Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

On the third Thursday of late September, morning dew condensed into fine water droplets on the greenhouse glass.

The first-year herbalism class takes place in the third greenhouse, where relatively safe magical plants are grown.

It is safe, at least if operated correctly.

"Today we will learn how to process babo tubers." Professor Sprout stood in front of a row of ceramic pots, wearing thick dragon-skin gloves.

Her round face glowed rosy in the warm, steamy greenhouse: "Can anyone tell me the use of the pus from the Babo tuber?"

A Hufflepuff boy immediately raised his hand: "It's for treating stubborn acne, Professor, but it must be highly diluted, otherwise it will cause even more severe ulceration."

"Absolutely right, five points for Hufflepuff." Sprout nodded. "Now, in pairs, each person will receive a barbo tuber, a pair of gloves, and a glass bottle."

Your task is to safely squeeze out the pus and collect it in a bottle, being careful not to splash it on your skin or robes.

Regulus was paired with Avery Cuthbert, who wrinkled his nose as he took the earthenware pot: "This thing is really ugly."

The tuber of the Babo is indeed unsightly, a dark brown, spherical rhizome covered with bumps, each bump having a tiny hole at the top that oozes a viscous, yellowish-green liquid.

"Put on your gloves," Regulus reminded him, having already deftly slipped on his dragon-skin gloves.

He picked up his own stem and focused his magical perception.

He knew that matter possessed magic.

The magic of porcupine quills is concentrated at the tip, and the magic of moonflower is enhanced under moonlight, but the Babo tuber—

Perceptual infiltration.

The first thing I felt was life.

All plants possess a gentle and steady flow of life magic, like a slow heartbeat, but the life flow of the Bapau tuber is mixed with something else.

The magic perception returned a stinging sensation.

The overall magic of the Babo tuber is stable, but the magic around the bumps is disordered.

The pus itself emitted an even stronger, chaotic fluctuation, mixed with a kind of...emotion?

Regulus examined the plant in his hand carefully.

pain.

The word suddenly popped into my head.

It's not as complex an emotional level as human suffering; it's more like a primal and instinctive reaction to discomfort.

Just like the stress response that occurs when an organism is injured, it is imprinted in its magical characteristics.

"What are you spacing out for?" Avery had already squeezed out half a bottle of pus, the yellowish-green liquid slowly flowing in the glass bottle. "Hurry up, this smells disgusting."

Regulus nodded, pinched a large lump between his right thumb and forefinger, and gently squeezed it.

"Pfft."

Thick pus flowed out and fell into the glass bottle.

In that instant, Regulus sensed the change: the chaotic magic around the lump weakened, but the plant's overall wave of pain briefly intensified before slowly subsiding.

Like popping a boil, the pain intensifies temporarily, but then subsides.

He squeezed the lump three times in a row, sensing the change each time. On the fourth time, he looked up at Professor Sprout, who was making his rounds.

"professor."

Sprout approached: "What's wrong, Mr. Black?"

"Babbo tuber..." Regulus asked hesitantly, "When it secretes pus, is it experiencing some kind of discomfort?"

What I mean is, from a magical point of view, this discharge seems to be accompanied by a painful reaction.

Regulus always asked strange questions.

The questions themselves were like gibberish to most young wizards; they recognized each word individually, but couldn't understand them at all when put together.

But the young wizards gradually discovered a pattern: Regulus's perplexing questions often struck a chord with the professors, earning him high praise and extra house points.

This has almost become a regular feature of Slytherin classrooms, and Regulus is now quite famous.

The nearby wizards almost simultaneously turned to look at him, even instinctively stopping the squeezing of the Babo tuber in their hands.

Avery Cuthbert's expression was the most complex.

He frowned, staring at his unpredictable roommate beside him, and once again felt that familiar feeling, a mixture of confusion and vague frustration.

He couldn't understand how many strange and wonderful ideas were going on in the head of this second son of the Black family.

Where did he get these questions from, or did he just figure them out out of thin air?

