"Sectum! Sectum! Sectum!" Arcturus shouted helplessly, and invisible blades cut through everything in their path, only to shatter against the walls, leaving scratches instead of giant furrows.
With each shout, he kept moving. Dashing from side to side. In jerks and leaps, he raced across the hall, throwing out spells. His robes billowed behind him like a black banner. He wouldn't let himself stop, wouldn't let himself think. Spell after spell flew from his wand — explosive, fiery, cutting. Wandless magic erupted from his hands when his wand couldn't keep up: crude, raw, but no less deadly for it. The walls were mercilessly covered with destructive spells, the floor with scorch marks, the protective barriers hummed and vibrated, barely handling the strain.
"Reducto! Incendio Inflammare! Bombarda Duo!"
There was none of that smooth, refined grace in his movements that Flitwick had praised. Pure, primal, untamed rage had taken hold of him. He smashed everything around him like a caged beast gnawing at its bars, oblivious to the wounds it inflicted on itself.
Dummies exploded one after another. The one against the far wall was blasted apart by a Bombarda. Four in the center were destroyed by a chain of Confringo curses that Arcturus hurled without a thought for the danger. A firestorm swept through the hall, leaving black trails of soot behind.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way!" he shouted into the void, his voice breaking.
Another explosion shattered another dummy.
"It was all supposed to be different!"
He punched the wall — a wandless shockwave passed through the stone, leaving a crack in the reinforced wall.
"I was supposed to become Lord Black!"
An air ram tore the door off the equipment cupboard.
"With resources like that, with knowledge like that, with power like that — I could have handled anything! I hate it! I HATE EVERYONE!"
Arcturus lunged forward, refusing to let himself stop. Spell after spell flew from his wand — he no longer distinguished what he was casting, just releasing magic like steam from an overheated boiler. The walls grew covered in soot and cracks, the floor in gouges, the protective barriers flashed with alarming red warnings of overload.
"Why?!" he screamed, his voice echoing under the hall's vaulted ceilings. "Why me?! WHAT FOR?! Damn Sirius! Damn Walburga Black! Damn inheritance! The Wizengamot! Aaaaaaah!"
Along with the scream, he hurled his wand away with all his might. The air rippled from the wave of untamed magic that accompanied this emotional act.
He paused for a second, breathing heavily. Destruction reigned around him. Dozens of dummies had been reduced to splinters, unable to regenerate. The walls bore deep scratches and gouges, the floor was covered in soot. Arcturus gripped his wand so hard his knuckles turned white.
"And even my own father! The hope of the Blacks… don't make me laugh! Damn world!"
With his final cry, Arcturus fell to his knees, another wave of raw magic rolling out, blowing away the rising dust.
"Every single time!" he shouted, his voice already hoarser, and punched the stone floor. Magic radiated outwards in a wave.
"Every day, I hoped!"
Another punch — another magical wave rolled through the hall.
"Hoped for that damn title!"
Punch.
"Hoped it would change everything!"
Punch.
"Why! Why! WHY!"
He pounded the stone, on his knees. Emotions fueled the magic; at each moment of impact with the floor, magical waves burst forth, spreading across the floor in explosions and leaving gouges in the stone. His hands, scraped raw and bloody, did not stop.
"Damn Manor! And damn will!"
Now only a hoarse whisper escaped Arcturus Malfoy's lips.
He raised his head and looked at the ceiling, still smoking from his spells, then grabbed his head with both hands, digging his nails into his skin.
"Aaaaaaah!"
Along with the scream, he struck the floor with both hands; a powerful explosive wave of magic erupted with an airy boom, blowing across the boy's face and billowing his clothes in the wind. He remained like that, hands on the floor, still on his knees.
Finally, his soul calmed down a little.
"But I wasn't hoping for myself," he said hoarsely and quietly, afraid to get up. "I was hoping for the inheritance! For the gold! For the library! For the power I was supposed to receive, not earn! I hate all of it! But if that's the case…"
He fell silent. It was quiet in the hall, only the crackle of burning dummy fragments.
"Then I'll have to take the hard path," he said, his voice growing firmer, though it sounded hoarse, half-shouted. "As always. Gnaw it all out with my own teeth, if necessary."
Arcturus rose from his knees. His face was twisted in a grimace of pain, disappointment, anger, acceptance, resolve, and something utterly incomprehensible. His hands trembled, and blood dripped from them, but it didn't matter.
"Lucius won't be able to remove the obstacle," he said, looking at his hands. "I'll do it myself… Dumbledore thinks he won the game? Let him think that. I'll find a way. I always do!"
