Amidst a carpet of rustling leaves, under the shadowed gaze of an eclipsed moon, there moves a small hedgehog, wrapped in robes of deep violet like a miniature wizard. Tiny glasses perched on its nose, this adorable creature studies an ancient tome, its pages yellowed and worn by time. The hat upon its head, towering yet askew, is studded with constellations picked out in fine silver thread, echoing the starry canopy from whence it descended. The wand it clutches, a twig blessed with glistening dewdrops, pulses with the hidden magic of the Halloween eve. The silence of the forest is punctuated by the occasional rustle as the hedgehog’s quills brush against potion bottles hanging from its belt, filled with vibrant, mysterious liquids that shimmer under the pale light. (The hedgehog’s face is serene, lost in concentration as sparks of magic flutter from the wand tip, leaving trails of luminescence that dance amongst the shadows.)

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