Roommates
The next three days blurred together. Regulus drifted in and out of sleep, waking only long enough to sip water and swallow a few spoonfuls of porridge before exhaustion pulled him under again. His smaller wounds had been treated with dittany, but the deeper gashes—ones she could only assume were caused by dark magic—refused to heal. With no other choice, she treated them as a Muggle healer would, hoping her magic would at least dull the pain.
Three days was enough time to read the letter he had left her a year ago but not nearly enough time to figure out what she should do next. The words on the page made her grip at her temples in frustration. How could she be sure the man lying on her sofa was the same boy who wrote this? A year was a long time. Who knew what he had been through?
She had mourned that boy. Buried his memory, let grief settle into her bones. And yet, here he was like a ghost, but painfully real.
His hair had grown longer, unkempt and wilder than she remembered, and faint patches of facial hair shadowed his jaw. He looked like Sirius. That realization made her smile briefly.
Then it hit her like a knife to the chest. No one from the Order had known her whereabouts for five days. And with Regulus in this state, she’d likely be missing even longer. Merlin only knew what he planned on doing next.
A raspy voice shattered her thoughts like glass.
"You alright...?"
Quickly, she shoved the letter into her desk before facing him. Her heart stuttered as she found him leaning against the doorway of her study. One hand clutched his ribs where some bandages laid, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders.
A small sigh escaped her lips whether in relief or weariness, she couldn’t tell. "You should be resting." Her voice hovered somewhere between forced annoyance and neutrality.
"I think I've slept enough," he huffed, a lazy smile tugging at his lips as he observed her. He pretended not to notice the paper she had so ungracefully shoved away, it didn’t take a genius to see she was keeping him at arm’s length. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—concern, maybe even anger—but not this cold, stone-like composure. That was usually his job.
"I need to see Dumbledore." His tone was soft, but there was a quiet insistence behind it.
Her eyes narrowed slightly before she wrinkled her nose. "What you need is a bath."
One of his eyebrows lifted, and as much as he wanted to shoot back a sarcastic remark, he couldn’t argue. His hair was stiff with a mixture of blood and salt water, and he was sure he smelled as bad as he felt.
"Fine," he bit out. "But after—"
"We'll talk." She cut him off before he could argue, already rising to her feet.
She moved with efficiency, gathering a set of clothes she had picked up from a charity shop in the nearby Muggle town while he had been unconscious.
He followed as she led him to the bathroom, his footsteps sluggish but steady. She hung the clothes and a towel on the rod closest to the tub, making sure everything was within reach.
"Okay… so you have to pull this knob out, and that way is hot, this way is cold," she explained, keeping her tone even. "You might have to wait a bit for the water to warm up. Also, I put a shower bench in there—you shouldn’t be standing for long. Uh shampoo and body wash." she pointed at the different bottles that sat at the ledge of the tub.
She turned slightly to check if he was listening, only to find his gaze fixed on her—intense, unreadable. It sent a prickle down her spine, the hairs at the back of her neck standing on end. Only now did she realize just how small her bathroom really was.
"I-erm," she cleared her throat, glancing around as if searching for an escape. "There are razors behind the mirror if you want to shave that off." She wiggled a finger at the patchy facial hair dotting his jaw.
A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest as he rubbed a hand over the stubble. "Not a fan?" he teased, amusement flickering in his tired eyes.
"Not particularly." She crossed her arms, lips twitching despite herself.
He gave a slow nod, something softer settling in his expression. "Thank you." His voice was low, sincere.
Amelia exhaled, a little too quickly, before nodding back and slipping out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her with more force than necessary.
While Regulus showered, she busied herself with making dinner the Muggle way—zero magic, taking her time with every step. The rhythmic chopping, the slow simmer of broth—it gave her something to focus on besides the tangle of thoughts clawing at her mind. How would she explain this to the Order? Would Death Eaters show up at her doorstep any second?
She made chicken noodle soup. Her mother used to make it whenever she was unwell or needed comfort. After her mother passed, her father carried on the tradition, though it was never quite the same. She never told him.
Amelia was stirring the pot when the sound of shifting objects caught her attention. Her head shot up, eyes snapping toward the kitchen table.
A shirtless Regulus, was organizing the healing supplies she had left scattered in the living room. The soft glow of the lamp cast sharp angles across his collarbones and the bruises that still marred his ribs. He moved with quiet precision, stacking bandages and bottles with an odd sort of care. Once satisfied, he perched himself on the table’s edge, watching her expectantly—his face unreadable, but something in his stance felt... familiar.
