Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

"This is a very dangerous area," Sprout said slowly. "Sound magic, especially that involving the mental realm, is the complex boundary between black magic and white magic."

Historically, some sorcerers have indeed researched healing music, but most experiments ended tragically.

"Because it's difficult to control?"

"Because sound is invisible and diffuse," Sprout explained. "You can precisely control the trajectory of a spell, but it's very difficult to control the propagation of sound."

Moreover, everyone's soul is subtly different; what works for you might be deadly poison for me. There is no universal cure.

No, sound can be contained; physical means can achieve this, so there's no reason why magic can't.

Regulus kept these thoughts in mind. There was no universal solution, but what if there was a way to detect an individual's soul? What if the pitch could be customized?

Most importantly, treatment varies from person to person, but what about fatalities?

I can use it to kill on a large scale.

"There's another question, Professor. If the mandrake's cry is so dangerous, why isn't it affected itself? Or how do other mandrakes communicate with each other?"

Sprout laughed: "The question you're asking now is approaching NEWT-level research topics."

The short answer is that mandrakes have their own immunity, and their hearing is different from that of wizards.

As for communication... we're not sure if they need to communicate; at least, no wizard has successfully translated the language of mandrakes, if anyone were to actually try.

She stood up and brushed the dirt off her robe: "Keep your curiosity, Mr. Black, but remember, don't try anything lightly until you have enough knowledge and protection."

"I understand, Professor, thank you," Regulus said sincerely.

Regulus also stood up, several thoughts flashing through his mind: wide-area lethality, precision lethality, mental damage, physical damage.

And if time permits, psychotherapy would be a good option.

The bell rang, and the students left the greenhouse one after another. Regulus deliberately slowed down his packing up, waiting until the others were far away.

"Mr. Black," Sprout called out to him, "could you stay a little longer?"

"Of course, Professor." Regulus turned and nodded.

The two stepped out of the greenhouse and stood on the pebble path outside the castle. The September wind carried warmth, and in the distance, the surface of the Black Lake rippled gently.

"Your ability to sense magic is quite unique," Sprout said bluntly. "Most wizards sense magic like they see colors, know it exists, and can distinguish its strength, but they have difficulty describing the details."

Regulus answered cautiously, "For me, magical perception is like having an additional sense; I can see the emotions of the Babo rhizomes, or more precisely, it's a feeling."

He decided to be partially honest. Sprout was the Hufflepuff Headmaster, known for his gentleness and fairness, and had a deep understanding of plant magic, making him worthy of a certain degree of trust.

Moreover, in terms of magical perception, he was outstanding, but not particularly special.

Sprout looked toward the greenhouse: "At the far end of the second greenhouse, there is a sapling of a willow tree. I planted it thirty years ago when I was going through a... difficult time."

That willow tree is still more irritable and aggressive than others of its kind, and I always suspect that it's my emotions that have affected it.

Sprout sighed and said seriously, "So here's my advice: stay sensitive, but don't delve too deeply into the dark plants."

Some plants, such as the devil's web and the fanged geranium, especially those variants bred using dark magic, accumulate pain, anger, and despair that can backfire on those who perceive them.

She turned to Regulus, her eyes serious: "Your talent is a gift, or it could be a curse."

If you encounter anything too dark in your perception, immediately disconnect and come to me or another professor. Do not bear it alone.

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

Regulus could sense that Sprout's warning was sincere; perhaps she had seen similar situations before, and maybe even tragedies.

"In addition," Sprout's tone softened, "if you are interested in the study of plant magic, you can apply to become my teaching assistant after the OWL exam."

But for now, let's build a solid foundation first; every piece of knowledge in the textbook will be useful.

"I will, Professor."

"Go on, don't be late for the next class."

That evening, during the hour before dinner, Regulus took a detour to a small garden on the west side of the castle. It was planted with ordinary ornamental plants, with no magical varieties, and was rarely visited.

He needs to validate an idea.

Daisies are often used by wizards as a basic ingredient in potions.

Regulus found two daisies growing side by side. One was healthy and plump, while the other had three outermost leaves with obvious yellowing edges, which could be due to pests or insufficient nutrition.

He crouched down, placing his right hand on the soil around the roots of the healthy daisies and his left hand on the roots of the damaged daisies.

Close your eyes and unleash your magical perception.

The magic of healthy daisies is warm, calming, and a soft, pale gold color, like a slowly rotating halo.

The magic of the damaged daisies was much dimmer, its light flickering erratically, and the magic in the areas of withered yellow leaves was almost stagnant.

Regulus will try to guide the life magic of healthy daisies and repair damaged ones.

This isn't a healing spell; healing spells use wizarding magic to forcibly repair the target.

He wanted to try to act as an intermediary, allowing the magic between plants to flow naturally.

He extended his magic into two thin threads, one connecting the core of the healthy daisy and the other connecting the damaged area of ​​the damaged daisy.

The filaments are extremely fine, so as not to interfere with the plant's own magical cycle.

On the healthy daisy side, he used a slight absorption of magic to create a high magic pressure area, while on the damaged daisy side, he created a low magic pressure area.

Similar to water flowing downhill, if successful, the magic of healthy daisies should naturally flow to the damaged areas.

But nothing changed; the magic of the two plants remained independent, ignoring the pressure difference he had created.

Regulus adjusted his approach, recalling the emotional expression of the Babo tuber. Perhaps simple magical pressure wasn't enough; a communication method closer to the plant's instincts was needed.

He adjusted his magic output, attempting to mimic the fluctuations of a healthy daisy.

Five minutes later, a change occurred.

A faint golden wisp of light flowed from the core of the healthy daisy, moving slowly along Regulus's magical channel.

The light rays reach the damaged area and seep into the withered leaves.

Regulus held his breath and observed carefully.

The flow of magic within the leaf began to revive, and the previously stagnant magic points were reactivated and began to circulate slowly.

It works, but it's extremely inefficient.

Ten minutes passed, and he had only guided about one-tenth of the leaf's repair capacity, while his own magic power consumption was quite considerable.

He persisted for another five minutes before slowly severing the connection and withdrawing all his magic.

The outermost leaf of the damaged daisy, with its yellowed edges faded slightly, regained its bright green color, about the width of a fingernail.

But that's all; the other leaves remain the same.

Regulus stood up, rubbed his temples; the magic consumption was unusually high, a net loss.

But the direction was correct, and a key hypothesis was verified: the magic of plants can be transferred between individuals.

Furthermore, the magic of nature, even the magic contained in seemingly passive life forms like plants, can be guided, borrowed, and even controlled by the will of a wizard.

Mandrake!

If the gentle life force contained in ordinary daisies can be guided, does the same principle apply to magical plants like mandrakes, which contain deadly magic?

His mind raced, and an idea formed in his head:

[A reverse inference about the lethality of mandrake based on the "guided nature of plant magic"]

The mandrake's cry can be deadly because it contains a powerful, destructive magic that targets both the soul and the body.

The magic in its cries is essentially the same as the life magic of daisies and the chaotic magic in the pus of baboon tubers—it is a magical property that the plant itself produces, contains, or releases.

However, this characteristic is extremely dangerous.

Since the magic of daisies can be guided and transferred, then mandrake should theoretically also have the potential to be guided.

However, their magical properties differ drastically: one is gentle and nourishing, while the other is violent and destructive.

Mandrake releases its deadly magic through the specific method of crying, as if it were an innate magic rooted in its life form.

To bypass the crying and directly access or guide its primal magic, one may need to understand the trajectory or convergence points of its magic within the plant.

Perhaps we could start by studying the magical properties of mandrake seedlings and observing how their magic changes as they grow.