Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 388 Hufflepuff in the Wolf's Den

Around 11 a.m., the sun finally climbed over the eastern hills and shone into this depression in the valley.

The sunlight shone on the half-collapsed stone house and the dry, yellow grass at the base of the wall, but brought little warmth.

A gust of wind blew in from the mouth of the valley, swirling up the dry soil and debris on the ground, and making the broken windows and door frames rattle.

The fishy and putrid smell in the air was stirred up, then settled down, sticking to the stone walls and muddy ground, and smearing people's faces, and it just wouldn't go away.

The commotion just now drew all the werewolves out of the dilapidated house.

They emerged from behind the collapsed door frame and broken walls, in twos and threes, not crowding this way, but standing in their own spots looking this way.

They were dressed in increasingly tattered clothes; some were wrapped in blankets whose original color was no longer discernible, while others had half their arms bare, their exposed skin covered in hideous scars, and their open mouths filled with grayish-yellow teeth.

Dozens of yellowish, cloudy eyes stared at the center of the open space from afar, and no one uttered a sound.

All the werewolves in the mining village were watching the same thing: their leader, Fenrir Greyback, stood with his tail between his legs in front of a small, black-haired cub, too afraid to move.

The young werewolf, head down, circled around from behind Graybury.

He walked very carefully, testing the ground with his toes before each step, his shoulders hunched, constantly glancing at Graybuck's shoulders and hands to see if his claws were about to be raised.

Like a vigilant animal, always ready to be hit or to dodge.

Regulus looked at him and understood what was going on.

People can't be born this timid. Maybe they've been assimilated, or maybe the environment itself will tame newcomers into this way.

A wild beast that has just joined the pack learns how to walk without getting beaten up under the leader's shadow.

The hierarchy within a werewolf pack doesn't need to be explicitly defined; it only depends on who has the sharpest teeth and the fiercest claws. The strongest stands in the middle, and the weakest sticks to the wall. There's no room for logic.

The newcomers are naturally the weakest, so they should be trampled on at the bottom and have to be mindful of others' feelings even when walking.

The hierarchy, established purely through violence, is primitive and even more straightforward and direct than that of wizarding societies.

Lucius stood to Regulus's side and slightly behind, his expression already relaxed.

Just moments ago, I was clutching my wand, ready to clean up the mess, afraid that Regulus would take action or that I would mess up the job. Now, that snake-headed cane is no longer a tense fulcrum, but has returned to being a respectable ornament.

He didn't know what Regulus was up to, or why he'd summoned a werewolf, but he knew this mission was a sure thing.

After those few moves, even if Graybury had a hundred times the courage, he wouldn't dare to cause any more trouble.

Having figured this out, he raised his chin again, and the Malfoy family's usual reserved demeanor returned, exuding nobility and elegance, even more so than when he arrived.

A werewolf that had been baring its teeth just moments before was now cowering with its tail between its legs after being intimidated by the person next to it. Standing on the winner's side, it benefited from the victory and naturally straightened its back.

Standing on this wasteland, even breathing becomes easier; it feels good.

Lucius glanced at the werewolves watching from afar, his gaze filled with undisguised disgust—a bunch of worthless beasts.

Graybury saw it and tried to stop him, suppressing a low growl in his throat.

He is the leader, his territory is his territory, his wolves are his territory. Any werewolf who tries to leave without his permission should be slapped back with a claw.

Its upper body was already leaning out, its arms were raised, and its claws were making a half-circle in the air.

Then the growl stopped halfway, the arm froze in mid-air, the entire arm slowly lowered, and the claws drooped back to the sides.

It came to an abrupt stop.

This time, it wasn't his body that made the decisions; it was his mind.

The habitual action had barely begun when it was firmly suppressed by reason, along with the low growl in his throat.

The deadly aura from before had long since dissipated, and nothing was threatening him anymore, but he still dared not move.

Without a clear permission from the little brat in front of him, he didn't dare to extend a single finger forward.

They could only watch helplessly as this little cub called over a wolf that was on their territory with a mere tilt of its head; they couldn't stop it, nor did they dare to.

The leader, the territory, the rule—these things usually sustained him, making him feel like the king of this low-lying area.

But in the face of true power, authority is incredibly fragile.

All that's left is the cleanest bit of a wild beast's body. Whoever is stronger, you listen to them; if you can't afford to mess with them, you lie down.

He's lying down right now, unable to even keep an eye on his own wolf.

The two henchmen behind Graybury exchanged a glance.

He was tall and thin, with sunken cheeks and three old claw marks across his face, running diagonally from his forehead to his chin. A small piece of his nose was missing.

The other one was short and stocky, with a neck so thick it was almost nonexistent, shoulders so broad they made the tattered leather vest bulge, and the hair on its arms was so thick it looked like a wild animal hadn't shed its fur yet.

Neither of them could understand what had just happened; their leader was perfectly fine, so why was he suddenly so listless?

But those chosen by Graybury to be his henchmen, besides being brutal and ruthless, were at least somewhat intelligent.

They didn't understand it, but they did understand one thing: their leader was stunned by the two wizards opposite them.

Whether it's the big one or the small one, I can't afford to mess with them.

They stood there quietly, just like Graybuck, not daring to utter a sound or move.

The young werewolf is coming.

Regulus glanced up and casually swept his gaze over, his senses following suit.

