If Arcturus Orion Lestrange was held at wand point and asked when his problems had started, he'd answer it had all began, more or less: twenty three days, sixteen hours and thirty five minutes prior.

He hadn't been counting.

Truly.

It had simply been the time the trials had taken place.

More specifically, the proceedings that had seen sycophantic Uncle Malfoy sent packing for a rock in the middle of the sea, while dim-witted Aunt Malfoy, along with cowardly Cousin Little-Malfoy, sentenced to wandless house arrest in that shack of a Manor they'd priorly, ironically, turned into his prison.

Just what they deserve. Arcturus thought munching angrily. But that's not when the issues had started.

The beginning of his problems had shown their face right after, when he'd foolishly chosen not to make himself scarce, at his earliest convenience, and had decided instead to bask in the oddly satisfying notion that for once justice had been served in the halls, and by the oafs, of the Wizengamot.

Not that it had been easy, surely, savouring the none altogether unpleasant feeling, what with as many craven little squibs and hushed little whispers there had been all around him.

"Lestrange."

Anyway.

That's when it had began.

That's when he'd been, no gentler way to put it, cornered and coerced.

"I just wanna see how the ol' place is holding up," the lying cad had said, those lying green eyes lying with their lying gaze, "I'll be out your hair so quick you won't even see me go, pinky promise!"

As if. (He'd ever lay toe on any unsanitary pinky of hers.)

Nonetheless, he'd been regrettably played, and only in the moment he'd opened the door, in the moment he'd offered the warmth of his hearth, he had realized, too late, the staggering magnitude of his awful mistake.

That's when –

That's when Arcturus heard them – a series of rapid stomps, better befetting a mountain troll, accompanied by a beast's loud and raucous clamour, dreadfully coming closer and closer with every waking second.

Unmistakable cues, signaling the immenent arrival of the latest, most serious threat to the peace of his home, all born of a terrible, terrible mishap on his part.

The crash of a most ancient door against a most cherished wall – both suffering more and more, day after day, the ruffian's brutish handling – jolted him out of his woeful thoughts, right into a dreary reality. And there she stood.

The problem.

Hope Potter waltzed into the kitchen like she owned the place, her lying grin overshadowed almost in its entirety by atracious round glasses and a dark, uncouth mane she must have never tried taming once in her whole life.

Arcturus frowned, briskly shoving the empty box of disgusting muggle food back in the cabinet where he'd found it. This has to end.

"Potter." Arcturus spoke gravelly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning slightly on the counter behind him, as to present himself with a sufficiently intimidating appearance.

It didn't take much for him to reach such a state, what with the build he'd inherited from useless wrech Rodulphus, and however much he despised the young woman and her ways, he didn't wish frighten her any more than he strictly needed to.

Said young woman, likely scared out of her wits, spinned on her heels.

"Potter," Arcturus' stance softened, his tone going tender. "This has to st-."

"Paddy! Breakfast!" She wailed loudly, right as a mangy, slobbering creature emerged from the hallway's shadows and made its rowdy entrance in the cramped kitchen, its tongue lolling out and prancing about in a manner similar to its owner.

Arcturus took a deep breath, gave rest to his coal-like eyes, and brought a hand to the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, good morning, Art-roo! I'm such a doofus, didn't even see you there!" Potter laughed, finally deciding to give him time of day.

He'd barely opened his eyes, a venomous glare ready to be thrown for the lout's way for her insistence to debase his noble name with ridicoulous monickers, when something harshly punched his midsection and all but stole the air from his lungs.

"Padfoot!"

Arcturus looked down, and grit his teeth.

He'd lately forced himself to wear cotton, to circumvent the issue, and yet, as he watched the dirty mutt ruining yet another one of his shirts with its dirty paws, sharp taloons, and slimy, smelly drool, that it wasn't the best of his outfits gave him little to no comfort.

At the very least, the 'Woman-Who-Won' was swiftly moved to action, likely by the dark glare he pierced her with, and as he stood there, endeavouring to derive some sort of weak amusement from the sight of Potter trying to rein in a mongrel twice her size, while said mongrel did its best to froth on her for once, Arcturus couldn't help begrudgingly admitting to himself that the the original Padfoot, for all his other numerous faults, hadn't been quite as much of a four legged terror as this one.

