Ancestor Eldrin's Nature Magic legacy was branded directly into his consciousness.
No list of spells — only patterns of magical flow, thods for resonating with nature, and the ancestor's accumulated insights into natural magic.
Natural magic had attributes, trajectories, temperant. It was a living thing.
Like wind curving around obstacles, like water following grooves — it needed resonance and guidance, not brute extraction.
The ancestor's gift was an innate bridge: he could communicate with natural magic directly, could see it flowing. Those were eyes he was born with.
Regulus didn't have those eyes, nor that fortune. But he could perceive a plant's emotions and state — a different sensory system entirely.
Like a blind man mapping an elephant by touch: he couldn't see the whole picture, but he could trace the contours.
That was enough. Eldrin's decades of exploring natural magic — every viable path, every dead end, every trap, every hidden treasure — lay open to him now.
He only needed to walk the sa road in his own way.
He recalled the daisy experint: guiding a healthy daisy's magic to nd a damaged companion. It had worked, but the efficiency was abysmal.
Now he understood the problem. He'd rely been hauling magic — scooping water by the bucket. Eldrin's thod was to dig channels.
Still, the wizarding world had never produced anyone who reached the summit through inheritance alone. Otherwise, Grindelwald or Voldemort would have assembled an army of legacy-bearers and swept the globe.
Legacies bore the spirit and will of their creators — among the House of Black's thousand-year history, barely a dozen such crystals existed, each the condensation of a lifeti's devotion. Nothing about them was easy to master.
Regulus needed to digest, deconstruct, and make the ancestor's insights his own.
"Kreacher, bring several pots of dittany." Regulus sat at the wooden desk in his attic, voice soft.
The house-elf appeared instantly, nose nearly touching the floor, cradling three thriving dittany plants — leaves vivid green and thick, their edges lined with fine down. The very magical plant renowned for its healing properties.
Pure-blood families commonly cultivated it in their household greenhouses: useful in potions, its magic carrying an innate defensive-healing quality resistant to Dark Arts contamination.
"Young Master, the dittany is freshly taken from the courtyard greenhouse. The very freshest."
Regulus nodded, indicating Kreacher should set the pots by the window.
Sunlight fell through the glass onto the leaves. He extended his hand, palm hovering above, magic enveloping the dittany.
Following the legacy's logic, he first perceived the dittany's magical pathways — flowing along leaf-veins, pooling at the tips, carrying a llow warmth.
He let his own magic sway gently to the plant's rhythm, searching for the synchronization point.
This step was far more precise than when he'd guided the daisies. The legacy's insights let him quickly locate the main channels of magical flow and avoid the plant's defensive nodes.
A quarter of an hour passed. He finally felt a faint thread of warmth seep through his palm.
That magic carried the freshness of growing things — utterly unlike his own. Gentle, yet resolute.
Regulus's fingertip twitched, guiding the warm current to his fingertip and condensing it into a pale-gold bead.
Then — a thought — and a shallow cut split the skin beside the bead. Not deep; just enough to flush red.
Regulus guided the golden bead over the wound. In an instant, the sting vanished.
Half a minute later, the reddened skin began to close. A minute, and a scab ford. Three minutes, and the scab fell away, leaving only a faint trace.
The result fell far short of a potion brewed from dittany extract — but the logic and process were sound. He had bypassed harvesting, grinding, and compounding entirely, extracting the dittany's healing magic directly.
He compared it ntally to a standard Healing Charm's forced tissue repair. This was more akin to the plant's own regenerative process — cell division, tissue regrowth. Slow, but natural.
Regulus laid his palm over the dittany leaf once more.
This ti he accelerated, splitting his magic into two currents: one for synchronization, one for gentle guidance. Efficiency jumped by half.
On the third extraction, Regulus felt the dittany's magical flow tangibly slow.
He looked up at the pot. Leaves that had been vividly green had lost their luster; the edges were beginning to wilt. The outermost leaf had already started to yellow.
He withdrew his magic at once, the residual warmth still lingering at his fingertips.
