Chapter 6: Flesh and Soul
In the summer of 1967, Regulus was six years old.
Being six in the House of Black meant something unusual: a child could finally claim a private study space. Thus, the uppermost attic room at Number 12, Grimmauld Place welcomed its newest master.
For Regulus, the room was not merely a place to sleep or play. It became a laboratory for thought.
There was a question that had been lingering in his mind for weeks.
Wizards could heal injuries with ease. Broken bones, deep cuts, even certain illnesses could be mended through magic. Yet the physical body of a wizard remained fragile, almost as vulnerable as that of an ordinary human.
Why?
If magic could repair the body, then logically it should also be able to strengthen it.
So why had no one systematically researched this in the thousand years of wizarding history?
Regulus sat cross-legged on a cushion in the center of the attic, his eyes closed as he focused inward.
He could sense it now—the faint but undeniable flow of magic circulating through his body along a subtle, predetermined path.
According to the books, magic originated from the soul and was released through the body.
Simple.
Too simple.
But how exactly did the body influence that process?
No book explained it. No scholar seemed to have asked the question seriously.
It was like observing water flowing out of a pipe without ever wondering whether a thicker, smoother pipe might produce a stronger and steadier flow.
Originally, this might have been a blind spot of the author whose memories he carried.
But now, living inside this world, Regulus realized it was a blind spot of the entire wizarding civilization.
He stood and walked toward the small skylight.
The autumn sun slanted through the glass, casting bright rectangles of golden light across the dusty wooden floor.
Regulus extended his hand into the sunlight, allowing the warmth to spread across his palm.
Then he closed his eyes again.
This time, he did something different.
Instead of letting the magic circulate naturally, he tried to guide it.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He attempted to direct the magical flow toward his right arm without casting any spell at all—simply guiding the current with his will.
At first, it felt impossible.
The magic inside him behaved almost like a stubborn creature, resisting his attempts to redirect it.
But Regulus had patience.
An adult soul trapped in a child's body possessed one invaluable advantage: persistence.
He imagined the magic as water.
His will became the channel guiding the river.
Bit by bit, he dug the pathway deeper.
Two and a half hours later, he succeeded.
A faint warmth spread through his right arm.
It wasn't heat in the normal sense.
It felt more like energy—dense, concentrated energy filling his muscles.
He clenched his fist experimentally.
His strength seemed… slightly greater.
Not dramatically so.
But enough to notice.
For the next few days, Regulus entered a state of quiet observation.
Instead of experimenting further, he watched.
He observed everyone in the house carefully.
Walburga Black was the first subject.
Her magic was powerful—undeniably so—but also unstable.
Whenever her emotions fluctuated, the magical aura around her would vibrate violently.
However, Regulus noticed something peculiar.
Whenever she maintained complex protective spells for extended periods, she would unconsciously rub her temples. Her face would grow pale, and faint exhaustion would creep into her expression.
That observation led him to an important conclusion.
The burden of magic consumption was ultimately borne by the physical body.
Yet she never considered strengthening her body to improve endurance.
His father, Orion Black, was different.
Orion's magic felt deep and heavy, like an ancient ocean.
His control over it was exceptional.
But even Orion had limits.
One evening, after casting a complicated spell, Orion placed his wand on the table.
His fingers trembled.
Very slightly.
Almost imperceptibly.
But Regulus noticed.
It was the subtle fatigue reaction of someone who had used magic intensely for a long time.
Magic could suppress the symptoms temporarily, but the fatigue always returned eventually.
The best comparison, however, came from Sirius.
One afternoon, Sirius stood in the garden practicing a newly learned spell.
He was trying to levitate small pebbles and arrange them into a constellation pattern in midair.
After several attempts, he finally succeeded.
The pebbles floated in a beautiful formation above the grass.
But the effort drained him.
Sirius collapsed onto the lawn immediately afterward, panting heavily.
Sweat covered his forehead.
"I'm exhausted…" he muttered.
Regulus walked over silently and handed him a glass of water.
"Did you use a lot of magic?" he asked.
Sirius gulped down the water before nodding.
"Yeah."
That was all he said.
Regulus knew the distance between them came from the argument at dinner a few days earlier.
Sirius didn't want to talk to him.
Regulus said nothing more and simply walked away.
A week later, late at night, Regulus knocked on the door of Orion's study.
"Come in."
Orion sat behind his desk reviewing documents. A single candle illuminated the room, its light revealing the fatigue in his face.
The Ministry of Magic had been under increasing pressure recently.
Regulus had pieced together fragments of information from overheard conversations.
It had something to do with the rising influence of a certain dark figure.
