Work Text:
The first of December 1991's many, and often tedious, social events was the St Mungo's Charity Gala on the 7th.
The disaster that was the 1990 Yaxley Yule Ball was half the reason why Arcturus had abdicated the Black Lordship to his grandson and Heir, Sirius Orion, in February. Frankly, he was hoping that he wouldn't get any more invites to the bastard things - a hope that was not only shattered, but ground into a fine powder and set aflame when he subsequently received invitations to every single event he would have attended as Lord Black.
"They simply cannot enjoy the festive season without your sparkling wit, grandfather," Sirius had teased after the third invitation had arrived.
"They can all fuck off," he had scowled in return.
Arcturus had taken note of who had signed every single invitation - a meticulous list of names on parchment filed in his study, aptly titled 'enemies'. He had not just taken the invitations as a personal slight, no, they were a slight against the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black itself. Did they think he remained the true powerhouse of the family behind the scenes? That he was some kind of puppeteer, guiding Sirius' every action? That he could not trust the successor that he had mentored himself to act in the interests of both the House and wider society? The very thought was an insult. He would not let them forget it.
Skilfully dodging an overly-intoxicated Lord Ogden before the man could stumble over and drag him into a one-sided and wildly nonsensical conversation, Arcturus made his way across the ballroom. He surveyed the room, humming approvingly to himself as he spotted Sirius sporting a very convincing smile as he spoke with Lord Pyrites - he would almost have been convinced it was a real smile, if he hadn't had three decades of experience with how mind-numbingly boring the man was.
Arriving at the drinks table, he made a mental note to extend his sincerest compliments to Contessa Zabini, who had sponsored tonight's gala. Arcturus could not care less about the rumours that surrounded the Italian and her several dead husbands - the decor was tasteful, the musicians were talented, the canapés were delightful, and the drinks table was well-stocked with the finest beverages available. He suppressed a shudder, once again reminded of last year's Yaxley Yule Ball.
He had just been served a glass of his favourite Goblin-brewed whiskey when the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
Someone was close, far too close than was polite.
He breathed in deeply, mentally preparing for whatever drunkard was about to accost him, when his nostrils were assaulted by the unfortunately familiar scent of honeydew.
This was worse than a drunkard.
This was Lucius Malfoy.
Arcturus would have taken Lord Ogden any day over this.
He didn't bother to turn around, choosing to take a sip of his whiskey to steel himself.
"Ah, Arcturus!" came the nasally voice, "How wonderful to see you here tonight. Why, I don't believe we have spoken in quite some time, I can't quite recall when..."
That is entirely intentional and exactly why burning your letters is the highlight of my week.
"Lucius," Arcturus said instead, with an almost-insultingly shallow dip of his head.
"Ah! Yes, yes - that's it. It was Yule, last year. At the Yaxley's," Lucius continued.
Arcturus took another deep breath, mainly so he wouldn't throttle the blond prat with his bare hands. Please, Merlin, just let him forget about the thrice-damned Yaxley Yule Ball.
"Apologies, Lucius, I am afraid I do not recall our discussion," he replied, with a thin smile.
That wasn't a lie - any conversation he had that night had been completed drowned out in his memory by the horrors.
"Not to worry, Arcturus, not at all! We had been discussing the Black Heirship. I believe you were very eager to hear about how well Draco had taken to his Malfoy Heir lessons, he's very disciplined you see."
"Ah, yes. Of course."
Arcturus could quite honestly not give less of a fuck about Draco Malfoy's Heir lessons.
Lucius hummed slightly, then, with all the subtly of a brick to the face, began: "Say, with Sirius taking up the Black Lordship... do him and Bartemius intend to create an Heir?"
There it is. The ignored letters had not been a deterrent after all.
Arcturus took a sip of his whiskey. Let the honey notes swirl around his tastebuds. Swallowed it. Stared at Lucius. Downed the rest of the glass. Gestured for the waiter to refill it. Waited. Stared at Lucius harder. Took the refilled glass off the waiter. Downed that glass too. Handed it back to the waiter to refill. Watched Lucius try to pretend he wasn't getting antsy. Took the refilled glass back off the waiter again. Took a sip. Swallowed. Wet his lips.
"I think, Lucius," he said, slowly, flatly, deadly seriously, "That I would rather lick Albus' Dumbledore's salmon pink bedazzled loafers than allow a Malfoy to take up my family's Heirship."
