Chapter 59: Nature Magic
Ancestor Eldrin's legacy of Nature Magic was stamped straight into Regulus's mind.
It was not a tidy list of spells to memorise. It was flow patterns of magic, methods of resonance, and an old wizard's hard won understanding of natural magical energy.
Natural magic had attributes, trajectories, and temperament. It was not a dead resource. It behaved like a living thing.
Wind slid around obstacles. Water followed channels. You did not seize either by force. You resonated, you guided, and you made space for it to move.
Eldrin's gift had been a bridge. He could communicate with natural magical energy directly. He could see its currents. Those were his eyes, born with him.
Regulus did not have those eyes. He did not have that kind of luck.
But he could sense the emotions and states of plants, a different sort of perception entirely. Crude in its own way, but real.
Like a blind man feeling an elephant, he could not see the whole creature, but he could trace its contours.
That was enough.
Eldrin's decades of trial and error were now his. Which paths worked. Which ones ended in nothing. Where the traps were hidden. Where the treasures lay.
Regulus simply had to walk it in his own way.
He remembered his earlier experiment with daisies, drawing magic from a healthy bloom to mend a damaged companion. It had worked, but it had been inefficient.
Now he understood why.
He had been carrying magic like water in a bucket.
Eldrin had dug a channel and let the water run.
Still, the wizarding world offered no principle that let anyone soar simply by swallowing an inheritance. If it did, Grindelwald or Voldemort would have built an army of inheritors long ago and swept the globe clean.
The legacy carried will as well as knowledge. It was one of only a dozen or so inheritances the Black family possessed across a millennium, each condensed from an entire lifetime. Easy mastery did not exist.
Regulus had to digest it, break it apart, and turn Eldrin's insight into his own.
"Kreacher," Regulus called softly from the wooden desk in the attic, "bring a few pots of white dittany."
The house elf appeared at once, nose nearly to the floor, holding three pots of lush dittany. The leaves were emerald, thick, edged with fine fuzz, the sort of plant pure blood families kept in their own glasshouses. It was famous for healing. Its magic was defensive, restorative, and stubbornly resistant to taint.
"Young master," Kreacher said, bowing as he cradled the pots, "the dittany was just taken from the greenhouse in the courtyard. The freshest."
Regulus nodded and motioned for him to set them by the window.
Sunlight fell through the glass and laid itself across the leaves. Regulus raised a hand, palm hovering above a single leaf, and let his own magic cover the plant lightly.
Following the legacy's logic, he began by sensing the dittany's magical flow. It moved along the veins of the leaf and gathered at the tips, carrying a gentle warmth.
He let his own magic sway in rhythm with it, searching for the nodes where synchronisation could happen.
This step was far more precise than his first daisy attempts. Eldrin's memories guided his attention. He found the main channels quickly and avoided the plant's defensive points.
A quarter of an hour passed before he felt it.
A faint warmth, slipping into his palm.
It was utterly different from his own magic. Fresh, green, calm. Gentle, yet firm.
Regulus shifted his fingertip and guided that warmth into a single point, condensing it into a pale gold bead of energy.
On impulse, he made a shallow cut in the skin beside it, just enough to sting and redden.
He guided the bead over the wound.
The sting vanished.
Half a minute later, the reddened skin began to close. After a minute, a scab formed. After three minutes, the scab fell away, leaving only a faint mark.
The effect was far inferior to a proper potion brewed from dittany, but the process was correct. He had skipped the picking, the crushing, the brewing. He had extracted the healing magic directly.
He compared it in his mind.
A Healing Charm forced the body to obey.
This felt closer to the plant's own work, cell division and tissue renewal, slow but natural.
Regulus placed his palm over the leaf again.
This time he accelerated the method. He split his own magic into two streams, one for synchronisation and one for gentle guidance.
The efficiency improved by half.
On the third extraction, Regulus felt the dittany's inner flow slow.
He lifted his eyes to the pot.
The leaves had dulled. Their edges began to droop. The outermost leaf showed the first hint of yellow.
He withdrew at once, warmth still clinging to his fingertips.
He understood immediately.
