The nuisance of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley effectively neutralized for the ti being, Orion finally found himself with the ntal bandwidth to tackle his "White Whale": Avis.
The spell remained elusive. He had spent hours in the library, pouring over texts that discussed the theoretical differences between summoning, conjuration, and transfiguration. He understood the Muggle Law of Conservation of Mass—matter can neither be created nor destroyed—but Magic, by its very definition, told physics to sit in the corner and be quiet.
Yet, despite his powerful core and his hawthorn wand's eagerness, he couldn't produce so much as a beak.
"It's a block," Orion murmured, closing a dense to on Advanced Conjuration Theory. "I'm missing a variable. I'm approaching this like an equation, but I'm missing a constant."
He considered his options. He required soone with knowledge of this field, who can help him by pointing him in the correct direction.
There was only one person who approached magic with the sa rigorous, structural mindset as Orion.
He packed his bag and headed for the Transfiguration corridor.
Professor McGonagall's office was a sanctuary of order. A fire crackled warmly in the grate, and the walls were lined with books that looked far more practical than the dusty tos in the library.
When Orion knocked, a crisp "Enter" bid him inside.
McGonagall was sitting behind her desk, marking a stack of essays with a red quill that seed to be moving with aggressive speed—likely the Fifth Years'. She looked up as Orion entered, peering over her spectacles.
"Mr. Malfoy," she said, setting down her quill. "To what do I owe the pleasure? I trust you haven't found another three-headed dog to feed?"
"No dogs today, Professor," Orion promised, taking the seat she gestured to. "Today, I co bearing a failure. My own."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "A rare admission from a Slytherin. What seems to be the trouble?"
"Conjuration," Orion admitted. "Specifically, Avis. I've mastered the incantation. My wand movent is precise. My core is... adequate. Yet, I cannot produce a single bird. Just smoke."
McGonagall leaned back, looking unsurprised. "Avis is advanced magic, Mr. Malfoy. It is typically taught in the sixth year. Conjuration is strictly more difficult than Transfiguration because you are not altering existing matter; you are pulling form from the ether."
"I figured as much," Orion nodded. "But I developed a hypothesis. A comparison. In my reading, I ca across the spell Serpensortia. The Snake Spell. It is classified often alongside conjurations in combat magic. If a wizard can produce a snake—a complex biological vertebrate—surely a canary shouldn't be exponentially harder?"
"An interesting parallel," McGonagall conceded. "Have you attempted Serpensortia?"
"No," Orion said calmly. "To cast a spell that produces a potentially venomous reptile inside a school, without supervision or the ans to banish it, seed... foolish. And risky."
A flash of genuine approval crossed McGonagall's stern face. "Five points to Slytherin for common sense. It is a quality severely lacking in this castle."
She stood up and walked to the open space in the center of the office.
"However, to understand the distinction, demonstration is required. Stand here, Mr. Malfoy. Draw your wand. Cast the supposed Snake Spell. I shall manage the creature."
Orion stood up, drawing his Hawthorn wand. He felt the hum of the dragon heartstring.
He focused on the intent. Snake. Serpent. Scale and muscle.
"Serpensortia!"
He snapped his wand forward with a whipping motion.
There was a loud bang and a puff of smoke. From the tip of his wand, a long, black snake shot out, landing heavily on the rug. It coiled instantly, raising its head, tongue tasting the air.
And then, it spoke.
Or rather, thanks to Orion's All-Speak, it complained.
"What in the Deep Hallows?" the snake hissed indignantly, its voice echoing in Orion's mind like a cranky old man. "How did I get here? I was on a rock! A nice, warm rock! I was just about to make my move on that lovely viper with the erald scales. She was looking at ! She flicked her tongue at !"
The snake turned its head toward Orion.
"You! Two-legs! Did you pull ? Rude! Absolutely rude! Send back, I have a date!"
