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Main Engineering had settled into one of its rare stretches of uneventful quiet. The warp core rose through the center of the compartment with its usual blue pulse, accompanied by the steady mechanical undertone of systems operating comfortably within tolerance. There were people elsewhere in the section, but nobody nearby needed Geordi La Forge, Data, or Reg Barclay for anything at the moment, which had left the three of them gathered around a diagnostic console that none of them was actually using.
On its display was a schematic of the Enterprise’s EPS distribution network, abandoned there twenty minutes earlier when their conversation had wandered somewhere substantially less practical.
“I’m just saying,” Geordi said, leaning back against the console, “if you introduce teleportation into your setting, you have to think about what teleportation does to the setting.”
Barclay nodded quickly. “Exactly. Exactly. Apparition changes everything.”
Data stood across from them with his hands loosely clasped behind his back. “I believe the difficulty extends beyond Apparition. The magical system depicted in the novels appears to have been constructed primarily in response to immediate narrative requirements.”
Geordi pointed at him. “That.”
Barclay gave a small laugh. “That’s a very Data way of saying the rules seem to change depending on what the story needs.”
“I would characterize them as expanding selectively.”
“Which is worse,” Geordi said.
Data tilted his head. “Why?”
“Because changing the rules at least means somebody noticed there were rules.”
Barclay smiled, then rubbed at the side of his nose while thinking. He had been the last of the three to finish the books and had consequently spent the better part of two days arriving in Engineering with observations he had apparently been storing up overnight.
“The strange thing,” he said, “is that it gives you the feeling of a very elaborate system.”
Geordi nodded. “Absolutely.”
“There are hundreds of spells. Potions. Wands. Magical creatures. Different branches of study. Magical law. Magical objects. There are whole textbooks mentioned.”
“Yes,” Data said.
“And yet…” Barclay spread his hands.
“There’s almost nothing underneath it,” Geordi finished.
Data considered this. “There are rules beneath certain individual phenomena.”
“Sure,” said Geordi. “A wand helps you cast spells. Some spells need particular movements. Some need particular words. You have to learn how to do them. Fine. But what is magic?”
Barclay looked at Data.
Data looked at Geordi.
Geordi shrugged. “That’s my point.”
“The novels do not establish a fundamental mechanism,” Data said. “Magic is treated primarily as an innate capability possessed by certain humans and absent from others.”
“And apparently hereditary,” Barclay added.
“Partially hereditary.”
“Except when it isn’t.”
“Muggle-born witches and wizards demonstrate that descent from magical parents is unnecessary.”
“And Squibs demonstrate that magical parents don’t guarantee it.”
“Correct.”
Geordi smiled. “Which could actually be interesting if anybody followed that thought.”
Barclay became more animated. “Yes! Suppose magical ability were something measurable. Maybe there’s some sort of threshold phenomenon. A field interaction, or a neurological structure, or a—well, obviously it doesn’t have to be scientific in our sense. It could still be mystical. But give it characteristics.”
Data nodded. “An underlying model.”
“Right. Something that determines why Hermione can perform magic and her parents can’t. Something that explains why Neville is initially less capable than Hermione, and whether that difference results from talent, education, confidence, physiology, wand compatibility, or some combination.”
Geordi looked toward Data. “Can you imagine trying to teach engineering that way?”
Data appeared to consider the prospect literally.
“Warp field theory,” Geordi continued. “Lesson one: point at the reactor and say propellus maximus.”
Barclay snorted.
Data said, “That would be ineffective.”
“Thank you, Data.”
Barclay had started grinning. “And lesson two is a completely unrelated incantation that makes the warp core produce pudding.”
Geordi laughed. “See, now we’re getting somewhere.”
Data’s expression remained composed. “The incantations themselves present an additional problem.”
Barclay’s amusement faded immediately into interest. “The language.”
“Yes.”
Geordi folded his arms. “Pseudo-Latin.”
“Frequently.”
“What I kept wondering,” Barclay said, “was whether the words actually matter.”
“They appear to.”
“Sometimes.”
Data inclined his head. “Elaborate.”
“Well, children can perform accidental magic without saying anything. Experienced witches and wizards can cast spells silently. So language can’t be the source of the magic.”
“Agreed.”
“And wandless magic exists,” Geordi added. “So the wand isn’t the source either.”
