September was approaching. The sun shone brightly today, making it a fine day for an outing. The Muggle street outside St. Mungo's Hospital was as noisy as ever and, unsurprisingly, gridlocked. Some Muggles had climbed out of their cars to argue, but work inside St. Mungo's Hospital continued in an orderly fashion, unaffected.
Miriam Strout, who had risen early, smiled into the mirror and brushed the dust from the gold-and-silver woven wreath on her head. Only after making sure her appearance would put her patients in good spirits did she take her patient records and enter the ward reserved for St. Mungo's long-term residents.
The moment she entered, she saw that the patient who had arrived ten days ago had curled up naked on his bed again. His eyes, eyebrows, and nose all looked angry, as though he were staging some sort of naked protest—but Straw knew this was no protest. The patient was having another episode.
"Good morning, Gilderoy Lockhart. It certainly is hot today—but taking all your clothes off is going a little too far." Without any embarrassment, Straw walked toward the patient in his awkward state.
As a professional Healer, Straw provided sustained, attentive care to every long-term patient St. Mungo's Hospital assigned to her. She firmly believed that a Healer's duty was "healing without ulterior considerations," and never cared whether a patient's status outside the hospital was exalted or humble.
Most of her patients were long-term residents who commonly did bizarre, incomprehensible things, which only made her more certain of her approach to treatment.
She must remain patient at all times, repeating the message she wanted to convey over and over, like a kindly mother with her children-from sunrise to sunset, from the past into the future. Even when there was no prospect of a cure