Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

North Yorkshire, Steinmore Moor.

One of the most desolate areas in northern England, rolling brown hills stretch from one end of the horizon to the other, covered with withered heather and sparse shrubs, with no trees, no villages, and no roads.

The wind blew from the west, sweeping across the ridgeline of the hills with a low, mournful sound.

The Roll Manor is situated in a low-lying area between two hills. The building is constructed of rough, gray-brown stones, with a mottled appearance. The surface of the stones has been etched with fine serrations by hundreds of years of wind and rain, so rough that it can scratch the palm of your hand.

The main building has three floors, with narrow windows embedded in thick walls, much like firing ports on a fortress. There is no garden; in front of the main building is only a pebbly open space with a few clumps of drought-resistant thistles growing along its edges.

The entire manor is made of simple vertical and horizontal bars, sturdy, heavy, and durable.

The lintel above the main gate of the manor is engraved with the Roel family crest: a black iron dagger pointing vertically downwards, piercing a coiled snake. On either side of the dagger stands a gaunt gray wolf. The engravings are deep, and although they have been worn by wind and sand for hundreds of years, the outlines are still clear.

The Roll family's dark red flag hung limply atop the tower, fluttering weakly in the wind blowing from the North Sea.

The sky was the typical Yorkshire leaden grey, with low-hanging clouds stretching from the moorland to the horizon.

Dag Rolle stood by the window of his study, looking out at the wilderness he had seen all his life. The gray-green grass swayed in the wind, and several trodden paths stretched out from the manor and disappeared among the rolling hills.

The study's style is consistent with the manor's exterior, with exposed stone walls, no wallpaper or tapestries, and rows of old books and scrolls on the shelves, some of which have turned black.

The table is made of heavy black oak, with burn marks and knife scratches crisscrossing its surface, making it older than its owner.

The window was only slightly ajar, and the wind outside squeezed in through the crack, carrying the bitter smell of heather.

Then the sky brightened, and golden light pierced through the thick clouds above the manor.

It was more concentrated and brighter than sunlight, its edges trembling with a scorching heat, the beam of light falling on the lintel above the manor's main gate and on the family crest.

The family crest also lit up, with golden light shining through the stone carvings from within, and gilded Latin letters seeping out line by line from below the crest, spreading out in the air of the manor.

The dagger and snake emblem were forcibly activated by contract magic, and the Black family's verdict against them was read out using the Roll family's own emblem.

declaratio sanguinis, Black, Rowe, offense, contract, twenty-eight days, three days of public notice, everything belongs to the victor, domus rowle non potest recusare.

Dag Rol looked up as the words appeared from the first word to the last word disappearing into the leaden sky, his expression remaining unchanged throughout the entire process.

The wand slid into his hand, and he raised it. Dark red light shot out from its tip, piercing through the study window and exploding in the sky above the manor. It split into more than thirty beams of light that flew in different directions: east, north, underground, to the wasteland outside the manor, and to the back of the hills further away.

The summons signal has been given to all.

The entire process was carried out without the slightest hesitation or thought, and there was no weighing of whether or not to fight. The declaration of the contract had already come to their doorstep, and their clan emblem had been borrowed by the other side's magic to serve as a mouthpiece. So, they decided to fight.

Footsteps came from the doorway, unsteady and unsteady.

Dorfin Roll rushed out of his room, ran down the corridor to the study door, and smashed open the half-closed door.

His face was pale, and his expression changed several times in a few dozen seconds: confusion, disbelief, anger, fear, chaos, and collapse.

"Just because of that?" he shouted at old Raoul's retreating back, his voice cracking. "Just because of that he's going to activate the contract?"

Old Raoul ignored him, and his wand flashed again, sending a dark red light flying into the floor beneath.

"Is Blake fucking insane?!" Dorffin's voice rose even higher, cracking even more violently: "What did I do? I just—"

His voice faltered for a moment; he knew what he had done: Belmont, Sayler, twice sabotaging Blake from the shadows.

But he didn't understand, he really didn't understand, why something of this magnitude would provoke a response of annihilation.

It's common practice for pure-blood families to set traps for each other; his father did it to other families, and his father's father did it too.

If someone trips, they can just get up and trip back up. At worst, they can drink some magic potion and rest for a couple of days, and then it'll be over.

"Father! Father, speak to me!" His voice grew louder and louder, more fragmented.

Old Raoul didn't look back at him once from beginning to end. His wand was still working, and another signal flew out. The dark red light passed through the stone wall and disappeared into the wasteland.

Dolphin stood at the doorway, roaring at a wall.

