Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
It all began in 1914, when the fates of the ancient French House of Montfort and the decaying, madness-ridden House of Gaunt tragically collided. Morfin Gaunt did not take Isolde Montfort as his wife. He took her by force.
The broken girl returned home, yet no solace awaited her, only judgment. Her father, blinded by pride and repulsed by the "impurity" germinating within her, cast her out. Standing in the doorway of the family estate, he pronounced the curse that would seal their fate:
"May that which was born of violence and shame never find peace. Let this blood be cursed until its very last drop soaks into the earth."
The child was born in Godric's Hollow; a boy with the face of an angel and the blood of a demon. He was named Evander Montfort.
He knew nothing of his father save for a single, terrifying memory of his mother's - an inhuman hissing. And so, he dedicated his entire life to denial. He raised his daughters, Phoebe and Lethe, in anxious purity and light, far from the shadows of the Dark Arts. The Parseltongue was stifled, hidden, and declared a malady.
Evander believed that if he denied the darkness, it would vanish. He was wrong.
When his daughter Lethe fell in love with Evan Rosier, a man whose family walked hand in hand with the dark, Evander did exactly what his grandfather had done before him: he disowned his own blood.
Ruin did not wait long. The House of Montfort was consumed by the flames of Fiendfyre, officially attributed to the madness of Ignatius Fortescue. The fire claimed Evander, his wife, and Phoebe. And not long after, a tragic end found the exiled Lethe as well.
Of the once-noble line, only two last fragments remain.
Argus Fawley, the son of Phoebe, who survived by mere chance. And Thalia Rosier, the daughter of Lethe, who vanished from the world.
They believe they are fighting their own demons, battling through adolescence and war. Yet they have no idea that the greatest enemy does not lurk within the ranks of the Death Eaters, but flows directly in their veins.
For the curse will not rest until the work of ruin is complete.
SUMMARY
For Argus Fawley, the summer of 1977 was supposed to be just another holiday escape from the suffocating atmosphere of family expectations. Instead, it twisted into a nightmare. The death of a close friend plunged him into an abyss of grief, while the revelation of a shocking family secret shattered the very foundations of his identity. As a Parseltongue, he has become a prized trophy in the power plays of the House of Black, who offer him marriage, power, and security-at the cost of his freedom and his name. Trapped in a web of intrigue, Argus is spiraling toward ruin, and it seems no one can save him.
Halcyon Proudfoot, still reeling from a traumatic attack of her own, decides to act. Her motivation, however, isn't just compassion; she harbors secrets that could destroy not only her but everyone around them. Together with the Marauders - including Sirius Black, who refuses to stand by and watch his friend's destruction, and Regulus Black, who tries to walk the razor's edge between family honor and brotherly love-she embarks on a desperate mission.
Their goal is to complete the bucket list of a girl whose life was extinguished far too soon. This journey, filled with absurd humor, adrenaline-fueled adventures, and unexpected dangers, becomes their way of fighting back against the darkness. It is a story about confronting grief not with tears, but with laughter. It's about how, even in the darkest of times, hope can be found in the most unlikely of alliances. And about how, sometimes, the greatest act of rebellion is simply to live.
ARGUS FAWLEY
Having Walburga Black as a godmother is a recipe for disaster in itself. But being a Parselmouth in 1977 on top of that? That is essentially social and literal suicide.
Argus Fawley, the paranoid genius of Ravenclaw, thought that after years of growing up with the Black brothers, nothing could surprise him. Hysterical outbursts, hexes flying over dinner, the occasional family fiasco... that was routine. But this week, the universe decided to feast on him.
Not only has his friend Lucinda died, adding another name to his list of "people I failed to save," but his paranoia has reached levels where he suspects his own shadow of spying for the Dark Lord. And honestly? He's not far off. He can feel the target on his back and knows that to both sides of the war, he is now a prized trophy.
To make matters worse, his father Viktor has decided to play on his emotions after twelve years of frosty silence. Is it illness? Belated remorse? Or just another piece in the puzzle of family lies? Argus suspects that the truth of his origins - that Orion Black might be more than just an uncle - is a ticking time bomb he's currently sitting on. And Halcyon Proudfoot, that Hufflepuff element of chaos, is holding the matches.
Into all this steps Walburga with a diabolical plan to patch the hole left by Sirius: make Argus the perfect replacement. The offer sounds tempting: power, the prestigious Black name, and marriage to the elegant Narcissa. The price? His identity and his soul. The irony of marrying the cousin with whom he had a secret affair is just the cherry on top of this poisoned cake.
Argus would prefer to lock himself in his room, board up the windows, and drown in an existential crisis while calculating how to avoid his fate. But he has two major problems - his unsolicited saviours.
