulus. It’s fine.”
Regulus frowned. That was not an acceptable answer.
He took the pen back, pressing the paper flat as he wrote:
Tell me, or I won’t go.
Evan read it. Then read it again. His smile dimmed slightly, brows furrowing.
“Jeez, okay,” he muttered, a little put off.
Regulus smiled, satisfied, because he was getting his way.
Barty, who had been flipping idly through a book beside him, leaned over to peek at the note. He scanned the exchange, then shot Regulus a sideways glance.
"Was that a joke?" Barty asked, voice light, but with an edge of something careful.
Regulus nodded.
Barty looked at Evan. Evan looked at Dorcas. Dorcas looked at Pandora. Pandora looked back at Regulus.
And then, just like that, the tension in the air vanished.
Regulus didn’t quite understand why , but it didn’t seem to matter.
Evan rolled his eyes, shaking his head with a small laugh before stating, “Fine.” Evan paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I’d like whatever you pick out, Regulus. It’ll be perfect because it’s from you.”
picking up the pen again.
Fine. I’d like whatever you pick out, Reg. It’ll be perfect because it’s from you.
Regulus still wasn’t sure what to make of that. He looked out at Pandora, who gave him a weird look. It’s the kind of look his brother used to give him as if to say ‘ I’ll tell you later .’
At least now, he had an answer.
Regulus swears that conversation with Evan had been normal. But just before he was about to enter his English class, Barty had—very politely—asked if Regulus would like him to teach him when and how to use jokes.
Any other person might have been offended by that. And Regulus was, for all of three seconds, before he quickly accepted Barty’s help. It’s not like he could say no, because, truth be told, he had sensed some weird tension in that conversation—he just didn’t know what had caused it.
For him, sometimes, it’s hard to communicate with others. To understand when someone is upset, or hurt, or happy, or experiencing any other possible human emotion.
And Regulus wouldn’t lie and say he doesn’t care—because that would be a lie. He does care. He cares enough about people, about the people around him, to want to understand them.
Regulus guesses that, when he has the confidence, he should probably ask his friends if they could help him in social situations. Or even express to them what he feels. Maybe they would understand him. That’s what friends are supposed to do, right?
Pandora, of course, did eventually tell him what to get Evan.
Regulus had found out that Evan was a hockey player. And, like all good-natured athletes, he wanted more equipment. Specifically, he wanted more hockey pucks. According to Pandora, Evan kept losing his, and whenever he wanted to play, they were nowhere to be found.
Which is why, now, as Regulus is packing for the sleepover, he carefully sets the two neatly wrapped presents onto his desk.
Regulus hopes that both Evan and Pandora like their gifts. He doesn’t want to disappoint them. As, after all, they are one of his first ever real friends, and all he wants is for them to be happy.
Pandora had even reassured him. Telling him, “Trust me, it’s perfect. He’ll love it.”
That was enough for Regulus.
With a quiet exhale, he turns back to his bag, checking the list Pandora had written for him. The items are neatly listed out—clothes, pajamas, toothbrush, socks, pillow, blanket. She had even added “yourself” at the bottom, followed by a little smiley face.
Regulus isn’t sure why that makes his chest feel lighter, but it does.
He folds his pajamas and places them carefully into his bag, then adds everything else one by one, double-checking that he has everything. The last thing he wants is to show up unprepared.
For the first time in a long time, he feels… excited.
It’s a foreign emotion, one he’s not quite sure how to handle. But as he glances at the presents sitting neatly on his desk, the feeling settles into something warm, something steady.
It’s also, the same feeling he got when he purchased their gifts—especially Pandora’s.
The guilt had settled in his stomach the moment he and Mrs. Potter stepped into the store. It coiled around his ribs, tightening with each step he took past the shelves lined with books, trinkets, and various items he wasn’t sure Pandora would even like.
Because it wasn’t his money.
Mrs. Potter wasn’t his mother.
And yet, she had insisted on taking him shopping, smiling warmly as she pushed a cart down the aisle, giving him all the time in the world to pick something out. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like spending money on him—on his friends—was just something that people did.
Regulus wasn’t used to that.
“What about this one?” Mrs. Potter asks, holding up a dark leather-bound book with intricate gold detailing on the spine. “This could be something she might like.”
Regulus shifts his weight slightly, fingers curling into the hem of his sleeve as he stares at the book. It’s beautiful, expensive-looking, the kind of thing he never would’ve considered before.
He hesitates, before glancing away.
Mrs. Potter tilts her head, studying him for a moment before setting the book back on the shelf. “It’s not about the price, sweetheart. It’s about finding something that feels right.”
Regulus swallows. He doesn’t know what feels right.
He barely knows what Pandora likes outside of her love for art. He barely knows how to navigate the world of gift-giving at all.
But he tries.
He spends far too long scanning the shelves, running his fingers over the spines, hesitating over each choice before moving on to the next.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t rush him.
She waits patiently, occasionally pointing something out but never pushing. And somehow, that makes it worse. Because she’s letting him take his time, letting him make this decision, and Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that kind of freedom.
Eventually, he stops in front of a book with a deep blue cover. The spine and front cover are embossed with an intricate silver flower pattern, and when he picks it up, the weight of it feels… right.
Regulus remembers Pandora mentioning that she needed another sketchbook after running out of space in her current one. When he flips it open, the pages have a soft, yellowish tinge—he’s read that off-white paper can make certain drawings stand out more. That seems like something she would appreciate.
He hesitates, glancing up at Mrs. Potter.
She just smiles. “That’s a good choice.”
Regulus looks back down at the book. It doesn’t feel like a good choice, because it isn’t his money. But when Mrs. Potter places a gentle hand on his shoulder and guides him toward the register, he doesn’t pull away.
The guilt is still there, but beneath it, there’s something else.
Something warm. Something he doesn’t quite understand.
Whenever Regulus needed something, previous foster parents had always told him he’d have to wait until the government checks came in. Even then, a lot of them still refused to buy him anything. Clothes, shoes, school supplies—even the most basic hygiene products were ignored.
It’s tough, living in the system. Regulus figured that out quickly. Kids like him, they learned not to expect much.
Most of the time, the things he was given were secondhand—shoes with worn soles, clothes that didn’t fit properly, notebooks already scribbled in by someone else. Even when he was younger, he had understood that he wasn’t meant to ask for anything. That he should take whatever he got, be grateful, and never expect more.
So when he moved into Mr. and Mrs. Potter’s home, he was shocked at how little he had to do to receive things. They had given him everything he needed. New shoes, new clothes, even a brand-new set of uniforms. They had asked if he wanted to pick them out himself, and when he hadn’t responded, they had chosen simple, comfortable things. Things that fit properly, things that were his.
It unsettles him.
It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate it—he does—but he can’t shake the feeling that there should be a catch. There always was before.
One of his old foster fathers once told him that if he wanted anything, he needed to deserve it first. That day, Regulus had been forced to mow the lawn in the pouring rain just to get a new pair of socks.
So it’s no surprise that guilt twists in his stomach at the thought of Mrs. Potter buying his friends’ birthday presents. He had tried to protest at the store, had tried to tell her that it wasn’t his money, but Mrs. Potter had waved him off with a warm smile, saying, “You’re allowed to spend money on your friends, sweetheart. That’s what people do.”
He still doesn’t know how to accept that.
Money had never been a problem in the Black family household. As Sirius liked to say, they were completely loaded. Regulus couldn’t disagree. Their family was extremely rich—most of them worked in politics or held prestigious positions. Money was never something he had to think about before.
That changed when he was put into care.
Ever since then, he has never stopped worrying about money. How much things cost. Whether something is worth asking for. Whether spending money on him is a burden. He hates it. The thought of people wasting their money on him makes his skin crawl.
It’s not that he doesn’t want things—it’s that he doesn’t know how to take them without feeling like he has to give something in return.
Now, Friday night, he kneels on his bedroom floor, packing his bag for the sleepover. His clothes are already folded neatly inside, along with his toothbrush and other essentials. The list Pandora made for him is spread out beside him on the bed, her careful handwriting a reassuring presence.
He double-checks the items. Pajamas? Already packed. Extra socks? He tucks them into a side pocket. A pillow and blanket? He grabs the spare blanket, the one that Mrs. Potter had given him, off from where it sits on his desk and stuffs them into his bag as best he can. He decides to leave the pillow too the morning, considering Regulus still needs to use it.
Regulus had never been to a sleepover before, so he hadn’t known what to bring. He had tried packing on his own when he got home from shopping, but it had been overwhelming. Too many options, too many things he might need but wasn’t sure if he actually did.
That’s when he’d decided to ask Pandora.
Regulus isn’t sure how to ask.
He knows he needs to bring things—clothes, a toothbrush, whatever else people take to sleepovers—but he doesn’t know what exactly he should pack. He doesn’t want to forget something important, but he also doesn’t want to bring too much and seem ridiculous.
So, he does what he always does when he doesn’t have the words. He pulls out his notebook, flips to a clean page, and writes in small, neat letters:
"What do I need to bring?"
Pandora reads it quickly before looking up at him. There’s no hesitation in her expression, no confusion—just understanding. She nods and reaches for her own notebook, flipping it open and carefully writing something down.
A minute later, she tears out the page and hands it to him.
Regulus takes it, scanning the list. It’s detailed but not overwhelming. Clothes, pajamas, a toothbrush, a blanket if he has one he likes, and a note at the bottom: If you forget anything, it’s okay. We’ll have extra.
He exhales, feeling some of the tension in his chest ease. Pandora had thought about this. She had written it in a way that made it impossible for him to misunderstand.
Regulus looks up at her and nods, a silent thank you.
Pandora grins. “Of course.”
He’s grateful for Pandora. Because without her, Regulus doesn’t think he’d be able to be this prepared.
The list sits neatly beside his bag, checked and double-checked, each item carefully packed away. Clothes, pajamas, a toothbrush, the spare blanket Mrs. Potter had given him. The wrapped gifts sit on his desk, untouched since he placed them there earlier. He’s done. Everything is ready.
So why does he feel like he’s forgotten something?
Regulus stands, brushing off his hands, but the moment he straightens up, his chest tightens. His mind starts to race.
What if he did forget something? What if he gets there and realizes he left something important behind? What if he misunderstood Pandora’s list? What if he overpacked? Or underpacked?
What if the sleepover doesn’t go well?
What if—what if he messes up? What if something happens and they realize he doesn’t actually belong there?
What if they don’t actually like him?
His breath catches, his fingers twitch at his sides. He knows these thoughts aren’t rational. He knows Pandora and Evan like him, that they want him there. But knowing doesn’t stop the anxiety from creeping in, wrapping itself around him, sinking into his chest like a weight.
He forces himself to take a deep breath.
The list.
It’s fine. He followed the list exactly. If Pandora wrote it, then it’s right. He can trust that.
Regulus swallows and slowly sits back down on his bed, pressing his hands flat against the mattress to ground himself. He’s okay. Everything is packed. The gifts are ready.
It’s just a sleepover.
He repeats it in his head like a mantra.
It’s just a sleepover. It’ll be fine. It has to be.
***
Sleep.
According to the internet, eleven-year-olds are meant to get approximately 9 to 11 hours of sleep per night. Per night. How ridiculous is that?
Last night, Regulus didn’t get any. Not a single wink of sleep.
He’s exaggerating. It was more like he got two to three hours. But still.
It just didn’t come. Sleep had evaded him all night.
That isn’t normal. Regulus can usually fall asleep with ease. But not this time. Sleep avoided him like the plague.
So, naturally, he’s exhausted.
Regulus had literally tried everything. Relaxing all his muscles, drinking warm milk. But nothing. Eventually, he gave up around one in the morning and opted to read instead.
So, he sat in the living room, right next to the lamp, and read. At some point, he must have fallen asleep because when he woke up, he was covered in a blanket, his book was closed and placed onto the coffee table, and, most obvious of all, the sun was up.
It’s quite obvious why he didn’t get enough sleep.
He was worrying.
Worrying over this sleepover, this birthday party he was supposed to attend today.
Which is how Regulus has ended up here. Standing in front of a mint-green front door, with Mr. and Mrs. Potter standing next to him.
His bag, slung over his shoulder, feels heavier than it should. His hands are tight around the wrapped presents he spent so long carefully preparing. His heart is hammering against his ribs.
The house is large but warm-looking, a soft yellow light shining through the windows. He knows this place. He’s been here before, but only briefly, only in passing.
Regulus hesitates. What if—
The door opens before he can spiral further.
Standing in the doorway is a boy, tall, broad-shouldered, looking nearly identical to Pandora and Evan. His hair is the same pale shade, his features sharp in a way that makes it undeniable that he’s their brother.
“Hello,” the boy says, voice even, polite. “You must be Regulus. Come on in.”
Regulus nods stiffly, stepping inside with Mr. and Mrs. Potter following close behind. The entryway is bright and clean, the faint smell of something floral lingering in the air.
“Felix, who is it?” A voice calls from further inside the house, light, curious.
A woman appears from around the corner. She has long, platinum-blonde hair, the same as Pandora’s, the same as Evan’s. Her sharp features soften when she spots them.
“Ah. Hello there.” She turns to the boy. “Felix, dear, can you go get your father? Then help your brother and sister upstairs.”
Felix nods, offering a small, tight-lipped smile before disappearing down the hall.
The woman steps forward. “It’s lovely to meet you, Regulus. I’m Marguerite Rosier, Pandora and Evan’s mother.”
Regulus inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment.
A moment later, a man emerges from the hallway, Felix trailing behind him. He’s tall, dark-haired, with a sharp but not unkind expression.
“Ah,” the man says. “You must be Regulus.” He turns to Mr. and Mrs. Potter, extending a hand. “Cyrus Rosier.”
Fleamont shakes it firmly. “Fleamont Potter. This is my wife, Euphemia.”
“Lovely to meet you both,” Mrs. Rosier says warmly. “Pandora and Evan have been talking about this sleepover all week.”
“They’ve been very excited,” Mr. Rosier agrees, glancing briefly at Regulus. “Pandora mentioned you might be a little nervous about coming. But she assured us you were looking forward to it.”
Regulus shifts on his feet. Pandora had mentioned something? He’s not sure how he feels about that.
Somewhere in the conversation, the topic of Regulus’ situation comes up. “Regulus is our foster son,” Mrs. Potter says, her voice gentle but firm.
“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Mrs. Rosier says easily. “Pandora already mentioned something about that. Our daughter is a very understanding young lady.”
Mr. Rosier nods in agreement, studying Regulus with a calm expression. “She also mentioned you don’t speak much. That you communicate through writing.”
Regulus tenses slightly, unsure where this is going.
“That’s perfectly fine,” Mrs. Rosier assures him. “You can write if you need anything.”
Regulus lets out a small breath, nodding.
Before they leave, Mrs. Potter turns to him. “Do you have everything you need?”
He nods.
She pauses, eyes soft. “Even your stuffed black dog?”
Regulus freezes.
His heart stutters.
He forgot it.
Panic grips his chest, crawling up his throat. He shakes his head.
“That’s alright, sweetheart,” Mrs. Potter says immediately, reaching out but stopping just before touching his shoulder. “I’ll go home and get it for you, okay?”
Regulus exhales shakily. He nods, trying to believe her. Wanting to believe her.
Mrs. Potter smiles, reassuring, and he wants to believe her so badly.
Mr. and Mrs. Potter say their goodbyes and leave, the door shutting softly behind them.
Mrs. Rosier turns to him with a kind smile. “Let’s get you settled, shall we?”
She leads him through the house, past warm-colored walls and neatly arranged furniture, until they reach the living room.
The floor is covered in blankets and pillows, the furniture pushed to the sides to make space. Pandora and Evan are there, laughing as they adjust the setup.
Regulus hesitates for only a second before stepping inside.
He walks over to the small table in the corner, setting his bag down beneath it before carefully placing the wrapped gifts on top.
Then, slowly, he turns to face the others.
Pandora grins at him. “You made it.”
Regulus nods.
Evan nudges Pandora. “Told you he’d come.”
Pandora rolls her eyes but her smile doesn’t fade.
Regulus, standing there, exhaustion weighing heavy but nerves settling just slightly, exhales.
Maybe… this will be okay.
After about ten minutes of him being in the Rosier home, Regulus has come to two conclusions. One: he swears he’s been here before. And two: he’s the first to arrive.
Apparently, Regulus was given a slightly earlier time than the others. Pandora’s justification was to make sure he didn’t get too overwhelmed and to give him some time to adjust to the new space.
Another thing he’s figured out is that Pandora is an excellent host. Almost immediately after he set his bag down, she had clapped her hands together and announced, “Alright, tour time!” before leading him through the house.
As they walk, Evan heads off to help get Barty and Dorcas settled when they arrive. Meanwhile, Pandora eagerly points out different rooms, explaining where everything is—where the bathroom is, where they keep the snacks, even where the emergency flashlights are in case of a blackout.
Regulus listens, nodding every now and then, but he finds himself distracted as they pass a framed picture hanging in the hallway. It’s a family photo. The Rosiers—Pandora, Evan, Felix, and their parents—posed in front of what looks like a lake.
Regulus’ gaze lingers on the father. He knows him. He knows he does.
But… he shouldn’t, right? That doesn’t make any sense.
A knock at the front door startles him out of his thoughts. Mrs. Rosier goes to answer it, and Regulus follows Pandora toward the entrance hall just in time to see Mrs. Potter standing there, holding something familiar in her hands.
His stuffed black dog.
The relief is immediate. His shoulders drop, and before he even realizes what he’s doing, he steps forward and wraps his arms around Mrs. Potter in a quick, tight hug.
Mrs. Potter stutters, clearly caught off guard, but she gently pats his back before pulling away with a soft smile. “There you go, sweetheart. I told you I’d bring it.”
Regulus clutches the stuffed animal tightly and nods, not trusting himself to express just how much it means to him.
Mrs. Potter says her goodbyes to Mrs. Rosier, still sounding slightly flustered, and Pandora gently tugs on Regulus’ sleeve, leading him back toward the living room.
As they walk, Pandora tilts her head at him. “Have you ever hugged Mrs. Potter before?”
Regulus stops in his tracks, blinking at her. Slowly, he shakes his head. He cocks his head slightly, silently asking, Why do you ask?
Pandora hums. “She just looked really surprised when you did. Like she wasn’t expecting it.”
Regulus frowns, processing that. Did he really hug Mrs. Potter? He did, didn’t he? But he hadn’t thought about it—hadn’t even hesitated. It had just happened.
The realization makes something in his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t quite understand.
Before he can dwell on it too much, voices from the living room pull him back to the present.
“Hey, Regulus!” Barty calls.
Dorcas grins. “Finally, we were starting to think you got lost.”
Regulus exhales, shaking off his confusion. He waves at them and follows Pandora inside, setting his thoughts aside for now. Right now, he has a birthday sleepover to enjoy.
***
The living room is a flurry of movement as they prepare for the night ahead. Pandora, ever the organiser, is directing Evan and Barty on where to place the blankets and pillows, making sure there’s enough space for everyone. Dorcas, meanwhile, is setting up the snacks, carefully arranging packets of chips, lollies, chocolate, and a large bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. Regulus lingers by the side, watching them move around, trying to figure out where he fits in.
“Regulus, can you grab those extra blankets?” Pandora asks, pointing to a pile near the couch. He nods and moves to pick them up, folding them neatly before placing them on the floor where she’s set up the main sleeping area. He’s never done something like this before—not really. Sleepovers had never been a thing in the Black household, and in foster care, he never stayed anywhere long enough to make real friends, let alone be invited to something like this.
As they finish preparing the space, the scent of warm cheese and freshly baked crust drifts into the living room. Pizza.
“Food’s here!” Evan announces, grinning as he makes his way to the front door. Regulus watches as he disappears down the hall, his stomach twisting—not with hunger, but with the odd feeling of still not quite believing he’s here, included in this.
The others filter into the kitchen, leaving Regulus standing for a moment in the quiet of the living room. He follows them after a beat but pauses when he realises he needs to go to the bathroom first. He walks down the hallway, recognising the door from the short tour Pandora gave him earlier. Just as he’s about to step inside, he hears voices drifting from another room.
“I recognise that boy,” Mr. Rosier says.
There’s a pause before Mrs. Rosier replies, sounding bemused. “Oh, don’t be daft, Cyrus. We’ve never even met the boy before. How could you know him?”
Regulus stills. A strange feeling creeps up his spine, an unease he can’t quite place. Why would Mr. Rosier say that?
He closes the bathroom door behind him, locking it before turning on the tap, letting the water run as he grips the sink. His reflection stares back at him, dark blue eyes searching for an answer he doesn’t have. He shouldn’t dwell on it. It’s probably nothing. But still, the words replay in his head.
After a few minutes, he forces himself to shake it off. He washes his hands and steps out, taking a slow breath as he makes his way back to the kitchen. The others are already seated around the table, opening the pizza boxes.
“Regulus, c’mon, we saved you a spot,” Pandora says, patting the empty chair next to her.
He sits down, reaching for a slice as the conversation flows around him. The pizza is warm, the cheese stretching as he pulls a piece free. It’s good. Better than he expected. He listens as the others chatter about school, upcoming assignments, and ridiculous things that happened in class.
Halfway through his second slice, he remembers. He sets his pizza down, wipes his hands on a napkin, and grabs a small notepad from his pocket. Tearing out a page, he carefully writes:
Could you please message Mr. and Mrs. Potter saying that “I’m alright”? They asked me to message them as a check-in.
He slides the note towards Mrs. Rosier, who reads it before offering him a reassuring smile.
“Of course, dear. I’ll send them a message right now,” she says, pulling out her phone.
Regulus watches her type the message, making sure she sends it before nodding. Satisfied, he picks up his pizza again, finishing the last of his slice before excusing himself to head back to the living room. The others follow soon after, dragging blankets and pillows into a comfortable mess on the floor.
He settles down underneath the blanket he brought from home, curling into its familiar warmth. The others pile in around him, laughing as they argue over which movie to pick. Evan wants something action-packed, Barty is voting for horror, and Dorcas is trying to convince them all to watch a comedy instead.
Regulus doesn’t mind what they choose. Instead, he glances around at his friends, at the way they bicker but still smile, at how comfortable they are with each other. A quiet warmth settles in his chest.
He’s really lucky.
The debate carries on for a few minutes before they finally pick a comedy. Regulus doesn’t mind either way—he’s already feeling the exhaustion settle deep in his bones. His lack of sleep from the night before is catching up with him, but he doesn’t want to miss anything.
Still, after about thirty minutes into the movie, his eyelids start to feel heavier. He shifts slightly under his blanket, trying to fight the drowsiness, but it’s no use. The sounds of his friends laughing and the movie playing in the background start to blur together. The warmth of the blanket, the soft glow of the TV—it’s all too much, and before he realizes it, he’s drifting off.
Regulus stands at the edge of the lake. The water is still, the surface smooth like glass, reflecting the golden glow of the setting sun. He knows this place. He’s been here before.
But not recently.
He’s small—three, maybe four years old. His shoes sink slightly into the damp earth beneath him, his tiny hands clutching at the fabric of his too-big coat. The scent of fresh pine drifts through the air, mixing with something warm and sweet, like honey.
There are people here. They stand near the water, talking amongst themselves, their voices muffled, distant. Their faces blur when he tries to focus on them, like smeared paint on a canvas.
Except for one.
Cyrus Rosier.
Unlike the others, his features are sharp, clear. He stands among the faceless figures, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as if listening to someone speak. He looks younger, less lined with age than he is now, but it’s undoubtedly him.
Regulus feels small. His chest is tight, like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Why is Mr. Rosier here? Why can he remember this place?
Something tugs at his sleeve. A hand, tiny like his own. Another child. Their face is blurred too, but he knows they’re familiar. He just doesn’t know how.
A voice—gentle, warm—calls out his name.
“Regulus.”
He turns toward it, but before he can see who’s speaking, the dream shifts, warping like water rippling outward from a single touch. The sky darkens. The lake distorts. The world fades—
Regulus wakes up with a sharp inhale.
For a second, he’s disoriented, unsure of where he is. But then, the soft chatter of his friends and the flickering light of the TV bring him back to reality. The first movie has ended, and they’re already in the middle of picking the next one.
Pandora turns to him. “Oh, you’re awake! You fell asleep, but don’t worry, we didn’t start another one yet.”
Regulus blinks away the lingering haze of sleep, sitting up slightly. His heart is still beating a little too fast from the dream, but he pushes it aside. It was just a dream. Nothing more.
He glances at the screen just as Evan presses play, and his breath catches slightly.
The opening sequence rolls, and Regulus immediately recognizes it.
It’s one of his favorite movies.
He used to watch it all the time with his cousins when he was younger, back when things were simpler. It’s not a movie a lot of people know about, so the fact that Pandora and Evan not only have seen it but also love it enough to pick it now feels almost unreal.
A crazy coincidence.
Pandora nudges his arm. “You like this one?”
Regulus nods, the corners of his lips twitching slightly.
“Good,” Evan grins. “It’s a classic.”
Regulus settles back under his blanket, letting the familiar sounds of the movie wash over him. The dream still lingers in the back of his mind, but for now, he lets it go.
For now, he just watches his favorite movie with his friends.
***
All things considered, Regulus managed to get a good night’s sleep.
When he woke up the next morning, he saw that he was the first one awake. The house was quiet, the only sounds coming from the occasional creak of the floorboards as it settled. He contemplated what to do for a few moments before ultimately deciding to get changed and read his book.
So, that’s what he did.
When he came back into the living room, he saw that Dorcas was awake. She was still wrapped in her blanket, blinking sleepily as she adjusted to the morning light. Regulus waved at her, and she smiled before waving back.
Regulus sat back down where he had slept, curled up beneath his own blanket, and began to read his book. The silence was nice. Peaceful.
As the morning wore on, the others began to stir. Barty was next, rubbing his eyes as he yawned and stretched. Evan grumbled something incoherent before reluctantly sitting up, while Pandora—somehow managing to look both exhausted and excited at the same time—grinned sleepily at them all before disappearing to change.
Regulus kept reading as the quiet hum of the house shifted into soft chatter and movement. The air smelled faintly of breakfast from the kitchen, and the warmth of the rising sun filtered through the windows, casting golden streaks across the floor.
By the time he finally looked up again, everyone was fully awake and dressed, their tired expressions replaced with the eager energy of a day filled with celebration.
Mrs. Rosier appeared in the doorway, smiling at them. “Good morning, dears,” she greeted, her voice light and warm. “We’re almost finished setting up for the party, but I think you all should go outside for a little while. Get some fresh air.”
Evan groaned dramatically. “Mum, we just woke up.”
“And?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’ll wake up faster if you get moving. Go on, out with you.”
Pandora grinned and tugged at Evan’s arm. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Dorcas and Barty exchanged a look before shrugging and making their way toward the back door. Pandora followed, dragging Evan with her. Regulus hesitated, still holding his book, but Pandora turned back and gestured for him to come along.
He sighed quietly, set his book down, and got to his feet.
The backyard was spacious, bathed in the cool morning air, with patches of wildflowers scattered along the fence and a large oak tree casting long shadows across the grass. The sun had fully risen now, warming the breeze just enough to be comfortable.
Barty was the first to suggest a game—something active to shake off the last remnants of sleep. They quickly settled on a version of tag mixed with an obstacle course, weaving through the yard and climbing onto benches, dodging around trees. It was familiar—strangely familiar.
Regulus froze for a moment mid-game, watching as Pandora darted behind a bush while Evan launched himself over a low garden wall.
He knows this game.
Not just in a vague, I’ve-played-something-like-this-before way, but truly knows it. The exact rules. The unspoken strategies. The way Evan and Pandora move as though they’ve been playing it for years.
Because he has played this before.
With his brother. With his cousins.
It’s a game they made up as children. A game that shouldn’t exist outside of them.
How do Pandora and Evan know it?
The thought lingers, a quiet confusion pressing at the back of his mind. But then Pandora grins at him, motioning for him to run before Evan can tag him, and Regulus pushes the thought away. He can figure it out later.
For now, he plays.
And he’s good at it.
“Blimey, Regulus, you’re quick,” Evan remarks as they pause for breath. “Didn’t think anyone could keep up with Pandora, but you’re giving her a run for her money.”
Pandora laughs. “Yeah, you’re actually really good at this.”
Regulus doesn’t know how to respond to that. He just nods, letting himself accept the compliment.
Before long, they hear Mrs. Rosier calling them from the house. “Come inside, everyone! The party’s ready to begin.”
Panting slightly, they all exchange glances before heading back in, still buzzing with the lingering energy of their game.
Regulus wipes his hands on his trousers as he steps inside, his mind drifting back, just for a moment, to that feeling of familiarity. That memory just out of reach.
He doesn’t know why, but something about it feels important.
But for now, there’s a party to enjoy. And so, he lets it go.
For now.
The house is noticeably livelier when they step inside. The faint smell of something sweet lingers in the air, and decorations now fill the living room. Streamers twist along the walls, and a banner reading Happy Birthday, Evan & Pandora! hangs above the dining table. A pile of neatly wrapped presents is stacked on a nearby chair, and bowls of snacks sit on nearly every available surface.
Pandora beams when she sees everything. “It looks amazing!” she exclaims, turning to her mother. “Thanks, Mum!”
Evan, standing beside her, smirks. “I mean, clearly, most of this is for me.”
Pandora elbows him. “Excuse me?”
Mrs. Rosier chuckles, shaking her head. “It’s for both of you. Now, who’s ready for a game?”
A chorus of me! follows, and they’re quickly ushered into the center of the room. Mrs. Rosier pulls a small bag from the table and gives it a shake, the contents rustling inside.
“We’re playing a classic—charades,” she announces. “I’ve written down a bunch of things on slips of paper, and you’ll have to act them out without speaking. You can make sounds, but no words!”
Dorcas grins. “I’m so going to win.”
“Not if I win first,” Barty counters, smirking.
Pandora crosses her arms. “Excuse me, but it’s our birthday. Clearly, we should win.”
“ That’s not how games work, Dora ,” Evan says, exasperated.
Regulus stays quiet, but there’s a small, amused smile on his face.
The game begins, and it’s chaotic in the best way. Barty is over-the-top dramatic, throwing himself onto the floor when acting out a fish out of water , while Pandora nearly chokes on laughter trying to act out a chicken laying an egg . Dorcas is surprisingly good at guessing, and Evan is even worse at acting than Regulus expected—at one point, he’s supposed to be a tree in a storm , but his stiff movements make him look more like a malfunctioning wind-up toy.
Regulus watches, relaxed but content. The energy in the room is warm, buzzing with excitement. When it’s his turn, he hesitates for only a moment before reaching into the bag and pulling out a slip of paper. A cat stuck in a tree.
He blinks at it, then takes a breath and steps forward. Slowly, he mimes climbing up something, carefully balancing as though he’s on a narrow branch. Then he crouches, pawing at the air, his face scrunched in distress.
There’s a moment of silence, then—
“Oh! A cat!” Pandora guesses.
“A cat falling?” Barty tries.
“No—stuck in something,” Evan mutters.
“A cat in a tree!” Pandora exclaims suddenly, and Regulus nods.
Pandora grins at him. “See? You’re good at this!”
Regulus shrugs, ducking his head slightly, but there’s warmth in his chest at the praise.
By the time the game ends, they’re all breathless from laughter. Mrs. Rosier shakes her head fondly at them before announcing it’s time for presents.
Pandora and Evan sit cross-legged in front of the pile of gifts, practically vibrating with excitement. One by one, they tear through the wrapping paper, grinning as they pull out each gift.
Dorcas hands Pandora a neatly wrapped box, bouncing slightly in place. “Open mine first!”
Pandora rips off the paper to reveal a delicate silver necklace with a tiny star pendant. She gasps. “Dorcas, this is beautiful.”
Dorcas grins. “I know . I saw it and thought it was so you.”
Pandora immediately clasps it around her neck, beaming. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Evan is next, and he raises an eyebrow at his gift—a signed poster of his favourite hockey player. His mouth drops open slightly. “No way—how did you even get this?”
Dorcas winks. “I have my ways.”
Barty hands Pandora a sleek tin. “This is for you.”
She lifts the lid, revealing an expensive-looking set of coloured pencils. Pandora’s eyes go wide. “Barty—these are incredible.”
He grins. “Figured you’d put them to better use than I ever would.”
Evan unwraps his gift from Barty and pulls out a pair of black hockey gloves. He whistles lowly. “These are nice .”
Barty smirks. “Gotta keep you from getting your fingers broken, mate.”
Regulus reaches for his own gifts, hesitating slightly before handing Pandora a neatly wrapped package. She pulls at the paper, revealing a deep blue sketchbook with silver flowers embossed on the cover. She inhales sharply, running her fingers over the design.
She looks up at him, eyes bright. “Regulus, this is beautiful.”
He shifts slightly but nods, watching as she carefully flips through the crisp blank pages.
“I love it,” she says firmly, hugging it to her chest. “Thank you.”
Regulus hands Evan his gift next, stepping back slightly as Evan pulls off the wrapping paper. Multi-coloured hockey pucks spill into his lap.
Evan blinks at them, then picks one up, turning it over in his hands. “These are so cool.” There’s something unreadable in his expression as he glances at Regulus. After a pause, he nods. “Thanks, Regulus.”
Regulus nods back, relieved.
Once the presents are unwrapped, Mrs. Rosier claps her hands together. “Alright, who’s ready for cake?”
A resounding yes! fills the room.
Two cakes are brought out—one for each of them. Pandora’s is chocolate with blue icing, while Evan’s is vanilla with caramel drizzle. Candles are placed on top, and the lights are dimmed.
As they all start singing Happy Birthday , Regulus finds himself quietly watching Pandora and Evan, their faces glowing in the candlelight. They both look genuinely happy. Carefree.
Something about it makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t quite understand.
The twins squeeze their eyes shut, make a wish, and blow out their candles. Everyone claps, and soon, slices of cake are passed around.
Regulus takes a bite, and the rich chocolate melts on his tongue. It’s good. Comforting.
As the party carries on around him, he lets himself relax.
He’s not used to this—to birthday parties, to games and laughter, to the warmth of being surrounded by friends.
But he thinks he likes it.
***
The party is over faster than Regulus can say thank you for having me .
It had been fun. The cake—chocolate, rich, and perfectly soft—had reminded him of his ninth birthday. That year, he had only wanted one thing: the exact same chocolate cake Narcissa had a couple of months prior. It had been perfect, just like this one.
Now, the house is quiet again. The remnants of celebration linger in the scattered decorations, the faint scent of frosting in the air. Most of the others are off doing their own thing—Evan and Pandora have retreated upstairs to put away their gifts, and Dorcas and Barty are outside talking in hushed voices.
Regulus, already packed, moves through the dining room, picking up the last bits of rubbish left behind. Wrappers, paper cups, stray napkins. It’s something to do, something to keep his hands busy.
That’s when he sees it.
A picture frame, partially buried under a pile of discarded wrapping paper. He almost doesn’t notice it, but the corner catches the light just right, drawing his eyes to it.
Curious, he picks it up.
Three children. A girl with dark curls, another with sharp, mischievous eyes, and the third—blonde, composed, smiling softly. They look familiar. Too familiar.
Regulus’ breath catches.
Narcissa. Bellatrix. Andromeda.
His cousins.
They look younger—maybe seven, nine, and eleven—but it’s undeniably them. His stomach twists as he stares at the image, his mind racing.
Why do the Rosiers have this?
His aunt and uncle had never mentioned them before. His parents had barely spoken of the Rosiers at all. So why—?
Regulus doesn’t realize he’s gripping the frame too tightly until his fingers start to ache. His heart pounds in his chest as he abandons the bag of rubbish and turns on his heel, marching toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Rosier looks up from where she’s wiping down the counter, her brows knitting together in confusion. Mr. Rosier, seated at the table with a cup of tea, glances up as well.
"Regulus?" Mrs. Rosier asks, noting his expression.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his notebook, and quickly writes:
Why do you have this?
He holds the notebook in one hand, the photo in the other, turning both toward them.
Mrs. Rosier steps closer, peering at the picture properly for the first time in what must be years. She frowns, tilting her head slightly. “Why do we—?” She trails off, looking between the photo and Regulus. Then she glances at her husband. “Why do we have that photo?”
Regulus nods sharply, waiting for an answer.
Mr. Rosier sighs, setting his cup down. “It’s the last photo we have of them.”
Regulus furrows his brows. Quickly, he writes:
Them? Who are they to you?
Mrs. Rosier hesitates, exchanging a glance with her husband. Then she turns back to Regulus. “Who do you think they are?” she asks gently.
Regulus doesn’t understand the question. He flips to a new page and writes:
My cousins. Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa Black.
He underlines their names for emphasis before showing them the page.
Mr. Rosier blinks. His face shifts—just slightly—but Regulus notices the way his eyes narrow in thought, how his lips part as if a puzzle piece has just clicked into place.
Mrs. Rosier is staring at the picture again, like she’s seeing it in an entirely new light.
Regulus, still confused, writes:
Why do you have a picture of them?
There’s a brief silence. Then, Mr. Rosier exhales, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well. That explains a lot.”
Mrs. Rosier looks at him sharply. “Cyrus?”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, almost to himself. “I told you I knew him.”
Regulus tilts his head slightly, his confusion deepening.
Mr. Rosier rubs his face, then looks at Regulus more seriously. “They’re my nieces,” he says simply.
Regulus freezes.
His mind stutters, struggling to process the words.
He looks between them, his grip tightening on the frame. Then, with slightly trembling hands, he flips back to the notebook and writes, pressing down a little too hard with his pencil.
What?
Mr. Rosier leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Druella,” he says, slowly, deliberately, “is my sister.”
Regulus feels his pulse in his throat.
His aunt. His cousins. His family.
And all this time, he never knew.
He swallows, his hands clenched into fists around the notebook and the frame. Then, after a long moment, he writes:
No one told me.
Mrs. Rosier sighs. “I suppose that doesn’t surprise me.”
Regulus flips the page, his thoughts spinning too fast.
I don’t understand. They never said anything about you.
Mr. Rosier leans back. “We haven’t spoken in years. Druella and I—” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “We were never particularly close, and after she married Cygnus… well, it was easier to let the distance grow.”
Regulus stares down at the photo. His cousins—young, happy, untouched by time.
His chest tightens, and before he can stop himself, he writes:
I miss them.
His vision blurs. He blinks rapidly, but the stinging in his eyes doesn’t go away.
I used to see them all the time.
The words come slower now, as he fights against the lump rising in his throat.
Even as they got older, I still saw them. Not as much, but enough.
He swallows hard, gripping the pencil tighter.
But since I was taken away, I haven’t seen them at all. Not once. I don’t even know if they know where I am. I don’t know if they tried to find me. I don’t know if they care.
The last word is shaky. His hands are shaking.
A tear slips down his cheek, hitting the page, smudging the ink slightly. He rubs at his face quickly, frustrated at himself, but he can’t stop the burning behind his eyes.
Mrs. Rosier’s face softens, and Mr. Rosier exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, kid,” he says, and for once, he sounds like he actually means it.
Regulus doesn’t know how to respond to that.
Mr. Rosier watches him for a long moment before glancing at the photo still clutched in his hands. “Here,” he says, nudging it forward. “Keep it.”
Regulus’ head snaps up, his lips parting slightly in surprise.
He hesitates, but then, slowly, carefully, he takes the frame and pulls it against his chest. He doesn’t write another ‘thank you,’ but it’s there in the way he clutches it, in the way he swallows hard and nods.
Mrs. Rosier offers a small smile. “I hope it brings you good memories.”
Regulus looks down at the image of his cousins.
The memories aren’t good , not exactly. But they’re his. And that’s all that really matters.
“Regulus?”
The soft call makes him flinch slightly.
Regulus quickly wipes at his face with his sleeve, trying to erase the evidence of his tears before Pandora steps into the kitchen. But he knows it’s pointless—she’s always been observant, and the tear tracks staining his cheeks are impossible to hide.
Pandora stops just inside the doorway, her brows furrowing as her eyes land on him. Her gaze flickers from his reddened eyes to the way he clutches the photo frame tightly to his chest.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, stepping closer. “Is everything okay?”
Regulus nods. It’s automatic, instinctive. But Pandora doesn’t look convinced.
She hesitates, then glances toward her parents. Regulus watches as she looks between them, searching their faces for any kind of explanation. “Mum? Dad?”
Mrs. Rosier offers a small smile, her voice gentle. “Everything’s fine, love. Regulus is alright.”
Pandora’s frown deepens slightly, her eyes flicking back to Regulus. He keeps his expression as neutral as possible, lowering the frame slightly, but her gaze lingers on him like she’s trying to piece something together.
After a moment, she lets out a small hum, clearly unconvinced. But she doesn’t push. Instead, she tilts her head slightly. “Hey,” she says, voice lighter now. “Would you like to play one last game before you leave?”
Regulus blinks.
A game.
It’s a simple offer, an easy distraction, but it makes something in his chest unclench just a little.
Slowly, he nods.
Pandora grins. “Great! C’mon, let’s go before Evan gets bored and starts something without us.” She steps back, gesturing toward the living room.
Regulus hesitates only a second longer before tucking the photo frame carefully under his arm and following her out.
***
Coincidences are a remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without an apparent causal connection.
It’s a crazy concept to think about. Coincidences.
It’s like the universe’s way of telling you something. His parents would have called it “God’s doing,” but Regulus has never truly believed in God.
He enjoys reading some of the stories in the Bible, interpreting their meanings, analyzing them like puzzles waiting to be solved. But when it comes down to the nitty-gritty of it, he never had faith.
He only ever attended church on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings to appease his parents. He’s always been more of a science guy. Because science is based on facts. Christianity—and any other religion, for that matter—are just stories.
Faith is important, though. He won’t deny it. It brings people together. It builds communities. Sometimes, it benefits a whole group or society to believe in a higher power. Because if they didn’t, too many people would be left questioning life, and at least this way, people have closure.
On the topic of religion, does Regulus believe in coincidences?
If you had asked him before today, the answer would have been no.
But now…
Now, he isn’t so sure.
Because what are the chances that he woke up this morning, only to discover, hours later—at a birthday party, of all places—that he is related to the birthday boy and girl?
If science had its way, the odds would be something like 0.0000000000001%.
So, henceforth, coincidences.
Unless there’s something else that could explain this. Which, as far as Regulus can tell, there isn’t.
Another possibility, besides coincidences, is fate.
Fate, in Regulus’ opinion, would also fit this situation perfectly—however touchy the subject may be.
Fate is known as the development of events outside a person’s control, regarded as predetermined by a supernatural power.
Thanks, Google.
See, Regulus doesn’t believe in a higher power. But if supernatural forces are controlling his life, then he supposes there must be something out there, something unknowable.
Or, maybe, he should just lean into ancient Greek mythology. The Moirai—often known in English as The Fates—were the personification of destiny. Three sisters: Clotho, the spinner; Lachesis, the allotter; and Atropos, the inevitable.
Regulus remembers, in The Lightning Thief , when Percy saw the three sisters cutting a blue thread—a symbol of life, severed in an instant, a quiet reminder that fate is inescapable. It had unsettled Percy, and now, thinking about it, it unsettles Regulus too. Because if fate is real, then that means some things are already decided, already written. And if that’s the case… what does that mean for him?
He’s going to have to do more research on fate later.
For now, Regulus hands Pandora back her phone, settling back in his seat in the living room as she and Dorcas chatter nearby. Evan and Barty are outside playing, but Regulus had opted to stay inside. He wanted to read. To think. To try to make sense of everything.
His eyes flick to the clock on the wall. Exactly 2:30 PM.
The Potters had said they wouldn’t be late.
As if on cue, a shadow moves in the doorway. Regulus glances up to see Mr. Rosier standing there, hands in his pockets, looking at him.
“The Potters are here,” he announces.
Regulus straightens, closing the book in his lap.
Pandora jumps up immediately. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
Regulus doesn’t protest. He follows her out of the living room, his bag already waiting by the entrance. The murmur of conversation reaches his ears before they even step into the foyer—Mrs. Rosier speaking lightly with Mr. and Mrs. Potter.
“Oh, he’s been wonderful,” Mrs. Rosier is saying, smiling warmly at Mrs. Potter. “Truly, a pleasure to have here.”
Mrs. Potter beams, her eyes flicking to Regulus with fondness. “That’s lovely to hear.”
Regulus, meanwhile, feels a tug at his sleeve. He turns to find Evan standing beside him, looking uncharacteristically solemn. “Bye, Regulus,” Evan says, before grinning slightly. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”
Regulus nods. Then, he glances at Pandora, who’s watching him carefully.
“Take care, okay?” she says.
He nods again. Lifting his notebook, he scribbles something quickly and holds it out toward Mrs. Rosier.
Thank you for having me.
She takes the note with a soft smile. “It was our pleasure, dear. You’re welcome anytime.”
Regulus swallows. His fingers tighten slightly around the strap of his bag before he lifts a hand in a small wave. Pandora and Evan wave back, and he catches Mr. Rosier giving him a brief nod.
“Goodbye, Regulus,” Mrs. Rosier says warmly. Mr. Rosier managing a simple wave.
Mrs. Potter places a gentle hand on Regulus’ back. Her and Mr. Potter saying there goodbyes as well.
And then, they step outside.
The air is warm as they walk toward the car. The moment Regulus slides into the seat, closing the door behind him, Mrs. Potter turns to look at him.
“Did you have a good time?” she asks.
Regulus nods.
His hands rest in his lap. He feels something solid beneath his fingers and looks down.
The photo.
He’s still holding it.
For a long moment, he stares at the faces in the picture. At the frozen moment in time, where his cousins were young and happy and untouched by the years ahead.
If fate is real, he thinks, then maybe, one day, it will bring us together again.
Notes:
Word Count: 11,045
Published: 2025-02-19Ok, ok, ok. Quite the plot twist... right? Not gonna lie, I feel like I did this chapter poorly. But, I wasn't too sure on how to make it better, so.
Anyways, listen hear people because you're about to vote. I have two chapter title ideas for chapter 13, and I need you to comment below which one sounds better.
1. Misunderstandings Is What Causes Miscommunication
OR
2. Miscommunication. What a Funny Little Word, Don't You Think?If you all prefer the second option more, then the first option, might be used in a later chapter... who knows?
Thank you all for reading, and enjoy your day!!p.s. If you know what Mr. and Mrs. Rosier's names actually are, let me know, otherwise, these are there names.
p.s.s. Also, I thought it'd be kind of cool to have Regulus, Evan and Pandora be related somehow, so, yeah :)
Chapter 13: Misunderstandings Is What Causes Miscommunication
Summary:
It’s the second last week of school, and Regulus is constantly learning new things. Whether that be it good, bad, or not quite right. It doesn’t matter. He’s learning. But, what he thought he already knew, turns out to be wrong.
Who knew miscommunication was the leading cause of anger and hatred towards another human being?
Not Regulus, apparently.
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
Disclaimer: the French translation was achieved through using google translate, so if you are aware it is incorrect, please say so in the comments so I can change it. Thank you.
Trigger Warning: the use of the r-word (the slur for mentally changed people) is used within this chapter. If you'd like to skip it, please skip the entirety of "Tuesday" (which is in bold). Reading this section isn't important to the overall storyline; however it is important for the theme of the chapter, again not overly important to read. Do not read this part if you don't want to, you aren't pressured to read this, this is why I have this warning here. Thank you!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Monday.
When he went to Pandora and Evan’s birthday party, he hadn’t thought to question whether it was their actual date of birth.
Turns out, the 21st of June isn’t their birthday. The 22nd is.
Why didn’t Regulus think to question this further? Who knows. The point is, when he walked into school on the 22nd, he was bombarded with Barty and Dorcas saying happy birthday to them.
He had to ask. Of course, he had to ask. He wouldn’t be their friend if he didn’t question their date of birth… right?
When he wrote out, ‘ How come Barty and Dorcas are saying “Happy Birthday” to you and Evan?’ to Pandora, she simply told him that they were born on the 22nd of June, 2008.
Simple enough.
It’s odd, though. Not having an actual party on your birthday. Regulus had always had parties on his birthday—well, they were just for family, but same thing.
So, he had asked Pandora why they had a party on the weekend instead of on their actual birthday. She had told him that it was easier to have friends over for their birthday on the weekend because her parents didn’t want to interrupt their schooling. And also because their actual birthday was reserved for their family.
It makes sense, in Regulus’ opinion. Quite smart, actually.
So, yeah. That’s how his Monday went. Quite uneventful.
Well, apart from the fact that he got jumped.
Jumped is an overstatement. It was more like… well… yeah, jumped works.
Regulus was just minding his own business, walking down the hallway to return back to class. He had to step out of his science class because it had been quite literally a circus—loud, disruptive, and outright overwhelming.
When, all of a sudden, he was yanked backwards, a sharp tug on the collar of his white long-sleeved school shirt sending him stumbling. He barely had time to process what was happening before his back hit the ground, the impact rattling through his ribs.
“Didn’t think you’d get away that easily, did you, Black?”
Colin’s voice. Of course, it’s Colin.
Regulus blinks up at them—Colin and his usual gang of shadows. They’re grinning like they’ve just cornered a rat, like this is all some big joke. Colin crouches down, his smirk sharp and cruel.
“What were you even doing in the guidance counselor’s office?” Colin sneers. “Crying? Writing a little sob story in that stupid notebook of yours?”
Regulus grips his notebook tighter. He doesn’t respond—not that he would even if he could. He just stays silent, staring up at them, willing them to lose interest and leave him alone.
No such luck.
Colin snatches the notebook from his hands. Regulus immediately lunges to take it back, but another boy—Adam, maybe—shoves him down, holding him in place.
Colin flips through the pages, eyes scanning the words. “Wow, you really don’t talk, huh? What’s the matter, Black? Too scared to use your voice?”
Regulus swallows, pressing his lips together. It’s not worth it. Fighting back never does anything except make things worse. He just has to wait them out.
But Colin isn’t done.
“You know what? I think we should make sure you get some alone time,” Colin muses, shutting the notebook and tucking it under his arm. “Help you focus on your… thoughts. Maybe do some soul-searching.”
Regulus stiffens. That doesn’t sound good.
And he’s right.
Colin grabs him by the back of his sweater and hauls him up. Before he can twist away, hands clamp around his arms, dragging him down the hall. Regulus struggles, digging his heels into the floor, but they’re stronger. There are too many of them.
He realizes where they’re taking him seconds too late.
The supply closet.
Panic kicks in. Regulus thrashes harder, trying to wrench free, but Colin just laughs.
“Relax, Black. You like being alone, don’t you?”
The door swings open. He’s shoved inside. The second he stumbles past the threshold, the door slams shut behind him, the lock clicking into place.
Darkness. The smell of dust and cleaning supplies. The muffled sound of laughter fading as they walk away.
Regulus presses his hands against the door, testing it. Locked.
His breath shudders out of him. He squeezes his eyes shut, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
He’s trapped.
He’s trapped, with no way out.
This is it , he thinks.
His breathing turns shallow, his chest tightening as if an invisible force is pressing down on him. The walls feel closer than they should be, the darkness stretching out like a living thing. His back collides with the cold, solid surface behind him, and he pulls his knees to his chest, trying to make himself smaller. Maybe if he disappears, this will stop feeling so unbearable.
His fingers twitch, hands shaking as he presses them against his ears. It doesn't help. His heartbeat thunders in his skull, drowning out every rational thought. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. His skin feels wrong, like he doesn’t belong in his own body. His vision swims, the edges turning blurry.
He barely registers the sound of the door creaking open.
There’s movement in front of him, a shadow blocking some of the dim light filtering in from the hallway. Then a voice, calm and steady, cutting through the static in his head.
“Regulus. You need to breathe.”
He flinches at first, instinctively pressing further into the wall, but the voice doesn’t stop.
“In through your nose,” the voice instructs gently, “out through your mouth. Slow breaths.”
A pause. Then, softer, “You’re safe.”
Safe .
He doesn’t know if that’s true, but the words hold weight. A firm anchor in the middle of chaos. He tries to focus on that instead of the panic clawing at his throat. He sucks in a shaky breath, then another. His chest still aches, but the crushing sensation starts to ease, just a little.
After what feels like forever, the world begins to make sense again.
He’s sitting on the floor, still curled into himself, but his surroundings are no longer a blur. His breathing is unsteady but no longer feels impossible. Slowly, he registers the figure kneeling in front of him. A woman. Kind eyes. Gentle expression.
Deputy Principal Lawson.
She doesn’t push him to speak. She waits, giving him time to collect himself. When he finally nods—barely a movement—she offers a small smile.
“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable, alright?”
This is how Regulus finds himself sitting in the vice principal’s office, staring down at his hands. They’re still trembling slightly, though the panic has mostly faded into exhaustion. The room is quiet, apart from the faint hum of the overhead lights. It’s a stark contrast to the suffocating silence of the supply closet.
Deputy Principal Lawson sits across from him, her expression calm, patient. She’s nice, Regulus thinks distantly. Nicer than most adults he’s had to deal with in situations like this.
“You weren’t in there for long,” she tells him after a moment, as if sensing his lingering fear. “A fellow student saw the commotion and reported it instantly.”
Regulus blinks. He doesn’t remember making any noise. He doesn’t remember much of anything after the door closed.
Lawson watches him carefully before continuing. “You have a choice, Regulus. You can stay in school, or—if you’d rather—I can call Mrs. Potter to come pick you up.”
The offer makes something in him loosen. The idea of staying here, of walking back into a classroom after this, makes his stomach churn. He doesn’t want to be here anymore.
Regulus nods once, and Lawson doesn’t question it. She simply reaches for the phone on the desk, dialing the number.
As she speaks with Mrs. Potter, Regulus sits still, hands clenched into fists on his lap. The weight in his chest shifts, replaced by something he can’t quite name. A realization settles in, unwelcome and familiar.
This has happened before.
Not the exact same situation, but close enough. The last time he “freaked out,” he had thrown a punch, let his anger take control. That had landed him in a different office, with a different authority figure, and a suspension to go with it.
Lawson isn’t implying he’s going to be suspended now, and that knowledge eases some of the tightness in his throat. But the similarities linger, gnawing at the edges of his mind.
He grips the sleeves of his shirt, grounding himself in the fabric beneath his fingers.
When Mrs. Potter walks into the Deputy Principal’s office, Regulus feels his stomach drop. Not out of fear, but out of the dread of seeing disappointment on her face.
She doesn’t look disappointed, though. Just concerned. Her brows are drawn together slightly, lips pressed into a thin line as she takes the seat beside him. Regulus keeps his head down, fingers tightening around the fabric of his sleeves.
The deputy principal, Mrs. Lawson, offers a polite smile. "Thank you for coming in so quickly, Mrs. Potter."
"Of course," Mrs. Potter says, glancing briefly at Regulus before turning back to Mrs. Lawson. "What happened?"
Mrs. Lawson sighs. "Regulus had an unfortunate run-in with some other students. It seems they locked him in a supply closet. He was found fairly quickly, but it was still an upsetting experience."
Mrs. Potter's expression hardens. "Was it the same student that Regulus punched?"
Mrs. Lawson nods. "We're handling it. But I wanted to check in with Regulus. We’ve given him the option to go home, and he’s chosen to do so."
Mrs. Potter turns to him again, eyes searching his face. "That’s fine. Whatever you need, sweetheart."
Regulus swallows, nodding slightly, and Mrs. Lawson clears her throat. "Regulus, why don’t you go to your locker and grab your things while I speak with Mrs. Potter?"
He hesitates but ultimately nods, pushing himself up from the chair. His legs still feel a little shaky as he walks out of the office and down the hall. The school is quieter now, the lunchtime chaos having settled into afternoon classes. He appreciates the silence, but his mind is still buzzing.
By the time he returns, his bag slung over shoulders, the office door is slightly ajar. He pauses just outside, not intentionally eavesdropping but unable to stop himself from catching the tail end of their conversation.
"He's struggling to adjust," Mrs. Lawson is saying. "It’s understandable, given everything he’s been through. But he needs structure, stability—he needs to know that the adults around him are consistent."
Mrs. Potter sighs. "We’re trying. It’s just... sometimes, it feels like he’s afraid to settle in. Like he doesn’t believe this is permanent. It’s difficult for kids like him."
Regulus grips the straps of his bag tighter, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. Kids like him. He’s heard that before—too many times, from too many people. He’s even heard Mrs. Potter say it before, but he had hoped it was a mistake. A slip of the tongue. A one-time thing. But hearing her say it again? That same uneasy, hollow feeling creeps in, followed by something sharper, something restless and aching in his chest.
Mrs. Lawson hums in understanding. "He’s been through a lot. It makes sense that he’s hesitant."
Mrs. Potter continues, softer now. "We want him to feel safe with us. But I don’t know if he believes he can."
Regulus looks away, his throat tight. The way they talk about him—like he’s some kind of puzzle to be solved, like he’s difficult, like he’s too much. He steps back slightly, making enough noise that they realize he’s returned. Mrs. Lawson offers him a kind smile as he re-enters, and Mrs. Potter stands.
"Ready to go?" she asks gently.
Regulus nods, but he doesn’t meet her eyes.
The walk to the car is quiet. He slides into the passenger seat, staring out the window as Mrs. Potter starts the engine. The air between them feels heavy, and his mood sours further with every passing second.
"Did you want to talk about it?" Mrs. Potter asks after a moment.
Regulus shakes his head, still not looking at her.
She doesn’t push, simply sighs and starts driving. The ride home is filled with silence, and Regulus can’t help but think about the words he overheard, the weight of them settling deep in his chest.
He generally can’t believe it. He thought Mrs. Potter was different. But, hearing her, and other adults around him talk about him like that.
He’s starting to think that maybe, the Potter’s home isn’t the right place for him after all.
***
Tuesday.
Regulus would like to say his day so far has been going considerably better than yesterday. But, unfortunately, that would be a lie. Because his day did, in fact, turn absolutely horrid.
Any three guesses who?
He had been enjoying his day—English with Mr. Andrews, Art with Ms. Reed. And then, the teacher from hell.
His Computing teacher.
Regulus had severely underestimated his teacher’s pettiness. Ever since Regulus had joined his class, the man had gone out of his way to make learning difficult for him.
For starters, his teacher had refused to help in any way, shape, or form when it came to the assignment. The only person who had been helping was Barty.
If it wasn’t for Barty, Regulus thinks, he might not be able to pass the class.
And, as if life wasn’t already determined to knock him down, his teacher had decided to throw him straight into the deep end.
A presentation.
Or, more exactly, Regulus having to go up to his teacher and explain what he has done so far in terms of the assignment. Which, Regulus would like to point out, requires him to actually speak to this idiot.
Yeah, he’ll say it. His teacher is an idiot. (He’s also heard Barty call their Computing teacher an absolute, stupid—well, actually, he doesn’t want to repeat what Barty said. But that’s beside the point.)
The point is, Regulus has to communicate with this man.
And, speaking from past experiences when attempting to do just that (which, thankfully, haven’t been frequent, but still), Regulus is fairly certain this is going to end with him crying.
So, when his name is called, he shakily stands from his seat. He spares a quick glance in Barty’s direction—Barty gives him a thumbs up, as if to say, You got this. He really doesn’t, but thanks, Barty.
Regulus walks up to where his teacher is sitting, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“What have you done so far?” his teacher asks, tone already sharp, already impatient.
Regulus swallows, feeling the familiar tightness in his throat. Speaking isn’t an option—his voice won’t come out, not under this pressure. So, instead, he pulls out the small notepad he keeps in his pocket and quickly scribbles down what he wants to say.
He slides the notepad toward his teacher, hoping—praying—that will be enough.
His teacher barely glances at it before scoffing. “What is this?” he sneers. “You’re too stupid to even speak now?”
Regulus stiffens, his fingers curling tightly around the sleeves of his shirt.
His teacher snatches up the notepad and waves it mockingly in the air. “What, you think this is how the real world works? You think you can just write your way through life? How bloody stupid are you?”
Regulus’ throat burns, his vision blurring at the edges. He wants to disappear. To sink into the floor and never have to be here again.
His teacher’s voice rises, growing crueler with every word. “God, how retarded are you? Are you just pretending, or are you actually this useless?”
Regulus doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. He stands frozen, hands clenched so tightly his nails bite into his palms. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow, and there are tears in his eyes—he knows it, can feel them welling despite every effort to keep them at bay.
And then, the final blow.
“Get out of my class, you retard .”
The words slam into him like a physical hit. A sharp sting, a twisting, sick feeling in his stomach.
Regulus swallows hard, turning on his heel and walking stiffly back to his desk. He’s barely keeping himself together, barely holding it in.
Barty is already standing by the time he gets there, his expression dark with something Regulus can’t decipher. “Do you want me to come with you?” he asks, voice low.
Regulus hesitates, his gaze flicking toward the door. He doesn’t know if he’ll make it to the guidance counselor's office in one piece on his own. He nods, barely a movement, but Barty catches it instantly.
“C’mon,” Barty murmurs, grabbing Regulus’ things as well as his own, and steps in beside him.
They leave the classroom together, neither looking back.
The hallway is eerily quiet, and with each step, Regulus feels his breath coming shorter, his chest tightening more. He doesn’t know how to process what just happened. Doesn’t know what to do with the swirling mess of emotion lodged painfully in his throat.
By the time they reach the guidance counselor’s office, Regulus feels like he might collapse.
Barty knocks lightly on the door before pushing it open.
The receptionist and Mrs. Carrington both look up, with Mrs. Carrington frowning slightly. “Regulus?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. Can’t answer.
Barty nudges him forward gently. “He needs to sit down,” he says firmly.
Mrs. Carrington immediately walks over, gesturing for Regulus to take a seat.
And as Regulus sinks into the chair, burying his face in his hands, he wonders if he’ll ever feel okay again.
It feels like Regulus is retreating into his own skin. As sob after sob escapes him. He can’t control it, the tears just keep coming.
His breathing is coming too fast, too shallow, his chest tight and aching. With trembling fingers he grips his hair tugging slightly, slowly rocking back and forth, trying to ground himself. But nothing’s working. The weight of the teacher’s words presses down on him, heavy and suffocating.
Then, something soft brushes the back of his hands.
Regulus flinches slightly, his body still curled in on itself, but the touch is gentle, familiar. Slowly, he lowers his hands from his eyes, though tears still stream down his face, sobs still racking his body. His vision is blurry, but when he blinks through the haze, he sees Barty kneeling beside him, holding out a small, stuffed black dog.
Regulus’ black dog.
For a moment, his breath hitches in his throat, his mind struggling to catch up. He remembers Pandora’s words, how she had told him to give a copy of his locker code to his friends in case of an emergency. He had been skeptical. What kind of emergency could require them to need access to his locker? But now… now, he thinks this is what Pandora meant.
Barty must have gone to his locker, gotten his stuffed animal for him.
Regulus doesn’t hesitate. He reaches out, grabbing the toy and clutching it tightly to his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric. It’s still soft, basically brand new, and something about the familiar texture, the weight of it in his arms, helps pull him back. His breathing remains uneven, but it’s slowing, the panic ebbing ever so slightly.
Barty doesn’t say anything. He just sits with him, his presence steady, reassuring. And Regulus is grateful for it.
After a long stretch of silence, Mrs. Carrington finally speaks. “Regulus, do you want to tell me what happened?”
Regulus shakes his head, pressing his face against the stuffed dog, unable to find the words. But Barty steps in.
“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Barty says firmly, turning to Mrs. Carrington. “His teacher—our Computing teacher—he was awful to him. He wouldn’t help him with the assignment, and today, he made him go up and explain what he’s done so far. But Regulus doesn’t talk—and the teacher knows this—and when he tried to write it out, his teacher started yelling at him, calling him stupid. Then he—” Barty swallows, his hands clenching into fists. “Then he called him a retard and told him to get out of his class.”
Mrs. Carrington’s expression darkens. She nods once, tightly, before turning back to Regulus. Her voice is softer when she asks, “Do you need some time here, or would you like to go home?”
Regulus barely thinks before he nods to the second option. He doesn’t think he can handle the rest of the school day. He just wants to leave.
Mrs. Carrington simply nods in understanding, turning to the receptionist. “Can you make the call?”
The receptionist nods and picks up the phone, and Regulus keeps his arms wrapped tightly around his stuffed dog, his head ducked low. Barty doesn’t move from his side, just stays with him, silent but present. And Regulus is grateful. Grateful that he’s not alone in this moment, that at least Barty is here with him, keeping him steady while they wait.
The wait isn’t that long.
It’s Tuesday, so either Mr. or Mrs. Potter will come to collect him. Regulus hopes it’s the former.
Ever since yesterday, (and, even when he had that meeting with Mrs. Potter and Mrs. Carrington), he hasn’t felt the same way toward Mrs. Potter as he did before. And yesterday, only solidified that feeling.
Regulus isn’t exactly sure what the feeling is. All he knows is what Mrs. Potter had said. Kids like him . It’s quite hard to forget, really.
The words coil tightly around his thoughts, repeating in a loop. Kids like him.
His fingers pick at the hem of his sleeve as he stares at the floor, waiting. The minutes stretch. The hum of the receptionist’s computer, the faint chatter from the hallway—it all feels distant, like he’s underwater. But then, finally, footsteps. The door opens.
Regulus tenses, his breath hitching as he turns his head.
It’s Mr. Potter.
Thank God.
Mr. Potter walks in, eyes immediately landing on him, his face open and gentle. He steps forward and lowers himself to sit across from Regulus, meeting his gaze without hesitation but without pressure.
“Hey, kiddo,” Mr. Potter says, voice steady, soothing. “What happened?”
Regulus swallows, feeling his shoulders tighten. He should shrug it off. He should say it doesn’t matter—
“He was called an idiot,” Barty says from his spot on the couch, next to Regulus, before Regulus can decide. His voice is sharp, quick, like he doesn’t want Regulus to brush past it. “Our computing teacher called him an idiot for needing to write things down. And then—” Barty hesitates, just for a second. “Then he called him a retard.”
Silence.
Regulus doesn’t look at Mr. Potter, but he doesn’t have to. He hears the way his breath shifts, the subtle tension in the air. But Mr. Potter doesn’t explode, doesn’t get angry in the way other people might have, if they had heard that word. When he finally speaks, his voice is just as soft as before.
“Is that why you’d like to leave?”
Regulus nods.
Mr. Potter hums, quiet understanding in his expression. Then, without a word, he stands, picking up Regulus’ bag as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, and gestures for him to follow.
Barty exhales. “See you later, Regulus.”
Regulus only manages a nod before he follows Mr. Potter out of the office.
Signing out of school is quick. The air feels heavier with every step, exhaustion sinking into his bones. By the time they reach the car, Regulus can barely keep his thoughts straight. He slumps into the seat, head resting back against the headrest, fingers curled loosely in his lap.
The moment Mr. Potter starts the car, the tension bleeds out of Regulus all at once, leaving behind nothing but sheer exhaustion. His hands tremble slightly. He presses them against his thighs, trying to ground himself, but it does little to shake the overwhelming, bone-deep weariness setting in.
He has never felt more drained in his life.
***
Wednesday.
He does not want to go to school. Not today. Nope. He refuses.
Regulus doesn’t even think anyone can blame him at this point. He’s been living a week straight from hell. After the day he had yesterday, he really doesn’t want to go. And to top it all off, they have a morning assembly.
So, yeah. Regulus is being difficult. He thinks he should be allowed at this point.
Usually, he gets up, showers, dresses, has breakfast, and is ready to go for the day. But today, he doesn’t want to deal with Colin or his gang, and he doesn’t want to deal with difficult teachers. He just doesn’t.
That’s why he’s still in bed at eight o’clock in the morning. And that’s why Mrs. Potter has been trying to get him out of bed for the past half-hour.
She has excellent patience. But even with excellent patience, trying to get a child out of bed for half an hour takes its toll. She’s tried everything—from gentle coaxing to firm reasoning to flat-out bribery. Nothing has worked on him.
That is, until James.
James steps into the room, hands in his pockets, and says, “What about you sit in Mum’s car and wait until assembly is over, then come into school?”
Regulus ponders the idea for a moment. It’s quite smart. Form class is only roughly fifteen to twenty minutes, so he’d only be waiting in the car with Mrs. Potter for that long.
But that’s the thing. He doesn’t particularly want to sit in a car with Mrs. Potter for fifteen to twenty minutes, waiting in silence or, worse, making conversation.
Still. It means skipping assembly. It means still seeing his friends. And he is going to have to go to school eventually, anyway.
Regulus sighs and pushes back the blankets, sitting up.
Things have been icy between him and Mrs. Potter ever since he overheard her say kids like him. He hasn’t let it go. The words have rooted deep in his mind, twisting into something sharp and unpleasant. He doesn’t think she meant it kindly. He doesn’t know what she meant, exactly, but it doesn’t sit right.
He gets dressed slowly, dragging his feet all the way to the car. He slides into the passenger seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, staring out the window.
For a few minutes, Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything. The silence is heavy, pressing. Then, finally, she exhales softly.
Things have been icy between him and Mrs. Potter ever since he overheard her say kids like him. He hasn’t let it go. The words have rooted deep in his mind, twisting into something sharp and unpleasant. He doesn’t think she meant it kindly. He doesn’t know what she meant, exactly, but it doesn’t sit right.
He gets dressed slowly, dragging his feet all the way to the car. He slides into the passenger seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, staring out the window.
For a few minutes, Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything. The silence is heavy, pressing. Then, finally, she exhales softly.
“I know you’ve been avoiding me,” she says. “And I don’t really know why.”
Regulus stiffens but doesn’t respond. He keeps his eyes on the trees lining the school parking lot.
“I know I’ve done something to upset you. I just—if I have, I’d rather you tell me than keep it all bottled up.”
Regulus bites the inside of his cheek. He wants to say something sharp, something that will push her away. But he’s too tired. Too drained.
They sit in silence for a while longer. The tension in his shoulders never quite eases, but he doesn’t flinch when Mrs. Potter shifts in her seat, turning slightly toward him.
Five minutes before the bell, Mrs. Potter reaches for the door handle. “Time to head in,” she says gently.
Regulus nods, unbuckling his seatbelt. They walk into the office together, and Mrs. Potter signs him in.
“If you need anything, head to Mrs. Carrington’s office and have her call me,” she says.
Regulus nods again and, without another word, turns and walks down the hallway. The day has barely begun, and he already feels like he’s dragging himself through it.
Things lighten up, however.
Regulus has not even been in his Geography class for ten minutes when Mrs. Carrington pops her head in. "Regulus? Could I have a quick chat?"
His stomach drops instantly. Panic rises in his chest, cold and sharp. He hesitates before standing, gripping the edge of his desk tightly for a moment before forcing himself to move. He barely registers the murmured whispers from his classmates as he follows her out into the hall, his mind racing.
He’s in trouble. He has to be. Why else would she be pulling him out of class?
But Mrs. Carrington’s expression is calm, kind. "I just wanted to let you know that you’ve been removed from your Computing class," she says. "You don’t have to partake in the assignment either."
Regulus stares at her, not quite comprehending at first.
"For your next lesson, instead of going to Computing, just come to my office," she continues. "There’s not much time left in the school year, so you can sit there instead."
Regulus blinks. He expected the worst, but this—this is a relief. He nods quickly, unable to find the words to respond, and Mrs. Carrington offers him a small smile before gesturing for him to head back to class.
When he steps back inside, Evan glances over at him. "Everything okay?"
Regulus nods, slipping into his seat and pulling out his notebook. He writes quickly, Got removed from Computing. Don’t have to do the assignment anymore.
Evan reads it and grins. "Wicked."
Regulus exhales, a small sense of victory settling in his chest. Yeah, that is pretty wicked.
If Regulus thought his day couldn’t get worse, he was wrong.
It happens in front of the library. One moment, he’s heading toward the entrance, shoulders hunched and eyes on the ground, and the next, Colin and his gang are there, stepping into his path like a wall appearing out of nowhere.
Regulus stops short, his grip on his things tightens and he pulls them closer to his chest. His stomach twists, an icy dread creeping up his spine.
“Where do you think you’re going, Black?” Colin sneers, stepping closer, his voice dripping with mockery. His friends fan out around him, effectively cutting off any possible escape route. Regulus feels trapped, his breath coming just a little faster now.
He doesn’t say anything—he can’t. His throat feels tight, and his fingernails dig into the flesh of his skin. Colin smirks, clearly enjoying his silence.
“What, nothing to say?” Colin tilts his head, pretending to look concerned before his mouth curls cruelly. “Oh, that’s right. You need to write it down first, don’t you?”
The words sting more than Regulus expects them to, but before he can react, Colin reaches for his notebook.
Panic flares in Regulus’ chest. His notebook—his voice, his safety. He yanks it back, stepping away instinctively, his heart pounding. The movement is sharp and desperate, and for a split second, he can feel the weight of their amusement pressing down on him.
Colin barks out a laugh, and one of his friends snickers. “Look at him. Pathetic.” Another one mutters something under their breath, and the others chuckle.
Regulus swallows hard. He knows how this goes. First, the taunts. Then, the pushing. And then, if they feel particularly cruel, they’ll take his things and leave him scrambling to get them back. He’s been through it before. He can feel the moment balancing on a knife’s edge, waiting for that inevitable turn.
And there’s nothing he can do but wait for it to happen.
Just as Colin is about to lung forward, another voice cuts through the tension.
“Oi, what’s your problem, Colin?”
Regulus’ head snaps up, heart stuttering in his chest. Barty.
A moment later, Evan steps up beside him, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, seriously. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
Before Colin can respond, two more figures appear—Pandora and Dorcas.
Dorcas looks unimpressed. “I’d move along if I were you,” she says coolly, staring Colin down.
Pandora, who usually wears a dreamy, far-off look, is now frowning. “It’s not a good look, you know,” she says. “Bullying people.”
For a second, Colin looks like he wants to argue, but then he glances around. There are too many eyes on him now. Too many people watching. He scowls, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Whatever,” he mutters, turning on his heel. His friends follow, but not before one of them shoots Regulus a final sneer.
Regulus exhales shakily.
Barty claps a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”
Regulus nods, a wave of relief washing over him. His things are still in his arms. His notebook is safe. And Colin is gone.
They step into the library together, the weight in Regulus’ chest easing. As he sits down with his friends, something settles deep inside him—something warm, something steady.
He’s learned something today.
He’s learned that no matter what, his friends will always stick up for him. And that warms something inside of Regulus, he didn’t even know could be warm.
Regulus is half paying attention to the conversation, half paying attention to his book.
“So, do Colin and his gang of friends give you grief often?”
This gets Regulus’ full attention. He snaps his head up to figure out where the question came from. It came from Barty. And, as he looks up, all eyes are on him.
He shrugs, hesitant. He doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want them to make a big deal out of it. But he should have known better.
“Oh, don’t lie,” Evan says, raising an eyebrow. “I think they do. On Regulus’ second day of school— I believe it was his second day, anyway— Colin and his friend ran into him during class changes, and I had to step in and make it stop.”
Dorcas frowns. “I heard from my other friends, the ones in Year 8, that Colin and his gang locked Regulus up in a supply closet. Is that true, Regulus?”
Regulus stiffens. The memory creeps up on him uninvited— the claustrophobic dark, the overwhelming panic, the feeling of being utterly helpless. He grips the edge of his book tightly, then slowly reaches into his bag and pulls out his notebook. He flips to a blank page, his handwriting slightly shaky as he scrawls, Yeah, they did.
He turns the notebook around for them to see. A collective gasp ripples through the group.
“What the hell,” Pandora mutters, anger flashing in her eyes.
“I’m gonna get that kid,” Barty declares, pushing back his chair as if he’s about to march out and hunt Colin down right that second.
Evan grabs the sleeve of Barty’s shirt and tugs him back down before he can do something reckless. “No, you don’t.” He levels Barty with a knowing look. “I wouldn’t if I were you. You’ve had one too many suspensions this year.”
Barty grumbles but relents, crossing his arms over his chest.
Regulus glances down at his hands, debating whether or not to say more. He’s already revealed so much— but there’s something else, something he hasn’t told them yet. He shifts in his seat, feeling the weight of their expectant gazes. Slowly, he picks up his pen again and writes, They are also the reason why I was suspended.
He hesitates before adding, I don’t remember what happened. But I was having one of my ‘freak out’ moments, and I punched one of them.
He flips the notebook around again. A beat of silence follows as his words sink in. He doesn’t dare look up at their faces, afraid of what he might see. Judgement? Pity?
During my suspension, Mrs. Potter and Mrs. Carrington had a meeting with me to develop a plan so I can leave class and stuff , he writes next, tapping the page lightly before showing them.
“Well, that’s good, right?” Dorcas says carefully. “Helpful, I mean. For you.”
Regulus nods slowly, he writes. Yeah, it is. It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps .
Pandora reaches out and places a hand on his arm, her touch light, reassuring. “We’ve got your back, you know.”
Evan nods. “Always.”
Barty huffs. “And if Colin so much as looks at you wrong again, I swear—”
“Barty,” Evan warns, though there’s amusement in his voice.
Regulus watches them, something warm settling in his chest. It’s strange, really—he’s not used to this, people standing up for him, people caring. But maybe, just maybe, he can start getting used to it.
That’s another thing he’s learned. His friends will always stand by him. Will always help him, protect him. Even when he least expects it.
Because they’re his friends. And friends would do anything for each other.
***
Thursday.
Colin and his gang had been acting weird.
Weird, strange, unusual. The works.
It started to put Regulus on edge, to say the least. The looks, the whispers—he could see it all. Every time he passed them in the hallway during class changes or when one of them deliberately blocked his way during break, it made his stomach twist.
If Regulus had to pinpoint when it started, he’d say Science. Something shifted then, but he couldn’t figure out what. Maybe they were finally leaving him alone after what happened yesterday. But that didn’t seem right. Bullies don’t just stop bullying. It’s in their nature.
Apart from that, his day had been surprisingly good. It wasn’t until lunch, sitting in the library with his friends, that he realized just how good.
Regulus barely registers where his friends are sitting before he drops into his usual seat at the library table, practically bouncing as he sets his book down with a thud. He doesn’t even notice that he’s cutting off whatever conversation they were having—he’s too excited, his thoughts spilling out faster than he can stop them.
“ Je viens d'arriver au moment où Percy Iris envoie un message à Camp, ” he blurts out, eyes wide with excitement. “ Et… je veux dire, j’ai vu venir la confession de Luke. Type de. Il était évident qu'il n'était pas qu'un héros incompris, mais je ne pensais pas que Percy montrerait réellement la conversation au camp comme ça ! Genre, il a juste... il a juste envoyé un message direct à Chiron et aux autres ! Pouvez-vous imaginer? L'audace. C'était génial. ”
(“I just got to the part where Percy Iris messages Camp,” “And—I mean, I saw Luke’s confession coming. Kind of. It was obvious he wasn’t just some misunderstood hero, but I didn’t think Percy would actually show the conversation to camp like that! Like, he just—he just straight-up Iris messaged the entire thing to Chiron and the others! Can you imagine? The audacity. It was brilliant.”)
His hands move animatedly as he speaks, flipping through the book to find the exact scene. “ Et Luke – oh mon Dieu, Luke ne s’en rend même pas compte au début ! Il ne fait que répéter à quel point son plan est génial et à quel point les dieux méritent de tomber, et pendant ce temps, tout le camp l'écoute ! Et quand s’en rendra-t-il compte ? Son visage ! Eh bien, je veux dire, évidemment, je ne peux pas le voir, mais je peux juste imaginer à quel point il devait être absolument furieux. Percy est vraiment idiot, mais c'était en fait du génie. ”
(“And Luke—oh my God, Luke doesn’t even realize at first! He’s just going on about how great his plan is and how the gods deserve to fall, and meanwhile, the entire camp is listening! And then when he does realize? His face! Well, I mean, obviously I can’t see it, but I can just picture how absolutely furious he must’ve been. Percy is such an idiot, but it was actually genius.”)
Regulus barely pauses for breath, his excitement too strong to contain. “ Et autre chose : cela prouve à quel point Luke est dangereux, n'est-ce pas ? Ce n’est pas seulement un enfant en colère, il croit vraiment en ce qu’il fait. Il est complètement convaincu d’avoir raison, et c’est ce qui le fait peur. Ce n’est pas seulement un traître, c’est un croyant, et c’est pire. Et Percy – il est tellement doué pour être imprudent, mais il y parvient d'une manière ou d'une autre, et je me demande… ”
(“And another thing—this just proves how dangerous Luke is, right? Like, he’s not just some angry kid, he really believes in what he’s doing. He’s completely convinced he’s right, and that’s what makes him scary. He’s not just a traitor, he’s a believer, and that’s worse. And Percy—he’s so good at being reckless but somehow pulling it off, and it makes me wonder—”)
It isn’t until the silence stretches out that he stops. The words catch in his throat as he looks up and sees his friends staring at him. His stomach drops.
“What did you say?” Barty asks, blinking.
Regulus frowns. “ Quoi? ”
Evan leans forward, his expression confused but amused. “We couldn’t really understand you, mate. You are... uh, speaking French.”
Regulus freezes. His face flushes bright red. He hadn’t even realized. His first language had slipped out without a second thought, completely unnoticed by him in his excitement. He clutches his notebook, hesitating, but his friends just watch him, patient and expectant.
Slowly, he scribbles down what he had said, passing the paper over. They read it, nodding along.
Basically, what I said was, I got up to the part in my book where Percy Iris messages Camp Luke’s confession. I said how I saw Luke’s confession coming, kind of, but I didn’t expect Percy would show the conversation he had with Luke to camp. Luke goes on and on about his plan and stuff, whilst the entire camp listens, and, Luke didn’t even realize it until the end. Percy is such an idiot, but it was genius.
Dorcas leans in, offering him a small smile. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed for speaking French. Let alone for speaking in general.”
Regulus swallows.
“If you’re worried about us not understanding, you can always write it down after. It’s no big deal. You do what makes you comfortable.”
Regulus takes in her words, thinking them over. He hesitates, then turns back to the conversation.
And, without thinking, every now and then, he adds something in. Each time, he quickly writes it down afterward, but his friends never complain. They just listen, reading intently, treating his words like something worth waiting for.
It’s odd, in a nice way.
Regulus has never had anyone give him their full attention before. Not even something as trivial as rambling about a children’s book—obviously, Regulus doesn’t think Percy Jackson books are dumb, it’s just… he’s making a point. Having that undivided attention on him… it felt good. Regulus knows he shouldn’t have cut someone off; he apologized for that, but his friends didn’t care. They don’t care. Not at all. Not one bit.
He likes it. He knows he still has a lot to learn when it comes to friendships, and he knows this is one of the things he’s going to have to get used to. But still, it’s nice.
The only other person who ever listened to him like that was… Sirius.
Regulus really doesn’t want to be thinking about his idiot brother. So, he focuses on listening to his friends instead.
Time passes quickly, and before any of them notice, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. As they all walk out, Regulus wonders what else he’s going to learn because of his friends.
And that thought excites him.
English had been amazing.
Regulus and Pandora walk side by side, still discussing their lesson as they make their way to the auditorium for assembly. He’s brimming with excitement, words tumbling out onto his notebook as he writes about how the class had gone, how engaging the discussion was, how much he actually enjoyed himself.
Pandora grins at him. “Told you you’d like English.”
Regulus just huffs, nudging her lightly with his elbow. She laughs, and they step into the auditorium together.
The moment they walk in, the noise hits him like a wave.
Loud. Too loud.
Hundreds of students moving around, shouting, laughing, scraping chairs against the floor. Teachers trying—and failing—to herd them into their seats. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, bright and sterile, adding to the overwhelming chaos.
It’s doing him in.
Regulus sits down beside Pandora, gripping his notebook tightly. His leg starts bouncing under the seat. His fingers twitch against the cover of his book, then against the fabric of his sleeve. The sounds are everywhere, pressing in on him from all sides. Too much. Too much.
His hands move up to cover his ears. He rocks forward slightly, trying to ground himself, trying to block it all out. It doesn’t work. The noise is in his skull, rattling inside his brain, making it impossible to think. His breathing hitches. His chest tightens.
And then—a hand on his shoulder.
Regulus flinches, head snapping up to see his form teacher, Mr. Hale, kneeling in front of him. His lips are moving, but Regulus can’t make out the words, can’t hear anything past the static flooding his senses.
Mr. Hale’s expression is calm, patient. He glances at Pandora, then back at Regulus, speaking again. Regulus watches his mouth form words he can’t process.
Slowly, the noise starts to fade, or maybe he just manages to pull himself out of it enough to focus. Mr. Hale’s voice comes through, steady and measured. “Regulus, are you alright?”
Regulus shakes his head.
Mr. Hale nods once, like that’s exactly what he expected. He turns to Pandora again, speaking low. Regulus watches, still breathing too fast, still feeling like everything is too much. Then, Mr. Hale looks back at him and says, “Pandora is going to take you to the guidance counselor’s office. You can stay there for as long as you need, alright?”
Regulus swallows, nodding. Mr. Hale stands, giving Pandora a small nod before stepping back.
Pandora nudges his shoulder gently. “Come on, let’s go.”
Regulus doesn’t hesitate. He stands, keeps his eyes on the floor, and follows her out of the auditorium, away from the noise, away from the overwhelming chaos.
Somewhere he can breathe.
It doesn’t take long for them to reach the guidance counselor's office. Pandora walks beside him, her steps light, but her presence grounding. She doesn’t rush him, doesn’t fill the silence with unnecessary words. Just stays close, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When they step inside, the office is quiet—blessedly so. The hum of the overhead lights is a low, constant thing, a background noise that is infinitely better than the overwhelming clamor of the auditorium. Regulus exhales slowly, his shoulders loosening ever so slightly as he moves toward the small seating area near the bookshelves.
Pandora plops down beside him, setting her bag on the floor with a soft thud. She doesn’t leave. Regulus hadn’t expected her to, but a part of him had worried anyway. People always leave eventually. But she just sits there, pulling out her math notebook and flipping it open.
Regulus watches for a moment, hesitant. Then, slowly, he follows her lead, retrieving his own notes. He traces his finger along the familiar numbers, letting the predictability of formulas settle his nerves. The rhythmic order of mathematics is comforting—stable, reliable. Unlike words. Unlike people.
They work in silence for a while, the occasional scribble of a pencil the only sound between them. Every now and then, Pandora mutters something under her breath, tapping the end of her pencil against her chin as she puzzles through a problem. At one point, she glances over at Regulus' paper, then nudges him lightly.
"You're way ahead of me," she says with a huff, smiling.
Regulus shrugs, but there’s a small tug at the corner of his lips. He taps his pencil against the edge of the page, considering. Then, instead of writing out a reply, he points to her notes, tilting his head in silent question.
Pandora catches on quickly. “Oh. Yeah, I don’t get this part,” she admits, pointing to a problem on her worksheet. “It’s the fractions. They never make sense to me.”
Regulus quirks an eyebrow, then takes her pencil and carefully writes out a simpler version of the equation. Pandora leans in, watching as he underlines the key steps.
“Ohhh,” she breathes. “That actually makes sense.” She looks up at him, grinning. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”
Regulus ducks his head, ears burning. He isn’t, not really. But he lets the warmth of the compliment settle anyway.
They keep working, the silence between them comfortable. Every so often, Pandora asks another question, and Regulus answers the best he can, writing things out when needed.
At some point, he glances up and watches Pandora for a moment. She’s still frowning at her paper, tapping her pencil absently as she works through a problem. There’s something easy about sitting here with her, something natural.
Regulus is grateful. Grateful that she stayed. Grateful that, for once, he doesn’t feel like too much.
And as he turns back to his work, a quiet thought settles in the back of his mind.
Maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to go through things alone anymore.
***
Friday.
Remember how he said Colin and his gang were acting weird, strange, and unusual? Yeah? Well, turns out they know something.
The snickers, the whispers, the looks—it all makes sense now. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t nothing. It was calculated. Planned.
And it was all to do with them knowing something extremely personal about him.
Something only his friends should know.
It happens during PE. The class is split into teams for some stupid game Regulus couldn’t care less about. He stays at the edge, trying to keep his head down and just get through the period without incident. But, of course, Colin and his gang have other plans.
They start with little things. Just enough to dig under his skin.
“Oi, Black, looking a little tense over there,” Colin drawls, stepping closer as Regulus grips the hem of his PE shirt, trying to ignore him. “Something on your mind?”
Regulus doesn't react. He won’t give them the satisfaction.
But then one of Colin’s friends chimes in, voice sing-songy and taunting. “Oh, come on, Reg , aren’t you curious on what we know?”
His hands tighten into fists. He’s curious, sure, but not enough to play their game.
“Yeah,” Colin continues, grinning. “We know something about you. Something real personal.”
Regulus stiffens.
They notice. Of course, they do.
Colin’s smirk widens, sensing weakness. “Bet you wanna know what it is, don’t you?”
Regulus doesn’t move. He keeps his expression blank, unreadable. But inside, his stomach is twisting.
“Bet it’s eating you up, yeah?” Colin presses, voice lowering, laced with cruel amusement. “Bet you’re wondering who told us.”
Regulus’ breathing picks up. He hates this. The not knowing. The control they have over him right now.
One of Colin’s friends chuckles. “Think we should tell him?”
“Nah,” Colin says, drawing it out. “Let’s keep him guessing a little longer.”
Regulus wants to scream. His entire body is rigid with tension, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. He clenches his jaw so tight it hurts.
Then, finally, Colin steps in close—too close—and whispers, “I didn't know you were a foster kid.”
The words hit him like a slap.
Regulus’ stomach drops, the world narrowing to just those few syllables.
“Had it confirmed, too,” Colin adds, voice smug. “You’ll never believe who told me.”
Regulus’ mind blanks.
His first thought—his only thought—jumps straight to Pandora.
She knew. She knew, and now they know.
The realization slams into him like a freight train, his thoughts spiraling too fast to catch. His breathing turns shallow, chest tightening like a vice.
Pandora. Pandora. Pandora.
How could she—
How could she do this?
He feels sick. Feels like the ground beneath him is shifting, breaking apart. He can barely hear whatever else Colin is saying over the blood rushing in his ears. His vision is tunneling, hands shaking at his sides.
And then—Pandora is there.
Her voice is distant, but it cuts through the noise. “Regulus.”
He barely registers her kneeling in front of him, her hands hovering near his wrists but not touching. “Reg, breathe.”
His chest is so tight. His thoughts are too loud. His heart is slamming against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.
“Hey,” Pandora’s voice is steady. Gentle. “It’s okay. Just breathe, alright?”
Regulus sucks in a shaky breath. It barely helps. The betrayal is still there, lodged deep like a knife between his ribs.
His vision blurs, and—no. No, no, no. He refuses to cry. Not here. Not in front of them.
Without thinking, he turns and walks. Just walks away.
Pandora calls his name, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look back.
He just walks. Past the PE field, past the changing rooms, past the buildings, until he finds somewhere—anywhere—he can be alone.
And then, finally, the weight of it crashes over him.
His back hits the wall, legs pulling up to his chest as his breath comes in ragged, uneven bursts. His hands grip his sleeves tightly, knuckles white.
The betrayal is suffocating.
It feels just as bad, if not worse, than what Sirius did to him.
Because this was Pandora.
And he trusted her.
And now—he doesn’t know what to think.
Regulus doesn’t make it to his next class.
In fact, he makes a point to avoid Pandora and the rest of his supposed friends when he gets the chance. Luckily, the first break is only fifteen minutes, so it’s easy. He keeps his head down, slipping through the crowds, making himself small. Unnoticeable.
But the feeling doesn’t go away.
It sits heavy in his stomach, curling and twisting like something rotten. He feels sick. Like he’s going to vomit. Like he can’t breathe properly.
He hates it. Hates the feeling.
Hates the feeling of betrayal. Of being betrayed. He promised himself he wouldn’t ever be put in a position like that again. But now… he has. And it sucks.
By the time he gets to science, he’s convinced he can push it down, ignore it, pretend nothing happened. He sits in his assigned seat, pulling out his notebook, determined to focus.
And then Colin speaks.
“Still sulking, Black?”
Regulus stiffens.
Across the table, Colin and his friends are watching him, smirking.
“Thought you’d be used to it by now,” one of them says, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “All that bouncing around from house to house.”
Regulus’ grip tightens on his pen. He doesn’t look up.
“Wonder why, though?” Another voice chimes in. “Like, what did you do? Set a fire? Steal something? Oh—what if he hit his mum?”
Regulus sees red.
The anger is sudden and sharp, surging through him like a storm. He clenches his jaw so tightly it aches.
Colin grins. “Yeah, you do seem the type, don’t you? Reckon that’s why they took you?”
Regulus grips the edge of his desk, knuckles white. He wants to hit them. He wants to scream.
But then—
“Oh, and get this,” Colin’s voice lowers, but not enough. “Guess what else we know?”
Regulus says nothing. His pulse pounds in his ears.
Colin leans forward, smiling like this is all some big joke. “We know about your little ‘time outs.’”
Regulus’ stomach drops.
“Bet you were there today, weren’t you?” Another one adds, snickering. “Crying your eyes out like a little baby.”
Regulus’ hands are shaking now. His whole body is rigid with tension. Before he can listen to another word, a voice cuts through the taunts.
“Regulus?”
Mrs. Birch.
Regulus blinks, his vision blurry. His science teacher is standing at the front of the room, watching him carefully.
“Can you come up here for a moment?” she asks, nodding toward her desk.
Regulus hesitates. His first instinct is to say no—to stay rooted in his seat, to prove to Colin and his gang that they don’t get to him.
But Mrs. Birch isn’t looking at him like a teacher calling on a student. She’s looking at him like she knows something is wrong.
Slowly, he stands, making his way to the front.
Mrs. Birch lowers her voice. “Are you alright?”
Regulus swallows. The lump in his throat is too big to speak around.
Mrs. Birch studies him, then nods, like she understands. “Do you need to leave?”
Yes. The answer is yes.
But in the back of his mind, he knows what Colin will say. He knows this will only give them more fuel.
Mrs. Birch notices the hesitation. “It’s alright,” she says gently. “You can go.”
That’s all he needs.
Regulus grabs his things and walks out.
The tears start the moment he steps into the hallway. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, only that he needs to be anywhere but here. He wipes at his face, but it’s no use. His vision is swimming.
He rounds a corner too fast—
And crashes straight into someone.
Regulus stumbles, head snapping up just in time to hear:
“Oi—watch where you’re going.”
The voice is familiar. Regulus blinks, and through the blur, he sees James.
James’ expression shifts immediately. “Reg,” he says, softer now. “You alright, mate?”
Regulus shakes his head.
James doesn’t ask anything else. He just tilts his head toward the side hall. “C’mon.”
They walk.
James doesn’t say much—just leads them somewhere quieter, somewhere away from the crowd. They settle near the staircase at the back of the building, where no one ever goes during class.
Regulus tries to breathe. His hands are still shaking.
James watches him for a moment, then digs into his bag, pulling out a scrap of paper and a pencil.
“Here,” he says, handing it over. “Write it down.”
Regulus hesitates, then grips the pencil tight. His hand moves on its own, words spilling out in messy, rushed handwriting.
He tells James everything.
How betrayed he feels. What Colin and his gang said. Every cruel word, every taunt.
When he’s done, he pushes the paper toward James and stares at the floor.
James reads it, and then—for a long, long moment—he says nothing.
Then, finally, in a voice so quiet it almost gets lost in the silence, James says, “I told him.”
Regulus’ head snaps up.
James won’t meet his eyes. “Colin. I—I was the one who told him.”
Regulus can’t breathe.
James runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to,” he says quickly. “I thought—I thought he was one of your friends, and I was just trying to help—”
Regulus stops listening.
He feels sick. He feels stupid.
Pandora never told them. She never betrayed him. And instead of believing in her, he’d immediately assumed the worst.
Regulus grips his sleeves, looking away. His face is burning, his throat tight.
James swallows hard. “I’m sorry, Reg,” he says. “I didn’t—I never meant for this to happen.”
Regulus nods, but it’s stiff.
James keeps talking, keeps apologizing, but Regulus doesn’t want to hear it. He just sits there, staring at the floor, heart still hammering in his chest.
James falls silent after a while, and they just sit there together.
Then the bell rings, signaling class change.
James stands. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. James waits for a second longer, then walks away. Regulus watches him go, his mind still a tangled mess of emotions.
He stays there, unmoving, long after James disappears.
Regulus manages to gather himself together enough to make it to French.
His eyes still sting, and his throat feels raw. His whole body is heavy, exhausted from everything—the betrayal, the anger, the crying. But he forces himself to move, to push forward. He doesn’t have a choice.
He slips into his seat, heart still racing, hands still trembling slightly.
Barty is already there, flipping through his notes. When Regulus sits down, Barty glances at him, and immediately, his expression changes.
Regulus doesn’t know what he looks like, but it must be bad, because Barty’s eyes narrow in concern.
“What happened?” Barty asks, voice low.
Regulus swallows. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.
Instead, he shakes his head, blinking rapidly against the threat of more tears. He’s already cried too much today. He doesn’t want to cry again.
Barty doesn’t press, but he keeps watching him.
Regulus focuses on his notebook, pretending to read over his notes. They’re supposed to be working on their speaking assessment—practicing dialogue, making sure their pronunciation is right. Normally, Regulus would be nervous about it, but right now, he doesn’t have the mental energy to think about standing in front of the class.
He picks up his pen with shaking fingers.
Barty nudges him.
Regulus glances up, and Barty just raises an eyebrow, waiting. He’s not going to let this go.
Regulus hesitates, then lowers his gaze back to his notebook and starts writing.
His hand moves quickly, scrawling out everything in messy, uneven handwriting. Everything that happened with Colin and his gang. What they said. How much it hurt. How he thought Pandora had betrayed him. And then—how it was James. How guilty he feels for assuming the worst about his friends. How he doesn’t know what to do now.
When he’s done, he pushes the notebook toward Barty and looks away.
Barty reads silently, his expression unreadable. He gets to the end, then nods once. And then, without a word, Barty pushes his chair back and walks straight over to the teacher.
Regulus stiffens. What is he doing?
He watches, stomach twisting, as Barty leans in and says something to their teacher. He can’t hear the conversation, but whatever Barty is saying—it’s working.
The teacher nods, then looks toward Regulus briefly before turning back to Barty.
A few seconds later, Barty is walking back over, picking up his bag. “C’mon,” he says simply. Regulus frowns, Barty continues. “I got us permission to work on our assignment in the library.”
Regulus blinks. He doesn’t question it—he just gathers his things and follows Barty out.
The library is quiet.
It’s a relief after everything—the noise of the hallways, the constant hum of voices in class. Here, it’s just them, tucked into their usual spot by the window.
Regulus sits down heavily, his head throbbing from all the crying he’s done. He feels awful. Sick, even.
Barty doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just watches Regulus, his expression softer than usual. And then—
Barty moves closer and wraps his arms around him. Regulus freezes.
Barty isn’t the type to do this—he isn’t the type to give comfort like this. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He just holds him.
Regulus clenches his jaw. His whole body is still tense, but after a moment, he lets himself relax. Just a little.
Then, suddenly, the weight of everything crashes down again, and Regulus buries his face in Barty’s shoulder.
And he cries.
Not silent tears this time, but full-body, shaking sobs. He grips Barty’s hoodie, trying to muffle the sound.
“ Je me sens tellement coupable, ” he whispers. His voice is thick with emotion. “ J'ai supposé le pire à propos de Pandora. Je ne lui faisais pas confiance. ”
(“I feel so guilty,” “I assumed the worst about Pandora. I didn’t trust her.”)
Barty doesn’t pull away.
Regulus swallows hard. “ Et James... il n'en avait pas l'intention, mais... j'ai juste… ” His breath shudders. “ Je ne sais pas quoi faire. ”
(“And James—he didn’t mean to, but—I just—” “I don’t know what to do.”)
Barty exhales slowly.
“Regulus,” he says, voice calm, steady. “It’s going to be okay.”
Regulus shakes his head, throat burning. How would Barty know that?
“Because you’re not alone,” Barty says simply. “You’ve got me. And Pandora. And James—even if he’s an idiot. You’ve got people who care.”
Regulus grips his sleeves, breathing unsteady. He doesn’t respond, but he lets Barty’s words settle.
They sit there for a long time, just existing in the silence.
The feeling of being alone is a tough emotion. Alone implies abandonment, distance, a severing of ties. But is anyone ever truly alone?
Regulus isn’t sure.
For a long time, he thought he was. It was easier that way. If he kept people at arm’s length, they couldn’t hurt him. Couldn’t betray him.
But then—Pandora. Evan. Barty. His friends. They made him believe, just for a little while, that maybe he wasn’t alone. That maybe he had people.
And then James. And Colin. And everything else that followed.
Now, he doesn’t know what to think.
For the next little while, he and Barty continue working on their French speeches. Barty makes an effort to act normal, and Regulus appreciates it. The last thing he wants is to keep talking about his feelings.
He still feels raw. Tired. Like if he lets his guard down for even a second, he’ll fall apart again.
So, he focuses on the assignment. On perfecting his pronunciation, on making sure his sentences are structured correctly. He writes and rewrites lines, underlines words, and forces himself to keep his mind occupied.
Eventually, the others show up for lunch.
Pandora is the first to walk in.
Regulus stiffens the moment he sees her, guilt hitting him full force.
She doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t look hurt. But she looks—different. A little more guarded, maybe.
He swallows hard, grabs his notebook, and immediately starts writing.
I’m sorry.
I should have had more faith in you. I didn’t mean to doubt you, I was just—angry. Confused. And I know that’s not an excuse. I just—I’m really sorry, Pandora.
He pushes the notebook toward her, hands shaking.
Pandora looks down at the page.
Then, she sighs, looking back up at him. “Reg, you don’t have to apologise.”
He nods but keeps writing.
I do. I hurt you.
Pandora reads the words carefully. Then, she exhales and sits down across from him.
“I won’t lie,” she says. “It hurt that you didn’t trust me. That you believed—even for a second—that I would do something like that.”
Regulus lowers his gaze. Shame burns in his chest.
“But,” Pandora continues, her voice softer, “I also understand why you thought that. And I’ll get over it. So, just—don’t do it again, okay?”
Regulus nods quickly.
She smiles at him, small but genuine. “Good.”
Just like that, the weight on his chest lifts, just a little. They all settle in together, their usual routine falling back into place.
For a moment, it feels normal. Safe.
But then—
Regulus decides to grab his black stuffed dog from his locker.
The minute he steps out into the hallway, he regrets it.
Because Colin and his gang are there, waiting for him.
Regulus doesn’t have time to react before they’re on him.
“Well, well, well,” Colin drawls, stepping forward with that same smug grin he always wears. “If it isn’t our favourite little charity case.”
Regulus clenches his jaw and moves toward his locker, ignoring him.
Colin doesn’t like that.
“Hey, we were just wondering,” he continues, voice dripping with fake innocence, “what exactly got you taken away from your parents? I mean, there’s gotta be a reason, right?”
His stomach twists.
“Maybe they just didn’t want him,” one of Colin’s friends sneers.
“Or maybe he was a little freak,” another adds. “A little problem child. The kind of kid no one wants to keep around.”
Regulus forces himself to breathe evenly, to grab his bag from his locker and not react.
Because that’s what they want. They want him to break.
But then—
Colin steps closer, lowering his voice. “I hope you get taken away again.”
Regulus freezes. Colin grins. “Seems to be a pattern with you, doesn’t it? No one wants you.”
The words cut deeper than they should. Because the truth is, Regulus already believes them.
His grip tightens on his bag. He doesn’t look at them, doesn’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
Instead, he turns and runs.
The plan.
It haunts him.
It follows him around like a hanging knife above his head, ready to be cut.
And he knows whose fault it is. Mrs. Potter’s.
It’s Mrs. Potter’s fault he’s in this predicament. It’s her fault they know. It’s her fault for making him stand out, for making him even more “different” than he already is.
He hates it. And the worst part?
It’s all because she believes he’s like them. Kids like him.
Regulus doesn’t stop running until he’s back at the library. He shoves his things into his bag, head down, ignoring his friends’ confused questions.
Then, without a word, he walks out.
He doesn’t stop until he reaches the guidance counselor’s office.
Regulus sits in the waiting area, his bag clutched to his chest, hands trembling.
He’s hurt. Angry. Scared. Betrayed.
His mind keeps replaying Colin’s words over and over again.
No one wants you.
And worse than that—the thought of who caused this.
Mrs. Potter.
If she had just left things alone, if she hadn’t drawn attention to him, if she hadn’t made things worse—
This wouldn’t be happening.
And that thought stays with him, heavy and unshakable, as he waits to be picked up.
Notes:
Word Count: 11,578
Published: 2025-02-22Quoi? = What?
Hello everybody! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I can't remember if I enjoyed writing it, apparently in my psycho brain I managed to write both Chapter 13 and 14 in about a day each... for the record that's like over 22k words...
I think I need help lol.
Anywyas, I hope you lot enjoyed this chapter! Sorry for any inconviences with the "Tuesday" section. I personally don't like using the r-word; however, when writing the dialogue, it was literally the first word the popped up into my head. I tried to write it without it, but, it just didn't feel all the compleing.
I really do hope the trigger warning at the beginning of the chapter was helpful. Let me know if it wasn't, and I can do better. Again, thank you all for reading, and stay entuned for chapter 14!!
Chapter 14: Disaster is Chaos. Eventually, it all Equates to Problems getting Solved. Wait... What?
Summary:
It’s the last week of school, and to say things weren’t a disaster is an understatement. Because it’s not just disastrous, but it’s chaotic as well. And, vice versa.
At least one problem gets solved… right?
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
Disclaimer: the French translation was achieved through using google translate, so if you are aware it is incorrect, please say so in the comments so I can change it. Thank you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
No one wants you.
Those words play on a continuous loop in the back of his mind, like a song stuck on repeat. It plays and plays and plays, an endless cycle he can’t escape.
He wishes it would stop.
But it won’t.
It never will.
Because Regulus knows the truth. He knows the weight of those words, the way they dig beneath the skin, crawl into the cracks of a person, and take root.
No one wants you.
He wishes—he hopes—he prays it isn’t true. But it is. It has to be.
He’s seen it firsthand.
It started with his parents. They did this. They were the ones who made the choices, who committed the acts that got him and Sirius taken away. They could have stopped. They could have chosen differently. They could have wanted him.
But they didn’t.
They chose to get rid of him.
No one wants you.
Then there was his Uncle Cygnus. For a brief moment, after everything fell apart, Regulus thought maybe—just maybe—he would take him in.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t want the responsibility of a broken, abandoned nephew. He didn’t want to raise his sister’s child. He didn’t want him .
No one wants you.
His cousins—Narcissa, Andromeda, Bellatrix—they haven’t reached out. Not once. Not to see where he ended up. Not to see if he was okay.
Regulus thought, a part of him generally thought, they would reach out. That they would talk to him. That they would fight for him. But they didn’t.
Which just shows Regulus that they don’t want him either.
No one wants you.
He’s stuck in an endless loop. A cycle of being unwanted, passed from one place to another, like something people try to get rid of.
Not his foster parents. Not his actual parents. Not his aunt or uncle or cousins.
Not even his own brother.
That one stings the most.
Sirius. The one person who was supposed to be there. The one person he loved more than anything. The one person he did everything for— everything.
And yet, Sirius left.
What did Regulus ever do to deserve that?
He did everything for him.
Held his hand when he was in pain. Sat with him after their mother’s yelling left them both shaking.
Covered for him when he snuck out, took the blame for things he didn’t do, tried so hard to be the brother Sirius needed.
And in the end, Sirius still chose to leave. To leave him.
Because even Sirius doesn’t want him.
Regulus curls in on himself where he sits in the guidance counselor’s office, his bag clutched to his chest, hands gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.
His eyes burn from how much he’s already cried today, but the weight in his chest hasn’t gone away.
He wants to go home.
Except—he doesn’t even know what home is anymore.
The door opens.
Regulus doesn’t bother looking up, doesn’t even register who it is—
Until he hears the voice.
“Regulus?”
His whole body tenses.
It’s her.
Mrs. Potter.
And just like that, every emotion he’s been trying to suppress boils over.
He grips his bag even tighter, his nails digging into the fabric. His vision blurs at the edges, but not from tears this time. From anger.
Because it’s her fault.
All of this. Everything that’s happened today— it’s her fault.
If she had just left things alone. If she hadn’t singled him out. If she hadn’t made a plan, hadn’t drawn attention to him, hadn’t made him more different than he already was—
This wouldn’t be happening.
He wouldn’t be sitting here, feeling like his entire world is crumbling beneath him.
He wouldn’t have spent the whole day being mocked, humiliated, torn apart by Colin and his gang.
He wouldn’t have doubted his friends. Wouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Wouldn’t have lost faith in the only people who have ever tried to care about him.
It’s her fault.
And she’s standing there, looking at him like she’s concerned, like she actually cares.
Regulus clenches his jaw so tightly it hurts.
Because all he can see is red.
“Is everything alright, sweetheart?”
No. Everything is not alright. His entire world is ending, and it’s her fault.
Regulus stares straight ahead, his jaw locked so tightly it aches. He refuses to look at her, refuses to acknowledge the concern in her voice.
It’s fake.
She’s fake.
Mrs. Potter sighs softly when he doesn’t respond. “Regulus?”
Silence.
She waits a beat, and then another, but still, he doesn’t answer. Eventually, she exhales, quiet but resigned, and gently says, “Come on.”
Regulus doesn’t move at first, but then she steps aside, waiting for him, and he realizes—he doesn’t have a choice.
So, he stands.
He moves stiffly, his limbs like lead, and follows her out of the office without a word. Every step feels heavier than the last, anger pressing into his ribs, tightening around his throat.
They walk through the school, past students lingering in the hallways, past teachers chatting quietly by their doors. Regulus keeps his head down, keeps his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Mrs. Potter says nothing as they step outside, but Regulus doesn’t miss the way she glances at him every so often, like she’s waiting for him to say something.
He won’t.
He won’t give her that.
The walk to the car feels endless. Every second, his fury builds, twisting and curling inside him like a living thing, something clawing at his insides, desperate to be set free.
His thoughts spin wildly, tangled and dark.
All the nice things she’s done for him.
The gentle words. The soft smiles. The way she pretended to care.
How fake it must have been.
Because if she actually cared, if she actually meant any of it— this wouldn’t have happened.
They reach the car. Mrs. Potter unlocks it, and Regulus yanks the door open, throwing himself inside. He slams it shut harder than necessary, his breathing sharp and uneven as he stares out the window.
The car starts, and they pull away from the school, the building disappearing behind them.
Regulus watches the trees blur past, his thoughts looping, spiraling.
She did this.
She made him stand out. She made him different. She made them notice him, made them see him.
She’s the reason Colin knows. She’s the reason they all know.
And now—now he’s the joke of the school. A charity case. A pity project.
She did that.
Her kindness— fake. Her warmth— fake.
Everything about her— fake.
The car pulls into the driveway. Regulus stares at the house, at the place he’s supposed to call home.
But it’s not. It never has been. It never will be.
He steps out of the car, gripping his bag like a lifeline. Mrs. Potter glances at him, eyes filled with something soft, something concerned, but all Regulus feels is a cold, consuming rage.
Because she hurt him. And he’ll make sure she hurts just as much as she’s hurt him.
When Regulus steps inside, he doesn’t have a plan.
He doesn’t think.
His entire body is thrumming with anger, his chest tight, his fingers twitching at his sides.
Mrs. Potter follows him in, closing the door gently behind them. The house is quiet, warm, filled with the faint scent of whatever she must have been baking earlier. It feels mocking somehow, like the world is pretending everything is fine when it’s not.
Regulus isn’t fine.
And then—Mrs. Potter speaks, soft and careful. “Would you like some chocolate milk and cookies, sweetheart?”
And that— that is all it takes.
Something inside him snaps.
Blind, uncontrollable rage explodes through him like fire, hot and consuming. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing—doesn’t care.
His hands move before he can stop them, grabbing the closest thing—a framed photo on the table—and hurling it across the room. The glass shatters against the wall, shards raining down onto the floor.
The sound fuels him.
He lunges toward the nearest shelf, knocking over books, sending them scattering. A vase—gone. Another picture frame—destroyed. His hands grab anything within reach, throwing, breaking, ruining.
A furious, animalistic noise rips from his throat, a sound he barely recognizes as his own.
He’s furious. Livid. And nothing is enough.
Nothing can fix this, nothing can make it better, so he just—destroys.
And then—
It stops.
It’s like he blinks and the world comes back into focus.
His chest is heaving, his hands shaking. His breath is ragged, sharp and uneven, and there’s glass everywhere. Books are strewn across the floor. Broken pieces of ceramic litter the rug. A framed photo—one of James’ first day of school—smashed beyond recognition.
His entire body locks up as his eyes dart around the wreckage, realization slamming into him.
What has he done?
A small, wavering voice cuts through the silence.
“Regulus?”
It’s so soft, so careful, but it destroys him.
His gaze jerks to Mrs. Potter, and—oh. The look on her face—
Her mouth is slightly parted, eyes wide, filled with something he can’t quite name. Not fear exactly, but something close to it—hesitation, uncertainty, like she’s trying to gauge whether he’s still dangerous.
Regulus feels sick.
His stomach twists, nausea rising in his throat. He made her look at him like that. He did this. No one else. Just him.
Tears well up, spilling over before he can stop them. His breath catches—hitches—and suddenly he can’t breathe, can’t think.
Because she’s going to kick him out.
She has to.
He’s ruined everything.
Just like his parents always said he would. Just like every foster home before this. Just like every time before.
He stumbles back, his legs giving out beneath him as he sinks to the floor. His hands shake violently as he grips his knees, curling in on himself, gasping, choking.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe.
The room is too small, the air too thick, everything too loud—his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his own jagged breaths, the distant sound of glass crunching underfoot as someone moves closer—
Panic takes hold, vicious and merciless, dragging him under. Dragging him under like the waves at the beach.
The pressure consumes him, claws into his chest, making it impossible to breathe. His lungs burn, his throat tightens, his fingers tremble against his knees.
Stop.
He begs his body to stop, to breathe, to let him go. But the panic doesn’t listen. It never does. It drowns him in the crushing weight of his own mistakes, his own fury, his own hands that have done so much damage.
And then— hands.
Warm hands.
Gently, carefully, grounding.
Mrs. Potter.
The realization makes his stomach churn.
She’s still here. After everything, after the broken glass and the shattered pictures and the destruction he’s left in his wake— she’s still here. And she’s touching him.
He feels nauseous just thinking about it.
He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve her.
Her hands move slowly, soothing, one rubbing soft circles on his back, the other carding gently through his hair. Her voice is low, steady, speaking to him in soft, reassuring murmurs.
“You’re alright, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
He isn’t.
He doesn’t know how to be alright. He doesn’t know why she’s still trying to help him, why she isn’t furious, why she isn’t kicking him out like she should be.
It makes his chest ache.
His breathing is still erratic, uneven and ragged. His hands curl into fists against the floor, nails digging into his palms as he fights for control.
“Regulus.”
Her voice is so soft.
She shifts, adjusting them both so they’re facing each other. She’s warm, solid, one arm wrapped securely around him, the other hand sliding from his hair to cup his cheek, guiding his head until their eyes meet.
He blinks at her, tears still spilling freely down his face.
“Can you follow my breathing?” she asks gently.
He doesn’t know if he can. But he tries.
She inhales, slow and deep. He tries to match it, his breath stuttering, his ribs still aching.
“In…” she says softly.
Regulus breathes in.
“Out…”
He exhales.
Again. And again. And again, until finally, finally, the tightness in his chest eases just enough for air to flow freely. He still feels like he’s falling apart, but at least now, he can breathe.
“Are you back with me?” she asks.
The smallest of nods.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Okay.”
A pause. Then—
“What happened?”
His stomach twists violently. He can’t give her the answer. He doesn’t want to give her the answer. The very thought of explaining himself makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. His body starts to shake, fresh tears spilling over before he can stop them.
Mrs. Potter sees it immediately.
“Okay, okay,” she soothes, leaning back just slightly, just enough to accommodate his body as she pulls him in, arms wrapping around him securely.
Regulus doesn’t resist. He tucks himself into her, burying his face into the crook of her neck, and sobs.
She holds him tight, one hand rubbing slow, gentle circles on his back, the other threading through his hair with soft, careful fingers.
“You’re alright,” she whispers. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t deserve this.
He doesn’t deserve her kindness. Her compassion, her care, her voice speaking gentle reassurances that he is okay when he isn’t.
He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven.
Not after this. Not after what he’s done. Not after what he’s blamed her for.
And yet—she holds him anyway.
Regulus isn’t sure how long Mrs. Potter holds him on the floor. He only knows that by the time she moves them to the living room, his body is exhausted—wrung out from the sheer force of his emotions.
Now, he’s curled up on the couch, his head resting in Mrs. Potter’s lap. Her fingers comb gently through his hair, the steady rhythm grounding in a way that makes his chest ache. Her other hand traces slow, soothing circles on his back, a quiet reassurance that she’s still here.
They’re waiting.
Regulus realizes this after a while, his sluggish mind piecing together the silence between them.
They’re waiting for Mr. Potter to return.
And James is…
Not here.
Mrs. Potter had told him, in that same soft voice she always used when she was trying to be gentle, that James was at a friend’s house for a play.
Regulus would love to believe that.
But he knows.
He knows James isn’t here because of what he just did. Because Mrs. Potter is protecting him. From him.
And really, can he even blame her?
Regulus isn’t safe —not for himself, not for anyone else. The proof is all around them, in the broken glass that Mrs. Potter had carefully swept up before guiding him to the couch, in the picture frames that once held memories but now lie shattered.
He did that.
And James isn’t here because of it. The thought sits heavy in his stomach. The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating.
Then, finally, the front door opens.
“Euphemia?” Mr. Potter’s voice carries through the house, calm but expectant.
Mrs. Potter answers, still tracing patterns into Regulus’ back. “We’re in the living room, Fleamont.”
Footsteps approach, steady and unhurried. Then, Mr. Potter steps inside, his gaze sweeping over them before settling on his wife. He takes a seat in the armchair beside her, concern written in the lines of his face.
“What happened?” he asks.
Regulus doesn’t move. He stares at a spot on the couch, eyes unfocused, willing himself not to exist in this moment.
Mrs. Potter explains.
She tells Mr. Potter that Regulus came home upset, that when she offered him something to drink, he snapped. She tells him about the broken glass, the shattered picture frames, the destruction.
“Nobody was hurt,” she adds, as if that matters.
Mr. Potter listens without interrupting, his brows furrowing as he processes it all. Regulus still refuses to look at him, curling in tighter on himself, stomach twisting in anticipation.
“Regulus,” Mr. Potter says, his voice steady but gentle. “Can you tell us what happened? What made you so upset?”
Regulus doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
He stares down at his hands, where his nails dig into the sleeves of his sweater, and wills himself to disappear.
Mrs. Potter speaks next, just as softly. “You’re not in trouble, sweetheart. But we need to understand. You broke one of the house rules, and that means we need to talk about it.”
Regulus swallows, throat tight. His hands twitch where they rest in his lap.
They need to understand.
But how could he possibly explain?
How could he put into words the way Colin and his gang had ruined him? How they had stripped him of what little dignity he had left? How they had turned school—a place that was supposed to be safe—into a battlefield?
How they had found out?
His stomach churns violently, nausea curling in his throat. He doesn’t want to do this.
But Mrs. Potter’s voice is kind, and Mr. Potter’s presence is steady, and the weight of everything inside of him is so heavy—
His fingers move before he can stop them. Slowly, hesitantly, he reaches for the notebook still resting on the couch beside him.
It feels impossible to start.
His hand trembles as he presses the pen to the page. The words stick in his throat, in his chest, but eventually—painstakingly—he forces them onto the paper.
Colin and his gang. They’ve been targeting me.
The moment the first words are down, the rest start to come faster, tumbling out like he’s vomiting up poison.
They push me in the hallways. Trip me. Corner me. Say things.
They found out about. About James. About… everything.
He hesitates, chest tight.
They said I don’t belong here. That I’m a charity case. That you only took me in because you felt sorry for me. That it’s only a matter of time before you realize I’m not worth the trouble and send me away.
His grip tightens on the pen.
They said worse things too.
Things he can’t write.
Things he doesn’t want to give life to. He forces his mind away from it, his breathing coming quick and shallow.
His fingers tighten, and before he can stop himself, the pen scratches out his next thought, raw and unfiltered.
I hate it here.
I hate that everything is different now. I hate that you put me in that school. I hate that if you had just left me alone, none of this would have happened. I hate that you act like you care when you don’t. I hate that I keep falling for it. I hate you for making me think I could ever be safe.
Regulus stares at the words, his stomach turning. The moment they’re written, he regrets them.
But he doesn’t cross them out.
Because part of him still believes them.
Slowly, stiffly, he shoves the notebook forward, pushing it toward Mrs. Potter. Then he curls in on himself, retreating to the farthest end of the couch, as far away from them as possible.
His arms wrap around his legs, his forehead pressing against his knees.
He doesn’t look at them.
He can’t.
Shame creeps up his spine, pressing in on him like a suffocating weight. He waits for the inevitable—waits for their disappointment, for their frustration, for them to tell him he’s wrong.
But the silence stretches.
It’s unbearable.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mrs. Potter whispers, heartbreak laced in her voice.
Regulus flinches. His breathing is sharp, too shallow. His hands curl into fists, nails digging into his palms. He feels sick.
They know now.
They see him.
And he wishes—he wishes he had never written a single word.
Mr. Potter exhales softly, breaking the silence. “Regulus,” he says, careful, deliberate. “I am so sorry you’ve been dealing with this on your own.”
Regulus tenses.
“You don’t deserve that,” Mrs. Potter adds. “You don’t deserve any of it.”
Regulus swallows hard. He doesn’t believe her. But she doesn’t stop.
“We can talk about what to do about Colin and his friends later. Right now, we need you to know something.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to hear it.
“You wrote that we don’t care.”
Regulus twitches.
“That we only took you in out of pity.”
His chest aches.
“That we’ll send you away.”
Tears burn at his eyes.
“Regulus.”
He can’t look at them.
Mrs. Potter shifts beside him, moving closer but not touching. “I don’t know how to make you believe this, sweetheart,” she says, so softly that it makes his throat ache. “But I need you to hear me.”
There’s a pause. And then—
“We chose you.”
His breath catches.
“You are not a burden to us. You are not a mistake. You are not something we took on out of obligation.”
Mr. Potter nods. “You’re a part of this family, Regulus.”
Regulus shakes his head, sharp and sudden. His hands press over his ears, like that might be enough to block out the words.
Mrs. Potter’s voice trembles. “Oh, sweetheart—”
She reaches for him.
Her arms wrap around him, pulling him into her.
And that—that’s what breaks him.
A sob wrenches itself from his throat, his entire body shuddering with it. Then another. And another.
Strong arms wrap around him from the other side, and suddenly, he’s held.
Mr. Potter’s hand rests firm and steady on his back. Mrs. Potter’s fingers thread through his hair, her other hand rubbing soothing circles against his spine.
“You’re safe,” she whispers. “You’re safe, sweetheart. You’re okay.”
Regulus doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve them.
But he clings to her anyway, his fingers curling into the fabric of her blouse, his face buried against her shoulder as he sobs everything out.
And they hold him.
They don’t let go.
***
Guilt can do many things to a person. It can either make them clingy or make them avoidant.
Regulus isn’t sure which category he falls into.
Sometimes, he supposes, he’s both.
One moment, he’s sticking close to Mrs. Potter, helping with anything and everything just to do something right. The next, he’s shutting himself in his room, keeping his distance, pretending he doesn’t exist. He avoids her whenever he can, but he also finds himself gravitating toward her in ways he can’t quite explain. It’s unhealthy, if he’s being honest.
On some level, he still blames her.
He knows he shouldn’t. But he does. And it makes him sick to his stomach.
Here is a foster mother, trying to do right by her foster son, and all he can do is resent her. And, honestly? The anger is misdirected.
He should be blaming James.
James is the one who told Colin. James is the one who made the mistake. But he isn’t angry at James.
Why?
Because James didn’t know any better. James wasn’t trying to hurt him. Regulus is quick to forgive James, but not Mrs. Potter. And he doesn’t know why.
He also doesn’t really believe them.
We chose you.
You are not a burden to us.
You are a part of our family.
They said the words. But just because someone says something doesn’t make it true. People say a lot of things they don’t mean.
The phrase sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you is a lie.
Words can hurt.
Colin and his gang hurt him. Broke him.
Piece by piece, they stripped away what little he had left. They crushed the last sliver of hope he had—the tiny, fragile piece of him that dared to believe maybe, maybe things could be okay.
He had told himself he wouldn’t hope again. But he had. And now look where it got him.
The weekend was exhausting. He spent it flipping between emotions, caught in an endless loop of guilt and anger, pushing away and pulling close, trying to balance the warring instincts in his chest.
He did his best to control himself. And, honestly? He thinks he did a pretty good job. He’s even a little proud of himself.
Because right now, Regulus is just about to complete the last question on his Maths exam.
It’s the final week of school, and he couldn’t be happier.
The classroom is silent, save for the occasional scratch of a pen on paper and the faint ticking of the clock above the whiteboard. The air is thick with concentration, students hunched over their desks, some chewing on their pens, others tapping their feet impatiently.
Regulus is one of the last students still writing.
The hardest question stares up at him from the page, numbers blurring slightly as he stifles a yawn. His brain is tired. His body is tired. But he forces himself to focus.
One more question.
Just one more.
His pencil hovers over the paper as he rereads the problem, carefully working through the equation in his head. The logic of numbers is soothing—structured, predictable. Unlike people.
Unlike life.
He exhales slowly, pressing the pencil down.
And he begins to write.
He works through the equation step by step, careful and methodical, checking and double-checking as he goes. Maths isn’t his strongest subject, but he’s decent at it when he applies himself. And Mr. Potter has been helpful. More helpful than any other adult has ever been.
Regulus isn’t sure how he feels about that.
He’s mad at everyone right now. Mrs. Potter. James. Even himself.
But not Mr. Potter.
For some reason, he’s the exception.
Maybe because he never pushes too hard. Maybe because he doesn’t try to fix things, doesn’t try to smother Regulus in reassurances that everything will be okay. He just listens. He just helps. And maybe that’s enough.
Regulus finishes the last calculation, double-checks his answer, then sets his pencil down.
A moment later, the teacher calls out, “Time’s up. Please hand in your exams.”
Regulus gathers his papers, sliding them into the pile on the teacher’s desk before grabbing his bag and heading for the door. His next class is English.
Technically, he still has this lesson to finish his final assignment.
But he already finished it over the weekend.
He had printed it out at home, making sure it was formatted perfectly, no mistakes. He doesn’t know why he put so much effort into it, but he had. Maybe because it was something he could control.
As soon as he steps into the English classroom, he walks straight to the teacher’s desk and hands over his assignment.
Mr. Andrews raises an eyebrow. “Finished already?”
Regulus nods.
“Well, that’s one less thing to worry about.” Mr. Andrews smiles, setting the paper aside. “Go on, take a seat.”
Regulus turns, making his way to his usual spot next to Pandora.
The second he sits down, she eyes him curiously. “Did you seriously just hand in your assignment?”
He nods again, pulling his book out from between his notebooks and pencil case.
Pandora chuckles. “Lucky.”
Regulus almost smiles. He is lucky . But not in the way she thinks.
He’s lucky because he has friends now. He’s lucky because Pandora doesn’t hate his guts. He’s lucky because, somehow, despite everything, he’s still here.
He flips open his book, eyes scanning the first page.
The Titan’s Curse.
He’s just started the third Percy Jackson book, and he can’t wait to see what happens next.
***
To think the rest of Regulus’ Tuesday was going to go well is a lie. His day had started off relatively fine, considering what came later.
It began with English, where they watched a movie. Mr. Andrews, more specifically, had put it on to distract the students while he marked their assignments. Regulus thought it was quite smart—Mr. Andrews knew his students well, maybe better than they knew themselves. So, they watched a movie.
After English, Pandora and Regulus headed to Art, where they were expected to hand in their assignments. Regulus had been holding onto the written part of his so he could turn it in at the same time as his art piece. Once he did that, instead of reading, he decided to watch Pandora. Her skills were literally a work of art—pun intended.
Regulus was generally amazed by her talent. He was also a little jealous, but that was natural. Pandora was effortlessly brilliant, something Regulus could only dream of.
You might be wondering how Regulus' day could get worse after all of that. Well, he’ll tell you.
After Art, there was the usual fifteen-minute break. You’d think nothing could possibly go wrong in such a short amount of time, right?
Wrong.
Things did go wrong, and they only worsened the longer Regulus thought about it.
What happened? Well, Regulus will tell you.
Colin and his gang of friends decided to torment him, and yes, you heard him correctly—torment. But how could they torment him more than they already had? Well, this time, they decided to take Regulus’ black stuffed dog. Not to destroy it, no. Instead, they decided to hide it.
If that black dog hadn’t been Regulus’ lifeline, he might have been fuming. But instead, he cried. Not his fault, really. What else was he supposed to do? It was the one thing that made him feel safe in this chaos of a school day.
When lunch finally came, Regulus enlisted his friends to help him search for his stuffed dog. But when they couldn’t find it, he started to panic.
Luckily, Dorcas had an excellent idea—head to the lost and found.
Regulus was thankful for Dorcas, as that’s exactly where they found his beloved black dog.
But that wasn’t the end of what Colin and his friends had in store for him. No, what they did next was what truly broke him.
He was walking to Science, his assignment in hand, when Colin and his gang surrounded him. This time, they didn’t take his usual belongings. Instead, they ripped his assignment from him and tore it to pieces right in front of his face.
Regulus desperately needed that assignment in one piece. The head of the Science department had threatened him with the exam if he didn’t turn it in on time. His teacher had fought for him, but it was no use.
Naturally, Regulus panicked.
Like him, Colin and his gang were all late to class. When they finally entered, Mrs. Birch, the teacher, gave them all a disappointed look. She scolded them for being late before turning to Regulus, who was holding the shredded remnants of his assignment. Without saying a word, he handed them to her.
Mrs. Birch’s gaze softened when she saw what had happened. She told him to bring her a new copy by tomorrow.
Regulus was just glad he had a teacher who cared. He might be surrounded by bullies, but at least there was someone on his side.
Which now leads him to this point—sitting in French class, trying to focus on the presentation ahead. He and Barty are about to be called up to speak for their assignment.
It’s not like Regulus is worried about the French itself. He’s fluent in it—it’s his first language, after all. No, what he’s terrified of is speaking in front of the class. The thought of everyone staring at him, waiting for him to mess up, makes his stomach twist.
"Alright, thank you, Georgia and Avery," Ms. Ellsworth says, her voice pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. "Next, we have Regulus and Barty."
Regulus' heart stops. No, really. It feels like it physically stops for a moment, like it’s stuck in his chest. His breath hitches, and his hands go clammy. His palms press into the desk in front of him, but it doesn't help. His fingers feel too cold to grip anything properly.
His eyes dart around the classroom, and it's like the walls are closing in. His classmates’ faces blur together, but the eyes—he can’t escape those eyes. They're all watching him. He can practically feel them digging into his skin, and his throat tightens. He’s not even sure if he's breathing anymore.
Then Barty stands up beside him, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape, and Regulus follows him mechanically, his legs like jelly. He can't focus on anything but the faces staring at him, those eyes that seem to bore straight into his soul. It feels like they’re all just waiting for him to fail.
Regulus freezes. His heartbeat thrums loudly in his ears, like it’s going to burst out of his chest. Sweat forms along his brow, slipping down the back of his neck, and his breath comes in shallow bursts, like he can’t get enough air. He’s not even sure if he can speak at all.
"Regulus?" Barty’s voice breaks through the fog of panic. "You alright?"
Regulus opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. His breath is coming faster now, frantic little gasps. He feels like he might suffocate right there in front of everyone.
Barty must notice the way his face pales, the way his hands are shaking. He steps closer, gently placing a hand on Regulus' arm, his voice low and steady. "Come on, mate. Let’s step outside for a second, yeah?"
Regulus doesn’t think, just follows Barty's lead, his feet moving without his mind catching up. They walk quickly to the door, Barty guiding him, and before anyone can notice, they slip out of the classroom. The cool air in the hallway hits Regulus like a splash of water, sharp and bracing, but it’s still not enough to calm the panic flooding his system.
Barty stands in front of him, not saying anything at first, just watching him with an unreadable expression. Regulus tries to slow his breathing, tries to force the air into his lungs, but it feels like there’s something heavy pressing against his chest. His vision blurs, and he grabs onto the door frame for support.
"You’re alright," Barty says quietly, his tone gentle but firm. "Just breathe with me, okay?"
Regulus nods desperately, focusing on Barty’s voice. In and out. In and out. It feels like it’s working, like the panic is starting to ebb away, little by little.
Before Regulus can fully catch his breath, Ms. Ellsworth appears at the door. Her gaze flickers between Regulus and Barty with a soft understanding, though her eyes are full of concern.
"Everything alright out here?" she asks, her voice calm but gentle.
Barty gives a small nod, not looking back at Regulus. "Yeah. It’ll be fine."
Ms. Ellsworth hums thoughtfully, then glances at both of them, her expression softening. "I think it’s best if you head to the guidance counselor’s office for a bit. Regulus, you can take some time to calm down, and you two can come back at lunch, alright?"
Regulus opens his mouth to protest, to tell her he’s fine, but the words get stuck. He’s not fine. Not yet.
"Go on," she adds kindly, her smile reassuring. "I’ll let your classmates know what’s going on."
Regulus nods, finally allowing himself to breathe a little easier as Barty pats him on the back, guiding him down the hallway. Ms. Ellsworth heads back inside, the sound of the door closing behind her feeling like a weight lifting off Regulus’ shoulders.
They don’t talk as they walk toward the guidance office. Regulus is still shaky, but the panic has receded, just enough for him to breathe again. And, for now, that’s all he needs.
Regulus is quite freaked out, if he’s being honest. He can’t shake the feeling that he and Barty are about to walk straight into detention. He’s sure of it, actually. He freaked out before the presentation even started, and now, the consequences are looming over him like a dark cloud.
After spending the rest of their French lesson in the guidance counselor’s office, Regulus feels even worse. They sat there in silence, the quiet hum of the office only broken by the occasional shuffle of papers and the soft ticking of a clock. It was a brief relief, but now they’re headed back to class, and he’s convinced it’s all going to catch up with him.
Barty walks beside him, seemingly unaffected, but Regulus can’t help the tight knot forming in his stomach. His mind is still replaying the panic from earlier. What if they’ve been marked down for his freak out? What if Ms. Ellsworth thinks he’s unreliable?
When they reach the French classroom, Regulus takes a deep breath and steps inside. His eyes immediately dart to Ms. Ellsworth, who’s standing at the front of the room, looking far more relaxed than he expected.
She looks up as they enter, her expression kind but firm. "Ah, Regulus, Barty. I’m glad to see you back," she says, her voice steady. Regulus opens his mouth to apologize, to explain, but she raises a hand to stop him.
"You don’t need to apologize," Ms. Ellsworth says, her tone gentle but confident. "Sometimes people can’t speak in front of others. It’s alright."
Regulus blinks, caught off guard. He had fully expected to be scolded, maybe even given detention for disrupting the class. But here she is, being understanding.
"We’ll try again," she continues, giving him and Barty a soft smile. "Take your time, alright?"
Regulus feels a rush of gratitude flood through him. He can’t quite put into words how much relief that brings. He wasn’t expecting kindness, not after everything, and yet here it is. A second chance.
Barty gives him a brief, reassuring look, and together, they walk up to the front of the class. Regulus feels his nerves stirring again, but he takes a deep breath and focuses on the task at hand.
Ms. Ellsworth nods at them. "Remember, this is a conversation. You two are discussing French cuisine, so let it flow naturally."
Regulus nods and looks at Barty. He’s not sure if he can make it through this, but he’s willing to try. Barty smiles at him and then starts speaking, easing Regulus into it.
Barty begins: “ Regulus, que penses-tu de la cuisine française? ”
(Regulus, what do you think of French cuisine?)
Regulus takes a moment, but the words come easily. It’s his first language, after all. He responds with confidence, even though his palms are still a bit sweaty.
“ J'adore la cuisine française. Il y a tellement de variétés ! Par exemple, j'aime beaucoup les croissants. Ils sont simples mais délicieux. ”
(I love French cuisine. There are so many varieties! For example, I really like croissants. They're simple but delicious.)
Barty nods, his turn to speak. “ Moi aussi. Les croissants sont parfaits pour le petit-déjeuner. Et toi, Régulus, as-tu déjà essayé le coq au vin? ”
(Me too. Croissants are perfect for breakfast. And you, Regulus, have you ever tried coq au vin?)
Regulus is surprised that he’s feeling calmer now, as they slip into their conversation. The words come with ease, and his anxiety fades into the background.
“ Oui, j'ai essayé le coq au vin. C'est délicieux. Le poulet cuit au vin rouge avec des légumes, c’est un plat parfait pour le dîner. ”
(Yes, I’ve tried coq au vin. It’s delicious. The chicken cooked in red wine with vegetables, it’s a perfect dish for dinner.)
Barty looks impressed. “ Je suis d'accord. C'est un plat traditionnel. Mais j'aime aussi la soupe à l'oignon. Le savez-vous? ”
(I agree. It’s a traditional dish. But I also like onion soup. Do you know it?)
Regulus feels more relaxed with every word exchanged. “ Oui, je connais la soupe à l'oignon. C’est délicieux aussi, surtout en hiver. ”
(Yes, I know onion soup. It’s delicious too, especially in the winter.)
Ms. Ellsworth is watching them with an approving smile, and when they finish, she gives them both a nod.
"Excellent job, Regulus. Excellent job, Barty," she says, clearly impressed. She grabs a stack of papers from her desk and begins marking their work.
Regulus holds his breath, waiting for the verdict. Ms. Ellsworth looks over their presentations quickly, then hands them their grades.
"Regulus," she says, offering him a small nod of approval, "you did an outstanding job. You didn’t have to look at your sheet once. A+."
Regulus feels a rush of warmth in his chest. He can hardly believe it. An A+? After everything?
"And you, Barty," Ms. Ellsworth adds, handing him his paper with a smile. "You did a great job as well. You get an A-."
Barty grins and gives Regulus a quick, congratulatory clap on the back. They walk back to their seats, and Regulus feels a pride he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.
As the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, Regulus feels a sense of accomplishment flood through him. He did it. He made it through the presentation. He didn’t fall apart. And, most importantly, he didn’t get into trouble.
He walks out of the classroom with Barty, his heart light. For the first time today, he’s not thinking about the next disaster. Instead, he’s thinking about how proud he is of himself.
***
The rest of his classes go surprisingly well.
Art is first, with Pandora, and then Drama with Pandora, Barty, and Evan.
In Art, their teacher, Ms. Reed, announces that the Year 8 Drama class is putting on a performance, and she gives them a choice: stay behind and help clean out the Art classroom in preparation for the end of term, or go watch the show. The decision is unanimous—everyone votes for the performance.
Everyone except Regulus.
Judging by the way Pandora crosses her arms and scowls at the table, she isn’t too keen on the idea either.
When they arrive at the performance space, Ms. Reed gathers them all and reminds them to be on their best behavior. "Anyone who misbehaves can come back to the Art room," she warns, leveling a look at a few of the more notorious troublemakers in their class.
Then, just as the group starts filing into the room, she pulls Regulus aside. “Would you like to stay or come back?” she asks quietly.
Regulus hesitates for only a second before gesturing toward the hallway—toward leaving. Then, after a moment’s thought, he points at Pandora.
Ms. Reed watches him carefully before nodding. “Alright, you two can come help me clean.”
Relief floods Regulus as he and Pandora return to the empty classroom.
The next forty minutes are some of the most peaceful he’s had all day. He busies himself sorting through the paint supplies, throwing out the dried-up containers and arranging the still-usable ones by color. Pandora tests all the markers, tossing the dried-out ones into a box labeled ‘dead texters.’ Ms. Reed inspects every paintbrush, sorting them into piles of salvageable and unusable.
There’s no loud talking. No sudden movements. Just the quiet scratch of markers against paper and the occasional murmur of conversation. It’s nice.
At the end of the lesson, Ms. Reed thanks them both with a small chocolate each.
Drama is just as enjoyable.
With fewer students showing up now that exams are over, the room feels less chaotic, less suffocating. Their teacher gives them free rein of the costume box, letting them pick out silly hats and use them as inspiration for an improvised scene. It’s easygoing, playful, and—most importantly—it isn’t overwhelming.
For the first time all week, Regulus actually has fun.
What isn’t fun is the ride home.
The moment he gets into the car, he knows it’s going to be one of those afternoons.
James is bouncing with energy, talking a mile a minute about something that happened in his last class. Regulus tunes most of it out, focusing instead on staring out the window, counting the cracks in the pavement as they drive.
It doesn’t last long.
“Oi, Reg, are you even listening?” James nudges him with his elbow.
Regulus clenches his jaw and shifts away, making a point to keep his gaze fixed on the window. He isn’t in the mood for James’ boundless energy right now.
James huffs. “You’re so boring.”
Regulus rolls his eyes.
Mrs. Potter glances at them through the rearview mirror. “James,” she warns lightly.
James throws his hands up in exaggerated surrender but doesn’t say anything else.
For a few minutes, there’s silence, aside from the hum of the car engine. Then Mrs. Potter starts talking about her day.
Regulus doesn’t pay much attention—he’s still staring out the window, watching the buildings blur past—but then she says it.
“…And I had to pick up a new vase today, which wasn’t exactly on my to-do list.”
Regulus’ stomach drops.
He knows exactly which vase she’s talking about.
The one he broke.
His grip tightens around the strap of his bag, guilt clawing at his insides. She isn’t saying it in an accusatory way—her tone is light, casual, as if it’s just another minor inconvenience in her day—but it doesn’t matter.
Regulus knows it’s his fault.
He shouldn’t have snapped. Shouldn’t have lost control. Shouldn’t have shattered something that didn’t belong to him.
He feels sick.
Mrs. Potter keeps talking, but Regulus doesn’t hear the rest. His head is buzzing, and suddenly, he doesn’t want to be in the car anymore.
When they finally pull into the driveway, Regulus is the first one out. He shoulders his bag, ducks his head, and heads straight inside, doing his best to avoid Mrs. Potter entirely.
It doesn’t matter that she hadn’t sounded upset about the vase.
It doesn’t matter that she hadn’t even directed the comment at him.
Regulus knows what he did. And no matter how much he tries to ignore it, the guilt still festers in his chest, heavy and suffocating.
Guilt is a weird emotion.
Regulus can go all day without feeling it, can go months without feeling it—until suddenly, something is said, and it brings it back full force.
The definition of guilt is also weird.
The internet defines guilt as feeling responsible or regretful for a perceived offense, real or imaginary. Guilt can also be part of the grief reaction.
For all the things Regulus has had to research, he has never been as stumped as he is with the definition of guilt. He has always been able to understand what something means, but for this? He doesn’t quite get it.
And yet, it gnaws at him, sharp and heavy, when Mrs. Potter drops James and him off at school the next morning.
It’s an early drop-off—Mrs. Potter has to go into the city for something, though Regulus hadn’t asked why. He hadn’t really spoken much at all this morning.
Because he’s still angry at James.
He had moved past the initial “forgiveness” and “understanding” stage, and now all that was left was raw, simmering anger.
James told Colin.
Even though it was a mistake, even though James hadn’t meant to, it didn’t matter. Regulus doesn’t think James had the right to share something that personal with anyone—let alone Colin.
And now, thanks to James’ slip-up, school has become even worse.
Not just the comments. Not just the sneaky trips past his locker where they grab his books and toss them in the bin, or the way they smirk when he has to dig them back out. Not just the cruel jokes whispered behind his back or the way they find new and creative ways to ruin his schoolwork.
Colin and his gang have managed to one-up themselves.
Regulus is walking toward his locker when it happens.
A hand grabs the handle of his bag, yanking him backward. Regulus stumbles, caught off guard, and before he can regain his balance, another hand grips his arm—tight and unrelenting.
His stomach twists unpleasantly. He already knows who it is before he even turns around.
Colin. And, judging by the laughter ringing in his ears, the rest of his gang.
“Didn’t see us there, huh, mute boy?” Colin sneers, his fingers digging into Regulus’ arm hard enough to bruise.
Regulus clenches his teeth. His heart starts hammering.
Colin’s grip tightens as he pulls Regulus further away from the main hallway, steering him toward an empty corridor.
“Thought we’d stop by and say good morning,” another boy, Adam, says mockingly. “But you don’t say much, do you?”
“Bet he’s got plenty to say when he’s crying like a little baby,” someone else laughs.
Regulus stiffens.
He should fight back. He should pull away. But there are too many of them, and they’re stronger, and he’s already surrounded. One of them reaches into his bag and tugs out his notebook.
“Oh, what do we have here?”
Regulus’ stomach drops.
His Geography assignment.
The one that’s due today. The one he spent hours working on. The one he needs to hand in because if he doesn’t, he’ll fail the unit.
“Give it back.” The words don’t come out. They never do. But he thinks of them, wills them, prays that for once, they will just stop.
Colin grins, flipping through the pages.
Then he rips one.
Regulus lurches forward, but another set of hands grabs him, yanking him back as Colin tears out another page.
And another.
And another.
The loose sheets flutter to the floor, ruined and crumpled and useless. Regulus’ breathing gets shallow. His ears start ringing.
Something hot and unbearable builds inside his chest, pressing against his ribs like a living thing. His hands shake. His vision blurs.
“Look at him,” Colin laughs, shoving the torn notebook into Regulus’ chest. “He’s about to cry—”
Regulus snaps.
His fist swings before he even realizes what he’s doing. His knuckles connect with flesh. A sickening crack echoes in the hallway.
For a split second, everything is still.
Colin staggers backward, clutching his face, eyes blown wide in shock.
Then he makes a sound—half groan, half enraged snarl—and Regulus realizes, through the haze of panic gripping his chest, that he just hit Colin.
Again.
Colin’s shock wears off quickly, replaced by rage.
“Oh, you’re gonna regret that,” he spits. He straightens, wiping blood from his nose, and glares at Regulus with pure hatred. “You lot hear that?” He turns to his gang. “I think we should teach the orphan a lesson.”
Regulus freezes.
Colin’s eyes gleam with something cruel as he looks back at his friends. “What do you think?”
Laughter erupts around him.
“Yeah, let’s do it.”
“Teach the orphan a lesson, Colin.”
“Oooh, this is gonna be fun.”
Two of Colin’s friends seize Regulus by the arms.
Panic slams into him, sudden and all-consuming.
They’re dragging him. He twists and jerks, trying to pull free, but they’re stronger, and his chest is getting tighter, and he can’t—he can’t breathe—
He doesn’t even realize where they’re taking him until he sees the sign above the door.
Boys’ Bathroom.
His stomach lurches.
They’re going to shove his head down a toilet.
Regulus thrashes harder. He digs his heels into the floor, but they keep pulling him forward, and he can’t—he can’t—
“Help!”
The word tears from his throat before he can stop it.
Colin and his gang just laugh. “Oh, so you can speak?”
“That’s a shame, though.” Colin grins. “Nobody’s coming to help you.”
One of the boys pushes open the bathroom door.
Regulus’ feet skid against the tile as they try to force him inside.
And then—
Footsteps.
Loud. Sharp. Coming straight toward them.
Regulus twists his head around, heart pounding.
And there—at the end of the hall—
Principal MacMillian. Deputy Principal Lawson. And the Year 7 guidance counselor, Ms. Carrington.
Principal MacMillian’s voice booms through the corridor. “What the hell is going on here?”
Deputy Principal Lawson crosses his arms, looking at the group with sharp, unimpressed eyes. “Well, Shaun, I think it looks like bullying to me.”
Colin and his gang freeze.
Regulus can barely breathe. His entire body is still shaking, and the panic hasn’t quite left his system, but—he’s safe.
They all get dragged to the office.
Ms. Carrington walks with Regulus to retrieve his things, the ones they’d taken from him. She picks up his bag, placing it gently in his hands.
She studies him carefully. “Are you alright, Regulus?”
Regulus shakes his head. Because he isn’t. He was just about to have his head shoved down a toilet.
Ms. Carrington doesn’t push him to speak. She simply walks beside him as they return to the office.
Regulus gets placed near the Deputy Principal’s office.
Ms. Carrington hesitates, then crouches slightly to meet his gaze. “Would you like me to sit with you?”
Regulus nods, because he doesn’t want to be alone.
Ten minutes after the bell rings, the first set of parents filter into the office.
Regulus, still jittery from earlier, decides to distract himself with a game: match the parents to the kid.
The first pair is easy. A woman with curly, copper-colored hair walks in beside a man who has the same stiff, upright posture as Ethan. Mannerisms are taught, Regulus knows that. Passed down, just like genetics. Ethan’s parents. Definitely.
A minute later, Ethan’s name is called, and sure enough, he disappears into the Principal’s office with them.
Regulus counts that as one point for himself.
Another five minutes pass, and two women enter together. Neither of them immediately resemble any of the boys sitting in the waiting area, which makes it trickier. But then Oliver shifts uncomfortably beside Colin, eyes darting toward the women before he quickly looks away.
That’s enough confirmation.
Oliver’s parents. Or, at least, one of them is biological. Not that it matters.
Oliver gets called next. Two for two.
A couple of minutes later, a singular woman arrives. Straight, dark brown hair. A tired expression, like she’s already had a long day and it’s barely past nine in the morning.
Adam’s mum. Without a doubt.
She barely acknowledges her son before she’s summoned into the Principal’s office.
Three for three.
The last to arrive is a man who looks like Colin and a woman who acts like him. Her eyes scan the office, sharp and assessing, lips curling slightly in distaste. The man, meanwhile, strides in with an air of entitlement, chin tilted up just a little too high.
Colin's parents.
Four for four.
Regulus watches, expression blank, as each set of parents takes turns disappearing behind the Principal’s door. He wonders what’s being said. If the parents are defending their kids or if they’re disappointed. If they even care.
By the time the second student is called into the Principal’s office for a chat, a familiar voice cuts through the low murmuring of the office.
“Oh, there he is.”
Regulus' head snaps up.
Mr. and Mrs. Potter have arrived.
Mrs. Potter is already scanning the room, eyes landing on him immediately, while Mr. Potter speaks briefly with the receptionist.
Regulus sits up a little straighter, suddenly tense.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything right away. She just watches him, gaze sweeping over him carefully, like she’s trying to assess how bad things are.
Deputy Principal Lawson steps into the waiting area, looking between them. “Come in,” she says. “We’ll talk in my office.”
Regulus hesitates.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t rush him, but she waits, clearly expecting him to follow.
After a moment, he does.
They step inside the Deputy Principal’s office. The space is tidy, with a large wooden desk at the center and two chairs in front of it. There’s a framed photo on the desk of the Deputy Principal with what Regulus assumes is her family.
She gestures for them to sit.
Ms. Carrington takes a seat beside Regulus, and the Potters settle in next to him.
Lawson clasps her hands together, exhaling before speaking. “Now, Regulus, I want to start by saying that you are not in trouble. You are not being punished for what happened today.” She levels him with a steady gaze. “But I do want to help you. That’s the only reason we’re having this conversation. Alright?”
Regulus nods, stiffly.
Deputy Principal Lawson exchanges a glance with Ms. Carrington before continuing. “We saw what happened this morning, but we need to understand the full picture. Can you tell us what Colin and his friends have been doing to you?”
Regulus’ throat feels tight. He nods again but doesn’t speak. The words are there. He knows what they are. But forcing them out is harder.
There’s a pause.
Then, Mr. Potter clears his throat. “He told us a little bit about it the other day,” he says. “About what these boys have been doing to him.”
Mrs. Potter picks up from there. “They’ve been taking his things. Destroying them. Teasing him. Making school miserable.”
But they don’t know everything. Regulus stares at his hands. He clenches them into fists, then releases. Mr. and Mrs. Potter both turn to him.
“You don’t have to say anything out loud if you don’t want to,” Mrs. Potter says gently. “But we don’t know the full story. Do you think you can tell us the rest?”
Regulus swallows hard. His fingers twitch. He doesn’t trust his voice, it’s not like he ever does. So instead, he pulls his notebook out of his bag.
He flips to a blank page and starts writing. His pen moves fast, pressing into the paper with sharp, heavy strokes.
He writes about the insults. The stolen and destroyed belongings. The cruel jokes. The time they ripped his novel apart, page by page, until it was just scraps on the floor, how they poured water all over it. The black stuffed dog—his first one, the one Mr. and Mrs. Potter bought him—that Colin and his friends tore apart at recess and laughed about afterward.
He writes about what they did. And what they were going to do.
If Principal MacMillian, Deputy Principal Lawson, and Ms. Carrington hadn’t arrived when they did.
By the time he’s finished, his hand is cramping. He hands the notebook over. Deputy Principal Lawson reads silently. Ms. Carrington leans in, glancing at the pages.
Their expressions darken.
When Lawson finally looks up, her face is a mask of barely restrained anger. “This,” she says, “is unacceptable.”
Ms. Carrington looks just as disturbed. “I knew it was bad, but I didn’t realize it was this bad.”
Regulus doesn’t look at them. He just watches the Potters.
Mrs. Potter has one hand pressed against her mouth, eyes glistening. Mr. Potter’s jaw is tight, and when he meets Regulus’ gaze, his expression softens.
Lawson takes a steadying breath before turning back to the Potters. “We’ve already decided on consequences. The boys involved will be suspended for the rest of the school year.”
Regulus frowns. That’s only two more days. That doesn’t feel like enough.
But then—
“Because we have a zero-tolerance policy for bullying and violence, we are also implementing additional disciplinary actions,” Lawson continues. “They will fail their exams and be required to complete the summer school program.”
Regulus blinks.
That—
That’s actually something.
Something real.
Something that actually feels like a consequence.
The guilt creeps in, just a little. But he pushes it down. Because they deserve it. And for the first time in a long while, Regulus doesn’t feel helpless.
Mrs. Potter exhales, pressing her lips together before nodding. “That sounds like a reasonable punishment, considering everything they’ve done.”
Mr. Potter, standing beside her with his arms crossed, nods in agreement. “Actions have consequences. And these are appropriate ones.”
Deputy Principal Lawson leans back slightly in her chair, hands folded on the desk. “I’m glad you both think so. We don’t take bullying lightly here, and based on what we’ve seen and what Regulus has written, I have no doubt this is the right decision.”
Regulus glances between them, then down at his hands. There’s a tension inside him that hasn’t quite settled, but it’s different from before. Not as sharp. Not as suffocating.
It almost feels like relief.
The conversation wraps up soon after, and when they step out of Deputy Principal Lawson’s office, Regulus stiffens.
Colin’s parents—and the parents of the other boys—have arrived.
And they are outraged .
“This is an outrage !” Colin’s father is saying, his voice loud and sharp, cutting through the otherwise quiet office. “Suspending them for the rest of the term? Failing them? You have no right to do this!”
“Over what?” Oliver’s mother demands, throwing a hand up. “Some child who probably won’t even be here next year?”
Regulus clenches his jaw, heart pounding.
“You can’t make them take summer school,” Ethan’s father barks. “This will ruin their records. This will ruin their futures!”
“We can ,” Principal MacMillian says firmly, standing near his office door. “Bullying and violence are not tolerated at this school. Your sons are being held accountable for their actions.”
Ethan’s mother scoffs. “They’re kids. This is too much for kids.”
Regulus barely hears the response, because suddenly—
Colin’s mother’s gaze lands on him .
Regulus barely has time to process it before she’s storming toward him, heels clicking sharply against the floor.
She stops directly in front of him, pointing a manicured finger in his face.
“This is your fault!” she snaps.
Regulus’ breath catches.
His body locks up, terror flashing white-hot through his chest. He takes a step back without thinking, reaching blindly—
His hand finds fabric, fingers gripping tight.
Someone moves in front of him, blocking him from Colin’s mother entirely.
Mrs. Potter.
She plants herself between them, her body tense, shoulders squared, and Regulus can hear it in her voice when she speaks—
The anger.
Sharp. Cutting. Furious.
“The second he stepped foot onto the school grounds,” she says, voice shaking with barely restrained rage, “your son has tormented mine. Every single day. Without fail.”
Mine.
Regulus stares at the back of her head, heart racing.
She’s—she’s wrong. He isn’t—he isn’t hers.
But—
Something strange twists in his stomach at the words.
Colin’s mother splutters, but Mrs. Potter doesn’t give her a chance to argue.
“You want to talk about fair ?” she continues, stepping closer, voice rising. “How about the fact that your son has spent the entire month destroying my son’s belongings? Humiliating him? Belittling him? How about the fact that they were the reason he was suspended in the first?”
She takes another step forward, forcing Colin’s mother back. “And you dare to stand here and blame him ?”
Colin’s mother opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Mrs. Potter doesn’t wait for a response. She exhales sharply, then turns on her heel.
“Come on,” she says, voice clipped. “We’re done here.”
Mr. Potter, who has been standing beside Regulus the entire time, gives a firm nod. He adjusts the strap of Regulus’ bag over his shoulder and looks down at him.
“Let’s go.”
Regulus doesn’t hesitate.
He follows them out of the office, through the halls, past the students still lingering on campus. The farther they get from the office, the looser his chest feels, but it isn’t until they step outside into the open air that he truly exhales.
It’s over.
It’s finally over.
They walk in silence toward the car, Mr. Potter carrying Regulus’ bag, Mrs. Potter leading the way.
Regulus’ head is still spinning, his hands still curled into fists—
And then he realises something. His right hand isn’t clenched. His right hand is holding onto something warm. He looks down. His fingers are wrapped around someone else’s hand. His stomach lurches, and his face instantly heats. Who—
His eyes trail up the arm, up to the shoulder, and his stomach flips when he realises—
It’s Mrs. Potter .
And—
He hadn’t even realised . His first instinct is to yank his hand away, but before he even thinks about it, her grip tightens, just slightly, like she knows —
And doesn’t want him to. Regulus swallows hard. His ears burn. But he doesn’t let go.
He never wants to let go.
Notes:
Word Count: 10,636
Published: 2025-02-25You know, I just realized something. You readers are probably really confused as to why my chapters seem to be coming from the future. I'll give you a hint: Australia. It's currently 8:30 AM right now.
Chapter 15: He Did It. He Made It. He Survived It.
Summary:
He did it. Regulus actually did it. He actually, totally, survived 7th grade. What a miracle that is? Regulus doesn’t even care about the fact that he has a check-in with Sarah. He’s just that happy. Because he did it. He made it. After 7 different schools, he survived 7th grade.
And, that is an achievement in itself.
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
Disclaimer: the French translations was achieved through using google translate, so if you are aware it is incorrect, please say so in the comments so I can change it. Thank you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He did it.
The final bell rings out across the school, echoing through the halls, signaling the official end of the school year.
Regulus exhales, shoulders loosening just a fraction. He did it. Somehow, despite everything, despite all the complications, he got through Year 7.
He pushes his way through the bustling crowd of students, heading inside the school building and weaving through the chaos toward his locker. Around him, kids are celebrating, laughing, already making plans for the summer.
He doesn’t join in.
Not because he doesn’t want to, but because… he’s still trying to process it.
He actually finished the school year.
After months of uncertainty, of bouncing between different schools, of constantly starting over, he finally reached the end of one. One whole month.
That’s never happened before.
It almost didn’t happen this time either.
His mind flickers back to yesterday morning—walking into school early, gripping his geography assignment for dear life , prepared for the worst.
Because, of course , Colin and his gang had destroyed the first copy before school even started.
It was due that day. That day.
Regulus had spent hours recreating it from memory, staying up later than he should have, forcing himself to finish.
But even then, he had no idea if his teacher would accept it.
He’d braced himself for disappointment, convinced he’d get a zero, that it would tank his final grade.
But then— shockingly —Mr. Grayson had let him hand it in. No questions, no accusations, just a simple “Thank you, Regulus.”
Turns out, Ms. Carrington had emailed him about what happened.
Regulus had been relieved , to say the least.
And now? Now, as he unlocks his locker and starts pulling out his things, he lets that relief settle in fully.
It’s over.
He did it.
And, somehow, somehow , he managed to make friends too.
Real friends.
People who like him, who want him around, who don’t make him feel like he’s constantly one step away from being abandoned.
He still doesn’t quite understand how it happened.
But it did.
He made it.
The thought lingers in his mind as he steps outside into the courtyard, the warm afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. He’s not just thinking about surviving Year 7—though that alone is an accomplishment—but everything that came with it.
His friends walk beside him, chattering about their plans for the summer, their laughter mixing with the hum of excitement from the other students.
His friends.
That still feels strange to say.
Earlier today, they had each handed him a scrap of paper with their phone numbers scribbled across it, along with a list of plans—movie nights, beach trips, sleepovers—so Regulus would know exactly where they’d be and when he could see them.
A safety net. A promise that this wasn’t just a school-year friendship, that he wouldn’t be forgotten the moment they stepped off school grounds.
It was a small thing, really. But to Regulus, it meant everything.
For the first time, he’s actually excited for the holidays.
One by one, his friends begin to say their goodbyes. Barty is the first to leave, pulling Regulus into a quick, slightly awkward hug before hurrying off to find his parents. Evan follows soon after, offering a grin and a “See you soon, mate.”
Pandora lingers a moment longer. She beams at him, eyes bright with something that looks suspiciously like pride. Then, without warning, she pulls him into a hug. It’s brief but warm, and when she steps back, she gives him a firm nod. “You did it, Reg,” she says, voice softer than usual.
Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that.
Then, it’s just Dorcas.
She hesitates for a second before pulling Regulus into a hug. A proper one. Not the quick, half-hearted kind people give out of obligation, but one that feels real. She doesn’t let go immediately, either.
Regulus stiffens for half a second before forcing himself to relax.
When she finally steps back, she nudges his shoulder. “You better text me,” she says, and there’s no if in her voice, just certainty.
Regulus nods.
And then she’s gone, leaving him standing in the courtyard, blinking after her.
He’s alone now. But it’s… different.
Because this time, he’s not really alone at all.
His grip tightens around the straps of his backpack as he turns, scanning the crowd for James.
Sirius would be proud of him. Regulus knows that for a fact. If Sirius were here, he’d be ruffling his hair and grinning, probably making some grand, exaggerated statement about how Regulus had “officially conquered” Year 7.
But then there’s James.
And James is here.
James, who has only known him for a month, but looks at him like he’s family anyway.
James, who was probably just as excited as Regulus when he got his assignment handed in, who had nudged him in the ribs this morning and whispered, “Almost there, Reggie.”
James, who’s already so proud of him.
And Regulus doesn’t really know what to do with that either.
He spots him near the front of the school’s courtyard, saying goodbye to his own friends, laughing at something one boy, he’s short, with dirty blonde hair, says before clapping, Regulus thinks it’s Remus, on the back.
Regulus heads toward him, weaving through the clusters of students.
James catches sight of him almost instantly. He grins, waving his friends off before turning toward Regulus, slinging an arm around his shoulder as they start toward the parking lot.
Mrs. Potter is waiting in the car.
Regulus lets out a breath.
He made it.
He survived it.
He survived Year 7.
After months of constantly moving, after seven different schools, he finally completed Year 7. Doesn’t that sound like an achievement in itself?
Regulus has never been happier. Never been prouder. Not of himself, at least.
But still—it feels good.
As he slides into the backseat of the car, James claiming the front passenger seat without hesitation, all he can think about is how he survived. He survived.
Mrs. Potter turns in her seat, glancing between them with a bright smile. “You boys glad to be done with school for the year?”
James groans dramatically, letting his head fall back against the headrest. “You have no idea. ”
Regulus doesn’t answer. Because his mind is somewhere else. Somewhere stuck on yesterday.
He hasn’t been able to shake it. The way she stood up for him, the way she spoke about him. Like he was hers. Like he was her own flesh and blood.
My son.
The words echo in his head, looping over and over until they don’t sound real anymore.
He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about it. Because, truthfully? He’s not her son. Not biologically. Not legally.
So why did she say it?
Why did it sound so certain? So natural?
Her voice from yesterday plays in his mind, clear as day. Protective. Fierce. Mine.
Regulus stares down at his hands, fingers curling in his lap.
Does he just… ignore it? Pretend he didn’t hear it? Let it fester in his mind until it becomes something unbearable?
Yeah. That sounds about right. No wonder he can’t stop panicking about it.
He’s tried to find books about this kind of thing. Something to explain why Mrs. Potter said what she did, or why he’s feeling the way he does about it. But unfortunately, nothing has helped.
It makes him wonder— is there anything out there that could help him understand her better? To understand why she chose those words at that exact moment? To understand why he cares so much?
To understand whether it’s okay that he cares this much?
Because, he does .
And he’s not sure what to do about it.
Yesterday, after everything that happened in the principal’s office, Mr. and Mrs. Potter took him to the shops. Why? He still doesn’t know.
Sometimes, people’s actions confuse him. Their reasoning, their logic—it’s all so odd and inconsistent. People as a whole are a perpetual mystery.
But when it comes to people who matter—people who hold importance in his life—Regulus wants to understand them.
Mrs. Potter falls into that category.
And he needs to know more.
Her birthday. How old she is. What her favourite book is. What her favourite colour is. Whether she prefers tea or coffee. Whether she grew up in a big family or a small one. Whether she ever had a stuffed animal she couldn’t sleep without.
He wants to know everything.
It sounds obsessive , but it’s not.
It’s necessary.
Because if she’s going to think of him as her son , then he needs to prove that he’s worthy of it. That he deserves it.
That’s normal, right?
It must be. Lots of kids do this.
Sirius did this.
Regulus learned by watching him—how he used to bend over backward trying to earn their parents’ approval. How he used to do anything to feel wanted by them.
Only difference was… Regulus was better at it.
At the shops, Mr. and Mrs. Potter had let him buy whatever he wanted.
Which, in all honesty, felt suspicious.
Like he was either being bribed or rewarded . He wasn’t sure which, and he didn’t particularly care to find out. He was just happy standing around, taking in the surroundings.
That was, until Mr. Potter started picking up books.
Every few minutes, he’d grab another one, reading the back cover before offering it up to Regulus with an easy “What about this one?”
Regulus turned them all down.
He’s not ready for more books. He hasn’t even finished the Percy Jackson box set Mrs. Potter got him, and he’s only halfway through.
But Mr. Potter was persistent.
So, in an attempt to appease them, Regulus picked out something that looked interesting. Something that might distract them enough to let him be.
Except, apparently, it wasn’t enough.
Because Mr. Potter still ended up grabbing another box set, one labeled Heroes of Olympus.
“You’re going to need it for the summer,” he said, placing it in the cart before Regulus could protest.
Regulus could have argued. He could have told him that he might not even finish the first series before summer is over.
But he didn’t. Because, for some reason, he didn’t really want to.
Want.
Wanting is a strange thing. Regulus isn’t sure how best to describe it.
Because there are many things he wants in life—things he knows, with absolute certainty, that he cannot have.
For starters, he wants his parents back. He really, really wants them back. But he can’t. That’s impossible. It will never happen.
Secondly, he wants his brother back. Regulus knows this is just another impossible dream because, truthfully, even he has no idea where Sirius is.
Which leaves the last thing he wants back: his life.
More specifically, the life he used to live before everything spiraled into madness.
And that? That’s something he can never get back.
So, henceforth— wanting.
Regulus assumes that the definition of want is to have the desire to possess or do something—or, more accurately, to wish for something.
But assumptions are dangerous. Deadly, even.
He assumed Pandora had told Colin about him being a foster kid, and look how that turned out.
Well… okay, technically it didn’t turn out badly. More accurately, Pandora forgave him and asked him not to assume something like that again.
Regulus agreed.
Which is what leads him to this moment now.
He used to assume that the Potters were just a temporary placement. But now?
Now, he’s not so sure.
The car pulls up in front of the house, the familiar sight of it setting something uneasy alight in his chest. As Regulus steps out, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes, he keeps thinking about it.
Thinking, turning it over in his head, analyzing it from every possible angle like that will somehow make sense of things.
The front door swings open, and the scent of freshly baked cookies washes over him the moment he steps inside.
"I baked cookies for you boys as a little treat for finishing school," Mrs. Potter says from the kitchen, setting down a tray of golden-brown biscuits.
"Thanks, Mum!" James says, already reaching for a handful before darting upstairs.
Regulus lingers in the doorway, uncertain.
"You can have some if you’d like, Regulus," Mrs. Potter says gently, as if she knows he needs permission.
He nods, grabbing a couple before settling at the table. The cookies are warm, soft in the middle with just the right amount of crunch.
He should be enjoying them.
Instead, his mind keeps circling back to her.
Sarah.
Her check-in is this Sunday. And if Regulus is ever going to be honest about anything, it would be this—
He’s terrified.
Scared. Anxious. Worried. Dreading it.
And it’s not just about the check-in itself. It’s about the fact that he’s been here a full month. It’s about the fact that Sarah hasn’t said a word about a permanent placement. Not a single one.
His stomach twists.
There are too many possibilities. Too many things this could mean.
Do the Potters want him? Do they not want him? Are they just holding onto him until he has a more “permanent” placement?
What’s taking Sarah so long?
Is there…
The sharp whistle of the kettle cuts through his thoughts like a knife. Regulus looks up, watching as Mrs. Potter moves around the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of tea. The steam curls in the air.
Sometimes, Regulus wonders if other people ever feel the way he does. If they understand what it’s like to live with this constant, gnawing turmoil in their chest.
He watches as she sits across from him at the table, stirring a spoon through her tea.
He wonders what she’s thinking. Wonders if she’s ever considered what she referred to him as. Because, apparently, he can’t stop thinking about it.
My son.
It sends a shiver down his spine.
Only one person has the right to say that. And that’s his mother.
…Right?
But then again—he got taken away from her. His father, too. Sirius was taken away as well, though…
Regulus doesn’t know where Sirius is. And he doesn’t know if he really cares.
"You alright, dear? You seem a bit… lost in thought."
Regulus blinks, glancing up at Mrs. Potter.
"Is something on your mind?" she asks, voice soft.
He could answer. He could tell her about the twisting dread in his stomach, the fear of Sunday, the not knowing.
But what would be the point? By the end of the week, he could be gone.
The thought makes him sick. Makes him want to scream until his throat is raw, to cry until there’s nothing left in him, to—
He forces the thought down. It doesn’t matter. Not right now.
Regulus shakes his head. Mrs. Potter watches him for a moment, then hums thoughtfully, setting her tea down.
"James already knows this—we do this every year—but tonight, we’re going out to dinner to celebrate the end of the school year," she says.
Regulus’ stomach twists again, but for a different reason.
"You can bring anything you’d like," she continues. "Your book, your black dog—whatever makes you more comfortable."
She pauses, then adds, "Is that alright, sweetheart?"
Regulus stares at her.
He doesn’t understand why she’s asking. If they go out to dinner after every term, then why would it matter if he’s okay with it?
Unless…
She’s giving him a choice. She’s giving him time to prepare, time to adjust. No one’s ever done that before.
Regulus swallows, the feeling in his chest unfamiliar. He could say no. But he doesn’t. He nods.
Mrs. Potter smiles. "Alright then."
"We go to this smallish place, nothing too crowded. It’s a little out of the way, but Monty and James enjoy it, so I agree," she explains, sipping her tea.
"We’ll leave around six-thirty. If you want to, of course."
Again, she’s giving him a choice. Regulus isn’t sure what to do with that. But he nods.
Dinner at six-thirty. It’s currently 4:13. That gives him two hours and seventeen minutes to prepare himself.
He can do this.
He can make it through dinner. Why?
Because he did it. He made it. He survived.
***
Going out to eat can’t be too hard, right?
Regulus knows it involves people and talking and... yeah, okay, this is going to be hard.
He doesn’t know how Mr. and Mrs. Potter do things when it comes to eating out. He doesn’t know what they expect of him. What they want from him.
He doesn’t want to come off as rude by not talking, but they haven’t had a problem with him writing things down so far, so why would they start now?
That thought should be reassuring. It isn’t. The anxiety still courses through his veins, seeping into his bones. He’s just finishing up brushing his teeth when another thought pops into his head.
What if something bad happens?
It’s a simple thought, but it sticks. Grows.
What if something bad happens in the form of him freaking out? What if he embarrasses himself? What if he ruins dinner? Worst of all, what if something bad happens that results in him getting kicked out?
The ‘what if’ spiral can hit at any time. It’s like a tiny ball of snow at the top of a mountain, rolling, growing, gathering speed. It has the power to keep going and never stop.
Regulus hates the ‘what if’ spirals.
But that doesn’t stop him from getting stuck in them.
He spits the last of the toothpaste into the sink and looks up at his reflection. His face is blank, his grey eyes tired.
Tonight could go one of two ways—well or not well.
Regulus sighs. At least it won’t end like the last dinner he went to.
It was a formal dinner to announce Andromeda’s engagement to her boyfriend, Ted. Chaos. Absolute chaos.
See, Ted is from a lower class, which, in Regulus’ opinion, doesn’t matter. His cousin was happy. That’s what should’ve mattered. But it wasn’t what his uncle Cygnus had in mind for his daughter.
Let’s just say Regulus was surprised no one got arrested that night.
Someone still could get arrested tonight, technically speaking, but statistically, it’s highly unlikely.
Regulus grabs his black dog from his bed and his book from the nightstand. He smooths down his dark green collared shirt, the fabric stiff but comfortable. His blue jeans are still new enough that they don’t quite feel like his yet, and his black sneakers are the same ones Mrs. Potter bought him last week.
As he makes his way downstairs, he notices Mrs. Potter is the only one in the living room.
She looks... pretty.
She’s wearing a knee-length white dress with pink flowers, her reddish-brown hair is curled and tied up in a high ponytail. She looks effortlessly elegant, like she belongs in one of those vintage photographs he used to see in his mother’s sitting room.
She smiles at him warmly. “You look nice, dear.”
Regulus feels his face flush and quickly looks away. He’s still trying to get used to compliments. He isn’t complaining, exactly—it’s just... new. He shrugs in response, unsure how else to react.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t seem bothered. “James and Monty will be a minute,” she says lightly. “They have to deal with their unruly hair.”
She sighs, shaking her head with amusement. “It’s a nightmare sometimes, honestly.”
As if on cue, footsteps echo from the stairs. James appears first, dressed in a pastel pink short-sleeved button-up and a pair of black jeans. His hair, as always, remains an absolute mess despite what was likely a valiant attempt to tame it.
Mr. Potter follows, adjusting his collar. He’s wearing a simple green checkered button-down and dark blue jeans, his dark hair neatly combed. His glasses sit slightly askew, as if he’s been too busy to notice.
“Alright, everyone ready?” Mr. Potter asks, giving them all a quick once-over. His gaze lingers on Regulus for a moment, and his expression softens. “You look nice, kid.”
Regulus nods, looking down at his shoes. He doesn’t know why that simple statement makes his stomach twist in an unfamiliar way, but it does.
“Can we please go now before all the good food is gone?” James complains dramatically, throwing his head back.
Mr. Potter chuckles. “Alright, alright, let’s go.”
They head out to the car, Regulus clutching his black dog tightly.
Going out to eat can’t be too hard.
Right?
The drive to the restaurant is quiet, for the most part. Regulus sits in the backseat, pressed against the door, his book resting in his lap. He doesn’t open it, though. Instead, he watches the way James is glued to his phone, fingers flying across the screen, sending messages at lightning speed. Every so often, James lets out a snicker, completely engrossed in whatever conversation he’s having.
Mr. Potter hums along to the music playing softly from the radio, his fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the steering wheel. It’s consistent, steady, something for Regulus to focus on when his thoughts begin to spiral again. Mrs. Potter, however, keeps turning around to check on him, her eyes full of that same softness he still doesn’t know what to do with. Each time their eyes meet, she gives him a reassuring smile, as if to say everything is okay. Regulus doesn’t know if he believes that, but he nods anyway.
By the time they arrive, the sky is tinged in soft hues of orange and pink, the last remnants of sunlight slipping behind the horizon. The restaurant is surrounded by gardens, a variety of trees stretching towards the sky, their branches adorned with twinkling Christmas lights. It’s… beautiful. Enchanting, even. The soft glow of the lights makes the entire place feel warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold, impersonal restaurants he’s been to before.
The walk inside is quiet, the gravel crunching softly beneath their feet. Regulus stays close behind James, his fingers twitching at his sides. The entrance is grand yet simple, with large wooden doors and windows that let the warm interior light spill outside.
Inside, the lighting is dim, casting a cozy glow over everything. It isn’t harsh or overwhelming. It’s… nice. Safe. The darkness calms something inside him, making it easier to breathe. The restaurant has an old-fashioned charm, with dark wood tables and plush chairs, the scent of warm food lingering in the air.
Mrs. Potter approaches the hostess stand, her voice soft but sure. “We have a booking for four at seven.”
The waitress checks the list before offering a smile. “Of course. Right this way.”
She leads them through the restaurant, weaving between tables occupied by murmuring patrons. Their table is positioned in front of massive windows that overlook the gardens outside, the twinkling lights casting a soft reflection against the glass. Regulus hesitates before sitting next to James, across from Mrs. Potter, with Mr. Potter beside her. The seat feels too big for him, or maybe he just feels too small.
The waitress hands them menus and asks, “Would you like something to drink?”
James doesn’t hesitate. “Coke, please.”
Mrs. Potter orders something light, and Mr. Potter gets the same. Regulus, however, freezes. He hadn’t thought about what to drink. He hadn’t planned for this. He reaches into his pocket for his notebook, his safety net—but it isn’t there.
His stomach drops.
Panic claws at his chest, creeping up his throat. He must have left it upstairs, or maybe in the car, or—
“Regulus?” Mrs. Potter’s voice is gentle, cutting through the fog of panic. “Would you like a lemonade?”
He nods quickly, latching onto the option like a lifeline. Mrs. Potter orders it for him, and he lets out a slow breath, forcing himself to refocus on the menu.
James chatters excitedly, listing off all the different options, but the more Regulus reads, the more overwhelming it becomes. There are too many choices. Too many variables. His breathing quickens.
Mr. Potter notices. “Try the back of the menu.”
Regulus flips it over, relief flooding him when he sees the kids’ menu. Considerably fewer options. Manageable. He stares at the choices, torn between the nuggets and the hamburger. He taps the two items, hoping someone will understand.
James does. “You’re stuck between two?”
Regulus nods.
“Well, which one would you enjoy more?”
Regulus shrugs. He doesn’t know.
James considers this. “The nuggets come with chips.”
Regulus tilts his head. That… does sound good.
“Go with the nuggets, then,” James says simply.
Regulus nods, settling on the nuggets and chips. Mrs. Potter gives the waitress his order, along with the rest of theirs. The waitress takes their menus with a polite smile.
“It’ll be a bit of a wait,” she informs them.
Mr. Potter waves it off easily. “That’s fine.”
With that, they settle in, the soft hum of chatter and clinking dishes filling the space around them.
Mrs. Potter turns to the boys. “Are you excited that school’s finished?”
Regulus nods, but James barely gives him a chance to answer before launching into a rapid-fire rant about everything that happened. He talks about the soccer games he played at school, teachers he liked (and didn’t), the ridiculous amount of homework they had, and the time someone let a toad loose in the library.
Regulus only half-listens, absently running his fingers over the edges of his book. The familiar texture calms him, the repetitive motion grounding. He knows James doesn’t expect him to reply much, which is a relief.
Mrs. Potter must notice where his attention is, because she says gently, “You can read if you want, sweetheart.”
Regulus looks up, startled by the quiet permission. He hesitates, then nods. He starts to open the book—
Then stops.
A flash of blonde hair catches his eye.
His breath stutters.
Narcissa?
His heartbeat picks up as he turns his head, gaze searching. But the woman moves before he can be sure, her face hidden from view. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe he’s just seeing things.
He stares a little longer, trying to catch another glimpse.
Apparently, staring for too long is weird, because Mr. Potter’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “What are you looking at?”
Regulus startles. He quickly shakes his head, tearing his gaze away.
Mr. Potter doesn’t push, just nods and turns back to James, who’s still talking.
Regulus looks down at his book again, but the words blur together. The thought lingers, curling around his mind like smoke. What if it was Narcissa?
Before he can dwell on it too much, their food arrives. The waitress sets their plates down, and Regulus is relieved for the distraction. He picks up his fork, ready to eat—
And then the first scrape of metal against ceramic slices through the air.
Regulus flinches.
The sound is sharp, high-pitched, grating against his ears like nails on a chalkboard. Another scrape follows, then another, the rhythmic screeching making his skin crawl.
He clenches his jaw and shakes his head slightly, as if he can physically force himself not to react. It doesn’t work.
His body starts to rock slightly in his seat, the movement automatic, an attempt to ground himself. But the noise doesn’t stop, and no matter how much he tries to ignore it, each scrape feels like it’s digging under his skin, burrowing deep.
He tightens his grip on his fork, his appetite quickly fading.
Mrs. Potter notices the shift in Regulus immediately. She pauses mid-conversation, her voice soft with concern. “Regulus? Are you okay?”
He shakes his head. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, not with his throat tight and his stomach twisting uncomfortably.
Mr. Potter, who has been idly twirling his fork between his fingers, stops and studies him for a moment. Then, realization dawns. “Is it the noise?” He picks up his knife and gently scrapes it against his plate in demonstration. The sound is barely audible over the hum of the restaurant, but Regulus still winces.
They understand immediately.
Mrs. Potter’s expression softens with something that looks like guilt. “We’ll try to be careful,” she promises. “It might still happen sometimes, but we’ll do our best.”
Mr. Potter nods in agreement. “We can’t completely stop it, but we’ll be mindful.”
The effort means something. Regulus nods, a small but genuine acknowledgment of their understanding. He takes a few more bites, though he remains tense. Every now and then, when the noise happens, he flinches slightly.
They finish their meals soon after, lingering at the table as conversation flows. James talks animatedly about something—soccer, probably—and eventually convinces Regulus to get ice cream. Regulus almost says no, but… he’s glad he doesn’t. The cold sweetness is actually nice, soothing in a way he didn’t expect.
When they’re done, they push back their chairs and get up to leave. Mr. Potter heads to the counter to pay, and Regulus follows Mrs. Potter and James toward the door.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it again.
Blonde hair.
Regulus spots them before they notice him.
At first, it doesn't feel real—like his brain is playing a cruel trick on him. But no, they're here. Sitting together at a table near the corner of the restaurant. Bellatrix. Narcissa.
His feet move before he fully thinks it through, drawn forward by some invisible force. The noise of the restaurant fades, James’ chatter behind him becomes meaningless, and Mrs. Potter waiting near the exit is entirely forgotten.
Then, Narcissa looks up. Her blue eyes widen in surprise, lips parting slightly as though she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.
"Regulus?"
Bellatrix turns next. The air between them stills, stretched tight with something unspoken.
Narcissa is the first to react. She pushes back her chair and stands, barely giving him a chance to process before she pulls him into a tight hug. He stiffens for half a second before melting into it, the warmth of her arms a stark contrast to the cold, distant memories of his past.
“Hi, Cissa,” he mumbles, his voice muffled against her shoulder.
She lets go reluctantly, eyes searching his face, but before he can say anything else, Bellatrix steps forward. Her embrace is quicker, firmer, almost uncertain—like she’s not sure how long she’s allowed to hold on.
“Hi, Bella,” he murmurs.
She pulls back, eyeing him carefully, and for a moment, Regulus feels like a child again, standing before her, waiting for approval. But her lips twitch, just slightly, and she nods.
He sits down with them, feeling both out of place and like he belongs all at once. They waste no time in asking questions—where he’s been, where he’s living, what he’s been up to.
He answers in clipped sentences, short nods, the occasional glance at his notebook. The Potters. School. His placement. How things are… different now. Better, maybe.
Narcissa listens intently, her expression softening with every word. Bellatrix, for all her usual sharpness, watches him with something almost cautious, like she’s afraid to push too hard.
"How was finishing your seventh year?" Narcissa asks.
Regulus hesitates before shrugging. "Fine," he says. "Quiet."
Bellatrix scoffs. "Seventh year, quiet? You must’ve done something wrong."
His lips twitch slightly, just for a second.
The conversation drifts, comfortable in a way he never expected. They tell him about their own lives—small things, nothing too personal. Narcissa mentions her engagement, Bellatrix mutters something about work, but mostly, they ask about him. Like they actually care.
For the first time in a long while, Regulus allows himself to believe that maybe they do.
Then—
"Regulus?"
The voice is sharp with worry. His stomach flips as he turns.
Mrs. Potter stands a few feet away, scanning the restaurant like she had been searching for him. Mr. Potter and James hover behind her, their expressions shifting from confusion to quiet understanding as they take in the scene.
Oops.
Regulus hadn’t meant to disappear.
He pushes his chair back, about to stand, but Bellatrix waves a hand dismissively. "Relax, we weren’t kidnapping him."
Mrs. Potter exhales, relief evident in her posture. She takes a step forward, but Narcissa speaks first.
"Mrs. Potter?" She stands, smoothing out her skirt. "I’m Narcissa Black. This is my sister, Bellatrix. We’re Regulus’ cousins."
Mrs. Potter blinks, glancing between them before offering her hand. "Euphemia Potter. This is my husband, Fleamont."
Mr. Potter shakes both their hands, polite but firm. "We didn’t know Regulus had cousins."
There’s a pause, one that Regulus isn’t sure how to fill.
"We—" Narcissa hesitates, exchanging a look with Bellatrix. "We’d like to see him more often. If he wants to, of course."
Regulus’ breath catches. He looks between them, trying to gauge whether this is some fleeting kindness or something real.
Mrs. Potter glances at him, as if to check for any sign of discomfort. "That’s up to Regulus."
Regulus swallows. He glances at Narcissa, at Bellatrix. They’re watching him, waiting.
Slowly, he nods.
A small breath of relief escapes Narcissa, and even Bellatrix relaxes just slightly. They exchange numbers with Mrs. Potter, promises made in quiet voices.
Then, it’s time to leave.
Narcissa squeezes his arm gently before stepping back, offering a small smile. Bellatrix lingers for a moment longer.
Before he can turn away, she asks, "Where’s Sirius?"
Regulus freezes.
The question punches the air from his lungs, his mouth going dry. His fingers twitch at his sides before clenching into fists.
"I don’t know," he whispers.
The truth. The awful, crushing truth.
He doesn’t know where his brother is.
James and Mr. Potter have already turned toward the door, unaware of the shift in atmosphere. Regulus barely notices as Bellatrix and Narcissa exchange glances.
Someone murmurs something to him, but he doesn’t process it. His thoughts spiral. Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?
A gentle touch at his shoulder pulls him back. Mrs. Potter.
"Come on, love," she murmurs, guiding him toward the exit.
He follows, moving automatically, but his mind is elsewhere. His stuffed black dog dangles from his grip, brushing against his leg with each step. His chest feels tight.
The car is warm when they climb inside, but Regulus feels cold. He buckles his seatbelt, staring at his lap.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Who’s Sirius?" Mrs. Potter asks softly.
Regulus stiffens.
His grip tightens on the stuffed dog, pulling it close like a shield. His eyes sting, and before he can stop himself, tears well up.
He buries his face in the fabric, shoulders trembling.
He doesn’t answer. He can’t.
He just cries.
***
The afternoon sun slants through the grand windows of the Black family estate, casting long shadows across the polished floors. Dust motes drift lazily in the golden light, undisturbed by the usual rigid order of the house. Outside, the sky is clear, a rare, perfect day that should have been spent in the gardens, running freely beneath the open sky.
But they aren’t supposed to be outside today. Not where anyone could see.
Instead, the five of them have taken refuge in one of the lesser-used sitting rooms—a space grand in design but ignored by the adults, making it the perfect hiding place. The heavy velvet curtains are drawn shut, wrapping them in a cocoon of dim, golden light and muffled laughter. Here, the usual rules of the household feel distant, momentarily forgotten.
Regulus, small for his age but quick, darts between the furniture, barely suppressing his giggles. His feet skid slightly on the sleek wooden floor, but he catches himself just in time to dodge around an armchair. Behind him, Sirius is in pursuit, grinning wildly, his dark hair flopping into his eyes as he lunges forward.
“ Got you! ” Sirius declares triumphantly, catching the back of Regulus’ shirt in his fist.
Regulus yelps, twisting in his brother’s grip. “ Not fair! ” he huffs between breathless laughter, trying to wriggle free.
“ You’re just slow, ” Sirius teases, shoving him lightly before ruffling his hair into a hopeless mess.
Bellatrix, perched elegantly on the arm of a chaise lounge, rolls her eyes. “ You two are insufferable, ” she drawls, but there’s no real bite to her words. Her fingers toy idly with a silver bracelet on her wrist, her usual air of superiority momentarily relaxed.
“ Oh, let them have their fun, ” Andromeda says with a smile. She sits cross-legged on the floor, watching them with quiet amusement. “ Not everyone enjoys sitting around like a statue, Bella. ”
Narcissa, kneeling beside her, hums in agreement as she braids Andromeda’s hair with careful precision. “ Besides, it’s better than them sneaking off outside and getting in trouble, ” she adds, glancing up briefly before returning to her work.
Regulus, still catching his breath, turns to Sirius, his face alight with excitement. “ Again? ”
Sirius smirks. “ Obviously, ” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, already gearing up to chase after him. “ But this time, I bet I can— ”
The door creaks open.
The shift is instant.
Regulus goes still. The laughter vanishes. He can feel the air in the room tighten, see the way the others stiffen in quiet anticipation.
Their mother’s voice slices through the lingering warmth like a knife. “ Sirius, don’t do that. ”
Regulus turns just enough to see her standing in the doorway, expression unreadable. Behind her, their father lingers, his presence heavier than his voice when he finally speaks. “ You’re the heir to this family. Start acting like it. ”
Sirius’ jaw clenches. His arms, loose and free just moments ago, hang rigid at his sides. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t move.
The game is over.
Seeing Narcissa and Bellatrix again, after not seeing them for months, makes Regulus feel something. Something heavy, something tangled, something that knots itself deep in his chest and refuses to let go. He doesn’t know what to call it—doesn’t know if he even wants to name it—but it lingers, pressing against his ribs with every breath.
This feeling makes him question things. A lot of things.
One of those things is the way they seemed relieved to see him.
Which is odd. Right?
Because why would they think otherwise? Why would they ever have a doubt in their minds that he wasn’t okay?
Another thing that sticks with him, circling his thoughts like a vulture, is the fact that they want to be in his life. And, even more bizarre, is that they explicitly said it was up to him—his choice if he wanted to see them.
Which, again, is odd. Right?
Like, why wouldn’t he want to see his cousins? Why would they ever think he wouldn’t want to see them again?
What could have possibly happened to make them think this? What did he do to make them think this?
These questions spin round and round in his head as he walks up the stairs, pushing open the door to his room. The house is quiet, the sounds of the Potters settling in for the evening distant in the background, but Regulus barely notices. His mind is still stuck in the past few hours, replaying conversations, searching for answers he doesn’t have.
He sets his stuffed dog on his bed before pulling open his dresser drawers, mechanically going through the motions of changing into his pajamas. The soft fabric does little to soothe the tension in his shoulders. The questions won’t stop. They keep pressing in, thick and suffocating, even as he pads down the hall to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
He stares at his reflection in the mirror, toothbrush dangling from his mouth, and wonders—not for the first time—who he’s supposed to be now.
Sirius.
His brother. The only person Regulus has left.
Had. The only person Regulus had left.
Had.
Past tense.
Because Regulus has no idea where he is. No idea if he’s alive. If he’s dead. If he’s in jail or somewhere else entirely. He knows nothing.
The only reminder he has is the black stuffed dog waiting for him back in his room.
He spits out the toothpaste and rinses his mouth, gripping the edge of the sink a little too tightly. The thought crosses his mind—he could ask Sarah to find him. She probably could. She could look him up, track him down. Maybe Regulus could see him again, talk to him, finally get some answers.
But then—why?
It was Sirius’ fault. It was Sirius’ fault their family got destroyed. It was all Sirius’ fault. Sirius lied. Regulus knows this to be a fact.
Sirius is a liar. He lies. It’s his entire personality, really.
He lies about everything. He lied about what their parents did. Because there is no reason why they would ever hurt him. There is just no way.
Sirius probably got into a fight, which caused him to end up in the hospital. Which then caused the police. Then an investigation. Then their parents’ arrest. Then Regulus being taken away.
It’s all Sirius’ fault.
Yet—he wants to see him.
Regulus misses him more than anything.
It’s a weird line, the one between blame and longing.
On one hand, Regulus never wants to see his brother again. On the other, all he wants to do is hug Sirius and never let him go.
Regulus hates it.
He drags himself back to his room, feeling heavier than he has in weeks. The moment he sits on his bed, clutching his stuffed dog to his chest, the weight of everything crashes into him all at once. His throat tightens, his vision blurs, and before he can stop himself, tears well in his eyes.
He blinks rapidly, swallowing hard, but it’s no use. He’s overwhelmed, drowning in thoughts and emotions he doesn’t know how to name, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know what to do.
Then—a knock on his door.
Regulus freezes, quickly wiping his eyes, heart hammering in his chest.
He waits, silent, barely breathing.
“Regulus?” a voice calls softly from the other side.
And he doesn’t know if he wants to answer.
The sound of the bedroom door creaks open. He hears another soft, “Regulus.”
He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t move. He just clutches his stuffed dog closer to his chest, focusing on the steady rhythm of his own breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
“Regulus,” Mr. Potter says this time, his voice gentle but steady. “Can we come in?”
Regulus hesitates. He swallows against the lump in his throat and nods once. He hears the door open wider, the soft footfalls of two people stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind them. A shift of fabric, the creak of the desk chair. Mr. Potter has taken a seat.
“We wanted to check in,” Mr. Potter says after a moment. “You were quiet on the drive home. And you came up here pretty quickly.”
Regulus nods again, a jerky movement, but he doesn’t look up. He doesn’t trust himself to.
Mrs. Potter’s voice is softer when she speaks. “Would it be alright if I sat with you, sweetheart?”
Regulus hesitates, then nods again. He hears the bed shift under her weight as she sits at the foot of it. Then, after a moment, a light, warm hand settles gently on his knee. They don’t say anything. They just sit.
Regulus sniffles. He presses his lips together, trying to hold it in, but it doesn’t work. Tears slip down his cheeks, one after another, until his vision is blurred, and his breath shudders on the way out.
“Was it seeing your cousins again?” Mr. Potter asks softly.
Regulus shakes his head.
A pause. “No?” Mr. Potter echoes, and Regulus shakes his head again, more firmly this time.
There’s another silence, filled only with the sound of Regulus’ uneven breathing. Then, Mrs. Potter asks, “Was it them asking about someone named Sirius?”
Regulus stiffens. His fingers dig into the soft fabric of the stuffed dog in his arms.
He could tell them. He could say something. Maybe if he did, the weight pressing down on his chest would lessen. Maybe he wouldn’t feel like he was being slowly crushed by something he can’t even name.
But how? How does he say it? How does he even begin?
“Regulus?”
The way she says his name pulls him back. It’s so soft, so careful. He forces himself to look up—right into Mrs. Potter’s eyes. He’s never done that before. Not with her. Not with anyone, really.
He tries to convey something. Tries to make her understand what he can’t say. That he doesn’t know how to talk about it. That he wants to, maybe, but the words won’t come.
Mrs. Potter nods, just barely. “Okay,” she murmurs.
Another wave of tears slips down his face. He hates it. He hates crying. He curls in on himself, pressing his forehead against his knees, clutching his stuffed dog like a lifeline.
“Would you like a hug, sweetheart?” Mrs. Potter asks softly.
Regulus hesitates. Contemplates. Because her hugs are… different. They’re warm. Safe. Like a weighted blanket wrapped around him, grounding him, shielding him from the outside world. He doesn’t know if it’s love, but it’s something.
Slowly, he nods.
Mrs. Potter shifts, gently maneuvering him so she can slide up onto the bed beside him. Then, carefully, she pulls him into a side hug, wrapping an arm around him.
Regulus goes rigid for a moment. Then he exhales, the tension draining from his shoulders as he lets himself lean into her. He buries his face into the crook of her neck, gripping the fabric of her shirt, holding on like he might disappear if he lets go.
He feels her lean back against the headboard. Hears the low murmur of hushed whispers. Feels the comforting weight of her hand running up and down his back, fingers threading gently through his hair. There’s a soft click as the door shuts.
Regulus breathes. He lets himself feel it.
And, eventually, he drifts off to sleep, the last thought in his mind a name he can never let go of.
Sirius.
The dream starts softly.
Regulus is home. The Black family estate looms around him, grand and imposing, its corridors stretching endlessly into the dark. But it doesn’t feel threatening. Not yet. There’s warmth here, familiarity. The scent of polished wood and expensive cologne clings to the air, just as he remembers.
Sirius is with him.
They’re in Sirius’ room, the way they used to be before everything fell apart. The heavy, carved bed posts, the dark wooden floors, the windows that barely let in any light—it’s all exactly as it was. Sirius lounges on the bed, arms folded behind his head, grinning that lopsided, cocky grin that always made Regulus roll his eyes. But this time, Regulus doesn’t. He’s too busy taking it in, too busy feeling something close to relief.
“ You didn’t leave, ” Regulus says before he can stop himself. His voice is small. Uncertain.
Sirius frowns at him. “ What are you talking about? ” he laughs. “ Why would I ever leave? ”
Regulus doesn’t have an answer, because—of course. Why would he? Sirius is here. Sirius would never leave him.
But then the room shifts.
It’s subtle at first. The warmth seeps out, the edges of the space stretching, distorting. Shadows creep in, curling along the walls like ink bleeding into paper. The scent of cologne turns sharp, acrid, something rotten lingering underneath.
Regulus blinks, and Sirius is standing now, his back to him.
“ Sirius? ” Regulus calls.
Sirius doesn’t turn.
Regulus steps forward, but the floor groans under his feet, warping like it's alive. The walls press in, stretching impossibly tall, the ceiling a void above him. The air grows thick, heavy, as if it's pushing against him, keeping him trapped.
“ Sirius? ” His voice is smaller now, barely above a whisper.
Sirius moves. Not toward him. Away.
“ No. ” Regulus’ chest tightens. He tries to follow, but his legs feel sluggish, like he’s moving through water. His breath catches in his throat. “ Wait—Sirius, wait! ”
Sirius walks faster.
The doorway at the end of the hall yawns open, dark and endless, swallowing everything beyond it.
Regulus stumbles forward, panic clawing up his throat. His fingers stretch out, desperate to grab the back of Sirius’ shirt, to hold him in place, to keep him here where he belongs—
But Sirius doesn’t stop.
“ Sirius! ” Regulus’ voice cracks, raw and terrified. His heartbeat is a frantic, erratic drum in his chest. “ Please! ”
Sirius finally turns.
But his face is wrong.
It’s empty, hollow, shadowed in a way that makes Regulus’ stomach drop. There’s nothing there—no warmth, no recognition, no Sirius.
“ You left me, ” Regulus whispers, voice barely audible over the pounding in his ears.
Sirius stares, his expression unreadable. Then he turns again, stepping into the blackness.
And the door slams shut.
Regulus screams.
He launches himself forward, pounding on the wood, but his fists make no sound. The darkness bleeds into the walls, crawling toward him, swallowing the room, swallowing him, swallowing everything—
And then he’s falling.
The floor vanishes beneath him, and the air is gone, stolen from his lungs as he plummets into the abyss. His stomach lurches. His limbs flail, reaching for anything—something—nothing. Cold seeps into his bones. His throat burns from the silent scream locked inside him—
Regulus jolts awake.
His chest heaves. His entire body trembles. The room around him is dark, too dark, but it’s not the same darkness from his dream. He’s at the Potters’. He’s in his bed. His hands fist the sheets, damp with sweat. His heart is still racing, hammering against his ribs so hard it hurts.
His breath stutters, uneven and shaky, as he presses a hand over his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the lingering terror to fade, but the image of Sirius—of that empty, hollow face—won’t leave him.
He’s never been so scared in his life.
Not even his grandparents were as terrifying as that dream. And they were terrifying. His grandmother’s cold, thin-lipped frown. His grandfather’s sharp, calculating eyes that seemed to pierce straight through him. The suffocating expectation that clung to every word they spoke. Even at seven years old, he had known to be wary of them, had learned to keep his back straight and his words carefully measured when they were near. But even they hadn’t filled him with the bone-deep dread that nightmare had.
A choked noise escapes his throat, and suddenly, he’s crying. Hot, silent tears streak down his cheeks as his fingers dig into the fabric of his blanket. It wasn’t real. He knows that. It was just a dream. Just a nightmare. But it felt real. Too real. And now, he can’t shake it. Can’t shake the way Sirius walked away. The way he disappeared. The way Regulus was left behind, completely alone.
He takes a deep breath. Then another. He needs to calm down. He needs to think. He needs—
Mr. and Mrs. Potter.
The thought comes suddenly, unexpectedly. His fingers curl tighter around his blanket. Would he be allowed to wake them up? Would he be allowed in their room? The idea feels almost foreign, but at the same time, there's a pull to it, a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to be alone right now.
But then doubt creeps in.
He’s not their real kid. They wouldn’t want to be woken up by some stupid nightmare. His own parents never wanted to be woken up in the middle of the night, not unless it was for something important. A bad dream was never important enough. And if his real parents never wanted to deal with it, why would the Potters?
He swallows hard and rubs at his face, trying to wipe away the last of his tears. He won’t wake them. He’ll handle this himself.
Regulus decides he wants to read something to get his mind off things, to pull himself out of the lingering remnants of his nightmare. But then he realizes—his book is downstairs. He left it on the kitchen bench earlier.
He sighs, then shifts, pulling his blanket around his shoulders before reaching for the stuffed black dog beside him. His fingers tighten around the worn fabric. Normally, if he had a nightmare, he’d go to Sirius. He’d climb into his bed, shake him awake, and Sirius—grumpy and annoyed—would grumble but let him stay. He would shove his arm over Regulus’ head in a halfhearted attempt to go back to sleep, and Regulus would lie there, feeling safer just knowing his brother was next to him.
The irony isn’t lost on him. The nightmare was about Sirius. And now, Sirius isn’t even here.
His chest tightens, but he shakes his head, pushing the thought away. Instead, he quietly slips out of bed, the cool air sending a slight shiver down his spine. With his blanket wrapped around him and his stuffed dog clutched to his chest, he steps carefully across the room, his socked feet making no noise against the floor. He opens his door and glances down the hall, but the house is silent, dark and still.
Slowly, he makes his way down the stairs, each step careful, deliberate. The nightmare still lingers in his mind, playing on a loop no matter how much he tries to push it away. It was just a dream. Just a dream. But the fear remains.
He reaches the living room first, setting his stuffed dog and blanket onto the armchair before making his way toward the kitchen. The floor is cool beneath his feet as he crosses the tiled surface, his book exactly where he left it on the counter. He picks it up, hugging it to his chest as he makes his way back into the living room.
He settles into the armchair, curling up beneath his blanket, tucking his feet underneath him. His stuffed dog rests in his lap, his book open in his hands. He forces himself to focus on the words, on the story, on anything but the lingering dread coiled in his chest.
Time passes. Slowly, gradually, his eyes grow heavier. The book slips slightly in his grasp, his blinks becoming longer, slower. The weight of exhaustion finally presses in, drowning out the remnants of fear and unease.
And eventually, Regulus drifts back off to sleep.
***
The first thing Regulus notices is the sun. Soft and golden, it filters through the curtains, warming his face. The sensation tugs at the edges of his awareness, but it’s not what fully wakes him. That comes a moment later—when he hears the faint sound of someone using the kettle.
His eyelids flutter open. He’s curled up in the armchair, his book resting on his chest where he must have left it last night. The quiet hum of the house in the early morning feels distant, like he hasn’t quite returned to reality yet.
He blinks, shifts slightly, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. Then, after a beat, he decides to see who’s in the kitchen.
Padding softly down the hall, he steps into the warm space just as Mrs. Potter turns from the counter, two mugs sitting beside her. She smiles when she sees him.
“Good morning, Regulus.”
He nods in greeting, still lingering in the doorway, watching as she moves with practiced ease. She sets out plates, reaches for the jam, the routine feeling effortless.
Then, after a pause, she glances at him again, something more intent in her expression. “I saw you slept on the armchair,” she says, her voice gentle but edged with concern. “Are you alright?”
Regulus nods.
Mrs. Potter studies him for a moment, like she’s deciding whether to believe him. He half-expects her to press further, but instead, she just hums softly and turns back to her task.
Regulus thinks that’s the end of it. That she’s letting it go.
Until—
“You boys think you can all lie to me, honestly.”
Regulus blinks. He frowns slightly, thrown off by the sudden shift. He hums, confused.
Mrs. Potter sighs, shaking her head with something that’s almost amusement. “Fleamont and James think they can lie to me,” she says, setting two pieces of toast on a plate. “They think I won’t notice when something’s wrong. But I do. I always do.”
Regulus isn’t sure what to say to that, so he just nods.
Mrs. Potter smiles again, softer this time, and gestures toward the table. “Sit,” she says.
He does.
They eat breakfast in quiet companionship, the warm, sleepy kind of silence that feels safe. Regulus finds himself thinking about what she said—how certain she had been, how easily she saw through things. It lingers in his mind, even as the kettle whistles and Mrs. Potter hums along to some tune under her breath.
For now, though, the moment is peaceful. And Regulus lets himself enjoy it.
Regulus continues to think about what Mrs. Potter said all throughout breakfast and as he walks up the stairs to get dressed for the day.
“They think I won’t notice when something’s wrong. But I do. I always do.”
The words loop in his head, circling back no matter how much he tries to push them aside.
What does she mean she always notices when something’s wrong?
He never told her anything. Not really. Not about why he freaks out sometimes. Not about why sleeping is hard. Not about why he can’t speak to anyone. Not about why Colin and his gang were picking on him. Not about why he’s been acting so weird around her. She shouldn’t know. She can’t know.
But what if she does?
What if she’s noticed other things? Things he hasn’t said out loud, things he’s tried to keep buried?
Regulus pulls his shirt slowly over his head, methodical movements, still caught up in the thought. He frowns, the nagging feeling in his chest growing stronger.
How much does she see?
By the time he’s dressed, the question still hasn’t left him. It lingers as he walks down the stairs, each step measured, his mind still tangled in the uncertainty.
What else does she know?
He shakes his head, trying to clear it as he steps into the living room.
Then he stops short.
James is sitting in his spot.
The armchair, the one Regulus fell asleep in last night. His place. And not only is James in it, but he’s completely at ease, controller in hand, playing a video game like he has every right to be there.
Regulus’ stomach twists. The irritation is sudden, sharp.
James looks up when he notices him. “You wanna play?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. His eyes flick to the side table where he’d left his book—only it’s not there.
His book is gone .
A sharp flare of frustration rises in his chest. His seat is taken. His book is missing. And he’s exhausted .
James, oblivious, turns back to his game.
Regulus clenches his fists. His breathing quickens.
He huffs angrily, his voice clipped. “Où est mon livre?”
(“Where is my book?”)
James glances at him, confusion written all over his face. “Umm,” he hums, clearly trying to formulate words. “What did you say?”
Regulus feels something hot and angry crack through him.
“Vous êtes assis à ma place et maintenant mon livre a disparu?!”
(“You’re sitting in my spot, and now my book is missing?!”)
James startles, blinking at him. “Uh—what?”
“Où est-il? Je l'ai laissé ici!”
(“Where is it? I left it right here!”)
James looks completely lost. He puts down the controller, holding his hands up. “Stop yelling at me! I don’t understand you!”
But Regulus can’t stop. His frustration has tipped over into something else—something panicked and overwhelming. He searches the room wildly, but the book isn’t there.
James is still in his chair.
Before he even thinks about it, Regulus grabs the nearest thing—a throw pillow—and hurls it at James.
It smacks him square in the chest.
“Hey!” James yelps. He looks at Regulus with wide eyes. “What the hell?”
Regulus doesn’t stop. He grabs another pillow and throws it just as James scrambles up, arms raised in defense.
“ Woah, woah, woah! ” James shouts, backing up. “Calm down! I don’t even know what you want!”
But Regulus isn’t calm. His heart pounds, frustration clawing up his throat. He needs his book. He needs his space. He needs things to be where they’re supposed to be.
James reaches for a pillow—then, to Regulus’ absolute fury, throws it back at him .
It bounces off Regulus’ shoulder, and something inside him snaps.
He lunges forward and hits James with one.
“Oi— Reg! ” James protests, stumbling back, trying to shield himself. “Stop it!”
But Regulus doesn’t stop. He keeps swinging, the pillows landing with dull thuds against James’ arms and sides. James, now fully panicking, grabs another and swings back, trying to block the attacks.
The commotion is loud enough that it only takes seconds before—
"BOYS!"
Both freeze at the sharp voice.
Mrs. Potter stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised, hands on her hips. Mr. Potter is right behind her, his gaze immediately locking onto Regulus.
James drops the pillow like it’s on fire.
Regulus barely has time to register the situation before Mr. Potter steps forward.
“Alright, enough of that.” His voice is calm but firm as he moves toward Regulus, reaching out carefully. “Come here, son.”
Regulus jerks back, heart hammering. But Mr. Potter is faster.
Before Regulus can retreat, strong arms wrap around him from behind, firm but not forceful. The warmth of Mr. Potter’s hold is steady, grounding.
Regulus fights . He twists, struggling against the grip, his breath coming too fast. He doesn’t want to be held, doesn’t want to be restrained.
“Regulus,” Mr. Potter says, his voice steady. “It’s alright. Just breathe.”
Regulus shakes his head, pushing against the hold, but Mr. Potter doesn’t let go. He keeps his arms around him, unmoving.
Gradually, the struggle fades.
Regulus’ limbs grow heavy. His breathing evens out.
He slumps slightly, the last of his fight draining away.
Only then does Mr. Potter loosen his grip.
Regulus blinks, his mind catching up with what just happened. He notices, suddenly, that James and Mrs. Potter aren’t in the room anymore.
Everything is quiet.
Mr. Potter shifts, turning him slightly. His voice is still calm but carries an edge of authority. “Are you calm enough for me to let you go?”
Regulus hesitates. Then, slowly, he nods.
Mr. Potter releases him, stepping back. Regulus stays where he is, arms wrapped around himself, exhaustion pressing against his bones.
Regulus doesn’t know what to say.
The silence stretches between them.
Regulus shifts uncomfortably, arms still wrapped tightly around himself. Mr. Potter remains seated on the couch, his expression calm but expectant.
After a while, he speaks. “What happened, kiddo?” His voice is steady, patient. “What made you so upset?”
Regulus stiffens.
He doesn’t know.
The anger had been so instant , so overwhelming—like a fire that flared up out of nowhere.
His body goes rigid, breath caught in his chest. He can’t explain it, can’t pick apart the tangled mess of emotions still curling inside him.
Slowly, he steps toward the armchair. He pulls the blanket aside, and there—underneath it—he finds his book.
Right where he left it.
His throat tightens.
James had been sitting on it.
The frustration flares again, but this time it’s smaller, just an ember compared to the firestorm from earlier.
“Regulus?” Mr. Potter prompts gently.
Regulus shrugs.
Mr. Potter watches him for a moment before exhaling softly. He leans back into the couch, waiting. He’s not going to push—but he’s also not going to leave without an answer.
Regulus hesitates, then reaches for his notebook and pen from where they sit beside the armchair.
Sitting down, he flips to a blank page and writes:
James was sitting in my spot, and I couldn’t find my book.
He pauses, then carefully writes beneath it:
I don’t know why I got angry like that.
Regulus stares at the words for a long moment, then silently hands the notebook to Mr. Potter.
Mr. Potter takes it, his eyes scanning the page. His lips press together, and he sighs. “I see.”
Regulus looks down at his lap, guilt gnawing at him.
Mr. Potter sets the notebook aside. “Regulus,” he says, his tone gentle but firm, “violence like that isn’t the solution to your problems. I understand you were upset, but if something’s wrong, you say it. Or write it down, like you just did. But lashing out, throwing things—that’s not how we communicate here.”
Regulus nods stiffly, shame settling heavy in his stomach.
He shouldn’t have reacted like that.
Mr. Potter must see the guilt on his face because his expression softens. “You’re not in trouble,” he reassures. “You made a mistake, but mistakes don’t define you. What matters is what you do next.”
Regulus looks up at him, startled.
That— that isn’t what he expected.
Back home, mistakes were met with punishment. Severe punishment.
Mr. Potter studies him for a moment, then sighs, rubbing his hands together. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s talk this out as a family.”
Regulus hesitates but follows when Mr. Potter stands and gestures for him to come.
Mrs. Potter and James are already sitting in the kitchen. James looks uncertain, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve, while Mrs. Potter gives them both a small, expectant smile.
“Alright,” Mr. Potter starts as they all sit down. “Let’s figure out what we can do better next time.”
Regulus shifts in his seat, uncomfortable but listening.
Mrs. Potter turns to James first. “James, what do you think you could’ve done differently?”
James makes a face. “I dunno,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t know Regulus was gonna be mad. He didn’t say anything—he just started yelling at me.”
Regulus frowns and quickly writes in his notebook:
It wasn’t just that you were in my spot. I couldn’t find my book.
He slides the notebook over for James to read.
James sighs, leaning back. “Okay, but you didn’t even know where your book was. It’s not like I stole it or something.”
Regulus clenches his jaw, then reluctantly nods.
Mrs. Potter hums. “So maybe next time, Regulus can say something before getting upset, and James can be more mindful of what might bother Regulus?”
James nods. “Yeah, I mean, I would’ve moved if he just told me.”
Regulus stares at the table, gripping his pen tightly. He doesn’t know how to explain that speaking up isn’t as simple as they make it sound.
“I know it’s hard,” Mrs. Potter says gently, as if reading his mind. “But we can work on it. You don’t have to be perfect—you just have to try.”
Regulus swallows and nods.
Mr. Potter claps his hands together. “Good. And if you two do run into an issue you can’t sort out, what do you do?”
James groans. “Come to you or Mum.”
“Exactly.” Mr. Potter gives them both a pointed look. “No more throwing things at each other. Understood?”
Regulus nods, guilt creeping back in.
He picks up his notebook again and writes:
I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m sorry.
He turns the notebook toward James.
James reads it, then shrugs. “It’s alright.”
Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that. He expected more—anger, frustration, something .
But James just drops onto the couch like nothing happened.
After a moment, James tilts his head. “What language were you speaking?”
Regulus blinks, caught off guard.
James frowns. “When you were yelling at me. It wasn’t English.”
Regulus flushes, heat creeping up his neck. He hadn’t even realized.
Quickly, he scribbles: French. It’s my first language.
James leans over to read it. “Oh. Cool.”
Mrs. Potter, clearly curious, steps forward and glances at the page as well.
Mr. Potter hums. “If you two have problems with each other, talk about them. Or come to one of us, and we’ll help you sort it out.”
James nods easily. Regulus hesitates, but after a moment, he nods, too.
The tension in the room eases.
James flops back onto the couch, grabbing his controller, and Regulus pulls his book into his lap.
Just like that, everything goes back to normal.
James plays his game. Regulus reads.
And yet—Regulus can’t stop thinking about it.
If this had happened before—if he’d lashed out before—it would have ended differently. He would’ve been in serious trouble, locked away somewhere, left to stew in his own resentment.
But this—this was different.
There was no punishment. No cold dismissal.
Just communication. Problem-solving. Compromise.
Regulus stares down at his book, the realization settling deep.
Maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this.
***
It’s Sunday.
A fashionable Sunday, if Regulus might add.
The sun filters through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the polished wooden floor. The air is warm but not stifling, carrying the lingering scent of fresh laundry and something faintly floral—probably from whatever candle Mrs. Potter had lit earlier.
Regulus shifts slightly where he sits, glancing down at himself. His clothes are neat, carefully chosen, though he supposes he isn’t the only one putting thought into appearances today. Mrs. Potter is effortlessly elegant, as always, dressed in a flowing blouse and tailored trousers, her jewelry understated but tasteful. Even Mr. Potter, in his relaxed weekend attire, somehow manages to look put together in a way Regulus can’t quite understand.
It’s the kind of morning that feels slow and unhurried, filled with quiet chatter and the occasional clink of dishes as breakfast is cleaned away.
Mrs. Potter grabs her keys from the hook by the door. “Alright, I’ll be back soon,” she calls over her shoulder. “Try not to burn the house down while I’m gone.”
James, already halfway out the door, smirks. “No promises.”
Regulus sits curled up in the armchair by the window, a book open in his lap. He isn’t really reading, just staring at the same paragraph, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the page. The house is quiet the moment the door shuts, leaving only the hum of the summer evening pressing in from the open window—the distant chatter of neighbors outside, the rhythmic chirping of crickets.
And then—a sound.
A cupboard opening. A soft clatter. The faint rustle of packaging being unrolled.
Regulus shifts slightly, glancing toward the kitchen. He hadn’t noticed Mr. Potter get up.
He hesitates. He doesn’t want to intrude. But curiosity tugs at him, and before he can second-guess himself, he slides off the chair and pads toward the doorway. Peering inside, he catches sight of Mr. Potter standing at the counter, pulling ingredients from a bag. He’s focused, humming under his breath, and there’s an easy sort of comfort in the way he moves around the kitchen.
He doesn’t look up, but his voice is warm when he speaks.
“Caught your interest, have I?”
Regulus startles slightly. He hadn’t thought Mr. Potter had noticed him.
There’s no expectation in his voice, no pressure to respond. Just a simple, open-ended invitation.
Regulus hovers for a second longer before stepping inside, lingering near the edge of the room.
Mr. Potter turns, holding up a bag of flour. “I was thinking of baking. Seemed like a good night for it.” He sets the bag down, watching Regulus for a moment before tilting his head toward the counter. “Would you like to help?”
Regulus hesitates. He’s never really baked before—he’s watched, he’s memorized the steps, but he’s never actually done it himself.
But he isn’t doing anything else.
Slowly, he nods.
Mr. Potter smiles, looking pleased. “Good man.” He moves a mixing bowl onto the counter, rolling up his sleeves. “Baking’s a bit of a science, you know,” he says conversationally. “Lots of people think it’s just following a recipe, but it’s more than that. It’s chemistry, really—different ingredients reacting together to create something new.”
Regulus watches as he measures out the flour, leveling it with practiced ease before tipping it into the bowl.
“Take flour, for example,” Mr. Potter continues. “That’s what gives structure to whatever you’re baking. But if you just used flour and nothing else, you’d end up with a rock. Sugar adds sweetness, sure, but it also affects the texture—it helps keep things soft. Baking soda and baking powder? Those help it rise, trap air inside, make everything light and fluffy.”
He pauses, glancing at Regulus. “You following so far?”
Regulus nods. He is. It makes sense—more sense than he expected.
Mr. Potter smiles. “Alright, good. You want to measure the cocoa powder?”
Regulus steps forward, and Mr. Potter hands him the measuring cup. He hesitates only briefly before scooping up the powder, leveling it carefully, then dumping it into the bowl.
Mr. Potter nods approvingly. “You’re a natural.”
Regulus ducks his head, focusing on the ingredients. It’s nice, the way Mr. Potter explains things. No condescension, no impatience. Just steady, easy instructions.
They work in quiet harmony, measuring and mixing, Mr. Potter occasionally explaining something as they go. When they get to the eggs, he cracks one open with a swift, practiced movement.
“There’s a trick to this,” he says. “Too hard, and you’ll shatter the shell. Too soft, and the egg won’t break cleanly. But if you hit it just right…” He demonstrates again, splitting the egg perfectly. “See?”
Regulus nods again, intrigued.
“Want to try?”
Regulus eyes the egg in his hands, adjusting his grip. He taps it carefully against the side of the bowl, then splits it open. Some of it dribbles down the shell, but most of it makes it into the bowl.
“Excellent,” Mr. Potter says, beaming. “That’s better than my first try.”
Regulus feels something unfamiliar flicker in his chest at the praise. He quickly wipes his hands on a towel, hiding the small hint of satisfaction curling in his stomach.
They keep going, and soon enough, the brownie batter is nearly ready. Just as Mr. Potter reaches for the pan, the front door opens, and footsteps sound in the hallway.
Then—
“Boys,” Mrs. Potter says, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Her gaze flicks to the ingredients spread across the counter, then to the two of them. Slowly, she raises an eyebrow. “Are we about to be making a mess in my kitchen?”
Regulus freezes. Mr. Potter, mid-motion, straightens like a guilty schoolboy caught red-handed. “It’s my kitchen too, dear.”
Mrs. Potter doesn’t blink. “Uh-huh.”
She just stands there, staring.
Mr. Potter swallows.
Regulus glances between them, uncertain.
Then, without warning, Mrs. Potter bursts into laughter.
Regulus blinks.
Mr. Potter exhales sharply. “That’s not funny.”
Regulus barely has time to process what just happened before a quiet giggle escapes him. He slaps a hand over his mouth, but Mrs. Potter only laughs harder, and even Mr. Potter lets out a begrudging chuckle.
“She does this all the time whenever I want to bake,” Mr. Potter says, shaking his head.
Regulus giggles again. He doesn’t mean to. He can’t help it. Something about the whole thing—Mr. Potter looking seconds away from sweating, Mrs. Potter’s dramatic stare, the way the tension snapped into laughter—strikes him as undeniably funny.
Mrs. Potter steps further into the kitchen, still grinning. “Alright, alright, I’ll allow it—if I get to help.”
Mr. Potter sighs dramatically, as if this is some great inconvenience. “If you must.”
Mrs. Potter smirks, reaching for a wooden spoon. “I must.”
And just like that, the kitchen is full again. Full of warmth, of easy conversation, of laughter. Someone turns on the radio, and music drifts through the air. Mrs. Potter stirs the batter while swaying to the beat, nudging Mr. Potter with her hip until he laughs and does a ridiculous twirl in response.
Regulus watches them for a second, hesitant—then, before he can overthink it, he lets himself relax, lets himself get pulled into the moment.
They bake. They dance. They make a mess.
And for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—Regulus has fun.
It’s effortless, this kind of fun. The kind that sneaks up on him, that settles somewhere light and warm in his chest before he even realizes it’s there. He doesn’t have to force a smile or carefully measure his reactions, doesn’t have to keep himself small or quiet or perfectly in line. He just is, moving with the rhythm of the moment, caught up in the laughter and the music and the scent of chocolate filling the kitchen.
Honestly? Regulus can’t remember a time he’s had fun baking.
Come to think of it—he’s never baked before at all.
Not with his parents, at least.
His mother ran her kitchen like a well-oiled machine, spotless and efficient, every movement precise. Meals appeared as if by magic, perfectly plated and untouched by anything so chaotic as joy. His father never set foot in the kitchen, of course. That wasn’t his place. That wasn’t what men did.
Regulus wonders, distantly, if he ever would have been allowed to help. If he had asked—if he had stepped into the kitchen and reached for a spoon—would his mother have shooed him away? Would she have told him it wasn’t for him, that he would only be in the way?
Probably.
But here—
He glances up, watching as Mr. Potter dramatically flips a dish towel over his shoulder, waggling his eyebrows at Mrs. Potter, who huffs a laugh and swats at him with a wooden spoon. Flour dusts the front of her sweater, a smear of chocolate clinging to the back of Mr. Potter’s hand. The counter is a mess—batter splattered, sugar spilled, measuring cups stacked haphazardly—and neither of them seem to care.
No one is tense. No one is stiff-backed or silent.
There is no fear here, no looming expectation.
Just warmth. Just laughter. Just two people who seem to enjoy being around each other, who have folded Regulus into their world so seamlessly it makes his chest ache.
Is this what it’s meant to be?
This easy, steady kind of affection?
This thoughtless kind of love?
His throat feels tight, but not in a bad way.
He swallows past it, focusing on the way Mrs. Potter grins at her husband, the way Mr. Potter nudges Regulus lightly with his elbow, like they’re in on some kind of joke.
Regulus doesn’t know the answer.
But for now, he lets himself wonder.
***
3:29 PM.
That’s what the clock is saying.
The sound of someone knocking at the front door pulls everybody in the kitchen out of their laughter.
“I’ll get it,” Mrs. Potter says, still chuckling at something Mr. Potter did. She wipes her hands on a clean tea towel and walks toward the front door.
Regulus and Mr. Potter continue filling the cupcake batter into the tray. The process is messy, and Mr. Potter, despite being an adult, isn’t much better than Regulus at keeping the batter from dripping onto the counter. Regulus is focused on scooping out the right amount when he hears footsteps returning.
“Sarah’s here,” Mrs. Potter says.
Regulus looks up as Sarah steps into the kitchen, offering him a small smile. “Hey, Regulus. Mind if we have a chat?”
Regulus hesitates, shifting his gaze toward Mr. Potter, as if silently asking for permission.
“Off you go, bud,” Mr. Potter says, giving him an easy smile. “I’ve got this.”
Regulus swallows and mutters, “Okay.” He wipes his hands on a towel and follows Sarah out of the kitchen, through the hallway, and toward the back door. They step outside, just like the last check-in, and head toward the garden. The fresh air feels nice after being in the warm kitchen, and Regulus takes a slow breath as they sit down on the patio bench.
Sarah watches him for a moment, then asks, “So, how’s school been?”
Regulus shrugs at first, but then he says, “Colin and his friends got worse.” His voice is quieter now. “They kept pushing things, saying things, and then… well, they got suspended.”
