Dewey quickly disappeared into the streets and alleys of London. When Bob arrived at the scene with his team, all they saw was blood everywhere and a line of bloody writing.
In the sky, the giant serpent inside the skull was still writhing.
Lucius lay on the ground, his face deathly pale. He looked close to passing out from blood loss.
The healers in green robes hurried to stop Lucius's bleeding and gathered up his arm, preparing to reattach it.
With their skill in magic, they could reattach the arm. At most, it would leave him with a minor problem.
The only issue was that they could stop Lucius's bleeding and reattach his arm, but they couldn't cure lycanthropy, an infectious disease. From ancient times to the present, lycanthropy had been incurable. No one had ever found a way to treat it. Otherwise, the invention of the Wolfsbane Potion—which merely allowed a Werewolf to retain his reason on the night of the full moon—wouldn't have earned its creator the Order of Merlin, Second Class.
An incurable disease.
Lucius was overcome with despair. He felt a ball of fury burning inside him! He had no idea what had gone wrong, or why Werewolves who were still loyal to the Dark Lord had attacked him. But he knew that from then on, he would become a Werewolf, someone Wizards despised.
His identity.
His status.
His family.
Everything he cherished would leave him as he became a Werewolf.
All the years of effort he'd put in, all the pride he took in his Pure-blood Family, would be tainted by his identity as a Werewolf!
Lucius's hatred of Werewolves rose to a new level.
But he felt no resentment at all toward the "real culprit," Voldemort, the source of this entire tragedy. He didn't