Inside and Outside Hogwarts' Walls

January is almost over.

The hustle and bustle of the first month of school has slowly subsided, but the aftershocks of the Christmas Banquet are still echoing in the Pure-blood Circle.

Weeds are said to have begun to grow on the ruins of the Lestrange Manor. Rodolphus Lestrange has not made a public appearance since, nor has Bellatrix Lestrange.

But inside Hogwarts, life has returned to its normal rhythm.

Classes continued as usual, meals were eaten as usual, and the young Wizards in the Corridor were no longer preoccupied with holiday gossip, but rather with homework and Quidditch. Dumbledore only made occasional appearances in the Great Hall dining room.

During meals, I would sit in the center of the faculty and staff table, chat with Professor McGonagall or Professor Flitwick, sometimes laughing heartily, sometimes listening with a furrowed brow, and often leaving halfway through the meal.

The Daily Prophet remains a picture of celebration, with the new minister Harold Minchum's photo appearing on the front page twice a week.

In an editorial, the Ministry of Magic emphasized that it was paying close attention to the current situation and would take all necessary measures in accordance with the law.

On one occasion, in the international edition, I attended the annual reception of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and shook hands and smiled with the French Ministry of Magic.

The newspaper's third page occasionally featured brief news items about Werewolf Attacks, each brief and restrained in its wording, emphasizing that the incidents were under investigation and urging wizards to remain vigilant. The editorial section, published on the same day, featured a commentary titled "Peace and Order in the Wizarding World: We Are on the Right Path."

Reporters surrounded him, flashes going off everywhere, and the captions were filled with words like stability, order, and peace.

"The Ministry of Magic will, as always, Protection the peace of the Wizarding World."

"The overall situation is stable, and individual destabilizing factors are being dealt with in accordance with the law."

Individual destabilizing factors.

A briefing was tucked into last week's family letter: a Muggle-born wizard family in the Cotswolds had been wiped out—seven people, the youngest being two years old. When the Auror arrived at the scene, the bodies were still warm, Dark Mark was floating above the house, and the snake that emerged from the skull's mouth glowed green in the night sky for a long time; half the Muggle in town saw it.

The Memory Charm of Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes dispatched a team of over twenty people to go door-to-door clearing memories, working for two days.

But the newspapers didn't mention it at all; the front page of the same issue featured a photo of Minchum donating a batch of Potions to St Mungo's's.

The situation isn't much better on the Muggle side; the aftereffects of the Oil Crisis are still unfolding.

Although the Three-Day Workweek was abolished, coal miners staged another strike, Heath's Conservative Party government teetered on the brink of collapse, and the whole of UK was shrouded in the shadow of inflation and unemployment.

Factories cut production, stores raised prices, and long lines of people queuing to buy bread stretched from one street corner to the next.

But none of this mattered to Hogwarts. The Castle's stone walls blocked everything, or rather, everything was too big to get over the walls. The young Wizards in the Corridor were discussing the Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw Quidditch Match, how to reach the word count for their Transfiguration papers, and which shop to go to on Hogsmeade on the weekend.

The first-year students were running and playing in the Corridor when they knocked over Peeves's ink bucket and were chased up three floors.

Fifth- Hufflepuff were practicing their Summoning Charm by the Black Lake. They summoned a fish onto the shore, where it hopped around on the grass a couple of times before being thrown back. They had no idea what was happening outside, nor did they need to.

Someone is shielding them.

Dumbledore was out running around, McGonagall was inside the Castle, and the professors were maintaining order in the classroom.

The Wizards felt no wind or rain, only the warm sunlight streaming through the Corridor windows, just like any other January. But Slytherin was different; the Pureblood families wizards never just read newspapers.

Their messages came from home, from snippets of conversation between their parents at the dinner table, from family gatherings during the Christmas holidays, and from conversations that adults thought children wouldn't understand but actually took it all in.

Who has become close to the Death Eaters, who is watching from the sidelines, who has already fallen, and who is still holding on.