On one side stands Sirius. The Gryffindor rebel without a cause who has decided to "save" Argus from the family they both know so well. His method? Chaos, adrenaline, and a complete disregard for the word "no."
On the other side is Halcyon. She's clearly bored this summer and has decided that his rescue is her new pet project.
And so, Argus stands at the epicentre of a perfect storm. He must dodge Walburga's ambitions, Viktor's sudden affection, his own paranoia, and his grief. He must protect Sirius and Regulus from a truth that would destroy them, while simultaneously making sure Halcyon doesn't blab that truth to the world.
The result? Argus Fawley finds himself dragged into completing Lucinda's insane bucket list. Because dragging Regulus Black through the Muggle world and pretending everything is fine while your life crumbles beneath your fingertips sounds like the most sensible plan he's come up with all week. Welcome to hell.
HALCYON PROUDFOOT
Being a Muggle-born Hufflepuff in 1977 is a social handicap. But being Halcyon Proudfoot? That's a lifestyle choice. This girl is the walking definition of chaos. She runs on a mix of cheap food, screaming rock music, and an absolute disdain for authority. Her passion is anarchy, her method is impulsive madness, and her current fashion accessory is a set of fresh scars across her face - a souvenir from a nocturnal "accident" with a werewolf. Sure, she looks tough now, but she rather liked her old face.
But beneath the layers of black eyeliner and denim lies a joke that nobody finds funny. Because Halcyon Proudfoot doesn't exist. In reality, she is Thalia Rosier, the daughter of a pure-blooded maniac, who has supposedly been dead for ten years. Or missing, depending on who you ask. Her father, Evan Rosier, is hunting her, while her uncle, Alphard Black, gave her a single, crystal-clear instruction: Keep your head down and stay away from your old family at all costs.
Which would be doable, if Halcyon didn't suffer from a chronic inability to follow orders. You see, in Cokeworth, the world is currently collapsing around her cousin, Argus Fawley - that depressive, paranoid Ravenclaw who hasn't the faintest clue that the cheeky girl with the guitar is his own blood.
Alphard warned her: if Argus learns the truth, he will unleash hell to protect her and destroy himself in the process.
The logical solution? Leave him be.
The Halcyon Proudfoot solution? Ignore logic, stick her nose where it doesn't belong, and hope the whole thing doesn't blow up.
Because leaving family in the lurch? That wouldn't be very punk. So the plan is clear: Save the raven, don't blow her cover, don't get killed by Death Eaters, and ideally, don't lose her mind. Chance of success? Minimal. Entertainment value? Guaranteed.
REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK
To be Regulus Black means being born with a silver spoon in your mouth and then discovering you are meant to choke on it.
All his life, he was the "good one." The one who didn't make scenes, who didn't confuse his forks at dinner, and who tried to live up to the weight of his name without breaking his spine in the process.
But being the perfect son is a thankless job when you stand in the shadow of two giants. On one side, Sirius - that loud, blinding fire who burned bridges faster than others could build them. And on the other, Argus Fawley - a cold, impregnable fortress of logic and talent, next to whom even the purest pure-blood upbringing looked like a cute attempt at intellect.
Regulus cherished a beautiful, naive illusion for a long time. He thought that when Sirius left - when he slammed the door with that typical, theatrical gesture and decided to become the Potters' charity case - a spot in the limelight had opened up. That now, as the only son, he would finally step out of the shadows and take the place that was rightfully his. The Heir. The Saviour of Honour. The one who stayed and didn't break his mother's heart (or china).
What a foolish, sweet lie that was.
Because when the dust of Sirius's departure settled, his parents didn't look at him.
They looked through him.
Their eyes turned with fanatical hope to Argus.
Of course. How else?
Argus was a Parselmouth. Argus was a genius. Argus was the one who, when he entered Grimmauld Place, made the house breathe as if it had finally found oxygen.
For his parents, Regulus wasn't the solution; he was just a walking reminder that their firstborn had failed. The true son they had dreamed of was their godson. And now, with the planned marriage to Narcissa and the adoption of the Black name, they intended to seal it officially. Regulus was demoted to a mere spectator in his own family, while Argus was becoming a new dynasty.
And it was this invisibility, this "second-best" complex, that led him to the edge of the abyss into which he decided to jump. Running.
His decision to take the Dark Mark wasn't an act of fanaticism; he'd spent too much time in the library with Argus, who had that annoying Ravenclaw trait of dismantling every ideology with logical arguments. No, Regulus's decision wasn't about hating Muggles. It was about arrogance. About the naive, Slytherin belief that he - unlike his impulsive brother - could play the high stakes game. That he could ally with darkness, use it to save family influence and cure Uncle Cygnus, all without dirtying his cuffs. That "Blacks do not bow," but they can form profitable business partnerships with monsters.
