Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 376 Blake's Grave

Volbuga's body stiffened.

Of course she remembered how Regulus had brushed her off at the dinner table before the Christmas dinner, and what happened after he said "let's talk it over."

She knew that Regulus's closeness wasn't entirely genuine, or at least not entirely genuine as she thought.

She wasn't stupid; that scene at the Christmas dinner showed her so many things she had never seen before.

Her youngest son was colder, more profound, more powerful, and more unfamiliar than she had imagined.

She was still looking at her son, but she was no longer sure what she was looking at.

After that, she thought about it for a long time, thinking about it at night while sleeping, thinking about it while eating during the day, and thinking about it even more when she was alone.

Once she understood some things, regardless of what kind of person Regulus was, he was her son, and she was his mother.

This fact cannot be compared to any glory, nor can it be overshadowed by any unfamiliarity.

There were some things she hadn't figured out, and she didn't know how to face her son.

The old model no longer works, and a new model hasn't been found yet. It seems that all she can do is be a mother.

But she was still thinking about what exactly a mother was.

So when Regulus wrapped his arms around her, she froze. She wasn't sure if this hug was real or just another one, but the force of the hug was real, his arms were tight, unlike before when he would just wrap his arms around her briefly and then let go.

Then she realized she didn't care anymore. Really? Who cares?

Walbuga reached out and hugged him, hugging him tighter than he did, his fingers gripping the robe on Walbuga's back tightly.

She was trembling, very lightly, you wouldn't feel it if you weren't right next to her.

Even in front of her son, the lady of the Black family never fully exposed her vulnerability.

But the body is more honest than the will; she could control her expression, but not the slight trembling of her muscles.

She lost her father.

Regardless of the nature of her relationship with Borcoux—whether it was distant, polite, or they were both busy with their own things—he was, after all, her father.

The white-haired old woman sitting at a distance in the family gathering, holding a wine glass, a figure who had been a constant presence since the day she was born, is no longer there.

Neither the mother nor the son spoke. The corridor was quiet, and the winter sun shone through the window, casting their shadows on the floor, overlapping each other.

Walbuga held on for a while, then slowly loosened his grip and took a half step back.

She bent down to straighten her gloves, and when she looked up, her expression had returned to normal—composed, dignified, and befitting the lady of the Black family.

She shifted her gaze from Regulus to the stairwell.

Sirius stood there, dressed in his new black robe, motionless, hands in his pockets, looking in their direction, his face expressionless.

Volbuga glanced at him, his expression neither good nor bad; it was just a quick glance to confirm his presence and that he was wearing the proper robes.

Sirius also looked away, saying nothing, and he was happy with it.

Orion emerged from his study, dressed in a black robe with the family crest pinned to his left breast. He stood at the end of the corridor, glanced at his two sons, then at Walbuga, and nodded.

"Walk."

Upon reaching the porch, Orion pulled a slip of paper from the inner pocket of his robe and handed it to Regulus.

Regulus took it and glanced down at it.

The handwriting on the note was her father's; it contained only one line and one address.

The moment he saw the words, a picture automatically popped into his mind.

Nestled among the hills, ancient yew trees cast a shadow, and tombstones stand neatly arranged in the dim light.

The image was so clear that he could feel the texture of the ground and the temperature of the air.

The note was enchanted, transmitting complete spatial coordinates and sufficiently precise visual information, giving the phantom teleportation an anchor point.

He handed the note to Sirius.

Sirius took it, looked down at it, paused for a moment, and a picture flashed into his mind.

He blinked twice, adjusting to the sudden appearance of a new memory, and then returned the note to Regulus.

His expression was somewhat complicated, probably implying that the Blake family was keeping their address so secret, but he didn't say it aloud.

Regulus took it, rubbed his fingers together, and the paper turned to ashes, which were scattered by the wind at the door.

A family of four stood on the porch steps. Snap, snap, snap, snap—the porch was empty.

Kreacher peeked out from behind the door, looked at the empty steps, and closed the door.

The moment it landed, even the air seemed to change.

The air in London is a mixture of coal smoke and damp haze, sticky and clinging to the skin.

