Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

The Spatial Warp consumed roughly as much magic as a single Disarming Charm. Manageable.

But Regulus felt a dull weariness radiating from the depths of his mind — a lingering aftereffect of the legacy knowledge not yet fully digested. Mental load ran higher than normal.

Progress existed, yet it wasn't enough. Practical combat application was still a long way off.

To send a spell through folded space required precise control of the warp trajectory and landing point — the smaller the error, the better — and it would certainly be harder than transporting an object.

To deploy a Shield Charm at range meant completing the warp instantaneously — ideally with zero time cost.

If battle required such techniques, a delay of even a millisecond could be fatal.

To attack a target's internal organs directly meant penetrating multiple layers of defense on the wizard's body: magical barrier, physical tissue, even soul-level protection.

Each of these demands called for countless hours of practice, deeper spatial comprehension, stronger magical control, and a tougher mind.

But he had patience. A visible road — just walk it.

Regulus pocketed the Galleon, stood, and headed back. He stepped out of the Room of Requirement. The door shut silently behind him; the wall returned to its original state, showing not a trace.

He wrapped himself in the Disillusionment Charm and retraced his route to the Slytherin dormitory.

No one along the way. Portraits all asleep. Suits of armor motionless in their niches. The castle as quiet as the ocean floor.

Back in the dormitory, it was nearly one in the morning. Avery and Alex had long since turned in; steady breathing filtered through bed curtains.

Hermes's bed was empty — curtains drawn tight, but no one inside.

Regulus washed up and lay down. Eyes closed.

Star-orbit meditation engaged automatically. Four silver stars rotated slowly in the depths of his mind; the circulating magic smoothed away the mental fatigue.

But the deeper strain — the overload from too much legacy knowledge flooding in — would need longer rest to ease.

He decided to scale back high-intensity practice over the coming days and prioritize digesting the Nature Magic and Spatial Anchoring Charm knowledge.

Sleep.

......

January at Hogwarts was bone-chillingly cold. Snow drifted from a sullen sky.

Outside the castle, deep snow banked along the Forbidden Forest's edge; a thin sheet of ice glazed Black Lake, dull grey-white under the overcast.

Inside was little better. Corridor stonework was frigid to the touch, window glass beaded with condensation. Even with warming charms, students kept their robes pulled tight.

Herbology was held in Greenhouse Three.

Regulus stepped inside, into air noticeably warmer than outdoors.

Temperature held steady by magic. The air was moist, carrying scents of earth and greenery.

The greenhouse was packed with magical plants — from common Devil's Snare to rare Venomous Tentacula — each in its designated zone.

Professor Sprout stood at the center, wearing her perennially mud-stained apron, a small trowel in hand.

"Today we'll be loosening the soil and repotting Mandrake seedlings." Her voice was warm and clear, reaching every corner. "Pairs. Each pair takes one seedling pot. Remember the steps — earmuffs and dragon-hide gloves on first, then touch the plant."

Students queued for earmuffs and tools. Avery paired with Regulus voluntarily, and they collected a seedling pot.

The seedling sat in a black clay pot, only palm-sized, leaves a tender green, a tiny purple flower blossoming at the tip.

It looked perfectly harmless. But a mature specimen was devastating.

An adult Mandrake's cry was lethal — acting directly on body and spirit.

In the original story, during a Herbology lesson, Neville Longbottom forgot his earmuffs out of sheer nerves and briefly fainted on hearing a juvenile Mandrake's wail.

A mature specimen's shriek could kill on the spot.

But a seedling was different. Its magic hadn't fully developed; the lethal capacity was not yet formed.

Regulus put on the earmuffs. The world went instantly silent — only his own breathing and heartbeat audible.

He looked at the seedling and let his perception spread, lightly brushing the leaves, the root-stem, the soil.

He perceived the magical flow inside the plant — slender silver rivulets cycling slowly through the tissue.

That flow carried a certain quality. Having mastered Nature Magic, he could see it more clearly now.

What might be called plant 'emotion' was better described as magical attribute or tendency.

Some plants had a gentle magical attribute, suited to healing — like Dittany.

