Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 461 Regulus: Women Affect the Speed ​​of Drawing Wands

Regulus came downstairs, his long silver hair draped over his shoulders. His short vest was not fully buttoned, and the collar was loosely open, revealing the dark lining underneath and the strong muscle lines below his collarbone.

I slept well, and my body and mind have recovered. Star Orbit Meditation started automatically, and my magic power and physical strength returned to normal levels.

He didn't lie down until 3 a.m., which was four or five hours at most, but that was enough for him.

There are many young wizards at Hogwarts who can stay up all night; Avery can stay up until the early hours, and Hermes is practically a nocturnal animal, but none of them can compare to him.

Two years of star trail meditation compressed his sleep needs to an absurd level; four or five hours was enough to fully recharge, and three hours was also acceptable.

But making do is just making do; it's not the same as being comfortable.

In fact, he was not very energetic; his eyelids were heavy, his steps were a little unsteady, and a vague sense of weariness lingered in his mind.

He moved his neck, and his joints cracked.

The Pewter brothers were already seated at the table.

In front of them were two flaked plates, each containing a mass of grayish-white paste, with a thin skin on the surface and several fine cracks.

Touch it with a spoon, and the thin skin cracks open, the paste underneath trembles and shakes, then solidifies again, and the skin slowly closes up again.

Next to it were several slices of burnt toast, shiny black, with charred, jagged edges.

Surprisingly, the toast remained perfectly shaped, retaining its square or triangular form. The carbonization process was remarkably even, indicating that although the baking time was slightly overdone, it was stable.

Fabian stared at the plate, his expression overly complex.

The outermost layer is fear, followed by a mixture of respect for Aberforth himself and for the fact that the dish could be made so awfully; then comes embarrassment, then fear, and finally, resolute determination.

He had eaten at Pighead Bar many times, and he stayed there almost every time he went on a mission. Every time he stayed there, he would eat breakfast made by Aberforth himself.

The food here is like this—not only does it look bad, it tastes bad, but it's made by Aberforth himself.

You can't refuse the food he makes.

Pig Head Bar may be dirty and run-down, but once you're there, you'll feel at ease.

With Dumbledore there, Aberforth there, even the goats there, everything was in its proper place. It was reassuring, like having a tall person to hold up the sky if it fell.

Free accommodation, free medical treatment, free drinking water, everything is fine, except for food.

But no matter what, you still have to eat breakfast by yourself.

Gideon had already picked up his spoon, scooped up a small spoonful and put it in his mouth. His brows slowly furrowed, and he chewed very slowly, his cheeks moving slowly, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down several times before he swallowed.

Then he picked up the cup and took a big gulp of tea. The tea was cloudy and grayish, with tea leaves settling at the bottom.

He gulped down half a cup to wash away the mushy stuff in his throat, but then his mouth was filled with the taste of rotten wood.

Aberforth emerged from behind the bar carrying a black pot, and when he saw Geralt coming downstairs, his blue eyes swept over him.

He was unhappy from the start of the morning, his face was full of bad luck, and his brows were so furrowed that they could trap a fly.

He placed another chipped plate on the table, containing the same gray paste, and threw the spoon on the side of the plate, making a crisp clanging sound.

He turned back to the bar, tossing out a sentence as he walked: "Eat it or don't, it's up to you. Even goat food isn't as picky as you."

Regulus looked down at the plate.

Aberforth's cooking remained consistently bad, consistently ugly, consistently at a level where you could tell what it was but had absolutely no desire to eat it.

He went out to eat last time; the old man holds a grudge.

But with food prepared like this, how can you expect people not to eat it?

He ate and stayed at the Hog's Head for free; Aberforth never charged him a single Knat, and Dumbledore never mentioned the room fee.

He didn't know whether other Order of the Phoenix members who came for treatment and lodging would have to pay, nor did he know if the two bottles of blood tonic the Pewter brothers had last night had been recorded in the bill.

Anyway, he didn't spend a penny here, eating and staying for free, so he shouldn't be picky. But the young master of the Black family didn't want to suffer this injustice.

He had never eaten anything so awful; Kreacher's cooking was a hundred times better than that of a Hogwarts house-elf.

He didn't even sit down, but turned the corner and walked straight to the door, leaving behind the words, "Let's eat out."

Fabian's spoon froze in mid-air. He looked at the bowl of paste in front of him, then at Geralt's back, and then turned his head to look at Gideon.

Gideon put down his spoon, wiped the gray paste residue from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, and stood up to follow.

Fabian grinned, threw the spoon into the plate with a clatter, and then darted out.

