Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 383 Civilization and Barbarism

Kreacher was already waiting at the door and simply opened it.

Regulus also went over.

Lucius stood on the steps, wearing a black robe made of fine material, suitable for walking, inlaid with gold thread. Up close, it appeared intricate, but from a distance, it resembled the outline of a peacock, slightly ostentatious.

But since we're going to meet the werewolves later, representing the Malfoy family and Voldemort, it's reasonable to put effort into our attire rather than making a grand entrance.

He lightly tapped the threshold with the snake-headed cane in his hand.

He stood up straight, nodded, and smiled slightly: "Good morning, Regulus."

Good morning, Lucius.

Regulus stepped aside and led him into the porch.

Lucius was a respectable man; since he was already there, he had to at least greet Orion.

Regulus led him into the reception room.

Orion sat in the main sofa, holding the Daily Prophet, with a half-finished cup of tea on the small round table in front of him.

Seeing Lucius enter, he looked up and said, "Lucius."

Lucius was very polite, bowing slightly: "Mr. Black."

Orion nodded, said nothing more, and looked back at the newspaper.

Lucius stood there for a moment, and seeing that Orion didn't seem to have any intention of explaining anything, he glanced at Regulus.

Regulus spoke up: "Father, let's set off."

Orion hummed in agreement, but said nothing more.

Lucius bowed to Orion again, then followed Regulus out of the drawing room.

The two men exited the main gate of number 12 Grimmauld Place and stood on the steps of the portico.

The iron gate was covered in morning dew, and there were hardly any people on the street.

Before setting off, Lucius gave a brief explanation of the situation.

"In the north of Yorkshire, in an abandoned mining village in a valley surrounded by hills, Greyback and his thirty or forty werewolves have been entrenched there for more than half a year."

Lucius took a small pouch from the inner pocket of his robe. It was about the size of a palm, made of dark brown leather, and sealed with silver thread.

He weighed it in his hand: "Supplies, everything is prepared, food, daily necessities, and even a magic potion to alleviate the pain of transformation, it's all inside."

"They know someone's coming today," Lucius said, putting the small bag back into his inner pocket. "We'll see how they react when we get there."

After saying this, he didn't waste any more words. He gave Regulus a look, and Regulus nodded.

Lucius raised his hand and put it on his shoulder.

Snapped.

The porch is empty.

The landing point was a wasteland; it didn't teleport directly into the camp.

"Walk in," Lucius released his grip, straightened his robe, and a hint of undisguised disgust flashed across his face. "Give both sides some breathing room."

He gestured with his chin toward the valley: "Werewolves are savage and unruly. If you teleport directly into their den, it's like stepping on their tail; they'll attack you first."

Regulus nodded; it was just a few steps, he didn't care.

However, Lucius's arrangement is interesting; this is how a normal wizard would treat werewolves.

.

On the one hand, they despise and look down on them, thinking they are barbaric, dirty, and untouchable.

On the one hand, we maintain sufficient caution to avoid giving the other party an opportunity to make a misjudgment.

It's true that I look down on it, and it's also true that I'm afraid of it.

Lucius's approach was quite methodical; despite his disdain, he followed all the necessary procedures without skipping a single step, avoiding physical confrontation whenever possible.

Voldemort's camp usually deals with these werewolves in this way: they keep them around and use them, but never get close to them, and every time they come into contact with them, they have to endure the disgust.

Werewolves are not wizards and do not follow the rules of wizards. If you want them to listen to you, you can't let them feel that you are looking down on them. Even if you do look down on them, you can't make it too obvious.

The environment is much more desolate than to the south. In February, northern Yorkshire is much colder than London.

The photinia grass was withered and yellow, covering the ground and rustling underfoot. The hills were bare, without trees, and even the shrubs were sparse.

The wind rushed in from the valley entrance, howling and blowing the hem of my robe up to my legs.

The soil underfoot was dry and hard, with no elasticity when stepped on.

The two walked into the valley, and the further they went, the more desolate the surrounding scenery became.

The photinia grass turned from withered yellow to grayish brown, and in some places the turf was turned upside down, revealing the gravel and dried mud underneath.

Several low shrubs in the distance were broken, the cuts looking like they had been ripped apart.

Further in, there were scattered bones on the ground, gnawed clean, lying in the grass, of varying sizes, and it was impossible to tell what they were.

