Written for the QLFPC
Round 2; Seeker; Write about the invention of a magical object, potion, or other creation.
Perhaps this idea had been mad to begin with, but for the love of Merlin, Damocles Belby just couldn't shake the idea away. He had tried — of course he had — but it had stuck anyway; and for the past five years, he had repeatedly tried and failed to create a potion to cure lycanthropy. He knew it was extremely optimistic of him, but he had always thought his optimism was his best quality.
Besides, if he didn't do it, who would? Anyone who deigned to associate with werewolves was considered tainted by association; he might be one of the few people who were willing to risk it.
Damocles skimmed through his notes again and stirred the viscous pale blue liquid that filled his cauldron. Dark blue smoke wafted from the cauldron, and for the first time in years, Damocles felt like something was finally going his way. He supposed that, as long as it wasn't erupting in front of his face, it was progress.
It seemed that the trick to creating a stable potion was not adding too much Aconite, a mistake he had made earlier that year — which consequently had left him blind for a week. When he had tried the potion last month, he had added a single spoonful of Acromantula venom, which, much to his surprise, had given it its bluish hue. When that batch hadn't exploded in his face, Damocles had given a tiny portion of it to a willing volunteer from the werewolf community.
For the week leading up to his transformation, he had noted all the symptoms and asked him about the normal behaviours he went through in the week before the full moon. It turned out that the potion he had made, despite not completely curing the patient's lycanthropy, had decreased the severity of some of the symptoms. It quelled some of the bloodlust and restlessness, and it had made the patient less of a danger to the community, but it didn't stop him from turning into a mindless werewolf. When the full moon had finally come, Damocles had Apparated out of the basement in a panic as an aggressive full-grown werewolf lunged at him, jaws snapping.
Sure, to some measure, the potion had been successful, decreasing some of the terrible symptoms and feelings in the lead-up to the full moon. But at the same time, it had been a complete failure too. And in fact, it had been lethal. Two days after the full moon, the werewolf who had volunteered was found dead in his basement. It wasn't hard to see the reason why; all around his face and chest, he had dark black veins, and his skin was pale. Tell-tale signs of Acromantula poisoning.
Damocles had made a note in his book to decrease the amount of venom in the potion. Clearly, too much — when mixed with Aconite — was a dangerous combination. And yet, Acromantula venom had paralysing qualities, and it had clearly shown its worth when the werewolf's bloodlust and restlessness had decreased.
When his brother had found out about the death of a werewolf, and so close to a lively Muggle community, he had been the first one he'd cornered. Atticus had gone on a tirade about how 'dangerous' and 'evil' werewolves were, that the one in the basement had 'deserved' to die. Of course, his brother had always seen the world in black and white, good and evil; the idea of seeing the grey areas was as incomprehensible to him as it could get.
It was Atticus' outlook on morality that had caused them to clash heads on how to deal with the fact that their childhood friend, Fenrir Greyback, had been bitten by a werewolf at the age of eight.
Where Atticus had let his rage turn into prejudice, Damocles had tried to find as much information as he could about his friend's condition. After all, it wasn't Fenrir's fault that he was a werewolf; it wasn't anybody's choice, really. Lycanthropy was a disease, and of course it spread fear and discord, but diseases could be cured. They had to be curable. And he believed that the things Fenrir had been accused of doing — of turning children into werewolves for sport — was a heinous symptom of his affliction.
Because the Fenrir he and his brother had known — that boy wasn't capable of hurting anyone. He was someone who wanted to cure Dragonpox because it killed his mother. He was someone who would sooner set a spider free than kill it. And he was someone that was worth saving.
A loud pop brought Damocles out of his reverie and he stared at the cauldron. The viscous liquid had transformed into a silky blue potion as a few wafts of faint blue smoke escaped from the cauldron. He stirred his wooden spoon around the liquid and felt his heart beat a fraction of a second faster as the liquid retained its colour. Where before he had gotten heavy scents of poison, now he could smell nothing.
Placing his spoon onto the bench, Damocles made a few notes on this batch of potion and ladled the mixture into a few phials. He had no idea if it would work, but he couldn't let himself think of the alternative.
Because the alternative to this potion working was accepting the fact that hundreds of werewolves were going to live with this horrible disease for the rest of their lives. It would mean that people like his older brother would be allowed to persecute them and hunt them down on account of their disease. It would mean that there was no salvation for Fenrir, no way of him entering the Wizarding community as an equal to everyone else.
It was a reality that he couldn't live with because it would mean that despite his best efforts, he hadn't tried hard enough.
Besides, Damocles reminded himself, there was a war coming. It had been brewing for years, but everyone could feel it now. People were disappearing, people were dying, and most of those people were from the most marginalised groups of the magical society. It was people like Fenrir who would be the first to go if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named delivered on his scare tactics. Damocles couldn't let that happen. And he knew that if his potion worked, if his potion cured lycanthropy, they would be safe. Safe to rejoin the Wizarding community, safe to seek shelter, and safe enough to ask for help.