Chapter 5
July 1977
Argus decided to stay at the Black family’s house for a few days. At home, he packed only the essentials and left a short note on the kitchen table—he knew his father wouldn’t be pleased, but he didn’t care.
The house at Grimmauld Place appeared old and dignified at first glance, but the longer Argus stayed there, the more the gloom of the house consumed him, especially due to the dark decor and the eerie gallery displaying goblin heads.
The Black family was even more complicated than his own. For years, he had witnessed their internal conflicts or heard about them from Regulus. A turning point came last summer when Sirius ran away from home and didn’t return this time. Argus remembered being there when James Potter and his mother came to take Sirius’s belongings while Walburga and Orion were away. Since then, the Blacks had changed—the pain of losing a son was omnipresent. Orion began spending his evenings at the pub, while Walburga threw herself into the family theater, The Black Lily.
Argus was aware of how hard it must have been for Regulus. He, too, needed someone to stand by him, especially during these times. It was strange that Lucinda was never mentioned at home. Argus noticed that Regulus’s parents didn’t even know where their son had been that morning. Regulus probably knew how they might react to Lucinda—pure-blood wizards like the Blacks were often obsessed with bloodlines, and Argus sometimes wondered if their obsession with purity was a sign of madness. Still, he had managed to find common ground with them. If they avoided political topics, the Blacks could be pleasant company.
When they returned home, Argus was warmly welcomed with many questions—especially during dinner, where the Blacks asked about his future. Argus revealed that he was considering a career as a Curse-Breaker.
During dinner, Walburga critically examined her son.
“I’d say it’s high time you got a haircut, Regulus. I can’t believe you go out looking like that… look at Argus; his hair is well-kept. Besides, you look like s—like some kind of girl,” she corrected herself at the last moment. Both Argus and Regulus knew exactly what she had originally wanted to say—Sirius.
“It’s fine the way it is,” Regulus replied with a confused frown.
“It’s not. Besides, that’s how Muggles have it styled these days, as I’ve noticed. So tomorrow, we’ll go somewhere to get it done; it’s dreadful.”
Regulus wanted to protest but then slumped his shoulders in a gesture of surrender and said, “Alright then.”
Walburga then started talking about her theater and practically ordered Argus to go see it.
He had only been to The Black Lily once, when he was about five years old, and his uncle Tristan was babysitting him. He didn’t remember much of the visit—just the rather high ceiling.
Although Argus’s mother loved culture and art, she avoided that theater like the devil avoids the light; at the time, she was in a feud with Walburga, and they didn’t speak for many years. Argus never found out what caused their falling-out, but Walburga regretted it. Argus’s mother had died in a fire when he was about four years old.
“What are your plans otherwise?” Walburga asked curiously.
“Oh, you know… just enjoying the last moments of childhood…”
“Don’t be dramatic, Regulus,” Orion scolded him with a weary sigh.
After dinner, they planned, as usual, to get to Regulus’s room as quickly as possible. It should have been a simple task, but just as they were about to go head up the stairs, Walburga stopped him with the means to show him something. It was no secret that Walburga was very fond of Argus—in many ways, she seemed to see his mother in him.
As Argus saw upon entering the room she led him into, she wanted to show him a portrait she had commissioned. She was depicted a little differently than how Argus perceived her. She wore a dark dress and looked slightly older in the painting. Overall, she appeared as a very stern woman who was somewhat intimidating. Even the painted Walburga didn’t smile at Argus.
“It’s nice.” Argus couldn’t think of anything else to say that wouldn’t risk offending her. Walburga smiled contentedly.
“Well, of course—it’s me,” she laughed lightly. “But it’s true, there’s something… something off about it. Just recently, it scolded Orion because she saw him placing an old vase from his great-grandmother in the wrong spot.” She smirked, clearly amused by the thought of the scene. “I’m not prone to fussing about something like that.”
“For the record, I’m not malfunctioning! And that sad excuse of being wanted to put the vase in a place where someone could knock it over!” the painted Walburga interjected in an unpleasant tone.
“It could easily be fixed,” the real Walburga waved dismissively. Then she covered the portrait with a dark cloth—it hadn’t been hung yet.
