Severus Shafiq POV
The bubbling finally ceased. An unsettling silence enveloped the lab, thick and heavy, like a soft blanket of freshly fallen snow. For a moment, Severus remained motionless, the weight of anticipation pressing down on him.
Steam spiraled gently upward from the cauldron's brim, a delicate, translucent wisp that carried with it the complex aroma of silverthorn root and dragon marrow. Inside, the serum had settled into a serene stillness—clear and viscous, it appeared untouched by curdling or any sign of magical failure. This was his twenty-eighth attempt.
With measured resolve, he lifted his wand, casting the diagnostic charm for what he hoped would be the last time. His voice was barely a whisper, low and hoarse from the tension of the moment: "Revelo Stratum."
As he uttered the incantation, the liquid within the cauldron shimmered in response. A soft green glow pulsed across its surface.
Severus released a long, slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His knees felt weak, as if they could buckle beneath him at any moment, yet his hand remained resolute, steady as a rock.
Success.
Neurocalm Serum.
He meticulously wrote the words in tight, practiced script on a pristine sheet of parchment, each stroke of his pen deliberate and precise:
"Final variant binds to the nervous system within 7.2 seconds. Primary effect: Pain reduction. Secondary effect: Core stabilization. Efficiency window: 120 minutes post-curse. After that, efficacy drops by 63%."
As he reached the final words, his handwriting betrayed him, wavering with fatigue. His body protested from the countless hours spent hunched over complex runes and simmering tinctures, the repeated incantations of magical testing spells leaving a prickling sensation in his arms and a relentless pounding in his head.
He had been awake for thirty-two grueling hours, consumed by a four-month obsession. Countless batches had been rejected, their failures piling up around him like discarded memories. Yet, triumph flickered in his chest—this one worked.
He leaned back in his chair, allowing his head to rest against the cold stone wall behind him. The chill seeped through his skin, a stark contrast to the heat coursing through his bloodstream. Still, it could not quell the tumult raging in his chest.
The Cruciatus Curse was not merely a weapon; it was a manifestation of pure cruelty. Magic twisted and contorted into raw agony. He had never been subjected to its torment, but he had witnessed its devastation. He had seen what it did to those who suffered under its grip, the remnants of their will shattered.
Shaking hands, vacant eyes that no longer sparkled with life, flashes of memory melded into an intricate tapestry of pain and broken nerves. And sometimes… an all-consuming silence. A silence that haunted, lingering long after the torment had faded.
It wasn't personal—not at this moment. Nevertheless, Severus harbored no illusions about the impending turmoil looming over the world.
Britain was on the brink of chaos.
Each week, he meticulously scanned the headlines: reports of assassinations that sent shivers down spines, mysterious disappearances leaving families in anguish, and violent attacks that shook the very foundations of wizarding society. The esteemed old wizarding families fortified their homes with protective wards and barriers, resembling fortresses against an unseen enemy. Meanwhile, Muggleborn students withdrew quietly from Hogwarts, their absence echoing an unspoken fear that hung heavy in the air. The Aurors, once a formidable force, were stretched dangerously thin, struggling under the weight of increasing threats. In the shadows, the Order of the Phoenix was clandestinely mustering its strength, gathering allies and plotting resistance against the rising tide of darkness. The name Voldemort was no longer a hushed whisper, but a chilling specter that invoked dread in every heart.
Amidst this escalating turmoil, it was ordinary people—those who lived their lives without recognition or fame—who would bear the brunt of the suffering.
These were the souls who made up the tapestry of daily life, woefully absent from the headlines. They wouldn't be celebrated in print, nor would they receive the wards of protection or assurances of safety. Children playing in the streets, teachers nurturing young minds, shopkeepers quietly tending to their businesses, and healers who dedicated themselves to mending the wounded—these were the ones who stood vulnerable in the eye of the storm. And then there were those caught painfully in between, struggling to navigate the growing divide.
Severus found no solace in the idea of fighting a war. The thought of choosing a side felt like an overwhelming burden he didn't wish to carry.
Yet deep down, he had always held a steadfast belief: power demanded responsibility, a truth that resonated deeply within him.
Knowledge—especially the kind he possessed, tinged with danger and secrets—was never meant to be wielded for the sake of vanity. Instead, it should serve a greater purpose: to shield those who no one else would protect, to act as a guardian for the innocent who would otherwise be forsaken.
So he created something that couldn't cast a protective shield, but might empower survivors to rise once more. It was a potion that wouldn't eliminate evil, but could alleviate the toll required to confront it. He wasn't a Healer in the traditional sense. He wasn't a soldier, equipped with weapons and armor. Yet, he was weary of witnessing the pain of others, of hearing their helpless screams when no one seemed to hear them.
