He was certainly not the oldest man in the room. Not by a long shot.

According to the evening’s printed program, Damocles Belby turned fifty seven as of a week ago. But the moment the wizard stepped up to the podium for his opening statement, anyone could clearly tell this: he was the most world-weary man working in the hospital.

St. Mungo’s and the Ministry of Magic had jointly selected the eclectic but unquestionably accomplished wizard as their Healer of the Year mostly out of necessity. No matter the committee’s personal feelings toward Belby as a human being (if he was human at all), he did invent a landmark cure in November: the Wolfsbane Potion.

No wizard in history had ever found something to civilize those monsters until Belby had stumbled upon the answer. For that, he at least deserved a dinner in his honor. Everyone grudgingly admitted as much.

Belby shuffled his papers in front of the St. Mungo’s crowd, as if he’d lost his place before even beginning. It was a nervous tick in the expansive silence of the great hall. Clearly the Healer rarely -- if ever -- addressed a group larger than three or four. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“I suppose I should be thanking everyone here this evening,� Belby began in an officious tone. “I never expected that I would have the opportunity to discuss a working lycanthropy treatment publicly. In fact . . . only a year ago, I was an absolute failure. I was certain beyond doubt I would never find an answer to the centuries-old problem: can you tame the beast?�

He breathed deeply before continuing, clearly working out a few more nerves.

“I have spent the last thirty years of my life spending one night a month in absolute secrecy . . . in the darkest, most forgotten ward of St. Mungo’s. It is officially known as the Stokely Ward, but we called it the ‘Howling Hall.’ Without the Ministry even knowing it, we’ve treated our lycanthropy ‘patients’ there for heaven knows how long. Centuries probably. We’ve never kept records. The paper trail alone would put a thousand wizards in Azkaban.

“The wild risk we took if one of those patients ran wild through the hospital corridors! Imagine that horror for a moment. Having been attacked but -- mercifully -- not bitten and infected myself, I can only guess what damage would have occurred if something had gone wrong, even for a moment.�

It was hard not to gaze at the Healer’s disfiguring scars that ran the length of his face. Few had ever seen a werewolf in person but could imagine the horror all too well just seeing the decades-old consequences of one that broke away. Many were unapologetically staring, wondering what that savage moment was like when the Healer had nowhere to run.

“No question the risk was worth it,� Belby continued as he pointed at a deep claw-marked scar for effect. “The beast can be tamed. It is not cheap, but it can be done with the Wolfsbane Potion.�

“It is one thing to ease the pains and uncontrolled ferocity in transformations, but I say there is another age-old question when dealing with lycanthropy. It’s a question that’s less pleasant to answer. It is this: if you can tame the beast, does anyone care?�

There was another pause. This time it was a purposeful one. Like a professor waiting an uncomfortably long time for an answer in class but no hands were raised.

“We are all Healers here. Of course we care! Everyone cares! We’re supposed to, but ask yourself truly: do you care? You’ll all say ‘yes’ to that because that’s the nature of your profession, but deep down, you know what werewolves can do. They bite. They kill. Sometimes willingly, sometimes not, they will develop a taste human flesh. Sometimes the beast is a killer at heart but sometimes . . . oftentimes, it’s family.

“Who hasn’t heard the tales of Fenrir Greyback, who lives only to infect as many witches and wizards as possible? He is the most extreme example of lycanthropy. The man-eating culprit is often an otherwise normal witch or wizard except for when the moon is full. Imagine if the ‘beast’ is actually your seven-year-old son or daughter. I’ve led children that young to their cells on transformation nights.�

The words summoned a gasp from the crowd. Everyone belonged to Damocles Belby at that moment.

“The issue of what to do is complicated, fellow Healers. It’s a question that goes beyond Healing. Beyond these walls. We must answer this for ourselves in our hearts. We must answer it together as a society. The Ministry itself must give an account as well.

“Do we continue treating those with lycanthropy like animals? Or at best, like common criminals? Most of them can’t find employment because of the Ministry. Without work, they cannot afford the treatment they need to remain docile during the cycle. They can barely rub coins together to afford food and maybe a shelter. Too many of my patients are forced to live in the woods and run wild when the moon is full.�

Belby gripped both sides of the podium fiercely, practically shouting his final remarks to a stunned audience. “My cure, my solution is impossible so long as we deal with them as things of nightmare instead of people! It’s disgusting. You all sicken me! I wouldn’t be wearing these green robes alongside you hypocrites were it not the fact that I’m so blessedly brilliant at my job!�

As if suddenly remembering why he was standing there, Belby quickly mumbled his anticlimactic conclusion with a hint of sarcasm, “And again . . . thank you for this prestigious award.�

Damocles Belby’s condemning words hung in the rafters of the hall long after he had found his seat at the table of honor, surrounded by committee members who had secretly loathed him but now outright hated him.

