Regulus Black had removed the surveillance points around Number 4 Privet Drive. Those who had been cursed with "Left Eye Sees Ghosts" suddenly lost their so-called "abilities." Still, the fact that they could return to normal was a relief for them. Regulus Black also adjusted a portion of their memories, guiding them to conclude on their own that what happened had merely been a coincidence.
Voldemort's Death Eaters had moved into the old Gaunt residence. They still needed time to arrange things, so they would not be running about recklessly in the coming days. This, in turn, gave Regulus Black the chance to establish a new surveillance system.
In the Forbidden Forest, a young centaur was pressing a muscular woman into the ground, moving against her relentlessly.
"This child… I told him before, centaurs and humans cannot produce half-breeds. Why won't he listen?"
An older centaur passed by but showed no intention of stopping him. So what if the woman was a witch? So what if she was a high official in the Ministry of Magic? No one had come to rescue this high-ranking witch. And even if someone did, it would only be for an exchange of interests.
From that patch of woodland came cries that rang out again and again until her voice grew hoarse and finally fell silent.
"You beasts, I will never forgive you."
Dolores Umbridge, panting heavily, leaned against a tree trunk. Her lower body was a complete mess, her legs unable to close.
"Combat is just like mating. It requires total commitment, the pursuit of the most extreme sensations. With me as your full-time sparring partner, I believe when you return to the human world, you'll already be the number one warrior."
The young centaur spoke with a tone that almost sounded reasonable. Had he not just forced her into the dirt, Dolores Umbridge might almost have believed him.
"And another thing you need to understand: the other centaurs only want to keep you locked up in a cage. Only I am willing to spar with you. Don't confuse me with those useless fools."
The young centaur lifted his head proudly, as if he had accomplished something noble.
Dolores Umbridge felt more revolted than when she had been made to eat one of Dumbledore's cockroach clusters. Was she supposed to thank him for "training" her? Couldn't he at least clean himself up before speaking such words? The thought made her glance downward at him. That long, black shaft had just forced her to the peak—something undeniable, yet it had been against her will.
"If I ever get my wand back, you'll pay dearly for this."
Her voice, once shrill and piercing, had grown hoarse after her time in the centaur encampment.
"Your wand? You mean this little twig?"
The young centaur pulled a wand from the quiver on his back. It was the very wand Dolores Umbridge had dropped when she was captured, retrieved later by him when he returned to the scene.
"Please! Give it back to me!"
Dolores Umbridge scrambled to her feet despite her disheveled state and lunged toward him.
"No. Unless you can defeat me. But I doubt you'll even need a wand by then. I didn't hide it, throw it away, or break it because I wanted it to motivate you. So if you want it back, chase me!"
With a powerful kick of his four legs, the centaur bounded several meters away, his face full of mischief.
"Stand still! I'll catch you yet! Don't you dare run!"
Snatching up her wooden spear, Dolores Umbridge sprinted after him. The Forbidden Forest once again echoed with the sounds of a lively chase.
But after chasing him for over an hour, she collapsed in exhaustion, not even close enough to touch his tail.
A pair of hooves appeared before her eyes. The young centaur had doubled back and now looked down at her from above.
"There's water nearby. We can wash up, and then it's time for another happy rest."
With that, he scooped her up and carried her toward a nearby pond.
"No! Put me down! I don't want to rest—just let me die!"
Too exhausted to resist, she could only voice her protest.
Seeing her struggle in words but not in action, the young centaur laughed heartily.
"You say no, but your body is being very honest."
To him, her helplessness was nothing more than proof of hidden willingness.
Leaving aside Umbridge's miserable life in the centaur camp, Regulus Black now faced hesitation of his own.
He had come to eliminate the twenty-four surveillance points he had set up. That was his purpose today, and naturally, it included reviewing the memories connected to them.
But Vico Roland was a special case. Somehow, beyond his usual duties, he had developed a talent for painting and even aspired to write.
All of this, however, depended on his memories of those events. Those experiences became his inspiration, fueling his creative thoughts.
Moreover, the titles of the seven-part novel series he had already planned intrigued Regulus Black.
The problem was clear: here might be the birth of a famous writer. Yet by acting as he normally would, Regulus risked erasing that future at its very beginning.
Should he allow Roland to retain his memories, letting him become a writer at the cost of potential leaks?
Or should he use the simplest method—erasing the memories—and force him back onto his original life path?
As a perfectionist, Regulus Black rejected both extremes. What he needed was a new approach, one that achieved all objectives flawlessly.
He raised his wand and began extracting fragments of Roland's memories, then wove new ones in their place—altering, restructuring, and filling the gaps so that everything appeared natural.
Yes. Only if Roland himself supplied the missing pieces would he truly believe in them.
With a snap of his fingers, Regulus awakened him.
"Mr. Roland, about your description of that haunted house—I don't think it holds up. In fact, there never was a haunted house. You imagined it to deny the truth: that you'd fallen in love with Mrs. Peggy, a widowed woman older than yourself."
Roland looked bewildered. It did sound plausible. Perhaps he had invented the haunted house as a form of self-denial. And his nightly lurking nearby suddenly felt disturbing, even perverse.
"But your idea of the 'Silver Right Hand' is very interesting. I mean it. When you imagined exploring the haunted house, all you could see in your vision was your right hand, and it was silver. This feels like a subconscious justification—that all the bad deeds were done by this silver hand, while you remained only a bystander. Unless you truly are a madman, this could be a brilliant narrative perspective."
Regulus Black smiled as he offered his praise. After all, as a bookseller, he needed writers to produce manuscripts before anything could be published.
Roland understood this. He had come eagerly today with no actual pages written, yet this man had not mocked him. Instead, Black had engaged with him, drawing out the merits in his ideas.
What was more, Black was willing to let him sign on as a contracted bookshop author—someone retained by the publisher to produce novels. It was like having a side job, with royalties if the works sold well, though of course the publisher would take the larger share.
"Perhaps you could even write it this way: the Silver Right Hand, while committing countless evils, is also in love with that widowed woman older than himself. If you weave this element into the series, readers might see that beneath the devil's façade lies a trace of innocence. Even if the romance seems absurd, it adds depth."
Regulus Black casually produced a contract and had him sign. From that moment, Vico Roland became an official writer for Black's Bookshop.
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