Murder of Crows

11.15 PM, 31ST OCTOBER, 1981, BLACK MANOR

ARCTURUS BLACK III sat in his study, a chamber heavy with the weight of tradition and history, passed down through the generations of Black family heads. It was the very heart of Black Manor, where centuries of legacy seemed to linger in the air, pressing down with an almost tangible presence. He remained motionless in a high-backed armchair of polished ebony, its dark upholstery embroidered with the Black family crest.

Before him, the hearth loomed—a masterpiece carved from obsidian-veined marble. Next to it sat an ornate vessel containing Floo Powder. Within the hearth, a fire crackled and danced, its golden glow spilling into the room to cast shifting patterns on the dark oak paneling. The light seemed alive, illuminating every corner of the space with an almost reverent touch. The flickering firelight cast sharp shadows across his patrician features, accentuating the stern lines of his face as he gazed deeply into the flames, lost in thought.

The study exuded a somber grandeur, each detail a testament to the indomitable legacy of the House of Black. Towering mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, stretching toward the vaulted ceiling, their shelves burdened with ancient tomes bound in dragonhide and embossed with arcane symbols. Glass cases displayed rare magical artifacts, some pulsing faintly with dormant power, their presence as much a warning as a wonder. An imposing grandfather clock stood proudly to one side, its dark mahogany frame polished to a gleaming finish. Ornate silver inlays of swirling constellations adorned its face, each star subtly glowing with an enchanted light.

Beside his chair, a black mahogany desk stood in quiet authority. Scattered across its surface were parchments and letters, some still sealed with the intricate crests of allies and rivals, while others bore marks of negotiations long since concluded. A sleek, midnight-black quill tipped with silver rested beside a half-filled inkpot, evidence of correspondence penned in the quiet hours before dawn.

Dominating one wall was the Black family tapestry, a sprawling and intricate masterpiece that spanned nearly its full height. Threads of gold and black wove together a genealogical map, each name and line a story of pride, betrayal, or triumph. The shimmering threads seemed to whisper in the firelight, their secrets a reminder of the weighty heritage Arcturus bore—a heritage that shaped him as much as it bound him.

A faint knock at the study door pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced toward the sound but did not rise. "Enter," he said, his voice measured and calm.

A house-elf, aged and stooped, shuffled in, carrying a silver tray with a bottle of brandy and a single glass. "Master Black, your evening refreshment," the elf said, placing the tray on the desk with the reverence of one handling a sacred relic.

Arcturus gave a curt nod. "Thank you, Kreacher. That will be all."

As the elf departed, closing the door silently behind him, Arcturus poured himself a measure of the amber liquid. He swirled the glass, watching the firelight dance within it, and took a slow sip. The warmth of the brandy rolled smoothly down his throat, earning a slight grunt of approval. Good beverage.

His gaze drifted to the tapestry on the far wall, its intricate weave illuminated by the flickering flames. The names of his ancestors seemed to whisper to him, their presence in the room almost tangible. Each thread was a testament to their legacy—a legacy that felt both like a guiding hand and a weight on his shoulders. He took another sip, his eyes glazing over as his thoughts drifted once more to the problem he had been contemplating.

Why did it feel as though the wisdom of those who came before was unraveling with time? Arcturus had often reflected on this: the apparent decline of each new generation.

It wasn't an uncommon sentiment among older folk—every generation tended to think their youth were the golden days, often complaining about the younger ones and their cultural shifts. It was an inevitable pattern: people fondly remembered their own time and criticized the present. What many failed to realize, however, was that their predecessors likely thought of them in a similar light.

The argument was always the same: newer generations were lazier and given too much freedom. Arcturus knew that such changes were natural. Progress came with liberalization, and younger people, striving to leave their mark on the world, inevitably overshadowed their elders. This, of course, was not something the older generation took kindly to. It wasn't just a loss of relevance—it was a loss of power. The once-respected figures, the old guard, found themselves pushed aside, reduced to relics of yesterday. This insecurity often fueled their loudest complaints about youth.

