Dumbledore sat in his office, trying to figure out if it was k2, k2tg, k2 ssk,* rep to end of round, or if it was ssk, k2, k2tg,* rep to last four stitches, k2tg, k2.
He looked at the pattern again. Sure enough, it was the latter. He finished the round, put his needles down and sighed.
He'd been collecting patterns for a while. He had practiced for hours. And he wasn't any closer to the perfect pair of handmade socks than a lumpy tube.
He was one of the greatest wizards ever. He should be able to figure it out. And he should have been able to invent a spell that would at least do what he couldn't. But he had been unsuccessful in each and every attempt.
No matter how hard he tried, he could only cast as spell that was as proficient as he was in knitting. And it seemed the same way for each witch and wizard who had ever cast a homemaking spell. The spell could only supplement what they were capable of.
Dumbledore picked his knitting back up. He was determined to make the vision he'd seen in the mirror of Erised, the one of him holding handmade sock up with pride and happiness, come true.
