Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 438 The old man has had a tough time.

Regulus was not surprised.

A village was massacred, and all the living people disappeared. Even if Voldemort cleaned up the mess, it was impossible to completely erase something of this scale.

The Muggle government would treat it as a serious case and investigate it. Even if the Ministry of Magic is slow to react, it would at least have to send someone, even if it's just a formality.

Not to mention the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore wouldn't miss any unusual event involving mass deaths. As long as he was tracking Voldemort, they would find him sooner or later.

"Little Hangleton, and two other places north of Yorkshire," Dumbledore said seriously, not treating Regulus like a child, "There have been wizards and Muggles missing in the last three months."

The Ministry of Magic's records have been altered; the numbers don't match.

He pulled a small notebook from the inside pocket of his travel robe. It had a leather cover and was quite old. He opened it and pointed to a certain page.

"I'm going to the Yorkshire border next week, to see for myself in the area with the highest number of missing persons cases."

Then he raised his eyes and looked at Regulus, his gaze inviting, but he didn't say it directly.

Regulus grinned, a rather fierce grin, as if to say, "Since I'm just idling around anyway, I might as well find something to do."

He picked up the glass of malt liquor that had been pushed to the corner of the table, raised it towards the person opposite him, and then tilted his head back and gulped it all down.

Dumbledore looked at Regulus's "I've already drunk it, what can you do about it?" expression, his white beard twitched, and a hint of helplessness flashed in his eyes, but he said nothing.

Since we've already drunk it, we can't just take it out of us.

Actually, yes.

Regulus placed the empty cup back on the table, leaned back, narrowed his amber pupils at Dumbledore, and draped his arm over his side: "How was that? My skills."

Dumbledore's beard twitched again, and his blue eyes curved into two crescent moons: "Of course, impressive."

This child came as Geralt, with a different appearance and altered magic. It even seems his fighting style has been changed, since wizards who throw punches are a rare sight.

Moreover, he not only brought intelligence, but he himself was also a wizard with combat abilities.

Now that everything is ready, there's no need to treat him like a child who needs to be protected anymore, and some things can be explained.

"You've probably guessed some of my situation," Dumbledore said.

Regulus composed himself and listened quietly.

"Voldemort is gathering war resources and preparing for all-out war. I'm tracking these clues to figure out his troop composition and deployment direction."

In some places we found things, in others the trail went cold, and in still others it was too late when I got there.

He spoke slowly and calmly: "Last week in Derbyshire, the home of a half-breed wizard was attacked, and he was already gone when I arrived."

The neighbors said that three days ago, several people dressed in black robes passed through the village.

Dumbledore said he was in contact with all sorts of people: retired Aurors, wizards from all over the world, those who were capable and willing; some agreed, some hesitated, and some refused.

He went to Edinburgh and found a herbalist who was well-known and had a wide network of connections in the area.

We chatted all afternoon and drank three pots of tea. The other party said they would consider it, but I haven't received a reply yet.

He mentioned that several young wizards had joined; they were capable and enthusiastic, but lacked experience. He was trying to find ways to assign them tasks that would hone their skills without putting them to death.

"Last month in Wales, a retired Auror, over sixty years old, told me he was too old to fight anymore. He agreed to help keep an eye on things in northern Scotland, but made it clear he wouldn't be on the front lines."

Dumbledore smiled, a gentle light flashing in his blue eyes: "There are also some people who, after meeting me once, never contacted me again."

He said sporadic attacks by Death Eaters were increasing, and threatening actions against Muggle-born wizarding families were intensifying.

The Ministry of Magic's response was so slow it was almost like they were just going along with it. By the time they sent people to the scene, the attackers had already left. By the time they completed the procedures for filing a case, a new wave of attacks had begun.

"The week before last in Nottingham, a Muggle-born witch received a threatening letter. An owl flew directly to her bedroom window and the letter contained only one sentence: You are next."

Her parents were terrified and wanted to move, but didn't know where to go. Someone from the Ministry of Magic came, took a statement, and then...that was it.

He said he was trying his best to stop it or clean up the mess, but there were never enough people.

Often, when he arrived at the scene, all he could do was move the victims to a safe place and then continue on to the next destination.

After listening, Regulus had a general idea of ​​what was going on, which was roughly what he already knew.

During this period, Dumbledore was actively working, personally recruiting people, building resistance forces, tracking Voldemort's strategic plans, and dealing with ongoing attacks.

He had already sensed the approaching war and was taking it seriously.

But it was still too slow.

On Voldemort's side, the werewolf army is expanding, giants are making contact, invisibles are accumulating, dementors are loosening their grip, the number of death eaters is increasing, and key departments of the Ministry of Magic have been infiltrated.

These actions began several years ago, and a complete war machine is gradually taking shape.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore was still trying to persuade people to join, one by one. Those who hesitated remained hesitant, while those who refused simply cut off contact.

