Flesh and Soul

Summer of 1967. Regulus was six years old.

Being six years old in the Black family meant one could have one's own study space, and so the attic on the top floor of 12 Grimmauld Place welcomed its new master.

Regulus wanted to figure out a few questions. Since wizards treated injuries and illnesses so easily, why were their bodies still fragile?

If magic could repair the body, could it also strengthen the body?

Why had no one systematically studied this for a thousand years?

Regulus sat cross-legged on a cushion, eyes closed, sensing himself.

He could feel magic circulating through his body along some fixed path.

The books said magic came from the soul and was released through the body.

It was as simple as that. As for how the body itself affected this process, no one had looked into it deeply.

It was like everyone knew water flowed out of a pipe, but no one had ever wondered whether replacing the pipe with a thicker, smoother material would make the water flow stronger and more steadily.

Originally, this was a blind spot of the Original Author, but now that he was inside it, it was a blind spot of the entire Wizarding Civilization.

He walked beneath the skylight. The Autumn Sunlight slanted in, cutting a bright block of light across the floor. He reached out and let the sunlight fall on his palm, then closed his eyes and sensed the flow of magic again.

This time, he tried to guide the magic toward his right arm. There was no spellcasting involved; he simply made the magic go there.

At first, it was very difficult. The magic seemed to have a will of its own, resisting deliberate guidance.

But Regulus had patience. What an Adult Soul lacked least was patience. He imagined the magic as water, and his will as a river channel, digging bit by bit, guiding it bit by bit.

Two and a half hours later, he succeeded.

His right arm felt faintly warm—not warm in the sense of temperature, but more like a feeling of being filled with energy.

He clenched his fist. His strength seemed... a tiny bit greater?

Over the next few days, Regulus entered a pure Observer Mode.

He observed everyone in the house from the perspective of perception.

Walburga's magic was powerful but unstable. When her emotions fluctuated, her magic would tremble violently.

But Regulus noticed one detail: when she maintained a complex Protective Charm for a long time, she would unconsciously rub her temples, her face turning pale.

From this, he drew a conclusion: the burden of magical consumption was ultimately borne by the body.

But she had never thought of training the body to increase its capacity to endure.

Orion's magic was deep and heavy, and his control was extremely strong.

But after one of his father's castings, when Orion lowered his wand, Regulus noticed that his fingers trembled slightly—very slightly.

That was a fatigue reaction caused by long-term, high-intensity use of magic. Magic could erase it, but it would appear again.

Sirius was the best comparison sample.

One afternoon, Sirius was in the garden trying a newly learned spell, making pebbles float and arrange themselves into a Constellation Pattern. He succeeded, but just barely.

After it ended, Sirius collapsed straight onto the grass, panting heavily, his forehead covered in sweat.

"I'm exhausted..." he muttered in complaint.

Regulus walked over and handed him a glass of water. "Was the magic consumption very high?"

Sirius gulped down a large mouthful, but only nodded in silence and gave a quiet "Mm."

Regulus knew this was the aftermath of what he had said at dinner last time. Sirius did not want to talk to him.

Regulus said nothing more either 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 at the corner of the desk illuminated his tired face.

Recently, the Ministry of Magic had been under great pressure. From scattered remarks, Regulus inferred that it was related to the activities of the Dark Lord.

The precursors of the Death Eaters had already begun moving, causing several attacks. The Ministry of Magic was concealing the news, but the Ancient Families all knew.

"Father."

"Go on. What is it?" Orion set down his quill and rubbed the space between his brows.

"I've been thinking about a question," Regulus said, sitting down in the chair opposite him. "Where exactly is a wizard's magic stored?"

Orion froze for a moment. "That's a basic question. Magic comes from the soul and is released through the medium of the body."

"But the body isn't just a medium, is it?" Regulus pressed. "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 conducive to casting magic, but after reaching a basic level of health, further strengthening of the body provides only a negligible boost to magic."

"Has anyone verified that?"

Orion was silent for a few seconds. "As far as I know, there has been no systematic study. The traditional view is that magical talent is innate. Acquired effort can only improve control techniques; it cannot increase the total amount."

"But what if the total amount itself is limited by the body's carrying capacity?" Regulus leaned forward. "Like a cup. It 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 he said, "Not certain, but it is the generally accepted theory."

"Is something necessarily correct just because it's generally accepted?" Regulus asked softly in return.

Then he went on, "Father, how many things in the Wizarding World were 'generally accepted' and later proved wrong? For example, it was once generally believed that Muggles were inferior creatures, but now Muggle technology—"

"Enough." Orion's voice was very soft as he warned, "Regulus, I know you're clever, always thinking, with ideas unlike other people's, but there are some questions you should not be thinking about right now."

"Then when should I think about them?" Regulus did not give an inch. "When Voldemort is at our door?"

Orion shot to his feet.

"Who told you that name?" His voice turned grave.

"No one told me," Regulus said calmly. "I heard it—Bellatrix, Mrs. Malfoy, and the low conversations between you and Mother.

They call him 'the Dark Lord,' 'the Dark Wizard,' but I found out his name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. He calls himself Voldemort."

Orion slowly sat back down, his tone sounding somewhat weary. "You shouldn't know these things."

"But I already do," Regulus said. "And I know more. He is recruiting, gathering power. The Pureblood 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 answered without hesitation, "No. But I need power."

Orion closed his eyes, and only opened them after a long while.

"That question you asked just now, about the relationship between the body and Magic Power," he said. "I can tell you that someone in the history of the Black family researched it. My great-grandfather, Arcturus Black. He believed wizards relied too heavily on magic and neglected the body."

Regulus held his breath. He had never expected that someone in the Wizarding World had actually recognized this problem—and one of his own ancestors, no less?

"He carried out some experiments." Orion's voice was very low, as if the memories were unpleasant.

"He tried to use magic to strengthen the body, and then use the strengthened body in turn to contain more Magic Power. The theory was a cycle of mutual enhancement."

Regulus asked, a little urgently, "And the result?"

"He lived to be one hundred and thirty-seven, one of the longest-lived people in the Black family, and he was very powerful," Orion said. "But in his later years, he went mad. His notes were filled with chaotic symbols and warnings. The final record was: the vessel is too sturdy; the thing inside cannot get out. I have trapped myself."

Regulus listened with a blank look. That could happen too?

He asked directly, "What does that mean?"

"I don't know." Orion shook his head. "The notes were sealed away, deep in the Forbidden Section. I once tried to read them, but after only three pages, my head felt as if it would split. They are not something meant for ordinary people to read."

Regulus's heart pounded. Someone had researched it, and there had been results, even if there was a price.

"I want to see them." He knew Orion definitely could not agree, but he still made the request.

"No." Orion refused flatly. Then he paused before saying, "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 it with a heavier tone, even with a trace of pleading.

"...I promise."

Orion sighed, knowing that this "promise" might not last very long, and waved him away. "Go."

Back in the attic, Regulus sat in the darkness, digesting the information from before.

Arcturus Black. One hundred and thirty-seven years old. Madness. The vessel too sturdy.

Was it because the body had been strengthened to the extreme, and in turn imprisoned the soul?

But if the soul and the body completely fused, becoming indistinguishable from each other, what would happen?