If only the pen could capture the murmurs of the crowd. The bluntness both frightened and enraged as furious half-sentences spewed disgust while a few witches wailed agonized cries of pity that echoed around the banquet hall. With a loud grind of chair against flagstone, a few Healers stood and marched out of the room.

“Only that idiot would use the one night we would ever possibly honour him and use it as an opportunity to insult everyone,� one witch Healer marveled from a back table as a Ministry official desperately tried to restore order.

“Told you no man is like Belby,� an elderly wizard replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “No man is more self assured. No man more demon possessed. Admittedly . . . no man is more brilliant either.�

Then he gave a dry laugh. “I’ll bet St. Mungo’s never asks him to speak again!�

“How is he still alive? Just look at him.�

“Everyone’s talking about it. If the Daily Prophet -- and Merlin forbid the Ministry -- ever caught wind of what happened last night, we’d be finished. Even most of the Healers here don’t really know what happens in this place on a full moon.�

“Is that right? That Belby killed a werewolf in his ward? That’s what I heard this morning.�

“I don’t know what to believe. Look at that face though . . . clearly he fought with one something terrible. Hard to imagine the wolf taking a worse beating than Belby here.�

“Belby. I don’t envy him. I patched him up as best I could, but he’ll have those scars forever. No one saw him early enough. If we’d only known what was going on sooner. I mean, he’s just seconds away from another ward.�

“No one keeps up with what happens in Belby’s line of work. The fact that he didn’t get contaminated is beyond me. All claws. No bite. Makes you wonder how he managed that. Artie found him this morning, you know. He had crawled out of the Howling Hall, tracking blood all over until he passed out. If he stayed where he was we never would have found him in time.�

“Is he even glad we found him?�

“Hmmmph. He’ll just be upset we didn’t wake him up so he could show us how to properly heal himself.�

***

Alive?

Yes. Yes, it would appear so.

The world was blinding bright as Damocles Belby’s eyes fluttered open for the first time since . . . when? Visions of his most recent memories instantly flooded his consciousness, and his heart raced as he once again saw the werewolf bursting through its prison door. The horrible screams and howls from the patients echoed throughout the hallway as Damocles turned and ran for his life.

His worst nightmare had suddenly become reality. He was going to be ripped to pieces by a monster. Alone. And no one would care.

As he tore down the hall toward the exit, the memories became muddled and confusing. Had he tripped on something? Had the werewolf caught his leg? He was on the ground with nothing but his wand, staring certain death in the face as the werewolf lunged at him. There was a fierce scramble on the flagstone floor and unspeakable pain. He’d kicked out and shouted a hex -- he couldn’t remember what -- and then . . . what then?

With a physical jerk, he returned to reality. A white-washed private Healing room. An uncomfortable bed. A cold clammy sweat soaking the linens from his recent flashback. A terrible full-body ache. No visitors in sight, though a few Healers had at least left hand-written notes on his nightstand. Well, maybe just three or four. He did not have many friends.

As his heart rate slowly ticked back to its normal rate, Damocles noticed one of his his eyes was not opening all the way. With a grunt of effort, he eased his right arm painfully free of the restrictive sheets and slowly moved his hand up to the side of his face. As a Healer, nothing felt normal to the touch. He didn’t have to see to know something was dreadfully wrong.

His skin was burning hot and very swollen. He moved his fingers down his cheek and gasped audibly in pain when he discovered a gaping wound. How bad was it? Most of him didn’t want to know but --

“Mirror!� Damocles shouted with all the energy his tired body could muster, aware of the unusual panic in his voice. “I need a mirror!�

After a few seconds of silence, Damocles heard footsteps in the hall before Pan Revlinger appeared at the doorway. Thankfully, it was someone competent, instead of one of the idiots St. Mungo’s usually hired. They had joined the hospital at almost the same time. Revlinger had specialized in curse-related maladies, so they saw each other frequently.

