Full Moon

Steve Gillyfeld ignored the summons of the Muggle-born Registration Commission, packed his bag with as many essential medical supplies as he could, as well as a bottomless water flask, his wand, a few clothes, and a reductable blanket and tent, and turned his back on St. Mungo's. He wanted to go back to the family he still felt he belonged to, and pretend this was all a bad dream, but he knew it would put them in deadly danger, for there was a powerful Death Eater who knew only too well who he was and might bother to track him down. His colleagues with blood status had already turned their backs on him, maybe because they knew he had always looked down on most of them, and maybe because they knew they could not protect him anyway, for everyone knew of his origins, and he had never had much discretion. But this time he set off on a discreet camping trip through the English countryside, reflecting that his grandparents had survived worse on the continent, and that their faith had made his own life possible. He took the tube to the end of one of the lines, pretending to be a Muggle on a not very pleasant trip, and Disapparated to a forest far from the city.

***

After spending his first night in the forest, Gillyfeld was wandering deeper into it, when he thought he heard the sounds of a man retching and moaning. He quickly approached and saw a half-starved-looking man on the ground whose skin had taken on a greenish hue, and Gillyfeld immediately recognized the signs of plant poisoning. Seeing the situation was urgent, he pulled his water flask and his little bottle of bezoars out of his bag and put a bezoar in the man's mouth, then held the flask to his lips. The man swallowed, and his throat opened again. His retching stopped. Gillyfeld looked around and quickly spotted the problem, for there was a clump of offerage nearby, a poison plant that looked something like nettles. "That's offerage," he said. "You don't want to go eating that, my friend."

"Thank you," said the other, "you saved my life."

Gillyfeld realized the man was probably a wizard, for he seemed to understand having a bezoar put down his throat. He pointed at some fungi growing at the bases of the nearby trees. "Those are edible," he said, smiling as he picked one off and ate it, to show that he was not lying.

"Thank you," said the other man, but he did not introduce himself, and looked as though he did not want to. People out here had reason enough to be wary, so Gillyfeld nodded goodbye and moved on.

As evening came on and he was looking for another place to camp, Gillyfeld heard running water but could not see it, and realized that it was running through a ravine down below him, hidden by thick undergrowth. As he walked alongside it as best he could, he was startled at hearing voices down below.

"There's no way he can make it down south with us," a man's voice was saying. "Not for a few weeks, at least."

"If ever," said a woman, sounding even more troubled. "I'm afraid he may not make it at all."

"We'll have to stay," the man said. "We can't just leave him here."

"We will surely get caught," said another male voice. "Bounty hunters are everywhere, and the ranks of the Death Eaters are growing every day."

Gillyfeld realized that these must be Muggle-born fugitives like himself, and they sounded as if they needed his help. He managed to approach the edge and lean down into the ravine.

"Psst," he whispered. "I'm running from the Death Eaters too. I dodged the summons of the commission yesterday. I'm a Healer, and may be able to help you."

The two wizards and the witch jumped and looked frightened, but something in Gillyfeld's face and manner reassured them at once. The first wizard whom he had heard came to the edge and spoke quietly up to him.

"Farther along it's not as deep. Follow me and I'll give you a hand, but please climb down carefully. Jerry was too hasty," he said, indicating an unconscious man on the ground whose leg was in a splint.

Gillyfeld followed to a place where the ground was lower. "You'd better drop down your bag first," said the other wizard. Gillyfeld dropped it and the man caught it, and then helped Gillyfeld down into the ravine.

Gillyfeld walked over to where Jerry lay, and saw at once that he had suffered head trauma, and that his spine looked a bit out of alignment. If only we were at St. Mungo's, he thought. Without waiting for introductions, he examined the broken leg and saw that the others had actually done a competent job of setting the bone, so he put a bone-healing charm on it. He then ran his wand over the rest of Jerry's body looking for fractures. When he reached the fracture in the spine, Jerry convulsed with pain and opened his eyes. "Sorry!" whispered Gillyfeld, putting a hand on Jerry's chest. He turned and saw that the others had approached.

"Quick, one of you, in my bag," he said, "there's a phial of numbing potion. Give me that and the water flask." The witch opened the bag and handed the items to him. He poured some water into the lid of the flask, which served as a cup, added a drop of the numbing potion and held it to the man's lips. He gently cradled Jerry's head so that it was in a position to drink.

"A little numbing potion," he said reassuringly. "No need to suffer." He then put a local numbing charm on the fracture, but knew it could only be temporary, because it would interfere with a bone-healing charm. He wanted to move the patient to a better position, but was afraid at the moment it would still cost him more pain than it was worth. He needed to work on the head trauma, because only when that improved would it be safe to give him more numbing potion.

"I need to brew a potion for Jerry's concussion," he said to the others. "I have most of the ingredients, but there's one I need to gather from the woods." If Merlin lets me find it, he thought. "Please say a few words to him. He will pull through this. You, friend," he said to the wizard who had helped him down. "Please give me a leg up to the other side." He did, and Gillyfeld scrambled up and into the woods.