Sarah nods, her expression calm and understanding. “I see. That must’ve been a relief.”
Regulus hums in response. It was, in a way. But it also made him feel exposed, like he’d been thrown into a spotlight he didn’t ask for.
Sarah tilts her head. “And how has it been staying here with the Potters?”
Regulus stiffens slightly. “Weird,” he admits. “With Mrs. Potter, I mean.”
Sarah raises an eyebrow. “Weird how?”
Regulus frowns, trying to put it into words. “She doesn’t act like my mother did,” he says after a pause. “She doesn’t get angry like my mother would. She doesn’t make me—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “It’s just confusing.”
Sarah listens patiently, nodding. “That makes sense. You’ve spent years in a different kind of household, so adjusting to something new—something safe—can feel strange.”
Regulus swallows, not sure what to say to that. He doesn’t even know if he believes it.
After a moment, he sighs. “I got really upset because of everything Colin and his gang were doing to me, and I blamed her.” His voice is quiet, as if he’s ashamed to admit it. “Because she did this. She got me here. And it felt like… if I wasn’t here, it wouldn’t be happening.”
Sarah doesn’t look surprised. “It’s normal to feel that way,” she says gently. “Change is hard, and sometimes, when bad things happen, our brains want to find someone to blame. But Regulus, none of this is her fault. And it’s not yours either.”
Regulus nods slowly, but he doesn’t say anything. He just lets the words sit there, pressing against his ribs.
After a beat, Sarah shifts the conversation. “Have you made any friends?”
That question makes Regulus sit up a little straighter. He nods quickly. “Yeah, I have.”
And then, before he can stop himself, he starts talking. He tells her about his friends—how kind they are, how easy they are to be around. He tells her about the birthday sleepover he went to, how they stayed up way too late and played games and laughed until their stomachs hurt. He talks about how his friends include him, how they check in on him, how they don’t make him feel out of place.
Sarah chuckles as she listens to his rant, amusement clear on her face. “They sound very lovely.”
Regulus nods enthusiastically. “They are.”
A pause settles between them, and Regulus fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. He hesitates, then says, “I ran into my cousins the other day.”
Sarah lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Regulus shifts slightly. “We were out at a restaurant—me and the Potters, I mean. We were celebrating the end of school. And when we were leaving, I saw them. So I… talked to them.” He hesitates before adding, “Mr. and Mrs. Potter met them.”
Sarah’s expression remains neutral, though there’s a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “And how did that go?”
Regulus shrugs. “It was… okay, I think.” He frowns slightly. “We didn’t talk for long. But it wasn’t bad.”
Sarah nods thoughtfully, then waits, letting the silence stretch between them. After a moment, Regulus finally asks, “Am I staying with the Potters more permanently?”
Sarah’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the directness of the question. She stutters before answering, “If you’d like, you can.” Then, more gently, she adds, “It’s up to you. They made that very clear to me, last check-in, that it was your choice.”
Regulus processes that, staring down at his hands. The idea of permanence is still strange to him, but… it doesn’t feel bad. If anything, it feels kind of good.
Sarah studies him carefully. “Do you want to stay? More permanently, that is?”
Regulus hesitates, because does he want to? The answer is obvious, but saying it out loud makes it real. Still, after a moment, he nods. “Yeah. I think I would.”
Sarah smiles. “I think I can make that happen.”
They talk a little more, about smaller things—how he’s settling in, how things are going at home. And then, at the end of their conversation, Sarah glances at her watch and says, “Well, Regulus, I think this is goodbye for the month.”
Regulus blinks. “What?”
Sarah smiles. “You’ve been with the Potters for a month now. And I won’t be checking in for another month.”
Regulus stares at her. He knew it had been a month, but… it only just started to feel real when Sarah said it out loud.
A sudden thought strikes him, and before she can stand, he blurts out, “Wait! Can you come see me on my birthday?”
Sarah’s expression softens. “Of course.”
That reassures him more than he expected, and as they head back inside, Regulus feels a lightness in his chest.
Mr. and Mrs. Potter are still in the kitchen, now cleaning up some of the mess they made baking. When they see Sarah, they exchange a look and nod.
“I’d like to speak with you both for a moment,” Sarah says.
Mrs. Potter nods, setting down the dish towel. “Of course.”
Regulus doesn’t stick around to listen. Instead, he heads upstairs, deciding he wants to change into clean clothes. He stands in his room for a moment, looking around, feeling the warmth settle into his bones.
Because he did it. He made it. He survived.
An entire month in a home. An entire month with a family. And that feels like the greatest achievement of all.
Notes:
Word Count: 14,252
Published: 2025-02-28Prepare yourselves dear readers, as this is just the beginning...
Chapter 16: Freedom! Or, What It Should Be...
Summary:
School’s out! School’s out! School’s out! He’s finally free! Free to do whatever he wants. Free to sleep in, free to go to the park, the beach, a friend's house; absolutely whatever!
But… this doesn’t feel like what freedom usually feels like…
POV: James Potter
Notes:
Disclaimer: the French translations were achieved through using google translate. So, if you are aware that the following translations are incorrect, please let me know in the comments so I can change them. Thank you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Freedom.
Freedom can be described in many different ways.
Some would say it’s having endless choices, the ability to go anywhere, do anything, without restraint. Others might say it’s a feeling—lightness in the chest, the absence of fear, a life lived without looking over your shoulder.
For James, however, freedom is simple.
Freedom is school being let out for the year.
The internet defines freedom in two ways. The first is the power to act, speak, or think as one wants. The second—which James wholeheartedly agrees with—is the state of not being imprisoned or enslaved.
Because school is, quite literally, his prison.
Not in a dramatic, life-or-death way, obviously. He’s aware there are worse fates, worse sentences, real struggles that make his complaints seem trivial. But to James, school is a sentence in itself—one he has to endure, no matter how much he loathes it.
He knows it’ll get better. At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling him. Year 9 will be different, they say. It gets more interesting the older you get. You just have to find what you love.
James hasn’t found what he loves yet. Not in school, anyway.
But he believes he will. Someday.
Right now, though, none of that matters. Because right now, he’s free. Summer break is here, no more assignments, no more teachers breathing down his neck, no more sitting still for hours when all he wants to do is move.
Everything should feel perfect.
And yet… it doesn’t.
He knows why, but at the same time, he doesn’t know why. If that makes sense.
James understands what happened—he knows the sequence of events that led up to this feeling. But he doesn’t understand how it happened, how things spiraled the way they did. How they ended up here.
And it all started on the 8th of June.
That was the day when things started feeling off. James wouldn’t necessarily call them weird, but it was the first time he found himself stumbling into Regulus’ problems without warning. Not that he minds —he never minds helping Regulus—but something about it felt different. Unsettling in a way he couldn’t quite place.
James remembers being picked up by his dad after school that day. Alone.
Regulus wasn’t there.
He hadn’t thought much of it at first. Maybe Regulus had an appointment or something. But when he asked, his dad only said, “We’ll talk when we get home.” He looked exhausted. And a little angry.
That’s when James knew something was wrong.
When they pulled into the driveway, his mum’s car door was still open. She wasn’t in the front seat—she was in the back, crouched next to someone. Regulus, James’ brain supplied a second later.
At the time, though, he didn’t dwell on it.
His dad had asked him to go inside.
And James knew better than to argue.
So he went straight up to his room, no questions asked.
But even then, as he sat on his bed, staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
The whole thing had been weird.
Looking back on it, James should have realized in that moment what was going on.
But he didn’t.
His friends have told him before—many times, actually—that he’s “ oblivious. ” He doesn’t believe them, of course. He thinks he just focuses on the important things.
Apparently, this should’ve been one of them.
Now, as the bell rings, James walks alongside Peter and the girls, heading from PE to their last class of the day. His mind wanders, as it often does, drifting from one thought to another before he can hold onto any of them.
Sometimes, his brain feels like a single car speeding down an open highway. Other times, it’s like a dozen cars racing through overlapping streets, swerving and crisscrossing in every direction.
It makes his head spin sometimes. But that’s just life with an ADHD brain.
Usually, his thoughts move too fast to linger on any one thing. But this —whatever this feeling is—has been stuck in his head for nearly three weeks.
James can’t stop thinking about it.
About that day.
About what his parents told him that evening.
The memory comes back in pieces. He remembers walking into the kitchen, the scent of dinner cooking on the stove. He remembers his mum standing by the counter, stirring something in a pot.
And then, her voice.
“James, sweetheart, can you come here for a second?”
Her tone was different. He hadn’t noticed at the time, but looking back, he can hear it now—the hesitation, the way she carefully chose her words.
“I need to tell you something about Regulus.”
That got his attention.
She explained it simply—just the facts. Regulus got into trouble at school. A serious kind of trouble. He was suspended.
James remembers standing there, trying to process what she was saying. Trying to make it make sense.
Regulus? Suspended?
It didn’t fit. It didn’t sound like something Regulus would do.
But it had happened.
And later that night, after dinner, after brushing his teeth and getting into bed, James was still thinking about it. He couldn’t shake it, couldn’t push it aside like he usually did with thoughts that refused to sit still.
His dad came in to tuck him in, like he always did. Pulled the blanket up, ruffled his hair, muttered a “Goodnight, kiddo.”
But just as he was about to leave, he hesitated.
And then—
“James?”
James blinked up at him. “Yeah?”
His dad’s expression was unreadable. “Do you know anything about what happened with Regulus?”
James’ stomach twisted. His first instinct was to blurt out no. To insist he didn’t know anything.
But he hesitated.
For just a second.
Because maybe he did know something. Maybe, if he thought hard enough, he could piece it together. But the moment passed, and James shook his head. “No.”
His dad studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Get some sleep.”
The door closed behind him, leaving James alone in the dark. And for the first time in a long time, he found it hard to fall asleep.
Regret.
It gnaws at James, settling like a heavy weight in his stomach, twisting and turning with every thought.
He regrets not saying something to his dad in that moment— anything, really. A question, an admission, some sort of reaction. Instead, he just lay there, letting the silence stretch on, pretending like he didn’t feel that something was off.
As they walk down the hall toward their last class of the day, Peter nudges James lightly with his elbow. “You alright?” he asks, casting James a sideways glance.
James blinks, pulled from his thoughts. “Huh? Yeah, I’m fine.”
Peter doesn’t look convinced. “You sure?”
James forces a grin. “Course I am, Pete. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Peter shrugs. “Dunno. You’ve just been kinda quiet.”
James scoffs. “Me? Quiet? That’s impossible.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “Right. Because you totally weren’t spacing out all through lunch.”
James groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I wasn’t spacing out.”
Peter gives him a look.
“Okay, maybe I was spacing out a little,” James admits. “But it’s fine. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
James hesitates for half a second before shrugging. “Nothing important.”
Peter doesn’t push, but James knows he doesn’t buy it either. “Alright,” Peter says finally, though the concern doesn’t leave his face. “Just let me know if you wanna talk, yeah?”
James musters a small smile. “Yeah. I know.”
Peter nods, satisfied enough, and they slip into the classroom just as the bell rings.
He sighs, retreating back into his mind. He feels a little bad for lying to his friends, but what is he supposed to say?
Oh hey, guys, I still feel really guilty and regretful for not telling my parents anything sooner. Can you help me out?
Yeah, no. That’s not happening. He doesn’t want them to deal with that.
But if James is being honest, he still hadn’t fully processed what happened. The whole thing is jumbled in his head, pieces floating around without clicking into place.
Maybe that’s why, after the incident, the next day at lunch, he decides to ask his friends about it. Maybe if he hears it out loud, it’ll all start making sense.
They’re sitting outside in their usual spot on the benches near the courtyard when James finally speaks up.
“ So… I need you guys to clarify something for me, ” he says, poking at his sandwich with little interest.
Peter glances up first. “ Clarify what? ”
James hesitates, glancing between them. “ Yesterday morning. Before classes started. With Regulus and those boys. ”
Marlene and Mary exchange a look. Lily frowns slightly. “ Why? ”
James shrugs, trying to play it off as casual. “I just… I just wanna make sure I didn’t misinterpret anything. ”
Remus, who had been quiet up until now, sighs. “ You didn’t. They were messing with him. ”
Dorcas nods. “ Yeah. They took his bag. ”
James stiffens. “ What? ”
“ They were passing it around, ” Peter adds, frowning. “ Like some stupid game. ”
“ They were teasing him, ” Lily says, crossing her arms. “ Making fun of how he doesn’t talk much. ”
“ They kept calling him a coward, ” Marlene mutters.
James’ jaw tightens.
“ It got worse when he tried to take his bag back, ” Peter continues. “ One of them shoved him. ”
James stares at them, his thoughts racing.
Peter tilts his head. “ Why are you asking about this, anyway? ”
James hesitates. He could brush it off, say it’s nothing—but he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales sharply and says, “ Regulus got suspended. ”
Silence.
Then—
“ What? ” Lily looks at him in disbelief. “ Suspended? For what? ”
James nods. “ Yeah. It happened yesterday. ”
Peter leans back, frowning. “ That’s… kind of ridiculous. ”
“ Kind of? ” Marlene scoffs. “ That’s completely ridiculous. What about the other guys? ”
James shrugs. “ I dunno. Mum didn’t say.”
Marlene shakes her head. “ That’s bullshit. ”
James doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, trying to make sense of it all. Because now, even with the whole picture in front of him, it still doesn’t make sense.
It still doesn’t fully make sense, even two weeks after Regulus’ suspension.
James, Peter, and the girls make their way outside to the oval for the last class of the day—sports club. The late afternoon sun is warm against his skin, and the scent of freshly cut grass lingers in the air. Normally, this is his favorite part of the day. A whole period where they get to play whatever they want? It’s perfect. But today, his mind is elsewhere.
The conversation he had with his friends keeps replaying in his head, looping over and over. He knows he should let it go, but he can’t.
And, worse, the guilt hasn’t gone away.
It still makes him feel sick when he thinks about how he didn’t say anything to his dad that night. He did eventually tell his mum the next morning, whilst waiting for his psychiatrist appointment, but that didn’t erase the hesitation, the moment where he could have said something and didn’t.
“Oi, Potter.”
James blinks, pulled from his thoughts as Marlene jogs up beside him, a soccer ball tucked under one arm. “You playing or what?”
James frowns. “Huh?”
Marlene rolls her eyes. “Soccer, James. You know , the thing you and I are both amazing at? The teacher said we can play whatever we want, and a bunch of us are getting a game going.”
James hesitates, glancing over at Peter and the girls.
Marlene nudges his shoulder. “Come on , you love soccer. Plus, I need someone on my team who actually knows how to pass properly.”
That gets a small smile out of him. “Who’s playing?”
“Me, Dorcas, Peter, some of the Year Sevens… I think some of the boys from the other class, too.” She squints at him. “You in?”
James exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. His brain still feels tangled with thoughts he can’t sort through, but… maybe this will help. Maybe running around for a while will clear his head.
“Yeah,” he says finally, straightening up. “Yeah, I’m in.”
Marlene grins. “Good. Because I already called dibs on you for my team, and I hate losing.”
James snorts, feeling some of the weight in his chest ease just a little. “As if I’d let you down, McKinnon.”
And with that, he jogs onto the field, pushing his thoughts aside.
***
James is finally free.
Free to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants. Because, right now, it’s summer holidays .
He’s never been more excited or more relieved that school’s over. Don’t get him wrong—he likes school well enough. Well, no, that’s a lie. He likes parts of it. He likes hanging out with his friends, passing notes in class, playing soccer during lunch. But if it were up to him, there’d be way less school and way more of actually hanging out with his friends.
James makes his way down the corridor, weaving through clusters of students saying their final goodbyes for the year. He reaches his locker and starts grabbing his things, shoving books and stray papers into his bag with no real care. He’s not thinking about school anymore.
He’s thinking about Regulus .
Regulus, who has only been living with him and his parents for a month. A full month.
Crazy, isn’t it?
It still feels unreal sometimes, like James is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to swoop in and say, Oops, mistake! Pack your bags, kid. But that hasn’t happened. And James knows it won’t, because his parents aren’t going to let it happen.
They had asked James after Regulus’ social worker’s second check-in, whether James was okay with the idea of Regulus living with them permanently. James instantly agreed.
Regulus made it . He made it through Year 7 .
James pauses for a second, adjusting the strap of his bag.
That’s something to be proud of.
Regulus has been through so much —more than any kid should go through—and yet, somehow, he’s still here . Still standing. Still getting up every morning, dragging himself to school, going through the motions even when it’s hard.
And yeah, maybe Regulus doesn’t love school. Maybe he doesn’t talk much about it. But he’s done it . He’s made it through.
James closes his locker, the metal door slamming shut with a finality that makes something heavy settle in his chest.
Because for all the pride he feels, there’s also guilt .
Guilt for what happened a few weeks ago.
He should’ve done more . Should’ve said something sooner.
Guilt for how Regulus got suspended —and how James didn’t say anything until Wednesday morning .
The memory sits in his stomach like a weight, pressing down on his excitement for the summer.
James slumped back in his chair, his leg bouncing restlessly against the hospital floor. He glanced around the waiting room, taking in the dull beige walls, the quiet murmur of conversation, the receptionist clicking away at her keyboard. Boring.
Beside him, Mum sighed, her eyes fixed on her phone screen. She pressed her lips together, looking frustrated.
“ Well, ” she said after a moment, tucking her phone back into her bag. “ I got the time wrong. ”
James raised an eyebrow. “ Seriously? ”
“ Unfortunately. ” She let out another sigh, but this one sounded more amused than annoyed. “ Looks like we have an hour to kill. Want to grab some breakfast? ”
James perked up immediately, jumping to his feet. “ Yes, please. I’m starving. ”
They left the waiting area and headed outside, the crisp morning air waking James up a little more. Just outside the hospital was a small café, warm and inviting, the smell of coffee and fresh pastries drifting through the air. It wasn’t too busy, and they found a table near the window, sunlight spilling across the wooden surface.
James barely glanced at the menu before deciding on pancakes with extra syrup. Mum ordered an omelet and tea.
While they waited, James launched into a story about his latest school assignment—an English essay he’d been dreading until he realized he actually had way too much to say.
“ It’s actually kind of fun, ” he admitted, waving his hands for emphasis. “ I mean, I didn’t think I’d care about the themes in Of Mice and Men , but once I got started, I had like… too much to say. Mary and Peter were like, James, it’s not that deep , but it is that deep. And my teacher said I had a lot of enthusiasm, which I think is a good thing? ”
Mum smiled, sipping her tea as she listened. She always did that—listened, even when he was rambling. It was nice.
Their food arrived, and James dug into his pancakes, the sweet taste of syrup making him hum in satisfaction. But as he ate, his mind wandered. His hands slowed. The fork felt weird in his grip.
He wasn’t sure if he should say anything.
It wasn’t really his business, was it? And Regulus hadn’t said anything —maybe he didn’t want him to say anything. But James had seen it. His friends had seen it. Dorcas had practically confirmed it.
And ignoring it wasn’t sitting right with him.
He frowned at his plate, pushing a piece of pancake around with his fork.
“ What’s wrong, love? ”
James hesitated, glancing up at Mum. Her expression was calm, but he knew she knew something was on his mind. He could still back out. Say it was nothing.
But he didn’t.
“ It’s about Regulus, ” he said quietly.
Mum didn’t react much, just tilted her head slightly. “ Okay, ” she said. “ Is there something wrong? ”
James nodded, shifting in his seat. “ I’ve noticed—well, my friends and I have noticed—that some boys have been bothering him. ” He glanced at her, then back down at his plate. “ I asked Dorcas—she sits with Regulus and her other friends. I think they’re friends? I don’t know, I’m not really sure. Anyway, we think he’s being bullied. ”
Mum went very still.
James felt a little uneasy at that. He knew she cared about Regulus, really cared , but there was something about the quiet way she was processing his words that made his stomach twist.
“ But he hasn’t said anything, ” James added quickly. “ And I don’t really know what to do if he won’t say anything. ”
Mum reached across the table, giving his hand a small squeeze. “ Thank you for telling me, ” she said, her voice steady even though James could feel the weight of what he’d just said settling over her. “ Keep an eye on him, alright? If you see anything, try to get him away or find a teacher .”
James exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “ Okay. ”
They went back to eating after that, the conversation shifting to lighter things, but James could tell Mum was still thinking about it.
And, honestly?
So was he.
James shakes the memory away, gripping his bag a little tighter as he starts toward the exit.
Summer holidays are here. Regulus made it through Year 7. And despite everything, Regulus is still here.
That has to count for something.
And it does count for something.
Or, at least, James thinks it does.
He’s standing in the school courtyard, waiting for his mum to pick him and Regulus up, the summer heat already settling into the air. His backpack hangs lazily off one shoulder, his shirt untucked like it has been since second period, and he’s grinning as his friends chatter around him.
He’s not really paying attention to what they’re saying—at least, not until he gets smacked in the back of the head.
“Oi!” James yelps, spinning around. Peter is standing there, looking completely unbothered, shoving the last bite of a granola bar into his mouth.
“You listening or what?” Peter says, words muffled through his chewing.
“Obviously not,” Marlene snorts, arms crossed.
James rolls his eyes and tugs Peter into a loose headlock, ruffling his hair. “Didn’t realise smacking me was necessary, Petey.”
Peter grumbles, shoving him off, and Lily sighs, exasperated. “ Anyway ,” she says, pointedly ignoring them, “we were talking about summer plans.”
“Oh! Right, yeah,” James says, shifting his bag to his other shoulder. “What’s the verdict? When are we all hanging out?”
Marlene shrugs. “My family’s going on a road trip for a couple weeks, but I’ll be back before August.”
Mary hums, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll be around. Mum’s making me take a painting class, though.”
“A painting class?” James repeats, amused.
Mary huffs. “Yes, Potter , a painting class. It’s called being well-rounded .”
Remus hides a smile behind his hand. “I’ll be here most of the summer,” he says. “Maybe a short trip to my grandparents’ place, but that’s about it.”
Peter shrugs. “Same. Mum’s making me help in the garden, though.”
James groans dramatically. “That’s disgusting .”
“Oh, shut up ,” Peter says, nudging him. “What about you, James?”
James grins. “I’m around. Mum and Dad are probably gonna take Reg and me on a trip somewhere, but nothing major.”
Lily glances toward the parking lot. “We’ll figure something out,” she says. “We always do.”
James nods, satisfied. They linger for a few more minutes, the conversation shifting to nothing in particular, before James notices his mum’s car pulling up.
He sighs and stretches. “Alright, I’m off,” he says, clapping Remus on the back before grinning at Peter. “Try not to kill your mum’s plants, Petey.”
Peter scoffs. “No promises.”
James laughs and turns to go, but then he spots Regulus, standing off to the side. His little brother looks tired, weighed down by the school year finally coming to an end, but James grins at him anyway.
“C’mon, Reg,” he says, nudging his shoulder. “Let’s get outta here .”
Regulus doesn’t say anything, but he walks with him toward the parking lot, falling into step beside him.
Euphemia is waiting in the car, her sunglasses perched on her nose. James slings open the front passenger door, tossing his bag into the footwell before climbing in. Regulus gets in the back, quiet as ever, and buckles up.
The school year is officially over.
Euphemia turns in her seat, glancing between them with a bright smile. “You boys glad to be done with school for the year?”
James groans dramatically, letting his head fall back against the headrest. “You have no idea.”
Euphemia chuckles, putting the car in gear as she pulls out of the parking lot. “That bad, huh?”
“The worst,” James says. “I swear, those last two weeks? Felt like years . I thought I was actually going to die during that maths exam.”
Euphemia raises an eyebrow. “I told you to study.”
James waves a hand. “I did study! Well. Kind of.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I mean, I looked at my notes! That counts , right?”
Euphemia hums knowingly. “We’ll see when your grades come in.”
James winces. “Yeah, let’s… not talk about that.” He twists in his seat, glancing back at Regulus. “What about you, Reg? You glad to be done?”
Regulus doesn’t answer, but the way he’s curled up against the car door, staring out the window, is enough of an answer.
Euphemia lets the silence sit for a beat before switching topics. “Well,” she says, “I hope you saved some energy because we’re going out for dinner tonight.”
James perks up immediately. “Wait, really?”
“Of course. It’s tradition, isn’t it? Celebrating the end of the school year with a nice dinner out.”
James grins. “Brilliant. Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” Euphemia says mysteriously.
James squints at her. “Is it somewhere good?”
Euphemia gasps in mock offense. “James Fleamont Potter, do you really think I’d take you somewhere bad ?”
James snickers. “No, no, of course not. Just… hoping for somewhere with chips .”
Euphemia shakes her head fondly. “You and your obsession with chips.”
“They’re a staple of a balanced diet.”
“Not when they’re all you eat.”
James shrugs. “I could eat worse things.”
Euphemia just rolls her eyes before giving him a pointed look. “Anyway, I expect you to look nice tonight.”
James groans. “Mum.”
“None of that,” she says, unwavering. “You will wear something decent. No ripped jeans, no stained t-shirts, and for Merlin’s sake , James, brush your hair.”
James scoffs. “My hair is iconic .”
“It’s a disaster .”
“It’s controlled chaos .”
Euphemia huffs, but there’s a fondness in her expression. “Just… try to look presentable.”
James sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m drawing the line at proper shoes. Trainers are non-negotiable .”
Euphemia sighs in defeat. “As long as they’re not falling apart.”
James grins, triumphant. “Deal.”
Euphemia shakes her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “I don’t know how I ended up with such a difficult son.”
James places a hand over his heart, looking deeply wounded. “You love me.”
“Debatable.”
James gasps. “Mum!”
She only laughs, and James leans back in his seat, already looking forward to the evening.
***
James was halfway down the hall, about to head downstairs, when movement on the staircase caught his eye.
Regulus.
He was walking up slowly, head down, arms wrapped tightly around himself. But what made James stop in his tracks—what made his stomach twist uncomfortably—was the sight of tear tracks staining Regulus’ face. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression blank, but James could see the way his lips were pressed together, like he was trying to keep something from spilling out.
James hesitated. He could just keep going, pretend he hadn’t seen anything. Regulus probably wanted to be left alone.
But something about the way he looked—so small, so exhausted—made James’ chest ache.
So instead of turning away, he followed.
Regulus didn’t seem to notice. He just kept moving, slow and deliberate, until he reached his bedroom door. He pushed it open, stepped inside, and left it slightly ajar behind him. James waited a moment, then quietly nudged it open a little more, peering inside.
Regulus was pulling his blanket back, his movements automatic, like this was the only thing he knew how to do. Then, without a word, he climbed into bed, curling up on his side, his arms wrapped around that stuffed black dog he always kept close.
James hesitated again, then stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.
“ Reg? ” he asked, keeping his voice quiet. “ What’s wrong? ”
No response.
It was like Regulus hadn’t even heard him. He just buried his face into the stuffed dog’s fur, his fingers gripping it tightly.
James frowned, coming closer. He sat down on the edge of the bed, watching the way Regulus’ shoulders trembled, the way he seemed to be holding himself together by a thread.
“ Reg, ” James tried again, softer this time.
And then Regulus started to cry again.
A sharp, broken inhale. A shuddering breath. And then silent, shaking sobs, muffled against the plush fur of the stuffed dog.
James’ heart clenched.
Without thinking, he shifted closer and wrapped an arm around Regulus, pulling him into his side. Regulus went still for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to accept the comfort.
Then, slowly, he leaned into James’ touch, pressing his face against his shoulder, his small frame shaking.
James tightened his hold.
“ It’s okay, ” he murmured, resting his chin lightly on Regulus’ head. “ Just let it out. ”
And Regulus did.
He cried, quiet and unsteady, his breath hitching against James’ shirt. And James just sat there, holding him, letting him get whatever it was out of his system.
James stands under the spray of hot water, letting it pound against his shoulders as he scrubs at his hair. The steam fills the small bathroom, fogging up the mirror, and for a few blissful moments, he lets his mind go completely blank. No school, no assignments, no waking up at an ungodly hour for the next several weeks. Freedom .
As he rinses the shampoo from his hair, his thoughts inevitably drift—to Regulus.
The next check-in with his social worker is on Sunday. James hates those meetings, even though they aren’t his to deal with. He hates the way Regulus goes all stiff and quiet, the way he won’t look at anyone afterward. The last check-in had been bad . James had watched Regulus break down, clinging to that stuffed black dog of his like a lifeline.
James still doesn’t know what happened. Regulus wouldn’t—or couldn’t —say.
What could his social worker have said to make him that upset?
James frowns as he shuts off the water, stepping out of the shower and reaching for a towel. He dries off quickly before tugging on a pair of dark jeans and a button-down shirt—acceptable enough to keep his mum off his back but casual enough that he doesn’t feel overdressed . He grabs his toothbrush, running it under the water as his mind keeps circling back to Regulus.
Maybe he should talk to his parents about it. Not that they hadn’t noticed—his mum, especially. But what if there was something more they could do? James knows Regulus won’t talk, but maybe if James sticks close, keeps an eye on him, he’ll figure out why the meetings upset him so much.
He’s mid-brush, toothpaste foaming in his mouth, when there’s a knock on the doorframe.
"Need help with that hair of yours?" his dad asks, arms crossed, a teasing grin on his face.
James spits into the sink. "Absolutely."
Fleamont chuckles and gestures for James to follow him. They head down the hall to his parents’ bathroom, where his dad retrieves a comb and some styling cream. James plops onto the counter, legs swinging as Fleamont stands in front of him, critically eyeing the mess on James’ head.
“You know,” his dad muses, “when you were a baby, your mother and I thought your hair might settle when you got older.”
James snorts. “Yeah, how’d that work out for you?”
“Not well,” Fleamont says, laughing as he runs a comb through James’ damp curls, trying in vain to tame them. “Your mother still holds out hope, though.”
James grins. "Yeah, well, she’s the one who made me brush it for tonight."
"Smart woman," Fleamont says. "Though, between you and me, I think unruly hair is a distinguished trait." He ruffles his own already-thinning hair.
James smirks. "Yeah, yeah, you’d say that. What’s left of yours doesn’t even need brushing."
Fleamont places a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "Ouch. That one hurt, James."
James grins. "You’ll survive, old man."
Fleamont huffs a laugh, smoothing down a particularly stubborn tuft of James' hair.
As they work, James’ can’t help but let his mind flicker back to last Monday.
James walked into the kitchen, immediately stopping in his tracks.
His parents were standing at the sink, washing dishes, and beaming . Like, ridiculously happy. It was almost unsettling.
His mum passed a plate to his dad, who dried it off with way too much enthusiasm, and they shared a look—one of those stupid, married-people looks—and James had to blink.
He crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “ Alright. What’s up? ”
His mum turned to him, all innocent. “ What do you mean? ”
James scoffed. “ You two are way too happy. And I don’t think the dishes are the ones making you that happy. I get that you’re old, but— ”
“ Woah, woah, woah—ouch, ” his dad cut in, dramatically clutching his chest. “ But no, we aren’t this happy because of the dishes. And we are not that old, young man. ”
He grabbed a tea towel and threw it at James, who easily caught it.
“ Well, you’re older than me, ” James said smugly, tossing the towel onto the counter. “ So you’re old. ”
His mum gasped. “ Wow. Okay. No dessert for you anymore. ”
James clutched his chest in mock horror. “ You wound me. ”
She rolled her eyes fondly, while his dad chuckled beside her.
“ But seriously, ” James said, leaning against the counter. “ What’s got you two in a really good mood? And please don’t say something corny like ‘each other,’ because that’s disgusting. ”
His dad laughed. “ No, although, your mother does make me very happy. ”
James groaned. “ Oh my God . ”
His dad smirked, but then he straightened, glancing at Mum before turning back to James. “ The real reason we’re super duper happy— ”
“ Don’t say it like that, ” James muttered.
“ —is because Regulus got invited to a sleepover birthday party. ”
James blinked. “ What? ”
His mum turned to him, practically glowing. “ I still can’t believe it. He has friends. ”
James just stood there for a second, stunned.
Of all the things he thought they’d say, that wasn’t on the list.
Regulus—quiet, antisocial, avoidant Regulus—had somehow managed to make friends ? Enough to get invited somewhere?
That was… actually really great.
James grinned. “ Well, damn. Good for him. ”
His dad nodded. “ Right? It’s a big deal. ”
His mum sighed happily. “ I knew it would happen eventually. ”
James shook his head, still grinning. He had no clue who these kids were, but whoever they were, they had good taste if they wanted Regulus around.
For once, something really good was happening for Regulus.
And James couldn’t be happier about it.
James remembers his parent’s excitement when they told him Regulus had been invited to a birthday sleepover. His mum had been ecstatic . “He has friends ,” she had said, half in shock, half in joy.
James had been stunned too. Not that he thought Regulus was unlikable or anything, but the kid barely spoke to anyone. For him to not just make a friend, but to be invited to a sleepover ? That was huge.
And it made James proud .
Fleamont gives James' hair a final pat, stepping back to inspect his work. “Well, I did my best. It’ll hold for about twenty minutes before rebelling.”
James grins. “That’s all I need. Thanks, Dad.”
Fleamont smirks. “Anytime. Now, let’s go before your mother starts threatening to leave us behind.”
James hops off the counter, feeling lighter as they head downstairs. Whatever happens next with Regulus, at least tonight is about something good.
***
Dinner is quiet, the clinking of forks against plates the only real sound filling the space. James eats without really tasting his food, his eyes drifting between his parents. It’s different tonight—something about the air around them feels lighter, like the tension that has settled in their shoulders for the past two weeks has finally eased, even if just a little.
Mum’s phone buzzes against the table, vibrating against the wood. She picks it up, glancing at the screen, and James watches as her brows lift slightly in surprise.
“It’s from Marguerite Rosier,” she says, setting her fork down. “Regulus asked her to text us and let us know he’s alright.”
James stills, his grip tightening slightly on his own fork. That… is unexpected. Regulus isn’t great at communicating things like that—at least, not yet. James knows how difficult it is for Regulus to accept that people worry about him, that they care enough to need reassurance. It’s not that he doesn’t care in return, just that it’s unfamiliar territory for him.
Across the table, his dad leans back in his chair, his eyebrows raised. “Well,” he says, a small, pleased smile tugging at his lips. “I’m glad he remembered we wanted an ‘alright’ text.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “Wasn’t really expecting that, to be honest.”
James watches as his mum nods, locking her phone and setting it aside. “Yeah, same,” she admits. “I didn’t think he would.”
Dad exhales, thinking about it, his expression thoughtful. James can tell his dad is pleased—not just because Regulus sent a message, but because of what it means. And James gets it, too. It’s not just a text; it’s something bigger than that. A step forward, even if it’s small. A sign that Regulus is trying, in his own way, to meet them halfway.
James shifts slightly in his seat, glancing at his mum. She’s staring at her phone again, like she half-expects another message to come through. There’s something soft in her expression, something warm and fierce all at once. James knows that look. It’s the same one she gives him, the same quiet kind of love she wraps around him without ever needing to say the words aloud. He realizes then—she already sees Regulus as part of the family, no hesitation, no uncertainty.
James swallows, an odd sort of feeling settling in his chest. It’s weird, but in a good way.
“Well,” Dad says, picking up his fork again, his smile still lingering. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
Mum smiles, soft and knowing. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “It really is.”
James doesn’t say anything, just lowers his gaze to his plate. But for the first time that evening, his chest feels a little less tight. It really is something.
Anxiety is an intense, persistent feeling of worry.
James hadn’t realised it in the moment, but thinking back, he sees just how anxious his mum and dad were about Regulus at his first sleepover. The way his mum kept glancing at her phone, setting it down only to pick it back up again a minute later. The way his dad had been quieter than usual, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced with something more tense, more uncertain.
It makes James wonder, really. Do his parents worry about him at his sleepovers? Do they sit at the kitchen table, anxiously waiting for a text, the way they had with Regulus? He’s never thought about it before, never considered just how much they must care to feel that kind of anxiety, to need that kind of reassurance.
The waitress hands them menus, pulling James from his thoughts. “Would you like something to drink?” she asks.
James doesn’t hesitate. “Coke, please.”
Mum orders something light, and dad gets the same. James barely listens, his mind still half-stuck on the thought of his parents’ worry, the weight of it pressing against his ribs. He wonders if they feel relief when he texts them, the same way they had when Regulus finally did. The same way James had seen the tension leave their shoulders, the quiet sighs they hadn’t even realised they were holding in.
Regulus, however, freezes. James notices it immediately—the slight tensing of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch against his thigh. He hadn’t thought about what to drink. He hadn’t planned for this.
James watches as Regulus reaches into his pocket for his notebook, his safety net—but it isn’t there.
James sees the colour drain from Regulus’ face.
He can see, no, almost feel the panic clawing at Regulus’ chest, how it must feel slowly creeping up his throat.
James thinks back to where Regulus must have left it. Could he have left it upstairs? Or, maybe in the car? Or—
“Regulus?” Euphemia’s voice is gentle, cutting through the fog of panic. “Would you like a lemonade?”
Regulus nods quickly, latching onto the option like a lifeline. Mum orders it for him, and he lets out a slow breath, forcing himself to refocus on the menu.
James sees the way his mum handles it, the way she offers an easy solution without making it a big deal, without drawing attention to the panic creeping into Regulus’ frame. It makes James think, again, about how much his parents truly worry. About how much they notice, how much they care. It’s different from anything Regulus is used to, but James hopes that one day, he’ll understand that it’s okay to be cared for. That it’s okay to be worried about.
The front door swung open, and Regulus stepped inside, his face brighter than James had ever seen it. There was something lighter about him—his shoulders weren’t tense, his movements weren’t careful or measured. He practically radiated warmth, his usual guarded expression replaced by something so open, so unburdened, that James felt it like a spark catching in his own chest.
Mum took his overnight bag, smiling as she smoothed down his slightly rumpled jumper. Regulus didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat. Instead, he let out a breath, easy and content, before toeing off his shoes and padding further inside.
James grinned, nudging his shoulder as they passed each other. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. Regulus was happy.
And James? James felt it too.
That happiness James had felt from when Regulus came home from his sleepover—the kind that was light and rare and real—is the exact same happiness he sees now. It lingers in the air around him, quieter but still there, still noticeable.
It’s hard to believe that just moments ago, his mum had realised Regulus wasn’t with them when they reached the car. James had barely had time to register what was happening before the sheer panic in her expression hit him like a punch to the gut. His dad had gone still beside them, his usual calm stretching thin, but his mum—she’d bolted. James had never seen her run so fast.
James had followed, heart pounding, as they rushed back into the restaurant. That’s when they saw him.
Regulus, sitting at a table with two girls—no, women. One has dark, curly hair and sharp features, the other is blonde, her expression softer but just as intent. James stops in his tracks, confused. They look like Regulus. Not exactly, but enough that James notices it instantly.
"Regulus?"
His mum’s voice cuts through the hum of the restaurant, sharp with worry. James’ stomach twists as he follows her gaze, and—yeah. He gets it now.
Regulus sits a few feet away, looking small beneath the weight of their attention. Well, unfamiliar attention to James. His mum exhales, shoulders relaxing slightly in relief, but she still scans the scene carefully, like she’s checking for any sign of distress. His dad stands beside her, his confusion fading into quiet understanding.
Regulus pushes his chair back, like he’s about to stand, but the dark-haired woman—sharp eyes, sharper voice—waves a hand dismissively. “Relax, we weren’t kidnapping him.”
James doesn’t like her.
His mum exhales again, tension easing, but she doesn’t step forward just yet. The blonde woman does instead, standing smoothly, brushing down her skirt as if preparing for something.
"Mrs. Potter?" she asks, voice carefully polite. "I’m Narcissa Black. This is my sister, Bellatrix. We’re Regulus’ cousins."
James stiffens. Black. He’s heard that name before. It takes him a second to place it—just a passing mention, something about politics and law—but he doesn’t really know what it means. He glances at Regulus, but he stays quiet.
Mum blinks, glancing between them before offering her hand. "Euphemia Potter. This is my husband, Fleamont."
Dad shakes their hands, polite but firm. "We didn’t know Regulus had cousins."
A pause. James watches it unfold, watches the way Regulus’ fingers curl slightly against the table, like he’s bracing himself.
"We—" Narcissa hesitates, exchanging a glance with Bellatrix. "We’d like to see him more often. If he wants to, of course."
James shifts on his feet, uneasy. He doesn’t know these people, doesn’t know what they mean to Regulus. His mum looks at Regulus first, checking him over like she always does, like she’s trying to read what he’s feeling.
When she speaks, her voice is steady. "That’s up to Regulus."
Regulus swallows. His gaze flickers between the two women, searching for something. After a moment, he nods.
Narcissa lets out a breath, like she was holding onto something fragile. Even Bellatrix—rigid and unreadable—seems to ease, just a little. They exchange numbers with mum, quiet promises slipping between them.
Then, it’s time to leave.
Narcissa squeezes Regulus’ arm gently before stepping back, offering a small smile. Bellatrix lingers, watching him, something unreadable in her expression.
James glances at his dad, who has already turned toward the door. He follows, but not before looking back—just once. He doesn’t know how to feel about any of this. But he knows one thing.
Regulus is his brother. And James will always be watching.
The drive home is quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the heavy kind—the kind that feels like grief.
James sits in the backseat, staring out the window as streetlights blur past. His parents don’t speak. Regulus doesn’t speak. The only sounds are the hum of the engine and the occasional turn signal clicking into place. It makes James’ chest feel tight, like the weight of the silence is pressing down on all of them.
Regulus is tense beside him, fingers curled in his lap, shoulders drawn up like he’s trying to make himself smaller. James doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.
The moment they pull into the driveway, Regulus is out of the car. He moves fast—too fast—his footsteps nearly stumbling as he makes a mad dash inside. James barely has time to unbuckle before the front door swings shut behind him.
James lingers for a second, watching the door like it might tell him something. He glances at his parents, but they exchange only a brief, knowing look before following inside.
James takes his time. By the time he makes it upstairs, the door to Regulus’ room is cracked open, just enough that James can see inside as he walks past.
His parents are in there with him.
Mum is sitting on the edge of the bed, her voice soft, her expression full of quiet concern. Dad sits in the desk chair nearby, arms crossed, listening. And Regulus—
Regulus is curled in on himself, knees drawn up, hugging his stuffed black dog close to his chest. His face is hidden, buried against the plush fur like he’s trying to disappear. The dim light catches the slight tremble in his shoulders.
James doesn’t stop, doesn’t linger too long in the doorway. He keeps walking, pretending he didn’t see, pretending he doesn’t know. But when he reaches his own room, he hesitates.
Regulus was happy earlier. James saw it—felt it. And now, he looks like he’s falling apart.
James doesn’t know exactly why. He doesn’t know what those women—his cousins—said to make him shut down like this. He doesn’t know what kind of memories they brought back or if it’s something else entirely. But he does know one thing.
Regulus is his brother.
Maybe not by blood, maybe not in the way that would make sense to other people, but James doesn’t care about that. He’s his brother in every way that matters.
And whatever’s hurting Regulus, James would do anything to protect him from it. That, he can promise himself of.
***
James tugs a shirt over his head, ruffling his hair as he glances at the time on his phone. He still has a few minutes before he has to head downstairs, which means he can probably afford to scroll for a bit—
His phone buzzes in his hand.
Remus: Hey, wanna come over tomorrow? Sleepover?
James grins, already typing before he’s fully thought it through.
James: Yeah, obviously. What time?
He tosses his phone onto the bed, grabbing his socks from the floor and shoving them on as he waits for Remus to reply. A second later, his phone buzzes again.
Remus: After lunch? Whenever really.
James: Sounds good! See you then :D
He pockets his phone, but his excitement dims slightly as his mind drifts—unbidden—to Regulus.
Ever since the birthday sleepover, Regulus has been off . Quieter than usual, which is saying something. He doesn’t get snippy when James tries to joke with him, doesn’t roll his eyes or call him annoying—he just shrugs . Sometimes he doesn’t even answer at all.
James doesn’t know what’s wrong.
But he does know that it started after the sleepover. And James hates it. He hates watching Regulus shrink in on himself, like he’s bracing for something, hates the way he disappears into his room the second he gets home from school, only coming out for dinner.
As James heads downstairs, he can’t help but think about when he truly noticed something was off. It was that Wednesday morning.
“Regulus,” Mum said, her voice warm but firm. “I know yesterday was awful. But hiding in bed isn’t going to change anything.”
No response.
She sighed. “If you get up now, we’ll still have time for tea before we leave.”
Still nothing.
James stepped into the room, dressed in his uniform, bag slung over one shoulder. He took one look at Regulus buried under the covers, then at Mum, and tilted his head.
“What if you just sit in Mum’s car until assembly is over?” he suggested, casual as anything. “Then come into school after.”
Mum blinked, as if to say, that was an excellent idea .
The blankets shifted slightly. Regulus was thinking about it.
A long moment passed before he finally exhaled and pushed the covers back, sitting up.
James grinned. “There we go.”
Mum let out a quiet breath of relief. She turned to James and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, then another to his cheek.
James groaned, pulling away. “Mum—seriously?”
She just smiled, brushing a hand over his curls. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
James huffed but couldn’t quite hide his pleased expression as he slung his bag higher on his shoulder and headed downstairs.
James flops into the armchair, settling in comfortably as he picks up his controller. The game hums to life on the screen, and he relaxes, sinking into the cushions.
Then, footsteps.
He barely registers them at first, too focused on the level he’s playing, but something makes him glance up.
Regulus stands in the doorway, stiff as a board.
James blinks. “You wanna play?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. His eyes dart to the side table—then narrow.
James follows his gaze, confused. He barely has time to react before Regulus’ whole posture goes tense, shoulders rigid, fists clenched.
Then—
“Où est mon livre?” Regulus snaps, his voice sharp.
James frowns. “Umm… what?”
Regulus’ eyes flash. His breathing is quick, his chest rising and falling too fast.
“Vous êtes assis à ma place et maintenant mon livre a disparu?!”
James startles. The words hit him rapid-fire, but he doesn’t understand a single one. “Uh—what?”
Regulus looks like he’s about to combust.
“Où est-il? Je l'ai laissé ici!”
James’ confusion deepens. Regulus is really upset, but James has no idea why.
“Stop yelling at me! I don’t understand you!” he says, putting the controller down and holding his hands up.
Regulus doesn’t stop. His eyes flick around the room like he’s searching for something, and his breathing is all wrong—too fast, too tight.
James is still trying to figure out what’s happening when, suddenly, Regulus throws a pillow at him.
It smacks into his chest with an unimpressive thump .
“Hey!” James yelps, looking up in alarm. “What the hell?”
Regulus is already grabbing another.
James barely has time to react before the second pillow is flying toward him. He jumps up, arms raised.
“Woah, woah, woah!” he shouts. “Calm down! I don’t even know what you want!”
Regulus doesn’t stop. His movements are frantic, every action fueled by something big and overwhelming .
James, on instinct, grabs a pillow—and throws it back.
It bounces off Regulus’ shoulder.
That was a mistake.
Regulus lunges .
James stumbles back, but it’s too late. The next pillow hits him full force, followed by another.
“Oi—Reg!” James protests, blocking as best he can. “Stop it!”
Regulus doesn’t stop.
James, now officially panicking, grabs another pillow and swings it back, desperately trying to defend himself.
The sound of their scuffle fills the room, and James is starting to think he might actually be losing this fight when—
“BOYS!”
James freezes.
Regulus does too, breathing hard.
Mum stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. Dad is right behind her. His gaze immediately locks onto Regulus.
James lets the pillow drop like it just caught fire.
Regulus is still standing there, fists clenched, expression caught somewhere between frustration and panic.
Dad steps forward, voice calm but firm. “Alright, enough of that.”
James watches as Dad carefully reaches for Regulus. Regulus stiffens but doesn’t move fast enough to pull away.
Strong arms wrap around Regulus—not forceful, just steady. Solid. Grounding.
James exhales, heart still hammering. His mum’s eyes flick between him and Regulus, unreadable.
He swallows hard. That… escalated quickly.
James barely has time to react before his mum is leading him out of the living room and into the kitchen. Her grip on his shoulder is gentle but firm, the kind that says we need to talk .
He exhales sharply, stuffing his hands into his pockets as she stops by the counter. He can still hear his dad speaking softly to Regulus in the other room, calming him down.
Euphemia turns to face him, her expression unreadable. “Are you alright?”
James shrugs. “Yeah.”
She studies him for a moment. “I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me, alright?”
James nods, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“Do you still feel safe around Regulus?” she asks gently. “And if you don’t, that’s okay. You can tell me.”
James blinks at her, taken aback. He frowns, trying to wrap his head around the question.
Does he feel safe?
He thinks about what just happened. Regulus got overwhelmed—pissed off, yeah, but not in a real fight kind of way. He wasn’t actually going to hurt him. James knows that.
He looks up at his mum, brow furrowing. “Mum, you told me once that some kids don’t know how to communicate properly, and that’s why you need to teach them.”
Euphemia nods slowly.
James shrugs again. “Regulus just needs a little help. It’s not like he was actually going to hurt me.”
Euphemia exhales, some of the tension in her shoulders easing. “Alright,” she says softly, reaching up to brush his hair back.
James ducks away with a half-hearted scowl, and she chuckles, ruffling it instead.
The tightness in the room lifts just a little.
But even as they sit in the kitchen, something gnaws at James, lingering like an itch he can’t scratch. He can’t shake the way Regulus had looked—shoulders tight, fists clenched, breathing all wrong. The way his eyes had darted around, wild and cornered, like he wasn’t even seeing James at all.
It was the same look he’d had when he found out Colin knew.
James’ chest tightens.
He hadn’t understood at first—not when Colin came up to him that morning during first break, all smiles and curiosity.
James rounded a corner too fast—
And crashed straight into someone.
Regulus stumbled back, blinking up at him, and before James could say anything, a sharp voice cut through the hallway.
“Oi—watch where you’re going.”
James’ head snapped toward the voice, his stomach already twisting. Colin. Of course it was Colin.
Regulus stiffened, his whole body going tense. But Colin barely gave him another glance before walking off, laughing with his friends. James watched them go, jaw clenched.
Then he looked back at Regulus. His little brother looked—wrong. Pale, shaken, barely holding himself together.
“Reg,” James said, his voice softer now. “You alright, mate?”
Regulus shook his head.
James didn’t ask anything else. He just tilted his head toward the side hall. “C’mon.”
They walked.
James led them somewhere quieter, somewhere away from the crowd. The staircase at the back of the building—no one ever went there during class.
Regulus sat on the floor, breathing too fast, his hands still trembling. James watched him for a moment, then dug into his bag, pulling out a scrap of paper and a pencil.
“Here,” he said, handing it over. “Write it down.”
Regulus hesitated, then gripped the pencil tight, his hand moving fast. Messy, rushed handwriting filled the page.
James waited as he wrote, but his stomach was already twisting with something uneasy.
Because he knew.
He knew what this was about.
It had started last week, when Colin had come up to him during first break. He’d been weirdly curious, asking a million questions about Regulus—how long he’d been staying with them, if he was actually a foster kid, if it was true his parents were in prison. James had shrugged, confirmed some of it, but hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Colin hadn’t sounded mean—just nosy.
But now—now Regulus shoved the paper toward him, looking at the floor like he already knew what was coming.
James read it.
And his stomach sank.
He swallowed hard, gripping the note tighter. The words felt like a punch to the gut—every cruel taunt, every bit of mockery.
This was his fault.
He sucked in a breath, then, in a voice so quiet it barely reached the space between them, he said, “I told him.”
Regulus’ head snapped up.
James couldn’t meet his eyes. He stared at the paper, at the angry, hurt words written in Regulus’ slanted handwriting. “Colin. I—I was the one who told him.”
Regulus didn’t move.
James ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly. “I thought—I thought he was one of your friends, and I was just trying to help—”
Regulus looked away. His face burned, his sleeves pulled over his hands.
James felt sick. “I’m sorry, Reg,” he said. “I didn’t—I never meant for this to happen.”
Regulus nodded, but it was stiff, mechanical.
James kept talking, kept apologizing, but Regulus didn’t want to hear it. His expression didn’t change. He just stared at the floor, breathing shallowly, as if James wasn’t even there.
Guilt pressed heavy on James’ chest.
The bell rang, breaking the silence.
James stood slowly. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
Regulus didn’t answer.
James hesitated, waiting, hoping for something—but Regulus stayed still, unmoving.
Eventually, James turned and walked away.
He didn’t look back.
The guilt of that moment still eats away at something inside James. It’s not like Regulus has forgiven him for anything. Truth be told, Regulus hasn’t said a word about it—not about Colin, not about what happened after—but that almost makes it worse.
James hates not knowing where he stands. If Regulus were still mad, if he yelled or even just told James off, at least James would know. But Regulus is just… quiet. And James doesn’t know how to fix that.
Maybe he should talk about it, James thinks.
But now’s not the time.
James sits at the kitchen table, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He doesn’t know why he’s the one feeling weird about all this—he wasn’t the one throwing things. But still, Mrs. Potter’s expectant smile makes him shift in his seat, and he doesn’t quite meet Regulus’ eyes.
“Alright,” Mr. Potter starts once they’re all settled. “Let’s figure out what we can do better next time.”
James glances at Regulus, who sits stiffly, arms crossed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Mrs. Potter turns to James first. “James, what do you think you could’ve done differently?”
James pulls a face. “I dunno,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t know Regulus was gonna be mad. He didn’t say anything—he just started yelling at me.”
Regulus frowns, then grabs his notebook and scribbles something down before sliding it over.
It wasn’t just that you were in my spot. I couldn’t find my book.
James sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Okay, but you didn’t even know where your book was. It’s not like I stole it or something.”
Regulus clenches his jaw but nods, looking away.
Mrs. Potter hums thoughtfully. “So maybe next time, Regulus can say something before getting upset, and James can be more mindful of what might bother Regulus?”
James nods. “Yeah, I mean, I would’ve moved if he just told me.”
Regulus stares at the table, gripping his pen so tightly James thinks it might snap. There’s something in his expression—frustration, but also something quieter, something James doesn’t quite understand.
“I know it’s hard,” Mrs. Potter says gently. “But we can work on it. You don’t have to be perfect—you just have to try.”
Regulus swallows and nods once.
Mr. Potter claps his hands together. “Good. And if you two do run into an issue you can’t sort out, what do you do?”
James groans. “Come to you or Mum.”
“Exactly.” Mr. Potter gives them both a pointed look. “No more throwing things at each other. Understood?”
James nods. Regulus hesitates, then picks up his notebook again. After a moment, he writes:
I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m sorry.
He turns the notebook toward James.
James reads it, then shrugs. “It’s alright.”
Regulus watches him like he’s expecting something more—maybe for James to still be angry. But he’s not. It’s over. James doesn’t hold grudges, not over stuff like this.
He pushes himself up from the table and drops onto the couch, grabbing his controller. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Regulus hover for a moment before sitting stiffly in the armchair, book in his lap.
James glances at him. “What language were you speaking?”
Regulus blinks, looking startled.
James frowns. “When you were yelling at me. It wasn’t English.”
Regulus flushes, his face going pink as he quickly scribbles:
French. It’s my first language.
James leans over to read it, then nods. “Oh. Cool.”
Mrs. Potter steps closer, curiosity lighting up her face, but before she can say anything, Mr. Potter clears his throat. “If you two have problems with each other, talk about them. Or come to one of us, and we’ll help you sort it out.”
James nods easily. Regulus hesitates again, but after a moment, he nods too.
The tension in the room fades.
James flops back against the couch, unpausing his game, and Regulus pulls his book closer, curling up slightly in the chair.
Just like that, everything shifts back to normal.
James plays. Regulus reads.
But James’ mind keeps circling back to the guilt gnawing at his ribs.
Because this? This wasn’t the first time he’d seen Regulus like that—so upset, so tangled up in something James couldn’t quite reach. The last time was when Colin found out about Regulus being in foster care. James remembers the way Regulus had looked at him after realizing James was the one who told. The same tight shoulders, the same refusal to meet his eyes, the same cold silence stretching between them.
The same way he’s acting now.
And suddenly, James remembers something else. That Friday afternoon, when he somehow ended up at Remus’ house, sitting on the Lupins’ couch while Hope handed him a cup of hot chocolate. He hadn’t questioned it then, too lost in his own head to wonder why he wasn’t at home.
But now it clicks into place.
Hope had picked him up.
And she wouldn’t have done that unless his parents had sent her.
Because they must’ve known he needed to be somewhere else. That he wasn’t supposed to come home.
Not yet.
The realization slams into James like a truck, knocking the breath from his lungs. Because, really, why wouldn’t it? There’s only one reasonable explanation for why he ended up at Remus’ house that afternoon—something must have happened with Regulus. Something bad enough that his parents didn’t want him to come home right away.
His stomach twists uncomfortably. He thinks back to his mum’s careful words, the way she’d asked him if he still felt safe having Regulus in the house with them. Not just in that patient, let’s-talk-this-through way she always does, but like she already knew. Like she’d seen this before.
And that’s when it really sinks in.
This wasn’t the first time.
Regulus has had outbursts before—maybe not at him , but they’ve happened. James just wasn’t there to see them. Maybe that’s why his mum had been so quick to step in, why his dad had looked so exhausted, why Hope had been the one to pick him up instead of them.
They were handling it.
James swallows hard, guilt curling in his chest. He doesn’t know what, exactly, happened while he was gone. But he knows one thing for certain—he never wants it to happen again.
***
James watches the world blur past the car window, the soft hum of the engine filling the silence between him and his mum. Normally, he’d be buzzing with excitement—he is excited. Sleepovers at Remus’ are always great. But his mind keeps snagging on something else.
Regulus has been acting weird . Not in the usual Regulus way, either. It’s like he can’t decide if he wants to be near James or avoid him entirely. Some days, he hovers in doorways, like he wants to say something but won’t let himself. Other times, he barely looks at James at all. It’s not bad , exactly, but it is... off.
James doesn’t get it.
As they pull up to the Lupins’ house, a new thought worms its way into his mind— how did Regulus feel when he got to his friend’s house for that birthday sleepover?
James remembers how excited Regulus had been, how much he’d wanted to go. But now—now that James is here, about to step into someone else’s home for the night—he wonders if Regulus had felt nervous, too. If he’d hesitated before knocking on the door, if he’d had that split-second moment of what if this is weird? What if I don’t belong here?
The thought doesn’t sit right.
James barely has time to dwell on it before his mum parks the car. He unbuckles quickly, pushing the thought aside as they step out. The front door swings open before they even reach it, and Remus grins at him from the doorway.
“Hey, you made it,” Remus says.
Hope Lupin isn’t far behind, smiling warmly as she steps up beside her son. “Euphemia, lovely to see you,” she greets.
James steps inside as the mums start talking, setting his bag down before Remus nudges him. “C’mon, let’s put your stuff up.”
James follows him upstairs, dropping his bag by Remus’ desk before they head back down. His mum is still chatting with Hope, but when she spots James, she smiles.
“Be good, Jamie,” she says, ruffling his hair.
James ducks away with a half-hearted scowl, swatting at her hand. “I am good,” he insists.
Euphemia just laughs. “Behave, then.”
“I will,” James promises.
She gives him a final look before saying her goodbyes, and James watches her leave, something heavy settling in his chest. He shakes it off quickly when Remus elbows him, already steering him toward the living room.
The feeling lingers anyway.
It still doesn’t go away once they get settled into the living room and start playing video games. The hum of the TV, the soft click of buttons under his fingers—it should help James relax, but it doesn’t.
James knows he’s been acting weird. More so, since Regulus has passed the two-week mark living with them. It’s not like he doesn’t like having Regulus around—because he does, he loves it—but it’s complicated. The fact that Regulus is here, that he’s living with the Potters, makes James feel both grateful and… responsible. It's the responsibility that weighs on him, heavier each day. Regulus' struggles, the things he doesn’t talk about, the anxiety and the confusion that James sees in his younger brother’s eyes, those things—James feels them like they belong to him, like he’s part of the reason for them.
He knows he shouldn’t feel that way. The guilt makes him uncomfortable, unsettled in a way he can’t shake, no matter how much he tries to distract himself. It’s ridiculous, he knows that. The majority of Regulus’ issues aren’t even remotely tied to James. They’re his, his past, his trauma. But James can’t stop thinking that maybe he could have done more, said more, or somehow just been… better. That maybe the things that were hurting Regulus, maybe they could’ve been avoided if James had been more observant or more careful.
Sitting in front of the TV with his controller in hand, James doesn’t feel like playing anymore. He’s been silent for too long, and it’s starting to eat at him, the weight of it. Remus, who has been sitting next to him, doesn’t say anything at first, but James can feel the look in his direction, even if he’s not directly staring at him. The older boy is quiet, too, but there’s something there, an unspoken question lingering between them.
Finally, Remus breaks the silence. “You’ve been off, mate,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “What’s going on? You’re not usually this quiet when we’re playing.”
James stiffens, his grip tightening on the controller. Remus is right. He hasn’t been himself. But the words that are stuck in his throat don’t feel like they want to come out. How does he explain this? How does he tell Remus that he feels like he’s been failing Regulus? That every time Regulus flinches or seems uncomfortable, James feels it like it’s his fault?
Remus waits for him to say something, but after a few moments of hesitation, he just sighs, his voice softening. “James, you know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”
James looks at him, his heart racing in his chest, and then he finally gives in. It’s not like he can hold it in forever. “I… I feel like I’ve messed things up with Reg,” he blurts out, his words coming out in a rush. “Like, I’m the reason he’s struggling. I know it's not my fault, but I can’t stop thinking… what if I’ve done something wrong? What if I’ve hurt him in ways I didn’t even realise?”
Remus doesn’t immediately respond. He just looks at James with a furrowed brow, as if weighing his words carefully before speaking.
“I don’t think you’re the reason Regulus is struggling,” Remus says gently. “I know you care about him, and you’ve been trying your best. But there’s a lot about Regulus’ past that you don’t know, James. Things that he hasn’t shared with anyone, not even you. Those things are his to deal with, not yours.”
“But…” James starts, his voice cracking. “I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known something was wrong when he first got here. I—maybe if I’d been more patient, or… I don’t know, I just feel like I should’ve done more.”
Remus places a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Listen to me, James. You can’t blame yourself for things that are out of your control. You’ve done everything you could to help Regulus. And it’s made a difference, trust me. The fact that you noticed something was wrong, that you cared enough to try and help him… that’s more than most people would do. That’s what he needs. Not someone who’ll carry his burdens for him, but someone who’ll be there when he’s ready to talk. And you’ve been that for him.”
James bites his lip, the weight of Remus’ words sinking in. It’s hard to let go of the guilt. It’s so tangled up inside him that he doesn’t know where to start, but Remus is right. He can’t keep blaming himself for everything, especially when he’s only just learning how to navigate this new dynamic with Regulus. He’s trying, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?
“I guess…” James starts, taking a deep breath. “I guess I just don’t want to mess things up for him. I want him to feel like he’s safe here, you know?”
Remus smiles softly, his hand still resting on James’ shoulder. “He does. He feels safe with you. And he’s lucky to have you, James. You’re doing a good job.”
James thinks about Remus’ words as they settle into a comfortable silence, the sound of the game filling the space between them. For the first time in what feels like forever, the tightness in his chest eases, just a little. Maybe he can’t fix everything, but he’s doing his best. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
For a long moment, James doesn’t speak, letting the peaceful silence surround him. Then, finally, something clicks. He exhales slowly, and the knot in his chest that has been there for days, maybe even weeks, loosens. His hands feel lighter, the controller in his lap nothing more than an object now, no longer a symbol of the weight he’s been carrying.
Freedom.
That’s what this feels like—free from the suffocating grip of guilt, free from the ever-present nagging thought that he’s somehow to blame for Regulus' pain. It's like something inside him has unlocked, and for the first time in days, he feels light.
He doesn’t need to carry the weight of Regulus’ past. He can’t fix it. But what he can do is be there for Regulus now, in the present. He’s doing his best. And maybe that’s all that matters.
It feels like a breath of fresh air—freedom, finally.
James lets out a breath he didn’t even realise he’d been holding, and a small, genuine smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. His shoulders relax, and the tightness that has consumed him for so long is gone. It’s like a weight has been lifted from him, and he doesn’t have to bear it alone anymore. For the first time in a long time, James feels like he can just… be. He can just be the brother Regulus needs.
Freedom. This is what freedom feels like.
Notes:
Word Count: 12,172
Published: 2025-03-05Y'know, Cyclone Alfred should be more scared of Australians than Australians of Cyclone Alfred.
Also, I legit might not be able to update for about a week depending on whether the power goes out. Cyclone Alfred is expected to hit on the 7th lol.
Chapter 17: Why Must it Always Come to This?
Summary:
So many things can happen over the course of two weeks. To being invited to a birthday sleepover party, to the absurd amount of early school pick-ups. That was until they got another call to come down to the school.
They both think, why must it always come to this?
POV: Euphemia and Fleamont Potter
Notes:
Trigger Warnings: the use of the r-word (the slur for mentally challenged people) is used within this chapter. If you'd like to skip it, please skip the Fleamont's POV where the * is. Thank you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont notices the way Euphemia exhales as she steps into the living room, rolling the tension out of her shoulders. He sets his book down, studying her carefully.
“Well,” she says, dropping onto the couch beside him. “I shouldn’t have been worried at all.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “The meeting went well, then?”
She nods, lips curving into a small smile. “It did. Ms. Carrington was wonderful. She had nothing but good things to say—she’s seen real improvement in his engagement, his participation, even just his comfort level in class.”
Fleamont smiles at that. “That’s good to hear.”
“It is.” Euphemia exhales again, leaning back against the cushions. “She really seems to like him.”
Fleamont hums in agreement, waiting. He knows that tone—there’s something else on her mind.
Sure enough, after a moment, she frowns slightly. “Though… he was acting a bit odd towards the end of the meeting.”
Fleamont tilts his head. “Odd how?”
Euphemia hesitates. “Quiet. More so than usual. He was fine at first, but after Ms. Carrington mentioned his progress—his behavior, the way he’s adjusting—I don’t know. He just… withdrew.”
Fleamont considers that, rubbing his jaw. “You think it had to do with what was discussed?”
She nods. “I do.”
Fleamont doesn’t answer right away. He’s come to learn that Regulus often needs time to process things, to sort through whatever thoughts are circling his mind before he’s ready to share them.
So, after a moment, he says simply, “If there was a problem, I’m sure he’d tell us.”
Euphemia gives him a look.
Fleamont huffs a quiet laugh. “Alright, eventually he’d tell us.”
That gets a small chuckle out of her. She shakes her head, expression softening. “He might just need some time.”
“Exactly.” Fleamont reaches for her hand, squeezing gently. “He’s figuring things out in his own way. And we’ll be here when he’s ready.”
Euphemia nods, threading her fingers through his. “You’re right.”
She sighs, relaxing just a little. “Thank you.”
Fleamont squeezes her hand again, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Always, love.”
***
Regulus has been acting strange ever since Thursday. Fleamont isn’t sure why—just that something is off.
He’s quieter than usual. Withdrawn. Fleamont has caught him staring into space more than once, his expression distant, like his mind is somewhere else entirely.
And now, as Fleamont steps into the kitchen, he notices Sarah through the window that leads out onto the front porch. She’s sitting across from Regulus, speaking in that calm, measured voice of hers.
Regulus, on the other hand, looks— deflated .
His shoulders are curled in. Even from here, Fleamont can tell something isn’t right.
Euphemia stands by the counter, arms crossed, watching through the window just as he is.
They don’t eavesdrop. They never eavesdrop. But Fleamont can’t help the way his chest tightens as he watches Regulus nod at something Sarah says, then duck his head, hands twisting in his sleeves.
After a few more minutes, Sarah says something else, and Regulus nods again, standing abruptly. He pushes the front door open, slipping past them without a word.
That’s when Fleamont sees it.
The tear tracks staining his cheeks, catching in the light. Regulus walks past without so much as a glance in their direction, heading straight up the stairs.
Euphemia exhales, soft and worried.
Sarah steps inside, closing the door behind her, and offers them a small, tired smile.
“Could I have a word?” she asks.
Fleamont exchanges a glance with Euphemia before nodding. “Of course.”
They all move to the sitting room. Fleamont gestures for Sarah to sit, and she does, resting her hands in her lap.
She doesn’t waste time. “How’s he been?”
Euphemia answers first. “Quiet. More than usual.”
Sarah nods thoughtfully. “I did notice that. Has anything happened recently?”
Fleamont hesitates. “Well, there was the suspension.”
Sarah’s brows lift slightly. “Ah. Can you walk me through what happened?”
Fleamont sighs, rubbing his jaw. “He punched another student. Broke the boy’s nose.”
Sarah frowns slightly. “Do you know why?”
Euphemia shakes her head. “Not exactly. He wouldn’t talk about it in detail. We assumed he lost his temper.”
Sarah hums. “How did he handle the consequences?”
Euphemia’s expression softens. “Better than I expected. He understood what he did was wrong. He wrote an apology to the boy and took his suspension seriously.”
Fleamont nods. “He’s been withdrawn ever since, though. We assumed he was feeling guilty.”
Sarah listens carefully, her expression unreadable. Then she exhales, glancing down at her hands before looking back up.
“I still haven’t found a permanent placement for him.”
Silence.
Fleamont glances at Euphemia, and she looks back at him.
They don’t need words.
This is his placement.
This is his home.
Euphemia turns to Sarah. “He can stay,” she says simply. “This doesn’t need to be temporary. If Regulus wants to stay here—this can be his permanent placement.”
Sarah blinks, like she wasn’t expecting that. Then her lips curve into a small smile. “Alright. I’ll ask him next check-in.”
Fleamont nods.
Sarah stands, smoothing out her skirt. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”
They walk her to the door, and Fleamont watches as she steps off the porch, heading toward her car.
As the door clicks shut, he glances up the stairs, where Regulus disappeared minutes ago. They’ll have to talk to him later.
But for now, Fleamont simply places a hand on Euphemia’s back, and she leans into him. They know, without a doubt, that Regulus isn’t going anywhere.
POV: EUPHEMIA
The kitchen is quiet save for the rhythmic sound of running water and the occasional clink of plates against the sink. Euphemia stands at the basin, hands submerged in warm, soapy water, methodically scrubbing a dish before passing it to Fleamont, who dries them beside her. It’s a comfortable routine, one they’ve shared for years.
She hums softly under her breath, focused on her task, until she hears Fleamont’s voice break the quiet.
“Everything alright, kiddo?”
Euphemia stills, the plate in her hands slipping beneath the suds. There’s something in Fleamont’s tone—gentle, coaxing—that makes her turn. She dries her hands on a towel and follows his gaze to the doorway, where Regulus stands, frozen in place.
Her heart squeezes at the sight of him. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, like he’s torn between bolting and forcing himself to stay. His fingers clutch a piece of blue paper so tightly that the edges are crumpling. His knuckles are pale.
“Did something happen at school today, sweetheart?” Euphemia asks, keeping her voice as soft as possible.
Regulus doesn’t answer—not verbally. Instead, he exhales sharply and thrusts the paper forward, his movements abrupt and tense.
She exchanges a glance with Fleamont before gently taking it from his hands, smoothing out the creases. Her husband steps closer, looking over her shoulder as she unfolds it.
It’s an invitation.
Fleamont lets out a thoughtful hum, reading over the details. “A birthday party?”
Euphemia glances back at Regulus, watching the way he stares at the floor as if willing himself to disappear. She softens.
“Would you like to go?” she asks warmly.
His response is a small, almost hesitant nod.
A smile tugs at her lips. “Well, this party’s got perfect timing,” Fleamont muses. “You don’t have a check-in this weekend.”
Euphemia chuckles. “I guess it does.”
That’s when Regulus finally looks up.
She meets his gaze and offers him a reassuring smile. “You can most certainly go, sweetheart.”
His expression is guarded, but she doesn’t miss the way something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe.
She isn’t finished, though. She sets the invitation down on the counter and meets his gaze once more, making sure he hears her next words.
“But if you need anything, or if it gets to be too much, you can always come home. No questions asked.”
Regulus blinks at her, and something shifts in his posture. It’s subtle, but she sees it—the way his shoulders relax just a fraction, the way his grip loosens.
He nods, shyly.
Fleamont closes the invitation. “We’ll talk about the details later, but yeah, you can go.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then—
Regulus smiles. It’s small at first, almost uncertain, but then it grows, unbidden and bright. And before he seems to realize it, he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, a light, repeated movement that speaks of barely-contained excitement.
Euphemia chuckles softly, warmth blooming in her chest.
Fleamont grins. “Thanks for telling us about this, bud.”
Regulus nods again before hesitating, lifting his hand in a small, awkward wave, then turning on his heel to leave.
“Goodnight, love,” Euphemia calls after him.
“Goodnight, kiddo,” Fleamont adds.
At the doorway, Regulus falters for just a second, then lifts his hand again in another small wave before heading for the stairs.
Euphemia watches him go, her heart feeling full in a way she can’t quite put into words. She turns back to Fleamont, and he’s already looking at her, a knowing expression in his eyes.
She lets out a breath, smiling softly. “Oh my gosh, Fleamont,” Euphemia exclaims like she’s breathless.
“I know,” Fleamont replies, chuckling lightly, sounding equally as breathless.
“Regulus, he—” she pauses, letting out another ‘ oh my gosh ’ under her breath. Fleamont turns to her, “I know,” he mutters again, his smile just as wide as hers.
Euphemia locks eyes with Fleamont. She tries desperately to keep her happiness and excitement at bay, whilst trying to convey to Fleamont what Regulus just did.
“I know,” Fleamont says, like he understands what she wanted to say. Like he understood how amazing this moment truly is.
After some silence, Euphemia murmurs, “we’re getting there, Fleamont.”
Fleamont nods, setting the last plate aside. “Yeah,” he agrees. “We are.”
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont swears Regulus has been acting differently around Euphemia. It’s subtle—just the smallest shift in his behavior. A hesitation before responding to her, a certain stiffness when she’s near. It’s not enough to cause an issue, not yet, but it’s there. And it worries him.
He doesn’t think it’s intentional. If anything, it seems more like an instinctive reaction than a conscious choice, like Regulus himself doesn’t quite realize he’s doing it. Fleamont considers bringing it up, but he knows better than to rush these things. Regulus is still settling in, still figuring out what it means to be here, to be part of this family. Pushing too hard could backfire.
So he pockets the thought for now, filing it away for a later conversation. Because right now, they have something else to talk about—something much more important.
Regulus had been invited to a birthday sleepover.
Fleamont had been ecstatic when he first read the invitation, though he had tried to keep his reaction measured for Regulus’s sake. It wasn’t just that Regulus was asking if he could go—it was that he wanted to. It was that he had friends, real friends, the kind that sent out invitations and wanted him there.
That was worth celebrating.
Now, they just needed to go over a few things with him. Not rules, exactly—not in a strict sense—but expectations, reassurances, things that would hopefully make Regulus feel secure about going.
So after dinner, when the dishes were nearly done and Regulus had been lingering in the kitchen, Fleamont turned to him with an easy, warm smile.
“Regulus, why don’t you sit down for a minute?” he said, nodding toward one of the kitchen stools. “We wanted to talk to you about the party.”
Regulus froze, just slightly.
Fleamont didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched, tightening around the hem of his sweater. He had expected some kind of follow-up, of course—he knew things like this came with expectations—but sitting down and discussing it seemed to catch him off guard.
Still, after a moment, Regulus nodded and cautiously perched on the edge of the stool, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.
Euphemia gave him a soft smile before speaking. “We just wanted to go over a few things, sweetheart. Nothing bad, I promise.”
Regulus nodded again, barely breathing, bracing himself for whatever was coming next.
Fleamont leaned against the counter, careful to keep his posture relaxed, non-threatening. “So, first things first—you know our house rules still apply when you’re staying somewhere else, yeah? Just the basics: be polite, be respectful, and if anything makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to go along with it.”
Regulus swallowed, nodding stiffly. That made sense. That was reasonable.
Euphemia picked up where he left off, her voice gentle. “And we mean that, Regulus. You don’t ever have to do something just because everyone else is doing it. You can always say no.”
Fleamont watched as Regulus processed that, his brows furrowing just slightly, like the idea was unfamiliar. Like no one had ever told him that before.
Fleamont continued, “We’d also like you to check in once, just so we know you’re okay. A quick text will do—doesn’t have to be much, just a simple ‘all good.’”
At that, he saw Regulus tense again, his fingers curling in on themselves. It wasn’t a protest, exactly, but it was something close.
Euphemia must have noticed too because she reached across the counter and lightly tapped his wrist. “It’s not about checking on you, love. It’s about making sure you’re safe.”
Safe.
Fleamont saw the way that word settled in Regulus’s chest, saw the way he exhaled just a little, something shifting in his posture.
After a beat, Regulus nodded again, though his hands were still curled tightly together.
Fleamont exchanged a quick glance with Euphemia before adding, “And bud, listen—if, for any reason, you need to come home, you can. It doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night, or if you feel silly about it, or if you don’t know why you feel off. If you need to leave, get either Pandora or Evan’s mum and dad to call us. We will come get you.”
Euphemia nodded firmly in agreement. “It doesn’t matter what time it is, sweetheart. We’d much rather pick you up than have you stay somewhere you don’t feel comfortable.”
Fleamont could see the moment that truly sank in, the moment Regulus realized they meant it. There was still doubt in his eyes—uncertainty, hesitation—but also something else. A kind of tentative relief.
Fleamont knew that trust wasn’t built overnight. But as Regulus sat there, processing their words, he felt like maybe, just maybe, they were making progress.
POV: EUPHEMIA
Euphemia stands beside Fleamont and Regulus, her hand resting lightly against her husband's arm as they wait at the mint-green front door. Regulus is still, his posture perfectly straight, but Euphemia notices the way his hands tighten around the carefully wrapped presents he spent so long preparing. His bag is slung over one shoulder, yet he holds himself as if it weighs twice as much as it should.
She glances at him, offering a small, reassuring smile. He doesn’t meet her gaze. His eyes are fixed on the door, his breathing slow and measured. Euphemia can tell he’s nervous.
Before she can say something to ease him, the door swings open.
There is a boy standing there. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with platinum blonde hair and sharp features that mark him unmistakably as the birthday boy and girl’s older brother.
“Hello,” the boy says, polite and even. “You must be Regulus. Come on in.”
Regulus inclines his head in a stiff nod, stepping inside, and Euphemia follows closely, Fleamont beside her.
The entryway is bright and well-kept, with the faint scent of something floral in the air.
“Felix, who is it?” A voice calls from further inside.
A moment later, a woman appears. She has long, platinum-blonde hair—the same as the boy who opened the door—Felix, his name is. Her sharp features soften when she sees them.
“Ah. Hello there.” Her gaze flickers to Felix. “Felix, dear, can you go get your father? Then help your brother and sister upstairs.”
Felix nods, offering a small, tight-lipped smile before disappearing down the hall.
The woman steps forward. “It’s lovely to meet you, Regulus. I’m Marguerite Rosier, Pandora and Evan’s mother.”
Regulus dips his head slightly in acknowledgment, his grip still tight around his presents.
A moment later, another figure steps into the entryway. He’s tall, dark-haired, and sharply dressed, his expression measured but not unkind. Felix trails behind him.
“Ah,” the man says. “You must be Regulus.” He turns to Euphemia and Fleamont, extending a hand. “Cyrus Rosier.”
Fleamont shakes it firmly. “Fleamont Potter. This is my wife, Euphemia.”
“Lovely to meet you both,” Marguerite says warmly. “Pandora and Evan have been talking about this sleepover all week.”
“They’ve been very excited,” Cyrus agrees, glancing briefly at Regulus. “Pandora mentioned you might be a little nervous about coming. But she assured us you were looking forward to it.”
Euphemia notices Regulus shift slightly at that. She knows he trusts Pandora, but she also knows he struggles with people speaking for him.
The conversation flows naturally, and at some point, the topic of Regulus’ situation comes up.
“Regulus is our foster son,” Euphemia says, her voice gentle but firm.
“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Marguerite says easily. “Pandora already mentioned something about that. Our daughter is a very understanding young lady.”
Cyrus nods in agreement, studying Regulus with a calm expression. “She also mentioned you don’t speak much. That you communicate through writing.”
Euphemia feels Regulus tense slightly beside her.
“That’s perfectly fine,” Marguerite assures him. “You can write if you need anything.”
Regulus lets out a small breath and nods.
As they wrap up, Marguerite suggests exchanging numbers in case anything comes up, and Euphemia wholeheartedly agrees. She gives both her and Fleamont’s numbers, watching as Marguerite and Cyrus input them into their phones.
“If he needs to come home, just call, and one of us will come get him,” Euphemia says, her voice firm but kind. “No matter the reason.”
Cyrus nods. “Of course.”
Marguerite glances at Regulus. “You’ll be alright, sweetheart,” she says gently. “We’ll take good care of you.”
Regulus nods again, but he remains quiet, his fingers still curled tightly around the wrapped presents.
Euphemia turns to him. “Do you have everything you need?”
He nods.
She pauses, eyes soft. “Even your stuffed black dog?”
Regulus freezes.
His breath catches, his body going rigid.
Then, slowly, he shakes his head.
Euphemia’s heart aches at the panic flickering across his face. She reaches out instinctively, but stops just before touching his shoulder.
“That’s alright, sweetheart,” she says gently. “I’ll go home and get it for you, okay?”
Regulus exhales shakily, his fingers twitching at his sides. Then, after a beat, he nods.
Euphemia smiles, reassuring, and she watches as he struggles to believe her.
Marguerite and Cyrus offer their final goodbyes, and as Euphemia and Fleamont step outside, the door shuts softly behind them.
***
Euphemia barely waits for the door to shut behind them before she’s moving, her steps quick and purposeful. She doesn’t bother removing her coat, heading straight up the stairs and down the hall to Regulus’ room.
When she steps inside, she pauses.
It’s spotless.
Too spotless.
The bed is neatly made, the pillows perfectly aligned. His books, the few he has, are stacked with near-perfect precision on the desk. The drawers of his dresser are shut tight, no stray articles of clothing in sight. Even the floor—no shoes left out, no evidence of anything out of place. It looks… untouched.
Euphemia frowns, her heart twisting. A child’s bedroom should feel lived-in. Messy, even. But this—this is rigid, meticulous. Controlled.
With a quiet breath, she steps forward, spotting the stuffed black dog sitting neatly on the pillow. She picks it up gently, smoothing her fingers over the soft fur. It’s well-loved, worn down in places to make it softer, but still in good shape. She holds it close for a moment before turning and making her way back downstairs.
Fleamont is waiting in the sitting room, watching her descend. His gaze flickers to the stuffed animal in her arms, then back to her face. “Are you going to drop it off now?”
“Yes, I’ll be right back,” she says simply. She can’t bear the thought of Regulus spending the night without it.
Fleamont nods, his expression understanding. “Drive safe.”
She gives him a small smile, then grabs her purse and keys before heading out the door.
The drive to the Rosiers' home is quick, and soon Euphemia is knocking lightly on the mint-green front door.
It opens a moment later, revealing Marguerite Rosier. The other woman blinks in surprise before offering a warm smile. “Oh, Mrs. Potter. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Euphemia, please,” she corrects gently. “I just wanted to drop something off for Regulus. He left it behind.”
She holds up the stuffed dog, and understanding flickers across Marguerite’s face.
“Of course, come in.” She steps aside, allowing Euphemia to enter the bright, well-kept home.
“I won’t stay long,” Euphemia assures her. “I just didn’t want him to be without it.”
Marguerite nods knowingly. “That was thoughtful of you. Pandora mentioned he was a little anxious about staying over.”
Euphemia exhales softly. “He was. He’s still adjusting to everything.”
Marguerite studies her carefully before tilting her head. “You and your husband—are you considering making this permanent?”
Euphemia stills. The answer is simple. Yes. But saying it out loud feels so much bigger than just a single word.
“I think…” She glances down at the stuffed dog, brushing a thumb over the worn fabric. “I think we’d like to. If he wants that.”
Marguerite smiles knowingly. “You care for him.”
“We do,” Euphemia says softly.
A rustling noise from down the hall catches their attention, and a moment later, Regulus steps into view, following behind Pandora. His eyes land on Euphemia, then on the familiar shape in her hands.
His entire body relaxes.
Before she can say anything, he crosses the space between them and wraps his arms around her in a quick, tight hug.
Euphemia stutters, completely caught off guard. “Oh—”
But just as quickly as it happens, it’s over. Regulus pulls away, clutching the stuffed animal tightly to his chest.
Her heart clenches.
“There you go, sweetheart,” she manages, voice softer now. She wills herself to regain composure, offering him a gentle smile. “I told you I’d bring it.”
Regulus nods, gripping the stuffed dog as though it might disappear if he lets go.
Euphemia swallows past the lump in her throat, watching as Pandora tugs lightly on his sleeve, leading him back toward the living room.
Something warm settles in her chest.
She exhales slowly, trying to gather herself, but when she glances over, she finds Marguerite watching her with quiet amusement.
“Judging by the look on your face,” Marguerite says, voice light but perceptive, “he’s never hugged you willingly before, has he?”
Euphemia lets out a small, breathy laugh, though it’s more startled than anything. She shakes her head. “No,” she admits, voice quieter than before. “Never.”
Marguerite hums, glancing toward the direction Regulus disappeared. “I imagine that must’ve been quite the moment for you, then.”
Euphemia lets out a soft, unsteady breath. “You have no idea.”
Marguerite smiles knowingly, her expression kind. “He’s a reserved boy. But I think he trusts you.”
The words catch Euphemia off guard more than they should. Trust. It’s such a simple word, yet with Regulus, it feels so much bigger.
She swallows again, blinking rapidly. “I hope so.”
Marguerite studies her for a moment before nodding. “Well,” she says, “if that hug was anything to go by, I’d say you’re well on your way.”
Euphemia doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so she simply nods, a small, grateful smile on her lips.
Marguerite walks her to the door, and Euphemia steps outside, the cool night air brushing against her skin.
She glances back once more before leaving, her heart still warm from the unexpected moment.
POV: FLEAMONT
The second Euphemia steps through the front door, Fleamont knows something’s up.
He sets down his book, watching as she hangs her keys up with an almost dazed expression, her eyes still far away, like she’s replaying something in her mind. There’s something different about the way she moves—like she’s still processing whatever just happened. And then there’s the look on her face, an odd mixture of shock and absolute delight, a combination he’s never quite seen on her before.
Naturally, he has to ask.
“What happened?” he says, brows drawing together.
Euphemia blinks, as if only just realizing he’s there. She hesitates for a moment, as though she doesn’t quite believe it herself, and then she says, “Regulus hugged me.”
Fleamont does a double take. “What?”
She nods, almost breathless. “Yeah. He hugged me. On his own. No prompting.”
He stares at her, trying to wrap his head around it. Regulus—the same boy who flinches at casual touch, who stiffens whenever someone so much as brushes past him, who seems to exist in a perpetual state of guardedness—hugged her? Just like that?
“Well,” she amends, running a hand through her hair, “to be fair, I had just given him his dog. And it seemed more like—like a reflex? Maybe a thank you?”
Fleamont nods slowly, listening, but still trying to picture it. Regulus, clinging onto her, even for a brief second. It doesn’t quite compute.
“I just stood there, Monty,” Euphemia says, shaking her head, still visibly thrown. “For a good ten seconds. I didn’t even know how to react.”
Fleamont chuckles at that, because of course she didn’t. He can count on one hand the number of times Regulus has initiated physical affection since arriving here, and none of them were anything nearly as close to a hug.
“So,” he says, amusement lacing his tone, “did it feel good? The hug?”
Euphemia exhales, her expression softening as she sinks onto the couch beside him. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Yeah, it did.”
And Fleamont, watching the warmth spread across her face, can’t help but smile.
Later that evening, during dinner, Euphemia’s phone buzzes against the table. She picks it up, glancing at the screen, and then her brows lift slightly in surprise.
“It’s from Marguerite Rosier,” she says, setting her fork down. “Regulus asked her to text us and let us know he’s alright.”
Fleamont leans back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Well,” he says, a small, pleased smile tugging at his lips. “I’m glad he remembered we wanted an ‘alright’ text.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “Wasn’t really expecting that, to be honest.”
“Yeah, same,” Euphemia admits, locking her phone and setting it aside. “I didn’t think he would.”
Fleamont exhales, thinking about it for a moment. He wouldn’t have blamed the boy if he’d forgotten, or if he simply hadn’t wanted to send word. Regulus has been through so much, far more than any child should, and he still struggles with the concept that there are people who genuinely care about his well-being—people who worry about him when he’s not in sight. But despite all of that, despite the walls he’s built around himself, Regulus had still remembered.
Fleamont isn’t sure Regulus understands the significance of that, but to him, it means everything. It’s not just a text. It’s a step—an unsteady, tentative step, but a step nonetheless—toward trust. Toward belief in the fact that he belongs here, that he matters.
Regulus is amazing, really. He doesn’t even realize it.
Fleamont glances at Euphemia, who’s still looking down at her phone as if half-expecting another message to come through. He can see it on her face—how much she adores that boy, how fiercely she wants to protect him.
“Well,” he says, picking up his fork again. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
Euphemia smiles, soft and knowing. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “It really is.”
***
Fleamont and Euphemia arrive at the Rosier house just past midday, the summer sun casting long shadows across the driveway. As they step up to the front door, the murmur of voices and faint laughter from inside drifts through the slightly open windows. He exchanges a glance with Euphemia—Regulus seemed to have stayed the entire night without issue, which was already a success in itself.
The door swings open before they can knock, revealing Marguerite Rosier, her expression warm and welcoming. “Fleamont, Euphemia,” she greets, stepping aside to let them in. “Come in, come in.”
Cyrus appears a moment later, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Afternoon,” he says, offering a nod.
Euphemia smiles. “Afternoon. How’d everything go?”
Marguerite waves a hand, leading them toward the sitting room. “Oh, he was wonderful. Truly, an absolute pleasure to have.”
Fleamont raises an eyebrow, amused but unsurprised. “Is that so?”
Cyrus chuckles, leaning against the doorway. “Really. You’ve got a good kid on your hands—polite, well-mannered, maybe a little too well-mannered for a boy his age.”
“Didn’t cause any trouble?” Fleamont asks, though he already suspects the answer.
Marguerite shakes her head. “Not at all. He didn’t even hesitate to help clean up after the party. Not that he needed to, of course, but he just… did. No fuss, no prompting. He’s very considerate.”
Something tightens in Fleamont’s chest. He knows why Regulus does things like that—why he steps in to help when no one asks, why he’s always so careful not to be in the way, why he never assumes he’s allowed to just be a child. He glances at Euphemia and can tell she’s thinking the same thing.
“Thank you for having him,” she says softly.
Marguerite waves her off. “He’s welcome anytime.”
Cyrus pushes off the doorway. “I’ll go grab him.”
As the man disappears down the hall, Fleamont glances around, expecting to hear some sign of Regulus approaching—footsteps, rustling fabric, anything. But it’s quiet. Too quiet. Then, as Cyrus returns, Fleamont spots Regulus stepping into the foyer behind him, his bag already slung over his shoulder.
And in his hands—
Fleamont’s gaze catches on the small wooden frame Regulus is clutching to his chest. A photo.
His brows furrow. What could it be? Something from the party? A group picture? No, the way Regulus holds it, fingers curled tightly around the edges, makes it seem more personal. More important.
Regulus doesn’t meet their eyes at first, though he gives a small nod of thanks when Marguerite hands him a folded piece of paper—probably a note from her, or maybe Evan and Pandora.
“Did you have a good time?” Euphemia asks gently as they say their final goodbyes.
Regulus nods once.
Fleamont watches as his fingers press tighter around the frame. He doesn’t ask about it, not yet.
Instead, as they step out into the warm afternoon air and head toward the car, he makes a note to keep an eye on whatever that photo is. Because whatever it is, it clearly means something to Regulus.
POV: EUPHEMIA
Euphemia walks briskly through the quiet school hallways, her shoes clicking against the tile floor. She had dropped everything the moment the school called, and now she’s here, barely restraining the frustration bubbling under the surface.
When she steps into the Deputy Principal’s office, the first thing she sees is Regulus. He’s curled in on himself, head down, fingers twisting into the fabric of his sleeves. Her stomach tightens.
He looks small. Tired.
"Mrs. Potter, thank you for coming in so quickly," Mrs. Lawson, the Deputy Principal, greets with a polite smile.
Euphemia nods and takes the seat beside Regulus, glancing at him briefly before turning her attention to Mrs. Lawson. "Of course. What happened?"
Mrs. Lawson exhales, folding her hands neatly on the desk. "Regulus had an unfortunate run-in with some other students. It seems they locked him in a supply closet. He was found fairly quickly, but it was still an upsetting experience."
Euphemia stiffens. A sharp, immediate anger flares in her chest. "Was it the same student that Regulus punched?"
Mrs. Lawson nods.
Euphemia exhales slowly through her nose, forcing herself to stay composed. "And what is being done about it?"
"We're handling it," Mrs. Lawson assures her. "But I wanted to check in with Regulus. We’ve given him the option to go home, and he’s chosen to do so."
Euphemia turns to him fully this time, studying his face. He keeps his head down, but she can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds himself so tightly, like he’s bracing for something.
"That’s fine," she says gently. "Whatever you need, sweetheart."
He nods, barely, and Mrs. Lawson clears her throat. "Regulus, why don’t you go to your locker and grab your things while I speak with Mrs. Potter?"
Regulus hesitates but eventually stands. His movements are stiff, careful, like his body hasn’t quite caught up with his mind yet. Euphemia watches as he leaves the office, her worry growing with every step he takes away from her.
When the door clicks shut behind him, she turns back to Mrs. Lawson. "This is the second time," she says, voice tight. "Why wasn’t more done after the first?"
Mrs. Lawson sighs. "We’ve spoken with the students involved. Their parents have been contacted. It’s being addressed."
Euphemia bites back her first response, knowing that snapping won’t fix anything. "Regulus has been here less than a month, and this keeps happening. He’s not safe here."
"I understand your frustration," Mrs. Lawson says, and to her credit, she does look sympathetic. "But it’s not uncommon for children in his situation to struggle with peer relationships. It takes time to adjust."
Euphemia exhales sharply. "He wouldn’t need to ‘adjust’ if other students simply treated him with basic decency."
Mrs. Lawson gives a small nod. "You're right. But he does need structure, stability—he needs to know that the adults around him are consistent."
Euphemia's expression softens slightly, the fight draining out of her just a little. She presses her fingers together, choosing her next words carefully. "We’re trying. It’s just... sometimes, it feels like he’s afraid to settle in. Like he doesn’t believe this is permanent." She shakes her head, something aching in her chest. "It’s difficult for kids like him."
Mrs. Lawson hums in understanding. "He’s been through a lot. It makes sense that he’s hesitant."
Euphemia sighs, quieter this time. "We want him to feel safe with us. But I don’t know if he believes he can."
The words sit heavy between them.
Then, the office door creaks.
Regulus stands just outside, his bag slung over his shoulders. His expression is carefully blank, but there’s something in the stiffness of his posture that makes Euphemia's stomach twist.
How much did he hear?
Mrs. Lawson offers him a kind smile. "Ready to go?"
Regulus nods, but he doesn’t look at Euphemia.
The walk to the car is quiet. Euphemia glances at him every few steps, searching for any sign of how he’s feeling, but his face remains unreadable.
Once they reach the car, he slides into the passenger seat without a word, staring out the window.
Euphemia settles behind the wheel, hesitating before she speaks. "Did you want to talk about it?"
Regulus shakes his head, still not looking at her.
She doesn’t push. She knows him well enough to understand that forcing a conversation won’t get her anywhere. Instead, she simply sighs, starts the engine, and pulls onto the road.
The ride home is silent, thick with unspoken words.
And Euphemia can’t stop thinking about the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
***
The front door clicks shut, and Euphemia barely has time to exhale before Fleamont steps into the kitchen, loosening his tie. He looks tired, but his expression softens when he sees her.
"Long day?" he asks, leaning in to kiss her temple.
She sighs, pressing her fingers against the bridge of her nose. "You have no idea."
Fleamont hums knowingly, heading toward the counter to pour himself a cup of tea from the pot she made earlier. "James?"
"Fine," she says, waving a hand. "Just being James."
"Regulus?"
She exhales sharply. "That’s… a different story."
Fleamont turns, mug in hand, his brow furrowing as he takes her in properly. She’s perched at the table, hands curled around her own cup, but she hasn’t taken a sip in ages.
"What happened?" he asks, voice gentle.
Euphemia swirls the tea absently, watching the liquid shift. "I got called to the school today. Some boys locked him in a supply closet."
Fleamont’s face darkens instantly. "What?"
"He’s fine," she assures quickly, though the words feel weak in her mouth. "Shaken, but fine. He came home early."
Fleamont sets his mug down, pulling out the chair beside her. "And?"
She sighs again. "And he’s barely been near me since."
Fleamont tilts his head, waiting.
"I think… I think he might have overheard my conversation with the Deputy Principal," she admits quietly. "I don’t know how much, but I know he heard something."
Fleamont leans back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "What did you say?"
Euphemia presses her lips together. "Nothing bad. Just that he struggles to believe this is permanent. That kids like him have a hard time settling in." She pauses. "But I’ve said things like that before, and he’s shut down a bit, but it never—"
"Never made him go cold like this?" Fleamont finishes gently.
She nods.
He sighs, reaching for her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "Effie, maybe he just had a bad day. He was locked in a closet, for bloody sake. If he’s upset, it might not have anything to do with what you said."
She nods again, but it’s automatic, her mind elsewhere. "Maybe."
Fleamont studies her for a long moment. "You don’t believe that, do you?"
Euphemia finally looks up at him, and the worry in her eyes is unmistakable. "I don’t know," she admits. "But I have this awful feeling that things are only going to get worse."
POV: FLEAMONT*
Tuesdays mean either he or Euphemia picks Regulus up. Fleamont had offered today, and now, standing outside the guidance counselor’s office, he’s glad he did.
The moment he steps inside, his eyes find Regulus. The boy is curled in on himself, shoulders tight, gaze fixed on the floor. He’s perched on the edge of a chair, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to disappear. His fingers pick restlessly at his sleeve, twisting the fabric between sharp, thin fingers.
Fleamont’s chest aches at the sight.
Mrs. Carrington, the guidance counselor, looks up from her desk and offers a small, polite smile. “Mr. Potter, thank you for coming.”
“Of course.” His attention flickers briefly to her before settling back on Regulus. He takes the seat beside him, moving carefully, like he might startle the boy if he’s not careful.
Regulus doesn’t look up.
Fleamont keeps his voice soft. “Hey, kiddo. What happened?”
For a moment, he doesn’t think Regulus will answer. His whole body is wound tight, breathing shallow. But then—
“He was called an idiot,” comes a sharp voice from the other side of the room.
Fleamont turns his head. He hadn’t even noticed the other student sitting across from them—Barty Crouch Jr., watching the scene unfold with a kind of restrained fury. His voice is quick, clipped, like he knows Regulus won’t say it himself. “Our computing teacher called him an idiot for needing to write things down.” He hesitates, then, quieter but no less cutting, “And then he called him a retard.”
Silence.
Fleamont goes very, very still.
Something sharp and cold settles in his chest. His fingers twitch against his knee, but he doesn’t react—not outwardly, at least. He doesn’t curse, doesn’t slam his fist against the desk like he wants to. He just breathes through it.
He turns back to Regulus. “Is that why you’d like to leave?”
Regulus nods, small and stiff.
Fleamont hums, pushing himself to his feet. “Alright,” he says, easy as anything. He picks up Regulus’ bag, slinging it over his shoulder like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Let’s get out of here.”
Regulus stands without a word, his movements slow and heavy.
Barty exhales. “See you later, Regulus.”
Regulus only nods before following Fleamont out of the office.
The sign-out process is quick, but the air feels heavier with every step toward the car. Fleamont can see the exhaustion dragging at Regulus, the way his head dips slightly, the unsteady way he moves. By the time they reach the passenger seat, the boy all but collapses into it, head resting against the headrest, hands curled limply in his lap.
Fleamont starts the car, and as soon as the engine hums to life, the tension bleeds out of Regulus all at once. His shoulders sag, his breath shuddering on the exhale.
But his hands tremble.
Fleamont notices the way he presses them against his thighs, trying to ground himself. The exhaustion radiating from him isn’t just physical. It’s deeper than that—bone-deep, soul-deep.
Fleamont grips the steering wheel a little tighter.
He doesn’t know what’s worse—the fact that some teacher thought it was acceptable to speak to a child like that, or the fact that Regulus hadn’t planned to tell him at all.
***
The moment they step inside, Regulus doesn’t stop. He barely shrugs off his shoes before making his way up the stairs, moving slowly but deliberately, like he’s carrying something heavy. He doesn’t say a word.
Fleamont watches him go, lips pressing into a thin line. The weight of the afternoon settles heavier on his shoulders. He knows Regulus has had bad days before, but this—this feels different.
Euphemia steps into the entryway, catching sight of Regulus just as he disappears upstairs. Her brows furrow, concern etched into every line of her face. She turns to Fleamont. “What happened today? He looks so…” She trails off, searching for the right word but not finding it.
Fleamont takes a breath, steadying himself. He rarely gets angry—never sees the point in it—but today has tested that patience in a way he hasn’t felt in years. His jaw tightens. “Well,” he starts, voice carefully controlled, “his computing teacher called him an idiot for needing to write things down.”
Euphemia’s expression darkens immediately.
Fleamont exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “And then—” His throat works around the words, because saying it out loud makes it feel worse, somehow. “Then, he called him a retard.”
Silence.
Euphemia blinks once. Twice. Then she straightens, shoulders squaring, fury flashing hot and unmistakable in her eyes. “Nope,” she says, turning on her heel so fast that Fleamont barely has time to process before she’s striding toward the phone.
Fleamont watches as she dials with precise, controlled movements, her lips pressing into a firm line as she waits. The call barely rings twice before someone picks up.
“Ms. Carrington, it’s Euphemia Potter.” Her voice is sharp, clipped, but still polite in the way only Euphemia can manage when she’s furious. “I need to talk to you about Regulus’ computing class.”
A beat. Then, Ms. Carrington’s voice, muffled but firm on the other end.
“I was on it the second I heard.”
Euphemia exhales, tension easing from her shoulders ever so slightly. “Good. I want him out of that class immediately.”
“It’ll be sorted by tomorrow morning,” Ms. Carrington assures her.
Euphemia closes her eyes briefly, relief flickering across her face before she nods, even though Ms. Carrington can’t see it. “Thank you.”
She hangs up, standing still for a moment, hands resting against the counter. Fleamont steps forward, setting a gentle hand on her back.
She lets out a breath, then turns to him, eyes still sharp with lingering anger. “What kind of person says that to a child?”
Fleamont shakes his head. “Someone who shouldn’t be teaching.”
They stand there for a moment, neither saying anything else. The house is quiet, save for the faint creak of the floorboards upstairs.
Finally, Euphemia sighs. “I’ll check on him later. Give him a bit of space first.”
Fleamont nods, though the anger in his chest hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s only settled in deeper.
POV: EUPHEMIA
It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and Regulus is still in bed.
Euphemia has spent the past thirty minutes trying everything to coax him up—gentle encouragement, firm reasoning, even the promise of tea and toast. Nothing has worked. He’s curled up under the blankets, stiff and silent, making it abundantly clear he has no intention of moving.
She’s dealt with her fair share of stubborn older teens before, but Regulus is different. He isn’t just being difficult—he’s shutting down, and she doesn’t know how to reach him.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, she rests a hand on his blanket-covered shoulder.
“Regulus,” she says, voice warm but firm, “I know yesterday was awful. But hiding in bed isn’t going to change anything.”
No response.
She sighs. “If you get up now, we’ll still have time for tea before we leave.”
Still nothing.
She’s about to try again when James steps into the room, dressed in his uniform, bag slung over one shoulder. He takes one look at Regulus buried under the covers, then at her, and tilts his head.
“What if you just sit in Mum’s car until assembly is over?” James suggests, casual as anything. “Then come into school after.”
Euphemia blinks. That’s… actually a good idea.
The blankets shift slightly. Regulus is thinking about it.
A long moment passes before he finally exhales and pushes the covers back, sitting up.
James grins. “There we go.”
Euphemia lets out a breath of relief. She turns to James and presses a quick kiss to his forehead, then another to his cheek.
James groans, pulling away. “Mum—seriously?”
She just smiles, brushing a hand over his curls. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
James huffs but looks pleased as he slings his bag higher on his shoulder and heads downstairs.
Regulus moves slowly, dragging himself through the motions of getting ready. He doesn’t meet her eyes as he pulls on his uniform, and by the time they’re in the car, he’s slumped in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out the window.
Euphemia doesn’t start the car immediately. She watches him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers press into his sleeves.
“I know you’ve been avoiding me,” she says finally, voice quiet but steady. “And I don’t really know why.”
Regulus doesn’t react, but she sees the way his jaw tightens ever so slightly.
She exhales. “I know I’ve done something to upset you. I just—if I have, I’d rather you tell me than keep it all bottled up.”
Silence.
She doesn’t push, just lets the quiet settle between them as she watches students trickle into the school.
When there are only five minutes left until the bell, she reaches for the door handle. “Time to head in,” she says gently.
Regulus nods, unbuckling his seatbelt without a word.
They walk into the office together, and Euphemia signs him in. Before he turns to leave, she rests a hand lightly on his shoulder.
“If you need anything, go to Mrs. Carrington’s office and have her call me,” she says.
Regulus nods again, and without a glance back, he disappears down the hallway.
Euphemia watches him go, her heart heavy. The day has barely begun, and she already knows this isn’t going to be the end of it.
***
The school day has ended, and the usual buzz of students fills the parking lot as Euphemia pulls up. She spots James immediately, his tie loosened, school bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder as he waves, jogging toward the car. Regulus follows behind at a slower pace, his movements sluggish, head slightly bowed, as if he's walking through fog.
Euphemia frowns.
When the boys slide into the car, James greets her with an easy, "Hey, Mum," but Regulus says nothing. He simply clicks his seatbelt in place and stares blankly out the window, his hands curled tightly around the straps of his bag.
"Alright, love?" Euphemia asks gently, turning slightly in her seat to look at him.
Regulus doesn’t react. Doesn’t even seem to hear her.
James glances between them, then shrugs. “Dunno what’s up with him. He’s been like that since assembly.”
Ah.
Euphemia exhales softly, turning her attention back to the road as she pulls away from the school. That explains it. She should have realized—large crowds, loud voices, the expectation to sit still in an overstimulating environment. No wonder Regulus is so out of it.
The drive home is quiet, save for James tapping rhythmically against the door panel. Regulus remains withdrawn, barely blinking as he watches the world blur past the window.
When they arrive home, James immediately kicks off his shoes and heads toward the kitchen, likely in search of a snack. Regulus, however, moves as if on autopilot, trudging upstairs without a word.
Euphemia watches him go, concern tightening in her chest.
Turning to James, she keeps her voice gentle. "Was there anything else today? Anything that might’ve upset him?"
James shakes his head. "Not really. Just assembly. He was fine before that I think."
She nods, squeezing his shoulder briefly before heading upstairs herself.
Regulus’ bedroom door is slightly open when she reaches it. Peering inside, she finds him sitting on the bed, legs drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. His expression is distant, glassy-eyed, as if he’s somewhere far away.
“Regulus?” Euphemia calls softly.
No response.
Concern deepening, she steps inside, keeping her movements slow, deliberate. “Sweetheart, you look exhausted. Why don’t you lie down for a bit?”
Still, no reaction.
Gently, she places a hand on his shoulder. That, at least, seems to reach him—he blinks sluggishly, eyes flicking toward her, but there’s no real recognition there, as if it takes effort to pull himself back into the present.
“Come on, love,” she coaxes, guiding him down until he’s lying on the bed. He lets her, pliant and silent, as she tucks the blanket around him.
His bag is still on the floor, half-unzipped from where he must have set it down upon entering. Kneeling, she reaches inside and pulls out his black stuffed dog. It’s well-loved, fur slightly worn from years of use.
When she presses it gently into his arms, his fingers curl around it automatically.
“There you go, sweetheart,” she murmurs, smoothing a hand over his curls. “Just rest, alright? It’s okay to fall asleep.”
Regulus barely reacts, still caught in that dazed state, but his breathing slows, deepens, as his body surrenders to exhaustion.
Euphemia stays for a while, her hand a steady, grounding presence on his back. She watches as the tension gradually seeps from his features, as his grip on the stuffed dog tightens just slightly in his sleep.
Only when she’s sure he’s resting does she slip out of the room, closing the door partway behind her with a soft sigh.
***
“Regulus?”
His entire body locks up.
Euphemia’s breath catches. Something is wrong. The tension in his frame, the way his grip tightens on his bag, the rigid set of his shoulders—it’s a barricade, one she can’t see past.
She softens her voice. “Is everything alright, sweetheart?”
He doesn’t answer.
His jaw clenches so tightly she can see the muscles straining. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t give her anything at all.
Euphemia’s heart squeezes. “Regulus?” she tries again.
Nothing.
The silence stretches, taut and unmoving. She exhales, glancing briefly at Mrs. Carrington behind the desk, then back at Regulus. Whatever happened today—whatever put that look on his face—it’s bad.
She takes a careful step back, giving him space. “Come on,” she says gently.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, stiffly, he rises to his feet. The motion is mechanical, like his limbs are made of lead, like standing is an unbearable effort.
Euphemia watches him closely as they leave the office, but he refuses to look at her. His hands remain curled into fists at his sides, his shoulders drawn tight, his head ducked low.
Something has happened. Something that’s fractured him, left jagged edges in its wake.
She doesn’t push, doesn’t ask—not yet. Instead, she walks beside him, matching his pace as they move through the school. They pass students lingering in the hallways, teachers chatting by their doors. Regulus keeps his gaze on the floor, his body wound so tightly she thinks he might snap in half.
The walk to the car is suffocating in its silence.
Euphemia glances at him every so often, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t.
Not a word.
When they reach the car, she unlocks it, and he yanks the door open, throwing himself inside. The door slams shut, rattling the frame.
Euphemia’s chest tightens.
She slides into the driver’s seat, starts the car. The school fades into the background as they pull onto the road, trees blurring past.
Still, Regulus says nothing.
Still, he refuses to look at her.
Euphemia’s hands tighten slightly on the wheel. She can feel the anger radiating off him, thick and suffocating. But beneath the fury, beneath the sharp edges of whatever this is, she senses something else. Something more fragile.
Hurt.
Regulus doesn’t speak the entire drive home.
When they pull into the driveway, he stares at the house like it’s foreign to him, like it isn’t the place he’s spent the last few weeks learning to call home.
Euphemia’s stomach twists.
She steps out of the car, watching as he follows suit. His grip tightens on his bag again—white-knuckled, desperate. He’s holding onto it like it’s the only thing keeping him together.
She wants to reach for him. But she doesn’t.
Instead, she steps inside and waits as he does the same. The door clicks shut behind them, enclosing them in silence. The house is warm, filled with the lingering scent of cookies she made earlier. It feels…wrong, somehow. Like the world is pretending everything is fine when it isn’t.
Regulus stands just inside the doorway, unmoving. His chest rises and falls with sharp, uneven breaths. His whole body is too still, too tense.
Euphemia hesitates for only a moment before offering, gently, “Would you like some chocolate milk and cookies, sweetheart?”
It’s meant to be comforting. A small piece of normalcy, a reassurance that he is safe.
But—
The moment the words leave her mouth, something inside him shatters.
Regulus explodes.
He moves before she can process it, his hands grabbing the closest thing—a framed photo on the table—and hurling it across the room. The glass shatters against the wall, splintering into a thousand glittering shards.
Euphemia’s breath catches.
He doesn’t stop.
He lunges toward the bookshelf, knocking over books, sending them scattering across the floor. A vase crashes to the ground, ceramic splintering on impact. Another picture frame—gone. His hands grab anything within reach, throwing, breaking, destroying.
A guttural noise rips from his throat, raw and animalistic. It makes something deep in Euphemia’s chest ache.
And then—
It stops.
Regulus stands frozen in the wreckage. His chest heaves. His hands shake violently at his sides.
Euphemia doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak.
His eyes dart wildly around the room, taking in the destruction, the broken glass, the ruined books. His breath stutters—sharp and ragged.
Then, slowly, his gaze lifts to her.
The moment their eyes meet, he crumbles.
Tears spill over before he can stop them, his breath hitching, his whole body trembling.
Euphemia takes a single step forward.
“Regulus?” she says softly.
The reaction is instant. He stumbles back, legs giving out as he collapses to the floor. His hands clutch his knees, curling in on himself. His breathing turns erratic, gasping, choking.
Panic.
It grips him, merciless and unrelenting. His entire frame shakes, his fingers digging into his sleeves. His breath stutters—shallow, unsteady.
Euphemia moves.
She kneels beside him, hands hovering for only a moment before she presses a steady palm to his back.
“Sweetheart,” she murmurs, low and gentle, grounding. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”
His body tenses beneath her touch. But—he doesn’t pull away.
She keeps her movements slow, careful. One hand rubbing soft circles on his back, the other carding gently through his hair.
His breaths remain jagged, but—he’s trying. She can see it.
She shifts slightly, guiding him into a more stable position. His face is pale, streaked with tears, his whole body trembling violently.
Euphemia exhales softly. “Can you follow my breathing, love?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. But his gaze flickers to hers, wide and unfocused.
She inhales—deep and slow.
He tries to copy her. His breath hitches, stumbles, but he tries.
“In,” she says gently.
Regulus breathes in.
“Out.”
He exhales.
They repeat the process, again and again, until the worst of the panic ebbs. Until his breathing, though uneven, is no longer strangled.
Until his hands loosen, ever so slightly, from where they clutch at his sleeves.
Euphemia keeps her voice low, soothing. “Are you back with me?”
A small, barely-there nod.
She exhales, relief curling in her chest.
A beat of quiet. Then—
“What happened?”
The moment the words leave her mouth, fresh tears spill over. Regulus’ body shakes, his face twisting as he curls in on himself again, the weight of whatever he’s holding crushing down on him.
Euphemia reacts instantly.
“Okay,” she soothes, shifting, wrapping her arms around him. “Okay, love.”
Regulus doesn’t resist. He tucks himself against her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His small frame trembles violently as broken sobs wrack through him.
Euphemia holds him tighter. One hand strokes slow, calming circles on his back, the other threading through his hair.
“You’re alright,” she whispers. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
And she does.
No matter how much he breaks, no matter how much he pushes, she will always be here to hold the pieces.
After a while, once Regulus is more stable, Euphemia moves him towards the couch. His head is resting in her lap, and she’s got one hand on his back, rubbing slow, steady circles in an effort to soothe him. His breathing has evened out, though every now and then, his body gives the smallest tremor, a lingering aftershock of the storm he just weathered. She doesn’t stop the motion, doesn’t even consider it.
She keeps her other hand free, reaching for the phone on the end table. She hesitates only a moment before dialing.
The line rings twice before a warm, familiar voice picks up. “Hello?”
“Hope, it’s Euphemia,” she says, keeping her voice low. Her fingers don’t pause their movement against Regulus’ back, mindful of the way his breathing remains shallow, the tension still holding his small frame taut.
“Euphemia! How are you, dear?” Hope sounds bright, as she always does, but there’s an underlying note of concern. “Is everything alright?”
Euphemia sighs, shifting slightly on the couch. “I—” She pauses, glancing down at the boy curled against her. She lowers her voice even further, mindful that he might still be listening, even if his eyes remain closed. “Something happened at school today. I don’t know exactly what yet, but—Regulus had a meltdown.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Hope murmurs, immediately understanding. “Is he alright?”
“He will be,” Euphemia says, though she doesn’t fully believe it yet. “It was bad, Hope. He broke things. He—he panicked, and then he just—” She stops, exhaling sharply. “He’s exhausted now, but I need to focus on him this afternoon. I was wondering if you could take James for a few hours.”
“Of course,” Hope says immediately. “You don’t even have to ask. Send him over whenever.”
Relief washes over Euphemia, easing some of the tightness in her chest. “Thank you. Truly.”
“You don’t need to thank me, love,” Hope says, voice gentle. “James is always welcome here. Does he know what happened?”
“No.” Euphemia’s fingers still briefly against Regulus’ back before resuming their motions. “I didn’t get the chance to explain, and I don’t want him to be upset before he leaves.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Hope promises. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
Euphemia nods, even though Hope can’t see her. “I’ll bring him over soon.”
“Take your time,” Hope assures her. “And if you need anything—anything at all—just call.”
“Thank you,” Euphemia says again, and this time, she means it in more ways than one.
She ends the call, placing the phone back on the table with quiet care. Her eyes drift down to Regulus. He hasn’t moved, but his fingers have curled slightly in the fabric of her skirt, like he’s grounding himself in her presence. Her heart aches at the sight.
She exhales softly, letting her head tip back against the couch. Now, it’s just waiting for Fleamont to get home.
POV: FLEAMONT
When Fleamont got a phone call from Euphemia asking him to come home as soon as possible, he had no idea that he’d be walking in to.
“Euphemia?” Fleamont calls, his voice steady but expectant as he steps inside. The house is unusually quiet, which sets something uneasy in his chest.
“We’re in the living room,” Euphemia answers, her voice gentle but firm.
He follows the sound of her voice, his footsteps measured as he makes his way down the hall. The moment he steps into the living room, his eyes sweep over the space, taking in the aftermath. His wife sits on the couch, one arm wrapped protectively around Regulus, her fingers tracing absentminded patterns into the boy’s back.
Regulus doesn’t look up.
Fleamont’s gaze flickers to the broken picture frames near the fireplace, the faint glint of shattered glass swept into a careful pile. His concern deepens as he lowers himself into the armchair beside them.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice calm but laced with quiet worry.
Euphemia doesn’t hesitate. She explains—how Regulus came home upset, how he lashed out when she tried to comfort him, how the glass shattered, how the destruction unfolded.
Fleamont listens carefully, his brows furrowing, but he doesn’t interrupt. He glances at Regulus, noting the way the boy curls in on himself, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on a distant spot on the couch.
“Nobody was hurt,” Euphemia adds, but it’s clear from the way her hand tightens slightly against Regulus’ back that she doesn’t truly believe that.
Fleamont exhales slowly, steadying himself. Then, carefully, deliberately, he leans forward. “Regulus,” he says, keeping his voice even, gentle. “Can you tell us what happened? What made you so upset?”
Regulus doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge the question.
Euphemia speaks next, just as softly. “You’re not in trouble, sweetheart. But we need to understand. You broke one of the house rules, and that means we need to talk about it.”
Regulus swallows, his hands twitching in his lap. Something flickers across his face—hesitation, fear, something raw and heavy.
Fleamont watches as the boy’s fingers move, slowly, hesitantly, toward the notebook lying beside him. His hand trembles as he picks up the pen. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then, painstakingly, he begins to write.
Fleamont doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just waits as Regulus pours whatever is inside of him onto the page.
He sees the way Regulus’ grip tightens on the pen, the way his breathing turns shallow, the way his shoulders curl inward as if bracing for impact.
Then, finally, Regulus shoves the notebook forward, pushing it toward Euphemia. He stiffens immediately after, retreating to the farthest end of the couch, his arms wrapping around his legs.
Fleamont catches the way his wife’s face changes as she reads—her breath hitching, her eyes softening with something heavy and heartbroken.
She doesn’t speak right away.
Fleamont takes the notebook when she’s done. His eyes move over the words, his stomach twisting at what he reads.
Colin and his gang. They’ve been targeting me.
The further he reads, the worse it gets. His grip tightens slightly on the edge of the paper, though he keeps his expression calm. The things they’ve said to Regulus, the way they’ve made him feel like he doesn’t belong, like he’s unwanted—
Then he sees the last part.
I hate it here.
I hate that everything is different now. I hate that you put me in that school. I hate that if you had just left me alone, none of this would have happened. I hate that you act like you care when you don’t. I hate that I keep falling for it. I hate you for making me think I could ever be safe.
Fleamont exhales slowly, forcing down the immediate ache in his chest. He looks at Regulus, watches the way the boy shrinks into himself, shame creeping up his spine like a suffocating weight.
Euphemia is the first to speak. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers, heartbreak woven into every syllable.
Regulus flinches.
Fleamont straightens, setting the notebook aside. He knows the boy is waiting for something—for disappointment, for frustration, for anger.
But that’s not what he feels.
“Regulus,” he says, careful, deliberate. “I am so sorry you’ve been dealing with this on your own.”
Regulus tenses at that.
“You don’t deserve that,” Euphemia adds softly. “You don’t deserve any of it.”
Fleamont watches as Regulus swallows hard, his fingers tightening around his sleeves.
“We can talk about what to do about Colin and his friends later,” Euphemia continues. “Right now, we need you to know something.”
Regulus stiffens further, as if bracing himself.
Fleamont glances at his wife before speaking again. “You wrote that we don’t care.”
Regulus twitches.
“That we only took you in out of pity.”
Regulus’ breathing hitches.
“That we’ll send you away.”
Fleamont sees the way Regulus’ eyes squeeze shut, the way his hands curl into fists, as if physically trying to hold himself together.
He leans forward slightly, voice unwavering. “Regulus.”
Euphemia shifts closer but doesn’t touch him. “I don’t know how to make you believe this, sweetheart,” she says gently, voice trembling slightly. “But I need you to hear me.”
She pauses. Then, softly—
“We chose you.”
Regulus’ breath catches.
“You are not a burden to us. You are not a mistake. You are not something we took on out of obligation.”
Fleamont nods. “You’re a part of this family, Regulus.”
Regulus shakes his head sharply, pressing his hands over his ears as if trying to block out the words.
Euphemia’s voice wavers. “Oh, sweetheart—”
She moves before Fleamont can, wrapping her arms around the boy and pulling him in.
Regulus breaks.
A sob wrenches itself from his throat, his entire body shuddering with it. Then another. And another.
Fleamont doesn’t hesitate. He shifts forward, wrapping an arm around Regulus from the other side, his hand firm and steady against his back.
“You’re safe,” Euphemia whispers, her fingers threading through Regulus’ hair, the other rubbing soothing circles against his spine. “You’re safe, sweetheart. You’re okay.”
Regulus clings to her.
Fleamont tightens his hold, grounding him, steady and unwavering.
They hold him.
They don’t let go.
***
The bedroom is quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric as Euphemia pulls back the duvet. Fleamont watches her from where he stands by the wardrobe, rolling his sleeves down, fastening the buttons at his wrists. She moves slowly, her hands smoothing over the sheets with practiced ease, but there’s something about the way she does it—too deliberate, too careful—that makes something uneasy settle in his chest.
She’s upset.
He can see it in the tightness of her shoulders, in the way she hasn’t met his eyes since they left Regulus’ room earlier. He’d noticed it then too, the way her hands had lingered in the boy’s hair longer than necessary, the way she’d pressed a kiss to his forehead like she was trying to will him into believing he was safe.
Fleamont exhales softly, stepping toward the bed. “Euphemia.”
She hums, distracted, as she fluffs her pillow. “Mm?”
He watches her for a beat, then shakes his head. “What’s wrong?”
She stills for the briefest moment before shaking her head. “It’s nothing.”
Fleamont’s brow furrows. “Euphemia.”
She doesn’t look at him, just slips under the covers, turning onto her side. “I’m fine, Monty.”
But she’s not. He knows her too well to believe that.
He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for her hand. She lets him take it, but her fingers are loose in his grasp. “We promised,” he reminds her, voice quiet but firm. “We promised we’d always talk to each other when something’s wrong.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
For a long moment, the only sound is the slow ticking of the clock on the nightstand. Then, finally, she exhales, her fingers tightening around his. “It’s Regulus,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.
Fleamont had expected as much, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.
Euphemia sits up, her free hand coming up to rub tiredly at her eyes. “What he wrote, Monty…” She swallows, shaking her head. “He thinks we only took him in out of pity. That we don’t really care.” Her voice wavers. “How—how could he think that?”
Fleamont’s chest tightens. He had read those words himself, had felt the sharp sting of them settle deep in his bones. He knows Regulus is hurting, knows the boy lashes out in the only way he knows how, but that doesn’t make it easier to see it written out so plainly.
Euphemia shakes her head again, blinking rapidly. “What are we going to do to make him see it’s not true? That we love him?”
Fleamont squeezes her hand, grounding her. “We support him,” he says simply. “We keep showing up. We make sure he knows—really knows—that it’s safe here.”
Euphemia studies him for a long moment, searching his face. Then, slowly, she nods. “Okay.”
She leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder. Fleamont presses a kiss to her hair, his arm wrapping securely around her. They sit like that for a while, the weight of the day pressing down on them.
But then, in a quiet voice, Euphemia speaks again.
“He blames me.”
Fleamont pulls back slightly, frowning. “What?”
She exhales shakily, rubbing at her temple. “For what’s been happening at school. The way the other kids are treating him. He thinks—” Her throat bobs, and she looks down at her lap. “He thinks it’s my fault. That if I hadn’t meddled, hadn’t spoken to his teachers, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.”
Fleamont’s stomach twists, and a sharp protectiveness flares in his chest. “That’s not fair,” he says immediately. “You were trying to help.”
“I know.” She bites her lip. “But he doesn’t see it that way. And maybe—maybe I made things worse—”
“No.” Fleamont shakes his head firmly, cutting that thought down before it can take root. “Absolutely not. This isn’t your fault, Euphemia. You did the right thing.”
She hums softly, but it doesn’t sound convinced.
Fleamont reaches for her other hand, cradling both of hers between his own. “Listen to me,” he says, waiting until she meets his eyes. “You didn’t make things worse. The other kids are being cruel, but that’s not because of anything you did—it’s because they don’t understand. Because they see someone different and they don’t know how to react. That isn’t on you.”
She watches him, eyes searching. “Then why does it feel like it is?”
Fleamont exhales, stroking his thumbs over her knuckles. “Because you care. Because you want to fix it for him. But you can’t control how others behave—you can only control what you do.” He squeezes her hands. “And what you did was fight for him. You saw him struggling, and you stepped in to help. That’s not something to feel guilty over. That’s something to be proud of.”
Euphemia’s eyes shine in the low light. She doesn’t say anything, but this time, when she nods, it’s slow and measured, like she’s finally letting herself believe it.
Fleamont presses a kiss to her temple before they both slip under the covers, the warmth of the blankets pulling them into comfort. Euphemia reaches for his hand beneath the sheets, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze.
But Fleamont doesn’t fall asleep right away.
He stares at the ceiling, his mind spinning.
What else can they do?
Regulus needs time, patience, reassurance—but is that enough?
Something gnaws at him, a quiet whisper at the back of his mind.
You’re not doing enough to help him.
He swallows against the thought, shaking it away. No. He refuses to believe that.
This is a boy who needs love and support.
And that’s exactly what he’s going to give him.
POV: EUPHEMIA
Euphemia doesn’t know what to do.
Since Friday, Regulus has been caught in a cycle of extremes—one moment, he’s by her side constantly, quietly inserting himself into every task she does, and the next, he’s avoiding her entirely, shutting himself away in his room.
Saturday morning, she had woken to the sound of soft footsteps in the kitchen. At first, she’d thought it was Fleamont, but when she stepped into the room, she found Regulus instead. He hadn’t looked at her, hadn’t said a word—just carefully set a mug of tea on the table and turned back to the counter, methodically wiping away the already spotless water droplets near the sink.
She had thanked him, gently, but he had only given a small nod and continued cleaning, even though there was nothing left to tidy.
That same afternoon, he had followed her around the house, lingering just close enough to help but never quite meeting her eyes. He had passed her the laundry pegs as she hung the sheets to dry, reached for dishes before she could, even hovered in the doorway while she sat in the living room knitting, as if waiting for something to do.
And then, by Sunday evening, he was gone.
Not physically—he was still in the house, of course—but he had locked himself away, refusing to come down for dinner until Fleamont urged him to. Even then, he barely touched his food and muttered a quiet, polite “Thank you, ma’am” before slipping away again.
By Monday, he was glued to her side once more. When she sat at the table to go over her schedule, he stood behind her chair, reading silently over her shoulder. When she went to water the plants, he trailed after her, carefully refilling the watering can without being asked. She had tried to encourage him to go sit with James, to go read, to do something for himself, but he had just shaken his head and stayed.
Then, come Tuesday, he was gone again.
Wednesday had been much of the same.
And now, Thursday morning, as Euphemia stirs milk into her tea, she watches him carefully. He’s sitting at the table, shoulders drawn tight, eyes locked on the open book in front of him. He isn’t reading—she can tell from the way his gaze stays fixed to the same spot, never moving.
She exhales softly, moving to sit across from him. He doesn’t react, doesn’t look up.
She wants to say something.
But what?
What can she say that won’t send him further into himself?
Fleamont steps into the kitchen before she can decide. “Morning, you two,” he greets, dropping a kiss to the top of her head before glancing at Regulus. “Ready for school?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. He just nods stiffly, shutting his book and standing, his movements too controlled, too careful.
Euphemia’s stomach twists.
Because this isn’t normal.
This isn’t just a boy who is quiet.
This is a boy drowning in guilt, and she has no idea how to help him.
***
The phone rings just as Euphemia is finishing up the breakfast dishes. She wipes her hands on a towel, glancing at the clock—9:15. It’s far too early for anything urgent.
Still, a strange sense of unease settles in her chest as she picks up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Potter?” The voice on the other end is calm, professional—but something about it makes the unease tighten. “This is Deputy Principal Lawson.”
Euphemia stills. Her grip on the phone tightens. “Good morning, Deputy Principal. Is everything alright?”
There’s a pause, brief but noticeable. “I’m calling regarding Regulus. I was hoping you and your husband could come down to the school as soon as possible. There’s been… an incident.”
Euphemia’s stomach drops.
An incident?
It’s only 9:15. What could have possibly happened?
She forces herself to stay composed. “Of course. I’ll be there shortly—my husband as well.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Potter. We’ll see you soon.”
The call disconnects with a quiet click, and for a moment, Euphemia just stands there, gripping the receiver, staring at the wall as her heart beats unsteadily in her chest.
She exhales sharply, setting the phone back on the hook before pulling out her mobile to call Fleamont.
It rings twice before he picks up. “Euphemia?”
“The Deputy Principal just called,” she says, wasting no time. “We’re needed at the school. Another incident with Regulus.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, a steady, “Alright. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
She nods, even though he can’t see it. “Drive safe.”
“I will.”
The call ends, and Euphemia exhales, pressing the phone lightly against her chin as she gathers herself.
Then, with a steadying breath, she grabs her keys, steps out of the house, and settles into the driver’s seat of her car.
For a long moment, she doesn’t start the engine.
She just sits there, hands resting on the wheel, mentally preparing herself for whatever is waiting for them at that school.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont steps into the school office with his wife at his side, glancing around the waiting area. It takes only a moment before he spots Regulus, sitting stiffly in one of the chairs.
“Oh, there he is,” he murmurs.
Regulus’ head snaps up at the sound, his posture going rigid.
Euphemia is already scanning the room, and the moment she lays eyes on Regulus, she zeroes in on him with sharp, assessing eyes. She doesn’t speak, but Fleamont knows that look—she’s already trying to determine how bad things are, how much damage has been done.
Fleamont pauses to exchange a quiet word with the receptionist while Euphemia moves toward Regulus, her presence warm but unwavering. He follows her just as Deputy Principal Lawson steps into the waiting area, gaze shifting between them.
“Come in,” she says. “We’ll talk in my office.”
Regulus hesitates.
Euphemia waits, not pressuring him, but expecting him to follow nonetheless. Fleamont watches closely as Regulus straightens slightly and, after a beat, stands.
Good lad.
They step into Lawson’s office, a tidy space dominated by a large wooden desk. Framed photos sit on the surface—presumably of Lawson’s family—but Fleamont barely glances at them. He’s more focused on Regulus, who looks wound tight enough to snap.
Lawson gestures for them to sit. Fleamont and Euphemia take the seats beside Regulus, while Ms. Carrington, the school counselor, settles next to the boy.
Lawson folds her hands together and exhales before speaking. “Now, Regulus, I want to start by saying that you are not in trouble. You are not being punished for what happened today.” Her voice is steady, reassuring. “But I do want to help you. That’s the only reason we’re having this conversation. Alright?”
Regulus gives a short, stiff nod.
Lawson glances at Ms. Carrington before continuing, tone gentle but firm. “We saw what happened this morning, but we need to understand the full picture. Can you tell us what Colin and his friends have been doing to you?”
Regulus goes still. His hands twitch slightly in his lap.
Fleamont doesn’t miss the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard. The words are there—he can see them hovering behind Regulus’ eyes—but they won’t come out.
The silence drags.
Fleamont clears his throat. “He told us a little bit about it the other day,” he says carefully, keeping his tone neutral. He doesn’t want to overwhelm the boy, but he also won’t let this be brushed aside. “About what these boys have been doing to him.”
Euphemia picks up where he leaves off. “They’ve been taking his things. Destroying them. Teasing him. Making school miserable.”
But they don’t know everything. Fleamont watches as Regulus stares down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them like he’s trying to ground himself.
Euphemia’s voice softens. “You don’t have to say anything out loud if you don’t want to,” she tells him gently. “But we don’t know the full story. Do you think you can tell us the rest?”
A long pause.
Then—Regulus swallows again. His fingers twitch once more before he reaches for his bag, pulling out a notebook. Without a word, he flips to a blank page and starts writing.
Fleamont watches the way the pen moves fast, the strokes sharp and pressed hard into the paper. He knows, instinctively, that whatever is being written is worse than what they imagined.
He waits.
When Regulus finally finishes, he hands the notebook over.
Lawson reads first. Ms. Carrington leans in beside her. As they scan the pages, Fleamont sees their expressions darken. Ms. Carrington’s lips part slightly, her brows knitting together.
“This,” Lawson finally says, looking up, voice tight, “is unacceptable.”
Ms. Carrington shakes her head, exhaling sharply. “I knew it was bad, but I didn’t realize it was this bad.”
Fleamont glances at his wife.
Euphemia has one hand pressed over her mouth, eyes glistening. She breathes in slow, like she’s trying to control herself.
Fleamont clenches his jaw, steadying his expression before he looks back at Regulus. The boy isn’t watching the adults—he’s watching them. Watching him and Euphemia, as if trying to gauge their reaction.
Fleamont meets his gaze. He keeps his own expression calm, reassuring.
It’s alright. You’re safe.
Regulus doesn’t look away.
Lawson takes a breath, regaining her composure before turning back to them. “We’ve already decided on consequences,” she says. “The boys involved will be suspended for the rest of the school year.”
Fleamont sees the way Regulus frowns slightly at that—he isn’t satisfied.
But then—
“Because we have a zero-tolerance policy for bullying and violence, we are also implementing additional disciplinary actions,” Lawson continues. “They will fail their exams and be required to complete the summer school program.”
Regulus blinks. His fingers twitch against his knee.
Fleamont watches carefully as something shifts in the boy’s posture.
Relief.
Euphemia exhales, pressing her lips together before nodding. “That sounds like a reasonable punishment, considering everything they’ve done.”
Fleamont crosses his arms. “Actions have consequences. And these are appropriate ones.”
Lawson nods. “I’m glad you both think so. We don’t take bullying lightly here, and based on what we’ve seen and what Regulus has written, I have no doubt this is the right decision.”
Regulus lowers his gaze, staring at his hands. The tension in his shoulders hasn’t fully left—but something is different now. Less sharp. Less suffocating.
Fleamont lets out a quiet breath.
The meeting wraps up shortly after.
But when they step out of Lawson’s office, a new problem awaits them.
The boys’ parents have arrived.
And they are furious .
“This is an outrage !” one man bellows. “Suspending them for the rest of the term? Failing them? You have no right to do this!”
“They’re children !” a woman snaps. “This will ruin their records! Their futures!”
The shouting is immediate. Heated. Fleamont doesn’t react—not yet. He stands beside Regulus, keeping a careful eye on him.
And then—
Colin’s mother spots Regulus.
Her eyes blaze .
She storms toward them, heels clicking sharply against the tile.
Fleamont tenses.
She stops directly in front of Regulus, pointing a manicured finger in his face. “This is your fault!” she hisses.
Regulus freezes.
His breath catches, shoulders locking. He takes a step back on instinct, reaching out blindly—
His fingers grasp the fabric of Euphemia’s shirt.
Fleamont doesn’t get the chance to move before Euphemia does.
She steps forward, planting herself between Regulus and the woman. Her entire body hums with fury, shoulders squared, back straight. When she speaks, her voice is low and dangerous .
“The second he stepped foot onto the school grounds, your son has tormented mine .”
Fleamont watches as Regulus’ eyes widen behind her.
Mine.
Euphemia doesn’t stop. “Your son has spent the entire month destroying his belongings. Humiliating him. Belittling him. And you dare to stand here and blame him ?”
Colin’s mother splutters, but Euphemia doesn’t wait for an answer.
She exhales sharply, then turns on her heel. “We’re done here.”
Fleamont nods, adjusting the strap of Regulus’ bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Regulus follows immediately.
When they reach the car, Fleamont notices something.
Regulus is still holding Euphemia’s hand.
He doesn’t let go.
And neither does she.
Something inside of Fleamont shifts. He’s not sure what, but, what he does know is that something has changed.
***
Fleamont leans back against the headboard, stretching out his legs as he watches Euphemia go through her nightly routine. She’s slower than usual, distracted, though he doesn’t think she’s realized it yet.
His mind drifts back to earlier in the afternoon, after the chaos of the school meeting, after the confrontation in the office. They’d left the school and gone straight to the shops, mostly because Fleamont had insisted.
Regulus hadn’t argued, not really, but he had protested in his usual way—hesitant, reluctant, almost as though accepting something good was foreign to him. Fleamont had been persistent.
“You’re going to need it for the summer,” Fleamont said, placing it into the cart before Regulus could protest.
Regulus had stood stiffly beside him, gaze flickering between the books and the floor, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his pants.
Euphemia, standing just behind them, had shot him an amused, knowing look, but she didn’t intervene. She never did when Fleamont set his mind to something like this.
Regulus had caved eventually, though he still looked unconvinced when Fleamont added a few more trinkets to their purchases—a small keychain with a tiny metal star, a soft navy blanket that Euphemia pointed out and Fleamont insisted would be perfect for reading in bed. Regulus hadn’t asked for any of it, but that didn’t matter. He deserved nice things.
Now, hours later, the house is quiet. Regulus had gone to bed a while ago, curled up with his new blanket, and Fleamont finds himself lingering on something else. Something that’s been at the back of his mind since they left the school.
“Euphemia.”
She hums, distracted as she ties her hair back. “Mhm?”
He watches her for a moment before speaking. “About what happened today. In the principal’s office.”
That gets her attention. She turns slightly, brow furrowing. “What about it?”
Fleamont exhales. “That woman—Colin’s mother. The way she went after Regulus.” His jaw tightens at the memory. “She was out of line.”
Euphemia’s face hardens. “I couldn’t let that woman blame Regulus for something her son did.”
Fleamont nods slowly, studying her. “I know. But that’s not what I meant.”
She gives him a quizzical look. “Then what?”
“You called him yours.”
She blinks. “What?”
Fleamont tilts his head, watching as the realization doesn’t quite land yet. “You called Regulus your son.”
Her brows knit together. “No, I didn’t.”
He gives her a flat, unimpressed look.
She stares back. “Really?”
Fleamont nods. “Yeah, yeah you did.”
Euphemia goes still for a moment, her expression unreadable. Fleamont doesn’t speak, giving her the space to process it. He knows what’s happening—he’s watching it unfold right in front of him.
“He actually held my hand?” she asks after a beat, voice softer now, uncertain. “Like, for real?”
Fleamont hums in acknowledgement. “Even as we walked all the way to the car.”
She looks away, staring at the wall as if it holds answers. Fleamont studies her, knowing full well that they’re both coming to the same conclusion.
Euphemia called Regulus her son. Not in a distant, detached way. Not in the way she speaks about the children they foster. No—she claimed him, instinctively, without hesitation.
And Regulus had reached for her. Willingly. Without being prompted.
Fleamont clears his throat. “You’ve never called one of our foster kids your child this early before.” He pauses, then adds, “You do realize we’ve only been fostering Regulus for a month?”
Euphemia finally looks back at him, expression shifting, as if she’s only just beginning to understand the weight of it.
Fleamont presses on. “What would happen if he got removed from our care?”
He knows the answer before she says anything. He sees it on her face—how she stiffens, how her fingers curl slightly against the fabric of her nightshirt.
She would fight. She would move mountains, tear apart the system if she had to. Because Regulus isn’t just another placement anymore.
“I’d…” Euphemia exhales sharply. “I’d fight it. I’d try everything to keep him here. He—” She stops, swallows. “He belongs here.”
Fleamont watches her carefully. He knew this was coming, but seeing her come to terms with it in real time is different.
“Well,” he says after a moment, his voice lighter, but no less firm. “I guess we better make sure it won’t happen, will we?”
Euphemia turns to him fully now, eyes searching his. “Are you sure? That you’d want to eventually adopt him? Because I know we agreed that we’d only foster older teens, and this is like forever, Fleamont, and if you don’t want this, I won’t—”
Fleamont cuts her off gently. “I know we only ever agreed to foster older teens, to give them a home and a chance. I know we only agreed to have him stay temporarily, and then we agreed we’d let him be here permanently if he wanted. But, Regulus is already a part of this family.” He holds her gaze. “So, I don’t mind changing our already agreed-upon discussion from when we first started fostering.”
Euphemia studies him, searching for any hint of hesitation. She won’t find any.
Slowly, a smile spreads across her face. Soft, small—but real.
“Alright then,” she says, voice lighter now. “I think we can do that.”
POV: EUPHEMIA
Euphemia smiles as she watches James and Regulus finish off their ice cream, the remnants of the meal sitting on their plates. James is talking animatedly, hands moving as he recounts something about soccer, and though Regulus is quiet, there’s a faint trace of amusement in his eyes. It’s progress. Small, but undeniable.
When they finish, Fleamont stands to pay, and she ushers the boys toward the exit, lingering near the door as James chatters beside her. Regulus is quiet, but that isn’t unusual. He’s probably tired. It’s been a long day.
She glances at the parking lot through the restaurant’s glass front, mentally going over their evening plans. They’ll head home, maybe put on a movie. Something light. Something that won’t pull Regulus too deep into his own head.
James tugs on her sleeve. “Mum, can I sit in the front?”
She huffs a laugh. “That depends. Has your father already claimed it?”
James groans but doesn’t argue, and they step outside into the cooling evening air. Fleamont joins them a moment later, pocketing his wallet as he walks up.
“Alright, let’s get home.”
Euphemia hums in agreement, moving toward the car. James yanks the passenger door open before Fleamont can protest, and she laughs, shaking her head. She reaches for the back door handle—
And freezes.
Something feels wrong. Off. Her stomach twists.
She turns sharply, scanning the area, expecting to see Regulus standing nearby, quiet as ever.
But he isn’t there.
Her heart lurches. “Where’s Regulus?”
Fleamont straightens, eyes darting around. James looks up from the front seat, confused.
“What do you mean? He was just—”
But he isn’t.
He’s gone.
Panic claws at her throat, an awful, sinking feeling crashing through her like ice water. Without another word, she turns and rushes back into the restaurant. Her heart pounds in her ears as she scans the space, desperately searching for a familiar head of dark curls.
And then she sees him.
Relief slams into her so suddenly that her knees nearly buckle. Regulus is sitting at a table in the corner, his back to her, with two women who look strikingly like him.
Euphemia exhales sharply, pressing a hand to her chest to steady herself before making her way over. As she approaches, she takes in the scene—the way one woman has her hand gently wrapped around Regulus’ arm, the way the other watches him with an almost wary fondness. There’s a familiarity between them, something old and complicated and tender all at once.
She steps closer. “Regulus?”
He stiffens immediately, shoulders going taut as he turns. His expression is unreadable, but something flickers in his eyes—guilt, maybe.
Euphemia glances at the two women. They’re watching her carefully, assessing, measuring.
One of them stands, smoothing her skirt. “Mrs. Potter?” Her voice is polite, but there’s an unmistakable tension beneath it. “I’m Narcissa Black. This is my sister, Bellatrix. We’re Regulus’ cousins.”
Cousins.
Something settles into place in Euphemia’s mind. She blinks, recovering quickly, and offers her hand. “Euphemia Potter. My husband, Fleamont, is just outside.”
Fleamont steps up beside her, as if on cue, and shakes their hands. His expression is polite but measured. “We didn’t know Regulus had cousins.”
A pause. Regulus looks down at the table, his grip tightening around his stuffed dog.
“We—” Narcissa hesitates, glancing at Bellatrix. “We’d like to see him more often. If he wants to, of course.”
Euphemia’s gaze flickers to Regulus instinctively, searching for any sign of discomfort. His eyes dart between his cousins, uncertainty and something achingly fragile written across his face.
Slowly, he nods.
A quiet breath of relief escapes Narcissa, and even Bellatrix relaxes, if only slightly.
They exchange numbers, quiet promises lingering between them, and then it’s time to leave.
Narcissa squeezes Regulus’ arm gently before stepping back, offering a small smile. Bellatrix lingers just a moment longer. Then—
“Where’s Sirius?”
The question drops like a stone in the middle of a still lake, sending ripples through the air.
Regulus freezes.
Euphemia sees it immediately—the way his fingers twitch, then clench, the way his shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly. His face doesn’t change, but there’s something—something fractured in his expression.
“I don’t know,” he whispers.
Euphemia’s stomach twists at the raw honesty in his voice.
James and Fleamont have already turned toward the door, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere. Regulus doesn’t move.
Narcissa and Bellatrix exchange glances, something unspoken passing between them.
Then, Euphemia steps forward, placing a gentle hand on Regulus’ shoulder. “Come on, love.” Her voice is soft, careful.
Regulus follows without resistance, but his mind is elsewhere. The stuffed dog in his arms dangles limply, brushing against his leg with each step.
They reach the car, the warmth of the interior a stark contrast to the cold creeping into Euphemia’s chest. Regulus buckles his seatbelt, staring down at his lap.
Silence settles.
Then—
“Who’s Sirius?” Euphemia asks, keeping her voice gentle.
Regulus flinches.
His grip tightens on the stuffed dog, pulling it close as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His breath hitches, and before she can say anything else, tears well in his eyes, spilling over silently as his shoulders tremble.
He buries his face into the fabric, curling in on himself.
He doesn’t answer.
He just cries.
***
Euphemia steps out of Regulus’ room, her heart aching with the weight of his pain. The door clicks shut behind her, muffling the soft, uneven breaths of the boy who had cried himself to sleep in her arms. She exhales slowly, pressing her palm against the wood for a moment longer before turning away, the dim hallway stretching before her.
One question refuses to leave her mind.
Who is Sirius?
She had never heard the name before tonight, but Regulus had whispered it in the midst of his tears, a quiet, desperate plea wrapped in sorrow. There had been such grief in the way he said it, such longing. Whoever Sirius was, he mattered. Deeply. And Euphemia needs to know why.
As she steps into their bedroom, she finds Fleamont already inside, loosening his tie. He glances up at her, his brow creasing immediately at the look on her face.
“What’s wrong?”
Euphemia sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I can’t stop thinking about something.”
Fleamont tugs his tie the rest of the way off and sits beside her. “What is it?”
She hesitates, folding her hands in her lap. “Who is Sirius?”
Fleamont tilts his head slightly. “Sirius?” he repeats back.
She nods. “Regulus said his name when he was falling asleep. He sounded… broken, Monty. Like the name itself hurt.”
Fleamont hums thoughtfully, considering. “Maybe an old friend?”
“Maybe,” Euphemia says, but doubt lingers in her voice. She turns to look at him. “Or maybe…” She trails off, trying to form the thought properly. “What if Sirius is his sibling?”
The room falls silent.
Fleamont’s expression shifts as he processes the thought, and after a beat, he nods slowly. “Well, it makes the most logical sense.”
Euphemia frowns. “But how does that even happen? How do siblings not get placed together? Isn’t that a rule?”
“It usually is,” Fleamont says, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “But I suppose there could be exceptions. Different foster homes, different circumstances.”
Euphemia crosses her arms, frustration flickering beneath her worry. “That’s awful. If he has a sibling, he should be with them.”
Fleamont exhales. “There could be a reason why he isn’t. We don’t know the full story.”
Euphemia looks down at her hands. “Do you think we should ask Sarah about it? See if she knows anything? See if Regulus ever mentioned anything?”
Fleamont considers this for a moment, then nods. “Yes, I think we should. But I also think we should let him tell us.”
Euphemia hums, deep in thought. “I don’t know what the right choice is.”
Fleamont nods, looking just as uncertain. “Yeah, me either.”
Neither of them speaks for a moment, lost in their thoughts. Finally, they climb into bed, but Euphemia finds no comfort in the silence. As Fleamont drifts off, she stares up at the ceiling, her mind racing with possibilities.
Should they ask Sarah? Should they wait? What if Regulus never tells them? What if he wants to but doesn’t know how? And if Sirius truly is his brother… does he even know where he is?
The weight of the unknown settles heavily in her chest, and sleep remains frustratingly out of reach.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont stands in the doorway, taking in the scene before him. James and Regulus are frozen in place, the remnants of their scuffle still evident—the discarded pillow, the tension thick in the air. Euphemia stands beside him, hands on her hips, her sharp voice still ringing in the room.
James drops the pillow like it’s burned him. Regulus, however, remains tense, his posture rigid, his eyes darting between them like a cornered animal.
Fleamont steps forward, keeping his voice even. “Alright, enough of that.” His gaze settles on Regulus. He doesn’t want to spook the boy, but he can already see the panic rising in his shoulders, the barely-contained fight in the set of his jaw.
“Come here, son.”
The reaction is instant. Regulus jerks back, eyes wide, body coiling as if prepared to bolt. Fleamont doesn’t hesitate. He moves quickly, wrapping his arms around the boy in a firm but steady hold before he can flee. Regulus struggles—wild and desperate, twisting in his grip, breath coming too fast—but Fleamont holds steady, unwavering. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his hold beyond what’s necessary.
“Regulus,” he says, voice calm but certain. “It’s alright. Just breathe.”
Regulus shakes his head sharply, still fighting against the contact, but Fleamont doesn’t let go. He keeps his arms around him, offering a steady, immovable presence.
Gradually, the thrashing slows. The tension in Regulus’ muscles gives way to exhaustion, his weight growing heavier against Fleamont. The fight drains from him in slow, uneven breaths.
Only when he’s sure the moment has passed does Fleamont loosen his grip.
Regulus doesn’t pull away immediately. He blinks, dazed, as though catching up to what just happened. James and Euphemia are gone now, leaving only the two of them in the quiet room.
Fleamont shifts, turning Regulus slightly so he can look him in the eye. “Are you calm enough for me to let you go?”
A beat of hesitation, then a small, stiff nod.
Fleamont releases him fully, stepping back just enough to give the boy space. Regulus stays where he is, arms wrapped around himself, looking small and wrung out.
The silence stretches between them. Fleamont doesn’t rush it. He lets the boy gather himself, waiting.
“What happened, kiddo?” he asks finally, his voice steady but patient. “What made you so upset?”
Regulus stiffens. His fingers clench around his sleeves, his breath shallower now.
For a long moment, Fleamont isn’t sure he’ll answer. Then, slowly, Regulus moves toward the armchair. He pulls back the blanket draped over it, revealing a book underneath.
Right where it had been all along.
His throat tightens, and Fleamont watches as frustration flickers across his face. The anger is still there, but smaller now, dulled at the edges.
“Regulus?” Fleamont prompts gently.
Regulus doesn’t speak. Instead, he crosses the room, grabbing his notebook and pen before settling into a chair. He flips to a blank page, then writes:
James was sitting in my spot, and I couldn’t find my book.
He hesitates, then adds:
I don’t know why I got angry like that.
Regulus stares at the words for a long moment before silently handing the notebook to Fleamont.
Taking it, Fleamont scans the page, his lips pressing together in thought. “I see.”
Regulus ducks his head, guilt settling into his posture.
Setting the notebook aside, Fleamont speaks carefully. “Regulus, violence like that isn’t the solution to your problems. I understand you were upset, but if something’s wrong, you need to say it. Or write it down, like you just did. But throwing things—lashing out—that’s not how we communicate in this family.”
Regulus nods stiffly, shame written in every tense line of his body. Fleamont recognizes it immediately—the way the boy braces, like he’s waiting for something worse to come.
He softens. “You’re not in trouble,” he reassures gently. “You made a mistake, but mistakes don’t define you. What matters is what you do next.”
Regulus’ head snaps up, startled. There’s something raw in his expression, something uncertain and searching.
Fleamont sighs, rubbing his hands together. “Come on,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s talk this out as a family.”
Regulus hesitates but eventually follows as Fleamont leads him toward the kitchen, where James and Euphemia are already waiting. James looks uncertain, his hands fiddling with his sleeve, while Euphemia gives them both a small, expectant smile.
“Alright,” Fleamont says as they all sit down. “Let’s figure out what we can do better next time.”
Euphemia turns to James first. “James, what do you think you could’ve done differently?”
James shrugs. “I dunno. I didn’t know Regulus was gonna be mad. He didn’t say anything—he just started yelling at me.”
Regulus frowns, grabbing his notebook and quickly scribbling:
It wasn’t just that you were in my spot. I couldn’t find my book.
He pushes the notebook toward James.
James sighs, reading the words. “Okay, but you didn’t even know where your book was. It’s not like I stole it or something.”
Regulus clenches his jaw, then nods reluctantly.
Euphemia hums. “So maybe next time, Regulus can say something before getting upset, and James can be more mindful of what might bother Regulus?”
James nods. “Yeah, I mean, I would’ve moved if he just told me.”
Regulus grips his pen tightly, uncomfortable. Speaking up isn’t as easy as they make it sound.
Euphemia seems to understand. “I know it’s hard,” she says softly. “But we can work on it. You don’t have to be perfect—you just have to try.”
Regulus swallows and nods.
Fleamont claps his hands together. “Good. And if you two run into an issue you can’t sort out, what do you do?”
James groans. “Come to you or Mum.”
“Exactly.” Fleamont gives them both a pointed look. “No more throwing things at each other. Understood?”
Regulus nods stiffly. He picks up his notebook again and writes:
I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m sorry.
He slides the notebook to James.
James reads it, then shrugs. “It’s alright.”
Regulus looks surprised by the easy forgiveness. Fleamont watches him carefully, noting the way he processes it, as if waiting for a harsher consequence that never comes.
The tension in the room eases. James flops onto the couch, grabbing his controller, and Regulus pulls his book into his lap.
Fleamont watches them settle, his heart aching for the boy who still doesn’t quite believe in second chances.
But maybe, just maybe, they’re getting somewhere.
***
Fleamont watches over the rim of his coffee cup as Regulus shifts slightly in his chair, glancing down at his neatly pressed clothes. The boy is always careful in his presentation—buttoned up, precise. Not in a vain way, but in a way that speaks of expectation, of needing to be just so. It’s something Fleamont recognizes, though he wishes the boy didn’t feel the need for it here.
Euphemia, as ever, is effortlessly elegant, dressed in a flowing blouse and tailored trousers, her jewelry understated but tasteful. Even James, for all his constant motion, looks put together enough in his casual weekend attire. Fleamont supposes they all put thought into their appearances today, though for different reasons.
The morning stretches slow and unhurried, filled with quiet chatter and the occasional clink of dishes as breakfast is cleared away. The sort of morning that makes the house feel full in a way he has come to treasure.
Euphemia grabs her keys from the hook by the door. “Alright, I’ll be back soon,” she calls, tossing a fond look over her shoulder. “Try not to burn the house down while I’m gone.”
James, already halfway out the door, grins. “No promises.”
Fleamont chuckles as the door swings shut behind them, leaving the house quiet save for the hum of the summer evening creeping in through the open windows. He exhales, enjoying the peace for a moment before pushing himself up from his chair. His body reminds him that he’s not quite as young as he used to be, but he ignores it, making his way into the kitchen with purpose.
He hums under his breath as he pulls out a bag of flour, then a few other ingredients, lining them up on the counter. He’s just rolling up his sleeves when he hears a faint shift from the sitting room—a quiet, hesitant movement. He doesn’t turn, but he knows who it is before the boy speaks.
“Caught your interest, have I?”
There’s a slight startle from the doorway. Fleamont smiles to himself before glancing over, finding Regulus lingering at the threshold. The boy is cautious, watching him with that sharp, considering gaze of his. No pressure, no expectation—just an open-ended invitation.
“I was thinking of baking,” Fleamont continues easily. “Seemed like a good night for it.” He studies Regulus for a moment, then tilts his head toward the counter. “Would you like to help?”
There’s hesitation, something flickering across the boy’s face. Fleamont doesn’t push. Instead, he simply waits, letting Regulus decide for himself.
Slowly, Regulus nods.
“Good man,” Fleamont says, pleased. He moves a mixing bowl onto the counter, reaching for the flour. “Baking’s a bit of a science, you know. Lots of people think it’s just following a recipe, but it’s more than that. It’s chemistry, really—different ingredients reacting together to create something new.”
Regulus watches closely as he measures the flour, leveling it with practiced ease. His curiosity is clear, his focus sharp.
“Take flour, for example,” Fleamont continues, tipping it into the bowl. “That’s what gives structure to whatever you’re baking. But if you just used flour and nothing else, you’d end up with a rock. Sugar does more than add sweetness—it changes the texture, keeps things soft. Baking soda and baking powder help it rise, trap air inside, make everything light and fluffy.”
He glances at Regulus, waiting for a sign of understanding. The boy nods, thoughtful.
Fleamont smiles. “Alright, good. Want to measure the cocoa powder?”
Regulus steps forward, and Fleamont hands him the measuring cup. He hesitates only briefly before scooping up the cocoa, leveling it with meticulous care before adding it to the bowl.
“You’re a natural,” Fleamont comments lightly.
Regulus ducks his head, his hands carefully dusting off any stray cocoa powder. Fleamont pretends not to notice the small flicker of satisfaction in the boy’s expression.
They work in quiet harmony, measuring and mixing, Fleamont offering small explanations as they go. When they get to the eggs, he cracks one open with an easy, practiced movement.
“There’s a trick to this,” he says. “Too hard, and you’ll shatter the shell. Too soft, and it won’t break cleanly. But if you hit it just right…” He demonstrates again, splitting the egg perfectly. “See?”
Regulus nods, eyes sharp with interest.
“Want to try?”
Regulus eyes the egg in his hands, adjusting his grip. He taps it carefully against the side of the bowl, then splits it open. A bit dribbles down the shell, but most of it makes it into the bowl.
“Excellent,” Fleamont says, grinning. “That’s better than my first try.”
Regulus presses his lips together, but there’s a flicker of something pleased in his posture. They keep going, and soon enough, the brownie batter is nearly ready.
Just as Fleamont reaches for the pan, the front door opens, and footsteps sound in the hallway.
“Boys,” Euphemia says, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Her gaze flicks to the ingredients spread across the counter, then to the two of them. Slowly, she raises an eyebrow. “Are we about to be making a mess in my kitchen?”
Fleamont straightens instinctively, feeling for a brief, ridiculous moment like a schoolboy caught red-handed. “It’s my kitchen too, dear.”
Euphemia doesn’t blink. “Uh-huh.”
She just stands there, staring. Fleamont swallows.
And then she bursts into laughter.
Fleamont exhales sharply. “That’s not funny.”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Regulus clap a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with barely-contained laughter. Euphemia only laughs harder, and even Fleamont lets out a begrudging chuckle.
“She does this all the time whenever I want to bake,” he says, shaking his head.
Regulus giggles again, and Fleamont finds himself absurdly pleased by the sound.
Euphemia steps forward, still grinning. “Alright, alright, I’ll allow it—if I get to help.”
Fleamont sighs dramatically. “If you must.”
Euphemia smirks, reaching for a wooden spoon. “I must.”
The kitchen fills with warmth again, laughter threading through the air. Someone turns on the radio, and music drifts through the room. Euphemia stirs the batter, swaying slightly to the beat, nudging Fleamont with her hip until he huffs a laugh and does an exaggerated twirl in response.
Regulus watches them for a second, hesitant—then, slowly, he relaxes. And when Euphemia dusts a bit of flour onto Fleamont’s sleeve, and he retaliates by flicking water at her, Regulus lets out another quiet giggle.
They bake. They dance. They make a mess.
And Fleamont, watching the boy settle into the warmth of their home, feels something deep and certain settle in his chest.
Regulus is starting to believe he belongs here.
And that, Fleamont thinks, is worth every bit of spilled flour and every smudge of chocolate in his kitchen.
POV: EUPHEMIA
The sound of someone knocking at the front door pulls everybody in the kitchen out of their laughter. Euphemia wipes her hands on a clean tea towel, still chuckling at something Fleamont did, and walks toward the front door.
Regulus and Fleamont continue filling the cupcake batter into the tray. The process is messy, and despite being an adult, Fleamont isn’t much better than Regulus at keeping the batter from dripping onto the counter. Regulus is focused on scooping out the right amount when Euphemia hears footsteps returning.
“Sarah’s here,” she says, stepping back into the kitchen with a small smile.
Regulus looks up as Sarah steps inside, offering him a gentle nod. “Hey, Regulus. Mind if we have a chat?”
Regulus hesitates, shifting his gaze toward Fleamont, as if silently asking for permission.
“Off you go, bud,” Fleamont says with an easy smile. “I’ve got this.”
Regulus swallows, mutters, “Okay,” and wipes his hands on a towel before following Sarah out of the kitchen, through the hallway, and toward the back door.
The moment the door shuts behind them, Euphemia turns to Fleamont, eyes wide. “Did you hear that?”
Fleamont is already looking at her, his expression mirroring hers. “Yeah, I think I heard him say ‘okay.’ Please tell me he spoke.”
“I think he did,” she breathes, a mixture of shock and overwhelming joy flooding her chest. They stare at each other, suspended in disbelief, before a slow, warm smile spreads across Fleamont’s face. Euphemia feels a rush of emotion she can barely contain.
A few minutes pass before the back door opens again, and Regulus steps inside. Without a word, he heads straight upstairs. Sarah lingers in the doorway, watching him go before turning to Euphemia and Fleamont. “Do you mind if we have a quick chat?”
“Not at all,” Euphemia says, gesturing for Sarah to sit. She and Fleamont take their seats at the kitchen table, waiting as Sarah pulls out her notebook.
“I wanted to check in and see how things have been going this past week,” Sarah starts. “Any updates I should be aware of?”
Euphemia and Fleamont exchange a glance before Euphemia sighs. “On Thursday, some kids at school were suspended for bullying Regulus.”
Sarah’s expression hardens. “I was afraid something like that might happen. How did he handle it?”
“He didn’t tell us what was really going on,” Fleamont admits. “We only found out when we were called into the Deputy Principal’s office to discuss it.”
Euphemia nods. “We’re trying to help him communicate better—so he knows he doesn’t have to deal with things like that alone. It’s… a work in progress.”
Sarah scribbles something down. “That makes sense. And Friday?”
Euphemia hesitates, then says, “We met some of Regulus’ cousins—Bellatrix and Narcissa.”
Sarah raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“They were actually lovely,” Fleamont says, a bit surprised himself. “Bellatrix was very protective of him, and Narcissa seems to care a great deal. Regulus was happy to see them.”
Euphemia watches Sarah’s reaction carefully. She nods, taking a moment before asking, “And yesterday?”
Fleamont exhales. “James and Regulus had a bit of a… moment. They argued.”
“But it turned into something productive,” Euphemia adds. “We realized that Regulus struggles to put what he’s feeling into words, and when he gets overwhelmed, he doesn’t know how to express himself properly. So we’re working on that—helping him learn how to communicate what he’s thinking before it builds up.”
She smiles faintly. “James is helping him with it, in his own way.”
Sarah listens intently, nodding along as she takes notes. Then, after a pause, she looks up and says, “Regulus would like to stay a little more permanently.”
Euphemia feels her breath catch. For a moment, all she can do is stare. The words settle over her like a blanket, warm and overwhelming, filling up spaces she hadn’t even realized were empty.
Fleamont is the first to recover. “That’s… that’s wonderful.”
Sarah smiles at them. “We’ll still check in regularly, of course. I’ll come by again in a month, see how things are progressing. But for now, we’ll move forward with making this more official.”
Euphemia grips Fleamont’s hand beneath the table, squeezing it tightly. “That sounds perfect.”
Sarah stands, closing her notebook. “I’ll see you both in a month, then.”
Euphemia walks her to the door, exchanging goodbyes before stepping back inside. As soon as the door clicks shut, she turns to Fleamont, barely able to contain her joy. “Regulus wants to stay. Did you hear that?”
Fleamont chuckles, shaking his head in quiet amazement. “Yeah, I did.”
A moment later, footsteps sound on the stairs. Regulus reappears, now dressed in different clothes, and walks straight back into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything, just steps up beside Fleamont, eyeing the half-filled cupcake tray.
“Back to work, then?” Fleamont asks lightly.
Regulus nods. Euphemia watches as he carefully picks up the scoop again, resuming his work beside Fleamont. Her heart swells as she watches them, warmth blooming deep in her chest.
Regulus wants to stay.
She can’t stop thinking about it.
He wants to stay.
Notes:
Word Count: 19,459
Published: 2025-03-08No more mister nice guy. My end of chapter notes are going unhinged. Thank you for watching this life change with me…
Also, just to point out, my father is tempted to put me in an insane asylum at this rate... because of how fucking long this chapter is... not my problem lol.
Chapter 18: Therapy Time! What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
Summary:
Therapy. This could go one of two ways. One way, it could end with Regulus never having to see this random lady again. Or, the second way, is that he gets healed and has to see her again.
He really hopes it’s the former…
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
What people don’t seem to understand—especially those who have never felt this before—is that things like joy, like happiness, can be taken away in an instant.
One moment, it’s there, warm and safe, filling every corner of his chest. And then, just as quickly, it’s gone. Stolen. Vanished, like it was never there to begin with.
It’s happened before to Regulus.
First, it was his parents. His home. His brother. His entire life, ripped apart before he even had time to process what was happening. Then, it was the joy—the rare, tentative happiness—he had been experiencing in the Potters’ kitchen, baking alongside Mr. and Mrs. Potter.
People don’t seem to understand that.
They don’t understand how fragile happiness is. How easily it can slip through his fingers, even without meaning or warning.
He doesn’t believe Mrs. Potter meant to take his happiness away. She didn’t say it to hurt him. She wasn’t cruel. But it happened anyway. One second, he was fine—more than fine. He had been content, at ease, filling cupcake trays, letting himself exist in a moment that felt good. And then she spoke, and the warmth was gone, replaced by something cold and heavy and unbearable.
Regulus knows he shouldn’t blame her. And he doesn’t.
He blames himself.
Because he got too close.
He let his guard down, let himself believe—just for a second—that he was allowed to feel happy. That he was safe in it.
It may sound stupid to other people, but to Regulus, it took away something important. Something he doesn’t have a name for, but he feels the absence of it like a hollow ache in his chest.
And it all started when he came back down the stairs after changing, heading back into the kitchen.
“Back to work, then?” Mr. Potter asked lightly.
Regulus nodded and climbed back onto the step stool. He picked up the scoop again, carefully filling each cupcake liner with batter. The action was steady, predictable. Safe. The weight of the scoop in his hand, the soft plop of batter hitting the paper—it gave him something to focus on. Something to control.
Beside him, Mr. Potter worked at the same pace, filling the tray with ease. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was nice. Warm.
“That looks perfect, Regulus,” Mrs. Potter said from behind him. “You're really good at that.”
Regulus felt his shoulders relax slightly. He didn’t know what to say, so he just kept going, making sure each cupcake had the same amount of batter.
Mrs. Potter stepped closer. “I wanted to tell you,” she said gently, “on Friday, you have an appointment with a therapist. Her name is Laura Williams, and she’s really kind. We think she might be able to help you with… everything you’ve been feeling.”
The words didn’t make sense at first. They didn’t belong here, in the quiet warmth of the kitchen.
Regulus’ hands stilled.
The scoop, still half-full, hovered over the tray.
His stomach twisted, sharp and sudden. The warmth from before—the calm, the quiet, the careful balance of the moment—vanished. It was like being doused in cold water.
Therapist. Appointment. Help.
His fingers curled tightly around the scoop, sticky batter pressing between them.
He knew what therapy was. Talking. Answering questions. Letting someone dig into his head, pull things out, examine them under bright lights. He thought of Sarah. The check-ins. The questions. The way his chest always felt too tight afterward, like something had been taken from him that he didn’t agree to give.
The kitchen, once warm and safe, felt stifling now.
Regulus swallowed hard, staring at the unfinished cupcakes. The batter was thick and smooth, but his hands felt clumsy now. Unsteady.
The happiness from before was gone.
It had been ripped away, leaving only the weight of something heavy and cold in its place.
Dread.
It means to feel extremely worried or frightened about something that is going to happen or that might happen.
The second Mrs. Potter told him he had an appointment with a therapist, it was like tentacles of dread had spread across his body, slithering around his chest, his throat, his limbs. Grabbing. Pulling. Tightening. Consuming his every thought and emotion.
At first, he had tried to keep baking, to focus on the steady rhythm of scooping batter, on the warmth of the kitchen, on the quiet presence of Mr. Potter beside him. But the words had already taken hold, poisoning everything. His hands had felt clumsy, too heavy, too stiff. The batter had looked wrong. The warmth had disappeared.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Seeing a therapist. Talking to a stranger.
The idea burrowed deep inside him, unwelcome and impossible to ignore. It has been there ever since.
Since Sunday , it hasn’t left him alone.
Every spare moment, every quiet second, the thought creeps back in. No matter how much he tries to push it away, no matter how many times he tells himself to stop thinking about it, the tentacles only wrap tighter. They coil around his ribs, pressing into his lungs, making it hard to breathe. They whisper in his ear when he’s supposed to be listening in class, when he’s supposed to be eating dinner, when he’s supposed to be reading before bed.
And now— now —they are suffocating him.
He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep. The room is dark, silent except for the distant hum of the house settling, the occasional creak of the floorboards. His blankets are pulled up to his chin, but they don’t make him feel safe. He tries to focus on his breathing, on the steady rise and fall of his chest, but it doesn’t help. The dread is still there, wrapped around him like a second skin.
It’s Thursday.
Tomorrow is Friday.
Which only means one thing…
Therapy.
***
Sleep didn’t come easy last night.
No. Instead, sleep evaded him like a shadow slipping through his fingers—always there, always close, but never quite within reach. It toyed with him, teasing the edges of his exhaustion, only to pull away the moment he thought he might finally succumb to rest.
Regulus tried everything. He shifted positions countless times, curling into himself, then stretching out, then flipping his pillow to the cool side. He counted his breaths, focused on the steady rise and fall of his chest. He even attempted to recall the steps of a potion recipe, clinging to the methodical process in the hopes that it might lull him into unconsciousness. Nothing worked.
The dread wouldn’t let him go.
It wrapped around him like invisible tentacles, coiling tighter and tighter with each passing moment. Every time he closed his eyes, the weight of it pressed down on his chest, suffocating, unrelenting.
Eventually, though, his body betrayed him. His mind shut down, too exhausted to keep fighting. For a brief, fleeting moment, there was silence. A pause. A reprieve from the fear gripping him so tightly.
And to think he might have had a peaceful night—he would be wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.
Because the moment he finally slipped into sleep, the nightmares came.
They weren’t terrifying in the traditional sense—no monsters lurking in the dark, no faceless figures chasing him. No, these were worse. These were memories, sharp and vivid, dragged from the deepest corners of his mind.
Memories that made his stomach twist. That filled his chest with something heavy and suffocating.
None of it was new. None of it should have scared him.
But the last dream—the last dream was different.
And it scared him real bad.
Regulus jolted awake, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His heart pounded against his ribs, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to him like a thick fog. His skin felt clammy with sweat, and his whole body trembled as he tried to steady himself.
Then he felt it.
The dampness beneath him.
His stomach twisted painfully as the realization crashed over him. No. No, no, no. His hands scrambled at the sheets, panic rising fast and sharp in his chest. He had wet the bed.
Fear consumed him instantly. His breathing turned shallow, his fingers clenched around the blankets as he tried to think. What was he supposed to do? What if someone found out? What if they got angry?
His body moved on instinct, frantic and desperate. He threw the covers back and slid off the bed as quietly as possible, his hands shaking as he grabbed a towel from his dresser. He dropped to his knees, pressing the towel against the soaked sheets, trying to soak up as much as he could. He scrubbed at the mattress, his breath coming faster and faster. Maybe if he got rid of the evidence, no one would notice. Maybe if he—
“Reg? What’s wrong?”
Regulus froze.
James’ voice came from across the room, groggy but concerned. Footsteps followed, the soft creak of the wooden floorboards growing closer.
Regulus’ heart pounded so loudly he could barely hear anything else. His hands clenched tighter around the towel, his whole body locked in place as James walked over.
Then James saw.
“Oh,” James said softly, piecing it together in an instant. But his voice wasn’t mocking or disgusted. It was just… calm.
Regulus squeezed his eyes shut, his throat burning. He wanted to disappear.
“It’s okay, Reg,” James said, crouching down beside him. “These things happen. How about I go get Mum, and you get changed, yeah?”
Regulus shook his head instantly, panic flaring again.
“Regulus,” James said, his voice gentle but firm. “Just get changed into clean clothes. Maybe even have a shower. Trust me, you’ll feel better.”
Regulus swallowed hard, his chest tight, but he didn’t fight back when James stood up. Slowly, he let go of the towel and grabbed a fresh set of clothes before slipping into the bathroom.
The shower helped. The warmth eased some of the lingering panic, washing away the sweat and sticky discomfort clinging to his skin. By the time he stepped out, the tightness in his chest had dulled—just a little.
When he walked back into his room, his bed was neatly remade, as if nothing had happened at all. Mrs. Potter was just walking back in, brushing her hands down her nightdress, looking tired but unconcerned.
She met his eyes, offering him a small, knowing smile. “You alright?”
Regulus hesitated, then nodded.
She hummed tiredly, glancing toward the bed. “Would you still like to sleep in here, or would you rather sleep with me and Fleamont?”
Regulus stood frozen, unsure how to answer. He was exhausted. He wanted to sleep properly, but… He didn’t want to be alone.
Mrs. Potter seemed to understand. “How about I lay with you, then?”
The relief hit him so suddenly that he barely had time to process it before he was climbing into bed.
Mrs. Potter followed, shifting onto the mattress beside him. The bed was small, leaving little space between them, and Regulus felt stiff, awkward, unsure of what to do. But then, she placed a warm hand on his head, gently guiding it down onto her chest.
Regulus tensed for half a second before slowly relaxing into the touch.
With her other hand, she took one of his arms and draped it around her waist, securing him against her. “There you go, sweetheart,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
His breath caught slightly. The warmth of her touch, the quiet steadiness of her heartbeat beneath his cheek—it was overwhelming in a way he didn’t know how to name.
Her fingers combed gently through his hair, soothing and rhythmic. His body, still stiff with lingering shame, slowly unwound. Without thinking, he leaned in a little closer.
Mrs. Potter didn’t seem to mind.
His eyelids grew heavy, the warmth of her presence lulling him into sleep.
Fear swirls inside him.
Regulus doesn’t often feel fear. He’s learned to keep it at bay, to hold it under wraps. But when fear’s due, it comes. And it comes hard.
Regulus is eleven years old. He shouldn’t be wetting the bed. He knows this. He knows it, but it still happened. It just happened. It wasn’t like he meant to—he didn’t want to. But it still happened.
What had he been expecting when it happened?
He wasn’t expecting Mrs. Potter to react the way she did. No. What Regulus had expected was much worse. He’d expected the yelling, the screaming, the belittling. He’d expected to be forced to clean up his own mess. He’d expected to be denied water before bed, or maybe even locked in his room for the night. But none of that happened.
Instead, she was calm. She was caring. She fixed up his bed, no questions asked. She didn’t yell at him, didn’t scream at him, didn’t say a single belittling word. She simply checked to see if he was alright, asked if he wanted to still sleep in his own bed or with her and Mr. Potter.
Regulus hadn’t known how to handle it.
It’s strange, Regulus thinks, as Mr. Potter pulls into the parking lot now. The thought presses on him again, stronger than before: how is it that people can be so kind? So gentle? How can they be so patient with him, when he doesn’t even deserve it?
And yet, here he is. Here they are, giving him things he’s never been given before—things that make his insides twist in confusion.
Regulus can’t quite shake the feeling. Every nice gesture Mrs. Potter and Mr. Potter give him, no matter how small, unsettles him. It feels wrong, almost. Not because they aren’t kind—it’s just… different.
But he’s learned to roll with it, even though it freaks him out.
The second Regulus steps out of the car, the dread hits him full force. It’s like a weight slamming into his chest, suffocating him with every breath he tries to take. His heart races, and his skin prickles uncomfortably, as if the world has suddenly become too large, too overwhelming. He wasn’t sure it could get worse, but it does. The fear that has been curling like smoke in his stomach for days is now here, wrapping itself around him, choking him.
Mrs. Potter notices, of course. She always does.
“It’ll be alright, sweetheart,” she says softly, offering him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his chest but makes him want to believe it anyway. She reaches for his hand, her voice steady, and begins walking toward the building.
Regulus can’t help it. He grabs her hand, fingers tightening around hers like a lifeline. He doesn’t want to let go, not with the fear wrapping around him like a vice. Mrs. Potter doesn’t seem to mind, her fingers gentle and warm against his. Her presence, though comforting, only makes the dread feel worse, as if her kindness is something he’s not quite allowed to accept.
Mr. Potter is standing at the door, holding it open for them. He greets them with a smile, a smile Regulus is still not used to. A smile that feels too kind, too real, too much for someone like him to handle.
When they walk inside, Regulus is instantly hit with the strong scent of lavender, too strong, too sweet. It fills his nose and makes his head spin for a moment as he looks around. The waiting room is small-ish, the walls painted a soft, calming shade of cream. There’s one other person in the room, a woman sitting in the corner, staring blankly at a magazine in her hands. She doesn’t look at Regulus when they enter, but he can feel her eyes on him nonetheless, even if only in his mind.
Mrs. Potter walks up to the receptionist, her voice smooth as she speaks. “I have Regulus Black here to see Laura Williams, at 4:15. It’s his first appointment.”
The receptionist nods without looking up, already reaching for the computer to check him in. She looks back up, handing Mrs. Potter two clipboards. “One’s for you and your husband to fill out, and the other is for Regulus to fill out.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Potter says, taking the clipboards and guiding Regulus and herself over to the chairs next to Mr. Potter. Regulus can feel the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his chest, but he’s too exhausted to say anything.
Mrs. Potter hands him the clipboard, her hand warm and reassuring as she passes it to him. Regulus takes it but doesn’t look at it, not yet. He watches as Mrs. Potter begins filling out her own form, her pen gliding smoothly over the paper.
Regulus looks down at the clipboard in his hands. The weight of it feels strange, like the paper itself is somehow heavier than it should be, as if it carries the weight of all the things he doesn’t want to think about. His fingers wrap around the pen attached to the clipboard, the metal cold and familiar.
He starts to read through the first few questions, the ones that are easy.
Your Name: Regulus Arcturus Black
Your Age: 11
Your Birthday : 16 August 2008
Today’s Date: 10 July 2020
These questions are easy. Simple. He writes the answers quickly, like they don’t matter at all.
Then, he reaches the section labeled “ About You ,” and he hesitates for a moment.
1: What are some things you like to do?
Reading.
It’s simple enough. It doesn’t take much thought. He doesn’t feel the weight of it, doesn’t feel like someone’s watching him as he writes it down. He likes to read, and that’s true. He likes getting lost in books, away from everything.
2: Do you have any pets? Yes / No – If yes, what are their names?
No.
That’s easy too. No pets. No need to explain.
3: Who do you live with at home? (Circle all that apply)
Regulus looks at the options and hesitates again. Mum, Dad, Stepparents, Grandparents, Siblings, Other…
He circles Other .
Then he writes, almost reluctantly, foster mother, foster father, foster brother .
It’s strange to see it written down. It’s not the first time he’s written that, but it still doesn’t feel real. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.
3: Do you go to school? Yes / No – If yes, what grade are you in?
Yes.
Regulus pauses. He’s just finished year 7, and he’s about to go into year 8. It feels strange to think about it. It feels like school is far away, like he might not ever go back.
Year 7 into year 8.
He writes it down. It feels like it means nothing, but it’s something to fill in the blank.
Now, it’s the section about “ how you feel .”
4: What makes you happy?
Regulus stares at the question, the words feeling too big. He doesn’t know what makes him happy anymore. He used to know, but now everything’s too complicated.
He doesn’t know what to write, so he leaves it blank.
5: What makes you feel sad, upset, or scared?
That one’s easier. He knows the answer to that. It’s everything. It’s being here, it’s the fear he feels all the time, it’s his memories of things he’d rather forget.
But he doesn’t write that. He doesn’t want anyone to see that. So, he just writes, things .
6: How do you feel most days? (Circle one)
He looks at the options:
😊 Happy
😐 Okay
😞 Sad
😠 Angry
😰 Nervous
None of them feel right. He doesn’t feel happy or okay. He doesn’t feel angry, and he certainly doesn’t feel sad. But he’s not sure what he feels.
Finally, he circles Nervous .
It feels like the closest to what he’s been feeling, but even that doesn’t seem like it fits. He wants to write scared , but the word feels too heavy to put on paper.
7: How do you show your feelings? (Circle all that apply)
Regulus stares at the list. He knows exactly how he shows his feelings, but he doesn’t know if he wants to admit it.
He circles crying , keeping them inside , and drawing or writing about them .
But then there’s other . He can’t stop himself. He writes it down in small letters, hoping no one will notice: he breaks things and yells .
He feels a flush rise to his face, a hot wave of shame sweeping over him. He shouldn’t have written that. He shouldn’t have said it out loud, even if it’s just on paper.
Then, he reaches the last section.
Things You Want to Talk About
8: Is there anything you want to talk about in therapy? Yes / No
Regulus stares at the question. It’s too much. Too big. He doesn’t know what he wants to talk about. He doesn’t know if he wants to talk about anything. He doesn’t even know if he wants to be here.
If yes, what? (It’s okay if you’re not sure!)
He writes nothing. Blank.
9: Is there anything you don’t want to talk about? Yes / No
If yes, what? (It’s okay if you don’t want to write it down.)
He hesitates, the pen hovering over the paper. He thinks about everything he doesn’t want to talk about. He thinks about the fear in his chest, the memories that haunt him, the things he’s been hiding for so long.
But he doesn’t write anything down. Nothing.
He doesn’t want to say any of it out loud.
Once he finishes the form, he sets the pen down with a heavy inaudible sigh, feeling exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with his body.
A few moments later, a woman with light brown hair, dressed in jeans and a black shirt, steps out into the waiting room. She’s smiling at him in a way that feels too warm, too open, like she’s already expecting him.
When Regulus looks around the room, he realizes that he and the Potters are the only ones left. The other woman has already left, and it feels like the room has gotten smaller.
The woman looks at him kindly, her smile widening as she approaches.
“You must be Regulus,” she says softly. “Hi, my name’s Laura.”
Regulus doesn’t say anything, just nods quietly, shrinking in on himself, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.
Mrs. Potter is the first to speak. “It’s lovely to meet you, Laura,” she says, her voice warm but steady. “I’m Euphemia, and this is my husband, Fleamont.”
Mr. Potter nods, offering a polite smile. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Laura smiles back at them before turning her attention to Regulus. “I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask before we get started with Regulus. If you could all follow me back?”
Regulus’ grip tightens slightly around the clipboard in his hands. He doesn’t move.
Mr. Potter reaches over, gently taking the clipboard from him before heading in the direction Laura had motioned toward. Mrs. Potter follows suit, walking after them without hesitation.
Regulus, however, stays rooted in place. His body feels heavy, uncooperative.
Mrs. Potter turns, immediately noticing his hesitation. “Everything’s going to be okay,” she says softly, her voice calm and sure. “If anything gets too much, you can stop.”
Regulus swallows, looking down at the floor. Slowly, hesitantly, he steps forward. His fingers twitch at his sides before he reaches out, grabbing onto Mrs. Potter’s hand again. She doesn’t react beyond giving his hand a gentle squeeze, guiding him forward as they follow the others into the room.
The first thing Regulus notices is the colors. They aren’t overwhelming, but they stand out in contrast to the stark, plain walls he’s used to. The room is filled with dark blues, aquas, greens, peach, and deep pinks. The colors blend together in a way that feels deliberate, soft rather than harsh.
Then, his eyes land on the bookshelf. It’s filled with games, coloring books, and neatly arranged pens. There’s a couch and an armchair, along with a coffee table in between them. Beanbags and pillows are scattered across the floor, and there’s a soft-looking rug beneath it all. Amongst the furniture, he spots sensory toys—fidget items, weighted plushies, things that he recognizes but isn’t used to having easy access to.
Mrs. Potter guides him inside, leading him further into the room before she and Mr. Potter take a seat on the couch. Laura closes the door behind them, turning back to Regulus with an easy smile.
“Sit wherever you’d like, Regulus.”
Regulus hesitates, glancing between the available spots. The couch. The armchair. The beanbags. It feels like too many choices.
Finally, he decides to sit on the floor, right between Mr. and Mrs. Potter. It feels safer there.
Laura doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she crouches down slightly, offering him a pillow. Regulus nods, accepting it without a word. He moves the pillow underneath him, he shifts slightly to get into a comfortable position.
Then, Laura turns her attention back to Mr. and Mrs. Potter. “So, what brings you here today? Can you tell me a little about why you’re seeking therapy for Regulus?”
Mrs. Potter glances at Regulus before answering, her voice measured and careful. “Regulus has been through… a lot,” she says. “He was placed in our care a little over a month ago, and we just want to make sure he has the support he needs. He’s been adjusting well in some ways, but in others… we’re a bit worried.”
Laura nods, her expression warm but professional. “What are your main concerns?”
Mrs. Potter shifts slightly, her hands resting lightly in her lap. “He doesn’t talk,” she says gently. “Not verbally, at least. And we don’t want to push him to do anything he’s not comfortable with, but we also don’t want him to feel like he can’t communicate at all.”
Mr. Potter clears his throat. “We’ve also noticed that he gets overwhelmed easily,” he adds. “Sometimes, it leads to a meltdown or a panic attack. Other times, he just… shuts down completely. It’s like he disappears inside himself.”
Laura hums softly, jotting down a note on her clipboard. “How often do these happen?”
Mrs. Potter hesitates. “Often enough that we’ve noticed patterns,” she admits. “They’re more frequent in new environments or when there’s too much going on at once. We’ve learned some ways to help, but we don’t always know what to do.”
Mr. Potter nods. “And we don’t want to do something that makes it worse,” he adds.
Laura offers a small, understanding smile. “That makes a lot of sense,” she says. “It’s good that you’re paying attention to what’s happening and how he’s responding.” She glances at Regulus, who remains silent, curled slightly inward on the floor between them. “Would you like for them to stay for a little bit, Regulus? Just until you get more comfortable?”
Regulus stiffens, staring down at the rug. He doesn’t know the right answer.
Mrs. Potter leans in just slightly, lowering her voice so only he can hear. “We’ll be right outside otherwise, sweetheart. It’s okay if you don’t want us in here. If having us here makes you uncomfortable.”
Regulus swallows. He glances at Mr. Potter, then at Mrs. Potter. He doesn’t want them to leave, but he also doesn’t want them to stay. He isn’t sure which one feels worse.
Still, after a moment, he nods.
Mrs. Potter hums softly. “Alright. We’ll be right outside, okay?”
Before she stands, she suddenly reaches for her handbag, as if remembering something. “Oh, before I forget,” she says, her voice light but affectionate. “Here’s your dog.”
She pulls out the familiar black stuffed dog from her bag and hands it over to Regulus.
Regulus takes it quickly, gripping the soft fur between his fingers. He curls it against his chest, the weight of it grounding him just a little.
Mrs. Potter gives him a small smile before finally standing. Laura gets up and walks over to the door, holding it open for them. Mr. and Mrs. Potter exchange one last glance with Regulus before stepping out into the hallway. Laura closes the door behind them.
There’s a brief pause before she looks back at Regulus. “Would you like to play with something?” she asks gently. “I have some sensory toys, or if you’d like, I can give you a coloring page.”
Regulus looks between the two options. He doesn’t particularly want to do either, but the idea of fidgeting with something feels less overwhelming than talking.
After a long moment, he decides. Coloring.
Laura nods, moving toward the bookshelf. She takes out a coloring book, flipping through the pages before settling on one. Then, she grabs a handful of pens and walks back over, handing them to him.
“Okay then,” she says, settling into the armchair across from him. “Take your time.”
Regulus stares down at the page in his hands. It’s a simple design, something floral. His fingers twitch as he picks up one of the pens, hovering over the paper but not yet starting.
His stuffed dog rests in his lap, its soft fabric a small source of comfort.
Laura doesn’t say anything, doesn’t pressure him to speak.
She just waits.
Regulus focuses on the coloring page in front of him, carefully filling in the lines with slow, deliberate strokes. The floral design begins to take shape under his pen, lavender purple petals surrounded by soft, dark green leaves. The repetitive motion is grounding, his mind narrowing to the gentle scratch of ink against paper.
For a while, the room is quiet. The only sound comes from Laura shifting slightly in her chair, the soft rustle of her notebook as she flips a page. Then, she speaks.
“I realized I haven’t properly introduced myself yet,” she says, her voice warm but casual, as if they were simply having a normal conversation. “I’m Laura Williams, I’m thirty-five, and I have two kids—Milo and Sophie. They’re ten and six.”
Regulus doesn’t react, but he listens. He doesn’t know why, but it’s easy to listen to her talk.
“I also have a dog—his name’s Jasper. He’s a golden retriever, very fluffy, very excitable. And I have a cat named Olive, she’s a tabby. She mostly ignores me unless it’s dinnertime.”
Regulus shifts slightly, still coloring.
“Oh, and I speak French,” Laura adds, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Not fluently, but well enough. Took classes for years and still practice when I can.”
Regulus doesn’t mean to say anything. He doesn’t even realize he does until the words are already out.
“French is my first language.”
His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, but the moment the words leave his mouth, he freezes, his hand tightening around the pen. He hadn’t meant to speak—he’d been too focused on coloring and listening and—
“Oh, really?” Laura asks, her tone the same as before, easy and light. “Must be cool, right?”
Regulus shrugs, keeping his gaze locked on the paper. He doesn’t find it that cool.
Laura hums. “Well, I suppose you might not find it cool, but others might.”
Regulus nods slightly. After a beat, he murmurs, “Yeah. My friends find it cool.”
Laura leans back slightly. “Oh yeah? Tell me about them.”
Regulus hesitates, but then, slowly, he does.
“Pandora’s the kindest person I know,” he says quietly. “She’s really artsy—she’s always drawing something or making things. She’s quiet, but… not in a bad way. Just—comfortable. She listens a lot.”
Laura nods, listening intently.
“Dorcas listens too. She’s… steady. Always knows what to say, or when not to say anything at all. She doesn’t really like talking about herself much, but she’s always there when you need her.”
He shifts slightly, picking up another pen, now moving onto the leaves of the design.
“Evan plays hockey. He’s really good at it. He’s good at keeping me, especially Barty, out of trouble too. I don’t know how he does it, but he always seems to know when something’s a bad idea.”
Laura hums softly, encouraging him to continue.
“And Barty?”
Regulus huffs, something almost like amusement flickering across his face. “He’s… loud. And dramatic. But he’s funny. He always has some ridiculous plan for something. And he’s really—” He pauses, frowning slightly before finishing, “—really protective.”
Laura doesn’t comment, just nods, letting him sit with his words.
After a moment, Laura smiles. “Well, sounds like you’ve got a great group of friends.”
Regulus nods.
After a pause, Laura asks, “Do you talk to them?”
Regulus shakes his head.
“Have you ever talked in front of Mr. and Mrs. Potter?”
Regulus hesitates, then shakes his head again. After a moment, he adds quietly, “A couple words. In French.”
Laura nods like that makes perfect sense. “Does talking feel hard sometimes?”
Regulus nods.
“Does talking in front of others scare you?”
Another nod.
She doesn’t push him right away. She gives him a moment before she asks, “What about it scares you the most?”
Regulus stops coloring. His grip on the pen tightens. He doesn’t know how to answer that. He just knows that it does. That there are so many things people could think, so many things they could notice, so many ways he could get something wrong.
He stares at the paper, frozen.
“Regulus?” Laura says gently.
He glances up, not quite making eye contact.
“Just say the first thing on your mind,” she tells him. “Don’t overthink it.”
The words slip out before he can stop them.
“I’m afraid of people judging me.”
Laura nods like she was expecting that answer. “Why’s that?”
Regulus shrugs. But then his mind drifts, unbidden, to the memories he usually tries to keep buried.
When he first started school, he kept mixing up French and English. The other kids laughed at him.
He remembers overhearing his mother and Uncle Alphard arguing, Alphard’s voice tight with frustration. “There’s something wrong with him, Walburga. Please don’t ignore the signs.”
His grandparents used to tell him off for speaking a certain way.
Sirius used to tell him to “shut up” whenever something broke and their mother came into the room.
Laura watches him carefully, then speaks again, her tone thoughtful. “You know, sometimes the way we feel about something—like talking—comes from past experiences.”
Regulus processes that slowly. It makes sense. He thinks.
Laura tilts her head. “Do you think something happened to cause that fear of talking?”
Regulus nods. “There’s… there are many things.”
Laura doesn’t push. “Would you like to talk about them? Maybe one specific memory?”
Regulus hesitates, but something about Laura makes it feel… possible. He grips his stuffed dog a little tighter, then, finally, he says, “When I first started school, I used to mix up French and English. The other kids laughed at me.”
Laura nods, her expression soft with understanding. She doesn’t say anything right away, just gives him space to let the words sit between them.
Regulus keeps his eyes on the colouring page as Laura shifts slightly in her chair. “How did that make you feel?” she asks, her voice gentle, steady.
Regulus swallows. He knows the answer. He’s always known the answer. “Embarrassed,” he admits, barely above a whisper. His grip tightens on the pen. “That’s when I stopped talking in school. I didn’t want people to judge me for speaking two languages.”
Laura nods, not saying anything right away, just giving him time to sit with the admission. Regulus realizes that saying it out loud makes him feel… lighter. As if he’s let go of something that’s been pressing down on his chest. He exhales quietly and goes back to colouring, the soft scratch of the pen filling the silence.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Laura write something down, but she doesn’t stay on the topic of talking. Instead, she asks, “Can you tell me about the people you’re living with now?”
Regulus tenses for a second before forcing himself to answer. He keeps his voice level, factual. “Euphemia Potter, thirty. Fleamont Potter, thirty. James Potter, thirteen.”
Laura nods, waiting.
Regulus doesn’t elaborate. He keeps colouring.
“You said Mrs. Potter first,” Laura notes. “Can you tell me a little more about her?”
“She’s…” Regulus hesitates. He’s not sure what he should say, or, for the matter, how to say it. How can he describe Mrs. Potter without sounding weird?
Regulus shifts, feeling the weight of Laura’s gaze on him. “She doesn’t—” He stops himself, pressing his lips together.
Laura doesn’t push, just waits.
Regulus swallows and forces himself to say it. “Mrs. Potter isn’t like my mother.”
Laura tilts her head slightly. “How do you mean?”
Regulus presses his lips together, staring down at the colouring page. “Well…” he starts, then hesitates. His grip tightens slightly around the pen. He doesn’t know how to say what he wants to say, doesn’t even really know what he means. After a moment, he glances up at Laura and asks, “How are mothers meant to act?”
Laura seems to consider this for a second before responding. “Mothers are meant to be caring. They’re supposed to make their children feel safe and loved. They comfort you when you’re sad or hurt, they encourage you, they take care of you. They listen when you need them to, and they stand up for you when you can’t stand up for yourself.”
Regulus listens, his brows furrowing slightly.
“Why’d you ask?” Laura prompts gently.
Regulus shrugs. “Well… because my mother doesn’t act like Mrs. Potter, and well…” He trails off, unsure. Comparing them feels strange—they’re different people, raised differently, lived different lives. It feels wrong somehow, unfair. But something about it still sits in his chest, heavy and undeniable.
Laura waits a beat, then asks, “What’s one thing Mrs. Potter and your mother do differently?”
Regulus thinks. His first instinct is to say ‘everything,’ but that isn’t exactly true. So he picks something small. Something easy. “Hugs,” he says finally. “Mrs. Potter hugs me.” He pauses, fingers tapping against the pen. “My mother never really did.”
Laura nods. “And how do you feel about that?”
Regulus shrugs again, but this time, it’s slower, more thoughtful. “I was fine with it,” he says after a moment. “I didn’t… I didn’t really think about it. But I think—when I was little—I did wish she did.”
Laura hums in understanding. “Anything else?”
Regulus hesitates. Then, slowly, he starts to think about all the other ways Mrs. Potter is different. How she speaks softly, how she never raises her voice—not even when James is loud or annoying. How she always seems to notice when he’s overwhelmed, how she doesn’t push him to talk, just lets him exist without expectation. How she tells him ‘goodnight’ and ‘good morning’ like it’s just something natural, something expected. How she calls him ‘sweetheart.’
One by one, the differences pile up in his head, until suddenly, he realizes—Mrs. Potter is more of a mother to him than his own mother ever was.
The thought makes his stomach feel strange. Heavy. Real.
He must be quiet for too long because Laura asks, “What’s on your mind?”
Regulus grips the pen a little tighter, then murmurs, “I think… I think Mrs. Potter acts more like a mother to me than my own mother did.”
Laura nods, not looking surprised. “How do you feel about that?”
Regulus doesn’t know. He should be upset, maybe. Or angry. Or sad. But instead, all he feels is something quiet, something settled. Like he’s known it for a long time but never had the words for it until now. “…Okay,” he says simply, because it’s the only thing that fits.
Laura watches him for a moment, then hums in acknowledgment.
Regulus is still thinking about it when another thought pushes forward, unbidden. He shifts slightly, looking down at the page in front of him. Then, after a long silence, he says, almost hesitantly, “Mrs. Potter called me her son.”
Laura tilts her head slightly. Before she can get another word in, Regulus hesitantly swallows, but says. “It felt… wrong.” The words are out before he can stop them. His fingers tighten slightly around the pen. “Like she shouldn’t have meant it.”
Laura doesn’t dismiss his words, doesn’t tell him he’s wrong to feel that way. Instead, she asks, “Why do you think that is?”
Regulus shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t know how to explain it, not really. It’s not like he didn’t like hearing it, but it also—it didn’t feel like it belonged to him. He looks down, voice quieter. “I don’t know.”
Laura waits a beat before gently prompting, “Do you feel like you don’t deserve it?”
Regulus blinks. He hadn’t thought about that. But maybe. Maybe part of him thinks he hasn’t earned it, that being called ‘son’ is something that has to be given, and he hasn’t done anything to deserve it.
“…Maybe.”
Laura nods thoughtfully, then asks, “Or do you feel like it betrays your mother?”
Regulus hesitates. That… that makes sense too. Because no matter how much he wishes things were different, Walburga Black is still his mother. And even if she wasn’t a good one, even if Mrs. Potter is better—she’s still the one who raised him. The one who gave birth to him.
“I don’t know,” Regulus finally says, voice small. “Maybe both.”
Laura nods, her expression understanding. “Okay, then.”
She lets the silence settle for a few moments, giving Regulus space to think. Then, gently, she asks, “Tell me about your mother.”
Regulus hesitates, fingers twitching slightly around his pen. He keeps colouring, gaze locked on the page. “…Her name is Walburga.”
Laura waits patiently, and after a beat, Regulus exhales softly. “She… she wasn’t like Mrs. Potter,” he murmurs. “She—she treats me differently than Mrs. Potter does.”
Laura doesn’t interrupt, just listens, and maybe that’s why Regulus keeps going.
“She—” He frowns slightly, pressing the blue pen a little harder against the page. “I don’t know. She felt… indifferent towards me, I think. Like, I was there, and she looked after me, but…” He trails off, trying to find the words.
“But?” Laura prompts gently.
Regulus shrugs, but it’s more uncertain than dismissive. He hesitates. His grip tightening around the coloured pen in his hand. He presses the tip against the page, focusing on the way the ink bleeds into the paper. “I was her baby,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Not the trouble-maker. Unlike Sirius.”
Laura stays silent, listening.
“She always said that.” He swallows, brows furrowing slightly. “She called me her good son. Said I was different from him. I didn’t—” His fingers twitch. “I didn’t argue, didn’t make things difficult for her, so she… liked me more. I think.”
He doesn’t know why he says that last part. It just slips out, and it feels strange because he isn’t sure if it’s true.
“She bought me things,” Regulus continues after a beat. “Anything I wanted. Toys, books, whatever. I never had to ask twice. She’d dress me up for pictures and tell me how handsome I looked, how perfect I was. But I don’t think—” He hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t think she really… knew me.”
His voice drops, and he doesn’t look up from his colouring. “I think she just liked the idea of me. Because I wasn’t Sirius.”
Laura exhales softly, but she still doesn’t interrupt.
Regulus swallows again. “She was never unkind to me. Not in the way she was to Sirius. She never yelled at me like she did at him, never punished me. But she never…” He trails off, gripping his stuffed dog a little tighter before shaking his head. “That means she cared about me, right?”
Laura’s voice is gentle when she finally speaks. “Caring about someone isn’t just about buying them things,” she says. “A mother should love her children unconditionally. She should make them feel safe, not just physically, but emotionally too. She should care about their thoughts, their feelings, what makes them happy and what makes them sad. She should support them, comfort them, and—most of all—make them feel loved, without them ever having to earn it.”
Regulus stays quiet, staring down at his colouring. His chest feels tight, like something is pressing against it, something too big and too complicated to make sense of.
Laura gives him a moment to process before asking, “Does Mrs. Potter do those things?”
Regulus swallows. Thinks about the way she makes him hot chocolate when he’s overwhelmed, how she keeps bandages in her bag because she knows he picks at his skin when anxious, how she talks to him like his thoughts matter, like he matters.
“…Yes.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Yes, she does.”
A pause settles between them. Regulus keeps colouring, his mind turning over Laura’s words, thinking about his mother. Thinking about Mrs. Potter.
Then, Laura speaks again, her voice still soft. “You mentioned someone before, when talking about your mother. I was wondering—who is Sirius?”
Regulus freezes. His breath catches slightly, and his grip tightens around his stuffed black dog. The fabric wrinkles under his fingers.
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything.
Then, so quietly it’s almost inaudible, he whispers, “He’s my brother.”
Silence settles over the room, heavy and unmoving.
Laura lets the silence linger for a moment before speaking again, her voice as soft as ever. “Would you like to tell me about him?”
Regulus’ hand stills over the page. His grip on the coloured pen tightens, and he stares at the half-finished design without really seeing it.
Sirius.
He swallows, emotions rising so fast they feel impossible to contain.
He wants to talk about him—he does—but as soon as he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. His throat tightens, his chest aches, and before he can stop himself, tears well up in his eyes, blurring the colours on the page in front of him. His breath hitches, and his body tenses, curling in on itself as he clutches his stuffed dog against his chest.
Laura immediately notices. “Regulus,” she says softly, leaning forward slightly. “Are you feeling overwhelmed? Would you like me to get Mr. or Mrs. Potter?”
Regulus squeezes his eyes shut, biting down on his lip, and through the tears, he nods.
Laura stands up and steps out of the room. The wait is short—barely a minute—before Mrs. Potter enters.
The moment she sees him, she moves to sit on the floor beside him without hesitation. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice filled with warmth and concern. “Do you want a hug?”
Regulus hesitates, fingers digging into the soft fabric of his stuffed dog. He isn’t sure, but the moment stretches between them, and he finds himself slowly, tentatively, wrapping an arm around her.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t rush him. She just gathers him close, holding him securely, her hand rubbing soothing circles along his back. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s okay to feel things.”
Regulus lets out a shaky breath, burying his face in the space between her neck and shoulder. The warmth of her embrace, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way she rocks them ever so slightly—it’s grounding. Safe.
His tears come in quiet, shuddering waves, and Mrs. Potter just holds him through it, her touch never wavering.
He doesn’t know how long they sit there like that, but eventually, his breathing evens out. His body feels heavy, drained, but lighter in a strange way, too.
Laura waits until he’s ready before speaking again. “Would you like Mrs. Potter to stay, or would you rather she leave?”
Regulus hesitates. Then, without speaking, he reaches for the piece of paper and writes: Leave, please.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t look hurt. She just gives him a gentle squeeze before slowly pulling back. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, love.” With one last soft look, she stands and slips out of the room.
Once she’s gone, Laura’s voice is careful, measured. “You don’t talk in front of Mrs. Potter.”
Regulus stiffens slightly. His fingers curl tighter around his stuffed dog, the familiar softness grounding him, though he feels an unfamiliar tension in his chest. He doesn’t respond immediately, unsure how to express something that feels so tangled up inside him.
Laura, sensing his hesitation, doesn’t press. She simply sits back, her gaze warm and patient, giving him the space he needs. The silence stretches between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
After a long moment, Regulus exhales, his breath shaky, and nods slightly, still holding onto his stuffed dog as if it might keep him tethered.
“Can you tell me why?” Laura asks gently, her voice not demanding but open, inviting him to share.
He swallows, trying to find the right words. “I…” He hesitates, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t want her to judge me.”
The words feel like an admission, like letting something out he’s held in for a long time. He wishes he could explain it better, but even now, with Laura’s kind attention, it feels difficult.
Laura’s expression remains soft, understanding. “Do you think she would?”
Regulus remains silent for a moment, his thoughts swirling. He doesn’t think Mrs. Potter would judge him—she’s never given him a reason to believe that. But still, the fear lingers. The thought of speaking, of sharing more than he’s ready for, feels risky.
“I don’t want her to expect too much,” Regulus murmurs, the words slipping out before he can fully grasp what he’s saying. His hands tremble a little, the tightness in his chest making it harder to breathe.
Laura nods, her eyes never leaving him. “I understand,” she says quietly, acknowledging his fear without trying to minimize it. “Do you think speaking will change how they see you?”
Regulus’s fingers twitch in his lap. That question digs deep, making him pause. Does he think it will change how they see him? The truth is, he doesn’t know. He’s spent so long keeping his guard up, learning how to be quiet, how to stay invisible. He hasn’t had to show the parts of him that might make people uncomfortable, and the thought of letting that barrier down, even just a little, feels like stepping into unknown territory.
But…
Regulus thinks back to everything Mrs. Potter has done for him. The way she never pressures him to speak, how she always gives him the space to be himself. How she’s always there, patient and kind, never demanding more than he’s able to give.
He thinks about Mr. Potter too—the way he never seems to mind the silence between them, never forces conversation. And James—always energetic, always talking, but never expecting Regulus to do the same. He just accepts him, no matter how quiet he is.
They don’t expect him to speak. They don’t judge him for not speaking.
Regulus swallows again, the realization settling in his chest. It’s like the weight of everything he’s been carrying is finally starting to ease, but it’s overwhelming too. It’s a mix of comfort and uncertainty, all tangled up inside him.
Laura watches him, her eyes soft with understanding. “That’s a big thing to process,” she says gently. “But I want you to know—you’ve done really well today.”
Regulus glances at her, meeting her gaze for just a moment before looking down at his hands, still holding his stuffed dog tightly.
“It’s okay if things feel heavy,” Laura continues. “We’ll keep working through them. Together.”
Regulus exhales slowly, the tension in his body starting to release. He doesn’t have all the answers yet, but for the first time in a long time, he feels like maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t have to have them all right now.
He nods, his small gesture full of quiet understanding. The weight of the moment, of everything he’s shared, still lingers, but it’s a little lighter than before. A little more manageable.
“Well, that’s it for today,” Laura says softly, her voice warm but final. She rises from her spot in the armchair and walks towards the door, opening it with a soft creak. She glances back at Regulus with a gentle smile. “You can take the colouring-in page with you,” she adds kindly.
Regulus picks up the paper slowly, folding it carefully in his hands. He feels a small sense of accomplishment from his work, a tiny weight lifting off his chest.
Together, they walk back into the waiting room, where Mr. and Mrs. Potter are sitting. Mrs. Potter immediately looks up, concern in her eyes.
“How’d he go?” she asks, her voice soft, as if she’s already anticipating the answer.
Laura gives a reassuring smile. “Well,” she says simply, looking at Regulus with a nod.
Mr. Potter, sitting beside Mrs. Potter, gives a small smile. “That’s good to hear,” he adds warmly.
Laura turns to the Potters, standing with her hands resting on the back of the chair. “We’ll definitely book another appointment and more after that. How does the same time next Friday sound?”
Mrs. Potter smiles at the suggestion. “That sounds good,” she agrees, but then turns to Regulus. “Is that alright with you, Regulus?”
Regulus hesitates for a moment, his gaze flickering between them. Then, very quietly, barely more than a whisper, he says, “Yes.”
Mrs. Potter’s eyes widen slightly in surprise as she hears Regulus’s quiet response, her expression softening with a hint of disbelief. But she quickly composes herself, her smile returning just as gently.
“Alright, then,” she says, her voice warm, before turning back to Laura.
Laura smiles and types a few things into her computer. “Perfect,” she says with a satisfied nod. “Your appointment is booked, Regulus. I’ll see you next week.”
Regulus gives a small, hesitant wave, feeling both grateful and a little shy. Mrs. Potter gently takes his hand in hers, her grip warm and steady. They both walk toward the door.
As they step outside, Regulus takes a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs. The world outside seems a little less heavy, and he realizes, with surprising clarity, that he can breathe a little easier now.
Holding Mrs. Potter’s hand, he feels a quiet comfort in the warmth of her touch, and for the first time today, he doesn’t feel so alone.
Notes:
Word Count: 9,035
Published: 2025-03-14OMG!!! It's official!! I'm a Uni Student!!!
Also, (sorry for the long) general PSA annoucement below:
This is also a general heads-up, chapters will be posted every Wednesday for the next couple of weeks.This also gives me a chance to get ahead, but also as to not overwhelm me (aka cause burnout) with school and writing/posting multiple chapters a week.
That being said, by the time end of June comes, I will be on my holidays, which will lead to two chapters per week.
By the way, my holidays between my first and second semester are only 3 weeks. But the holidays between my first and second year are like "5" months. Also, this fic should be finished around (maybe) at the beginning of October, if I don't add more chapters ontop of the 50 I've predicted.
Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!!
Chapter 19: Who Knew Therapy Could Unravel Everything He Thought He Already Knew?
Summary:
Regulus has never contemplated anything this much in his entire life. Down to his mother, Mrs. Potter, and, even speaking, Regulus never thought he’d have to think this hard, or, feel this deeply.
Ah, the wonders of therapy. Who knew it would make Regulus rethink his entire relationship with his mother?
Not him, clearly.
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
Disclaimer: the French translation was achieved through using google translate, so if you are aware it is incorrect, please say so in the comments so I can change it. Thank you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Mothers are meant to be caring.”
The drive back from therapy had been… peaceful. No questions, no expectations—just the quiet hum of the car, the occasional soft-spoken comment from Mrs. Potter, and Mr. Potter humming along to the radio. Regulus had sat in the backseat, watching the trees blur past, feeling lighter in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
Now, he sits at the dinner table, waiting for the food to be served. James is talking—animated, excited—about an upcoming soccer match.
“It’s gonna be great,” James says, practically vibrating in his seat. “We’re gonna smash them. Our midfield’s been solid all season.”
Mr. Potter chuckles. “That’s what you said last time, and then they lost by three goals.”
“Okay, but that was because—” James starts to argue, but Mrs. Potter cuts in with a fond smile.
“Less talking, more eating, love,” she says, placing a plate in front of him before moving to set Regulus’ down.
“There you go, love,” she murmurs, her voice warm, like it always is.
Regulus glances at his plate.
The food is neatly arranged, every portion separate—nothing touching.
For a moment, he just stares. He’s never really noticed this before. But now that he has, memories shift into place. She’s always done this, hasn’t she? Since that one time—since that dinner when his vegetables had been piled on top of his potatoes, and something inside him had snapped. He hadn’t meant to freak out, but the sight of his food all mixed together had made his skin crawl, had made eating feel impossible.
He remembers how he’d tried —tried to push past it, tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, but it did . And when he couldn’t hold it in any longer, when his fork had clattered against the plate and his chest had felt tight and awful, Mrs. Potter hadn’t scolded him. She hadn’t told him he was overreacting.
She had just fixed it.
She had quietly made him a new plate, separate, neat, and had simply said, “It’s okay, Regulus.”
Regulus swallows. His mother would have told him to suck it up. Walburga did tell him to suck it up.
Mrs. Potter isn’t his mother.
But she remembers these things. The small things, the little things. The things that feel like they shouldn’t matter, but somehow do.
“Regulus, you alright?”
The voice pulls him back. He blinks, looking up to find Mrs. Potter watching him, brow slightly furrowed.
He nods quickly, turning his gaze back to his plate.
She doesn’t push. She just gives him a small nod before returning to her own meal.
The conversation picks up again. James is still talking about the soccer match, and eventually, the topic shifts.
“We should watch a movie tonight,” Mr. Potter says suddenly, leaning back in his chair. “We haven’t had a movie night in ages.”
James immediately perks up. “Oh, yes —we should! Let’s watch something good, though, not some ancient film from the eighties.”
Mrs. Potter laughs. “That’s a great idea.”
Mr. Potter turns to Regulus. “What do you think? You alright with that?”
Regulus hesitates, just for a second.
Then, slowly, he nods.
“Alright,” Mr. Potter grins, clapping his hands together. “Movie night it is.”
Regulus looks down at his plate, his food still neatly arranged, and lets out a quiet breath. He thinks… maybe he doesn’t mind this.
“Mothers are meant to be caring.”
Upstairs in his room, Regulus pulls his pajama shirt over his head, his mind still circling around what Laura had said earlier.
Mothers are meant to be caring.
The words had settled in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar.
Caring.
His mother—Walburga—had never not looked after him. She had made sure he was fed, clothed, taught the right manners, the right way to present himself. She had bought him things. Expensive things. Anything he wanted, really. That was caring, wasn’t it? That had to be caring.
But she had also been cold. Harsh. Indifferent.
He thinks about all the times he had tried to go to her for comfort—when he had fallen and scraped his knee, when he had been sick, when he had cried. “ Stop sniveling,” she had snapped. “ Black’s do not cry.”
When he had struggled to finish dinner because the texture of something was unbearable, she had merely raised an unimpressed brow and told him to “ suck it up.”
When he had been afraid—afraid of the dark, afraid of failure, afraid of her —she had only sighed, long and exasperated, and told him he was being ridiculous.
Regulus swallows, pushing the thoughts away.
He finishes changing and steps out of his room, padding quietly down the stairs. The soft hum of conversation drifts from the living room, but as he enters, he sees Mrs. Potter setting up the couch with blankets and fluffing up the pillows. James and Mr. Potter must still be in the kitchen getting snacks.
Mrs. Potter looks up when she notices him. “Hey, love,” she says warmly. “We’re picking a movie. Do you have a preference?”
Regulus hesitates at the question, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. His first instinct is to grab the notebook from its place on the coffee table and write it down. It’s easier that way. Safer.
But then, Laura’s words from earlier slip into his mind— Do you really think they’re going to judge you?
The thought lingers, uncertain but insistent.
He takes a small breath. And then, gathering all the courage he can muster, he forces the words out:
“I’d like to watch The Croods .”
The moment the words leave his mouth, a horrible wave of self-consciousness crashes over him. It’s so quiet. Barely above a whisper.
Mrs. Potter, who had started to nod, suddenly freezes. Her expression flickers through several emotions—surprise, something else he can’t quite name, and then something warm and fond.
She recovers quickly, smiling at him like nothing happened. “Great choice,” she says, tone perfectly even. “I’ll put it on the voting list.”
Regulus just nods, his face feeling slightly warm.
Mrs. Potter gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder as she passes. “I’ll be right back, love.”
As she leaves the room, Regulus moves to the armchair and sits down, tucking his legs up slightly. His heart is still beating faster than it should be, but there’s something else there, too.
Something that feels a little like pride.
He had spoken. Out loud.
And it hadn’t been awful.
The thought keeps circling in Regulus’ mind as he sits curled up in the armchair. He had done it—spoken out loud—and nothing had gone wrong. Mrs. Potter hadn’t reacted badly. She hadn’t judged him or made a big deal out of it.
He should try again.
Maybe in front of Mr. Potter and James this time.
But the moment he considers it, anxiety curls tight in his stomach.
It’s different with them. Mr. Potter is kind, patient, but Regulus isn’t sure what he’d think. James is loud and excitable and doesn’t stop talking—what if he makes a big deal out of it?
He isn’t sure he’s ready for that yet.
Before he can think about it more, Mrs. Potter walks back into the living room, and Regulus’ brain short-circuits entirely.
Because in her hands are his blanket and his stuffed dog.
He hadn’t thought to grab them. He’d been so focused on coming downstairs, on the movie, on speaking , that he hadn’t even realized they weren’t with him. But Mrs. Potter had.
Without a word, she hands them to him.
Regulus takes them hesitantly, fingers tightening around the soft, yet still slightly stiff fabric of the blanket, around the familiar weight of his stuffed dog. The warmth spreads through his chest before he even realizes it.
Mrs. Potter turns to Mr. Potter and James. “Did you two put the snacks into separate bowls?”
“Yes, we did, dear,” Mr. Potter replies with a smile.
James groans. “I still don’t see why we had to.”
Mrs. Potter rolls her eyes fondly. “Oh, shoosh, James.” She moves to the couch, settling beside Mr. Potter.
Regulus watches the exchange, something quiet and uncertain stirring in his chest.
The movie votes are cast, and The Croods wins. The opening scene begins to play, the familiar animation filling the screen.
But Regulus barely registers it.
His grip tightens slightly on his stuffed dog. His blanket is draped over his lap, warm and familiar.
Mrs. Potter had brought them to him.
She noticed they were missing.
A flash of memory flickers in his mind—his mother, frowning down at him when he was younger, telling him that he was “ too old” to be carrying a stuffed toy around. That “ Black’s do not need comfort items .”
She had taken them away.
And yet, Mrs. Potter lets him carry his stuffed dog around the house, even lets him take it out, without a second thought. She washes it for him when it gets too dirty. She never tells him to put it away.
She isn’t his mother, but she cares.
The words settle in his mind.
Mothers are meant to be caring.
The sentence echoes in his head, familiar yet foreign.
Regulus slowly lets it sink in.
Mrs. Potter cares about him.
He’s honestly not sure how to feel about it.
***
“They’re supposed to make their children feel safe and loved.”
Regulus stood in the grand Black family manor, but the air was wrong—too thick, too heavy, pressing against his small frame like an invisible weight. He was four years old, standing in the parlor, his hands clasped behind his back the way his mother had taught him. His fingers trembled, but he kept them hidden.
Walburga loomed over him, her dark eyes cold, her expression carved from ice.
"Stop crying," she said sharply.
Regulus hadn’t realized he was. He blinked, but the tears kept coming, silent and shameful. He had tripped in the hallway and scraped his knee. It stung, but that wasn’t why he was crying. He just wanted her to tell him it was all right. That she would help him.
But she only sighed, kneeling before him, gripping his arms too tightly. "Weakness is intolerable, Regulus. A Black does not cry over nothing."
She let him go. He stayed where he was, frozen in place, watching as she turned away.
The scene shifted.
He was five. His father’s voice thundered in the next room—an argument, sharp and ugly, words he didn’t understand but knew were bad. He sat on the floor of his bedroom, hands clamped over his ears. The door swung open, and Walburga strode in, her face tight with anger.
"You will behave," she snapped, dragging him up by the arm. "I will not have a son who whimpers like a coward every time someone raises their voice."
Regulus swallowed a sob, biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood.
The room melted away again.
Now he was seven. Sirius had broken something—a family heirloom, he thought, but he couldn’t remember what. Their mother’s fury had burned bright, and Sirius had taken the brunt of it. Afterward, he had stormed off, leaving Regulus alone in the drawing room with her.
She had turned to him then, her gaze sharp, searching.
"You won’t be like him," she said, her fingers tilting his chin up. "You will be everything he failed to be. You are my good son."
Regulus wanted to be good. He needed to be good. But the words left something heavy in his chest, something that made it hard to breathe.
The nightmare blurred, the memories twisting together, her voice repeating in his head— Weakness is intolerable. You will behave. You are my good son.
Regulus lies still, his breath shallow, his skin clammy with sweat. The room is dark, the shadows stretching long across the ceiling, but it doesn’t feel safe. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to sleep, but the moment he does, her voice creeps in—sharp, cold, distant. Weakness is intolerable.
It was just a dream.
His fingers curl around the small stuffed black dog clutched in his arms. The fabric is gentle, familiar, something solid to hold onto. He keeps it close, but it doesn’t help. Not really.
His mother’s presence still lingers in his mind, heavy and unshakable. Even in his dreams, she doesn’t soothe him. She never has. The way Mrs. Potter does, warm and gentle, like she doesn’t mind pulling him close. His mother never would have done that. She never would have let him crawl into bed beside her. She made that clear years ago.
Regulus shifts, pushing the blanket off. His heart is still pounding as he sits up, then swings his legs over the side of the bed. The house is silent as he stands, the floor cool beneath his feet.
He doesn’t know where he’s going at first. He just knows he can’t stay here.
His feet carry him down the dimly lit corridor, and before he fully realizes it, he’s standing outside Mr. and Mrs. Potter’s bedroom door. His fingers twitch at his sides.
He hesitates.
The door is closed, but not locked. If he knocked, Mrs. Potter would probably wake up. She wouldn’t be angry. She wouldn’t tell him to leave. He knows that.
But his mother’s voice echoes in his head— You do not come into my room. You do not wake me up. If you do, you will be punished.
He had learned that lesson young.
His throat feels tight. He doesn’t knock.
As he turns away, a faint glow catches his eye. Down the hall, a sliver of warm light spills from a slightly open doorway. James' room.
Regulus hesitates again, but something in him pulls him forward. He steps carefully toward the door and peers inside.
James is awake, lying in bed, the glow of his phone screen illuminating his face. His expression is relaxed, almost bored as he scrolls through something.
Regulus shifts, and in doing so, his fingers brush the edge of the door. It creaks softly.
James looks up instantly. His gaze lands on Regulus standing in the doorway, lingering like a ghost.
"Everything alright, Reg?" James asks, voice still rough from sleep.
Regulus swallows, not sure what to say. He should nod. Say he’s fine. But he isn’t.
James sits up slightly, setting his phone on the bedside table. His voice is gentler when he asks, "You have a nightmare?"
Regulus nods.
James hums, considering that. Then he scoots over a bit and pulls back the blanket on the right side of the bed. "You wanna come in?"
Regulus hesitates, but James doesn’t look like he’s making fun of him. He’s not smirking or teasing, just waiting. Expecting Regulus to decide for himself.
Regulus nods.
James doesn’t react like it’s a big deal. He just shifts, giving Regulus space as he steps inside and closes the door softly behind him. The room feels smaller, quieter. Safer.
As Regulus walks over, James pats the empty space beside him. "Come here."
Regulus doesn’t think. He just moves, climbing into bed and settling beneath the blanket. He keeps his stuffed black dog tucked against his chest, fingers curled tightly around it.
Instinctively, he lays facing the door. A habit, maybe. One he isn’t quite ready to break. He’s still getting comfortable with James, with the idea of him being someone he can rely on. But, he’s just not comfortable enough yet to sleep facing him.
A moment later, the room darkens as James reaches over and turns off the lamp. The silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable, just there.
After a while, James shifts slightly. "You wanna talk about it?"
Regulus is unsure. He swallows, staring at the faint sliver of light beneath the door. Then, very quietly, he says, "No."
James nods. "That’s alright."
The silence settles again. Regulus lets his eyes close, but he doesn’t sleep. His hands tremble slightly under the blanket, his chest too tight.
Then, after a pause, James asks, "You want a hug?"
Regulus doesn’t answer right away. His throat feels thick, his breath uneven. But then, almost inaudibly, he whispers, "Yes, please."
James shifts closer, wrapping an arm around him, careful and loose, like he’s letting Regulus decide how much to lean in.
And Regulus does.
Regulus clings to James’ warmth, feeling the quiet, steady comfort of his presence. The tension in his chest eases, but only slightly. His tears fall in slow, silent streaks, soaking into the fabric of James’ pillow. He isn’t sobbing, just breathing through the ache, through the weight of memories pressing heavy against his ribs.
He thinks about Mrs. Potter.
She is nothing like his mother.
His mother never pulled him into a soft embrace when he was scared. She never soothed him when he was upset. She never kissed the top of his head or called him love or made sure he knew—without words—that he mattered.
Mrs. Potter did.
He remembers the first time she hugged him, the way he had frozen completely, confused, unsure if he was supposed to react. But she hadn’t let go right away. She just held him, gentle and steady, like she wasn’t waiting for anything in return. Like it was natural.
She makes sure his breakfast is made the way he likes it, without asking, without making a fuss. She ruffles his hair, smiles when he looks at her. She doesn’t scold him for being too quiet or too hesitant or too unsure of where he belongs. She just—accepts him.
