Location: Prince Manor – Laboratory
The new laboratory was beginning to resemble less a functional workspace and more a vault of arcane secrets. Books lay scattered in uneven stacks across the polished marble counters — leather-bound tomes purchased at enormous expense from the prestigious European markets, delicate slim journals penned by obscure researchers whose names had long been forgotten, and carefully copied manuscripts from the ancient Zabini archives, their ink faded almost to invisibility against the brittle parchment.
Severus moved among these relics with the precision and intensity of a man who tolerated no distractions. His hands slid volumes into meticulously organized categories: lycanthropy — historical accounts; vampirism — curse-theory analyses; black-market testimonials from whispered networks. Among them, the pile labeled "failed cures" grew the thickest, testament to the numerous futile attempts recorded.
Arcturus had delivered on his promise unfailingly. Every reputable text published in the Western world concerning cursed transformations, every case study that had managed to evade the scrutiny—and often the erasure—by the ICW, was now housed in Severus's lab, awaiting careful study.
Langford, true to her word, had gone even further. Within a mere week, she had procured bundles of fragile notes from long-deceased colleagues — fragments of experimental records never published, their outcomes buried in ruin and disgrace. Severus traced the faded, trembling ink outlining intricate diagrams of blood runes and convoluted alchemical matrices, many crumbling into chaos midway. The margins were scrawled with ominous terminology: necrosis, soul-fracture, and other words hinting at the dark consequences of these forbidden endeavors.
The Zabinis, true to form, had gone far beyond expectations. Their couriers arrived regularly, bearing crates filled with contraband—books banned from public libraries, rare journals smuggled out of obliterated enclaves, and even personal autobiographies written by vampires and werewolves themselves. One thin, fragile volume contained the haunting confession of a werewolf healer who had desperately attempted to sever the infection from his own bloodline. The final entry, penned in a shaky, spidery hand, read: "The wolf is not inside me. The wolf is me." The manuscript ended abruptly there, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.
Even more unnerving were the files stamped with the distinct Zabini crest—centuries of quietly funded research, now laid bare before him. Severus's gaze settled on a faded parchment, its ink blurred into a mottled brown with age. It recounted the work of a Potions Master long since deceased, one who claimed to have found a cure for vampirism itself. According to the document, his potion had managed to lift the curse—along with the unnatural stillness that trapped a vampire's flesh outside the relentless flow of time. The subject had returned to human form, but the centuries of halted aging caught up with her all at once. Within weeks, she had withered, aged rapidly, and crumbled into dust.
Severus closed the worn folio, his fingers tightening around the worn leather cover. Here lay a cure worse than the curse.
Every attempt to undo lycanthropy followed a similar, tragic pattern. Potioners and healers alike sought to excise the "infection," to burn it out or cleanse the blood entirely. Every effort ended in failure. Some had killed their subjects outright. Others only deepened the curse, twisting the mind further and leaving the body trapped between wolf and man, caught in an endless, agonizing transformation. They had all overlooked one essential truth: once bitten, once bound, the wolf was no mere parasite—it was a fundamental rewriting of the self. The curse was woven deep into the very fabric of the soul.
Severus leaned back, his mind sharpening with focused intensity. No spell or potion could simply erase such a profound mark without causing the very fabric of the host's being to unravel. Not unless one could reconstruct what lay beneath it—down to the most fundamental essence.
They do not understand transformation, he thought bitterly. They perceive it as a wound, a disease to be cut away. But it is far more complex than infection. It is identity itself. To cure it, I must first master the language of the body — the intricate code that shapes flesh and blood long before magic even alters them.
The laboratory around him was no longer just a workspace; it had become a shrine to failed endeavors. Books and manuscripts spilled over every surface: stacked in teetering piles on benches, propped precariously against jars of preserved roots and brittle herbs, or spread wide open across cold stone counters as if their pages might reveal whispered secrets of their failures if left exposed.
Leather-bound tomes on lycanthropy detailed histories, ancient curses, and crude attempts at suppression—each volume a grim testament to human desperation. Slim, fragile journals on vampirism offered more theory than practice; their conclusions invariably ended in death or madness. From the Zabini archives came ancient manuscripts so delicate, their ink seemed hesitant to stay affixed to those aging pages. At the core of it all stood the towering pile labeled Failed Cures, rising higher than any other.
Severus moved among them with a relentless, mechanical focus. He had read enough to discern the repeated mistakes: every effort to excise the curse as if it were a simple infection. Burning it out, purging it from the bloodstream, severing what was fundamentally inseverable. Each attempt had ended in failure. Many had killed their subjects outright; others had condemned them to exist as grotesque, twisted parodies of both wolf and man—creatures trapped in a tormenting limbo, unable either to die or to truly live.