The others looked at each other in some amazement. "This is a wizard indeed," said the other wizard, the second one Gillyfeld had heard.

"He's a Healer, Jake," said the witch. "I wouldn't always have been so careful to keep out of St. Mungo's if I'd known there were wizards like that there."

The first wizard chuckled, but Jake looked at the witch suspiciously. After a half hour or so Gillyfeld returned with what looked like some blue ladybugs in a jar. He saw that the others had made a fireplace with stones and that there were some coals in it. He took a squat copper pot from his bag, placed it on a flat stone that they had laid above the hearth, and lit the fire with his wand. He proceeded to add various ingredients from his bag, including some water, adding each one after a certain interval, and touching the potion each time with his wand. He added the bugs last, and the potion turned a light, clear blue. He then extinguished the fire and carefully caused the pot to hover to the ground near the patient. He tapped the pot with his wand to cool it. Then he removed the lid of his flask, dipped it in the potion, cradled Jerry's head again, and urged him to drink. Jerry drank, and Gillyfeld gently lowered his head again. He wiped his own brow with his sleeve and finally turned to the others, who applauded. Gillyfeld smiled and sat down with them.

"Steve," said the first wizard, extending his hand.

"How did you know?" said Gillyfeld, shaking it.

"Know what?"

"That my name is Steve."

"I didn't. I was introducing myself. My name is Steve."

The others laughed.

"Brenda," said the witch, also shaking Gillyfeld's hand. "Maybe we better call you Dr. Steve, so we don't get mixed up."

"Jake," said the other wizard, also shaking Gillyfeld's hand. "You'll have a treat tonight. Brenda caught a rabbit. She's good with snares."

"I enchant them," Brenda explained.

"Who can resist that?" said Jake.

"I'm the multiplier, though I'm not very good at it," said Steve.

But Gillyfeld had turned to look at his patient. "In a couple more hours, it will be safe to give him more numbing potion, and then I can move him to a better position. The healing charms will work on the bones all night. I think by tomorrow you'll see quite an improvement." Steve patted him on the back.

"Let's get dinner started," said Jake. "Brenda, remember where you left that rabbit? Can you bring it over here and skin it?" He went and retrieved a frying pan from the undergrowth, rinsed it in the stream with some pebbles, and placed it on the hearth. Brenda came back with the rabbit, skinned it with her wand, and pulled off pieces and dropped them into the pan.

Steve pointed his wand at the contents of the pan, and with great effort, caused them to double. "Double Double!" he said.

"Toil and trouble," said Brenda wearily, but when she looked up she saw an enlivening expression of merriment in Gillyfeld's warm brown eyes. As the smell of cooking meat rose from the pan, they all suddenly realized they were famished.

After eating, it was Steve who looked over at Jerry with concern. "Will he be able to travel again, Dr. Steve? Is it possible to say when? You see, we're making our way down south to Apparate across the channel. We haven't really mastered transcontinental Apparition yet."

"You should definitely give him another day, but I think the following day he'll be back on his feet. Move out of danger when you need to, but I'd still go easy for the next week or so."

"And what about you?" asked Jake. "What are you going to do?"

"I didn't really plan ahead, but in two days I've already found plenty to do," said Gillyfeld good-humoredly. "I wanted to ask whether you've seen any other fugitives on your path, especially any sick or injured ones."

The others looked worried.

"Do you mean to wander around as an itinerant Healer?" said Steve. "You'll be caught in no time."

"Why don't you come with us?" said Brenda. "We plan to stay alive, and we'd love to have you."

Gillyfeld looked serious. "This is my home, and it hasn't been conquered yet. I still think I can make a difference here."

"Don't throw your life away, Dr. Steve," said Jake. "If we win, you'll be needed after the war too."

"I don't consider doing my job to be throwing my life away."

Jake looked a little affronted, as if this were a rebuke.

"I mean, it's the only thing that keeps me going." And with that thought he turned to his patient again. Thinking it was now safe to give him a couple more drops of numbing potion, he returned to Jerry with the flask, touched his face to wake him, raised his head and bid him drink again. After a few minutes he engorged his blanket and laid it on a flatter place on the ground nearby, and asked one of the other wizards to help him move the patient. Brenda came and put her arms under Jerry's shoulders while Gillyfeld lifted his lower half, and they carried him over and placed him on the blanket. Gillyfeld made a pile of mud and moss to elevate Jerry's leg a bit, and Brenda sat down again nearby. Gillyfeld took his wand and touched the fracture on Jerry's spine to lift the numbing spell so he could administer the bone-healing charm. The patient moaned, and Brenda saw a look of pain cross Gillyfeld's own face. She was watching Gillyfeld in the firelight with increasing fascination.

She was struck by how gently, even tenderly, the Healer handled his charge, and she thought she had never seen such a display of competence combined with such sensitivity. He must be a very experienced Healer, she knew, but his face still looked young. This war would change him, if he even survived. She wished she could keep him just as he was.

After everyone had settled in for the night, she quietly crawled over to him and saw that he was still awake. "You of the gentle touch," she whispered, "does your patient need you by his side all night?"