She makes him feel safe.
And that is what confuses him most of all.
He sniffles, finally pulling back a little. James doesn’t let go right away, but he loosens his hold, giving Regulus the space to breathe. His voice is quiet when he asks, "Has she always made you feel safe?"
“My mother?” James questions. Regulus nods.
He hums, considering the question for only a moment before nodding. "I’ve never not felt safe with her."
Regulus nods, staring at the dark ceiling. He shifts slightly, fingers curling tighter around his stuffed dog. His voice is softer when he asks, "Is she always like that?"
James glances at him, brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"
Regulus swallows, hesitates. Then, carefully, he says, "Making you feel safe and, I don’t know…" He trails off, unsure how to explain it, unsure if he even can explain it.
James is quiet for a moment, thinking. Then, after a pause, he says, "She’s my mother. Of course she’s always made me feel safe. Always made me feel loved." He says it so easily, like it’s a fact, like it’s obvious. "That’s just what mothers do."
Regulus nods again, but this time, it’s slower, more uncertain.
That’s just what mothers do.
The words settle deep in his chest, twisting into something painful, something heavy.
Because if that’s what mothers are supposed to do…
Then why hadn’t his?
His throat tightens, but he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he stares at the ceiling, fingers running absently over the worn fabric of his stuffed dog.
He thinks about Mrs. Potter.
He thinks about his mother.
And he thinks, They’re supposed to make their children feel safe and loved.
***
“They comfort you when you’re sad or hurt, they encourage you, they take care of you.”
Regulus' anxiety buzzes in his chest the entire drive to the park, sharp and unrelenting. It twists in his stomach, wrapping around his ribs like a vice. Even as Mr. and Mrs. Potter chat quietly in the front seats, the words don’t register. His mind is too preoccupied, cycling through every possible terrible outcome of this meeting.
What if his friends' parents don’t like him? What if they think he’s too quiet, too odd? What if they decide he’s not worth their children’s time? What if—
The car comes to a stop, and his panic spikes. He feels frozen, stuck in place. His hands grip his sleeves, knuckles white. His body refuses to move.
“Regulus?” Mrs. Potter’s voice is soft, but it reels him back in like a fish on a hook. He blinks, looking toward her.
“Are you alright?” she asks, her gaze gentle but searching.
Regulus nods stiffly. He knows she doesn’t quite believe him, but she doesn’t push. She offers him a small smile before stepping out of the car.
But he still doesn’t move. The fear is too heavy, pressing down on his chest. He doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. He doesn’t want to mess this up.
The car door to his right opens, and Mrs. Potter slides back in beside him. She doesn’t say anything at first, just settles in, facing him fully. There’s no pressure, no demand—just quiet patience.
“Sweetheart,” she says after a moment, “talk to me. What’s going on?”
Regulus hesitates. Talking is still hard. But it’s getting easier with her. She never judges him. Never pushes too far.
“It’s silly,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
Mrs. Potter shakes her head. “It’s not silly if it’s bothering you, love.”
His hands start to sweat. He rubs them against his trousers, trying to ground himself, but the thoughts keep spiraling. People are confusing, hard to read—like books written in a language he doesn’t understand. It’s terrifying.
Mrs. Potter waits, steady and warm. He wants to cry at how kind she is.
“Regulus?” she prompts again, voice impossibly soft. “You still with me?”
Oh. He hadn’t realized he zoned out. His face heats with embarrassment.
He nods, hoping that will be enough. It must be, because she doesn’t push, just keeps waiting.
Now or never, he thinks. He takes a shaky breath. “I-I’m, uh…” He stumbles, swallows hard. “I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Potter’s expression softens even further. “Oh, dear,” she murmurs, shifting slightly closer, offering everything she has to give.
Regulus shakes a little. He doesn’t want to cry—if he does, he’ll feel gross and sleepy, and he really does want to play with his friends.
“Are you—” she stops herself, then tucks some of his hair behind his ear. “Are you afraid of talking? Because you know you don’t have to.”
He shakes his head. That’s not it. He knows his friends won’t mind if he doesn’t talk.
His throat feels tight, his chest heavy. He hesitates, then reaches out, carefully placing his hand over hers where it rests in her lap.
She responds immediately, her fingers curling gently around his, while her other hand resumes threading through his hair.
“Umm,” he mutters, struggling to voice the fear clawing at him. “I’m—I’m afraid of—of—”
He huffs in frustration. His brain won’t cooperate, won’t let the words come out right. Everything around him is too much. Without thinking, he lifts his other hand, clenched into a fist, and brings it to his head.
Before he realizes it, he’s hitting himself. The pressure is grounding, but his ears start to ring, his breathing grows erratic.
Someone is saying something, but he can’t make it out. There’s a hand on his wrist, stopping him from swinging again.
“Sweetheart?” The voice is urgent, almost upset. “Love?”
He blinks furiously, vision blurry. When he looks up, Mrs. Potter is watching him, worry etched all over her face.
“We don’t hurt ourselves, alright?” she says, impossibly gentle. Her voice wavers just slightly.
Regulus swallows and nods, mortified.
She exhales softly. “Just take some deep breaths with me, okay? In and out.”
He follows her lead, each breath steadier than the last. The buzzing in his mind fades slightly. He can think again.
“I’m afraid of my friends’ parents not liking me,” he admits finally, still looking at the seat in front of him. “I’m afraid they’ll think I’m weird. That they’ll tell my friends to stop being friends with me.”
He huffs, shaking his head. It’s stupid. It has to be.
Silence.
Then, Mrs. Potter cups his cheek, thumb swiping away the lingering dampness on his skin. “Oh, love,” she whispers.
“That’s a very valid fear.”
He freezes. That’s… not what he was expecting.
She continues, “That fear—of wanting people to like you—is very reasonable. Everyone experiences it. Even me.”
Regulus frowns slightly, glancing at her. “Even you?”
“Even me.” She smiles, tucking more of his hair behind his ear. “And I promise you, you have nothing to worry about.”
Regulus furrows his brows. There’s always something to worry about.
“Do you want to know why?” she asks.
He nods hesitantly.
“It’s because of who you are.”
Regulus blinks, confused.
“It’s true, sweetie.” She squeezes his hand. “You are the most caring, kind, creative, intelligent little boy I have ever met.”
He blushes, shaking his head, but she doesn’t let him deny it.
“No, no, it’s true.” Her voice is firm but full of warmth. “Your friends like you. They see how kind and gentle you are. That’s all that matters to them. And trust me, if you weren’t wonderful, they wouldn’t have chosen you as their friend.”
She pauses, then adds, “Parents trust their children. They know their kids have good instincts. So if your friends adore you—and they do—then their parents will, too.”
Regulus swallows thickly. His eyes burn again, but this time, the tears aren’t from fear.
“And if, for some reason, they don’t,” she continues softly, “then it’s their loss.”
She shrugs. “But that doesn’t mean they’ll keep their kids away from you. Because it’s your friends’ choice, not theirs.”
Regulus lets out a shaky breath. The weight pressing on his chest lightens.
He feels like maybe—just maybe—he can step out of the car and face these new people.
“You can do this, sweetheart,” Mrs. Potter says, smiling. “You can get out of this car, with your head held high, and meet your friends’ parents.”
She squeezes his hand one more time. “And at the end of the day, I’m here. And I promise you, I will always be here.”
Something in Regulus settles.
He can do this. He has Mrs. Potter beside him. And, really? If he’s being honest? He doesn’t think he’d want anyone else there with him for this.
***
“They listen when you need them to, and they stand up for you when you can’t stand up for yourself.”
Regulus sits on one end of the couch couch, his stuffed dog tucked into his lap. Mr. Potter sits in an armchair within the direction Regulus is facing, Mrs. Potter settles across from him at the other end of the couch. The living room feels warm, the overhead light casting a golden glow across the bookshelves and the soft rug beneath his socked feet. He knows they want to talk about something—Mrs. Potter had said so at dinner—but his stomach twists as he waits for them to start.
“We wanted to talk to you about the soccer match this weekend,” Mr. Potter begins, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His voice is steady, kind, but that doesn’t stop Regulus from tensing slightly. “The one we got tickets for, for James’ birthday.”
Regulus blinks, tilting his head. Oh, right. He remembers James talking about it—how it’s going to be a huge game, how excited he is to see his favorite team play in person.
Mrs. Potter offers him a smile, gentle and encouraging. “We just wanted to check in with you about it. See if you have any questions before we go.”
Regulus shifts slightly, hugging his stuffed dog a little closer. He does have questions. He just hesitates, for a moment, before quietly voicing them. “Who’s playing?”
“Arsenal and Chelsea,” Mr. Potter answers. “It’s a big match.”
Regulus nods slowly. He’s heard James talk about Arsenal enough times to know it’s very important to him. “What’s it like? Watching a match in a stadium?”
Mrs. Potter smiles. “Loud. Exciting. There’s a lot of energy, a lot of cheering.”
Regulus frowns slightly, running his fingers over his stuffed dog's ear. “How many people are going to be there?”
There’s a brief pause. Then Mr. Potter answers, “It’s a big stadium—probably over sixty thousand.”
Regulus stiffens. His grip on his stuffed dog tightens. Sixty thousand . That’s— that’s so many people. He can’t even begin to picture it properly. Just a mass of bodies, noise pressing in from all sides, nowhere to go, nowhere quiet, nowhere safe . His breathing picks up before he can stop it, chest going tight, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve.
Mrs. Potter notices immediately. “Sweetheart?” Her voice is soft. Concerned.
He swallows, trying to steady himself, but it doesn’t work. The words come out small, hesitant. “I— I don’t—” He shakes his head quickly. “That’s a lot of people.” He barely realizes he’s rocking slightly, pressing his stuffed dog against his chest. “I— I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go.”
Mrs. Potter exchanges a glance with Mr. Potter before turning back to him. She’s not dismissing him. Not telling him to push through it. She’s listening .
“That’s okay,” she says simply. “Let’s talk about it.”
Regulus hesitates. “But— but it’s for James’ birthday. His present.” Guilt prickles at his ribs. James is so excited about this match. What if it’s selfish of him to back out?
Mrs. Potter shakes her head. “James would never want you to go if it made you uncomfortable.” She reaches out, resting a hand lightly over his. “And if it’s the crowd that’s worrying you, we can figure something out. Alright?”
Regulus bites the inside of his cheek. They’re listening . They’re not brushing him off, not telling him to deal with it, not making him feel ridiculous for being scared.
He looks down at his lap, fingers still clinging to his stuffed dog. His stomach is still uneasy, but there’s something else there, too—something softer. Gratitude.
“Okay,” he whispers after a moment. “Maybe. If— if we figure something out.”
Mrs. Potter squeezes his hand gently. “We will,” she promises. “Together.”
Regulus exhales slowly. His chest still feels tight, but less so. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to go. But at least he knows—really, knows —that if he can’t , they won’t be upset. They’ll understand.
“They listen when you need them to, and they stand up for you when you can’t stand up for yourself.”
When Mrs. Potter had said she would “figure something out,” Regulus hadn’t expected this .
Honestly, he had been hoping—half-expecting—to be excluded. That would have been easier, safer. He wouldn’t have to deal with the noise, the crowd, the pressure of trying to hold himself together when everything around him felt too much . But now, as they approach the massive stadium, dread curls tightly around his ribs.
James walks ahead of them, practically buzzing with excitement, but Regulus barely registers it. His focus is on the sheer number of people swarming around them, the echoing chatter, the overlapping voices, the way the sound bounces off the concrete walls and presses in on him from all sides. His fingers twitch, and he clenches his fists, trying to ignore the creeping panic.
Mrs. Potter holds his right hand, Mr. Potter his left, their grips steady but light. Regulus squeezes both without thinking. The closer they get to the entrance, the harder his heart pounds. His breathing turns shallow, and by the time they reach the security checkpoint, it spikes into full-blown restlessness. He shifts on his feet, his grip tightening, his entire body going tense as his chest starts to feel too tight.
Mrs. Potter notices immediately. She always does.
"Hey," she says softly, tilting her head toward him. "Everything's going to be okay."
Regulus wants to believe her. He really does. But he can barely hear himself think over the noise, let alone convince himself he’ll be fine.
Then Mrs. Potter reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of noise-canceling headphones.
“These are for you,” she says, holding them out to him. “I suggest putting them on now, if you’d like.”
Regulus hesitates. He wants them—desperately—but something in him wavers. He’s never used noise-canceling headphones in a place like this before. He’s afraid of how noticeable they’ll be. Afraid of what people might think.
But the stadium is so loud, and everything is pressing in, and his hands are shaking , so he swallows hard and nods. Slowly, he takes them from her and slips them over his ears.
The effect is instant.
The noise disappears.
Not completely—he can still feel the vibrations of the crowd in his chest—but it’s distant, muffled. The weight of it lifts almost immediately, leaving a strange, empty quiet in its place.
Regulus blinks, his whole body going still. The change is so sudden it feels like whiplash. He turns to Mrs. Potter, wide-eyed, and she gives him a bright smile and a thumbs-up. He assumes it’s a question, so he nods. She grins even wider, looking pleased with herself, then mouths something to Mr. Potter. Regulus barely catches any of it, but before he can even try to piece it together, Mrs. Potter takes his hand again. A moment later, Mr. Potter’s grip returns to his other hand, warm and grounding.
They make it through security without an issue, and soon, they’re walking toward their seats. Regulus still feels the buzz of energy around him—the pulsing excitement of the crowd, the rush of movement, the sheer size of everything—but it’s distant now. Manageable.
Until they reach their row.
Regulus stops short.
There are at least ten people sitting between them and their seats.
His stomach drops. His heart starts hammering again. His hands tighten into fists before he even realizes it.
He hesitates, tugging on Mrs. Potter’s hand.
She turns immediately, kneeling close to his right ear. Gently, she pulls one side of his headphones away. "What’s wrong, sweetheart?" she asks. "I forgot to grab your notebook, so I need you to try and use your words, okay?"
Regulus swallows hard and nods. He tries —he really does—but his voice won’t work. The words won’t come out. His throat feels too tight, his mind too jumbled.
Instead, he lifts a hand and points to where James and Mr. Potter are already sitting, deep in the row.
Mrs. Potter frowns slightly. "Is it the seats?"
Regulus nods. His face burns with embarrassment. He doesn’t want to be a problem. Doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone. But the idea of squeezing past all those people, of being trapped in the middle of the crowd, makes his skin crawl.
He knows what happens when he gets overwhelmed in places like this. He remembers what happened at the movie theater that one time—how the people around him got upset, how he got in trouble, how the staff had to remove him. The humiliation still clings to him, the fear of repeating it twisting his stomach into knots.
“Okay,” Mrs. Potter says, more to herself than to him. Regulus can see the gears turning in her head, trying to find a solution. “Okay,” she says again.
Before she can act, someone taps her on the shoulder.
Regulus looks up, startled. It’s a young woman, maybe in her early twenties, sitting on the aisle seat. There’s something kind in her expression, something familiar—like she understands .
“Excuse me,” the woman says. “But I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. If you’d like, you and your son can take mine and my boyfriend’s end seats.”
Mrs. Potter opens her mouth to protest, but the woman continues before she can.
“Look, I know what it’s like to have to accommodate someone with sensory needs,” she says gently. “My brother’s exactly like your son. I know how hard it can be. I wish someone had helped us out once or twice, but they didn’t. So please—take these seats. It’s really no hassle.”
Regulus barely processes what she says. He just blinks up at her, stunned.
Mrs. Potter looks equally thrown. But then her expression softens, and she gives the woman a grateful smile. “Thank you so much.”
The woman waves it off. “Honestly, it’s no problem. We actually wanted mid-section seats, but we couldn’t get them.” She laughs, turning toward her boyfriend. “C’mon, babe, we’re moving down a few seats.”
Regulus glances at the boyfriend, who has a brief moment of fondness on his face before it morphs into exaggerated excitement. “Woohoo!” he exclaims, pumping a fist in the air. He turns to the older woman next to him—his mother, maybe?—and grins. “See ya, Mum, got the mid-section seats like I wanted.”
The older woman rolls her eyes, looking vaguely displeased, but Mrs. Potter and the young woman chuckle.
Regulus just stands there, still processing what just happened.
Then Mrs. Potter gently nudges him toward the seat, and he sinks into it without protest.
As soon as he’s settled, he pulls the noise-canceling headphones back into place. The relief is instant . The overwhelming pressure of the crowd dulls again, leaving only a manageable hum. He exhales slowly, the tension in his chest easing just a little.
He swings his legs back and forth as he waits for the game to start, his hands fidgeting in his lap. With the noise gone, he starts noticing things—tiny details, like the way the field looks impossibly green, the patterns the players make as they warm up, the way the banners ripple in the breeze.
Movement catches his eye. He glances to his right just in time to see the head of his stuffed black dog poking out from Mrs. Potter’s bag.
She wiggles it slightly, making it look like it’s moving on its own.
Regulus giggles, reaching for it. Mrs. Potter hands it over with a small smile.
And as the game begins, for the first time since they arrived, Regulus feels something close to okay .
Not just because of the headphones. Not just because of the quieter seats.
But because, for once, he doesn’t feel trapped .
Fifteen minutes into the game, Regulus shifts in his seat. He’s been too focused on managing the noise and trying to keep himself grounded to notice the growing discomfort in his bladder. But now, it’s impossible to ignore. He swallows hard, tapping Mrs. Potter on the shoulder. She turns immediately, giving him her full attention.
Regulus hesitates, unsure how to ask. He lifts both hands, mimicking a gesture he hopes conveys ‘bathroom.’ Mrs. Potter tilts her head slightly, then nods.
“Alright, love, let’s go,” she says, standing and offering her hand. Regulus exhales in relief. She did understand.
She leads him through the stadium, weaving through the crowds with practiced ease. The closer they get to the restrooms, the quieter it becomes. By the time they step inside, most of the outside noise is muffled. It’s… calm. So calm, in fact, that Regulus decides to take off his headphones. The silence feels lighter now rather than suffocating.
“Pass 'em here, I’ll hold them,” Mrs. Potter says, holding out her hand.
Regulus hesitates for only a second before placing them in her outstretched palm. She tucks them under her arm as he heads into one of the stalls.
As he steps out and makes his way to the sinks, he can still hear the distant roar of the crowd through the stadium walls. Mrs. Potter, now in a stall of her own, calls out, “Are you enjoying it?”
Regulus isn’t sure at first. But as he recalls the way the players move, the energy of the crowd, and even the excited way James had been explaining things to him before they left their seats, he realizes—he actually is.
To his own surprise, he very, very quietly says, “I get why James likes it so much.”
Mrs. Potter chuckles. “He’s a bit obsessed, isn’t he?”
Regulus nods, continuing to wash his hands. Once, twice—he can still feel the germs clinging to him. Public places are disgusting. He turns the tap back on, intent on scrubbing them a third time.
The door swings open.
The woman who was sitting next to Mrs. Potter walks in.
Regulus tenses. She doesn’t look pleased. In fact, she rolls her eyes the moment she sees him.
“Oh,” she says, her voice dripping with condescension. “You’re in here . You do realize this is a ladies’ restroom, not the men’s? You don’t belong in here.”
Before Regulus can process the words, the sound of a toilet flushing echoes through the room. Mrs. Potter steps out of the stall, fixing the woman with a sharp gaze.
“Yes, he is,” she says firmly. “If he’s in here with a parent or guardian.”
The woman rolls her eyes again, but Mrs. Potter ignores her, moving to wash her hands.
The woman, however, doesn’t drop it. “Is he even your real son?” she sneers. “Because he looks nothing like your husband. Is he your little affair baby?”
Regulus watches as Mrs. Potter’s jaw tightens. He recognizes that look—it’s the same one James gets right before he argues with a referee. But she still says nothing, focusing on scrubbing her hands with slow, deliberate movements.
The woman presses on. “That’s probably why he’s not the one sitting with the boy,” she continues, tone laced with cruelty. “You’re being punished for having another man’s problem child.”
Regulus’ hands shake. His chest tightens, his breath quickening. He shouldn’t let this bother him. He shouldn’t care . But the words dig into him like barbs, and before he can stop them, tears prick at his eyes.
Mrs. Potter sees it immediately. “That’s enough,” she says sharply.
But the woman isn’t finished. “No, no, let’s hear from him .” She suddenly reaches out, grabbing Regulus’ shoulders and forcing him to turn toward her. His breath catches in his throat as her fingers dig into his arms.
“Did you put on the sad little eyes just so my son and his girlfriend moved for you?”
Before Regulus can react, before he can pull away, Mrs. Potter steps between them .
Her presence is immediate and solid . “First of all,” she snaps, her voice low and furious , “get your hands off my son.”
The woman recoils like she’s been burned, snatching her hands back and taking a step away from Regulus.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t stop. “And secondly , it’s none of your damn business where, or how , I got my son. The point is, you have no right to talk to my child—or any child—or their parents like that.”
The woman opens her mouth, but Mrs. Potter barrels on.
“And, for the record, your son’s girlfriend offered up their seats. Not my son forcing them. I wasn’t even going to take them, but she insisted . Because she knows what it’s like to help a special needs child cope.”
The woman’s face twists, but Mrs. Potter doesn’t let her get a word in.
“She has more sympathy, kindness, and empathy than you. Because she offered . I don’t see you offering your seat, or your husband’s seat, so my family could stay together.” Her voice hardens. “No, instead, you sat there and judged us. You judged us when you didn’t even know the full story.”
Regulus stands frozen, watching in awe as Mrs. Potter tears into this woman without hesitation. His chest feels strange—tight, but not in a bad way. It’s different. It’s something warm, something safe .
The woman’s face is red with anger and embarrassment as she huffs and storms out of the restroom.
Mrs. Potter exhales, turning to Regulus. “You alright?” she asks, voice softer now.
Regulus nods. He doesn’t trust his voice, not with the way his emotions are twisting together—upset from the woman’s words, pride in what Mrs. Potter just did, gratitude that she stood up for him.
Mrs. Potter rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Take your time,” she tells him.
Regulus nods again and turns back to the sink. He still needs to wash his hands one more time .
By the time they return to their seats, they’re met with an unexpected sight—
Mr. Potter and James are sitting exactly where that woman had been.
Regulus has never been more grateful to have Mrs. Potter by his side because of it.
***
“A mother should love her children unconditionally.”
Regulus sits cross-legged on the floor, the soft carpet pressing against his legs as he slowly fits a puzzle piece into place. The picture is beginning to take shape—a forest scene, muted greens and blues, the edge of a deer just starting to emerge. He focuses on the pieces, on their shapes and colors, but his mind is elsewhere.
Laura sits in the chair nearby, not too close, not too far. She watches, but not in a way that makes him feel like he’s being observed. Just present, waiting.
After a few minutes of silence, Regulus asks, "What does love mean?"
Laura tilts her head slightly. "How do you mean? Because there’s a bunch of different types of love."
Regulus shifts, his fingers fidgeting with a puzzle piece. "I mean, as in motherly love. And, I guess… love in general… I don’t know."
Laura nods slightly. "Well, I think it’s a valid question."
Regulus glances up at her, blinking. "You do?"
"Mhm."
"Why? Why do you think it’s a valid question to ask?"
She leans back a little, resting her hands on her lap. "Because of what we talked about last session."
Regulus nods. He looks down at the puzzle again, turning a piece over in his fingers. He knows why he’s asking. He just doesn’t know if he wants to say it out loud.
"I think…" He hesitates, searching for the right words. "I think I want to believe that Mrs. Potter really cares about me. I want to trust her."
Laura watches him carefully. "So, what’s holding you back?"
Regulus shrugs. He keeps his eyes on the puzzle. There’s a long moment of quiet before he mutters, "Fear."
Laura doesn’t say anything right away. She waits, and after another pause, he exhales, picking at the edge of a puzzle piece.
"And I feel like I can’t read people properly. Like they—I don’t know how to describe it."
Laura’s expression remains open, thoughtful. "Like they say one thing but mean another?"
Regulus considers this but shakes his head. "Not exactly."
"Like their faces don’t match their words?"
He hesitates, then nods a little. "Yeah. That. Like, sometimes I don’t know if people actually mean what they say. It’s like… I can’t tell if they’re just being nice because they have to be."
Laura hums softly. "That sounds frustrating."
Regulus shrugs again. He doesn’t know how to explain it beyond that. It’s not that he doesn’t want to trust Mrs. Potter—it’s just that he doesn’t know how to. What if she’s only being kind because she has to be? What if she doesn’t really care? He doesn’t know how to tell the difference.
"I think about it all the time," he admits quietly. "Like, when she makes sure my breakfast is how I like it, or when she makes sure I’m warm enough, or when she reminds me it’s okay if I don’t want to talk. She doesn’t get mad about it. She just… accepts it. But what if she’s just doing it because she thinks she has to? What if she doesn’t really care?"
Laura nods thoughtfully. "That’s a fair question. When someone has let you down before, it’s natural to wonder if the next person will do the same."
Regulus presses his lips together. He places another puzzle piece into its spot, watching it click into place.
"Trust isn’t something that happens all at once, Regulus. It’s something that builds, little by little. You’ll know when you trust her."
Regulus frowns slightly. "Will I?"
Laura gives a small smile. "It might not feel obvious at first, but yes. You’ll notice it in the little things. Like when you stop questioning whether she means it when she says she’s happy to have you there. Or when you realize you don’t feel the need to keep waiting for her to change her mind."
Regulus thinks about that. About trust. About love.
He wants to believe her. He wants to believe Mrs. Potter means it when she places a reassuring hand on his shoulder, when she smiles at him like he belongs there. But belief is difficult. Trust is difficult.
"I don’t think my mother ever loved me like that," he says suddenly, voice quiet but firm. "She said she did, but it didn’t feel like it."
Laura’s expression softens. "What did it feel like?"
Regulus stares at the puzzle, his fingers motionless against the pieces. "Like something I had to earn. Like if I did the wrong thing, or said the wrong thing, it would just… go away."
Laura nods, not pushing him to continue but giving him space if he wants to. After a few moments, Regulus exhales softly.
"That’s not what love is, is it?"
"No," Laura says gently. "Love isn’t something you have to earn. It’s something that should be given freely."
Regulus stays quiet, processing that.
He’s not entirely sure if he’ll know that he trusts her. It’s not like it’s a physical object or being—no, it’s imaginary, it’s invisible.
It’s a feeling so hard to detect by regular human beings that he’s wary of actually thinking he’ll know.
Regulus also knows trust can be broken within seconds.
He learned that the hard way.
***
“She should make them feel safe, not just physically, but emotionally too.”
Regulus stands in the cramped changing room, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The long-sleeved rash guard clings to his skin in all the wrong ways—tight across his shoulders, suffocating around his neck. The fabric feels stiff, unyielding, wrong. He shifts, rolling his shoulders, trying to adjust, but it doesn’t help. The more he moves, the more he can feel it—every inch of it pressing down on him like a second skin he can’t peel off.
His fingers twitch by his sides. It’s fine. It’s just clothing. He’s being stupid. He should just go out, show Mrs. Potter, and be done with it.
Regulus takes a breath and steps out. The store lights are too bright, reflecting off the polished tile floor. The air hums with conversation and rustling clothes. Too much noise, too much movement. His heart is already beating too fast when he spots Mrs. Potter’s waiting just outside the changing rooms.
Her warm smile is immediate. "Let’s have a look then."
Regulus opens his mouth, but his throat is tight, words tangled. He shakes his head instead. The fabric is pressing in, crawling up his arms, gripping his chest. It’s too much. Too much. He tugs at the rashy, trying to get it away from his skin. Get it off. Get it off.
Mrs. Potter’s expression shifts—concern, understanding. "Regulus, love, what’s wrong?"
His breaths come faster now, short and sharp. He shakes his head again, pulling harder at the fabric, fingers clenching the collar. He tries to say something, but his voice won’t come, stuck behind the weight in his chest. The world tilts—too many colors, too many sounds—
"Alright, alright, breathe, sweetheart," Mrs. Potter says, voice gentle but firm. "Slow breaths. You’re safe."
He squeezes his eyes shut, but that only makes everything worse. He feels her hand hover near his shoulder—not touching, just there. A grounding point.
"Can you tell me what’s wrong?" she asks.
Regulus forces a breath through his nose, then another. He lifts a trembling hand and grips the sleeve of the rashy, tugging. His fingers curl around the fabric. "It’s—it’s—," he tries to get the words out, his voice croaky, but he just can’t. Mrs. Potter seems to understand though.
"Too tight?" she asks. "Uncomfortable?"
He nods frantically.
"Alright, love, let’s get you out of it, then. Come on, let’s head back inside—"
"Excuse me."
The voice is sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.
Regulus’ whole body stiffens. He turns just enough to see a woman standing nearby, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.
"I just have to say," she continues, eyes sweeping over Regulus like he’s something unpleasant stuck to her shoe, "that it’s disgusting how soft you’re making him."
Regulus freezes.
The woman shakes her head. "Back in my day, children were raised properly. You’re coddling him. He should be able to handle something as simple as clothing without—"
"That’s enough," Mrs. Potter cuts in, voice cold as steel.
The woman blinks, clearly taken aback. "I’m just saying—"
"I don’t care what you’re ‘just saying.’" Mrs. Potter’s tone doesn’t waver, but there’s a dangerous edge to it now. "You do not speak about my son that way."
Regulus’ breath catches.
"My opinion is valid," the woman insists.
Mrs. Potter lifts her chin. "No. It isn’t."
The woman splutters, looking indignant, but Mrs. Potter doesn’t give her the chance to continue. "You do not know him. You do not know what he’s been through. You do not know what he needs. And frankly, your opinion does not matter."
The woman huffs, muttering something under her breath as she turns and storms off. Euphemia watches her go, shoulders tense. When she turns back to Regulus, her face softens immediately.
"Let’s get you out of that rashy, sweetheart," she says gently.
Regulus swallows, still struggling to process what just happened.
He doesn’t know what to do with it.
He doesn’t understand why she did it.
He was always expected to handle things himself. If he was uncomfortable, he was supposed to push through. If he was struggling, he was supposed to keep quiet about it. If he was upset, well—he wasn’t supposed to be upset.
Walburga never protected him—she told him to deal with it or act like a proper Black. Weakness was unacceptable. He was never allowed to need anything.
But Mrs. Potter saw his discomfort, understood it without him having to say anything, and acted on his behalf.
She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t tell him to toughen up. She didn’t dismiss him or scold him for causing a scene. She stood between him and that woman like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The realization unsettles him more than it should.
Because he doesn’t know what to do with protection that comes without conditions. He doesn’t know how to handle the idea that someone is willing to fight for him without expecting anything in return.
But she is.
And that scares him more than anything else.
“She should make them feel safe, not just physically, but emotionally too.”
Regulus is trapped.
The air is thick and suffocating, pressing against his lungs like a heavy weight. His feet won’t move, his limbs won’t respond. The world around him is blurred—dark walls stretching endlessly, flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across the marble floor. The air smells of smoke and something acrid, something wrong.
And then he hears her voice.
"Regulus."
His whole body tenses. The sound is sharp, cold, slicing through the silence like a knife.
"You are a disgrace."
He flinches, but he can’t move. He can’t run. His throat burns as he tries to speak, to defend himself, but there’s no sound. No words. His voice is gone.
He can see her now—his mother standing over him, her gaze filled with quiet fury. She doesn’t raise her voice. She never has to. Her anger is in the stillness, in the cold precision of every syllable.
"You should be better than this. You should be stronger."
Something wraps around him, pulling tight—ropes? No, chains. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.
"Weak."
He’s drowning in it.
"Pathetic."
No air, no escape.
"If you cannot act like a Black, then you are nothing."
He wants to scream. He tries—tries so hard—but nothing comes out. His chest is tight, his lungs burning. He needs to get out. He needs—
"Regulus."
A different voice, softer. Warmer.
The darkness cracks.
Regulus jerks awake, his body tensed like he’s still trapped in the nightmare. His heart slams against his ribs, breath shallow and uneven. The room is dark, but it’s different from the one in his dream—softer shadows, moonlight spilling through the window. He’s not there anymore.
But it doesn’t feel like enough.
His skin is damp with sweat, his blanket twisted around him. He feels the tears pricking at his eyes, his chest rising and falling too fast.
He grips the blanket, too tightly. Grips his stuffed dog, too tightly.
It’s fine. He just needs to calm down. He doesn’t need anyone. He’s handled worse.
His hands tremble. His breathing won’t settle.
The panic lingers, creeping under his skin, and suddenly the thought of staying alone—of lying here, waiting for the feeling to pass—feels unbearable.
But the idea of getting up, of knocking on someone’s door, is terrifying.
He’s never done that before. He’s never been allowed to.
But Mrs. Potter had stepped in for him today, without hesitation. She had protected him.
Maybe… maybe she wouldn’t mind.
Regulus pushes his blanket aside, moving quietly. His hands are still shaking as he slips out of his room and into the hallway. The house is silent, dark. He hesitates outside the Potters’ bedroom door, his heart hammering.
He shouldn’t be here.
But he doesn’t want to be alone.
His fingers curl into fists at his sides. He stands there for a long time, frozen, caught between the urge to knock and the instinct to run back to his room. He shouldn't do this.
And yet—before he can talk himself out of it, he knocks.
The sound is barely there, his hand unsteady. He holds his breath.
Nothing.
He shouldn’t have done this. He’s about to step back, to turn around and leave, when—
"James?" The voice is thick with sleep, groggy.
Regulus feels his stomach drop.
He should leave. He should go.
But his feet stay planted.
A soft rustle, then movement. Mrs. Potter blinks blearily at the doorway, her expression shifting as she realizes. "Oh, sweetheart," she says gently. "Is everything alright?"
The question makes his chest tighten. The nightmare presses in again, and before he can stop it, a small, broken sound escapes him—a weird, high-pitched whine that he immediately wants to take back.
Mrs. Potter is sitting up now, more alert. "Come here, love," she says, her voice soft but firm, and she gestures for him to come closer.
Regulus hesitates. But then his legs move on their own.
He steps forward, barely breathing as he stops beside the bed. Mrs. Potter watches him carefully, eyes kind even in the dim light. "What happened?"
He drops his gaze, ashamed. It was just a nightmare. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be waking her up for something so stupid. But the memory of it is still there, lingering under his skin, pressing into his ribs.
"I had a nightmare," he mumbles, voice hoarse. "It—it wasn’t real."
Mrs. Potter tilts her head slightly. "No?"
He shakes his head. "She—my mother—she wouldn’t say those things. She never… she never called me weak."
She called him other things. Disobedient. Difficult. But never weak.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t argue. She doesn’t say ‘ But she still hurt you’ , even though he thinks she might want to. She just shifts, pulling back the blanket slightly. "Come here," she says again.
Regulus stares at her, uncertain.
But she’s waiting. Not pushing, not demanding—just waiting.
His hands tighten around his stuffed dog. And then, slowly, he moves. He climbs into the bed, stiff and unsure, but Mrs. Potter doesn’t seem to mind. She pulls the blanket over him, making sure he’s tucked in, her arm resting lightly around his shoulders.
The warmth of it is startling. He’s never been held like this before.
"You’re alright," she murmurs, running gentle fingers through his hair. "It was just a dream, love. You’re safe."
Regulus doesn’t mean to cry. But he does. The sobs are silent at first, but then his body starts shaking, and suddenly he can’t stop. He buries his face against her chest, gripping his stuffed dog tightly as the tears come faster.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t tell him to stop. She doesn’t scold him.
She just keeps holding him, rubbing slow, soothing circles against his back. She presses a soft kiss to the top of his head, then another to his temple. "It’s alright, sweetheart," she whispers. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."
Regulus clenches his fingers into the fabric of her nightgown, grounding himself in the warmth, the scent of her. She’s solid. Real.
And after a while, his breathing slows. His heartbeat evens out.
He feels like he should say something. Thank her? Apologize for waking her? He doesn’t know what the right thing to do is.
Instead, he just nods, gripping his stuffed dog a little tighter.
Mrs. Potter doesn’t say anything about it—she never does. Instead, she just gives him a small smile and says, "It’s alright, love. You’re safe."
Safe.
It’s a strange word—one he never associated with home before.
But sitting here, in this quiet space, wrapped in warmth and steady, comforting hands, with someone who didn’t get angry at him for needing comfort…
Maybe this is what safe is supposed to feel like.
***
“She should care about their thoughts, their feelings, what makes them happy and what makes them sad.”
Regulus stands at the sink beside Mrs. Potter, carefully drying a plate as she washes. The warm scent of dish soap lingers in the air, mingling with the fading aroma of dinner. The house is quiet except for the faint murmur of voices from upstairs—James and Peter, likely laughing about something Regulus won’t understand. Mr. Potter is in his study, working. That had left just Mrs. Potter to clean up, and Regulus had felt bad about it.
Even though she’s told him countless times he doesn’t need to help, he had lingered anyway, picking up a dish towel and falling into step beside her. She hadn't stopped him.
“You know,” Mrs. Potter says after a few minutes, “we’re going to the aquarium tomorrow. With James and Peter.”
Regulus stills, his hands gripping the plate a little tighter. He carefully sets it down on the drying rack before responding. “I don’t know.” His voice is quiet, uncertain. “I’ve never been to an aquarium before.”
Mrs. Potter hums, rinsing a pan. “Well, then it’ll be a new experience.”
“Won’t it be loud?” Regulus asks. Mrs. Potter nods as well as hums in response. Regulus shifts his weight. Processing her words, Regulus is unsure on what to say next.
If it’s going to be loud—and if it’s going to be a new experience—won’t that cause one of his “freakouts”? Regulus thinks. And, if that’s the case… won’t that ruin everyone’s good time?
Regulus glances at her before looking down at his hands. “Wouldn’t that ruin everyone’s time?”
She sets the pan aside, drying her hands on a tea towel before turning to him fully. “First of all,” she says, her voice soft but firm, “you won’t ruin anything, sweetheart.”
Regulus stiffens at the endearment. It’s not like he’s not heard her say it before, it’s just that this time it feels… the word feels different. Like she’s trying to say something, to convey something. That something, well… he’s not sure what it is.
Though he stiffens, he doesn’t pull away when she steps closer, placing her hands gently on his shoulders. “Secondly,” she continues, rubbing her thumb in slow, reassuring strokes against his shoulder, “do you remember those noise-canceling headphones I bought for the match?”
Regulus nods.
“Well, if the aquarium is too loud, you can wear those,” she tells him. “Or, you can start without them and put them on whenever you’d like.”
Another nod.
“You can even bring your stuffed dog and your book with you, if that helps,” she adds, her tone casual like it’s not a big deal. “Not like I was going to leave them behind if you decided against it.”
Regulus flushes, looking away, but she just smiles.
“The point is,” she says, her hands moving to gently cup his cheeks, “there’s always a solution to things. And if it does become too much, we can leave. James and Peter won’t mind, and you’re not inconveniencing anyone if you need to go.”
Something warm stirs in Regulus’ chest, unfamiliar yet oddly comforting. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods.
“Okay?” she asks.
He nods again, unable to trust his voice.
“Okay.” She repeats it softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead before turning back to the sink.
Regulus watches her for a long moment, gripping the dish towel in his hands. He’s not sure how he feels. He’s definitely not sure what this strange warmth is, spreading through his ribs like something trying to take root.
All he knows is that she listened to him. She didn’t dismiss his concerns, didn’t make him feel like a burden. She reassured him, like it mattered to her that he felt safe.
Maybe this is what it’s meant to be like. What care—and something else he’s not quite ready to name—are supposed to feel like.
Regulus might go as far as to call it love. But that word still doesn’t sit right with him. Not yet.
All in due time, he thinks, remembering Laura’s words from their last session.
All in due time, he agrees.
“She should care about their thoughts, their feelings, what makes them happy and what makes them sad.”
The aquarium is bigger than Regulus imagined. The ceilings arch high above him, giving the place an almost cavernous feeling, like they’ve stepped into an entirely different world. The air smells of saltwater and something else he can’t quite name, and there’s a constant hum of murmured voices, the occasional excited squeal of a child, and the rhythmic rush of water filtering through massive tanks.
Regulus stays close to Mrs. Potter, his stuffed dog tucked securely in his arms, as they walk through the dimly lit corridors. James and Peter are ahead of them, talking animatedly about something Regulus doesn’t quite catch. He doesn’t mind. His attention is drawn to the creatures swimming on the other side of the thick glass—schools of fish darting in synchronized movements, the slow, drifting glide of a stingray, the way the light filters through the water, casting rippling reflections on the floor.
They move into the deep-sea exhibit, where everything glows in eerie blues and purples. The water is dark, nearly black, except for flickers of light—bioluminescent creatures pulsing like tiny stars in the abyss. Regulus stops in his tracks, staring, utterly mesmerized. The air smells faintly of salt, cool against his skin, and the low hum of the filtration systems fills the space.
“Did you know that some deep-sea fish produce their own light using a chemical reaction in their bodies? It’s called bioluminescence,” he says suddenly, not quite realizing he’s spoken aloud.
Mrs. Potter hums in interest, tilting her head toward him. “That’s fascinating. I didn’t know that.”
Encouraged, Regulus keeps going, shifting his stuffed dog under one arm as he gestures. “There’s this fish called the anglerfish, and it has a little glowing lure on its head to attract prey. And the gulper eel—oh! It can unhinge its jaw to swallow things way bigger than itself. It’s actually kind of terrifying, but also really cool.” His words tumble over each other, breathless and fast. “And then there’s the vampire squid—it’s not actually a squid, more like a mix between a squid and an octopus, but it can turn itself inside out to scare predators. Imagine if people could do that—just flip inside out when they’re scared.”
Mrs. Potter chuckles, shaking her head. “I think that might be a bit inconvenient.”
Regulus barely notices when his fingers slip into hers. It happens naturally, without thinking, his grip firm but absentminded. He squeezes slightly, not for reassurance but simply as an outlet for the energy buzzing in his chest.
“How cool would it be if people could hear animals talk?” he wonders aloud, his thoughts jumping ahead before he’s fully finished the last one. “Like in Percy Jackson! He can talk to sea animals because he’s the son of Poseidon.” His grip on her hand tightens slightly as his excitement builds. “There’s this part in The Sea of Monsters where he’s at an aquarium for a school trip, and the sharks tell him to pull the lever to set them free. Can you imagine? Just walking past a tank and hearing a shark say, ‘Hey, help me out here’?”
Mrs. Potter gives his hand a light squeeze. “That sounds like quite the adventure.”
Regulus nods eagerly. “It is! I just finished The Titan’s Curse , and—” He slips into French without realizing, the words coming too quickly to filter. “C'était si triste quand Zoë est morte. Elle méritait mieux : elle a sauvé tout le monde et puis…”
(“It was so sad when Zoe died. She deserved better—she saved everyone and then—)
He stops, switching back to English mid-thought. “I was sadder about her than Bianca, even though I knew Bianca dying would mess Nico up. And I kind of figured he was a child of Hades, but when Percy and Annabeth figured it out, it still felt like a plot twist.”
His words finally slow, just a little, as he takes a breath, still gripping Mrs. Potter’s hand without thinking. He glances up at her, half-expecting to see boredom or polite disinterest in her face. But she looks at him like she’s actually listening—really listening. Not just nodding along to be nice.
And for some reason, that makes his chest feel weirdly warm.
Before he can continue, James lets out an exaggerated sigh and rolls his eyes. “Can’t you just be quiet for, like, I don’t know? Two seconds, Reg?”
Regulus stops talking immediately. His mouth snaps shut, and a deep, horrible heat crawls up his neck. He’s a bit hurt—though, really, it’s not like he hasn’t heard that before. But mostly, he’s embarrassed. The kind of embarrassment that makes him wish he could shrink into nothingness. His body tenses, his fingers tightening around his stuffed dog as he slowly starts to rock back and forth on his heels. His breathing turns shallow. His gaze drops to his feet.
Mrs. Potter stops walking. “James.” Her voice is firm but not sharp. “Regulus has never told you to be quiet when you go on about something you love. He listens, even when you get carried away. I think it’s only fair that you do the same for him.”
James' face flushes. He shifts awkwardly before nodding. “I understand.” He turns to Regulus, looking properly apologetic. “Sorry, Reg. You have lots of interesting things to say. Keep talking. I’m sure whatever you were about to say next is cool. I know some of the things I talk about must bore you to death.”
Regulus hesitates. His voice is barely above a whisper when he finally says, “Soccer seems cool.”
James’ lips twitch into a small smile. “Yeah, it is.”
They move on, but Mrs. Potter doesn’t let go of Regulus’ hand. After a few minutes, they reach a quiet viewing area. The glass wall stretches from floor to ceiling, giving an unobstructed view of the massive tank beyond. It’s peaceful, the gentle movement of the water and the slow glide of the fish calming. Mrs. Potter sits on a bench and gently tugs Regulus closer until he’s standing directly in front of her.
“Sweetheart,” she says softly, looking up at him. “Just because one person doesn’t want to hear you speak, that doesn’t mean others don’t.”
Regulus swallows. He nods, but the embarrassment still lingers, coiled tight in his chest.
Mrs. Potter continues, her tone impossibly gentle. “What I mean is, I’d love to hear what you have to say. It’s quite—oh, what’s the word for it? Enlightening? Educational?” She smiles. “Either way, you’re teaching me something new, and that’s special.”
Special.
That word has never felt good before. It’s always made his stomach twist, made his skin prickle uncomfortably. But now, for some reason, it doesn’t feel bad. It doesn’t make his stomach drop. It makes something light flutter inside of him instead.
Regulus sits down beside her—on her left, shuffling close. She wraps an arm around him, pulling him into her side, and they sit together in the quiet.
Regulus thinks about everything she’d said. About how she listens. How she cares. How she’s willing to sit with him in the silence, not expecting anything in return.
He looks up at her, and he feels…
Regulus doesn’t actually think he knows the word, or, if there even is a word, to how he’s feeling. But, whatever it is, he isn’t sure if he’s ever felt it for another person before. But all he knows is that he’s glad he gets to feel it.
And he’s glad he gets to feel it with her.
***
“She should support them, comfort them, and—most of all—make them feel loved, without them ever having to earn it.”
Regulus sits in Laura’s office, hands folded neatly in his lap as she watches him with that patient, knowing look. He’s gotten used to this—her waiting, giving him space to decide how much to say.
“How’s talking going?” she asks gently.
Regulus shrugs, the motion small. “Good.”
Laura doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head slightly, waiting for him to go on. He shifts, fingers twitching against his knee. He can feel the words pressing at the edges of his mind, waiting to be spoken. So he lets them out.
“I’ve gotten more comfortable talking in front of Mrs. Potter,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.
Laura’s expression stays neutral, but he sees the way her eyes soften, how she nods like that’s exactly what she expected to hear. Encouraged, he keeps going.
He tells her about the aquarium the other day, about how he couldn’t stop talking. The memory makes his face heat up, but the words don’t stop coming. He had been so caught up in the tanks, the movements of the fish, the colors, the facts—he had talked and talked, and he hadn’t even realized it until James had told him to shut up.
The sting of that moment still lingers. He ducks his head slightly. “That’s one of my fears. Talking too much. Making people bored.”
Laura hums thoughtfully. “And James saying that confirmed it for you?”
Regulus nods, shoulders hunching inward just a little.
“What happened after that?”
Regulus glances down at his lap. “Mrs. Potter told him off. Said I wasn’t being annoying.” He hesitates, blushing slightly, then adds, “She told me she likes hearing me talk.”
“And what did that feel like?” Laura prompts gently.
He doesn’t know how to describe it. Warm. Confusing. Like something he doesn’t know how to accept. “Weird,” he says finally. “Good. But weird.”
Laura gives a small smile. “That makes sense.”
Regulus swallows and moves on, because it’s easier than sitting with that feeling.
He tells her about the shopping trip, about the woman who had told Mrs. Potter she was coddling him. Making him soft. The words had clung to him, wrapping around his ribs and squeezing tight. Maybe she was. Maybe he was.
But then there were the nightmares.
Regulus’ fingers twitch in his lap. “I’ve been having nightmares,” he says quietly.
Laura nods, as if she’s been expecting this too. “That’s not surprising, given everything you’ve been through.”
He keeps going, tells her about the night Mrs. Potter let him sleep in her bed. How strange it had been that she didn’t get angry, didn’t punish him. Just let him crawl under the blankets and go back to sleep like it was normal.
“My mother never let me do that,” he admits, voice barely audible. “If I woke her up, I’d be punished.”
Laura’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something softer in her eyes. “Punished how?” she asks gently.
Regulus swallows, his fingers tightening around the hem of his sleeve. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Not in detail. “She’d—she’d yell. Tell me I was selfish. That I was bothering her. And if I didn’t leave fast enough…” He hesitates, staring at his lap. “She’d make sure I didn’t do it again.”
Laura doesn’t push, just nods slowly. “And Mrs. Potter? What did she do when you woke her up?”
Regulus thinks back to that night. The warmth of the blankets, the way she simply shifted over and pulled the covers back for him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “She just… let me in. Told me it was alright. And then she went back to sleep.”
A pause. Then Laura states, simply, “Sounds like you’re confused on the meaning of affection.”
Regulus frowns slightly, looking up at her. “What does it mean?”
Laura folds her hands in her lap. “Affection is when someone cares for you and shows it. When they want you to feel safe and loved, not because you earned it, but because you deserve it just by being you.”
Regulus shifts uncomfortably. “But I didn’t do anything.”
“You shouldn’t have to do anything, Regulus,” Laura says, her voice gentle but firm. “Affection isn’t something you work for or prove yourself worthy of. It’s something that should be freely given.”
Regulus lets that sink in, and the words settle deep in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar. Freely given. Not earned. Not bargained for.
He swallows. “I’ve never had that before.”
Laura’s expression turns sad. “I know,” she says. “But you do now.”
He thinks about that, even as she invites Mr. and Mrs. Potter into the session.
He moves to the floor, sitting between them while Laura takes her seat across from them. The room feels smaller now, heavier. He doesn’t know why.
Laura doesn’t waste time. “Over the past few sessions, I’ve noticed several indicators of anxiety,” she begins. “More specifically, Social Anxiety. And based on everything we’ve discussed, I also believe Regulus experiences Selective Mutism, which is a form of anxiety as well.”
The words twist something in Regulus’ stomach. His hands clench in his lap. He swallows hard, but the feeling doesn’t go away.
Laura hands some paperwork to Mr. and Mrs. Potter. “I’d like you two to fill these out. If there are questions you can’t answer, that’s okay. Just leave them blank.”
They both nod. Then she turns to Regulus, handing him his own set of papers. “I’d like you to fill these out. Be as honest as you can, alright?”
Regulus nods, even as his hands shake when he takes them.
Mrs. Potter speaks then, drawing his attention. “Regulus.” Her voice is steady, gentle, and he looks up at her.
“You’re not broken,” she says firmly. “This diagnosis isn’t the end of the world. If anything, it might help explain things—things that other people find ‘not normal.’ But normal is a concept, and everyone has a different level of normal that fits who they are. This just happens to be yours.”
Regulus stares at her, and suddenly, he remembers what Laura had said in his first session.
Mothers should support their children. Comfort them.
And in that moment, something clicks. Mrs. Potter has done all of that and more. Since his very first therapy session, since the very first day he stepped into her home, she has been everything his own mother never was. She has been kind, caring, protective. Loving.
He’s never had to prove he deserves it. Never had to earn it.
Mrs. Potter shouldn’t just be Mrs. Potter anymore.
Because ‘Mrs. Potter’ is formal. Distant. A title of respect, but also a title of separation. And she—she is more than that. She’s—
“Alright,” Laura says, standing up. “That’s time. Thank you both for coming in again.”
“Of course,” Mr. Potter replies easily.
Laura turns to Regulus. “See you next week?”
He nods.
As they drive away, the papers still in his lap, Regulus listens to the quiet murmur of conversation between Mr. and Mrs.—no, Effie —in the front seats.
“Well, that went alright,” Mr. Potter says, his tone light but thoughtful. “Didn’t know we’d be walking out with paperwork, though.”
Euphemia huffs a soft laugh. “Me neither, but it makes sense. Laura’s thorough.”
“Still, anxiety and selective mutism.” Mr. Potter’s voice dips slightly, a tinge of concern threading through it. “I don’t like the thought of him struggling with that.”
“I know,” Euphemia murmurs, gentle but certain. “But this isn’t a bad thing, Monty. It’s just a name for something that was already there. Now, at least, we can understand it better. He can understand it better.”
Mr. Potter exhales through his nose. “You’re right.” A brief pause. “I just want to make sure we do right by him.”
“We will,” Euphemia reassures. “We already are.”
Regulus’ fingers tighten slightly on the stack of papers in his lap. He wants to believe that. That this diagnosis isn’t something wrong with him. That it won’t change anything. But there’s still that little voice in the back of his mind, whispering doubts.
One question lingers, curling in his chest. It sticks to his ribs, heavy, uncertain.
He hesitates, then, more like stutters out, “Can we—can we get ice cream, p-please, E—Effie?”
The car goes silent. Then, slowly, he feels Euphemia turn in her seat, looking at him with something almost like surprise before it melts into warmth.
“Of course we can, love,” she says, and Regulus lets himself smile.
Notes:
Word Count: 13,559
Published: 2025-03-19Vanilla cupcakes and Cheetos are all I need in life.
Chapter 20: Huh... He's Never Really Noticed That Before...
Summary:
Regulus has never really noticed the things Mr. Potter has done for him. Only, now, it feels like he can’t stop noticing. Ever since analysing every little detail Effie has done, Regulus can’t help but switch his focus.
Has Mr. Potter always been like this?
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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.
Notes:
Word Count: 12,196
Published: 2025-03-26Sometimes I want the answers to the when, where, how, and why.
My next TED talk is on Wednesday. See you then.
Chapter 21: Birthday, Celebration, and... Surprise...?
Summary:
It’s officially Regulus’ 12th birthday. He still can’t believe that it’s happening. He would’ve never expected the day to turn out the way it did, to end the way it did.
And, Regulus? Isn’t so sure how to feel about it.
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
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.
Notes:
Word Count: 12,507
Published: 2025-04-02I think I generally concern my father 87% of the time. Why? Because I have an unhealthy obsession with this fic.
He’s proud, though. But still…(Also, I kinda hate how the end of this chapter feels rushed, but I generally didn't know what else to write. But, that's just my opinion, let me know if you feel the same, and I'll try to fix/update - even leave suggestions on how it could be improved! This goes the same for any chapter, if you have suggestions on how a chapter could be improve, please let me know, I might agree or disagree, but your opinion is always welcomed!)
Chapter 22: Where in the World is Sirius Black?
Summary:
Sirius Black has been everywhere and nowhere. This is brought to you by the one and only Sirius Black himself. This is his journey into where he’s been and it aint pretty.
Except, Sirius himself, of course. He is always pretty.
(Part 1 of Where in the World is Sirius Black?)
POV: Sirius Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sirius never thought he’d end up here.
Never thought he’d end up in the back of a social worker’s car, staring out the window as the hospital shrinks behind him, getting smaller and smaller until it’s just another part of the city, just another place he’s been.
He honestly didn’t think he’d make it to this point—to the point where he could leave at all.
There were days he thought he might never walk out of that building. That he might stay trapped between those sterile white walls, tucked away in a too-small room with nothing but the steady beep of machines and the occasional murmur of nurses to remind him he still existed.
It’s a strange concept to even think about, really. The fact that he’s here . The fact that he can leave.
Relief washes over him like an unexpected gust of wind, cold and shocking, leaving him unsteady in its wake. It steals his breath for a second, makes his chest feel too tight, like something inside him is unspooling too fast for him to catch hold of.
The feeling is surreal.
Relief.
And yet… it feels wrong.
Like he’s leaving something behind. Like he shouldn’t be allowed to feel relief at all.
He shifts in his seat, his fingers tightening in the fabric of his worn-out sweatshirt, that he was gifted by the nurses, as his eyes stay fixed on the window. The world outside is dull and grey, the overcast sky pressing down on the city. The hospital stands stark against it, sterile and unfeeling, and yet, for the past few weeks, it was the only place he had.
The only place he had to be alone.
Sirius swallows hard, his mind flickering through memories he doesn’t want but can’t ignore. The loneliness of the hospital room. The way the other kids had their parents sitting by their beds, fussing over them, bringing them gifts, reading to them, laughing with them. He remembers lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the machines around him, wondering what it must feel like to be cared for like that.
The nurses had noticed, of course. They weren’t stupid. They had to have realized, after the first few weeks, that no one came for him. That no one even called. They had tried to compensate in their own small ways.
He remembers the way they would ask him what he wanted to eat, anything other than the bland, barely edible hospital food. He remembers one nurse in particular—a student, finishing her last year. She had been different.
She had stayed.
Every night, for an hour after her shift, she would sit by his bed and play cards with him. It wasn’t much, but it was something. She had been the one to sneak in real food, homemade things wrapped carefully in napkins. Sirius never asked if she had made them herself. He just ate, grateful for something that tasted real.
He remembers, as he was leaving, how she had pressed a stuffed black cat into his hands.
“You give off the vibe of someone who’s missing a black cat,” she had said with a teasing smile.
Sirius had scoffed at the time, but he’d kept it. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
He thinks of one particular night, a storm raging outside, rain lashing against the windows, when she had finally asked him— What happened?
He had shut down instantly. His hands had clenched into fists, his throat closing up, and she had never pushed again.
He’s grateful for that.
But now, he’s here.
Waiting.
Waiting for the social worker, Janice—he thinks that’s her name—to come back. She had left him in the car while she sorted out paperwork, and he hadn’t argued. He didn’t want to go back inside anyway.
When she finally returns, she moves with stiff, tired motions, muttering something under her breath as she yanks the door open and slides into the driver’s seat. Sirius gets the sense that she’s not the warm and friendly type. Her hair is obviously dyed—probably to cover the grey, though she isn’t fooling anyone—and there’s a permanent crease between her brows, as if she’s constantly unimpressed.
She doesn’t say anything as she starts the car. Sirius doesn’t either.
The silence between them is heavy, but Sirius barely notices. His thoughts have already drifted elsewhere.
Regulus.
Where is he now? What has he been doing all this time? Has he been okay?
A painful knot forms in Sirius’ stomach, twisting tighter with every passing second. It should have never happened. He should have never let it happen.
Regulus has never been away from him before. Not for this long. Not like this.
Sirius clenches his fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms. He should have protected him. He was supposed to keep him safe , to shield him from all the things that lurked in the dark corners of their house, from the cold, sharp words their parents threw like knives. But he didn’t. He failed. And now, Regulus is out there somewhere, alone—because of him.
Sirius blames himself. He always has.
The car pulls away from the hospital, tires splashing against rain-slick pavement. The world outside blurs as Sirius watches it pass, but his mind stays fixed on one thing.
Regulus.
And the gnawing, crushing fear that he might never get the chance to fix what’s been broken.
***
His first official foster home.
The Smiths.
Sirius hadn’t expected them to be so… nice.
He’s heard horror stories about foster families—about how they treat their biological children better, how they demand perfection from kids who’ve already been through enough, how punishments can be doled out for the smallest mistakes. He’s braced himself for that. It’s easier to expect the worst.
But this… this isn’t like that.
The rain is coming down hard when they pull into the driveway. Fat drops splatter against the windshield, blurring the view of the cozy-looking house beyond. Sirius shifts uncomfortably, gripping the handles of his crutches. He’s not looking forward to the struggle of getting out of the car. His legs still ache, his ribs throb faintly with every movement, and the thought of slipping on the wet pavement sends a prickle of frustration through him.
Before he can even try, though, the man—Mr. Smith—steps out onto the porch, hurrying toward the car with an umbrella in one hand. He opens the car door for Sirius, offering a steadying hand without hesitation.
“Take your time, kid,” he says, his voice calm and warm. “We’re not in any rush.”
Sirius isn’t used to that. To people waiting for him. To people willing to help without expecting anything in return.
Still, he swallows down the instinct to refuse and lets Mr. Smith support him as he maneuvers out of the car, carefully avoiding the slick pavement. He keeps a firm grip on Sirius’ arm until they’re safely up the porch steps and inside, out of the rain. The house is warm, the scent of something faintly sweet lingering in the air—like cinnamon and vanilla.
“Here, let’s get you settled,” Mrs. Smith says, appearing from the hallway with a welcoming smile. She looks to be in her late thirties, her eyes kind but sharp in a way that makes Sirius think she doesn’t miss much. “I figured it’d be easier for you to sleep downstairs for now. No need to push yourself with those stairs.”
Sirius nods, surprised. Most places he’s been in over the last year have expected him to figure things out on his own. To not be a burden. But here… here, they’ve already thought about what he might need before he even asked.
Mrs. Smith leads him into a small but comfortable room on the first floor. The bed is already made, thick blankets folded neatly at the foot. There’s a nightstand with a lamp, a small dresser, and a chair tucked into the corner. It’s nothing fancy, but it feels… safe. Settled.
“You hungry?” she asks, and Sirius shakes his head, even though he is. He hasn’t had a proper meal in hours, but old habits die hard.
Mrs. Smith studies him for a moment, then nods like she understands anyway. “Well, if you change your mind, the kitchen’s always open.”
Another surprise.
He isn’t the only kid in the house. There are three others—each with their own story, their own wounds still healing.
The youngest, Emily, is five years old. She’s recovering from pneumonia, her tiny frame still a little frail. She clings to Mrs. Smith’s leg when Sirius first sees her, peering up at him with wide, curious eyes.
Then there’s Callum, who’s seven. He had spinal surgery not too long ago and still moves carefully, as if he’s afraid of jostling something the wrong way. He’s quiet but smiles at Sirius when they meet, something hesitant but genuine.
And then there’s Sophie, who’s ten. She’s already recovered from a car crash, waiting to be placed with a permanent family. Unlike the others, she doesn’t seem shy—she introduces herself confidently, then immediately starts asking Sirius questions about where he’s been, what he likes to do, what kind of music he listens to.
The Smiths, he learns, take in kids who still need time to heal—physically, emotionally—before they’re ready to move on to a more permanent home.
It’s a temporary place. A waystation. For all of them.
But it’s a nice one.
A safe one, at least.
That’s one thing Sirius has never been able to wrap his head around.
Safe.
The feeling of safe.
Because, really, he’s never been safe. Not truly.
Even here, in this warm house, in this quiet room, lying on a bed that doesn’t feel like it’s meant to swallow him whole—he still doesn’t feel safe. His body doesn’t quite know how to relax, his mind doesn’t know how to stop anticipating the worst.
Because he knows—deep down, he knows.
They’ll find him.
Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually. His parents always do. They have money, power, connections. It doesn’t matter how many foster homes he’s thrown into, how many new beds he’s made to sleep in. They’ll find him, and when they do—
Sirius exhales, turning onto his side, staring at the shadows stretching across the ceiling.
Callum’s soft snores fill the room, steady and even, like the ocean tide. Sirius wonders what it’s like—to sleep that deeply, that peacefully, to not be afraid of the dark or the things lurking in it.
His mind drifts.
Regulus.
Where is he right now? What is he doing? Is he in bed, too, staring at a different ceiling, thinking about him?
Sirius swallows, guilt curling in his stomach like a parasite, latching on, gnawing at him.
He knows the answer. He knows Regulus doesn’t feel safe. Not without him.
Regulus has never felt safe without him.
Not when they were kids hiding in the attic from their mother’s screaming, not when their father came home drunk and angry, not when they were forced to sit through hours of lessons on how to be perfect. Sirius was always there. Always. Whispering promises that it would be okay, that he would make sure Regulus was okay.
And then he left.
Abandoned him.
Sirius squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t have a choice—but that’s a lie, isn’t it? He left, and now Regulus is alone, afraid, unprotected.
Maybe… maybe Regulus is safer without him.
The thought twists something sharp in his chest.
Sirius is always in trouble. He’s reckless, too loud, too impulsive. He challenges everything, fights when he should stay quiet. And look where that’s gotten him. He’s poisonous.
If Regulus were here, he’d be dragged into that too.
Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe Regulus has a chance at a better life without him weighing him down.
But—
But Regulus doesn’t know how to be alone. He doesn’t know how to fight back, how to survive in a world that only chews up and spits out people like them.
Sirius presses a fist against his chest, as if that will stop the ache spreading inside him.
The worst part is the not knowing.
Not knowing where Regulus is. If he’s warm, if he’s eating enough, if he’s scared.
Sirius lets the shame eat at him, claw at his ribs and sit heavy in his throat. It’s his fault.
Regulus should feel safe.
And he doesn’t.
Because of Sirius.
And all Sirius can do is lay here, staring at the ceiling, drowning in the weight of everything he cannot fix.
***
Sirius wakes up tired.
He always wakes up tired.
It doesn’t seem to matter how many hours of sleep he technically gets—he’s always exhausted. It’s not even the kind of exhaustion that a nap can fix, or one that fades after a few minutes of being awake. No, this is something else. Something deeper. Something woven into his bones, into his very existence.
He knows why.
It’s his sleeping patterns. He can never fall asleep properly, not when he wants to. His mind never seems to shut off, always wired, always buzzing with thoughts that refuse to leave him alone. And when he does manage to sleep, it’s restless. He wakes up every hour, his body still on high alert, as if waiting for something bad to happen.
It’s always been like this.
Sirius assumes it’s because of how he grew up. Because when you grow up in a house like his, you learn quickly that sleep is a luxury, not a necessity. You never truly let your guard down. Not when someone could burst into your room at any second.
He blinks up at the ceiling, letting out a slow breath.
The house is awake. He can hear the faint sounds of voices coming from down the hall—the clinking of dishes, the laughter of kids. It’s warm, lively.
It’s so different from what he’s used to.
Sirius turns his head slightly, eyes flicking toward the crutches leaning against the wall. Mrs. Smith told him not to get up. Said he should just stay in bed, that she would bring him breakfast.
But Sirius can’t do that.
It feels rude.
He pushes himself up with his arms, grimacing as he shifts, his two leg casts making it nearly impossible to move properly. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, grabbing for the crutches, but as soon as he tries to stand, his balance gives out, and he flops right back onto the mattress with an annoyed huff.
Alright. That didn’t work.
He tries again. And again.
By the fifth attempt, Sirius finally manages to stay upright, gripping the crutches tightly as he catches his breath. His pride is the only thing that keeps him from collapsing back onto the bed.
Slowly, he makes his way toward the kitchen.
The scene inside is chaotic, but in a way that’s almost… comforting. The other kids are gathered around the table, eating, talking, laughing. The space feels small, but warm—sunlight streams in through the window, making everything glow a soft gold. The smell of fresh pancakes fills the air, and Sirius blinks at the sight of Mrs. Smith bustling around, making sure each kid has what they need.
“You shouldn’t’ve gotten up, dear,” Mrs. Smith says as soon as she spots him, shaking her head. “I could’ve brought you breakfast.”
Sirius mumbles, “Thank you, but I’m alright.”
She doesn’t argue, just gives him a kind smile as he makes his way toward the empty seat at the end of the table.
“Good morning,” Mr. Smith greets, glancing up from his coffee.
Sirius nods, mumbling a quiet, “Morning.”
The loud chatter continues around him.
Sirius watches as Mr. and Mrs. Smith give each kid something different for breakfast—oatmeal for the youngest, toast with jam for another, scrambled eggs for the one with the cast on her arm. When it’s his turn, Mrs. Smith asks, “What would you like, dear?”
He shrugs. “Whatever’s fine.”
She places a plate of pancakes in front of him, along with a small dish of syrup and some fruit on the side.
Sirius hesitates for a second before picking up his fork. The noise at the table is overwhelming. He isn’t used to breakfast being like this. Loud, messy, filled with conversation.
It’s different.
He tells himself he should get used to it.
As he eats, the younger kids finish up and scamper off to watch cartoons in the living room. The noise dulls slightly, leaving just him and the Smiths at the table.
Mr. Smith takes a sip of his coffee before glancing at Sirius. “I’ll be taking you to get your casts removed later today.”
Sirius nods, finishing the last bite of his pancake.
It’ll be nice to walk again.
Even if, deep down, Sirius isn’t sure where he’s supposed to go.
The waiting room is too bright. Too sterile.
Sirius slouches in the uncomfortable plastic chair, arms crossed, trying to ignore the way the fluorescent lights hum overhead. The air smells like antiseptic and something vaguely metallic, the kind of smell that clings to the back of your throat no matter how much you try to ignore it.
He hates it here.
It was different when the hospital was helpful—when it meant getting stitched up or treated for whatever damage had been done. Back then, it had been a relief, a necessary evil. Now, it’s just a reminder.
A reminder of what happened.
Sirius swallows hard, shifting in his seat, but the casts make it difficult. He shudders, forcing himself to focus on something else. The dull murmur of conversations. The distant beep of monitors. The ticking clock on the wall, each second dragging on longer than the last.
Beside him, Mr. Smith sits with his hands clasped together, calm and patient as ever. Sirius doesn’t know how he does it—just sitting there, unbothered, like this doesn’t feel like torture.
Sirius bounces his knee—the one not wrapped in plaster—before remembering that it’s rude. He stops, grips the armrest instead.
He just wants this to be over with.
“Sirius Black?”
His name being called makes him flinch.
A male doctor, dressed in light blue scrubs, stands in the doorway with a clipboard. Mr. Smith is already on his feet, moving to help Sirius stand before Sirius can even attempt it himself.
Sirius clenches his jaw, irritation bubbling under his skin. He hates this. Hates being so dependent on someone else. But the alternative is struggling like an idiot in front of a room full of people, so he swallows his pride and lets Mr. Smith steady him.
They follow the doctor down a hallway, the scent of disinfectant stronger here. The walls are lined with posters about proper handwashing techniques and flu season warnings, all of them too bright, too cheery.
The examination room is small, with an adjustable hospital bed in the center and a tray of medical tools off to the side. Dr. Brown gestures for Sirius to get onto the bed.
Sirius hesitates.
Mr. Smith, of course, doesn’t. He steps forward, offering his arm, and Sirius bites back the automatic refusal on the tip of his tongue. He hates this—hates needing help—but it’s better than making an idiot of himself.
He lets Mr. Smith lift him onto the bed.
Dr. Brown pulls over a stool, flipping open his clipboard. “Before we get started, I need to ask you a few questions. Any pain or discomfort?”
Sirius shifts slightly, testing his legs. “There’s a pin in my right leg,” he mutters.
Dr. Brown nods, making a note. “That’s expected. We’ll take a look at it after the casts are off.”
There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse steps in. She’s younger, maybe in her mid-twenties, and she gives Sirius a polite but distant smile as she wheels over a small cart.
“Alright,” Dr. Brown says. “Let’s get those casts off.”
Sirius braces himself.
The process isn’t painful, but it’s uncomfortable. The cast saw is loud, vibrating against his skin as it cuts through the layers of plaster. It takes longer than Sirius expects, and by the time both casts are removed, his legs feel weird. Lighter. Too exposed.
His skin is pale, covered in patches of dry skin and faint imprints from where the cast pressed against him.
Dr. Brown presses lightly along Sirius’ shin. “Can you feel that?”
Sirius nods.
“Good. We’ll do a quick x-ray to make sure everything’s healed properly, and then we’ll see where we’re at.”
Sirius exhales sharply but doesn’t argue. He just wants this to be done.
The x-ray is quick, and Sirius barely listens as the technician tells him to hold still. When they return to the examination room, Dr. Brown studies the images on his screen, nodding to himself.
“Everything looks good,” he finally says. “Your bones have healed well. You’ll need to come back in two weeks so we can check on the pin in your right leg, but for now, you’re clear.”
Relief floods Sirius’ chest.
He still has to use crutches, but at least now he doesn’t feel as useless. He can move better, do things for himself. It’s a step in the right direction.
As he follows Mr. Smith out of the hospital, Sirius exhales, feeling lighter than he has in weeks.
Sirius stares at the ceiling, wide awake.
He’s given up on trying to sleep. He always does. His body is tired—aching in ways he’s grown used to—but his mind won’t shut off. It never does. There’s always something, some thought gnawing at the edges of his consciousness, refusing to let him rest.
It feels like he’s wired differently, like his brain wasn’t built for sleep. Maybe it’s because of how he grew up, always on edge, always waiting for the next outburst, the next cruel remark, the next slap across the face. He was trained to be alert, to never let his guard down.
That kind of thing doesn’t just go away.
He exhales sharply, shifting onto his side, when he hears it.
A soft whimper.
Sirius freezes, ears straining in the dark. For a moment, he wonders if he imagined it, but then—there it is again. A small, pitiful sound coming from the bed next to his.
Callum.
Sirius turns his head and squints in the dim light. The kid is curled in on himself, clutching his blanket in a tight grip. His face is twisted in distress, small whimpers turning into soft, broken cries.
Sirius knows exactly what’s happening.
He recognizes the way Callum’s fingers twitch against the sheets, the way his breaths come out short and uneven. He knows the signs—the telltale markers of a nightmare.
For a second, Sirius hesitates.
Should he wake him? Would that make it worse?
He thinks about all the times he woke up from nightmares alone, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, with no one there to remind him that it was just a dream.
Yeah. He should wake him.
Sirius pushes himself up, careful to move quietly so he doesn’t startle Callum too much. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing his crutches, and makes his way over.
“Callum,” Sirius murmurs, placing a light hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Hey, wake up.”
Callum startles awake with a sharp inhale. His small body jerks violently, his wide eyes darting around the room as if searching for the danger that isn’t there. His breathing is ragged, erratic. Then, his lip trembles, and he bursts into tears.
Sirius barely has a second to react before Callum throws himself at him, clinging to him like a lifeline.
Sirius stumbles slightly under the sudden weight but catches himself, settling onto the bed as Callum buries his face against his chest. He hesitates for only a moment before wrapping his arms around the kid, rubbing slow circles on his back.
“Hey, hey,” Sirius soothes, his voice quiet. “It’s alright. It was just a nightmare.”
Callum lets out a shaky sob, gripping the fabric of Sirius’ shirt in tiny, desperate fists.
Sirius isn’t used to this—to comforting someone like this. But he remembers. He remembers how it felt to be small, to wake up shaking with fear and have no one there to tell him it was okay.
So he holds Callum a little tighter.
Slowly, the boy’s sobs begin to subside into hiccups, then sniffles. His breathing evens out, and after a long moment of silence, Sirius asks, “You alright now?”
Callum nods against his chest.
Sirius waits a beat before asking, “Wanna talk about it?”
A tiny shake of the head.
Sirius huffs lightly. “Fair enough. I probably wouldn’t want to talk about it either.”
That earns him a small smile. Barely there, but it’s something.
For a while, they just sit there, Callum curled into him like a cat, Sirius absentmindedly rubbing his back. Then, in a small, hesitant voice, Callum asks, “Can you stay with me?”
Sirius doesn’t even have to think about it.
“Yeah,” he says, shifting so they’re both lying down. “I can stay.”
Callum immediately snuggles into his side, tucking his head under Sirius’ chin.
Sirius stiffens for a second, caught off guard by how easily Callum trusts him. Then, slowly, he relaxes, letting out a quiet breath as he wraps an arm around the kid.
It hits him all at once.
This is what he and Regulus used to do. When they were younger, before things got bad, Regulus would sneak into his bed after a nightmare. He’d curl up against him just like this, small and trembling, and Sirius would hold him until he fell asleep.
Regulus.
The thought is like a knife to the gut.
Where is he now? Is he safe? Does he feel safe?
Sirius doubts it. Regulus never felt safe without him. And now—now Sirius isn’t there.
Guilt coils in his chest, thick and suffocating.
But Callum’s soft, even breaths pull him back to the present.
Sirius glances down at the kid curled up beside him. He’s already asleep, his face peaceful, his tiny fingers still clinging to Sirius’ shirt.
Sirius sighs, shutting his eyes. Maybe—just maybe—sleep will come for him too.
Again, sleep does not come. Why should he except it to come otherwise?
Sirius grits his teeth, forcing his legs to move the way Sam and Kathy are telling him to.
His muscles ache, trembling under his weight, and his balance is completely off. He feels like a newborn foal—legs too long, too weak, too unsteady. It’s frustrating. Beyond frustrating. He knows this is necessary, that this is what needs to happen if he ever wants to walk properly again, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating.
“You’re doing a great job, Sirius,” Kathy says, her voice warm and encouraging.
He barely stops himself from scoffing. Sure. A great job. He’s standing here, wobbling like an idiot, barely able to take two steps without feeling like he’s about to collapse. Yeah. He’s doing amazing.
“Try shifting your weight forward a little,” Sam suggests, standing a few feet away, hands on his hips. “Remember, we want even pressure between both legs.”
Sirius exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t want to do this. Doesn’t want to be here, struggling like this in front of people. But he has to. He doesn’t have a choice.
Because this is his fault.
Of course, it’s his fault. If he had just done a better job at—
He stumbles.
His balance wavers beneath him, and for a moment, he thinks he’s going down, but then—
He isn’t.
He’s balancing.
It’s wobbly, unsteady, but he’s actually balancing.
For a split second, pride flickers in his chest. But just as quickly as it comes, it’s gone.
His legs buckle, and he tips forward.
Strong hands catch him before he can hit the ground. Sam steadies him, firm but gentle, and Sirius clenches his jaw in frustration.
“Well, I think that’s all for today,” Sam says lightly, as if Sirius isn’t burning with irritation at himself. “Don’t want to overdo it, right?”
Sirius swallows hard and nods, even though every part of him is screaming to keep going. He has to keep going. He has to prove to himself that he isn’t useless, that he isn’t weak, that he can do this.
But he knows they’re right. If he keeps going, he’ll only hurt himself, and then he’ll be right back where he started.
And he refuses to go backward.
So he forces himself to nod again, gripping his crutches tightly as he turns toward where Mrs. Smith is sitting with Callum. The little boy looks just as exhausted as he feels, but there’s a stubborn set to his mouth as he practices his own walking exercises.
Sirius exhales, starting toward them on his crutches, and can’t help but think about how much easier this would all be if he didn’t have the damn pin in his leg.
Only a couple more days.
He just has to hold out for a couple more days.
***
Sirius swings his legs over the side of the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath him as he waits. His right leg feels lighter now, stronger, but there’s still a lingering stiffness. He exhales sharply, bouncing his good leg to release some of the nervous energy building in his chest.
Dr. Brown finally enters, flipping through Sirius’ chart with an easy familiarity. “Alright, Sirius,” he says, looking up with a small smile. “Let’s take a look.”
Sirius watches as Dr. Brown examines his leg, pressing carefully along the skin, rotating his ankle slightly. The touch is clinical, detached, but Sirius still braces himself. He’s used to pain by now.
But this time, there isn’t any.
Dr. Brown nods approvingly. “Everything looks good. I’m confident we can move forward with removing the pins.”
Sirius lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
He doesn’t like medical procedures, but the idea of finally getting this over with outweighs his nerves. He just nods. “Okay.”
The process is uncomfortable but not unbearable, and when it’s done, Sirius flexes his foot experimentally, marveling at the lack of restriction.
“You’ll need a couple more physical therapy sessions to make sure everything’s back to full strength,” Dr. Brown says. “But after that? You’re medically cleared.”
Sirius nods again, quieter this time. Cleared. It feels like an ending.
And, maybe, a beginning.
The last couple of physical therapy appointments are grueling, but Sirius pushes through. He wants to walk properly again, to not rely on crutches or other people. Sam and Kathy praise his progress, telling him how well he’s doing, but Sirius still feels like he should be better .
By the time his final session is over, exhaustion settles deep in his bones, but there’s something else there, too. A strange sort of relief.
Mr. and Mrs. Smith meet him outside the therapy room, smiling warmly. Sirius hesitates, shifting awkwardly on his feet before blurting out, “Thank you.”
Mrs. Smith blinks, tilting her head. “For what?”
Sirius shrugs, feeling exposed. “For taking me in,” he says, voice quieter now. “For— I don’t know. Not making me feel like a problem.”
Mr. Smith claps a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a problem, Sirius.”
Mrs. Smith nods in agreement. “You’re always welcome here.”
Sirius swallows past the lump in his throat. He isn’t used to this—this kindness , this understanding . But it means something. It means everything .
He nods, not trusting himself to speak, before stepping away.
Greg, his new social worker, is waiting for him near the doors. He’s older, mid-sixties maybe, with a graying beard and kind eyes.
“Ready to go?” Greg asks.
Sirius glances back at the Smiths one last time before nodding.
And then, with steady steps, he walks toward his new foster family.
His second foster family is cold.
Sirius notices it the second he steps through the front door of the home. Immediately, a cold sensation creeps down his spine. The house itself is beautiful—gleaming floors, expensive furniture, everything pristine and in its proper place—but it feels hollow, like a showroom. There’s no warmth, no comfort. Just a rigid, artificial perfection.
Mr. and Mrs. Miller stand before him, stiff and professional. Mr. Miller, tall and sharp-featured, adjusts his cufflinks as if Sirius is nothing more than an inconvenience. Mrs. Miller barely glances at him, her thin lips pursed in disapproval.
He doesn’t need to be told—he already knows exactly what kind of people they are.
His eyes drift to the five other kids standing nearby, their small faces turned up at him with something like hope. That look twists something in his chest. It’s not fair. They don’t realize yet, but Sirius does. These people aren’t saviors. They don’t want these kids.
They just want to look like they do.
Mrs. Miller gestures toward the hallway. “Your sleeping arrangements are in here.”
Sirius follows, his stomach twisting as he steps inside the room. It’s cramped, barely enough space for all of them. Two thin mattresses rest on the floor—one a double, one a single—while two cribs lean against opposite walls. The blankets are old and worn, the air stale.
“They didn’t even bother with proper beds,” Sirius mutters under his breath.
Mrs. Miller, standing behind him, huffs. “We requested a teenage girl,” she says sharply, arms crossed. “And instead, we were dumped with an incompetent boy .”
Sirius stiffens, anger flaring hot in his chest. He turns, expression carefully blank, and meets her gaze head-on. “With all due respect, ma’am, I raised my younger brother. I think I know what I’m doing.”
Mr. Miller snorts. “We’ll see about that.” And with that, the couple turns and leaves, shutting the door behind them.
Sirius exhales sharply through his nose, trying to smother his anger. It doesn’t matter. They don’t matter.
The kids, though… they do.
He surveys the room, quickly deciding to rearrange things. The cribs need to be closer to the mattresses for easy access, and the single bed needs to be against the farthest wall so the oldest kid—whoever that is—can have some space. He gets to work, shifting things around until the setup makes sense .
Before long, the door opens again, and Mrs. Miller steps inside, a one-year-old girl balanced on her hip. Without a word, she hands the baby off to him, then thrusts a crumpled piece of paper into his free hand.
“Those are your chores,” she says flatly. “You better get them done.”
And then she’s gone again, the door closing behind her with a decisive click .
Sirius sighs, glancing down at the baby in his arms. Her tiny fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, her big eyes staring up at him with quiet trust.
Well , Sirius thinks. Guess I’m in charge now.
He turns to the rest of the kids—four pairs of wide, expectant eyes watching him.
There’s a two-year-old boy, a four-year-old girl, a five-year-old boy, and a seven-year-old girl. The seven-year-old, Sirius assumes, must be the one closest to understanding what’s actually happening here.
“So,” he says, shifting the baby in his arms. “Who’s ready for bath time?”
It takes some effort—okay, a lot of effort—but eventually, all the kids are bathed, dressed in their worn pajamas, and settled in bed. The five-year-old and four-year-old instinctively curl up against him on the double mattress, tiny hands gripping onto him like a lifeline. Sirius lets them. He doesn’t mind.
Before turning in for the night, he looks to Amelia, the seven-year-old, and gestures to the single bed. “It’s up to you,” he tells her. “If you want, you can take that one. Or you can stay here with us.”
Amelia hesitates, her fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt. Then, after a moment, she nods and climbs into the single bed.
Sirius exhales, shifting carefully so as not to disturb the younger kids nestled against him.
They don’t say much as they drift off to sleep, but Sirius doesn’t miss the way the little ones relax into him. They’re seeking something. Protection, maybe. Safety. Comfort.
And Sirius feels something, too.
A quiet, undeniable need to protect them.
***
Sirius wakes up early, before the rest of the house stirs, his eyes blinking against the dull morning light. The room is quiet, save for the soft sound of the other kids' breathing. Amelia, the seven-year-old, is curled up in the single bed, her hands tucked under her chin like she’s still in a dream. The four-year-old and five-year-old are pressed up close to him, their small bodies warm against his side.
He lays still for a moment, his heart heavy in his chest, but not with sorrow—more with the weight of responsibility. He can’t help them all the time, but right now, this morning, he can give them one thing they need most: care.
He slips out of bed quietly, careful not to wake them. The floor creaks beneath his feet as he makes his way to the kitchen. The fridge is half-stocked, and the pantry is only a little better, but there’s enough for breakfast. Cereal. He can make cereal. It’s simple enough.
Sirius gets the bowls out, places them on the table, and pours the cereal. His hands move efficiently—he’s done this before, even when it wasn’t his job. Even when it wasn’t his responsibility. But this time, it’s different. He’s the one in charge. He’s the one who has to take care of them.
By the time the kids begin to stir, their sleepy eyes blinking open, the milk is poured, and the cereal is ready. The smell of it fills the room, and one by one, they shuffle into the kitchen. Amelia, rubbing her eyes, sits at the table first, followed by the others.
“Morning,” Sirius says softly as he slides a bowl in front of each of them, taking a seat at the end of the table.
The two-year-old stares at the spoon, unsure of how to use it, and Sirius watches with a faint smile as the boy struggles. Gently, he takes the spoon and shows him how to scoop up the cereal, guiding his hand. “Like this,” he murmurs. The boy giggles when he finally gets it right, a small victory.
Sirius makes sure they all eat, not taking a single bite himself. His stomach growls, but he ignores it. They need it more than he does. When they’re finished, he clears the table, wiping the crumbs away, then turns to the dishes. There’s always more to do, always something to clean.
Later that evening, Sirius rounds all the kids up for their baths. The younger kids are always a challenge, but Sirius handles them with practiced patience. He runs the warm water, makes sure the bubbles are just right, and starts with the two-year-old. He’s tiny, barely speaking, but Sirius knows he needs to be treated with care. He hums softly as he washes the boy, making sure the water doesn’t get too high, gently scrubbing his skin as the boy giggles, splashing water over the sides of the tub.
When the other kids are waiting their turn, Sirius wraps the two-year-old in a towel and carries him to the bedroom, where he dresses him in clean clothes. The seven-year-old, Amelia, stands by the door, clutching a stuffed bunny to her chest, already dressed for bed. She doesn’t need his help—she’s independent like that—but she lingers, watching over the younger ones like a quiet protector.
The five-year-old tugs at Sirius’ sleeve, looking up at him with expectant eyes. Sirius doesn’t mind—he’s used to being followed, being needed. He ruffles the kid’s hair and leads him into the bathroom, setting the water just right before helping him into the tub.
As the kids finish up, Sirius dresses the five-year-old in fresh clothes, brushing his hair with careful strokes. The boy grins up at him before running off to play, his energy seemingly endless. When the room finally quiets, with the last of the laundry folded and the lingering scent of soap in the air, Sirius sits back against the wall and lets out a breath.
It’s a lot. It’s so much. But it’s his responsibility now. He promised he would take care of them, and he’s going to keep that promise.
That night, after he’s tucked the kids into bed—giving them kisses on their foreheads, pulling blankets up to their chins—he stands by the door, just watching them sleep. The house is still, peaceful even. He doesn’t hear any shouting or yelling, and the weight in his chest, the tightness in his heart, eases just a little.
He can do this.
He knows it’s not easy, and that they may never be a family, not in the traditional sense, but right now, in this small space, they’re his. They’ve got him. And for once, Sirius doesn’t feel so alone.
Sirius tucks the last of the kids into bed, smoothing the blankets over the tiny, curled-up forms. The room is dimly lit by the weak glow of the streetlamp outside, filtering in through the slatted blinds. The air smells faintly of the baby powder he used after the youngest’s bath, mixing with the lingering scent of soap from their hurried bedtime routine. The house is unnervingly silent, the way it always is when the Millers have retreated to their own world, ignoring everything outside of it.
Just as Sirius exhales, thinking he might finally get a moment to himself, the sudden crash of a door being forced open shatters the quiet.
Shouts echo through the house.
Banging—so much banging, like the walls themselves are being shaken apart.
The kids jolt awake, eyes wide and glistening with fear.
Sirius reacts instantly, heart pounding, instincts from years of self-preservation kicking in. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but he knows he needs to protect them.
“Come on,” he whispers sharply, already moving. He pulls Amelia, the oldest at seven, off the bed and urges her toward the closet. She’s trembling, but she listens. The younger ones follow suit, still half-asleep but wide-eyed with confusion and fear. The one-year-old whimpers softly as Sirius lifts her into his arms. He quickly shoves aside the few scattered clothes and blankets in the closet, making space.
More shouting. Boots stomping. Heavy, hurried footsteps moving toward their room.
Sirius curses under his breath, then looks at Amelia. “Help me,” he says, voice urgent but steady.
Amelia nods, her small hands gripping the arms of the two-year-old and the five-year-old, guiding them into the closet as quickly as she can. Sirius shifts the one-year-old into Amelia’s lap, pressing a finger to his lips in a silent plea for her to keep the little one quiet. She nods, clutching the baby close, rocking slightly to soothe her.
Sirius turns toward the door. It doesn’t have a lock. Of course, it doesn’t.
Thinking fast, he yanks the rickety dresser a few inches in front of the door. It won’t hold for long, but it’ll buy them time. He shoves a chair beneath the doorknob, his hands shaking but determined. The boots in the hallway are getting closer.
His heart pounds as he scrambles back to the closet and shuts the door behind him, pressing the kids deeper into the shadows. His breath is shallow, his pulse hammering so loudly he’s sure it’ll give them away.
Then he hears it—“Search warrant!”—bellowed through the house. A police raid.
Shit.
The dresser scrapes against the floor as someone tries to shove the door open.
A hard slam. Then another.
Sirius clenches his teeth, shifting so his body is in front of the kids, shielding them with whatever little protection he can offer. He doesn’t care if he gets hurt. But if they touch the kids—
Another bang, and the door finally gives way.
Sirius holds his breath as heavy footsteps enter the room. The closet door rattles.
Then the closet door swings open.
Sirius flinches on instinct, throwing an arm out protectively in front of the kids, his body braced for something—he doesn’t know what, but something bad. His heart pounds in his ears, drowning out all other sound. But instead of a blow, instead of rough hands yanking him away, he’s met with the sight of a police officer lowering his gun.
The officer—middle-aged, dark uniform creased with tension—assesses the situation quickly. His eyes soften, if only slightly, when he registers what’s in front of him.
“Kids,” he mutters into his radio. “I need assistance in the back room. I’ve got five of them, all under the age of seven, plus a teen.”
Sirius meets the man’s gaze warily, still shielding the younger ones as much as he can. The officer kneels to his level, hands open, not reaching for him, not making any sudden movements.
“How many?” the officer asks, voice lower this time.
“Five,” Sirius croaks. “All under seven.”
The officer nods, speaking into his radio again before turning his full attention back to Sirius. “Alright, kid. We’re not here to hurt you. You did good, keeping them safe. Can you help me get them out?”
Sirius hesitates, but something about the way the officer looks at him—no pity, no annoyance, just understanding—makes him nod. He turns to the kids, whispering reassurances, coaxing them out one by one. He carries the one-year-old himself, keeping a steadying hand on the others.
When they step out, the house is a mess of movement. Police officers flood every room, voices overlapping, radio chatter buzzing in the air. Red and blue lights flash through the windows, painting the walls in flickering color. The front door is wide open, revealing a dozen police cars parked in the driveway, their headlights illuminating the dark night.
A sharp wave of nausea rolls through Sirius. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen now, doesn’t know where they’re all going to end up. But at least they’re not here anymore. At least the Millers are nowhere to be seen.
He starts listing off which kids are siblings, making sure none of them get separated. He watches as the younger ones are guided toward waiting social workers, tiny hands gripping the sleeves of unfamiliar adults, their faces still filled with the remnants of fear.
And then Sirius realizes—his social worker isn’t here.
Panic stirs in his chest. He doesn’t want to be left alone. Doesn’t want to be stuck waiting, unsure of where he’s going next.
A hand lands on his shoulder. He flinches, spinning around, but it’s just the officer from earlier.
“I got you, kid,” the man—Charlie, according to his badge—says, voice steady. “Come on. We’ll figure this out.”
Sirius swallows hard, the weight of exhaustion settling in. He glances at the house one last time, at the crumbling illusion of a home, and then lets himself be led away.
He doesn’t know what’s waiting for him next. But whatever it is, it has to be better than this.
***
His third foster home is—well, strict .
Strict is an understatement, if Sirius is being completely honest.
When he first arrived, he was introduced to his new foster mother, Agatha. Sirius got the impression that she wasn’t very fond of kids. Or teenagers. Or people in general. Her mouth was set in a permanent thin line, her sharp, assessing gaze raking over him like he was an inconvenience from the start. She wasted no time in listing her rules—stern, rigid, unreasonable rules that left no room for error.
“Curfew is at eight sharp,” she had said that first night, arms crossed as she stared down at him. “I don’t care if you’re in the middle of a phone call, in the middle of dinner—I expect you in your room by then. No exceptions. You will keep your area clean, no loitering in the hallways, no locking doors, and absolutely no stealing . If I catch you with something that isn’t yours, and you’ll regret it.”
Sirius hadn’t responded, just nodded stiffly, his hands curled into fists at his sides.
That was two weeks ago.
In that time, he’s come to realize just how serious Agatha is about her rules. How much power she wields over the teens in this house. And how quickly she turns them into criminals.
The first time, it was Caleb.
Sirius hadn’t spoken much to him—he was older, maybe sixteen, always keeping his head down. He had lasted four months in the house, which, from what Sirius gathered, was longer than most. One afternoon, Caleb had been running late, barely making it back before curfew. Five minutes past eight, Agatha had thrown open his bedroom door and found a pack of cigarettes tucked under his mattress.
“Those aren’t mine!” Caleb had protested, his voice sharp with panic. “I swear, I don’t even smoke!”
Agatha wasn’t listening. Her expression was already set, cold and unyielding. The police were called. The officers barely looked at him before slapping handcuffs on his wrists. Possession of illegal substances.
Sirius had stood at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles ached, watching as Caleb was dragged out the front door.
He never came back.
The second time, it was Olivia.
She was fifteen, small and quiet. Sirius had seen her flinch whenever Agatha raised her voice, had caught the way her hands trembled when she passed her plate at dinner. She never caused trouble. Never spoke unless spoken to. But that didn’t matter.
One night, Agatha stormed into the dining room, a furious glint in her eye, waving a twenty-pound note in the air. “ Who took this from my purse? ”
No one answered.
Agatha’s gaze zeroed in on Olivia. “You,” she hissed. “You were in my office today.”
Olivia’s eyes went wide, shaking her head so quickly her dark curls bounced around her face. “No, I wasn’t! I—”
“I saw you.”
The denial didn’t matter. Agatha called the police. The charge was theft . Olivia was taken away in less than an hour.
The third time, it was Lewis.
It happened fast. Too fast.
One morning, before school, Agatha cornered him in the hallway, her mouth twisted in disgust as she held up a small plastic bag. “ Drugs, Lewis? In my house? ”
Lewis had stared, eyes wide, his hands shaking as he took a step back. “I—I don’t know what that is. I swear—”
But Agatha was already shaking her head. Already dialing the police. Already setting the story in stone before he even had a chance to fight it.
That night, Sirius lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Three gone in two weeks. Framed for crimes they didn’t commit. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew Agatha was behind it.
He had to get out before he was next.
Sirius keeps his voice low as he explains the math problem to Daniel, tapping his pencil against the worksheet as he walks the younger boy through the steps. Daniel, who only arrived two days ago, furrows his brows in concentration.
Sirius has been in enough foster homes to recognize the look—uncertainty, nerves, the overwhelming urge to do everything right. He doesn’t blame him. In a house like this, stepping out of line is dangerous.
Daniel sighs, slumping against the table. “I’m hungry.”
Sirius stills. The rule echoes in his mind: No food after 4 PM. No exceptions. He glances at the clock. It’s just past six.
“You ate dinner, didn’t you?” Sirius asks, already knowing the answer.
Daniel shrugs. “Wasn’t enough.”
Sirius hesitates, jaw tightening. He knows the risks, knows Agatha has eyes everywhere, but Daniel is just a kid. A kid who shouldn’t have to go to bed hungry.
“Stay here,” Sirius mutters, rising from his seat. He moves quickly and quietly to the kitchen, scanning the room to make sure Agatha isn’t lurking. The fruit basket sits on the counter, untouched since breakfast. An apple. That’s all he needs. One apple.
His fingers brush the smooth skin of the fruit when—
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Sirius freezes.
Agatha stands in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes cold with accusation.
“I—” Sirius starts, but she doesn’t give him a chance.
“You were stealing from me.” Her voice is sharp, final.
Sirius shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t—I was just getting something for Daniel. He’s hungry. It’s just an apple.”
Agatha’s lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Stealing is stealing.”
Before Sirius can protest again, she reaches for the phone, dialing with deliberate precision.
Sirius’ heart pounds as she lifts it to her ear.
“Yes, hello, I just caught my foster son stealing from me. I would like the police to arrest him.”
A cold weight settles in Sirius’ stomach.
Daniel peeks around the corner, eyes wide with fear, and Sirius meets his gaze for only a moment before he’s yanked back into the suffocating reality of what’s happening.
He should have known. He should have been more careful.
Because in Agatha’s house, the rules are never about right or wrong. They’re about power.
And Sirius is about to pay the price.
Notes:
Word Count: 8,863
Published: 2025-04-09YAYAYAYYAYAYAYAY!!!
Chapter 23: Juvenile Detention is Where He’s At.
Summary:
Sirius knew this was coming; the signs were right there in front of him. How could he not see them? He did, he just didn’t think it would happen this quickly.
At least there’s light at the end of the tunnel… right?
(Part 2 of Where in the World is Sirius Black?)
POV: Sirius Black
Notes:
Trigger Warning: mentions of sexual abuse (if you want to skip, skip the end of this chapter, thank you)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The smell.
That’s the first thing Sirius notices the second he steps off the police transport bus. The detention centre smells like sweat and bleach, with a faint, underlying staleness—like damp clothes that never fully dried. It clings to his skin, fills his lungs, settles in the back of his throat. A part of him knows he’ll get used to it soon enough, but another part—a quieter, more stubborn part—refuses to accept that he’s actually here long enough for that to happen.
Honestly? It’s not the worst thing he’s ever smelled. It’s actually quite pleasant compared to other places he’s had to endure. Compared to his mother’s perfume, thick and suffocating, choking the air out of a room. Compared to the antiseptic sterility of the hospital, where every breath carried the sharp tang of disinfectant, as if it were trying to scrub away the fact that he had no one to visit him.
Sirius never thought he’d end up here. Well… that’s a partial lie. He never thought he’d end up here as a foster kid, or for the crime he supposedly committed.
The crime.
If they should count giving an apple to a hungry kid as theft.
The memory feels almost absurd now, like some cruel joke. He can still hear Agatha’s voice, cold and matter-of-fact, as she dialed the police right in front of him.
“I just caught my foster son stealing from me. I would like the police to arrest him.”
Sirius had tried to explain, had even held up his hands in surrender. It wasn’t for him—it was for Daniel. The kid had been hungry. He’d only been trying to help. But Agatha hadn’t cared. She had looked at him like she had been waiting for him to mess up, for the chance to be rid of him, and he had handed her the perfect excuse.
Now, standing in line for roll call, Sirius clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms. His mind drifts as the officer in front of them slowly checks off names, calling them out like they’re cattle. He keeps his gaze ahead, expression carefully neutral. It would have been good character-building, he thinks dryly. That’s what his Uncle Alphard would have said. Some twisted life lesson about resilience.
That’s another person he misses.
Uncle Alphard.
Sirius hasn’t seen him since Regulus’ birthday last year. He had been supposed to come for Christmas, but he had sent his apologies instead, claiming work was keeping him away. Sirius hadn’t believed him, not really. The older he got, the more he started to understand that sometimes people leave because they had no other choice. Because they were protecting themselves. Sirius couldn’t even be angry about it. Not when he might have done the same thing in his place.
If Sirius is being completely honest, there are only three people in the entire world he misses.
His Uncle. His cousin, Andromeda. And his brother.
His brother.
Regulus.
Sirius’ chest tightens. He wonders if Regulus even knows where he is, if he’s worried, if he still thinks about him. He wonders if his little brother is safe. If he’s happy. If he’s found someone to look after him, the way Sirius always tried to. The thought makes his stomach twist.
He shakes his head sharply, forcing the thoughts away. Now is not the time. Now is not the place.
Vulnerability is dangerous here.
He squares his shoulders, keeps his face blank, and steps forward when his name is called.
Just keep moving.
That’s one perk. Or, one of the many perks of growing up in his family. The unique skill set he’s acquired over time. From all the obedience lessons to mannerisms drilled into him, Sirius has learned how to adapt, to take what was forced upon him and reshape it into something useful.
“Show no emotion, Sirius.”
His mother’s voice echoes in his head, a sharp reminder of every family function, every public outing, every moment where he was expected to be a perfect Black heir. Emotion was a weakness. Emotion was a flaw.
It was suffocating. But, now, it’s also a weapon.
Here, in a place like this, it keeps him alive. Because if there’s one thing he knows for sure, it’s that the system isn’t letting him go anytime soon. He’s here until he turns eighteen. And if he wants to make it through, he has to be careful. Has to be smart. Has to control every flicker of emotion that might make him look vulnerable.
A guard, a woman in her early thirties with tired eyes, approaches him. “Here,” she says, thrusting a clipboard into his hands. “Intake form. Fill it out.”
Sirius takes it without a word, scanning the questions:
Full Name:
Date of Birth:
Previous Residences:
Emergency Contact:
Known Allergies:
Prior Arrests (if applicable):
Current Charges:
Medical Conditions:
Do you feel safe in detention? (Yes/No)
He grips the pen tighter as he begins to write. His name comes easily. Date of birth—fine. But then he hesitates. Previous residences? Does he list his foster homes? The hospital? His childhood home, the one he barely lets himself think about anymore?
He leaves it vague. Just a city name.
Emergency contact? He doesn’t have one. Not really. His uncle Alphard, maybe. But would Alphard even pick up the phone? Would he even know Sirius was here? He scrawls “N/A” and moves on.
Prior arrests? No. Not that his family didn’t deserve to have him locked away for something—
Current charges? Theft. His lips twist at that. As if swiping an apple for a hungry kid is worthy of all this.
Do you feel safe in detention?
Sirius stares at the question, tapping the pen against the paper. Safe? No. But was he ever safe to begin with? Not in the system. Not at home. Not anywhere.
He checks No and moves on.
As he fills out the last of the form, a thought nags at him. He’s lucky. No matter how much it doesn’t feel like it, he knows he is. He has a safety net. A wealthy family that, regardless of how much they might hate him, will always be there. When he turns eighteen, he won’t have to worry about where he’s going or how he’ll survive.
Most of the kids in here? They don’t have that.
He wonders what happens to them. The ones who age out with no money, no home, no one looking out for them. How many of them end up back in places like this? How many never make it out at all?
It makes him think. Think about what he can do, about how he might be able to change something. If he ever sees his uncle again, he’ll ask for help. Alphard has money. Influence. Maybe, together, they could actually do something that matters.
Sirius finishes the form and hands it back to the guard. She barely glances at it before motioning for him to follow. “Photos,” she says shortly, leading him down the hall.
As he walks, Sirius schools his expression back into place. Blank. Controlled. Unshaken.
The way he was taught.
If he could see himself now, he’d laugh. Like, honest-to-God laugh.
Sirius has tried so hard not to be like them, in any way, and yet… Here he is, using his skill set to the best of his ability. Just like his mother wanted.
It makes him sick.
The guard walking ahead of him doesn’t seem to notice his internal turmoil. She’s focused, leading him down the long, sterile corridor lined with identical cells. Her voice is clipped, professional, as she lists the rules.
“No fighting, no stealing, no talking back to the guards. If you’re told to do something, you do it. Meals are at seven, twelve, and six. Showers are in the morning and before lights out. If you cause problems, you’ll lose privileges.”
Sirius nods, absorbing the information. None of it surprises him. He’s heard it before—rules meant to keep kids in line. But then she adds something else.
“If you break the rules enough times, you’ll end up in solitary.”
Her tone is pointed. A warning.
Sirius forces himself to nod again, keeping his expression neutral. The thought of being locked away in a tiny cell, alone, makes his stomach churn. He won’t let that happen.
The guard stops in front of a cell and pulls out a key. “You’ll be bunking with Joseph,” she tells him, pushing the heavy door open. “The others will be coming in from the yard in a few minutes. Get yourself settled.”
Sirius steps inside without hesitation. The cell is small—bare-bones, really. Two bunks, a toilet, a metal desk bolted to the wall. No windows. The air is stale, thick with the scent of sweat and something sour.
The top bunk is already occupied, a thin blanket messily folded at the foot of the bed. That leaves Sirius with the bottom one. Fine by him. He sits down on the stiff mattress, placing his intake bag beside him. His fingers curl into the coarse fabric of the blanket, grounding himself.
He needs to be smart. Needs to keep his head down, follow the rules, stay out of trouble.
Survival. That’s all this is now. It doesn’t matter that the crime he was accused of is laughable. It doesn’t matter that the system failed him, that no one listened. What matters is that he’s here.
And if he wants to get out, he has to play by their rules.
The sound of heavy doors clanging open in the distance signals the return of the other inmates. Sirius exhales slowly, shoulders tense as he prepares himself.
He has no other choice.
***
Sirius has just finished setting up his bed when the sound of cell doors slam open. He glances up, instinctively stiffening, already preparing for whatever is coming next.
The boy who steps in is taller, older, built solid like someone who knows how to throw a punch and make it count. Olive skin, a sharp jawline, and a buzz cut that makes him look even meaner. His dark eyes flick to Sirius, assessing him in a single sweep, before he drops his duffel onto the floor with a thud.
“I’m Joseph,” he gruffs out, his voice low and rough like he’s spent too much time yelling or smoking or just not caring about smoothing out the edges of his words.
Sirius doesn’t respond right away. He watches as Joseph climbs the metal frame of the bunk, claiming the top without hesitation. His movements are fluid, practiced—like he’s done this before.
The silence that follows is awkward. Stifling.
Sirius busies himself with smoothing out the thin blanket on his mattress, but he can feel Joseph’s presence above him, solid and real. He’s never been great at handling quiet. At least, not this kind. The forced kind. The waiting-for-something-to-happen kind.
Then, finally—
“What you in for?”
The question catches Sirius off guard. His hands still on the blanket as he looks up, blinking in surprise.
For a second, he doesn’t know what to say. Because really? It’s almost embarrassing. Some of the kids here are in for real crimes. And him?
“Taking food for a kid past curfew,” he mutters. The words feel pathetic as soon as they leave his mouth. But then, because it’s true, because it feels justified, he adds, “Foster mother is a real bitch.”
He doesn’t typically swear. His mother would’ve smacked him across the face for it. But in this moment, it feels necessary.
Joseph snorts, a dry, unimpressed sound. “Yeah, so theft then?”
Sirius hesitates before exhaling a breathy, “Yeah.”
There’s another stretch of silence, but this time, it’s different. Less awkward. More settled, like they’ve passed some kind of test neither of them was aware of.
After a while, Sirius tilts his head back against the pillow and asks, “You?”
The bunk groans as Joseph shifts, moving closer to the edge. Sirius catches movement above, then sees Joseph peering down at him over the railing, an almost lazy smirk playing on his lips.
“Car jacking.”
Sirius raises a brow, intrigued despite himself. Joseph winks at him, and Sirius feels his face flush, heat creeping up his neck before he can stop it.
Damn it.
He internally berates himself for the reaction. Because he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. He’s—
Sirius clears his throat, partially to clear his head and the other half to make his voice work again. “Was it fun?”
Joseph’s smirk widens, a flash of something reckless and proud glinting in his eyes.
“Oh, was it ever.”
Sirius exhales a quiet laugh. Yeah. He has a feeling he and Joseph are going to get along just fine.
Sirius watches Joseph settle back against the top bunk, hands tucked behind his head, as he talks. The easy way he speaks about himself is almost enviable—like he doesn’t care how Sirius might judge him, like he’s used to people listening, or maybe not listening at all. Either way, Sirius listens.
“Turning sixteen in three days,” Joseph says, sounding neither excited nor dreading it. Just stating a fact. “June 7th.”
Sirius blinks. That’s soon. He doesn’t know why, but he hadn’t expected Joseph to be that close to his own age. The way he carries himself makes him seem older—like he’s already been through everything Sirius is only just learning to navigate.
“Got any plans?” Sirius asks, though he knows the answer.
Joseph huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Gonna have myself a nice little party in juvie. Might even get an extra scoop of mashed potatoes if I’m lucky.” He grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Sirius doesn’t push. He wouldn’t want anyone prodding at his own thoughts either.
Instead, Joseph keeps talking, and Sirius learns more about him in the span of fifteen minutes than he has about most people in his life.
Youngest of four. All his older siblings are married or off at university, too busy building their futures. His parents, too burnt out to pay much attention to him.
“That’s why I stole the car,” Joseph says, his tone light, like it doesn’t really matter. “Thought maybe if I made some noise, they’d finally look at me.”
Sirius doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just listens. Because he gets it. He knows what it’s like to feel invisible until you do something reckless enough to force people to see you.
Apparently, Joseph’s siblings are finally coming for visitation day tomorrow. The first time they’ve bothered.
Joseph doesn’t say how he feels about that, but Sirius can tell it means something.
Before he can think of a response, Joseph swings his legs over the side of the bunk. “Come on,” he says, nodding toward the door. “It’s dinner time.”
Sirius follows, grateful that Joseph is willing to help him figure things out.
The cafeteria is louder than he expected, filled with the dull hum of voices, clattering trays, and the occasional sharp bark of laughter. Sirius stiffens, glancing around as they enter the line. It reminds him a little too much of school, but with an edge—like everyone here has something to prove.
Joseph nudges him forward. “Just take what they give you, don’t complain. Trust me, you don’t want to piss off the cafeteria workers.”
Sirius nods and watches as his tray is filled. Mashed potatoes, chicken, carrots. Not the worst meal, though the potatoes smell a bit off.
Joseph leads him toward a table, practically forcing him to sit down before he can second-guess himself.
“You need to know how things work around here,” Joseph says, voice quieter now, more serious. “There’s a hierarchy. Some kids run things, some kids try to stay out of their way, and some kids…” He smirks. “Some kids don’t know better and get themselves in trouble.”
He subtly points out the key players. The ones in charge. The ones people don’t cross unless they have a death wish.
Then his gaze lands on one particular table. “That’s Caleb,” Joseph says. “One of the leaders.”
Sirius looks up, and his stomach twists.
Because he knows Caleb.
Caleb sees him, too. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, there’s something unreadable in Caleb’s expression—recognition, maybe resentment. Then, just like that, he turns away.
Sirius lets out a slow breath.
“I know him,” he murmurs, moving his mashed potatoes around his plate without eating them. “He was in my foster home. Got arrested because he was five minutes past curfew.”
Joseph raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“He was trying to turn his life around,” Sirius adds, jaw clenching. “Agatha—the witch she is—ruined that for him.”
Joseph nods, like that makes perfect sense. “Yeah, unfortunately, most of the kids in here are foster kids.”
Sirius grips his fork a little tighter. He already knew that, but hearing it out loud makes it feel more real.
Yeah. And he’s one of them.
Sirius stares at the ceiling, his body tense against the thin mattress. Sleep doesn’t come easily, not here, not now. He’s too aware of everything—the hard mattress beneath him, the distant murmurs from the hallway, the rustle of sheets from another cell, and the slow, steady sound of Joseph’s breathing above him.
His mind won’t shut off. It keeps spiraling, looping over the same thoughts, the same rage, the same helplessness.
It’s not fair. None of it is.
The cops didn’t even listen to him. He told them what happened, told them the truth, but they didn’t care. They didn’t want to hear his side. They took Agatha’s word for it without a second thought, like she was some saint who couldn’t possibly lie.
But she does lie. She’s done this before—to so many kids before him. He knows she has. He’s seen them come and go, seen the way she sets them up, and still, no one listens. She files her reports, her fake accusations, and the world believes her.
It makes him sick.
Sirius turns onto his side, fists clenching in the sheets. How many others have been thrown into this place because of people like her? How many kids in this building have been falsely accused, just like him?
His throat feels tight.
Why? Why won’t anyone listen to the truth? Why did they believe Agatha and not him? Not even Daniel?
His thoughts spiral deeper, sinking into something darker. Because he knows cruelty. He’s lived it. Not just with Agatha. Before her. Them. His parents.
Sirius tries to stop himself from going down that road, but it’s too late. His body reacts before his mind can stop it—his breaths come faster, shallower. His hands feel clammy, his heart pounding like it’s trying to break free from his chest.
The cell is too small. Too quiet. Too loud.
He’s shaking, the tremors running down his arms, his legs, everywhere. His breaths sound too loud in the silence, ragged and uneven. He tries to slow them down, to breathe , but it’s not working. The walls feel closer. The air feels heavier.
He knows this feeling.
Panic.
Sirius sits up abruptly, his head spinning. He grips the edge of the bed, trying to steady himself, but it’s useless. He’s too far gone.
The only person who’s ever been able to pull him back from this is gone.
He doesn’t know where Regulus is, but he knows where he is. Stuck in this place. Alone.
All because he was trying to do the right thing.
And doing the right thing has only ever gotten him in trouble.
Maybe… maybe he should stop trying.
Maybe he should start doing the wrong things.
Maybe it’s for the better.
Sirius walks down the dimly lit hallway, his footsteps light but hurried. He hopes Joseph’s family meeting went well. No , he prays it did. Joseph deserves something good. Something better than this place.
He’s almost at the hallway that leads to their cell when, suddenly, a hand yanks him backward. His breath catches as he’s slammed against the cold concrete wall, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.
Sirius barely has time to react before he sees who it is.
Caleb.
His stomach twists. Caleb’s taller, broader, stronger. And he’s not alone. There are two others flanking him—Sirius doesn’t recognize them, but it doesn’t matter. He already knows what this is.
A warning.
Caleb leans in, eyes dark and unforgiving. “You think you’re something special, Black?” His voice is low, edged with amusement, but there’s nothing playful about the way his grip tightens on Sirius’ collar.
Sirius swallows hard, his heart hammering. “I don’t think anything.”
Caleb scoffs, shoving him harder against the wall. “Good. Then you’ll understand why I’m telling you to stay out of my way.”
Sirius clenches his jaw, keeping his expression blank even as adrenaline surges through him. “I’m not in your way.”
Caleb smirks, but his grip doesn’t loosen. “See, I don’t like new kids coming in here and thinking they can just exist without knowing their place. You do know your place, don’t you, Black?”
Sirius doesn’t answer. He doesn’t trust himself to.
Caleb’s smirk fades. “I’m not gonna say this twice. Stay quiet. Stay invisible. Don’t get any ideas about making friends in my place.” He finally lets go, stepping back. His friends do the same, but their eyes linger, like they’re memorizing Sirius’ face.
Sirius gets the message.
Without another word, he pushes off the wall, forcing himself not to bolt as he heads toward his cell. His hands are shaking, his breath uneven. Don’t let them see it. Don’t let them see you’re scared.
He doesn’t even register walking inside his cell until—
“What happened?”
Sirius jumps so violently he nearly trips over his own feet.
Joseph is standing there, wide-eyed, looking at him like he’s just seen a ghost.
“Yo, I was just asking what happened,” Joseph says, holding his hands up in defense. “You okay?”
Sirius lets out a shaky breath, nodding. “Yeah.” His voice barely works.
Joseph doesn’t look convinced, but after a second, he just lets it go.
“So,” Sirius croaks out, desperate to change the subject, “tell me about the family meeting. Did it go well?”
To Sirius’ relief, Joseph’s face lights up. He grabs Sirius by the sleeve and drags him toward the bottom bunk, flopping down like an excited kid.
“Dude, it was crazy. ”
Sirius listens as Joseph spills everything, his words fast, excited. His parents had come. His siblings finally understood what happened. His oldest sister had been mortified that she hadn’t noticed, apologizing over and over, saying she never meant to ignore him, that she just… didn’t want to be associated with him after what he’d done.
One of his brothers, the psychology major, had basically given a full analysis on attention-seeking behavior, explaining that it was common , that it made sense.
“They all said they should’ve been better siblings,” Joseph says, his voice softer now. “But they also said I should’ve just… told them. Instead of doing that. ”
Sirius nods. “They’re right,” he says. “But so are you.”
Joseph looks at him, head tilting. “What do you mean?”
Sirius hesitates, then shrugs. “They should’ve noticed. You shouldn’t have had to say anything.”
Joseph stares at him for a second before a small smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Joseph suddenly grins. “Guess what?”
Sirius raises a brow. “What?”
Joseph practically bounces where he sits. “I’m gonna be an uncle. ”
Sirius blinks. “What?”
“My sister—she’s pregnant! She’s having a baby!”
Joseph is radiating happiness, and Sirius… Sirius feels it. Like it’s seeping into his own chest, something warm and unfamiliar.
For the first time since stepping foot in this place, Sirius thinks that maybe—just maybe —he’ll be okay here.
***
Sirius learns quickly. He has to.
Survival isn’t about being the strongest, or the toughest—it’s about watching . About knowing . He studies how the other kids move, how they talk, how they avoid eye contact with certain people and nod respectfully at others. He watches how smaller kids keep their heads down, how fights are avoided with a single well-timed joke, how the staff always seem just a little too slow to intervene when things get ugly.
He learns who runs things. Who to steer clear of. Who to align himself with—if he even can .
Mostly, he learns that the safest way to exist in a place like this is to not stand out.
And then there’s group .
Sirius sits in a too-bright room in a too-comfortable plastic chair, surrounded by kids who look just as uninterested as he feels. Group therapy. It’s meant to help them—meant to make them talk. But Sirius knows better than that. Talking about his feelings is pointless. Feelings don’t change reality.
Harry, the therapist, sits at the front of the room. He’s younger than Sirius expected, maybe mid-thirties, dressed in casual slacks and a button-down. He has this air about him—like he actually wants to help.
Which, honestly, is a shame. Because no one here is willing to let him.
“So,” Harry starts, leaning back in his chair. “Anyone want to share how their week has been?”
Silence. A couple kids mumble something half-hearted, but most just stare at their feet. Sirius folds his arms across his chest, gaze fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor.
Harry sighs, rubbing his temple. He’s tired. Sirius can tell. Tired of kids who don’t care. Tired of trying to reach people who don’t want to be reached.
And for some reason, Sirius feels bad for him.
Before he even fully realizes what he’s doing, Sirius shifts forward slightly and asks, “What’s your favorite color?”
It’s a stupid question. Boring. Unimportant. But Harry’s eyes light up like Sirius just handed him the key to the universe.
“Red,” Harry says immediately.
The other kids snicker. “That’s a boring-ass color,” one of them scoffs.
Harry chuckles. “Oh yeah? You got a better one?”
And just like that, something clicks . The kids start throwing out their own colors, arguing about the best ones, laughing at each other’s choices. It’s small. Insignificant. But for the first time since group started, people are talking .
Harry glances at Sirius, just for a second, and Sirius sees it—the quiet relief, the gratitude.
When the session ends, everyone starts filing out, but Harry calls Sirius over.
“Mind helping me stack the chairs?” he asks.
Sirius hesitates, but nods. As they work, Harry glances at him. “No one’s ever broken the ice before,” he says. “So… thanks. That was—” He shakes his head, smiling. “That was good.”
Sirius shrugs, setting a chair down.
Harry studies him for a moment. “You didn’t say much yourself, though.” He pauses. “If you ever do want to talk—”
“I’m good,” Sirius interrupts quickly.
But then Harry places a hand on his back—just a light touch, nothing forceful, just a brief, casual gesture.
And Sirius reacts .
Before he even registers what’s happening, his body jerks violently away. His breath stutters, his heartbeat pounds, and for a second, his mind blanks out entirely.
“Sorry—um—I think I’m good,” he stammers, barely able to get the words out before he turns and bolts .
He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. He knows exactly what expression Harry will be wearing.
Shock. Pity. Confusion.
Sirius hates all three.
Sirius knows he’s being watched.
He can feel it, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against his back, crawling over his skin no matter where he is, who he’s with, or what he’s doing. At first, he thinks he’s imagining it. He’s tired—so damn tired—so maybe it’s just his brain playing tricks on him.
But it doesn’t go away.
Everywhere he turns, that feeling lingers. In the cafeteria. In the halls. In his own damn cell .
And it’s getting worse .
His sleep is worse, too. Not like it was great before, but at least he used to get a few restless hours. Now? Now, every time he closes his eyes, something inside him jolts awake—like his body knows it’s not safe to let his guard down. He stares at the ceiling for hours, limbs heavy, mind buzzing. Every shadow in the corner of his cell seems sharper, darker. Every sound grates against his nerves like nails against concrete.
He starts to feel frayed .
So when he’s out in the yard, tossing a worn-out ball back and forth with Joseph, and that familiar itch of being watched crawls up his spine again , something inside him finally snaps.
Sirius turns, scanning the yard. It doesn’t take him long to spot them.
Caleb.
Standing with his usual group, watching Sirius with a smirk that makes Sirius’ stomach churn.
He wouldn’t call himself paranoid— really, he wouldn’t —but right now, with how frayed his nerves are, how exhausted he feels, how wrong everything is, he’s this close to losing it.
Before he fully registers what he’s doing, he’s already stalking across the yard.
Joseph calls after him, but Sirius ignores him.
“What’s your problem?” he snaps when he reaches Caleb.
Caleb just raises an eyebrow. “My problem ?”
Sirius clenches his fists. “Yeah. You’ve been staring at me for weeks . You and your little gang. You got something to say, or are you just gonna keep lurking like a creep?”
Caleb snickers. His friends do, too.
Sirius’ skin burns.
“If you’re looking for a fight, Black,” Caleb drawls, “you should probably think twice.”
Sirius glares at him. “I haven’t said anything about you. So why don’t you leave me the hell alone?”
For a second, Caleb just stares. And then—
Sirius doesn’t even see the punch coming.
The next thing he knows, he’s on the ground, pain exploding across his jaw.
And then another hit. And another.
A knee presses down on his ribs, pinning him in place, and fists slam into his face, his stomach, his sides. Sirius barely hears the shouting around him—he just registers pain, heat, the taste of blood flooding his mouth.
By the time the guards storm in and drag them apart, Sirius’ head is spinning.
He barely even fights when they grab his arms and haul him up. But instead of taking Caleb and his gang away— the ones who attacked him —the guards only restrain him .
“What the—” Sirius tries, but his voice is hoarse.
They don’t listen. They never listen.
His arms are yanked behind him, and he’s dragged across the yard, through the halls, straight to the Warden’s office.
The Warden doesn’t care what happened. Doesn’t care that Sirius didn’t throw the first punch. He only cares that there was a fight.
And Sirius?
Sirius is the one who gets solitary confinement .
When the heavy door finally slams shut behind him, Sirius sits in the suffocating darkness, pressing the back of his head against the cold concrete wall.
And all he can think is—
Finally.
Some peace and quiet.
At first, Sirius doesn’t mind the solitude.
The darkness is familiar, comforting even. It wraps around him like a heavy blanket, thick and absolute. He’s spent enough nights alone, curled up in places he shouldn’t be, that the absence of light isn’t what bothers him. He likes the dark. The dark is safe . The dark means no one can see him.
But the silence?
The silence is unnatural .
There’s no hum of distant voices, no echo of footsteps in the hallway, no shuffling of movement, no rustling of sheets, no breathing— nothing .
Sirius has been locked away before. He’s been isolated, ignored, shut out. But never like this. Never in a way that strips everything from him, leaving behind only his thoughts and the oppressive weight of nothingness.
He presses his back against the cold concrete wall, pulling his knees up to his chest, his fingers gripping the fabric of his pants.
He’s not afraid. He’s not .
The panic creeping up his throat is just exhaustion. The way his fingers twitch, the way his chest tightens—it’s just frustration. That’s all.
Breathe, he tells himself. It’s fine. It’s fine.
But it’s not .
His thoughts spiral, looping over and over.
How long has it been?
What day is it?
His sense of time is gone.
His release date should be soon— right?
Unless they pushed it back.
He’s heard of that happening before. Some kid gets thrown in solitary for fighting, and suddenly their release date is delayed . Just a few more days. Then a few more. Then a few weeks .
What if they do that to him ?
What if he never gets out of here?
He swallows hard, trying to push the thought away. Joseph would fight for him. Joseph would make sure—
But what if he can’t ?
The silence presses against his skull like a vice. He can’t tell how long he’s been sitting here. Hours? A day? More?
It could be forever.
He digs his nails into his palm, focusing on the pressure, grounding himself. He just has to wait. That’s all. He’s used to waiting.
And then—
The door unlocks with a sharp clank.
Sirius barely has time to flinch at the sudden noise before a guard steps inside.
“Let’s go,” the man grunts, grabbing Sirius’ arm and hauling him to his feet.
Sirius stumbles, his body stiff from being curled up for so long. He blinks against the harsh fluorescent light as he’s led out of the tiny cell, back through the cold hallways.
His head pounds. His legs feel unsteady.
And then, finally, they reach his block.
Joseph is waiting.
The moment Sirius steps into their cell, Joseph is on him, eyes wide.
“Dude,” Joseph breathes, like he’s actually relieved. “You were in there for five days. ”
Five days.
Sirius doesn’t react, doesn’t let himself dwell on the way that number sits heavy in his chest.
Instead, he just blinks at Joseph, voice hoarse when he croaks out, “I still get out tomorrow?”
Joseph grins. “Hell yeah, you do. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Sirius exhales sharply. He doesn’t know what Joseph did, doesn’t know how he managed to stop them from pushing his release back, but right now, he doesn’t care.
Because tomorrow, he gets to leave.
And for the first time since being thrown into that dark, silent box, Sirius lets himself breathe.
Sirius stands in front of the juvie gates, a small, anxious knot settling in his stomach as he grips his worn jacket. His fingers curl around the fabric, almost as if he’s trying to hold onto something solid before he’s released into whatever waits for him outside. The air smells different here—fresher, cleaner. It feels like freedom. The weight that’s been hanging over him for the past few weeks, the gnawing feeling of being trapped, is suddenly, wonderfully gone. For a moment, he actually believes he might be okay.
He turns to Joseph, who’s standing a few feet away, his expression more serious than usual.
“Take care of yourself, alright?” Joseph says, his voice quieter than usual.
Sirius nods, the words thick in his throat. He’s not sure what to say. He can’t even remember the last time someone had said those words to him and meant it. He wonders if he’s going to be okay without Joseph. He hasn’t been alone since he got here, not really. Joseph had always been a constant—someone who understood the things Sirius couldn’t quite express.
“I’ll be fine,” Sirius says, his voice rough, but it’s the truth. He doesn’t know if he believes it, but it’s the only thing he can say right now.
Joseph pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to Sirius. “Here’s my number. Don’t lose it, alright? I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
Sirius takes the paper with a nod, slipping it into his jacket pocket without looking at it. He can already feel the anticipation crawling under his skin. What’s next? Where is he going?
The gates creak open, and Sirius turns to face the world outside.
As soon as he steps through them, the cool air hits his face, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he exhales deeply. The outside world feels different. The sounds of the street, the cars passing, the chatter of people—everything feels so alive. This is freedom, isn’t it? The feeling of leaving something behind.
But then, as he takes a few more steps, his eyes are drawn to a young man standing by a car. Sirius doesn’t miss the way the man’s posture is tense, his eyes scanning the crowd. He’s definitely waiting for someone.
Sirius doesn’t have much time to think before the man’s attention snaps to him, and he starts walking toward him with a slight but noticeable smile.
“Hey, you must be Sirius,” the man says, his voice light but firm. “I’m William. Your new social worker.”
Sirius frowns, not expecting anyone to be waiting for him. He shifts uncomfortably, taking in William’s young, clean-cut appearance. Early twenties, Sirius guesses. Doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’s dealt with kids like him.
He nods stiffly, though. “Right.”
William’s smile falters just a bit, like he’s sensing the tension in the air. “I know this is all probably a lot for you, but I’m here to make sure you settle in okay. Let’s get you to your new foster family, yeah?”
Sirius doesn’t answer immediately. He can’t shake the feeling that, no matter how much he’s physically out of juvie, he’s not really out of the system. Not yet. His thoughts drift, but only briefly—because for the first time, he’s finally leaving behind something.
He wonders if this new foster family will be any better. Will they be the kind of people who actually care? Or will he have to fake his way through another hellish experience just to survive it?
Sirius forces a tight-lipped smile. "Sure." He’s not going to argue. Not now.
William gives him a look—maybe a little too perceptive, maybe a little too understanding—but he doesn’t push. Instead, he turns, gesturing toward the car parked just a few feet away.
“Let’s get you settled,” William says, as they both start walking toward it.
Sirius follows, but the excitement he had earlier is beginning to drain away, replaced by a familiar tightness in his chest. The world feels both large and small at the same time, and for a second, it’s overwhelming.
As they reach the car, Sirius glances back over his shoulder, towards the gates of juvie.
And for the briefest moment, he wonders if he’ll ever truly be free.
***
Some things that you learn, never truly leave you.
That’s something Sirius has come to find out over the past several weeks.
He’s learned so much—living at home, living in foster homes, even living in juvie. Survival, silence, how to read a room before stepping inside. How to take a hit without making a sound. How to hit back harder when no one is looking.
But nothing prepared him for this.
The group home.
The house is old, a little run-down, but not in an obviously neglected way. Just lived-in. The scent of something vaguely floral clings to the air, mixed with the sharper, unmistakable tang of disinfectant. It’s not necessarily a bad smell, but it’s unfamiliar, and unfamiliar means unsafe.
His social worker, William, who looks like he has a million things on his plate and who clearly has somewhere else to be, steps inside first, greeting the woman who runs the home. The woman—Jo, according to the clipboard she’s clutching—offers Sirius a small smile, one that feels too practiced, too careful. He doesn’t smile back.
“Welcome, Sirius,” she says, voice warm, like this is something good. Like this is a home. “I know this is a big adjustment, but we’ll help you settle in.”
Sirius doesn’t answer. He keeps his arms crossed tight over his chest, gaze sweeping over the place. There are voices down the hall, the occasional laugh or sharp reprimand from someone older. It already feels too crowded. Too many people, too many potential threats. His stomach coils tight with unease.
Jo doesn’t press him. Instead, she turns to his social worker, and they talk in hushed voices. Sirius catches words—behavioral issues, anger management, history of violence. He rolls his eyes and tunes them out. He’s heard it all before.
“Let me show you to your room,” Jo says after a moment, gesturing for him to follow.
Sirius does, but slowly. His feet drag, making sure she knows this isn’t on his terms. The hallway is narrow, walls lined with photos of smiling kids, too staged to be real. They reach the last door on the left.
“You’ll be sharing with Luke,” Jo says, pushing it open. “He’s been here a few months. I think you’ll get along.”
Sirius highly doubts that.
The room is small, two twin beds pushed against opposite walls, both covered in mismatched blankets. One side is messy, cluttered with comic books and a half-zipped backpack spilling onto the floor. The other is empty. That’s supposed to be his.
Luke, a kid who looks around Sirius’s age, is sitting cross-legged on his bed, earbuds in. He barely glances up, eyes flicking over Sirius before returning to the comic in his lap.
Jo sets a hand on Sirius’s shoulder, light enough that he knows she’s being careful. “Dinner’s in an hour. I’ll come get you.”
Sirius shrugs her off. He doesn’t look back as she leaves.
For a while, he just stands there, staring at the bare mattress. His hands twitch at his sides. He has nothing. No bag, no clothes, nothing to claim as his own except the clothes on his back and the bruises fading under them.
Luke sighs, pulling out an earbud. “Dude, you gonna stand there all night?”
Sirius glares at him. “What’s it to you?”
Luke smirks. “Nothing. Just wondering how long I have to pretend you’re not here.”
Sirius doesn’t answer. He sits down stiffly on the edge of his bed, back against the wall, arms crossed. Luke doesn’t say anything else, just shakes his head before putting his earbud back in.
Sirius stays like that long after the house quiets down for the night.
He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t even try.
Instead, he listens. The distant creak of someone rolling over in bed. The faint hum of the heater kicking on. The muffled sniffle of someone crying down the hall.
Sirius doesn’t know if this place is better or worse than the others.
All he knows is that it’s just another stop on the way to somewhere else.
It’s only been a couple of days, and already trouble has found him. Or, more accurately, crashed right into him.
Sirius isn’t looking for a fight—he really isn’t. He’s just trying to make it through the day without losing his mind, trying to figure out the rules of this place, trying to carve out a space that’s his, even if it’s temporary. But that all goes out the window when an older kid barrels into him in the hallway, nearly knocking him off his feet.
“Watch where you’re going!” the kid snaps.
Sirius rolls his eyes. His first mistake.
The kid’s on him in an instant, stepping closer, squaring his shoulders, looking down at Sirius with a sneer. “You got a problem?”
“Yeah,” Sirius drawls, crossing his arms. “You. Ever heard of looking where you’re going?”
The kid lets out a sharp laugh. “Tough guy, huh?” He shoves Sirius back a step. “You’re new. That means you don’t get to act like you own the place.”
Sirius clenches his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “And you do?”
“Something like that.” The kid smirks. “We all got our spots, and yours? Yours is at the bottom.”
Sirius doesn’t respond. He knows this type—the ones who establish dominance early, who look for the weak link and exploit it. He’s dealt with them before. The best thing to do is walk away.
Then the kid smirks wider and says, “Bet your family’s real proud. Oh, wait—you don’t have one, do you?”
Sirius sees red.
His fist connects with the kid’s face before he can think better of it. Immediately, regret floods through him, but it’s too late. The kid is stronger, faster, and in an instant, Sirius is slammed against the wall so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs. Then comes the punch—blunt, solid, cracking against his cheekbone, sending him sprawling to the floor with a loud crash that echoes down the hall.
Footsteps thunder toward them. A door swings open. Voices shout. Sirius blinks through the haze, his head throbbing, just as Jo and Frank storm in and separate them.
“He started it!” the older kid blurts, pointing at Sirius.
Jo’s eyes flick between them, unimpressed. “Sirius, to your room. Now.”
Sirius clenches his jaw but doesn’t argue. He already knows how this works—he’ll get blamed no matter what. So he marches up the stairs, shoulders tight, anger still buzzing beneath his skin. He flings himself onto his bed, hands curled into fists, trying to breathe through it. He shouldn’t have hit the kid. He should’ve walked away. Now he’s in trouble over something he didn’t even start.
Minutes pass, maybe longer, before the door creaks open and Frank steps inside. He’s holding a bag of frozen peas. He pulls a chair up beside the bed and sits down, handing the bag over without a word.
Sirius presses the cold against his throbbing cheek and stays silent.
Frank sighs. “You wanna talk about it?”
Sirius doesn’t answer.
Frank tries again. “What did he say to you? Must’ve been important enough for you to react.”
Sirius stares at him, then shrugs. Noncommittal.
Frank nods like he expected that. “Let me guess—he called you a coward?”
No reaction.
Frank leans back, thinking. “No, not that. Maybe something about your time in juvie?”
Nothing.
Then, Frank’s tone shifts slightly. “He said something about your family?”
Sirius stiffens before he can stop himself.
Frank catches it. His expression doesn’t change, but his voice is softer when he asks, “Did he say something about your parents?”
Sirius forces himself to relax, but it’s too late. The damage is done.
“That’s none of your business,” he snaps.
Frank leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You have any siblings?”
Sirius stops breathing.
“Brother or sister?” Frank prompts.
Sirius doesn’t mean to answer, but the words slip out before he can stop them. “Younger brother.”
Frank nods like he already knew. “He in the system?”
Sirius nods, jaw tight. He pulls the frozen peas away from his face, staring down at them. “I don’t know where he is,” he mutters. “Haven’t seen him in a while.”
Frank’s quiet for a moment. Then, gently, “How long?”
Sirius counts in his head. It’s July now. The last time he saw Regulus was February 20th. “Four months.”
Frank lets out a low whistle. “Long time.”
Sirius nods, still staring at the bag in his hands. He feels a strange pull, an urge to say more, to tell Frank about his brother—about Regulus’ quiet bravery, about how much Sirius misses him. But before he can, the door opens again, and Jo steps inside, looking unimpressed.
She wastes no time launching into a lecture about violence not being tolerated, about how he needs to control his temper, about consequences. Sirius barely listens. He’s too busy feeling relieved. Because if she hadn’t walked in right then, he might’ve told Frank too much. He might’ve said something that made both him and Regulus unsafe.
And Sirius never wants to make his brother feel unsafe again.
***
Dinner at the group home is a forced performance of normalcy. The table is too crowded, the air too thick with tension, and the food—well, Sirius isn’t touching it.
Six kids, including himself, sit around the worn-out wooden table, plates in front of them, forks and knives scraping against ceramic. Jo and Frank are there too, doing their best to keep the peace, to make dinner feel like something it isn’t.
“Come on, guys,” Frank says, attempting a smile. “Dinner’s the best time of the day, right? We all get to sit down, talk, enjoy the food.”
No one answers.
One of the younger boys, Noah, glares at his plate as though it’s personally offended him. Across the table, a kid named Ben is shoving food into his mouth with an expression of forced indifference. Luke, Sirius’ roommate, is sitting stiffly, gaze locked on his barely touched plate.
Sirius tries to make himself invisible, focusing on a chip in the table’s surface rather than engaging with anyone around him. It doesn’t work.
From his left, a chunk of mashed potatoes flies across the table, smacking into the shoulder of Jake, one of the older kids. He freezes mid-bite, his entire body going tense.
“The fuck?” Jake snarls, turning toward Oliver, the kid who had launched the food.
“Oops,” Oliver says, not sounding sorry in the slightest.
Jo sighs, already looking exhausted. “Let’s not start this.”
“Yeah, Oliver,” Jake snaps, shoving his chair back. “Let’s not start this.”
The shift in energy is instant. Sirius can feel it crawling up his spine, a live wire of something about to go very, very wrong.
Jake moves fast, swiping at Oliver’s plate. Oliver retaliates, and suddenly, food is flying everywhere—mashed potatoes, green beans, pieces of chicken. Noah joins in, laughing wildly as he chucks a roll at Luke, who ducks just in time. The whole table erupts into chaos, plates clattering, silverware dropping to the floor. Jo is shouting, Frank is trying to step in, but no one is listening.
Sirius, still untouched by the mess, just watches. He can’t bring himself to participate, but he also doesn’t do anything to stop it. What’s the point? They’re all just waiting for this place to spit them out anyway.
“Sirius! Luke!” Jo’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Go to your room. Now.”
Luke doesn’t argue, already pushing back from the table. Sirius follows, stepping over a stray green bean on his way out.
By the time they get upstairs, Luke flops onto his bed with a groan, rubbing his temples. Sirius, on the other hand, just chuckles to himself, shaking his head.
“Something funny?” Luke asks, voice muffled against his pillow.
Sirius shrugs, stretching out on his bed. “Just thinking about how hard they try to make things normal.” He glances at Luke, amusement flickering in his tired eyes. “Trying so hard to make something happen only leads to disaster.”
Luke snorts but doesn’t argue. The sounds of Frank and Jo struggling to contain the disaster downstairs echo through the house. Sirius closes his eyes, letting himself sink into the mattress, and wonders how long it’ll be before the next inevitable explosion.
Luke’s a laid-back guy. Too laid-back, maybe. Nothing ever seems to rattle him—not the yelling, not the constant movement in the house, not even when one of the younger kids puked spaghetti all over the hallway. He just shrugs and keeps walking. The dude could sleep through a fire alarm. He talks slow, acts slow, and always looks like he’s either half-asleep or thinking about something no one else could ever understand.
So Sirius isn’t exactly surprised when he wakes up in the middle of the night, sweat on his back and his heart pounding from a nightmare, only to find Luke’s bed empty. The moonlight filters through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. Sirius is about to sit up, to maybe go find Frank or Jo or—hell, maybe just check the bathroom—when he hears it: the creak of the window sliding open, then a quiet thump as it closes again.
He freezes, eyes fixed on the shape crawling through the window. A second later, the shape becomes Luke, silhouetted by the weak moonlight.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sirius whispers sharply.
Luke jumps like he’s been shot. “Dude,” he hisses, one hand clutching his chest. “You can’t do that to somebody. It’s like my soul left my body.”
Sirius can’t help it—he lets out a quiet laugh. Just a small one. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Luke walks over to his bed, muttering something under his breath, and Sirius catches a strange, pungent smell clinging to him. It’s sharp, earthy, kind of like if someone lit a pinecone on fire and doused it in something musty. It makes Sirius wrinkle his nose.
“You better not snitch, bro,” Luke says as he peels off his hoodie and flops onto the mattress.
Sirius shakes his head. “Wouldn’t make a difference anyway. I’d just get in trouble too.”
Luke grunts, satisfied, and pulls his blanket up to his chest. But Sirius is still staring at him, curiosity bubbling under his skin like an itch he can’t scratch.
“Where were you?” he asks quietly.
Luke looks over at him, shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Out with some old buddies.”
Sirius hums, nodding slowly. “Old buddies.”
He waits a beat before asking, “same ones that got you in here?”
Luke’s head jerks toward him, wide-eyed, instantly on the defensive. “No!”
“Of course not,” Sirius mutters, eyes flicking to the ceiling.
Luke sits up slightly. “You don’t know anything.”
Sirius nods. “I may not know anything, but I do know one thing.”
Luke watches him warily. “Yeah? What’s that?”
Sirius meets his eyes in the dark, voice low. “Your buddies will bail on you the second the cops show. Trust me. I’ve seen it before.”
Luke’s quiet for a moment. Then he exhales, long and slow, like he’s letting go of a weight. “Well,” he mutters, flopping back onto his bed, “thanks for the words of wisdom.”
Sirius chuckles again, this one softer, almost tired. He doesn’t push it. Just rolls onto his side and stares at the wall.
He doesn’t fall asleep. Not really. There’s no point.
He already knows what’s waiting for him when he closes his eyes.
The courtroom smells like dust and old paper—like everything in it has been sitting still for too long. Sirius sits stiffly beside William, his social worker, fingers clenched in his lap. The bench beneath him is cold and hard, and he can feel the nerves crawling under his skin, like ants. He doesn’t bounce his knee, though. Doesn’t fidget. He knows how this works. Stay still. Stay quiet. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re unstable.
The judge—a tired-looking man with deep lines around his eyes—shuffles through a file before glancing down at Sirius.
“So,” the judge begins, voice even but not unkind, “Mr. Black.”
Sirius straightens slightly. He hates the way that name sounds in a courtroom.
“You’ve nearly completed your sentence. The reports from the group home have been... mixed,” the judge says, glancing meaningfully at William, “but you’ve shown signs of progress. No major incidents since your intake.”
Sirius says nothing. He’s not sure if this is the part where he’s supposed to speak.
The judge goes on. “Today we’re discussing the terms of your parole. You’ll be under supervision for the next six months. During that time, you are to remain in a stable placement, follow all house rules, attend therapy as scheduled, and most importantly—stay out of trouble. That includes school, public behavior, and curfew. Do you understand?”
Sirius nods once. “Yes, sir.”
The judge watches him for a beat longer than necessary. “If you violate your parole in any way, you could be returned to juvenile detention. Do you understand that as well?”
Sirius swallows. “Yes.”
William shifts slightly beside him, offering a small nod of encouragement. Sirius doesn’t look at him.
The judge closes the file with a soft thunk . “Very well. You’re dismissed. Good luck, Mr. Black.”
Sirius stands up, the sound of his chair scraping the floor making his skin crawl. He follows William out of the courtroom without saying a word. Every step feels heavy, like he’s walking through water.
He thought he’d feel relieved. Like some kind of weight would lift off his shoulders now that juvie’s in the rearview.
Instead, all he feels is the pressure of a countdown.
Six months. Six months of walking on eggshells. Six months of second-guessing every choice he makes. Six months of wondering if one wrong move will send him right back behind those locked doors.
Sirius exhales as he steps into the daylight outside the courthouse, blinking against the sun.
He’s free.
But somehow, it feels a lot like waiting to be caged again.
Sirius lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, watching shadows shift in the dark. His legs twitch restlessly under the scratchy blanket, his fingers twist the edge of the pillowcase. He kicks the blanket off, then pulls it back up. Tosses to one side. Then the other. Nothing feels right.
His heart won't settle. Neither will his thoughts.
Tomorrow’s the day.
New foster home. New rules. New people. Parole starts tomorrow too. Officially. Which means six months of walking the line, six months of pressure pressing into his ribs every time he so much as breathes.
He shifts again, punching his pillow with a sigh.
“Dude,” Luke groans from across the room. “Can you not ?”
Sirius freezes. Then, low and mumbled, “Sorry.”
Silence. Sirius lies stiff as a board, like if he moves even a little, Luke might launch something at his head. He closes his eyes, tries to breathe, slow and quiet.
There’s shuffling. Then a shift in weight. The mattress dips slightly.
Sirius opens his eyes and jolts upright.
Luke is sitting on the edge of his bed.
“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” Luke says, voice calm in the dark. “About tomorrow?”
Sirius stares at him, startled, and instinctively shakes his head. “No.”
“Cut the act, Black.”
Sirius tenses—but then a weak, surprised chuckle slips out of him. “Nice. The rhyme.”
Luke snorts. “Took you long enough to catch on.”
They both chuckle quietly for a second, and Sirius feels something loosen in his chest.
He doesn’t know Luke that well. Not really. But… he thinks he might trust him enough for this.
“Yeah,” Sirius admits softly. “I guess I am.”
Luke nods, his expression unreadable in the shadows, but his voice is steady. “That’s normal. I’d be nervous too.”
Sirius smiles, though it feels small and fragile. “You stayed here, right? For parole?”
“Yeah,” Luke says, shifting a little, his back to the nightstand. “I convinced my lawyer to let me finish it out here. She thought it’d be good for me.”
Sirius nods slowly. “Well, I don’t have that luxury.”
Luke shrugs. “My parents weren’t too keen on the idea at first. But then they found out about my little nightly escapades…” He grins, eyes gleaming. “They suddenly thought this place was the safest spot for me.”
Sirius raises an eyebrow. “They don’t know you still sneak out?”
“Not often,” Luke replies casually. “Couple nights a week. Just when I need to breathe.”
Sirius watches him. The smell from the other night lingers faintly in the air—bitter, earthy, something he can’t quite name but recognizes now.
“You do drugs or something?”
Luke doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “Yeah. Not proud of it. But it’s the only thing that lets me slow down. Just... calm, you know?”
Sirius nods, because he does know.
“I get that. When I lived at home, I’d sneak out too sometimes. Made me feel like I was in control. Like I could actually... breathe.” He shivers suddenly, thoughts catching up to him. “Got in trouble when I got caught, though.”
His mother’s voice, her nails, the crack of the cane—
Luke cuts through the memory. “Well, if you ever wanna sneak out again,” he says, “there’s a skate park just down the road. That’s where most of us go. Chill spot.”
Sirius smiles a little. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Luke stands, stretching a bit before heading back to his own bed. Halfway there, he turns, pointing at the nightstand between them. “My number’s on that paper, by the way. If things go to hell, call me.”
Sirius nods, eyes following him until Luke climbs under his blanket.
He lies back down, pulling the covers up again, his muscles finally beginning to unknot.
It’s still scary. Tomorrow’s still tomorrow.
But maybe… just maybe… everything will be okay.
And if not—at least he’s not completely alone.
***
The fourth foster home is worse than the last three. Sirius knows it the moment he steps inside.
It’s dark. Not just dimly lit, but dark —as if the shadows have settled in and made themselves comfortable. The curtains are always drawn, the windows smudged with grime, and even in daylight, the place feels like it’s stuck in permanent dusk. The air is thick with the sharp tang of bleach, trying and failing to cover the ever-present stench of stale beer.
It makes his nose wrinkle every time he breathes in.
Mike—his foster father—is a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a fat pot belly, and a voice that always sounds like it’s one second away from yelling. He never does yell, not at Sirius, not yet—but he doesn’t have to. There’s something in the way Mike moves, in the way his eyes linger too long and his smile pulls too tight, that makes Sirius’ skin crawl.
He gives off a vibe Sirius doesn’t like. Doesn’t trust.
He tries to stay out of the way, mostly. Keep to his room. Be quiet. Invisible.
But there are two reasons Sirius finds himself wandering out more than he probably should.
Ellie and May.
They’re twins—seven years old, Sirius has gathered. Identical in almost every way: both have wild, bouncing curls the color of sunshine, skin so pale it practically glows, and the kind of blue eyes Sirius has only ever seen in ice or gemstones.
Their smiles are as wide as the sun, always flashing like they’ve got something to celebrate, even when there’s clearly nothing good around them.
Sirius feels their joy as if it’s his own. Like maybe being near them can trick his brain into thinking everything’s okay.
Ellie reminds him of Bella. Not the version of his cousin that’s becoming twisted by their family’s poison, but the little girl he used to know—sharp and fearless and so utterly herself it could almost hurt to watch. Ellie’s got that same fire. Spunky. Stubborn. Wildly independent in a way that makes Mike’s eye twitch whenever she talks back.
May, on the other hand, is all softness wrapped in steel. She reminds Sirius of Cissa—quiet, careful, but just as stubborn. Not loud like Ellie, but immovable once she’s made up her mind. She’s the one who puts a blanket over Ellie when she falls asleep on the floor. The one who presses a crumpled tissue into Sirius’ hand when she thinks he’s about to cry—he isn’t, obviously, but he takes it anyway.
Sirius doesn’t know how two kids like them ended up in a place like this. He doesn’t know how he did either.
But when May curls up next to him on the sofa without a word, and Ellie tugs on his shirt and demands he plays pirates with them using wooden spoons and couch cushions, something in his chest loosens.
Just a bit.
Just enough to pretend, for a while, that he’s not surrounded by shadows and bleach and the kind of silence that feels like it’s waiting to break.
Now, Sirius won’t lie when he says that the girls took to him rather quickly. Because they didn’t.
Not at all, actually.
From the moment he stepped through the door of that house, Ellie and May wanted nothing to do with him. They didn’t speak to him. Didn’t even look at him unless they had to. If he sat on the floor near them, they’d get up and move. If he walked into a room, they’d quietly slip out, like ghosts trained to vanish before they could be seen.
At first, Sirius found it odd. Not upsetting, just… strange. He wasn’t good with kids—he knew that—but he wasn’t that bad. Usually, the smaller ones clung to him. Probably smelled the trauma on him or something. But not Ellie and May.
They avoided him like the plague.
And then the incident happened.
It was small, in the grand scheme of things. Barely a ripple in the kind of chaos Sirius grew up with. But the silence that followed afterward was louder than any screaming could’ve been.
Mike had come home drunk again—more than usual. Slurring his words, stumbling into walls, the usual routine. Sirius had stayed in the kitchen, pretending to be invisible, as always. He heard the door slam, heard the heavy boots on the floor, the muttered curses and the crack of a bottle hitting the counter too hard.
And then a loud bang from the living room.
Followed by May’s cry.
Sirius didn’t think. He ran.
When he turned the corner, he saw Mike standing over the twins, hand still raised, red-faced and swaying. Ellie was in front of May, arms stretched wide like a shield, eyes burning with fury. May’s lip trembled, one cheek already blotchy.
Something in Sirius snapped.
He didn’t remember the words he said—something sharp, maybe stupid—but his tone had teeth. He stepped between Mike and the girls, his hands shaking but his voice steady, like all the rage he’d buried for years had finally found a place to sit.
Mike didn’t hit him. Just glared, muttered something about “getting too big for his own good,” and stormed off to his bedroom. Door slammed. Lock clicked.
The house fell quiet.
And that’s when they changed.
The next morning, Ellie sat next to him at breakfast without a word, her legs swinging off the chair, their toes brushing. May handed him a crayon later that afternoon and pointed to an empty spot on her drawing.
From that moment on, they latched onto him like leeches.
Sirius doesn’t mind. Not even a little.
They cling to his sides like little shadows, demand piggyback rides, force him into tea parties and pretend cooking shows. At night, they fall asleep curled up beside him in his room, like it’s the safest place in the world.
It’s suffocating sometimes—the responsibility, the pressure of being something stable in a world that’s anything but. But it’s also… grounding.
They trust him now. Depend on him.
And Sirius?
He thinks, maybe, for the first time in a long while—someone needing him doesn’t feel like a trap.
It feels like something worth holding onto.
***
Sirius has only been in this house for three weeks.
Three weeks, and already the twins trail behind him like ducklings, one on each side, small fingers curled tight around his hands as they walk down the sun-warmed pavement toward the park. He hadn’t expected it, that instant sense of… responsibility. Of protectiveness . But it settled into him like instinct—quick and fierce, impossible to shake.
Ellie skips along his left side, humming a little tune she seems to make up as she goes. May is quieter today, watching the cracks in the pavement with serious blue eyes. They look so much like each other. Like something out of a storybook. And somehow, even after such a short time, they feel like his.
He doesn’t know when it happened, exactly—when he became their big brother. But he is. That’s how they look at him. Like he’s safe. Like he means something.
And Sirius knows what it is—what it reminds him of.
Regulus.
His brother had been small once too. Fragile, serious, always clinging just behind Sirius' heels like a shadow that wanted to be a star. Sirius used to stand between Regulus and their parents’ fury, crafting lies, taking blame, doing anything to protect the perfect illusion his brother had built about their family—too young to see the cracks in the walls. Too desperate not to.
It’s the same now.
When Ellie knocked over one of Mike’s stupid beer glasses and it shattered across the floor, Sirius had stepped in without thinking.
Took the fall.
Took the belt.
The black eye is still fresh, swollen and purple, a tender throb against his cheekbone that pulses with every breath. He hadn’t let the twins see the worst of it—just smiled, played it off like he’d tripped or something equally stupid. They didn’t question him. Not really.
But the way they’d clung to him after… they knew . At least, enough to be scared.
Sirius squeezes their hands gently as they reach the rusting gate to the park, pushing it open with his hip. “Alright,” he says, voice light, “who’s ready to absolutely destroy the playground?”
Ellie lets out a shriek of excitement, letting go and bolting toward the jungle gym. May hesitates for half a second before following, her curls bouncing with each step.
Sirius watches them go, a tired but soft smile pulling at his lips. He doesn’t tell them about the money—about how he swiped a few bills from Mike’s wallet while the bastard was passed out on the couch last night. He needed it. For this. For them.
A promise is a promise.
Ice cream and the park—a perfect little afternoon. The kind of thing they should be able to have without cost. Without blood.
The playground is mostly empty. One other family in the distance, too far off to worry about. That suits Sirius just fine. Fewer eyes. Fewer questions.
He lowers himself onto a weathered park bench, elbows on his knees, and just watches.
Ever since he started taking them out like this, something in the girls has shifted. They laugh more. Run faster. Smile wider. Ellie had even sung yesterday, some ridiculous song about bananas that Sirius still has stuck in his head. And May—quiet, gentle May—had clutched his sleeve on the walk back home like she didn’t want to let go.
He knows the way they act around Mike. The way they shrink back when his voice raises, the way they never speak too loud. It’s like they know . Like they can sense something wrong in the air—some crackling undercurrent just waiting to burn.
But there’s more to it. Sirius feels it, humming just beneath the surface. An unease in their silences. An undertone he can’t quite name. Something they aren’t saying.
Something they’re hiding.
He doesn’t press. Not yet. They’ll tell him when they’re ready. He just has to keep being safe. Keep being theirs.
So Sirius leans back, lets the sun warm his face, and watches as the girls climb and giggle and play like kids are meant to. Like Regulus should’ve been able to. Like he should’ve been able to.
And for a moment, just a moment, he feels like he’s doing something right.
He’ll keep them safe.
No matter what it costs him.
Sirius won’t lie—today’s been good.
It’s the kind of day he used to dream about when he was a kid. A day where the sun is warm, the laughter is easy, and the world feels just a little less cruel. The girls had played for hours at the park, tumbling over each other like puppies, shrieking with joy. He can still see the way their faces lit up at the ice cream parlor, their hands sticky, cheeks dimpled from grinning so hard.
Now, back in the small, stuffy room they share, that joy still lingers in the air. Sirius holds onto it tightly, like if he grips it hard enough, it won’t slip through his fingers.
He helps Ellie into her pajamas first—she’s humming again, some nonsense tune as she hops around on one foot trying to get her pants on. Sirius laughs softly and steadies her, then tucks her into bed with her favorite stuffed bunny, making sure the covers are just right.
Then he moves over to May.
She’s quieter tonight, staring at the blanket with a thoughtful frown, her tiny fingers twisting in the edge of the sheet.
“Alright, Maybug,” Sirius says gently, kneeling beside her bed. “Time for sleep.”
But she doesn’t lie down. Doesn’t move.
And it’s the look on her face—like she’s thinking too hard , like something’s chewing at her from the inside—that stops Sirius cold.
“What’s wrong, May?” he whispers, his voice soft in the still room.
May blinks up at him, her lips parting like she’s going to say something. But then she closes them again.
“It’s… it’s nothing.”
Sirius isn’t buying it. Not for a second.
“Hey,” he says, leaning in just a little closer. “No, no. What is it? You can tell me, I promise.”
There’s a long pause. She looks at him—really looks , like she’s trying to decide whether he means it. Whether it’s safe.
And then she whispers, so quiet he barely hears it:
“Mike does stuff to me. That… that isn’t normal.”
Sirius feels his blood go cold.
He knew it. He knew there was something wrong with the way Mike hovered near them, the way the girls stiffened at his voice, the way May flinched when Sirius tried to touch her shoulder last week. But this—this is the worst version of what he feared.
He keeps his voice steady. Calm. Like he’s not seconds away from shaking apart.
“What do you mean, May?”
Her eyes well with tears. She looks away.
“He… he touches me. Down there.” Her voice breaks. “Our mummy told us… no one should ever… touch us like that.”
Sirius' jaw clenches so hard it aches. He swallows down the bile rising in his throat.
“That’s right, May,” he says gently, brushing a curl from her forehead. “Nobody should ever do that.”
From across the room, Ellie’s voice cuts through the silence—fierce and matter-of-fact:
“Oh, are you telling Sirius about how Mike makes us sit on his lap and how he puts his hand in our underwear?”
Sirius feels like he’s been punched.
May nod solemnly. Then turns back to him with those impossibly big eyes.
“You can help us, right?”
And in that moment, Sirius knows exactly what he was born to do. Why he’s here. Why the world didn’t swallow him whole back in Grimmauld Place. It’s for them . For these two girls who are looking at him like he’s the one thing standing between them and the dark.
He nods once. Strong. Steady.
“Of course I can.”
He stands, slow and careful, like he’s afraid the rage coiled inside him will explode if he moves too fast.
“What I need you girls to do,” he says, his voice gentle but firm, “is to stay right here. Don’t move. Don’t come out.”
Both girls nod. Brave. Trusting.
Ellie tilts her head, watching him with that sharp little gaze.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
Sirius turns toward the door, pausing only once to glance back at her.
He forces a smile. It’s thin and tight, but it’s all he has.
“The only thing I can do.”
And then he’s gone.
Notes:
Word Count: 12,497
Published: 2025-04-16OMG, I am so sorry this is a bit late. One of my dogs somehow escaped our yard-he had no collar on lmao cause he just had surgery-anyways, we found him at the VET, he managed to walk himself to his OWN appointment. I have never been more stressed in my life lol.
Also, I've updated the tags :)
Please let me know if anything is to explicit/if I have forgotten any tags. It would be a HUGE help to me if you could just let me know what I need to add/update. Thank you <3
Chapter 24: Regulus' Birthday Party is Where He's At.
Summary:
He did what had to be done. There’s nothing he can do to change it now. And, honestly? He’s proud to have done what he did. He’s proud that he could make a difference, even if that difference ended him in juvie.
Sirius wouldn’t have it any other way. Except…
(Part 3 of Where in the World is Sirius Black?)
POV: Sirius Black
Notes:
Disclaimer: the French translation was achieved through using google translate, so if you are aware it is incorrect, please say so in the comments. Thank you.
Trigger Warnings: mentions of sexual abuse (not very descriptive, but it's in the first part of this chapter if you'd like to skip regardless)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sirius doesn’t think.
He can’t think. If he thinks, he hesitates. If he hesitates, the girls lose.
So instead, he moves. Quiet. Quick. Familiar with every creak in the floorboards now. The hallway is dark, but he doesn’t need light to find the door. Mike always keeps the bat in his room — propped against the wall like some sort of power symbol. His pathetic little weapon.
Sirius slips inside.
There it is, just where it always is.
He picks it up.
It’s heavier than he remembers. Solid in his hands. Cold. But it grounds him. Anchors him in what he has to do.
He doesn’t know exactly what this is, not really. But he knows if he went to the police—if May or Ellie went—it wouldn’t matter. They’d be brushed off. Labeled liars. Kids with trauma. Kids from the system. Kids who don't count.
Sirius knows the truth.
No one ever listens until it's too late.
So he walks. One hand gripping the bat tight enough to make his knuckles ache. His breath is shallow. His heart pounds.
But still, he moves.
Down the hallway.
Past the kitchen.
Into the living room.
Mike is there. Just like Sirius expected—slouched on the couch, beer in hand, eyes glued to the TV like the world outside it doesn’t exist. He doesn’t notice Sirius at first.
That’s fine.
Sirius doesn’t plan on giving him the chance.
The bat rises in his hand, instinctive now, like muscle memory. Like survival .
He doesn’t think about what he’s doing. About what will happen next. About the juvie cell waiting for him.
There’s just May and Ellie.
And the image of their tiny faces, the trust in their eyes when they asked him “You can help us, right?”
The sound comes sharp and sudden.
Whack.
It echoes through the room. Through his bones. Through the pounding in his head.
Mike shouts, a cry of pain and confusion.
Sirius doesn’t stop.
Because this is the only way he knows how to protect them.
And he will protect them.
Even if it ruins him.
Time passes in a blur.
Sirius sits on the cold, hard floor, his back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up slightly. The bat—his bat—is across the room, lying where he threw it, far from both himself and Mike. The phone is still in his hand, pressed loosely against his ear.
Nicole, the emergency dispatcher, is speaking. Asking questions.
“What’s your name?”
“Sirius.” His voice is flat, distant.
“Are you hurt?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the man on the floor, barely breathing, a mess of blood and broken bones.
“What happened?”
Sirius blinks. He can’t feel anything. Not the burn in his hands, not the sting of his split lip, not the weight of what he’s just done. He should feel something. Shouldn’t he?
The room is spinning in slow motion, distant and unreal. The dim light casts sharp shadows, stretching across the walls, warping the reality of what’s in front of him.
Heavy footsteps thunder against the floorboards. Doors slamming. Voices cutting through the air.
Then—blue and red lights flash through the window, sirens wailing into the night.
Sirius doesn’t move.
A pair of boots stop in front of him. Another kneels beside him. There’s a hand on his shoulder—gentle, firm. A mouth moving.
Sirius stares. The words don’t register.
So, he simply lifts the phone, placing it in the officer’s waiting hand. His voice, when he speaks, is clear. Steady. Too steady.
“He’s a—”
The officer’s face shifts—shock, horror, understanding.
The paramedics working on Mike falter, their hands pausing for the briefest second before resuming.
Sirius keeps going, voice even, empty. “The two girls. They’re seven. They’re in their room, just down the hall.”
The officer nods, glancing toward the hallway. Another officer moves quickly in that direction.
Sirius exhales, slow and controlled. “I did what I had to do.” Then, quieter, almost to himself, “Nobody would’ve believed them. Believed me. They would’ve let more girls into this house, and—” He lifts his hand, gesturing vaguely, finishing the thought without words.
The officer kneeling in front of him watches him carefully. There’s something in his expression—something Sirius doesn’t want to look at.
“I’m going to have to place you under arrest,” the officer finally says, voice low but firm.
Sirius nods. “I know.”
His limbs feel heavy as he pushes himself up, legs shaky but holding. The officer steadies him with a careful grip, gives him a quick pat down, then turns him by the shoulder.
As his rights are read to him, Sirius lets his gaze flicker toward the hallway, where another officer is leading the two little girls out, wrapped in blankets, safe.
His chest feels tight.
Then he steps through the front door, into the cold night, and the cuffs click shut around his wrists.
Sirius sits in the hard, plastic chair, his back pressed against the cold metal of the interrogation room wall. His fingers curl loosely around the phone that he no longer needs, the dial tone long gone. The room smells of stale coffee and sweat, the air thick with something unspoken, something suffocating.
He stares at his hands, faint bruises already forming across his knuckles. His fingers ache, but it’s a distant sort of pain, barely noticeable. Across from him, the metal table gleams under the fluorescent lights, a stark contrast to the dried blood caking his sleeves.
He’s waiting.
Waiting for the detectives—detectives, not just officers—to walk through the door. Waiting to see what their faces will say before they even open their mouths.
He thinks about what he’s done. About the weight of the bat in his hands. About the sickening crunch of bone giving way under force. About how he feels nothing but pride. It sits in his chest, warm and foreign, curling around his ribs like smoke.
He doesn’t regret it. Not a single second.
The sound of the door creaking open tears him from his thoughts. Sirius doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look surprised as two detectives step inside—a man and a woman. Their expressions are unreadable, careful.
Sirius stays silent. He knows the rules—their rules. He shouldn’t speak, not without someone to protect him.
But who is he kidding?
Nobody can protect Sirius like Sirius himself.
No one ever has. No one ever will.
He lifts his gaze slowly, watching as they lower themselves into the chairs across from him. Before they can open their mouths, he beats them to it.
“I’m entitled to an advocate, or whatever.” His voice is steady, almost bored.
The male detective nods, “That is your right, yes.” He pushes back his chair and stands. “I’ll ask around.” Then, he’s gone, leaving Sirius alone with the woman.
The room is silent.
Sirius watches her. Watches her watch him.
She’s studying him. He knows that look, that calculating gaze that’s trying to fit him into a box—violent criminal or just a kid?
It makes him shiver.
“I hope someone is talking to Ellie and May.” His voice is softer now, but firm.
The detective nods. “Yes, my colleagues are speaking to them.”
Sirius exhales through his nose, a slow release of breath. “I hope you’re also digging through his foster record. Contacting the other girls.”
Another nod.
There’s silence again, thick and heavy.
Then, the detective leans forward slightly. “Did Ellie and May tell you what was happening?”
Sirius takes a breath, then nods. “Yeah. They did.” His fingers tap against the arm of the chair, a steady rhythm. “I also got a bad vibe from him the second I entered that house. Those types of people have a… a vibe.” He grimaces. “He was way too affectionate with the girls. Way too touchy.”
The detective doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t tell him to stop talking. So he keeps going.
“After two days, I had my suspicions. I decided to sleep in their room one night. On the floor.” His lips twitch, humorless. “The next morning, I got a beating for it.” He pauses. “But the look in their eyes… I think, in that moment, they knew they could trust me.”
The detective listens, nodding slowly.
Sirius swallows. “When I was putting them to bed tonight—because they asked me to—they told me everything…” His voice trails off, but the detective picks it up for him.
“Before you took a bat and beat him up.”
Sirius nods. “Yeah.” He shifts in his chair, cracking his knuckles. “It was his bat. He was on the couch, completely wasted. I hit him in the head once. I was behind him, so he couldn’t see me coming. He slumped forward onto the floor, and when I rolled him over, I could tell he was still conscious. He had this look in his eyes that told me he knew. He knew I knew, y’know?”
The detective says nothing, waiting.
“So, I called him a disgusting pig,” Sirius continues. “And then proceeded to bash his kneecaps in.” He exhales through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. “I had a thought then. I could’ve kept going. Could’ve beaten him until he was dead. But…” He gestures vaguely. “As much as I wanted to, I don’t think anyone would’ve believed me. That he was, y’know.”
His fingers flex against the arm of the chair. “And well—cops tend to jump to conclusions. That’s happened to me before.” He scoffs. “So, I decided against it.”
He tilts his head, eyes flickering to the detective’s face. “Instead…” His lips twitch into something that’s not quite a smile. “I had the thought of grabbing a knife and castrating him.”
The words hang heavy in the air.
Sirius chuckles. The chuckle turns into laughter, quiet and sharp.
“So that’s just what I did.” He shrugs. “Walked right into the kitchen, grabbed the first knife I saw and—” He exhales. “Then I called the police. Sat down. Made sure everything was out of my reach. And his.”
He pauses. Then, in a quieter voice, “And y’know what? I don’t have any remorse.” He lifts his chin slightly. “I did the one thing that could actually protect other kids from him.”
His breath hitches for the first time, but he wipes his face quickly before the detective can say anything about it.
“So.” Sirius sits up, straightening his shoulders. “Where’s my pen and paper so I can write my formal statement? And then you can take me to juvie.”
He chuckles again, but this time it’s bitter, tired. “Y’know, I bet they’ll try to charge me with attempted murder. When really, all I did was commit assault and battery. But.” He shrugs, “No one’s gonna defend a foster kid. So, I’ll get maximum charges for something that I’ll probably be worshipped for in juvie.”
He glances at the detective then, expecting—what? Judgment? Disgust?
Instead, all he sees is sympathy.
It makes his stomach churn.
The detective nods once, then stands. “I’ll get you that pen and paper now.”
Sirius watches her walk out, leaving him alone again in the cold, stale room.
***
Sirius sits stiffly on the courtroom bench, the hard wooden seat biting into his back no matter how he shifts. His shoulders are tight, drawn up so high they ache. His leg bounces restlessly, the jitter in his knee impossible to stop. His fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, a habit he thought he’d kicked months ago. He doesn’t know why he’s here.
There are still two and a half months left on his sentence. Nothing’s changed. No new infractions. No violations. No court requests—at least, none he made. And William, his barely-there excuse for a social worker, isn’t even here. No familiar faces. Just strangers in suits and the echoing shuffle of paper in a room that smells like dust and nerves.
He hates this. The waiting. The confusion. The way the guards shift behind him like he’s a threat waiting to happen. The way everyone’s pretending like he asked for this. Like this is his fault. Like he belongs in this sterile room with its high windows and unforgiving light.
Then, from the corner of his eye—movement.
Heels, sharp and deliberate, click against the polished floor. A woman is approaching, and Sirius tenses instinctively. She’s not wearing a badge. Not a guard. Not a lawyer, either—her blazer’s too neat, her expression too open.
She stops directly in front of him.
“Sirius Black?” she asks, her voice light, almost careful. There’s something unsure in the way she says his name, like she’s waiting to gauge whether he’s dangerous or just another case number.
Sirius nods slowly. “Yeah.” His voice is barely above a whisper, brittle and rough from disuse.
But it must be enough. Something in her face softens. She smiles—not wide, not fake. Just gentle. Real.
“You’re Regulus’ older brother, correct?”
The name is a punch to the chest.
Regulus.
Sirius sucks in a breath, lungs suddenly too tight. Panic flares before he can help it, surging up like bile. His baby brother’s name—here, in this place—it can’t be good. Did something happen? Is he okay? Why are they bringing him up?
His throat locks. He just nods, mute.
The woman’s smile doesn’t fade. It turns warmer. Sadder. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sirius. I’m Sarah—your brother’s social worker. And as of today, I’m yours too.”
Sirius blinks. That—that wasn’t what he expected. Yours too . He stares at her, stunned into silence. His brain fumbles for meaning, for the shape of her words. It takes him a full three seconds to realize what she means.
His mouth opens, then closes again.
It’s been almost six months since he last saw Regulus. Six months since the night everything came crashing down and they were ripped away from each other. The memory comes back in sharp, disjointed flashes—Regulus screaming, reaching for him, being pulled into the arms of a stranger while Sirius was shoved into a police car. His brother’s face, tear-streaked and terrified, still haunts his dreams.
Then the judge speaks, loud and clear, cutting through the storm in his head.
“Ah, Mr. Black,” the judge says, peering over his glasses as he flips open a manila file. “I see we meet again.”
Sirius jerks upright, trying to focus, to stay composed, though his heart is still hammering from Regulus . He’s about to protest—say he didn’t request anything—when the woman, Sarah, steps forward.
“I requested this hearing,” she says clearly, cutting in before Sirius can speak. “Your Honor, my name is Sarah McAllister. I’ve just been assigned to Sirius Black’s case.”
The judge looks at her with mild interest. “I see. And why have you brought him before me today?”
Sarah doesn’t hesitate. “Today is his younger brother’s birthday.”
Sirius’s head snaps toward her.
Regulus’ birthday.
He forgot.
Guilt crashes into him, hot and immediate. Shame blooms in his chest. He should’ve remembered. He always remembered. But juvie has a way of making time blur—weeks slide into each other like sludge. And besides, it hurt too much to think about.
“They haven’t seen each other in six months,” Sarah continues, her voice unwavering. “They were separated when Sirius was taken into custody. His brother was placed with a new family and hasn’t been permitted contact.”
The judge frowns, considering this. “And what is your request, Ms. McAllister?”
Sarah takes a breath. “I’d like to request a temporary release for Sirius. Just for today. To see his brother. With full supervision, of course.”
Sirius’s heart leaps—then immediately sinks. No way . They’re not going to let a juvenile offender out just for a birthday, are they? He’s seen how these things go. The court doesn’t care about birthdays or brothers or broken kids. It cares about rules. About labels.
But Sarah’s not done.
“The foster father Sirius allegedly assaulted?” she continues, producing a folder from her bag. “He was recently convicted on multiple counts of child molestation. After the incident, Sirius reported him, and though it took time, his claims were validated. What he did was self-defense.”
Sirius watches the judge’s face carefully, nerves prickling under his skin. His palms are clammy. His stomach turns.
“Do you have evidence of this?” the judge asks coolly.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Sarah says, and she steps forward, placing the folder on the judge’s bench.
The room goes quiet as the judge flips through it. Pages turn. His eyes scan slowly. Sirius doesn’t breathe. Every second stretches into forever.
Finally, the judge closes the folder and looks up.
“Well,” he says, voice measured, “fortunately for Mr. Black, I believe I can remove two months from his sentencing. He’ll still need to serve the remaining two weeks. That’s the best I can offer.”
Relief rushes through Sirius like a wave—sudden, overwhelming. His eyes sting unexpectedly, and he blinks hard. Two weeks. That’s it. Two weeks and he’s out .
But then Sarah steps in again, voice calm but determined. “Your Honor, with all due respect, I’m not asking for early release today. Just temporary. Just a few hours. I have two detectives waiting outside who are willing to supervise him the entire time.”
The judge arches an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “That’s highly irregular.”
“Maybe,” Sarah says gently. “But I think this boy has gone through enough irregularity for a lifetime.”
The judge’s gaze shifts to Sirius. For a long moment, he says nothing. Just studies him. Sirius meets his eyes, holding back the plea building in his chest.
Finally, the judge speaks.
“How old is your brother, Mr. Black?”
Sirius clears his throat, voice low but steady. “He’s eleven. Turning twelve today.”
The judge hums thoughtfully, then leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
“Well, I’m feeling generous today,” he says at last. “I don’t see why we can’t allow Mr. Black a temporary release.”
Sirius’s breath catches. His heart lurches.
“But,” the judge adds sharply, “he is to wear an ankle monitor at all times. And he is to remain under direct supervision. Under no circumstances is he permitted to commit any unlawful acts. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Sirius says quickly, nodding. “Crystal clear.”
“Very well.” The judge lifts his gavel. “I hereby grant Mr. Black temporary release for the remainder of the day. Go see your brother, Mr. Black. And don’t give me a reason to regret this.”
The gavel hits wood.
And just like that, it’s done.
For a second, Sirius can’t move. He can’t even think. He’s going to see Regulus. Today. His heart feels like it’s going to crack open. He doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until Sarah leans down and murmurs, “You okay?”
He nods quickly, still a little stunned. “Yeah. Just… yeah.”
“Good,” she says softly. “Let’s get that monitor on and get you out of here.”
Sirius follows her, each step feeling less like chains and more like freedom.
Because for the first time in six months, there’s something worth moving toward.
And it’s waiting for him—with dark eyes and a quiet smile and arms that have always known how to hold on.
Regulus.
***
Sirius can’t stop thinking.
His mind races as he sits in the chair, rolling his ankle instinctively as they strap the monitor around it. The device feels heavier than it probably is, a physical reminder of the rules he can’t break. But Sirius doesn’t care about that right now.
All he cares about is Regulus .
It’s been six months. Half a year. What is he even supposed to say to him? Hey, happy birthday, sorry I disappeared for six months. Here, please, enjoy my presence before I have to disappear again. No, that’s stupid. Regulus probably hates him. Or maybe—maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he misses him just as much.
The officer finishes securing the monitor. Sirius doesn’t wait for instruction before standing, already itching to leave. He’s wearing the best clothes he has—just a plain t-shirt and jeans, but at least they fit. He runs a hand through his hair—it’s longer than how his mother likes it, but Sirius isn’t complaining—as he steps out into the hall, trying to pull himself together.
Sarah is waiting, and so are the detectives.
The moment Sirius sees them, he freezes.
It’s them .
The same two who interviewed him after he was arrested. After he fought back against his foster father.
His stomach churns uneasily, but they don’t look angry. The male detective—Thompson, he thinks—nods at him. The female detective, Patel, offers a small smile.
“We’re here because Sarah asked for our help getting you released,” Thompson explains. His tone is calm, almost casual.
Sirius nods. His throat feels tight. “Thanks,” he mutters. And he means it. They didn’t have to do this.
“Let’s go,” Patel says, leading the way outside.
They walk on either side of him, not too close, but close enough. Sirius forces himself to keep pace, his heartbeat quickening with every step. The moment they reach the car, the door is opened for him, and he climbs in.
The drive is excruciating .
His body is restless, bouncing his knee up and down, fingers tapping against his thigh. His stomach twists, but he knows it’s not just excitement—it’s nerves. Anxiety.
At one point, Thompson glances back at him through the rearview mirror. “You nervous?”
Sirius doesn’t even bother lying. “Yeah.”
The detectives don’t comment further, letting him sit in silence. He’s grateful for that.
When they finally pull up to the lake, Sirius’s stomach drops. His hands shake slightly as he grips them together in his lap, trying to steady himself. He takes slow, deep breaths. In. Out. He refuses to let himself get sick. He hates throwing up—hates even thinking about it.
Patel opens the door for him, and the second Sirius steps out, he’s hit with the smell of the lake—fresh water, damp earth, a faint hint of sunscreen in the air.
And then he sees him .
Regulus.
His little brother is on the playground, laughing, running around with the other kids. He looks happy . Safe.
Sirius’s whole body relaxes, just a little.
“You good?” Patel asks quietly.
Sirius swallows, nods.
“We’ll be right here,” Thompson reminds him.
Sirius nods again. He takes a step. Then another.
One foot in front of the other, until he’s halfway to the playground.
Now all he has to do is wait. Wait for Regulus to notice him, to see him. To see him, standing here.
All he has to do is wait.
And wait Sirius did.
Sirius watches the kids play, their laughter echoing across the playground, but Sirius barely hears it. His entire focus is locked on one thing—Regulus.
Sirius isn’t sure how long he stands there for, but he watches Regulus. He watches as his little brother turns his head, and the moment their eyes meet, Regulus freezes.
Sirius' breath catches.
For a split second, neither of them move.
And then, like a rubber band snapping, Regulus runs.
He abandons the game without a second thought, legs carrying him forward as if it’s the only thing that matters. Sirius doesn’t have time to react before Regulus slams into him, arms wrapping so tightly around his torso that Sirius actually stumbles back a step.
The impact knocks the air from his lungs, but Sirius doesn’t care. He barely has time to shove his hands out of his pockets before instinct takes over—before he’s holding Regulus just as fiercely.
Regulus’ fingers clutch desperately at the back of Sirius’ shirt, his face buried into his shoulder. His whole body trembles, shaking with the force of emotions Sirius can feel rolling off of him.
Sirius tightens his grip, pressing his face into the crook of his brother’s neck, holding him together. Keeping him safe.
“Sirius,” Regulus breathes, voice cracking apart like glass.
Sirius swallows, his own throat burning. He blinks rapidly, willing the sting in his eyes to go away. “Happy birthday, Reggie.”
The words barely leave his mouth before a sob tears from Regulus’ throat—sudden, raw, completely broken. His hands fist into Sirius’ shirt, clinging to him like if he lets go, Sirius will disappear.
A quiet, broken wail escapes him, muffled against Sirius’ shoulder. The sound wrecks Sirius. It carves through him, twisting into something unbearably painful.
Regulus curls impossibly closer, as though sheer proximity might be enough to erase all the months of separation. His voice shakes as he chokes out, “You’re here.” Another sob wracks through him. “You’re alive.”
Sirius sways them gently, the way he used to when Regulus was small—when he’d curl up next to him after nightmares. One hand moves up, threading through his curls, grounding him.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, voice barely steady. “I’ve got you, Reggie. It’s okay. You’re alright. I’m here.”
But Regulus isn’t sure. Sirius can feel it in the way his body shakes, the way his breathing is still ragged and uneven. He still feels like this might not be real.
Regulus shakes his head, fresh tears slipping down his cheeks. “I thought—I thought—” But he can’t finish. His voice cracks apart.
Sirius squeezes his eyes shut. He knows what Regulus is trying to say.
I thought you were dead.
Sirius exhales shakily, pressing their foreheads together. “I know,” he whispers. “I know, Reggie. I’m sorry. I should’ve—” But he stops himself. He won’t ruin this moment. Not now.
So instead, he just holds on.
The world fades away—the laughter, the voices, the rest of the party becoming nothing more than background noise. Right now, it’s just them.
Regulus sniffles, forehead still pressed against Sirius’ shoulder. His grip hasn’t loosened, hasn’t faltered. “You’re here,” he whispers again, softer this time. Like he’s finally letting himself believe it.
Sirius nods, unwavering. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, wrapped in each other. Time is a blur. Sirius just lets Regulus be, lets him breathe through it, lets him hold on as long as he needs.
Eventually, Regulus sniffles again, rubbing his sleeve against his nose before slowly—reluctantly—pulling back. Sirius doesn’t let go completely. He cups Regulus’ face, thumbs brushing away the last of his tears, memorizing every detail.
Regulus stares up at him, taking him in as if afraid he’ll vanish. His blue-grey eyes are still wide, red-rimmed, full of too many emotions to name. Sirius offers the smallest ghost of a smile.
“Gosh, you’ve grown,” he murmurs, voice thick. He shakes his head, forcing out a quiet chuckle. “When did you get so tall?”
Regulus blushes, ducking his head. “Well, I am twelve now, so…”
Sirius huffs out a laugh. “Twelve,” he echoes, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “You’re practically ancient.”
Regulus giggles. Actually giggles. The sound is light and real, and for the first time, it feels like something heavy lifts from Sirius’ chest.
He lets his hands drop, but he doesn’t step away. Instead, he wipes away the last of Regulus’ tears with his sleeve before nodding toward the party.
“Come on,” he says, nudging Regulus gently. “Can’t have a party without the birthday boy.”
Regulus nods, still smiling. Then, without thinking, he reaches out—grasping Sirius’ hand tightly in his own.
Sirius freezes for half a second before his fingers curl around Regulus’, gripping just as tightly.
Regulus tugs him forward, leading him toward the others, his heart still hammering in his chest from the sheer overwhelming reality of it all.
And Sirius follows.
The first person Sirius really notices is a boy standing off to the side, watching them approach.
The boy has extremely messy brown hair that sticks up in every direction. He’s tall, Sirius can tell. He has round circular glasses that draw attention to his dark brown eyes, complementing his dark olive skin.
Sirius doesn’t know who he is, but something about his expression makes his stomach twist. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, his hands clenched at his sides. It’s not quite anger, but it’s not happiness either.
And Regulus notices it too.
Sirius can feel the way his little brother stiffens slightly, his grip tightening around Sirius’ hand. There’s something hesitant in the way Regulus glances at the boy, something unsure. Guilt? Sirius doesn’t know why, but it’s there.
He nudges Regulus gently, pulling him back to the moment. “You gonna introduce me, then?” he murmurs.
Regulus blinks, then nods quickly, as if snapping himself out of his thoughts. He refocuses, leading Sirius forward, but before they reach the others, they’re intercepted.
Three adults stand in their path. Sirius recognizes Sarah immediately—his social worker. But the other two, a man and a woman, are unfamiliar.
Sarah is the first to speak, offering Regulus a warm smile. “Happy birthday, Regulus.”
Regulus shifts slightly under all their gazes, suddenly shy. “Thank you,” he says quietly, glancing between the other two.
Sirius recognizes the hesitation in his little brother, the uncertainty, so he gives his hand a light squeeze, encouraging him forward. Regulus clings a little tighter before finally saying, “This is Sirius.”
The woman steps forward, her voice gentle but measured. “Hello, Sirius. I’m Euphemia, and this is Fleamont.”
Sirius shifts his weight, hesitating only a fraction before giving them a nod. “Hello.”
A silence stretches between them, heavy, filled with things unsaid.
Then Sarah clears her throat, breaking the moment. “Sirius, I’ve actually been trying to track you down for a while now.” Her voice is calm but firm. “We weren’t sure where you were, and, well… there’s a lot we need to discuss.”
Sirius hadn’t known that—hadn’t realized Sarah had been actively trying to find him before today. But it doesn’t really surprise him. He had seen this conversation coming. The moment he was allowed to come here, to see Regulus, he knew he’d be walking straight into it.
Still, he keeps his face neutral, his posture still. But Regulus’ fingers twitch slightly in his grasp, as if he feels the tension locking into his brother’s body.
Sirius exhales slowly, keeping his voice carefully even. “Yeah. I figured.”
Sarah glances at Euphemia and Fleamont. The two of them exchange a look before Euphemia speaks again. “You’re welcome to stay,” she says, her voice warm but cautious, like she’s choosing each word carefully. “We weren’t expecting you, but we’re glad you came.”
Sirius studies her for a moment, searching for any sign of judgment, any hint that she doesn’t mean it. But all he finds is open sincerity.
It’s… strange.
He nods once. “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.”
Sirius exhales through his nose. “Right,” he mutters. His jaw tenses for half a second before he forces himself to relax. “Later.”
There’s a silent understanding between them all— not now. Not when Regulus is still clinging to his hand, not when the weight of today is already enough.
Sirius catches Euphemia’s gaze flicker briefly to Regulus, then back to him. There’s something unreadable in her expression, but she doesn’t push.
“Go on, then,” Fleamont says, his voice lighter, nodding toward the party. “It’s not a party without the birthday boy.”
Regulus lets out a small giggle, and finally, some of the tension breaks.
Sirius lets him tug him away, lets himself be pulled forward—away from the adults, away from whatever heavier conversations are waiting for him.
For now, it’s just the party. Just Regulus.
And for now, that’s enough.
Sirius watches as Regulus wastes no time introducing him to his friends—Pandora, Evan, Barty, and Dorcas—all of whom greet him with varying levels of enthusiasm.
Pandora is the most excitable, practically vibrating in place as she beams up at him. “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 down at Regulus with a smirk. “Are they always this full of energy?”
Regulus nods solemnly. “Yes. Always.”
Barty, sprawled lazily 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’s been quiet up until now, offers him a nod and a simple, “Nice to meet you.”
Dorcas, ever direct, tilts her head. “So, are you sticking around for a while?”
Sirius hesitates. He doesn’t know how to answer that—because, truthfully, he doesn’t know. He’s not sure if he can stay. Before he can come up with a response, the boy he noticed from early—James, his name is—finally speaks.
“So, what’d you do to get separated?”
The question cuts through the conversation like a knife. The table falls silent.
Sirius feels Regulus stiffen beside him, and he knows— knows —his brother is panicking. But Sirius? He just exhales slowly, his amusement vanishing in an instant. His expression smooths out, blank in a way that hides everything beneath the surface. He’s perfected that look. Years of practice.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns to Barty, his tone casual, easy. “You were saying something about stubbornness?”
A beat of silence. Then Barty, to Sirius’ relief, picks up the conversation again. Slowly, the tension fades, though it doesn’t disappear entirely. Sirius can still feel James’ gaze on him, heavy and unrelenting. He doesn’t look back.
Beside him, Regulus shifts, still uneasy. Sirius catches his gaze for a brief moment—just long enough to send a message.
Later.
For now, the party resumes.
Regulus busies himself making sure Sirius has something to eat, but Sirius notices the way his brother hesitates, his face falling slightly as he scans the table.
“I’m sorry,” Regulus whispers, leaning in. “There’s nothing—”
Sirius shakes his head before he can finish. “It’s okay,” he murmurs back. “Wasn’t really hungry anyway.”
Regulus frowns but doesn’t argue, though Sirius knows he wants to. Instead, he just keeps a firm grip on Sirius’ hand, like he’s afraid to let go.
They sit together, talking, listening, and for the first time in a long, long while, Sirius feels… settled. Maybe not completely, not yet. But something about being here, with Regulus pressed close to his side, makes it easier to breathe.
Then, it’s time for presents.
Pandora and Evan give Regulus a beautifully wrapped book on astronomy—something Regulus clearly loves, judging by the way his eyes light up as he flips through the pages. Barty hands him a sleek, leather-bound notebook, its cover engraved with silver stars. Dorcas gifts him a handmade bracelet woven in deep blues and silvers, the craftsmanship precise and thoughtful.
Sirius doesn’t miss the way Regulus’ fingers tremble slightly as he holds each gift, as if he doesn’t quite believe they’re real.
Then comes the cake.
Candles flicker atop the frosting as everyone sings, their voices loud and bright. Regulus stares at the flames, a lump forming in his throat, and Sirius wonders what he’s thinking.
His little brother takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and makes a wish.
But as he blows out the candles, his expression shifts—softens. And Sirius realizes, with a pang in his chest, that Regulus doesn’t look like someone who needs to wish for anything.
Because what he wants is already here.
Sirius squeezes his hand. Regulus squeezes back.
***
The blanket is soft. Emerald green with delicate gold embroidery stitched across one corner — Regulus Arcturus , each letter looped and perfect, like something out of a storybook. Sirius runs his fingers along the gold thread, careful not to tug. It’s beautiful. Regal. Like it was made just for Regulus.
Because it was .
Regulus is talking—soft, eager words tumbling out in that way he does when he’s excited but trying not to show it too much.
“They gave it to me this morning,” he says, voice a little breathless. “Effie said green suits me, and Monty said the gold made it royal.” He ducks his head a bit, adding more quietly, “they said I’m allowed to feel special.”
Sirius swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and nods. “It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, and he means it with everything in him.
Regulus smiles, just a little. But Sirius can see it—the tension in his shoulders, the way he clutches the blanket just a little too tightly. His eyes flick in the direction of where Sarah is standing, then quickly away.
He’s stalling. Trying to keep Sirius here. Just a little longer.
Sirius can’t blame him. He’s doing the same thing, in a way—dragging out each second, trying to make time bend around them.
It won’t.
So, he smiles. Soft. Sad.
Because it hurts to go. And it hurts to leave him .
“Reggie,” Sirius says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Regulus trails off mid-sentence. He looks down, shoulders hunching in.
“Hey,” Sirius says gently, stepping forward. He places tender fingers beneath Regulus’ chin, tilting it up. “Look at me.”
Regulus does. And Sirius wishes he hadn’t asked.
Because the pain in his little brother’s eyes is unbearable.
“Hey,” Sirius says again, even softer now, thumb brushing gently against his cheek. “It’s going to be okay.”
Regulus shakes his head almost instantly. “You don’t know that,” he says, voice small and tight.
“I do, actually.”
Regulus looks at him, unsure. Disbelieving.
Sirius forces a smile. It’s thin, but it’s there. “I’ve got two more weeks in the home I’m staying in. Then…” he breathes in slowly, “then I’m all yours.”
He can see the doubt still lingering in Regulus’ eyes. The fear. The ache that matches Sirius’ own.
Tears start to gather along his lashes.
“No, hey, hey—don’t cry now,” Sirius says quickly, though his own eyes are starting to sting.
But the tears fall anyway.
And then Regulus is crying, shoulders trembling, hands gripping the edge of the blanket like it’s the only thing holding him together.
Sirius pulls him in at once, wrapping both arms around him, tucking Regulus into his chest.
He leans down, lips against his brother’s hair, and whispers, “It’s only two weeks, alright, mon étoile? Just two weeks and we’ll be home— I’ll be home. I promise.”
And as he says it— “I promise” —Regulus makes a sound so raw, so heartbreaking, it nearly knocks Sirius off his feet.
Sobs tear through him. Loud, choking, painful things. And all Sirius can do is hold on.
Because he’s lying.
And it kills him.
He wants it to be true. Wants to believe in that promise. But he doesn’t know. Two weeks could stretch into forever. The system doesn’t care about promises.
But Regulus does.
So Sirius stays strong. Holds him close. Rubs a steady hand along his back, the other smoothing through dark curls.
He closes his eyes and—for the first time in months—he prays.
To a god he despises.
Not for himself.
But for Regulus.
Because if they don’t get those two weeks…
Sirius doesn’t know how either of them will survive.
Sirius pulls back just enough to see Regulus’ face, still wet with tears. His arms stay wrapped around his brother’s shoulders for a moment longer before he finally, carefully, lets go.
“Okay now,” he murmurs, cupping Regulus’ face between both hands again. His thumbs gently smooth along damp cheeks, wiping away what tears he can. “It’s time for me to go now, alright?”
Regulus nods, barely. His lower lip trembles, eyes still glassy and red, but he doesn’t make a sound.
Sirius strokes his cheek again, slower this time. Calmer. Soothing. “Just know that, no matter what happens… everything is going to be okay. And you will see me again. Alright?”
Another small nod. Sirius leans forward, presses a kiss to Regulus’ forehead—soft, steady, full of all the love he doesn’t know how to put into words. He lingers a beat, then kisses him again.
“Je t'aime, ma petite étoile,” he whispers, voice beginning to crack around the edges. Another kiss, one more—like maybe if he gives enough, he can hold Regulus together just a little longer. “Je t'aimerai toujours. Ne l'oublie jamais.”
(“I love you, my little star,” “I will always love you. Don’t you ever forget that.”)
Regulus nods, barely whispering back, “ Je t'aime aussi.”
And Sirius feels it like a knife to the chest.
He pulls away slowly, releasing him, even though every part of his heart wants to hold on. Wants to stay.
But he can’t.
He takes a step back. Then another. Wipes the remaining tears from his own face with the sleeve of his jacket, forcing on a brave smile—for Regulus’ sake.
He lifts a hand and waves. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”
Regulus doesn’t speak again, but he nods once more, hugging the emerald green blanket tight to his chest like a lifeline.
Sirius turns.
And walks toward Sarah.
Each step feels like betrayal.
When he reaches her, he doesn’t speak. He just stops beside her, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He shouldn’t look back.
But he does.
Just once.
And what he sees on Regulus’ face—that open, raw heartbreak, that desperate hope tangled with sorrow—it makes something inside Sirius twist. Shift.
It anchors him.
He can’t mess this up. Not again. Not this .
He breathes in sharp through his nose and promises himself—silently, fiercely— I’ll behave. I’ll follow every rule. I’ll keep my head down. I’ll do whatever it takes to get back to him.
Sarah gently places a hand on his back and leads him the rest of the way to the detectives waiting by the car. She opens the door for him, and Sirius slips inside without a word, settling against the seat like the air’s been knocked out of him.
“I’ll see you soon, Sirius,” she says softly, crouching to meet his eyes.
He looks at her, nods once. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.
Then the door shuts.
And everything is quiet.
It hits him then—fully, completely—the weight of leaving Regulus. The heaviness he hadn’t expected, the ache in his ribs. It hadn’t felt like this in February. Maybe because that goodbye hadn’t felt so final. Maybe because they’d both been too lost in chaos to register the pain.
But now…
Now it feels jarring. Wrong. Like tearing off a piece of himself and leaving it behind.
So Sirius leans his head back against the seat, closes his eyes, and silently makes that vow again.
I’ll get back to him.
Whatever it takes.
***
Sirius has been back in juvie for three days, and every second since seeing Regulus has felt like his insides are unraveling.
The memory replays in his mind like a film stuck on a single frame—Regulus’ arms tight around his ribs, face pressed into his chest, muffled sobs soaking through the thin fabric of Sirius’ shirt. The way he’d whispered I love you , like it meant something, like it still mattered. And it does. It does. Sirius aches for that moment, wishes he could crawl back into it and never leave. Just hold him. Just keep him safe. Just not let go .
But instead, he’s here.
Cement floors. Flickering lights that buzz endlessly. Thin mattresses and metal tables too cold to touch. The air always smells faintly of bleach and old sweat. Nothing here feels like home. Nothing ever has.
It’s visitation day. Sirius sits at one of those metal tables, bouncing his knee, fingers twitching against the edge. He tells himself it’s because Sarah’s coming—not Regulus. Regulus isn’t coming. He made sure of that. Begged, even.
Because Regulus doesn’t need to see this version of him. The version who makes too many mistakes. Who lashes out. Who’s easier to shove away than to keep. Who wears a label that says violent offender now, even though that’s not the whole story—not even close.
He doesn’t want Regulus to know this version. Doesn’t want to taint the perfect image his little brother used to have. Sirius doesn’t think he could survive watching that image crumble in Regulus’ eyes.
The door creaks open, and Sirius’ breath stutters. Sarah walks in, her brown curls pulled back today, sensible flats clicking on the floor. But it’s her face that catches him. There’s something wrong. Not sadness. Not even pity. Worry.
She clutches a folder like it might anchor her, and Sirius feels the knot in his chest tighten.
She sits across from him with a tight smile. “Hi, Sirius.”
“Hey,” he mutters.
She opens the folder. “This is your file,” she says. “It’s missing a lot of information.”
He nods. “Figured it might be. Been passed around a bit.”
Sarah doesn’t laugh. Just nods slowly. “That’s to be expected. You’ve had… a lot of social workers.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “You’re number four.”
She glances up, surprised. “You counted?”
“Hard not to,” he shrugs. “They didn’t exactly leave lasting impressions.”
Sarah doesn’t smile, but her eyes soften a little. She flips a few pages and leans forward. “I just want to go over a few things. Fill in the gaps so we’ve got everything accurate for your release.”
Sirius swallows, nods. The word release lands in his stomach like a rock. It should feel good. Hopeful. But it doesn’t. It just reminds him how temporary everything is.
Her finger traces down the page. “Where were you between February 20th and April 1st?”
He freezes.
Right. That part.
He thought—maybe—someone would have figured it out by now. But no one had. No one ever looked that closely. They just passed him on like a burden too heavy to carry.
“I… I was at…” he stammers, voice cracking. His fingers curl against the table. “I was at the… children’s hospital.”
Sarah looks up sharply. “What? I’m sorry, you were in hospital ?”
He nods, staring at the floor. His ears ring with echoes of beeping monitors and sterile white lights. The way he couldn’t move for days. The way every touch felt like fire.
“I’ll follow up,” Sarah says quickly, already writing. “Do you remember who picked you up?”
He nods. “Janice. She was maybe forty? Curly brown hair, wore a blue coat.”
Sarah blinks. “Janice is my supervisor.”
Sirius almost laughs. “Small world.”
She flips more pages. “Okay. Next gap—June 3rd to July 1st.”
“Easy,” Sirius says, voice more even now. “I was here. Back in juvie.”
“Social worker?”
“Some kid named William. Couldn’t have been older than twenty. Called me ‘bro’ like twice.”
Sarah jots it down. “Alright. That’s all the gaps I’ve got.”
She closes the file and sets it aside. And then he sees it. The shift. Her posture stiffens. Her expression tightens, like she’s trying to find the right words.
Sirius braces himself.
“Now,” she says, “onto the more important stuff.”
He nods, but dread coils in his stomach.
“The family that’s taken Regulus in…” she pauses, choosing her words carefully. “They’re not one hundred percent sure they want to take you too.”
Sirius stares down at the table. The ache is immediate. But not surprising.
He nods once. “Right.”
Sarah goes on, gently. “I’ve worked with the Potters for a couple years. They’re… good people. They’ve taken in a lot of kids. But—well, they’ve only ever taken in non-violent placements.”
Sirius cuts her off, voice hollow. “And I’m not one of those.”
She hesitates, then nods.
He forces a shrug. “It’s fine.”
But it’s not. Not even close.
He turns his head, stares out the tiny window behind her. The sun’s bright, but it doesn’t reach in here. Not really.
“I get it,” he mutters. “They don’t know me. All they’ve got is the label.”
Sarah is quiet for a moment. Then she says, softly, “They asked a lot of questions about you. I think… they’re not saying no. They’re just scared.”
Sirius doesn’t answer. He doesn’t trust his voice.
Then, quietly: “Is Regulus happy there?”
Sarah nods immediately. “Yes. Very. He’s been with them since June 1st. At his last check-in, he asked me if he was going to stay. And when I told him yes… he smiled so wide. The Potters were thrilled.”
Sirius lets out a shaky breath. A smile touches his lips, faint and flickering.
“That’s good,” he whispers. “He should stay. He deserves that.”
Sarah tilts her head. “He wants you there, Sirius.”
He shakes his head. “He thinks he does. Because he still remembers the version of me who used to make him laugh. Who snuck him out of the house at midnight just to see the stars. Not the one who ends up in places like this.”
“Sirius—”
“It’s better for him if I stay away,” Sirius says firmly, cutting her off. “I don’t want to screw this up for him. I’ve already done enough damage.”
Sarah watches him for a long moment. Her expression unreadable.
“Alright,” she says at last. “If I hear back from the Potters and they’re willing to meet… I’ll let you know. But I’ll have a backup option in place. Just in case. Okay?”
He nods, eyes still locked on the window. “Okay.”
The meeting ends a few minutes later. Sarah gives him a small, quiet smile before leaving. Sirius doesn’t return it.
He walks back to his cell, every step heavier than the last. His chest feels cracked open. Raw. Like something vital’s missing.
He sits on the thin mattress and leans back against the wall. It’s cold, but it’s real.
He thinks about Regulus.
About the way he smiled through his tears.
About how tightly he held Sirius, like letting go might break him.
Sirius presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.
He doesn’t cry.
But God, he wants to.
Because the truth is, the Potters choosing Regulus and not him—it shouldn’t hurt.
But it does.
It feels like a rejection he’d already been bracing for and somehow still wasn’t ready to hear. Like he’s the part of Regulus’ past best left behind. Like he’s what people want to forget.
And that—more than juvie, more than labels, more than any record or file or missing piece—is what guts him.
Because if he’s not careful, he’s going to start believing it too.
Notes:
Word Count: 8,346
Published: 2025-04-23oooooo almost halfway there to fifty!!!
mon étoile = my star
Je t'aime aussi = I love you too
Chapter 25: Some Feelings are Truly too Hard to Explain
Summary:
Some feelings are truly too hard to explain—especially when those feelings revolve around the kind that tell you to stay away from someone. James doesn’t trust Sirius, even if he is Regulus’ brother.
All James wants to do is to protect Regulus, even if that means telling his parents a lie.
Anyone would do the same in his position… right?
POV: James Potter
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
James lets out a dramatic wail. “This is betrayal!”
Dorcas only laughs and darts away, weaving expertly through the climbing nets. James grins, winded but determined, and takes off after her. The chase doesn’t last long—he catches her with a quick swipe to the arm, triumphant.
Dorcas skids to a stop and groans. “Fine, fine! I’ll get someone else.”
James pauses, breathing hard, hands on his knees. Across the playground, Regulus watches with the same quiet focus he always has, like he’s observing a puzzle he’s just about to solve.
Then he moves.
It’s fast. One second Regulus is standing near the slide, the next, he’s sprinting. Not toward Dorcas or Pandora or anyone else in the game—but toward someone James hasn’t seen before.
A boy.
Tall, pale, dark-haired. Standing at the far edge of the playground, stood a carbon copy of Regulus. James hadn’t noticed him there until now. But Regulus clearly has.
And he runs like the world might end if he doesn’t reach him in time.
James straightens up, confused. “Who…?”
He trails off as Regulus slams into the stranger, arms flung around him like he’s been starving for this moment. The other boy wraps him up just as tightly, holding him close, hands gentle against Regulus’ back. They stay like that. Still. Silent. Pressed together like it hurts to be apart.
James swallows, suddenly feeling like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be. Something private. Sacred, even.
He glances at the others.
Pandora and Dorcas are frozen mid-step. Barty shifts awkwardly. Evan avoids eye contact altogether.
The whole game dissolves without a word.
“Uh…” James says, then clears his throat. “Let’s head back to the adults, yeah?”
The others don’t argue. They move quietly toward the picnic tables where the grown-ups are gathered—where the cupcakes are mostly gone and the cooler is half-empty and the laughter sounds older, calmer. James follows, but not before stealing one last glance over his shoulder.
Regulus and the boy are still locked in that same embrace.
Something about it makes James’ stomach twist. Not just the weird intimacy of it. Not just the awkwardness. Something else.
Something wrong.
When he reaches the edge of the lot, James catches sight of Sarah talking with his mum and dad. She looks calm, as always—hands folded, smile easy. Euphemia says something with a warm laugh, and Fleamont nods, listening. Normal adult stuff.
Bellatrix and Narcissa walk up, an expression on their faces, one James can only describe as fondness? Recognition, maybe?
Bellatrix says something that makes Sarah laugh—probably something to do with the situation at hand—and James watches as Narcissa flicks her eyes toward the playground, smiling faintly.
James turns too, gaze dragging reluctantly back to the boy with Regulus.
Something glints in the sunlight.
At first, James doesn’t understand what it is. Then it clicks.
It’s around the boy’s ankle.
A monitor.
James blinks, stunned. It’s subtle—thin, barely noticeable beneath the cuff of his jeans—but it’s there. A tracker. The kind criminals wear. The kind kids in juvie get.
James’ gut tightens.
Regulus ran to that ?
He glances around the parking lot quickly. A few rows down, tucked between Sarah’s car and an old Volvo, sits a black sedan. Unmarked. Inside, two people sit in the front seats, heads slightly tilted, watching.
James’s first thought is: cops.
Then he second-guesses himself. They’re not in uniform. No badges. No movement.
But he looks back at the boy and the ankle monitor and Regulus still clinging to him—and yeah. They’re probably cops.
Probably here for him.
James narrows his eyes.
He doesn’t care who that boy is. Doesn’t care how much Regulus clearly adores him, or what sob story he’s told Sarah, or why she brought him here. Doesn’t even care if Bellatrix called him a “good kid” earlier when she was schmoozing his parents.
None of that matters.
Because James knows trouble when he sees it. And that boy is trouble.
There’s something about the way he moves—slow, cautious, like he’s constantly waiting for someone to come at him from behind. Like he doesn’t trust anyone, and maybe that’s because he shouldn’t be trusted. James can feel it in his chest like a wrong chord in a song. Everything about him is off.
And now he’s here, clinging to Regulus like he owns him.
James clenches his jaw.
He doesn’t care if this mystery boy is related to Regulus—cousin, uncle, long-lost twin, whatever. He doesn’t care if he’s trying to turn his life around, or if Sarah has a folder full of reports that say he’s doing better.
All James knows is that he’s not going to let someone like that get too close to Regulus.
Not after everything they’ve done to help him feel safe again. Not after all the work it’s taken to get Regulus to smile, to talk, to trust people.
Not when it’s taken months to make Regulus feel like he belongs.
James looks away, jaw tight, fists clenching at his sides.
He doesn’t say it out loud—but he swears it:
That boy is bad news.
And James Potter is going to keep Regulus far, far away from him.
***
Regulus has a brother.
Regulus has an older brother.
A brother.
The car is quiet on the drive home. The kind of quiet that settles after a long day full of sugar and too many people. Regulus is asleep in the back seat, curled up—like what, James, can only describe as a cat—one of his new books clutched tight in his lap. His head rests against the window, mouth slightly open, his expression soft in a way James rarely sees when Regulus is actually awake.
James stares out the window on his side, watching the street lights blur past in golden streaks. His foot taps a slow rhythm against the car mat, even though there’s no music playing.
The party was fine.
Everyone had a good time, apparently.
But James can’t stop thinking about the way Regulus looked earlier—right before they left the park. The moment when Sirius had to go. Regulus had tried to hold it together, but James knew. James saw the way Regulus’ fingers tightened around Sirius’ shirt. James saw the way Regulus’ shoulders trembled as it does when he cries.
He saw the way Sirius hugged him and whispered something into Regulus’ ear, too quiet for anyone to hear. Whatever it was, it made Regulus nod like his life depended on it. Then, the second Sirius was gone, Regulus broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
James had shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away, unsure what to do.
He sighs and adjusts his seatbelt.
Maybe—maybe he was a little harsh. To Sirius, that is. Not that he regrets it. Not really. It’s just… he remembers the way Regulus beamed when he introduced Sirius to everyone. His whole face lit up, all proud and jittery and nervous. Like he was showing off something precious and wasn’t sure if people would see it the way he did.
“This is Sirius,” Regulus had said, voice a little too high. “My brother.”
James had nodded and muttered a polite “hey,” because that’s what you’re supposed to do, but he hadn’t said anything else. Not even when Sirius looked at him a little too long, like he knew something James didn’t.
And maybe he was a good kid. That’s what Regulus’s cousin said anyway. Bellatrix. James overheard her when he was grabbing another cupcake off the table. She was standing off to the side with Narcissa, Sarah, and his parents, all of them talking in that adult voice they use when they think kids aren’t listening.
“—never thought I’d say it,” Bellatrix was saying, arms crossed, “but he’s a good kid. A bit of a mess, but better than anyone gave him credit for.”
Sarah nodded, and his Mum hummed thoughtfully, and they all looked over to where Sirius was helping Regulus tie a balloon to the back of a chair.
Good kid. Maybe.
But something about him still feels off.
James can’t explain it exactly. It’s not like Sirius did anything wrong. It’s just… something. The way he moves. The way he looks at people. Like he’s already guessed what they’re going to do before they even do it. Like he’s always braced for a punch that might never come. James doesn’t trust that kind of energy.
He glances into the back seat again. Regulus hasn’t moved. His dark hair falls over his forehead, a little messy from the wind earlier. James frowns.
Regulus was really happy today. Probably the happiest James has seen him since he moved in.
And yeah, that was mostly because of Sirius.
The tiniest drop of guilt pokes James in the ribs. He pushes it away.
It’s not his fault Sirius gives him a weird feeling. It’s not his fault Regulus cried when he left.
James doesn’t owe Sirius anything just because they share a last name and a jawline.
He shifts again in his seat and crosses his arms. The car hums steadily beneath them, street lights flickering in and out through the windshield.
Regulus chose them. The Potters. James. They’re his family now. And just because Sirius decided to show up again doesn’t mean he gets to waltz in and take over like nothing happened.
He’s not going to let that happen.
So yeah. Sirius might be a “good” kid. He might be Regulus’s brother, and he might’ve done the right thing once, even if it landed him in juvie.
But James still doesn’t trust him.
And he’s going to make sure everybody knows that.
The first thing James does when they get home is head straight for his room.
He doesn’t say much to his parents—just mutters something about being tired, about the sun and the noise and how his stomach still hurts from cupcakes. Euphemia kisses his temple, Fleamont ruffles his hair, and then he’s free. Free to shut the door, toss his shoes aside, and collapse onto his bed face-first.
The pillow muffles the noise of the house around him. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Or it would be, if his brain would just shut up.
He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, limbs sprawled across his bed like he’s just run a marathon.
Regulus has an older brother.
James groans, dragging a hand down his face. The name alone leaves a weird taste in his mouth. Sirius. Even that sounds dramatic. Like a storm someone forgot to warn them about.
He grabs his phone, scrolls mindlessly, then opens a message to Dorcas. They don’t text much—she’s not the kind of person who talks unless she has something to say. But that’s sort of why he wants to talk to her now.
James : still can’t believe Regulus has an older brother.
It doesn’t take long.
Dorcas : did you get an off vibe about him?
Dorcas : or was it just me?
James exhales slowly, already feeling the tension in his chest ease.
James : nah, definitely off vibe.
James : did you see the ankle monitor he was wearing?
James : and the police officers as well?
There’s a beat of silence. Then:
Dorcas : wait. there were police officers?
Dorcas : no, i didn’t see them. explains the off feeling i got.
James : yeah. i don’t trust the kid.
James : Sirius just… i dunno. something’s wrong.
Dorcas : and, you’re allowed to feel like that, James.
Dorcas : i don’t say this very often.
Dorcas : but, I don’t think Sirius can be trusted.
That hits.
James stares at the message for a few seconds too long, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Dorcas doesn’t say things like that lightly. She’s not like Evan, who judges people within five seconds. She’s quiet. Thoughtful. And whether or not she chooses to be around someone? That says everything.
So, for her to say this?
James knows he’s not imagining it.
His phone buzzes again.
Dorcas : the others are talking about it too.
Dorcas : Barty seems to like him, albeit, a bit wary.
Dorcas : Evan straight-up gets a bad vibe.
Dorcas : Pandora says there’s something about him that makes him seem bad.
Dorcas : Pandora’s very intuitive. but, she’s saying she’s iffy, and if she’s iffy…
James snorts softly.
James : yeah, okay.
James : so, we all collectively agree, Sirius is bad?
Dorcas : maybe not bad, but, yeah, i guess so.
James : hey, thanks for this.
James : i do appreciate it. just didn’t want to be the only one.
Dorcas : apparently, everyone’s parents think Sirius is bad news.
Dorcas : kinda feel bad for him, though.
Dorcas : Regulus, i mean.
Dorcas : because he’s the only one who truly knows Sirius.
James reads that over. And again. And again.
James : yeah, i guess.
James : we’ll talk more about this? yeah?
Dorcas : yeah.
James: thanks again.
Dorcas : no worries James :)
James tosses his phone beside him and sinks back into his pillow.
But sleep doesn’t come.
Not even close.
All he can think about is Sirius. Sirius, with his sharp jaw and guarded eyes, with Regulus curled against him like he’d fall apart if he let go. Sirius, with a police vehicle parked nearby and a monitor strapped to his ankle like it belonged there.
James doesn’t know what Sirius did—or what he was doing before he appeared today—but he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t trust it. And he hates the way Regulus looks at him. Like he hung the bloody stars.
James frowns, staring up at the dark ceiling.
What do Bellatrix and Narcissa think?
James knows what he overheard—just a short snippet, barely anything, really. Bellatrix had called Sirius a “good kid,” which sounded more like an afterthought than anything meaningful. But there should be more to it than that. Right? They know him. They’re family. They must know who Sirius really is—what he’s done, where he’s been. If they , the people who’ve known him longer than anyone, think he’s bad news too, then...
Then that’s that, right?
And what about his mum and dad?
Euphemia had looked stiff the entire time Sirius was around. James had noticed it, even if no one else had. The way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, the way her hand had found Fleamont’s arm—tightly, like she was bracing herself. And Fleamont, who always gave people the benefit of the doubt, didn’t say much of anything. Not to Sirius. Not about him, either. Just quiet, watching, frowning in that way that meant he was thinking hard but didn’t want to tip his hand yet.
James hates that. Hates not knowing what they’re thinking. Not knowing if they’re worried or suspicious or already planning a whole family discussion behind closed doors.
He guesses he’ll have to wait and see.
But the thing about James Potter is...
He’s never been good at waiting.
***
James forks the last of his eggs into his mouth and glances at the clock on the kitchen wall. Nearly ten. He’s not usually the first one down for breakfast—definitely not on a Sunday—but here he is, plates scraped clean and orange juice half gone, with only the low murmur of the dishwasher and his dad’s steady flipping of the paper for company.
He frowns, pokes at the condensation on his glass. “Where’s Reg?”
Euphemia glances up from the sink where she’s rinsing a mug. “Still in bed.”
That’s... not like him. Regulus is an early riser. Always showered and dressed before James even opens his eyes, practically folded into himself with nerves and politeness, hovering awkwardly near the kitchen doorway like he needs permission to exist.
“Maybe I should go check on him,” James offers, sliding off his chair.
His dad lowers the paper slightly, eyes peeking above the rim. “Yeah, probably for the best if someone check’s up on him.”
But his mum’s already drying her hands on a dish towel, her brows furrowed. “I’ll go,” she says, already moving toward the stairs.
James watches her go, the way her steps are careful but fast. Something in his stomach tightens.
The silence between him and his dad stretches until he clears his throat and flips the page. “You sleep alright?” Fleamont asks, casual but clipped.
“Yeah,” James says, though it’s not exactly true. He dreamed about Sirius. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just lay there, blinking into the dark, thinking about Sirius, and Regulus, and the things people aren’t saying out loud.
More time passes. James finishes his juice. His foot bounces beneath the table. Regulus still isn’t downstairs.
Then, footsteps—James turns his head quickly, expecting Regulus, but it’s just his mum.
She walks down the stairs slower than she went up, brushing her hand along the banister, her lips pressed together in a tight line.
“Regulus doesn’t feel like breakfast this morning,” she says, placing the dish towel neatly on the counter.
Fleamont looks up at her. They share a look, quiet and unreadable.
James doesn’t get it.
“What?” he asks. “Is he sick?”
“No,” Euphemia says gently. “Just tired, I think.”
But she doesn’t look like she’s telling the whole truth. Neither of them do.
James nods, unsure. He heads to the living room, flops down on the sofa, and grabs a controller. He stares at the loading screen for his game, but his fingers don’t move.
His phone buzzes.
Peter: park? me + marls are heading out. u in?
James hesitates, glances toward the stairs. There’s still no sound from upstairs.
James: yeah, one sec
He stands, walks into the kitchen. “Mum? Dad? Can I go out for a bit? Pete and Marls wanna meet at the park.”
Euphemia nods, distracted. Fleamont gives a quiet “sure, just be back for dinner.”
James grabs his house key and shoes, stepping out the front door, squinting at the morning light. As the door clicks shut behind him, he glances back at the house.
Something’s definitely off. But he doesn’t know what.
James kicks at a pebble as he walks down the familiar path toward the park, the heat of the morning already warming the pavement beneath his shoes. The sun is high, and sweat beads lightly at the back of his neck. His shirt sticks just a little to his back, but he doesn’t really care. Not with everything running through his head.
He can’t stop thinking about Sirius.
He doesn’t know him—not really—but everything about the guy screams trouble . The ankle monitor, the cold look in his eyes, the way even the air seemed to shift when he walked into the room. James has met people like that before, kids who want to blow things up just to watch the aftermath. But there’s something worse about Sirius. Like he’s not just reckless. Like he plans things, and not good things.
James frowns deeper. He wonders what kind of mess Sirius had to get into to end up with police officers shadowing him like bodyguards. What did he do? Theft? Assault? Worse? Why was he even allowed at Regulus’ birthday?
And how did the two of them get separated in the first place?
There must be a story there. Something painful. Something dark. Regulus never mentioned having a brother until yesterday. That’s not normal. You don’t just forget to mention someone who shares your face. Unless... maybe you want to forget. Maybe you’re trying to.
James shivers despite the heat. He doesn’t trust Sirius. Not even a little.
He turns the corner into the park, spotting Peter and Marlene sitting on top of the old wooden play structure. Peter’s legs swing back and forth while Marlene’s picking at a chipped bit of blue paint beside her, sunglasses perched on top of her head.
“There he is!” Peter grins, waving. “Thought you got eaten by your dog or something.”
“We don’t have a dog,” James mutters as he approaches, hauling himself up to sit beside them. “And I’ve been thinking.”
Marlene squints at him. “That sounds dangerous.”
Peter laughs, but stops when James doesn’t smile.
“What’s up?” he asks, a little more serious now. “You okay?”
James takes a breath, rubbing his palms against the thighs of his shorts. “You know Regulus? Reg? Something weird happened yesterday. At his birthday.”
Peter leans in. Marlene tilts her head.
“Regulus has an older brother,” James says. “Name’s Sirius. He showed up yesterday and—he was wearing an ankle monitor , Pete. And there were police officers with him. Not like, uniformed ones. The quiet type. Just... sitting nearby. Watching.”
Marlene’s eyes widen. “Wait, what ?”
James nods. “Swear to God. He creeped everyone out. Gave off a real bad vibe. And today, Regulus didn’t come down for breakfast. Mum said he’s sick, but... I dunno. Now I’m not so sure.”
Peter whistles. “That kid sounds like bad news.”
“I know , right?”
Marlene frowns. “Do you know what he did? Like, why he’s wearing the ankle monitor?”
James shakes his head. “No. But I talked to Dorcas about it last night. She and I—and honestly, all of Reg’s friends—were on the same page. We all got that same off feeling from Sirius. Dorcas said she doesn’t think he can be trusted.”
Peter blinks. “Damn. If Dorcas is saying someone’s bad news, then it must be true.”
“She’s got that sixth sense or something,” James mutters. “Like she knows who’s trouble.”
There’s a pause, then Marlene claps her hands against her knees and jumps to her feet. “Well. That’s a lot of family drama for a Sunday morning.”
Peter snorts.
Marlene grabs the nearby soccer ball, balancing it on her hip. “So… who wants to play some soccer?”
James exhales, the weight in his chest a little lighter.
“Yeah,” he says, standing up. “Let’s do it.”
James had a fun time at the park with Marlene and Peter. The sun stayed out, and the air was warm enough that running around actually felt good instead of sticky. For a little while, everything just lifted —the weirdness with Sirius, Regulus being off this morning, all of it. Kicking a ball, shouting, laughing—sometimes that’s all it takes to feel okay again.
Now, back home, he’s brushing his teeth, hair still damp from a quick shower, the bathroom light soft and golden. He stretches, yawns, pads down the hall to his room in his socks. Just another normal summer night.
Until the door creaks open.
James turns, expecting maybe his mum or dad—but it’s Regulus.
The first thing James notices is Regulus’ face. Blotchy, red, tear-streaked. His eyes are puffy and rimmed pink, like he’s been crying for hours and only just stopped. The sight makes James’ chest squeeze tight.
Regulus doesn’t say anything right away. He stands in the doorway, small and shaking a little, his voice barely a whisper.
“Effie and Monty says…” Regulus hiccups, still clearly a little distraught, “that we’re watching a movie.”
James swallows. “Yeah?” he says gently, then lowers his voice to match. “You okay?”
Regulus nods—but it’s a lie, and they both know it. His chin wobbles.
James doesn’t push. He just steps forward and pulls Regulus into a hug.
What surprises him is that Regulus hugs him back. Arms wrapping around James like he needs him to be the one thing holding him together right now.
James hugs tighter.
They watch two movies downstairs—Regulus picks both, and no one argues. James doesn’t even bother suggesting they vote. It's obvious Regulus needs the comfort, the distraction, the feeling of choice.
Mum and dad curl up together on one end of the couch. Regulus sits tucked in between James and a soft pillow, eyes glued to the screen but gaze distant. James barely remembers what they watch. He keeps sneaking glances at Regulus, trying to understand what could hurt this much.
What did Sirius say? What happened when mum went upstairs? James doesn’t know. But he wants to. He needs to.
And more than that—he wants to protect him.
Later, the house is dark and quiet. James is just settling into bed when he hears it—footsteps. Soft. Careful.
Then the mattress shifts behind him.
James doesn’t move at first. But the second Regulus curls up into his arms—just like that, without a word—he knows. It’s him. It’s always him.
“Reg?” he whispers, just to be sure.
No answer. Just the weight of a small body pressed against his chest, breath hitching faintly, like he’s still fighting tears in the dark.
James wraps his arms around him without hesitation.
He doesn’t ask what happened. Doesn’t ask why. He just holds him.
And in that moment, James makes a promise—one he doesn’t say out loud, but that settles into his bones like a vow.
He won’t let anyone hurt Regulus. Not again. Not the kids who shoved him in the hallway, not the brother who made him cry like this.
Because James is Regulus’ brother. Even if Regulus doesn’t see it yet.
And James would do anything for his little brother.
***
James knows something’s off.
It starts the day after Regulus' birthday. At first, it’s little things. Regulus stops humming under his breath when he's doing puzzles in the sunroom. He doesn’t ask for a second helping of apple pie. He startles easier, flinches sometimes when someone laughs too loud.
But then it gets worse.
James finds him crying in the upstairs bathroom one afternoon. No reason. Just sitting there with his knees pulled up to his chest, crying like someone’s died. And when James asks—gently, because he knows better now—Regulus just shakes his head and mutters something about being fine.
He’s not fine.
He breaks down again that night. And again three days later when the cereal box runs out and James makes a stupid joke about the end of the world. Regulus had laughed, kind of, but then his face had crumpled and he’d bolted out of the room.
James knows what’s behind it. Who’s behind it.
Sirius.
And it makes James' stomach churn, because Sirius doesn’t deserve to be Regulus' older brother. Not when he made Regulus cry like that. Not when he abandoned him, left him to figure it all out alone. It’s not fair. It’s not right . Regulus deserves someone who sticks around, someone who doesn’t show up out of nowhere just to wreck him.
James grabs his phone and scrolls to Remus’ contact. If anyone needs catching up, it’s him.
James : hey, you’re never gonna believe what’s happened since Reg’s b-day.
He watches the screen. Three little dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again. Then vanish.
Finally, a reply.
Remus : i highly doubt it’s anything interesting, james.
James : no, but that’s the thing, it is.
He hesitates, thumbs hovering over the screen, before typing again.
James : Dorcas seems to think so too.
