It’s a tricky potion, no wonder it didn’t work right. It could have been anything; one too many stirs or an herb just a bit too dried out. Bryce could mix it again right now, just the same way, and maybe it would work. Perhaps not. There really isn’t a way to know, until… the right night comes along.

Which it was.

And there was blood on Bryce’s hands.

They say stakes can kill vampires, which is rather funny since it was not a vampire that he was defending from, nor had he planned any assaults that evening. A cracked piece of wood from a weatherworn garden fence was all he could manage. There shouldn’t be any pride in it, but there was, just the faintest inkling: he had killed a werewolf with a mere sliver of fence. Someday as a grandparent, or librarian, Bryce may look back on this (swallowing and hiding his shame) and claim his glory. Triumphant! Heroic!
Utterly at fault!

He wondered how soon they transformed back, after their injuries. He really hadn’t had much hands-on experience with werewolves, only knew that yes they were wolf-like and also not quite so. This checked both boxes. He also knew someone new to the township that was, openly, a werewolf. Rosaline.
There was a good chance that Rosaline was dead now. On his garden path. Leaking up the place with (presumably) tainted blood.

A giddiness overtook him; maybe the blood of a werewolf will transform his herbs into Wolfsbane and he can save cash at the apothecary. Or perhaps under the full moon the blossoms grow fangs and battle for supremacy. Maybe he could film it. Take bets on Swish.tv. He needed some tea. With whisky. Hold the tea.

What does one do with a corpse in their yard? He could call the authorities but there were too many questions, from them and from him alike. What if they brought in some kind of potions expert? Was there a committee he had to answer to? Other than the Neighborhood Watch committee that Rosaline was on?
Everything was a bad idea. There were no good ideas. The only good idea was stealing that fencepost and jamming it into a wolf’s neck. And that didn’t even turn out to be too hot.

It was not his fault he was attacked. (It was.)
The potion failing was not his problem. (It was.)
The Ministry would not hassle him. (They would.)
No matter the way it was presented, Bryce was in trouble. He hoped he’d get in trouble for the right thing… The thing least likely to incarcerate him. Not like every common criminal goes to Azkaban but he did take another life, someone who was here directly because of a wizard diversity initiative on his county and oh no he had just killed her. Welcome to town. Please don’t bite my leg off.
Bryce had VOLUNTEERED, was the hard part. He had said his Wolfsbane potion was great and that he had loads of practice. He said materials were no matter, that he did this all the time. He was lying. Just lying through his grinning, exposed teeth. Bryce wanted the committee to like him, and moreover, he wanted Rosaline to like him. He had never seen anyone like her before, and it swelled up in his mind that maybe he could be her hero and ease her burden and oh my golly do werewolf moons coincide with… you know… the feminine… distress?
He thought to check the corpse out of pure scientific curiosity but decided there was too much blood as is, indecipherable from its origin.
Well, Rosaline seemed to have noticed him, alright. Right down to where he lived and how he responded to strange noises in the yard. Steeling himself once more, he marched out of his entryway and up to the wolf, the pools of blood continuing to spread, a deep crimson in the bright moonlight. He could see it all, almost like it was a stormy day. The roan grey fur, double-stacked teeth, eyes that glowed just a bit, so subtly, so like the way Rosaline had looked when she first laid eyes on him. Rosaline… Just to think of her–

“What’s all this?”
Bryce nearly started out of his shoes. Rosaline! Her short chestnut hair and subtly lit eyes, yes it was her HOW WAS IT HER SHE WAS RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM DEAD ON THE– oh…

“Werewolf?” was all Bryce managed to sputter.
“Looks about right.” Rosaline invited herself in, using the gate instead of the torn hole in the fence and hedges. She appeared ashen and gaunt, although her face was so full in shape he could see the cheekbones, and her mouth appeared wider. It was the full moon after all. “Huh,” she said, nudging the body with her boot, “I’ll be damned.”
Well that was rather literal.
“Ummm, I hate to ask–”
“It’s my ex.” She nudged it again, then descended upon the body with a ferocity unlike any Bryce had seen in a human being. Rosaline did not change form, did not need to, but it was clear that whenever she was done with her horrors that her coat would be well ruined.
After much sloshing and cracking, she was upright again, mouth smeared like she had gone facefirst into an Eton Mess.
“Forgive me,” Bryce said when most of the mouth-noises stopped, “I thought– I had feared– It was you?”
She stared at him evenly, “Why would you think that?
"Maybe my potion, it might not have been–” He had trouble finishing sentences around this woman. Maybe that’s why he was so smitten with her.
“Your potion was rubbish,” she smirked with her over-wide mouth, “but we can work on that. I know how to make a better one. Obviously.” Rosaline gestured to herself. It took Bryce a moment to understand what she meant, as the gesture also referred to her not just being humanoid but also covered in gore. Then it clicked.

“Uh, would you like to… come inside for some tea? While we wait for the authorities?”
She didn’t answer, just kept her eyes on the mutilated corpse in front of her. The moonlight played off her features in strange ways. The blood-smell was less pungent under her perfume.
“You look nice tonight,” he tried again.
“Covered in blood?”
“….Yes.”
“Good, ‘cause it’s all over you, too. We’re fashion icons, us.” Then Rosaline smiled at him, splitting her cheeks, eyes like tired embers.
Bryce had never felt quite so lightheaded.