He had been wrong.

The fight had started over something small. It always did. But it had ended with shattered porcelain against the drawing room wall, his mother's voice rising to a pitch he'd never heard before, and his father standing silent in the corner like a portrait that had forgotten how to speak. Sirius had been gone for a year by then, and Regulus had stayed—had tried to be the son they wanted, had tried to make himself small enough to fit into the space they'd carved for him. It hadn't been enough. It was never enough.

Dumbledore had arrived three days later, his presence in the dark foyer almost absurdly out of place. He had spoken to Regulus's parents in that calm, measured way of his, and then he had looked at Regulus—really looked at him—and said, "I know of a place where you might spend the summer. Somewhere quieter."

Regulus had expected another cold house, another set of distant relatives who would tolerate his presence rather than welcome it. He had packed his trunk with mechanical precision, tucked his kitten into the folds of his robes where no one would see, and allowed himself to be escorted to the Floo Network without asking a single question.

He hadn't asked where they were going.

He wished he had.

When the green flames had subsided and Regulus had stepped out into an unfamiliar foyer, warm and golden with afternoon light, he had found himself face-to-face with James Potter. James, who looked like he'd just come in from Quidditch practice, hair a disaster, broom in hand, hazel eyes wide behind his round glasses. James, who stared at him like Regulus was a particularly confusing piece of homework.

James Potter was not happy to see him.

The thought shouldn't have stung. It was exactly what Regulus had expected. But expectation and reality had always felt different when they collided, and standing in the warm golden light of Potter Manor, with his kitten mewling softly against his chest and his trunk at his feet, Regulus felt very far from home and very unsure of what that meant.

Regulus gripped the handle of his trunk a little tighter and reminded himself that ten weeks was not actually that long. Ten weeks was nothing. He had survived seventeen years in Grimmauld Place.

He could survive this.