That gets Remus’ attention. James can practically feel it. There’s this unspoken thing about Dorcas—that quiet ones always have the best gossip. Dorcas never says anything. But she knows everything. Always watching. Always listening. It’s honestly kind of terrifying.
Remus : okay, i’m listening.
Remus : what is this thing i’m never gonna believe?
James : Regulus has an older brother.
Dots. More dots. James loses count of how many times they appear, disappear, appear again.
Remus : no way.
Remus : for real?
James : yeah. yes for real.
James : his name is Sirius.
James : he gave off such bad vibes.
James : Dorcas was there, and so were all of Reg’s other friends.
James : anyways, they all say Sirius gives off sketchy vibes.
James : and, get this, even their parents are wary of Sirius.
Remus : no way.
James : yes way!
James : Regulus was little attached to his brother’s hip the entire rest of the party.
James : i don’t even think Reg even saw the ankle monitor that was on his brother.
Remus : the WHAT!?!
Remus : wait—Sirius was wearing an ankle monitor?
Remus : as in, one that criminals wear?
James : yep.
James : police officers were also there.
Remus : well, that doesn’t sound too good.
Remus : what does Dorcas think?
James : she agrees with me that Sirius is bad news.
Remus : okay, okay.
Remus : alright.
The phone buzzes again in James’ hand, but this time, he barely glances at it. There’s a knock on his door—quick, gentle. The kind that’s trying not to startle you but still makes his stomach twist with unease.
He sits up straighter, tension shooting down his spine like a jolt. “Mum? Dad?”
The door creaks open, and both his parents step inside. Euphemia leads, her expression soft, almost careful. Fleamont follows, closing the door behind them with a quiet click that feels way too final.
“Did I do something?” James blurts, eyes darting between them. His heart picks up a nervous beat. “Because I definitely didn’t use the upstairs bathroom to try and dye my hair again. That was—”
“No, no,” Fleamont interrupts quickly, his voice calm but tired. “Nothing like that.”
Euphemia gives him a small smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her shoulders are a little too stiff. She’s doing that thing she does when she’s about to deliver news she thinks he won’t like but is trying to soften the blow. “We just wanted to talk to you about something.”
James narrows his eyes, suspicion blooming fast in his chest. “Okay… now you’re really scaring me.”
They exchange a glance. A short, quiet one.
“We’re sorry, sweetheart,” Euphemia says gently, folding her hands in front of her like she’s trying to keep herself grounded. “We wanted your opinion—like always.”
His eyes dart between them, breath catching.
“It’s about Sirius,” she adds.
James freezes.
Something cold runs down the back of his neck. His stomach sinks as if it knows what’s coming before his brain does.
Fleamont speaks next, slow and even. “About how you’d feel… if he came to live with us.”
James doesn’t even think. Doesn’t need to.
“No,” he says sharply. “No. Absolutely not.”
His voice is louder than he meant it to be. It slices through the air, leaves a ringing in his ears. He stands up from his bed, jaw clenched tight, hands fisted at his sides. “I saw the ankle monitor. I saw the cops. ”
His mum exhales, a breathy kind of relief flashing across her face. Like she’s been holding it in for hours. Days, maybe.
His dad, though—his expression doesn’t change. Or maybe that’s worse. James can’t read him. That scares him more than anything.
“We would never bring someone dangerous into this home,” Euphemia says, stepping forward. “We just… we thought it was important to ask you.”
James swallows. He feels like he’s breathing through a straw. “Can I—can I ask what he did?”
Fleamont opens his mouth, but Euphemia cuts in quickly. “He was arrested for assaulting a foster parent.”
James’ stomach drops. His jaw tightens until it aches.
“That’s reason enough,” he says, voice cold. “That’s perfect reason enough.”
No one speaks for a moment.
The silence sits heavy, thick like fog. James looks from his mum—who looks quietly relieved—to his dad, whose stillness is beginning to feel more like conflict than calm.
He watches Fleamont carefully. Watches the way his fingers twitch like he wants to do something—say something—but doesn’t.
“Dad?” James says, quieter now. More cautious. “You weren’t seriously thinking about bringing him in… right?”
His father sighs, shoulders sinking.
“Well,” he says. “Yes. I was.”
James stares at him, stunned. “What?”
“Sirius may have a record of violence,” Fleamont says, tone calm but firm, “but that doesn’t mean he is violent. We’ve had plenty of kids with records. Behavioural issues.”
“But they weren’t violent ,” Euphemia interjects, sharper now.
There’s a bite to her words. Like she’s not just arguing for James, but with Fleamont.
Fleamont nods once. Slow. Resigned. “I know.”
That’s it.
This weird, deafening silence falls over the room. James can hear the buzz of his phone still sitting on his bedspread, muffled against the comforter. Somewhere outside, a car passes, headlights flashing across the hallway.
He watches his dad stand and smooth a hand over the front of his shirt, like he’s brushing something off. Or hiding something.
“Goodnight, James,” he says, voice unreadable.
Then he leaves.
Just like that.
No more conversation. No goodnight kiss. No smile. No nothing.
James watches the door close behind him, the pit in his stomach stretching wider.
His mum stays.
“Mum…” James whispers, his voice rough. “Is everything alright?”
Euphemia gives him a tired smile and walks over to sit beside him on the edge of his bed. “Yes, dear. Everything’s alright.”
She pauses, folding her hands in her lap. Then, softer: “Your father just thinks it would’ve been good for Regulus. If Sirius were here.”
James shakes his head slowly, trying to make sense of the swirl in his brain. “But we don’t know why they were separated. We don’t even know if Sirius would hurt him.”
“I told him the same thing,” she murmurs, brushing her fingers gently through his hair. “And we made you a promise. We would never let someone into this house who made you feel unsafe.”
James blinks hard, throat tight. He nods. “Thanks. For asking.”
“Of course,” she says, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “It’s your home, too.”
James watches her leave the room a moment later, pulling the door quietly shut behind her.
Then he sits there in the dark.
The silence wraps around him like a blanket—heavy and a little too tight. He keeps thinking about the way his dad looked at the floor when James said no . Like he’d already known it was coming, but it still stung.
He thinks about the way Regulus had clung to Sirius at the party. Like a lifeline. Like something he hadn’t let himself miss until it was suddenly right there in front of him.
James swallows hard. Guilt bubbles up, thick and uncomfortable.
He knows he disappointed his dad.
But he also knows he’s right.
He’s protecting his brother.
His brother.
Not Sirius’.
Not anymore.
***
James doesn’t particularly like going back-to-school shopping. Never has. The whole ordeal always feels long, stuffy, and boring—especially the uniform part. But this year, he’s starting Year 9, and unfortunately, he’s outgrown everything. Even his jumper. So here he is, in the car with Mum and Regulus, heading to the sporting goods store after a relatively uneventful stop at the uniform shop.
He stretches out his legs in the backseat, the bag with his new uniforms crinkling beside him. Regulus sits in the front, arms wrapped around his own bag, gazing out the window like it’s showing him a whole new world. James watches him for a second, then looks away before he gets caught staring.
This is the first time Regulus has properly left the house since his birthday last week—excluding that therapy appointment on Friday—and James can’t help but notice he looks... lighter. Not quite happy , but definitely better. His eyes aren’t so red all the time, and James hasn’t heard him crying during the night in a few days. That’s a win, right?
He thinks back to a few days ago, when it had been raining, and the two of them ended up playing FIFA for hours in the living room. James had been rambling about how excited he was to get back on the pitch with his club—he missed most of the season after breaking his arm, and it’s been driving him mad .
Regulus had quietly said he’s never played a sport before.
“Wasn’t allowed,” he’d mumbled, not looking up from his controller. “My parents thought it was improper.”
James had blinked, genuinely confused. No sport? Not even soccer?
Apparently, Regulus used to go horseback riding. But he never really enjoyed it. Too stiff, too quiet.
“You could probably play soccer,” James had said. “Or literally any other sport. Mum and Dad would totally be okay with it. They’d even be excited.”
Regulus had given him this look—like he wanted to believe it but didn’t. Like the thought of wanting something was scarier than the idea of not having it.
So James had shrugged and added, “You don’t have to, obviously. But if you ever do want to… the option’s there.”
And now they’re here. Heading into the store. Buying soccer boots .
James still isn’t sure if Regulus actually wants to play, or if he’s just testing the waters—but either way, he’s proud of him.
They step into the store, and James heads straight for the cleats. There’s this maroon and gold pair that catches his eye immediately—bright, flashy, a bit dramatic. Perfect. He picks one up, flipping the shoe in his hands, but keeps glancing over toward Mum and Reg.
Regulus is standing beside her, trying not to look overwhelmed by the rows of shoes. But there’s this subtle little smile tugging at his lips. He looks… okay. Maybe even a little excited.
James notices the pair Regulus picks out: simple, sleek, black. Classic. It suits him. Quiet, neat, but still cool. James grins to himself and grabs a backup pair—dark red, just in case his first choice doesn’t come in his size.
When the assistant returns with the boxes, James isn’t too surprised when the maroon pair is out of stock in his size. Not a big deal—he likes the red ones just fine. They fit perfectly. Regulus, on the other hand, needs to try a size up.
As they sit on the little bench, lacing up their shoes, Euphemia asks, “You boys excited about playing soccer?”
James nods enthusiastically, bouncing his foot a little. “Yes! Super excited. I’d love to have Reg on my team!”
“Oh—did you know you two can play on the same team?” she adds, cheerful as ever. “Since you’re both in the same age range. How nice is that?”
She pauses, a teasing smile on her lips. “Not to complain, but it would make getting to games a lot easier.”
James grins. “Wait—so it’s still mixed this year? Since I’m in the 12–13 age range?”
“Yep,” Euphemia replies. “Still mixed teams this year. Next year, though, you’ll be stuck with just the boys.”
“Damn,” James mutters. “I’m gonna miss having Marlene on my team.”
Regulus glances over, quiet and curious. “Who’s Marlene?” he asks softly. “And… what do you mean mixed?”
James shrugs casually. “Marlene’s my friend—she’s a girl. And ‘mixed’ just means both boys and girls can play together on the same team.”
Regulus nods, thoughtful. Then: “Is Marlene nice?”
“The nicest!” James says instantly. “Pretty sure she’s really close with Dorcas, too.”
At the mention of his friend’s name, Regulus’ eyes light up in this subtle, but unmistakable way. His whole face softens. “Really?” he asks, voice just above a whisper.
James grins. “Really.”
They leave the store a few minutes later with two boxes of cleats—dark red for James, simple black for Regulus—and a brand new set of shin pads tucked under Regulus’ arm. As they head to the car, James finds himself walking just a little slower, sneaking a glance at his brother.
Maybe back-to-school shopping isn’t always that bad.
It’s nearly bedtime, and James is lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling as the soft glow from his bedside lamp spills across the covers. He should probably be asleep—or at least winding down—but his brain won’t stop turning.
He keeps thinking about Regulus.
Even though Reg agreed to play soccer and picked out boots and shin pads, James can still see that little bit of hesitation in him. It’s in the way Regulus’ hands twitch at his sides when they talk about practices, or how he goes quiet when James starts talking about drills or passing. It’s not that Reg doesn’t want to play—James knows he does. But it’s the team part. The being around other people. The doing something he’s never done before part.
James gets an idea. A way to ease him into it. Just a few friends in the park. No pressure. Just fun.
He grabs his phone off the nightstand and opens the group chat.
James: hey guys, just wanted to see if you were up to playing soccer in the park tomorrow?
James: Reg wants to play, but i think he’s nervous about playing a team sport.
Almost instantly, Marlene replies.
Marlene: yes, absolutely!
Marlene: i would love to shape a young mind into playing soccer!
Marlene: just let me know what time!
Marlene: oh, and usual place?
A second later, Peter chimes in.
Peter: hey man! love to help out!
Peter: yeah, gotta ask mum bout it, but what time?
James: i was thinking maybe 9:30.
James: and i was also thinking we could go down to the club.
James: so Reg can get a feel of the size of the pitch and stuff.
James taps his fingers against his phone as he waits, then a few minutes later:
Peter: yeah! mum’s chill with it.
Peter: anyway i could get a lift there?
Peter: mum’s got an appointment later she’ll need to be at.
James: not a problem pete
James: i’ll be at yours tomorrow. say round 8:50, in case marls needs a lift. if not, then 9:00.
Peter: yeah! perfect! thanks man!
James: no problem!
It’s quiet for a moment, then Marlene responds too:
Marlene: dad says yes!
Marlene: and, yes, could a lift be possible?
James: absolutely!
He smiles, pleased. That was the easy part. He swings his legs out of bed and pads softly across the hall.
Now all he has to do is ask his mum.
The morning sun is warm but not unbearable, and there's a gentle breeze drifting across the soccer field. James drops his water bottle near the edge of the pitch and glances over to where Mum is sitting beneath the big tree that shades the hill. She's got her sunglasses on, legs stretched out, flipping the pages of her book like she hasn’t a care in the world.
Meanwhile, James is practically buzzing with anticipation. He’s got his cleats laced tight, the ball under his foot, and Peter, Marlene, and Regulus by his side. The four of them wander toward the open field, and by unspoken agreement, split into teams: Peter and Marlene versus him and Regulus.
James nudges the ball toward Regulus and grins. “You ready?”
Regulus gives a tight nod, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—nerves, maybe. But once they start playing, that hesitation vanishes.
They kick off, and James immediately notices the shift. Regulus isn’t just decent—he’s focused, almost laser-sharp. The way he positions himself, the way he dribbles—it’s smooth, like he’s been doing this for years, not days.
Then, with a burst of speed, Regulus slips between Peter and Marlene, takes the ball up the field, and scores.
James stares for a second, stunned—then whoops, throwing his hands up.
Peter jogs over, wide-eyed. “What the hell, man?”
Marlene’s eyebrows are raised high. “I did not think you’d be that good?”
Peter points accusingly at James. “You said he’s never played before!”
James just shrugs, trying not to laugh. “We’ve only practiced a bit.”
Regulus flushes red, eyes on the ground like he’s trying to disappear. James wants to say something—maybe reassure him—but he knows the best thing is to just keep playing, keep it easy.
And now, Peter and Marlene have leveled up. Their passes are sharper, their defense tighter. But Regulus doesn’t shrink back. If anything, he leans into it, legs moving faster, confidence building with each touch of the ball. He’s actually smiling .
James grins. He’s having fun. Really having fun.
By the time they wrap up—sweaty, out of breath, and laughing—Regulus looks flushed and light on his feet in a way James hasn’t seen before.
Peter pats Regulus on the shoulder. “Congrats, Regulus. You’re gonna do great.”
Marlene nods, smiling. “Don’t worry about being the new kid. You’re surprisingly really good.”
Regulus ducks his head, mumbling, “Thanks,” barely above a whisper, but the little smile on his face sticks.
As they walk back toward Mum under the tree, James glances sideways at his brother. Regulus’ eyes are still bright, and his shoulders are relaxed, even as he clutches his water bottle close.
James nudges him lightly. “Told you you’d be good.”
And in that moment, watching Regulus bask in his small, quiet victory, James knows— he’s gonna be more than good. He’s gonna do great.
***
James grins as he flicks the paper football off the table, watching it soar perfectly through the little goal they built out of pencils and textbooks.
“Ha! That’s three for me,” he says smugly, turning to Regulus. “Bet Sirius couldn’t do that.”
Regulus freezes, hand halfway to his side of the makeshift football field. James doesn’t notice at first—he’s already launching into the next thing.
“I mean, seriously, I don’t even know why you call that loser of a brother your brother. Like—hello? You do know he’s a criminal, right?”
He’s laughing now, tossing the paper football into the air and catching it lazily.
“Everybody hates him. I’m not even being dramatic. My friends hate him. Your friends hate him. Their parents even hate him. Oh, don’t even get me started on what they said.”
James doesn’t realize Regulus hasn’t moved. Or blinked. His hands are curled into fists in his lap.
“And honestly,” James adds, kicking his legs against the bed frame, “he’s just a selfish, arrogant jerk who thinks the world revolves around him. I don’t get it. I really don’t get it. You’re way better off without him.”
“Shut up.”
James blinks. He turns toward Regulus, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”
Regulus’ voice is trembling when he repeats, louder this time, “You heard me. Shut up.”
James sits up straighter, the lightness leaving his voice. “What’d I do?”
But Regulus—Regulus flinches. His body coils in on itself slightly, like he’s waiting for something bad to happen. And suddenly, James sees it.
The way Regulus is looking at him: wide-eyed, pale-faced, chest rising too fast. Like he’s scared.
Of him .
And James doesn’t know what to do with that. So instead of softening, he pushes forward.
“You—” Regulus huffs, breathing like he’s trying really hard not to cry. “You’re telling lies.”
James frowns, voice sharper than before. “Lies?”
“You’re telling lies about my brother,” Regulus says, each word sharp and defensive. “He’s not a criminal. My friends do like him. And he’s not a loser!”
James snorts. “Okay, but I’m really not lying here, Reg. If you want the truth, just ask Mum and Dad. Or better yet, ask Sarah. She’ll definitely tell you.”
He leans back on his hands, looking entirely too casual. But his eyes flick toward Regulus again, and he notices how the boy’s still on edge—still staring at him like he might yell again. Like he’s bracing for it.
James shifts uncomfortably.
“But seriously, Reg… I don’t even know what you see in him. He abandoned you.”
“He did not abandon me!” Regulus snaps, standing up so fast the paper football goes flying.
James shrugs, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest. “Okay. If he didn’t abandon you, then where is he?”
Regulus is silent.
James takes that as proof he’s right.
“Exactly,” he says, voice a little smug. “You can defend him all you want, but he’s not here. He’s never been there for you. Mum and Dad are. I am. Sirius? He left.”
“He didn’t want to leave me,” Regulus mutters, voice cracking. “He didn’t choose to.”
James shakes his head. “C’mon, Reg. You don’t have to lie to yourself too. Just admit it—he left. He left you. He doesn’t care. And you’re better off.”
“You don’t know anything about him,” Regulus spits, eyes wide and angry now. “You don’t know what he’s done for me—what he tried to do.”
“He tried to do nothing ,” James replies coldly. “And the sooner you figure that out, the better.”
Regulus is trembling now. Shoulders shaking. Eyes brimming. And something inside him snaps .
“I hate you! ”
James flinches at the sound of it—but Regulus is already gone, storming out of the room, footsteps pounding against the floor, door slamming behind him.
James sits back, arms crossed, heart hammering a little harder than he expected.
Still, he tells himself, someone had to say it.
Someone had to make Regulus see the truth.
Even if he had to be the bad guy to do it.
Even if—for a second—Regulus had looked at him like he was afraid of him.
***
Regulus hasn’t looked at him once in three days.
Not in the hallway, not across the living room, not even when James brushed past him on the stairs that morning. Nothing. Like James is invisible, or worse—like he’s not worth seeing. And yeah, maybe James should feel guilty. Realistically, that’s how most people feel after a fight, right?
But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t feel bad about what he said. Or how he said it. His voice had been sharp, his words cruel. But every syllable had felt right. Honest. And James doesn’t regret being honest.
Not about that .
Not about Sirius Black.
Now he’s in the kitchen with his mum, three days later, while his dad drops Regulus off at a friend’s house for the morning. A friend, Barty, James thinks. The air smells like warm muffins and lemon cleaner. The bench is cluttered with sandwich fixings and a few plates of snacks. He presses shapes into triangles with a knife, trying not to imagine what comes next.
Bellatrix and Narcissa are coming over for tea.
For a chat.
Apparently, a conversation about whether Regulus and Sirius can live under the same roof is casual enough for tea and muffins.
James had asked if he could sit in. Dad had said no. But Mum—Mum had said yes.
“It’s your home too, James,” she’d told him. “It’s your choice as much as ours.”
Dad hadn’t loved that. But he relented. Like he always does when Mum really means something.
Now it’s just the two of them, prepping snacks like this is any normal day.
“You know, James,” she says suddenly, voice light but clear. “Whatever Bellatrix and Narcissa have to say about Sirius today—it doesn’t have to change your mind about him.”
He glances up, catching the way she’s slicing cucumber with practiced rhythm.
“It’s still your choice to have him in our home, or not,” she continues. “And I just want you to know that we would never bring someone in that would make you uncomfortable, alright?”
James nods. “Yeah, Mum. I know. Thank you.”
“No worries, sweetheart.”
Silence returns, soft and uneasy.
James clears his throat. “I had a question, though.”
She hums without looking up.
“Do you think Sirius ever hurt Regulus?”
The question feels heavier than the air around them. Like he’s said something he shouldn't have. Like opening that door might let something out he can’t put back in.
“I’m only asking,” James continues, “well, because… Reg and I had a fight.”
Euphemia finally looks over, gentle curiosity in her eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And, well…” He shrugs, shame prickling under his skin. “He seemed sorta scared. Of me. When we were yelling, I mean.”
He grips the edge of the counter, guilt trying to claw its way through the wall of stubbornness he’s built.
“I know I’m not supposed to yell, but I was just so upset with him and—”
“It’s alright, love,” she says softly. “Sometimes controlling our emotions is hard.”
She says it like it’s something she understands. Like she’s been there too.
“But,” she adds, voice lower now, “I’m not sure. I have a feeling… that if we let Sirius live here, I think he could hurt Regulus.”
James frowns. “What do you mean?”
She sighs, the knife stilling mid-slice. “Your father doesn’t really want me telling you, but…”
James tenses. Secrets make his skin itch.
“Remember the day after Regulus’s birthday?”
He nods quickly. Of course he remembers. Regulus had been “sick,” holed up in his room all day. He hadn’t even come down for breakfast.
“Well, Regulus was really sad,” she says. “He was upset about Sirius.”
She pauses, like she’s unsure how much to say. Then she continues, quiet and careful.
“He didn’t really say much, just kept crying about his brother.”
James’s throat tightens. “Do you think it’s because he saw him? And then Sirius left?”
“Maybe. But…”
“You’re not sure.”
She shakes her head. “Yeah.”
She returns to slicing, slower now.
“Your father and I got into a fight about Sirius,” she admits. “He thinks it would be a good idea for him to live here. Says it might benefit Regulus.”
James scoffs. “How would that benefit him?”
“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “I think it’s just a disaster in the making.”
James nods in agreement. “For the record, I don’t think it’s a good idea either.”
His voice is harder than it should be. Sharper. He doesn’t mean to sound so final, but it’s true.
“I mean, if we’re being real,” he adds, “Regulus hasn’t said anything about Sirius. So, by that logic, they must’ve left on bad terms or… I dunno. Maybe Reg secretly hates him.”
She hums again. “I brought a similar point up to your father.”
Another sigh.
“He said Regulus has only just started talking to us. That opening up might be hard for him, considering… everything.”
James nods. That part makes sense. Growing up in the system must mess with your head. Make it hard to trust. Hard to speak.
“Anyway,” she says, brushing crumbs into the sink, “Bellatrix and Narcissa agreed to a meeting. Said they could answer any questions we have about Sirius.”
She looks at James now. “It was your dad’s idea, actually. I do think it’s a good one. It’ll help give us a better read on the situation.”
James nods, but his thoughts are a tangle.
Sirius Black.
The kid who used to be Regulus’s whole world, if that birthday meltdown meant anything.
The same kid James had called dangerous, broken, probably abusive—and yeah, he meant it.
But he doesn’t want to be right.
He just wants Regulus to feel safe.
“Can you go set the table?” Euphemia asks. “They should be here any minute now.”
“Yeah,” James says, and wipes his hands on a towel.
As he leaves the kitchen, he can’t help the knot tightening in his stomach.
He just hopes whatever Bellatrix and Narcissa have to say won’t change his mind. Because if it does—
Then maybe he was wrong.
And James Potter really hates being wrong.
About twenty minutes after his dad gets back from dropping Regulus off at a friend’s house, the doorbell rings.
James hops up from where he’s been lounging on the couch. “I’ll get it!” he calls, already halfway to the door.
When he opens it, he finds two women standing on the front porch.
Bellatrix is tall and poised, with thick, shiny black curls that fall just past her shoulders and a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t quite meet her steely grey eyes. Next to her is Narcissa, slightly shorter, with hair the colour of moonlight pulled into a neat half-up, half-down style. Her smile is warmer, but only just. She cradles a bouquet of tulips in the crook of one arm—pink, white, and yellow.
James offers them a warm smile. “Hello.”
He steps aside. “Come on in.”
“Thank you, James,” Narcissa says gently as they enter.
James closes the door behind them and leads them to the kitchen, where his parents are waiting.
“Ah, Bellatrix, Narcissa,” his dad greets them. “Thank you both for coming.”
“It’s our pleasure, really,” Narcissa says.
“We just hope we can help you in whatever way we can,” Bellatrix adds.
Her gaze flicks around the room. “Is Regulus here?”
“No, he isn’t,” Euphemia answers. “He’s at a friend’s house. Why do you ask?”
“Probably for the best if he didn’t hear this conversation,” Bellatrix says, her tone cool but not unkind.
“Yeah,” Narcissa agrees, glancing at Euphemia. “There are a… let’s just say, a lot of things he doesn’t know. And, realistically, shouldn’t.”
James watches as his parents exchange a look—one of those subtle, grown-up ones that probably carries way more meaning than he can decipher.
“These are for you, however,” Narcissa says, offering the bouquet to Euphemia.
“Aww, you didn’t have to bring anything,” his mum replies, touched.
“Nonsense,” Bellatrix says. “You invited us into your home. It’s the least we can do.”
“What would you like to drink?” Euphemia asks, already moving toward the kettle. “Tea? Coffee?”
“I’ll take a coffee, thank you,” Bellatrix says. “And Cissa here will take tea.”
“How do you like your tea?” Fleamont asks, already reaching for mugs. “With milk?”
“Yes, please, just a dash,” Narcissa replies politely.
“And you, Bellatrix? How do you like your coffee?” He opens the cupboard. “I only really have the strong stuff here. Sorry 'bout that.”
Bellatrix waves a hand. “Don’t apologise. Between you and me, I can’t drink anything but the strong stuff.”
Fleamont lets out a chuckle.
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’ll have mine with two coffee, one sugar.”
“Coming right up! The usual, love?”
“Yes, please,” Euphemia says, already gesturing toward the table. “Why don’t we sit, while Fleamont makes our drinks?”
She turns to James. “James, why don’t you help your father?”
“Alrighty!” he replies with a grin.
As Euphemia, Bellatrix, and Narcissa walk off toward the dining room, James joins his dad at the counter.
“Can you get the milk, please?” Fleamont asks.
James opens the fridge, grabs the milk, and hands it over. “Here you go.”
“Thank you, buddy.”
Once the drinks are ready, James carefully carries Bellatrix’s and Narcissa’s over to the table while his dad finishes preparing his mum’s. He sets the mugs down and takes a seat next to Euphemia, across from Narcissa.
“Thank you, James,” Narcissa says with a kind smile. She takes a sip. “Mmm, honey-flavoured—my favourite.”
“It’s one of the only good ones left,” Euphemia chuckles.
“Agreed,” Narcissa says.
“Thank you,” Bellatrix adds, cradling her mug in her hands.
A few moments later, Fleamont joins them, handing over Euphemia’s tea before settling at the head of the table between his wife and Bellatrix.
“Thank you, dear,” Euphemia murmurs before addressing their guests again. “We don’t want you two to think we’re bad people or anything. We just wanted to know more about Sirius, and his relationship with Regulus. We’ve tried to talk to Regulus about it, but every time we do, he either brushes us off or ends up in tears.”
“We just want to help Regulus,” she says softly.
“That’s understandable,” Narcissa says, her tone thoughtful. “Regulus is quite a quiet child. It is really difficult to get information out of him.”
“It’s true,” Bellatrix agrees. “Sirius is harder though.” She chuckles. “So, what would you like to know?”
“Anything that you’re willing to tell us, or that would be of use to us,” Fleamont replies. “Like, for starters, what is Sirius like?”
James watches as something shifts in Bellatrix’s expression. A smile—genuine and fond—rises to her lips. It's strange. James didn’t think she was capable of soft smiles.
“Well… Sirius is quite… hmmm… what’s the word for it?”
“Spirited?” Narcissa offers. “Adventurous? Protective? Rebellious?”
“Yeah, probably all of those,” Bellatrix agrees. “Not to mention stubborn. If you ever witness a fight between Sirius and Regulus, neither will apologise. They’re both so damn stubborn. Someone’s got to play mediator for those two.”
“One time,” Narcissa says, chuckling, “I think the boys were six and seven, and they were fighting over whose French translation was right. They kept yelling at each other in different ways—same sentence, different structure. It was hilarious.”
“Andromeda had to pull them apart,” Bellatrix says with a smirk. “They believed her though. Not each other.”
“Didn’t apologise, either,” Narcissa adds.
Laughter bubbles around the table—soft, surprised. James finds himself smiling too.
“Wait—you two have a sister?” he blurts, before thinking.
Narcissa turns to him. “Yes, we do. She’s the middle child.”
“Is Regulus close with her?”
“I suppose,” Narcissa says slowly. “But I think he’s closer to Bella and me than Andy. Not that that’s a bad thing. Some cousins just get along better.”
“Huh,” James says. “That’s interesting.”
“So, would you consider Regulus and Sirius’ relationship… pleasant?” Euphemia asks carefully. “As in, like, a normal sibling bond?”
Bellatrix hums, thinking. “Well… I wouldn’t call it normal, but it could be considered that.”
“What do you mean?” Euphemia asks.
“Sirius is older,” Bellatrix begins. “And he felt it was his responsibility to protect Regulus. I’m not sure how to explain it. It’s hard—we barely got to see them growing up.”
“Our father and their mother—our aunt—got into a fight,” Narcissa adds. “I don’t know what it was about, but it meant less contact.”
“Our father tried to look out for them,” Bellatrix says. “But he was busy. Politics. Three daughters. It was hard.”
James sees his parents nod, absorbing the information. Then something clicks in his brain.
“Do you know what happened for Sirius and Regulus to be removed? Or why they were separated?”
The room goes still.
Both Bellatrix and Narcissa freeze. Their relaxed expressions tighten, their shoulders stiffening.
Bellatrix finally answers. “That’s not really our place to say. And… technically, we don’t know exactly what happened that night.”
“Let’s just say it was bad,” Narcissa says softly. “And the only person who can answer that question is Sirius himself.”
“And I highly doubt he’ll ever speak of it,” Bellatrix finishes.
James looks around the table. His parents exchange another unreadable glance. He doesn’t say anything, but he can feel it—there’s more. There’s always more.
Fleamont clears his throat. “Very well. Then… do you think you can explain—”
James keeps listening.
He listens to stories about Sirius. About Regulus. About growing up in a home where love sounded more like expectation, and silence was safer than honesty.
And even as the conversation winds down, as tea is sipped and muffins are nibbled, James feels like he knows just as little as when the whole thing started.
He thinks back to what he told his mum after his first fight with Regulus.
Mum, you told me once that some kids don’t know how to communicate properly, and that’s why you need to teach them.
Regulus just needs a little help. It’s not like he was actually going to hurt me.
Some kids don’t know how to speak, so they yell. Or cry. Or hit. Or shut down completely.
James thinks about Sirius.
Maybe Sirius was just trying to say something, but no one knew how to listen.
James still hasn’t changed his mind—not really.
But don’t all kids deserve a chance?
And if Sirius really is Regulus’ brother, maybe…
Maybe James won’t mind so much, if Sirius comes to live with them.
Ugh. Now he’s going to have to talk to his parents.
***
James isn’t exactly sure what compels him to do this.
Maybe it’s the way Regulus looks sometimes—like he’s holding the weight of something far too heavy for his tiny frame. Or maybe it’s the awful things Bellatrix and Narcissa had said, voices sharp and echoing even days later. Maybe it’s just his own conscience catching up with him.
Whatever the reason, James finds himself standing outside his parents’ bedroom door, heart thudding, hand hovering in the air before he knocks.
He hears the soft voice of his mum—“Come in.”
James opens the door, already regretting this a little.
Euphemia looks up from where she’s curled on the armchair with a book. “James? Is everything alright?”
He shifts from foot to foot. “Um… not really.”
His dad looks up from the papers in his lap, immediately alert. “You wanted to talk to us, bud?”
James nods, suddenly feeling ten times smaller than he is. “Yeah. About… um. Both of you. I mean, to both of you.”
Fleamont gestures gently. “Of course. Come, sit.”
James walks over to the bed and sinks onto the end of it, legs swinging a little above the carpet. He rubs his hands on his pants, nerves knotting in his chest.
Euphemia leans forward, eyes kind. “What’s up, sweetheart?”
He takes a breath. “I wanted to, um… talk about…”
He stops. Starts again.
“I think… maybe… we should give Sirius a go.”
The words land heavy in the quiet room.
“I know what I said before,” James rushes to add, “and I still believe what I said. Like, he did lie, and it was messed up. And he is a bit of a jerk.”
That earns a brief, surprised huff from Fleamont. Euphemia hides a smile.
“But,” James continues, quieter now, “I guess we don’t really know him.”
Euphemia tilts her head. “So you’re saying you’d be okay with Sirius coming to live here?”
James shrugs, eyes downcast. “Yeah… I guess so.”
There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable—just thoughtful.
Fleamont rests his arms on his knees. “Alright. May I ask—what changed your mind?”
James frowns, picking at the seam of his shirt. “Well… I guess… I don’t know.”
He looks up, eyes flicking between his parents. “I think I just kinda thought about it more.”
Fleamont nods. “It’s okay not to know exactly why you’ve changed your mind.”
He leans forward, voice warm and steady. “Just remember, James—if anything happens, or if you ever feel uncomfortable, you come to us right away.”
Euphemia nods in agreement, reaching over to brush a curl out of his eyes. “Your safety is our top priority, alright love? We don’t want you to feel unsafe in your own home.”
James gives a small smile. “I know.”
He looks down again, voice soft but certain. “I think we should give Sirius a go.”
Euphemia nods. “Okay then.”
James feels something in his chest loosen, just a bit.
His mum gives him a kiss to the cheek. “Good night, love you sweetheart.”
“Night,” he murmurs.
As James walks out of his parents room, all he can think about is, if he’s made the right choice.
Notes:
Word Count: 10,982
Published: 2025-04-30Okay, okay, I would just like to say JKR is a terrible person. Thanks to the power of the internet, I have just stumbled across her posts about asexual people and trans people. And, let me just say, she is an absolute fucking loser. I know a lot of asexual people, and a couple trans people, and what she said about them completely disgusts me. Trans people are people too, and asexual people don't be asexual for "fun" it's who they are, and we should all respect them. If you don't agree with me, I kindly ask you to not comment those views, as those comments will be deleted. Thank you for listening to my little (hate) rant about JKR, please continue onto your daily life. I'll see you all next week :)
Also, halfway through??? Yay!!!
Chapter 26: One Says Yes, The Other Says No
Summary:
Both see pain. Both see tears. Both see suffering. One just happens to perceive the cause differently than the other.
Both just want to keep their son happy and healthy. Both have a common goal.
So, what happens when one says yes and the other says no?
POV: Euphemia and Fleamont Potter
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
POV: EUPHEMIA
A knock on the door.
Euphemia waits, but only for a second—long enough for the soft rustle of sheets, the faint creak of movement from inside—before easing it open. Regulus is already sitting up, blinking sleep from his eyes in the low glow of the bedside lamp. His small frame is still, but she sees the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he watches her enter.
She offers a gentle smile as she steps into the room, closing the door softly behind her. He doesn’t flinch. That alone is progress.
She crosses to his bed, slow and quiet, and sits on the edge, careful not to crowd him. The mattress dips beneath her weight, and for a moment, they just sit there in silence.
“Excited for tomorrow?” she asks gently.
Regulus nods.
And it makes her smile grow just a touch. Because this time, the nod is real. Not rehearsed. Not meant to appease. Real.
She can see it in his posture—less guarded than usual. There’s something lighter about him tonight. He’s not faking it. For the first time since he arrived, he seems… hopeful.
But the flicker in his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed.
She tilts her head, watching him closely.
“Everything okay?” she asks, voice laced with quiet concern.
He hesitates. She doesn’t fill the silence.
“Yeah… but…” he says softly.
She nods, calm and patient. “You don’t have to say anything unless you want to.”
His eyes fall to his hands. He starts picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, fingers twitching with restless focus. Euphemia waits. He’s trying to find the words—she knows that look by now. Knows that saying what he feels is still new and strange for him.
“This year feels different,” he admits.
She hums in response, a low, encouraging sound. “Is it because you’re here and not with your parents?”
A subtle tension moves through him, a small shift in his shoulders.
“No. I mean, maybe. But… not really.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Just listens.
“I always felt uncomfortable being the center of attention,” he murmurs. “Like I had to perform.” His voice dips. “But this year feels… lighter. Easier.”
Euphemia’s heart twists. Perform. At his own birthday? It’s all wrong. A child shouldn’t feel like a showpiece. She gently lifts her hand and starts running her fingers through his curls, slow and rhythmic. It’s a motion she’s learned grounds him, calms him—something she once did with James when he was small. Regulus leans into the touch, ever so slightly.
“It also feels different because I don’t have—” He stops.
Her hand pauses.
“You don’t have what, love?” she asks softly.
Then she sees it—his eyes glisten. The tears rise before he even realizes. She brushes one away gently, instinctive and tender. He doesn’t pull back. But he doesn’t speak either. Not yet.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she murmurs, careful not to crowd the question with too much urgency.
He tries to shake his head, but his throat must be too tight to answer. His breath hitches—then another. He bites the inside of his cheek and swallows hard, clearly trying to fight it.
But then the sob breaks free.
She doesn’t think. Just acts.
Euphemia pulls him to her, arms wrapping around his small frame, holding him tight. He clings to her like he’s afraid she might vanish, like he’s been waiting for this—this comfort, this safety—for far too long. His face presses against her shoulder, warm and wet with tears.
“Mon frère me manque,” he chokes, voice muffled and strained. “Je veux qu'il revienne. Je veux le voir demain. Je veux juste Sirius.”
The name stills her.
Sirius.
A sharp breath catches in her chest. Her arms tense just for a heartbeat, involuntary. And he notices—of course he does. Poor boy is too attuned to every flinch.
But she recovers quickly.
She keeps holding him, keeps rocking, keeps running her fingers through his hair, her voice low and steady. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, pressing a hand to his back. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. She feels the moment he lets go. The sobs soften. The trembling slows. She holds him through it, every heartbeat promising the same thing— You’re not alone anymore. I’ve got you.
Eventually, he pulls back. His curls are damp against his forehead. She brushes them away gently, searching his face.
“So,” she says gently, “this is about Sirius?”
And there it is again—that freeze. That fear.
“Who is Sirius, sweetheart?”
She watches him retreat into himself, senses the familiar wall going up. The way his fingers twist in the blanket beneath him gives it away.
She waits.
He could tell her the truth.
But she sees it coming before it happens.
“Just a friend,” he lies.
And the ache that blooms in her chest is quiet but deep. She knows it’s not the truth. She sees it in the way he won’t meet her eyes. But she also knows not to push. Not yet.
She watches him a moment longer, just in case.
But he doesn’t correct himself.
So she nods.
“All right then.”
She leans down and kisses his forehead. There’s something in her expression—something sad, something unspoken. She had hoped he would trust her with it. Not for her sake. For his.
She stands.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
The door clicks softly shut behind her.
And Regulus is left in the quiet. But she doesn’t leave him alone in her thoughts.
Not now.
Not after hearing that name.
The second Euphemia steps into the bedroom, she sees it on Fleamont’s face—that quiet furrow of concern, the subtle lift of his brow. He’s already sitting up in bed, propped against the headboard, book closed in his lap. He doesn’t even need to say it.
“What’s up?” he asks anyway.
She expected that. Of course she did. She knows the expression she’s wearing—the slight crease in her brow, the way her lips press too tightly together. She knows what it looks like. She knew he would ask.
“Well,” she sighs, slipping off her slippers and climbing beneath the covers, “Regulus just lied to me.”
Fleamont raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t ask the obvious follow-up. He doesn’t need to. Because he knows she knows. Just like she always knows when he lies. Or when James does. It’s a mother’s instinct—or maybe just hers , honed to a fine, intuitive point.
“What did he lie about?” he asks instead.
She turns to face him, tucking her legs beneath the blanket, her gaze steady but tired.
“He lied about Sirius being a friend,” she says quietly. “I really do think they’re related, Fleamont.”
Fleamont nods slowly, doesn’t argue. He rarely does when her gut speaks like this. Instead, his voice softens.
“You’re hurt.”
It’s not a question. Just a truth laid bare.
Euphemia nods, but only in her mind. Because—yes. She is. A little.
“Yeah,” is all she says.
Fleamont reaches out and wraps an arm around her, pulling her gently into his side. She goes without hesitation, leaning into his warmth, pressing her cheek against the worn cotton of his sleep shirt. He’s quiet for a moment, then murmurs, “Maybe he’s scared to tell you, love.”
She exhales through her nose, something between agreement and resignation.
“I think opening up about his problems is scary for him,” he continues.
He places a kiss to the crown of her head, soft and sure.
“Don’t you remember how we found out he was being bullied?” he reminds her gently. “We were called into the school, Effie. He didn’t tell us. Not a word. Don’t take it too personally he can’t talk about his problems. Unfortunately, it’s what happens when you grow up in the system.”
She nods, her eyes drifting shut. She knows that. On some level, she’s always known that. Regulus has only just started really talking to them. Even now, everything he says feels filtered through layers of self-protection. And still—it stings.
But Fleamont is right. As he often is.
“All right,” she says softly, shifting to look up at him.
He smiles—small, warm, and just for her.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t take it personally.”
“Good,” he says simply.
And that’s that.
***
Euphemia sits at the kitchen table, her hands curled around a steaming mug of tea, the warm light casting a soft glow across the tiles and cabinetry. It’s peaceful in the quiet—calm in a way mornings rarely are.
She hears footsteps before she sees him.
Regulus steps into the doorway and stops dead in his tracks. His posture tightens almost instantly. Euphemia offers him a gentle smile, keeping her tone light as she greets, “Good morning, love.” Then, softer, “Happy birthday.”
He blinks like he wasn’t expecting that. His eyes flick away from hers and he mumbles a quiet, “Thank you.”
She watches him carefully. He seems… off. Guarded, maybe. She can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he avoids her gaze, like he’s waiting for something—expecting something.
“Regulus?” she says gently, watching how his head lifts just slightly, hesitant. “I asked if you’d like something to drink or eat.”
He shifts on his feet, fidgeting. There's a flicker of uncertainty in his expression, but then he answers, polite and soft. “I’d like some chocolate milk, if there’s some, please.”
That gets a small smile out of her. “Of course,” she says, rising to her feet.
As she moves to the counter, she doesn’t turn her back to him completely. Just enough to give him a bit of space without shutting him out. She pours the milk slowly, giving him time to settle into his usual seat. He does, though cautiously, like he’s bracing for something.
She returns and places the glass in front of him. “There you go.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs, still not looking at her.
She doesn’t push. Silence settles over the room, broken only by the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall and the hum of the refrigerator. He’s holding the glass but not drinking from it, staring down like it might hold answers if he looks long enough.
Euphemia doesn’t speak right away. She watches. Observes. Something is bothering him—she can see it in the way he curls slightly inward, in the way his hands tighten just a bit too much around the glass.
“Sweetheart?” she asks, her voice soft, coaxing.
His head snaps up a little too fast. His eyes are glassy, his expression startled.
“You alright?” she continues, tilting her head. “You seem sort of… in your head.”
He doesn’t answer at first. His lips part slightly, then press together again. She sees the way his fingers shift, the subtle tremble in his shoulders.
“I—” His voice catches. “No. I’m not alright.”
Euphemia sets her mug down carefully, every movement deliberate and quiet. Her full attention is on him now.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
He grips the glass tighter. “I—I lied to you. Last night. And I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She nods slowly, no surprise in her eyes. Just quiet understanding. “About Sirius?”
He nods, and the words start coming faster, less controlled. “It’s—it’s just so—so—” He struggles, falters. His breathing quickens, chest rising and falling too fast.
“It’s just so hard to talk about him,” he finally manages. His voice breaks.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
Tears are forming now. Euphemia sees the shine in his eyes, the way he hunches inward, curling in on himself like he wants to disappear.
“I’m sorry for lying,” he whispers. “I just—”
She doesn’t wait for him to finish.
In one smooth motion, she’s on her knees beside him, hands reaching up to cup his face. Her touch is firm, grounding.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” she says, gentle but steady.
It takes a moment, but he lifts his eyes to hers. And when he does, she sees it all—fear, guilt, shame.
“It’s alright,” she murmurs, brushing the tears from his cheeks with her thumbs. “I’m not mad at you, okay? You have nothing to apologize for.”
She holds his gaze, steady and unwavering, letting him see the truth of it.
After a long moment, he nods. His shoulders ease, just a little. His hands loosen their grip on the glass.
Euphemia smiles softly and presses a kiss to his forehead before rising again. She smooths her skirt as she stands and reaches for her mug.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she says again, her voice warm and sure, like she wants him to believe it.
And from the way his body finally begins to unclench, she thinks maybe—just maybe—he does.
POV: FLEAMONT
The sun’s warm on Fleamont’s back, the park buzzing with the hum of laughter and the occasional burst of barking from the overly excited dogs a few metres away. Children dart past, half-covered in grass stains and sugar, and it fills him with that familiar ache of joy—of seeing Regulus happy . For once. He’s just about to take another bite of the lemon slice Euphemia insisted on bringing when a voice calls his name.
“Fleamont, Euphemia, hello.”
He turns, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Sarah!” he grins. “It’s great to see you!”
Sarah smiles back, albeit a little tightly. “It’s great to see you too, Fleamont—”
“Hey, Sarah, who’s that?” Euphemia interrupts, eyes narrowing slightly as she nods in a direction behind Sarah.
Fleamont follows her gaze.
There—just a little ways off—stands Regulus, clinging onto another boy. The other kid’s slightly taller, but the resemblance is uncanny. His hair, his face, even the way he holds Regulus—it’s like someone pressed copy and paste, just with a few extra months tacked on. Regulus is wrapped around him, arms locked like he’ll never let go.
Fleamont furrows his brow.
Sarah sighs. “Ah. About that…”
She hesitates, and Fleamont watches the crease form between Euphemia’s brows.
“That’s Sirius,” Sarah says. “Regulus’ older brother.”
Silence falls like a weight. Thick and disorienting. You could hear a pin drop.
Fleamont’s gaze flicks to his wife. Something shifts in her expression—recognition, maybe. Fleamont isn’t sure. He doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, he turns back to Sarah.
“Regulus’ older brother…” Euphemia echoes, barely a whisper. She looks shaken.
“Regulus has an older brother?” she asks, now looking at Sarah.
“Yes,” Sarah replies.
“So wait—why weren’t they kept together?”
“Well—” Sarah begins.
“Don’t,” Bellatrix cuts in, voice sharp and low.
“Excuse me?” Sarah replies, squinting in confusion.
Narcissa’s voice chimes in smoothly, “Hello, sorry—I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Narcissa. Narcissa Black. This is my sister, Bellatrix Black. We’re Regulus’ cousins.”
Sarah straightens. “Okay? But that doesn’t stop me from telling the Potters why they were separated.”
“Actually, it does,” Bellatrix says firmly. “Because we told you.”
“What?”
“The legality of it is,” Bellatrix continues, calm but unyielding, “you can’t say anything.”
“Why on earth aren’t I allowed to relay important information?” Sarah snaps.
“Because you could end up in jail,” Narcissa says smoothly, her tone disturbingly casual.
Fleamont blinks. “Why would she end up in jail?”
Bellatrix and Narcissa exchange a glance. Then Bellatrix sighs.
“Well… it’s complicated.”
Narcissa chimes in, “Point is, the information you have? It’s wrong.”
Bellatrix nods. “Trust us when we say this—we know the full story. The actual story. And, well… it’ll be best to hear it from Sirius. When he’s ready.”
“Unfortunately,” Narcissa adds with a sigh, “Regulus doesn’t know what happened either.”
She glances back toward the two boys. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he believed Sirius was arrested or something.”
That tight silence returns. Fleamont watches Sarah shift uncomfortably, her jaw tense.
“About that—” Sarah begins.
Euphemia’s eyes narrow. “What about? Being arrested?”
“You mean to say,” she says slowly, voice dropping, “Sirius has been arrested ?”
Sarah winces. “Well… yes? All I can say is that he shouldn’t’ve ended up in juvie for committing the crime.”
Fleamont’s chest tightens. Euphemia glares. “Okay?”
“Yeah—I also can’t really say more,” Sarah says, tone suddenly clipped. “The investigation is still… ongoing.”
“Ongoing?” Euphemia repeats, clearly trying not to snap.
“Yes.”
Euphemia huffs and crosses her arms, turning away with frustration tightening her shoulders.
Fleamont doesn’t speak. Doesn’t push. Instead, he lets his eyes drift back to the two boys in question.
Regulus is still clinging to Sirius, face pressed into his chest, like the very idea of being apart again might shatter him. And Sirius—he holds him back just as fiercely. Not possessively. No. Gently. Like Regulus is something fragile. Something precious.
There’s a softness there. A tenderness that speaks of years and pain and care and—
Love.
It feels, for a moment, like something Fleamont shouldn’t be witnessing. Too raw, too private. But he is witnessing it. And he’s glad .
He smiles quietly to himself.
Whatever happened—whatever twisted, awful thing caused those boys to be ripped from each other—Fleamont will be damned if he doesn’t try his hardest to bring them back together. No matter what.
***
Fleamont takes a moment to look at Sirius—to really look at him.
He’s only half a head taller than Regulus, lean but tense, like he’s constantly bracing for something. There’s a shadow in his eyes that doesn’t belong on someone so young, a kind of worn-down sharpness that makes Fleamont’s chest ache. His hair is wild, unkempt, and his clothes hang just slightly off—like they were either borrowed or hastily thrown on. But what strikes Fleamont the most is the way Sirius keeps glancing at Regulus, like he’s making sure he’s still there, like he doesn’t quite believe it yet. There’s care in him. A quiet, fierce protectiveness. And underneath all of it, a boy who’s clearly been through far too much.
It makes something in Fleamont shift, urging him to do everything in his power to help this boy standing in front of him.
Sarah is the first to speak, offering a warm smile as she approaches. “Happy birthday, Regulus.”
“Thank you,” Regulus replies quietly, his voice barely above a murmur.
Fleamont watches as the boy shifts under their gaze, glancing back at him and Euphemia like he’s searching for reassurance. Sirius, standing just behind him, gives him the gentlest nudge—subtle, but full of meaning. Regulus tightens his hold on his brother’s hand and speaks again, more confidently this time.
“This is Sirius.”
Euphemia takes a step forward. Her voice is gentle, her posture carefully neutral, but Fleamont can sense the wariness underneath. “Hello, Sirius. I’m Euphemia, and this is Fleamont.”
Sirius shifts his weight, eyes scanning them both with guarded caution. He gives a small nod. “Hello.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Not uncomfortable, not yet—but something close. Fleamont doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches.
Sarah clears her throat, breaking the moment. “Sirius, I’ve actually been trying to track you down for a while now.” Her tone is calm, steady. “We weren’t sure where you were and, well… there’s a lot we need to discuss.”
Fleamont’s eyes flick briefly to the boy in question. Sirius barely reacts. The tension is subtle, tucked into the corners of his stance, the set of his shoulders. When he replies, his voice is even—too even.
“Yeah. I figured.”
Fleamont glances sideways at Euphemia. She meets his gaze for a second, something quietly thoughtful behind her eyes, before she turns back to Sirius.
“You’re welcome to stay,” she says. Her words are sincere, but Fleamont knows her well enough to hear the careful consideration behind them. “We weren’t expecting you, but we’re glad you came.”
Sirius holds her gaze for a beat before giving another nod. “Thanks.”
Sarah takes a step closer now, softening her tone. “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 sharply through his nose. “Later.”
There’s an unspoken agreement that hangs between them, something fragile but understood. Now is not the time. Later, maybe. When it’s quiet.
Euphemia’s eyes flick briefly to Regulus, then back to Sirius. Fleamont sees the hesitation on her face—the way her mouth tightens just slightly—but she doesn’t say anything more.
Fleamont takes a breath, then gestures toward the party with a small smile. “Go on, then. It’s not a party without the birthday boy.”
Regulus lets out a soft giggle at that, and something about it lifts the weight from Fleamont’s chest. Sirius doesn’t resist as Regulus tugs him away, and the two disappear back into the noise and color of the celebration.
Fleamont watches them go, a thoughtful quiet settling over him. Whatever this is—whatever this will become—it’s far from over. But it’s a start.
POV: EUPHEMIA
From the very moment Euphemia meets Sirius Black, something unsettles her.
It’s not like her—this instinctive tightening in her chest, this flicker of unease in the pit of her stomach. She’s met dozens of children through the system, each carrying their own weight, their own scars. But this boy… there’s something different. She can’t explain it. She doesn’t want to judge him—truly, she doesn’t. But still, the feeling lingers. Persistent.
When Sarah confirms it—Sirius is Regulus’ older brother—there’s a beat of genuine shock. Euphemia swallows it quickly, nodding along even as the pieces start sliding into place. It makes sense. The resemblance, the protectiveness, the way Regulus clings to him like the world might fall apart if he lets go.
And yet, she still feels it.
She finds it odd , deeply odd, that the two weren’t placed together. Brothers that close—what happened there? What kept them apart? But then, during that first hello, her eyes had caught on something—subtle, but unmistakable.
The ankle monitor.
The second she sees it, her mood shifts. It's involuntary, instinctive. A flare of tension that tightens her jaw and forces her smile to dim. She could have been warmer. Should have, maybe. But it’s hard to swallow down the unease when that is the first thing she notices.
It’s not lost on her, either, that James seems cold. Her boy has never been shy, but the distance he keeps from Sirius is deliberate, cautious. Euphemia watches him carefully, sees the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
Regulus doesn’t seem to notice.
Of course he doesn’t. He’s too busy shadowing his brother’s every move, clinging to him like he’s something sacred. Euphemia’s gaze softens— ache slips quietly into her chest. He loves him. There’s no question there. Whatever this boy is, whatever Euphemia feels , Regulus loves him.
She doesn’t miss how the other kids watch Sirius, either. They’re intrigued—of course they are—but not thrilled. Curious, but wary. Euphemia’s good at reading children. And these ones aren’t quite sure what to make of Sirius Black.
The party winds down as the sun starts to dip behind the trees, casting long golden shadows across the grass. They're just on the edge of the park, not far from the picnic tables and the field where the children had been playing earlier. Paper plates and juice boxes are being gathered. She and Fleamont quietly begin tidying up the remains of the small celebration.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees it.
Regulus and Sirius, still hugging near the path that leads back to the car park. Still holding on.
Her throat tightens.
Regulus looks like he’s trying to melt into his brother’s chest, like he can’t bear to let go. And Sirius—well, she can’t see his face, but his hand is curled protectively around the back of Regulus’ head.
The second Sirius steps away—escorted back toward a waiting social worker’s car—Regulus trembles.
It’s subtle at first, but then it hits like a wave. His shoulders start shaking. He curls slightly inward, like he’s holding himself together by the thinnest thread.
“Monty,” she says sharply, already abandoning the paper plates in her hands.
She crosses the grass in a heartbeat, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Regulus crumples the moment she reaches him.
A cry tears out of him— loud, raw, shattering. The sound rips through the quiet park like thunder. Euphemia barely has time to catch him before he folds in on himself, and she pulls him tight against her chest. He sobs—deep, body-wracking sobs—and she clutches him as though her arms might hold him together.
Fleamont’s beside her now, a steady hand on Regulus’ back, but Euphemia can barely focus on anything other than the pain echoing through her boy’s cries.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers, over and over, pressing kiss after kiss to the crown of his head, to his temple, to his damp cheeks. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
But it isn’t alright.
Nothing about this feels alright.
She wishes she could pull the grief out of him, take it into her own bones and leave him whole. But all she can do is hold him—tight, tight, tighter—and hope that somehow, being held is enough.
She knows it isn’t.
But it’s all she has.
***
It’s late for a Wednesday morning.
The house is unusually quiet, sunlight pooling through the windows and warming the hardwood floors, but there’s still no sign of Regulus. Not a sound from upstairs. No creak of floorboards. No hesitant footsteps. No presence hovering in the doorway like he sometimes does when unsure if he’s allowed to come in.
Euphemia glances at the clock on the wall. Nearly ten.
Her brow furrows as she dries her hands on a tea towel, sets it down, and makes her way up the stairs. Maybe he’s just tired—God knows yesterday was emotionally exhausting for him. But something twists in her gut. A mother’s instinct, the kind that doesn’t let go once it’s taken hold.
She stops outside his bedroom door and knocks gently.
“Sweetheart?” she calls softly.
No answer. But there’s the faintest shuffle of blankets, the sound muffled and fragile.
She waits a beat, then slowly opens the door.
Regulus is curled up in bed, a tight little ball beneath his covers. The soft black fur of the stuffed dog he clings to peeks out from under his arm—his grip around it firm, almost desperate. His face is turned away, hidden in the pillow.
Euphemia steps inside.
She doesn’t speak again, doesn’t ask if she can join him. She just sits down on the edge of the bed, careful and slow, placing a gentle hand on his back.
And that’s when she hears it.
The quiet, broken weeping.
Her heart breaks instantly.
“Oh, darling…” she breathes, shifting without hesitation. She slides under the covers beside him and coaxes him gently toward her. He doesn’t resist. He folds into her like he’s been waiting to, like he’s been holding it in too long and can’t anymore.
Euphemia wraps both arms around him, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other stroking slow, soothing circles against his spine. He’s trembling. His sobs are soft but raw, each one slicing through the quiet of the room like a crack in glass.
She doesn’t speak.
There’s nothing to say. Nothing she could say that would take away what he’s feeling, what he’s lost, what yesterday opened up inside him.
So she holds him.
For however long he needs.
At some point—ten minutes, maybe twenty, she’s not keeping track—his breathing begins to slow. The tremors still linger in his body, but they’ve dulled now, softened into the occasional sharp inhale.
She brushes a hand through his hair, lets her voice come as gently as possible. “Would you like something to eat, sweetheart?”
Regulus nods against her shoulder. Small. Quiet.
Euphemia presses a kiss to the top of his head before slowly untangling herself.
“I’ll be downstairs,” she says softly. “Come down when you’re ready. Yeah?”
And with one last glance at the boy curled up in bed, black dog tucked against his chest like a lifeline, she slips out of the room to make him breakfast.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont pushes the door open softly, careful not to startle him. The room is dim, quiet, save for the soft sound of Regulus' breathing. His small form is curled up on the bed, cocooned in blankets, tucked in on himself like he’s trying to disappear.
Fleamont's heart breaks at the sight.
He takes a few quiet steps toward the bed. Regulus doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head. Just stays there, a trembling shape lost in the folds of the duvet.
“Effie asked me,” Fleamont says gently, voice low, “if you might like to come and hang out with us in our bed.”
Regulus shifts, barely, then gives the faintest nod.
That’s all Fleamont needs.
He stoops and lifts the boy into his arms. Regulus comes without resistance, small and light against Fleamont’s chest. He curls into him almost instantly, arms wrapping around Fleamont’s middle like he’s afraid to let go.
The gesture makes Fleamont’s heart ache all over again.
He carries him through the quiet hall and into the warmth of the master bedroom, where Euphemia waits with a concerned glance. But Fleamont shakes his head softly— not yet. Regulus hasn’t let go, and it’s clear he won’t anytime soon.
So he sits on the edge of the bed, still holding him, as Regulus buries his face deeper into his chest. One of his fists curls into Fleamont’s shirt like it’s a lifeline. Fleamont wraps his arms around the boy and just holds him there.
A minute passes. Maybe two. The silence is heavy.
“Are you upset over your brother?” he asks quietly.
Regulus nods again, his small head pressing against Fleamont’s shoulder.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
And then—Regulus breaks.
He shudders in his arms, a sob bursting out of him like it’s been trapped too long. More follow, loud and aching, as his whole body trembles.
Fleamont’s throat tightens. Tears threaten to rise, burning behind his eyes, but he blinks them away. He needs to be strong—for this little boy who is clinging to him like the world is ending.
So he holds him tighter. Rubs slow, soothing circles into his back. Murmurs nothing words and soft sounds, anything to let Regulus know he’s here. He’s not going anywhere.
And all Fleamont can think, through the weight in his chest and the silent plea in his arms, is how on earth am I going to cheer up this little boy who is holding onto me for dear life?
POV: EUPHEMIA
The laundry basket sits between them on the bed, half-full of neatly folded clothes. The rhythm of folding is almost meditative—shirt, fold, smooth, stack. Euphemia works in quiet concentration, the soft rustling of fabric and the low hum of the overhead fan filling the space.
Then Fleamont speaks.
“So, I was thinking.”
She hums, a soft, distracted sound of acknowledgment, not looking up from the jeans she’s folding.
“About Sirius.”
Euphemia freezes.
Her fingers pause mid-fold, gripping denim too tightly. Her stomach dips, a slow and sinking weight in her chest. She forces herself to set the jeans aside and reaches for the next item in the basket—Regulus’s pajamas.
“What about Sirius?” she asks carefully, keeping her voice even.
Fleamont’s tone is casual, but there’s something hopeful under the surface. “I was thinking… once he’s out of juvie, he could come live with us.”
The room feels different now. Tilted. Off-balance. Like gravity’s shifted in a way she can’t quite adjust to.
Euphemia doesn’t look up. “Why would you think about that?”
He sounds more surprised than defensive. “Why wouldn’t you?”
She opens her mouth. Nothing comes. She smooths the pajama top with unnecessary care, trying to collect the thoughts spiraling too fast to catch.
Every other child who’s come through their home, she’s welcomed without hesitation. Some quiet. Some angry. Some so lost it hurt just to look at them. But none of them have made her feel like this. None of them have made her feel like she has to brace herself.
“I don’t know, Fleamont. Maybe I just thought… I don’t know,” she says finally, voice thin.
He watches her closely now, his hands still over a half-folded pair of socks. “Have you really not thought about this? Like, at all?”
“I have thought about it,” she says quietly. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since Sarah confirmed who he was. Since he showed up at Regulus’s birthday.”
“And?” he presses, gently but firmly.
She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to have Sirius here.”
Fleamont stills. His mouth opens, closes. He stares at her like he doesn’t recognize the words coming from her.
“I’m sorry?” he says. Then, sharper: “Wait—no. No, just… please, Effie. Explain. Please tell me why you wouldn’t want to take in Sirius Black.”
“There are many reasons,” she says, and her tone is tight now. Defensive.
“Then name a few.”
She exhales, long and slow, like peeling off a bandage that’s stuck too deep.
“For starters,” she begins, “he was wearing a monitor on his ankle, Monty. He’s clearly violent. We don’t even know the full story of why he’s in juvie in the first place.”
“You could ask,” Fleamont says quietly.
“I could, ” she snaps back, then immediately softens. “I could. But would it change anything? Would it make him less of a risk? Less unpredictable?”
She shakes her head and gestures vaguely toward the basket, toward the folded pile of little pajama tops and tiny socks.
“We have Regulus to think about. He’s fragile. He’s only just starting to feel safe, and do you remember how long he cried after Sirius left? Hours, Monty. That was just one afternoon. What happens if Sirius lives here? What happens if he walks in that door and everything we’ve built for Regulus just… falls apart?”
Fleamont’s expression shifts, something wary creeping into his eyes.
“We don’t even know what their relationship was like before,” she continues. “We don’t know if Sirius ever protected him. What if he hurt him? What if he’s part of why Regulus flinches every time someone raises their voice?”
Fleamont’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“And James,” she adds, her voice sharper now, more brittle. “You saw how James was with him. He barely spoke. Wouldn’t even look Sirius in the eye. I’ve never seen him like that—not with anyone. That wasn’t just discomfort. That was… fear. Or something close to it.”
“They’d adjust,” Fleamont says. It’s not dismissive—he’s careful with the words—but there’s certainty in them.
She stares at him. “They shouldn’t have to adjust to someone who scares them.”
He meets her gaze, steady. “Is that what this is really about?” he asks. “You’re scared of him.”
“I’m not scared,” she says instantly. Too fast.
Fleamont doesn’t challenge it. He doesn’t have to. He just watches her, quiet, waiting.
She turns away under the weight of it. Her hands tremble slightly as she folds another shirt she’s already folded twice.
“I’m not,” she repeats, but the words don’t feel as solid now. “I’m not scared.”
But the truth is, it’s not the ankle monitor or the record or the clipped way Sirius speaks. It’s the way he watches people—too sharp, too guarded, like he’s sizing up danger. Like he’s expecting it.
“He looks at the world like it’s already hurt him,” she says. Her voice is quiet now, almost fragile. “Like he’s just waiting for another reason to lash out. And maybe I can’t help but wonder what happens if that reason lives in our house.”
Fleamont is quiet for a long time. The soft whir of the fan fills the silence.
“So you don’t trust him,” he says.
She doesn’t answer.
“You don’t trust him,” he says again, more softly. “And maybe… maybe you don’t think he’s worth the risk.”
Euphemia closes her eyes. Her throat feels tight. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to have him here.”
Fleamont doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his voice is low. Strained. But steady.
“I love you, Effie.”
Her heart squeezes at the sound of it.
“But I disagree with you.”
She turns to face him fully now.
“I think we are exactly what that boy needs,” Fleamont says. “He’s angry, and he’s broken, and yes, maybe he’s dangerous—but he’s thirteen. And he’s running out of time. He’s running out of places. If we don’t take him in, who will?”
She doesn’t know how to answer that.
He stands slowly, the weight of the conversation hanging heavy in the air between them. He gathers the socks from the bed—then sets them down again, his jaw clenched.
“I just-” he says, not unkindly, “I need a minute.”
And with that, he walks out.
The door clicks softly behind him.
Euphemia doesn’t move.
She stands at the edge of the bed, fingers resting lightly on the top of the laundry basket. The folded clothes blur before her eyes.
She isn’t scared of Sirius.
At least, that’s what she wants to believe.
But the truth is louder in the quiet he’s left behind.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont lifts his hand and knocks—soft, careful. Euphemia stands beside him, watching the door with a look that’s half steady, half hesitant.
Inside, there’s a rustle. “Mum? Dad?”
Fleamont opens the door and follows his wife into the room, pulling the door shut behind them with a quiet click . Euphemia leads, her expression gentle but tense, like she’s walking a tightrope. Fleamont lingers just behind, silent, watching James closely.
“Did I do something?” James says quickly, his eyes flicking back and forth between them. “Because I definitely didn’t use the upstairs bathroom to try and dye my hair again. That was—”
“No, no,” Fleamont says, cutting him off before he spirals further. His voice is calm, but tired—worn down by a long week and the weight of this decision. “Nothing like that.”
Euphemia offers a small smile, though Fleamont knows it’s more out of habit than anything. She folds her hands in front of her, and her voice is gentle when she says, “We just wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Okay… now you’re really scaring me,” James replies.
Fleamont exchanges a look with his wife—brief, quiet.
“We’re sorry, sweetheart,” Euphemia says. “We wanted your opinion—like always.”
James’s gaze jumps between them.
“It’s about Sirius,” she adds.
The name hangs in the air for a moment, heavy and brimming with tension. Fleamont shifts slightly, grounding himself before he speaks.
“About how you’d feel… if he came to live with us.”
“No,” James snaps. “No. Absolutely not.”
Fleamont stays still as James rises abruptly, his stance defensive and tense.
“I saw the ankle monitor. I saw the cops.”
Beside him, Euphemia exhales softly. Relief, maybe, that it’s all out now. But Fleamont doesn’t feel relieved. He doesn’t feel much of anything—he’s holding too much in. Too many thoughts he hasn’t yet decided how to voice.
“We would never bring someone dangerous into this home,” Euphemia says as she steps forward. “We just… we thought it was important to ask you.”
James’s next words are quieter. “Can I—can I ask what he did?”
Fleamont starts to answer, but Euphemia beats him to it.
“He was arrested for assaulting a foster parent.”
Fleamont watches James stiffen.
“That’s reason enough,” James says. “That’s perfect reason enough.”
The silence that follows feels long, even if it isn’t. Fleamont remains quiet, still. But inside, he’s weighing things—measuring what he believes against the things he knows James won’t understand. Not yet.
“Dad?” James says, tentative now. “You weren’t seriously thinking about bringing him in… right?”
Fleamont exhales, the breath deep and weary.
“Well,” he says, honest despite everything, “yes. I was.”
James stares at him.
“Sirius may have a record of violence,” Fleamont says, his voice even, “but that doesn’t mean he is violent. We’ve had plenty of kids with records. Behavioural issues.”
“But they weren’t violent,” Euphemia says, sharper now. There’s a flare of something in her voice—not quite anger, but maybe fear.
Fleamont nods slowly. “I know.”
That’s it. He can feel it—the quiet resignation in the air. Euphemia stays rooted where she is. James doesn’t say anything more.
Fleamont rises, brushing his hands down the front of his shirt. The weight in his chest hasn’t lifted. If anything, it’s heavier now.
“Goodnight, James,” he says softly.
Then he turns and walks out.
Fleamont closes James’s door behind him with a quiet click , but the conversation doesn’t leave him. It lingers—sits heavy on his shoulders like a lead weight as he walks slowly down the hall. His feet drag, as if his body knows what his heart already does.
Sirius.
He can’t shake the boy’s name from his mind. Can’t shake the image of the haunted expression in Regulus’s eyes every time someone says it.
The truth is… he feels sorry for him. For both of them.
The system isn’t fair. It never has been—not to kids like Sirius, who’ve been tossed from home to home like baggage, who carry trauma like it's stitched into their skin. Especially not to those with a violent record. That label alone— violent —that’s enough to keep doors shut. It doesn’t matter what led to it. Doesn’t matter if it was self-defense or desperation. Once it’s there, it's permanent. A brand.
Fleamont knows the odds. Sirius is more likely than not to end up right back in juvie. Not because he should , but because he’s alone. Because he doesn’t have a stable environment, or anyone fighting hard enough to give him one.
And that—that thought gnaws at Fleamont.
He rubs at his jaw, walking past the staircase, past the darkened sitting room, something tugging insistently in his chest. He doesn’t question it. Just lets his feet guide him.
Regulus’s door.
Fleamont pauses outside it, rests his hand on the frame. The urge to check on him pulls stronger than ever. He doesn't knock this time. He pushes the door open, just a crack.
And there he is.
His heart cracks.
Regulus is curled in bed, twisted awkwardly in his sheets, his small arms wrapped around that black dog he carries everywhere. His brows are furrowed, lips parted in an anxious sort of sleep. It's clear this rest isn’t peaceful. Hasn’t been for a while.
Fleamont doesn’t need to be told—he knows. Regulus will end up in their bed again tonight. Just like he has nearly every night since his birthday.
Since he saw his brother again.
And while part of Fleamont feels a quiet kind of gratitude that Regulus feels safe enough to come to them when he needs comfort… there’s another part—one that aches—because he knows Regulus is only really seeking that comfort to fill a void. To patch over a wound that was torn open the moment Sirius left.
Or was taken. Or lost. Fleamont still doesn’t know which word fits.
He watches Regulus twitch in his sleep, the black dog clutched tighter, and sorrow coils around his ribs. The pain in his chest sharpens, and he doesn’t bother fighting it.
He still doesn’t understand Euphemia’s reasoning. Not really. Not in his bones. He knows what she says —that they need to protect James, protect Regulus. That bringing Sirius in could risk the fragile calm they’ve built. But deeper than that… it feels like something else.
Selfishness, perhaps.
A fear of breaking the illusion of safety they’ve worked so hard to maintain.
But Regulus doesn’t feel safe. Not really. Not with how often he seeks them out in the dark, desperate for the warmth of a body beside him. And Sirius—Sirius might be the only person who could really help him heal. Who might remind him that he isn’t broken. That he’s still just a kid.
A brother.
Fleamont steps back and gently closes the door, leaving it slightly ajar—just enough to let the light from the hallway spill in. Just enough to hear, if Regulus wakes up crying again.
He makes his way down the hall to their bedroom, and something in his chest tightens further with every step. The quiet feels too loud.
He exhales sharply as he enters the room, trying to push down the rising heat in his chest.
Anger.
Frustration.
Disappointment.
It burns under his ribs. He huffs out a breath, like it might expel the feelings with it, but it doesn’t. He strips off his shirt, movements tight, and tosses it in the laundry basket in the corner.
He wishes he could give Regulus everything.
All the love. All the healing.
But he knows—no amount of love can stitch up the kind of wounds that boy carries.
Fleamont sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and buries his face in his hands. The house is quiet around him.
And he hates that sometimes love just… isn’t enough.
***
The bedroom door creaks open behind him just as Fleamont tugs the covers back on his side of the bed. He doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s Euphemia. He hears the soft shuffle of her steps, the familiar rhythm of her moving around the room—pulling open drawers, brushing her hair back, unfastening her earrings with the faintest clink as they drop into the little dish by her vanity.
The tension is immediate. Quiet, but unmistakable. Like something unspoken sitting between them, waiting to be addressed.
Fleamont sighs, low and long. He’s already brushed his teeth, washed his face, folded his day clothes with practiced hands—gone through the motions of bedtime without truly feeling them. He knows what comes next.
They’ll call Sarah. Tell her they can’t take Sirius in. And that will be that.
Done. Final.
But still… part of him clings to the last scraps of hope, irrational as it may be. He wishes Euphemia might consider it longer. Sit with it. Think about what it would mean —not just for Sirius, but for Regulus.
Yet he knows his wife.
Stubborn. Resolute. Once her mind is made, it’s as good as carved in stone. No storm, no plea, no gentle logic can shake it. Not when she feels something is right.
Fleamont leans back against the headboard, head tilting up to stare at the ceiling. The light from the bathroom spills into the room, casting thin gold lines across the carpet.
Maybe she’s right, he tells himself.
Maybe it’s better this way.
Maybe Regulus is better off without Sirius in the picture.
But even as he thinks it, something inside him recoils. Like it knows it’s a lie.
And so he does the only thing he can do.
“Euphemia?” he calls gently, voice threading into the quiet like a question he already knows the answer to.
She pokes her head out of the bathroom, mouth pulled into a straight line. “Yes, Fleamont, I’m sure,” she says. Her tone is clear, steady. The kind that doesn’t invite argument. The kind that ends conversations.
He nods slowly, the weight of her words dropping into his chest like a stone. “Alright, then,” he murmurs. “I’ll call Sarah, yeah?”
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just gives a small, distracted nod before slipping back into the bathroom.
Fleamont sits up straighter, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. His thumb hesitates over Sarah’s contact for just a second. Then he presses call .
It rings only once.
“Hey, Sarah,” he says, trying not to sound as hollow as he feels.
“Hey, Fleamont.” Her voice is soft but perceptive. “From the sound of your voice, it tells me things aren’t going too well?”
He lets out a short, humorless chuckle. “Yeah, you could say that.”
There’s a beat before he continues, bracing himself. “Look, Sarah, I’m so sorry to do this to you but—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” she cuts in gently, but there’s a weariness to her words that mirrors his own. “And trust me when I say this: it’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
Silence hums between them, heavy and knowing.
“I appreciate the call,” she adds, quieter now. “And I appreciate you for letting me know early. I’ll find Sirius other arrangements.”
Fleamont swallows, a lump thick in his throat. He shouldn’t say what he says next. But he says it anyway.
“Look, I probably shouldn’t be saying this but—” he pauses, pressing a hand over his eyes. “I’ll let you know if we change our minds, alright? I just… I just hope I’m able to change Effie’s mind is all.”
Sarah exhales slowly. “Alright. I’ll try to hold out hope. But I’ll still make arrangements. Thank you again—for everything. Truly, Fleamont.”
“Alright,” he says quietly. “Have a good night.”
She hangs up, and he lowers the phone onto the nightstand, its screen still glowing faintly before it dims.
He sits there for a moment, unmoving, the silence closing in again. Thoughts churn in his head—unruly, restless.
Maybe he could talk to Regulus’s cousins. Bellatrix. Narcissa. See if they’d offer any insight into who Sirius is now , not who he used to be.
Maybe if he could show Euphemia that there’s more to Sirius than what’s on paper, than what she fears… maybe she’d reconsider.
But Fleamont knows the truth of it. You can’t know someone by reading about them. Or by asking others. You have to live with them. See them. Know them.
And unless something changes, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
POV: EUPHEMIA
Euphemia stands in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she waits for the kettle to boil. The rich scent of her half-finished cup of tea still lingers in the air, and she cradles it loosely in one hand, enjoying the warmth against her palm. She hears the soft thud of footsteps approaching and turns her head slightly.
James steps into the kitchen.
“ Mum? ” he asks, voice casual.
“Yes, Jamie?” she replies, not turning just yet as she begins prepping her second cup.
“Are you still signing me up for soccer?”
Euphemia chuckles, finally looking at him. “Of course, sweetheart. I wouldn’t dare not to.”
She arches a brow playfully. “Why? Do you not want to play?”
“What! Of course I do.” He scoffs, almost offended she’d even think otherwise. “I was just wondering, because… well…”
James tips his head subtly to the side. Euphemia follows the motion with her gaze—and spots Regulus peeking around the hallway wall, barely visible.
Her smile softens.
“Because Regulus wanted to ask you something,” James says, quieter now, almost like he doesn’t want to embarrass him. Then, just as quickly, he leans toward Regulus, whispering something she can’t catch, and scampers off without another word.
Regulus shuffles into the kitchen. His shoulders are hunched, hands fiddling nervously with the hem of his shirt. Euphemia sets her tea down and offers him her full attention.
“What’s up, sweetheart?”
Regulus mumbles something, too quiet and too quick for her to decipher.
“I’m sorry, love, I didn’t quite catch that. Can you try again?”
She smirks gently, biting back a chuckle at how shy he’s being. There’s a little huff from him—frustrated at himself more than her—then a deeper breath.
“I was wondering if I could play soccer too?” he says, slower this time, but still so tentative, like he’s expecting the answer to be no.
Euphemia’s heart swells. Of all the things she thought he might ask, this was not on the list. She feels warmth bubble up in her chest and a bright, delighted smile spreads across her face.
“You want to play soccer too?” she clarifies, just to be sure.
Regulus nods once. “If—if I’m allowed.”
“Oh, sweetheart, of course you’re allowed to play.”
She leans down, brushing a gentle kiss to his forehead. He flinches at first—still not used to casual affection—but he doesn’t pull away. That’s something. A big something.
“Oh, this will be so exciting.”
Regulus gives a small, almost shy smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but the effort is there. “Thank you, Effie.”
Euphemia crouches a little so she’s eye-level with him. “Oh, darling boy, you have nothing to thank me for.”
She gives his hand a quick squeeze. “The pleasure is all mine.”
He nods once more, smile a little stronger this time, and without another word, turns and disappears back down the hallway.
Euphemia stands there for a moment, hand still hovering mid-air where he’d been. The kettle whistles behind her, but her mind is elsewhere.
Regulus wanted to play soccer. He asked to join something. That tiny, anxious voice had asked to be included.
And her heart, already so full, makes just a little more space.
***
Uniform shopping. A joy and a pain all at once.
Normally, Fleamont would be beside her, sharing amused looks over James’ dramatic sighs and helping navigate through racks of grey school trousers. But not today. Today, he’s at the university, preparing to start lecturing again. It’s not just the boys’ back-to-school season—Fleamont’s got his own first day coming up.
So it’s just her, in the slightly cramped uniform shop, juggling sizes, price tags, and the energy of two very different boys. She knows what she needs: James has already outgrown last year’s set, no surprise there. He shot up like a beanstalk this summer. Regulus, at least, only needs an extra formal set and a few winter items.
Still, it’s a lot to manage.
“Alright, James,” she calls toward the changing rooms. “Try both sizes—we’re not leaving until I’m sure you’ll fit into them in October, not just today.”
She’s helping Regulus pick out a school jumper, running a hand down the neat stacks of folded knits until she finds his size. She passes one to him, and the second he touches it, his nose wrinkles.
Oh, dear.
He doesn’t say anything at first, but Euphemia doesn’t miss the slight recoil, the way his fingers twitch away from the fabric.
James barrels out of the changing room then, arms flopping to his sides like he’s surrendering to a great injustice. “Mum! This is way too big!”
Euphemia turns—and chuckles. “Come here.”
She crosses the room and gently adjusts the collar, tugs the hem of his shirt, smooths the shoulders. She turns him around for a full inspection, biting back a smirk.
“James, it’s really not that big,” she says, flicking a tag back into place. “If you’d seen the way you’re growing, you’d understand why I’m making you get this size.”
He huffs dramatically, arms still spread like he’s being forced into a tent.
“Go get changed,” she instructs, patting his shoulder. “Then grab another two shirts and two pairs of pants. You should have three in total.”
He nods, grumbling something under his breath as he ducks back into the changing room.
She turns back to Regulus.
“Alright, sweetheart,” she says gently, “ready to try the jumper on?”
A soft, unsure sound escapes him—a half-whine, half-sigh—but he still nods, and with hesitant fingers, pulls the jumper over his head.
The reaction is instant.
Regulus winces. “It’s itchy.”
Euphemia nods knowingly. “I know it’s itchy, love, but remember—you’ll be wearing long sleeves underneath. So you shouldn’t feel it much.”
He nods, but before she can so much as adjust the cuffs or check the fit at the shoulders, he’s already tugging it back off.
Euphemia sighs, but it’s a soft one. Not frustration—just understanding. “Alright then.”
She crouches a little to meet his eyes. “Did you think the jumper was too big?”
He shakes his head.
“Alright,” she says again, smiling. “You think you can grab another pair of socks, pants, and a shirt for me?”
He nods and wanders off, quiet but willing.
Euphemia watches him go, heart swelling just a little. For all his shyness, he’s trying. That’s all she can ask for.
She turns back to James, who’s now back in his regular clothes and holding the extra items she requested. “Got everything?”
James holds up the neatly folded pieces like proof. “All set.”
A moment later, Regulus returns too, a little slower, but carrying everything she asked for. His pile’s a bit messier, but still complete.
Euphemia beams. “Alright then.”
She straightens, dusts her hands on her skirt, and grabs her handbag. “I just have to pay, and then we can go get your soccer boots.”
The change is immediate. James lights up, barely suppressing a cheer, and even Regulus looks visibly relieved—his shoulders loosening, a tentative little grin tugging at his mouth.
Euphemia laughs under her breath. “Can’t blame you. Trying on soccer shoes sounds a lot more fun than itchy uniforms.”
And with that, they head to the front of the store—two boys trailing behind her, one excited, one quietly content—and Euphemia thinks, maybe, she’s doing alright at this.
POV: FLEAMONT
It’s late afternoon, and Fleamont sits in the quiet comfort of his study, hunched over his desk as he makes the final touches to his lecture notes for Tuesday. The light filters in softly through the window beside him, casting long shadows across the parchment. He adjusts his glasses, scratches out a word, replaces it with another, and then nods to himself. It’s shaping up to be a good opener for the term.
And then he hears it—raised voices from upstairs. Shouting.
“You heard me. Shut up! ”
Fleamont stills, pen poised in mid-air.
James responds—his voice more muffled—but before Fleamont can make out the words, Regulus is shouting again.
“He’s not a criminal! My friends do like him! And he’s not a loser! ”
Fleamont pushes his chair back.
“He did not abandon me!”
Footsteps. Movement overhead.
“You don’t know anything about him! You don’t know what he’s done for me—what he tried to do!”
Then the sharpest cut of all, raw and unmistakable:
“I
hate
you!”
Fleamont winces just as a door slams shut.
He steps into the hall, his stomach already sinking. By the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs, James is standing there, looking somewhere between uncomfortable and defensive.
“What the hell is going on out here?” Fleamont asks, his voice more clipped than he intends.
James shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, Dad. Just got into a bit of an argument with Reg.”
Fleamont arches a brow. “Okay? About what?”
James exhales through his nose. “Sirius.”
Fleamont crosses his arms. “What’d you say to him? I heard some of it—and it sounded like it started from you.”
“I just told him the truth, Dad. Someone had to eventually.”
Fleamont sighs, long and slow. “Regulus isn’t ready for the truth, James.”
“He’s got to know eventually.”
“And we don’t even know the full story ourselves,” Fleamont replies sharply. “So, next time, you keep your opinions to yourself, understood?”
James nods, subdued now. “Yes, Dad.”
“Good.” Fleamont softens slightly. “Now I’ve got to check on Regulus.”
He turns and starts up the stairs. Each step feels heavier than the last. That final shout— I hate you —is still ringing in his ears. Regulus rarely raises his voice at all, let alone screams. It’s not like him. Which means something inside the boy must have snapped.
He reaches the closed door and knocks gently.
“Regulus?” His voice is quiet. “It’s me. Monty.”
Silence.
“Can I come in?”
“Go away,” comes the muffled reply.
Fleamont sighs. “Can’t do that, buddy.”
“Yes you can,” Regulus says, voice thick.
“I could, ” Fleamont admits, “but then you’d be all alone. I’m just here to talk to you. You’re not in trouble. Please let me in?”
There’s a pause. Then the sound of shuffling. Slowly, the door creaks open. Regulus stands there, head bowed, his dark hair falling forward to shield his face. He steps aside silently, letting Fleamont in.
Fleamont closes the door gently behind him. Regulus walks back to the bed and sits down, curling in slightly as he hugs his stuffed black dog tight to his chest.
“Can I sit here?” Fleamont asks, motioning to the edge of the bed.
Regulus gives a small nod.
Fleamont sits, watching the boy with quiet concern.
After a long silence, he finally speaks. “I’ve gotta be honest with you, kiddo.”
Regulus looks up at him, cautious and tired.
“I’m not too sure what you’re feeling right now… but from what I can gather, you’re feeling pretty hurt. And upset. Right?”
Regulus nods.
“Yeah.” Fleamont nods with him. “I’d feel pretty hurt and upset too if I just had a fight.”
Regulus shakes his head.
“No?” Fleamont leans forward slightly. “Then can you tell me why you’re upset?”
“James told lies.”
“Lies?”
“Lies about Sirius,” Regulus says. “James said Sirius is a criminal. Which isn’t true.”
Fleamont hums, letting Regulus speak without rushing him.
“But…” Regulus hesitates. “James said some things that got me thinking.”
“Yeah?”
Regulus nods, shifting again on the bed. “He pointed out that Sirius wasn’t here. And I started to think why Sirius isn’t here.”
There’s a long pause. Regulus looks down at the stuffed dog in his arms.
“Monty?”
“Yeah, kiddo?”
“Why is Sirius not with me?”
Fleamont’s chest tightens. That’s not a question with a simple answer. Not one a child should have to ask.
Regulus continues before he can reply. “James said you and Effie wouldn’t lie.”
Fleamont nods slowly. “It’s true. Effie and I—we try to tell you boys everything.”
“So?”
Fleamont exhales, staring at the floor for a moment. He could tell the truth—what little of it he knows. That Sirius has been in and out of detainment. That something happened when the boys were separated. That there’s still so much they don’t know.
But then he looks at Regulus. His face so small. So hopeful. So scared.
And Fleamont makes a choice.
“Well, kiddo…” he says softly, “I’m not one hundred percent sure why you two were separated in the first place.”
Regulus nods. “I don’t either.”
“Alright,” Fleamont says gently. “Sometimes things happen. Kids get separated. They get placed in different homes. Different social workers. Now, I don’t know how Sarah knew about your brother, but she’s been trying—really trying—to track him down. And, well…”
He hesitates, then pushes through.
“She’s trying to place him with us. It’s just taking some time.”
Regulus looks up at him again. “So… my brother isn’t a criminal?”
That look—so trusting, so desperate for reassurance—nearly breaks Fleamont in two.
He smiles gently. “Yeah, bud. Sirius isn’t a criminal.”
Regulus nods, a tiny breath escaping him, like a weight has been lifted.
And in that moment, Fleamont knows he’s made the right call.
Sometimes the truth can wait.
Sometimes what a child needs most is safety.
And sometimes, shielding someone from pain is the most honest kind of love.
POV: EUPHEMIA
Laura’s office is quiet but warm. A soft rain patters against the window, a rhythmic sound that almost masks the low scratch of crayon against paper. Regulus sits cross-legged on the rug, his colouring page anchored carefully in front of him. He hasn’t looked up once since they arrived.
Euphemia sits stiffly beside Fleamont on the little couch. Her arms are folded, her legs crossed neatly at the ankle, every line of her posture tense. Fleamont, beside her, has leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, like he’s already bracing for something.
Laura breaks the silence first. “So, Regulus,” she says gently, “do you mind explaining why both Euphemia and Fleamont have requested to join in on this session?”
Regulus shrugs without lifting his head. He just keeps colouring, slow and steady strokes that stay mostly inside the lines.
Laura watches him for a moment, then turns her attention to the adults. “Okay,” she says, “so, what is it you’d like to discuss, that needs my presence?”
Euphemia exhales slowly, steadying her voice. “We just found out Regulus has an older brother. His name is Sirius.”
“And we’ve been trying to get Regulus to talk about his brother more,” she adds, glancing at Fleamont, “but…”
“He hasn’t said much,” Fleamont finishes, voice soft. “If anything at all.”
Laura nods thoughtfully. “Okay. And why do you two think that is?”
Euphemia hesitates. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”
“Okay,” Laura says again, calm and even. She looks to Fleamont. “What do you think?”
Fleamont hums quietly, his gaze never leaving Regulus. Then, wordlessly, he rises from the couch and kneels beside him on the floor.
“I think,” he says gently, “it’s because something happened. Right?”
His voice is soft enough to be safe, but certain enough to cut through.
“Something scary. And talking about your brother brings back those scary memories, yeah?”
Regulus pauses mid-stroke. His crayon hovers for a beat too long. Then, he gives a small shake of his head.
“No?” Fleamont prompts.
Regulus whispers, barely audible, “No. Not really.”
Laura leans forward, just slightly. “Okay. Do you think you can explain?”
Regulus hesitates.
“You remember what I said about talking to make the hurt go away?” Fleamont murmurs.
Regulus nods.
“Right now, you can take a little bit of that hurt away. You don’t have to tell us everything, just a little bit. Yeah?”
Another pause. Then a small, tremulous, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Fleamont asks again, a little firmer.
Regulus nods more certainly. “Okay.”
He takes a deep breath, then another.
“Um—in… in past homes…” Regulus’ voice catches, “I was told off for trying to see my brother and—”
He huffs, frustrated, tears starting to brim at the corners of his eyes.
Euphemia leans forward suddenly, a thread of alarm in her chest.
“And—did you think we’d react the same way, sweetheart?”
Regulus nods without looking up.
The rage that blooms in Euphemia’s chest is instant and blinding. White-hot. She takes a slow breath through her nose, steadying herself, anchoring her voice.
“Sweetheart,” she says carefully, “what did—what did they say to you?”
Regulus shudders. He curls in slightly, his shoulders tightening, his head dipping further over the colouring page. When he speaks, his voice is small. Detached.
“They said—that having a teenager around would—would lower my chances of being fostered… or… or even adopted.”
He trembles, not stopping now. “They—they said I should forget about him. That I should consider myself lucky I wasn’t with him. I—”
His breath hitches, and then it all collapses. The tears fall faster than he can wipe them away.
Euphemia feels sick . What kind of person says something like that to a child?
Beside her, Fleamont moves with quiet grace. He places a hand on Regulus’ shoulder—soft, grounding. And just like that, the boy folds into him, curling into Fleamont’s lap, clinging like a child desperate for safety.
Fleamont wraps his arms around him without hesitation, tucking his chin over Regulus’ head.
Euphemia’s heart clenches. It’s not just the image—her husband, her son—it’s the way Regulus doesn’t resist it. The way he allows himself to be held .
She watches them, swallowing hard. A war begins inside her—one she’s been trying not to name.
She thinks of Sirius. Of the scars he’s left, the silence, the fear. The potential danger.
But she also thinks of Regulus. Her son. The guilt that clings to him. The ache. The loneliness.
She thinks of what Fleamont’s trying to do. The risk he’s asking her to take. And maybe—maybe it’s not a risk at all. Maybe it’s… a bridge.
Maybe Sirius could help . Maybe he could offer something no one else can. Maybe this —Regulus breaking down in Fleamont’s arms—isn’t just pain.
Maybe it’s the beginning of healing.
Euphemia draws in a shaky breath, folding her hands tightly in her lap. Her mind flickers to tomorrow—meeting with Bellatrix, with Narcissa. She’s not sure how much she trusts either of them, but maybe they’ll shed some light.
Maybe they’ll help her understand Sirius in a way paper files and secondhand stories never could.
She still has doubts. But maybe… maybe doubt isn’t a bad place to begin.
***
“Yes, please,” Euphemia says, already gesturing toward the table. “Why don’t we sit, while Fleamont makes our drinks?”
She turns, giving James a small smile. “James, why don’t you help your father?”
“Alrighty!” he chirps, practically bouncing toward the kitchen, that wide grin on his face.
Euphemia turns back to their guests, gesturing gently. “Come, let’s sit.”
Bellatrix leads the way with her usual confidence, while Narcissa follows with an air of elegance Euphemia still finds a bit intimidating. She guides them to the table, waits until they’re seated, then joins them with her hands folding neatly in her lap.
“So,” she starts, polite and open, “how have you two been?”
Bellatrix answers first, smiling, “Well, I’ve been doing great, thank you for asking.”
“Yes,” Narcissa adds, “wedding planning has taken up a bit of my time, but that’s to be expected.”
Euphemia nods, a fond smile curling at the edges of her lips. “I remember planning my wedding—I had to wrestle a very stubborn two-year-old James around with me everywhere.”
Bellatrix raises an eyebrow, amused. “Oh?”
“Sounds like a hassle,” she says, even though there’s a smirk in her tone.
“More like sounds disastrous,” Narcissa says dryly, lips twitching.
Euphemia laughs softly. “Was it nice having your son at your wedding?” Narcissa asks.
“Oh yes,” Euphemia says without hesitation. “Having James there made everything even more special.”
A pause settles, warm and calm, but short.
Then Bellatrix tilts her head. “May I ask something? I know it’s rude, but—how old are you?”
Euphemia blinks in surprise, then laughs lightly. “Oh, thank you. And no, I don’t mind you asking.”
“I’m thirty.”
Both sisters’ eyebrows shoot up.
“What? Really?” they say in near unison.
She chuckles again. “Yeah. James was a very poorly calculated judgment on our part.”
The three of them laugh together—easy, for a moment.
“Well,” Narcissa says, “life can’t always go the way we want it.”
“Exactly,” Euphemia agrees, nodding.
A beat of silence. Then, gently, curiously—
“May I ask,” Narcissa begins again, voice softer, “why you never had more kids? After James, I mean.”
Euphemia freezes. It’s only for a second, barely noticeable to anyone but herself. She’s grown used to the subtle judgment that comes with being a young parent—but she’s rarely asked this . Usually, Fleamont steers conversations away before they get too personal. Shields her. Protects her.
But he’s in the kitchen now.
“I’m sorry,” Narcissa quickly says, noticing the shift. “I shouldn’t have asked. That was quite rude of me.”
“No,” Euphemia says quietly, “it’s alright.”
She looks down at her hands for a moment, then lifts her gaze again, steady. “Um… well… after James was born, there were some complications.”
She draws in a slow breath. “Later, when James was about five, and we were ready to try again, I found out I couldn’t.”
Silence wraps around them. Narcissa’s eyes soften.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. “That must’ve been hard.”
Euphemia nods. “It was, in the beginning. But I’m okay now.”
She finds herself smiling, thinking of the moment her life shifted.
“My husband actually brought up the idea of fostering. And that’s how we got into it.” She lifts her chin a little, proud. “We mostly foster older teens. Make sure they have a place to stay, help them integrate into society properly. Help them finish school or get a job. That sort of thing.”
“Sounds really fulfilling,” Bellatrix says, surprising Euphemia slightly with the sincerity in her tone.
“It is,” she agrees. “It’s quite funny, actually.”
She laughs a little to herself. “We weren’t ever expected to keep Regulus for as long as we have. He was just meant to be a temporary placement.”
“But then you fell in love with him,” Narcissa says knowingly. “That’s understandable. Regulus is a very loveable kid.”
Euphemia laughs—soft and real. “Yeah. I actually latched onto him pretty quickly. I don’t just go around to other parents’ houses yelling ‘that’s my son’ after only having a foster kid for a month.”
Bellatrix snorts. “Well, I’m glad you view him that way.”
Her expression turns a little more serious, a bit guarded. “I won’t lie and say our only reason for coming today was to answer your questions about Sirius.”
She meets Euphemia’s eyes. “We wanted to know if Regulus was actually being treated like one of your own.”
Euphemia doesn’t flinch. She looks Bellatrix in the eye, calm and assured.
“That’s understandable.”
And she means it.
Because if the roles were reversed—if Regulus had ended up somewhere else—she would’ve demanded the very same thing.
Once the drinks are ready, James carries the mugs over with care, placing one in front of Narcissa, the other in front of Bellatrix. Fleamont is still at the counter, finishing off Euphemia’s tea.
“Thank you, James,” Narcissa says warmly, taking a sip. “Mmm, honey-flavoured—my favourite.”
Euphemia chuckles, already fond of her. “It’s one of the only good ones left, I swear.”
“Agreed,” Narcissa replies with a faint smile.
“Thank you,” Bellatrix adds, her voice more reserved. She cradles the coffee in both hands, as if appreciating the warmth more than the flavour.
Fleamont joins them a moment later, pressing a warm mug into Euphemia’s hands before taking his place at the head of the table, settling between her and Bellatrix.
“Thank you, dear,” Euphemia murmurs, before turning her attention back to their guests. She lets her fingers rest on the side of her cup, grounding herself. “We don’t want you to think poorly of us for asking. It’s just… we’re trying to understand Sirius, and his relationship with Regulus. Every time we try to talk to Regulus about it, he either brushes us off or…” She hesitates, then sighs. “He ends up in tears.”
She looks down at her tea for a moment, then back up. “We just want to help him.”
Narcissa nods slowly, her expression thoughtful. “That’s understandable. Regulus is quite a quiet child. It is really difficult to get information out of him.”
“It’s true,” Bellatrix agrees, tone more candid now. “Sirius is harder, though.” A dry laugh escapes her. “So, what would you like to know?”
“Anything that you’re willing to tell us,” Fleamont says. “Or anything that might help us. For starters… what is Sirius like?”
Euphemia watches closely as Bellatrix’s expression shifts. The guarded composure softens—just slightly. A genuine, almost wistful smile pulls at her lips.
“Well… Sirius is quite… hmmm…” Bellatrix pauses, as though weighing her words.
“Spirited?” Narcissa suggests. “Adventurous? Protective? Rebellious?”
“All of those,” Bellatrix agrees. “And stubborn. If you ever see him and Regulus argue, neither one of them will back down. They’re both so damn stubborn. Someone always ends up playing mediator.”
Narcissa laughs softly. “Once, I think they were six and seven, arguing over whose French translation was more correct. Same sentence, different structure. Shouting it at each other in turns. It was ridiculous.”
“Andromeda had to separate them,” Bellatrix adds with a smirk. “They believed her. Not each other.”
“They never apologised,” Narcissa says with a small shake of her head, still amused.
Laughter rises gently around the table. Euphemia smiles, surprised by the lightness in the room.
Narcissa turns slightly. “Yes, we do. She’s the middle child.”
“Is Regulus close with her?” Euphemia asks before she can stop herself. It’s not the most relevant question, but she’s curious.
“I suppose,” Narcissa says, more measured now. “But he’s closer to Bella and me than Andy. Not that that’s a bad thing. Some cousins just get along better.”
Euphemia nods, absorbing that. “So… would you consider Sirius and Regulus’ relationship pleasant? Like… a normal sibling bond?”
Bellatrix’s brow furrows slightly in thought. “Well… I wouldn’t call it normal, but it could be considered that.”
Euphemia leans forward slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Sirius is older,” Bellatrix explains. “And he always felt it was his job to protect Regulus. I don’t know how to put it—there’s more to it than your typical sibling bond. It’s… layered. Complicated.”
“Our father and their mother—our aunt—had a falling out,” Narcissa adds. “We never really knew what it was about. But after that, we didn’t see much of them.”
“Our father tried to look out for them,” Bellatrix says. “But he was busy. Politics. Three daughters. It wasn’t easy.”
Euphemia exchanges a glance with Fleamont. Her chest feels tight, heavier with each new piece of the puzzle they’re handed.
Then Fleamont asks gently, “Do you know what happened? Why they were removed—or separated?”
The change in the room is immediate.
Narcissa’s shoulders go stiff. Bellatrix stills. The warmth from before vanishes like breath on glass.
“That’s not really our place to say,” Bellatrix answers after a beat. “And… technically, we don’t know exactly what happened that night.”
“It was bad,” Narcissa says quietly. Her voice has lost all its usual calm. “And the only person who can answer that question is Sirius himself.”
“And I highly doubt he’ll ever speak of it,” Bellatrix finishes.
The silence that follows is thick.
Euphemia looks toward Fleamont again. He meets her gaze and gives a small nod. She knows they’re both thinking the same thing: there's more to this than they imagined.
There’s always more.
Fleamont clears his throat gently, the sound carrying just enough weight to pull everyone’s attention back. “Very well,” he says. “Then… do you think you can explain how their dynamic was?”
Euphemia watches as both Bellatrix and Narcissa hum in thought, exchanging glances like they’re assembling a memory together.
“Well,” Narcissa begins, “our aunt tended to separate the two of them quite frequently.”
“Yeah,” Bellatrix agrees, her tone edged with something sharper—regret, maybe. “Unfortunately, Sirius was expected to do a lot more than just sit around and be a kid.”
Euphemia feels her brow knit slightly. That doesn’t surprise her. She’s suspected as much, but hearing it said aloud makes her stomach twist.
“I’m honestly not quite sure if Sirius ever resented his brother for being more… favourited,” Narcissa murmurs, her voice contemplative.
Bellatrix exhales slowly, fingers tapping her mug. “What I can say is that Sirius did a lot of things parents were meant to.”
Euphemia’s eyebrows rise a touch.
“Like,” Bellatrix continues, “he taught Regulus how to get dressed. Tie his shoes. Make breakfast. That sort of thing.”
Narcissa nods. “I remember one time, Sirius must have been seven, Regulus five. Regulus scraped his knee, and Sirius was the one who patched him up.”
Euphemia nods slowly, absorbing every word. Okay, she thinks. This is interesting. Sirius isn’t just protective—he’s been a caregiver. A child forced into a role he never should’ve had to fill. He’s caring toward his brother.
She leans forward slightly. “Did they ever get into physical fights?”
“No, never,” Narcissa says immediately, shaking her head.
“The least they did—” Bellatrix starts, then corrects herself, “—or rather, the worst Regulus ever did to Sirius was yell at him.”
“Sirius tried his best not to yell back,” she adds, “but it was obvious it was quite hard for him not to.”
“Yeah,” Narcissa agrees, thoughtful again. “They always had this weird level of understanding between them. It was like they could read each other’s minds.”
Fleamont nods, looking between the girls and then at Euphemia. “Do you think it would be a good idea for us to have Sirius in our home?”
Silence settles over the table like a thin veil.
Euphemia glances toward Bellatrix, who seems to weigh the question carefully before speaking.
“In my personal opinion?” Bellatrix says at last. “Yes. Absolutely.”
Euphemia’s heart stirs at the certainty in her voice.
“Regulus would feel a lot safer with his brother around. He’d relax more. He’d benefit from having Sirius close. A lot, I think.”
Bellatrix’s expression grows more serious. “But there’s only so much we can say that can help provide input. In the end, it’s up to the two of you to make the decision—whether or not you want Sirius around.”
Euphemia exhales slowly, her fingers tightening slightly around her mug. She doesn’t speak yet. Instead, she sits on the weight of Bellatrix’s words, letting them settle. Letting them breathe.
The decision lingers there in the quiet, still unspoken, but growing ever louder in her mind.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont glances up at the sound of a knock, his wife’s soft voice carrying across the room—“Come in.”
The door creaks open, and he sees James step inside, posture uncertain. Fleamont straightens slightly where he’s seated on the bed, papers resting across his lap. Euphemia is already looking up from her armchair, a note of concern in her voice.
“James? Is everything alright?”
Fleamont watches James shift in the doorway. “Um… not really.”
Immediately, he sets the papers aside, the weight of the moment sinking in. “You wanted to talk to us, bud?”
James nods. “Yeah. About… um. Both of you. I mean, to both of you.”
Fleamont gestures toward the bed with a gentle hand. “Of course. Come, sit.”
He studies his son as James crosses the room and climbs onto the edge of the bed. There’s a nervous energy rolling off him in waves—rubbing his palms on his pants, legs not quite reaching the floor. Fleamont doesn’t speak, just waits, quiet and steady beside his wife.
“What’s up, sweetheart?” Euphemia asks, her voice as kind as ever.
“I wanted to, um… talk about…” James trails off, then starts again.
“I think… maybe… we should give Sirius a go.”
The words drop like a stone into the room. Fleamont’s shoulders go still. He exchanges a glance with Euphemia, surprised but not displeased. He listens as James continues, rushing now to clarify.
“I know what I said before,” James says, “and I still believe what I said. Like, he did lie, and it was messed up. And he is a bit of a jerk.”
Fleamont can’t help the brief huff of a laugh that escapes him. That’s his boy—blunt as ever. Euphemia hides a smile, but Fleamont keeps his gaze on James.
“But,” James goes on, softer now, “I guess we don’t really know him.”
That— that —makes Fleamont’s chest ache. It’s honest, and so painfully mature. He sees the doubt on James’ face, the weight of something too big for someone his age to be carrying.
Euphemia’s voice is gentle. “So you’re saying you’d be okay with Sirius coming to live here?”
James shrugs. “Yeah… I guess so.”
Fleamont lets the quiet settle for a few seconds, thoughtful. Then he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, keeping his tone calm.
“Alright. May I ask—what changed your mind?”
James frowns, fiddling with the seam of his shirt. Fleamont doesn’t rush him.
“Well… I guess… I don’t know.”
Then James glances up, looking between the two of them. “I think I just kinda thought about it more.”
Fleamont nods. He’s not expecting a neat answer. Sometimes change happens slowly, quietly.
“It’s okay not to know exactly why you’ve changed your mind.”
He softens his voice even more, just in case James needs the reassurance. “Just remember, James—if anything happens, or if you ever feel uncomfortable, you come to us right away.”
Euphemia adds her touch, brushing a curl from James’ eyes. “Your safety is our top priority, alright love? We don’t want you to feel unsafe in your own home.”
Fleamont sees the way James relaxes at that. A small smile flickers across his face.
“I know,” James says. His eyes drop again, but his voice holds a firmer note now. “I think we should give Sirius a go.”
Euphemia nods. “Okay then.”
Fleamont feels the moment land in his chest—something unspoken shifting. There’s no celebration, no dramatic weight lifted. But it’s something. A door opening.
Euphemia leans in and kisses James on the cheek. “Good night, love you sweetheart.”
“Night,” James murmurs.
Fleamont watches him go, the door easing shut behind him. He exhales slowly, letting the silence return. Then he looks at his wife.
“Well,” he says quietly, “that was unexpected.”
But not unwelcome.
“I mean,” Euphemia says, breaking the silence, “I saw it coming… kind of.”
Fleamont glances at her, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “So… now that James is more on board, what would you like to do?”
He studies her face carefully—he already knows what she’s going to say. He’s known her long enough to recognize the weight behind the crease between her brows.
“I know you’re against,” he adds softly, “but…”
Euphemia exhales through her nose, then nods once, slowly. “I think… we should… try…”
His heart gives a gentle thud. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t sound thrilled, but she sounds sure. That’s enough.
“But if anything happens—”
“I know,” he says quickly, sincerely. “And I’ll understand.”
Euphemia nods, more to herself this time. “We’ve got to make sure he has clear boundaries and is disciplined properly.”
“I know,” Fleamont agrees, already mentally preparing a structure for expectations and house rules.
“And,” Euphemia adds, her tone sharpening slightly, “we need to get him into therapy asap.”
“Okay.”
“And…” She hesitates now, her voice softening. “Maybe we should talk to Regulus first.”
Fleamont hesitates. “I think he made his position very clear during his session, love.”
“I know, but—”
“I get it,” he says gently. “I really do. You’re just looking out for our son.”
Euphemia doesn’t respond right away, but her lips press together, eyes dropping slightly.
“So,” Fleamont says, already reaching for his phone, “should I give Sarah a ring?”
He checks the screen. “It’s not too late, only, ooo—nine.”
He glances at her over his glasses. “Eh, she’s called us later than that and we’ve answered.”
Euphemia hums, eyes still distant. “Yeah, you do that, dear.”
He unlocks his phone and starts to scroll through his contacts, thumb hovering over Sarah’s name when—
“Hang on…”
He pauses, looks up. “Hmm?”
“Did you just say our son?”
He frowns faintly. “Huh?”
“Did you just say our son?” she repeats. “As in, Regulus, our son?”
She leans forward slightly, something tender and surprised in her expression. “Like—I know I consider Regulus our son, my son, but I didn’t think you were there yet.”
Fleamont blinks.
He never really thought about it. He doesn’t even think he knows when the switch happened. If asked, Fleamont couldn’t tell. But—
“Guess I am,” he says simply.
And then, more quietly, “Feels natural—I don’t know.”
Euphemia’s eyes soften. “He’s our son.”
Fleamont chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, he is.”
He lifts the phone again. “Now I’m dialing Sarah, so shush.”
It rings twice before a familiar voice answers, chipper despite the hour.
“Ah, Fleamont, what can I do for you on this fine Saturday evening?”
“Euphemia and I have talked it over,” he says without hesitation, “and, if you still need—we are more than happy to foster Sirius.”
There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. One of relief .
“Thank God,” Sarah says, exhaling hard. “I don’t think people generally know the stress one is under to find a foster home, even a group home, willing to take a violent kid in.”
Fleamont winces slightly at the word violent , but he doesn’t interrupt.
“This is brilliant,” Sarah goes on, voice brightening. “You will never understand how much this means. Not only to me, but to Sirius as well.”
She pauses, then adds, “Between you and me—I could tell Sirius was extremely disappointed when we last talked. When I said you couldn’t take him in.”
Fleamont glances at Euphemia, who watches him with calm focus.
“And lucky too,” Sarah continues, “he gets released tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Fleamont echoes, brows raising.
“You don’t mind if I drop him off tomorrow, do you?”
“Not at all,” Fleamont says. “Tomorrow is perfect.”
Notes:
Word Count: 14,523
Published: 2025-05-07Another chapter! Yay!
Chapter 27: Some Stars are just Out-of-Reach...
Summary:
Regulus never thought this would happen. He’s never thought he’d be ripped from his brother’s arms, again. But, here he is. Living proof that maybe—just maybe—some stars are just too far out-of-reach.
And Regulus? Doesn’t know what to do about it.
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The blanket is soft.
His fingers trace the embroidery, careful not to smudge or pull any of the stitching. It’s warm in his lap, heavier than he expected. Comforting. Like it’s real proof that he exists here. That he belongs.
“They gave it to me this morning,” Regulus says, trying to keep his voice steady, even though it keeps hitching from nerves. “Effie said green suits me, and Monty said the gold made it royal.”
He tugs the edge of the blanket over his fingers, suddenly unsure if he should have said that out loud. “They said I’m allowed to feel special.”
The words taste strange. Like he’s repeating a spell he doesn’t quite believe in.
He risks a glance at Sirius. Wants—needs—him to see it too. That someone thought he was worth a gift like this. That maybe, maybe this is what it looks like to be wanted.
Sirius doesn’t say anything right away. When he does, his voice is soft—warm in the way Regulus has missed so much.
“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs.
Regulus smiles. Just a little. He can’t help it.
But the smile fades almost as soon as it arrives. Because time is moving too fast. And Sirius is still here, but not for long.
He clutches the blanket tighter.
His eyes flick over to Sarah. Then away.
He keeps talking, trying to hold on to the moment. Trying to hold on to Sirius.
Maybe if he keeps speaking, they won’t make him stop. Maybe if he pretends like everything is fine, Sirius won’t leave.
But then—
“Reggie.”
It’s soft. So soft. But it cuts.
And it stops him cold.
His words fall apart in his mouth. He looks down, fingers curling tight around the blanket. The corner with his name digs into his palm.
He doesn't want to look up. If he looks at Sirius, he’ll break.
But Sirius is right there. Gently tilting his chin up.
Regulus doesn’t resist. And he hates that he doesn’t.
Because the second he meets Sirius’ eyes, the ache in his chest splits wide open. There’s no hiding it anymore. The fear. The grief. The hollow, burning dread that coils in his stomach every time someone says goodbye.
He shakes his head.
“You don’t know that,” he whispers. His voice feels like it doesn’t belong to him. It’s smaller. Thinner. Like it’s folding under its own weight. “You don’t know that it’s going to be okay.”
He wants to believe Sirius. He really does. But wants don’t change anything.
Sirius says something else—about two more weeks. About being his again.
But Regulus can’t hear anything past the roaring in his ears. It sounds like wind and thunder and everything collapsing at once. His throat closes, his vision blurs.
He blinks—and then the tears fall.
He tries to stop it. Tries to be quiet, to stay composed. But the sob breaks loose before he can stop it. Sharp. Shattering. And once it starts, he can’t hold anything in.
He clutches the blanket like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the ground.
And he cries.
He doesn’t remember when Sirius pulled him into his arms. Doesn’t remember moving. Just remembers being held. Sirius’ warmth pressed against him. His voice low in his ear.
“Just two weeks... I promise.”
But Regulus doesn’t trust promises. They don’t mean anything when the people who make them can disappear at any moment. Promises don’t fix things. Regulus knows that all too well.
But still, he lets himself believe it anyway.
Just for a second.
Because it’s all he can do.
He sobs against Sirius’ chest. Ugly, gasping sounds that feel like they’re tearing him apart. It’s too big. Too much. Too painful to hold.
And he lets it out.
Every fear. Every desperate hope. Every inch of grief that’s been building under his skin since the last time he had to let go.
He cries because Sirius is leaving.
And because he is afraid he won’t come back.
He lets it out until there’s nothing left but shaking hands and wet cheeks and the sound of Sirius whispering Je t'aime, ma petite étoile against his hair.
And then Sirius is pulling back. Cupping his face. Wiping the tears away with hands that are too kind, too gentle. Saying it’s time.
Regulus wants to scream. To beg. To not let go .
But he nods.
Because he doesn’t know how to do anything else.
Sirius kisses his forehead. Once. Twice. Three times. Each one steadier than the last, as if he’s trying to stitch him back together with love alone.
And then he’s gone.
Regulus watches him walk away.
He keeps watching, long after he’s out of sight.
The blanket is still clutched tight in his arms, pressed hard against his chest. It smells like laundry soap and the Potters’ house and something warm he doesn’t have words for.
But it doesn’t stop the shaking.
At first it’s just his hands. Then his shoulders. Then his whole body starts to tremble, like a silent storm working its way out from under his skin.
He can’t make it stop.
His chest hurts. Not in the sharp, sudden way—but in that deep, awful way that feels like something’s been scooped out of him and there’s nothing left to fill it. He bites his lip, hard, and swallows against the tightness rising in his throat.
Then he sees Euphemia.
And that’s when the dam breaks.
He tries to step back, tries to breathe, but it’s like all the air’s gone. The first sob tears from his chest like something alive—wild and ragged and loud . It echoes across the grass. His knees buckle.
Everything hurts.
He doesn’t remember falling, but Euphemia’s arms are around him, warm and solid. She pulls him in close, and he grabs at her shirt without thinking, sobbing so hard it feels like his bones might snap in half.
He doesn’t try to hide it anymore.
Not the sobs, not the trembling, not the pain.
It all pours out of him in heaving, gasping cries. He can’t catch his breath between them. The world blurs and spins and tilts sideways, and it’s all too much.
He clings to her like a child. Like someone drowning.
Because he is.
Fleamont is there too—he knows that somehow, though his vision is blurred with tears. A hand on his back, grounding. But he can't focus on anything outside the grief tearing through him like a storm.
He wants Sirius.
He wants everything to stop hurting.
He wants to go home.
But he doesn’t even know where that is anymore.
So he just cries.
And hopes—prays, maybe, even if he doesn’t believe in it—that someone will hold him together long enough for the pain to pass.
Because right now, he doesn’t know how to survive this.
He doesn’t know if he can.
***
The morning creeps in slowly, its pale light filtering through the curtains, but Regulus doesn’t move.
He lies curled on his side, facing the wall, eyes open and rimmed red, lashes clumped together from the tears he never really stopped shedding. His throat is sore, raw from the quiet crying that lasted long into the night. He hadn’t slept. Not really. Just dozed off here and there, blinking between dreams that weren’t dreams at all—just endless stretches of dark filled with Sirius-shaped holes.
His chest aches with a heaviness that no amount of deep breaths can ease.
Sirius isn’t here.
He knows that. He’s known that. But it doesn’t stop the ache. It doesn’t stop the desperate, foolish hope that somehow, in the middle of the night, the door might’ve creaked open, and Sirius might’ve come back. That Regulus might’ve opened his eyes and seen his brother there, like none of it had ever happened. Like Sirius hadn’t had to leave. Like they hadn’t been ripped apart.
But the door stayed closed.
And the bed stayed cold.
And Sirius is still gone.
Regulus doesn’t cry again—he thinks maybe he’s cried out for now—but his face crumples slightly as he shifts, and reaches for the thing that is here. His fingers brush over soft fur, familiar stitching, the floppy ears that have been clutched in his hand too many nights to count. The stuffed black dog.
Euphemia and Fleamont had let him get it not long after he arrived, a quiet gift with a softer meaning. They hadn’t said it, not outright, but Regulus thinks they knew what it was supposed to be, to mean—a stand-in, a comfort, a small reminder of someone near and dear to his heart. A way to hold onto something even in the middle of so much change.
He was embarrassed to have gotten it in the first place, but… well. He hadn’t let go of it since.
Now he holds it tight to his chest like it’s a lifeline.
He buries his face in the plush fur and breathes in—fabric softener and faint dust, but somehow still comfort. Somehow still Sirius.
It helps. A little.
Because even if Sirius isn’t here, this is. A piece of the love he’s been given. A reminder.
Regulus squeezes the stuffed dog tighter and closes his eyes.
“I miss you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and quiet, barely more than breath. “Please come back soon.”
He waits, for a second, as if maybe the silence might answer him. But it doesn’t.
Still, Regulus clings to the toy and lets his breathing slow. He doesn’t know when Sirius will come back. But he has to believe he will.
So for now, he lies still in the grey light of morning, curled around a black dog and the ache of missing his brother, and holds on.
Regulus isn’t too sure how much time has passed, but he is pulled from his thoughts by the knock at his door—soft, careful.
“Sweetheart?” Euphemia calls through the wood, voice gentle.
Regulus doesn’t answer. He can’t. His throat feels tight, too full of everything and nothing. He pulls the blanket tighter around himself and curls in deeper, tucking his face further into the pillow. Maybe if he stays still enough, small enough, the ache in his chest will dull.
He hears the doorknob click. A slow creak. He knows she’s coming in.
He doesn’t move.
The bed shifts slightly with her weight as she sits on the edge. Then, a hand—light, warm—rests on his back. That’s all it takes.
The sound that slips from his mouth is involuntary—a soft, shaky sob he hadn’t meant to let out.
“Oh, darling…”
And then she’s there, sliding beneath the covers beside him, arms wrapping around his small, trembling frame. He doesn’t fight it. He can’t. He presses into her, buries his face against her shoulder, stuffed black dog squished between them like a bridge.
The tears come harder now. He can’t stop them. The more she holds him, the more it all spills out—grief, longing, that hollow ache in his ribs that hasn’t gone away since Sirius left. His sobs shake through him, chest hitching with each breath.
He clings to her like she might be the only thing anchoring him to this moment. And maybe she is.
There are no words. Just the soft sound of her hand moving in slow circles down his back, and the way her fingers card gently through his hair. His eyes burn, his throat aches, but being held makes it feel a little less unbearable. Just enough.
Time slips by unnoticed. Ten minutes. Twenty. Maybe more.
Eventually, his body quiets, though the sadness hasn’t gone anywhere. It just… settles, low in his chest, a constant weight. His breathing evens out, broken only by the occasional shuddered breath.
“Would you like something to eat, sweetheart?” she asks, voice soft as a lullaby.
He nods, slow and small, not lifting his head.
A kiss presses into his hair. Warm. Comforting. Real.
“I’ll be downstairs. Come down when you’re ready. Yeah?”
He nods again, and lets her go when she begins to shift. The bed dips as she stands, and even though the air feels colder without her, he doesn’t stop her. He just hugs the black dog tighter and watches through blurry eyes as she slips out of the room.
The door closes quietly behind her.
And Regulus stays where he is—wrapped in blankets and silence and the soft, lingering warmth of being held.
He knows he should get up, but he can’t. He can’t move. Not even an inch.
His body feels like it’s filled with wet sand—too heavy, too sluggish, like even breathing takes effort. His face is stiff and sore, his eyes raw and puffy from hours of crying that didn’t help at all. The tears had started sometime after the door closed last night and never really stopped, just slowed, then started again.
He’s exhausted in a way that sleep couldn’t fix. Not that he slept, really. He’d drifted in and out—never fully awake, never fully gone—stuck in that awful half-place where his thoughts looped endlessly and everything felt sharp. Sirius. Gone. Again.
It hurts.
It hurts more now, somehow, than it did yesterday. Maybe because yesterday, he still had adrenaline in his chest. Now, there’s only emptiness and a tight, silent ache that claws at his ribs like guilt, like grief.
The black dog clutched tightly in his arms is the only thing grounding him. It smells faintly like the Potters’ laundry soap, but if he closes his eyes hard enough, pretends hard enough, it almost feels like Sirius. The stuffed fur is soft under his fingers. Not real—but close enough.
He tightens his grip on it, fingers trembling.
He should get up. He should go downstairs like Euphemia said. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He’s already used up all of his energy from crying. His limbs won’t cooperate, his head aches from holding it all in, and even the thought of moving feels impossible.
So he lies there, curled up tight, waiting for something—anything—to shift.
The door opens with a soft creak. Regulus doesn’t flinch, though his shoulders tense slightly under the blankets. He can hear footsteps—quiet, careful ones—and knows it’s not Euphemia this time.
The room is dim now, probably from the rain clouds forming outside, only the faint light from the hallway spilling in. Regulus keeps his face tucked into the pillow, arms curled around his stuffed black dog. He’s buried so deep under the duvet it’s like he’s trying to hide from the world, from the ache in his chest, from the fact that Sirius is still gone.
He doesn’t move. He can’t. Moving would mean doing something, and he doesn’t have the energy for anything except existing in this miserable, heavy stillness.
“Effie asked me,” Fleamont says, voice soft and gentle, “if you might like to come and hang out with us in our bed.”
The words are unexpected. They settle slowly in his ears, and for a long moment, he says nothing. Then, almost without thinking, he gives the smallest nod. Just once.
He hears the shift of movement before he feels it—arms around him, lifting him up. Regulus goes without a word. There’s no fight in him, just a dull, aching emptiness. He presses his face against Fleamont’s chest, breath catching as he wraps his arms around him. He holds on tightly, like letting go might shatter him completely.
Fleamont feels solid and warm. Safe. Regulus clings harder.
They move through the house together, but Regulus doesn’t look up. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut and lets himself be carried. There’s a faint creak as they enter another room, and Regulus knows it's their bedroom. He hears Euphemia’s voice somewhere near—soft, murmuring—but doesn’t catch the words. He doesn’t want to lift his head. He doesn’t want her to see his face like this.
Fleamont sits down, and Regulus stays latched to him like a shadow. His stuffed dog is squished between them now, but he doesn’t care. He burrows deeper into Fleamont’s chest, his fingers curling into the man’s shirt.
He feels a hand on his back. Gentle. Reassuring.
A minute passes. Then another. The silence is loud. It presses in around the edges of his sadness like fog.
“Are you upset over your brother?” Fleamont asks quietly.
Regulus nods. His throat is too full to speak.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
The question unravels something in him. He tries to answer, tries to say something—anything—but instead, a sob rips out of him, sudden and harsh. Then another. And another.
It’s like the dam breaks all at once.
He clutches Fleamont like he might disappear, the tears coming too fast now to stop. His whole body trembles with the force of it. His heart feels like it’s tearing open from the inside out.
He wants Sirius. That’s all he wants.
He doesn't want to be here, in a bed that isn’t his, crying on someone who isn’t his father—though, his own father would never condone such behaviour, neither would his mother—with the black dog in his arms that only reminds him more of the brother he misses so much it hurts to breathe.
Fleamont holds him tighter. His hand moves in slow circles across Regulus’ back, and there are quiet, soothing murmurs that Regulus can’t make sense of, but they help. A little. They don’t fix anything, but they let him cry. They tell him it’s okay to cry.
So Regulus does.
He cries until his chest aches and his fingers are sore from gripping too tightly. He cries because he misses Sirius and doesn’t know when he’ll see him again. He cries because he’s scared that the promise his brother made won’t come true.
And still, he doesn’t let go.
***
Regulus is still clinging to Fleamont, tucked securely against his chest. His face is sore from crying, his body limp and exhausted. He’s managed to stop for now, but it feels like any wrong move might start it all over again.
The door opens with a soft creak, and Euphemia enters, a plate balanced carefully in her hands. The smell of pancakes drifts through the room, warm and comforting.
"There you go, sweetheart," she says kindly as she crosses the room.
Regulus lifts his head just enough to see the plate. He reaches out with one shaky hand, takes it, and nods in thanks. Speaking feels too heavy still, like it would take more effort than he has.
He tucks the plate carefully onto his lap and starts eating in slow, small bites. The pancakes are sweet and soft on his tongue, but it’s more about the act of eating—of doing something normal—than hunger.
"You doing alright, love?" Euphemia asks softly as she settles beside him on the bed.
Regulus shrugs the best he can without leaving Fleamont’s embrace. Earlier, Monty had asked him if he wanted to be let go, and Regulus had said no without even thinking. He still doesn’t want to. He doesn’t think he could manage without the steady, grounding feel of arms around him.
Euphemia hums and nods, like she understands. "Okay."
"What would you like to do today?" she asks after a moment.
Regulus chews slowly, thinking, but everything inside him feels heavy and empty. He shrugs again, unable to come up with a single idea. His mind is too fried, too raw.
Fleamont shifts, his voice gentle. "How about we watch some movies, yeah? We can just stay inside, even up here in bed, and watch whatever you want."
"Yeah," Euphemia says brightly. "That sounds like a great idea, Monty!" She turns to Regulus, smiling warmly. "What do you think, sweetie?"
Regulus nods. That sounds good. Easy. Something that doesn't require thinking or moving much.
"Alright, then," Fleamont says, giving him a little squeeze.
Fleamont carefully starts to move Regulus out of his lap. Regulus immediately whines at the loss of contact, panic flaring in his chest—but Euphemia is there instantly, pulling him into her arms instead. He buries himself against her, clutching at her shirt.
"I’ll be right back," Fleamont promises, standing up.
Regulus watches him leave the room, chewing another bite of pancake. His voice, when it comes out, is raspy and raw: "Where is Monty going?"
"To go grab the TV we sometimes like to have in our room," Euphemia explains, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back.
Regulus nods and goes back to eating, slowly finishing his plate. It feels good, in a distant sort of way, to have something warm in his stomach. He feels a little better—but still so, so drained.
Once he’s done, Euphemia leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead.
"You finished?" she asks.
Regulus nods again and hands her the empty plate. She sets it on her bedside table, and Regulus wastes no time crawling further into her arms, seeking out her warmth like a magnet.
A few minutes pass. Fleamont returns, lugging a small TV into the room, and then disappears again to fetch something else. Regulus listens to the quiet sounds of him moving through the house.
"You wanna talk about it?" Euphemia asks gently, her voice low and careful.
Regulus stiffens. He doesn’t know. His throat tightens again, uncertain. He shrugs instead of answering. It’s easier.
Euphemia sighs, but it’s not a frustrated sigh. It sounds almost like she expected it. She slowly runs her fingers through his hair, the touch tender, and plants another kiss to the top of his head.
"It’s alright if you don’t want to, sweetheart," she says softly. "I never want you to feel like you are pressured into talking about things. All I want is that, whenever you’re ready, you talk about it. Even if it’s later. I don’t mind."
Regulus nods, thinking about her words. He wants to talk, maybe. But he doesn’t know if it would make him feel better—or worse.
Before he can say anything, Fleamont comes back into the room, holding the Xbox triumphantly. "Xbox has been acquired," he announces grandly.
Euphemia laughs. "Oh, love, you are so dramatic."
Fleamont grins. "Am I, though? It’s what you love about me."
"Unfortunately," Euphemia says with a teasing shake of her head, "it is one of the many things I love about you. You and your poorly timed dramatics."
Fleamont gasps, clutching his chest and dropping to the floor with a loud thud. "Do you hear this, bud?" he cries to Regulus. "Do you even hear her? You wound me, love. You wound me!!"
Regulus can’t help it—he laughs. A real laugh. It bubbles up out of him before he can stop it, and it feels so strange and good that he laughs again.
"Quit your dramatics and get the Xbox set up," Euphemia says, swatting at Fleamont.
"Okay, okay, jeez," Fleamont says, huffing out a laugh. He leans closer to Regulus and whispers conspiratorially, "She’s a bit demanding, don’t you think?"
Euphemia smacks him hard on the arm. "Guess who’s sleeping on the couch tonight," she threatens.
"Better be the dog, yes?" Fleamont replies cheekily.
Euphemia narrows her eyes at him, making a watching you gesture. "I’m watching you, Monty."
Regulus giggles again, warmth spreading in his chest. For a little while, he forgets why he’s so sad.
Fleamont settles back onto the bed beside them. "So, Regulus," he says, "what would you like to watch?"
Regulus shrugs helplessly. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know what’s out there. They weren't allowed to watch movies or shows growing up. Sadness creeps up his spine again, cold and unwelcome.
He tightens his grip on Euphemia’s shirt, sniffling quietly. Of course, she notices.
"Why don’t we do Disney, yeah?" she suggests gently.
Fleamont picks up on it immediately and starts scrolling through their options. After some discussion, they settle on Moana .
Regulus watches intently, the bright colors and music pulling him in. But his thoughts keep drifting back to Sirius. Sirius would love this movie.
Without even thinking, Regulus whispers, "Sirius and I weren’t allowed to watch shows or movies."
At first, he thinks nobody heard him. But then Euphemia says softly, "What did you say, darling?"
Fleamont pauses the movie.
Regulus shifts, moving into the space between them. "I said... Sirius and I weren’t allowed to watch shows or movies."
He looks at Euphemia, then Fleamont, unsure what to expect. They look almost... stunned. A sort of sad disbelief.
"Really?" Fleamont asks gently. "Why was that?"
Regulus shrugs. "Not really sure why. But our parents didn’t want us doing so."
Euphemia hums thoughtfully. Silence falls again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Regulus, feeling brave, pushes forward.
"I think he’d enjoy this movie," he says.
"You think?" Euphemia asks, smiling warmly.
"Yeah…" Regulus says quietly.
The sadness bubbles up again, sharp and suffocating.
"I really, really miss him," Regulus sniffles.
Euphemia immediately pulls him into a hug, Fleamont joining too, wrapping their arms around him.
"I know—" Regulus hiccups, "I know I just saw him yesterday, but…"
He trails off, struggling.
Fleamont finishes for him, voice gentle. "But it’s not the same, right? Only seeing him once, compared to every day. You just want to be with him."
Regulus nods fiercely, the dam breaking again. He sobs into their arms, crying for everything he’s lost, everything he still misses.
Euphemia and Fleamont hold him through it all. At some point, they turn the movie back on, the sound of the ocean and singing filling the room—but Regulus just stays curled up between them, letting the tears fall until there’s nothing left.
And still, they don’t let him go.
***
The car hums quietly beneath them, a steady vibration that presses into Regulus’ spine through the seat. Euphemia hums along to a song on the radio, soft and tuneless, her fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. James is beside her in the front seat, tapping his foot and fiddling with the volume like he’s incapable of stillness.
Regulus sits alone in the back, small and straight-backed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His school bag sits beside him, slumped against the door, and every few seconds he glances at it—just to ground himself. Just to make sure something familiar is still there.
They’re on their way to school. Not for class, not yet, but for uniforms. More pants. A jumper. A third formal set. Socks, maybe. The list isn't long, but it still makes his stomach twist.
He doesn’t like clothes shopping. He never has. The lights are too bright. The stores are too loud. The tags scratch and the fabric always smells weird. And there’s too many choices. Too many ways to get it wrong.
Regulus doesn’t want to mess anything up today. He doesn't want to make a scene.
He already feels wrong inside. On edge. Like his bones are made of glass and someone’s tapping gently against them, over and over and over.
He hasn’t said anything yet. Not about how the jumper will probably itch. Not about how the shoes might squeak. Not even about the way he already knows James is going to be loud about everything and take up all the air in the room.
He just stays quiet. Like always.
Regulus rests his head against the cool window, eyes trailing over the trees and hedges blurring by outside. He counts them in threes—one, two, three. One, two, three. It helps, a little.
He’s tired.
Not from the drive. Not even from the anxiety buzzing under his skin.
He’s just tired in that bone-deep, heavy way. The kind that settles in your chest and refuses to leave.
He’s been sleeping in Euphemia and Fleamont’s bed since his birthday. Every night, curled up under the thick blanket, safe between them like the world can’t quite reach him there.
Well—every night except one.
The night after his birthday, he slept in James’ bed.
He told himself he didn’t know why he did it. But that’s a lie.
He does know why.
He thought—maybe—being beside James would help.
James is loud and messy and fills space like Sirius did. Different, but not completely. And Regulus had hoped—hoped that lying next to someone warm, someone familiar in a brother-shaped way, would make the ache in his chest hurt a little less.
But it didn’t.
It made it worse.
James shifted in his sleep, muttering nonsense. His elbow jabbed Regulus’ side once, and his breathing was all wrong. Too fast. Too loud. Too not-Sirius.
And Regulus just stared at the ceiling, still as stone, with tears on his face he didn’t dare wipe away. Not then. Not in front of James.
That night, he missed Sirius so much it felt like choking.
So the next night, and every night since, he’s crept into Effie and Monty’s room and climbed between them without a word. Neither of them asks why anymore. Effie just kisses his hair. Monty just rubs his back. And Regulus sleeps.
Well, mostly.
Now the car turns down the road toward the school, and his chest tightens again.
He doesn't want to ruin today.
Not with an episode. Not by being too sensitive or too difficult or too much.
He wants to be easy.
He wants to be good.
He presses his fingers together, hard, and doesn’t say a word.
The uniform shop is small and warm, and Regulus feels like the walls are pressing in a little. The lights buzz faintly overhead, and everything smells like new fabric and plastic tags. He keeps his arms close to his sides as Euphemia moves through the rows, neat and efficient, picking up shirts and trousers and holding them against him for size.
He’s not sure why clothes shopping makes his skin crawl—maybe it’s the noise, maybe it’s the pressure, maybe it’s just the way everything itches before it even touches him.
Fleamont stayed at the university today, something about getting ready to teach again. Regulus doesn’t mind. Fleamont’s calm, but he’s also taller than every rack in this shop and always accidentally knocks things over with his elbows. Still, Regulus feels the space where Monty should be, quiet and steady at his side.
Euphemia hands him a school jumper, soft grey and neatly folded. “Here’s your size, love.”
He touches it, barely. The wool is scratchy against his fingertips and his stomach twists. He doesn’t mean to flinch, but his hand jerks back before he can stop it. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe she won’t notice.
James bursts out of the changing room like a firework going off, arms outstretched and shirt half tucked. “Mum! This is way too big!”
Regulus steps back automatically, startled by the sudden noise. James is all volume and movement, like Sirius used to be—only without the edge that made Regulus feel like he was always on the verge of breaking something.
Euphemia laughs and walks over to him, adjusting his collar and smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt. James makes a big show of huffing, but lets her do it. Regulus watches quietly from behind a rack of jumpers.
“You’re growing faster than you think,” she tells James. “This one’ll last you past Christmas, I promise.”
James rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. Not really. He disappears back into the changing room with a dramatic sigh, and the moment he’s gone, Euphemia turns back to Regulus.
“Alright, sweetheart,” she says softly, “ready to try the jumper on?”
Regulus doesn’t want to. The wool still feels like it’s biting into his skin, and he already knows how it’ll feel over his arms, against the back of his neck. But he nods anyway. Because she’s asking nicely. Because she’s kind. Because he doesn’t want to ruin anything.
He pulls it over his head. The fabric catches on his hair and rubs wrong against his collar. It feels all wrong immediately—tight, scratchy, like ants crawling over his skin.
He winces. “It’s itchy.”
She nods like she expected that. “I know it’s itchy, love, but remember—you’ll be wearing long sleeves underneath. So you shouldn’t feel it much.”
He nods again, but his hands are already pulling at the jumper’s hem, tugging it up and off. He can’t bear it a second longer.
Euphemia doesn’t scold him. Just sighs gently and crouches so she’s level with his eyes. “Did you think the jumper was too big?”
Regulus shakes his head. It wasn’t the size. It was everything else.
“Alright,” she says again, with that soft voice that makes his chest loosen just a little. “You think you can grab another pair of socks, pants, and a shirt for me?”
He nods, relief washing over him. A task. That’s fine. He can do that.
He drifts toward the shelves, eyes scanning for the right sections. He doesn’t move fast—he’s careful not to knock anything over or take the wrong size. The piles are neat, too neat, and his fingers hesitate before pulling at the edge of a folded shirt. He grabs the pieces, one at a time, and clutches them awkwardly to his chest.
By the time he returns to Euphemia, James is already back in his regular clothes, holding his own pile like a prize. Euphemia beams at him, then at Regulus, and Regulus feels something flicker warm in his chest. He managed. He didn’t mess it up.
“Alright then,” she says, grabbing her handbag. “I just have to pay, and then we can go get your soccer boots.”
James lights up, fist-pumping the air with a loud, “Yes!”
Even Regulus can’t help it—his shoulders sink with relief, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Soccer boots don’t itch. They don’t scratch or hang wrong or squeeze too tight. He likes trying those on.
Euphemia laughs. “Can’t blame you. Trying on soccer shoes sounds a lot more fun than itchy uniforms.”
Regulus nods quietly, falling into step behind her. James bounces ahead, already talking about what color boots he wants. And Regulus—Regulus just holds on to the feeling of not failing. Not ruining anything. Of trying, and it being enough.
The store is loud. Not in the shouting way, but in the overwhelming way—rows of shelves and racks and boxes stacked on boxes, blinking lights overhead, voices bouncing off every surface. Regulus stands just inside the doorway, clinging to the hem of his jumper, eyes darting across the displays of soccer cleats.
James takes off immediately, of course—straight for the boldest, brightest pair on the wall like a moth to flame. Regulus watches him go, and something about it—James’ ease, his certainty—makes Regulus’ stomach tighten.
He stays close to Euphemia.
“Alright, sweetheart,” she says gently, guiding him a little further in. “Let’s find a pair that feels good, yeah? One that isn’t too stiff or heavy.”
Regulus nods once, following her toward the shelves. The shoes stretch out in both directions—every colour imaginable, some with sharp angles and flashy stripes. But none of those feel like his . He doesn’t want anything that draws attention.
He lets his fingers skim across a few pairs, the textures too shiny, too fake, too rough. Then he sees them.
Black.
Simple. Clean. Nothing too much.
He steps a little closer and picks one up. It’s smooth and light in his hands, the leather soft, the design quiet. There’s a faint flutter in his chest—maybe excitement. Or maybe just relief that there’s something here that isn’t too loud.
“This one?” Euphemia asks, and she’s already crouching next to him, reaching for the size labels.
He nods, clutching the shoe with both hands. She smiles and stands, calling over an assistant with practiced ease.
James is still at the other end, holding up two pairs now—one bright maroon and another red, both louder than Regulus could ever wear. He watches his brother for a moment, then glances down at his own choice again.
It’s enough.
When the assistant returns with the boxes, Euphemia takes them both over to a bench and helps unpack them. James tries on his red pair first—his favourite is out of stock, apparently—but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s already bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Regulus slides his cleats on more carefully. The first size is a little tight. Too snug around the sides, pressing against his toes. He frowns, quietly taking them off again, and Euphemia notices right away.
“Too small?” she asks softly.
He nods. “I think so.”
She hands him the next size up, waiting patiently while he laces them. These feel better. Still snug, but in a good way—secure, not suffocating.
As he bends to adjust the tongue of the shoe, Euphemia’s voice drifts in: “You boys excited about playing soccer?”
James answers first, of course. “Yes! Super excited. I’d love to have Reg on my team!”
Regulus pauses, one lace still half-tied, eyes flicking up to Euphemia.
“Oh—did you know you two can play on the same team?” she says, beaming. “Since you’re in the same age range. Isn’t that nice?”
Regulus doesn’t say anything, not yet, but his hands move a little slower. A team. With James. The idea is both comforting and terrifying.
“It’d make getting to games easier,” Euphemia adds with a wink.
“Wait—so it’s still mixed this year?” James asks.
“Yep,” she replies. “Still mixed teams. Next year, though, just boys.”
“Damn,” James mutters. “I’m gonna miss having Marlene on my team.”
Regulus glances up again, curiosity tugging at the edges of his thoughts. “Who’s Marlene?” he asks quietly. “And… what do you mean mixed?”
James shrugs. “Marlene’s my friend—she’s a girl. And ‘mixed’ means boys and girls play on the same team.”
Regulus nods slowly, processing that.
Then, before he can stop himself: “Is Marlene nice?”
“The nicest!” James grins. “Pretty sure she’s really close with Dorcas, too.”
Something shifts. Regulus’ chest flutters again, but not from nerves this time. At the mention of Dorcas—his friend, the one person at school who doesn’t make him feel like he’s on the outside looking in—his whole face softens.
“Really?” he asks, barely above a whisper.
James doesn’t hesitate. “Really.”
They leave a few minutes later with shoeboxes tucked under each arm. James’ are dark red, just dramatic enough. Regulus’ are black and quiet, and he holds them carefully like they might fall apart if he squeezes too tight. His shin pads are new, too—Effie picked them out for him, saying something about the elastic being extra soft.
Outside, the air is crisp, the world quieter. As they walk to the car, Regulus lets himself breathe a little easier. His shoes are good. He didn’t have an episode. Effie smiled at him three separate times, just for him.
He looks down at the bag in his hands and lets himself feel a tiny flicker of pride.
Maybe today wasn’t so bad.
***
Regulus sits cross-legged on the floor of the living room, across from him, a makeshift football field of notebooks and pencils laid out between them. The paper football game was James’ idea—meant to kill time until dinner—and for a while, it had been fun. Regulus had almost forgotten the tight coil in his chest that’s been there since Sirius was taken away again.
Almost.
James flicks the paper football across the field. It soars cleanly through the pencil goalposts, landing on the carpet with a triumphant bounce.
“Ha! That’s three for me,” James says, smirking as he leans back on his elbows. “Bet Sirius couldn’t do that.”
Regulus’ hand stills above the paper football. His chest gives a small, involuntary jerk.
Sirius.
The name hits like a cold draft slipping in under the door—familiar and uninvited. Regulus had managed not to think about his brother too much today. And now it’s like James has opened a window in the dead of winter.
James doesn’t seem to notice the shift. “I mean, seriously, I don’t even know why you call that loser your brother. Like—hello? You do know he’s a criminal, right?”
Regulus can’t breathe for a second.
The words hit him too fast to dodge.
James tosses the paper football up and down, casual and unbothered, like he hasn’t just ripped a scab off something still healing. “Everybody hates him. I’m not even being dramatic. My friends hate him. Your friends hate him. Their parents even hate him. Oh, don’t even get me started on what they said—”
Regulus doesn’t hear the rest.
His hands curl into tight fists in his lap. He stares down at the game board they built together, but it blurs, unfocused. His throat burns. There’s a loud ringing in his ears.
He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t . It’s not even anything he hasn’t heard before. But it’s different hearing it come from James. From someone who’s supposed to be—
“And honestly,” James goes on, kicking at the bedframe, “he’s just a selfish, arrogant jerk who thinks the world revolves around him. I don’t get it. You’re way better off without him.”
“Shut up.”
Regulus doesn’t even realize he’s said it until the room goes still.
James turns toward him slowly. “Excuse me?”
Regulus’ voice shakes, but he raises it. “You heard me. Shut up.”
James sits up a little, his smugness dropping. “What’d I do?”
Regulus flinches. He doesn’t mean to, but his body reacts before he can stop it—like it’s bracing for something. His arms wrap around his middle, his shoulders tight. It’s stupid. James isn’t going to hurt him. James isn’t like that.
But Regulus still feels like he’s standing on a trapdoor.
“You—” He forces in a breath. He can feel the heat behind his eyes. “You’re telling lies.”
James frowns. “Lies?”
Regulus’ voice rises, quick and sharp and too close to breaking. “You’re telling lies about my brother. He’s not a criminal. My friends do like him. And he’s not a loser!”
He hears the desperation in his own voice and hates it.
James scoffs. “Okay, but I’m really not lying here, Reg. If you want the truth, just ask Mum and Dad. Or Sarah. She’ll definitely tell you.”
James reclines again like this is just another conversation. Like he hasn’t just stabbed Regulus in the chest with every word.
“But seriously, Reg… I don’t even know what you see in him. He abandoned you.”
“He did not abandon me!” Regulus shouts, standing up so fast the football skitters across the carpet.
James shrugs. “Okay. If he didn’t abandon you, then where is he?”
Regulus goes still.
The question echoes in his head like a slap.
Where is he?
Not here.
Not now.
Regulus’ mouth opens but nothing comes out.
James folds his arms. “Exactly. You can defend him all you want, but he’s not here. He’s never been there for you. Mum and Dad are. I am. Sirius? He left.”
Regulus shakes his head, blinking fast. “He didn’t want to leave me,” he says quietly. “He didn’t choose to.”
James shakes his head. “C’mon, Reg. You don’t have to lie to yourself too. Just admit it—he left. He doesn’t care. And you’re better off.”
“You don’t know anything about him!” Regulus snaps. His voice is high and sharp, and now he is crying. He hates it. Hates the tears and the shaking and the heat crawling up his neck. “You don’t know what he’s done for me—what he tried to do!”
James’ eyes narrow. “He tried to do nothing. And the sooner you figure that out, the better.”
Something in Regulus cracks open.
The tears fall faster now, hot and angry.
“I hate you!” he yells.
James flinches.
But Regulus doesn’t wait. He spins and storms out of the room, fists clenched, vision blurry. He stomps his way up the stairs, and he doesn’t stop moving until he’s in his bedroom. Heart pounding in his ears, chest aching with the weight of it all, as he slams the door behind him so hard the walls shake.
He doesn’t know if he hates James. Not really.
But in that moment, he knows this much:
He misses Sirius more than anything in the world. And he doesn’t want to hear anyone else talk about him like he’s nothing.
Not ever again.
Regulus didn’t cry at first.
Not when he left the room, not even when he stormed his way up the stairs, taking the stairs two at a time. Not when he slammed the door behind him so hard it rattled in its frame, and locked himself in his room without saying a word.
Now, he’s sat on the floor with his back against the door until his breathing evened out. Only then did he crawl onto the bed and curl up tight, yanking the blanket over his head like a shield. His chest ached. His head ached. His hands still shook.
He hated James.
He hated him.
He hated the things James said about Sirius. Hated how easily the words had come out. Like they were facts. Like he knew . Like he had the right to talk about Sirius as if he hadn’t meant anything. As if he hadn’t tried .
But what if…
Regulus curled tighter around the stuffed black dog in his arms—his stupid stuffed dog that looked like him , like Sirius, and made the ache worse even while it helped.
What if James was right?
What if Sirius had left him?
What if he hadn’t tried?
The thought wormed its way into Regulus’ chest and made it harder to breathe. He pressed his face into the fabric of the dog's soft fur. He wanted to believe James was wrong. He needed to. But Sirius wasn’t here. He hadn’t come for him. He hadn’t written. He hadn’t even spoken.
Why didn’t he come back?
There’s a knock at the door.
Regulus stiffens.
“Regulus?” a soft voice says. “It’s me. Monty.”
Regulus stays quiet. Maybe if he doesn’t answer, Fleamont will go away.
“Can I come in?”
Regulus tightens his grip on the stuffed dog. His voice comes out hoarse. “Go away.”
There’s a pause.
“Can’t do that, buddy.”
“Yes you can,” Regulus says, sharper this time. His throat is still thick. “Just go.”
Another silence, heavier this time. Then: “I could,” Fleamont says, voice steady, “but then you’d be all alone. I’m just here to talk to you. You’re not in trouble. Please let me in?”
Regulus closes his eyes.
He doesn’t want to talk. But he doesn’t want to be alone either. His limbs feel heavy, like they’re made of stone, but slowly, reluctantly, he moves off the bed and shuffles toward the door. He hesitates, fingers resting on the handle. Then he twists it.
The door creaks open.
Fleamont stands there in the hallway, kind and calm and not pushing. Regulus doesn’t look at him. He keeps his head down, his hair falling like a curtain across his face. He steps back silently and walks over to the bed again, sinking down into the mattress and clutching the stuffed dog like a lifeline.
Fleamont closes the door gently. The soft click of the latch makes Regulus flinch anyway.
“Can I sit here?” Fleamont asks, nodding toward the edge of the bed.
Regulus gives a small nod. His throat is too tight for words.
Fleamont sits.
The silence stretches. Regulus focuses on the threads in the blanket, twisting one loose string around his finger again and again until it cuts into the skin.
“I’ve gotta be honest with you, kiddo,” Fleamont says eventually.
Regulus lifts his gaze slightly, just enough to glance at him from beneath his lashes.
“I’m not too sure what you’re feeling right now… but from what I can gather, you’re feeling pretty hurt. And upset. Right?”
Regulus nods. That much is true.
“I’d feel pretty hurt and upset too if I just had a fight.”
Regulus shakes his head. “It wasn’t just a fight.”
Fleamont tilts his head. “No?”
Regulus swallows. “James told lies.”
“Lies?”
“Lies about Sirius.” His voice trembles. “James said Sirius is a criminal. Which isn’t true.”
Fleamont doesn’t interrupt. He just listens.
“But…” Regulus looks down again. “James said some things that got me thinking.”
“Yeah?”
Regulus nods, pressing his chin to the dog’s head. “He pointed out that Sirius wasn’t here. And I started to think why Sirius isn’t here.”
He trails off. The silence grows heavy again.
“Monty?” he says, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah, kiddo?”
“Why is Sirius not with me?”
He hates how the question sounds. So small. So helpless. But it won’t leave him alone. It’s been circling in his head since he ran from James’ room. It’s what he’s really afraid of.
He thinks Fleamont won’t answer. But then Fleamont shifts a little on the bed.
“Well, kiddo… I’m not one hundred percent sure why you two were separated in the first place.”
Regulus blinks. “I don’t either.”
“Sometimes things happen,” Fleamont says gently. “Kids get separated. They get placed in different homes. Different social workers. Now, I don’t know how Sarah knew about your brother, but she’s been trying—really trying—to track him down. And, well…”
He pauses.
“She’s trying to place him with us. It’s just taking some time.”
Regulus’ eyes widen. He lifts his head fully now.
“So… my brother isn’t a criminal?”
Monty gives a slow nod. “Yeah, bud. Sirius isn’t a criminal.”
Regulus exhales. It comes out shaky, like a breath he’s been holding for days. The fear inside him loosens, just a little.
He looks down at the stuffed dog in his arms and hugs it tighter.
Maybe James was wrong.
Maybe Sirius did want to come back.
Maybe—just maybe—he still will.
***
Laura’s office is quiet, warm in a way that makes Regulus feel strange—like he’s allowed to breathe but isn’t sure how. The rain taps softly against the window behind him, steady and soft, like a heartbeat he doesn’t have to be afraid of. He sits cross-legged on the rug, legs tucked close, the fibres scratchy beneath his ankles. His colouring page is carefully flattened on the floor. He hasn’t looked up since they arrived.
He keeps his strokes even, slow. Blue crayon. Stay inside the lines. Stay in control.
The couch behind him creaks slightly. He doesn’t look, but he knows Euphemia is sitting up too straight. Knows Fleamont is beside her, leaning forward like he’s waiting for something bad to happen.
Laura’s voice breaks the quiet. “So, Regulus,” she says gently, “do you mind explaining why both Euphemia and Fleamont have requested to join in on this session?”
He shrugs, eyes still fixed on his page. He presses the crayon down harder.
Just keep colouring. Don’t let your hand shake.
Laura doesn’t push. She turns her attention to the adults instead. “Okay. So, what is it you’d like to discuss, that needs my presence?”
Regulus hears Euphemia exhale before she speaks. “We just found out Regulus has an older brother. His name is Sirius.”
The name strikes somewhere deep in his chest, like a stone dropped into still water. He presses harder. The crayon snaps.
“We’ve been trying to get Regulus to talk about his brother more,” Euphemia continues.
He hears Fleamont finish the thought quietly. “If anything at all.”
They don’t know. They can’t know.
Laura’s voice is smooth, calm. She asks why they think that is.
Euphemia hesitates. Then, “Honestly, I’m not sure.”
Fleamont doesn’t speak. Regulus can feel him watching, even before the couch shifts and weight sinks down beside him. Fleamont’s presence is careful. Gentle.
“I think,” he says softly, “it’s because something happened. Right?”
Regulus’ crayon halts mid-stroke. He holds it suspended, his fingers stiff.
“Something scary. And talking about your brother brings back those scary memories, yeah?”
That’s not it.
He shakes his head. Not looking. Not breathing properly.
“No?” Fleamont asks.
Regulus whispers, “No. Not really.”
Laura leans forward. “Okay. Do you think you can explain?”
His mouth feels dry. There’s that thudding in his chest again.
“You remember what I said about talking to make the hurt go away?” Fleamont asks.
Regulus nods slowly.
“You don’t have to tell us everything,” Fleamont adds. “Just a little bit. Yeah?”
He doesn’t want to. But Fleamont’s voice is soft and safe and steady, and something in Regulus cracks open just a little.
“…Okay,” he whispers.
“Okay?” Fleamont asks again, like he’s offering one last exit.
Regulus nods, a bit firmer this time. “Okay.”
He takes a breath—shaky, uneven. Then another.
“Um—in… in past homes…” His voice wobbles, throat tight. “I was told off for trying to see my brother and—”
He stops. Frustration rises hard and fast, pushing tears to the corners of his eyes. He clenches his jaw.
He doesn’t want to cry.
“And—did you think we’d react the same way, sweetheart?”
It’s Euphemia. Her voice is quiet. Careful.
He nods without looking up. Shame prickles along his skin.
They’re going to think he’s stupid. Or worse—they’ll get tired of him too.
He curls in slightly, shoulders hunching. His head dips lower, the colouring page blurring under watery eyes.
“They said…” He swallows. “That having a teenager around would… lower my chances of being fostered. Or… or even adopted.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. The words feel like glass in his mouth.
“They said I should forget about him. That I should be glad I wasn’t with him. I—”
His voice gives out.
The tears fall too fast to stop now. He wipes at them with his sleeve, but they just keep coming.
And then Fleamont is there—his hand warm and steady on Regulus’ shoulder. Not grabbing. Not forcing. Just there .
Regulus doesn’t even think. He leans into it, the way a plant leans toward light. And then he’s curled up in Fleamont’s lap, shaking and silent and clinging, trying not to sob out loud.
Fleamont holds him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like Regulus isn’t too much. Like he’s allowed to be this small and this scared.
He presses his face into Fleamont’s chest and lets himself be held.
For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like weakness.
It feels like relief .
Regulus presses his face against Fleamont’s shirt, trying to breathe, but it’s like all the air in the room has thickened into water. His chest heaves with tight, shallow gasps. His fingers cling to Fleamont’s shirt, white-knuckled.
“I– I just want him back,” he sobs, the words rushing out, jagged and raw. “I– I j–just really– really want to see him a–again.”
Fleamont rubs slow circles into his back. “I know, buddy,” he murmurs. “I know.”
Regulus curls in tighter, like maybe if he folds small enough, the pain will stop. It doesn’t. The tears just keep falling. His whole body trembles, worn thin by months—years—of holding this in.
Eventually, his sobs lose their sharp edges. His breathing slows. His muscles unclench a little, though he stays close, not ready to let go. His voice is thick and hoarse when he speaks again.
“It’s not fair.”
Fleamont hums. “What?”
Regulus lifts his head slightly, sniffling. “It’s just not fair.”
Fleamont shifts, so they’re eye to eye. “What’s not fair, bud?”
Regulus swallows. “That Sirius isn’t with me. That other foster parents thought—thought that he—he wasn’t worth their time or… or energy. It’s not fair.”
His throat burns again, but this time, no tears come. It just feels like something twisting deep inside, dark and sour.
Before Fleamont can respond, Laura’s voice cuts gently through the air.
“No, it’s not fair,” she says, her tone careful, even. “People shouldn’t choose whether to help someone or not. But, unfortunately, that’s life, Regulus. People will always choose to help others when it’s convenient for them.”
Regulus frowns. His fingers flex in Fleamont’s jumper. Something about her words makes his stomach lurch.
Convenient.
Does that mean Fleamont and Euphemia conveniently chose him ? Did he just happen to be the easiest to help? Could they do the same with Sirius… or not?
He pulls back slightly, just enough to breathe, just enough to think.
“Does—do you—um…” He falters, cheeks burning. His tongue feels too big for his mouth.
Laura catches his eye and offers a small nod. “It’s alright, Regulus. This is a safe place. You can say anything you’d like.”
He nods slowly, then shifts out of Fleamont’s arms just a little, curling in on himself again.
“Does—does that mean Effie and Monty conveniently chose to help me? Because it suited them?”
He doesn’t dare look at either of them. The silence that follows is too loud. Heavy. And he doesn’t need to see their faces to feel the hurt in the room.
Laura answers for them.
“Well, some people are different, Regulus. Some people do actually choose to help others because it’s the right thing to do. And from what I assume is the case with Euphemia and Fleamont… they were given the option to help you, and they took it.”
There’s a shift beside him. Euphemia’s voice is quiet but firm.
“We would never help any child just out of convenience, sweetheart. Fleamont and I—we want to help. We want to provide a stable home for you. And for others, too.”
Regulus finally glances up. Euphemia looks serious. Not upset. Just… steady. Real.
Fleamont nods. “We could never not want to help, Regulus. It’s who we are.”
Regulus blinks a few times, then nods slowly. The tightness in his chest eases, just a little.
“And—and if you can help me… then you can help Sirius. Right?”
He looks between them, searching. Hoping. Euphemia’s expression has changed. There’s something in her eyes he can’t name. Not quite soft, not quite sad—but definitely not closed-off.
Fleamont answers, voice gentle. “If we’re given the opportunity… yes. Yes, we will.”
Regulus exhales, his breath shaky. “But—but it’s up to Sarah, right? Sarah chooses where we go?”
Fleamont nods. “Yeah, buddy. It’s Sarah’s choice.”
Something about the way he says it makes Regulus’ chest tighten again. He hears the sadness in Fleamont’s voice, even if he doesn’t understand it.
The session winds down quietly after that. Regulus stays close to Fleamont, but not clinging anymore. The storm inside him has calmed, but the clouds haven’t fully cleared.
Laura checks her watch. “Okay, then. I think that’s enough for today.”
Regulus lets out a slow breath.
Laura continues, “I do want to talk with all of you about your upcoming assessment.”
Regulus stiffens. “Assessment?”
Panic coils through his stomach.
“What assessment?” His voice cracks.
Laura raises a hand gently. “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about, Regulus. It’s just an assessment to determine whether you have Autism.”
Euphemia straightens a little. “Ah, yes. So, what would you like Fleamont and I to do?”
Laura replies, “I’d like the pair of you to fill out a sort of questionnaire. Then, either next week or the week after, I’ll conduct an observational assessment with Regulus.”
“Sounds perfect to me,” Euphemia says.
“What about you, Fleamont?” she asks.
“Yeah, sounds good.”
Fleamont turns back to Regulus. He’s gotten quiet again—smaller somehow.
Fleamont leans in, voice low. “Everything alright, kiddo?”
Regulus shakes his head.
“No?” Fleamont prompts. “Do you think you can tell me?”
Regulus swallows hard. “A—a test…” His voice drops. “What—what if I—I fail?”
Fleamont doesn’t flinch. He just nods slowly, understanding in his eyes. “Ah. You’re nervous about the test.”
Regulus nods, small and ashamed.
“I get that,” Fleamont says. “I really do. But fortunately for you, bud, you can’t actually pass or fail this kind of test. So there’s nothing to be scared about. Alright?”
Regulus nods again, still unsure, but trying to believe him.
Fleamont continues gently. “If you’re still scared when it gets closer, you can always ask us to sit with you. Or better yet, you could ask Laura what types of questions she’ll be asking.”
Regulus thinks about it. About the idea of knowing the questions ahead of time. About Fleamont and Euphemia sitting nearby. It helps. Not a lot. But enough.
“…Alright,” he says quietly.
Fleamont smiles, nodding. “Alright.”
***
Apparently, Pandora wants to hang out with him before school starts again. That’s all Regulus really knows—Euphemia got the message from Mrs. Rosier. Still, he’d said yes without thinking much. Now he’s in the passenger seat of Fleamont’s car, fiddling with the hem of his shirt while houses pass by in a blur.
He’s… excited. Nervous, too, but mostly excited. Pandora’s one of the only people he doesn’t feel exhausted around. There’s something about her that makes it easier to breathe. Still, as the car hums along the road, Regulus can’t stop the memory from sneaking in.
The last time he saw Pandora was at his birthday. And Sirius was there.
Sirius.
Regulus stares out the window, fingers tightening slightly in the fabric of his shirt. It doesn’t hurt the same way it used to. That heavy, suffocating sadness is distant today, like it’s behind glass. But it’s still there, a faint pull in his chest. Enough to make him quiet. Enough to take the shine off his excitement. Not enough to ruin it.
The car slows.
Regulus blinks as Fleamont pulls up in front of a house he’s only seen once before. Pandora’s house. He remembers the birthday party—Pandora and Evan’s joint one. It was loud, kind of chaotic, but Pandora had stayed close to him the whole time, and that had made it better.
Now, as he unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car, he can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips. The air smells like cut grass and late summer. He adjusts his sleeves, falling into step beside Fleamont as they walk up the path.
The closer he gets to the door, the more the Sirius-shaped ache fades. Not completely, but enough.
Because he gets to see Pandora.
He risks a quick glance up at Fleamont. Something’s been a little off with him lately. Regulus isn’t sure what it is—he just seems quieter than usual, more thoughtful. He hopes it’s nothing serious. He hopes Fleamont feels better soon.
Fleamont raises his hand and knocks twice. The sound echoes only a moment before the door swings open.
Pandora beams. “Regulus! You’ve made it!”
She steps aside quickly. “Come on in.”
“Hi, Pandora,” he says, voice quiet, almost shy.
Her smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it grows warmer.
“Ah, Margriette,” Fleamont says with a polite nod, “thank you for having Regulus over.”
“Not at all, Fleamont,” Mrs. Rosier replies from behind Pandora. “It’s my pleasure.”
Fleamont turns to Regulus now, crouching just a bit to meet his eyes. “Alright, kiddo, you behave, alright?”
Regulus nods.
Fleamont chuckles. “Of course you will, who am I kidding?”
He rests a hand briefly on Regulus’ shoulder. “Just have a good time, buddy. I’ll see you in a couple of hours, alright?”
“Okay,” Regulus murmurs.
“Okay, good.” Fleamont smiles. “Oh—before I forget—if you need anything, you just let Margriette know. And if you need to come home early, no shame in it, alright? Just say the word and I’ll be here.”
Regulus nods again. “Alright.”
Fleamont ruffles his hair, and Regulus surprises himself by smiling. He’s about to say goodbye when Pandora grabs his hand and tugs him gently down the hallway.
“Alright then!” she chirps. “What would you like to do? We could paint, we could play video games, we could even go to the park?”
Regulus shrugs, unsure. The options seem… open. Too open. Is he even allowed to choose?
She must see something in his face, because she tilts her head and says, softer now, “You can choose whatever you’d like. I was the one who invited you here, anyways.”
He thinks about it, then quietly says, “Can we do art?”
Pandora’s whole face lights up. “Yes! Absolutely! Let’s go.”
She whisks him down the hall with more energy than he knows what to do with. The room feels like stepping into a world entirely Pandora's own—a chaotic kind of magic that somehow makes perfect sense.
Sunlight filters in through a wide window on the far wall, casting warm light across the space and making the colors scattered throughout the room feel even more vivid. The walls are covered in artwork—some framed, some just taped or pinned up haphazardly. There are paint-splattered canvases, charcoal sketches curling slightly at the corners, half-finished watercolours clipped to a drying rack, and even a large, messy mural on one wall that looks like it’s been added to over time, layer after layer.
The floor is hardwood, scuffed and stained with old splashes of paint. A worn, mismatched rug sits under the central table, which is large, rectangular, and clearly well-used. It’s covered in jars of paintbrushes, cups of murky water, tubes of acrylics and oils, scattered sketchbooks, and a few crusted palettes still holding dried blobs of color. The edges are smudged with fingerprints and streaks of paint in every imaginable hue.
Shelves line one wall, stacked with supplies—neatly organized at the top, but descending into delightful chaos the closer you get to the bottom. There are tubs labeled things like “GLITTER” and “MISC SCRAPS” and “PAPER (good)” with sharpie handwriting, likely Pandora’s own. A small cart on wheels holds ink pots, pastels, and brushes in various stages of decay or glory.
A corner of the room is clearly a seating nook, with two beanbags and a low table buried in books and magazines. Next to it, there’s a record player and a stack of vinyl records—some of them art-themed, others just music you’d want to play while painting for hours.
The whole room smells faintly of acrylic paint, paper, and that earthy, comforting scent of pencil shavings.
The walls are covered in drawings, paintings, swatches of colour. Tables and shelves are overflowing with jars of brushes and folded canvases and tubes of paint.
It’s cluttered, warm, expressive, and utterly lived-in—just like Pandora herself.
“This is my art room,” Pandora says proudly.
Regulus stares, mouth parting slightly.
“Mum and Dad were getting sick of me using the kitchen table for everything, so they gave me this instead,” she continues. “I have a strong suspicion Evan and Felix pushed for it. They were very pleased when I stopped leaving messes everywhere.”
Regulus hums, still taking it all in. The room feels alive. Vibrant. He’s never seen anything like it.
Pandora moves further into the space. “Evan’s out with Barty and some other boys they know—doing god knows what. And Felix is out with his girlfriend. They’re supposed to be watching a movie.”
She mumbles, “But they hardly ever watch movies now…”
Regulus blinks. That doesn’t make sense.
“What do you mean?” he asks, tilting his head.
Pandora pauses. “What do I mean?”
“Yeah. I mean… what else would they be doing at the movies? That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
He watches her face change—confusion to amusement to something unreadable.
“Oh,” she says.
“Oh?” he repeats.
“Yeah. Oh. ” She looks at him closely. “You don’t—don’t you know that teenagers typically go to the movies to make out?”
Regulus frowns. “What do you mean, make out ?”
“Kissing,” she says slowly. “Like… kissing a lot .”
Regulus is more confused now. “How do you know that?”
Pandora shrugs. “Touche.” She begins gathering art supplies. “But seriously, how do you not know that? I mean, I only know because I have two older brothers.”
He hesitates. How is he supposed to explain that he wasn’t allowed to know things? That his parents controlled every corner of his life? Micromanaged every second of his day?
He goes with the simplest version. “My parents sheltered my brother and me. A lot.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, curious now.
He shrugs. “Umm… I mean, we never went to the movies. Or out in general. They picked every hobby I did. Which, I didn’t hate, really, but…” His voice trails off.
Pandora stares for a moment. “Wow. They sound… kind of crazy.”
Regulus snorts, before he can stop himself. “That’s exactly what Sirius would say.”
He sees her tense at the mention of his brother, though he doesn’t know why. But before he can ask, she’s pushing paint palettes toward him and gesturing for him to sit down.
So he does.
They spend the rest of the day painting and talking. They talk about school starting up again—how they’re going into Year 8, what classes they might take, how they hope they’ll be in the same art class again.
And slowly, like sunlight warming cold skin, Regulus feels lighter.
It doesn’t erase the ache in his chest, but it dulls it.
Pandora doesn’t try to fix anything. She just listens, talks, laughs. And somehow, that’s enough.
Sirius is still there, in the back of his mind.
But he’s not everything.
Not today.
And Regulus is so, so grateful.
***
Regulus really is trying his best to stay awake.
The living room is dim now, lit only by the soft yellow of the side lamp next to his armchair. Shadows stretch long across the floor, curling around the furniture like they’re trying to lull him to sleep too. But Regulus fights it—keeps his eyes glued to the pages of his book even as the words start to blur and dance together. His blanket is bunched at his side, crumpled from where he’s been gripping it too tightly.
He doesn’t want to go to bed. Not yet. Not when there’s still a chance. Not when there’s still hope.
Hope that the door will creak open and Sirius will be there, grinning that too-wide grin of his, hair a mess and eyes shining with mischief and exhaustion and relief.
But the door stays shut. And Sirius isn’t here.
It’s nearing eight o’clock when he hears footsteps padding down the hallway—then Euphemia’s head peeks into the living room.
“Come on, love,” she says gently. “Time to go to bed.”
Regulus all but groans in frustration, slumping lower into the chair. He curls in on himself, hugging his blanket to his chest. His throat tightens. It feels like a betrayal, like giving up. He blinks hard, willing the sting behind his eyes to go away.
Euphemia steps into the room and kneels in front of him, her voice as calm and warm as always. “I know, sweetheart,” she says. “But it’s time to go to bed. You have school in the morning.”
He knows. He knows . And he’s excited for school, he really is. But there’s a hole in his chest that excitement can’t fill. A tight, raw ache that’s shaped exactly like his brother.
What if Sirius isn’t coming?
“Okay,” he sighs, his voice barely above a whisper.
Slowly, deliberately, he places his bookmark between the pages. His fingers hesitate for just a moment, brushing the edges like they don’t want to let go. Then he closes the book, tucks it against his chest, and gathers up his blanket. He stands, dragging his feet just a little.
Euphemia is already by the doorway, waiting. Her presence is steadying.
“How about this,” she says, her voice quiet and conspiratorial, “how about you come and sleep in mine and Monty’s bed tonight?”
Regulus nods, eyes still downcast. That could work. It doesn’t fix anything, but it’s better than being alone.
“All right then,” she says. “Get your butt upstairs then.”
He nods again, unable to muster a smile. As he trudges up the stairs, each step feels heavier than the last. The thought worms its way back in—maybe Sirius really isn’t coming. Maybe he’ll never see him again.
He’s halfway through changing into his pyjamas when the memory hits: his birthday. The rush of excitement, the thrill of knowing he’d see his brother again. He hadn’t realized at the time it might be the last.
His hands freeze mid-movement. He’s tired—bone-deep, aching tired. Not just from the day, but from everything . From hoping. From crying every time he thinks about Sirius. From pretending not to care.
And so, he makes a decision. He shrugs his jumper on, pads down the hallway in his socks, and makes his way quietly downstairs again.
He wants to talk to Fleamont.
What he’s noticed over these past couple weeks is that, out of everyone in this house, Fleamont seems to like Sirius. Doesn’t flinch at his name. Doesn’t make that tight-lipped expression Euphemia sometimes does, or scowl like James does. Regulus doesn’t understand it—why they react like that. He just wants answers. Or comfort. Or maybe both.
The hallway to Fleamont’s study is quiet, save for the hum of a distant floorboard creaking beneath his step. Regulus pulls his blanket closer around his shoulders. The idea of a hug lingers in the back of his mind. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have thought about it. Back then, the only person he could tolerate touching him like that was Sirius. But now?
Now, there’s a short list. Euphemia. Fleamont. Even James, on rare occasions. Regulus isn’t sure how it happened, just that it did. And that it feels… safe. Nice, even.
He opens the study door just a crack and peers in.
“Ah, Regulus,” Fleamont says, looking up from his laptop. “Everything alright, kiddo?”
Regulus shrugs, shuffling into the room. “Yeah… kind of? I don’t know…”
Fleamont’s already pushing his laptop aside. “What’s the matter, bud?”
Regulus walks a little closer, blanket trailing along the hardwood floor. “I just thought that…”
He trails off. It’s hard to say the words out loud. Harder still to admit he just wants someone to sit with him. To let him be small and quiet and not alone.
Fleamont seems to understand, because he nods. “Just give me a couple more moments, and I’ll be done.”
Regulus nods and perches on the edge of a nearby armchair, tucking his knees to his chest as he watches Fleamont pack up. His movements are neat and practiced, folding papers, zipping compartments. There’s a comforting rhythm to it.
He knows Fleamont is a scientist. That he teaches. That he does research. But beyond that?
“I know you’re a scientist,” Regulus says.
Fleamont hums in acknowledgement, still moving through his routine.
“But… what exactly do you study? Like, I know you teach and do research papers. But I just don’t know what in.”
Fleamont lets out an amused “ahh” and nods. “Well, I kinda do a mix of both Chemistry and Biology,” he begins. “I managed to invent this device to help investigate microbiology, but the device was intended to be used for chemical reactions. I mostly flip flop between the two subjects. I honestly can’t pick a favourite.”
Regulus nods. That tracks. Fleamont definitely gives off Chemistry vibes.
“Could’ve guessed that.”
Fleamont chuckles. “You could’ve? Well… I don’t suppose you could’ve guessed that I wanted to study all the sciences, could you?”
Regulus giggles, a small one, and nods again. That sounds right. It feels nice, sharing this with someone. Being able to ask questions and be taken seriously.
“You like science, don’t you?” Fleamont asks as he crosses the room.
Regulus nods.
“Well, I don’t suppose if you were given the opportunity, you could study all of them?”
Another nod. If he could study everything, he would. It’s all fascinating, the way the world works. The rules that hold everything together.
Fleamont musses his hair with one warm hand and grins. “Could’ve guessed that myself.”
Regulus just smiles, cheeks warming.
“How about we get some ice cream before bed, huh?”
He perks up at that. Euphemia just bought chocolate ice cream. He’s been waiting to try it.
They leave the study together, Fleamont’s hand brushing his back briefly. The door clicks shut behind them, and they enter the kitchen to find Euphemia already there.
“Ahh, about time you two showed up,” she says, smiling. “What flavour would you like, sweetheart?”
“Chocolate, please.”
He watches closely as Euphemia scoops the ice cream, pausing each time for his approval. It’s a small thing, but it matters. Being asked. Being given a choice.
Fleamont takes the bowl and raises an eyebrow. “Would you like any toppings? We’ve got whipped cream, sprinkles, chocolate syrup…”
“No thank you,” Regulus says. “Just the ice cream, please.”
“Of course, bud,” Fleamont says. “Here, it’s all yours.”
He takes the bowl and sits across from Regulus at the table. The kitchen is full of soft noises—spoons clinking against bowls, the hum of the fridge.
“So, I heard you’re trying soccer,” Fleamont says casually.
Regulus nods, mouth full.
“Yes, I am,” he mumbles, then glances down. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Hope that’s—of course it is!” Fleamont says, surprised. “Do you know how much fun we have watching James play? Now just imagine how much fun we’ll have watching you!”
Regulus smiles, unsure of what to do with the warmth that blooms in his chest. He doesn’t quite understand the feeling. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s being seen.
Soon, Euphemia and James join them.
“So,” Euphemia says as she settles into her seat, “first day back at school tomorrow. How is everyone feeling?”
James groans.
“On one hand, I don’t wanna go. But on the other, I get to see my friends. So…” he shrugs and digs into his ice cream.
Fleamont chuckles. “Well, I for one, don’t start teaching ’til Tuesday. But I’ve still got the last final touch-ups to do before I can even start teaching.”
Euphemia nods, then turns to Regulus. “What about you, love? How do you feel?”
Regulus shrugs. He doesn’t know. Part of him is excited—routine is good. Seeing his friends is good. But…
This will be the first school year he’s starting without Sirius. The first time he’s going without his brother to walk the halls beside him. And it’s also the first time he’s starting school without his parents. It’s all different now. Strange.
“I don’t know,” he whispers.
Euphemia’s watching him closely, gently.
“It’s okay not to know how you feel about things, sweetheart,” she says. “As long as you talk to someone about them, then that’s enough.”
He nods slowly. She says that a lot. Encourages him to talk, even when he can’t find the right words. She says someone can always help him figure it out.
He keeps eating his ice cream.
It’s a good idea, realistically. Regulus talking to someone about his feelings, his emotions. To seek advice when it all becomes too confusing, to help avoid an overload in his system.
That’s what Laura called it. His episodes. There actually just meltdowns and shutdowns autistic people get. It’s his system overheating, overloading, because too much information is coming in, and he is unable to keep up and process it all at once.
Regulus is still unsure about the whole autism thing.
The questions they asked were strange. Basic. “Does your child respond to their name when being called?” Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? Isn’t it rude not to?
He’s rinsing out his bowl when Euphemia speaks.
“Hey, sweetheart? I was just wondering, whether you wanted me to come in with you tomorrow? Considering it’s the first day back. And things can get a little hectic.”
She’s right. It is hectic. Always is. But the idea of someone being there for him… it’s new.
It was always Sirius. Sirius made sure he was okay. Showed him where to go. But now Sirius isn’t here.
And Euphemia is.
Does he want her there?
Yes. He does. But—
“What are the conditions?” he asks without looking at her.
“I’m sorry?” she replies, startled.
“To you staying with me. What are the conditions? Will you just walk in with me? Or will you stay a little?”
“I’ll do whatever you want, sweetheart,” she says, stepping closer. “If you just want me to walk in with you I will. If you want me to come into your class and sit with you, I will. If you don’t want to stay the whole day, I’ll take you home.”
She places her hands gently on either side of his face, guiding him to look at her. Her eyes are hazel—soft, kind. He wonders how he never noticed that before.
“Tomorrow is all about you, love. I’ll do whatever you need me to do, okay?”
“Okay,” he whispers.
They stay like that for a while, holding each other in the warm, still air of the kitchen.
Then the doorbell rings.
Euphemia pulls back. “I’ll get it.”
He watches as she opens the door. Sees her face shift into something surprised and confused—then bright.
“Sarah!”
Regulus freezes.
Sarah.
Which means—
He bolts forward. And there he is.
Sirius.
There. In the flesh. Real.
Regulus doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe. He’s just moving, wrapping himself in his brother’s arms before the world can catch up.
“Sirius,” he whispers. “You’re here.”
“Yeah, Reggie, I’m here.”
Regulus pulls back just far enough to see his brother’s face, to make sure it’s really him. “You kept your promise.”
Sirius nods, smiling. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
Time passes—but Regulus doesn’t notice.
Sirius is here. With him.
And that’s all that matters. Nothing else. Just this.
Notes:
Word Count: 13,481
Published: 2025-05-14Hey all! Just wanted to give a quick little update on things!
As, I have previously mentioned in my previous end-of-chapter notes, I have recently become a freshly Uni-ifed Uni Student. Haha, get it? Anyhow, I am currently nearing the end of my first semester/term, horray!! It's been a crazy, last couple of months (2 to be exact!).Anyways, due to my very poor ADHD and other learning disabilities (plus other mental health issues/bad sleep issues), have caused some stress on upcoming/pending assessments, leaving all my time pre-occupied with those. Ahhh... the joys of Uni life, lol. This, unforntuately, means I have been unable to pre-write any more chapters, past the half-written Chapter 28, which, I intend to finish, and hopefully upload next week.
Now, I know I've said I will post every Wednesday, however, as assessments/exams have been rolling around, I will be taking a break, for the next couple weeks. I should be back to writing/uploading chapters this time, next month, maybe earlier, just depends.
I hope you all can understand my dilemma. This pains me more than probably you haha. If you do not have anything nice to say about this lack of uploading issue, I kindly ask that you too leave your opinions at the front door.
This doesn't mean I am abandoning the story, this just means I am taking a slight break. If I, somehow, manage to upload still every Wednesday, despite this issue, it's most likely because I'm procrastinating. And, most likely, going to cause a MAJOR CRASH OUT later, for my lovely Mother to deal with.
Shout out to the mothers of the group, hope every mother (doesn't matter how you became a mother, you are still a mother), had an excellent Mother's Day that just passed on Sunday!! Gotta love my mother, who, had to deal with several crash-outs last year (as I was finishing my Senior year of high school, jeez...)
Thank you, everyone for reading, and for understanding. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I will see you, maybe next week, maybe the week after. I really appearicate the comments, keep up the good work! (Keeps me motivated, also gives me the rush of dopamine I need to continue this fic lol)
Enjoy the rest of your day! (Sorry for the long end-of-chapter note lol)
Also, finally hit the 300K word count?? That's like... 1000 pages... Father would be proud lol.
Chapter 28: The True Meaning of Father's Day
Summary:
Regulus has never questioned the routine before, except, now he does. Now? Now all he can think about is what Father’s day represents… everything that Sirius represents.
Regulus doesn’t know how to go about it. Maybe Laura can help…
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Regulus can hear voices murmuring all around him—soft and distant like waves against the shore—but he makes no effort to move. The world could be burning down, and he wouldn’t care. Because here, right here, is his brother.
Sirius.
Sirius is here.
The thought is almost too much. It echoes in his chest, louder than anything else. Sirius is here, and Regulus is clinging to him like he’s afraid he might vanish all over again. Arms wound tightly around Sirius’s torso, his face pressed into the worn fabric of his shirt, Regulus breathes him in.
The smell hits him first—stale, greasy, unwashed. It’s a sharp contrast to the clean, expensive colognes Sirius used to sneak from their father’s collection. Now, he smells like he hasn’t showered in weeks, like old sweat and detention center soap that didn’t quite mask anything. Regulus breathes it in anyway, like it’s the sweetest thing in the world. Because it is him. It is Sirius.
When Regulus finally pulls back, he blinks up at his brother—and then he really looks.
Sirius’s hair is longer than Regulus has ever seen it, long enough to brush his chin, straggly and slick with oil. Their mother would’ve had a fit if he came to the dinner table looking like this. She barely tolerated an inch past the ears. Regulus remembers the shouting matches—how Sirius always pushed it just far enough to get a rise. But this? This isn’t rebellion. This is something else.
His clothes are another shock. The t-shirt hangs off his shoulders like it was made for someone else, swallowing up his frame. It’s wrinkled and stained near the hem. His jeans are just slightly too short, exposing his ankles in an awkward, ill-fitting way. Sirius always used to dress sharply—too sharply, if you asked their mother. He had style, attitude. He cared about how he looked, maybe a little too much sometimes. But it was part of him.
And this—this isn’t Sirius. Not the way Regulus remembers.
Something cold twists in his gut. Not disgust, not judgment. Just… worry. A deep, gnawing worry that has lived in his chest ever since Sirius disappeared from the hospital three days ago. Regulus knows his brother. Sirius would never wear mismatched, dirty clothes. He used to sneer at people who did. It wasn’t vanity—it was control. Pride.
But now…
Before he can say anything, before he can form the words lodged in his throat, Euphemia’s gentle voice breaks the silence.
“Regulus, why don’t you let your brother come inside, hmm?”
Her tone is soft, warm. Not pushing. Just offering.
Regulus nods silently, automatically, and pulls away from Sirius completely. His hand reaches out before he can stop it, fingers closing around his brother’s wrist like he’s still afraid Sirius might bolt. He tugs him gently over the threshold, into the house.
Sarah’s voice follows them in. “Okay, I just want to say a couple things before I leave, alright?”
Regulus watches from the corner of his eye as Sirius gives a small nod. It’s barely more than a tilt of the chin, and something about it makes Regulus’s stomach tighten again.
He turns his attention back toward Sarah.
“Alright, so, you know how this works. I’ll come do check-ins, and the first one will be next Sunday—same day I have my check-ins with Regulus.”
Sirius nods again, stiffly.
“Perfect. Okay, so, you know the deal, right? You can call me whenever you need, okay? You also know the Potters can have you removed from their home at any given time, correct?”
Another nod.
“Yes, I’m aware,” Sirius says, his voice quiet, too careful. Too small.
Regulus’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
Sarah turns to him. “You keep an eye on him, alright?”
Regulus nods, throat tight. “I will,” he whispers, voice barely carrying. But he means it. More than he’s ever meant anything.
Sarah gives him a small, approving smile. “Very well.”
She glances over her shoulder. “I’ll see you next Sunday. Have a good night, Euphemia, Fleamont.”
“You too, Sarah,” Euphemia replies.
Regulus startles slightly when he hears Fleamont’s name. He hadn’t even noticed the man was standing nearby. His whole world has been narrowed to the single point of Sirius—Sirius’s presence, his weight beside him, the unfamiliar clothes and the familiar eyes. Everything else is background noise.
The sound of the front door closing behind Sarah makes something loosen in his chest. He exhales, not even realizing he’s been holding his breath.
Sirius is here. He’s really here. He’s not just in Regulus’s head or in the echo of dreams that leave him hollow. He’s here.
“All right,” Euphemia says, breaking the quiet.
She steps forward slightly. “Hey, sweetheart, do you mind giving Fleamont and I a moment with your brother?”
Her voice is soft, not commanding. She’s giving him the option. Giving him the chance to say no, to stay planted next to Sirius like a shadow.
Regulus answers too fast. “No.”
It comes out sharper than he means, clipped and abrupt. His cheeks flame with immediate embarrassment.
“I—s-sorry, Effie,” he stammers, looking down. “I didn’t mean to sound rude. I—”
Euphemia gently cuts him off. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You have nothing to apologise for.”
He nods, grateful, though the blush is still burning hot across his face.
Fleamont steps in, voice cheerful and easy. “Alrighty then. How about Regulus and I show you up to your room?”
Sirius nods, his voice as small as before. “Okay.”
Regulus doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for Sirius’s hand and interlocks their fingers. Sirius doesn’t pull away.
He looks up at his brother and offers a tentative smile. Sirius doesn’t smile back, but his grip tightens just slightly.
That’s enough.
As Regulus guides Sirius up the stairs, his heart pounds with every step. The weight of his brother’s hand in his own is grounding, real. Every inch of him wants to hold tighter, never let go.
Sirius is here. After everything, he’s here.
And Regulus won’t let him slip away again.
As they reach the top of the stairs, Regulus lingers for a second, catching his breath and stealing a sideways glance at Sirius. His brother walks with a kind of stiffness—like he’s made of fragile glass barely holding itself together. The way he clutches at the banister, the subtle flinch in his shoulders every time the wood creaks—it all unsettles Regulus in a way he can’t quite name.
But above everything else, one thought claws at the back of his mind, looping over and over: Where has Sirius been?
Sirius has no bag. No spare clothes. Not even a jacket. His arms are bare, marked faintly by grime and the fading outline of old bruises. Regulus knows kids sometimes arrive with nothing—he’s seen it before in other foster homes—but this feels different. Sirius isn’t just empty-handed. He’s hollow. Untethered. Like someone who hasn’t belonged anywhere for a long time.
The stink of unwashed clothes and stale air still clings to him.
Regulus wants to ask. He wants to demand an answer— Where were you? Why didn’t you call? Why do you look like this? But the words catch in his throat, bitter and heavy. Before he can open his mouth, Fleamont’s voice breaks the silence.
“This is your room, Sirius,” Fleamont says gently, opening the door to the room across from Regulus’ own.
The space is plain, almost sterile—just like Regulus’ had been when he first arrived. Empty walls, neatly made bed, and the kind of quiet stillness that doesn’t yet feel lived in. Regulus instinctively reaches out and tugs Sirius forward, guiding him into the room like he might disappear if left behind.
“Now,” Fleamont continues, “tomorrow is the first day back at school, which means Regulus and James will be out for most of the day.”
Sirius nods silently, standing awkwardly just past the threshold.
“And as both Euphemia and I will be home,” Fleamont adds, “we’ll go through a few things with you. Expectations in the house, what things you’ll need, and enrollment for school.”
Another nod from Sirius, stiffer this time. Regulus watches the way his brother’s shoulders are slightly hunched, his body motionless, as if bracing for something.
There’s a beat of silence. Awkward and heavy.
Fleamont offers a kind smile. “Alright. If you’re hungry, just come downstairs and I’ll make you something.”
“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” Sirius says, his voice quiet but polite.
“Oh, please don’t call me Mr. Potter,” Fleamont replies. “Just call me Monty. And—it’s my pleasure.”
With that, he gives them both a nod and leaves the room.
Regulus stands there for a second, staring at Sirius—probably for the millionth time that evening. He studies the way Sirius seems to exist in pieces, like he’s barely holding himself together.
“Do you want to have a shower?” Regulus asks softly.
“Yeah. Yeah,” Sirius replies, running a hand through his tangled hair.
Regulus watches him closely. Sirius is moving around the room, but he’s stiff, like every muscle is tight. It doesn’t feel right. But Regulus doesn’t press.
“I’ll get you a towel,” he says, trying to sound casual, “and find some pajamas.”
Sirius gives another small nod. Regulus watches him again. He doesn’t want to keep staring, but it’s hard to stop. It's hard to believe he’s really here.
“Follow me,” Regulus says.
Sirius does, without any resistance. That, too, is odd. The Sirius Regulus remembers always questioned everything, always had something to say. But this version of Sirius moves quietly, obediently, like a ghost.
Regulus leads him across the hallway and into his own room. Their rooms are right across from each other—something Regulus is quietly relieved about. It makes things feel a little easier.
The moment he opens the door, the contrast between the two spaces is jarring. Regulus’ room is bright, vibrant, full of color and soft textures. A place that feels safe.
“Wow,” Sirius says, eyes wide.
Regulus watches as Sirius steps inside, looking around like he doesn’t know where to rest his gaze. His head moves fast, almost frantic, taking everything in like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he blinks.
“It was part of my birthday present,” Regulus says, gesturing around. “The room makeover.”
Sirius nods. “It’s very pretty.”
He turns to look at Regulus. “It’s very you.”
Regulus smiles, warmth rising to his cheeks. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Sirius replies, soft and certain.
They stare at each other for a moment longer. There’s something unspoken between them, something tender and aching. Then Regulus remembers what he was doing and turns to open the bathroom door.
“Here’s my bathroom,” he says. “You can use my towels.”
“Thanks,” Sirius replies.
“I’ll go ask for some clothes for you.”
Sirius smiles faintly.
Regulus hesitates for a second, then blurts the question out before he can stop himself.
“Why don’t you have anything?”
Sirius blinks. “Sorry?”
“It’s just—you don’t have any belongings with you.”
“Oh. Right, well…” Sirius trails off, eyes dropping to the floor. “I sort of came from a bad-ish home, so…”
He shrugs, like that’s all the explanation Regulus deserves. And maybe it is. But strangely, Regulus doesn’t feel cheated. He doesn’t need more. Not right now. His brother is here. That’s all that really matters.
“Okay,” Regulus says gently. “You take a shower. I’ll get you some clothes. And I’ll get you food.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
Regulus pauses again. “Umm, Sirius?”
“Yeah?”
“What would you like to eat? We had butter chicken for dinner, but you won’t like that. I can make you a sandwich?”
“Umm… I don’t know.”
“You should eat. They don’t care what you eat as long as you eat something.”
Sirius thinks for a moment.
“A peanut butter sandwich? And if they have any apples… a green one, cut up?”
Regulus nods. “Okay. Got it.”
He turns to leave, then glances back over his shoulder. “Skin off the apple?”
Sirius nods. “Skin off the apple.”
Regulus steps out and closes the door behind him. As he walks down the stairs, he hears hushed voices drifting up from the kitchen. Euphemia and Fleamont. There’s something urgent in the tone—low, tense.
When he rounds the corner, he sees them both standing in the kitchen, mid-conversation.
“Everything okay?” he asks quietly.
Euphemia jumps so high she nearly drops the dish towel in her hands, one palm flying to her chest.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” she breathes out. “You scared me.”
Regulus blushes, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Fleamont chuckles warmly. “It’s alright, kiddo. Happens to everyone.”
Regulus nods awkwardly.
Euphemia recovers quickly. “Is—everything alright?”
“Yes. Everything’s alright,” Regulus says, then adds, “Umm… I was just wondering if… if we had any spare clothes for Sirius? He doesn’t have any pajamas, or… much of anything, really.”
Euphemia nods. “Yeah, yeah. I can go grab a pair of James’ pajamas for him.”
She gives him a gentle smile and brushes past him, heading upstairs.
“Uhh, where would you like to put them?” she asks over her shoulder.
“Oh, just… umm… to me?”
“Of course,” she says, voice soft.
Regulus watches her disappear up the stairs, then turns back to Fleamont.
“Hey, Monty?”
“Yeah, kiddo?”
“Can I have your help in making a peanut butter sandwich?”
“Of course.”
“And a cut-up green apple with no skin, if we have any?”
“Of course,” Fleamont says again, already moving to the cupboards.
He starts pulling out bread and peanut butter, working calmly and efficiently. The normalcy of it makes Regulus feel like he can breathe again.
“Is this for Sirius?” Fleamont asks.
Regulus nods. “Yeah.”
He feels like he should say more, explain why Sirius doesn’t want dinner or why peanut butter and apples are his comfort food. But the words won’t come, and Fleamont doesn’t press. That, too, is a relief.
Instead, Regulus helps. He shows Fleamont how to make the sandwich just right—soft bread, crusts cut off. By the time they’re plating the food, Euphemia returns with a pair of folded pajamas.
“There you go, sweetheart,” she says, handing them to Regulus.
“Thank you, Effie,” he murmurs.
She presses a kiss to his forehead. “It’s no problem, love.”
Regulus turns his attention back to Fleamont.
“What are you making, Monty?” Euphemia asks, curious.
“A peanut butter sandwich with no crusts, and a skinless green apple,” he replies.
“For Sirius?” she guesses.
“Yep,” Regulus answers a little too quickly.
He stands there for a beat longer, awkward again. It’s quiet—but not the comfortable, warm silence he’s come to expect from the Potters. This silence is taut, uneasy.
Were they tense before he walked in? Was it something he wasn’t meant to hear?
Regulus doesn’t get the chance to wonder for long. Fleamont hands him the plate of food.
“Thank you, Monty.”
“It’s alright, bud,” Fleamont says with a kind smile.
Regulus turns and begins the climb back up the stairs, plate and pajamas in hand, heart thudding with a strange mixture of relief and unease.
His brother is here. And maybe that’s enough. For now.
***
The first thing Regulus sees when he opens his eyes is the pale morning light filtering through his bedroom curtains. It casts soft stripes across the wall, warm and gentle, nothing like the harsh light that used to wake him in other homes.
For a few disoriented moments, his brain fumbles through the fog of sleep, unsure of where he is. Then it clicks into place, slowly but surely: he’s in bed. His bed. In his room. At the Potters'.
The memories of last night return in pieces, like scattered pages being gathered back into order. The clearest part, the one that roots itself in his chest immediately, is Sirius. Sirius had been here. With him.
But that’s impossible. Isn’t it?
Regulus lets out a quiet sigh. It was just a dream , he tells himself, even if he doesn’t quite believe it. A good one, but still a dream. Sirius isn’t—he wouldn’t—he couldn’t—
Then he freezes.
There’s an arm draped across his middle. A warm, solid weight, almost protective. Familiar. His breath catches.
Who—?
His mind races through possibilities, but none of them make sense. It can’t be James—Regulus would go to James if he needed comfort, sure, but that’s not how James sleeps, and this isn’t James’ room. The body behind him is too lean to be Fleamont, and far too tall to be Euphemia. Besides, neither of them would crawl into bed with him in the middle of the night.
His heart pounds harder. Cautiously, Regulus shifts, turning over just enough to see.
And then he freezes all over again.
Sirius.
It’s really Sirius.
Curled up behind him, one arm still loosely wrapped around Regulus’ waist, his older brother sleeps on—deeply, peacefully. His face looks softer than Regulus remembers, like the shadows that usually live there have lifted. There’s no tension in his jaw, no tightness around his eyes. Just stillness. Quiet.
Regulus can’t remember the last time he saw Sirius look so calm. Let alone while sleeping.
He watches him for a long moment, breath slow and shallow. Last night wasn’t a dream. He remembers it now, more clearly with every breath. Convincing Sirius to eat the food he brought him. Coaxing him into letting Regulus brush his hair—how Sirius had flinched, barely noticeable but still there, each time the brush neared his scalp. Regulus had pretended not to notice, but he had . Of course he had.
He remembers pleading with Sirius to stay, to sleep beside him like they used to when they were younger—when the dark had been too loud and the silence too sharp. He remembers curling up against him, listening as Sirius whispered a bedtime story in French. The same one he used to tell when Regulus was small, the one about the fox and the stars.
He hasn’t heard it in years.
Now, tucked into the warmth of Sirius’ chest, Regulus finds himself smiling without meaning to. There’s something so impossibly good about this—about having Sirius back, even if just for now. He still can’t quite believe it’s real.
But what strikes him most, as he lays there breathing in the familiar scent of his brother’s jumper and warmth, is the realisation that he’s had the best night of sleep he’s had in—he doesn’t even know how long. Weeks. Months, maybe. Maybe longer.
The thought must stir something, because he suddenly feels Sirius shift behind him. The warmth of his breath brushes against the back of Regulus’ neck.
Regulus goes still, suddenly embarrassed. He didn’t mean to wake him.
He knows Sirius struggles to sleep, that he's a light sleeper on the best of days. Regulus can only guess how little rest his brother has had in the past few months—how much anxiety must twist through him when he tries to fall asleep. Knowing he might have disturbed that rest sends a flicker of guilt through Regulus’ chest.
But when Sirius finally opens his eyes, he doesn’t look annoyed or tired. He just smiles.
“Good morning, Siri,” Regulus says, voice soft.
“Good morning, ma petite étoile, ” Sirius murmurs, stretching slightly but not pulling away.
“You have a good sleep?”
“Yes, I did, actually,” Regulus nods. “Thank you.”
Sirius chuckles. “You don’t have to thank me, Reggie.”
Regulus shakes his head at that, but doesn’t argue. Maybe he doesn’t have to, but he wants to.
“So,” Sirius says, shifting upright a little, “what’s the plan for this morning?”
“Well,” Regulus begins, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “I have to shower and get dressed for school. And we have to have breakfast too.”
At that, Sirius pulls a face. Regulus notices immediately—he always does. Breakfast has always been the worst meal for Sirius. Regulus has known that for as long as he can remember, though he’s never really known why.
“I know,” he says quickly. “But you don’t have to eat anything if you don’t want to.”
Sirius gives a small, grateful nod. “Alright then.”
He swings his legs off the bed. “Shall we get up and get dressed?”
Regulus nods and hurries into his bathroom to shower. By the time he emerges, toweling his hair dry, Sirius is dressed and sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, fingers loosely laced in his lap.
They don’t say much as Regulus dresses and slings on his school bag, but there’s a quiet comfort in the silence. A shared stillness. Regulus doesn’t want to break it.
But eventually, it’s time to head downstairs. He nudges Sirius gently, and together they make their way to the kitchen.
Euphemia is already at the table, sipping tea and reading something on her phone. She looks up with a smile.
“Good morning, love.”
“Morning, Effie,” Regulus replies, sliding into his usual seat.
“Oh—morning, Sirius,” she adds, surprised but warm.
“Morning,” Sirius mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Right,” she says, setting her cup down. “What would you two like for breakfast this morning?”
“What are you offering?” Regulus asks.
“Well, I was thinking about doing some pancakes. How does that sound?”
Regulus brightens. “Yes, please.”
Euphemia chuckles. “Alright, darling. I’ll get it started.”
By the time Fleamont and James wander into the kitchen, breakfast is ready. The table is soon filled with the smell of butter and syrup and the sound of clinking forks. Regulus keeps sneaking glances at Sirius, watching for signs of discomfort, but his brother just picks at the edge of a pancake and stays quiet.
Then Euphemia speaks up again.
“Alright,” she says, brushing her hands on a napkin. “The plan for this morning is for me to take both you boys to school.”
Regulus immediately tenses. His fork pauses mid-air.
He doesn’t want to be apart from Sirius. Not yet. Not today.
But Fleamont, ever observant, jumps in quickly.
“Well, why don’t we all go down?” he suggests casually. “We have to register Sirius for school anyway. Wouldn’t it make sense to go together?”
Euphemia hums in thought. “You’re right. Well—is that okay with everyone?”
Everyone nods, murmuring agreement.
Soon enough, they’re all piling into Euphemia’s car. James insists it’s the roomier of the two—though Regulus wouldn’t know. He’s never been inside Fleamont’s.
As they buckle in and the car hums to life, Regulus glances sideways at Sirius. He still can’t quite believe he’s here.
But he is.
And that’s enough—for now.
Regulus is sitting in the middle seat of Euphemia’s car, pressed between James on his right and Sirius on his left. He tries not to stare, but he can’t stop glancing at Sirius every few seconds—watching him like a hawk, like he might vanish if Regulus looks away for too long. It’s not on purpose. It’s just that Sirius is here. Sirius is actually here.
The warmth of that thought settles in his chest like a flickering flame he’s desperate to protect from the wind. Sirius is beside him. In the Potters’ car. Going to school with him. Something about that feels impossible, like he’s stepped into a dream and hasn’t woken up yet.
Before long, the school comes into view. Regulus sees the usual chaos of the morning crowd—students weaving between one another, laughing, talking, loitering in loose groups on the lawn or rushing inside with half-open backpacks. A flicker of excitement stirs in his stomach. He’s missed his friends. Even just the routine of it.
“Have a good day, love,” Euphemia says, leaning over to kiss James on the head.
“Yeah, I will, Mum,” James replies easily as he climbs out of the car. “Bye, Dad! See ya!”
“See ya this afternoon, kiddo!” Fleamont calls back, waving.
Regulus watches James break into a light jog toward the school, eyes following him until he spots a short, blonde-haired boy—Peter, probably—waiting for him near the entrance.
“Alright, here’s the plan,” Euphemia says, her voice pulling Regulus back to the present.
He shifts slightly to face her as she speaks.
“I’ll be taking Regulus to his class this morning,” she says. “Monty and Sirius will wait with me in the office until I’m back. Got it?”
Everyone nods, and the car doors open. Regulus clutches his bag to his chest as they walk up the path toward the school building. His steps falter a little as he debates whether or not to hold Euphemia’s hand. She’d said last night that he could— if he wanted —and he does. But... usually, it’s Sirius who holds his hand on the first day. That used to be their ritual.
He sneaks a glance at Sirius beside him. Having him back feels like something temporary, fragile. Like if he lets go of this moment, it might all disappear. And who knows if Euphemia will ever offer again?
Before he can talk himself out of it, Regulus hurries up beside her and slips his hand into hers. Her hand is warm, soft. She looks down and beams at him, a smile so bright it fills his chest with something golden and good.
Inside the school office, they split—Fleamont and Sirius heading toward the waiting area while Euphemia gently steers Regulus in another direction. He knows the route by heart, unfortunately. He’s been in this office more times than he’d like to admit. It’s no surprise when they stop at Ms. Carrington’s door.
“Ah! Good morning, Regulus, Euphemia!” Ms. Carrington greets warmly from behind her desk.
“Good morning, Ms. Carrington,” Euphemia replies.
“What can I do for you this fine morning?”
Euphemia glances toward Regulus with a look that asks, Is this okay? He gives a small nod.
“I was wondering if it would be possible for me to sit with Regulus for a little bit this morning?” she asks.
“Of course that’s fine!” Ms. Carrington replies, already reaching into her desk. “Here, let me get you your timetable, Regulus.”
She rummages through the top drawer, then hands him a neatly printed sheet. Regulus scans the paper—Form: Mr. Hale.
“Now,” Ms. Carrington continues as she stands and gestures for them to follow her, “all students stay with the same form teacher throughout the year. Helps with routine and adjustment.”
They walk down the hallway, her heels clicking softly against the tile.
“You’ll see you have Mr. Hale,” she says, now turning her attention to Euphemia. “He’s a lovely teacher, very understanding. He’s been fully briefed on everything we know so far about Regulus and his diagnosis.”
Euphemia gently corrects her. “He hasn’t been officially diagnosed yet. We’re still waiting on the report.”
Ms. Carrington waves that off. “That’s completely fine. Parents often let us know early. We’d rather start support systems immediately than wait for the paperwork.”
They turn a final corner, and Ms. Carrington stops in front of an open door.
“Ah, here we are. Mr. Hale?” she calls into the classroom.
A man turns from the whiteboard. “Carrington,” he greets, walking toward them. “What can I do for you this fine morning? Oh, hello, Regulus. Have a good summer?”
Regulus nods, tucking slightly behind Euphemia’s side out of habit—half shy, half overwhelmed.
“Euphemia was wondering if she could stay with him for a bit,” Ms. Carrington explains. “Just until he’s settled.”
“Of course,” Mr. Hale says, gesturing them inside. “Come on in.”
“Thank you so much,” Euphemia says warmly.
“It’s no problem, really,” he assures her.
Ms. Carrington turns to Regulus with a final nod. “Now remember, Regulus—my door is always open. Come by anytime, alright?”
Regulus nods, a little tightly. His throat feels dry.
The moment he steps into the classroom, the noise hits him like a wave. It’s loud—far louder than he remembered. The buzz of conversation, scraping chairs, the slam of a locker nearby—it all rushes at him at once.
He freezes.
Then, through the blur, he sees her.
“Hello, Regulus! Hello, Effie!” Pandora says brightly, already making her way over to him.
“Hello, dear,” Euphemia replies gently.
“Where do you two normally sit?” she asks Regulus.
“Right over here,” Pandora says, guiding them.
They settle at a small table group, and some of the tightness in Regulus' chest starts to ease. His shoulders relax just a little as he opens his bag and gets himself organised, listening to Pandora and Euphemia chat softly.
“Alright, dear, how are you doing?” Euphemia asks him, voice low and kind.
Regulus shrugs, then nods faintly.
“Alright,” she hums. “Do you need me to stay a little longer?”
He nods again, firmer this time.
She smiles at him, brushing a strand of hair gently away from his forehead. “I’m so proud of you, love.”
His cheeks flush instantly, and he ducks his head, but she keeps going.
“I’m so, so, so proud of you. I’m really proud that you came in today. I know it’s hard—especially for you—but I want you to know how much that means. Okay?”
Regulus nods quickly, unable to speak. The warmth from earlier blooms again, more intense now. It’s unfamiliar. Strange. But not bad. Just... new.
Every so often during the morning, Euphemia checks in—asking if he needs a break, or if he wants her to stay or go. Regulus has never had this before: an adult who checks, who cares, who stays. It’s strange, but in a way that makes something deep inside him relax.
By the third check-in, he realises he’s ready. He feels okay.
“Alright, love,” she says, kissing his forehead. “Just remember, you can leave whenever you’d like, okay?”
He nods, and she gives him one last smile before walking away.
Regulus watches her go, prepared for the usual rush of panic, the overwhelming need to follow, the weight pressing into his ribs.
But it doesn’t come.
He waits for it—and it doesn’t come.
Instead, all he feels is calm.
He smiles to himself.
He did it.
***
"Okay, class, listen up!"
Heads swivel toward the front of the room at the sound of Mrs. Reed’s voice—firm, clear, practiced. Regulus looks up from where he’s been absently sketching lines across the corner of his notebook. There she stands, Mrs. Reed, tall and expressive, gesturing broadly like always. He’s lucky to have her again this year for Year Eight. She’s one of the good ones.
"So, as we all know, this is the first week back at school," she begins. Some students keep chatting, their whispers a dull buzz beneath her voice. Mrs. Reed presses on. "And to get back into the groove of things, we’re going to start our first art project."
Low murmurs rise around the classroom—equal parts curiosity and complaint. Regulus leans back slightly in his seat, trying to guess what she has in store. Her projects are rarely simple. Last year, they painted emotion through abstract color splashes. The year before, it was a wire sculpture based on a dream. She always says art should feel like thinking out loud.
"As we all know, Father’s Day is on Sunday. So, we’ll be making a card!"
The sentence lands like a punch. Regulus freezes.
Father’s Day? No. That’s not right. It can’t be right, can it?
A cold current slips through his stomach. He blinks. He would’ve remembered that—should’ve remembered that. But... he hasn’t been remembering a lot lately. Not since everything changed. Since he stopped living with his parents. Since he stopped calling that place home.
A quiet voice to his right interrupts the flood of static building in his head.
“Are you okay?”
It’s Pandora. Light-haired, light-voiced Pandora. She always seems to notice things no one else does. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shakes his head just once, the movement jerky. His brain hums, flooded with noise. Father’s Day is on Sunday? He turns to her, eyes wide.
“Father’s Day is on Sunday,” he says. It’s not a question, not really, but it needs confirming all the same.
Pandora’s eyes soften. She nods.
And just like that, his breath shortens. His skin feels too tight. He’s aware of everything—the scrape of his chair on the floor, the rising heat in his chest, the flickering light above the board. He turns toward her again, wide-eyed, not knowing what to say but needing her to understand anyway.
She does.
Without a word, Pandora grabs his hand and pulls him gently from his seat. They slip into the hallway, out of the clamor of voices and fluorescent brightness. The quiet here wraps around him like a threadbare blanket—thin, but better than nothing.
He leans against the wall and tries to breathe like Laura taught him: in for four, hold for four, out for four. The rhythm helps, a little. He feels her eyes on him, calm and steady.
When he can finally speak, he hears her voice first.
“Are you okay?”
It’s soft. Careful. There’s something about the way she says it that makes his chest ache—not with pain, exactly, but something raw. Something that wants to cry and thank her at the same time.
“I am,” he says, though it’s barely a whisper, his throat dry and tight. He clears it, but she doesn’t look convinced.
Her brow furrows. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, a little nervous. He’s seen her do that before—when she’s about to say something difficult.
“Is it…” she begins, sighing. “How do I put this?” she asks, more to herself than anything. Regulus watches as she twists her fingers together, then dropping her hands to her sides. She meets his gaze. “Is the idea of making a Father’s Day card—for your dad—what’s upsetting you?”
Regulus looks away. The knot in his throat grows tighter. How is she so good at this?
He nods, not trusting himself to say anything.
The sharp sound of heels clicking on the linoleum floor draws his attention toward the classroom door. Mrs. Reed stands there now, her expression calm but clearly concerned.
“Everything alright out here?” she asks gently.
Regulus studies her face. Her eyes are wide with something real. Not performative. Not just the kind of concern teachers show because they’re expected to. This feels genuine.
Pandora looks to him again, silent question written all over her face. Want me to talk for you?
He nods. Just once.
“Yes, everything’s alright, Mrs. Reed,” Pandora says with polite confidence.
Mrs. Reed lingers for a moment, gaze flickering from Regulus to Pandora and back again. “Okay,” she says, with a nod. “Come back in whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you.”
As the teacher disappears back inside, Regulus turns to Pandora, brow furrowed. She didn’t explain. She didn’t say anything about his family.
“I didn’t think it was appropriate for me to explain your home life,” she says softly, preempting his question. “That’s something only you should share. When you’re ready.”
He smiles, small and thankful. She’s right. Of course she’s right. She is always right, when it comes to personally important things. Regulus should explain to Mrs. Reed himself, what was going on. It would be better coming from him, after all.
“I’m heading back in,” Pandora says after a beat. “Did you want to talk to Mrs. Reed?”
Regulus shakes his head. He doesn’t—not yet. But he knows where he does want to go.
“I’m going to Ms. Carrington’s office,” he says, reaching out to gently grab her hand.
She nods. “Want me to grab your stuff?”
“Please.”
Minutes later, she returns with his belongings and stuffed black dog in hand. He murmurs a quiet thank you, and with a nod, he’s off—walking slowly down the hallway, thoughts loud and tangled.
He doesn’t even know how he feels.
About Father’s Day. About his own Father. About... not having one—technically—anymore.
And it still bothers him when he sees Pandora at lunch. She’s careful when she asks—how he’s feeling about it all—but the question lingers. He doesn’t have an answer. Or maybe he has too many.
It’s strange, he thinks. How numb he feels. How, after everything—the removal, the foster homes, the legal stuff—this one thing hits differently. Not harder. Not softer. Just...weirder.
He’s still thinking about it when they’re all sitting together in the library. Their usual spot. Pandora, Evan, Barty, Dorcas.
“What about this ‘Father’s Day situation’?” Barty asks, using air quotes and a dramatic voice as he drops into the seat beside Regulus.
“Oh, Barty,” Evan sighs, smacking him lightly on the chest. “Not your business.”
Barty gasps, clutching his heart in mock offense. Dorcas snorts, then sets her book aside.
“You know, Regulus,” she says gently, “you can talk to us. If you want. Or—if you need.”
Regulus glances at Pandora, unsure. She gives him an encouraging look.
“I think it’s a good idea,” she says. “We can help.”
He nods slowly. Maybe. It’s worth trying.
“It’s just...” His voice is hoarse, underused. He clears his throat. “It’s just—y’know how Father’s Day is on Sunday?”
They all nod.
“Well, in art, we’re supposed to be making cards. And...” He trails off, shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug.
Dorcas is the first to speak. “You don’t know how you feel about it? About making the card?”
He nods again.
“Are you unsure about the card in general,” Barty adds, “or is it more that you don’t have anyone to give it to?”
Regulus thinks about that. “I mean... I could give it to Monty. But...” He shrugs, glancing down.
“You don’t want to?” Evan asks. “Or it’d feel weird?”
“Both.”
A chorus of thoughtful humming follows. It’s oddly comforting, the way they’re trying to piece it together with him.
Pandora tilts her head. “You could opt out. I’m sure Mrs. Reed wouldn’t make you do it, not with... everything.”
Regulus nods. That’s true. But still, something twists in his stomach at the idea of not making a card for Fleamont. It feels wrong, somehow. Even though Monty’s not his dad, not really.
Still...
“Thanks, guys,” he murmurs. “This helped.”
It didn’t help, not really. It didn’t solve anything, either. But in some small way, it did, sort of help.
Maybe he’ll talk to Sirius about it later. About Father’s Day. About the card. About everything.
As the group falls back into their usual rhythm—Barty and Evan bickering, Dorcas reading, Pandora watching—Regulus leans back in his chair.
He’s still not sure what he’ll decide. But whatever it is, he thinks, maybe it’ll be the right thing.
***
“Sirius,” Regulus says quietly.
He’s sitting on the edge of Sirius’ bed, knees tucked up just slightly, the faint weight of the chessboard between them grounding him. Sirius’ room is dim with late-afternoon light, shadows slanting across the floor. The window is cracked open and there’s a breeze, but Regulus barely feels it.
They’re playing chess—well, sort of. Regulus had to ask Euphemia earlier if they had a chess set, expecting to be told no, expecting her to say something casual like, “Oh, sorry dear, I don’t think we do.” But instead, she’d smiled and said, “Top shelf of the study closet. You’re welcome to it.”
It still surprises him, the way things are so easy here. He’s not used to that.
“Yes?” Sirius replies, eyes still on the board as he slides his knight forward, knocking one of Regulus’ pawns off the board with a satisfying click.
Regulus counters immediately, guiding his rook across the squares and claiming one of Sirius’ pawns in return. “I wanted to ask you something.”
Sirius glances up just long enough to raise a brow, then sweeps his bishop across the board, capturing Regulus’ rook. “Go ahead. It’s your move.”
Regulus nudges one of his pawns forward, then swallows. His fingers twitch slightly, restless against his thigh. “I wanted to talk to you about Father’s Day.”
The words feel heavy in his mouth. He's been thinking about them for days now, ever since he realised the date—Sunday—looming closer and closer on the calendar. Each tick of time makes his stomach twist tighter.
Sirius hums noncommittally, shifting another piece into place—taking one of Regulus’. But then, he looks up. And the look in his brother’s eyes, calm and unguarded, makes some of that tightness in Regulus’ chest ease just a little.
“What about Father’s Day?”
Sirius’ voice is neutral, but Regulus sees the way his shoulders tense. Like even saying the words is enough to stir old ghosts. Regulus gets it.
“Well,” he murmurs, guiding his knight forward to take Sirius’ bishop. His gaze stays fixed on the board now, not daring to rise. “It’s on Sunday, and… I wanted some advice.”
He watches Sirius play his next move. There’s a pause before the piece lands, a flicker of consideration. Then Sirius nods, a small gesture that signals he’s listening.
“I, um…” Regulus trails off. The words crumble as he tries to gather them. His mouth feels dry. “I wanted to know what I should do,” he finally says, after making another move.
“What you should do?” Sirius echoes. He sounds curious, but puzzled. “What do you mean, Reg?”
Regulus exhales, his breath catching in the middle. He moves another piece, more for something to do with his hands than anything strategic. “I mean, in regards to Father’s Day,” he says, forcing himself to lift his gaze. “In art, our teacher wants us to make cards, and well…”
Sirius watches him carefully, then lets out a soft hum. “You feel weird about it, don’t you.”
Regulus groans, dropping his head a little. “Yes,” he mutters, voice flat with frustration. Sirius can read him like a book. It’s creepy.
Sirius just nods again, like that’s all he needed to hear. “Well,” he says, moving his piece smoothly, “what did you want to do?”
Regulus hesitates. What does he want? He could make Fleamont a card. It’s not like the man doesn’t deserve one. But what if he doesn’t want it? What if he smiles and thanks him, but throws it away the second Regulus leaves the room?
He knows Fleamont wouldn’t do that—Fleamont isn’t him . But still, Regulus’ mind spins out, conjuring worst-case scenarios like it always does.
“I don’t know,” he answers quietly. Because it’s the truth.
But Sirius doesn’t let it slide.
“I don’t believe that,” Sirius says with a soft huff. “Not for one second. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Regulus fiddles with a captured pawn, turning it over and over in his palm. It’s easier, somehow, to talk to Sirius. There are things he’s said to Sirius that he couldn’t even imagine telling Euphemia or Fleamont. It’s like having someone hold your secrets in cupped hands and promise not to let them drop.
“It feels wrong,” he begins, almost inaudibly. “To make Fleamont a card.”
He glances at Sirius, then away again.
“He’s not really our father, y’know? And… well, our father didn’t like any of that stuff—we weren’t really allowed to make any of that stuff, remember?”
Sirius nods. Quietly, understandingly.
“So, it feels wrong to make Fleamont a card. It feels wrong, because, if I did, how would he react? Would he like it? Would he pretend to love it, only to throw it away? I’m not worried about him yelling at me, but, what if by giving him this card, I’m hurting him? I know it’s silly, but…”
“You’re scared,” Sirius says softly, filling in the blanks.
Regulus nods.
“It’s okay to be scared, Reg,” Sirius says, nudging a castle forward and capturing Regulus’ bishop. “I’m not gonna pretend I know what you’re going through, what you’re thinking. Because I don’t. I don’t know what you're thinking or feeling. But I can tell you this.”
He looks up, and Regulus meets his eyes.
“You know Fleamont better than I do. You have to ask yourself, would he really do this? Would he really react the way our parents would? If the answer is no, then, what’s stopping you?”
You , Regulus thinks. You’re stopping me, Sirius. I don’t want to hurt you. To make you feel bad.
He doesn’t know why that’s his first thought. He doesn’t even fully understand it. But it clings to him, quiet and persistent.
He moves a piece across the board. Sirius is right. Regulus does know more about Fleamont now, about Euphemia too. And he knows, deep down, that they aren’t like their parents. Not in the slightest.
Sirius makes his move. Regulus counters quickly, snatching Sirius’ knight.
“Y’know,” Sirius says, breaking the quiet. He shifts his other knight forward and takes Regulus’. “You don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. If you really don’t want to make Fleamont a card, then you don’t have to. I’m sure nobody is going to be mad at you, okay?”
Regulus nods, taking in his brother’s words. They don’t give him a definitive answer. But somehow… they help anyway.
He still has a lot to think about.
It’s Thursday. Regulus stands in art class again, the previous night’s conversation circling in his mind. He still doesn’t know what to do.
"Regulus," Mrs. Reed says, as she approaches him. Her voice is kind, but firm. "Do you mind if we have a quick chat outside? I promise, you’re not in trouble."
The reassurance does little. Regulus nods anyway, too nervous to resist. His legs feel unsteady as they step into the hallway.
"I noticed you haven’t started your Father’s Day card. Can you tell me why that is?"
Regulus freezes. His whole body locks. What does he say? Hi, yeah, my father was awful and I’m in foster care now, so... no card?
Mrs. Reed waits. She doesn’t push. That somehow makes it worse.
His chest tightens. Tears sting behind his eyes. "I..." The word breaks. He tries again. "I- I- I’m in foster care," he whispers.
The words hurt coming out. Regulus stares at his shoes, shifting his weight.
"What was that, Regulus? I couldn’t quite hear you."
Her voice is so soft, it undoes him. The tears fall freely now.
"I’m in foster care," he says louder, voice wobbling. "My parents... they aren’t good people. I don’t live with them."
Mrs. Reed nods, humming gently. He dares a glance at her. Her face is full of sympathy. The pity makes him want to disappear.
"Okay," she says kindly. "So, you don’t have anyone to give a card to? That’s alright. Can you think of someone you could give one to?"
Regulus shrugs. "I have a foster father," he murmurs, wiping at his face. "But I don’t know if that counts."
Mrs. Reed studies him. "Father’s Day isn’t just about dads, y’know."
Regulus shakes his head. He didn’t know.
"It’s true. It’s about thanking a male role model. An uncle. A cousin. A stepdad. Even a foster father."
She looks at him, gently. "It’s about someone who’s protected you. Cared for you. Been there when you were sick, or sad. Someone who loves you and wants you to feel safe."
Regulus considers that. Fleamont does, do those things for him. But, Sirius also does this too. The idea of making Sirius a card has crossed his mind before. But, it felt stupid to Regulus for even considering the idea. Sirius is his brother.
Maybe it’s not such a stupid idea after all.
"Thank you," he whispers.
He doesn’t get much done before the bell rings, but Mrs. Reed tells him he can come back at lunch to finish.
After Health class, Regulus bumps into James in the hallway. James. A thought comes to mind.
"James," he calls, hesitantly.
James turns. "What’s up, Reg?"
Regulus scrunches up his nose at the nickname. He should probably tell James he doesn’t like the nickname, but now is not the time. He has something more important to ask.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure," James shrugs. "Ask away."
"How would Monty feel about a Father’s Day card from me?" He rushes to explain. "I mean, I’m not really his kid, so... would it be weird?"
James thinks about it. Too long, in Regulus' opinion.
"Well, first off, he’d love it," James says. His voice is so sure that Regulus almost believes him. "Secondly, if he didn’t get one from you, he wouldn’t be upset. Mum and Dad never expect the foster kids they take in to get them anything, and it's not something they push, either."
He shrugs. "Mum and Dad know the foster kids they take in sometimes don’t view them that way. They don’t mind, really. You wouldn’t be the first kid not to give Dad a father’s day card—and he wouldn’t be hurt by it—he understands, honestly."
Regulus gives him a disbelieving look. He still isn’t entirely convinced. Should he really continue the card? Should he just stop before it becomes too much of a hassle?
“Look, Reg,” James leans closer. The look James gives to Regulus, makes Regulus think James is about to give away the deepest, darkest secrets of the universe. Every year—whenever foster kids do give Mum and Dad cards—they get really excited. They really cherish the ones they receive. Dad even has a draw in his study dedicated to all the cards he’s received over the years. He has never thrown one out.”
Relief washes over Regulus. Maybe... maybe this could be okay.
"One more question," he says before he can stop himself. "What’s Monty’s favourite colour?"
James grins like he’s just heard the best news of his life.
"Orange."
***
Laura’s waiting for him with that calm smile she always has, just inside the waiting room. The sun is warm, but Regulus' hands are cold. He shoves them into his hoodie pocket, glancing back at Fleamont for reassurance. Fleamont gives him a little wave.
“Regulus! How are you?”
“I’m good,” Regulus says quietly, shoulders hitching a little as he answers. He shifts from foot to foot. “How are you?”
“I’m good.” She gestures gently toward the side of the building. “You ready to come around back?”
“Yeah.” Regulus nods.
He turns to Fleamont. “See you soon.”
“See you soon, buddy,” Fleamont says warmly. “I’ll just be sitting right here if you need anything.”
Regulus nods again. “Okay.”
It helps—knowing Fleamont isn’t going far. That he’ll be waiting. Regulus still doesn’t like being left alone with people, even Laura, though she’s never done anything wrong.
They walk around the side path, gravel crunching beneath their shoes. It’s quiet here, and that quiet lets all the thoughts he tries to push away start creeping in. He keeps his gaze on the ground, only looking up when they reach Laura’s office door.
“So, how was your first week back at school?” she asks as she unlocks the door.
“It was good,” Regulus says automatically. “I like my teachers.”
“That’s good,” Laura says, pushing the door open.
They step inside, and Regulus immediately heads over to the low shelf where his folder is stored. He pulls it out, careful not to bend any of the pages, then grabs the tub of texters beside it. The familiar scratch of the folder in his hands, the gentle clack of pen lids, helps his breathing even out. It’s something to do. Something that makes sense.
He drops onto the floor in front of the coffee table and lays everything out. His legs fold beneath him automatically as he starts colouring, blocking out the anxious swirl still tucked behind his ribs.
