On the third Thursday of late September, morning dew clung to the greenhouse glass in fine beads.
First-year Herbology was held in Greenhouse Three, home to relatively safe magical plants.
Safe, at least, when handled correctly.
"Today, we'll be learning how to process bubotubers," Professor Sprout said, standing before a row of clay pots. She wore thick dragon-hide gloves.
Her round face was flushed in the humid warmth of the greenhouse. "Who can tell me what bubotuber pus is used for?"
A Hufflepuff boy shot his hand into the air. "It treats severe acne, Professor, but it has to be heavily diluted. Otherwise it causes even worse boils."
"Exactly right. Five points to Hufflepuff," Professor Sprout said with a nod. "Now, pair up. Each of you will receive one bubotuber, a pair of gloves, and a glass bottle.
Your task is to extract the pus safely and collect it in the bottle. Be careful not to splash it on your skin or robes."
Regulus was paired with Cuthbert.
Cuthbert wrinkled his nose as he accepted the pot. "That thing is ugly."
He wasn't wrong.
The bubotuber was a dark brown, bulbous mass, its surface covered in knobby swellings. Each bump ended in a tiny pore, slowly oozing a thick yellow-green fluid.
"Put your gloves on," Regulus said, already sliding his dragon-hide gloves into place.
He lifted his tuber and focused his magical senses.
All matter carried magic.
That much he knew.
Porcupine quills concentrated magic at their tips. But bubotubers—
His perception sank inward.
The first thing he sensed was life.
All plants possessed a slow, steady life-flow, like a muted heartbeat. But woven into the bubotuber's life magic was something else.
A sharp feedback pricked his awareness.
The plant's overall magic was stable, but around the swollen nodes, the magic churned in disorder.
The pus itself radiated even stronger turbulence, mixed with something unfamiliar.
An emotion.
Regulus studied the plant more closely.
Pain.
The word surfaced unbidden.
Not pain in the complex, layered sense humans experienced. More like a raw, instinctive distress.
The kind of emergency response a living organism produced when injured, etched directly into its magical signature.
"What are you staring at?" Cuthbert had already filled half his bottle. The yellow-green liquid slid sluggishly along the glass. "Hurry up. This stuff smells foul."
Regulus nodded. He pinched one of the larger swellings between thumb and forefinger and applied gentle pressure.
"Pop."
Thick pus spilled out and dripped into the bottle.
In that instant, Regulus caught the shift. The chaotic magic around the swelling eased, while a sharp spike of discomfort rippled through the plant as a whole, then gradually settled.
Like lancing a boil. A brief surge of pain, followed by relief.
He squeezed three more nodes, observing the same pattern each time. On the fourth, he looked up at Professor Sprout as she made her rounds.
"Professor."
She approached at once. "Yes, Mr. Black?"
"The bubotuber," Regulus said, hesitating slightly. "When it secretes pus, does it experience some form of distress?
I mean, from a magical perspective, the secretion seems to be accompanied by a pain response."
Regulus had a habit of asking strange questions.
Questions that, to most young witches and wizards, sounded like nonsense. Every word familiar, yet incomprehensible when put together.
But the students had begun to notice a pattern. Those baffling questions often struck directly at something the professors cared about, earning Regulus praise and extra house points.
It had become a familiar sight in Slytherin classes. By now, Regulus's reputation preceded him.
Nearby students turned to look at him almost in unison, hands pausing mid-squeeze.
Cuthbert's expression was the most complicated of all.
He frowned at his inscrutable roommate, that familiar mix of confusion and quiet frustration rising again.
He couldn't understand what went on inside the second son of the Black family's head.
Where did these thoughts come from? Some obscure book? Or did Regulus simply reason them out on his own?
What unsettled Cuthbert most was that Regulus never asked at random. Every question landed with purpose.
Compared to him, everyone else suddenly felt like idiots reciting instructions without ever thinking deeper.
The Hufflepuffs sitting a short distance away, however, looked less alienated and more openly curious.
They exchanged glances.
Discomfort? Pain? Plants could feel things?
Professor Sprout's eyes widened. She took a few quick steps toward Regulus, her voice bright with surprise. "You noticed that?"
"Yes, Professor." Regulus inclined his head politely. "The magic in the pus is highly unstable, and when pressure is applied, the plant's overall magic fluctuates briefly.
It's similar to the magical response animals show when injured."
Professor Sprout studied him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Very few students recognize this at first-year level. Most see bubotubers as nothing more than ingredient sources."
She straightened and addressed the class. "Mr. Black has raised an important point. Many magical plants possess simple emotions.
Bubotuber pus is, at its core, a defensive mechanism. The secretion process places a burden on the plant itself.
That's why, when harvesting, we should be as gentle as possible and minimize their discomfort."
She demonstrated, pressing slowly with the pads of her fingers rather than squeezing roughly.
"A considerate harvester produces purer ingredients," Professor Sprout said. "This is one of Herbology's first lessons, and one many forget. Ten points to Slytherin, for careful observation."
Cuthbert leaned closer and muttered, "How could you even tell? I just thought it was disgusting."
"Focus, reading, and a bit of talent," Regulus replied simply, continuing with the remaining nodes.
At the same time, his thoughts turned inward.
Plants had emotions, however primitive.
What did that imply? If emotions could imprint themselves onto magic, could magic carry more complex emotional states? Could it be used to harm, or to heal?
As the lesson entered its latter half, students began cleaning their tools.
Regulus rinsed the glass bottle, removed his gloves, and walked over to where Professor Sprout was rearranging the plant racks.
"Professor, I have another question."
"Go on, my dear."
"It's about mandrakes," Regulus said. "I've read that an adult mandrake's cry is fatal to humans.
I'm wondering whether that lethality acts on the body, or the mind."
Professor Sprout paused and turned to face him, her expression growing serious. "That's an advanced topic. We usually cover mandrakes in detail in later years."
"I know, Professor, but I'm curious," Regulus said, polite but firm.
"If simply blocking your ears prevents death, then the danger lies in 'hearing the sound.'
Does the sound itself carry magic, or does it trigger some reaction within the listener?"
Professor Sprout didn't answer immediately. She gestured for Regulus to follow her to a quiet corner of the greenhouse, where a few wicker chairs sat.
Once they were seated, she spoke.
"To answer your first question, it's both.
A mandrake's cry contains a powerful form of mental-impact magic. It directly interferes with the listener's soul stability, causing a collapse of consciousness. That is the mental cause of death.
At the same time, such a collapse triggers physical chain reactions. Cardiac arrest. Respiratory failure. Magical destabilization.
In the end, death results from both mental and physical breakdown."
Regulus nodded, absorbing the explanation quickly. "Then how do protective earmuffs work? Do they block the sound entirely, or weaken the magical transmission?"
"An excellent question." The approval in Professor Sprout's eyes deepened. "Standard earmuffs use a sound-filtering charm. It removes the specific magical component, the lethal factor in the mandrake's cry.
So strictly speaking, you can still hear it. What you hear is a purified, harmless version."
Regulus's thoughts raced. "Which means the mandrake's lethality lies in the magic carried by the sound.
Then… is it possible to reverse it?"
Professor Sprout's expression sharpened. "What are you thinking, child?"
"Treatment," Regulus said, not entirely falsely. "If a type of magic can destroy, could it be adjusted to repair?
For example, could a similar but inverted magic be used to heal mental trauma?"