"Power is not a shout. It is a whisper that everyone strains to hear." — Arcturus Black
December 30, 1969, The Study, Grimmauld Place
The house was finally quiet.
Walburga had retired to her chambers with a headache and a bottle of smelling salts. Orion was at the Ministry, buried in the interminable bureaucracy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The boys, Vega, Sirius, and Regulus, were downstairs, likely plotting something involving the Lei Shen egg, which sat on the mantelpiece vibrating with a low, rhythmic thrum that rattled the silverware two floors down.
Arcturus Black sat in his high-backed leather chair, a glass of Firewhisky resting on the mahogany desk. The liquid caught the light of the dying embers in the grate, glowing a deep, rich amber.
But he wasn't drinking. He was thinking.
His mind, usually a fortress of ledgers and political strategies, was currently occupied by the image of his grandson.
Vega.
When the boy had first shown signs of the Metamorphmagus ability, Arcturus had feared the worst. Chaos. Instability. A mind that shifted as easily as the face. But the boy who had walked into this study yesterday wasn't unstable. He was... dense.
Arcturus tapped his finger against the glass.
He went to the Jade Empire and charmed a dragon princess, Arcturus mused, a flicker of pride warring with his natural paranoia. He fights duels with third-years and wins by making them laugh. He plants flowers with centaurs.
It was impressive. It was also terrifying.
Vega was accumulating power, not just magical power, but social gravity. He was becoming a sun, pulling people into his orbit. The Greengrasses. The Shafiqs. Even Slughorn was dancing to his tune.
But a sun burns, Arcturus thought, his eyes drifting to the family tapestry hanging on the far wall. And if it burns too hot, it consumes the house.
His gaze moved from Vega's name, bright gold and fresh, to the scorched burn mark where his own sister used to be. Then, it settled on Bellatrix.
The pride evaporated, replaced by a cold, gnawing fury.
Vega had been right. Bellatrix wasn't just drifting; she was being harvested.
Voldemort.
The name felt greasy in his mind. Theatrical. A pseudonym constructed to inspire fear in the weak and curiosity in the bored. Arcturus had known men like that. They usually ended up dead in a ditch or locked in Azkaban.
But Bellatrix had called him a god. She had run away to him.
Religious devotion, Arcturus thought, taking a sip of the whiskey. The burn was sharp, grounding. That is not politics. That is a muggle nonsense.
If this "Lord" could turn a Black against her own blood, could make her choose a silver skull over the family crest, then he wasn't just a rabble-rouser. He was a thief. And Arcturus Black did not tolerate thieves.
He set the glass down.
He opened the center drawer of his desk. Inside lay his personal stationery, heavy, cream-colored parchment embossed with the Black crest in subtle obsidian ink.
He picked up his eagle-feather quill.
He needed intelligence. Not the gossip of the Prophet, and not the hysterical whispers of Walburga's tea circles. He needed the truth from the men who actually ran Britain's magical society..
He dipped the quill.
To Lord Cantankerous Nott,
Nott Manor,
Cantankerous,
I trust the gout is treating you with more mercy than the Wizengamot treated your last proposal on cauldron import tariffs. I heard Jenkins actually wept. A delightful image.
I write to you not about tariffs, but about shadows. My granddaughter, Bellatrix, has been... spirited lately. She speaks of a 'New Order'. She wears jewelry that I did not commission. She whispers a name that sounds like bad French poetry: Voldemort.
You keep your ear to the ground in the darker corners, old friend. You know the whispers before they become shouts. Who is he? Is he a Grindelwald pretender, or is he something new? Does he have gold, or just charisma?
I do not like variables I cannot account for. And I certainly do not like men who think they can borrow my heirs without asking.
— Arcturus
He sanded the ink, watching it dry. Nott was a paranoid old bastard, but he was thorough. If there was a dark lord rising, Nott would have already calculated the profit margins of joining him versus fighting him.
Arcturus set the letter aside and pulled a fresh sheet.
This one required a different touch. Less blunt. More... political.
To Lord Abraxas Malfoy,
Malfoy Manor,
Wiltshire,
Abraxas,
I hear your son Lucius is making quite the name for himself as a Prefect. Vega speaks highly of him. He says the boy has the Malfoy talent for looking immaculate while standing in a swamp.
I am hearing rumors, Abraxas. Rumors of a movement gathering steam in the lower levels of our society. A 'Lord' who promises a return to the Old Ways. It sounds charming, in theory. We all miss the days when blood mattered more than bureaucracy.
But I wonder about the cost. This 'Voldemort'... is he a man we can do business with? Or is he a fire that will burn the manor down to warm his own hands?
Vega tells me the recruitment is aggressive. He tells me the rhetoric is... absolute. I would hate to see our families caught on the wrong side of a history that hasn't been written yet.
What have you heard? Is the investment sound? Or should we be reinforcing the wards?
— Arcturus
He sealed both letters with black wax, pressing his ring into the hot liquid until the shield of House Black stood out in sharp relief.
He sat back, the leather chair groaning softly.
He felt old.
He had fought in the Global Wizarding War. He had seen the devastation Grindelwald had wrought. He had spent the last fifty years increasing the family fortune, consolidating power, ensuring that the name Black meant untouchable.
And now, a ghost with a French name was threatening to undo it all by whispering sweet nothings to the children.
Not on my watch, Arcturus thought, his grey eyes hardening.
He stood up and walked to the window. The fog outside was thick, swirling against the glass, obscuring the streetlights of Muggle London.
Arcturus touched the cold glass.
"Let them play their games," he whispered to the fog. "Let this Voldemort recruit his knights. But if he thinks he can take my blood without retribution..."
He turned back to the fire, his shadow stretching long and dark across the room.
He rang the bell for Kreacher. The letters needed to go out tonight.