Magical energy was the foundation of magical plants, as blood was to a human body. Take too much and the plant would wither. Take enough and it might even revert to something ordinary, its magic gone.
Regulus reached out and fed a small amount of his own magic back into the veins of the leaf, imitating the rhythm of natural growth.
Ten minutes later the dittany recovered somewhat. The yellowing halted. But the lost lustre did not fully return.
That settled it.
The heart of Nature Magic was symbiosis, not plunder. Extraction and nourishment had to be balanced.
Regulus practised for the rest of the day.
At some point Orion came to the attic, paused at the door, and watched for a moment without interrupting.
Regulus's focus reminded him of what the old family notes called the dedicated ones. Wizards who truly immersed themselves in refinement, who did not chase applause but results, were the ones who went far.
Regulus never noticed his father.
He was absorbed in a new discovery.
Natural magical energies of different attributes could briefly coexist.
He mixed the gentle healing energy of dittany with the sharp magic drawn from a thorn flower, blending them at a particular ratio. He guided the mixture over a small cut on his fingertip.
The healing was faster than either energy used alone.
More importantly, the skin that formed was smoother, with no faint mark left behind.
That made the potential clear.
Nature Magic was not limited to single attributes. Its strength lay in combination.
Then he began to mix natural energy with his own magic.
When he cast the Shield Charm, he laced it with a thread of cool energy drawn from magical mint. The barrier did not simply endure impacts. When it shattered, the backlash against his mind eased, as if the coolness took the edge off the strain.
He tried another experiment.
He blended the viscous energy of fluxweed into Aguamenti. The water flowed thicker, more purposeful. It still quenched flame, but it also carried a mild neutralising effect.
He tested it with a tiny amount of Venomous Tentacula juice, mixing fluxweed energy into the water and applying it to a fingertip scratched by the plant. The swelling and itching faded quickly.
The combination worked.
The path of Nature Magic was viable.
Regulus stayed in his room for the entire day. Orion knew his son was working with inherited magic and gave strict orders that no one was to disturb him.
Evening came.
Walburga knocked on his door.
"Regulus, it is time for dinner."
At the table, Walburga praised him first, her pride impossible to hide.
"Regulus, you behaved very well at the Malfoy gathering," she said as she cut a piece of roast lamb, posture rigid with satisfaction. "Composed and proper. You brought honour to the Black family."
Regulus kept his head down, cutting vegetables, and did not answer.
"For the next few days, I have already made arrangements." Walburga set her knife and fork down and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
"It is the holidays. Do not shut yourself in your room all day. Go out. Mingle with the heirs of other families. The Malfoys, the Notts, the Yaxleys. You will be working with them in the future."
Her eyes brightened, as if she could already see the web of names and obligations tightening neatly into place.
"The bonds between pure blood families must be built young. They will be each other's support later. That is the foundation of the Black family's glory."
Regulus laid his fork down and looked up, meeting his mother's gaze with calm grey eyes.
"Mother, I would rather practise magic right now."
Walburga's brows rose. She had not expected him to refuse.
"Practice can be done slowly. Socialising is also important." Her frown sharpened. "The Black family cannot rely on magic alone to establish itself. Connections."
"Connections are built on a foundation of power," Regulus cut in, voice steady and firm. "If I do not have sufficient power, they will not look at me with respect."
Walburga opened her mouth to retort, then stalled, because he was not wrong.
"I am eleven. The power I have shown has already made them notice." Regulus's eyes did not waver. "If I grow stronger, strong enough for them to look up to me, then it will not be me maintaining relationships. It will be them thinking about how to curry favour with the Black family."
He held her gaze.
"The glory of pure blood is not maintained through dinner parties. It is maintained through power that others do not dare to underestimate. You know this as well. What That Lord values has never been who knows whom, but who can provide real value."
Walburga's expression shifted.
Then she fell silent.
What she cared about above all else was the Black family's glory and standing. She was fanatical, but she was not wholly irrational. In her own harsh way, she understood the language of power better than most.
She stared at her son for several seconds.
Finally, she nodded once.
"You are right. Power is fundamental."
Her tone softened, not gentle exactly, but less sharp.
"But you cannot focus only on practice. No matter how important magic is, you must also take care of your health."