But what Avery cared about most was that Regulus's questions always seemed to be targeted and not just empty boasting.

Compared to him, everyone around him seemed to be a fool who only knew how to recite from the book and never thought deeply.

However, unlike the Slytherins who mostly felt alienated and confused, a few Hufflepuff students sitting not far away showed more pure and curious doubts on their faces.

They exchanged glances, communicating silently.

Discomfort? Pain? Do plants have feelings?

Professor Sprout's eyes widened, and he quickly took two steps to stand in front of Regulus, his voice filled with surprise: "You noticed?"

"Yes, Professor." Regulus nodded politely to the professor from his seat.

"The magical properties in the pus are chaotic, while the overall magic of the tuber fluctuates briefly when squeezed, similar to..." He searched for a suitable description: "Similar to the magical reaction of an animal when it is injured."

Sprout stared at him for a while before slowly nodding: "Few people can grasp this level in their first year; most students only see the baboon tuber as a source of raw materials."

She straightened up and faced the class: "Mr. Black has made an interesting point that many magical plants do indeed have simple emotions."

The pus from the tuber of the plant is essentially a defense mechanism, and the secretion process is a burden on the plant itself.

Therefore, we should be as gentle as possible when collecting them to minimize their suffering.

She demonstrated a gentler squeezing technique, applying pressure slowly with her fingertips instead of roughly pinching.

"The kindest gatherer will get the purest material," Sprout said. "This is the first lesson in herbalism, and one that many forget. Slytherin gives ten points for meticulous observation."

Avery whispered to Regulus, "How do you feel about it? I just find it disgusting."

"Focus, reading, and some talent," Regulus replied simply, continuing to deal with the remaining issues.

At the same time, I thought to myself that plants have emotions, even if they are very primitive.

What does this mean? If emotions can be imprinted in magic, then can magic bear even more complex emotions? Could it be used for attack, or for healing?

In the latter half of the course, the students began cleaning up their tools.

Regulus washed the glass bottle, took off his gloves, and walked over to Professor Sprout, who was tidying up the flower stand.

"Professor, I have one more question."

"Speak, child."

"It's about mandrakes," Regulus said. "I read in a book that the cry of an adult mandrake is deadly."

I want to know, does this lethality affect the body or the mind?

Sprout stopped what he was doing, turned around, and his expression became serious: "This is an advanced question. We usually don't explain mandrake in detail until the higher grades."

"I know, Professor, but I'm curious," Regulus said, maintaining a polite but firm tone.

"If simply covering your ears can prevent death, then the danger comes from the act of 'hearing a sound'."

So, does the sound itself possess some kind of magic, or does it trigger some kind of reaction within the listener?

Sprout did not answer immediately; she gestured for Regulus to follow her to the rest area in the corner of the greenhouse, where there were several wicker chairs.

After the two sat down, she spoke: "First, to answer your first question, it's both."

"The cry of the mandrake contains a powerful spiritual shock, which directly interferes with the listener's soul stability, leading to a collapse of consciousness, which is a form of death on a spiritual level."

However, a severe mental breakdown can trigger a chain reaction in the body, leading to cardiac arrest, respiratory failure, and magical disorder. Therefore, death is ultimately a dual collapse of both the body and the mind.

Regulus nodded, quickly processing the information: "So what's the principle behind the protective earmuffs? Do they completely block out sound, or weaken the transmission of magic?"

"Good question." Sprout's eyes showed even more appreciation: "Standard protective earmuffs are enchanted with a sound filtering spell, which filters out certain magic, namely the fatal element in the mandrake's cry."

So strictly speaking, you can still hear the crying, but it's a purified, harmless version.

Regulus's mind raced: "So, the lethality of the mandrake lies in the magic carried by the sound. Is it possible to use it in reverse?"

Sprout's expression turned serious: "Child, what are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking about the possibility of a cure," Regulus said, which was partly true: "If some kind of magic can destroy, then is it possible to fix it by adjusting it?"

For example, could we use similar but reversed magic to heal psychological trauma?