News Spreads, Subsequent Impact

The news spread within hours of the Christmas Banquet ending.

The guests didn't leave in an orderly fashion. The members of the larger families left early, as they didn't need to exchange pleasantries outside the manor. It was the members of the smaller families who left later.

Then a fight broke out inside.

The walls collapsed, debris flew everywhere, there was an explosion, and flames erupted.

Someone saw the scene inside: a young man in a dark robe stood in the middle of the ruins, opposite Bellatrix Lestrange; the air between them seemed to distort.

Then Fiendfyre appeared, and no one dared to linger any longer.

What we see is the truth, but there's much more that we don't see.

What happened after the Fiendfyre, how the Banquet Hall ended, whether Bellatrix was dead or alive, and whether the Black family boy walked out or was carried out—they knew nothing of these things.

But not knowing doesn't affect the transmission.

The fireplace network was bustling on Christmas Eve. Wizards who had returned home threw Floo Powder into the fireplace while changing into their robes, and head after head popped out of the green flames.

"Have you heard? Something happened at the Lestrange Manor."

Firsthand information was fairly reliable: the Heir of the Black family and Lady Lestrange got into a fight, the Banquet Hall was smashed, and Fiend was set on Fiendfyre.

The second move went awry; the two fought outside the manor, destroying half of it. The Black family and Lestrange family faced off on the lawn, nearly going to war.

The third party is a different story altogether; some clever people added their own judgments when spreading these messages.

If the Heir of the Black family dares to make a move at the Lestrange Manor, will the Lestrange family tolerate it?

Of course not, so the Black family and Lestrange family are going to war.

Not only did that brat fight Bellatrix, but the two families will continue their battle on the ruins of the manor, deploying several powerful wizards for an even larger-scale conflict.

Orion Black and Rodolphus Lestrange personally entered the fray; casualties are unknown.

As for why there's been no follow-up news? Why haven't we heard of anyone dying? The Fiendfyre has already been lit; how could it possibly end peacefully?

By the fifth time the message had been passed, the answer was clear, because that Dark Lord had stepped in.

He personally intervened and subdued Orion and Rodolphus; otherwise, the two families would not have given up so easily.

The chain of reasoning is clear: Fiendfyre was used, Bellatrix was beaten so badly, but there's no news of Bellatrix dying, nor of the Black family being punished.

The conflict between two top Pureblood families has reached this point and can still be contained. In the Wizarding World, there is only one person who can simultaneously suppress Black and Lestrange.

There were no eyewitnesses to this story; no one saw Voldemort enter the manor, nor did anyone see him leave, yet it is believable.

If he hadn't stepped in, this matter wouldn't have ended there.

Once the conflict between the two families escalates, there will inevitably be follow-up actions, but so far, there has been no movement at all.

There was no retaliation, no declaration of war, and no one died.

The only explanation is that someone made it stop, and the name of the person who could do that doesn't need to be revealed.

In the Wizarding World, news can travel anywhere, regardless of distance. Floo Network, owls, Apparition, House-elf —if they wanted to send it, it could circle the Earth three times in one night.

By the next morning, everyone who was supposed to hear it had heard it.

The versions circulating are varied and inconsistent in detail. Some say Bellatrix struck first, some say Regulus provoked her, and some say Bellatrix released Fiendfyre but couldn't control it.

Some say that the flames belonged to the Black family brat from the very beginning, and that he had been waiting for that moment the whole time.

But no one denies the core fact: Regulus Atallos Black, at twelve years old, completely overwhelmed Bellatrix Lestrange.

The reactions to this event varied so much from person to person that they were almost three completely different interpretations.

Incompetent wizards, those with little talent and low skill, who had never witnessed a real wizarding duel in their lives, reacted remarkably in unison: they thought it was no big deal.

Two wizards are fighting, each throwing a few spells at the other; whoever can't dodge them loses.

Bellatrix Lestrange?

