"Is there no satellite around Mars?" Fred mumbled, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was hunched over his desk in the Gryffindor common room, furiously trying to make up for a lapse in his academic vigilance.
The subject was Astronomy, and the assignment, now looming near its deadline, required precision and a solid grasp of Muggle celestial knowledge.
Albert, sitting across from him, barely glanced up from the book currently occupying his attention. He was immersed in the text, yet the information Fred required was stored and instantly accessible in his mind.
"Mars has two satellites, Phobos and Deimos, but they're relatively tiny—barely more than captured asteroids," he stated, flipping a page.
"The rule of thumb holds: the closer a planet orbits the sun, the less stable its gravitational pull is for forming or capturing significant moons. Mercury and Venus don't have any at all."
"Right, right," Fred muttered, hastily drawing two microscopic circles near the depiction of the red planet on his parchment. "Then... Mercury and Venus, which one orbits closer to the Sun?"
"Mercury," Albert answered immediately, without pause. "It's the innermost planet."
Fred made a triumphant mark. The sheer efficiency of getting answers from Albert while pretending to study meant the painful task of Astronomy homework was minimized.
After another few minutes of rapid-fire questioning—where Albert effortlessly supplied data on Jupiter's numerous moons and the precise rings of Saturn—Fred finally groaned, pushed back from the desk, and stretched dramatically, letting out a loud, satisfying crack from his spine.
"Finally caught up," Fred declared, passing the crumpled parchment across the table to Albert. "Help me check the calculations and diagram. Are the orbits right? I need a perfect score to offset the zero I almost got."
The homework for Astronomy class required students to sketch an accurate star map of the solar system, detailing the major planets, their orbital paths, and the exact count of their confirmed satellites.
Albert sighed, laying his own book down and taking the parchment. His eyes scanned the diagram, instantly identifying a critical error in celestial mechanics that a basic orbital chart would reveal.
"You've swapped the orbits, Fred. The positions of Saturn and Jupiter are wrong. Jupiter orbits closer to the sun than Saturn."
Fred snatched the parchment back with a grunt of frustration, correcting the massive, swirling rings of Saturn to an outer orbit.
Once the egregious error was fixed, he picked up a half-eaten green apple from the desk, took a large bite, and turned to George, who was reclining nearby. "Are you done, you lazy git?"
George, always calmer under pressure, flashed a smug, satisfied grin. "Oh, I finished hours ago."
Fred glared, chewing his apple loudly. "Traitor! You finished your homework secretly without telling me and didn't even drop a hint?"
"I asked you yesterday if you wanted to work on it together in the library, and you said you had a 'pressing engagement' with the Quidditch pitch," George countered, rolling his eyes. "Who can you possibly blame? I still remember your exact words..."
Lee Jordan, who had just finished his own Charms essay thanks in part to Albert's occasional interjections on wand core theory, laughed. "When you're finished, George, lend it to me to check my answers."
"See? That's what you said," Fred accused George. "The principle of shared academic misery!"
"You didn't even ask to copy mine!" George argued, thoroughly enjoying the pre-lunch banter.
The twins quickly escalated into their usual, theatrical bickering—a familiar sound of lighthearted, competitive disagreement that filled the common room. In truth, they were simply bored; if they had been actively plotting their next prank, the argument would have been far more focused.
"Alright, peace, you two," Lee interjected, sliding his chair closer to Albert's desk, genuinely curious. "Albert, what book is so fascinating that you're ignoring the opportunity to mock the twins?"
"Alchemy for Dummies," Albert said, closing the thin volume and turning the cover over so Lee could read the title. This was the introductory text, formally called Simple Alchemy, that Professor Broad had so enthusiastically recommended in their conversation about preserving the protective aura of the Whomping Willow wood.
"Alchemy? They don't even teach that here," Angelina Johnson commented, walking over to join the group. She was holding the heavy brass monocular required for Astronomy class.
She sat down two chairs away from Albert. "When are we heading up to the Astronomy Tower? It looks like we'll be on the verge of missing class if we delay."
"I'll give it ten more minutes," Albert replied, checking his pocket watch and setting it back on his desk. "I have no desire to be the first one in that cold tower, freezing on the observation deck before the bell even rings." He picked up the book again, running a critical finger over the cover.
It was infuriatingly thin. Albert knew, with a pang of professional literary frustration, that even completing this entire volume wouldn't qualify toward the reading count for the coveted Reading Maniac achievement he was passively pursuing.
And then there was the author. The tiny, slightly blurry print on the spine read: Zuko.
Yes, that's the Zonko from Zonko's Joke Shop in Hogsmeade.
Albert had to fight a genuine smile. His initial surprise was profound, followed instantly by a wave of sinking suspicion. It wasn't hard to guess what a joke shop owner's guide to alchemy might contain.
Albert began flipping through the chapters again, his expression growing more perplexed and occasionally, reluctantly, amused.
The book wasn't technically incorrect, but its focus was utterly perverse. It essentially told the reader that many supposedly high-end, complex alchemical items were just incredibly elaborate applications of simple Charms.
The book claimed that the legendary Invisibility Cloak, the coveted artifact that sounded so exclusive and high-end, was essentially a mundane cloth item that had been permanently cast with an incredibly subtle and complex Eye-Blinding Charm (or a Disillusionment Charm variant) focused only on the fabric.
The result was a 'Cloak cast with an Eye-Blinding Spell,' which Zonko, in a masterpiece of cynical rebranding, simply called an Invisibility Cloak.
