Cassian stepped into the classroom and scrawled a single word across the board, Avis. The chalk squeaked before snapping. He gave it a look, then turned to the students with a wide grin.
"Today," he said, tapping the board with what was left of the chalk, "we're learning a spell that's technically a charm, but for reasons only Gods and your curriculum designer understand, you were taught it by the Deputy Headmistress, in Transfiguration class." He let that hang. "I know. It's a mystery."
He leaned back against the desk, arms loosely folded. "You've already tried your hand at it, or so I've heard. And from what I've also heard, most of you made a mess of it. Birds half-formed, wings inside out, one poor sod apparently conjured a beak on his quill." He raised his brows at the Slytherins. "Flint, was that you?"
Marcus Flint blinked once. "No."
Cassian didn't look convinced. "Hmm. Tragic, really. But not to worry, today, we'll fix all that. And by 'fix,' I mean I'll tell you how this spell came to exist, why it does what it does, and if you're lucky, by the end, you'll actually manage one that doesn't squawk mid-air and divebomb your inkpot."
He straightened, grabbing a piece of chalk.
"So," he said, underlining Avis, "Latin for bird. Obvious. No points for that. But—" He drew a short line underneath and added a second word. Avisatio. "—this one. Older. The root charm. Didn't produce birds. It produced feathers. Smoke patterns, sometimes. All symbolic stuff. It was used in ritual dances during early Mediterranean conjuring. Think wandless, robes optional, and a lot of shouting under the moon."
Oliver Wood leaned forward, frowning. "Wait, it started as a ritual?"
Cassian didn't look up. "Most did, Wood. Magic didn't come out of a textbook."
He waved his wand and cast Lumos Spectaculum.
The torches dimmed. The classroom filled with flickering light and voices.
"Now," Cassian said as he strolled down the aisle between the rows of desks, "like most things, this spell was born from necessity."
The spectral scene shifted, smoke gathering at the front of the room. A rough outline of figures took shape, bare arms, patterned tunics, faces painted in jagged lines. They danced barefoot in a circle under an imagined moon.
"Early ritualists," Cassian nodded toward the scene.
Percy raised his hand. "Professor, are these Mediterranean druids?"
Cassian didn't slow. "Good guess, Mr Weasley. Wrong, but polite. These are early Sicilian casters, pre-Roman. No proper robes, barely a script. Their casting language was more grunts and repetition than anything you'd call refined."
One of the glowing figures flicked his fingers. Feathers burst from his hands, curling in the smoke.
"Feathers," Cassian said, pausing near the Ravenclaw row. "Symbolic conjuration. The idea was to show favour from sky-bound spirits. Wind gods, storm beings. Whatever they feared enough to praise."
A boy near Clearwater squinted up at the vision. "But why not birds?"
"This spell, Avisatio, started as a symbolic invocation. The shape of a bird, the idea of flight, freedom. Protection, if you were lucky. The intention mattered more than the result. They weren't trying to create birds. They were trying to send messages to whatever god wasn't currently ruining their crops." Cassian replied.
"But of course, symbolism wasn't good enough forever. Someone, probably Roman, possibly very bored, decided feathers weren't dramatic enough. Hence..." He flicked his wand, and half a dozen small brown birds burst into the air, wings flapping like chaos.
"Avis," he said, stepping out of the way as one divebombed Flint.
Flint flinched, swatted at the air, and muttered something deeply Slytherin under his breath.
Cassian looked entirely unbothered. "That's the finished charm. Latin spell structure, stabilised motion, trigger word embedded in the intent."
A few Ravenclaws snorted.
Cassian turned back to the board, tapping beside the word 'Avis'. "Thing is, scholars call this a charm. But charms were originally any spell that altered, summoned, or animated something without fundamentally changing its nature. By that logic, Transfiguration and Charms blur all over the place. And yet—" He looked at Percy again. "—you learned this in Transfiguration class."
Penelope Clearwater frowned. "Because it creates something physical?"
"Because McGonagall hates ambiguity," Cassian said. "And frankly, that's the only explanation I've got. But spells don't care what department you file them under. They care about intent, motion, and control."
"Now," He continued, "the reason most of you were failing with this particular spell is simple. No, really simple. Because 'bird' is too vague."
The room stared back at him. A few squints, one eyebrow twitch. No one sure if he was joking.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I've taught you for three and a half years already. How many times have I said this? Spells are as strong as your imagination. Your intent. Your will. What picture's sitting behind your eyes when you cast."
He walked to the front row, spun lightly on his heel. "Mr Nott. What is a bird?"