I've heard of them. They're pretty powerful, Death Eaters, you know. They've killed and tortured people; they have a great reputation.

But frankly, isn't it just about being ruthless?

Whoever strikes hard wins; it's that simple.

Did the younger son of the Black family hit her?

That means the younger one in the Black family was even more ruthless than her.

Twelve years old is a bit young, but wizards are born with fighting skills, so what does age have to do with it?

They are referring to themselves.

When they argue with their neighbors, they throw curses at each other, and whoever throws first wins—it's that simple.

They didn't know the level of Bellatrix's Dark Arts, the extent of her spells, or the reaction speed and spell comprehension required to counter that level of power.

They've never seen it, so they don't know; they don't know, so they think it's just so-so.

They make up the majority of the Wizarding World; they are the most stable listeners and the most reliable disseminators.

Because their version is the simplest and easiest to understand, and it won't be distorted when it's transmitted.

They wouldn't bother asking about the details anymore; in their view, details were completely unimportant.

On the other end are the truly powerful wizards, whose reactions are exactly the opposite.

Most of these people are quite old, in their forties or fifties, some even in their sixties or seventies. They have lived most of their lives, seen a lot, and are the backbone of their families, or are themselves the Patriarch.

Their information arrives faster and is more accurate.

Those members of the powerful families who left early returned home to find the battle still raging in the manor, but within an hour, they knew all the necessary details.

After obtaining these details, their judgment on the matter was completely different from the widely circulated versions circulating outside.

What is Bellatrix Lestrange in their eyes?

A young witch who graduated only a few years ago, highly talented and with an extreme personality, works for that Dark Lord and is said to have received personal guidance; her reputation is legendary.

Torture people, eliminate dissidents, carry out the will of that Dark Lord, create panic in the shadows, use cruel methods, and dare to kill anyone. These things sound terrifying to ordinary wizards, but to people at their level, they're nothing special.

Cruelty is something anyone can do, as long as they have the willpower.

Torture a bound person with Dark Arts; it doesn't require sophisticated Magic, just a lack of regard for human life. But if that's all there is to it, what's the difference between that and a butcher?

Truly skilled wizards don't need to torture people to prove themselves; they can dodge Killing Curse and withstand Cruciatus Curse.

They can escape unscathed from the reach of Dark Arts and suppress their opponents in direct combat to the point where they can't even retaliate.

But a mediocre wizard, if ruthless, insane, and fearless enough, can still kill and torture people with the Unforgivable Curses. Bellatrix's only redeeming quality is that she doesn't care.

She didn't care about the cost, the consequences, or even her soul, which gave her virtually no limitations in execution, and she was willing to do anything without any bottom line. But in terms of pure Magic power, these older generation Wizards knew exactly what was going on.

In a normal wizard evaluation system, Bellatrix's skill level would at best be considered one of the most outstanding among those who had just graduated.

She is quite powerful, much stronger than her peers, but compared to truly skilled wizards who have accumulated decades of experience, she is still far behind.

Torture and beat are not the same thing.

When true masters fight, it's not about who's more ruthless, but about the precision of their spellcasting, the efficiency of their Magic Power allocation, their spatial judgment, their reaction speed, and their real-time analysis of the battle situation.

Bellatrix has talent in these areas, but she hasn't fully realized it yet; her age and lack of experience are factors.

Even if you really want to kill or torture someone, you don't necessarily have to use Dark Arts.

There are too many methods; Dark Arts is just one of them, and it's not necessarily the most efficient.

They disdained to do what Bellatrix did, simply because they didn't want to dirty their hands or their souls.

So in their eyes, Bellatrix was just that—a fanatical madwoman willing to trade her soul for power, her reputation largely built on fear, and her actual strength not being that great.

Regulus Black, who was able to defeat Bellatrix, is certainly skilled.

To achieve this at the age of twelve speaks volumes about talent, and he has already realized a significant portion of that potential. He went from potentially being very strong in the future to being very capable right now.

