The calendar did not lie.
Tonight would be another one of those nightmares. Damocles Belby could scarcely rest his head on a pillow any other night for fear he would wake to the shrieks of those inhuman beasts down the corridor. The tearing. The clawing. The violent beating at the wooden doors and barred windows.
Thank goodness for Firewhisky, Damocles mused as he sat down wearily at his desk, the position not a single Healer envied.
He worked in the Howling Hall.
***
ÒMaster Belby, Sir, my instructors have sent me down here for duty tonight,Ó a young witch said nervously as she handed him a neatly folded sheet of parchment. ÒThis is the Stokley Ward, correct?Ó
Grunting a reply, Damocles took the letter and looked up at her with tired eyes. Though she was wearing the crossed bone and wand, she could not have been far removed from Hogwarts. He noticed her repulsed expression, seeing her eyes fixated on his horrible scars. She would be witnessing much worse if she was scheduled to stay the night.
ÒDo you find something unpleasant about my face, Miss?Ó
ÒNo, itÕs just that Ñ I donÕt believe I Ñ well, what happened?Ó the witchÕs voice faltered clumsily. It was painfully obvious she was just out of school. SheÕd never seen any ÒrealÓ stuff before. It was one thing to cure a measly gnome bite; it was quite another to attend to the monthly terror.
ÒThey happened,Ó Damocles pointed down the silent, dark passageway. Still empty, but not for long.
ÒThey happened?Ó
With a dry, humorless laugh, Damocles reached into his dusty drawer and pulled out his most steadfast companion on these nights: the bottle. He ran a habitual finger along the deep, disfiguring scars as he searched for the right words, hearing a quick intake of breath from the girl. ÒDonÕt you know what youÕve been assigned to? Miss, Miss, what was your name ÑÓ
ÒAnne Brewer.Ó
ÒYes, Miss Brewer, your supervisors were playing quite a trick, you see,Ó Damocles said knowingly as he began pushing papers and books around his desk in search of his wand. Where was that accursed stick when he desperately needed to use the Bottle-Opening Charm?
ÒSir, what sort of trick?Ó
ÒYou see, youÕve been assigned to the Howling Hall,Ó Damocles answered. ÒOur guests should be arriving any minute.Ó
***
Like clockwork, the ÒguestsÓ of Stokley Ward would arrive and check-in to their rooms for the evening, as if St. MungoÕs was operating a tavern rather than a place of Healing. Of course, when it came to these patients, there was no hope of Healing. Only coping. Even then, it was difficult.
There was a time that Damocles thought he was the answer to all the monstersÕ problems. After all, it was really just one problem, and he was probably one of the most talented Potions Masters to enter St. MungoÕs gates in years if not generations. Because of the advances in the Potions field, everyone said he was the solution to thousands of years of suffering.
Hopes had been so high, and he had fallen so low.
Year after year Damocles had faced his failure once a month. HeÕd been unable to produce the cure-all. None of his potions reversed the symptoms; nothing halted the terrible transformations. As long as he lived, he knew he would never forget the noises, the grotesque morphing of skin and bone as the full moon cast its light past the barred window. The shouts turning to howls.
Damocles became a Healer because he had wanted to help. Perhaps the worst part of his job was that he had not done anything to repair the damage.
He always remembered his first year on the job when that mother and father had brought in their little boy for the first time. Bitten by that insane lunatic, Fenrir Greyback. That man-beast was the reason half his patients returned to the Howling Hall each moon cycle. Usually the only time young witches and wizards were exposed to the bite was when a family member was cursed, and the parents would be too embarrassed to bring in their son or daughter, preferring to take care of the ÒproblemÓ themselves. Though that method rarely lasted many cycles.
Greyback had done his best to end that long-standing notion that lycanthropy was just a family problem. The Lupins had upset the man-beast, and there was punishment. But why did the punishment have to strike Damocles as well?
That boy Ñ the Lupin boy Ñ was so frightened that first full moon that his small hand shook mightily within DamoclesÕ grip as he led him slowly down the hall. He still recalled those baleful eyes peering back at him in stony silence through the tiny slits in the oak door as Damocles slid the final, well-oiled bolt into place.
The guilt was overwhelming whenever Damocles had stared at that young face, the look that seemed to taunt him. To dare him to produce the Healing potion. Luckily, the boy left after a few years. He must have been the right age to attend Hogwarts after his final visit, but surely the Headmaster did not admit him! Then again, that Albus Dumbledore was a different man all together.
ÒWeÕll find a cure some day,Ó Damocles had calmly reassured the teary-eyed mother after each time he had secured the final lock. Of course, the witch had trained as a Healer herself some time ago and must have seen through the optimism. HeÕd always echo the same empty promise when she returned to pick up the scratched and shaken-looking boy in the morning.
