Chapter 6: The Portraits
The moment they stepped into the entrance hall, those originally silent portraits seemed to have had a switch pressed, turning their heads in unison, their gazes falling precisely on Edward like searchlights.
"Kreacher! You lowly thing! Who have you brought back?" In the central portrait, a woman in black velvet robes shrieked. Her hair was combed meticulously, secured with an obsidian hairpin, and her eyes carried heavy spite and arrogance. It was the portrait of the mistress of the House of Black, Walburga Black. Her gaze swept over Edward's washed-out Muggle old clothes, her brows instantly knitting into a knot. She pursed her lips in disgust, the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth bunching into ravines. "Dressed like a scavenging Muggle! Do you want to disgrace the House of Black completely?"
"It is Master Regulus's child! It is the bloodline of the House of Black!" Kreacher immediately bowed, his back bent into a bow, his voice full of adoration and urgency. He pushed Edward forward with force, his withered fingers pointing at Edward's face, his knuckles turning white from the effort, and proudly announced, "His name is Edward! He is the biological son of Master Regulus! He has come to acknowledge his ancestors!"
Once these words were spoken, everyone in the portraits exploded into an uproar.
Their gazes scraped across Edward like knives, from his slightly thin figure to the faint dust on his wrists, and finally settled on his face, which strongly resembled Regulus, their eyes full of suspicion and disdain.
"Regulus's child?" Walburga's portrait narrowed her eyes, her tone overflowing with suspicion. She looked Edward up and down as if inspecting a shoddy product. "How could he be in this state? Regulus valued pure-blood honor so much; how could he let his own child drift among Muggles and live like a beggar?"
"Muggle?" An old man in a painting nearby sneered. He had messy white hair with some unknown stains on it, his eyes turbid yet revealing spite. He was an ancestor of the House of Black. He sneered, his tone overflowing with disdain. "I think he is just a bastard! Regulus must have been bewitched by some lowly Muggle woman to leave behind such a thing that defiles the family bloodline!"
"It is simply a great disgrace to the House of Black!" Another woman in a painting shrieked, her voice as sharp as fingernails scratching glass, making one's eardrums ache. She slapped the frame, trembling with excitement. "Look at his eyes! They are cold, without a shred of pure-blood wizard pride! Regulus was truly blind! He has disgraced our House of Black!"
The spiteful words pelted down like hail. Edward's hand at his side quietly clenched, his nails digging deep into his palm, leaving several crescent-shaped red marks. He hadn't had any expectations for this so-called family, but these people were not only picking on him but also dragging in his father, whom he had never met. Those unbearable words were like poison-tipped needles piercing the most sensitive parts of his heart.
What pure-blood honor, what Muggle bastard - to him, these were just self-deceiving nonsense.
"Silence!"
Just then, Kreacher suddenly shrieked.
Edward was stunned, and the flame in his sleeve trembled violently. The people in the portraits were also stunned, and the entrance hall fell silent for a few seconds, with only the slight swaying of the portrait frames.
Kreacher had always been in awe of the House of Black's portraits, not even daring to speak loudly, but at this moment, his face flushed red. He pointed his withered fingers at those portraits, his voice trembling with anger: "Master Edward was forced to drift in the Muggle world! He is the only bloodline of Master Regulus! You cannot say such things about him! And you cannot insult Master Regulus!"
"Kreacher! How dare you disobey me?" Walburga's portrait was so angry her face turned red. She slapped the frame, shrieking, and the glass in the painting buzzed. "You ungrateful, lowly elf! Have you forgotten who feeds you, who let you live?"
"Kreacher has not forgotten!" Kreacher stiffened his neck, tears welling up in his eyes. He looked at Walburga in the painting, his voice choked with sobs. "But Kreacher cannot watch Master Regulus's child be bullied! The Master Edward suffered a lot in the Muggle world; he should not be spoken of this way!"
Watching Kreacher dare to talk back to the high-and-mighty family portraits for his sake, the flame in Edward's sleeve suddenly shot up an inch, burning his wrist.
But those portraits clearly didn't intend to stop.
"A lowly elf dares to lecture us?" The white-haired old man sneered, his gaze returning to Edward, his tone even more spiteful. "A bastard is a bastard; even an elf protects you! If Regulus knew about this in the afterlife, he would probably be ashamed enough to crawl out of his grave!"
"Something that defiles the bloodline! Get out of 12 Grimmauld Place!"
"Not worthy of being a member of the House of Black! Get out now!"
The abuse poured in again like a pot of boiling oil, poured onto Edward's long-suppressed anger.
He only felt a rush of heat surge from the bottom of his heart, spreading through his limbs along his blood vessels. The flame in his sleeve could no longer be controlled, and with a "whoosh," it burst out. Orange-red flames instantly wrapped around his hands, the dancing tongues of fire licking the air, making a "crackling" sound. The flames carried a warm temperature yet held an unquestionable violence, illuminating his pale face. His light gray eyes were filled with suppressed anger, and his whole being seemed to have turned into a burning shadow.
The temperature in the entrance hall rose sharply, and the people in the portraits instantly changed color, screams echoing one after another.
"Fire! He has fire on him!"
"It's Dark Arts! This bastard knows Dark Arts!"
"Drive him out! He will burn down the old house!"
Kreacher also panicked, rushing to Edward's side, jumping with anxiety. His withered hands wanted to pull him, but he was afraid of being burned by the flames, so he could only shout anxiously: "Master Edward! Stop! Put the fire away!"
Edward clenched his fists tightly, his whole body trembling. He wanted to control the flames, but they seemed to have a consciousness of their own, jumping wildly, burning his sanity.
Just then, in a portrait in the corner of the entrance hall, an old man wearing Hogwarts Headmaster's robes spoke slowly. He had a thin face, high cheekbones, and eyes as sharp as an eagle's. It was Phineas Nigellus Black - the most famous ancestor of the House of Black and also the most unpopular Headmaster in Hogwarts history.
He had been leaning silently in the portrait frame, watching this farce with cold eyes, but at this moment, he suddenly raised his hand, stopping the other portraits' screaming. His movement was light, just a slight lift of his finger, but it carried an unquestionable majesty.
The screaming in the entrance hall stopped abruptly.
Phineas's gaze fell on Edward's dancing flames, his expression shifting from initial arrogance to solemnity, and finally, it even carried a trace of incredulous scrutiny.
That cluster of orange-red flames was bright and warm, not scorching anything around it as it danced, not even the wooden coat rack beside Edward's hand was harmed. This was completely different from Fiendfyre in the Dark Arts, which burned everything to ashes and left no grass growing where it passed; let alone an Obscurial - that was the most taboo existence in the wizarding world, a cold, Black power transformed from the magic repressed to the extreme within a wizard, violent, obscure, with no concrete flame form, and among all known Obscurials, there had never been a precedent of living past ten years old.