The muscles in his face were contorted, his lips were bloodless, he clenched his fists but didn't know who to hit, and he held his wand but didn't know who to point it at.

His cognitive ceiling is limited to the normal methods of pure-blood politics. In his world, tripping up heirs of the same age is a game, a competition, a lesson that every pure-blood wizard starts learning from the moment they can walk.

He did these things without much malice; he simply felt it was something he should do, something the heir of the Roll family should do for the heir of the Black family.

Regulus simply overturned the table, leaping across the middle ground of all the games and landing directly at the finish line. The revenge he had imagined, the tit-for-tat, the counter-attacks, the back-and-forth exchanges, none of it came to pass.

Dolphin couldn't understand this.

Two days earlier at the Malfoy family wedding, he smiled and shook hands with Regulus, warmly calling his name, patting his hand, and saying it had been a long time.

haven't seen you for a long time.

Now he knew that when Regulus Black shook his hand, he was already thinking about how to destroy his family.

Meanwhile, he was still diligently playing the part of two good buddies, thinking he was impeccably disguised and that Regulus knew nothing.

Now he knew that Regulus was a better actor than him.

Isolde Raoul is pruning flowers in the living room, a habit she has maintained for over twenty years, ever since she married into the Raoul family.

The flowers were thistles, heather, and several other small grey flowers that only grow in the Yorkshire moors, which she had gathered from the moors outside the estate. She arranged them in a crystal vase that her mother had left her.

Golden light streamed in through the window, and she looked up to see her family crest burning in the sky.

The vase slipped from her hands, crystal shards shattered on the floor, and water splashed onto her skirt and shoes.

She screamed, then covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face, washing away the thin layer of foundation.

She bent down to pick up the shards, cutting her finger. Blood dripped into the water and spread out. She didn't have the strength to stand up.

Without turning his head, old Rohr indifferently ordered, "Go to your mother's."

The erosion of the soul by dark magic is slow. Every time an unforgivable curse is used, every time a living person is tortured with a curse, every time another wizard's soul is torn apart in the interrogation room, marks are left on him.

The curses that were used up, the people who were tortured to death, the corpses he disposed of in the secret room—everything was destroying his humanity.

But at the same time, it is also refining his magic. This is the cruelest trade in black magic: you get what you give, but what you give and what you get are never the same thing.

Dag Roll's magical abilities are among the best in the entire Roll family's history; he is indeed powerful and talented, but this comes at a great cost.

He gave his humanity, but his soul was peeled away layer by layer.

Living requires motivation, and his motivation was nothing but violence and survival. So at this moment, he felt no anger or fear, no human emotional reaction. He was simply doing his job: mobilizing magic, sending signals, setting up defenses, and preparing for war.

The vassals began to assemble.

Less than ten minutes after the summons was given, muffled sounds of apparitions began to echo across the wasteland surrounding the manor, one or two at a time, growing more and more frequent.

The Anti-Apparition Charm covered the main part of the manor, so these people landed on the wasteland about 300 meters away and then walked in.

The first figure to enter through the main gate of the manor was wrapped in a gray cloak, with the hood covering most of his face and only one hand showing.

With large knuckles and bloodstains stuck between his fingers, he nodded in the direction of old Rohr and silently walked to the side of the main hall.

The second one emerged from the secret passage beneath the manor, the wall behind him closing again, still damp with the scent of earth.

He was carrying a wand bound by an iron chain, the wand being twice as thick as a normal wand, the chain dragging on the ground, making a metallic scraping sound as he walked.

The third one fell from the ceiling, landing silently. The cloak billowed outwards for a moment upon impact, then retracted.

He stood up, glanced around the main hall and saw that several people were already silent, then walked to the wall and leaned against it.

The fourth person climbed in through the window on the east side of the manor, and the fifth was a father and son, both wearing the same style of dark robes.

People kept entering the main hall, from the side door, from the cellar steps, from the spiral staircase of the tower, a dozen, twenty, thirty.

Hooded, dark robes, silence—the manor's main hall was filled with one figure after another; the only sounds during the gathering were footsteps and robes brushing against the air.

Some people exchanged glances, some of whom hadn't seen each other for years, but no one exchanged pleasantries.

The Rohr family's vassals, the dark wizards, the exiled, and those who owed blood debts and could only hide in the shadows—each of them owed the Rohr family a life, or the Rohr family owed them a life.

The last vassal entered the main hall, and the heavy doors began to close. The doors slowly pushed towards the center, and two voices came from the last gap before they closed completely.

Isolde's half-smoked breath, suppressed in his throat, and the crunching sound of Dolphin's boots stepping on shards of glass.