“Ah, Belby, I see that your injuries have not affected your charming voice,� Revlinger said as he took a seat next to the bed. He looked exhausted from a day’s work; Damocles had no idea what time it was but guessed it must be about time for the evening shift.

Damocles thrust his free hand toward his coworker, in no mood for jokes or pleasantries. “Mirror. Now.�

“Are you certain?� Revlinger asked. “You only just woke up.�

“If you say that, it must be terrible,� Damocles said. He swallowed resolutely, though Revlinger surely saw the slight tremor of fear in his extended hand. “I’ve got to know, Rev. Give me the mirror.�

With a resigned sigh, Revlinger retrieved a small mirror from a nearby nightstand. He paused before handing it over. “You won’t like what you see. And I’m sorry.�

Damocles closed his eyes as he positioned the mirror in front of him. When he looked at the new man staring staring back at him, he was disgusted. He wanted to start retching on the spot. Every day in St. Mungo’s he had witnessed terrible injuries and worse, but this was far different.

This was him.

While he had avoided the teeth of the beast, he had not dodged its claws in time. Four ragged, crimson slashes carved their way down his face from his temple practically to his jawline. How he had not lost his eye was no small miracle. The entire right side of his face was flushed pink and strained from the swelling, practically like a balloon ready to burst from the pressure.

After the initial shock of his appearance came the wave of anger. He had healed dozens of near-fatal cuts without so much as a hairline-sized reminder. Who had been so blessedly lazy? Had an intern tried his hand at emergency care? His face was unmistakably ruined.

“Wha -- what is this, Rev?� Damocles demanded. “My face! Which idiot couldn’t figure this out?�

“Calm down!� Revlinger snapped right back, taking the mirror off the bed before it shattered. He was one of the only Healers would dare argue toe-to-toe with Damocles. “You were bleeding to death in Artie’s hall at four in the morning. You’re a very lucky man to have survived what you did.�

“Have you ever treated deep wounds before? It’s not hard!� Damocles exclaimed loudly as he mimed pouring potions together with his free arm, though the movement made his joints ache terribly.

“I knew the first conversation with the fully conscious you would be as nice as a summer walk through the daisies!� Revlinger practically shouted, matching Damocles’s volume. “You know I’m one of the most best Healers in this hospital. More importantly, I’m the only one of those who can put up with you! Answer this instead: have you ever cleaned up a werewolf-inflicted wound before?�

Damocles was quiet for a moment. “Only for lycanthropy patients. Why?�

“For those who aren’t cursed, the scarring is much worse,� Revlinger explained. “I’ve only seen this a handful of times. Your case was additionally difficult because you were minutes away from death. There’s only so much facial . . . rearranging that any of us dared attempt given your condition.�

Well, that was it.

Permanent disfigurement.

There was a long, understood pause as Damocles set the mirror down on the bed. A growing part of him wished he’d never looked, as if his face would be perfectly fine if he could avoid seeing his reflection for the rest of his life. A rather self-pitying thought invaded his mind.

“I’m only twenty-six years old,� Damocles said almost timidly. “Who could love me like this? What woman could find this remotely acceptable?�

“The swelling will go down in the next few days,� Revlinger said, trying to reassure him any way he could.

“Why did Poppy say no?� Damocles asked no one as he leaned back miserably on his pillows. He thought back briefly to the ring she had rejected a few years back; he had immediately thrown the family heirloom straight into the Ministry fountain. “At least she could understand what happened to me. You . . . her . . . Artie . . . So few people know what I face every month.�

“You can request a different post any time,� Revlinger said, clearly trying to sidestep the issue of failed romance. “I can’t fathom why you would want to spend another night down there, especially after what happened.�

“It’s what I was assigned,� Damocles said stubbornly, though every full moon he cursed his decision to stay with the werewolves. Cursed among the cursed.

Revlinger leaned forward and paused for a second in case any other Healer was within earshot of the door. And they probably were, considering how loud and animated the two of them had been seconds before.

“You know good and well what your lycanthropy assignment is all about,� Revlinger said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe it was a cruel joke, maybe a power play, but you know good and well the heads of this place didn’t assign you to the Howling Hall because they thought you could cure lycanthropy. Get out while you have the sanity to do something useful here.�

“Quitting is admitting they’re right,� Damocles said. “It’s admitting I’m not as smart as I think I am.�

“But getting out of there is the one decision that might keep you alive,� Revlinger responded. “I don’t know how Artie even got you to a bed after he found you, a bleeding mess right in the middle of the hall. If he weren’t heading to make a cup of tea, you’d be . . . gone. We see death all the time, but it concerns us -- those of us who know what’s going on -- that any accident like last night could kill you and dozens more.�

Begrudgingly, Revlinger was right about so many things. Had Damocles not stopped the werewolf dead in its tracks -- somehow -- the result would have been unimaginable. A whole ward could have been attacked by the time other Healers could arrive on the grisly scene. Damocles felt the weight of those words and the sudden sense of physical fatigue from the conversation. His body needed more rest.

