Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 566 Newt Scamander

Early morning in Dorset, England, in the countryside in August, the sun rises very early.

The sun had already risen behind the eastern hills, its rays spreading across a green pasture, where a few Muggle cows grazed in the distance.

An unassuming stone farmhouse sits at the edge of the pasture, under a large oak tree. The chimney is not smoking, the windows are closed, and the path in front of the house is overgrown with clover.

In the corner of the farmhouse kitchen sat an old brown leather trunk, its leather surface badly worn, the clasp polished smooth by countless fingers, looking older than the house itself.

The leather belt with the buckle on the left has been replaced. The new leather is a shade darker than the old leather, and the stitching is not as fine as before. It looks like it was sewn by myself.

The leather surface bears postmarks and entry stamps from different countries, some of which have faded to the point of being illegible.

Inside the box is a miniature world, with different areas divided into different terrains and climates.

Go down the steps from the entrance, and you'll first pass a temperate meadow, with a shallow freshwater lake at the edge, where a few waterfowl are floating.

To the left is a sandy area, where the temperature is significantly higher. Among a few low shrubs lives a nest of furry sniffles, stuffing something shiny into their burrow.

The ground on the right had turned into moss and ferns, the humidity was higher, the air smelled of a rainforest, and the shade of the tree canopy...

Something is flashing rapidly.

Further out there are ice fields, a cave, and a vast expanse of sky.

Newt Scamander crouches by the freshwater lake.

He's seventy-seven years old, his hair is completely white, faded from its youthful brown to silver-gray, and the curly ends are even more unruly than when he was younger.

The wrinkles on her face are mainly concentrated at the corners of her eyes and mouth, making her look like she's been laughing all her life, but she doesn't look tired.

His back is a little more hunched than when he was younger, and he is a bit slower when he squats down, but his overall spirit is still good. His eyes are bright, his fingers are nimble, and his movements have a lightness that is not appropriate for his age.

On a rock by the lake sat an iron plate, on which lay a mixture of chopped fish and some kind of magical insect.

A young horned camel lay nearby, its head stretched out, its tongue curling as it licked the food from the plate.

Newt crouched down beside him, one hand resting on the cub's back, his fingers gently stroking the still-unhardened keratinous shell.

"Eat slowly," he said gently, his tone earnest. "You had an upset stomach yesterday, so eat less today."

The cub completely ignored him and curled its tongue even faster.

A small green creature, not much bigger than his palm, perched on his shoulder. It had wings and resembled a miniature dragon, but not quite.

The little creature's tail was hooked around Newt's collar, its head bobbing back and forth as it stared at the food on the plate.

"You can't eat this," Newt said, reaching out to pry the tail off his neck without turning his head. "Yours is over there."

The little creature on my shoulder reluctantly spread its wings and flew away.

After the cub finished eating, Newt stood up and, as he turned around, braced himself against a low rock beside him with one hand. His movements were not slow, nor did he use any obvious leverage, showing that he was taking care of his joints in the way a seventy-seven-year-old should.

He patted the damp dirt off the hem of his robe and walked toward the rainforest area, his hands hanging at his sides, his fingers slightly open and closed, as if sensing the temperature and humidity in the air.

The simulated canopy overhead had moved from dawn to morning, and the light was brighter, shining down from an easterly angle, filtering through the gaps in the branches and casting a patch of dappled light on the ground.

The bird-snake's nest hangs among the branches of the tree canopy. The branches and leaves sway slightly in the almost windless state, and you can vaguely see the baby birds moving around inside.

Newt came to a tree, took a palm-sized wooden box out of his pocket, opened the lid, and found several dark brown creatures lying inside.

Its carapace is thick and has a glossy, dark sheen. Six short, thick, spiky legs are tucked into its sides, and a pair of short tentacles on its head sway slowly.

The Australian rhinoceros cockroach is the largest cockroach on Earth.

Newt picked one up and placed it in his palm. The thing took up a large space in his hand and felt heavy. He slowly kicked his legs.

Then he raised his hand, turned his back, and a few seconds later, a slender little head covered with light blue scales peeked out from among the branches and leaves, sniffed at the air, and then withdrew.

Newt wasn't in a hurry; he just waited where he was. A few seconds later, the head popped out again, stared for a while, then suddenly swooped down, grabbed it, and retreated back into its nest.

Newt patted the crumbs off his hands, picked up another one, held it in his palm, and turned his back.

After feeding the bird snakes, we walked out of the edge of the rainforest and entered an open grassland.

The grass was short, just above ankle height, and a dark green color. Water droplets clung to the leaves, and a few small, light purple wildflowers bloomed among the grass, their centers glowing with a faint fluorescent light, barely noticeable under the simulated natural light.