He smirked. A quiet, hoarse laugh escaped his chest, first hesitant, then louder, then even louder and more hysterical. The laughter echoed through the empty hall, bouncing off the walls, and there was so much bitterness, so much despair, so much fury in it that it sounded almost like weeping. But at the same time, with each second, the laughter only grew more resolute.
"Of course!" Arcturus shouted, despite the pain in his throat, despite the hoarseness. "Of course, the easy path isn't for me! Who ever got it?! The Potters? Dumbledore? Voldemort? No! They all walked over corpses, through fire, through blood! So will I!"
He waved his hand, and a powerful clot of magic flew out with a whistle and splashed against the wall with a crash. Just to break the silence.
"And I will walk!" he shouted. "I will do anything to get what is rightfully mine! I don't care about Walburga's will! I don't care about Sirius! I don't care about Dumbledore or the entire Wizengamot! I will take what is mine by right. Even if it takes time."
He raised his hand, and a clot of pure magic — raw and untamed — erupted from his fingers. It struck the ceiling, and the magical lamps, unable to withstand the overload, began to go out one by one. The hall grew dark.
"I will become the head of the House of Black!" he shouted into the darkness, his voice finally breaking. "And no one — do you hear me, no one! — will be able to stop me!"
Silence.
Only the cracks on the walls glowed faintly with residual magic, and this ghostly light was the only thing illuminating his face. Arcturus stood in the middle of the destroyed hall, breathing heavily, and felt the rage gradually release its grip.
"Because I am Arcturus Corvus Armand Black-Malfoy," he said hoarsely, iron in his voice. "And anyone who stands in my way will be destroyed."
He walked towards the exit of the hall, but upon reaching it, simply turned and collapsed to the ground. He sat down in that darkness, and his shoulders began to shake. Not from weeping, but from the tension finally releasing. Half an hour. A full half-hour he had raced around the hall like a mad beast, smashing everything in his path. For half an hour, the rage had controlled him, not him the rage.
Thoughts might have raced through his head that he should have cut off his emotions earlier. Not stepped out of line. Sat and listened to his father recount the defeat, nodding like a worthless worm. Pretended everything was fine.
But no, now he thought differently. What had happened could not be changed, but what was yet to happen could.
He raised his head and looked at his hands. On his knuckles, there was no trace of whole skin — only blood. His robes were also far from clean, covered in dust and soot.
He got to his feet, walked over, and picked up his wand, which lay against the wall somewhere in the middle of the hall.
Finally, he stood straight, squared his shoulders. Destruction reigned around him, but in his eyes, the cold, calculating spark burned once more.
"If the easy path is closed," he said, looking into the darkness, "I'll take the hard one. As always."
Thus he ended his long monologue to himself.
At that moment, the world said goodbye to Arcturus Malfoy. From now on, only Arcturus Corvus Armand Black-Malfoy existed. The true Black. And no one had the right to doubt it. No matter what some Wizengamot decided. No matter what Dumbledore plotted. No matter how the inheritance turned out in the end.
That could no longer be changed.
***
Albus Dumbledore, at Sirius's own request, took the former prisoner directly to his home. More precisely, to the mansion of Alphard Black, which had been left to Sirius by the latter's will. It was here that Sirius had lived from the age of sixteen until Azkaban.
"You knew, Professor," Sirius suddenly spoke, looking ten years older than his actual age after Azkaban. His voice was quiet, but Dumbledore heard him, though he hadn't expected these words. "You knew everything… knew I didn't betray James and Lily. Knew I was innocent. And still you let me rot in Azkaban for nine years."
Dumbledore looked at him with a long, heavy gaze.
"There is a reason for everything, Sirius," he replied finally. "I hope that someday you will understand. But for now, it's not safe for you to be alone. Many want to get their hands on your family's inheritance, and you are the only one standing in their way. Sirius, my boy, while you are in Mungo's, no one will touch you. Afterwards, you can move to Grimmauld Place."
But Sirius had no desire to go to Mungo's at all. Only after a long dialogue did the man, who had experienced much shit in his life, often due to his own stupidity, finally agree to go to Mungo's.
"To hell with that cursed place! And I won't be in Mungo's for long. And let anyone try to attack me! I won't give up easily."
"Of course, my boy."
Rage began to wash over Sirius's mind, and the wand that had returned to his hand after so many years gave him confidence. Thus the rage fed even better. Albus, understanding Sirius's state, decided to leave him, so as not to provoke even more negative emotions towards himself.