It felt as if he had hit an unscalable wall. Hadn’t he just been shouting and pretending to stir potions from thin air? Instead of answering Revlinger, he nodded softly and to allow Revlinger to finish his sermon.

Revlinger clearly suspected Damocles’s fading energy. He moved back in his chair, preparing to leave. “You need to think about why are staying with lycanthropy, you know? It’s been the most baffling, painful curses for centuries. Are you just going to stay the keeper of the Howling Hall to prove our superiors wrong, or do you think you’ll actually make progress?�

“Can it be both?� Damocles asked. It sounded like a joke, but he honestly felt both ways.

“You’ve been at this for five full years, and you need to look at the progress,� Revlinger continued sternly. “What use will it be if you waste your entire lifetime on this for nothing? And who knows? After that escape, they might just shut down the Howling Hall for good.�

“Too big a risk to close the door to those patients,� Damocles said. “There are some powerful people connected with that ward. Well-connected, angry people could tell Ministry what’s going on down there every full moon . . . If the Howling Hall provides one thing, it’s that the few wealthy werewolves that exist can at least transform with a shred of dignity in their cell . . . as opposed to rampaging through their mansion.�

“Wealthy werewolves?� Revlinger asked, suddenly curious.

Damocles must have been exhausted if he was prattling about his patients’ confidential information. His guard was down and he’d best stop before he mentioned any names. Or said anything else embarrassing about Poppy. He closed his eyes and waved his free hand dismissively.

“Forget it. I can’t say anything more.�

“But you’ll think about what I said?� Revlinger said as he stood and straightened his Healer robes.

“I’ll consider it . . . but I can be blessedly stubborn. And contrary. And committed to what I do in there. And . . . I’m . . . I’m just tired. Rev, I can’t keep my eyes open any longer,� Damocles admitted. He was fading quickly.

“Yes, Belby,� Revlinger was practically out the door before dimming the lights. “I’ll be back to check on you later.�

The lights in the room dimmed magically, and Damocles leaned back against his pillow. Thoughts of his new, disgusting reflection clouded his mind until finally, mercifully, the black calm of sleep arrived.

***

Alive, but now what?

That was Revlinger’s question, wasn’t it? It still needed answering.

After five days of being cooped up in his private room, Damocles confirmed what he had always suspected at St. Mungo’s: bed rest was awful. It was largely unproductive and time-wasting, particularly when his office was only a two-minute walk away. In some cases, maybe bed rest was more unbearable than the actual illness or injury.

Revlinger was his only frequent visitor, even if it was only to administer potions and make sure Damocles was staying on his best behavior. (Revlinger also managed to sneak him a bottle of firewhiskey last evening). Three or four other Healers had stopped by to wish him the best, all of them unable to stop gawking at his dashing new looks, of course.

Two Healers who visited together were completely unaware of what had really happened; they had heard Damocles had been brutally attacked by a territorial, wild hippogriff while conducting field study. Revlinger said he was doing his best to perpetuate that myth instead of the outlandish tales of a werewolf loose in St. Mungo’s, though Damocles had wished he had selected a more fearsome creature.

Speaking of visitors, his parents had not bothered to see him yet. They were spending the holidays in Italy. Admittedly, they probably would have rushed back home if there was going to be a funeral, but if they had heard their son was safely recovering at St. Mungo’s, there was no need to hurry to London. The Belby family largely had no idea what Damocles did at St. Mungo’s. They would be absolutely puzzled to see his scars at Christmas.

In his time trapped in bed, Damocles had at least been able to start piecing together what had happened during the attack. His coworkers had taken the liberty to throw away his bloodied and torn green Healer robes (understandably enough), but they had left behind the boots he had been wearing that night he was running for his life.

He only wore those particular boots on nights he worked in the Howling Hall. They had thick rubberized soles like the ones usually favored by potioneers while using volatile, ingredients. Since he brewed most of his experimental treatment potions in the Howling Hall, it was by far the safest (though not the most attractive). He was already facing death, but there was no need to risk burning a hole through his foot too. The choice had saved his live.

