By the Seine, Coffee on the Left Bank

The square was lit up with lights, four in total. Cast-iron lampposts stood at the four corners of the square, each with a Magic Lamp on top. The light shone through the frosted glass, illuminating the entire ground warmly and softly.

Dupont was instructing several employees to dismantle the long table and move it back to the workshop. Cups and dishes were piled on the wooden pallet, and the knives and forks clinked against Porcelain Plates.

Jean-Pierre walked across the edge of the square carrying two folding chairs, his straw hat hanging on the back of his neck, and humming an off-key ditty France.

Claire squatted under the olive tree to pick up the fragments of spider silk used to bind her in the afternoon. He picked it up, looked at the light, and then stuffed it into his robe pocket.

Regulus stood by the window sill on the second floor, resting his arms on the window frame and looking down.

Baruk After eating a big meal Dragon Meat, he felt sleepy now. His eight legs were hanging limply on the edge of the window frame, and the spider's head was sinking little by little.

Every time he almost hits the window frame, he suddenly lifts it up again, occasionally opening and closing his chelicerae and making a very light clack sound, as if he was talking in his sleep.

He reached out to pick it up and put it back on his shoulder. Baruk turned over with his belly facing up and stopped moving.

The sky has completely darkened, the outline of the mountain ridge has turned from gray to black, and the last remaining light in the west has faded.

Regulus's gaze retracted from downstairs and fell far away.

From the moment he saw Killing Curse appear, he guessed the opponent's purpose, forced him into a position, and made him face a choice.

The logic of this matter is not complicated. There is no reason for Voldemort to suddenly want to kill him. A Pure-bloods heir who accepted Dark Enlightenment is an asset in the camp, and killing him is a loss.

Bellatrix did hate him, but Bellatrix didn't dare. Without Voldemort's nod, she could only hold back her hatred.

Even if she really did it, it would be useless. If Voldemort hadn't done it himself, it would be really difficult to kill him.

Phoenix Feather can send him to Dumbledore, the Metal Ball given by Flamel can drag him directly into his home, Starry Sky Kite can take him away from the battlefield in an instant, any of them are enough for him to escape.

Even if Voldemort was really crazy and wanted to come in person one day, he should be able to run away without feeling that he was in danger from the beginning to the end.

So the purpose of those three Killing Curse shots from the very beginning was to see how he would choose when it was time to kill, whether to kill or not.

Killing is Voldemort's logic, and Dark Enlightenment is Voldemort's method.

If Dark Enlightenment has taken root in him and corroded his soul, then when faced with a fatal threat, he should kill him without hesitation. What Voldemort wants is this confirmation.

But he didn't kill anyone. The one who died was hit by Killing Curse who triggered the curse that Bellatrix himself had planted. It had nothing to do with him. The cause of death was placed squarely on Bellatrix's head.

Bellatrix's errand was messed up. It's probably not going to be easy to do it back home.

He thought of the crazy woman who screamed and played Killing Curse on Christmas Banquet. At that time, she at least still had her own madness. That fanaticism was hers, and the energy to pounce on any target was hers.

Now Bellatrix, who is quiet and can use his brain, still has that fanaticism, but it is wrapped in something else, and his wisdom can be seen.

Wise Spider is called Wise Spider because Baruk is really smart. This new version of Bellatrix can also be called smart.

But these were all given to her by Voldemort.

She probably thought it was a gift from the Master, proof that the Master had forged her with his own hands.

A Black family woman lives like this.

I can't say I hate you, there's no point in hating a person who has been transformed.

Boring, and a little sad.

He thought of himself.

If there was no Legilimency blocking him when he first came into contact with Dark Enlightenment, no mental strength tempered by Star Orbit Meditation, and no containment system to isolate Grey Matter in the corner of his consciousness, would he also become like Bellatrix?

The thought passed in a flash.

No, but not because he is better than Bellatrix, but because he is different from Bellatrix, because he never gives his faith to anyone.

Bellatrix's breach was faith. She believed in Voldemort, so much so that she handed over her whole self. Faith itself was the intrusion channel. She opened the door and let people in, and then handed over the key as well.

What he believes in has no face, Starry sky is the direction, freedom is the goal, and strength is the path.

No one gave him these things, he chose them himself. He walked the path he chose. This door cannot be opened from the outside.

The laughter of young employees could be heard downstairs. Someone was imitating Madeleine's scolding accent, but it didn't look like it, and then he was scolded by the owner.

