Chapter 399: Magic Puppet and Space
Four Magic Puppets stood in perfect formation, their bodies swaying slightly. Occasionally, they opened their mouths and emitted low, rumbling roars. They had gray-yellow or deep brown hair and beards, sharp teeth, and while they appeared to be in human form, they carried a faintly bestial quality.
Professor Abigail stared at them with sparkling eyes, reaching out to touch the one on the left—its golden hair gleaming. Instantly, the puppet snapped its jaws shut with a forceful bite.
Crack!
Fortunately, Abigail had pulled her hand back in time.
"Don’t worry," Wade said calmly from beside her. "Their teeth don’t carry werewolf venom. And though they look fierce, they can’t actually bite a person’s hand off. At worst, they’ll leave a few needle-prick wounds."
"Then isn’t that a bit lacking in intimidation?" Professor Abigail asked, playfully poking the puppet’s cheek. "Think about it—students might be startled at first, but once they realize these puppets can’t do real harm, they’ll start acting up."
"No, they can’t," Wade said firmly. "I’ve infused their teeth with juice from Narrowleaf Nettle."
"Narrowleaf Nettle?" Abigail blinked, then burst into laughter. "Hahaha! Wade, you really are a mischievous little devil!"
Wade shrugged. "I can’t have my classmates losing limbs, can I? It’s just a sharp sting—infinitely less severe than facing a real werewolf."
The juice of Narrowleaf Nettle contained potent irritants. Even a mere touch to the skin caused intense pain. Wade had simplified and concentrated the formula, amplifying the discomfort—though the relief came just as quickly. A dab of White Fresh Skin Ointment, and the pain vanished.
That was why he’d included a small design: each werewolf puppet had several tiny bottles tied to its waist—containing the ointment. A subtle nod to the old saying: Where poison lies, antidote is never far.
Professor Abigail circled the room, inspecting each puppet closely. Then she turned to Wade. "Can they transform?"
"Of course." Wade snapped his fingers.
Instantly, the four puppets raised their heads toward the moon, trembling slightly. Their skulls elongated, noses jutted forward, coarse gray-black hair sprouted across their bodies, their teeth sharpened further, and their spines arched forward.
In the chilling transformation, Wade explained, "The change takes about ten seconds—enough time for a home escape or an organization to mount a counterattack."
Abigail had already half-drawn her wand, her eyes wide with nervous anticipation as she watched the creatures shift. She gave a small, tense nod. "Oh—right. Yes. Definitely necessary."
With a series of long, mournful howls, the transformation completed. The werewolf puppets stood tall—larger than humans, their legs longer and thinner than ordinary wolves. They were only slightly shorter than Wade, their sharp fangs dripping with transparent saliva.
Their fur was sparse and coarse, not thick and sleek like a real wolf’s. This made them seem even more unnervingly humanoid—something almost too close to a man to be natural.
Abigail stared at Wade, a long, thoughtful look.
In the books on magical creatures, werewolves were mostly depicted as black-and-white sketches—clear enough to identify their features, but far from realistic. Abigail knew what a werewolf truly looked like. She’d witnessed transformations firsthand. She’d even cast healing spells to save several trainees who’d nearly failed the transformation process.
And now, Wade had created puppets that were this lifelike—so detailed, so accurate in every movement and expression, that they must have been based on firsthand experience.
That’s Remus Lupin, isn’t it?
She remembered the rumors—Wade Gray and Harry Potter had both stayed at his home during the holidays.
Thinking of the organization’s past plans, Abigail glanced away, a strange unease stirring in her chest.
The werewolf puppets demonstrated a series of coordinated attacks—pouncing, tearing, ambushing, chasing. They even worked in teams, displaying a level of intelligence and agility that was startling.
After the performance, they reverted to their original forms.
Abigail was effusive in her praise.
Then Wade demonstrated four vampire puppets. At first glance, they looked indistinguishable from ordinary humans—some even capable of acting.
