Regulus's Upward Management

In the evening, on the sea cliffs of County Durham, the wind blew in from the North Sea, carrying a salty, damp smell that made robes flutter.

The weather was fine; early April in England was unusually sunny, with the clouds torn into pieces, revealing large swathes of grey-blue sky.

The sun hung above the sea level and slowly sank below the horizon, turning the entire coastline golden.

The fishing village below the cliff wasn't this pretty.

Regulus leaned against the limestone, his long, silvery hair pulled to his shoulders by the wind, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage below.

The charred wooden frame lay haphazardly in the mud, several pits were filled with seawater, and broken tiles and collapsed doors were scattered around the pits.

Voldemort came, Voldemort left, and in between, the fishing village was gone.

He looked away, his face expressionless.

Over the past two weeks, I've followed the old man to four different Inferi spawning sites: the swamps of North Yorkshire, the abandoned mines of Lancashire, the Dungeons of the old Castle in Northumberland, and this is the fourth one.

Everywhere was pretty much the same: houses collapsed, people were gone, and the remaining corpses were dragged up by Dark Arts to serve as cheap guards.

Not content with killing people, Voldemort also demolished houses, village after village, working diligently.

UK villages don't really have much infrastructure; they're just piles of stones and timber, and that's how they've been for centuries. All that's put together is what makes a village.

But Voldemort destroyed even this small piece of equipment wherever he went.

The work of creating Inferi is essentially a physical task in Dark Arts; it relies on quantity, not quality.

In a confined space, it might be somewhat useful against mediocre wizards. Crowded together, unable to escape, and being held captive by a bunch of cold hands in the dark is indeed quite frightening.

They're not afraid of pain or death; if they pounce on people, they can at least cause some trouble.

But once in open areas, their disadvantages become apparent: they are slow, lack intelligence, and are afraid of fire. Even a daring Muggle could handle it with a torch, let alone a proper wizard.

A single Fire-Making Spell can burn an entire area. Voldemort used these to guard his secrets, probably not because they were powerful.

Regulus had no opinion on Inferi, nor on the Muggle who were made into Inferi.

Once someone is dead, they're dead. Making use of their corpse is Voldemort's business.

He didn't need to put on a sorrowful expression in front of Dumbledore; the old man had seen more dead people than he had, and he didn't need anyone to perform compassion for him.

Regulus was bored. He had followed the old man for two weeks, but everywhere was the same: ruins, pits, empty spaces. Voldemort hadn't left a single hair on his head.

Voldemort clearly had fur.

There's no fun in cleaning up someone else's mess.

But the old man didn't think so.

Dumbledore stood on the edge of the cliff, a dozen steps away from him, his travel robe billowing in the sea breeze, the twilight shining from behind him, his white hair and beard edged with a fluffy gold.

He Great Sea, his blue eyes fixed on the last glimmer of orange light on the distant horizon.

Sometimes Regulus felt that the old man was probably remembering this place for the dead.

No one will come back, no one will remember who lived here before, only he is here, taking all the empty houses and empty people of this village with him and taking them away.

Dumbledore's voice drifted from ahead. "Let's go."

Regulus pulled himself out of the limestone crater, his silver hair flying over his shoulders.

The two walked south along the path at the top of the cliff, Dumbledore a step ahead, Regulus following behind, the sea breeze blowing from the side, making their robes blow in the same direction.

Only two figures remained on the cliff, one tall and one taller, moving slowly across the withered grassy slope.

The sea breeze blows for a while, then stops, then starts blowing again.

The old man didn't speak; sometimes he was like that. After observing the scene, he would walk in silence, without analysis or reflection, just like that.

Regulus had been following along for days and had gotten used to it, so he didn't deliberately try to find any topics to talk about and just followed in silence.

Dumbledore walked slowly, and so did Regulus. Dumbledore walked as if he were measuring the land, while Regulus walked as if he were admiring the scenery.

The sky overhead was still bright, but the east had already darkened, and a streak of light, turning gray, trailed across the sea—it was quite beautiful.

But he also noticed that there were no seabirds along the way.

At first, I thought it was because the scent of Dark Arts hadn't completely dissipated, and indeed there was still some residue. But we were already quite far from the fishing village, and the sky and the water were still empty.

Just as he was about to look further into the distance, his eyes suddenly lit up.

A tiny Light Point, about the size of a thumb, appeared out of thin air, hovering half a foot in front of him. It spun and spun again, then with a snap, unfolded into a letter. The Twin Stars and Sirius on the wax seal lit up briefly, then went dark again.

Regulus raised an eyebrow. Bloodline Tracking Beacon: a letter from his father.

This thing isn't for everyday use; it's not needed for ordinary matters. He hadn't sent any letters home for over half a month since he left, but for important matters, his father would contact him directly, so there was no need for a beacon.

He reached out and took it, tore off the wax seal, and unfolded the letter.

Dumbledore glanced at the envelope, then looked away without stopping, continuing to walk forward, taking a few steps and then a few more steps further away.

