Chapter 193: Magical Resistance

The water in the copper kettle over the firepit boiled, bubbling vigorously, and the room fell into a brief silence.

Hagrid looked left and right, saw no change, and sniffed curiously at the remaining biscuits.

A deep, thunderous bark echoed outside—the black boar hound was trampling across the edge of the pumpkin patch.

“Fang!”

Hagrid cried out and rushed out of the cabin.

“I think Fang’s back—he’s gentle, you’ll like him.”

That left Wizard Sean alone inside.

He stared long at the pumpkin patch outside, recalling the giant’s extraordinary ability to weaken magic.

Giants’ thick skin acted like natural armor, deflecting or dampening the power of spells.

During the Order of the Phoenix arc, when Umbridge tried to expel Hagrid from Hogwarts, she led Aurors to forcibly arrest him; Professor McGonagall, shielding him, was struck by multiple spells and severely weakened. Yet Hagrid endured several spells unharmed and broke through the encirclement.

There were other examples—like during the Battle of the Astronomy Tower, when Hagrid faced a group of Death Eaters. Their spells had no effect on him; they could only set fire to the cabin to distract him.

These examples proved clearly: ordinary spells or transfigurations could not harm a giant.

So, the dosage must be increased.

Wizard Sean took out all his remaining stock from his bag—about five identical Cat-Transfiguration Biscuits.

Originally, these biscuits were called Mrs. Norris Biscuits, but the name was changed later for easier sales.

The door creaked open. Behind the stacked sacks of animal feed and pet supply crates appeared a broad figure, leading a large, menacing-looking black boar hound.

“Looks like Fang really likes you.”

Hagrid let go of Fang, who immediately leapt toward Wizard Sean to lick his ear. Like Hagrid, Fang clearly wasn’t as fierce as he looked.

When Wizard Sean used Transfiguration to conjure a bone and threw it, Hagrid popped another biscuit into his mouth—predictably, nothing happened.

“I suppose these biscuits just don’t work on me. It’s fine, lad—I’m used to it.”

Hagrid said this, yet his expression was pitiful.

He held the remaining biscuits, wondering what would happen if he ate all three at once—would he grow a deer’s head, cat’s paws, and owl’s wings?

“Don’t eat them together.”

Wizard Sean silently warned.

Each Transfiguration Biscuit carried his unique will; eating them all at once might produce consequences even he couldn’t predict.

More likely, the conflicting magical wills would clash, causing the transfiguration magic to surge chaotically inside the user—nearly like a magical outburst.

“Oh, of course, of course not together, ha—how could anyone even think of eating them all?... Even a fool wouldn’t—”

Hagrid laughed nervously, visibly guilty, and finally gave in under Wizard Sean’s steady gaze.

“As long as nothing goes wrong, we’re lucky—”

He snatched up the biscuit box in haste, no longer caring about caution.

“I still have some.”

At Wizard Sean’s words, Hagrid froze mid-motion, the biscuit half in his hand, neither eating nor putting it down.

His face flushed red.

“My appetite’s not so good right now.”

He said.

The stone firepit in the center of the cabin was over a meter in diameter; Hagrid had removed the massive copper kettle, and though it wasn’t yet time, he suddenly felt the urge to keep himself busy.

Wizard Sean handed Hagrid the last five biscuits from his bag; the giant, who had been eagerly anticipating them, now looked awkward.

“These look incredibly valuable. Getting this many from a wizard’s hands must’ve been hard. If you give them all to me, what will you have left to play with?”

He rubbed his hands, gazing at Wizard Sean.

It truly had been difficult—if Gert the shopkeeper knew he had this much stock, he’d come after him. Even now, the shopkeeper’s demand owl hadn’t arrived... that owl’s temper was nearly as bad as Mr. Owl’s.

Wizard Sean shook his head:

“Try them. It’s fine.”

Hagrid felt today must be his lucky day—he gobbled down all five biscuits in quick succession, then patted his belly and winked at Wizard Sean:

“Oh, I never thought I’d ever turn into an animal! Merlin’s beard—thank you so much, Wizard Sean. And thank you to the alchemical master who invented these Transfiguration Biscuits. If I ever meet him, I’ll give him some Rock Cakes...”

As Hagrid mumbled, Wizard Sean, twice thanked, said nothing—only waited with him for the transformation to occur.

Different wizards transformed into different animals—even the same species could yield different forms: one might become a black cat, another a white cat.

Could this transformation be guided?

A sudden thought struck Wizard Sean.

There were many cat breeds—Norwegian Forest Cats, Maine Coons, resilient in cold; Sand Cats, adapted to deserts...

Magic was such a thing: the more you understood, the more you mastered, the stronger you became. Wizard Sean filed this hypothesis away in his mind.

As Wizard Sean pondered, Hagrid’s excited expression faded—he grew cat fur on his face, and then... nothing more happened.

An eerie silence filled the air. Hagrid touched the fur on his face:

“Well, at least something happened, right?”

A cold wind swept over the treetops from the edge of the Forbidden Forest, rustling the pumpkin patch outside.

Wizard Sean was equally frustrated—too high a magical resistance wasn’t always a good thing.

Just as Hagrid had given up hope, a fierce-looking owl streaked across the gray-blue sky and slammed into the cabin window, shattering it open.

It dropped a package and a letter, then flew away.

“What a bold owl—”

Hagrid exclaimed loudly, instantly recognizing it as a Howler:

Its envelope was red—when Wizard Sean received one, smoke would begin to curl from its corners, and failure to open it promptly would bring serious consequences.

“My dear boss, if you want your Trick Shop still standing when you return from vacation, send me some Transfiguration Biscuits—FIVE WHOLE DAYS! I’ve received nothing but rumors that you’re still busy!

Surely a renowned alchemist worthy of comparison with Nicolas Flamel can remember you still own a modest shop in Diagon Alley,

a shop with a poor, overworked shopkeeper witch... she’s nearly driven mad by frantic customers!”

The Howler’s voice was deafening; once it finished reading, it burst into flames and vanished.