"I gave him another drop, and he's sleeping soundly now. He should sleep through the night, which is the best thing for him. But I wouldn't want to be too far away. Why?"

"I was wondering if you'd like--to spend the night with me. Around the bend it's more private, but you could still hear them if they called for you. I understand if you don't think it's a good idea, so don't worry about it. But I thought I would let you know that I'd like that, if you would."

In the dark she could barely see a look of grateful surprise flicker in his face. "Yes yes," he whispered. "Take your blanket and go around the bend, and I'll follow you."

She took her blanket and went around a bend in the ravine, and he followed her.

***

If she expected his demeanor toward her to be the same as toward a severely injured man, she was in for a surprise. She drew him down to her side and held him against her, thinking he must be exhausted, and wanting to soothe him. He threw aside the blanket and, holding on tightly, laughingly rolled her over and over across the floor of the ravine, through the stream, which was fortunately shallow at that point, and mostly served to get his own back wet. He set in to devour her with such eager and impatient enthusiasm that she immediately whispered to him to slow down, but that was the last thing he heard, so absorbed was he in his own experience of something almost forgotten. Afterwards he saw that she was angry.

"Couldn't you hear that I was trying to be quiet?" she hissed. "Do you realize the noise you made? Did you want to disturb the patient you were so carefully tending to all afternoon?"

He felt as if waking up from a dream. People had often told him that he made too much noise when he got carried away, and in his sublime self-confidence he had not heeded them, for he had never had anything to hide. But he had never been this close to a patient when not on duty. Realizing she was right, he buttoned his clothes and walked softly over to the camp, a guilty fear growing on him. He approached Jerry and saw that he still seemed to be sleeping tranquilly, but he realized that if he had woken the patient the pain might have started again and he might have been awake for hours. And then an even worse thought gripped him.

He had been inattentive to her. He vaguely remembered now sometime hearing "shh" but somehow not hearing it. What if she had tried to give him other signals that he had ignored? He might have hurt her in some way. He was a Healer, and to his shame he had hardly tried to give her the enjoyment he had taken for himself, or paid much attention to her reactions. He thought it was unlikely he had, considering her mood afterwards. He looked anxiously from his patient to the bend in the ravine beyond which he had left her. How could he have so forgotten himself? He sat down on the edge of the slope and put his head in his hands, fighting back tears as the events of the last few days flashed through his mind.

He had known he was in deadly danger before he got the summons from the commission. Everyone knew he was a Muggle-born despite his joke of a name change, only made because that was what everyone called him. No one could have protected his identity. He spent any time he could spare visiting his Muggle parents in northeast London, and he had loudly decried the way wizarding society snapped up Muggle-born wizards and eventually made them practically forget their families, and even be willing to modify their memories, which he considered a crime. He had been brought up to think that his own sense of right was more important than social approbation or the laws of governments, for his forbears had believed in some sort of Higher Power whose law did not necessarily coincide with either of these. Maybe he had been tolerated because he was so good at what he did, and the hospital needed good Healers too much to let people with no knowledge of the matter dictate their personnel policies. A Death Eater in disguise had once dug up everything he could on Gillyfeld, as if any of it were a secret, in a vindictive and fruitless effort to get him dismissed. Now that gilded serpent finally had his wish, thought Gillyfeld bitterly.

He had packed his Healer's bag as if he were going out to make a house call, not wanting to consider that he had lost his job. He had set off alone as if there were no tomorrow, pretending to himself that he was not afraid, although he faced probable hunger and possible capture or death, and with that the possibility that he might never see his beloved family again. The following day he had found out that he had lost his job but not his occupation, for he had saved one man from certain and another from likely death. He had saved many lives at St. Mungo's, but always with the backup of people who knew what they were doing and could help. This time he had been alone, and he had never felt so responsible. He didn't know he would find the ingredient for Jerry's potion, and could not offer him a bed or be sure at every step that what he was doing would be safe, but he had maintained a show of confidence to reassure the others, acting as if it were all in a day's work for the brilliant Dr. Steve. And at the end of the two scariest and most stressful days of his adult life, he had been offered something that he was seldom offered and had seldom had time to seek in a life in which all his time and energy had been poured into his work. Already high on adrenaline and grasping at an opportunity he expected never to have again in a life that might end at any moment, he had acted like a kid. He had always thought his arrogance had been an indifference to social pressure in favor of better principles. This could not be said of his most recent behavior. Maybe he had been conceited. Maybe there were many times when he should have listened to others, but did not.

You of the gentle touch, she had called him. He was not the person she had asked for. She might not want him to go back, but he couldn't just leave her there, he would have to go back and ask her. Tentatively he rounded the corner to where she could see him, and she beckoned to him. He approached to where he was near enough to hear a whisper, and fell to his knees. "I'm sorry," he said. She pulled him down beside her again and snuggled against him, maybe only because she was cold, he thought, for the night had become chilly, but he put his arms around her and cuddled her affectionately, listening with his ears and his body to any indication of how she was feeling and what she wanted. And as he listened silently and attentively, he heard sounds in the night that he had never heard before.

