It had woken him in the night.
Icy prickles on his forehead and the back of his neck glistened in the moonlight that streamed through his open window, the chill breeze on them wrenching his mind awake, away from the frantic chopping and stirring of his dream, the whirling panic that consumed his sleep far too often these days. There had to be some way of making his brain stop, at least long enough to snatch a few hours of sleep that were free from the anxiety that plagued his waking hours. He was terrified of everything - of not being good enough, of mixing up ingredients, of brewing up a potion that was, at best, ineffective, or at worst, hazardous.
What he'd just dreamt was murderous.
Every potions novice knew about aconite. Good for a muscle salve, but under no circumstances was it to be taken internally, nor should it be used if there were any chance of it coming into contact with broken skin. Even having a hangnail could allow that toxic substance to enter a person's bloodstream, resulting in one of the most painful, disorienting deaths one could hope to avoid. He'd gotten his hands on a Muggle monograph on the effects of aconite, and they had attempted all manner of horrible experiments on numerous creatures - even plants - and with very few exceptions, administration of aconite had been eventually - if not immediately - fatal.
And yet, in his dream, he'd been brewing a potion with aconite as the chief ingredient, and had given it to someone. Not only given, but offered - as though bestowing a great and beneficial gift.
He'd been working on this potion for decades. Every time there was another attack, another young person lost to productive society, reviled by their families, thrown out on the wilderness to scavenge, steal, or starve, he'd try again, with all the herbs of calming and control, even of paralysis and forgetfulness - none of them had worked. Every desperate parent had come to him, begging for something to release their child from the curse, and nothing had worked. But a single sip of his dream-draught couldn't possibly tame the wolf without killing the man.
Unless...
Damocles sat bolt upright in bed, a light in his eyes beyond the glow of the full moon, silver hair swirling wildly around his head as he stood, shrugging on his robe, before striding purposefully down into the cellars, to his lab.