Chapter 630: Shapeshifting Gummy
The new semester’s timetable remained as packed as ever, but Wade had long since mastered the art of managing his time with ease.
The most important shift? He no longer felt the desperate need to maximize every single minute granted by the Time-Turner. Instead, he now saw it simply as a useful tool—convenient, but not essential.
There were days when he didn’t use it at all, and he felt no regret over the “missed” moments. There were others when he reversed time, only to spend half of it attending Spell Study Society meetings or chatting with friends—yet he never considered it wasted.
As for the second task—the Tournament—it didn’t take up much of his schedule. After learning about the competitive level of other schools, Wade had written back to his parents, confident that his current progress was more than enough to handle such a challenge.
More pressing, however, was the matter of not returning home for Christmas. That absence weighed heavily on his mind.
While others were buried in classwork, Wade sat on the windowsill of the Umbrella Room, flipping through a parcel from his parents. Fiona’s latest gifts—candies, pastries, clothes, trendy toys, and books—were all things she’d impulsively bought because they looked interesting or because she thought Wade would like them.
Ferdinand’s contribution was a thick stack of experimental reports.
> “Cornelius Daven’s research has already yielded preliminary results. He’s applying theories from energy fields, neuroscience, and quantum entanglement to deconstruct magic. I don’t understand the report myself, so I’m sending it all to you.”
>
> “He’s also studied the werewolves you introduced. Based on the reagents you sent, he confirmed a direct link between werewolf transformation and the endocrine system…”
>
> “There’s also research on several potions. Though, since Professor Daven lacks magic, progress has been limited so far…”
>
> “Still, his calculations suggest a potential way to increase potion success rates by several times. The key lies in quantifying the strength of magic and enhancing the stability of magical output.”
Ferdinand’s letter was scattered with updates on the Muggle scientist’s recent breakthroughs. But in Daven’s own report—written specifically for Wade, a wizard who had only attended Muggle elementary school—the language was even more simplified.
Yet, despite the effort to simplify, the scientist clearly had a different understanding of what a “basic student” should already know. Even with Wade’s prior-life knowledge, the report remained incredibly difficult to follow.
Most of all, the scientific terminology was overwhelming—full of proper nouns, abbreviations, and nicknames. Wade had to keep four dictionaries open on his desk just to grasp the meaning.
Take the werewolf research, for example. Daven had isolated an unknown protein complex from werewolf blood. Its structure resembled ACTH, but remained inert under normal conditions. During a full moon, it was activated by a substance in moonlight—though the exact mechanism remained unclear.
This protein complex triggered a cascade of hormonal changes: it stimulated the pineal gland to overproduce HGH (promoting bone, organ, and cell growth), DMT (eliminating pain and increasing aggression), and suppressed MSTN (muscle growth inhibitor). Over twenty other hormones—adrenaline, cortisol, melatonin, thyroid hormone, insulin-like growth factor, and more—underwent dramatic shifts in a single night.
According to Daven—according to any rational human researcher—such a sudden, extreme transformation should have resulted in immediate death.
Yet werewolves didn’t die. They transformed into another species, spent a night as beasts, and returned to human form the next morning—unharmed, no scars, no lingering side effects.
It was incomprehensible.
And yet, this life-threatening transformation happened every month. Werewolves lived on the brink of death each lunar cycle, their bodies nearly crossing into the afterlife—only to be pulled back by some unseen force.
Even more astonishing? The transformation itself didn’t harm them. Physical weakness was mostly psychological—guilt, moral conflict, or the loss of reason during the beast form leading to self-inflicted damage. In truth, the transformation process increased longevity.
Daven’s shock and awe were so profound they couldn’t be fully captured on paper.
When he learned Wade wouldn’t be returning home for Christmas, the old scientist was even more anxious than Wade’s parents.
In the report, he repeatedly hinted—sometimes subtly, sometimes plainly—that he desperately wished to personally observe and monitor the werewolf transformation process. Such firsthand experience, he believed, would revolutionize his research.