Not that, that is, damnable Sirius Black hadn't not lowered himself by sharpening his claws on centuries' old prized furniture, or by relieving himself in the dark corners of his forebearers' ancestral Manse, or by slumbering on every armchair he could find and inevitably covering every one of them in flea-ridden fur, or by waking him in middle of the night by howling right outside his chambers, or by chewing on every shoe left undguarded he could find, or by –

Maybe damnable Sirius Black wasn't all that better as a four legged canine, Arcturus considered, nose scrunching at the memories. He was better than he was on two, at any right.

And wasn't that the truth.

The strutting around, the drunken ramblings, the non-drunken ramblings, the allowance of the winged monster in Aunt Burga's rooms, the abysmal treatment of the elderly house elf, the disdaind and disergard towards every thing Black, the coming and going of those charlatans he'd called allies (who'd allowed him to go and get himself killed).

At least this one won't double down on its failings by turning upright, Arcturus thought, eying warily the now mostly settled down mangy mutt.

Still.

However wretched the animagus might have been in life, the man had left him half of Grimmauld Place. And however unjust it was still, considering the lack of blood relation of she whom had been given the other half, Arcturus had indeed dreaded, if not expected, the boor to leave it all to his precious god-daugther. It wasn't like Sirius had ever liked him more than he had Potter.

Which was just as well. He hadn't cared then and he didn't care now.

He had keenly cared about the will, though, and Arcturus couldn't remember what had left him more aghast, back when Albus Dumbledore had read it to him and Potter: that simple act of... common decency, or the Headmaster's permission to go back home.

Afterall, he'd been forced to stay at the school during the summer of his first year at Hogwarts, and only on his second, after the failed felon had reimerged, he'd been granted leave. (As if that layabout could have ever been a guardian. Not even in his best day. For two years, he'd been forced to partake in repellent muggle takeout)

Still. Allowance to leave, from the Headmaster, he hadn't expected either. Not after what had transpired.

But it doesn't matter. Thought Lestrange demure, his hand unconsciously going to rub his forearm. Dumbledore is dead. So is Sirius.

"Ohi!" Potter shook him out of his wallowing with a snap of her fingers, right infront of his eyes. She'd moved uncomfortably close without his notice. "Been trying to get your attention for, er, couple minutes tops, I guess. Me and Paddy are kinda feeling left out. We're the ones getting the stink-eye usually, not the wall. Everything all right?"

His throat made a disgruntled noise, and he glowered until she moved farther away, that with a cheerful cackle.

"There he is! Made me worry there for a second." Arcturus missed Hope's eyes flickering down to his left forearm, the brief dimming of her grin. "For real though, mate. How's doing today the master of this place?"

He didn't miss the bad pun. He scowled, his arms crossing once more. "I'm not your mate." He spat. "And if you'd preoccupy yourself with teaching your mongrel some manners rather than wondering about my mood, it'd be much better."

"Sure. Okay." The patronizing roll of eyes was all in her tone. She tapped the wooden table, some soberness sneaking in her light tone. "So nothing wrong, right? Nothing, y'know, troubling you?"

His scowl softened into a small frown. "What is this?"

Her grin softened into a small smile. "Me being a worrywart?"

Arcturus fidgeted, and decided to gift his glare to the slobbering creature. It stared back, with dull eyes better befitting a fish. "Well. Desist."

"Right. Okay." A few moments of silence and she spoke again, her drumming still ongoing. "Want me to scourgify the shirt?"

"I want you to-!" He started, before registering what she'd said. "You use scourgify on your clothes?"

"Um, yeah, sure." She pushed up her glasses. "At times."

Arcturus turned his sights back her way, trying to pur into his gaze every ounce of the distaste he was feeling.

Potter beamed.

He shook his head, waving a hand up and down at her. "And here I was hoping there was a reason for those obscene rags you insist on parading about with."

Like they often were, her mildly appealing female forms were poorly conceated by wrinkled rags that would have been deemed positively indecorous even by the most free-spirited gentelewoman.

She blinked, looking down. "You mean shorts and t-shirt?" She laughed, leaning back on the counter, "You should have seen what Lavender used to sleep in. Was like she thought Prince Charming would come through the window, it was."

Prince Charming. His lip curled. Undoubtedly another Gryffindor deviant.

