October 17th, 1888 — a residence in the Slums

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.

  

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.

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

Well, he hadn't thrown up the sign of the cross or recoiled in abject horror. Under the circumstances, Lyra knew that was really as much courtesy as she could hope for, though it was clear from his curt greeting that Mr. Westerman was not overjoyed by her presence here.

One step at a time, she told herself. It was not as though she was short on time. If there was one thing that her kind had in abundance, it was time. If Mr. Westerman tolerated her today, that was enough; maybe the next time their paths crossed, or the time after that, or the hundredth time, he would have a better opinion of her.

"Not very well," she admitted honestly. "She should have had a healer yesterday, if truth be told. I've been doing everything I can, but without magic..." she let out a slight sigh. No matter how long she worked as a nurse, some things would forever remain beyond her skill set. When the ailment itself was magical, there was hardly any Muggle means she could attempt to cure it.

  

Perfunctorily, he removed his hat and jacket, though his hand hesitated for a moment at the knot of his scarf before he concluded that he was being foolish and removed that as well. As he went through these motions, he listened to what the strange ‘nurse’ had to say, and turned his attentions back to her fully after he had placed his outerwear on the coat rack.

“Even non-magical ailments can be a struggle to remedy when one has no more tools than a muggle,” Cyrus allowed. It was meant to sound gracious, but even as the words left him, the healer wondered if they didn’t sound more critical than anything.

“Her symptoms?” he asked, a hasty change of subject.

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

No more tools than a Muggle did sound like an insult, however he had intended it. She ran the tip of her tongue over one prolonged canine and tried not to let her face show her bitterness over the comment. It wasn't as though she had chosen to lose her magical talent. She hadn't walked into this life with her eyes wide open; it was what she had been handed, and she was making due with it. It didn't help that she was a bit proud of the skills she'd acquired as a nurse. It was more than she had ever managed to accomplish as a human witch, and likely more than she ever would have had she remained human and become a housewife. It was more than most vampires managed, too, to have a profession. She could have spent her time skulking around dark alleyways in London, looking for easy meals — that was what was expected of her kind.

She pushed past her feelings at his next question, though, determined to remain professional. It didn't matter what Westerman thought of her, she told herself; she was going to set a good example moving forward. Someday, public opinion would be different. "Fever," she said simply. "And her extremities have been turning blue. It's up to her elbows, now." In the Muggle world, that would have meant a lack of oxygen, but magical illnesses played by different rules. Sometimes, things just changed color for no good reason, it seemed. "She's not entirely lucid — even when she's awake, she's talking nonsense."

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   Cyrus Westerman

Though fever could be dangerous in any patient, the other symptoms did not worry Cyrus overmuch. Like as not, he thought, she had merely caught a minor magical bug that could be cleared out with the proper care.

“And how have you been treating her thus far?”

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —

She was relieved to find the conversation staying brisk and on-topic; it was easier than swallowing her pride against more backhanded commentary.

"Cold compresses, for the fever," she explained. Cold compresses were much easier to keep up with magic, which the family had been able to use even if she couldn't. She remembered having to instruct Muggles to replace the cloths with freshly wet ones from the nearest creek every hour. "Bed rest, clean water to drink and a little fortified wine. And I've advised them to keep the children out of the room, in case it's catching."

  

Cyrus nodded at each item upon the list, satisfied that she had done all she could—all she could do that would make a difference, at any rate. There were a good many who believed in useless folk remedies or, worse, strategies that would only damn the patient to a lifetime of future ailments. Whatever this Miss Potter was, she was not an idiot.

"Very good," he answered, though there was little praise in his tone; rather, it was the expected answer. "Please, lead the way."

  

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— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —