Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 547 The Wise Giants of Jotunheim

Fabian turned around, propped his elbows on the edge of the table, and leaned towards Geralt: "Where have you been these past few months? I haven't heard from you since you left last time. Any new adventures?"

Geralt leaned back casually, legs spread wide: "Last month, I encountered a nest of sirens in a sea cave off the west coast of Ireland. Not the snake-haired kind from last time, but these were covered in scales, incredibly fast in the water, and had two rows of teeth."

Fabian followed up with, "So how did you fight?"

Geralt shook his head: "I didn't fight it. I talked to the leader, scratched its chin, and it stopped making a fuss."

Fabian immediately became agitated: "You scratched the chin of a siren?"

"It likes it," Geralt said earnestly, "the scales are thinnest under its chin, and it feels good to scratch them."

Fabian listened with increasing enthusiasm, almost leaning on Geralt, while Gideon shook his head inwardly.

The silver-haired man's fabricated story became increasingly outrageous, with details that remained utterly absurd, and his expression was one of unwavering confidence from beginning to end.

The man with the reddish-brown hair gaped wide-eyed, his eyes shining brightly, completely believing it, while another man with reddish-brown hair listened and laughed beside him.

Dumbledore withdrew his gaze from the three young men, took off his half-moon spectacles, and slowly wiped the lenses with the corner of his robe sleeve.

The light from the fjord shone through the murky glass, making the blue eyes appear even clearer without the lenses obscuring them.

He looked out the window at the gray-blue water, the rocky cliffs on the opposite bank, and the white snow on the distant mountain peaks.

This child, no matter what he does, has light in his heart.

Regulus launched a war of genocide, destroying a pure-blood family that had been passed down for hundreds of years, and personally killing a peer of his own age.

He knew all those things, though he didn't see the process, but he knew what happened.

A thirteen-year-old child did all this and was still laughing, and could still sit with Fabian and Gideon and chat.

This wasn't because he didn't care about those things, but because he had something else weighing on his mind.

The guardian deity is a projection of his soul; that cannot be faked.

He never hesitated to take care of Andromeda, to teach Lily, to guide the young people around him at school, and to help the two mixed-race children.

He has family, friends, and people who are willing to stand with him.

Dumbledore had seen what people were like without these things.

He put his glasses back on, his thoughts drifting back seventy-three years to the summer of 1901, to Godric Valley.

He was seventeen years old, a recent graduate of Hogwarts, the most outstanding student in the entire school, and every professor thought he had a bright future. Barnaby Kingley used the evaluation "once in a century" in his letter of recommendation.

He went home with a pile of awards and an empty future.

Her mother had just died, and she was killed by Ariana's uncontrolled magic while she was confined at home.

Abu Fusi hated him, believing that his mother died because he was not home.

Ariana needs someone to take care of her; she can no longer leave home, and she's trapped.

The whole world was waiting for him, the wizarding academic community was waiting for him, Nicolas Flamel's reply was in the drawer, but he couldn't leave.

Then Gellert came from Budapest and was fired by Durmstrang.

She has golden curly hair, bright eyes, a crooked smile, speaks very quickly, and thinks even faster.

They had their first conversation in Bathilda's garden, which lasted from afternoon until nightfall.

The Deathly Hallows, the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak—these three items combined make one the master of death.

Gellert said these things are real, and he found clues in Durmstrang's library.

"Greater interests."

Gellert stood in the garden, the setting sun turning his golden hair red, his eyes shining, his arms outstretched, pointing into the distance.

He said wizards shouldn't hide, shouldn't lock themselves in a corner, and shouldn't be subservient to Muggles. Wizards should stand up, guide them, and rule them, for the good of everyone, including Muggles themselves.

At seventeen, he was stuck at home taking care of a sick younger sister when someone just as smart as him told him that he didn't need to be stuck there and that he could change the world.

He believed it.

That summer was short, only two months. They talked about the Deathly Hallows, the nature of power, the relationship between wizards and Muggles, and a completely new world order.

They wrote plans in the attic of Bathilda's house, argued until midnight in the garden, and walked side by side in the Godric Valley cemetery with a tombstone inscribed with "The last enemy will be destroyed, that is death."