Another failure.
***
At last, the first patient arrived. The stately wizard had been coming into the secluded ward for years, rarely saying a word. His condition was both embarrassing and dangerous to his household. Though heÕd tried dozens, or perhaps hundreds, of DamoclesÕ remedies, nothing helped.
Damocles did all he could to lessen the pain Ñ and the insufferable lack of inhuman control Ñ for the old wizard. In the end, Damocles did all he could: he kept the manÕs secret. HeÕd seen pictures of him in the Daily Prophet on occasion; he was an important man at Gringotts. A banker with a happy, otherwise-normal family.
ÒHow are things?Ó Damocles asked conversationally, lifting a brass ring of keys from a hook on the wall. He began leading the wizard down the hallway, hearing the soft footsteps of Miss Brewer following them. Let her watch.
ÒIt is still the same, Damocles,Ó the wizard answered wearily. He stopped at the doorway and pulled his wand from the deep sleeves of his robe. ÒAre you nearing a real treatment, Damocles? I heard you were nearing a break through.Ó
ÒIÕve had many near-misses,Ó Damocles said, not disguising the disappointment in his voice as he took the wand from the wizardÕs hand, all according to time-honoured protocol. ÒI hope to find the solution. ItÕs been my lifeÕs work . . . which so far has seemed a waste. Sometimes I feel no closer now than I was when I started.Ó
ÒI was a young man then.Ó
ÒSo was I.Ó
There was an awkward pause because there was nothing more to say. It was an unsolvable problem. The wizard stepped back into his room, and according to monthly tradition, Damocles shut the heavy, oak door behind him and began bolting the complex locks. One. Two. Three. Four. Five bolts in all.
ÒBy Merlin, Master Belby! What are you doing?Ó Miss Brewer hissed.
ÒWerewolves.Ó
Miss Brewer froze and nearly dropped her wand. ÒWhat? Those are the patients?Ó
ÒYes. The Stokley Ward deals in werewolves, Miss Brewer, and youÕd do best to remember the five locks,Ó Damocles said as he pointed to his face, eliciting another gasp from the young witch. ÒI learned my lesson, and I pray the same does not happen to you. Though we are in St. MungoÕs, there is only so much the Healers can do if you are not found in time.Ó
ÒSo, you were not contaminated?Ó Miss Brewer questioned.
ÒObviously not, or IÕd be putting myself in a room right now Ñ donÕt think I wouldnÕt!Ó Damocles said warningly as he rummaged through his lime-green robes until he found his pocket watch. ÒIÕve seen what the man-creature can do. One of them broke through the door one night. I was alone. Just managed to pull out my wand and hex him before I lost anything more than my . . . charming features. ItÕs the bite that does the curse, not the claws, as IÕm sure you know.
ÒIÕve not worked alone on a full moon again.Ó
Silence lapsed between the two of them while Damocles met with the incoming patients, tucked away their wands in a glass-enclosed case, and led them to their separate rooms. He meticulously cleaned each chamber after the full moon, but there were still deep scratches etched into the walls and other reminders of what the guests would soon become.
With a deep sigh, Damocles flopped down into his study chair, sending a plume of dust upward. He coughed and eagerly uncorked the Firewhisky. He Summoned his faithful tankard from across the room and caught it deftly with his free hand. Before toasting himself to another night of sanity, he thought he would be polite.
ÒDrink?Ó
ÒNo, IÕm quite fine, thank you,Ó Miss Brewer said quickly. ÒItÕs against, the rules to drink on the job, you know.Ó
Damocles arched his eyebrow, an expression that made his face look even more distorted. HeÕd seen it in the mirror many times. ÒAgainst the rules? YouÕre in the most lawless part of the entire hospital.Ó
ÒSo I see . . . which makes me wonder this, Sir: wouldnÕt the Ministry forbid the hospital from aiding werewolves?Ó Miss Brewer asked quietly, pulling up a wobbly chair next to DamoclesÕ desk.
ÒYes, ordinarily, but we at St. MungoÕs keep our silence, even from the Ministry,Ó Damocles answered. ÒThatÕs the first rule of business in this ward. ItÕs possible that even your supervisor doesnÕt know what really goes on here once a month.Ó
ÒBut isnÕt it dangerous? Just look at yourself in the mirror!Ó Miss Brewer said, having lost all her shyness from a few minutes before. Typical girl just out of Hogwarts. Brash and lofty-minded. Probably a Gryffindor.