But the Gray couple couldn’t use magic, nor could they control a transformed werewolf’s mind. For safety, all correspondence had to go through multiple shipments. And bringing a werewolf to Daven’s lab? Impossible.
Still, Daven ended the report with a bold vision:
If we could uncover the mechanism behind the lycanthropy hormone—its origin and mode of action—we could potentially trigger transformation at will, even outside the full moon. We might even develop an injection to suppress, or completely eliminate, lycanthropy’s influence.
If we could isolate the side effects—loss of reason, violent impulses—and extract only the longevity factor, we might extend the human lifespan to around 150 years. More importantly, we could enhance metabolic capacity, antioxidant systems, and DNA repair mechanisms—keeping the human body at peak condition for decades longer than ever before.
Wade closed the report, opened the window, and let the cold wind rush in, as if to cool his overheated thoughts.
His fingers tapped gently against his leg. The data, the hypotheses—each one sent a jolt through his chest.
If Daven’s findings were real, this would be one of the greatest breakthroughs in human history: eradicating lycanthropy, extending life, even surpassing the body’s biological limits.
But his reason, his knowledge, poured a bucket of cold water on the dream.
Daven was painting a picture of a future that sounded too good to be true.
The project required massive funding, countless resources, technical support, years of trial and error—and, above all, unimaginable luck.
Even centuries of effort by Muggle organizations obsessed with magic hadn’t achieved such results.
Could a ragtag group like Wade’s—just a few people, barely a foundation—really leap across the chasm of time and complexity, ignoring every unknown variable, and propel humanity into a new era?
Unless Daven wasn’t just a dying scientist, but an alien, a future human, a higher-dimensional being, or someone who’d already won the game of life…
Then, no matter how plausible the theory, it would remain just that—theory. A tantalizing bait in a capital game. Or a foundation for some distant, future discovery.
But… Wade’s gaze returned to the section on the lycanthropy hormone.
At least one thing Daven had said was undeniable: if hormonal shifts could force transformation, then reversing them—stopping the transformation—was possible. This was a research path with clear prospects.
And unlike the Wolfsbane Potion, this scientific approach would be more efficient, simpler, and stable. It could be produced cheaply, with long-lasting effects.
In the wizarding world, werewolves were far more numerous than anyone admitted. Only the Ministry of Magic—arrogant in its belief in wizard supremacy—pretended they didn’t exist.
The potionmaker who invented Wolfsbane Potion had become a millionaire and won a Merlin Medal.
But imagine someone who cured lycanthropy—turning it into a treatable disease. The prestige would be unmatched. Its contribution would dwarf even the “Discovery of Twelve Uses of Dragon Blood.”
And from another angle: if werewolves could control their transformation like vampires—shifting at will—such power would be impossible to ignore.
Wade picked up his feather quill, paused, then began writing, one deliberate word at a time.
As for Daven’s request to observe a real werewolf transformation? That remained impossible—for now.
The transformation was too dangerous. Even a reinforced concrete cage might not hold one who knew magic—like Remus Lupin, for instance.
Daven was Wade’s only reliable scientist. He couldn’t risk him.
And the Gray couple often visited Daven’s lab. They’d be helpless against a werewolf.
Remus Lupin was the most suitable candidate—but Wade dismissed the idea in an instant.
Remus wasn’t just a collaborator or a tutor. He was a trusted elder, a kind and gentle friend.
Even if it felt selfish… Wade couldn’t let him become a lab rat.
The quill paused again. After a long silence, Wade resumed writing:
> Please wait a little longer. I’ll bring you a suitable research subject soon.
…
When Harry finally managed to keep a bubble floating above his head for an hour, he was stunned to realize the second tournament was only days away.
That evening, exhausted, he slipped back into the castle from Hogsmeade. Just as he asked the Fat Lady to open the common room, Fred and George burst out from behind the door.
