There wasn't much of a good outcome waiting for the werewolves.
Leaving aside how this gathering would be classified, the death toll alone—over fifty—was enough to make the Ministry of Magic tremble.
Scrimgeour ordered the Aurors to meticulously inspect and confirm the causes of death for each werewolf.
The results made him breathe a sigh of relief.
Not a single werewolf had died from a spell.
He wasn't worried that the Ministry would try to prosecute Harry; even if he weren't the Minister of Magic, no one would dare to raise such a topic. The only concern would have been the political headache if Harry had killed anyone—how to explain it to the Ministry, to the wizarding public.
Luckily, there was no need.
Scrimgeour called in Rita Skeeter. Once infamous for her scandalous journalism, she had now transformed into a self-styled "voice for the common wizard." Most of the wizarding community had accepted her transformation with surprising ease. Scrimgeour was among the few who found it difficult to adapt to her new identity—especially since she still dressed like an over-the-top gossip columnist.
Reporters from the Daily Prophet were also summoned.
Scrimgeour allowed them to photograph the dead, the injured, and every captured werewolf, with only one restriction: they could not mention Mr. Potter.
Come Monday morning, the wizarding world was rocked by two explosive pieces of news.
The first was the werewolf gathering, which had resulted in over fifty deaths and more than two hundred injuries.
Surprisingly, most wizards were indifferent. The dead were werewolves, the injured were also werewolves. Yet the sheer number—hundreds—caused great unease.
Most had assumed there were only a handful of werewolves in Britain. Perhaps ten, maybe twenty. Some even naively thought there were only two: Fenrir Greyback and Remus Lupin.
But today's paper revealed that Britain alone had over two hundred werewolves.
That was more than a single year's worth of students at Hogwarts.
The numbers terrified them.
Still, this alarm quickly faded in the face of the second piece of news.
The journal Alchemy, usually a publication of niche interest, suddenly became the center of everyone's attention.
Unlike Today's Transfiguration—which included amusing stories and practical household spells—or Spellcraft Innovations, which offered daily-use enchantments, Alchemy was dry and academic.
Few wizards had ever needed it. After all, for most, basic knowledge like "use dittany for wounds" and "go to St. Mungo's for anything serious" was more than enough.
Even many young potion masters straight out of Hogwarts were unaware of Alchemy's existence—Snape had never been much of a nurturing professor. His "clubs" were more like grueling extra lessons, attended only by the few students who could withstand the pressure.
Yet today, Alchemy rocketed into fame.
Because it carried the headline:
Mr. Potter Has Developed a Potion to Cure Lycanthropy!
Spurred by the fear from the werewolf gathering, wizards scrambled to buy the journal—even if they could barely understand the dense potion recipes inside.
Who knew? If they ever got bitten, they might need it.
Werewolves not captured during the raid bought it too.
Most couldn't make sense of it and had to pool their money to hire apothecaries from Diagon Alley for interpretation.
The potion wasn't too complicated to brew.
No rare or restricted ingredients.
No complex brewing techniques.
But one ingredient made every werewolf stumble:
"A tear shed by a lover for oneself."
It was almost a cruel joke.
Most werewolves were already ostracized by society.
Forget lovers—many didn't even have friends.
Still, a few fortunate ones existed.
By the end of November, besides the case featured in Alchemy—Remus Lupin's cure—a second success story emerged.
It came from a werewolf who worked at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, handling cleaning duties.
Everyone who knew him knew he disappeared each full moon, returning days later pale and frail.
But on the full moon night of November 25th—
He was still at the shop.
Some customers panicked, asking George and Fred if they had lost track of the calendar. Wasn't it dangerous to have a werewolf around on a full moon?
That evening, the werewolf showed up at the Leaky Cauldron, his month's wages in hand, buying a round of butterbeer for the whole pub.
He celebrated his return to a normal life.
No longer a werewolf—just a human.
That night, he drank himself senseless, sobbing into Tom the bartender's shoulder about decades of suffering.
And the wizarding world responded with overwhelming sympathy.
November 29th, Hogwarts.
In the Headmaster's Office—
Dumbledore was reading the Daily Prophet, speaking wistfully. "Harry, love truly is the greatest magic in this world."
Harry half-heartedly nodded. "Albus, you've said that five times already tonight."
"You called me here just to watch you read the newspaper?"
Dumbledore shook his head, setting the paper down. "Of course not. I have another matter. Have you heard of the Order of Merlin?"
Harry nodded.
He hadn't seen one in person, but he'd read about it often.
Legend said the Order of Merlin had been founded by Merlin himself.
(Though it was likely just a legend.)
As the most celebrated and mythologized wizard of all time—regarded by many as the greatest ever—everyone wanted some connection to Merlin. There were even rumors during the tenure of that horrid Black-family headmaster that Merlin had once studied in Slytherin House.
But that was impossible—Merlin lived centuries before Hogwarts was even founded.
Still... it wasn't impossible that a wizard capable of manipulating time and changing his appearance could have posed as a student.
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Powerstones?
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