Harry Potter: Fire Lord Black

Edward woke beneath a white ceiling. For a moment, he did not know where he was. The air smelled of potions, clean linen, and the sharp disinfectant used by people who wanted illness to know it was unwelcome. Sunlight filtered through frosted glass. Somewhere nearby, a healer spoke in a low voice. Kreacher was sobbing beside the bed.

"Young Master!" The elf seized his hand with both of his own. "Young Master is awake. Kreacher knew Young Master would wake. Kreacher told the healers, but healers fuss and poke and speak nonsense with long words."

Edward tried to answer. His throat felt scraped raw. Memories shifted inside him, no longer sealed, not yet settled. His mother. The attic. The ritual. The spell.

He turned his head slowly. "Kreacher."

"Yes, Master. Kreacher is here. Kreacher will always be here."

Edward swallowed. "Obliviate. What kind of spell is that?"

Kreacher went still.

The answer was already in Edward's mind, but he needed to hear it. Needed the cruelty spoken plainly.

The elf's eyes filled with tears again. "A Memory Charm, Young Master. It removes or alters memory."

Edward closed his eyes. Heat gathered behind them, but no tears came at first. Perhaps he had spent too many. Perhaps grief, like magic, needed time to replenish. Then one escaped anyway and slid down into his hair.

So his mother had not abandoned him to ignorance out of carelessness. She had erased the pain because she believed forgetting would save him. She had wanted him free of bloodline, war, death, and sacrifice. Instead, the world had eventually dragged all of it back to him, as the world often did when a mother dared to ask it for mercy.

For a long time, he said nothing. St. Mungo's moved around him. A healer came, checked his pulse and eyes, muttered about magical shock and memory backlash, then left after deciding he was not about to die immediately, which seemed to satisfy medical standards. Lucius had apparently argued with three officials and two healers until Edward was admitted under a private ward. Narcissa had sent a note and a basket of food that Kreacher inspected for poison before allowing near the bed. Draco had included a short message: Don't die before term starts. It would be inconvenient.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

That nearly made Edward smile. Nearly.

Kreacher sat on a stool beside him, twisting a handkerchief until it looked ready to surrender. "Young Master must not keep everything locked inside. Kreacher knows the truth hurts. But now Young Master knows. You know where the flame came from. You know Mistress loved you. You know Young Master Regulus loved her too. Roots hurt when they grow, but they keep one from drifting."

Edward stared at the ceiling. "They suffered so much."

"Yes," Kreacher whispered. "They did."

The words were too small, but truth often was. Edward turned toward him and began to speak. At first the sentences came slowly. Then, as he described the memories, they steadied. He told Kreacher about Isabella meeting Regulus at Hogwarts, about the lost boy by the pillar and the Ravenclaw girl with too many books. He spoke of library arguments, constellation stories near the Forbidden Forest, Acid Pops, lily of the valley, and a dark blue scarf. He spoke of the Dark Mark on Regulus's arm, of their argument, of the rainy night when pride finally broke. He spoke of the attic, the poverty, his birth, the Obscurus, and the ritual.

Kreacher listened without interruption. Tears ran down the wrinkles of his face and disappeared into his collar. When Edward described Isabella's last smile, the elf covered his mouth with both hands and shook silently.

"Father knew nothing of me," Edward said at last. The realization had been sitting in him like a stone. "He died before he knew."

"Young Master Regulus died before much could be said," Kreacher replied, voice rough. "He was always quiet. Too quiet. The House made him so. But his heart... his heart was not cold. They tried, but they failed."

Edward looked at him. The memories had given him his mother. They had given him pieces of Regulus as a lover, a frightened son, a boy who wanted to be brave. But they had ended with a farewell letter and silence.

"Kreacher," he said. "How did my father really die?"

The elf flinched as if struck.

Edward regretted the pain in the question, but not the question itself. He had lived too long among locked doors. "You said before that Father left me something dangerous. I need to know."

Kreacher's hands trembled. He stared at the floor, and for a moment Edward thought he would refuse. Then the old elf drew a breath that sounded like it hurt.

"It was the cave," he said.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!