Some had a violent attribute, suited to offense — like the Venomous Tentacula.

The Mandrake's magical attribute was distinctive. Regulus carefully threaded a wisp of Nature Magic toward the seedling, establishing a connection.

The seedling's magic fed back: an innately chaotic, as-yet-unformed keening — a vibration at the magical level, carrying a sensation that unsettled the soul.

Amplified a thousandfold, with sound as the carrier and amplifier, it would become the fatal scream.

But it was still weak. Regulus cut the connection after three seconds.

Even with just a seedling, even after only three seconds, he felt a mild nausea — like the queasy aftermath of a long, jolting carriage ride.

A faint dizziness pulsed from deep in his brain. It faded quickly, but that was proof enough of the plant's danger.

And he couldn't study it openly. This Mandrake seedling was Hogwarts property — valuable and rare.

Every specimen was logged. A single one going missing would be a serious issue.

Professor Sprout would not allow him to extract magic at will, even in small doses.

However, the Black family's herb garden in Cornwall also cultivated Mandrakes — strictly managed and inventoried, being family property.

But he was the Black heir. Using a bit of what belonged to his own house was hardly an issue.

Regulus reined in his thoughts and began loosening the soil for the seedling.

He worked carefully, using the small trowel to gently shift the surface layer, exposing the fine root network beneath.

The Mandrake's root was pale yellow, ginseng-like, profusely branched, dotted with tiny motes of magical light.

Avery helped alongside him — passing tools, bracing the pot.

Their teamwork was reasonably smooth. Avery's technique wasn't the sharpest, occasionally nearly nicking a root, but nothing went badly wrong.

Others weren't so fortunate. A Hufflepuff boy dug too hard and severed a rootlet, earning an immediate five-point deduction from Professor Sprout.

The class passed quickly. By the bell, most students had finished repotting — transferring seedlings to larger clay pots, filling with fresh soil, and watering with a specialty nutrient potion.

The Mandrake looked perkier in its new earth, leaves gently swaying, the purple flower opening a fraction wider.

Regulus was about to stand when Professor Sprout called him back: "Mister Black, stay a moment."

Students drifted out. Avery gave Regulus a questioning look — want me to wait?

Regulus shook his head. Avery left with the crowd.

Only Regulus and Sprout remained in the greenhouse.

The professor removed her gloves, wiped her hands on her apron, and walked over to face him.

She was short, somewhat stout, but stood straight — skin bearing the permanent tan of years spent outdoors, eyes a gentle brown.

"Last term we talked — about magical-plant emotions and magic." Professor Sprout began, tone warm.

"I recall you asked whether a Bubotuber feels pain when it secretes pus."

Regulus nodded. "Yes, Professor."

"I said at the time that many magical plants do have simple emotions." Sprout continued.

"Now I'd like to amend that. 'Emotion' isn't quite the right word — at least not for magical plants."

She moved to a Dittany plant and lightly touched a leaf.

"They grow. They react. They possess magic. They have sensation. But when we speak of pain, joy, anger — those are all wizard standards projected onto them."

Regulus listened in silence, an inkling stirring — had the professor noticed something?

"But it is accurate to say magical plants' magic has attributes." Sprout turned to face him.

"Some attributes are gentle, beneficial to wizards — those we call good. Some are violent, harmful — those we call bad.

But magic itself is neither good nor bad. Only attributes differ."

She regarded him. "As I also said last term: the Mandrake's cry carries powerful psychic-impact magic.

That magic directly disrupts the listener's soul stability, leading to consciousness collapse — lethality at the mental level.

The mental collapse then triggers a physical chain reaction. So the final cause of death is the dual collapse of body and spirit."

Regulus nodded earnestly. The professor's guidance had been exactly that; he remembered it vividly.

Then Sprout pivoted: "But the more fundamental reason is that its magical attribute includes a tendency toward disintegration.

That tendency propagates through sound, acting on the living target's body and soul, causing structural breakdown."

Regulus's heart jumped — tendency. He had only just sensed this himself, and the professor stated it outright. Had she really detected something?