Lucky Seven

Cure

"Lycanthropy: (Lye-kan-thrope-ee) Lycanthropy, or the turning of man into wolf, can be described as a "virus". It is passed through the saliva of an affected person (or in rare cases, persons) directly into the bloodstream of their victim through the act of biting, or what is also known as "marking prey". Once bitten, the heart of the victim will stop for exactly seven seconds while the virus makes its way into the blood, infecting the internal organs. The entire transformation from man to wolf is similar to that of an Animagus (see Animagi).

The difference between Animagus and Werewolf lies in the mind. When one is bitten, the receptors to the brain are affected the most. During a transformation, the amount of adrenaline that is sent throughout the body is no longer regulated by the civilized mind because of the damage done by the Lycanthropic virus, and a fierce, more primal sense takes over, usually for no more than twelve hours (depending on the lunar cycle). Animagi, on the other hand, have the ability to keep their mind calm and essentially human throughout the duration of their transformation. The exception usually occurs in the early stages of Animagi transformations when the human body is kept, but the mind is that of an animal. Newt Scamander, one of the six Animagi registered in the twentieth century and author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, encountered this problem during his own transformation into a niffler, upon which he was content to "hide from predators" in dark, tunnel-like spaces, and attempted to bite the rings and jewellery off of the Ministry of Magic officials that were sent to help him.

There is no cure for Lycanthropy. In the past century, only two wizards have come close to finding a cure. One is the creator of the Wolfsbane Potion, Damocles Belby, who managed to brew a potion that is essentially a simulation of the Animagi mindset.

The other man is John Lupin."

~L. Chaney's Bestiary Encyclopaedia

September 1958

"Do you have children, Lupin?"

John Lupin raised his head from his notes, surprised that the usually silent man across the room had decided to speak. Dressed in a simple grey tunic, Fenrir Greyback lay on the wooden bench across the room, his hands folded behind his head and blue eyes staring at the high ceiling. John put down his quill and folded his hands over the leather book before him.

"Yes, yes I do. Three girls and a boy, and Laura and I are expecting our fifth come March." John peered at Fenrir over his reading glasses. "Why do you ask?"

Fenrir sat up, an uncharacteristically sober expression across his handsome Norse features. "I wanted to know. Has wanting to know something become a crime?"

"It all depends on what you plan to do with the information," John leaned forward in his chair. "If there isn't anything specific you want to learn, Fenrir, then I am going to continue writing my observations from our earlier session."

Fenrir laughed hoarsely and leaned back in his chair. "Always to the point, Lupin. I like that." He stood and walked to the fireplace, resting an arm on the mantle as he gazed into the flames of the crackling fire. "What are their names?"

"Whose names?"

"Your daughters, of course. Tell me their names."

"Minerva is my oldest. We call her Minnie, for short," sighed John. "She'll be seven in a month. Juno turned five in August, and Diana turned four in September."

"The last two girls...Irish twins, I presume?" Fenrir laughed quietly.

"You could say that." John shrugged. "Laura and I both love children, and we knew when we were married that we wanted a large family."

"And I suppose I'm right in assuming that it was your wife's idea to name them all after Greek legends," Fenrir turned from the fireplace and John sat up in his chair. Strong as an ox and standing at taller than six feet, Fenrir was a fearsome presence in and of himself, despite the fact he was gentle and kind. "My own wife was like that...I have---had---two sons, Odin and Tyr...Danica, my wife, was absolutely nutters for Norse mythology. My mum was, too. Danica thought we should carry on the family traditions, and then..."

John watched as Fenrir slowly walked back to the bench, his head bowed and his eyes focused intently on the hardwood floor.

"Tell me about the boy," he sighed, still staring at the floor.

"Romulus is two years old, Fenrir. He loves the toy broomstick Minnie got for her birthday last year and keeps trying to ride it, despite the fact Laura goes round the bend every time he goes near it, and he'll be turning three in early April."

Fenrir looked up at John, his eyes full of an uncharacteristic shyness. "You don't know how lucky you are, John. You have no idea how lucky you are."

February 1942

"The place was in shambles, you see, and we couldn't tell if anyone was alive or dead inside of it until we heard what sounded like somebody crying their eyes out coming from under one of the ceiling beams. Marx, Ogden, and myself, well, we went over there with wands at the ready just in case there was another wolfie trying to trick us, and as we round the corner what we see isn't one of Grindelwald's wolf packs waiting to ambush us, but it was the man of the house---Fenrir, was his name---just crying and crying and he's bleeding from the shoulder and holding something in his arms and just rocking back and forth, and on my right Ogden's yelling to the other Aurors in the front yard to get a Healer, and Marx has to actually run back to drag one over to the ruins of the house. Through all of this, I'm stuck to the ground as if someone placed a permanent sticking charm on my feet once I realize what he's been rocking in his arms: He was holding the body of a little boy that had a gaping, bloody hole in his neck."

~Excerpt from Auror Patrick Wheeler's Ministry report of a Werewolf attack on the Greyback home.

October 1958

"Fenrir, I promise this will only hurt a little," John said as he tightened the leather straps that held the werewolf to the cold metal table. Fenrir moaned, the power of the rising harvest moon taunting him.

"A pinch from a needle is nothing compared to changing, Lupin," groaned Fenrir as he struggled against his bonds. "Abso-fucking-lutely nothing."

John adjusted the last strap, the one that produced a vein in Fenrir's forearm, his brow furrowed in deep lines of concentration as he focused on the task at hand. The small bottle that contained the cure serum, called Remidium Lupae, seemed to glow in the darkness of the room. John picked up the bottle and the syringe that lay next to it, filling the hypodermic needle with the silver solution, his hand shaking slightly as he did so.

"Try not to move," he said as he positioned the needle over the vein. Fenrir groaned again as the moon rose higher, piercing his consciousness. He couldn't resist the call of the moon anymore. Dark hair began to sprout along his face and hands, and as he opened his mouth to cry out in pain, his white and even teeth began to turn to the yellowed fangs of an animal.

John plunged the needle into the vein, and Fenrir's world went completely black. Unconscious, the writhing body on the table relaxed as John backed away, watching the miraculous sight before him. The hair fell away, the teeth returned to normal size, the nose changed from snout to its human shape. The moon shone through a high window on the wall directly onto Fenrir's body, and he did not change.

The wolf was cured.