The dormitory was a tight squeeze for four burgeoning wizards and their piles of books, clothes, and abandoned homework. Despite the late hour, the room was anything but quiet.
The four post-Astronomy students were now crowded around George's bed, the focus of their collective attention resting on the thin, slightly battered volume that was Albert's latest library acquisition: Simple Alchemy.
Albert stood by his own tidy, four-poster bed, stirring the milky depths of a cocoa he'd charmed to a perfect, soothing temperature. He watched the frenzy of whispers, elbow nudges, and stifled snorts of laughter around the book.
He had never anticipated that Simple Alchemy would generate such an explosive appeal among Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. He knew the reason, of course; it had everything to do with the author, Zonko of Zonko's Joke Shop.
Despite the title's promise of simplicity, the text was far from accessible to first-year students. It was written by an eccentric genius, whose grasp of magical principles was undeniable, yet whose application was aimed purely at high-quality novelty. Without a solid foundation in Charms theory and material science, deciphering the true meaning behind Zonko's veiled explanations was a significant challenge.
In Albert's eyes, the twins and Lee Jordan were demonstrating an extraordinary enthusiasm not for alchemy itself, but for the thrilling commercial potential and sheer ingenuity of Zonko's joke props.
They didn't see an ancient magical discipline; they saw the intellectual foundation for their future prank empire. If a true, classical alchemist—a student of Flamel—knew their revered art was being associated with sneezing powder and fake invisibility cloaks, Albert wondered what devastating transmuted item they would produce in their fury.
Albert finished stirring his cocoa, the metal spoon ringing against the porcelain. His primary doubt about Simple Alchemy stemmed from an internal, utterly private source: his System Panel.
As a rule, after reading, hearing, or actively applying relevant knowledge, a corresponding skill would automatically appear on his panel, quantifying his progress. He had read Simple Alchemy cover-to-cover, yet the skill 'Alchemy' had stubbornly refused to materialize.
This absence, more than any ambiguous text, confirmed his suspicion: this was not High-Art Alchemy. This was, at best, a form of brilliant Low-Magic Tinkering—clever applications of existing Charms to create permanent, novelty effects.
He took a slow, measured sip of the warm, spiced beverage. Not a bad start, I suppose, he thought, observing his roommates intently. He had given them a gentle nudge toward magical exploration, but through the lens of pranks. What will happen to them now that they have a quasi-academic framework for their mischief? I am genuinely curious to see the result.
"Aren't you going to eat this?" Albert asked, shaking a biscuit he'd taken a bite of—a simple, cinnamon-dusted treat. "By the way, have any of you actually understood the book, or are you just looking at the pictures?"
"We understand enough to be dangerous," Lee Jordan replied, his voice muffled as he devoured a biscuit George had passed him. "I didn't realize Zonko was actually an expert in magical fixation. The way he describes the 'Invisibility Cloak' as merely an advanced, permanent Disillusionment Charm cast on the fabric itself is genius."
"He's not an expert, Lee, he's a very clever tinkerer," Albert corrected, eating the rest of his biscuit and drinking the last of his cocoa. He stood up and stretched, feeling the satisfying pull in his back. "He has an understanding of magical principles, certainly, or he couldn't produce those joke props. But this isn't true transmutation."
"You've finished the whole book?" Fred choked, grabbing a glass of water from the bedside table. He had taken a bite of the biscuit while talking and inhaled a cloud of cinnamon. "Wait, wait—water!"
Albert smiled thinly and poured Fred a fresh glass. "I finished it. It's a short read. When you're done studying it, I need to go to the Library to return it tomorrow. If you want a more permanent copy, you'll have to come with me and borrow one yourself."
Fred finally recovered, wiping his mouth. "Okay, I'll go with you tomorrow. You can help me fill out the form for the Restricted Section."
"Restricted Section?" George scoffed, picking up his own biscuit. "He's not taking us to the Restricted Section for this! Anyway, have you ever thought about..."
"No," Albert interrupted instantly, before George could get past the pause in his sentence.
George stared at him, genuinely speechless. "I haven't even finished my question, you know!"
"It's not hard to guess your little thoughts, George," Albert said, adopting a theatrical, world-weary expression. "You're thinking about applying Zonko's principles to something bigger, aren't you? Alchemy is at least third-year content. It's far too complicated for you right now, and I guarantee you've misunderstood the critical components of the book."
"We don't believe you can't understand it, Albert," Fred challenged, curling his lip. He knew Albert's habits: the opposite of 'painful reading' was an intriguing challenge.
"Being able to understand a concept and being able to successfully execute the process are two fundamentally different things," Albert stressed, his tone turning serious. "Alchemy is not as simple as you think. And remember, that book is mostly a joke, a cynical commentary on high-magic."