He watched the colour drain from Lucius' pale, pointy face, before being rapidly replaced by a very bright flush. He blinked at him, before his eyes slid to just over the flustered man's shoulder, to where said man's wife was rapidly approaching with murder in her eyes. Behind her, Arcturus' other grandson, Regulus, was sipping his drink in the exact sort of faux-casual manner that told him exactly who had sent Narcissa in this direction.
"Ah, Narcissa, my dear niece," he said, relishing in the flash of panic in Lucius' eyes, "How good to see you. You will visit soon I hope?"
"Of course, Uncle Arcturus," Narcissa smiled, as though she had not just gripped her husband's arm tightly enough to draw blood, "I will send you an owl tomorrow?"
"Wonderful, yes, I look forward to it. I must be off, I'm hoping to catch the Contessa for a chat. Good evening, dear," he smiled, a real one, before wiping it off his face, "Lucius."
Lucius gulped.
The next event Arcturus was strong-armed into attending by his own grandson (who, evidently, appeared to have no respect for his forefathers) was the following Saturday, the 14th of December.
The wedding of Maximilian Flint and Selene Carrow was one of the last places in the entirety of the British Isles that he wanted to be at on a freezing cold Saturday evening, but Sirius and Regulus point blank refused to attend without him.
"Lord Yaxley is invited, and he has not stopped trying to approach me ever since I took up the Lordship. I think you're the only man he fears, grandfather," Sirius had begged, trying far too hard at puppy dog eyes.
"If that man comes within ten foot of me, I will kill him," Arcturus had said, sighing.
He pretended he didn't notice his grandsons high-fiving under the table. Bartemius had no such reservations, as he had almost snorted out his tea. Arcturus had simply sighed once more, and decided not to question why the Crouch Heir was sitting in Castle Black's dining room at half past eight in the morning when him and Sirius were barely engaged, let alone married. He knew how to pick his battles.
The ceremony itself had been... bland. Fine, but bland. The exact sort of ceremony to be expected when the couple in question had been betrothed since the cradle and only going through with the wedding because they didn't want to be disowned.
His own parents, for all their many faults, had never forced him into a betrothal contract, allowing him to choose his beloved Melania. As a result, he had allowed Lucretia and Orion the same freedom, though he did have to forbid Orion and Walburga from forcing his grandsons into contracts. They had relented far easier than Cygnus and Druella had when it came to their daughters.
Salazar, how would he have coped?
As the unhappy couple plastered their finest fake smiles onto their faces and began to do the rounds of the guests, Arcturus decided it was high time he got himself a drink. He would surely need it by the time Lord Flint got anywhere near him.
A quick glance around the room showed him that Sirius was waltzing with Bartemius, Regulus was chatting to the Rosier Heir and still pretending he hadn’t been with the man since they were fourth years, and Lucius Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.
Perfect.
He perused the selection of drinks, which was notably not as excellent as Contessa Zabini had chosen last week, and opted for a large glass of elven red wine. Taking a sip, Arcturus turned back around, and...
... almost threw the contents of the glass over Lucius Malfoy.
Who was standing alarmingly close, once again.
Wonderful.
"Arcturus, what a pleasant surprise!"
Pleasant was not the word he would have used.
"Lucius," he said, with absolutely no dip of the head. If anything, he straightened up.
"Listen, I was thinking-" Lucius began.
Oh, Merlin, please no.
"- and I believe our conversation last week was left unfinished!"
Where in the name of Lady Magic was Narcissa when you needed her?
"What more was there to say, Lucius?"
The offensively-pointy man in question blinked twice, before recovering, "Ah, well, I believe you may have gotten the impression that I was hoping you would put in a good word with Sirius about naming Draco as the Black Heir! I would, of course, appreciate that deeply, but-"
Arcturus took a deep breath, and tried to act like his wand hand wasn't twitching. He let Lucius' continue to simper on, but he was no longer listening.
