"War Hero Mistaken For Werewolf."
When I find out who leaked this to the Daily Prophet, I am going to hex them into next week, Hermione thought, tucking the newspaper under her arm. She grabbed a submission box from the Institute's mail room on her way to her office. Meg's door was open, and she peeked out as Hermione went by.
"Hermione, I read the news in the paper!" Meg followed her down the hall, but Hermione did not slow her pace. "Are you all right?"
"I'm just fine. The Isolation Center has separate cells for everyone. Insanely small separate cells, but separate nonetheless." She reached her office and cast her unlocking spell on the door.
"Still, that must have been terrifying!"
"More insulting and demeaning than terrifying." Hermione stepped inside and snapped her fingers, and the ceiling started to glow. She pulled her manuscript out of its cubbyhole and dropped it into the submission box.
"Don't you need to edit that?" Meg asked as she taped the box closed.
"I edited each chapter a hundred times as I wrote it, and the Governing Committee will send me a list of suggested changes, right?" She dropped it down the mail chute and turned back to her desk.
"You're not all right, are you?"
"I just want to get on with my next project."
"Werewolves?" Meg asked. "Even after last night?"
"Especially after last night."
A mountain of mail sat on her desk already. All mail for Tritonis researchers, both business and personal, came through the Institute for safety. If a researcher was doing their job well, someone would be angry about it. Since some wizards thought sending a student undiluted bubotuber pus was an appropriate response to a tabloid article about a 14-year-old's crushes, one could imagine what they did when they were really mad. The Institute's protective charms stopped most dangerous items, but they did allow Howlers through, and there were several in the stack. They started smoking as they realized they were being ignored. Hermione pulled them out, tossed them into the hallway, and shouted "Incoming Howlers!" They exploded, spewing a barrage of insults and shouting that she deserved what she'd gotten.
Several other researchers came to their doors, clapping, as was the customary response to a Howler explosion.
"Good show, Miss Granger," Prof. Scalar called as they died down. "One of them called you the m-word nine times. That's a very powerful number."
"Thanks," Hermione said, stepping back into her office. She rolled her eyes and went back to the stack of mail. "Pansy really thinks I can't recognize her voice?" Letters of concern from her friends made up much of the stack. She pulled out the one from Tonks and Remus Lupin for special attention. Next to it was a letter from the Ministry. She opened and read it, and her jaw clenched convulsively as the blood rushed into her face.
"Hermione?" Meg asked.
"Pardon me." She dug into her desk for an inkwell filled with red ink, took a deep breath, and then smashed it on the ground with a scream of frustration.
Meg leaped back. "Hermione?!"
"Look at that!" Hermione said, holding out the letter. Meg took it from her like she expected it to bite. As she read over it, Hermione waved her wand at the shattered inkwell with more force than necessary. The bits flew together and merged back into a solid piece, and the ink gathered into a ball and poured itself back into the inkwell.
"'Dear Miss Granger,'" Meg read aloud. "'Due to your recent exposure to transformed werewolves, we must require an examination to determine your infection status. Please report to St. Mungo's within 48 hours and submit to their instructions. Failure to do so may incur a 50 galleon fine and time in Azkaban. Sincerely, Elmira Hembree, Werewolf Capture Unit.' Oh, that can't be right, can it? That's absurd! What are you going to do?"
"Well, I'm going to St. Mungo's, aren't I?" Hermione took the note back from her and went back down to the main Floo. To her dismay, she saw a gaudily dressed woman with bizarrely rigid blonde curls and bejeweled glasses waiting for her in the lobby.
"Oh, Miss Granger!"
"I'm not giving you a statement, Ms. Skeeter," Hermione said, heading for the Floo.
"Just a few words, Miss Granger," Rita Skeeter said, moving with surprising speed to intercept her. A few choice words went through Hermione's head, all right, but she kept walking. "Surely you want people to know what happened to you in the Isolation Center."
Despite herself, Hermione's step slowed. If she'd had no idea how awful the Werewolf Isolation Center was, it was a good bet that no one else did, either. But letting Rita Skeeter do it… No, that would not work at all. The way she'd write it, somehow the werewolves would be at fault. "If I'm going to share it, it'll be in my words, not yours."
"Now, Miss Granger, no offense intended, but you're not a professional writer."
Hermione stopped short and turned to face her with a glare that could scorch dragon hide. "What exactly do you think I do here for a living, Ms. Skeeter?"
Rita sputtered. "What I mean is, since you haven't been published before—"
"Magical Menagerie Magazine, June 2000; Journal of Beasts and Beings, February 2002."
"I just meant, since I have more experience, surely it'd be better to let me polish things up a bit."
