"He was very clever," Kreacher rambled on, his withered lips moving rapidly, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes filled with nostalgia, "He always got full marks in Potions class, and his Occlumency was excellent; he could keep his thoughts tightly hidden. He was once... once a follower of that Lord, but then..."
Kreacher's voice suddenly cut off. His eyes darted away, not daring to meet Edward's gaze, and his fingers tightly gripped the corner of his apron, his knuckles white.
"What happened later?" Edward pressed, the flames at his fingertips trembling uncontrollably.
Kreacher shook his head violently, his pointed ears drooping, his voice trembling as if afraid of something: "Kreacher cannot say... Young Master, Kreacher promised Young Master Regulus that he could not say."
He paused, as if trying his best to calm his surging emotions, before continuing in a low, solemn voice: "Young Master Regulus was a good man, a brave man. He did a very, very important thing, a thing that could save many people. When he left, he was very peaceful, with a smile on his face."
"Was there anything special about him?" Edward interrupted, his gaze fixed intently on Kreacher, the flames at his fingertips trembling slightly, "For example, did he know any different magic? Or did he have any special marks on his body? Did he ever mention... my mother?"
Kreacher was taken aback, tilting his head to think for a long time, a look of confusion appearing on his withered face, before he finally shook his head: "No, Young Master. Young Master Regulus's magic was very powerful, but it was just like other wizards. He never mentioned your mother, nor did he have any special marks..."
His voice gradually faded away. After a few seconds of silence, as if remembering something, he suddenly raised his head, his eyes looking at Edward with unprecedented solemnity, his withered fingers tightly twisted together: "However, before Young Master Regulus left, he gave Kreacher something. He said this item was very important and also very dangerous, and that it must wait until the Young Master is of age and has graduated from Hogwarts before it can be handed to you personally."
"What is it?" Edward's heart skipped a beat, and the flames at his fingertips uncontrollably flared up by half an inch, nearly scorching the carpet by the fireplace.
"Kreacher cannot say." Kreacher's tone was incomparably firm, his high-pitched voice tinged with a hint of panic, "Young Master Regulus said the time is not right, and speaking of it would bring a fatal disaster upon the Young Master. He also said that when the Young Master is strong enough, he will naturally understand the significance of this item."
Edward looked into Kreacher's cloudy yet firm eyes and knew that asking further would be useless. He thanked Kreacher and turned back to the library.
The firelight from the fireplace shone through the crack in the door, casting a long, narrow shadow on the floor. Leaning against the bookshelf, Edward looked at the mountains of books filling the room; the confusion in his heart faded a little, but a heavy sense of anticipation took its place.
The item his father left behind... what could it be? Does it have to do with his bloodline? Does it have to do with that great event that saved many people?
His gaze landed on the most secluded corner of the library. The bookshelf there was filled with ancient books written in runes, most of their covers faded and their edges heavily worn. The characters were twisted and obscure, like codes from another era, carved onto yellowed parchment - this was the only key to deciphering ancient magic, and even the most learned wizard would need to spend years to understand even a little.
He had glanced at them once before, only to feel that the characters were like writhing little snakes, making him dizzy.
But now, that was his only breakthrough point.
It was not just to search for the secrets of his bloodline, but also to understand what kind of power was hidden within ancient magic like that of Lily Potter, which was named after love. Perhaps the essence of that power could help him solve the mystery of his own flames.
On the morning of the seventh day, Edward carried a thick stack of ancient books on runes and sat down at the desk in the library.
The candlelight flickered, and the runic characters on the pages jumped and twisted in his eyes, like little demons baring their fangs and brandishing their claws. He opened a book titled "Basic Interpretation of runes", his fingertips tracing those strange characters, his brows furrowing tighter and tighter.
"Algiz... Protection." "Thurisaz... Strength." "Ansuz... Wisdom." "Fehu... Flame, life force."
He memorized them character by character, word by word. The grammar of runes was completely different from the modern wizard language; the word order was reversed, the meanings were obscure, and a single character often had over a dozen different interpretations, which could only be determined by context. This was a script completely different from the modern magic system, and every character corresponded to an ancient source of power.
On the first day, he memorized fewer than twenty characters, his head feeling like it was about to burst, and whenever he closed his eyes, he saw nothing but those twisted symbols; even in his dreams, he was repeating, "Fehu is flame, not frost."
On the second day, he confused the meanings of five characters, translating "Fehu", which represented "flame", into "frost", and was so angry he nearly slammed the book onto the floor; a line of fire uncontrollably surged from his fingertips, scorching the corner of the page, and he was so startled that he hurriedly used a water spell to extinguish it.
On the third day, he stared at a book written in runes, "Origin of Ancient magic", for three whole hours before he finally understood the opening sentence: "Ancient magic originates from bloodlines, from emotions, and from the purest resonance between the natural world."
Days passed by, from the seventh day to the tenth.
Edward practically lived in the library. His hair was messy, faint stubble had sprouted on his chin, his eyes were bloodshot, and his fingertips were stained with ink and paper dust. He slept for only three hours a day, using all the rest of his time to gnaw through those obscure and difficult runic ancient books. The fire in the fireplace went out and was relit, over and over again. Kreacher would bring bread and hot soup on time every day, but he often forgot to eat until the food had gone completely cold.
This was an extreme kind of torture. The characters seemed to have a life of their own, circling and intertwining in his mind, making him unable to taste his food or sleep at night. But whenever he wanted to give up, that cluster of flames at his fingertips would quietly light up, its orange-red glow seemingly urging him on in silence, while also gently comforting him.
At dusk on the tenth day, the golden glow of the setting sun shone through the small window of the library, landing on the open page before Edward. He looked at the line of text written in runes on the page, his fingertips trembling slightly.
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