He thought of young Harrison, Sirius' Heir. Born a Potter, and blood-adopted by his grandson a day after his birth in a desperate hope to keep him safe during the war. The boy who lived when his parents died in that awful explosion in Diagon Alley. The boy that Sirius brought home from St Mungo's the very next day, that Arcturus was so sure he wouldn't grow to love as family (his resolve had lasted exactly one day, until the boy in question had crawled over to him and placed a tiny hand on his leg, and his eyes had flashed the silver of the Blacks). The brilliant boy, who had almost been a hat stall just three months previous before he was sorted into Slytherin, because he was so loyal to their family that the Sorting Hat thought he could be a Hufflepuff. The very boy who would undoubtedly be waiting up half-asleep in the drawing room for their return tonight, where Andromeda will undoubtedly shrug and tell them 'he wanted to make sure you got home safe'.
He would not tell Lucius any of this, of course. The man knew Harrison was Sirius' Heir, he didn't need to know how much Arcturus adored his great-grandson.
"A glowing letter of recommendation from Morgana herself would not convince Sirius to remove Harrison as Heir Black in favour of your son."
Lucius blinked at him again, "Would it convince you?"
Arcturus felt his mouth open, but no words came out. He frowned.
"... are you quite well, Lucius?"
He shook his head, and turned away before he even received an answer.
The third event of the season was the Ministry Ball on the 20th of December.
For decades upon decades, this had been Arcturus' least favourite event of the entire year. Of course, nothing could ever overshadow his sheer hatred of last year's Yule Ball, but he was still dreading the night.
He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that all sorts of Ministry staff would be hounding him for support on whatever Bill they're hoping to get passed, despite the fact he isn't Lord Black anymore. His only solace was the knowledge that Sirius was sure to be harassed even more.
"You can't get away with skipping this one," Sirius had remarked, as he had skimmed over the invitation, "They'll think you've died."
Regulus had hummed in agreement, before adding, "And you simply cannot let Dumbledore end the year feeling hopeful."
"Nor can you allow Lucius to finally cross your face off that weird poster he has in his study," Bartemius had chimed in.
Far from happy after receiving the invitation, Arcturus had already opened his mouth in preparation for telling Lord Crouch's unholy terror of a son to get the fuck out of his home before the words finally registered.
"I beg your pardon?" he had asked.
"I think he's hoping to cross out a photograph every time someone dies to keep track of how many people stand between him and the Black title," Bartemius had said thoughtfully, leaving many more questions unanswered.
"The man's fucking lost it," Sirius had muttered, after a very long pause.
Arcturus had, loathe as he was to admit it, slid down the chair with his head in his hands and groaned in lieu of a verbal response.
The worst part of the Ministry Ball was always the Minister's speech. Every year. Without fail. Regardless of who the Minister was.
Cornelius Fudge was a spineless coward, who had only crawled his way into the position because of this very fact. He had Albus Dumbledore whispering in one ear, and Lucius Malfoy whispering in the other.
Not only was this evident by both his speech and the fact that he had been flanked by both men as he delivered it, but it was evident in his very attire. The conservative cut of his robes was clearly to pander towards Lucius, but the unfortunate lime green colour of said robes was most definitely to please Dumbledore. The matching bowler hat was an incredibly unfortunate addition to the whole ensemble.
Arcturus had spent the entirety of the speech looking up at the ceiling, wondering if this was really a better alternative to having to sue the Daily Prophet in the morning for publishing a speculative article on whether or not he had finally succumbed to the family madness. This, of course, was not helped by Sirius having to cover up a semi-hysterical laugh with a cough every single time he looked in the Minister's direction, or by the fact that Regulus was almost hyperventilating with the effort it took to keep a straight face. Bartemius, on Sirius' other side, had abandoned all attempts at decorum and had openly clamped a hand over his mouth in horror.
The moment the half-hearted applause was over and the Minister had left the stage, the three of them had began to howl with laughter. Though his own lips were twitching, he sent the trio outside to compose themselves lest they bring shame on the Sacred Twenty Eight.
Honestly.
At least Lucius would be too busy keeping Fudge on a tight leash tonight to bother him, Arcturus mused.
He savoured the thought for all of a minute, until the bastard materialised in front of him.
"Good evening Arcturus," Lucius said, with an attempt at a smile, "I do hope you're enjoying the ball thus far."
"Lucius," he replied, monotonous.
"Draco was telling me about Harrison this morning, I believe they are quite close."
They were most definitely not. Harrison was cordial with the Malfoy Heir. He was close with Heir Nott and Heir Zabini.
"They are both Slytherin first years, yes," Arcturus said, rather diplomatically, as it sounded a lot better than asking the man if he had lent Fudge a spare pair of robes that had weathered a horrific potions accident for tonight’s event.