"No, I don't think so. But you're right that an article is a good idea. I think I'll write one up and submit it to Tritonis's press division. With any luck, since the Daily Prophet has made such a big deal out of this, every magazine and periodical in the country'll want to pick it up. Thanks for the idea." Before Skeeter could argue, she stepped into the Floo and ordered, "St. Mungo's."
The Floo hurtled by in a green blur, and within a few seconds, she was in the reception area of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies. She walked up to the Welcome Witch and laid down the letter from the Werewolf Capture Unit without a word.
The witch read it with knit eyebrows. "You'll need to go to the Ulrica Farkas ward. It's on the first floor, second door on the left, across from the Dai Llewellyn ward. They're always swamped after a full moon, though. You should come back tomorrow."
"I don't want to risk it. I don't have 50 galleons to spare, and Azkaban is right out."
"Suit yourself. Their waiting room is packed, and you'll be low on the triage list, though. I can have them page you when they get to the patient before you, if you want. That way you can wait anywhere, even at home if you want."
"That would be great, thank you very much," Hermione said, taking the letter back. They're hiding something. She remembered the Dai Llewellyn ward a little too well from her Fifth Year in school, when Voldemort's snake Nagini bit Ron's father. It was a tiny, dingy little ward with poor lighting. It must have driven Mr. Weasley crazy to have been stuck in it for so long. If the bite ward was that bad, what would this one, apparently for werewolves, be like? She took the stairs to the first floor. Signs pointed the way, but as she got close, she found the room so full that people were spilling into the hallway.
"Is this the queue for the Ulrica Farkas ward?" she asked the last person in line.
"'Fraid so," the man said, turning around. Hermione's eyes nearly popped out of her head. He looked normal from the back, but his face was elongated into a snout and covered with fur, like a wolfman from a monster movie. He chuckled. "Never seen a Swahlsted complication this bad before, eh?"
"I'm sorry," Hermione said, forcing herself to look somewhere else. "I didn't mean to stare."
"S'okay, I'm used to it." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Healer Razvan always tries to tell me that Swahlsteds can wait until tomorrow. I don't think I can wait. Do you?"
"No, I certainly wouldn't want to." She gestured the crowd. "I didn't realize this queue would be so long. I think I'll go wait in the tearoom or something."
"Don't blame you. I would too, except, well…" He pointed to his face.
"Yeah. Good luck with that!"
She turned and trotted back to the stairwell. She was half a floor up before she realized that her heart was pounding and the scars on her neck were throbbing. Oh gosh, I was so rude. I should go back and apologize and… and…
She continued to 'and' all the way to the tearoom, but she didn't turn around. That's the second time this week I've been rude to a werewolf. Remus will be so disappointed in me if he finds out. And the way Ron would laugh at her, she didn't even want to think about it.
With a heavy sigh, she ordered a drink, took some parchment and a quill out of her bag, and started writing about the Werewolf Isolation Center. For this first draft, she'd just try to get everything down: every hex, every push, every little insult. Then she would turn it into something publishable. Writing articles was like writing essays for school, which was probably why she didn't do it often. The slow deliberate pace of writing a book, and the detail she could include, had spoiled her. Maybe too much, if Meg was right. Still, sometimes articles were important. Of the two she had already published, one was to support a proposed law setting a minimum standard of treatment for house-elves, which fortunately passed, and the other was to protest a motion to reclassify house-elves as Beasts instead of Beings, which unfortunately also passed. So now house-elves were legally animals instead of people, but on the upside, it was at least illegal to decapitate one and mount their head on a wall.
Hermione finished a reasonable second draft before stopping for a snack and had just finished a third draft when a soft 'pop' sounded above her head, and a wad of parchment landed in front of her and spread out into a note: "Ulrica Farkas Ward ready for Hermione Granger."
Hermione made her way back to the ward. The hallway had cleared out, and the door was closed. With a deep breath, she braced herself and opened it. To her surprise, the ward was brightly lit and gleamingly clean inside. The white tile floor sparkled despite the foot traffic of the day. Multi-colored paw prints decorated the walls, moving as though they belonged to romping puppies. A line of chairs sat against the wall, and beside them was a wooden box overflowing with toys. Across from the door was a counter and filing cabinets. On the opposite wall from the chairs, she could see an exam room; beside it was a hallway with the doors to private rooms visible and an office at the end.
The exam room door opened, and two men came out, the older in the lime-green uniform of a Senior Healer. "Really, Mr. Chaney, there's no reason for you to spend so long waiting here every month," the Healer said in an Eastern European accent. "Most of my Swahlsted patients come tomorrow; there's plenty of open appointments."
The younger man caught sight of Hermione and grinned, jerking his head towards the healer. "Told ya, didn't I?"
"Beg pardon?" Hermione asked.
