Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

The square was lit up with four lights in total. Cast iron lampposts stood at the four corners of the square, each topped with a magic lamp. The light shone through the frosted glass, illuminating the entire ground with a warm and soft glow.

DuPont was directing several employees to dismantle the long table and move it back to the workshop. Cups, bowls, plates and dishes were stacked on wooden trays, and knives and forks clattered against porcelain plates.

Jean-Pierre walked across the edge of the square carrying two folding chairs, his straw hat hanging behind his neck, humming a French tune off-key.

Claire squatted under the olive tree, picking up the spider silk scraps she had used to bind her that afternoon. She examined them against the light before stuffing them into her robe pocket.

Regulus stood on the second-floor windowsill, his arm resting on the window frame, looking down.

Baruch had eaten a large meal of dragon meat and was now feeling sleepy. His eight legs hung limply on the edge of the window frame, and his spider head sank little by little.

Each time it almost hit the window frame, it would suddenly lift itself up, its chelipeds occasionally opening and closing with a very soft click, like it was talking in its sleep.

He reached out and scooped it up, placing it back on his shoulder. Baruch rolled over, belly up, and remained still.

The sky darkened completely, the outline of the mountain ridge turned from gray to black, and the last bit of afterglow in the west faded away.

Regulus turned his gaze from downstairs to the distance.

From the moment he saw the Killing Curse appear, he guessed the other party's purpose: to force him into a position and make him face a choice.

The logic behind this is not complicated. Voldemort has no reason to suddenly want to kill him. A pure-blood heir who has received dark enlightenment is an asset in the camp, and killing him is a loss.

Bella hated him, but she didn't dare. Without Voldemort's approval, she could only suppress her hatred.

Even if she did take action, it wouldn't be of any use. Unless Voldemort himself intervenes, killing him would be quite difficult.

The phoenix tail feather could deliver him to Dumbledore's side, the metal ball given by Flamel could pull him directly into his house, and the starry kite could instantly take him away from the battlefield; any one of them would be enough for him to escape.

Even if Voldemort really went mad one day and came in person, he should be able to escape. He never felt that he was in danger from beginning to end.

So the purpose of those three killing curses from the beginning was to see how he would choose when it was time to kill, whether to kill or not.

Murder was Voldemort's logic, and dark enlightenment was his method.

If the Dark Inspiration had taken root in him and corroded his soul, then he should not hesitate to kill when faced with a deadly threat. This was the kind of confirmation Voldemort wanted.

But he didn't kill anyone. The one who died was killed by a killing curse triggered by a curse that Bella herself had planted. It had nothing to do with him, and the cause of death was cleanly placed on Bella's head.

Bella messed up her job; she probably won't be able to explain herself well when she gets back.

He recalled the madwoman at the Christmas dinner who screamed and cast the Killing Curse. At least back then, she still had her own madness; that fervor was hers, and that drive to pounce on any target was hers.

This quiet, intelligent Bella still has that fervor, but it's been enveloped by something else—she's become intelligent.

The Spider of Wisdom is called the Spider of Wisdom because Baruch is indeed intelligent. This new version of Bella could also be called the Spider of Wisdom.

But all of this was given to her by Voldemort.

She probably thought it was a gift from her master, proof that her master had personally forged her.

This is how a woman from the Black family lived her life.

I wouldn't say I hate him; there's no point in hating someone who has been reformed.

Bored, and a little sad.

He thought of himself.

If he hadn't been protected by Occlumency when he first encountered Dark Enlightenment, hadn't had the mental strength honed through Star Orbit Meditation, and hadn't had that containment system to keep the gray matter in the corners of his consciousness, would he have ended up like Bella?

The thought flashed through my mind and was gone in an instant.

No, but not because he is better than Bella, but because he is different from Bella, because he never entrusts his faith to anyone.

Bella's breach was her faith. She believed in Voldemort to the point of surrendering herself entirely. Faith itself is a gateway for intrusion. She opened the door, let people in, and then handed over the key as well.

His beliefs have no face; the starry sky is the direction, freedom is the goal, and power is the path.

No one gave him these things; he chose them all himself. He chose this path, and he walks it alone. This door cannot be opened from the outside.

Laughter came from downstairs. Someone was imitating Madeleine's swearing tone, but not quite right, and then got scolded by the real Madeleine.

Regulus turned his gaze from the distance to the window frame.

