In the summer of 1967, Regulus was six years old.
Being six in the House of Black meant one could have their own study space, and thus, the uppermost attic room at Number 12, Grimmauld Placewelcomed its new master.
Regulus wanted to understand a few questions: Wizards can heal injuries and sickness so easily, so why is the physical body still so fragile?
If magic can repair the body, can it also strengthen it?
Why has no one systematically researched this for a thousand years?
Regulus sat cross-legged on the cushion, eyes closed, sensing himself.
He could feel the magic circulating within his body along a predetermined path.
Books say that magic originates from the soul and is released through the physical body.
It's that simple; as for how the body itself affects this process, no one has delved deeper.
It's like everyone knows water flows out of a pipe, but no one considers whether replacing the pipe with thicker, smoother material would result in a larger, steadier flow of water.
Originally, this was a blind spot for the original author, but now that he was experiencing it firsthand, it was a blind spot for the entire Wizarding World civilization.
He walked to the skylight. The autumn sun slanted in, cutting bright blocks of light onto the floor. He extended his hand, letting the sunlight shine on his palm, then closed his eyes and sensed the flow of magic again.
This time, he tried to guide the magic to actively flow toward his right arm, without any spell-casting process, just letting the magic go there.
It was difficult at first; the magic seemed to have a will of its own, resisting being intentionally guided.
But Regulus had patience; an adult soul lacked nothing more than patience. He imagined the magic as water and his will as a river channel, digging bit by bit, guiding it little by little.
Two and a half hours later, he succeeded.
His right arm felt slightly warm, though it wasn't heat in the thermal sense; it was more like a feeling of being filled with energy.
He clenched his fist. His strength seemed... a little greater?
For the next few days, Regulus entered a purely observational mode.
He observed everyone in the house from his perceptive viewpoint.
Walburga: her magic was powerful but unstable; when her emotions fluctuated, her magic would vibrate violently.
But Regulus noticed one detail: when she maintained complex protective spells for a long time, she would unconsciously rub her temples, and her face would turn pale.
From this, he concluded that the burden of magic consumption was ultimately borne by the physical body.
Yet, she never considered training her body to enhance its endurance.
Orion's magic was deep and heavy, with extremely strong control.
But Regulus noticed, after his father put down his wand one time after casting a spell, that his fingers trembled slightly—very faintly.
That was a fatigue reaction from long-term, high-intensity use of magic; magic could eliminate it, but it would reappear.
Sirius was the best comparative sample.
One afternoon, Sirius was trying a newly learned spell in the garden, attempting to levitate pebbles and arrange them into a constellation pattern. He succeeded, but it was strenuous.
After finishing, Sirius collapsed directly onto the grass, panting heavily, sweat covering his forehead.
"I'm exhausted..." he muttered to himself.
Regulus walked over and handed him a glass of water: "Did you consume a lot of magic?"
Sirius gulped down a large mouthful, then just nodded silently, murmuring, "Yeah."
Regulus knew this was the aftereffect of the words spoken at dinner the previous time; Sirius didn't want to talk to him.
Regulus didn't say anything more and turned to leave.
A week later, late at night, Regulus knocked on the door of Orion's study.
"Come in."
Orion was reviewing documents, the candlestick on the corner of the desk illuminating his weary face.
The Ministry of Magic was under great pressure recently. Regulus inferred from snippets that it was related to the activities of That Lord.
The precursor to the Death Eaters had begun to stir, causing several attacks. The Ministry of Magic was concealing the news, but all the ancient families were already aware.
"Father."
"Speak, what is it?" Orion put down his quill and rubbed his temples.
"I've been thinking about a question," Regulus said, sitting in the chair opposite him: "Where exactly is a Wizard's magic stored?"
Orion paused: "That's a fundamental question. magic originates from the soul and is released through the physical body as a medium."
"But the body isn't just a medium, is it?" Regulus pressed: "If the body is damaged, magic output is affected. If the body is strengthened, will magicoutput increase?"