It was a mistake so colossal it deserves its own chapter in history textbooks.
The ink of the Dark Mark on his forearm hadn't even dried when reality knocked on the door - or rather, kicked it in, hinges and all. Lucinda Winstone is dead. His friend. And Regulus, the "pragmatic saviour of the House," is suddenly a silent partner in Murder & Co.
Does he sleep at night? No. Because he asks himself what Voldemort saw in his head when he branded him. Did he see Lucinda there? Is her death a message, or just collateral damage? Regulus doesn't know, and that ignorance is eating him alive more reliably than any curse.
And to top it off, the universe has a twisted sense of humour. The Dark Lord gave him his first task: Find Thalia Rosier. A girl who is supposed to be ten years dead or missing. Regulus suddenly holds the fate of a girl he thought was just a sad footnote in the family tree, and he is supposed to serve her up to a monster as an appetiser.
He is sixteen years old, he has a skull with a snake burned onto his left forearm, and he has no way out. He can't resign. He can't tell his parents, because they would never bow. And he can't tell Argus, because telling the truth - "Hi, I'm a Death Eater, I probably caused Lucinda's death, and now I'm off to hunt your lost cousin. But otherwise good, you?" - would mean Argus would kill him. And rightfully so.
So Regulus Black does the only thing left. He puts on his best mask of the bored aristocrat, adopts a dead friend's cat - because when your whole world is collapsing, why not get a pet - and lets himself be dragged through the Muggle world to complete a stupid bucket list. Because stealing road signs and drinking cheap beer is anything but reality. And anything is better than being left alone with his conscience and the knowledge that in his desire to be a hero, he became the greatest traitor the House of Black ever spawned.
SIRIUS ORION BLACK
If there is anything Sirius Black hates more than Slytherin, stiff family dinners, and his dear mother (in that exact, descending order of importance), it is debt.
Being a disowned rebel has its charm. You get to wear a leather jacket, eat cigarettes for breakfast, sleep until noon, and pretend that the word "responsibility" is a dirty slur used only by prefects and cowards. Running away from Grimmauld Place was supposed to be his grand finale. A thick, greasy line drawn under the madness of the House of Black. He left everything behind: the family silver, the ancestors staring down from their frames, and his brother, Regulus. Because... well, let's be honest, Regulus would rather swallow a dessert fork than admit that the silver cutlery is actually a cage.
But Sirius made one fatal error in his genius plan: he counted on Argus Fawley - that noble idiot and expert extinguisher of Walburga's fires - to keep that sinking ship afloat without him.
It was a naive, selfish load of bollocks.
Argus's talent for firefighting ends exactly where Voldemort and the incestuous insanity of the Black family begin. What Sirius considered a strategic retreat was, in reality, throwing Argus to the wolves. Or rather, to the snakes.
Summer 1977 was supposed to be about freedom, girls, and music. Instead, it's one big, magical clusterfuck full of debts.
First, there is the blood debt. Because the universe has a twisted sense of humour, when you decide to heroically jump into a hex meant for your best mate and take Snivellus's nasty curse to the face, the person who has to save your life just has to be your cousin. The same idiot you used to sneak Orion's whisky with, who now has a target on his neck for every Death Eater in Britain.
Second, there is the moral debt. Halcyon Proudfoot. That sarcastic Hufflepuff anarchist they nearly got killed when he and James decided to play babysitter to a werewolf. Not only did they colossally screw that up, but that girl has more honour in her little finger than the entire wizarding elite put together. She didn't rat them out. She has them in check. And Sirius Black hates being held in check, but he hates it even more when he knows he deserves it.
And third? Third is that bloody view from the Potters' window. The ruins of the Montfort house - a memento mori that reminds him every morning that blood isn't thicker than water; it's just a highly flammable substance. He can't ignore the fact that Regulus is crumbling at Grimmauld Place and Argus has that terrifying, empty look in his eyes - the look of a man who no longer has a Plan B, let alone a Plan Z.
And when his former nemesis, Amoret Beaufort-Montfort, reveals that his cousin's bloodline is twisted by an ancient curse, it all starts making the worst kind of sense.
So, the summer plan is changing. No tanning. No peace. Sirius is becoming the involuntary commander of "Operation Save Private Fawley." Because owing his life to someone who is just about to flush theirs down the toilet for the "greater good of the family" is simply unacceptable to Sirius.
And if they're going down? Fine. But they'll go down in style, guitar in hand, flipping the bird right in the Death Eaters' faces.