Regulus turned to the next page.
Protection: Fiendfyre could be defended against, blocked with a raw magical barrier, but only by the most exceptional wizards alive.
The notebook named no one specifically. Perhaps no wizard of that caliber existed in the author's era.
But Regulus knew better. Dumbledore could hold against Fiendfyre, at least briefly.
During their duel at the Ministry of Magic, Dumbledore had blocked Voldemort's fire serpent, though he couldn't sustain the defense indefinitely and still had to redirect or retreat.
The notebook also mentioned reverse manipulation: in extreme circumstances, a wizard who surpassed the original caster in both will and magical power could forcibly redirect the flames.
Dumbledore again. He'd done exactly that against Voldemort's Fiendfyre, overpowering it outright. For any ordinary wizard, the feat was impossible.
Regulus sat with that for a moment.
On that point alone, Dumbledore was stronger than Voldemort. Fiendfyre was already close to unstoppable, and Voldemort's version of it had still been suppressed. The level of power that implied...
He shook his head and reeled his wandering thoughts back in.
He read on.
Control techniques: The essence of Fiendfyre control was the caster's will imposing dominance over cursed flame.
In the original story, the only confirmed successes belonged to Voldemort and Dumbledore. But this Black ancestor had compiled detailed enough notes to suggest he'd managed it himself.
Four core principles.
Will as command: Control hinged on absolute, unwavering focus. The caster had to continuously transmit clear directives to the flame: burn only within this area, do not attack this target. The slightest lapse in concentration and the fire would break free instantly.
Emotional separation: The negative emotions used to summon the fire had to be severed from the controlling will. Darkness was fuel for ignition only. Once the flame existed, the caster needed to shift into cold rationality. Emotional overflow would trigger backlash.
Form simplification: In early stages, the caster had to prevent the fire from splitting into multiple predatory shapes, which would fracture focus. Maintaining a single form, a wall of flame or a lone fire serpent, reduced the space for the fire's independent will to rebel.
Precise magical output: During the control phase, magic had to flow in a steady, even stream. No surges. Fluctuations in output would agitate the flame into greater violence.
Regulus finished the section and took stock.
Will as command. The mental fortitude forged through star guided meditation was sufficient.
Emotional separation. He could compartmentalize. Shifting between rational and emotional states was something he'd practiced.
Form simplification. Acceptable.
Precise magical output. That was his strongest suit.
All four requirements. He met them.
His mind drifted briefly to Grindelwald's blue fire. That was a different spell entirely.
Fiendfyre was offensive cursed dark magic.
Grindelwald's blue flames were Protego Diabolica, a high-level variant of dark defensive magic. Different in nature altogether.
With a clear picture of what he was dealing with, he could begin.
---
That evening, Regulus found Orion.
"I want to practice Fiendfyre," he said without preamble.
Orion had been reviewing documents in his study. He looked up, held his son's gaze for a beat, then nodded.
"Follow me."
They walked through the long corridors of the house and descended to the second basement level.
This floor saw little use. A single heavy stone door stood at the end, its surface carved thick with protective runes.
A tap of Orion's wand and the door slid open without a sound.
Beyond it lay a spacious training chamber, roughly twenty meters square. Walls, floor, and ceiling were all the same slate-grey stone, polished smooth, bare of decoration.
The air carried a faint magical residue, the lingering trace of protective charms cast over years.
Orion stepped inside and began casting, his wand moving in rapid succession.
With each incantation, another layer of light bloomed across the walls, each a different color, stacking together into a dense protective barrier.
Regulus could feel the space seal shut around them. Magical fluctuations dampened. Even the movement of air slowed.
When the preparations were complete, Orion retreated to the chamber's edge and leaned against the stone wall.
"Go ahead." He looked at Regulus and nodded. "I'll be watching."
Regulus walked to the center.
He closed his eyes first, steadied his breathing, and let the star guided meditation cycle engage.
The four-and-a-half-star model of Orion's Belt ignited in his mind. Magic flowed along the paths, and his focus sharpened to a fine edge.
Then he reached for negative emotion.
This was the difficult part. He had no consuming hatred. No desperate need to destroy.
But he could simulate it. Not generate the emotion itself, but use his magic to replicate its wavelength.
He thought of the grey mist beneath the Astronomy Tower. Those faces. That despair and suffering.
His magic stirred, taking on something cold and corrosive. An inclination toward destruction.
Not enough.
He thought of Voldemort. The darkness that name carried. The crushing pressure. The implicit threat: obey or die. His magic surged harder, gaining an aggressive edge.
Still not enough.
Finally, he thought of himself. What failure would look like.
If he didn't have enough power when the moment came. If the family was dragged deeper. If Sirius, his parents, or even he himself...
