Chapter 367: Magic Puppet – Red Hat
Professor Abigail explained her idea in detail.
"I don’t want to teach this using models or textbooks. Learning how to deal with dangerous magical creatures is vital. If students only learn half-heartedly, I worry they’ll be utterly helpless when faced with real danger."
"Actually, I could probably get a few specimens if needed. But defensive magic against the Dark Arts shouldn’t be taught in a safe classroom where students gather to challenge dark creatures that are already terrified and cornered."
"You need to learn how to face enemies that leap out from shadows, from the soil, from tree branches—creatures that might even sneak out of your closet while you’re asleep and unprepared!"
"In nature, few battles happen after perfect preparation. Danger always strikes when you least expect it, when you feel safest."
"But if we did it that way, I’m afraid half my students might not survive the class. Professor McGonagall would be furious…"
Professor Abigail’s lips twitched slightly. The real fear wasn’t student casualties—it was Professor McGonagall’s wrath.
"So I thought… I’d ask you to custom-make a batch of magic puppets. They should resemble these creatures in appearance, attack patterns, and cunning personalities—but without lethal force."
"Magic puppets?" Wade tilted his head, deep in thought.
"Yes. Each one, I can offer you this much!" Professor Abigail held up five fingers, her expression one of clear pain. "This is the maximum I could secure from the school. I even added some of my own funds."
Wade studied her face, then suddenly smiled.
"Money isn’t the issue—I’ll charge you cost price. Building these puppets is also a learning process for me."
Professor Abigail beamed. "So you’ve agreed?"
"Of course. What do you need?"
"First, the Red Hat and Kaba. Then Erling—I’ve got detailed information here…"
…
Wade returned to the dormitory clutching a stack of papers, only to find Fell still waiting by the streaming mirror.
"Mr. Gray, school’s out."
Fell snapped to attention and bowed immediately.
"Please, sit down, Fell."
Wade settled cross-legged on the thick, fluffy carpet, eyes fixed on the mirror.
"Has Eva not delivered the letter yet?"
"No. She’s following your instructions precisely—observation is the priority."
"Eva arrived at seven-thirty this morning. But the observation goal had already begun her work—she was helping prepare ingredients at a Muggle restaurant. After lunch, she switched to another place, cleaning up after closing. This is her third job now."
Inside the mirror, the werewolf girl wore a small box slung over her shoulder, moving through the outskirts of a football field, selling trinkets and tiny flags.
Fell continued. "The observation task is demanding, and no suspicious individuals have approached her."
Wade nodded silently. Then, turning, he pulled out a pile of alchemical materials from the closet space. With a flick of his wand, the components fluttered into motion—stretching, reshaping, twisting into new forms.
The Permanent Transformation Spell was always exceptionally effective for crafting objects.
Moments later, a small statue stood in the center of the room.
It was a Red Hat—a creature resembling a goblin, with long white beard, a sharp eagle-like nose, and fierce red eyes. Its head bore a crimson hat, as if dyed in fresh blood. Its hands were jagged eagle claws, and its feet were shod in iron boots.
Fell kept glancing from the mirror to the statue, his curiosity piqued by the eerie realism.
But the magic puppet remained motionless and silent. It was just a shell. Wade still needed to imbue it with life.
It had to be capable of hiding in darkness, wielding a large wooden staff to strike from behind. It had to move swiftly—its steps thundering like thump-thump-thump—but it would remain utterly still before attacking, so as not to alert its prey.
It would slash at a person’s neck or eyes with its claws. When attacked, it would shriek—a piercing, high-pitched cry—calling for its companions.
And finally, it had a weakness: spells or runes could frighten it, forcing it to flee instantly.
One after another, streams of spell-light flared across the puppet, as if breathing life into it. Glowing runes pulsed along its boots, its hat, and the wooden staff in its hands. A web of magical arrays shimmered around its body.
Fell stared at the mirror, frozen. He didn’t dare turn his head. He feared that if he did, he’d be drawn into the spectacle—so vivid, so alive—that he’d forget his own mission entirely.
Fell frowned, eyes locked on Clare in the mirror.
The girl worked hard, finally selling most of the items in her box. She folded the box, tucked it into her backpack, pulled out her pouch, and drank from a faucet on the street. Then she bought a large bundle of bread and boarded a late-night bus back home.
She returned to a slum near a church—dilapidated buildings choked with decay, windows shattered, doors hanging off their hinges. Trash piled high in the alleys. Walls were splattered with graffiti and vulgar graffiti.
Two men smoking on the sidewalk spotted Clare. Instantly, they approached with ill intent—then froze, catching sight of her face. They hastily pretended not to notice and hurried away.
Clare ignored them. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and dashed into a building. The elevator was nothing but a pile of trash. She climbed the narrow staircase, step by step.
Eva couldn’t follow inside. After circling the block, it finally found Clare’s trail again and flew to rest on the windowsill.
Inside a relatively intact room, a filthy bearded man lay on a bed, wrapped in bandages. Blood seeped through the fabric beneath.
"I’m back, Fatos!" Clare burst in. "How’s the wound? Still hurting?"
"Still bearable. That potion you brought yesterday worked wonders."
The man struggled to sit up. "How was today? Any trouble?"
"No. Everything went smoothly. I made a good amount of money."
Clare pulled out a relatively clean cloth, laid it on the floor, and placed the bread on top. They devoured it hungrily—wolfing down chunks of bread in seconds, their faces smeared with crumbs, their movements anything but elegant.
Clare licked her fingers, still holding the last bit of bread. "I think—I might…"
"No!" Fatos cut her off sharply.
"I was just—"
"Absolutely not!"
"But—"
"If Will has returned to Diagon Alley and hasn’t come looking for us, that’s his choice. You don’t need to go after him. And if he hasn’t come back… you definitely shouldn’t. What did you bring?"
Fatos spun around, his fierce gaze piercing through the mirror—directly at Fell.
(End of Chapter)
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