Data nodded.
Barclay continued, gaining speed. “Then a spell seems to be more like a technique for shaping something the wizard can already do. Fine. That makes sense. Except we’re never really told what part of the technique does what.”
Geordi tapped two fingers against the edge of the console. “That’s the missing layer.”
“The syntax,” Data said.
“Exactly.”
Barclay pointed at him. “If I cast a levitation charm, what have I actually learned? Have I learned one specific magical operation called levitation? Or have I learned to manipulate force? Could I make something twice as heavy? Could I move it sideways?”
“Can you adjust the acceleration?” Geordi added.
“Can you rotate it?”
“Can you levitate a liquid?”
“Can you levitate part of an object?”
Data said, “Can the spell act upon an object whose location is known but which the caster cannot directly observe?”
Geordi glanced at him. “That’s a good one.”
“Can I levitate myself?” Barclay said.
“Apparently there are separate spells for flying.”
“Why?”
Nobody had an answer.
Barclay folded his arms with the mild satisfaction of a man who had successfully cross-examined an imaginary magical curriculum.
Data said, “The problem resembles an engineering discipline in which every application is taught as an isolated procedure while the governing principles remain undiscovered.”
“Exactly,” Geordi said. “Imagine if instead of electromagnetism, you had ‘lamp theory,’ ‘doorbell theory,’ ‘motor theory,’ and ‘speaker theory.’”
Barclay laughed. “And they’re separate seven-year courses.”
“Yes.”
“Professor Flitwick says, ‘Today we’ll learn the electric toothbrush charm.’”
“And nobody asks what electricity is.”
Data raised one eyebrow. “That comparison is especially appropriate because the magical educational system appears to emphasize memorization of discrete effects.”
Geordi glanced toward the warp core, then back. “And that’s where it gets weird for me. They’ve had magic for thousands of years.”
“Presumably,” Data said.
“Thousands of years of people studying it.”
“Yes.”
“And they’re still teaching eleven-year-olds spells as if every spell is a self-contained fact somebody discovered in a cave.”
Barclay scratched his chin. “Maybe they are.”
“What?”
“Self-contained.”
Geordi frowned.
“Maybe magic itself is discrete,” Barclay said. "Maybe the universe has a finite set of allowable magical transformations.”
“That would substantially improve the internal coherence,” Data responded.
Geordi looked between them. “Okay. Explain.”
Barclay hesitated, clearly wishing he had started with a more finished version of the idea.
“Well… say magic isn’t infinitely programmable. You can’t simply imagine an effect and produce it. There are fundamental magical operations, almost like… like stable configurations.”
“Quantum states,” Geordi offered.
“Yes. Something like that. A spell is a way of accessing one of them.”
Data nodded. “That would explain why spells are discovered rather than arbitrarily invented.”
“And why the words and wand movements can be standardized,” Barclay said. “They’re coordinates.”
Geordi straightened. “Okay. Now that I like.”
Barclay looked pleased.
Data continued developing it. “The spoken component could encode one dimension of the desired magical state. Wand motion could encode another. Intent could provide additional parameters.”
“And the wand itself acts like a coupling device,” Geordi said.
“Yes.”
Barclay looked at them both. “Which means wandless magic is harder because you’re coupling directly.”
Geordi pointed at him. “There you go.”
“And silent casting,” Data added, “would require internally reproducing whatever function is normally facilitated by vocalization.”
Barclay’s eyes widened. “So advanced magic actually becomes advanced.”
Geordi smiled. “Instead of advanced magic being the same thing, except you don’t say the word out loud.”
“That interpretation would also provide a logical basis for magical education,” Data said. “Beginning students would use highly constrained techniques with multiple external aids. Advanced students would gradually internalize portions of the casting process.”
Geordi looked delighted now. “First years need a wand, a word, a motion and complete concentration. Somebody like Dumbledore can look at a chair and turn it into a goat because he understands what all those pieces were doing in the first place.”
Barclay nodded vigorously. “And that gives you a reason the school teaches theory.”
Data’s head moved a fraction. “The novels contain a class explicitly called Defense Against the Dark Arts, but there appears to be little equivalent to foundational magical theory.”
“Which is insane,” Geordi said. “They teach astronomy.”
Barclay gave him a sideways look. “Astronomy might affect magic.”