“So, you’re going to replace it?” Argus asked, wondering how such portraits were actually made. He had never thought about it—it was probably just an animation charm.
“No, no. I like it as it is,” she said proudly, looking at the covered painting.
“If we can’t have a dog, at least we have a painting,” Regulus added, earning himself a slap from his mother.
Regulus’s room was tidy, considering the circumstances—Kreacher, the house-elf, was doing his best. Still, young Black wasn’t exactly the neatest person. Books and parchment were scattered everywhere, and a calico cat, Rue, was lounging on them.
“You actually took her in?” Argus asked in surprise. Rue had belonged to Lucinda, but her mother had a severe allergy to cats, so they were looking for a new home for her.
“I volunteered,” Regulus shrugged and sat on the edge of his bed. “No one else seemed interested.”
“Well, I hope you’re not letting her wander around the house. You never know what any given object here might do. And you know how curious cats are.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Regulus muttered irritably. After a moment, he remarked, “My parents just like you more than me.”
“Eh? Where’d you get that idea?” Argus threw a pillow at him.
“It’s obvious… Before you came, they were constantly asking if you’d come stay for a while, and then… their beloved Argus shows up, and for the first time in a hundred years, we have a family dinner where they mostly talked to you.” He threw the pillow back at Argus.
“They just like me.” Argus retaliated, but Regulus dodged in time.
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“But not more than they like you.”
“Yeah, they do… Mom was talking to you about that stupid theater…” Regulus crossed his arms indignantly. “If they could, they’d definitely adopt you.”
“Are you that upset because Walburga had some comments about your hair?” The Blacks were always sensitive about their hair. “Poor thing.”
“It’s high time you got a haircut, Regulus. I can’t believe you go out looking like that… look at Argus; his hair is neatly kept,” he mimicked his mother. “But seriously, your hair’s longer than mine! It just doesn’t show because it’s curly.”
“What can I do about it…” Argus shrugged. “Besides, maybe your mom doesn’t talk to you about the theater because every time someone mentions it, you bristle.”
“I’m traumatized by it.”
“I know… I’ve heard.”
“From whom?”
“That time when Wal showed me photos, and you left the room all annoyed.”
“Why haven’t I burned that album yet?” Regulus groaned.
Argus laughed for the first time in a while. Regulus didn’t find it nearly as funny, which Argus understood—when Regulus was little and Walburga didn’t have childcare, she decided to take her sons to work with her. The plan was to sit the boys down at a children’s performance to keep them entertained—but Regulus got lost. He was found only after he ran terrified onto the stage. The audience thought it was part of the play as he was being chased by an old witch with a black veil over her face. As it turned out, Regulus had run into a Boggart, which had taken the form of his grandmother Irma.
✷✷✷
“Reg?”
“Hm?”
“I know something’s going on,” Argus said calmly, watching every movement Regulus made, trying to decipher anything—anything at all. And he noticed how Regulus hesitated before replying.
“What do you mean?” Regulus looked at Argus with feigned confusion.
“Exactly what I said—you’re hiding something from me. Something’s happening.”
Regulus chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t know where you got that idea. What could I possibly be hiding from you?” he said nonchalantly.
Argus sighed. He knew something was happening… he could feel it. Plus, Regulus had been acting differently. Could it be because of Lucinda’s death? Of course, it could, but why was he so nervous? For instance, now Argus noticed Regulus’s hands trembling. Something was definitely going on—the question was how serious it was.
“You’ve been acting strange these past few days,” he argued.
“Gee, I wonder why…” Regulus rolled his eyes dramatically and added, annoyed, “and since when do you care so much?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? As far as I know, I’ve always cared,” Argus defended himself. “Or at least I’ve tried.”
Regulus avoided his gaze. “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” he muttered more to himself.
Argus stayed silent. He refused to let Regulus’s passive-aggressive remark get to him. On the contrary, he suspected Regulus was trying to divert attention. He noticed Oliver, the snake, slithering near Regulus’s feet. He picked him up.
Argus Fawley was a Parselmouth, a gift Lucinda claimed he must have inherited from someone in his family—likely his mother’s side. The ability was unsettling and not something he bragged about. Nevertheless, word had accidentally spread through Hogwarts, sparking all sorts of rumors about Argus.