Regulus looked away from the distance and landed on the window frame.

He found himself passive again.

He has always been the one to start the game by himself. He went to Greyback, then to Dumbledore, and became Geralt to join the Order of the Phoenix operation. Last year, Christmas Banquet defeated Bellatrix. Every step was chosen by him.

But Voldemort always falls from the sky. When his eyes move over, a bunch of things will come out from underneath, and he has to take action. This time it is France. He doesn't know where or when next time.

He admitted that Voldemort was indeed suppressing him.

This is a fact and there is no better way in the short term.

As long as Voldemort is still there, as long as he is not strong enough to have strength or position that does not require anyone to look at anyone's face, this uncertain and unstoppable source of harassment will always hang there.

Voldemort is like this. Whenever you remember it, just fiddle with it, and then leave, leaving a mess for him to clean up. If this happens, the person may not even remember that he fiddled with it.

But having said that, every time Voldemort fiddles with him from top to bottom, he is telling him one thing: Voldemort doesn't know him at all.

Voldemort thought he was accepting an asset. A talented little wizard who accepted Dark Enlightenment would sooner or later become an outstanding follower in his own camp.

But Voldemort doesn't know Star Orbit Meditation, doesn't know Severing Charm and Disintegration Charm, doesn't know Starry Sky Kite, doesn't know Geralt is Regulus.

Every time he asked condescendingly, he was using a wrong set of perceptions to understand a young wizard he had never seen directly.

Voldemort only has himself in the world. He is too tall to look down.

Regulus was down there, somewhere at the edge of his vision, valuable, but just like that.

Voldemort will not take the time to truly understand a young man who has not yet grown up. He only needs to confirm that this young man is still on his side, is still being corrupted by Dark Enlightenment, and is still following his preset track.

As for who this young man is, what he has in mind, and what he can do, Voldemort is not interested.

Frustrated? A little bit.

But the more Voldemort used this attitude towards him, the more certain he became that Voldemort was still far from truly understanding him, and this distance itself meant safety.

Thinking of this, another person naturally came to mind.

Dumbledore never falls from the sky.

Astronomy Tower below, Headmaster's Office, Shrieking Shack outside, Wasteland tavern, on the sea cliff, every time it is a person who has gone further to guide the newcomers.

They are also people far beyond him. One uses pressure to confirm ownership, and the other uses guidance to confirm direction.

When getting along with Dumbledore, he has never been passive.

Voldemort Why don't you know how to learn?

The square downstairs has almost been tidied up, the long table has been dismantled, chairs are piled on the wall of the workshop, and tablecloths are folded and placed on wooden pallets.

Dupont stood in the middle of the square, pointing his wand at a cracked stone slab on the ground. The cracks slowly closed in the dim light of Repairing Charm.

Baruk swayed on the shoulder and almost fell. It suddenly raised its head, its eight amber eyes widened at the same time, and its chelicerae made two clicking sounds.

Regulus stretched out his hand and flicked the spider's back. Baruk tilted the spider's head to the side and lay back down again.

He can't always be so passive. He has thought about it before and wants to have academic exchanges with Voldemort, about the soul, about Dark Enlightenment, and about the coexistence of light and darkness.

But it can't be done. Voldemort does not accept equality. He only accepts people kneeling. Knowledge is a reward to him and will not be exchanged.

We have to find a way to get the rhythm back, find a way to make this relationship no longer one-sided, you come and I continue, you leave and I wait.

I haven't figured out exactly how to do it yet. I have some direction and still need to figure it out.

My thoughts fell on Bellatrix again.

Every Black chooses a path and walks to the end.

Bellatrix chose faith, and Voldemort was her faith. She surrendered herself completely.

Andromeda chose freedom, walked out of the Pure-bloods world, and did not look back even if he was kicked out.

Sirius wants to go out, but the way is different from before, but the direction is still the same.

The blood of the same family grows completely different branches.

Everyone is crazy, and everyone is determined to the extreme.

France is here, go and see Andromeda, a good cousin and a bad cousin.

Regulus's mouth twitched.

France's affairs here have been finished, and he has taken over all Voldemort's arrangements.

You want to manipulate me, but I let you manipulate me. It's over, it's time for me to leave. Master Voldemort, do you feel my respect?

Regulus turned and left the window sill.

The air became distorted and the person disappeared.

The landing point is the intersection of Paris Left Bank, Boulevard Saint-Germain and Rue Saint-Jacques.

