The sheer, raw emotion emanating from Old Pete completely overwhelmed Damocles Belby. The Potions Master, whose greatest comfort was the precise, measurable reaction of ingredients in a controlled environment, was utterly defenseless against such intense, genuine human gratitude.
"I… you… I…" Damocles stammered, his face quickly flushing a bright, painful red. He frantically grabbed the older werewolf by the forearms, gently but firmly pulling him upright from the threatened second bow. He felt utterly at a loss for words, his mind racing to find a scientific formula to handle this spontaneous eruption of praise, but finding nothing.
Damocles lived a life dedicated almost entirely to his research. He was not a man who sought celebrity, nor was he motivated by the fame or fortune that typically drove the vast majority of Potions Masters. His only objective was a pure, humanitarian one: to alleviate the suffering of the werewolf community.
He knew his research was not necessarily "cutting-edge" in the field of rare elixirs or combat potions, and he received few visitors at his laboratory. The problem he tackled—the poverty and ostracization of werewolves—was rooted in the sheer danger they posed during their transformations.
He was acutely aware that because werewolves were notoriously poor, the Wolfsbane Potion could never yield vast, immediate profits. It held no appeal for those who prioritized status and wealth. Thus, his findings, while important, had been largely ignored by the self-serving elite of the Potions community. Damocles was, essentially, a quiet, solitary explorer with a singular, noble focus.
He was notoriously clumsy and awkward in social interactions, often missing cues or misinterpreting the enthusiasm or hostility of others. Right now, Old Pete's heartfelt praise felt like a physical assault of unexpected emotion.
Sensing Damocles' near-panic and perhaps finding the raw emotional display tedious, Severus Snape—ever the pragmatic academic—stepped in, immediately shifting the tone back to the comfortable, technical world of Potions.
"Damocles," Snape began, his voice immediately softening to a gentle, professional murmur. "While that was… a commendable display of loyalty, let us return to the pressing matter of the Potion itself. I reviewed the recipe you forwarded to Sebastian, and I have immediately identified a serious, structural issue."
Issue?
Damocles' scientific focus snapped back into place instantly. His eyes lit up, the embarrassment vanishing, replaced by keen intellectual curiosity. He looked sharply at Snape.
He had always deeply respected Snape's formidable Potions skills. Though Snape was a year older, they had been fellow Slytherins and often discussed intricate brew theory during their school days. If Snape had spotted a flaw, Damocles was intensely curious to know what it was.
Snape continued, his tone conspiratorial and academic. "I don't know if you've considered the societal implications of your ingredient choices, but the majority of the raw materials in your final formula are extremely expensive. While the high-grade powdered moonstone and the stabilized silver solution are necessary for the Potion's stabilizing effects, the cost, compounded by the frequency of dosage, renders the Potion effectively unaffordable for the very demographic it is designed to help."
He frowned slightly, pushing his dark hair back from his forehead as he warmed to the subject. "The average, struggling werewolf, who is scraping by on meager wages, simply cannot afford a weekly supply. You have created a cure that only the wealthy can access. This is the issue we must address immediately."
Damocles frowned, running a hand over his tired face. "Yes, Severus, I have noted that persistent problem. It is currently the primary focus of my follow-up research. The cost must be reduced by at least two-thirds for wide-scale adoption."
He leaned closer, the formal event forgotten as they entered their own professional bubble. "I am exploring cheaper alternatives for the binding agents, perhaps substituting the essence of Mandrake root with a highly refined Scurvygrass, though the purification process is proving inefficient. What are your specific thoughts on stabilizing the complex crystalline structure using a low-grade, artificially-grown Fwooper feather extract?"
Snape immediately engaged, his face animated by the challenge.
"Fwooper extract is too volatile, Damocles, you'll need three times the anti-coagulation agent, pushing the cost back up. I suggest refocusing on the moonstone itself. If you refine it using a multi-phase distillation process—a modified version of the Draught of Living Death technique—you might be able to use a lower concentration of the raw material without compromising the mental clarity index."
The two Potions Masters, completely lost in a detailed, whispered debate about crystal refinement, ingredient volatility, and distillation techniques, had entirely forgotten they were standing at the doorway of a high-profile press conference, surrounded by influential, impatient dignitaries.
They were completely disregarding the reality of the situation. Damocles, the main character of the hour, needed to socialize, to network, to sell his triumph, not retreat into the comfort of chemical theory.
Sebastian shook his head, a wry, helpless smile on his face. These academics! You give them a chance to change the world, and they'd rather argue about the solubility of powdered beetle eyes. He was about to physically intervene when the problem solved itself with the arrival of the social lubricant Sebastian had strategically invited.
"Merlin's beard, look who has congregated!" boomed a familiar, jovial voice.
Sebastian grinned, turning toward the speaker: Horace Slughorn, his former Head of House, accompanied by Dumbledore and Mr. Bolton, the Dean of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
Slughorn, portly and impeccably dressed, beamed with immense pride, gesturing grandly toward the trio of Slytherins. "Sebastian, Severus, and now our hero, Damocles—all young talents who rose through the ranks of Slytherin! Albus, my dear boy, look at this magnificent display! Aren't you simply green with envy at my collection of brilliant former pupils?"
