Muggles have a saying: "Picking up sesame seeds and losing watermelons." Rhys thought this was the perfect description for those who used the Philosopher's Stone merely to turn things into gold.
If you're capable of creating a Philosopher's Stone, how could you possibly be short of money? Rhys found this idea absurd.
For a highly skilled potions master or alchemist, the speed at which they earned money was only limited by their conscience.
If he were heartless enough, Rhys could sell the special cure for Astoria's illness to Mr. Jamison Henry for a thousand Galleons per dose. And Jamison would have no choice but to pay up because only Rhys had the ability to cure Astoria. It wouldn't be difficult to reduce the Greengrass family's finances to the level of the Weasleys.
But having just witnessed the process of the stone turning into gold, Rhys confirmed his theory. The potion transformed "stone" into "gold." Now, Rhys suspected that the same potion might also be capable of transforming something else into nourishment for the soul.
Now, it was time for the final step in the experiment—something every potioneer must eventually face: testing the potion!
Rhys poured the contents of the cauldron into a goblet and gently swirled it, watching the blood-red liquid spin inside.
After a brief moment of contemplation, he downed the potion in one gulp.
As it entered his mouth, a strong metallic taste of blood filled his senses, making Rhys feel as though he had just swallowed a mouthful of actual blood.
After swallowing the Elixir of Life, Rhys felt his stomach ignite as though it were on fire. The sensation lasted a few minutes before gradually subsiding, replaced by a warm current that surged toward his brain.
"It's a protection for the soul," Rhys quickly deduced the Philosopher's Stone's method for granting immortality. It worked by forming a protective layer around the soul, shielding it from the ravages of time. As long as the soul remained youthful and untouched by the passage of years, the person would not die.
However, the issue lay in the fact that the potion only protected the soul, not the physical body.
Rhys speculated that those who consumed the Elixir of Life over an extended period would eventually experience a severe decline in their physical bodies, aging to a terrifying extent.
At that point, living would become more of a curse than a blessing.
Rhys rubbed his chin thoughtfully, revealing a contemplative expression.
It seemed that this method of immortality was not as good as the one he had invented himself.
His desire to reverse-engineer the Philosopher's Stone diminished considerably. In his mind, it was merely a matter of using a magical array to convert different types of elements into soul-nourishing substances.
With some research, he believed he could replicate it in a matter of years—or, if things went poorly, it might take a few decades or even a century.
Having unraveled the mystery of the Philosopher's Stone, Rhys was in high spirits.
He even ventured outside the chamber to bring some food for the Greengrass sisters, who were working harder than ever. The two were pushing each other to their limits, competing in a relentless cycle of self-improvement.
In Rhys' view, this was a good thing.
As time flew by, all three young witches, recognized by the founders, threw themselves into their studies with great diligence.
Before long, the night of the full moon approached.
The public discourse, which had somewhat died down, flared up again.
Wizards across the British magical community were eager to know whose Human Restoration Spell was truly effective—Henry's or Lockhart's? Was Lockhart a fraud or not?
At this crucial moment, the Ministry of Magic found itself in turmoil, like ants on a hot pan.
The reason was simple: they couldn't find any willing werewolves to participate in the experiment, except for the poor soul who worked in the Ministry's "Werewolf Support Services" department.
Yes, a trial aimed at curing werewolves couldn't recruit any werewolf volunteers.
The reason for this was equally simple. The discrimination against werewolves in the wizarding world was terrifyingly severe. Almost no employer would hire a werewolf.
Once a werewolf's identity was exposed, they were certain to receive a termination letter, without exception.
However, as a matter of unwritten rule, employers would not publicly announce that their dismissed employee was a werewolf—this was to prevent the werewolf from falling into complete despair and retaliating by spreading the curse.
It was an unspoken agreement to leave each other some room.
A dismissed werewolf could still look for another job and scrape by, though their life would be tough. But they could survive.
Participating in the Ministry's high-profile experiment, however, was another story. The attention surrounding the trial was so intense that the werewolf's identity would undoubtedly be broadcast across the entire magical community.
Their future living conditions would become incredibly harsh.
If the experiment succeeded and they were cured, perhaps things would be fine.
But if the experiment failed...
The already grim life of the werewolf volunteer would be utterly destroyed.
You should know, while the Ministry of Magic has indeed created a few positions specifically for werewolves, nearly all werewolves would rather roam aimlessly than become Ministry employees. The reason is that, once hired, they would face a lifetime of discrimination.
Werewolves in these positions rarely lived long—often not even outlasting their homeless counterparts.
This was precisely why the Ministry couldn't find volunteers.
Minister Fudge once considered taking werewolves imprisoned in Azkaban and using them as test subjects, but the moment the suggestion was made, it was met with a tidal wave of opposition and protests.
The opposition was so overwhelming that Fudge was certain if he passed the decree in the morning, by the afternoon he'd be thrown out of his office as Minister.
The reason for such heavy opposition was simple: while werewolves living in the dark corners of the magical world might elicit some small degree of pity, the werewolves in Azkaban were indisputably vile.
Every werewolf imprisoned in Azkaban had a history of deliberately attacking people. They were genuine threats to wizarding society.
During the First Wizarding War, a large number of werewolves had joined Voldemort's ranks, infecting other wizards on his behalf, so the hatred ordinary wizards had for them was understandable.
Most Ministry employees held the view that the only question left about Azkaban werewolves was why the Dementors hadn't sucked the life out of them yet. Treating them for lycanthropy was, in their eyes, absurd, and this was why Fudge's suggestion sparked so much outrage.
Without any werewolf volunteers, Fudge was deeply troubled.
Finally, he came up with a less-than-ideal solution: placing an advertisement in the newspaper.
This move was ridiculed by many. They believed it was impossible to recruit anyone, and even Cornelius Fudge himself thought the same. However, to their surprise, someone actually stepped forward.
Remus Lupin, holding a copy of the Daily Prophet, knocked on the door of Dumbledore's office.
When Dumbledore heard that Lupin had decided to volunteer for the Human-Restoration Spell experiment, a flash of shock crossed his eyes.
"You are a true Gryffindor, Remus. But you must think carefully—you may pay a price you will never be able to recover from."
Despite his deep admiration, Dumbledore still cautioned him, fully aware of the consequences Lupin would face by making this decision.
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12 Advance Chapters—Patreon/HornyFBI