“It might. Do we ever find out?”
“No.”
“Exactly.”
Data stepped closer to the console, although the schematic glowing beneath his hands had become completely irrelevant.
“Potions exhibit the same deficiency.”
Barclay groaned. “Potions are worse.”
Geordi laughed. “That sounded personal.”
“There are numerous examples in which potion preparation requires highly specific ingredients, quantities, temperatures and procedures. Yet the mechanism through which those variables produce magical effects is unexplained.”
“So chemistry with mystery ingredients,” Geordi said.
“Poor chemistry,” Barclay replied.
Geordi looked at him. “Well, think about it. If Snape can improve the standard textbook instructions when he’s a student, that means potion-making is experimentally tractable.”
Data nodded. “A significant observation.”
“Which means there should be research.”
“There presumably is.”
“But then where are the journals?” Barclay continued. “Where are the competing methods? Where are the potion makers arguing over extraction techniques? Where are standardized concentrations?”
Geordi laughed again. “You wanted peer review in Harry Potter.”
“I wanted measuring equipment!”
“That’s fair.”
“They tell children to add three of something. Three what? Three leaves? Three grams? Three average-sized roots? If I’m making medicine, I don’t write ‘add four mushrooms.’”
Data said, “Professor Snape appears to judge ingredient preparation with considerable precision.”
“Which makes it worse!” Barclay said. “They understand that precision affects the outcome.”
Geordi held up a hand. “Okay. New system. Potions are basically magical chemistry.”
Barclay nodded.
“Ingredients contain magical properties that can be isolated, combined, neutralized, amplified—”
“Catalyzed,” Barclay said.
“Sure.”
Data continued, “Certain ingredients may act as magical catalysts while remaining chemically unchanged.”
“Perfect,” Geordi said. “And suddenly Hogwarts students have a reason to learn what they’re doing instead of chopping roots exactly the way a professor tells them.”
Barclay’s expression became thoughtful. “You could even preserve the whimsical ingredients.”
“Absolutely.”
“Powdered moonstone can still be powdered moonstone.”
“Just tell me what it does.”
“Yes.”
Data said, “A rigorous magical system need not eliminate wonder.”
Geordi glanced at him. “Exactly.”
“The two concepts are frequently treated as incompatible in speculative fiction. I do not believe that assumption is justified.”
Barclay nodded. “You can understand stars and still think they’re beautiful.”
Geordi smiled. “Spoken like a man who works on a starship.”
Barclay gave a tiny shrug.
Data moved on. “Transfiguration presents greater difficulties.”
Geordi exhaled through his nose. “Oh, boy.”
Barclay looked almost offended by Transfiguration as a concept.
“You turn a rat into a cup,” Geordi said. “Where does the extra mass go?”
“And where does the rat go?” Barclay added.
Geordi pushed away from the console and began pacing slowly along its edge. “Because if the cup is literally the rat, then you’ve got biological matter transformed into ceramic or metal or whatever. That’s enormous.”
“And reversible,” Barclay said.
“Which means the information defining the original animal has to be preserved somewhere.”
Data nodded. “Potentially including neural information.”
Barclay stared at him. “Which means the rat might still be conscious.”
Geordi stopped, and Barclay looked distressed by his own suggestion.
After a moment Geordi said, “Let’s assume the rat isn’t conscious.”
“Yes,” Barclay said quickly. “Please.”
Data seemed prepared to continue exploring the possibility anyway, thought better of it, and changed course.
“One possible model would involve transfiguration substituting an external magical template while retaining an informational record of the original structure.”
Geordi nodded. “So the spell doesn’t really turn the rat into a cup atom by atom.”
“It imposes ‘cup’ on the rat.”
Barclay considered this. “Like a magical overlay?”
“More fundamentally than an illusion,” Data said. “The transformed object would possess the physical characteristics necessary to function as the target object, while its original state remains encoded within the magical field.”
“And if the field collapses, rat.”
“Yes.”
Geordi smiled. “That gives you limitations too. Bigger transformation, more information, more energy, more skill.”
“Living targets should be harder than nonliving ones,” Barclay said.
“Complex organisms should be harder than simple organisms.”
“Long-term transformations should require continued energy.”
Data added, “Transformation into a state radically different from the source material could increase instability.”