The Order of the Phoenix is ​​still in its early stages. It has some core members, but not many who can get things done, and even fewer who can fight.

There are not enough people, not enough resources, and not enough time.

He's almost a hundred years old, and he's always out and about, seemingly the only one busy fighting Voldemort.

There is an inherent time lag in war preparation.

Voldemort had been secretly plotting for years, and by the time Dumbledore realized he had to make a move, the enemy was already almost ready.

That's how it is now.

Dumbledore's abilities are certainly comparable to Voldemort's, but the difference in their methods is obvious.

Voldemort was driven by fear and self-interest, which was efficient and effective, but at the cost of a lack of genuine loyalty.

Dumbledore gives everyone the freedom to choose, respects hesitation, and accepts rejection, at the cost of never being fast enough.

Both approaches have their own logic and their own results.

The First Wizarding War lasted eleven years, with the full-scale war continuing for six years, from the mid-1970s to the early 1980s, resulting in a large number of deaths.

The Order of the Phoenix didn't win at all; it was Voldemort himself who ended the war. He was defeated, defeated by a baby.

If it weren't for that baby, how long would this war have lasted?

Can Dumbledore's approach win?

Regulus narrowed his eyes.

We might win, but the cost will be greater than anyone expects.

Fortunately, those are things that haven't happened yet. Some things can be changed, and some cannot.

But no matter what, the old man has had a tough time.

Dumbledore closed the notebook, his blue eyes fixed on Regulus, his gaze still gentle.

He didn't ask Reguler what he was there for, nor how long he planned to stay outside.

This child is very decisive, ever since the first day he entered the school. He does what he wants to do, when he wants to do it, and to what extent he wants to do it. He never needs anyone else to worry about him.

He was willing to stay by his side, whether he was called Regulus or Geralt, he was happy to take him along.

It wasn't some deliberate cultivation or purposeful recruitment.

It's like an old wizard who has traveled for many years seeing a talented, capable, thoughtful young man on the right path, and naturally wants him to see and experience more.

You have to walk your own path, but it's always beneficial to observe how others have walked theirs before you start.

Dumbledore took a pocket watch from his pocket, opened the cover, and glanced at it.

A hint of pleasure flashed in her blue eyes, and her tone became lighter: "Ah, there's one more guest who has arrived."

Regulus turned to look at the doorway.

The door opened, and a cold wind rushed in, carrying with it the smoke and smell of stew from inside the house.

The flames in the fireplace were lowered by the wind, and a gap was torn in the layer of gray-blue smoke on the ceiling before slowly closing again.

The reaction in the tavern was faster than Regulus's gaze.

There were two people talking quietly by the bar, but their voices stopped the moment the door opened.

One of them put down his cup, stood up, and walked straight to the back door. The other one was slower to react, but after seeing who it was, he stood up and followed.

The two left in a hurry, leaving more than half a glass of wine in their glasses. They didn't look back or pay the bill.

The bartender didn't stop him at all; he froze, his hands stopped moving, and he stood there, staring at the door.

Regulus attached his perception to it.

The newcomer possessed a powerful and solid magical aura, which seemed to sink deeply into the air, yet there was no sense of deliberate suppression; it was simply a matter of ordinary concealment.

It's completely different from the crude and scattered magic in the tavern.

Having received formal training, possessing a strong sense of control, clearly from an academic background, orderly and meticulous, yet with a rough texture.

The person has already come in.

He was in his early forties, of medium height, with broad shoulders and a sturdy build.

His face had sharp lines, high cheekbones, and his skin was rough, red, and had large pores, showing signs of weathering.

The short, stiff stubble around his chin had turned somewhat white, and his sideburns were also white.

His eyes were dark, a grayish-brown with a hint of brown, and his gaze swept in with wariness.

I scanned the entire pub first, from the entrance, the bar, every table, every aisle, and the back door, before finally settling on this table in the corner.

He wore a thick, old leather robe, over which he wore a hooded coarse cloth coat, with a patch of leather of a similar color but different texture at the elbow.

The boots were covered in mud that hadn't completely dried, forming dark, hard clumps.

A magic wand was tucked into his waistband, the handle of which was exposed, just within reach of his right hand hanging down.

His overall demeanor is very distinctive: sharp, capable, and silent.

He walked to the corner, went to the table, and glanced at Regulus.

His brow furrowed slightly, and his gray-brown eyes lingered for a moment on the silver-white hair and amber vertical pupils. His expression was unfriendly, but not hostile; he was simply scrutinizing her.

The young wizard sat in a very relaxed and casual posture, with one arm draped over the empty chair next to him and the other hand on the table, both far away from his wand.

His entire body was radiating scorching magical power, and he had no intention of stopping it; it was deliberately being released.

Regulus also looked over.