It reminded her of when they were kids.
She bit back a small smile, turning down the heat on the stove before walking over.
Her eyes flicked over the supplies he had brought, fingers brushing over the antiseptic wipes. She hesitated, looking up at him for silent confirmation. It would be different now—more uncomfortable with him awake.
Regulus held her gaze, then offered a small, knowing smile.
Taking a wipe in her hand, Amelia gently dabbed at the wound across his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath, hissing under his breath each time the antiseptic made contact. She kept her eyes down, focused on her task, but a flicker of guilt gnawed at her. As much as she wanted to keep her distance, a part of her couldn’t ignore the state he was in—he had already endured enough.
Without looking up, she placed her left hand steadily on his waist, fingertips grazing his skin softly.
Within seconds, a soothing pulse of her magic radiated through him. The cooling sensation spread across his skin, dulling the sting of the antiseptic. The pain didn’t disappear entirely, but it was bearable now. Regulus exhaled through his nose, watching her work. She always fascinated him—how easily she connected with her magic, how instinctively it flowed from her.
She moved from the gash on his chest to the wound along his left rib cage, then finally to the deep laceration running diagonally across his back.
That one made her stomach turn.
Gently, she swept his damp hair over his shoulder to get a better view. Her fingers hesitated before pressing the antiseptic wipe to his skin. As soon as she pressed it to his skin, a rugged breath left his lips, sharp and uneven.
Her eyes flicked to his hands—white-knuckled, gripping the edge of the table.
“Do you need a break?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
He gave a small shake of his head, jaw clenched. A low grunt was his only response. He just wanted to get it over with.
Exhaling softly, Amelia relented, pressing her palm against the base of his spine. She let her magic pulse through her fingers, chanting spells under her breath to ease the pain. It must have worked—his grip loosened slightly, and he exhaled, a quiet sigh of relief slipping past his lips.
Once satisfied with how clean the wounds were, she reached for the antibiotic ointment she had picked up from the Muggle pharmacy. Carefully, she smoothed it over his skin before securing fresh gauze and bandages in place.
As she stepped back to examine her handiwork, she noticed the stubble on his face was gone. Clean-shaven, with his wounds tended to, he almost looked… healthy. Even the bruise that bloomed on his rib had started to fade– her magic worked better than she thought.
Finally, she forced herself to meet his gaze. The question that had been gnawing at her chest pressed past her lips before she could stop it.
“What happened to you?”
Regulus ran a hand through his damp hair, frustration tightening his features. “Believe me, I want to tell you everything. But I can’t.” His voice was raw, desperate. “I made an Unbreakable Vow—that’s why I need to see Dumbledore.” His wide, dark eyes searched hers, pleading.
For a moment, she wanted to believe him.
But instead, she turned back to the stove. “Well, you can’t.”
“Wh—” Regulus started, only for her to cut him off.
She poured a generous ladle of soup into a bowl. “Not like that, at least.” Gesturing vaguely to his injuries without looking up. “The only way out of here is by Apparition, and you’re nowhere near ready for that. It’ll tear you apart.”
Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact. No room for argument.
Regulus stayed silent for a moment, searching every corner of his mind for a solution. “The Floo Network—”
“Shut off here ages ago.” Amelia cut in, pouring the next bowl. “And even if it weren’t, it’s still too dangerous.”
“You could send—”
“An owl?” She scoffed, turning to face him. “Do I have to remind you of the high possibility of it being intercepted? Whatever you’re thinking, Black, I’ve thought of it a hundred times over.”
Her voice was sharp, edged with irritation. Of course she had thought of everything. While he had been unconscious, all she could do was turn over every possible risk in her mind—while her friends were left worrying, without her, without a healer if they needed one.
Regulus let out a frustrated huff, running a hand through his damp hair before finally settling into a chair. When Amelia brought the soup over, her voice softened but remained stern.
“This is a safe house.” She set the bowl down in front of him. “ No one knows where it is—not even Dumbledore. It was my father’s dying wish.” She glanced at him, gauging his reaction. “Dumbledore saw value in it staying that way. He asked that it remain hidden… even from him.” She met his gaze, steady. “So no, I’m not sending a letter. I’m not doing anything that could compromise this place.”
Regulus stayed silent, knowing better than to argue. He wasn’t foolish enough to push her when she had already made up her mind.
Truthfully, he was relieved she had somewhere safe—away from the war, away from everything. He knew how brutal it was. And judging by the scar across her nose, she did too. But more than that, he wanted to get back in her good graces. So instead of pressing the issue, he took a bite of the soup in front of him.
