Harry Potter: Fire Lord Black

A feeling of annoyance quietly crept into his heart, and the flame at his fingertips swayed gently along with it.

Kreacher was still rambling on about the details of the banquet, but Edward was no longer listening closely. His thoughts drifted further away - he thought of the Grindelwald and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that Kreacher had mentioned, and the shifting winds and clouds of the wizarding world when these two wizards who stirred up storms rose to power.

Those pure-blood families, including the House of Black, seemed to always stand on the side of the stronger power. When Grindelwald was powerful, they flocked to him; when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named rose, they leaned toward his camp.

This was not Kreacher's assessment; it was a conclusion he had pieced together bit by bit from those scattered rumors.

Pure-blood families never valued so-called blood ties; the only thing they had ever revered was power.

This realization caused a cold, sharp arc to curl at the corner of Edward's mouth.

Fit into the circle? Cater to those hypocritical rules?

There was no need.

He thought of this unique flame in his palm, and the thought of developing a new fire magic from just now, and the ambition in his eyes grew even more intense.

If he couldn't be a "pure-blood heir" that met all their expectations in every aspect, then he would simply reveal his power and value completely.

Let those scrutinizing gazes turn from contempt or appraisal into genuine awe; let those whispers turn into silence; let everyone who wants to boss him around be too afraid of his power to say another word.

He placed the envelope on the table, and the flame at his fingertips suddenly leapt half an inch higher. The orange firelight illuminated the ambition in his eyes.

"Prepare yourself." Edward's voice was calm, yet carried an unquestionable determination. "On the night of the full moon, we go to Malfoy Manor."

The night outside the window grew thicker, and the flame in the library burned quietly, as if foreshadowing an impending storm of power and ambition.

The game had only just begun.

The morning light pierced through the stained-glass windows of 12 Grimmauld Place, casting mottled patches of light onto the library floor. Dust motes floated quietly in the beams, blending with the scent of old book ink, exuding an aroma of aged time.

Kreacher's figure flitted between the dust-covered wardrobes, his withered fingers brushing over garments heavy with the traces of time, finally stopping at a black velvet robe. He carefully lifted the garment out, his fingertips tracing the silver embroidery of the collar, tears welling in his clouded eyes.

"Master Edward, look! This is the formal robe Master Regulus wore to the pureblood banquet in his youth!" The old house-elf's voice was full of excitement, carrying a choked tremor. "Back then, when Master Regulus wore this to Malfoy Manor, he was just as dashing... The children of the House of Black should look like this!"

The black velvet fabric of the robe shimmered with a matte luster in the morning light. The collar and cuffs were embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of the House of Black's thorn crest, the stitches as fine as stars, each one reflecting the craftsmanship of an old tailor. The hem was woven with subtle, dark raven patterns - the Patronus totem of the House of Black, symbolizing nobility and aloofness. An obsidian buckle at the waist, engraved with the intertwined letter "B", was a relic left to Regulus by the elder Black. It felt cool to the touch and carried the weight of accumulated years.

Edward stepped forward slowly, his fingertips sliding over the velvet fabric; it felt cool and silky. He removed his casual clothes and put on this formal robe. In the mirror, the boy instantly shed some of the callowness brought from the Muggle world, revealing the cold, sharp edge that belonged to the House of Black. His black hair reached his shoulders, slightly curled at the ends, making his skin appear even colder and paler. His brows and eyes were deep and sharp, his nose bridge high like a peak, and his thin lips were pursed into a cold, stern arc. Especially those eyes - the iris was a very pale gray-blue, like a frozen lake in winter, hiding unquestionable pride and detachment. The silver thorn crest pinned to his chest rose and fell slightly with his breath. The entire person looked like a nobleman who had walked out of a painting of an ancient pureblood family, carrying an icy aura that kept people at a distance, yet one that made it impossible to look away.

Kreacher looked at the boy in the mirror, rubbing his hands in excitement, circling him three times. His aged voice was full of gratification: "It's perfect! It's perfect! You are just as handsome as Master Regulus! No, you have even more presence! If Master Regulus could see this, he would surely smile from the afterlife! The glory of the House of Black is finally about to be rekindled in you!"

Edward lifted his chin at the mirror, a trace of satisfaction flashing in his eyes. He raised his hand to stroke the thorn crest on his chest, the tiny flame at his fingertips dancing gently, as if responding to his mood. He did not speak, simply turning and walking toward the courtyard - today, he needed to make his power worthy of this robe and worthy of the surname Black.

The morning dew in the courtyard had not yet dissipated; the grass carried a damp chill that moistened his trouser cuffs. Edward stood in the center of the clearing, palms turned upward. Orange-red flames rose silently, dancing quietly at his fingertips. After days of practice, his control over the fire was already masterful. Now, what he needed to do was strip away the wand and let the fire become a vessel for basic spells.

He closed his eyes, outlining the core of Lumos in his mind - illumination, gentle, stable. Without a wand as an anchor, he drove the flame directly with his intent. The flame at his fingertips suddenly converged, forming an orange-red orb of light the size of a pigeon egg. Its brightness was comparable to daylight, yet it held no scorching heat, hanging at his fingertips like a mini sun.

"It's done." Edward whispered to himself, a hint of a smile flashing in his eyes.

He then attempted Alohomora. With a shift of his intent, the orb of light at his fingertips split, condensing into a thread of fire as fine as hair. It slithered like it had a life of its own, precisely drilling into the lock cylinder of the courtyard gate and twisting gently. With a soft "click," the lock opened. The thread of fire retracted to his fingertips, leaving not even a scorch mark on the lock.

Finally, it was Wingardium Leviosa. He looked at a fallen paulownia leaf on the ground. His intent guided the flame, turning it into an invisible, warm palm that steadily lifted the leaf. The orange-red firelight wrapped around the withered yellow leaf, spinning slowly in mid-air like an exquisite magic performance.

But Edward knew very well that not all spells could be replaced by fire. For those spells that required precise magical forms to guide them, fire could only assist or enhance, not completely replace them. He practiced the coordination between his wand and the fire repeatedly, letting the fire be an enhancement to the spell, not the whole, for that was the true essence of power.