These messages circulated in the Slytherin Common Room, not openly, not loudly, but very quickly.

The atmosphere was changing, and it was gradually becoming restless again.

Unlike last year, no one publicly shouted slogans, and no one waved their fists and shouted "Pure-bloods Glory" in the Common Room.

After Arnold Belmont was taken away, the overt fervor was extinguished. Everyone saw what happened that day, and everyone knows who cut it off.

But the fire on the surface was extinguished; the Mars remained underground.

The voice of Pure-blood supremacy has never disappeared; it has simply changed from shouting to whispering.

A few seventh-graders were chatting in a corner, their voices deliberately low. They would glance at Regulus whenever they talked about certain topics. Someone mentioned the name of a senior who had graduated, saying that he was now working for that Dark Lord. Someone else said that their family had received an investigation letter from the Ministry of Magic, and their father had been cursing in his Study for half the night.

Some fifth and sixth graders started wearing a small Silver Serpent Badge on their cuffs, supposedly a traditional Slytherin accessory, but no one had ever worn one before. A fourth grader in the Corridor called a Muggle-born Hufflepuff Mudblood in a foul tone, which was overheard by someone nearby. There was no fight, no conflict; the Hufflepuff walked away with his head down, and his fourth-grade friend patted him on the shoulder.

That's about the right consistency, lukewarm water, slowly heating it up.

Professor Slughorn is clearly more attentive than he was last year.

He certainly knew what was happening in his house; an old Slytherin who had been head of the house for nearly fifty years couldn't possibly be unaware of the restless atmosphere.

He increased the frequency of his patrols, often spending more time in the Common Room, chatting with a few upperclassmen, laughing and joking, and avoiding Hugo topics.

He will simply keep an eye on things and won't directly intervene to suppress it.

These voices, originating from within the Pure-bloods and Conduction changes in the external situation, cannot be suppressed by the Dean. Even if they could be suppressed, he would not forcefully do so.

Slughorn is a shrewd old man; he knows what he should and shouldn't do.

Fortunately, everything is still under control.

Regulus did not publicly express his opinion or say anything biased, but his very presence was a form of suppression. He was the one who quelled the fire last year. As long as he did not side with the extremists, those within Slytherin who wanted to cause trouble under the guise of Pure-bloods honor would have no standard-bearer.

Everyone knows the Heir of the Black family is a fighter, and everyone knows he won't fall for any manipulative tactics.

As long as he's there, as long as he doesn't speak, the restlessness won't reach its peak.

Because nobody knows which side Black will be on if it catches fire.

This uncertainty is more effective than any explicit statement.

The last Saturday of January was sunny and a rare treat. A breeze blew from the direction of Black Lake, carrying a bit of moisture, but it wasn't cold. At noon, Regulus came out of the Great Hall and walked along the stone path toward Greenhouse No. 4.

It's rare to see this kind of weather in the Scottish Highlands in January. After dinner, with nothing else to do, I went to see the Whomping Willow.

Ever since Professor Sprout said the tree recognized him, he's been going to the Greenhouse every few days.

Check on the growth and recovery, and incidentally, transfer some Natural Magic Power.

The professor said that the tree remembers what it gives back.

There's nothing more to say, here you go.

He wanted to see if the Whomping Willow would grow into his shape if he continued to channel Natural Magic Power into it.

Now it only recognizes him, and won't attack him when it encounters him.

But if the Natural Magic Power seeps deep enough, leaving its mark throughout the tree's circulation, once it regains its strength, it will still whip others as before, but perhaps it will even help him whip people when it encounters him?

Professor Sprout welcomed his frequent appearances near the Greenhouse.

In her view, Young Black was finally starting to show interest in plants themselves.

The professor knew perfectly well that he didn't love the Magical Plant themselves; what he cared about was the Magical Plant they represented— the Magic that could be extracted, replicated, and transformed.

He didn't care about the life of the plants.