They will remember the name, treat the Black family with respect when they meet, and give them more attention in family interactions.

But that's all.

They wouldn't make a fuss, wouldn't overreact, and wouldn't think the world was about to change just because a twelve-year-old child defeated a young witch in her early twenties.

These people have lived long enough and seen enough geniuses. Some of these geniuses did indeed become great figures, while others disappeared without a trace. It's too early to get excited now.

The middle layer is the most exciting.

The family is neither particularly powerful nor weak, possessing neither significant nor insignificant influence. They own a small business or a few shops, and while they don't live a bad life in the Wizarding World, they are not exactly glamorous either.

Most of these people have little ambition; they're content with just getting by, and who's in charge or in charge is of little concern to them.

Bellatrix was attacked or not, the Black family became stronger or not, and they continued to open their businesses as usual.

But some people are not content with that, feeling that if they reach a little higher, they might be able to change their way of life.

They are most sensitive to changes above them, because each change could be a gap for them to squeeze upwards.

The Black family has just demonstrated its power, particularly the power of its younger generation, which means the Black family will become more important in the future landscape. A rising family will always need people around it—people to do the work, run errands, provide information, and fill the periphery. These middle-level families may not be able to become the core, but they are more than capable of filling the periphery.

Some are already planning how to get close to them, where to start, and what excuse to use to establish a relationship.

Those with business dealings want to increase their orders, those with social connections want to arrange a tea party, and those with children at Hogwarts want their children to get closer to the Heir of the Black family at school.

These people, ironically, were the most proactive, seeing the situation more clearly than the mediocre wizards and needing this opportunity more than the top families. Positions in the circle shouldn't be predetermined; why should you just occupy them and not move?

They had been waiting for this kind of window for a long time.

A few hours later, it was dawn.

The Nott family family manor is located in the hills of Yorkshire, a three-story grey stone estate, shrouded in layers of Muggle-Repelling Charm and Illusion Charm, appearing from the outside as just a desolate pasture.

On the morning of December 26th, Old Nott sat at the head of the table with a copy of the Daily the Daily Prophet in front of him. The front page was filled with Christmas greetings, but there was no news about the Lestrange Manor.

Of course not, such a thing definitely cannot be published in the newspaper.

To his right sat his eldest son, Theodore Nott, who had just graduated from Hogwarts this year and had already secured a minor position at the Ministry of Magic. To his left sat his younger son, Darius Nott, a first-year student who had lost the Slytherin First Place competition to Rosalie Selwyn this year. Old Nott turned a page of his newspaper without looking up, his tone casual. "In the future, when you run into the Blacks, be more humble." Theodore, chewing on a piece of toast, paused in his actions.

He publicly questioned Regulus's status as the Head of New Students while he was at Hogwarts, but ultimately that was a school matter, just kids' disagreements.

Now that he's graduated and out in the world, all those things he fought over at school mean nothing to him anymore.

Besides, he had overheard what happened last night.

At school, everyone is Slytherin. If you don't like me or I don't like you, it doesn't matter. The circle is only so big; you can't get along with everyone.

But outside of Hogwarts, the Pure-blood Faction is a unified whole, and the Black family's influence here has just increased again. There's no need to cause trouble for the family over trivial matters at school.

He stuffed the bread into his mouth and mumbled a "hmm."

Darius sat in the chair, his usual gloomy expression unchanged.

He had witnessed some of Regulus's actions at Hogwarts, which were far less serious than what he had done last night, but still enough.

In Slytherin's environment, skill is skill, and there's no such thing as submission. If he couldn't act arrogantly in front of him, then he was naturally humble. He nodded, poked his fork into the fried egg on his plate, and said nothing.

The Cuthbert family's estate is in Sussex, near the South Downs, surrounded by vast pastures and oak forests.

The mansion is in the George style, with warm yellow brick exterior walls, five stories, and tall, narrow windows.

