Chapter 24: Natural Magic and Mandrakes
"This is an extremely dangerous field," Professor Sprout said slowly. "Sonic magic, especially anything that touches the mind, sits in a high level borderland where the Dark Arts and healing work begin to blur. Historically, some witches and wizards have researched therapeutic melodies, but most experiments ended in tragedy."
"Because it is difficult to control?" Regulus asked.
"Because sound is intangible and diffuse," Sprout replied. "You can control the path of a spell with precision. Sound spreads. It leaks. It carries beyond the target you intended. And everyone's soul is subtly different. A treatment that steadies you might poison me. There is no universal remedy."
Regulus kept his face composed.
No universal remedy, but that only meant most people had stopped where things became troublesome. Sound could be focused. Muggles could do it with physical means. There was no reason magic could not.
He stored the thought carefully, like a note folded and placed in an inner pocket.
If healing varied from person to person, then it was unreliable.
But killing
Killing did not require gentleness. It only required effect.
"Another question, Professor," he said, voice still mild. "If a Mandrake's cry is so dangerous, why is it not affected itself? And how do Mandrakes communicate with each other?"
Professor Sprout's smile returned, faint and approving. "The questions you are asking now are already approaching NEWT level research topics."
She lifted a hand, palm outward, as if setting a boundary.
"The short answer is this. Mandrakes have their own immunity mechanisms. Their hearing is not like a wizard's. As for communication, we are not sure they need it. At the very least, no witch or wizard has successfully translated the language of Mandrakes, if anyone ever truly wanted to try."
She rose, brushing a speck of soil from her robes. "Keep your curiosity, Mr. Black, but do not attempt anything lightly until you have sufficient knowledge and protection."
"I understand, Professor. Thank you," Regulus said, and he meant it.
He stood as well, ideas flashing through his mind in cold, orderly succession.
Large scale killing. Precise killing. Mental damage. Physical collapse.
And if there was time, mental healing would be useful too. Useful, not holy.
The class bell rang. Students began filing out of the greenhouse in pairs and trios, chattering about the smell and the slime and whose bottle looked the fullest.
Regulus packed with deliberate slowness, letting the others pull ahead.
"Mr. Black," Professor Sprout called, exactly as he expected. "Could you stay a little longer?"
"Of course, Professor." He turned, and nodded.
They walked out together and stopped on the gravel path outside the Castle. September wind carried a lingering warmth. In the distance, the Black Lake rippled with fine waves that caught the light like scales.
"Your magical perception is quite special," Sprout said, direct as ever. "Most witches and wizards sense magic the way they see colours. They know it exists, can distinguish strength, but struggle to describe detail."
Regulus chose his words carefully. "For me, magical perception is like an extra sense. I can feel emotions in Bubotuber pus, or something close to emotion. It is more like a sensation than a thought."
He offered partial honesty.
Professor Sprout was Head of Hufflepuff. She had a reputation for fairness, and Herbology demanded a deeper understanding of living magic than most subjects. She was worth a measured degree of trust.
Sprout glanced back toward the greenhouse. "In the innermost part of Greenhouse Two, there is a Whomping Willow sapling. I planted it thirty years ago, when I was going through a difficult time."
Her voice softened, then steadied again.
"That willow is still more irritable and aggressive than others of its kind. I have always suspected my emotions affected it."
She sighed, and her expression grew serious.
"So here is my advice. Stay sensitive, but do not delve too deeply into dark plants. Some plants, like Devil's Snare and Venomous Tentacula, especially variants bred through dark cultivation, can accumulate pain, anger, and despair. If you perceive too deeply, those impressions can lash back at you."
She turned to face him properly, eyes intent. "Your talent is a gift, but it can also become a curse. If you ever brush against something too dark during perception, cut the connection immediately. Come find me, or another professor. Do not endure it alone."
Regulus felt the weight beneath her words.
Not a lecture. A warning bought with experience.
"I will remember, Professor," he said, and his nod was steady.
Her posture eased slightly.
"And if you are interested in plant magic research," she added, "you may apply to be my assistant after your OWL exams. For now, build a solid foundation. Every piece of knowledge in your textbooks is useful."