Upon inspection of his old shoes, it was immediately clear how he had avoided the cursed bite. He remembered kicking out at the werewolf after tumbling to the ground. Judging by the frightening large teeth marks gouged into the sole of his right shoe, he could only guess that he had caught the werewolf’s jaws at the perfect angle where the beast found rubber instead of flesh.

While he had distracted the face of the werewolf for a precious second or two, he had not escaped its claws, which had found his face and practically his entire left side, which he had discovered when he woke up a second time and was alert enough to fully assess his condition. Those scars would be easy enough to hide. It was his face he had to live with everyone seeing, though as Revlinger had promised, the swelling had reduced substantially.

Still. It was permanent.

What spell had stopped the werewolf? For that, Damocles still had no idea, since his wand revealed that the last spell he’d cast had been a quick Healing charm as he was losing consciousness in the hallway.

As he turned the damaged boot over in his hands for what felt like the thousandth time, there was a tentative knock at the door. He looked up and his eyes widened in surprise.

The escaped werewolf himself was standing in the doorframe, awkwardly shifting his weight from side to side.

The patient -- a middle-aged wizard who always stayed in the seventh cell to the left -- still had that wild look about him: lightly scratched face, almost windblown hair and a vacant gaze. Every lycanthropy sufferer reacted differently to the transformations. Some were exhausted the next few days; others, like this man, looked like he had just stepped indoors from a wild thunderstorm.

Damocles made it a practice to not know too much about his patients’ personal lives. It was safest that way, just in case he was ever coerced over firewhiskey to name names or divulge the details of his profession. Still, it was nearly impossibly not to know this man. He was Barnabas Greenwell, one of the most beloved columnists for the Daily Prophet. (“Beloved� being defined as less likely to receive Howlers and death threats than the other Prophet scribes.)

“Well, this is a bit of a role reversal, isn’t it?� Damocles said to break the tension. “I’m not usually visited by my own patients.�

“It’s unusual circumstances on all counts,� Greenwell admitted as he took Damocles’ statement as an invitation to enter the room.

Greenwell dragged the visitor’s chair up to Damocles bedside and took a seat. He exhaled and clapped his hands together nervously a few times. It was clear that it had taken all the reporter’s bravery to bring himself through the hospital for this moment. And it was also apparent his visit was a purposeful one; he was not hear to

Damocles felt his muscles, his whole being, involuntarily tense up. Fear? That was stupid. This was a harmless man. Totally average in every aspect. Yet this was the same man who grew fangs and dark, expressionless eyes. The same man -- or make that beast? -- who nearly killed him in the Howling Hall.

“Apologies will not repair what happened to you that night . . . what I did,� Greenwell finally said.

Damocles held up his a hand at once. “You don’t need to be sorry about what happened. It wasn’t you. Not really anyway.�

“You can say that all you want, but I’ll never feel right about it,� Greenwell said.

“I understand what the dangers are,� Damocles said, in a much more patient tone than he ever possessed when dealing with coworkers.

“You almost died!� Greenwell snapped, suddenly more terrified than nervous. “I . . . I almost killed another man. Again! I know that I had no control over what I did, but Merlin! I saw what happened with my own eyes! It was me!�

The last haunting words hung in the air. It was me! It had all the tone of a regretful murderer confessing. Though propped up by pillows and confined to his bed, Damocles took in the story like he was on Healer duty. He had listened to similar tales, but he never played such an important character in the stories.

It was as if a key had unlocked part of Damocles mind. Greenwell’s fear seemed much more believable. Now that Damocles himself had suffered a brush with death, he finally understood what it must have felt like to be a werewolf. To be terrified of injuring someone but to be hopelessly unable to stop the animal within.

“I haven’t attacked anyone since . . . the first time I transformed.� Greenwell pondered on, his voice starting to quiver. “I . . . I was just thirty at the time. My family had no idea what was going to happen . . . Not really, anyway. We’d never seen it in person. No one had. You’d never believe! I went absolutely wild that night. No restraints. Once the moon went full, everyone was prey. I . . . I killed my own uncle. Right there in his own home. The man who practically raised me couldn’t stop me!�

Greenwell trailed off and began dabbing at a stream of tears running down his cheek with the edge his sleeve. Damocles put a hand on his shoulder in reassurance, about as much physical contact he ever allowed with a patient.

