Politeness and Hidden Malice

In the distance, a muffled Fiendfyre Blaze, like Dragon crashing into something, sending debris and flames raining down.

After Voldemort exited the Mental Space, he remained silent for a moment, his gaze still fixed on Regulus's face. His vertical pupils slowly contracted, as if refocusing. Then he spoke, "Dumbledore."

The tone was neither a question nor a statement, nor even as if he were speaking to Regulus.

He simply read the name aloud, like encountering a familiar title while flipping through an old book.

There was something extremely faint in his tone, something that was hard to pinpoint—whether it was mockery or something else—so thin it was almost transparent, but it was there nonetheless.

He saw those parallel sensory memories: Dumbledore's Magic Power and his Magic Power, placed on the same plane.

Regulus's expression remained unchanged.

Voldemort did indeed see that memory; his plan had worked.

"Professor Dumbledore is my headmaster," Regulus said matter-of-factly, as if stating a fact that needed no explanation. "I have learned from every great wizard, Your Excellency."

He had thought about every single word in that sentence.

Everyone categorized Voldemort and Dumbledore in the same way.

The great wizard acknowledged Voldemort's status, but did not place him in a unique position.

Dumbledore was a great wizard, and so are you.

You exist on the same level; what I see in you is Magic itself.

I'm not looking at factions.

Throughout his life, Voldemort encountered people who either worshipped him, feared him, or wanted to destroy him.

Regulus's attitude is not among these three options.

He was saying, "You are part of my understanding of the world, and your Magic is something I want to understand, but like other great wizards, you are my point of reference. I walk my own path."

Voldemort showed almost no outward reaction to this response.

His vertical pupils remained the same size, his flat nose twitched slightly, and the shallow, wound-like line on his lips showed no change in curvature. His breathing was so light that it was inaudible from four meters away, and he didn't even adjust his posture.

But he looked at Regulus for a little longer than before, just a little, half a second or a second, and in those serpentine vertical pupils, he couldn't discern any more precise units of time.

Then his gaze shifted from Regulus and landed on Bellatrix for the first time.

Bellatrix was still lying on the rubble, her body twitching much less, her lips still moving as if she were muttering something.

Judging from the movement of her lips, it should be two syllables, repeated repeatedly, pronounced indistinctly, with dried bloodstains at the corner of her mouth.

Perhaps it's missing its the Master.

Voldemort glanced down at her.

There was no anger, no heartache, no disappointment, nothing that could be read into his expression. He looked at Bellatrix as if she were a broken stone pillar in ruins.

Then he looked away.

"She used Killing Curse on you," he said lightly, "And it failed. You can deal with her as you see fit."

Regulus understood.

Voldemort didn't ask him if he wanted to kill her; he was merely stating a permission, a top-down authorization.

I allow you to do so.

If he kills, it means he submits to the power framework given to him by Voldemort; you give me power, so I will use it.

Whether or not to kill depends on the reason.

And then there's the wording itself. Bellatrix failed, but what if she hadn't? What if Bellatrix's Killing Curse had hit?

But tonight will be a different story.

Voldemort would not speak to the corpse of a minor wizard.

He'll probably walk in, glance at the two people lying on the ground—a dead Black heir and a still-breathing Bellatrix —and then turn and walk away.

There is no fairness or unfairness in the face of the Killing Curse, only being hit or not.

Bellatrix lost, so she was handed to Regulus.

If Regulus loses, he probably won't even deserve a second glance.

Regulus's mind raced, and he shook his head slightly, but his attitude was clear.

Then he lowered his head slightly, with appropriate respect.

However, in this context, if you refuse the power offered by the other party, you should make amends with extra politeness.

Regulus said, "She's family, it's a family matter, Your Excellency."

Bella's family brought Bellatrix back to the framework of blood relations; she was a married daughter of the Black family, his cousin.

The family matter confined everything tonight to the realm of internal family conflict; the power to decide rested with the Black family, not with anyone else. He had not received Voldemort's authorization.

I don't need the power you're offering. I have my own source of power. She's family, and how I handle her is the Black family's business. But he didn't reject Voldemort's offer either.

Family matters are a universally accepted principle in the Pure-blood Circle, and Voldemort cannot accuse someone of being disrespectful simply because they take their family affairs home to handle them.

This could be considered a kind of Black- style pride: I don't need anyone's approval to handle my family, not even Voldemort. But this pride is wrapped in a layer of respect, so it doesn't become offensive.

Your Excellency, I shook my head and explained; I had my reasons, and I was very polite.

Voldemort looked at him, and then fell silent for a brief moment.

Then Bellatrix disappeared.

There was no movement, no wand, no spell, no sign.

She lay on the rubble, and was gone the next second.