He heard leaves rustling faintly in the breeze on the land above, and thought he heard the scampering of rodents there, creatures of the night. He heard the trickling of the stream nearby, the one he had rolled her through without considering that if he got her wet she might later be cold. He felt his heartbeat and hers, heard the sound of his breathing and hers. He especially listened to her breathing, which had become slower and more even, for she had dropped off to sleep in his warm and comforting embrace. As he fell asleep himself, the last thought in his mind was a question: whether this war would change him for the better or the worse.

***

When he awoke to the sound of birdsong with a woman in his arms, he knew the darkness on the land could not last long, and that life, as always, would triumph over death. He stretched contentedly and turned to her again, but then, suddenly remembering the events of the previous day, sat up and looked at her with concern.

"How are you?"

"About as well as could be expected, for someone who's been dodging them for a week and will have to for another week."

Gillyfeld had a new insight into her anger of the night before. "He didn't wake up, and hopefully will be much better today. I'm terribly sorry for the way I acted. I've been alone too much, not that that's any excuse."

"Were you really alone back there?" she said coolly. "I would think you'd be quite a catch."

"I've always worked very long hours at the hospital, and I'm such a loudmouthed maverick that no one there wants to be too closely associated with me." At this they both laughed. "Come on, let's see how they're doing."

When they returned to the camp, the others were already up, and Jake gave Gillyfeld a very dirty look, which he attributed to jealousy.

"Would you like some breakfast?" said Steve rather humorously. "We've been using the same coffee grounds for a week, but we still get something out of them."

Gillyfeld looked into the proffered pot and frowned. "Is this all the food you have left?"

"I'm afraid it's all we've got, Dr. Steve," said Jake sourly. "When the war is over, you can send us a bill for your services."

Gillyfeld looked at him in surprise. "I'm concerned that you don't have any food left. I'm afraid Jerry won't heal much today on coffee." Jake looked a little ashamed. Gillyfeld walked over to Jerry, and could see to his relief that the patient was already much better.

Jerry smiled and spoke for the first time. "I hear they call you Dr. Steve," he said. "Thank you for saving my life."

"My pleasure," said Gillyfeld, for he felt that in spite of the fear he had hidden from the others, his work of the previous day had been more meaningful than that of any day at St. Mungo's. He turned back to the others. "You have more food than you think," he said. "Are there any rabbit drippings left in the pan?"

Steve picked up the frying pan, which was coated with a layer of congealed grease. "You think we should feed him this?" he asked doubtfully.

"We can use it to fry the fungi and greens from the woods. It will make them more digestible."

"Those fungi on the trees?" said Brenda. "We thought of eating them, but we didn't know whether they were poisonous."

"They're not. And there are some edible plants up there too. Just give me a minute."

Again they watched in amazement as he scrambled up the lower side of the ravine, Steve running quickly to stand beneath and make sure he didn't fall. In a few minutes he returned with the fungi and some edible greens. Jake lit the fire, and soon the pan of drippings crackled, and Gillyfeld rinsed off the fungi and broke them into the pan, stirring them with a fork. When they had softened, he added the greens, stirred, and extinguished the fire. "Come and get it," he said, with a look of suppressed mirth. He waved the pan in the air to cool it, and they all passed it around, together with the fork, and ate a few mouthfuls. Gillyfeld could hardly keep from laughing as he watched each of them taste it, grimace involuntarily, and then pretend to look delighted.

"I knew you wouldn't like it, but it's quite nutritious. It will sustain you better than week-old coffee." He took the rest over to Jerry, who was able to sit up and eat without assistance. When Gillyfeld saw Jerry sit up without showing any sign of pain, he almost jumped for joy. He squeezed Jerry's shoulder and then turned back to the others and shook hands with all of them again.

"I'd best be going now," he said. "Jerry, see how you feel. You know Apparition is hard on the body, but a week was just an estimate. You'll have to weigh one danger against the other."

"You said we can't move today," said Steve. "Why on earth do you have to leave now?"

"I'm sorry," said Gillyfeld, "but somehow I can't just sit here, when I'm so used to working. I'll start thinking about things..." He was secretly worried about who might fall in love, come to blows, be intensely frustrated or severely disappointed if he spent another night there, and he knew that if he was to leave that day, the sooner the better, because they would be safer if he camped far away from them. Then he smiled.

"Maybe we'll meet again. Bon Voyage. You'll have better food in France."

"Don't you need a blanket? You left yours under Jerry," said Brenda. "Here, take mine. Steve can multiply another one." She didn't tell him she had enchanted it to always keep him warm, no matter how cold it was.

"Thank you," said Gillyfeld, catching her eye for a moment, and she saw the spark of warm liveliness in his that had caught hers from the first.

"Isn't there breakable stuff in your bag?" said Steve. "You'll probably need two of us to get you back up again."

"Steve can help me up first, and then you, and I can hold on to your legs while you reach down for your bag," said Jake.

"Sounds good," said Gillyfeld. When he was safely on the ground above with his bag, Jake was the last to say goodbye.

"Please be careful, Dr. Steve," he said. "It's not too late to save your life."

