Edward's fingers tightened involuntarily on the page, his knuckles turning pale. The texture of the paper pressed into his palms like tiny needles, making his heart ache. He thought of his parents' tragedy. Regulus was forced to join the Death Eaters, the hideous Dark Mark branded onto his arm - not because of belief, but because of the shackles of the House of Black and the terrifying rule of You-Know-Who. He had once thought it was the family's glory, until he saw the true face of You-Know-Who - that man did not care at all about pure-blood glory, treating everyone only as pawns. Regulus's resistance was small and tragic; he used his own life to destroy that object hiding the darkness, leaving not even his bones behind.
Isabella spent half her life in exile, drifting from place to place - not because she had done anything wrong, but simply because she had fallen in love with a Black and conceived his child. The House of Black and the House of Shacklebolt were both pure-blood families with a thousand-year heritage; their child should have been a prominent figure in pure-blood circles. Yet, she did not want her child to repeat Regulus's mistakes, nor did she want him to become a sacrifice to the obsession with pure-blood status. She took her unborn child and hid in a small attic in the Muggle world, enduring a leaking roof and bone-chilling cold, ultimately trading her own life for her child's new beginning.
Their tragedy was caused by You-Know-Who, by those families shouting "pure-blood supremacy," and even more so, by this twisted order of the magical world. If it were him, what should he do? Edward leaned against the cold bookshelf, his gaze falling on the rose garden outside the window. The golden glow of the setting sun spilled onto the petals, casting a warm light, yet it could not warm the chill in his heart. The wind whipped up the petals, scattering them onto the windowsill like a handful of crushed gold. He thought of Albus Dumbledore. That white-bearded wizard standing in the Headmasters Office, wearing half-moon spectacles, his smile as gentle as the winter sun. He defeated Gellert Grindelwald, stopped the first rise of You-Know-Who, and was revered as the savior of the wizarding world.
His prestige was not just due to his unfathomable strength, but because he represented a relatively positive image - he protected Muggle-borns, opposed the fallacy of pure-blood supremacy, and guarded the pure land of Hogwarts, making it a haven for countless wizards. With his wisdom and strength, he became a beacon of light, illuminating those corners shrouded in darkness. He thought of Harry Potter again. That Gryffindor boy in his year was the focus of all of Hogwarts during their first year.
Edward's impression of him came mostly from Draco Malfoy's complaints - Draco would always grumble indignantly in front of him, saying that Harry was just a lucky kid who, by relying on the title of "the Boy Who Lived," had been hoisted to the heavens by the entire wizarding world. Draco said Harry was reckless and impulsive, always getting into various kinds of trouble with his two friends, and that his performance in Charms Class was mediocre, yet he still managed to receive special attention from the teachers. Edward had also seen Harry a few times in the corridors; the boy was always wearing loose Gryffindor robes, with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, his smile bright, yet a heaviness inconsistent with his age hid in the depths of his eyes.
He was indeed often huddled together with Ron and Hermione, either rushing along while clutching thick books, or being chased by Filch for violating school rules. Just such a boy, merely because he survived the Killing Curse of You-Know-Who, was revered as a savior. How ridiculous. A cold arc curled at the corners of Edward's mouth. He raised his hand, and a cluster of orange-red flames rose from his palm, the flickering fire illuminating the mockery in his eyes.
This wizarding world had never been a place that followed reason. Gellert Grindelwald relied on interests and ambition to nearly rule the entire European wizarding world; You-Know-Who relied on force and terror to make countless wizards bow down; Albus Dumbledore relied on strength and a positive image to become a leader who enjoyed the support of the masses; Harry Potter relied on an accidental survival to be placed on a pedestal, enjoying the reverence of countless people. There was no fairness here, no justice, only the law of the jungle where the weak are prey to the strong.
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As long as you have sufficient strength, everyone will be obedient to you, no matter how absurd your philosophy may be; as long as you can affect the interests of the majority, countless people will be willing to follow you, even if there is an abyss ahead; as long as you have a relatively positive image, you can stand in the sunlight and become the rule-maker, even if your past hides unknown secrets. This was the truth of the wizarding world.
Edward's gaze gradually became deep. He watched the flickering flames in his palm; that cluster of fire was warm and bright, carrying a unique power, a miracle that others could not replicate. He thought of the records in those ancient books about the hierarchy of the wizarding world.
Pure-blood wizards took pride in their lineage, monopolizing most of the industries and power in the wizarding world. They hid in gorgeous manors, shouting slogans of pure-blood supremacy while engaging in the dirtiest of dealings; half-blood wizards were caught in the middle, surviving cautiously, not daring to offend either side; Muggle-borns were heavily discriminated against, finding it difficult to move a single step in the wizarding world; and then there were variant wizards, referring to those who were half-bloods between wizards and other magical creatures - like the descendants of wizards and Giants such as Rubeus Hagrid - who were even more excluded from the mainstream, with even the gates of Hogwarts having once been closed to them. And he, Edward, was a descendant of the House of Black and Shacklebolt, a pure-blood wizard as orthodox as one could be.
Yet he knew better than anyone that the so-called pure-blood glory was merely a cloak wrapping decay and sin, inside which were hidden countless tragedies like that of his parents. He thought again of the records about the Obscurus. Those words were cold and cruel, stating that an Obscurus was a dark force generated by a young wizard's loss of emotional control, and that carriers often did not live past the age of ten; their bodies would turn into Black mist, possessing world-destroying destructive power, yet they could not control it independently and would eventually be consumed by the power, returning to annihilation. Never had an Obscurus lived past the age of ten, and never had anyone been able to control the power of an Obscurus.
But he had done it. His mother used the support of the four elements, the guidance of ancient magic, and the medium of an Egyptian sacrificial ritual, using her own life and soul to transform that cold, dark force into warm flames. This power was a variant of an Obscurus, unique and impossible for anyone else to replicate. It allowed him to perform Elementalization, rendering him immune to most magic attacks; it could protect him when danger arrived, transforming the parts of his body that sustained damage into flames; its essence was magic, and as long as his magic was not exhausted, this protection would never disappear. This power was his confidence, the foundation for his future footing, and the basis upon which no one could surpass him.
A vague outline began to emerge in Edward's mind. The structure of the wizarding world had always been chaotic. Pure-blood families monopolized resources, the Ministry of Magic was corrupt and incompetent, officials only knew how to fight for power and profit, and even the funding for Hogwarts had to rely on family sponsorships and government grants from the Ministry of Magic to be maintained; half-blood and Muggle-borns struggled in the cracks, finding it hard to even obtain a decent job; variant wizards were viewed as freaks, forced to hide in corners, not daring to expose their identities. Such an order would sooner or later collapse.
If it were him, how should he rebuild this world? He needed a cake that could affect the interests of the majority of wizards - a cake that would break the pure-blood monopoly and allow half-blood and Muggle-borns to obtain resources fairly and develop equally; he needed a relatively positive image - an image that protected the weak, opposed tyrannical rule, and spoke up for those oppressed wizards; he needed even more sufficient strength - this unique flame power was his best weapon, the sharp blade with which he would tear through the darkness. Edward's heartbeat gradually accelerated.
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