Dumbledore chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling. "Not at all, Horace. In my eyes, and under this roof, they are all simply students of Hogwarts who are bringing great credit to their alma mater."
Dean Bolton, a man in his early seventies but radiating vibrant, physical health, stepped forward, his voice strong and deeply resonant.
"Sebastian, is this Damocles, the Potions Master you spoke so highly of? I must say, young man, to be able to stand here, moments before your life-changing announcement, and calmly discuss refinements to the formula without distraction… it truly speaks volumes of your character and dedication."
Dean Bolton, whose career was built around treating the catastrophic consequences of magical diseases, immediately pulled Damocles aside, praising his initial motivation for the research.
From Dean Bolton's solemn, professional words, everyone quickly learned the gruesome statistics that were rarely made public: every single year, St. Mungo's admitted several patients who had been bitten or severely scratched by rabid, transformed werewolves on the night of the full moon. The healers could treat the physical wounds, but they were forced to watch helplessly as the patient's fate was sealed, transforming into a werewolf with the next lunar cycle.
"If the Wolfsbane Potion is widely distributed and used," Dean Bolton emphasized gravely, "the incidence of these tragic, avoidable infections will be drastically reduced. The werewolves who take this potion will be able to reintegrate into society over time, not as monsters, but as wizards with a chronic condition they can manage. This is not just medicine; it is public safety."
While the others discussed the ethics and logistics, Sebastian quietly intercepted Horace Slughorn, pulling out a small, beautifully packaged jar wrapped in gold foil from his pocket.
"Dean, I noticed you seemed to be enjoying the Ministry's paltry lemon drops," Sebastian murmured, handing the jar over with a wink. "Please accept these, the finest candied pineapple preserves, specially imported just for you. A little something to celebrate your students' success."
Horace's eyes lit up. He was delighted by the gift and the covert attention, immediately patting Sebastian's shoulder with the enthusiasm of a proud uncle. As Horace tucked the jar away, Sebastian seized the moment to press his strategic query.
He quietly confirmed that Slughorn's work on a highly complex, specialized restorative potion—the one Sebastian was truly interested in—was progressing on schedule and would be ready soon. After that brief, purely transactional exchange, the two returned to the group.
As Sebastian rejoined the huddle, he heard Dean Bolton's booming voice, now directed toward Dumbledore.
"Albus, I must say, if the Wolfsbane Potion is successfully tested and proven tonight, I propose we jointly nominate Damocles Belby for the Order of Merlin, Second Class. His work warrants nothing less than the highest civilian honor."
Dumbledore nodded, his eyes serene. "I quite agree, Dean Bolton. Damocles' contribution to social harmony and public health is extraordinary and more than deserving of the Order of Merlin."
Sebastian's heart soared internally. Perfect.
This was the core reason Sebastian had exerted such immense effort tonight. His goal was not simply to help Damocles achieve fame; it was to ensure Damocles was immediately nominated for the Order of Merlin.
To win this prestigious award, a wizard needed not only extraordinary contributions but also a suitable, high-ranking sponsor to initiate the process. A nomination made by an existing recipient of the Order of Merlin (like Dumbledore or Dean Bolton, a respected figure in the medical field) drastically accelerated the bureaucratic approval process.
Without a high-level nominator, they would be forced to wait for the Knights of Merlin to automatically initiate the process, leaving the timing of the award—and the associated global prestige—to pure chance.
Sebastian had spent the afternoon ensuring every powerful contact was in this room for this exact moment.
After Dean Bolton reluctantly concluded his conversation and moved off to greet other colleagues, Sebastian took over. He seized Damocles by the elbow and, without preamble, began steering him across the room, leaving Snape to guard Old Pete.
"Enough shop talk, Damocles. Time to perform the most important part of your job: being grateful," Sebastian said lightly.
"That was Dean Bolton of St. Mungo's. Now, come and meet the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, then the Senior Undersecretary, and finally, those three gentlemen over there are actual members of the Order of Merlin. You are going to shake their hands, look them in the eye, and express your immense gratitude for their attendance. You cannot squander this opportunity by debating the solubility of Fwooper extract with Severus."
Sebastian spent the next two hours forcefully guiding the introverted Potions Master through the complex web of Ministry officials and influential figures. He ensured Damocles spoke to every person necessary to solidify his reputation as a humble genius whose work was crucial to the state.
The mingling continued until the sun had completely dipped below the horizon, and the Ministry's Atrium was bathed in the magical, shimmering light of the hour.
Suddenly, the doors to the main press area were thrown open. A crowd of wizards and witches, mostly reporters carrying magical cameras that flashed constantly, rushed in, setting up their equipment and unrolling self-inking quills and parchment. Ministry employees rushed to restore order, seating the prominent guests in the front rows.
A moment later, Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, impeccably dressed in lime-green robes, strode confidently onto the raised podium. He cleared his throat dramatically and tapped the microphone lightly with his wand, amplifying his voice throughout the room.
"My fellow witches and wizards! Welcome! We are gathered here tonight under the benevolent auspices of the Ministry of Magic to address a critical social challenge. Our goal tonight is to pay proper attention to the social lives of werewolves and, together, to construct a truly harmonious wizarding world!"
Fudge preened under the flashing cameras, basking in the reflected glow of the humanitarian effort he was now claiming.
"I am proud to announce it! The official press conference is now officially underway!"