The two brothers quickened their pace to catch up with Geralt, and Fabian patted Gideon on the shoulder from behind, whispering, "Finally, someone's taking the lead."

Abu Fusi yelled from behind the bar, "Don't come if you're not going to eat! You'll deserve to starve next time!"

The door closed behind the three figures. The goat raised its head and glanced at the doorway, its eyes glazed over, before lowering its head to continue chewing hay.

......

The three brooms had just opened the door, and there weren't many customers inside yet.

The windows were clean, and sunlight streamed in, spreading across the light-colored tablecloth. On the table sat a small vase of wildflowers.

The air was filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread, mixed with the charred smell of fried bacon and the slightly sweet scent of jam.

The wooden decorations on the walls were polished to a shine, and the glasses behind the bar were arranged in a neat row, their glass reflecting the sunlight.

Compared to Pighead Bar, this is a completely different world.

Mrs. Rosmerta was standing behind the bar, wiping the counter. Her blonde hair was loosely tied back, with a few stray strands falling beside her ears. Her deep green eyes curved into a smile when she saw the person who pushed open the door.

She nodded to the two brothers first, her tone familiar and slightly teasing: "Fabian, Gideon, long time no see! What's wrong? You look like you just crawled out of a mine!"

Regulus glanced at the two brothers.

Last night, the cleaning and restoration were done, the tears in the robe were patched up, and there were no obvious injuries on my face.

But after tossing and turning for most of the night, still feeling dizzy from the explosion, crawling in and out of the castle ruins, drinking Aberforth's blood tonic, and staying up late, he still looked alright, though he was as tired and ashen-faced as Aberforth.

Mrs. Rosmerta had a sharp eye and noticed it immediately.

"More or less," Fabian grinned, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "The journey back from the north wasn't very peaceful."

Gideon nodded in greeting: "Rosmerta, long time no see."

Lady Rosmerta waved her hand, her gaze shifting to Geralt. Her deep green eyes brightened, and her smile widened.

She remembered this face: white hair, vertical pupils. The last time he came, he sat in a corner and ate a meal alone. He didn't say much from beginning to end, but his aura was very strong.

She said she would definitely remember next time she came, and just a few days later she came again, bringing two regular customers with her.

She put down her cup, picked up the tray, and walked over, her tone light and cheerful: "You said you'd come again next time, I didn't expect it to be so soon, and you even brought a friend."

She glanced at the Pwitt brothers, then back at Geralt, tilting her head slightly, a smile playing on her lips, and raised an eyebrow: "You came back from the north together?"

Regulus shrugged, leaned back casually, and said offhand, "There's a swamp to the north, and in the swamp there's an abandoned giant camp, and in the camp there are—"

Fabian's eyes widened in suspicion. This tone, this fluent delivery, was exactly the same as when he told the story of the Frostwolf and the Siren at the Pighead Bar last night.

Gideon glanced at Fabian, and seeing his brother's subtle expression, a slight smile curved his own lips.

Mrs. Rosmerta rolled her eyes—a very pretty one, her green eyes sparkling—and tucked the tray under her arm, her blond hair swaying slightly. "Alright, alright, she's back from the north."

Of course she recognized them. She knew who Fabian and Gideon were, and those who came with them were probably of similar status. As for helping from the north, she could just take it with a grain of salt.

But this person could concoct an adventure story on the spot, unlike any other member of the Order of the Phoenix I had met before.

"No matter where you come from, you must eat well," she said with a smile, shaking her head and placing the tray on the table. "I can't eat the food from Pighead's place. What would the three of you like to eat?"

Fabian nodded vigorously: "Rosmerta, you understand perfectly."

She chuckled and handed over the menu.

Regulus took the order, glanced at it, and ordered the same things as last time: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes, and steamed vegetables.

Fabian ordered a ton of food: grilled sausages, fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, fried potato wedges, two slices of whole wheat toast, a serving of bacon, and a serving of grilled mushrooms.

Gideon's appetite was about the same as his.

When I got back last night, I didn't eat anything except for that bottle of Aberforth iron supplement and a few cups of awful tea. My stomach was completely empty.

After Mrs. Rosmerta finished writing down the order, she turned and walked towards the kitchen. After a few steps, she glanced back at Geralt.

Blonde hair slid down her shoulders, shimmering in the sunlight; her deep green eyes curved upwards; and a faint smile played at the corners of her lips.

Then she turned back, her waistline outlining a graceful curve under the apron, and disappeared into the kitchen doorway.

Fabian's eyes followed her retreating figure until she disappeared, then he abruptly turned back to Geralt, his eyebrows raised high, his voice brimming with excitement: "Did she do that last time too?"