Baruk was still hanging on his shoulder, dozing off.

Regulus stood on the street corner, the light beige linen robe on his body changed before it hit the ground.

Dark gray casual suit, white shirt, no tie, one button open at the collar, trousers falling neatly on the leather shoes.

At the age of thirteen, he has already grown tall enough. Magic Power has been tempered for many years to stretch his figure, and this dress makes his shoulders and back straight.

With a flick of his finger, Confundus Charm spread out, covering Baruk on his shoulders. Muggle looked over, but there was nothing there.

It was the evening of mid-to-late April 1974, spring.

There were not many people in the square. A few young people who looked like college students were sitting on the steps of Panthéon chatting. Some were reading and some were kissing.

Regulus Go down along Montagne Sainte-Geneviève and go in the direction of Mouffetard Street.

The chestnut tree is blooming, with white and pink flower spikes hanging on the sidewalk in clusters. When the wind blows, the petals float down and fall on the roof of the Citroën car parked on the roadside.

The cafe put rattan tables and chairs on the sidewalk, and the awning was dark green with beer advertisements printed on it.

Someone was sitting outside smoking and drinking coffee, crossing his legs and looking at the passers-by. He had a newspaper open in his hand and the cigarette ashes bounced into the aluminum ashtray on the table.

There are basically France white people on the street.

A well-dressed middle-aged woman walked over on stiletto heels.

The old man leading the short-legged dog took two steps and stopped, waiting for the dog to finish sniffing the telephone pole before walking away.

A college student riding a bicycle, with a bundle of baguettes stuffed in the basket of his bicycle and his bicycle bell jingling.

A young couple came out of the bakery. The woman was carrying a paper bag, and the man broke off a piece from the paper bag and stuffed it into his mouth. He was slapped on the hand.

Occasionally, dark-skinned Algerian immigrants pass by. Their clothes are different from those around them and their steps are faster.

Passing by a subway entrance, the underground wind blew up, but there was no smell.

There are no homeless people on the street, no garbage on the ground, and no skin color that makes people instinctively cover their pockets when walking.

The rhythm of this city is relaxed and decent, and it has not been ruined by those things that came later.

Passing a newsstand, the day's newspaper and several magazines were hung on the iron shelves, and the photo of Pompidou was hung on the front page of the newspaper.

President France just passed away three weeks ago. The caption under the black and white photo reads "la france en deuil". France is immersed in grief, and the magazine cover next to it is discussing his successor.

Muggle The leader of the world is also dead.

Regulus glanced at it and walked over.

Mouffetard Street is very narrow, with small shops on both sides.

Bakeries, Cheese shops, fruit stalls, butcher shops, and their signs are all crowded together, with small facades. Each one has its door open, and the light and the smell of food flow out from the door.

Someone passed by the fruit stall, pinched the peach and put it back, and the stall owner yelled.

Someone came out of the pub with a glass of red wine, stood at the door and chatted with a passing acquaintance.

The tail of Thirty Glorious Years, France The economy is still in good times, and the dividends of post-war reconstruction have not yet been exhausted.

After walking forward for a while, you can see the direction of the Seine River. There is a bookstall by the river. The old bookstall owner is sitting on a folding chair reading his book.

There is a couple leaning on the stone railing, and the silhouette of Notre-Dame opposite is pressed into a dark silhouette in the dusk.

The street lights began to turn on, and the soft light shone from the iron lampposts, reflecting on the stone road, lengthening the shadows of every pedestrian.

Regulus cross these streets.

It was a completely different world from the battlefield a day ago. There were no severed limbs, no flames, and no green light of Killing Curse. There was only the smell of bread, the bitter taste of coffee, and the unique laxity of Paris in the evening.

Turning a corner, there was a small cafe facing the street.

The glass doors and windows are painted dark green, and an iron sign hangs above the door frame, which is bent into a line of handwritten French.

le coin fleuri, flower horn.

There is a pot of lavender on the windowsill, and the purple flower spikes are slightly swayed by the evening wind.

You can see inside through the glass, there are several small round tables, a dark wooden bar, and there are cups and jars of coffee beans on the shelves behind the bar.

A warm-colored lamp hung from the ceiling, illuminating the small space.

There was a man in a trench coat reading a newspaper in the corner, and two young people were sitting at another table chatting in a low voice.

Regulus pushed the door in and the brass bell on the door rang.