"Oh, hello, Miss Granger," said Mr. Hambric, the Institute librarian, walking up to the library's desk as the sound of the call bell faded. "Working to the last, eh?"

"I'm afraid so. Can we search old Daily Prophets from here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I wanted to look up some obituaries—"

"No, what do you mean, 'from here'?"

"Can you do it from the Institute, or do you need to go to the Daily Prophet office?"

"Yes."

Hermione blinked at him. And who's on first?

"Here, let me show you." Mr. Hambric gestured for her to follow him and led her into the periodical section, past the stacks and to a door. "We have a special arrangement with the Daily Prophet."

He opened the door and took her elbow to lead her inside an inky-dark hallway. They walked forward 15 feet, then Mr. Hambric pulled her to a stop and felt along a solid surface in front of them until he found a doorknob. Turning it, he pushed the door open and led her into a small office. To her right was a desk with a sign on the front that said "Daily Prophet Archives", where a man sat working the crossword puzzle in that day's paper.

"Hi, Ralph," said Mr. Hambric, waving to him. "I've got a young researcher from the Institute. Mind if I show her how to search the archives?"

"Making copies?" Ralph asked without looking up from his puzzle.

"Do you want copies, or do you need the originals?" Mr. Hambric asked.

"Copies would be fine," Hermione said. "If I can take them with me, copies'll be great."

Ralph jabbed his thumb at the door behind him. "You know how to work it. Remember to ask for a date range first."

Mr. Hambric led Hermione through the indicated door, into a room five feet by eight feet. The walls were made of glass, but the space behind them was dark, leaving only their reflections visible. As Mr. Hambric closed the door, the lights on the other side of the walls brightened to a dim glow, and row after row of newspapers stretched out in front of them until they faded in the darkness beyond.

"The Daily Prophet archives go back to 1132," Mr Hambric said, "so you always want to give a date range first when you start a search."

The Death Eaters' first reign was almost 25 years ago, but Greyback had been operating before that. If Roma was in her early teens when he joined them, and only three when she was bitten… "I want the last 40 or 50 years or so."

The sound of fluttering parchment filled the air as newspapers flew from their holders and flung themselves at a table in front of the longest glass wall. "Oh, but only the obituaries!" The noise increased as the papers separated themselves and the unneeded pages returned to their holders.

"As you can see, the search here is really easy," Mr. Habric shouted above the noise. "You can narrow it down as far as you like."

No child who died from abuse would be listed that way. Trying to guess the euphemisms would surely miss a few. "I'm just interested in the ones that mention werewolves or lycanthropy."

More of the pages returned to their homes, sorting back into their newspapers with a flurry of parchment. A much smaller stack remained, although still a lot to sort through by hand. "And the deceased should be younger than 17." More than half the stack flew off the table. "That should do it. How do we make copies?"

No sooner had the words left her mouth, than a stack of blank parchment landed with a WHOMP on the table, and a copy of each obituary that met her search wrote itself on the top blank page, along with the date and page number. As each newspaper page was finished, it flew back to its original spot, and as each blank page filled, it moved to the side of the table so the next parchment could start. When all the news pages were finished, the copied parchments neatened themselves, then slid through the glass wall as though nothing were there and came to a rest on the floor.

"See, nothing to it," Mr. Hambric said as Hermione picked them up. "Need anything else?"

"Yeah, I would like to do another search."

Parchment rustled in the archive, as though the newspapers were eager for another opportunity.

"Date range first," Mr. Hambric reminded her.

"Six years ago," Hermione said. "I'd like anything mentioning Eleanor Rowle, Jacob Rowle, Leslie Crockford, Kyle Sayers, or Sebastian Greyson. And I'd like copies."

The search was done almost before she finished talking, and a single sheet of parchment slid through the glass. It held five obituaries, each listing cause of death as 'injuries sustained while resisting arrest', and one tiny three line article that the goblin branch of Mason and Burr Solicitors had filed a complaint against the Ministry over the loss of a paralegal. Loss of a paralegal, as though she'd just been hired away instead of murdered.

"People you knew?" Mr. Hambric asked.

"No, but they should have been." She tucked the paper behind the other obituaries and pasted a polite smile on her face. "Thank you for showing me how to use this. It's a great resource."

"Certainly, it's what I'm here for. You can come down here any time the Daily Prophet office is open, and look up anything you want." Lowering his voice, he chuckled and added, "Don't tell anyone I said so, but I think Prof. Walker comes down here and checks Quidditch records before going to his bookie."

