With Miss Scott returned safely to her lodgings (if they could be considered that), Cyrus began to make his own way home. The pair had worked late into the evening; it was not yet midnight, but the healer suspected it must not be far off. Their patient had been a woman of a certain occupation who had tried a homebrewed remedy to rid herself of a developing pregnancy. In his former life, both her profession and this particular decision would have been things he looked down his nose at her for, but since his initial transformation, Cyrus Westerman had grown increasingly sympathetic to the lower echelons of the world.

The pair had done their best, but the woman had not survived the ordeal. Before departing, he had reminded her friend, who had fetched them, to procure such tonics only from trusted midwives in future. 

He was perhaps three blocks from Miss Scott's current address when he noticed a shadow dogging his own and his hand moved to rest upon his wand; four blocks later, the wizard chose to confront it.

"Are you following me?" Cryus asked, tone annoyed, rather than angry, as he turned to face...whomever (whatever?) it was. His wand was in his hand properly now—one was unwise to take chances in this part of Hogsmeade.