Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 465 Regulus's Upward Management

In the evening, on the sea cliffs of County Durham, the wind blew in from the North Sea, carrying a salty, damp smell that made robes flutter.

The weather was fine; early April in England was unusually sunny, with the clouds torn into pieces, revealing large swathes of grey-blue sky.

The sun hung above the sea level and slowly sank below the horizon, turning the entire coastline golden.

The fishing village below the cliff wasn't this pretty.

Regulus leaned against the limestone, his long silver hair pulled down to his shoulders by the wind, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage below.

The charred wooden frame lay haphazardly in the mud, and several pits were filled with seawater, with broken tiles and collapsed doors scattered around them.

Voldemort came, Voldemort left, and in between, a fishing village was gone.

He looked away, his face expressionless.

Over the past two weeks, I've followed the old man to four different infernal production sites: the swamps of North Yorkshire, an abandoned mine in Lancashire, the old castle dungeon in Northumberland, and this is the fourth one.

Everywhere was pretty much the same: houses collapsed, people were gone, and the remaining corpses were dragged up by dark magic to serve as cheap guards.

Not content with killing people, Voldemort also demolished houses, village after village, working diligently.

British villages don't really have much infrastructure; they're just piles of stones and pieces of wood, and that's how they've been for centuries. All that's put together is what makes a village.

But Voldemort destroyed even this small piece of property wherever he went.

The work of creating undead is essentially a physical task in dark magic; it relies on quantity, not quality.

In a confined environment, it might be somewhat useful against mediocre wizards. When you're all crammed together and can't escape, being held down by a bunch of cold hands in the dark is indeed quite frightening.

They're not afraid of pain or death; if they pounce on someone, they can cause some trouble.

But once in open areas, their disadvantages become apparent: they are slow, lack intelligence, and are afraid of fire. Even a daring Muggle could handle it with a torch, let alone a proper wizard.

A single fire spell can burn an entire area. Voldemort used these to guard his secrets, probably not because they were powerful.

Regulus had no opinion on Infernals, nor on the Muggles who were made into Infernals.

Once someone is dead, they are dead. It's Voldemort's business to make use of their corpse.

He didn't need to put on a sorrowful expression in front of Dumbledore; the old man had seen more dead people than he had, and he didn't need anyone to perform compassion for him.

Regulus was bored. He had followed the old man for two weeks, but everywhere was the same: ruins, pits, empty spaces. Voldemort hadn't left a single hair behind.

Voldemort clearly had fur.

There's no fun in cleaning up someone else's mess.

But the old man didn't think so.

Dumbledore stood on the edge of the cliff, a dozen steps away from him, his travel robe billowing in the sea breeze, the twilight shining from behind him, his white hair and beard edged with a fluffy gold.

He faced the sea, his blue eyes fixed on the last glimmer of orange light on the distant horizon.

Sometimes Regulus felt that the old man was probably remembering this place for the dead.

No one will come anymore, no one will remember who lived here before, only he is here, taking all the empty houses and empty people of this village into his eyes and taking them away.

Dumbledore's voice drifted from ahead: "Let's go."

Regulus pulled himself out of the limestone pit, his silver hair flying over his shoulders.

The two walked south along the path at the top of the cliff, Dumbledore half a step ahead, Regulus following behind, the sea breeze blowing from the side, making their robes blow in the same direction.

Only two figures remained on the cliff, one tall and one taller, moving slowly across the withered grassy slope.

The sea breeze blows for a while, then stops, then starts blowing again.

The old man didn't speak; sometimes he was like that. After observing the scene, he would walk in silence, without analysis or reflection, just walking along.

Regulus had been following him for days and had gotten used to it, so he didn't try to find any topics to talk about and just followed silently.

Dumbledore walked slowly, and so did Regulus. Dumbledore walked as if he were measuring the land, while Regulus walked as if he were admiring the scenery.

The sky overhead was still bright, but it had already darkened to the east. A streak of light, turning gray, trailed across the sea, which looked quite beautiful.

But he also noticed that there were no seabirds along the way.

At first, I thought it was because the smell of black magic hadn't completely dissipated, and indeed there were still some remnants. But we were already quite far from the fishing village, and the sky and the water were still empty.

Just as he was about to look further into the distance, his eyes suddenly lit up.

A tiny point of light, about the size of a thumb, appeared out of nowhere, hovering half a foot in front of him. It spun and spun again, then with a snap, unfolded into a letter. The two stars and Sirius on the wax seal lit up briefly, then went dark again.

Regulus raised an eyebrow. Bloodline tracking beacon: a letter from his father.

This thing isn't for everyday use; it's not needed for ordinary matters. He hadn't sent any letters home for over half a month since he left, but for important matters, his father would contact him directly, so there was no need for a beacon.

He reached out and took it, tore off the wax seal, and unfolded the letter.

Dumbledore glanced at the envelope, then looked away without stopping, continuing to walk forward, taking a few steps and then a few more steps further away.

