Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 471 War is Coming

Orion stared at Regulus, speechless for a long time, the scene from earlier still fresh in his mind.

Dolokhov was attacked and his stronghold was destroyed. The news circulated among the Death Eaters for a month or so, but he didn't really take it to heart.

What does the new thug that Dumbledore has to do with him?

Now there's a connection; that's his son.

He remembered Regulus when he was a child, three or four years old, an age when he couldn't speak properly yet, he already knew how to teach Sirius how to use magic.

I started browsing through the family's books when I was five or six years old, and would sit in the small cubicle upstairs for a whole day.

This child has always been quiet, reserved, and serious, like a little adult, with even fewer facial expressions than he is.

He thought back then that Regulus probably wouldn't grow up to be the type to joke around with his father, and the Black family didn't produce that kind of child.

Orion thought it was fine this way; he wasn't a talkative father.

Then, during the first-grade Christmas break, Regulus summoned his guardian spirit, and from then on, the boy would play pranks on him.

In Knockturn Alley, Regulus faced the fallen scoundrel, the tip of his staff glowing green. It was the first time he realized that this kid was playing a joke on him, and with a killing curse at that.

Later, this happened more and more often, and Regulus became increasingly aroused when he was around him.

He's still quiet and reserved, but the few words and actions he occasionally utters clearly reveal his closeness to her.

Orion knew that Regulus was different from ordinary children, but the Black family was no ordinary family either.

Tonight's performance was the same. Just now, the old house's defenses were fully activated, and he even raised his wand, almost firing the Death Curse.

But no matter what, it was his son joking with him. He was startled, but to say he wasn't happy at all would be a lie.

That white-haired wizard was probably a lively, extreme version of this: flamboyant, crude, and grinning.

But since these are his children, that's fine.

Regulus sat opposite him, silently observing his father's face.

Since emerging from the shadows, Orion's expression has changed at least five times.

From shock to realization, and then to something he wasn't quite sure what it was, but which definitely contained a mix of amazement and helplessness, he suddenly wondered if he had taken the joke a bit too far.

My father is not young anymore. Can his heart handle what just happened?

He examined Orion's face closely.

There are fine lines at the corners of her eyes and a few on her forehead, but those are marks of time, and there isn't a single gray hair.

The Black family's black hair gene is ridiculously strong; Arcturus III was almost eighty years old and still had a full head of black hair.

Orion was in his prime, in his early forties, with his magic at its peak and expected to increase with age. He also maintained a better physique than most thirty-year-old wizards.

My father is not old; he is very healthy.

Regulus looked away, a slight smile playing on his lips.

A rustling sound came from the corner of the table. Baruch had just flipped himself over on the table, lying face up with his eight legs kicking and making gurgling noises in the air.

It kicked for a while, flipped over, braced its eight legs on the edge of the table, and sprang into action, plunging into the fireplace flames with a whoosh.

The green flames swallowed it and closed again. Baruch rolled over in the flames, his eight legs folded up, and his chelicerae rested in front of him.

His amber eyes, peering through the flames, glanced at Orion, then at Regulus, and lay there motionless.

Orion's gaze was drawn to it; the magic grafted onto the flames, the eight-eyed giant spider, and the fire lizard—this was the result.

He glanced at him a few more times; Baruch lay there motionless, not a single hair on his body burned off.

Orion snapped out of his daze and snapped his fingers.

Kreacher didn't appear with a thud as usual. Instead, a series of hurried footsteps came from the direction of the hall. The elf's feet pounded on the stone slabs as he ran quickly and heavily.

The study door was pushed open from the outside, and Kreacher stood in the doorway.

The warning shot from the old house just now had lifted the entire house up.

The defensive magic inside the walls lit up completely, the ancestral portraits all opened their eyes, and the buzzing sound from under the floorboards still hasn't completely dissipated.

House-elves and wizards' houses are symbiotic; house-elves were originally part of the old house's defense system.

Every generation of Black has never missed this step when adding protective magic to the old house: the wizards manage the magic and runes, and the elves manage the corners that the runes can't reach.