Before he could voice his disapproval, Potter went on. "But I really am sorry about Paddy jumping you, y'know. And ruffling your feat-stuff. And all the other stuff. I've been trying to get her to behave but, y'know," Her smile didn't widen, but the sudden glow of her lying green eyes made it seem like it had. "Seems like she really likes you."

Arcturus huffed, fidgeting. The dog was still looking at him. He knew, because he was back glaring at it.

"But anyway!" Potter clapped, breaking the stifling silence (to him). "No scourgify, so only one way to go," She rubbed her hands, exuberant, "Dobby!"

A pop was all that announced the elf's out of his sight, and when Arcturus threw him a glance he couldn't say he was impressed.

The free-elf had apparated on the table, and was wearing two socks of different colors.

Neither on his feet.

"Good Morning, Hope Potter!" Greeted Dobby cheerily, leaping to the other side of the kitchen table, and going to shake Potter's hand, "But waits Dobby doesn't know if her morning is good, Dobby swears he will slaps himself a thousand times and ones if Hope Potter's morning isn't good and he spokes too much." He swore. "How is Hope Potter's morning?"

"Morning's great, Dobs," Potter grinned, seemingly unbothered by the abnormally long handshake, "But even if it wasn't - not that it isn't!" She added hurriedly, "But even if it wasn't, no need to slap yourself a thousand and one times over it. You know I'd never want you doing that."

"Oh, Dobby will never be used to Hope Potter's kindness. She's too kind to Dobby." Dobby sniffed, hands still shaking. His small head, then, turned the mongrel's way, "Oh, but there's also Padfoot! How could Dobby not see Hope Potter's companion, the kindest one-headed dog Dobby has ever seen! How is Padfoot's morning?"

The beast barked. The elf chortled. Potter unsubtly freed her appendage.

Arcturus coughed loudly in his fist, glowering.

The elf finally turned his way, his big eyes blinking slowly, "And Arcturus Lestrange! Dobby didn't even see him arrive!" Potter smirked. Arcturus glowered harder. "Oh my, Arcturus Lestrange's morning must be bad, his face looks soo angry. Dobby won't ask how his morning is, because Hope Potter doesn't want Dobby to slaps himself. Dobby hopes Arcturus Lestrange understands."

What a sham. He squinted. My ancestors are rolling in their graves. "Arcturus Lestrange understands that Dobby should-!"

"That Dobby should help him out!" Interrupted Potter hastily, throwing him a pointed look.

He returned it. "The day I need the help of your elf, Potter, is the day I renounce my name, blood, and station for a place by the fire, a half-empty bottle of firewhiskey, and one of those Weasley jumpers."

Potter's admonishing look – the sheer audacity – turned into a fullblown glare. "There's nothing bad about the Weasleys, or Molly's sweaters. Don't be a git."

"Irritating. Unsightly." He glared right back. "Two adjectives that both apply to the Weasleys and their jumpers."

"I'd say they apply better to you right now. And you know what else? Git."

"That's not an adjective."

"Yeah, too bad. It's what you're be – "

They were interrupted by loud sniffing.

Big fat tears were rolling down Dobby's eyes.

Arcturus slid well away on the counter, the impromptu fight all but washed away from his mind. "Your elf's leaking, Potter."

"Yeah, thanks, didn't notice." She bit back. "Everything alright, Dobby?" She went on, kinder.

Arcturus resisted the urge to shake his head. Before going to Hogwarts, he'd believed his poor Aunt's womanly disposition to be... a bit much. He'd quickly come to learn the mistake of his ways.

Hope Potter and her associate, sanctimonous Granger, sported much worse tempers by half. Even diminutive Astoria's and lucid Luna's female hormones weren't all that well balanced, what with their inane obession of forcing him into prolonged physical contact. (Hugs)

And not to speak, of course, of borderline abusive Susan Bones. Now she was –

A jolt of cold thunder struck Arcturus's mind as soon as his fellow Hupplepuff entered it, but he quickly batted away the feeling. Dwelling on lost acquaintances - friendships - wasn't something he ought do. Not now, not ever.

Instead, he decided to turn back at the matters at hand.

The elf had seemingly stopped leaking, but Potter was still rubbing his small back comfortingly. "So Dobby really isn't Hope Potter's house-elf?"

"No, Dobby, sorry," Said Potter. Dobby sniffed. "But, for now, it's kinda like you are, right? I mean, you're already helping around a whole lot these days. And then when it's time for me to go back to Hogwarts you'll be there too, right? And you like it there, yeah?"