Yet for all their bias, Arcturus had to admit that sometimes, they were right.

The wizarding world, as it stood now, was a shadow of its former self. The younger generations were complacent, overly reliant on bureaucracy, and uninterested in pushing the boundaries of magic. They no longer delved into the depths of magical potential as their predecessors had. Outliers existed, of course—they always did—but none of them compared to the greats of old. The likes of Dumbledore and Grindelwald were unmatched, and Arcturus knew it.

His generation had lived through the chaos these titans wrought, witnessing battles that reshaped entire landscapes. Wizards fled at the mere suggestion of their presence, and their climactic duel had carved a gorge into the countryside, vaporizing an entire region in mere minutes. Arcturus himself, powerful as he was, knew he could not hope to match them.

Arcturus was a man who carried his pride like a badge of honor—earned, not borrowed. His power was immense, his adaptability unmatched, his sheer intellect unparalleled. Over the years, he had gathered a number of epithets, each a testament to his brilliance and achievements. The Third Genius of the Old Generation. The Lord of Courtiers. The Most Dangerous Man in the Modern Era. The Titan of Tenfold Triumphs.

Yet no amount of praise and no number of monikers could convince Arcturus that he could face those two monsters head on in combat. Don't get him wrong, he could best almost anyone in battle, but those two were in a league of their own altogether.

Watching those brutal battles had solidified Arcturus's decision: survival was the only realistic goal. While others were swept up in the fervor of the war, hoping for glory or revenge, Arcturus focused on the aftermath. He had no illusions about the futility of engaging in a conflict that seemed endless and all-consuming.

Instead of joining the chaos, he worked quietly behind the scenes, securing his family's position for the uncertain times ahead. He was against injustice with fervor, but he was no idiot martyr to sacrifice himself for the sake of people he barely knew. He hadn't become one of the most feared men in the wizarding world because of futile heroics.

This foresight paid off. When the war ended and the wizarding world was left to pick up the pieces, Arcturus and his family stood on a solid foundation, having used the chaos as a ladder to secure their continued power and influence.

However, of all the things that Arcturus had predicted would happen in the aftereffects, there was one that not even he saw coming.

The final duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald was, unsurprisingly, brutal. However, the outcome was that, apparently, Dumbledore lost much of the godlike power he once wielded, leaving him on level just slightly above Arcturus himself. It was widely believed that the famed duel with Grindelwald had drained much of the old wizard's formerly godlike power. That the man had made sacrifice to end the war and defeat the dark force that Grindelwald had become.

Yet, Arcturus couldn't shake the feeling that the truth was more complicated. Dumbledore's sudden, inexplicable loss of power did not feel like the sacrifice of an old sage who gave up his power for the sake of his people. It felt deliberate—perhaps not a sacrifice, but a strategic decision. Arcturus, ever the skeptic, believed there was more to the story than met the eye.

In any case, ever since the war, the standards of magic had fallen drastically.

Magical Britain, once a powerhouse, had become the greatest embarrassment in wizarding history. The current war—fueled by a "fearsome Dark Lord"—was laughable compared to the terrors of Grindelwald's campaigns. Arcturus couldn't help but scoff at the thought of this so-called Dark Lord. The younger wizards screamed in panic, but to the older generations, it was clear: these were wusses that wouldn't have survived a day in their era.

The problem, however, wasn't just the youth themselves, coddled as they were. They were victims of a larger issue—the slow decline of the wizarding world. Each generation inherited a more flawed system than the one before, and the stagnation became more apparent with time. Meanwhile, the muggle world surged ahead, leaving magical society in the dust.

Arcturus, despite his noble origins, kept tabs on the muggle world. They were no longer the bumbling, magicless fools that wizards liked to imagine. Their technological advancements had made them a formidable force. Reports of mutants—beings neither truly wizard nor muggle—only reinforced their growing power. These anomalies, capable of wielding immense abilities without training, could be considered Special Grade entities in magical terms. Yet the muggles had the means to contain them with ease.

