The Minister of Magic's face, usually the color of a slightly under-ripe lime, instantly drained to a ghastly, translucent green. He looked as if he might vomit his lunch right there on the Ministry seal inlaid into the polished floor.
They actually want to force me to shake hands with a werewolf!
Does this show any reasonable, sensible logic? he screamed internally, his mind trapped in a terrifying loop of panic. This is a werewolf!
The Potion, yes, it made him sane. But what if the beast was merely acting? What if the compulsion to strike flared up precisely when he reached across the final, crucial barrier?
Even if the creature remained perfectly controlled, a mere accidental brush from one of those dagger-like talons could pierce his skin. A puncture, a scratch, and then what? The thought of being infected, of transforming into a monster on the next full moon, was far worse than any political scandal.
"I am the Minister of Magic! I cannot submit to such a dangerous, ridiculous stunt!" he hyperventilated in the silence of his own mind.
Yet, he felt the heavy, suffocating pressure of hundreds of eyes, the relentless, clicking rhythm of the magical cameras, and Dumbledore's infuriatingly benevolent, challenging smile.
To refuse now would be to confess an absolute, debilitating terror, which would be interpreted politically as a lack of faith in Damocles' Potion and, more importantly, a lack of the courage necessary to lead the wizarding world.
Fudge clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. He had no choice. He forced himself to see the potential headline. Shaking the hand of a transformed, yet sane, werewolf was an act that transcended mere politics; it was a moment of profound, indelible historical courage.
The headline must be serious. It must be powerful. It must be iconic. He imagined the perfect text: [The First Minister of Magic to Shake Hands with a Transformed Werewolf, Ushering in a New Era of Peace]
Just before he started the terrifying walk onto the platform, Fudge leaned in conspiratorially toward Dumbledore, his voice dropping to a high-pitched, desperate whisper that only the Headmaster could hear.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, my safety is entirely dependent upon you. If that beast so much as twitches, you are personally responsible for my life," he hissed, placing the weight of his survival squarely on the old wizard's shoulders.
Having passed the mortal risk to his superior, Fudge composed himself. The sickly green hue vanished, replaced by the practiced, hearty, and somewhat theatrical flush of a competent, courageous politician. He beamed, raising his hands slightly as he slowly ascended the steps to join the stage.
The reporters went into hysterics. Every camera in the room instantly pivoted, the flashes momentarily blinding him as he arrived beside the iron cage.
Fudge didn't immediately rush to the werewolf. He maintained his practiced, paternal smile, giving the journalists time to adjust their lenses. He listened with theatrical, careful interest as Dean Bolton continued to chat warmly with Old Pete, a perfect visual display of medical confidence and control.
After a calculated, perfect minute of posing, Fudge finally stepped toward the bars.
"Old Pete, my dear man, how are you truly feeling?" Fudge asked, injecting his voice with a pronounced, statesmanlike warmth that would play beautifully over the audio recordings. "Are you experiencing any discomfort or residual negative effects from the transformation?"
Fudge wasn't interested in Pete's health; he was checking for any subtle sign of latent aggression.
"I am perfectly well, Mr. Minister," Old Pete replied, his voice a deep, gentle rumble. The massive werewolf instinctively lowered his posture and softened his tone, trying not to alarm the terrified, important little man.
"After consuming the Wolfsbane Potion, the transformation was physically agonizing, but my human mind remained entirely my own. I feel… simply like a wizard in a different form. No urges, no confusion."
"Wonderful! Simply marvelous!" Fudge exclaimed, nodding vigorously, practically vibrating with relief.
He glanced at the blinding array of camera flashes, then back at Dumbledore, whose blue eyes were twinkling with a mischievous, knowing intensity. The irresistible, intoxicating combination of ambition, political necessity, and the presence of the world's most powerful wizard flooded Fudge's senses. He had to maximize this.
He turned to Dilys Derwent, the Senior Auror assigned to the stage security. "Dilys! Release this fine wizard from his confinement! Remove the chains and open the gate immediately! This man has demonstrated his full sanity and control. He should not be treated like a wild animal. Let him stand beside me so we may pose for a portrait together, as equals!"
A tremendous, shocked roar erupted from the press gallery.
"My God, the Minister has lost his mind! This is a werewolf!" shrieked one reporter, instinctively falling backward over a chair as Dilys rushed to unlock the chains. "This is a level of sheer, reckless nerve I haven't seen in twenty years!"
"Who knew Fudge had this kind of backbone? This single act changes his entire political trajectory!" another exclaimed, already scribbling furiously.
"I've got the headline! The only one that matters: 'Minister and Werewolf Join Forces: The Magical World Advances, Hand-in-Claw!'"
As Fudge listened to the terrified yet wildly admiring chatter, his smile widened, stretching his cheeks until they ached. The fear was a distant memory, replaced entirely by the adrenaline of political victory.
He watched as the final chains were removed from Old Pete. The huge werewolf, now utterly free, slowly uncurled and stood, rising to his full, towering height of well over seven feet. Standing next to the massive, black-furred beast, Fudge looked almost ridiculously small, like a plush toy beside a black bear.
Old Pete, uneasy with Fudge's relentless, almost manic enthusiasm, hesitated. But at Fudge's insistent, urgent gesturing, the werewolf hesitantly extended one giant, clawed hand.