The air here is much cleaner, cold, and damp, with a smell of earth and old tree roots, and a layer of something from deep underground that you can't quite put your finger on, but you can smell it.

Four people were standing on a gentle slope.

Regulus looked up and glanced around.

The low hills stretch endlessly, the grass is yellowish, and in February in England, it is not yet time for the grass to turn green again. The withered grass extends from the slopes all the way to the horizon.

He spread out his magical senses and instantly felt several layers of protective spells stacked together.

The Muggle-Expelling Curse is the outermost layer, causing Muggles to suddenly remember they have unfinished business at home or think the place looks like a worthless wasteland, and then turn around and leave.

Further inside is the Unmarkable Charm, which causes any attempt to mark this location on a map to automatically shift and end up in a different place on the paper.

There is also an anti-sensory spell that interferes with the instinctive perception of magical creatures.

Owls flying over here will suddenly lose their sense of direction and take a wide detour to avoid it, while sniffers passing by will think there's nothing of value underground.

Deep inside is an even older anti-prophecy curse; if anyone tries to peer into this cemetery through prophecy or divination, all they will see is a blurry hill and a field of yew trees.

Over hundreds of years, layer upon layer, old spells were covered by new ones, and new ones were reinforced by even newer ones. From the very first generation, when Blake chose this place as his burial site, each generation has added things to it.

The Black family cemetery, when mentioned by family members, is simply referred to as "the old place."

It's a name passed down within the family for hundreds of years; everyone in the Blake family knows where it is, but no one outside of the Blake family knows it.

The cemetery is located in a low hilly area in southern England, roughly in the area where Wiltshire and Somerset meet.

The direction of the hills, the type of grassland vegetation, and the humidity and temperature of the air can roughly define a range.

It is surrounded on all sides by ancient yew trees, whose trunks are so thick that it takes two or three people to hug them. The bark is dark brown, wrinkled and cracked, and covered with moss.

The tree canopy closed up overhead, its branches and leaves intertwined, blocking out most of the sunlight, leaving only a few rays that pierced through the gaps and fell on the ground, casting narrow, elongated patches of light, creating an alternating pattern of light and shadow.

The higher you go in the cemetery, the dimmer the light becomes.

tombstone.

There are many tombstones.

Arranged neatly from the highest point of the hill downwards, row upon row, extending down the slope.

The top rows are the oldest.

The stone has been eroded by hundreds of years of rain and moss, making it indistinct. Some of the original names are no longer legible, leaving only the outline of the stone and the varying depths of the surface dents.

The Black family crest has been weathered into a blurry pattern, with the shape of Sirius still vaguely discernible.

The middle rows are from the 17th and 18th centuries. They are better preserved, the stone is harder, the inscriptions are deeper, and the names and years are still legible.

Each tombstone bears the Black family crest, the size and style of which have varied slightly over time, but the core elements have remained the same: a shield-shaped base, two stars side by side, and Sirius below.

Only one seat was available in the bottom row, for Borcoux.

The earth has been dug, and the rectangular grave lies on the withered grass, revealing a section of dark soil, awaiting a new inhabitant.

Regulus stood in the graveyard, his magical senses spreading out once more, probing into the ground.

He frowned.

Underground, inside those coffins, something is radiating magic.

The remains inside, the burial objects buried with the remains, the runes carved on the coffin itself, and the remnants of black magic that have seeped into the soil over the centuries.

Some have been buried for hundreds of years, and their remains may have turned to dust, but the magic still remains.

Heavy, dark, and imbued with an aura of corruption and curse.

Some were wrapped around the remains of the coffin like shrouds, some had seeped into the soil and become entangled with tree roots, and some were still lingering deep inside the coffin.

Not all coffins have them; some are completely silent, and the people inside have passed away peacefully.

But some were exceptionally strong; the odor from one coffin was almost shocking.

It has been buried for less than two hundred years. The remains inside, whose deeds in life are unknown, continue to emit the lingering aura of curses even after death, and the ominous aura is almost solidified.

As his senses swept over, his mental defenses automatically trembled, his protective will responding to some kind of hostility.

Regulus withdrew his senses and stopped looking, not wanting to disturb his ancestors.