Gideon also looked over, his expression calm, but his gaze focused.

Before he could answer, Fabian rested her elbows on the table and began to speak on her own: "Let me tell you, she used to come here all the time when we were in school. She's always been very warm to people, but someone like you—"

He gestured to Geralt's face, "—You know what I mean? Her smile makes you feel like the most special customer in the whole bar, but that look in her eyes just now, and the way she turned back when she left—"

He made an exaggerated turning-around gesture, but of course, he didn't have any blond hair, so the effect was much worse.

Gideon added from the side, his tone more composed than his brother's, but his words were no less impressive: "Mrs. Rosmerta has been running the shop for several years, and we've seen how warmly she greets many customers."

Her smiles do come in several varieties: polite to ordinary guests, warm to acquaintances, and quite different from the one she gave you just now.

Fabian slammed his fist on the table: "Yes! It's not quite the same! I'm talking about what—that turn of the head! And the way he walked—"

"Fabian," Gideon said with a hint of reminder, "what's with your attitude? Why are you looking at her figure?"

"Alright, alright," Fabian waved his hand, "Anyway, you're charming."

Regulus leaned back, one hand resting on the edge of the table, his amber pupils half-closed, and a slight smile playing on his lips, revealing a cool and aloof expression: "I wasn't paying attention."

Then he lowered his head, fastened the top button of his inner lining, straightened his collar, and when he raised his head again, his eyes gleamed with a disdainful golden light: "Women affect the speed at which you draw your wand."

Fabian froze, his mouth agape, his expression caught between "Did I hear that right?" and "That's fucking cool."

Then he burst out laughing, slammed his hand on the table, and turned to Gideon, saying, "Did you hear that? Now that's a real man!"

Gideon was taken aback by this remark. He remained silent for a moment, then slowly curved his lips into a smile and nodded.

His expression was subtle; although it was a bit extreme, upon closer reflection, it did seem to make sense.

Mrs. Rosmerta returned with a tray and placed the dishes on the table one by one.

Thick slices of roast beef were arranged on a white porcelain plate, while fluffy and crispy Yorkshire pudding was piled on one side, mashed potatoes were drizzled with butter, and steaming vegetables were puffing up.

Her movements were gentle, and a faint smile lingered on her lips; she had probably heard what he said earlier.

As she placed the last dish of steamed vegetables in front of Geralt, she bent down, looked at him with her green eyes, and spoke in a tone that was hard to tell whether it was teasing or serious.

"How fast do you draw your wand? When are you usually free?"

Fabian almost spat out the piece of roast beef he had just put in his mouth, coughing twice while covering his mouth. Gideon's hand holding the spoon froze in mid-air.

Regulus looked up at her, a smirk playing on his lips. "Between fighting and eating."

Mrs. Rosmerta raised an eyebrow, stared at him for a moment, then straightened up, smiled at the three of them, and went back to the bar.

Fabian covered his mouth and swallowed the roast beef, then gulped down some water, his voice still trembling: "Between fighting and eating—Merlin's beard, how have you survived this long?"

Gideon picked up his fork, his expression serious: "It's probably based on the speed at which you draw your wand."

Fabian laughed again, Regulus shrugged, and then buried his head in his food.

Three young men sat at the sunniest table, where three brooms were placed, eating quickly, the clinking of their knives and forks against their plates echoing loudly.

Towards the end, it was almost a competition to see who could finish their plate first.

Fabian was noticeably speeding up his roasting of beef, Gideon was also quietly accelerating, and Regulus was taking his time, but the food on his plate was disappearing faster than both of them.

Fabian stuffed his last bite of potato wedges and Gideon's last piece of toast into their mouths almost simultaneously. The two glared at each other, their cheeks puffed out, and swallowed at the same time.

They tied, Regulus is first.

......

Outside Hogsmeade Village, there is a rolling hill.

The grass is starting to turn green again, with a few clumps of wildflowers blooming here and there. The morning sun shines obliquely from the east, and the spire of Hogwarts Castle can be seen in the distance.

A morning breeze blew from the direction of Black Lake, blowing long, silvery-white hair down to her shoulders.

The three of them walked up the hillside and chose a relatively flat spot.

The two brothers drew their wands, walked to the other side, and assumed dueling stances.

Fabian suddenly spoke up: "There's no shame in losing a two-on-one situation."

Gideon added, "Even if we win, it's not honorable."

Fabian then added, "So it doesn't matter, let's fight first and see what happens."

Regulus's lips twitched slightly as he drew his wand, casually letting it hang by his side in a relaxed posture.

The two sides stood about ten meters apart.