Geordi pointed to him. “Now we’ve got a class.”
Barclay began counting on his fingers. “Conservation. Complexity. Duration. Biological state. Degree of transformation.”
“And suddenly McGonagall can actually teach principles.”
Data said, “It would also explain why students progress from relatively simple transformations toward more difficult ones.”
Geordi nodded. “See, that’s what bothers me. The books already have the outline of all this. They’re constantly implying there are deeper rules.”
Barclay’s mouth twisted. “Then they use magic for whatever joke or plot turn is needed.”
“Frequently,” Data said.
Geordi resumed leaning against the console. “Time-Turners.”
Barclay closed his eyes.
“They exist.”
“Yes.”
“They can send people into the past.”
“Yes.”
“And they are used so Hermione can attend additional classes.”
Barclay opened his eyes again. “That may be the single strangest administrative decision in the entire series.”
Geordi laughed. “Which is saying something.”
Data regarded them. “The novels initially depict time travel as a closed causal loop.”
“Which I actually liked,” Geordi said.
“As did I. It prevents many common paradoxes.”
Barclay nodded. “Everything they do in the past already happened.”
“Precisely.”
“So then you establish hard limitations,” Geordi said. “Maybe you can only travel back a few hours. Maybe transporting living matter through time is extremely dangerous. Maybe the universe resists large causal disruptions.”
Data said, “Or perhaps events with greater causal significance require exponentially greater magical energy to alter.”
Barclay smiled. “There’s your reason nobody kills Voldemort as a baby.”
Geordi winced. “That got dark fast.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s the obvious question.”
Data said, “A coherent time-travel mechanism inevitably produces such questions.”
“And that’s the whole problem,” Geordi replied. “Once you give the audience a tool, they’re going to start asking what the tool can do.”
Barclay looked at the deck. “I think Rowling tended to think of magic as imagery.”
Geordi glanced over. “How do you mean?”
“A thing appears because it feels magical. Moving staircases. Talking portraits. Owls carrying letters. Candles floating over the Great Hall. They’re wonderful images.”
“They are,” Geordi said.
“And that’s probably the point.”
Data nodded. “The magical system primarily serves atmosphere, characterization and plot rather than simulation.”
Barclay made a small gesture of agreement. “Which is fine, except once the characters start solving serious problems with magic, the audience needs to understand why they can solve this problem and not that one.”
Geordi gave him an approving look. “Exactly.”
Data said, “A narrative system can tolerate ambiguity more readily when its capabilities remain peripheral.”
“And Harry Potter’s magic is central to everything,” Geordi said. “Combat. Medicine. Transportation. Communication. Manufacturing. Law enforcement. Food production. Memory. Concealment. Architecture.”
Barclay added, “Mind control.”
“Which should terrify everybody.”
“It apparently does to some degree.”
“Not enough.”
Data said, “The Imperius Curse is illegal.”
“Sure,” Geordi replied. “But memory charms are used all the time.”
Barclay’s brow furrowed. “That bothered me.”
“Me too.”
“You have a society where people can erase memories.”
“Or fabricate them.”
“Or disguise themselves perfectly.”
“Or turn invisible.”
“Or impersonate somebody with Polyjuice Potion.”
Data said, “Or magically compel truthful responses under certain circumstances.”
Geordi spread his hands. “So what does evidence mean?”
Barclay stared at him.
Geordi continued, “Seriously. Somebody says they saw you murder a wizard. Fine. Was their memory changed? Were you really there? Was it Polyjuice Potion? Was somebody under Imperius? Was the witness Confunded? Was the body transfigured? Was the murder weapon summoned from somebody else’s house?”
Data’s eyebrows rose. “Magical forensic science would be extraordinarily complex.”
“It would have to be.”
Barclay looked increasingly fascinated. “You’d need verification spells layered on other verification spells.”
“And procedures,” Geordi said. “Chain of custody would be everything.”
“Unless the chain of custody can also be altered.”
“Then you develop magical seals.”
“Which can presumably be broken.”
“So you develop better seals.”
Data watched the exchange accelerate.
Barclay leaned toward Geordi. “And authentication signatures. Individual magical characteristics.”
“Like biometrics.”
“Yes!”
Data said, “That would also provide an elegant method for restricting certain forms of magic.”
