In the blink of an eye, it is Arcturus' turn to attend Hogwarts under the watchful eye of is lord-grandfather. His father still does not like the idea of the Hogwarts Express, seeing it as too Muggle and modern and thus, inherently unsafe, but Cygnus said the lunch was brilliant and his grandfather refuses to let Arcturus take any other method of transport, and so he arrives in the platform at half past ten, trying to make sure he can remember all the names he needs to, and the list he made himself of his plans.
He must befriend every pureblood he can, must be sorted into Slytherin, and must familiarise himself with and endear himself to all his teachers as soon as possible. The Hogwarts Express, he thinks, will surely help with the first objective; up until a few decades ago, students had all been flown to Hogwarts by their families, whether on brooms or in carriages, or on occasion allowed to be sent through the Floo network. On the train however — taken from a train station built by muggles, and teeming with them, to Father's annoyance — he had the opportunity to find a carriage and introduce himself to all the worthy persons.
As the grandson of Lord Black — their esteemed Headmaster himself — Arcturus does not have to worry about making allies so much as keeping them. But it is still very important that he put the right foot forward. He knows most of the important boys his age, from Quidditch practices and sitting in on his family's dinner parties. School, though, is where those life-long friendships will be truly formed, where he knows he is too learn debate and bribery hand in hand, school is where the leaders of the future meet in the Slytherin common room and take tea with the professors who would put them in the right places in the Ministry.
Shake the right hands, say the right things, make the right jokes to the right people at the right time. Politics begins here.
So he finds the right part of the train, saw Karl Nott and Alfred Selwyn and Algernon Longbottom and settles in with the rest of the important boys whom he did not know; a Potter, a Parkinson, a Prewett, Alfin Thorel's eldest who fancies himself a politician already. They do not sit with the girls; witches have their own carriages, for propriety, but Nott claims to have spotted Melania MacMillan with Thalia Greengrass nearby, and Oliver Parkinson's cousin Willow is said to be somewhere on the train, though according to Oliver, she intends to sulk the whole way there.
He does wander the train later, alone, keeping an eye out for Cassandra or Calliope or Cora, but they are not there. He supposes, if they no longer liked the family, they would not attend a school presided over by their grandfather. Perhaps they had gone to Beauxbatons instead. He wonders if he would ever see them again. He doubts it. Now eleven, he knows what it really means to be a blood traitor, he knows it was the highest crime against one's family, and he knows there was no redemption. Even if the girls wanted back in, they have been too far tainted by their father's treachery.
So he returns to the boys whose families are important and whose friendship is safe. He makes jokes and the right sort of talk, shakes hands and finds a boat with the right boys across the lake.
He is one of the first to be called. It surprises nobody when the Sorting Hat calls him as a Slytherin; at the High Table, his grandfather beams with pride.
Arcturus goes through Hogwarts with indulgent smiles and clever words and reminders that his own grandfather presides over all, that Lord Phineas may run the school but Arcturus is at the head of its students. The headship of Hogwarts is one of the most coveted roles in politics, and has been for many years, offering the chance to shape the leaders of the future and thus, to shape the future itself. His grandfather is doing great work, and he makes it so that Arcturus barely has to do any of his own.
He does study, of course, no one would ever let him cheat. But he does not have to be great, only just good enough. It does not matter how well he does, he will end up as lord anyhow and he knows it. The work of creating connections does not need to be done by him, either. People flock to young Arcturus, the charismatic heir, who always has galleons to spare, treats for his loyal friends. Friends could and should be bought, he knows, Money makes the world go round, that was what his father told him.
Mother says other things were more important, but Arcturus is twelve now and too old to listen to the words of a mother everyone believes half-mad. At Christmas, he joins the family's traditional Solstice Ball, hosted at the Manor by his grandfather. He contributes to the guest list, adding the boys he had met, those whose families were not ensured a place — Thorel, Dellison, Edris. Up and coming in the Ministry, but not yet in the ranks of the Wizengamot or Council, or privy to the emerging Assembly which sought to rival them both.
The boys and their families are grateful for the invitation into a higher calibre of society, and Arcturus takes joy in showing off; his home, his family, his robes, his genius.
He returns to school with closer friends and assurances that they would be rewarded for helping him with homework and lying to teachers when he snuck off. He feels invincible, throughout all of that first year. When his grades came through, they weren't great, but they were more than acceptable. History and Astronomy were perfect, Potions outstanding.
But it isnt good enough.
"I cannot have a fool for a son," his father barks when he returns home at the end of the year. "You cannot fail Charms class!"
"Charms is a soft subject anyway, nobody cares."
"The stupidest Hufflepuff can pass Charms," his father sneers. "You are a powerful wizard, Arcturus, or at least you ought to be. You must prove it, or Merlin help us, you will be the ruin of the family."
Worse than Uncle Phineas. Tears bloom in Arcturus' eyes. "I am sorry, Father. I will do better, I promise. I have made many friends, important connections!"
"So I have heard. I am proud of that. But you must prove yourself, too. You must maintain our prestige. We are the best sort of wizard, the most precious blood flows trough our veins. But everybody knows that your mother is weak." Arcturus swallows tightly. He knows she is, knows how she she flinches when his father speaks too loud or slams his hand on a table. "We cannot give anybody reason to doubt your abilities. You will not embarrass us. You will study all summer, and shadow me at the Ministry whenever I ask, and you will learn, Arcturus. School is for fun and irresponsibility, but you still must be brilliant."