The precursor to the Death Eaters had begun stirring, launching small attacks. The Ministry was attempting to suppress the news, but the ancient families already knew.
"Father," Regulus said.
Orion set down his quill and rubbed his temples.
"Yes. What is it?"
Regulus sat in the chair across from him.
"I've been thinking about a question."
"What question?"
"Where exactly is a wizard's magic stored?"
Orion paused.
"That is a fundamental question," he said slowly. "Magic originates from the soul and is released through the physical body."
"But the body isn't just a medium, is it?" Regulus pressed.
"If the body is damaged, magic output decreases. If the body becomes stronger, shouldn't magic output increase?"
"Theoretically, yes," Orion replied. "A healthy body helps spellcasting. But once a basic level of health is achieved, further strengthening produces negligible improvement."
"Has anyone verified that?"
Orion remained silent for several seconds.
"As far as I know," he finally said, "there has been no systematic research. The traditional view is that magical talent is innate. Training afterward can improve control, but not the total magical capacity."
"But what if the total amount is limited by the body's capacity?"
Regulus leaned forward.
"Imagine magic as water in a cup. If the cup only holds one cup of water, that is the limit. But what if we make the cup bigger—"
"The soul is the cup," Orion interrupted. "Not the body."
"Are you sure?"
Orion stared at his son for a long time.
"Not completely," he admitted. "But that is the widely accepted theory."
"Widely accepted doesn't necessarily mean correct."
Regulus spoke quietly.
"How many 'accepted truths' in wizarding history have later been proven wrong?"
"For example, it was once believed that Muggles were inferior beings. But now their technology—"
"Enough."
Orion's voice became soft but firm.
"Regulus, I know you are intelligent. Your thoughts are often different from others. But some questions are not meant for you to explore yet."
"When should I explore them?" Regulus asked calmly.
"When Lord Voldemort is knocking on our door?"
Orion stood abruptly.
"Who told you that name?"
"No one."
Regulus remained calm.
"I overheard Cousin Bella and Madam Malfoy speaking. You and Mother also mentioned him, though you called him 'That Lord.'"
"I simply searched further."
"His real name is Tom Marvolo Riddle."
"He calls himself Lord Voldemort."
Orion slowly sat back down.
"You should not know this."
"But I do."
Regulus continued.
"And I know something else."
"He is recruiting supporters. The pure-blood families are choosing sides."
"And the Black family will have to make a choice eventually."
A long silence followed.
Finally, Orion asked quietly:
"Are you afraid?"
"No."
Regulus's answer came immediately.
"But I need power."
Orion closed his eyes.
After a long moment, he spoke again.
"That question you asked earlier—the relationship between the body and magic…"
"There was someone in the history of the House of Black who studied it."
Regulus stiffened.
"My great-grandfather," Orion continued.
"Arcturus Black."
"He believed that wizards relied too heavily on magic and neglected the physical body."
Regulus was stunned.
Someone had actually researched this.
And that person was one of his ancestors.
"He conducted experiments," Orion said slowly.
"He attempted to strengthen the body with magic, and then use that stronger body to contain more magic."
"The theory was cyclical enhancement."
"What happened?" Regulus asked eagerly.
Orion's expression darkened.
"He lived to be one hundred and thirty-seven years old."
"One of the longest-lived members of the Black family."
"He was extremely powerful."
"But in his later years… he went mad."
Regulus froze.
"His notes became chaotic," Orion continued. "Filled with strange symbols and warnings."
"The final entry read:
'The container is too solid. What is inside cannot escape.'
'I have trapped myself.'"
Regulus felt a chill run through him.
"So the strengthened body imprisoned the soul?" he asked.
"I don't know," Orion replied.
"The notes were sealed in the restricted archives. I attempted to read them once."
"After three pages, I developed a splitting headache."
"That research is not meant for ordinary readers."
Regulus's heart raced.
Someone had already explored this path.
And there were results.
Dangerous results.
"I want to see those notes."
"No."
Orion refused immediately.
"Not now."
He paused.
"Arcturus's final condition… was terrible."
"Promise me you will not seek out those notes privately."
Regulus remained silent.
He didn't want to promise.
"Promise me," Orion repeated.
His voice carried an unusual hint of pleading.
"…I promise."
Orion sighed.
Both of them knew the promise might not last forever.
"You may go now."
Later that night, Regulus returned to the attic.
He sat alone in the darkness.
Arcturus Black.
One hundred and thirty-seven years old.
Madness.
"The container is too solid."
Was the problem that the body had become too strong… trapping the soul inside?
Regulus stared into the darkness.
But another possibility slowly formed in his mind.
What if the solution was not strengthening the container?
What if the body and the soul could merge completely…
Until they were no longer separate at all?.
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