Ghost Chicken and Owl

"Oh, sir, um..."

"What is it, Henry?" Dumbledore asked patiently.

Anthony hesitated before speaking, a little embarrassed. "I know you're very busy, but if you remember the ghost chicken I mentioned..."

He had wanted to bring it up earlier when they had discussed flesh magic, but with Professor Flitwick sitting beside him, dipping bread into his soup, Anthony couldn't quite figure out how to phrase it.

Professor Dumbledore, do you remember my wraith chicken? Yes, wraith chicken—oh, Professor Flitwick, I forgot to mention, I'm a necromancer. No, really, it's nothing—by the way, did you know that Professor Quirrell is actually Voldemort? Oh dear! I am so sorry.

"Your pet." Dumbledore nodded. "Have you found a suitable solution? I recall you mentioned having difficulties with flesh magic."

"Yes, but as we discussed before, Professor Quirrell… well, Quirrell helped a little," Anthony said, glancing at Snape, uncertain of how much he actually knew.

Snape leisurely cut off a small piece of lamb chop, suddenly appearing far less inclined to leave.

"I remember his attempt to exile you with a curse," Dumbledore mused. "But, Henry, I'm concerned that there were too many accidental factors in that moment to reliably recreate the effect for your wraith chicken." He tapped the table lightly with his slender fingers, deep in thought.

"That's why I wanted to ask for your help," Anthony admitted. "Blame it on my greed, but I hope to find the least risky method to pull the chicken out of the ground and bring it to Hogwarts with me. Of course, I will eventually need to find a living person willing to curse my chicken."

"You may always send an owl to discuss this with me," Dumbledore assured him. "In fact, I already have a few ideas in mind. How many details do you remember, Henry? The exact wording of the curse, the pauses, the amount of blood used..."

"I can't guarantee any of them," Anthony admitted honestly.

"That's all right," Dumbledore said understandingly. "What about the time and place? Ah, we can't replicate the exact location, can we? But we can determine the phase of the moon based on the date and calculate an optimal time… Professor Septima Vector of Arithmancy has gone home, but I doubt she would refuse Fawkes and a bag of biscuits."

Anthony hesitated. "I really can't remember… night? Does that help?"

Snape sneered. "Of course. That narrows it down to half the day. Tremendous progress."

"Helps us," Dumbledore corrected gently. "I look forward to your insights, Severus."

Snape's expression remained unreadable. "Very well, Headmaster, since you insist. But there is one condition: in Professor Anthony's case, the person who provided the blood had drunk unicorn blood." He turned to Anthony with a smug smile. "I assume you considered that already?"

From the kitchen came the sound of house-elves chatting. They seemed to be debating whether to add honey mustard sauce to the menu.

Anthony turned to Dumbledore and asked, only half-jokingly, "Sir, do you think Quirrell will apply for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position again next year?"

...

"In the last century, someone attempted to simulate unicorn blood through potions," Snape said through gritted teeth, his expression livid. He stopped abruptly, and Anthony, who was following behind him, nearly bumped into him.

They had just left the kitchen. Snape only had a short walk down to the cellar, while Anthony had to climb all the way back up to his office.

"I'm sorry, what?" Anthony asked, snapping out of his thoughts.

Snape hissed, "You heard me, Anthony. It's been tried before. If you truly intend to free your—" He spat out the word with disdain, "Tatafowl, then you'd better research what's already been attempted."

After praising Snape, Dumbledore promptly assigned him to lead the research on blood-related magical topics. When Snape opened his mouth to protest, Dumbledore abruptly announced that he had a meeting to prepare for.

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "By the way, I heard some praise for your article yesterday. The one about the effect of basilisk scale particle size on potions, if I remember correctly?"

The Next Morning

When Anthony woke up the next morning, he felt momentarily disoriented.

The room was eerily quiet. There was no cat curled up at the head of his bed, no chicken pecking at him, and no mouse sneaking around underfoot.

Sunlight streamed in through the loose curtains. Anthony sat up sluggishly and made his way to the bathroom to wash up. The room—his entire office, really—felt much larger than usual.

The whole castle seemed bigger too. Sitting alone at the staff table during breakfast felt awkward. He glanced down at the long, empty house tables, then up at the enchanted ceiling.

The usual magic had faded. It would only return when the next group of first-years arrived, when the professors adjusted it to reflect the actual weather outside. No owls swooped in with letters this morning.

Anthony sighed and grabbed two pieces of bread, six strips of bacon, and two sausages from his plate. If there was no one to eat with in the Great Hall, he'd have breakfast with the owls.

At the Owlery

As usual, the owlery was in disarray, with feathers scattered across the stone floor. The remaining school owls perched on wooden beams, their sharp eyes blinking drowsily. Many had been taken home by students for the summer, leaving behind only Hogwarts' own flock—some half-dozing, others fluttering restlessly, and a few meticulously preening their feathers.

As soon as Anthony stepped inside, the owls near the door stopped what they were doing and turned their heads toward him.

"Uh… hello," Anthony said cautiously, stepping next to a support pole. An owl beside him gave an irritated hoot and flapped to the other side of the room.

"I'm sorry, I'm not very good at identifying birds," Anthony admitted. "Which one of you delivered my message to the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary?"

The owls continued to stare at him with unreadable expressions. Anthony stood in awkward silence for a moment, before a soft hoot came from high above.

"Was that you?" Anthony squinted up at the rafters, trying to make out the figure in the dim light. "No… I don't think so…"

A shadow stirred. The owl spread its wings, glided down, and landed on a horizontal beam, next to another owl that sat with its back to Anthony, wings folded neatly.

"Ah… oh. Thank you." Anthony hesitated before stepping closer.

The owl didn't move.

"I brought some bacon," he said softly, "and sausages, but I wasn't sure if you'd like them. I think I owe you an apology. I did write the wrong address."

The owl turned its head sharply, hooting in what sounded like outright indignation. Anthony flinched slightly—it was mildly terrifying to see how far its neck could twist.

"You could have just pecked me right then," Anthony said, offering his finger as a peace offering.

The owl stared at him for a moment before snatching the bacon from his hand, then flew off with a swift, silent motion to the higher beams.

Anthony shook his head, watching it disappear into the shadows. "Well, fair enough. I suppose I'm not as tasty as bacon." He pulled out a piece of bread and started eating his sausage, settling in for breakfast with the birds.