Old Cuthbert was in his Study, the door ajar. Above the fireplace hung a family painting of Falcon, the eagle in the frame occasionally turning its head to scan the people in the room with its golden eyes.

A parchment was spread on the table, and he was writing a letter to Orion Black.

I carefully considered my words for a long time; they were warm but restrained, conveying the necessary politeness while also expressing the intended meaning.

The visit to Grimmauld Place, which was mentioned at the dinner, and the proposals from Wizengamot need to be discussed in person; we'd like to set a date.

Old Cuthbert finished writing the last line, put the quill back in the inkwell, and blew on the ink on the parchment.

He looked up.

Avery stood at the Study door, not going in; he hadn't quite recovered since hearing the news last night.

He remembered how excited he was at the dinner party last night.

The belief that his father had kept hidden in his heart and pondered repeatedly in his Study was spoken aloud by Bellatrix in a high-pitched, trembling voice, and it stirred his blood.

Reclaim the glory of Pure-bloods and let the true wizards reclaim everything that belongs to them.

He wanted to throw himself into it, to be at the forefront, to stand with Regulus, with Hermes, with all the true Pure-bloods. Then they left, and not long after, he heard that Regulus had beaten Bellatrix, beaten the Dark Lord he had just been cheering for, and not only beaten him, but also set fire to the place.

Avery Sickle that night than he had in the entire past year combined.

Just a few hours ago, he thought everything Bellatrix said was right, but reality has taught him a lesson.

The Dark Lord you believed was right knelt before the Dark Lord you were following.

Old Cuthbert looked at his son standing in the doorway, feeling a mixture of relief and worry.

Children grow up, but growing up is never an comfortable experience.

"Come in," he said.

Avery stepped in, stood opposite the desk, his hands hanging at his sides, unsure of what to do.

Old Cuthbert leaned back in his chair, looking at him. "What kind of person do you think he is?"

Without even saying their names, both of them knew who they were talking about.

Avery opened his mouth, thought for a moment, and then uttered a single word. "Awesome."

Old Cuthbert stared at him expressionlessly, his gaze conveying a clear message: this is nonsense.

Avery raised his hand as if to scratch his head, but then lowered it again halfway through.

"His ideas Taiyi from ours," Avery added.

Old Cuthbert remained silent, waiting.

"He seems to plan everything in advance," Avery said, getting more and more carried away, speaking his mind freely, "Exactly, he's always so calm, as if everything he does has a purpose, that kind of..."

You know he must have a reason, but when you look at him, it seems like he didn't think about anything and just did it on a whim.

Old Cuthbert nodded slightly.

They are highly purposeful and have deep thoughts.

"And then there's the fact that he's always practicing," Avery continued, "Magic, always practicing, always learning new things, as if he can never get enough."

Old Cuthbert nodded again.

That was to be expected. To be able to do something like that at that age, talent is a foundation, but no matter how good the foundation is, you can't reach that level without practice. Avery stopped abruptly here. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he swallowed it back.

He hesitated.

He had witnessed some of Regulus's Magic in the Room of Requirement; he hadn't hidden it from them—that was trust.

He saw a ball of light he didn't recognize emerge from Regulus's hand, saw the air inexplicably twist, and saw some spells he couldn't understand fly out from the tip of the staff and disappear into the air.

He didn't know what those things were, but Regulus was practicing them right in front of him, which meant that at least within this small group, he wasn't an outsider. Now his father was asking, and he didn't know whether he should answer.

Old Cuthbert didn't rush him.

He knew what it was. Every follower had something that belonged to their own small group. They could see it, but they couldn't tell others.

He didn't need to know the specifics, but he wanted to see what Avery would choose.

If Avery wants to speak, he listens; if he doesn't want to speak, he knows what should be said and what shouldn't be said.

Both answers were good; he was just waiting.

Avery was silent for a moment, then spoke, "He practices some Magic that I've never seen before, nor have I read about in any books. I don't know what it is." He then fell silent.

