The instinctive response that came to Arcturus’ mind was a glib one: that there was nothing to be ashamed of because his relatives always said that it was the duty of families like theirs to assist those who both needed and deserved their help. Just in time, however, he realised that as true as it might be, it was likely to make Mr Volkov feel even worse about his unfortunate situation. Instead, then, he stood silent for a moment, considering.
‘I think,’ he began at last, ‘that very many of us are in need of assistance when first we arrive here. You aren’t alone in it. Isn’t it better that we wizards look out for one another? You oughtn’t to have to work for them.’ Arcturus didn’t explain whom he meant. The vehemence in his tone meant that he didn’t have to. Muggles. Blood traitors. ‘My cousin,’ he went on, ‘she has a proper household here. You might find some employment there, if you cared to.’ He shrugged. It wasn’t a matter he wanted to press or to insist upon, because in truth he hadn’t the faintest idea what manner of work the frail-looking wizard was capable of. Even so, he was fairly certain that he could convince Cassiopeia that it was the right thing to do, if the alternative was for another pureblood wizard to be forced to depend upon muggles.
There was, of course, the trick that his distant cousin had taught him, a means to create the little slips of muggle money from the pages of a notebook. On that matter, however, he had been sworn to secrecy.
‘It is most important that you have time to get well,’ Arcturus said then, encouragingly, and as he spoke he heard the faint clacking sound of hooves. He turned, looking over his shoulder to spy the carriage in the distance, making its way towards them.