"They have much in common, I believe. Both Blacks, though not in name-"
"That would be untrue," Arcturus cut in, "As Harrison's surname is Potter-Black."
"I am sure young Harry goes by Potter in school."
"Lucius, please do refrain from giving my great-grandson overly-familiar nicknames. This is beginning to sound like a safeguarding issue."
Lucius opened his mouth, closed it again, then turned on his heel and walked off.
Arcturus had to consider this a success.
Arcturus never wanted to attend another Yule Ball again. Honestly. He would be more than happy to live the rest of his life spending Yule alone in a locked room.
For the vast majority of his life, Yule had been his favourite holiday.
But no more.
No, the 1990 Yaxley Yule Ball ruined the holiday for him forevermore.
The Malfoys were holding the 1991 Yule Ball. 22nd of December, a Sunday.
At least that's what the invitation had said before Arcturus had incinerated it.
"I'm not going," he declared, before the ashes had even reached the ground. His tone left no room for argument.
Sirius had opened his mouth to attempt it anyway, but Harrison beat him to it.
"Oh, please, grandfather? I got an invite too! So did Theo and Blaise, and I really want you to meet them!"
Arcturus looked at the boy and sighed, deeply, and that was that. He would be attending the blasted Ball. He pretended he didn't see the approving nod Bartemius gave Harrison, nor did he acknowledge the boy's grin in return.
The only saving grace was that Sirius had confirmed that the entire ball was planned by Narcissa. If he must suffer, at least he is suffering in a beautiful ballroom with the finest french cuisine.
Lucius did not ambush him this time, no.
He approached Arcturus at a leisurely pace, knowing that Pureblood propriety would prevent Arcturus from ignoring the Ball's host.
"Lucius," Arcturus greeted, with a positively minuscule incline of his head this time, "Narcissa has outdone herself."
"Yes, it is breathtaking, isn't it? The ice sculptures were imported from Paris, I believe they each took a month to carve."
"Her taste has always been impeccable."
"Truly. Say, speaking of impeccable taste, I must ask if Sirius is considering a betrothal contract for Harrison?"
Of all things Lucius could possibly have said, that was not something Arcturus had expected.
"Is your son even a homosexual?" he blurted, completely thrown off.
"Does it matter? Duty is duty," Lucius replied, looking baffled that Arcturus would even ask.
Arcturus inhaled, slowly.
Obviously, he had temporarily lost control of his mental faculties when he gave the lunatic before him his blessing to marry Narcissa. Or, maybe, Arcturus had been counting on Narcissa to stay true to her Black roots and murder him. He would have turned a blind eye to it, even helped her cover it up if she needed assistance. Arcturus was well aware that Sirius had cast the curse that drove Walburga so deep into madness that she took her own life, and that Regulus had poisoned Orion. They knew that he knew, but he had never said a word. They had deserved it, and so did the man in front of him.
Abraxas Malfoy had been Orion's closest friend, potentially even more than that, and it was somewhat bizarre to see that the man's son had inherited all of his ego and absolutely none of his tact.
Or his sense, by the looks of it.
"Ten seconds, Lucius."
"Pardon?"
"That is how long you have to make yourself scarce before I burn your ballroom down with Fiendfyre."
"I did not mean to offend, Arcturus-"
"Six."
Lucius wisely chose to flee.
The Blacks were hosting the annual New Year's eve Ball, as was tradition, and Arcturus refused to let Lucius fucking Malfoy ruin it for him.
As Sirius and Regulus added the final touches to the Castle's ballroom, under the militant guidance of their great-aunt Cassiopeia, Arcturus made his way into Sirius' study.
"Accio Lucius' Malfoy's invitation," he muttered, catching the charmed letter that flew out from one of Sirius' cabinets.
It was a clever bit of magic that Sirius had used for the invitations - the Castle's wards already stripped away glamour spells and potions, and attendees for tonight's Ball could only enter the wards if the original copy of their invitation lay within the property. Plus ones had to have been confirmed weeks ago, and Narcissa had not needed a plus one as her husband and son were already invited.
As Arcturus vanished the ashes of what was Lucius' key to enter Black Castle, he felt peace for the first time since November ended.
It would indeed be a Happy New Year.
Just not for Lucius.