Summer, 1967. Regulus was six years old.
Being six in the Black family meant being allowed to have one's own study space. Thus, the topmost attic of 12 Grimmauld Place welcomed its new master.
Regulus wanted to figure out a few questions: Wizards could heal injuries so easily, so why was the physical body still so fragile?
If magic could repair the body, could it also strengthen it?
Why had no one systematically researched this for a thousand years?
Regulus sat cross-legged on a cushion, eyes closed, sensing himself.
He could feel the magic circulating within his body along a certain established path.
Books said magic originated from the soul and was released through the body.
It was that simple. As for how the body itself affected this process, no one had delved into it.
It was like everyone knew water flowed from a pipe, but no one thought about whether replacing the pipe with a wider, smoother material would make the water flow stronger and steadier.
Originally, this was a blind spot for the author of the original story, but now that he was living in it, this was a blind spot for the entire wizarding civilization.
He walked under the skylight. The autumn sunlight slanted in, cutting bright blocks of light on 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 spellcasting process, just willing the magic to go there.
It was difficult at first. The magic seemed to have a will of its own, resisting deliberate guidance.
But Regulus had patience. An adult soul lacked patience least of all. He imagined magic as water and his will as a riverbed, digging bit by bit, guiding bit by bit.
Two and a half hours later, he succeeded.
His right arm felt slightly warm—not warm in temperature, but more like a sensation of being filled with energy.
He clenched his fist. Did his strength seem... just a little bit greater?
Over the next few days, Regulus entered pure observer mode.
He observed everyone in the house from a sensory perspective.
Walburga: Her magic was powerful but unstable. When her emotions fluctuated, her magic would oscillate violently.
But Regulus noticed a 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 magical consumption was ultimately borne by the body.
Yet, she never thought of exercising her body to enhance its endurance.
Orion: His magic was deep and heavy, with extremely strong control.
But Regulus noticed that when his father put down his wand after casting a spell, his fingers would tremble slightly—very slightly.
That was a fatigue reaction caused by long-term, high-intensity use of magic. Magic could eliminate it, but it would reappear.
Sirius was the best sample for comparison.
One afternoon, Sirius was trying a newly learned spell in the garden to make pebbles levitate and arrange themselves into constellation patterns. He succeeded, but barely.
After finishing, Sirius collapsed onto the grass, panting heavily, his forehead covered in sweat.
"I'm dying..." he muttered complainingly to himself.
Regulus walked over and handed him a glass of water. "Big magical drain?"
Sirius gulped down a large mouthful but only nodded silently, giving a grunt of affirmation.
Regulus knew this was the aftereffect of his words at that dinner; Sirius didn't want to talk to him.
Regulus didn't say anything more and turned to leave.
Late one night a week later, 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 tired face.
The pressure on the Ministry of Magic had been immense recently. Regulus deduced from fragments of conversation that it was related to the activities of that big shot.
The precursor to the Death Eaters had already begun operations, orchestrating several attacks. The Ministry was suppressing the news, but the ancient families already knew.
"Father."
"Speak, what is it?" Orion put down his quill and rubbed the space between his eyebrows.
"I'm thinking about a question," Regulus sat in the chair opposite. "Where exactly is a wizard's magic stored?"
Orion paused. "That's a basic question. Magic originates from the soul and is released through the medium of the body."
"But the body isn't just a medium, right?" Regulus pressed. "If the body is damaged, magical output is affected. If the body is strengthened, will magical output increase?"
"Theoretically, yes," Orion said. "A healthy body is conducive to casting magic, but after reaching a basic level of health, further strengthening the body provides minimal gains to magic."
"Has anyone verified this?"
Orion was silent for a few seconds. "As far as I know, there has been no systematic research. The traditional view is that magical talent is innate, and postnatal effort can only improve control techniques, not increase the total amount."
"But what if the total amount itself is limited by the 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 certain?"
Orion stared at his son for a long time before saying, "Not certain, but it is the universally accepted theory."
"Is 'universally accepted' necessarily correct?" Regulus asked softly.
Then he continued, "Father, how many things were 'universally accepted' in the wizarding world only to be proven wrong later? For example, it was once universally believed that Muggles were inferior creatures, but now Muggle technology—"
"Enough," Orion warned softly. "Regulus, I know you are smart, always thinking, and your ideas are unconventional. But there are some questions you shouldn't be thinking about right now."
"Then when should I think about them?" Regulus did not back down. "When Voldemort comes knocking at our door?"
Orion stood up abruptly.
"Who told you that name?" His voice became stern.
"No one told me," Regulus said calmly. "I heard it. Cousin Bella, Mrs. Malfoy, and your whispered conversations with Mother.
They call him 'That Lord,' 'The Dark Lord,' but I found his name. Tom Marvolo Riddle, self-styled Voldemort."
Orion slowly sat back down, sounding exhausted. "You shouldn't know this."
"But I already know," Regulus said. "And I know more. He is recruiting, gathering power. Pure-blood families are choosing sides. 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 and didn't open them for a long time.
"Your question just now, the relationship between body and magic," he said. "I can tell you that someone in the Black family history has researched it. My great-grandfather, Arcturus Black. He believed wizards relied too much on magic and neglected the body."
Regulus held his breath. He hadn't expected someone in the wizarding world to have actually realized this problem, and it was his own ancestor?
"He conducted some experiments." Orion's voice was deep, as if recalling unpleasant memories.
"He tried to use magic to strengthen the body, and in turn use the strengthened body to contain more magic. The theory was cyclical enhancement."
Regulus asked somewhat eagerly, "And the result?"
"He lived to be one hundred and thirty-seven, one of the longest-lived members of the Black family, and very powerful," Orion said. "But he went mad in his later years. His notes were filled with chaotic symbols and warnings. The last entry was: 'The container is too strong; the thing inside cannot come out. I have trapped myself.'"
Regulus listened with a bewildered expression. Could that happen?
He asked directly, "What does that mean?"
"I don't know." Orion shook his head. "The notes were sealed deep in the Restricted Section. I tried to read them, but I got a splitting headache after just three pages. That is not something meant for ordinary people to read."
Regulus's heart pounded. Someone had researched it, and there were results, albeit with a price.
"I want to see them." He knew Orion definitely wouldn't agree, but he made the request anyway.
"No." Orion refused categorically. Then he paused and added, "At least not now. Arcturus's final state... was very bad.
Promise me, Regulus, do not seek out those notes on your own."
Regulus was silent. He didn't want to promise.
"Promise me," Orion repeated with emphasis, his tone even holding a hint of pleading.
"...I promise."
Orion sighed, knowing this 'promise' might not last long, and waved his hand to dismiss him. "Go."
Back in the attic, Regulus sat in the darkness, digesting the information.
Arcturus Black, one hundred and thirty-seven years old, madness, container too strong.
Was it because the body was strengthened to the extreme that it imprisoned the soul?
But what if the soul and body were completely fused, indistinguishable from each other? What would happen then?