***

As he was walking through the forest late that afternoon, Gillyfeld more than once sensed movement among the leaves, and wondered whether it was an animal or whether he was being watched or followed. He stepped into a clearing and three men emerged, pointing wands at him. He was startled to see that one was the young man whom he had saved from plant poisoning the day before, and he saw that the young man was also startled. Gillyfeld noticed now that the man only looked about twenty, and there was a red-haired boy with them who looked even younger, and a swarthier-looking older man who seemed to be in charge.

"Aha!" said the older man triumphantly. "I think we've caught a fugitive! Incarcerous!" Ropes flew out of his wand and bound Gillyfeld's whole body, including his bag, which was caught inside. For an instant Gillyfeld's eyes met those of the man he had saved, who put his finger to his lips for a second and threw him a conspiratorial look as if entreating him to play along for a while.

"His wand?" said the red-haired boy.

"Expelliarmus!" said the swarthy man, but nothing happened, since Gillyfeld's wand was in his bag.

"Maybe it's in his bag," suggested the boy.

"Accio!" said the man, and the bag jiggled a little against the ropes. It occurred to Gillyfeld that these were not the most competent wizards he had ever seen, and that this might work to his advantage.

"Stebbins, you try to untie his bag," said the leader to the young man whose life Gillyfeld had saved. Stebbins pretended to try to untie the bag. "Simpson, do you have the list?" he said to the red-haired boy. The boy produced a long piece of parchment. "What's your name?" said the leader sharply to Gillyfeld.

"Tom Jones," said Gillyfeld, since it was the first thing that came into his head.

Simpson ran his finger down the list. "Tom Jones...Tom Jones...there's no Tom Jones on this list, Horace."

Horace suddenly kicked Gillyfeld in the stomach and he doubled over in pain. The ropes tightened around him and, unable to stand up, he sank to his knees. "Tell us your real name, Mudblood, and they may spare your life."

But Stebbins was staring at Gillyfeld as if concentrating to remember something. "Wait a minute, Horace. I think this is...yes, I'm sure, this is Tom Jones, I remember him from Hogwarts. He was one of the older boys. He was a seventh year student there when I was just a first year."

"What house was he in?" asked Horace suspiciously.

"Hufflepuff," said Stebbins.

"Ha!" said Horace. "They'll take anyone." He looked to Simpson for corroboration, but Simpson looked blank, because he had been a Hufflepuff.

"He's not a Muggle-born," said Stebbins. "His mother is a witch, Grendel Jones. She's an administrator at the hospital. She's helping to implement the changes."

"And what's a wizard with blood status doing sneaking around like a fugitive in the forest?"

"Has it become unlawful for a peaceful pure-blood wizard to leave his home?" said Gillyfeld haughtily, although he could not stand up. "That is not what my parents have told me about the new regime. They will be disappointed to hear it."

The others hesitated. Gillyfeld looked relatively neat and clean, had not had a wand at the ready or looked defensive, and was carrying a leather bag that looked more like a Healer's bag than like one used for a sojourn in the wild.

"They get angry if we waste their time by bringing in the wrong people, and much worse if their parents are loyal," said Stebbins.

Now Simpson agreed. "It probably isn't worth the risk."

Horace hesitated a bit longer, then undid the Incarcerous hex, but continued to point his wand at Gillyfeld. Released from his bonds, Gillyfeld stood up.

"Very well, Mr. Jones," said Horace in a menacing tone, "but I would strongly advise a decent wizard never again to go wandering so deep into a forest filled with such dubious characters."

It took all the self-control Gillyfeld could muster not to laugh at this statement, but, feigning indignation, he shook himself off, picked up his bag, and continued on his way.

He realized that he would probably not be as lucky the next time. He would not look relatively neat and clean for long, and would not have an ally among every group of bounty hunters he met. But in the weeks that followed, strange things continued to happen. Since he would treat any sick or injured person he came across, this included a number of bounty hunters, because the bounty hunters were treacherous and would abandon members of their own parties who became sick or injured. Many of them decided it was just as well to have Gillyfeld at large in case this should happen to them. Gillyfeld was such an effective Healer, and operated so boldly, many thought he might have other kinds of powerful magic, and that it was too dangerous to try to apprehend him. Some honored life debts, like the first man he had saved. Some were even Muggle-borns trying to save their necks by posing as bounty hunters, and were afraid Gillyfeld knew too much. So a consensus emerged among the bounty hunters to leave Gillyfeld alone, and a legend began to spread throughout the land about the merry "Mudblood Healer," who sided with no one but the needy and who was impossible to catch.

***

Back at the Malfoy Manor, the Death Eaters were incredulous.

"The fools!" snarled Bellatrix. "Don't they know there's a price on his head? Since when do they care about anything else?"

"They care about their own skins," said Bentley, a junior Death Eater who had recently received the Dark Mark.

"Don't they know what we'll do to their skins if we catch them letting Mudbloods escape? We should bring him here and interrogate him. He knows the lay of the land, and the places where he has found fugitives. We can also question him about his methods."