The letter was short; I glanced at it, rubbed it between my fingers, and it turned to ashes, which were scattered by the sea breeze.

Regulus watched Dumbledore's retreating figure, a slight smile playing on his lips.

The old man is quite particular; we're giving him some space.

Then I started to think about it.

My father wouldn't exaggerate. He said the highest level was Voldemort, and it was perfectly normal for Voldemort to be observing him.

The Dark Revelation was just a routine check, but the fact that Father specifically mentioned the movements of Dumbledore's camp in the letter meant it was more than just a formality.

As for what Dumbledore might do, how could he not know?

Dolokhov wasn't just any random cat or dog; he was one of Voldemort's oldest and most trusted lieutenants, possessing considerable fighting prowess and a high status.

Being beaten up is humiliating, especially being beaten so badly by someone who looks so much younger but is actually much younger than you. But you still have to report it.

It was perfectly reasonable for Voldemort to glance in his direction after receiving the message, to check if the talented young wizards in his camp were still there.

Regulus thought this logic was sound. It wasn't that he was arrogant; it was simply that any side that produced a fighter of his caliber should be taken seriously.

Since he wants to see, let him see. It doesn't matter if no one investigates; ordinary Death Eaters wouldn't bother with it anyway. But since Voldemort personally sent people to investigate, then we'll go all the way and let him see what he wants to see.

Go to France, make a public appearance, do what you need to do, and get the results you expect there.

This is called managing upwards, managing Voldemort's perception; once he's satisfied, he'll have peace and quiet.

Regulus's lips twitched slightly. From this perspective, Voldemort wasn't so bad after all.

He put those thoughts aside, quickened his pace, and caught up with Dumbledore. The old man was still strolling slowly there, and turned around when he heard footsteps.

Regulus walked over and stood beside him, speaking casually and nonchalantly: "Something's come up at home. Someone's investigating me, Voldemort."

Dumbledore looked over with his blue eyes, but his expression wasn't serious; his voice was quite relaxed: "Is it serious?"

Regulus thought for a moment.

Being checked at border crossings, having one's school investigated, professors questioned—it sounds intimidating, and anyone would be nervous in that situation. But if you think about it carefully, Voldemort wouldn't personally show up.

So he nodded.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

If the child nods immediately after he asks the question, then it's serious; but if he thinks for a long time before nodding, then it's probably not serious.

Moreover, this child doesn't try to be brave; he asks for help when he needs it and doesn't try to tough it out, which means he genuinely doesn't think it's serious.

Dumbledore didn't ask any further questions.

The sea breeze continued to blow, and the twilight grew even darker than before; the last glimmer of orange on the horizon had sunk below the sea level.

Regulus followed the old man's steps, shrugged, and his long silver hair swayed: "I'm going to France to let him see what he wants to see."

Dumbledore's blue eyes gleamed faintly in the twilight, and his gaze behind his crescent-shaped spectacles held a hint of curiosity: "Are you confident?"

Regulus didn't answer directly, but continued walking forward, one hand in the pocket of his vest, walking loosely and casually.

"My father suspected it was Voldemort and observed it as usual, but since it was him, he had to deal with it."

Dumbledore's gaze lingered on his face for a moment before returning to his own.

This wasn't the first time the child had called Voldemort by his name. Even among purebloods, few people addressed Tom that way anymore, not even those not in Voldemort's camp.

Even if this name hasn't become synonymous with fear and death, people will use other names for it, like "that person" or simply "the Dark Lord."

But Dumbledore didn't react in any particular way; Regulus's attitude towards Tom was never one of fear.

Dumbledore was unaware of the details of the Christmas dinner.

He was certainly aware of the rumors that the Black family heir had fought Bellatrix, that Lestrange Manor had been burned down, and that Voldemort had personally attended the scene.

These versions have circulated in the pureblood community for several years, ranging from outrageous to even more outrageous, but ultimately they are just vague secondhand descriptions and a Christmas Eve legend that has been exaggerated and distorted countless times.

None of the people in the banquet hall that night—Bella, Regulus, Orion, Walbuga, Sirius, Lucius, Narcissa—would tell anyone.

The purebloods waiting outside only saw flames and ruins, heard a few explosions, and what reached Dumbledore's ears was only a definite result.

Regulus defeated Bellatrix, burned down the manor, Voldemort arrived, and then nothing happened.

But Dumbledore was unaware of the Dark Inspiration, Legilimency, those gray, emanating magics, and the methods that tormented souls—these were matters between Regulus and Voldemort.

From Dumbledore's perspective, things would go something like this.

A pure-blood heir of Slytherin, with extremely high talent, and having even redeemed a portion of that talent, he can already be considered powerful to some extent.

Voldemort noticed him, observed him, tried to win him over, and attempted to bring him into his camp, which was not surprising to Dumbledore at all.

Tom has been good at discovering and cultivating talented people since his student days.