"Alright, that concludes the lesson for today. Don't forget that your homework—a three-foot parchment detailing the defensive applications of the Flame-Freezing Charm—is due Monday."
Professor Broad announced the end of the Defense Against the Dark Arts class with a final, firm clap of his hands. The students immediately erupted in the familiar cacophony of quills, ink bottles, and textbook spines slamming shut as they eagerly packed up to embrace the freedom of the weekend.
Albert deliberately held back, moving slowly to organize his notes on the desk. He ensured that the last students—a small group of Hufflepuffs—had filed out before he approached the professor's worn, mahogany desk.
"Professor Broad?" Albert inquired, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag.
The Professor, a man known for his perpetual air of focused contemplation, looked up at Albert. His eyes, though framed by kind wrinkles, held a sharp, analytical spark. "Ah, Mr. Anderson. I suspected you might have a question. Something beyond the simple homework, I assume?"
"Yes, sir. I do," Albert confirmed immediately, maintaining his polite, studious facade.
"I was reviewing the section on Grindylows at the back of my borrowed copy of Dark Powers: A Guide to Self-Defense. It mentioned their vulnerability to certain magical woods. That reminded me of the powerful, unique tree you mentioned in our very first lecture—the Whomping Willow."
Professor Broad leaned back in his chair, a look of distinct pleasure spreading across his face.
"Excellent connection, Mr. Anderson. Very logical thinking. You wish to know if the wood of the Whomping Willow can effectively protect a witch or wizard from the aggressive attacks of an aquatic Dark Creature like the Grindylow?"
"Exactly," Albert nodded. His core objective was not merely immediate safety but the development of principles of passive, innate magical defense—a core tenet of his 'Idle Wizard' philosophy.
If he could find a way to deploy effortless, continuous protection, it would drastically reduce his magical expenditure during unexpected or active conflicts.
"In theory... yes, it should be possible," Professor Broad replied, raising one hand to point vaguely out the tall, gothic window towards the Forbidden Forest, where the massive, aggressive tree stood watch. He paused, noticing the knot of students—Fred, George, and Lee Jordan—who were waiting for Albert near the corridor entrance.
Albert turned, waved a reassuring dismissal at them, and they understood the signal, heading off down the hall. "They can wait," Albert confirmed, turning back to the Professor.
"The key word there, Mr. Anderson, is 'theoretical'," Professor Broad said, lowering his voice slightly. He was clearly pleased that a student had grasped this nuance.
"The Whomping Willow is a documented magical marvel—a rarity that possesses an aggressively defensive aura. However, the texts, particularly One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, state that anyone who touches the sapwood or heartwood of a fallen branch is momentarily protected from a wide range of Dark Creatures—Grindylows, Inferi, even werewolves under the full moon. The magic is innate; a powerful biological defense mechanism that radiates outward, even when the wood is severed."
"But you say 'theoretical'?" Albert prompted, sensing the vital qualification.
Professor Broad looked out the window again, his eyes distant, lost in a fleeting, private memory. "When I was merely a boy, a good friend—a fascinating, slightly eccentric fellow, even then—gave me an amulet. He claimed it was fashioned from a piece of dormant Whomping Willow branch and promised it would repel everything from Dementors to Acromantulas."
"Did it truly work?" Albert asked, a flicker of genuine curiosity cutting through his analytical calm.
"Yes, it did," Professor Broad confirmed with a thoughtful nod. "Though certainly not to the exaggerated extent he claimed. The amulet acted as a minor, persistent ward. It could indeed repel the lesser Dark Creatures and offer a slight deterrent against more powerful ones. It ensured one was rarely interfered with during solitary travels through the wilderness."
"And that amulet was definitely fashioned from Whomping Willow wood?" Albert connected the dots immediately. If the raw material was effective, the challenge lay in its preservation and application.
"It was," Professor Broad confirmed. "But here lies the problem: the effect gradually, almost imperceptibly, weakened over time. After about two years, it was merely a nice piece of wood."
"Ah," Albert mused silently. The protective essence was volatile; it evaporated rapidly when separated from the living tree.
Professor Broad chuckled, recalling the memory. "After it lost its effect, I pestered him for a replacement. He refused, simply telling me to soak the original amulet in crushed garlic. He swore that would ward off Vampires."
The Professor shook his head at the lingering absurdity. "I followed his suggestion, soaked the little wooden token for an entire day. Naturally, the only thing it did was smell overpoweringly of garlic."
"So, the Muggle myths—are Vampires really afraid of garlic and crosses?" Albert asked, filing the potential scent-based defense mechanism away for future use.
"Afraid? No. Dislike is the correct term," Professor Broad corrected firmly. "Vampires detest the intense scent of garlic. It is a sensory stimulus, a continuous irritation—like someone constantly chasing you with something utterly repulsive. It doesn't physically harm them, but it is certainly a powerful deterrent for basic encounter avoidance."
"And the cross?"
"The cross, historically, is a fascinating case. Early Muggles unknowingly used branches from magical trees like the Whomping Willow to fashion their religious symbols," Professor Broad explained.