Orion stood frozen, a singular bead of sweat dropping down his temple. The sheer mundanity of the snake's romantic problems was... disarming.
"Evanesco," McGonagall intoned calmly.
The snake vanished into non-being mid-hiss.
"Was it difficult?" McGonagall asked.
"No," Orion admitted, lowering his wand. "It felt... surprisingly easy. Like pulling a rope rather than weaving one."
"Precisely," McGonagall nodded, returning to her desk. "And therein lies your error, Orion. Serpensortia is a misnor. It is often categorized with conjuration because the result appears instantly. But chanically? It is a specialized Summoning Charm."
She steepled her fingers.
"It does not create a snake. It pulls a snake from the imdiate vicinity—the grounds, the dungeons, the forest. Since magical snakes can resist such pulls, you only ever summon standard garden varieties. You didn't build that snake, Mr. Malfoy. You borrowed it."
"But when you vanished it..."
"I banished it into non-being," she corrected. "Into the void. But to Conjure... that is the reverse. That is bringing being from non-being. And that requires more than just power."
She stood up again. "Watch."
She raised her wand.
"Avis."
A flock of bright yellow canaries erupted from her wand tip with a soft explosion of sound. They fluttered into the air, chirping lodiously, flying in loops around the office. They landed on the bookshelves, on the back of the chair, preening their feathers.
"To conjure life," McGonagall lectured, her eyes tracking the birds, "even temporary life, you must understand it. You cannot just visualize 'a bird'. You must visualize the chanics. You tried to force it with power, Mr. Malfoy. But you lack the blueprint."
She pointed to a bird perched on the inkwell.
"Do not just look at the shape. Look at the twitch of the tail feathers to maintain balance. Look at the rapid expansion and contraction of the chest for breathing. Look at the way the claws grip the glass. You must hold the concept of the bird's biology in your mind."
"Biology," Orion whispered, watching them.
"Observe them," McGonagall instructed softly. "Listen to them. Feel their presence. When you understand what they are, you will be able to make them."
Orion stepped closer to the flock. He watched the canary on the inkwell.
It threw its head back and opened its beak, letting out a trill of song.
Orion listened.
He waited for the voice.
He waited for the comntary. He expected to hear, "Nice place," or "I'm hungry," or even "Why is everything yellow?" like he had with the phoenix, and the snake.
He waited.
...
Silence.
The bird was singing—he could hear the chirp with his ears. But in his mind?
Nothing.
He looked at another bird preening its wing. Silence.
He looked at the flock flying in a circle. Silence.
A chill went down Orion's spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He looked at McGonagall, then back at the birds.
"Professor," Orion said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. "These birds... they behave like birds. They sing like birds."
"They are perfect imitations," McGonagall agreed proudly.
"But..." Orion stared into the black bead-like eye of the canary on the inkwell. It stared back, vacant.
They aren't talking, Orion realized with a jolt.
The snake had thoughts. It had desires (mostly romantic ones). Fawkes had opinions on fashion. Even Fluffy had a personality.
These birds? They were empty shells. They were biological robots executing a 'bird.exe' program.
They were devoid of souls.
"They aren't alive," Orion whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow.
"Not in the true sense, no," McGonagall said, misinterpreting his shock for awe. "They are magical constructs. They will fade in an hour or two. They mimic life, Orion, but they do not possess it. That is Gamp's Law. We cannot create true life."
Orion looked at the flock. He had been trying to conjure life. He had been trying to create thinking, feeling creatures.
He had been over-engineering it. He was trying to code an AI when all he needed was a wind-up toy.
"I see," Orion said, a strange mix of relief and creeping horror settling in his stomach. "I was trying to play god... when I should have been playing puppeteer."
"An apt taphor," McGonagall noted. "Keep watching them. Study the puppet's strings."
Orion nodded slowly. He watched the silent, singing birds.
They were beautiful. They were perfect.
And they were absolutely, terrifyingly hollow.
User Comments
0 comments from readers