"There are no longer any secrets to his art," drawled Lucius Malfoy. "Our degenerate society has made the training of Healers an open book, its contents to be stolen by any vulgar person of any birth. The days of venerated Healers with their inherited ancient magic are almost gone, and will only be restored with the full triumph of the Dark Lord. They were even starting to use Muggle medicine at St. Mungo's."

"I think it's disgraceful," sniffed Narcissa, "that after everything my husband did for the hospital under the former Ministry, he never had any influence over the hiring process."

"Disgraceful or not, he seems to have learned his art well, and will practice it honestly on any sick or injured person. Maybe we should force him to work for us," said Bentley.

"The Dark Lord employ a Mudblood?" said Bellatrix indignantly, looking at Bentley with increasing suspicion. "Who knows what he will do unless we interrogate him by means that leave him unfit to work?"

"My sister-in-law is right," said Malfoy in a harder tone. "We must send real Death Eaters to catch him, extract whatever information we can, and then discard him." Malfoy had a suspicion of who the Mudblood Healer was, and that impudent werewolf-loving thief had dared to complain to St. Mungo's administration that Malfoy's purchased influence was corrupting the priorities of the hospital. Under Voldemort's orders, Malfoy had stipulated that no money from his donations should ever be used to buy the Wolfsbane Potion.

"Leave it to me," said Bentley. "He will not be difficult to trap."

***

Gillyfeld was walking through a depressed meadow towards some poplar trees on the other side, looking for a suitable place to sleep, when he glanced up at the distant horizon and stared. Someone had just fired the Dark Mark over what he knew was an area with a few Muggle lanes and houses straggling into the countryside. Death Eaters must have attacked the Muggles. Such attacks were common now. Another person murdered, perhaps, or another house torched--but perhaps someone left behind, injured and in need of help? His help? If he went there was a great risk of capture, but also a chance that the Death Eaters had already left. It was likely that there was no one left to heal, but possible that there was. He had once taken an oath that he had never forsworn. He clasped his bag tightly in his arms and Disapparated to the very edge of Muggle settlement.

He walked down the dark dirt country lane, passing two little houses at long intervals, neither of which showed any signs of life. Eventually, turning a corner in the lane, he saw what looked like two bodies in the road, and a man kneeling next to them, apparently shaking with fear. On approaching, Gillyfeld soon saw that the bodies were dead, and he approached the frightened man, for his concern was with the living. The man looked up at Gillyfeld and recoiled in fear, so Gillyfeld also dropped to his knees.

"Please," he said, "I'm a medic. I've come to help. There are strange murderers on the loose, and I've heard there was an attack here." Gillyfeld did not know how he could possibly account for where he had come from.

The shaking man only gripped his shoulder and pointed at the sky. "Is it--there?"

Gillyfeld looked up and saw the green lights forming the skull and serpent, hanging above them in the night sky. A shudder of revulsion passed through him, for he had never seen it so close, so bright, and so dominant. It looked to him as if it would never set or fade. He felt his heart slipping as he thought of the witches and wizards in his own world, seduced by its glamour or silenced by its terror, or feeling securely that that emblem of hatred did not apply to them.

"Is it there?" the man repeated, and Gillyfeld realized the man might think he was hallucinating. "It's there," he said. The man could not see Gillyfeld's face, only hear the contempt in his voice. "Some crazy cult that thinks they can impress people with such fireworks."

Gillyfeld took his flask out of his bag and held it under the man's lips. "Please--you've had a terrible shock. Have a sip of water." The man took the flask and sipped a little. Gillyfeld slowly put his arm around him, ready to retract it if he showed any objection to being touched. "I can put a drop of something in it--some calming medicine. I think at the moment it would be a good idea." The man nodded absently. Gillyfeld filled the lid of the flask with water, took out a phial of calming potion and added a drop to the water in the cup. The man drank it with the same absent expression. Gillyfeld felt his trembling gradually come to a stop. He wished he could engorge the blanket or the cloak in his bag, but he thought that the use of his wand would terrify the man all over again. He led the man a little toward the edge of the woods, farther from the corpses. "Can you tell me what happened?" he asked gently.

"They came all in black and hooded, firing laser guns like Darth Vader. I thought they were trying to be funny, and called out to them to quit, but then my friends fell. I went up to my friends--they were dead." He gripped Gillyfeld's arm. "Are they really there? Are they really dead? When you came, I still hoped it was a dream or a hallucination."

Gillyfeld rubbed his back. "They belong to a strange murderous cult, and they make their attacks look as strange and terrifying as possible. In your shock, your mind may have distorted a little what you saw." How he hated to lie. How many Muggles had already seen the Dark Mark? How many had seen Death Eaters? Were they really better off not knowing what they were dealing with? Gillyfeld had always thought the Wizarding Statute of Secrecy was condescending to Muggles. Yet if he told the truth, the man would think he was crazy too. If they really found out at this point, they would all go crazy with fear, which could only help Voldemort.

