According to documents Wayne obtained from Crouch, there were approximately one hundred known werewolves in Britain alone. Across continental Europe, the number rose to around two thousand.
Compared to the total wizarding population, this was a minuscule figure.
Yet the werewolf problem continued to plague the entire wizarding world because of its devastating impact.
Every werewolf's emergence almost invariably meant a family torn apart.
Thereafter, their mere existence endangered the surrounding wizards.
Like an infectious disease – unless the root cause was eradicated or the transmission controlled – everyone would remain wary, keeping their distance from potential carriers.
This explained why, even with the Wolfsbane Potion's existence, Lupin's exposure as a werewolf still prompted floods of complaint letters from parents.
Wayne's Wolfsbane research was essentially a thankless endeavour.
Most werewolves struggled to find employment, relegated to the wizarding world's underbelly, where they did shady work offering little financial incentive. Yet they weren't entirely without value.
In their world, human worth far exceeded Galleons.
Wayne's advanced Wolfsbane formula suppressed lycanthropic toxins completely – no transformations during full moons, no debilitating weakness.
As long as the dosage held, they'd be indistinguishable from normal wizards.
Truthfully, with more effort, he could develop a permanent cure. But Wayne wouldn't pursue this yet.
It didn't align with his interests.
Using the improved Wolfsbane, he could establish an Exceeds Expectations... ahem, a Harmless Certification system. Certified werewolves could reintegrate into society.
Effectively controlling the entire werewolf population.
Not useful for combat, but handy for votes and gathering intelligence.
In this 'democratic' world, philanthropic gestures were necessary to showcase Young Master Lawrence's benevolent nature.
...
After sending the letter, Wayne donned Ravenclaw's Diadem and returned to his potions research.
Wearing the diadem didn't mean his potion-making talent could break through the SSS-level limit.
This was likely the world's upper boundary—the system hadn't unlocked any higher-tier templates.
Still, the crown's enhancement to his comprehension and thought processes was undeniable, at least saving him five to ten times the effort.
Hermione sat at the table, watching Wayne scribble potion reaction formulas across sheet after sheet of parchment. She tried reading a few pages but made little headway—it might as well have been ancient runes. Much of it directly contradicted what Snape had taught.
Two hours later, Wayne removed the diadem to rest his mind and found Hermione still frowning at a diagram.
"Which part don't you understand?" he asked gently, pulling her into his arms.
"Are you done?" Hermione blinked up at him.
"Not yet. Just taking a break. Ask me anything."
Without hesitation, she listed her doubts one by one.
After listening, Wayne considered before addressing the most fundamental question:
"Boomslang skin and dragon scale powder do share similar properties, but see here—the addition of powdered aconite alters their reactive effects..."
Hermione had solid foundations, but this knowledge was still beyond her. So Wayne only explained what she could grasp, advising her to set aside the rest for now. Overthinking wouldn't help.
Setting her down, he prepared to resume work. The young witch tugged his sleeve worriedly. "Shouldn't you rest? This can wait."
Wayne shook his head. "The next full moon's approaching. I must finish the potion before then."
"Plus, I expect Damocles will arrive any moment after receiving my letter. Every second counts."
"You should sleep if you're tired."
Hermione refused, stubbornly keeping vigil. Resigned, Wayne let her stay.
Another two hours passed. Midnight approached, and the exhausted witch finally succumbed, slumping onto the table in deep sleep. With a sigh, Wayne carried her to bed.
...
Wayne's prediction proved correct. Upon receiving the letter, Damocles had raced to Hogwarts overnight.
By noon the next day, Wayne spotted him in the Great Hall. Dumbledore had added a seat at the staff table and announced during lunch:
"What an honour—Hogwarts welcomes another distinguished guest: the inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion, Mr Damocles!"
Students from all houses applauded enthusiastically while the Headmasters smiled approvingly.
Damocles rose to acknowledge them, then fixed his gaze unwaveringly on Wayne.
After the meal, as Wayne headed to class, the old man intercepted him.