He chuckled. "Guess you didn't recognize me without the…" He put his hand in front of his face and closed it and pulled outwards as though stretching something, and Hermione realized this was the 'wolfman' she had met earlier.
"Oh! No, I didn't. You look much—" She caught herself before saying 'better'. "Um, more comfortable."
Healer Razvan handed him a sheet of parchment. "Just hand that to the receptionist downstairs and she'll get you sorted."
"Thank you." He gave Hermione a little wave as he left. "Your turn."
"What exactly is a Swahlsted complication?" Hermione asked as Healer Razvan stepped out from behind the counter.
"It's when a body part doesn't transform back to human after the full moon. It's the most common complication of lycanthropy, and usually harmless. Mr. Chaney's is the most extreme I've ever seen. Usually just the ears stay a wolf's, or the person keeps a vestigial tail, or something along those lines. So, what can I do for you, Miss?"
She pulled the Ministry's letter out of her bag and gave it to him. He read over it, his eyebrows knitting.
"And here you are, just like they asked." He took a seat and gestured for Hermione to do the same. "I'm not sure what they want me to do, though. Were you bitten?"
"No, sir."
"Then I'm not sure what the problem is. Despite what some people think, lycanthropy is not very contagious. The only way it can be transmitted is through a wolf-form bite deep enough to pierce a muscle. You can't catch it just by being around a werewolf, not by touching their blood or saliva, certainly not from touching their fur. They could lick you all over your face or even kiss you with no worries. Mothers can't even pass it to their unborn children." He sighed. "I hope this isn't a new Ministry policy for anyone who's around a werewolf. What exactly did they mean by 'exposure to transformed werewolves,' do you know?"
"They mean they mistakenly threw me into a cell in the Werewolf Isolation Center," Hermione answered. Healer Razvan's eyes widened. "I take it you haven't seen the newspaper today?"
"Not yet; I've been here since before sunrise. But I certainly look forward to reading about this." He tapped his lips. "The Ministry uses glorified cages, so they must be worried that you were scratched or scraped by a werewolf's tooth, rather than properly bitten. Which is complete nonsense, but I'll play along. Did you have any scratches when you came out?"
"I skinned my knees on the concrete, but that's it."
"Then I don't see any way you could have been infected, but we'll do a check to make the paper pushers happy." He pushed himself up and gestured for Hermione to follow him to the exam room. "There are hospital gowns in that cabinet. You can leave your underthings on; I just need a clear view of your arms and legs. I'll go get a scar finder while you change, and we'll get you done as quick as we can, all right?"
"I'd appreciate that." The doctor closed the exam room door, and Hermione opened the cabinet. A giggle escaped before she could stop it. The gowns had little puppies on them. On the children's sizes, they moved like real puppies, playing with each other, but thankfully the adult gowns had a static design. Hermione found one the right size and changed into it. She was wondering how she was supposed to fasten the back when the edges moved together and joined into a seam. Healer Razvan wasn't back yet, so she pulled a book out of her purse. A knock sounded on the exam room door a few minutes later.
"Come in; I'm dressed," Hermione said, trying to finish the paragraph she was reading.
Healer Razvan pushed the door open with one hand, clasping a pearly white potion bottle in the other, and smiled. "I have not seen an English-language version of that book in years. The Romanian is in its fourth edition now."
Hermione looked at the title, Werewolf Anatomy. "Wait, are you Ilias Razvan?"
He nodded. "I was rather young when I wrote that. I've learned quite a bit since then, especially with the epidemic."
"Epidemic?"
"You're probably too young to remember the lycanthropy epidemic. Lycanthropy was stable at a low level in Great Britain for several centuries, until the 1960s. Then, well, in 1960 there were 6 cases, and by 1970 there were over 100."
"Oh, wow. What caused that?"
"Ignorance, mostly. There were some downright crazy ideas about transmission when I first came to this country. It's completely possible one or two accidental bites cascaded out of control because no one understood how to stop it."
"Are there any books I could read about that, or articles?"
Razvan considered. "I don't think there's any books."
Yet, Hermione mentally added.
"Don't look up anything in the Daily Prophet archives. They were… Ugh. A little crazy themselves. I think I can find some medical journal articles, though. I'll send you copies by owl in a day or two, if that's all right."
"That would be wonderful. Thank you so much."
"My pleasure. I'm always glad to educate people about lycanthropy." He held up the pearly white bottle. "This is a standard scar finder. I should warn you that it's probably going to make those scars on your neck…" He trailed off as he got a good look at them. "When you came in, I thought those had been made by a Nosferatu, but that's not the case, is it?"
"No, they're from a werewolf."
"No, not a werewolf. In a normal patient with lycanthropy, the fingernails aren't cursed. Those had to be made by a vargulf."
