Chapter 6: Flesh and Soul
In the summer of 1967, Regulus was six years old.
In the House of Black, turning six meant you were allowed your own study space. The uppermost attic room at Number 12, Grimmauld Place gained a new master, and Regulus gained something even more valuable than privacy.
Time.
He had questions that refused to leave him alone.
Wizards could heal injuries and sickness with infuriating ease, so why was the physical body still so fragile?
If magic could repair the body, could it also strengthen it?
And if the answer was yes, why had nobody researched it properly for a thousand years?
Regulus sat cross legged on a cushion, eyes closed, paying attention to himself in the way most people never learned.
He could feel magic moving within him along a path that seemed predetermined, as if the body already knew what channels it would tolerate and what routes it would reject.
Books said magic originated in the soul and expressed itself through the body.
That was always where the explanation ended.
It was like saying water came out of a pipe, and then refusing to consider whether the pipe's width, material, and condition might affect the flow.
In the original story, it had been a blind spot. Living inside the world made him realise it was a blind spot for wizarding civilisation itself.
He rose and walked to the skylight.
Sunlight slanted through the glass, laying bright blocks across the floorboards. He extended his hand and let the light spill over his palm, then closed his eyes again and listened for the movement of magic.
This time, he tried to guide it.
Not to cast a spell. Not to produce a visible effect. Simply to tell it to go somewhere it was not already going.
He chose his right arm.
At first it was like trying to push smoke with a finger. The magic resisted, not violently, but with the stubbornness of a habit that had never been questioned.
Regulus was patient. An adult soul rarely lacked patience, and he had learned that forcing anything tended to produce loud failures.
So he imagined magic as water, and his will as a channel being dug. A little deeper. A little smoother. A little more defined.
Bit by bit.
Two and a half hours later, it shifted.
His right arm warmed.
Not heat, not exactly. More like the sensation of being filled, as if the limb had quietly absorbed something it had been missing.
He clenched his fist.
His strength felt… slightly greater.
From that day on, Regulus entered an observational phase.
He watched everyone in the house with the same careful perception he used on himself.
Walburga's magic was powerful, but unstable. When her emotions rose, her magic vibrated with them, sharp and restless. Yet Regulus noticed something else. When she maintained complex protective magic for too long, she rubbed her temples without realising it, and her face would pale.
The cost of magic, he concluded, was paid by the body.
Even if the spell itself was successful.
Yet she had never once considered training the body to bear that cost better.
Orion's magic was deep and heavy, controlled with a steadiness that made Walburga's casting look emotional by comparison. But Regulus saw a detail most people would miss.
After his father set his wand down one evening, his fingers trembled, faintly, almost imperceptibly.
Not fear.
Fatigue.
Long term, high intensity use did that. Magic could ease it, but it would return, again and again, because the body still had limits.
Sirius made the best comparison.
One afternoon, Sirius tried a new spell in the garden, levitating pebbles and arranging them into a constellation pattern. He managed it, but he did it the way Sirius did everything, by sheer force of intent and stubbornness.
When he finished, he collapsed onto the grass, panting. Sweat clung to his forehead.
"I'm exhausted," he muttered.
Regulus walked over and handed him a glass of water.
"Did you use a lot of magic?"
Sirius drank, then nodded once, not meeting his eyes.
Regulus understood. It was the aftereffect of their last dinner argument. Sirius was still refusing to talk to him unless he had to.
Regulus did not push.
He turned and left.
A week later, late at night, Regulus knocked on Orion's study door.
"Come in."
Orion was reviewing documents. A candlestick on the desk corner lit his face in tired gold.
The Ministry of Magic had been under pressure lately. Regulus had pieced it together from fragments, from half finished conversations, from the tension that settled over old houses whenever certain names were almost spoken.
It was connected to That Lord.
The earliest shape of the Death Eaters had begun to stir. There had been attacks, rumours of disappearances, ugly incidents pushed out of the newspapers. The Ministry concealed what it could. The ancient families knew anyway.
"Father."
"Speak. What is it?" Orion set down his quill and rubbed his temples.
"I have been thinking about a question," Regulus said, sitting in the chair opposite him. "Where exactly is a wizard's magic stored?"
Orion paused.
"That is a fundamental question. Magic originates from the soul and is released through the body, which acts as a medium."