"Enough trivial pursuits, Mr Lawrence," Damocles urged impatiently. "What more can this school teach you? Perfecting the Wolfsbane Potion takes precedence now."
Wayne didn't answer, instead glancing at Professor Sprout beside him.
The Hufflepuff Head of House smiled warmly. "Dumbledore has granted special permission. You don't need to attend classes recently—just focus on researching potions."
"Very well," Wayne agreed, only to be eagerly dragged away by the old man.
Beside the Potions Classroom, Dumbledore had prepared a brand-new laboratory for them.
Wayne presented his ideas and some experimental procedures, which fascinated Damocles as if he were admiring the most beautiful woman in the world.
"Yes, exactly... Why didn't I think of this before? Wait—Lawrence, explain to me quickly, why is the calming herb missing?"
"Because this is about curing illness and detoxification, not suppressing wildness," Wayne patiently explained.
He needed Damocles to understand his reasoning before any real progress could be made.
By late afternoon, Damocles had grasped the essence of Wayne's ideas and eagerly brought out the materials Wayne had requested to begin experiments.
For the next few days, the two of them seemed to vanish from Hogwarts entirely.
Apart from a few girls who came to visit Wayne, others only knew they were developing a new potion—the specifics remained unclear.
Most people didn't concern themselves with such matters anyway. Compared to dry academic pursuits, young wizards far preferred more thrilling activities—like Quidditch.
...
Saturday.
Today's match featured teams from Castelobruxo and Durmstrang.
As for the outcome, most had initially considered it a foregone conclusion.
Durmstrang would undoubtedly win—not when their Seeker was Krum.
That was the World Cup's best Seeker, operating on an entirely different level from others.
But news broke last night that Krum had unfortunately contracted the flu.
Karkaroff, prioritising his care, chose to field Durmstrang's reserve Seeker instead—though this hardly seemed problematic.
Castelobruxo had already played one match earlier, displaying rather mediocre form when soundly defeated by Ilvermorny.
This was also related to the regional climate. The area where Koldovstoretz was located remained cold year-round—who would be idle enough to play ball games in the freezing wind?
Yet no one could have anticipated that Durmstrang would find themselves locked in a gruelling battle during today's match.
To be precise, the Koldovstoretz students had come for the players, with the game being a secondary concern.
Within just twenty minutes, two Durmstrang students had their noses broken, while the others all bore visible injuries.
The Koldovstoretz students weren't faring much better either.
Their uniforms were covered in boot prints, and some had even lost half their broom bristles.
The spectators watched in stunned silence—they'd never witnessed such brutality in a match.
Sure, Slytherin played dirty, didn't they?
But compared to the two teams on the pitch, they might as well have been paragons of sportsmanship.
Madam Hooch's whistle barely had a moment's respite. Since Quidditch rules didn't allow for red-card ejections, the most she could do was temporarily bench certain players for a few minutes.
Unless they were injured enough to withdraw, they'd have to wait until the match ended.
What should have been a proper game had devolved into an unrestricted brawl.
In the end, when Koldovstoretz's Seeker caught the Golden Snitch, Durmstrang's Seeker was still on the ground trying to staunch his bleeding.
Between both teams, only seven players remained on the pitch.
Karkaroff trembled with rage. He'd long wanted to confront Katerina, but she simply ignored him. After the match, she went straight to celebrating with her students.
The aftermath of this match left tensions between the two schools at a breaking point.
The conflict even spilt over to others.
Take Slytherin, for instance. Since Durmstrang's philosophy was pure-blood exclusivity, many parents—the Malfoys among them—had considered sending their children there before coming to Hogwarts.
Meanwhile, the Koldovstoretz students clearly got along better with the carefree Gryffindors.
The two factions engaged in open and covert struggles, leaving no peace within the castle walls.
Karkaroff shamelessly inserted himself into the fray, nitpicking daily about the castle—complaining about poor living conditions one moment and noisy students the next.
