It was only the most desperate who would dream of turning to a vampire for medical help, when there were healers available, but Lyra didn't mind. She liked having something to do — something other than bashing heads with the vampires of the caverns, at any rate. And the lifestyle here didn't offend her sensibilities the way it would once have done; she had seen far worse, during the five years since she had been turned. The simplicity of life in the slums was actually a little reminiscent of the Muggles she'd known, in a way. It was nice — so long as it didn't inadvertently remind her of anyone she'd killed.

Try as she might, however, there were some things that simply couldn't be helped without the use of magic. The woman she'd been sent to tend to today was just such an affliction. Unfortunately, a trip to the hospital was well outside of their means, and Lyra knew that. She could keep the affected woman comfortable while the sickness ran its course, and she could treat some of the symptoms, but there was nothing she could do that would go anywhere in the direction of a cure; unless a healer could be found, there was nothing to do but wait and see whether the woman would outlast the illness. Her chances, as Lyra estimated them, were not good, and although she hadn't said as much to any of the woman's family members, they probably knew. The air was somber; the house was preparing for death.

At least, that had been the case yesterday; when Lyra came in that evening just after sunset to see how things had progressed over the day, she heard with optimism that a freelance healer was en route. It was doubtful that he would want anything from her — his pride, she assumed, would prevent him from admitting the help of a nurse trained in Muggle medicine, even if she weren't contending with the prejudice associated with being a member of the living dead. Still, she thought it best to wait and see whether he wanted anything; perhaps she would be able to answer some questions that the family wouldn't have thought to pay attention to, or something of that nature.

She was a bit apprehensive about meeting him, and ran her tongue over her fangs to ensure they were well hidden by her lips when she heard that he was at the door. He would notice sooner or later, of course, but there was no need to come at him with her teeth barred, so to speak. "Good evening," she greeted with a quick glance over the man. "I've been tending to her for the past three nights. Miss Potter," she continued, because it would have been rude to offer no introduction — and hearing her name was a more gentle way to reveal her condition than to wait until he noticed the chill of her hand upon shaking it.