"We didn't say we wanted to practice full alchemy," Fred said, his eyes glinting with cunning. "We just want to make the most ridiculous, high-quality joke items possible for our own stock. So, the alchemy we want..."
Albert sighed, conceding the point. He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out the small, crude wooden cross—the result of his Diffindo practice on the branch Hagrid had given him. It was simple, unpolished, and entirely inert. He tossed it to George.
"The wood itself, as Professor Broad explained, has a low-level, natural protective aura against Dark Creatures," Albert explained. "If you want to practice, start with the cutting spell to make these. Once you have a decent stock, I can show you how to attempt the 'alchemical' finishing process."
"You're trying to con us again!" Fred accused, his face a mask of disbelief. "Besides, don't you think this cross is almost embarrassingly ugly? My Gran could whittle something better."
"Albert said this thing is worth two Galleons!" Lee Jordan exclaimed, recounting the earlier conversation, though he was now entirely skeptical.
"Two Galleons?" Fred and George's voices rose in unison. They looked the rough, uneven cross up and down, searching desperately for any evidence of its supposed high value.
"That's right," Albert confirmed smoothly, maintaining perfect eye contact. "It's made from the wood of the Whomping Willow. Most amulets sold in Knockturn Alley are made from the same raw material, which is why they come in all sorts of elaborately carved styles. They all promise the natural protection of the Whomping Willow."
"But does this piece of junk actually work?" Fred asked, unconvinced by the look of the crude piece of wood.
"On the contrary, the effect of this thing is... extremely poor," Albert said, watching their excitement deflate before he delivered the punchline. "But according to Zonko's recipe for the Garlic Cross, as long as you soak this cross in crushed garlic extract, take it out to dry, and then repeat the process several times, you can create a cross that perpetually wards off Vampires through scent."
"That's a brilliant idea!" George's eyes lit up, the initial disappointment vanishing instantly. "Just give me the cross. We can easily make a dozen of these, and then we have an entire line of garlic-infused defense charms!"
"But where do we get the garlic?" Fred asked, now entirely focused on the logistical challenge. "We'd need massive amounts for the multiple pickle and dry cycles to get the scent to stick."
"You could always wait and try it after the Christmas holidays, once you're at home," Albert suggested, trying to head off the inevitable. He did not want the entire Gryffindor dorm smelling like a Sicilian vampire-hunting arsenal.
"No, that's too long!" George immediately protested. "We could be running tests by next week! There should be garlic in the school kitchens!" He leaped off the bed, his mind working at high speed. "We can just ask the House Elves for some."
Albert raised an eyebrow. "If you wanted to eat garlic, the House Elves would happily oblige. But if they realize you plan to waste a large volume of their stock on a silly joke...?" Albert let the threat hang in the air, a mischievous smile touching his lips.
"Even if they gave it to you, imagine your mother's reaction when she discovers you've spent your Galleons or, worse, wasted school resources. A Howler would likely arrive the next morning."
Fred shrank back onto the bed, physically recoiling at the thought of the inevitable Howler from Mrs. Weasley.
George, however, was undeterred. The House Elf/Howler loophole simply forced his creative mind to pivot. "Wait! We can get the initial small supply of garlic from the kitchen for testing, and then... we'll use Hagrid's vegetable patch to grow our own industrial supply! If we have our own perpetual garlic supply, we don't have to worry about wasting school stock or getting a Howler!"
"That's ingenious!" Lee Jordan clapped his hands, utterly impressed by the sheer scale of the plan.
"What kind of crazy operation is this?" Albert was truly shocked. He'd intended to give them a funny anecdote, not inspire a black-market garlic farming operation. For the first time since coming to Hogwarts, he felt completely out of sync with his roommates, realizing the terrifying, practical application of their chaotic energy.
"Are you honestly planning on becoming garlic farmers?" he asked, trying to confirm the absurdity.
"Of course," the twins said in unison, beaming with pride at their entrepreneurial resourcefulness. "It's the only way to scale the production of the Garlic Cross."
"Do either of you know the first thing about growing garlic?" Albert pressed, a desperate, last-ditch attempt at common sense.
"No," George admitted easily. "But Hagrid certainly does."
Albert's face twitched, the sheer genius and impending disaster of the idea hitting him simultaneously. He gave up, deciding that the impending chaos of a garlic-smelling dormitory was a problem for future Albert.
He knew, with a certainty that chilled him more than the draft from the window, that Hagrid, in his boundless, well-meaning enthusiasm, would absolutely agree to let them "experiment" in his garden. The Whomping Willow wood may have failed as a permanent protective amulet, but it had succeeded spectacularly in launching a bizarre, alchemical agricultural venture.
The Whomping Willow wood has led to an unintended agricultural scheme. Do you want to try and join the twins' inevitable meeting with Hagrid to steer their garlic farming towards a less explosive outcome, or will you use your trip to the Library to find a more legitimate Alchemy book first?