A/N: I don't own Harry Potter or any related characters
Word count: 326
Warning: Canon character death
You never thought things would change, but then again, you never thought you'd survive. There's a guilt to that, you realize at one in the morning when you're trying to sleep. You survived. You were a horrible person, you betrayed people, you allowed yourself to be used for some greater good that never happened, and here you were, trying to sleep and failing.
Your mind drifts over those who didn't survive. A mother, a father, you remember seeing a photograph of their newborn child. He'll be coming here in elevenish years, you realize. Maybe this one's a second chance for you? You were an idiot the last war orphan that came through these doors. You couldn't put your past behind you. Can you now? You remember the boy's father, remember what he was. Was the child a werewolf as well? There's something you can do if he is, there's something you've been working on in secret.
The wolfsbane works, but not good enough. What if there's a cure? You're one of the most brilliant potioneers to ever exist, or at least that's what you've been told. You have no clue if it's true, you've heard so many lies that the truth isn't obvious anymore. It doesn't matter. You can do it, can't you? The original potion floats on the top of your memory, each ingredient, each movement of the stirring rod. Can't use silver for that one, could poison instead of heal...wait...would silver poison? It kills werewolves, but what if in human form?
You're already on your feet, wand in hand scribbling notes on the parchment next to the bed. The vivid blues and greens of the peacock feather catch your eyes, reminding you of the swirling colors in the cauldron. What if? That's become your newest obsession. What if you could do it, cure lycanthropy, would he forgive you? Could you ever find forgiveness for what you've done, for those that died instead of you?