Black's Cemetery

Walburga's body stiffened.

Of course she remembered how Regulus had brushed her off at the Christmas Banquet, and what happened after he said he wanted to talk things out. She knew that Regulus's friendliness wasn't entirely genuine, at least not entirely as she thought.

She wasn't stupid; what happened at the Christmas Banquet showed her so many things she had never seen before.

Her youngest son was colder, more profound, more powerful, and more unfamiliar than she had imagined.

She was still looking at her son, but she was no longer sure what she was looking at.

After that, she thought about it for a long time, at night while sleeping, during the day while eating, and especially when she was alone.

Once you understand some things, no matter what kind of person Regulus is, he is her son, and she is his mother.

This fact cannot be compared to any glory, nor can it be overshadowed by any unfamiliarity.

There were some things she hadn't figured out; she didn't know how to face her son.

The old methods no longer work, and a new one hasn't been found yet. It seems all she can do is be a mother.

But she was still thinking about what exactly a mother was.

So Regulus's arms wrapped around her, and she froze, unsure if the embrace was real or just another instance of playing along.

But the hug was very strong, and his arms were tightly wrapped around her, unlike before when he would just give a loose hug and then let go.

Then she realized she didn't care anymore. Really? Who cares?

Walburga reached out and hugged him, hugging him tighter than he did, his fingers gripping the robe on the back of his robe tightly.

She was trembling, very slightly; you wouldn't feel it if you weren't right next to her.

Even in front of her son, the Master of the Black family never fully revealed her vulnerability.

But the body is more honest than the will; she could control her expression, but not the slight trembling of her muscles.

She lost her father.

Whatever her relationship with Pollux was like—distant, polite, or simply going about their own business—he was, after all, her father. The white-haired old man sitting at a distance at the family gathering, holding a wine glass, a figure who had been a constant presence since the day she was born, was no longer there.

Neither mother nor son spoke. The Corridor was quiet. The winter sun shone through the window, casting their shadows on the floor, overlapping. Walburga held them for a while, then slowly loosened his grip and took a half-step back.

She bent down to straighten her gloves, and when she looked up, her expression had returned to normal—composed and serene, befitting the Master of the Black family. Her gaze shifted from Regulus to the stairwell.

Sirius stood there, dressed in his new black robes, motionless, hands in his pockets, looking in their direction, his face expressionless.

Walburga glanced at him, his expression neither good nor bad; it was just a quick glance to confirm his presence and that he was wearing the proper robes.

Sirius also looked away, saying nothing; he was happy with that.

Orion emerged from his Study, dressed in a black robe with the family crest pinned to his left breast. He stood at the end of the Corridor, glanced at his two sons, then at Walburga, and nodded.

"Walk."

Upon reaching the porch, Orion pulled a slip of paper from the inner pocket of his robe and handed it to Regulus.

Regulus took it and glanced down at it.

The handwriting on the note was her father's; it contained only one line and an address.

The moment he saw the words, a picture automatically popped into his mind.

Nestled among the hills, ancient yew trees cast a shadow, and tombstones stand neatly arranged in the dim light.

The image was so clear that he could feel the texture of the ground and the temperature of the air.

The note was enchanted, transmitting complete spatial coordinates and sufficiently precise visual information, giving the Apparition an anchor point.

He handed the note to Sirius.

Sirius took it, looked down at it, paused for a moment, and a picture flashed into his mind.

He blinked twice, adjusting to the sudden appearance of a new memory, and then returned the note to Regulus.

His expression was somewhat complicated, probably implying that the Black family was keeping even their address so secret, but he didn't say it aloud.

Regulus took it, rubbed his fingers together, and the paper turned to ashes, which were scattered by the wind at the doorway.

A family of four stood on the porch steps. Pat, pat, pat, pat, the porch was empty.

Kreacher peeked out from behind the door, looked at the empty steps, and then closed the door.

The moment we landed, even the air seemed to change.

The air in London was thick with soot and damp haze, sticky and clinging to the skin.

The air here is much cleaner, cold, and damp, with a smell of earth and old tree roots, and a layer of something from deep underground—I can't quite put my finger on it, but I can smell it.

