This was originally written in October 2013 and posted on Tumblr from an image prompt. Might as well add it here!

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"Is that it?"

"Yessir."

Pity. If he had been nearer the cities, in the quarters and the alleys that housed their magical cousins amongst the Muggles, undoubtedly the apothecaries would be filled with a wider variety of options for such a deed.

But out here, you relied on the knowledge of the local herbologists: Men who cultivated fields of vegetables that never died off despite lack of water, cold weather, natural disaster, to the infuriation of Muggles. Men who submitted prize vegetables the size of small livestock to the local summer fairs, who explained their secrets to bewildered Muggles as ‘luck’ rather than ‘a well practiced engorgio.’

Ignan never enjoyed herbology all that much, preferring to pick up his wand than a trowel in his school days, and to keep his hands clean. He knew enough not to poison himself, and to heal in times of crisis, and to live if stranded, but not which soil did best for what crop, nor the natural predators nor correct cultivation technique for the late summer harvest.

The bite was quite clear - it was no dog that had bitten her. However much her father and her husband believed the timing with the full moon was mere coincidence, it would not change things. They would hope that the next full moon she would be fine, that she would not transform and tear down the door and howl at the sky. Ignan knew this was foolish. The best this woman could wish for would be potions to ease her monthly transition, though this seemed an unlikely outcome.

The herbologist before him licked his lips nervously, watching Ignan consider the woman’s fate with a cold, unemotional gaze.

"You will give her an infusion of these leaves tonight and she will sleep soundly." Ignan addressed the woman’s husband, stood beside the clock over the fireplace.

The man with soil beneath his fingers was all too well aware of what was being prescribed, and how it would do nothing to heal the wound, but he had agreed to stand there and pretend. The man addressing them all had been particularly persuasive, while directing his three-year old daughter to dance upon the spot like a musicbox figurine between potting tables, at the will of his wand.

"And it’s quite effective?"

"Very. She will feel no pain."

The wizard posing as a learned healer locked eyes again with the herbologist, who took his cue to leave as the father of the patient pressed a great sum of money into his hands for the ‘remedy’.

By morning the final sum to the ‘healer’ would be left unpaid. Not only would he have vanished into the night, but thanks to the herbologist the patient would indeed sleep forever soundly with no pain, and her family would remain free from the werewolf’s curse they feared.