"Dobby thinks so." The elf muttered, whiping his nose with one of his socks.

"And, ehi!" She continued, her enthusiasm so fake Arcturus had to avert his eyes or risk calling her out. "My room is a right mess, how about you sort it out later?"

The elf shuffled his feet.

"And take out Paddy for a walk? Say, Diagon Alley?"

The elf peaked.

"And wash the moody g-Arcturus' shirt?"

The elf smiled tentatively.

"Never." The g-Arcturus grouched.

Allowing an elf not his own to willingly tend to his needs. An unwarranted insult.

"Oh, come on, you-!" She stopped, seemingly to calm herself. "You're not gonna wash it yourself, and you know Krea-."

"Kreacher." He indeed called.

Arcturus had to contain a genuine smile at the instantenous crack, lest Potter, her beast, and the elf believed in their shared delusions that all their transgression were forgiven and forgotten.

The elf of House Black, on the other hand, contained nothing at his arrival; not the wicked sneer at the sight of Dobby, nor the wide, toothless grin when his eyes landed on his –

"Young Master!" Kreacher screeched enthusiastically in that croaky voice of his, jumping from one foot to the other with a spryness that ill fit his age. He'd apparated on the floor, unlike others. "It be so good to see the Young Master! So long, Young Master, so long!"

At the edge of his vision he could see Potter and her elf rummaging around cabinets that had gone from storaging wondrous dishes to muggle dog food, but the spike of irritation he might have otherwise felt, was momentarily drowned by sudden gratefulness.

Kreacher had taken to greeting him this way ever since they'd been reunited, no matter how much time actually passed between one meeting and another – in this case, less than a few hours. Potter, like himself, had yet to correct the elderly elf once.

Arcturus allowed himself a small smile, his arms uncrossing. "It is good to see you, too, Kreacher."

The old elf grin's, if possible, widened even more, pale eyes almost shining with joy. "What can Kreacher do for the Young Master? The Young Master can ask anything and Kreacher will do!"

He'd also taken to repeating 'Young Master' as many times as he possibly could in any phrase he could squish it in. He didn't understand that all too well, but there was no harm in it.

"Potter's creature-,"

"Ohi!"

He smoothly ignored her, pointing at the stains in his clothes. "-has soiled this one too, have you already laundered the others?"

"Dobby has! Dobby has washed-!"

"Lies!" Kreacher croaked loudly, managing quite aptly a grinning glare, "Cursed beast, lazy layabout," He went on, muttering to himself, "Kreacher has cleaned everything, Young Master! Kreacher will bring its and clean this too!"

"Thank you, Kreacher," Hopefully he wouldn't remove the stains by blowing holes on them like last time. "But do so later, or else i'll-."

With a snap of his long fingers the half was gone, and with him the clothes covering his upper body.

Arcturus briefly stilled, summoning the saintly patience that must have surely allowed his genitors to keep their faith in a murdering psycopath for all of fifteen years in Azkaban, and proceeded to quietly make his way out of the small kitchen – like a thief in his own home – while Potter was otherwise occupied feeding her mutt, and her queer elf was otherwise occupied getting ravaged by the mutt.

Obviously luck wasn't on his side, as the bothersome trespasser decided that was the right moment to be finished, and twirl around.

"You know he'll be blowing holes in them like last time, righ-,"

"Potter!" Arcturus barked, once he realized the deviant had no intention of turning away, her wide eyes locked on his belly. "Turn!"

Surprisingly, she heeded him right away.

After a short delay, "Kreacher sure doesn't wait around, uh?" She joked lamely with a weak cough of a laugh, the amateur attempt to steer away the convesation from her perversion so bleak that, for a single moment, Arcturus felt embarassed on her behalf.

Luckily he didn't have dwell on the sympathetic feeling much, for his old servant cracked back not a second a later, carrying reverently in his spindly arms a pristine new tunic.

"Here, Master, for y-!" Kreacher stopped short and suddenly started shaking, pale eyes seemingly turning shinier and shinier with each passing moment.

What? Following his line of sight, Arcturus glanced do – And glanced back up so quickly his head spun.

Gritting his teeth, Arcturus slowly moved his bandaged left arm behind his back, and with his right hid away the straight, ugly silver scar on his belly. He didn't touch it.

