"This is an extremely dangerous field," Sprout said slowly. "Sonic Magic, especially that which involves the mental level, lies in the high-level, complex borderland between the Dark Arts and white magic.
Historically, there have indeed been wizards who researched Therapeutic Melodies, but most experiments ended in tragedy."
"Because it's difficult to control?"
"Because sound is intangible and diffusive," Sprout explained. "You can precisely control the trajectory of a spell, but it's very difficult to control the propagation of sound.
Moreover, everyone's soul has subtle differences. A treatment that works for you might be a deadly poison for me. There's no universal solution."
*No, sound can be focused. Physical means can achieve it; there's no reason magic couldn't.*
Regulus noted this in his heart. No universal solution, but what if there was a way to detect an individual's soul? What if the melody could be customized and adjusted?
Most crucially, healing varies from person to person, but what about killing?
*I could use it for large-scale killing.*
"Another question, Professor. If a Mandrake's cry is so dangerous, why isn't it affected itself? Or, how do other Mandrakes communicate with each other?"
Sprout smiled: "The questions you're asking now are already approaching N.E.W.T.-level research topics.
The short answer is, Mandrakes have their own immunity mechanisms; their hearing is different from wizards'.
As for communication… we're not sure if they even need to communicate. At the very least, no wizard has successfully translated the language of Mandrakes, if anyone ever truly wanted to try."
She stood up, brushing the dirt off her robes. "Keep your curiosity, Mr. Black, but remember, don't attempt anything lightly until you have sufficient knowledge and protection."
"I understand, Professor. Thank you." Regulus thanked her sincerely.
Regulus also stood up, several ideas flashing through his mind: large-scale killing, precise killing, mental damage, physical damage.
And, if there was time, mental healing would be a good direction to pursue.
The class bell rang, and students began leaving the greenhouse one after another. Regulus deliberately slowed down his packing, waiting for the others to get further away.
"Mr. Black," Sprout indeed called him to stay. "Could you stay a little longer?"
"Of course, Professor." Regulus turned and nodded.
The two walked out of the greenhouse and stood on the gravel path outside the castle. The September wind carried warmth, and in the distance, the surface of the Black Lake rippled with fine waves.
"Your magical perception ability is quite special," Sprout got straight to the point. "Most wizards perceive magic like seeing colors—they know it exists, can distinguish its strength, but have difficulty describing details."
Regulus answered cautiously, "For me, magical perception is like gaining an extra sense. I can see the emotions of a Bubotuber's pus, or more accurately, it's a kind of feeling."
He decided to be partially honest. Sprout was the Hufflepuff Head of House, known for being gentle and fair, and she had a deep understanding of plant magic. She was worthy of a certain degree of trust.
Moreover, as far as magical perception abilities went, he was just exceptional, not particularly unique.
Sprout looked in the direction of the greenhouse. "In the innermost part of the second greenhouse, there's a Whomping Willow sapling. I planted it thirty years ago when I was going through a… difficult time.
That willow tree is still more irritable and aggressive than others of its kind. I've always suspected my emotions affected it."
Sprout sighed and said seriously, "So I give you this advice: stay sensitive, but don't delve too deeply into dark plants.
Some plants, like Devil's Snare and Venomous Tentacula, especially those variants bred from Dark magic cultivation, accumulate pain, anger, and despair that can backlash against those who perceive them."
She turned to Regulus, her expression serious. "Your talent is a gift, but it could also be a curse.
If you encounter something too dark during perception, cut the connection immediately and come find me, or another professor. Don't endure it alone."
"I will remember, Professor." Regulus looked up at Professor Sprout and nodded steadily.
Regulus could feel that Sprout's warning came from genuine concern. Perhaps she had seen similar situations, maybe even tragedies.
"Also," Sprout's tone softened a bit, "if you're interested in plant magic research, you can apply to be my assistant after your O.W.L. exams.
But for now, build a solid foundation first. Every piece of knowledge in the textbooks is useful."
"I will, Professor."
"Go on now, don't be late for your next class."