"But the body is not only a medium," Regulus pressed. "If the body is damaged, magic output is affected. If the body is strengthened, will magic output increase?"
"Theoretically, yes," Orion said. "A healthy body helps spellcasting. But once a basic level of health is reached, further strengthening yields negligible gains."
"Has anyone verified that?"
Orion fell silent for several seconds.
"As far as I know, there has been no systematic research. The traditional view is that magical talent is innate. Effort improves control, not the total amount."
"But what if the total amount is limited by the body's carrying capacity?" Regulus leaned forward. "Like a cup that can only hold one cup of water, but if we make the cup bigger…"
"The soul is that cup," Orion interrupted. "Not the body."
Regulus did not blink.
"Are you sure?"
Orion stared at him for a long moment, then answered honestly.
"Not sure. But that is what is generally accepted."
"Generally accepted does not mean correct," Regulus said softly.
He continued, carefully.
"Father, how many generally accepted ideas in the wizarding world have later been proven wrong? For example, it was once widely believed Muggles were inferior, but now Muggle technology…"
"Enough," Orion warned, voice very light, which made it sharper. "Regulus, I know you are smart. You think constantly. You see angles other people ignore. But some questions are not meant for you to chase at this time."
"When should I chase them?" Regulus asked, and did not back down. "When Lord Voldemort is knocking on our door?"
Orion stood so abruptly his chair legs scraped.
"Who told you that name?" His voice hardened.
"No one told me," Regulus said calmly. "I overheard it. Cousin Bella, Madam Malfoy, and your quiet conversations with Mother."
He kept his tone even.
"They call him That Lord, or the Dark Lord. I found his name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. He calls himself Lord Voldemort."
Orion sat back down slowly, the anger draining into something closer to exhaustion.
"You should not know this."
"But I do," Regulus said. "And I know more. He is recruiting. Gathering strength. The pure blood families are choosing sides, and the Black family will have to choose sooner or later."
Silence stretched.
Then Orion asked, quietly, "Are you afraid?"
Regulus answered without hesitation.
"No. But I need power."
Orion closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, his voice had shifted, as if he had decided refusing to speak would only make the subject more dangerous.
"That question you asked," he said, "about the relationship between the body and magic."
He paused, weighing old memories.
"I can tell you that someone in our history studied it. My grandfather, Arcturus Black, believed wizards relied too much on magic and neglected the physical body."
Regulus went still. He had not expected that. Not in this world. Not in this family.
"He conducted experiments," Orion said, and the words sounded reluctant, as if each one had weight. "He tried to strengthen the body with magic, then use the strengthened body to contain more magic. The theory was cyclical enhancement."
Regulus's voice sharpened with interest.
"What happened?"
"He lived to be one hundred and thirty seven," Orion said. "One of the longest lived Blacks. He was powerful."
Then Orion's expression darkened.
"But he went mad in his later years. His notes became chaos, symbols and warnings that made no sense. The last entry read, 'The container is too solid. What is inside cannot get out. I have trapped myself.'"
Regulus sat stunned, mind racing.
It could end like that?
He asked the question directly, because avoiding it would be cowardice.
"What does it mean?"
"I do not know," Orion said. "The notes were sealed, deep in the restricted section. I tried to read them once. After three pages, I had a splitting headache. That is not meant for ordinary people to look at."
Regulus's pulse beat harder.
Someone had walked this path.
Someone had found results.
And paid for them.
"I want to see them," Regulus said, already aware Orion would refuse, but unwilling to pretend he did not want it.
"No." Orion's refusal was immediate.
He paused, then added, quieter, "Not now. Arcturus's end was… bad. Promise me, Regulus. Do not seek those notes out on your own."
Regulus did not answer at once.
He did not want to promise.
"Promise me," Orion repeated, and for the first time there was a note that sounded almost like pleading.
Regulus lowered his gaze.
"…I promise."
Orion exhaled as if he had been holding his breath for years.
"Go," he said, waving him away. "Go now."
Back in the attic, Regulus sat in darkness and processed what he had learned.
Arcturus Black. One hundred and thirty seven years. Madness. The container is too solid.
Was it because the body had been strengthened until it became a prison, and the soul could no longer move as it should?
Or was it something worse?
What if the soul and the body could merge completely, until there was no line left between them at all?