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In the summer of 1967, Regulus turned six.
Six years old, in the House of Black, meant you were finally allowed a space of your own to study and think. And thus, the topmost attic of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, welcomed a new occupant.
Regulus had several questions he wanted answers to:
Wizards could heal injuries and illnesses with absurd ease, so why was the physical body still so fragile?
If magic could repair flesh, then could it also strengthen flesh?
And if that was possible, why had no one, in a thousand years of wizarding history, ever studied it systematically?
Regulus sat cross-legged on a soft cushion, eyes closed, turning his awareness inward.
He could feel magic circulating through his body along fixed, invisible routes, like a current following channel it had always known.
Books said that magic originated from the soul and was released through the body.
That was all; simple, neat, and unquestioned. As for how the body itself affected this process, no one bothered to delved deeper.
It was like knowing water flowed out of pipes, yet never wondering whether replacing those pipes with wider, smoother ones might make the flow of water stronger and steadier.
Originally, this had been a blind spot of the J.K. Rowling books.
But now that he was living inside it, it was a blind spot of the entire wizarding civilization.
He walked beneath the skylight. Autumn sunlight slanted in, cutting bright blocks of light across the wooden floor. Regulus stretched out his hand and let the light pool in his palm. Then he closed his eyes again and returned to sensing the flow of magic.
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.
At first, it was difficult. Magic felt as if it had a will of its own, resisting deliberate direction, sliding back into familiar paths.
But Regulus was patient; an adult soul lacked many things, but patience was never one of them. He imagined magic as water, his will as a riverbed, digging little by little, nudging the flow inch by inch.
Two and a half hours later, he succeeded.
His right arm felt faintly warm, though it wasn't heat in the thermal sense; it was more like a sense of fullness, as if energy had quietly gathered there.
He clenched his fist. His strength seemed… just a little greater?
Over the next few days, Regulus entered a mode of pure observation.
He watched everyone in the house through the lens of perception rather than emotion.
Walburga's magic was powerful but unstable. Whenever her emotions fluctuated, her magic rippled violently in response.
Yet Regulus noticed a detail others ignored. When she maintained complex protective charms for long periods of time, she would unconsciously rub her temples, her face turning pale.
From this, he drew a conclusion; the burden of magical expenditure was ultimately borne by the physical body.
And yet she had never once considered training her physical form to increase its capacity.
Orion's magic was deep and heavy, controlled with remarkable precision.
Still, Regulus noticed something. After his father finished casting and lowered his wand, his fingers would tremble, just slightly, almost imperceptibly.
It was fatigue from prolonged, high-intensity use of magic. Magic could erase it, but it would always return.
Sirius was the most useful comparison of all.
One afternoon, Sirius was in the garden trying out a new spell he had just learned, making pebbles float and arrange themselves into the shape of a constellation. He succeeded, but only barely.
When it was over, Sirius collapsed straight onto the grass, gasping for breath, his forehead slick with sweat.
"So tired…" he muttered to himself in complaint.
Regulus walked over and handed him a glass of water. "Did it take a lot of magic?"
Sirius gulped down a large mouthful, then only nodded in silence, giving a quiet "Mm."
Regulus knew this was the aftereffect of what he had said at dinner last time. Sirius didn't want to talk to him.
So Regulus said nothing more and turned away.
Late at night, a week later, Regulus knocked on the door to Orion's study.
"Come in."
Orion was reviewing documents, the candlestick on the corner of the desk illuminating his weary face.
The Ministry had been under heavy pressure lately. From fragments of overheard conversation, Regulus inferred that it had something to do with the movements of That Important figure.
The predecessors of the Death Eaters had already begun acting, carrying out several attacks. The Ministry was suppressing the news, but all the old families were already aware.
"Father."
"Go on. What is it?" Orion set down his quill and rubbed his temple.
"I have been thinking about a question," Regulus said as he took 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 body as a medium."
"But the body isn't just a medium, is it?" Regulus pressed on. "If the body is damaged, magical output is affected. If the body is strengthened, will magical output increase?"
