Arcturus suspected that he wouldn't be left alone. With Kreacher's help, he had fully activated the ancestral manor's defenses on the very first day of his transformation, yet the days passed, and no one bothered him. This did not reassure Arcturus—on the contrary, it seemed suspicious. He was no longer young and foolish enough to believe that no one would just let him hold onto such a vast fortune without a struggle, especially since others clearly had plans for it. Dumbledore certainly wouldn't leave him be. That meant Dumbledore was preoccupied with something else at the moment—there was no other explanation for such a lull.
He desperately needed allies but had no idea where to find them. Despite his fondness for Daphne, Arcturus understood that her family had survived the war only because they remained neutral, and they wouldn't get involved now if they hadn't before. The goblins were on his side, but only because he was the legal owner of the capital they were interested in. Arcturus had even consulted with his solicitor, who confirmed that by law, no one could take anything from him, but if he lost his fortune himself, the goblins would feel nothing but disappointment toward him.
Arcturus followed Rabastan at the monument unveiling not out of idle curiosity. He had already been considering getting to know the side his mother and adoptive father had fought for. In truth, he only knew about the Death Eaters what Dumbledore, the Weasleys, and other members of the Order of the Phoenix had told him. The newspapers also wrote about the Death Eaters, but he had learned back during the Triwizard Tournament how trustworthy the magical British press was.
That's why Arcturus took the chance to help Lestrange escape as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He had learned to think fast in extreme circumstances during his time with the Dursleys. Now Rabastan, without the fake beard, clean, and dressed in a house robe from the manor's wardrobe, sat before him at the table, eagerly devouring a delicious meal prepared by Winky. He agreed to spend the night at the manor but was still arguing with Arcturus about staying there for the long term.
"Do you realize how much you're putting yourself at risk by sheltering Britain's most wanted criminal?" he asked tiredly.
"I'm dangerous company myself," Arcturus admitted. "The fact that I'm now the sole and rightful owner of this well-protected manor is not at all part of the plans of the people who once kidnapped me. As it turned out, they briefly lost control of the situation, and I'm sure they'll do everything they can to take it back. I wouldn't have gotten away last time if it weren't for one particular factor."
"Care to elaborate?" Lestrange asked with interest.
"They thought the Black inheritance would return to Sirius when he reappeared after his supposed death, but it passed to me."
"Idiots," Rabastan muttered, quickly but gracefully finishing his steak. "Half-bloods and outcasts have flooded this world, not to mention all the Muggle-borns of every sort. How can a family inheritance be given to an outcast? An outcast is a nobody when it comes to inheritance. The blood relatives of the Blacks are still alive; they will inherit. And if none were left, the inheritance would be stuck in a goblin vault. If you're a direct descendant of Orion Black by blood and accepted into another family, you're the obvious first heir, with Narcissa Malfoy next in line after you. It's hard to see how they overlooked this."
"They thought I was Travers's biological son."
Lestrange carefully placed his knife and fork on the table, allowing himself to laugh only after that.
"They won't be able to do anything about it, Arcturus. You are the legal heir and are not obliged to share with any of them, including Sirius Black."
Arcturus remembered how he had been labeled a Dark Lord in his second year just because he was a Parselmouth. How Sirius had been thrown into Azkaban without trial and spent twelve years there. What rumors were written about him in the papers during the Triwizard Tournament. What Umbridge had done at Hogwarts. How the Defense Against the Dark Arts class had been sabotaged for years. How the Ministry had sent Dementors after him and then nearly snapped his wand for defending himself. Back then, he had been saved at the trial only because of Dumbledore… that cunning old man always managed to slip into the role of savior.
"Mr. Lestrange, you don't know them as well as I do. If it suits them, they'll accuse me of using Imperius on Voldemort or claim I'm the reincarnation of Mordred—and right now, that would suit them very much. So yes, I'm dangerous company."
"Don't I know it?" Rabastan smirked. "I've read the things they make up about us. They even called us Death Eaters…"
"They didn't lie about you?"
"Like they lie about everything, Arcturus, about everything. If you know any firsthand information and compare it with how the papers report it, you can guess how much truth is in there. We were and remain enemies of the government of half-bloods. They can't write the truth about us. For example, why would we care about Muggles? They're their own people; we're our own."
"So, you didn't burn down Muggle villages?"
"Muggle villages haven't existed for about twenty years. They're now called rural settlements and are hardly different from small towns. Almost all the attacks on Muggles attributed to us are either completely fabricated or exaggerated. A few of the early attacks, before the First Wizarding War, are on us—every group has its extremists and maniacs—but far fewer than is commonly believed. It was war, Arcturus, and in war, all methods are fair, including the use of mass disinformation."