The Black family, a pure-blood family for hundreds of years, has had members who studied dark magic for dozens of generations, and each generation has had members who took things that shouldn't have been left behind to their graves.

It might be a black magic item that he used in his lifetime, or a cursed creation that was half-finished during his research, or it might just be a magic wand.

Perhaps their bodies had been corrupted by dark magic, and the residual magic continued to emanate an ominous aura after their deaths.

Actually, it makes sense when you think about it. Going back a few hundred years, there was no such thing as black magic and white magic back then.

The Ministry of Magic was not officially established until 1692. Before that, the rules of wizarding society were far less detailed than they are now.

The magic that medieval wizards used depended on what was effective, what was powerful, and what could protect their family's territory and bloodline.

What's black or white? Whatever wins is good. If something is good, keep using it. If it survives, pass it on.

Back then, there was only the question of whether or not it was possible, not whether or not it was right or wrong. Strength was the only foundation for survival, and whatever was powerful was used.

Curses, corruption, control of dark creatures, and profound transformation of the soul—the ability to use them, and to use them well, is true skill.

As for harming the soul, falling into depravity, or going mad, that's simply a matter of insufficient ability.

If you have enough skills, you can handle anything; if you don't, you'll suffer the consequences.

Looking back now, this idea might not be right.

But that was a legacy from an era without organization or rules, and the Black family has never lagged behind in accumulating such legacies.

In fact, it's not just the Black family; most well-established pure-blood families are like this.

The Black family is thoroughly black, and other families aren't much better; pure-blood families are like that, at least most of them.

Even though they died, the magic they left behind did not.

Regulus understood.

This cemetery itself is a huge remnant of dark magic, accumulated over hundreds and nearly thousands of years, layer upon layer, wrapped underground by soil and yew roots, quietly rotting.

The yew was probably chosen on purpose, as this tree has a property that is not often mentioned in magical botany.

It can absorb and suppress dark magic. Its roots are deep enough and its canopy is dense enough that over hundreds of years, it has firmly held down what lies underground.

He glanced at Sirius Black beside him.

Sirius Black had his hands in his pockets, his expression blank, his gaze fixed on a tombstone. He wasn't looking at anything; he was just staring blankly.

They might be thinking about something, or they might not be thinking about anything at all.

His magical perception wasn't that sharp, so he probably didn't sense anything from those things underground.

To him, this place was a gloomy graveyard, with a group of people in black robes standing there, creating a depressing atmosphere. He wanted to leave.

Regulus looked away.

People started arriving one after another.

The sound of Apparition came from outside the yew wall, muffled, its echo mostly blocked by the canopy and the anti-magic spell.

The Blakes walked in through the gaps between the yew trees, their black robes making their faces difficult to discern in the dim light; only their outlines were visible, almost blending into the shadows of the trees.

Segnas III and Druella walked side by side.

Segnus and Volbuga are siblings, both children of Boroks.

Just like Regulus remembered, tall, thin, with a serious face, he looked exactly like Boroks.

His expression was a bit more somber than Walbuga's, but it was just somber; it wasn't exactly one of grief.

He walked to the tomb, glanced at the dug pit, paused for a moment, then looked away, walked to Orion and Volbuga, and whispered something.

Druella stood half a step behind him, her face veiled in a dark mask, obscuring her expression. Her gloves were pulled up above her elbows, and she maintained a proper posture.

Arcturus III also arrived, and the crowd automatically made way for him.

He is Orion's father and the most senior living member of the Black family.

He wasn't tall, but he stood very straight. He was almost eighty years old, with white hair, a thin face, and wrinkles that looked like they were carved by a knife.

His robe was the oldest style, pure black, without silver thread or dark patterns, simple to the extreme. He held a black cane in his hand, topped with a silver Sirius star that shone slightly in the dim light.

He walked up to the tomb and stared at the spot for a long time.

Borlocks was his contemporary; the two occupied different branches on the Black family tree, but were rooted in the same system.

Together they experienced the Grindelwald era, World War II, the reform of the Ministry of Magic, and the rise of Voldemort.

One is still here, and the other is gone.