In a life in which the path of right had always seemed clear to him, he had never been so unsure of what to do. He thought of going to one of the houses, dialing the emergency number, and letting the Muggles handle it from there. But what would the man think a medic was doing here, if they didn't know already? Why would he not have a cell phone? The man would mistrust him again, and how could Gillyfeld leave him alone and in terror? The policy of his former government would have been to modify his memory, but Gillyfeld's spirit revolted at such an idea.

He tried to think quickly. He must be sure the man would not be a suspect, unlikely as it was. Another drop would put him in a peaceful slumber, and two would leave him unharmed but unconscious while Gillyfeld went to the nearest house to call for help. If no one was home, he could open it with his wand. He had never before done anything to a conscious patient without his or her consent. Gritting his teeth, he filled the cup, put two drops in it, and urged the man to drink some more water. Soon the man lay down and fell asleep.

Weren't the Muggles being terrified anyway by these inexplicable woundless deaths? How many memories could be modified? He sighed. The idiotic old Ministry...but this was just what their statute had been aimed at preventing...it was too late to explain, they would be overwhelmed...it was the wizards who must defeat Voldemort...he concentrated...from right before the Death Eaters appeared until this moment...

Gillyfeld had been raised with the admonition "Never forget." Though he had mocked the teacher and doubted everything he said, he believed he was the only student at Hogwarts who had not slept through History of Magic. He believed that he had never raised his wand to anyone except to help them or to heal them, and that it was knowledge of the truth that empowered people most. He could barely keep his wand arm steady and he momentarily closed his eyes as he aimed at the man and spoke the terrible word:

"Obliviate!"

***

When Gillyfeld reached the country house, all was shuttered, dark and quiet, but he knocked on the door, and to his surprise, it opened when he pushed it.

"Expelliarmus!" he heard, and for an instant he thought it might be the retribution of a Higher Power for the recent misuse of his wand. But another spell was immediately cast, and he found himself shackled to a chair.

"Lumos!"

The light shone in his eyes, and he saw that he was seated at a wooden table with three masked Death Eaters, one of them standing and pointing his wand at him. Another one stood and picked up his bag, which had fallen on the floor, and dumped its contents out onto the table.

"Well, if it isn't the Mudblood Healer," he taunted. "Our master has need of your services."

Gillyfeld felt a moment of rage such as he had never known as he realized that these must be the men who had perpetrated the monstrosity outside. Yet he also felt a little of something like pity as he considered that these men did not dare show their faces and were serving a master who would cruelly kill them if he found out that they showed any independence of mind or humanity in their actions. He wondered whether it was too late for all of them.

He might well wonder, because although he could not see their faces, they could see his, and the third Death Eater had recognized Gillyfeld's ingenuous face as that of the Healer who had saved his life some years earlier at St. Mungo's after he had poisoned himself with a poorly made illegal potion. The Healer had not reported him to the Ministry. The Death Eater knew that his orders were to take Gillyfeld back to the Malfoy Manor to be tortured to death for information. He had to think quickly. With the advantage of surprise, he rapidly fired his wand at his two associates.

"Confundo! Confundo!"

"Our orders have changed," he said to their bemused faces. "Bentley spoke to me just before we left. They will not waste their time on an interrogation, because fugitives are always on the move, and his information will only waste our time or lead us into traps. His healing methods are common knowledge."

Your bosses have no knowledge of the one that matters, thought Gillyfeld.

"Are we to kill him, then?"

"No, we do not want to make a martyr of him, for public opinion is still in the balance. There is only one place to knock some sense into such a clown. To Azkaban!"

The Death Eater knew that if he let Gillyfeld escape, he would only be captured again, but at Azkaban there were now so many Muggle-born prisoners that he might escape detection. He would tell his superiors that Gillyfeld had not come, which would not be surprising, since they did not know where he was and many traps had been set.

***

Gillyfeld knew that the Death Eater who had taken him to Azkaban had disobeyed his orders, since he had confunded his associates, and he entered the dreaded prison with such renewed optimism that the dementors, who were becoming overwhelmed anyway, had not sucked out half his happy thoughts by the time he was released at the end of the war. The experience did, however, leave some streaks of grey in his dark brown hair and some lines in his formerly fresh young face. After a brief period of recovery, he returned to St. Mungo's, where he knew he was more needed than ever. Since no one else thought to do it, he opened a clinic there for people who had suffered emotional damage as a result of their imprisonment in Azkaban. These comprised the biggest sector of those with long-term injuries from the war, since witches and wizards had effective ways of healing most physical injuries quickly.

Gillyfeld had always been unhappy with the treatment of the mentally ill at St. Mungo's. They had often been written off as incurable, treated like children, and given potions that would make them easier for the staff to handle, without much attention to the wishes or needs of the patient. There even still lingered use of a potion Gillyfeld considered cruel, which would shock a patient into basic functionality at the expense of causing some loss of independence of mind. Gillyfeld believed that all of those things were the opposite of what the former detainees needed. Having been terrorized by Death Eaters and dementors, they needed to know first of all that they were in a safe environment, and to be brought back as much as possible to the memory of who they had been and what their interests and loves had been before dementors had operated to suck them out.