If a war were to break out between the two worlds now, Arcturus had no doubt the magical community would be annihilated. Once, wizards went into hiding because muggles outnumbered them. Now, muggles outclassed them in nearly every way. The current magical community of Britain was already falling into chaos just because of that upstart Riddle who decided he wanted Magical Britain for himself. How much worse would it be when true threats came calling?

In the boy's defense, he had been a force to be reckoned with back in his youth. His Machiavellian plans were executed with such precision that even Arcturus couldn't help but admire them. He knew exactly which strings to pull, which buttons to push. He knew who mattered, and who was merely a stepping stone. Despite still being a student at Hogwarts, he was swiftly gaining prominence among the wizarding elite, his thorough campaign almost entirely unseen and untraceable, only visible to the keen eye.

Back then, Arcturus had even considered offering his support. He believed that Riddle could lead the wizarding world through a much-needed overhaul, restoring it to the glory days of the Golden Age of Witchcraft and Sorcery.

But then, everything began to unravel. The boy's brilliance, once so sharp, began to fade. The boy suddenly went from a prodigy with sensible designs to grow in power to someone who was obsessed with immortality.

After some time, he resurfaced—and with it, his carefully crafted shadow campaign collapsed into a reckless, chaotic conquest that tore apart the remnants of dignity in Magical Britain. The finesse and subtlety he had once possessed were gone, replaced by brute force and carelessness. He had become a crude, unrefined "Dark Lord," adopting the absurd moniker of Voldemort.

Only the aristocracy and a handful of the more influential figures in the wizarding world still recognized Riddle for who he once was. But then again, that had always been expected—after all, he had been so meticulous in staying out of the public eye as he built his power.

What really blew things out of proportion, however, was the response from Magical Britain. Had they at least shown the strength to deal with the mediocrity that Riddle had become, they wouldn't have become the laughingstock of the entire wizarding world. Instead, they just had to act like idiots and scream about the terrifying "hE-wHo-ShAll-nOt-bE-nAmEd". Stupid wusses.

Even worse than the chaos Riddle himself caused were the idiots who supported him—Death Eaters, they called themselves. These fools, nothing more than power-hungry bigots from aristocratic backgrounds, were an embarrassment to the nobility. The worst part was the surprising number of them, particularly from the newer noble families, who thought aligning with Riddle would elevate them.

It would have made some semblance of sense if there were anything to gain from supporting Riddle—if his victory could offer real power and lasting influence in the aftermath. But that was the fatal flaw in his ambition: it was built on a foundation of destruction, not conquest. His drive was not toward building an empire, but toward razing everything in his path.

There was no vision of a stable future, only a storm that would consume itself. Whatever empire Riddle might carve out would crumble under its own weight. The longer he persisted in his reckless approach, the more certain it became that his reign would be short-lived. In short, if they won, they would lose horrifically in the long run. If they lost, they would fall even harder.

And yet, despite the folly of their cause, the supporters of Riddle weren't easily dismissed. Young though many of them were, they possessed substantial wealth and resources, all of which flowed into the Dark Lord's campaign. That wealth gave them the power to sustain his war effort, making them more than just nuisances.

Despite the absurdity of their loyalty to a doomed cause, they had enough clout to remain a dangerous threat. Riddle's conquest may have been misguided, but it was backed by people with the means to make it a real force to reckon with. As much as Arcturus despised them, he knew the sad truth: these fools couldn't be easily disposed of. They were too entrenched, too supported, and too numerous to simply vanish without consequence.

To add insult to injury, the incompetent Ministry of Magic only aggravated the situation. Those glory-chasing suckers charged headfirst into battle against those clowns. The idiots rushed in without strategy, led by greedy bureaucrats who had never even seen the horrors of a real battlefield. Their blunders stacked up with each defeat, pushing Magical Britain further into a corner.