Despite herself, Hermione giggled. They made their way back to the Institute, waving to Ralph as they walked past. He didn't look up from his crossword. Once back at Tritonis, Mr. Hambric took his leave as Hermione plunked down at the nearest study desk and went through the first set of obituaries. The copying had put the dates in reverse order, with the newest on top. It was a few years old and for a ten-year-old boy who had died of "complications from lycanthropy."

The next was for Alec Montgomery, the little boy Greyback had mauled to death in April 1997. Then a huge gap stretched back to 1982, sprinkled only with a handful of teenaged deaths "while attempting to escape from the Werewolf Capture Unit." The 1970s had a few more obituaries, virtually all saying cause of death was "complications from lycanthropy". Then, when she reached 1968, the number exploded. There were seven deaths in six months, each and every one blaming lycanthropy complications.

"Complications from lycanthropy." What did that even mean? It could be anything. And so many young deaths in such a short time; what could cause that? She had heard of the Werewolf Epidemic, but had there also been an epidemic among werewolves?

Hermione glanced at her watch and went to her office just long enough to get her cloak and bag. A quick trip through the Floo brought her to St. Mungo's, and she went to the Ulrica Farkas ward. A man sat inside with a pair of pre-teen twins. At first glance they appeared identical, but one looked over at Hermione, and she saw the tips of the boy's canines were pressing on his lips like fangs and his eyes were mismatched, one blue and one a brownish gold, while his brother's were both brown. A minute later, Healer Razvan emerged from an exam room with a nine-year-old girl and her mother.

"Oh, hello, Miss Granger," Razvan said. "I didn't expect to see you back. You weren't thrown into The Boxes again, were you?"

"No, I wanted to talk to you about something I found in my research. It's not urgent, though."

"I have one last appointment, and then I'll be off duty. Why don't you wait for me in the tearoom on the top floor? I'll be positively ravenous when I finish up."

Agreeing, Hermione went to the top floor, ordered a soft drink, then pulled a book out of her bag and settled in. Predictably, she lost track of time; before she knew it, Healer Razvan pulled out the chair across from her, a plate with a purchased sandwich in his hand.

"Hairy Snout, Human Heart?" he asked, reading the book's title.

"I know, it's terribly smarmy and capitulatory," Hermione said, "but there's not much out there about werewolves by werewolves. Or even consulting werewolves."

"If you knew Romanian, I could recommend a few titles."

"I wish I did know Romanian, but I don't think it would really help. I understand werewolves are treated differently on the continent than they are here."

"That's true, especially in Transylvania. You wanted to discuss some of your research with me?"

Hermione nodded and dug through her things for the obituary copies. "You came to Britain during the 60s, right?"

"In 1966, that's right."

"I was looking through the obituaries back then, and saw a number for werewolf children in 1968." Healer Razvan took the copies from her, his face darkening as he read over them. "Did something happen back then? Was there some sort of werewolf disease or something?"

"Are you still interested in Fenrir Greyback?" Razvan asked.

"He's still part of my research. Why do you ask?"

"Because he asked me the same thing the very last time he came in for treatment, just before he kidnapped that first boy."

"Come in, Mr. Greyback," Healer Razvan said, looking up from the notes he was jotting. "I'm just finishing up the paperwork for my last appointment."

"The little boy with the bruises who just left?" Fenrir asked, taking a seat on the exam table. It transformed into a dentist's chair around him as Razvan nodded. "What happened to him?"

"I'm sorry; I can't discuss his case with you." Razvan finished the notes and filed them, then washed his hands. "I was surprised to see you on the appointment list. I thought you were leaving before the full moon."

"Unfortunately, my father unexpectedly passed away a few weeks ago, and the estate is not as organized as it could be. My family needs my help to get things in order."

"I'm very sorry to hear that." He paused. "I thought you were estranged from your family."

"It's a bit complicated," Fenrir said. "They don't want to be associated with a werewolf publically, but privately, I'm still their son and brother. You know how it is."

"I'm Transylvanian. I don't understand it at all," Razvan said. "Your wife was starting a new job, wasn't she? Are they accommodating her?"

"I sent her and Phelan ahead. I didn't want her to miss her first day."

"You must miss them terribly."

"Even more than I expected," Fenrir said. "It looks like it'll be a month or two before I can join them. I'm not sure how I'll get through it."

"Any help I can offer?"

"No, no, I'll be fine. I'll work it out."

"Don't be afraid to call on any resources you need to. Stress affects your health," Razvan said. "Any complaints besides the Swahlstead complication?"

"No, I'm all right otherwise. The full moon wasn't too bad this month, actually."

