Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 546 Oh, old man

Orion sat behind the large mahogany desk, several documents spread out in front of him, and a quill pen on his right, the ink still wet.

He glanced up at Regulus, then looked down again and continued with his work.

Regulus sat down in the chair opposite the desk and said directly, "Dumbledore has come to deliver a message. There's work to be done. Geralt, I need to go out for a bit."

Orion's quill stopped on the paper. He looked up, placed the pen next to the ink bottle, leaned back, crossed his hands on the table, and his gaze lingered on Regulus's face for a moment.

The Black family finished that war of covenants, wiping out one of the twenty-eight clans: the Death Eaters, the Order of the Phoenix, the pure-blood families, the Ministry of Magic, observers from various countries—everyone present witnessed it.

The Black surname gained even more prominence in the wizarding world, and Regulus's name became a symbol in the pure-blood community.

Voldemort's reaction is still unfolding, the process of taking over the Roll family's assets is still underway, and the Ministry of Magic is still testing the limits of each family by discussing the filing agreement.

At this moment, Dumbledore came to summon people, choosing the perfect timing. The lingering influence of the Rolle family had not yet dissipated, and the Black family's name was still hot on both sides.

Geralt makes another appearance on the Order of the Phoenix's side, with both storylines active simultaneously and relations maintained on both sides. From any perspective, this does not conflict with the Black family's interests.

There was an unspoken understanding between him and Regulus: the child would handle things on his own, and he would provide space and support without asking about the details.

"Go ahead," Orion nodded, then thought for a moment and asked, "How long?"

"It's hard to say," Regulus shook his head slightly. "It shouldn't be long."

Orion didn't ask for details, his tone becoming more relaxed: "How are you feeling?"

Regulus slumped back in his chair and shrugged: "I'm recovered. I was completely fine yesterday."

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Orion looked at him suspiciously and asked, "Did you ask for the time?"

He was too lazy to expose him, but then, as if remembering something, he frowned.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place is currently closed off; concealment magic covers the entire building, making it impossible for outsiders to find.

It wasn't a complete information blockade. Silas had channels, and a few key contacts were able to pass messages in, but those were channels between their own people. Dumbledore wasn't on that list.

But even though he delivered the message, the protective magic of the old house did not trigger.

Orion's fingers rested on the pen barrel, then he pulled them back.

Dumbledore's concern for Regulus might be deeper than he anticipated, and given the timing, could it be that Regulus only recovered yesterday? Or was he already better but just staying in bed and didn't want to get up?

He looked at Regulus, a slight smile playing on his lips: "After a month in bed, will your legs still be able to walk?"

Regulus sat in the chair, kicked his legs, spread his hands, and said confidently, "If you can't walk, then crawl."

Orion chuckled, took the pen back, and continued signing his documents: "Let's go downstairs for dinner tonight."

Regulus smacked his lips: "Fine."

Orion waved to help him out.

Regulus has slipped away.

In the restaurant in Piazza della Signoria, the fire in the fireplace was not burning very brightly, and the candlelight from the silver candlesticks illuminated the tableware on the table.

The stewed beef is drizzled with broth, the roasted potatoes are slightly charred, steamed vegetables are piled on one side of the plate, the Yorkshire pudding is fluffy and crispy, and there is also a small bowl of cream of mushroom soup and a whole baked salmon.

Walbuga took Sirius's chair and sat next to Regulus, eating and serving him food, while Orion sat alone opposite him.

Regulus finished chewing his food, put down his knife and fork, and said casually, "Mother, Father has assigned me a task; I have to go out tomorrow."

Walbuga was forking steak onto Regulus's plate, his hand hovering in mid-air, his eyes shifting from Regulus's face to Orion's.

His eyes held three parts suspicion and seven parts dissatisfaction.

Your son just did something so big, he's only been lying at home for a month, and his injuries haven't healed for long, and you're already sending him out?

Her eyes were cold, and her tone was unfriendly: "What job?"

Regulus subtly fixed his gaze on Orion's face, looking at him innocently along with Volbuga, waiting for an explanation.

Orion's eye twitched slightly; now the mother and son were on the same side.

He put down his knife and fork, picked up a napkin to wipe his mouth, looked at Walbuga, and then at Regulus.

"The Rohr family has a number of properties in Northern Europe that haven't been fully acquired yet, including two mines. They need someone to go and oversee them. Regulus has just had enough rest, so let him go and complete the procedures."

Volbuga stared at Orion for a couple of seconds, but Orion's expression showed no flaws.

She turned to look at Regulus, who shrugged at his mother with a helpless and slightly aggrieved expression.

Walbuga turned back and glared at Orion, who picked up his glass, took a sip, and remained expressionless.

Walbuga ignored him, reached over with his fork, put the steak on Regulus's plate, and pushed a whole Yorkshire pudding next to it.

"Eat more, don't go out hungry tomorrow."

Regulus cut off a piece, put it in his mouth, and chewed: "Thank you, Mother."

Baruch was slumped over the corner of the table, with a small silver plate in front of him filled with strips of dragon meat.

It picked up a chelicerae with its claws and put it in its mouth, chewing intently with a crunching sound. Its head was lowered, its eight legs were tucked in, and its rear end was facing Regulus.