"I'm sorry, a what?" Hermione asked.
"A vargulf. Vargulfism is an exceedingly rare complication. It's when someone with lycanthropy develops a craving for blood."
"Don't all werewolves crave blood, at least in their wolf form? I thought that's why they bite."
"That's a common misconception. Actually, people with lycanthropy have a strong aversion to blood, especially wizard blood. It keeps them from mauling their victims to death in wolf form, so the disease spreads more easily. In very rare cases, though, a person with lycanthropy will develop an active craving for blood. We call that sanguiphilia. Eventually they crave blood so much they kill for it, and that stage we call thanophilia. Once thanophilia sets in, physical changes occur. The vargulf's human form becomes almost as cursed as their wolf form, and they're able to cause wounds like that." He pointed to her scars again. "Which tells me that you had a run-in with Fenrir Greyback, because he's the only thanophilic vargulf in the last century."
"I did." She gingerly touched the scars. "Is there any treatment for vargulfs?"
Healer Razvan grimaced. "There are some options for the sanguiphilic stage, but you have to understand that there have been fewer than a dozen confirmed vargulfs. It's a bit of experimenting as you go."
"What about thanophilia?"
Healer Razvan shook his head. "Once a vargulf kills for blood, there's nothing we can do except isolate them from healthy humans. There just haven't been enough cases for good study. When we finish with your check up, would you let me take a photograph of your scars for research purposes? Every bit of information we can get may help with the next."
"Certainly; I'd be glad to help," Hermione said.
"Thank you; I really appreciate it. I hope I haven't bored you. Vargulfs are a bit of a holy grail to lycanthropologists."
"I don't mind; it was interesting to learn. And I'm sure you don't get much chance to see something new in it."
"No, I'm afraid not." Healer Razvan put the potion bottle aside, turned to a sink against the wall, and stuck his hands under the faucet. A mixture of soap and water poured from it, changing to water alone as he scrubbed. "You have no idea how frustrating it's been for lycanthropologists of my generation. We've lived through not one, but two vargulfs, and yet we haven't had much opportunity to study either one."
"Who was the other?"
"The Wagga Wagga Werewolf. He was still in the sanguiphilic stage when that nitwit up in the chronic care ward cast a Homorphus Charm on him. — I'm sorry, I shouldn't speak of a patient that way."
Hermione laughed. "That's all right. I was at Hogwarts during Gilderoy Lockhart's tenure. I know exactly what you mean." She also knew that the Homorphus Charm had actually been cast by an Armenian warlock and that Lockhart had only Memory Charmed him and claimed the credit, but that hardly seemed important at the moment.
"In any event, forcing someone with lycanthropy to transform out of synch with the moon is incredibly traumatic. It broke the Wagga Wagga Werewolf's mind; he has been catatonic ever since, in both forms. Since the sanguiphilic stage is wholly psychological, there's not much to observe with him. Then, of course, there was Fenrir Greyback. His case was especially frustrating for me, because I had a basis for comparison for him before and after his change. Not a perfect basis, admittedly, but it was still a chance that no one's ever had before."
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked. "Did you know him?"
"A little. He used to be a regular patient here, back when I first came from Transylvania in the '60s. He had a Swahlsted complication, you see. His teeth wouldn't transform back with the rest of his body, and he couldn't transfigure them himself so that they'd stay normal for more than a day or two. So every month, the second day after the full moon, he'd come here to have them transfigured human again."
"Really?" Hermione asked, leaning forward. "What was he like back then?"
"You'll probably find this hard to believe, but he was a very charming young man. Unfailingly polite and very clever. He was also wonderful with children. You've probably noticed that this ward is a bit 'cutesy'. Children are bitten more often than adults. They move slower, and they don't know defensive magic yet. This ward can be very frightening for a child, and that was even more true back then, but Fenrir was always able to get younger patients smiling while he waited for his treatment. You don't know what a shock it was the first time I read that he had kidnapped a child. Obviously, he was a very different man when he was arrested. But by the time I saw him in Azkaban, it was impossible to tell what was caused by the thanophilia and what was caused by the Dementors."
"You were able to speak to him in Azkaban?"
Healer Razvan nodded. "I visited him professionally almost every month until his death, twice monthly when the Ministry would allow it."
"What was he like in Azkaban? Was he… terribly far gone?"
"Actually, he was surprisingly lucid, at least for the first six or seven months. There were a few times he didn't quite seem there, but it'd only be for a moment. Most of the time, he was… Well, he said that the Dementors forced him to think, whether he wanted to or not." Healer Razvan paused, thoughtfully fiddling with the potion bottle. "Why don't I start checking you for scratches, and we can talk while I work?"