Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 364 is that simple.

On Saturday noon, Regulus went to Professor Slughorn's office.

I need to leave school this afternoon, so I need to ask for leave.

Although he was walking with Professor Sprout, and the dean wouldn't stop him, rules are rules, and he had to say something if necessary.

Slughorn was sitting behind his desk drinking tea, with half a plate of crystal candied fruit and a copy of the day's Daily Prophet on the table. When he saw Regulus come in, he put down his teacup and smiled.

Regulus didn't sit down and directly stated his purpose, otherwise the professor would have kept him to eat candied fruit.

That stuff was too sweet, and I had just eaten, so I didn't want to eat it.

"I'm going to Cornwall this afternoon with Professor Sprout to deal with some botanical matters. I'll be back tonight."

Slughorn nodded, didn't ask any further questions, and said with a smile, "Pomona told me to be careful. Go ahead."

Regulus thanked him and came out.

He also wrote a letter to Orion, which he sent the night before last.

Professor Sprout is going to Cornwall, to the Black family's plantation, so someone has to be there to receive him.

Orion doesn't need to show up in person, but Agnes needs to know in advance that guests are coming, and preparations are essential.

Besides, it was about dealing with that "beating willow" plant. Even if it was half-dead, it was still part of the Black family's property, so we had to say something.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, Professor Sprout was already waiting at the entrance of Greenhouse No. 3.

The pointed hat was crooked, and the robe was cleaner than usual, but only relatively clean; she probably thought she had wiped away the mud stain on the cuff and that was enough.

He now carried a tool bag, made of gray-green canvas, bulging and the contents rattling against each other.

She saw Regulus approaching and smiled, "Right on time."

Regulus nodded slightly: "You're more punctual."

The two walked along the lawn outside the castle toward the Forbidden Forest, out of the range of the Anti-Apparition Charm.

Regulus stopped at the edge of the Forbidden Forest and glanced at the professor.

The professor raised an eyebrow and then nodded.

Regulus reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder, *snap*, Apparition.

The moment my feet touched solid ground, the sea breeze rushed over me.

Cornwall.

It was a mid-January afternoon, the sky was overcast, the clouds were low, and the air still had that salty, fishy smell.

They landed at the entrance to the plantation, where a low stone wall surrounded a vast expanse of land, and in the distance, the glass roofs of greenhouses gleamed dimly in the greyish-white light of the sky.

Agnes emerged from behind the stone wall, her steps quick and silent on the dirt path.

She was still dressed the same way: leather jacket, scarf, and apron with bulging pockets.

Seeing Regulus, he smiled and said, "Mr. Black."

Then he looked at Professor Sprout beside him.

"Professor Sprout," Regulus turned slightly to the side, "this is Ms. Agnes, the plantation manager."

"Ms. Agnes, this is Professor Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff House and Professor of Herbalism at Hogwarts."

Agnes extended her hand, her fingers thick and her nails grime indelible: "Professor Sprout, I've heard so much about you. Mr. Black has mentioned you before."

Sprout grasped her hand firmly; both hands were used to working in the soil year-round, and when they were clasped together, it was impossible to tell whose hand was rougher.

"Pomona Sprout, just call me Pomona." The professor smiled warmly; she sensed that the woman opposite her looked very much like her.

Agnes released her grip and pointed north: "Mr. Black wrote yesterday saying you wanted to come see the Beating Willow."

The professor nodded, picked up his toolbox, and weighed it in his hand.

Agnes gestured for her to enter, saying, "I'll lead you there."

The two witches walked side by side, neither of them slow, and began to chat.

Agnes asked the professor, "What type of temperature-regulating charm is used in the greenhouse?"

The professor said, "Hogwarts uses a modified third-generation Constant Temperature Charm, which covers a larger area but is less precise. A more refined version can be used in the smaller greenhouses."

Agnes said, "The constant temperature spell here has been in place for decades and it works alright, but the coverage is uneven. The temperature in the southeast corner is always two degrees lower than that in the northwest corner."

The professor nodded, his tone certain: "Then it's most likely a problem with the spell's decay path. The magic anchor point might need to be recalibrated. Perhaps I can help take a look."

Agnes's eyes lit up, and she quickly said, "That's great, thank you so much."

The two chatted enthusiastically, sharing similar styles and being pragmatic individuals. They didn't engage in small talk or formalities, and their conversation revolved around technical matters.

Regulus followed behind, walking quietly.

On the way, the professor asked, "How long ago was the 'Hit-and-Beat Willow' transplanted?"

'

"More than a month." Agnes glanced back at Regulus, then looked back at the professor.