One particularly handsome puppet, resembling Cedric in appearance, stepped forward, his voice smooth and seductive.
"My love for you is eternal, even beyond death," he said, taking Abigail’s hand. His eyes burned with devotion. "You are my life. Since I met you, I’ve no longer wished to leave. You are so enchanting—you’ve turned me into a fool."
He leaned in, whispering softly, as if about to kiss her—then suddenly snapped his mouth open, revealing two long, needle-like fangs.
Professor Abigail, who had been watching impassively, suddenly swung her fist. A sharp crack echoed through the room as she delivered a punch, followed by a powerful shoulder throw that sent the puppet flying across the room.
"Well," Abigail said, clapping her hands. "Even without intervention, that charmer could easily charm a flock of gullible girls." She raised an eyebrow. "Are the others all like this?"
Wade smirked. "Why don’t you try one yourself, Professor?"
But Abigail wasn’t in the mood for games. "Fine. I’ll check them all later. Can they turn into bats?"
Wade sighed, feigning disappointment. "Unfortunately, no. Due to material limitations, if they transform, they can only become small bats—about the size of a car. So I abandoned the transformation entirely and instead gave them the ability to summon small bats."
Abigail glanced down. The fallen puppet had already risen, bowing gracefully before returning to formation.
As the other puppets snapped their fingers, a swarm of bats erupted from their hands, flying straight toward Abigail’s face.
In the instant her gaze was drawn, the four Magic Puppets vanished from their spots.
Abigail blinked. She looked around.
Some had curled up under tables, knees drawn to chests. Others hid behind curtains. One leapt onto the top of a cabinet like a cat. Another clung to the ceiling horn, hanging upside down like a giant spider.
Abigail stared.
"...Well," she said, suppressing a smile. "In the wild, they’d be useful."
"Also, there are four giants—extra, as a gift," Wade added, pulling a box from his pocket. Inside were four small green giants, angrily brawling with each other.
"I won’t let them out," Wade said. "They’re too smelly. The Shrinking Charm will wear off tomorrow morning. If you don’t have a place to keep them, remember to reapply the spell. They’re actually three to four meters tall."
"Got it," Abigail said, accepting the box. She watched as one giant plopped down on top of its partner, then began beating it with a wooden stick. Another pounded the box, glaring at her with a furious huff.
She set the box down and handed Wade a bulging pouch.
"This is the payment for the Magic Puppets. If it’s not enough, I’ll add more."
Wade took it. The weight nearly made him drop it.
He didn’t refuse. Slipping it into his backpack, he said, "It’s more than enough. If any of the puppets malfunction later, you can always come to me."
Abigail nodded. There was no way she could refuse.
...
After Wade left, Abigail set an alarm clock—she didn’t want to forget to reapply the Shrinking Charm. Then she noticed the vampire puppets still hiding.
She clapped her hands. "Come back."
The puppets bounced back into place.
Abigail studied them.
Their differences were unmistakable.
The playboy was obvious. Another was a pale-haired girl, her skin like ice, her eyes large and luminous—so beautiful, so delicate, she seemed like a fragile dream. Even in silence, her gaze could steal a heart.
The other two were more ordinary. The one on the left wore a warm, friendly smile. The one on the right was squat and round—like a mushroom—always trying to hide in dark corners, almost invisible.
Abigail was awestruck.
She couldn’t understand how Wade had made these puppets feel so alive, so full of soul. Their personalities were so distinct, so vivid.
In contrast, the organization’s replicas were like mindless automatons—some stumbled after two steps, others even pointed their cannons at their own bases.
The puppets from Aslan Magical Workshop looked real at first glance. But after comparing several, you noticed their movements were repetitive, their behaviors rigid. They couldn’t follow complex commands beyond their basic programming—only slightly advanced Wizard’s Chess.
So while they made good pets, they were useless as soldiers.