“We don’t have to talk about this,� Damocles said, pretty sure given his own physical condition, he did not what to listen to it.

“Hear me out,� Greenwell said, somehow able to rein back his emotions enough to speak. “I didn’t come here for you to feel sorry for me because I have sad stories.�

Damocles nodded and let him continue.

“That night I attacked my family, they were somehow able to stop me before anything else happened but . . . to live with that memory every day is almost unbearable,� Greenwell said. “The thought that I almost had more blood on my hands -- I, I can’t fathom how I could manage if that had happened.

“In my line of work, I talk to witches and wizards all over the country, but nothing has scared me more than coming here today and face what I almost killed. Do you know what you are to all of us in the Howling Hall?�

Damocles felt himself rein back his sarcasm but unsuccessfully. “I’m the failing Healer who locks you in your cells every night.�

“You are our hope,� Greenwell corrected with all seriousness.

“Why?� Damocles asked. “I haven’t done anything! Just about the only progress I’m making is learning to make sure all the doors are bolting properly.�

“Give yourself credit, man!� Greenwell said, looking practically indignant at Damocles’ lack of faith. “We’ve all been in that cursed ward since before you even started Hogwarts. We may even be there after you’ve been transferred somewhere else. But if you could see the parade of idiots who’ve been in charge of the Howling Hall over the years, you’d be amazed. Locking doors is about all they could ever do. Washed up lowlives who’d messed up in some other part of the building. Just there to guard the doors.

“We know you’re different. When I first visited your office, I remember you walking down the hallway diagnosing about five diseases of patients as they passed by. It’s a gift! Merlin knows you’re too good for us! You, Belby, you are what we’ve needed to find a cure.�

Damocles felt his face suddenly grow warm and his chest filled with pride at Greenwell’s gushing comments. Yet in the praise from the reporter, there was something else unmistakable: a plea to action.

“I will try,� Damocles said, knowing it sounded woefully pathetic compared to Greenwell’s rehearsed speech.

“We can’t change the past, but we can save our future, Belby,� Greenwell said.

The reporter gave a sad sort of smile before leaving. “I’ll see you next full moon.�

***

Alive, but now what?

Now there was purpose.

When was the last time he had that?

Damocles lightly traced his scar across his face with his hand and felt guilt painfully well up inside him. After Greenwell’s visited, the jagged disfigurement seemed like nothing compared to what his patients suffered every lunar cycle, something far worse than a physical wound. They lived fearful, mostly hopeless lives.

Scar or no scary, by working in the Howling Hall, Damocles was guaranteed to live an unusually lonely and strange existence anyway. No one could really understand it without living it. Not even Poppy.

The itch to do lycanthropy work had returned in full, but there were no Healers in sight who could fetch his books from his study. He had lost a few work days between full moons that he used to brew and test new potions. Damocles sat in irritated quiet, waiting for someone to walk by his door.

No one. Typical nonsense on a Friday afternoon.

With a heavy sigh, Damocles resigned himself to journey to his office alone. It was only a two-minute walk for a healthy man. Surely he could -- at the very worst -- crawl his way there. He had managed to pull himself out of the Howling Hall without even being conscious of it. This seemed easy by comparison.

“Have to do everything for myself,� Damocles growled irritatedly, though his complaint was shortened by a quick, gulping breath of pain as he put weight on his right leg for the first time in days.

Stumbling, bumbling and clinging desperately to a wall, Damocles slowly inched his way down the hall, his body aching every step of the way. Revlinger would have thrown an absolute fit if he had seen him in this state, slipping helplessly on his own two feet and wearing a patient’s robe.

It took him several breaks (and one near fainting spell), but Damocles finally rounded a corner and could see his office doorframe. He smiled victoriously as he lowered himself on a nearby bench before making his last shuffle to his room. He proved Revlinger wrong about needed extra days in bed. And he was not finished surprising people either.

He recorded a perfect score on his entrance exam despite brawling at a Quidditch pitch the night before. He had learned to identify a hundred wizarding ailments while his classmates were still reading the textbooks. Now, he had cheated death against a werewolf, astonishing all those who saw him that night.

No doubt it would take a certain toughness, every ounce of wit, and extreme work ethic to find a cure for lycanthropy. But if any Healer had all the right tools and experience to solve a riddle considered unanswerable to all his peers, it was him.

He was Damocles Belby.

He was just the man for the job.