He found himself being taken advantage of once again.

He's always been the one to start his own business: going to Greyback, going to Dumbledore, becoming Geralt and joining the Order of the Phoenix, and crippling Bellatrix at last year's Christmas dinner—every step was his choice.

But Voldemort always seems to fall from the sky. As soon as his gaze falls, a bunch of things come running out from below, and he has to deal with them. This time it's France, but who knows where or when it will happen next?

He admitted that Voldemort was indeed in control of him.

This is true, and there is no better solution in the short term.

As long as Voldemort exists, and as long as he is not strong enough to not need to depend on anyone for power or position, this uncertain and unstoppable harassment will remain suspended.

That's how Voldemort is. Whenever he feels like it, he'll mess with him, then leave, leaving him with a mess to clean up. He does this every time, and the person might not even remember ever messing with him.

But then again, every time Voldemort touched him from above, it was telling him one thing: Voldemort didn't know him at all.

Voldemort thought he was inspecting an asset: a gifted young wizard who had received dark enlightenment and would sooner or later become an excellent follower in his camp.

But Voldemort didn't know about Star Trail Meditation, the Disintegration Charm and the Disintegration Charm, the Star Kite, or that Geralt was Regulus.

Every time he questioned me from his superior position, he was using a flawed understanding to interpret a minor wizard he had never even given a second glance.

Voldemort's world consisted only of himself; he was too high up to look down.

Regulus was below, somewhere on the edge of his field of vision, valuable, but nothing special.

Voldemort wouldn't spend time truly understanding a boy who hadn't yet grown up. He only needed to confirm that the boy was still on his side, still being corrupted by darkness, and still following the path he had set.

Voldemort had no interest in who this boy was, what he was thinking, or what he was capable of.

Feeling stifled? A little.

But the more Voldemort treated him this way, the more certain he became that Voldemort was still far from truly understanding him, and that distance itself was a safe distance.

Thinking about this, another person naturally came to mind.

Dumbledore never fell from the sky.

Beneath the Astronomy Tower, in the Principal's Office, outside the Screaming Shack, in the Wasteland Tavern, on the Sea Cliff—each time, it's someone who has gone further guiding those who come after.

Both are people far superior to him, but one uses pressure to confirm ownership, while the other uses guidance to confirm direction.

He was never passive when he was with Dumbledore.

Why didn't Voldemort learn from this?

The plaza downstairs has been mostly cleaned up. The long tables have been dismantled, the chairs are stacked against the workshop wall, and the tablecloths are folded and placed on wooden trays.

DuPont stood in the middle of the square, pointing his wand at a cracked stone slab on the ground. The cracks slowly closed in the dim light of the repair spell.

Baruch swayed on my shoulder, almost falling off, then suddenly raised its head, its eight amber eyes widening simultaneously, and its chelicerae clicked twice.

Regulus flicked its carapace, and Baruch tilted its spider head to the side before lying back down.

He couldn't always be so passive. He had thought about it before, about having an academic exchange with Voldemort, about the soul, about the enlightenment of darkness, about the coexistence of light and darkness.

But he couldn't do that. Voldemort didn't accept equality; he only accepted people kneeling. Knowledge was a reward to him, not something to be exchanged.

We need to find a way to get the rhythm back on track and find a way to make this relationship no longer a one-sided affair of you coming and me waiting, you leaving and me waiting.

I haven't figured out the specifics of how to do it yet. I have a general direction, but I still need to think about it.

My thoughts drifted back to Bella.

Each of Blakes chose a path and followed it to the end.

Bella chose faith, and Voldemort became her faith. She gave herself away completely.

Andromeda chose freedom, leaving the pureblood world, and never looked back even after being expelled.

Sirius wanted to go outside, but in a different way than before, though in the same direction.

The same bloodline can produce completely different branches.

They're all crazy, and they're all incredibly determined.

Since we're already in France, let's go see Andromeda, a good cousin and a bad cousin.

Regulus's lips twitched slightly.

He's finished dealing with things in France, and he's taken over all of Voldemort's arrangements.

You wanted to mess with me? Well, I've let you. That's it, I should be leaving now. Lord Voldemort, do you feel my respect now?

Regulus turned and left the windowsill.

The air distorted, and the person vanished.

......

The landing point is on the Left Bank of Paris, at the intersection of Boulevard Saint-Germain and Rue Saint-Jacques.

