Savior Complex
Amelia tried her best to patch Regulus up. She had seen some bad injuries before—she had been the Order’s private healer, after all—but nothing quite like this. His body was a map of pain: deep scratches ran across his chest, torso, and legs; bruises bloomed over his skin; jagged lacerations left him barely clinging to consciousness. It was a miracle she had even managed to keep him breathing.
She poured everything she had into saving him. Fifteen vials of essence of dittany, three rolls of bandages, four hours twenty-seven minutes, and a fuckton of magic later, the broken man before her finally stirred.
A sharp, panicked gasp tore from his throat as he shot up, breath ragged, hands scrambling for a wand that wasn’t there. His body locked up in protest, every muscle screaming with pain. His frantic gaze darted around the dimly lit room, wild and disoriented. The scent of burning wood and dried herbs filled the air, but beneath it all was the sharp, metallic tang of blood. His blood.
His chest heaved as he braced himself for an attack that wasn’t coming.
Amelia was quick on her feet. Relief flickered across her face before she quickly schooled it into neutrality. She pressed her hands against his shoulders, guiding him back down with as much gentleness as she could manage. Scared to reopen his deep wounds.
“Stop moving,” she ordered firmly. “I’ve just got the bleeding to stop.”
Her voice was distant, almost unrecognizable even to her own ears.
Regulus froze, his tense shoulders slowly sinking as recognition dawned in his stormy gray eyes. The fear faded, replaced by something unreadable. He searched her face—tired, sunken, different. A new scar ran across the bridge of her nose. He wanted to ask, but for now, he was too busy just swallowing the fact that she was real.
“Here.” Amelia handed him a glass of water that had been waiting on the coffee table.
He reached for it, but his fingers trembled from exhaustion. The glass nearly slipped from his grasp, and Amelia was quick to steady it, her fingers briefly brushing his.
The moment lingered too long. She took the glass from his grasp, expression unreadable, eyes carefully averted.
“Drink up.” Her tone left no room for argument as she lifted the glass to his lips, tipping it carefully.
Regulus obeyed without protest, but he never took his eyes off her. He used to be able to read her like an open book—she had worn her heart on her sleeve, once. But now? Now, she was a closed door. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
The silence between them was heavy, filled only by the occasional crackle of the fire.
Amelia reached into her robes and pulled out a small flask. Without a word, she held it out toward him, her expression expectant.
Regulus eyed it warily. “What is it?”
“Blood-replenishing potion,” she answered curtly. “You lost a lot of blood.”
She held it closer to his face, leaving no room for argument.
A ghost of a smirk, twisted with exhaustion, flickered across his lips. “Sure did.”
Leaning forward, he drank the potion in one swift motion before grimacing. “Ugh, I’ve always hated these things.”
Amelia gave a curt nod of approval and placed the empty vial on the table. “Get some rest. You need it.”
She turned to leave, but hesitated at the door. “I’ll check on you in the morning.”
Regulus, too tired to fight or question the shift in her demeanor, simply grunted in response. He let himself sink back into the sofa, exhaustion dragging him under. The last thing he saw before the exhaustion claimed him was Amelia’s retreating figure.
On the other side of her bedroom door, Amelia exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She leaned against the wood, hands trembling as she pulled her hair free from its tangled ponytail.
Lifting her fingers, she found dried blood caked beneath her nails.
She swallowed hard, willing away the bile that rose in her throat as flashes of his mangled body filled her mind—skin torn and blood pooling beneath her hands. Her gaze drifted to where his Dark Mark had been branded into his forearm.
She should have felt fear.
But all she felt was pity. The same she felt seeing it at 16.
Sixth Year, Winter 1977
Just as Regulus was about to step into the Great Hall for dinner, a rough grip yanked him back. His head snapped to the side, anger rising when he saw who grabbed him.
Sirius.
Before he could shake him off, his older brother was already dragging him away.
“Get the fuck off of me,” Regulus hissed, jerking his arm.