As the losses mounted, the Ministry found itself on the brink of collapse, and in their desperation, those sleazy higher-ups made a shameful decision: they would call for foreign intervention. As if their own inadequacy wasn't enough, they now sought help from other nations, further tarnishing their already fragile reputation.

But, as much as he despised the anarchy it created, Riddle's conquest wasn't the real issue, it was a catalyst for a much bigger problem.

Grindelwald's campaign had created a power vacuum across the wizarding world, and with the collapse of strong leadership, contenders from every corner scrambled to fill it. In this new reality, the old noble families of the wizarding world were no longer untouchable; their long-standing influence now served as a beacon to those eager to see them fall. Even their wealth, adaptability, and centuries-old legacies could not shield them from the relentless tide of ambition sweeping through the wizarding world.

Rival families, many of whom had long coveted the influence and resources of these established bloodlines, seized the opportunity presented by the war's chaos. These rivals were not merely after status; they were fighting for their own survival in a world being remade from the ground up. Compounding this threat were the increasingly aggressive governments—nations and factions no longer content with simply maintaining the status quo.

The older aristocratic families of Magical Britain bore the heaviest burden during this crisis.

Their deep roots and storied legacies had long been intertwined with the history of the wizarding world, and they had always been prepared for threats. Magical wards, secret hideaways, and meticulously crafted plans to protect their bloodlines had served them well through the centuries. But this crisis was unlike anything they had ever faced.

Despite their formidable power and deep-rooted positions, these families found themselves confronting an inescapable reality that threatened their very survival. They were far from weak, yet in a world that was rapidly changing as a result of Grindelwald's campaign—where alliances were shattered and old orders crumbled—and with the problem compounded by Riddle's conquest as their home territory fell apart, their strength no longer guaranteed their safety.

Even if they sought refuge in foreign lands, safety would be an illusion. In enemy territory, they would be as much a target as they had been in Britain—and perhaps even more so. Their mere presence would be seen as a threat, their influence a challenge to local authorities, rival families, and ambitious governments all eager to assert control.

While these families' resilience and resources were undeniable, their survival now required more than strength and adaptability. They would need to fight on multiple fronts—against rival bloodlines ready to supplant their legacy, against governments eager to usurp their power. To survive, they would need alliances, leverage, and numbers—resources that even the oldest and most established families could no longer afford to gather.

And so, the conclusion became inevitable: they couldn't run. If they were to survive, Magical Britain could not afford to fall.

As Arcturus reflected on the slow crumbling of Magical Britain in the wake of the war, he couldn't help but observe the varying reactions of its people. Each response, though born of necessity or fear, spoke volumes about the nature of the individuals involved.

First, there were those fleeing the country—often the ones who could not see a future in a shattered land. Most of them, in Arcturus' eyes, were weak, driven by fear or desperation. They lacked the fortitude to stand their ground, unable to face the storm head-on. Yet, he couldn't help but respect those few who left not out of cowardice, but because they possessed the means to rebuild elsewhere since their power was not rooted to Magical Britain. Those individuals, with their resources and cunning, were smart enough to recognize when retreat was the wisest course, understanding that survival elsewhere meant they could one day return stronger.

Then there were the ones who hid, waiting for the storm to pass. They kept their heads low, hoping for the worst to blow over. Arcturus found little respect for these individuals, for they seemed to embody the worst of inaction. Yet, he understood them. They had no desire to take up arms, no strength to challenge the forces at work, and so they did what they thought was safest—waited. He could, at the very least, respect their need for survival.

The third group—the ones fighting back—were the most complicated. Among them, only those who fought for their survival commanded Arcturus' respect. These were the ones who had no choice but to face the chaos head-on, defending what little they had left, unwilling to surrender their homes, their people, or their legacy.

He saw in them a tenacity and raw strength that, in the face of disaster, could not be denied. They embodied the true spirit of the wizarding world, stubborn and fierce, unwilling to let it all fall apart without a fight. As expected, at the head of this group were the older aristocratic families. Alongside them were patriots that stood for their country, doing what they could to quell the carnage.

