Ouroboros || harry potter

Chapter Twenty-Two

(Arcturus)

Sheets of rain hit the wall of large windows. Within the frame of the windows, past the rain, a distant beach was being swallowed by the raging waters of the Channel and lightning flashed across the dark clouds. The sky was near black as the sun set through the winter storm.

The crackling of fire and ornate sconces lit the wood-paneled study. One of the inner walls was filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Its opposite wall was lined with shorter bookshelves and a horde of paintings of similar-looking men and women. Deep green chesterfield couches sat before the fireplace. A large wooden desk was under the center window, facing the room instead of the view.

An oil painting of a medusa smiled coyly down from above the oversized fireplace and at the single occupant of the room. Her snake hair curled and slithered about her shoulders and neck, agitated by the raging storm. A steaming pot of tea sat forgotten at one side of the wooden desk. The smell of herbs attempted to cover a medical undertone but failed—not that the occupant still cared.

He had long ceased caring about anything really. Mellie was gone. What was the point of dragging on when his one constant had left him?

Arcturus Black, Pater of House Black, stared out the window with a dull feeling. His wife had died not two months ago. Pollux passed last year. His son and grandsons had been gone, or as good as, for years.

He still had his daughter. Pollux's youngest, Cygnus, was also still around. There were a few female cousins.

But what did that matter?

There was no future for House Black. No young blood held the name Black.

When he died, the seat and power of House Black, the title of Pater, and all the duties so few had the understanding and capability to deal with would pass onto some distant relative. Perhaps one of his Abbott great-grandchildren would be found worthy. Maybe some fool Weasley would be given the prestige—One of them had been found worthy for the Gryffindor seat; too bad the child had been executed by Death Eaters.—One or two of the Longbottom branches had enough Black blood to have a claim. He supposed a Burke would have the opportunity, even.

Merlin. A Burke heir, the very thought.

The Crouch family was as good as gone with no young blood left either. Of Cygnus's daughters, one had been disowned (and bore only a daughter anyway), one was likely barren by now, and the last had married another Pater. Magic would never allow the Malfoys two seats within the Council—the only good thing about the entire situation.

Of course, what did it matter to him now? He was dying. Soon he would join Melania.

Except she had insisted he stick it out, push through and find a solution. She had always believed there was a solution out there. Particularly one that freed their grandson.

He sneered out the window as he considered Sirius, the fool child. The boy had never understood what it meant to be a Black. The willful child had never wanted to understand. Walburga had been the reason behind the boy's insolence. She had never been able to understand, never quite sane enough to realize her actions raised the boy's hackles and caused his rebellions.

Arcturus sighed as Mellie's request to finally accept his own part in Sirius's self-exile surfaced in response to his thoughts: He had handed over the reins, in all but name, to Orion.

Orion hadn't handled the responsibilities well. Walburga forced her insane whims on his son. Orion had been a scholar. He had not been a leader. His son would have married his books over his cousin and would have spent his life digging through ancient scrolls instead of doing his House duty.