Sirius didn’t. If anything, his grip tightened, pulling him into an empty classroom before shoving him inside. The door slammed shut behind them.
“Show me your arm.”
Regulus froze. Sirius' voice was sharp, seething. But beneath the anger was something far worse—desperation.
Regulus’ back straightened, his face carefully blank. It took him only a second to understand. His mind raced, half a dozen scenarios flashing through his head. He could lie. He could deny it. But something in him wanted to hurt Sirius, to rip apart whatever hope was left in his eyes.
“I don’t take orders from blood traitors,” he sneered instead, arms crossing stiffly. Any movement could betray him—Sirius knew him too well. That only irritated him more.
Sirius scoffed, eyes narrowing. “No, you only take them from the Dark Lord, right?”
The accusation stung, but Regulus refused to show it. Instead, he tilted his head, letting a slow, cruel smirk curl his lips.
“If you already know the answer,” he mocked, “why ask?”
Sirius lunged, fury crackling in his every movement.
The door swung open before he could strike. A shuffle of feet. A hand on his shoulder. A familiar voice, soft and groggy from sleep.
“You alright?” Amelia asked.
She was making her way down to the great hall after a long nap when she saw Sirius drag Regulus into the classroom.
Sirius stilled. His shoulders, rigid with rage, loosened just slightly. He exhaled sharply, his hand instinctively patting Amelia’s in acknowledgment.
“No need to worry, Fawley,” Regulus drawled, sarcasm laced in every syllable. He turned toward the door. “I was just leaving.”
He made it two steps before Sirius yanked him back. This time, something inside Regulus snapped.
His fist collided with Sirius’ jaw before he could think, before he could stop himself. The sound of the impact echoed in the empty room. Sirius barely staggered before shoving him back, landing his own blow. Regulus swayed, but before he could strike again, something stopped him. A hand around his wrist.
“That’s enough.”
Amelia’s voice was steady, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something worried. Her fingers tightened around Regulus’ arm before she stepped between them, one hand pressed against Sirius’ chest to keep him from moving closer.
Regulus pulled his hand roughly away from her grip, wiped the blood from his nose, lips curled in a bitter smirk.
Sirius, breath heavy with frustration, looked like he was trying to stop himself from breaking. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again.
“Tell me Mulciber and Avery were lying, Reg.” His jaw clenched. “Tell me the rumors aren’t true. That you weren’t stupid enough to ruin your life like that.”
Amelia’s breath hitched.
She’d heard the rumors. Everyone had. But seeing the way Sirius was looking at his brother—like he was begging him to undo what had already been done—made her heart sink.
Regulus could see the hope clinging to his brother’s expression, thin and fragile. It made his heart twist. So he destroyed it. Who was he to keep his brother hoping for something impossible?
His fingers worked at the buttons of his left sleeve, undoing them one by one with excruciating slowness.
Then, he rolled it up.
Silence. Sirius stopped breathing. Amelia’s stomach twisted.
There, etched into Regulus’ pale skin, was the Dark Mark.
A cruel kind of triumph flickered in his eyes as he watched his brother shatter.
Sirius took a staggering step back, shaking his head. He looked—hollow. “I don’t even know you anymore,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You are not my brother.”
Regulus’ smirk didn’t waver. “You stopped being my brother the night you left.” His tone was biting, vicious. “You’re a coward. I’m the one rebuilding our family’s name. I’m doing what you were too afraid to do.”
Sirius recoiled like he’d been struck. His lips parted, but no words came out.
But it wasn’t his brother’s reaction that caught Regulus off guard.
It was Amelia’s.
She hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched, hadn’t gasped or stepped away in horror like so many others would have.
She just looked at him.
And in her eyes, he didn’t see fear.
Only disappointment. Only pity. Like she could see right through him. Like she knew this was a mask. Like she knew he was just a scared boy forced into something he never wanted.
Regulus’ smirk faltered.