“So, tell me what’s been happening so far?” Laura asks.
Regulus keeps his eyes on his page. “Well, school’s started. I’m in Year 8 now.”
“Wow, getting old then?”
Regulus giggles before he can stop himself, the sound small but real. “That’s what my brother said.”
“Sirius? What’s the status on him?”
“He’s living with the Potters now,” Regulus says, carefully choosing a blue pen. “He got here about a week ago.”
“That’s good. How has it been, with Sirius living with you and the Potters?”
“It’s been great!” Regulus smiles, for real this time, but doesn’t look up. The page needs his focus. “Sirius, I think anyway, has adjusted well. I think Effie and Monty like him. I know for a fact James does not like Sirius.”
“Why’s that?”
Regulus shrugs, not looking up. He colours harder, pressing too firmly into the paper.
James is wrong about Sirius. He knows he is. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
“James thinks Sirius is a criminal,” Regulus says, voice flat. “But that isn’t true. Monty himself said that it isn’t true. I think James is just jealous.”
“James, jealous? Huh.” Laura tilts her head. “Can you tell me why you think that?”
Regulus shrugs again, more forcefully this time. He switches pens. He hopes she’ll drop it. She does.
“Okay then. What else has been happening at school? You said you like your teachers. Tell me a bit about the classes you are taking.”
“Well, I’m taking the usual,” Regulus says, grateful for the change in subject. “Y’know, English, Maths, Science, History, Geograph, French, Religion Education, P.E.”
He brightens a bit. “I’m still doing Art which is awesome. I have the same teacher that I had last year.”
“Really?”
Regulus nods.
“Well, what have you been doing in Art so far, then?”
Regulus slows his colouring, his hand faltering. The cap clicks back on the pen, and he places it carefully on the table. He hesitates, then glances at Laura.
“Making Father’s Day cards,” he says. “Father’s Day is on Sunday.”
Laura nods. “Yes it is.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Regulus fidgets with the texter in his hand, uncapping and recapping it twice.
“How do you feel about that?” Laura asks gently. “Would—would you like to talk about your feelings regarding Father’s Day?”
Regulus doesn’t answer right away. The air feels heavier, his chest tighter. But part of him wants to say something. He wants someone to know. Someone safe.
He nods, small at first. “Yeah—yes, I—I would like to.”
“Okay. Just—just take your time.”
Regulus takes a deep breath, slow and shaky. His fingers twist in the hem of his hoodie.
“Well…” He swallows. Where does he even start ?
“How about this,” Laura says. “Tell me what happened when you were first told to make the card.”
Regulus nods. “I—I kinda freaked out, I think?”
“Mhm.”
“Yeah, and, ummm…” He stares at the coffee table. The grain of the wood blurs slightly. “Well… I—I had a lot of emotions come up.”
“Okay. Do you want to try and make sense of them?”
“Yeah, umm…” Regulus shifts his weight. “I kinda felt weird about it. About the whole card making thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Umm… my immediate reaction was to panic, because, well…”
His voice catches. His throat tightens like it always does when he gets too close to things he’s not supposed to say. Not supposed to feel .
“It’s alright,” Laura says quickly, voice gentle. “Just breathe. In through your nose and out through your mouth. There you go, that’s it.”
“Okay, okay… umm…” Regulus nods. “Well, my immediate reaction was to panic, because, well, my father and mother wouldn’t approve of the whole card making thing.”
He looks at her now, eyes wide and uncertain.
“But then I realised I don’t live with my mother and father anymore. And then I got sad.”
“Sad?”
“Yeah, because—because I wish I could.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wish I could give a Father’s Day card to my father,” Regulus whispers. “I wish my parents were just… normal, I guess. I wish they didn’t do…”
“I see.” Laura’s voice is soft.
“Well… can you tell me about what you felt after?”
“I, um… after I felt sad, I thought about Monty.”
“Yeah? What did you think about?”
“I thought about giving Monty a Father’s Day card…”
“But?”
“But… he’s not really my dad. He’s just my foster father… and… I don’t know… it felt almost…”
“Wrong?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, as in wrong to give him one? When you don’t really view him as your parent.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s okay,” Laura says. “But Father’s Day isn’t just about dads. It’s about all the male role models that stepped up to take care of you. It’s about acknowledging those who have cared for you, who have loved you.”
Regulus blinks. That… sounds like Sirius.
“Sounds like Sirius,” he says out loud before he realises.
“Really?”
“Yeah…” He hesitates. “I thought about making him a card. But then I felt too silly to ask my art teacher if I could.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s my brother.”
Laura nods. She doesn’t laugh. She just nods. That makes something unclench in his chest.
There’s a bit of quiet, and Regulus picks up his pen again, resuming his colouring, calmer now.
“Tell me about Sirius.”
“Huh?”
“Tell me about your brother. Give me examples as to why you would have thought Sirius should get a card.”
Regulus considers that. He chews on his lip a little, staring at the paper.
“Well… in art class, my teacher talked about how fathers would protect you from harm. We talked about how they would take care of you when you’re sick. We talked about how they would do anything for you. Even if that meant they’d have to go without.”
“Yeah? Sounds about right. That sounds like any parent, mother or father.”
Regulus nods.
“Sirius took care of me whenever I got sick. He used to check underneath my bed for monsters. He holds me whenever I have a nightmare or can’t sleep. He used to make me food. Made sure I got to and from school okay. He would tie my shoes. Whenever I got hurt, he used to fix me up. Whenever I broke something, or whenever an accident happened, he always took the blame. He missed out on a lot…”
His voice gets quieter.
“But… he also… he cared.”
“Sounds like your brother was your parent.”
“Yeah, I—I guess so. He—he did so much for me. And—and I just wanted to thank him.”
“That’s what Father’s and Mother’s Day is about,” Laura says. “Taking the time to thank and appreciate your parents.”
Silence settles over them again. Regulus stares down at his page.
“Do you think…” he starts. “Do you think I could still make Sirius a card?”
“I don’t see why you couldn’t.”
“It—it just doesn’t feel like it’s enough, y’know?”
Laura hums. “Y’know what you could do?”
“What?”
“You could ask Effie and Monty if they would be willing to help you make a present for Sirius. You could tell them why. You could tell them that Sirius was the one who raised you.”
Regulus frowns, unsure. “I don’t know…”
“Just… just think about it. Okay?”
Regulus nods. “Okay.”
“Alright, so—”
For the rest of the session, Regulus keeps colouring, but his thoughts wander. On the drive home, he keeps thinking. Through dinner, he’s quiet. He keeps thinking.
He should at least try… right?
That’s what Laura was trying to tell him. To try. To talk to Effie and Monty. To speak up for what he feels.
And Regulus? He’s going to try.
Regulus takes a deep breath before stepping out of his room.
He can do this.
His fingers curl tight into the sleeves of his jumper, nails digging into the fabric. His heart is thudding a little faster than normal, but he keeps moving. Each step down the hallway feels like he’s walking through molasses, heavy and slow, but he doesn’t let himself stop.
He can do this.
He keeps repeating it in his head with every breath, every step. He has to do this.
When he reaches Euphemia and Fleamont’s door, he hesitates for just a second—long enough for his doubts to catch up with him. What if this is stupid? What if they laugh? What if they think he’s being childish?
Still, he raises his hand and knocks—barely. It’s so soft, the sound barely echoes in the quiet hall. He knows it wasn’t loud enough. It’s all he can manage.
“Come in!” Euphemia calls cheerfully from inside.
Regulus hesitates again, then turns the knob and opens the door.
Warm light spills from the bedside lamps. Euphemia and Fleamont are sitting up in bed, each with a book in hand, the duvet pulled up to their waists. The room smells faintly of tea and lavender, and the sight makes Regulus' chest squeeze—he still isn’t used to how soft this house is.
Euphemia immediately notices him. She sets her book down. “Oh, sweetheart, is everything alright?”
Regulus nods quickly, stepping inside. He closes the door behind him with a soft click.
Fleamont lowers his book, smiling. “You need something, bud?”
“Uhhh, yeah, ummm—” Regulus shifts his weight from foot to foot, twisting his fingers in his sleeves. “I wanted to, umm, talk.”
“Of course, kiddo,” Fleamont says gently.
“Come here, sweetheart,” Euphemia adds, her voice warm and inviting.
They both set their books aside. Regulus takes a breath and crosses the room. He climbs carefully onto the bed, settling cross-legged at the foot of it, right in the middle so he can see both of them clearly. The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight, and he presses his hands into his knees, grounding himself.
Fleamont tilts his head slightly. “You wanted to talk about something?”
“Yeah… yes… umm…” Regulus bites the inside of his cheek and tries to line up his thoughts in his head. They always feel like a mess when he needs them to behave. But he glances up at Euphemia and Fleamont and sees nothing but patience on their faces. No frustration. No pressure.
That strange warm feeling bubbles up again—so unfamiliar, so quiet. Safe.
“What are we—or you—doing for Father’s Day?”
Fleamont chuckles lightly. “Oh, well, we usually do this barbecue with some of James’ friends’ parents.”
“But considering we have both you and Sirius now,” Euphemia says, smiling gently, “we’ve decided not to host that this time.”
Regulus nods slowly. That makes sense. Maybe it’s just too much, too soon.
“What we were thinking, for Sunday,” Euphemia continues, “is that we just have a fun, lazy day here. Do whatever Monty wants.”
“Yep!” Fleamont agrees with a grin. “Probably something that involves food in bed.”
Euphemia laughs softly. “Of course it does.”
Regulus nods again. He shifts a little, hands now gripping the edge of the blanket. “Okay…”
He hesitates.
“Umm…”
“So… we will be here?” he asks, quieter this time.
“Yes, darling,” Euphemia says, her tone still so soft it makes his chest ache. “All day, no doubt.”
“Why? Is there something you want to do?”
“Yes,” Regulus says quickly, then winces. “Well, not—not exactly.”
His heart starts thudding faster again, anxiety rising in his throat like a tide. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second. You can do this.
He breathes in. Out. In again.
You can do this.
“Kiddo?” Fleamont’s voice breaks the spiral. “Everything okay?”
“Yes—yes, umm…” Regulus grips the blanket tighter.
“I was just wondering if… well…”
His mouth is dry. He swallows hard.
“I was wondering if I could get Sirius a gift,” he says, “for Sunday.”
There’s a pause.
Both Euphemia and Fleamont look at him, not with confusion exactly, but something unreadable—quiet. They don’t speak, and the silence makes Regulus’ palms sweat. But he pushes forward anyway.
“It’s just…” He picks at the hem of his jumper, not looking up. “In class, and with Laura… I kinda realised that, um…”
He glances between them, needing them to understand. “You know how parents are meant to take care of their kids when they’re sick?”
“Yeah,” Euphemia says softly.
“And you know how they’re meant to make them food and patch them up when they’re hurt?”
“Yeah,” Fleamont says, voice just as gentle.
“Well… Sirius did that,” Regulus whispers. “Not—not our parents.”
He takes a deep breath, but it catches a little on the way out.
“And… well… Father’s Day is about appreciating those who have cared for us, right?”
“Yeah,” they both say together.
“I—I just wanted to tell Sirius how much I appreciate him. And everything he did.”
His voice trembles slightly. “There’s probably more things that he’s done… but…”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Euphemia says, and Regulus looks up to find her eyes shining.
“Do you need help with coming up ideas on what to get him?” Fleamont asks.
Regulus shakes his head quickly. “No—no, I know what I want to get him.”
There’s a beat of silence. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s full. Heavy in the best kind of way.
“So…” Regulus looks down at his lap. “You two really are okay with me wanting to get Sirius something?”
“Oh, love…” Euphemia moves forward without hesitation, wrapping her arms around Regulus and pulling him close.
“Of course we’re okay with that,” she says into his hair. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
Fleamont nods from beside them. “I think Sirius would absolutely love it.”
Regulus nods against Euphemia’s shoulder. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
He hugs her back, tight and secure. He didn’t realise how much he needed to hear that.
After a little while, Euphemia pulls back, still cupping his face gently.
“Alright, so, we will go to the shops tomorrow morning?”
Regulus nods. “Yeah.”
“Alright, then.” She smiles.
“You think you’ll be alright in your own bed tonight?”
“Yeah.” Regulus nods again. “Yeah, I will.”
He pushes himself off the bed, feet hitting the floor softly. He hesitates by the door.
“Thank you,” he says, voice small but sure.
“No problem, kiddo,” Fleamont says warmly.
“Good night, bud.”
“Night, love,” Euphemia adds.
“Good night.”
Regulus steps out into the hallway and closes the door behind him. The air feels lighter somehow, the weight in his chest easing just a little. For the first time in what feels like ages, he feels a little more sure of himself.
***
Regulus wakes up on Saturday morning feeling like he’s floating. His chest feels light, his arms a little buzzy, and he can’t stop smiling—not even as he blinks against the early sunlight peeking through his curtains.
Today is important. Today he gets to buy his brother a gift. A real, proper, thought-through gift. Just the thought of it makes his stomach fizz with excitement. He’s never really felt this kind of joy before—at least not in this way. It’s new. Bright. The feeling is welcomed.
He doesn’t even complain when he has to get dressed quickly or brush his teeth before breakfast. He’s too focused, his mind already at the craft store.
When they were driving to the shopping center, Euphemia had turned to him with a warm smile and asked, “What store do you want to go into first?”
Regulus hadn’t even needed to think. “The craft shop,” he’d said instantly.
So that’s where they are now.
He trails close beside Euphemia as they walk through the aisles, eyes wide and darting from shelf to shelf. Everything seems to shimmer or sparkle. Bright colors, tangled textures, strange objects he doesn’t recognize—it’s like a wonderland of possibilities. There are glittery boxes that catch the overhead lights, strands of fairy lights twisted into baskets, stickers in themed packets, paints, pastels, sketch pads, glue guns, feathers, pompoms, stamps. It’s overwhelming in a kind of thrilling way.
It feels a little like being given a magic wand and being told he can do whatever he wants with it.
Regulus still can’t quite believe he’s allowed to do this—that Fleamont and Euphemia had both said yes to his idea. That they didn’t hesitate, or say it was silly or a waste of money. He keeps waiting for the catch. For the part where they tell him he can’t. Part of him worries they only agreed because they felt bad for him, or because he’s still new, and they’re trying to make him like them.
But another part—a quieter, warmer part—is starting to believe that maybe they really do care. That maybe they just want him to be happy.
He tries not to let that part get too loud. Hope is dangerous like that.
They reach a shelf full of colored paper, and it’s like diving into a sea of possibility. There are so many shades to choose from—brights, pastels, dark tones, even metallics. Regulus’ hands hover over the stack, uncertain.
“What about this one?” Euphemia asks beside him.
He turns and sees her holding up a sheet of red paper. Regulus grimaces before he can stop himself. It’s a nice color, objectively—bright and warm—but he knows Sirius hates it. Absolutely hates it. Regulus has never really understood why, but it’s something Sirius has always been weirdly passionate about.
Regulus shakes his head quickly. “No. He doesn’t like that.”
Euphemia raises an eyebrow, curious but not pushing. She places the red paper back without question. Regulus returns to the shelf, eyes narrowing in on the rows of blue.
“What about green?” Euphemia suggests gently, picking up a shade close to emerald.
Regulus shakes his head again, this time more firmly. “Green is… mine,” he says quietly, not looking at her.
There’s a pause.
“Okay,” Euphemia says simply, and slides the green paper back into its slot.
She leans a little closer. “You looking at the blues?”
Regulus nods. “Yeah. Blue’s his favorite.”
“Alright,” she replies, and reaches forward to pick out two different shades. One is deep and dark, almost navy; the other is soft and pale, like a spring sky.
“You could do two different colors, you know,” she says, offering them to him. “You could have the dark blue as the main card, and put the light blue on the front. Maybe you could even print something to go on the light blue, to make it stand out.”
Regulus holds the sheets carefully between his fingers. The weight of them, the texture—they feel real. Solid. His mind starts to spin with the possibilities.
That actually… sounds good.
He could put the message to Sirius on the inside, maybe something sweet and personal, and add an image on the front. Something cool. Something that feels like Sirius.
He nods. “I like it.”
Euphemia smiles at him, warm and proud. “That’s good, dear.”
They leave the paper section behind, and Regulus trails after her, clutching the sheets to his chest like treasure.
“Anything else you wanted from here?” Euphemia asks as they walk.
Regulus thinks for a moment, eyes scanning the store again. Yes—there is something else. He wants to make brownies. Sirius loves brownies. He wants to put them in a silver box, something shiny and nice, and tie it with a dark blue ribbon. It’ll be perfect.
“I wanted to make brownies,” Regulus says slowly.
Euphemia hums. “So you wanted to get a box, and some ribbon?”
“Yes, please.”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
She leads him toward the towering display of decorative boxes, a mountain of shapes and colors and finishes. Some are plain—just solid colors with little texture—while others are wild and busy, with glitter, polka dots, stripes, and patterns that almost make Regulus’ head spin.
That’s when he sees it.
The box.
It’s silver with a glittery lid that catches the light just right. Not too flashy, but still special. Regal, almost. Sirius will like that.
He picks it up carefully, inspecting it. He runs a finger across the lid to see if the glitter will come off. It doesn’t, which is good, but the rough texture sends a shiver up his arm and makes his nerves tingle unpleasantly.
Still… it's perfect.
“You want that one?” Euphemia asks from beside him.
“If that’s okay,” Regulus murmurs.
“Of course it’s okay, sweetheart.”
She turns toward the ribbon section and scans the rows of options, fingers drifting across the spools. Regulus watches her closely. Her movements are calm and certain, and there’s something comforting in the way she looks for things on his behalf, like she already knows what he needs.
“I think this one will go perfectly,” she says, holding up a dark blue ribbon, the exact shade he had in mind.
Regulus smiles. It’s not a big smile, but it’s real. “I think so too.”
He can already see it in his head—the box, the ribbon, the card. The brownies still warm from the oven. He’ll fold the card with care and place it gently on top of the treats. Sirius will open it and see that someone made something just for him. Not because they had to. Not because it was expected. But because they wanted to.
Because Regulus wants to.
Because Sirius deserves this.
Their next stop is the grocery store.
As they step through the automatic doors and into the bright, cool air of the supermarket, Regulus feels the nervous flutter in his stomach start to return. It’s quieter here than in the craft store, but the sharp lights and background hum of trolleys and chatter still make his skin feel a bit tight. He sticks close to Euphemia’s side.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Euphemia says gently, pushing a cart. “What were you thinking for the brownies? Do you have a recipe in mind?”
Regulus nods quickly, almost too eagerly. “Yeah, I do. It’s the brownies our cousin Andy used to make—Sirius loves them. I—I—”
He stops short. The words vanish in his throat like smoke. The image of the brownies is still vivid—golden, crispy edges, a soft, chocolatey center, slightly gooey but never undercooked. He remembers the way Sirius would light up when Andromeda brought them over. But the actual recipe... it's gone.
Regulus frowns. Panic creeps in, curling up from the base of his spine. His hands begin to fidget with the edge of his sleeve.
“Sweetheart?” Euphemia’s voice is soft, concerned.
He shakes his head. “Sorry, I—I don’t remember the recipe.”
“That’s okay,” she says easily. “We can find a different one.”
But Regulus shakes his head again, harder this time. “No, no, that won’t work.” His voice trembles. “They have to be Andy’s brownies. They’re the only ones Sirius’ll eat.”
He knows it sounds dramatic. He knows it probably is dramatic. But Sirius is picky about comfort things. He always has been. And Regulus wants this to be right . Not just good. Perfect .
“Okay, okay, sweetheart, calm down,” Euphemia says, stepping closer. Her hands land gently on his shoulders, grounding him.
“I need you to take deep breaths for me, in and out, okay?”
He nods, even though his chest feels tight. Still, he copies her—inhale, exhale. Inhale... exhale. Her calm presence helps. The world stops spinning so fast.
“You feeling better?” she asks.
He nods again, slower this time. “Yeah.”
“Good. That’s good.” She gives him a reassuring smile. “Now, can you think of anyone who might know the recipe?”
Regulus thinks. His mind combs through the scattered list of people still tethered to Andromeda. There’s really only one option, even if it’s a complicated one. “Yes. Bella knows it.”
Euphemia doesn’t even flinch. “Alright, then, let me just text her.”
He waits while she pulls out her phone and types something quickly. He watches the screen over her arm, biting the inside of his cheek. As he waits, another idea creeps into his head—something else he wants to get for Sirius. Something comforting.
Euphemia glances down at her phone and smiles. “Alright, I got the recipe. Let’s go get the ingredients, hmm?”
They move through the store together, weaving down aisles and checking items off the mental list: butter, eggs, flour, cocoa powder, milk chocolate chips. Regulus holds each item carefully, inspecting it before placing it in the cart like it’s precious cargo. Because it is , really.
As they head toward the checkouts, Euphemia turns to him and asks, “Is there anything else you wanted to get?”
Regulus hesitates for a second before replying, “Yes, actually. I wanted to get Sirius a stuffed animal. A cat.”
He braces himself for her reaction. He’s not sure if it’s a childish request, or weird, or somehow too much . But Euphemia only softens, eyes kind.
“Is—that okay?” he asks quietly.
“Of course that’s okay, love,” she says without missing a beat. “The store’s this way.”
He follows her, heart beating a little lighter in his chest. They walk toward the same store where he got his own stuffed dog—not that he needs the reminder. The memory of the meltdown he’d had there is still raw, prickling at the edges of his awareness. But he pushes it away. That’s not what today is about.
They wind through the aisles until they find the toy section. Rows of plush animals in all shapes and sizes stare back at them, but Regulus’ eyes are drawn almost immediately to the bottom corner of the shelf.
There it is.
A black stuffed cat, small and neat, with sleek fur and piercing blue eyes. Eyes that are almost the same shade as his. Almost . He reaches for it carefully, as though it might vanish if he moves too quickly.
He holds the cat up for Euphemia to see.
She smiles warmly. “You want that one?”
Regulus nods. “Yeah.”
“Is that all?” she asks.
He nods again. His hands are wrapped protectively around the soft toy.
Soon, they’re back in the car, the shopping bags in the boot and the cat on his lap. Regulus gazes out the window as Euphemia drives, thoughts buzzing.
Phase two is next.
He can’t wait.
The second Regulus steps through the front door, he bolts down the hallway without hesitation, feet barely making a sound against the wooden floor as he veers toward Fleamont’s study. His heart thuds with a mix of nerves and excitement, the bag of carefully chosen items clutched tightly in his arms.
He knew from the start that hiding Sirius’ gift in his own room would be a mistake. Too obvious. Sirius may not be nosy on purpose, but he would definitely poke around if he got curious. No, the safest place—the best place—is somewhere Sirius would never even think to check. And the study? It's basically sacred adult territory. Sirius won’t come near it unless forced.
Regulus throws open the door and shuts it just as abruptly behind him, the loud thunk echoing through the quiet room. Fleamont jumps slightly in his chair.
“Sorry,” Regulus mumbles, cheeks burning. He hadn’t meant to startle him.
“That’s alright, kiddo,” Fleamont says, his voice calm and easy, already recovering from the surprise.
He turns fully in his chair to look at Regulus, who suddenly becomes acutely aware of how he must appear: out of breath, arms full, probably looking frantic or suspicious—or both. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable under the weight of Fleamont’s gaze. It isn’t harsh or judgmental, Regulus knows that now. It’s taken time—longer than he’d ever admit out loud—but he’s learned that Fleamont doesn’t stare the way his parents did. He simply sees people. Observes, like he’s trying to understand rather than control.
Regulus probably looks ridiculous. Breathless. Overloaded. A bit like he’s smuggling treasure. Which, in a way, he is.
“Those for Sirius?” Fleamont asks, tilting his head toward the bundle in Regulus’ arms.
Regulus nods quickly. “I was wondering if I could store them in here?”
Fleamont’s face softens into one of those warm, reassuring smiles Regulus is still getting used to. “Of course you can, bud.”
Relief washes through Regulus like a wave. “Thank you.”
Fleamont gives him a nod and turns back to his work, tapping lightly on the keyboard. Regulus steps forward carefully, crouching beside a low shelf to tuck the bag behind a stack of books—safe and out of sight.
He lingers, his hands hovering even after the gift is stashed. Another thought creeps in, tugging insistently at the edge of his mind. He fidgets with the hem of his sleeve, unsure how to voice it. He’s never been good at asking for things. Not with his parents—asking was always dangerous, always an invitation for disappointment or ridicule. But here, in this room that smells like paper and coffee and safety, maybe it’s okay.
Still, it’s hard.
Fleamont must notice. “You need something, kiddo?”
Regulus swallows. “Uh, yes. Actually, I do, Monty.”
Fleamont turns toward him again, attentive and patient. “Of course. What is it?”
Regulus hesitates for just a second longer, then blurts, “I was wondering if I could borrow your computer? I wanted to write something for Sirius. And make, like, a cool cover page for the card I wanna give him.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Fleamont’s whole face lights up, like Regulus’ request has genuinely made his day.
“Of course,” he says warmly.
He shifts around his desk, moving papers and a coffee mug aside before pulling the laptop into view. He lifts it and offers it to Regulus like it’s no big deal.
“Here you go.”
Regulus accepts it carefully, handling it like something fragile. “Thanks.”
He settles into the corner chair and opens the laptop, the screen flickering to life. For the next twenty minutes, he types, deletes, rewrites, and rephrases. Every word feels too much or not enough. He wants to say everything—how much Sirius means to him, how proud he is, how sorry he is that Sirius has had to go through so much—but also doesn’t want to overwhelm. The words matter. Sirius deserves words that matter.
Eventually, something clicks. It’s not perfect, but it feels right . Honest.
After that, Regulus searches online for just the right image. It takes longer than expected, but finally, he finds a black-and-white sketch of stars—elegant, simple, and something he can color in by hand later. It feels meaningful. Like a piece of the sky they used to lie under.
“Monty?” Regulus asks softly. “Can I print?”
“Mhm,” Fleamont murmurs, not even looking up. “You don’t have to ask, y’know.”
Regulus shrugs, already standing to queue the print job. “It’s rude not to.”
He waits by the printer, listening to the soft whir as the pages feed through. As the final sheet slides out, he gathers them up and presses them flat, smoothing the corners with his fingertips.
He stands there for a long moment, looking down at his work.
He really, really hopes Sirius likes the gifts. Regulus knows he would. Every choice, every line of the letter, every item in the bag—it’s all a piece of him, carefully handed over.
And for once, he doesn’t feel scared to give it. Just... hopeful.
Hopeful that it might mean something meaningful.
***
Regulus wakes up slowly, blinking against the soft morning light spilling through the curtains. For a moment, he forgets what day it is.
And then he remembers.
Father’s Day.
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and reaches for his clothes, carefully folding back the collar of his shirt before slipping it on. His fingers work automatically, buttoning each one with precision, as his thoughts drift.
Father’s Day has always been the first Sunday of September. Always a church day. He remembers waking early, even earlier than usual, and putting on his stiff little church suit. The navy one with the scratchy collar and shiny shoes. No one ever smiled on Father’s Day, not until after the service. It was serious. Holy. Proper.
After church, they’d host the family brunch. A grand, formal sort of affair. They’d celebrate all the fathers: his own father, Orion; Grandfather Arcturus; Uncle Cygnus; and on his mother’s side, Grandfather Pollux.
He was always closer to Grandfather Arcturus. There was a calm to him, a dignity that didn’t bite. Pollux was… colder. Sharper around the edges. Maybe because Regulus was named after Arcturus. Or maybe Pollux had never forgiven his daughter for producing sons instead of the perfect heir through her brother. Regulus never really understood the logic, and now—well, he’ll never have to.
That thought stops him mid-button. He never has to see them again.
He lets out a slow breath.
It’s not grief. Not exactly. It’s something quieter. Lighter. A weight unhooking itself from his ribs. The idea of being in the same room as them again—of hearing their clipped voices and biting judgment—it makes him feel ill. But now he won’t have to.
He finishes dressing and glances at himself in the mirror. No suit today. Just a soft jumper and jeans. Comfortable. Unremarkable. Free.
He heads downstairs, padding softly toward the kitchen. The smell hits him first—eggs, bacon, something sweet and warm. Pancakes?
He steps inside.
Euphemia is at the stove, her hair pinned up into a messy bun, humming under her breath.
“Good morning, darling,” she says, without turning around.
“Morning, Effie,” he replies, voice still a little scratchy with sleep.
She glances over her shoulder with a soft smile. “Sleep well, did we?”
Regulus nods. “Yes, I did.”
She turns back to the stove, expertly flipping something in the pan.
He steps closer, eyes catching the dishes she’s juggling—scrambled eggs, thick strips of bacon, and golden, fluffy pancakes. It smells like a feast.
“Are you making that for Monty?”
She nods again, cheerful. “Yes, I am. And for everybody else.”
She leans to the side and grabs a few more plates. “But, because it’s Father’s Day, Monty gets the first serve in bed.”
Regulus nods, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants.
“My family usually goes to church on Father’s Day—well—every Sunday really.”
He’s not sure why he says it. It just… slips out. Maybe it feels important. Like saying it out loud makes it real. Like it draws the line in the sand between them and this .
Euphemia glances at him again, a warm light in her eyes. “Really?”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you Christian or Catholic?”
“My family are Catholic,” Regulus says quietly. “But I’ve never really believed in God.”
He shrugs, fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of his sleeve. “Just science, really.”
Euphemia lets out a soft, amused chuckle. “You don’t say?”
She nudges a pan onto a different burner, turning to face him properly. “Well, Monty would love to hear that.”
Regulus tilts his head. “Why?”
She smiles wider, then lifts a hand to gently run her fingers through his hair. It’s such an unfamiliar gesture for just a general conversation, that he freezes for half a second—then leans into it.
“What I mean, dear,” she says, warm and teasing, “is that you and Monty have something in common. Only believing in science—in the facts.”
Regulus feels his face heat up. Something in his chest tightens in a way that’s not unpleasant. He has something in common with Monty?
That’s… pretty cool.
He shakes his head quickly, trying to chase the blush away. “Can I help?”
“Of course you can, love,” Euphemia says, already moving to the next pan. “Why don’t you get the tray ready for me?”
Regulus nods and turns toward the counter, spotting the wooden breakfast tray waiting there—neatly folded napkin, clean mug, a little vase of violets already in place.
He picks it up carefully.
He’s going to make sure it’s perfect.
After all, it is Father’s Day.
And Monty is… well. He’s not his father.
But maybe someday, Regulus thinks, he could be something close to it.
The breakfast tray smells incredible—bacon, eggs, and something sweet and syrupy from the stack of pancakes Euphemia’s just finished plating. Regulus walks beside her as they head upstairs, the soft clink of cutlery on the tray sounding out with each careful step.
Halfway up, he murmurs, “Just a second,” and ducks into his room.
He can’t forget the card.
It’s sitting right where he left it, on his desk, the orange cover facing up. Regulus slips it carefully into his hand, fingers trembling just slightly. He rejoins Euphemia, who waits for him at the top of the stairs with a knowing look.
When they push open the bedroom door, it creaks softly. Inside, the scene is… unexpected.
James is sprawled across Fleamont’s chest in a tangle of pajamas and limbs, shaking his shoulders and half-yelling, “Wake up, sleepyhead!” and “Get up, old man!”
Fleamont groans, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “Alright, alright! I’m getting up, Jesus.”
James only laughs harder. Euphemia chuckles quietly, and Regulus can’t help the wild smile that creeps onto his face. There’s something infectious about the ease in the room.
As Fleamont groans and sits up, James rolls off of him and reaches toward the bedside table. Regulus watches as James grabs something and practically shoves it into his dad’s face. “Happy Father’s Day, Dad,” James says with a crooked grin.
“Thank you, James,” Fleamont replies, pulling his son in for a tight hug. Regulus can hear the warmth in both their voices. It sparks something in his chest—some unfamiliar, aching kind of happiness.
Regulus steps forward, card clutched in his hands. “Here you go,” he says, a bit awkwardly. “I—um—I made you this.”
Fleamont’s eyes brighten as he takes the card. Regulus shifts nervously on his feet as Fleamont opens it.
“I— I heard orange is your favourite colour,” Regulus stammers. “I— I—um— I hope you like it.”
Fleamont closes the card and looks up at him, beaming. “I love it. Thank you, Regulus.” He opens his arms. “Can I have a hug?”
Regulus nods and climbs into the embrace. Fleamont’s arms wrap around him firmly, solid and warm.
“Thank you, kiddo,” he whispers into Regulus’ ear. “I really love the card. It was beautiful.”
Regulus nods into Fleamont’s shoulder, cheeks flushed, and doesn’t let go just yet. It feels… safe. Like nothing can touch him here.
When he finally pulls back, he shuffles over to the other side of the bed as Euphemia sets down the tray.
“Happy Father’s Day, love,” she says softly, brushing a hand over Fleamont’s hair. “Thank you for being such a wonderful and loving husband and dad.”
Fleamont blushes, and Regulus watches as Euphemia leans down to kiss him. James groans exaggeratedly. “Eww, get a room!”
They laugh—Fleamont and Euphemia both—and Regulus finds himself laughing too. It’s easy here.
He stays for a little while, perched on the edge of the bed, listening to James chatter and steal pieces of bacon from Fleamont’s plate. Fleamont doesn’t seem to mind. He even offers bites to Regulus, who politely declines, though the thought makes him feel warm inside.
It’s so different from Father’s Days back with his Family.
So much better.
After a while, something tugs at Regulus’ memory. He leans toward Euphemia and whispers, “I’ll be back, Effie.”
She kisses his forehead, whispering, “Okay, sweetheart.”
Regulus heads out and into his own room, grabbing the silver box, black stuffed cat, and card off his desk. Sirius’ gift. It’s not much, but it’s something.
He pads quietly toward Sirius’ room and opens the door just enough to peek in—only to find Sirius already awake and sitting up, a lazy smile on his face.
“Good morning, ma petite étoile. ”
Regulus opens the door the rest of the way and walks in. “Morning, Siri.”
Sirius tilts his head, concerned. “Everything alright?”
Regulus shrugs as he sits down on the bed in front of him. “Yeah. I—um—I have something to give you.”
Sirius blinks. “Okay?”
Regulus fidgets with the present in his hands. “I know today’s Father’s Day.”
“Yes, I know this too,” Sirius says gently.
“Well—this is gonna sound weird—but I got you something.”
Sirius’ expression falters. “I—uh—why would you do that, Reggie?”
Regulus shrugs again. “Um—well—um—you see, I just wanted to—um—”
He gives up on the words and thrusts the gift toward Sirius, watching his brother’s face shift from stunned to confused.
“I—I don’t get it, Reg,” Sirius says quietly. “I’m just your brother.”
“I know you’re just my brother, Sirius,” Regulus says, voice firmer now. “But I wanted to get you something because… because I wanted to show you how much you mean to me. And how much I appreciate you. For everything you’ve done for me.”
He meets Sirius’ eyes—glassy and grey, filling fast with emotion.
“You’ve done a lot for me, Siri,” Regulus whispers. “And I just wanted to show you, even if it’s in a small way.”
Sirius makes a choked sound and pulls him into a hug. “Thank you, ma petite étoile. ”
“ Je t'aime, Siri.”
Another sound, shakier this time. “ Je t'aime aussi, Reggie.”
They hold each other for a long moment. Regulus could probably stay like this all day, but eventually, he pulls away.
“Alright, I’m going to go back to Effie and Monty. Breakfast will be ready soon.”
He stands and heads for the door, pausing just long enough to glance back. Sirius is still staring down at the gift like it’s something precious.
Regulus offers him a small smile before slipping out and closing the door behind him.
When he returns to the master bedroom, everything is still soft and golden and warm. He sits back on the bed, a quiet satisfaction settling in his chest.
He thinks—no, he hopes, that maybe… maybe he’s done a good thing.
***
Regulus pulls his hoodie on, smoothing it down as he watches Euphemia tuck her purse under her arm. James is already by the door, lacing his shoes with a dramatic groan about how hungry he is. They’re going to pick up Monty’s favorite Thai food for dinner—it was Euphemia’s idea, to make today a bit special.
Just as Regulus reaches for his own shoes, there’s a knock on the front door.
“I’ll get it,” he says quickly, already padding over.
The moment he opens the door, his heart stops.
Sarah.
She stands there with her usual clipboard in hand, her smile gentle and patient.
But everything inside Regulus drops.
His stomach twists into a hard knot. His throat closes up like something’s pressing against it. He takes a step back without realizing, and suddenly the hallway feels too small, too hot, too bright. His chest is tightening fast, his breath speeding up in shallow gasps. It feels like all the air’s been yanked out of the room.
She’s here to take Sirius.
He can’t go—he can’t . Not after everything. Not after last night, when Sirius sat beside him until he fell asleep. Not after this morning, when they’d made pancakes and Sirius had let James toss one at him just to make Regulus laugh.
“No,” Regulus whispers, barely audible. “No—no—you can’t—”
He turns halfway, caught between running and collapsing, eyes flicking around like he’s looking for somewhere to hide.
“I—I can’t—he just got here—you can’t take him—please—” The words tumble out, ragged and half-breathless. His fingers twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them, and he’s starting to shake.
Euphemia is there in seconds, crouching down to his eye level, her tone calm but firm, like she’s anchoring him.
“Regulus. Sweetheart. Look at me. Breathe. You’re alright.”
Fleamont moves in from the other side, steady hand resting lightly between Regulus’ shoulder blades. “You’re safe, son. Sirius is still here. No one’s taking anyone away.”
Regulus sucks in a breath that sounds more like a sob. His hands ball into fists at his sides, and he’s trembling all over.
Euphemia reaches for one of his hands and takes it gently. “You know where you are, love. Right here, with us. You’re okay.”
Fleamont starts counting with him—soft, even numbers. “One... two... three... that’s it, there you go.”
Slowly, the floor stops tilting. His breathing starts to come easier. He lets out a shaky exhale and blinks back the sting in his eyes.
And then—it hits him.
“Oh,” he whispers. His face goes red. “It’s… it’s the first Sunday.”
He peeks over at Sarah, his cheeks burning. “Check-in day.”
Sarah just smiles, like it’s not a big deal. “That’s right. Do you want to talk with me now, Regulus, or would you prefer I speak with Sirius first?”
Regulus wipes at his face, still embarrassed, but nods. “No, no. I’m okay. I can go now.”
“Alright then. Outside?” she says gently.
He nods again, and they step out onto the front porch together. The air feels better out here—cooler, quieter. They sit on the steps, and Sarah flips to a blank page on her clipboard.
“So,” she says lightly, “how’s everything been?”
Regulus shrugs. “Good. Lots of stuff has happened.”
Sarah chuckles. “I bet it has.”
Regulus looks out toward the street. “Today’s Father’s Day.”
Sarah hums. “It is, isn’t it? How do you feel about that?”
Regulus pauses. “Okay.”
He glances at her, and she’s watching him carefully, nodding to show she’s listening. He looks away again.
“My therapist and I talked about the true meaning of Father’s Day. We talked about what parents are meant to do for their kids.”
Sarah stays quiet, still nodding.
“I got Sirius a gift for today,” Regulus says softly. “I know he’s not my parent… but he’s done a lot for me. And I wanted him to see that.”
“That’s very nice of you, Regulus,” Sarah replies gently.
“There’s probably more things he’s done for me than I’ll ever know, but…” Regulus shrugs.
“At least you can identify the things he has done for you,” Sarah says, smiling.
“Yeah.”
They sit in silence for a moment, the afternoon sun warming the porch.
“So,” Sarah asks, “what’s it been like having Sirius live here with you?”
Regulus smiles. “Amazing. I really missed him.”
Sarah chuckles. “I bet you did.”
She looks at him thoughtfully. “How do you think he’s adjusting? Would you say well?”
Regulus considers. “As good as it gets when you first move to a new place. It takes time to get comfortable sometimes.”
“Very true,” she agrees.
There’s another pause, the kind that feels natural.
“You’re liking it here?” Sarah asks.
“Yes. Very much.”
“I’ve noticed,” she hums.
Regulus tilts his head. “How?”
“You’re talking a lot more. And you seem more relaxed around them.”
Regulus nods slowly. “Yeah… I guess so.”
“It’s a good thing, what you’ve got going here,” Sarah says. “I think the longer you spend here, the more you’ll believe it. And, let me just say—we’re entering month number four of you being here. That’s a pretty good improvement. I’m really proud of you, Regulus.”
Regulus blushes, but he smiles. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, warm and light.
They talk a little longer before heading back inside. Sarah is speaking quietly with Euphemia and Fleamont in the kitchen. Euphemia looks up at him with a small smile.
“Would you mind going upstairs and getting your brother?”
Regulus nods and heads up the stairs. Each step feels a little lighter than before. He knocks softly on the bedroom door before pushing it open.
Sirius is there, lying on his stomach across the bed, flipping through a magazine.
“Sarah’s here,” Regulus says.
Sirius looks up, his expression unreadable for a moment—then he nods and swings his legs over the side. “Alright. Let’s go.”
They walk downstairs together, and for a moment Regulus forgets how scared he was earlier. Sirius is still here. They’re walking side by side.
As they reach the bottom of the stairs, Euphemia is already grabbing her keys.
“Ready?” she asks with a smile.
“Yep!” James calls, bounding ahead and yanking open the front door.
Regulus hesitates for a moment, looking back toward Sarah. She catches his eye and gives him a small wave.
“Bye,” Regulus says softly.
“Bye, Regulus,” she replies warmly. “Have fun.”
Then he steps out into the evening light, the door shutting gently behind them. The driveway smells faintly of warm pavement and blooming hydrangeas, and the sky is streaked with pink and gold.
Euphemia unlocks the car, and Regulus climbs into the backseat beside James. As the car pulls out of the driveway, Regulus rests his forehead against the window. James is already talking about what he’s going to order, and Euphemia laughs as she merges onto the road.
Regulus closes his eyes briefly, feeling the hum of the car beneath him.
He’s not panicking anymore.
He’s not afraid.
He’s not alone.
And all he can feel is happiness—quiet, glowing, and real.
Notes:
Word Count: 16,603
Published: 2025-05-2816K!!! What the??? Anyways, I had this finished a couple days ago, and I thought I'd kept you lot waiting long enough, I definitely won't update for another 2-3 weeks, as I am in the assessment prime, but, for now, I think 16K is enough. Also, I was generally thinking/planning on splitting this chapter in half, but decided against it, as it didn't feel right/disrupted my plans for the next couple chapters. (I know what chapter 29-34 is going to be about, so, lots of writing to happen yay!)
Oh, also, another thing. When I was writing this chapter, I was like, oooo the timeline aligns with when Father's day is (in Australia). But, when I actually googled it when it was on in the UK it said it was in June... I could be wrong, but, I'll stick to first Sunday of September lol.
Anyways, enjoy! I'll see you all in like 2-3 weeks!! Thank you!!!
Chapter 29: He's Stuck in Limbo... And Doesn't See a Way Out of It...
Summary:
It’s like he’s stuck in limbo. He is completely, and utterly stuck—after hearing those words from Sarah. Like, where is he meant to go from here? What is he meant to do now?
And… What about the promise he made to his little star? What then?
POV: Sirius Black
Notes:
Trigger warning: mentions of sexual abuse in the second to last scene (the scene starts with the word "Court")
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He never thought this would happen to him.
Not again.
Not this feeling.
It creeps in slowly, like mould in the corners of his chest, rotting through everything solid until he feels hollow. Not even angry at first. Just cold. Blank. Like something inside him has cracked and all the warmth has leaked out.
He lies on the bottom bunk, pressed flat against the wall, the thin mattress doing nothing to cushion the weight of his thoughts. The metal frame above him creaks with every movement, like it’s taunting him—like it knows he’s stuck here. Alone. Forgotten.
It feels like everything he ever believed in is unraveling. And there’s nothing he—or anyone—can do about it.
Because he’s trapped.
Trapped in this strange, unbearable space between rejection and something that could have been acceptance—if the universe had given him half a chance.
How the hell do you accept rejection when you weren’t even sure you were ever up for acceptance in the first place?
Sirius stares at the underside of the top bunk, eyes wide and dry. He hasn’t blinked in minutes. He knows the numbness won’t last. It never does. This isn’t calm. This is the pause before the flood.
Sarah’s words come back again, bitter and cloying in his head. “The Potters are good people.”
Yeah? he thinks. If they’re so good, then why the hell wouldn’t they even speak to me?
He doesn’t want a second chance, he wants a first . Just one conversation. One moment where someone actually looked at him and didn’t see a rap sheet or a label or a warning sign.
But no. He’s a criminal.
A violent one.
A danger to his own brother.
Sirius exhales, shaky and quiet. He hates that it makes sense. He hates that he would probably tell Regulus to stay the hell away from someone like him, too.
Still…
It’s not fair.
It’s so not fucking fair.
He wants to scream. Tear at the sheets. Bash his fists into the concrete wall until they bleed. He wants to smash everything. Tear apart the world until it feels as broken as he does inside.
He wants the Potters to hurt . He wants them to hurt the same way he’s hurting. He wants them to feel the very pain he’s feeling—whenever they look at Regulus, he wants them to feel the pain of what could’ve been. Sirius wants them to feel the pain in his brother’s eyes as they tell him that Sirius won’t be coming.
All he wants is for them to feel it. To feel the sting, the pain, the hurt of rejection, of despair, at destroying the little boy’s heart they so carefully curated.
They don’t want him. He’s fine with that. Sirius just hopes they regret their decision every single day, for the rest of their long, miserable lives.
But even that fantasy feels hollow. The pain is too loud, too raw, to wrap in revenge.
He turns to face the wall, jaw clenched so tight it aches. He should’ve known better than to hope. How could he be so stupid?
The sudden voice that slices through the silence is grating, rough. “Oi, Black!”
Sirius doesn’t respond at first. Just blinks at the peeling paint on the wall like it might answer for him. But the voice is louder this time. Closer.
“Black. I’m talking to you.”
Sirius sighs through his nose and turns his head slightly toward the doorway.
Nate.
Seventeen. Almost eighteen. Built like a rugby forward, with scars on his knuckles and a twisted glint in his eye that says he’s only one push away from making someone bleed.
Attempted murder. That’s what they said when he came in.
And now, lucky Sirius gets to share a cell with that—with him.
Sirius props himself up slightly on his elbow. “What do you want, Nate?”
The other boy steps into the room with a smug little curl to his mouth. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Black. Show some respect, bitch.”
Sirius lets out a short, humourless snort. “Respect? You think that’s something we hand out in here like candy?”
Nate doesn’t laugh.
Sirius does, but it’s sharp and shallow. “Honestly, I’d rather give it to the toilet. At least it’s not pretending to be anything it’s not.”
Nate moves closer, his shoulders squared and heavy, fists flexing at his sides. “You think you’re funny?”
“I know I’m funny,” Sirius replies, shrugging. “You’re just too thick to get the punchline.”
“Keep running your mouth,” Nate growls, stepping right up to the side of the bunk. “You think you’re a tough guy, don’t you, sweetheart?”
That word— sweetheart —drips off his tongue like venom. It makes Sirius’s stomach churn.
“Sweetheart?” Sirius raises an eyebrow. He has always hated that pet name—for him, it reminds of parents who actually love their children. Who go out of their way to show them they care. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “Bit of a weird pet name, but if that’s your way of flirting—”
Nate grabs the edge of the bunk and leans down so close Sirius can smell the stale sweat on his breath.
“You think you can just lay there and mouth off?” Nate snarls. “Like you’re above it all? Like you’re not just some broken little rich boy with a record and a bleeding complex?”
Sirius’s smile falters, just for a second. How in God's name does Nate even know this? He probably doesn’t, Sirius has to remind himself. It’s just all talk, nothing to it. But still, Nate notices.
He steps in closer, voice lowering. “You’re nothing in here. No family. No friends. Not even your brother wants you.”
That hits too close. Sirius stiffens, his jaw locking hard.
Nate grins. “Yeah. I heard. The Potters wouldn’t take you in, huh? That’s rough, mate. Real rough . But I get it. I wouldn’t take you either.”
Sirius forces a smirk, though his fists are clenched under the blanket.
“You done projecting yet, Nate? Or do you need a hug to go with your daddy issues?”
Nate laughs—not with humour, but with malice. He leans in again, whispering right next to Sirius’s ear.
“Just remember something, Black,” he murmurs. “No one’s coming for you. You’re on your own now. And I don’t care how sharp your tongue is. Sooner or later, you’ll break.”
He pulls back with a self-satisfied smirk, like he’s already won.
Sirius stares up at him, every muscle coiled, his heart racing so hard it echoes in his ears. He wants to hit him. He wants to do something.
But he doesn’t. He just swallows hard and gives the smallest nod. Let him think he’s won. Let him walk away. It’s easier that way. Safer.
As Nate steps back and disappears into the hall, Sirius sinks down onto the mattress, curling tighter beneath the scratchy sheet.
His heart still thunders in his chest. His eyes burn, but he refuses to let the tears fall.
He’s not safe here. Not safe anywhere, really. He’s not wanted anywhere else, either for that matter.
And worse than all of that—he let himself believe, even for a second, that maybe he could be. And that? That disgusts him. He hates it.
***
It’s been four days. Four days since he last had a visitor.
That’s the thing about Sirius—he’s never had visitors. Not once. Not when he was locked up the first time. Not when he was younger and scared and still stupid enough to think someone might care. Not even when he was sent away this time, dragged off all because he was doing the right thing, bruised and burning with rage.
And now? Two visits. In four days. It’s ridiculous!
He sits slouched in the plastic chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest like a shield. His face is blank, impassive, carefully composed into something unreadable. It’s a skill he’s refined to survive. Because that’s all a person can do in here—survive.
“Name?” the lady behind the glass asks. Sirius thinks her name is Sheril. She’s got that tired, disinterested look that most people working in places like this wear like a second skin. She sits there behind the reinforced window like it’s some kind of shield, like she needs protection from the monsters behind the gates. Maybe she does.
After all, Sirius is classified as dangerous.
“Black, Sirius,” he answers flatly, the words devoid of emotion, stripped down to the bone.
Sheril hums, uninterested, eyes flicking back to her screen. There’s a brief pause filled with the clacking of keys and the rhythmic click of a mouse. The air conditioning rattles above, stale and humming like it’s given up too.
Sirius stares at the countertop, jaw tight, shoulders aching from the constant tension he holds like a second skin. No emotions. That’s the rule. Smile, and you’re weak. Flinch, and you’re prey.
Emotion is a liability here.
Finally, Sheril glances up. “You’ve been assigned the private visiting room,” she says, and Sirius catches something in her tone—curiosity? Judgment? It’s hard to tell. “Down that hall, fifth door on your right. Any questions?”
Sirius shakes his head. No way he’s risking even a second longer of attention.
He walks, slow at first, down the sterile hallway. The lights above buzz faintly, flickering like they can’t quite keep up. And all he can think is: Why now?
Why do people suddenly care? What the hell changed? No one’s ever come to see him before—so why now?
It’s not like he’s worth it. He knows he’s not worth it. He’s not someone you bother to visit. He’s not someone people choose .
So, who the hell has come to visit him? And what would they need the private visitor area for?
Sirius knows, from what he’s heard, that private visitor meetings can last longer than an hour. Who would possibly want to see him for more than an hour?
He scowls at the floor. Regulus, maybe? Oh God. It better not be Regulus.
Sarah promised she wouldn’t tell him anything—not about where he is, not what happened, nothing. And the Potters? He seriously doubts they’d tell Regulus the truth about his criminal brother.
Or… maybe they would. Maybe they’d sit Regulus down and tell him everything. Warn him. Scare him. Convince him to stay away.
Sirius clenches his fists. That bubbling feeling returns—rage, shame, hopelessness.
Why would anyone want to see him? A violent kid in juvenile lock-up. A name with a record. He’s a walking cautionary tale.
The worst part is, he knows Regulus would care. That’s just the kind of idiot he is. And Sirius is angry at him for it. Not because he’s done anything wrong, but because it hurts more to know someone still gives a damn.
It hurts more than being hated.
He shouldn’t be mad at Regulus. Regulus isn’t even someone to be mad at! He’s literally perfect. But Sirius can’t help it. He’s angry. He’s so angry he could shatter.
Angry at their parents. Angry at the Potters. Angry at the whole goddamn universe.
His fists are clenched as he reaches the metal door. The hinges groan as it opens.
“Sirius.”
His name, soft and steady, breaks through the tension in his chest. He knows that voice.
“Sarah,” he replies, keeping his expression guarded.
She stands there, smiling at him in that way only she can—warm, patient, too gentle for a place like this. Her smile, for a moment, pulls the storm inside him into something quieter. Calmer. It’s not much, but it’s something.
“Please, sit. We have many things to discuss.”
Right, Sirius thinks, dragging his feet as he slumps into the chair across from her. What’s there to discuss? The Potters don’t want me. And just like that, the anger comes rushing back.
He watches as Sarah arranges some papers and a notebook in front of her. She’s always so careful with everything—words, tone, body language. Like she thinks she can fix him with enough gentleness.
“So,” she begins, “how have you been?”
Sirius snorts. “Seriously?”
Sarah raises an eyebrow, but her expression softens. “Yes. I mean it.”
He doesn’t have the energy to argue. He rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he mutters, then, almost out of habit, “How have you been?”
She perks up at that. “Great, actually. Thanks for asking.”
But the moment’s gone. Her smile doesn’t land this time. Sirius glares at the table.
“Right then,” Sarah clears her throat, professional mask sliding back into place. “Let’s begin.”
He sighs but nods. There’s no avoiding it.
“As you know, the Potters are still somewhat… cautious about taking you in.”
Sirius huffs. “Yeah, what’s new?”
“They’ve made it clear I should be exploring other options for you,” she says carefully.
It shouldn’t hurt. He already knew this. But it does. It hurts like a kick to the ribs.
Sarah tries to continue gently. “Now, I know this wasn’t what we envisioned—”
Sirius cuts her off. “ Not what we envisioned? I hate to break it to you, Sarah, but I never envisioned any of this.” His voice spikes, words punching out faster. “You think I planned to end up in juvie? That I wanted this? That I wanted to be separated from my brother?”
“I know this is difficult—”
“ Difficult? ” Sirius laughs bitterly. “You don’t know anything about difficult.”
“Alright,” Sarah says quickly, holding up her hands. “Just—take a breath.”
And somehow, Sirius does. He sucks in a breath, shaky and shallow, but it’s something. He lets it out slow. One. Two. Another.
“Okay,” he mutters.
“Better?” she asks, voice low.
He nods.
“Okay. Let’s stick to the facts, alright?”
He doesn’t answer, but she takes it as a yes.
“Because you were arrested for a violent offense, there’s very limited fostering availability.”
Sirius narrows his eyes. “You mean—what you’re trying to say is—I’ve got no chance. Because I got arrested, no one wants me.”
Her eyes look too soft. Too sad. It makes him want to vomit.
“I’m sorry.”
He clenches and unclenches his fits. “Don’t be. Just…” Sirius takes a breath. Releasing it, in the same breath he says, “Keep going.”
Sarah shifts uncomfortably. “I’ve been looking into group homes that are the most suitable, but—”
“But?” he presses.
“There aren’t many available beds at the moment. As soon as there is, I’ll submit your name, but…”
It takes him a second. But then it hits.
“So… wait. You’re saying I might be stuck here—even after my release—because no one’s willing to take me?”
The look on her face is all the answer he needs.
“This is ridiculous! ” he explodes, the chair screeching against the floor as he shoots to his feet. “I didn’t— I’m not even that violent! ” His fists are shaking. “And even if I was , why does that mean I don’t get a second chance? Why does he get a home and I get— this? ”
“Sirius—”
He doesn’t hear her. He can’t. His rage is too loud.
“I’m not some monster! I just wanted to be with my brother! And now you’re telling me that’s never going to happen?”
“Sirius, please—”
But he’s already moving. He storms for the door, blood roaring in his ears. He hears her voice calling after him—“Sirius!”—but he doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t look back.
***
Every little thing has been getting on Sirius’s nerves lately. And he means everything.
From the way the dinner trays always come out lukewarm and soggy, to the constant muttering of his cellmate Nate as he sleeps—there is absolutely nothing that isn’t pissing him off. Everything grates. Everything scratches under his skin like nails. It’s infuriating, and it’s constant.
And now, to top it all off, he has to sit in a cold plastic chair, in a miserable little circle, and enjoy the wonders of group therapy.
What a load of absolute bollocks.
“Alright, everyone, who’s willing to start us off today?” Harry asks, voice annoyingly bright.
He’s met with silence. Not even the shuffle of a shoe against the floor. Just sullen, blank stares from every teenager in the circle, each looking just as pissed off as Sirius feels. No one wants to be here.
Sirius sinks further into his chair, slouching dramatically, arms folded across his chest. The fluorescent light overhead is too bright, buzzing faintly, and it makes his already throbbing headache worse. He stares at a scuff mark on the floor, willing himself to disappear into it. These stupid circles—they’re always the same. A bunch of broken kids pretending they’ve been fixed, or worse, pretending they want to be.
He doesn’t.
He doesn’t want to be poked and prodded and talked into being someone he’s not. He doesn’t want to be told he’s “angry” or “closed off” or “difficult.” He just wants to be left alone.
And he’s tired. Bone-deep tired. Of this place, of the rules, of pretending he’s fine when everything inside him is twisted and wrong. He’s tired of the way people look at him like they expect him to blow up at any moment. Like he’s dangerous. Like he’s not just a kid. A scared, furious, lonely kid.
Someone shifts in their chair beside him. Someone else coughs. The silence drags on like it’s daring someone to break it.
Sirius tunes it all out.
His thoughts drift to Regulus, to the last letter he never got to send, to the promise he made that he might never be able to keep. His throat tightens. It hurts to think about him. His baby brother. Safe, warm, loved—without him.
A bitter ache coils in his chest.
He doesn’t blame Regulus. Of course he doesn’t. He’s just... angry. At the world. At everyone who let them get torn apart. At himself, most of all.
“Sirius?”
The sound of his name hits him like a slap, jolting him back to the circle.
His eyes snap up, and Harry is staring at him, expectant.
“You got a second?” Harry asks, his tone too careful, like he’s approaching a bomb that’s already ticking.
Sirius blinks. Nods stiffly. Mostly because it means getting out of that suffocating ring of judgmental silence. Whatever keeps him away from Nate longer is fine by him.
Harry walks them a little away from the group, but not so far that Sirius feels alone. Still, he’s wary.
“You seem a bit... um, how do I put this?” Harry frowns thoughtfully. “Off.”
“Off?” Sirius echoes, staring flatly at him.
“Yes. Off. I’ve noticed—”
Sirius lets out a loud scoff. “Off.”
“Excuse me?”
“‘Off.’ What exactly have I done to warrant this, huh? What exactly makes you think I’m ‘off’? Go on—tell me.”
Harry raises his hands, calm and careful. “Sirius, why don’t you just take a breath for me?”
Sirius scoffs again. The very suggestion makes his skin crawl. He doesn’t need to breathe. He doesn’t need to be handled like some ticking bomb.
But still—he breathes. Not for Harry. Just because he wants to. He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s face softens, pleased.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been tense. Angry, even,” Harry says, like he knows something Sirius doesn’t.
He hates that look. That knowing, watching look. Like Harry’s already drawn conclusions about him—like Sirius is some stupid puzzle that needs solving.
“Do you maybe want to talk about what’s going on?”
Sirius rolls his eyes hard enough it hurts. He doesn’t see the point. What’s the point of talking about it? Therapy is useless. Talking about his problems doesn’t solve them. All it does is shine a spotlight on things Sirius would rather bury six feet under.
“Sirius?” Harry tries again, gentle, soft. It only infuriates Sirius more. As if he’s a little kid on the verge of a tantrum.
Sirius turns away, pretending to stack some chairs nearby. Just to keep his hands busy. Just to stop from exploding.
Silence settles like a weight between them, thick and heavy.
“You know,” Harry says finally, “you’re getting released soon.”
Sirius scoffs without turning around. “Yeah, right.”
Harry pauses. “What do you mean by ‘yeah, right’?”
Sirius glares at him now. Hard. Like his eyes could punch holes in Harry’s calm little face.
“You think you’re not being released?” Harry asks, eyebrows pinched.
The question lands like a punch in Sirius’s stomach.
Because... no. He doesn’t think he’s getting out. Not really. Not at the end of this week. Probably not ever. He’s already packed that hope away in a box and thrown it into the ocean.
And maybe—just maybe—he’s pissed about that. Pissed that he might never see his brother again. Pissed that he’s going to break the promise he made. And more than that—pissed that no one is even giving him a chance. The chance to prove he’s not a monster. That he’s just a kid. A thirteen-year-old kid who made mistakes, who got scared, who’s just trying to survive.
“So what?” Sirius snaps, voice sharp and defensive. The kind of tone you use when you're trying not to cry.
“There’s nothing you can do about it.”
Harry hums softly. “There’s more to that, isn’t there?”
Sirius closes his eyes for a second. He’s trying—really trying—not to snap. Not to scream and punch and get himself thrown into solitary again. He’s tired of losing control. Tired of being told what he is and isn’t.
“You know,” Harry says, sitting down beside him, close but not too close, “you can talk to me. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
Sirius stares at him, unsure. His heart pounds in his chest. Can he trust him? Can he actually trust someone with the mess that’s inside his head?
“You promise?” he whispers, barely audible.
His walls are cracking. He can feel it—every breath loosening another brick. Now’s not the time. Now is not the time to be vulnerable.
But Harry just nods. “I promise.”
It’s the way he says it. Like it means something. Like he actually means it. Like it’s not just some empty social worker script.
“Okay,” Sirius says, glancing away. His fingers start tugging at the frayed threads of his pants.
He’s not good at this. At talking. At trusting.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Sirius?” Harry suggests gently. Sirius nods and drops down next to him.
“Umm... I don’t—” Sirius falters, unsure how to begin.
Harry fills the silence for him. “Why don’t you start by telling me why you’ve been so angry?”
Sirius scoffs. “I’m not angry!”
His voice is sharper than he intended. Too sharp.
“Why would you think I’m angry?”
Harry gives him a look that makes Sirius want to hurl a chair.
“Well,” Harry says evenly, “considering you’re yelling at me... and I heard you yelling at your social worker the other day.”
“I’m not angry,” Sirius growls through clenched teeth. “I’m frustrated. There’s a difference.”
“Of course there is,” Harry says with a nod. “So... about your social worker—”
“What about her?” Sirius snaps. His tone is defensive again.
“I was talking to her the other day,” Harry says carefully. “And she mentioned she’s been trying to reunite you with your brother.”
That makes Sirius freeze.
Regulus.
Why the hell is he bringing up Regulus?
“Sarah said she’s been having difficulty getting the Potters to take you in?” Harry continues.
Sirius nods stiffly, heart thudding.
“You said something about how he gets a home and you don’t?”
Sirius stares at him, unsure where he’s going with this.
Harry lets out a sigh. “Sirius... you don’t blame your brother for this, do you?”
Sirius lets out a harsh laugh. “Blame my brother?”
Is he serious?
“You think I blame my brother for getting a home? Or for me ending up in here?” His voice is rising. “Go on, make yourself clearer, would you?”
Harry doesn’t flinch. “I think... subconsciously... you might blame him for ending up in a good home. I think deep down, you might even hate him for it.”
Hate.
The word slices through Sirius like a knife.
Hate?
No. No, no. He doesn’t hate Regulus. That’s not even close. He loves him. Regulus is everything. The only good thing left.
Sirius’s voice drops, ice-cold. “You think I hate him?”
Harry’s face shifts. “No, that’s not what I said—”
“No, that’s exactly what you said.” Sirius stands abruptly. “You think I hate my baby brother?”
“Sirius,” Harry says warningly, but Sirius is already stepping toward him.
“Let me tell you something,” Sirius says, getting in Harry’s face, his breath hot and furious. “You want to know who I hate?”
He takes another step closer.
“I hate you. You and your pathetic excuse of therapy. You think dragging a bunch of kids into a room three times a week is going to fix them?”
He straightens, shoulders shaking with rage.
“Just know who I actually hate, Harry.”
And before Harry can say anything—before he can reach for his radio or call for backup—Sirius storms out.
He’s gone.
And for what it’s worth?
Sirius Black is never, ever coming back to group therapy again.
***
The one bad thing about being in juvie—well, one of the bad things, Sirius thinks bitterly—is that he doesn’t have a single fucking friend.
Last time, he’d gotten lucky. His cellmate had been this massive guy, all muscle and intimidation on the outside, but soft like a teddy bear underneath. He’d watched out for Sirius, warned him when things were about to go sideways, made sure no one messed with him too much. But now?
Now, Sirius has no one.
No one to sit with. No one to speak to. No one to breathe with.
And without someone—without a friend like Joseph—Sirius makes bad choices. He knows this. He acts on impulse. On heat. On rage. There’s no one around to pull him aside, to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him to stop, breathe, think. There’s no one to stop him from burning down the world just because someone looked at him the wrong way.
Harry tries, sure. But hearing it from the shrink only makes Sirius’s skin crawl. Makes him clench his jaw and want to slam his fist into something. Harry’s voice—calm and reasoned—feels like gasoline on an already burning fire.
And now, the anger is rising again. The kind of anger that tastes like blood and memory. The kind that doesn’t stop once it starts.
He's trying. God, he is . But it’s getting harder to hold it in. It's piling up inside him, rotting like old fruit. And there’s no one here to help him carry it.
A voice cuts through the silence, lilting and mocking.
“Awww.”
Sirius stiffens. That voice.
Nate.
That irritating, disgusting voice that makes Sirius’s stomach twist. He forces himself not to roll his eyes, not to respond, not to give Nate the satisfaction.
Footsteps echo in the hallway, slow and purposeful. Predatory.
“What’s a pretty boy like you doing in here, all alone?”
The words are a dark chuckle wrapped in oil. Nate steps inside, smirking like he owns the place. Like he owns Sirius .
Sirius turns away, jaw set tight, willing his hands to keep moving as he finishes making his bed. He keeps his head down, his shoulders hunched. If he just stays quiet, if he just finishes and moves on, maybe—
“Not even going to talk to me? What a shame.”
Nate steps forward. Close. Too close.
Sirius tenses as hot breath ghosts over his neck. It takes everything in him not to shudder, not to flinch. He wants to shrink into himself, wants to vanish—but he can’t . Not here. Not now. Not when shrinking only makes him look weaker.
“Leave me alone, Nate,” Sirius mutters. His voice is low, strained. “I’ve not been doing anything to annoy you. Or get in your way.”
And it’s true. After the last time, Sirius has done everything he can to avoid Nate. Kept his head down. Stayed quiet. It’s hard, sure, when they literally share a cell , but he’s tried.
“That’s true,” Nate hums, voice thoughtful, almost impressed.
Sirius can smell his breath. It reeks of something sharp and sour, and it makes Sirius’s throat tighten with nausea.
“But,” Nate continues, leaning in so close Sirius can feel the heat radiating off his skin, “I find your mere presence here to be a problem.”
Problem.
The word hits Sirius like a slap, sends a chill down his spine. His muscles go tight, his pulse pounding loud in his ears. He needs to get out. Now.
“Let me just—” Sirius starts, trying to step around him, finish his task, walk away.
But Nate interrupts, voice cutting through like a blade. “No, no. Don’t do that. Don’t finish your task.”
Sirius freezes. Slowly, stiffly, he turns to face him.
Nate is smirking. Smug. Cruel. “What are you going to do about it, Black?”
Another step forward. And then—
“What’s your next move? Because I know mine—”
He shoves Sirius. Not hard, not enough to knock him down, but enough to shift his balance. Enough to humiliate.
A laugh slips from Nate’s mouth. Low and cruel and vengeful.
And something snaps inside Sirius.
Oh, he thinks. So this is how it’s going to be.
His fists are moving before he even knows he’s made the decision.
The first punch connects with Nate’s jaw. A clean hit. Solid. Satisfying. Nate stumbles back, stunned, and Sirius doesn’t stop. He grabs a fistful of Nate’s shirt and slams his other fist into his cheekbone.
Again.
And again.
And again .
He hits until his knuckles ache, until he can’t tell if the blood on Nate’s face is his or Sirius’s own. He hits until his arms shake, until the only sound he hears is the thunder of his heartbeat and the roar of his rage.
Yelling starts. Distant. Muffled. Someone’s shouting.
Hands grab him. Sirius fights them off, wild and feral, but it’s no use. Too many. Too strong.
His breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps as he’s dragged backwards. The light shifts around him—brighter, then dimmer, then harsh again—and he knows exactly where they’re taking him.
Solitary.
He didn’t mean to do this. He tried. He really tried . But Nate… Nate knew. Nate pushed.
And Sirius—like the idiot he is— fell for it . All of it.
As the heavy door slams shut with a deafening clang , the sound echoes off the concrete walls like a final judgment. Sirius flinches.
The silence that follows is suffocating.
No voices. No footsteps. No light.
Just him. Just this .
He stands frozen in the center of the small concrete box, his chest rising and falling in sharp, stuttering breaths. The adrenaline is still surging through his bloodstream, but there’s nowhere left for it to go. No enemy to hit. No noise to drown in. Just four blank, gray walls and the sound of his own too-loud breathing.
And the thoughts. They start pouring in—vicious and fast and relentless.
You’ve fucked it all up again. You always do. You couldn’t even make it five fucking days.
His fists clench. His nails dig into his palms. His skin is hot, burning. He feels like he’s vibrating out of control, like his body doesn’t quite fit him anymore, like he might crawl right out of it just to get some peace.
And then the guilt hits.
Regulus.
He sees his brother’s face in his mind—wide-eyed, hopeful, trusting. He remembers the way Regulus had hugged him tight during their last visit, the way he’d smiled for the first time in what felt like years, because Sirius had promised.
And now?
Now he’s in solitary. Locked up. Trapped. Just like always.
A scream tears its way out of his throat before he even realizes it’s happening. It’s not controlled or clever or calculated. It’s raw . A sound made of panic and fury and the kind of helplessness that feels like drowning.
He stumbles backward until his spine hits the wall with a dull thud , then lets himself slide down until he’s crouched on the floor. His whole body trembles—not from fear, but from the after . The weight. The unraveling.
He curls in on himself, arms wrapping around his knees, forehead pressed to them. His breathing is shallow and rapid, like he can’t get enough air into his lungs.
Then—finally—the tears come.
First a choked sound in his throat. Then a sob. Then another. And another. Until they’re pouring out of him, great heaving sobs that wrack his whole body, tear through his chest and shake his ribs like they’re trying to break him open.
He doesn’t try to stop them. He can’t .
He sobs like he’s eleven again, crying into his pillow while his parents screamed at each other through the walls. He sobs like he did the first time he was dragged out of his house in handcuffs, cold and terrified and pretending he wasn’t. He sobs like every version of himself that’s ever needed someone and never had anyone.
There’s snot on his lip, tears soaking into his sleeves, and his lungs feel like they’re made of sandpaper, but he keeps crying. Because there’s no one here to see. No one here to mock him. No one left to pretend for.
Just Sirius. Just his pain.
And it feels endless.
Like maybe he’s always going to feel this way—wild and broken and too much and never enough.
He whispers his brother’s name once, voice hoarse and shaking. “Reg…”
He buries his face in his arms again and stays there, crumpled on the cold floor, waiting for the storm inside him to quiet.
But it doesn’t.
Not yet.
***
Nothing. He feels nothing.
Sirius cannot feel a single thing. Not his breath, not the dull thump of his heartbeat, not even the familiar weight of his limbs. He knows his body is still functioning—he must be breathing, his heart must still be beating—but there's no awareness of it. No connection. Just a hollow shell, frozen in place.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Honestly? He would laugh if his brain didn’t feel like it had been scooped out, microwaved, and poured back in. His thoughts are sluggish, half-formed. A thick fog pressing in on all sides. And the worst part is that the emptiness isn’t even dramatic anymore. It just is . Flat. Grey. Eternal.
It’s stupid, really. All of it. He thinks about Regulus—and of course it’s Regulus—because somehow even in this numb void, Sirius’s mind drifts back to his little brother. Regulus, with his bloody obsession with definitions. With getting things right .
Sirius had to live through it. Every time Regulus heard a new word, he’d look it up, ask about it, write it down in that little notebook of his. He was relentless, like he thought language might save him if he could only understand it well enough.
And nothing —of all words—had three definitions. Sirius remembers.
The pronoun: “not anything; no single thing.”
The adjective, informal: “having no prospect of progress; of no value.”
The adverb: “not at all.”
He used to hate that Regulus did that. The endless questions. The dictionary practically glued to his side. He used to fantasize about chucking it out a window—or into a fire.
But it was the hundredth time Regulus asked him—quietly, gently— what kind of ‘nothing’ do you feel today, Sirius? —that he understood. It was Reg’s way of trying. Trying to get it. To understand his big brother, to be there for him in the only way he knew how.
The memory hits Sirius like a ripple in still water, and his chest tightens. For a second, a real second, something flickers alive in him. His lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. A flutter of warmth, then—
Gone.
Nothing.
He sighs and lets his gaze drift across the dim, boxed-in room. The walls are the color of old concrete, scratched and chipped. There are parts of the paint where it looks like someone clawed at it—bit by bit, over days, weeks, maybe months. A small square window sits high up on the wall, unreachable. Mocking. No one could see in. No one could see out.
And then there's the door. The little metal slot that food comes through, like they’re animals.
Sirius Black: animal, monster, teenage freak.
He shifts on the floor, his back against the wall, knees curled halfway to his chest. The silence presses in. He’s not sure how long he’s been in solitary. Three days, maybe? That’s the minimum. For kids, anyway. He wonders absently how long adults can be left in here. Probably forever.
He closes his eyes. Lets the back of his head knock lightly against the concrete. He listens, just in case. If he focuses, he can make out the faintest jingle of keys. They’re coming closer. Each step a soft echo through the corridors.
Then—
Clank.
The heavy metal door creaks open and Sirius’s eyes snap back open. A guard stands there, silhouetted in the dull light of the hallway. He’s new. Sirius doesn’t recognize him.
Good luck, Sirius thinks bitterly. You’re not going to last.
“Time to see the warden now,” the guard says. His voice is soft, weirdly kind. It makes Sirius’s skin crawl.
“Right,” Sirius mumbles, pushing himself to his feet. His joints ache from disuse, but he doesn’t flinch. He walks toward the guard, holding his wrists out automatically.
The guard hesitates. Blinks at him, confused. Then he hums, as if he understands what’s going on. “Cuffs aren’t necessary,” he says, like it’s nothing.
Sirius just nods, the energy draining from him even more. He walks beside the guard, his arms slack at his sides. No fight left. Not right now.
Strangely, the walk isn’t bad. The guard doesn’t grab him. Doesn’t shove him or yank him by the arm like they usually do. He just walks. Side by side. Like Sirius is a person.
At first, it sets Sirius on edge. What kind of game is this? But then—he realizes.
They are kids. Criminals, sure. But still just kids.
And for some reason, this guard actually sees that. Sees him.
It feels… weird. To be treated like a person. Not a case number. Not a danger.
He finds himself walking straighter. Shoulders a little less hunched. He’s cooperative. Respectful. For the first time, maybe ever.
“There you go,” the guard says as he opens the door to the warden’s office.
Sirius gives him a short nod, then steps inside.
He sinks into the empty chair. His brain starts spiraling again. Why does the warden want to see him? Normally they just chuck you back into general and move on. He didn’t do that much to Nate. He hadn’t hurt a guard. Had he?
The door looms in front of him. His pulse picks up. What if it’s something bad? What if he’s staying here longer?
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The second hand of the clock keeps moving. It’s 11:28 AM. He missed breakfast. Not a tragedy, but his stomach twists anyway.
Then the door creaks open and Sirius jolts upright. He tries not to, but his whole body tenses.
The warden is not what he expected. She’s not scary in the usual sense—not towering or cold—but there’s something severe about her. Quiet, sharp-edged. Her hair is pulled back so tightly into a bun it looks like it hurts. Her glasses flash as she steps into the room.
She looks at him like she’s already done her calculations. Like she knows how this ends.
“Sirius, isn’t it?” she asks.
He nods quickly. Automatically.
“Alright then. Come on in.”
He obeys, slips inside, his back ramrod straight. She doesn’t offer him a seat, so he hovers beside the chair until she nods, then sinks into it like he might break it.
She watches him over the rims of her glasses. Not cruel. Just clinical.
“From what I’ve heard,” she begins, “you got into a bit of a fight with your cellmate.”
He nods again, more slowly this time. His heart pounds against his ribs like a warning.
She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “That’s what the guards said. But do you want to know what your cellmate had to say?”
Sirius goes cold. Of course. Nate set him up. Said he attacked him unprovoked. That Sirius was dangerous. Unstable. Not ready to be let out.
He swallows, throat dry. “No, ma’am,” he says. “I don’t know what my cellmate has to say about me.”
“Very well. Would you like to hear what he said?”
He hesitates. “Yes, ma’am.”
She steeples her fingers. “He said that you attacked him unprovoked. That you beat him up for fun.” Her voice is even, but there’s something unreadable in her gaze. “But according to Harry, your cellmate’s been giving you some trouble.”
Sirius blinks. Harry? One of the guards?
“And some other guards confirmed it,” she continues. “Between you and me, your cellmate could’ve stayed here longer. But he made a scene. And, well… he’s eighteen now. So legally, he’s not our problem anymore.”
Sirius’s brain struggles to catch up. She’s not blaming him. She’s not yelling. She’s… explaining?
His voice is tight. “Is there a specific reason I’m here, ma’am?”
She chuckles, light but sharp. “Way to speed up our discussion.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I was just curious.”
“That’s alright. Protocol says I’m supposed to give you a warning. But given the circumstances… this meeting is more of a formality.”
She leans forward, gaze steady. “Don’t use physical violence again. Unless someone hits you first. Got it?”
He holds her gaze, his voice small but certain. “Understood, ma’am.”
“Good. Now, report to the visiting area. You have a visitor.”
He stares for a beat too long, then shoots to his feet. He doesn’t ask questions. Just walks.
His shoes echo in the hall as he follows another guard. His thoughts are spinning. Sarah? It has to be Sarah. But why?
They’d already talked. Already confirmed he wasn’t going to the Potters. That a group home was next. So why was she back?
When he steps into the visiting room, he freezes.
Sarah’s already seated, hands folded neatly on the table, a warm smile on her face. Her eyes are kind. Calmer than he remembers.
“Sirius,” she says, cheerful. “Come have a seat. I’ve got some news for you.”
He raises an eyebrow. Suspicion prickles at his spine.
“I’m guessing, by the disgustingly infectious happiness radiating off you, it’s good news?”
She laughs, and it actually makes him relax a little. “Yes indeed,” she says, sing-song.
He slides into the chair, arms crossed protectively. “So,” he says, voice still guarded. “What’s the good news?”
Sarah leans forward, and her expression shifts. Softer now. Real. “The Potters have changed their minds.”
Time stops. His stomach drops and then soars. The words echo like bells in his head. The Potter’s have changed their minds? Was he even hearing that correctly?
“They… what?” he breathes, unsure if what he heard was even true. It can’t be, can it?
“They changed their minds,” she repeats. Sirius looks at her, wearily. Sarah just chuckles. “I know! I couldn’t believe it either. I was still scrambling to find a group home when Fleamont rang me. Said they could take you in.”
So, it’s true. This is real. They really changed their minds. But, why? Why would they change their minds? Sirius thought they were dead set on not having him there. Not having him be anywhere near his brother.
Sirius can’t help but think, why. Why would they change their minds? What could have possibly happened within the span of two weeks that caused them to change their minds?
Sirius just can’t quite believe it. He shouldn’t want to believe it. That they could have just simply changed their minds. But he does. He does believe it.
He cuts her off, voice cracking as his hands start to tremble. “You mean… I get to see Regulus again?”
She nods, eyes shining. “Yeah. It does.”
The breath leaves his lungs in a rush. A wet, choked laugh escapes his throat and he clamps a hand over his mouth.
The tears come fast, uninvited. But he doesn’t care.
Sarah reaches across the table and places a steady hand on his arm.
This can’t be happening. Not to him. Good things like this don’t just miraculously happen. Not to him, at least.
“It’s okay to cry, Sirius,” she says softly. “It’s okay to feel a bunch of different feelings. If I were you, I’d be crying too.”
He presses his palms into his eyes, wipes them roughly, sniffling. A real, honest smile begins to form.
He’s going to see Reggie again. He is actually going to see his baby brother again. He just can’t wait.
***
Court.
Most teenage boys don’t lose sleep over court dates. They don’t lie awake at night, eyes wide open, chest tight, begging for sleep to take them before morning comes. But Sirius does.
Then again, it’s not unusual for Sirius to have trouble sleeping. Sleep has never come easily to him. But tonight—no, this morning , really—it’s not the usual twisting thoughts or memories that keep him awake. It’s something sharper. More immediate.
Court.
The word keeps circling in his head, heavy and relentless. He’s had hearings before. He’s even been through sentencing. But today isn’t like those times. Today, he’s supposed to be released .
Only—now there’s a last-minute hearing. A sudden review. An unexpected courtroom detour standing between him and his freedom. And it gnaws at him.
He doesn’t trust systems. He’s learned not to.
Sirius remembers the last time he felt this kind of nervous. Regulus’s birthday. The day he got his early release. The day he saw his brother for the first time in months. That day had felt like breathing after drowning. Like finally being human again. And it had all been thanks to Sarah—his social worker, his miracle worker, really. She pulled strings, pushed paper, and managed to secure an early release despite the charges against him.
Even though the crime had been violent.
Even though Sirius never once said sorry for what he did.
Beating up a pedophile, he thinks grimly, isn’t something you apologise for.
Now he sits on the cold wooden bench, wrists bound in steel cuffs, his legs shaking with the effort of staying still. The courtroom is too quiet, except for the shuffle of papers and the low hum of murmured voices. His eyes flit around the room, scanning—counting threats, seeking familiarity. They land on Sarah, seated toward the front.
Good. She’s here. She promised she would be.
Her presence steadies him. A little.
He bounces his leg faster, trying to bleed off some of the anxiety twisting in his stomach like barbed wire. Names are called. Cases are read. One by one, they’re summoned. Judged. Sentenced.
The longer he waits, the more the questions claw at him.
What if the judge changes his mind? What if I don’t get out? What if I’ve been stupid to hope?
Sirius swallows hard, his throat dry despite the sweat on his palms.
“Next case,” the courtroom officer calls, her voice echoing too loud in the still air. “Black, Sirius.”
That’s him.
His breath catches. He stands on stiff legs, cuffs clinking, and walks with Sarah to the front. He can feel every eye on him, like heat against his skin. Sarah doesn’t speak, but he can sense her tension. Or maybe it’s just his.
He glances at the judge—a middle-aged man with thinning hair and hard eyes—who flips through a folder that might as well be a death sentence. Sirius knows what’s in it. His records. His reports. His choices.
The choices he doesn’t regret.
“Alright, Mr. Black,” the judge says, meeting Sirius’s gaze. “I see today is your release date, am I correct?”
“Yes, your honor,” Sirius replies, his voice steady. Barely.
The judge hums—noncommittal. “Right,” he says. And something about the way he says it makes Sirius’s stomach twist harder.
Then the judge flips a page and frowns. “I see here you got into a fight with your cellmate less than six days ago.”
Sirius’s breath falters.
“Yes, sir,” he admits. “That would be correct.”
The judge peers at him, unimpressed. “You’re aware that your release can be denied if I see fit?”
Sirius nods, his tongue suddenly thick in his mouth. “Yes, sir.”
“So, I’ll ask you this once,” the judge says, leaning forward slightly. Sirius’s heart thuds painfully. “Care to explain to me why you thought it would be a good idea to get into a fight that landed you in solitary for three days?”
Sirius inhales slowly, trying to collect himself. But his fingers twitch at his sides, the metal biting into his wrists.
“Well, your honor,” he begins, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t really mean to get into a fight. My cellmate provoked me. He’s been doing it since day one. He just—he caught me on a bad day, or, well, a good day for him , I guess. I was upset, and he thought it’d be smart to try throwing me against the wall.”
Silence.
It stretches too long. Sirius shifts his weight and adds, “He was jealous I was being released.”
The judge raises an eyebrow.
“It happens,” Sirius continues. “A lot. Other inmates get bitter. Nate—my cellmate—he’s not getting out for a long time. Attempted murder.”
The judge doesn’t blink. “Technically, you were arrested for attempted murder too, Mr. Black. It says here it was reduced to assault and battery.”
Sirius nods slowly. “Yes, sir.”
“Is there any specific reason as to why that might be?”
The words lodge in Sirius’s throat. His heart slams into his ribs like it’s trying to escape. But he forces the truth out.
“My foster father at the time,” he says slowly, “was doing things to the girls in his care. Your honor.”
The judge scoffs. Scoffs.
“That doesn’t seem like a very good reason to beat a man almost to death, now does it, Mr. Black?”
Sirius’s jaw tightens. “I only broke his kneecaps and castrated him, sir.”
A few murmurs ripple through the courtroom.
“Okay,” the judge says sharply. “My point still stands. You knowingly assaulted a guardian and felt no remorse.”
He sighs and shakes his head.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Black, I am going to deny your request. You will be sentenced back to juvenile detention to serve out your original six-month sentence.”
The gavel comes down. Once. Loud. Final.
Sirius doesn’t move. Can’t move. It hits him in slow motion. The cold wash of disappointment. The rising panic. The hopelessness .
He knew this was going to happen. He knew it.
“Next case, please.”
Hands are on his shoulders—firm, guiding—but Sirius’s instincts flare.
“Wait!” he blurts, too loud. Too raw. The entire courtroom turns.
“Excuse me?” the judge says, clearly annoyed.
Sirius’s pulse is pounding in his ears. “S-Sorry, your honor. It wasn’t my intention. I just—I wanted to explain.”
The judge looks impatient, but gestures for him to go on.
“When someone reports a crime,” Sirius says, his voice shaky, “who do you think is more likely to be believed? A foster parent or a foster child?”
The judge frowns. “The foster child.”
Sirius shakes his head, sharp and sure. “That’s not true, sir. Not really. People don’t mean to, but they see foster kids as trouble. Broken. So, most of the time, the adult gets believed. Especially when the kid doesn’t have anyone to speak for them.”
“I’m not getting your point, Mr. Black,” the judge says flatly.
“I wanted to report Mike—my foster father. I really did. But I knew it wouldn’t matter. He had power. Connections. He liked little girls, your honor. That was his favorite hobby. He’s a convicted pedophile now. And before you say anything else—your honor—the judge before you reduced my sentence for a reason . I just hope you can respect it.”
The courtroom is silent again.
The judge looks at him for a long time. Finally, he reaches for a form, muttering something under his breath.
“I understand why you did what you did,” he says, signing. “But I do not condone your actions.”
Sirius nods once, eyes wide.
“I’m ordering random police check-ins over the next six months. Any violations— any —and you’ll be sent back. Understood?”
“Yes, your honor,” Sirius says quickly. “Thank you.”
“You’re released. Make good choices.”
The click of the cuffs unlocking is louder than the gavel had been. As the cold metal is removed, Sirius feels a strange lightness take over. Like he’s floating. Or breathing after weeks underwater.
Sarah takes his arm gently and leads him out of the courtroom. Her touch is steady, grounding.
One thought cuts through the noise in his head like sunlight through fog.
I’m one step closer to Regulus.
***
The doubt that’s been curling in the back of Sirius’s mind refuses to let go. It lingers like smoke—thick, choking, impossible to ignore. The what if’s keep spinning, spilling out of his ears, looping endlessly through his brain like a skipping record.
He can’t stop questioning it. Can’t stop doubting whether any of this is even real. Whether he’s actually on his way to the Potters. Whether he’s truly being taken in. Whether someone wants him.
The longer his release took, the harder it became to hold on to hope. Every hour added to the wait had chipped away at it until it bled dry, hollowed out by anxiety and the familiar ache of disappointment. But now, he's here. In the back seat of Sarah’s car, seatbelt strapped too tight across his chest, hands nervously clenched in his lap. They’re driving. To the Potters. To Regulus.
Sirius’s throat tightens at the thought of his brother. He can’t begin to imagine what Regulus must be feeling right now. He can’t fathom the confusion. The fear. Maybe even betrayal. He’d made a promise— I’ll be there for your birthday. And then... he wasn’t. Not really. Regulus had seen him for a moment, sure, but then he was gone again.
And now, Sirius can’t stop thinking that maybe, in all his attempts to protect Regulus, he’d just ended up hurting him worse. Maybe beyond repair.
So yeah, Sirius doesn’t know how Regulus is feeling. Not really. He can only guess. But he does know how he feels—like something inside him has been clawed apart. He misses his brother like it’s a physical wound. Like the absence itself has left teeth marks on his ribs. He aches to be near him again, to wrap his arms around him and prove that he’s still real. Still here.
But he’s scared. God, he’s terrified.
What if Regulus doesn’t want him anymore?
What if Regulus thought he did—thought he wanted his big brother back—but once Sirius is there, once the fantasy becomes reality, Regulus realises he doesn’t?
What if Regulus doesn’t love him anymore?
Sirius tries not to let himself spiral, but the thoughts keep hitting like waves. Over and over. No space to breathe. No time to surface.
It’s anxiety, he realises. A word he never used to claim for himself. At first, he tried to deny it entirely. Thought it made him weak to admit he felt like this—tight-chested, restless, too full of nervous energy with no place to put it. But he knows better now.
Anxiety: a natural human emotion characterised by feelings of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an anticipated event or uncertain outcome.
Thanks, Reggie. The definition echoes in his head, soft and steady like a lifeline. Regulus’s voice explaining it, his neat little explanations always comforting in a strange way. Like they could tame the chaos.
Sirius grips the car seat as Sarah pulls into the driveway. The house comes into view, and for a second, he wonders if he’s dreaming. Everything feels too surreal, too safe to be real. But it is. It has to be. The house is modest, two-storey, red brick with white shutters and a garden that's just the right amount of messy. The porch is wide and inviting. The curtains are open. The lights inside are warm. Lived-in.
It looks like a place where people are loved.
Sirius smiles faintly at the sight. Something about it feels like a dream from childhood—a house he might have drawn with crayons when he still believed in wishes.
“You ready?” Sarah asks, twisting in her seat to look back at him.
Sirius nods once. His voice doesn’t work yet. He lets out a slow breath, like it might carry the nerves away with it, and unbuckles his seatbelt. He hesitates before reaching for the door handle. His fingers slip. His palm is sweaty.
He hadn't even noticed how much his hands were shaking.
Then the awareness hits him like a slap: he's filthy. The realization turns his stomach. He hasn’t showered properly in days. Solitary confinement will do that to a person—not that he’d had the energy or motivation to clean himself up lately, anyway. He grimaces. He knows Regulus will notice. Regulus always notices.
Maybe he won’t say anything.
Maybe he will.
Sirius just hopes he doesn’t ask questions. Not yet.
The air outside is cool as he steps out of the car. He walks beside Sarah, his eyes glued to the house, as if it might disappear if he blinks. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Doesn’t know how to hold his body. Should he act polite? Grateful? Quiet? The way he was raised to act in someone else’s home? His mother drilled it into him like it was gospel— speak when spoken to, posture straight, always thank the host for having you.
But are they hosts? Or are they something else?
They’re foster parents. His foster parents, now.
The thought nearly makes him dizzy.
As they approach the porch steps, it hits him full force: Regulus is just on the other side of this door.
Sarah glances at him. “You wanna ring, or should I?”
Sirius shakes his head, sharp and immediate. He doesn’t trust himself not to vomit or cry or both.
Sarah presses the doorbell.
They hear footsteps inside. A muffled, “Coming!” sings out. The front door opens, and there stands Euphemia Potter. Her reddish-brown hair is pulled up in a ponytail. Her face is warm, her smile wide, and her eyes—hazel like James’s—crinkle kindly at the corners.
“Sarah!” she says with gentle enthusiasm.
Sirius can barely focus. His heart is going a mile a minute, pulsing in his throat, his fingertips, his temples. Then—there it is. A sound he knows by heart.
Fast footsteps. Small. Familiar.
Then Regulus appears.
His face says everything. Surprise. Disbelief. And then joy.
Before Sirius can move, Regulus crashes into him. Arms wrapped tight. Entire body pressed close. Like if he lets go, Sirius might vanish.
“Sirius,” he whispers, voice cracking around the edges. “You’re here.”
Sirius’s heart breaks open. He lets out a soft laugh, breathless with relief. “Yeah, Reggie. I’m here.”
Regulus pulls back just enough to look at his face, searching it, checking it’s real.
“You kept your promise,” he says, the beginnings of a smile lighting up his face, shaky but real.
Sirius reaches up, fingers trembling as he traces Regulus’s cheek like he still doesn’t believe it himself. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I guess I did.”
And then Regulus hugs him again, tighter this time, like he’s never letting go. Sirius sinks into it—into him. He closes his eyes and holds on like it’s the only thing keeping him standing. So much time has passed. So much pain. But here, in this moment, none of it matters.
He threads his fingers through Regulus’s curls, familiar and soft between his hands. Regulus’s curls have always been more defined than Sirius’s. It always made him jealous. But, right now, Sirius doesn’t care. He couldn’t care less.
Voices murmur in the background—soft and distant, like waves hitting a shore—but Sirius doesn’t move. He stands still, rooted to the spot. Regulus clings to him with an intensity that makes Sirius’s breath catch, holding on like his life depends on it.
And maybe, in a way, it does.
Sirius thinks it can’t get better than this.
When Regulus finally steps back, Sirius glances down at him. There’s something in Regulus’s gaze—sharp, searching—that tells Sirius he notices. He notices the way Sirius smells. The way he’s put together. The way he’s dressed.
Sirius has always taken pride in his appearance. Always made sure every hair was in place. Sharp collar. Polished boots. There were reasons for that. Reasons rooted deep—his parents, mostly. If he didn’t look perfect, he’d be in serious trouble.
But lately, he hasn’t given much thought to the way he looks. Part of that’s because he’s been in juvie. The other part… the bigger part… is because they aren’t around anymore. There’s no one left to please. No one demanding perfection.
There may be more reasons, ones he isn’t ready to look at. Not yet.
Right now, all he wants is to pull his brother back into the hug Regulus broke too soon.
He can feel Regulus’s eyes on him, tracking every detail, studying him like a puzzle he used to know how to solve. Sirius doesn’t need a mirror to know he looks wrong. Not the same as Regulus remembers.
There’s a pause—long enough that Sirius wonders if Regulus is going to say something. Ask something. But instead, a gentle voice cuts in.
“Regulus, why don’t you let your brother come inside, hmm?”
Euphemia Potter. Her voice is warm. Kind. But there’s something off about it—like she’s trying too hard to sound normal. Maybe she is. Sirius isn’t about to call her on it.
Regulus nods and lets go, only to latch onto Sirius’s wrist the very next second, like he thinks Sirius might vanish if he doesn’t hold on. Sirius follows him wordlessly over the threshold.
Then comes Sarah’s voice. “Okay, I just want to say a couple things before I leave, alright?”
Sirius gives a small nod—more a tilt of his chin than anything else. He knows what she’s about to say, but he’ll still respect it. Even if he’s heard it a thousand times before.
“You know how this works. I’ll come do check-ins, and the first one will be next Sunday—same day I have my check-ins with Regulus.”
He nods again.
“Perfect. Okay, so, you know the deal, right? You can call me whenever you need, okay? You also know the Potters can have you removed from their home at any given time, correct?”
His jaw tightens. He keeps his voice even. “Yes, I’m aware.”
He feels something shift beside him. Regulus. Tensing.
Sarah turns to Regulus. “You keep an eye on him, alright?”
Sirius looks down at the floor, arms hanging loose. The silence feels unnatural—like the kind of quiet that should be filled with shouting, but isn’t.
Sarah wraps things up with a polite goodbye. “I’ll see you next Sunday. Have a good night, Euphemia, Fleamont.”
“You too, Sarah,” Euphemia replies.
The door clicks shut. And for a moment, the air in Sirius’s lungs feels easier to breathe. Not good. Not safe. But easier. Which feels wrong.
Euphemia steps forward. “Hey, sweetheart, do you mind giving Fleamont and I a moment with your brother?”
There’s a fast “No”—too fast—and then a stammered apology. Sirius doesn’t look at Regulus, but he hears the blush in his voice.
Euphemia soothes him gently. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You have nothing to apologise for.”
Then Fleamont steps in. “Alrighty then. How about Regulus and I show you up to your room?”
Sirius nods. “Okay.”
A hand slips into his. Warm and steady. Sirius doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. When he looks down, Regulus gives him a soft smile. Sirius doesn’t smile back, but he squeezes Regulus’s hand just a little.
He follows as they climb the stairs. Every step echoes too loudly. The house is clean. Pristine. Sirius’s shoes feel heavy, loud on the polished wood. His fingers graze the railing, and he winces at the quiet creak beneath his palm. His shoulders tense, instinctive.
At the top, they pause. Sirius’s eyes flick restlessly from window to door to furniture. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it isn’t this.
“This is your room, Sirius,” Fleamont says, pushing open a door.
It’s plain. White walls. Basic furniture. A simple bedspread. The room feels hollow, like a waiting room in a life he’s not sure he belongs in.
He doesn’t move until Regulus tugs him forward, gently guiding him inside.
“Tomorrow is the first day back at school,” Fleamont says. “Which means Regulus and James will be out most of the day.”
Sirius nods.
“And as both Euphemia and I will be home, we’ll go through a few things with you. Expectations, what you’ll need, and school enrollment.”
Another nod. His throat feels tight.
“If you’re hungry,” Fleamont adds, “just come downstairs and I’ll make you something.”
Sirius’s voice is quiet. Small. “Thank you, Mr. Potter.”
“Oh, please—don’t call me Mr. Potter. Just Monty. And it’s my pleasure.”
Then Fleamont is gone, leaving just the two of them.
Sirius stands awkwardly, uncertain. His eyes flick across the room again, but there’s nothing familiar to anchor to—just blank walls and untouched furniture.
“Do you want to have a shower?” Regulus asks.
“Yeah. Yeah.” Sirius drags a hand through his hair. It’s greasy. He only notices now.
“I’ll get you a towel,” Regulus says. “And find some pajamas.”
Sirius nods.
“Follow me.”
He does. No hesitation. Every step across the hallway feels surreal. Regulus’s room is directly across. Close.
When the door opens, Sirius blinks. The room is bright. Soft. Colorful. It feels lived-in. Safe.
“Wow,” he breathes.
He steps inside slowly, eyes flitting from corner to corner. Too fast, maybe. But he can’t help it.
“It was part of my birthday present,” Regulus explains. “The room makeover.”
Sirius nods. “It’s very pretty.” He turns to him. “It’s very you.”
Regulus smiles. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
There’s a pause. Then Regulus moves to the corner. “Here’s my bathroom,” he says. “You can use my towels.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll go ask for some clothes for you.”
Sirius offers a small smile. Just a flicker. It doesn’t feel forced.
Then Regulus blurts, “Why don’t you have anything?”
What? Oh. Right. Sirius looks down at himself. No bag. No belongings. Just the clothes on his back.
“Sorry?” he asks.
“It’s just—you don’t have any belongings with you.”
Yeah, no shit.
“Oh. Right, well…” He shrugs. “I sort of came from a bad-ish home, so…”
He trails off. It feels like enough. It has to be.
When he looks back up, Regulus is still watching him. Eyes filled with questions he doesn’t ask.
“Okay,” Regulus says. “You take a shower. I’ll get you some clothes. And I’ll get you food.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
“Umm, Sirius?”
“Yeah?”
“What would you like to eat? We had butter chicken for dinner, but you won’t like that. I can make you a sandwich?”
Food. Sirius hasn’t thought about eating. Not all day. He knows he should. But he doesn’t want to.
“I don’t know,” he says truthfully.
“You should eat. They don’t care what you eat as long as you eat something.”
Of course Regulus is right. He’s always right.
Sirius pauses. “A peanut butter sandwich? And if they have any apples… a green one, cut up?”
“Okay. Got it.”
Regulus moves toward the door, then stops. “Skin off the apple?”
Sirius nods. “Skin off the apple.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
Sirius stands alone in the bathroom, facing the mirror. His reflection stares back—pale, hollow-eyed, filthy.
He grips the sink.
He’s here.
Not a cell. Not the hospital. Not a group home.
Here.
And he doesn’t know what the hell to do with that.
Notes:
Word Count: 11,289
Published: 2025-06-18I'm back bitches!!!!
Sorry this is such a late update (I usually post at 10AM Australian time, but it's like 2PM right now, lol). Anyways, I'm finally on holidays!! WOOO!!!
Just letting you know, updates will come back every Wednesday. I'm doing this, even during my hols because, I want to get caught up with my chapters hehe. Thank you all, I hope the wait was alright!!!
Also, HAPPY PRIDE MONTH BITCHES!!!!
Chapter 30: Does He Even Belong Here?
Summary:
He’s made it to the Potter’s. Sirius has found himself back within his brother’s reach. But… he can’t help but get this weird feeling… this weird vibe, from them…
And… It makes Sirius think. It makes Sirius question himself.
Question whether… he truly even belongs here…
(Part 1 of Does He Even Belong Here?)
POV: Sirius Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When Sirius wakes up this morning, it doesn’t feel real.
For a few fragile seconds, he lies there blinking at the ceiling, chest rising and falling slowly, his mind stuck in that place between sleep and waking. The light filtering through the curtains is warm. Soft. Not the sterile blue of the detention center. Not the hazy flicker of streetlights slipping through barred windows. This is real sunlight. Gentle. Inviting.
And yet—part of him still thinks it’s a trick.
A dream. A cruel joke played by his own mind. One of those dreams that builds something beautiful just to rip it away the second he reaches out to touch it. A prank from a universe that doesn’t know how to give him good things without a price.
But then—he feels it.
Eyes.
Regulus’s eyes on him. Watching him from the mattress opposite, blinking sleepily in the glow of morning. And that’s how Sirius knows.
It’s real.
He’s not locked away. He’s not alone.
Regulus is here.
The realization hits him like a wave—warm, overwhelming, almost suffocating in the best possible way. Something in his chest unclenches, and he breathes in deeply, like he hasn’t taken a full breath in weeks.
All morning, Sirius floats.
He’s on cloud nine, higher than high, his body buzzing with something that feels like hope, or maybe something even softer—peace.
He can’t stop looking at Regulus. Every time his eyes land on him, it’s like he’s seeing him for the first time. Like he’s been parched for years, and now, here is water. He watches the way Regulus smiles—an actual smile, wide and light and free. There’s no tension in his shoulders, no storm in his eyes. Sirius barely recognizes him, but in the best possible way.
He soaks it in like sun on skin. Like how the flowers in Euphemia’s garden must feel stretching open after rain.
He feels like one of those flowers—tender, trembling, ready to bloom.
Breakfast is warm and crowded, filled with clatter and conversation. James complains about going back. Fleamont offers a pancake to Sirius. Euphemia is somehow simultaneously slicing fruit and arguing with James over whether he has brushed his teeth. It's chaos, but not the kind Sirius is used to. It’s the kind that makes you feel like you belong somewhere just by being in the room.
Sirius doesn’t even attempt to eat anything. All his attention is on Regulus, who is talking animatedly to Euphemia about school. His eyes sparkle, his hands move as he talks. And Sirius can’t stop watching, terrified to blink in case the moment vanishes.
When Euphemia finally says they’ll all be going to the school together—to get Sirius enrolled—something curls up in Sirius’s chest. Warm and safe.
Going to school. With his brother. Like they’re normal.
Like this isn’t temporary.
Like this could actually last.
The school comes into view over the tops of the trees, red brick and grey concrete surrounded by a sea of students. Sirius watches from the backseat as they pour across the lawn, darting between each other in pairs and clusters, shouting, laughing, shoving one another in that loud, messy way that means everything is normal.
He remembers this. The first-day noise. The chaos. The nervous buzz of it all. It’s strange to see it again after so long, after everything.
“Have a good day, love,” Euphemia says, leaning forward to kiss James on the head.
“Yeah, I will, Mum,” James answers easily, slinging his bag over one shoulder as he climbs out of the car. “Bye, Dad! See ya!”
“See ya this afternoon, kiddo!” Fleamont calls, his voice bright as he waves from the front seat.
Sirius’s eyes follow James automatically as he jogs toward the building, spotting a small blond kid waiting near the entrance. James doesn’t hesitate. Just slides into place beside him like he never left.
“Alright, here’s the plan,” Euphemia says, and Sirius blinks, startled slightly by the shift in tone.
He glances toward her as she continues. “I’ll be taking Regulus to his class this morning,” she says. “Monty and Sirius will wait with me in the office until I’m back. Got it?”
Sirius nods without thinking. What else is he supposed to say?
The car doors open. He steps out with Fleamont and Regulus, boots crunching on the gravel path. The air is cooler than he expected, the breeze tugging gently at the hem of his shirt. He rubs his fingers together to ground himself, but it doesn’t help.
Regulus walks a little ahead, arms wrapped around his bag like it’s something precious. Sirius watches him—he’s always watching him—but especially now. Because it’s the first day, and for years, this was their thing. Sirius was the one who held his hand, who walked him up the path, who waited outside his classroom and made stupid faces through the glass just to get him to smile.
That was them .
Then, Sirius sees it. Regulus hesitates, then steps closer to Euphemia. And without another glance, he slips his hand into hers.
Sirius stops breathing for a second.
It’s not like he didn’t know this was possible. But seeing it—watching his brother choose someone else—feels like someone’s scraped the inside of his chest raw. It’s not just the fact that Regulus is holding her hand. It’s the fact that he looks okay doing it. Maybe even more than okay.
Like he doesn’t need Sirius anymore.
Like he’s already moving on.
Sirius feels cold all over, even with the sun on his back. He digs his hands into his pockets, fingers curling tight around the fabric, nails biting into the seams. He tells himself not to take it personally. He tells himself he should be glad . Euphemia is kind to Regulus. She’s warm. Safe.
But it still feels like being replaced.
Sirius trails behind as they walk into the building, the fluorescent lights humming above their heads. The moment they reach the front office, Euphemia gently guides Regulus away, her hand still clasped in his like it’s always been that way.
Fleamont motions to the chairs, nodding toward the waiting area.Sirius sinks into one without a word, jaw tight.
He stares at the door Regulus just disappeared through, pretending he doesn't care.
But he does. He always will.
The receptionist’s gentle voice cuts through the fog of Sirius’s thoughts like sunlight through smoke.
“Would you like to start on the paperwork while you wait?” she asks, warm and polite, as if she doesn’t notice the way Sirius has been sitting stiffly in his chair, arms locked across his chest like a shield.
Sirius lifts his head, eyes flicking toward Fleamont. The older man glances down at him, then up at the receptionist, and offers a smile. “Yes, actually, I would.”
Sirius watches as the receptionist disappears behind the counter, her footsteps soft against the polished floor. The office smells sterile—like freshly printed paper, cleaning spray, and something vaguely citrus—and the chairs they sit in are far too stiff, too clean, like they’re only meant for people who don’t stay long.
When she returns, she’s holding a neat stack of papers and a blue pen clipped to the top. Enrollment forms, Sirius thinks. For him .
He swallows as Fleamont begins to flick through the pages. The soft rustle of paper is loud in the stillness. Then, Fleamont glances sideways and tilts the bundle toward him.
“Would you like to write out the personal information part?” Fleamont’s tone is casual, open. The kind that makes Sirius feel like it really is a choice—even though part of him still flinches at being asked.
“Uh, sure,” Sirius replies after a beat. He reaches out and takes the forms carefully, like they’re going to disappear if he grabs too quickly. The pen feels oddly heavy in his hand.
He leans forward slightly, his body tense with every movement, and begins to fill out the page:
Full Name:
Sirius Orion Black
Date of Birth:
3rd November 2006
Allergies:
None
Illnesses:
None
Languages Spoken:
English, French
His handwriting is neat. Too neat. Sirius is hyper aware of how perfect each letter has to be, how aligned they sit on the lines. Every mistake will mean crossing out—ruining the page, ruining the form, ruining the entire moment. His heart thumps steadily as he reaches the next section.
Parents / Emergency Contact:
Sirius hesitates. The pen hovers just above the paper, unmoving. His chest tightens. He doesn’t know what to write here. Doesn’t want to guess. Doesn’t want to get it wrong.
This isn’t his place.
He sets the pen down and passes the form back to Fleamont, silently.
Fleamont takes it without comment, just a soft nod and a quiet “Thanks, Sirius,” before he continues filling in the rest. Sirius turns his eyes toward the floor, studying the faint scuff marks on the tiles. His legs bounce restlessly under the chair, heel tapping a silent rhythm he can’t seem to stop.
He doesn’t know how much time passes like that—long enough for the walls to start closing in, for the fluorescent lights overhead to start buzzing in his ears—before the familiar sound of Euphemia’s heels approaches.
Sirius looks up. She’s smiling, bright and warm, like she’s carrying sunlight in her coat pockets.
“How’d he go?” Fleamont asks, and Sirius can hear the pride tucked beneath his voice, like he already knows the answer.
Euphemia’s smile widens. “He did really well.”
Fleamont nods, pleased. “That’s good.”
Sirius watches them, like he’s stood behind a glass wall. Their ease with each other is hard to look at. Effortless. Comfortable. Like puzzle pieces that have always belonged beside one another.
“Did you do the enrollment?” Euphemia asks, turning her attention now to Fleamont.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Thought it would be a good idea whilst we waited.”
“Good,” she hums, then glances at Sirius. “Are you up for getting uniforms now, or later?”
Sirius shrugs, eyes down. “Now, I guess,” he mutters. His voice feels too small in the space between them.
“Alright, then,” Euphemia says, gesturing for them to move along.
Sirius stands up, legs stiff from sitting too long. Fleamont rises beside him, and the two of them trail after Euphemia as she leads the way down the corridor toward the uniform shop.
As they walk, Sirius feels it building. That sense of distance. Of separation. It’s like he’s watching it all through a pane of glass—present, but not part of it. The conversation flows around him, gentle and light, but it never seems to reach him directly.
He thinks about that interaction. The way they spoke. The way they moved so easily around each other, like they’re parts of a system he doesn’t understand.
Throughout the whole exchange, he felt like a ghost. Like he was floating just outside the circle. Like he was invited, but never fully there .
And Sirius has felt like he doesn’t belong plenty of times before—at school, at home, at every place in between.
But this—this is different.
This feels quieter. Sadder. He can’t quite explain it.
He just knows that somewhere deep inside, something aches.
And he doesn’t know how to make it stop.
***
Turns out, Sirius isn’t allowed to go back to school until next week.
The school receptionist had explained it was because it’s the first week back, and classes were currently full—it’s easier, she said, to see where the gaps are at the end of the week. It had made sense at the time. Logically, he understood. But emotionally? Emotionally, it stings in a way he hadn’t expected.
Because Sirius doesn’t want to be stuck in a house, alone, all day. He doesn’t want to be aimless. He doesn’t want to be left behind.
Still, the shopping trip wasn’t as panic-inducing as he thought it would be. Surprisingly. First stop had been shoes. Sirius picked out a pair that looked decent enough, even if they were stiff and awkward on his feet—then again, aren’t they always?
Next came the clothing store.
Fleamont had told him he could get whatever he needed. Euphemia helped him pick out most of it, offering suggestions in her gently firm way. Sirius had nodded and followed along, too unsure to voice many preferences.
He grabs underwear and socks first—basic, essential, safe. He hesitates at the pajamas, uncertain if those count as ‘needed,’ but Euphemia holds up two different sets and asks which he prefers. That answers that.
He picks long sleeves, all of them plain: black, navy blue, and a striped one—black and white. The idea of being seen feels suffocating enough; he doesn't want his clothes to make it worse.
When Euphemia asks if he wants any jumpers, Sirius shakes his head before she even finishes the question. No. No jumpers. They feel too tight around his neck, like he’s choking. He doesn’t like them. Never has.
Fleamont tells him to grab some t-shirts too. Sirius doesn’t bother arguing, even if he knows he’s not going to wear them. He grabs three—oversized, dark colours. One grey. Two black. They’ll sit in the drawer, untouched.
Then jeans. Two pairs. One dark blue, one black.
Once they’re satisfied, they leave.
Now, Sirius sits at the dinner table, his back straight, shoulders stiff. The smell of lamb is thick in the air, mingling with roasted carrots and buttery mash. It curls in his nose and makes his stomach twist—not from hunger, but from dread.
Dinner hasn’t even started, and already his hands are clammy.
Euphemia and Fleamont had said they wanted to talk to him about house rules. He’s been bracing for this all day.
“So,” Fleamont starts, tone calm and even, “we wanted to talk to you about the rules and expectations we have in this house. Nothing too fancy.”
Sirius nods, trying to sit a little straighter. His palms press against the denim of his jeans. He’s listening.
“Well, the first and most important, in my opinion,” Euphemia says, “is that this is a safe space. You shouldn’t be afraid to ask for help or to speak your mind.”
Sirius lets out a short, bitter scoff before he can stop himself. Is she for real?
Euphemia’s eyes snap to him, her gaze sharp and unimpressed. Sirius’s face burns hot.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, voice small. He didn’t mean to do that—really, he didn’t. The embarrassment creeps up his neck like a rash.
“Right,” she continues, her tone a touch firmer now. “If something’s bothering you, we want you to feel comfortable telling us.”
Sirius nods quickly, shrinking down a little in his chair. He gets it. He understands. But that doesn’t mean he believes it. Who would actually want to hear what he has to say? What adult listens to him?
“You shouldn’t have to keep anything to yourself, Sirius,” Fleamont adds. “You’re not alone here.”
Not alone. Sure. But it feels that way.
He nods again, avoiding their eyes, staring instead at a fraying edge on the tablecloth. He wants this part to be over.
“Secondly,” Fleamont says, “we ask that you be respectful of the house and those in it. So, that means no slamming doors, no shouting—you get the gist.”
“If you’re upset, then we’ll talk it through together,” Euphemia says, her voice softening just slightly. “If you do slam the doors or happen to shout, that’s okay. You won’t be in trouble. But we will ask you to apologise to the person it affected. Understood?”
Sirius nods. That seems fair. Reasonable, even. Though the idea of talking about his feelings makes his stomach turn. No shouting, got it.
“Lastly,” Fleamont says, “we expect you to treat yourself with kindness. That means eating when you’re hungry, sleeping when you’re tired, and letting us know if you’re feeling unwell.”
Another nod. He can do that… right? Eat. Sleep. Be kind to himself. That’s not so hard. He tries to follow rules. Tries being the keyword. But somehow, even when he gives everything to following the rules, he always ends up breaking them.
That’s always been the problem, hasn’t it?
Sirius exhales slowly. He’ll try.
By the time dinner is served, Sirius ends up sitting beside Regulus. James is on Regulus’s other side, talking animatedly about his day, barely stopping to breathe between words.
Sirius just pushes the food around his plate. The mashed potatoes look soft and the carrots are cut into thin, harmless pieces. He’s hungry—he knows he is—but he can’t bring himself to eat. Not this. Not now. Not when the smell of the lamb is curling in his throat and making him feel sick. It is lamb, right?
“So, Regulus,” Euphemia says, and Sirius stiffens at the sound of her voice. She’s using that sugary tone adults save for small children. Too sweet. Too soft. Like Regulus might break if she speaks any louder.
It makes Sirius feel… off. Regulus isn’t a baby.
But when Sirius glances sideways, Regulus is smiling like the sun. He doesn’t seem to mind the tone. If anything, he leans into it.
“How was your first day, sweetheart?”
Regulus lights up completely. His face glows with excitement. “It was fun! I enjoyed it.”
Sirius watches him talk, chest twisting with something sharp and aching. He’s never seen Regulus like this before—so bright, so free. It almost doesn’t feel real.
Fleamont chuckles warmly. “What did you do?”
Regulus launches into an enthusiastic recap. “Well, I had form first, obviously,” he says, and Fleamont hums to show he’s listening. “Then I had History, English, and Geography.”
Euphemia’s mouth opens, probably to say something, but Regulus barrels on.
“Ooo! I have all my classes with Panda, except for French!”
Regulus sounds so thrilled, Sirius almost winces. He hasn’t heard him this excited since… well, ever.
Fleamont and Euphemia smile at him like he’s just handed them gold. Their expressions aren’t patronising. They’re genuinely happy. Listening. Interested.
It stings.
Because Regulus has been here since June. It’s September now. That’s long enough to learn someone. Long enough to love them, even. But Sirius hadn’t realised how far things had come. That they’d come this far without him.
“Oh, who else is in your class, Reg?” James asks.
Sirius tenses.
Reg.
His stomach turns.
That’s his nickname for Regulus. Not James’s. Not anyone else’s. Just his.
He glances over sharply, expecting Regulus to correct him. To frown. To draw a line.
But all Sirius sees is Regulus’s smile widening. He leans forward, animated and beaming, listing names and laughing and talking so fast Sirius barely keeps up.
And the others? They’re listening. Genuinely listening. Not annoyed. Not bored. Just happy. Content.
And Sirius… Sirius just watches. Silent.
He pushes a piece of carrot across his plate. It tumbles over the lump of untouched mash.
The ache in his chest deepens.
He feels invisible. Replaceable.
And for the first time tonight, Sirius wonders if he was ever meant to belong here at all.
***
Sirius is folding the last of his new clothes, stacking each shirt and pair of jeans with precise symmetry inside the top drawer. He’s already refolded one of the T-shirts three times. The seam wouldn’t sit right, and it was throwing off the entire stack.
He smooths the front of the drawer with his palm—lightly, not enough to move anything—and lets out a small breath. It’s perfect now.
Then Euphemia steps into the room.
“Sirius,” she says, voice clipped. Her lips are pursed, a deep crease between her brows. “Officers are downstairs, wanting to speak to you.”
Sirius freezes, his hand still on the edge of the drawer. The breath he just took seems to snap back into his chest like a rubber band. He doesn’t look at her at first. Instead, he stares at the drawer for a second too long, eyes locking on the clean, straight edges of his folded things.
He swallows hard.
Right. Right, this was going to happen. It’s part of the deal. Random visits. Searches. Conditions of his parole.
Still, he can’t help wondering—did Euphemia know this was part of it? Did anyone tell her? Because from the look on her face, she doesn’t seem like someone who knew.
When Sirius reaches the bottom of the stairs and sees them—two uniformed officers waiting in the entryway—his stomach drops.
Euphemia wasn’t kidding.
“Sirius Black?” one of them says. He’s the younger one—tall, broad-shouldered, with sun-dark skin and a severe military-style haircut. His voice is cool, clipped, formal.
“Yes?” Sirius answers, forcing the word out. His throat is tight. He hates this feeling. This buzzing under his skin. This… exposure. He knows they’re not here to arrest him, but it doesn’t matter. Cops always make him feel like he's already done something wrong.
“Do you know why we are here, Sirius?” the other officer asks, voice rougher, older. His face is lined with experience—or disapproval, Sirius can’t tell.
“Yes, sir,” Sirius replies, a little firmer this time. He straightens his back, trying to sound like someone with nothing to hide. Like someone worthy of being believed.
The older cop nods once. “You understand that part of your parole is voluntary searches of any spaces you occupy within this house, correct?”
Sirius nods again. “Yes, I am aware of that, Officer.”
“Alright then,” the officer says, a little less stern now, but still unreadable.
“Which way is it to your room?” the younger cop asks.
Sirius opens his mouth to respond—“This way,”—but before he can take a step, Euphemia interjects sharply.
“Ah, I don’t think so,” she says, lifting a hand as if she can stop them with that alone. Her tone isn’t hostile, but there’s a razor edge of protectiveness beneath it. “Look, it’s nothing against you, and we don’t have anything to hide, but I believe you need a search warrant, correct?”
“Usually,” the older cop hums in the affirmative, clearly not offended. He gestures at his partner, who pulls a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket.
“This,” the older cop explains, “states that we can, and only in Sirius’s room.”
Euphemia takes the paper and reads it over with a tight jaw. She glances at Sirius, then back at the officers. “Alright,” she says at last, sighing. “But I would like to watch.”
“As is your right, ma’am,” the older officer says respectfully before turning back to Sirius. “So, which way?”
Sirius doesn’t answer right away. He hesitates. Not because he’s hiding anything—but because they’re about to wreck his space. His newly arranged drawers. His bed, which he’d made that morning with careful precision—pillows aligned just so, blanket tucked to the exact edge of the frame.
He leads them up the stairs, each step heavier than the last. Euphemia follows silently behind.
Inside the room, he barely has time to brace himself before the officers get to work.
They move fast—too fast. Sirius watches as the younger cop pulls open the top drawer of his dresser and starts tugging clothes out by the handful. His perfectly folded stacks—his system—is gone in seconds. Shirts tossed across the bed. A sock landing on the floor.
The older officer yanks the comforter off the mattress, tossing it aside like it means nothing. He lifts the mattress with a grunt, then drops it again with a loud thump that makes Sirius flinch.
They’re tearing everything apart.
And Sirius can’t breathe.
His hands twitch at his sides. His palms itch. His throat feels dry and tight. He can already see it—he’s going to have to wash everything. Not just the clothes they threw. Everything. Because their hands touched it. Because it was exposed. Because the drawer was open too long and the dust in the air probably got on the fabric.
He clenches his jaw and forces himself to stay still. He counts the number of socks they pulled out—three pairs. He’ll need to find the fourth. He’ll need to rewash all four just in case.
“Nothing of concern here,” the younger officer says, his voice echoing slightly as he steps out of the bathroom.
“Same here,” the older cop grunts, pushing himself up from the floor. He looks over at Sirius. “Just moved in?” he asks, voice softening just a little.
Sirius nods, eyes still scanning the mess. He’s already planning: he’ll do the clothes first, then strip the bed, then disinfect every surface. Re-wipe the floor. Maybe shower after, just in case he touched anything. The air feels contaminated.
“We’re done here,” the younger officer states.
The older one nods and turns to Euphemia. “Ma’am? Do you mind if I have a—we have a word with you?”
“Of course not,” Euphemia says, her eyes on Sirius before she steps out. Her face isn’t cold. But it isn’t warm either.
Sirius stands in silence. One foot shifts toward the door, then back again. He doesn’t move. He can’t—not with them still here.
The younger cop pauses in the doorway. “Remember, these are random checks. So, we’ll be back.”
Sirius just nods, barely hearing him. He already knows that. He’s known that since the day he was released.
The second they leave, he exhales shakily. It’s not a sigh—it’s more like he’s letting go of something that’s been crushing his lungs.
His room is a mess. And not just any mess— the kind of mess. The kind that spreads. The kind he can feel crawling under his skin. The kind he can’t ignore.
He grabs the washing basket from beside the dresser and starts with the clothes. The ones that touched the floor. Then the ones that didn’t, but were still exposed. Then the drawer itself. He’ll have to wipe it down.
He picks up each shirt with two fingers, shivering at the feel of it. Dirty. Wrong. It shouldn’t have been touched. His heart pounds harder the more he sees—creases where there shouldn’t be creases, fabric warped from rough handling. He throws them into the basket quickly, like they might burn his hands if he holds on too long.
He opens the drawers again and pulls out the rest of his clothes. Contaminated. All of it.
He stacks it all in the basket and pushes it toward the door. Then he turns to the bed. Blanket first. Then the pillows. Then the sheets. Strip it all.
He can’t even look at the bathroom.
Not yet.
Later.
He’s already building a checklist in his mind: Detergent. Disinfectant. Gloves. Towels. Fresh sheets. Vacuum. Maybe even mop the floor, just in case. Maybe wipe down the doorframe.
Maybe wipe down the walls .
He’ll do whatever it takes to make it feel clean again. To make it right.
To breathe again.
***
“Sirius,” Regulus says quietly.
He’s perched at the edge of Sirius’s bed, knees drawn up slightly, the chessboard settled between them. The room is dim, lit only by the slanting light of late afternoon that filters in through the half-open window. There’s a breeze curling through the crack, rustling the edges of the curtain, but Sirius barely notices it. His focus is on the game—and on his brother.
They’re playing chess, sort of. Sirius hadn’t expected Regulus to ask about it, hadn’t even thought to suggest it. But apparently Euphemia had a set tucked away in the study closet, and Regulus had brought it in with a strange kind of reverence. It’s the kind of normal thing Sirius isn’t used to having access to. The kind of normal thing Regulus is still getting used to asking for.
“Yes?” Sirius murmurs, eyes on the board. He slides his knight forward, knocking one of Regulus’s pawns off with a soft click. The sound is oddly satisfying.
Regulus counters with his rook, snapping it down to steal one of Sirius’s pawns. “I wanted to ask you something.”
Sirius glances up, raising a brow, but then his bishop glides across the board in a clean arc, taking the rook in turn. “Go ahead. It’s your move.”
There’s a pause. Regulus nudges a pawn forward, but his fingers twitch slightly against his thigh. Sirius catches the subtle tension, the quiet that means whatever Regulus wants to say isn’t easy.
“I wanted to talk to you about Father’s Day.”
Sirius stills for a moment, fingers hovering over his remaining pieces. Father’s Day? Why is Regulus even asking about Father’s Day? What happened to prompt this sort of question? He shifts, moves another pawn like it doesn’t mean anything—but he looks up. He meets Regulus’s gaze, soft and steady, not saying anything at first.
“What about Father’s Day?”
He keeps his voice neutral, but inside, something coils tight. The words alone are enough to stir old ghosts. The memory of the past; past silences, past punishments. Things he didn’t want to remember, suddenly stirring at the edge of his conscience. Still, he keeps his expression calm, even as something sour prickles beneath his skin.
Regulus moves his knight and takes the bishop Sirius had just played. He doesn’t look up.
“It’s on Sunday,” he says, voice low. “And… I wanted some advice.”
Sirius lets his fingers drift across the top of a pawn, then shifts his hand to a rook. There’s a longer pause than usual before he lands his move. Advice he can do. A small nod follows. A quiet signal. He’s listening.
“I, um…” Regulus falters, voice thinning, like he’s dragging the words out with effort. “I wanted to know what I should do.”
Sirius tilts his head, curious. “What you should do?” He blinks. “What do you mean, Reg?”
Another piece moves, a hand fidgets. Sirius watches him.
“In regards to Father’s Day,” Regulus adds eventually, voice hesitant. “In art, our teacher wants us to make cards, and well…”
Sirius hums gently, eyes flicking across the board. His stomach twists again, but he nods slowly. He knows exactly what Regulus means. He remembers what Father’s day was like in their home. How it felt. What their father had said to them.
“You feel weird about it, don’t you.”
Regulus drops his head with a soft groan. “Yes,” he mutters.
Sirius doesn’t need him to explain. The tension is enough. The silence between Regulus’s words is thick with meaning.
“Well,” Sirius says, brushing a finger along the edge of a rook before moving it smoothly, “what did you want to do?”
He looks up briefly, studying his brother’s face. There’s hesitation there. A flicker of uncertainty. It reminds Sirius of the kind of uncertainty that gets punished in their house. The kind that once had him second-guessing every word.
Regulus doesn’t answer right away.
“I don’t know,” he says at last, voice quiet.
But Sirius frowns. Not because he’s angry—it’s because he knows that answer isn’t the full truth. He knows that, deep down, Regulus knows what he wants to do. What he wants to say.
“I don’t believe that,” he replies, letting out a soft huff. “Not for one second. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
He watches as Regulus fidgets with a captured pawn. He doesn’t say anything, but Sirius can tell how hard it is for him to speak. It’s always been like that. Sirius has learned to wait. Has learned to look out for the signs that something’s wrong—small hands worrying over a chess piece, shoulders tightening just a little too much.
When Regulus finally speaks, it’s barely more than a whisper.
“It feels wrong,” Regulus says. “To make Fleamont a card.”
Sirius’s chest twinges. He doesn’t move. Just listens.
“He’s not really our father, y’know? And… well, our father didn’t like any of that stuff—we weren’t really allowed to make any of that stuff, remember?”
Sirius nods. Quiet. Thoughtful.
The memory is sharp, even now. Construction paper torn in half. A box of crayons thrown across the room. Their father’s voice like a thunderclap.
“So it feels wrong to make Fleamont a card,” Regulus continues. “It feels wrong, because, if I did, how would he react? Would he like it? Would he pretend to love it, only to throw it away? I’m not worried about him yelling at me, but, what if by giving him this card, I’m hurting him? I know it’s silly, but…”
“You’re scared,” Sirius finishes gently, his voice low.
Regulus nods again, and Sirius doesn’t push him further.
“It’s okay to be scared, Reg,” Sirius says, nudging one of his castles forward and stealing Regulus’s bishop. “I’m not gonna pretend I know what you’re going through, what you’re thinking. Because I don’t. I don’t know what you're thinking or feeling. But I can tell you this.”
He sets his piece down with care and lifts his head, making sure Regulus meets his eyes.
“You know Fleamont better than I do. You have to ask yourself, would he really do this? Would he really react the way our parents would? If the answer is no, then, what’s stopping you?”
He lets that question sit between them.
Regulus doesn’t reply right away, but Sirius can see something shifting in his expression—like the thought is settling, even if it’s uncomfortable. Sirius doesn’t press it.
Another move. A captured knight.
“Y’know,” Sirius says after a quiet moment, sliding his second knight across the board and reclaiming one of Regulus’s pieces, “you don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. If you really don’t want to make Fleamont a card, then you don’t have to. I’m sure nobody is going to be mad at you, okay?”
He pauses, studying his brother’s face again.
“I mean it, Reg.”
And, Sirius does, mean it. Because he knows, for a fact, that nobody, nobody, in this house could ever—will ever—be mad at Regulus for something as simple as making a Father’s day card.
And if Regulus needs to hear it again, Sirius will say it again. Time and time again.
***
Sirius can’t remember the last time he was at a grocery store.
If he’s ever been, that is.
Growing up the way he did—rich, spoiled, cloistered—meant Sirius never had to do mundane things like this. Grocery shopping was for house-elves and staff. He never touched plastic packaging or compared prices. Never stared down aisles that stretched on endlessly under fluorescent lights.
The whole place smells like artificial lemon and something raw. Not bad, exactly, just… unfamiliar.
It’s different than how he imagined. Bigger. Brighter. And cold —so cold it bites at his skin like winter. Every aisle feels like it hums with frost. The closer they get to the meat and dairy sections, the colder it gets, until his fingers are starting to go numb. And then, oddly, it warms again in the middle, but only slightly, like the store is trying to decide what season it wants to be.
He and Euphemia are walking side-by-side—well, not exactly side-by-side . Sirius trails just a bit behind, careful not to get too close. Not to crowd. Not to make her uncomfortable.
They’re in the bread and cereal aisle. Row after row of neatly stacked loaves and boxes blur past him. It all feels distant.
Sirius has officially come to terms with the fact that Euphemia doesn’t particularly like him.
She’s polite. Kind, in a mechanical sort of way. But there’s a tension in her jaw that never quite leaves when he’s around. She doesn’t speak to him unless necessary. She doesn’t look at him unless he speaks first. And even then, it feels like her gaze slides right past him.
He doesn’t blame her, honestly. He really doesn’t.
What woman would want a violent child in her home? Around her children? A boy who’s been locked up, who has scars on his knuckles and dead weight in his eyes. A boy who could snap. Who might break something—or someone—without even meaning to.
He can feel it radiating off her: caution. Restraint.
So, yeah. Sirius doesn’t blame her.
“What would you like for dinner, Sirius?” Euphemia asks suddenly.
Her tone is detached—not sharp, not cold, but like someone trying to be civil at a work meeting. It’s not rude, just… distant. Uninvested. Like the question could be for anyone.
Sirius tenses.
Dinner.
His stomach churns. The word alone sends something icy racing down his spine. Dinner means a meal. A meal means food . And food is—
No. No. He can’t start this. Not here. Not now.
He swallows hard, his pulse thudding against his throat like it’s trying to choke him. He forces himself to keep walking, one foot in front of the other, the wheels of the trolley squeaking faintly as Euphemia pushes it ahead.
He is fine. He is perfectly fine.
He can answer this question. He can do this.
But the pressure builds in his chest anyway. Panic sits like a stone just under his ribs. His hands twitch uselessly at his sides.
Euphemia is watching him, her brow raised slightly. There’s something unreadable in her expression—mild concern? Impatience? He can’t tell. He doesn’t know how to read people like her.
And then she turns away again, continuing down the aisle, pushing the trolley with quiet efficiency. She’s still waiting for an answer, though. He can feel it in the air.
Sirius follows, a few paces behind, just far enough that it won’t seem like he's hovering. Just close enough to seem compliant.
“Um… well…” Sirius tries. He really tries .
But the words get stuck. A rising panic clogs his throat. He’s trying to think of what Regulus would like to eat. That usually helps. If it’s for Regulus, he can usually manage. Chicken? No, that’s too vague—there’s too many kinds. Pasta?
His thoughts spiral.
There’s food he can’t eat. Food that makes him sick. Food that makes him feel disgusting and weak and wrong . There’s food that makes him remember, and food that makes him forget—and both are equally terrifying.
The problem is that all food feels dangerous.
Euphemia interrupts his spiraling. “How about you pick between hamburgers and spaghetti.”
Her voice is… softer than before. There’s a subtle change to it. A hint of something Sirius almost misses—a gentle edge, a kindness too quiet to name. He wouldn’t have picked it up at all if he weren’t already wound so tightly.
Sirius breathes in, slow and shaky. His lungs stutter around it.
“Well,” he starts, but his voice cracks slightly. Too nervous. Too small. He clenches his fists inside his sleeves.
He knows spaghetti. Knows the texture too well. The way it sloshes around in his mouth. The sticky heaviness that lingers in his stomach. It’s always made him feel gross—like something crawling under his skin. Like a mess he can’t clean up.
“Hamburgers sound nice,” he says, quieter now. Almost like a whisper. Like he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Euphemia hums in response.
She stops at a shelf and plucks a package of hamburger buns off the rack. She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t press further. Doesn’t ask about his reaction. Just continues down the aisle like nothing happened.
Sirius is glad. So, so glad.
He’s glad she doesn’t ask why he hesitated. Why his hands were shaking. Why it looked like he was about to bolt.
He doesn’t think he could explain it, even if she did.
But the silence she leaves in her wake is loud. Too loud.
And it gets Sirius thinking—too much, too fast—about what she must think of him now.
Does she think he’s fragile? A mess? A freak? Does she regret bringing him here?
He tries not to dwell on it.
He tries .
But his thoughts seem to be louder than ever.
Sirius is sitting to the right of Regulus at the dinner table. Close enough that their knees occasionally bump beneath the tablecloth, though Sirius is careful to keep his leg still. Sitting to Regulus’s left, at the head of the table, is Euphemia. Across from Regulus sits James, slouched slightly in his chair, and next to James is Fleamont.
Fleamont, who has been watching Sirius.
Not casually. Not curiously. Watching him.
With narrowed eyes and that quiet, unreadable expression Sirius has learned to interpret as suspicion. He can feel the weight of it—hot and sharp against the side of his face. Every time he dares to glance up, he meets Fleamont’s gaze and flinches away, like he’s been burned.
Dinner has only just begun.
Sirius shifts in his seat, the chair creaking faintly beneath him. He tries to act natural, whatever natural is meant to look like in a setting like this. He tries to ignore the way his back is stiff, his hands curled so tightly into his lap that his nails bite into the flesh of his palms.
Without meaning to, his gaze drops to the plate in front of him.
His hamburger sits in the centre like a taunt. The bread slightly squished from where it was handled, a smear of ketchup showing just beneath the top bun. The cheese has started to melt at the edges. It looks fine—normal, even. But to Sirius, it might as well be radioactive.
It’s mocking him.
Staring him down. Judging him. Teasing him.
You’re not going to eat me, it seems to whisper, You’re going to sit here like a freak and pretend you’re not panicking.
His stomach twists violently at the sight of it.
The air feels thick, cloying. Every sound is a little too loud—forks clinking, napkins rustling, the occasional sip of water. It all presses in on him, muffled and distorted, like he’s underwater.
Laughter breaks through the fog.
Bright. Joyful. Effortless.
Sirius’s head snaps up before he even realises it. His eyes flick across the table.
They’re all laughing.
James is leaning back slightly, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Euphemia is smiling, a hand lightly resting near her wine glass. Even Fleamont— even Fleamont—has a faint curve to his lips, the sharp edge of suspicion softened, if only for a moment.
And Regulus—
Sirius’s gaze lands on his brother.
Regulus is beaming. A grin so wide, so radiant, that it steals the air from Sirius’s lungs.
He’s never seen his brother smile like that.
Not really smile. Not with this kind of uninhibited joy, like the world has melted away and nothing exists but this table, this moment, these people.
And Sirius—
Sirius can’t remember the last time he saw Regulus like this.
Back then, in the house they came from, Regulus never looked like this. Never sounded like this. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t relax. He didn’t talk freely. Not unless Sirius coaxed it out of him in the safety of their room, away from walls that whispered and punished.
But here—
Here, Regulus is happy. Carefree. Safe.
And Sirius doesn’t know what to do with that.
His heart clenches. His throat tightens.
Has Regulus always been this happy? Was it always in him, just waiting for a place to be free? Was Sirius too broken, too wrapped up in surviving, to see it? To let Regulus have this?
He doesn’t know what Regulus is talking about—some story about school, or maybe a game James taught him—but his voice is animated, his hands moving as he speaks. He looks so at ease. Like he belongs here.
And maybe… maybe he does.
After all, Regulus is wanted here. Cared for.
Sirius forces his eyes back to his plate. His throat feels dry. The hamburger sits exactly where he left it. Untouched. Cold now, probably. Unmoving.
Just like him.
Sitting here, amidst the glow of laughter and clinking cutlery and the kind of warmth that Sirius has never known, one thing becomes blindingly clear:
He doesn’t belong.
Not at this table.
Not with these people.
Not in this soft bubble of safety Regulus has found.
He shifts again in his seat, the motion sharp, jittery. His chest is starting to tighten in that way it does when the air feels wrong, when the walls are too close. His fingertips are tingling. He keeps his gaze low, fixed on the edge of the plate, then the tablecloth, then the faint pattern in the wood grain.
His brother’s family.
The phrase drifts through his mind like smoke. Sirius barely even notices the way it stings until the words echo again.
His brother’s family.
Not their family.
Not his .
When did that change? When did the Potters become his brother’s family—and not just foster carers? Not just a temporary stop?
When did Sirius get taken out of the equation?
Was he ever even part of it to begin with?
His heart is racing now, each beat like a drum against his ribs. His face is hot. His hands are cold. The tight, crawling feeling under his skin is getting worse. The kind of feeling that makes him want to bolt. Run. Tear out of the room and never look back.
As he stares down at the burger—at the neat, perfect food he can’t bring himself to touch—one thought remains, heavy and unshakable in his chest:
Sirius doesn’t belong here.
***
Sirius is just about to head upstairs to his allocated room when Fleamont stops him.
“Would you like to join us on movie night, Sirius?” Fleamont asks, casually.
The way he asks, so easy, so light, makes Sirius believe the offer can be declined without repercussions. There’s no expectation buried in the words, no quiet threat of disappointment. Just a simple question. It’s nice—the way Fleamont is treating him—it’s better than how Euphemia has treated him so far. Softer. Less forced.
Sirius hesitates at the bottom of the staircase, his fingers curled loosely around the banister. He thinks the offer over.
On one hand, he wouldn’t mind watching a movie. He’s never really gotten to before—at least, not properly, not the way kids are supposed to, curled up under blankets, warm and safe with family. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to impose. He doesn’t want to intrude on something that clearly belongs to them. Their family night. Their tradition. He’s a guest here. A shadow, not a fixture.
Before he can decline, Regulus is suddenly at his side, small fingers grabbing onto his hand, anchoring him.
“Please, Sirius,” Regulus begs, his eyes sparkling in the way Sirius can never, ever refuse. “Please join us, Siri. I promise you’re gonna love it.”
Sirius can’t say no to that. He never could.
“Alright, sure,” Sirius says with a nod, giving in completely to Regulus.
And it’s always worth it, just to see the way Regulus’s face lights up in pure, delighted joy. Like Sirius has just handed him the world on a silver platter.
“Yes!” Regulus cheers, tugging on Sirius’s arm with renewed energy and pulling him in the direction of the living room.
The living room is dim and cozy, warm with the soft lamplight and the flicker of the paused screen. Sirius sinks into the nearest armchair, the one closest to the entryway, thanks to Regulus’s gentle insistence. The cushion is soft under him, and for a second, he forgets about how uncertain his place in this house still feels.
“Alright,” Regulus says, finishing getting Sirius situated. “Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”
Sirius chuckles softly as Regulus turns on his heel and disappears down the hall, quick as ever. His brother's directness has always made Sirius smile. It’s part of what makes Regulus so unmistakably Regulus. Quirky. Honest. Strange in the best of ways.
He looks around the room, his eyes catching on the framed photos lining the wall behind the couch. They’re everywhere. Dozens of them. Euphemia, Fleamont, and James—smiling, laughing, caught mid-motion in moments that look candid, unposed, real. Something curls in Sirius’s stomach. Something tight and twisted.
As his eyes move over the wall, he notices others, too. Teenagers. Different ones in each frame, all a bit older, some only just shy of adulthood. Sirius figures they’re former foster kids. It clicks, then—this must be what the Potters do. They take in teenagers, offer them safety and shelter before they age out. Another good deed in a long list of them. They’re so painfully good it hurts to look at.
Before Sirius can get too cranky about it, Regulus returns, arms full.
“Had to get my blanket,” he says, smiling like it’s the most important mission he’s ever accomplished.
Sirius returns the smile without hesitation, reaching out to grab the blanket from Regulus’s arms. It’s soft—faded cotton, worn in a comforting way—and Sirius spreads it over his lap.
Then, opening his arms, he invites Regulus in without a word.
Regulus doesn’t hesitate. He curls up against Sirius, fitting into the space beneath his chin like he was made for it. Sirius wraps his arms tightly around his brother, pulling him close, anchoring him there. Keeping him safe.
They stay like that even as the movie starts, the room dimming further, the glow of the screen casting soft flickers of light over their faces. Sirius feels his eyelids droop, comfort and exhaustion pulling at him like tides. He’s just about to doze off when something shifts in his gut.
Something’s wrong, is all his mind supplies. Something is… off…
He shifts in the chair, adjusting his position, as if that might make the feeling go away. He doesn’t want to deal with this—not now. All he wants to do is soak in the warmth of Regulus beside him and get a little rest, just a little, before the movie ends.
But the unease creeps back, sharper this time. It snakes up his spine, coils around his ribs. His chest tightens.
Trying to refocus on the television, Sirius clenches his jaw. He forces himself to look forward, to pretend nothing’s wrong.
And then he feels it. Eyes.
He turns his head and locks eyes with none other than James Potter.
James is staring at him. Not just glancing. Watching. Inspecting. Sirius has been caught, and he knows it—but James doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t doing it.
There’s something cold and steady in James’s expression, something calculating. Something dangerous. Sirius gets the impression that James has already made up his mind about him.
The daggers James shoots his way send a shiver skittering down Sirius’s spine.
A warning.
A threat.
Sirius wouldn’t say he’s scared—he doesn’t get scared—but something about James’s gaze makes him feel unsafe. Not in a fight-or-flight way. More in the way that makes his shoulders lock and his mouth go dry. More in the way that makes you question if you’ve already lost a battle you didn’t know you were fighting.
His heart starts to race, uneven and loud in his chest. He swallows hard, but it doesn’t help. His throat is dry, scratchy. Tight.
He really hopes Regulus is asleep. If he’s awake, he’ll feel it. He’ll notice.
Sirius turns back toward the screen, slowly, deliberately, like if he moves too fast James will pounce. But his mind is no longer on the movie. Not even a little. His thoughts spiral, looping again and again over the look James gave him.
What did it mean? What had Sirius done wrong this time?
His grip tightens around Regulus—just slightly, just enough that no one would notice.
And if Sirius’s heart beats like a warning drum inside his chest... Well, that’s for him alone to know.
He’s sitting on his bed, unsure what to do.
The silence feels heavier than it should, pressing down on his shoulders like wet wool. Sirius stares across the room at nothing in particular, legs drawn up loosely to his chest, arms wrapped around them like they might hold him together.
He doesn’t feel comfortable enough to leave the room. He just doesn’t. Every time he steps into the hallway, every time he dares to move through this house, he feels eyes on him. Invisible, omnipresent. Watching. Scrutinising. Waiting for him to make a mistake.
Regulus had come into his room about an hour ago, all soft-eyed and apologetic, telling him that he and Euphemia were going out for the morning. They wouldn’t be back for some time.
Sirius had nodded, told him to have fun—his voice too casual, too easy—but the truth burned quietly in his chest.
He hadn’t wanted him to go. Not even a little.
Sirius can’t be left alone in this house. Not without Regulus. Not with the walls whispering things he doesn’t want to hear. It just feels wrong. It feels like the floors might open up beneath him, like the ceiling might collapse. Without Regulus, the house is too big, too empty, too echoing with everything Sirius doesn’t want to think about.
Now that they’re back together, things have felt more right again. More like they should be. Or—at least as good as they can be.
So, yeah.
Sirius sits on his neatly made bed, in a completely bare room, with nothing to do and no motive to move. His hands tug absently at the hem of his shirt. The fabric is stiff from disuse, unfamiliar. One of many, unfamiliar things in this room, including himself.
A sudden creak of floorboards snaps him out of his thoughts, yanking his head toward the door like a whip crack.
James is standing there.
Just… standing. In the doorway. Not saying anything. Not knocking.
Not that Sirius expects him to. He always leaves the door open now—a habit from somewhere deep in his bones. The door only closes when he’s changing or sleeping. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s survival. Either way, he’s not surprised James didn’t knock. James probably doesn’t think he has to.
James knows what Sirius is. What he’s done. He probably doesn’t care about things like privacy around people like Sirius.
James’s glare is sharp, and still. Arms crossed. Eyes locked.
He’s not just looking at Sirius—he’s studying him. Dissecting him. The weight of it is unbearable, like a blade pressing against his skin.
Sirius stiffens.
It’s the same look his father used to give him. Cold. Controlled. A warning. The kind of look that came right before pain.
His breathing turns shallow. His fingers twitch against the bedspread. Every instinct is telling him to move—to get up, to bolt, to shield himself from what’s about to come—but he’s frozen. Anchored in place. As James steps further into the room, the weight in Sirius’s chest grows heavier.
“You’re gonna listen to me,” James says coldly. His voice cuts like glass.
The glare shifts—no longer just angry, but menacing. There’s something in it that makes Sirius’s stomach turn. His lungs constrict.
James steps closer. “You are going to do exactly as I say. Do you understand me?”
Sirius swallows, dryly. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His throat feels like it’s closing. Like someone’s pressing a hand around it, slowly tightening their grip.
Instead, he nods. A small, mechanical movement. He knows what happens when he doesn’t.
“You—” James’s voice is razor-sharp now, finger pointing straight at him.
Sirius flinches. Just barely. But enough.
The raised hand brings back memories he doesn’t want—his father's furious silhouette, fists clenched, belt loosened. He fights the instinct to curl away from the gesture.
“—are going to stay the hell away from my brother.”
The words hit him harder than the threat. My brother. The way James spits it—possessive, bitter, intentional. It doesn’t go unnoticed. Sirius hears it loud and clear.
“You are going to detach yourself from him, until he doesn’t think you care,” James continues, unrelenting. “You are going to treat him as badly as you can, so he knows just how much you don’t care.”
Sirius’s breath hitches. His hands clench into fists in the bedspread, knuckles white. He stares at James, eyes searching for some trace of humor, of exaggeration—but there’s none. Just cold sincerity. It burns more than if James had screamed.
“You are going to do this,” James says, stepping even closer, the shadows of his figure stretching across the room, “because you and I both know he deserves so much better than you.”
Deserves.
The word detonates in Sirius’s head.
Of course he does. Of course he does.
He’s always known it. James is just saying it out loud.
He starts to tremble, the edges of his vision blurring. His bones ache with the effort of staying upright.
James sees it—he must, because a cruel, victorious smirk spreads across his face like fire licking at dry wood.
“If you don’t do this,” James says, his voice low and dangerous now, “then I’ll make sure he knows everything. And I mean everything there is to know about you.”
Sirius’s entire body goes still. The threat is loud, unmistakable.
James leans in, close enough that Sirius can feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. His voice is a whisper meant to wound. “I’ll make sure Regulus finds out who you truly are. About what you’ve done. Absolutely everything.”
He pulls back again, standing tall and folding his arms across his chest like a judge ready to pass a sentence. “Do I make myself clear?”
Sirius nods. That’s all he can do. His head jerks once, stiff and small, because his voice is gone. It’s hiding somewhere deep inside him, unreachable.
It seems to be enough.
James doesn’t linger. He’s out of the room within seconds, disappearing down the hallway like he was never even there.
The moment the doorframe is empty, Sirius lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. It rattles through his lungs like broken glass.
His heart races violently in his chest, thudding against his ribs like a warning bell.
James is right. Regulus doesn’t deserve him. He never did. Sirius is no good for him.
And all Sirius wants to do—the only thing that matters—is to protect Regulus.
Even if that means protecting him… from himself .
***
Sirius is sitting up in his bed. He has been, for a while now. Ever since he had woken up from a relatively tame nightmare—in his opinion.
He watched as the light from the sun slowly brightened up the sky. He wasn’t really sure what time it was, but it must’ve been around seven, or eight, in the morning.
Sirius sighs. He’s not really sure what to do with himself.
It’s Sunday, yes, but it’s also Father’s day. It would feel wrong leaving the room he’s in, just to join in on some sort of family day, he doesn’t really feel invited too.
Sirius also doesn’t want to intrude. As, he’s only been here for a week, after all.
The door creaks open just enough for Sirius to catch a glimpse of tousled curls and a familiar cautious expression peeking through. Of course Regulus would be the one to pull him from his dilemma. Sirius instinctively lets a small, soft smile form on his face. How could he not?
“Good morning, ma petite étoile, ” he says, his voice warm despite the gravel in it.
Regulus returns the smile, gently, as he steps his way into the room. “Morning, Siri.”
There’s something a little tense in the way his brother moves, something guarded. Sirius straightens up against the headboard, stretching his stiff shoulders before tilting his head.
“Everything alright?”
Regulus doesn’t answer right away. He shrugs, sits at the foot of the bed, and fiddles with the silver box in his hands? Sirius’s brow furrows.
“Yeah. I—um—I have something to give you,” Regulus says, voice hesitant.
Sirius blinks, trying to keep up. “Okay?”
He watches as Regulus moves the weight of the box in his hands—something soft and black clutched against it. Sirius can’t make sense of any of it. Regulus is clearly working up to something, but Sirius has no idea what.
“I know today’s Father’s Day,” Regulus mumbles.
Sirius gives a small, slow nod. “Yes, I know this too,” he says carefully, unsure where this is going.
“Well—this is gonna sound weird—but I got you something.”
The words hit Sirius harder than he expects. His expression falters, caught between confusion and something else—something sharp in his chest that he doesn’t quite want to look at.
“I—uh—why would you do that, Reggie?” he asks, voice quiet now, uncertain. He genuinely doesn’t understand. He’s not a father. Hell, he’s barely held it together as a brother.
Regulus fumbles with his words, offers another shrug, then gives up altogether and just holds the gift out. Sirius stares at it, stunned. His mind blanks. The smallness of the gesture only makes it more overwhelming. It’s not much—just a box, a stuffed animal, a card—but it’s for him.
“I—I don’t get it, Reg,” Sirius says, breath catching in his throat. “I’m just your brother.”
“I know you’re just my brother, Sirius,” Regulus replies, firmer this time. “But I wanted to get you something because… because I wanted to show you how much you mean to me. And how much I appreciate you. For everything you’ve done for me.”
Sirius’s throat tightens. There’s pressure behind his eyes before he even has time to process the words. He stares at his little brother, tries to hold his gaze, but it’s hard with how fast everything inside him is cracking open.
“You’ve done a lot for me, Siri,” Regulus whispers. “And I just wanted to show you, even if it’s in a small way.”
The words hit like a punch straight to the heart.
Sirius makes a choked sound—more of a breath than a word—and reaches forward, pulling Regulus into his arms with a strength that trembles at the edges. He holds on tight, burying his face in his brother’s hair, eyes squeezing shut.
“Thank you, ma petite étoile, ” he whispers, voice thick.
“ Je t’aime, Siri. ”
It splits something open inside him. His chest heaves slightly. “ Je t’aime aussi, Reggie. ”
They stay like that—wrapped around each other, locked in the kind of silence Sirius hasn’t known in years. Not awkward. Not cold. Just full. Real. The kind of quiet he’s always wanted.
Eventually, Regulus pulls away. Sirius lets him, though part of him wants to cling harder, to keep him there, where everything feels just a little less unbearable.
“I’m going to go back to Effie and Monty. Breakfast will be ready soon,” Regulus says, standing.
Sirius only nods, still dazed. Trying desperately to hold back his tears. He will not cry in front of Regulus, not over this.
When the door closes softly behind him, Sirius looks down at the gift in his lap. The box. The small stuffed cat. The card.
He stares at them for a long time, not touching, barely breathing.
It’s not about what it is. It’s not about the day.
It’s the gesture. It’s the fact that someone thought he was worth the effort. That Regulus—his baby brother—sees him as something more than a disaster trying to hold it all together.
His fingers finally reach out, grazing over the soft toy, then the edge of the card. His throat tightens again, the emotion still raw and swelling beneath his skin. A quiet part of him breaks, soft and aching, under the weight of being seen.
It makes him feel… Well, Sirius isn’t too sure how he’s meant to feel. Not about this. Not about any of this.
There’s something hollow in his chest, like a cave echoing with things he doesn’t have words for. He takes a shaky breath and rubs at his face. The air in the room feels thicker now, heavier. Pressed-in.
The gift still sits in front of him—neatly wrapped, soft edges, carefully presented. Sirius doesn’t touch it yet. He reaches for the card instead. That seems like the safer choice.
His fingers tremble as they close around it. The cardstock is a dark, glossy blue—the kind of shade Regulus always liked. Not the morbid kind of dark. More like midnight sky. There are little stars across the front, tiny bursts of colour scattered across the surface. Sirius huffs a quiet, surprised laugh. Of course there are stars. Regulus never lets him forget the poetry of his name.
Sirius flips it open.
Dear Sirius,
I’m not really sure where to start this letter. Can this even be called a letter? This card? Honestly, I don’t know—just call it whatever you want. You always do anyway.
I know you’re probably confused as to why I gave you this gift. This card. And I know I probably did a terrible job explaining why in person—I have a feeling I was nervous. Maybe even a bit scared.
But just… hear me out. Please.
Let’s start with the facts: You are my brother. My older brother.
You have been there for me when no one else was. You took care of me when I was sick. You protected me from bullies and teachers and the world. You made sure I was okay after I’d freak out over changes to plans, even when I couldn’t speak properly. You always listened, even when I didn’t have the right words. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I know I was annoying you.
You showed up. Every single time.
And I love you for it.
That being said, I’ve realised something this week—something I probably should’ve figured out a long time ago. (We have my art teacher, Mrs. Reed, and my therapist, Laura, to thank for that.)
As you know, it’s Father’s Day. A day we both hate. (Though maybe for different reasons, I think we hate it all the same.)
At first, I didn’t know how I felt about today. I just knew I didn’t like it. Because—well, stating another fact here—our father isn’t a nice man.
When they brought up Father’s Day at school and told us we’d be making cards, I panicked. I wanted to throw up. I could hear his voice in my head. “Tacky. Weak. Disrespectful. Boys don’t do this. Boys becoming men don’t show affection like this.”
I thought about not doing anything. About sitting it out. Pretending it didn’t matter.
But then Mrs. Reed said something. She told me Father’s Day isn’t just about biological fathers. It’s about the people who’ve shown up. The ones who’ve protected you. Supported you. Loved you.
It stayed with me. That thought. It felt wrong at first. It scared me. But I took it to Laura, and I talked to her about it. And somehow, it made sense.
Do you want to know what I realised, Sirius?
That person—it’s you.
You are the one who raised me. You are the one who made sure I was safe. Not just once, but over and over and over again.
You are the one who held me when I cried, who sat with me when I couldn’t speak, who gave me reasons to keep trying. You are the one who took care of me when I was sick, in pain, hurt.
You are the one who did it all, Sirius.
And I have never been more grateful for anything in my life than I am for you.
You have fought for me—against people, against circumstances, even against yourself. You’ve carried more than you ever should have had to. You have protected me from things I may never know about—and even if I think I know… I also know you bore it alone so I wouldn’t have to.
You did that. And you still do.
You are the brightest star in the sky, Sirius. No matter how dark it gets. No matter how lost I feel. You’re still there. Always.
So thank you.
Thank you for being the person who made me laugh when I didn’t think I could. Thank you for being the person who stood between me and everything bad. Thank you for being the person who made it possible for me to hope.
Thank you for being my brother. For being the best one I could have ever asked for.
Je t’aime, Sirius. I always will.
Never, ever forget that.
Love,
Regulus.
Sirius stares at the final words. His eyes blur so badly he has to blink several times just to see the card properly.
His hands are still shaking.
There’s a weight in his chest that pulls tighter with every passing second, like his ribs are closing in around his heart. He tries to breathe but can’t seem to do it properly. A broken sound escapes him—sharp, ragged.
The room tilts a little as he sets the card gently in his lap. He presses the heel of his hand to his chest, like that might slow the pressure building there. It doesn’t.
His shoulders tremble. Then his jaw. Then the dam breaks entirely.
Sirius folds forward, burying his face in his hands as the first sob escapes him. And then another. And another. Not the silent, stoic kind he’s so good at mastering. These are loud, heaving sobs that rip through his chest like they’ve been waiting there for years.
He doesn’t remember the last time he cried like this. Maybe he never has.
All the pain. All the pressure. All the guilt. It hits him now. In waves. In gasps. In everything he thought he’d buried so deep no one could ever touch it again.
But Regulus touched it.
With a stupid card and a stuffed cat and a love Sirius doesn’t feel like he’s earned—but desperately needs anyway.
And if Sirius cries?
That’s for him and the stars alone.
***
“So, Regulus tells me things have been going well here. What do you think?”
They’re sitting out on the front porch. Apparently, Regulus likes having his check-ins out here, says it’s quiet. Sirius will have to agree with Regulus, it is quiet out here, private.
Sarah’s question echoes throughout his mind. It’s a question he’s been asking himself recently—what he thinks about living here.
It’s been… well… nice? He’s not too sure how to put it. How do you tell your social worker that you don’t think you belong here?
“Yeah, I guess so,” Sirius answers with a shrug, unsure how to go about her question. It feels so loaded, so heavy.
Sarah hums in response, clearly picking up on Sirius’s hesitation, confusion. He doesn’t think he was being that noticeable.
“How about this,” Sarah says, trying a different tactic. “How about you tell me how Regulus has been.”
Sirius nods. He can do that.
“Regulus has been… well… Regulus,” Sirius simply says. Because it’s the truth. Regulus has been his normal self. “Well,” Sirius adds, a little hesitation in his voice. “He’s been a little… clingy—more than usual.” Sirius shrugs. “Nothing I can’t handle, though.”
“What do you mean by that?” Sarah queries, clearly pushing Sirius to expand on his statement. Like she’s fishing for something bigger. Sirius takes the bait.
“Well,” he sighs, “he usually fluctuates between wanting to be attached at my side and needing space, majority of the time.” Majority of the time being code for, when they still lived at home, with their parents.
Sirius eyes Sarah, cautiously. He doesn’t want to say anything to her that might put a red flag in Regulus’s files. She just nods for him to continue.
“Now he… I don’t know,” Sirius shrugs. He can’t do this. He can’t talk to her about this. It just feels—
“Yes you do,” her voice is sweet, as if it’s laced in honey. “Just, take a breath.”
Sirius does take a breath. As he exhales, some tension he didn’t know he was holding falls from his shoulders. “I enjoy it,” he shrugs, looking down at his hands, taking in the detail of his chewed-up fingernails. “I enjoy his clinginess. I enjoy how attached he is. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”
Sarah nods, humming again. She looks towards him, clearly thinking about what he just said. Silence washes over them for a little bit. Sirius takes a moment to breathe it in.
“You like feeling wanted by your brother,” Sarah says, breaking the silence. Sirius turns towards her, raising an eyebrow. “You like how afraid he is about you disappearing.”
Sirius scoffs. He absolutely does not enjoy how afraid his brother is, how anxious he is. Sirius can feel his anger start to rise beneath his skin, at the accusation Sarah had just laid out.
Before he can get another word in, Sarah raises her hand to stop him. “I get it,” she says, as if it’s the most normal thing a person can hear. “I understand that, Sirius. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel that. For wanting to feel wanted. It’s normal.”
Sirius sits there, taking it all in. Is it really normal for a person to want to feel… that? For wanting to feel that way?
The instinctive clicking noise of a ballpoint pen opening pulls Sirius from his thoughts. The sound of pen to paper can be heard. Great, he thinks, he’s just added another red flag to his file.
“Tell me about the Potters,” Sarah starts, placing her pen down on her clipboard. “Regulus tells me James doesn’t like you?”
Sirius lets out a hollowless laugh. Yeah, James does not like Sirius in the slightest. Given the way he recently threatened him to stay away from his brother, not Sirius’s.
His brother. Not Sirius’s.
When he first heard those words, his immediate reaction was anger. To attack James. To attack him for thinking Regulus was his, and not Sirius’s.
Afterwards, though, all he felt was hollow. Like a piece of him had been ripped out of him. Like a part of his soul died.
He really wanted to punch the dude, maybe even beat him up. Sirius is not proud for thinking it, either. He even surprised himself by not punching the living daylights out of James and his audacity.
“Yeah,” Sirius sighs. “James does not like me.”
Sarah hums. “Regulus told me it’s because James thinks you’re a criminal.”
He nods. Yeah, he is one.
“Regulus defended you, though,” Sarah is quick to add. “Told me he called James a liar.”
A small smile forms on Sirius’s face. On one hand, it was nice of Regulus to defend him. On the other, he shouldn’t have to. He shouldn’t be causing trouble just because someone was stating the facts. And Regulus loves the facts.
“He doesn’t know, does he?” is all Sarah has to ask. They both know what she means.
Sirius lets out a small, “Yeah,” in response.
Silence encases them once more. The gentle breeze of the autumn air sends chills down Sirius’s spine.
His vision starts to blur slightly at the edges. The trees blur, too, their leaves losing shape and colour. He hears Sarah’s voice, but it sounds further away now. Like she’s underwater.
The weight of her words, of this whole conversation, presses against his chest. His arms feel heavy. His hands tingle.
He’s slipping. Everything around him begins to feel fuzzy, distant, like he’s not really in his body anymore. The porch, the chill in the air, even Sarah—they all start to fade.
He doesn’t know what to tell Regulus. Doesn’t know how to break the illusion of him to his baby brother. The illusion of the perfect, older brother. The person that can do no harm.
What can he say? To Regulus? How does one tell another about this sort of thing? “Oh, sorry Reggie. The reason why I’ve not been with you, was because I beat a man almost to death.” And, “Oh, yeah by the way I’ve been to juvie before. I’m a dangerous, violent criminal who probably shouldn’t even be around you, let alone near you.” Are not exactly words a twelve year-old should be hearing.
He can see her mouth move, but the words don’t make it to his ears. His eyes are fixed on the wood grain of the porch, the lines in it stretching out and blurring into nonsense. His brain latches onto the swirls in the timber, lets it pull him further away.
What would Regulus think of him anyway? Would he be scared? Concerned? Terrified? Would he be terrified for his life? For his safety? Would Regulus stop feeling safe around him? What if every time Sirius moved, it would leave Regulus on edge?
Can one even get over something like this? Can one ever even get past the constant threat Sirius provides? Get over the constant fear they experience? The constant danger they feel?
He knows the Potter’s haven’t. Well, at least Fleamont has. But he’s still cautious. Sirius doesn’t blame him, he would be cautious too, around a kid like him. A kid like him.
A danger, a threat. A tornado ready to tear down an unsuspecting town. To destroy the lives of the people that live there. To rip them up into fragile little pieces within seconds, only to quickly disappear in minutes.
He doesn’t notice when Sarah calls his name the first time. Or the second.
What if, every time Regulus looks at Sirius, he only sees what he’s done? Of the type of person he’s become? What if he panics every time Sirius steps into a room? Raises his hands? Raises his voice?
Sirius tried so hard to protect Regulus from all that. Yet, when it comes down to it, did Sirius ever really protect him? Did Sirius unknowingly harm his brother without meaning to?
His stomach drops at the thought. A heavy feeling weighing it down. Has he ever hurt his brother and not realise it? Can Sirius even call himself a good older brother? Is Regulus just pretending to care, to love him, out of obligation?
What if Regulus does stop loving him? What if he decides Sirius isn’t worth the effort, the trouble, anymore? What if Regulus abandons Sirius, just like Sirius did to him?
Sirius has always known he is a monster. Deep down, he’s always known. It doesn’t matter how much he pushed the feeling down, how often Regulus told him he loved him. Sirius is always the same.
He’s always been this violent, dangerous, thing—this controllable monster, people strive to steer clear from.
The sound of a voice—sharper now, panicked—finally cuts through the fog.
“Sirius?” Her hand is on his shoulder now. Warm. Solid. Real.
He blinks. The air rushes back in, too fast, too thick. He hums, dazed, turning in her direction.
“I asked if you wanted to talk to me about the Potters.” Sarah eyes him, something about her wide-eyed look tells him he’s been unresponsive longer than he realised. She lets out a relieved breath. “I said, Regulus told me the Potters—Fleamont and Euphemia—liked you. But, you—”
She cuts herself off. Sighs. “I think we should wrap this up, shall we?”
Sirius nods, slow and clumsy. He really does just want to get back inside, maybe even climb into Regulus’s bed with him. Give him the warmest of hugs as humanly possible.
Standing inside, hovering near the front door, stood Fleamont.
“Everything alright?”
Sirius can feel eyes on him as he nods. He doesn’t feel like he has the energy to respond. He can barely feel his head move.
“Umm,” it’s silent within the room at Sarah’s hesitation. “Yeah,” she replies, though Sirius feels there is more to it than she wants to give away.
A hand rubs up and down his back. “How about you head on upstairs and lay down, Sirius?”
The question wasn’t really a question, it was more like a demand. But Sirius follows his instructions. He doesn’t want to give them a reason to take him away. After all, one wrong misstep and he’s gone for good.
Sirius nods, slowly making his way upstairs and into the room he’s staying in. His movements feel sluggish. Maybe that’s because of the lack of sleep, or maybe it’s because of whatever happened outside—Sirius may never know.
He’s not sure how long he’s been laying there, staring at the ceiling. His mind feels fuzzy. Staticy. Like he can’t remember why he’s there at all.
Why is he staring at the ceiling?
The air around him feels thick again. Like it did when the fog in his brain got lifted, if only for a few seconds.
He shouldn’t be feeling foggy. Why is he feeling foggy?
Breathing is hard. His lungs are not working. They’re seizing every time they expand. It’s like lightning is zapping his lungs, forcing them to stop working.
He’s scared. He feels scared. Why are his lungs trying to implode on him? Why isn’t he moving? Wait, he’s not moving. He can’t move.
Everything feels numb. Why is everything so numb? What’s happening to him? Why is this happening to him?
His mind feels distant, but also still very present. Like it’s on the edge of a cliff. He can hear sounds of heavy, yet even footsteps enter the room. The floorboards creak and groan under the weight of the person.
Fleamont. It has to be Fleamont. There’s no one else in this house that is as heavy as this person is. He can tell, just by the way he walks.
He’s talking. Fleamont’s talking to him. Sirius can see his mouth moving, but no words are coming out. Why can’t he hear them?
Panic begins to surge up through him. Something’s wrong. Something’s deeply, deeply wrong. He can feel his body start to tremble, but he isn’t actually shaking. What?
The mattress he is laying on dips slightly, as the weight of a heavy person sits down. Fleamont’s sitting down. On the mattress. He can see him.
He can also see Fleamont’s hand moving to grab his own. He doesn’t feel anything. He can only see it.
Tears start to pool into the corners of his eyes. He cannot cry. That’s showing weakness. He cannot show weakness here. That’s dangerous.
He turns his gaze back to the ceiling. He tries to focus on his breathing. He tries. He really tries.
The first thing Sirius feels is a hand squeezing his own. There’s a pattern to it. Squeeze for five seconds, let go for three, then squeeze one, two, three times, before resting again for three. Then repeat.
Bacon. That’s the first thing Sirius can smell. Then he can hear breathing. Sirius isn’t sure if it’s his own, or Fleamont’s.
Fleamont’s voice is kind and gentle. “Sirius?” he questions, like he’s trying to gauge whether Sirius is there. Whether Sirius can hear him. “You back with me?”
Sirius squeezes his hand in response. He doesn’t know if he can move, let alone speak.
Sirius hears Fleamont breathe a sigh of relief. “Good, good.”
It’s still, silent. Then—
“Sarah said you stopped responding to her. I came up to check on you. I was talking to you, but you just stared blankly at me, through me,” Fleamont says, trying to give Sirius all the details. Trying to tell him everything that has happened. “Is everything alright?”
It’s such a loaded question. Is everything alright? How is Sirius meant to know if everything’s alright, when he doesn’t even know what happened!
Sirius tries to respond, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a mixture between a whimper and a hum. It’s humiliating. How fucking dumb is he? Is he brain dead, or something?
He wants to start crying. Crying from the humiliation. From the embarrassment. From not being able to move. But he can’t. He can’t do it.
No one should see him. No one deserves to see him cry. Not even Regulus.
The room is silent. Quiet. Peaceful, even. Sirius can still feel Fleamont’s hand holding his own. But he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t try to talk to Sirius. Sirius is grateful for that.
After a while, the sound of people re-entering the home can be heard. Sirius doesn’t feel like trying to get up. Doesn’t want people to see him like this—especially Reggie.
“Alright,” Fleamont tells him, after they collectively hear Euphemia yell out, “Dinner’s here.”
Fleamont looks down towards Sirius. “I’ll save you something to eat,” he says, letting go of Sirius’s hand. “Come down when you’re ready.”
Fleamont doesn’t try to force Sirius to come down, to join them. Instead, he leaves Sirius be—probably to collect himself.
“I’ll make sure no one bothers you,” he says before exiting the room, closing the door behind him.
Sirius just continues to stare at the ceiling. He closes his eyes, trying to process everything that just happened.
He can’t explain what happened. Maybe he never can. Never will. But one thing Sirius knows for certain is—one thing is very clear. Sirius doesn’t belong here.
He can only imagine what is going on downstairs. The smiles, the laughter. The pure joy radiating off his brother. All because he is around people who care. Who love him.
Sirius can tell—they love him. It’s not that difficult to see, really.
He sees it in the way Euphemia cares about Regulus. Making sure food doesn’t touch each other. Making sure he’s okay after a tough day at school. Being there for him, even when he’s not sure he needs her.
He sees it in the way James protects Regulus. The way he cares about the people Regulus hangs around with. The way he would willingly put himself in between perceived danger and Regulus.
He sees it in the way Fleamont talks to Regulus. Talking to him about his hobbies, his interests. The way he makes sure Regulus gets the time to express himself, when words are difficult. The way he can sense something is off, just by the slight adjustment of his brother’s tone of voice.
Sirius doesn’t belong here. Not with them. Not in this house.
He doesn’t belong amongst these kind and generous people. He doesn’t belong within these four walls. There are other people who belong here. More deserving than he is. And they should be here, not him.
But they aren’t. He is. And it doesn’t sit right with him. Not at all.
Notes:
Word Count: 14,267
Published: 2025-06-25I forgot how dyslexic I was until I remembered the word authority, and all it's addings like "-tive" and such. Lol, it generally took me 10 minutes just to try and spell the word - gave up in the end and googled it... I WAS WAYYYY OFF LOL! (I would also like to state, English is stupid)
Also, just a heads up, it's like my first time writing a character dissocating, and I did research on it, and, I may have discovered I have too, disassociated before... Something to tell my therapist lol. Anyway, this is just me letting you lovely readers know that I may have not accurately represented what disassociating is like, and I apologise for that, I am still doing thorough research into the topic, and I am sure (or, at least very hopeful) that I can improve on writing it.
Anyways, enjoy! See you all next week!
Chapter 31: Questioning is Part of the Job
Summary:
Things have been going in, in terms of Sirius coming to stay. But… then Father’s Day rolls around and… things happen. It makes them question things that, previously, weren’t questioned. Things that weren’t even thought of. For starters…
Hang on… What the hell just happened?
POV: Euphemia and Fleamont Potter
Notes:
Trigger Warning: mentioned/talked about Eating Disorders
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
POV: EUPHEMIA
Euphemia wipes her hands dry on a tea towel, standing just to the side of the sink while Regulus rinses out his bowl. The quiet in the kitchen is peaceful, steady. It’s a domestic moment, simple and warm, and she’s grateful for the calm.
“Hey, sweetheart?” she asks, gently. “I was just wondering, whether you wanted me to come in with you tomorrow? Considering it’s the first day back. And things can get a little hectic.”
It’s not a question she asks lightly. She knows how quickly the noise and pressure of a school morning can become overwhelming, especially for someone like Regulus. But she also doesn’t want to push. She keeps her tone light, casual.
There’s a pause—longer than she expects.
“What are the conditions?” Regulus asks, not looking at her.
She blinks, taken off guard. “I’m sorry?”
“To you staying with me. What are the conditions? Will you just walk in with me? Or will you stay a little?”
Euphemia steps in closer, softening even more. “I’ll do whatever you want, sweetheart,” she promises. “If you just want me to walk in with you, I will. If you want me to come into your class and sit with you, I will. If you don’t want to stay the whole day, I’ll take you home.”
She places her hands gently on his cheeks and tilts his face toward hers. His eyes meet hers—wide and uncertain.
“Tomorrow is all about you, love. I’ll do whatever you need me to do, okay?”
“Okay,” he whispers.
They stay like that for a while, still in the warm, hushed air of the kitchen, her hands lightly cupping his face, grounding him.
Then the doorbell rings.
Euphemia straightens. “I’ll get it,” she says quietly, brushing her palms against her hips as she walks to the door.
She opens it with the usual smile, but it falters almost immediately. On the doorstep stands Sarah, clipboard in hand—but that’s not what stops her.
It’s the boy beside her.
Tall. Thin. Pale in a sickly way, eyes shadowed. His clothes are wrinkled and grimy, hanging off his frame like they don’t belong to him. His jeans are too short, showing skinny ankles beneath the frayed hems. The shirt he’s wearing is stained near the bottom and rides awkwardly on his shoulders. His hair is long, unkempt, and oily—nothing like what Euphemia saw on Regulus’s birthday.
She freezes.
“Sirius,” she says, even as Sarah chirps her name.
Everything in her body goes tense.
There’s a heaviness to his presence, a kind of chaotic stillness that puts her on edge. It’s not fear, exactly—but it’s caution. He looks nothing like she expected. And worse—he looks like someone who hasn’t been properly cared for in a very, very long time.
Before she can say anything more, Regulus rushes past her like a shot, colliding into his brother’s arms with all the force his slight body can manage.
Euphemia stands aside, silent, watching the reunion. Her stomach twists.
They cling to each other in the doorway—Regulus wrapping himself around Sirius like he’s afraid he’ll vanish again, Sirius stiff but slowly responding, arms looping around his brother. It’s a heartbreaking sight, and Euphemia has to press a hand to her chest for a moment to steady herself.
She doesn’t interrupt. Not yet.
But she sees the way Regulus breathes him in—and she smells it too. The staleness of old sweat, of musty clothes and something chemical and institutional. The kind of smell that clings. That doesn’t wash out with one bath. It curls at the edges of her awareness, making her throat feel tight.
He hasn’t showered. That much is obvious. His hair is greasy, his skin dull. Even his posture is off—like he’s half-prepared to bolt at any second. Euphemia’s heart aches in spite of her unease. How long was he like this? Alone? Unwashed? Uncared for?
And now… he’s here.
With them.
The space around him seems to shift with discomfort, like the air can’t settle. Euphemia straightens her shoulders, smoothing out her skirt with practiced fingers. She can manage this. She will manage this.
“Regulus,” she says gently, after a long moment. “Why don’t you let your brother come inside, hmm?”
Her tone is warm, careful. She doesn’t want to push, but the longer they stand in the entryway, the more off-balance she feels.
Regulus nods, tugging Sirius gently over the threshold. Euphemia resists the urge to intervene—her instincts war with one another. Part of her wants to usher Sirius inside with maternal reassurance. The other part whispers caution, reminding her that this boy, for all his fragility, is still an unknown.
Sarah steps forward. “Okay, I just want to say a couple things before I leave, alright?”
Euphemia watches as Sirius barely responds. Just the smallest tilt of his chin, hollow-eyed and guarded. There’s something so quiet about him that it unsettles her even more.
Sarah goes through the basics—check-ins, expectations, consequences. Euphemia listens carefully, watching Sirius out of the corner of her eye. His voice is soft, subdued.
“Yes, I’m aware,” he says when asked if he knows the Potters can request removal.
Euphemia flinches. Not at his words—but the flatness in them.
Sarah turns to Regulus. “You keep an eye on him, alright?”
The boy nods. He’s gripping Sirius’s wrist like a lifeline.
When Sarah finally leaves, Euphemia breathes out slowly, trying to ease the knot in her chest. She closes the door behind her, then turns back toward the boys.
“All right,” she says, trying to inject some steadiness into her voice. “Hey, sweetheart, do you mind giving Fleamont and I a moment with your brother?”
Regulus’s response is immediate. “No.”
It comes out too sharp, too fast. Euphemia blinks, surprised.
Regulus flushes. “I—s-sorry, Effie. I didn’t mean to sound rude. I—”
She steps forward, voice gentle. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You have nothing to apologise for.”
Fleamont joins her then, warm as always. “Alrighty then. How about Regulus and I show you up to your room?”
Sirius nods, but barely. Euphemia notices how quiet he still is—how small he seems, despite being older than her son.
Regulus immediately latches onto his hand, and Sirius lets him. Doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t pull away either.
As they disappear up the stairs, Euphemia stands still in the entryway, her hands knotted in front of her. The house feels suddenly different. Not bad, necessarily. But heavier. Like it’s holding its breath.
She closes her eyes for a second and steels herself.
Sirius Black is here.
And nothing is going to be simple.
***
As she rounds the corner into the main office, her eyes immediately find them: Fleamont, sitting upright and alert, and Sirius… looking small.
He’s slouched in the chair, hands in his lap, staring down at the tiled floor like he’s trying to disappear into it. His shoulders are hunched, pulled inward, like the weight of the air around him is too heavy to bear. His clothes don’t fit properly—his t-shirt hangs from his frame, collar stretched and hem spotted faintly with what might be food or old sweat. His jeans are stiff with wear and too short at the ankles, revealing socks that don’t match.
Euphemia’s chest pinches.
He looks—God, he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. His hair is long, lank, oily at the roots, and falling into his face in uneven strands. He’s not fidgeting, not moving, not doing anything she might expect a restless teenage boy to be doing. He’s just… still.
Too still.
She draws in a breath, forces a smile to her face. Bright. Gentle. Like she’s carrying something calm in her voice, something safe. She doesn’t want him flinching from her.
“How’d he go?” Fleamont asks as she reaches them, his voice easy, affectionate.
There’s already a note of knowing in it—like he doesn’t need to be told. Euphemia can hear the pride in his tone and feels a fresh rush of warmth bloom beneath her ribs.
Her smile widens. “He did really well.”
Fleamont nods, satisfied. “That’s good.”
Euphemia glances at Sirius then. He hasn’t moved. Still curled in on himself, eyes fixed on the floor like it might vanish if he looks away.
The distance between them isn’t physical—it’s in the way he keeps himself closed off, separate, like he’s afraid to take up space. It unsettles her, that stillness. That quiet. There’s something brittle in it, like if she were to speak too sharply, he might shatter.
She turns back to Fleamont. “Did you do the enrollment?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “Thought it would be a good idea whilst we waited.”
“Good,” she murmurs, then steps closer to Sirius, careful not to crowd him. “Are you up for getting uniforms now, or later?”
He shrugs without lifting his eyes. “Now, I guess,” he mutters, voice nearly swallowed by the space between them.
She nods. “Alright, then.”
She turns, giving them both room, and begins walking down the hallway toward the uniform shop. She hears them rise behind her—Fleamont with a slow stretch and Sirius more sluggishly, dragging his feet slightly as he follows.
Euphemia doesn’t look back yet.
She keeps her pace steady. Gives him space.
But she keeps listening—every footstep, every silence. Just in case.
Inside the uniform shop, Euphemia moves quickly, wasting no time as they enter the narrow, fluorescent-lit space. The shelves are stacked neatly with folded garments, and there’s a faint chemical smell of starch and fresh packaging in the air. It’s familiar—this place, this errand. She’s done this all before. But something about today feels different.
“Sirius,” she says gently, turning toward him, “do you know what size shirt you would be?”
His head snaps up at the sound of his name, eyes a little too wide for the simplicity of the question. He looks startled—like he hadn’t expected to be spoken to—and then quickly masks it, like someone used to covering up a mistake.
“No,” he replies. The word is quiet, flat, but Euphemia hears the subtle shame under it. He sounds embarrassed, like not knowing his own shirt size is something to be guilty for.
Her heart twists. A million possibilities spring up in her mind, unbidden. Neglect. Lack of access. Lack of care. The first possibility she lands on is lack of eating. Not just skipping meals, but true, prolonged hunger. It fits—too well.
“That’s okay,” Fleamont says quickly, his voice steady, kind. “You can just try on some shirts to find the one that fits, alright?”
Sirius nods once, subdued. His arms hang by his sides, long sleeves nearly swallowing his hands. Euphemia notices how stiff he is—how careful.
She steps toward one of the racks and starts shifting through the hangers. The fabric slides under her fingers—crisp and new—and she pulls out a size 14 shirt, which she hopes will fit him. At the same time, Fleamont is thumbing through the pants rack beside her.
She watches him check the label. “Twelve,” he says under his breath, mostly to himself, and adds it to the pile.
“Here you go,” she says, offering the pieces to Sirius. “Why don’t you go try those on?”
He takes the clothes from her without meeting her eyes, barely nodding, and retreats toward the changing rooms at the back of the store.
Euphemia’s already moving again, pulling out backup sizes—14 and 16—just in case. She’s halfway through refolding a sleeve when the curtain rustles and Sirius steps out.
She freezes.
Her stomach twists. The shirt hangs off him like it belongs to someone else entirely, drooping from his shoulders and loose at the sleeves. It’s long enough to nearly reach mid-thigh. He’s clutching the pants with both hands just to keep them from falling entirely, but even then, they look enormous—billowing around his legs in shapeless folds. There’s no way a belt could save this fit.
“These don’t fit,” Sirius says simply, and Euphemia has to take a breath to keep her face calm. If she hadn’t already been focused on the clothes, she might’ve missed the expression behind his voice—something brittle and humiliated, buried deep.
“Ah, that’s—that’s alright,” Fleamont says quickly, though his voice catches at the start. He’s clearly trying to recover. “How about you try—”
He turns back to the racks with more urgency, flipping through hangers. Euphemia can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hand shakes slightly as he grabs a pair of size 10 trousers and a size 12 shirt—sizes that fit Regulus.
Sirius takes the new clothes without complaint and disappears back into the changing room.
Euphemia stares at the curtain, then lets out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding.
“Fleamont,” she says quietly, and her voice breaks halfway through his name. Her throat is tight, her chest burning.
“I know,” he replies, turning to meet her gaze. His face is pale, drawn. “It’s…”
He trails off, unable to find the words.
She doesn’t have them either.
With a heavy sigh, Euphemia places the size 14 and 16 items neatly back onto the rack, trying to push down the tight feeling that’s been building in her chest since the moment she saw Sirius holding up his trousers with both hands.
When he steps out again, he looks a little more at ease. The size 12 shirt fits better—still roomy, but no longer swallowing him whole. The pants sit more naturally on his hips, though they sag a little at the ankle. Euphemia thinks they’ll shrink in the wash.
“This is better,” Sirius says, glancing toward them. His tone is guarded, but he’s watching carefully—gauging their reaction.
“Yes it is,” she agrees, offering a warm smile she hopes doesn’t look too strained.
The rest of the uniform shopping goes smoothly after that. Sirius doesn’t complain. He follows direction, tries things on when asked, nods along when prompted. They leave the store with two pairs of pants, three long-sleeved shirts, a jumper, a sport’s uniform, and two pairs of socks. All of it bagged and folded neatly into a navy-blue shopping tote.
But even as they step back into the sunlight, Euphemia can’t shake the image from her mind.
The way those first clothes—the ones that would fit James perfectly—had absolutely drowned Sirius.
How thin he is.
How quiet.
She clutches the handles of the shopping bag a little tighter.
She really doesn’t know what to think.
But she knows how she feels: horrified, heartbroken—and more confused than ever.
POV: FLEAMONT
It’s alarming—honestly, that word doesn’t even come close.
To see Sirius standing stiffly in the uniform shop earlier, half-swallowed by a school blazer that should have fit, sleeves drooping over too-thin wrists, trousers cinched tight and still sagging—it had made Fleamont’s stomach turn.
Now, in the clothing store down the road, he still can’t shake the image. The hollowness of Sirius’s frame, the way the waistband of the trousers had needed a belt just to cling to his hips. The way Euphemia’s hand had tightened around his when the shopkeeper asked, delicately, if they were sure they had the right size.
To say Fleamont is sickened would be a generous understatement.
He feels everything all at once—rage, sorrow, helplessness. A pulsing, nauseating ache in his chest. Euphemia hasn’t said a word about it, but he can see the same thing written across her face. That tightness in her jaw. The too-still set of her shoulders.
Not disgust at Sirius—no, never at him—but at the reality his body speaks so loudly. The message in the sagging fabric: this child has not been fed properly. This child has been neglected. It makes Fleamont want to break something. Or, better yet, find whoever let Sirius live like that and make them understand what they’ve done.
They’ve already gathered socks and underwear, a few sets of pyjamas—Euphemia always insists on ones with the softest cotton—and now they’re in the shirts aisle. Rows of colours and cuts stretch on endlessly beneath the cold store lights.
Sirius stands stiffly, arms tucked close, shoulders hunched in as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. He hasn’t said much. In fact, he’s been nearly silent since they left the uniform shop.
Fleamont expected some level of quiet—kids around strangers often are. But there’s something unnatural about this silence. Something guarded . Sirius doesn’t just look uncomfortable. He looks on edge . Like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.
Euphemia is the first to break the tension. Her voice is calm, light, practiced.
“All right,” she says gently. “Why don’t you pick out some shirts to try on, Sirius?”
Sirius glances at her, quick and wary. Then he nods, his face unreadable.
Fleamont watches him carefully as they move along the aisle. Watches how Sirius touches the fabric before pulling a shirt from the rack, thumb brushing over the sleeve like he’s assessing it for softness. That catches Fleamont’s attention. It reminds him a bit of Regulus—how the boy is particular about seams, textures, tags. But it’s different with Sirius. Less deliberate, more… cautious.
Still, it’s enough to raise a flag in Fleamont’s mind.
Sirius picks out three long-sleeve t-shirts—one black, one navy, and one black-and-white striped. He holds them up awkwardly. “Umm… are these alright?” he asks, his voice barely above a murmur.
Euphemia nods. Fleamont hums his agreement.
“Yes, those are perfect,” Euphemia says gently. “Are they your size?”
Sirius nods again and moves to place them in the cart.
But long-sleeves alone aren’t going to cut it.
“Why don’t you grab some regular t-shirts too,” Fleamont suggests, trying to sound casual. “Just to have that… variety.”
Sirius looks at him then, expression unreadable. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—reluctance, maybe. Or something close to it. But he nods, obediently, and turns back to the racks.
Fleamont’s seen enough kids come through their home over the years to know that long sleeves can mean a dozen things—and not all of them are benign. He tries not to assume. But the possibility creeps in anyway.
Sometimes, long sleeves mean self-consciousness. Sometimes, they mean scars. Sometimes, they’re a way of hiding what shouldn’t have to be hidden.
Fleamont swallows the thought, but it sticks.
“Sirius,” he says gently, careful not to make his tone too heavy. He’s not accusing. He’s just… checking. “Why the long sleeves?”
Sirius looks at him for a beat, then shrugs. “Hate the feel of jumpers,” he mumbles.
Fleamont nods slowly. Perfectly reasonable. Logical. Nothing strange about that.
Still, the unease doesn’t leave him. It lingers at the base of his throat like something unspoken.
They help Sirius pick out a few more things—plain t-shirts, a couple of hoodies, jeans in different washes. Sirius doesn’t protest. He doesn’t seem picky, doesn’t ask for anything. If anything, he looks like he’d be content walking out with nothing at all. That’s what gets to Fleamont most.
The boy seems startled by even basic kindness. Like he’s unsure what he’s allowed to want.
As they make their way toward the checkout, Sirius trailing behind them like a shadow, Fleamont finds himself watching him more closely than before. Not with suspicion, exactly—but with concern. Curiosity. Worry.
He doesn’t know this boy. Not really. He knows Sirius has had a hard time. He knows the file was redacted more than he liked. He knows he’s quiet, and clever, and twitchy in a way that speaks of more than just shyness.
But mostly, Fleamont knows this: something is going on .
And whether Sirius knows it or not, he’s not going to have to figure it out alone anymore.
Fleamont’s going to watch. He’s going to be patient. And, if necessary, he’s going to fight like hell to make sure no one ever lets Sirius fall through the cracks again.
***
Fleamont watches Sirius from the corner of his eye.
The boy sits at the dinner table like he’s bracing for impact. Back straight. Shoulders tense. Eyes fixed somewhere just past the edge of the table. Not fidgeting— frozen . Like movement might draw too much attention.
The scent of lamb fills the air—rich, spiced, comforting—mingled with buttery mash and roasted carrots. It should be a warm meal. A welcome one. But Sirius doesn’t so much as lift his fork. His plate sits full in front of him, and he just… stares at it. Occasionally nudges food around like it’s part of a task, not a meal.
Fleamont’s heart sinks.
He hadn’t noticed it before—not really. He and Euphemia have been busy. Between work, Sirius’s parole meetings, Regulus’s first week of school, and James’s usual whirlwind energy… everything’s been loud. Fast-moving. He’s looked at Sirius every day, sure. But tonight, he’s seeing him.
The boy looks haunted.
Gone, almost, behind the eyes.
Euphemia is speaking softly to Regulus now, drawing him into conversation the way she always does. Her voice is patient, warm, full of affection she doesn’t even try to hide.
“How was your first day, sweetheart?” she asks, and Regulus beams under the attention.
“It was fun! I enjoyed it.”
And Fleamont feels a swell of pride. Not the kind born from ego, but something deeper. Something earned. Regulus came into their lives so quiet, so frightened—now he’s blooming, smiling like the sun, chattering with his hands.
Fleamont chuckles. “What did you do?”
Regulus launches into a full report—form, History, English, Geography—all in one breath. His enthusiasm is contagious.
James, seated beside him, leans in with that natural curiosity that’s always made Fleamont proud. “Oh! Who else is in your class, Reg?”
Fleamont pauses at the sound of the nickname.
Reg.
James had been hesitant when Regulus first arrived. Suspicious, even. Protective of the family dynamic they’d built. And now… he’s not just sharing space. He’s sharing belonging . Nicknames. Laughs.
Fleamont exchanges a glance with Euphemia, and the small, knowing smile she offers tells him everything he needs to know. They’re becoming brothers.
His heart aches with how good that feels.
But across the table, Sirius doesn’t share in the laughter. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak.
He just pushes a piece of carrot into the mashed potatoes and then slides it away again. Still untouched.
Fleamont watches him carefully.
There’s something off about the boy—something that goes deeper than just nerves. It’s in his posture. His silence. The way he winces at the smell of food, like it physically hurts. Like his body has learned to fear it.
He’s not eating, Fleamont thinks, suddenly uneasy. Not just tonight. Maybe… not much at all.
The realization sits heavy in his gut. He can’t recall a single time, since Sirius arrived, that the boy ate without hesitation. Without some excuse. Without the slight curl of his fingers around the edge of the table, white-knuckled, like he might bolt at any moment.
What kind of relationship with food do you have to unlearn to flinch at the smell of lamb?
What happened to him?
Fleamont doesn’t know. He and Euphemia haven’t pushed. Regulus has opened up more readily—but Sirius? Sirius is stone walls and closed doors. And maybe they thought he just needed time.
But now Fleamont wonders if time isn’t enough. Not without someone noticing. Really noticing.
He watches the way Sirius looks at Regulus—like he’s seeing something that doesn’t quite fit anymore. Something that used to belong to him, and now… doesn’t.
Regulus is glowing. Euphemia and Fleamont beam at every word that leaves his mouth, and James nods along like he’s already memorizing Regulus’s timetable.
And Sirius is shrinking further into his seat.
Fleamont feels the ache behind his ribs. This is his house. His rules. His responsibility. And Sirius is still sitting there like he’s waiting to be kicked out. Like he expects it.
That can’t happen.
Not again.
He shifts his focus from the smiling children back to the boy pushing carrots around his plate. And in that moment, Fleamont makes a silent decision.
He’s going to start watching Sirius more closely. Not suspiciously. Not with judgment. But with intention.
Because something’s wrong. Something Sirius isn’t saying. And if Sirius has learned to make himself small enough to disappear, then it’s Fleamont’s job to see him anyway .
He doesn’t know what’s going on beneath the surface yet. But he will.
And no matter how long it takes, he and Euphemia will be there. Watching. Holding space. Ready to help.
Because these boys— his boys, even if the law hasn’t said so yet—deserve more than survival.
They deserve to be seen .
POV: EUPHEMIA
Euphemia wipes down the last patch of sticky jam from the kitchen table, sighing softly as she tosses the dishcloth over her shoulder. The house still smells faintly of toast, eggs, and orange juice—evidence of the morning chaos James and Regulus had left in their wake. Crumbs are scattered beneath the chairs like confetti. The boys had been in such high spirits before school, Regulus practically glowing. That alone had made the mess worth it.
She’s just straightening a stack of placemats when the sharp chime of the doorbell cuts through the quiet.
Her brows knit. Who on Earth would be at her door at ten in the morning? She checks the clock on the wall above the stove, as if to confirm what she already knows. Definitely ten. Too early for the post, and she isn’t expecting anyone. Fleamont had said he'd be at the office all morning, and she hasn’t planned any appointments.
With a flicker of unease, she makes her way down the hallway, brushing her hands on her skirt. When she opens the front door, her breath catches.
Two police officers are standing on her doorstep.
She freezes.
One is older, with a square jaw and weathered features. The other is younger, barely past twenty, his cap slightly askew. Both look serious—but not urgent. Still, Euphemia’s chest tightens like a fist curling around her lungs.
The first thought that comes to her mind is something’s happened to Fleamont.
She opens her mouth, panic rising up her throat like bile, but before she can shape a single word, the older officer speaks.
“Is this the residence of Sirius Black?”
For a heartbeat, all she can do is stare.
Then, her blood flashes hot.
Of course. Of course it’s Sirius. He’s been here for less than 48 hours, and already there are police at her front door. She clenches her jaw. Great, she thinks bitterly. Absolutely wonderful.
Damn it. She knew this was going to happen. She told Fleamont— told him—this boy needed structure, supervision, care. Not pity and kindness and freedom. But he hadn’t listened. Of course he hadn’t.
“Yes,” she replies, tone clipped but polite. “It is. What can I do for you?”
The older officer gives her a look soaked in sympathy. She recognises it instantly—it’s the one doctors give parents when they’re about to say something terrible. Euphemia steels herself.
“We need to speak with him, if that’s possible?”
Her eyes flick between them—two officers in uniform, solemn, standing in the doorway of her clean and quiet home. The absurdity of it sparks something between her ribs, but she forces herself to stay composed.
“Of course it is,” she says, gesturing them inside. Her voice is firm, cool. She won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. “Please,” she adds, stepping back as they enter.
She closes the door behind them, carefully, like the sound of it latching might shatter something fragile in the air.
“I’ll just get him,” she says, turning on her heel, spine straight. Her heels echo faintly against the floorboards as she strides down the hall.
But in her chest, her heart is racing.
She doesn’t even knock—just steps into the room, her shoes clicking softly against the wood.
“Sirius,” she says, voice clipped. Her lips press into a tight line, and there's a deep crease between her brows that refuses to budge. “Officers are downstairs, wanting to speak to you.”
She watches him freeze, his hand still resting lightly on the edge of his open drawer. The boy doesn’t look at her right away. Instead, he stares at the neat folds in the fabric like they hold some answer, like he might disappear into the symmetry of it. She’d been about to compliment the way he’d kept his room so tidy. But now—well. Now, the words curdle on her tongue.
She crosses her arms. No one told her. Not the Ministry. Not the social worker. No one had mentioned there would be police follow-ups. That they had been actively looking for Sirius while he was missing. That she might open her door on a calm weekday morning to find uniformed officers waiting on her front step, asking for a child she just let into her home.
She’s not angry at them—not really. She's angry at them . The people who made her feel blindsided. Who handed her this responsibility without a full warning of what it entailed. And she’s angry at Sirius.
No. Not just angry.
She’s disappointed.
She watches him walk down the stairs, that same guarded expression fixed tight to his face. For all his cool, for all the front he puts on, she can see right through him. Every inch of his body is tense, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong. And Euphemia hates that—because it reminds her of the boys she’s seen too many times before. The ones who’ve learned to expect punishment just for existing. The ones who test and test and test, just to prove they can’t be loved.
Still, none of that excuses the fact that he has clearly not told her everything. He didn’t prepare her for this. Didn’t explain. And that’s what stings most—she thought he might try to trust her, even just a little.
When the younger officer addresses Sirius, Euphemia remains near the base of the stairs, watching the exchange. The officer’s voice is brisk, professional. The older one follows up with a sterner tone, the kind that leaves little room for misunderstanding.
They ask if he understands why they’re here.
Sirius nods. Replies with quiet assurance. Euphemia listens closely, taking in every word. Voluntary searches . Conditions of parole . She keeps her expression carefully neutral, though inside, her stomach knots.
Why didn’t anyone tell her this was part of the agreement?
“Which way is it to your room?” the younger officer asks.
Before Sirius can answer, she lifts a hand automatically. Her voice is calm, but sharp at the edges. “Ah, I don’t think so.”
The room stills for a moment.
“It’s nothing against you,” she continues, tone cool and measured. “And we don’t have anything to hide, but I believe you need a search warrant, correct?”
She won’t have these men going through her home unchecked. Not without documentation. She may be accommodating, but she’s not naive.
The older officer doesn’t argue. He gestures to his partner, who promptly produces a folded paper from his jacket pocket. Euphemia steps forward and takes it, scanning the text with a tight jaw.
Only Sirius’s room. Limited access.
Fine.
She gives a small, reluctant nod. “Alright. But I would like to watch.”
The officer dips his head respectfully. “As is your right, ma’am.”
When they all begin moving up the stairs, she follows silently, her heels barely making a sound now. Her hands are curled in against her sides. She's already steeling herself.
The moment they enter the room, the officers move with swift, practiced efficiency—and something in Euphemia coils with discomfort. She stands just inside the doorway, watching with narrowed eyes as the younger cop pulls open the top drawer and begins rifling through the contents.
She notices it immediately: how the clothes had been folded—precisely, almost obsessively. Not just neat, but meticulous . A child’s attempt at control, she thinks grimly. Her throat tightens.
Within seconds, the drawer is a mess. Socks thrown to the floor. Shirts balled up and dropped like rubbish. The older officer yanks the comforter off the bed and lifts the mattress, inspecting every corner like it might be hiding a weapon.
Euphemia flinches inwardly. Not because of what they’re doing—she understands protocol—but because of what it means. The invasion of space. The destruction of something Sirius had clearly worked hard to keep in order.
It’s not just mess anymore—it’s a violation. And she can see, even without looking directly at Sirius, that it’s hurting him.
They tear through everything. The younger one steps out of the ensuite, shaking his head.
“Nothing of concern here,” he reports.
“Same here,” the older one agrees, pushing himself to his feet. He glances at Sirius. “Just moved in?”
Euphemia doesn’t speak. She keeps her gaze fixed on the officers, watching them carefully.
“We’re done here,” the younger officer says.
The older one turns toward her. “Ma’am? Do you mind if we have a word with you?”
Her eyes linger on Sirius for a moment longer—just a breath—but she gives a small nod.
“Of course not.”
She steps out of the room without looking back, her expression unreadable.
Back downstairs, Euphemia folds her hands in front of her, spine straight as a rod. Her heels click softly against the tile as she crosses the foyer and comes to a stop near the sitting room archway. The tension still hasn’t left her shoulders—not entirely. The air feels heavier now. The house quieter. Even the clock on the wall seems louder.
The older officer clears his throat, stepping forward slightly. “We will be coming back, spontaneously, to do random searches of his room for the next six months as allocated within his parole.”
Euphemia nods once, sharply. She doesn’t reach for a pen—doesn’t need to. She’ll be relaying every word of this conversation to Fleamont the moment he walks through the door. Random searches . Six months . Spontaneous . All of it etched into her mind like a ledger entry. None of this had been mentioned when they agreed to take him in. No briefing. No conversation. Nothing .
“If we find anything illegal upon these searches,” the officer continues, “he will be immediately arrested and sent back to Juvie.”
She nods again. Her lips press into a thin line.
Of course , she thinks. That’s the weight they’ve placed in her hands. A boy on the brink of ruin, and not a single margin for error. She feels the ache beginning behind her eyes, but she blinks it back.
“We will also, per allocated by parole,” he adds, “be informed of any violent behaviours displayed over the course of those six months. If he gets arrested outside of this home, then he will be immediately sent back to Juvie.”
Another nod.
This time, the words linger. Violent behaviours . She hates how clinical it sounds—how sterile and detached. As if the reality of it isn’t that she now has to worry about what kind of emotional pressure Sirius might bring into her home. What he might explode under. What Regulus might witness.
Her chest tightens.
“All right,” the officer says finally. He adjusts the strap on his vest and offers a small, practiced smile. “Thank you for your time. If you have any questions—” he pauses, reaching into his coat pocket and producing a business card, “please, don’t be afraid to call.”
She accepts it without hesitation, the edges stiff between her fingers. A breath leaves her in a careful exhale. “There is one,” she says, tone still cool but measured.
The officer tilts his head, giving her his full attention.
“Will it just be you two,” she asks, “or will other officers come?”
“My partner and I were allocated this case,” he replies. “So, just us.”
He smiles again, faintly. “That all?”
Euphemia nods. “Yes, thank you.”
They both tip their heads politely and let themselves out. The door clicks softly behind them.
As soon as it does, Euphemia exhales. A sharp, pent-up breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. It escapes her like a valve turned too quickly. She stands still in the quiet that follows, her body heavy with the weight of it all.
The house is too quiet now. She can still hear the rustling of the uniforms upstairs in her mind, the rattle of drawers being overturned, the thump of a mattress dropped carelessly to the floor. Her home—her safe, warm, carefully built home—invaded by something cold and distant. By rules and consequences and threats wrapped in polite tones.
She looks toward the staircase, eyes tracing the bannister she and Fleamont painted when James was still in nappies. Her throat tightens again.
How is she supposed to protect them? How is she meant to shield Regulus from this— from all of this —when Sirius brings it in through the door like it’s part of his shadow?
She can already feel the storm building at the edge of her thoughts.
And she doesn’t know where to begin.
POV: FLEAMONT
“Okay,” Euphemia says as she enters their bedroom, her voice already edged with tension. The door clicks shut behind her—firm, not quite slammed, but enough to send a ripple of unease down Fleamont’s spine.
He looks up from the book he'd been pretending to read. The text Euphemia sent that morning— We need to talk tonight —has been hanging over his head all day like a raincloud. Now that she’s finally here, standing stiff-backed near the dresser, arms folded tightly across her chest, he realizes he still has no clue what this conversation is about.
“What’s up?” he asks, setting the book aside and adjusting his posture slightly. “You texted me earlier this morning about needing to talk. What was that about?”
Euphemia exhales sharply, and the way her mouth tightens immediately puts him on alert. Her face is drawn in that particular way that usually precedes something unpleasant—anger, disappointment, dread. Her brows knit together. She’s upset. Maybe more than upset.
“It’s about Sirius,” she says.
Fleamont bites back the sigh that tries to escape. Of course it is. Sirius.
It’s not that he doesn’t understand Euphemia’s complicated feelings about the boy—it’s that he wishes she didn’t keep looking at Sirius like he was just one mistake away from shattering their entire home. She tries, he knows she tries, but something in her still flinches.
Still, he keeps his tone steady. “Alright,” he says, rolling his shoulders to loosen the sudden tension creeping in. “What happened?”
Euphemia crosses the room slowly, her hands falling to her hips in that way that tells Fleamont she thinks she’s right , and she’s preparing to make her case. “The police came,” she announces, her voice sharp, clipped. “They said they needed to talk to Sirius.”
Fleamont’s brows rise, but his voice stays calm. “Okay…” he says, cautious now. There could be a hundred reasons why the police might want to check in. That doesn’t mean it’s a disaster. “What did they need?”
“They wanted to search his room,” Euphemia snaps. Her arms fold again, tighter this time. “Said it’s part of his parole—random police visits for the next six months.”
Now that lands like a stone in Fleamont’s chest.
He straightens slightly on the bed, the muscles in his back tensing. Random searches? Six months? Why hadn’t they been told this from the start?
“Were we ever informed of this?” he asks, frowning, already suspecting the answer.
Euphemia shakes her head. “No, we weren’t.”
He nods once, slowly. Disappointment settles somewhere in the pit of his stomach, spreading out in cold, thin lines. That’s not just an oversight—that’s a failure in communication. A failure they now have to carry the burden for.
He studies her carefully now. There’s something fragile sitting just beneath her frustration. She’s not just angry—she’s uncertain. He can see it in the way her arms drop to her sides, in how her mouth presses into a thin line.
“What did you want to do?” he asks gently, voice lowered. He knows how serious this is. They both agreed, when they took Sirius in, that they were prepared for a challenge—but this hadn’t been in the plan.
If she wanted to back out, he’d understand. He wouldn’t blame her.
She shrugs, and suddenly she looks very small standing there by the wardrobe. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. Her voice falters. “I mean… I’m angry we weren’t informed. I’m upset that this happened. But…”
Fleamont holds her gaze. He knows what’s going unsaid.
She’s thinking about the worst-case scenario—about what might happen if Sirius does slip up. If he makes one more mistake, one too many. If the police find something. If they have to let him go.
And maybe, a dark, hidden part of her finds some comfort in that. Because it would mean the decision isn’t on them . It won’t be their hands doing the sending away.
“You don’t want to send him back,” Fleamont says gently. “You feel like the police is a good thing, don’t you?”
She nods, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” she whispers.
They fall quiet.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy, but not tense. Just thoughtful. Weighted with the things they aren’t sure how to say out loud.
Fleamont’s chest tightens.
They’re going to keep Sirius. Even if he’s prickly, even if he doesn’t let them in, even if he makes them nervous. They’re going to try. They’re already trying. But the truth they’re both dancing around is simple:
The random police visits? That’s their safety net.
If things fall apart, they won’t have to be the ones to make the final call. That cold, official knock on the door will do it for them.
It’s not what Fleamont wants. Not truly. But it’s… easier.
It lets them protect their family and still tell themselves they tried. That they weren’t the ones who gave up.
He wishes he didn’t feel so helpless . So quietly afraid that no matter how much they try, Sirius might never let himself belong.
“I just…” Euphemia says softly, eyes trained on the floor. “I want to help him. But I don’t know how.”
Fleamont nods.
He doesn’t either.
But he knows one thing for certain: they’re not done trying.
Not yet.
***
There’s something that’s been gnawing at Fleamont for days now. Ever since Sirius arrived, really. The boy’s behaviour—it’s off. Not in a way that screams danger, not in any way he can clearly define. But there’s a disquieting quality to it, something below the surface that Fleamont can’t quite reach.
Sirius is guarded. Withdrawn. Too polite when he speaks, and eerily quiet when he doesn’t. He eats like he’s bracing for a trap. Flinches at footsteps in the hallway. Laughs, sometimes, but it never quite reaches his eyes.
And the worst part? Fleamont knows he's missing things. He sees glimpses, but he doesn’t live in Sirius’s world the way James does. Doesn’t move through the same rooms, breathe the same air. He needs another set of eyes—someone who might catch the things Sirius is trying not to show.
He raps his knuckles gently against the wooden doorframe of James’s bedroom. “James?”
His son is sprawled across the bed, half-lost in a comic book, but he looks up instantly. “Yeah, Dad?”
Fleamont steps inside, his hand still resting on the doorframe. “I was wondering if we could talk.”
He doesn’t phrase it like a question. Not really. He doesn’t need to.
James straightens, already sensing the shift in tone. He folds the corner of his page and sets the comic aside, scooting over to make room. “Sure.”
Fleamont walks over and eases down onto the edge of the bed. His knees crack slightly under the motion, but he ignores it.
“What’s wrong?” James asks, curiosity threading through his voice—but there’s a flicker of nervousness too, just behind his eyes. Fleamont hates that, that pinch of worry. He never wants James to feel like he’s in trouble.
He offers a calm smile. “Nothing’s wrong. Not exactly. I just wanted to ask a favour.”
James nods without hesitation. “Sure. Anything.” There’s no edge of suspicion to it—just loyalty. Trust. Fleamont feels a warm swell of affection at the simplicity of it.
“What kind of… favour?” James asks, a little more cautiously now.
Fleamont exhales through his nose. This part feels tricky, but it has to be said. “I wanted you to keep an eye on Sirius for me. Let me know if you see anything… suspicious. Behaviour that feels off. Something people shouldn’t be doing.”
James’s brow furrows for the briefest second, but he nods. “Okay. I can do that.”
No protest. No questions. Just a quiet willingness that reminds Fleamont, once again, of the kind of son he’s raised.
He reaches over and presses a kiss to the top of James’s head—messy hair and all—and stands. “Good,” he says softly. “I really appreciate it.”
James smiles up at him, boyish and open. “No problem, Dad.”
Fleamont lingers in the doorway for a moment before stepping back into the hallway, pulling the door gently closed behind him.
He knows James will keep his word. Knows he won’t disappoint him.
It’s a small comfort in a tangle of uncertainty—but for now, it’s enough.
***
Food. It appears to be a problem.
Fleamont’s no stranger to the quiet tells of discomfort—he’s a father, after all. But the way Sirius behaves around meals has been setting off alarm bells in his head for days now. It’s not just the pushing food around the plate or claiming he’s “not that hungry.” It’s the way Sirius’s entire body seems to coil inward at the table, like he’s bracing for impact. Sometimes, he doesn’t eat at all.
Fleamont doesn’t know what’s causing it, but it’s concerning. And it’s becoming harder to ignore.
He’s at the sink now, sleeves rolled up, washing the last of the dinner plates while Euphemia dries and stacks them beside him. The kitchen is quiet but comfortable—low light humming above, the scent of roast lamb still lingering in the air.
That’s when he hears the shuffle of footsteps.
Regulus hovers just past the threshold, a hesitant figure in the doorway. He’s fiddling with the hem of his oversized shirt, fingers tugging at the threads in a nervous rhythm. His eyes flick toward them, then down again. That twist of anxiety in his shoulders is unmistakable.
Fleamont sets the dish back in the sink and gently wipes his hands on a towel. “Everything alright, kiddo?”
Regulus nods, but it’s the hesitant kind—the kind that says no even as it says yes. “Yeah,” he murmurs. His voice sounds thin. Wobbly.
Fleamont notices Euphemia glance up from the bench beside him. From the corner of his eye, he can tell she’s clocked it too.
“You sure, sweetheart?” she asks, tilting her head just slightly, her tone soft but lined with concern.
There’s a pause, then another nod. This one’s a bit stronger. “Yes,” Regulus replies, loosening his grip on the fabric of his shirt, though his arms still hang tense at his sides. “I wanted to ask…”
He trails off, eyes darting from the floor to the fridge like he’s half-afraid to meet their gaze.
“Wanted to ask?” Euphemia prompts gently.
Regulus shifts his weight from foot to foot. Then, after another pause, he glances up at Fleamont—just a flicker of eye contact before looking away again. “I wanted to ask Monty if he could make a peanut butter sandwich and a skinless green apple?”
Fleamont blinks. That’s it?
He lets out a light chuckle—relieved more than anything. “That’s what you were nervous about?” he asks with a smile, keeping his tone warm and reassuring. “Of course, bud. No problem at all.”
But before Fleamont can say more, Regulus rushes to clarify, his words tumbling fast: “I know we just had dinner, but—”
Fleamont cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Nonsense. I don’t care if we’ve just eaten—you are always entitled to food, whenever you’re hungry. Got it?”
Regulus exhales slowly. From where Fleamont stands, it’s as if the boy’s whole frame deflates with relief. His shoulders drop, his fingers stop fidgeting. It’s like he was testing something. Like he already suspected the answer, but needed to hear it out loud to believe it.
That tugs at something deep in Fleamont’s chest.
“One peanut butter sandwich, skinless green apple—coming up,” he says.
He moves easily through the kitchen—peeling the apple with practiced hands, slicing it clean and symmetrical, spreading the peanut butter thick and even between slices of soft white bread. It’s the kind of simple care he’s always shown James, and now Regulus, too. But it’s only as he slides the sandwich onto the plate, next to the neat fan of apple slices, that something clicks.
This is the exact meal Sirius asked for on his first night.
Fleamont still remembers it clearly—the way Sirius had stood just inside the door, pale and guarded, asking for that same combination like he didn’t dare hope for more.
He swallows down the thought and forces a smile as he hands the plate over.
“There you go, love.”
Regulus accepts it with both hands, nodding. “Thank you,” he says softly, then turns to leave the kitchen.
Fleamont watches him go, the quiet pad of his socks against the floor, the way the plate tilts ever so slightly in his small hands.
There could be a dozen explanations. Maybe it’s just comfort food. Maybe Regulus and Sirius happen to like the same things. Maybe it’s nothing.
But Fleamont’s gut tells him otherwise.
He wipes down the counter slowly, his movements slower now. Thoughtful.
Why a peanut butter sandwich and a skinless green apple?
Why the exact same thing?
The kitchen has gone quiet again, but in his mind, something turns. Sirius’s tense posture at dinner, the untouched food, the look of nausea that sometimes flickers across his face at mealtime—it all circles back.
Fleamont exhales through his nose and sets down the cloth.
He’s going to have to start watching Sirius more closely. Not just for the sake of house rules, or safety, but for something deeper. Something more fragile.
Something Sirius might not even realise he’s asking for.
POV: EUPHEMIA
“Effie?” Regulus asks, his voice soft but not nearly as timid as it once was.
Euphemia’s hands still on the shirt she’s folding—one of James’s, slightly wrinkled because he insists on cramming his laundry into the basket like it’s a rubbish bin. She smiles to herself, smoothing the fabric with care before setting it on the pile.
She turns toward Regulus, heart already warming at the sound of his voice. It still has that quiet lilt to it, but it's steadier now—more certain. He’s not the same frightened, closed-off child who first stepped into their home. Not entirely. The change is subtle, but oh, how it makes her proud.
“Yes, sweetie,” she replies, giving him her full attention.
They're in the laundry room, a space filled with warmth and steam, the scent of lavender detergent lingering in the air. A basket of folded clothes sits to her left, and the last of James’s laundry is tucked under her arm. Regulus stands nearby, hovering just a little closer than usual—close enough for her to notice the way he picks at the cuff of his sleeve.
“I was wondering something,” he says, the edges of his voice tinged with hesitation.
Euphemia hums encouragingly, turning back to the dryer to load it with Regulus’s clothes. She tries not to crowd him, but she’s listening—always listening. “Sure, what was it?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shift his weight from foot to foot. He stares at the spinning drum of the washing machine, eyes glazed with thought. The lack of eye contact doesn’t bother her. He’s getting there. On the rare occasion he does meet her gaze, it always hits her like a punch to the chest—because it’s him, trusting her, just a little more each time.
“I was wondering if we had chess,” he says finally.
Euphemia straightens up, wiping her hands on a tea towel and turning to face him fully.
“Chess?” she repeats, mildly surprised. “Oh, that would be in the top shelf of the study closet,” she adds, her voice brightening with a smile. “You’re welcome to it, whenever you’d like, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” he says quickly, his tone polite and earnest.
He’s already turning on his heel, clearly ready to go retrieve the game, when Euphemia stops him gently.
“Do you play?” she asks, curious.
Regulus pauses mid-step, turning his head with a slight tilt—so very puppy-like , she thinks fondly. His expression carries a touch of confusion, like he’s unsure why she’d ask.
“What?” he says, blinking.
“Do you play chess?” she repeats, stepping back to rest against the counter. “Like, do you like it?”
She wants to know these things. Wants to know everything. The big things, the painful things—but also the little things. The things that make him light up. The things that used to make him feel safe. She’ll take it all.
Regulus nods, and something flickers across his face—nostalgia, maybe. “Yeah. Sirius and I used to play a lot.”
Euphemia hums softly at that. Her chest aches a little, but she doesn’t let it show. The idea of the two boys sitting across from one another, locked in concentration over a chessboard, makes her heart twist. They had that, she thinks. They had each other, even when they had no one else.
She turns and opens the dryer door, the warm air puffing against her face. She begins placing Regulus’s damp clothes inside with practiced care.
“You know,” she says gently, “there are clubs at school where you can play chess, if it’s something you’re interested in.”
She tries to sound casual—noncommittal—but part of her aches with the hope that he’ll say yes. That he’ll find something to belong to outside these walls. That chess might be the first step toward finding comfort in a crowd.
Regulus hums thoughtfully. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s good to hear,” Euphemia replies with a smile, glancing over her shoulder. He’s still standing in the doorway, smaller than he should be in that too-large jumper, but there’s a soft spark in his eyes. Something thoughtful. Something hopeful.
She catches that tiny, shy smile as he turns and disappears down the hall.
And as she closes the dryer door and presses the start button, the hum of the machine kicking in, Euphemia feels that familiar swell of affection in her chest. God, I love him. Not just because he’s sweet or quiet or hurting—but because he’s Regulus . Her Regulus. And he’s choosing to let her in, piece by piece.
She’d fold laundry for the rest of her life if it meant earning more of those moments.
***
Euphemia is bent over the coffee table, tidying away the last of the empty teacups and wayward biscuit crumbs from the night before. The morning sun filters gently through the lace curtains, casting golden streaks across the rug. There’s a familiar peace in the task—mundane, yes, but grounding. Her fingers move on autopilot, plucking up mugs and stacking coasters, until—
“Mum?”
The sound of James’s voice, hesitant and uncertain, stops her mid-motion. She turns sharply, her heart immediately alert.
There he is, standing in the doorway to the living room. Hair still rumpled from sleep, socks mismatched as usual, but it’s the look on his face that gets her. Something’s bothering him. Really bothering him.
Her alarm bells ring louder.
She straightens up, setting the mug down gently on the table before giving him her full attention. There’s no hiding the worry in her tone when she says, “Is something wrong, love?”
James hesitates. “Umm…” He lifts his shoulders in a vague shrug, and that’s all the confirmation Euphemia needs— something is wrong. That’s his tell, always has been. He only does that when he’s confused about whether his concern is valid—or when he’s afraid he’s making a big deal out of nothing.
“Come sit down,” she urges softly, lowering herself onto the couch and patting the cushion beside her.
James responds right away, crossing the room in a few quick steps and flopping down beside her. The nerves are written all over him—tight in his jaw, restless in his hands. She can see the indecision swirling behind his eyes, the way he’s biting back whatever is sitting on the tip of his tongue.
“Talk to me, love,” she says gently, reaching out to rest her hand over his. It’s warm and familiar, her palm over his knuckles. Steadying.
He stays quiet for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and she waits him out. She doesn’t rush him—she never does. When he was a little boy, she learned quickly that patience always got more out of him than pressure.
Finally, James exhales and starts. “Well… Dad said something, and I don’t know if I should be worried about it.”
Euphemia hums softly. That tracks. Monty, you wonderful man, but you truly are terrible at context. Fleamont had always been that way—well-meaning but often forgetting that not everyone can read his mind. Especially not their teenage son.
“Alright,” she says, keeping her voice light, reassuring. “What did he say?”
James gives her a sheepish glance. “That’s the thing. He just said for me to keep an eye out for any suspicious behaviours from Sirius, and to tell either you or him about it.” He frowns. “And… I honestly don’t know what type of suspicious behaviours he wants me to look out for. He was too—”
“Cryptic,” Euphemia supplies with a knowing sigh.
James nods quickly, his eyes wide. “Exactly.”
She sighs again, but this time it's deeper, heavier. Monty, why do you always do this? Of course he had to go and bring James into this whole mess. Sirius is already hard enough for James to understand—throwing in vague warnings and half-truths is hardly going to help.
“Should I be worried?” James asks quietly.
Euphemia looks at him, and for a long moment, she doesn’t answer. Should he be worried? If she were being honest… yes. She would be. She is . But how much does she tell him? How much is too much?
She exhales again, slower this time. The truth can’t hurt—not if it’s delivered with care.
“Well,” she begins, hesitating for a beat. She meets James’s eyes, and he’s watching her so intently. He deserves to know. This is what Fleamont was trying to say, isn’t it? She nods to herself.
“I’m going to tell you something, but you promise to keep it to yourself, okay?” Her tone is firm, but loving. Protective.
James sits up straighter, nodding quickly. “Promise.”
Euphemia inhales, then says, “Okay. The police showed up at our door yesterday morning, looking for Sirius.”
James’s jaw drops slightly. His brows furrow in surprise, just as she expected. She hates that surprise. Hates that this is the kind of thing he now has to carry too.
“Apparently,” she continues, carefully watching his face, “the police are meant to come and search his room as part of his parole for the next six months. I think what Dad was trying to tell you is to keep an eye on Sirius and any potentially illegal activity.”
James leans back against the sofa, silent for a moment, absorbing it all. He doesn’t look scared—just thoughtful. Like he’s piecing together something much bigger than he expected.
“Okay,” he finally says. “I can do that.”
Euphemia feels something warm bloom in her chest. God, she’s proud of him. Even now, faced with something this heavy, James doesn’t flinch. He might be a little ridiculous sometimes—loud, dramatic, headstrong—but he has heart . So much heart. And bravery too. She wraps her arms around him before the emotion can swallow her whole.
“Thank you,” she whispers into his hair, holding her son tightly.
“It’s alright,” he mumbles, his voice muffled against her shoulder as he hugs her back.
She closes her eyes. Just for a moment. Holding her boy, this boy she raised from the moment he came into the world with fists curled and lungs screaming. She is so, so proud of him.
“I love you,” she says softly, meaning it more than ever.
“I love you too, Mum,” James whispers, and it’s all she needs.
Whatever comes next, they’ll face it together.
***
Euphemia moves steadily through the aisle, her hands resting lightly on the handle of the trolley, pushing it past towers of cereal boxes and neat rows of bread loaves. The store is quiet this time of day, the kind of calm that usually soothes her. But today, there’s a tension that rides just beneath her skin.
Sirius trails behind her—not beside her, not even close enough to breathe the same pace. Just behind. As if afraid he’ll take up too much space if he walks next to her.
She notices. She notices everything, now.
The distance. The silence. The way he keeps exactly one pace behind her, never too close, never entirely present.
He’s trying not to be a burden, she realizes. He thinks he’s too much. Too dangerous. Too broken.
It breaks her heart more than she can say.
She’s still not sure what to do with him—how to reach him. She wants to help. She wants to understand, to bridge whatever great invisible canyon has wedged itself between them. But Sirius makes himself so small. So quiet. He’s like a ghost in her home. A shadow clinging to the edge of the light.
Euphemia glances toward the shelves and, without really thinking, asks, “What would you like for dinner, Sirius?”
Her voice comes out more formal than she intended. Not unkind—but careful. Too careful. She sounds like she’s asking a colleague about a meeting schedule. Detached. Neutral. As if her tone might spook him if she lets too much warmth slip through.
But even that— even that —makes him flinch.
He stiffens. She sees it in the way his shoulders pull tight, in the sudden stillness in his stride. He doesn’t answer right away, and when she finally dares to look at his face, she wishes she hadn’t.
His expression has gone pale, almost queasy. The kind of pale she’s only seen on boys after accidents, or bad news, or trauma too big for them to name.
Her heart clenches.
Oh. Oh, sweetheart.
He looks sick . Visibly, physically sick. And all she did was ask what he wanted for dinner.
What happened to you? she thinks, watching him from the corner of her eye. What kind of childhood makes a boy react like that to food?
It hits her then—something she hadn’t paid much attention to before. Not fully.
She’s never seen Sirius ask for seconds. Not once. He eats sparingly, almost mechanically, like he’s forcing down every bite. Sometimes he picks at his plate for so long that the food goes cold. She had chalked it up to stress. Adjustment. Maybe teenage pickiness.
But it’s more than that, isn’t it?
It’s a pattern. One she’s been too distracted to see.
Now, she sees it plainly—this boy, barely fifteen, practically flinching at the mention of a meal. A question as simple as What would you like for dinner? sends him into a spiral she can see unraveling right in front of her.
