Harry Potter: Fire Lord Black

In contrast, Edward still carried the habits developed in the Muggle world. He picked up a pie and shoved it into his mouth, the crispy crust dropped a lot of crumbs on the tablecloth, and when drinking pumpkin juice, he tilted his head and gulped down more than half a cup, the movement of his Adam's apple causing the portraits at the end of the dining table to frequently look sideways.

"Hmph! Truly unseemly!" Walburga Black's portrait finally couldn't help but attack, she patted the picture frame, her sharp voice piercing the silence of the dining room, "When Regulus dined back then, even the placement of the knife and fork had to strictly follow family rules! Look at you, where is there any appearance of a pure-blood wizard! It's simply losing the face of the House of Black!"

The white-bearded ancestor also echoed, his cloudy eyes full of disdain: "That's right! Just like those rough Muggles!"

Edward's hand holding the fork paused, his light gray eyes had no waves, neither refuting nor ashamed, as if he hadn't heard it. The name in his heart - Edward, jumped slightly, he thought of the days when he was gnawing on hard bread in the Muggle world, at that time, no one had ever taught him what noble etiquette was.

Just then, Narcissa put down her silver spoon, and gently smoothed things over: "Aunt, Edward just returned from the Muggle world, and many etiquettes are not yet clear. It doesn't matter, take it slow, I will teach him in the future." She said, and thoughtfully added a piece of cake to Edward's plate, her tone still gentle, "Don't be reserved, eat more if you like."

Walburga Black's expression softened a little, and she snorted coldly and stopped talking. Edward raised his eyes to look at Narcissa, nodded slightly, as a thank you, and then continued to eat, still with that casual appearance.

The peace of this lunch didn't last long, and the portraits started to instill the pure-blood concept one by one. Walburga Black's voice was the loudest: "Edward, you must remember, the Sacred 28 pure-blood families are the cornerstone of the wizarding world! Those Muggle-born 'Mudbloods', and traitors who intermarry with Muggles, are simply not worthy of touching magic!"

"Sirius, that rebellious son, is the best example!" The white-bearded ancestor added angrily, "Giving up the good pure-blood glory, insisting on mixing with a group of Mudbloods, and ending up imprisoned in Azkaban, it really serves him right!"

Narcissa also spoke gently, her tone carrying a bit of persuasion: "Edward, pure-blood wizards should support each other. Slytherin House at Hogwarts has always been a gathering place for pure-blood nobles, when you enroll, you must go to Slytherin, that is the place that belongs to you."

They kept saying it over and over, every word and sentence revealing disdain for non-pure-bloods and admiration for pure-blood glory. Edward listened silently, the flame in his sleeve flickered slightly, he knew in his heart that bloodline was never the standard for measuring strength, power was. But he was too lazy to refute, just listened quietly, occasionally nodding to deal with it.

The lunch ended in such nagging.

After the meal, Lucius checked the time and got up to say goodbye: "It's getting late, we'll head back first. Edward, see you at Hogwarts."

Narcissa instructed Edward a few more times, telling him to take good care of himself, and to contact the Malfoy family whenever there were difficulties, before following Lucius and taking Draco away via Apparition. Before they left, Draco specifically turned back to wave at Edward and shouted "See you at Hogwarts".

After they left, the portraits in the entrance hall were still chattering about the glory of pure blood. Edward didn't pay attention to them anymore, turned and walked towards the second floor, his steps firm.

The door of the library was pushed open gently, sunlight spilled in through the stained glass windows, falling on rows of ancient books, and dust danced in the light. Edward walked to the bookshelf, pulled out a copy of "Hogwarts: A History", and found a seat by the window to sit down.

The wind outside the window blew gently, carrying the unique damp smell of the old house. He opened the pages, his fingertips sliding over the unfamiliar words, silently reciting two names in his heart - Edward Black, Edward.

One was his identity, one was his root.

He needed to understand this world, and even more, he needed to control power - to control the flame that shared the same name as "Edward", to control his own destiny.

And all of this, had just begun.

The morning light and evening shadows of 12 Grimmauld Place alternated more than thirty times across the stained-glass windows of the library.

Heavy, lead-gray clouds gathered and dispersed outside the window, and the light leaking through the colored glass was sometimes golden-red like molten lava, sometimes dim like twilight mist, quietly flowing over the dust-covered ancient books filling the room.

For over half a month, Edward had been practically immersed in this library filled with the scent of old books and dust.

Thick tomes had been moved from the towering shelves and piled into small mountains beside him - the pages of "History of Magic" by Bathilda Bagshot had been turned until the corners curled, and the yellowed paper was densely filled with questions and annotations he had marked with charcoal; the title page of "Hogwarts: A History" had been rubbed until it shone, and the records concerning the four houses inside were covered in underlines; the chapters on Dark wizards in "Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Protection" had been studied repeatedly, with faint ink stains even smudging the pages; he had not even spared the origins of magical creatures and wizards mentioned in "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them", occasionally frowning and pondering over the illustrations on the pages.

His life had become simple and regular, like a wound-up clock, precise without a single deviation.

Every morning, the sound of Kreacher knocking on the door would ring out punctually, carrying cautious respect; after hastily eating the toasted bread and hot milk prepared by Kreacher, he would dive headfirst into the pile of books until twilight soaked the pages and his fingertips grew numb with cold, only then returning to his bedroom with slightly weary steps under Kreacher's repeated urging.

Whenever he encountered obscure historical events or tongue-twisting magical terminology, he would look up and ask Kreacher, who was waiting nearby - the old house-elf would always hold a cup of warm honey water, staying quietly in an armchair in the corner like a silent statue, only immediately leaning in when Edward spoke.

Kreacher would tell him everything he knew, though every time he spoke, it was inevitably mixed with disdain for Muggles and a deep-seated obsession with pure-blood supremacy.

"Goblin rebellions? Hmph, that bunch of ungrateful wretches!" Kreacher's withered fingers jabbed fiercely at a line of text in "History of Magic", his thin, high-pitched voice filled with disdain, his shriveled cheeks slightly flushed with excitement.

"Back then, they thought wizards were treating them unfairly, so they dared to raise their banners in rebellion. Did they really think they had three heads and six arms? And the result? They were still beaten to a pulp, and their leader's head was hung on the tower of the Ministry of Magic! Those who lose can only be slaves to Wizards, cooking, cleaning, and sweeping the courtyards - that is only natural!"

When speaking of Grindelwald, Kreacher's tone became a bit more wary.

He subconsciously shrank his neck, his murky eyes scanning his surroundings uneasily, as if afraid of being heard by some terrible presence.