"On the day of the transplant, three wizards were injured. One had two broken ribs, one had a dislocated arm, and another was thrown out and crashed into a stone wall, where he lay for two days in St. Mungo's."

She gestured with her chin towards the north: "The good one is still very aggressive, but the damaged one has wilted and isn't as aggressive anymore."

The professor hummed in agreement, glanced back at Regulus, then turned back and quickened his pace.

Upon reaching the open space to the north, within a circle enclosed by low wooden stakes and thick hemp ropes, stood two willow trees about twenty meters apart.

The tree on the right is full of vitality, its branches swaying slowly in the sea breeze, the hooks reflecting the light in the gray sky. Occasionally, a branch will suddenly twitch, as if stretching or giving a warning.

The tree on the left is drooping, its bark is dry, cracked, and grayish. There is a wound on the thickest main branch with blackened edges, but new buds are indeed sprouting from the end of the branch. The tender green buds stand out against the grayish-brown dead branches.

Sprout put down his toolbox, but didn't open it or take out his wand.

She walked to the edge of the wooden stake, raised her hands flat, palms facing the two trees, and spread her ten fingers slightly.

Then she closed her eyes and silently recited something.

Regulus stood a few steps behind her, his magical perception spreading out.

Sprout's magic flowed outwards, unlike the directional output of a spell; it diffused, seeping from his palm in all directions, into the air, into the soil, and into the direction of the two Man-Beating Willows.

It was slow, gentle, and carried a lukewarm warmth.

The magic of nature.

But it is different from the legacy left to him by his ancestor Eldrin, and it is also quite different from what he uses himself.

The ancestors' magic was a gift; they could directly see the flow of natural magic and share their existence with plants. It was something etched into their blood, like Parsley speaking to snakes.

It's an innate language; it doesn't need translation.

Regulus did not possess his ancestors' talents, those eyes, or that luck.

However, he can directly extract magic power by sensing the magical trajectory of plants and transform it into his own.

There's no inherent superiority or inferiority; what suits you is good.

The way he taught was different from all of them.

Her magic was honed little by little by herself, spending decades in a greenhouse dealing with magical plants, repeatedly perceiving, testing, and adjusting.

Until how each plant responds, how it is soothed, and how it communicates become the body's instinct.

This is not talent; it is a skill honed through repeated observation, repeated attempts, repeated stings, stings, and splattering with venom, and through countless failures and pains.

This is a matter of skill.

Talent can give you a higher starting point, but solid skills can take you further.

Professor Sprout is someone who has traveled very far.

The two willows that were about to burst into flames reacted.

The better plant showed signs of movement first; its branches swayed less, the angle of the hooks softened, and the ends stopped suddenly drawing air, gradually coming to a stop and becoming quiet.

It still looks energetic, but its irritability has subsided. Like an alert animal that has been gently coaxed, it no longer bares its teeth, but its ears are still perked up.

The damaged plant reacted more slowly. After a while, the drooping branches lifted slightly, then fell back down, lifted again, fell back down again, and then fell silent.

Sprout opened his eyes, lowered his hands, stepped over the rope, and went inside.

Once it entered the attack range, the good one didn't get hit.

She walked up to the damaged tree and examined it as a whole: the shape of the branches, the color of the trunk, the shape of the crown, and the location of the new buds.

Then she reached out and touched the tree trunk, her fingers tracing the texture of the bark downwards, pausing and pressing at certain points to feel the flow of magic beneath the bark.

The branch moved instinctively, lashing at her hand with negligible force.

She reached out and pressed down on the branch, her movements very gentle, as if comforting a weak child.

Then she squatted down, dug away the soil around the roots, and probed deeper into the roots with her fingers, following their direction.

He started muttering to himself, his words mumbled indistinctly.

Regulus couldn't hear what she was saying; perhaps she was talking to the tree, perhaps she was talking to herself, or perhaps both.

She squatted there, her fingers stuck in the mud, her hair falling out from under her hat and hanging down her side, the hem of her robe already covered in mud, but she didn't care at all.

Her world now consists only of this tree.

Regulus watched for a while and confirmed that the professor was fully engaged in his work and did not need his help.

He said, "Professor, I'm going to take a walk over there. Call me if you need anything."

The professor didn't even look up, just waved one hand, his fingers still covered in mud, and then continued digging.

Baruch poked his head out of the inner bag, glanced at the Willow, clicked his chelicerae twice, and uttered a single syllable: "...tree."

"Yes, a tree."

Regulus patted its shell and turned to walk towards the cliff.