Size limitations were only part of the reason. The real issue was the absence of something deeper—something that gave them wisdom.
Only Wade’s puppets were truly unique. They could be companions, friends, mentors, caretakers… and still be elite fighters.
She’d heard that among the Magic Puppets sold at Aslan Workshop, a few were crafted by the inventor himself. But the shop never revealed which ones—hiding them among the ordinary puppets like hidden treasures, waiting for a lucky buyer.
Now, Abigail finally understood the order she’d been given.
Compared to Wade Gray, the technology of Magic Puppets was irrelevant.
The boy’s mind—and his alchemical skill—was priceless.
She doubted even if she sent every one of these mature puppets back to the organization, their alchemists would ever be able to replicate them.
How could such a vast gap exist between people?
...
In truth, Abigail didn’t know that Wade built Magic Puppets—any alchemical artifact—like assembling a toy from a manual. If he made a mistake, a prompt would appear instantly.
At first, his alchemical knowledge was limited—not just due to inexperience, but because he couldn’t fully grasp the magic patterns and runes he saw. He couldn’t copy them exactly.
But after three years, his foundation in alchemy was rock-solid. Today, he rarely encountered runes he couldn’t understand. That’s why his skill had soared to a level ordinary alchemists couldn’t even imagine.
After leaving the office of the Professor of Defensive Magic Against the Dark Arts, Wade returned to the Room of Requirement, then activated the Closet Space.
Inside, the crimson Firebird flew toward him at once, chirping and whining in a pouty voice.
"I know you don’t want them to leave," Wade said, reaching out to stroke its head. A gentle breeze passed through the air, making Mihal squint contentedly.
It chirped again, its eyes full of sorrow.
Wade smiled. "You’re lonely, aren’t you? No relationships. But it’ll be lively again soon."
Mihal followed him as he wandered through the space.
Once, it had been bursting with life—Magic Puppets everywhere, too many to count. Wade himself had lost track of how many he’d stuffed inside.
But during the battle on the island, even the brooms and sieves had rushed out with excitement. Under the influence of a strong magnetic field, they’d all turned into dead objects.
Normally, that would’ve been fixable—just re-inject thought, and they’d come back to life.
But then the Silent Shadow spread across the island. Muggle soldiers dropped bombs to fight it. In the chaos, even concrete buildings couldn’t survive. How could delicate Magic Puppets?
Later, Professor Snape returned Wade to school. When the Ministry cleaned up the battlefield, Professor Flee had helped recover some remnants of the puppets—fragments still detectable in shape.
But at that point, repair was impossible. All that remained was to reduce them back to raw materials and rebuild from scratch.
Now, though the space still had buildings, furniture, trees, sand, and a few lingering magical creatures, it felt… empty.
Wade looked around. He remembered how, every time he arrived, the Pumpkin Carriage would race toward him with joy, the Teapot would sing steam-powered songs, the Broom would sweep every corner, and the Housemaid would always be tending the garden.
A lump formed in his throat.
"It’ll be okay," he promised Mihal. "Not long from now, you’ll have plenty of companions. And we can redesign this space—make it truly ours."
Wade had once envied Newt Scamander’s briefcase space. When he first built this one, he’d copied the idea—mixing landscapes, using weather spells to simulate different climates, and even housing magical creatures.
But over time, he’d moved most creatures into the Maze, or sent them back to the Forbidden Forest. In their place came more and more Magic Puppets.
Then came his personal rest area, his alchemy lab, his potion workshop, storage rooms…
As buildings filled the space, unnecessary climate zones were pushed to the edges.
Now, the Closet Space felt cluttered—functionally messy, a hodgepodge of purposes.
But standing there, looking at the quiet, hollow expanse, Wade finally saw it clearly.
He wasn’t Scamander. He didn’t need a space to protect magical creatures.
He needed a place that truly reflected him.
And so, he would remake it—into exactly what he needed.
(End of Chapter)
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