The boy blinked, caught mid-scratch of his parchment. "Er... a creature with wings?"
"Excellent. Describe every bird in existence in one go. Go on, I'll wait." He stared at Nott like he was expecting an encyclopaedia recital. Nothing came. "Right. Anyone else?"
"Feathers?" said a Gryffindor.
"Vague."
"Beak?"
"Still vague."
"Flies?"
"Not all of them. Ask the dodo."
He paced back to the board. "See, this is the issue. You're asking your wand to make a 'bird' without telling it what that means. It's like shouting 'food' at a waiter and expecting filet mignon instead of a plate of beans."
He flicked his wand again. The smoky ritual scene reformed.
"Now watch this," he said, stepping back.
One of the figures circled a raised platform. Each lap followed the same rhythm, arm raised, word muttered, turn. Repeat. Another held a carved feather in both hands, swaying with the motion, lips moving in time with the steps.
He pointed at the illusion. "You see? Every ritual wants one thing, connection. The divine, the unknowable, the thing in the sky chucking lightning at your cows. People think rituals are about offerings and chants. What they're really doing is slipping out of their own heads."
He stepped into the flickering light, shadows of the ritual figures moving in slow loops behind him. "Modern psychology calls it transient hypofrontality, try saying that with a mouthful of treacle tart. Your brain zones out the bit that nags you about deadlines. You're not asleep. Just... somewhere else. Focused. Everything else goes dim."
The class was unusually quiet now. Even Clearwater had stopped scribbling.
Cassian pointed at the barefoot figures in the smoke. One turned again, arms raised, voice caught mid-chant. Another swept feathers across the air, over and over, with the same rhythm.
"Repeated motion. Repeated sound. They did this for hours. Eventually, they all saw the same thing, whatever they imagined sacred. A single bird. Same shape. Same size. Same weight in their minds."
He settled on his desk with a thump that made the chalk rattle. "Now. Close your eyes."
No one moved.
"Go on. Close them. It's not a trick. I'm not going to turn your eyebrows into feathers, though I am writing that down for later."
A few reluctant chuckles, but the eyes started dropping shut.
"Good. Now imagine a bird. Whatever you want, don't say it out loud.
"Think about its wings," he said. "The shape. Where they fold. How far they stretch. What colour it is. Pattern on the feathers. Size. Weight. Imagine it sitting in your hand. Warm. Breathing. Feel that vibration passing onto you. Imagine its voice."
He clapped his hands. A few students jumped.
"That," he said, "is the base of every spell."
He waited a beat, then pointed a finger around the room. "The problem is, in a duel, you don't have time to close your eyes and go on a scenic tour of Birdland. Can anyone tell me why this spell is sixth-year and not second?"
Silence.
Cassian arched a brow. "Come on, I haven't hexed anyone this week. Yet."
Penelope cleared her throat. "Because it requires advanced magical control?"
"Too textbook. Try again."
Flint raised a hand half-heartedly. "Because it's useless?"
Cassian pointed at him. "That's the spirit. Wrong, but honest." He wandered back to the front. "No, it's sixth-year because by now, you're supposed to have the basics drilled into that collective porridge you call brains. Focus, control, imagination. You need all three, working at once."
He tapped the board again. "You want birds? You better know what kind. Want them sharp, fast, and accurate? Then stop thinking 'bird' and start thinking 'hawk with a purpose.' You want distraction? Think noisy, shiny, flapping nuisance. Spellwork's not just mechanics, it's mental clarity under pressure. That's why first-timers get feathers and headaches, and you get a spell that can, with the right intent, blind a duellist or mess up a tracking ward."
Oliver's brow furrowed. "Mess up a tracking ward?"
Cassian tossed a bit of parchment into the air and flicked his wand. A single bird burst from it, spun in a lazy circle, and vanished before hitting the floor.
"Think about it," he said. "Conjured birds. Magic residue. Ever tried tracking someone through an alley full of animated magic noise?" He paused, eyes scanning the room. "Exactly. Nothing like a few hundred spectral wings to clutter the scene."
There were a few scribbles now, taking notes, just in case.
Cassian grinned, checking his watch. "Right. That's it for now. Two-foot homework, write me your favourite bird. I only want adjectives."
Flint groaned. "Two foot to describe a bloody bird?"
"Correct," Cassian said, turning back to the board. "Two-foot is not enough. Make it three. Now, move."
Chairs scraped. Groans followed. Parchments rustled as bags were yanked open and quills were hunted down like prey.
Cassian let them fumble through their complaints a bit longer, then added, "And if I see 'beautiful' or 'nice' on your list, I'm docking points. Be interesting. Be specific."
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