Nine years in Azkaban had not been in vain. The young man who once hung on Albus's every word could now even doubt the Headmaster's infallibility. For nine years, Sirius had thought about the betrayal, about the death of his friends, about how the then Minister and Supreme Mugwump had come to him, stunned, crushed, and chose not to free him, but to leave him to rot in prison. He remembered that day. And perhaps he had not forgiven. Maybe, with time, they could have convinced him that the Headmaster was right about everything, but seeing his charge's condition, Dumbledore told him that former members of the Order of the Phoenix would look after him, and left, having first declared that tomorrow they would go to Mungo's together regardless.
But the next day, Dumbledore would only be free later. Hogwarts on this December morning, the 31st, the last day of the year, looked unusually empty. The snow that had fallen overnight covered the castle and the entire grounds in a white shroud. A group of Aurors had gathered on the edge of the forest; their dark robes stood out against the snow like drops of ink on parchment.
There were thirty wizards. Six battle stars — a mini-army by peacetime standards. Rufus Scrimgeour, temporarily acting head of the Auror Office, stood at the front, unfolding a map of the forest covered in markings. His face was grim — much had piled up since Alastor Moody had been suspended yesterday pending an investigation. In effect, this meant that he would soon be forced into retirement, stripped of his position.
Despite his low mood due to fatigue, Scrimgeour was secretly glad of the prospect, understanding that he was practically being promoted to head of the Auror Office.
Albus Dumbledore was also there. He stood listening to Kettleburn's words. His long silver beard flowed over his chest, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the gray light of the winter morning. Formally, he was still the Headmaster of Hogwarts — a temporary suspension could not change that. He didn't have to come, but today, on the day of the Acromantula nest's eradication, his presence was desirable.
The presence of the Great Light Wizard undoubtedly instilled calm in everyone.
Next to Dumbledore, Hagrid shuffled. The giant was paler than usual, his huge hands clutching his umbrella.
"They're not to blame, Professor Dumbledore," he muttered, looking towards the forest. "Aragog promised they wouldn't come near the castle. He's just old… he can't control the young ones, but killing them…"
"I'm sorry, Hagrid, but I'm afraid there's nothing I can do," Dumbledore replied wisely to the half-giant.
"What about Aragog?" Hagrid looked at the Headmaster with a hope that was doomed.
Dumbledore did not answer. He turned his gaze to Professor Kettleburn, who stood leaning on a cane. The old professor looked as if he had aged ten years overnight. His face was gray, his eyes extinguished. He knew it was his fault. He knew that his silence had led to thirty Aurors entering the forest today with offensive spells at the ready.
"Professor Kettleburn," Scrimgeour, who had once attended Kettleburn's lectures, addressed him. "You know the forest better than anyone. Where do we find the nest?"
The old professor was silent for a long time. So long that Hagrid opened his mouth to say something, but Dumbledore stopped him with a glance.
Finally, Kettleburn gave them the location of the nest. While the Aurors marched into the forest, accompanied by the professors and a busy Dumbledore, Sirius was still at his own home.
Alphard Black's mansion was already more than well-protected, but three more war-veteran members of the Order of the Phoenix and an Auror battle star had been assigned to watch the mansion and Black himself. And not without reason: without the guards and all the protective barriers, Albus returning would have found only a corpse. Despite all of Sirius Black's skills — and Sirius was a decent fighter, stronger even than experienced Aurors.
Dumbledore, of course, had foreseen all this, which is why a year or two in safe Mungo's was the best solution for Sirius's shattered mind. This way, Dumbledore could both guide the former Azkaban prisoner and protect him. Despite all of Lucius's recklessness, he clearly wanted to work quietly, and an attack in Mungo's would have been an escalation to a completely different level, one that even Voldemort had not dared to cross for many years of his semi-outlawed status.
But there was one thing they could not protect Sirius from. Himself. And it wasn't even that he recklessly jumped out of a window. It was that he received a letter. Was a letter delivered by owl dangerous? Not at all — any letter was intercepted to be checked for danger, as the three members of the Order of the Phoenix were doing their job right inside the mansion.
But what can one harmless letter do? One of dozens that had arrived in the few hours since his release. But only this one he decided to read, because his "guards" could not read the hidden text themselves; the key to revealing it was a phrase. Any other spell would have damaged the letter. Sirius, who didn't care about anything and was just lying on a soft bed doing nothing, was drawn to the mystery itself.
"Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs greet you, Sirius Black."
Somewhere in the forest, Dumbledore was thinking about the best way to handle everything concerning Sirius and his inheritance, while Sirius, having read the letter, was thinking about how to slip past his own guards and get to the Grimmauld Place he so hated. The place where he grew up. The place where he hadn't been for a very long time. And where he needed to get to right now.