"This is an extremely dangerous field," Professor Sprout said slowly. "Sound-based magic, especially when it involves the mind, sits at the boundary between advanced dark magic and advanced healing magic.
Historically, there have been witches and wizards who researched therapeutic sound. Most of those experiments ended in tragedy."
"Because it's hard to control?"
"Because sound is intangible and diffuse," Professor Sprout explained. "You can precisely guide a spell's trajectory. Sound spreads on its own.
And every soul has subtle differences. A treatment that works for you might be lethal to me. There is no universal solution."
No universal solution, Regulus noted silently.
But sound could be focused. Physics had proven that much. There was no reason magic couldn't do the same.
If there was no universal solution, then what about individual calibration? If a soul could be detected, measured, adjusted to?
And more importantly, if treatment had to be personalized, then what about lethality?
That could be scaled.
Aloud, Regulus asked, "One more question, Professor. If a mandrake's cry is that dangerous, why isn't the mandrake itself affected? And how do mandrakes interact with each other?"
Professor Sprout smiled. "You're brushing up against N.E.W.T-level research now.
The short answer is that mandrakes have their own form of immunity. Their auditory perception isn't the same as a wizard's.
As for communication… we don't actually know if they need it. No one has successfully translated mandrake 'language' yet. At least, no one who lived to publish the results."
She stood and brushed soil from her robes. "Keep your curiosity, Mr. Black. Just remember, until you have sufficient knowledge and protection, don't experiment lightly."
"I understand, Professor. Thank you," Regulus said sincerely.
He stood as well, several lines of thought already branching in his mind. Wide-area lethality. Precision lethality. Mental damage. Physical damage.
And if time allowed, mental healing was worth pursuing too.
The bell rang. Students began filing out of the greenhouse. Regulus deliberately packed his things more slowly, waiting until the others were gone.
"Mr. Black," Professor Sprout called, as expected. "Could you stay a moment longer?"
"Of course, Professor."
They walked out of the greenhouse and onto the gravel path outside the castle. September wind carried a lingering warmth, and ripples spread across the surface of the Black Lake in the distance.
"Your magical perception is unusual," Professor Sprout said without preamble. "Most witches and wizards sense magic the way they see color. They know it's there. They can tell strength apart. But they struggle to describe detail."
"For me, it's like an extra sense," Regulus answered carefully. "I can perceive the emotions in a bubotuber. Or more precisely, I feel them."
He chose partial honesty.
Professor Sprout was the head of Hufflepuff, known for her fairness and deep understanding of plant magic. She was worth a measure of trust.
And his ability, while strong, wasn't unique in principle.
Professor Sprout looked back toward the greenhouses. "In the deepest section of Greenhouse Two, there's a Whomping Willow sapling.
I planted it thirty years ago, during a… difficult period of my life.
That tree is still more aggressive than others of its kind. More volatile. I've always suspected my emotions affected it."
She sighed, then looked at Regulus seriously. "So here's my advice. Stay sensitive, but don't delve too deeply into dark plants.
Some plants, like Devil's Snare or Venomous Tentacula, especially those bred through dark magic, accumulate pain, rage, and despair. That emotional residue can rebound onto the person sensing them."
Her gaze sharpened. "Your talent is a gift. It can also be a curse.
If you ever encounter something too dark while sensing magic, cut the connection immediately. Come to me, or another professor. Don't carry it alone."
"I'll remember that, Professor," Regulus said, meeting her eyes and nodding steadily.
He could tell her warning came from experience. She had seen cases like that before. Possibly tragedies.
"And one more thing," Professor Sprout added, her tone softening. "If you're interested in plant magic research, you may apply to assist me after your OWLs.
For now, focus on your fundamentals. Everything in the textbooks matters."
"I will."
"Off you go. Don't be late to your next class."
That evening, with an hour free before dinner, Regulus took a detour to a small garden on the west side of the castle.
It held ordinary ornamental plants. Nothing magical. Few people ever came here.
He needed to test an idea.
Daisies were commonly used as base ingredients in simple potions.
He found two growing side by side. One was healthy and full. The other had three outer leaves with yellowed, withered edges. Pest damage, perhaps. Or poor nutrients.
He crouched, placing his right hand on the soil near the healthy daisy's roots, his left near the damaged one.
He closed his eyes and expanded his magical perception.
The healthy daisy's magic was warm and steady, a soft pale gold, like a slowly turning halo.
The damaged daisy's magic was far dimmer. Its light flickered, and in the withered leaves, the magic had nearly stalled.
Regulus intended to guide the healthy plant's life magic to repair the damaged one.
This wasn't a healing spell. Healing spells forced the caster's magic into the target.
What he wanted was to act as a conduit, letting magic flow naturally between plants.
He extended his own magic into two fine threads. One linked to the healthy daisy's core. The other to the damaged area.
The threads were extremely thin, careful not to interfere with either plant's Magic Circulation.
At the healthy end, he gently drew magic, creating a high-pressure region. At the damaged end, he lowered the pressure.
Like water flowing downhill, the magic should move on its own.
Nothing happened.
The two plants' magic remained separate, ignoring the pressure gradient entirely.
Regulus adjusted his approach.
He remembered the emotional imprint of the bubotuber. Perhaps raw magical pressure wasn't enough. Perhaps plants responded better to instinctive patterns.
He altered his output, mimicking the healthy daisy's natural fluctuations.
Five minutes passed.
Then something changed.
A faint golden thread of light emerged from the healthy daisy's core and began moving along Regulus's magical conduit.
Slowly.
The thread reached the damaged area and seeped into the yellowed leaves.
Regulus held his breath and watched.
Inside the leaf, magic stirred. Dormant nodes reactivated, beginning a slow, tentative circulation.
It worked.
But the efficiency was abysmal.
After ten minutes, he'd restored only about a tenth of a single leaf, while his own magic reserves had taken a noticeable hit.
He pushed on for five more minutes, then carefully severed the connection and withdrew his magic.
On the damaged daisy, the outermost leaf showed a narrow ring of restored green, about the width of a fingernail.
That was all.
Regulus stood and rubbed his brow. The cost was far too high for the result.
But the direction was correct.
One key hypothesis had been confirmed.
Plant magic could be transferred between individuals.
More than that, natural magic, even the magic within seemingly passive life like plants, could be guided, borrowed, and even directed by a wizard's will.
Mandrakes.
If the gentle life magic of a daisy could be guided, then what about a magical plant that carried lethal power?
Did mandrakes follow the same underlying principle?
His thoughts accelerated, a structured idea taking shape.
[Reverse analysis of mandrake lethality based on guided plant magic]
A mandrake's cry is fatal because it carries destructive magic targeting both soul and body.
That magic, carried by sound, is fundamentally the same category as the daisy's life magic or the chaotic magic in Bubotuber pus. It is magic generated, held, or released by a plant.
The difference lies in its extreme nature.
If daisy magic can be guided and transferred, then mandrake magic should, in theory, also be guideable.
The obstacle is qualitative. One nourishes. One annihilates.
Mandrakes release their lethal magic through sound, a method inherent to their life form.
To bypass the cry and access or guide the source directly may require understanding how mandrake magic circulates internally. Where it gathers. How it moves.
Perhaps the correct starting point was mandrake seedlings.
Observing how their magic evolved as they grew.
That was where the answer likely waited.