Both men looked at him.
“A magical action could possess characteristics unique to its caster.”
Geordi smiled slowly. “A magical fingerprint.”
“Precisely.”
Barclay immediately followed. “Which gives you forensic identification. Wand registration. Security systems. Maybe some spells can only be performed by someone whose magical signature has been authorized.”
“And suddenly wizard banking makes sense,” Geordi said.
Data added, “It could also explain the Trace placed upon underage witches and wizards.”
Barclay’s smile faded. “The Trace makes no sense.”
“It detects magic around them,” Geordi said.
“Except when it doesn’t.”
Data said, “Its depicted operation is inconsistent.”
Barclay pointed at him again. “Thank you.”
Geordi folded his arms. “All right. Fix it.”
Data answered immediately. “The Ministry maintains a registry of magical signatures. Until adulthood, a wizard’s signature is monitored for spellcasting activity.”
Barclay nodded. “That’s much cleaner.”
“Done.”
“And it tells you who actually performed the magic,” Geordi said.
“Yes.”
Barclay looked suspiciously pleased. “We’ve repaired British magical law enforcement.”
“In approximately ninety seconds,” Data said.
Geordi chuckled. “Somebody send them a report.”
Their imagined reconstruction kept growing.
Wands became precision instruments for coupling conscious intention to an ambient magical substrate. Spoken spells and gestures became structured control systems rather than arbitrary theatrical accessories. Magical talent could vary according to sensitivity, processing capacity and control, giving prodigies an identifiable advantage while leaving disciplined practice meaningful. Potions became a genuine experimental science. Transfiguration gained conservation rules, informational limits and stability costs. Charms altered properties through defined categories rather than producing whatever result their names implied.
Even the apparently whimsical parts survived.
Portraits could contain magically constructed personality models derived from the subject rather than literal trapped souls. Ghosts could be persistent patterns produced by rare interactions between consciousness and the magical field. House-elves might access magic through a different biological mechanism, explaining their ability to ignore certain restrictions imposed upon human spellcasting. Magical creatures could possess specialized adaptations to the same underlying phenomenon.
Barclay especially liked that last part. “You could have whole branches of magical biology,” he said. “Dragons don’t breathe fire because dragons are magical. Dragons breathe fire because they have an organ that—”
“Reg,” Geordi said.
“Yes?”
“You’re designing the dragon.”
Barclay stopped. “I know.”
Geordi grinned. “Carry on.”
Barclay did.
By the time they reached Horcruxes, the imaginary magical system had acquired enough structure that Data had begun organizing their ideas into categories on the unused engineering console.
Geordi looked over at the growing list. “You’re taking notes?”
“I believed it would improve the discussion.”
Barclay leaned over to read.
At the top Data had written:
PROPOSED FOUNDATIONAL PRINCIPLES OF MAGICAL INTERACTION
Beneath it were twelve numbered entries.
Geordi laughed. “Data.”
“Yes?”
“We’re reviewing children’s fantasy novels.”
“I am aware.”
“You’ve written a unified field theory for Hogwarts.”
“It remains preliminary.”
Barclay studied the list seriously. He scratched his cheek. “I think number four needs work.”
Geordi stared at him.
Barclay pointed. “Magical energy conservation. We keep assuming there has to be a cost proportional to the effect, but maybe there doesn’t.”
Data turned toward him. “Explain.”
“If magic accesses an external energy source, the caster might only provide activation energy.”
Geordi looked back at the list. “Okay. That actually solves a lot.”
“It would explain how a child can produce an effect requiring far more energy than the child possesses metabolically.”
Geordi watched Data alter the entry.
“We’re really doing this,” Geordi said.
“Yes,” Data agreed.
Barclay nodded. “Apparently.”
Geordi shook his head with an amused smile. “All right. Horcruxes.”
Barclay grimaced.
Data said, “The concept requires a theory of consciousness.”
“Or souls,” Geordi said.
“The novels explicitly treat the soul as an objective phenomenon.”
“Fine. Then define what it does.”
Barclay considered that. “Maybe the soul isn’t the mind. You can damage someone’s brain and change who they are. Memory, personality, intelligence. If souls exist, apparently they don’t simply contain a complete backup copy of the person.”
Geordi nodded. “So the soul could be something closer to continuity.”
“Identity,” Data said.