With a steady hand, he picked up the small vial and raised it to the light. The liquid inside caught the flickering reflection of the flames, shimmering like pale gold through the emerald green glass. His fingers curled around it delicately, as if it were a precious artifact, fragile yet full of potential. It felt like hope itself, fragile and elusive.
"This," he whispered into the stillness of the quiet lab, his voice barely more than a breath, "is how I help."
Arcturus Prince POV
The letter was marked with a striking red crest and bore the unmistakable watermark of the Ministry—this time from the Canadian division.
Arcturus Prince scrutinized its contents, reading through the elegant script once, then a second time, this time at a more deliberate pace. The phrases echoed, yet the names changed: "We request an emergency licensing arrangement for the Neurocalm Serum, developed by your ward, Mr. Severus Shafiq…"
Alongside the letter were various attachments—tempting offers for military contracts, proposals from private healing firms, and requests from medical units stationed at the warfront. Each document pulsed with the urgency of opportunity, but also with the scent of danger.
With a measured grace, Arcturus folded the letter and tucked it into a sleek black envelope, sealing it securely.
His response to Severus was concise yet laden with implication.
"Your invention is noble. But nobility draws vultures faster than blood. Guard your work, Severus. Guard yourself even more."
—A.P.
He hesitated before signing the Ministry's reply, allowing the ink of his hesitation to weigh heavily in the air.
Let them wait.
Aurora Sinclair POV
Aurora pushed the door open, finding it slightly ajar. The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, well past midnight. She stepped inside the dimly lit room, her gaze falling on Severus, who was slumped over his cluttered desk. Ink had dried on the parchment, a sentence left incomplete, an unfinished thought lingering in the air. His coat had slipped off the chair, crumpled on the floor, weaving a silent picture of exhaustion.
With his right sleeve rolled up, she could see his skin marred by uneven patches of pink—half-healed burn marks that told stories of a dangerous experiment gone awry. A failed reaction, then. A broken prototype, yet another misstep in his relentless pursuit of discovery.
Aurora's heart ached for him, but she didn't wake him. Instead, she quietly maneuvered through the room, making her way to the staff lounge to retrieve the softest blanket she could find. She returned and laid it gently across Severus's back, careful not to disturb him. For a fleeting moment, her fingers hovered over his wrist, feeling the steady rhythm of his pulse; it was quickened, betraying the toll his work had taken on him.
Her eyes drifted over the scattered notes that littered the desk. Diagrams filled with chaotic sketches and notations that seemed to swirl with confusion, yet hinted at a brilliance waiting to be unlocked. Strange sequences and alchemical modifiers scribbled in a hurried new shorthand suggested that he was already plotting his next potion, lost in the throes of creation.
He never stops, she thought, a mix of admiration and concern swelling within her. Even when it hurts, he continues to push the boundaries.
With a gentle sigh, she dimmed the lights, casting a soft glow over the room, and left as quietly as she had entered, determined to preserve the silence that enveloped him.
Lord Voldemort POV
The room was steeped in the heavy scent of ancient dust mingled with something colder, an unsettling chill that seemed to wrap around the very walls. Voldemort reclined in his chair, his expression inscrutable as Rookwood finished his report, the words hanging in the air like a foreboding cloud.
"…published last month in The Global Healer's Compendium. Neurocalm Serum. Developed by one Severus Shafiq—halfblood, seventeen, Ilvermorny. Formerly of Britain," Rookwood concluded, his voice wavering slightly.
An oppressive silence enveloped them, thick and suffocating. The only sound to break it was the sharp crack of knuckles—Voldemort's own, a physical manifestation of his growing anger.
"A child," he said, his tone deliberate and chillingly measured, "has crafted a balm for my curse."
Rookwood shifted uncomfortably, sensing the storm brewing in his master. "He's under American protection. Strong wards surround Prince Manor," he cautioned, his voice barely above a whisper.
Voldemort's smile spread across his face like a predator savoring its next meal, but it was hollow, devoid of warmth or genuine mirth.
"Then you'll breach them," he commanded with an intensity that sent shivers down Rookwood's spine. "Steal the serum. Burn the notes. Or kill the boy."
Rookwood flinched visibly, the implications of the order weighing heavily upon him. "My Lord," he stammered, "with the International Confederation of Wizards watching closely, we'd risk—"
"I said," Voldemort interjected, his voice dropping to a whisper that cut through the air like broken glass, "erase it. Erase him. All of it. Before it inspires hope."
With that, he turned his gaze back to the map sprawled before him, its markings a grim indictment of his ambitions.
"Before this bitter bloom poisons my war," he murmured to himself, his thoughts swirling with dark intent as he plotted the next move in his relentless pursuit of power.
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