Professor Sprout fell silent for a moment, then crossed the greenhouse to a locked glass cabinet.
She drew out a key and opened it. Inside, there was only a single pot.
A small shrub, no more than a foot tall. Its branches were black as charcoal, yet the leaves were pure white. Fine golden threads shimmered through the veins like liquid light.
"Sunlight Ebony Bush," she said softly.
"According to legend, it grows only in ancient church graveyards or on the grounds where martyrs fell. It survives only in an environment of extreme purity."
Her fingers brushed one of the leaves with surprising gentleness.
"And by purity, that doesn't mean sunlight. It means faith made manifest."
She looked at it the way one might look at a beloved child. "There's only this one at Hogwarts. It was left behind three hundred years ago by a Ravenclaw Headmaster."
Something stirred in Regulus's mind. The Relic Wand?
"Professor," he asked evenly, "what does it do?"
"Purification." Her tone sharpened. "It converts dark magic into harmless neutral magic slowly. And only if the caster possesses a powerful inclination toward the light."
Instinctively, Regulus began to extend his magical perception, ready to call upon Verdant Magic and forge a connection—
Her gaze snapped to him, firm and unyielding.
He stopped at once and looked back with studied innocence.
She held that stare for a few seconds longer before shutting the cabinet and locking it.
"Commit this to memory," she said. "For now, your task is to build foundations. Learn the rhythm of plant life. Learn to resonate with natural magic. Opposing attributes are advanced study. You can worry about that when you're preparing for your NEWTs."
He nodded. "Understood. Thank you, Professor."
So she had noticed. Natural magic.
But he was on the right path.
When he left the greenhouse, dusk had settled over the grounds. The corridors of the castle carried the warm scent of dinner, and somewhere in the distance students were laughing, shoving one another toward the Great Hall.
Regulus slowed his pace.
Moonlight Orchid. Sunlight Ebony Bush. One gentle. One extreme.
So even the plant world had its own spectrum of attributes.
He thought of Dumbledore's light. Gentle, yet unstoppable.
Maybe gentleness and extremity weren't opposites at all.
True power might be achieving the most extreme result in the gentlest way possible.
He couldn't do that yet. He wasn't strong enough.
He needed time to study and practice. More stars lit along the path of his star guided meditation.
---
The greenhouse door swung shut behind him.
Professor Sprout remained where she was, watching the glass pane tremble slightly in its frame.
Evening light slanted across the stone floor, casting long shadows. The air carried the rich blend of soil, humus, dragon dung, and the mingled scents of a hundred magical plants.
It reminded her of yesterday at this same hour.
She had been repotting several Venomous Tentacula imported from Albania. They were temperamental plants, demanding about light and soil magic, and always required careful handling after transplantation.
Footsteps had sounded behind her. Familiar ones. She'd known immediately who it was.
When she turned, Dumbledore stood in the central aisle of the greenhouse.
He wore a deep purple robe embroidered with tiny stars. His beard was tied neatly with a clasp.
"Pomona," he said in that unhurried voice of his, "there's something I'd like to discuss."
They moved to the small sitting area in the corner, where two wicker chairs flanked a round table.
From his sleeve, he produced a tin. With a tap of his finger, steam rose from it. Honey tea, as always.
He poured two cups and slid one toward her.
"About Regulus Black," he said.
She lifted her cup, one brow arching slightly.
"That child…" Dumbledore paused, as if searching for the right word. "He's unusual."
She inclined her head. On that, she agreed.
From his very first Herbology lesson, Regulus Black had stood apart.
Most first-years reacted to Bubotubers in predictable ways. They flinched from touching them, recoiled in disgust, or blundered forward and nearly splattered themselves with pus.
Black had done none of that. His movements were precise. Efficient.
And he asked questions. Thoughtful ones. He noticed things—no, sensed things that other young witches and wizards overlooked.
That was talent. Not rare.
There were always those particularly sensitive to magic.
What was rare was his attitude toward magical plants.
She could tell he didn't love them. Not the way she had as a girl.
He was interested in what magical plants represented. In the magic behind them. Not the life itself.
He cared about how to use them.
That both impressed and unsettled her.
Each lesson, the Slytherin boy pressed further.
Did magical plants have emotions? Why was the Mandrake's cry fatal? Why didn't Mandrakes affect one another with their own screams?
His questions deepened each time.
From plant characteristics to magical properties, then to the interaction between plants, environment, and a wizard's magic.
She remembered one class clearly. They had been loosening soil and repotting Mandrake seedlings.
She had seen him guide a thread of natural magic toward the seedling, establishing a temporary but stable connection.
Verdant Magic.
Of course she recognized it. Understood it, even.
She hadn't exposed him. Instead, she'd kept him after class and spoken at length about magical plant tendencies.
The nerve-paralyzing toxin of Venomous Tentacula. The life-draining nature of Devil's Snare. The sheer physical force of the Whomping Willow.
And she knew he understood.
More than that, he likely thought further than she had said.
"Accelerated depth" described his learning trajectory perfectly.
So she reminded him, again and again, to be careful. To slow down. To protect himself.
At the table, Dumbledore took a sip of tea. The cup made a soft sound as it returned to the saucer.
"Tomorrow in Herbology," he said, "Mr. Black may ask you some more advanced questions."
She looked up. "Such as?"
"For example…" He leaned forward slightly, fingers laced over his knee. "Whether there exists a magical plant whose attribute relationship mirrors that of the Patronus and the Dementor. Light and darkness. Positive and negative. The form those opposing attributes take, and the principles behind them."
She was silent for several seconds.
"That's NEWTs-level material," she said. "Some of it goes beyond Hogwarts's curriculum."
"I know." His voice remained warm. "But if Mr. Black asks, I hope you'll tell him everything you know."
"Including the Sunlight Ebony Bush?" She met his gaze directly.
Behind his lenses, his eyes were steady and serious.
"Yes. Including the Sunlight Ebony Bush."
She set her teacup down a little harder than intended.
"Albus," she said, shaking her head slightly, "you know the risks. That kind of purity—light taken almost to obsession. Introducing a first-year to that concept is too soon."
"Mr. Black is not an ordinary first-year," Dumbledore replied gently. "The power he commands and the maturity of his mind already exceed his years."
"He's still a child," she said firmly. "Eleven years old. No matter how clever or capable he is, he's still eleven."
"Twelve," Dumbledore corrected quietly.
She ignored that.
"And that is precisely why we must guide him, not limit him," he said.
"If he is already walking a certain path, and we blindfold him because 'he's too young,' what then? He will explore alone. He may take a wrong turn. He may collide with dangers we could have helped him avoid."
His fingers traced the rim of his teacup.
"I'm not suggesting we indulge him without restraint. I mean that when he asks, we give him the right answers. As for which path he chooses, that will always be his decision."
She said nothing.
Her gaze drifted deeper into the greenhouse, to the plants stretching their leaves beneath enchanted lamps.
She remembered her first year as a professor. A Hufflepuff student, gifted and genuinely passionate about Herbology, had tried repeatedly to skip the basics and dive into advanced study.
She had stopped him several times.
Eventually, he experimented in secret. The accident had been severe enough to force him to withdraw for a year.
Overprotection could become shackles. Unchecked freedom could become danger. The line between them was never clear.
"There's more than one dark-attribute plant," she said at last, her voice lower now, as if conceding ground.
Dumbledore smiled at her warmly, at the colleague who had stood beside him for twenty years.
She always understood.
And when she did, she helped.
---
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