Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 450 Guardian's Message

In the evening, in the hilly area south of Lake Windermere, at the border of Cumbria and Lancashire.

A three-story stone building is tucked away at the edge of a pine forest, next to a narrow road leading from the Muggle village of Cartermel to the Lake District.

The shielding charm and the undrawable charm erased the entire building from the Muggle world; all that could be seen when passing by were two crooked trees and a mottled low wall.

A cast-iron sign hangs above the door frame, and a raven perches on a violin. The raven occasionally tilts its head, and the violin occasionally plucks a string by itself.

Raven and violin.

Regulus nestled in a soft leather armchair by the window, his right leg crossed over his left, his long, silvery hair draped over his shoulders, holding a steaming glass of Cumbrian mead in his hand.

Outside the window are the early spring hills of Cumbria. In the late March evenings, the sky is still bright, and the undulating grassy slopes are tinged with a withered yellow in the evening light, with scattered flocks of sheep grazing on the slopes.

Further away are the gray mountain ridges in the direction of the lake, the setting sun sinking behind them, a thin layer of gold tinging the clouds, the light and shadow slowly moving across the grassy slopes, and the sky transitioning from orange-red to dark blue.

The fireplace was burning real firewood, the flames were bright yellow, and with a pop, a piece of pine wood exploded, sending sparks flying upwards.

The air was filled with the aroma of roasting meat, mixed with the sweetness of mead and the smoke from the fireplace. It was so warm and cozy that you could soak in it and feel completely relaxed.

The dark wooden floors were spotless, the tables and chairs were sturdy, and several animated landscape paintings hung on the walls.

The paintings depict the four seasons of the Lake District: daffodil fields swaying in the breeze in spring, and thin ice floating on Lake Windermere in winter.

Mag was still wearing her battle suit from her transformation, which she was quite comfortable wearing in her free time.

After running around for so many days, we finally have a decent place to rest. Compared to Pig Head Bar, this place is simply heaven.

He took a sip of mead; it was sweet and warm, sliding comfortably down his throat and into his stomach.

Dumbledore sat opposite him, with a cup of tea and a small dish of Grasmere gingerbread that Lady Farnley had personally served him.

The collar of his travel robe was unbuttoned, and he took off his crescent-shaped glasses and held them in his hand, slowly wiping the lenses with a piece of velvet cloth.

The gingerbread is a local Lake District recipe, and Mrs. Farnley said it includes Cumbrian honey and a touch of cinnamon.

After wiping his lenses and putting them back on, he picked up a piece of gingerbread, brought it to his nose to smell it, narrowed his blue eyes slightly, nodded in satisfaction, and then took a bite.

He chewed loudly and intently, his cheeks bulging, a few crumbs of gingerbread clinging to his white beard.

Regulus held the mead and watched him chew it.

Dumbledore swallowed, then picked up another piece, gestured with his chin toward the kitchen, still chewing, crumbs popping out with each chew.

"Mrs. Farnley, her gingerbread recipe is the best in the Lake District, the secret is the honey, Cumbrian wildflower honey, which can't be found anywhere else."

Regulus grinned: "You start by praising honey."

"The honey deserves praise."

Dumbledore looked serious, dipped the biscuit in his tea before putting it in his mouth, and caught the tea dripping from the edge of the biscuit with his other hand.

Regulus looked at the way they dipped the gingerbread in tea, hesitated for a moment, then took a piece of gingerbread and dipped it in the mead.

I put it in my mouth and chewed it a couple of times, then my mouth froze.

The gingerbread itself was good, but after being soaked in mead, it turned into a wet and sweet paste. The spiciness of the ginger and the sweetness of the mead mixed together, neither sweet nor spicy, and had a strange, fishy taste.

The taste hit me hard. I chewed it twice with my mouth tightly closed and managed to swallow it, but the fishy and astringent taste on my tongue just wouldn't go away.

A tiny cluster of orange-red flames flickered from the corner of her mouth; the magic on her tongue precisely burned away the lingering taste, and then went out.

He picked up his glass, took a sip, and acted as if nothing had happened.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his blue eyes flashing behind his glasses.

"Young man," he said, stuffing the remaining half of a tea-soaked biscuit into his mouth and chewing slowly, "you won't appreciate the subtlety of it."

Regulus pressed the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and scraped it: "...What's so wonderful about it?"

"The taste of time," the old man picked up his teacup and winked at him, "You'll understand when you live to my age. Some things you can't appreciate when you're too young."

Regulus's tone carried a genuine hint of doubt: "The way we ate it in the last century?"

The old man calmly sipped his tea, casually wiping away a tea stain from his beard, and said in a light voice, "That's how wizards in Berlin ate back then."

Regulus casually added, "The Berlin wizards' sense of taste probably all died out around 45."

Dumbledore's hand paused on the rim of the teacup, the light in his blue eyes flickering and falling onto the swirling amber liquid inside.

After a moment of silence, she said softly, "Yes, now I'm all alone."

Looking at the old man's face, Regulus realized that his words had been somewhat insensitive.

He picked up his glass, raised it towards Dumbledore, and took a sip.

Dumbledore looked up at Regulus raising his glass, his blue eyes crinkling. He said nothing, but also picked up his own glass and took a sip.

Mr. Farnley happened to walk over from behind the bar to refill the water, carrying a copper kettle in his hand.

He was tall and thin, with gray hair, wearing silver-rimmed pince-nez glasses, and moved and spoke slowly.

"Would you like anything else? Damson gin, made with local wild Damson plums, which I brewed myself."

Dumbledore handed him a cup: "Have a cup."

Mr. Farnley filled the glass, pushed it back, nodded to the two of them, and walked away.

