In which Granddad is inclined, on balance, to go with the flow.
Warnings: Arcturus Black is an old dude, and, unlike Albus and Horace, mostly only talks to other relatively old dudes.
(dodges plasma strike and does not promise never again to call venerable wizards dudes)
(because Albus :D)
Linden Grove, Canterbury
"Cludo incantatum."
Art turned at the whisper, as quickly could in his desk chair, but realized at once he was wearing a blindfold. He tore it off, and was reassured that it came easily.
No one else was in his study, which was how things had been a moment ago. Or, rather, he realized with a look at the clock, an hour ago. New, though, was the envelope in front of him, sealed with one of his own secrecy spells and with his name on it. The message inside it, though, was addressed to his heir apparent, his only surviving son. It read:
(¯`·._.·(¯`·._.· (O) ·._.·´¯)·._.·´¯)
My dear Orion,
It has come to my attention that, incredible as it may seem, a certain schoolfellow of yours (you will recall the one I warned you against in your youth, having reviewed evidence which most strongly implicated him in the death of his muggle father) has made a murderous attempt upon your house-elf. Should he learn it has not succeeded, I am convinced that his not inconsiderable resources would be bent in animus upon the family, in particular endangering the children. Believing my source sound and a sincere family ally, I have agreed to expunge the memory of this ally's identity and our meeting, and will have done so by the time you read this.
You could not be blamed for rendering the matter moot, as the odious halfblood has grown to be no small power in the land and may not stay a silent one forever. Nonetheless, I would counsel against it. The elf has, by all accounts, behaved with perfect loyalty and propriety. As he has no issue to inherit his retainership, you would have to replace him with an unknown quantity. More, I am not yet convinced that my young namesake is as yet so mature as to easily do without the caregiver of his childhood—nor so secure in his duties as heir presumptive that it would be wise to deprive him of so experienced a helper.
If you will take your father's advice, then pull up the drawbridge, fill the moat with afancs and dobhar-chú, keep the elf's survival quiet, and seek to know no more than you must. Your lady wife (to whom, of course, my best regards) may perhaps be reconciled to a semi-seclusion by her own memories of the impertinent whelp's presumption at a time when he was weaker than he is today.
Your loving father,
Arcturus Black
(¯`·._.·(¯`·._.· (O) ·._.·´¯)·._.·´¯)
Art read this note again, one eyebrow up. It certainly was his handwriting. The hand looked unforced and the voice was his own, not some dictated message from this 'source,' whoever he was. And no one outside the family could have known to make him, through the mention of the afanc, include the Arthurian reference that told him, as it would Orion, that he'd been the writer, a stronger assurance even than his signature or seal.
He folded it up and called for his youngest, Lucretia, who'd come to live with him in his old age. At his request, she checked him for traces of imperius or other compelling or confusing spells. All she found was an unknown memory charm, as his own writing had implied she would.
Art wasn't really surprised at this evidence that he'd been convinced without magic, and not just because it had been left to his unenchanted self to decide whether to send the letter. Trying to kill an elf was unusually stupid and perverted even for an ignorant mudblood, yes. But there was wasn't much he would have put past Riddle, the smooth-talking little monster. If only they'd had enough proof, forty years ago, to put him away.