"I will, Professor."
"Off you go, then. Do not be late for your next class."
That evening, during the free hour before dinner, Regulus took a detour to a small garden on the west side of the Castle. It was planted with ordinary ornamentals, no magical varieties, and it was usually deserted.
He needed to test an idea.
Daisies.
They were common enough to be overlooked, and common enough to be useful. Wizards used them as basic potion ingredients, the sort of thing people handled without thinking.
He found two daisies growing side by side. One was healthy and plump. The other had three outer leaves with yellowed edges, likely pest damage or poor soil.
He crouched, setting his right hand on the soil near the healthy daisy's roots, and his left hand near the damaged one.
He closed his eyes and opened his magical perception.
The healthy daisy's magic felt warm and steady, soft gold in his mind, like a slow turning halo.
The damaged daisy's magic was dimmer, flickering with uneven rhythm. Around the yellowed leaves, the flow was almost stagnant.
He wanted to try guiding life magic from the healthy daisy into the damaged one.
This was not a healing charm. A healing charm forced a wizard's magic into a target and mended it through will.
What he wanted was different.
He wanted to act as a channel, an intermediary, and let magic move naturally between living things.
He extended his own magic into two extremely fine threads. One connected to the core of the healthy daisy. The other touched the injured daisy's damaged area.
The threads were thin enough not to disrupt the plants' own circulation.
On the healthy side, he applied a gentle draw, creating a high pressure point of magic. On the damaged side, he created a low pressure point.
If it worked, the healthier flow should move toward the weaker one, like water running downhill.
Nothing changed.
The two plants remained separate, indifferent to the pressure difference he imposed.
Regulus adjusted.
He remembered the emotion in Bubotuber pus. Perhaps raw pressure was not enough. Perhaps he needed a language closer to instinct.
He tuned his magic output, adjusting it to mimic the healthy daisy's fluctuations.
Five minutes later, something shifted.
A faint golden filament flowed from the healthy daisy's core, moving along his magical channel at a slow, hesitant pace.
The filament reached the damaged leaf and seeped into the yellowed edge.
Regulus held his breath.
Within the leaf, the stagnant points of magic stirred. Flow resumed, thin at first, then steadier, like a stream returning after a drought.
It worked.
But the efficiency was miserable.
Ten minutes passed. He had guided only a fraction of what was needed to repair a single leaf. His own magic consumption, however, was substantial.
He held it for another five minutes, then severed the connection with care, withdrawing his threads until his magic rested entirely within himself again.
He opened his eyes.
On the outermost leaf of the damaged daisy, a small section of yellowing had faded. A strip about the width of a fingernail had returned to fresh green.
That was all. The other leaves remained unchanged.
Regulus stood, rubbing his temples.
The cost was too high. Not worth the effort.
But the direction was correct.
A key hypothesis had been verified.
Plant magic could be transferred between individuals.
Which meant natural magic, even in life forms that seemed passive, could be guided, borrowed, and shaped by a wizard's will.
Mandrakes.
If the gentle life magic in daisies could be coaxed into motion, then magical plants like Mandrakes, which carried lethal power, should follow the same broad principle.
His thoughts raced, cold and precise, and a line formed in his mind like the beginning of a research note.
Reverse conjecture on Mandrake lethality based on plant magic guiding capability.
The lethality of a Mandrake's cry came from destructive magic embedded in the cry, striking both soul and body.
That magic was still a magical property the plant generated, contained, and released.
Like the nourishment in daisy life magic.
Like the chaotic defence in Bubotuber pus.
Only far more dangerous.
If daisy magic could be guided and transferred, then Mandrake magic should also be guideable in theory.
The obstacle was nature.
One was gentle and restorative. The other was violent and destructive.
Mandrakes released lethal magic through crying, which suggested an innate function rooted in their life process.
To bypass the cry and reach the source directly would require understanding the internal path of that magic within the plant.
Its trajectory.
Its convergence points.
Its nodes.
A sensible starting point would be research on Mandrake seedlings, observing how their magic changed along the arc of growth.