Then summer ended, Aberforth intervened, and the three of them got into an argument, with spells flying everywhere.

Ariana is dead.

Gellert left, leaving Godric's Hollow, leaving England, and going to Europe.

Dumbledore thought it was an ideal at the time, only to later realize that there was no one else there.

Gellert's world consisted only of himself and that blueprint; he had no family, no friends, and no one who wanted to help him.

Bathilda Bagshot was a good aunt, but she didn't understand what Gellert wanted, and he himself couldn't hold onto him before the summer ended.

Gellert did what he set out to do, and for twenty years the whole of Europe burned for it. In Nurmengard, the stronghold of the Malays, the fate of hundreds of thousands of people was swept up by the will of one man.

Because no one stopped him, because he was all alone, he did whatever he wanted. Some people tried to stop him, but no one could.

Dumbledore turned his gaze from the window back to Geralt.

Fabian was patting him on the shoulder, laughing so hard he almost slipped off his chair, and Gillon, standing next to him, finally couldn't help but laugh out loud as well.

Geralt's lips curled into a wide grin, his amber pupils brimming with smugness, and he gestured with his hands in mid-air to depict the shape of a siren.

The three young people squeezed into a corner. The table was small, and their elbows bumped against each other, but no one seemed to mind.

What did Fabian say? Geralt replied, and Gideon added a word from the side. All three of them laughed at the same time.

This kid is different from Gellert.

Of course they are different.

Regulus was surrounded by people, too many people.

As Dumbledore watched the three young men laughing and joking, the light in his blue eyes softened even more.

pretty good.

Fabian's conversation finally shifted from adventure stories to something else, which wasn't really serious, just gossip.

He leaned forward: "Geralt, you've heard? The big thing that happened the other day? The Black family thing."

He gestured in the air, his facial features contorted in an exaggerated expression: "The Black family brat, thirteen years old! Wiped out the entire Roll family! Can you believe it? Thirteen years old! All by himself!"

Gideon added, "He's better than all of us combined."

Fabian slammed his hand on the table: "I'm not bragging, but the two of us were there and watched the whole thing from beginning to end!"

First, a beam of light crashed down from the sky, and with a deafening boom, the manor was gone! The ground shattered completely! Then, that old man, Rol, transformed himself into a cloud of black mist. Do you know how big that thing was?

He drew a circle in the air with both hands, making it bigger and bigger, stretching from one end of the table to the other, still not big enough: "It's as big as a mountain! It chases after people! No spells can stop it! Then that little brat picked up a fire knife—"

He stood up abruptly, gesturing with his hands to show the height of the knife, raising it from the table to above his head. Feeling it wasn't high enough, he stood on tiptoe: "Forty meters! It's burning from the ground to the sky! One strike and it's gone!"

Geralt crossed one leg over the other, the chair tilted back, a smirk playing on his lips. His amber pupils were half-closed as he listened to the entire description, his voice languid: "That little brat? I know him, I've heard of him."

The golden light in his eyes flickered, and the corners of his mouth stretched even wider: "So-so, they wouldn't stand a chance against me."

Fabian froze, his expression frozen on his face, then he burst out laughing, slapped his thigh, and turned to Gideon: "Did you hear that? Geralt said he wasn't good enough!"

After saying that, she turned back, her eyes practically blazing with anger: "You really think that? What if you run into him...?"

Geralt held up a finger and shook it: "No way. That brat just stays in England, having tea with his bunch of pure-blood friends. I'm out running around, and he's sitting inside. It's impossible to run into him."

He paused for a moment, then added, his eyes gleaming with a fierce light: "If we really run into him, we'll kill him."

Fabian's grin was practically reaching his ears, while Gideon's shoulders trembled beside him.

Dumbledore took a sip of his orange-red drink, his blue eyes full of laughter, and clapped his hands lightly twice: "Alright, young men."

The three people turned their attention to him. Fabian was still sitting next to Geralt, his smile still on his face, while Gideon sat down beside him.

Geralt lowered the chair that was sticking up, and with all four legs on the ground, his amber pupils quieted down.

