Harry Potter: Fire Lord Black

The cold wind on the outskirts of London blew through the broken windows of the top-floor apartment, carrying a musty smell that clung to the bones. The wallpaper peeled off like a rag, revealing the grayish-green mold underneath. Blackened breadcrumbs were embedded in the floor cracks, and the fireplace had long been blocked up, with not even a spark to be found.

Yet, the boy curled up in the corner of the sofa did not feel cold at all.

A tiny, orange-red flame hovered at his fingertips, the size of a pea. It was as docile as a cat, licking his bony knuckles. The warm temperature spread over his wrists, bringing a faint flush of color to his pale cheeks. The boy lowered his eyes, his long eyelashes masking the emotions in his gaze, revealing only a numb familiarity - this flame had been with him for too long, so long that he had forgotten when it began. It was as if a spark had been buried in his bones; when he was cold, it could emerge to provide warmth, and when he was hungry, he could wave it over moldy Black bread to toast it until it was crispy and fragrant.

Of course, there were times when it went out of control.

Last month, a stray dog at the alley entrance chased him, its sharp teeth grazing his ankle. In his panic, he scrambled into a trash can, with only one thought in his mind: "Make it go away." The next second, the dog suddenly let out a shrill scream, its fur igniting out of thin air. The smell of scorched fur drifted down half the street, scaring him so much that he scrambled back to the apartment, clutching his burning fingers, and hid under the bed, shivering all night.

He did not know who he was.

He had no name, no past, and no home.

The first image he could remember was waking up in a charred ruin. The air was filled with a strange, sweet scent mixed with the smell of ash. His bare feet stepped on the scorching rubble, yet he felt no pain at all. Later, a homeless man picked him up and called him "Kid." He accepted this title and followed the man, living under a bridge for a few days, until one winter night when the homeless man never returned. Afterward, he relied on collecting plastic bottles for pocket money and running errands for the grocery store owner to scrape by, and he gave himself a name - Edward.

He always felt that he had an indescribable connection with this thing.

Edward was eleven years old this year, as thin as a reed bent by the wind. His deep black curly hair was messy, sticking to his forehead, and his eyes were a very light gray, as if covered by an impenetrable fog. When Muggles passed by him, they would subconsciously walk around him, saying that the child's eyes were too cold, as if hiding something shameful. Only Edward knew that it wasn't cold, it was empty - his brain felt like someone had scooped out a piece, leaving a dark, hollow gap. Occasionally, vague fragments would flash through: a pair of soft hands, a whisper as light as the wind, and a patch of darkness shimmering with silver light.

Those fragments could not be grasped or recalled; they were like a thick layer of ice, freezing all the emotions that should have surged.

He blew gently at the flame on his fingertips. As the air current brushed past, the flame flickered and suddenly transformed into a tiny firebird, flapping its wings and circling in his palm.

Just then, "Thump - thump - thump - "

A dull knocking sound suddenly rang out, not from the creaking wooden door, but from outside the window frosted with ice flowers.

Edward's body tensed instantly, like a startled wild cat. The firebird at his fingertips dissipated with a "whoosh," leaving not even a spark behind. He hunched over and crept to the window, peering through the gap in the curtains. In the gray, foggy daylight, a huge shadow was perched on the windowsill.

It was a bird.

A bird he had never seen in his life.

It had snow-white feathers, and its wingspan was half the length of a person. Its amber eyes were startlingly bright, revealing a near-human intelligence, and it held a thick parchment envelope in its beak. Its claws gripped the windowsill, and it tapped the glass gently with its hard beak, with a steady rhythm, as if urging him.

Edward frowned tightly.

He had stayed in this slum for three years and had seen dusty pigeons, noisy sparrows, and jet-black crows, but he had never seen such a beautiful yet eerie bird.

He hesitated for a few seconds, then reached out and unlatched the window.

The cold wind poured in instantly, carrying the scent of soil and withered grass, scraping his cheeks painfully. The white bird was not afraid of people; it flapped its wings and hopped lightly into the room, landing on the floor. It walked up to him with its head held high, placed the envelope it was carrying at his feet, and stared at him without blinking with its amber eyes.

Edward's gaze fell upon the envelope.

It was heavy parchment, with yellowed edges. A line of crooked words was written on it in dark green ink. The handwriting was as elegant as a painting, carrying an indescribable sense of antiquity:

To Edward Black

Top-floor apartment, end of the corridor

Outskirts of London, three miles south of Privet Drive

Edward Black.

Edward silently recited the name, as if reading a string of meaningless garbled code. He raised an eyebrow, a faint trace of confusion flashing in his eyes, but it was immediately covered by numbness. He had never told anyone he lived here, and as for the name, he had never even heard of it.

It was probably sent to the wrong person.

He squatted down. The moment his fingertips touched the parchment, a familiar sweet scent mixed with the smell of ash drifted over - it was exactly the same as the scent in his memory fragments.

But this scent did not stir the slightest ripple in his heart, just as ordinary as smelling the cold wind outside the window.

His fingers tore open the envelope without much fluctuation. A sheet of paper, also made of parchment, fell out, along with a folded list. He unfolded the letter and scanned the words on it, his expression not changing in the slightest, as if he were looking at a promotional flyer for a Muggle supermarket:

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (President of the International Confederation of Wizards, Order of Merlin, First Class, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot)

Dear Mr. Edward Black:

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

The term begins on September 1st. Please take the Hogwarts Express from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross Station.

If you have any questions, please contact the Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts, Professor Minerva McGonagall.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? Wizard? Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?

Edward finished reading the last word and expressionlessly tossed the letter into a pile of old newspapers nearby. He couldn't even be bothered to look at the list that had fallen on the floor. There were always such boring people in the Muggle world who liked to make up absurd stories to tease homeless people; he had seen plenty of them.