The letter was short; I glanced at it, rubbed it between my fingers, and it turned to ashes, scattered by the sea breeze.

Regulus watched Dumbledore figure, a slight smile playing on his lips.

The old man is quite particular; we'll give him some space.

Then I started to think about it.

My father wouldn't exaggerate. He said the highest level was Voldemort, and it was perfectly normal for Voldemort to be observing him.

The Dark Enlightenment was just a routine check, but the fact that Father specifically mentioned the movements of Dumbledore's camp in the letter meant it was more than just a formality.

As for what Dumbledore might do, how could he not know?

Dolohov wasn't just any cat or dog; he was one of Voldemort's oldest and most trusted lieutenants, possessing considerable fighting prowess and a high status.

Being beaten up is humiliating, especially being beaten so badly by someone who looks so much younger but is actually much younger, that you can't even get up. But you still have to report it.

Voldemort received the message, glanced in his direction to check if the talented young wizards in his camp were still there—a perfectly reasonable move.

Regulus thought this logic was sound. It wasn't that he was arrogant; it was simply that any side that produced a fighter of his caliber should be taken seriously.

Since he wants to see, let him see. It doesn't matter if no one investigates; ordinary Death Eaters wouldn't bother with it anyway. But since Voldemort personally sent people to investigate, then we'll go all the way and let him see what he wants to see.

Go to France, make a public appearance, do what you need to do, and make sure you get the results you expect there.

This is called managing upwards, managing Voldemort's perception; once he's satisfied, he'll have peace and quiet.

Regulus's lips twitched slightly. From this perspective, Voldemort wasn't so bad after all.

He put those thoughts aside, quickened his pace, and caught up with Dumbledore. The old man was still strolling slowly there, and turned around when he heard footsteps.

Regulus walked over and stood beside him, speaking casually and nonchalantly, "Something's come up at home. Someone's investigating me, Voldemort."

Dumbledore looked over with his blue eyes, but his expression wasn't serious; his voice was quite relaxed. "Is it serious?"

Regulus thought for a moment.

Being checked at border crossings, having one's school investigated, professors questioned—it sounds Voldemort, and anyone would be nervous in that situation. But if you think about it carefully, Voldemort wouldn't personally show up.

So he nodded.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

If the child nods immediately after he asks the question, then it's serious; but if he thinks for a long time before nodding, then it's probably not serious.

Moreover, this child doesn't try to be a hero; he asks for help when he needs it and doesn't try to tough it out, which means he genuinely doesn't think the situation is serious.

Dumbledore questions.

The sea breeze continued to blow, and the twilight deepened, the last glimmer of orange on the horizon sinking below the horizon.

Regulus followed the old man's steps, shrugged, and his long silver hair swayed. "I'm going to France to let him see what he wants to see."

Dumbledore's blue eyes gleamed faintly in the twilight, and his gaze behind his Half-moon Spectacles held a hint of curiosity. "Confident?"

Regulus didn't answer directly, but continued walking forward, one hand in the pocket of his vest, walking casually and speaking in a relaxed tone.

"My father suspected it was Voldemort and proceeded with the usual observation, but since it was him, we had to deal with him."

Dumbledore's gaze lingered on his face for a moment before returning to it.

This wasn't the first time the child had called Voldemort by his name. Within the Pure-blood Circle, even those outside Voldemort's faction rarely addressed Tom that way anymore.

Even if this name hasn't become synonymous with fear and death, people will refer to it by something else, like "that the Dark Lord," or simply "the Dark Lord."

But Dumbledore didn't react in any particular way; Regulus's attitude towards Tom was never one of fear.

Dumbledore was unaware of the details of the Christmas Banquet.

He was certainly aware of the rumors: the Heir of the Black family had fought Bellatrix, Lestrange Manor had been burned down, and Voldemort had personally attended the scene.

These versions have circulated in the Pure-blood Circle for several years, ranging from outrageous to even more outrageous, but ultimately they are just vague secondhand descriptions and a Christmas Eve legend that has been exaggerated and distorted countless times.

None of the people in the Banquet Hall that night— Bellatrix, Regulus, Orion, Walburga, Sirius, Lucius, Narcissa —would tell anyone.

The Pure-bloods waiting outside only saw flames and ruins, heard a few explosions, and what reached Dumbledore's ears was only a definite result.

Regulus defeated Bellatrix, burned down the manor, Voldemort arrived, and then nothing happened.

But Dumbledore was unaware of the Dark Enlightenment, Legilimency, those gray, emanating Magic Power, and the methods that tormented souls—these were matters between Regulus and Voldemort.

From Dumbledore's perspective, things went something like this.

A Pure-bloods heir of Slytherin, with extremely high talent, and having even redeemed a portion of that talent, he can already be considered powerful to some extent.

Voldemort noticed him, observed him, tried to win him over, and attempted to bring him into his camp, which was not surprising to Dumbledore at all.

Tom has been good at identifying and cultivating talented people since his student days.