God, what did they do to you?
Euphemia slows her pace, trying to ease the growing pressure she feels radiating from him like heat. She wants to stop, to tell him it’s okay, that there’s no wrong answer—but she doesn’t know how to say it without overwhelming him more.
So instead, she offers something simpler. Something structured. Something safe .
“How about you pick between hamburgers and spaghetti?” she suggests, her tone softer now—gentler. Less businesslike. Less clinical. She doesn’t know if he notices the shift, but she hopes he does.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his throat bob as he swallows hard. His voice, when it comes, is fragile.
“Well…” he tries, and then stops. His fists curl slightly at his sides, his sleeves bunched between trembling fingers.
She waits.
There’s a long, breathless pause before he finally says, barely above a whisper, “Hamburgers sound nice.”
Nice. Not good . Not exciting . Just nice. Like a word he thinks will keep him safe.
Euphemia hums quietly and reaches for a pack of hamburger buns, placing them gently in the trolley without comment. She doesn’t ask why he reacted that way. Doesn’t press for more. Not here. Not now. He’s barely holding himself together.
But inside, her mind won’t stop turning.
She wants to ask. She wants to know . Why food terrifies him. Why a child so young walks around like he’s waiting to be punished. Why someone taught him to believe that hunger is shameful—or worse, dangerous.
She wants to help. Desperately. But she doesn’t know how.
And for the first time in a long while, that helplessness gnaws at her. Because she’s always known how to fix things. How to soothe scraped knees, how to calm tantrums, how to mend broken hearts.
But this?
This is something else entirely.
So she walks, and he walks behind her. And she lets the silence sit there between them, heavy and unspoken—but no longer unnoticed.
She’s watching now.
And she’ll keep watching, until she learns how to help him feel safe.
POV: FLEAMONT
“I… wanted to bring up some concerns I have,” Fleamont says carefully, folding his shirt and placing it neatly into the laundry basket. He’s been carrying this unease in his chest for days now, letting it settle and build. Tonight, he just needs to let it out—needs to say it aloud, to share it with the only person who’ll understand.
“About what?” Euphemia calls from the ensuite, her voice echoing faintly through the open bathroom door.
Fleamont runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “About Sirius.”
He knows how that sounds. Knows exactly where Euphemia’s mind will go—what assumptions will be made. He doesn’t blame her. Their relationship with Sirius hasn’t exactly been simple. But still, he needs her to hear him.
There’s a pause, then a sigh.
“Yeah…” Euphemia trails off. Fleamont turns toward her just as she steps out of the bathroom, towel-drying her hands on the edge of her robe. Her face is already clouded with something unspoken.
He raises an eyebrow, catching the shift in her expression. “What about that? Did something happen?”
She shakes her head, slow and thoughtful. “No. Not… not exactly.”
“Okay,” he says, confused now, eyes narrowing slightly. “Did you want to talk about it?”
Euphemia nods. “Yes, but… you go first.”
Fleamont studies her for a beat, reading between the lines of her body language. Whatever she’s holding onto, it’s weighing heavy. But he decides to go ahead anyway—maybe they’re thinking the same thing.
“I wanted to talk to you about Sirius’s… eating habits.”
He watches her reaction closely. Sure enough, her brow furrows, lips pressing into a line that tells him she’s been thinking about this too.
“You’ve noticed Sirius’s eating habits, then,” he adds, though it’s more of a confirmation than a question.
“Mmmm, something like that,” she says vaguely, her tone unreadable.
Fleamont frowns. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he mutters, trying to keep the worry from bleeding too far into his voice.
Euphemia lets out a soft chuckle, but there’s no humor behind it. “Well… I have really taken notice of what Sirius has been eating, but earlier today, when we went grocery shopping, I asked him about what he wanted for dinner.”
She pauses, then sighs again. “And he got really weird about it.”
Fleamont tilts his head, concern flickering to full attention. “Weird how?”
“I don’t know how to describe it, Monty. But it was almost like… like he was having an anxiety or panic attack over it.” She looks over at him, her eyes searching his face. “I had to walk him through it. I had to suggest specific foods just to get a response. It was that bad.”
Fleamont nods slowly, a chill prickling down his spine. That… unfortunately checks out.
“What was your thing? About Sirius’s eating habits?”
“Oh,” Fleamont says, voice softening, “well, I’ve noticed he doesn’t eat dinner. I don’t know about breakfast or lunch, but he definitely doesn’t eat dinner. At most, he picks.”
Euphemia frowns, and Fleamont watches the information settle in her face—eyes tightening, lips thinning. He can see her drawing connections, lining things up in her head.
“Come to think of it,” she says slowly, “I have noticed he barely touches the lunch I make him. And I know for a fact he doesn’t eat breakfast.”
Her voice has dropped, and now there’s something fragile in it—uncertainty, maybe even fear. She looks up at him, and the expression on her face guts him.
It’s not just concern.
It’s panic.
“That’s not normal, is it?” she whispers.
Fleamont shakes his head, grim. “No. It’s not.”
He feels it deep in his chest now—something cold and sickening. There are few things more worrying to him than watching a child waste away silently, right under your roof.
“Do you remember how Regulus has asked us, for the past couple nights, to make peanut butter sandwiches and skinless green apples?”
Euphemia nods, her brow furrowing. “Yeah?”
“Well,” Fleamont says slowly, “I think Sirius is eating the peanut butter sandwich and skinless green apple.”
Euphemia blinks, then lets out a quiet breath. “Right,” she says, and something shifts in her voice—like it’s clicking into place now. “That makes sense.”
But Fleamont can still see the confusion in her face.
“Why do you think that is?” she asks.
Fleamont shrugs. “I have no idea.”
And that’s the truth. He doesn’t know. Not yet. Could be food trauma. Could be a sensory thing. Could be something worse. The possibilities spiral, and each one makes him feel more helpless.
“I guess we should track what he eats then, huh?” Euphemia suggests.
Fleamont gives a small smile. “Yeah.”
It’s not a perfect solution. But it’s something. A place to start. Something to hold onto while they try to piece together the shape of this boy they’ve brought into their home. A boy who keeps slipping through their fingers like smoke, even as they try their best to hold him with gentle hands.
He’ll do more than track it, though.
He’ll research. He’ll ask around. He’ll read every bloody article there is if he has to.
Because something’s not right. And Fleamont’s not going to ignore it.
***
The knock is barely a sound at all. So soft, Fleamont almost misses it entirely. He glances up from his book, eyebrows lifting. That wasn’t loud enough to stir even the air, let alone get their attention—but still, Euphemia hears it somehow.
“Come in!” she calls brightly from where she sits beside him.
The door creaks open a second later, slowly, like it’s being handled with great care. Cautious care.
Regulus steps inside.
He’s a small silhouette against the warm glow of the bedroom lamps, his figure barely outlined by the soft golden light. Fleamont’s heart squeezes. The boy looks so fragile—still wearing one of James’s old jumpers, too big on his narrow frame. His eyes scan the room nervously, like he’s not sure if he’s meant to be here.
Euphemia is the first to set her book aside, concern already blooming across her face.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, voice gentle, “is everything alright?”
Fleamont shifts slightly in bed, dog-earing his page and lowering his book. “You need something, bud?”
Regulus nods, but it’s a hesitant gesture. His fingers twist in the hem of his jumper, and he looks like he’s debating whether to speak at all.
“Uhhh, yeah, ummm—” Regulus hesitates, rocking slightly where he stands. “I wanted to, umm, talk.”
“Of course, kiddo,” Fleamont says gently, sensing how much effort that small admission costs him.
“Come here, sweetheart,” Euphemia encourages, patting the duvet in invitation.
They both set their books aside fully now, giving him their full attention. Regulus crosses the room in cautious, careful steps. He climbs up onto the bed with slow precision, like he’s unsure if it’s allowed, settling cross-legged near the foot, positioned perfectly between the two of them. Fleamont watches him steady his palms against his knees, grounding himself. Preparing.
He tilts his head, offering a small smile. “You wanted to talk about something?”
“Yeah… yes… umm…” Regulus is trying, that much is clear. But Fleamont can also see the way the boy’s mind tangles itself in knots, trying to untangle the words from whatever storm lives behind his eyes.
He catches Fleamont’s and Euphemia’s eyes. Fleamont softens his face. They don’t push him. They wait.
Finally, the boy asks quietly, “What are we—or you—doing for Father’s Day?”
Fleamont chuckles lightly, caught a little off-guard by the question. “Oh, well, we usually do this barbecue with some of James’ friends’ parents.”
“But considering we have both you and Sirius now,” Euphemia adds, smiling, “we’ve decided not to host that this time.”
Regulus nods, though his gaze drops again. His hands grip the blanket bunched near his knees.
“What we were thinking, for Sunday,” Euphemia continues gently, “is that we just have a fun, lazy day here. Do whatever Monty wants.”
“Yep!” Fleamont says with a grin. “Probably something that involves food in bed.”
Euphemia rolls her eyes with a quiet laugh. “Of course it does.”
Regulus fidgets again. “Okay…” He pauses. Fleamont can see it—the nerves building again in his posture. The way he tugs at the edge of the duvet now instead of his jumper. It’s like the words are fighting their way out of him.
“So… we will be here?” he asks, quieter this time, more uncertain.
“Yes, darling,” Euphemia assures him softly. “All day, no doubt.”
“Why? Is there something you want to do?”
“Yes,” Regulus says quickly. His voice wavers, then steadies again. “Well, not—not exactly.”
Fleamont sits up just a little straighter. There’s something fragile in the way the boy is carrying himself. The way his voice trembles at the edges.
He watches Regulus squeeze his eyes shut for a second, then take a slow, shaky breath.
Fleamont’s heart clenches.
“Kiddo?” he asks gently, trying to ease him out of whatever spiral he’s caught in. “Everything okay?”
“Yes—yes, umm…” Regulus’s fingers twist tighter into the blanket. He looks down, like he can’t bear to meet their eyes.
“I was just wondering if… well…” Another pause. Another breath.
“I was wondering if I could get Sirius a gift,” he says finally, “for Sunday.”
Fleamont’s breath catches.
A pause hangs in the room—not out of confusion, but gravity. The weight of what Regulus is saying sits heavy on Fleamont’s chest.
He doesn’t interrupt. He listens.
Regulus forges ahead.
“It’s just…” he murmurs, “in class, and with Laura… I kinda realised that, um…” His voice dips, gaze flicking briefly between them.
“You know how parents are meant to take care of their kids when they’re sick?”
“Yeah,” Euphemia says, her voice suddenly thick.
“And you know how they’re meant to make them food and patch them up when they’re hurt?”
“Yeah,” Fleamont echoes, his voice barely above a whisper.
Regulus lowers his head again. “Well… Sirius did that,” he says. “Not—not our parents.”
Fleamont feels like something inside him is splintering. The quiet grief in those words is unbearable. His throat tightens.
He knew Sirius had taken on responsibilities no child should have to carry. But hearing it aloud, hearing the way Regulus says it with such simplicity—it’s like a knife to the heart.
No child should ever be made to raise their sibling. Fleamont has seen too many families where that happened. But this boy in front of him? He lived it. And Sirius—God, Sirius was just a boy too. A child, who must have cooked and cleaned and held his little brother through sickness and fear.
It shines a new light on Sirius. On his stiffness. His mistrust. His constant hypervigilance. So many things that once seemed frustrating, or confusing, or too sharp for a boy his age—they all start to make sense.
“And… well… Father’s Day is about appreciating those who have cared for us, right?”
“Yeah,” they both say together.
“I—I just wanted to tell Sirius how much I appreciate him. And everything he did.”
Fleamont swallows hard. His vision blurs for just a second. It’s so raw . So honest.
“There’s probably more things that he’s done… but…”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Euphemia says, her eyes shining.
“Do you need help with coming up ideas on what to get him?” Fleamont offers, keeping his voice steady.
Regulus shakes his head quickly. “No—no, I know what I want to get him.”
Fleamont nods, but inside, something is still unraveling. He needs to help him do this. He needs to make sure this moment happens. Because if this is how Regulus honours Sirius—if this is how Sirius gets to be seen —then it’s sacred.
And maybe, just maybe, it’ll remind Sirius he’s not a caretaker anymore. That he doesn’t have to be. Not here.
“So…” Regulus asks quietly, “You two really are okay with me wanting to get Sirius something?”
Fleamont can barely hold himself together. He sees Euphemia move before he can, reaching forward to gather the boy into her arms.
“Oh, love,” she whispers into his hair. “Of course we’re okay with that. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
Fleamont nods. “I think Sirius would absolutely love it.”
Regulus nods into her shoulder. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
The boy holds onto her like he’s anchoring himself. And Fleamont watches them both, heart aching with pride and pain in equal measure.
After a moment, Euphemia pulls back, gently cupping Regulus’s face. “Alright, so, we will go to the shops tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah,” Regulus says softly.
“You think you’ll be alright in your own bed tonight?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I will.”
He rises off the bed, feet barely making a sound on the floor. He pauses at the door.
“Thank you,” he says.
“No problem, kiddo,” Fleamont says, voice warm.
“Good night, bud.”
“Night, love,” Euphemia adds.
“Good night.”
As the door clicks shut behind him, Fleamont exhales slowly. The lump in his throat doesn’t budge.
He doesn’t know everything that happened in that house. But he knows enough now.
And he can only pray Sirius never has to feel like a parent again. Not here. Not in this home. Not when he finally has a chance to just be a child.
POV: EUPHEMIA
The second Regulus slips out of the room, the door clicking softly behind him, Euphemia feels her heart absolutely shatter.
It starts in her chest—a sharp, silent ache that spreads outward like cracked glass. Because what does Regulus mean when he says he wants to get Sirius a present?
She knows. Of course she knows. The meaning is clear, logical. But still… it doesn’t stop the thought from gutting her.
Sirius is practically Regulus’s parent .
And God, it makes so much sense now. So much horrible, heartbreaking sense.
The way Sirius moves around Regulus. The way he watches him. The way he speaks to him—not as a sibling would, not with the usual teasing or rivalry—but with the quiet attentiveness of someone who’s had to soothe too many nightmares and carry too much weight. It isn’t the affection of a brother. It’s the responsibility of a parent.
Her heart twists again—another fracture.
If it could shatter more, it just did.
She hadn’t even thought that was possible.
Suddenly, Euphemia sees him—not as the unpredictable, reactive teenager who moved into her home two days ago—but through Regulus’s eyes: a protector, a nurturer, a constant. She sees the little boy Sirius must’ve been—gentle, patient, impossibly brave—before everything got warped and buried beneath defensiveness and survival.
Regulus wants to get him a present.
A present .
Because to Regulus, Sirius is worthy of that. Worthy of something kind. Something meaningful.
And that, more than anything, makes Euphemia want to cry.
Her throat clenches as she stares at the doorway, her hands frozen on the kitchen counter. Her chest feels too full, like her ribcage isn’t big enough to hold everything crashing inside it.
“Babe?” Fleamont’s voice is soft behind her, gently pulling her back. She turns, her eyes already burning, lips trembling under the weight of it all.
“Did you hear what he said, Monty?” she whispers, her voice cracking open with the force of her grief.
Fleamont doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the kitchen with quiet steps and looks at her, his expression folding tenderly with understanding. “Yeah, I did,” he says, just as soft, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and drawing her in.
She leans into him, burying her face against his chest.
“Regulus views him as someone who raised him, Fleamont.” The words hurt to say. They burn on the way out. “Sirius raised his brother, did everything he could to protect him, and I just…”
A sob rips from her chest before she can swallow it down.
“I know,” Fleamont murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. His hand rubs slow circles along her back, grounding her. “It’s okay,” he soothes, voice firm but kind, “it’s okay to not be totally on board with Sirius. I’ve never once thought you should be. I understand your hesitation, love. What you feel toward him, it’s not your fault, okay?”
Another sob slips free. She pulls back slightly, blinking up at her husband with red-rimmed eyes.
“But it should be,” she breathes. “I should be held accountable for doubting him. For ever thinking he could hurt Regulus.”
Fleamont meets her gaze, steady and calm. He brushes a thumb along her cheek, wiping away the fresh tears spilling down. “Okay, then,” he says gently. “Do you want to take Regulus tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, please,” Euphemia says instantly, the words tumbling out with urgency.
It’s the only thing she can do.
The only thing she can do to try and mend this rupture inside her. To soothe the guilt curling in her stomach. Guilt for believing Sirius could be dangerous. For viewing him not as a child, but as a threat. For seeing him through the lens of a file and not through the eyes of the boy who raised his brother from the wreckage of their home.
He could still be dangerous. Still unpredictable. But…
Any lingering fear she’d had—that Sirius would hurt Regulus—has vanished.
It’s gone.
She still doesn’t trust him. Not fully. Not yet. But trust is earned.
And she will do everything in her power to earn his .
***
When they’d pulled into the shopping centre car park that morning, Euphemia had turned in her seat with a gentle smile and asked, “What store do you want to go into first?”
“The craft shop,” Regulus had said immediately, not even hesitating.
So that’s where they are now, weaving slowly through aisles bursting with colours and shimmer. Euphemia stays close to Regulus as he wanders with wide eyes, drinking in the chaos of glitter, feathers, paint, and paper like it’s a feast.
She watches him closely—watches the way he moves, the way he stops to examine every little thing with care and consideration. She can’t help the tight ache in her chest. All of this—for Sirius . This gentle, careful boy is here for his brother. His brother.
Euphemia keeps her expression soft, but her thoughts churn under the surface.
She’s still thinking about Sirius. About everything she’s misjudged, or ignored, or hoped wasn’t her business.
God, she wishes she could take back the coldness. The indifference. The sharp tones she sometimes used with him. The way she’d let her fear paint him as something monstrous instead of seeing what was plainly in front of her. A boy. Just a boy . A boy who has survived more than she can imagine.
She doesn’t know what horrors he’s been through, but she’s certain they were enough to twist something tight inside him. Enough to land him in juvenile detention. Enough to make him wary and fierce. Enough to make him raise his little brother alone.
And still —still—Regulus looks at Sirius like he hung the moon.
They pause at the shelves of coloured paper, and Euphemia reaches for a red sheet without thinking. She offers it out. “What about this one?”
Regulus makes a face and shakes his head. Euphemia notices the way he grimaces—not rudely, but firmly—and tucks the paper back without pushing.
He must know exactly what Sirius likes, she thinks. And the fact that he does only deepens that wrenching ache in her chest.
She tries another colour. “What about green?”
Regulus’s response is softer, more intimate. “Green is… mine.”
Euphemia doesn’t question it. Just nods and places the green paper back. Of course it is. Of course you’d have your own colour, Regulus. The distinction feels sacred somehow. Untouchable.
She leans slightly closer, her voice warm. “You looking at the blues?”
He nods, and she picks two shades she hopes might work—one deep and steady like midnight, the other pale and gentle.
“You could do two different colors, you know,” she says. “Have the dark blue as the main card and the light blue on the front. Maybe you could even print something to go on the light blue, to make it stand out.”
When Regulus nods, Euphemia smiles. He’s so earnest. So thoughtful. It guts her to know how much pressure he’s likely putting on himself to make this perfect. She aches to take that pressure away—to scoop both boys up and tell them they don’t have to carry each other like this anymore.
But she knows better.
Sirius doesn’t trust her. Why would he? She’s been civil, but nothing more. She’s tried to stay neutral, tried to protect her own—but now, standing here, watching Regulus clutch paper to his chest like it’s treasure, she feels the sharp weight of shame settle over her shoulders.
She should have seen it. The signs. The stillness. The instinct to control. The way Sirius hovers around his brother like a soldier guarding a last precious thing. How did she not see it?
They head toward the box display next, and Regulus moves carefully, scanning every option until his hands settle on a silver box with a glittery lid. Euphemia watches him inspect it like it’s sacred—checking the texture, testing the surface. When he asks, “Is that okay?” she answers without hesitation.
“Of course it’s okay, sweetheart.”
He deserves to give this gift. Sirius deserves to receive it.
When they reach the ribbons, she chooses one that matches perfectly. She sees the relief on Regulus’s face, the tiny smile, and it nearly undoes her.
This child—her child—loves his brother more than she can comprehend. And what did that brother have to become in order to protect him?
They head next to the grocery store. As they walk through the automatic doors, Euphemia notices how Regulus clings a little closer to her side, shrinking slightly under the harsh lights and noise. Her heart breaks for him again.
“Okay, sweetheart,” she says gently, her tone slow and soft. “What were you thinking for the brownies? Do you have a recipe in mind?”
He nods eagerly, but the words catch and vanish. Euphemia sees the shift in his expression, the sudden twist of panic as his hands begin fidgeting.
“Sweetheart?”
When he says he doesn’t remember, Euphemia’s instincts kick in. “That’s okay,” she reassures him, already preparing to pivot. But he insists. Tells her the only ones Sirius will eat are Andromeda’s.
Euphemia doesn’t question it. Doesn’t suggest something else.
He knows Sirius better than I ever could.
“It’s okay,” she says, stepping close and placing her hands gently on his shoulders. She walks him through breathing, steady and slow. Her heart cracks a little more when he listens to her, when he lets her ground him.
He’s learning to trust her. Maybe just a little.
When he says Bellatrix might know the recipe, Euphemia doesn’t flinch, even though every instinct screams at the name. She simply nods and pulls out her phone.
Because if this is what Regulus needs, she’ll do it .
The recipe comes through quickly, and they gather the ingredients. Regulus holds each item with care, like it’s rare, like it matters.
And it does .
When Euphemia asks if there’s anything else he wants, he hesitates. Then, in a voice so quiet she barely hears him, he says, “I wanted to get Sirius a stuffed animal. A cat.”
She pauses.
A stuffed cat.
“Is that okay?” Regulus asks.
Euphemia’s voice is immediate. “Of course that’s okay, love. The store’s this way.”
They make their way there, and Euphemia glances down at Regulus—his hands in fists, his shoulders a little tense. She knows he’s remembering his last visit to this place. Knows he’s worried, even if he doesn’t say it.
They reach the toy section, and almost right away, Regulus finds it. A black cat with blue eyes. He cradles it like it’s fragile, like it’s important.
Euphemia swallows around the lump in her throat. “You want that one?”
Regulus nods.
She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t need to.
Because this little boy— her little boy—loves his brother with a devotion Euphemia may never fully grasp. And Sirius? Sirius raised him. Sirius, the teenager she still doesn’t quite trust. The boy with sharp eyes and wounds he keeps hidden behind silence and snark.
He raised him.
And maybe that should scare her. Part of it still does.
Because Sirius has been in Juvie. He’s a criminal . He has a file thick enough to make her stomach twist.
But he’s also a child.
A child who was pushed hard enough— hurt deeply enough—to end up where no child should ever be. And he’s still standing. Still trying. Still loving his brother.
Euphemia wants to hug him. Wrap him up and never let go.
But she knows he wouldn’t let her. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time.
Still—she’ll try her damndest to get there. She’ll do everything she can to be someone he might eventually trust.
Even if a part of her still hesitates, still fears what he might do if that buried hurt lashes out again… she also knows one thing without doubt:
No matter what, Sirius will not hurt Regulus.
That, at least, she believes.
They reach the car, groceries and gifts in the boot, and Regulus cradles the stuffed cat on his lap as they drive. Euphemia glances at him in the rear-view mirror, her heart so full it could burst.
She has so much to make up for.
But she will.
She has to.
POV: FLEAMONT
“Hey, Dad,” James says, leaning against the doorframe of Fleamont’s study with the kind of eager energy that only a teenage boy can summon. “I was wondering if I could head to the park and hang out with Pete?”
Fleamont glances up from his laptop. “Of course you can. Just make sure you have your phone on.”
“Alrighty, can do.” James grins—wide, bright, entirely carefree. “You’re the best, Dad. Thank you!”
Before Fleamont can say anything else, James is gone—bounding down the hallway, sneakers squeaking faintly on the floorboards. Fleamont chuckles under his breath, fondness curling in his chest. James is growing up fast, but he’s still his same whirlwind of warmth and enthusiasm.
The sound of the front door swinging open and clicking shut drifts faintly through the house. Then it’s quiet again.
Fleamont turns back to his laptop, mind immediately pulled into the thick of the research he’s been poring over for the past hour. His screen is filled with articles, medical pages, even a few online forums—he’s deep into the world of eating disorders.
Not because he wants to be. No one wants to have to learn this. But he can’t ignore what he’s seen.
It’s fascinating in an academic way—disturbingly so. These behavioural conditions, classified by extreme disturbances in eating patterns, are often tangled up in fear, shame, control, trauma. Severe and persistent. That’s the phrase that sticks with him. Persistent. And associated distressing thoughts. That fits.
It fits Sirius far more than Fleamont wishes it did.
Out of everything he’s read, he’s managed to rule out a few—Sirius doesn’t seem to exhibit signs of anorexia or bulimia, at least not in the traditional sense. But the others—binge eating, ARFID, even pica—linger as question marks. Nothing feels quite right. Nothing explains it fully.
And that, more than anything, leaves Fleamont at a loss.
He shuts the laptop gently and exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. Sirius is still upstairs. The house is quiet—too quiet, maybe. He hasn’t heard a single sound from him since James left.
A faint knot of unease twists in Fleamont’s stomach. He stands, pushes in his chair, and makes his way up the stairs.
The air grows cooler the higher he climbs, shadows stretching longer across the hallway. But it’s the sound that stops him—halting him mid-step at the top of the landing.
It’s the rapid, ragged pull of breath.
Panic.
Hyperventilating.
Fleamont’s chest tightens immediately. He quickens his pace, turning the corner and finding Sirius’s bedroom door cracked open. He nudges it wider.
And there he is.
Sirius sits in the middle of his bed like a ghost. His posture is stiff, arms wrapped tightly around himself. He’s staring at the far wall, unblinking, as if it’s holding him hostage. His chest rises and falls at a terrifying speed, each breath hitching like it might break.
Fleamont feels the bottom drop out of him.
This—this isn’t stress. This isn’t typical teenage anxiety. This is something far worse. Sirius is in full-blown panic. Whatever he’s seeing isn’t real—it’s internal, vivid, all-consuming.
He glances around the room quickly—nothing seems out of place. No physical threat. No trigger in plain sight. So whatever’s happening is rooted deep in Sirius’s head.
Fleamont steps forward slowly, trying not to startle him. He knows enough not to come on too strong, not when a child is like this. But it’s hard—his instincts are screaming at him to fix this now.
“Sirius?” he says gently.
No reaction. Not even a blink.
He steps closer. “Sirius?”
Still nothing. The boy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge him. He just keeps gasping for air like he’s drowning in it.
Now Fleamont is kneeling at the edge of the bed. He reaches out, cautiously, and takes both of Sirius’s thin wrists in his hands. His touch is light—just enough to ground, not enough to startle.
But the response is immediate.
Sirius jerks like he’s been shocked. His whole body flinches violently, a strangled sound catching in his throat. His eyes fly wide, and for the first time, he looks at Fleamont—really looks at him.
And it shatters Fleamont’s heart.
The fear in Sirius’s eyes is raw, animalistic. Not confused fear. Not embarrassed fear.
Terror.
Like he’s been caught doing something unforgivable. Like he expects pain.
It makes Fleamont sick. Sick that this boy—this child—could look at him like that. Sick at the thought of who’s put that kind of fear into him. Who’s made him associate a simple touch with danger.
“Sirius,” he says softly but firmly, holding his gaze. “Can you hear me?”
There’s no verbal reply, but Sirius’s eyes flicker—darting around Fleamont’s face, like he’s trying to anchor himself in reality. Tears spill freely down his cheeks, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I need you to breathe with me,” Fleamont says. “Can you do that?”
But Sirius’s breathing only accelerates, shallow and frantic.
Fleamont gently takes one of Sirius’s hands and presses it flat against his own chest, right over his heartbeat. The moment makes Sirius flinch again, but something changes—his fingers twitch slightly, just enough to suggest awareness.
“Can you feel that?” Fleamont asks, soft and slow.
There’s no answer, but Sirius blinks through his tears. A flicker of recognition.
“Breathe with me. In and out.”
Fleamont draws in a long, exaggerated breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He repeats the rhythm, over and over, each inhale purposeful, each exhale steady.
After four rounds, Sirius starts to mimic the pattern. His breaths are shaky, irregular—but they’re following.
Fleamont keeps going until the tremors in Sirius’s chest slow. Until the tears ease. Until the frantic gasping evens out into something manageable.
Only then does he let go.
He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, still close, but not too close.
Sirius stares at his lap, breathing shallowly. His shoulders sag with exhaustion.
“What happened?” Fleamont asks, keeping his voice low.
Sirius shrugs. His face is blank now, wiped clean of expression, but not from calm—more like he’s shut a door behind his eyes. “Nothing,” he whispers.
It’s not nothing, Fleamont thinks. Not when you were seconds from passing out. Not when you looked at me like I was going to hurt you.
And there was nothing—no visible trigger. No sound. No confrontation. Just a boy alone in a quiet room, unraveling.
Fleamont hums, noncommittal. “Okay, then.”
He stays for a few more minutes, hoping—willing Sirius to say something more. But he doesn’t. He just stares at the floor, shoulders hunched.
Eventually, Fleamont rises and walks back to the door. He glances back once before stepping out.
His mind is racing.
He doesn’t know what he just witnessed. But he knows what it felt like. And he knows he needs to understand it.
He heads downstairs and makes a note to research panic attacks.
He needs to figure out what’s happening to this boy. And more importantly, how to help him.
Fleamont has barely been back in his study for thirty minutes when, the door to his study flies open with surprising force and slams shut a second later, the loud thunk ricocheting off the walls. Fleamont jumps, startled, his hand pausing mid-keystroke.
“Sorry,” comes a small, flustered voice.
Fleamont turns in his chair and finds Regulus standing there—cheeks flushed, arms overloaded with something, chest heaving slightly like he’s just sprinted across the house.
“That’s alright, kiddo,” Fleamont says gently, his voice already smoothing back into calm. He lets the surprise go just as quickly as it came.
Regulus really is an adorable little thing, Fleamont thinks. Not in the way James had been, all energy and chaos and volume—but in that endearingly serious way. So careful. So polite. Always just a little bit unsure of himself, like he expects the floor to vanish beneath him if he steps wrong.
And somehow, without even trying, the kid is funny. It’s not intentional—Regulus doesn’t have a shred of performative humour in him—but the way he barges in, flustered and breathless, cradling his armful of… whatever that is… like contraband? It’s hard not to smile.
Fleamont tilts his head, curious. “Those for Sirius?”
Regulus nods, still catching his breath. “I was wondering if I could store them in here?”
Fleamont’s expression softens instantly. The question is so sincere, so small and sweet in delivery that it tugs at something warm in his chest.
“Of course you can, bud.”
He watches for a moment as Regulus crosses the room, careful and deliberate. There’s something inherently endearing about how seriously he’s taking this mission—hiding the bundle like he’s stashing treasure. Which, knowing how much thought Regulus puts into everything, he probably is.
Fleamont turns back to his work, fingers drifting across the keys again, though his mind stays on the boy crouching beside the shelf. Regulus tucks the bag behind a stack of books with a precision that says he’s been planning this, probably for a while.
He really is a sweet kid. Fleamont had known from the beginning, but little moments like this make it hit harder. And watching him like this—awkward and careful, trying not to take up too much space while asking to borrow the study—it sparks a thought in Fleamont’s mind.
He really ought to talk to Euphemia about getting Regulus a computer of his own. And a phone, too. Not just because James has one, but because Regulus deserves to feel like he’s allowed those things. That he has space here—not just to exist, but to belong.
Fleamont files that thought away for later. He’ll bring it up tonight. No reason Regulus should be sneaking around like he needs permission to make kind gestures.
Especially not in this house.
POV: EUPHEMIA
The sound of sizzling bacon echoes around the kitchen, sharp and familiar. Euphemia closes her eyes for a brief moment, allowing herself to sink into the stillness—the rare kind of morning quiet that only exists before the house fully wakes. The eggs scramble gently beneath her spoon, the scent of melted butter and crisping fat warm in the air.
For now, it’s just her. And the food. And her thoughts.
Fleamont.
Her husband.
The name fills her chest with a kind of quiet ache. She lets the image of him take up space in her mind—his warm brown eyes, the lines at the corners of his mouth when he smiles, the way his hands still instinctively find hers after all these years.
She was fifteen when they met—he was sixteen, so smug, so charming—and she still remembers the rush of falling for him like it was yesterday. But it wasn’t just puppy love. Not a teenage infatuation. Not for her. Not for him. It grew. It rooted .
And through everything—through the chaos of James’s birth, through the heartbreak of infertility, through the long, winding journey of fostering—he has never once faltered. Never once turned from her. He’s been a constant. A quiet, steady flame. Her anchor.
She flips the pancakes with practiced ease, watching the golden batter bubble and brown. Everyone said we wouldn’t make it. Her parents, especially—grim-faced and tight-lipped, warning her she was throwing her life away. Two teenagers, raising a baby? Irresponsible, they said. Impossible.
But not Monty. Never Monty.
He believed in them. In her.
Sometimes, when the house is loud and the dishes pile and James is being James and everything feels like too much, Euphemia still wonders— am I doing enough for him? Am I the kind of wife he deserves? Her love for him is bottomless, but the doubt still lingers, curling in quiet corners.
And yet, Monty has always known how to pull her back from those thoughts. With a look. A touch. A steady word. He makes her feel like enough. Even when she doesn’t believe it herself.
She doesn’t think she could love anyone more than she loves him. She’s not sure it's even possible.
She reaches for a plate, the ceramic still warm from the cabinet, and arranges the first few strips of bacon with quiet precision. Her fingers pause mid-motion.
Because what man does what Monty does?
Who welcomes broken children into their home and sees potential instead of damage? Who doesn’t flinch at stories of trauma, or records stained with violence? Who looks at Sirius Black—a boy with a criminal history, a boy who radiates tension—and doesn’t turn away?
Monty never sees the cracks. Only the light trying to get through.
Euphemia can’t always say the same. She’s tried to keep her distance. To stay cautious. Logical. Protective. But her own fear has made her cold. Snappish, even. Especially with Sirius. And now— now —all she feels is guilt curling around her ribs like ivy.
Because Regulus sees Sirius so differently. And Fleamont does too.
The hiss of the stovetop is interrupted by the soft shift of movement behind her.
She doesn’t need to turn to know someone’s there.
“Good morning, darling,” she says lightly, not even looking up.
“Morning, Effie,” comes Regulus’s voice—small, sweet, still rough with sleep.
Her chest warms instantly at the sound. She glances over her shoulder and finds him hovering near the doorway, his hair sticking up slightly, eyes sleepy but bright.
“Sleep well, did we?” she asks, voice soft with affection.
Regulus nods. “Yes, I did.”
Euphemia returns her attention to the stove, flipping another pancake. The smell is comforting, homey. She always tries to cook something special on Father’s Day. Monty deserves it. He deserves more than I could ever give him.
And Regulus—sweet, cautious, brilliant Regulus— he deserves this too. A home. A kitchen filled with the scent of breakfast and laughter and warmth. She wouldn’t know him if not for Monty’s stubborn, hopeful heart.
If she hadn’t said yes to fostering. If she’d let fear win out.
She would never have met this boy. Her son.
“Are you making that for Monty?” Regulus asks, tugging her gently from her thoughts.
She nods, cheerful. “Yes, I am. And for everybody else.”
She leans to the side, grabbing a few more plates from the cupboard, the motion fluid, automatic. “But, because it’s Father’s Day, Monty gets the first serve in bed.”
She notices Regulus tuck his hands into his pockets, a habit she’s come to recognize—uncertainty, maybe. Or shyness.
“My family usually goes to church on Father’s Day—well—every Sunday really,” he says quietly.
Euphemia glances over at him again, brows raised slightly. Religious? It surprises her. Regulus hasn’t once mentioned anything of the sort since coming into their home. She can’t picture it.
“Really?” she asks, warmth still in her tone, but laced with curiosity.
She tilts her head slightly. “Are you Protestant, Anglican, or Catholic?”
“My family are Catholic,” Regulus answers softly. “But I’ve never really believed in God.”
He shrugs, small shoulders curling in just a little. His fingers toy with a loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt.
“Just science, really,” he adds.
Euphemia lets out a soft, amused chuckle. “You don’t say?”
She nudges a pan onto a different burner and turns to face him properly now. His expression is open, honest. Young.
“Well, Monty would love to hear that,” she tells him, warmth spreading across her chest like sunlight on skin.
Regulus tilts his head. “Why?”
Euphemia smiles wider and lifts a hand, brushing her fingers gently through his dark, sleep-mussed hair. She doesn’t even think about it—it just happens. Like a reflex. And when Regulus leans into the gesture, when his eyes flutter just slightly, it nearly undoes her.
“What I mean, dear,” she says, teasing, “is that you and Monty have something in common. Only believing in science—in the facts.”
She sees the blush start to bloom on his cheeks. It’s subtle, but there. Euphemia’s heart swells.
He’s connecting dots. She knows it. Probably realizing now that Monty might understand him more than he thought. Might see him.
And she knows what that kind of understanding can mean.
For a boy like Regulus—who’s grown up navigating shadows—it can mean everything.
Regulus shakes his head quickly, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. Euphemia’s heart gives a familiar tug.
“Can I help?” he asks, voice soft but hopeful.
“Of course you can, love,” she replies without hesitation, already reaching for the next pan. “Why don’t you get the tray ready for me?”
She watches him out of the corner of her eye as he turns toward the counter and reaches for the wooden breakfast tray. Everything’s already in place: a neatly folded napkin, a clean mug waiting for tea, and the small vase of violets she picked just yesterday, their purple petals delicate and proud.
Euphemia smiles to herself. He’s so careful, so precise— so much like Sirius, she thinks fleetingly, though she pushes the thought gently aside. Not now.
Her gaze lingers on Regulus. God, she loves that boy. She loves him more than she can ever quite put into words. The depth of it startles her sometimes, the way it grew so fast, so fierce. Just a few weeks ago, she didn’t even know his name. Now she couldn’t imagine a morning without him shuffling into the kitchen in his too-big pajama pants, hair sticking up every which way.
She loves the way he’s quiet but curious, the way he leans into her touch without always realizing it. She loves the way he looks at Fleamont like he’s something holy.
I have the most incredible family, she thinks suddenly, fiercely.
Her husband. Her James. Her Regulus.
James, who will be wide awake and causing chaos before breakfast hits the table. James, who drives her up the wall and fills her heart with pride at the exact same time. That ridiculous, golden-hearted boy. He never stops talking, never stops moving, and never stops loving with his whole heart.
And Fleamont—God, Fleamont. The love of her life. The man who has carried her through every season. The man who welcomed Regulus without a blink. The man who never asks for anything and somehow deserves everything.
The scent of breakfast trails up the stairs with them—bacon and syrup and fluffy pancakes stacked high on the plate. Euphemia carries it with care as Regulus walks beside her, the quiet clink of cutlery sounding out with each step. It’s a small, lovely ritual—one of the many ways they show love in this house.
Halfway up the stairs, Regulus pauses and murmurs, “Just a second,” before ducking into his room.
Euphemia waits at the top, tray balanced in her hands, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. He’s getting the card.
She’d seen him agonize over it in the craft shop, every decision weighed with care—paper, color, ribbon. She hadn’t asked what he wrote. She didn’t need to. Whatever it is, it’ll come straight from his heart.
When he returns, card in hand, she nods to him, and together, they push open the bedroom door.
The sight that greets her is nothing short of chaos—and pure joy.
James is sprawled across Fleamont’s chest like an octopus in flannel, shaking his shoulders and cackling, “Wake up, sleepyhead! Get up, old man!”
Fleamont groans dramatically and buries his face into the pillow. “Alright, alright! I’m getting up, Jesus.”
Euphemia chuckles softly. Boys, she thinks fondly, rolling her eyes. My beautiful, ridiculous boys.
The laughter in the room feels like sunlight—warm, blinding, healing.
James grins and grabs something off the bedside table, shoving it toward Fleamont. “Happy Father’s Day, Dad!”
Fleamont pulls his son into a hug, and Euphemia feels her throat catch. She sets the tray down on the bedside table, careful not to disturb the moment. Her heart feels so full it might spill over.
Then Regulus steps forward, his small hands still clutching the card, and Euphemia watches as he offers it, a little shyly.
She sees the exact moment Fleamont’s eyes soften, the precise second he realizes what this means. Her husband takes the card with reverence, his expression unreadable for a beat, and then—
“I love it,” he says gently. “Thank you, Regulus.” He opens his arms. “Can I have a hug?”
Regulus steps into the embrace, and Euphemia’s chest aches in the best way. This, she thinks, this right here is everything I’ve ever wanted. A family. Real and messy and whole. A home where children feel safe enough to give cards and hugs and love.
“Thank you, kiddo,” Fleamont whispers. “I really love the card. It was beautiful.”
Euphemia watches as Regulus lingers in her husband’s arms a moment longer. She doesn’t rush him. She lets him take his time. That safety—that trust —isn’t something that happens overnight. And yet here it is. Slowly blooming.
When Regulus finally pulls back and perches on the other side of the bed, Euphemia moves to Fleamont’s side and gently brushes a hand through his hair.
“Happy Father’s Day, love,” she says, her voice soft, tender. “Thank you for being such a wonderful and loving husband and dad.”
Fleamont blushes, and before he can say a word, Euphemia leans in to kiss him.
From the other side of the bed, James groans in exaggerated horror. “Eww, get a room!”
She pulls back laughing, the sound bubbling up from her chest. Fleamont’s laughter joins hers. Even Regulus lets out a small giggle.
It’s perfect. All of it.
She settles beside her husband, watching as James snatches pieces of bacon from the tray, chattering about absolutely nothing. Fleamont doesn’t even blink. He just smiles, offering bites to Regulus as well, who politely declines, cheeks pink with something close to contentment.
This is what family looks like, Euphemia thinks. This is ours.
It’s not polished. It’s not traditional. But it’s real.
It’s theirs.
And she wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Just as she leans back against the headboard, Regulus shifts closer and whispers, “I’ll be back, Effie.”
She smiles and presses a kiss to his forehead, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Okay, sweetheart.”
The second Regulus slips out of the bedroom, gently closing the door behind him, James immediately perks up.
“Where’s Regulus going?” he asks, brow furrowed, voice tinged with curiosity.
Euphemia looks toward the door, her eyes lingering for just a second longer than necessary. She knows the question is innocent—James is nosy, not malicious—but still, something about it makes her spine straighten just a little. It’s not her secret to tell, not really. But she also doesn’t want to lie.
“He’s gone to give Sirius a present, sweetheart,” she replies evenly, hoping that would be enough to curb her son’s growing interest.
James wrinkles his nose. “Uhh, why?” he asks, tone slightly off—bordering on rude.
Euphemia’s gaze flits to Fleamont beside her. He gives her a little smile, the corner of his mouth curling upward, and shrugs in that quiet way of his. It’s her call—what she shares, how much.
She pauses for a breath. Maybe it’s time. Maybe James needs to hear this. To understand. If there’s any hope of thawing that hard line of indifference he’s drawn around Sirius, it’s going to start with this.
“Well,” she begins, shifting slightly on the edge of the bed. James grabs another piece of bacon from Fleamont’s plate, entirely unbothered. Typical. “Regulus wanted to get Sirius a gift—”
“Yeah, you said that already,” James interrupts, mid-chew.
“James,” Fleamont says, a warning in his voice.
James flushes with guilt, ducking his head. “Sorry, cut you off.”
Euphemia smiles at him gently. “That’s okay,” she assures, and then takes a moment. It’s hard to talk about—harder than she expected. The conversation from the other night echoes in her mind, still sharp around the edges. Her heart cracks all over again.
“Regulus told us some things about Sirius,” she says carefully. “Some things that would make some parents a little upset.”
James’s eyes sharpen, some of that easy playfulness gone. “Like what?”
She hesitates, and just when she’s about to speak again, Fleamont steps in beside her, always her steady partner.
“You know how Mum and I love you and take care of you just like how all parents should?” he says, voice soft, trying to anchor their son in something familiar.
James nods, though there's uncertainty in his expression now—like he knows something's coming, but isn't sure if he wants to hear it.
“Well,” Euphemia says, picking up where her husband left off, “Sirius took care of Regulus in the way parents are meant to.”
That single sentence seems to hit James like a stone. A dozen emotions ripple across his face—confusion, disbelief, and then something sharper, something that slices right through Euphemia’s chest when she sees it.
Heartbreak.
“But… why?” James asks, and there’s a crack in his voice that makes Euphemia freeze. “Did their parents not love them?”
She stills, her whole body tight with the weight of that question. Because she hadn’t even thought of it like that—not directly. Not really. She’s been so wrapped up in Regulus’s silences, Sirius’s temper, her own hesitation and guilt. But the idea that their parents… that they didn’t love them?
It makes her stomach twist. She glances to Fleamont, who speaks again, his voice low and full of something close to sorrow.
“We don’t know, James,” he says. “Regulus hasn’t told us anything about his parents, and honestly, I don’t think we’ll hear about them for a good while.”
James nods slowly, processing, and then asks the kind of question no parent ever wants to hear.
“Do… I mean… Are there parents out there that don’t love their children?”
Euphemia’s breath catches in her throat. She feels like she’s been punched in the chest.
How do you answer that? How does she answer something so unbearably heavy when the truth might hurt more than the silence?
“I don’t know, James,” she says finally, voice quiet. “I don’t know how to answer that question. I’d like to think that everybody loves their children, but…” She trails off, unable to say the rest.
But maybe some don’t. And the idea shatters something inside her.
James nods, eyes distant now. The room falls into a hushed silence, heavy and thick with everything that’s unspoken. The kind of silence that settles over grief, over realization, over truth.
She can feel it in her son—the way his heart is breaking a little, the way this truth, or near-truth, rearranges something in him.
“I guess that means we need to make sure they know they’re loved… right?” James says finally, and his voice is so soft, Euphemia’s heart aches all over again.
She reaches over and places a hand on his knee, her smile full of pride and sorrow and gratitude all at once.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” she says, her throat thick. “That’s exactly what we’re gonna do.”
And she means it. She’s going to love these boys with everything she has. She’s going to love them so fiercely, so openly, that there won’t be a single doubt left in their minds. Not James. Not Regulus. Not even Sirius, no matter how long it takes him to believe it.
The moment doesn’t last forever. The door creaks open, and there he is—Regulus, hair still a mess, that quiet solemn expression back on his face. Euphemia’s heart lifts at the sight.
She smiles, soft and warm, letting her love shine through. “Ready for some breakfast, sweetheart?”
He nods, just once, and it’s all she needs. That small gesture—so simple, so gentle—makes everything they’ve done, every risk and ache and late-night doubt, worth it.
This is why we do this, she thinks. This is why we open our home, why we keep our arms wide and our hearts even wider.
“Alright then,” she says, rising from the bed, a fond smile playing on her lips. “Let’s go eat some pancakes.”
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont hears the sound before he fully sees it—laboured breathing, shallow and quick. He steps into the hallway just in time to catch Regulus stumbling backward, eyes wide and wild. His face has gone pale, lips trembling as his breathing quickens into gasps, his chest heaving like someone’s just punched all the air out of him.
His whole body is shaking.
Fleamont freezes for a moment, something sharp cutting through his chest. It takes him a second to register what’s happening.
Panic.
Regulus is having a panic attack.
And not a small one.
Fleamont’s stomach twists into a tight, sick knot. His breath catches in his throat as the full weight of the moment hits him—Regulus isn’t just scared. He’s terrified. And all of that terror is focused on one person standing at the end of the hall.
Sarah.
She hasn’t even spoken yet. She hasn’t taken a step forward. But it doesn’t matter—because to Regulus, her presence is a threat. A trigger.
Fleamont watches as Regulus’s eyes flick around like a cornered animal, his body caught halfway between flight and collapse.
“No,” Regulus whispers. “No—no—you can’t—”
The words pour out of him like water through cupped hands, impossible to hold back.
“I—I can’t—he just got here—you can’t take him—please—”
Fleamont’s heart breaks. Just shatters.
It’s not just fear in Regulus’s voice. It’s grief. Desperation. Something buried so deep it can only come out this way—raw and ragged and shaking.
He knows what this is. This isn’t about a surprise visit. It’s not just nerves. It’s memory. Trauma.
The last time Regulus saw a social worker standing in this house, Sirius was taken away. And they didn’t see each other again for six months.
Fleamont feels his throat tighten. His eyes sting.
No child should ever have to carry this kind of fear.
Not his boy. Not Regulus.
Euphemia moves first, her voice soft but steady as she drops to her knees in front of him. “Regulus. Sweetheart. Look at me. Breathe. You’re alright.”
Fleamont joins her from the other side, his hand settling gently between Regulus’s shoulder blades. “You’re safe, son. Sirius is still here. No one’s taking anyone away.”
Regulus’s breath hitches sharply—a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob. His hands clench into tight fists, arms stiff with panic, but Fleamont stays steady, keeps his hand there.
He counts, low and calm. “One… two… three… that’s it, there you go.”
He doesn’t know if Regulus hears the numbers or just the rhythm. But slowly, gradually, the trembling starts to lessen. The boy’s breathing evens out. His shoulders loosen. Fleamont can see his lashes flutter as he blinks away tears. His skin is still pale, but the colour is beginning to return.
And then, in a whisper so quiet Fleamont nearly misses it: “Oh.”
Regulus looks up, cheeks burning in embarrassment. “It’s… it’s the first Sunday.”
Fleamont’s heart gives another painful twist.
It’s check-in day. That’s all.
Sarah hasn’t come to take Sirius.
Not that Fleamont thought she would. But Regulus… Regulus did.
Because he’s lived through it.
And it broke him.
The boy glances over at Sarah, clearly mortified. “Check-in day.”
Sarah, bless her, doesn’t react with alarm or impatience. She simply offers a gentle smile. “That’s right. Do you want to talk with me now, Regulus, or would you prefer I speak with Sirius first?”
There’s a pause, and then Regulus quietly says, “No, no. I’m okay. I can go now.”
They head outside together, Sarah guiding him gently, clipboard in hand.
Fleamont watches them from the doorway, his chest heavy.
All he can think about is how small Regulus looked in that hallway. How crushed. How broken by something as simple as a knock on the door.
He thinks about the boy clinging to the belief that someone’s going to take Sirius away again, and how that fear nearly sent him into the floor.
He thinks about the weight those two boys carry—the months they were torn apart, the silence, the uncertainty, the lack of answers—and how deep the wounds still run.
And he thinks, as he stands there, heart still aching and hand still hovering uselessly in the air, that no child should ever feel like that again.
Not in this house.
Not under his roof.
He will protect that boy. Both of them. For as long as they’ll let him.
“Euphemia,” Fleamont says, and his voice cracks in the middle of her name. It comes out thick, hoarse, like something has split in his throat.
She’s already looking at him. She wears the same look he knows must be etched across his own face—wide-eyed, stricken, stunned to silence.
“Yeah,” she whispers, like speaking louder might shatter the fragile hold they have on the moment.
They don’t move. They just stand there, staring at each other from across the hall, like if one of them moves too fast, everything might fall apart. The quiet in the house feels heavy now. Weighty. Like something’s shifted forever.
Then James clears his throat.
The sound cuts through the silence like a blade, and Fleamont turns, already knowing his son’s expression before he sees it.
“What just… happened?” James asks cautiously, his voice small, hesitant.
Fleamont meets his eyes—those familiar hazel eyes, so much like his mother’s—and sees the confusion and fear swimming just beneath the surface. James knows. Fleamont knows he knows. But James wants confirmation. Needs it.
“Regulus… well… I guess he had a panic attack over having Sirius taken away…” Fleamont says quietly.
And saying it out loud physically hurts. The words feel like they’re tearing something open in his chest.
“Oh.” James’s voice deflates like a balloon. He looks down, blinking rapidly, and Fleamont can see the glimmer of tears in his eyes. “That’s…” James trails off, not finishing the thought. He doesn’t need to.
Euphemia sighs beside him. “Yeah… It’s not good.”
Fleamont hums his agreement, a low sound of helplessness. No, it’s not good. It’s devastating. It’s proof that Regulus still lives in the shadow of fear. That he doesn’t believe, even now, that this peace might last.
“Alright,” he says, trying to gently break the tension. “You got your shoes on, James?”
James glances down at his bare feet and flushes. “Ugh. Fine,” he grumbles before turning on his heel and stomping up the stairs, his voice a grumble of reluctant energy.
Fleamont watches him go, a soft smile tugging at his lips despite the knot in his chest. James, as always, manages to bring a touch of normalcy when it’s most needed.
He’s still standing there when Euphemia steps in close, her hands resting gently on his chest. Automatically, instinctively, Fleamont’s arms wrap around her waist, pulling her in.
He looks down into the eyes he’s loved for decades—eyes that now carry more worry than they used to. In her gaze, he sees the exact weight he’s carrying mirrored back at him.
“That was…” he begins, but the words fall away.
“Bad,” she finishes softly.
Fleamont nods, the sound of his breath catching in his throat. He rests his forehead briefly against hers, and for a moment, they just hold each other.
Euphemia pulls back slightly, but her hands stay at his sides. “What are we going to do?” she asks, voice so faint he almost doesn’t hear it.
“I have no idea,” he admits. And that’s the truth. He has no idea how to help a child whose trauma runs so deep he’s afraid the world will collapse again at any moment.
No idea how to undo what’s been done to Regulus—or Sirius, for that matter.
But what he does know—what he clings to—is that they are here now. Safe, for now. Loved.
He pulls Euphemia closer again, tucking his face into the crook of her neck. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, her chin resting against his temple. They stand that way, breathing in each other’s presence, gathering strength in the quiet. They don’t often take these moments—but when they do, it’s because they need them.
And right now? They need this.
Fleamont presses a kiss to her shoulder. We’ll get through this, he tells himself. We have to.
When the front door opens again, they’ve pulled apart, their bodies moving in sync to straighten the space. Fleamont grabs a dish towel, Euphemia shifts to the counter, both of them engaging in the familiar rhythm of tidying—a quiet, unspoken ritual to settle the nerves.
“So,” Sarah says as she enters, her voice lowered, private, “it appears that Regulus is doing extremely well.”
Fleamont turns toward her, his heart lifting a little. That’s something. That’s something good.
He and Euphemia both smile.
“Yeah, we’ve noticed,” Euphemia replies, warmth threaded through her words. Fleamont hears the subtle pride in her voice, and it fills him with quiet joy.
Sarah returns the smile. “He’s come a long way since June.”
Fleamont nods. “He definitely has.”
Just then, something shifts in Euphemia’s expression. Her eyes flick up the staircase, brows knitting slightly. She leans out and calls gently, “Would you mind going upstairs and getting your brother?”
Fleamont follows her gaze and sees Regulus nod. He watches the boy ascend, and despite everything, he feels that deep, enduring swell of love in his chest. He may be quiet. He may be anxious. But Regulus moves through this house like he belongs here now. That, to Fleamont, is everything.
When Euphemia turns back to Sarah, her face has changed. Her smile has softened into something more serious—worried, even. Fleamont knows that look. He knows what’s coming.
“About Sirius,” she begins, and Fleamont notices the way Sarah stiffens at his name, her body tensing like she’s bracing herself.
“The police came the other day in search for him.”
That lands like a stone.
Sarah blinks. Her face goes through six emotions in under three seconds—shock, panic, guilt, sorrow, and something like shame.
“Oh no,” she mutters, rubbing a hand over her face. “I’m so sorry—I completely forgot—”
Fleamont raises a hand to stop her. “It’s fine,” he says, though the truth is more complicated than that. “We just… weren’t expecting that.”
Sarah lets out a long breath. “I get it. I really do. I hope this doesn’t change your viewpoint of him.”
“It doesn’t,” Fleamont says immediately. Euphemia echoes him with a firm, “Of course not.”
Sarah nods, shoulders relaxing. “I’ve just been so slammed lately, I completely let it slip. I’m truly sorry.”
“We understand,” Euphemia says, her voice kind but clipped. Fleamont knows they do understand—Sarah’s job is hell sometimes—but that doesn’t make it easier to process the surprise visit from law enforcement.
“We just… it was confusing. And a bit shocking when they got here.”
“I’ll send over any updated parole documentation,” Sarah promises. “And I’ll include the police reports if you’d like.”
Before Fleamont can answer, the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs cuts through the conversation.
“Got my shoes on,” James calls as he rounds the corner.
“Good,” Euphemia says with a smile, moving toward the front door and snagging her keys. “Ready?”
“Yep!” James says brightly, bounding over to the door and flinging it open.
Regulus and Sirius step into view. Fleamont’s eyes catch the flicker of hesitation in Sirius’s expression—the tightness in his shoulders, the way his eyes dart toward Sarah.
Sarah gives a small, non-threatening wave. “Bye,” Regulus murmurs as he slips past them.
“Bye, Regulus,” Sarah says kindly. “Have fun.”
The door closes, and the sound leaves behind a hush.
Fleamont turns to Sirius, who stands awkwardly in the entryway, arms crossed tightly, as if to make himself smaller.
“Alrighty then,” Sarah says gently, voice just as warm as it was with Regulus. “You ready to talk?”
Sirius nods, but the sound that comes out is almost too quiet to hear. “Yeah.”
Sarah’s smile stays soft. “Where would you like to sit and talk?”
Sirius shrugs, eyes glued to the floor. He looks so young like this—so lost. The sight makes something in Fleamont’s chest fracture a little.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Why don’t you go sit out on the front porch?” Fleamont suggests. “Regulus quite likes talking out there. It’s private.”
Sirius nods again. “Okay,” he says, barely above a whisper. He follows Sarah out the front door, steps slow and uncertain.
Fleamont exhales long and deep.
Sirius has been so closed off lately. It doesn’t surprise him, not really—not after everything—but it aches just the same. Even Regulus, as guarded as he is, has begun to open like a flower inching toward sunlight.
But Sirius?
Sirius still seems like he’s waiting for the sky to fall.
Fleamont leans against the counter, watching the closed door. He thinks of where they were four months ago—how Regulus arrived mute and tight-lipped, barely able to meet anyone’s eye. And now… he’s warm. He’s witty. He’s brave in ways Fleamont never expected.
Despite his diagnoses, Regulus is resilient. One of the most determined kids he’s ever met.
And the friends Regulus has made? They’re golden. Attentive. Kind. They see Regulus in a way Fleamont sometimes wishes he could. The kind of seeing that doesn’t need explaining.
And Sirius… Sirius helped raise that boy.
He doesn’t know all the details. Not yet. But the more he learns, the more clearly he sees Sirius’s shadow stitched into Regulus’s strength.
Fleamont presses a hand to the edge of the counter and closes his eyes.
He wants Sirius to bloom here too.
He needs him to.
Fleamont stands just inside the front door, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He hears the creak of the hinges and lifts his gaze just in time to see Sarah and Sirius step inside.
Immediately, his stomach tightens.
Sirius looks… off. His shoulders are hunched unnaturally low, his eyes dull, like whatever fire usually burns there has dimmed to embers. There’s no spark in him. Not even wariness. Just exhaustion—and something else Fleamont can’t quite name. He looks like he’s been hollowed out.
Fleamont’s brows knit together. “Everything alright?” he asks, voice even, careful.
He watches Sirius nod—but it’s not convincing. The motion is so slight, so sluggish, Fleamont almost misses it. It’s like Sirius’s head just tips forward under its own weight.
He glances toward Sarah, seeking answers, but she’s hesitating. Her face is composed, but he knows that look—tight around the mouth, eyes scanning Sirius like she’s worried he might collapse. She's trying not to show just how concerned she is.
“Umm…” she starts, her voice unusually uncertain. The pause stretches just a little too long.
“Yeah,” she finally says, but Fleamont hears it—the forced ease, the layer of unspoken tension beneath the word. It doesn’t sit right with him. Not one bit.
His eyes flick back to Sirius, whose body seems to sink further into itself. There’s a tremble there, barely perceptible, but present. The way his arms hang too heavily at his sides. The blankness in his face. Fleamont’s heart gives a sharp tug.
Sarah places a hand gently on Sirius’s back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
“How about you head on upstairs and lay down, Sirius?” she murmurs.
It’s phrased like a suggestion, but the tone is soft steel—more of a gentle command. A sign. Something isn’t right. She’s not saying it out loud, but Fleamont doesn’t need her to.
He watches Sirius nod again, almost mechanically, and begin his slow ascent up the stairs. Each step seems to take effort. Fleamont notices the way his feet drag just slightly along the floor, his posture collapsing further with each step.
Sirius doesn’t look back.
Fleamont keeps his eyes on the boy until he disappears from view. A deep, tight breath settles in his chest—thick with unease.
He turns to Sarah.
She’s still watching the stairs, jaw tense, brows drawn tight with a concern she can no longer hide.
And now Fleamont knows.
Something happened out there. Something bad.
And Sirius, clearly, is still in the middle of it.
He swallows hard, his throat dry, and is about to ask what the hell happened —the question already forming on his tongue—when Sarah beats him to it.
“We were just talking about how people were treating him before he went…” She gestures vaguely with her hands, helplessly motioning to the space between them, to the front door, to the air itself. “I don’t know what happened, Fleamont. It was like his mind just…”
“Disappeared,” Fleamont finishes for her, voice low. The word feels too sharp, too accurate, as it leaves his mouth. He hates the weight of it.
Sarah nods, grim. “Exactly that,” she says quietly.
Fleamont exhales through his nose, a long, tired breath. His hand rises to rake through his hair, a futile attempt to settle the prickling tension at his scalp. “That’s not… good.”
“No, it’s not,” Sarah agrees, and there’s a heaviness to her voice now, like she’s trying not to let it crush her too. “I’ve seen him in a lot of different moods over the past few months—withdrawn, defensive, angry, shut-down—but that?” She shakes her head slowly. “I’ve never seen a kid go from responsive to completely unresponsive like that. Not that fast. It’s worrisome.”
Fleamont presses his lips together, jaw working slightly as he nods. “Yeah…” The word escapes more as a sigh than speech, drawn out and weary. His mind is whirring—spinning with worry and questions he doesn’t know how to ask, let alone answer.
He glances toward the stairs, instinctively, as though he might see Sirius hovering there. He doesn’t. And somehow, that’s even more unsettling.
“Thank you for bringing him inside,” Fleamont says, finally looking back at Sarah. His voice is rough around the edges, but sincere.
“You’re welcome,” she replies softly, the compassion in her eyes unchanged. There’s a pause between them, not awkward but full—thick with mutual concern.
“We’ll talk properly about how he’s been next week,” Sarah says after a beat. “Just… go check up on him, for me?”
“Of course,” Fleamont nods, like that wasn’t already his next move, like the thought of not checking on Sirius hadn’t been impossible from the moment the boy staggered through the front door.
Sarah begins to step toward the door, her movements smooth but tired. Her hand rests briefly on the knob before she turns back. “Tell Euphemia we’ll talk properly next week.”
Fleamont hums in acknowledgment, lifting a hand in a slow wave as Sarah pulls the door shut behind her.
Silence folds in over the house like a heavy blanket.
He stands still in the front hall for a long moment, letting it all wash over him—the tightness in Sirius’s face, the eerie stillness in his movements, the way Sarah’s voice had dropped like she was trying not to spook a wild animal. The air still feels charged with it.
Fleamont draws in a breath, straightens his spine, and turns toward the staircase. He climbs the first step slowly, quietly, then the next. Each footfall muffled but sure.
He’s going to check on Sirius. That’s the only thing that matters right now.
Fleamont walks slowly into the room, careful not to let the floorboards creak too loudly. But of course they do—it’s an old house, and he’s not exactly light-footed. Still, he tries to be gentle about it. The moment he steps through the doorway and catches sight of Sirius lying stiffly on the bed, dread curls low in his stomach.
Something’s wrong. Deeply wrong.
Sirius is motionless, eyes wide and unfocused, staring at the ceiling like he isn’t really seeing it at all. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven bursts. His limbs look limp, like they’ve disconnected from the rest of him. Fleamont slows to a stop at the edge of the bed, taking in the pale set of the boy’s face, the flicker of something far too close to panic just behind his eyes.
He doesn’t look asleep. He doesn’t look present, either. He looks… frozen. Trapped somewhere inside himself.
Fleamont’s heart clenches.
“Sirius?” he tries gently, voice soft but firm as he kneels beside the bed. He studies the boy’s face, watches for any sign of acknowledgment. Nothing. Not even a blink. “Sirius, can you hear me?”
Still nothing.
Fleamont glances at Sirius’s hands—curled loosely against the comforter—and hesitates. For a brief second, he considers pulling the boy into a hug. Wrapping him up tightly, the way he might’ve done if this were James at that age, or even Regulus now. But Sirius… Sirius doesn’t trust touch. Not fully. And Fleamont doesn’t want to make things worse.
Instead, he settles for gently taking one of Sirius’s hands in his own.
He braces himself for a flinch—a recoil, a snap reaction. But it doesn’t come. Sirius doesn’t pull away.
Fleamont lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.
He tightens his grip, not too much, just enough to remind Sirius that he’s not alone. Then, slowly, he begins a rhythm. Five seconds of steady pressure. Three seconds of rest. Then three short pulses. Another pause. Repeat. He keeps it consistent, something predictable, something grounding.
Sirius doesn’t react right away, but Fleamont keeps going.
He talks. About anything. Everything. Anything that might keep Sirius tethered to the here and now.
“You know, I’ve been craving Thai food,” he starts, as if they’re chatting over tea and not sitting in the middle of a quiet storm. “Haven’t had a proper Thai curry in months. Not since we took James to that fancy new restaurant in London—what was it called again? The Blue Elephant? Damn good Pad See Ew there. Euphemia got that spicy green curry and nearly burned her face off, remember that?”
Still no response.
“But I’ve always been a fan of Panang,” Fleamont continues, his voice even and gentle. “Thick, creamy, just the right amount of spice. Goes great with sticky rice. I wonder if the place down the road does a decent version—haven’t tried them yet. You like Thai food, Sirius?”
He glances down, eyes scanning Sirius’s face.
And then—finally—a faint squeeze around his fingers.
Fleamont exhales, relief washing over him like a warm tide. “Good, good,” he murmurs. “There you are.”
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t press for answers. He just stays seated on the bed, hand still holding Sirius’s, grounded in patience.
“Sarah said you stopped responding to her,” Fleamont says after a long pause. “I came up to check on you. I was talking to you, but you just stared blankly at me… through me.” He swallows. “Is everything alright?”
It’s a foolish question, really. He can see clearly enough that everything is not alright.
The only sound Sirius makes in return is a low hum, strained and wet around the edges. A noise somewhere between a whimper and a breath.
Fleamont’s heart aches. The kind of ache he feels when he’s helpless. When a child is in pain and he doesn’t know how to make it stop.
He doesn’t say anything after that. Doesn’t need to. The silence stretches out between them—quiet, but not empty. It’s a silence full of presence, full of not leaving.
Eventually, the sounds of the others returning home filter through the house: the soft click of the front door, Euphemia’s cheerful voice calling, “Dinner’s here!”
Fleamont glances down at the boy beside him. Sirius hasn’t moved. He looks small, despite how tall he is—like the world has folded in around him and he hasn’t figured out how to push it back yet.
“Alright,” Fleamont says softly, giving Sirius’s hand one last squeeze. “I’ll save you something to eat.” He lets go gently, like setting something fragile down. “Come down when you’re ready.”
He gets to his feet slowly. The boy doesn’t look up. That’s okay.
Fleamont heads for the door but stops before leaving. His hand lingers on the knob. “I’ll make sure no one bothers you,” he adds. “Take the time you need.”
Then he steps out into the hallway and eases the door shut behind him.
One thing stays with him as he walks down the stairs, what the hell is he going to do?
Notes:
Word Count: 23,702
Published: 2025-07-02Ummm... welp... Longest chapter to date, am I right... *nervous sweeting*
My father might put me in a mental instution lol, he is generally concerned for my wellbeing hahah....
Chapter 32: They... WHAT?
Summary:
Things have been… weird to say the very least. Sirius isn’t talking to him. His friends are acting strange. And, to top it all off, Regulus found out that the Potter’s didn’t even want Sirius in the first place.
This has been one hell of a week… and it’s not even over!
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The second Regulus steps inside the house, he knows— something’s wrong .
He freezes just beyond the threshold, his breath catching as he instinctively scans the quiet, still air around him. There’s no murmur of conversation, no creak of footsteps upstairs, no familiar sound of Sarah’s voice—warm and measured. And most unsettling of all: Fleamont isn’t in the front hall.
That might not mean much to anyone else. But to Regulus?
It means everything.
This is Sirius’s first check-in. It’s supposed to be long—drawn out, thorough. Usually, Sarah stays for over an hour. Usually, it ends with Euphemia and Fleamont talking in low voices in the kitchen, going over notes, asking questions, checking in. This silence? It feels wrong . Awfully, gut-twistingly wrong.
“Dinner’s here!” Euphemia’s voice calls out from the kitchen, light and musical—but to Regulus, it sounds too loud, too misplaced.
Panic starts to claw its way up his chest, wrapping icy fingers around his ribs. His breathing picks up. What if something happened? What if they came and took Sirius? What if Sarah changed her mind? What if—
Footsteps. On the stairs.
Regulus whirls toward the sound, heart in his throat.
It’s Fleamont.
Alone.
Sirius isn’t with him.
“Where’s Sirius?” Regulus blurts out, voice cracking. He stares wide-eyed at Fleamont, trying to keep himself still, to breathe normally, but it’s already too late.
Fleamont meets his gaze, and something in his eyes—something quiet and heavy—makes Regulus’s chest squeeze so tightly it hurts. He can feel tears prickling in his eyes, the hot, stingy kind that come too fast to stop.
“What’s wrong?” His voice breaks again, trembling. “Did something happen with Sirius? Is he okay? Is he—”
The tears spill over before he can stop them. His throat closes up like he’s been throttled. He lets out a soft, broken whine, barely a sound at all, as Fleamont closes the distance between them.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Fleamont says gently, crouching so they’re eye-level. His hands land softly but firmly on Regulus’s arms, grounding him, holding him steady.
“Everything is okay, Regulus. Sirius is alright.”
Regulus stares at him, heart racing, unsure if he can believe it. If he should. His breaths are coming fast now—short, ragged gasps that make his vision blur.
Fleamont nods, calm and steady. He begins rubbing his hands up and down Regulus’s arms in slow, rhythmic motions. “You’re okay. Sirius is okay.”
The warmth of his hands, the reassurance in his voice—it starts to work. Just a little.
“That’s it, love. Take deep breaths with me. That’s it, in and out. Good job.”
Regulus forces himself to follow Fleamont’s breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth. He focuses on the rise and fall of Fleamont’s chest, mimicking the rhythm. His lungs ache with the effort, but the tightness begins to ease.
His hands come up, almost automatically, and wrap around Fleamont’s neck. He tucks himself in close, burying his face against Fleamont’s chest, his body trembling with residual panic. Fleamont wraps both arms around him, holding him tight, a firm and steady pressure.
“It’s okay,” Fleamont whispers, “everything’s alright.” He repeats it again and again, his voice soft and low, as he rubs slow circles into Regulus’s back.
Regulus sniffles. The tears have mostly stopped now, though his chest still hiccups every few seconds. He shifts slightly in Fleamont’s arms, pulling back just enough to speak.
“Where’s Sirius?” he whispers, so quietly it’s almost inaudible.
“He’s upstairs,” Fleamont replies, matching his tone.
Regulus nods. But it doesn’t explain anything. “Why? Why is he upstairs? What happened to Sarah?”
A thousand thoughts come crashing in all at once—fears, possibilities, questions he can’t put into words fast enough.
Fleamont sighs, and there’s something behind his eyes—something tired, uncertain, protective. “How about we go have dinner?” he offers instead.
Regulus doesn’t like the answer. Not one bit. But he nods, gripping onto Fleamont tighter.
Fleamont understands—he always seems to understand. When he moves to stand, he lifts Regulus with him, like it’s nothing, like he’s not too old or too heavy or too clingy. Regulus wraps his legs around Fleamont’s waist and hides his face again.
They walk to the dining room like that, quiet, wrapped around each other. Fleamont only stops when they reach the table.
“You wanna sit in your seat or with me?” he asks, voice barely more than a breath in Regulus’s ear.
Regulus doesn’t even think. “You,” he answers instantly.
Fleamont hums, content, and lowers them both into his own chair. He rearranges Regulus so he’s sitting comfortably on his lap, still half-wrapped around him. One arm stays snug around Regulus’s back.
Regulus wipes his sleeve across his face, catching the last of his tears and snot. He looks up at Fleamont, about to ask again— What happened? What aren’t you telling me? —when the sound of approaching footsteps cuts him off.
Euphemia and James step into the room.
Euphemia takes one look at him and softens, her expression turning gentle. Regulus knows how he must look—twelve years old, curled in Fleamont’s lap like a child half his age. Shame heats his cheeks. He turns his head quickly and buries it into Fleamont’s neck again.
Fleamont doesn’t flinch or tease. He just starts rubbing small, calming circles on his back again.
“What happened?” Euphemia asks softly after a few beats of silence.
“Another panic attack,” Fleamont answers evenly.
Before anyone else can speak, James pipes up. “Where’s Sirius?”
Fleamont opens his mouth, but Regulus pulls away slightly and interrupts. “Is he alright? What happened?”
“It’s okay. Sirius is okay.” Fleamont squeezes him gently, voice steady. “He just… it’s hard to explain what happened, kiddo. But Sirius is upstairs having a lie down.”
Euphemia’s brow furrows. “Did he have a panic attack? Meltdown?”
Fleamont shakes his head. “Dunno what happened to cause it. But Sarah said he kinda like, zoned out. Became unresponsive.”
Regulus watches Euphemia’s face shift, her concern deepening. From the corner of his eye, he sees James stiffen. Something flickers across his face that Regulus can’t quite read.
“Anyways,” Fleamont continues, “after I talked to Sarah, I went to check up on him, and he was still completely unresponsive.”
“That’s…” Euphemia trails off, glancing at Regulus. Whatever she was about to say, she seems to reconsider. Her lips press together. Her eyes meet Fleamont’s.
He only nods. “I know.”
The room falls quiet again.
“Alright,” Euphemia says suddenly, like shaking herself free. “Let’s eat, yeah?”
She starts setting the takeout containers on the table and sits in her usual seat. Her eyes flick toward Regulus again.
“Is Sirius gonna want Thai?” she asks.
Regulus shakes his head. “He won’t.”
Euphemia hums thoughtfully and looks to Fleamont again. Regulus notices the silent exchange between them, and something about it makes his stomach twist. He never quite knows what they’re saying without saying anything, and it makes him feel like he’s missing something important—like everyone else has the answers but no one’s letting him see the page.
“Oh, you should try this,” Fleamont says suddenly, sliding a container closer to them. Inside are some sort of glossy noodles. Regulus eyes them warily.
“Remember,” Fleamont leans in, voice soft and reassuring, “we won’t get mad at you for not liking any of this. We can always make you something you will eat. Don’t feel bad, alright bud?”
Regulus exhales slowly, shoulders lowering just a little. He nods.
Then he picks up his fork—and starts to taste test.
***
Since Sarah’s visit, Regulus has noticed that Sirius has been acting a little… odd.
Well— more than odd, if he’s being honest. There’s a tension in the air, invisible but unmistakable. A shift.
At first, he tries to brush it off. Sirius had a rough check-in. He needed rest. That’s all.
But then Sirius didn’t crawl into bed with him that night.
Or the next.
Or the next after that.
It shouldn’t bother Regulus. It’s not like they have to sleep near each other. But… they always have. Ever since Sirius got back. Even before that, whenever they could. Sirius used to sneak into his room like it was second nature, like he didn’t even have to think about it. Now, his bed stays cold and untouched on the right side, and Regulus wakes up with a knot in his stomach that tightens each morning Sirius doesn’t appear.
Maybe it’s nothing.
But maybe it’s not.
And Regulus can’t stop noticing how Sirius no longer initiates conversation. Not in the morning. Not after school. Not even when they pass each other in the hallway. When they’re home, Regulus finds himself hovering in doorways, waiting for Sirius to say something—anything—but it never comes. If he wants to speak, he has to start it himself. Every time. And even then… Sirius barely replies.
The conversations feel one-sided, like talking into a void that looks like his brother but doesn’t act like him.
Even at school, Sirius is… absent. Not just distant— physically absent. Regulus hasn’t seen him around. Not once. And he’s looked. Checked corners of the hallway, lingered a little too long by lockers, glanced over his shoulder in case Sirius might pop up.
He never does.
It’s… weird . Sirius always used to make time for him at their old school. Even when he was surrounded by friends, he’d wave Regulus over or find a way to sit beside him. He made space.
Now?
Regulus wonders if maybe Sirius is trying not to interrupt his time with his friends.
Which is sweet.
But also... painful.
He doesn’t know how to describe what he’s feeling. Not properly. But dejected comes close. Forgotten. Left behind. Not hated, not exactly—but ignored . And that might be worse.
He’s never been ignored by Sirius before. Not like this.
By the time lunch rolls around, Regulus is tired of holding it all in. The silence. The confusion. The ache in his chest that won’t go away. He needs to tell someone. Maybe his friends can help make sense of this mess he can’t untangle on his own.
He’s the last to arrive in the library, dragging his feet as he drops his things at the table with a heavy huff. The plush black dog Sirius gave him—a stitched copy of Padfoot—falls out of his bag, and Regulus doesn’t even bother picking it up. He just slumps into the chair like he’s been carrying the weight of the entire day on his shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” Pandora asks gently, her voice as soft and sweet as always, like honey in tea. Her eyes are kind, and her smile is small but genuine. Regulus offers her the faintest version of one in return, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Yeah, you’ve been acting weird,” Barty says, leaning in with narrowed eyes. “Everything okay?”
“No,” Regulus answers quietly, defeatedly. He reaches for the stuffed dog and hugs it close to his chest, fingers clutching at the soft fabric. His eyes don’t lift from the surface of the table. His voice stays small.
“You wanna talk about it?” Dorcas asks, her tone gentle and full of concern.
Regulus looks up. Just enough to see her. Her face is open, patient, kind. There’s no pressure in her gaze—just understanding. And it’s enough to crack something open in his chest.
“It’s just…” he starts, releasing a shaky breath, “Sirius has been acting weird.”
At the mention of Sirius’s name, a subtle shift passes over the group. Regulus notices it immediately. Like a ripple in still water. Their posture tightens. Eyes flick toward each other. Evan’s mouth draws into a firm line. Barty goes still. It’s as if saying Sirius broke some unspoken rule.
Strange.
Regulus’s brows furrow. Why are they acting like that?
He scans their faces, and while he can’t quite place the look they wear, he knows he’s seen it before. It’s something close to… disdain . Maybe disappointment.
It makes his chest tighten further.
“What?” Evan breaks the silence, his tone sharper than expected. He quickly clears his throat, trying to backtrack. “Uh, sorry. What do you mean?”
Regulus eyes him carefully, but pushes forward anyway. “It’s just… he’s been avoiding me. Ever since Sunday.”
He swallows hard. “Do you think it has something to do with the gift I gave him?” The words sound foolish as he says them aloud. “Do you think he didn’t like it?”
There’s a pause. The air feels too still, too thick.
Then Pandora speaks. “No, I don’t think that’s the reason.”
“Yeah,” Barty chimes in, nodding. “Maybe he’s just having trouble adjusting?”
That makes sense. Regulus nods slowly. It’s not like his own adjustment was smooth. Maybe Sirius is just… struggling. Quietly. In his own way.
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Regulus repeats softly, as if trying to convince himself. “But—” he pauses, voice faltering, “what do I do about it?”
“Nothing, really,” Evan says, with a shrug. Regulus blinks, confused.
“In my opinion, I think it’s best to give someone space when they clearly need it.”
Dorcas hums thoughtfully beside him. “Yeah, Regulus. Maybe Sirius just needs a second to come to terms with the fact that he’s finally living with you again.”
Regulus nods again, more slowly this time. “Thanks, guys,” he whispers. His eyes lift from the table just enough to meet theirs. “I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime,” Pandora says, and her smile is soft, reassuring.
The tension in the group fades like mist burning off in sunlight the moment the subject changes— the moment they stop talking about Sirius . It’s subtle, but Regulus feels it. That shift.
And it sticks with him.
He tries to shake the feeling. The strange expressions. The hesitation. The quiet disapproval that wasn’t said but definitely felt. He wants to believe he’s imagining it.
Because… surely his friends don’t have a problem with Sirius.
Right?
***
Regulus decides to take his friends’ advice and give Sirius some space—let him adjust however he needs to. It isn’t easy. He wants to talk to him. Wants things to be like they were before, when Sirius made him feel safe just by being nearby. But pushing too hard won’t help, so he forces himself to step back.
And in doing so… he somehow ends up spending more time with James.
Which—unexpectedly—isn’t awful.
Actually, it’s kind of the opposite.
Regulus never really paid attention before, but… James is cool.
Cool in a way that makes Regulus feel like he’s part of something. Like he’s allowed to take up space without needing to explain why he exists. Cool in that magnetic, ridiculous, confident way that means people naturally orbit around him. It’s not just that James is funny or good at sports or effortlessly charming—it’s the way he includes people without making it seem like a big deal.
Regulus will never say it out loud—God, no—but he secretly thinks James might even be cooler than Sirius. Not that he loves Sirius any less. It’s just… different.
Like yesterday.
Yesterday, James decided they had to play some ridiculous game—Regulus thinks it might be pin-pon—with balls and paddles and way too many rules—and instead of just explaining it or giving up, he built a full setup in the backyard. Hammered together boards from the shed, stacked milk crates, and fashioned a net from an old sheet and a pair of brooms.
It was absolutely bonkers.
And it was wicked .
They spent hours laughing in the sun, wasting away the entire afternoon, Regulus breathless from running and genuinely having fun— actual fun , the kind that makes his chest ache a little when it’s over.
So, yeah. James is cool.
Today, as school ends and Regulus waves goodbye to his friends, he spots two familiar figures standing by the front gate. His heart lifts instinctively.
Sirius and James.
He hurries over, clutching the straps of his bag, his pace quickening with each step.
“Where you been?” James asks, grinning, and immediately throws an arm around Regulus’s shoulders in a side hug.
Regulus returns the gesture, leaning into it, feeling warmth creep up his neck. He’s not used to casual affection like this. Not from someone who isn’t Sirius. But with James, it feels easy—natural, even. Like maybe he could get used to it.
“Saying bye to my friends,” Regulus replies softly, glancing up at James. His cheeks are definitely red now, but James doesn’t tease him.
“You have a good day?” James whispers into Regulus’s ear, voice low and genuine.
Regulus just nods.
“That’s good,” James says, pulling back with the widest smile on his face—so full of light and sincerity it makes Regulus smile in return, without thinking.
Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus notices Sirius standing stiffly off to the side. His brother’s expression is hard to read—blank, maybe—but there’s something in the way he glances toward James that makes Regulus pause.
Then Sirius quickly looks away, like he hadn’t meant to be caught watching.
Weird.
Before Regulus can say anything, a voice breaks the moment.
“Hey guys!” someone calls, slightly squeaky before clearing their throat.
Regulus turns to find Peter approaching, a short blond boy trailing behind him—someone Regulus doesn’t recognize immediately. Or wait— maybe he does. That must be Marlene, one of Sirius’s friends. She walks with an easy confidence, hands shoved in the pockets of her blazer.
“Hey, Pete!” James greets, like it’s been years since they last saw each other. “You ready for this afternoon?”
“Yep!” Peter replies brightly, clearly excited.
“Ready for what?” Regulus asks, blinking in confusion.
“For soccer training, obviously,” Marlene chimes in, her tone casual but friendly.
Oh. Right.
Regulus had almost forgotten about soccer. He vaguely remembers Sirius mentioning it a while ago, but no one told him there were actual training sessions. It makes sense, he supposes.
“Oh,” Regulus says, a bit dumbly. He hadn't expected that answer. He hadn’t realized people were treating this like a real team.
Then a loud honk cuts through the conversation. All their heads swivel toward the street.
“That’s my ride,” Peter says, already waving as he backs away. “I’ll see you all later.”
“See ya Pete!” James yells back. Marlene shouting, “See you soon!”
The four of them stand by the front gate, waiting to be picked up. It’s warm out, the kind of mid-afternoon heat that makes the pavement shimmer and the air hum. Regulus shifts his weight from foot to foot, feeling a familiar nervous fluttering in his chest.
He doesn’t know how to talk to people—especially people he’s only just met. Even if they’re James’s friends. Even if he’s supposed to be playing on a team with them. It feels like there’s a wall between him and everyone else, invisible but real.
Still, if he’s going to be around these people—if he’s going to play soccer with them—he figures he might as well try.
“So,” he says, quiet but audible. His voice barely carries, but it must be enough, because Marlene’s head turns toward him. Her eyes meet his, steady and unreadable.
“Who’s picking you up?” he asks, awkwardly tugging on his sleeve, trying to seem casual.
“Oh,” she replies, like the question hadn’t even occurred to her. “Well, Effie is picking me up.”
Regulus blinks. He hadn’t expected that. Effie? Picking someone else’s kid up?
His confusion must be obvious, because Marlene’s quick to add, “My parents are both really busy with work, so they can’t really take me to practice.”
Regulus hums, still processing that, when James cuts in beside him.
“Yeah, Mum’s been picking Marlene up for a couple years now. For soccer. It’s always been like this.”
James makes a face—his eyebrows furrow and his lips part slightly, like he’s piecing something together in real time. Regulus watches with amusement as James’s expression morphs, like he’s slowly solving a puzzle in his head.
Then, suddenly: realization.
“Are you uncomfortable with that?” James blurts, concern flashing across his face like lightning. “Because I’m sure we could figure something else out for the future if you are.”
Regulus smiles at the way James’s whole face scrunches up in worry, like he’s already trying to build a backup plan in his head. Like it never even crossed his mind that this arrangement might’ve made Regulus uncomfortable until just now.
Before he can respond, Marlene jumps in, voice firm but still kind.
“Yeah, Regulus. If you’re ever uncomfortable, please let me—or us—know.” She gestures between herself and James. “We can find workarounds. I’m sure Pete’s mum would be happy to take me instead.”
James nods along, his shoulders relaxing now that they’ve offered a solution. “Yeah,” he says, looking back at Regulus with earnest eyes, “we just want to make sure you’re okay. That’s the important part.”
Marlene laughs under her breath. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be offended. If you are uncomfortable with this, that’s totally fine.”
Regulus’s smile stretches wider. He doesn’t mean for it to—it just happens. His chest warms in a way he’s not used to, and something in him, something tight and coiled, begins to loosen. He hears Sirius snort off to the side, followed by a muttered comment in French that Regulus doesn’t quite catch.
“Thank you,” Regulus says, a bit louder this time. He looks between the two of them, feeling more secure now. “Really. But I’m not uncomfortable. I don’t mind. I just didn’t know.”
“Oh,” James says, blinking like that genuinely hadn’t occurred to him. Marlene rolls her eyes and smacks his arm.
“Ow! ” James cries, flinching dramatically. Marlene cackles, while Regulus lets out a quiet giggle.
“That was uncalled for!”
“Serves you right, dumbass,” Marlene fires back, grinning.
James gasps, clutching his chest with a hand like he’s been mortally wounded. “I’m wounded. You wound me! ”
Laughter bubbles up around them, erupting like a geyser. It spills out into the warm afternoon air, and for a brief moment, Regulus forgets the awkwardness, the worry, the weight that always seems to sit on his chest. This—this lightness—is something he wants to keep forever.
The van ride to the soccer grounds is loud and cramped, but Euphemia’s playlist hums quietly through the speakers and no one seems to mind. Still, as they pull into the parking lot, Regulus feels a knot form in his stomach.
The fields are huge. Stretching out in front of them are at least four different pitches, all occupied by kids already warming up or running drills. The energy is loud and buzzing and overwhelming.
He hesitates.
And without even thinking, his hand finds Euphemia’s.
Her fingers wrap around his like it’s second nature. He holds on tight.
“Alright,” Euphemia says once they’ve parked. Regulus looks up at her. Her voice cuts through the noise like it’s meant only for him. “Once you guys get to your team, they’re going to give you your uniforms. If you’d like, please give them to me, okay?”
“Yes, Effie,” says Marlene.
“Yes, Mum,” James chimes in.
Regulus just nods.
“Good,” she says, smiling. “Off you go.”
James and Marlene shoot off without hesitation, sprinting toward a group gathered by one of the far fields. They look like they’ve done this a thousand times—like they were born doing it. Regulus swallows hard and stays planted next to Euphemia.
His grip tightens on her hand.
She rubs her thumb across the back of his fingers in slow, steady motions.
“How about I come with you, yeah?” she offers gently.
He nods quickly.
They walk together across the field, Euphemia leading them toward a man crouched beside a clipboard and a plastic bin. Sirius trails behind at a noticeable distance, hands in his pockets, gaze lowered. Regulus tries not to think about it.
“Hey, Frank!” Euphemia calls out once they’re close.
The man stands up, tall and a little broad, with streaks of grey in his hair and kind lines around his eyes. He smiles wide when he sees them.
“Ah, Euphemia!” he says brightly. “Thanks for picking up my girl.”
Regulus’s eyes flicker toward Marlene, confused. His girl?
Euphemia waves a hand. “It’s no problem, Frank. I’m happy to help.”
So that’s what he meant.
Frank is Marlene’s dad. It makes sense, now that Regulus looks closer. The matching eye shape, the sharpness of their cheekbones—it’s all there. Still, the casual mention of it surprises him. It’s so… normal.
“Well,” Frank says, chuckling, “like I said, you didn’t have to. Especially since you’ve added more onto your plate.”
Regulus blinks. Added more? Is Euphemia doing something else now? A new job?
But Euphemia just smiles. “Marlene’s wonderful company,” she says, like this is a conversation they’ve had a dozen times.
Frank chuckles again. Then he turns to Regulus.
“So,” he says warmly, “I heard we’ve got a new member joining us.”
Regulus freezes slightly. Attention always feels like a spotlight—hot and blinding. He shuffles behind Euphemia, his fingers gripping the seam of her jeans.
Frank doesn’t seem fazed. “Ah, a bit shy,” he says kindly. “That’s alright. I’d be nervous too.”
Something in his tone makes Regulus relax. A little.
“I’m Frank,” he says, offering a hand.
Regulus shakes it quickly and then pulls back, still half-hiding.
“You must be Regulus, correct?”
He nods.
Frank hums, turning toward Euphemia, though he keeps himself slightly angled so Regulus isn’t excluded. Like he’s still part of the conversation.
“He’s got social anxiety,” Euphemia says softly, looking down at Regulus. He meets her gaze, and something about it makes him pause.
Is she… asking him? Is she checking to make sure it’s okay to say more?
Regulus nods, just barely, and squeezes her hand.
“He’s also got autism,” she adds gently.
“Ah,” Frank says. Not surprised. Not awkward. Just understanding. “Alright. You know that’s not a problem.”
“I’m aware,” Euphemia replies, smiling at Regulus. “Frank here knows about us fostering. He helped us become foster parents, actually.”
Regulus turns to look at him again, like seeing him in a new light.
Frank shrugs, eyes twinkling. “I’m a lawyer, you see. Helped with all the paperwork. Plus,” he looks back at Euphemia, “I was happy to help. What you and Fleamont do—it’s…”
He trails off, but the pride in his voice says the rest.
Euphemia chuckles. “Yeah. We wouldn’t change it for the world.”
Regulus ducks his head, cheeks warming. He glances down at his feet—at his new black soccer cleats, the ones Euphemia picked out just for him.
They’re sleek. Lightweight. Comfortable.
And for the first time since arriving, excitement starts to bubble up in his chest. Maybe— maybe —this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
***
Regulus is having an off night. He can tell the moment he sits up in bed and the world feels wrong.
His skin feels too tight, like it’s trying to contain something that doesn’t fit anymore. Every inch of it itches, burns, pulls. It’s unbearable, like he’s wearing clothes that don’t belong to him—even though he’s not. The air in his room feels thick, humid with something he can’t quite name, and the soft ticking of the wall clock sounds like a hammer inside his skull. Every sound in the house—footsteps, the creak of the stairs, even the distant hum of the fridge—is too much. Too loud. Too sharp.
And his stomach… it turns with every breath he takes. Dinner isn’t sitting right. It churns and rolls with each step he takes, like the food is fighting to stay down.
He pads quietly down the hallway, socked feet soft against the floorboards. He pauses, as he always does, just outside Sirius’s door. The light’s off. The shadow of the gap beneath the door is still and dark.
Regulus doesn’t want to go in. That’s not why he stops.
He stops because he remembers.
There was a time when he’d crawl into Sirius’s bed whenever he felt like this—overwhelmed, nauseous, wrong inside his own skin. There was a time when Sirius would shift over without saying a word, when he’d lift the blanket so Regulus could slip in and press his face into his brother’s shoulder until the world stopped spinning.
But that time feels far away now.
Now, he has Euphemia. And Fleamont. And honestly? They make him feel safe in a way Sirius never quite could. Sirius was his protector, yes. But there are things—comforts, reassurances, adult certainty—that Sirius couldn’t give him, not really.
Still… it hurts.
It aches to remember a time when things were simpler. When love didn’t feel like this complicated, stretched-out, uncertain thing. When he didn’t have to question where he fit in.
He’s about to move on when he hears his name.
Regulus freezes, the syllables of his name—soft, but unmistakable—pulling him toward the door to Euphemia and Fleamont’s room. Their voices are muffled but not impossible to hear.
“So, about school,” Fleamont says, tone casual. “I was thinking about getting a laptop.”
“For Regulus,” Euphemia replies, confirming.
Regulus blinks, surprised.
“Yes,” Fleamont continues. “It’s just—it’s the start of a new school year, and if we both believe Regulus is going to be here permanently…”
“Yes, yes, I absolutely agree.”
“Good.” Fleamont sounds pleased. “Anyway, as I was saying, Regulus is going to need a laptop. And I was thinking about giving my spare too—”
“Sirius?” Euphemia interrupts.
Fleamont hums, but the silence that follows makes Regulus’s stomach twist.
“That’s a good idea,” Euphemia finally says, but her tone is… careful. “Considering we don’t know how the situation with Sirius is going to go.”
Regulus’s body goes still.
What?
Fleamont mutters something he can’t hear, and Euphemia responds, her voice slightly louder—closer to the door now.
“I know,” she says, sounding tired. “It’s tough. I feel bad for being so judgmental, but we have to consider what will happen in the future.”
Judgmental? Of Sirius?
Regulus takes a step back from the door, his heart hammering.
They don’t think Sirius is going to be a permanent placement. Do they even want him here? Have they already given up on him—on his brother —before Sirius even had a chance?
His thoughts spiral. He thinks back to his birthday, the two weeks that followed. The odd tension in the house. Euphemia and Fleamont whispering more than usual. James being quiet, withdrawn, upset with Fleamont for reasons no one ever explained. The questions they asked. The session with Laura. All of it.
It clicks.
They didn’t want Sirius.
Not really.
Regulus feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, hot and immediate. The kind of tears that don’t fall, not yet, but sit and wait—burning.
There’s movement inside the room, and Regulus quickly presses closer to the door, his heart hammering.
“I know I messed up, Monty,” Euphemia says, sounding… tense. Angry, maybe. Or guilty.
Then she sighs. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Fleamont says, barely audible. “You’re allowed to be concerned. And you’ve realised your mistakes in dealing with him. I know you’ll do better. I’ve seen you before.”
Regulus imagines the look on her face. A sad smile, maybe. One of those quiet ones people wear when they’ve been holding guilt for too long. But he doesn’t understand what Fleamont means .
Mistakes? Dealing with him? Did Euphemia treat Sirius badly? When? How? Why didn’t he notice?
Sniffles filter through the door. Someone is crying.
Regulus strains to hear more, but the voices drop. Just whispers now. Just a blur of sound he can’t make sense of.
“So,” Euphemia says again, her voice cracking, “what else was there you wanted to discuss?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Fleamont chuckles softly. “I wanted to talk to you about getting a phone.”
“For Regulus?”
“Yep. He’s been here for four months now, and he’ll be staying permanently, and—”
“It’ll be good for him to talk to friends and to contact us?” Euphemia finishes.
“Exactly.”
“And Sirius?”
That name again. That tone again. Soft, questioning.
And something in Regulus’s chest drops.
“Well, you know our stance on this already,” Fleamont begins. “We agreed to always wait four months, or until the child shows us they’re responsible, then we give them that privilege.”
“I know,” Euphemia sighs. “It’s to help control the potential overwhelming feelings they may be experiencing, and also, for us to get that sense of trust. I know that, Monty, I just…”
“Feel bad.”
“Yeah.”
Silence stretches out. Long. Heavy. Regulus feels it press against his chest like a weight. The longer he stands there, the worse his skin feels. Like it doesn’t belong to him. Like he’s trapped inside his own body.
He wants to leave—but he also has to stay. He needs to hear more.
He reaches for the doorknob.
“I feel guilty, is all,” Euphemia says quietly.
Her voice changes then. It takes on a sharpness that stings. A complicated mix of guilt and frustration and something colder.
“I just can’t get over what happened with the police and Sirius, Fleamont. I already had a hard time trying to trust him—and before you say it, I know trust takes time to build, but there’s always this base level of trust whenever you meet someone.”
Regulus’s hand falls from the doorknob. He stares at it like it’s someone else’s.
Police?
What happened with the police?
What does she mean she doesn’t trust him?
“He has a past, a record, before coming to us. I was hesitant to let him in because what if something happened? We, or I, had no read on this kid when we first met him, Monty. Sure, he’s been extremely gentle and loving toward Regulus, which is a relief—I genuinely thought he was going to be a danger toward him.”
A danger?
His brother? A danger?
His stomach lurches. It twists with something that feels like betrayal.
“And,” Euphemia’s voice softens again, almost like a plea, “I mean, I’m allowed to be scared, Fleamont. Scared that Sirius could potentially hurt you, or James, or even myself. I know he hasn’t shown us any reason to be violent— unlike what Sarah has told us —but that doesn’t mean he still can’t.”
Sarah described Sirius as violent?
Tears start to fall now. Hot and fast.
Regulus takes a step back from the door, numb and dizzy. He can’t feel his feet. Can’t feel his hands. The house feels too big suddenly—too loud, too bright. He presses his back to the hallway wall, then slowly slides down until he’s curled up, knees to his chest.
His breathing comes quick and shallow. He claws at his shirt. The collar feels too tight, too close. Everything hurts.
Euphemia hates Sirius.
And maybe—maybe they all do.
He’s not sure what he saw anymore. Was it real, the softness in her voice when she talked to Sirius? The way she touched his shoulder once at dinner? The way she let him into the house?
Was it kindness?
Or was it a lie?
Regulus doesn’t know.
But one thing he does know is that something’s changed inside him—deep in his chest. Something ugly. Something broken.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forgive her.
***
Regulus heard that conversation Wednesday night. It’s now Thursday afternoon, and he’s still giving Euphemia the cold shoulder.
It’s not the first time he’s ignored her. He’s done it before—when he was overwhelmed or angry or just needed space. But this? This time is different.
This time, it’s not just about him.
It’s about Sirius.
Regulus can feel how everyone’s walking on eggshells around him. James keeps glancing at him like he wants to say something but won’t. Fleamont’s been quieter than usual, and Euphemia—she’s trying to act normal, but her smile keeps faltering. Her eyes keep flicking toward him, checking, waiting.
Even Sirius has noticed. Regulus can tell.
Though… it didn’t start with concern.
That morning, when Euphemia had greeted him and he’d turned away without a word, Regulus caught the shocked look on Sirius’s face. Regulus had never done that before—been openly rude to Euphemia. It’s not that he wants to be disrespectful. He knows it’s wrong. Sirius knows it too. But the anger… it sits in his chest like fire, and he doesn’t know how to express it without breaking something, without screaming until his throat gives out.
So instead, he freezes her out.
It’s now afternoon. The sky outside his bedroom window is soft with the golden haze of late-day sun. Regulus lies curled on his bed, arms wrapped around his middle, his mind still cycling through everything he overheard. And despite the pounding in his skull and the buzzing under his skin, he’s proud of himself—for keeping his cool, for not snapping, for not falling apart.
A knock on the door breaks the silence.
Regulus sits up slowly, heart catching in his throat.
It’s Sirius.
He stands in the doorway, uncertain. His shoulders are tense, but his eyes are soft.
“Can I come in?” is all Sirius says.
Regulus just blinks at him. Sirius has barely said a word to him since Sunday. And now, he wants to talk?
The anger flares back up, fast and hot. Not just at Euphemia now, but at him . Sirius.
He takes a breath. In. Out.
And nods.
Sirius gives a soft smile—careful, like he’s unsure whether it’s allowed—and gestures toward the door.
“Open,” Regulus replies, voice clipped but steady.
Sirius closes the door and walks over, settling on the edge of the bed like he’s not quite sure he belongs there. Regulus watches every move, chest tight, fingers digging into the hem of his sleeve.
Before Sirius can speak, Regulus cuts in.
“What do you want?”
The words come out sharper than intended, too fast and too pointed. He sees Sirius tense—just slightly, like he’s bracing for something. Like he’s trying to protect Regulus from something. That confuses him.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Sirius says, his tone soft. Gentle. A jarring contrast to Regulus’s. It makes something in Regulus’s chest loosen—only a little.
He nods, motioning for him to continue.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been ignoring Euphemia,” Sirius starts, slow and cautious, like he’s testing the depth of the water before jumping in. When Regulus doesn’t interrupt, he keeps going. “It’s not like you to be so hateful, Reg. And I know you—you’re kind and gentle and everything I wish I was.”
Regulus’s heart stutters.
What?
That’s… not something he expected. Sirius—the bravest person he knows—wishing he were more like him?
He folds his arms tight across his chest, trying to shield himself from the sudden rush of emotion.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters. His voice is quieter now, but still pointed. Dismissive. He hopes Sirius lets the lie slide.
But Sirius just raises one dark eyebrow, unimpressed.
Regulus groans and rolls his eyes.
“I have every reason to ignore her, Sirius. Though I still don’t understand what your reason was for ignoring me .”
That lands like a punch. Sirius flinches. And Regulus—he’s not sure whether he regrets saying it or likes that it hurt.
There’s a power in it. In making Sirius flinch. In having the upper hand for once. It’s a feeling Regulus doesn’t often get to hold, and now that he’s tasted it, he’s not sure he can let it go.
“Yeah,” he presses, voice colder now, sharper. “You’ve been ignoring me since Sunday. And I want to know why .”
“Regulus,” Sirius warns, quiet and stern.
“No!” Regulus snaps, the heat breaking through now. “I want to know why. I want to know why you’ve been ignoring me!”
“ Ma petite étoile— ”
“No! Don’t call me that!” Regulus shouts again, eyes burning. “You haven’t answered my question!”
Sirius lets out a breath. It sounds weary. Heavy.
“And you haven’t answered mine.”
Regulus huffs, jaw tight, heart pounding. He breaks eye contact and drops onto the bed beside Sirius, folding his arms again. He glares sideways, full of spite and confusion and aching.
Then he changes tack.
“Did you know the Potters didn’t want to take you in?”
His voice is quieter now, but it carries the weight of something deeper—something breaking. There’s pain tucked beneath the anger, raw and sharp.
Sirius’s face changes immediately. His eyes go soft in that way Regulus both craves and hates. “Oh, Reg,” he says, like he’s about to deliver news that will hurt. “Yes,” he sighs. “Yes, I did know this.”
And just like that, Regulus feels something collapse in his chest. His arms drop to his lap, and his voice, when it comes, is barely there.
“Why?”
Sirius holds his gaze. There’s something behind his eyes—shame, maybe. Sadness. Or guilt.
“I beat up someone in my last foster home,” Sirius says finally, voice low. “It got me into trouble with the police.”
Regulus’s eyes widen. “Did you get arrested?” It comes out fast, unfiltered. James had said things. Euphemia and Fleamont denied them. But now? Regulus doesn’t know who to believe.
“No,” Sirius says quickly, and Regulus breathes again. “But I did get into some serious trouble.”
Regulus snorts despite himself. “Serious trouble,” he repeats with a smirk.
Sirius flashes a smile back—crooked and fleeting—but it vanishes just as fast. “The police have to check up on me for the next six months.”
“Because you beat someone up?” Regulus asks carefully, eyeing him.
Sirius nods once. “Yeah.”
Regulus hums, but his brain is working too fast to settle. Something about the explanation feels… incomplete. Like Sirius is telling the truth, but not all of it. There are parts missing—details trimmed away, smoothed over.
Still, it makes Euphemia’s fear make a little more sense.
Regulus feels his anger shift slightly. It softens at the edges. He understands, a little, why she might be scared. If a stranger had come into his home and hurt someone…
But Sirius isn’t just anyone. He’s a kid. And that should mean something.
That should count for something.
Regulus looks at his brother again, trying to figure out who he’s supposed to be angry at. Euphemia? Sirius? Himself?
The room feels smaller now, heavier with things left unsaid.
And yet… it still doesn’t feel like the whole truth.
Regulus is curled up in James’s arms when he decides to ask him for the truth.
The room is dark and still. James’s bed is warm, the blankets heavy and cocooning around them. There’s a quiet hum from the fan overhead, but otherwise, the world feels muffled—softened at the edges. Safe.
Regulus presses his cheek more firmly against James’s chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. It’s grounding. Comforting. James’s arms tighten automatically around him, his palm curling gently against Regulus’s back like a shield.
It makes Regulus feel... okay. Not good, exactly. But not entirely awful either.
Since the conversation with Sirius earlier that afternoon, he’s felt strange. Unsettled, maybe. Like something’s sitting heavy in his chest, just behind his ribs. Sirius’s explanation didn’t quite fit . It was neat. Polished. A little too easy.
And now that Regulus thinks about it— really thinks about it—he isn’t sure Sirius has ever told him the whole truth. There’s always something withheld. Some edge of a story softened or brushed away.
And that hurts more than he expected.
Why would Sirius lie to him? Why keep him in the dark? What good does that even do?
Regulus blinks at the ceiling for a long moment, then shifts.
“James?” he murmurs, voice small.
He rolls over, nuzzling into the soft cotton of James’s sleep shirt until his face is buried against James’s chest again. He doesn’t need to look at him. Just needs to be close. Grounded. Protected.
James hums sleepily, his breath warm against Regulus’s hair. “Hmm?”
“I have a question.”
There’s a pause, then a muffled, “Yeah,” somewhere near the top of Regulus’s head.
Regulus hesitates for half a second—but then the need outweighs the nerves.
“Do you know why Effie doesn’t like Sirius?” he asks quietly. “Why she didn’t want to take him in originally?”
He feels the change in James instantly.
The tension coils under James’s skin, his chest going still beneath Regulus’s cheek. Regulus nearly feels guilty—almost—like he’s yanked James out of sleep and dragged him somewhere cold and sharp. But the ache in his chest won’t let him stop. He needs to know. He needs someone to tell him the truth.
James shifts beneath him, adjusting so he can see Regulus’s face. His eyes are sleepy, but awake now—focused. Gentle.
“What did Sirius say?” he asks softly.
“He said he beat someone up,” Regulus replies, watching James’s face closely. “And that the police now have to check up on him every once in a while.”
James nods, slow and deliberate. Regulus doesn’t miss the flicker of relief in his expression—like he’s glad Sirius said something, even if it wasn’t everything.
“Yeah,” James says after a beat. “Pretty much what Sirius said is the truth.”
Regulus watches his eyes, his face. Looking for signs of dishonesty, of hesitation. But he doesn’t see any. Just calm honesty, open and warm.
His chest relaxes slightly. Good. That’s good. At least someone’s telling the truth.
But James isn’t finished.
“As for Mum...” he continues gently, drawing Regulus’s attention back. “She’s just scared. Worried for you. For me. She just wants what’s best for everybody.”
Regulus nods faintly, but doesn’t say anything.
“Something in her past,” James adds, “made her fears a lot worse than they should be. I don’t know what it is. Neither Mum nor Dad will say. But it’s... it’s why she reacts so strongly sometimes.”
That—Regulus understands.
He thinks of all the times he’s overreacted to small things—when someone’s voice gets too loud, or when the lights are too bright, or when the tags in his shirt feel like they’re slicing him open. He gets it. Sometimes things feel like more than they really are.
He nods again, more solidly this time.
“She’s better than she used to be,” James says. “With trusting people, I mean. I think she just needed time. To see Sirius. To get him.”
“I needed time too,” Regulus whispers. Then quickly, “To get to know you. And Monty. And Effie.”
James hums again, smiling down at him. His hand smooths down Regulus’s spine. A gentle touch. A steadying one.
Regulus lets himself sink into it.
He closes his eyes, pressing close to James’s chest. The warmth of him. The safety. His heartbeat beneath Regulus’s ear, strong and even.
He’s just about to drift off when James adds quietly, “They just wanted to protect you. That’s all they ever want to do.”
The words settle into Regulus like water into dry earth. They soak deep, quiet and slow. Something shifts in his chest—something unspoken. Something that roots him. That reshapes the way he’s been looking at things.
Protect.
They want to protect him.
Not control him. Not trap him. Not trick him.
Protect.
It’s a word Regulus never associated with adults before now.
And it changes something. Something quiet. Something deep.
He may not even know it happened. Not right away.
But it did.
***
“Fleamont says you’ve been ignoring Euphemia,” Laura says.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet across from him, the chessboard between them. Her posture is relaxed, unthreatening, but Regulus feels the weight of her gaze. It’s not sharp—Laura never is—but it’s steady. Intent.
“You wanna tell me about that?”
Regulus shrugs, moving his pawn without much thought. His fingers twitch slightly around the smooth wood piece. “I heard something that made me upset.”
“Okay,” Laura says gently, sliding one of her own pieces across the board. Her voice is calm and even. “What did you hear?”
Regulus shifts uncomfortably where he sits, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve even though it isn’t bothering him. He doesn’t know where to start—how to explain it without sounding like a villain.
“Well,” he says slowly, choosing each word with care, “I was having an off night.”
Laura hums softly, the sound encouraging. She moves her rook and nods, not rushing him. “You were having an off night?”
“Yeah.” He nods, fingers tapping against his knee. “My skin wasn’t feeling right. Everything was too loud, and I just—” He hesitates. “I wanted to sleep with Effie and Monty. Like before. When things feel too big.”
Laura nods, not saying anything yet. Just waiting.
“When I got to their room, I heard my name.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “You eavesdropped on their conversation?”
Her voice isn’t angry—more surprised, like she hadn’t expected him to admit it so quickly. But Regulus still flinches, shame crawling hot beneath his skin. The word eavesdrop makes it sound worse somehow. Sneaky. Wrong.
He cringes. “I didn’t even knock,” he admits, lowering his voice. “I just... stood there. Listening.”
“That’s not really okay,” Laura says, her tone not sharp, just tinged with disappointment. It hurts more than yelling might have.
Regulus ducks his head, nodding. “I know. It was bad.”
“It’s alright,” she says, her voice soft again. “Just... next time, knock. Okay?”
“Okay.” He breathes out slowly, moving another chess piece forward. “Anyways,” he continues, picking up the thread before it gets too quiet, “they were talking about some things. About me at first. But then they started talking about Sirius.”
Silence folds around them like a blanket. Heavy and uncertain.
“What about Sirius made you upset?” Laura asks, her voice still steady, but a little more careful now.
Regulus huffs and fiddles with one of the captured pieces at the side of the board. “Effie said she couldn’t trust him. That she felt guilty. I don’t remember all of it, but... it sounded like they didn’t want to take him in. Like they didn’t want him.”
Laura hums again, tilting her head. Regulus watches her closely, needing to know how she’s going to respond.
“Yeah, that makes sense,” she says calmly, like it should be obvious.
Regulus frowns. “What?”
“I mean,” Laura continues, “what did Sirius have to say?”
“He already knew.” Regulus’s voice is quiet. “Apparently he knew they didn’t want him.”
“Did Sirius seem bothered by it?”
Regulus pauses, rolling the question around in his mind. Had Sirius seemed bothered? Now that he thinks back on it... no. Not really. Sirius had looked a little tired, maybe, a little resigned—but not surprised. Not hurt.
He shakes his head. “No. Not really.”
Laura nods. “But it bothered you.”
“Well, yeah,” Regulus says, looking up at her. “Why wouldn’t it?”
It’s quiet again for a long beat. Just the soft clink of chess pieces being shifted and the faint ticking of the wall clock behind them.
Then Laura says, “I think you should talk to Euphemia and Fleamont about what you heard.”
Regulus stiffens slightly.
“Tell them you didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she says. “That you were having a bad night. Ask them to explain what they meant. I have a feeling they’ll tell you the truth if you just ask.”
He nods slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek. Her words make sense. And yet, his chest still tightens with unease. The anxiety coils in his belly like a snake, heavy and cold and reluctant.
He debates it. Really debates it. The thought of confronting them, of seeing them look disappointed or angry, makes his stomach twist.
He should be asleep. Tomorrow’s his first ever soccer game, and the nerves from that are already writhing under his skin. Euphemia and Fleamont have been nothing but kind—encouraging him, supporting him, even letting him pick the sport himself. Not forcing him into something he didn’t want.
And yet here he is, questioning them.
Still, the guilt tugs harder than the fear.
Eventually, Regulus stands.
He pads softly down the hallway, hands shaking slightly. He moves slowly down the stairs, each step measured, his bare feet whispering against the wood. The house is quiet. He stops just at the edge of the living room, peeking in.
Euphemia and Fleamont are curled together on the couch, watching something he doesn’t recognize on the television. The glow from the screen lights up their faces, peaceful and at ease. He rocks on his heels, shifting from foot to foot, before stepping into the room.
They both look over at the same time.
Euphemia’s gaze sharpens with concern, her voice soft but firm. “Sweetheart? Is everything alright?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. He just walks forward, legs heavy, eyes stinging. He climbs into the space between them, curling mostly into Euphemia’s lap. Her arms open instinctively and he folds himself against her, clinging tightly.
His face presses into the crook of her neck, and his voice breaks when he whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Tears spill from his eyes without permission.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, love,” Euphemia murmurs, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles across his back. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”
They stay like that for a long time—him trembling quietly in her arms, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the warmth of her skin. It takes a while, but eventually the tightness in his chest loosens.
When he pulls back, his grip doesn’t lessen. He just shifts enough to see her face.
“I’m really, really sorry,” he says thickly, tears still streaking his cheeks. “I didn’t mean it—I mean, I was really angry and upset and—”
His throat closes. He tries to keep the sob down, taking a few shaky breaths.
“I shouldn’t have been mean to you.”
Euphemia looks at him and nods slowly. “Okay. It’s okay. Why were you upset?”
More tears fall. He sniffles and clings tighter. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice tiny. “I was just having a bad night and wanted to sleep with you and Monty.”
“Okay, kiddo, calm your breathing,” Fleamont says gently. He places a warm hand on Regulus’s back, rubbing slow and steady. “That’s it. Good boy.”
Regulus draws in a few deeper breaths, trying to listen to the rhythm of Monty’s voice. It helps, a little.
Euphemia’s brow furrows softly. “What do you mean you didn’t mean it?”
Regulus swallows, shame curling inside his chest.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to listen to your conversation. About me. About Sirius.”
There’s a flicker of recognition in Euphemia’s eyes. She reaches up and gently wipes the tears from his cheek with her thumb.
“Okay,” she says. Her voice is calm. “What specifically did you hear?”
There’s no anger. No edge. Just a quiet openness that makes Regulus feel like maybe this is safe.
“I heard you say you don’t trust Sirius,” Regulus says quietly. “And something about the police. And that he’s violent.”
He watches both adults stiffen slightly. He winces, but keeps going.
“It got me thinking, and... well... it made me wonder if you even wanted him here in the first place.”
He stares down at his hands, fingers twisting the hem of his pajama shirt. The fabric is damp with tears.
“I know I shouldn’t have listened, but...” he glances up. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“I’m sorry too,” Euphemia says softly.
Regulus blinks. “Why?”
She sighs, reaching to take one of his hands.
“Because I shouldn’t have acted the way I did towards Sirius. I should’ve trusted the process. But...”
She falters, and looks to Fleamont. He picks up the thread.
“People make mistakes, Regulus. Nobody’s perfect. We just have to learn from them. That’s what Effie’s trying to do.”
Regulus nods slowly. Their honesty settles in him like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake—heavy, but solid.
He looks Euphemia in the eyes, uncertain. “So...” he whispers, “you don’t hate me?”
Euphemia’s eyes go wide. “Of course I don’t,” she says quickly, her voice firm, no room for doubt. “I could never hate you, Regulus.”
She brings a hand to his cheek again, thumb brushing away fresh tears.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t be disappointed or upset. But I don’t hate you, love. Not even close.”
Regulus nods, eyes wet. The words fill a hollow space in his chest.
“Okay,” he breathes.
And for once he actually believes it.
***
After talking with Euphemia and Fleamont last night, Regulus feels… better.
Not perfect. Not fixed. But something in his chest feels a little lighter. Like a window opened and fresh air got in. He can breathe again. It doesn’t make the anxiety disappear—not completely. It just shifts. Latches onto something else.
Like this .
His first ever soccer game.
And Regulus is terrified.
His heart has been doing an unsteady tap-dance in his chest since breakfast. His hands are clammy, his socks feel too tight, and every time someone speaks to him, it sounds muffled and distant, like he’s underwater. His uniform itches slightly at the collar and clings a little too snugly to his skin, but he doesn’t complain. He won’t. He’s here. He’s playing.
That has to count for something.
It’s about seven minutes before the game starts when a flicker of dark movement catches his eye from across the field. A familiar mop of extremely curly black hair. Followed closely by pale blonde. Regulus squints. His heart stutters.
Bellatrix and Narcissa?
His stomach flips.
What are they doing here?
For a second, he just stares, stunned. The sun gleams off Narcissa’s hair like spun sugar, and Bellatrix has that same sharp, unpredictable energy she always carries, even now, dressed in regular clothes that don’t quite suit her. His thoughts tumble. Did something happen? Did something go wrong?
But then Narcissa spots him and waves. Bellatrix elbows her and smirks. Nothing looks wrong. They look… normal. Almost happy to be here.
The question still buzzes in his mind as he moves toward them, his boots sinking slightly into the soft grass.
“What are you two doing here?” he asks, breath catching in his throat as he reaches them. He lets Narcissa hug him—it’s gentle, soft, the kind of hug that lets you pull away whenever you need to—but he doesn’t want to. Not yet.
“Well, hello to you, too,” Bellatrix teases, her voice laced with mock offense. Her smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth.
Regulus lets out a small giggle, pulling back from Narcissa and muttering, “Sorry,” to Bellatrix.
She chuckles and pulls him into a brief hug anyway. “It’s alright, Reg,” she says, voice softer now, sincere in a way few people ever get to hear from her. “We heard it was your first soccer match.”
“We wanted to come watch you play,” Narcissa adds, smiling warmly down at him. “I hope that’s okay with you.”
Regulus nods, a flicker of warmth sparking low in his chest. It spreads quickly—pride, surprise, maybe even love. “Yeah, that’s okay. But… how did you know?”
“Oh, Euphemia told us,” Bellatrix answers, clearly pleased with herself.
Regulus’s breath catches again—this time for an entirely different reason. His eyebrows lift. “She didn’t tell me.”
He shakes his head slowly, something strange fluttering in his chest. Euphemia hardly knows Bellatrix and Narcissa. She’s not related to them. There’s no obligation. And yet… she told them. She invited them.
For him .
That thought alone makes his insides twist up in the best way. His chest goes tight with something he doesn’t have a name for. It’s not just that they’re here—it’s why they’re here. Because someone made space for them in his world. Someone who didn’t have to.
Regulus swallows hard.
He reaches for their hands—one in each of his—and starts dragging them across the field toward the stands where Euphemia, Fleamont, and Sirius are already sitting. The sun’s higher now, warming his back, but there’s a cool breeze threading through the air. His skin prickles with nerves, but the dread isn’t as sharp anymore.
“Oh, hey, you made it,” Euphemia says brightly as soon as she spots them. Her smile is full, genuine, and when it lands on Regulus, it softens in a way that makes his face go warm.
“We wouldn’t’ve missed it,” Narcissa says, brushing a hand over Regulus’s shoulder as they arrive.
Regulus lets go of their hands and steps closer to Euphemia. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just throws his arms around her and hugs her tightly, pressing his face against her side.
“Thank you,” he whispers, barely audible. His throat tightens suddenly, the sting of tears rising fast. He swallows against them, hard.
Euphemia kisses the top of his head gently. “No need to thank me, love.”
Regulus pulls back enough to see her face. Her smile is still there, still soft. The kind of smile he’s only ever seen her give him . Not Sirius. Not James. Not even Fleamont. Just him.
And it makes something whirl and flutter in his chest like a thousand tiny wings. It’s hard to look at her. Harder not to.
“Thank you,” he says again, voice a little stronger now. “You really didn’t have to invite them.”
Euphemia chuckles, cradling his face in both hands and kissing his forehead once more. “Of course I did,” she says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. “They’re your family.”
Family.
Yeah. They are.
And just for a split second—just the briefest flash of a thought, so soft and sudden he almost doesn’t catch it—Regulus thinks, so are you.
But before he can sit with that feeling, before he can turn it over in his mind or examine what it means, a loud whistle blows from the field.
“Black! Let’s go!”
Regulus flinches, startled, then turns toward the source. His coach, Frank, waves him over, already motioning the team into place.
He glances back at Euphemia once more, at her beaming face and her wide, proud eyes, then at Bellatrix and Narcissa, who’ve both taken seats beside Sirius. Sirius flashes him a crooked grin and gives him a thumbs-up.
He’s got this.
Notes:
Word Count: 10,257
Published: 2025-07-09Not gonna lie, I kinda hate this chapter... also, I literally wrote like 4 and a half scenes today. We have yesterday's migraine to thank for that lol.
Also, the last scene of this chapter was definitely gonna be longer, but I felt like it should be in the next chapter, or even in other's POV, so I cut it lol.
Also, Marlene's dad feels like a Frank, and her mum feels like an Eleanor. Take that as you wish.
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! I'll see you all next week!!
Chapter 33: How Can They Be So Cruel?
Summary:
After Regulus finds out the Potters initially didn’t want to take Sirius in, it gets Regulus thinking. By Monday, he’s back onto the topic of his brother, and his friends are still acting weird. By the time Friday hits, he has a hunch.
It’s then that he learns just how cruel some people can be.
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
Disclaimer: Google translate was used to translate the French in this chapter. If you know it to be wrong, please let me know, and provide the appropriate translation. Thank you!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He’s been thinking.
And thinking he has.
It’s not every day Regulus takes a step back—to really look , to pull apart the bigger picture the way he does with his favourite puzzles. Usually, he’s too focused on the corners, the edges, the pieces that obviously fit. But lately, there’s something missing. Something that doesn’t click the way it should. And when things don’t make sense—when the pieces won’t fall into place—it drives him mad.
It overwhelms him. Not just the thing itself, but not knowing —not being able to understand .
That’s the worst part.
Because if there’s one thing Regulus has always struggled with, it’s people. Not just talking to them, but understanding them. Their expressions, the curve of their mouths, the way their brows twitch or their voices rise or fall. It all swims around him like a language he was never taught but is expected to speak fluently.
And when he fails at that—when he can’t tell if someone’s angry or joking or disappointed—it makes him hate his brain.
It makes him furious with himself.
He clenches his jaw just thinking about it. The way everyone else seems to just know . The way they laugh at the right moments and comfort at the right times and understand each other without needing a script.
Sometimes, Regulus wishes he were normal.
Not for convenience. Not even to make school easier. But because he wants to connect . He wants to get people. To feel like he's part of the same play everyone else seems to be performing in. To understand the things that come naturally to others.
And yet… sometimes, he does notice things.
Patterns. Small ones.
The way someone’s voice changes when they talk to a certain person. How their shoulders rise when they’re uncomfortable. How someone avoids eye contact when they’re lying. These are the things Regulus can understand. Not all the time. But enough.
It’s like solving a puzzle without the picture on the box. But he can still try.
So yeah. Regulus has been thinking.
Ever since he overheard Euphemia and Fleamont’s conversation—since he realised they didn’t initially want to take Sirius in—he’s been thinking a lot .
And one of the things he’s been thinking about is his friends .
What kind of people are they? What do their patterns look like? If he watches closely enough, will he be able to understand them better? Maybe even understand himself ?
He’s curious. And Regulus is always careful with his curiosity.
It’s Monday—he likes Mondays. They feel neat. Ordered. A beginning. He finds beginnings easier to manage than endings.
He’s sitting in the library now, tucked into a corner table that always smells faintly of ink and old wood. Pandora sits across from him, already flipping through a thick English anthology, her mouth twisting ever so slightly in thought.
They’ve just come from English together, which means she arrived with him. As always.
Dorcas is the next to arrive. She’s quick on Mondays. Her History class is just down the corridor from the library, which Regulus has catalogued as “advantageous proximity.” She slides into the seat beside Pandora with a small wave.
Barty and Evan, on the other hand, take longer. That’s expected. Their Maths class is all the way on the opposite end of the school. Regulus has timed the walk. Eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds, on average.
When they all settle in, conversation starts up quickly—easy, natural. Too natural for Regulus to join in just yet. Instead, he watches. Studies. Observes.
He notices how relaxed they all are—shoulders loose, hands animated, laughter quick to come.
He hones in on Barty. The tension in his shoulders visibly drops the moment Evan speaks to him. Not just any kind of speaking, though. It’s gentle , direct, low enough that it’s clearly meant just for Barty. Regulus files it away. Important.
Dorcas, as always, sits calmly. Her presence is quiet, almost withdrawn, but not from discomfort. Regulus has seen enough to know she chooses her silences. She doesn’t share much. Not about herself. Regulus isn’t sure if it’s shyness or something else entirely. Another note.
Then there’s Pandora. Quiet, yes—but thoughtful in a way that feels active . When someone speaks, she doesn’t just listen; she studies . Eyes tracking every word, weighing them. Then she offers advice. Always the right kind. Regulus wants to learn how to do that.
“You’ve been quiet,” Pandora says suddenly, her voice cutting softly through his thoughts.
Oh. He has? He hadn’t noticed.
“Yeah,” Evan adds, tilting his head. “Is everything alright?”
Regulus blinks, hands still fiddling with the paw of his little black dog keychain. He looks up at them slowly, taking in their faces—open, earnest, full of something he’s just recently learned to identify.
Concern. Concern means care. Laura taught him that.
His chest warms at the realisation. A slow, blossoming heat that creeps up into his cheeks. They care .
“Oh,” he says, voice scratchy with disuse. “I’m fine. Just…”
He trails off, offering a vague shrug.
“You can tell us anything and everything that’s bothering you, Regulus,” Dorcas says gently. Her hand slides over his wrist, thumb tracing slow, steady circles. Comforting. Deliberate.
“Yeah, Regulus,” Barty adds. His voice is lower, softer than usual. It surprises him. “We’re here for you. Remember that.”
Regulus nods once, shyly. “Me too,” he murmurs back. He looks down quickly, embarrassed, and focuses on where Dorcas’s hand is still holding his.
“It’s just, umm…” He exhales shakily. His shoulders slump. He wants to explain, but the words are tangled.
Pandora speaks again, her tone warm and unthreatening. “Do you need to write it down?” she asks. “Would that help? We don’t mind if you do.”
He considers it. Writing sometimes helps. But… not this time.
He shakes his head. A soft “Okay,” comes from her left.
He takes a deep breath and finally says, “I… well, I guess I found something out last week. And I didn’t really know what to do with it.”
Dorcas is quick to respond, her voice hushed. “We did notice you acting a bit weird last week. Especially around Thursday. You seemed pretty upset, but we didn’t want to push you if you weren’t ready to talk.”
She lifts his wrist gently and moves both their hands onto the table, clasping his hand in hers.
“Is this what that was about?” she asks.
Her voice is so soft— so kind—it nearly undoes him.
He nods, throat tight. “Yeah, so…” He swallows, but it doesn’t help. His voice cracks anyway. “Umm, on Wednesday night I… overheard a conversation. Between Effie and Monty.”
He clears his throat, eyes flickering to Barty, who’s already grinning.
“Well, I more like eavesdropped , really,” Regulus admits.
Barty lets out a bark of laughter. “You? Eavesdropping?” He raises an eyebrow, folding his arms with mock disbelief. “Wow. I never would’ve guessed.”
Regulus snorts despite himself. Evan rolls his eyes and gives Barty a sharp whack on the arm.
Barty flops dramatically onto the table, playing dead.
Everyone laughs. It works. The tension in Regulus’s chest loosens just enough for him to keep going.
“Anyways,” he says, trying not to smile too much. “I overheard them talking, and, well… basically, they didn’t want to take Sirius in. Not at first.”
Silence falls again. Heavy this time. It stretches.
Regulus’s pulse thuds in his ears as he looks around. None of them speak. None even move . And the silence—it makes him twitchy. Nervous.
He files away their reactions, even though they unsettle him. They all look… uncomfortable. Sad, maybe. Something he can’t quite name.
Finally, Pandora speaks. Her voice is hushed.
“That’s gotta be… upsetting.”
Regulus nods. “Yeah. It was.”
He glances at each of them again. Their faces are still painted in that strange expression. Not pity, exactly. Not anger either. But something . Something that doesn’t feel good.
And Regulus—careful, cautious, already bracing for more confusion—starts preparing to pick their faces apart, one by one.
Just in case he can learn something from this too.
***
“Monty?” Regulus asks, his voice quiet and laced with nerves as he gently knocks on the frame of Fleamont’s study door.
Fleamont looks up from his laptop, a soft, familiar smile tugging at his lips. There’s nothing performative in it—just warmth, patience, and quiet welcome. “Yeah, kiddo, what’s up?” he says, closing the laptop halfway, a small gesture that feels enormous to Regulus. He’s not being brushed aside. Fleamont is giving him his full attention.
Regulus steps into the study on silent feet, trailing fingers against the edge of the desk as he walks up to where Fleamont sits. The room smells like coffee and parchment, soft and comforting. Fleamont swivels his chair to face him, arms open like he knows —like he always knows—what Regulus needs before he can even ask for it.
Without a word, Regulus climbs into his lap, tucking himself into the offered hug. He curls in close, pressing his face into the crook of Fleamont’s neck, where the warmth is steady and safe. Fleamont’s arms wrap around him, firm and grounding, and a long sigh escapes Regulus’s chest.
“I think my friends hate Sirius,” he whispers, barely louder than a breath.
The words feel heavy—like stones in his mouth—but once they’re out, Regulus doesn’t regret them. He just feels small.
Fleamont’s hand moves gently up and down his back in slow, steady strokes. “That doesn’t sound too good,” he says, a note of concern threading through his tone. It’s not alarmed, not judgmental—just careful. Kind.
Regulus shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to meet Fleamont’s gaze. There’s something new in Monty’s eyes—not surprise, not confusion, but something quieter. Something like… understanding.
“Are you sure?” Fleamont asks softly. “Did your friends actually say that?”
Regulus shakes his head.
Fleamont nods once, slowly, like he’s thinking through each piece. His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from Regulus’s forehead, the touch tender and unhurried. “Well,” he says gently, “what made you feel that way?”
Regulus swallows. His gaze drops from Fleamont’s face to the neckline of his jumper—a soft, dark grey that’s paired with a pale yellow collared shirt underneath. The colours don’t quite match, but they work on him somehow. Familiar. Calm.
“It’s how they get when I mention him,” Regulus murmurs, his fingers absently reaching for the hem of Fleamont’s jumper. The fabric is slightly coarse but comforting beneath his fingertips. “I think they get all tense and stuff, but…”
He trails off, his left hand resting lightly on Fleamont’s shoulder, the other still playing with the edge of the jumper like it holds all the answers he can’t put into words.
Silence settles over them like a blanket. Not the uncomfortable kind—this is the good kind. Safe. The kind Regulus has come to love.
“Hmm,” Fleamont hums thoughtfully after a while. Regulus’s gaze lifts again, drawn instinctively back to the warmth in his voice.
“Do you—” Fleamont starts, pausing to study Regulus with the kind of focus that always makes Regulus feel seen , not watched . His voice softens, careful. “Do you think that maybe you’re having trouble understanding them?”
The question hits like a freight train.
Regulus freezes, blinking. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t even considered it. Something must show on his face—something raw and uncertain—because Fleamont keeps going, voice low and gentle.
“Do you have trouble understanding people?” he asks again. “Their tone, their expressions, body language?”
Regulus tilts his head. Confused. What is Fleamont getting at?
Another soft sigh. “I mean… is it hard for you to tell how someone’s feeling? Or what they mean when they say something in a certain way?”
He nods. Slowly, like his body is answering before his mind can fully keep up. He thinks about how often he guesses wrong. How often he tries to read a room and ends up more confused than before. How it makes him feel broken.
But Fleamont doesn’t look disappointed. He doesn’t even look surprised. He just looks kind.
“I’m just wondering,” Fleamont says, keeping his voice steady, “because… not being able to understand facial expressions or tone or body language—sometimes that’s a part of being Autistic.”
Something shifts in Regulus.
Like a door opening.
Like the gears in his head clicking into place after years of grinding against each other.
All those times people called him weird or dumb or too much. All those moments he hated himself for not getting it. All the shame. The self-loathing. The quiet belief that he was wrong inside.
Maybe he wasn’t.
His eyes widen. The realization overwhelms him— not in a bad way , not like panic—but with a wave of something he doesn’t quite have words for. Relief, maybe. Or something bigger than that.
The tears come fast, stinging his eyes before he can even try to stop them.
“Hey, hey,” Fleamont whispers, arms pulling him closer again, hand rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. “It’s okay, love. You’re okay.”
And he is. For the first time in a long time, he really is.
The tears fall freely now, silent and warm as they slide down his cheeks. He doesn’t try to fight them. He’s safe here. Here, in Monty’s arms, there is no shame. No judgment.
“I—I—I’m not dumb then?” Regulus whispers.
His voice trembles with the weight of the question. With the years of wondering. With the bruises he’s given himself inside his head, again and again.
Fleamont flinches—just slightly, just enough for Regulus to feel it—and something cracks in his voice when he answers.
“Of course you’re not, love,” he says quickly, fervently. “You’re not dumb. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just… built different.”
Built different.
The words echo in Regulus’s chest. They feel heavy and light at the same time. Like something sacred. Like something true.
He presses his face into Fleamont’s shirt, breathing in his cologne. It’s not harsh or expensive or overpowering. It’s soft and musky and comforting. Just Fleamont. Just Monty.
He’s not different in the bad way.
He’s differently built.
Regulus thinks that should hurt, the word different . It always has before. But now, here, in Fleamont’s arms, it doesn’t. Not when it comes from someone who says it like it’s a gift. Like he’s not broken—just made a different way.
He doesn’t know how long they sit like that, just breathing. The tears stop eventually, but the feeling stays. The warmth. The quiet understanding.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, Regulus isn’t trying to hold himself together.
He just is.
And that’s enough.
Ever since that conversation with Fleamont, Regulus has started noticing things. Noticing more .
Things that slip through the cracks. The little shifts in people’s expressions, the ways conversations stumble to a stop the second certain topics are mentioned. He isn’t sure if he’s just more attuned now, or if it’s always been this way and he simply never knew what to look for.
Like how his friends react—every single time Sirius’s name is even remotely brought up.
They get tense. Subtle, but clear. Shoulders pulled just a little higher. Gazes slightly averted. Smiles tight at the corners. Regulus doesn’t think it’s malicious… but he knows they’re hiding something. Or, at the very least, they know something he doesn’t.
And that bothers him. Really bothers him.
The tension’s been building up in his chest for days—coiling tighter and tighter, like a spring that might snap with just the wrong question.
So when Wednesday morning rolls around, right before assembly, Regulus doesn’t mean to say it. But he does.
“Sirius has been acting odd,” he blurts out.
The words are sharp, louder than he meant them to be. They cut through the soft murmur of conversation at their table like glass shattering.
Pandora, Evan, and Barty—Dorcas isn’t there yet—all turn to look at him. Heads tilted, startled. It only takes a second, but Regulus sees it. The way Barty and Evan stiffen. Just slightly. Shoulders tight. Backs straighter. It’s a microexpression, Laura would probably say. But Regulus sees it, and he knows it means something.
Pandora, though, is harder to read. Her expression doesn’t shift much—eyes focused, mouth still, face careful. But her tone is just… off. Not enough for anyone else to notice, probably. But Regulus hears it.
“What do you mean?” she asks. Calm. Controlled. But a touch too careful.
Regulus hesitates, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected to be questioned. He just… needed to say it. To let it out. To see how they’d react. He shifts slightly in his seat, fingers finding the edge of his sleeve to tug at.
“Well,” he mumbles, “he’s been avoiding me.”
He sees it happen again—those flickers of surprise, confusion. All three of them tilt their heads at nearly the same time, eyebrows raised. Not mocking. Just… genuinely confused. Like that’s not the answer they thought he’d give.
“I thought he’d stopped that?” Evan says, frowning a little. His voice is honest, Regulus thinks. Earnest. “Didn’t you say he’d talked to you?”
Regulus shakes his head, the motion small but definite. His shoulders sag slightly under the weight of it.
“No,” he says quietly, a little defeated. “Apart from one conversation, he still hasn’t said anything. He hasn’t looked at me, or even been near me since.”
He tries to keep his voice steady, but the frustration slips out around the edges. There’s a kind of hollow ache in his chest when he talks about it—a bruise that keeps getting pressed, over and over again. Every time Sirius walks by without so much as a glance, it deepens.
They don’t say anything at first.
But Regulus sees it.
The exchanged glances. The unspoken conversation happening in their eyes, behind slightly furrowed brows and tight mouths. Something passes between them—something he’s not part of.
And that’s when the anger starts.
It bubbles low in his chest, slow and hot. Not rage. Not even real anger, maybe. But something sharp and prickly. It rises up and settles under his skin, like static just waiting to spark.
They know. They know something he doesn’t. And they aren’t telling him.
Why?
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He doesn’t want to accuse them, not when he isn’t even sure what he’s accusing them of .
“Have you tried talking to him?” Pandora asks, her voice curious—not suspicious or dismissive. Just gently probing, as if trying to understand it for herself. There's something sincere in her tone that makes the sharpness in Regulus's chest ease a little.
He shrugs. “Not really.”
He knows he should. But he doesn’t know how . Every time he gets close to Sirius now, the words vanish. He freezes. The silence between them is like a wall, and Regulus doesn’t know how to climb it.
“You should,” Barty says, his voice softer than usual—no trace of his usual sarcasm or dramatic flair. “You should try and talk to him, that is. See what’s going on. He shouldn’t still be avoiding you.”
Regulus looks at him for a second—really looks—and Barty’s expression is serious. Genuine.
He nods, slowly. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I will. Thank you.”
They all smile at him, the tension between them beginning to lift. It doesn’t disappear, not fully—but it eases, loosens. And maybe… maybe they don’t hate Sirius after all.
Maybe they’re just waiting for him to figure something out.
But still, something lingers—unspoken, unfinished, just out of reach. And Regulus can’t quite tell if the weight in his chest is fear… or the start of knowing something he doesn’t yet have the words for.
***
Regulus just wants to know why.
Why?
Why has Sirius been avoiding him like he's contagious—like being near Regulus might burn? Why does it feel like there's a thousand miles of silence between them, when they’re only a hallway apart?
His fists are clenched as he walks, his breath sharp and shallow. Thoughts loop in vicious, messy spirals. Was it something he did? Something he didn’t do? Did Sirius find out about something? Is he mad? Is he disgusted? Is he—
The hallway feels longer than it should, each step heavier than the last. He pauses at the doorway, heart pounding against his ribs like a bird trapped in a cage. The door is cracked open, like always—except when Sirius is sleeping or changing. There’s still a quiet invitation in that half-open space, even if it doesn’t feel like it anymore.
He knocks gently on the frame. “Sirius?”
Sirius is sitting on his bed, textbook half-open across his lap. His head snaps toward the sound of Regulus’s voice, and a small smile flickers across his face—but it’s not real. Not really. Regulus sees the way it doesn’t reach his eyes. The way his shoulders go rigid before relaxing, too deliberately.
“Reggie, you alright?” Sirius’s voice is light, almost too light, like he’s trying to pretend nothing’s wrong. Like maybe if he acts normal enough, Regulus won’t notice the heavy tension underneath.
Regulus steps into the room, nodding. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“That’s good,” Sirius whispers, almost to himself.
But it’s not good. It’s not fine. Regulus can’t breathe through the silence that drapes over the room like fog. Each step he takes toward the bed feels like trudging through something sticky, suffocating. His chest tightens the closer he gets.
He studies Sirius’s face. There’s something hollow behind his eyes. Sadness, maybe. Guilt? Regulus isn’t sure. He’s never been able to read Sirius. His big brother has always been the most difficult piece in every puzzle Regulus has tried to solve.
Sirius holds out a hand, and Regulus instinctively takes it. Their fingers slot together. Sirius’s hand is cold. Colder than Regulus expected. It sends a chill crawling down his spine.
“What’s wrong?” Sirius asks gently.
Regulus doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at their joined hands, then back at Sirius, trying—desperately trying—to decode whatever emotion lingers there.
“Nothing’s wrong per se…” he mumbles, his voice tight, hesitant.
“But?” Sirius prompts, raising an eyebrow in that familiar way that always told Regulus he saw through him. Always. It used to be comforting. Now, it feels like a trap.
Regulus sucks in a shaky breath. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
There. He said it. It falls between them like a stone in still water.
Sirius’s eyes flicker—something flashes through them, quick and sharp, before Regulus can catch it. Fear, maybe? No. That’s ridiculous. Sirius has nothing to be afraid of.
He hums. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been doing that.”
That sentence—that word—“guess”—ignites something in Regulus. A match to a leaking gas pipe. The flame roars to life inside him.
“Vous devinez?” Regulus huffs, yanking his hands away like they’ve been burned. He jumps to his feet. “Tu devines ? Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire par ‘tu devines’ ?”
(“You guess?” “You guess? What do you mean, ‘you guess’?”)
Sirius stands slowly, like approaching a wild animal. “Je veux dire,” he says carefully, replying in French, “Je suppose que les choses ont été...”
(“I mean,” “I guess things have been—”)
“Quoi, Sirius ? Comment ça s'est passé ?” Regulus explodes, his voice loud, sharp, raw. The anger bursts from him like steam from a kettle, loud and scalding.
(“Been what, Sirius? What have things been?”)
All of it—his frustration, his confusion, his endless overthinking—finds a target in Sirius. Regulus doesn’t hold back. Can’t hold back.
“Ma petite étoile,” Sirius says, too soft, too calm, like he’s trying to soothe a crying child.
It only enrages Regulus more.
“Ne m’appelle pas comme ça !” he shrieks, fists clenched at his sides, trembling. “Ne m'appelle plus ta « petite étoile » ! Je ne suis plus un bébé, Sirius !”
(“Don’t call me that!” “Don’t call me your ‘little star’! I’m not a baby anymore, Sirius!”)
He flails his hands in the air. Sirius lifts his palms in surrender.
“D'accord, d'accord, Regulus,” he says, backing away slightly. “Et si on se calmait ? Respire profondément avec moi, et on pourrait juste… en parler. Qu'en penses-tu ?”
(“Okay, okay, Regulus,” “How about we calm down, yeah? Take some nice, deep breaths with me, and we can just… talk about it. How does that sound?”)
Regulus lets out a strangled noise—half growl, half sob. “Non! Non! Je ne veux pas!” he screams, stepping forward. Sirius stumbles back, one foot slipping against the carpet.
(“No! No! I don’t want to!”)
“Dis-moi juste pourquoi !” Regulus demands, his voice breaking with the force of it. “Pourquoi m'as-tu évité ? Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait?!”
(“Just tell me why!” “Why have you been avoiding me? What did I do?!”)
“Rien,” Sirius quickly reassures. “Tu n'as rien fait, mon petit—Regulus.”
(“Nothing,” “You’ve done nothing my little—Regulus.”)
His tone is still soft. Still gentle. Still Sirius. And that somehow makes it worse.
“C'est juste…” Sirius sighs, crossing his arms, trying to keep himself steady. “Je suis désolé que tu ressentes ça, Regulus. Je n'ai jamais voulu te faire ressentir ça.”
(“It’s just…” “I”m sorry you feel this way, Regulus. I never meant to make you feel like this.”)
Regulus is shaking now. He’s only just noticed the ache in his jaw from clenching it so tight. His fists hurt, his fingernails having bitten crescents into his palms. His breathing is ragged.
He steps back, barely noticing the way Sirius’s body subtly relaxes as he does.
That—more than anything—adds fuel to the fire.
“Mhm,” Regulus mumbles, low and dangerous.
“Je peux me rattraper, je te le promets.”
(“I can make it up to you, I promise.”)
There it is. The deflection. The change of topic. The non-answer wrapped in a pretty bow.
And Regulus has had enough.
“Fermez-la,” he spits, venom dripping from each word. Sirius flinches—not dramatically, but enough that Regulus sees the flicker of wide-eyed surprise.
“Tu fais toujours ça, Sirius,” Regulus snarls, stepping forward again. “Tu essaies toujours de changer de sujet pour ne jamais avoir à répondre à mes questions. Tu me prends pour un idiot, Sirius ? Tu crois que je ne m'en apercevrais jamais ? Parce que si. Je m'en aperçois, et tu sais quoi ?”
(“You always do this, Sirius,” “You always try to change the conversation so you never have to answer any of my questions. Do you think I’m stupid, Sirius? Do you think I’d never notice? Because I do. I do notice—and you know what?”)
He raises his hands, ready to shove Sirius—to make him feel something—but his wrists are suddenly caught in a firm grip.
“That’s enough,” a voice cuts through the chaos, deep and steady.
Regulus blinks, the world snapping back into focus.
Fleamont.
He stands in the doorway, calm but commanding. His grip isn’t rough. It’s grounding.
Regulus’s rage falters—just a little. But he still shrinks in on himself instinctively. He turns toward Sirius, and for a split second, he sees something in his brother’s eyes.
Fear.
No. No, that can’t be right.
“Regulus,” Fleamont says again, voice firm. There’s disappointment on his face. Regulus feels it like a punch to the gut.
His chest tightens. He wants to argue, wants to say Sirius deserved it, but the look in Fleamont’s eyes roots him to the floor.
“I think you should go to your room, Regulus,” Fleamont says, steady and clear. “Effie and I will be there in a minute to have a chat with you. Understood?”
Regulus nods, eyes burning.
Fleamont gently releases his wrists, and Regulus is startled by the absence of pain. There’s no lingering tightness, no bruising squeeze. Just warmth.
“Do you think you can head to your room?” Fleamont asks again, softer now. Like he doesn’t expect Regulus to be okay on his own. Like he understands.
Regulus’s throat closes. “Yeah,” he croaks.
“Good.” Fleamont reaches up, brushing a curl back from his forehead, and the gesture is so tender that Regulus nearly collapses into him.
“We’ll be there in a moment, kiddo.”
Regulus nods again, faster this time, then bolts from the room.
He catches a glimpse of Euphemia waiting at the entrance of Sirius’s room. Her face is unreadable—but something in it twists his stomach. Shame. Guilt. Dread.
He can’t breathe.
He flees to his room, slamming the door behind him, barely able to hold himself together.
They’re going to stop loving him.
He’s sure of it. He yells at his brother and now they’re going to pull everything away. The good. The safety. The love.
He curls up on his bed, clutching his weighted blanket around him like it can keep everything from falling apart.
They love him. Right?
They do.
Don’t they?
He doesn’t want to go back.
He can’t go back.
His chest heaves, and soon he’s sobbing, hard and fast, breath stuttering in broken gasps as his mind spirals into panic. He tries to focus, to count, to ground himself—nothing works.
He screams into his blanket.
He thinks about Sirius. Thinks about how much he hates him. How much he misses him. How much he wants him to suffer for leaving him behind.
He thinks—
He thinks he wants Sirius to feel the same way he felt all those months.
Alone.
Unwanted.
Forgotten.
And that thought alone makes him sick enough to throw up.
***
Regulus sinks back down into his chair, limbs heavy, like they’re weighed down by more than just gravity. Yesterday… Well, yesterday happened. The memory of it presses against his chest like a bruise. It’s dulled now, but not gone. Just enough to make him feel raw around the edges—hollow, but still burning somewhere deep inside.
He sits stiffly, sagging into the seat like a deflated balloon, arms crossed tight over his chest. The common room around him feels louder than usual, buzzing with early morning chatter. His friends are sprawled in the usual spot, mid-conversation, voices bouncing off one another with ease. He watches them with tired eyes, envy crawling up his throat like ivy.
They’re laughing. Joking. Smiling.
And Regulus feels like he’s behind glass.
He wishes—sometimes more than he can bear—that he could be like them. Carefree. Light. Unburdened. That his brain didn’t churn through every interaction like a problem to solve. That his heart didn’t carry yesterday's feelings like excess baggage. That he wasn’t constantly trying to hold himself together with brittle glue.
“What’s wrong?” Barty asks, head tilted slightly, blue eyes narrowing in concern. He’s the first one to notice this time, and Regulus hates that.
He hates that he’s always the one dragging the mood down. He shouldn’t be. He knows he shouldn’t be. His problems shouldn’t be everyone’s problems.
But still, they leak out of him like ink from a cracked bottle.
“I yelled at Sirius,” Regulus mumbles, voice small, embarrassed. His arms tighten around his chest, defensive even though no one has said anything yet. The memory of last night flickers through his mind, hot and uncomfortable—his voice raised, Fleamont’s hand on his wrist, Euphemia’s expression unreadable.
He swallows hard. He doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to relive it. Feel it.
“What did he do?” Evan asks gently, brows furrowed. He sounds genuinely curious. Concerned.
“He’s been avoiding me,” Regulus says simply.
“Still?” Evan sounded exacerbated, the slightest bit of anger laces within his voice. Weird, Regulus thinks, but decides not to point it out. Instead, Regulus nods once.
They all nod at that, exchanging quiet glances. A few murmured “ah’s” break the silence, soft and nonchalant. Too nonchalant. Regulus watches their faces closely—scanning for anything. A flinch. A glance. A twitch. But there’s nothing obvious.
Nothing he can prove .
Still… something feels off. Off in that way Regulus only ever picks up when he’s paying attention. It’s subtle, like the missing piece of a puzzle. Something just beneath the surface of their expressions. Something in the way Evan doesn’t quite meet his eye. In the way Barty fidgets with a loose thread on his sleeve. Even Pandora, usually so open, feels oddly closed off.
They know something.
“Yeah, okay, fair,” Barty shrugs, interrupting his thoughts. “The dude deserved it.”
“Barty!” Pandora scolds, giving him a sharp look before turning back to Regulus. “Don’t listen to him, Reg. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Yes I do,” Barty retorts, folding his arms.
“I mean,” Evan says, voice careful, “Barty’s right, Panda. Sirius did deserve it. After all, Regulus has been really patient with him.”
“Thank you,” Barty says, flashing Evan a smug smile. Evan just smiles back.
Regulus lets the words wash over him, part of him appreciating their support—and another part shrinking from it. He knows yelling was wrong. He knows he lost control. But… was he wrong to feel angry?
He does feel justified. Even if just a little.
He’s been patient. Too patient. And Sirius kept brushing him off like he didn’t matter. Like none of it mattered.
“Well, we did tell Regulus to give him space,” Dorcas says, not looking up from her book. Her voice is smooth, but there’s weight behind it—measured, thoughtful. “But…” she draws the word out slowly, lifting her head, locking eyes with Regulus. There’s something grounding in her gaze. Something steady.
“That doesn’t give Sirius the right to stay away from him,” she continues. “Just because you, Regulus, were giving him space doesn’t mean you were in the wrong. I’m not saying that yelling at him was a good idea—nor do I think it was right. You definitely should’ve come at it from a different angle instead of yelling at him. But ,” she presses, “it was Sirius’s fault for not taking the initiative first and talking with you.”
Her words settle in Regulus’s chest like a warm stone. Not absolution, but something close. A reminder that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t the only one to blame. That maybe this wasn’t all his fault.
“Thank you, Cas,” he murmurs, voice quiet.
Dorcas smiles at him, soft and kind. It pulls a blush to his cheeks, quick and hot. He ducks his head slightly, biting the inside of his cheek to ground himself.
“You’re welcome, Regulus.”
Still… even with everything Dorcas says—even with how the others seem to support him—Regulus can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else going on. That there’s something they’re not telling him. He watches the way they shift, the way their conversation moves forward just a little too quickly, the way Pandora pulls a book into her lap like she’s trying to escape.
It grates on him. The not-knowing. The pieces that don’t quite fit.
Later, when the group disperses and he’s left with that gnawing itch in his brain, he makes a decision.
He needs answers. And if he can’t get them from his friends… maybe he can get them from James.
James doesn’t lie to him. Not like this. Not with silences and dodged glances and half-hearted “ah’s.”
If something is going on—if there’s something he’s not seeing—James will tell him.
He has to.
Because if there’s one thing Regulus knows for sure, it’s this: he’s tired of being the only one who feels like they’re playing a game without knowing the rules.
And James… James has always played fair.
Regulus walks into James’s room with a sense of purpose that startles even him. There’s a weight in his chest that refuses to budge, a buzzing in his limbs that makes stillness impossible. He doesn’t hesitate as he pushes the door open, doesn’t pause to second guess what he’s about to say. The determination anchoring him feels… foreign, but oddly comforting. He holds on to it tightly, like a rope in a storm.
“James?” Regulus calls out softly, the question perched on the tip of his tongue, already aching to spill.
James turns at the sound of his name, and his grin doubles in size, bright and golden as ever. It would normally make Regulus smile back— used to make him smile back—but not this time.
“Regulus!” James says, his voice booming with that usual joy, as if he’s just been handed something brilliant. But then, he falters. Regulus watches it—the shift in James’s expression. The smile tugs, then stills, his brow furrowing slightly. “Everything alright?”
“Not really,” Regulus shrugs, stepping inside. His legs carry him to the bed like muscle memory. He sits without asking. He never has to ask.
James doesn’t mind. He never has.
It reminds Regulus—painfully—of Sirius. How Sirius never cared where Regulus sat or stood, as long as he was there . How Sirius always made room. How Sirius used to listen without needing to fix anything. James is… just like him . That same warm presence, that same grounding voice.
Regulus clenches his jaw and shakes the thought off violently. He doesn’t want to think about that. About them . Not now. Not when the lines between them blur too easily. Not when James feels too much like a brother. His brother.
He shudders, folding his arms tight over his stomach.
“What’s wrong?” James asks, mimicking Regulus’s tone but adding something else—genuine concern. That gentle, big-hearted worry that Sirius also used to have.
No. Stop it . They’re nothing alike.
Warm, steady hands wrap around his own, pulling his fingers away from the hem of his pyjama shirt. Regulus hadn’t even realised he was twisting it. He sighs, his gaze drifting up to James, already starting to unravel.
“It’s just… my friends,” he mumbles. The words feel clumsy in his mouth. Slippery. He doesn’t know how to explain it, not without sounding paranoid or dramatic. Or worse—needy.
“What do you mean, your friends?” James tilts his head, and Regulus watches him closely. Watches the way his face shifts—just a little, just enough. An emotion flickers in James’s eyes, sharp and familiar. Regulus has seen it in Sirius a thousand times: a sudden, protective spark.
“Did something happen? Did they hurt you? Because I swear if they did—”
“No, no, no. Nothing like that, James.” Regulus cuts him off quickly, the tiniest flutter warming in his chest at the sound of James’s anger. The way it’s for him. The way he leaps to defend him without hesitation.
Just like Sirius would.
No. Regulus pushes the thought down again.
James relaxes slightly, leaning back. “Okay, okay. Sorry. Just… tell me what happened.”
Regulus nods, drawing in a breath to steady himself. “I told them about the fight I got into with Sirius—well, it wasn’t really a fight. More like… me yelling at him, and Sirius trying to calm me down.”
James nods slowly. “Okay,” he says, prompting him to continue.
“Yeah, um… anyway, I told them that, and they said Sirius deserved it. That he deserved me yelling at him.” Regulus frowns. “Cas said we were both kind of wrong, but she didn’t deny it either. And neither did Panda, if I’m being completely honest.”
James hums low in his throat, processing. Regulus can practically see the gears turning in his head. Before James can respond, Regulus finds himself needing to say more, needing to get it out before it eats him alive.
“It just felt like… like I was missing something, James.” Regulus’s voice lowers. “You know my friends. Am I missing something? Because they act like they hate Sirius. Like he’s done something to deserve it. But they’ve barely even talked to him. They’ve met him once. And that… that doesn’t feel like enough.”
He looks James in the eye, waiting for the answer he knows won’t come.
And sure enough, James bites the inside of his cheek. His eyes dart slightly, his jaw clenching like he’s holding something back.
Regulus feels it, feels the frustration rise up in his chest like steam. His stomach tightens, his hands twitch. It’s all right there , on the edge of something, and James won’t give it to him.
“And you know what’s worse?” Regulus’s voice cracks. “I believed them. I believed he deserved it. I believed that me yelling at him was the right thing to do. Because that’s how I felt. Like he’d earned it.” Regulus takes a breath. “But now? Now I feel guilty for thinking that. But…”
He trails off, swallowing around the lump building in his throat. James’s expression softens, but it’s not the softness Regulus wants. It’s not comfort. It’s pity .
He hates pity.
It makes him feel like a child. Like a baby who doesn’t understand the world.
“You still feel like he deserved it?” James asks, quietly filling the silence Regulus leaves behind.
Regulus nods, blinking hard against the tears prickling behind his eyes.
James leans forward, wrapping an arm around Regulus’s shoulders, drawing him close. Regulus leans in, lets his head fall to James’s shoulder. He breathes him in. Warmth. Safety. Familiarity. A scent that’s just James. Comforting in its own way.
He soaks it in. Holds onto it like a lifeline.
When he finally pulls back, he feels steadier. Just a little. James looks at him— really looks at him—and his face is pinched. Like he’s biting back a truth that wants to claw its way out.
Regulus furrows his brows, confused.
“Look, Reg…” James starts, voice cautious. His teeth press into his lip. “I can’t tell you why your friends are acting this way.”
Regulus freezes.
“But what I can tell you,” James continues, leaning forward, hands gripping Regulus’s shoulders now, grounding him, “is that you shouldn’t feel guilty for yelling at Sirius. In my opinion, he deserved it. After all, he is—”
James stops. Cuts himself off. The words hang in the air, unfinished. Regulus perks up, catching the hesitation. Clinging to it. But James stays quiet.
And something inside Regulus twists.
He thought James wouldn’t keep things from him. Thought James was different . Was safe.
Apparently, he was wrong.
James sighs heavily. “Back to your friends,” he says. “I don’t know why they’re acting like this. Well… actually, I might have some ideas, but…” he shakes his head, brushing it off.
“Anyway. The point is: yes, your friends probably do hate Sirius. And maybe they have a good reason. Sirius shouldn’t be trusted, okay? He’s not…” James’s eyes meet his, sharp and serious. “Sirius isn’t a good person, Regulus. He’s done things. And your friends? They know . I just want you to be careful, alright? I just want you to be safe.”
Regulus stares at him, heart pounding in his ears.
He doesn’t understand.
What does that mean— Sirius can’t be trusted ?
What does James mean, he’s not a good person ?
What things has Sirius supposedly done?
And why—why is everyone keeping secrets from him?
Questions claw at his brain, frantic and fast, too quick to chase down. His head spins. He feels like he’s grasping at shadows, trying to read between lines he can’t even see .
He wants to scream. Or cry. Or punch something.
James isn’t telling the truth.
James is lying to him.
Just like everyone else.
Regulus clenches his fists, nails digging into the soft skin of his palms. The pain helps. A little.
He forces a smile, thanks James quietly, and leans in for a quick hug before slipping out of the room, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Once outside, he exhales a shaky breath and shoves his hands into his sleeves. He feels like the whole world is hiding something from him, like he’s the only one left in the dark.
And he’s done with being kept in the dark.
He’s going to find out the truth.
No matter what it takes.
***
Regulus is on edge.
No—he’s past the edge. He’s clinging to it by his fingernails, breath tight in his chest, every muscle coiled and trembling. There’s static in his skull and a fire crawling beneath his skin, hot and hungry, aching for somewhere to go. He’s a ticking time bomb, seconds from going off. And, of course, he explodes at the one person who lit the fuse.
“Hey,” Sirius says, leaning against the doorframe to Regulus’s room, casual as ever. “What’s up? You seem a bit… off.”
Wrong thing to say , Sirius.
Regulus turns sharply, the fury in him catching like a match struck to dry tinder. His stare is a weapon—sharp, cutting. Sirius straightens instinctively, recognition flickering in his eyes as he takes in Regulus’s expression. He’s seen it before. This rage. This helplessness dressed up in violence.
“Quoi de neuf?” Regulus grits out, slamming his book closed with such force it echoes through the room. He rises from the bed slowly, deliberately, his movements tense and electric. “Quoi de neuf ? Je vais te dire ce qui se passe. Toi. C'est toi qui es ce qui se passe.”
(“What’s up?” “What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up. You. You’re what’s up.”)
He steps forward, fists clenched at his sides. Sirius raises his hands like he’s trying to calm a wild creature.
“Écoute, Reggie, j'ai besoin que tu respires,” Sirius says gently. He always tries to be gentle. Too gentle. “Que dirais-tu d'un gros câlin ? Je sais que tu aimes ça quand tu te sens comme ça.”
(“Look, Reggie, I need you to breathe,” “How about a bear hug, huh? I know you like those when you’re feeling like this.”)
“Vous vous sentez comme ça ?” Regulus breathes out, low and dark. “Tu ne sais pas ce que je ressens, Sirius.”
(“ Feeling like this? ” “You don’t know what I’m feeling, Sirius.”)
“Non?” Sirius sounds soft. Soft and safe and infuriating . He steps forward, cautious, hands reaching to rest on Regulus’s shoulders. His touch is barely there—too careful, too light, like he thinks Regulus will break.
It only makes the fire roar higher.
“Alors pourquoi ne pas s’asseoir et en discuter, d’accord ?”
(“Then why don’t we sit down, and talk it out, yeah?”)
Regulus shrugs him off violently, shoving Sirius back. The contact sends him off balance, just for a second, enough to make Sirius stumble.
“Non!” Regulus shouts, voice slicing through the air. “Je suis parfaitement capable de parler de mes émotions sans être choyée ou… ou dorlotée, Sirius !”
(“I am perfectly capable of talking about my emotions without being coddled or—or babied, Sirius!”)
Sirius catches his footing and straightens, his own posture locking into something stiffer. His expression tightens in that way Regulus knows—just before Sirius loses his calm.
“Très bien, très bien,” Sirius says flatly. “Mais il n’y a aucune bonne raison de me bousculer, compris ?”
(“Alright, fine,” “But there’s no good reason to be pushing me around, got it?”)
“Bien,” Regulus spits, arms crossed tightly over his chest, pressing into himself so he doesn’t lash out again. But the rage is still boiling. Every second he looks at Sirius makes it worse.
“Alors qu’est-ce que je ne comprends pas ?” Sirius asks, trying to steady things, his voice quieter now. “Qu'est-ce que tu ressens que je ne pourrais pas comprendre ?”
(“So what don’t I get?” “What are you feeling that I could possibly not understand?”)
Regulus doesn’t even hesitate.
“ Haine. ”
The word is sharp. It pierces the room like glass shattering. Sirius flinches. Not dramatically, but enough that Regulus sees it. Sees the wound open beneath the surface. Sirius tries to cover it—eyebrow arching like he’s asking who he means.
Regulus smiles. Cruel. Cold.
“Toi.”
Sirius’s eyes widen. Regulus watches it sink in, watches his brother’s expression collapse in slow motion. He’s hit his mark.
Regulus’s voice drops, low and biting. “Oh, ouais. Je te déteste, Sirius.”
(“Oh, yeah. I hate you, Sirius.”)
He takes another step forward, and Sirius swallows hard—too quickly. Regulus doesn’t miss it.
“Je te déteste, Siri. Je te déteste tellement.”
(“I hate you, Siri. I hate you so much.”)
Sirius exhales shakily. “D'accord,” he whispers. His hands reach out again, trembling now, settling on Regulus’s shoulders. His grip is light, but unsteady. Like he’s barely keeping himself upright.
“D'accord. D'accord. Euh…” Sirius clears his throat, but his voice cracks as he continues. “What have I done to upset you, Reggie?”
(“Okay. Alright. Umm…” “What have I done to upset you, Reggie?”)
Regulus freezes.
His voice cracked. Sirius never lets that happen. He always hides everything behind charm and bravado and practiced indifference. They were taught to hide—taught to protect the softest parts of themselves.
But now Sirius’s mask is slipping. And it throws Regulus off.
For the briefest second, he forgets why he’s angry.
Then it comes crashing back.
“Tu m'as menti,” Regulus spits. “You kept things from me. You made the Potters— James —and even my friends hate you. And I don’t even know why , Sirius.”
(“You lied to me,” “You kept things from me. You made the Potters— James —and even my friends hate you. And I don’t even know why, Sirius.”)
The fury resurfaces in full, surging through him, pulling the words out like a dam breaking.
“Mes amis te détestent !” Regulus yells. “Ils te détestent, et je ne sais même pas pourquoi ! Je leur ai dit que je t'avais crié dessus, et tu sais ce qu'ils ont répondu ? Ils ont dit que tu le méritais ! Depuis ton arrivée, je n'ai fait que te faciliter la vie. Je t'ai laissé de l'espace. Je t'ai laissé t'adapter. J'ai fait de mon mieux pour ne pas te forcer…”
(“My friends hate you!” “They hate you, and I don’t even know why! I told them I yelled at you and do you know what they said? They said you deserved it! All I’ve ever done since you got here was try to make it easy. I gave you space. I let you adjust. I tried so hard not to push you—”)
His voice cracks this time. The fuzziness in his head creeps into his vision. His breath stutters.
“Sais-tu ce que j'obtiens en retour ?”
(“Do you know what I get in return?”)
Sirius’s eyes are wide. Wet. “Qu'as-tu eu, Regulus ?”
(“What did you get, Regulus?”)
Regulus doesn’t hesitate.
“Je comprends que tu m'évites !” he screams. “Tu m'as évité ! Je t'ai laissé de l'espace parce que je pensais que c'était ce dont tu avais besoin ! Et tout ce que j'ai eu en retour, c'était des mensonges ! Des excuses !”
(“I get you avoiding me!” “You avoided me! I gave you space because I thought that’s what you needed! And all I got back were lies! Excuses !”)
Sirius steps back, visibly shaken. “Écoute, Reg, je suis désolé-”
(“Look, Reg, I’m sor—”)
“ Non! ” Regulus’s shout cracks through the room like thunder. “Tu n'as pas le droit d'être désolé ! Tu n'as pas le droit de t'excuser !”
(“You don’t get to be sorry! You don’t get to apologise !”)
His chest rises and falls in erratic, gasping breaths. His hands are shaking at his sides. “Et ce ne sont pas seulement mes amis,” he hisses. “Les Potter te détestent aussi. James te déteste.”
(“And it’s not just my friends,” “The Potters hate you too. James hates you.”)
He steps forward again, tone dropping to something venomous.
“Même nos parents te détestent.”
(“Even our parents hate you.”)
Sirius flinches like he’s been struck. Regulus watches it with grim satisfaction. Arms folded, victorious. He’s already won—but it isn’t enough.
“Regulus,” Sirius croaks, his voice a broken whisper. His eyes are glossy, mouth trembling. His face is nothing but pain and love . Love that Regulus has never doubted. Not really.
But today? Today he hates it.
“Tu ne veux pas dire ça,” Sirius pleads. “Tu ne peux pas le penser. Tu m'aimes. Tu es juste contrarié. Alors pourquoi ne pas…”
(“You don’t mean that,” “You can’t mean it. You love me. You're just upset. So why don’t we—”)
He tries to gently guide Regulus toward the bed, but Regulus pulls away violently. “Ne me touche pas !”
(“Don’t touch me!”)
Sirius’s hands drop like they’ve been burned.
“Et je ne suis pas en colère !” Regulus screams. “Je te déteste, Sirius ! Je te déteste ! Tu as ruiné ma vie ! J'aurais aimé ne jamais t'aimer !”
(“And I’m not upset!” “I hate you, Sirius! I hate you! You ruined my life! I wish I never loved you!”)
He’s shaking, he’s shouting, he’s breaking open at the seams.
“Je te déteste ! Je te déteste ! Je te déteste !”
Footsteps thunder up the stairs. Regulus lunges, but arms wrap around him from behind before he can reach Sirius again.
“ Je te déteste, Sirius ! ” Regulus screams. “J'aurais préféré ne pas te supplier de vivre ici ! Va-t'en ! Je ne veux plus jamais te revoir ! Je te déteste !”
(“I hate you, Sirius!” “I wish I didn’t beg for you to live here! Go away! I never want to see you again! I hate you!”)
The arms around him lift him off the floor, hold him tightly. He thrashes, kicks, claws. He doesn’t care who it is. He just needs them to let go .
“Regulus.”
The voice is low, firm. Familiar. But Regulus doesn’t stop.
“Regulus,” the voice says again—gentler now. Fingers stroke through his hair, grounding him. His breath stutters again. Not out of rage this time. Out of confusion. Exhaustion.
“Regulus?”
The voice again. Softer. Worried.
Fleamont.
Regulus slowly stops thrashing. He goes limp against the warmth of Fleamont’s body. The thumb rubbing the back of his neck. The quiet, steady heartbeat under his cheek.
He closes his eyes, drawing in a breath. Fleamont smells like cologne and warm fabric and something safe . It doesn’t uncoil all the tension, but it slows the fire to embers.
Fleamont pulls him back slightly, searching his face. “What happened, bud?” he asks softly. “That’s the second time you’ve yelled at Sirius. What’s going on?”
Regulus opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat burns.
“I—” he croaks, and then stops again. His tongue is heavy. His thoughts scattered.
He looks at Fleamont, desperation in his eyes.
“I—I—”
Fleamont’s hand settles on his cheek. “You don’t know how to talk about it?” he guesses gently.
Regulus nods.
Fleamont just exhales quietly and nods too. “Well,” he says, stroking Regulus’s hair again, “you’ve got Laura tomorrow. Maybe you can try talking to her about this—whatever it is. Yeah?”
Regulus nods again.
Silence folds around them like a thick blanket. Then the bedroom door opens and shuts.
Euphemia walks in, her face unreadable. But Regulus sees it.
The disappointment.
His stomach turns.
She approaches, kneels beside them on the bed, and brushes his hair back gently. Her fingers trail across his cheek. “Sweetheart,” she says softly, her hand falling to her lap. She sighs, long and tired. “I don’t understand. Is something going on? Are you feeling emotions that feel too big for your body?”
Regulus swallows. Maybe. Maybe he is. He’s never felt this before. Not like this. Not toward Sirius. Not toward anyone, really.
Euphemia’s gaze lingers. “Can you tell us what the fight was about?”
Regulus burrows deeper into Fleamont’s chest. He says nothing. Because how can he tell her? How can he admit he screamed at his brother, said he hated him, wished he hadn’t loved him?
The guilt creeps in like a tide—slow but unstoppable. It clings to his skin. Fills his lungs.
Maybe he is too small for all of this.
Maybe he was never meant to feel so much at all.
***
It’s just a hunch.
A simple, persistent thing. A whisper at the back of his mind that clings to him with cold, skeletal fingers. A suspicion that refuses to leave, that burrows into the space between heartbeats and makes his stomach twist.
Regulus doesn’t know why he has this hunch—maybe it’s the way his friends keep glancing at one another when Sirius is mentioned. Maybe it’s the too-casual shrugs, or the way the air around them tightens when his brother comes up. Maybe it’s the way no one ever asks about Sirius, even when Regulus brings him up.
He doesn’t know why —he just knows it’s there. Heavy and pressing.
After last night’s explosion—his voice raw from screaming, his chest hollow from everything he said—Regulus can’t stop thinking about the one thing he never asked.
Why do they hate him?
He’s hoping—praying—it was a misunderstanding. That the words they said yesterday were just badly timed, clumsy attempts at comfort. He still wants to believe they don’t hate Sirius. That he imagined it.
His heart races as he reaches the library, doesn’t even wait to sit down in his usual spot before letting his bag drop against the desk with a heavy thud .
He barely hears the echo before blurting out, “Do you lot hate Sirius?”
There’s no warning. No preamble. Just the question—direct and undeniable—ripping itself from his throat like a gash.
Four pairs of eyes snap to him at once.
Regulus’s breath hitches as their faces freeze. He scans them, searching—desperate—for denial, for laughter, anything that tells him he’s wrong.
But he’s not.
Barty scoffs, leaning back in his chair like this whole thing is ridiculous. “Why would you ask us that?”
Regulus stares at him, blinking slowly. He swallows. His voice is low. “Well, do you?”
Evan crosses his arms, jaw tense. “If we said yes, will you drop it?”
It’s not a yes . But it’s not a no , either.
It’s enough to make the edges of Regulus’s world start to blur.
Something inside his chest seizes. He feels suddenly far too warm—like his body is heating from the inside, boiling under his skin. He sways a little where he stands, trying to keep his balance. Trying to breathe .
“Why?” he whispers. The word barely escapes. His throat is dry, his mouth full of cotton.
There’s a sigh— Pandora . Regulus’s eyes snap to her, and when he sees her expression, his stomach twists. There’s guilt in her eyes. Hesitation. And pity.
He has never felt more betrayed.
“There’s something about him, Regulus,” she starts gently. Her voice is soft, but it feels like it cuts him clean open. He instinctively takes a step back. She rushes on, like she’s trying to smooth it over. “I—I mean, Regulus, what would you expect us to think? We had this weird feeling about him that was later confirmed by James—”
His heart stutters.
James?
James told them something ?
His vision spins. That doesn’t make sense. Why would James say anything? What did he say?
“Regulus,” Dorcas jumps in, clearly trying to be careful with her words. “When we met him, something wasn’t right. There’s this feeling we all got. Like… danger. It’s hard to explain, but it was strong . We couldn’t ignore it.”
“So we asked James,” Pandora continues, “And… well, we don’t know if you know, Regulus, but… your brother was in juvie.”
Regulus stills.
The word echoes.
Juvie.
He can’t move. He can’t think . It’s as if someone’s yanked the ground from beneath him. A loud, ringing silence fills his ears. He hears the word over and over and over again. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense .
Sirius said he was with a bad family before. Said it wasn’t safe. Said—
His legs tremble. The room tilts sharply.
I need to breathe. He sucks in a breath through his nose. No air.
He tries again. It sticks in his throat.
His chest tightens—hot and sharp and unbearable—and he clutches at it instinctively. His heartbeat pounds like a war drum. His skin feels too tight, too loud . His fingers go numb.
The room dulls. Everything pulls away, like he’s underwater. His limbs are heavy, but everything is too bright . Colours blur at the edges of his vision—shapes and shadows shifting. He sways again.
He’s going to pass out .
Hands touch him.
Strong, steady arms wrap around him, grounding him. Holding him firm against a familiar chest. Someone slightly taller than him, warm and solid.
Regulus sinks into it without thinking. His head drops. His body shakes. His fingers curl into fabric.
And then—
A voice.
So soft it cuts through the static like a thread of gold.
“Bonne nuit, cher trésor… ferme les yeux et dors…”
(“Good night, dear treasure… close your eyes and sleep…”)
The song filters into his ears, worn smooth with memory. He knows this. His body knows this.
“Laissez votre tête s’envoler, au creux de votre oreiller…”
(“Let your head fly away, in the hollow of your pillow…”)
Sirius.
Sirius is holding him. Sirius is singing to him.
That lullaby—the one Sirius used to hum when Regulus was too scared to sleep. When nightmares clawed through their childhood and Sirius was the only one who knew how to chase them away.
“Un beau rêve passera… et tu l’attraperas…”
(“A beautiful dream will pass… and you will catch it…”)
The words fall around him like mist. Sirius rocks them gently, back and forth, his breath warm against Regulus’s hair.
Regulus lets his eyes flutter closed.
He clings. Not just to Sirius, but to the sound of the song, the familiar rhythm, the comfort he’s too proud to ask for. His lungs finally pull in shaky breaths. It hurts at first—but then the air stays .
His fingers are still trembling, but his heart slows. Sirius doesn’t stop singing. The lullaby repeats again and again, soft and steady, like a promise.
By the time Regulus can breathe evenly again, Sirius has sung it five times.
It’s enough to quiet the chaos. Not erase it—but mute it. Dull the sharp edges.
Memories float up, unbidden. Shared bunk beds. Whispered words in the dark. A brother who always came running.
Regulus doesn’t know whether to cherish them or run from them.
When he finally lifts his head, Sirius is looking at him—tender and patient and so full of something Regulus can’t name.
“Tu te sens un peu mieux, ma petite étoile ?” Sirius asks, voice like warm honey.
(“Are you feeling a bit better, my little star?”)
Regulus nods wordlessly. His throat feels raw.
Sirius squeezes him gently, then lets go. His hand lingers on Regulus’s arm, featherlight, as if waiting to make sure he’s steady.
Embarrassment prickles Regulus’s cheeks as he glances around.
They’re still in the library.
He wants to disappear.
Sirius’s hand rests lightly on his elbow, guiding him without pushing. “You wanna go home, ma très chère étoile ?”
Regulus hums, unable to summon the words. All he knows is that he can’t stay here.
“Okay,” Sirius whispers, leading him out of the library, away from the weight of those stares, toward the hallway that leads to the guidance counselor’s office.
The scent hits him the moment they step inside.
Too sweet. Too strong.
The usually calming mix of lavender and vanilla-scented candles clogs his nose. It makes his stomach twist. He nearly gags.
“Ah, Regulus,” Ms. Carrington says brightly as she steps out from her office. Her expression falters the second she sees his face. “Everything alright?”
Regulus opens his mouth, but no sound comes.
Sirius jumps in. “No, Miss. Umm… I was wondering if we could call the Potters?”
Ms. Carrington nods. “Of course. For early pick-up?”
“Yes, please,” Sirius says softly.
He guides Regulus to a seat and sits beside him—close but not crowding.
Regulus leans back in the chair, heart still fluttering like moth wings inside his ribs. His hands twitch in his lap, nails digging into his palms. There’s still a weight on his chest, and his thoughts are jumbled.
But one thought keeps pressing through the fog, over and over again:
They lied to me.
James lied. His friends lied. Or someone did. And Regulus is finally starting to realise—
He’s completely in the dark.
Time flies by—well, that’s what people say at least. But in Regulus’s head, it doesn’t fly . It screams .
Every thought is sharp and loud and relentless. Questions whirl around him like a hurricane—crashing, pulling, drowning. They’re loud, so loud, and he can’t focus, can’t think, can’t breathe . His hands tangle in his hair without conscious thought, tugging hard, scratching at his scalp as if he can pull the thoughts out of his brain by force.
He wants them gone .
“Regulus,” Sirius says gently, stepping closer. He doesn’t say much—just takes Regulus’s hands carefully in his own and weaves their fingers together, grounding him with the familiar weight, the familiar warmth.
Regulus’s grip is tight. Desperate. Sirius squeezes back, like he knows exactly how to answer without saying a word.
Then Euphemia arrives—soft footfalls, quick but not rushed. There’s always something about her presence that quiets a room without even trying. Sirius whispers something to him— “I’ll see you soon” —and Regulus lets him go, barely tracking when he does.
He doesn’t remember getting to the couch. Doesn’t remember curling into Euphemia’s side. But he’s there now. Wrapped in her arms like a blanket, her palm against his back, her chin resting atop his head. He’s shaking, body still catching up with everything, but the storm that overtook him earlier has been replaced again by the thing that always lingers beneath.
Anger.
Hot and sour in his gut.
James.
James lied . James told his friends something. Something that made them hate Sirius. None of them gave Sirius a chance—not a single one.
He feels sick.
Euphemia holds him tighter as if she can feel the heat radiating off him, as if she knows just how close he is to shattering again.
The sound of the front door unlocking rips through the room like thunder.
Regulus jerks upright.
His eyes zero in on the hallway.
There—standing at the edge of the living room—is James.
And Sirius. Off to the side. Watching.
But Regulus only sees James .
Everything comes crashing down the moment their eyes lock. His breath catches, then bursts free in a guttural sound. He springs to his feet, launching away from Euphemia, barely hearing her startled noise.
And then he’s moving . Running at James.
The world shrinks down to rage . To betrayal . To the rush in his ears and the way his vision narrows like a tunnel.
Shouts fill the room—Euphemia, Sirius, maybe Fleamont—but none of it registers. Someone grabs him—arms wrap tight around his middle, pulling him back—someone steps in front of James.
Regulus screams .
The pressure in his chest boils over. Something inside him breaks .
He thrashes against the hands holding him, kicking, squirming, flailing until he breaks free. He barely knows what he’s doing, just that he has to get it out . The heat. The noise. The everything .
He grabs the nearest object—something soft, a pillow maybe—and hurls it with everything he has. Then a photoframe. A lamp. Something shatters—glass against wood. A crash echoes in his ears. He doesn’t stop.
He can’t.
His throat burns as he screams. Not words. Just sound . Wild and raw and primal. His limbs feel too long, his hands can’t stop moving, his breath punches out of him in panicked gasps as he rips something from the coffee table and throws it again.
More screaming. More crashing.
The world is too much— too bright, too loud, too wrong . His chest is collapsing in on itself, everything spinning out of control.
He drops to the floor with a heavy thud, knees slamming into hardwood.
And screams .
He screams until his voice is hoarse, until his throat is raw and useless. His sobs are loud, violent, his shoulders jerking with every breath. He cries so hard it feels like his entire body is trying to turn itself inside out. Like his skin can’t hold him in anymore.
Then—
Warmth.
Arms gather him up off the ground, slow and careful. A steady pressure surrounds him, anchoring him, pressing in from all sides. The weight of it makes his chest ache with relief.
He knows this touch.
He lets out a long, rattling sob and melts into it.
He cries until the tears stop coming. Until his lungs give up and all he can do is breathe in ragged, shaking gasps. He cries until he can’t tell the difference between fury and grief and shame anymore—until they’ve all blurred into the same aching throb inside his chest.
“ You’re okay, ” Euphemia whispers against his temple. Her voice is so gentle. “ Everything’s going to be okay. ”
Regulus sniffles, his breathing jagged and uneven. He brings a trembling hand to his face, trying to scrub away the wetness, but it’s useless.
“ That’s it, sweetheart, ” she soothes, her palm running along his back. “ Let it all out. I’ve got you. ”
He collapses into her, arms wrapping tight around her shoulders, clinging like a lifeline. “M—Effie—” he chokes out, barely able to form the syllables. More sobs erupt from him, unstoppable.
“ Effie— ” he whines, broken and breathless, burying his face in her neck.
He’s hurting. He doesn’t understand it—doesn’t know why it hurts so much—but it does. It hurts in a way that feels too big for his body. Too complicated for words.
This is the kind of pain a child is supposed to cry about in their mother’s lap.
Is Effie his mum?
She rocks him gently. Shushes him. Her lips press soft kisses to his damp cheeks. One hand strokes through his hair, the other pressed firm against his back, grounding him.
There’s another hand now. A second presence. Warm, calloused knuckles rubbing slow, careful lines up and down his spine.
Fleamont.
Regulus exhales shakily, caught in the middle of them both.
“It’s okay, love,” Euphemia whispers again, brushing her lips to his temple. “You’re safe. You’re okay.”
His breathing hitches again. He grips Euphemia tighter, crawling further into her lap like he wants to curl into her ribs and disappear inside her. His fingers clutch at her jumper, nails biting into the wool.
He knows he’s too old to be held like this.
He doesn’t care.
He squeezes his eyes shut and lets himself feel it all—every stroke of her hand through his hair, every pass of Fleamont’s palm against his back. The heat of their bodies. The steady, wordless comfort of people who stay .
His brain slows down.
Bit by bit.
He’s safe. He’s safe in their arms.
He’s safe—
But he still doesn’t understand.
Regulus isn’t sure how long it takes for him to come up for air.
It’s like surfacing from deep water—his body heavy, limbs slow, mind buzzing with static. His cheek is damp against Euphemia’s collarbone, her jumper scratchy but warm beneath his skin. He can still feel the dried salt tracks on his face, the soreness in his throat, the ache behind his eyes. But it’s quieter now. Not silent, not peaceful—but quieter.
Pulling back from where he’s been tucked safely against her neck, Regulus blinks slowly. His thoughts have stopped spiraling. His chest isn’t rising and falling quite as frantically. There’s still a rawness to him, like he’s just walked through fire barefoot, but—
He feels better.
He always feels better when he lets himself shut down, lets his brain stop spinning long enough to breathe again. To recharge .
“You with us, love?” Euphemia’s voice is soft and low, the kind of sound that feels like a blanket pulled over him. Like the lullaby Sirius sang to him earlier.
Regulus nods wordlessly, and when he lifts his gaze, he catches a small, warm smile stretching across her face. It’s that kind of smile that makes his throat sting all over again.
“That’s good, sweetheart.”
She loosens her arms enough that he can shift, and he eases back just a bit, settling between her and Fleamont. Their bodies stay close—arms brushing, knees touching. It’s comforting. Grounding.
The silence stretches, but it isn’t heavy. It’s just there, like something waiting patiently.
Then Fleamont speaks, his voice low and full of something quiet and worried. “You scared us quite a bit there, son.”
The word son hits Regulus harder than it should. He flinches, barely perceptible, but enough.
He can’t look at them anymore. His eyes scan the room, darting around like they’re doing damage control. When he sees the mess—shattered picture frames, splintered wood, books scattered across the floor—his breath catches painfully in his throat.
He did that. He did that.
He’s a tornado that tears through everything good. Just like always.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Fleamont asks gently. His hand settles on the back of Regulus’s head, a soft, grounding pressure.
Regulus finally looks up at him.
Then freezes.
Red scratch marks claw across Fleamont’s neck—angry, inflamed, raw. Regulus stares, eyes wide, stomach flipping.
Did I do that?
He has to have. No one else touched Monty. No one else could’ve.
Tears prick at the corners of his eyes again. He doesn’t want to cry. He’s cried enough. He has to stop. But the guilt is a living thing, crawling under his skin, squeezing his lungs, making it impossible to breathe.
He raises a trembling hand, reaching toward Fleamont’s throat. His fingertips ghost over the scratch marks—so light, they barely touch. His heart twists when he spots more red lines along Fleamont’s arms.
He hurt him. He hurt Monty .
“Regulus?” Fleamont’s voice breaks through again—gentle, concerned.
Regulus’s tears spill over. His chin trembles violently as he meets Fleamont’s eyes, wrecked and guilty and devastated.
“I—I—I’m sorry,” he stutters, his voice breaking like glass. A sob rips from his chest before he can stop it.
“Aww, bub,” Fleamont murmurs, already pulling him close. His arms fold around Regulus tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles over his back. “It’s alright, love. It’s not your fault.”
“But—but—” Regulus tries to speak, but it crumbles into another whimper.
“No,” Fleamont says firmly. Not angry. Not harsh. Just certain. “I’ll have none of that, you hear me?”
Regulus nods weakly, still unsure, still too tangled up in shame. But he obeys anyway. Because it’s Monty. Because Monty knows how to hold him together when everything feels like it’s coming apart.
He follows Fleamont’s quiet instructions—deep breaths in, long exhales out—and slowly, like thick fog lifting from the ground, calm begins to creep back in.
He pulls back a little to look at Fleamont’s face. To see if the scratches changed anything.
They haven’t.
“So,” Fleamont prompts, offering a small, soft smile. “Can you tell us what happened?”
Regulus opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.
“I—” he falters. His throat is tight. His chest aches. “I—My friends hate Sirius.”
Fleamont doesn’t react. Just hums gently, waiting. Letting him speak without pressure.
“And… well…” Regulus fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “James told them… that Sirius was in Juvie.”
Fleamont nods again, quiet and understanding.
Regulus swallows. His throat feels like sandpaper. “And… that’s the second time I’ve heard that… and…” He huffs, frustrated that the words don’t come out fast enough, clear enough, right enough.
Fingers brush the back of his neck again. Comforting. Calming.
He turns his head and sees Euphemia, her smile tinged with sadness, her eyes so impossibly soft it makes his breath hitch.
“Take your time, love,” she whispers. “Just breathe, okay?”
He nods, inhales deep and slow. Exhales.
“Okay,” he murmurs, then turns back to Fleamont. “James told them Sirius is a criminal. My friends hate Sirius because they think he’s dangerous. And…”
He shrinks in on himself, shame curling like a fist in his belly.
“And…?” Fleamont prompts again, when he senses Regulus getting stuck.
“And… you and Effie didn’t want Sirius in the first place,” Regulus says in a whisper. “James hates him too. And I…”
He can’t finish.
The words sit on his tongue like ash.
Then suddenly, panic seizes him.
His eyes dart around the room. Searching.
Where’s—?
Where is he?
“Sirius?” he croaks out, voice rough from all the screaming earlier. He stumbles to his feet, chest tightening, heart racing.
He can feel the panic creeping up again, curling around his lungs like smoke.
He’s just about to bolt when Sirius is there .
“Je suis là, je suis là,” Sirius says quickly, stepping into his space. His hands gently cup Regulus’s face, warm thumbs brushing away the tears that have started up again.
Regulus sobs. “Je suis désolé. Je suis désolé. Je suis vraiment, vraiment désolé.”
“C'est bon, ma très chère étoile,” Sirius whispers, pulling him close. Arms wrap around him like armor. “C'est bon.”
Regulus clings to him like he’s afraid he’ll vanish. He lets himself be guided back into the room, lets Sirius sink with him to the floor. His fingers twist into Sirius’s shirt, bunching the fabric, holding tight.
“Je suis désolé. Je suis désolé. J’ai menti. Je ne te déteste pas. Je t’aime.”
Sirius hushes him, but Regulus can’t stop. The words fall out like a broken record.
“Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je suis désolé. Je t'aime. Je ne te déteste pas. Je ne pourrai jamais te haïr. Je t'aime. S'il te plaît. S'il te plaît.”
He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. Forgiveness? Reassurance? For time to rewind so he can take it all back?
He’s being rocked gently. Sirius starts to sing again—the lullaby they both know by heart—and Regulus sags into him, trembling but quieting.
The melody wraps around him like cotton, muffling the world.
“Are you going to be alright now, ma plus petite étoile ?” Sirius whispers into his ear.
Regulus nods slowly. He doesn’t speak—he can’t—but he nods.
“Okay, okay, that’s good.” Sirius wipes the tears off his cheeks, his smile soft and sad.
Silence settles like a weight. Not the nice kind. Not the comforting kind Euphemia and Monty offer.
This one feels heavy.
Dangerous .
Regulus can feel it creeping up his spine, slow and silent—the warning signs of a shutdown. His body starts to lose tension, the exhaustion hitting like a brick. His thoughts flicker out like dying candle flames.
He slumps fully into Sirius, all weight, no resistance. The static’s already building in his head again, that low humming buzz that means he’s nearly done.
His breathing slows, grows shallow.
Sirius kisses his forehead, lips warm against his skin, and says something—Regulus sees his lips move—but the words don’t register. He’s too far gone now. Too tired.
But he doesn’t panic.
He lets it happen.
Because Sirius is holding him.
And he’s safe.
And for now, that’s enough to keep the big feelings at bay.
Notes:
Word Count: 12,938
Published: 2025-07-16Put your hand up if you take drugs? Nobody? Only me? Oh, well, I guess there's more for me I guess. Yummy, yummy drugs. Mmmmmm...
(Lol, new ADHD drugs really are the best haha)So, quick question, but do you lot like the translated text in brackets underneath the original text? Like, is it helpful? If not, I can remove it, but... y'know.
Also, I kinda hate this chapter too, lol. I don't know why, but, I've just started my new semester and well... too late to rewrite this haha.
Anyways, I hope you lot enjoyed and I'll see you all next week! (I'm thinking about changing the upload day from Wednesday, because of scheduling, but... don't know just yet lol.)
SORRY THIS WAS LATE BTW... ALSO... 400K????
Chapter 34: It Wasn't Their Fault! And It Certainly Wasn't Mine Either!
Summary:
James had very good reasons to dislike Sirius Black. All he wants to do is protect his brother. But the more he learnt, the more he realized.
It wasn’t his fault he said those things, did those things. He wasn’t at fault for Regulus’s friends also, disliking Sirius. But that doesn’t mean he should’ve let it get this far.
He should’ve stopped it before it got to this point.
POV: James Potter
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s the first day back at school, and James has never been more relieved in his life.
Which is weird—because usually, he hates school. The structure, the homework, the endless lectures… all of it usually grates on him by lunchtime.
But now? After the whirlwind of emotions, slammed doors, and tense silences over the break—he's just glad to be anywhere that isn’t home.
“James!” Peter’s voice cuts through the morning crowd, bright and familiar. There's genuine joy there, that easy kind of excitement only Peter seems to carry.
James grins before he even sees him. “Pete!” he laughs, already moving in, arms open. He wraps his friend in a bone-crushing hug, lifting him just a bit off the ground before setting him back down. It feels good—grounding, even. “I’m good, and my holidays were alright,” he says as they pull apart, still smiling. “But anyway, I’ve been good. You?”
Peter shrugs, hands shoved in his pockets as they fall into step together. “Meh. Glad to be back, though.”
“You know what? Same.” James groans dramatically, swinging his backpack higher onto his shoulder. “Never thought I’d say it, but yeah.”
Peter squints at him. “You, James Potter, are actually glad to be back?” He gasps, clasping a hand to his chest in mock horror. “Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”
They both burst into laughter, the sound cutting through the drudgery of returning students. It’s easy, being around Peter. James finds himself relaxing as they walk toward the front entrance, the chaos of the holidays already beginning to blur behind him.
But the comfort doesn’t last long.
By midday, James remembers just how mind-numbing the first day of school is. Each class bleeds into the next—teachers repeating expectations, reading out rules like they haven't done this a thousand times before. He feels like his brain is slowly turning to mush.
When they finally sit down at the lunch table in the cafeteria, James groans and lets his head fall to the table, forehead pressing into the cold laminate surface.
He’s not even faking it.
Lily giggles. He hears it before he sees her. That eye-roll she gives him is so practiced it might as well be choreographed. “What’s got you huffing and puffing, Potter?”
James looks up—and then really looks. She's tilted her head slightly, her red hair catching in the light that streams through the overhead windows. She’s smirking at him in that way she always does when she’s half-amused, half-annoyed. But there’s something different in the smile. It’s delicate. Almost… warm.
And her lips—God, her lips are soft-looking. Glossy. Light pink like they’ve just been kissed. The sight of them makes his stomach twist weirdly, those stupid butterflies waking up again.
“Oh,” James says, feeling the heat creep up the back of his neck. He rakes a hand through his already-messy hair, trying to play it cool. “Um… y’know.” He shrugs and chances a glance back at her.
She’s got that smug, self-satisfied look again—the one that says I knew I’d win this round. And, honestly? He’s not even mad about it.
James drops his hand quickly and turns away, trying to shift his focus before he embarrasses himself further.
“So,” Peter mumbles, crumbs flying as he speaks around a bite of sandwich, “why don’t you tell everyone ‘bout wha’ happ’ed?”
James blinks. His brain stutters as Peter’s words catch up with him. The sandwich. The conversation from that morning. Oh. Right. Sirius.
Marlene groans and swats Peter on the arm. “Eww, Pete, that’s gross. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Peter just nods, cheek stuffed, and James is almost certain he hears a muffled “sorry” before another bite disappears into his mouth.
The look Peter gives him next is knowing. Prodding. Encouraging.
James sits up a little straighter. “Oh!” he blurts, louder than intended. A few nearby students turn to look. He flushes and clears his throat. “That thing.”
“What thing?” Mary asks, curious.
“Oh. The Sirius thing.”
All eyes go wide.
“The Sirius thing?” Lily repeats, eyebrow raised. Her voice is dripping with disbelief. “That sounds like an exaggeration.”
James groans. “It’s not. That’s his name.”
“Oh,” Lily snorts. “Regulus’s brother.”
He nods, fidgeting slightly with the hem of his sleeve. “Yep.”
“So?” Remus prompts, his tone calm but curious. “Tell us about the Sirius thing. What happened?”
James leans back slightly, trying to collect the story. “Okay, so, get this, right…”
And then he tells them everything.
The first meeting. The way Sirius looked at him—like he was already sizing him up. The weird, quiet presence. The tension at home. How he got this bad vibe from the start. He spills it all. Mentions the juvie stuff, how his dad wanted to bring Sirius in and his mum didn’t. How he agreed with his mum at first. How he’d tried to change his mind. How Sirius just showed up last night without warning.
He lets it all out—without embellishment, but with just enough truth to still make him look reasonable. “But,” he says at the end, running a hand through his hair again, “I’m still a bit hesitant, y’know? I mean, you can’t blame me, right? The kid just seems… odd. And get this—he showed up extremely dirty. Like he hadn’t had a shower in days .”
He looks around, watching their reactions carefully. He feels a strange relief settle in when Marlene grimaces.
“I would be cautious, if I were you, James,” she says, brows drawn. “You have no idea what that kid is capable of.”
A few others nod in agreement.
“Yeah,” Mary adds. “You never know what’s gonna happen. Might as well keep your guard up.”
That’s it. That’s all James needed—confirmation that he’s not being unreasonable.
Lily, though, doesn’t look as easily swayed. Her eyes lock onto his. “As long as you’re not too cruel to him,” she says, voice clear and steady, “then I say do what you need to do. Make sure to keep an eye on him.”
Her gaze is sharp, but not unkind. It hits him in the chest in a different way than the others.
James exhales, shoulders finally relaxing. “Thanks, guys. I really appreciate it. Oh, and—sorry for the rant.”
Remus smiles, soft and reassuring. “No problem, James. Thanks for sharing.”
James feels lighter somehow. The knot in his stomach, the one that’s been tightening since Sirius showed up—it loosens. The uncertainty doesn’t vanish, but at least now he’s not alone in it.
Maybe that’s the power of friendship, he thinks, almost amused.
***
James wouldn’t call himself jealous, per se, but ever since Sirius moved in, Regulus hasn’t spent a single ounce of time with him.
Not that James doesn’t want Regulus to reunite with his brother, of course he does. But, he also wants to hang out with his. Because Regulus is his brother. No one can convince him otherwise.
There’s a soft knock against his doorframe. James glances up from his comic, blinking away the haze of bold colours and action panels. His dad is standing there, one hand resting on the wood.
“James?”
“Yeah, Dad?” James sits up a bit straighter, the comic already forgotten. Something about his dad’s tone—it’s not sharp, not exactly, but it makes James’s chest tighten in that way it does when something serious is coming.
Fleamont steps into the room, slow and deliberate. “I was wondering if we could talk.”
James nods, already moving over to make room. “Sure.”
He watches his dad sit down at the edge of the bed. There’s a quiet creak in his knees, a little groan from the mattress. James leans back against the headboard, arms loosely crossed. His eyes track his dad’s face, reading for clues.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. He tries to sound casual, but it still comes out a little too careful. A little too tense. He hates when he feels like this—like something’s about to fall out of the sky and land on him.
His dad smiles, small and calm. “Nothing’s wrong. Not exactly. I just wanted to ask a favour.”
James nods quickly. “Sure. Anything.” The words come out before he can even think about them—automatic. But as they hang in the air, something tugs at him, quiet and cold.
“What kind of… favour?” he adds, his voice dropping into something more wary.
His dad exhales, eyes steady on him. “I wanted you to keep an eye on Sirius for me. Let me know if you see anything… suspicious. Behaviour that feels off. Something people shouldn’t be doing.”
James freezes for a second. Just a blink. But something in him recoils, like a reflex. Sirius?
He nods. “Okay. I can do that.”
The answer is automatic again, but it feels heavier this time. His stomach twists a little. He tries to swallow it down. His brain starts ticking—what’s Sirius done? Did something happen after I left? His dad wouldn’t ask this for no reason.
He doesn’t ask, though. Doesn’t push. Just gives the answer he knows his dad wants.
His dad leans in and presses a kiss to the top of his head, the way he’s done since James was small. “Good,” he murmurs. “I really appreciate it.”
James forces a smile. “No problem, Dad.”
He watches as his father lingers in the doorway, then steps back into the hallway and pulls the door gently closed.
The room feels quieter now. Thicker.
James sits still for a moment, eyes unfocused. That strange twist in his gut hasn’t gone away. He thinks about Sirius—loud, unpredictable Sirius—and the way he’d barely said anything on the ride home. The way he’d looked earlier, tense and off.
James shifts on the bed, heart beating a little too fast.
What did Sirius do?
Uneasy.
That’s the word. That’s the knot in James’s stomach, the weight in his chest, the restless tapping of his fingers against his thigh. He feels uneasy , and he knows exactly why.
Because of Sirius.
Sirius, Regulus’s brother.
Sirius, who’s sharp and rough around the edges. Sirius, who doesn’t really talk about himself, not the stuff that matters, or, not really at all. Sirius, who always seems to be hovering on the edge of something dangerous—like he’s one wrong step away from falling off completely.
And now?
Now it feels like he’s already fallen.
James can’t stop thinking about what Dad said. The way he stood in the doorway, calm but serious, the weight of his words pressing into James’s skin like they meant more than they let on. Keep an eye on Sirius. Watch for anything suspicious . Behaviour that’s off .
James doesn’t know what Sirius did—if he even did anything—but the way Dad said it… It sounded like Sirius was already guilty.
It makes James’s chest twist with something he can’t quite name. Worry, maybe. Or guilt. Or fear that he’s missed something big. Something important.
So he does the only thing that makes sense in the moment. He pulls out his phone and fires off a message to the group chat.
James: guys, i need help.
The response is nearly instant.
Remus: what’s up? Everything alright?
James: nope.
Marlene: what happened?
James: well, dad came into my room and said some things that i really can’t understand.
Peter: oof, that’s rough man
Remus: have you told your mum about it?
Marlene: yeah! it seems like the best course of action.
Remus: just talk to your mum, James. let her know what your dad said.
James: thanks guys. i’ll keep you all posted.
James stares at the screen for a few extra seconds, chewing the inside of his cheek. His fingers hover like he might type something else— like what if Sirius is in real trouble? What if I wasn’t paying enough attention? —but he doesn’t. Instead, he just slips his phone back into his pocket with a sigh.
His legs swing over the side of the bed. He runs a hand through his hair, dragging it back from his face, and tries to shake off the tight feeling sitting in his chest.
If Dad’s being weird about Sirius, Mum will know what to do. She always does.
And with that thought, James stands up and heads downstairs, already scanning the house for the sound of his mother’s voice.
His mum’s crouched over the coffee table, brushing biscuit crumbs into her hand and stacking teacups with a quiet efficiency. The morning light filters through the curtains, painting the rug in soft gold, and for a moment James hesitates in the doorway, not wanting to ruin the calm.
But he has to.
“Mum?”
She turns quickly, standing straight. James sees the way her eyes narrow slightly, scanning him. Like she knows something’s off before he even says it.
He’s still in his pajamas, hair a mess, feet in mismatched socks, but none of that matters. Not when the police were here . Not when his dad dropped that half-explained bombshell on him last night and just left him with it.
“Is something wrong, love?” she asks, her voice gentler now, full of that warm tone she always uses when she’s trying not to make things worse.
James shifts his weight. “Umm…” He shrugs, eyes flicking down to the floor.
It feels stupid to say it out loud. But it’s not stupid. He knows it’s not. Something’s wrong —he feels it in his gut, crawling under his skin. The police showing up isn't just a weird coincidence. It means something. It has to.
“Come sit down,” she says, motioning to the couch beside her.
He crosses the room in a few quick steps and drops onto the cushions, bouncing a little with the force of it. His hands won’t stop fidgeting—his fingers pick at a thread on his sleeve, twisting it until it snaps.
“Talk to me, love.” Her hand rests over his. Warm, familiar. And normally, it’s enough to settle him.
But right now? Not really.
He chews the inside of his cheek for a few seconds, then sighs. “Well… Dad said something, and I don’t know if I should be worried about it.”
His voice is quiet, but the tension in his chest is anything but. The words feel too small for the thing pushing against his ribs.
“What did he say?” she asks, calm as ever.
James glances up at her. “That’s the thing. He told me to keep an eye on Sirius and let you or him know if I saw anything… suspicious.” He frowns, the memory sparking irritation now. “And I don’t even know what he meant by that. He didn’t explain. Just said it like it was normal.”
“Cryptic,” she mutters.
“Exactly!” James says, throwing up his hands. “It was like… he knows something and just expects me to guess what it is. Like, come on—if something’s wrong, why not just say it ?”
His voice rises, sharper than he meant it to. But he can’t help it. This whole thing feels off. Off and unfair . Like he’s been dropped into a story halfway through and expected to already know the ending.
“Should I be worried?” he asks, quieter this time.
His mum looks at him, really looks. Her silence makes his stomach tighten.
Then she sighs. And James already knows the answer.
“Well,” she says, slowly. “I’m going to tell you something, but you promise to keep it to yourself, okay?”
James sits up straighter. “Promise.”
She nods. “The police showed up yesterday morning. They were looking for Sirius.”
The words land hard.
James’s brain stutters. “What?”
“They’re supposed to search his room every so often,” she says carefully. “It’s part of his parole for the next six months. What your father was trying to say is… he wanted you to keep an eye out for anything illegal. Or risky.”
James slumps back against the cushions, stunned. He stares at nothing for a few seconds, replaying the moment Fleamont told him to ‘watch for suspicious behaviour.’ It sounded serious then—but now it feels real . Too real.
Parole. Police. Illegal activity.
It’s not just some troubled-kid background thing. Sirius has been in real trouble . And suddenly, James isn’t just confused—he’s angry.
Why didn’t Dad tell me the truth? Why leave him guessing like an idiot?
His hands clench into fists in his lap.
And then there’s Regulus.
James’s chest tightens painfully. Regulus, quiet and twitchy and too polite for his own good. Always apologising. Always watching people before he speaks. What if he’s in danger? What if Sirius—God, what if Sirius does something to him ?
That thought slams into James like a freight train.
A hot, sharp fury bubbles up in his chest, choking and fierce. Sirius might be living in his house, sleeping in the room down the hall, but if he even thinks of hurting Regulus—
No. James won’t let it happen.
He doesn’t care what his dad thinks. Doesn’t care what Sirius has been through. Regulus is just a kid. And James knows, deep in his bones, what he has to do.
Protect him.
No matter what.
He feels his mum’s arms wrap around him, pulling him in tight. He leans into her without thinking, still buzzing with adrenaline. But underneath the anger, there’s this heavy, aching kind of dread.
“I love you,” she whispers.
“I love you too, Mum,” he says, quieter than usual.
But even as he says it, even as he clings to the comfort of her hug, James’s mind is racing ahead.
Sirius Black might be in their house.
But James? James Potter is watching .
And he won’t let Regulus fall through the cracks.
Not on his watch.
James leaves the room feeling nothing but fury. Anger bubbling inside his chest. He’s walking up the stairs, pulling out his phone from his pocket.
James: guys, you’ll never guess what i just found out.
***
A couple of days ago, James had been added to a group chat. Not just any group chat— Regulus’s group chat. His friends.
At first, the text notification from an unknown number confused him. He’d almost blocked it out of habit, thumb already hovering over the screen, when he caught sight of the chat name:
Protect Reggie Gang.
That was when it clicked. James had been invited into a group chat made by Regulus’s actual friends. People who liked him. Cared about him. Wanted to protect him.
And from that moment on, James had taken the role seriously. He sent them updates, small ones, mostly about Sirius—because that was the unspoken reason for the chat. To keep Regulus safe. And Sirius… Sirius had been unpredictable lately. Moody. Overbearing. Sometimes too intense when it came to Regulus.
At first, James thought the chat was a bit much. But now? Now he’s glad for it. Grateful.
It’s Saturday morning. James is flopped back on his bed, scrolling through his phone lazily, when a new message pings through.
Barty: look, i think we need to address something.
James frowns at the message, a small pit opening in his gut. Something about the wording—it’s not casual. He shifts upright a little.
Another message comes in.
Evan: yeah, Regulus has been acting way too… i don’t even know how to put it.
James: what do you mean?
He sends the message quickly, brow furrowed now, heart beating faster.
Pandora: it seems that Sirius is pushing some of Regulus’s boundaries.
James freezes.
What?
What does that mean ?
Dorcas: i don’t think Sirius is pushing any of Reg’s boundaries, guys.
Dorcas: but i do think you should have a chat with him, James.
James: about what? To Sirius?
Barty: yes to Sirius.
Evan: and about just… not pushing any of Regulus’s boundaries.
Pandora: i mean he was so upset about the father’s day card incident.
Pandora: i wouldn’t be surprised if Sirius is influencing him.
James blinks. A strange coldness creeps down his spine. His phone screen blurs slightly with how hard he’s staring.
James: what father’s day card incident?
He sits up straight now, fully alert, jaw tightening as bubbles appear and disappear rapidly. His chest feels too small.
Pandora: well, in art we were tasked with making father’s day cards.
Pandora: and Reg just seemed so… sad.
Barty: yeah, he even talked to us about it.
Evan: it was really weird.
Barty: i mean, we can understand the whole foster care thing.
Evan: but… like… he sounded so confused.
James: okay.
He types it fast. His thoughts are running faster than he can process them.
Dorcas: look, i think he was just going through something.
Dorcas: to be fair, this is probably the first father’s day without his father.
Dorcas: and we still don’t fully know what happened for Reg to be removed.
Barty: true, true.
Barty: but Sirius might.
James: okay, so… what did you want me to do?
Barty: FIGHT HIM!
Pandora: BARTY!
Pandora: don’t listen to him, James.
Pandora: he is very incorrigible.
Dorcas: just talk to Sirius for us, James.
Dorcas: just tell Sirius to keep his distance from Regulus.
Dorcas: there’s definitely more going on with Reg right now than anyone can see.
Pandora: and i think Sirius might have something to do with it.
James stares at his phone.
The room around him feels warped. Distant. His ears ring, faint and high-pitched.
They think Sirius is hurting Regulus.
Influencing him. Controlling him. Making him second-guess himself. Taking up too much space in Reg’s mind—space that should be safe, and soft, and his own.
And James—
James didn’t even notice .
He thinks back to the look on Regulus’s face last week when he’d found that crumpled bit of coloured paper in the bin, half a drawing of a man and the words Happy— scribbled out so hard the paper tore.
He hadn’t thought anything of it.
Hadn’t thought enough .
James clenches his phone so tightly his knuckles crack. Fury bubbles up from somewhere deep inside him, hot and choking and unrelenting. It’s not just anger—it’s shame. It's the kind of shame that burns at the back of his throat because he should have done something sooner.
He should have seen.
He failed Regulus.
He promised to protect him—and now Sirius might be hurting him, confusing him, twisting something inside him—and James let it happen.
He let Sirius into the house. Let him worm his way in.
And maybe James had always been uneasy around Sirius. From the first night he showed up, full of shadows and smirks. From the way Regulus’s eyes lit up and dimmed again, always flickering, always unsure. James had felt it—the jealousy, the discomfort. The way Regulus leaned into Sirius’s orbit like he didn’t even know how not to.
But James knows what a bad influence looks like. What it feels like. And now Regulus is confused, shutting down, sad over Father’s Day of all things—because Sirius, who grew up in the same house, who knows what happened, might be planting thoughts James can’t even begin to trace.
And still —Regulus won’t say a word.
Because that’s what Reg does. He stays quiet. Endures.
James’s breath hitches in his chest. His whole body is tense, vibrating with barely suppressed rage.
He doesn’t know what Sirius has done—but whatever it is, it’s too much.
Enough to hurt Regulus.
Enough to damage him.
James shoots to his feet, fists clenched.
If Sirius ever lays a finger on Regulus, or even speaks to him in a way that makes him feel unsafe again—James doesn’t care if Sirius is a kid, or sad, or hurting too.
He’ll tear him apart.
Because this time, James won’t fail.
Not again.
The floorboards creak beneath James’s feet as he approaches the door. He doesn’t bother knocking. Doesn’t see the point.
Sirius is already sitting there on the bed—alone, in that bare, impersonal room that looks like it’s never been lived in. No posters. No clothes on the floor. Not even a bloody book on the nightstand. Just him. Still. Tense. Like he’s waiting for something to fall out of the sky.
James steps into the doorway and stops. He says nothing. Just watches.
His arms are crossed tight over his chest, fists curled under his biceps. He’s been carrying this heat in his chest since the second his mum told him about the police. Since his dad started speaking in riddles. Since that quiet, awful little thought planted itself in his mind: Sirius has done something to hurt Regulus. Again.
And now, standing here, that heat is turning into something else. Something sharper. Something cold.
Sirius notices him. Of course he does. He snaps to attention like James is holding a blade.
Good.
James stares him down. Not blinking. Not moving. His gaze carves into Sirius like a scalpel, slicing through the silence. He wants him to feel it. Wants him to squirm. Because for once, James isn’t confused. For once, he’s the one in control.
He steps into the room.
“You’re gonna listen to me,” James says, his voice like ice cracking under pressure. Flat. Deadly.
He watches Sirius freeze. Watches him tense, like he’s about to shrink into himself.
James steps forward, each movement measured, deliberate. “You are going to do exactly as I say. Do you understand me?”
Sirius doesn’t speak. Doesn’t fight. Just nods.
James narrows his eyes. That pathetic little nod only pisses him off more.
“You—” His arm shoots up, finger stabbing through the air.
Sirius flinches.
James notices.
Good.
That reaction—the twitch, the guilt, the fear—makes something click inside him. Sirius deserves this. He’s been keeping secrets, getting Regulus tangled up in whatever mess he’s created, and James is done standing around waiting for someone else to step in.
“—are going to stay the hell away from my brother.”
The words come out like a hammer, and James can feel the tension crack through the room. My brother. He says it like a vow. Like a warning. Like a fact Sirius should’ve remembered before dragging Regulus into his disaster of a life.
“You are going to detach yourself from him, until he doesn’t think you care,” James continues, voice low and seething. “You are going to treat him as badly as you can, so he knows just how much you don’t care.”
He doesn’t soften. Not once. He watches Sirius’s fists tighten, watches the way he grips the bedspread like it’s the only thing holding him up—but James doesn’t back down. Doesn’t let up.
Because this is how it has to be. Sirius doesn’t get to be around Regulus. Not anymore. Not if Regulus is going to end up hurt, or worse, because Sirius can’t stay out of trouble.
“You are going to do this,” James says, stepping in close now, letting his shadow stretch long across the floor, “because you and I both know he deserves so much better than you.”
And oh, that feels good.
The words sting in his own throat, but he says them anyway. Because they’re true. Because someone has to say it. Because Regulus is quiet, and kind, and far too trusting for his own good—and James isn’t going to let him get dragged down by someone like Sirius.
He leans in, lowering his voice. It comes out sharp. Cutting.
“If you don’t do this, then I’ll make sure he knows everything. And I mean everything there is to know about you.”
That gets him. James can see it. The stillness. The way Sirius doesn’t even breathe.
James leans closer, close enough that their foreheads almost touch. His voice drops to a whisper, venom curling behind his teeth.
“I’ll make sure Regulus finds out who you truly are. About what you’ve done. Absolutely everything.”
He straightens, folding his arms again like a judge delivering sentence. “Do I make myself clear?”
Another nod from Sirius. Barely a twitch. That same wordless surrender.
James doesn’t wait for anything else. He turns on his heel and leaves, striding out of the room without a backward glance. The hallway feels brighter the second he steps into it, like the air itself is lighter away from Sirius’s presence.
He doesn’t smile. He just continues to walk.
Because, James has done it. Done the impossible.
He’s managed to instill fear into someone who’s probably done so much worse. He feels good. He feels reckless, even.
Just at the mere thought that he’s done the right thing.
About instilling fear into someone who’s probably destroyed the one good thing James has ever met. Who’s probably scared him more than he’ll ever know. Who he’s probably hurt in ways James cannot even begin to imagine.
Something about casting fear into Sirius—knowing he’s finally done something to protect Regulus—feels like justice.
James will never, ever let what happened before, happen again.
It’s Father’s Day, and James is super, duper excited.
His entire body buzzes with anticipation as he pads barefoot down the hallway, the soft carpet muffling his hurried steps. The morning light filters through the windows, golden and bright—just the way James likes it. His flannel pajama pants swish as he half-jogs toward his parents’ bedroom, practically vibrating with energy.
He pushes the door open without knocking. It creaks slightly, but James doesn’t care. There, in the middle of the bed like always, is the one and only: Father. Face buried in a pillow, breathing deep and slow, completely unaware of the chaos about to descend upon him.
Without thinking twice, James launches himself into the air and lands squarely on top of him with a dramatic oof.
“Happy Father’s Day, Dad!” he shouts directly into his father’s ear, loud enough to rattle the windows.
Fleamont lets out a muffled groan, his voice gravelly and thick with sleep. “Thanks, James.”
James grins from ear to ear, practically glowing with delight. He doesn’t even pause—he’s been doing this every single year for as long as he can remember. It started when he was five and learned what Father’s Day even was. Back then, he’d flung himself onto the bed with such ferocity that his dad nearly rolled off the mattress. James hadn’t stopped since.
Thirteen now, and it still hasn’t gotten old. Not for him. And if the secret little smile James always catches on his dad’s face is anything to go by, not for him either.
“Come on. Come on. Come on,” James urges, bouncing on the bed, shaking his dad’s shoulder insistently. “It’s time to get up.”
“Nope,” Fleamont grumbles, dragging the blanket up over his head like a reluctant hermit. “Not today I don’t.”
James groans, flopping down dramatically beside him with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Yes you do.”
Fleamont hums, noncommittal and entirely unbothered. James narrows his eyes. Fine. If he wants to play it that way…
Without a hint of shame, James yanks the blanket down and off his father’s head with a victorious smirk. The morning sun hits Fleamont’s sleepy face, and James doesn’t miss the way the corners of his dad’s mouth twitch—like he’s trying so hard not to grin. Same thing. Every year.
“Please, Dad,” James whines playfully, lowering his voice as he presses his cheek against Fleamont’s stubbly one and makes an absurd, snotty nuzzling sound—something truly grotesque. It’s equal parts hilarious and disgusting, and it never fails.
Fleamont chuckles under his breath, breaking into a grin as he cracks one eye open. “I’ll give you whatever you want,” James adds with theatrical sincerity.
Fleamont raises an eyebrow. His smile morphs into something a little devious. “Whatever I want?”
James hesitates for a split second. He already regrets saying it. But there’s no turning back now. “Yes. Yes, whatever you want.”
“Hmm,” Fleamont drawls, pretending to think deeply, tapping his fingers against his chest. “How about…”
Before James can brace himself, his dad lunges.
“HEY—!” James shrieks, but it’s already too late. He’s flat on his back, laughing uncontrollably as fingers find every ticklish spot on his ribs and stomach. He thrashes wildly, squealing through fits of giggles. “Stop—Stop! I didn’t—I didn’t mean—!”
But Fleamont shows no mercy.
James is laughing so hard his stomach aches. His legs kick out wildly as he tries—and fails—to roll away. “Okay, okay—DAD!” he gasps. “I’m gonna wet myself, seriously—STOP!”
Finally, his dad lets up, and James collapses on the mattress, breathless, panting like he’s just run a marathon. “You win,” he groans, flopping his arm over his face in defeat.
“Mhmm,” Fleamont says, smug and satisfied. He shifts to turn over, clearly thinking that’s the end of it. That maybe, finally, he can go back to sleep.
But James isn’t done. Not by a long shot.
He waits—ten seconds, maybe fifteen—for Fleamont’s defenses to drop. And then, when the man lets out the smallest, most trusting sigh of peace—
James pounces.
He throws himself across Fleamont’s chest like a grinning octopus, arms and legs wrapped around him, yelling, “Wake up, sleepyhead! Get up, old man!”
Fleamont groans dramatically, face buried deep in the pillow now. “Alright, alright! I’m getting up, Jesus.”
James bursts into laughter again, his chest heaving, his heart light. His dad’s voice is muffled and cranky, but it’s all part of the game. Part of the tradition. Part of what makes this day feel like theirs.
James can’t help the rush of warmth in his chest—familiar and safe. He thinks, maybe, that this is one of the best mornings ever. Being here, with his Dad.
The sound of his Mum’s chuckle breaks James from his thoughts.
His cheeks hurt from smiling. He barely notices his hand reaching instinctively for the small, wrapped gift he left on the bedside table. He thrusts it toward his dad, barely able to contain himself. “Happy Father’s Day, Dad!”
Fleamont pulls him into a hug, and James melts into it without hesitation, letting his body go slack against his father’s chest. It’s a familiar weight, that kind of hug—grounding and strong and so unmistakably his dad . James breathes in the scent of shaving cream and clean cotton and coffee from downstairs. It smells like home.
Out of the corner of his eye, James notices Regulus approaching, small hands still curled around the homemade card. There’s a flicker of something in James’s chest as Regulus offers it up—not quite nervous, but not relaxed either. That kind of in-between posture kids get when they’re not sure if it’s okay to be vulnerable.
Fleamont takes the card like it’s made of glass.
“I love it,” his dad says gently, and James watches as he pulls Regulus into a hug too, one arm curling around the younger boy’s shoulders. “Can I have a hug?”
Regulus steps into the embrace, and James looks away without meaning to. It feels… weird. Not bad, exactly. Just unfamiliar. James has shared his dad for years—with uncles, with neighbors, with friends. But watching Fleamont hug Regulus like that—like he belongs—it scrapes against something he hasn’t fully identified yet.
“Thank you, kiddo,” Fleamont whispers. “I really love the card. It was beautiful.”
Regulus lingers there for a while, and James finds himself fidgeting with the sleeve of his pajamas. He doesn’t know why the moment makes him so restless. It’s not like he’s jealous. He’s not. He knows his parents love Regulus. He loves Regulus. It’s just—sometimes, he forgets that this isn’t just a sleepover or some long visit. Sometimes, it hits him out of nowhere that Regulus lives here now. That Regulus and Sirius… need to be here.
And then Regulus pulls back and settles on the other side of the bed, and Mum comes over to Dad, brushing her hand gently through his hair.
“Happy Father’s Day, love,” she says, and James watches in exaggerated horror as she leans in to kiss his dad on the mouth.
“Eww, get a room!” he groans, throwing himself backward on the bed in mock disgust.
Mum laughs, and Dad joins her, and even Regulus lets out a small giggle. It’s funny, sure. But there’s something more in the air now. Something quieter.
James nicks a piece of bacon from the tray without asking—because that’s just what he does—and keeps chatting about nothing in particular, pretending everything feels the same as always. Dad doesn’t blink, even offers some food to Regulus, who declines, cheeks turning a soft pink.
It should feel perfect.
It almost does.
Then Regulus leans closer to Mum and murmurs something too low for James to hear.
“I’ll be back, Effie,” he says, and she kisses his forehead like it’s second nature.
James blinks. “Where’s Regulus going?”
He doesn’t mean anything by it—just curious—but there’s something about the way Mum’s posture changes, the way she glances at the door too long, that makes his question land differently than he meant it to.
“He’s gone to give Sirius a present, sweetheart,” she says, calm and casual.
James wrinkles his nose. “Uhh, why?”
The word slips out sharp and dumb and immediate, and he hates how rude it sounds as soon as it’s in the air. He doesn’t even feel angry about Sirius anymore, so why does it come out like that?
Dad gives Mum a look, then James. “James,” he says—quiet, but stern.
James’s stomach twists. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands. “Cut you off.”
Mum doesn’t scold him. She just nods and goes on like nothing happened, but James feels something shift in the air anyway. A heaviness. Like this isn’t just about Regulus and Sirius. Like this is about something bigger.
“Regulus wanted to get Sirius a gift—”
“Yeah, you said that already,” James interrupts again, and immediately regrets it.
“James,” Dad warns, firmer this time.
James shuts his mouth and nods again, guilt needling beneath his ribs.
Then Mum says it. Carefully. Quietly.
“Regulus told us some things about Sirius. Some things that would make some parents a little upset.”
James straightens, the playful air around him gone in an instant. “Like what?”
He doesn’t expect an answer, not really, but Dad jumps in—soft, steady, grounding.
“You know how Mum and I love you and take care of you just like how all parents should?”
James nods. Of course he knows that. It’s never been in question.
“Well,” Mum continues, “Sirius took care of Regulus in the way parents are meant to.”
And that hits.
James blinks, something in his chest going very still. The words echo like a bell in his head, louder than they ought to be. It takes him a second to understand them, to really understand them.
“…But why?” he asks, voice catching in his throat. “Did their parents not love them?”
The question slips out before he can stop it, and now it’s hanging in the room, thick and heavy and awful.
James looks between his parents and suddenly sees it—on his dad’s face. That grief. That knowing.
Mum gives the kind of answer that doesn’t really answer anything.
“I don’t know, James,” she says softly. “I’d like to think that everybody loves their children, but…”
But maybe they don’t.
James swallows hard, his mind racing. He thinks of Regulus asking to buy a gift for Sirius, that earnest desperation in his eyes, like it mattered more than anything else. He thinks of how Sirius looked in the car that first day—angry and quiet and exhausted—and how James had threatened him.
His stomach twists again, but this time it’s sharper.