"Kreacher." He spoke, firm. The first person he'd ever known blinked once, then twice, then looked up. His eyes were still wet and wide. "Why don't you go to the library while I dress?" A smile he didn't feel curved Arcturus' lips. He hoped it looked honest enough. "I shall be there shortly. You can collect spiders' legs while I read aloud 'The Sacred Twenty-Eight, or a guide to filicide'."

Kreacher blinked again, nodding slowly. The elf silently shuffled to the nearest chair, carefully folded over it the clean shirt he was carrying, and then disappeared with a crack.

Arcturus left out a breath, but promptly decided not to endulge the sudden unbecoming weakness he felt, and re-dressed himself.

When he turned back Potter's way - he'd brily forgotten she was even there - he found the unhygienic tart sitting on the counter, her green gaze already on him.

"The Sacred Twenty, or a guide to filicide?" She asked quietly, her mouth pulled in an strange smirk.

He huffed, resisting the urge to fidget. "It's his favorite book."

Potter's odd smirk widened into an odder smile. "I didn't know what."

He fidgeted. "Perhaps because I happen to know my own house elf better than you, Potter, or perhaps because you wouldn't be caught dead reading anything other than cooking recipes and quidditch manuals." Arcturus replied scathingly. "And it's Twenty-Eight, not Twenty."

"Alright, alright. Twenty-Eight." She raised her hands in mock surrender. "But just to let you know, I haven't read once a quidditch rulebook 'cause, y'know, they're all very thick. And I certainly don't need any instructions to cook stuff, by the way. Who do you think has been cooking all your stuff for the last month?"

"Your elf." The improvement of the meals' quality had been the one perk of an otherwise wholly bleak ordeal. "And where has he gone to?"

Potter gasped dramatically, holding her heart. "Shame on you, sir. If you must know i've-,"

He tuned her out, suddenly noticing something that made his blood run cold.

"Where has the mongrel gone?!"

"Oh my, you're not worried for Paddy, are you? Don't tell me you actual-!"

"Answer!" He barked.

"Fine, fine." She said, rolling her eyes. "Dobby's taken her out for that walk I promised." She laughed merrily. "You should see them. It's like she is the one taking him around, it is."

Arcturus let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

The damn beast had been giving a wide berth to a great many of the cannibal wardrobes, and while there were conceivable chances that it might yet fall into one, the risk of it somehow managing to wander into his rooms and, say, eat his pillow, was increasing with every passing day.

"And, actually, they're not gonna be back in a while." She grinned. "Want me to prove I can – "

"No." He interrupted smoothly, quickly making for the doorway. "I'll be someplace. Don't seek me."

"Didn't you say you're going to the library? And wait a sec-someplace in Grimmauld Place? That's my-wait-don't seek to the Seeker? Are you serious right now?"

He considered walking back his steps, just so that Potter could shrivel under his look of distaste, but desisted. Kreacher was waiting, and he had yet one thing left to do before he could join him.

Once reached the entry hall, Arcturus carefully pulled the curtains covering Grimmauld's best, and his dearest, panting. He, unlike damnable Sirius Black and the Order of Housebreakers, only hid it away at night, and that solely to grant some rest and reprieve to the sweet witch inhabiting it.

But even if those vagrats and outcasts were still around, he found himself grinning oddly prideful, She wouldn't need be caged anyhow.

His Dear Aunt 'Burga, after learning the logistics of brave Cousin Regulus' passing, had somewhat tempered her earnest and colorate opinions reguarding all things non-Pureblooded, almost to the point that, to him, she seemed an entirely different woman from the one who'd sternly, and lovingly, overwatched his growth.

"Art-Roo!" shouted Potter all the way from the kitchen, like the uncultured savage she was. "Did you eat all the cornflakes?!"

"Filth! Halfblood! Out! Out!" Yelled back Walburga.

It is then, as the hateful grim joined the raucous fray with its disquieting barking, that the reluctantly Hupplepuff realized he'd yet again been played, and forgone giving Hope Potter the stern scolding she so obviously needed.

Arcturus Orion Lestrange did the only thing he could.

He cursed loudly.

"Merlin's damp knickers, Art-Roo! Has the old lady finally pissed off you too?!"

"How dare y-How dares she! Vile scum! Apologize, Nephew! Apologize!"

At least, Arcturus thought, wearily, as he apologized, tiredly, it can't get much worse that this.