The door closed, and the main hall was full of people.

Old Raoul stood in front of everyone, his black robes swaying gently in the turbulence of magical energy.

He raised his eyes, his brown eyes sweeping over the dozens of people in front of him, his gaze passing over each face but not lingering on any one.

He knew that the Black family was better prepared. The contract was initiated by the Black family, and their preparation period must have been longer than that of the Rohr family. He might not be able to withstand the first wave of attacks.

But this is the only thing the Luo family can do right now: catch the first wave and then launch a full-scale counterattack.

His voice was rough, deep, and flat: "Hold the manor, survive until the fourth day, and then we'll go out."

"If we can't hold on, the Luo family will be gone."

Dozens of hooded heads bowed down in unison.

......

There were three little girls in the Foley family's garden.

Marcia Foley sat cross-legged on the grass, with a pheasant, slightly larger than a fist, perched on her knees. Its feathers were a matte silver-blue, and its beak was wide open, singing a little tune with three different tones.

Knox nestled on Lily's lap, his short black feathers glowing hot in the sun, the tip of his tail swaying gently, his deep blue eyes fixed on the bird's tail, his pupils contracting and expanding with the movement of the feathers.

Susan sat on a garden chair, flipping through a summer preview book, "Standard Spells for Fourth Grade." She would turn a few pages, then stop to listen to the other two chatting, before turning a few more pages.

"How much of your summer homework have you done?" Marcia asked Lily.

"I've finished Transfiguration, I'm halfway through Herbalism, and I haven't even started Potions yet. I plan to finish it all before I go back."

Marcia pouted: "You say that every year."

Lily smiled slyly: "I finish mine every year too."

Susan chuckled from behind.

Knox sprang off Lily's lap. He had been putting up with that bird for a long time. He tumbled a couple of times on the grass with his four short legs, then pushed off with his hind legs and darted toward the railing.

Lily reached out and intercepted it mid-air.

Knox twisted it in her hand a couple of times, making a disgruntled grumbling sound.

"They're singing," Lily said, pulling it back into her arms and scratching its chin with her finger. "Have some manners."

Knox flicked his tail, wrapped it around Lily's wrist, pulled out his airplane ears, and stared at the bird with his eyes, his claws sticking out and retracting from his paw pads, then sticking out again.

The bird, oblivious, continued singing.

On the distant terrace, old Foley sat in a wicker chair under a parasol, a pot of tea and a plate of cookies in front of him. His round face wore a relaxed expression, and he held a teacup in his hand with his eyes half-closed, enjoying himself in the July sunshine.

Then green flames suddenly burst from the outdoor fireplace on one side of the terrace, and a head emerged from the flames, its lips moving, before disappearing a moment later.

He froze, the teacup slipped from his hand and shattered on the stone slab of the terrace. He abruptly stood up, the rattan chair scraping backward with a sharp sound, and all the color drained from his face.

The laughter on the lawn stopped, and the three girls looked towards the terrace at the same time. Susan closed her textbook and exchanged a glance with Lily.

Marcia whispered, "Daddy?"

Old Foley turned and glanced at her, a look that made Marcia shrink back.

She had never seen her father with such an expression. Last year, when Death Eaters attacked a wizarding family in the next town, he merely frowned and muttered, "Here we go again."

Marcia stood up from the grass, brushed the grass clippings off her skirt, and strode towards the terrace, with Lily and Susan following behind. The quail fluttered its wings around Marcia.

"Dad, what's wrong?"

Old Foley looked at the three girls, hesitated for a moment, but this kind of thing couldn't be hidden, and there was no point in hiding it.

His voice was a little dry: "The Black family has just invoked an ancient pure-blood law, a family revenge pact, targeting the Roll family; it's a war of annihilation."

Marcia's mouth opened slightly: "What?"

"It's just what you heard. I just found out too. I'm still confirming the details. Let me first—" Old Foley shook his head: "Don't run around. Stay home."

After saying that, he hurriedly walked towards the main house.

The three girls stood on the terrace, looking at each other in bewilderment.

Marcia's face also turned a little pale. She was a pureblood and knew that there were many unspoken rules among pureblood families, but what about the family revenge contract?

She had never even heard of this name before. She knew the Black family and the Roll family; both were members of the Holy Twenty-Eight Clans, the most prestigious families in the British magical world. These two families were going to destroy each other.

"This...this can't be, can it?" Her voice trembled. "That's Rohr, one of the Twenty-Eight Holy Clans! The Black family is going to start a war?"

Lily's eyes widened, and she hugged Knox tighter in her arms.