He remembers his own words, the accusations, the way he threw labels at Sirius like stones. Criminal. Dangerous. Stay away from Regulus. He thought he was being protective. He thought he was doing the right thing.
But what if he wasn’t?
What if Sirius wasn’t the danger at all?
James stares at his plate, no longer hungry. A heavy, awful guilt creeps up through his chest like smoke, curling into every corner of him.
He misjudged Sirius.
He failed Regulus.
Not once. But twice.
First, by not trusting the boy who had been more of a parent than the ones they were born to. And again, by acting like he knew best.
And now…
He doesn’t even know what to do. What to think. How could he?
He’s done this terrible, potentially irreversible thing. Something he thought—hoped—was for the right reasons. Something that had felt noble at the time.
But… was it? Was it really out of good intentions?
Was James actually acting in Regulus’s best interest?
No.
That truth hits him quietly as he sits on the edge of his parents’ bed, the sheets still warm beneath him. His mum is already downstairs with Regulus, flipping pancakes like everything’s fine—like James hadn’t just threatened his brother's safety less than twenty-four hours ago.
The guilt is thick in his chest, like wet cement hardening behind his ribs. Every breath feels a little harder to take.
His voice comes out barely above a whisper. “Dad?”
Fleamont turns to him, and James instantly regrets asking. There's something in his father’s eyes—something James isn’t used to seeing. Sadness. Real, quiet sadness, sitting heavy in the familiar warm brown gaze James has always found comfort in. It unsettles him.
“Tell me the truth,” James says, his voice strained. “Do some parents really not love their kids?”
He wants his dad to lie. More than anything, he wants to be told that the world is kind, that love is guaranteed, that what he has is normal. That all kids are cherished the way he is.
Fleamont’s sigh is soft but full of weight. “Yeah, James.”
James feels it like a punch in the chest.
All that hope that had bubbled inside him—like maybe his mum had been mistaken, like maybe Sirius and Regulus had misunderstood their own parents—comes crashing down.
He stares up at his dad again, searching desperately for something. For reassurance. For a loophole. Anything.
Fleamont doesn’t flinch. “Some people—some parents—don’t love their children.”
Tears sting at James’s eyes before he can stop them. They creep in quietly, sharp and humiliating.
“But…” His voice cracks. He turns to look toward the door. “Mum just…”
Please be a dream. Please be a mistake. Please don’t let this be true.
Fleamont sighs again, dragging James back from the edge of his thoughts.
James turns his head to look at him. Really look at him. There’s something else there—something his dad hasn’t said yet. A quiet, buried truth. James can feel it, hovering under the surface.
“I know what your mother said,” Fleamont finally says. His voice is careful, measured, like he’s walking a tightrope. “There’s something you should know about your mother, James.”
James tilts his head, confused. “Like what?”
He’s not ready for the answer. Not really. But part of him already knows. The heavy way his dad speaks, the tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps pausing—James can feel it building.
His mum…
Fleamont runs a hand through his hair. “All I can say is, your mother’s parents weren’t the… best.”
The word best lands awkwardly. It doesn’t explain enough. It leaves more questions than answers. But James hears it anyway, lets it echo in his mind. Not the best.
He thinks of his mum—bright and warm and full of love—and the words don’t match. They don’t fit together. How could someone like her come from parents who weren’t the best?
His mouth opens, ready to ask, but his dad gently raises a hand.
“James,” Fleamont says, his voice heavier now, gentler. “You know how old your mum and I are?”
James nods. Of course he knows. His parents are thirty. His dad turns thirty-one in December.
But what does that have to do with anything?
He nods again, urging his dad to go on.
“Well,” Fleamont says, “you’d know, if you did the math, that your mum and I were just teenagers when we had you.”
James blinks. “Oh. Okay. Not so bad, then. Right?”
He latches onto the idea like a lifeline. Teen parents. That’s frowned upon, sure. Maybe that’s what his mum meant. Maybe her parents didn’t like that she was young, but that was it. That was the whole story. It had to be.
“So, they weren’t happy that she had a baby at seventeen. That’s not that big of a deal. Right?”
His optimism feels frantic. Hollow.
But then he sees his dad’s expression shift—just slightly—and his heart sinks.
Fleamont grimaces. The movement is subtle but unmistakable. A flicker of something that almost looks like hatred. Not toward James. Never toward James.
“Her parents,” he says carefully, “were also extremely religious.”
James stiffens. That’s new. His mind scrambles. He’s never seen his mum pray, never seen her go to church. She’s never even mentioned religion, not once.
“She’s not religious,” James says, confused.
His dad notices the look on his face and offers a small, sad smile. “She’s not. Not anymore. She doesn’t like it—it brings up too much…” He waves his hand vaguely, as if trying to brush away something invisible. Pain, maybe.
James swallows thickly. His voice comes out quieter than before. “What did they do?”
His dad looks at him with so much love, it almost makes James forget. Forget that some kids out there aren’t loved. That his brother—his foster brother—wasn’t.
Almost.
“I think,” Fleamont says, “if you really want to know, you should ask her.”
James nods slowly. “Not your story to tell. Right?”
“Right.”
They sit in silence. A long, heavy kind of silence that makes James feel older than he is. His dad reaches out and pulls him into a hug, arms strong and steady around him.
“I love you, James,” Fleamont whispers into his ear. “Don’t ever forget that.”
“I won’t.”
And James knows he won’t. Not ever. Not when love is so freely given to him, so constant and certain. It roots itself deep inside him, anchoring him.
But the weight of guilt doesn’t leave.
Because now he’s thinking about Regulus. About how he’d practically begged their parents to help him get a Father’s Day gift—for his brother . A thirteen-year-old boy, buying a present for another thirteen-year-old who’d been more of a parent than their actual parents ever were.
And James… James had threatened Sirius. Threatened to take Regulus away from him.
Because he hadn’t looked close enough. Because he’d been so focused on protecting Regulus from Sirius that he hadn’t realized Sirius didn’t need to be kept away—he needed to be protected too.
He hadn’t seen past the label of criminal . Hadn’t even tried.
He failed Regulus. Not once, but twice.
And the guilt creeps deeper into his chest, curling around his ribs like a vice.
He doesn’t know how to fix it. Not yet. But he knows now—he knows he was wrong. So, so wrong.
And maybe... maybe it’s not too late to make it right. Make things right. But the question still stands.
How?
***
James is standing at the front of the school, next to Sirius, arms crossed and foot tapping with impatience. The afternoon sun hangs low behind the buildings, casting long shadows over the concrete, but all James can focus on is the unbearable silence between them. It’s not just quiet—it’s thick, tense, heavy. Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, glancing sideways at Sirius, who’s doing a great job of pretending James doesn’t exist. James can’t really blame him. The guilt in his chest gnaws like teeth. Ever since Father’s Day, something’s been off between them—no, not off. Broken. And James knows, deep down, he’s the one who snapped it in half.
He hasn’t said a word to Sirius about it. Hasn’t even met his eyes properly. It’s easier to look away. Easier to bury it. Especially when Regulus has been around more than ever, clinging to James like he’s the only safe thing in a world of sharp edges. James knows why. And he hates it.
Because it was him — James —who told Sirius to stay away. James who cornered him and said things he regrets almost immediately. He thought Sirius was hurting Regulus, pushing him too hard or pulling away too fast. But now... now he’s not so sure.
James swallows hard, the weight of it pooling in his stomach like wet cement. The guilt mixes with something else—resentment? Shame? Confusion? He doesn’t know anymore. He just knows he wants things to go back to how they were. But he has no idea how to make that happen.
He opens his mouth, the words already half-formed in his throat. “Look—”
But whatever he’s about to say is lost as the sound of quick footsteps echoes down the walkway. James turns, and there—there he is.
Regulus.
Short, curly black hair bouncing with every hurried step, cheeks flushed from running, and the biggest smile James has ever seen stretched across his face. It's blinding. It's so bright it nearly knocks the wind out of James.
And for just a second, all the guilt, the awkwardness, the unspoken weight between him and Sirius disappears—swept away by the force of Regulus’s grin.
But only for a second.
James can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “Where you been?” he says brightly, and without thinking—because it feels natural, because it’s Regulus —he throws an arm around the younger boy’s shoulders in a side hug.
Regulus leans into it, and James’s heart stutters. He feels the way Regulus relaxes just slightly under his arm, and panic spikes in his chest. Is this okay? Is he uncomfortable? Is this too much?
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what Regulus is used to, and suddenly every movement feels too loud, too fast. He’s terrified of making Regulus feel awkward or unsure. Terrified of pushing him the way he pushed Sirius.
“You have a good day?” James whispers, voice dropping instinctively, his mouth close to Regulus’s ear. He tries to make it gentle—gentler than he’s ever been. Not teasing. Not loud. Just… soft. Careful.
Regulus nods, and James lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“That’s good,” he says, pulling back enough to see Regulus’s face, still smiling. James beams. There’s no holding it back; he’s glowing. Something about this boy’s presence softens him from the inside out.
He only vaguely registers movement to the side—Sirius, still lingering, arms crossed, jaw tense. James can’t read his expression. He glances at his foster brother just in time to catch the way Sirius is looking at him—and then, just as quickly, looking away.
James swallows, the moment passing too fast to name.
Then a voice cuts through the air.
“Hey guys!”
James turns toward it and sees Peter bounding up, all energy and sunshine. A shorter blond kid trails behind him—Marlene, if James remembers right. One of Sirius’s friends. She walks with this easy confidence that makes James feel slightly awkward in his own skin.
“Hey, Pete!” James calls, as if they haven’t seen each other in years. “You ready for this afternoon?”
“Yep!” Peter says, all but bouncing.
James grins wider.
“Ready for what?” Regulus asks, blinking up at him.
“For soccer training, obviously,” Marlene answers before James can, her voice relaxed, friendly.
Right—training. James had mentioned it to Regulus, hadn’t he? Or had Sirius? He suddenly can’t remember. He feels a sharp pang of guilt again, this time for not preparing Regulus better. Should he have reminded him? Sent a note? Something?
“Oh,” Regulus says.
Then a loud honk interrupts the moment. A car slows to a stop near the curb.
“That’s my ride,” Peter announces, waving as he backs toward it. “See you all later!”
“See ya, Pete!” James shouts. Marlene waves, too, and then they’re back to just the four of them, waiting by the gate as the summer sun soaks the pavement, making it shimmer.
James can feel the nervous energy radiating off Regulus. He fidgets—shifts his weight, pulls at his sleeve—and James wishes he could ease it, smooth it out of him somehow. He knows what nerves look like. Knows what Regulus looks like when he doesn’t quite know where to stand, or what to say.
Then Regulus speaks.
“So,” he says, quiet, uncertain. “Who’s picking you up?”
James watches as Marlene turns to face him, surprised but not unkind.
“Oh,” she says, like it hadn’t occurred to her to explain. “Well, Effie is picking me up.”
He watches Regulus blink at the information, visibly thrown. His brow furrows in that small way it does when he’s confused but too polite to say anything.
Marlene must notice it too, because she adds quickly, “My parents are both really busy with work, so they can’t really take me to practice.”
“Yeah,” James cuts in before the confusion can stretch too long. “Mum’s been picking Marlene up for a couple years now. For soccer. It’s always been like this.”
As he says it, his mind slows.
Wait.
He looks at Regulus again—really looks—and something shifts behind his eyes. He puts the pieces together all at once.
And then panic.
“Are you uncomfortable with that?” he blurts, his voice full of sudden urgency. “Because I’m sure we could figure something else out for the future if you are.”
The words come tumbling out before he can stop them, before he can think them through. Why hadn’t he asked before? What if Regulus felt weird and hadn’t said anything? What if he thought it was weird Mum was picking up other kids too?
James’s chest tightens with the thought. His brain is already racing through backup plans. He could ask Peter’s mum. Or maybe even talk to one of the coaches. Anything— anything —to make sure Regulus is okay.
Then Marlene steps in, voice calm, steady. “Yeah, Regulus. If you’re ever uncomfortable, please let me—or us—know.” She gestures between her and James. “We can find workarounds. I’m sure Pete’s mum would be happy to take me instead.”
James nods quickly, jumping on the thought. “Yeah,” he says, eyes locked on Regulus. “We just want to make sure you’re okay. That’s the important part.”
He doesn’t even care if the solution is inconvenient. If Regulus is even slightly unsure, James will change the whole arrangement. He wants Regulus to feel safe here, to feel like he belongs. That matters more than anything.
Marlene lets out a soft laugh. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be offended. If you are uncomfortable with this, that’s totally fine.”
James watches Regulus’s expression shift, soften. And when he smiles—when his whole face lifts just slightly—James exhales again.
“Thank you,” Regulus says, louder this time, looking between the two of them. “Really. But I’m not uncomfortable. I don’t mind. I just didn’t know.”
“Oh,” James replies, caught off guard. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Regulus might just be uninformed rather than uneasy. Before he can say anything else, Marlene rolls her eyes and smacks his arm.
“Ow!” James yelps, clutching the spot dramatically. “That was uncalled for!”
“Serves you right, dumbass,” Marlene says, snickering.
James gasps, dragging a hand over his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I’m wounded . You wound me!”
Laughter bubbles up between them, loud and bright. Marlene laughs. James laughs. Even Regulus lets out a small, startled giggle that makes James’s heart lift. For the first time in what feels like days, the air around them feels light again.
From beside them, James hears Sirius snort—followed by a muttered phrase in French he doesn’t quite catch. James glances at him, just briefly.
But he doesn’t say anything.
Not yet.
James has noticed things. Has noticed the way Regulus has been acting around his Mum. Has noticed the way he indirectly ignores her whenever she’s talking to him.
It’s weird.
Regulus blinks up at the ceiling for a long time before shifting beside him. James feels the mattress dip with the movement, hears the soft rustle of fabric.
“James?” Regulus whispers, voice barely there.
He rolls over and burrows into James’s chest, pressing his face into the fabric of James’s sleep shirt. James doesn’t need to see him to know what he’s asking for. He just pulls him a little closer without thinking—like instinct. Something in James always responds to Regulus’s quiet, cautious closeness. He’s still so careful, even when he’s half-asleep. Like he’s waiting for someone to flinch.
James hums, tired but warm. His breath stirs Regulus’s hair. “Hmm?”
“I have a question.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then James murmurs, “Yeah,” his voice low, somewhere near the top of Regulus’s head.
James doesn’t open his eyes at first. He’s still caught in the floaty space between dreaming and waking—but he can tell something’s sitting heavy in Regulus’s chest. He can feel it in how tense his body is. Like he’s building up to something.
“Do you know why Effie doesn’t like Sirius?” Regulus asks quietly. “Why she didn’t want to take him in originally?”
The question lands like a weight. James wakes up properly now, the tension snapping through him before he can stop it. His chest stills under Regulus’s cheek, his thoughts racing ahead.
Shit.
He doesn’t mean to react that obviously, but the words dig deep. It’s not that Regulus is wrong for asking. He’s not. But James hadn’t seen it coming—hadn’t expected to be yanked from sleep and dumped straight into the middle of something this sharp.
He shifts carefully, adjusting so he can look down and meet Regulus’s eyes. They're wide, waiting. There’s something raw in his expression, something that makes James’s chest ache. Like Regulus is bracing for rejection just for asking.
James’s voice softens. “What did Sirius say?”
“He said he beat someone up,” Regulus says, his eyes locked onto James’s face. “And that the police now have to check up on him every once in a while.”
James nods slowly. There’s a flicker of something like relief blooming in his chest—because Sirius said something. Maybe not everything, but still. It’s a start.
“Yeah,” James says after a moment. “Pretty much what Sirius said is the truth.”
He keeps his tone calm. Steady. He wants Regulus to hear that and believe it. Because he is telling the truth. He doesn’t try to sugar-coat it, doesn’t try to explain away what Sirius did. But he also doesn’t want Regulus to feel like Sirius is dangerous. Not to him. Not anymore.
Regulus doesn’t say anything, but he’s watching him closely. Too closely for someone who’s supposed to be resting. Like he’s measuring every word for accuracy. For safety.
James holds his gaze.
“But as for Mum...” he continues gently, tugging Regulus’s attention back. “She’s just scared. Worried for you. For me. She just wants what’s best for everybody.”
Regulus gives a faint nod. James isn’t sure if it’s agreement or just acknowledgment, but he doesn’t push.
“She’s been through something,” he adds. “Something in her past made her fears worse than they should be. I don’t know what it is. Neither Mum nor Dad talk about it. But it’s why she reacts so strongly sometimes.”
James doesn’t know if that’s enough to make sense of it all, but it’s the most honest explanation he can give. Effie isn’t perfect. None of them are. But she’s trying. Trying harder than most adults James knows.
And that—well, James can see that it lands. That it means something to Regulus. He doesn’t say anything, but his body shifts slightly, some of the tension melting out of his shoulders. James can’t help but think of all the times Regulus has flinched at raised voices, or shut down in bright spaces, or curled up silent and small when too many things felt too big. Maybe, on some level, he gets it.
James feels something twist inside him. He hates how much Regulus understands fear. Hates that it’s made him so good at reading everyone’s moods.
“She’s better than she used to be,” James says quietly. “With trusting people, I mean. I think she just needed time. To see Sirius. To get him.”
There’s a pause. Then, softer than before, Regulus whispers, “I needed time too. To get to know you. And Monty. And Effie.”
The words are barely audible, like he’s scared they’ll ruin something if he says them too loud.
James smiles down at him, a little overwhelmed. His hand finds the middle of Regulus’s back, smoothing slowly down his spine in gentle strokes. Grounding. Reassuring. Just like Euphemia used to do for James when he was little and couldn’t sleep after nightmares.
Regulus melts into it. He closes his eyes again, pressing in close. James feels the shape of his breath against his chest, slow and warm. His own heartbeat is steady beneath Regulus’s ear, and he keeps it that way on purpose—something constant to hold onto.
He’s just about to let himself drift off again when he murmurs, almost more to the dark than to Regulus, “They just wanted to protect you. That’s all they ever want to do.”
***
“I can’t believe we won!” James squeals, practically bouncing on his heels as they step through the front gate. His voice is too loud even for him, bubbling over with the kind of excitement that makes his whole body feel electric.
Regulus flinches, one hand immediately flying up to cover his ears. James freezes mid-step, guilt stabbing at his chest.
“Sorry,” he whispers, lowering his voice quickly, apologetically.
“That’s alright, James,” Regulus says softly, offering him a small smile.
James exhales and returns it with a grin twice the size, relief washing through him. He didn’t mean to overwhelm him—he just gets so excited sometimes. And Regulus, he always looks so… soft when he smiles like that. It makes James’s chest feel like it’s glowing.
“You excited for some pizza? Player of the match,” he says, nudging Regulus with his elbow as they walk up the front steps.
He watches Regulus’s face as the words sink in, and sure enough, there it is—the blush. Pink creeping across his cheeks like he’s not used to compliments. Like he doesn’t know he deserves them.
“Yeah,” Regulus murmurs, head ducking a little, almost embarrassed.
James chuckles, light and fond. “Good.”
It’s tradition, after all—pizza after a soccer game. Always has been. Marlene’s family, Peter’s, the Potters. Everyone crammed into the kitchen and living room, still buzzing from the match, jerseys grass-stained, socks half-pulled down, sweaty and happy.
The kitchen is a whirl of movement and noise as they step inside. People laugh loudly, jostling past one another to grab slices from the grease-stained boxes piled on the counter. Marlene’s dad is mid-story, booming with laughter, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten slice in hand.
James soaks it in. He lives for this kind of chaos—the messy, joyful kind. The air is thick with the scent of tomato sauce and cheese and garlic. Someone’s already spilled Coke on the tile, and the dog’s nosing at a discarded crust under the table.
“Still can’t believe the skill level your kid has there,” Frank says from across the room, his voice proud and teasing.
“Yeah,” Peter’s mum, Evelyn, chimes in, holding a glass of wine. “Can’t believe your son won player of the match. He seemed brilliant.”
James turns toward his parents. They’re standing near the fridge, plates in hand, faces lit up in a way that makes something swell in his chest. His mum is blushing, actually blushing , and his dad’s grin is stretched wide and uncontainable.
They’re proud. He doesn’t even have to hear them say it—he knows . And not just proud of him . Proud of Regulus.
James is proud, too. Regulus played like hell today. Nimble, clever, precise. His footwork was unmatched—he was a star.
With a satisfied smile tugging at his lips, James heads out of the kitchen. He’s halfway through the archway into the living room when he catches the sound of hushed voices—too quiet for this house, too deliberate. He pauses.
There, tucked into the space near the hallway, just out of view from the kitchen, are Regulus and Sirius. Talking. Low-voiced. Private.
James stills, stomach tightening.
He doesn’t like it. The sight of them together—like this—makes something bitter coil in his chest. He hates how it makes him feel: possessive, uncertain, left out.
After everything… after the threat he made… they’d barely spoken. Barely looked at each other in weeks. That had been the whole point, hadn’t it? To stop this. James told Sirius to stay away, and Sirius did.
Because James made sure of it.
And yet, here they are. Talking again. And James… he knows. He knows this is his fault. He knows he needs to apologise to Sirius. Properly. Sincerely. But every time he thinks about it, something cold rises in his throat.
Some part of him still feels justified, even if he knows he shouldn’t.
He hates that about himself.
He turns sharply, stepping into the living room with purpose, trying not to glance back. If he stays, if he listens, he’ll just feel worse. He doesn’t want to be that person—the one who eavesdrops and holds grudges and—
But even as he walks forward into the living room, he can’t help but let the guilt consume him.
James is making his way down the corridor, half-distracted by the rumble in his stomach and the smell of chips drifting from the cafeteria. He’s already thinking about whether to go for pizza bread or a ham and cheese toastie when he slows, then stops.
Up ahead, just past the corner by the art block, a group of figures are clustered together. Familiar figures. Regulus’s friends. Barty. Evan. Pandora. Dorcas. And in the middle of them—trapped, it looks like—is Sirius.
James’s brows knit together, confusion prickling at the edge of his thoughts. What the hell?
Barty catches sight of him and waves, his voice loud and cutting through the low murmur of conversation. “James!” he shouts, smiling like this is all totally normal. “Come here.”
James hesitates for half a second, then nods, his feet already moving before his brain catches up. He walks toward them, trying to ignore the sudden tension wrapping itself around his chest like a vice. He doesn’t understand what he’s walking into—not until he gets close enough to hear the tail end of Evan’s sharp voice.
“—stay away from him. Do you hear me?”
James sees it clearly now—Sirius standing rigid in the center of the group, shoulders tense and jaw clenched. His eyes are blank, like he’s not fully present, but James catches the slight twitch in his cheek. His fists are balled at his sides, knuckles white.
Sirius nods.
Not a word. Just a numb, mechanical nod.
And that’s when it hits James: Regulus’s friends are threatening Sirius.
A flash of disbelief cuts through his chest. Why? What did he do?
But then— did Sirius do something? James racks his brain, trying to think if he’s missed something, some whispered story or rumor. But no, nothing. Not to his knowledge. Not recently, anyway. He hasn’t seen Sirius and Regulus together in weeks.
Still, James just… watches. Watches as Evan steps closer and Dorcas crosses her arms, glaring at Sirius like he’s scum on the bottom of her shoe.
“You even look at him the wrong way, Black,” Barty adds coolly, “and we’ll make sure you never look at anything again.”
Sirius doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. He just stares ahead, eyes distant, mouth a flat line. Like he’s used to this. Like this isn’t new.
And James… does nothing.
He should step in. He knows that. His gut twists with it. This—this isn’t okay. Even if he had said something similar to Sirius not long ago, even if he had made the same kind of threat… he knows better now. Knows it was wrong. That it is wrong.
But the thing is… there’s a part of him that still thinks Sirius deserves it.
And that—God—that thought is so ugly , it makes James want to crawl out of his skin. He knows it’s not true. He knows he can’t hide behind the excuse of I can’t help it. Because he can . If he just talked about it—really talked about it. If he stopped running from how messy it all feels.
But instead, he stands there. Frozen.
Part of him aches at the sight—Regulus’s friends standing around, shielding him, protecting him. There’s something warm about that, something sweet. It’s what James wants for Regulus. It’s what he promised him, that he’d look out for him.
But then there’s Sirius. Alone. Silent. A shell.
He doesn’t deserve this.
“James?” Dorcas’s voice cuts through the static in his head. She’s looking at him, waiting. “You gonna back us up?”
James blinks. For a second, he just stares at her. Then his eyes flick back to Sirius, and he sees it—the sadness written across his brother’s face, buried beneath the mask he always wears. His expression is flat, unreadable, but his hands are shaking—just barely, but James notices. He’s always been good at noticing Sirius.
James swallows.
“Oh, yeah,” he says. His voice feels foreign in his throat. “What they said, Sirius.”
Regulus’s friends beam at him like he’s passed some test, like this is exactly what they expected of him. Triumphant, they turn and begin filing into the library, laughing about something that has nothing to do with the boy they just cornered.
James doesn’t laugh.
He watches as Sirius turns wordlessly and walks away, his shoulders hunched, his pace quick. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t say anything.
James barely catches a glimpse of his face before he disappears down the hallway—but it’s enough. Just enough to make James feel sick.
He should’ve said something. Anything.
But he didn’t.
He let them threaten Sirius. He let them corner him. And worse—he backed them up.
James stands there long after they’re gone, the corridor stretching empty around him. His stomach twists, heavy and sour.
What if he’s not better than the kids who torment people in hallways?
What if… he is a bully?
The thought clings to him like smoke, curling through his chest and choking him from the inside.
***
The sound of James’s gaming controller clicks rhythmically, echoing through the quiet living room. He’s sprawled across the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, fully immersed in his game. His mum’s in the kitchen, humming softly as she makes dinner, and his dad is still on his way home from work.
Everything feels calm. Normal. Familiar.
Until—
“Quoi, Sirius ? Comment ça s'est passé ?”
The voice is sharp—loud—and slices through the stillness like a knife. James flinches, nearly dropping the controller. He freezes, thumb hovering above the joystick, eyes snapping toward the hallway. It’s Regulus. Screaming. In French.
Another burst of words follows, fierce and rapid, each syllable spiking through the quiet like a fire alarm.
“Ne m’appelle pas comme ça ! Ne m'appelle plus ta « petite étoile » ! Je ne suis plus un bébé, Sirius !”
A flash of reddish-brown hair enters the edge of James’s vision—Mum. She’s stepped out of the kitchen, standing in the entrance of the living room with a wooden spoon still clutched in her hand. Her eyes scan the space like she expects someone to appear in front of her.
“Non! Non! Je ne veux pas! Dis-moi juste pourquoi ! Pourquoi m'as-tu évité ? Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait?!”
The yelling continues, echoing through the house. Too loud to be coming from upstairs, but too distant to be in this room. James knows that voice well enough now—knows that tone. Knows the kind of hurt that sits beneath it.
His mum turns to him, brows furrowed in worry. “Regulus?” she mouths.
James nods silently, his throat suddenly dry. He tries to convey the concern tightening in his chest.
“Stay here,” she mouths again, panic flickering across her expression. She passes him the spoon like she’s just now realizing it’s still in her hand, and slowly makes her way up the stairs, careful not to spook anything further.
James sets the spoon aside and rises from the couch. The air feels wrong. Too heavy. A thick, eerie silence settles over the house—an almost unnatural quiet that creeps in like fog after a storm. The kind of quiet little kids might fear when checking under their beds for monsters.
He walks toward the front door, half-dazed. The shouting has stopped, but that doesn’t mean everything’s okay. Maybe Mum’s calmed him down?
James doubts it. The sound Regulus had been making—those weren’t just words. That was something boiling over.
Then, headlights sweep across the living room window. His dad’s car pulls into the drive. Without missing a beat, James runs to the door and opens it before Fleamont even has a chance to turn off the ignition.
“Come inside,” James urges, his face pale, his usual grin nowhere to be found.
Fleamont’s eyes narrow immediately, sensing the tension. “What’s wrong?” he asks, stepping into the house—
And then Regulus screams again.
“Tu fais toujours ça, Sirius. Tu essaies toujours de changer de sujet pour ne jamais avoir à répondre à mes questions. Tu me prends pour un idiot, Sirius ? Tu crois que je ne m'en apercevrais jamais ? Parce que si. Je m'en aperçois, et tu sais quoi ?”
James sees his dad freeze for only a second before sprinting up the stairs. The sound of pounding feet fades quickly as he disappears above.
Then… silence again.
Not peaceful silence. Not the good kind.
James stares after him, unsure what to do. Going back to his game feels wrong now, like picking up a controller would somehow make all of this vanish, or worse, pretend it never happened. But what is he supposed to do?
Then, he remembers the stove.
Heart thudding, James hurries to the kitchen. Thankfully, the burners are off, the sauce pan pushed to the back of the stove. But still—he hesitates, then flicks the flame back on and starts stirring the contents. Dinner shouldn’t be ruined because of this.
He knows Mum won’t mind him helping. Not really. But something in him still second-guesses it. The way Regulus had screamed ... anything could set things off tonight. Anyone could be a target.
By the time dinner is finally ready, the atmosphere is tight and strained, like the whole house is holding its breath.
James helps Mum plate the food—chicken and pasta—and she thanks him profusely with a tired smile. But no one’s appetite seems strong enough to appreciate the effort. Sirius doesn’t come down. The space beside Regulus stays empty.
James can’t stop staring at him.
Regulus is hunched over his plate, shoulders tight and drawn in. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed red like he’s spent the last hour crying—or trying not to. He keeps pushing his food around with his fork, not really eating, barely blinking.
James swallows hard. He wants to say something. Anything . But his mind is blank.
“So, James,” Fleamont says suddenly, slicing through the silence like a butter knife. “How was school today?”
James latches onto the change like a lifeline.
“It was good,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “Had lots of fun in PE, like always.”
Fleamont chuckles, shaking his head, his curls bouncing just like James’s. “Of course you did.”
But before anyone can say more, Regulus stands abruptly and bolts from the table, footsteps quick and quiet as he disappears upstairs.
Euphemia sighs deeply, her shoulders sagging. No one follows him.
The three of them remain at the table, forks idle, food cooling.
It doesn’t feel like dinner. It doesn’t feel right . The chair Regulus had filled just moments ago feels like it’s still vibrating with leftover hurt, like his pain is leaking into the room. And Sirius’s absence? That’s louder than any shouting could ever be.
“What happened?” James whispers, glancing between his parents.
They exchange a look—heavy, knowing. After a beat, Euphemia nods at Fleamont to answer.
“Regulus and Sirius got into an argument,” he says gently, as if James hadn’t heard it echoing down the stairs. “Well… more like Regulus screaming at Sirius.”
Yeah. He gathered that.
“What was it about?” James asks, his voice barely above a breath. He’s not even sure they’ll have an answer—but something inside him needs to know.
“We don’t know, sweetheart,” Euphemia says softly. Her fingers are twisted in the napkin on her lap. “But it seemed pretty—”
“Intense,” James finishes for her, the word tasting like smoke.
She nods. “Yeah.”
No one says anything for a long while. Eventually, they each rise from the table in silence, plates left half-full. The food might as well have been sand.
As James makes his way up to his room, his thoughts won’t quiet. The fight replays in his head—Regulus’s voice, not just yelling, but pleading . Angry and hurt all at once. Devastated .
He’s only ever heard Regulus yell once before. It had been French, too—something about James being annoying or ruining his books. He doesn’t even remember what it was. He just remembers the frustration in Regulus’s voice.
But this… this wasn’t like that.
This had teeth. This had pain .
James brushes his teeth slowly, staring at his reflection, his thoughts tangled. He doesn’t know every word Regulus had shouted—but he knows the tone. He knows what it sounds like when someone finally breaks.
Regulus had sounded betrayed.
And Sirius… Sirius had been the one he’d turned on.
The one who’d raised him.
And that thought… that Sirius was the first person to care about Regulus, the one who knew him longer, better—doesn’t hurt. Not the way James thought it might.
No pang. No jealousy. Nothing.
It should, maybe. But it doesn’t.
Because James understands something now—Sirius may have been Regulus’s protector, the one who shielded him from storms, who knew how to read the way he curled in on himself when things got too loud.
But James gets to be the one to pull Regulus into the sun. To teach him how to be a kid. How to be loved without strings or weight or fear.
He grins faintly to himself as he spits into the sink.
As he rinses his toothbrush, James makes a quiet promise to himself. He’s going to thank Sirius. Properly.
Because without Sirius—without the pain he should never have had to carry—James might never have gotten a little brother.
Not like this. Not Regulus .
And, James?
James is willing to thank every star, every constellation, every galaxy—if that’s what it takes—in the sky, to have the chance to know, to love, his brother. He would never, not stop thanking the brightest star in the sky for giving him this chance to have a brother. James will never, not stop thanking the brightest star in the sky for giving him this chance to have a brother.
He will never misjudge Sirius again. He’ll hold himself to it, if he has to. He’ll vow to it.
Thank you, Sirius.
***
It’s late afternoon, the golden sun lazily casting long, dappled shadows through the trees that border the park. A warm breeze filters through the grass, carrying the scent of fresh-cut earth and the distant laughter of children. James lounges with his back pressed into the worn wood of a park bench, legs stretched out, one foot lazily tapping to a rhythm only he seems to hear.
He’s warm, full from the ice cream they’d grabbed earlier, and pleasantly sore from the football match that had broken out just an hour ago. His school tie is stuffed in his pocket, shirt untucked, collar open. Everything about the moment feels peaceful—until Marlene speaks.
“So, James.”
There’s something smug in her voice. He doesn’t even need to look to know that she’s grinning like a cat who’s just cornered a mouse. Still, he cracks one eye open and turns his head toward her.
Yup. Smirk fully in place. Arms crossed, eyes glinting. Marlene McKinnon is up to something.
“What is it, Marls?” he says, voice light and teasing. He stretches slightly, fingers threading behind his head as he leans further into the sun. The day’s been exhausting—two quizzes and one oral presentation—and James is quite enjoying the fact that no one is currently demanding equations or facts from him.
Marlene gasps theatrically. “Well, if you’re gonna be like that, I won’t bother.”
She crosses her arms even more dramatically, scoffing with the flair of someone who should’ve pursued theatre. James chuckles, not buying it for a second.
“Okay, okay, ‘m sorry, Marls.” He shifts upright, giving her a look of exaggerated contrition. “What’s up?”
She rolls her eyes, but he catches the pleased curve of her mouth. Peter giggles from where he’s lying in the grass, and Remus watches the exchange with a soft, knowing smile, head tilted thoughtfully. It’s familiar—comforting. James has known Marlene since they were both toddling around playgrounds in mismatched socks, and Peter’s been around nearly as long.
“Well,” Marlene begins, straightening with anticipation, “we want the gossip!”
James groans, dragging his hands down his face. “Seriously?”
“Come on,” she says, scoffing playfully. “I don’t hang out with you tossers just for fun.”
Peter gasps, clutching his chest like he’s mortally wounded. “Rude,” he whispers.
Remus snorts. “Fair, though.”
James sighs with exaggerated suffering. “Fine! If I must.”
Marlene claps like she’s just won something. He sits up properly, dusting grass off his trousers.
“Okay, well, get this,” James says, his voice pitching conspiratorially. “Yesterday, Regulus completely blew up at Sirius.”
The effect is instant. Every head turns toward him, expressions morphing into varying shades of disbelief.
“Hang on,” Remus says, brows raised. “I thought Regulus quite literally worships the ground Sirius walks on?”
“Yeah,” Peter agrees quickly. “What could’ve possibly happened to get him to blow up at Sirius?”
“That’s the thing.” James lifts both hands like it’s obvious. “We don’t know. The entire argument was, a) completely one-sided, and b) entirely in French.”
Remus frowns thoughtfully, and Marlene tilts her head. Peter squints at James, clearly trying to process the information.
“It’s not like I haven’t heard Regulus speak French before,” James continues. “It kind of slips out when he’s really excited, or when he’s upset. But this? This was something else.”
He trails off, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The memory flashes—Regulus’s voice trembling with raw emotion, sharp like broken glass. The fury. The panic.
Remus nods slowly. “That’s interesting.”
“It is, isn’t it?” James murmurs, his tone more subdued now.
Silence falls. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s heavy with thought. Then Peter speaks, his voice hesitant.
“I don’t know if this counts as tea,” he begins, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, “but…”
All eyes shift to him. James watches how Peter’s shoulders tense, how his fingers twitch nervously.
“But?” Remus prompts gently.
Peter swallows. “It’s just… I’ve noticed some weird behaviours from Sirius.”
That immediately grabs James’s attention. He straightens, body taut like a string pulled tight. “What do you mean?”
Peter bites his lip, clearly unsure. “It’s okay, Pete,” James adds quickly, softer this time. “Dad told me to tell him about any odd behaviours Sirius shows.”
That seems to ease some of Peter’s nerves. He exhales, then continues. “Well—as you know, I share two classes with him. And lately… I don’t know. He seems on edge. Like, constantly. Like he’s waiting for something bad to happen.”
James nods, heart sinking a little. He’s seen it too. The way Sirius’s eyes dart around classrooms, the way he stiffens at sudden noises. The ghost of something haunted that sometimes lingers behind his smile.
“And there’s other stuff,” Peter says. “Like… he needs things to be symmetrical. Desks. Notebooks. Pens lined up exactly. And he disinfects tables before sitting at them—at least three times.”
He gives James a cautious glance. “It’s like he’s scared of germs or something. You wouldn’t notice unless you were watching. But I’ve been watching.”
James absorbs that quietly, every word another puzzle piece he hadn’t known he was missing.
Remus leans forward, picking up the thread. “Yeah, I’ve been watching him too. Just in case. And… I’ve never seen him eat. Not once. Not in the cafeteria, not at lunch. I don’t know him well, but that seems… off.”
“It is,” James agrees quietly. “He barely touches food at home either. My parents have noticed too. They don’t say much, but they’re definitely worried.”
Marlene, who has been unusually quiet, finally speaks. “He’s extremely smart.”
All eyes turn to her. She continues, voice steady but thoughtful. “Like, scary smart. Could-get-bumped-up-a-grade smart.”
She laughs once, short and dry. “He finished that bloody maths quiz today in under twenty minutes. And he was the only one who got full marks.”
James groans at the memory. That quiz had nearly destroyed his will to live.
“But then,” Marlene goes on, “Mr. Hudson—remember him?”
James grimaces. “Don’t remind me.”
“Yeah, well, he went on one of his unhinged rants after handing back the tests. Called us all failures. Told us we’d amount to nothing. The usual crap. But Sirius—he just sat there. Perfectly still. But I saw it. He was trembling. His hands, his legs. Barely. But it was there.”
Her voice drops lower, quieter. Almost reverent. “It was like… he’d heard it all before.”
James doesn’t respond right away. He lets the words wash over him. They settle in his bones like cold rain.
“Thanks for telling me,” he says finally. His voice is low, serious. “I’ll let my parents know. This could really help.”
The nods he gets in return are solemn. Genuine. They all know this isn’t just gossip anymore. It’s something else.
James leans back again, eyes drifting upward toward the soft, shifting clouds. Something tugs at his chest—a mixture of worry, guilt, and something he can’t quite name. All these little pieces of Sirius, scattered between them. Misaligned. Fractured. And James can’t shake the feeling that if someone doesn’t help fit them back together… something might break for good.
***
Now, James knows the routine—his parents don’t like to change it, because it might upset Regulus. So, when he notices his dad’s car pulling up, and Regulus nowhere insight—James has a pretty good idea of what’s happened.
“Where’s Regulus?” James asks, closing the door of the car, as he sits in the front seat.
“He went home early,” Sirius supplies, from the back seat. “Wasn’t feeling well.”
James nods at Sirius’s answer. Which, James knew, was the most likely case.
The sharp click of the front door unlocking cuts through the house like a gunshot. James barely has time to register the sound before a storm explodes in front of him.
Regulus jerks upright from the couch across the room, eyes wide and already locked on James like he’s the only person in existence.
And for a second, James doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He watches the shift in Regulus’s face—shock, pain, then fury—and something cold slinks into his chest.
Regulus launches to his feet.
James takes one step back.
"Reg—" he tries, but Regulus is already coming toward him.
Bolting.
“Regulus!” Euphemia’s voice cracks the air behind him.
Sirius moves faster than James can process—darting forward, grabbing James by the arm, yanking him back just as Regulus’s hands reach forward like claws. James stumbles, heart slamming against his ribs, as Sirius drags him aside and throws an arm out protectively between them.
Regulus screams, voice tearing out of him like it hurts.
Fleamont appears in the corner of James’s vision, stepping in quickly as Sirius shoves James behind him.
“It’s okay, Regulus,” his dad voices loudly, but it barely dents the air.
James watches, rooted to the spot, as Regulus fights against invisible restraints—like something inside him has broken open. His whole body jerks and writhes, desperate, dangerous, wild.
“Come on!” Sirius hisses, grabbing his arm again, hauling him further into the house.
James stumbles over his own feet, and just as Fleamont slips past, Regulus lets out a scream. Not a word. Not a threat. Just a raw, cracked scream that twists in James’s stomach.
Then the sound of something hitting the wall.
James flinches. A pillow flies past his peripheral vision. Then a blur of motion—a lamp?—crashes down hard, glass shattering somewhere near the hallway. Another object clatters behind them as Sirius tugs him sharply toward the dining room.
James glances over his shoulder. Regulus looks like he’s coming apart.
James lets Sirius drag him all the way into the dining room. His legs feel like lead, heavy with the tension still pulsing through the air. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t speak—just lets himself be pulled along, the noise from the living room growing quieter only because of the distance.
Sirius lets go of him as soon as they’re inside, then starts pacing. He doesn’t say anything—just walks back and forth across the length of the room with a look in his eyes that sets something uneasy crawling along James’s spine. Sirius looks… frantic. No, not just frantic—frayed. On edge in a way James doesn’t fully understand.
What’s there for Sirius to worry about? Apart from the obvious?
Another crash sounds from the living room—sharper this time, louder. Glass, definitely. Sirius flinches hard, his whole body tensing like he’s been physically struck.
James watches him carefully. Really watches him. Not just the way he moves, but the way he looks . His skin is pale, almost grey. His jaw is clenched tight, and there’s a tremor in his hands he doesn’t seem aware of. He looks like he’s about to vomit—or bolt.
What the hell is going on inside him?
Regulus screams again, and something else shatters. James can’t tell if it’s another frame or a lamp or what, but it’s loud enough to ring in his ears. Sirius finally collapses into one of the chairs at the table, his leg bouncing furiously. He picks at the skin around his fingers, worrying at the raw edges like he doesn’t even feel it. Then he bites down on a fingernail, shoulders jolting every time the sound of Regulus’s meltdown pierces through the walls.
James moves to sit in his usual spot, directly across from him. His eyes never leave Sirius.
He studies every inch of him—the restless movement, the hunched posture, the way he keeps glancing toward the door like he’s bracing for something worse. It’s more than worry. It’s fear. Full-body, all-consuming fear. Like his body’s stuck in some fight-or-flight response that won’t let up.
The silence that falls over the house comes suddenly, so abruptly it feels unnatural. James’s muscles relax in increments, as if waiting for the next crash that never comes. Sirius goes still too—stiff, rigid, straining to hear anything .
The quiet stretches. James can’t help but wonder what kind of home trains someone to listen like that. To wait for the absence of noise like it might save your life. A heavy sadness forms low in his chest, growing heavier by the second.
He doesn’t want to think about Sirius’s parents. About what kind of things he must have lived through to make him this alert, this broken.
James shifts in his seat, guilt crawling higher and higher up his spine. He hasn’t apologised. Not really. Not for everything.
Not for threatening Sirius. Not for letting Regulus’s friends threaten him. Not for the fights, the silence, the betrayal.
It is his fault, James realises again—more solidly now. Not just regret. Ownership.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts, voice quiet but somehow deafening in the stillness. Sirius’s head snaps toward him, brows furrowed like he’s just heard something completely out of place.
James flushes. Embarrassment prickles along his neck, but he pushes through it. “For… everything.”
He puts emphasis on the word, lets it sit heavy in the space between them. Sirius stares at him, eyes unreadable—curious, but skeptical, too. Like he wants to believe it but doesn’t know how.
James can’t blame him. He probably wouldn’t believe himself either.
“I’m sorry for threatening you,” James says, forcing himself to look straight into Sirius’s storm-grey eyes. There’s a flicker of recognition there, but Sirius stays quiet. Waiting. James takes a breath and keeps going.
“You didn’t deserve it. And Regulus… Regulus didn’t deserve your distance either. I’m sorry for that, too.”
Sirius nods slowly, opening his mouth to speak, but James cuts in first.
“It wasn’t fair,” he says. The words fall from his mouth like stones. “I was… jealous. Among other things. But mostly, I was feeling guilt.”
He sees Sirius tilt his head slightly at that, interest catching. James keeps going.
“I… Regulus was being bullied when he first got here. And I completely missed it. I didn’t notice. I didn’t stop it. I thought—” he breaks off, swallows hard. “I thought that if I threatened you, it’d stop the rest of it. That I could protect him from getting hurt again.”
A bitter laugh leaves him. “I see now how wrong I was. I didn’t protect him. I hurt him. And I hurt you, too.”
The guilt threatens to choke him again, thick and relentless in his throat. But he doesn’t stop.
“I know this isn’t a good enough apology. And I don’t have an excuse. But… I was trying to do the right thing, and in doing that, I only made everything worse.”
He meets Sirius’s eyes again. This time, he doesn’t look away.
“I’m really sorry,” James says. His voice cracks, and tears sting at the corners of his eyes. “Nothing I can say, or do, will show you just how much I mean that. I should’ve never misjudged you. I should’ve never let the idea of you being some dangerous criminal blind me.”
Sirius’s expression softens—just slightly—as James continues.
“I shouldn’t have done the things I did. I shouldn’t have let it get to this point. But… I can’t change the past. If I could, I would. I would’ve talked to you. Really talked. I should’ve—”
“It’s okay,” Sirius whispers, his voice barely audible and trembling. “I get it.”
James stares at him, stunned. “What?”
Sirius sighs, his shoulders sagging. “I get it. Really, I do. I want to protect my brother from everything. Even from myself.”
James blinks. That... wasn’t what he expected.
Even now, he wants to believe Sirius is only saying that because of his guilt. Because of what James just said.
But Sirius keeps talking.
“I’ve always wanted to protect Regulus from everything,” he says, voice quieter now. “I kept him out of a lot of things. Too many. Even—no, especially —from what happened to our parents.”
The weight of that statement sinks like a stone in James’s gut. He watches the way Sirius stiffens just saying the word “parents,” how it coils around his spine and drags his posture tight again.
Something awful lingers behind that sentence. James can feel it, but doesn’t push.
“So,” Sirius says after a long moment. “I get it. Trust me. And… for what it’s worth, I’m glad Regulus has you in his corner. Especially when I couldn’t be.”
He lets out a dry, humourless chuckle. “Thank you for trying to protect my brother from potential threats. Even,” he adds, with a crooked smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, “if that potential threat was me. It shows you care.”
They sit in silence for a moment, something raw and unspoken hovering in the air between them.
Then—
“ Sirius! ”
Regulus’s panicked voice slices through the quiet, echoing down the hall.
James’s head snaps toward the hallway, where he can see Regulus, frantically searching for Sirius.
James knows, this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
But maybe—he hopes—his apology is enough of a good first step in making things right. In gaining Sirius’s trust. In gaining, in what James hopes, is Sirius’s full forgiveness.
It’ll take time.
Time, James knows he has.
Notes:
Word Count: 15,895
Published: 2025-07-23I'm gonna push the upload date to Friday instead of Wednesday. This is because Wednesday isn't sustainable anymore, and I have like, two, two hour classes on Friday, with a gap between them, for uploading, like I had last semester, but on Wednesday.
I hope you guys don't mind the change. I just can't do Wednesdays anymore. Thank you! See you all next week!
Chapter 35: What is Going on Here?
Summary:
From Father’s day onwards, things have been chaotic. It’s all piled up. It doesn’t help that they have to learn to understand the complexities of Sirius. It doesn’t help that Regulus is a ticking time bomb. It doesn’t help that James added fuel to the fire.
They both learn things about themselves, what they can and can’t cope with. But the one question remains the same:
What is going on here?POV: Euphemia and Fleamont Potter
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
POV: EUPHEMIA
The not knowing is unbearable.
It sits in Euphemia’s chest like a lead weight, heavy and unmoving, pressing down with every breath she takes. She’s been thinking about it all evening—ever since Sarah had rushed out the door, her face pale and serious, leaving them with more questions than answers. Euphemia’s mind keeps circling back, relentless, tearing apart every detail, every word exchanged, but she can’t find a reason that makes sense.
She needs to know what happened. The uncertainty is gnawing at her, piece by piece, sharper than guilt, crueler than shame.
She places the last container of Thai food into the fridge, the cold air brushing against her skin as she pauses, glancing across the kitchen to where Fleamont stands by the sink, sleeves rolled up, methodically scrubbing a dish that’s been clean for at least two minutes. His shoulders are tense, his jaw set. He’s doing that thing he does—distracting his hands when his mind is restless.
“Fleamont?” she asks quietly, but her voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
He hums, nonchalant, as if they both don’t already know exactly what’s coming next. “Yeah?”
Euphemia leans her hip against the counter, arms folding across her chest. He knows. She knows he knows. There’s only one thing she could be asking about. Because what other reason would Sarah have to leave like that—so abruptly, so frazzled—if not for an emergency? If not for something that went terribly wrong during Sirius’s first check-in?
Sarah hadn’t even gotten to ask the important questions. Hadn’t even scratched the surface.
Not that Euphemia could’ve given her the right answers. Not without revealing just how badly she’s already failed. How cold she’d been. How thoughtless.
Maybe Sarah deserves to know that. Maybe she should mark Euphemia down as untrustworthy in her reports. It would be fair. Euphemia has no doubt she deserves it.
She watches her husband, the way his movements have slowed, his focus drifting as if the weight of her stare is pulling him under. He knows exactly what she’s asking, even if she hasn’t said the words.
“Oh.” Fleamont’s voice drops, rough and tired. He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, pinching hard in that familiar, futile attempt to ward off a headache. “That.”
Her shoulders sag, the sharpness in her stance softening. Something did happen. Something real. Something Fleamont is carrying on his shoulders like a leaden burden.
“What happened?” she asks, stepping towards him, her tone gentler now. She reaches out, curling her fingers around his wrist, tugging his hand away from his face, interlocking their fingers. With her other hand, she cups his jaw, guiding him to look at her, grounding him. She presses a kiss to his cheek, soft and lingering, her silent way of saying I’m here. You don’t have to carry this alone.
Fleamont exhales slowly, the tension bleeding out of him beneath her touch. His eyes flutter shut for a brief moment, as if he’s gathering strength from the smallest of comforts.
“I have no idea,” he says, and the crack in his voice cleaves through her. When he opens his eyes, his gaze locks with hers—wide, uncertain, and clouded with something that almost looks like fear. “One minute he was fine, talking with Sarah. And the next…” He trails off, his mouth twisting as if the words are trapped, refusing to form.
She stays still, thumb tracing soft circles against his jawline, waiting.
“I don’t know what it’s called, Euphemia.” His laugh is humourless, strained, as he drops his hand uselessly to his side. “That’s how new this whole ordeal was. It was like he just… zoned out. Like he wasn’t even here, but he was.”
His confusion is palpable. Euphemia’s mind races, flipping through every file, every memory of kids they’ve fostered, of behaviours they’ve learned to expect. But nothing clicks. Nothing seems to fit.
Fleamont's arms slide around her waist, pulling her closer as his head drops heavily onto her shoulder. She wraps her arms around him, one hand curling into the back of his shirt, the other stroking up his spine, holding him tightly in the kitchen, like they’ve got all the time in the world.
But time feels fragile right now. Slippery.
“I think it’s gonna happen again,” Fleamont murmurs, his voice muffled against her. His arms tighten around her waist, as if bracing for a future he can’t predict. He leans back slightly, just enough to catch her gaze. His eyes are steady, but heavy. “I don’t think this is something we can gloss over as a one-time thing.”
Euphemia feels her chest tighten, but she nods. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. “Okay,” she says, her voice calm, decisive. “So, we’ll be ready.”
Fleamont nods, his breath easing out as if her words give him permission to exhale. It’s the best they can do—for now. Prepare. Wait. Support.
It’s not a plan she likes. Waiting never sits well with her. But Fleamont’s right. Until it happens again, until they understand what’s really going on, all they can do is be there for Sirius. Be there when he falls, be steady when the ground shifts under him again.
It’s a helpless kind of readiness. But it’s all they have.
And Euphemia knows—it’ll have to be enough.
***
Euphemia leans back in her seat, watching as the team jogs a lap around the field, their laughter and shouts drifting across the soft afternoon air. The sun glints off the metal bleachers, casting long shadows across the grass. Her eyes instinctively seek out Regulus amidst the crowd of jerseys—his smile is wide, unguarded, and it tugs at her heart with a bittersweet ache.
Introducing him to Frank had gone smoother than she’d expected. Not that she thought Frank wouldn’t be kind, he’s a good man, but there’s always a lingering worry with Regulus—how he’ll respond, how fragile his trust can be. But today… today had gone well. For once, something had gone easily.
She lets out a slow breath, her gaze flickering away from the field to Sirius, sitting a few feet away in the grass. He’s hunched forward, arms resting on his knees, fingers idly plucking at blades of grass. So still, so quiet, like he’s trying to make himself small.
Euphemia’s stomach twists. She’s still furious at herself for how she acted towards him. Cold. Dismissive. Judgmental. The shame settles like lead in her bones, heavy and unshakable. She knows she hurt him, knows she made him feel unwelcome. And now she has no idea how to fix it.
She’s not going to make excuses. She refuses to fall back on justifications or ‘but I didn’t mean it’s’. None of that will erase what she did. All she can do is show up now, show him that she can be better, that she wants to be better. That she’s willing to earn his trust.
So she starts small. She starts now.
“So,” she says, tearing her gaze from the field and turning toward him. She softens her tone, keeping it gentle, warm, desperately trying to not sound like the woman who had once looked at him with suspicion. “How was your first day?”
Sirius stiffens at the sound of her voice, his grey eyes widening with something like surprise. As if he’s not used to adults addressing him kindly. As if he’s waiting for the catch. He masks it quickly, expression flattening, shrugging in response.
Euphemia sighs internally. She knows this dance. She’s seen it in other kids from homes like his. The caution. The deflection. The constant bracing for disappointment. It’s painfully familiar. She knows it too well.
But she also knows you don’t bulldoze your way through walls like these. You chip at them, gently.
“See Marlene over there?” she asks, pointing toward the vibrant blur of blonde hair darting across the field. Marlene’s laughter rings out, bright and unbothered. Euphemia sneaks a glance at Sirius—he’s looking now, gaze following where she points.
“Do you share any classes with her?” she asks casually.
Another shrug. But this time, after a heartbeat, a small nod.
Progress. It’s small, but it’s something.
“What class?” she presses, her curiosity light, like she’s merely making conversation. Sirius’s face twists in confusion, as if being asked about himself is foreign territory. Like no one’s ever cared to ask before.
“Maths,” he mumbles, barely audible.
But it’s an answer.
Euphemia’s lips lift into a soft smile. It’s not a grand victory, but it feels monumental. “I never particularly liked Maths,” she admits, watching for his reaction.
He nods, mechanically. “That’s nice,” he mumbles, eyes flicking back down as he resumes picking at the grass. Euphemia’s heart sinks a little, recognizing the retreat. She’s losing him again, the shutters coming down.
Alright. She’s not going to push. Not now. She turns her attention back to the field, letting the silence settle comfortably between them.
The game moves on, the kids swapping drills for a casual match against another team. Euphemia lets herself enjoy it, even if she’s hyper-aware of the boy sitting beside her.
Then, unexpectedly, his voice breaks through.
“How did…” Sirius trails off, his words cautious, tentative. Euphemia turns to him immediately, her posture soft, open. She doesn’t want him to feel like he has to fight for her attention. His eyes meet hers briefly before darting away, his fingers twisting nervously.
“How did he get into soccer?”
The genuine curiosity in his tone—the earnestness of it—hits her square in the chest. This boy, who’s been through so much, who’s had to build walls just to survive, still wants to know his brother. Still wants to reconnect with the boy on that field, the boy he hasn’t seen in six long months.
Her smile is gentle as she responds. “We… we had gotten tickets to a professional soccer match for James’s birthday,” she explains, recalling the way Regulus’s face had lit up that day. “I’m not too sure if it happened then, or if it happened after, when James started teaching Regulus how to play, but…” she shrugs, because even she isn’t certain when the quiet boy who once barely spoke decided he loved the game.
Sirius nods slowly, his gaze distant, as if replaying the story in his mind. He’s soaking in her words, letting them settle.
Then he looks back at her, and there’s something different in his eyes. A weight. A question that matters.
“How did… how’s his episodes?” he asks, the words strained. Like he’s unsure as to whether he should mention them, or to keep his mouth shut. “Have you… I mean—I’m sure you’ve seen them. You should’ve, considering he used to get them a lot at home…” Sirius bites his lip, his anxiety palpable. “How…”
Euphemia meets his gaze, steady and kind. “Yeah, we’ve dealt with a few,” she says, keeping her tone level. She sees the immediate, subtle drop in Sirius’s shoulders. Relief. It’s faint, but it’s there.
“The episodes happen,” she continues. “But, I like to think that they’re infrequent.”
Sirius breathes out, and she can almost see the years of pent-up worry clinging to him, refusing to let go.
“You and Fleamont haven’t been too bothered? Haven’t thought they were too much?” he asks, voice fragile, guarded. Euphemia’s heart clenches. Someone, somewhere along the way, has made this boy believe his brother is a burden.
“No,” she says firmly, before he can spiral any further. He nods, but she’s not done. “It’s not Regulus’s fault,” she adds, her voice soft but unwavering. “That he has these episodes.”
Sirius’s nod is slower this time, more thoughtful. He’s listening.
“These episodes,” Euphemia says carefully, “they… He has a disability.” She watches him flinch at the word, his body going rigid. She softens her tone even more. “He has a disability known as Autism. It’s what makes him have these episodes. His episodes are really just meltdowns and shutdowns due to being overwhelmed.”
Sirius stays frozen, his face unreadable. Euphemia pushes forward gently. “We’ve dealt with enough to know how to respond to them. How to help him.” She leans in slightly, making sure he hears every word. “We know that Regulus views the world a little differently. That doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with him. It just makes him…”
“Special,” Sirius finishes for her, the faintest smile curling his lips. Euphemia hums, smiling back. “He’s always special,” Sirius adds, his tone laced with affection so pure it leaves Euphemia breathless.
Yes. That, she can agree with.
Regulus is special. He’s always been special. And now, sitting beside this boy who’s fought so hard to protect him, Euphemia knows— they both are .
POV: FLEAMONT
Putting the kids to bed was not as easy a task as one might think. Wrangling three teenagers—each with wildly different needs—was chaos. Beautiful, exhausting, relentless chaos.
James is easy. Simple, in the way only someone you’ve known since their very first breath can be. Fleamont knows the patterns by now: the ADHD hyperactivity that has him ricocheting off walls, the bedtime stalling tactics, the quiet moments where his brain just refuses to power down. Sleep has always been elusive for James, at least the falling asleep part. There are nights, bad ones, where Euphemia and Fleamont give him medication, but most of the time, they manage with patience and routine.
Regulus is newer territory. A bit of a mystery, still. For the most part, he settles himself well enough. Sometimes, though, nightmares pull him into their grip, and he’ll seek comfort. Sometimes it’s at bedtime, sometimes in the middle of the night—but he always finds his way into their room when he needs to. Fleamont never minds. Never has. If his kids need a little extra safety before they can rest, well, that’s what he’s there for. It’s what a father does.
Then… there’s Sirius.
Sirius is different. Harder to read. It’s only been a week, barely enough time to figure out the kid’s routines, but Fleamont’s instincts don’t lie. Sirius wears confidence like a suit of armor, sharp and deflecting, but it’s flimsy—cracked at the edges. He’s always on alert. Always watching. Like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.
Fleamont notices the way Sirius keeps his back to walls, the subtle peeks over his shoulder, the way his muscles tense at every sudden sound. Trauma, Fleamont reasons. But it feels deeper than that. Calculated. Practiced. As if paranoia isn’t a symptom—it’s a survival mechanism.
Fleamont isn’t fooled. Almost.
It’s late. Later than he intended. He spits toothpaste into the sink, rinses it down, and dries his hands slowly, mind still ticking through the research that had distracted him tonight. He pulls on his flannel pajama pants, the fabric soft and familiar, and takes a moment to admire Euphemia. She’s already asleep, hair spread across her pillow like a halo. Even now, she’s breathtaking. The sight of her makes his heart swell.
But tonight, he’s restless. Something nags at him. A gut feeling.
He slips out into the hallway.
James’s door is first. Cracked open just enough to peek in. Fast asleep. A tangle of limbs and rumpled blankets. Fleamont smiles softly and closes the door with a careful hand.
Regulus’s door is next, left slightly ajar. Fleamont leans in. The lamp is still on, but the boy is out cold, a book half-fallen against his chest. Fleamont steps in, gentle and quiet, bookmarking the page and placing the book on the nightstand. He clicks off the lamp and presses a kiss to Regulus’s forehead.
That gnawing feeling tightens as he turns toward Sirius’s door.
The boy has been jumpy since day one. Paranoid, even. Fleamont has caught him glancing over his shoulder, angling himself in doorways so he can see every exit. It’s instinctual. A learned behavior. It’s not just trauma—it’s vigilance. Hyper-awareness that speaks volumes. Fleamont wonders, not for the first time, what it took to mold a child into someone so perpetually braced for attack.
His hand is on the doorknob when he hears it.
A cry.
Choked and strangled, but it cuts through the quiet like a blade. Fleamont’s chest tightens. He knows that sound. He’s heard it from foster kids before. The sound of nightmares that aren’t just dreams—they’re memories.
He pushes the door open slowly.
Sirius is thrashing in bed, tangled in the sheets, face contorted in pain. His hands twitch, fingers curling into fists, and his legs kick out in jerky, frantic movements. Whimpers leak from his mouth, and then—a cry, sharper, like a wounded animal.
Fleamont’s heart aches at the sight. He’s done this before. Waking teenagers trapped in the grip of their nightmares. It never gets easier. Watching a kid suffer in their sleep, powerless against the echoes of whatever haunts them—it’s a special kind of heartbreak.
“Sirius?” His voice is soft, gentle, as he approaches. His hand rests on Sirius’s shoulder.
Sirius jerks violently at the touch, a raw, panicked cry ripping from his throat. His arms flail, wild and uncoordinated. One swings dangerously close to Fleamont’s face.
Fleamont catches Sirius’s wrist, firm but careful. “Sirius,” he calls again, urgency bleeding into his tone. He gives his shoulder a slight shake, grounding him, calling him back.
The sheets tangle tighter around Sirius’s legs as he thrashes. His breathing is sharp, shallow.
“Sirius.” Fleamont’s voice is firm now, but still gentle. He doesn’t let go. He repeats the name again. The fourth time, Sirius bolts upright.
Wide, glassy eyes. He’s gasping for air, chest heaving as if he’s just sprinted miles.
Fleamont lifts his hands, palms open, a silent promise of space. “Sirius,” he soothes, his tone slow and careful. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”
But Sirius doesn’t hear him. Not really. He’s still half-trapped, scrambling to escape the sheets as if they’re restraints. His hands claw at the covers, desperate, panicked.
Fleamont steps back. He knows better than to crowd a kid coming out of a night-terror. They need space. They need control.
It takes a few agonising seconds, but Sirius finally untangles himself and stumbles out of bed. His breathing is still rapid, shaky. His whole body trembles, a violent, full-body shiver that Fleamont knows isn’t from the cold.
He’s seen this before. The disorientation. The fight-or-flight overload. Only… Sirius looks like someone who’s had to wake up like this far too many times. Like he’s rehearsed this escape.
“Sirius?” Fleamont tries again, his voice soft, low, approaching carefully, like calming a spooked animal. That’s what it feels like, standing here. Watching him.
Sirius’s eyes lock onto him, sharp and wary. He tenses immediately.
“You’re alright,” Fleamont says, not moving an inch. His hands stay by his sides, open, passive. “It’s me. Fleamont.”
There’s a flicker of recognition. Fleamont pushes gently. “Regulus is safe. Sleeping. Across the hall. You had a nightmare. But you’re safe.”
He sees it—the instant Sirius’s body reacts to the word Regulus . His shoulders drop, marginally. His breath hitches. Relief crashes over him, barely contained.
“You wanna talk about it?” Fleamont asks, already knowing the answer. He’s seen this before. Kids don’t like revisiting nightmares while the panic still lingers. They don’t trust their voice to form the words.
Sirius shakes his head, shoulders still trembling. His hands are clenched into tight fists.
Fleamont hums. “Alright. Can I get you something? A glass of water?”
Sirius seems to wrestle with himself for a moment, as if debating whether he deserves the comfort. He gives a jerky nod, unable to speak.
Fleamont slips out, his mind churning. That nightmare had barely peaked. He’s familiar enough to know when a kid is spiraling towards the worst of it—and Sirius had been right on the edge. He doesn’t want to imagine what a full-blown nightmare looks like for him.
Downstairs, he grabs a glass, fills it with water, his mind still playing the scene over. The panic. The fight. The way Sirius’s first thought had been for Regulus’s safety.
When he makes his way back up, Regulus’s door is open.
Fleamont pauses.
Inside, Sirius stands by his brother’s bed, hovering. His posture is rigid, like he’s fighting the urge to climb in and curl around Regulus just to make sure he’s real, breathing, safe.
“Sirius?” Fleamont’s voice is a soft whisper, but Sirius snaps his head around like a whip. Fleamont lifts the glass of water in offering.
Sirius nods and steps away, quietly closing Regulus’s door behind him. He takes the glass with a muttered, “Thank you,” before retreating to his own room.
“You’re welcome,” Fleamont replies, leaning casually against the doorframe, watching him.
Sirius remakes the bed methodically, movements precise. His watch—still strapped to his wrist—glints in the dim light. It reads eleven-thirty. Fleamont watches as Sirius sits on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the wall. His expression is hollow. Haunted.
Fleamont feels helpless. Utterly, maddeningly useless.
“Try and get some more sleep,” he says. It’s a weak offering. Empty, almost. But it’s all he has.
Sirius just nods.
Fleamont closes the door, the quiet click sounding far too final. He makes his way back to his room, crawls into bed beside Euphemia, and stares at the ceiling.
He can’t stop seeing Sirius. The dark circles under his eyes. The way he sat, hunched, trembling, staring at the wall like the shadows might lunge out and grab him.
The image lingers behind his eyelids long after sleep claims him.
***
“So, about school,” Fleamont starts, keeping his tone casual, easy, like this conversation isn’t pressing on a bruise that’s been forming all week. He reclines slightly on the bed, glancing towards Euphemia. “I was thinking about getting a laptop.”
“For Regulus,” Euphemia replies, confirming it aloud, like she needs to anchor herself to the idea.
Fleamont hums, watching her carefully. He can see how tired she looks—how her fingers keep fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, twisting and untwisting, over and over. She’s been carrying the weight of too much lately. He knows it. He feels it in her silences.
“Yes,” he continues, gently. “It’s just—it’s the start of a new school year, and if we both believe Regulus is going to be here permanently…”
“Yes, yes, I absolutely agree.” Euphemia’s voice is firm, but Fleamont can hear the undercurrent of tension in it. A layer of something more complicated.
“Good.” He nods, pleased. “Anyway, as I was saying, Regulus is going to need a laptop. And I was thinking about giving my spare too—”
“Sirius?” Euphemia interrupts, her voice catching slightly.
Fleamont’s lips press into a thin line. The air in the room changes. The silence stretches, uncomfortable. He can feel the conversation teetering on the edge of something they’ve both been avoiding.
“That’s a good idea,” Euphemia says eventually, but her tone is too careful. She’s weighing every word, every breath. “Considering we don’t know how the situation with Sirius is going to go.”
Fleamont’s chest tightens. The words hang heavy in the space between them. He hates the way her voice sounds—how cautious, how resigned it is.
He sighs, his frustration being let out in one big swing. “I just,” Fleamont begins, eyeing Euphemia carefully. “I don’t like how cautious you’re acting towards Sirius. I get that your concerned, but still—”
“I know,” she says, cutting him off, her voice tired, worn. “It’s tough. I feel bad for being so judgmental, but we have to consider what will happen in the future.”
Fleamont’s heart aches. He hates hearing her speak like that. He hates that she feels guilty for being human. He can see the guilt weighing on her, pressing into her shoulders, and it breaks him.
“I know I messed up, Monty,” Euphemia admits, and her voice… it’s not just tense. It’s brittle. It’s the sound of someone who’s been holding too much in for too long. She sighs. “Sorry.”
Fleamont moves before he even thinks about it. He crosses the room, closing the distance between them, his hand reaching out to her arm. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “You’re allowed to be concerned. You’ve realised your mistakes in dealing with him. I know you’ll do better. I’ve seen you before.”
Her eyes flicker up to meet his, and he can see how much she’s hurting. Not for herself—but for Sirius. For Regulus. For all the things she wishes she had done differently.
“I just…” Euphemia starts, shaking her head. “I keep thinking about how I treated him when he first came. How cold I was. I didn’t even give him a chance. I looked at him and saw every headline I’ve ever read. Every warning I’ve ever been given.”
Fleamont exhales slowly, his thumb brushing over the inside of her wrist. “Effie, babe, I know why. I know where that comes from, and it’s okay. I still love you.”
Her breath catches. She looks away, blinking rapidly. “I just… I didn’t want to be like my mother—or my father, Monty. I promised myself I wouldn’t be like them.”
“And you’re not.” He cups her cheek, guiding her gaze back to him. “You’re not her. You’re not like him. You’re you. You’re the woman who’s built a home full of love, who fights for these boys like they’re her own. You’re the woman who bends until she breaks to keep her family safe.”
Euphemia laughs, but it’s watery, full of grief. “Not sure I’m doing a great job at that lately.”
“You are,” Fleamont says firmly. “We both are.”
She nods, but the guilt is still there, wrapped around her. He doesn’t blame her. He never will.
“I’m scared, Monty,” she admits, voice breaking. “I’m scared of getting too attached and then losing him. Or worse… finding out I was right to be scared in the first place.”
“Oh, honey,” Fleamont’s heart twists. He pulls her gently towards him, wrapping her in his arms. She sinks into him immediately, her body trembling, as if she’s been holding herself upright for far too long.
“I know, love, I know,” he murmurs against her hair. “But Sirius isn’t them. And he’s not broken beyond repair. He’s scared, Effie. Just like you.”
She makes a soft, choked noise against his chest. Fleamont tightens his hold, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.
“I feel guilty, is all,” Euphemia whispers.
Fleamont can hear it—the way her voice shifts, sharper now, edged with something bitter that has nothing to do with Sirius and everything to do with herself. That coldness? He knows it’s not meant for him, not even for Sirius. It’s for herself.
And it guts him.
“I just can’t get over what happened with the police and Sirius, Fleamont.” She pulls herself back him his chest, curling in on herself slightly like she’s trying to make herself smaller. “I already had a hard time trying to trust him—and before you say it, I know trust takes time to build, but there’s always this base level of trust whenever you meet someone.”
Fleamont doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Because he knows her. Knows that she’s not done.
Knows how hard this is for her to admit.
“He has a past, a record, before coming to us.” She’s twisting her fingers in her lap now, worrying at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I was hesitant to let him in because what if something happened? We—or, no, I—had no read on this kid when we first met him, Monty. Sure, he’s been gentle, and loving towards Regulus, which is a relief—but I genuinely thought he was going to be a danger to him.”
Fleamont’s heart cracks. Because she says it like a confession, like a crime.
He watches the weight of those words sink her shoulders further, folding her in on herself as if she’s ashamed to take up space.
“And,” her voice softens, cracking along the edges, “I mean, I’m allowed to be scared, Fleamont. Scared that Sirius could potentially hurt you. Or James. Or even myself. I know he hasn’t shown us any reason to be violent— unlike what Sarah’s told us —but that doesn’t mean he still can’t.”
Fleamont closes his eyes. Damn Sarah. Damn the files, the reports, the statistics they’d been handed like they were supposed to sum up an entire boy in a few lines of printed ink. Damn anyone who ever made Euphemia feel like fear was her only option.
He shifts, moving closer, cupping her cheek gently. “My love. You’re allowed to be scared. I’d never fault you for that. But you’re also allowed to change. To feel different now than you did then.”
Her breath hitches, but she leans into his palm like she’s been starved for the touch.
“I see you trying, every single day,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers. “You didn’t give up on him. Not once. Even if you were cautious, scared. You didn’t give up. And you’re not going to.”
“I judged him before I even met him,” Euphemia says, voice breaking.
“You were protecting your family,” Fleamont counters gently. “There’s no shame in that. But you’re also protecting Sirius now, love. You see that, right?”
She doesn’t answer, but he feels the way her hands clutch at his shirt, balling up the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
“I hate that they made you like this,” Fleamont breathes, his voice rougher now, the bitterness rising. “Your parents, all those years of walking on eggshells, making you scared…” he trails off, unable to finish his own sentence.
Euphemia exhales a shaky breath, a tear slipping free, trailing down to where Fleamont’s thumb can catch it. “Sometimes I feel like they’re still here, you know?” she admits, small and raw. “Like I’m still trying to earn love that should’ve been given.”
“Oh, Effie.” Fleamont’s heart twists violently. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her in, tucking her against his chest like she’s the most precious thing in the world. Because she is. “You don’t need to earn love here. Not from me. Not from James. Not even from Regulus. And one day, Sirius is going to realise that too. Because of you.”
Her breath stutters, and then she collapses into him fully, the fight bleeding out of her as she clings to him.
They stay like that, curled together in the quiet of their bedroom, the weight of unspoken words lingering, but for now, that’s okay. He doesn’t need to fix it tonight. He just needs to hold her.
Fleamont presses a kiss into her hair, his fingers rubbing soft, aimless patterns along her spine. “We’ll figure it out, Effie. We’ll do it. Together.”
Euphemia hums against his chest, her grip on him loosening, just slightly. Enough to breathe.
For now, he’ll take it.
POV: EUPHEMIA
Food. Euphemia’s mind keeps drifting back to it—Sirius’s untouched plate, the way his fork lies perfectly still, unmoved, as if the very act of eating is too much. It’s concerning. Deeply concerning, to say the very least.
She’s tried everything. She’s made his favourites—or, well, the safe guesses that worked for Regulus. Kept everything separate, meticulously making sure the foods don’t touch, arranging the portions small and simple so it isn’t overwhelming. She’s offered choices, asked for preferences. She’s bent over backwards, tried to follow the same quiet accommodations that have always soothed Regulus.
But nothing. Has. Worked.
Every attempt ends the same way—with Sirius shrinking back, shrugging off her concerns, his answers clipped and dismissive. Euphemia knows she shouldn’t push. She knows pressuring him would do more harm than good. But this? This isn’t something she can just leave be. Food is a big thing . A huge thing. It’s basic care. Survival. And Sirius treats it like it means nothing at all.
And what is she meant to do with that?
As she steps into the laundry room, the nagging ache in her chest spreads lower. It’s not just Sirius. Regulus has been quietly avoiding her too. His gaze skims past her, his answers curt, detached. He’s been blatantly ignoring her, and the sting of it—God, it hurts. It’s a special kind of ache, the kind only your child can cause, the kind that burrows deep and festers.
But she knows this pattern. Something’s bothering him. Something she’s done, likely without realising, has upset him. It’s happened before. He’ll come to her—when he’s ready. Euphemia tells herself she just needs to give him space.
It doesn’t make the silence hurt any less.
The low rumble of the dryer pulls her from her thoughts. She frowns. Why is the dryer on? She hasn’t started any laundry today. She’s been out all day—groceries, errands, kids to and from school—this is her first load. Confused, Euphemia approaches, peering into the machine.
Inside are Sirius’s sheets.
She blinks, disoriented. She doesn’t remember putting those in. Slowly, she loads her own washing into the machine, her mind spinning with quiet questions. Sirius must have done this himself. That’s the only logical explanation, and yet the simplicity of it unsettles her more than it should.
Reaching for the detergent, her fingers pause mid-air. The bottle looks… clean. Too clean. No sticky residue along the cap, no telltale drips staining the sides. Lifting it up, she opens it. Not a new bottle—she knows it’s not. Someone cleaned it. She scans the detergent station again. The entire area has been organised with meticulous care, each bottle perfectly lined, their labels facing outward, symmetrical to the last millimetre.
Her gut twists.
She glances around the laundry room, searching for anything else altered, anything else perfected . But nothing else stands out. It’s just the detergent. The sheets in the dryer. The eerie precision.
With a tight sigh, she pours the detergent and starts the wash. Maybe she’s overthinking this. Maybe she cleaned it and forgot. But she hasn’t been in here all morning, has she? The doubt gnaws at her, quiet but insistent.
Her eyes drift back to the dryer. To Sirius’s sheets.
Why would he…?
It sticks in her throat as she steps out into the hall. A creeping realisation starts to build, sinking into her bones. Sirius’s laundry. She hasn’t seen a single item of his clothes come through her hands. She’s been doing the family’s laundry for weeks. But never his.
On impulse, she heads upstairs, her steps steady, her breath shallow. She pushes open his door.
The room is immaculate.
His bed is stripped, but it’s not the bed that stops her in her tracks. It’s everything else. The drawers are perfectly aligned, clothes folded with military precision, arranged in neat, identical rows. She runs a finger along the top of his dresser—spotless. Not a speck of dust. Peeking into the bathroom, the sharp, sterile scent of chemical cleaner clings to the air. It makes her throat tighten.
This isn’t just tidy. This is… obsessive.
She’s fostered too many teenage boys not to recognise the abnormality of it. James is messy. Regulus is neat, but still lives like a child, with books and small trinkets scattered in lived-in disarray. But this?
This is suffocating in its perfection.
Euphemia pulls out her phone before she can talk herself out of it. She isn’t even sure Bellatrix can give her answers, but she has to try.
It rings twice before Bellatrix picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Bellatrix,” Euphemia says, lowering herself onto her bed with a heavy breath. “How have you been?”
“Oh, you know,” Bellatrix says, breezy as ever. “I’ve been alright. You?”
Euphemia rubs her eyes, exhaustion seeping into her bones. “Yeah, I’m okay. Bit tired, though.”
A sharp, amused chuckle rings through the phone. “Yeah well, that’s what happens when you decide three teenage boys is a good idea.”
Euphemia can’t help but snort at that. “More like four.”
Bellatrix laughs, loud and familiar. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
Euphemia breathes in. Out. No sense dancing around it. “I was wondering… You’ve known Sirius longer than I have, and—well—I wanted to ask you something.” Bellatrix hums, prompting her to continue. “Is it normal for him to be so… clean?”
There’s a pause on the other end. “How do you mean?”
“I mean—” Euphemia sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “His room here… it’s spotless. Organised to the inch. Honestly? It’s cleaner than my kitchen counters, and I just…” she trails off, hating how lost she sounds. “I wanted to know if this behaviour is new, or if this has always been Sirius.”
Bellatrix hums thoughtfully. Euphemia can hear the shuffling in the background—probably rearranging something. Euphemia does the same thing whenever she’s thinking. Thinking about something important, that is. “I’m not entirely sure,” Bellatrix admits, a hint of frustration in her tone. “I never really took notice of that kind of stuff. I do remember Sirius always having this odd obsession with washing his hands. But…”
“You don’t know,” Euphemia finishes, quietly.
“Yeah,” Bellatrix breathes. “Sorry, Effie. I wish I could be more helpful.”
Euphemia shakes her head, even though Bellatrix can’t see it. “Don’t be silly. You’ve helped.”
Bellatrix huffs a disbelieving chuckle. “Sure. But I appreciate you saying that.”
The silence between them stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. Euphemia sinks further into her pillows, clutching the phone to her ear.
“Oh,” she says suddenly, sitting up straighter. “I almost forgot.”
“Forgot?” Bellatrix repeats, curiosity piqued.
“I wanted to see if you and Narcissa would be interested in coming to Regulus’s first soccer match this weekend.”
The reaction is immediate. “Soccer?” Bellatrix echoes, her tone lighting up in delight. “Yes! Yes, of course we would! That would be lovely. Thank you.”
Euphemia smiles softly, heart warming at her enthusiasm. Of course, Regulus’s cousins would adore him as much as he adores them. “I’ll text you the time and place. It’ll mean so much to Regulus, truly.”
“You have no idea how much it would mean to us,” Bellatrix replies, her voice cracking slightly. “We… my family, that is… we’d resigned ourselves to the fact that we’d probably never see those two boys again.” She clears her throat, as if swatting away the emotion. “So really, we should be thanking you.”
Euphemia sniffles, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “It’s alright,” she says, her chuckle wet with emotion. “We just want Regulus—and Sirius—to be happy. They shouldn’t miss out on family, just because of the system. Regardless of why they aren’t with you or the rest of your family.”
The sharp inhale on the other end of the line is deafening. “Yeah,” Bellatrix says quietly. “It’s a complicated story. One for another time.”
Euphemia hums in agreement, her heart heavy, but full. “Thank you, truly. I’ll text you the details.”
“We’ll be there,” Bellatrix promises. “Oh, and I’ll ask my parents about Sirius for you. Maybe they’ll remember things I don’t.”
“That would mean the world,” Euphemia says earnestly. “And maybe you can stay for pizza after the match? We have this tradition after each match, with two other families.”
Bellatrix chuckles, lighter now. “Sounds delicious. Count us in. We’ll see you Saturday.”
“Talk soon, Bella,” Euphemia says, a soft smile curling her lips.
“Bye, Effie.”
As the call ends, Euphemia lets herself sink into the pillows, the weight in her chest not quite lifted, but eased. Bellatrix might find her some answers. And if not… Euphemia guesses she’ll just have to navigate this the best she can. Blind, but willing.
That’ll have to be enough—for now.
Or, at the very least, she hopes it will be.
POV: FLEAMONT
Closing his laptop with a soft click, Fleamont exhales, rubbing the heels of his palms into his tired eyes. Another late night. He’d promised Euphemia he wouldn’t keep doing this to himself, but with the university needing someone to cover for Professor Macmillan’s maternity leave, he hadn’t been able to say no.
He didn’t mind, truthfully—he was grateful to be trusted with the extra class—but the late switch had thrown his entire curriculum planning into chaos. His students didn’t seem to mind his somewhat frazzled state. They were just relieved someone was there to teach them.
Fleamont pushes back from his desk, his joints protesting as he stands. He stretches, feeling every one of his thirty-odd years, and pads quietly up the stairs. The house is dark and still, the only sound is his soft footsteps against the old wood. He winces as a floorboard creaks beneath him, grimacing toward the ceiling like the house itself is scolding him for being awake at this hour.
He knows he should go straight to bed, but his steps veer toward Sirius’s room. Ever since that nightmare, Fleamont’s found himself checking on the boy. Not out of obligation. Out of worry. Out of a gnawing, persistent ache that doesn’t let him rest easy. It’s not deliberate, not really. But his feet keep leading him here all the same.
He lifts a hand, gently rapping his knuckles against the door. It’s instinctual, even when he knows the boy is likely asleep. Knock, always knock. Every child deserves that courtesy.
But Sirius isn’t asleep.
When Fleamont eases the door open, the sight waiting for him sends a dull throb through his chest. Sirius is sitting up in bed, his back straight, staring blankly at the wall. The dim glow from the hallway casts sharp shadows across his face, emphasizing the hollows beneath his eyes, the deep set of his frown.
Fleamont doesn’t understand the wall-staring. He doesn’t know what Sirius is thinking when he does it, but it unsettles him every time.
“Sirius?” he calls softly.
The boy startles, head snapping toward him like a whip, shoulders jerking up to his ears. His eyes—sharp, defensive, and wide—search Fleamont’s face as though expecting a blow.
“You alright?” Fleamont asks, the concern thick in his voice. He’s not sure Sirius even notices it.
The flinching—it's been happening more often lately. Fleamont has noticed it, even in small, harmless interactions. Euphemia would have a better tally of how often it happens, but Fleamont’s seen enough to know it’s not right. It’s never right.
Sirius’s body relaxes—just slightly—when he registers who it is. Fleamont would wager the boy hadn’t heard his knock, too lost in whatever dark place his mind had dragged him into.
“I’m fine,” Sirius mutters, the words mechanical, like an automated response that means nothing.
Fleamont narrows his eyes, taking a slow, deliberate look at him. He’s lying. The boy’s exhausted, that much is plain to see. The dark rings under his eyes, the restless tapping of his fingers, the way his shoulders are curled up like he’s bracing for impact—none of it suggests fine.
He hums noncommittally, making no attempt to hide his disbelief. “Sure,” Fleamont says with a nod, his tone far too casual to be convincing. Euphemia’s always told him he’s a terrible liar.
His mind whirls, trying to latch onto something—anything—that will make this better. But his thoughts are sluggish, bogged down by exhaustion. What does one do for a boy who’s forgotten how to sleep?
Fleamont’s eyes scan the sparse bedroom, as if expecting the answer to materialise out of thin air. It doesn’t, of course. It never does.
Sirius is still staring, his tired grey eyes shadowed, but there’s a spark of something else in them too—a frantic, relentless energy, like his mind won’t let him breathe. He’s sitting so stiffly, so unnaturally rigid, that Fleamont’s own muscles ache just looking at him.
“Do you… do you have trouble sleeping?” he asks, and immediately feels foolish. Of course he does. The question feels stupid the moment it leaves his mouth. He wants to snatch it back, to offer something more useful, but Sirius just shrugs.
Not a yes. Not a no. Just a shrug. Like he doesn’t know how to answer. Or maybe he thinks it’s not worth explaining, that Fleamont won’t understand.
Fleamont sighs, dragging a hand down his face. He’s done this before, with other teens—kids who didn’t know how to turn their brains off long enough to fall asleep. He rummages through his tired, overworked brain for something, some scrap of memory that might help.
“Come with me,” he says suddenly, injecting as much cheer as he can muster. Sirius’s eyebrows knit together, suspicion flickering in his gaze, but he stands up anyway, cautious and silent.
Fleamont doesn’t bother with the stairs’ creaks this time. He leads them down to the living room, muttering to himself under his breath for not thinking of this sooner. It’s not a solution, but it’s a start.
He begins rifling through the living room, checking under blankets, in drawers, between couch cushions. Sirius hovers at the edge of the room, shoulders tight, like he’s waiting for someone to snap at him for being there.
At last, beneath the armchair cushion, he finds it—the remote.
“Ta da,” he says with an exaggerated grin, waving the remote like it’s a prize. Sirius looks at him like he’s lost his mind, but follows him cautiously as Fleamont collapses onto the couch. He hands the remote over, offering a tired, but genuine smile when Sirius hesitates.
“Go ahead. Put on anything you’d like.” He rises from the couch, stretching. “I’ll be right back.”
He lingers in the doorway, watching to ensure Sirius actually picks something. Relief washes through him as he sees Sirius scrolling through the menu, his thumb tentative on the buttons. Fleamont hustles upstairs, changing quickly into his pajamas. He doesn’t want to leave the boy alone too long. Not because he doesn’t trust him—but because he doesn’t trust the silence.
When he returns, Sirius is curled on the couch, knees hugged to his chest, watching Moana. The TV is turned down low, barely more than a whisper, the soft colours of the ocean reflecting in Sirius’s eyes. Fleamont lowers himself onto the couch, keeping a careful distance.
They sit like that, the flicker of the TV the only movement between them. Fleamont doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.
Just as he feels himself drifting, Sirius’s quiet voice breaks through.
“It’s raining.”
Fleamont frowns, turning toward the window. He hadn’t noticed. Caught up in his work, he’d missed the soft patter building outside, the distant rumble of thunder. He shifts his gaze back to Sirius, whose eyes remain locked on the screen.
“Regulus hates it when it’s raining.”
The words are soft, almost fond, but there’s a sadness beneath them that cuts deep. Fleamont’s throat tightens. He’s about to reassure him, to tell Sirius that Regulus is safe, upstairs, asleep, but Sirius continues.
“He was always scared of the rain,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. His gaze flickers over to Fleamont, and for a heartbeat, the exhaustion fades, replaced by something softer. “But he isn’t scared anymore, is he?”
The question sinks into Fleamont’s chest like a stone. Sirius’s tone is light, but his eyes—those grey, tired eyes—are searching. Asking for something Fleamont isn’t sure how to give.
He’s trying to tell him something. The words echo in Fleamont’s head, colliding with the memory of Sirius staring at Regulus the other night, hovering protectively at his brother’s bedside.
Regulus isn’t scared anymore. Because someone else is keeping him safe now.
Fleamont looks at Sirius—really looks—and sees a boy who’s spent his life shielding his brother from monsters. And now, with Regulus safe, Sirius doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t know how to stop being the shield. Because who shields Sirius?
Fleamont’s heart breaks and mends all at once. He doesn’t have the words to explain it, not in this moment, but the weight of Sirius’s words settle deep inside him.
He shifts closer, just enough that their shoulders are almost touching, and says nothing. Because right now, Sirius doesn’t need words. He just needs someone to sit with him, to be there, to weather the storm.
***
Fleamont stretches his legs out on the couch, the soft hum of the television blending with the quiet crackle of the fireplace. Euphemia is tucked into his side, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder, their fingers loosely entwined. It’s late, the kind of peaceful, sleepy late where the house feels still and safe. For a rare moment, everything feels calm.
“I invited Narcissa and Bellatrix to the game tomorrow,” Euphemia murmurs, her breath warm against his neck.
Fleamont hums thoughtfully, tilting his head to glance at her. “Good thinking, love. Regulus will like that.”
He means it. Despite his natural wariness towards Regulus’s cousins, Narcissa and Bellatrix had proven themselves safe. Proven to be kind. Respectful. They adored Regulus in a way that was obvious, and more importantly, Regulus lit up whenever they were near. Bellatrix had a fierce protectiveness to her, a sharp wit that kept everyone on their toes, while Narcissa had a soft, grounding presence that balanced her cousin’s fire.
Euphemia gives a small smile, as if reading his thoughts. “I just thought it might be nice for them to see him play. And for Regulus to have them there. He’s so much calmer after they visit.”
Fleamont nods, squeezing her hand. He’s seen it too—the way Regulus’s anxious edges smooth out when his cousins are around. Family, it seems, isn’t always so black and white. The Potter house is starting to fill with shades of grey. And Fleamont’s okay with that.
The soft glow of the TV flickers across the living room walls. Euphemia’s breathing evens out beside him, and Fleamont allows himself a moment to simply exist.
But then—soft footsteps. Hesitant. Careful.
He lifts his head, frowning toward the hallway. Those steps are far too tentative to be James. No, these are smaller. Lighter. Afraid of being noticed.
Regulus.
The boy lingers at the threshold of the room, his arms crossed tightly over his stomach, his whole frame tense. His eyes are red, swollen from crying, and the sight punches Fleamont square in the chest. His heart aches at the sheer vulnerability standing in front of him.
Euphemia notices him at the same time, straightening slightly. “Sweetheart? Is everything alright?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The sadness etched into his face speaks louder than words. He shuffles forward, each step heavy, as if dragging a weight behind him.
Fleamont shifts immediately, making space as Regulus climbs between them, curling into Euphemia’s lap. The boy clings to her like a lifeline, trembling in her arms. Fleamont wraps his arm gently around them both, his hand settling on Regulus’s back, offering quiet reassurance.
“I’m sorry,” Regulus whispers, voice breaking as fresh tears spill down his cheeks.
The words hit Fleamont like a hammer. No child should ever feel the need to apologise for their pain, and yet here Regulus is, choking on guilt that doesn’t belong to him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, smaller this time, as though shrinking into himself.
“Oh, love,” Euphemia murmurs, cradling him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”
Fleamont rubs slow, grounding circles into Regulus’s back, feeling the boy’s slight frame shudder beneath his palm. He’s done this with James more times than he can count, but somehow, this feels heavier. Regulus doesn’t seem to believe he deserves to be comforted. That knowledge makes Fleamont’s chest ache.
Time stretches, the three of them wrapped in a quiet, trembling cocoon. Gradually, Regulus’s sobs taper off, his breathing steadier, though his grip on Euphemia’s jumper remains ironclad. When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to meet her gaze, his fingers still clutching like she might disappear.
“I’m really, really sorry,” Regulus says, voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean it—I mean, I was really angry and upset and—” His breath hitches, words strangling in his throat. “I shouldn’t have been mean to you.”
Fleamont’s heart fractures at the sincerity in his voice. No child should feel the need to earn forgiveness for having emotions. But here Regulus is, desperately seeking it.
Euphemia nods gently. “Okay. It’s okay. Why were you upset?”
Regulus sniffles, curling tighter into their embrace. “I didn’t mean to,” he murmurs. “I was just having a bad night and wanted to sleep with you and Monty.”
Fleamont’s throat tightens. His hand continues its steady path up and down Regulus’s back. How long has this boy believed he has to ask permission to feel safe?
“Okay, kiddo, calm your breathing,” Fleamont murmurs softly, his voice a steady anchor. “That’s it. Good boy.”
Regulus hiccups, his breaths stuttering as he tries to match them to Fleamont’s slow tone. It’s working, if only a little.
“What do you mean you didn’t mean it?” Euphemia prompts gently.
Regulus’s fingers twist the hem of his pajama shirt, his head ducked in shame. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to listen to your conversation. About me. About Sirius.”
Fleamont closes his eyes briefly, guilt washing over him. Of course he heard. Of course he did.
Euphemia’s thumb swipes at his tear-streaked cheek. “Okay. What specifically did you hear?”
Her tone is calm, patient, but Fleamont knows the sharp sting of guilt mirrors his own.
“I heard you say you don’t trust Sirius,” Regulus says, his voice barely audible. “And something about the police. And that he’s violent.”
Fleamont feels his gut twist. He watches Regulus’s shoulders hunch, the boy shrinking in on himself as if preparing for rejection. It’s unbearable.
“It got me thinking,” Regulus mumbles, “and... well... it made me wonder if you even wanted him here in the first place.”
Fleamont swallows hard. That this boy—this good, sweet boy—could think they wouldn’t want him or his brother here feels like a personal failure. Anger flickers, not at Regulus, but at the world that made him believe that.
“I know I shouldn’t have listened, but... I’m sorry,” Regulus finishes, barely above a breath.
“I’m sorry too,” Euphemia says softly.
Regulus’s wide, glassy eyes blink up at her, confused. “Why?”
“Because I shouldn’t have acted the way I did towards Sirius. I should’ve trusted the process. But...” Euphemia falters, her gaze flicking toward Fleamont.
He picks up the thread without missing a beat. “People make mistakes, Regulus. Nobody’s perfect. We just have to learn from them. That’s what Effie’s trying to do.”
Regulus nods slowly, some of the weight seeming to lift, but there’s still a lingering fear in his eyes.
“So...” Regulus whispers, his voice so small Fleamont has to strain to hear, “you don’t hate me?”
Fleamont’s heart twists violently. He has to fight the urge to pull Regulus into a bone-crushing hug right there and then.
“Of course I don’t,” Euphemia says, her tone fierce, absolute. “I could never hate you, Regulus.”
She cups his cheek again, her thumb sweeping away the fresh tears. “That doesn’t mean I can’t be disappointed or upset. But I don’t hate you, love. Not even close.”
Fleamont feels the boy sag between them, like a taut string finally allowed to go slack. The words settle deep, filling a hollow space that should never have existed in the first place.
“Okay,” Regulus breathes, barely audible.
Fleamont doesn’t hesitate. He leans forward, wrapping both of them in his arms, pulling them into a secure, warm embrace. Regulus doesn’t resist. He melts into them, tucking his head beneath Fleamont’s chin, his grip on Euphemia loosening, not from fear—but from trust.
He feels the boy’s breathing even out, the tension draining from his limbs as sleep slowly overtakes him. Fleamont exchanges a quiet look with Euphemia, his heart heavy yet full. They stay like that, the three of them cocooned together, until Regulus’s soft, rhythmic breaths tell them he’s finally asleep.
POV: EUPHEMIA
She’ll remember the way Regulus’s face lit up for the rest of her life. That bright, vibrant smile—so wide, so unguarded—splashed across his face like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It melted her heart in an instant. Euphemia swears, if happiness could radiate off a person, she could see it shimmering around her son now, golden and pure.
“Bellatrix, Narcissa,” Euphemia greets as they approach, her own smile stretched impossibly wide from Regulus’s infectious joy. “Thank you for coming.”
Narcissa returns her smile, though a furrow of confusion pinches her brow. “Thank you for the invite,” she says warmly, tilting her head. “Though, I must admit, I’ve never really seen soccer before. I haven’t the faintest clue what the rules are.”
Euphemia chuckles, soft and understanding. “It’s quite simple, really,” she says, gesturing toward the field where the teams are lining up. As they watch, Euphemia explains the basics—how the objective is to score by getting the ball into the opposing team's net, how positions work, and how fouls are called. Narcissa listens attentively, her interest genuine, nodding along as if every detail is new knowledge she’s eager to store.
The atmosphere around them is light and bustling, filled with the excited buzz of parents cheering on their children. Some call out names in booming encouragement, others clap rhythmically with each play. It’s all in good fun, a lively support system for these kids who are here to enjoy themselves.
Euphemia’s gaze drifts to Sirius, sitting apart from the group, locked in a deep conversation with Bellatrix. Her heart clenches at the sight. Bellatrix’s expression is serious, a grim sort of tenderness, while Sirius—Euphemia notices with a pang—looks dangerously close to tears. It’s not a harsh conversation, not from Bellatrix’s body language, but important. Heavy. Euphemia wonders, what could they possibly be discussing that weighs so visibly on Sirius’s shoulders?
A sudden cheer erupts from the sidelines as the opposition scores the first goal. Euphemia claps out of sportsmanship, though she can’t help the soft giggle that bubbles up when she catches sight of Regulus’s unmistakable pout. His lips are pressed together in a tight line, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. The sight is too precious.
“You see that?” she murmurs to Fleamont, nudging his arm and pointing discreetly toward Regulus. Narcissa lets out a soft laugh beside her, clearly spotting it too.
“What? No? What am I supposed to be looking at?” Fleamont says, spinning his head frantically, squinting out onto the field. “I don’t see anything!” His whine of confusion, so genuine and adorably exaggerated, sends Euphemia into a fit of laughter. Narcissa quickly follows, her laugh light and elegant.
“What did I miss?” Bellatrix asks as she returns to the group, her tone laced with amused curiosity.
“Look,” Narcissa chokes out between laughs, pointing directly at Regulus.
Bellatrix’s eyes follow her finger. A grin pulls at her lips almost immediately. “Oh,” she says, chuckling softly, “that’s pretty adorable.”
“I still don’t see anything,” Fleamont huffs, folding his arms across his chest with theatric drama and stomping his foot for effect. His grin betrays his amusement, his act earning another round of laughter from the group. “Please, babe,” he pleads, turning puppy-dog eyes toward Euphemia, “what’s so funny? What do you ladies see that I don’t?”
Euphemia wipes away tears of mirth from her cheeks, her grin refusing to fade. “Regulus,” she explains, voice bright, “was pouting, dear. It was the cutest thing I think I’ve ever seen.”
Fleamont blinks, turning his gaze back to the field as the teams reset. The referee’s whistle pierces the air. “Oh,” he says slowly, then again with more conviction. “Oh. That is pretty cute, isn’t it?”
Euphemia nods, her chest swelling as she watches her son. “It is, isn’t it?” she whispers, voice thick with disbelief and wonder. When she catches Fleamont’s gaze, she knows he feels it too—the awe, the love, the overwhelming pride watching this little raven-haired boy, their son, dash across the field with such unfiltered joy.
The game progresses, though the opposing team scores again before halftime. Euphemia doesn’t mind. The score is secondary to the glow on Regulus’s face as he plays. He’s radiant. Euphemia can’t stop smiling.
But then, a ripple of concern edges into her happiness.
The kids come off the field, flushed and sweaty, gulping down water. Regulus is breathing heavily—too heavily. His chest heaves with sharp, ragged breaths, each exhale sounding harsher than the last. Euphemia’s gut twists.
“Hey, sweetie?” she calls gently toward the team. Both Regulus and James turn their heads at once, their identical attentiveness sparking another fond flutter in her heart. “Can you come here for a moment, Regulus?”
He nods and trots over, but as he approaches, Euphemia’s worry deepens. The wheeze in his breath is undeniable now, a rasping whistle with every exhale. She kneels on the grass, the dampness soaking into her jeans, but she doesn’t care.
“Hey, love,” she murmurs, her hands resting gently on his arms. His wide eyes meet hers—soft, trusting. They’re a perfect blend of grey and blue, impossible to forget. Euphemia watches the way his chest rises and falls, how his breath struggles to leave his lungs. Her stomach knots.
“Regulus?” she asks, keeping her tone light, careful not to alarm him. “Do you find it difficult to breathe?” His head tilts, confusion furrowing his brow, so she clarifies, “Do you find it difficult breathing air out ?”
He nods, small and hesitant, but it’s enough to confirm what Euphemia fears.
Asthma.
Her mind flashes back to her conversations with Sarah—no mention of medical conditions. But this… this is textbook. A cough rattles from Regulus’s chest, sharp and persistent. Euphemia’s heart clenches.
She rises swiftly, scanning the sidelines until her eyes lock onto Bellatrix. Narcissa isn’t beside her anymore. “Do you know if he—” Euphemia begins.
“If he has Asthma?” Bellatrix cuts in, already knowing. Euphemia nods, and Bellatrix mirrors the gesture. “Yes, he does. But my Aunt and Uncle didn’t believe it existed. Narcissa’s at the car—we always keep a backup inhaler.”
Euphemia’s heart aches at that simple sentence. Of course they didn’t believe it existed. What else could Regulus be struggling with, that she may not know about?
Within seconds, Narcissa is back, inhaler and spacer in hand. Regulus looks confused, clearly unused to the device, but Euphemia crouches down again, guiding his hands with gentle patience. She places the spacer over his lips, pressing the medicine into it.
“Breathe in and out, darling. Nice and slow.” Her voice is calm, steady, but her hands tremble slightly.
He follows her instructions, and they repeat the process three more times. Gradually, the wheeze fades. His breathing evens out. Only when she hears that clear, unhindered breath does Euphemia allow herself to relax. She presses a quick kiss to his damp forehead, murmuring a soft “good boy” as she pats his back. Regulus beams up at her before scampering back to his team.
Bellatrix and Narcissa are already watching her, an unspoken understanding shared between them.
“His Asthma isn’t usually bad,” Narcissa says, before Euphemia can ask. “It’s well-maintained. Only becomes a problem when he’s sick—or exacerbated after intense exercise, like today.”
Euphemia nods, tucking that information away. “Thank you. We didn’t know.”
The second half of the match begins, and this time, it’s their team who dominates. Regulus is a whirlwind—darting between players, weaving through defenders, scoring two brilliant goals that earn him the title of Player of the Match. Euphemia’s smile is so wide her cheeks ache, but she doesn’t care.
Later, back at their house, the adults are gathered around the kitchen table, pizza boxes open, laughter mingling with the scent of melted cheese and warm crusts. Frank is mid-bite when he nods towards Euphemia, grinning.
“Are you sure he hasn’t played before?” he teases.
Before Euphemia can reply, Bellatrix—standing beside her—snorts loudly, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Sorry,” Bellatrix says, shaking her head as Narcissa glares at her. “It’s just—our cousins weren’t allowed to do anything… messy.”
“Messy?” Norman, Peter’s dad, echoes, scandalised. “What do you mean they weren’t allowed to do messy things? That’s what boys are supposed to do.”
Bellatrix’s laugh is sharp, sardonic. “Yes, well. When you grow up the way we did, activities are chosen to maintain appearances. Things for the rich. Things that don’t involve grass stains and muddy shoes.”
The group nods slowly, trying to process the explanation. Euphemia feels that familiar twist of unease in her gut. There’s more to this story, more layers they’re not yet privy to. She’ll ask later. For now, she lets it be.
Euphemia and Fleamont drift into the kitchen for another slice of pizza. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the Pettigrews’ dog attempting to steal an abandoned crust from the low table. She chuckles, shaking her head at the sight.
“Still can’t believe the skill level your kid has there,” Frank calls from across the room, his voice tinged with prideful teasing.
“Yeah,” Evelyn chimes in, swirling her glass of wine. “Can’t believe your son won Player of the Match. He was brilliant.”
The word son lodges itself in Euphemia’s chest, filling it with a warmth that nearly takes her breath away. Her cheeks flush a deep crimson.
“You must be proud,” Eleanor says, as if stating the obvious.
Euphemia’s smile blooms, wider than ever. “You have no idea,” she breathes, her heart so full she feels it might burst.
She turns to Fleamont, catching his gaze, and in his eyes, she sees it reflected—the same overwhelming pride, the same boundless love. Regulus is theirs. Their son. Their joy.
And just when Euphemia thinks her heart can’t possibly hold more love for that boy, the universe proves her beautifully, wonderfully wrong.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont watches as Regulus methodically plates up two different servings of pizza, his movements precise, almost calculated. At first, Fleamont doesn’t think much of it—it’s not unusual for Regulus to prefer things a certain way. But then, Regulus storms back into the kitchen with an annoyed huff, his cheeks puffed out, his arms crossed tight over his chest like a petulant cat that's just been splashed with water.
It’s funny. Almost.
The key word being almost.
“Everything okay there, bud?” Fleamont asks, fighting down the chuckle bubbling up his throat. He doesn’t want to laugh, not when Regulus’s little stomp against the tiled floor is so serious to him. But God, he’s adorable, all riled up and trying his hardest to seem stern.
Regulus’s scowl deepens, his brows scrunching together into that perfect little line Fleamont has come to recognise as his “I’m about to say no” face. “No,” Regulus mumbles, all grump and no bite.
Fleamont keeps his grin in check, though it’s hard when Regulus looks like a sulky kitten. “No?” he echoes back, teasing lightly, hoping to coax him out of his pout.
Regulus shakes his head, lips pressing together as though the very word tastes bitter in his mouth. “No,” he says again, this time sounding less frustrated and more… defeated. His arms uncurl from around his chest, his stance softening, shoulders drooping ever so slightly.
“I need—” Regulus starts, then stops, his lips pressing tight as he recalibrates. Fleamont notices the shift instantly. The way Regulus adjusts his tone, forces it to come across softer, more respectful, despite the lingering tension in his posture. It’s such a deliberate, thoughtful thing for him to do.
Pride blooms quietly in Fleamont’s chest.
It’s hard, Fleamont thinks. For autistic kids to catch themselves like that. To realise their tone isn’t matching their intent. But he’s trying. He’s trying so hard.
“Can you make me a peanut butter sandwich and a skinless green apple cut up?” Regulus asks, his voice now level, as if the initial storm hadn’t just passed through.
Fleamont nods immediately. He doesn’t comment on the request—Regulus looks tense enough. Still, there’s a flicker of displeasure in Regulus’s expression, though Fleamont can’t tell if it’s directed at him, or at the situation.
He sets to work, grabbing the peanut butter and bread, his hands working with practiced ease. The apple is next, peeled meticulously, cut into even slices. He places everything neatly on the plate, knowing Regulus likes things orderly.
“I didn’t know you liked apples, let alone the green ones,” Fleamont says casually, handing the plate over.
Regulus’s cheeks flare pink, his fingers curling tighter around the edge of the plate. “I do,” he mumbles, ducking his head. “Just not the green ones.”
Fleamont raises an eyebrow, watching as Regulus seems to shrink into himself, as though embarrassed by the contradiction. Fleamont softens his tone, making sure Regulus hears the curiosity, not accusation. “You don’t?”
That seems to settle Regulus, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. He doesn’t respond with words, but his small, shy shrug speaks volumes.
There’s something more here, Fleamont can feel it. The way Regulus lingers, almost hesitant to leave.
“Regulus,” Fleamont says, gently now, careful as if approaching a skittish animal. He waits for the boy to lift his gaze, for those wide, wary eyes to meet his. “I need to know. Is the sandwich for Sirius?”
Regulus stiffens. It’s only for a moment, but it’s enough. Fleamont holds his gaze, steady, not pushing, not demanding—just waiting. After a beat, Regulus gives a small nod.
Fleamont exhales softly. His lips press into a thin line as he watches the boy clutch the plate like it’s something fragile.
“Can I ask,” Fleamont begins, pausing to make sure Regulus is still with him, “is there any particular reason why Sirius will only eat that?” He gestures to the sandwich and apple with a tilt of his chin.
Regulus shifts on his feet, his mouth pulling into a frown as he shrugs.
Fleamont’s heart tightens. That shrug—it’s not dismissive. It’s helpless.
“Okay,” Fleamont says, voice warm, even though his mind is racing. “Does Sirius have any allergies? Do certain foods make him sick?”
It’s been bothering him for weeks now—the strange, rigid patterns Sirius follows when it comes to food. No variety, no deviation. Fleamont’s done the research, scoured through articles and case studies, but nothing quite fits. It feels like there’s more to it than any diagnosis could explain. Trauma has threads that knot and tangle into places not even specialists can predict.
Regulus bites down on his lip, hard enough Fleamont’s tempted to tell him to stop before it bruises. His gaze darts to the floor. “I don’t know,” he says softly, and Fleamont believes him. The uncertainty, the quiet frustration in his tone—it’s real. “It’s just… it’s the only thing I know he’ll eat.”
That sentence feels like a brick settling in Fleamont’s chest.
The worry in Regulus’s eyes is a mirror of his own. He’s not just concerned for his brother—he’s scared. Scared of what this means. Scared of failing him.
Fleamont offers him a smile, gentle and understanding, though it feels heavy with unspoken things. “Okay,” he says, keeping his voice light, even if his chest feels like it’s caving in. “Off you go, kiddo. Thanks for the chat.”
Regulus gives a tiny smile in return—it’s small, almost brittle—but it’s a smile nonetheless. He nods, holding the plate carefully as he pads out of the kitchen.
Fleamont watches him go, his heart sinking.
This can’t keep going like this. Sirius can’t live on peanut butter sandwiches and green apples forever. But it’s not as simple as offering new food. This is deeper, messier. A symptom of something larger, something raw.
He leans back against the counter, scrubbing a hand down his face, the weight of it all pressing down on him.
We need help, he thinks grimly. Real help. Because this? This is not something they can solve with good intentions and patience alone.
But for now, he’ll let Sirius eat what he can.
They’ll find the rest of the answers later.
***
“Alright,” Sarah says with a warm smile, snapping Fleamont out of his spiraling thoughts. He hadn’t even realised he was zoning out until her voice cut through the haze. “Because we couldn’t do this last week, I’m going to do it now.”
Ah. The first-week check-in questions.
Last week... Fleamont would rather erase it from his memory entirely. The tension, the awkwardness, the way everything about that interaction felt off. Everything about Sirius’s mind completely disappearing was wrong.
Sarah’s pen is poised, ready, her expression open and patient.
“Okay, I’ll start by asking how Sirius has been coping. Do you think he’s adjusting well?”
Fleamont leans back slightly, feeling Euphemia’s hand graze his under the table—a small, grounding touch. She sends him a soft, encouraging smile that settles the tension in his shoulders just enough for him to respond.
“I think,” he begins, pausing to glance at Euphemia again, drawing strength from her quiet confidence. “I think he’s adjusting as well as any child should.”
He means it, too. It’s just... Sirius’s adjustment feels different. Offbeat. Like he’s fitting himself into the household with meticulous, careful precision, but it’s not sticking. It’s like watching someone build a house of cards, fully aware a single breath could bring it all down.
Sarah nods, scribbling something into her notepad, and the faint scratch of pen against paper is all too loud in the quiet kitchen.
“He’s definitely quiet,” Euphemia adds, her tone layered with more meaning than the words suggest. Fleamont knows her well enough to hear it. She’s worried. Worried in the way only a mother is, where even the smallest thing—the way Sirius folds into himself—becomes enormous.
“He acts… well, it’s rather weird,” she says, hesitant, as though she hates saying it but knows she must.
Sarah looks up, brows slightly furrowed. “What do you mean by that?”
Euphemia sighs, brushing a stray curl behind her ear as she gathers her thoughts. “He leaves the door to his room open, even when he’s not in it. He only closes it at night.”
Sarah nods again, writing it down without pause, and Fleamont can see the mental catalogue she’s building.
“He also only leaves his room when either Fleamont or I walk past. It’s like… I don’t know…” Euphemia trails off, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Sarah hums, not unkindly. “It’s like he’s waiting for permission, right?”
“Yes,” Euphemia breathes, relieved someone else understands it. “Exactly like that.”
Sarah’s pen moves again, quick and purposeful. “Anything else? How is he towards your son James and Regulus? Does he get along well with them?”
Fleamont exhales slowly. This is where things get trickier. “Honestly? We’re not really sure,” he admits, folding his arms across his chest. “I’ve barely seen Sirius leave his room, let alone talk to James. And just recently, things have become… frosty between Sirius and Regulus. Nothing’s happened yet, but…”
“It could,” Sarah finishes for him, her voice knowing. Fleamont nods, his jaw tight. It’s a painful truth, but one they can’t ignore.
There’s a pause as Sarah flicks through her notes, then she sighs, pulling her bag into her lap. “Well,” she says, unzipping it with a soft hiss, “I believe this belongs to you now.”
She pulls out a folder.
No, not a folder. A bloody tome.
Fleamont’s mouth opens in shock as Sarah hands it to him. The folder is so thick it sags in the middle, stuffed to bursting with papers and records. He takes it, the weight of it physical, pressing into his palms as though it carries every ounce of Sirius’s past within its battered cover.
“I don’t even think that’s everything,” Sarah says, sounding exhausted. “Apparently, they mixed up his first name. So, there are some documents with the wrong name on them. It makes sense why Sirius and Regulus were split up.”
Fleamont’s stomach turns. He can’t wrap his head around the sheer level of incompetence, the cold indifference these systems operate with. These are children, not case numbers.
Sarah shakes her head, clearly frustrated. “Took me forever just to get all of that together.”
Fleamont turns the folder over in his hands, as if by some miracle the answers might be written on the cover. Euphemia leans in to glance at it, her expression mirroring his—disbelief, disgust, weariness.
“You said there could be more?” Euphemia asks, voice quiet but incredulous.
Fleamont’s gut clenches. The thought that this isn’t everything, that there’s more hidden somewhere in a filing cabinet, lost under another bureaucratic blunder, has bile rising in his throat.
Sarah nods, her expression tinged with sadness. “Yeah. Unfortunately. I wouldn’t know where to look. Not unless Sirius gives me a complete timeline of his whereabouts. But…” she trails off, shaking her head.
“He’s not willing to share more, is he?” Fleamont finishes grimly.
“No.” Sarah’s lips press into a thin line.
Silence settles over them, suffocating. Fleamont can only stare down at the folder, its weight growing heavier by the second, as though it might crush them all.
“Well,” Sarah says, pushing to her feet, brushing invisible creases from her skirt. “I’ll leave you two to it.”
Euphemia stands as well. “Of course, I’ll see you out.”
Fleamont stays seated, watching them as they move towards the door. The soft click of it shutting feels final somehow, like it seals off their quiet moment of dread.
He stares at the folder on the kitchen counter, hating it. Hating what it represents.
“We’re not reading this,” he says, voice flat, resolute.
“Oh, yeah,” Euphemia murmurs, her voice strained. “I still feel guilty about everything. I just can’t—”
“I know,” Fleamont says, looking up at her with a soft, knowing smile. His heart aches for her, for the guilt she carries like a second skin. “It’s alright. We’ll get there.”
He reaches for her hand, curling his fingers through hers, tugging her gently down beside him. She follows willingly, folding into his side like a puzzle piece that has always belonged there.
They sit in silence for a long while, side by side, hands entwined, both staring at that damned folder as though it might suddenly make sense.
Eventually, he murmurs, “We’ll get there, Effie. It might take months… or years, but we’ve got the time. Nothing’s taking it away from us.”
He feels her nod against his shoulder, her exhale warm through his shirt. Fleamont shifts slightly, guiding her up from the kitchen, their movements slow and heavy, like they’re wading through molasses.
Later, when they crawl into bed, he pulls her into his arms, tucking her head beneath his chin. They don’t need to talk anymore tonight. Not about Sirius, not about the folder, not about the sheer unfairness of it all.
Tonight, it’s enough just to hold her.
POV: EUPHEMIA
The more she thinks about it, the more concerned she becomes.
The worry tugs relentlessly at the strings of her heart, pulling tighter with every breath she takes. It festers, grows, swelling until it’s too much, pressing against her lungs, making it harder to breathe. The tightness sits there, cold and unwelcome, like a weight strapped to her chest. She hates it. Hates how it steals her air, her peace. But it’s a part of the job. She’s raising three children now—or two, if she considers it realistically. The third… Well…
Euphemia lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, her arms folded stiffly across her stomach as if that will keep her grounded. The house is still, the silence pressing against her ears. She tries to will her mind into quiet, tries to slow the constant stream of thoughts that race faster than she can catch. On some nights—thankfully, rare in number—her brain refuses to listen. Tonight is one of them. Her thoughts spin wildly, ricocheting off invisible walls, like they’re trying to outrun her exhaustion.
She’s so tired. Tired as she thinks about the kids. About Sirius, about Regulus, about James.
She closes her eyes, lets herself drift, lets the pull of sleep take her deeper, deeper into that soft, quiet space where thoughts don’t exist.
Then it happens.
A scream—loud, sharp, ear-piercing—splits the night in two, yanking her upright in bed. Her heart lurches. There’s no time to think. She’s moving on instinct, flinging back the covers, bare feet meeting cold wooden floors as she rushes out into the hallway.
The air out here feels colder, sharper, as if the scream sucked all the warmth out of the space. Darkness stretches down the corridor, blanketing it in silence. Maybe she imagined it. Maybe it was a fragment of a dream. Maybe—
Another scream. Strangled. Raw.
Euphemia’s chest tightens. She’s moving again, her feet carrying her swiftly down the hall. Her heart pounds in her ears as she reaches Sirius’s door, her hand trembling as it curls around the doorknob. She pushes it open.
The sight that greets her is one she knows will stay with her forever.
Sirius is tangled in his bedsheets, thrashing beneath them like a trapped animal. The fabric wraps around him like a straitjacket, binding his arms and legs as he fights to free himself. Sweat beads across his forehead, matting his dark hair to his skin. His breathing is harsh, ragged. Euphemia’s breath catches in her throat. He’s been trapped like this for a while.
Another scream rips from his throat, raw and terrified. It shatters the air between them, and her heart shatters with it.
She doesn’t know what to do.
If she tries to touch him, she’ll get caught in the crossfire of his frantic, flailing limbs. But standing here, doing nothing, feels just as wrong. She can’t leave him trapped in this—this terror.
“Sirius?” Euphemia calls out, her voice soft, but her words dissolve into the air like smoke. She knows it’s futile. His mind is somewhere else, lost in a nightmare she cannot see. Still, she tries again, helpless in the effort. “Sirius?”
Her eyes flick around the room, desperate for something, anything. Usually, this is when she’d wake Fleamont. But he’s barely had a full night’s sleep in days, and tonight—tonight, it feels like she should handle this.
Another scream, louder this time, reverberates off the walls. The sound makes her flinch. Panic coils tighter in her chest.
Her gaze catches on a pillow discarded on the floor beside the bed. She snatches it up, heart hammering, holding it in front of her like a makeshift shield. His fists swing wildly, striking the air as if battling some invisible force.
Euphemia tosses the pillow gently towards him.
The sudden contact jolts him awake. Sirius lurches upright, gasping, his chest heaving with the effort of dragging in air. His eyes snap open, wild and glassy, darting around the room until they land on her.
“Sirius?” she says again, her voice low and careful, as if she’s trying not to spook a wounded animal.
His eyes widened further, panicked. He shuffles back, retreating up the bed like he’s trying to melt into the wall. His breathing speeds up, sharp, frantic inhales that set her own heart into a painful rhythm.
She lifts her hands, palms up, showing she means no harm. Slowly, she takes a step back, giving him space. But she sees the way he shakes. His entire body trembles, his limbs jittery with adrenaline. Euphemia doesn’t think she’s ever seen a child this afraid—not even Regulus on his worst days.
Her mind spins with questions, theories, possibilities she forces herself to push aside. Now isn’t the time to think about why he’s reacting this way. Now is the time to help him feel safe.
Euphemia moves carefully, lowering herself onto the end of his bed. She keeps her distance—far enough not to crowd him, but close enough so he knows she’s here.
The only sound in the room is Sirius’s ragged breathing, fast and uneven, filling the air with a heavy weight. He pulls his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them, curling in on himself until he’s just a small, shivering bundle of boy. The sight cleaves her heart in two.
“It’s okay,” she says, voice soft, words tumbling out instinctively. “You’re okay.”
Gently, she reaches out, aiming to rest her hand on his ankle—a light touch, grounding. But the moment her fingers make contact, he kicks her hand away, a reflexive snap. Euphemia’s heart twists. She’s never had a child kick her off before.
She glances up at his face. His expression is tight, uncomfortable, his breathing still erratic. Does he not like being touched? Is this a boundary she’s crossed?
That’s okay, she thinks. No touching. She can do that.
But how is she supposed to comfort him without touch? Her words feel so inadequate, floating between them without landing, without easing the panic etched into his every breath.
Still, she keeps trying. She stays right where she is and repeats her words, over and over. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It was just a nightmare. Everything’s alright.”
It feels endless, but slowly—agonizingly slowly—his breathing begins to shift. The erratic gasps ease into shaky inhales. The shakes lessen. She can see it, feel it, the edge of panic loosening its grip.
“Follow me,” she instructs softly, exaggerating each breath, making her inhales and exhales loud and deliberate. “In. Out. In. Out.”
He copies her, his breath syncing with hers until, at last, it evens out. The silence that follows is heavy, awkward, filled with a tension neither of them knows how to dispel. Euphemia watches him, her heart aching. He seems embarrassed now, his eyes darting away, his posture curling inwards like he wants to disappear.
“It’s alright,” she says gently. She doesn’t want him to think otherwise. “You’re allowed to have nightmares. You’re safe here.”
The word safe makes him flinch. His shoulders tense, as if the word is a lie, as if it stings to hear. Euphemia’s chest constricts painfully. What has happened to him? What has been done to make him think safety is a lie?
He fiddles with the blanket, his gaze fixed intently on the sheets. It’s as if he’s gathering the courage to speak, as if admitting anything is a battle within itself. Euphemia watches him, her worry twisting deeper.
“Sirius?” she prompts softly, unable to stop herself. “Is everything alright?”
The question is stupid—she knows it the moment it leaves her mouth—but she has to try. Sirius blushes, the red creeping up his cheeks, his embarrassment visible. He gives a barely-there nod, arms winding tighter around himself.
He clears his throat, croaky from all the screaming. “Yeah,” he mumbles, hoarse. “Everything’s alright.” The blush deepens. “It’s just… uh…” His voice trails off, words stumbling into silence as he shifts uncomfortably.
Euphemia doesn’t push him. Instead, she stands, offering him an easy out. “Did you need a glass of water?” she suggests gently. He shrinks further into himself, his discomfort a living, breathing thing in the room.
Her eyes scan him again, then lower to the bed. When she moves to adjust the blankets, her fingers brush against dampness. Wet sheets. Euphemia’s heart clenches, but she doesn’t react outwardly. Sweat, she tells herself. Just sweat.
“Did you want the sheets changed?” she asks, like she doesn’t already know the answer. Sirius nods furiously, but makes no move to get up.
“How about I get you fresh sheets, hmm? Why don’t you change out of your sweaty pajamas?”
She turns to leave, pausing as a realization strikes—Sirius doesn’t have extra pajamas here. She mentally curses herself for not being better prepared. Moving quietly, she slips into James’s room, careful not to wake him, and retrieves a clean set.
When she returns, Sirius is still rigid on the bed, posture stiff, like he’s bracing for a punishment that never comes. “There you go,” she says, placing the clothes on his dresser. “These are James’s. You can change into those.”
He nods, unmoving. Euphemia kneels again, stripping the bed. The smell hits her then—sharp and undeniable. Not sweat. Her throat tightens.
“Oh,” she breathes, soft but still too loud in the quiet room. She looks at him. He’s shaking again, his eyes wide, terrified of her reaction. Like he’s waiting to be yelled at. Punished.
“It’s alright,” she reassures immediately, her tone firm in its gentleness. Of course it’s alright. “How about I go put these in the wash, and you go have a shower?”
The way Sirius looks at her—skeptical, suspicious—makes Euphemia want to cry. She can’t tell if it’s her failure, or the residue of someone else’s cruelty, but it doesn’t matter. It breaks her all the same.
She takes her time gathering the sheets, movements deliberately slow and non-threatening. Behind her, she hears him shuffle off the bed, footsteps quiet and hesitant as he slips into the bathroom. The soft click of the lock is a painful sound.
She hopes—prays—that every small gesture, every word, is enough to start building trust.
Euphemia strips the rest of the bed, the room feeling emptier without him. She carries the sheets downstairs, placing them gently in the washing machine, but she doesn’t start it. That can wait until morning.
Climbing back upstairs, she pulls spare sheets from the hallway closet, making his bed fresh and neat. She decides it’s best to leave him be, to let him come back to a clean bed, and not hover.
When she returns to her own room, the exhaustion slams into her like a tidal wave. She collapses onto the bed, sinking into the mattress. Fleamont mumbles something unintelligible beside her, half-asleep, and she can’t help the tired, bittersweet chuckle that slips from her lips as she leans over to kiss his cheek.
The house falls quiet again, but Euphemia’s mind refuses to still. As she lies there, staring into the dark, sleep creeping at the edges of her mind, the worry wraps itself around her chest. It curls up tight and settles there, heavy and persistent, refusing to let go.
***
The more she looks at him, the more she sees.
Euphemia watches Sirius from across the lounge, pretending to be invested in the morning paper, though the words blur uselessly on the page. Her eyes keep flicking up, tracing his every movement. Or rather, his lack of it.
He’s barely sleeping. She knows it now, beyond doubt. Since that nightmare—since that night she found him tangled and screaming in his sheets—he’s been running on empty. The bags under his eyes deepen with every passing day, darkening into purple smudges that stand stark against the pallor of his skin. They look like bruises. Bruises from the lack of sleep, bruises that no balm or kind word can soothe.
Euphemia feels the familiar tug of worry tightening in her chest. She keeps watching him. Watches the way he folds in on himself, how his shoulders stay curled, how his fingers twist around the hem of his jumper like they’re afraid to let go.
The longer she watches, the clearer his behaviours become. The patterns, the rituals. They leap out at her now, unmissable.
Like how he always leaves his bedroom door open during the day. Always. Whether he’s in there, sitting cross-legged on his bed with his back ramrod straight, or out at school, the door stays ajar. Wide open. Only at night does it close.
Euphemia has started making excuses to walk past his room more often, just to peek inside. It’s always the same. The bed is perfectly made, every corner tucked with military precision. His desk is spotless, books lined up in a neat, straight row. Nothing is ever out of place. His belongings are arranged as if on display—staged. It’s as though his room is always ready for inspection. As though at any moment, someone will walk in to pass judgment.
Then there’s the way he exits his room.
He never leaves unless instructed. Euphemia’s noticed it more times than she can count. He’ll stand there, stock-still in the doorway, unmoving, almost like he’s waiting to be given permission. Only when he catches sight of her or Fleamont does he venture out, and even then, his steps are small and hesitant.
It unsettles her. The stillness of him. It’s eerie, the way he stands so perfectly straight, spine stiff, eyes forward, like a soldier awaiting orders. Euphemia racks her brain, searching for reasons. Is it Juvie? Has he brought back habits from incarceration? That would make sense, wouldn’t it? But there’s something more here. Something deeper. Something older than a few months locked up.
It feels like she’s only seeing the tip of the iceberg, and beneath it is a mass of trauma she doesn’t yet have the shape of.
Like the nightmares.
Like the way he barely eats.
They're all connected. She feels it in her bones.
Euphemia moves through the house, lost in thought, until she walks into the kitchen—and comes to a dead stop.
Her feet freeze on the threshold, her eyes scanning the space in disbelief. Her jaw goes slack.
It’s clean.
No—clean isn’t the right word. It’s immaculate. Pristine. The kind of spotless that belongs in magazines, not real homes.
She feels dizzy just looking at it.
Her eyes dart across the room, unable to settle. The wooden floors gleam, freshly mopped and shining under the early sunlight that filters through the windows. The cabinet doors are wiped clean, not a single smudge or fingerprint in sight. The countertops, usually cluttered with everyday life, now gleam so bright they reflect the overhead lights like mirrors.
Euphemia steps inside, as if in a daze, the cool tiles under her feet grounding her as she tries to make sense of it. She pulls open the drawer where she keeps her pans and gasps softly. The contents are reorganized—neatly stacked by size, handles all aligned perfectly.
Her heart skips a beat.
She opens drawer after drawer, cupboard after cupboard, frantic now. Every single one is the same. Not just clean, but arranged with surgical precision. The cutlery drawer is sectioned by size and type, the tea towels folded into perfect rectangles. Even the bloody spice rack has been alphabetized.
A sound startles her—footsteps in the hallway. She turns to see Fleamont stepping into the kitchen, his hair a wild mess, sleep still lingering in his eyes. He stops short, mouth parting in stunned disbelief as his gaze sweeps over the room.
He looks ridiculous, standing there with bed hair and a gaping mouth, but Euphemia’s too frazzled to find it amusing right now.
“Did you…” he starts, but the words die on his tongue. He steps further in, opening a drawer as if needing physical proof of what his eyes are telling him. “It’s so…”
“Yeah…” Euphemia echoes, her voice strained, caught between disbelief and something heavier. Something closer to panic. “I can’t… I don’t know…” Her words stumble out, the edges of her voice fraying.
A clean kitchen isn’t a bad thing. Of course it isn’t. It’s thoughtful. But waking up to this? To a house that looks like it’s been scoured clean by a professional service at seven in the morning? There’s something wrong with that. Something unsettling.
She moves toward the cupboards, opening them mechanically. The contents inside are reorganized. The cereals lined up by height, the cans stacked with their labels facing out. When she swings open the pantry, she feels her breath hitch. It’s been completely gutted and rearranged.
“Fleamont?” she says, her tone sharp with alarm. He turns to her, brows raised, as she gestures toward the fridge. “Check the fridge.”
He obeys without question, pulling it open.
“What the—” he stops mid-curse, staring into the fridge with slack-jawed disbelief. His head snaps toward her, eyes wide, the sheer absurdity of it making him almost comical. “Who?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? Who did this?
But even as she thinks it, a bell chimes in her brain, the familiarity of it all sinking in.
“Fleamont,” she says, turning to him, her voice steady despite the quickening of her pulse. He looks at her, frowning, trying to piece it all together. “I’ve seen this before.”
He blinks at her, brow furrowed. “Right… Who?”
“Sirius.”
Fleamont’s lips press into a thin line as he absorbs the name. He hums, low and contemplative, glancing around the kitchen once more. The severity of it—the intensity behind this act—settles heavy between them.
“It is pretty…” Fleamont starts, searching for the word.
“Extreme,” Euphemia finishes for him, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. The kettle hums behind her, but she barely hears it.
Fleamont nods slowly, like the word clicks something into place.
“His room is like this,” Euphemia continues, voice dropping as the weight of the conversation presses down on her.
“What?” Fleamont’s surprise is genuine. She turns toward him, giving him a look that says it’s obvious.
“Sirius. His room is so organised, so clean. It’s…” She sighs, the sound exasperated and heart-weary, rubbing her temples as if she can ease the pressure building in her skull. “It’s obsessive, Fleamont.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing, his hand coming up to scratch at his beard. “Do you think—are you sure it was Sirius? I mean, Regulus could’ve done this too. After all, it’s a part of Autism, isn’t it?”
Euphemia fixes him with a look, raising an eyebrow. Fleamont’s shoulders slump. He knows better. She can see it in the way he deflates, as though the truth is sinking in and sitting heavy on his bones.
“It could be,” she humours, if only for a fleeting moment. “But—”
“It’s not,” Fleamont cuts in, scrubbing a hand down his face. Their gazes meet again, speaking silently. They both know the truth.
Neither of them has any idea what this means. The obsessiveness of it, the compulsion behind it—it’s not just about cleanliness. It’s something deeper. More desperate.
Euphemia knows they’ll need to talk to Laura about this. They need answers. They need to understand.
But right now, the kettle lets out a sharp whistle, slicing through the tension like a blade.
Euphemia turns to it, flicking it off, but her eyes drift back to the kitchen. To the gleaming countertops, the scrubbed cabinets, the unnerving perfection of it all.
It’s beautiful. She can admit that.
But the obsessiveness behind it?
It spreads through her like a sickness. A worry that multiplies, clawing its way up her throat until it settles in her chest like a plague.
POV: FLEAMONT
Fleamont shifts the gear into park, his mind already drifting to the comfort of home—the promise of dinner, the usual chaos of James’s endless energy, and maybe even a quiet moment with Euphemia.
He hasn’t even turned off the ignition when the front door flies open.
“Come inside,” James says, pale-faced, standing in the doorway like a sentry. His usual grin is absent, replaced by an urgency that instantly sets Fleamont’s nerves on edge.
Something’s wrong.
Fleamont’s eyes narrow as he steps out of the car, his body already tense. “What’s happened?” he asks, voice sharper than intended.
James doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
A scream rips through the air before Fleamont even crosses the threshold.
“Tu fais toujours ça, Sirius. Tu essaies toujours de changer de sujet pour ne jamais avoir à répondre à mes questions. Tu me prends pour un idiot, Sirius ? Tu crois que je ne m'en apercevrais jamais ? Parce que si. Je m'en aperçois, et tu sais quoi ?”
The words slice through the house, filled with venom, frustration, desperation. French spills into the air, jagged and vicious.
Fleamont freezes for a fraction of a second. His heart lurches. He knows that tone. That fury.
Regulus.
He’s moving before he even registers it, taking the stairs two at a time. His shoes pound against the wooden steps, each one louder in his ears than the last. The house feels suffocating, walls pressing in closer with every step.
At the top of the landing, he sees her.
Euphemia stands in the hallway, half-shrouded in shadow, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face pale and pinched with worry. She looks at him, wide-eyed, and for a moment, she looks unsure—frozen with her hand hovering near Sirius’s door, as if she can’t bring herself to enter.
It’s rare, seeing Euphemia hesitate. That strikes him harder than the screaming.
Fleamont’s heart is pounding now, a drumbeat of rising panic. He doesn’t pause to ask questions. His gut twists as he brushes past Euphemia, offering her a fleeting touch on her arm—a silent, I’ve got this—even though he’s not sure he does.
The sight that greets him as he steps into the room is like a punch to the stomach.
Regulus stands in front of Sirius, his hands fisted at his sides, trembling with raw, unfiltered emotion. His chest is heaving, his voice cracked from shouting. He looks ready to either break down or lash out again. And Sirius—
Sirius is cornered, backed into the wall, his posture small, guarded. His expression is—God—it’s wrong. There’s a glint of fear in his eyes, a haunted, hollow look that Fleamont hasn’t seen on a child in years.
The room crackles with the aftermath of something ugly. The air feels thick, suffocating.
“Enough,” Fleamont says, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
Regulus flinches, startled by the intrusion, his fists still clenched but faltering. Fleamont steps forward, steady but firm, his hand reaching out—not roughly, not aggressively—but with just enough weight to ground Regulus’s flailing emotions. His fingers close around the boy’s wrists, holding them still.
“Regulus.” He keeps his tone even, but there’s no mistaking the disappointment layered beneath it. It’s not anger, not fury—it’s the kind of disappointment that tastes bitter, that coils deep in his gut and makes his chest ache.
Regulus’s shoulders curl inward, shrinking away, but Fleamont doesn’t let go. He doesn’t squeeze. His grip is meant to anchor, not punish.
He doesn’t need to ask what happened. He knows. He can see it in the tightness of Sirius’s shoulders, in the way Regulus’s whole body trembles with restrained emotion.
“I think you should go to your room, Regulus,” Fleamont says, calm but resolute. “Effie and I will be there in a minute to have a chat with you. Understood?”
Regulus nods, a jerky, reluctant motion. His eyes are glassy, but Fleamont doesn’t push. He releases his grip, slow and deliberate. There’s no pain, no punishment in the release. Just a warmth—a reassurance that doesn’t quite reach as far as he wishes it would.
“Do you think you can head to your room?” he asks again, softer now, more coaxing. The boy’s throat works as he swallows, his lips parting to respond.
“Yeah,” comes the hoarse reply.
Fleamont gives a small nod, brushing a stray curl from Regulus’s forehead. His fingers linger for a breath, a gentle, grounding touch amidst the storm.
“We’ll be there in a moment, kiddo.”
Another nod, quicker this time. Then Regulus bolts. His footsteps echo down the hall, sharp and frantic. Fleamont watches him flee, his chest heavy, his mind already spiralling through the conversation that awaits them.
As Regulus disappears into his room, Fleamont’s gaze flickers back to the open doorway. Euphemia stands there, watching with an unreadable expression, but he knows her well enough to feel the ache radiating off her.
The tightness in Fleamont’s chest refuses to loosen. There’s so much to untangle here. So much that’s festering beneath the surface. He can feel it.
Fleamont turns back towards Sirius, his heart already heavy. The air in the room feels thick, suffocating. He can feel the fear radiating off Sirius in waves—tangible, suffocating, clinging to the boy’s skin like a second layer. But it’s not the same fear from moments before, when Regulus had been standing over him. No, this is different now. The fear has shifted. It's no longer about himself—it’s about Regulus.
Fleamont has seen that kind of fear before. The kind where a child expects the worst to happen, not to themselves, but to someone they love.
There are too many questions swirling in his mind, each one vying for attention, piling up faster than he can process. He wants—needs—to ask them. But one wrong word, one wrong look, and Sirius will shut down. He can see it already in the way Sirius stands, trapped in the corner, trembling. The tears glistening in his eyes twist Fleamont’s heart painfully.
He crouches slightly, keeping his tone soft, gentle. “What happened?”
Sirius flinches at the question, his frantic gaze bouncing between Fleamont and Euphemia. Panic rolls off him in waves, shaking his small frame. It’s not the panic of a boy who’s afraid of getting into trouble. No, it’s the kind of panic Fleamont recognizes from seeing people terrified for someone else. It’s protective. Desperate.
Sirius’s mouth opens and closes, working around words that refuse to form. His hands clench into fists at his sides. His lips tremble. Then finally, in a voice so raw Fleamont feels it crack through his own ribs, Sirius speaks.
“I started it.” His voice is hoarse, scraped raw. Sirius swallows, but the words keep tumbling out, fragile and barely holding together. “I started it. It’s… it’s not his fault.”
The last word breaks, splintering like glass underfoot. Fleamont feels his chest clench. He knows it’s not true. He knows who started it. But Sirius is standing here, taking the blame. Protecting his brother, even when it’s not deserved.
Fleamont barely has time to process before Sirius speaks again, desperation rising to a fever pitch.
“Please,” Sirius pleads, his voice cracking, eyes wide and terrified. “Please, don’t—” he stops, the words lodging in his throat like they don’t belong. Like they’re dangerous. “Don’t hurt him. Please.”
The request slices straight through Fleamont. Not because of what Sirius is asking—but because of how he’s asking. As if the idea of pain is inevitable. As if violence is a guarantee. It rattles Fleamont in a way that leaves him breathless.
He catches Euphemia’s gaze. Her eyes are wide, horrified, but within seconds she’s smoothing her expression into something calm. Controlled. She always was better at that than him. But Fleamont knows she feels the same ache. The same helplessness.
“How about,” Euphemia says gently, stepping into the moment, “how about you watch us talk to Regulus?”
It’s a brilliant move. Fleamont realizes it instantly. No amount of reassuring Sirius that they won’t hurt his brother will quiet those what-ifs. But letting him see it—letting him witness how this family handles things—maybe that will help.
Sirius nods furiously, his gaze darting to Fleamont, as if needing his permission too. Like he still expects there to be a catch. Fleamont softens his posture, his voice steady.
“Yeah,” Fleamont says, eager to give Sirius whatever peace he can manage. “If that would make you feel better…”
Sirius hums in agreement, a small, shaky nod following. Fleamont places a gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezes lightly, before stepping out of the room.
In the hallway, Euphemia’s hand finds his briefly, a fleeting touch that anchors him. They both know this isn’t going to be an easy conversation.
Fleamont knocks softly on Regulus’s door. “Regulus?” His voice is measured, calm, even as his heart pounds beneath his ribs.
He pushes the door open carefully.
Regulus is curled up on the bed, his small frame trembling. His face is blotchy, red and wet with tears. The sight punches the breath from Fleamont’s lungs. He hates this. Hates seeing his boys like this. Euphemia moves instantly, her instincts guiding her. She kneels in front of Regulus, wrapping an arm around him, pulling him into a side hug with the kind of tenderness that makes Fleamont fall in love with her all over again.
He pulls the desk chair over, seating himself directly in front of Regulus. He needs to be eye-level. He needs Regulus to see him.
They stay like that for a moment—silent, heavy with the aftermath of what just happened. Fleamont can see the dazed look in Regulus’s eyes. He’s not fully there. He’s drifting, drowning in the emotions still clutching at him.
“Regulus?” Fleamont calls softly, his tone firm but kind.
Regulus’s head snaps up, his eyes wide, fresh tears spilling over. Fleamont catches Euphemia’s glance—steady, supportive—before turning back to the boy in front of them.
“Look, buddy,” Fleamont starts, voice laden with disappointment. Regulus flinches. Fleamont’s heart aches at the sight, but this has to be said. “What you did…”
He sighs, exhaling the weight of the moment. “You know the rules, kiddo. You know we don’t yell at people, no matter how angry we are.”
Regulus’s face crumples, his shoulders curling inward. The sniffles that follow make Fleamont’s throat tighten. It feels cruel, watching him cry. But he can’t let this go. Sirius had been terrified .
“You know you can come to us if you need help expressing your anger healthily, right sweetheart?” Euphemia says softly, her disappointment clear, though wrapped in gentleness. Regulus nods against her shoulder, but it’s a broken, shaky motion.
“We’re disappointed in what just took place,” she continues, pressing a soft kiss to his hair. “We’re disappointed in you for resorting to screaming at Sirius.”
A sharp whine escapes Regulus, breaking Fleamont’s heart clean in two. He takes over, his voice softer now, but no less firm.
“It wasn’t right, love. Yelling at him like that. We need you to understand that. What you did was wrong.”
Regulus’s head jerks in a frantic nod. His eyes are darting between them, panicked, as if he expects them to take him away, to remove him from this family. Fleamont shares a look with Euphemia, that wordless communication that comes from years of being on the same page.
“When you’re ready, Regulus, we’d like to talk to you properly about what went down,” Fleamont says, his tone easing into something softer, more coaxing. “You’re not in trouble.” He emphasizes it, praying Regulus hears him. “We’re just disappointed this happened. We do hope you apologise for your actions, and—it’s okay if Sirius doesn’t forgive you straight away. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. It just means he might need a moment. Alright?”
Regulus nods again, tears spilling silently now.
Euphemia presses another kiss to his forehead, murmuring soft reassurances, as Fleamont leans forward, scooping Regulus into his arms. He’s so small. So fragile, trembling against Fleamont’s chest as sobs wrack his tiny frame.
Fleamont holds him tighter, pressing his cheek against the boy’s hair, breathing through the ache lodged deep in his chest.
He’s not angry.
He’s just disappointed.
But beneath that disappointment, something darker stirs—an unease that tells him this isn’t over. That this explosion came from somewhere. And it’s only the beginning.
POV: EUPHEMIA
The sun is relentless today, pressing down against Euphemia’s skin with a sharp warmth that seeps into her bones. It's one of those rare September afternoons where summer clings on, refusing to be swept away by autumn. Euphemia takes advantage of it—she’s out in the garden, sleeves rolled up, kneeling in the dirt, tending to her flowers.
She’s waiting. Fleamont always gets off early on Thursdays, and every-other Friday is a bonus. This week, he’s off Friday. Which is nice, even if it means he’ll still be holed up in his study, working. Still, it’s not the same as having him away. She’ll take any chance she can get to see his handsome, smiling face moving about the house.
The familiar rumble of his car rolling into the driveway makes her smile. Right on time.
She’s standing, watering can in hand, when she hears the car door click shut. The sound of his steps approaching is enough to bring a smile to her lips, even before he speaks.
“Hello, my love,” Fleamont says, his voice soft and familiar as he presses a quick kiss to her cheek.
Euphemia turns, returning the gesture with a grin that feels far too large for such a small moment. “Hello,” she says, drinking in the sight of him. “How was work?”
He hums, that non-committal sound that means ‘it wasn’t bad, but don’t ask me to relive it.’
“Could’ve been better,” he admits. There’s a pinch between his brows she knows well. “Apparently, I have to teach on my off Fridays, just until MacMillian is back from leave.”
“Ah,” she says, sympathy softening her tone. “Makes sense.”
He lifts his laptop bag with a tired grumble. “Better put this away,” he mutters, brushing another quick kiss against her cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
Euphemia watches him ascend the steps to the porch, her smile lingering as she turns back to her flowers. But something changes. She hears it—the pause. The distinct sound of the front door creaking open, followed by the sudden, rigid stillness of her husband.
Fleamont doesn’t freeze like that for no reason.
A beat later, he’s inside, moving fast. Too fast.
Euphemia abandons the watering can, unease blooming in her chest as she hurries towards the house. And then she hears it—muffled yelling. Her stomach knots. Regulus. But why? What’s going on?
She moves up the stairs just in time to see Fleamont carrying a flailing Regulus out of his room. The boy is writhing like a wild cat, legs kicking, arms squirming, determined to make his grand escape. On another day, Euphemia might have laughed at the absurdity of it. But not today. Not when the air feels so heavy it’s like walking through fog.
Euphemia’s eyes flick to Regulus’s room. Sirius is inside.
Of course, he is. James is out at the park with his friends. But why would Regulus be shouting at Sirius?
The sight of Sirius stills her. He’s standing like a statue, tears brimming, threatening to spill over. His posture is stiff, painfully controlled, as though he's holding himself together with sheer willpower. Euphemia’s heart clenches at the sight. He’s shaking. Shaking, and yet doing everything in his power not to fall apart in front of her.
“Sirius?” she calls gently, stepping into the doorway.
The moment his name leaves her lips, Sirius recoils. A sharp, shaky breath hitches in his throat as he steps back, retreating as though expecting her to lash out. Euphemia freezes, not wanting to make it worse, but the lump in her throat is impossible to swallow down.
She stares at him, her mind scrambling for the right words. Are you okay? feels shallow. What happened? feels accusatory. Neither seem to fit. So she says nothing. Just watches as Sirius shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting around the room, trying not to meet hers.
Her gaze flickers over the space. Nothing is out of place. Nothing broken. No chaos. Whatever this fight was—it was something deeper. Something brewing under the surface since yesterday.
Yesterday.
The memory slams into her. Regulus. Shaking with rage. His fury so loud, so consuming, Euphemia had been rendered speechless. She has dealt with plenty of foster children. She’s seen tantrums, meltdowns, screaming matches. But never had she felt so... afraid. Not of Regulus, per se, but of what was happening inside him. Like his tiny body couldn’t contain the storm brewing within.
But Sirius—he had looked terrified. Euphemia can still see it. The fear lurking behind his wide, grey eyes, masked by a brave face that wasn’t fooling anyone. Euphemia doubts he’s ever seen Regulus like that before.
She glances at Sirius once more. His walls are still up. She’s not going to break through here.
With a quiet sigh, she turns, heading toward her bedroom.
Fleamont is sitting on the bed, arms wrapped around Regulus, holding him close, though Euphemia isn’t sure if it’s for Regulus’s sake or everyone else’s. Probably both. Regulus is curled tightly, face buried in Fleamont’s chest, his small frame rigid.
Euphemia’s heart aches at the sight. She’s so tired of seeing their boys in pieces. She approaches slowly, kneeling beside them, brushing Regulus’s hair back from his damp forehead. Her fingers trail gently across his cheek, her touch featherlight.
“Sweetheart,” she says softly, her voice worn thin from worry. Her hand falls into her lap as she lets out a sigh, heavy and long. “I don’t understand. Is something going on? Are you feeling emotions that feel too big for your body?”
Regulus swallows, his throat working as his eyes brim with fresh tears. It’s a sight that twists something inside her, a deep, maternal ache that leaves her chest hollow.
Her gaze softens further. “Can you tell us what the fight was about?”
Regulus burrows deeper into Fleamont’s embrace, silent. He has no words, or maybe, he has too many.
Euphemia looks up at Fleamont, but he only offers her a half-shrug, his own frustration evident in the slight pinch of his brow. She nods, rising to her feet. No use pushing.
She makes her way back to Regulus’s room.
Sirius is still there. Still frozen in that exact same spot, as if moving would break him apart. Euphemia’s heart fractures at the sight.
“How about you come downstairs with me?” she suggests gently, defaulting to the soft, maternal tone she uses like a lifeline. Sirius nods, just once, but it’s enough.
In the kitchen, Euphemia moves with purpose, pulling out ingredients for dinner, trying to create some semblance of normalcy. Stir fry noodles—her favourite. She can feel Sirius’s presence behind her, hovering in the kitchen’s threshold.
“Hey, Sirius?” she calls out, glancing over her shoulder. He nods at his name, his expression guarded. Euphemia gifts him a smile, soft and open. “Do you think you can close the front door for me?”
There’s no hesitation. He nods and moves to obey, and it’s that word— obey —that stings her. He’s too used to obeying. Euphemia feels it settle like a stone in her chest.
She turns back to the counter, slicing red and green capsicums into neat strips. Yet she feels his gaze, heavy and lingering.
“Is there something wrong?” she asks, a bit more worried than she intends to sound.
Sirius shrugs. Euphemia’s heart sinks. That’s not reassurance.
She glances down at the vegetables and blurts before she can stop herself, “Do you not like capsicums?”
Sirius freezes. His gaze flicks from her face to the cutting board, nervously inching closer.
“You… You didn’t wash your hands,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
Ah. Oh.
“Oh, okay, I can wash them,” she says gently, smiling at him, thankful for his honesty. He shifts awkwardly, averting his eyes as she turns on the tap. The sound of water fills the silence.
“Have you ever had stir fry before?” she asks, glancing back. But when she turns to dry her hands, he’s gone.
She sighs, a flicker of frustration—though not with him. Never with him.
The front door opens and closes. She turns to see James bouncing in with a grin that lights up the room.
“James,” she calls out, her voice brighter than she feels. “Have a good time with your friends?”
James nods, “Yep.”
“That’s good.” She smiles, turning back to chop the carrots and celery. The kitchen feels warmer now, a little lighter with James’s presence.
But then—
“Mum.”
Her hand stops mid-cut, knife still poised over the cutting board. His tone is serious. Unnervingly serious.
“What’s wrong?” Euphemia asks, carefully. James isn’t often serious. It’s not in his nature, which makes this all the more unsettling.
“My friends told me some things that… were cause for concern.”
Her stomach knots. She gives him her full attention now. “And?” she prompts gently, though her chest is tight.
James bites his lip, shifting his weight. He looks nervous, like he’s not sure if he should be saying this.
“They brought up some interesting details about Sirius. Stuff that… you should know.”
She nods, staying calm, even though her heart is racing. “Okay.”
James sighs. “Yeah, they said some stuff about him needing things clean and him not eating.” He pauses, frowning. “And... they said he looked really scared when our maths teacher yelled at him.”
Euphemia soaks in every word, each one settling like a weight on her chest.
“Thank you, love,” she says softly, pulling him into a quick side hug. Her enthusiasm is missing, though, and James notices. But he says nothing.
As he bounds up the stairs, Euphemia sighs deeply, closing her eyes. It’s not just them noticing Sirius’s behaviours. The children see it too.
They need to address it. Soon. Before it becomes something they can no longer help him with.
POV: FLEAMONT
Shouting echoes through the room—but none of it feels real. Not when Regulus is spiraling, shattering right before Fleamont’s eyes.
Fleamont moves in, closing the distance in three strides, and wraps his arms tight around Regulus’s middle. The boy is all angles and sharp edges, thrashing like he’s trying to tear himself apart. Fleamont holds firm, feeling every jerk, every frantic twist. His heart aches. God, it aches .
Out of the corner of his eye, Fleamont sees Sirius—fists clenched, panic in every line of his face—grabbing James by the arm and dragging him out of the room.
Good. They don’t need to see this.
Regulus’s scream is piercing, guttural, and Fleamont feels it deep in his bones. The boy’s body twists violently, and for a split second, Fleamont thinks he’s got him contained—until Regulus’s foot slams back into his shin, and Fleamont’s grip slips just enough.
Regulus breaks free.
He hurls a pillow first, then a photo frame. The lamp follows. Glass shatters across the hardwood, a jagged crack of noise that feels louder than it should. But Fleamont doesn’t care about the mess.
All he sees is Regulus.
The boy is tearing through the room, not with intention, but desperation. His screams aren’t words anymore—just raw, primal sound. He grabs a stack of books and flings them. His chest heaves, his fists clench, his movements are wild, untethered.
Fleamont’s chest aches watching him. This isn’t anger. This is pain.
Regulus’s knees hit the floor with a harsh thud. He screams again, his voice hoarse, his sobs racking through him so violently that Fleamont feels winded just watching.
Fleamont is there in an instant.
He lowers himself slowly, careful, and gathers Regulus into his arms. The boy collapses against him immediately—like all the fight has drained out, leaving him hollow and trembling.
Fleamont holds him tight. His arms wrap firm around the boy’s back, not trapping, but anchoring. You’re safe, son. You’re safe.
Euphemia is suddenly beside him, her hand gliding softly over Regulus’s back, her voice a hush of reassurances Fleamont barely hears. It doesn’t matter what she’s saying. It’s the tone—the rhythm, the steadiness.
Fleamont feels Regulus’s fists twist into his jumper, clinging like a lifeline, his entire body racked with uncontrollable sobs. Fleamont presses his lips to the boy’s temple, feeling the heat of his skin, the tremors still wracking through him. He knows what this is. He’s seen it before.
But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“You’re alright,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. “You’re safe now.”
They stay like that for a while, the three of them folded together on the floor, Fleamont’s hand running slow, grounding circles along Regulus’s spine, Euphemia’s fingers carding through his hair. Gradually, the sobs lessen. Not completely. But enough.
When Regulus finally starts to lift his head, Fleamont eases his hold, giving him just enough space to breathe.
“You scared us quite a bit there, son,” Fleamont says, his voice a soft anchor.
Regulus flinches at the word, his gaze darting around the room, scanning the wreckage—shattered frames, scattered books, the remnants of his storm. Fleamont feels the tension spike again, feels the way Regulus curls in on himself as if he could make himself smaller, invisible.
Fleamont’s hand finds the back of Regulus’s head again, cradling gently. “Can you tell us what happened?” he asks, calm, patient.
Regulus looks up.
Then he freezes.
Fleamont follows his gaze and knows instantly what’s happened—the scratches. Angry, red claw marks raking across his neck and forearms. He didn’t even register them in the moment. But Regulus does. His face crumples, his hand lifting tentatively, fingers ghosting over the scratches as if the faintest touch might undo them.
“I—I—I’m sorry,” Regulus stammers, the words shattering as they leave him.
Fleamont doesn’t let him fall apart.
“Aww, bub,” he murmurs, pulling him back in. His hands are steady, firm, enveloping the boy with a quiet certainty. “It’s alright, love. It’s not your fault.”
Regulus tries to protest, but Fleamont hushes him, firm but kind. “I’ll have none of that. You hear me?”
He feels Regulus sag, every bit of fight spent. He’s exhausted, wrung out, but he listens. Because it’s Monty. And Monty always knows how to keep him grounded when his world falls apart.
“Breathe with me now,” Fleamont instructs, guiding him through slow, deep breaths. Each inhale seems to pull Regulus back from the edge, though his body still trembles with the aftershocks.
When Regulus pulls back again, there’s guilt in his eyes, but there’s focus too. He’s here.
“So,” Fleamont tries again, gentle and soft. “Can you tell us what happened?”
Regulus falters, struggling with the words, but Fleamont waits him out. He knows not to rush this.
“I—my friends hate Sirius,” Regulus finally manages, voice cracked and weak.
Fleamont feels the weight of those words settle heavily between them, but he doesn’t react outwardly. He stays still. Steady.
Regulus’s eyes flick toward the door, his shoulders stiffening as he looks around, searching.
“Sirius?” he calls out, voice trembling, raw from screaming.
Sirius steps in, moving fast—but careful, so careful. His face is tight with worry, but his hands are steady as they cup Regulus’s face. He doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t need to. The way he holds Regulus’s face, the way his thumbs brush away the tears—it says everything.
Fleamont’s breath hitches.
He’s seen a lot in his life. But he’s never seen love like the love Sirius has for his brother.
Regulus crumbles, apologies spilling from his lips in a frantic, broken rush of French. Fleamont doesn’t understand the words, but the emotion is loud and clear. Sirius hushes him, murmuring softly as he pulls Regulus in, wrapping him up in his arms like armor.
Fleamont watches as Sirius sinks to the floor, guiding Regulus down with him, holding him through the storm, rocking him gently, like he’s done this a hundred times before.
Sirius hums a soft melody—some lullaby Fleamont doesn’t know—and Regulus sags into him, trembling but quieting.
Fleamont shifts closer, resting his hand lightly on Regulus’s back. He doesn’t intrude, doesn’t speak. He just stays, a quiet presence, grounding them both.
Sirius glances up at him, their eyes meeting briefly. There’s a silent understanding there. A shared weight.
The worst of the storm has passed. But Fleamont knows this is far from over.
Silence settles thick and suffocating over them, clinging to the walls, heavy in the air. The aftermath of Regulus’s meltdown hangs like a stormcloud refusing to clear. Fleamont sits on the edge of the sofa, his elbows braced on his knees, watching the scene unfold in front of him with a heart that feels far too heavy for his chest.
Sirius remains perfectly still on the floor, cradling his brother with a tenderness that makes Fleamont’s throat tighten. He holds Regulus like the boy is fragile glass—like if he lets go, even for a second, Regulus might shatter beyond repair. Fleamont doesn’t need words to feel it—the fierce, unwavering love pouring off Sirius, wrapping around his brother like a shield. Protective. Fierce. Gut-wrenchingly gentle.
And yet, Sirius looks like he’s the one breaking.
Fleamont has to look away for a moment. It hurts, watching this. Hurts in a way that crawls beneath his skin and sits behind his ribs. No child should know how to love like that—not because of what they’ve survived.
The floor creaks softly as James edges into the room. Fleamont watches him approach, his son moving carefully around Sirius and Regulus, like the broken shards of glass on the floor might jump up and bite him. James lowers himself to the carpet, perched on the balls of his feet, arms looped around his knees. He looks—small. Diminished. His hazel eyes are wide and glassy, rimmed red. Guilt clings to him, suffocating, as if it’s woven into his skin.
When James’s eyes lift and meet Fleamont’s, Fleamont feels the weight of his own breath. He recognises that look instantly—the look of a boy who knows he’s made a mistake so heavy it might drown him. He’s seen that look before, years ago, in the mirror. And in Euphemia’s eyes the day she first held Sirius at arm's length.
Fleamont clears his throat, breaking the suffocating stillness. The sharpness of the sound cuts through the air, and four heads snap towards him, their attention immediate.
“James,” Fleamont starts, carefully—so carefully. He doesn’t want to make this worse. James is already drowning in guilt. He can see it in the way his son curls in on himself, bracing for a reprimand. “Do you think you can explain what’s happened?”
James nods sharply, the motion almost desperate. “Yes, of course,” he rushes, his voice splintering as he scrambles onto the armchair beside Fleamont. His fingers twist into the fabric of his shorts, knuckles white. “Umm…” James trails off, his eyes flickering, searching. They find Sirius’s.
Sirius, ever soft with his brother but far more guarded with James, offers him a small, brittle smile. It’s not forgiving, not yet—but it’s enough to ground James, who takes a shaky breath.
“Well… I may have warned Regulus’s friends about Sirius,” James admits, each word tumbling out with forced restraint.
Fleamont’s shoulders stiffen. The word warned rattles through his chest like a blow. It’s the same tension he felt when Euphemia couldn’t bring herself to trust Sirius—not at first. That instinct to protect, but only in the wrong direction. He doesn’t let it show. He just nods, silent encouragement for James to continue.
James fidgets, curling his hands into fists against his thighs. “Well… I was worried about Regulus, you see. His friends noticed—noticed Sirius’s ankle monitor at their birthday party, and they started asking questions.”
“They asked questions?” Euphemia’s voice fills in the space, soft but firm, helping James along when his words falter. He nods in response, grateful.
“Yes, and… well, I felt guilty. For not seeing Regulus was being bullied.” That lands like a stone in Fleamont’s chest. James’s voice cracks, and his eyes are glassy, shimmering with unshed tears. “I thought I was doing what was best for him. I thought… I thought if I warned them, they’d stop bothering him.”
Across the room, Regulus scoffs—a sharp, brittle sound that yanks Fleamont’s attention. Sirius leans in close, murmuring something soft against his brother’s ear. Regulus’s jaw tightens, but he nods, his shoulders sinking slightly against Sirius’s chest.
James’s words stumble on, hurried now, tripping over themselves. “Anyways… umm… I wasn’t very nice to Sirius.” The panic in his voice is palpable, raw and young. “But I’ve apologised. I know what I did was wrong. I know I need to fix my mistake.” He sighs heavily, shoulders sagging as the confession empties out of him. “There’s no excuse for my behaviour. I know that.”
Fleamont exhales, the sound long and tired, dragging years of weariness with it. He glances between his sons—both of them, because Sirius is his son, too. “It’s alright, James,” Fleamont says, though the weight in his voice says otherwise. His gaze lingers on Sirius and Regulus, still curled on the floor, before shifting back to James. “I guess we all need to do better, don’t we?”
Euphemia, seated on the edge of the sofa, nods in agreement. “Absolutely.” She turns then, her eyes soft as they land on Sirius. “I should be apologising to you, too, sweetheart.”
Sirius tenses at the word—shoulders stiffening, chin ducking—but Euphemia doesn’t back down. Not this time.
“I was too harsh on you when you first got here,” she says, her tone gentle but unwavering. “I didn’t give you the benefit of the doubt. I misjudged you, all because you had a record, and that wasn’t right. So, I’m sorry.”
Sirius’s face flushes, flustered and overwhelmed. He nods once, quick and unsure, his gaze flickering away, back to Regulus. His hand drifts to Regulus’s hair, his fingers carding through absentmindedly, as if he’s grounding himself with the contact. Regulus whispers something to him, barely audible, and Sirius nods again.
Slowly, Regulus shifts. He disentangles himself from Sirius’s lap with delicate movements, like he’s unsure his body will obey him. His bare feet pad softly against the hardwood as he steps toward James.
Fleamont watches James straighten, visibly bracing himself. He looks terrified, like he’s preparing to be yelled at, or worse—dismissed. But Regulus doesn’t say a word. He just opens his arms.
The relief that floods James’s face is immediate, a fragile smile breaking through as he pushes up from the armchair and accepts the hug. Their arms wrap around each other tightly, and for a moment, Fleamont lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, they’ll be alright.
He glances around the room—the shattered glass, the overturned lamp, the frayed edges of tension still hanging in the air. There’s a lot left unsaid. A lot they still need to confront.
But for now, this fragile, tentative peace is enough.
It’s not perfect. But it’s a start.
And that’s all Fleamont needs tonight.
Notes:
Word Count: 22,175
Published: 2025-08-01OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR SAYS HELLO! HE ALSO SAYS THANK YOU! FOR MAKING HIS DAUGHTER HAPPY!
For future reference, my father will now be referred to as our lord and Saviour, collectively speaking. He may not be the reason I started writing this fic, but he sure as hell is the reason why it's still being written.
(Also, fun fact, this chapter has the longest Fleamont POV out of all the dual POVs, lol. #MontyRecognition haha)
Chapter 36: He Doesn't Think He Belongs Here.
Summary:
Sirius knows he hasn’t been the best of big brother’s, but he didn’t realise just how… different things seem to be. He didn’t know what to expect when it came to the Potters. But it certainly wasn’t this.
He doesn’t know how to feel. Maybe he feels out of place, maybe he feels numb. He honestly doesn’t know. But one feeling has remained constant throughout this whole ordeal: belonging.
Sirius doesn’t belong here.
(Part 2 of Does He Even Belong Here?)
POV: Sirius Black
Notes:
Trigger Warning: mentions of self harming (second last scene), mentions of past sexual abuse (last scene)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
His first day of school was absolutely shit.
And he’ll say it again. He hated it.
No matter where he was, what he was doing, he felt eyes on him—staring, tracking, weighing. Teachers. Students. Everyone. It clung to him like smoke. Like suspicion. He couldn’t take a step without feeling like someone was just waiting for him to mess up.
And he knew what it was.
They knew. The teachers. They knew what he was, what he did. Even if none of them came right out and said it—he could see it in their faces, hear it in the way they paused before speaking to him, the way they watched him just a little longer than they needed to. They treated him like something feral, like he might bare his teeth at any second. A criminal in a borrowed school uniform.
It made his skin itch. Made him want to run.
The only teacher who hadn’t looked at him like that—at least not yet—was his Maths teacher. Mr. Hudson. Sirius hadn’t even made it through a full week, but already the man stood out. Respectful. Level-headed. After class, Mr. Hudson had pulled him aside—not to interrogate him or issue some thinly-veiled warning—but to talk about a placement test. A maths exam from last year. He’d wanted to assess Sirius’s skill level. Just that. No judgment. No condescension. No hint of You’ve been in Juvie, haven’t you?
It was the bare minimum of decency. And yet it had left Sirius feeling unreasonably caught off guard.
Now, at the end of his second day, he feels wrung out. Stripped bare.
The sun is high, the air thick with heat, and Sirius sits a few feet away from Euphemia, his arms resting over his knees. He crouches low to the grass, fingers methodically tearing at the same stubborn blade again and again, like maybe if he keeps at it long enough it’ll finally break apart. It doesn’t.
The field sprawls before him in vivid color. Kids scream and tumble and chase after a ball like nothing’s ever gone wrong in their lives. Laughter echoes across the grass—free and careless. It should be comforting. Instead, it feels unreal. Like a movie playing behind glass.
Too bright. Too clean.
And out there—among all that noise and sunshine and chaos—is Regulus.
Sirius squints, trying to keep track of him. His brother is running, chasing after the ball, smiling. Actually smiling —a full grin, wild and unbothered. It hits Sirius like a punch to the gut. He doesn’t understand it. Not even close.
Regulus never liked sports. Never liked crowds. He used to act like physical activity was beneath him— sweaty, he would say, with a wrinkle of his nose. He could barely stomach horse riding. And now?
Now he’s playing soccer.
It doesn’t make sense.
Sirius’s chest tightens. His stomach twists in knots. He’s been gone six months—half a year of silence, of imagining the worst. He used to lie awake wondering if Regulus was safe, if he was eating properly, if someone was yelling at him, if he was still flinching at footsteps in the hall. And now here Regulus is, out on a sun-drenched field, acting like nothing ever happened. Like he’s just another kid on just another team.
It’s not real. That’s what Sirius keeps telling himself. It can’t be.
He doesn’t trust it. He doesn’t trust any of it.
Not Euphemia, sitting just close enough to keep him in view, nor the too-perfect house they brought him into. Not the warmth in Fleamont’s voice when he asked Sirius what kind of cereal he liked. They act like they’re different. Like they care. But Sirius knows how quickly adults can turn cold. Knows how fast kindness becomes control.
He doesn’t forget the way Euphemia looked at him the first time. The suspicion in her eyes. The edge in her voice. Like she already had him figured out. Like she saw all the worst parts of him before he even opened his mouth.
And now she’s trying to talk to him?
“So,” she says, her voice soft, almost tentative. “How was your first day?”
Sirius jolts slightly at the sound, caught off guard. His eyes cut toward her, uncertain. She doesn’t sound sarcastic or smug. Doesn’t sound like she’s waiting for him to trip. It throws him. He doesn’t know what to make of it.
He shrugs, quick and dismissive, dropping his gaze again. No sudden moves. No real answers. Keep it safe.
There’s a beat of silence. No judgment. No pushing.
Then she speaks again, light and conversational. “See Marlene over there?”
Sirius glances up, just enough to follow her pointing hand. A flash of blonde hair races across the grass. Marlene’s laughing, mouth open wide, arms flailing like she doesn’t have a care in the world. He watches her for a second, then looks away.
“Do you share any classes with her?”
Another shrug. But after a moment, he nods—just barely. Fine. That’s not dangerous.
“What class?” she asks.
Sirius hesitates, then mutters, “Maths.”
His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. He doesn't know why it feels like a confession.
“I never particularly liked Maths,” she offers.
Sirius nods, stiff and automatic. “That’s nice,” he mutters. His attention drops back to the grass. He pulls another shred free, then another. She lets him sit in the silence. Doesn’t push.
But his mind won’t stay still. It keeps drifting back—to Regulus. To the way his brother had laughed. To how he’d looked like he belonged out there. Like he was happy.
It doesn’t line up with anything Sirius remembers.
Before he can stop himself, he speaks.
“How did…” The words catch. He bites down on them. But the thought is too loud in his head. It demands to be heard. “How did he get into soccer?”
The question falls into the open air like something sharp. Vulnerable.
He regrets it instantly.
Euphemia turns to him, open and present. Not surprised. Not smug. Just… ready. Sirius bristles at it. Ready usually means rehearsed.
Still, she answers.
“We… we had gotten tickets to a professional soccer match for James’s birthday,” she says. “I’m not too sure if it happened then, or if it happened after, when James started teaching Regulus how to play, but…”
She trails off with a shrug.
Sirius tries to imagine it. Regulus in a stadium. Regulus picking up cleats and learning drills from James bloody Potter. Regulus smiling about any of it. The image doesn’t land. It feels like someone else’s memory.
He nods, slowly. Detached. There’s a part of him that wants to feel happy about it. That wants to believe Regulus has found something good. But another part—stronger, louder—is afraid.
And that fear twists its way into a darker question.
“How did… how’s his episodes?” The words stumble out. He winces. “Have you… I mean—I’m sure you’ve seen them. You should’ve, considering he used to get them a lot at home…” His voice shakes. “How…”
It falters entirely. He presses his fingernails into his palms, trying to hold something steady.
She doesn’t flinch.
“Yeah, we’ve dealt with a few,” she says. Calm. Unbothered.
Sirius lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His whole body sags. It’s not much, but it’s something. They know. They’ve seen him like that—and they’re still here.
“The episodes happen,” she says, “but, I like to think that they’re infrequent.”
He swallows hard, nods. The burn behind his eyes creeps up again.
“You and Fleamont haven’t been too bothered? Haven’t thought they were too much?”
The question comes out too soft. Too afraid. But he needs to ask it. Needs to know if they’re counting the days until they ship him off too.
“No,” she says, firm and certain. “It’s not Regulus’s fault,” she adds, gentler this time.
His eyes flick toward her. She’s not lying. He doesn’t know how he knows that. But he does.
“These episodes,” she continues, “they… He has a disability. It’s called Autism. It’s what makes him have these episodes. His episodes are really just meltdowns and shutdowns due to being overwhelmed.”
Disability.
The word cuts deep. Too sharp, too heavy. It never meant anything good in his house.
He flinches. Freezes. But he keeps listening.
“We’ve dealt with enough to know how to respond to them. How to help him.”
It sounds so easy. Like a choice you make and follow through on. Like love is a skill you learn.
“We know that Regulus views the world a little differently. That doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with him. It just makes him…”
“Special,” Sirius murmurs. The word slips out before he can stop it. It’s soft. Honest. He glances up and sees her smiling. “He’s always special,” Sirius says again, voice smaller now. But stronger, too.
And he means it. He always has.
***
“Sirius.”
The voice cuts through the dark like a ripple through murky water. It sounds familiar, but Sirius doesn’t know where he is—doesn’t know what’s real. His mind claws for solid ground, but it’s like trying to swim through tar. The sheets around him twist and pull, clinging like vines.
“Sirius,” the voice says again—firmer now, but still soft. Still gentle. Still not the voice from the dream.
His name. His name again. The fourth time, Sirius jerks upright with a sharp, gasping breath.
Everything blurs. His chest rises and falls in ragged waves, like he’s just run for his life. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember being safe. His lungs seize with panic. His heart slams against his ribs.
The room is too dark. Too quiet. But there’s someone there. Someone too close.
Hands. There were hands in the dream—pulling him under. He scrambles, kicking at the blankets tangled around his legs. They feel like restraints, like ropes, and he can’t—he can’t breathe, can’t get them off—
“Sirius,” the voice says again, calm, careful. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”
But Sirius doesn’t hear the words. Not really. He’s still halfway in the nightmare, clawing his way out. His hands fumble with the sheets, shaking and frantic. There’s no control, no safety. Just the need to move . To get free .
He stumbles out of the bed like he’s escaping a fire, barely noticing the cold air on his skin, or how his legs barely hold him. His hands are fists at his sides, trembling so violently he feels it in his shoulders. Every inch of him is shivering, but it’s not the cold. It’s never the cold.
“Sirius?”
The voice again, quieter now. More cautious. Not coming closer.
Sirius turns, his eyes locking onto the figure in the dark—tall, older, not threatening. Fleamont. It’s just Fleamont. He knows that. He knows that, but his body doesn’t relax. It holds the fear like a shield, like it’s afraid to let it go.
“You’re alright,” Fleamont says. “It’s me. Fleamont.”
Sirius’s heart stutters. There’s a flicker of something—recognition, maybe. But the words still swirl uselessly around his head.
“Regulus is safe. Sleeping. Across the hall. You had a nightmare. But you’re safe.”
Regulus.
The name punches through the fog. His lungs hitch. His shoulders slump, a fraction. That’s all it takes to send fresh shame crawling up his spine.
He’s never meant for anyone to see this. Especially not them . Not the Potters. Not people who already look at him like he’s cracked glass. He swallows hard, throat raw. There’s a question, but he doesn’t want to be asked. He doesn’t want to answer.
“You wanna talk about it?” Fleamont says.
Sirius shakes his head violently, squeezing his fists tighter, like he can shove the words back down into his gut where they belong. Talking about it would mean remembering it. Giving it power. And he’s already given it enough.
“Alright. Can I get you something? A glass of water?”
He wants to say no. He should say no. But the exhaustion in his bones betrays him. The ache in his throat. The way his mouth tastes like ash. He nods once—jerky, uncertain.
Fleamont leaves.
Sirius stands there, frozen in the silence. The room smells like sweat and panic. His skin itches. His heart still hasn’t slowed. It won’t slow. He doesn’t remember putting it on. Maybe he never took it off.
The second the hallway is clear, Sirius slips out and pushes open the door across from his.
Regulus is curled under the blankets, his breathing soft and even. Still. Peaceful.
Sirius doesn’t get close. He wants to—wants to curl up beside him like they used to when Regulus was small and the house was loud and cruel. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, arms locked tight around himself, drinking in the sight of his little brother sleeping.
“Sirius?”
The whisper behind him makes him flinch. He turns fast—too fast—but it’s just Fleamont again, holding out a glass of water.
He takes it with a muttered, “Thank you,” and gently pulls Regulus’s door shut behind him. The words taste foreign in his mouth. His throat is still dry.
“You’re welcome.”
Back in his room, Sirius remakes the bed like it’s a ritual—like if the blankets are smooth and the pillow is fluffed, the nightmare won’t come back. His fingers move with mechanical precision. Fold, smooth, tug, straighten. The muscle memory of survival.
He sits down on the edge of the bed. Doesn’t lie down. Just sits. The water sits untouched on the nightstand.
“Try and get some more sleep,” Fleamont says from the door. It sounds like a suggestion. A weak one. Sirius doesn’t respond at first.
He gives a slow nod, but doesn’t move.
The door clicks shut.
He keeps staring at the wall.
His heart is still racing.
He’s too wired to sleep. Too raw. His skin feels wrong—like it’s vibrating. Like something is still chasing him and just hasn’t caught up yet.
He only fell asleep because he was exhausted —because the last two days tore him apart from the inside out. Because he hadn’t eaten properly or sat still or even breathed without guilt curling in his chest.
And now, after that nightmare, the thought of going back under is unbearable.
He clenches his jaw and stares harder at the wall, like if he doesn’t blink, the darkness won’t creep back in. Like if he just stays awake, the dreams won’t find him again.
He doesn’t want to close his eyes. Doesn’t want to see them again.
He just sits there. Breathing shallow. Waiting for the morning.
It’s not even two nights later when Fleamont catches him again.
Sirius pushes open the door to Regulus's room, breath catching in his throat as the dim light spills across the empty bed.
Empty.
Regulus isn’t there.
Something settles deep in Sirius’s chest, cold and heavy. A leaden weight he can’t dislodge. He knew, logically, that Regulus was safe here. That the Potters wouldn’t let anything happen to him. But still—seeing that bed without its occupant feels like the floor shifting under his feet.
He backs out of the room, heart pounding louder than it should. It doesn’t matter that Regulus is likely just in the loo or getting a glass of water. That fear is instinct, not reason. And Sirius has always known how fear tastes.
He returns to his own room, shoulders tight, shutting the door behind him as softly as he can. He sits on the edge of the bed, hands pressed between his knees, and tries to breathe.
Then a knock. Gentle. Fleamont.
Sirius doesn’t answer.
The door opens slowly, and light from the hallway pours in. He can feel it on his skin, harsh and exposing. He sits up straighter, spine rigid, but keeps his eyes locked on the wall. It’s easier to stare at something that won’t look back.
“Sirius?” Fleamont’s voice is soft.
Sirius startles. He hates that he startles. Hates the way his body jerks like it’s been struck, the way his breath catches before he can school his expression into something less raw.
He meets Fleamont’s eyes, already braced for disappointment. Or worse—pity.
“You alright?”
The words make something twist in Sirius’s gut. He wants to laugh. Wants to scream.
“I’m fine,” he mutters. Of course he does. It’s what he always says.
He can see the disbelief flicker in Fleamont’s face, but the man doesn’t press him. Sirius almost wishes he would. Maybe if someone pried it out of him, it would stop clawing up his throat.
“Do you have trouble sleeping?” Fleamont asks.
Sirius shrugs. A lie by omission. He doesn’t want to say the truth: that he doesn’t sleep because sleep means dreaming, and dreaming means remembering, and remembering means waking up in a cold sweat with screams caught behind his teeth.
Then Fleamont says, "Come with me."
Sirius hesitates, suspicion prickling his skin. But he follows. He always follows.
Downstairs, he hovers near the wall as Fleamont digs around in the living room. Sirius can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds himself small. Like a guest. Like a burden.
When Fleamont hands him the remote, Sirius blinks at it, confused.
“Go ahead. Put on anything you’d like.”
Sirius frowns, but obeys. His thumb hesitates over the buttons. Every movement feels like he’s trespassing. He selects something he half-remembers watching once. Moana.
By the time Fleamont returns, Sirius has curled up on the couch, knees to chest, arms wrapped tightly around his shins. He watches the film in silence. His eyes track the colours, the movement, but he isn’t really watching. Not really.
His voice is quiet when he says, “It’s raining.”
It hadn’t registered until now. The sound on the roof, the distant thunder. Fleamont glances at the window, but Sirius doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Regulus hates it when it’s raining.”
The words are soft. A confession.
He remembers nights back home—the real home, not this strange, warm place that smells like cinnamon and safety. Regulus used to climb into his bed during storms, shivering, whispering apologies as if taking up space was a sin.
“But he isn’t scared anymore, is he?”
Sirius’s throat closes up. The thought hurts more than it should.
Regulus has found people who care. Who hold him when he cries. Who listen, and comfort, and protect. People who do all the things Sirius used to try to do, even when he failed.
He wonders if Regulus even needs him anymore. If maybe the Potters can love him better than Sirius ever could.
That thought makes his chest ache. He feels like crying.
They sit in silence. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe Sirius can pretend, just for a little while, that it doesn’t hurt to let go.
***
The sudden contact jolts him awake.
Sirius lurches upright with a sharp gasp, lungs straining, dragging in air like he’s drowning. His chest heaves, heart slamming against his ribs. Everything is too loud—his breath, the rustle of sheets, the pounding in his head. His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused, darting around the dark room.
A shape. A person.
He flinches.
“Sirius?” a voice says—quiet, careful. Like she’s trying not to startle a skittish animal. Like she already has.
His eyes lock onto her, wide and unblinking, his mind caught somewhere between sleep and memory. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know who she is. All he knows is panic.
He scrambles back up the bed, as far as he can go, spine hitting the wall. He curls into himself, knees pulled tight to his chest. The blanket shifts beneath him—wet—and his stomach twists. No. No, no, no, not again. Heat floods his face, crawling up his neck, burning behind his eyes.
He can’t breathe.
He hates this.
He hates that she’s seeing him like this, that he’s woken her up like some pathetic kid who can’t even make it through the night without screaming, without pissing himself. His hands tremble as he squeezes his knees tighter. Maybe if he folds himself small enough, she’ll disappear. Maybe he’ll disappear.
She sits on the edge of the bed—not too close, but close enough. He feels the mattress shift beneath her, and the tension in his spine sharpens. His body is still buzzing, jittery with leftover adrenaline, like it’s begging him to run, to hide, to fight.
“It’s okay,” she says softly. “You’re okay.”
He isn’t. He isn’t okay. His mind is still filled with the nightmare—screaming, shadows, someone grabbing his wrists and not letting go. His mouth tastes like blood and bile, even though he knows that’s just in his head.
Then she reaches out, gently, just toward his ankle.
And he snaps.
His leg kicks out on instinct, foot knocking her hand away before she can touch him. He didn’t mean to. He just—he can’t be touched. Not right now. Maybe not ever. His skin is crawling, too tight, too raw, like every nerve ending is on fire.
He sees her hands pull back, sees her hesitate. She’s quiet now, only her breathing filling the space between them. Sirius stares at the floor, the corner of the blanket clutched in his fist, trying to pull air into lungs that don’t want to work.
He wants to be held. He wants someone to grab him and tell him it’s going to be okay. That it’s over. That he’s safe.
But he knows if anyone touches him right now, he’ll scream again.
He hates that. Hates the contradiction. Hates himself .
She doesn’t leave. Just sits there and keeps repeating the words. It’s okay. You’re okay. It was just a nightmare. Everything’s alright.
It’s not, but… he listens anyway. Slowly, the fog in his chest begins to lift. Her voice is calm. Even. Not angry. Not loud. She breathes in deeply, exaggerating the sound, like she wants him to follow.
He does. Hesitantly, at first. In. Out. In. Out. His chest aches with every inhale, but it starts to slow. His heartbeat, too. Just a little.
And then comes the shame.
His body curls in tighter, his head ducked low. He can feel the heat of embarrassment rolling off him. Not just from the nightmare—though that’s bad enough—but from the way he kicked her. From the sheets. From the fact that he wet the bed like a toddler . At fourteen.
He wants to disappear.
“It’s alright,” she says again.
The words feel like a lie. Safe is a lie. The kind people tell children to shut them up. The kind adults say before they betray you anyway. The word makes his skin crawl.
His fingers twist the edge of the sheet, knuckles white. He tries to speak, but his throat is raw. Finally, he croaks, “Yeah. Everything’s alright.”
It’s the worst lie he’s ever told.
He tries to explain. Tries to say it’s just sweat , but he can’t even get the words out. His voice dies before he finishes, and he looks away, mortified.
She doesn’t press. Just offers water like it’s normal. He nods, even though he doesn’t want water. He wants this moment to end.
When she reaches to fix the blanket, her hand brushes the dampness, and he goes still. His chest clenches. There’s no hiding it. The sheets are wet. Not sweat. He sees her pause. Sees her realise.
He waits.
Waits for her face to twist in disgust. Waits for her to yell. Waits for the punishment.
But it doesn’t come.
“Oh,” she breathes. Her voice is soft. Too soft.
His heart pounds again. He can’t look at her. He can’t stand that she knows. That she sees it. He’s shaking again, hard. He wants to run. Wants to scrub himself clean. Wants to peel his skin off and start over.
“It’s alright,” she says, still so gentle it makes him feel sick. “How about I go put these in the wash, and you go have a shower?”
Sirius doesn’t answer. Just stares, wide-eyed, barely nodding. His legs feel disconnected as he forces himself off the bed. He snatches the clean clothes she left, clutching them tightly to his chest like armor, and flees to the bathroom.
The door clicks shut behind him, the sound too loud in the silence.
He turns the lock. A shaky breath escapes his lips.
He drops the clothes on the counter, strips off the wet pajamas, and doesn’t let himself look in the mirror. He can’t. Not like this.
The water runs hot. Scalding.
He steps under it and sinks to the floor of the shower, letting the spray beat down on him.
His arms wrap around his knees again. Just like on the bed.
His mind drifts.
The nightmare is still there—burning hands, cruel laughter, that voice, the one he’s spent years trying to forget. The walls melt away into old memories. The tiles under him turn cold like the basement floor at Grimmauld Place. He blinks and sees the hallway outside his bedroom. The locked door. The shadows under it.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there.
The water stays hot, steaming up the room, but he doesn’t move.
He just stares ahead, not really seeing anything, heart thudding slow and dull in his chest.
Eventually, his fingers begin to prune. His skin stings from too much heat. That’s what brings him back.
He drags himself upright, shuts off the tap, and dries himself off without looking in the mirror once. Then he dresses in James’s clothes—too soft, too warm, too clean—and slips quietly back to the bedroom.
The bed is made. Fresh sheets. Like it never happened.
But he knows it did.
And so does she.
***
Sirius hadn’t been expecting to see Bellatrix and Narcissa at Regulus’s soccer game—but there they are, standing near the edge of the field like something out of a dream. Or a memory. Maybe a ghost.
It’s weird. Really weird. They don’t belong here— not in this world he’s carved out away from the mess of their family. Not in this safe little slice of normal. Seeing them again after everything is like salt ground into a wound he’s been trying not to look at.
It only reminds him that—
“Hey?”
Bellatrix’s voice startles him. Not because she’s loud—because she isn’t . It’s soft. Careful. Like she’s approaching a stray dog she doesn’t want to scare off. And that’s new. She’s never talked to him like that before. Not once.
He turns, wary.
“Can we talk?” she asks, eyes flicking toward a quieter patch near the fence.
Sirius nods without thinking, feet moving on autopilot. He follows her a few steps away from the crowd, each one dragging a little harder than the last. He doesn’t know why his chest is tight. Doesn’t know why this feels more like a trap than a conversation.
Bellatrix rummages through her bag, eyes scanning the contents with sharp precision before she finally fishes something out. A single folded piece of paper.
“I wanted to give you something,” she says, handing it over.
Sirius hesitates a moment before taking it. The paper is warm from her hands, slightly crumpled at the edges. He unfolds it slowly.
“This has Uncle Alphard’s number on it,” she whispers, voice low enough that only he can hear.
“What?”
His brain stutters. Like the words don’t compute. Like they need to reboot before they can sink in properly.
Bellatrix just nods, lips pressed into a thin line. “He would like to talk to you.”
Sirius blinks. Stares at her like she’s speaking another language.
Uncle Alphard? Talk to him? What does that even mean?
Isn’t he… somewhere far ? He can’t even remember anymore. Japan? Hong Kong? Morocco? Somewhere on the edge of the world. Somewhere Sirius stopped thinking about because it hurt too much to remember he’d left .
“Why?” he asks, the confusion spilling out before he can stop it.
Bellatrix’s face shifts—softens. There’s something tired behind her eyes. A sadness, maybe. But also something else. Something sharper. Urgent.
“I’m not too sure, to be honest,” she says carefully. “He really needs to talk to you, though.”
Then, out of nowhere, a familiar smirk lifts the corners of her mouth. The kind of smile that used to mean trouble.
“After all, you are his favourite.”
Sirius snorts. The sound comes out more bitter than amused. “You sure ‘bout that?”
Bellatrix just shakes her head, that same smirk lingering. “Positive.”
Silence settles over them like a weight. Sirius looks down at the piece of paper in his hand, fingers tightening slightly around it. His thumb brushes over the inked numbers, smudging the edge of the writing like it’ll make this moment easier to hold.
He glances back up at her. “Why now though?” The question slips out before he can think better of it. His voice is rough. Smaller than he meant it to be. “Why does he want to talk to me now? I—we haven’t heard from him in like… five years, Bella.”
Bellatrix’s expression shifts again. She looks away, just for a second, then back at him—searching his face for something.
“You haven’t,” she says, quiet. “But we have.”
That makes his stomach twist.
“He’s…” She pauses, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “It’s best if you talk to him.”
Sirius nods slowly, unsure what else to do. “Okay.”
Bellatrix gives him one last look—equal parts sad and satisfied—then turns and walks back toward Narcissa without another word. He watches her go, his hand still gripping the slip of paper like it might vanish if he lets go.
He looks down at it again.
So much freedom is held there, he thinks, with that one phone number.
His thumb rubs over the paper again, more anxious now. Should he even call? What’s the point? If Alphard really cared, wouldn’t he have called him ? Wouldn’t he have said something— anything —before now?
But… what if it’s important? What if it’s about…
Sirius swallows hard. No. No, he won’t let himself think about that. He clamps the thought down, buries it deep. He really hopes it’s not about that . He’s not ready to go there. Not now. Maybe not ever.
He sighs, long and low, and glances back at Bellatrix and Narcissa. They look out of place, standing under the bright blue sky next to the soccer field, wrapped in their tailored clothes and brittle smiles.
Then he looks back at the number in his hand.
He should at least try, right?
After all, isn’t Uncle Alphard?
It’s like time speeds up, and before Sirius knows it, he’s having his second check-in with Sarah.
“So, how are things going?” Sarah asks, pulling Sirius from his thoughts.
They’re sitting on the Potters’ front porch, side by side on the wide wooden steps. The late afternoon air is cool against Sirius’s skin, thick with the scent of cut grass. Somewhere down the street, a dog barks. The world feels too normal for the conversation they’re about to have.
Sirius stares out at the driveway, watching the sunlight reflect off Fleamont’s car. His hands rest limp in his lap. Sarah sits beside him with her clipboard balanced on one knee, pen in hand, legs tucked carefully beneath her like she’s trying not to crowd him.
How are things going? Oh, well, he’s had enough nightmares to concern both Euphemia and Fleamont. The kind that wake him up screaming, drenched in sweat and too afraid to move. The kind that make him feel like he’s still back there—trapped in a house that never felt like home.
Euphemia won’t stop watching him. Always tracking his movements like she’s waiting for something to snap. He can’t breathe under her gaze. Fleamont’s better at hiding it, but Sirius still catches him glancing over the top of his newspaper, eyes flicking toward him every time he shifts in his chair.
James is a bit better. Not mean. Not weird. Just… there. Easy.
Regulus…
“Sirius?”
He flinches at the sound of his name, eyes snapping back to Sarah. He hadn’t noticed how far he’d drifted.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
The words taste wrong on his tongue.
Sarah hums, unconvinced. She scribbles something down on the clipboard, then glances sideways at him. Her expression is open, gentle. But Sirius doesn’t trust that. Adults always wear masks like that before they say something awful.
He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve, the edges of his vision starting to go hazy. His head feels floaty, light, like he’s slowly pulling away from his body, like he’s watching the porch from somewhere just behind his own eyes.
“Why don’t you tell me about the Potters?” Sarah says. “They treating you well?”
He nods. That’s all he can do.
He knows they’re being kind. He knows they haven’t yelled or hit or locked any doors. But he still can’t speak. The words are right there, but they won’t leave his mouth. It’s like trying to talk through molasses.
His chest tightens again.
And then it starts—the familiar burn rising up his throat. That creeping, awful nausea that always comes when he gets too close to thinking about it all. He swallows hard, trying to keep it down.
“Sirius?”
Her voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, like she’s calling to him from the other side of the street. Her hand comes down on his, warm and grounding—but too much. Her fingers squeeze, and he flinches again, shoulders jerking before he can stop them.
But it pulls him back a little.
“Why don’t we talk about your timeline?” she says, her voice calm, coaxing.
He frowns. Tilts his head. Timeline?
She smiles, just slightly. “Your timeline. Of where you’ve been. I’ve got some—”
But Sirius doesn’t hear the rest.
His mind shuts the door.
He doesn’t want to talk about it.
He doesn’t want to remember. Not the houses. Not the families. Not the way they looked at him like a problem they didn’t ask for. He doesn’t want to walk through each place and relive how it all fell apart again and again. He doesn’t want to remember how it felt to pack a bag and pretend he hadn’t already unpacked hope.
He remembers everything.
And he’d rather forget.
***
Sirius is walking towards the library, desperately trying to get to Regulus. He needs to talk to him. There’s a knot of people, up ahead. Sirius sees them too late to avoid it.
Barty. Evan. Pandora. Dorcas.
And behind them—Regulus. Half-shielded. Half-curious. Sirius doesn’t even get a second to look at him before Evan steps forward, cutting off his line of sight like a wall slamming shut.
He hadn’t meant to do anything. He just wanted to talk. Just a few words. He misses his brother. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s strained. He just wants to see him, to know he’s okay.
But his friends won’t let him.
“—stay away from him. Do you hear me?”
The words land like stones thrown at his chest. He should be surprised. But he’s not.
His fists clench before he can stop them, nails biting into the soft flesh of his palms. He forces his face blank—he’s good at that. Good at hiding the way his heart jumps like a cornered animal in his chest. Good at pretending it doesn’t hurt when he’s treated like this.
Because they’re right, aren’t they?
He should stay away. He is bad news.
Sirius feels his throat tighten around air that doesn’t come. The pressure from earlier—when his Maths teacher snapped at the class, yelling until Sirius felt like a spotlight had seared him open—hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s worse now. His chest is tight. Breathing feels like a task. His eyes burn, but he doesn’t let them water.
Barty steps forward. “You even look at him the wrong way, Black,” he says smoothly, “and we’ll make sure you never look at anything again.”
It’s not the words that sting the most. It’s the ease with which they’re said. Like it’s funny. Like Sirius is beneath them.
He stands still. Silent. Unmoving. He doesn’t even glance at Regulus. Doesn’t give them the satisfaction.
He nods.
Just once. Like a puppet on strings.
They don’t want him near Regulus. Fine.
It’s not like he belongs anywhere, anyway.
The sharp laughter behind him cuts through the ringing in his ears. A voice calls out—Barty, maybe? Or Dorcas?
“James!”
Sirius freezes. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t let himself.
Please don’t come over. Please don’t see me like this.
He keeps his shoulders squared, back straight, even though it feels like the air is being pressed out of his lungs. And when James finally reaches them, and the group turns to him like he’s a missing piece of their puzzle, Sirius already knows what’s coming.
He doesn’t let himself hope.
“James?” Dorcas asks, her voice cool and clipped. “You gonna back us up?”
Sirius doesn’t look. He doesn’t need to. The silence is enough to give him time to imagine James hesitating. Maybe picturing a version of himself that steps in. That says hey, this isn’t okay .
But that’s not the world they live in. Not anymore.
“Oh, yeah,” James says. “What they said, Sirius.”
It shouldn’t hurt. But it does. Because it’s James. Because it’s another person confirming what Sirius already tells himself every time he screws up:
You ruin everything you touch.
The others smile like they’ve won. Like they’ve succeeded in reminding him exactly where he stands.
They start moving off, voices light, laughter bouncing down the corridor. Talking about nothing.
Sirius doesn’t wait. He turns, walking quickly in the opposite direction. Shoulders hunched. Head down. He doesn’t dare look back.
He keeps his face blank until he rounds the corner. Until he knows they can’t see him anymore.
And then he breathes—barely. Shallow, quick gasps. Like there’s no space left in his lungs for anything else.
He’ll stay away. He will.
They’re right. James is right.
Regulus is better off without him.
Ever since the confrontation earlier that day, Sirius hasn’t been able to relax.
His skin feels tight, like it doesn’t fit right. Like he’s wearing someone else’s body and it’s wrinkled and misaligned. His thoughts chase each other in circles, tripping over themselves, tangling tighter every time he tries to breathe through them. Everything inside him itches—not physically, but that awful mental itch, the one that says do something, fix something, fix yourself.
He’s already tried lying in bed. He’s flipped his pillow three times. Lined the edges of his blanket up with the mattress. Smoothed the sheet under his body with both hands, over and over again until the fabric felt thin.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
So he gets up. Quietly. Carefully. His bare feet touch the cool floor with practiced lightness, like he’s afraid of disturbing the air around him. The hallway is dark. The house is sleeping. And he should be, too.
But he can’t. His thoughts won’t let him.
He drifts down the stairs like a ghost. Past the photographs on the wall he hasn’t looked at closely. Past the coat hooks that always have something hung on them—James’s jacket, Euphemia’s scarf. Sirius doesn’t leave his things out. Not ever.
The kitchen is dark, shadowy and still. A normal person would switch on the light. Sirius doesn’t. He doesn’t need it. The quiet hum of the refrigerator is enough to keep him tethered.
He knows what he has to do.
He starts in the corner cupboard. Tinned food first. He pulls each can out one by one, checking dates, rotating labels to face forward. Tomato soup. Baked beans. Chickpeas. Expired. That one gets set aside. Then another. And another. The pile of discarded items grows like a punishment.
He wipes the shelves. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Then he lines the cans up again, perfectly spaced. One inch between each.
Next is the pantry.
He opens the door, and his chest tightens. Everything is wrong. The cereal boxes aren’t lined up by size. The pasta is in the wrong section. The flour and sugar bins are crooked. The peanut butter is touching the jam. Why is the peanut butter touching the jam?
Sirius grits his teeth and dives in.
He pulls everything out. Everything. He scrubs the shelves with the rough side of the sponge until the wood almost splinters. He wipes down each jar and container. He makes new categories in his head: breakfast, snacks, baking, dinner bases. And when he puts them all back, he makes sure the labels are all facing exactly forward. The corners aligned. The sizes graduated.
He breathes through his nose—counts the inhales, counts the exhales.
1, 2, 3, 4 in.
1, 2, 3, 4 out.
It doesn’t help.
He moves to the sink. Washes dishes that are already clean. Then wipes down the countertops. Scrubs the backsplash. Re-scrubs it. Pulls out the stovetop burners and scrubs those too, even though he knows Euphemia already cleaned them yesterday.
He doesn’t care.
The more he scrubs, the less space there is for the thoughts that claw at the inside of his skull.
Until the only one that remains is the one he can’t shake:
What purpose does he serve, other than being Regulus’s older brother?
He straightens the plates in the cupboard. Largest to smallest. He rearranges the mugs so they’re grouped by color. Stacks the bowls and turns them all so the designs face the same direction.
He’s always been Regulus’s brother. That’s the one thing he could hold onto when everything else fell apart. That was his job. His duty. His reason for existing when things got dark. Keep Regulus safe. Keep Regulus alive.
But that title—it’s gone now, isn’t it?
He’s not Regulus’s protector. Not anymore. He’s not his keeper.
James is.
Regulus’s friends are.
They’re the ones shielding him in the hallway. The ones standing between them. The ones Regulus doesn’t flinch away from.
And Sirius? He’s the shadow in the corner. The mistake that keeps happening. The smudge no amount of scrubbing can wash away.
He finishes with the floor—mopping it slowly, methodically. Left to right. Then top to bottom. Then diagonally, even though it makes no sense. He just needs it to feel done.
When he finally stops moving, the house is silent again. The kitchen gleams under the faint glow of the moonlight through the window. Not a single surface is left unclean. Not a single speck of dust is left.
But his brain is still loud.
His chest still aches.
He stands in the middle of the kitchen, hands raw, breath shallow, and thinks—
I don’t belong here.
***
A soft knock on the doorframe. “Sirius?”
His head snaps up. His body tenses. Regulus. Sirius wasn’t ready. He’ll never be ready. The textbook sprawled across his lap is just a prop now, forgotten. He forces a smile—fake, brittle. His cheeks hurt from the effort, but his eyes betray him. They always do. His shoulders lock up before he remembers to make them relax. It feels staged. Regulus will see through it.
“Reggie, you alright?” His voice comes out too light, too casual, like if he sounds normal enough, none of this will explode. If he pretends, maybe Regulus will play along. Maybe.
Regulus steps in, nodding. Sirius nods back, lips pressed tight. It’s not fine. He knows it. The air feels thick, like it used to back home when their mother’s footsteps echoed down the hall. Sirius’s chest is tight, his fingers curling against the bedspread.
He holds out a hand. A lifeline. Regulus takes it, their fingers lacing together. His brother’s hand is cold—colder than it should be. Sirius feels a shiver crawl up his spine. This is wrong. This is all wrong.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, keeping his tone gentle, soothing, even though his heart is thundering in his chest.
But Regulus doesn’t answer. He’s staring at Sirius in that way that always made Sirius feel like a puzzle missing half its pieces. Sirius’s palms start to sweat. His stomach churns. Please don’t let this be what I think it is.
“Nothing’s wrong per se…” Regulus says, and Sirius’s gut twists.
But.
Of course there’s a but.
“But?” Sirius prompts, forcing that familiar raised eyebrow, the one that used to make Regulus laugh. Now it feels like a flimsy shield. His skin prickles. He can hear his mother’s voice, cold and sharp— “Stop playing games, Sirius. You’re not clever.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
There it is. The words drop like a lead weight in his chest. Sirius’s throat closes up. His lungs can’t find the right rhythm. Flash. His father’s sneer— “Running away, boy?” Flash. His mother’s hand on his collar, dragging him back. His fingers twitch, but he doesn’t let go of Regulus’s hand.
“Yeah, I guess I’ve been doing that.” His voice sounds foreign to his own ears. Detached. He feels the mistake the moment he says it. Guess? He used guess? Idiot.
“Vous devinez?” The words explode. Sirius’s heart stops as Regulus rips his hands away, like Sirius burned him. Sirius stands slowly, movements deliberate, careful. Like approaching a snarling beast. His pulse pounds in his ears.
“Je veux dire,” Sirius starts, trying to pacify, choosing his words carefully, but the trembling in his fingers betrays him. “Je suppose que les choses ont été—”
“Quoi, Sirius ? Comment ça s'est passé ?”
Regulus’s voice slices through him. Sharp. Furious. Sirius flinches. He can’t help it. His ribs feel too tight. He’s back in the dining room, his father standing over him, voice booming, fists clenched. You think you’re safe here? You think you can talk back? Sirius’s breaths come shallow. Don’t lash out. Don’t make it worse.
“Ma petite étoile,” Sirius softens his voice, desperate to pull Regulus back from the edge. He needs to ground him, needs to—
“Ne m’appelle pas comme ça !” The scream shatters through him. Sirius’s skin crawls. His hands lift, palms open, surrendering. His heart pounds against his ribs, frantic, wild.
“D'accord, d'accord, Regulus.” His voice stays calm, but it’s a fragile calm. He steps back, one foot faltering against the carpet. Give him space. Don’t give him a reason to break. “Et si on se calmait ? Respire profondément avec moi, et on pourrait juste… en parler. Qu'en penses-tu ?”
But Regulus isn’t calming down. The room feels smaller. Sirius’s throat tightens. He’s back in the drawing room again, standing perfectly still while his mother screamed inches from his face, daring him to move, to speak, to breathe wrong.
“Non! Non! Je ne veux pas!” Regulus’s voice cracks, and Sirius’s instinct is to shrink, to brace for the hit, even though it’s not coming. Not from Regulus.
“Dis-moi juste pourquoi ! Pourquoi m'as-tu évité ? Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait?!”
Sirius’s heart aches. He shakes his head, desperate to make him understand. “Rien. Tu n'as rien fait, mon petit—Regulus.” His voice hitches, but he forces it steady. He feels like a child again. Powerless.
“C'est juste…” Sirius crosses his arms. It feels like a flimsy defense. “Je suis désolé que tu ressentes ça, Regulus. Je n'ai jamais voulu te faire ressentir ça.”
The words taste bitter. Empty apologies. Just like his father used to give after a punishment—when it was “regrettable,” but “necessary.” Sirius hates himself for how hollow it sounds. He doesn’t know how to fix this.
Regulus is shaking now. Sirius watches every tremor, his own fingers digging crescent marks into his arms. His heart is pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.
“Mhm.” Regulus’s voice is low, dangerous.
“Je peux me rattraper, je te le promets,” Sirius tries, pushing through the panic. He’s dangling over a cliff’s edge, fingers slipping. Regulus won’t let him grab on. He can feel it.
“Fermez-la.”
The words are a slap across the face. Sirius flinches. His breath stutters. His mother’s face flashes behind his eyelids, sneering. “You know when to hold your tongue, Sirius.”
“Tu fais toujours ça, Sirius.” The accusation lands like a punch to the gut. “Tu essaies toujours de changer de sujet pour ne jamais avoir à répondre à mes questions. Tu me prends pour un idiot, Sirius ? Tu crois que je ne m'en apercevrais jamais ? Parce que si. Je m'en aperçois, et tu sais quoi ?”
Sirius’s back hits the edge of the dresser. He feels trapped. His breath shortens. Regulus raises his hands, and Sirius’s body reacts before his brain catches up. His muscles tense, bracing for a hit that’s not coming.
But the blow never lands.
A hand snaps forward—not Regulus’s—gripping his wrists.
“That’s enough.” The voice is firm, calm, but it slices through the storm. Fleamont.
Sirius’s breath whooshes out of him in a ragged exhale. His knees nearly buckle. He hadn’t even noticed how badly he was shaking until now. Fleamont’s presence—solid, grounding—feels like the first gasp of air after drowning.
Regulus stiffens, his anger faltering under Fleamont’s grip. Sirius’s chest still aches, but his eyes lock onto his brother’s. And in that split second, Regulus sees it—the fear. The terror Sirius has been shoving down, the terror his parents carved into him long ago.
No. Not you, Reggie. You weren’t supposed to see this.
But now it’s too late.
“Regulus.” Fleamont’s voice is calm, too calm. But Sirius hears it—the disappointment laced beneath the words. His stomach twists. This is the part where it starts. The part where things go wrong.
Regulus flinches, shrinking in on himself, but Fleamont’s hand doesn’t let go. He’s not squeezing. He’s not punishing. Yet. Sirius can’t breathe. His fists clench at his sides. He should step in. He should say something. But his feet won’t move.
“I think you should go to your room, Regulus,” Fleamont says. Calm. Steady. Like it’s a choice. “Effie and I will be there in a minute to have a chat with you. Understood?”
No. No, this is wrong. They’re going to go after him. They’re going to close that door and—Sirius’s chest seizes. Regulus nods, a sharp, reluctant movement, and Sirius’s throat closes.
Fleamont’s hand releases, slow, deliberate. This is a trick. That’s how it always started back home. A gentle hand, a soft voice, and then—
“Do you think you can head to your room?” Fleamont asks again, softer.
Regulus swallows. Sirius watches his lips part. Watches the struggle.
“Yeah,” Regulus says, voice hoarse.
Fleamont brushes a curl from Regulus’s forehead. His fingers linger too long. Sirius’s breath stutters. Don’t touch him like that. Don’t act like this is gentle. Don’t pretend you’re not about to—
“We’ll be there in a moment, kiddo.”
Sirius’s heart thunders as Regulus nods again, quicker this time, and bolts. The sound of his footsteps—fast, frantic—echoes down the hall. Sirius’s ears ring with it. It’s the sound of running. Of escaping.
But they’ll follow him.
They always follow.
Fleamont turns, Euphemia in the doorway, both of them with expressions Sirius can’t read. His skin crawls. They know what they’re about to do. They’re just waiting for him to be out of the way.
The air feels like it’s suffocating him. His chest is tight. His vision blurs around the edges. He can’t let this happen.
Fleamont looks at him. “What happened?”
The question slams into Sirius. His breath comes out in short, sharp bursts. He can’t answer. Can’t think. His gaze flickers to Euphemia. Trapped. There’s no exit. His fists clench so hard his nails bite into his palms.
He knows what they’re going to do. He’s seen it before.
“I started it.” The words tumble out, raw and frantic. His throat burns. “I started it. It’s… it’s not his fault.”
The last word snaps. His body trembles under the weight of it. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. He needs them to believe it.
“Please.” His voice is cracking, desperate. He can’t stop the pleading. “Please, don’t—” The words won’t come. They wedge in his throat, sharp and splintered. Dangerous. “Don’t hurt him. Please.”
The silence that follows is deafening. His pulse thrums in his ears. Euphemia’s face changes, but Sirius doesn’t trust it. Fleamont looks back at him, but Sirius knows better. He knows that look. He knows how this plays out.
“How about,” Euphemia says gently, stepping closer, “how about you watch us talk to Regulus?”
Sirius blinks. That’s not right. That’s not what’s supposed to happen. They’re meant to tell him to leave, to stay out of it. To let them handle it. This is a trap. It has to be. His head nods before he can stop it, small, jerky. His gaze flicks to Fleamont, waiting for the catch. Waiting for the twist.
“Yeah,” Fleamont says, voice steady. “If that would make you feel better…”
It doesn’t. Nothing about this feels better. But he nods again, because there’s no other choice. A hand settles briefly on his shoulder. Sirius flinches, his muscles locking, but Fleamont doesn’t press. Then they’re moving, down the hall, towards Regulus’s room. Each step feels like a countdown. Sirius’s heart is going to give out before they even get there.
Fleamont knocks on the door. “Regulus?”
Sirius’s nails dig into his palms as the door creaks open.
Regulus is curled on the bed, small and trembling. Sirius’s throat closes. He should be in there. He should be with his brother. Not them.
Euphemia moves first. She kneels beside Regulus, arm wrapping around him. Sirius watches, rigid. Waiting. Any moment now. Any moment—
Fleamont drags the chair closer, sitting down in front of Regulus. The tension coils tighter in Sirius’s gut. His eyes dart between their faces. He’s memorising everything, every gesture, every movement. Ready to intervene.
They sit in silence. The quiet is loud. Suffocating. Regulus is drifting—Sirius can see it. Spiralling.
“Regulus?” Fleamont says. Too soft. Like a test.
Regulus flinches. Sirius feels it like a punch to his own gut. His nails dig deeper into his palms. Any second now they’ll snap. They’ll tell him everything Regulus did wrong. They’ll take him apart. Word by word. Blow by blow.
“Look, buddy,” Fleamont starts, tone layered with disappointment. Sirius’s stomach flips. Regulus flinches again. Sirius’s breath falters. He knows this script. He’s lived this script.
“What you did… You know the rules, kiddo. You know we don’t yell at people, no matter how angry we are.”
Regulus crumbles further. Sirius’s chest aches, tight and raw. Euphemia presses a kiss to Regulus’s hair. He doesn’t trust it. He can’t. Not when everything inside him is screaming that this isn’t how it ends.
“You know you can come to us if you need help expressing your anger healthily, right sweetheart?” Euphemia says.
Liar.
Regulus nods. It’s a broken, defeated motion. Sirius can’t breathe. He needs to get him out. He needs to—
“We’re disappointed in what just took place.” Euphemia’s voice is still soft, but Sirius hears the steel. The words disappointed in you hit Sirius harder than they should. His hands tremble. His vision blurs again.
“What you did was wrong,” Fleamont says, firm but quiet.
Regulus nods, frantic, panicked. Sirius’s heart aches. They’re breaking him.
“When you’re ready, Regulus, we’d like to talk to you properly about what went down. You’re not in trouble.” Fleamont’s words don’t register. They mean nothing. Sirius has heard them before, and they’ve always been a lie.
“We do hope you apologise for your actions, and—it’s okay if Sirius doesn’t forgive you straight away. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”
Sirius’s breath catches. His throat burns. His vision tunnels. It’s too much. He can’t watch this. He can’t stay here while they—
Regulus nods, his tears falling silently. Euphemia kisses his forehead. Fleamont pulls him into a hug, wrapping his arms around Regulus’s trembling frame.
Sirius can’t name the thing twisting in his chest. It’s sharp, unfamiliar. It’s not the anger he’s used to. It’s not the fear. It’s something else.
And he can’t handle it.
Before he even registers his feet moving, Sirius turns and slips from the doorway. His chest is hollow, his throat too tight to swallow. He doesn’t stop moving until he’s in his room, the door shutting softly behind him. He leans against it, slides down to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. His fists are still clenched, shaking.
They didn’t hurt him. Not this time.
But Sirius can’t believe that will last.
Sirius stumbles into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. His fingers fumble against the lock, trembling so violently that it takes him three tries to twist it properly. The soft click echoes far too loud in his ears.
He presses his back to the door, but it’s not enough. The air feels thin, his chest too tight to breathe. His lungs stutter, catching on shallow, ragged gasps. His mind is racing—spiraling—grabbing at every thought all at once. It’s too much. It’s everything. A tsunami crashing into his skull, wave after wave, each one harder, sharper, until it feels like his brain might split open from the pressure.
His heart slams against his ribs, hammering as though it’s trying to break free from his chest. He can feel it in his throat, in his ears, in the way his vision tilts like the whole room is spinning. His body shakes, uncontrollable, as he stares at the far corner of his room—the corner where he’d been trapped not too long ago.
The memory is too fresh. The feel of the wall pressing against his spine, his knees pulled to his chest, every muscle rigid as he tried to make himself smaller, less noticeable. That corner—he can still see the shape of himself there.
He pushes off the door, desperate to reach his bed, but his legs barely hold him. He stumbles, knees buckling, catching himself on the dresser. His fingers slip against the wood. The room tilts again. His breath comes faster, quicker, no control, no air—he’s suffocating. His vision blurs as tears begin to settle, but he keeps moving. He has to.
The panic swells, curling tight in his chest as he collapses onto his bed, clutching at the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered. His breathing is wild, rapid, erratic. He can feel it rising—the pressure, the heat—the way panic forces its way into every inch of his body until it takes shape, until it becomes a living, breathing thing inside him.
The Potters didn’t do what he expected them to do.
That thought hits harder than the panic. Harder than the memories. They didn’t hit Regulus. They didn’t drag him to his room and lock him inside. They didn’t yell, didn’t strike, didn’t sneer. They talked to him. Comforted him when he cried.
It was so… different.
Too different.
His mother’s punishments play like a film reel in his mind—her cold hands shoving him into cupboards, closets, whatever space was small enough to trap him in darkness. When she was too tired to perform a proper punishment, she’d just lock him away, forget him, leave him there for hours. Sometimes longer. Days, even.
He remembers the way his fingers used to trace the grain of the cupboard walls, over and over, just to know he was still there. The way the dark would fold around him until it felt like breathing in tar.
That’s why he’s afraid of tight spaces. Of dark places. She made sure of that.
His father was different. His punishments were always physical. Always brutal. Sirius can still feel the phantom sting of his father’s belt across his back, the way the man’s hand would clench into his collar, shaking him like a ragdoll whenever he "needed to be taught a lesson."
The beatings for not being perfect. For standing up to them. For daring to take the blame when Regulus accidentally broke something. Sirius would cover for him, every single time. And every single time, it would be Sirius who paid the price.
He’s tried so hard to keep those memories buried. To shove them so far down they couldn’t claw their way back up.
But tonight, they come flooding in, sharp and vivid. Not everything. Not the worst of it. But enough. Enough to drown in.
Sirius curls into himself, his fingers knotting into his hair as the sob breaks loose. A deep, raw, shuddering sound that shakes his whole body. His throat burns as he cries, hot tears spilling down his cheeks, dripping onto his knees as he hugs them tighter to his chest.
Seeing the way the Potters handled Regulus—that’s what makes him break. That’s what tears through the last of his walls.
He sobs. Loud, ragged, unfiltered.
He cries because it’s unfair. Because Regulus gets kindness now, when Sirius never did. He cries because he’s jealous. Ugly, biting jealousy that twists in his gut. He cries because he’s in pain—because he has been for so long, and he’s exhausted from pretending it doesn’t hurt.
He cries because it’s all too much.
So he lets it out. Every last piece of it. The unfairness. The jealousy. The grief. The hurt.
He lets it out, because there’s no space left inside him to hold it anymore.
He lets it all out.
***
Sirius leaned in the doorway, his usual smirk weak around the edges. He was tired, aching, but trying. Trying to be normal. Trying to reach out. Trying to understand. “Hey,” he said, casual, keeping his voice light. “What’s up? You seem a bit… off.”
He knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say.
Regulus’s expression twisted like someone had lit a fuse, and Sirius straightened instinctively, dread pooling in his stomach.
“Quoi de neuf?” Regulus spat, voice sharp, brittle, book snapping shut with a bang. He rose slowly from the bed, tension radiating off him like heat. “Quoi de neuf ? Je vais te dire ce qui se passe. Toi. C'est toi qui es ce qui se passe.”
Sirius raised his hands slightly, not in surrender—never surrender—but in caution. In peace. “Écoute, Reggie, j'ai besoin que tu respires,” he said, voice low, almost soft. “Que dirais-tu d'un gros câlin ? Je sais que tu aimes ça quand tu te sens comme ça.”
“Vous vous sentez comme ça ?” Regulus said, voice dipping into something colder. “Tu ne sais pas ce que je ressens, Sirius.”
“Non?” Sirius tried to keep his voice light, like he hadn’t just been gut-punched by Regulus’s tone. He stepped forward, his hands settling on Regulus’s shoulders. Gentle. Barely there. Like touching something fragile.
He should’ve known better. Regulus wasn’t fragile—he was volatile.
Regulus shoved him, hard. Sirius stumbled back, the air catching in his throat.
“Non!” Regulus shouted. “Je suis parfaitement capable de parler de mes émotions sans être choyée ou… ou dorlotée, Sirius !”
Sirius steadied himself. Straightened. His posture tightened, the chill in his spine seeping into his bones. “Très bien, très bien,” he said flatly. “Mais il n’y a aucune bonne raison de me bousculer, compris ?”
“Bien,” Regulus said, practically spitting the word.
Sirius kept his voice level, quiet. “Alors qu’est-ce que je ne comprends pas ? Qu'est-ce que tu ressens que je ne pourrais pas comprendre ?”
“Haine.”
The word cracked through Sirius’s chest like thunder. He stared at his brother, heartbeat stalling. His throat tightened. He didn’t move.
“Toi.”
And there it was. The collapse.
Sirius’s breath hitched. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop the way Regulus’s words burrowed under his skin, latched on like parasites.
“Oh, ouais. Je te déteste, Sirius.”
He tried to swallow it. Tried to understand. Tried to believe it wasn’t true—but it felt true. It felt like something that had been waiting to be said for years.
“Je te déteste, Siri. Je te déteste tellement.”
The words sank in deeper. They dragged Sirius down with them, each syllable tightening around his chest. He couldn't breathe right.
“D'accord,” he whispered. His hands trembled as he reached for Regulus again, fingers curling against his brother’s shoulders. A lifeline. Or maybe a goodbye.
“D'accord. D'accord. Euh…” He swallowed hard. “What have I done to upset you, Reggie?”
He already knew the answer. Whatever it was, he deserved it.
“Tu m'as menti,” Regulus hissed. “You kept things from me. You made the Potters—James—and even my friends hate you. And I don’t even know why, Sirius.”
Sirius felt it then. The final blow. Not from the words themselves—but from the way they were true. He had lied. He had withdrawn. He had made enemies of everyone, even the ones who wanted to help.
“Mes amis te détestent !” Regulus yelled. “...Je leur ai dit que je t'avais crié dessus, et tu sais ce qu'ils ont répondu ? Ils ont dit que tu le méritais... J'ai fait de mon mieux pour ne pas te forcer…”
Every word hit Sirius like stones. He stood there and took it, chest heaving, throat raw. He didn’t fight back. What could he say?
“Sais-tu ce que j'obtiens en retour ? Qu'as-tu eu, Regulus ?”
He wanted to fix it. Still. Somehow.
“Je comprends que tu m'évites !”
Sirius shook his head, barely. “Écoute, Reg, je suis désolé—”
“Non! Tu n'as pas le droit d'être désolé !”
And maybe he didn’t. Maybe Regulus was right.
“Et ce ne sont pas seulement mes amis. Les Potter te détestent aussi. James te déteste.”
His stomach sank. Of course James hated him. Who wouldn’t?
“Même nos parents te détestent.”
That did it. That shattered something in him. Sirius staggered a step back. Not visibly, not loudly—but inside? Inside he was crumbling. He felt like ash.
Regulus’s voice blurred, like it was underwater.
“Tu ne veux pas dire ça,” Sirius whispered, desperately. “Tu ne peux pas le penser. Tu m'aimes. Tu es juste contrarié. Alors pourquoi ne pas…”
He reached out again, trembling hands trying to steer Regulus to the bed. It was instinct, a last-ditch attempt to bring him back.
“Ne me touche pas !”
His hands dropped.
“Et je ne suis pas en colère ! Je te déteste, Sirius ! Je te déteste ! Tu as ruiné ma vie ! J'aurais aimé ne jamais t'aimer !”
The breath left Sirius’s lungs.
He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t even feel properly. Only ache. Only regret.
“Je te déteste ! Je te déteste ! Je te déteste !”
The room spun. The walls blurred.
Then footsteps. Heavy. Urgent. And suddenly, Fleamont was there.
Sirius barely noticed Regulus being lifted, flailing, screaming. He just stood there, motionless, numb. Eyes glassy. Chest hollow.
“Je te déteste, Sirius !”
The words rang in his skull like a curse.
“J'aurais préféré ne pas te supplier de vivre ici ! Va-t'en ! Je ne veux plus jamais te revoir ! Je te déteste !”
Sirius’s knees nearly buckled. His throat burned. He couldn’t cry—not here, not now—but he was close. One breath away from shattering. One heartbeat from sobbing in front of everyone.
He stood in the quiet Regulus left behind, staring at the place where his brother had just been.
And for the first time since he arrived at the Potters’ house, he believed it.
He didn’t belong here.
Regulus was right.
He always had been.
“Sirius?” she calls gently, stepping into the doorway.
The moment his name leaves her lips, Sirius recoils.
His breath catches on a sharp inhale, chest hitching as though it’s been punched. He takes a step back, instinctive and jerky. His mind spins, white noise crackling like static in his ears. He doesn’t know why—why he’s panicking so much. It’s just Reg yelling. Just Regulus, with that shrill, furious voice. But something about it lit a fuse in him. Like a firework going off inside his ribcage. And now his body is trembling, his brain slipping into a fog he can’t seem to wade through.
She’s not going to hurt you. She’s not going to hurt you.
But the words aren’t sticking.
His eyes dart around the room, unable to settle, like if he lands on her face for too long she’ll suddenly turn into someone else—someone dangerous. He tries to stop shaking. He can’t. He presses his nails into his palm. Still shaking.
She doesn't speak.
He hates the silence. Hates that she’s looking at him, but not saying anything. What is she thinking? Why is she here? Why is he still in this fucking room?
His lungs squeeze tight, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
She’s still staring. He wants to scream. Or cry. Or hide. Or run. He wants to cry so badly he feels sick with it.
She turns and leaves.
He blinks. It’s not what he expected. He doesn’t even know what he expected.
Sirius watches her disappear, but the shaking doesn’t stop. He doesn’t move. He can’t. He’s stuck there, glued to the spot like if he moves, the floor will give out beneath him.
Eventually, she comes back. Her footsteps are soft but they make his pulse spike. He jumps slightly when she speaks again.
“How about you come downstairs with me?” she asks gently.
He nods, automatic. He doesn’t know what else to do. He follows her. Every step feels like he’s trying not to step on glass.
The kitchen lights are too bright. Too sharp. He flinches as he crosses the threshold.
Euphemia moves around the kitchen like nothing’s wrong. Like he’s not falling apart inside his skin. He stares at her. She doesn’t even look at him. He wishes she would. No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he wants.
She pulls out vegetables. Red and green capsicum. Something oily hits the pan. It smells okay.
“Hey, Sirius?” she says, glancing over her shoulder.
He twitches at his name. Nods, stiffly.
“Do you think you can close the front door for me?”
He nods again. He turns and obeys without question.
Obey.
His stomach twists. That word. That feeling. That old, sick reflex. He obeys because he was taught to, not because he wants to. He doesn’t know how to not obey.
He watches her at the counter. She’s chopping capsicum. Her hands move quickly. Efficient. Confident.
Then—he sees it. A beat of dread rolls over his body.
She didn’t wash her hands. His skin prickles.
He watches, frozen, his heart beating unevenly.
His mother would’ve—
She would've noticed.
Sirius’s chest tightens.
He remembers the sting of the belt, the feel of his knees on cold tile, the hot, furious voice in his ear. You filthy boy. You disgusting little brat. Can't even remember the simplest fucking thing—
He remembers crying. Begging. Promising not to forget next time.
He hadn’t forgotten since.
“You… You didn’t wash your hands,” he says, the words barely there. A whisper. A ghost.
Euphemia turns, startled. “Oh, okay, I can wash them,” she says gently, smiling like it’s no big deal. Like he hasn’t just fallen through time.
He turns his head, eyes darting away. She’s at the sink now, and the water runs. It’s too loud. He hates how it echoes.
She says something else. Something about stir fry. But Sirius doesn’t hear the end of it.
He’s already gone.