"Let's get down to business," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes peering at the three young men through his half-moon spectacles. "From here, head northeast, cross three ridges, about ninety kilometers, and at the very bottom of the canyon, there's a tribe of giants."

"You all know what a normal giant is like: he's big, has a bad temper, fights by smashing things, and doesn't have a good memory. A tribal chief can forget the decisions he makes today by next month."

The two brothers nodded.

"But this tribe is different. The giants have no written language. Their thousands of years of history, territorial ownership, tribal alliances and blood feuds are all passed down orally."

Most giants can't remember things from three generations ago, but this tribe does. They are the ones who remember. They know which mountain was where who came first, which river was where who died, and how the agreement was made hundreds of years ago. It's all in their minds.

When the giants get into a fight and can't figure things out, they'll eventually go to them for advice. They'll say whose it is, and that's who it is, because the other giants can't remember things from so long ago. The existence of this tribe allows the giant race to maintain a rough order.

Giants aren't intelligent, but they know who to follow to avoid being taken advantage of. For hundreds of years, this tribe has never been wrong. Other giants trust them, not because they are the biggest or strongest, but because following them ensures their territory won't be lost for no reason.

"Whoever wins them over gains the right to speak within the entire giant race. Whichever side they take, the other tribes will follow suit."

Geralt narrowed his eyes, lost in thought.

The logic is simple: the right to arbitrate comes from memory and trust. I never expected that there would be intelligent giants among the giant race.

Having wisdom and being humane are two different things. Being humane means being able to communicate, get along with others, and understand what the other person means.

Wisdom is something else entirely; it requires the ability to judge, to weigh options, and to make choices that go beyond instinct.

There is no reproductive barrier between ordinary giants and wizards, and they can mate across species, but mating only requires instinct and has nothing to do with intelligence.

If these intelligent beings were to be born like wizards, wouldn't they possess both physical prowess and intellectual prowess?

Dumbledore's voice pulled him back to reality: "The Death Eaters have already gone there once, bringing gifts and wine, but they couldn't even get through the camp gates."

Gideon interjected, "Who went?"

"Old Avery."

Fabian whistled.

The giants' attitude towards wizards has remained unchanged for hundreds of years: hatred.

The Ministry of Magic's policy of expulsion and shrinking territory drove them further and further into the mountains, making them more and more remote.

Death Eaters can use hatred to seduce ordinary giants, but to intelligent giants, all wizards are the same—nothing good. Wizards have zero credibility with them.

Dumbledore looked at Geralt: "My bottom line is simple: I don't need them to be on our side. Just let them stay as they are, neither taking sides nor helping either."

Fabian and Gideon exchanged a glance.

"The problem is," the old man's voice tinged with amusement, "that gentle approaches don't work, reasoning with them is ineffective, and gifts are unwelcome. So we need someone we can talk to."

Fabian reacted quickly: "Does being able to talk to someone mean you can beat them in a fight?"

Dumbledore's mustache twitched.

Geralt slammed his hand on the table, his eyes gleaming with golden light: "Giants? We've never beaten them."

Fabian grinned and turned to look at Gideon, who stood up and brushed the breadcrumbs off his robe.

The three of them acted immediately. Geralt pushed his chair back, stood up, took two steps to the door, turned his head, and glanced at Dumbledore.

Geralt gestured with his chin towards him, and Dumbledore raised his cup.

The door opened, and the August wind in Norway carried the chill of the mountains, much colder than it looked. The three people walked out, and the door closed behind them.

Geralt tugged at his collar and thought it fit perfectly. Fabian shuddered and rubbed his hands together. Gideon wasn't much better; he turned up his collar and shrank his chin.

Dumbledore sat alone in the corner. The fisherman's owner came over and pointed to his cup. The old man smiled and nodded.

Outside the window, three figures walked along the gravel path to the end of the dock and stood next to the wooden stakes that were used to moor fishing boats.

Geralt tilted his head slightly towards the fjord, and three muffled thuds exploded simultaneously, squeezing the air at the end of the dock before it was filled back in by the sea breeze.

A seagull cawed twice on the mast, and the water in the distance rippled in the wind. The end of the dock was empty, with nothing left behind.

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