Walbuga glanced at it, the gentleness in his eyes gone from that of early last month.

After dinner, Regulus went upstairs to his room, opened the wardrobe, and took out Geralt's suit from the bottom of the wardrobe.

Dark gray short vest, high-necked and sleeveless, thick fabric with subtle pattern reinforcement, straight-leg dark trousers, short-top dragon leather boots, Professor McGonagall's excellent craftsmanship, permanent transformation.

Baruch jumped off the shoulder and landed on the suit. His chelicerae touched the shoulder seams of the short vest, then he lay down and curled up into a ball.

Regulus glanced out the window; it was already dark.

Gudvangen, a small village deep in the Sognefjord on the west coast of Norway.

The fjord cuts into the land from the coastline for nearly 200 kilometers, becoming narrower and narrower as you go in, with steeper and steeper mountain walls on both sides. By the time you reach Gudvangen, it has narrowed into a mere slit.

The gray-blue water is only a few hundred meters wide, but it is bottomless. On both sides are almost vertical rock walls. The cross-section of the granite is gray and white. In some places, thin moss grows. In a corner where the wind cannot reach, a few clumps of dwarf birch trees hang, their leaves trembling in the cold wind blowing through the canyon.

Above the rock face, the higher elevations are exposed scree slopes, and further up are snow-capped mountain peaks.

In August in Norway, the snow in the lower areas has melted, leaving green and gray underfoot, while the white peaks of the mountains are visible overhead.

The village is small, with wooden houses lined up along the shore. Most of the paint has peeled off, revealing the wood grain underneath, which has been corroded to a grayish-brown color by the sea wind and salt spray.

The roof was covered with slate tiles, which were covered with moss. Some of the tiles had been lifted off the roof and no one had repaired them. They creaked and groaned in the wind.

The roads in the town are paved with gravel, and weeds grow in the cracks. They have withered after being trampled on many times and lie softly against the ground.

Several trawlers were moored at the dock, their masts leaning precariously, the ropes blackened by the seawater. Seagulls perched on the masts, cawing and calling out a few times before stopping to tilt their heads and look at the water.

The only restaurant in the village has a wooden sign with Norwegian writing on it: Fjordstua, which probably means fjord cottage.

I pushed the door open, and the hinges creaked open.

The space wasn't large, with six or seven tables. The tables by the window were occupied by local fishermen wearing thick waterproof jackets with shiny cuffs, holding beer mugs, and sitting in front of them with fried cod fillets and boiled potatoes.

Three people were sitting in the corner, completely out of place with the atmosphere of this fishing village.

An old man with a long, silver beard, wearing a brightly colored travel robe, stood out conspicuously in the gray-brown wooden room.

Half-moon shaped glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and a glass of bright orange-red beverage sat in front of him, looking very sweet.

He was talking to the fisherman's boss; it was unclear whether he was speaking Norwegian, English, or some other language.

The boss was a bearded man wearing an apron stained with oil. He was grinning and gesturing with his hands. I don't know what the old man said that made him so happy.

Two young men with reddish-brown hair sat opposite him, silently eating their rice.

Fabian had half a bread roll stuffed in his mouth, a fork in one hand, and a piece of fried fish in the other, eating with gusto.

Gideon ate with better manners, but he was still quite fast.

The door opened from the outside, and a figure strode in, with long silver-white hair, amber vertical pupils, and a dark gray short vest.

Fabian glanced up at the doorway, then sprang up from his chair, nearly choking on his words, his voice excited and muffled: "Geralt—!"

Gideon also stood up, waved towards the door, grinned, and chewed something in his mouth.

Geralt walked in, glanced around the room, saw fishermen, cod fillets, beer, the old man's orange-red drink of some unknown kind, and the Pewter brothers covered in bread crumbs.

"Newbies," he gestured with his chin toward the two brothers, his voice both enthusiastic and disdainful, "chew your food before you speak, don't spray it on me."

Fabian swallowed hard, patted his chest, and his eyes shone brightly: "You've finally come!"

Geralt pulled up the chair next to Dumbledore, leaned back, stretched his legs under the table, and grinned at Dumbledore: "Hey, old man, long time no see. Busy again?"

Dumbledore's blue eyes peered over from above his half-moon spectacles, and his white beard twitched. "Long time no see, Geralt. How have you been?"

"It's alright, just a bit boring."

Fabian had already squeezed in next to Geralt, nudging him with his elbow: "We've been waiting for almost an hour! The professor said you'd arrive today, I thought we'd have to wait until tomorrow—how did you get here? Apparition? Portkey?"

Geralt shrugged and raised one eyebrow: "I swam here, from the Shetland Islands to Norway, and met a lone giant squid on the shore, which gave me a ride."

Fabian paused, his mouth agape, his eyes wide, as he mentally calculated the distance: "That's four hundred kilometers—"

You swam 400 kilometers? How long did it take you to swim?

"It only takes a morning," Geralt said, raising a hand and blowing on his little fingernail. "Going with the ocean current saves energy."

Fabian's mouth hung open, and his eyes began to light up.

Gideon shook his head. Geralt was just fooling the idiots again.

Geralt looked at Fabian's expression and was very satisfied.

Dumbledore looked at the three young people in front of him, his blue eyes shining gently.

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