The change in weather sent sniffles rampant through Hogsmeade, but few of his clientele would be desperate enough to pay to treat something so commonplace. Thus, when Cyrus Westerman was sent for, the wizard was relatively certain that it was important.

Medical case in hand and a scarf about his neck—sniffles might be commonplace, but he was hardly keen to get them—the wizard made his way through the maze of streets and alleyways that was the slums of Hogsmeade, getting turned around twice in the dim lantern light but eventually finding his destination. It was good he had been sent for when he had: tomorrow, he would be no use to man or beast, and Cyrus could already feel the coming change in each beat of his heart, his senses on fire as he made his way through the night.

That was how he knew almost as soon as he saw her that she was wrong, the canines revealed when she spoke her name confirming his suspicions.

Miss Potter, as she called herself, was a vampire.

He looked at her apprehensively for long moments, as if taking the measure of the woman—hard as it was for him to see her as such, Cyrus made a concerted effort to do so, given his own status—before him before returning her introduction with a curt nod and his surname, “Westerman.”

The nature of her business here was no more surprising than her presence in the house at all, but that much, at least, he felt confident questioning.

“And how does she fare?” the healer inquired with professionalism.