Chapter 420: Shrink This Wade!
In an instant, Lockhart believed he had caught sight of heaven.
No… judging by his record on Earth, he might just as well be headed for hell.
Just as both men were about to faint, the constriction around their necks loosened slightly. Garr sucked in fresh air, his vision blurred, and he managed to glance at the little girl.
Her eyes were white—cold and unnatural. The black fog still writhed like claws, showing no sign of exhaustion or hesitation.
Garr instantly abandoned any thought of resistance. He dropped to his knees, arms raised high, and subtly kicked Lockhart twice.
Lockhart: "..."
He struggled for a moment, then met those eerie eyes—and immediately dropped to his knees without hesitation.
"Mercy, Miss Mabel!" Garr whispered, his voice tight with fear. "We mean you no threat! We absolutely wouldn’t report you to the Ministry of Magic! Please… please spare us!"
Mabel: "You know me?"
"Of course I do," Garr said. "I'm not some blind idiot like my uncle."
The girl tilted her head, studying them silently.
Lockhart suddenly had an idea. He pointed toward the bookshelf above. "The top shelf—third from the right—the newspaper there… take it down and you’ll understand."
A tendril of black mist shot out like an octopus arm, snatched the paper, and unfurled it before Mabel’s eyes.
Three black-and-white photos lay revealed—two of the men now kneeling on the floor.
Garr whispered, "We’re both escapees from Azkaban. If the Ministry catches us… well… they’d have a Dementor give us a kiss."
"A kiss?" Mabel frowned.
"Far worse than death," Lockhart said, trembling. "A Dementor sucks out your soul, leaving only an empty shell."
"So please, believe us," Garr added quickly. "We’d never report you. We’re even more terrified of the Ministry than you are."
He tried to sound confident, but hesitated—afraid she might demand they do something dangerous, or even die for her. He stammered, unable to finish.
The black fog curled back.
Mabel asked, "I want to contact someone. Do you know how?"
Lockhart and Garr exchanged a glance, surprised. "Well… can’t you just send a letter?"
"I only know he’s at Hogwarts," Mabel said. "I don’t know his exact address."
Garr understood. The girl had likely grown up in the Muggle world—unfamiliar with magic’s wonders.
But the threat still loomed. He dared not mock. He stayed on his knees, honest and humble.
"Owls don’t need an address. They’ll deliver your letter—just as long as the recipient’s home isn’t shielded by a Repulsion Charm."
"Who do you want to contact?" Lockhart offered, eager to prove his worth. "I used to be a professor at Hogwarts. Maybe I can help."
"You? A professor?" Mabel stared at the trembling wizard, her brow furrowed. "You’re lying!"
The tone turned dangerous.
Garr quickly interjected, "It’s true! He really was a professor! Though he ended up in prison later… for fraud and deception. But if the person you’re looking for is at Hogwarts, he probably knows them."
Lockhart nodded vigorously, silently praying he wasn’t caught in a lie. He didn’t admit that during his time at school, he’d barely paid attention to ordinary students—especially boys—and had no real knowledge of most professors who kept to themselves.
Mabel regarded him with doubt, then asked, "Wade Gray… do you know him?"
---
Meanwhile, Wade was deep in the Closet Space, pondering Christmas gifts.
Well… he had originally planned to give everyone a Communication Pea—simple, convenient, and effective.
Aslan Magical Workshop had sent him a sample box. After giving one to each person, he’d still have two left.
But Michael was right: even if these things meant nothing to Wade, they were worth a fortune to others.
If every gift he gave cost dozens or hundreds of Galleons, while others gave him only books or candy, he might not care—but the recipients, and their families, would feel immense pressure.
If Wade’s goal were to gather loyal followers, handing out lavish gifts might work. But with friends, that approach was wrong.
Time was tight… but luckily, his Transfiguration Water was in great condition.
And Wade had tested it before—using magic in the Closet Space didn’t trigger the Ministry’s Trace Warning. Perhaps because the space was self-contained, like a magical Faraday cage, it blocked detection.
He glanced at the clock. Still time.
With a flick of his wand, he pointed at the nearby magical materials—and a tiny broomstick began to form.
---
“Ding-dong-ding-dong…”
A shrill alarm jolted Wade awake. He sat up sharply, blinking at the pile of gift boxes beside him.
He remembered his self-imposed task was complete. He yawned, eyes watering with sleep.
Beside him, the Magic Puppet he’d crafted during his break was busy packing the final gift box. It was short and round, resembling a Rubik’s Cube—each small square of its body hiding at least one tool, and capable of shifting like a puzzle. Though unattractive in appearance, it was astonishingly versatile—equivalent to ten ordinary gadgets.
The mechanical claws extended, sealing the last box. The puppet’s round, spinning eyes turned to Wade.
"Master… did you have a nightmare?"
"No," Wade said. "Just didn’t sleep enough."
He suddenly missed the Time-Turner. He stepped over the scattered gift boxes, rushing to the bathroom. Before he’d even changed clothes, Michael pounded on the door.
"Come on, Wade! We’re heading to the mall after breakfast!"
"Be right there!" Wade called back.
Then he heard Michael and Harry thundering down the stairs.
The sound of their footsteps told him just how eager they were.
Of course—Hogsmeade was already enchanting enough for students. London’s massive shopping center was a dream.
Wade slipped into his clothes, preparing to tuck the Closet Space away—then paused, noticing the half-packed gift boxes.