Newt walked to the base of a large tree, sat down against the trunk, took out his notebook, placed it on his lap, flipped through the first few pages, then turned back and began to write.

Then a sound came from above, like knocking on a door.

Newt didn't even look up, and called out, "Wait a minute."

The sound came again, thump thump thump.

Newt muttered something under his breath, nothing in particular, just a muttering, then closed the notebook, put it back in the inner pocket of his robe, and slowly propped himself up, supporting himself on his knees.

The morning sunlight streamed in through the kitchen window, hitting his face. He squinted for a moment, then saw the person standing above him.

With his long, silvery-white beard, crescent-shaped glasses, and deep purple wizard's robes, Dumbledore.

His posture was relaxed, with one hand in his robe pocket and the other hanging at his side, making him look as if he had been standing at the door for a long time, or as if he had just arrived.

Newt's face froze for a moment, then his expression lit up, the lines around his eyes deepened, and the corners of his mouth curved naturally: "Dumbledore."

The 93-year-old wizard stood in the kitchen of the stone farmhouse of a 77-year-old wizard in the Dorset countryside, his blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles smiling.

He bent down and peered into the box at the head that popped out: "Newt."

"You—when did you get here?" Newt poked his upper body out of the box, rubbing off bits of fish or cockroach scraps from his hands. "What are you doing here? Come in, come in, get down."

Newt turned and walked down the steps, and Dumbledore followed him down the stone steps, closing the box lid behind him.

Dumbledore stood at the circular workbench area and looked around.

The artificial canopy overhead simulates the morning light, with warm gold rays spreading down from the south, illuminating the sand dunes of the desert with an amber glow.

In the distance, the boundary of the ice field glowed faintly in the warm air, like a pale blue horizon.

"This trunk of yours is a bit bigger than the last time I came," Dumbledore said casually.

Newt walked forward, his voice light and cheerful: "Last year we expanded a small area of ​​desert, and a new nest of sand anacondas came, so the original space wasn't enough."

A small swamp was added later, but it's still being used to the green striders; only a small area was added.

He walked over to the big tree he had just been standing under and sat down, patting the ground beside him and gesturing to Dumbledore, "Sit down."

Dumbledore walked over with a cheerful smile, lifted the hem of his robe and sat down, his knees slightly bent, his hands resting on his knees, his back comfortably leaning against the tree trunk, letting out a soft sigh of relief.

The horned beast cub appeared out of nowhere, craning its neck to look this way. After a while, it wobbled over and stopped next to Dumbledore's boots. It carefully touched the boot with the tip of its nose, wiggled its short legs back, and tilted its head to look at him.

Dumbledore glanced down at it, extended a finger, and gently flicked it.

The cub rolled over onto its back, paused for a moment, its legs twitching in the air, struggled to roll back over, shook its head, walked to Dumbledore's boots, and lowered its head to touch the top of his boots.

Dumbledore looked at it, chuckled, and then reached out and flicked the cub's forehead. The cub turned its head and chased after his finger.

Newt shook his head.

Dumbledore played for a while before turning to Newt beside him: "How is Tina?"

"She's fine," Newt glanced at the box. "She's still sleeping. I stayed here late last night, and she told me not to stay up late anymore."

He pursed his lips slightly: "You know her."

Dumbledore's lips curved into a smile.

He certainly knew that Tina Goldstein, Newt Scamander's wife and a former Auror of the Magical Congress of the United States, had quite a temper.

"What about the smaller one?"

Newt continued, "The kids are all doing well. They came back for a few days last month. The youngest one, the one you met, Rolf, couldn't walk back then, but now he's practicing with a broom."

He fell twice, but got up and kept riding. Tina said his personality was like hers.

Dumbledore chuckled, "Then it won't break."

Newt's tone carried a strange emotion: "He's not as interested in magical creatures as I was back then, but he's more interested in herbalism."

Dumbledore offered a half-hearted consolation: "You're just a young man."

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, there wasn't much formality between the two, despite their decades-long friendship.

Newt finally turned his gaze to Dumbledore, his tone gentle: "Have you been very busy lately?"

Dumbledore, not putting on airs in front of his old friends, sighed softly: "Busy running around, meeting people, talking, drinking tea, being rejected, and then looking for the next one."

Newt didn't ask any further questions; he knew what Dumbledore was busy with.

The entire British wizarding community knew that Voldemort's influence was expanding. He didn't participate in politics, but he knew what was going on.

Newt asked softly, "You didn't come here for that, did you?"

Dumbledore glanced at the horned rhinoceros cub still curiously sniffing his boots, then looked up: "There is a child whose Patronus is the Starry Sky Kite."