Even though Remus Lupin felt this job was hovering somewhere between unconventional and life-threatening...
The boss paid in heavy, glittering Gold Galleons.
The sheer power of currency was undeniable. For a man whose life was a constant struggle against poverty and the rising cost of Wolfsbane, this was a rare and lucrative opportunity.
I just hope he doesn't discover what I am too quickly, Lupin thought privately. Because of his lycanthropy, he rarely held a job for long. Most employers fled the moment they realized they were harboring a werewolf; in the eyes of the public, he was a ticking time bomb. If a werewolf accidentally bit someone, that person's life was effectively over.
Alaric Thorn, seeing Lupin's committed expression, finally relaxed. He knew the Whomping Willow's "reception" had been a bit much. A lesser wizard would have been halfway to London by now.
As for the salary? For a man owning a plantation of rare, high-yield magical flora, gold was the least of his concerns. His vaults were already overflowing with the proceeds from his years of trading dragon hides and rare seeds.
"Over here. And stay close," Alaric said, clapping his hands to get Lupin's attention. "I'm going to walk you through the core duties. And remember—do not wander off."
Alaric led the way deeper into the conservatory. The sheer scale was staggering; by the time they had covered half the grounds, thirty minutes had already passed. Lupin was gradually becoming desensitized to the wealth surrounding him. At first, seeing rare stalks treated like common weeds had made his heart ache for the missed profit. Now, he simply accepted the madness.
However, he noticed that a large portion of the plants were completely unrecognizable to him. As they reached the heart of the greenhouse, the flora became increasingly bizarre and alien in shape.
"Is that a watermelon? I didn't think anyone grew those in England," Lupin remarked, pointing at a large green sphere nestled in the dirt.
Before Alaric could utter a syllable of warning, Lupin stepped closer to the fruit.
The "watermelon" suddenly spun around, unhinging a massive jaw to reveal a row of serrated, needle-like teeth.
"What—?" Lupin gasped.
He was a fraction of a second too late. The fruit lunged with a wet snap, its teeth sinking deep into Lupin's calf. He hissed in pain, the sound of tearing denim echoing through the quiet greenhouse as the creature shredded his trouser leg.
Reacting with the honed instincts of a man used to danger, Lupin whipped out his wand and sent a silent Knockback Jinx at the fruit. The "watermelon" was blasted several yards away, tumbling into a patch of ferns.
Alaric hurried over, looking more exasperated than concerned.
"I forgot to mention," he explained with a weary sigh, "that is a mutated melon. It bites."
He had told Lupin not to wander. The plants here weren't standard specimens; nearly every single one carried a unique genetic deviation. This melon, for instance, possessed the traits "Razor Teeth" and "Delicious." Alaric kept them primarily because the flavor was unparalleled, even if harvesting them was a blood sport.
Alaric started toward the ferns to retrieve his fruit—waste was a sin, after all—while Lupin stared down at his blood-soaked leg.
"Sss... a warning would have been appreciated, Alaric," Lupin grunted. He looked around for a solution. His eyes lit up when he saw a familiar cluster of leaves nearby.
Dittany.
He couldn't possibly mistake that one. Fresh Dittany was the ultimate first-aid tool; applied to a wound, it would knit the flesh back together in seconds. His shredded calf would be a non-issue.
Lupin reached out, plucked a handful of the vibrant green leaves, and crushed them between his palms before pressing the pulp firmly against the bite marks.
Immediately, a soothing, icy sensation washed over the wound. A plume of white smoke rose from the contact point as the magic began to mend the skin. It was working perfectly. The bite wasn't deep, and the Dittany was doing its job.
Lupin let out a relieved breath. But then, he heard Alaric's voice behind him, sharp and laced with genuine panic.
"Stop! What are you doing?"
Lupin froze and turned. Alaric's face had gone deathly pale. He had abandoned the melon and was sprinting toward Lupin, his refined composure shattered.
Lupin blinked, utterly confused. "What's the matter? Don't worry, it's just a scratch. I used some of your Dittany—look, it's already scabbing over."
He gestured to his leg, where a thick layer of dark tissue had formed over the teeth marks.
"You didn't use that one, did you?" Alaric pointed a trembling finger at the plant Lupin had just harvested from.
Lupin nodded slowly. "Yes. It's just common Dittany, isn't it? I've used it a thousand times."
As a werewolf, Lupin was intimately acquainted with the plant. It was his constant companion after every full moon. He knew the shape, the scent, and the texture perfectly.
But as the words left his mouth, a sudden, violent chill swept through his entire body.
"!?"
Lupin looked back down at his leg. His stomach lurched. The purple bruising wasn't fading—it was spreading. Dark, spider-like veins were erupting from the wound site, racing up toward his knee and down toward his ankle.
"This... this isn't Dittany?" he gasped, his voice thin.
Species: Dittany
Level: 2
Traits: Lethal Toxicity!!!!
Status: Mature
Alaric looked at the data Eldra provided and felt a cold sweat break out on his neck. It was the "Poison Ivy" variant of Dittany he had been experimenting with. To the naked eye, it was indistinguishable from the healing variety, but it carried a neurotoxin so potent that Alaric had used a single leaf to knock out a drugged Ridgeback for surgery.
Lupin had just pressed half a bushel of it directly into his bloodstream.
"Er..." Alaric watched as Lupin's knees buckled. "If you see Merlin, be sure to give him my regards."
Lupin didn't find the humor. His vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of dancing shadows. The cold in his veins turned to ice, and his lungs felt as though they were being squeezed by iron bands. He tried to speak, to ask for help, but his jaw had turned to lead.
With one final, shuddering breath, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed into the dirt, out cold.
Alaric let out a long, weary sigh.
"What a disaster..."
He looked at the unconscious werewolf and reached into his robes, pulling out a small crystal phial filled with a clear, unremarkable liquid. It was a broad-spectrum antidote he'd brewed himself. It wasn't a miracle cure for this specific toxin, but it was his best shot.
Alaric knelt over Lupin, pried his jaw open, and poured the liquid down his throat.
"Merlin help you, Lupin. Don't die on me. I haven't the slightest clue where you live, and if you kick the bucket, I'll have to bury you under the Whomping Willow. And she's already grumpy enough as it is."