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In the evening, in the hilly area south of Lake Windermere, at the border of Cumbria and Lancashire.

A three-story stone building is tucked away at the edge of a pine forest, next to a narrow road leading from the Muggle village of Cartmel to the Lake District.

The shielding and Unplottable Charm erased the entire building from the Muggle world; all that could be seen when passing by were two crooked trees and a dilapidated low wall.

A cast-iron sign hangs above the door frame, and a raven perches on a violin. The raven occasionally tilts its head, and the violin occasionally plucks a string by itself.

The Raven and Fiddle.

Regulus nestled in a soft leather armchair by the window, his right leg crossed over his left, his long, silvery hair draped over his shoulders, holding a steaming glass of Cumbrian Mead in his hand.

Outside the window are the early spring hills of Cumbria. In the late March evenings, the sky is still bright, and the undulating grassy slopes are tinged with a withered yellow in the evening light, with scattered flocks of sheep grazing on the slopes.

Further away are the gray mountain ridges in the direction of the Lake District, the setting sun sinking behind them, a thin layer of gold tinging the clouds, the light and shadow slowly moving across the grassy slopes, and the sky transitioning from orange-red to dark blue.

The fireplace was burning real firewood, the flames a bright yellow, and with a crackling sound, a piece of pine wood popped open, sending Mars flying upwards.

The air was filled with the aroma of roasting meat, mixed with the sweetness of Mead and the smoke from the fireplace. It was warm and cozy, and you could soak in it, feeling completely relaxed.

The dark wooden floors were spotless, the tables and chairs were sturdy, and several animated landscape paintings hung on the walls.

The paintings depict the four seasons of the Lake District: daffodil fields swaying in the breeze in spring, and thin ice floating on Lake Windermere in winter.

McGonagall was still wearing her battle suit from her Transfiguration, which she was quite comfortable wearing in her free time.

After running around for so many days, we finally have a decent place to rest. Compared to Hog's Head Inn, this place is heaven.

He took a sip of Mead; it was sweet and warm, sliding comfortably down his throat and into his stomach.

Dumbledore sat opposite him, with a cup of tea and a small dish of Grasmere Gingerbread that Lady Farnley had personally served him.

The collar of his travel robe was unbuttoned, and he took off his Half-moon Spectacles and held them in his hand, slowly wiping the lenses with a velvet cloth.

The gingerbread is a Lake District recipe, and Mrs. Farnley said it includes Cumbrian honey and a touch of cinnamon.

After wiping his lenses and putting them back on, he picked up a piece of gingerbread, brought it to his nose to smell it, narrowed his blue eyes slightly, nodded in satisfaction, and then took a bite.

He chewed loudly and intently, his cheeks bulging, a few crumbs of gingerbread clinging to his white beard.

Regulus held the Mead and watched him chew it.

Dumbledore swallowed, then picked up another piece, gestured with his chin toward the Kitchen, still chewing, crumbs popping out with each bite.

"Mrs. Farnley, her gingerbread recipe is the best in the Lake District. The secret is the honey, Cumbrian wildflower honey, which you can't find anywhere else."

Regulus grinned. "You start by praising honey."

"The honey deserves praise."

Dumbledore looked serious, dipped the biscuit in his tea before putting it in his mouth, and caught the tea dripping from the edge of the biscuit with his other hand.

Regulus watched the way they dipped the gingerbread in tea, hesitated for a moment, then took a piece of gingerbread and dipped it in the Mead.

I put it in my mouth and chewed it a couple of times, then my mouth froze.

The gingerbread itself was fine, but after being soaked in Mead, it turned into a wet, sweet paste. The spiciness of the ginger and the sweetness of the mead mixed together, neither sweet nor spicy, and had a strange, fishy taste.

The taste hit me hard. I chewed it twice with my mouth tightly closed and managed to swallow it, but the fishy and astringent taste on my tongue just wouldn't go away.

A tiny cluster of orange-red flames flickered from the corner of her mouth; the Magic Power on her tongue precisely burned away the lingering taste, and then went out.

He picked up his glass, took a sip, and acted as if nothing had happened.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his blue eyes flashing behind his glasses.

"Young man," he said, slowly stuffing the remaining half of a tea-soaked biscuit into his mouth and chewing it deliberately, "You won't appreciate the subtlety of it."

Regulus pressed the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and scraped it. "... What's so wonderful about it?"

"The taste of time," the old man picked up his teacup and winked at him, "You'll understand when you live to my age. Some things you can't appreciate when you're too young."

Regulus's tone carried a hint of genuine doubt. "The way we ate it in the last century?"

The old man calmly sipped his tea, casually wiping a tea stain from his beard, and said in a light voice, "That's how Berlin wizards ate back then."

Regulus casually remarked, "The Berlin wizards' sense of taste probably all died out around 1945."

Dumbledore's hand paused on the rim of the teacup, the light in his blue eyes flickering and falling onto the amber liquid swirling inside.

After a moment of silence, she said softly, "Yes, now I'm all alone."

Looking at the old man's face, Regulus realized that his words had been somewhat insensitive.

He picked up his glass, raised it towards Dumbledore, and took a sip.

Dumbledore looked up at Regulus raising his glass, his blue eyes crinkling. He said nothing, but also picked up his own glass and took a sip.

Mr. Farnley just came over from behind the bar to refill the water, carrying a copper kettle.

He was tall and thin, with gray hair, wearing silver-rimmed pince-nez glasses, and moved and spoke slowly.

"Would you like anything else? Damson gin, made with local wild Damson plums, my own brew."

Dumbledore handed over the cup. "Have a drink."

Mr. Farnley filled the glass, pushed it back, nodded to the two men, and walked away.

