Chapter 501

Sirius fell silent.

He seemed to have found the truth.

“The Dark Lord… he’ll come back?”

Sirius asked, his voice hoarse.

Wizard Sean nodded silently.

“Ah…”

Sirius let out a low laugh, his weary eyes washed in thin streaks of sunlight filtering through heavy curtains, dark circles heavy beneath them, looking almost mad.

“If you believe this is the answer you seek, I’d like to speak with Mr. Regulus Black.”

Wizard Sean said.

“What would you like to know about him…”

Sirius studied the young wizard with cautious eyes, running his fingers through his tangled, long hair.

“I don’t know much, because I hated them all.”

“Everything.”

Wizard Sean thought for a moment, then said.

“Heh… if you’re not too bothered by trouble, come with me.”

Sirius vanished in an instant, leaving only a large black dog ahead.

Sirius had no grounds to doubt the boy’s motives; absurd as it seemed, upon closer thought, it made perfect sense.

A wizard like the Dark Lord would always provoke resistance.

They had always seen no hope—that was certain, even with Dumbledore present.

But now, among their ranks stood such a presence…

In any case, Sirius believed.

He was often this easily trusting—and stubborn to the end.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

A dilapidated door suddenly appeared between numbers eleven and thirteen, followed by grimy walls and gloomy windows, as if an extra house had swollen out of nowhere, shoving the others aside.

The door was knocked, but not by a wizard—it was a black dog.

The black dog let out a low, guttural growl, then turned its head backward.

Behind it, Wizard Sean climbed the broken stone steps, studying the newly materialized door.

The black paint on the door was peeling, covered in deep scratches.

The silver door knocker was shaped like a coiled serpent; there was no keyhole, no mailbox.

As the black dog pressed against the door, it creaked open slowly.

“Come in,”

a voice came from behind the door,

“but remember—follow me, and don’t touch anything.”

Wizard Sean stepped over the threshold into the nearly pitch-black entrance hall.

He smelled dampness, dust, and a sweet, rotting stench—the place felt like an abandoned, empty house.

He also heard a rustling sound, then a row of old gas lamps along the walls flickered to life, casting a wavering, unreal glow over the long, gloomy hall, revealing peeling wallpaper and worn, frayed carpet.

Above, a chandelier shaped like a spiderweb glimmered faintly; on the walls, portraits hung crookedly, blackened by age.

Beside the chandelier, on a wobbling table, candelabras were all shaped like serpents.

“This is the Black family’s ancestral home. Regulus Black, whom you mentioned, is my brother.

Like my parents, he was madly obsessed with pure blood, believing that as a Black, he was born noble…

And so my foolish brother, too weak-willed, believed them… that was him.”

Sirius extended a finger, pointing to the lowest name on the family tree:

Regulus Black. After his birth date was a death date.

“He was younger than me,”

Sirius said,

“constantly reminded me that this son of mine was far superior.

And then he died.

A stupid fool… he joined the Death Eaters.”

“You and your brother… you actually…”

Kreacher the butler interjected at the right moment.

“Kreacher, after seeing the state of this house, don’t you understand what kind of wizards my family were?”

Sirius sneered.

“Were your parents also among those so-called… Death Eaters?”

Kreacher asked.

“No, not exactly—but believe me, they thought Voldemort’s views were right. They all supported preserving wizarding blood purity, ridding the world of Mudbloods, and placing purebloods in power.

They weren’t unique; before Voldemort revealed his true face, many believed his views on certain matters were correct…

But when they saw he would stop at nothing for power, they grew fearful and retreated.

Yet I suspect my parents believed Regulus joining early was a brave little hero.

But then he died.”

Sirius’s smile widened.

“He was killed by Voldemort. Or more likely, murdered on Voldemort’s orders.

I doubt Regulus was important enough for Voldemort to kill him personally.

From what I learned after his death, he had sunk deep into it—then grew terrified of what they made him do, and wanted out.

Ah, you can’t just hand Voldemort a resignation letter. Either serve for life, or die.

That’s his story. What do you think? His story shows what price one pays for siding with evil—only cowards and fools would do such a thing.”

Sirius finally said.

“Perhaps the story we know isn’t quite the same? Mr. Black?”

Wizard Sean’s voice was soft, yet it unsettled Sirius deeply.

“Do you know what you’re saying? Or must I lie to you?”

Sirius frowned.

“I found Mr. Regulus Black in a very special place.”

Wizard Sean spoke slowly, pulling out a peculiar wooden box.

It was large, resembling a coffin.

Sirius hesitantly pushed open the lid, revealing a corpse—gnawed, waterlogged, and horrifically mutilated.

Even with preparation, Sirius felt as if a train had slammed into his chest; he could not speak for a long time.

“I think, Mr. Kreacher, he will tell us a completely different story.”

As Wizard Sean finished, a house-elf appeared instantly in the corridor.

Around his waist he wore a filthy rag, like the loincloth worn by men in tropical lands; otherwise, he was nearly naked.

He looked ancient, his skin stretched far beyond what his body needed, and though his head was bald like all house-elves, thick clumps of white hair grew from his bat-like ears.

His eyes were bloodshot, watery and gray, his fleshy nose enormous, almost like a pig’s snout.

The moment he appeared, he shrieked:

“Master Black!”