Old Cuthbert glanced at his son a few times, then nodded.

Avery responded correctly to the trust placed in him by the Black family boy, neither betraying it nor feigning ignorance before his father. "Visit Grimmauld Place on the twenty-ninth," Old Cuthbert said, folding the parchment in half, sealing it with wax, and stamping it with the Cuthbert family seal. "You'll come with me."

Avery's eyes lit up immediately. "Go to Grimmauld Place, go to Black family, see Regulus."

In formal settings where the two families interacted, he stood before Regulus as the Heir of the Cuthbert family.

He likes it.

Old Cuthbert handed the letter to the House-elf squatting by the table and waved it over.

"Get out."

Avery turned and left, his steps lighter than when he came in.

Old Cuthbert stared at the doorway until the footsteps faded into the distance before turning his gaze away.

The Falcon on the fireplace turned its head, its golden eyes fixed on him.

He ignored it, picked up another blank sheet of parchment, and began writing a second letter.

The Mulciber family lived in North Norfolk, far from any settlement, where there wasn't even a road.

The mansion was built at the bottom of a valley, surrounded by bare rock walls. The valley entrance was shrouded in thick fog year-round, so no Muggle-Repelling Charm was needed; no one would come to such a place anyway.

The building was made of black stone, and the walls were engraved with very old Rune, some of which had weathered away and were no longer legible.

Hermes sat at the table, his breakfast barely touched.

His father, Abros Mulciber, sat opposite him, holding a cup of black coffee and taking a sip.

"Young Black," Abros put down his coffee cup, the bottom of which tapped on the wooden table, "How far behind are you?"

Hermes ' face was already gloomy, and hearing this question made it even more so.

After a long pause, he finally spoke, "I don't know."

Abros remained silent.

Hermes thought for a moment, then added, "I don't understand."

Abros picked up his coffee, took a sip, and swallowed.

can't read.

Hermes ' talent is not bad, and the bloodline of the Mulciber family guarantees this.

Hermes said he couldn't understand it, which can only mean that Regulus Black was so powerful that his peers couldn't comprehend it.

This strength is not singular.

If it's just that a particular spell is exceptionally powerful, Hermes can understand it.

He had seen powerful spells before; the Mulciber family's library contained hundreds of Dark Arts spells. He wouldn't be unable to understand a single spell. Not understanding it meant that its power was holistic.

From the quality of the Magic Power itself, to the way spells are used, to judgment and reaction in battle, to control of the situation, everything is a cut above the rest. Hermes had told him that Regulus could beat him to a pulp with Slowing Charm.

The Slowing Charm, one of the most basic defensive spells, is something taught at Hogwarts in the first year.

"Let's put the Dark Arts on hold for now," Abros said.

Hermes raised his head, his expression unchanged.

Abros didn't explain, but continued, "Practice with him."

Hermes remained silent and did not speak.

Abros looked at him. "He doesn't teach?"

Hermes shook his head. "It's not a matter of Magic."

Abros frowned slightly, his tone carrying a hint of reprimand. "Nonsense."

It's definitely not a matter of Magic.

If it's just a matter of the strength of a certain type of Magic, the Mulciber family has plenty of resources to make up for it. Abros's own expertise in Dark Arts is enough to teach Hermes, so there's no need to find outsiders.

But comprehensive strength cannot be achieved through training alone.

"He won't teach you the core stuff," Abros said, taking another sip of his coffee. "His family traditions, his self-created spells, his unique techniques—forget about them."

Hermes thought for a moment and nodded.

"But how he trains, how he approaches a fight, how he makes judgments under pressure," Abros said, "You're right next to him, with your eyes on your head, can't you see that?"

Hermes nodded again, thinking to himself, "Why do I need to see? Can't I just ask?"

Abros looked at his son's face. "Go."

Hermes glanced at the breakfast but didn't touch it.