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?â€
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.â€
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.â€
–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?â€
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.â€
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.â€
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!â€
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.â€
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.â€
Then he gave a dry laugh. –I’ll bet St. Mungo’s never asks him to speak again!â€
Tales from Howling Hall by Racing Co
Story Notes:
Tales is a compilation of one shots based on the life of Damocles Belby, inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion. A few years ago, I wrote the one shot "The Howling Hall," in which Belby stumbles upon the cure. These stories visit other parts of his life, from Hogwarts to his days working in St. Mungo's.