"Glad to hear it. Sounds like you have enough on your plate. If you'll lean back, I'll get you sorted."

Fenrir obediently leaned back and opened his mouth. As Swahlsted complications went, his was straightforward. There were no body parts to add or remove. His teeth were all there, just incorrectly shaped. Reshaping them was tedious—if not transfigured individually, they would revert in a matter of days—but it wasn't difficult for a Healer with Razvan's experience. After 15 minutes, he pronounced, "There you are, all done."

Fenrir sat up, exploring the new shape of his mouth with his tongue.

"Do you have any questions before you go? About your condition, or in general?"

"I do, actually," Fenrir said. "When I read the newspaper, I usually glance at the obituaries. Morbid, I know, but… Well, I've noticed there's been a lot of children dying from lycanthropy complications. Seems there's been one every three or four weeks for a while now. What's going on?"

With a heavy sigh, Razvan took off his glasses and cleaned them on his uniform. "It's not complications from lycanthropy. There's another fake cure making the rounds, and this one is particularly insidious. It's a salve made with lesser Wolf's Bane. Normally, topical arnica isn't terribly dangerous to people with lycanthropy; in small amounts, it just causes a bruise. But when a lot of it is absorbed through the skin over time, it can become very serious. Most of the adults who try it give it up before it becomes dangerous, but the children… It affects them so quickly that often their parents don't realize anything is truly wrong until their child drops dead of internal bleeding."

"That's awful! Isn't there anything you can do to stop it?"

"If I see signs of it, I can treat the damage, but I don't always see them in time. Even if I do catch it, some parents won't believe me when I tell them how dangerous it is. They think I haven't kept up on the research."

"Can't Family Services intervene?"

"They won't get involved; I've tried. They say it's a matter of medical treatment, and parents have the right to choose whatever care they think is best for their children, no matter the risks."

"What about the person selling this salve? Can't someone stop them?"

"St. Mungo's can't do anything, because the self-proclaimed Healer isn't certified through us. The Ministry won't stop him; it's up to patients to judge the risks and benefits of using uncertified Healers. And the salve itself is harmless to healthy people. In fact, I'm told it helps with arthritis. So it's not even recognized as poisonous."

"But this is killing people! Killing children," Fenrir said.

"Believe me, Mr. Greyback, I know, and I am every bit as frustrated as you are. I can't even get the Daily Prophet to print the story so parents can at least be informed. They bury it back in the obituaries where no one sees it. I've tried everything I can think of to put an end to this. If you have any other ideas on how to help these children, I'm certainly open to them."

"Sometimes I think I shouldn't have said that to him," Healer Razvan said. "It's silly, I know, but sometimes I feel like I gave him the idea to kidnap that first boy."

"Was it the boy with the bruises he saw earlier that day?" Hermione asked.

Razvan nodded. "Julian Augustine. I remember his case very well. His bruises were worsening into subdermal hemorrhages, and I could not get his parents to see how serious that was." Razvan sighed and took off his glasses to clean them on his uniform. "Maybe this is wrong of me to say, but I can't fault Mr. Greyback for taking Julian. If he hadn't, I would have been signing a death certificate in a few days. In a way, I'm grateful to Fenrir. When the Daily Prophet wrote about the kidnapping, they had to break the entire story, including the motive. Of course, they pretended they had just discovered the danger of the Wolf's Bane Salve, but at least it was printed. The salve fell out of favor soon afterwards."

"What about his other kidnappings? Were they similar cases, do you know?"

"They were at the start, at least the cases I know details of. The longer things went on, though, the less patience Mr. Greyback had with parental error. For the last decade or so, we advised parents to leave the country with their newly bitten children because he was taking so many. It's like he'd lost all faith in healthy humans. Which I suppose he had."

"He was pretty infamous for his hatred of healthy wizards at the end of his life," Hermione agreed. "Was there any sign of that when he first started coming to you for treatment?"

Razvan stroked his beard again. "None that I saw. To be honest, I rather liked him. He was very frustrated sometimes, but that's always been common among my adult patients. They just have so many more troubles than other people. It's difficult for them to find or keep a job, and that's hard on the self esteem. And of course, if you don't have enough money, what problems don't you have? Then you add in the various 'Werewolf Codes' that have come and gone over the years, and it's no wonder so many of them are frustrated with what life has dealt them. Before he went underground, Fenrir was one of those, but I don't think he was unusually bad."

With a nod, Hermione gathered up her things. "I think that'll do it for now, Healer Razvan. Thank you very much for your time."