Harry Potter: Fire Lord Black

A rich scent of ink and the aged smell of paper rushed to meet him, mixed with the flavor of settled time.

The library was immense, with a vaulted ceiling so high it couldn't be seen; countless bookshelves extended from the floor into the darkness, and candlelight danced on the brass candlesticks, making the gilt lettering on the spines flicker, like a sea of sleeping stars.

This was the accumulation of centuries of the House of Black, from ancient magic tomes to lost spell manuscripts, from secret records of wizard bloodlines to illustrated guides of magical creatures from all over the world - an dazzling array, like a magical treasure vault sealed by time.

Edward's fingertips brushed over a thick, cowhide-covered manuscript; on the cover, written in gilt, flowery script, was "A Study of wizard Bloodline Genealogies."

He pulled out the book, dusted off the cover, and sat down in the velvet-upholstered armchair in the corner.

The candlelight cast warm spots of light onto the pages, also illuminating the determination in his eyes.

What he was looking for was traces of a bloodline related to fire.

The pages turned one by one, his fingertips stained with fine paper dust.

Veela - in the illustration on the page, a blonde Veela stood by a clear lakeside, her skirt fluttering in the wind, her features possessing a breathtaking beauty.

The text was clear and explicit: Veela are natural seducers, their beauty enough to make any wizard lose their soul; when emotionally agitated, their pupils turn into translucent gold, and snowy-white wings grow from their backs, even allowing them to summon storms and disturb people's hearts.

Edward rubbed the wings of the Veela in the illustration, the line of fire at his fingertips twitching slightly - no fire, only magic related to wind and emotion, completely different from the scorching orange-red flame within his body.

Werewolf - the records were full of heavy strokes, with despair permeating between the lines.

Werewolves are a cursed race; on the night of the full moon, they break free from the shackles of reason, transforming into beasts with thick fur and exposed fangs, losing all humanity and attacking everything in sight with madness.

This bloodline brings not talent, but endless pain and isolation, a destiny of being ostracized and feared by the wizarding world.

Edward looked at the hideous appearance of the Werewolf transforming in the illustration and frowned slightly - brute force and mania had nothing to do with the quiet yet scorching flame at his fingertips.

Giant - the Giant on the page was as massive as a mountain, raising a boulder to smash toward a distant castle.

The text stated that the Giant race was born with the power to shake mountains and fill seas, with a temperamental and irritable nature, living in groups in caves atop high mountains; they were not skilled at fine magic, believing only in the crushing power of pure strength.

Edward folded the corner of the page, the flame at his fingertips reflecting the shadow of the boulder on the paper - it was power, but certainly not the power of fire.

There were also the Merperson's underwater breathing talent, the Vampire's immortality, the Elf's illusion techniques...

Edward scoured all the records regarding special bloodlines; those texts contained a variety of magical talents, but none were similar to the power of the orange-red flame at his fingertips.

His gaze fell upon a black-bound genealogy book on the top shelf - "History of the House of Black Bloodlines."

He climbed up the wobbly wooden ladder and pulled down the heavy genealogy book.

The pages were yellowed and brittle, the edges slightly curled, clearly having a history of over a hundred years.

He opened it carefully, and the names and deeds of the generations of the House of Black slowly unfolded under the candlelight.

Some of his ancestors were famous Aurors, some were wizards proficient in Dark Arts, some were Magizoologists, and some even married high-ranking officials of the Ministry of Magic...

In their blood flowed the ambition and wisdom of Slytherin, harboring the pride and paranoia of a pure-blood family, yet not one of them had ever been able to control fire.

Edward's finger landed gently on his father's name - Regulus Black.

The record in the genealogy book was, as expected, only a few short strokes, as blurry as if covered by a layer of mist: joined the Death Eaters in his early years, deeply trusted, later died accidentally during a mission, passing away at a young age.

It did not mention the cause of death, did not mention any achievements, did not mention any anomalies.

This was the outward stance of the House of Black, and also the cold "truth" engraved in the genealogy book.

Edward closed the book and leaned against the cold bookshelf, his chest feeling as if it were pressed down by a boulder.

He unconsciously condensed a faint thread of fire at his fingertips; the flame danced in the candlelight, its orange-red glow reflecting in his eyes like a lonely star.

There was no trace of fire in the bloodline of the House of Black.

Then, there was only one answer - bloodline mutation.

Perhaps his father's bloodline had undergone an unknown mutation during inheritance, or perhaps his mother's bloodline held secrets he didn't know.

But he didn't even know who his mother was.

Edward closed his eyes, Harry's face flashing through his mind, along with the description of that ancient magic regarding love.

He suddenly remembered Dumbledore saying that ancient magic did not all stem from bloodlines; some powers came from the purest emotions, from the determination to sacrifice for others - just like the protective barrier Lily Potter built with her life.

This kind of power was often recorded in the most ancient documents, and the common language of those documents was runes.

This was one of the most primitive languages in the wizarding world, even older than modern wizarding language, specifically used to record those magical powers that transcended spells and stemmed from nature and the soul.

Every Rune character corresponded to a source of power; obscure, yet pointing directly to the core.

The opportunity... perhaps it was there.

He stayed in the library for five whole days, scouring all the classics related to bloodlines, but found nothing.

Those yellowed pages contained the secrets of countless wizards, but not the answer he wanted.

At dusk on the sixth day, the golden glow of the setting sun pierced through the small window of the basement, casting long shadows on the floor. When Edward dragged his weary body back to the living room, Kreacher was crouching in front of the fireplace, adding dry oak logs to it. The orange-red flames licked the wood, making a crackling sound, stretching his shadow out long and thin.

"Kreacher."

Edward's voice broke the silence of the living room, tinged with a hint of hoarseness.

Kreacher snapped his head up, his pointed ears twitching, and hurriedly stood up, bowing his back as he replied respectfully: "Young Master, do you have any instructions?"

Edward walked to the fireplace, watching the dancing flames, and remained silent for a moment before speaking slowly, his voice carrying an eagerness he hadn't even realized himself: "I want to hear about my father."

Kreacher's eyes lit up instantly, a layer of moisture welling up in his cloudy orbs, but they quickly dimmed, as if recalling some past event he dared not touch. He rubbed his withered hands, his knuckles turning white from the force, and his voice carried irrepressible excitement and adoration, along with a barely perceptible choke: "Oh, Young Master, your father... he was the best wizard Kreacher has ever seen! He wasn't arrogant like the others in the House of Black; he would crouch down to listen to Kreacher, bring Kreacher sweet treacle tarts, and say that Kreacher was not a servant, but family!"

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