"Theoretically, yes," Orion said. "A healthy body facilitates spellcasting, but once a basic level of health is reached, further strengthening the body yields negligible gains in magic."
"Has anyone verified that?"
Orion was silent for a few seconds: "As far as I know, there is no systematic research. The traditional view is that magical talent is innate; effort afterward can only improve control techniques, not increase the total amount."
"But what if the total amount itself is limited by the physical body's carrying capacity?" Regulus leaned forward: "Like a water cup that can only hold one cup of water, but if we make the cup bigger—"
"The soul is that cup," Orion interrupted him: "Not the body."
"Are you sure?"
Orion stared at his son for a long time before saying, "Not certain, but this is the generally accepted theory."
"Generally accepted doesn't necessarily mean correct, does it?" Regulusasked softly.
He continued: "Father, how many 'generally accepted' notions in the Wizarding World have later been proven wrong? For example, it was once widely believed that Muggles were inferior beings, but now Muggletechnology—"
"Enough." Orion warned in a very light voice, "Regulus, I know you are smart and always thinking, with ideas different from others, but some questions are not for you to ponder at this time."
"When should I ponder them?" Regulus did not back down at all: "When Lord Voldemort is knocking on our door?"
Orion stood up abruptly.
"Who told you that name?" His voice became serious.
"No one told me," Regulus said calmly. "I overheard it—Cousin Bella, Madam Malfoy, and your low-voiced conversations with Mother."
"They called him 'That Lord' or 'Dark Lord,' but I found his name: Tom Marvolo Riddle, who calls himself Lord Voldemort."
Orion slowly sat back down, his tone sounding somewhat weary: "You shouldn't know this."
"But I already do know," Regulus said. "And I know more. He is recruiting, gathering strength. The Pure-blood families are choosing sides, and the Black Family will have to make a choice sooner or later."
After a long silence, Orion asked, "Are you afraid?"
Regulus replied decisively, "No, but I need power."
Orion closed his eyes, opening them only after a long time.
"That question you asked, about the relationship between the body and magic," he said, "I can tell you that someone in the history of the House of Black studied this. My great-grandfather, Arcturus Black, believed that Wizards relied too much on magic and neglected the physical body."
Regulus held his breath, not expecting someone in the Wizarding World to have recognized this problem, and it was one of his own ancestors?
"He conducted some experiments." Orion's voice was heavy, as if recalling some unpleasant memory.
"He tried to strengthen the body with magic, and then use the strengthened body to contain more magic—the theory was cyclical enhancement."
Regulus asked eagerly, "What was the result?"
"He lived to be one hundred and thirty-seven years old, one of the longest-lived members of the Black Family, and he was very powerful," Orion said. "But he went mad in his later years. His notes were filled with chaotic symbols and warnings. The last entry read: 'The container is too solid, what is inside cannot get out. I have trapped myself.'"
Regulus listened, completely stunned. It could happen like that?
He asked directly, "What does that mean?"
"I don't know." Orion shook his head instead. "The notes were sealed, deep within the Restricted Section. I tried to read them once, but after just three pages, I had a splitting headache. That is not something meant for ordinary people to read."
Regulus's heart pounded—someone had researched this, and there were results, albeit with a price.
"I want to see them." He knew Orion certainly wouldn't agree, but he still made the request.
"No." Orion refused flatly, then paused before adding, "Not at least not now. Arcturus's final state... was very bad.
Promise me, Regulus, do not seek out those notes privately."
Regulus fell silent; he did not want to promise.
"Promise me." Orion repeated, emphasizing the word, his tone carrying a hint of pleading.
"... I promise."
Orion sighed, knowing this 'promise' might not last long, and waved him away: "Go now."
Back in the attic, Regulus sat in the darkness, processing the information he had just received.
Arcturus Black, one hundred and thirty-seven years old, madness, the container was too solid.
Was it because the body was strengthened to the extreme, which in turn imprisoned the soul?
But what if the soul and the body completely merged, becoming indistinguishable?