There was only a human-shaped dent left, even the bloodstains beneath her had vanished, leaving the place spotless, as if she should never have been there. Her wand had disappeared too, the wand that had been used with the Killing Curse, the Cruciatus Curse, the Black Mist, Black Barrier, along with its the Master, had been taken away.

Regulus made a mental note of this detail.

Silent and rodless, there's not much to say about it, but there's something else here: precision and range.

Bellatrix, along with the blood beneath her and the wand beside her, were simultaneously removed without leaving a trace.

The highest form of Apparition, or a means that transcends the scope of Apparition.

He interfered with Bellatrix's Apparition tonight, causing her to have a layer of flesh to be torn off, but he couldn't even sense what Voldemort did. The difference is stark.

After dealing with Bellatrix, Voldemort turned his attention back to Regulus.

His vertical pupils paused for a moment in the dark red iris, his cold gaze landing on Regulus's face as if making a final confirmation. Then he spoke his last words of the night.

"Regulus," came the unsettlingly soft voice, each syllable rounded and smooth, "I look forward to our next meeting." Regulus maintained his respectful posture, bowing slightly, "Your Excellency."

Voldemort turned and walked back the way he came.

The darkness spread back from that direction, thicker and more textured, rising from the ground like liquid, seeping from the cracks in the ruins, and gathering around his figure.

His robes trailed silently across the gravel, Voldemort's silhouette blurring in the darkness, his edges melting away and merging with the surrounding gloom. He took two steps, then vanished.

There was no instant disappearance, no snapping sound, no sound of air being compressed.

After a certain step, he was no longer there, like a drop of ink falling into ink.

The darkness lingered for a while after he disappeared, then slowly receded, and moonlight and firelight shone back into the area.

Regulus stood alone in the middle of the ruins, his legs feeling a little weak.

He wasn't afraid, of course; it was just that the mental strain Conduction his body.

The extreme use of Legilimency had almost completely drained his mental energy, and his body reacted accordingly, his muscles began to ache, and his knees trembled slightly. He took a deep breath, activated Star Orbit Meditation at full power, and recovered to a sufficient level in a very short time. Then he looked at the three-headed behemoth not far away. Fiendfyre only dared to reignite after Voldemort disappeared, cautiously probing several times to confirm that the thing was truly gone before slowly spreading over.

He wanted to give it a try.

The will pressed down along the connection, just as Voldemort had done, using the Spellcasting's will to suppress the Fiendfyre's autonomous tendencies, telling them that they couldn't go that way.

The three giant beasts trembled simultaneously, the Giant Serpent's tail retracted halfway, the Dragon's wings tightened, and Chimera buried its head into the Giant Serpent's body.

There was a reaction, but it wasn't the same.

When Voldemort came, Fiendfyre was genuinely afraid. It was a fear that was rewritten from its very survival instinct. It dared not burn in that direction, like the bottom of the food chain encountering the top.

When he pressed forward, Fiendfyre also heard him, because the connection was still there, but it felt more like he was hearing an order than encountering a natural enemy.

gap.

Another gap.

Okay.

He withdrew his will, thought for a moment, and decided to extinguish the Fiendfyre; there was no point in letting it burn.

I was actually quite pleased watching the manor crumble piece by piece. The fire burned down the Lestrange family's stronghold, and the volume was just right—everyone in the Pure-blood Circle heard it.

But after Voldemort's visit, the three giant beasts cowered in a corner, too afraid to even be burned, which made him feel that the fire had lost its appeal, and even the idea of burning down the manor had lost its appeal.

Forget it, let's keep it. Leaving the remains is more useful than burning it all.

The ruins of the Lestrange Manor stand here, visible to anyone passing by, spreading faster than any news, more directly than any verbal description. A Pureblood families manor, managed for over two hundred years, burned to the ground by a twelve-year-old wizard in a family dispute—the sight itself is the best deterrent.

Moreover, the manor wasn't completely burned down; only a few ruins remained, so the Lestrange family still had to make a choice.

Rebuilding on the original site amidst the ruins, laying new bricks on the old scorched earth, stepping on the foundations he burned every time he returned—that was defiance, a determination to hold the line.

They want to rebuild in the same place, to loudly proclaim to everyone that we have not been defeated and are ready to retaliate at any time.

Furthermore, choosing a new location to rebuild, with a new manor and a new grandeur, starting all over again in a different place, is a way of biding one's time, quietly accumulating strength, and waiting for future revenge. Rebuilding on the original site, on the other hand, is a blatant act of revenge.

Rebuilding in another location—your intentions are despicable; you're plotting an even greater revenge.

Neither option is right; think about it slowly.

Regulus's lips twitched slightly, then he got down to business.