Four people were standing on a gentle slope.

Regulus looked up and glanced around.

The low hills rolled in, the grass yellowish. In February, England was not yet ready to turn green, and the withered grass stretched from the slopes all the way to the horizon. He spread out his Magic Perception and instantly felt several layers of Protective Charm stacked together.

The Muggle-Repelling Charm is the outermost layer, causing Muggle to suddenly remember they have unfinished business at home or think the place looks like a worthless wasteland, and then turn around and leave.

Further inside is Unplottable Charm, which causes any attempt to mark this location on a map to automatically shift and appear elsewhere on the paper. There is also an Anti-Perception Charm that interferes with the instinctive perception of Magical Creatures.

Owls flying over here will suddenly lose their sense of direction and take a wide detour to avoid it. Niffler passing by will find nothing of value underground. Deep inside is an even older Anti-Prophecy Charm. If anyone tries to peek into this graveyard through Prophecy or Divination, they will only see a blurry hill and a field of yew trees.

Over hundreds of years, layer upon layer, old spells were covered by new ones, and new ones were reinforced by even newer ones. From the very first generation, when Black chose this place as his burial site, each generation has added things to it.

The Black Family Cemetery —when the family mentions it, they just say, "The old place."

The name has been passed down within the family for centuries; all Black know where it is, but no one outside the Black knows. The cemetery is located among low hills in southern England, roughly in the area where Wiltshire and Somerset meet, judging from the terrain. The direction of the hills, the type of vegetation in the grasslands, the humidity and temperature of the air can roughly define the area.

Surrounded on all sides by ancient yew trees, their trunks so thick that it would take two or three people to encircle them, their bark dark brown, wrinkled and cracked, covered with moss. The canopy closes above, its branches and leaves intertwining, blocking out most of the sunlight, leaving only a few rays that leak through the gaps, falling on the ground and casting narrow, elongated patches of light, creating an alternating interplay of light and shadow.

The higher you go in the cemetery, the dimmer the light becomes.

tombstone.

Many tombstones.

Arranged neatly from the highest point of the hill downwards, row upon row, extending down the slope.

The top rows are the oldest.

The stone has been eroded by hundreds of years of rain and moss, making it indistinct. Some of the original names are no longer legible, leaving only the outline of the stone and the varying depths of the indentations on its surface.

The Black family crest had weathered into a blurred pattern, with the shape of Sirius still faintly discernible.

The middle rows are from the 17th and 18th centuries; they are better preserved, the stone is harder, the inscriptions are deeper, and the names and dates are still legible.

Each tombstone bears the Black family crest, the size and style of which have varied slightly over time, but the core elements have remained the same: a shield-shaped base, two stars side by side, Sirius below.

Only one seat was available in the bottom row, for Pollux.

The earth has been dug; the rectangular grave lies on the withered grass, revealing a section of dark soil, awaiting a new inhabitant.

Regulus stood in the graveyard, his Magic Perception spreading out once more, probing into the ground.

He frowned.

Underground, inside those coffins, something is radiating Magic Power.

The remains inside, the burial objects buried with the remains, the Rune carved on the coffin itself, and the remnants of Dark Arts that have seeped into the soil over the centuries.

Some have been buried for hundreds of years, their remains may have turned to dust, but the Magic Power remains.

Heavy, dark, and imbued with an aura of corruption and curse.

Some were wrapped around the remains of the coffin like shrouds, some had seeped into the soil and become entangled with tree roots, and some were still entrenched deep inside the coffin.

Not all coffins had them; some were completely silent, the people inside having passed away peacefully.

But some were exceptionally strong; the odor from one coffin was almost terrifying.

It has been buried for less than two hundred years. The remains inside, whose deeds in life are unknown, continue to emit the lingering aura of a curse even after death, the ominous presence almost solidifying into a tangible form.

As his senses swept over, his mental defenses automatically trembled, his Guardian Will responding to some kind of hostility.

Regulus withdrew his senses and stopped looking, not wanting to disturb his ancestors.