"In those very first instances, the cross did possess a minimal, latent protective effect inherited from the wood. However, that magical potency faded centuries ago. Now, the power of the cross is entirely symbolic—it provides courage and faith to the bearer, not magical defense against a Vampire."
"So, they are not magically repelled by the cross at all?" Albert summarized.
"Precisely. They are immune to the symbol itself," the Professor said, bringing the conversation back to the wood. "Later in my life, I saw cheap amulets being sold in Knockturn Alley. I purchased one for two Galleons—claiming to be made of Whomping Willow wood, of course."
"And it had no effect?" Albert guessed the likely outcome of commercialized magical goods.
"No, it's not that it had 'no effect,' but the effect was... negligible. I'd say it possessed about a fraction of the power of my childhood amulet," Professor Broad grinned wryly.
"Why the drastic difference?"
"That is the question, Mr. Anderson," Professor Broad said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air. "And what is your theory?"
Albert frowned, considering the factors: powerful raw material, natural potency, time, and human processing. "The amulet is made of the right wood, but the natural protective essence of the tree isn't being preserved in the carving process. It simply leaks out or dissipates."
"Excellent deduction," the Professor praised. "Now, do you know what the key difference between a piece of raw, carved wood and a piece of wood that retains its magical integrity over time is?"
"I don't," Albert admitted, reaching a wall in his theoretical knowledge. "Is it a specialized preservation charm?"
"Tell me, Mr. Anderson, do you know anything about Alchemy?" Professor Broad abruptly changed the subject.
"I do," Albert replied without hesitation. "In the Muggle world, it's recorded as the ancient predecessor to Chemistry."
Professor Broad looked momentarily stunned, a rare feat. "Chemistry? I'm afraid I don't know that term, my boy."
"My apologies, sir," Albert quickly smoothed over the terminology gaffe. "It's a Muggle scientific concept. I simply meant that Muggle histories view so-called alchemy as the earliest form of systematic chemical experimentation."
"Ah, I see. A Muggle classification," the Professor mused, recovering quickly.
"In the wizarding world, however, Alchemy is much more profound. It is less a science and more a deep, complex magical art form that encompasses transmutation, preservation, and the fundamental properties of matter. It's a profound subject, Albert—unfortunately not a core subject at Hogwarts, only offered as an advanced course in African and Egyptian magical schools."
"You believe the amulet I seek must be an alchemical item," Albert stated, immediately bridging the gap.
"Yes," Professor Broad confirmed, radiating approval.
"Only an amulet that has undergone an alchemical process—a process of infusion, fixation, or specialized calcination—can be considered a true talisman. This is the only way to effectively preserve and bind the latent protective magic of the Whomping Willow wood. The alchemist doesn't just carve the wood; they must actively stabilize the magic within the very cellular structure of the material. Only such a talisman could reliably ensure that when you wear it and cross a swamp or a dark lake, the Grindylows will not even notice you."
"I see," Albert said, the realization settling in his mind. The efficiency of permanent, effortless protection was his ultimate goal.
"I must caution you against buying any amulets on the market," the Professor added sternly. "They are invariably the work of charlatans. Even if the wood is genuine Whomping Willow, it is useless if the magic is permitted to evaporate. Two Galleons for a piece of untreated wood is an outright scam."
"Because it hasn't been processed by an alchemist," Albert asked.
"That's right," Professor Broad agreed. He then looked directly at Albert and said, "I have a strong suspicion you want to make a talisman yourself, correct?"
"Yes, sir. I want to make a talisman for my sister. Her birthday is coming soon," Albert said, pulling out the small, rough cross he had made earlier. He avoided the Professor's gaze; while he didn't detect any use of Legilimency, he preferred to maintain the illusion of simple sentimentality over scientific ambition.
"This is indeed wood from the Whomping Willow," Professor Broad said, taking the crude cross, which was merely a product of his Diffindo practice. He looked it over and joked, "But it's of very low quality, Mr. Anderson. I bet it won't sell for more than two Sickles, let alone two Galleons."
"I know, sir," Albert chuckled, unoffended.
"If you want to create a truly effective amulet, I suggest you look into books on Alchemy," Professor Broad recommended. "If it were anyone else, I might not suggest this yet. After all, it's at least a third-year elective subject. But given your unique gifts, I don't think the foundational theory will be too difficult for you."
"Any recommendations?" Albert asked, already formulating his plan for a trip to the Library.
"Look for Simple Alchemy," Professor Broad replied, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I prefer to call it Alchemy for Dummies. It covers the basic principles of magical material fixation and preservation." He checked his pocket watch.
"Well, I have another class later, Mr. Anderson. If you still want to discuss the finer points of Defense Against the Dark Arts, or perhaps the theory of passive magical barriers, I suggest you come by the DADA office this weekend."
Albert thanked him and departed, his mind already churning through the possibilities. The key was no longer raw magic or offensive spells, but alchemical permanence.
He needed to learn how to fix the volatile, inherent magic of the Whomping Willow into a lasting protective talisman. This new pursuit promised maximum gain with minimum active effort—the perfect path for an Idle Wizard.
The search is on for "Simple Alchemy." Do you want to try and locate the book in the Library's general collection first, or head straight to the Restricted Section for potentially more advanced information?