The hospital agreed to Gillyfeld's project, since there were far too many such people to be housed on the old psych ward. Gillyfeld was certain that all the patients could be recovered, since the rule of the Death Eaters had only lasted a year. He put his foot down that there was to be no involuntary treatment on his ward, and would only administer potions to ease the suffering of the patients, not that of the staff. He strongly encouraged the patients' loved ones to visit as often as possible, and to talk to the patients as they would have before about the things that had previously interested them and given them joy, even if they seemed unresponsive. He also encouraged them to be physically affectionate, because he knew that the patients had been in solitary confinement and needed a human touch.

If they had no loved ones, or none who would visit or whom the patients wanted to see, Gillyfeld would talk to them at length himself and try to draw them out, and he could sometimes be seen holding the hand or stroking the back of a particularly lonely, frightened or distressed patient. This was against hospital policy, since it was sometimes difficult to draw the line with a needy patient, but Gillyfeld thought it was better than keeping such patients in a cold clinical environment. The situation was ameliorated when the hospital received an anonymous donation of Comforters, magic blankets that had been enchanted to have a warmth of their own and to comfort the person beneath them. No one dared challenge his methods anyway, since they had a high success rate and he exerted such authority in his own clinic.

His patients, almost all of whom were Muggle-born, so came to trust "Dr. Steve," as he mysteriously came to be called, that if a patient became a threat to others Gillyfeld could usually stop it by putting his arms around the patient to restrain him and talking him into bed, without using his wand. On those rare occasions when a patient had to be restrained for longer, Gillyfeld would talk to him or her every day about why he or she was angry, and found that the behavior was often a plea to be listened to, for he had become a good listener.

Gillyfeld did not believe in hero worship and seldom mentioned the brave young wizard whose name was on everyone else's lips. During the war he had seen many small acts of courage and of cowardice, of cruelty and of humanity, and had seen humanity prevail. He would never know the fate of the Death Eater who had spared his life. If the other Death Eaters found out who had taken Gillyfeld to Azkaban, he surely had been murdered. Perhaps there had been other such Death Eaters, and many more wizards of blood status who had protected the identities of Muggle-born wizards. He would never believe that the outcome of such a conflict came down to the qualities of a single individual or the outcome of a single duel. This feeling was intensified when he found that one of his many challenges as a psychological Healer became convincing his patients that they did not have to be like Harry Potter.

"But Harry Potter did this, but Harry Potter did that," he mimicked in exasperation when he was alone, running his hands through his graying hair. "Harry Potter won a duel with Voldemort when he was fourteen, and I've never won a duel in my life. Why was it Harry Potter, not I, who drove away the dementors at my wife's interrogation? What kind of husband am I?" Gillyfeld tried to share with them the things he had always valued in his own life, meaningful work and the faith that everyone's actions made a difference, not only in the present but in a compact between generations. "As for dueling with wands," he would say, "that stuff is never as cool as it looks." He would never know that Harry had always said the same thing about his own exploits.

Though his war experience had not shaken the confident optimism of Gillyfeld's youth, it had left him more patient with those who did not share it, and his mind sometimes turned to the memory of a certain conversation he had once had with a certain werewolf whom he had impatiently tried to encourage. He knew now that he had been right to try to convince Remus Lupin of his own worth, but wrong to mock his low self-esteem. He had not been sensitive enough to the difference in their social positions and to the nearly insurmountable obstacles facing Lupin. It occurred to him that Lupin might be better able to accept his friendship now that Gillyfeld knew what it was like to be involuntarily cast out of wizarding society and had seen for himself that external circumstances could bring anyone to his or her knees. And thinking of Lupin gave him a great idea for his project.

Gillyfeld knew that Lupin had once emerged from years of obscurity and unemployment to be a very good Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, and that he was reputed to have had some particular success in teaching the Patronus Charm. Gillyfeld was a Healer, not a teacher, and did not know how to teach the Patronus Charm, and he realized that it would be just the thing for his patients. In order to learn the charm, the patients would have to access those memories that were truly their greatest sources of joy, and they would form the habit of thinking of them as they continued to practice. They would have a sense of accomplishment as they saw their Patronus get stronger, and this would give them more motivation to think in just the way that would heal them the most. Having the charm under their belt would protect them from relapses in any future brush with dementors, relapses to which those who had been previously harmed by dementors were especially vulnerable.

Gillyfeld knew that it would still be difficult for Lupin to find a job, and was very excited by the prospect of offering him one that would not only give him security, but for which he really was needed. He went looking for Lupin, only to find out that the partner he sought had made the ultimate sacrifice for Gillyfeld's freedom as well as for his own.

When Gillyfeld went to pay his respects at Lupin's grave, his heart was warmed to find that Lupin had been married, although his wife had apparently died in the same battle, and that their grave was bedecked with flowers and other tokens of love. As he was pondering the strange epitaph:

SHAPESHIFTERS WHO FOUND THEIR TRUE FORM

he became aware of a pale and silent mourner some distance farther back, who seemed shy to approach. When Gillyfeld greeted the man and asked him of his relationship to Lupin, he answered simply: "I'm a werewolf."