Chapter 6: Body and Soul
Summer 1967. Regulus was six years old.
Six, in the Black household, meant being granted one's own study space. And so the topmost attic of 12 Grimmauld Place received its new master.
Regulus wanted to work out a few questions. Wizards could heal injuries and illness with such ease — why, then, did the body remain so fragile?
If magic could repair the body, could it also strengthen it?
Why had no one systematically investigated this in over a thousand years?
Regulus sat cross-legged on a cushion, eyes closed, sensing inward.
He could feel magic circulating through his body along certain predetermined pathways.
The books said that magic originated in the soul and was released through the body as a medium.
That was it — that simple. As for how the body itself influenced the process, nobody had looked deeper.
It was as if everyone knew that water flowed from a pipe, yet nobody had ever considered replacing that pipe with something wider and smoother to see if the flow might become stronger and steadier. In the original story, this had been a blind spot of the author. But now that he was living inside it, it was a blind spot of an entire civilization.
He walked beneath the skylight. Autumn sunlight slanted in, carving a bright rectangle on the floor. He stretched out his hand, let the light fall on his palm, closed his eyes, and once again began sensing the flow of magic.
This time, he tried to actively guide his magic toward his right arm — no spellcasting involved, simply willing the energy to go there.
At first it was difficult. The magic seemed to have a will of its own, resisting deliberate direction.
But Regulus had patience. An adult soul never lacked for patience. He imagined his magic as water and his will as a riverbed — digging a little at a time, guiding a little at a time.
Two and a half hours later, he succeeded.
His right arm felt faintly warm — not warm in terms of temperature, but something more like a sensation of brimming energy.
He clenched his fist. His strength seemed to have increased... just a little?
Over the following days, Regulus entered a state of pure observation.
He used his perception to study every member of the household.
Walburga. Her magic was powerful but unstable; whenever her emotions surged, her magic fluctuated wildly.
But Regulus noticed a detail: when she maintained complex protective wards for extended periods, she would unconsciously massage her temples and her complexion would turn pale.
From this, he drew a conclusion — the burden of magical expenditure was ultimately borne by the body.
Yet she had never once considered training her body to increase its endurance.
Orion's magic was deep and weighty, his control exceptional.
But after one particular casting session, Regulus noticed that when his father set down his wand, his fingers trembled — very faintly.
That was a fatigue response caused by prolonged, high-intensity magical use. Magic could erase it, but it always returned.
Sirius provided the best comparison subject of all.
One afternoon, Sirius was in the garden attempting a newly learned spell — levitating pebbles and arranging them into constellation patterns. He managed it, but barely.
Afterward, Sirius collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving, forehead drenched in sweat.
"Exhausting..." he muttered to himself.
Regulus walked over and handed him a glass of water. "Heavy magical drain?"
Sirius downed a large gulp in silence, just nodding with a quiet "Mm."
Regulus understood — this was the aftermath of those words at dinner. Sirius did not want to talk to him.
Regulus said nothing more and turned to leave.
A week later, late at night, Regulus knocked on Orion's study door.
"Come in."
Orion was reviewing documents. The candlestick on the corner of his desk lit his weary face.
The Ministry of Magic was under considerable pressure lately; from scattered remarks, Regulus deduced it was connected to the activities of that great figure.
The precursor to the Death Eaters had begun to stir, carrying out several attacks. The Ministry was suppressing the news, but the old families all knew.
"Father."
"Go ahead — what is it?" Orion set down his quill and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"I've been thinking about a question," Regulus said, settling into the chair across from him. "Where exactly is a wizard's magic stored?"
Orion blinked. "That's a basic question. Magic originates in the soul and is released through the physical body as a medium."
"But the body isn't merely a medium, is it?" Regulus pressed. "If the body is damaged, magical output suffers. So if the body were strengthened, would magical output increase?"
"In theory, yes," Orion said. "A healthy body is conducive to casting spells. But once a baseline level of health is reached, further physical enhancement yields negligible improvement to magical power."