“Hey, Harry! Come see our latest breakthrough!”
The Weasley twins blocked Harry’s path, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Harry groaned. “Sorry, I just want to go to bed…”
He was too tired to care—probably another instant skip-class candy had finally worked. Nosebleed Syrup? Bloodburst Bean? Or yet another trick wand?
Whatever it was, it couldn’t compete with the warm comfort of his bed.
But George clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t be like that, Harry! This is too good to keep to ourselves!”
Fred grabbed his other arm. “Come on, Harry! If you hear about it from someone else tomorrow, it won’t be half as fun!”
“Wait, I don’t—” Harry protested weakly, but was ignored.
They dragged him, half-limping, toward the Umbrella Room.
As they pushed through the main gate, laughter erupted—cheers, clapping, stomping feet. Even Wade wore an unusually radiant smile.
But Harry only stared at the creature in the center of the room: a lavender octopus over a meter tall, round and plump, with large, glistening eyes like sapphires. Its soft, bouncy tentacles wobbled awkwardly across the floor, tripping over themselves.
The room erupted in laughter.
Harry blinked. This wasn’t a creature from nature. It looked like something from a cartoon—adorable, impossible.
Then he understood.
“Is this a new magic puppet from Wade?” he asked, stepping back as the octopus tried to wrap a suction-cupped tentacle around his leg.
“What can it do?”
“Hah! I knew you’d ask!” Fred laughed, slapping Harry’s back.
Suddenly, the octopus began to twist and stretch, elongating like taffy—then reshaping into a tall, slender, handsome Michael.
“Amazing!” Michael waved his limbs wildly. “I can feel every tentacle! But controlling eight legs at once? Impossible!”
“Who’s next?” Wade grinned, holding up a glass jar filled with marble-sized candies.
“Hermione!” Padma called, shoving her forward.
“Ohhh!” Fred and George clapped dramatically.
“Pick one, Hermione,” Wade said, offering the jar.
Hermione bit her lip, chose a white candy, and hesitated—half-expecting, half-terrified—before popping it into her mouth.
In an instant, a pair of white wings burst from her back. Her nose lengthened, her ears perked up, and a long tail sprouted from her spine.
She transformed into a Pegasus.
But not just any Pegasus. Her mane and tail were pink, her forehead bore a unicorn-like horn, and her eyes were impossibly large.
“Oh, Merlin’s beard!” the pink Pegasus shrieked, flapping her wings instinctively—and shot straight up, slamming into the ceiling with a loud thud.
She tumbled backward, hooves in the air, landing face-first into a pile of cushions.
Neville rushed forward, but froze, unsure how to help.
Then—puff—the Pegasus reverted back to Hermione, lying in a tangle of pillows, hair wild, struggling to sit up.
“I HATE FLYING!” she snapped, her face red.
The entire Umbrella Room dissolved into laughter.
“What is this?” Harry asked, stunned.
“Octopus Cookie? Pegasus Cookie?”
“Not bad, Harry—you’ve got good eyes,” George said proudly, slapping him on the back. “But you’re wrong about the name!”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Fred declared, leaping onto a table, “I present to you—our newest joint invention with Wade: Shapeshifting Gummy!”
“Improved Gold Finch Biscuit, now with even more transformations! Each one hides a surprise effect—just like Bit-Bit Flavor Beans, but with real magic!”
“Try one, Harry!” George urged. “See what you turn into!”
Under pressure, Harry swallowed a blue gummy.
He hadn’t thought much about the color—just chose it on instinct, half-expecting to become some creature suited for underwater life.
The texture was pleasant—soft, sweet, with a strange fruity aroma.
The candy vanished down his throat.
Then—his vision dropped. His limbs went numb. His body stretched.
Neville and Hermione stumbled back. Padma yelped, rubbing her arms.
“Whoa!” Michael stared, pointing. “Harry—you turned into a serpent!”
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
Report
