"Mourning Willow. Its branches secrete corrosive sap the moment they touch living flesh. The sap carries a despair so concentrated it's hard to say whether it rivals a Dementor or surpasses it.
Blood Thorn Vine grows in battlefields and massacre sites, feeding on the lingering negative magic in the soil. Its blossoms release hallucinogenic pollen that forces people to relive the moment of death again and again.
If someone truly believes they've died, they die.
And the Wailing Mushroom. It appears only in places marked by large numbers of unnatural deaths. When mature, it emits a sound like a dying lament. Anyone who hears it teeters on the brink of death."
With each example, Dumbledore inclined his head.
"But I won't tell him about those," Professor Sprout said, her tone shifting. "If he asks, I'll speak only of the Sunlight Ebony Bush. At least that path leads upward."
Dumbledore's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He lifted his teacup and took a quiet sip, his gaze drifting elsewhere.
After a moment, he looked back at her. The resolve in her eyes hadn't changed.
He sighed softly and rose to his feet. The hem of his robe brushed the wicker chair. A trace of resignation flickered in his blue eyes.
He knew this colleague of twenty years well enough to recognize when she would not yield.
"I understand, Pomona. We each care for our students in our own way."
He paused.
"I only hope that when Mr. Black comes to you again, you'll trust him a little more."
After Dumbledore left, Professor Sprout remained seated for a long time.
She was not merely a professor tending plants in a greenhouse.
She was Head of Hufflepuff. She attended staff meetings, graded essays, handled the small but crucial matters that held a house together.
A family crisis. A child being isolated. Someone secretly dabbling in dangerous magic.
Hufflepuffs were often gentle and slow to anger, but when that temperament twisted into something extreme, the consequences could be severe.
She also knew what was happening beyond the castle walls.
Pure-blood families choosing sides. Voldemort's influence spreading. The Daily Prophet publishing rhetoric that grew sharper by the week.
She understood what the name Black represented.
Still, her way had never been to interfere directly.
She cultivated her plants. Taught her classes. Offered a cup of hot tea when needed, or listened patiently while a student complained for ten minutes.
Years later, some would write back. Professor, what you said that day helped more than you know.
That was enough.
She understood Albus's approach. She accepted it. Not entirely, but enough. She would follow her own way.
---
After dinner, Regulus headed to the library.
Cuthbert and Alex walked behind him in silence, their steps oddly in sync.
His brow lifted slightly. Last term they had forced themselves to accompany him a few times, then gradually stopped.
He knew why Cuthbert followed now.
After the Astronomy Tower, the idea of "we" had taken on substance. Once you've faced something like that together, going back to separate routines feels wrong.
The library wasn't just about studying. It was reassurance. Proof that the small group still existed, that he still belonged.
Cuthbert might not have the words for it, but his actions said enough.
Alex was much the same. Being protected had left a deeper mark than he realized, and it had turned into a clumsy kind of loyalty.
Regulus didn't object. Wanting to learn was always a good sign, whatever the motive.
Once you sit down at a desk and open a book, the time is never wasted.
He could tolerate arrogance, hypocrisy, cowardice, selfishness, cruelty, brilliance or weakness.
He would not tolerate ignorance. That was the baseline.
The three of them chose a long table by the window.
Regulus opened the copy of An Introduction to Wand Materials he hadn't finished the day before. Cuthbert grabbed A History of Medieval Wizarding Duels. Alex hesitated before selecting A Practical Guide to Common Magical Creatures.
For the first twenty minutes, the library remained quiet except for the rustle of pages and the scratch of quills across parchment.
Regulus had expected Cuthbert to grow restless first.
Instead, it was Alex.
He shifted in his chair, his eyes drifting from the page to the entrance, then back again.
The third time his gaze lingered, he nudged Cuthbert with his elbow.
Cuthbert had been studying an illustration of two medieval wizards dueling with spells long since banned. The scene looked spectacular, though entirely impractical.
The interruption made him frown. He shot Alex a glare that clearly said this better be worth it.
Alex didn't speak. He tilted his eyes toward the doorway.
Cuthbert followed his line of sight.
Lily Evans stood at the front desk, speaking with Madam Pince. The red-haired girl faced slightly away from them, several thick books cradled in her arms. A smudge of ink stained the cuff of her sleeve.
Cuthbert's first instinct was to curl his lip. As someone raised in a Pure-blood family, disdain for Muggle-borns had once come as naturally as breathing.
But just as the expression began to form, he caught sight of Regulus from the corner of his eye.
For reasons he might not have been able to explain, he swallowed it.
Instead, he tapped his knee lightly against the table and inclined his chin toward Regulus.
Regulus looked up from his book.
"Evans is here," Cuthbert murmured.
Without waiting for a response, he closed his book and stood, dragging Alex up with him.
Alex stumbled but hurriedly stuffed his things into his bag.
They headed toward the exit. As they passed Lily, Cuthbert didn't slow down. He merely angled his head in her direction, the gesture subtle enough to be almost invisible.
Half a step behind, Alex offered her a slightly stiff smile. "Miss Evans."
Lily turned, surprised. By the time she opened her mouth to reply, the two Slytherins were already gone.
She glanced at their retreating backs, then toward where Regulus sat deeper in the library. Understanding dawned on her face.
He must have said something.
She approached the table and took the seat opposite him. Her bag landed on the wood with a soft thud.
"Good evening," Regulus said, lifting his head.
"Good evening," Lily replied. She drew out reference books for her Potions essay.
For the next half hour, neither spoke.
The library held only the occasional cough from distant students and the faint swish of Madam Pince's feather duster against the shelves.
Regulus was reading about wand materials.
An Introduction to Wand Materials was exactly what it claimed to be. Basic. It listed far more than it analyzed.
According to the text, about thirty types of wood were commonly used in British wandmaking, and even fewer core materials.
Phoenix feather. Dragon heartstring. Unicorn hair. A handful of other magical creature fibers and nerves.
Each entry included a short description.
Holly symbolized purity and protection, suited to upright witches and wizards.
Yew was linked to the boundary between life and death, often chosen by those who walked perilous magical paths.
Phoenix feather cores were powerful but temperamental. Dragon heartstring favored aggressive spellwork. Unicorn hair offered stability but limited growth.
Regulus turned the page and paused at the heading: The British Tradition of Wandmaking.
There it was. The problem.
Too shallow.
The book told you what traits materials possessed. It did not tell you why.
Why did phoenix feather contain such potent magic?
Why did dragon heartstring enhance offensive spells?
How did magic conduct itself through the fibers of wand wood?
What mechanism allowed different cores to resonate with a wizard's magic?
No answers. Or perhaps the answers existed, locked away within a handful of wandmaking families.
Ollivander was the most famous among them.
The narrow shop in Diagon Alley. Boxes stacked to the ceiling. The air thick with wood shavings and drifting magical dust.
When Garrick Ollivander had chosen his wand, he'd spoken at length.
He had said Regulus would accomplish great things.
Regulus did not doubt Ollivander's skill.
To select the right wand from thousands within minutes required a kind of magic in itself.
It simply felt like a waste.
British wandmaking was nearly monopolized by the Ollivander family.
Other traditions existed like Thunderbird tail feather cores in America.
They were present, but rarely seen. Not mainstream.
Diversity was fading. Wizards had grown comfortable with the mystique of "the wand chooses the wizard," no longer questioning the principles beneath it.
Wandlore had become an empirical art. Its core knowledge sealed within family inheritance. Outsiders learned only the surface.
He closed the book and leaned back in his chair.