The air also began to smell unpleasant, with a very faint fishy odor that was dispersed by the wind and then gathered back, becoming stronger the further in you went.

Regulus spread out his magical perception.

In the valley ahead, the magical energy fluctuations of dozens of life forms were scattered throughout.

The texture is very rough, completely different from the Wizard's.

No matter how violent a wizard's magic may be, it is still orderly and governed by consciousness. It is like something woven together, with patterns of incantations and marks left by will.

These are not.

Each of these magical forces is instinctively restless, without direction or restraint.

Naked, unprocessed, primitive, inhuman, bloody, and with a chill under the moonlight.

He sorted them more carefully and could roughly distinguish between two types.

There was chaos, and the magic was still unstable.

Within the magic, two forces are fighting, one human and one beast, tearing at each other, neither able to subdue the other.

This is the most uncomfortable; the magical fluctuations are twisted, painful, and agonizing, feeling like a jumble of constantly jumping, chaotic signals in the senses.

This one was recently transformed and hasn't accepted its fate yet; it's still resisting the idea of ​​becoming a werewolf.

Another kind of smooth sailing has already stabilized.

The beastly force has gained the upper hand, while the human force has shrunk back, stopped making a fuss, or rather, been assimilated.

Humanity and animality no longer clashed, but began to merge, their boundaries blurred, creating a strange harmony in perception.

This is something that has been transformed over a long time. I have long accepted it, no longer resist it, and have even become fascinated by what that animalistic instinct brings.

Neither of these two ways leads to a life that's truly human, but the one that goes smoothly at least doesn't cause you any inner conflict.

After walking about a hundred meters forward, people appeared on both sides to keep watch.

There was one behind the bushes on the left hill, and another further away on the right. They didn't get close, but followed each other from a distance.

Their gazes were unfriendly, scrutinizing their prey and following their every step.

Regulus remained completely unmoved.

Its magical power is even weaker than that of an average fifth-year student at Hogwarts; it's so weak that it can be ignored.

Lucius walked beside him, carrying his cane.

Regulus caught a glimpse of him adjusting his posture.

In Grimmauld Place, in his presence, Lucius was reserved, relaxed, and even somewhat approachable, deliberately suppressing his Malfoy-like reserve.

Now all those things have come back, and even more than usual.

His chin was slightly raised, his shoulders were held high, and he leaned on his cane, each step carrying a sense of superiority.

This was the attitude he wanted in front of the werewolves; he wanted these guys to know from the first glance who was superior and who was inferior.

His steps were still unhurried, as elegant as walking on a red carpet, but Regulus could sense that Lucius's magic was in an active, activated state, ready to cast a spell at any moment.

He was alert, vigilant, and prepared to deal with a sudden attack.

Regulus saw this but said nothing.

The two walked silently into the valley along the narrow path, whose shape was no longer discernible.

Werewolves started following behind, trailing behind in twos and threes.

Reaching the mouth of a valley, the terrain narrowed as it was flanked by stone walls, and there were more bones on the ground, with an even stronger stench.

Three figures stood in the middle of the road, dressed in tattered clothes, with scars on their faces, and their eyes were unfriendly but not hostile; they were just waiting.

Regulus sized him up.

This is a mature werewolf who has long accepted his identity; the magic no longer tears him apart, but has become one with him.

Besides the werewolf's unique moonlight chill and bloodthirsty restlessness, there was also an overwhelming, pungent smell of blood—the traces of battle, the smell of countless killings, a smell that had become ingrained.

The screams of the prey and the blood splattered on the fur seeped into the magic, becoming the underlying color.

Lucius took a silver badge from the inner pocket of his robe and handed it over.

It bears Voldemort's mark, with a snake emerging from the skull's mouth, emitting a ghostly green glow.

The first one took it, glanced at it, then looked at Lucius, and then turned his gaze to Regulus, staring at him intently.

A wizard boy with gray eyes, short stature, dim magic, and a gaunt appearance. He had no identification and no markings indicating that he was on Voldemort's side.

Regulus met his gaze, his expression unchanged.

He came along to keep things under control, without giving any prior notice.

Lucius held his cane horizontally and rather rudely pushed the first one aside.

His tone was cold and reserved, as if the werewolf before him were a house-elf: "Get out of the way."

The leader bared his teeth, letting out a low growl. He didn't move his feet, but thrust his body forward, his eyes fixed on Lucius.