"But everybody knows we are the best already."
"And we must keep it that way."
-*
And so all throughout the summer, Arcturus is kept to a strict schedule of studying and following his father around the Ministry of Magic as he speaks to council and Wizengamot members. He takes notes on the things he says and the way in which he says them, and to whom. He takes note, too, of the laws put forward by the Wizengamot to the Legislating Assembly, the commonalities in the issues that are raised: whether Muggleborns should be allowed to join the Ministry, whether squibs should be automatically disowned and obliviated at the age of eleven, whether Muggles should be allowed to know about magic, now that they had matured, whether or not Muggles had anything to offer the Wizarding World.
"Do some people like muggles, then?" Arcturus asks his father one evening, once they had returned home after watching a debate between Father, Grandfather, and Lord Prewett on the issue of insularity.
"Some people have sympathies for them, being lesser creatures, the same way they do for house elves. I do not believe any sane person could like such a backwards people." Uncle Phineas had seemed perfectly sane. But then, Arcturus had been a child. What did he know, really?
"There are children of muggles at Hogwarts. Do you know that?"
"Of course I know that."
"I hadn't thought Grandfather would allow it."
"Unfortunately, Grandfather is beholden to the Ministry. All children with magical power must be taught to control it — though whether the regular rabble of Muggleborns and halfbloods should be allowed to study with young wizards such as yourself, is a matter of debate. Personally, I think Hogwarts has grown too big. A more selective school would do us well — it is a matter I intend to raise, when I am lord."
"When Grandfather is dead, you mean." It sounds more accusatory than Arcturus had intended; he had not known he thought such words until she said them.
"Or retired," his father says smoothly, guiding him up the stairs. "Preferably from Hogwarts, too. We must make strides in modernisation, Arcturus. We must break from our past, break further from the Muggle world."
"Yes," Arcturus says. He has heard such things from the older boys in the common room, discussions of the Wizarding world's future without any Muggle relations, or else how muggles might be made to work for wizards, and not the other way about, almost like house elves. But he thinks some people are cruel enough to elves, who are supposed to be friends to magic folk and instead are unwillingly bound, even with their own powerful magic. As far as he can tell, Muggles are mostly human. But if they do not have magic, he wonders, are they worse than house elves? Or is magic perhaps not the best way to measure one's worth? Werewolves have plenty of magic, after all, he thinks, as do centaurs, but they are less man and more beast, dark, wicked creatures.
He is not sure how humanity is best measured, though most everyone else seems to have figured out. The trouble is that they all have different answers.
He accompanies Mother and Father to Merlin's Day, his first grown-up social outing. His smoothness of words comes in handy, and the dancing lessons they demanded he take as soon as he could walk, pay off. He knows others there, his age; Nott and Travers and Parkinson and Prewett. There are young witches there too; Willow Parkinson, Ellen Rhys, Melania MacMillan, all quite beautiful girls.
"You should speak to the MacMillan girl," Father tells him, and he looks over to her. She is a year older than him, a Ravenclaw, and very pretty. Her family is neutral on many of the issues his feels so strongly about.
"Why?"
"Because family is political," he says. "As is marriage."
So he goes over and he asks for a dance and MacMillan looks him up and down like she is trying not to laugh. But she knows who he is, so she doesn't. She lets him take her hand and lead a dull waltz, and then they part well, and she whispers in her father's ear. Arcturus is pleased with himself, and pleased that he will probably not have to dance with any other girls tonight.
Instead he can laugh about with his friends, and impress the grown-ups by talking politics, and speculate on the Minister's upcoming speech.
When he returns to school, it is with a newfound strength and ambition. Blacks do not amount to nothing, they are Slytherin through and through and they must have power, wherever they can seek it, in every way that they can. Arcturus has failed to be ambitious. He will never make that mistake again.
He excels in class. His Transfiguration teacher, Professor Dumbledore, who has never liked him, even compliments his flair, and he is beyond pleased with himself for that one. There is reward in success, with these sorts of things. He can feel the magic that floods his veins and it feels good, and the recognition of that feels even better.
Professor Merrythought praises his duelling prowess in Defense Against the Dark Arts, too, says that there is greatness achieved when he truly sets his mind to something. He craves the power that praise gives him and he envy in the other students' eyes. He is the best, his blood is the best. Superiority rings out from every action that he makes.
Everybody knows it. Arcturus makes sure they do. And if they claim otherwise, like an insolent first year muggleborn, he shows them why with curses no schoolboy should know. He is never caught. He has too many friends for that.
And besides, his Grandfather is Headmaster. What could anybody ever do about it?
He is ambitious but still invincible. Some would say that it hinders him. He has no need to think, not like a Ravenclaw does. He thrives on the feeling of being powerful, on feeling clever and brilliant. Whether it is real or not does not matter. Arcturus has no reason to believe that he is not all of those things. Just so long as he keeps proving that he is the best, proving the power of his family's pure blood.
Second year goes by quietly, in a haze of laughter and magic and whispers about power, the meaning of it, the meaning of life and death and the spirit themselves, on defining what magic truly is. Definining, most importantly, its superiority.
Before he knows it, it is summer. 1914.