“Yes, the persistent element that anchors subjective existence.”
Barclay looked pleased. “Then splitting a soul is catastrophic because you’re damaging the structure that keeps consciousness coherent.”
“And a Horcrux,” Geordi said, “anchors one fragment somewhere else.”
Data entered another note.
Barclay leaned closer. “Murder could matter because intentionally destroying another conscious being produces some kind of resonance that allows your own soul structure to be fractured.”
Geordi looked at him. “You’ve thought about this.”
“I finished the last book yesterday.”
“That explains some things.”
Data said, “This model would provide clear consequences. Multiple Horcruxes would progressively destabilize cognition, emotional regulation and perhaps physical integrity.”
“Which fits Voldemort,” Barclay said.
“Pretty well,” Geordi agreed.
Data’s fingers moved rapidly over the controls, and Geordi watched the list acquire subheadings.
“Data, how long is this now?”
“Two thousand, eight hundred and twelve words.”
Barclay looked impressed.
“We’ve been talking for forty minutes,” Geordi said.
“Forty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.”
Geordi rubbed a hand across his face.
Barclay leaned against the console beside him. “It is a better system.”
“Oh, much better.”
Data turned to face them. “However, I believe there is a counterargument.”
Barclay immediately looked interested.
Geordi said, “Let’s hear it.”
“Our modifications would substantially alter the character of the novels.”
Geordi’s expression shifted.
Data continued. “A rigorously structured magical system invites the reader to analyze magic as a technology. Rowling generally presents it as an extension of folklore, fairy tale and childhood imagination. Objects behave according to thematic logic. Words have power. Love has power. Names have power. Certain places possess intrinsic significance. Symbolism frequently substitutes for mechanism.”
Barclay frowned thoughtfully.
“That looseness permits the world to feel larger than whatever explanation has currently been provided,” Data said. “Our model would increase logical coherence while reducing ambiguity.”
Geordi nodded. “You’d lose some of the dream quality.”
“Possibly.”
Barclay looked back at their list. “You wouldn’t have to explain all of it to the reader.”
Data regarded him.
“I mean, the rules could exist without being in the books. Rowling could know them.”
Geordi smiled. “Now that is the important distinction.”
Barclay became more confident. “You don’t need chapter seven to stop so Hermione can explain conservation laws. You just need the author to know them. Then when a problem comes up, the answer comes from the same system every time.”
Data nodded. “Internal consistency need not require explicit exposition.”
“Exactly.”
Geordi looked toward the warp core. Its pulse continued unchanged, blue light rising through Engineering in smooth intervals.
“You know,” he said, “most people on this ship have almost no idea how that works.”
Barclay followed his gaze. “The warp drive?”
“Yeah. They know some basics. Matter, antimatter, warp core, nacelles. Maybe they know we make a subspace field. That’s about it.”
Data said, “Nevertheless, the warp drive operates according to consistent physical principles regardless of whether those principles are known to the observer.”
Geordi pointed toward the core. “There’s the lesson.”
Barclay smiled.
“Magic can look mysterious,” Geordi said. “It can feel mysterious. The characters can misunderstand it. They can have myths about it. They can argue about it for a thousand years.”
“But beneath their imperfect understanding,” Data said, “the phenomenon should possess consistent behavior.”
“Exactly.”
Barclay looked down at the console again. The document had now reached fifteen foundational principles, thirty-two subsidiary propositions and a preliminary taxonomy of magical operations. He read silently for several seconds, the he pointed.
“You know what else makes no sense?”
Geordi already knew from his tone that they were nowhere near finished.
“What?”
“Food.”
Data turned toward him.
Barclay straightened.
“Gamp’s Law.”
Geordi sighed.
“Oh, no.”
“It says you can’t create food from nothing, but you can apparently increase the quantity of food you already have.”
Data’s fingers moved back toward the console.
Geordi watched him. “Data.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t.”
Data’s hand remained poised above the controls.
Geordi held out for perhaps two seconds, then he sighed again and leaned over beside him.
“Fine. New section.”
Data entered a heading.
MAGICAL CONSERVATION OF MATTER
Barclay smiled.
Around them, the Enterprise continued serenely through space while three Starfleet officers, all of whom could have been doing something considerably more useful, began the serious work of repairing the laws of magic.