Chapter Text
The healer, Marius Underhill, casts a finite in total silence, and Arcturus Black tugs on his robes, even though they’re still pristine. When Underhill doesn’t say anything, Arcturus snaps impatiently, “Spit it out, man. I don’t have all day.”
“It’s something called Merriman’s disease,” Underhill says reluctantly. “It’s degenerative, and there’s no cure.”
Arcturus appreciates the fact that once Underhill delivers the news, he doesn’t sugarcoat it, and Arcturus isn’t surprised. The tremor in his wand-hand, which started a year ago, has been getting worse. It’s bad enough that he’s considered giving up his seat on the Wizengamot, but he’d wanted to be seen by a healer first.
Underhill had been willing to come to Black Manor, and his oaths as a healer will keep the information private. Underhill came through the floo, from his own private residence, so there will be no reason for gossip.
“How long do I have?” he asks evenly.
Underhill noticeably hesitates. “I can only give you an estimate,” he finally says.
Arcturus refrains from rolling his eyes, but only just. “Yes, I am aware that you’re not the arbiter of Fate, Healer Underhill.”
Underhill flushes. “Perhaps as few as ten years or as long as twenty. It is terminal, but it’s a slow process, my lord.”
Arcturus nods. “How long before it becomes impossible to hide?”
“That’s harder to say, but maybe a few more years, depending on the progression,” Underhill replies. He’s a fairly young man, and has only been out of his training for a few years, but Arcturus had heard good things about him, and his quick diagnosis has confirmed the reports.
Arcturus takes a deep breath, looking around his study. It’s comfortable, richly appointed with tapestries, bookshelves, and leather-bound furniture. There’s a fire roaring, because it’s early fall, and Arcturus has been more bothered by the cold recently. “Thank you for your services today, Healer Underhill. I hope that you might be available in the future, should I need you.”
“Of course, Lord Black,” Underhill replies, his dark eyebrows pulling into a frown. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news.”
“I didn’t need better news, I needed the truth,” Arcturus replies. “And I thank you for it.”
Underhill glances away. “I just hate giving this sort of news to my patients.”
“I’m sure,” Arcturus replies. He hands over a small bag with the galleons he had promised as payment, and Underhill tucks it away.
“I will be in touch with possible ameliorative treatments,” Underhill says. “It’s a fairly rare disorder, so I’ll need to research, but I will get back to you within the week.”
Arcturus says, “Thank you,” and then sees him back to the floo, before collapsing back into his wing chair.
His house elf, Cordy, pops into the room immediately. “Can I get Lord Black anything?”
“A fire whiskey, please, Cordy,” he says wearily. “And a light supper, please.”
“I makes your favorite,” Cordy promises and pops away. The glass of fire whiskey appears next to his elbow, on the table between the two leather-bound chairs in front of the fireplace.
Arcturus takes a slow sip and ponders his future. He is not a young man anymore. He’s outlived his wife at this point, and there’s only one path forward to ensure that the Ancient and Noble House of Black continues.
He has no real faith in divination, but there are some creatures that are more attuned to Fate than others—the centaurs, of course, but also the goblins. He has the money, and he could seek answers from them. He would like to know if his interference is required in order to set the House of Black on the right path, or if his continued non-involvement would be the better route.
And really, what does he have to lose? He already knows his own fate; whether it’s five years or even twenty, his time is limited, and his job is simple—to ensure his legacy.
~~~~~
Arcturus knows what will sway a goblin, and that’s gold—and respect. He shows the goblin to his study himself, serves the tea—goblin-preferred—himself, and nudges the plate of tea sandwiches towards him. Rockhand is the go-between that he’s been referred to, the one who could take his request to the seers of the goblin horde, and who will bring their answer back to Arcturus.
He has spent the last few months investigating every avenue. No human seer had an answer for him, the centaurs ignored every overture, and the Mermish response didn’t bear repeating in polite company. The goblins had at least listened to his request, and eventually named a price, which he had paid.
And now, here he is.
Rockhand takes a sip of his tea. “You realize that the horde does not usually make deals with humans to provide information from our seers.”
“I do realize that,” Arcturus replies evenly. “I appreciate the fact that you’re even entertaining the request.”
“Good tea,” Rockhand says. “I consulted with our seers, and they have informed me that should you not take appropriate action, the Black line will end, and the magical world will be decimated, including the horde. Therefore, we thought it in our own best interests to provide you with this information.”
“After I’d paid for the privilege, of course,” Arcturus replies, reluctantly amused.
Rockhand’s teeth are sharp behind his smile. “Would you deny us a profit when you have what you asked for?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Arcturus says. “But you still haven’t told me what I need to do.”
Rockhand looks rather put out. “I would think that would be obvious, Lord Black. You have to save your heir, as well as his brother if you want to ensure the Black line continues and prevent the worst from happening.”
Arcturus grimaces. “I suppose you mean that I should get involved.”
“If you don’t, both of them will die,” Rockhand says bluntly.
Beyond naming Sirius his heir, Arcturus had largely been absent from his life and Regulus’, particularly after his wife died. She would have been terribly disappointed in him, he knows, but he’d left them to their parents to raise.
But he believes Rockhand. Goblin seers are notoriously accurate, even if they rarely share that knowledge.
“I see,” Arcturus says. “Then I suppose I know what I have to do.”