This werewolf's magic is different from Greyback's, and also different from those mature werewolves.

The human and the beast were still entangled, twisting and tearing at each other, neither able to hold the other down.

He was the one who struggled the most fiercely among the group of werewolves who had recently been transformed when he entered the village.

In other words, the person inside is still awake, still fighting against the beast, and hasn't left the scene yet.

The bite won't last long.

Judging from his appearance, he's in his twenties or thirties, and his face shows signs of fatigue.

There were wrinkles around his eyes and forehead, and his skin was so rough it looked like it had been sanded. There was a scratch on his cheekbone that hadn't healed yet, covered with a brownish scab.

His temples were gray, and the lines around his mouth were deep and heavy.

But looking inside, they are actually very young. Their magic has the quality of youth, and they are still active, but they are trapped inside by that werewolf syndrome and can't get out.

He was young, but this place aged him.

It was dressed a little more decently than the other werewolves, just as tattered, but you could tell it was originally a proper robe, not some rag torn off a dead person.

Its nails were cleaned, unlike other werewolves whose claws were covered in black mud.

The fact that such customs are still preserved in this place shows that their origins are different from others.

Although no one cares about this little bit of dignity in this wasteland.

The young werewolf stopped a few steps away from Regulus, not daring to get any closer. He lowered his head, glanced at Regulus once, and then quickly lowered his eyes again.

Regulus realized that the werewolf seemed to actually know him.

His face remained expressionless as he asked directly, "Do you know me?"

The volume was normal, but the sound didn't travel far. Graybury was four or five meters away and couldn't hear what was being said; he could only see the man's mouth opening and closing.

Lucius narrowed his eyes, his gaze shifting back and forth between the werewolf and Regulus, his brow furrowing slightly before relaxing.

The young werewolf was stunned. A hint of surprise flashed in his yellow eyes. He hadn't expected that he would be recognized just because he had glanced at him once.

He opened his mouth, but didn't say anything. Finally, he nodded in silence.

Regulus's mind raced.

He wasn't very old, but he looked like he used to be a proper wizard.

There are only two possibilities for getting to know him.

One possibility is that he had recently graduated and had seen him at Hogwarts.

He wasn't exactly low-key at school; needless to say, he was well-known throughout the entire school, especially in Slytherin.

Another type is those who come from families connected to the purebred circle, and whose names are known or whom they have seen from afar.

Every pure-blood family with any ability knows Regulus Black.

He had originally thought of a third possibility: a pure-blood wizard being bitten and turned into a werewolf, but he suppressed the thought as soon as it came to mind.

There are also cases where pure-blood wizards are bitten by werewolves and turn into werewolves. When a lone werewolf attacks a passerby, it doesn't matter whether the person is pure-blood, mixed-blood, or Muggle; it will bite them if it gets its hands on them.

However, organized wolf packs like the Greyback, with their leaders and a focus on expanding their population, are less likely to prey on purebreds.

Biting a pureblood is tantamount to directly enraging the entire pureblood community. News travels fast, and retaliation comes quickly. Aurors, private soldiers, and bounties are not worth it.

Greyback has now sided with Voldemort, and will naturally attack purebloods under orders in the future. That's a future strategy, a means of terror, to create panic.

But Voldemort hasn't stepped into the limelight yet; he needs the support of pure-blood families.

Werewolves are too dirty and disgusting. At this stage, using them to fight purebloods is like pushing away families that are still observing, and it will attract the attention of the Ministry of Magic, or even Dumbledore.

Therefore, when organized werewolf leaders expand their groups, they will target those with little background who have disappeared and no one is investigating them.

The one in front of me is more likely the former, the one I've seen at school.

Regulus snapped out of his thoughts and asked again, "Just graduated?"

The young werewolf raised his head this time, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he swallowed it back.

Finally, only a very low sigh escaped from his chest, carrying an indescribable weariness.

He nodded, then lowered his head again.

Regulus looked at him, and then at the old robe he was wearing, which had been unstitched and then carefully washed.

Even in this dire situation, she's still diligently cleaning her nails. Despite being bullied like this, she shows no hostility. When she opens her mouth, she sighs first instead of cursing.

This art style doesn't quite resemble Slytherin, nor Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw shouldn't be this submissive.

There's only one left.

Regulus's lips twitched slightly: "Hufflepuff?"

The young werewolf suddenly raised his head, opened and closed his mouth, and babbled for a long time, but in the end, he didn't say a word.

The numbness and fatigue on his face cracked, revealing a look of surprise and embarrassment. He probably wanted to argue, why was he categorized into that honest and unremarkable academy at a glance?

Then he realized he couldn't refute it, because he really was Hufflepuff.

His left eye seemed to say, "How did you guess that?" while his right eye seemed to say, "Can you please not be so accurate?"

Finally, he admitted it, sighing and nodding, his face full of helplessness, accepting even this stereotype with a clear conscience.

Lucius let out a sneer from the side.

A pure-blooded Malfoy, a Slytherin for hundreds of years, never had a good attitude towards Hufflepuff. It was a place for those who had no talent, no ambition, and were just leftovers from other houses to make up the numbers.

Now a Hufflepuff has turned into a werewolf, it's a perfect match, they deserve to end up like this.

Lucius's disdain deepened, his expression utterly contemptuous.

Regulus ignored him.

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