Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Regulus stood rooted, fingers absently rubbing against one another. He was thinking.

Professor Sprout's words echoed. 'Emotion' isn't accurate. What's accurate is attribute. Magic itself carries tendency.

He suddenly realized something.

After obtaining the Nature Magic legacy over the holiday — guiding Dittany's magic to heal a wound, observing a plant's withering process — he had indeed sensed a vague tendency within magic.

Some gentle as spring water. Some violent as flame.

But that wasn't the same as the tendency Sprout described. His understanding was closer to what the professor called magical attribute.

At the time he'd assumed it was hidden knowledge conferred by the family legacy — a secret only a few possessed.

Now he understood. Professor Sprout had taught Herbology here for twenty years. She had personally tended hundreds of magical plant species.

She'd watched the Venomous Tentacula paralyze animals whole. Watched Devil's Snare extend its vines in the dark to drain life force. Watched Mandrakes grow from seedling to mature specimen.

She knew more than he did. Far more. He'd acquired knowledge from a legacy. Reached conclusions through experiment. The professor had distilled her principles from decades of hands-on practice.

That small spike of superiority Regulus had felt evaporated on the spot.

"The seedling's magic isn't yet complete." Sprout continued. "So its cry only causes discomfort, not death — but the magic is already present. Just insufficient in intensity."

She looked at Regulus. He lifted his head and met her eyes.

A gentle brown, fine lines at the corners — and right now, regarding him with unmistakable depth.

Regulus understood. The professor had seen through him.

She knew he'd just used Nature Magic to contact the seedling. Knew he was studying magical attributes. Perhaps even guessed he'd obtained certain magical knowledge.

But — that was all right. Nature Magic wasn't the sort of thing that needed hiding.

Since he'd been found out, he could study openly. Practice openly.

And the professor hadn't called him out. She was simply teaching — imparting knowledge in the most straightforward way.

Sound was only the carrier. The true lethality lay in the attribute of disintegration itself — and that was what magical tendency meant.

A seedling's magic was incomplete, so it only caused discomfort. A mature plant's magic was complete, so it killed.

Sprout withdrew her gaze and became warm again: "Researching the magical attributes of plants is a very worthwhile direction — but also very dangerous. Some attributes, once triggered, leave no room for remedy.

The Mandrake is only one example. Others include the Venomous Tentacula's neural paralysis, Devil's Snare's life-draining, the Whomping Willow's physical obliteration."

She was warning him and guiding him. Don't fixate on the surface of magic — understand the deeper attributes. Don't recklessly handle dangerous plants — first build sufficient knowledge and protection.

But it was the latter part that truly mattered. With each word the professor spoke, some locked compartment of understanding in Regulus's mind cracked open.

The words inspired him — and sent a subtle chill down his spine.

Paralysis. Draining. Obliteration. Disintegration.

These weren't spell terminology. They weren't incantation names — at least not in any textbook.

They described results — the final states manifested after magic took effect. The magic itself carried the attributes that produced those states.

In the present context, they sounded more like something conceptual.

They transcended specific spells — more fundamental, more direct, more abstract.

This was genuine mentorship.

Regulus had vague ideas of his own, but they were indistinct, uncertain — bubbles of intuition barely surfacing.

Knowledge he might have discovered on his own someday — or might not.

Perhaps after many wrong turns. Perhaps by overlooking a critical clue.

Now the professor had pointed it out directly, saving him the time of groping in the dark, clarifying the direction forward.

That direction might be near. It might be far. He didn't know. But he would walk toward it.

Sometimes true transmission is a single sentence.

"Thank you, Professor." Regulus bowed sincerely.

Professor Sprout smiled, the lines on her face smoothing out.

"You're very talented and very thoughtful. Stay curious — but stay cautious. The wizarding world is vast; some things need time to be understood."

Regulus nodded earnestly and thanked her again.

He recalled Professor Flitwick saying something similar after Charms. 'Magic is simply there. Everyone understands it differently. But believe in the power of the heart.'

The two professors expressed it differently, but the core was the same: don't rush, take it slow, keep an open mind.

Leaving the greenhouse, walking the path back to the castle, Regulus's mind was still sorting through the conversation.