The Black family, Pureblood families for hundreds of years, has had members in every generation who have studied Dark Arts, and in every generation, members who have taken things they shouldn't have left behind to their graves.

Perhaps it was a Dark Arts artifact they used in life, perhaps an unfinished cursed creation, or perhaps just a magic wand. Perhaps their bodies had already been permeated by Dark Arts, and the remaining Magic Power continued to emanate an ominous aura after death.

Actually, it makes sense when you think about it. Going back a few hundred years, there was no such thing as Dark Arts and White Magic.

The Ministry of Magic was not officially established until 1692. Before that, the rules of wizarding society were far less detailed than they are now.

The Magic that medieval wizards used depended on what was effective, what was powerful, and what could protect their family's territory and bloodline.

What's black or white? Whatever wins is good. If something is good, keep using it. If it survives, pass it on.

Back then, there was only the question of whether or not it was possible, not whether or not it was right or wrong. Strength was the only fundamental basis for survival, and whatever was powerful was used.

Curses, corruption, control over dark creatures, and profound transformation of the soul—the ability to use them, and to use them well, is true skill.

As for harming the soul, falling into depravity, or going mad, that's simply a matter of insufficient ability.

If you have enough skill, you can handle anything; if you don't, you'll suffer the consequences.

Looking back now, that idea might not be right.

But that was a legacy from an era without organization or rules, and the Black family has never lagged behind in accumulating such legacies. In fact, it's not just the Black family; most well-established Pureblood families are like that.

The Black family is thoroughly black, and other families aren't much better; this is the typical color of Pureblood families, at least for most of them.

Even though they died, the Magic they left behind did not.

Regulus understood.

This cemetery itself is a huge remnant of Dark Arts, accumulated over hundreds and nearly thousands of years, layer upon layer, wrapped underground by soil and yew roots, quietly rotting.

The yew was probably chosen on purpose; this tree has a property that is not often mentioned in Magical Plant.

It can absorb and suppress dark Magic Power; its roots are deep enough, and its canopy is dense enough that over hundreds of years, it has firmly held down whatever lies underground. He glanced at Sirius beside him.

Sirius had his hands in his pockets, his expression blank, his gaze fixed on a tombstone. He wasn't looking at anything; he was just staring blankly.

They might be thinking about something, or they might not be thinking about anything at all.

His Magic Perception wasn't very sharp, so he probably didn't sense anything from those things underground.

To him, this was a gloomy graveyard, with a group of people in black robes standing there, the atmosphere oppressive, and he wanted to leave.

Regulus looked away.

People started arriving one after another.

The sound of Apparition came from outside the yew wall, muffled, its echo mostly blocked by the canopy and the anti-magic spell.

The Black walked in through the gaps between the yew trees, their black robes obscuring their faces in the dim light; only their outlines were visible, almost blending into the shadows of the trees.

Cygnus III and Druella walked side by side.

Cygnus and Walburga are siblings, both children of Pollux.

Just like Regulus remembered, tall, thin, with a serious face, he looked exactly like Pollux.

His expression was a bit more somber Walburga's, but it was just somber; it didn't quite convey grief.

He walked to the tomb, glanced at the dug pit, paused for a moment, then looked away, walked to Orion and Walburga, and whispered something.

Druella stood half a step behind him, her face veiled in a dark mask, obscuring her expression. Her gloves were pulled up above her elbows, and she stood with impeccable posture. Arcturus III also arrived, and the crowd automatically parted to make way for him.

He is Orion's father and the most senior living member of the Black family.

He wasn't tall, but he stood very straight. He was almost eighty years old, with white hair, a thin face, and wrinkles that looked like they were carved by a knife.

His robe was the oldest style, pure black, without silver thread or dark patterns, simple to the extreme. He held a black Staff in his hand, topped with a silver Sirius that gleamed faintly in the dim light.

He walked up to the tomb and stared at the spot for a long time.

Pollux was his contemporary; the two occupied different branches on the Black family tree, but were rooted in the same system.

Together they experienced the Grindelwald era, World War II, the reform of the Ministry of Magic, and the rise of Voldemort.

One is still here, and the other is gone.