Arcturus had heard stories about Azkaban. Terrible, brutal stories. Yet he'd never had any reason to be personally fearful of the place. People like him didn't end up there. The worst thing that would happen to Arcturus if he were caught at muggle-baiting or using dark magic was that he'd be taken back home by the Aurors and his family would be told to deal with him. They were a trustworthy family. It was more than enough to make him cautious, but angering or upsetting his relatives was nothing compared to the terrors of Azkaban. Older wizards had other ways out of things. Favours called in, galleons exchanging hands. Even at his age, he knew how things worked.
That was why, when Mr Volkov finally did explain the nature of his illness, Arcturus' eyes widened, and he stared in pure shock, unable to conceal his reaction. Azkaban was for criminals. Not people who worked as he had done, for the good of their society and to preserve tradition. The thought of the frail, ill man beside him chained up in a cell, or being forced to carry out demeaning, exhausting muggle labour without the help of his magic was just too much for Arcturus. It was perhaps the worst injustice he had ever come across. And that was without considering the utter horror that was the Dementors.
Then the obvious struck him - that frail, ill Mr Volkov certainly hadn't been that way when he entered the prison, and didn't that make it so much worse? He couldn't speak. There were no words for this. How could everything have fallen apart so dramatically in the twentieth century, enough that cousin Cassiopeia would rather be here than there, enough that this could happen?
Arcturus blinked, hard, and willed himself to focus. 'Why didn't they help you?' he questioned, his voice barely above a whisper. 'Your family. Or your friends. Or any decent pureblood house. Why didn't they keep you out of that dreadful place?' That was the important question. Not what he had done to be sent there, or why, but how it had been allowed to happen at all.