"Has anyone verified that?"
Orion was quiet for several seconds. "To my knowledge, there has been no systematic study. The prevailing view is that magical talent is innate. Effort can only improve control technique — it cannot increase total capacity."
"But what if total capacity is limited by the body's ability to contain magic?" Regulus leaned forward. "Like a cup — it can only hold one cup of water. But if we make the cup larger—"
"The soul is the cup," Orion interrupted. "Not the body."
"Are you certain?"
Orion stared at his son for a long moment before answering: "No. But it is the universally accepted theory."
"Does universally accepted necessarily mean correct?" Regulus countered softly.
He continued: "Father, how many 'universally accepted' beliefs in the wizarding world have later been proven wrong? It was once universally accepted that Muggles were lesser beings, yet Muggle technology—"
"Enough." Orion's voice was quiet but carried a warning. "Regulus, I know you're intelligent. You are always thinking, always arriving at ideas that differ from everyone else's. But some questions are not for you to think about — not yet."
"Then when should I think about them?" Regulus yielded not an inch. "When Voldemort comes knocking at our door?"
Orion shot to his feet.
"Who told you that name?" His voice turned severe.
"No one," Regulus said calmly. "I overheard it. Cousin Bellatrix, Madam Malfoy, and the whispered conversations between you and Mother.
They call him 'that gentleman,' 'the Dark Lord' — but I found his name. Tom Marvolo Riddle, who styles himself Voldemort."
Orion slowly sank back into his seat, sounding weary. "You should not know any of this."
"But I already do," Regulus said. "And I know more. He is recruiting, marshaling strength. The pure-blood families are choosing sides. Sooner or later, the Blacks will have to decide."
After a long silence, Orion asked: "Are you afraid?"
Regulus answered without hesitation. "No. But I need power."
Orion closed his eyes. A long time passed before he opened them.
"Your earlier question — the relationship between the body and magic," he said. "I can tell you this: someone in the Black family's history did study it. My great-grandfather, Arcturus Black. He believed that wizards relied too heavily on magic and neglected the body."
Regulus held his breath. Someone in the wizarding world had actually recognized the problem — and it was his own ancestor?
"He conducted certain experiments." Orion's voice was heavy, as though dredging up unpleasant memories.
"He attempted to use magic to strengthen the body, and then use the strengthened body to hold more magic. The theory was a cycle of mutual reinforcement."
"What happened?" Regulus asked eagerly.
"He lived to a hundred and thirty-seven — one of the longest-lived members of the Black family. And he was immensely powerful." Orion paused. "But in his later years, he went mad. His notebooks were filled with chaotic symbols and warnings. The final entry read: 'The vessel is too strong. What is inside cannot emerge. I have imprisoned myself.'"
Regulus was dumbfounded. 'That can happen?'
He asked outright: "What does that mean?"
"I don't know." Orion shook his head. "The notebooks are sealed away, deep in the Restricted Section. I once tried to read them, but after just three pages the headache was so severe I had to stop. They are not meant for ordinary eyes."
Regulus's heart pounded. Someone had researched this — and produced results, albeit at a cost.
"I want to see them." He knew Orion would refuse, but he made the request anyway.
"No." Orion's refusal was absolute. He paused, then added: "Not yet, at least. Arcturus's condition at the end was... dire.
Promise me, Regulus. Do not seek those notebooks on your own."
Regulus was silent. He did not want to promise.
"Promise me." Orion repeated, his tone firmer — almost pleading.
"...I promise."
Orion sighed, knowing full well that this "promise" might not hold for long, and waved him away. "Go."
Back in the attic, Regulus sat in the darkness, digesting everything he had just learned.
Arcturus Black. A hundred and thirty-seven years old. Madness. A vessel too strong.
'Did the body, strengthened to its limit, end up trapping the soul?'
'But what if body and soul were fully integrated — inseparable? What then?'