The kitchen ventilation ducts, the cellar drains, and those neglected corners under the stairs where even portraits are too lazy to be hung—all are guarded by little elves.

On either side of the entrance hall at 12 Grimmauld Place, there is an extremely narrow, dark corridor hidden behind the wainscoting. It is too narrow for a person to squeeze through, but a little elf can just pass through.

The dark corridor leads to the cellar and the rooftop attic, and the entire house's longitudinal circulation is connected by these narrow passages.

Kreacher, of course, sensed it too; he was holding a palm-sized brass lantern.

Inside the four glass enclosure was a fist-sized black flame that was slowly flickering. A ring of fine runes was engraved on the copper casing of the lantern, which climbed up the base, over the edge of the glass, and disappeared inside the handle.

The runes glowed dimly, their frequency perfectly synchronized with the defensive patterns that hadn't completely faded from the cracks in the old house's walls.

This lantern is an old item from the Black family, a lacquered artifact. Each head of the family's personal elf must learn to use it in emergencies to guard the easily overlooked corners behind their master.

Kreacher's tea towel had an extra dark cloth strip than usual, slung across his chest, with a dark silver ring buckle at the end, the surface of which was etched with the Black family crest.

Its eyes were wide open, and its ears were perked up, displaying a resolute and determined demeanor, ready at any moment to point its lantern at anything that shouldn't be there.

"Master, Kreacher."

Then it saw Regulus, and almost dropped the lantern: "Young master—"

Kreacher's voice was high-pitched and sharp. He bent his knees, then bounced back up halfway down. He twisted the tea towel on his body with his free hand, unsure whether to continue bowing or rush forward.

Then he quickly hid the lantern behind his back, bent his body deeply, and his nose almost touched the floor.

"Kreacher didn't know his master was back! Kreacher just now—Kreacher thought—Kreacher deserves to die—Kreacher actually pointed a weapon at his master!"

Regulus chuckled, his voice regaining its usual gentleness: "Alright, it was a misunderstanding. Just kidding with your father."

Kreacher straightened up, his mouth agape, looking at Regulus, then at Orion, his large ears twitching, drooping down and then bouncing back up.

The black flame in the lantern behind him was still dancing, and the runes were still glowing. He took it in front of him, looked at it, and then looked up at the faces of his two masters.

It has been with the Black family since Arcturus III and has participated in more than one real defense alert, but this is the first time I've heard it associated with the word "joke".

It blinked twice, its face full of grievance, but it didn't ask. The little elf never asked about its master's affairs.

Those big, watery eyes looked at Regulus, her ears flapped twice, and then slowly drooped down.

Orion's lips twitched slightly.

Regulus's voice remained gentle: "Kreacher, a cup of tea, please."

Kreacher reacted immediately, then disappeared with a snap, and less than two seconds later reappeared with a snap, holding a silver tray with a steaming cup of black tea on it.

It placed the teacup in front of Regulus and then gave Orion a hot one.

Having done all that, it stood by the table, its ears twitching slightly, and said hesitantly, "Master, the mistress's defenses on the old house just lit up; she wants to come and take a look."

Kreacher's large eyes glanced at Regulus, then quickly looked away.

Orion raised his hand and waved: "Go tell the mistress that the young mistress has returned and that you should go see her later."

Kreacher bowed and was about to disappear when Regulus called out to him, "Kreacher, I haven't eaten yet."

Kreacher's ears perked up, and a look of fear flashed in his big eyes at his hungry little master. He bowed again, deeper than before, until his nose touched the floor.

"Kreacher, get ready right away! Steak, mashed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, roasted tomatoes, steamed vegetables, cream of mushroom soup—Kreacher will make whatever the little master wants!"

Before he could finish speaking, he vanished with a snap.

Orion stared at the spot where Kreacher had disappeared, took a sip of his tea, and then looked at Rebleus, tilting his chin forward slightly: "Your outfit?"

Regulus looked down at himself, then tugged at his loose collar, a smirk playing on his lips: "Professor McGonagall's permanent transformation."