Lucius raised his cane, the tip pointing directly at the werewolf's chest, very close.

"The Malfoys are here to see Fenrir Greyback. Are you blocking their way to intercept their message?"

The man let out another low growl, his eyes full of malice, and looked Lucius and Regulus up and down, but he still stepped back, and the two beside him also made way.

Lucius withdrew his cane and gave Regulus a graceful nod.

As Lucius passed the three werewolves, he didn't look at them, but Regulus glanced at Lucius.

The two entered the valley.

Beyond the valley entrance lies an abandoned mining village.

There were twenty or thirty stone houses scattered in the valley. Most of the roofs had collapsed, and the stone walls were covered with dead moss, which had shriveled into a brownish-gray hard shell. Wild grass clung to the corners of the walls, dry and yellow.

Some windows were missing their frames, starkly open to the outside.

In the middle of the village, there was an open space where the remnants of a campfire still lingered. A circle of charred stones surrounded a pile of ashes, and nearby were a jumble of things: wood, rags, and other remains whose original purpose was unrecognizable.

The ground was hard, but it felt sticky when you stepped on it, like something had been soaked in for a long time and left in the soil.

You can't tell they're poor. Being poor is one thing, but at least the poor still manage to keep their appearance tidy.

This is truly wild.

A bunch of people who didn't care where they lived just got together and settled down wherever they could find shelter from the wind.

The smell in the air reaches its peak here.

The stench was a mixture of fishy and foul smells, the odor of feces was everywhere, in the corners of walls, by the stones, like wild animals marking their territory.

There were other smells too: rot, dampness, fur, secretions—a mixture of odors that filled the nose.

Werewolves were scattered everywhere, squatting in the ruins, sitting on broken walls, and pacing back and forth in the open spaces.

Most of them were dressed in tattered clothes, had sallow complexions, and had scars of varying depths on their bodies.

Some scars have healed and turned into white marks, while others look fresh, with tender red flesh and scabs.

Their eyes swept over the people who had come in.

Regulus spread his senses out again.

The magic of dozens of life forms is mixed together, each carrying that duality.

In human form, the animalistic element also seeps into the magic, in varying proportions. In some cases, the human element is dominant. The magic patterns retain traces of a wizard's weaving, indicating that the person has been educated, used a wand, and knows the structure of spells.

Some of their bestiality almost overshadowed their humanity; their magic was raw and unrefined, devoid of any wizarding artifice, leaving only instinct and impulse.

He examined those expressions closely.

Some people have wooden, empty eyes; they don't look at others as if they were people, and they don't even look at themselves as if they were people.

There was one, crouching behind the broken wall, not very old, in his early twenties, maybe thirty, looking towards Regulus, and something else flashed in his eyes.

It was as if she wanted to ask for help, or as if she recognized him, but she quickly withdrew and lowered her head.

These are people who have recently undergone transformation; they are not completely dead yet, and occasionally their bestial instincts can still surface.

Those who have undergone transformation for a long time have completely different eyes—sharp, savage, and aggressive. They look at people with the same detached gaze a predator has of its prey.

This is the true face of the werewolf world, a side that no one in the magical world wants to look at closely.

Far from civilization, far from the black-and-white rules of the Ministry of Magic, far from the lights and hot tea of ​​Diagon Alley.

Here are only a group of people ostracized from the magical society and relegated to the wasteland, and another group who no longer want to return to that society.

They huddled together in an abandoned mining village, waiting for something to define their lives from now on.

Perhaps it's Voldemort's order, perhaps it's the next full moon, perhaps it's the next batch of new members to be bitten.

This group of creatures, bitten, changed, pushed out by society, eventually gathered in this kind of place, living as half-human, half-beast.

This was the first time he had ever been so close to so many werewolves.

The theories that were discussed with Dumbledore outside the Shrieking Shack now have physical evidence to compare them to.

Regulus had an idea in his mind.

With so much material in front of me, I can't go back empty-handed. It wouldn't be right not to take something with me.

But in any case, these werewolves are Voldemort's assets, and it wouldn't be right to take action directly without a reason.

But it doesn't matter, he can make them go crazy.

With those werewolves' brains, if you shine a light magic spell on them and implant something in them, not many of them can withstand it.

They'll be the ones who go crazy then, it has nothing to do with him.

He twitched his lips, then suppressed the thought.

No rush, let Lucius do his job first.

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