Eldrin's Verdant Magic inheritance didn't come as a neat list of spells.
It branded itself straight into Regulus's mind as pathways, patterns, and the method of resonating with nature. Alongside it came Eldrin's own understanding of it, the way a lifetime of trial and error had shaped his instincts.
Verdant Magic had attributes. It had routes. It had temperament, like something alive.
Wind didn't ram straight through obstacles. It slipped around them. Water didn't force itself upward. It followed the grooves and hollows it was given. This magic needed resonance and guidance, not crude taking.
Eldrin's talent had been a bridge he'd been born with. He could speak directly with Verdant Magic. He could see how it flowed, as if it were as visible as torchlight to him, and that sight had been his by nature.
Regulus didn't have those eyes. He didn't have that kind of luck.
But he could feel a plant's mood and condition, like a second set of senses no one had taught him. It wasn't sight, exactly, but it was something.
That was enough.
Because Eldrin had left decades of experience behind, every path that worked, every dead end, every hidden snare, every place where treasure waited if you were patient enough to notice.
Now Regulus only needed to walk that road in his own way.
He thought back to the daisy experiment. He'd guided the magic in a healthy daisy to repair a damaged one, and it had worked, but it had been clumsy and slow.
Now he understood why.
He'd been hauling magic around like water in a bucket, while Eldrin's method was closer to digging a channel and letting the water flow where it wanted to go.
Even so, the wizarding world had never had a rule where inheritance meant you could reach the heavens in a single step. If it worked that way, then Grindelwald or Voldemort would've already gathered an army of heirs and swept the Earth.
Inheritances carried an ancestor's spirit and will. This was one of the Black family's few dozen inheritances across a thousand years, each one condensed from an entire life's work. There was no way to master it without paying the price in effort.
Regulus had to digest it. Break it down. Make Eldrin's understanding his own.
"Kreacher," he called softly, seated at the wooden desk in the attic. "Bring a few pots of dittany."
The house-elf appeared at once, nose nearly brushing the floor, cradling three lush pots of dittany. The leaves were thick and vivid green, with a faint fuzz along the edges. It was a magical plant famous for healing.
Pure-blood families often grew it in warm greenhouses at home. It could be used in potions, and its magic carried a defensive, restorative quality that made it difficult for Dark magic to taint.
"Dittany's just been picked from the garden greenhouse, young master," Kreacher said. "Freshest there is."
Regulus nodded and motioned for him to place the pots by the window.
Sunlight spilled through the glass and settled on the leaves. Regulus lifted his hand, palm hovering above them, and let his magic spread over the plant.
Following the inheritance's logic, he started by sensing dittany's magical routes. The power ran along the veins, gathered at the tips, and carried a warm, gentle comfort with it.
He let his own magic sway with the plant's rhythm, searching for the point where their currents could align.
This was far more precise than when he'd worked with daisies. Eldrin's insights helped him locate the main channels quickly, skirting the stubborn knots where a plant naturally guarded its own magic.
Fifteen minutes passed before he finally felt it, a faint warmth sliding into his palm.
That magic held the clean freshness of grass and leaves. It was nothing like his own, gentle but unshakably steady.
Regulus shifted his fingers and guided it to his fingertips, condensing it into a pale gold bead no larger than a pinhead.
Then, with a thought, he split the skin near it, a shallow cut, just enough to redden.
He pressed the pale gold bead over the wound. The sting vanished almost instantly.
After half a minute, the irritated skin began to close. After a minute, it scabbed. After three, the scab fell away, leaving only the faintest mark.
It wasn't as strong as a healing potion brewed from dittany juice, but the method was right. He'd skipped harvesting, grinding, brewing, all of it. He'd extracted the plant's healing magic directly.
As he compared it in his head, he realized it was different from a healing charm's blunt force repair. This felt closer to a plant's own process, cell division, tissue rebuilding, slow but natural.
He placed his palm over the leaves again.
This time he sped up. He split his magic into two threads, one synchronizing with the plant, the other giving a light guiding push. His efficiency jumped by half compared to the first attempt.
On the third extraction, he felt the plant's flow slow.
He looked up at the pot. The leaves that had been such a bright green had dulled. Their edges began to droop, and the outermost leaf even showed a hint of yellowing.