Baruch was still hanging on his shoulder, dozing off.

Regulus stood on the street corner, his light beige linen robe perfectly in place before he even hit the ground.

He wore a dark gray casual suit, a white shirt, no tie, and the top button of his shirt was undone. His trousers fell neatly onto his leather shoes.

At thirteen, he had already grown quite tall. Years of magical tempering had made his body more flexible, and this outfit accentuated his upright posture.

With a flick of his finger, a Confusion Charm spread out, covering Baruch's shoulder. Muggles looked over, but there was nothing there.

It was an evening in late April 1974, in springtime.

There weren't many people in the square. A few young people who looked like college students were chatting on the steps of the Pantheon. Some were reading, and some were kissing.

Regulus walked down the St. Genevieve Hill toward Mufuta Street.

The chestnut trees are in bloom, with white and pink flower spikes hanging down the sidewalk in clusters. When the wind blows, the petals drift down and land on the roof of a Citroën parked by the roadside.

The café set up rattan tables and chairs on the sidewalk, and the awning was dark green with "GG Beer" printed on it.

Someone was sitting outside smoking and drinking coffee, legs crossed, watching passersby, a newspaper spread out beside him, flicking cigarette ash into the aluminum ashtray on the table.

The people on the street were mostly white French.

A well-dressed middle-aged woman walked past, her high heels clicking on the floor.

The old man with the short-legged dog would walk a few steps, then stop and wait for the dog to finish sniffing the telephone pole before continuing.

A college student on a bicycle, his basket stuffed with a bundle of baguettes, rang his bicycle bell.

A young couple came out of a bakery. The woman was carrying a paper bag, and the man broke off a piece of bread from the bag and put it in his mouth. He was then slapped on the hand.

Occasionally, dark-skinned Algerian immigrants would pass by, dressed differently from their surroundings, and walking faster.

Passing by a subway entrance, the air blowing up from underground had no unpleasant smell.

There were no homeless people on the streets, no litter everywhere, and no skin color that made people instinctively cover their pockets when walking.

The city has a relaxed, dignified pace and hasn't been ruined by what came later.

Passing by a newsstand, the day's newspapers and several magazines hung on an iron rack, with a photograph of Pompidou on the front page of the newspapers.

The French president had just passed away three weeks ago. The caption under the black-and-white photo read "la france en deuil," and France was immersed in grief. The magazine cover next to it was discussing his successor.

Leaders also die in the Muggle world.

Regulus glanced at it and walked over.

Mufuta Street is very narrow, with small shops on both sides.

Bakeries, cheese shops, fruit stands, and butcher shops are crammed together, their storefronts small, but all open, with lights and the smell of food wafting out.

Someone walked past the fruit stand, casually pinched a peach, and then put it back. The stall owner yelled at them.

A man carrying a glass of red wine came out of the bar and chatted briefly with an acquaintance passing by at the door.

At the tail end of the glorious thirty years, the French economy was still doing well, and the benefits of post-war reconstruction had not yet been fully enjoyed.

After walking a while, you can see the direction of the Seine River. There are bookstalls along the river, and the owners of the secondhand bookstalls are sitting in folding chairs reading their books.

A couple leaned against the stone railing, the silhouette of Notre Dame across the way pressed into a dark shadow in the twilight.

The streetlights came on, their soft light spilling from the metal lampposts and casting long shadows on the stone pavement.

Regulus walked through these streets.

It was a completely different world from the battlefield of the day before. There were no severed limbs, no flames, no green light of the Killing Curse, only the aroma of bread, the bitterness of coffee, and the unique leisurely atmosphere of Paris in the evening.

Turn a corner, and you'll find a small coffee shop facing the street.

The glass doors and windows had dark green frames, and above the frames hung an iron sign with a line of handwritten French text.

le coin fleuri, flower corner.

A pot of lavender sits on the windowsill, its purple flower spikes swaying gently in the evening breeze.

Through the glass, you can see inside: several small round tables, a dark wood bar counter, and behind the bar counter, shelves displaying cups and jars of coffee beans.

A warm-colored lamp hung from the ceiling, illuminating the small space.

In the corner, a man in a trench coat was reading a newspaper, while two young people were chatting quietly at another table.

Regulus pushed open the door and went inside; the brass bell on the door rang once.