Dumbledore picked up the glass, took a sip, and nodded in satisfaction: "This is what gin should taste like, the Aberforth kind—"

'

He shook his head, swallowed the rest of his sentence, and instead said, "Mr. Farnley was seventeen years younger than me in Ravenclaw. He ran a hotel in the Lake District for twenty years and never made a mistake."

The Ministry of Magic came to investigate three times, but they found nothing.

Regulus raised an eyebrow and glanced towards the bar.

Mr. Farnley was standing behind the counter organizing the ledgers, quiet, respectable, and well-behaved, exuding Ravenclaw's style from head to toe, looking like a very upright wizard.

Regulus became interested and asked directly, "Tax evasion?"

Dumbledore was stunned for a moment: "What—"

Then, realizing what she'd said, she chuckled: "Of course not, the Ministry of Magic doesn't have a tax office, and wizards don't need to pay taxes when they open shops."

Then, realizing what she'd done, her blue eyes widened in confusion: "What did the Black family do that requires them to pay taxes?"

Regulus's lips twitched slightly: "No, not at all."

He cleared his throat lightly: "I mean, why are you being investigated?"

Dumbledore's gaze swept across his face, then changed the subject: "He illegally used magic to attract Muggle customers. In reality, he just cooked so deliciously that Muggles came to him by the smell."

Is it illegal to make delicious food? Then what about the stuff Aberforth makes?

Regulus asked, "Is it illegal to cook delicious food?"

"There is a gray area in the Ministry of Magic's Secrets Act: if a wizard's establishment continues to attract the attention of Muggles, it can be considered a security risk, regardless of whether magic is used."

Dumbledore took another piece of gingerbread, dipped it in his Damson gin, and chewed it with a crunching sound. Regulus watched, grinning from ear to ear, the old man looking completely satisfied.

"Mr. Farnley later added a Muggle-repelling charm around the inn, and the problem was solved, but he was probably still quite disappointed."

Regulus then asked, "Is it a pity the Ministry of Magic didn't come a fourth time?"

Dumbledore frowned, glanced at him sideways, and thought, "What a foul mouth this kid has."

He shook his head, his beard swaying with it: "Mrs. Farnley believes a good chef shouldn't be picky about his customers."

Regulus grinned and glanced in the direction of the kitchen.

Mrs. Farnley was busy inside, occasionally peeking halfway out into the hall to check if there was enough tea for the guests.

I've been following Dumbledore to three different places these past few days.

The first one was on the shores of Lake Cumbria, where a retired investigator from the Office Against the Abuse of Magic kept a pack of raccoons.

His hair was completely white, and he sat in a rocking chair on the porch without getting up from beginning to end, with a ginger-yellow tabby cat perched on his knees.

He said that even with his old bones, he would only be a hindrance if he went up there, but he could help keep an eye on the situation at the Scottish border.

"At the slightest disturbance, my cat is faster than an owl."

Dumbledore smiled and thanked him, "That's a kind of help too."

The second one is in Lancashire, a witch in her early forties, half-blood, who runs a potions shop. She has been threatened by Death Eaters twice and her shop was vandalized once.

She wanted to join the Phoenix Society, but she had elderly relatives to take care of. She brewed four pots of tea, hesitated for an entire afternoon, and finally said she would think about it some more.

"I know I should go, but someone has to stay at home."

Dumbledore said, "It's alright. Just let me know if you need any help."

The third one was outside Bolan Forest, a retired Auror who flatly refused.

He has a wife and children at home, so he can't take the risk, but if the Death Eaters come to his doorstep, he will fight back.

Dumbledore nodded and said, "Thank you. Contact me again if you've made up your mind."

The same words as those of Crowe, but from different people.

Regulus followed behind, not attacking directly like he had done in the wasteland, but watching the old man's back cast a long shadow in the afternoon sun, his white hair fluttering in the wind.

The recruitment itself didn't make much progress; none of the three people agreed on the spot, and the most enthusiastic one just said he would think about it.

Dumbledore always smiled and said goodbye to everyone who rejected him, never forcing anyone.

The old man's route was deliberate, heading southeast from the Lake District of Cumbria to Lancashire and then to Boland Forest.

North York Marsh is in that direction, and the area with the highest concentration of missing persons cases is on the edge of the marsh, not far from the sea.

The recruitment route overlaps with the investigation route. We're recruiting while traveling, and at this pace, we should arrive in the next day or two.

It was quite an interesting trip.

Traveling to different places and meeting different people, everyone has their own story and their own reasons.

There weren't any particularly memorable people or events. It wasn't particularly exciting, but it wasn't boring either. The process itself was quite interesting.

As I walked, I gained a more direct understanding of the workings of the lower echelons of the British magical community.

The evening light streaming through the window gradually dimmed, the golden hues on the hills faded away, and only the last trace of dark red remained in the western sky.

Just as Dumbledore was picking up the fourth piece of gingerbread, a burst of silver light suddenly crashed in through the window.

A silver bull, semi-transparent, passes through the glass, its horns thick, its shoulders broad, and its four hooves treading on the air as it lands on the edge of the table.

It opened its mouth, emitting a rough, deep voice, spoken rapidly and urgently: "Albus, the Pwitt brothers are surrounded, Dolokhov, ten men, north of Skipton—"

—

A tiny point of light popped out from the tip of the bull's horn, hovering in the air, inside which a clear image spun.

"6

I'm watching closely; it won't last much longer.

After saying this, the silver bull dissipated from its hooves upwards, its horns finally melting away, and the silver light shattered into wisps of white smoke and dissipated.

Dumbledore swallowed the gingerbread, crunch.

Looking at Regulus, he whispered, "Moody."

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