Harry Potter: Fire Lord Black

Since that accidental awakening in the Restricted Section, a near-fanatical obsession had gripped his heart like vines.

The connection between bloodline and fire, the free transformation of physical form - this was a brand-new door to magic that had burst open before him. Behind it lay the source of power he had long sought, one that belonged solely to him. Like a treasure hunter who had fallen into a hoard, he poured all his time and energy into verifying and honing this power, turning night into day, forgetting to eat and sleep.

During the day, he immersed himself in the quietest corner of the library, burying his head in dusty, obscure tomes like "A Study of Ancient Elemental Bloodlines" and "The Origin of Wandless magic." He devoured the scattered records about "controlling fire with one's body" word by word. His fingertips traced the yellowed pages as he transcribed sentences related to elemental resonance and bloodline awakening onto the parchment he carried with him, his handwriting messy yet filled with urgency.

When night fell, when the last candle in the castle was extinguished, when the knights in the portraits yawned and fell into a deep sleep, and when the footsteps of the patrolling Filch, dragging his cat Madam Norris, faded into the end of the corridor, Edward would slip silently out of the Slytherin Common Room. Like a shadow, he would dash toward the abandoned Astronomy Tower.

This was the most remote place in the entire castle. The cold wind, carrying powdered snow, scraped against the bare stone railings, making a whimpering sound. The moonlight, cold as frost, spilled onto the icy stone tiles, reflecting his thin yet upright figure. The tower was covered in a thin layer of dust, with only a few broken windows letting in the night wind, yet it had become his best training ground.

For the first few days, Edward's practice was still filled with cautious exploration.

He stood in the center of the tower, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and concentrated his mind on the palm of his right hand. Silently reciting the words from the ancient wizard's notes, he let the warmth dormant deep within his bloodline slowly awaken and flow. At first, there was only a faint, scorching sensation spreading from the depths of his palm, like the first ray of sunlight melting snow in spring, gently licking his limbs and bones. Then, a tiny glimmer of orange light pierced through the skin of his fingertips, like a stubborn star, dancing gently under the moonlight.

When that cluster of flames finally wrapped docilely around his palm, Edward almost had to suppress a cheer in his chest. He tried clenching his fist, and the flames contracted into a glowing, scorching ball as his knuckles tightened; he tried raising his hand, and the flames followed like a shadow, like flowing magma, yet they possessed a reassuring docility, not burning his skin in the slightest.

But this was far from enough.

That time in the Restricted Section, his wrist had spontaneously transformed into fire to fend off the attack from the magic-devouring tome. He wanted to know if this power could extend to every corner of his body.

Thus, in the following days, the tower often hosted trials that were both laughable and absurd.

He tried focusing his mind on his left hand, but as flames rose in his left palm, the flame on his right hand suddenly lost control, shooting up half a foot and nearly singeing the hair hanging by his side. He scrambled to restrain his power, but the ends of his hair were still curled from the heat. Touching the curled strands, he sighed, unable to laugh or cry, yet he couldn't help but curl the corners of his mouth.

He was not discouraged and began to try his arm. This time, he focused his mind, breaking it down into the finest detail, slowly infusing it into his left arm like a trickling stream. The flames spread from his palm, climbing up his wrist, forearm, and elbow all the way to his shoulder. The orange flames churned on his left arm like burning silk, flapping in the night wind. He could clearly feel the fire merging with his flesh and bones. As the wind brushed against the flames, it did not bring scorching pain, but a strange sense of lightness.

"Success!" Edward whispered, so excited he almost jumped up.

But joy often precedes sorrow. He was too excited and slipped, stumbling against the stone wall behind him. In his haste, he subconsciously blocked his front with his left arm, which was condensed with flames - the expected pain of the collision did not come. Instead, there was a "hiss" as the flames made contact with the stone wall. A scorched mark was burned onto the stone, while his arm remained completely unharmed.

This discovery made a more fervent light burst forth in his eyes.

He began to experiment with his body in various ways.

He tried turning his right ear into fire, but when the flames shot up, his face went numb from the heat, and the fuzz on his ear tips was singed. He clutched his ear, grimacing, yet he smiled with crinkling eyes. He tried condensing the flames at his fingertips into thin threads, weaving through the air like embroidery needles, but failing to control the force, the fire thread grazed the stone brick, burning a long, thin scorched mark. He even boldly tried turning half his leg into fire. That time, it nearly spiraled out of control; the flames spread up his calf, scaring him into hastily concentrating to restrain it. As a result, his entire trouser leg was scorched hot, emitting a faint smell of burning.

Days passed, and Edward's trials became increasingly proficient. He could now precisely control the expansion, contraction, gathering, and dispersing of flames on any part of his body - he could condense an almost invisible line of fire at his fingertips, or turn his entire arm into a barrier of flames; he could make flames dance on his ear tips, or conjure a cluster of flames under his feet, using that sense of lightness to hover half an inch off the ground briefly.

His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks pale from staying up late, and his robes were stained with dust and the faint smell of burning. Even when eating, his fingertips would uncontrollably heat up slightly, yet in those eyes, a cluster of undying flames burned, stunningly bright. He even missed breakfast several times, and even when Draco Malfoy dragged him to see Hagrid's dragon, Norbert, he just shook his head perfunctorily and turned back to dive into the world of ancient books and flames.

Forgetting to eat and sleep - that was likely how it was.

That night, Edward practiced in the tower until late. He was standing by the window, trying to condense a wisp of flame into a form as fine as a hair, letting it drift out the window with the night wind, watching that tiny orange glimmer flicker in the snowy night like a flying star. The flames at his fingertips gradually faded, leaving only a hint of warmth. He rubbed his aching temples, let out a long sigh, and prepared to go downstairs to his dormitory.

Just as he reached the staircase of the tower, a very light sound of footsteps suddenly reached his ears. Someone!

Edward's heart tightened abruptly. He subconsciously suppressed the last wisp of fire remaining in his palm, shifted his feet, flashed into the shadow of the staircase corner, and held his breath.

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