ÒYou havenÕt even seen the show yet, and you still judge!Ó Damocles said sharply. ÒDonÕt think I havenÕt been haunted by what would happen if one of those things got loose in another ward. No amount of Obliviating could scrape that vision from my mind. However . . . where else can these people turn?Ó
ÒTo their families?Ó
ÒNo! WhatÕs a family member supposed to do when their little boy turns into a monster?Ó Damocles said, thinking back miserably to that Lupin child who had made this ward his home during the full moon. He shook visibly and reached instinctively for his tankard. ÒParents arenÕt willing to restrain their children in the ways . . . necessary, and adults who are inflicted donÕt want to do anything that would embarrass themselves or hurt others. No, theyÕre safer here. In little rooms with bolts and magic to keep them from people.Ó
Damocles took a large gulp of Firewhisky, feeling the familiar burn race down his throat. He exhaled a large, perfectly-round ring of smoke; it had taken him years on the moonlight shift at Stokely Ward to produce such an unnecessary skill. Miss Brewer ignored the feat, as he knew she would.
ÒHow long has this werewolf project been going on?Ó she asked, still keeping her voice soft, as if the patients would be offended by her curiosity. He looked at her a few moments; she was interested now.
ÒGenerations, perhaps?Ó Damocles answered with another question. ÒItÕs not as if weÕve been keeping close records of our possibly questionable activities.Ó
ÒBut what if the notes and records led to the answer?Ó
ÒIÕm starting to believe there is no perfect Ôanswer,ÕÓ Damocles said flatly, feeling that terrible exhaustion and guilt well up inside of him. ÒI canÕt find a way to prevent the cycle.Ó
Miss Brewer nodded; her face looked full of ideas. ÒWhat if you just invented something to lessen the symptoms?Ó
ÒTo make a werewolf docile?Ó Damocles finished her thought. Perhaps this young Healer was not quite as dense as he had originally suspected. ÒThat is the only solution, I think. The actual brew, however, is a little more complicated . . . IÕve been working on it my entire career.Ó
He pointed behind his desk to a shelf of bubbling cauldrons, each emitting different colours of smoke spiraling up towards the gloomy ceiling. Damocles had long passed the point of trying potions that made reasonable sense; he now tried everything in hopes that something would work. Praying something would work. He had even started a few potions using aconite, the magic herb that tamed the beast, according to ancient legend.
Wolfsbane was its other name.
Miss Brewer stood up and studied the potions with an inquisitive eye. ÒThey all contain aconite, donÕt they? ThatÕs a poison . . . isnÕt it?Ó
ÒSometimes . . . but only certain kinds and if used incorrectly, Miss Brewer,Ó Damocles responded. ÒWhen prepared properly, it has important magical curing properties.Ó
ÒOh, IÕve read the Muggle stories about how they would use aconite to test whether or not a person was a werewolf,Ó Miss Brewer said knowingly. ÒDo you really believe in all that nonsense?Ó
ÒMaybe there is some truth to the folklore.Ó
ÒMaster Belby, you brew according to old wives tales?Ó Miss Brewer looked as if she was about to laugh.
ÒI have to rely on the old wives,Ó Damocles said with a grim smile back. ÒYou see, IÕve tried everything else.Ó
***
The bottle of Firewhisky was nearly gone. That only meant one thing: the transformation was only a few minutes away. After years of working in Stokely Ward, Damocles had the routine down to an art. Sometimes he felt as if he could sense the moonÕs presence just like the patients behind the bolted doors. He reached forward and took hold of his wand. And waited.
ÒAny second now,Ó he whispered, which caused Miss Brewer to quickly jerk up from a HealerÕs tome that she had discovered a few minutes ago in his bookcase. She had taken the book from the shelf and began reading without asking. No doubt she was a brash Gryffindor.
ÒDo you mean the werewolf cycle is about to begin?Ó Miss Brewer asked with genuine curiosity. Or was it just eagerness to see the strange and bizarre? And it would be bizarre. Damocles would not be the least surprised if the young Healer fainted from the noise alone.
Damocles held a hand up for silence as he peered down the long, dark corridor. It was a clear night, which always promised stronger transformations. No one had fully understood the moonÕs role in lycanthropy, but he had his suspicions. He had studied the victims long enough.
A silver beam of moonlight pierced through the barred window at the end of the hallway, casting long, lined shadows across the ward. Suddenly, it was as if everyone had taken a collective breath; all was silent for a moment.
ÒItÕs here!Ó Came the anguished, raspy cry from one of the patients.
Those were the final distinguishable words as the ward erupted in shouts of fury and pain mingling with the sound of bodies hitting the floor and transforming into grotesque beasts. A frightful chorus of all sanity being lost. The human screams had morphed into wet snarls and chilling howls, the noise reaching an almost unbearable crescendo.