But the others—those fighting for power or pride, using the war as a means to further their own agendas—earned only disdain. Their motives were clouded, and their actions lacked the gravitas that true survival demanded. They fought not for preservation but for conquest, fueling the disarray rather than confronting it.

Of course, he couldn't forget the one group that he was most guarded against in this entire ordeal: The Order of the Phoenix.

Arcturus had come to respect the Order of the Phoenix, despite his reservations. Their fight against Riddle's forces was one he could not ignore, and their resolve, their determination to resist the encroaching darkness, deserved recognition. Few in the wizarding world were willing to make the sacrifices the Order had. And yet, Arcturus had a deep, nagging suspicion that gnawed at him whenever he thought of the Order, especially when he considered Dumbledore's involvement.

It was not that Arcturus doubted the Order's cause or the bravery of its members. No, their tenacity was undeniable.

But Dumbledore… Dumbledore was another matter entirely. Arcturus could not shake the feeling that the headmaster's motives were far more complex than they appeared on the surface. The man was a legend, his wisdom unmatched, his strategies ingenious, but that very brilliance made Arcturus wary. Dumbledore's ability to manipulate the pieces on the chessboard was undeniable, but what was the endgame? What was he truly after?

The more Arcturus thought about it, the more questions arose. Dumbledore had always kept his cards close to his chest, even as he garnered immense loyalty from those around him. He was a master of secrets, a weaver of plans whose true purpose seemed always just out of reach. To Arcturus, this was both an asset and a liability. Yes, Dumbledore could unite people, could inspire them to fight for a noble cause, but what if Dumbledore had his own agenda, one that could ultimately threaten everything?

In the chaos of the war, alliances were fragile, and while Arcturus had no doubt that the Order stood in opposition to Riddle, he could not ignore the subtle unease that Dumbledore's leadership stirred within him. It was not that Arcturus didn't trust Dumbledore's ability to lead. In fact, his ability to lead was unquestionable, but it was also tricky. The old fox had ulterior intentions, he was sure of it.

And so, while he continued to fight alongside the Order, his mind never fully let go of the suspicion that, somewhere beneath Dumbledore's calm, calculating exterior, lay a plan that could reshape the wizarding world in ways Arcturus could not yet understand. He knew the fight against Riddle was vital, but at the same time, he had learned long ago that even the most righteous of causes could be twisted by the right—or wrong—person.

Sighing as he snapped out of his thoughts, Arcturus shook his head and took another sip, turning towards the grandfather clock. 11.20 PM. Draining the last of his brandy in one swig, the Patriarch of House Black turned as he placed the glass on the tray.

"Kreacher," he called out. The house elf appeared immediately.

"Master?" Kreacher croaked.

"I am taking my leave," he said. "I do not expect guests, so do not entertain any. Any correspondence addressed to me should be kept safe in the meantime. I shall be back in a short while."

"Kreacher understands," the house elf responded reverently.

"You may return to your duties," Arcturus finished.

The house elf bowed and took the tray with the pitcher and glass, then scurried out of the room. Arcturus turned to the fire. Scooping a handful of Floo Powder from the vessel, he threw it into the flames, which flared as their golden hue changed to green.

The Lord of House Black stepped into the blaze spoke clearly and firmly, "Number 12, Grimmauld Place."

With a whoosh, he was gone, and the flames flickered brightly for a second before extinguishing.

******

Author here.

So, this turned out to be a much longer chapter than I had originally expected or planned for, but I was trying to get Arcturus' character just right, and I'm sort of happy with how it turned out.

I planned for the first few chapters to be used to explore the thoughts of certain characters just so that I could flesh them out a bit and give some context on a few changes I've made to the original story. I think the next chapter will be the last of this type that I write before I get down to the real deal, and it'll be looking into Voldemort's perspective.

Still hoping to get a bit of help with ideas for cursed techniques, just to put that out there.

Anyway, got nothing else. Ciao!