Similarly, Zonko detailed how the Sleight of Hand Spell, typically used for simple parlor tricks, could be used to disguise an object, making it appear as a nondescript, inconspicuous stone on the roadside, or perhaps a rusty bucket.
Albert's internal monologue was a cascade of analytical disappointment. For most wizards, using a Blinding Charm on a cloak was seen as incredibly unnecessary, bordering on idiotic, when they could simply cast the same (or a better) charm directly upon themselves. Why waste the time and effort on the fabric?
Albert finally found the section he was searching for—the part Professor Broad had alluded to—the method for making amulets. He had hoped for some obscure principle of magical material fixation. What he found was the design for an amulet utilizing a crude Expulsion Spell.
The amulet made with the Expulsion Spell could indeed effectively repel some minor Dark Creatures, functioning as a physical barrier.
However, the catch—the hilarious, Zonko-esque flaw—was that the constant, passive repelling effect of the amulet would also repel anything attempting to approach the wearer, including vital communication tools.
Specifically, the amulet made it extremely difficult to receive mail from an owl, as the continuous repelling field would actively deter the creature from landing near the wearer.
Albert realized that wizards who used this method were typically those with a very ordinary spell level; they couldn't cast a controlled, nuanced charm, so they brute-forced a broad, permanent repulsion field.
The resulting item, adhering to Zonko's strengths, was clearly made more for the sake of an elaborate prank than genuine utility.
As he finished the final pages, Albert felt the name of the book should be changed entirely; Strange Alchemy or Alchemy's Practical Jokes would be far more appropriate titles.
The Garlic Cross and The Disgrace
In particular, the book concluded with the record of an alchemical item that was said to be able to drive away Vampires—the utterly ridiculous Garlic Cross.
When Albert saw the name, he couldn't stop a genuine, reluctant laugh from escaping his throat.
The item was precisely as its name described: it leveraged the fact that Vampires disliked the scent of garlic to create a cross that perpetually smelled of the pungent bulb. The book provided a simple, if bizarre, recipe for the Garlic Cross:
Craft a simple wooden cross (using Whomping Willow was suggested but not mandatory, as the wood's magic was irrelevant to the final effect).
Extract the oil from crushed garlic using high-proof alcohol.
Mix the extracted garlic oil with a medium, such as melted beeswax or a simple essential oil, over a gentle heated water bath.
Finally, thoroughly apply the stinking mixture to the cross, ensuring it was saturated with an overpowering, persistent garlic scent.
The thought of walking around Hogwarts carrying a cross that continuously radiated the potent, aggressive odor of garlic was bizarrely funny. The utility was negligible; the comedic effect was immense.
This book is an absolute disgrace to the pursuit of serious, classical alchemy! Albert thought, closing the volume with a definitive snap.
"Is alchemy actually interesting?" Fred asked casually, watching Albert's fluctuating expressions.
"Interesting? No," Albert said, carefully considering his words. "Alchemy, as a pursuit of elemental transmutation and preservation, is not what this book is about. But this book is certainly interesting."
He handed it to Fred. "After reading this, my entire understanding of what constitutes 'alchemy' in the modern wizarding world has definitely changed."
Fred flipped through a few pages, his eyes scanning the dense, though humorously interpreted, magical theory. He shook his head regretfully. "It's still too advanced for us, I think. We can't make sense of these principles, even if the author is a clown."
"If there were a formal Alchemy course at Hogwarts, it would be a third-year elective," Albert conceded. "It's a shame we don't have it."
"Let me see!" George snatched the book from Fred and started flipping through it rapidly, clearly looking for any diagrams or formulas related to joke items. Suddenly, he let out a sharp, excited yelp that startled several nearby students.
"What are you yelling about, George?" Lee Jordan glared unhappily at the interruption.
"Look, you clearly haven't figured out who the author of this tome is!" George exclaimed, his eyes shining.
"Who is the author?"
"Zonko!" George announced triumphantly, already deeply absorbed in the section detailing the creation of his famously unstable sneezing powder.
"The Zonko from Zonko's Joke Shop?" Lee and Fred asked in unison, disbelief turning to sheer amusement.
"Yes, that's him," Albert said, ignoring the resentful look George gave him for exposing the author's identity. He firmly took the book back and tucked it into his bag.
"Let's go. Astronomy class is about to start. If you're truly interested in that book, I assure you there will be plenty of time to read it later."
As the four of them climbed the winding spiral staircase toward the Astronomy Tower, George was still buzzing. "But why did you suddenly become interested in this version of alchemy?"
"When Professor Broad and I were discussing Defense Against the Dark Arts, the topic of amulets came up—specifically, using Whomping Willow wood for its innate protection,"
Albert explained, maintaining a perfectly helpless expression. "He suggested I take a look at Simple Alchemy. I dutifully went to the library to borrow it." He shrugged. "I suppose I didn't expect the contents to be quite so... Zonko-esque."
Albert was still mulling over the conversation. Was the bizarre content in the book truly considered alchemy by some wizards? Was Professor Broad simply testing Albert's critical thinking, or did he genuinely believe that a Zonko-crafted Garlic Cross represented a valid, if ridiculous, application of material science?
Albert reserved his doubts, but one thing was certain: the book had provided an unintended education in the intersection of magical theory and low-brow entrepreneurial comedy.
Professor Broad clearly has a sense of humor. Given that you've ruled out Zonko's methods for serious magical protection, what's your next move for learning the proper alchemical fixation process to make a permanent Whomping Willow talisman?