.
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Chapter 163 — The Special Wolfsbane Formula
Ron certainly didn't mind.
He was thrilled.
His wand was completely useless now, and if he wrote home to ask for a replacement, his parents would definitely say he deserved it.
But if Darren offered… well, Darren could do no wrong in Mrs. Weasley's eyes.
There'd be no lecture, no scolding—just relief.
Harry was happy, too.
He had wanted to buy Ron a wand himself, but he'd been too embarrassed—worried Ron would think he was offering charity.
Darren, however, handled it perfectly.
But Harry's good mood evaporated quickly.
Because next came Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Last year's professor, Quirrell, had been possessed by Voldemort.
Harry had ultimately defeated him.
This year's professor was Gilderoy Lockhart.
At first, everyone assumed that—even if Lockhart exaggerated—he had to be powerful to have written all those books.
Then the first lesson began.
Instead of teaching Defence, he gave them a fifty-question quiz—all about himself.
Favorite color.
Preferred shampoo brand.
Ideal holiday destination.
No one knew the answers except Hermione… and Darren.
Lockhart awarded them both twenty points—and beamed like he'd saved the world.
And that was only the beginning.
He then released a cage of Cornish pixies… and promptly lost control of them.
Darren ended up subduing the entire swarm while Lockhart cowered behind a desk.
The whole class was a farce.
Harry and Ron decided Lockhart's class was so useless that they'd rather be outside kicking a broomstick around the pitch.
The days that followed were calmer for Darren.
Even in Lockhart's class, as long as Darren acted meek, confused, and didn't outshine him, Lockhart left him alone.
After the pixie incident, he had only called Darren up once—and when Darren innocently questioned a few vague parts of his book, Lockhart went pale and never asked him again.
Possibly trauma.
Possibly vengeance.
Either way, Lockhart now preferred dragging Harry to the front of the class to demonstrate dramatic battles against werewolves, vampires, banshees…
A week after term began, Darren followed Harry to the Quidditch pitch to relax.
Wood spotted him and smiled.
If it had been any other Slytherin wandering onto the Gryffindor training ground, Wood would have accused them of spying.
But Darren?
Everyone knew he was Harry's little fan—a kind, gentle, soft-spoken Slytherin cub.
Just seeing his bright smile could clear the gloom.
But Wood didn't even get to greet him.
Several figures in green robes strode onto the pitch, each carrying a broom.
"I booked the pitch today!" Wood shouted, charging toward them.
The intruders stepped aside, revealing Marcus Flint, the Slytherin captain, grinning smugly.
He gestured at the brooms in their hands.
"Feast your eyes! A gift to the whole team—our brand new brooms!"
Each broom was polished to a shine.
The gold-lettered logo gleamed:
Nimbus 2001.
"The latest model!" Flint crowed. "Released just last month!"
He stepped back dramatically.
Draco Malfoy strutted forward, chin tilted at an arrogant angle.
"The Nimbus 2001 is miles better than the old Nimbus 2000," he said loudly. "And as for brooms even older…"
Flint looked at the Gryffindor broomsticks and snorted.
The meaning was clear:
Fit only for sweeping the corridors.
"Your brooms belong in a museum!" Flint added with a sneer.
Darren immediately stepped in front of him.
This was his moment to shine with righteous indignation.
"I don't see what new or old brooms have to do with your skill," Darren said sharply. "My brother and his teammates can fly brilliantly no matter what broom they use!"
"Yeah?" Flint mocked. "And look at you—following a pack of Gryffindor idiots around all day. What do you think these people can teach you?"
Whatever Slytherins thought of Darren among themselves, Flint personally could not stand him.
Darren Porter—too kind, too perfect, too adored.
It made Flint sick.
He also couldn't figure out who kept sabotaging Slytherin's punishment machine—the one the House used to torment Darren last time.
Becky Greengrass had sworn she was investigating, but they still hadn't found the culprit.
Flint was sure that once they did, Becky would drill both Darren and whoever helped him straight through the floor.
"Darren is better than any of you!"Hermione shouted. "He even says you lot are kind—shows how delusional he is—"
"Shut it, you filthy little Mudblood!"
The insult was instant.
Vicious.
[Ding! A Holy-Father scene has appeared. Temporary mission triggered: Step up to Flint, point your wand at him, and demand he apologize to Hermione.]
[Reward: Special Wolfsbane Potion Formula. Accept?]
Accepted.
Darren didn't hesitate.
He marched straight up to Flint, pressed his wand to the older boy's chest, and said coldly:
"Apologize to Hermione. Now. Or I won't be polite."
[Ding! Mission complete. Special Wolfsbane Potion Formula acquired.]
---
Special Wolfsbane Formula:
If taken within one month after being bitten, prevents transformation into a werewolf.
---
Darren scanned the formula.
This recipe was very different from canonical Wolfsbane—far more potent.
And most of its ingredients were nearly identical to those he'd used in creating the improved antidote.
The system was clearly feeding him formulas piece by piece so no one would get suspicious.
If he presented this potion to the Ministry…
He might receive another medal.
Maybe even a First Class Order of Merlin.
A guilty twinge crept up his spine.
It felt almost like cheating.
But medals were medals.
Weak conscience or not—he wasn't going to refuse the reward.
He would give the formula to Paige later and have her start brewing trials immediately.
Once he received the medal for his antidote, he would submit the Wolfsbane discovery.
Two medals for two potions.
Proper order.
Proper credit.
Even if he felt a little weak-hearted about it.
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