That evening, during the free hour before dinner, Regulus detoured to a small garden on the west side of the castle. It was planted with ordinary ornamental plants, no magical varieties, and was usually deserted.
He needed to test an idea.
Daisies, often used by wizards as basic potion ingredients.
Regulus found two daisies growing side by side. One was healthy and plump; the outermost three leaves of the other had obvious yellowing edges, possibly due to pests or nutrient deficiency.
He crouched down, placing his right hand on the soil at the root of the healthy daisy and his left hand on the root of the damaged daisy.
He closed his eyes and expanded his magical perception.
The magic of the healthy daisy was warm, steady, and a soft golden color, like a slowly rotating halo.
The magic of the damaged daisy was much dimmer, its light flickering unsteadily. The magic in the yellowed leaf area was almost stagnant.
Regulus wanted to try guiding the life magic of the healthy daisy to repair the damaged daisy.
This wasn't exactly a healing charm; healing charms use a wizard's magic to forcibly repair a target.
What he wanted to try was to act as an intermediary channel, allowing magic to flow naturally between the plants.
He extended his own magic into two fine threads: one connecting to the core of the healthy daisy, the other to the damaged area of the injured daisy.
The threads were extremely fine to avoid disturbing the plants' own magical circulation.
On the healthy daisy's end, he used his magic to gently draw, creating a high magical pressure area. On the damaged daisy's end, he created a low magical pressure area.
Similar to water flowing downhill, if successful, the healthy daisy's magic should naturally flow toward the damaged area.
But nothing changed. The magic of the two plants remained independent, ignoring the pressure difference he created.
Regulus adjusted his method. He remembered the emotional expression of the Bubotuber's pus. Perhaps simple magical pressure wasn't enough; maybe a communication method closer to the plant's instincts was needed?
He adjusted his magical output, trying to mimic the healthy daisy's fluctuations.
Five minutes later, a change appeared.
A very faint golden thread of light flowed from the core of the healthy daisy, slowly moving along Regulus's magical channel. The speed was very slow.
The thread of light reached the damaged area and seeped into the yellowed leaf.
Regulus held his breath, observing closely.
The magical flow inside the leaf began to recover. The originally stagnant magical points were reactivated and began to circulate slowly.
It was effective, but the efficiency was extremely low.
Ten minutes passed. He had only guided about one-tenth of the repair needed for a single leaf, yet his own magical consumption was considerable.
He persisted for another five minutes, then slowly severed the connection and withdrew all his magic.
On the outermost leaf of the damaged daisy, a small circle of the yellowed edge had faded, about the width of a fingernail had restored to a fresh green color.
But that was all. The other leaves remained unchanged.
Regulus stood up, rubbing his temples. The magical consumption was surprisingly high, not worth the effort.
But the direction was correct. A key hypothesis had been verified: plant magic could be transferred between individuals.
Going further, natural magic—even that contained within seemingly passive life forms like plants—could similarly be guided, borrowed, or even harnessed by a wizard's will.
**Mandrakes!**
If the gentle life magic contained in ordinary daisies could be guided, then wouldn't magical plants like Mandrakes, which contain lethal magic, also follow this principle?
His thoughts raced quickly, and an idea formed in his mind:
**"Reverse Conjecture on the Lethality of Mandrakes Based on 'Plant Magic Guiding Capability'"**
The lethality of a Mandrake's cry stems from its cry containing powerful destructive magic targeting both soul and body.
The magic in its cry is essentially the same as the life magic of daisies or the chaotic magic in Bubotuber pus—all are magical properties that the plant itself generates, contains, or releases.
It's just that this property is extremely dangerous.
If daisy magic can be guided and transferred, then Mandrakes should theoretically also have the possibility of being guided.
But their magical natures are extremely different: one is gentle and nourishing, the other is violent and destructive.
Mandrakes release lethal magic through the specific method of crying, which seems like an innate magic rooted in their life form.
To bypass the crying and directly contact or guide their source magic, it might require understanding the trajectory or convergence nodes of their magic within the plant.
Perhaps one could start by researching the magical properties of Mandrake seedlings, observing how their magic changes along its growth trajectory.
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