They were just going shopping. He couldn’t, in front of Muggles, stuff everything into an endless bag. So he abandoned the idea.
"Finish mailing all the gifts by dinner," Wade told the Magic Puppet. "Don’t forget to pack Coco’s snacks with them."
"Understood." The puppet spoke in a low, mechanical voice. As Wade reached the door, it suddenly asked, "Master… why do you make them yourself? Isn’t it easier to just buy gifts like everyone else?"
Wade blinked. He hadn’t expected it to ask questions—beyond obedience.
He paused, then smiled. "I guess… I just hope they’ll smile when they open them."
He chuckled. "That kind of joy… can’t be bought."
---
Wade wasn’t entirely sure himself. In his previous life, his mother always knitted him sweaters, scarves, hats, gloves—handmade things he never understood.
Why go through the trouble? You could buy identical items for less, with better patterns and finer stitching. Why spend hours knitting?
But then, when he took a pottery class and made a set of teacups for his parents, he finally understood.
Preparing a gift for someone you love—expecting them to feel joy, to cherish it—each moment of creation was pure happiness. It wasn’t just giving. It was receiving too. The giver, too, was rewarded with warmth and satisfaction.
Of course, if a carefully made gift was thrown away or ignored… the emotional blow would be doubled.
Previously, Wade had focused on practicality. He made sure the gifts were useful—so even if he was half-hearted, the recipients would still be happy.
But Michael’s words had stirred something. This time, he poured his heart into every single gift. And for the first time, he felt that same excited, joyful anticipation—knowing someone would open his gift and smile.
He worked through the entire night. His nerves screamed for rest, but his heart refused to slow. Only when the last letter was entrusted to the Magic Puppet—already scheduled to be delivered by owl—did he finally relax.
Wade rubbed his eyes, then stepped out for breakfast.
---
Most boys didn’t have the same enthusiasm for shopping as girls—especially when prices exceeded expectations.
Harry’s aunt was frugal by nature. Though Harry had a vault full of Galleons, he knew he’d have to live on them for the next four years. He wasn’t about to splurge on luxury goods.
Michael had slightly more pocket money than an average child—but when it came to disposable income, he was even poorer than Harry.
After a round through Harold’s Mall, they bought nothing. Then, in silence, they headed to a nearby budget supermarket.
Prices were reasonable now. Most of what they wanted cost less than two pounds. They pushed carts, browsing aisles, picking up what they liked.
Wade grabbed a few boxes of fruit, then glanced at the meat section.
Roast turkey was a must for Christmas Eve. Fiona spent an entire day smoking and marinating it every year—but the taste was always… underwhelming.
Wade often wondered if he could convince his parents to switch to roast chicken—or even duck. But they insisted: no turkey meant no real Christmas.
He held a box of steak, reading the label, when an old man with a bald head pushed past him. Wade stepped aside.
A supermarket employee wheeled a miniature cart behind them, stacked high with boxes—nearly touching the ceiling. Inside: prepped, ready-to-display turkeys.
As the cart passed, the narrow tunnel instantly felt cramped. Wade instinctively leaned sideways—then paused, staring at the label on the box: Roast Chicken. He yawned.
Then, a dry voice whispered in his ear:
"Didn’t sleep well last night?"
Wade’s mind went blank. His body slumped, sliding down.
A bony hand caught his arm.
"Sleep a little," the voice said.
---
As the cart passed, the bald old man casually tapped Wade’s shoulder. The boy, already weary, stumbled forward—then was caught mid-fall.
Before he hit the ground, the old man pulled him up, shoved a potion into his mouth.
A tall, slender figure shrank instantly—then vanished. Only a pile of clothes remained.
The old man’s bony fingers tapped the clothes. They too shrunk, vanishing in a flash.
On the floor, a tiny, unconscious human—no bigger than a palm—lay like a finely carved doll.
The old man bent, picked up the tiny figure, and slipped it into his pocket. Then, hunched over, he shuffled toward the checkout.
Just seconds later, the cart rolled past. The spot was empty—except for an empty shopping cart with a few fruit boxes.
It happened too fast. No one noticed.
Harry and Michael, browsing nearby, didn’t see. Remus Lupin, too poor to buy anything, only stared. The security guards, sales staff, customers—all remained oblivious.
Only the employee, who had just finished stacking turkeys on the shelf, stared blankly at the now-empty cart. After a moment, he scratched his head. Must’ve been too tired, he thought.
The old man bought little. He paid quickly and left.
A black car waited outside. As he approached, the door opened automatically.
He stepped in. The door closed—and with it, his appearance changed.
His face became gaunt, like a skull decoration. Sunken eyes, emaciated frame. Yet his eyes burned with fierce, unyielding light—like a man still young, full of idealism. The deep lines on his face told a different story: cynicism etched in every wrinkle.
This was the man who had made Europe tremble: Gellert Grindelwald.
His escape had happened far earlier than the message from Nurmengard suggested.
The driver started the car. The passenger turned eagerly.
"Sir… did you succeed?"
Grindelwald coughed, then pulled the unconscious boy from his pocket.
The passenger’s face lit up. "No wonder! Everyone wanted him—but no one succeeded!"
"Just took advantage of Dumbledore being distracted," Grindelwald said, his tone dripping with cynicism. He didn’t hand the boy over. Instead, he slipped him back into his coat.
"I hope this boy’s worth the risk I took."
(End of Chapter)
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