The magical craftsmanship of Fred and George Weasley was a legacy of the Weasley family—a treasure trove of knowledge they'd unearthed themselves, digging through their father Arthur's old books and blueprints.
Arthur Weasley was no stranger to magical inventions himself. Take that flying car, for instance—it soared thanks to the family's centuries-old techniques for enchanting magical objects.
In the Burrow's sitting room hung a truly extraordinary clock.
Its face was adorned with nine golden hands, each one engraved with a family member's name. But what made it remarkable wasn't just the hands—the clock face bore no numbers, only words like "Home," "School," and "Work." At what would be twelve o'clock on a regular clock, in blood-red letters, it read: "Mortal Peril."
Fred and George once confessed that, years ago, when they'd tried to prank Ron with a magical contract—something dangerously close to an Unbreakable Vow—his name had swung straight to "Mortal Peril."
This peculiar clock had been brought from the Weasley ancestral home when Arthur set up the Burrow, another testament to the family's long tradition of magical ingenuity.
Yet, not everyone in the family shared this passion. Bill was off breaking curses for Gringotts, Charlie wrangled dragons in Romania, and Percy aspired to the Ministry of Magic. Only Fred and George had inherited the itch to create—and prank—with magical gadgets uniquely their own.
Wyzett's own Grindelwald Notebook also contained arcane methods for crafting magical objects. It described how to use alchemy to concoct magical powders, then bind them to items through Transfiguration—Wyzett's specialty.
Leafing through the notebook, Wyzett could sense the ambition and genius of both Grindelwald and Dumbledore—two wizards who had once dreamed of changing not only the wizarding world, but the Muggle world as well… only to become adversaries, one imprisoned, one returning to Hogwarts.
Most of the methods in the notebook required a formidable breadth of magical knowledge. The simpler techniques, Wyzett had already used in the Christmas gift he'd crafted for Luna during his first year. But to truly unlock the notebook's secrets, he'd need to learn much, much more.
So when Fred and George invited him to join in their magical mischief, Wyzett jumped at the chance. To him, learning from many sources was the only way to master magic—and observing the entire process of magical item creation was a rare treat.
The twins' first step was to define exactly what prank effect they wanted. For the nose-biting teacup, it had to sprout teeth and chomp down on the user's nose at just the right moment.
As a prank item, the nose-biting mechanism had to be safe—easily dispelled by a basic counter-curse. If they couldn't guarantee that, they'd risk Ministry officials showing up at their door, ready to "invite" them in for a chat.
Fred and George might be mischief-makers, but they were responsible ones. They weighed the risks, always careful not to cross the line from harmless fun to real danger. After all, in the wizarding world, most injuries could be healed with a flick of a wand or a dose of potion—but that was no excuse for recklessness.
The second step was alchemy: creating a magical powder capable of holding an enchantment. Even with their inherited knowledge, it had taken the twins months of experimentation—starting in the summer holidays and only perfecting it in recent days—to discover the right formula for the nose-biting powder.
Once they'd settled on the ingredients and fine-tuned the proportions, it was time for the third step: enchantment.
Here, their approach diverged from the methods in Grindelwald's Notebook. The twins pulled out a Runes Dictionary and, using the runic inscriptions they'd seen in Wendelin the Weird's memory, searched for the correct symbols.
With runes inscribed, magical powder in place, and the proper spell cast, the enchantment was complete. The final step was a bit of finishing work—and just like that, the magical item was ready.
Throughout the process, Wyzett and the twins shared ideas and insights, each bringing their own strengths to the table.
"So you can make magical items like this too?" Fred mused, rubbing his chin. "That's a real eye-opener!"
"Switching to willow for the cup's frame to make it more flexible—that's genius!" George marveled. "Wyzett, where do you even learn all this stuff?"
Wyzett shrugged modestly. "A bit of everything—various notebooks, and the Restricted Section…"
"The Restricted Section?" George scratched his head. "We've snuck in a few times, but it's a nightmare trying to find anything useful in that mess."
"That's the difference between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw," Fred laughed. "But you're one of us now, Wyzett. If we have questions, we'll just ask you directly!"
By combining Wyzett's "Cube Theory," the techniques from Wendelin's memory, and the Weasley twins' ancestral know-how, they dramatically cut the cost of producing nose-biting teacups.
The twins understood the value of small profits and big sales, so they lowered the price, betting that when students wanted a nose-biting teacup, they'd think of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes first. That was the real path to success.
Wyzett joined in the crafting, eager to gain experience and pass the time until the full moon.
Before he knew it, a week had slipped by.
One night, Wyzett climbed the Astronomy Tower, a Mandrake leaf in hand.
Luck was with him—the sky was clear, the moon round and brilliant, and through the telescope, he could even glimpse one of Jupiter's moons.
When he took out the Mandrake leaf, he noticed its surface now shimmered with a soft, silvery glow—like moonlight itself had settled on the leaf, drawn in by some invisible force.
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