"They do not understand," he muttered to himself, closing one cracked folio with deliberate care. "It is not mere infection. It is identity itself. To cure it, one must first comprehend exactly what it rewrites."
He paused, fingertips lingering on the worn leather cover, his mind sharpening with the weight of realization. Not just what it rewrites, but what it overwrites—erasing the essence beneath.
The enchanted mirror on the desk shimmered faintly, casting a silvery ripple across its surface. Gradually, Arcturus's face appeared—stern and weathered, eyes narrowed with patient expectation. Beside him, the image of Lorenzo Zabini resolved—composed, sharp, and always faintly amused, as if privy to secret knowledge.
"You have already gathered more research than most Healers manage in a lifetime," Arcturus said without preamble. "What else do you require?"
"Everything," Severus replied flatly. "Not only wizarding lore. The Muggles have mapped the body with a precision we lack. They understand sinew, marrow, blood. They identify the fundamental building blocks of flesh—DNA, they call it. To reverse a curse that reshapes the very body, I must understand it as it was meant to be, before any magical intervention."
Lorenzo arched a brow skeptically. "You want us to buy you… Muggle textbooks?" The faint curl of his lips betrayed a mixture of surprise and amusement. "Strange weaponry for a Shafiq heir to wield."
Severus did not rise to the bait. He leaned forward slightly, his voice cold, steady, and resolute. "Their textbooks, their medical treatises, their most advanced microscopes—the kind that can magnify blood until its smallest, most intricate patterns are visible. Wizards often dismiss these as trivial or irrelevant, but they are gravely mistaken. If I can decipher how human flesh is written at the cellular level, then I can begin to understand how vampirism and lycanthropy distort that very script. Only with this knowledge can I begin to rewrite it."
Arcturus tapped his cane once against the cold stone floor, the sharp sound ringing like a note of approval. "Pragmatic. Costly, no doubt. But necessary." His eyes gleamed with a faint, almost imperceptible trace of pride. "Few wizards alive would have the foresight to seek science from the Muggles. Fewer still would have the nerve to wield it."
Lorenzo tilted his head, his expression sharpening into something more serious, more inquisitive. "And once you have acquired this knowledge? What then?"
"Then," Severus said firmly, his gaze unwavering and intense, "I compare. I study the blood of those who volunteer for this—human and afflicted alike. I observe how a vampire's marrow deviates from that of a man's, how the wolf's cycle corrupts the flesh beneath the skin with an almost poisonous rhythm. Only when I understand precisely what separates them can I hope to find the path back—to undo the curse and reclaim what has been lost."
There was a heavy silence. For a long moment, neither elder wizard uttered a word, the weight of their thoughts hanging thick in the air. At last, Lorenzo's smirk softened, shifting into a more serious, calculating expression. "Ambitious," he said thoughtfully. "But if anyone can forge a cure from a puzzle that has shattered every master before you, it might just be you."
Arcturus inclined his head with a curt nod. "Very well. You shall have what you requested. Books, rare instruments, every scrap of Muggle science that can be discreetly smuggled within these walls."
The mirror between them dimmed, their faces slowly dissolving back into ghostly silver.
Before Severus Shafiq now lay the fragile threads of two worlds: science intertwined with sorcery, flesh entwined with curse, the past stretched toward the future.
And he would weave them all into a weapon.
Location: Milan – Zabini private study
Lorenzo Zabini sat behind a grand mahogany desk, the rich grain of the wood gleaming under the dim light of the flickering candles. His hand hovered delicately over a parchment, a quill poised with practiced precision, while layers of intricate protective runes shimmered faintly upon the paper's surface. Opposite him, two werewolves stood side by side, their figures partially obscured beneath heavy cloaks that obscured more than just their forms. The air around them was thick with the metallic tang of iron mixed with the primal musk that clung to their fur. Behind these formidable creatures, a pale man with sharp features and dark hair pulled tightly into a precise knot observed silently. His eyes glowed with a faint amber hue, casting a spectral light that danced in the shadows cast by the nearby lamplight.
"Your families will be compensated," Lorenzo said with a smooth, calculated tone, dipping the quill before signing the parchment in a sweeping flourish. "Gold enough to secure land and estates, protection substantial enough to keep the Dark Lord's hounds at bay. In return, you will swear your oath to me: that you will come when summoned without question, undergo the Prince's trials without hesitation, and take no word of this agreement to any living soul."
The elder werewolf's lips curled back, revealing yellowed, razor-sharp teeth beneath a furrowed brow. "If it kills us, so be it," he growled, his voice rough like gravel. "Better to die reaching for freedom than to live in chains."