"In theory, yes," Orion said. "A healthy body is beneficial to spellcasting. But once a basic health is achieved, further strengthening the body provides only negligible gains to magic."
"Has anyone verified that?"
Orion was silent for several seconds. "As far as I know, there has been no systematic research. The traditional view is that magical talent is innate. Later effort can only improve control and technique. It cannot increase the total amount."
"But what if the total amount itself is limited by how much the body can bear?" Regulus leaned forward. "Like a cup that can only hold one cup of water. If we make the cup bigger…"
"The soul is the cup," Orion interrupted him: "Not the body."
"Are you sure?"
Orion stared at his son for a long time before he finally spoke. "No, but this is the generally accepted theory."
"Does something being widely accepted make it correct?" Regulus asked softly.
Then he continued. "Father, how many things in the wizarding world were once 'widely accepted' and later proven wrong? For example, it was once widely believed that Muggles were inferior beings, but now Muggle technology…"
"That is enough." Orion's warning was quiet, but firm. "Regulus, I know you are clever. You think constantly, and your ideas are different from others. But some questions are not ones you should be asking right now."
"Then when should I ask them?" Regulus did not back down at all: "When Lord Voldemort comes 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. From Cousin Bellatrix, from Mrs. Malfoy, and from you and Mother when you spoke in low voices."
"They call him 'that Lord,' 'the Dark Lord,' but I looked it up. His name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. He calls himself Voldemort."
Orion slowly sat back down, his tone heavy with exhaustion. "You should not know these things."
"But I already do," Regulus said. "And I know more than that. He is recruiting. He is gathering strength. The pure blood families are choosing sides, and the Black family will have to choose sooner or later."
After a long silence, Orion asked, "Are you afraid?"
Regulus answered without hesitation. "No, but I need power."
Orion closed his eyes, and it was a long while before he opened them again.
"That question you asked earlier, about the relationship between the body and magic," he said. "I can tell you this that someone in Black family history studied it. My great-grandfather, Arcturus Black. He believed that wizards relied too much on magic and neglected the body."
Regulus held his breath. He had not expected that anyone in the wizarding world had noticed this problem. And that it would be one of his own ancestors.
"He carried out some experiments," Orion said, his voice low, as if dragging up memories he would rather leave buried.
"He tried to use magic to strengthen the body and then use the strengthened body to contain more magic. His theory was a cycle of mutual reinforcement."
Regulus asked eagerly, "And the result?"
"He lived to one hundred and thirty-seven," Orion said. "One of the longest-lived members of the House of Black, and he was extremely powerful. But in his later years, he went mad. His notes were filled with chaotic symbols and warnings. The final entry said this: 'the container is too strong. What is inside cannot come out. I have trapped myself.'"
Regulus listened with a stunned expression. It could turn out like that?
He asked directly, "What does that mean?"
"I don't know." Orion shook his head. "The notes are sealed, kept deep in the Restricted Section. I once tried to read them, but after three pages my head felt like it was splitting apart. That is not something meant for ordinary people to read."
Regulus's heart pounded—someone had researched this. There had been results, even if they came at a cost.
"I want to see them." He knew Orion certainly would never agree, but he asked anyway.
"No." Orion refused without hesitation. Then he paused, before adding, "At least not now. Arcturus's final condition was… very bad.
Promise me, Regulus. Do not go looking for those notes on your own!"
Regulus fell silent; he did not want to promise.
"Promise me," Orion repeated, emphasizing the word, carrying even a trace of pleading.
"…I promise."
Orion let out a sigh. He knew that this 'promise' would likely not last very long. He waved a hand, dismissing him. "Go now."
Back in the attic, Regulus sat alone in the darkness, slowly digesting everything he had just heard.
Arcturus Black! One hundred and thirty-seven years old! Madness! The container too strong!
Was it because the body had been strengthened to such an extreme that it ended up imprisoning the soul instead?
But if the soul and the body were to fully merge, with no boundary between them at all, then what would happen?
...
...
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[CHAPTER END]