The reason was obvious. Magic was a magical plant's foundation — as blood is to the body. Over-extraction would wither them, or even revert them to their ordinary, non-magical state.
Regulus extended his hand again, threading small amounts of his own magic along the leaf-veins in a gentle comb, simulating the plant's natural growth rhythms.
Ten minutes later, the wilting dittany steadied. The leaves stopped yellowing, though they never fully recovered their sheen.
The conclusion crystallized: the core of Nature Magic was symbiosis, not plunder. Extraction and nourishnt had to balance.
He spent the entire day practicing.
At one point Orion ca to the attic, stood in the doorway for a while, and left without disturbing him.
Regulus's focused intensity reminded him of a passage from the ancestral notes — descriptions of true practitioners. Only a wizard who genuinely settled into the slow work of honing a skill could travel far in magic.
Regulus was unaware of his father's visit. He was deep in a new discovery: different types of natural magic could coexist briefly.
He blended dittany's gentle warmth with the sharp magic of thornbloom in the right ratio, guided the mixture to a fingertip wound — and the healing was faster than either elent alone.
Moreover, the nded skin was smoother; no faint mark remained.
This told him Nature Magic's potential wasn't limited to single-attribute application. The real power lay in combinations.
Then he began rging natural magic with his own spellwork.
While casting a Shield Charm, he infused a trace of magical mint's cooling energy. The barrier now blocked not only spell impact but also eased the ntal shock of the shield's collapse.
He tried combining Flowing-Sap Grass's viscous magic with Aguanti, producing water that could extinguish flas and neutralize mild toxins at the sa ti.
He tested it with a small amount of Venomous Tentacula sap: mixing Flowing-Sap magic into the water stream and applying it to a fingertip scratched by the Tentacula. The swelling and itch subsided quickly — proof the combination worked.
Nature Magic was a viable path.
Regulus stayed in his room the full day.
Orion, knowing his son was practicing the legacy magic, made sure no one disturbed him.
By evening, Walburga knocked.
"Regulus, ti for dinner."
At the table, Walburga first praised his performance at the Malfoy banquet.
"Regulus, you were excellent at the Malfoys'." She sliced into a lamb cutlet, pride dripping from every word. "Composed and dignified — brought the House of Black nothing but honor."
Regulus kept his head down, cutting vegetables, and said nothing.
"I've already arranged the next few days." Walburga set down her utensils and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
"You're on holiday now; don't lock yourself in your room all day. Go out, mix with the heirs from the other houses.
The Malfoys, the Notts, the Yaxleys — these are people you'll be working alongside in the future."
Her eyes brightened at the subject: "The bonds between pure-blood families must be forged early. They'll be each other's pillars later on — that's the bedrock of Black glory."
Regulus set down his fork, lifted his head, and fixed calm grey eyes on his mother. "Mother, right now I'd rather practice magic."
Walburga's brow twitched — clearly she hadn't expected pushback.
"Practice can wait. Socializing matters, too." She frowned. "The Blacks can't stand on magic alone. Connections and relationships—"
"Connections rest on a foundation of strength." Regulus cut in, voice firm. "Without sufficient power, none of them would spare a second glance."
Walburga opened her mouth to argue, then found she couldn't — because Regulus was right.
"I'm eleven years old and already displaying enough strength to command their attention. If I grow stronger still — strong enough for them to look up—"
Regulus t his mother's eyes. "Then it won't be my job to maintain relationships. It'll be theirs to figure out how to win the House of Black's favor."
"Pure-blood glory isn't sustained over dinner parties. It's sustained by power too great to dismiss. You know this, Mother. What the Dark Lord values has never been who knows whom — it's who can deliver real value."
Walburga's expression shifted, then settled into silence. The glory and standing of the House of Black were the one thing she cared about above all else.
Fanatical about pure-blood honor she might be, but she was not entirely without reason.
She studied her son for several seconds, then nodded. "You're right. Strength is fundantal."
Her tone softened with a pivot: "But don't be single-minded about training, either. Magic is important, yet you must look after your health as well."
User Comments
0 comments from readers