"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 350: Dumbledore's Secret to Maintaining Magical Vitality
Knockturn Alley.
Borgin crumpled the newspaper and tossed it into a glass jar containing a shrunken head.
Muffled curses echoed from within the jar.
"Merlin's beard, this is more revolting than a blood curse! Werewolves can be cured now? Where are you supposed to find such obedient little wolf cubs in the future? Mr. Borgin, finish him off!"
Borgin let out a cold, disdainful chuckle, addressing the shrunken head with a sneer.
"Maybe your brain's been soaking in a jar, but mine hasn't. Take a good look at who's behind all this—he's trouble, that one. I've no intention of crossing him.
If he wants those beasts to start eating with silver forks… heh, he never does anything unless he stands to gain. Just wait and see."
Deeper in Knockturn Alley, inside the Poisoned Horn tavern.
A witch with serpentine earrings slammed her skull-shaped goblet onto the table, her voice raspy.
"That bookish little badger actually thinks he can turn Greyback's pack into obedient lapdogs? Ha!"
In the corner, a hooded figure slowly lifted his head, sharp eyes glinting as he spoke in a low voice to the wizard across from him.
"Listen—werewolves will soon be a thing of the past. If you want werewolf saliva, hair, claws, teeth… it's only going to get harder to come by.
Because you're an old customer, I won't raise the price today. Take it or leave it—after tonight, these will only get more expensive."
The ragged wizard across the table hesitated, then gritted his teeth and muttered, "Deal! But this better be the real stuff—I don't want to have come all this way for nothing. Bloody Holmes! Why's he got to go and help those filthy werewolves?"
He carefully placed a bag of Galleons on the table.
The hooded figure's eyes flashed with a mixture of coldness and something almost gentle. He replied softly, "Don't worry, it's genuine. In fact, I should be thanking Professor Holmes."
He slid a pouch across the table, grabbed the gold, and melted into the tavern's shadows.
Tonight was the full moon, and he'd barely scraped together enough for this month's Wolfsbane Potion.
If he could just get through this cycle, he'd start saving up for the new potion the newspaper described.
Dachstein Mountains, Austria.
Driven into exile by the chaos in Britain's magical community, Greyback had received a copy of the Daily Prophet—delivered by mysterious means, straight into his hands.
Hiding in an icy cave, Fenrir Greyback finished reading and let out a furious roar.
"Does he expect us to recite the Standard Book of Spells to the moon? Dream on!"
His howl shook snow from the cave mouth. He transformed instantly, claws slashing through the photo of Remus Lupin.
"When this is over, I'll hunt down that sweet-sipping traitor myself. I'll use his bones to knock some sense into those Hogwarts fools."
The wind and snow outside howled even louder, wild light blazing in Fenrir's eyes.
He leapt from the cave, his wolf's howl echoing through the valley, piercing the silent night.
From the distant woods, other werewolves—those who could shift at will—answered his call.
A remote mountain village in Britain.
A scruffy middle-aged man huddled in a ramshackle hut, cradling a sickly, infant-like creature.
The man flinched as the "baby" hurled curses at him.
He was used to it by now—the same old insults, over and over: useless, worthless…
The creature knew its limits, never daring to mention any names from the wizarding world.
The man sighed, a flicker of helplessness and despair in his eyes.
Hogwarts, Defence Against the Dark Arts Office.
With Dumbledore away, the officials from the Wizarding Examinations Authority naturally gathered in Douglas's office—the one closest to the exam entrance.
On the round table: a whole roast lamb, pumpkin soup, dragon blood dumplings, butterbeer, and Douglas's special Five Elements Wellness Tea.
Dobby stood at attention in a crisp tailcoat, every inch the perfect Holmes family butler.
As he liked to say, "Dobby has never forgotten why the master hired Dobby. Dobby's real job is as a butler—everything else is just to better serve the master."
Douglas smiled as he used serving chopsticks to dish out dragon blood dumplings, picking one up and offering it to Griselda Marchbanks beside him.
"Try this dumpling. It's a new creation—the house-elves in the Hogwarts kitchen worked on it with a few Hufflepuff students.
The wrapper's made with dragon blood kneaded into the dough. The filling is an improved Calming Draught recipe, with ginger and dandelion—warms you up and soothes the nerves. Perfect for you."
Griselda couldn't handle chopsticks, so she used a fork, biting into the dumpling. The rich aroma of dragon blood mingled with the sweetness of herbs, and surprise flitted through her eyes.
"This flavor is truly unique—both the depth of dragon blood and the freshness of herbs. It seems you've had some pointers from Albus on using dragon blood."
Douglas smiled and nodded. "Indeed, Professor Dumbledore has given me plenty of inspiration in dragon blood research."
(Privately: As if!)
Griselda laughed heartily, then turned serious.
"Douglas, as for the Wolfsbane Potion improvements, it does touch on Article 73 of the International Statute of Secrecy. But don't worry—after so many years, the magical world needs to change. All you've done is blend some Muggle theory into magic. Compared to that Muggle world study program you organized, this is small potatoes."
Professor McGonagall speared a piece of lamb, her knife and fork slicing with brisk efficiency. Without looking up, she commented,
"It's just giving poor werewolves a sweet potion to drink. What's there to complain about?"
Snape gave a soft, dismissive snort, stirring his wellness tea with a silver spoon. He frowned at the goji berries floating on top, but a cold smile tugged at his lips.
"Sweet-tasting potions? Even if you turn them back into humans, a werewolf's true nature never changes. Sour for the liver, bitter for the heart—Holmes is just dabbling in some second-rate Muggle tricks, stumbling onto something new by pure accident..."
Before Douglas could retort, Professor Pomona Sprout sprinkled honey onto her dumpling and smiled, eyes narrowing with amusement.
"Severus, I seem to remember you once sneaked some Mandrake juice out of the greenhouse to improve a potion, didn't you? How old were you then—hadn't even sat your O.W.L.s yet?
I think some Muggle knowledge is genuinely interesting. Douglas's approach is like crossbreeding plants—different roots grafted together, and you get new blossoms."
Snape's face darkened; his spoon froze mid-air, then he downed his cup of wellness tea in one gulp.
Douglas couldn't help but feel a secret surge of satisfaction at the sight.
If his old Head of House hadn't brought it up, he might've forgotten—at this table sat not only his own former professors, but also Snape's. Who didn't have a bit of youthful black history?
Filius Flitwick continued eating his dumpling, then deftly shifted the topic.
"I daresay if Albus were here, he'd insist these dumplings with honey are even more delightful than toffee. But what I really want to say is—Douglas's theory that taste influences magic is quite effective. Actually, it's more accurate to say taste affects emotion, and emotion shapes magic.
Albus's magic has always had the vitality of a young wizard—perhaps it's connected to his fondness for sweets? What do you think, Professor Marchbanks?"
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