"But you persecuted Muggle-borns all last year. I have concrete facts about that."
"Well, persecution… We registered them—and not just them, but all sentient beings in Britain. But they made the most noise and were the most offended. By the way, Muggles had a nationwide registration system long before us, and no one raised a fuss about that. They were removed from positions where they could harm our government—every government does this when it comes to power. Some were killed due to aggressive propaganda, attempts to carry out sabotage, or armed resistance to regime forces. We didn't do anything that wasn't justified by necessity. In fact, we were too lenient—some of Dumbledore's closest allies should have been fed to the Dementors, but they didn't even face any repression."
"Slacking…" Arcturus murmured reproachfully, unable to think of the Order of the Phoenix without bitterness.
"At least now we have people to curse with ancestral curses and blackmail the current government," Lestrange chuckled. "Take the Weasleys—there are ten of them. Curse one, and the others will devour the Ministry alive if it stays out of it. Blood traitors, they're like locusts."
"Speaking of traitors… I never understood why the pure-blood movement was led by a half-blood."
"I was young then, but I've been told the story. To understand it, you have to know about the power struggles at the time. At the beginning of the century, the Ministry became strong enough to push the Wizarding House of Lords out of power and eventually abolished it. Before that, the Ministry was considered—well, and was—a den of various appointees, a place for feeding and intrigue by half-blood upstarts. Our grandfathers didn't take it seriously and simply lost power. Our fathers realized what had happened, and there were talks about restoring authority, about someone leading the fight to preserve pure-blood heritage—but no leader had emerged yet. Riddle simply stepped into that ready-made role. He pretended to be one of us, pounded his chest for pure-blood values, but later it became clear that both in spirit and upbringing, he was a lone thug. Power to him was not a transforming force but only a means of personal validation."
"But you obeyed him…"
"Reluctantly. It's hard to do much against the Mark, yet we had a plan in place to rid ourselves of Riddle while keeping power. But Riddle was obsessed with Potter and kept making mistakes, one after another, until it led to his downfall. And ours, too."
"Is there any way to fix that?"
"Not right now, nor in the foreseeable future. There are too few of us left to change anything. Right now, we need to survive, lick our wounds, count our losses, recoup—and then we'll see. If the current government lets us live and leaves us alone, they'll strip us of everything. First, because they're broke themselves, and second, a rich person is an independent person, and independent people are a hindrance to any government. So, Arcturus, it's better if I don't make things harder for you. They don't have anything yet to take from you."
Deep down, Arcturus already suspected that the only way to get along with the current government would be to end up penniless once again. The manor—turned into a museum or government office; the money—given to some werewolf charity, and lucky if the werewolves saw even a knut of it. The house-elves would be freed to fend for themselves, starve, or die, and the artifacts—handed over to the Department of Mysteries, where they would be slowly siphoned off by those in power. Arcturus was no stranger to poverty—he had spent most of his life a pauper, wearing Dudley's hand-me-downs—but the thought of once again being used to the fullest by the very people who had once taken everything from him, even his appearance, made his fists clench.
No, better to die and leave everything to the goblins in his will. Arcturus wasn't afraid of death—he had already said his goodbyes before the battle with Voldemort for everything he held dear. For everything that had turned into a farce.
"They'll want to take me down anyway," he told Lestrange as if it were an obvious fact. "I don't want to feel ashamed of myself for making it easy for them."
"Our kind," Rabastan's smirk had a mix of bitterness and approval. "If you know what you're getting into—who am I to dissuade you?"
"So, you're staying, Mr. Lestrange," this was not a question but a statement. "Is it a secret what you plan to do next?"
"I think I've said enough for you to guess. Potter isn't enough; we need to curse a few more high-ranking individuals. They're all in cahoots, protecting each other—that should shake things up. The problem is, they're all very well-guarded, hard to get close to. And now they're on alert."
"Tell me, can your curse be placed on an object so it passes on to the wizard who uses it?"
"What for?" Rabastan paused, but quickly realized. "You're suggesting cursing something that will end up in their hands?"
"Something like that. There's a joke shop in Hogsmeade called 'Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.' They sell all kinds of trinkets, potions, and candies meant to help wizards make life difficult for themselves and others. If we were to curse some of their merchandise... Maybe it won't reach the government, but it would affect enough people..."
"Cursing it is the easy part; making sure no one notices is the trick. During the day, there are people there, and at night, I'm sure there are protections and alarms in place."
"I have an Invisibility Cloak. I could lend it to you—but you'll have to make a magical vow to return it to me. I no longer take anyone at their word."