This is an idea I got from my Anatomy class, we've been going over blood types lately, and I just thought, why not? So it's a little something. Whatever.
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Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter
Madame Pomfrey bustled around.
Her eyes searched the cabinets in a hurry.
She could vaguely hear Dumbledore whispering spells behind her.
It had all started when the headmaster had slammed the doors of the hospital wing open in a hurry. That in itself was a surprise, as the old man rarely ever deviated from his calm façade. The pale face of the Potter boy clutched in his arms left the woman in a state of grim astonishment. But, then again, that may not exactly be true…
After they had laid the unresponsive child on the infirmary bed, Pomfrey had automatically cast the diagnostic charm on him. Dumbledore had started working immediately afterwards.
As the spells flew from the Elder wand, the matron had the Gryffindor Head of House place the Weasley boy on a cot at the other end of the wing. He was unconscious, but he'd be fine. Harry on the other hand…
She placed another blood replenishing potion onto the tray.
It didn't hurt to be careful.
The matron lifted the tray, causing several of the potions vials to tinkle dangerously, and hurried back to the bed that Mr. Pot– Harry lay on.
Dumbledore sat down on the adjourning chair as she began her work. It would be extensive; it would be tiring, but if she didn't… The boy was magically exhausted. Most people always assumed that it wasn't much, but at this degree, at this age, without any help… it could be deadly. Magic could do a lot, but to completely get rid of it…
She used a muggle needle to inject a small portion of skele-grow into his wrist.
Using a small piece of cotton, she dabbed at the blood impatiently.
That was what led to her sitting here. Alone. In the dark. And during summer.
The students had left, leaving the castle eerily empty. The Headmaster had locked himself in his office, most likely researching what had happened to that young black-haired child that he'd let go home. Only a few days in the infirmary, and the boy was back on his feet. It was a miracle. And a risk. She'd usually never allow it.
And Professor McGonagall had dedicated most of her time in the library, researching, slaving, working… The strict teacher had been oddly gentle with the boy the last few days that he was here.
It had just gone to show how much she had cared for her favorite student's child.
Or–
She pushed the cotton strand in the clear potion once again. It melted into a deep blue. She removed her wand. The slab of cotton floated up once again. It had no more blood on it.
Seven vials sat side by side, each had a deep, dark navy colored substance inside.
None would change, no matter how much she willed it to morph into a soft purple. Or even a bright orange.
Each one stayed the deep, dark blue color.
Poppy Pomfrey felt like screaming.
It wasn't exactly the color which drove her mind into overdrive, it was the implication that it presented.
Back when she last saw that color, it was nothing special, not really. A young Gryffindor had expressed the desire to see how you could tell your blood type. He'd found it fascinating.
Later he quietly informed her that he was thinking of becoming a healer.
That dream, like so many others, was banished from the world once he'd graduated. The war was in full swing by that time, and new aurors were needed everyday. The boy had figured, like many, that instead of healing people, why not prevent them from getting hurt?
It seemed like that dream had died just as quickly.
And now, here she stood, another young boys blood, the same color. The same blood type.
That's not uncommon… but considering his parents…
It was the O positive blood that gleamed from the surface of the vials. O positive… but that would mean…
Madame Pomfrey shoved the thought out of her head. It'd do no good to wallow in mysteries and what-ifs…
But that navy liquid unbiddenly rose within her mind. And maybe, just maybe…