Dumbledore the glass, took a sip, and nodded in satisfaction. "This is what gin should taste like, the Aberforth kind—"

He shook his head, swallowed the rest of his sentence, and instead said, "Mr. Farnley was seventeen years younger than me in Ravenclaw. He ran a hotel in the Lake District for twenty years and never made a mistake."

The Ministry of Magic has come to investigate three times, but they haven't found anything.

Regulus raised an eyebrow and glanced towards the bar.

Mr. Farnley was standing behind the counter organizing the ledgers, quiet, respectable, and well-behaved, exuding Ravenclaw charm from head to toe, looking like a very upright wizard.

Regulus became interested and asked directly, "Tax evasion?"

Dumbledore paused, startled. "What—"

Then, realizing what she'd said, she chuckled, "Of course not, the Ministry of Magic doesn't have a tax office, and wizards don't need to pay taxes when they open shops."

Then, realizing what she'd done, her blue eyes widened in confusion. "What did the Black family do that requires them to pay taxes?"

Regulus's lips twitched. "No, no."

He cleared his throat. "I mean, why are you being investigated?"

Dumbledore's gaze swept across his face, then changed the subject. "He illegally used Magic to attract Muggle customers. Actually, he just cooked so deliciously that Muggle came to him by the smell."

Is it illegal to make delicious food? Then what about the stuff Aberforth makes?

Regulus asked, "Is it illegal to cook delicious food?"

"There's a gray area in the Ministry of Magic's International Statute of Secrecy: if a wizard's establishment consistently attracts the attention of Muggle, regardless of whether Magic is used, it can be considered a security risk."

Dumbledore took another piece of gingerbread, dipped it in his Damson gin, and chewed it with a satisfying crunch. Regulus watched, grinning from ear to ear, the old man looking utterly content.

"Mr. Farnley later added a Muggle -Muggle-Repelling Charm around the inn, and the problem was solved, but he was probably still quite disappointed."

Regulus then asked, "Is it a pity the Ministry of Magic didn't come a fourth time?"

Dumbledore frowned, glanced at him sideways, and thought, "What a foul mouth this kid has."

He shook his head, his beard swaying with it. "Mrs. Farnley believes a good chef shouldn't be picky about his customers."

Regulus grinned and glanced in the direction of the Kitchen.

Mrs. Farnley was busy inside, occasionally peeking halfway out into the hall to check if there was enough tea for the guests.

I've been following Dumbledore to three different places these past few days.

The first one was on the shores of Lake District Cumbria, where a retired investigator from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office kept a Kneazle.

His hair was completely white, and he sat in a rocking chair on the porch without getting up from beginning to end, with a ginger Kneazle perched on his knees.

He said that even with his old bones, he would only be a hindrance, but he could help keep an eye on the situation at the Scotland border.

"My Kneazle is faster than an owl at the slightest disturbance."

Dumbledore smiled and thanked him, "That's a kind of help, too."

The second one is in Lancashire, a witch in her early forties, Half-bloods, who runs Potions. She has been threatened by Death Eaters twice, and her shop was vandalized once.

She wanted to join the Order of the Phoenix, but she had elderly relatives to take care of. She brewed four pots of tea, hesitated for an entire afternoon, and finally said she would think about it some more.

"I know I should go, but someone has to stay home."

Dumbledore said, "It's alright. Just let me know if you need any help."

The third one was outside Bowland Forest, a retired Auror flatly refused.

He has a wife and children at home, so he can't take the risk, but if the Death Eaters come to his doorstep, he will fight back.

Dumbledore nodded and said, "Thank you. Contact me again if you've made up your mind."

The same words as those of Kro, but from different people.

Regulus followed behind, not attacking directly like he had done in the Wasteland, but watching the old man's back cast a long shadow in the afternoon sun, his white hair fluttering in the wind.

Recruitment itself didn't make much progress; none of the three people agreed on the spot, and the most enthusiastic one just said he'd think about it.

Dumbledore always smiled and said goodbye to everyone who rejected him, never forcing anyone.

The old man's route was deliberate, heading southeast from the Lake District Cumbria to Lancashire and then to the Bowland Forest.

North York Moors is in that direction; the area with the highest number of disappearances is on the edge of the marsh, not far from the sea.

The recruitment route overlaps with the investigation route. They're recruiting while traveling, and at this pace, they should arrive in the next day or two.

It was quite an interesting trip.

Traveling to different places and meeting different people, everyone has their own story and their own reasons.

There weren't any particularly memorable people or events; it wasn't particularly exciting, but it wasn't boring either. The process itself was quite interesting.

As I walked, I gained a more direct understanding of the workings of the lower echelons of the UK Wizarding World.

The evening light streaming through the window gradually dimmed, the golden hues on the hills faded away, and only the last trace of dark red remained in the western sky.

Dumbledore was picking up the fourth piece of gingerbread, a burst of silver light suddenly shone in through the window.

A silver bull, semi-transparent, passed through the glass, its thick horns and broad shoulders landing on the edge of the table with its four hooves treading on the air.

It opened its mouth, emitting a rough, deep voice, spoken rapidly and urgently. "Albus, the Prewett brothers are surrounded, Dolohov, ten men, north of Skipton— "

A tiny Light Point popped out from the tip of the bull's horn, hovering in the air, inside which a clear image spun.

"--I'm keeping an eye on it; it won't last much longer."

After saying this, the silver bull began to dissipate from its hooves upwards, its horns finally melting away, and the Silver Light shattered into wisps of white smoke and dissipated.

Dumbledore swallowed the gingerbread with a slurp.

Looking at Regulus, he whispered, "Moody."