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Barnaby Button, a wizard whose spells often veered off-course (he once turned his teacup into a tap-dancing toad), was having a particularly wobbly day. His latest attempt at a levitation charm had only succeeded in making his favorite armchair float exactly three inches off the ground, then rotate slowly counter-clockwise. “Blast and botheration!” he muttered, adjusting his crooked spectacles. He was supposed to be preparing for the annual Grand Gala of Galloping Gnomes, and his magical mojo felt more like a mild drizzle than a thunderstorm.

Suddenly, a frantic squeaking erupted from his herb garden. Barnaby peeked out his window to see a plump, startled whistlepig named Percy attempting to scale his prize-winning Giggle-Blossom plant. Percy, renowned in the valley for his impeccable burrow-digging skills and less-than-stellar climbing abilities, was clearly in distress. He’d gotten himself tangled in a particularly thorny vine, and his little whistle-nose was twitching with panic.

Barnaby, despite his magical mishaps, had a kind heart. He rushed outside, tripping over a rogue garden gnome (another one of his more "creative" spells). “Hold still, Percy!” he boomed, attempting to untangle the little creature. But Percy, mistaking Barnaby’s fumbling for a new kind of game, began to squeak even louder and wriggle with renewed vigor.

In a moment of inspiration (or perhaps desperation), Barnaby decided to try a simple shrinking spell. He aimed his wand, muttered the incantation, and a puff of iridescent pink smoke enveloped Percy. When the smoke cleared, Percy was still tangled, but now he was the size of Barnaby’s thumb.

“Oh, bother,” Barnaby sighed, carefully plucking the miniature whistlepig from the vine. Percy, now tiny and indignant, sat on Barnaby’s palm, still twitching his nose. Barnaby carried him inside and placed him gently on his workbench. “Well, you’re certainly easier to handle now,” he mused, and with a swift counter-spell, returned Percy to his normal, plump size.

Percy, now free and perfectly safe, let out a delighted whistle and scampered off towards Barnaby’s cookie jar. Barnaby, watching him go, chuckled. He may not have mastered levitation, but he had successfully rescued a whistlepig. Perhaps that was magic enough for one day. He decided to ditch the Gala preparations and instead, brew a nice cup of chamomile tea, hoping it wouldn’t turn into a chorus of singing slugs this time.