At the edge of the cliff, the grass was withered and yellow, stretching westward all the way to the edge of the cliff face.

The Atlantic wind blows in from the sea, carrying salty, damp air and the muffled sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below.

The grey-blue sea stretched all the way to the horizon.

Regulus stood on the edge of the cliff, with withered grass beneath his feet, windbreak bushes behind him, and the sea before him.

It was spacious, desolate, and offered an extremely wide view.

He tackled the space-related issues first.

I tried so many times at Hogwarts last semester, and failed every time.

On the astronomical tower, in the room where every request is granted, the will to protect is drawn out of the spiritual world and placed into the space.

The space ignored him.

If integration doesn't work, try infiltration, slowly permeating, but that still doesn't work.

The castle is alive; a thousand years of magical accumulation has given it its own habits and temperament, and it won't allow anything to be touched if it doesn't approve.

Regulus had no choice; he couldn't very well blow up Hogwarts.

Although the chain-like self-sustaining nature of the Disintegration Curse is theoretically possible, I really can't think of a reason to blow up the castle.

Logically speaking, it's not wrong to do things without a reason, but...

Forget it, that's not something I should be thinking about right now.

This is fine. This isn't Hogwarts. The space here is natural, empty, without will or judgment.

He first released the Starry Sky Kite.

A silvery-white light emanated from his chest, standing out starkly in the gray light of the overcast day.

Starlight coalesced into an outline, first a wing, with each silver feather shining brightly, from wingtip to wing root, each one adorned with tiny starlight.

Then there is the head, with a long neck, a sharp beak, deep-set eyes, and two silver stars in the eyes.

Finally, there was the other wing and tail feathers, the tips of which scattered into stardust, drawing several silver arcs in the wind.

The Starry Sky Kite was fully extended, its wingspan wider than Regulus's height.

It radiates a silvery-white glow, spreading in concentric circles in the air. With each flap of its wings, specks of light fall from the tips of its feathers, lingering in the air for a moment before dissipating.

It flapped its wings and flew up, circling once above Regulus's head.

Then it cried out.

A clear cry pierced through the hazy sky, carried away by the sea breeze, and echoed briefly above the cliff.

It was happy and hadn't come out for a long time.

Regulus watched it fly, a smile playing on his lips, his expression relaxing.

The starry kite circled above for a few moments, then flew faster and faster, its silvery light leaving arcs in the overcast sky.

Then he guided it into the space, inviting the space to cooperate and open a passage.

The Starry Sky Kite folded its wings, straightened its body, and a line of silver light condensed on its body as it rushed forward.

The next moment, the passage opened.

There was no resistance, no tightening, no force that gripped or pushed back.

Space parted to make way, and a passage unfolded before it. The silver light, trailing its tail, passed through and emerged from the other end, dozens of meters away. Its wings reopened, drawing an arc above the sea.

It's that simple.

The Starry Sky Kite flew through the tunnel again, this time from a different direction, and it made it through. It flew through it once more, this time at a greater distance, three hundred meters, and it made it through again.

It began to accelerate.

The silver light accelerated faster and faster against the gray sky, condensing into a silvery-white line.

The rapidly flying star kite was like a shooting star, disappearing in the next moment, leaving only a lingering silvery-white trail in the air.

Then, more than a hundred meters away, it reappeared, its wings spreading out in a ripple of silver light.

It turned back, passed through again, and emerged again.

It weaves back and forth between the cliffs and the sea, its silvery light creating a complex web against the gray sky.

First, a horizontal line appeared, and a silver light streaked across the top of the cliff, leaving a lingering starlight trail in the air.

Then it made a sharp turn and pulled upwards, disappearing at the highest point, and then emerged from the low sky above the sea. The traces it left behind had not yet dissipated, and the two beams of light intersected to form a diagonal cross.

It continued to pierce through, making a mark in each of the four quadrants of the cross, leaving behind a small clump of silver stardust each time it emerged from the space, hovering in mid-air and shining faintly.

Finally, it flew around the points of light once, the silvery trails from its wings stringing them all together.

An irregular geometric pattern, with each node glowing and each line slowly spreading out, like a star map slightly distorted by the wind.

Every time went so smoothly that it made all those previous failures at Hogwarts seem like a joke.

Of course it can, it always can, it's just that the castle won't allow it.

Just change the location, it's that simple.

Regulus looked at the silvery trail still drifting in the sky and nodded to the Starry Sky Kite.

"Go fly, but don't go too far."

With a cry, the starry kite flapped its wings and flew towards the sea. The silver light grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared from sight.

Since it's finally out, let it fly a little longer.

It was his turn to come.

>