Harry Potter: Fire Lord Black

But the boy in front of him was already eleven.

The flames on him carried warmth, worlds apart from the dark nature of an Obscurial, but that uncontrollable, powerful magical fluctuation had faint similarities to the tremors when an Obscurial's power went out of control. This power was too inconceivable; a young wizard of only eleven who had never received magical instruction could actually nurture such violent energy - except for an Obscurial, Phineas couldn't think of any existence similar to it.

His fingers lightly stroked the cuff of his robe in the painting, his brows knitted tightly, falling into deep thought.

The entrance hall was dead silent, all the portraits holding their breath, looking at Phineas, waiting for him to speak. The flame on Edward's fingertips gradually receded, leaving only a small flame jumping restlessly in his palm.

Phineas was silent for a long time, so long that the flame on Edward's fingertips was about to go out, before he slowly withdrew his gaze. His eyes were complex and unreadable, his voice low and hoarse, carrying a trace of uncertain speculation:

"Fiendfyre burns everything to ashes, and an Obscurial is a dark force with no trace; the power you possess is neither."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the silent portraits in the room, finally falling back on Edward's bewildered face, his tone shedding some of its spite and adding a bit of guidance:

"If you want to figure out the source of this power, the library might be able to give you the answer. There are ancient books collected by the House of Black over the generations, recording many rare magical phenomena."

After speaking, Phineas turned to look at the portraits of Walburga and the other ancestors, his voice deepening: "Regarding this child's background, the blood verification will be conducted tomorrow. I want to ask, can the blood verification trace his mother's identity?"

Once these words were spoken, the portraits in the entrance hall immediately stirred.

Walburga's brows knitted tighter. She pondered for a moment and shook her head: "The blood verification can only confirm whether he is of the House of Black's bloodline, by comparing it with the imprints in the family bloodline library. As for the maternal bloodline... Regulus never left any records of his partner; we have no way to investigate."

"Exactly." The white-haired old man also spoke, his tone less spiteful and more helpless. "the House of Black's blood magic has always focused only on the main family's inheritance; information about maternal relatives cannot be detected at all unless there is a clear token or record."

Other portraits also echoed, all expressing helplessness.

Edward listened to their conversation, his hand at his side slowly relaxing, the flame in his palm extinguishing completely, leaving only a bit of warmth.

So, even if the blood verification was completed, he still had no way to know who his mother really was.

The entrance hall fell into silence again, only the silver thorn emblem on the tapestry gleaming with a cold luster under the dim light.

Edward curled his fingers, which were hanging at his sides, feeling a fleeting trace of disappointment - it was as quick as a gust of wind.

His impressions of his parents were merely intangible fragments, lacking even a blurred outline. It would be a lie to say he wasn't disappointed to learn he couldn't verify his mother's identity through bloodline verification, but it was nothing more than disappointment. After over a decade of drifting, he was used to being alone; having parents or not didn't seem that important.

Compared to an ethereal lineage, he cared more about the mysterious flame in his palm, more about the bizarre wizarding world in Dumbledore's words, and more about the power that would allow him to stop drifting.

The disappointment was like a pebble thrown into a lake; it caused only a ripple before quickly dissipating.

Kreacher took in his subtle change in expression and hurriedly leaned forward. His withered fingers pointed toward the hall, his voice softening with a touch of fawning: "Master Edward, if you want to learn about the House of Black, Kreacher can tell you. I am very familiar with the people in those portraits on the wall, as well as the living members of the family."

Edward glanced at him, saying nothing, which was taken as tacit permission.

Kreacher immediately perked up. Pointing to the portraits in his mind, he counted them off on his fingers: "The one in the center of the hall, wearing black velvet robes, is Walburga Black, Master Regulus's mother. She was the last mistress of the House of Black and valued pure-blood honor above all else. Beside her is Mr. Orion, Master Regulus's father. Both of them have passed away."

"The old man with the white beard next to them is an old ancestor of the family who upheld pure-blood rules his entire life; and that shrill-voiced lady is Walburga Black's sister, who married into another family long ago..."

He spoke of these things with great familiarity, and when mentioning certain ancestors, even with a hint of reverence.

"As for the living members of the House of Black, there is only one left." Kreacher lowered his voice. "It is Narcissa, who is Walburga Black's niece and later married Lucius Malfoy of the Malfoy family. We invited her for tomorrow's bloodline verification. the Malfoy family is also a great pure-blood family and has been a close family friend of our House of Black for generations."

"What about Sirius?" Edward suddenly spoke up. He had heard this name vaguely in Dumbledore's words.

At the mention of Sirius, Kreacher's expression sank instantly, and his tone was filled with disgust. He spat: "Sirius Black is Master Regulus's own brother! He is the greatest traitor of the House of Black!"

He waved his withered hands excitedly, his voice becoming shrill: "He was rebellious from a young age, looked down on the family's pure-blood honor, mixed with Muggle-born wizards, and even leaked the secrets of 12 Grimmauld Place! Later, he was accused of betraying the Potters and causing the deaths of twelve innocent Muggles. Now he is locked in Azkaban - the most terrifying prison in the wizarding world, and he will never get out!"

Edward listened quietly, his light gray eyes showing no ripples, merely silently committing these names and relationships to memory. To him, these were just pieces of information to understand this strange world, holding no special significance.

"Got it." He responded indifferently, then looked at Kreacher. "Take me to the library."

Kreacher waved his hands hurriedly, a hint of urgency in his thin voice: "Oh, Master Edward, it's almost noon! You must be hungry! Why not go to the dining room for some snacks first? Kreacher has already prepared honey cake and hot milk!"

Edward looked at his empty stomach; he was indeed a bit hungry. He had always eaten sporadically in the Muggle world and wasn't picky about food, so he nodded: "That works."

Kreacher's eyes lit up instantly, and he hurriedly bowed and led the way: "This way, Master Edward! The dining room is to the left of the hall!"

Edward followed him through the dim corridor. The walls on both sides were hung with more portraits, their subjects still staring at him with judgmental eyes, their disdain undisguised. Edward ignored them, focusing only on looking down at the path beneath his feet.

The dining room was more spacious than the hall but still exuded a gloomy chill. A long oak dining table was covered with a yellowing tablecloth, and a few lit candles were stuck in candelabras, the flickering candlelight stretching shadows long. On the table sat a plate of honey cake, a cup of steaming milk, and silver cutlery beside them.

Kreacher obsequiously pulled out a chair: "Sit down, Master Edward! Taste Kreacher's cooking!"