His magic boiled over, flooding with a raw, tearing impulse to shatter everything that stood in the way.
Now.
His eyes opened. Wand rose. Will and magic locked together.
The air at the center of the chamber warped.
Space itself trembled. A point of orange-red light materialized from nothing, hovering half a meter off the ground, no larger than a fingernail.
It began to swell.
Orange-red deepened to bright orange. Temperature spiked. The air inside the chamber superheated.
The flame started to change.
Vague shapes rippled across its surface, like countless tiny serpents writhing, straining outward, trying to break free of the core, trying to become independent.
Regulus pressed his wand down.
His will became an invisible fist, clamping down on every tendril that tried to split away.
The fire fought back. Temperature climbed higher. Waves of heat slammed against the protective barriers, which flickered in response.
The air had grown too hot to breathe. Regulus cast a Bubble-Head Charm on himself. Against the far wall, Orion did the same.
Hold.
Magic poured out in a steady, even stream. Will locked tight. His mind held a single thought: maintain this shape, nothing else.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Thirty.
The fire began to stabilize. The serpentine shapes across its surface receded, and it settled back into a simple flame, though deeper in color than ordinary fire and far, far hotter.
At forty-five seconds, he was at his limits. His reserves were fine, but the mental strain of sustaining that level of suppression had peaked.
He swept his wand downward.
The flame died. Vanished in an instant. Temperature plummeted, and the residual heat began to dissipate through the chamber.
Regulus lowered his wand, breathing slightly harder than usual.
First attempt. Forty-five seconds. The fire hadn't escaped his control, but it hadn't been fully tamed either. In those final seconds, he'd felt it gathering strength, coiling to break through.
Orion walked over. Said nothing. Placed a hand on his shoulder.
Good. Keep going.
---
Over the next three days, Regulus spent six hours a day in the training chamber.
On the second day, he held the flame for a full minute. The shape stayed more stable, and his temperature control sharpened.
But when he tried to move it, it failed. The flame drifted five centimeters to the left and immediately swelled, nearly tearing free.
On the third day, he managed to guide the fire in slow movement through the chamber, like a drifting lantern.
But the trajectory was stiff. Turns required pauses. It was nowhere close to fluid control.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, Regulus stood at the center of the chamber, wand raised, palm facing up.
An orange-red flame kindled three centimeters above his open hand.
It was the size of a candle flame. Deep in color. Burning steady. No flickering, no distortion. A quiet, controlled point of cursed fire.
His fingers shifted.
The flame followed.
The path was smooth, unbroken, as though guided by an invisible thread.
He turned his palm downward.
The flame hung in the air. Didn't fall. Didn't spread. It held its position.
Then he pushed further.
He split the flame into three smaller points, each moving independently, weaving simple geometric patterns through the air before merging back into one.
He compressed the flame from fist-sized down to a walnut, density increasing, temperature soaring. The chamber's protective barriers hummed in warning.
He eased off. Let the flame expand back to its original size.
The entire sequence lasted three minutes.
When it was over, Regulus closed his fist. The flame winked out without a sound. Not even smoke.
The chamber settled into stillness. Only the runes on the walls still glowed faintly, recording what had taken place.
Orion stood against the wall, staring at the spot above his son's palm where the fire had burned. He stared for a long time.
Then he crossed the room, placed his hand on Regulus's shoulder, and pressed down hard.
"That's enough for now." Something restrained but fierce ran through his voice. "Step one is solid."
Regulus nodded. He didn't speak, but he knew the truth. This was only the beginning.
A small flame and the Fiendfyre beasts summoned in real combat were worlds apart.
But it proved the path was walkable. Proved his will was strong enough, his magical control precise enough, to tame one of the most dangerous forces in the wizarding world.
The rest was practice, accumulation, and gradual escalation.
Two more days of training followed. By the end, he could reliably control a fist-sized Fiendfyre through complex operations: movement, shape-shifting, temperature modulation, splitting and merging. All smooth.
But scaling up was another matter. When he tried to summon a flame the size of a football, the difficulty spiked exponentially. Twenty seconds in and he nearly lost it.
He understood. This would take time. Fiendfyre wasn't a spell you rushed. It demanded long-term practice, letting body and mind adapt to the sustained pressure.
On the last morning of the Easter holiday, Regulus packed his things and said his goodbyes.
Walburga rattled off a string of reminders. Show your strength, uphold the family honor, don't bury yourself in books all the time.
Orion offered a single sentence: "Write if you need anything."
Regulus nodded and walked to the open ground beyond the front door.
Apparition.
The crushing pressure passed in an instant. His feet touched down on the hillside outside Hogwarts.
The April morning air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of earth and new grass. In the distance, the castle's spires drifted in and out of the mist.
He started walking toward the gates.
---
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