Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

"That is a very dangerous field," Sprout said slowly. "Sound-based magic — particularly the kind that touches the mind — sits at the boundary between advanced Dark and Light magic.

There have indeed been wizards who studied therapeutic harmonics throughout history, but most of those experiments ended in tragedy."

"Because it's too difficult to control?"

"Because sound is intangible and diffuse." Sprout explained. "You can guide the trajectory of a spell with precision, but controlling the propagation of sound is far more difficult.

Moreover, every individual's soul is subtly unique. A treatment that works for you could be poison for me. There is no universal solution."

'No,' Regulus thought. 'Sound can be focused. Physical means can achieve it — there's no reason magic can't.'

He filed the information away. No universal solution — but what if there were a way to scan individual souls? What if the harmonics could be custom-tailored?

And critically: if treatment has to be personalized, what about lethality?

'I could use it for wide-area killing.'

"One more question, Professor. If the Mandrake's cry is so dangerous, why isn't it affected by its own scream? And how do Mandrakes communicate with each other?" Sprout smiled. "The questions you're asking now are approaching N.E.W.T.-level research topics.

The short answer is: Mandrakes have their own built-in immunity. Their auditory system differs from a wizard's.

As for communication... we aren't sure they need to communicate. At the very least, no wizard has ever successfully translated the Mandrake's language — assuming anyone genuinely wished to try."

She stood and brushed the dirt from her robes. "Keep that curiosity, Mister Black. But remember — until you have sufficient knowledge and protective measures, do not experiment recklessly."

"I understand, Professor. Thank you." Regulus's gratitude was sincere.

He stood as well, a cascade of thoughts flashing through his mind: wide-area lethality, precision lethality, psychic damage, physical damage.

And if time permitted, psychic therapy would be a worthwhile avenue.

The bell rang. Students filed out of the greenhouse. Regulus deliberately slowed his packing, waiting for the others to move on.

"Mister Black," Sprout said — as he had expected. "Could you stay a moment longer?"

"Of course, Professor." Regulus turned and inclined his head.

They walked out of the greenhouse and stood on the gravel path outside the castle. The September breeze carried a lingering warmth; in the distance, fine ripples textured the surface of the Black Lake.

"Your magical perception is quite unusual," Sprout said bluntly. "Most wizards perceive magic the way they perceive color — they know it exists, they can distinguish strong from weak, but they struggle to describe the details."

Regulus answered carefully: "For me, magical perception is like having an additional sense. I can see the emotions of a Bubotuber — or rather, feel them."

He decided on partial candor. Sprout was the head of Hufflepuff, known for being warm-hearted and fair, and she possessed a deep understanding of plant magic. She was worthy of a degree of trust.

Besides, in terms of magical perception, he was outstanding but not altogether extraordinary.

Sprout looked toward the greenhouses. "Inside Greenhouse Two, at the very back, there's a Whomping Willow sapling. I planted it thirty years ago, during a... difficult time in my life.

To this day, that willow is more volatile and aggressive than any other specimen of its kind. I've always suspected my emotional state affected it."

Sprout sighed and spoke earnestly. "So here is my advice: stay sensitive, but do not delve too deeply into dark plants.

Certain species — Devil's Snare, Venomous Tentacula, and especially the variants bred through Dark magic — they accumulate pain, rage, despair. Those emotions will rebound on anyone who perceives them."

She fixed Regulus with a grave gaze. "Your gift is a blessing. It could also be a curse.

If you encounter something too dark during perception, sever the connection immediately. Come to me, or to another professor. Do not bear it alone."

"I will remember, Professor." Regulus looked up at her and nodded steadily.

He could feel that Sprout's warning came from genuine concern. Perhaps she had witnessed similar cases — possibly even tragedies.

"Additionally," Sprout's tone softened, "if you're interested in plant-magic research, you may apply to become my teaching assistant after sitting your O.W.L.s.

But for now, build the foundations first. Every line in the textbook has its purpose."

"I will, Professor."

"Off you go. Don't be late for your next class."