Within seconds, he's already back within his space—the space that's called his room, though it never quite feels like his. The moment the door closes behind him, the air shifts. It feels thick and heavy, like trying to breathe through cotton. His lungs constrict with every attempted inhale, the air catching halfway down his throat, sharp and stinging. The buzzing in his head grows louder and louder, an unbearable frequency that drowns out every other sound. It's like a swarm of bees trapped inside his skull.
His skin—God, his skin—feels wrong. Like it's crawling. Like it's not really his. Like it’s turning against him. Every inch of him prickles with discomfort, with the sensation of tiny, invisible things skittering just beneath the surface. The urge to claw it off builds fast and brutal. He wants to rip it away. Tear and tear and tear until there’s nothing left but bone. Maybe then the buzzing will stop. Maybe then the world will feel still again.
His fingernails dig into the skin of his forearm, deep enough to leave crescent-shaped marks. But it isn’t enough. It never is. The crawling continues. He feels sick—like his insides are twisting, like his stomach is folding in on itself.
Panic tightens its grip around him. It coils like a snake around his ribs, squeezing until he’s dizzy, until he’s gasping for air that won’t come. Thoughts scatter. He can’t hold onto anything. Everything crashes against him all at once—sounds, feelings, memories. It’s overwhelming. It’s unbearable. He stumbles toward the bathroom, legs shaky beneath him. He doesn't let himself think. If he thinks, it'll unravel him further.
He barely registers the hiss of the shower already running. His fingers fumble at the buttons of his uniform, yanking, tugging, stripping everything away as quickly as he can. The itchy sensation spikes as the fabric brushes against his skin. It's suffocating. Smothering.
Then he’s in the shower, under the harsh stream of water, and he begins to scrub.
He scrubs like he’s trying to peel the day away. Like he can wash away the shame, the panic, the guilt—every single horrible part of himself. His hands move frantically, rough and relentless, dragging over his skin until it turns red and raw. Still, it's not enough. The sensation won't fade. So he turns the hot water up. Hotter. Hotter.
Scalding.
It burns where it touches his back, where it trails down his spine—but the burn is real. It's something tangible. Something that hurts in a way he can understand. In a way he can control.
He exhales, just once. A long, shuddering breath.
The crawling eases. Not all at once—but enough.
He stays beneath the punishing spray for a long time, arms braced against the tiled wall, eyes squeezed shut. When he finally shuts the water off, the silence rings in his ears.
As he dries off, the towel snags on fresh abrasions—newly raw skin on his arms, his thighs, his stomach. It stings, but not in a way that panics him. He glances in the mirror and catches sight of his back—angry red streaks from the water, a map of every place the heat seared him. It’s brutal. It’s honest.
He exhales again.
And for the first time all day, relief trickles through him. It’s faint, but it’s there.
Sirius feels better, after that. Emptied. Numb, maybe. But better.
He knows he’s hurt Regulus. Knows he’s made mistakes. That he’s caused pain. So whatever yelling came, whatever punishment—he deserved it. If his parents were still around, they would’ve made sure of that. They would’ve given him what he deserved.
Sometimes… sometimes, he wishes he were still with them. Not because of the beatings. Not because of the shouting or the coldness or the fear.
But because it was easier. Easier to expect cruelty than kindness. Easier to live in a world where punishment was familiar, where breathing didn’t feel so hard.
But not here.
Not here, where nothing makes sense. Where kindness feels foreign. Where everything feels too loud, too bright, too heavy.
Sirius can’t breathe here.
***
“Boys,” Fleamont says, the word slicing through the thick, suffocating quiet. Sirius’s stomach twists. “Can you two head upstairs for a moment? We need to talk to Sirius.”
James nods immediately, eager to comply. “Yeah, course,” he says, his voice too loud, too bright in the tense room. He’s already on his feet, tugging Regulus up with him by the hand. “Come on, Reg. I wanted to show you something…”
The words trail off as they leave, fading up the staircase. But Sirius’s eyes are locked on Regulus’s. His brother keeps glancing back, his gaze snagging on Sirius like he doesn’t want to let go. There’s worry there, sharp and clear, tangled with something softer—sympathy. Sirius can’t breathe around it. He watches until they’re gone, until the last flicker of Regulus’s expression disappears upstairs.
And then it’s just him.
Euphemia and Fleamont sit on the couch across from him, their eyes already on him. Sirius feels it—feels the weight of their stares pressing down on his chest. His lungs seize. His whole body is wound tight, bracing for the blow. He glances between them, heart hammering. He knows what’s coming. Of course he does.
They’re going to tell him it’s not working out. That it’s been a nice trial run, but Sirius Black doesn’t belong in a family like this. That he doesn’t fit in the pretty little life they’ve built for themselves.
Well. He gave it a shot, didn’t he?
“Why don’t you come closer?” Euphemia’s voice is gentle, the way she pats the cushion next to her like it’s a peace offering. Sirius’s eyes flick to the spot, then to her. He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t trust that spot. Sitting next to her would mean giving up the safety of distance. It would mean turning his back to them. No. He needs to see them—both of them. Needs to keep them in his line of sight, in case—
Sirius edges around the coffee table instead, sinking cross-legged onto the floor where he can still see their faces. His neck prickles as their eyes follow him, and his fingers twitch against the worn fabric of the carpet. His gaze flicks to the angry red scratch marks on his throat. He wonders if Regulus will get punished for that. Somehow, he doubts it. With the Potters, it’s always an “accident,” isn’t it?
Fleamont clears his throat, pulling Sirius’s attention up to his face. His expression is careful. Controlled. Sirius recognises the tension in his jaw, the discomfort in the way his hands clasp too tightly in his lap. It doesn’t make Sirius feel any better.
“So,” Fleamont says, voice edged with a false steadiness that fools no one, “we wanted to talk to you about some things.”
Sirius nods stiffly. He has no idea what to expect, but his gut is screaming. He shifts where he sits, uncomfortable in his own skin. His eyes dart to Euphemia. She looks embarrassed, guilty, her lips pressed together in a tight line. That doesn’t help the ache in his chest.
Does this have to do with his record? Is this the moment it comes back to haunt him? God, he hopes not.
Euphemia sighs softly. “I am truly sorry, Sirius,” she begins. Her voice is full of something Sirius doesn’t recognise—sympathy, maybe. Regret. “It was wrong of me to take my anxieties out on you about your potential danger. I let what little information I had cloud my judgment. I let it get to my head, realistically, and I’m sorry.”
She smiles at him, small and apologetic. Sirius stares at her, baffled. What is he supposed to do with that? She’s already apologised once. Why is she doing it again?
Parents don’t apologise. That’s not how it works. His own never did. Not once. Foster carers didn’t either, not really. So why is she?
It doesn’t make sense.
Euphemia draws in a breath, and Sirius watches her chest rise and fall. It’s like he can see her trying to force herself calm. “What I did was wrong, and I’m sorry,” she says again, relentless. “I know I wasn’t the warmest to you when you first arrived, and that wasn’t fair. I barely gave you a chance to prove yourself. I only proved to you that I was an untrustworthy caretaker. And I know… no amount of apologies can fix that.”
She glances sideways at Fleamont, like she needs to gather herself. His subtle nod is all it takes to have her eyes back on Sirius, full of regret that makes Sirius’s stomach churn. He doesn’t like seeing her like that. He doesn’t like feeling like he’s the reason for that look.
“If—” she hesitates, like the words are made of glass and might break on her tongue. Another glance at Fleamont, before she steels herself. “If you don’t feel comfortable here anymore, I—we would totally understand. We would understand and respect your decision if you choose to move on from our home.”
The words slam into Sirius like a freight train. Disbelief crashes through him, sharp and breathless. But the anxiety—the constant hum in his bloodstream—doesn’t ease. If anything, it spikes.
He swallows. Hard.
Fleamont’s voice is softer now, but it still makes Sirius flinch. “That being said, it is your decision, Sirius.” His tone is steady, careful, but Sirius feels a shiver crawl up his spine. “We’re here for whatever you decide. Even if that decision is to leave, neither Effie nor myself would hold it against you.”
His mouth opens before he knows what to say, but nothing comes out. The words get trapped somewhere in his throat. He closes it again, his jaw clicking shut. His eyes flick back to Euphemia, to the tightness in her smile, to the pain that sits heavy in her expression. She looks like she’s waiting for him to make the final call.
And that… that makes Sirius feel awful. He didn’t mean to make her upset. He never meant to—
Did he want to leave?
He wants to say yes. It’s the right answer, isn’t it? He doesn’t belong here. He never did. But the truth is, he doesn’t want to go. He selfishly wants to stay. Wants to wake up every morning and see Regulus. Wants to have breakfast in this house that still feels borrowed but safe.
More than that, Sirius knows if he leaves, Regulus might be forced to come with him. And Sirius doesn’t think he could survive that. He doesn’t think he could survive Regulus hating him for tearing him away from this life.
“I would like to stay,” Sirius whispers. His voice barely makes it past his lips, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. “If that’s okay.”
Fleamont’s reaction is instant. His smile blooms, warm and wide, like Sirius just handed him the world. That’s wrong. It feels wrong. This—this isn’t a gift. Sirius is the problem here.
He turns his eyes to Euphemia. She’s smiling too. It’s soft, genuine, and Sirius’s chest aches with it.
“We just want you to be comfortable, Sirius,” she says, her voice thick. “If you ever stop feeling comfortable in our home, we hope you’ll tell us. Your comfort is our number one priority.”
Her words tremble at the edges, like she’s not sure if she’s saying them right. Sirius watches the way her mouth moves, the way she chews on the inside of her cheek, like she’s searching for the right words.
“You are under no obligation to share what really happened—” she pauses, letting the weight of those words hang in the air, heavy and deliberate.
Sirius feels his stomach knot. Of course this was going to come up eventually. He always knew. He just didn’t expect it to be now.
She clears her throat, her eyes soft but unwavering. “We would never force you to share what really happened, we want you to understand that.”
Fleamont’s voice follows, adding to her promise. “Your file—just like your brother’s—remains unread. We’ve found that what’s been said in those is sometimes different to what foster kids experienced. We would rather know your experience—if you’d let us—than the biased point of view from the authorities.”
Sirius’s throat tightens, but he manages a nod. He doesn't know how to explain that their words hit him like a foreign language—this willingness to wait, to listen, to believe him . It doesn’t make sense. But it’s there, laid out in front of him, as clear and terrifying as the choice to stay.
He grips his knees, fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans, and forces himself to stay grounded. Forces himself to believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, they mean it.
Sirius nods, the weight of it all pressing down on his chest. The question rattles around his skull— Should he really tell them? Tell them what really happened? Would they even believe him, or would their trust default to the neat, tidy version the police had handed over?
He doesn’t know. He really doesn’t know. His gaze flicks between Fleamont and Euphemia, searching for cracks in their faces—waiting for the moment they’ll shift into the disappointed, disbelieving adults he’s seen a hundred times before. But it doesn’t come. They’re just… sitting there. Watching him. Listening. Like what he has to say actually matters.
It never does.
Sirius drags in a breath, shaky and thin, and forces the words up through his throat. If they kick him out… well. That’ll just prove what he already knows.
Shrinking in on himself, he stares at the coffee table, avoiding their eyes. His fingers twist in the hem of his school jumper, the fabric catching under his nails as he starts. “Well, just before I came here—and before Juvie—I was living with a foster parent named Mike.”
He risks a glance up. Neither of them flinch. They don’t look shocked. They don’t interrupt. They just wait, giving him the space he’s never been afforded before. It unsettles him more than if they’d cut him off. Like they’re giving him permission to speak. Like what he says might actually be heard.
That’s new.
The words tumble out, faster now, as his fingers pick at the threads of his jumper. “Living with Mike were these twin girls,” he says, his voice a little distant. The images are already creeping back in. “When I first met him, I got this vibe. It’s hard to explain, but it’s the kind of vibe that tells you, you should trust your gut, y’know?”
His throat tightens, the sting of tears building, but he blinks them back. He keeps his eyes trained on the coffee table, like if he doesn’t look up, this won’t be real. “Anyways,” he breathes, “I knew something was off. Mike was cagey around me from the second I got there. And the girls… they didn’t feel safe. You could tell.”
The silence around him is thick, but not oppressive. Still, he can’t breathe right.
“I tried my best to keep the girls away from him,” Sirius continues, his voice dipping lower. His nails dig into the fabric. “I even slept in their room because I knew. I knew what he was. I knew how the system works. No one would’ve believed me.”
His chest twists. He shrugs, pretending it doesn’t dig deep, but it does. Of course no one believed him . A delinquent foster kid with a record? His word meant less than nothing. His jaw tenses. It still hurts. Hurts that those girls had to live through it. Hurts that his own record meant their safety didn’t matter.
“I had just been released from Juvie,” Sirius snorts, the sound bitter. “Yeah, umm, my foster mother at the time was the type to call the police on teens who broke the rules—pretty sure every kid in her care got arrested.”
He lets out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “I was arrested for ‘stealing,’” he mutters. “All I did was grab a piece of fruit for a younger kid—because he was still hungry—outside of the designated eating time.”
A small, mortified sound comes from in front of him. He doesn’t look up. Can’t look up. He shrugs, trying to smother the spike of shame. “Anyways, I was a foster kid, recently released from Juvie, so the chances of the police listening to me were slim to none.”
His lungs feel tight. Like breathing is too much work.
“One night,” Sirius swallows hard, fighting the lump clawing up his throat. His hands tremble, but he doesn’t stop. “One night the girls told me everything.”
The words shake as they leave him. His fingers curl into fists, nails biting into his palms. “So I did the only thing I thought was logical at the time.”
He sucks in a breath and forces the truth out before he can regret it. “I grabbed his bat.” The confession is sharp, cutting through the air. His body starts to shake. “I hit him in the back of the head. Broke both his knees. If I didn’t stop to think… I think I would’ve genuinely killed him.”
A gasp cuts the air, but Sirius is past the point of caring. He’s barely holding himself together. “I decided it would be best for everyone if he didn’t have his weapon.” He’s vague, but he knows they’ll understand. He hopes they’ll understand. “I grabbed a knife and hacked at him. Called the police. I confessed.” He shrugs, mechanical now. “At the time I was charged with attempted murder. If it weren’t for Sarah, I’d probably still be in Juvie, living out my attempted murder charge instead of an aggravated assault conviction, or whatever.”
Silence slams into him like a wave.
Tears stream down his face, but he hates it. Hates how exposed it makes him feel. Crying in front of people has always been dangerous. It’s a weakness. And Sirius can’t afford weaknesses.
“I am so sorry that happened to you,” Euphemia says softly, shattering the quiet.
Sirius flinches. His whole body tenses. Why is she sorry? It’s not her fault. His bottom lip wobbles at the words, though. For some reason, that apology cuts deeper than anything else. The way she says it—like she means it—makes him want to crawl out of his skin.
He hates it. Hates how much it gets to him.
Nobody says anything else.
He pulls his knees to his chest, curling in on himself, trying to disappear. His face drops against his folded arms. He hears movement—the couch creaking, footsteps crossing the rug—but he doesn’t look up.
A warm hand rests gently against his back. It’s a solid, grounding touch that makes his heart ache. If he had any strength left, he’d push it away. He shouldn’t let it get to him. He doesn’t deserve that kindness. He doesn’t deserve to want it.
Another hand—smaller, softer—threads through his hair. The tenderness of it shatters his last bit of restraint. The dam breaks.
He sobs.
The sound rips out of him, raw and broken. He cries for the girls. He cries for the injustice. He cries for how unfair it all is. His body shakes with every breath, every sob that rattles his chest.
But the hands don’t leave. They stay.
And Sirius lets himself feel it. The warmth. The weight of someone else’s care. It’s so foreign, so unfamiliar, that he doesn’t know how to hold it. Doesn’t know how to let it in without crumbling under it.
The tears don’t stop. Sob after sob, his body caves, and still those hands stay steady.
Something warm and protective wraps itself around him, and Sirius isn’t sure if it’s a person or a feeling. Either way, it doesn’t belong. It shouldn’t be his. Just like he shouldn’t be here.
He doesn’t belong here. He’s a mistake trying to blend into a picture-perfect family portrait.
Maybe he’s making a mistake by choosing to stay. Maybe he’s setting himself up for heartbreak.
But at least he still has the choice to leave.
That’s more than he’s ever had.
Notes:
Word Count: 15,166
Published: 2025-08-08ALPHARD BLACK?
I know him, that can't be. That's that Uncle who always spoke to me. All those years ago, what was it, 2015? That poor man, they're going to eat him alive.
(If you couldn't tell, this fic is set in 2020. Which is really showing my age lol. Also, sorry it's a bit late, I really struggled writing this chapter, and I personally hate it, but I can't be bothered anymore with it lol, hope you liked it)
Chapter 37: When is the Right Time to Apologize?
Summary:
Regulus has made many mistakes which he feels terribly guilty for. Everybody apologises—but he’s too angry to even accept their forgiveness, yet. His friends—or… whatever they are to him now—give him space to figure things out.
But Regulus has one question, as he stares at his brother. When is the right time to apologise?
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Everything is too much.
The moment he steps into Laura’s office, the air feels thick and heavy, pressing against his skin. He clutches his stuffed black dog and blanket to his chest so tightly that his arms ache, but he can’t loosen his grip. His other hand is wrapped around Euphemia’s, holding on like he’ll float away if he lets go. The faint scent of her perfume—soft and familiar—lingers around him as they move into the waiting room.
Regulus sniffles and rubs the back of his hand across his nose, the motion quick and rough. His gaze stays glued to the floor. The muted carpet pattern blurs in his vision, but looking anywhere else feels impossible.
When Euphemia had come into his room earlier, her voice gentle as she told him he had a session with Laura, Regulus had already known today wouldn’t be a good day. The heaviness had been sitting in his chest since he woke. And now, to make it worse, they were running late.
The things he gets when he has a meltdown.
“Regulus.” Laura’s voice cuts through the room—soft and cheery, the kind of tone people use when they’re trying to coax a nervous animal from hiding. But to Regulus, it’s too much. It seems to echo in his head, every syllable amplified until it rattles uncomfortably against his thoughts. “Why don’t you come back.”
His chest tightens instantly. Panic flares hot and sudden, and he moves closer to Euphemia, plastering himself to her side like glue. A broken, pitiful whine escapes before he can stop it, and tears prick at the corners of his eyes. His fingers bunch in her sleeve.
He really doesn’t want to be without Effie.
Then her hand—warm, soft—cups his jaw, guiding his face up slightly. Her thumb strokes gently along his cheek. The motion is slow, steady, and grounding. “Would you like me to come in, sweetie?” Her voice is barely more than a whisper, like she’s afraid to startle him.
Regulus can only nod. Words are too heavy to form. He leans into her touch, drawing as much safety from it as he can.
“Alright, then,” Euphemia murmurs, and her hand shifts to guide him toward the hallway.
He doesn’t detach from her, not even when they reach Laura’s office. He climbs into her lap without hesitation, curling himself small against her chest. One fist grips her shirt, the other clutching the stuffed dog like it’s part of him.
“So,” Laura begins, her voice still soft but quieter now, as if matching the small, tense space Regulus is in. “Let’s start off with the obvious: what happened?”
The question makes his stomach twist. He shuts his eyes and presses his face into the crook of Euphemia’s neck, the skin there warm against his cheek. The memory of his meltdown swells up—heat, shouting, that horrible mix of anger and shame—and his throat closes around it. Tears slide free before he can stop them.
A sob breaks loose, small and raw. Euphemia’s hand moves to his back, rubbing in slow circles, and her other hand threads into his hair, combing through his curls as if she’s done it all her life.
“Shh.” Her lips are close to his ear, her voice low and steady. There’s no disappointment there, no edge of frustration. Just calm. “It’s okay, love. I’ve got you.”
The words unravel something in him, and he cries harder.
He doesn’t know how long he stays there, folded into her, sobbing until his chest hurts. The room is quiet except for breathing—hers steady, his uneven.
When the storm of tears finally fades, Regulus lifts his head just enough to wipe his cheeks on the sleeve of his shirt. The fabric comes away damp. His eyes feel swollen and sore.
The silence that follows is almost too loud. He shifts so he’s sitting beside Euphemia now, leaning into her side, his head resting on her shoulder. She presses a kiss to his forehead, lingering there for a moment before speaking.
“Do you think you can tell Laura what happened? Or, would you like me to?”
He lets out a long, tired sigh. Talking feels dangerous, like it could tip him back into tears. But maybe he should try. Or maybe it’s safer to let Effie do it.
Biting his lip, he swallows and forces his dry throat to work. “I was mad.”
The words scrape out, the only ones he can manage without breaking again.
“You were mad?” Laura repeats gently, sounding like she’s holding the thought in her hands. “What happened to make you mad?”
Regulus’s chest rises and falls in a shaky breath. His eyes squeeze shut, but that doesn’t block out the swell of feelings pressing in on him from every side. Even one emotion would be too much right now—he’s drowning in a sea of them.
He hugs his stuffed black dog tighter, the familiar fabric pressed against his face. He forces his breathing into the rhythm Laura taught him: in, out, in, out. Slowly, the feelings pull back, retreating like waves after a tide.
“Lots of things,” he says, voice hoarse from all the screaming earlier. “Like— I— I don’t know.” His voice cracks, frustration and desperation tangled together. He can’t find the words.
“That’s okay, love,” Euphemia murmurs, her tone wrapping around him like a blanket. “Maybe I could help?”
It’s an offer, not a demand. And it’s one he’ll take. He tried—he really did. That has to count for something.
He nods against her shoulder. Her thumb strokes lightly over it, steady and reassuring.
“As Regulus said, there were a lot of things that happened,” Euphemia tells Laura. “Like being upset at myself, at James, at his friends—even at his own brother.”
Laura hums. “Did he reach his breaking point this afternoon?”
“Yes, he did. Massive meltdown.” Euphemia presses another kiss to his forehead. “He mostly took all his anger out on Sirius, though.”
The name hits like a cold drop of water. Regulus shudders. He remembers the fights, the shouting, the awful things he said. The memories close in, waves crashing hard, stealing his air.
“I said some really mean things,” he blurts before he can stop himself. Euphemia stills just a fraction, but he notices. His bottom lip trembles. “I told him I hated him.”
The room seems to hold its breath. Regulus buries himself back into Euphemia’s neck, curling in small, trying to disappear.
“I told him I hated him because—” the words stumble out between hiccups “—my friends hate him. James corrupted them. I blamed everything on him. I still don’t know what Sirius did wrong.”
“Okay,” Laura says softly, and the quiet stretches. Then: “You said James corrupted them? You mean your friends?”
He nods.
“And… you said you still don’t know what Sirius did? What have other people said he did?”
Regulus sniffles, the words bitter and ugly. “Juvie.” His voice wavers. “They said he was in juvie. But… Sirius told me he wasn’t.”
“Oh,” Euphemia murmurs beside him, softer than soft. Something in her tone makes him tense.
But before he can ask her what she means, Laura speaks again. “Does the idea of your brother being in juvie upset you?”
Something hot flashes through him, sharp and fast. “No,” he spits, the word almost startling him. “The idea of him lying to me upsets me.”
He freezes. Is that true? The thought settles like a small, cold wave against his chest. The idea that Sirius could be lying—it stings deeper than anything else.
“So, the fact that Sirius could have lied to you makes you angry?” Laura asks, calm as ever.
He nods, blinking rapidly as tears start to gather again. “I was so angry,” his voice cracks, shaking. “I told him so many mean things— I told him—”
The rest is swallowed by sobs. His chest aches with it.
Euphemia’s touch never falters. It makes no sense to him—he was bad, said bad things, did bad things. Why should she still be here, holding him like this?
“Forgiveness,” Laura says after a long moment, “is a powerful thing.”
Regulus looks at her for the first time since they sat down.
“Forgiving oneself is not only important, but therapeutic. It’s vital in learning how to forgive others. You can’t forgive others without forgiving yourself first.”
The words sink slowly into him.
“Apologising, on the other hand,” Laura continues, her voice a little firmer, “is the key to forgiveness. You usually apologise to others you’ve wronged. But there’s one thing people forget to do.”
“What’s that?” His voice is small, unsteady.
“Apologising to yourself,” she says, and gives him a gentle smile.
He frowns a little, unsure.
“Apologising to yourself is how you heal, Regulus. How you forgive yourself. It doesn’t have to happen straight away—you can take your time. And apologising and forgiving yourself don’t have to happen one after the other. It can take days, weeks, months.”
She pauses, letting the words settle over him like a blanket.
“The point is, once you’ve apologised and forgiven yourself, that’s when you can truly apologise to others, and forgive them too.”
Regulus nods slowly.
Healing doesn’t have to happen today. Apologising and forgiving—both others and himself—don’t have to happen now. But they can happen.
***
The rest of the weekend drifts by quietly, as though the air itself knows not to stir too much around him.
Regulus couldn’t have asked for a better weekend, after everything that happened, if he’s being entirely honest. The calm is almost suspicious, but welcome.
And yet, one thought keeps picking at him like a loose thread he can’t ignore. His brother.
“Sirius?”
His own voice sounds too timid for his liking, small and uncertain, as he rests his knuckles lightly against the doorframe. The wood is cool under his skin. Sirius turns at once, grey eyes finding him without hesitation. A small smile curves his lips, that casual, easy sort of smile Sirius wears like armor.
“What’s up?”
Regulus’s teeth catch his lower lip. His gaze flickers anywhere but his brother—at the bedspread, the books stacked on the nightstand, the scuffed floorboard near the desk.
“I was wondering…” He steps over the threshold, feeling like each pace brings him somewhere he isn’t sure he wants to be. “I was wondering if you could… tell me.”
Sirius tilts his head, a crease forming between his brows. “Tell you what, ma petite étoile?”
Regulus exhales sharply and crosses the remaining space between them, the floorboards faintly creaking beneath his steps. Sitting down in front of him on the bed, he searches Sirius’s grey eyes as if the answer might already be there. “About… Juvie?”
The word leaves his mouth more like a question than a statement, but it still lands. He sees it—the sudden, horrified look that sweeps over Sirius’s face before his expression smooths again. Even though it lasts only a moment, Regulus knows he’ll never be able to erase it from his mind.
Sirius nods once, sharply. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”
Regulus holds his breath, waiting for the words that follow. When they come, he’s not ready for them.
It’s like his mind freezes, locking in place for a fraction of a second. Sirius’s voice fills the room with truths Regulus didn’t know if he wanted to hear.
The twins. The foster father.
The images those words paint make Regulus’s stomach churn.
Disgust claws its way up through his chest.
The story leaves him adrift, untethered. He has questions—so many questions—but Sirius’s pale, drawn face warns him some answers might never come.
He can’t remember how he excused himself, or when he slipped out of the room. He just knows he can’t look at Sirius right now without feeling something too heavy to carry.
His emotions are spilling over the edges of himself. Too big. Too sharp.
Disgust. Horror. A flicker of fear—not of Sirius exactly, but of what he’s done, of what he’s lived through. The memory replays again and again, looping like a film he can’t shut off.
And there’s the question that needles him most:
How could Sirius have possibly known about Mike before the twins even told him?
The thought keeps him awake one night, staring at the shadows on his ceiling. His mind spins too fast to quiet, a sick, knowing feeling coiled tight in his gut.
It’s too much. He’s too much.
Regulus slips out of bed, bare feet brushing against the cold floor, and makes his way down the hall toward Euphemia and Fleamont’s room.
Once, he would have gone to Sirius with feelings like this—feelings so big they threatened to spill out of his chest. But how do you go to your brother when those feelings are about him?
The door creaks softly as he pushes it open, just enough to peer inside. Euphemia lies curled on her side, her dark hair spilling over the pillow, Fleamont behind her with his chest pressed to her back.
Regulus hesitates in the doorway. He knows he doesn’t have to—they’ve told him so—but hesitation is an instinct carved deep into him, impossible to shake.
He eases the door shut behind him and crosses the room, steps light and careful. Pulling back the blanket, he slips into the bed, shuffling closer to Euphemia until there’s no space left between them.
The sudden movement stirs her, and Regulus freezes for a heartbeat before relaxing at the feeling of her arms drawing him in.
“Love?”
Her voice is soft, still thick with sleep. She threads her fingers through his hair, and he melts against her without thinking, sinking into the warmth of her hold. Safe—he feels safe in a way he never did in his own mother’s arms.
He hums in response, mindful of the man sleeping behind her.
“You okay?” she asks, more awake now. Concern threads through her tone, and she shifts slightly to see him better. “You feeling sick?”
He doesn’t know why, but his chest aches at the way she speaks to him. She always speaks like he matters more than anything else in her world.
Something in him breaks.
All the walls he’s kept around his heart collapse, rubble scattering, leaving his heartbeat loud and strange in his chest—a rhythm he’s never known before but never wants to lose.
“Regulus?”
Her voice draws him back. Her gaze is warm, swimming with love—love he’s seen in Sirius’s eyes too, though this feels… different.
Regulus shakes his head. “No, I don’t feel sick.” He hesitates, choosing his next words with care. Her fingers keep moving through his hair, a strange kind of reassurance that makes it easier to speak. “But I don’t feel well,” he admits, cheeks heating with embarrassment.
Her hand pauses before cupping his jaw, tilting his head so he has to meet her eyes. “How so?”
He taps his temple. “Thoughts are a bit loud,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m feeling big emotions.”
Euphemia hums knowingly. Her lips curve into a small, kind smile. She draws him closer and presses a kiss to his forehead.
Regulus closes his eyes, drinking in the gesture like it might vanish if he doesn’t. The same way he used to cling to his mother’s rare kisses. But here, with Effie, it’s not rare.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” she asks gently, though there’s a firmness under her tone—like she already knows he does.
He nods. Her fingers return to his hair, and he leans into her touch.
“Sirius told me about… it. ”
He hopes the weight on the word is enough for her to understand.
Euphemia nods. “Okay, love,” she says softly, “are you feeling… What are you feeling about it?”
Regulus bites his lip, shrugging. Shame burns through him, heavy in his veins. “Umm… Well…” He stumbles over the words, feeling like he doesn’t have the right to feel them at all.
“You’re allowed to feel things, Regulus,” Euphemia says. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed.”
Her words help loosen the knot in his chest.
“I feel weird around him, now…” The shame surges again, hot and unwelcome. “Every time I look at him, all I can see is that… and… I can’t help but think…” He trails off.
“You can’t help but think what, dear?”
He looks away, but she hums softly, like she already knows. She usually does.
“Do you think he might hurt Monty?” she asks, careful with the words, like they might splinter.
Regulus goes still. He has thought about that. He doesn’t want to be taken away because of something Sirius might do.
“Or, is it something else? Is all you can think about is, how did he know?”
He exhales. “Both, I guess,” he says after a beat.
“It’s alright, y’know? To think about those things. To feel fear, confusion—all of it.” Her eyes hold his, steady and warm. “You may be afraid—and that’s okay—but… I think… you know your brother best. If he’s never done something like this before, I think you can trust he won’t do something like that again.”
Her words settle over him like a blanket.
She’s right. All he can do is trust. All he can do is hope. And yes—she’s right about being allowed to feel afraid.
Not of Sirius, but of what Sirius has done.
His eyes grow heavy, the exhaustion pulling him under.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, too tired to lift his head, curling closer to her instead.
“It’s alright, love.” She presses another kiss to his forehead.
And just like that, the weight in his chest lightens, sleep carrying him away.
***
An odd, unsettled feeling slides into his chest the moment Regulus steps into form class on Monday morning. It’s faint at first, like a chill breeze curling at the back of his neck—but it builds quickly, winding itself into his ribs until he has to shift in his seat just to relieve the pressure.
It feels like there are a million eyes on him. He can’t see them all, but he can feel them—tracking each movement, every breath, as if they’re waiting for him to crack.
This always happens when he’s had one of his episodes at school. That prickling awareness, that suffocating certainty that everyone is staring, whispering, judging. Usually, when it gets this bad, he’d go straight to Sirius. Sirius always knew how to make it disappear—how to throw a joke in the right place, pull him into a conversation, distract him until the weight in his chest eased.
But not now. Not since Sirius told him the truth. Regulus hasn’t been near him if he can help it. He hasn’t been able to meet his brother’s eyes without feeling all those images, all those questions, pressing in. It’s not even that he wants to be cruel. He just… can’t.
His gaze flits around the room, not settling anywhere for long—faces, desks, backpacks, the same posters he’s seen all year. Then it catches on a familiar splash of platinum blonde in their usual seat.
Pandora.
His friend.
Or… something like that. He’s not sure anymore. After everything, after the truth about Sirius and the awkward silence that’s followed, Regulus doesn’t know where he stands with her or with the rest of them. He doesn’t know if he’s already lost the first real friends he’s ever had.
A sick, tight twist coils low in his chest at the thought.
Keeping his head down, he walks to her table and lowers himself into the empty seat beside her. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t trust his voice to sound normal.
“Hello, Regulus,” Pandora says, her usual sing-song voice muted into something steadier, more serious.
He nods, just enough to acknowledge her.
Silence stretches between them while the rest of form class trickles in, the scrape of chairs and chatter clashing with the anxious hum inside his head.
His hands find the little stuffed black dog resting in his lap. His fingers work over the soft fabric, rubbing the same patch over and over as though it could soak up his nerves. Usually, sitting next to Pandora helps, but today it barely dents the feeling. His heart is already racing, each sound in the room sharp enough to make his chest feel tighter.
Then—warmth. A small, soft hand rests over his.
Regulus freezes, startled.
He glances sideways. Pandora’s watching him, lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. The kind that says I can tell . The kind that makes him ache with something heavy and tender. She knows it’s getting bad.
And that knowledge breaks something inside him a little further. He really, really doesn’t want to lose them.
“Alright, class,” Mr. Hale’s voice cuts through the noise, snapping Regulus out of the spiral. He lifts his eyes just enough to see his teacher at the front of the room—a pale yellow button-up and that casual, open stance. The shirt makes him think of Monty’s, the one he wears on warm afternoons in the garden.
“I’m about to pass out the permission slips for the athletics carnival coming up,” Mr. Hale says.
Regulus freezes. Athletics carnival?
His head turns toward Pandora automatically, confusion sharp in his wide eyes.
“Yeah, the athletics carnival,” she confirms with a nod. “There are other ones, too. Like the swimming carnival—you missed that in June—don’t worry, we’ll have another one—and cross-country.”
The mention of the swimming carnival drains the blood from his face.
“I don’t know how to swim,” he says, voice almost swallowed by the ambient chatter.
Pandora tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t?” Her tone holds genuine disbelief, as though not swimming is something she never considered possible.
Regulus shakes his head. “No.”
“Huh,” she says simply.
Whatever she might have added disappears when Mr. Hale appears beside them, holding two slips.
“Here you two are,” he says warmly, handing them over. “I hope to see you there, Regulus.”
Regulus accepts the paper without answering, watching his teacher walk away. The slip feels heavier than it should in his hand.
“Most students don’t really show up to these things,” Pandora says, almost conspiratorial. “So… you were saying you can’t swim?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Monty and Effie took me to the pool once during the break—” He checks to see if she’s still listening. She is. “I’d never been before. It was scary.”
“I bet,” she says, sympathy warm in her voice.
He smiles faintly at that. She could ask more—he can see the questions waiting—but she doesn’t. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful or frustrated that she reads him so well.
Still, he’s glad he has her. Glad he has all of them. Even if things feel fragile. Even if they could break. At least, for now, they’re still here.
He hopes.
Art class. Regulus has been staring at the blank page in his sketchbook for ten minutes. Mrs. Reed told them to draw something important, something that stirs deep emotions. His mind, however, is too crowded to make space for inspiration.
He glances at Pandora. She’s already doodling, her pen dancing across the paper.
“Panda?” he says quietly.
Her pencil stills. She turns toward him, smile soft and open. “Yes?”
Regulus looks at her for a second before shifting his gaze back to the page. How does he even ask?
“What happened?” he says at last. “With Sirius, I mean.”
She tenses. A faint blush creeps across her cheeks, the kind that looks equal parts embarrassment and shame.
“Well…” she begins slowly, meeting his eyes for a heartbeat before looking down. “We saw an ankle monitor on him the first time we met him, at your birthday party.”
Regulus nods, urging her on without words.
Pandora sighs. “We got this weird—no, more like a bad—vibe from him. So, we talked to James.”
His shoulders stiffen at James’s name, but he says nothing.
“Anyway,” Pandora continues, “we found out he had a record. We decided then and there we wouldn’t let him near you.” She shrugs, but the movement is weighed down by guilt.
Regulus stares at her, stunned. They wanted to protect him. Protect him… from his own brother.
He nods, but words fail him. It’s too much to sort through, too much to feel all at once.
Lowering his gaze, he picks up his pencil and begins to draw. It’s something he’s been wanting to draw for a while, something he’s been meaning to get off his chest.
The sound of lead scratching across paper is a relief—it fills his ears, quieting the storm inside his head, if only for now.
***
He still can’t look at him.
After everything that’s happened, Regulus still cannot look his brother in the eye. His gaze always skitters away, drawn to the ground, the wall, the space just over Sirius’s shoulder—anywhere but those eyes. And the worst part? He still hasn’t apologised, either.
How can he? How can he apologise when he told the only family he has that he hates them?
He told his brother, his own brother, he hates him. The words echo in his head at the quietest times, cutting through everything else, like jagged glass rattling in a tin.
The guilt swirls inside him like a raging storm. It’s not a passing breeze—it’s a violent churn, black and suffocating, tossing him about without mercy. It’s eating him up, piece-by-piece, day by day, until there’s nothing left. He feels sick, as the guilt rises like bile in the back of his throat, a bitter, acrid burn that makes his stomach knot. His chest feels heavy, weighted with something that pulls at him from the inside.
Regulus has also been avoiding his friends. He hasn’t sat with them, or eaten lunch with them at all, since Monday. It’s now Wednesday. Each empty lunch feels longer than the one before, silence in place of their chatter echoing in his ears.
He’s thankful they understand the space he requires to figure things out. He’s grateful they’re aware he needs time to process, to forgive. They know to wait till he’s ready, to apologise properly.
But it doesn’t stop his anxieties from festering, growing, twisting their roots deeper into him until it’s hard to breathe.
Every step he takes, walking down the halls of the school, forces the vines wrapped around his heart to squeeze it. The vines tug and pull, squeezing to the point of suffocation, each breath shallow and sharp. The walls feel closer than they should, the chatter of other students louder than necessary, bouncing around his skull. He feels light-headed as he stumbles into someone.
“Regulus?”
The voice is familiar, warm even in just one word, as it calls out to him. Regulus still can’t hear anything over the high-pitched buzzing sound in his ears. It’s like the overhead lights are screaming at him to get away, to move. But he can’t. His feet feel nailed to the ground.
“Regulus?”
His name is called out again, louder, clearer. The buzzing sound recedes slightly, giving him enough space to draw in a shaky breath. The vines loosen just enough to let air back into his lungs.
“Regulus?”
He blinks at the person calling his name. It almost sounds like James. The same James that’s put him into this whole mess. That caused this whole entire situation.
His vision clears, and the hallway sharpens into focus again. There, standing in front of him, is James, concern clearly etched onto his face—the kind that pulls his eyebrows together and makes his voice softer without him realising.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his tone so gentle, it makes Regulus want to burst out into tears right there in the hallway. “Are you alright?”
Regulus shakes his head. No. No he is not alright.
James nods at his answer, his movements measured and careful, like Regulus is something fragile that might shatter if handled too quickly. He guides him from the hallway, into an empty classroom.
As constricted as he felt, the arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, don’t feel as suffocating as he thought they would. Instead, they anchor him. The warmth seeps in slowly, melting away some of the ice lodged in his ribs. For some reason, it helps diminish the anxiety bubbling up inside him.
Regulus lets out a shaky breath. He still doesn’t know how James manages to do it—how he manages to calm his entire nervous system just by existing near him. But Regulus doesn’t complain. He just lets it happen.
“There you go,” James says, his voice coming out soft, barely above a whisper. It’s as if he knows when to be loud and when to be calm, as though he’s studied Regulus’s rhythms and can match them perfectly.
His breathing evens out, considerably, as he relaxes into James’s hold. The silence that follows isn’t awkward—it’s weighty, but safe.
“You wanna tell me what happened?”
The question could be answered by James himself. It was clear Regulus had some sort of episode. His anxiety playing up like a bouncy ball that refuses to settle.
Regulus shrugs. He doesn’t know if he can trust him. He doesn’t know if it’s even possible to tell James anything, anymore. Not after what happened.
He shudders at the thought, squeezing his eyes shut, as if darkness might hide the memory.
James doesn’t speak, just continues to hold him, rocking them back and forth softly. Regulus is distantly aware it’s lunchtime—a time meant for noise, for joking with friends, for feeling normal.
Something that James is clearly missing out on, by sitting here, with him.
He might as well try. He might as well try to talk to James, to tell him about his feelings. He can only hope it doesn’t come back to bite him.
Regulus sighs. “Do you remember the fights I had with Sirius?” he asks, his voice comes out wobbly. James nods, the look in his eyes telling Regulus that he could never forget it. “I said some pretty mean things to him, James.”
Staring deep into James’s hazel eyes—the exact same shade Euphemia has—somehow manages to pull Regulus’s anxiety from his chest like thread from a spool.
“Like what?” James asks, tentatively, as if the words themselves might hurt.
“I told him I hated him, James,” Regulus begins, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “I told him he ruined my life—said I shouldn’t have begged him to be with me.”
Regulus sniffles, the tears now flowing freely down his face. The memories of what he screamed at Sirius come back in massive floods, each one hitting harder than the last.
“I told him I never wanted to see him again, James. I told my brother I never wanted to—” his breath hitches, as the sudden weight of his words crashes into him like a tidal wave.
A broken sob escapes his lips, the sound raw and unrestrained, as even more memories come flooding back. “I told him our parents never loved him. I told him I wished I never loved him. James,” he whines, in distress. James just tugs him closer, squeezing him tighter.
“I told Sirius I hated him,” Regulus begins to sob harder, the guilt now a living thing clawing at his insides. “I told him I didn’t love him.”
Sobs wrack his body, each one shaking him from the inside out. He knew it was bad. He knew what he did hurt his brother. But, now, remembering everything that he yelled at Sirius in anger makes Regulus want to puke.
The guilt clawing its way up his body makes him want to disappear, to curl into himself until there’s nothing left to feel.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” James whispers into his hairline. Regulus curls himself up into James, gripping onto the back of James’s jumper like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
He accepts the comfort James provides. The way James rubs soothing circles on his back. The way he rocks him back and forth. The way James whispers soft words of comfort into his ear.
Regulus lets himself accept it all, as his sobs continue to take over his body.
After a while, after his sobs die out, Regulus is calm enough to continue talking. Pulling back from James’s comforting embrace—but not fully to dislodge him—he asks the question he’s been fearing most.
“Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?”
His voice comes out completely wrecked, sadness laced within every word, as he stares deep into James’s hazel eyes.
“I think,” James says, after a moment. Regulus was starting to fear James would say no, his mind running with all the possibilities of his brother actually disappearing. “He will.”
Regulus furrows his eyebrows, both out of confusion and from relief. “You think?” he questions, his voice hesitant, clearly expressing just how unsure he truly is.
James nods, a small, soft smile on his face. “I do,” he hums, gently. “He’s your brother, after all. I don’t think he’d ever not forgive you.”
He relaxes immensely at James’s words. His fears slowly fade away, drifting like the wind into the night.
“You have a lot of work to do, to repair the damage you caused.”
The words aren’t meant to be mean, but rather, realistic. Regulus nods, whole-heartedly aware of the true amount he has to put into mending his relationship with his brother.
“It’ll take time. To heal, to mend what’s been broken. That doesn’t mean Sirius won’t forgive you.”
Regulus nods, letting the words sink in. They weigh heavy between them, as he begins to form ways in which he will earn his brother’s forgiveness.
“I too, have a lot of work to do.”
Regulus freezes at James’s confession. He doesn’t look ashamed, or guilty. He looks remorseful, determined.
“Why?” Regulus couldn’t help himself to ask. The shock on James’s face tells Regulus that James thought he already knew.
“I, too, said some pretty horrible things to him. Threatened him,” James sighs, as the guilt suffocates him too. “I thought he was a threat to you,” he admits, searching his gaze. “I felt guilty for not protecting you properly. So, I thought I was doing the right thing when I was acting poorly to Sirius.”
Regulus nods at James’s words, but James isn’t done. “That doesn’t excuse what I did. I shouldn’t’ve acted the way I did. But I did. What’s done is done. The only thing I—we,” he corrects. “Can do—is to learn from our mistakes, and try our best to make amends.”
Staring at James, Regulus knows he’s being sincere. Regulus knows James wants to try. He knows James wants to form a relationship with Sirius—not for himself, but for Regulus.
It’s almost like James views him as his younger brother.
The thought makes him shiver, but not in an unpleasant way. Regulus continues to let the silence drown out any and all sounds, simply taking in the moment.
Regulus thinks he can trust James. He believes he can forgive James. It wasn’t his fault, the things he did. But he’s not excusing his actions, either. He’s trying, and that’s all Regulus can ask for.
It’s then, does it occur to Regulus, that he still hasn’t apologised to James, either.
“I’m sorry,” he all but whispers, slicing through the tension with a knife. James looks at him, confusion written all over his face. Regulus sighs. “You apologised to me, but I still haven’t to you.”
James hums. “I forgive you.”
Those three words manage to take so much weight off his shoulders—Regulus never thought it could feel this good.
***
Regulus is simply minding his own business, moving with quiet precision as he sets the table alongside Sirius. The clink of cutlery against porcelain fills the otherwise gentle hum of the Potter household. James is in the kitchen with Euphemia, their voices mingling with the faint hiss of steam and the warm, savory scent of dinner—mashed potatoes whipped to creamy smoothness, crisp green beans bright with butter, and roast chicken that perfumes the air with rosemary and garlic. Plain, but delicious. Something, Regulus hopes Sirius would enjoy too.
He’s placing the forks down on the placemats, aligning each just so, when the sound of the front door opening cuts through his thoughts.
His head snaps up.
There, framed in the soft evening light spilling from the hallway, stands Fleamont.
Regulus abandons the fork in his hand without thinking. The cutlery clatters against the tabletop with a sharp ring that bounces around the quiet room, but he’s already moving—feet carrying him in quick, purposeful strides until he breaks into a run.
“Monty!” Regulus exclaims, the word bursting from him before he even realizes it, and he all but collides with Fleamont, arms winding tight around him.
Fleamont chuckles warmly, the sound low and reassuring, and his grin spreads wide enough to reach his eyes. Regulus clings to him like he might disappear if he let go, drinking in the familiar scent of old parchment, faint cologne, and something indefinably home-like.
He dimly hears the muted footsteps and muffled voices of two other people behind him, but they’re unimportant, unworthy of his attention. Monty’s home. That’s all that matters.
His chest swells with an unfamiliar sort of happiness—a happiness he never felt when his own mother or father returned from anywhere.
Fleamont gently releases him, his palm warm against Regulus’s head as he ruffles his hair with easy affection. “Hey kiddo,” he says with the biggest grin Regulus thinks he’s ever seen from anyone. “You miss me?”
He nods, the motion quick and almost desperate, words not coming fast enough. “Huh.”
Fleamont chuckles again, softer now, his expression shifting into something almost tender. “Me too,” he whispers, as if sharing something secret and precious.
The words make Regulus’s chest feel tight, but in a good way. He smiles faintly as Fleamont leans down and presses a brief kiss to his forehead.
After that welcome distraction, Regulus drifts back to the dining table, reclaiming his place beside Sirius. But when his gaze lands on the table, he notices it’s already been set. Sirius stands there, head tilted, eyes scanning over the placements with an intensity that makes Regulus’s stomach dip. He follows Sirius’s gaze and already knows where this is going.
Sirius mutters something under his breath, barely audible, before starting to undo and redo the arrangement. Forks are shifted, napkins smoothed, edges squared with mechanical precision. Regulus doesn’t interrupt—he’s learned not to.
Whatever is going on inside Sirius’s head will come out in its own time. Patience, he reminds himself. Patience.
So he watches, silent, as Sirius methodically realigns every imperfection. The movements are sharp, deliberate, a quiet battle fought with tableware.
Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus catches Euphemia and Fleamont standing just beyond the doorway, their gazes fixed on the scene. There’s curiosity there, yes, but something deeper—something that makes Regulus’s skin prickle, though he can’t name it.
He turns his attention back to Sirius, knowing full well that if he doesn’t stop him, the table will be reset over and over.
“Sirius?” he calls, voice careful.
Sirius’s head snaps up instantly, eyes locking onto his. Regulus feels the weight of the look, the unspoken tension sitting between them.
And then it clicks.
He knows exactly what Sirius is doing.
“Sirius?” he says again, making sure his tone is steady enough to reach him. “Mother isn’t here.”
Sirius’s brows draw together, confusion flashing, though the slight tremor in his hands betrays the panic still running through him. His gaze darts around the room, as if taking stock of where he actually is. His shoulders stiffen.
“Mother won’t get upset,” Regulus continues, gentler now. “She isn’t here to get upset.”
Sirius lets out a breath, nodding once, and steps back like the movement itself is an act of willpower. Regulus can see the urge still thrumming in his brother, the itch to reset everything again, but Sirius forces himself to stop.
“Right,” he breathes, a touch too quickly. “Of course.” The words sound like they’re meant to be obvious, but to Regulus, they carry the weight of someone coming back from somewhere dark.
They stand there for a beat in heavy silence before Regulus suggests softly, “Why don’t you wash your hands?”
Sirius just nods and turns on his heel, leaving the room with a swiftness that makes Regulus’s chest pinch. He can’t help the small pout tugging at his lips as he watches his brother disappear down the hall.
His gaze lingers there a moment too long before he turns toward Euphemia and Fleamont, still in the entryway to the kitchen.
He feels their eyes on him—warm, steady—but they don’t ask questions. Instead, they move to bring the food to the table, careful not to disturb the air between them.
He doesn’t know what does it.
Maybe it’s the way they don’t pry into what just happened. Maybe it’s the way their presence feels oddly… safe.
But something loosens inside him, and he finds himself speaking without thinking.
“Our mother,” he says, as if beginning an ordinary conversation. He sees the small, near-imperceptible tension ripple through both Euphemia and Fleamont, though neither interrupts. “Liked things to be perfect.”
His eyes drop to the table, but not before catching the flicker of interest—and concern—in their expressions. “Things always had to be perfect—after all, we were well-known.”
Fleamont hums low in his throat. Euphemia nods once, encouraging without words.
“She punished us if we didn’t do things perfectly—the way she wanted, the way she expected.”
Regulus’s fingers find a loose thread in the tablecloth and pick at it, unravelling it strand by strand. “Sirius always took it harder than I did,” he adds with a shrug, like it’s just a fact. “I guess she ingrained perfection into him.”
The admission feels small, almost careless, yet the moment it leaves his lips, something in his chest shifts. The weight of that truth—something he’s carried so long it had become invisible—feels lighter now, as if speaking it out loud has set it down for the first time.
Dinner is going rather smoothly—quieter than most, with the soft clink of cutlery and the hum of conversation filling the warm dining room. Golden lamplight spills across the polished table, catching the steam curling up from their plates.
No other incidents have occurred tonight, nothing sharp or tense in the air.
Until…
“So,” Euphemia says suddenly, her voice light and cheery in that sweet way that always seems to seep into his bones and warm them from the inside. Her gaze darts between the three of them—Regulus, Sirius, and James—like she’s scanning for a reaction before she’s even finished her sentence. “The athletics carnival is coming up. Did you get permission slips for it?”
Regulus feels the shift before he sees it—Sirius stiffens beside him, shoulders drawing in tight like an invisible wire’s been pulled. The movement is subtle, but it sends a faint ripple of unease down Regulus’s spine. Still, he pushes it aside and turns his attention back to Euphemia, offering a small nod.
“Yes,” he says, the word coming out with a strange mix of enthusiasm and nerves. “Though, I’ve never been to one before. And…” He bites down on his lower lip, the faint tang of salt from dinner still lingering there. “There’s a swimming carnival, too.”
Across the table, Euphemia and Fleamont both tilt their heads—her curls shifting slightly with the movement, his glasses catching the light—matching looks of mild confusion. Their eyes flick briefly to each other before returning to him.
“Yeah,” Euphemia says slowly, sounding unsure what he’s trying to get at. “Of course there is, love.”
It must dawn on her then—on both of them—because their puzzled expressions soften in the same moment, sympathy and understanding replacing the crease of their brows.
“I wanna learn how to swim,” Regulus blurts out before he can overthink it. The words tumble into the space between them, raw and a little desperate. His gaze slides to Fleamont, hopeful. “Would you…” His voice dips quieter, almost shy. “Would you teach me, Monty?”
Fleamont grins hard, the kind of grin that reaches his eyes. “Of course I can, buddy.”
“I wanna come too,” James says through a mouthful of food, crumbs clinging to the corner of his lips.
“James,” Euphemia chides, her tone sharp but not cruel. It’s enough to make Regulus freeze for a split second—an instinctive reaction—but he quickly forces his shoulders to relax, pretending nothing happened.
“Thanks, Monty,” Regulus says softly, relief curling in his chest.
Fleamont chuckles, shaking his head as if there’s nothing to thank him for. “No need to thank me, kiddo.”
Regulus can feel his smile stretch wide—triple in size, almost too big for his face—as the conversation drifts on. They talk about their days, about little nothings, the warm cadence of family chatter filling the space. Still, Regulus keeps sneaking glances at Sirius’s plate, subtle but deliberate. Each time, the pile of food is smaller—an almost imperceptible victory—until only a quarter is left.
If he could make a big deal about his brother eating something that wasn’t just a peanut butter sandwich, he would. But instead, he swallows the impulse, afraid that drawing attention to it might break whatever fragile spell is keeping Sirius eating tonight.
“Hey, Regulus,” Fleamont says as he begins stacking plates, his movements practiced and easy.
Regulus turns, halting mid-step toward the kitchen. “Yes?” The word comes out hesitant, tinged with the faint dread that he’s done something wrong.
“Do you mind hanging back for a moment? Effie and I wanted to talk to you.”
His throat works in a small swallow, but he nods and sinks back into his chair. His leg bounces restlessly beneath the table, the rhythm fast and uneven as possibilities race through his mind—each one less comfortable than the last.
When Euphemia and Fleamont re-enter the room, Regulus is buzzing with anxiety, the kind that prickles along his skin and makes his chest feel tight.
“We wanted to give you these,” Euphemia says gently, and Fleamont steps forward with something in his hands.
Regulus’s gaze locks instantly onto the brand-new phone and sleek laptop. His brows knit together as he glances between the gifts and their faces, disbelief settling heavy in his stomach.
“Now, the laptop is mostly for school, and the phone is so you can talk to us—and your friends—whenever you’d like,” Fleamont explains, setting the items carefully on the table as though they might break.
They’re… for him?
Surely not.
Regulus’s mouth opens, closes, opens again, but nothing comes out. The words stick in his throat, blocked by confusion. Why would they give him these?
He hears them talking about rules—usage limits, school purposes—but the words are muffled, distant, drowned under the sheer disbelief roaring in his ears. In other foster homes, expensive gifts like these were reserved for the foster parents’ real children. Never for kids like him.
Tears prick at the corners of his eyes before he can stop them. His bottom lip wobbles slightly, vision blurring as he looks from the gleaming devices back to Euphemia and Fleamont.
“What’s wrong?” Euphemia asks quickly, her voice holding the tiniest thread of panic beneath the concern.
“I— I—” The stammer cracks apart as he tries to form the words. “Why?” His voice splinters sharply on the question, and he gestures helplessly at the table. “I’m not your real son.”
Both Euphemia and Fleamont still, as if the words have caught them completely off guard. Their confusion is plain, but Regulus is already covering his face, tears slipping freely down his cheeks.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Euphemia’s voice cracks too, and then her warm hands are cupping his face, coaxing him to look at her. “Of course you’re our son.”
Those words break something loose inside him. A sob rips from his chest, raw and unrestrained, as tears stream faster.
There’s movement—soft rustle of fabric, the shift of weight—and then arms are around him. He doesn’t know whose, doesn’t care, because the only thing that matters is the way those words echo in his head.
Their son.
He’s their son.
He doesn’t know why it feels so good to hear, only that it does. He lets himself be held, body shaking with each uneven breath.
“You’re our son, Regulus,” Fleamont murmurs near his ear, the sincerity wrapping around him just as firmly as the embrace. “Just as much as James is.”
Another wave of sobs crashes through him, leaving him gasping. When the tide finally ebbs and his breathing steadies, guilt creeps in—slow, heavy, suffocating.
He shakes his head, pulling back from the warmth. “I can’t—” His voice is hoarse from crying. “I can’t accept it. I’ve been bad.”
“You’ve been… You’ve been bad,” Fleamont repeats, sounding like he’s trying to turn the words over in his mind. Regulus nods quickly, eyes wide, and something clicks in Fleamont’s expression.
“Oh.” He exhales, the sound low, and runs a steadying hand up and down Regulus’s back. “You think you don’t deserve these—” he gestures to the gifts on the table “—because you yelled at Sirius?”
Regulus nods again, and Fleamont just shakes his head.
“I’m sorry I did that,” Regulus says quietly, meaning every word. “I really am.”
Euphemia cuts him off, shaking her head before he can say more. “No, sweetheart,” she says, and the weariness in her tone is matched by something tender. “We’re sorry.”
He pouts faintly, ready to argue, but she keeps going. “We—I, more like it—fueled whatever happened between you and Sirius.” Her sigh carries the weight of something she’s been holding onto. “Nothing I can say or do can fix it, but I promise to be better. We promise.”
Regulus doesn’t know what to think, what to feel. They’ve apologised so many times, and yet… it’s only now, hearing it in this moment, that the truth of it starts to settle in.
“I forgive you,” he says finally, the words rough but certain.
And he does mean it. Regulus forgives them. And now, he knows—finally—that they forgive him, too.
***
It’s high time he hears his friends out.
He’s already heard James, already accepted James’s apologies. He’s even accepted the Potters’ apologies.
Regulus doesn’t know why referring to the Potters as “the Potters” is leaving such an odd taste in his mouth. The texture is bitter and wrong, like chewing on pith, clinging to the back of his tongue. He can almost feel the grit of it, the way it coats the inside of his mouth as the word slips off the tip of his tongue.
He doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t have time to—not when he’s already crossing the quiet library floor toward where his friends are sitting. The carpet muffles his steps, but the faint creak of a chair shifting somewhere in the stacks seems to echo in the still air. They’re in the exact same spot they’ve always claimed: tucked into the far corner under the tall window that filters in a tired sort of afternoon light, books piled in a chaotic barricade across the table.
Nobody says a word as Regulus drops down into his seat between Pandora and Dorcas. The chair groans faintly under his weight, and the familiar smell of old paper and wood polish settles over him.
“There he is,” Barty exclaims, his voice too loud for the hushed space, carrying so much enthusiasm it could physically melt all the walls surrounding Regulus’s heart—because it did, once, after he’d grown used to it.
Barty’s grin never falters, wide and wild, his dark eyes sparking the same way Regulus remembers from every ill-advised adventure they’d shared. “Finally decided to come back to us, eh?” he says with a smirk that means no harm.
Regulus shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. It feels foreign at first, stretching muscles unused these past weeks.
Evan chuckles at Barty’s antics, shaking his head and giving Regulus an equally delightful smile—warm in a way that makes Regulus’s chest feel lighter. “Good to see we didn’t run you off.”
Pandora whacks Evan’s arm, mumbling something about the comment being “inappropriate.” Regulus snorts at the twins, the sound breaking through the careful stillness he’s carried all morning. His smile grows wider the longer he sits here, the longer their voices fill the quiet space.
He forgot just how much his friends are able to make him smile.
“So,” Dorcas says, clearing her throat, her gaze steady but edged with something that might be nerves—strange, because Dorcas is never nervous, or at least never lets it show. “How have you been?”
Regulus shrugs, eyes dropping to the wood grain of the table where faint scratches catch the light. “I’ve been alright,” he says, his voice low, almost unsure. “How about you?”
Dorcas nods politely. “I’ve been great.” Her smile is genuine, unforced, and Regulus finds himself returning it before he realises. “Get up to anything whilst…” she trails off, the end of her sentence swallowed by the unspoken.
Regulus ignores the gap, favouring a simple nod. “Yes, I did.” His hand slides into his pocket, the weight of the object there suddenly noticeable. All eyes follow the motion. When he pulls out a phone, the glossy black screen catching the library’s muted light, Barty lets out a loud cheer that earns a sharp glare from the nearest librarian and simultaneous swats from Dorcas and Evan.
“Shut up, Crouch,” Evan hisses, though his mouth quirks upward. The group chuckles as Barty clutches his side in a fake wince, pretending to be gravely injured by Evan’s punch.
Evan rolls his eyes, but when his gaze comes back to Regulus, there’s something softer there. If Regulus saw correctly, he’d call it fond—the kind of smile Euphemia wears when Fleamont does something ridiculous.
“So, you got a phone?” Pandora asks, leaning toward him with curiosity.
Regulus nods. “Yeah, I did,” he admits, feeling heat crawl up his neck and pool in his cheeks. “I was a bit confused why they were giving me it, but…” he shrugs. “Oh, they also got me a laptop.”
“Cool,” Dorcas says, and she sounds like she means it.
Before Regulus can add anything else, Barty plucks the phone from his hand with the casual audacity only Barty Crouch Jr. could manage. Regulus’s face twists into a pout. “Why’d you do that for?” His voice tilts toward whiny without his permission, and Barty snickers like it’s a personal victory.
Dorcas’s glare sharpens. “That was rude, Barty, and you know it.”
“Sorry,” he mutters, a flush creeping up his cheeks. Evan snorts, clearly enjoying his embarrassment.
Barty clears his throat, pressing on. “I was going— Can I put our numbers in?”
Regulus nods, which seems to please him immensely. Evan leans over to help, pointing things out on the unfamiliar interface, making sure Regulus knows who’s who in his contacts list. The two of them bicker over formatting, and Regulus tunes out the noise, letting his attention drift back to Pandora and Dorcas.
The girls, for the most part, look unimpressed by the antics, though there’s a hint of fondness in Pandora’s smirk.
“Look, Regulus—” Dorcas begins, her tone shifting into something careful, deliberate. She’s clearly ready to apologise for everything.
Regulus shakes his head. “I’ve forgiven you, already,” he says, pulling a flicker of confusion across Dorcas’s features. “I know you all are sorry, and it’s okay.”
Pandora tilts her head, brows furrowing in mock confusion. “We haven’t actually apologised to you, yet.”
“Okay?” he says, hesitant, feeling confusion start to pool in his own chest. He glances between them. “Am I not supposed to…”
“Of course you’re supposed to, Regulus,” Dorcas interrupts quickly, her expression tightening with worry, which only deepens his confusion.
“Then—”
Dorcas cuts him off again. “The point is, we haven’t apologised to you. So, how are you able to forgive us, if we haven’t done so yet?”
A small frown tugs at his mouth. “Well,” he begins, his gaze flicking toward Evan and Barty, who have paused their squabbling to listen. “I forgave James and— and the Potters.” The word leaves a sharp, acidic sting in his mouth, and his expression betrays the distaste before he can hide it.
It seems to confuse them, but no one questions it—which is a relief. He still doesn’t know why saying that phrase makes his stomach twist.
“That’s great news,” Evan says, pointedly. “But… how does that relate to us?”
Regulus cocks his head. “I forgave them. So, I forgive you.”
Dorcas sighs, not with frustration but with understanding. “Oh,” she says softly, like puzzle pieces have just slid into place. “Just because you can forgive someone else, Regulus, doesn’t mean you’re automatically inclined to forgive us.”
He glances around the table, taking in the subtle nods. Something in his chest shifts, and he nods too, storing the thought away.
“Okay,” he mumbles, the air suddenly heavy with awkwardness.
Pandora reaches over and takes his hand, her grip firm, grounding. “We’re sorry, Regulus,” she says, the words smooth enough to feel rehearsed. “We know what we did was wrong. We hope you can forgive us.”
Regulus looks away quickly, heat rising to his cheeks again. “I do,” he says with a shrug, earning a round of quiet laughter.
The tension he expected to linger begins to fade, like birdsong carried off on a breeze.
He relaxes. He’s glad to have his friends back.
“So,” Dorcas says, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You said you forgave James and the Potters—”
Regulus hums in confirmation.
“Have you managed to forgive Sirius, also?”
The question hits harder than she could have known. His chest tightens, his heart seeming to drop under the weight of it. His eyes fall to his hands in his lap, fingers curling slightly.
He shakes his head, the shame curling inside him like smoke.
He knows he should, but he can’t yet. It’s Sirius. Sirius said things that cut deep, that still ache in the quiet moments. A simple apology doesn’t feel like enough.
“Well,” Barty says, pulling Regulus’s gaze upward, “I, for one, think what he did was brave.”
Regulus frowns in confusion, but Barty waves him off. “I mean, the dude did the only thing he thought was right, right?”
Regulus nods in confirmation—still confused, but willing to listen.
A pleased sound leaves Barty as he continues. “I mean, the odds were stacked against him. What else could he have possibly done to help those girls?”
What could Sirius have done?
The memory plays again in Regulus’s head. Sirius had explained it so clearly: already in the system, already stripped of credibility. One stint in Juvie—a fact that still unsettles Regulus—made him unreliable in the eyes of anyone with authority. No one would listen to him.
The only thing the police ever listened to was action. So Sirius made sure his were loud enough to be heard.
Regulus nods slowly, the thought spinning inside him. Even when he tries to imagine other solutions, they crumble. The only one that stands is the one Sirius chose.
He knows now—he needs to apologise.
***
“Hey, Sirius?” Regulus calls out, hesitantly. His voice is soft, almost swallowed by the faint hum of the dryer down the hall and the faint scent of fabric softener drifting into the room.
Sirius’s attention is pulled away from the laundry basket in his arms. He turns towards Regulus instead, one eyebrow arching in curiosity. “What’s up, Reg.”
Regulus takes a deep breath in, the air catching a little in his chest. He stares down at his sock-covered feet, toes curling against the soft carpet. Out of his peripheral vision, he can see Sirius moving toward him—long strides closing the distance between them—until his older brother is standing just in front of the doorway where Regulus hovers like a shadow.
Looking up at Sirius, Regulus can see the concern written all over his face—the faint crease between his brows, the slight downturn of his lips. He bites his lower lip, the edge catching between his teeth, before quickly averting his gaze again. His pulse drums in his ears.
“What’s wrong?” Sirius asks, his tone so gentle it almost hurts. It’s the kind of gentleness that slips under Regulus’s skin and makes his stomach twist violently, like his insides have been yanked forward without warning.
“I wanted to talk… with you,” is all Regulus can manage, his words quiet but loaded. The weight in his chest drags him further into the room as Sirius’s presence draws him in.
Sirius nods, his expression unreadable but his actions sure. He takes Regulus lightly by the shoulders and guides him toward the bed. “Of course,” he says, tentatively, as if leaving room for Regulus to back out if he wanted to.
Regulus sighs, the sound almost lost in the stillness between them. “Umm…” He trails off, searching Sirius’s gaze for something solid to hold onto. The words feel slippery in his throat.
He could really use a Sirius cuddle right about now. His feelings are heavy and tangled, too big for him to carry without help. A hug from his brother might untangle them—or at least make them easier to bear.
Deciding to go for it, Regulus shuffles closer, his knees brushing Sirius’s leg. Sirius doesn’t hesitate; his arms wrap around Regulus immediately, strong and certain. The shift of weight is natural, easy, as Sirius leans them both back until they’re lying on the bed—Regulus tucked securely on top of him, his head resting over Sirius’s chest.
Sirius’s arms stay firm and warm around him, a steady barrier against everything else. Regulus closes his eyes for a moment, soaking up the security, the faint smell of laundry powder clinging to Sirius’s shirt, the quiet thud of his heartbeat beneath his ear.
He really forgot just how much he missed this.
“I’m sorry, Siri,” he begins, voice trembling as guilt and sadness surge up, heavy enough to press against his ribs. “For everything. I didn’t mean—”
“I forgive you, my little star,” Sirius says, cutting him off.
Regulus frowns, brows pulling together. Why would Sirius forgive him? He’s barely gotten the words out. That can’t count as a proper apology.
He shakes his head, furiously, lifting himself slightly to meet Sirius’s gaze. “No,” Regulus says, the edge of panic creeping in, his head still moving in stubborn refusal. “You—”
Sirius’s mouth turns down into a soft pout, confusion flickering over his face. “You don’t need to—”
“Yes I do!” Regulus blurts, the words sharper and louder than intended. His chest tightens with frustration, the heat of it climbing up his throat. Sirius doesn’t get it—he hurt him, and an apology is owed. Why won’t his brother let him give it?
“I hurt you, Siri,” he whines, the sound breaking as his throat closes. Sirius’s arms tighten slightly, the only response he gives for now. Regulus presses on, the words tumbling over each other. “I said I hated you—which isn’t true. I told you I didn’t love you, but I do. I hurt you badly. I… I have to earn it.”
Silence settles thickly over the room for a moment. Regulus studies Sirius’s face like it might reveal the thoughts he’s keeping hidden. It’s hard to read Sirius at the best of times—no, scratch that—it’s impossible most of the time.
“Okay,” Sirius breathes out at last, his voice quiet but sure. He nods, and the motion feels like a small surrender. Relief loosens something in Regulus’s chest, his shoulders sagging as if a weight’s been shifted. “Alright,” Sirius adds, his tone softening further. “I’ll let you earn forgiveness.”
Regulus’s smile is immediate, wide and bright, his chest warming in a way that feels almost too big to contain.
Sirius chuckles, the sound rumbling under Regulus’s ear. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t forgive you—because I do, forgive you.”
Regulus nods quickly. “Okay,” he says, the word almost a sigh of relief. He drops his head back onto Sirius’s chest, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat settle him. It’s a sound that feels like home. “I can do that.”
Sirius scoffs, the vibration running through Regulus’s cheek. His fingers slide into Regulus’s curls, catching gently on tangles as he works them loose. “You’re silly, star,” Sirius says in amusement.
“Maybe,” Regulus replies, grinning wide enough that his cheeks ache.
He would do anything to get his brother to forgive him. Anything to make sure Sirius knew—beyond any doubt—that he was loved.
Notes:
Word Count: 10,749
Published: 2025-08-15IMPORTANT, YOU MUST ANSWER!
I want to know, what brought you to this fic? What possibly possessed you enough to think "hey, this fic looks delicious, I wanna read it." Or was this fic recommended to you?
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Chapter 38: Now or Never, He Supposes
Summary:
Things have been going super well, the past couple of weeks since the fights. Regulus has never been happier, he’s barely even left Euphemia’s side. Everything has been going so well, he hadn’t seen the big red fish dangling in front of him.
Well, he supposes this was bound to happen. Now or never, right?
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Sarah,” Regulus sighs dramatically, collapsing back into the worn leather chair like this is the biggest, most life-altering news one could ever hear. “I have so much to tell you.”
And, for the most part, it’s true.
The corners of Sarah’s mouth lift as she chuckles, her eyes soft with that steady patience she always carries. Her pen is already poised above the clipboard resting against her knee. “Oh really?” she asks, incredulously, though her voice is kind and warm, as if she’s already half-amused by whatever he’s about to say. “Is that so?”
Regulus nods firmly, like it’s old news, like he’s doing her a favor by letting her in on his secrets. “Yes, I do, Sarah. Now keep up.”
She laughs again, more softly this time. “Alright, then.”
They’re tucked away in Fleamont’s study for their weekly check-in. The room smells faintly of parchment and ink, warm wood and polish, and the shelves tower around them with books that look older than Regulus himself.
Outside, October gnaws at the windows; the air is cool enough to bite at fingers and toes. As much as Regulus likes the shift in seasons—the crispness, the way the cold sharpens the world—he much prefers the thick carpet beneath his feet and the heat spilling from the old radiator. Inside is safer. Inside is warmer.
“So, get this,” Regulus begins, flinging his hands about as if summoning the weight of his story into the air. His gestures are wild, his dark hair falling into his face with the force of his movements. “Sirius was in Juvie—though, I suppose you’d already known that—”
Sarah hums in quiet acknowledgment, her pen scratching down a few words. The sound needles at his ears, but he refuses to let it stop him.
“Now,” he interrupts himself, his arms falling limp at his sides. “This part doesn’t make me look very good.” The words tumble out defeated, edged with embarrassment. Guilt prickles sharp and uncomfortable up his chest, pressing hard at his ribs. Shame always finds him too easily, slipping into cracks he can’t seal.
Regulus squeezes his eyes shut, giving his head a small shake, like he can force the thoughts away. Sirius has already forgiven him. That should be enough. It is enough. And yet—guilt lingers like smoke.
He sighs, a long exhale that seems to drain out of his whole body. “At the time I didn’t know he was in Juvie.” Sarah hums again, prompting him on, steady and unhurried. “He was avoiding me and I was upset. My friends didn’t like him. I eavesdropped on Effie and Monty.” His voice dips lower, tiredness dragging it down. “I yelled at Sirius.”
Sarah’s pen stops mid-stroke. She glances up at him, eyebrows pinching together in a frown. “I’m sorry?” she asks, baffled by the admission, as though she hasn’t quite heard him right.
Regulus shrinks instantly, his shoulders folding inward, heat climbing into his cheeks. He nods, small and careful, eyes darting away. “It’s true,” he mumbles, his voice barely a thread. “I was really mad at him, Sarah. I did eventually apologise.”
Her expression softens again, her lips pressing into a thoughtful line. She nods, relieved, jotting something else down. Regulus can’t help but stare at the clipboard, curiosity gnawing at him.
He’s always wondered what she writes. What she could possibly be saying about him when he isn’t looking. Are they good things? Praise? Notes about progress? Or are they bad, the kind of criticisms his parents used to sling at him so easily?
The thought makes his chest tighten, dread flickering across his face. His parents never wrote things down, but they didn’t need to. Every word they said stuck like a scar.
“It sounds like,” Sarah says, her calm voice slicing through the silence, “there was an extreme lack of communication going on amongst everyone involved.”
Regulus nods faintly. She isn’t wrong. “Sounds ’bout right,” he mutters with a shrug, staring down at his hands in his lap. His fingers twist together, restless, tugging at his skin. He resists the urge to pick at the nail beds until they bleed.
“Still feel guilty, don’t you?”
Her voice is gentle, completely without judgment, and it eases something inside him. He looks up cautiously, finding her waiting, her gaze open and welcoming—like no matter what he says, it will stay safe here.
And it always has. He’s told Sarah things he’s never admitted to anyone else, and none of it has ever come back to bite him. She carries his secrets without turning them into weapons. Like Laura does, too.
Regulus nods. “Mhm.”
“That’s understandable,” she says after a beat, her voice steady as stone. “You’re allowed to feel that way, Regulus. Doesn’t make you any less human.”
His lungs release air he hadn’t realized he was holding. His feelings are valid. Sarah reminds him of that often—so does Laura, and Euphemia, and Fleamont… even Sirius, in his own way.
“So,” Sarah prompts, her smile spreading warm across her face, wide enough to meet her eyes. “Anything else you’d like to tell me about?”
His head bobs before he’s even processed the question, excitement buzzing like lightning in his veins. He suddenly remembers—there is good news to share.
“Yes,” he bursts out, springing up from the couch. The cushions sigh as they lose his weight. Regulus bounces on the balls of his feet, hands flapping uncontrollably, his grin stretching ear to ear.
Sometimes he has to remind himself this is okay—that he’s allowed to get this excited. Laura calls it stimming. She’s told him a dozen times it’s natural, that it helps regulate his feelings.
But his body betrays him, shoving in old memories—his parents’ sharp words, their disgust when he couldn’t keep still. The cold bite of shame prickles up his spine, making him shiver.
They aren’t here. He reminds himself firmly. They’re not here.
His bouncing doesn’t falter. His smile refuses to dim. Sarah chuckles at the sight, but Regulus doesn’t care.
“The Potters bought me a phone and laptop,” he announces, his voice loud and triumphant, joy spilling out of every syllable.
Sarah’s eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly vanish into her hairline. It’s almost comical how startled she looks, almost like she’s sharing in his delight. But Regulus is too lost in the rush of his own happiness to notice.
He nods furiously, hair falling into his face. “Uh huh, I know,” he says breathlessly, his body buzzing with a joy he’s never known before. “I was surprised too.”
“I bet you were,” Sarah says, her lips curving into a smirk. “How’d you react?”
His movements halt, stimming cut off as though someone’s yanked a cord. He goes rigid, blinking at her. The memory of that night claws its way back—the confusion, the disbelief, the way their words had broken him open.
“I cried,” he admits flatly, monotone. He chews at his lip, nerves chewing back. Should he tell her the rest? He decides yes. “I told them I didn’t deserve the gifts.”
Sarah nods slowly, her expression grave, understanding the weight of it.
Regulus drops his gaze to his shoes, shoulders hunching. “I told them that I wasn’t their real kid, so they didn’t need to get them for me.”
Sarah exhales, the sound heavy, and Regulus knows she feels the truth of it. She opens her mouth, clearly ready to say something, but he blurts over her.
“Apparently,” he sucks in a sharp breath, his throat tightening. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, blurring the edges of the room. “Apparently I am their kid. Their son.” His voice cracks hard on the word, splintering around it, as though it’s too big to hold.
Tears sting, but he blinks furiously, fighting them. The silence that follows stretches, quiet but not uncomfortable. Carefully, almost timidly, he sneaks a glance at Sarah.
She wears a small, proud smile, one that warms his chest like sunlight.
“Is that so?” she says, and there’s pride tucked in her tone too. Somehow, that makes him proud of himself. He nods, unable to push words past his throat.
The quiet between them now is satisfying, heavy in a good way, like a blanket. Regulus’s thoughts spin wild but unspoken.
“The Potters,” he blurts, catching her attention. Sarah stills, setting her pen down, giving him every ounce of focus. “Calling them that tastes weird, now.”
Because it does. It tastes bitter, sour, all wrong.
Sarah tilts her head, confusion drawing her brows together. “I don’t—”
Regulus shakes his head, cutting her off, his shrug sharp. “I don’t know,” he sighs, finally getting the tangled feelings out. “Like I know they’re my foster parents, but referring to them as ‘the Potters,’ or even as my foster parents doesn’t feel right anymore.”
He drops heavily back into the chair, arms folding tight across his chest. Frustration prickles hot under his skin, sharp enough that he glares at Sarah, even though he knows it isn’t her fault.
“Have you tried talking to them?” Sarah asks carefully, after a pause.
He shakes his head.
She nods once, decisive. “You should,” she says, with a certainty that makes his skin crawl with nerves. “Part of the problem—right now, at least—is your ability to communicate. When you don’t talk about your feelings, your feelings tend to boil over, causing an explosion in your wake.”
Regulus swallows, but nods. She’s right. He hates admitting it, but she’s right. He doesn’t know how to communicate, and it always turns into something messy, something that hurts.
“Okay,” he whispers, the word small but sure. “I can do that.”
Sarah’s smile blooms again, soft and encouraging, as if she’s placing her faith in him.
He can do this. He can ask them.
***
He is in English—the room hums with restless energy, desks creaking as students lean over to whisper or tap pencils, sneakers scuffing against the linoleum. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, mixing with the sharp smell of photocopied paper. The teacher weaves between the rows, handing out brand-new books with a stack tucked under one arm.
When it’s Regulus’s turn, he accepts his copy, turning it over in his hands. The glossy cover feels stiff beneath his fingers. He frowns at the bold letters across the front: Holes. He’s never heard of this book before. The title looks plain, and to him, it already hints at dull repetition, page after page of something he doesn’t care to know about.
Regulus sighs, the sound slipping out as he runs his thumb across the blurb. Definitely not looking forward to reading a book that’s just as boring as its summary.
“Alrighty, class,” Mr. Johnson calls, his voice warm but firm. He claps his hands together, the noise echoing through the chatter—sharp and deliberate, the kind of sound all teachers seem to use when corralling a room of restless teenagers. It grates on Regulus’s ears. “As you all know, this is the book we will be reading for our upcoming assignment.”
The class groans, a collective wave of dissatisfaction. Someone even lets their chair tip dangerously back before thudding down again. Regulus doesn’t join in. Reading itself isn’t annoying for him—far from it. Reading is one of the few things that usually grounds him. But it’s what he’s forced to read for school that frustrates him. The slow pace, the interruptions, the way half the class drags their feet through each page—it all tests his patience.
Mr. Johnson chuckles, easing them down again with practiced ease. “Alright, alright,” he says in that easygoing, approachable way that hooks most of the class back in. Regulus has to admit, the man is skilled at holding their attention. “We’ll talk more about that in our next lesson—”
The bell cuts him off, shrill and piercing. Chairs scrape across the floor as students shoot up, stuffing books into bags and spilling into the hallway with eager chatter.
“Before you all leave,” Mr. Johnson tries one last time, but his words are drowned out by the clamor of escape. Regulus barely catches the tail end of his sentence: “Don’t forget about the parent-teacher conferences that are happening this Wednesday.”
Regulus freezes. His body goes rigid in his chair, as if the words themselves knock the air clean out of his lungs. Parent-teacher conferences? Wednesday? His heart stutters, then starts beating unevenly, too fast, the thrum echoing in his ears.
No, no, this isn’t good. This is bad. Really, really bad.
His breaths wobble, uneven, jagged edges of panic scraping the inside of his chest. His fingers grip the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening.
This is so not good.
The second he steps through the front door of the house, Regulus doesn’t bother with his usual caution. His bag drops carelessly against the wall with a thud, and he storms down the hall with heavy, clipped steps that strike against the wood. Fleamont follows at a measured pace behind him, but Regulus doesn’t look back.
“Hey, love,” Euphemia calls from the kitchen, her voice bright and warm, a melody that usually eases him. But when her eyes land on him, her smile falters, replaced by a worried crease between her brows. “What’s—”
“Did you know?” Regulus blurts, his words tumbling out, frantic and too loud. His arms slice through the air, wild and restless, as he steps all the way into the kitchen.
Euphemia blinks, her gaze flicking briefly toward Fleamont, who lingers just behind, before she returns her focus to Regulus. Confusion is etched clear on her face—and he can feel Fleamont’s confusion pressing in too, like an invisible weight.
“Okay,” Euphemia says softly, measured, like she’s talking to a cornered animal ready to bolt. She sets down the dish she’d been holding and takes a slow step toward him. “Why don’t we go to the living room?”
Regulus huffs and stomps ahead, theatrics carrying him down the hall. To anyone else, his exaggerated movements might seem comical. If he were an outsider watching himself, he’d laugh too. But right now, with panic biting at the edges of his thoughts, it isn’t funny in the slightest.
The anxiety in his chest bubbles higher, a sour burn in his throat, rising like bile he can’t swallow down.
He collapses onto the couch with a dramatic flop, arms folded hard across his chest like a barrier. Euphemia slips in beside him without hesitation, while Fleamont settles into the armchair to his left, steady and attentive.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Euphemia murmurs, her voice soft as silk, designed to soothe. It slips through his armor, quieting the storm in small increments. “Why don’t you take a breath, hmm?”
Regulus swallows, then nods, trying. He drags a lungful of air in, shaky at first, then pushes it out in a rush. Again. Again. Slowly, the jagged panic begins to dull, though it never fully leaves.
Euphemia’s hand finds the back of his neck, her fingers grazing lightly, knuckles brushing up and down in a steady rhythm. The touch grounds him, sending ripples of reassurance down his spine.
“Feeling better?” Fleamont asks gently. Regulus manages a nod, though his heart still races.
“Good. Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”
Regulus exhales sharply, his chest tightening all over again. “Well…” The panic claws back at him with just the thought, threatening to choke him. He forces it down, tries to swallow it. “There’s a parent-teacher conference on Wednesday.”
His wide eyes dart between Euphemia and Fleamont, searching. He sees their realization land, the way they instantly seem to understand his panic, though he hasn’t said more. Euphemia leans in and wraps him into a side hug, her warmth pulling him in, anchoring him.
Somehow, impossibly, that hug takes the edge off. He doesn’t know why it works, why her arms feel safer than anything else he’s known—but it does.
“Oh, that,” Euphemia hums, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. His cheeks warm with a faint blush, a sudden awareness of just how over the top he must look. “You know, love, that those conferences are more about meeting your teachers, right?”
But Regulus doesn’t know how to answer. Because he knows it isn’t just that. There’s more. Always more. Teachers don’t just “meet” parents. They report . They list out flaws, concerns, the ways he doesn’t measure up. They tell parents what needs “fixing.” Which means—
“Okay, okay,” Euphemia interrupts his spiraling, tightening her hold around him.
Regulus blinks up at her, vision blurred with hot tears he hadn’t even realized had gathered. His chest heaves with sharp, uneven breaths.
“I need you to breathe with me, love. In and out, okay?”
He nods quickly, clinging to her voice. He follows her exaggerated breaths—deep inhale, long exhale—until slowly, painfully, his own starts to match. Exhaustion drapes itself over his shoulders like a heavy coat, weighing him down.
“Talk to us, buddy,” Fleamont says, his tone even, kind. Euphemia holds him closer, and Regulus lets his head rest against her shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut.
The words well up inside him, pressing hard against his ribs until they spill out, uncontainable. “It’s not just meeting my teachers.” His voice cracks, humiliatingly fragile, but he can’t stop.
“My teachers are going to share their concerns with you. They’re going to tell you everything they don’t like about me. How they’re going to expect you to punish me because I’m not good enough.”
“Aww, sweetheart,” Euphemia croons, her voice laced with heartbreak. His tears fall faster, betraying him, and he buries himself against her, clinging desperately.
“That’s not true,” she whispers firmly into his ear, her breath warm against his skin. Her fingers thread through his hair, her other hand rubbing gentle circles on his back. “You’re good enough. You’re perfect.”
A strangled whimper slips from him. He wants to believe her, but the years of doubt dig in stubbornly. And yet… the way she’s holding him, steady and unrelenting, makes him want to trust her. More than that, a part of him already does.
“Okay,” he chokes out, tightening his arms around her waist. She exhales against his hair, the sound one of relief, like the two of them exist in a bubble where nothing else matters. Regulus almost forgets Fleamont is even in the room.
Sniffling, he tilts his face up, meeting Euphemia’s hazel eyes properly for the first time. They’re warm, soft, endlessly patient. It’s overwhelming. Safe.
“One of my foster families used what the teachers had to say about me, as a reason to get me out of the house.”
The admission stumbles out before he can stop it. His chest tightens as he realizes what he’s revealed, searching her gaze for any sign of disgust or withdrawal.
Before she can answer, Fleamont’s voice cuts through, steady and unshakable. “That will never happen here, alright kiddo? You’re too important to us, for us to let you go. Nothing your teachers could ever say would make us want to get rid of you, got it?”
Regulus nods automatically, though uncertainty still coils in his gut. He turns back to Euphemia. It’s her eyes he trusts, more than Fleamont’s promise. Her presence convinces him in a way nothing else can.
She doesn’t stop touching him—her hand at his back, fingers combing through his hair, keeping him tethered. A part of him aches for her never to let go.
“My parents,” Regulus starts, but the words stick like thorns in his throat. His stomach lurches with nausea, the confession a physical weight he almost can’t bear. Euphemia’s touch only grows firmer, encouraging. “My parents used to take what my teachers said about me and use it against me.”
“Oh, love.” Euphemia’s voice is so soft, so devastatingly tender, that Regulus almost recoils from it. It’s too much, too kind, too unfamiliar. “We promise you, your teachers’ concerns will never be used against you here. We only want to hear what they have to say, in order to help you better. Okay?”
The tension in his shoulders eases, just slightly. He nods, feeling lighter than he has in days. Maybe weeks. He exhales shakily, letting himself sink against her once more, surrendering to her warmth and the comfort she offers without condition.
***
It’s the parent-teacher conference and Regulus is absolutely petrified.
He wipes his sweaty palms down his jeans again and again, as if the damp will somehow disappear if he presses hard enough. Standing beside the car, his legs feel shaky, unsteady, like they might give out if he takes a step. His nerves buzz beneath his skin like live wires, anxiety skyrocketing at every footstep closer to the looming brick school building. The familiar sight of it—so ordinary in daylight—feels suddenly hostile, doors yawning open like the mouth of something waiting to swallow him whole.
A hand slips into his own. Soft. Delicate. Steady. The familiarity of it breaks through the static of his panic. Regulus lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he looks up to see Euphemia’s warm smile plastered across her face. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, her expression gentle, as if she knows every frantic thought racing through his mind without him saying a word. His heart beats a little faster at the tenderness of it, not the panicked flutter from before but something warmer, steadier.
There’s nothing to be scared of, Euphemia said so herself.
Still, that doesn’t stop his thoughts from plowing through him like a train with no brakes. They stop only long enough to pick up new passengers—new worries, new fears—before lurching forward again. The constant stopping-and-starting motion of anxiety leaves his body trembling, desperate to cling to any semblance of peace.
The first teacher they stop at is his Maths teacher, Mrs. Lang.
She’s nice—Regulus will give her that—but sometimes she seems a bit… loopy. Maybe loopy isn’t the right word, but she can’t keep a single train of thought coherent for an entire class. Her sentences scatter like leaves in the wind.
Still, Regulus feels relief sink into his chest as Mrs. Lang says nothing but praise—telling Euphemia and Fleamont how excellent of a student he is, how polite, how thoughtful. Telling them they have a very kind and caring son.
Regulus’s cheeks burn at that, ears heating until he can feel them go red. He ducks his head, pretending to study the floor tiles until it’s time to move on to the next teacher. Then the next. Then the next.
Teacher after teacher sings his praises. Teacher after teacher states how wonderful he is to have in their class—a bit quiet, a little shy, but overall a hard-working student. Each word of kindness is like a drop of water falling into a bucket inside him, slowly filling a space that always felt empty.
The comment his French teacher makes about him outsmarting her will always be his favourite. Regulus had the same French teacher last year, so it’s one less new adult to worry about this term. Familiarity, even in something small, is a comfort.
As they approach the art classroom, Regulus can feel his anxiety finally begin to dwindle. The corridor light filters through open classrooms, softening as they reach the open doorway. Stepping inside, his whole body eases at once, like a string wound too tightly being released. The room smells faintly of turpentine and pencil shavings, grounding him in its familiarity. Mrs. Reed’s presence is the same as always—calm, steady, warm like sunlight through glass.
“Regulus,” Mrs. Reed says, her wide, welcoming smile brightening her face. “Come on in, take a seat.” She gestures to the chairs arranged in front of her desk.
Regulus doesn’t hesitate. He drags Euphemia and Fleamont with him, insisting they sit either side of him, forming a shield that keeps the unfamiliar world at bay.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Mrs. Reed says, extending her hand across the desk.
Fleamont nods, his grip firm as he shakes her hand. “You as well.”
“Of course,” she replies warmly, withdrawing her hand to open a file on her desk. The folder is thick, its cover marked in bold, black letters: Black, Regulus.
The way it’s presented—his name branded so starkly—sends a cold shiver down his spine.
“Alright,” Mrs. Reed begins, peering at the notes within the folder. Regulus waits with bated breath, his heart pounding against his ribs. This part never gets easier: the waiting, the silence, the unbearable not-knowing.
“So.” She closes the folder gently and folds her hands on the desk. “Where to begin,” she chuckles, the sound light, telling Regulus instantly that she has nothing bad to say. “He’s extremely intelligent.”
The word makes him blush fiercely. He dares to glance up, only to meet hazel eyes shining down on him with open kindness. The warmth in them makes his heart stutter in his chest. He swallows hard, glancing back at his teacher, but the feeling lingers—like a glow spreading through his ribs.
“He has an extremely strong mind,” Mrs. Reed continues. “A hidden talent for art. Though, he’s quite practical—he often needs clear instructions whenever I suggest using their imaginations.”
Yes. He does like instructions—especially when he’s feeling overwhelmed, or when the day has gone wrong and he needs something solid to anchor him. Structure and routine give him back his footing. Without them, he gets rather… What’s the word… scattered, maybe. Unmoored.
Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus sees Fleamont nodding, his smile proud and unguarded. “Sounds just like him,” he says, voice warm with fondness.
The words hit Regulus harder than he expects. He has to quickly avert his gaze before the prick of tears in his eyes spills over.
Beside him, Euphemia hums softly, her hand rising to cradle the back of his head. Her fingers comb gently through his hair, soothing him in a way that makes his throat ache. “That doesn’t hinder him at all, does it?” she asks, her concern clear and honest.
Usually, when someone questions a trait of his, he can hear the hidden disappointment beneath it. The sharp edge tucked inside the so-called concern. But here, with Euphemia, her worry is careful, genuine to a fault.
Mrs. Reed shakes her head, smile never faltering. “Not at all. In fact, it’s rather refreshing to have a student who needs structure. Somehow the classroom seems to just… run better with it.”
Regulus feels heat crawl into his cheeks again. He knows what she’s talking about, judging by the pointed look she gives him. She’s referring to the way he directed his classmates to reorganize the cupboard last month. At the time, he worried she’d be angry, that he’d overstepped. Instead, she thanked him—genuine gratitude, saying she’d been trying to sort the cupboard for years.
“That’s good to know,” Euphemia says with relief, her eyes flicking back down to Regulus. Her fingers continue their gentle strokes through his hair, grounding him.
“He’s overall a very pleasant child,” Mrs. Reed concludes warmly. “Quiet, but present. I’m looking forward to the work he’ll be producing throughout the year.”
Mrs. Reed rises, and they all follow. She shakes Euphemia’s and Fleamont’s hands once more, her smile unwavering.
As they step out into the hallway again, the air feels lighter. Euphemia glances down at him with a knowing smile. “Wasn’t so bad now, was it?”
Regulus looks up at her, his hand never once letting go of hers. He shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t,” he whispers. His voice is soft, but steady.
And with every step they take down the corridor, the tight coil of anxiety inside him unravels, thread by thread, until it slips away entirely.
***
“So, Regulus,” Laura begins the session, sitting on her armchair across from the couch. “Tell me what happened this week.”
Regulus sighs. His shoulders sag with the weight of the question, the sound escaping him before he even realizes it. “Well,” he says, picking up the blue marker, uncapping it and filling the spots on the page he wants coloured in. The smell of the ink drifts faintly up as he drags it across the paper, sharp and chemical, grounding him. “There were parent-teacher conferences.”
Laura hums. The sound of her ball-point pen clicking echoes around the room, loud and precise in the otherwise quiet space, before she scribbles something down in her notebook. Regulus’s gaze flicks toward the movement of her hand, then back down to his colouring, as if watching her write might reveal what she thinks of him.
“How’d you feel about that?” she asks, after a moment.
He takes a moment to think about his feelings on the matter. His chest tightens as the memories of that day flicker back. In the beginning he was extremely anxious and terrified—he remembers sitting stiffly, barely able to breathe, his fingers twisting together until the knuckles burned. He even said so to Euphemia and Fleamont.
But, as the parent-teacher conferences rolled on, going to each teacher and hearing what they had to say, Regulus had grown less fearful and more relaxed. The tension had loosened bit by bit, his breathing becoming easier.
Recently, Laura has been making him work on reflecting on all the emotions he experienced from start to finish. It’s been hard, he will admit—he hates putting words to feelings, hates dragging them into the open where they can be looked at—but he’s getting there, slowly.
“At first I was scared,” Regulus admits, capping the lid on the yellow marker he was using. His fingers tremble slightly as the cap clicks shut. He shuffles the page on the coffee table contemplatively, glancing up to meet Laura’s gaze. Her eyes are steady, patient. “I was upset. I told the P— Effie and Monty why.”
Laura nods, urging him to continue, and he does, after a moment. “Umm,” he mumbles, feeling his anxiety rise in his chest like a tide. It presses against his ribs. He exhales sharply, trying to push his anxiety down, but it clings stubbornly to him. “I told the— Effie and Monty that a previous foster family used what my teachers had to say about me as ammunition to get me kicked out.”
He can feel his body relax slightly as the words spill out, like opening a release valve. He knows talking about it will help make him feel better, but talking about it still feels uncomfortable, like dragging sharp glass across his tongue. “My… my parents used to punish me for my behaviour whenever my teacher mentioned it at those conferences.”
Regulus pauses, trying to piece together his next train of thought. His hands fidget with the corner of the paper, folding it against itself. That is, until Laura cuts in.
“Sounds like you associated parent-teacher conferences with negative outcomes.”
He lets her words sink in, before nodding. If he really thinks about it, if he digs down deep inside his brain, searching for one specific scenario, the situation almost always ends up the same.
Regulus thinks, briefly, that if he didn’t have such a negative association to these parent-teacher conferences, then he wouldn’t be feeling such complex feelings.
“Yeah,” he mumbles out. The word barely escapes him. Silence falls between them, as Regulus continues to colour in the colouring page in front of him. The marker squeaks faintly against the paper, filling in the space with uneven patches of colour.
Neither Laura nor Regulus speak. The sound of scribbling from pen to page is the only thing heard around the room, mingling with the faint hum of the air conditioner.
Regulus suspects it’s because Laura’s giving him some time to process their conversation and also to find another point of contention in his mind.
The words tumble from his lips before he can give them a second thought.
“I didn’t know how I was going to introduce Effie and Monty to my teachers.”
The admission is rather placated, but still has the same effect it did when he first admitted it to Sarah. A warm, fuzzy feeling grows inside his chest, replacing the suspiciously infectious anxiety. It grows and grows, warming him from head to toe, until he shifts uncomfortably on the couch just to keep it from overflowing.
“What do you mean?” Laura asks, suspiciously—not in a ‘I know you’ve done something wrong,’ way, but in a ‘I think I know what’s going on,’ way.
Regulus sighs, tossing the marker back into the container. The clatter echoes in the quiet room, sounding much louder than it should. “It’s just… calling them ‘the Potters’ doesn’t sit right with me. Not anymore.”
Laura tilts her head, in that silent way that means she wants him to explain something before she asks questions.
He bites his lip, chewing on it nervously. The words fall from his lips before he can stop them. “When I say, ‘the Potters’ the word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, like it’s unnatural.” Regulus sighs again, staring down at the colouring page in front of him. The lines blur slightly as his eyes sting. “I don’t know what to call them, apart from their names. My social worker said I should try talking to them, but—”
“You’re scared to,” Laura says, filling in Regulus’s sentence.
Regulus nods, relief and dread tangling together in his chest, and Laura sighs. She’s silent for a moment, searching his gaze, before saying: “Have you ever considered the possibility that maybe those words don’t feel right, is because you view them differently?”
Regulus cocks his head in confusion, staring blankly at Laura. He studies her face, her expression one he can’t quite read. His hands curl tighter around the paper in front of him.
Has he ever considered that maybe he views them differently?
For one, he has no idea what she’s talking about. And two, does she mean like… from their foster parent status?
“What do you mean,” is all he’s able to manage out, his voice barely above a whisper.
Laura looks at him—her eyes hold something he doesn’t understand. “What I mean is,” she says, shifting in her chair so she’s sitting upright. “Have you ever considered that maybe their not your foster parents anymore? That maybe they might be your… parents?”
The word hits him square in the chest, leaving him momentarily breathless.
Parents. Has he ever thought of them as his parents? No. Not until… well… now.
“You should still talk to them, Regulus,” Laura says, snapping Regulus from his processing mind. She looks a little guilty—guilty, for forcing him to think about this perpetual disaster.
Yet, it doesn’t feel perpetual. It doesn’t feel disastrous. It feels almost… normal.
And that scares the crap out of him.
***
Regulus has done little thinking on how he feels about the Potters—about Effie and Monty—being his parents. The thought has been hovering at the edges of his mind ever since Laura planted it there, stubborn as a splinter, but he hasn’t dared press down on it too hard.
He realises he shouldn’t be shocked by Laura’s suggestion, yet for some reason he still is. The memory of her steady gaze still clings to him, and the words still echo—like she’d peeled something raw and private out of him he hadn’t even known was there.
The way she had said it, the way she had asked him to consider the possibility that Effie and Monty are his… Mum and—no, he doesn’t think he’s ready for that yet. Even thinking the word feels too large for him, too sharp-edged, as if saying it aloud would slice something inside him open.
But regardless, no matter how unready he feels to even think about saying that to them, the idea that they are his parents had come so naturally, so normally, he would’ve almost believed they were. The thought slid into his chest with frightening ease, as if it had always been waiting there for him to notice.
Except… there’s part of him that isn’t ready. That isn’t ready to let go of his mother and father. The words alone—mother, father—are barbed, heavy things, but they’re still his. As much as the idea of referring to Effie and Monty as his parents appeals, he already has parents—terrible ones, yes, but still. Still, the shadow of them clings to him, sour and unshakable.
And yet, there’s another part of him that begs. That pleads with him to do it. That demands he replace his mother and father with the picture-perfect piece of Effie and Monty, like his chest itself is split into two voices—one clinging, one yearning.
It’s a feeling he’s never experienced before, a pull so unfamiliar it makes him restless, and one he’d like to talk about with someone—anyone—who might actually listen.
Tonight, Regulus is sitting on Euphemia and Fleamont’s bed. The quilt beneath him smells faintly of lavender detergent, soft under his palms. They’re getting ready for bed, but neither of them seem to mind that he’s in their room, rambling about the novel he’s reading in English. His legs bounce restlessly, his hands flutter as he speaks, the story spilling out of him like water finally finding a crack.
Euphemia and Fleamont shuffle in and out of their bathroom, showering and brushing their teeth, moving in easy harmony, while Regulus raves about the novel. He tells them about how, at first, he thought it was going to be boring, another dull assignment, but in actuality, the story is rather intriguing.
He leans forward, animated, explaining that it’s about a boy who is sent to a camp. A camp run by a director who only cares about money—how the man forces the kids to dig holes as punishment. His voice quickens as he goes, tracing the injustice and the mystery, the book suddenly alive in his hands.
They listen. They always listen. Never once stopping to tell him to shut up, never rolling their eyes, never ordering him out. They simply listen with care, their attention steady, their expressions softened with intrigue. They look at him like his words matter.
A thought—strategic, sly as it comes—pops into his mind. He wonders what they’re thinking about as they watch him. He wonders if maybe, maybe, they’re thinking about how in awe they are of him. Of their son.
The thought scorches his cheeks with heat, a blush blooming, but he pushes through it, stubborn, continuing to rant about the novel. Until, mid-sentence, the words falter on his tongue. He stops abruptly.
Regulus blinks, disoriented, glancing around the room as though waking from a trance. The walls press closer in his mind, the cozy space turning suddenly foreign. He shouldn’t be in here. This is their room. Their private place. He’s invading, trespassing, sitting on their bed and spewing words while they’re trying to wind down for the night.
“Regulus?” Euphemia asks curiously, her voice light but carrying concern, snapping him out of the spiral. “You were saying?”
He bites his lip hard, tearing his gaze from her. She’s half-dressed, tugging on her pajama pants, and guilt twists in his stomach. He’s embarrassed—humiliated—to even be here. This is their space. One that should only be imposed upon by their real son. Not him. Not their fake one.
“Love?” she probes again, more gently this time, tentatively, as if she can sense the way his mind is gnawing at itself. When he dares glance at her again, Euphemia’s giving him that knowing look, the one that always sees too much. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Regulus shrinks back in on himself, shoulders curling forward. His fingers worry at each other, twisting and untwisting, as his eyes drop to his lap. “Is this normal?” he finally blurts, settling on those words, the question clawing at him.
“What?” Fleamont’s voice is muffled, slightly incoherent. Regulus looks up and catches sight of him in the bathroom mirror, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, hair damp and curling from the shower. He spits the toothpaste into the sink, wipes his mouth. “What’s normal, bud?”
Regulus blinks owlishly, then drops his gaze again. He shrugs, like the answer should be obvious, but forces himself to say it aloud anyway. “Me. Being in here, whilst you’re trying to get ready for bed.” His throat tightens, but he pushes through. “Isn’t that more reserved for… y’know, James?”
The air in the room stills. Both of them pause, staring at him with confusion plain as day. For a heartbeat, the silence roars in his ears.
“I mean…” he tries again, voice thin, frustrated with himself. “I’m encroaching on your privacy. Isn’t that meant more for James, because well… he’s your real kid?”
The last words come out wavering, barely holding. It feels like cracking glass, admitting it. Saying aloud what he’s always known—that he’s the stand-in, the temporary, the foster kid.
Both of them just look at him, their expressions caught somewhere between shock and heartbreak. Regulus feels heat crawl up his neck, shame prickling at his skin like nettles. He must have said the wrong thing—maybe for them it’s wrong, but not for him.
“Oh, love,” Euphemia breathes, her voice breaking—not for herself, but for him. She crosses the room in two swift steps, sits down in front of him, takes his hands in hers. Her palms are warm, steady. “You are our son, okay?”
Regulus nods quickly, showing he’s listening, though his chest is suddenly too tight. Her words burrow in, dangerous and tempting. His chest warms at her calling him their son, and he hates and loves the feeling all at once.
“You’re allowed to talk to us about whatever’s on your mind,” she continues, her voice soft but sure, “no matter where we are. We’re always listening. Got it?”
He nods again, feeling a little steadier.
The bed dips on his other side as Fleamont sits down, his presence solid and grounding. He takes one of Regulus’s hands too, sandwiching it between his larger ones. “If you’re really feeling embarrassed sitting here whilst we get ready for bed, don’t be. We went swimming that one time, remember? That’s basically the same thing.”
A startled giggle escapes Regulus at Fleamont’s ridiculous attempt at humour, but the tension in his chest loosens.
Fleamont grins, pleased, then spreads his arms wide in invitation. Regulus leans in, letting himself be gathered up, though the hug is cut short—because a moment later Euphemia swats at Fleamont’s shoulder, hard.
“Fleamont,” she scolds, her tone sharp but teasing. “Go put some clothes on before hugging people. God.”
Fleamont gasps dramatically, clutching at his towel like a maiden affronted. “I’m in a towel, Euphemia.” But he stands anyway, still chuckling.
Euphemia tsks at him, eyes sparkling. “He always does this,” she tells Regulus with mock exasperation. “So annoying.”
“Hey!” Fleamont’s indignant protest from the bathroom sends both Regulus and Euphemia into helpless laughter, their voices bouncing off the walls until Regulus’s stomach aches.
When the laughter subsides, Regulus finds himself blurting another question, one that’s been gnawing at him for days. “Can I still sleep in your bed?” he asks carefully, hesitantly. “I know I’m twelve, but—”
“Of course you can,” Fleamont answers instantly, no hesitation. His reassurance washes over Regulus, warm and steady. “We don’t mind you crawling into our bed when you need to, bub.” His tone is gentle, coaxing, as if trying to shift something in Regulus’s head. “We know you have reasons as to why you need us, and even if there weren’t… it wouldn’t matter. We don’t care.”
Regulus exhales shakily. The switch inside his brain doesn’t flip, not yet, but Fleamont seems to notice. He leans in, presses a firm kiss to Regulus’s forehead. “We’ll reassure you,” he promises softly. “No matter how many times we need to say it. We’ll always say it, until you don’t need to hear it anymore.”
Euphemia smiles at him then, tender and unwavering, and Regulus lets Fleamont’s words sink in. Grateful doesn’t cover it. Their constancy is a balm he never knew he’d need.
He’s relaxed and comfortable now, the edges of his walls softened. The safety of their presence lets his tongue loosen, and before he can stop himself, his mouth sprinkles out the first thought in his head.
“I refer to you as the Potters.”
The words catch their attention like a hook. Both of them turn, confusion flickering across their faces. Regulus feels his cheeks flame, heat climbing his neck, but he knows he has to explain.
“I’m not too sure where you’re going with this, buddy,” Fleamont admits cautiously.
Regulus expected that. He braces himself and continues. “Well… it’s just… I refer to my foster parents as their last names.” He risks a glance at them, but neither of them flinch or stiffen. Their expressions stay open, patient, like they’ve heard their last name paired with ‘foster parents’ before. “And, well, recently, saying your last name has left a funny taste in my mouth.”
The moment the words leave his lips, the room changes. It doesn’t explode, it doesn’t crumble—rather, it stills. Like everything has gone perfectly, terrifyingly quiet.
Regulus’s heart pounds hard against his ribs. He knows exactly what his words imply, what they mean. His eyes flick back and forth between Euphemia and Fleamont, searching for a sign, dread settling low in his chest.
The tension hangs heavy—not hostile, not angry, but anticipatory. Like they’ve been waiting for this.
“We don’t mind,” Euphemia says at last, her voice gentle but steady, cutting through the silence. She smiles, warm and unshaken. “We’re happy for you to call us ‘the Potters’ or your foster parents, sweetheart. Whatever works for you.”
It’s not the answer he wants—not at all. But he understands it. He can see what they’re doing, how carefully they’re letting him steer the pace. It stings, a little, that they won’t just hand him the answer he secretly craves. But he gets it. He does.
He just wishes—wishes so desperately—that they’d give him the words he wants. Not freedom. Not a choice. Just certainty.
***
It’s like he’s attached himself to her like glue. He’s stuck to her, he hasn’t really left her side in days—hasn’t really left her side since the parent-teacher conferences, if he’s being sustainably honest. The thought makes him both embarrassed and oddly relieved; his feet seem to follow her without his permission, his shoulder brushing hers whenever they walk, as though distance itself feels unsafe.
Really, Regulus thinks it’s the most he’s been around a person. He worries that Euphemia may get bored of his company, that she’ll grow tired of the shadow he’s become. But when he risks quick glances at her—at her steady smile, the brightness in her eyes, the light hum of contentment she gives when he hovers nearby—he believes she enjoys his company.
Which is rather refreshing to see because Regulus remembers how his mother used to look at him whenever he attached himself to her. How she tried to physically pry him off her, fingers digging cruelly into his arms until he let go. How she used to dump him onto Sirius, as if Regulus were a nuisance, making him believe she didn’t love him.
Which, Sirius told him wasn’t true. Their mother did love him, just… differently.
Regulus was okay with that.
Now? Now he sees things can be different. He sees the way things are meant to be. What a relationship between a mother and son is supposed to look like. Safety. Patience. Warmth that doesn’t vanish the second you cling to it.
“Oh,” Euphemia says one morning whilst making breakfast. The scent of frying eggs and butter lingers in the kitchen, warm and filling. Regulus is helping her at the counter, carefully stacking slices of toast on a plate, when he turns to see what she’s looking at. There stood James, in the doorway to the kitchen. His hair… “You need a haircut… desperately.”
Regulus could feel himself snicker at her comment, the laugh bubbling up before he could stop it. James’s dark brown hair really does look dreadful that morning. It sticks up in every direction, almost as if he had just rolled out of bed. And judging by the wide yawn James lets out, Regulus thinks it’s safe to say, he really had.
“Oi!” James mumbles out, sleepily, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “My hair isn’t that bad.”
Euphemia gives James an unimpressed look, her lips pressed thin, which James immediately slumps under. He mutters something like “fine,” as he stomps his way towards the front door, where he left his shoes the day before, every step heavy and sulking.
Regulus turns back to Euphemia, only to find her gaze now directed at him. She studies him with the same thoughtful scrutiny, her eyes sweeping over the mess of his own dark hair. A frown forms on her lips as she takes in his appearance. “I think it’s time you get one too, lovely,” is all she says, her voice sickly sweet in that way Regulus enjoys, sugar spun into every syllable.
So, that’s how Regulus ends up here. Standing in front of the barber shop, with his hand in Euphemia’s, her grip light but steady. Fleamont, James, and Sirius are somewhere behind them, voices muffled as they bicker about soccer, but Regulus’s gaze stays locked on the shop in front of him. The glass door gleams with streaks of sunlight, but he can already imagine the sound of buzzing razors inside, and his stomach clenches.
Stepping inside, he immediately gets the ick. The air smells faintly of aftershave and disinfectant. His grip on Euphemia’s hand tightens, bone-aching tight, as the sharp, metallic hum of razors echoes around the tiled room, going straight through his skull. A shiver runs down his spine as his hearing—unhelpfully—amplifies, tenfold, every snip and buzz scraping at his nerves.
“Hello,” the barber says. He has a blue mohawk, which, in any other circumstance, Regulus would question with an arched brow. “Who do we have today?”
It’s almost like Euphemia has a sixth sense when it comes to Regulus needing a moment, because instead of nudging him forward, she gently pushes James ahead toward the barber.
“This here, is James,” Euphemia replies with a smile. The barber gives her a curt nod, before turning towards James and gesturing to the chair.
Euphemia squeezes Regulus’s hand then, grounding him, pulling him back from where he was staring at James and the barber. When he looks up at her, she simply presses his stuffed black dog into his free hand, without a single question.
Regulus feels like he might generally start crying at the level of care, the foresight, Euphemia poses. She knew, somehow, deep down, this might be overwhelming—stressful, even, for him. She knew what she needed to bring in order to provide him the best comfort possible.
But nothing can compare to her.
No comfort item in the world, no noise-cancelling headphones, not even Sirius, can ever compare to what Euphemia has to offer. To the level of safety and stability she radiates without even trying.
“So,” the barber’s gruff voice tears Regulus from his thoughts. “What style of haircut did you have in mind?”
Regulus is completely taken aback by the question the barber asks James. What’s even more confusing to him is that James seems comfortable in answering, casual, like it’s normal.
He was never allowed to choose his own haircut. His mother always made sure her sons were the picture-perfect family, polished dolls for her to display. Regulus finds it ironic how that picture-perfect family crumbled behind closed doors—or, at least, that’s what Sirius said once.
Regulus turns back to Euphemia, eyebrows raised, his chest tight with a nervous, hopeful ache. He desperately wants to know if he can get his own hair cut the way he wants it.
“Effie,” he says, his voice low, tugging gently on her hand. She peers down at him with a smile that softens her whole face.
“Yes, love?” she asks, her tone curious. Regulus bites his lip, before glancing back at James and the barber. The barber has already started trimming James’s hair to the way he likes it, hair falling in soft clumps to the floor.
“Can I get whatever style I want too?” Regulus questions, nervously, his voice hesitant as he spoke.
Glancing back at Euphemia, Regulus finds she is looking at him curiously, almost confused as to what he means.
“Of course,” she says, her confusion evident in her tone. “Why do you ask?”
Regulus shrugs, glancing back at James to watch the barber work. “My mother always chose for me,” he says, like it’s normal to have parents constantly make decisions for their children. “She wanted Sirius and I to always look perfect.”
Euphemia hums, taking in the information. “Well,” she says, sweetly. “You can choose. You can always choose, unless Monty and I say otherwise.”
The level of freedom she’s giving him makes him both ecstatic and overwhelmed. Decisions, when he makes them for himself, tend to feel too big, too heavy. That’s why he was never really too bothered with his mother choosing what he wore, how he dressed, how he presented himself. Every last detail was chosen for him.
Now, Regulus is getting the freedom to choose?
He’s excited to say the least, but also nervous.
Regulus thinks he doesn’t really have to be, not with Euphemia there with him. She’ll know when things are too much. She’ll know when to step in and when to hold back.
“Hi, can I help you? Or, are you waiting?”
Another barber asks. She has brown hair—short, like a boy’s cut—and tattoos lining her neck, vines with intricate leaf patterns curling across her skin, which Regulus deems intriguing and oddly calming to study.
“Ah no, we’re not waiting,” Euphemia replies, politely.
“Perfect,” the barber says, gesturing them forward.
Regulus’s heart races slightly as he makes his way over towards the chair. His black dog is clutched tightly to his chest, as he hauls himself up onto the seat, the vinyl squeaking faintly under his weight.
He glances at Euphemia, nervously, as the barber begins to prep him for the cut. She drapes a small towel over the back of his neck, then another sheet thing, the fabric cool and scratchy against his skin.
“He’s a bit sensitive to sounds and touch,” Euphemia supplies to the barber, as the barber gathers her equipment.
The barber nods. “Okay, so, scissors?” she asks, the question directed at him. Regulus nods without speaking, throat too tight for words.
“Would you like Mum to stay?” The barber asks, seeming to notice the obvious edge of his anxiety.
Regulus blushes at what the barber said, but nods carefully, nonetheless. When he glances back at Euphemia to gauge her reaction, he notices nothing abnormal about her expression.
Maybe she didn’t hear what the barber had said, or, didn’t really care to react. Regardless, Regulus can’t stop thinking about the barber’s mistake.
Can it really be considered a mistake when the idea of Effie being called his Mum makes his heart soar?
***
“We went to the barber’s, yesterday,” Regulus begins talking before he’s even stepped foot into the room. The words tumble out fast, like he’s been holding them in all morning, waiting for someone to hear them. “To get haircuts.”
“Is that so?” Laura asks, closing the door with a muted click that makes Regulus flinch. She crosses the carpet with the slow ease of someone who doesn’t want to startle, sinking into the armchair across from the couch where Regulus sits. He nods, stiff, his shoulders curling slightly inward, which causes Laura to continue. “How was it?”
“Good,” he answers, his voice clipped, almost too casual. His fingers, restless, find interest at the hem of his shirt. The fabric twists between them, rolling and unrolling. He stares down at his lap, watching the way his nails catch on the threads, pulling them loose, as if unravelling might help him focus.
“Did something happen?” Laura probes, carefully, curiously, like it’s her job too. Well, it is her job, isn’t it?
Regulus shrugs, the motion small, shoulders jerking up once. His eyes flicker from his lap to Laura’s steady gaze. “Not anything bad,” he admits, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. The rapidly cooling temperature makes his lips dry, cracking under the pressure.
“Okay.” Laura nods, her voice patient, urging him forward without cornering him.
He sighs, lightly, almost as if it leaks out of him without permission. “The barber mistook Effie as my Mum.” He pauses there, testing the weight of the word as it leaves him, rolling it over in his mouth silently after it’s spoken. His chest tightens at the sound. “Effie didn’t seem to have much of a reaction.”
Laura hums, tilting her head, eyeing him carefully. “And, how did that make you feel?”
She’s careful in the way she asks, probably remembering last week and how she’d accidentally made his brain stutter to a halt, sending him spiraling when she suggested the Potters could be his parents.
“I…” He lets out a small whine in frustration, a pitiful sound that slips out before he can bite it back, before admitting defeat. “I don’t know.” Regulus is honest in his answer, which seems to be enough for Laura.
Because honestly, he doesn’t know how he feels about it. He doesn’t know how to let his mind weave its way around the idea. He doesn’t even know if he wants to try.
It shouldn’t be difficult, Regulus concludes with himself after a moment. It shouldn’t be difficult to express his feelings on the matter. He’s clever, articulate, capable. And yet—somehow, it is. Somehow he still doesn’t know how he should feel about it. How he should act.
The information is numbing in every direction, as though he’s circling the feeling with blades of different sizes, stabbing from different angles, but nothing cuts deep enough to pierce it, to spill it open.
Later, Regulus is half asleep when Euphemia tucks him into bed. The room is warm, soft shadows climbing up the walls from the lamplight. She carefully pulls the blankets up around him, cocooning him, tucking them under his chin and around his shoulders until he feels contained, safe. His brain is halfway into dreams when he feels the press of her lips against his forehead—gentle, delicate, impossibly loving.
“Goodnight, darling,” she whispers, her voice almost inaudible, a fragile thread in the quiet. And yet, even in his half-asleep state, he still manages to catch it. “I love you.”
He exhales sharply. The three simple, yet enormous words echo around in his skull. They bounce, reverberate, strike against the walls of his chest like they’re trying to break out. He hears the door click shut behind her, but the words stay.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
His brain seems to catch up, although slowly. The weight of them lands, solid and heavy. He bolts upright in bed, sleep instantly scattered like dust.
Did he hear that correctly? Did Effie just say she… loves him?
No, no, that mustn’t be correct. He must’ve misheard, must’ve filled in the blanks with a desperate wish. But the thought gnaws at him, chews at his insides, begging him to check, to confirm, to chase down the truth before it slips away.
He pushes himself out of bed, barefoot padding across the floor, a shiver trailing down his spine at the cool air. He doesn’t knock when he reaches Euphemia and Fleamont’s door. He can’t. He needs to know now. He pushes it open, finds them sitting upright in bed, reading side by side.
Euphemia glances at him, her face shifting into soft confusion as he approaches. Neither says a word when he climbs into the bed and into her lap, curling against her without hesitation. His eyes search hers—those warm, soft hazel eyes—looking for confirmation, for answers.
Her arms come up around him, gentle, steady. Concern shades her expression. “Is everything alright, love?”
Regulus swallows, a lump rising in his throat, tightening painfully. He shakes his head, words tangling, uncertain.
She waits. She always waits. Patient, letting him find the words.
“Did you…” He bites his lip, glancing between Euphemia and Fleamont, then back again. “Did I hear you correctly?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but he knows she hears.
Her head tilts slightly. “You mean, when I said… I love you?”
The care, the warmth, the love tucked inside those words—it crashes into him like a wave, leaving him trembling. Tears pool before he can stop them, blurring his sight.
He whimpers, high and broken, as the sting in his eyes intensifies. He burrows closer, pressing his head to her shoulder.
Regulus sniffles. “I’ve never…” His breath hitches, uneven. “My parents never said that—especially my mother.”
The words are muffled against the crook of her neck, but she must hear them, because her hold tightens, grounding him. The love in her embrace is enough to make him unravel.
He sobs, uncontrollably, letting everything spill out in waves—years of quiet, years of never hearing those words. And Euphemia just holds him, saying nothing, letting him empty himself until sleep finally takes him.
Something his mother never did.
The next day, the sky is overcast but still bright, pale sunlight breaking through the thin veil of clouds. Regulus walks with James toward the field, excitement humming in his skin like a low current. Another game, another chance to play. The cool autumn breeze makes him shiver, raising goosebumps along his arms.
“Sweetheart,” Euphemia calls out behind him. He turns, tilts his head slightly in silent question. She smiles, warm and amused, before pointing to his feet. “Your shoelaces.”
Oh. He hadn’t noticed. No big deal. He crouches down, fingers deft as he begins to tie them.
“Thanks, Mum,” he mumbles absently, tying the first shoe with practiced ease, without even thinking.
And then—
It hits him.
The word is out before he realizes. It lingers in the air, in his mouth, heavier than anything he’s ever said. Mum.
He freezes, halfway to the second shoe, blood rushing in his ears. His head snaps up, panic flaring in his chest. Euphemia, thankfully, isn’t there. She’s already walked ahead.
The word echoes in his mind. Mum. He hadn’t even thought about it. No preparation, no permission—just spoken as if it belonged to him. As if she belonged to him.
He quickly ties the other shoe, his fingers clumsy now, shaking with the weight of the slip. His chest feels too tight, like panic is bubbling up, pressing against his ribs. He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t thought he ever would .
There should have been signs, right? Big, flashing neon lights, some warning that the word was coming. But there wasn’t. It just… happened. And he doesn’t know how to feel.
Well—he knows one thing, as his gaze darts across the field and lands on Euphemia’s familiar figure.
It was bound to happen at some point. He supposes now is probably a good time.
Why not, right?
Notes:
Word Count: 10,513
Published: 2025-08-22I do apologise if this chapter seems a bit flip-floppy. I enjoyed writing it, so I do hope you enjoyed reading it. In saying that, I hope everyone is picking up what I'm putting down, yes?
The existential crisis is real, yo.
Chapter 39: Revelations Come in Small Waves
Summary:
Sirius has always been one of (or, more accurately) his biggest supporters. When Regulus comes to a startling realization that changes his world view—one that shifts his life on its axis—he quite literally goes to everybody he can think of to help him figure things out.
But, his one fear throughout this entire process remains: How is Sirius going to react?
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
He has no idea what he’s meant to think.
Like, generally, how does he even begin to unravel this latest discovery? Is it even possible?
And, to top it all off, how in God’s name is he even meant to be feeling? Happy? Sad? Gleeful?
He doesn’t know.
Regulus sighs, pressing his head against the cool glass of the car window, staring blankly out at the rushing landscape. Trees smear into one another, houses flick past, the world refusing to pause. The world is constantly moving, and Regulus feels his has completely shifted.
His soccer match went well, somehow, despite how far in his head he’d been. They won, which is all that mattered, really.
Bellatrix had come to watch. Now she was in the car with them, on her way to the Potters’ for lunch. A strange comfort edges around Regulus at that thought. Maybe he could try talking to Bella. Maybe she could help him deal with whatever this is, whatever he’s feeling. It seems like the smartest choice.
Later, he’s in the kitchen, helping—or more like hovering—while Euphemia and Fleamont move with an easy rhythm, chopping and stirring. The clatter of utensils, the warm smell of roasting chicken, it should be soothing. Instead, it only makes him feel like a stranger trespassing in someone else’s harmony.
The doorbell rings. Regulus volunteers instantly, almost too quickly, blurting “I’ll get it” before either Potter can.
Opening the door, he’s relieved—truly relieved—to see Bellatrix there. She’s smiling at him, in that slightly crooked way of hers, as though she already knows something’s wrong.
“You alright?” she asks immediately, sharp eyes flicking over his face. Regulus shrugs, glancing away. How is he even supposed to tell her?
She must sense something’s bubbling beneath the surface, because she takes his hand without hesitation. Her grip is firm, grounding. “You wanna talk about it?”
Regulus nods, almost before he realises it, tugging her inside, pulling her away before he can change his mind. His urgency surprises him. He doesn’t stop dragging her until they’re upstairs, until they’re in his room.
She looks around curiously, a wide smile tugging at her lips. “I like it,” she says, gesturing vaguely. Her tone is amazed, almost wistful. “It really suits you.”
Heat rises in his cheeks. “Thanks,” he mumbles, sinking onto the edge of his bed. His palms won’t stay still. They’re trembling against his knees, damp with a light sheen of sweat.
“So,” Bellatrix says, sitting next to him. Her voice softens. “What’s bothering you?”
Regulus stares at his hands, chewing his lip until it hurts. “Well,” he starts slowly, after a long silence. “I… I guess I didn’t really mean to say it—” He glances up, searching her face. She hums, urging him gently to continue. “I mean… it just slipped out, really.”
Her brows knit. “What slipped out?”
Regulus exhales hard, exhausted by the weight of even speaking. “Effie pointed out I hadn’t done up my shoelaces.” His eyes go wide, panic pressing tight against his ribs again. “So I did them up and I guess I said ‘thanks, mum,’ to her.”
The words sound ridiculous out loud. Too big, too loud. Like they echo through the air.
Bellatrix studies him. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. His thoughts spiral endlessly, clawing at every edge of meaning, until he feels dizzy.
At last, she nods. “Okay,” she breathes, voice steady. “I’m not too sure what to say here, Reg,” she admits quietly.
Regulus nods too, relief mixed with dread. Of course she doesn’t know what to say. He wouldn’t either.
“But,” she cuts across his spiral, voice firmer now, “what I can say is that it’s okay.”
He blinks at her, confused. She squeezes his waist, pulling him in. He leans automatically, unfamiliar with this kind of affection from her, but not rejecting it.
“Regulus,” she whispers. Her eyes hold something new—understanding, maybe even care. “It’s okay to call Effie your mum.”
Her tone is soft, fragile, as though she’s giving him permission to breathe.
“You’re allowed to call her mum. I know what you’re feeling can’t be easy. Honestly? I’m surprised you haven’t called her that sooner.” She chuckles, a light sound, easing the edge.
His lips twitch, the weight in his chest lightening slightly.
“She didn’t actually hear me say it,” he admits.
“Probably for the better,” Bellatrix says, not unkindly. “Gives you more time to think about it, hmm?”
She squeezes him harder, squishing him closer until a giggle bursts out of him, unbidden. He buries his face against her shoulder, arms wrapping around her.
He sighs. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, brushing it off. “Though I didn’t really do much. Sorry I couldn’t help more.”
“You’ve helped plenty,” Regulus says quickly, shaking his head.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Because she had. She’d made him realise that maybe—it was okay. That maybe calling Effie “mum” didn’t mean he was betraying anyone, or ruining anything. Maybe it just meant what it meant.
That night, he tosses and turns in bed. His thoughts won’t stop racing.
It’s all he can think about: the way the words slipped from his mouth so easily. “Thanks, mum.” Like he’d been saying it his whole life. Like it was natural.
But it can’t be natural. He’s only known Effie and Monty for four months. That isn’t enough time. That can’t be enough time.
And yet… he remembers the bitter taste in his mouth whenever he calls them “the Potters.” As though the words don’t quite fit. But “mum”—that had felt… right. Too right.
His skin crawls. His chest tightens. He can’t lie here anymore. He throws back his blankets, feet hitting the cold floor, pushing himself toward the door before he can think better of it.
He just wants Effie. Wants her to hold him, wants her warmth, her steady presence. That usually calms the noise in his head.
The door clicks shut behind him. His own breathing sounds loud in the hallway. When he slips into their room, he sees they’re still up, the lamplight painting soft gold across the walls.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” Euphemia says warmly, looking up. “You alright?”
Her lips move, but Regulus doesn’t hear the words. The sound fuzzes, like cotton stuffed in his ears.
His heart kicks against his ribs, faster, harder. His body starts to tremble as realisation sets in. His mind is racing because of her. Because of Euphemia.
He’s both inside and outside himself at once—detached, floating, but trapped in a body he can’t escape. His breaths rasp, shallow and ragged.
This was a mistake. Coming here was a mistake.
Something heavy settles on his shoulders. His vision snaps back into place enough to see hazel eyes, kneeling in front of him—wide, worried—fixed on him.
Effie.
A broken whimper claws its way out of his throat, startling him. His vision blurs with tears, hot and insistent, flooding no matter how hard he blinks. His entire body shakes uncontrollably.
He lets the tears spill, desperate to claw his way back into his skin. But he feels wrong, distant, as if his soul slipped half an inch out of place. It’s terrifying.
Slowly—painfully slowly—his breathing steadies. His chest still heaves, but the rhythm begins to even. His limbs feel heavy as he sinks back into himself, the ground no longer tilting beneath him.
The first thing he really hears is Euphemia’s voice, low and careful. “Love? You there?”
Regulus hums faintly, his head barely tipping in a nod. It’s enough.
Euphemia guides him carefully toward the bed, ushering him forward slowly, as if he might fall over at any given moment.
Fleamont shifts to make space, his warm smile patient, arms opening in invitation. Regulus crawls toward him, curling against his chest. Fleamont’s arms close tightly around him, protective, like he’s afraid to ever let go.
Euphemia turns off the lamp, then slides in on his other side. Her arm slips beneath his head, the other draping across his waist, fingers combing gently through his hair.
The room quiets, the only sound that echoes around the room is that of their shared breathing. Shame burns behind his eyelids. He squeezes them shut.
“You wanna talk about what’s bothering you, love?” Euphemia asks softly, after a while.
He forces his eyes open. She’s watching him, face open and gentle.
“Can you tell us what’s wrong?” Fleamont asks, his voice low and calm, rumbling against Regulus’s back.
Regulus swallows, his throat raw. “I don’t know what happened,” he admits hoarsely. The lie tastes bitter. He’s almost certain Euphemia can see through it.
But if she does, she doesn’t push. “That’s okay, love,” she murmurs. “Just get some sleep now.”
And he does. Exhaustion pulls him under fast, cocooned in their warmth, their safety—things he never thought he’d find.
***
All he’s doing is sitting there. Just sitting. Nothing dramatic, nothing out of the ordinary. Yet his mind insists on betraying him, tugging him into chaos without asking permission.
Regulus can feel it, clear as day—the telltale signs of his anxiety beginning to spike for no good reason. His stomach twists, his skin prickles, his heart pounds far too fast for someone who hasn’t even moved.
Well, that’s a lie. He knows why his anxiety is skyrocketing through the roof of his science class. He knows exactly why. That doesn’t mean he has to dwell on it. Dwelling only makes the fire spread.
His hands have a slight shake to them, the tremor so small it’s almost invisible—but he feels it like an earthquake inside his bones. He’s quick to gather his belongings, clutching his books to his chest as if that might steady him. Pandora glances his way, noticing the sharp, rushed movements. Her eyes linger, but she doesn’t comment. She knows something’s wrong—of course she does—but she leaves him his silence.
Dark spots bloom at the corners of his vision, as though the classroom lights are flickering out one by one. His breaths come uneven and jerky, too shallow, too quick. Panic rises like bile in the back of his throat as he stumbles into the hallway, forcing his feet toward Ms. Carrington’s office.
He can’t do this today. He can’t push through the weight pressing down on his chest, can’t pretend his body isn’t on fire with nerves. It’s simply impossible.
And it’s not as though Euphemia and Fleamont ever force him to go to school when he’s not feeling well. In fact, they strongly encourage him to stay home when he isn’t one hundred percent. They’ve told him that countless times. If only he’d had the courage to admit it this morning, to say something out loud instead of swallowing it whole.
His legs feel clumsy, useless, by the time he stumbles into the guidance counselors’ shared office space. His mind fogs over, thoughts tangling and unravelling too fast to catch. The room feels too large, too bright, and yet somehow suffocating.
He shuffles over toward the seating area and drops into a chair like his body has given up on holding itself upright. His chest rises and falls far too quickly as he tries to force himself into calming down. He’s never been very good at this part—doing it by himself. He’s always had Sirius, or Effie, or even Monty, by his side, coaching him through the storm, pulling him back into his body. Now he has only silence.
The creak of a door opening startles him, makes an unfamiliar sort of fear climb his throat. He doesn’t know why, but the sound claws through him. He turns his head toward it, blinking through the haze.
His vision has mostly cleared now. The shape approaching resolves into Ms. Carrington, her careful steps bringing her closer until she kneels in front of him. Concern etches itself into every line of her face, and for some reason, that makes Regulus feel… important. Seen. Not like he wasn’t before, but in a way he doesn’t know how to describe.
Her hand settles over his, warm and steady against his clenched fists. She gives the gentlest squeeze, a grounding pressure that pulls him back from the brink.
The fog in his mind lifts slightly, like the first break in storm clouds. His thoughts still swirl, but not quite so violently. He can focus enough to see her small, warm smile.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Ms. Carrington’s voice is delicate, almost fragile, the way someone might speak to a wounded animal. The tone softens something sharp inside him, even if he can’t linger on it.
His body trembles, as though it’s too weak to hold in the words. They slip out reluctantly, each syllable jagged. “I— I— c- can f- f- feel a—” His stutter breaks the air, the rest of the words strangled by the dryness in his mouth.
His breaths come ragged again, hitching like his chest is a broken machine. Panic spreads, heavy and relentless.
But Ms. Carrington seems to understand anyway. Her features stay soft, patient in a way that steadies him more than his own efforts. “Would you like me to call Euphemia for you?”
The thought makes him jolt, shaking his head instantly. No. Not Euphemia. That’s the last thing he wants right now—the last thing he can manage. He can’t face her when she’s the root of this unravelling.
Ms. Carrington’s brows pinch, curiosity flickering over her face, but she doesn’t press. She only nods, as if she respects the boundary he can’t yet explain. “Fleamont it is, then.”
Relief loosens something in his chest. Not completely—but enough. She turns slightly to speak to someone outside the room, but she doesn’t move away from him, never breaks her presence. He’s grateful for that, though another part of him aches for a different kind of comfort.
Silence folds around them again, soft and oddly protective. Even with his thoughts still quaking inside him, the quiet dulls the edges, makes them just bearable.
“You wanna talk about it?” she asks, fearless in the face of his storm.
He tenses, bracing against the shame that instantly claws at him. She’ll think it’s stupid. How could she not? Still, the words squeeze out of him. “It’s stupid,” he mumbles, barely above a whisper.
She tilts her head, disbelief soft on her face. “It mustn’t be stupid if it’s causing you to go home.”
The words land deep in his chest, heavy with truth. She’s right, and he knows it.
Regulus sighs, tasting the bitterness of the confession before it even leaves him. “I’ve realised Euphemia is like a mum to me.” He falters, watching her carefully, afraid of the shift in her expression. “Or… is my mum.”
The silence that follows makes his heart stutter. Panic presses forward again, breath quickening, until she hums softly, like she’s heard confessions like this before—and worse. She’s a guidance counselor. She must have.
“Some things,” she says gently, her words pulling him back, “come naturally to some. For others, it takes time to adjust.”
He lets the words sink into him like stones. She isn’t finished.
“Change is hard, Regulus. But it’s worth it. Sometimes you’ve gotta let change happen, in order to succeed.”
He isn’t sure how that last part applies to him, but he doesn’t want to pick it apart. It’s enough that she said it.
And then Fleamont is there. He bursts into the office like the world is ending, his dark brown eyes wide, full of panic Regulus recognises as care. His chest warms at the sight, at the urgency in him.
Before he fully registers, he’s being ushered out, his bag already in Fleamont’s hand like it had always belonged there. He doesn’t complain. One less thing to carry. One less weight.
Fleamont’s movements are brisk, practiced, but tender in their own way. He buckles Regulus in, tugging at the seatbelt once, twice, to be sure. Regulus doesn’t even remember the last time he sat in the front seat, but the view here feels wider, freer.
The engine rumbles, carrying them away. Music hums low in the background, a quiet shield against the silence. Regulus exhales sharply, trying to push out the heavy air lodged in his chest.
At a red light, Fleamont glances his way. His expression is hard to read, but soft at the edges, gentle in a way that doesn’t demand anything of him.
“Is the reason you needed to be picked up have anything to do with what happened the other night?”
The question freezes him. His body locks, then slowly unwinds again, though not completely. He tears his gaze from Fleamont, staring instead at the blur of the world through the glass.
“It does,” he admits. The words release something in his chest, though not everything. The truth hovers on the edge of his tongue, too heavy to speak.
Fleamont hums, as though he’d expected it all along. Nothing else is said.
The rest of the drive is quiet, but it’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t suffocate. The word home settles inside his chest when they finally pull in, heavy with meaning he doesn’t want to look at too closely.
The jingle of Fleamont’s keys fills the stillness as he hangs them up. Regulus wonders for half a second where Euphemia is, but Fleamont answers before he asks—she’s out.
The breath leaves him in a rush, his body shedding tension he hadn’t realised he was holding. Fleamont notices, he’s sure of it, but says nothing.
“How about we watch a movie, huh?” Fleamont offers, brushing the freshly cut hair from his forehead as they step into the living room.
Regulus nods, the weight in his chest easing at the prospect of stillness. He sinks onto the couch, and when Fleamont sits beside him, he leans closer without hesitation. The warmth of his body seeps into Regulus, dissolving what’s left of the storm in his bones.
***
Listening has always been one of Regulus’s strong points—one of his best qualities, as Sirius so kindly puts it. It’s what he does best, listens.
And, sure, listening is good and all, but that doesn’t compare to what Regulus actually picks up whilst listening.
While people can deduce how someone feels by simply looking at their body language, or their facial expression, Regulus listens to the way someone’s tone falters, hoping to catch how they’re feeling.
Sometimes it works, other times it doesn’t. Regulus now knows why—he can’t always automatically pick up a person’s feelings. In that way, it sort of makes him feel better. His autism diagnosis explains a lot of things about him, things he thought were wrong. Abnormal.
So, imagine his surprise when his listening superpower comes in handy.
Regulus is at lunch, sitting in the library, surrounded by his friends. The thought alone makes him feel giddy. The soft murmur of other students, the scratch of pens on paper, the faint smell of fresh printer’s ink and old books all fade into the background because he’s here—with them. At his table. With his friends.
He’s not sure who said it, but when the word “mum” reaches his ears, it’s like a thread pulling taut inside him. His whole body reacts before his brain can catch up—he’s unable to contain everything he has to say.
“Did I tell you what happened on Saturday?”
His thoughts betray him, tumbling out too quickly. Regulus knows it’s rude to cut in when someone’s speaking, his stomach clenching at the realisation. Though, looking around at his friends, he realises they don’t mind. No one glares. No one looks annoyed.
“No,” Barty says, abruptly. Regulus assumes he must’ve been the one talking, because seconds later he seems intrigued by his words, immediately cutting himself off to let Regulus speak.
With Barty, he will somehow, always manage to get back to what he was originally saying, despite all the disruptions he faces.
“No,” he shakes his head, his deep blue eyes staring intently at him. Regulus shudders under the weight of Barty’s gaze, but doesn’t question it. “You haven’t.”
His tone, Regulus notices, is very obviously made out to be intrigued, enthusiastically inclined. That’s one of the things Regulus loves about his friend—that no matter what, Barty will always try to make Regulus feel how he’s feeling, going above and beyond. Becoming his most dramatic self, just so Regulus can understand.
Regulus feels a small smile tugging at his lips, unable to resist Barty’s charm, the effect making him feel happy. Accepted, even. His chest flutters with it. “Well,” he sighs, lightly, as he shifts in his seat, suddenly feeling incredibly uncomfortable under the sudden attention. His knee bounces beneath the table, fingers worrying at the edge of his sleeve. “Effie pointed out my shoes were untied and when I went to tie them, I said, ‘thanks mum.’”
All eyes are on him within an instant. Regulus feels a heat brush against his cheeks, a prickling warmth that spreads down his neck, but he powers through his steadily increasing heartrate.
“Yeah,” he stutters, feeling embarrassed as he swallows thickly. “I— I think she’s my mum. And… and… the feeling is overwhelming…” He trails off, glancing around the table, his eyes darting quickly between them, afraid of what he might see.
But everyone is looking at him with nothing but kindness, which eases some of the burden from his chest. His shoulders drop slightly, a sigh of relief slipping past his lips. His worries weren’t being immediately dismissed.
Not that his friends would do that, but sometimes Regulus worries they might.
“But,” he adds on, without thinking too much. The thought tugs insistently in his chest, desperately wanting to be acknowledged. “I feel somewhat at peace with that fact.”
Dorcas is the first to break the soft silence that encapsulates them, enchanting them. She hums, her head cocking ever so slightly to the side, a strand of dark hair falling into her face. “That’s perfectly normal,” she says, her voice just as soft and quiet as the silence.
“Yeah,” Evan breathes out, nodding, as if letting the weight off his chest too. “You’re allowed to think of Effie as your mum.”
“There’s no shame in admitting it, too,” Barty adds on to Evan’s words, delicately, which eases a weird sort of feeling in him. Like the thought of admitting Euphemia might be his mum—or rather, is his mum—shouldn’t be a shameful one.
“Is that why you suddenly left in science yesterday?” Pandora asks next, her hazel eyes twinkling with something he’s never seen before.
Regulus nods, which in turn, makes Pandora nod too. The knowledge settles between them, not being further explored.
He feels better, sitting here, with his friends. The air feels lighter. His chest feels less tight. And when Barty picks up right where he left off before Regulus’s interruption, Regulus feels better about the fact he’s associating Euphemia as his mum.
He’s at soccer practice that evening. The field smells faintly of grass and earth, the setting sun painting everything in orange-gold. Regulus is helping Frank pack up, picking up the cones scattered around the field, the cool plastic pressing against his palms as he hands them off.
Regulus isn’t too sure why he has the sudden urge to talk to Frank, but the words leave his lips without him even thinking about it.
“Frank?”
Regulus questions, hesitantly. His voice is quiet, almost lost to the breeze, but Frank’s head immediately snaps towards him. His eyebrows raise in a sort of shock, but he only nods, showing he’s listening.
“Do you know that Effie and Monty, especially Effie, refer to me as their son?”
Frank seems startled at the question, but nods nonetheless. His mouth parts like a fish, which makes Regulus giggle a little, a nervous little sound bubbling out before he can stop it.
“Yes, I do know Effie calls you her son.” A small smirk ticks up on Frank’s face. The reassurance pleases Regulus, warming his chest, but Frank continues. “Why do you ask?”
Regulus shrugs, eyes lowering, kicking absently at the grass with his shoe. “I’ve come to the realisation she’s my mum.” He blushes as he tells Frank this discovery, his ears burning.
Frank doesn’t say anything, which makes Regulus continue, fumbling with the words. “Effie and Monty said I was their son. I just wanted an outsider’s perspective, is all.”
Frank hums, a massive smile blooming on his face at Regulus’s words. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his whole expression glowing with warmth. “Well, between you and me, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Euphemia bond with another kid as deeply as she’s bonded with you.”
Regulus’s eyes widen at the admission, his heart spluttering in his chest. Pride blossoms inside him, big and warm, making him feel as though the sun itself is pressing against his ribs, lighting him up from the inside.
He leaves soccer training feeling extremely happy.
***
His feet carry him toward the art classroom without a second thought. It’s almost instinctual—like his body knows before his mind does that he needs space, needs silence, needs to get away from the heavy weight pressing down on his chest.
Each step down the corridor is automatic, his shoes scuffing against the floor, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. The buzzing in his head is relentless, words and worries spinning so fast they blur together, and he knows if he doesn’t get somewhere safe, he might drown in them.
The art room has always been that place.
Mrs. Reed never minds him slipping in unannounced. She never minds anyone, really. The room is a sanctuary of soft light and quiet—sun slants in through the tall windows, illuminating jars of brushes, stacked canvases, and the faint smell of paint that never quite leaves the air. Here, Regulus can breathe.
He settles at one of the long tables, sketchbook open, pencil poised. The scratch of graphite against paper fills the silence, steady and grounding. Each line he drags across the page feels like a pin driven into the whirlwind inside his mind, anchoring him. Freezing the panic. For a moment—just a moment—it’s quiet inside him.
His strokes are deliberate, methodical, as he begins to sketch the outline of the piece he’s been imagining for days. He’s known what he wanted to draw, but finding the courage to put it down has been the harder part.
“Is everything alright, Regulus?”
Mrs. Reed’s voice breaks through the stillness. It’s casual, but her tone carries that soft edge of concern that always makes his chest twist. Regulus doesn’t look up. He just shrugs, keeping his pencil moving like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.
“Not really,” he mumbles when the silence grows too heavy, when the words feel like they’ll claw their way out of him if he doesn’t say them. His voice is flat, but the confession cracks something inside him. “I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed.”
The pencil slips from his fingers and clatters onto the table. His eyes flick up, reluctantly, to meet hers. Mrs. Reed’s gaze is steady, gentle—no sharp edges, no judgement. Her expression is delicate, like she knows he might shatter if she presses too hard.
“Well,” she says after a pause, glancing at the sketchbook before returning her eyes to him. “Can I ask what’s overwhelming you?”
His teeth catch his bottom lip. He gnaws on it nervously, the old familiar monster unfurling in his chest, the one he and Laura had given a name to. Anxiety. It whispers that he’s stupid for feeling this way, stupid for saying it out loud.
He exhales sharply, frustration curling out with the breath. “I called Effie my mum. The word sort of slipped out.”
Mrs. Reed hums softly. No surprise, no judgement, just a sound of understanding. She nods, slow and steady, as though she’s fitting the pieces together in her mind. The silence that follows is different than before—it stretches wide across the room, warm and heavy, like the last glow of a sunset hanging stubbornly at the horizon.
“Is…” she tilts her head slightly, her eyes scanning his face, thoughtful, careful. “Is the idea of having a mum overwhelming? Or is it simply Euphemia being your mum that overwhelms you?”
The question hits him like cold water. He stills, pencil forgotten, the lines of the townhouse half-finished in front of him. He’s never thought about it like that. Never split the idea open to examine it.
Is it Effie? Or is it the idea itself?
“I’m not sure,” he admits, voice small, like speaking louder might make it more real. “I never expected to get another mum, ever. Especially after everything that happened with my mother.”
The word alone makes him shiver. Walburga. His mind drags up her sharp voice, her cutting words, the way her presence always felt like a shadow pressing down on his chest.
He stares at the sketch—the outline of a townhouse, neat lines forming a house that is both familiar and dreadful. The place he once called home.
Was it Effie that made him panic? Or was it the concept of anyone being his mum?
Serenity slips through him, unexpected, like the calm that comes after a storm. No. Not Effie. Not her warmth, not her laughter, not the way she looks at him like he’s worth something.
It’s broader than that. It’s the idea of “mum” itself. The word. The role. The ghost of his mother clinging to it.
“The idea of anybody being my mum is overwhelming,” he whispers, voice almost reverent. “Is scary.”
And somehow, saying it aloud lightens the weight on his chest. His breathing steadies, just a little. He reaches for his pencil again, drawing another line across the page, outlining the home that used to cage him. The act is both punishment and release.
Later, in his room, Regulus paces restlessly. The conversation with Mrs. Reed echoes in his head, looping endlessly. He stares at the slip of paper on his desk, Bellatrix’s handwriting scrawled across it, the phone number sharp and accusing. His phone feels heavy in his hand, heavier than it should, like pressing the buttons will tip something inside him he can’t tip back.
Still, he dials.
“Hello?”
Narcissa’s voice—familiar, soft, achingly gentle—cuts through the static of his mind. Instantly, the crushing grip around his heart loosens. He lets out a shaky breath, relief flooding through him like water breaking a dam.
“Cissa, it’s me.”
He’s not used to phones. Never had reason to be, not until the Potters gave him this strange, ordinary freedom. This, too, is new. Another unfamiliar first.
“Oh,” she exhales, the sound airy, carrying a smile he can hear through the line. Regulus bites his lip, doubt fluttering in his chest. Was this a bad time? Had he made a mistake? But then— “Hello, Regulus. What can I do for you?”
His cheeks heat. His heart swells painfully at the reminder that she still cares. That even after everything, his cousins still see him, still hold love for him.
“I was wondering…” He sits heavily on his bed, gaze drifting out the window. The sky is melting into twilight, streaks of orange fading into deepening blue. He thinks, fleetingly, of asking Sirius to stargaze with him, like they used to. “I called Effie ‘mum,’ and umm… I guess I’ve been feeling overwhelmed by it.”
Narcissa hums, a sound of patience and warmth, like she’s cradling his confession carefully. Regulus imagines her serene face, her soft eyes.
“It’s a bit scary,” he admits, when she doesn’t immediately respond. “How big the feeling is. How I so casually said, ‘thanks mum.’”
Silence hums across the line, stretching, but not empty. Just as he starts to panic that she’s gone, her voice returns, a tender murmur: “Oh, star.”
Relief cracks through him. She hasn’t left. Not her.
“I cannot begin to imagine how big it must feel for you,” Narcissa says, her voice like a balm, like a blanket draped over his shoulders. “I know things are changing, they have been for a while—but that doesn’t mean everything will turn out bad.”
He falters. Had he been assuming it would? Had he been bracing for it to?
“You deserve good things, my littlest star,” she continues, voice soft but firm. “You deserve to grow up in a loving home, surrounded by people who love you.”
“Effie said she loved me.” The words tumble out before he can stop them, fragile and trembling. But he needs her to know.
“Did she?” Her voice brightens, proud, as if she’d been waiting for this. “How’d it feel?”
Regulus swallows, considering. “Really good,” he says, almost shy. “Though, I was startled and I did cry.”
The silence that follows is thick, meaningful. Words unsaid. But Narcissa doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. She simply lets it be.
“And that’s okay,” she assures him, her voice calm, certain. “You’re allowed to cry, Regulus. There’s no shame in that.”
His throat burns. His chest aches.
“You deserve to be happy,” she says again, her voice steady as the night creeping through his window. “Happiness is waiting for you, even if it’s in the hands of Effie and Monty. They love you more than you’ll ever know. Trust me, I see it.”
Her words sink into him like sunlight.
“It may be scary to think about what this all means,” Narcissa continues, gentle but resolute. “It may overwhelm you. But it will pass. You’ll find the strength to see past it. You’re allowed to take your time, star. I know you’ll find a way to acknowledge what is already there.”
His eyes sting, the tears pressing hot at the edges, but he doesn’t let them fall. Not tonight. He swallows hard, the lump in his throat thick and raw.
“Thank you, Cissa,” he manages, voice hoarse, wet with emotion. “I really needed to hear that.”
“You’re welcome, my star,” she hums, soft and sure, before their call ends.
Silence fills his room again, but it’s different now—less suffocating, more comforting. Her words echo in the quiet, pushing the panic back, further and further, until all that remains is a fragile calm.
When he clicks on his lamp, the golden glow fills the darkness, chasing away the last shadows. For the first time in days, Regulus smiles.
***
Regulus doesn’t know where to begin. The air in his lungs feels trapped, locked behind the mounting pressure pressing into his chest. His throat works uselessly, opening and closing like a fish out of water, but the words remain stubbornly lodged, heavy and immovable. His palms sweat where they rest against his knees. He can hear his own heartbeat, loud and uneven, pulsing in his ears.
He stares at Laura for several minutes, her calm, waiting posture only making the silence louder. His stomach twists, his tongue feels like lead. Finally, finally, he manages to force the words past the invisible wall in his throat. “I called Effie ‘mum,’ on Saturday,” he squeaks out, his voice so small it reminds him of a mouse darting from shadow to shadow.
The room goes deadly silent. The air feels weighted, as though everything has stopped to witness his confession. His eyes dart over Laura’s face, her shoulders, her hands, desperate for any flicker of reaction, and finding only the same composed stillness. For a moment, it feels like she too doesn’t know how to grasp this discovery.
A breath shudders out of him, his chest loosening only enough to let more words spill. “She didn’t hear me, thankfully. But the words slipped out, without me even meaning to.” His voice cracks at the end, half-defiant, half-ashamed.
Laura blinks, then nods—slowly, like she’s returned to herself. “That’s how it goes,” she says at last, her tone even, thoughtful. “We don’t think about things that come naturally, they just do.”
The truth of it leaves a sting. That begs the question—when had he started considering Euphemia his mum? The thought is terrifying, slippery, and yet it gnaws at him.
“Then… when did I…” The words stumble as they leave him, unfinished, his hand flicking helplessly in Laura’s direction. She understands anyway—of course she does.
“Honestly? I don’t know,” she admits, a little sigh threading through her words. It doesn’t help him feel any better. “I don’t think it happened with a sudden, tsunami-force wave.”
Regulus tilts his head, eyebrows drawing together. Her phrasing tangles in his brain like an unsolved riddle. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Laura begins carefully, studying him like she’s trying to measure how much weight her next words can carry, “I think the revelation happened over a bout of small waves. Like—the little things she’s done that’s rewired your brain into thinking this fact was subtle enough to make the change possible.”
He nods, but the gesture feels automatic, his comprehension trailing behind. Her words swirl around him, not quite settling. He stares at the floor between them, letting himself breathe, letting the confusion loosen.
Laura seems to sense he needs the pause. She doesn’t press, simply gives him space to gather the scrambled pieces of his thoughts into some kind of order.
Slowly, the crushing weight on his chest eases. His little terrorizing monster—the one that bites at his ribs and claws at his lungs whenever anxiety overwhelms him—feels strangely absent, as if it has slipped back into the shadows. For the first time in days, he can breathe without flinching.
Letting out a shaky breath, he glances back at her. It’s his silent signal. He’s ready.
She smiles, brief but encouraging, before looking down at her clipboard. Then her eyes meet his again, grounding him. “Let’s start small,” she says, shifting in her seat, settling in like she knows they’ve reached something important.
Regulus steels himself. He already knows these questions will drain him dry, wringing him out until nothing is left, but he nods anyway.
“What are the things you’ve noticed Euphemia has done for you?”
The question is simple. Simple, and yet heavy with meaning. Oddly, it doesn’t cut as sharply as some of her others do. He finds himself answering almost immediately, the words flowing faster than expected. “She separates my food. She makes sure they don’t touch.”
Laura hums, her pen moving across the page, and it’s enough to pull more from him. “She hugs me, gives me forehead kisses, calls me names—”
“So, she gives you comfort?” Laura interrupts gently, her tone not dismissive but clarifying. Regulus nods quickly, cheeks warming, and she adds it to her list.
“She also makes sure I’m okay after I have a panic attack or meltdown,” he says, the words quieter now, though steady. “She always has my comfort items on hand whenever we go out.”
Heat spreads up his neck, a flush creeping into his face as he remembers it—the way she always remembers the stuffed black dog when he forgets. It’s such a small thing, but to him it feels enormous. Intimate. Loved.
“I hold her hand too,” he continues, his voice softening. “She lets me give her hugs. Hmm, what else…” His mind flickers rapidly, rifling through memory after memory, so many little details crowding in. “She never yells at me, never gets angry. She can get disappointed, but that’s only when I’ve done something wrong.”
The words pour faster now, unspooling like thread. “She never denies any sort of affection, even if I’ve messed up. Monty and her talk to me about what’s bothering me, what’s causing me to get upset. Oh, and she always listens to me whenever I want to talk.”
As the list grows, he feels the tension drain from his shoulders, like he’s been carrying a weight he didn’t even know existed. He lets the sound of Laura’s pen scratching fill the room, his own thoughts spinning with every example, every tiny thing Euphemia has done.
Laura hums again, finishing her notes. Normally, this kind of rambling confession would leave him flushed with embarrassment, wishing he could crawl out of his skin—but today, strangely, it doesn’t. Today, it feels like release.
“So,” Laura says, voice breaking gently into his reverie. “It sounds like to me, this has been building for a while.”
Regulus shrugs, his gaze dropping instantly to his lap. He twists his fingers together, words tumbling unbidden from his mouth. “Effie is nothing like my mother,” he admits. The moment the sentence leaves him, his own surprise hits—he hadn’t realized he was going to say it.
When he looks up, Laura’s eyebrow is raised, interest clear in her expression. “No?” she asks, her tone inviting, prodding gently at the door he’s just cracked open.
He shakes his head, sharper this time. “No.” The word lands heavier now. He exhales slowly, like something inside him is finally clicking into place, the final piece of a puzzle he’s been fumbling with. “She never did any of that stuff Effie does. She was just… cold.”
Laura nods, her eyes on him, but she doesn’t speak. The silence stretches, but it isn’t empty—it tugs at him, nudging him to continue.
“Yeah, my mother… Walburga her name was—” His throat tightens on the word, but he forces it out anyway. Laura hums quietly, jotting it down, while he drags himself forward. “She didn’t tell me everything would be okay. She always got upset when I had panic attacks, or meltdowns—she screamed at me, most of the time when she saw them. She didn’t hold me in the way Effie does—in fact, it’s like she never really loved me to begin with.”
The thought sinks deep into his chest, a cold coil winding tighter and tighter. His mother never really loved him. He’s only now—really, truly now—letting himself see it.
He doesn’t know what to feel about it. Numbness hums beneath his skin, strange and steady. And if he’s honest, he doesn’t think he loved her either. Not in the way a child is supposed to love their mother. The realization unsettles him—but only faintly, not enough to shake him apart.
Laura’s voice cuts gently through his thoughts. “Your mother,” she says, softly, like she’s testing the weight of each word, “from the little you’ve told me so far, throughout these sessions, was neglectful.”
The word lands against his chest but doesn’t pierce. He’s heard it before—in his research, in the way he’s quietly labeled pieces of his past to himself. Neglectful. Maybe even abusive. He doesn’t flinch now.
“That’s not how you’re meant to treat your child—or anyone, really.” Laura’s voice is steady, firm in a way that makes him believe her. “You’re meant to treat them with kindness and care. Exactly like what Effie does.”
Her words sink into him slowly. He doesn’t even try to fight them as they make him feel heavy, but also warm.
***
The point of no return is a real, valid struggle—as he makes his way down the hallway. The wooden floor creaks faintly under his socked feet, the shadows stretching long against the walls in the dim glow of the hallway light.
Regulus wonders where he’s going to begin, how he’s going to start the conversation, almost. His stomach twists with every step, each breath catching in his throat like it’s lodged there, refusing to move.
Simply thinking about it paralyzes him to a whole new level. The fear taking over, stopping him from moving, breathing. His chest feels locked tight, ribs pressing in as if his own body doesn’t want him to go forward. He takes a deep breath.
Breathe, Regulus, you can do this, repeats over and over in his mind, the words rattling around until they almost lose meaning. His hand comes up to turn the handle of James’s room, the metal cool against his clammy palm. There, sitting on his bed, was James. James’s head turns to look at the sound, only to smile, when he notices who it is.
“You okay?” he asks, lightly, carefully, his attitude completely vibrant at the sight of Regulus standing in his doorway.
Regulus hums, shutting the door behind him, the soft click louder than it should be in the quiet room. He crawls his way into James’s bed, his movements small, almost uncertain, like he’s intruding even when he isn’t. “Can we cuddle?”
The question comes out more timid than he would’ve liked, too thin and wavering in the air, but James seems to understand. He opens his arms out wide, gesturing Regulus close, flopping them both down onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath their weight, blankets folding around them as if inviting him to stay.
They adjust slightly, in order to get comfortable. James leans over, switching off his lamp, pulling his glasses off his face. Even in the dark, Regulus can see James’s happiness in the curve of his grin, the ease in his posture, as his arms curl around Regulus’s body.
Regulus snuggles close, resting his head on James’s other pillow. He can smell the faint soap still clinging to James’s skin, the familiar warm scent of the Potters’ laundry powder, comforting in a way he doesn’t dare put words to.
It’s silent between them, both just letting each other take in the warmth. Regulus takes his time, formulating his words, carefully crafting them so they come out the way he wants them too.
“Can I call Effie, Mum?”
He blurts out, the words escaping before he can stop them, and he can feel James stilling at the question. Regulus had meant to ease into the conversation, not outright state it. It doesn’t matter though, as he stares at James expectantly, heart hammering in his chest, so loud he’s sure James must hear it.
Worry weaves up his toes, growing like vines, wrapping around his shins, his hips, his chest, his arms. Strangling him as they wrap their way around his neck, squeezing tighter and tighter and—
The stunned expression that’s overtaken James’s face momentarily stops the evergrowing vines from suffocating him. He would’ve felt rather embarrassed had it not been for the look on James’s face.
James’s mouth opens, a little unsure noise escapes him. Regulus has to bite back a giggle at the way James seems so generally unsure—most likely unsure on how to respond.
“It’s just… I’ve come to the realisation she’s my mum… too.”
James continues to stare at him, as if rebooting his entire brain. Regulus can see the loading sign above his head, which definitely gets a little laugh out of him.
“I’m only asking,” he continues, seeing as James is incapable of answering. His words clearly fail him, as his brain tries to catch up to Regulus’s words. “Because… well… she’s your mum, first. I don’t really want to take her away from you, it’s… maybe we could… share?”
Regulus stumbles over his last few words, as the statement lingers in the air. The warm arms that surround him, pull back slightly. He looks up to see James teary eyed, tears flowing freely down his face, catching in the faint light from the hallway spilling through the door crack.
He’s unsure how to respond in the appropriate manner. His throat tightens, words jamming up. Admittedly, James crying makes him feel uncomfortable.
Not because James is crying, but rather that because of what the crying means. Regulus has never been good at comforting people, he’d rather leave that up to the experts.
“I— I would be honoured to share my mum with you,” James says, letting out a wet chuckle, as he removes a hand from Regulus’s back, to wipe his tears from his face. “To have her be our mum.”
Regulus relaxes immediately, his body flooding with relief at what this entails. His cheeks warm at the implication at his words, unable to keep his genuine joy from his features.
“May I ask,” James begins, clearly testing some invisible boundary which Regulus only now feels. “Are you planning on calling her mum soon? Or, did you just want to know if you could use it?”
“I just wanted to know if I could use it,” Regulus says without hesitation. He looks James in the eyes, searching his gaze. “I… also wanted to know how you felt about it.”
James breaks out into the biggest grin. Clearly Regulus needn’t worry about James’s reaction—judging by the evident happiness, Regulus feels James is happy.
“I’m glad, my mum is now our mum,” he says, his voice rising an octave, but continues. “You don’t have to call her mum straight away, y’know. You can take all the time you need to feel comfortable with it. You're not obligated to call her that, even if you change your mind.”
Regulus smiles at James, feeling himself relax at his words. Pressure he didn’t know he was keeping, holding, removes itself from his body, leaving him lighter, almost floating in the warmth of James’s arms.
***
Regulus has been putting this conversation off for a while.
It’s not because he wanted to believe himself when he said he desperately wanted to talk about it. No—he knows he wasn’t lying, exactly. He wanted to, but at the time he hadn’t yet had a full grasp on his own feelings. They’d been slippery, changing shape the moment he tried to pin them down. His whole world view was shifting before his eyes, and the shifting frightened him.
He needed time. Time to line up the chaos in his head, to sift through what was his fear and what was truth. He cannot, absolutely cannot, go into this conversation with his heart in pieces and his thoughts a mess.
Maybe that’s why he waited so long.
But regardless of the reason, he knows he has to have it now. His chest tightens with the weight of knowing. He needs to say these words out loud. He needs to admit them—this huge, life-altering turning point—to someone who, in his eyes, is perhaps closest of all to Effie. Maybe even the closest person she has.
His knuckles ghost against the study door, hovering for a knock that never comes. He freezes, breath caught high in his throat. Instead of knocking, his fingers curl slowly around the handle.
The brass is cool beneath his palm. His pulse beats against it, quick and insistent. He tells himself—again, again—that despite the fear clawing at him, this will help. It will help him accept what needs accepting. If he speaks it, if he lets himself share it, maybe the fear will loosen its grip.
Drawing in a breath that feels too sharp, Regulus eases the door open.
Inside, the man he’s looking for sits behind his desk. Fleamont’s head snaps up at the sound, warm brown eyes immediately softening as they land on him. A smile tugs at his lips, small but sure. “Hey there, buddy. What’s up?”
Regulus drops his gaze so quickly it almost hurts, heat creeping up his neck. Embarrassment coils heavy in his chest, making his breath falter. He forces himself to inhale, then exhale, before daring to glance back up.
Fleamont is watching him closely. His gaze flickers over Regulus’s posture—his hunched shoulders, the stiffness in his jaw. A frown creases Fleamont’s face, concern already etched into it. With a quiet motion, he closes his laptop, the soft click loud in the stillness, and turns all his attention toward him.
“Are you busy?” Regulus asks, even though he knows the answer. The door clicks shut behind him, muffling the rest of the house, sealing them into this quiet bubble.
Fleamont shakes his head, standing with a faint groan. He crosses the room slowly, deliberately, until he’s standing close enough for Regulus to feel the warmth radiating from him. His gaze, deep and steady, holds nothing but love.
“Never for you, bub.”
The statement lands strangely. Regulus blinks, his face twisting in confusion he can’t hide. Fleamont mirrors the expression for a moment, before softening again.
“I just mean,” Fleamont explains, voice gentle, slow, as though he wants the words to sink in. “I’d always find time for you. No matter what.”
The words catch him off guard. A blush flares across Regulus’s cheeks, and something tight in his chest eases. His shoulders lower almost involuntarily under the weight of Fleamont’s kindness.
Fleamont bends and presses a soft kiss into his curls, his palm settling between his shoulder blades. The steady hand guides him toward the couch in the middle of the room. Fleamont lowers himself into it with another grunt, arms spreading wide in silent invitation.
Regulus doesn’t even stop to think. His body seems to decide for him, climbing into the embrace that feels safer than anything he can remember. Strong arms fold around him, a fortress that whispers to his frayed nerves: it’s alright, you’re alright.
It’s strange, this effect Fleamont has on him. Strange, but grounding. The rhythmic sweep of a hand up and down his back coaxes his muscles to soften, one by one, until he’s melting into the warmth. His head tips onto Fleamont’s shoulder, and for a fleeting, fragile moment, the world feels quiet.
He doesn’t even remember his own father hugging him. In fact—no, he’s certain his father never did. Not once. But Fleamont does, and the thought claws at something raw in his chest. It makes him feel… safe. Wanted.
“What’s wrong?” Fleamont murmurs, lips brushing against his curls. The hand on his back slides upward, settling at the back of his head. Fingers weave slowly through his hair, tender and unhurried.
Fleamont never presses. Never demands. He just waits, patient and steady, as if he has all the time in the world. Regulus clings to that patience.
He breathes in Fleamont’s cologne, rich and warm. It’s not sharp and heavy like the one his father wore—never that suffocating musk that made his stomach knot. No, this one is gentler. Comforting.
“I prefer this cologne,” he says before he can stop himself.
Fleamont glances down at him, eyes warm as melted chocolate. “Do you?” he asks lightly.
Regulus nods. “Mhmm.” He shifts a little closer, draws another breath, steadies himself. The words he’s carried for days finally begin to loosen. “I’ve been feeling a bit overwhelmed recently.”
He pauses, testing Fleamont’s expression. Finding nothing but openness there, he continues. “It started on Saturday. Effie told me my shoelaces were untied, and when I went to tie them, I said, ‘thanks mum.’”
Fleamont stiffens beneath him for a heartbeat, then deliberately relaxes again, his arms tightening just slightly around him. Regulus knows—he can feel—that Fleamont is waiting, giving him space to go on.
So he does.
The words tumble out unevenly. “I talked to Laura about it, about Effie. About how I called her mum. We realised—or I did—that Effie was like a mum to me…”
His voice shrinks at the end, but he forces himself forward. “I talked to Bellatrix too. And Narcissa. Both of them gave me good advice.”
He keeps going, spilling every person he’s confided in, every attempt he’s made to untangle this storm. His teachers, his friends, James—each name is offered like proof he’s been trying, proof he’s been thinking this through.
By the time he’s finished, he’s breathless.
“I still haven’t talked to Sirius,” he admits, the fear finally surfacing. “I think… well… I’m rather scared, I think. I’m afraid, after asking so many people for advice, that the expectation of calling Effie ‘mum’ will follow me around. I know it won’t. But…”
Fleamont hums, stroking his back again, the sound vibrating through his chest into Regulus’s ear. Silence falls, but it’s not the cold, biting kind. It’s the kind that cushions words, that gives them space to breathe.
“I need you to know that no matter what, you are never obligated to call Effie ‘mum.’ Even if you talked to people about it, it’s still your choice, kiddo.”
The reassurance unlocks something tight inside him. A breath rushes out before he realises he’d been holding it. He sinks further into Fleamont’s side.
“I cannot imagine just how big and scary everything felt,” Fleamont continues, hand now cupping the back of his neck. His thumb strokes soothing circles as he tilts Regulus’s face upward. His smile is radiant, full of quiet pride. “I’m so proud of you,” he says softly. “I’m so proud you went to people for their advice, for their help, instead of letting everything boil over.”
The pride in Fleamont’s voice makes Regulus’s cheeks burn. And yet, beneath the embarrassment, something blooms in his chest. His own pride, drawn up and lit by Fleamont’s.
Fleamont studies him, eyes roaming his features with care. “Did talking with people, asking them for help to work through your feelings—did it help?”
“Yes, it did,” Regulus answers quickly, nodding so hard his curls bounce. “My feelings over the whole thing came in waves. Sometimes they were small, other times they were big. At first I felt numb and… and maybe a little angry.”
Fleamont listens. Always listens. Regulus keeps going. He tells him about his mother—or rather, the absence of one. About how she never hugged, never kissed, never cared. Not like Effie.
“Do you maybe think—when you first felt the anger—do you think you maybe felt that way because you realised your mother wasn’t like how mothers were supposed to be?”
The question lands deep, too true. Regulus nods, throat tight. Tears sting at his eyes. He swallows, but the lump doesn’t budge. “Yeah,” he sniffs. “I do wish my parents were normal.”
The admission feels dangerous, like something he should be punished for. But Fleamont doesn’t scold. He doesn’t look at him with disdain.
Instead, he simply holds him as the tears slip free.
“It’s not fair,” Regulus whispers, his voice breaking into a whine. “All I wanted were loving parents.”
He buries his face in Fleamont’s neck, clutching at his shirt like a lifeline. Fleamont holds him close, unflinching, and whispers into his ear: “It’s okay, bub. Everything is going to be okay.”
Time stretches, soft and merciful, until Regulus’s sobs fade into quiet breaths. When he finally leans back, Fleamont is smiling at him, sad but steady.
“Feeling angry is normal,” Fleamont says, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. “You’re allowed to feel angry, for not having normal, loving parents. You’re allowed to feel anything and everything in regards to your parents, kiddo. You’re essentially grieving people you wish you had, and that’s okay. You shouldn’t feel bad for feeling this way, okay?”
Regulus nods, letting the words settle.
Fleamont squeezes his shoulder gently. “You’re also allowed to move on from them, too. It’s okay to move on to better, more amazing things. Nobody will ever fault you for doing so, got it?”
“Got it,” Regulus whispers, dragging his sleeve across his nose with a sniff.
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full, holding space for both of them. Regulus curls closer, feeling the steady heartbeat against his cheek. He thinks—finally—that he might be ready to talk to Sirius.
***
“I’ve been thinking,” Regulus announces, storming his way into Sirius’s room without hesitation. If Sirius insists on leaving his door wide open, then Regulus has every right to make use of it. Appropriately.
The familiar scent of leather and smoke lingers in the air, mixed with the faint musk of Sirius’s cologne. The room is dimly lit, the only glow spilling from a lamp crookedly tilted on the nightstand. Sirius is sprawled across his bed as if he owns the entire world—or at the very least this space—an untidy heap of pillows and blankets around him.
Regulus marches straight over and plants himself firmly at the edge of the mattress, posture stiff, jaw tight. The quicker he gets this over with, the quicker he can leave. He knows himself well enough to understand that forcing words out—dragging them past the barricades in his throat—is the only way they’ll ever escape.
Sirius raises an eyebrow, his smirk already curling into place. Grey eyes, sharp and mischievous, fix on him with sparkling curiosity. “You have, have you?” His voice carries the playful edge of a challenge, as if daring Regulus to prove he’s capable of thinking at all.
Regulus rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “Yes,” he huffs, the word deliberately clipped, his irritation only half-real—more show than truth.
Sirius chuckles softly, the sound warm and infuriating at the same time. Regulus lets out a snort but quickly sobers, his body shifting on the mattress, his face tightening into seriousness. His chest rises and falls in uneven rhythm, each breath heavier than the last.
The change doesn’t go unnoticed. Sirius’s smirk fades instantly, his teasing dissolving into sharp perception. He studies Regulus’s face, sees the tension locked in his brother’s jaw, and within seconds understands that this is no casual intrusion.
“What’s wrong?” Sirius mutters, carefully. The softness of his tone—threaded with sadness—catches Regulus off guard. That flicker of sorrow forces him to look up, meeting eyes that remind him of storm clouds heavy with rain.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he insists, firmly, maybe too firmly. He breaks eye contact before the weight of Sirius’s gaze unravels him completely, staring instead at his own hands. His fingers twist against each other, restless, clumsy. “It’s just…” He sighs, frustrated, the words dragging themselves out of his chest. “I think Effie is my mum.”
Silence drops into the room like a stone in water. It ripples, spreads, and settles into something deafening. Regulus doesn’t dare look at his brother. He can feel Sirius’s body tense, can almost hear the shift in his breath. His own stare remains glued to his hands, knuckles whitening under the pressure of his grip. He isn’t sure he can handle whatever expression Sirius wears right now.
“I don’t know how our mother would feel about this… development.”
The truth tastes bitter in his mouth. Regulus is sure of it—he doesn’t know, doesn’t even want to guess, how Walburga Black would react to him admitting aloud what’s been growing inside him for weeks.
He bites at his lower lip, teeth scraping at dead skin, then risks a hesitant glance upward. Sirius’s eyes lock on his, silver-grey striking against blue-grey, unflinching.
“It doesn’t matter what she thinks,” Sirius says, firm, each word carrying the weight of a vow. “She gave up her right to be our mother the day she did…” His voice trails off, his features tightening, twisting into discomfort he doesn’t bother to disguise.
Regulus swallows hard. He still doesn’t fully understand what happened that day, what final straw broke the Black family apart. He remembers flashes: a sterile police station, Sarah’s voice, the blur of adults speaking too quickly, too coldly. His memories blur at the edges, too painful to examine closely. He wants to ask, to force Sirius to fill the gaps—but the way his brother avoids his gaze now tells him it’s not the right moment.
Sirius breathes in, deep and steadying, then fixes his eyes back on Regulus. “If you’re asking permission to call Effie your mum, you do it, Reg.”
The words strike him like a hammer, solid, undeniable. Regulus feels them reverberate in his chest, sees the truth of them etched across Sirius’s face. There is no dishonesty here, no hesitation.
“You should, call her that,” Sirius adds, reassurance woven into his voice. “Nobody has the right to tell you, you can’t. If they do, tell me, and I’ll set them straight.”
The grin that follows is crooked, playful, the joke lightening the heaviness clinging to the room. The tension loosens its grip on Regulus’s shoulders, and he lets out a small giggle at Sirius’s silliness. Still, his smile—grateful and genuine—remains.
“Just because our mother gave birth to us, doesn’t make her our mum, okay?” Sirius continues, serious once more. His words are quiet, measured. Regulus nods, the motion small, deliberate. Sirius presses on. “She didn’t do the things Effie does. What Effie does, that’s what makes someone a mum.”
The words fold over Regulus like a blanket, soft and comforting, warmth seeping into the cold places inside him. He exhales, the tension in his body unwinding by degrees.
Sirius drags in another breath, sharp at the edges. Something is troubling him, and Regulus can see it—he knows his brother’s tells too well: the twitch of his jaw, the restless shift of his shoulders.
“Effie can never replace our mother—” Sirius begins, forcing the words out like they burn on his tongue. Regulus’s stomach twists; he doesn’t know if he wants to hear this, but he listens anyway. “Think of Effie as an improvement of her. Think of it as Effie giving us the love—giving you the love—our own mother couldn’t. That she’s simply finishing the job our mother started.”
Regulus hums, nodding slowly. It makes sense. It feels right. Effie isn’t replacing anyone. She’s stepping into the void Walburga left behind, doing the work she refused to do. Effie is finishing what Walburga never even tried to begin.
“How would you feel about me calling Effie… Mum?” Regulus asks. The question falls from his lips with surprising ease, light as air, unburdened. The simplicity of it warms his chest, a flicker of light he hadn’t known he was missing.
Sirius tilts his head, a soft smile spreading across his lips. “That’s something you shouldn’t be concerned about, Reggie.” His voice is gentle, dismissive of his own importance. But to Regulus, Sirius’s opinion matters more than he can ever admit. “But, if you really want to know, I’m all for it.”
A grin stretches across Regulus’s face, sudden and bright. His heart somersaults wildly, too big for his ribcage. “Really?” he asks, the word fragile, barely above a whisper.
“Really,” Sirius confirms, nodding once.
Relief pours into Regulus, heavy tension dissolving, melting away. His body sinks into the mattress, into the safety of his brother’s presence. But another thought lingers, sharp and insistent, born from his earlier talk with Fleamont.
“Sirius?” His voice is tentative, cautious.
Sirius hums in answer.
“Do you ever wish our parents were… different?”
The question hangs between them, dangerous and raw. Sirius stiffens, only for a moment, before he answers: “Yes, I do.”
Regulus hums, not daring to say aloud the rest of what he feels—that the wish sits heavy inside him too.
“Y’know you’re allowed to call our mother, Walburga. You know that, right?” Sirius says suddenly, breaking the silence.
Regulus nods, his throat too tight, his voice too unsteady to answer properly.
“You can call Effie ‘mum’ and Walburga ‘mother’ too, y’know?” Sirius goes on, unbothered. “I don’t think anybody would have a problem with that, if that’s something that makes you feel comfortable. The choice is up to you. Don’t forget that.”
Regulus nods again, slower this time. His gaze drifts away from Sirius, toward the window where the night sky stretches vast and endless. Stars scatter across the blackness, distant and eternal. In his mind’s eye, he can almost see them—every Black family member who ever chose love over cruelty, watching, silently cheering.
The weight lifts from his chest, and with it comes clarity.
Effie is his mum.
And he’s going to call her that.
Notes:
Word Count: 11,122
Published: 2025-08-29Umm... So... What did you all think? Crazy... right?
Also, this generally might have been one of my favourite chapters to write! I hope you all enjoyed!
See you next Friday!
Chapter 40: Happy Halloween!
Summary:
Spooky, scary, skeleton, sending shivers down his spine. Regulus has never celebrated (or participated) in Halloween before. So, he was quite excited to find out his school was hosting a costume contest that he desperately wanted to win.
Luckily, Euphemia is good with a sewing machine and helps Regulus make his vision come to life. The “thanks,” takes them all by surprise…
POV: Regulus Black
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Out of all the things that have happened in his life, Regulus believes this thing is the easiest one he’s come to terms with.
That being, Euphemia is his mum.
His mum.
The word still feels strange in his chest, like a pebble he keeps rolling over in his palm, testing the shape of it. Waking up every morning since, has been surreal. Regulus still cannot get over the fact that he was able to come to terms with this revelation. His feelings on the matter is… well…
Still thinking about her in that way, makes Regulus feel weird. The kind of weird he doesn’t even know how to begin to describe. It sits heavy in his stomach and fluttery in his throat at the same time.
It’s odd.
But, he’s been getting better.
Every chance he gets at being alone, he utters the word under his breath, tasting the sound of it like it might vanish if he doesn’t keep practicing. He’s been getting riskier in who he says it in front of—often whispering or mumbling it in front of Effie herself, his lips sticking to the shape of the word before he loses his nerve.
Saying that word to himself has made him feel bolder, feel more like he’s in control. Each time, it’s like setting down another brick in a wall he’s building for himself—his wall, his choice.
The sound of students chattering away as they slowly file into the classroom pulls Regulus from his thoughts. He’s sitting next to Pandora, simply enjoying the chilly, October, Monday morning. The air from the open windows bites at his fingers, carrying with it the faint smell of wet leaves.
He’s not thinking too much about what’s going to happen, it’s only form class after all. That is, until Mr. Hale comes strolling in with the biggest grin Regulus thinks he’s ever seen.
“I hope you’re all ready for Friday,” Mr. Hale says to the class.
Mutters of confusion echo around the room like low buzzing. Regulus turns to Pandora, equally as confused as the rest of the class, only to see a knowing look on her face. She smiles at him, the corners of her mouth twitching like she’s trying to contain it. Several other students begin to form the same discovery as Pandora had. As the once confused mutterings of students slowly morph into excited chatter, Regulus is left sitting there, still rather confused, still outside of the circle.
Regulus doesn’t have to sit in confusion for much longer, as Mr. Hale continues talking.
“As the school is hosting its annual Halloween costume contest! Each year level will be judged separately. And, this year the school will be offering out prizes for first, second and third place.”
Excitement at the news floods the classroom, desks rattling as students lean toward each other to share ideas, voices overlapping. Regulus remains frozen in his seat.
Halloween is on Saturday.
Some things are hard to explain.
For starters, his childhood. Most parents would look at their family and consider them odd for not partaking in the usual holiday spirit. But, it’s just what he’s used to.
Regulus is used to not doing Halloween. It’s that simple.
Whenever the holiday arose, Regulus would often let his gaze linger on the houses surrounding his own. With their decorations strung up, hanging off the walls, fake cobwebs trembling in the wind, to the way kids would walk down the street wearing costumes with buckets swinging from their hands.
He always thought his family was a little weird. Regulus has always wanted to partake in Halloween, and not just be locked up inside his house, aimlessly staring out the window in hopes that one day his parents would let up.
They never did.
The world outside the car flashes by. Yellows, reds, oranges, zoom past, as the season begins to change, as the world around them slowly cools, killing any form of life. Exactly like his parents did, killing any form of joy that Regulus has ever wanted to experience.
Except… Regulus isn’t there anymore.
Not really.
The thought doesn’t unsettle him as much as it used to. The idea that he doesn’t live with his mother and father anymore—the idea they cannot dictate his every move, brings an odd sort of happiness to his heart.
Even better, it brings a smile onto his face.
Because… he has a mum.
A mum that would most likely let him join in on the holiday. A mum that wouldn’t lock him up inside the house, torturing him to only watch the other kids outside have fun.
Because he has a mum. His mum is Euphemia.
Excitement begins to bubble up inside of him, at the very thought that things are different now. He has another family. A family that… loves him.
Regulus is still getting used to that one. The fact that they love him…
He cannot contain his excitement, as he bounces his way up the front porch steps, nearly tripping in his haste. He cannot contain his excitement, as he slams open the front door, the bang echoing through the hall. He cannot contain his excitement, the excitement that literally buzzes its way through his veins, as he makes his way over to Euphemia.
“M— Effie!” he shouts, unable to hold in his excitement anymore. Regulus can distantly hear a chuckle—likely from Fleamont—as the front door clicks shut behind him.
Euphemia turns around, her familiar, warm smile lighting up her face. It’s almost as if her smile grew ten times larger, simply laying her eyes on him.
The last remaining walls of ice around his heart melt, shatter into oblivion, from her smile alone. Regulus is safe and loved here, there’s no need to keep pretending anymore, is there?
“Hello, love,” Euphemia says, bringing a hand to her lips, letting out a light chuckle. Her smile stays impossibly wide, as she steps forward towards him, placing a kiss to his forehead. “Have a good day I see.”
It’s not entirely true. Regulus's day was pretty good, but nothing compares to how great it is getting to see his mum afterwards. Or, every day, really.
“Uh huh,” Regulus nods, his curls bouncing up and down, with the same amount of enthusiasm as he feels. “I did.”
Her smile grows wider. “That’s wonderful, love,” she says, as she makes her way back towards the kitchen counter. “Tell me about it, why don’t you?”
So, he does. Regulus begins to tell her everything about his day. From the way his English teacher enjoyed his opinions on the novel the class is reading, to the way his Geography teacher let him write on the board.
He’s stimming and he knows it, bouncing up and down on his toes, hands twisting, as he retells his day, rambling out the words at superhuman speed. Euphemia doesn’t seem to mind, as she continues making up his afternoon snack, nodding along like each detail is the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard.
Regulus is aware Fleamont’s there, standing somewhere next to him, probably listening too. He doesn’t care. Regulus is just happy someone, anyone, is willing to listen to him.
“Oh,” he says, almost forgetting the most important tidbit of news he has. Euphemia raises an eyebrow at him, as she hands over his snack. “I almost forgot.”
Euphemia tilts her head. “What did you almost forget?”
“The school's throwing a Halloween costume contest,” Regulus says, over a bite of food. He knows it’s rude—probably disgusting—but… nobody says anything, does anything. He knows nobody is going to reprimand him—his mother isn’t here, after all.
Euphemia gasps. “Really?” she asks, sounding just as excited as Regulus feels.
He nods, rapidly, unable to contain his buzzing excitement anymore. “Really,” he confirms, though, Regulus knows he doesn’t have to.
“Oh, this is so exciting,” Euphemia says, as she walks over towards him, cupping his cheeks with both her hands. “My baby’s first Halloween.”
Those words make him blush. Her baby’s. He’s her baby.
Regulus swallows down his food, placing it down onto his plate, feeling rather solemn, all of a sudden. “Yeah,” he mumbles out, picking at the chips resting on his plate. “I guess it is.”
The kitchen grows quiet. Regulus can feel Euphemia’s emotions before he even gets a look at her face. Glancing at her, he knew he was right. Her expression almost looks sad, her brows are furrowed, and a look of concern flashes across her face.
“My mother never let us do Halloween,” he admits, after a moment. Regulus doesn’t know whether this is a silly question—he highly doubts it will sound silly, but he has to ask, anyway. “Can we do—”
“Of course we can,” Euphemia cuts in, before he can even finish his question.
Regulus relaxes, his shoulders dropping, as the tension washes from his skin. Even if he had a feeling she was going to say yes, he still had to ask.
It’s like the life that was suddenly sucked out of the kitchen comes flooding back in. Regulus feels his excitement begin to bubble once more, he can feel Euphemia’s excitement begin to grow again, too.
“So,” Euphemia says, her smile returning. “Do you have any ideas on what you’d want your costume to be?”
Regulus doesn’t hesitate, when he utters the name, “Nico Di Angelo.”
“Excellent,” she says, pulling away from him. Regulus continues to eat his food, watching as she pulls out her phone. Euphemia is typing away on it, and Regulus has half a mind to ask, when he’s suddenly shown a picture on her phone.
“Something like this?” Euphemia questions, her tone filled with a seriousness that Regulus didn’t think were possible.
He nods, once getting a chance to see the image. Her seriousness drops, giving way to her usually bright and sunny personality. She nods once, mouthing the word, “Perfect.”
Regulus continues to watch her, curiosity evident as he tracks her movements. It’s almost like she can feel his eyes on her, as she glances up at him. Her smile drops from excitement, to one of loving warmth.
“James and I make his costume every year,” she begins to explain, without needing to ask. Regulus thinks she’s got some sort of sixth sense, or, even a superpower, that makes her know what he’s thinking. “I started doing it when he was little. I would make his costume, and we’d walk around the street. As he got older, he started helping me. It became a tradition, of sorts.”
Regulus smiles with her as she retells this memory. The way she goes through it, makes him feel like there’s room for him in that tradition.
“I was thinking, we could make your costume together.”
And, if Regulus wasn’t already excited for Halloween, is he now. He nods in agreement, a small chuckle escapes Euphemia’s lips. “Yes please,” he whispers, not sure what to say.
“Well, we better get on it, shall we?”
This is going to be the best Halloween ever.
***
The smell hits him first.
It’s sharp, old, like dust and mothballs, and then—deeper in—it shifts into something fresher, something like laundry powder and crisp air. Regulus draws in a slow breath, letting it settle in his chest as his eyes flick around the fabric store. Colour explodes in every direction: scarlets stacked like flames, blues spilling like rivers, golds and silvers catching the light.
It’s dizzying. It’s new. It’s… enticing.
The shelves are arranged by colour, neat blocks of hues lined up like soldiers, and he and Euphemia move steadily toward the section that belongs to him—black. Of course black. They’re here searching for the perfect fabric for his costume, though the only requirement—the one Euphemia insists on—is that it must pass his sensory test.
Regulus finds he enjoys this. Being here. With her.
A flicker of memory intrudes, unwanted: Walburga’s voice, clipped and dismissive, the way she would barely look up if he ever asked to sit with her, to talk to her, to be seen. The stain of it still lingers, raw, in the part of his heart that used to hope. She’d been his mother, and she hadn’t wanted him.
But Euphemia—
He watches her now, head tilted, fingers brushing lightly over bolts of fabric as though each one deserves her full attention. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t dismiss. He notices the way she discards the ones with too much visible texture, her nose wrinkling before she moves on, searching until she finds something that might suit him.
His heart gives a strange little lurch, a painful skip, then another, because she’s doing this for him. All of this care, all of this patience—it’s hers, but it’s also his.
Euphemia pulls a length of fabric free, the black catching a faint sheen under the overhead lights. Her hand glides across it, testing. Then she turns toward him, smiling softly, wide enough to light her whole face. “Test this one,” she says.
Regulus steps forward, lifts his hand. The instant his fingertips meet the fabric, a shiver runs down his spine. It’s smooth, silky—reminds him of the cool weight of his sheets at home, the safe ones. He can’t help the small sigh that escapes as his shoulders drop. He nods once, firmly.
Approval granted. Euphemia folds the fabric neatly, places it into the cart as if she’s adding treasure to a chest.
They move on, aisle after aisle, and Regulus notices something else: he hasn’t been calling her “Effie” much at all. Not since he realised—really, truly realised—that she’s his mum. It’s like his tongue is avoiding her name altogether, holding back, keeping him in some middle space between what was and what is. Nobody’s said anything. Euphemia hasn’t, either. Still… he notices.
She tests another bolt, turns it, then offers it to him. His fingers brush the surface, and immediately revulsion surges in his throat. It’s velvet, plush in the worst way, and he barely swallows down the gag. His nose wrinkles, face twisting.
Euphemia reads his expression, nods in easy understanding, and slips the fabric back without hesitation. No scolding. No sharp words. No “deal with it.” Walburga’s voice echoes faintly in his skull, cold and cruel. Regulus shakes it off. He’s thankful, so thankful, that Euphemia never makes him fight his own skin.
But the silence inside him remains—the question of what to call her. He wants to say it, to try the word that still feels too big and fragile in his chest. Mum. He wants it, but the risk tastes sharp, and so he keeps his mouth shut.
Back at home, the kitchen table is transformed into a workshop.
Regulus stands with his arms stretched wide, starfish-like, the ridiculousness of it tugging a laugh out of him. Euphemia winds the measuring tape around his shoulders, across his chest, down his back. The brush of it makes him twitch, though he holds steady, grinning at the thought that he’s pretending to be a sea creature while she’s so precise.
She writes down the numbers, eyes kind. As though reading his thoughts, she explains: “It’s so we can make sure everything fits you properly, love.”
Regulus nods, lowering his arms. “Makes sense,” he mutters, padding over to the table. The fabric—his chosen silky black—spills across the surface like a shadow poured from a bottle. Euphemia smooths it flat, then lays down the tracing stencil, aligning carefully.
When she hands him the scissors, he blinks. “Will you do the honors?” she asks.
The metal feels heavy in his hand, but in a good way. Important. He presses the blades through the fabric, slowly, listening to the satisfying crunch-snip as he works his way down. He glances up at her, seeking confirmation. Her nod is warm, encouraging. He keeps going.
The sound fills the room. Regulus grins, proud, when the final cut drops free. Euphemia gathers the pieces, gestures to the far side of the table where she’s setting up something else.
Her kit opens like a magician’s box: pins, needles, thread in neat spools. She talks him through each item, careful, patient. When she folds the edge of his cut piece, hiding the raw seam, she shows him how to pin. He follows her instructions, hands steady, tongue caught between his teeth.
Silence, but not uncomfortable—just focused. She corrects him gently, guiding without making him feel wrong. By the time they move to sewing, his chest is warm with a little glow of accomplishment.
Euphemia threads a needle, holds it up, then pauses. Her tone is serious. “However. I have a feeling you’ll freak out if the needle touches you.” Her eyes twinkle as she pulls over the sewing machine. “So—we’ll be using this.”
Gratitude rushes over him, thick and sudden. She thought about that. She thought ahead, kept him safe without him having to ask.
He watches closely as she demonstrates, the machine clattering and humming as it eats up the fabric. Then it’s his turn. He leans in, frowning in concentration, guiding carefully. He makes mistakes, of course, but Euphemia only helps him fix them, reminding him gently, “Nobody’s perfect first try.”
The words loosen something in him, unknot the little twist of shame before it can settle.
Her hands cover his, steadying, showing him the rhythm. He lets himself follow, listening to the whir of the machine and the soft encouragement in her voice.
James wanders through, tossing out some cheeky remark, and both he and Euphemia dissolve into laughter. The sound fills the kitchen, easy and bright.
Regulus looks at her—eyes crinkled, cheeks lifted, joy spilling out—and something in his chest clenches, then releases.
Yeah. That’s my mum.
Because it’s true. She is.
***
“Hey, sweetheart?” Euphemia asks, her tone questioning, open, as she addresses him from across the kitchen counter. She’s slicing butter across warm toast, the faint smell of cinnamon drifting through the air. The way her voice lifts at the end makes Regulus glance up sharply. “Would you like to invite a few friends over this Saturday?”
Regulus tilts his head in confusion, the fork he’s holding pausing halfway to his mouth. Saturday? Why? His chest tightens for a beat—had he forgotten something important?
“What for?” he questions, curiously, still unsure what she means.
Euphemia pauses her movements, the butter knife hovering slightly in the air. A glint of morning light catches the edge of the silver. Her smile is soft, kind even, and her hazel eyes land on him with the sort of patience that always makes his ribs ache in relief. “For trick-or-treating, of course.”
He furrows his brows. For trick-or-treating? His mind scrambles—he’s never gone before. Isn’t he… too old? Better yet, is he even allowed? A coil of hope tries to push past his doubt, but he clamps down on it quickly.
“Wait—” he says, as if pausing his own thoughts, “we’re allowed to go… trick-or-treating?”
His voice wavers with confusion, and he hates how small it sounds. Still, he dares to ask the question, eyes flicking up to Euphemia like he’s bracing for her to laugh or shake her head. A similar sort of confusion crosses her face, though—just for a second—as she processes what he’s really asking.
“Of course,” she says, slowly, as if she too is realizing what his words mean.
And that’s all it takes. He doesn’t need to be asked twice. His chest bursts open with sudden excitement, like something fizzy and bright has finally been uncorked. A grin stretches across his face before he can stop it. Euphemia seems reassured by the smile that takes over his whole expression, and he nods enthusiastically. “Yes please.”
Euphemia chuckles at him, her shoulders easing as she continues to make breakfast. “Alrighty, then. Talk to your friends, then get back to me.”
And that, Regulus does.
He’s at school, practically vibrating in his seat from the energy he can’t contain. His fingers drum against the tabletop, a rhythm that matches the pounding of his pulse. When he finally drops into his regular spot, his grin is so wide he can feel the edges of his cheeks ache.
“My mum wanted to know if you’d like to come over for trick-or-treating?”
The words tumble out easily, so easily he almost startles himself. His throat warms, a rush of heat crawling up to his ears—he’s blushing. The word slips past his lips without resistance, without shame, and for a heartbeat, everything is still. His friends just stare back at him. Some wide-eyed, some smiling like they know the weight of what he’s said.
Pandora is the first to break the spell. She nods, her curls bouncing, her smile bright and unshaken. “Of course, I’d love to.”
Regulus smiles back at her, heart thumping, as he writes her name down. Evan nods too, humming his agreement. “Count me in, Reg.”
Barty snorts loudly, the sound sharp and full of disbelief. Evan doesn’t hesitate to whack him in the back of the head, and the yelp that escapes Barty is dramatic enough to make Regulus snort quietly into his sleeve.
“Ow, Ev, what the hell?” Barty asks, his tone dripping with annoyance. But Regulus can see past the act; his friend’s eyes glimmer with interest, not refusal.
Evan rolls his eyes, a faint shade of pink dusting his cheeks. He shakes his head, exhaling sharply, then his gaze flicks back to Regulus. “He’ll be there, too.”
Regulus hums, noting down Evan and Barty’s names with steady hands. He turns toward Dorcas next, and his stomach dips a little at the soft, apologetic smile she wears.
“I would love to, Regulus. But, unfortunately, I’ve already got plans to meet up at Remus’s house—he’s one of James’s friends.”
He nods, swallowing down the tiny sting. He’s not nearly as upset as he could be. “That’s okay, Cas,” he says with a smile that feels honest enough. Still, his heart squeezes a little tight at the rejection.
“We can still meet up, though,” Dorcas adds quickly, reassurance spilling out of her. “That’s what Remus and James were planning to do, anyways.”
Regulus breathes easier at that, letting her words soften the pinch in his chest. He knows she cares, of course he does, but sometimes reminders are necessary.
“Okay,” he nods, jotting it down, and adds a little note beside her name: meeting later.
It’s now Friday, the day of the costume contest.
Regulus doesn’t think he’s ever been more excited than he is in this moment. His heart races as he pulls on his costume, each piece settling against him like armor and promise combined. He can’t help the proud smile that overtakes his lips as he stares at his reflection in the mirror.
His costume gleams in two parts: first, the familiar orange Camp Half-Blood shirt, bold and bright; second, the toga, dark and carefully designed, a nod to Nico and the weight of his godly lineage.
Hours of work—him and Euphemia side by side—had gone into the toga. They had embroidered emblems that whispered of the Underworld, stitched shadows into fabric. Euphemia had even crafted him a crown, delicate yet heavy with the idea of Prince-status.
He spins once in front of the mirror, the fabric swishing, his grin unstoppable. The reflection staring back at him looks more like a character from the stories he loves than the boy he usually sees.
Bounding down the stairs two steps at a time, he bursts into the kitchen, schoolbag bouncing at his side.
“Look at you,” Euphemia says, awe ringing in her voice. Her eyes light up the moment she sees him. The pride there makes Regulus’s chest expand. She closes the distance, cupping his cheeks in her hands before resting them warmly on his shoulders. “You look fantastic.”
Heat flares across his face, and he ducks his head slightly, glancing down at himself again. “I feel fantastic,” he mumbles, just loud enough for her to catch. Her chuckle in response settles warmly in his stomach.
“Wow, kiddo,” Fleamont’s voice chimes in from the doorway. Regulus twists toward him, still smiling so hard his face aches. “Looking good. I’ll see you this afternoon, yeah?”
Regulus nods eagerly, watching as Fleamont grabs his coat and leaves the house.
He turns back to Euphemia, who’s still watching him with that same fond smile, like he’s the only person in the room. “Alrighty then, sweetheart,” she says gently, “you ready for school?”
He nods once more, a steady breath leaving his lungs. He imagines all the little anxious thoughts floating out with it. “Yep,” he says, pulling his schoolbag up onto his shoulder.
“Okay then, let’s go.”
If he thought his day couldn’t get any better, he was surely wrong.
The rules for the contest are simple: teachers will choose the top ten contenders, who will then be presented in front of their cohort, judged, and ranked.
Somehow, impossibly, Regulus’s name is on that list.
Nerves twist his stomach as he walks the school halls, every step drawing more attention than he’s used to. His eyes dart left, right, up, down—everywhere at once. The building feels brighter, louder, wilder than usual. Colours clash and sparkle, glitter explodes from costumes, sequins flash like starlight. It all presses in, dizzying.
By the time he edges toward the front of the auditorium, his palms are damp and his pulse won’t settle. Then—relief. Ms. Carrington is there, standing quietly off to the side. She catches his eye, her smile calm, reassuring, and it steadies him instantly. His shoulders drop a fraction, tension easing just enough to breathe.
Everything after that is a blur. Faces, voices, lights. Shouts ring out across the auditorium: “That’s Nico di Angelo!” Fingers point at him, recognition sparking across the crowd.
Despite his anxiety, despite the tremor in his chest, he somehow manages to place second. Second. The trophy in his hands feels solid, almost too heavy for him to believe it’s real.
As he leaves the auditorium, clutching it tightly, only one thought pulses clear and certain through the haze:
He has to tell his mum.
Because they did this, together.
They got second, together.
And he couldn’t have done it without her.
***
The thought of telling his mum about his second place win is pushed to the back of his mind. It’s not that he wanted to not tell her—if anything, the words had been burning on the tip of his tongue since yesterday afternoon—it’s just… the rest of Friday went by in a blur.
Regulus can barely even remember what happened after the contest. The day had slipped through his fingers too fast, like sand in a current, leaving behind only smudges of noise and faces. By the time he was home, his head was full and heavy, and he couldn’t even recall what they had for dinner.
And then, to top it all off, he had soccer the next morning. The early wake-up, the rush of cold air against his cheeks, the sound of his cleats biting into the grass—all of it kept him busy.
Not that he minded. Regulus rather enjoys playing soccer. The rhythm of the game, the sharp clarity of running, the way the ball connects with his foot—it grounds him in a way few things do. He would’ve told Euphemia after the match, except… well. It’s Halloween.
After they get home, everything dissolves into chaos. Euphemia leaves almost immediately, grabbing her car keys and muttering something about groceries, her voice light but hurried. Fleamont, meanwhile, gathers them both with a clap of his hands and instructions to help him decorate.
Regulus doesn’t hesitate. He does as he’s told, running upstairs to take a quick shower, the steam clouding the mirror as he rushes through the motions. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this excited before—his chest feels like it’s buzzing—as he pulls on his jumper and steps back out into the crisp October air.
The porch creaks under his shoes, the chill brushing against his skin like cool fingers. The scent of damp leaves drifts faintly from the lawn.
“Alrighty, kiddo,” Fleamont says, pulling Regulus’s attention toward him. His voice is cheerful, steady, full of warmth. “We’re gonna start with the front lawn, m’kay?”
“Okay,” Regulus replies eagerly, the word almost bouncing from his lips.
He and Fleamont spend the next ten minutes spray-painting patches of the lawn, the artificial mist sticking to the cool air, leaving a ghostly shimmer on the grass. The sound of the nozzle hissing fills the quiet until James finally appears, hands shoved in his pockets.
“But Dad,” James whines, dragging out the word as if it physically pains him. His voice is exaggerated, dramatic, and so utterly James. “It’s cold.”
Fleamont chuckles, rolling his eyes as he sets a tombstone near the footpath, pressing it into the dirt until it holds. “You say this every year, bud,” he replies easily. “And every year, you always, without fail, still manage to help.”
James huffs, rolling his eyes in return, the annoyance on his face so clearly fake it makes Regulus giggle. The sound slips out before he can help it, light and bright in the cold air, and James shoots him a half-smile like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Regulus is enjoying himself. Truly enjoying himself. He’s never decorated a house for Halloween before—or for any holiday, really. Back when he lived with his parents, Christmas had always been Walburga’s domain. She decorated the house herself, every bauble and garland placed with exacting precision, leaving no room for mistakes.
Everything had to be perfect.
Maybe that’s why—even now, even after everything—Sirius still rearranges Regulus’s room sometimes. To make sure things are orderly. To protect him from that feeling of chaos. Regulus doesn’t mind. He likes it when Sirius comes in and straightens things out. It helps him breathe, helps him keep from being overwhelmed.
His fingertips begin to grow numb as he hangs string lights near the front door, the cold seeping through his skin. Just as he shifts to grab another hook, the low hum of a car engine reaches him. Tires crunch against the driveway gravel, pulling his gaze sharply toward the road.
Inside the car, he spots Euphemia in the driver’s seat, Sirius in the passenger seat beside her. The sight makes something warm bloom in his chest. Without thinking, Regulus abandons his half-hung lights and darts across the yard, practically bouncing toward the car.
The smile spreading across his face grows impossibly wider as the driver’s side door opens. Euphemia steps out, looking tired but still smiling, her hair falling slightly out of place. She greets him before he can get a word out.
“Hello, love,” she says, her voice soft and certain.
Regulus immediately holds his hands out, wordless, and she doesn’t hesitate—she places her handbag straight into his grasp like she’s been expecting it.
“Hello,” he echoes back, his voice a little higher than he intends. Euphemia leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead before shutting the car door.
If Regulus were to look into a mirror right now, he wouldn’t be able to tell if the pink on his cheeks was from the sharp October air or from Euphemia’s touch. Maybe both.
“Can I help at all?” he asks quickly, trying to ignore the rush of his heartbeat whenever she looks directly at him.
Euphemia beams at him, warm and wide, as she pops open the boot. “That would be lovely, dear.”
Regulus immediately busies himself, grabbing armfuls of groceries. The plastic bags dig into his fingers, but he hardly notices—he turns on his heel and heads straight back inside the house, eager to be useful.
“Oh, look at this!” Euphemia’s voice follows him inside, full of awe, the kind of tone he’s starting to realize she reserves for her children. “It looks amazing!”
“Thanks, hun,” Fleamont calls back, still perched on a step-stool ladder he doesn’t really need. He waves absently over his shoulder as he fixes another strand of lights. “Regulus did all the work.”
“Hey!” James’s offended voice cuts in, carrying from somewhere out of sight. When he stomps into view, his face is exaggerated in mock indignation.
Fleamont chuckles, shaking his head. “Come help me, James,” he calls. James doesn’t argue, not really. He just sighs loudly for show and steps closer, steadying the ladder like he’s been trained to do a hundred times.
Regulus continues into the kitchen. Warmth envelops him instantly, the shift from cold to heat making his cheeks tingle. He places the grocery bags on the counter with a soft thud and exhales, shaking out his arms. He hadn’t realized how heavy they were until the weight was gone.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Euphemia says warmly, leaning over to press another kiss to his forehead. Regulus leans into it, just slightly. He notices that he’s been doing that more often lately, tilting into her touch before he can stop himself.
She begins unpacking groceries, Sirius slipping past him to grab the rest of the bags. Regulus watches her hands move with easy rhythm, the little hum under her breath. The affection she gives him still feels strange sometimes—foreign in its gentleness. He’s not used to it, not really.
Though, saying that, he’s become much more comfortable with it than he ever expected to be.
At times, a thought creeps in, whispering that maybe it could all vanish one day. That maybe the affection and care Euphemia showers him with could evaporate, just like that. He knows it won’t—not really. He’s certain of that in his bones. But Walburga had been the least affectionate, coldest person Regulus had ever known. He’d always thought mothers were supposed to be that way—distant, sharp, untouchable.
So imagine his surprise when, after entering the system, he saw parents hugging their children, kissing scraped knees, murmuring reassurances.
At first, he’d been repulsed by it. The thought of touch had curled his stomach. Touch was for Sirius—always Sirius. Never him. Slowly, though, painfully slowly, he’d warmed. Now he finds himself leaning into it, sometimes even craving it.
Not all his foster homes were bad. Some parents genuinely tried. They just weren’t patient enough. Regulus doesn’t blame them. In fact, looking back, he’s almost proud of them for trying. He’s glad there were people who wanted to connect, who wanted to welcome him in, even if he didn’t know how to accept it at the time.
Laura helped him see that. Helped him realize not all his experiences had been cruel ones. That some of his foster families had cared, even if he couldn’t understand what they were offering.
Social situations be damned.
Regulus lingers in the doorway for a moment longer, watching Euphemia—his mum—as she moves around the kitchen. Something stirs in the back of his mind, a quiet reminder that he has something to say, something he wants to share. He pushes it down. Not now.
Instead, he turns, heading back into the cool autumn air.
Decorating with Fleamont and James proves enough to distract him for the rest of the day. His thoughts never once return to the second place trophy sitting at the bottom of his schoolbag. His exciting news waits there, patient and ready to be shown off.
***
Regulus is finishing up the final touch-ups to his costume. Excitement buzzes ecstatically within his veins, zapping him every so often, enticing another wave of electricity to jolt through his body. His hands tremble as he smooths over one last seam, fingertips grazing the fabric with the kind of reverence that makes his chest ache.
He glances at the trophy sitting on his desk, and pride travels through him, sharp and hot, as he thinks about what that trophy represents. It represents all the time, the effort, the work he and his mum put into this costume. It represents the hours of sitting side by side, laughing and arguing over small details, pinning fabric and undoing mistakes, only to try again. It represents the time they spent together, perfecting it, making it presentable to others. It represents everything his childhood should have been.
The last thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, sour and heavy on his tongue, like biting into something rotten when you expected sweetness. His chest tightens, and he swallows against it. Regulus doesn’t get to dwell on it for too long, because the sound of someone knocking on his bedroom door snaps him from his thoughts.
His bedroom door creaks open, and in pops Sirius. Regulus tilts his head at his brother, letting his gaze drop over him, cataloguing every detail in the way he always does. The way Sirius looks now, reminds Regulus of the lead up to when his brother would start shaking. If he remembers correctly, Sirius would get these shaking episodes regularly—his body wound so tightly that it simply couldn’t contain it anymore. Regulus wonders why he hasn’t seen one yet, and the thought pricks at him like a warning.
“Bellatrix and Narcissa are here,” Sirius’s speech slurs slightly, as he leans his entire body weight onto the doorframe. His eyes look glassy, unfocused, and the words drag, as though even talking is too heavy a task.
Regulus’s thoughts are immediately put on hold—any worry for his brother outweighs his joy and excitement over seeing his cousins. His chest clenches, but the need to move propels him forward. “Oh!” he lets out, the sound almost squeaky with surprise, as he makes his way down the stairs.
“Regulus!” Bellatrix calls out, shock evident in her tone. The amazement on her face doesn’t go unnoticed, and he feels it wrap around him like warm sunlight, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. “Look at you! You look amazing!”
He blushes at the compliment, still not used to it. His face burns, his ears even hotter, but regardless, he makes his way over towards Bellatrix, leaning into the hug she offers. She’s not much of a hugger, either. But she does indulge him whenever he wants one, and the rare softness of her arms around him makes his throat feel tight.
Regulus pulls back from the embrace. “Thanks,” he mutters, stepping back and doing a little twirl, the fabric swishing around his legs. “Mum helped me make it.”
The words slip off his tongue without him even registering them. The moment they leave, he feels it—like an echo bouncing too loudly in the room. He can feel the heat on his cheeks deepen at the implication of what he said, and he takes a careful glance at Bellatrix.
The delight he doesn’t too often see in her grey eyes, ones that match Sirius’s, makes his heart race. She gives him a smile, shaking her head with something that looks almost like fondness. “Well, it still looks good.”
He giggles, the sound bubbling out of him before he can stop it, right as Narcissa comes into view. She lets out a gasp, making sure to be dramatic—exaggerating her feelings, just so he’s able to pick up on them.
Oh, how he loves his cousins.
“My, my,” Narcissa says, her smile betraying her as she steps into the hall light. “What do we have here?”
Before he could say anything, Euphemia comes up from behind him, her presence as grounding as a hand to the back of his neck. “This, right here, is my little Nico di Angelo,” she says, placing her hands onto his shoulders with a squeeze. She quickly leaves a kiss to the back of his head, rubbing her hands up and down his arms in a rhythm that untangles some of the nerves still wound tight inside him.
“Wow, Regulus, your costume is truly spectacular,” Narcissa compliments him, her smile morphing into one of fondness. She pulls out her phone, gesturing to the front door. “Can I take some pictures?”
Her question isn’t pushy, which makes Regulus relieved. His stomach, which had just started to knot, loosens again. He’s not always comfortable when a camera is placed his way, but for Narcissa, he would be happy to.
Regulus nods, making his way to the front door. He poses for each photo all the same, his hands twitching as he adjusts his stance. Bellatrix comments every so often saying, “Send that one to me.” His smile is wide when she first makes the comment, unguarded and bright, making Narcissa get a truly authentic picture.
Peeking over her shoulder, Regulus sees the pictures she took, each one showcasing just how amazing his costume is. His chest swells with something that feels suspiciously like pride, and as more guests arrive, the further back the second-place trophy is pushed in his mind.
First it’s Barty. His mum, Martha, getting pictures of the two of them. She constantly scolds Barty, playfully, whenever he tries to do a silly pose, and Regulus laughs, too, because Barty never listens. The second lot of his friends to show up are Pandora and Evan, where their parents make sure to get some pictures as well.
“Oh, Regulus,” Evan says, once they’re inside. The relative noise of people chatting, isn’t as loud and overwhelming as he thought it would be. The buzz of voices, the shuffle of coats, the smell of autumn leaves clinging to people’s hair—it all blurs into something almost manageable.
Maybe, he thinks, it’s because he’s too excited to get to the point of being overwhelmed.
Regulus hums in acknowledgment, turning his attention towards Evan. Evan’s sporting a massive grin, as he asks: “Can we see it? The trophy?”
“Oh!” he shouts, the realization striking him like lightning. How could he forget?
Regulus immediately bolts his way up the stairs, storming into his bedroom. Sitting on his desk, sat his second-place trophy. He quickly grabs it, the metal cold and solid in his hands, before rushing back down the stairs.
He rounds his way into the dining room, hoisting up the trophy like it’s a holy artifact. “Look, mum,” he exclaims, shoving the trophy in Euphemia’s face with unrestrained glee. “I got second place for my costume.”
Regulus doesn’t even notice the room going dead silent, his focus completely on Euphemia and her reaction. Every nerve in him leans toward her.
She blinks rapidly. “Oh,” her voice cracks slightly, “That’s amazing, love.”
He’s immediately melting at the praise, body liquefying into warmth. “I know,” he says with way too much excitement humanly possible, practically bouncing in place. Regulus turns towards Evan, not even noticing the fact his jaw is completely on the floor. “Here you go.”
It’s like the room goes somewhat back to normal, the second he hands over the trophy. People begin to move around, chatter rising again, and Regulus doesn’t notice he’s being slowly pulled outside by Cyrus, until he’s blinking in the cooler night air.
He frowns a second later, when Fleamont steps outside. Regulus tries searching behind him for Euphemia, but comes up empty, his chest pulling tight again.
“Where’s mum?” Regulus questions, curiosity, and a hint of sadness, edging at his tone. “Why isn’t she coming?”
Fleamont chuckles as he takes a hold of Regulus’s hand. Regulus lets him, the warmth of it settling into his palm, and soon, he’s being led off the front porch, and out into the wild. “Well, bub,” he explains, sounding rather delighted. “Someone has to stay back at the house to hand out candy.”
Regulus nods. “Makes sense.”
Fleamont chuckles again, squeezing his hand. Regulus bounces down the street with his friends, costume swishing with every step, ready to make the most of the night.
***
One thing Regulus has never been more comfortable doing, has been to hold either Euphemia or Fleamont’s hand. To him, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. His palm fits neatly into theirs, the solid warmth grounding him in a way that makes his chest loosen, like a safety blanket he didn’t know he needed but now can’t imagine being without.
Neither Walburga nor his father ever held his hand whenever they were out-and-about. They usually kept their hands to themselves, hidden away by their own pockets, fingers clenched as if even touch were too indulgent. It was always up to Sirius to hold his hand—Sirius’s grip messy, a little sweaty, but sure. Regulus is still glad his brother did, and never once ended up acting like their parents.
So, it shouldn’t be unusual for him to still be holding Fleamont’s hand, even as they walk down the street. It’s a layer of protection, a tether against the dark, the warm sense of comfort that Regulus never dreamed of ever receiving. And, for the life of him, he can’t seem to quit holding either hand. He’s addicted, fingers curling tighter whenever the thought of letting go even grazes him.
Regulus breathes out into the night air, watching the pale puff of his breath appear and disappear—reminding him of fire-breathing dragons in his storybooks. He squeezes the hand still holding his own, noticing how his fingertips have already grown numb as the chill of the night air snakes around them, biting at his ears and nose. The squeeze is his way of checking, confirming: I’m still here. You’re still here.
His gaze drifts across his tired friends as they trudge their way back to the house. Pandora’s yawns are huge and unhidden, Evan’s dragging his bag against the pavement, and even Barty’s shoulders sag in defeat. For some reason, Regulus doesn’t feel as tired as them. He doesn’t seem to have that chilling, deep-bone exhaustion each of his friends exhibit.
Maybe it’s because he still feels giddy about the fact this was his first ever Halloween. Maybe it’s because he gets to experience a normal childhood just like everyone else—candy and costumes, laughter echoing down the street instead of silence. Or, maybe, it’s the simple fact he’s here, with Fleamont, walking down the street, hand-in-hand, surrounded by everything he holds near and dear to his heart. His chest feels so full it’s almost dizzying.
“Monty,” Regulus says, almost like he’s jumping up and down with that typical child-like excitement one would see on a five-year-old. His voice pitches up, vibrating with energy that has nowhere to go. He hears someone groan—presumably Barty—at the way his entire being seems to hum, like Regulus shouldn’t still be exhibiting this much energy after walking for three hours.
Fleamont chuckles at him, low and warm, causing Regulus to look up. Dark brown eyes glaze over him, holding so much warmth, Regulus is reminded of how hot chocolate feels when it slides down his throat on a freezing night—sweet, rich, comforting. “Yeah, kiddo?”
“Can we do this next year?” he asks, without thinking too much of it, the words tumbling out before he can stop them.
Judging by Fleamont’s face, the way he lets out a light, airy laugh, makes him think he needn’t ask at all. “I see Ef—mum—has turned you to the dark side.”
The correction from Effie to Mum suddenly kickstarts his heart into an almost unlivable rhythm. His lungs squeeze tight, and he feels almost breathless, as his face dissolves into the biggest grin Regulus thinks he can ever physically muster.
Regulus hums, for reasons unknown to him. “Mum,” he sounds back, tasting the word, letting it coat his tongue with sweetness, with a level of happiness he never once thought would ever light up his life.
His eyes flick up to Fleamont’s once more, and there it is: a genuine smile, so full of pride it glows in the dim streetlights. Regulus only knows its pride from the amount of times he’s seen it on Fleamont’s and Euphemia’s faces, directed at him like he’s something worth celebrating.
Neither say anything more, as they continue their walk down the slowly quietening street. Shoes scuff against the pavement, wrappers crinkle in bags, and the night air grows colder, quieter, softer. Regulus, once again, lets his gaze fall over his friends, landing specifically on Evan and Pandora.
The wheels turn in his head, something pulls at the back of his mind. Rosier. Related. Cyrus. Bellatrix. Narcissa. Birthday. Sirius.
“Monty,” Regulus says, concern edging itself lightly at the corners of his voice. Fleamont looks down at him, tilting his head ever so slightly—an indication Regulus has his fullest attention. “I don’t know when Sirius’s birthday is.”
The statement is mild, but just as random. He can feel what Fleamont must be thinking: how on Earth did this child come to the conclusion of Sirius’s birthday?
“I’m sorry?” Fleamont asks, slightly baffled, stopping them in their tracks, concluding Regulus’s theory. “What made you think about that?”
There’s no hint of disgust in Fleamont’s voice, just pure confusion and bafflement. They’re only a few meters away from the house, as Regulus watches his friends walk their way inside the house. Inside, where the people that triggered this thought, stand.
“Well, Bella and Cissa are related to the Rosiers,” he begins to explain. “And, it was at my birthday that they saw their uncle again—” Regulus pauses, feeling like his explanation is irrelevant. He feels rather silly, standing there on the sidewalk, with Fleamont’s hand in his own. But Fleamont simply stands there, steady and patient, waiting for Regulus to explain how his brain made the connection.
“And, well, umm… you see…” he lets out a small huff of frustration, as he desperately tries to continue, the explanation running circles around his mouth. Regulus takes a small breath in and out, calming himself enough to let the words flow freely. “Our parents never celebrated Sirius’s birthday. I’m still confused as to why, but it just made me think, and…”
Fleamont nods, just as Regulus trails off. “I see,” he says, trailing off, like his mind is falling into thought. He seems to snap out of it, though, as he immediately turns back to Regulus.
A small, sad smile graces Fleamont’s lips, as Regulus slowly lets himself be dragged back to the house. “So, Sirius has never had a birthday before?” Fleamont asks, as if he needs the clarification. Regulus nods, making Fleamont hum. “And,” he says, as if his mind is trying to work overtime just to think. “You don’t know when it is?”
Regulus nods his head again. Fleamont seems almost defeated, sad, and something else Regulus can’t quite put his finger on. Then, a thought occurs to him. “Sirius might know.”
It’s almost dumb that Regulus didn’t think of it earlier. Fleamont glances at him, giving him another soft, warm smile. “He might,” Fleamont nods in agreement. “I did remember seeing November written on his school intake form. It was something three.”
Fleamont’s shoulders sag, and Regulus sees a rare glimpse of sadness in an adult he never thought he’d see. Fleamont sighs, frustratedly. “How could I forget?” he says, muttering to himself.
“Monty?” Regulus whispers, somehow feeling Fleamont’s anger—not at Regulus, no, but at his own self.
Fleamont doesn’t look at Regulus, forcing Regulus to take drastic measures. He immediately halts Fleamont’s movement, jolting him back ever so slightly. Regulus moves in front of him, staring directly in Fleamont’s eyes.
He can see the way Fleamont stiffens, something flashing deep within his eyes. A part of Regulus realises he’s never made direct eye contact with anyone, and maybe Fleamont might be caught off guard.
Regulus folds his arms across his chest, stomping his foot harshly into the concrete beneath him. “Stop that,” he angrily says, glaring daggers at Fleamont.
If Regulus ever did this to his own father… he shivers at the thought of the type of punishment he would’ve received for being so disrespectful. But, staring at Fleamont right now, Regulus knows nothing will ever happen to him for being “disrespectful.”
He shakes his head, “you don’t get to do that.”
Fleamont seems to have snapped out of whatever trance he’s in because he too folds his arms over his chest, a defensive stance similar to that of his own.
“And what might that be?” he questions, his tone firmer, making Regulus lock up, only a little. Fleamont takes notice, and suddenly relaxes his stance, softening his expression. “And what would that be?” he asks again, gentler this time.
Regulus sighs, but never once lowering his stance. “Being mad at yourself.” He states it like it’s a fact. Something flashes across Fleamont’s face, but Regulus isn’t done. “You’re not allowed to be mad at yourself,” Regulus begins shaking his head. “That’s not nice.”
Fleamont raises his eyebrow at Regulus, but Regulus continues, using the same tone Fleamont and Euphemia use when they are disappointed in him. “You didn’t know. It’s not your fault. Stop being mad.”
A small, quiet smirk begins to pull at Fleamont’s lips. Regulus watches how he tries, and fails, to hide it. Fleamont opens his mouth to say something, but he’s cut off by Regulus’s next move: “If you get to be mad at yourself, then I get to be mad at myself too.”
“Oh, buddy,” Fleamont immediately folds, taking Regulus into his arms. Regulus relaxes against the hold, melting as his arms wrap around Fleamont’s neck. Without warning, he is suddenly picked up, being held close to Fleamont. “You not knowing isn’t your fault, okay?”
Regulus nods, because he already knows this. He tilts his head, throwing Fleamont a knowing look. Fleamont seems to simultaneously sigh and chuckle. “It’s not my fault, either.”
“Very good,” he says, his smile coming back to his lips. “You’re a quick learner.”
Fleamont snorts at Regulus, causing Regulus to giggle. A nose collides with his cheek, as he squeezes his hold on Fleamont. Lips are pressed firmly, yet lovingly, against his cheek, and Regulus thinks—it just doesn’t get better than this.
Best Halloween, yet.
Notes:
Word Count: 8,951
Published: 2025-09-05EVERYBODY START THE COUNTDOWN! ONLY 10 CHAPTERS LEFT!
But, guys, guys, this is even crazier: MY BABY IS 8 MONTHS OLD TODAY!
(This fic is my baby. I do not have a human baby, that would be very irresponsible of me)Please read below, somewhat/rather important:
Also, I just wanted to let you all know, September is kind of busy for me. I have lots of assessments coming up this month, coupled with having to head into my Uni for four days straight (for the practical part of one of my units - PEOPLE'S LIVES LITERALLY DEPEND ON ME PASSING THIS SUBJECT, lol). Plus the fact that I accidently burnt myself out, and needless to say, things are a bit... chaotic.
I just wanted to give you all a heads up, as there is a chance a chapter 41 might not come out next Friday. That doesn't mean I'm taking a break, or anything. It's just... I'm giving you all a little heads up that updates could be a bit all over the place - could be Friday, could be a few days after.
For the record, I'm doing pretty okay (quite fine, actually) mentally at the moment. I just need everyone to be prepared, September is a CRAZY ASS MONTH.
Thank you. Please take care of yourselves. I hope to see you next week. <3
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