Albert was tucked away in his favorite corner of the Hogwarts library, the towering shelves offering him a rare sanctuary from the recent corridor skirmishes. He was leaning back in his chair, chin propped on one hand, the other idly turning the glossy, scented pages of the Wiggenweld Wizard Clothing Catalog.
The vibrant images of enchanted scarves and self-tying bow ties offered little inspiration for the task at hand: choosing the perfect Christmas gift for his sister, Nia.
He had originally envisioned something unique, something powerful, perhaps a handcrafted protective talisman. But after weeks of diligent research, Albert had shelved that ambitious idea. He realized his initial concept—a simple object, cast with a quick Protego charm—was hopelessly naive.
Wizards could easily imbue objects with transient magic; a charm on a coat to dry it, or a spell on a tea kettle to keep it endlessly warm. But that magic, though convenient, was fundamentally ephemeral.
The enchantment would fade over time, sometimes weeks, sometimes months, leaving the object mundane. Presenting Nia with an amulet that would soon become a useless trinket felt both aesthetically and magically unacceptable.
To create a durable magical artifact—the kind that held its power for decades or centuries—required a meticulous process far beyond basic charm work. First, the raw materials themselves needed intrinsic magical properties (like a moonstone or the wood from a guardian tree).
Next, the creation required a complex, layered ritual of spell-casting throughout the manufacturing process, subtly weaving the intention into the structure of the item. Only then was the final, powerful spell cast. Crucially, the longevity and potency of the finished item were directly proportional to the caster's sheer magical skill and force of will.
In ancient times, the most potent artifacts were stabilized and empowered by the use of Ancient Runes. Wizards would meticulously carve protective glyphs into the item, locking the magic in place and feeding it supplemental energy.
This complex craft, however, had largely fallen into disuse and obscurity. The knowledge necessary to successfully combine casting, material science, and runic encryption had faded from common magical practice, leaving only the barest outline in dusty texts.
Albert realized he wasn't looking to create a simple charm; he was aiming for the foundational discipline of Alchemy.
Albert delved into the history of the discipline. Alchemy, he learned, wasn't originally about turning lead into gold. Its roots lay in ancient Egyptian and Greek attempts to understand the fundamental nature of creation—the mysteries of magic, the transformation of matter, and early cosmology. When the knowledge reached Western Europe, it became codified and often misunderstood.
He had even managed to access and memorize the famous ancient text, The Emerald Tablet (or Tabula Smaragdina), held in the restricted section. He recalled the dense, cryptic opening lines:
As it is above, so it is below; thus the miracle of the One Thing is accomplished.All things are originally of the One Thing, and are created from the One Thing through differentiation…
Albert had forced himself to commit the text to memory, yet he still couldn't grasp its profound, underlying meaning. Was it a blueprint for the universe? A spell for existential transformation? He felt as if he were staring through a keyhole at an infinite landscape.
The ancient texts were filled with layers of symbolic complexity, and he knew that true comprehension of the Emerald Tablet would require not just reading, but an intellectual and magical breakthrough—perhaps an epiphany that could only come once he had practical alchemical skills.
Over centuries, the goals of alchemy narrowed. It became fixated on the literal transformation of metals, leading to the unfortunate mislabeling of mere metalworkers as "alchemists." However, the genuine, higher form of the art reached its peak through the efforts of great thinkers like Thomas von Aquinas and, later, Nicolas Flamel.
Flamel, building on the theoretical structure proposed by Raymond Lull—the hypothesis of the Philosopher's Stone—successfully created the legendary substance.
The Philosopher's Stone was the ultimate alchemical achievement, capable of completing the perfect material transformation (transmutation of base metals into pure gold) and creating the Elixir of Life (immortality). Flamel stood as the unchallenged pinnacle of European alchemy.
Yet, after Flamel, the study of material transformation largely migrated into Potion-making, while the creation of magical artifacts fell to specialized artisans like the Goblins.
For a time, Goblins were the unrivaled masters of metalwork, capable of forging pure, magically resonant silver—a metal akin to the mythical mithril—but even their finest secrets were eventually lost, leaving the field open only to the most profound theoretical wizards.
In the modern age, alchemy had almost entirely devolved into mysticism, often encompassing simple, temporary charming techniques that true practitioners scoffed at.
The reality was crushing: Albert was simply too early in his magical journey to craft an amulet of protective permanence. He lacked the profound understanding of Runes and the sheer magical raw power required for the stability and longevity of true alchemical encryption.
He reluctantly abandoned the dream amulet—a hypothetical object combining Guardian Tree wood (for steadfastness), yew (for death-defying protection), and a deeply cut garnet (the stone of life and protection). The cornerstone of its power would have been the Aivaz Rune, symbolizing defense and shelter, layered with other complementary glyphs. But the knowledge was simply out of reach.
Fortunately, Albert already had a backup gift in progress, inspired by a very different, and much more practical, branch of magic: basic Motion Charms combined with engineering.
His new project was a Griffin Automaton, the proud symbol of Gryffindor House.
The inspiration for the model came from the astonishing, full-scale animated model of the Hungarian Horntail used during the Triwizard Tournament demonstration—a beast that had moved and roared with magical realism.
Albert had quietly visited the spiral staircase leading to Dumbledore's office on the third floor, spending hours observing the magnificent stone griffin statue that guarded the entrance. He used his upgraded Carving skill, refined through rigorous practice, and his wand to take detailed measurements and mental photographs from every conceivable angle.
Using durable, lightly enchanted wood—some of which Hagrid had unknowingly provided—Albert had carefully pieced together the model. The wings, hinged with tiny, intricate brass gears he'd charmed himself, were the masterpiece.
While it was incapable of genuine flight (that would require far more powerful Transfiguration or Animation magic), a sustained Basic Motion Charm could make the wooden griffin gracefully flap its wings and turn its head. The item was a blend of Muggle mechanics and nascent magical engineering, perfectly suited to his current skill set.
As he finished sketching a final structural diagram for the griffin's tail assembly, a profound realization struck him—a moment of clarity born from his recently acquired economics skill set.
Why stop at one griffin?
The market for high-quality, enchanted models of magical creatures was completely untapped. Imagine a line of self-folding Pegasus models, miniature, roaring Nifflers, or animated Thestrals. Albert realized he possessed a unique combination of magical talent, Muggle engineering knowledge (gears, stress points, motors), and an understanding of scalable production.
This wasn't just a gift; it was a business plan. He could secure the necessary initial investment, handle the technological development (the enchanting schemas and mechanical design), and then hire an actual craftsman to produce the items.
He already had a candidate in mind for a future partner: a talented but overlooked wizard who had been recently and aggressively marginalized by his peers—a person whose pride had been wounded and whose ambition had been stifled. A person who might be looking for an opportunity to prove his worth and make a small fortune far away from the petty rivalries of school life.
Albert folded the catalog, his mind no longer on scarves but on stock options. The Griffin Automaton was a perfect, personal gift, and a brilliant proof-of-concept.
He still needed a bit more time to perfect the spell sequence before Christmas, but the design was sound, the materials were ready, and the foundation for a future enterprise had been unexpectedly laid in the library's dusty corner.