He even went so far as to critique every professor at the school. Apart from Snape, no one received favourable remarks from him—just sarcastic jabs.
Though Karkaroff had no authority over students and couldn't influence the professors, his presence was insufferable.
Dumbledore generally stayed out of sight, and others couldn't properly address him due to the disparity in status. They could only endure him like a super-sized slug—impossible to shake off or squash.
...
In the blink of an eye, another week passed.
In the classroom, Damocles watched nervously as Wayne carefully bottled the purple liquid from the cauldron.
Wayne's hand trembled slightly, spilling two drops, which made the old man wince in distress.
"Steady, steady there, Lawrence."
"Why are you so nervous? There's more than enough potion here. A couple of drops won't matter."
Wayne sealed the bottle and stored the potion away.
After days and nights of research, they had finally finalised the perfected formula for the Wolfsbane Potion.
Following Lawrence's naming convention, this was the Wolfsbane Potion Pro·Max Edition.
"Tomorrow's the full moon. I specifically instructed Lupin not to take the old potion. His condition will determine whether we've succeeded."
"It will definitely succeed." Damocles looked at the desk covered in draft papers and said with absolute conviction:
"Mr Lawrence, without you, I don't think I'd ever see hope for completely eradicating werewolves in my lifetime."
"Thank you."
After speaking, the old man bowed deeply, and Wayne hurriedly helped him up.
"You're overstating things. Even if this succeeds, it can only guarantee no werewolf transformations for six months."
"That's enough." Damocles said wistfully, "As long as we can ensure contemporary werewolves don't cause trouble before their deaths, this species will eventually disappear from the world completely."
The two left the classroom, planning to rest properly while waiting for Lupin's arrival.
When they reached the ground floor, Wayne noticed a crowd of young wizards gathered in the entrance hall, seemingly arguing about something. He immediately grew excited, abandoning Damocles to rush over and join the spectacle.
Damocles shook his head with a wry smile.
Only at moments like this could he remember that Wayne was still a fourteen or fifteen-year-old boy.
During their potion research, Wayne had almost entirely taken the lead, leaving Damocles in an assistant's role. If not for his deep understanding of werewolves, he probably wouldn't even have qualified as an assistant.
After privately chastising himself for several seconds, Damocles quickly followed.
...
"Aren't we right? The pure-blood nobility are just parasites!"
"It's because of vermin like you that Britain's magical community remains stagnant, filled with unfair laws and regulations everywhere!"
The speaker was a Koldovstoretz girl, her face flushed red with the scent of alcohol about her - she'd likely consumed plenty of the Water of Life.
The one refuting her wasn't a Slytherin student, but a tall Durmstrang boy.
"Hmph! The magical world belongs to pure-bloods by right. Allowing half-bloods and Muggle-born wizards to study here is already a privilege - how dare you show ingratitude?"
"Bullshit! All wizards should be equal. Pure-bloods just monopolise high-ranking positions and resources because they're privileged."
"In our country, the people's interests come first! We won't let you exploit others at will!"
"You're the one spouting nonsense! Pure-bloods excel in every field because we're outstanding - don't blame the path when you can't walk it properly!"
"Outstanding? You mean having your uncle as a high-ranking Ministry official?"
"That's my great-uncle!"
Initially, it was just an argument between two people, but more and more people joined in as the quarrel intensified.
Wayne listened nearby, his eyelids twitching violently.
Hammers and sickles invading the magical world?
Surely Koldovstoretz must have pure-blood wizards too - how were they all supporting this ideology?
As he pondered this, someone lost their temper and fired the first spell, triggering a free-for-all.
Wayne pulled Damocles two steps back, fearing the old man might get caught in the crossfire, then watched events unfold.
Though Hogwarts students were involved too, most were Slytherins, and since this fight had nothing to do with the school, he couldn't be bothered to intervene.
Both sides exchanged spells while insulting each other's relatives, quickly descending into chaos.
Within moments, over a dozen people had been stunned - and only then did the professors belatedly arrive.