Fudge stepped forward, gripped the massive paw firmly, and shook it with theatrical, aggressive vigor, holding the pose for a breathless few seconds for the cameras.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let my actions serve as the ultimate testimony!" Fudge declared, his voice booming with forced strength. "I, Cornelius Fudge, your Minister of Magic, personally attest before you. After drinking the Wolfsbane Potion, the werewolf retains full rational control and poses absolutely no threat to the community. These wizards, who have suffered so long, are no different from any other member of our society—they are, fundamentally, a vital part of the magical world!"
A new, continuous wave of blinding flashes erupted. The reporters were practically screaming over each other, competing for the most sensational, attention-grabbing headline.
"Mine is better! 'The Untold Story of the Minister of Magic and the Werewolf: A Political Love Affair Revealed!'"
"Rubbish! Mine is the winner! 'Shocking! The Minister of Magic Did THIS with a Werewolf in Front of the Public!'"
Fudge was not angered by the ridiculous sensationalism; he was utterly ecstatic. Brilliant! he thought. The titles are sensational, yes, but they will attract every single casual reader in Britain! The more people who read the news, the more people will see my heroic, undeniable figure standing next to the beast! The visual drama of the tiny, brave Minister next to the towering, docile werewolf was political gold.
I must purchase every single copy of every newspaper tomorrow. And the entire news reel must be copied and archived! This achievement, he knew, was something he would be able to pull out and brag about for the rest of his life.
With this strategic thought firmly in mind, Fudge held Old Pete's hand, adjusting his stance every few seconds, ensuring every camera angle captured his most impressive, courageous side.
Sebastian Swann watched the entire spectacle with a detached, cold amusement. Fudge was indeed a talented politician, a master opportunist who seized every opening to enhance his brand. But it didn't matter. The political transaction was complete.
Fudge got his historic photo, his career boost, and the indelible image of the "Brave Minister." In return, Fudge was now obligated to champion the Wolfsbane Potion and, crucially, ensure the Ministry threw its full weight behind the promotion and protection of the Wolf Grass Garden.
This overwhelming public relations victory would cause countless werewolves, who had been hesitant to trust any official body, to flock to Sebastian's secure, well-paying establishment.
Just as Sebastian was confirming these strategic gains, a shadow fell over him. A gruff, muscular man with close-cropped, greying hair and a face deeply lined by stress and cynicism sat down heavily in the empty chair beside him.
"Congratulations, Swann," Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office, muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that barely cut through the celebratory clamor. "Your little Wolf Grass Garden is about to become the most famous magical enterprise since Gringotts. I'm certain you'll have werewolves lining up around the block to join your workforce."
Scrimgeour leaned in, his eyes narrowed, cutting through the general euphoria. "But I can't help but look at this whole thing with a different lens. Why, precisely, are you collecting all the werewolves in one convenient, secure location?"
Sebastian offered him a practiced, innocent smile. "Come now, Rufus. Do not be uncharitable to the innocent. I assure you, my motives are entirely focused on public safety and community stability. Remember, when the Garden was established, the Wolfsbane Potion was still years from becoming a half-finished product. My initial goal was simply to give them jobs, a measure of dignity, and keep them fed and safely contained during the full moon—reducing the pressure on your department."
Scrimgeour neither accepted nor denied the statement. His gaze remained fixed on the triumphant Minister and the massive, calm werewolf on the stage, his cynicism deepening.
For the public, this spectacle represented a decrease in the threat level. For Scrimgeour, the Head Auror who dealt with the practical reality of combat, the opposite was true.
Handling feral werewolves was difficult. But handling a fully transformed werewolf who retained human cunning, tactical thinking, and the ability to cast magic? That was an operational nightmare.
Thanks to the Potion, Sebastian's Wolf Grass Garden would soon house dozens—perhaps hundreds—of transformed, yet rational, werewolves. These creatures, with their unparalleled speed, strength, and spell resistance, would be capable of forming a perfectly disciplined, fully functional unit on the full moon.
If that collective were ever mobilized for malicious intent, Scrimgeour knew, with chilling certainty, that the entire Auror Department would likely be unable to contain them. It was a terrifying concentration of power.
But the real, immediate issue for Scrimgeour was professional necessity, mixed with a healthy dose of envy. He was the one fighting Dark Wizards. He was the one who desperately needed every advantage he could get.
Scrimgeour sighed, running a hand over his tired, rugged face. "Sebastian, I need to talk to you about something critically important. Something… operational, related to the stability you claim to care about."
He lowered his voice further, leaning so close that Sebastian could smell the strong, stale scent of Wizengamot coffee and parchment on his breath. "I've been watching the combat capabilities of the beast on the stage. With that physical form and a preserved intellect, a werewolf is the single most formidable asset imaginable in a fight. If they're sane, they're unstoppable by conventional means."
Scrimgeour paused, gathering his resolve. "I need you to consider something. I want to formally recruit a small number of your wolf-wizards from the Wolf Grass Garden into the Auror Corps. We need that power. We need those assets on our side. It's for the protection of the entire community, Sebastian. Think of the psychological advantage alone. What do you say?"
Sebastian's smile didn't falter, but his eyes narrowed slightly, betraying a flicker of surprise and intense calculation. A trained, officially sanctioned werewolf unit in the Ministry... That's certainly bold, Rufus. Sebastian leaned back, giving the Chief Auror the space to feel important.
"Recruit them, Rufus? Into the Aurors?" Sebastian replied, his tone one of mild, surprised amusement.