Orion nodded.

Minerva McGonagall, Dumbledore's ironclad, the core of the Order of the Phoenix, and a master of Transfiguration, personally crafted this battle suit for Regulus.

This means that McGonagall knew that Regulus was operating outside of school under another identity and had provided substantial assistance.

In other words, Dumbledore not only acquiesced but also facilitated it.

He watched Regulus sitting in a chair, wearing those ill-fitting clothes—a sight he wouldn't normally see.

Orion's lips twitched, but he didn't say anything.

He steered the conversation back on track: "Everything's arranged in France, what are your plans?"

Regulus thought for a moment.

The simplest way is to go back to the school, tell everyone that things in France are done, and that you're back at Hogwarts. Everything will be fine then.

If Voldemort has the guts, he should go to the school and see. Dumbledore is standing there, and Voldemort is perfectly fine now, with his mind clear. He shouldn't have the guts to step into the castle.

As for the Slytherin Death Eaters, he didn't believe anyone would dare to get close enough to stare at him, or even speak loudly in his presence.

But that's too boring; Rigel is still far from that.

The werewolf camp incident elicited a response, and the Skipton Castle incident took another step forward.

He needs more to make the result come crashing down, to make everyone see it, but no one can figure out how he did it.

He was also curious about who Voldemort would send. He wasn't sure how much Voldemort believed after Voldemort's performance in front of Bella at the Christmas dinner.

But since then, the core of Dark Enlightenment has remained quiet in the containment chamber and has not caused any more trouble.

Voldemort knew what he wanted to see, but there was no need for him to constantly appear corrupted.

If Voldemort wants to see these things, then the people who come will have to be powerful enough. To be honest, I'm kind of looking forward to it.

Regulus's tone was somewhat casual: "I'll go over there and show him."

Orion didn't say much, only adding, "Be just as careful with your subordinates. Voldemort's people may not be the core Death Eaters, but there are also seasoned veterans on the periphery with sharp eyes. They have a much better sense for dark magic than the younger generation."

Regulus nodded, understanding his father's meaning.

Bella is really just so-so. She looks strong, but she can't compare to the older generation. Voldemort has no shortage of older people around him.

But that's what makes it interesting. If we had someone like Bella, it wouldn't be very interesting; they couldn't even act out the passion.

After a moment of silence, Orion spoke again, his tone a little more somber than before.

"Recently, there has been more and more news in the pureblood circle. The Death Eaters are accelerating, increasing their manpower, and expanding their strongholds. Attacks have already occurred in the south of France, and the methods are clearly carried out by the Death Eaters."

Meanwhile, the French at the International Department of Magical Cooperation are furious. Just today, Wizengamo rejected cross-border law enforcement rights, and the French won't give up. The next round of voting is already in preparation.

Regulus held his teacup and listened quietly.

Orion continued, his tone somewhat sarcastic: "The Dementors aren't behaving themselves either. The people the Ministry of Magic sent to patrol Azkaban came back saying that those things aren't sitting obediently on the walls like before; some of them have started drifting towards the cells."

The department is still in a meeting discussing whether to increase the number of guardian deities on duty. By the time they reach a decision, those things will probably have absorbed everything they needed.

Regulus nodded, showing no particular opinion.

Dementors are Voldemort's natural allies; they both wear black robes and look very compatible.

"In the Ministry of Magic, Mintham sits in the minister's seat and pretends to be deaf and dumb." Orion's words were tinged with disdain when he mentioned this minister.

"The Auror Office is constantly arguing with the Department of Law Enforcement, and the Office for the Prohibition of the Abuse of Magic is piled up with a thick stack of reports on non-dark magic activities, each marked as pending review."

The review process dragged on for six months without completion. By the time the last few key positions were filled by Death Eaters, Mintham had no choice but to accept the situation, even if he didn't want to take sides.

He looked at Regulus, his tone becoming serious: "Voldemort is about to be ready, in a year or two at the earliest."

Regulus shook his head: "Maybe even shorter, less than a year, at most next summer."

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