The doors began to buckle and shake violently as the patients battered at them, howling and snapping their jaws wildly as the doors strained but did not give way. They smelled blood. They sensed prey. They wanted to bite.
The hairs stood up on the back of DamoclesÕ neck. He could never shake the feeling that he was the rabbit, the defenseless creature who could only bound away.
He glanced over at Miss Brewer, who had clasped both hands over her ears. She was trying to squeeze her eyes so tightly that her face looked as distorted as his. If he was younger, he would have treated her with contempt for showing fear, but ever since the attack, he could never mock the repulsion and the overwhelming desire to sprint from the Howling Hall.
He poured the last of the Firewhisky into a spare goblet and pushed it across his desk, tapping her shoulder lightly as he stood up. After a gasp of surprise, Miss Brewer opened her eyes cautiously and took the goblet without saying a word, draining the contents in a second and hiccoughing an unladylike puff of smoke.
No drinking on the job indeed!
The transformation was the most startling part of the evening, but now came the most dreary: listening to howling and clawing and endless beating against the walls. Damocles lit his wand and began walking down the corridor, leaving Miss Brewer at the desk. He paused in front of the first patientÕs room, the important wizard from Gringotts. If he was a braver man, he would dare to peer through the small windows at the top of each buckling door. However, he had lost his nerve ever since he had almost lost his life.
There was a sudden, loud cracking noise behind him.
Damocles whirled around at the sound of splintering wood to see a door breaking off its hinges. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. All the locks had been yanked from the wooden frame as a werewolf broke free from the prison of the patientÕs room, heading straight for him.
No, not him. The man-beast turned and started running straight for her.
ÒLook out!Ó Damocles shouted over the howling din.
Everything was going terribly wrong. Miss Brewer sat frozen on the spot, eyes staring blankly ahead as the werewolf headed straight for her, knocking over chairs and bumping against unkempt shelves. There was no way sheÕd be able to lift her wand in time, if she even had the sense to do that!
There was hardly a second to do anything at all. Any mistake, any failure to act, would most certainly cost Miss Brewer her life. Wand in hand, Damocles sent his boiling cauldrons of experimental potion flying at the werewolf. The first two clunked to the left then the right, but the third hit its mark with a copper thud, drenching the beast with its volatile contents.
The werewolf turned on the spot and looked back at Damocles, its wild eyes strangely unfocused. It wobbled on its legs for a few moments, tripping ungracefully in the pool of spilled potion. With the werewolf stumbling around in a disoriented daze, Damocles stepped forward and stunned it with his wand.
Gasping for air and trying to catch his breath, Damocles was absolutely bewildered by it all. What had stopped the beast? Surely the impact of the cauldron would not have caused the werewolf to halt in its tracks. At least not for long.
ÒMaster Belby . . . why you saved Ñ I, I could have died! I. . .Ó Miss Brewer stammered and trailed off, looking as if she had just recovered from being Petrified.
ÒGo get help,Ó Damocles instructed Miss Brewer as he kept his wand at the ready, looking down at the werewolf. The poor, demonized patient. Miss Brewer nodded once and stumbled backwards for a few paces before disappearing from the Howling Hall.
Now alone, Damocles continued to marvel at the werewolf, still collapsed and breathing steadily. The colourful steam of the potion continued to rise from the flagstone floor, circling around the beast before slowly disappearing. The potion continued to seep across the floor, threatening to ruin some rolled parchment by his desk. Then, Damocles knew.
It was not the old copper that had dealt the damage.
ÒThe aconite,Ó he whispered quietly. ÒBlessed wolfsbane.Ó
That was it. The answer he had been searching for his entire career. The aconite, the dangerous herb from Muggle myth, was the solution for the werewolves after all. While it did not end the cycle, there was no doubt that the aconite was an effective agent in stopping the violent urges. Maybe it could lessen the need to bite, to tear, to seek revenge.
The werewolf could remain a man while in that wretched body; a cursed body, yes, but the man would no longer lose control when the moon cast the shadow. The Stokely Ward could finally shut its doors, no longer needing to just keep the patientsÕ darkest secret.
Damocles broke into a wide, genuine smile for the first time in years as he bent carefully over the copper cauldron to check on the number. He would start brewing an identical potion in the morning. Footsteps of other Healers were echoing down the hallway and help was on the way as Damocles dipped his quill in the ink and began writing in his HealerÕs log.
There was no lie in that old wivesÕ tale. Aconite tames the beast.
The Howling Hall by Racing Co
Story Notes:
Thanks to Sarah (TheCursedQuill) who was my beta at the last minute and provided a super-fast turnaround. Many thanks!