Arcturus Black was a man stripped of the delusions that society had built around him—delusions upon which their very society was based. Toujours Pur.

That purity could be seen in the barren graves, forgotten and devoid of memory; the scorched walls that whispered disdain for their own; the insane portraits that screamed from their frames; the names left in ignominy, stranded in Azkaban cells.

The Blacks had become an affliction. No longer did British society stand in awe of the accomplishments of one of their founding families. Gone were the days when respect came before fear.

The family who had commanded power, wealth, and respect since before the Romans now lay butchered. Their tragic end was perhaps best exemplified in the bones Arcturus had retrieved from the Inferi-laden lake. His grandson—hopeful, idealistic, thinking he might somehow put things right. But it was all for naught.

Dorea, his sweet sister, and Charlus—the man Arcturus could respect, a man he believed should've been Head of the Potters instead of Fleamont—were gone. And so too were the Potters. Dorea had died silently, poisoned by Bellatrix. All that was left was one feeble child, left at the mercy of those who cared only for scraps.

If there was one abomination Arcturus could forever wish never had been born, it would be Bellatrix Lestrange.

The Bones, the Longbottoms—few were left. The McKinnons, Prewetts, Campbells, and Meadows—all decimated. So much for the vaunted rights of purebloods. All had fallen to the whims of madmen.

But what did it matter now? The Blacks and Potters would never regain what they had lost. Trapping their heirs in the same endless circus of deceit, of false promises and broken loyalty, would be madness.

No. The true heirs would snap the cords that held Britain together. They would learn of etiquette, which hid a dagger behind a smile. They would embody Pur, only to spit on it, to destroy it all.

Arcturus Black would love nothing more than to watch the ashes of Britain rise and burn, crumbling into eternal unrest. He would see it through to its end.

Imbuing another with a soul full of magic, retaining memories intact—the darkest depth of soul magic. Few wizards ever dared to hypothesize its existence. Even Horcruxes were a pale comparison, for they didn't require the consent of the person whose soul was being melded. That soul was irrevocably changed. And yet, there was an unexpected twist—one that favored Arcturus Black. As the soul was unseamed, a fragment of the Dark Lord was drawn in as well, blessing the child with an innate understanding of his greatest enemy, while also dragging a part of Voldemort's soul to hell.

Arcturus Black had never felt so satisfied in life, as he did in his final moments of death.

The first clear, conscious thought that awoke within him was that Harry Potter needed to disappear—and quickly.

So there he was. Two near-silent apparitions, in and out of Privet Drive, leaving nothing to indicate his presence—except for a broken window. The suggestion: he had fled under cloak, escaping out of sight. But Arcturus found no satisfaction in cloaking himself. The real plan was elsewhere. A stroll down Magnolia Crescent worked best for now. He had a lot to accomplish, after all.

The average reader of the Daily Prophet took the news with little more than a pinch of salt. Who would invest so much time and energy into conspiracies or biased reporting, when their day was filled with far more pressing concerns—like ensuring their livelihoods remained secure? Tea, after all, was far more satisfying. Gossiping over the latest local scandals brought some comfort, as long as the Prophet wasn't lambasting anyone. And who cared about Harry Potter's reputation, especially when the claim of "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" returning was just the desperate act of a boy seeking attention?

They'd soon learned it wasn't true. But by that point… it was far too late.