A soft, brittle laugh escaped the vampire standing nearby, his voice carrying the rasp of centuries spent in shadow. "Freedom," he echoed, a thin smile ghosting his pale lips. "If he fails… I burn in the flames of ruin. If he succeeds, perhaps I am granted enough time to see the first light of dawn."
From her place hidden within the shadows, Isadora watched quietly, her gaze settling on the flickering flame reflected in his eyes. It was not the hunger of the undead nor the cold glare of hatred that shone there, but something far deeper—a profound weariness, the bitter exhaustion that even immortality itself could not hope to heal.
She said nothing aloud, but inwardly, her thoughts flickered back to Severus—his still, black-eyed gaze fixed on her across the glittering ballroom, enigmatic and unreadable. She remembered the smoke-wreathed promise they had shared in Vienna, a fragile bond forged in shadow and secrecy. Their paths, once parallel and distant, were now drawing inexorably closer, converging toward a destiny neither could fully foresee.
When the oaths were sealed and the documents consumed in a blaze of ash, Lorenzo turned sharply toward her, his sharp eyes catching the subtle shift in her expression.
"Do not let sentiment soften you, nipote," he warned, his voice cold and razor-sharp like tempered steel. "These creatures are assets, nothing more. If Riddle suspects we are bleeding his ranks, the price will be paid in blood—not theirs, but ours."
Isadora met his gaze steadily, her own calm and unflinching. "You're wrong, zio. Dangerous things hold value only if you truly understand them. Severus understands."
Lorenzo's smirk was faint yet telling, a silent challenge hanging between them. "We shall see."
Location: Prince Manor – Subterranean Laboratory
The sub-laboratory nestled deep beneath Prince Manor had been fortified with every ward Arcturus could meticulously weave and every rune Severus had painstakingly carved into the ancient stone. Iron reinforcements lined the walls, while delicate silver threads shimmered faintly, etched meticulously into the masonry. Intricate runic circles were inscribed across the floor and walls, dormant yet primed to ignite in fierce flames at the slightest hint of an intrusion.
As the three figures arrived through a discreet portkey, the very air around them seemed to stiffen with tension, charged and heavy.
Two werewolves emerged first—lean men in their twenties, their skin marked with scars that told silent, painful stories across their arms and necks. One had dark hair, his jaw sharply defined, and eyes burning yellow with a restless intensity. The other was broader and fairer, his hands betraying a nervous twitch, as if every motion kept some unseen restraint at bay. Between them stood the vampire: tall and gaunt, his hollow cheeks stretched tight like ancient parchment, veins black as spilled ink tracing unnatural patterns beneath his pale flesh. His gaze swept the chamber with a cautious wariness, revealing the hardened vigilance of a man who had learned to survive by trusting nothing—not even the walls around him.
They stood tense, as if expecting shackles to bind them at any moment.
"You're free to walk," Severus said before Arcturus could utter a word. His voice was steady and controlled, carrying the unmistakable weight of authority and intentions clear as steel. "No chains. No collars. If you wish to leave, you may. If you choose to stay, it will be of your own will. I do not promise salvation, only the possibility of it."
The dark-haired werewolf bared his teeth—not in threat, but in sheer disbelief. "No wizard has ever said that to us," he murmured quietly, the words heavy with a mix of wonder and wary hope.
Severus's black eyes remained steady, unwavering under the dim light. "Then no wizard has ever spoken to you with complete honesty." With a swift motion, he conjured a sturdy wooden chair and sat down, pulling a length of parchment across the table in front of him. "Names," he commanded, his voice calm but firm.
The vampire's voice was rough from disuse yet unmistakably resolute. "Lucian. Born in Prague. Turned in 1824," he said, his tone carrying the weight of centuries.
The broader werewolf shifted uneasily, his claws clicking softly on the stone floor. "Gareth. Fifteen years carrying the curse," he admitted, a hint of weariness threading through his voice.
The other werewolf lifted his chin defiantly, golden eyes blazing with a fierce pride. "Rowan. Twelve years," he declared, his gaze unwavering.
Severus dipped his quill into the ink and inscribed each name carefully on the parchment, each stroke clean and deliberate. "Then we begin," he said, his voice filled with quiet authority.
He questioned them not as a master to servants, but as a physician probing patients, a scholar extracting secrets from the reluctant silence of the world. To Lucian, he directed his first inquiry: "The hunger. How does it manifest? Is it constant, or only when you catch the scent of blood?"
Lucian's laugh rasped harshly, like dry leaves rustling in a cold wind. "Constant. Always there, gnawing. Like an unquenchable thirst. But when strong blood—young blood—calls, it screams louder, demanding and raw. Control is… possible. But only for a time."
Severus absorbed every word, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "And the sun? How does it affect you?"