That evening, in the free hour before dinner, Regulus took a detour to a small garden on the west side of the castle. It contained only ordinary ornamental plants — nothing magical — and was rarely visited.

He needed to test a hypothesis.

Daisies — commonly used as a basic Potions ingredient.

Regulus found two growing side by side. One was healthy and full; the other had three outer leaves with distinctly yellowing edges — possibly insect damage, possibly nutrient deficiency.

He crouched, pressing his right hand into the soil at the base of the healthy daisy, his left at the base of the damaged one.

Eyes closed. Magical perception deployed.

The healthy daisy's magic was warm, steady, a soft golden hue — like a slowly revolving halo of light.

The damaged daisy's magic was much dimmer, flickering. The magic in the yellowed leaf area had nearly come to a standstill.

Regulus intended to guide the healthy daisy's life magic to repair the damaged one.

This was not a Healing Charm — a Healing Charm used the wizard's own magic to force restoration on the target.

What he wanted to try was to act as a conduit, allowing magic to flow naturally between the two plants.

He extended his own magic into two fine threads — one connecting to the healthy daisy's core, the other to the damaged daisy's injured zone.

The threads were as delicate as possible, to avoid disrupting the plants' own magical circulation.

At the healthy daisy's end, he applied a subtle draw, creating a high-magic-pressure zone. At the damaged daisy's end, he created a low-pressure zone.

Like water flowing downhill: if it worked, the healthy daisy's magic should flow naturally toward the damaged area.

But nothing happened. The two plants' magic remained independent, ignoring the pressure differential he had created.

Regulus adjusted his approach. He recalled the Bubotuber's emotional expression — perhaps raw magical pressure was not enough. Perhaps he needed a form of communication closer to plant instinct.

He recalibrated his magical output, attempting to mimic the healthy daisy's wave pattern.

Five minutes later, a change appeared.

A faint golden thread of light flowed from the healthy daisy's core, creeping along Regulus's magical channel. Slowly.

The thread reached the damaged zone and seeped into the yellowing leaf.

Regulus held his breath and observed closely.

The magical flow inside the leaf began to revive. Stalled magic nodes reactivated and started circulating again, sluggishly.

It worked — but the efficiency was abysmal.

Ten minutes passed. He had guided roughly one-tenth of one leaf's worth of repair, and the drain on his own magic was considerable.

He persisted for five more minutes before gradually severing the connections and withdrawing all his magic.

The damaged daisy's outermost leaf had lost a narrow ring of its yellow edge — about a fingernail's width had returned to vivid green.

But that was all. The other leaves remained unchanged.

Regulus stood and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The magic expenditure was staggeringly disproportionate — not worth the cost.

But the direction was right. A key hypothesis had been verified: plant magic could be transferred between individuals.

Furthermore, natural magic — even that contained in seemingly passive life forms like plants — could be guided, borrowed, and even harnessed by a wizard's will.

Mandrakes!

If the gentle life-force magic of an ordinary daisy could be guided, then could a magical plant like the Mandrake — harboring lethal magic — follow the same principle?

His thoughts raced. An idea crystallized:

"A Reverse Extrapolation on Mandrake Lethality Based on the Guidability of Plant Magic."

The Mandrake's cry could kill because it contained powerful, destructive magic targeting both soul and body.

The magic within its cry was fundamentally the same in nature as a daisy's life-force magic or the chaotic magic in Bubotuber pus: a magical property produced, stored, or released by the plant itself.

Only this particular property was lethally dangerous.

If a daisy's magic could be guided and transferred, then in theory, the Mandrake's magic should also be guidable.

But the two magics differed radically in nature — one gently nourishing, the other violently destructive.

The Mandrake released its lethal magic through one specific mechanism: its cry. This seemed an innate magic rooted in the very form of its life.

Bypassing the cry to access or guide the source magic directly would likely require understanding the magic's trajectory and convergence points within the plant's body.

Perhaps the way forward was to begin by studying the magical properties of Mandrake seedlings, tracking how their magic changed as they matured.