Getting any useful information out of Oliver was a Herculean task—the snake was always in a perpetually pessimistic mood, especially with Rue the cat around.
Although all Argus gleaned from Oliver was a monologue about the futility of existence, Regulus quickly reclaimed the snake and stuffed him into his pocket. Argus noticed Rue watching the scene unfold with predatory interest.
“Can’t you just let this go, like you usually do?” Regulus ran a hand through his hair. His gray eyes gleamed with frustration.
“I just want to help you. Whatever it is, you know you can trust me,” Argus said.
Regulus turned away, as though waging an internal battle. “Uncle Cygnus is seriously ill. The others are desperately searching for a cure, but it doesn’t look promising.”
“That’s all?” Argus asked cautiously.
Regulus hesitated. “Yeah. They just want to try anything to reverse the illness.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Argus murmured, though his mind was elsewhere. He knew Regulus wasn’t telling him everything—his tense, restless tone said it all.
Argus pieced together the fragments of information he’d gathered recently. If Cygnus was truly that ill, the Blacks might be seeking all possible means to save him. And Argus had overheard Regulus mention Bellatrix’s unwavering loyalty to You-Know-Who and her claims of his miraculous capabilities. What if they’d turned to him?
Argus’s gaze involuntarily shifted to the wall behind Regulus’s bed. There, under the Black family crest, hung old newspaper clippings—articles praising Voldemort, his “vision,” his “cleansing.” They had been in Regulus’s room for so long that Argus had forgotten about them. But now, he felt a surge of disgust and anger. These articles celebrated someone responsible for Lucinda’s death.
He slowly walked to the wall, running his finger over one of the clippings.
“Why do you still have this?” he asked quietly but urgently. Pain and confusion laced his voice. “Why do you still keep this nonsense, Reg?”
Regulus tensed, his expression twisting as if battling something deep and dark. “It’s not nonsense,” he protested weakly.
Argus frowned. “This is garbage, utter garbage” he said bitterly. “Do you honestly think your Dark Lord cares about your well-being? That out of the goodness of his heart, he’s decided to ‘cleanse’ wizarding society? He only cares about power and spreading fear. It’s the same as Grindelwald. He too promised grand ideals—a strong, united wizarding world where wizards ruled over Muggles for their own good. And how did that end? Instead of peace and prosperity, he brought only chaos and death.
“And now, Reg, can’t you see history repeating itself? You-Know-Who is even worse than Grindelwald. His promises are only empty words. If he wins, he won’t bring peace to wizards—only more fear and death. And those who admire him now will be the first to fall when they stop being useful.”
Regulus averted his eyes. For a moment, it seemed like he might relent, might say something, but then his face hardened into a cold, unreadable mask. “You just don’t understand,” he said, but there was no anger in his voice this time.
“Then help me understand,” Argus pleaded. He stepped closer until they were almost face to face.
“Why do you still have this? You still believe in this crap?” He pointed at the clippings on the wall.
Regulus hesitated. For an instant, something inside him seemed to crack. Argus saw his hands tremble, saw him swallow hard. “I should believe in it,” he finally said softly. “My parents support what he’s doing. If I got rid of it, they’d have questions.”
“You care too much about what they think. It’s not like they’ll disown you the second you take it down.”
Regulus sighed, his expression a mix of exhaustion and disdain. Argus understood how difficult it was for him. The weight of his family’s expectations was crushing. But Argus couldn’t let Regulus sink deeper into the darkness.
With a swift flick of his wand, the newspaper clippings burst into flames. Fire leapt from the wand’s tip, consuming the papers that glorified someone who had caused so much suffering. The room filled with the smell of burning paper, and as the flames danced, Argus felt a sense of relief.
“What… what are you doing?” Regulus stared at him in utter shock.
Argus flicked his wand again, and the ashes vanished in a puff of smoke. It was a symbolic act, but Argus knew that removing those clippings wouldn’t change everything. Regulus was still trapped in the expectations and the darkness was still surrounding him.
“What I should have done a long time ago.”