Lucian raised a wrist, revealing faint, jagged scars etched into pale skin. "It burns the flesh," he explained grimly. "But that's the least of it. Worse is how it hollows the marrow beneath the bones. The longer I stand beneath its rays, the weaker I become. Fire outside, collapse inside."
Severus pressed on, voice low and steady. "And death? Beyond fire and stake and flame—what truly kills you?"
A slight twitch curved Lucian's lips, almost a smirk. "Decapitation," he answered quietly. "Silver is effective, but unlike the tales, it doesn't kill outright. It poisons slowly, burning the blood from within. Holy water? Merely superstition. Garlic? At best, an irritating nuisance. But vervain…" His expression darkened as he flinched at the mention. "That burns with fire. Ingested, it paralyzes the muscles completely; applied to the skin, it feels as though acid is eating away the flesh."
Severus's quill scratched steadily across the parchment, the sound steady and methodical in the quiet room. "Abilities?" he asked without looking up, curiosity threading his voice.
Lucian's amber eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light. "Speed. Strength. Senses keener than any hound's. Some can hear thoughts—not clear words, but whispers beneath the mind's surface." His voice lowered, carrying a weight of caution. "That gift is rare, precious even. But others... they lose themselves in the darkness, drowning in drink until no trace of humanity remains."
Severus paused, lifting his gaze to study Lucian's face, expression carefully unreadable. "Do you still think yourself human?" he asked softly, a hint of something searching beneath the question.
Lucian held Severus's gaze without flinching, then exhaled slowly, his breath thin and bitter. "I think myself tired," he admitted, the weariness in his voice more profound than mere fatigue.
He turned next to Gareth and Rowan.
"The full moon," Severus asked, his voice calm but probing. "Do you feel it building gradually, like a tide rising, or does it strike all at once?"
Gareth's shoulders tightened, his eyes darkening with memory. "You feel it creeping up for days. Like claws scraping beneath your skin, relentless and cold. By the time the night itself arrives…" He swallowed, pain flickering across his face. "…it's like drowning in a sea you can't escape. You're aware, trapped inside yourself, and yet the wolf seizes every limb, every thought. You scream within your skull, but no one, not a soul, hears."
Rowan let out a bitter snort. "Drowning?" he scoffed. "It's much worse. The wolf doesn't share with you. It devours you whole. There is no partnership, no control. You don't ride the wolf—you are consumed by it."
Severus's voice remained steady, concerned but composed. "And the pain?"
"Every bone shatters," Gareth whispered, his voice breaking. "Every nerve ignites in fire. And then, just when you think it's over, it starts all over again as you shift back. You wake up aching, torn to pieces inside and out, your throat raw from howling into the void."
"Wolfsbane?" Severus asked, his quill racing across parchment.
Rowan's grimace was grim and knowing. "It dulls the violence, numbs the frenzy, but the pain never truly leaves. Afterward, it clouds your mind like a heavy fog. You feel half-dead for days, scraping the edges of consciousness."
"Silver?"
Gareth raised a scarred wrist, trembling slightly. "Silver burns both man and wolf—slower than fire, but no less merciless. The wounds don't close; they fester, refuse to heal."
Severus leaned back in his chair, the quill finally still in his hand. "Then this affliction is not merely a curse or an infection," he murmured thoughtfully. "It is a transformation—a rewriting of flesh… and soul."
Neither wolf spoke after that, but the heavy silence between them was answer enough.
At the back of the room, Eileen stood with her arms tightly folded across her chest, her pale face taut with restrained emotion. She had vowed to herself she would watch, no matter how hard it was—to bear witness to the choice her son was making. But when Gareth's voice trembled, describing the harrowing sensation of drowning within his own skin, something hollowed her out from within. The look in Rowan's eyes—fury barely veiling profound despair—made Eileen shift uncomfortably, as if the sheer weight of his pain was almost too much to bear.
For the first time, understanding settled deeply within her. Freedom was not simply a word to them; it was a cruel myth, something perpetually out of reach. And yet Severus dared to defy that myth, attempting to transform it into something tangible, something real.
When the session finally ended, the three were carefully escorted to reinforced quarters. Under watchful eyes but unbound, they moved silently, the gravity of the moment lingering in the heavy air.
Severus remained behind, seated at the desk long after the others had left. His notes were spread out before him like scattered puzzle pieces, each fragment a vital clue toward an understanding he sought. Two vials rested under protective containment wards, pulsing faintly—one a shimmering silver, the other an intense deep red.
Now, the path forward was clearer in his mind: the wolf within, the insatiable thirst, not infections, not curses—but identities rewritten. And Severus Shafiq was resolute in his purpose, determined to rewrite those identities once more.
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