A thought surfaced alongside it: just how powerful was Professor Sprout?

The guidance she'd just given — the attributes and tendencies she'd described — could she actually wield them?

Or was it purely observational theory?

He wasn't sure. But one thing was certain.

Professor Sprout was no mere flower-tending gardener. Her understanding of magic ran deep; she had her own system.

Sprout was surely a formidable witch.

Gentle. Patient. Unassuming. A single piece of guidance that cut straight to the heart of the matter.

Flitwick had illuminated the irrational face of magic for him. McGonagall guided him deeper into the essence of Transfiguration. Sprout pointed him toward a direction for Nature Magic.

Every Hogwarts professor was guiding students in their own way. Good people, all of them.

He felt their goodwill.

A twinge of sentiment rose in Regulus — and was promptly suppressed.

Sentiment was emotion. What he needed was to convert emotion into action, inspiration into strength.

Slughorn, old...

Dear professor, you're the only one left — start dropping gold coins!

......

Friday's Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was on the third floor, windows facing the castle courtyard, with a view of the snowy landscape along the Forbidden Forest's edge.

By the time Regulus entered, most students were already seated.

Avery and Alex had saved him a spot — middle row, by the window.

Hermes sat in the back corner, alone, head down, reading the textbook.

Professor Galatea Merrythought stood at the lectern.

He was a middle-aged wizard — hair neatly combed, dressed in dark-grey robes, face bearing an exaggerated expression.

"Two topics today." Merrythought opened the textbook.

"First: the Spark Charm. Incantation: Periculum. Sends up a red signal flare — used to alert companions when lost or in danger in the wilderness."

He wrote the incantation and pronunciation on the blackboard.

"Twist the wrist like so, wand tip up. While casting, imagine a red or green burst of light shooting from the tip, then sustain the charm."

He demonstrated once. A fist-sized red orb of light issued from his wand tip, hovering mid-air, casting a soft red glow.

The orb held for three seconds, shifted to green, then extinguished — leaving no trace.

"A safety-class charm. Causes no harm." Merrythought said. "Now — pair up and practice."

Students paired off. Avery with Regulus, as usual.

Regulus succeeded on his first attempt — orb standard, color clean, duration precise.

But his mind was elsewhere. Another idea surfacing.

Light-source magic.

The nature of light was wave-particle duality — a physical form possessing both wave and particle characteristics simultaneously.

Red because the magical frequency—

He caught himself and stopped. He decided to try a different approach.

No more of that. No wave-particle duality. No frequency. Think magic.

What if light didn't just illuminate — what if it carried information?

Light could inherently carry information. And information could sometimes serve as a weapon.

Or give the light physicality. Imbue it with energy. Then detonate it.

Or invest it with symbol and meaning.

Pure light. Radiance. Bringing warmth. Repelling darkness.

His thoughts ranged further. Light — could also be the light of civilization.

While Regulus mused, his hands practiced mechanically — the orb flaring and fading, flaring and fading.

Half an hour later, Merrythought called a halt.

"Second topic: gnomes." He turned to another page.

"Gnomes. Magical creature. Average height: thirty inches. Pointed ears. Fond of stealing magical plants. Common in gardens and courtyards. Classified as pests."

The book included a sketch and an anatomy diagram — for the benefit of young wizards.

"Deal with gnomes using a Gripping Charm — 'Gripping Charm' — seize them, spin them, and fling them past the boundary."

He recited the incantation and performed the gesture, but didn't demonstrate in practice.

"Next class is practical — clearing gnomes from the Hogwarts courtyard. Today is theory only."

A murmur of subdued cheering passed through the room.

Practical lessons were always more entertaining than theory — especially in a subject like Defense Against the Dark Arts, which ought to be thrilling but often ended up dry.

A few Gryffindor students were already whispering about who could throw a gnome farthest. The Slytherin side showed more restraint, but anticipation was plain on their faces.

Regulus was only mildly interested. Gnomes were low-level magical creatures with combat capability of approximately zero. Their only nuisance was numbers, speed, and a talent for burrowing.

Compared to that, he had too many projects on his plate. The new sparks of inspiration would have to wait.