This made her admire his talent, but also feel a little worried.

But things are different now.

This child would proactively channel Magic Power into a Whomping Willow, squat beside it to observe the growth rate of new shoots, and even ask if watering it too much would disrupt its own cycle.

The professor felt that what he said that day had an effect.

He has taken to heart the principles of giving back, connecting, and contributing, and is putting them into practice in his own way.

She was very pleased, for this was, of course, learning how to care for Magical Plant, and of course, moving in the direction she had always hoped for.

Her gaze toward Regulus grew increasingly gentle.

Regulus knew what the professor was thinking, but he didn't intend to correct him.

He was indeed tending to the tree and observing its growth, while also considering how to make it part of a pre-planned base. These two things were not contradictory; in fact, they complemented each other.

He walked along the stone path toward Greenhouse No. 4, and stopped when he was about twenty meters away from the Greenhouse.

The wind blew in from the direction of Greenhouse No. 4, carrying a strong, almost tangible, odor.

The strong, pungent stench, a mixture of sulfur, coke, and rotting vegetation, was baked by the midday sun, forming an invisible wall in the air, exceptionally blatant.

Dragon Dung Fertilizer, fresh.

Regulus suppressed his nausea and took another sniff.

The first thing that comes out is the pungent smell of sulfur, followed by a deeper, more stale stench from the fermentation of decaying organic matter, similar to the smell of wet peat, decaying leaves, and animal excrement piled together for months.

Because of the dragon's own characteristics, it also carries a metallic, scorching aftertaste, like burnt iron.

It has distinct layers and tastes excellent.

The professor was squatting next to the Whomping Willow, his fingers stuck in the soil, muttering to himself.

Three wooden barrels lay on the ground beside him, their lids askew, brown, pasty substances dripping from the rims, steaming and glistening in the sunlight. Regulus held his breath.

He originally intended to go over and say hello, and perhaps infuse some Magic Power into the Whomping Willow.

But the smell was so strong that he felt it was disrespectful to his nasal cavity to take even one step forward.

He watched the professor squatting there, busy and excited, and silently turned away.

The professor didn't like being interrupted while he was squatting down and working.

He was about to turn back when he glanced to the side.

Behind the glass wall of Greenhouse No. 3, there were two figures, blurry but their outlines were still discernible.

One of them was taller and made bigger movements, gesturing wildly.

The other one, he squinted at first, looking at it as much shorter, then looked again and realized it wasn't short at all; it was squatting, squatting in front of the planting trough.

Regulus didn't look at it intentionally; his gaze simply fell on it, and his Magic Perception automatically swept over it.

The taller one, brimming with Magic Power, was lively, carrying a familiar restlessness, like a flame leaping about in a cage. Sirius.

The one crouching down possessed stable, tepid Magic Power, and carried a somewhat familiar aura.

Eleanor Bones.

Regulus became interested and, having already turned around, turned back.

The smell of Dragon Dung Fertilizer is still overwhelming, but the Bubble-Head Charm can solve everything.

He raised his right hand and gently brushed it across his body. Improved Disillusionment Charm spread out, and a cool, watery film washed over his head, flowing from his hair to his feet. Light distorted, his form vanished, and his voice, body temperature, and Magic Power leaked out. The disturbances in the airflow caused by his breathing, the breeze stirred by his robes as he walked, and the vibrations caused by his footsteps were all swallowed up.

In the perception of a regular wizard, this would be considered complete invisibility.

A sufficiently skilled wizard couldn't be kept in the dark, but it was more than enough to secretly spy on two young wizards.

He walked along the outer wall of the Greenhouse to the glass of Greenhouse No. 3 and stopped.

Through the glass and the mist, the figures inside were clearer than before. I couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but the image was quite clear. Both of them were wearing earmuffs, thick leather wrapped in cotton, covering their ears completely.

The Mandrake's Cry are deadly; wearing earmuffs is standard practice, Sirius didn't forget.

Regulus nodded in satisfaction.