Regulus withdrew at once. Warmth still lingered in his fingertips.
The reason clicked immediately. Magic was the foundation of a magical plant the way blood was for a human body. If you took too much, it would wither. Worse, it could revert into an ordinary plant and lose its magical properties entirely.
Regulus extended his hand and fed a small amount of his own magic back along the leaf veins, combing it gently through the plant and mimicking the steady pace of natural growth.
Ten minutes later, the drooping dittany perked up. The yellowing didn't spread, but the lost sheen didn't fully return.
That gave him a clear conclusion.
The core of Verdant Magic was symbiosis, not plunder. Extraction and nourishment had to be balanced.
For the rest of the day, Regulus practiced.
At one point, Orion came up to the attic. He stood in the doorway for a while, watching without interrupting. There was something about Regulus's concentration that reminded him of how the ancestors' notes described those who truly went far in magic. Only a wizard who could sit down and sharpen a skill, day after day, ever reached real heights.
Regulus never noticed his father's visit. He was caught up in a new discovery.
Different attributes of Verdant Magic could briefly coexist.
He mixed dittany's warm, soothing magic with the sharp magic of a thorn-flower, adjusting the ratio, and guided it onto a cut at his fingertip. The healing was faster than using either alone.
And the healed skin was smoother, with no faint mark left behind.
It made him realize Verdant Magic's potential wasn't limited to single attributes. The combinations mattered.
Then he began blending Verdant Magic with his own spellwork.
When he cast Protego, he threaded in a small amount of magical mint's cool magic, making the shield not only resist impacts but also ease the mental pressure that came when a barrier cracked under force.
He also tried combining fluxweed's thick, clinging magic with Aguamenti, so the water wouldn't only put out flames but could also neutralize mild toxins.
He tested it with a small amount of Venomous Tentacula juice. With fluxweed's magic mixed into the stream, he spread it over a fingertip scratch left by the Venomous Tentacula. The swelling and itch faded quickly, proving the combination really did work.
This path was real.
Regulus stayed in his room all day. Orion knew his son was practicing inherited magic and didn't let anyone disturb him.
At dusk, Walburga knocked on his door.
"Regulus. Dinner."
At the table, Walburga praised his performance at the Malfoys' gathering first.
"Regulus, you did very well at the Malfoy dinner," she said as she cut into a piece of roast lamb, pride thick in her voice. "Steady, proper. You gave House Black plenty of face."
Regulus kept his eyes on his plate and cut his vegetables without answering.
"In the next few days, I've already arranged everything," Walburga went on, setting down her knife and fork and dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her napkin.
"It's holiday. Don't stay shut up in your room all day. Go out, meet the other heirs.
The Malfoys, the Notts, the Yaxleys. You'll be working alongside them in the future."
As she spoke, her eyes brightened. "Connections between pure-blood families should be built young. Later, you'll support each other. That's the foundation of Black honor."
Regulus set his fork down and lifted his head. His gray eyes were calm as they held hers. "Mother, I want to practice magic right now."
Walburga's brows rose. She clearly hadn't expected him to push back.
"Practice can be done slowly. Social ties matter too." Her frown deepened. "House Black can't stand on magic alone. Relationships…"
"Relationships are built on power," Regulus cut in, his voice steady. "If I don't have enough strength, they won't even look at me."
Walburga opened her mouth, ready to argue, and then stopped. She couldn't find the words, because he was right.
"I'm eleven," Regulus continued, unhurried. "The power I've shown already makes them take me seriously. If I get stronger… strong enough that they have to look up at me…"
He held her gaze. "Then it won't be my job to maintain those relationships. It'll be their job to figure out how to please House Black."
"Pure-blood honor isn't kept alive by dinners," he said, still calm, still firm. "It's kept alive by power people don't dare to dismiss. You know it. That… that man has never cared who knows who. He cares who can offer real value."
Walburga's expression shifted. Silence fell.
More than anything in her life, she cared about House Black's honor and standing. She was fanatical about pure-blood pride, but she wasn't mindless.
She stared at her son for a few seconds, then finally nodded. "You're right. Power is the foundation."
Then her tone softened. "But you can't only practice. Magic matters, but so does your body."