Amelia welcomed the quiet as they ate. But the longer the silence stretched, the more the guilt gnawed at her. Housing a Death Eater. Her mind spat the words like venom. She wanted to believe that was all he was now—a soldier for the wrong side. A lost cause. But the voice in her head whispered otherwise.
It’s not just anybody. It’s Regulus. Your Regulus.
But he wasn’t hers anymore.
He had stopped being hers the moment he left. Or maybe the moment they announced his death.
The scrape of a spoon against an empty bowl broke the silence.
“Could I have my wand back?” Regulus spoke after finishing his soup.
Amelia’s eyes flicked up, narrowing as she studied him. His posture was relaxed, but there was something guarded in the way he held himself, as if bracing for a fight. He wasn’t stupid—he had to know she was weighing whether or not she could trust him.
“I wouldn’t hurt you.” His voice was quiet, almost afraid she might actually believe he would. He would rather drown a thousand times over than harm her.
She exhaled through her nose and shook her head. “Oh, please. In this condition, you couldn’t hurt a fly.” She leaned back, arms crossed. “I just have a feeling that’s the only thing stopping you from Apparating right now.”
He rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t. But only because you asked.”
“I didn’t ask.” Amelia gathered their bowls and turned toward the sink. Her voice was even, but something sharp lingered beneath it. “And the last time I asked you not to leave, you did anyway. So forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
The dishes clinked harder than necessary as she set them down. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, she heard the soft tsk of his tongue before he muttered, “Right… well, I’ll be in your living room.”
She didn’t need to look up to know he was taken aback. But she couldn’t bring herself to care. Some small, bitter part of her wanted to twist the knife—wanted him to feel even a fraction of what she had felt.
He gathered the supplies he had brought with him, moving toward the door before pausing.
“I had to leave, Amy.”
The old nickname slipped out before he could stop it.
She froze—just for a second. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hesitation. But it was enough.
Regulus swallowed, waiting, hoping.
But Amelia turned back to the sink, resuming her task as though she hadn’t heard him. The sound of water running drowned out whatever else he might have said.
He took the silence for what it was and walked out.
They didn’t speak for the rest of the evening, moving around each other in quiet avoidance. Amelia busied herself with small tasks, while Regulus kept his head buried in a worn muggle book he had found lying around. It wasn’t until later, when they sat by the fire, that the silence finally cracked.
A yawn escaped him as he turned another page, exhaustion catching up despite his efforts to ignore it.
“I have an extra room you can stay in,” Amelia offered, her voice softer now. The exhaustion had settled into her features, dulling the sharp edges of her earlier irritation. “I don’t imagine the sofa is very comfortable.”
Regulus glanced up from the book, surprise flickering in his eyes. “It’s not too bad,” he said at first, then relented. “But yeah, that’d be nice.”
She gave a small nod and gestured for him to follow.
They moved down the dimly lit hallway, past her study on the right, until she stopped at a door on the left. She pushed it open, revealing a spacious room centered around a king-sized bed. A large bay window overlooked the ocean, its dark waves crashing under the moonlight. The wind outside howled, rattling the palm trees in frantic motion.
Regulus inhaled. The air inside carried an old, stale scent—evidence that no one had vacated the room in a long time.
“I put some clothes for you in the dresser,” Amelia said, lingering near the doorway. “And you know where the bathroom is.”
Her voice was even, but she could feel her palms grow clammy. This shouldn’t have felt so personal, yet it did. She had never even slept here. This used to be her parents’ room.
Regulus nodded, his gaze sweeping over the space before landing on her. “Is this the master bedroom?”
Her throat tightened. She hesitated just long enough for him to notice.
“Uh, yeah… It was my parents’ room,” she admitted, shifting on her feet. “It’s just…”
She didn’t finish. Saying it aloud felt like she was losing– like that wall she had so carefully built up would break down.
Regulus studied her for a moment, then exhaled. “No, I get it,” he murmured. And he did. More than she probably realized. When Sirius had left, Regulus couldn’t bring himself to step into his room, even when he knew Sirius had stolen something of his. It was easier to let it be lost.
His voice was softer when he added, “It’s nice.”
Amelia nodded once, a brief acknowledgment, before shutting herself off again. “Yeah… Good night, Black.” Her tone was void of emotion, her face carefully blank as she turned away before he could say anything else.
He barely had time to murmur a quiet, “Good night,” before she disappeared down the hall.