Medical Magic

Dumbledore abruptly slammed the Encyclopedia of Mesopotamian Mages shut and frowned in consternation as one of the many intricate silver instruments on his desk began to emit red smoke rings.

The Personalis Monitor, keyed to Severus Snape's health and prosperity, was quite a neat little tool that emitted different signals for different stages of wellbeing. At the moment it was indicating a medical emergency.

Swiveling around in his chair to face the fireplace, Dumbledore took out his wand and aimed it at the mirror on the mantle.

"Activare."

Fawkes let out a mournful trill.

"He knew somebody was watching," Dumbledore told the bird, "and I wasn't going to use it again… but his life is in peril."

The reflection of his office swirled counterclockwise in the mirror until it became a blur and then slowly swirled back, becoming the image of Severus' quarters.

Severus lay slumped by his door in a crumpled heap of robes.

Albus let out a slow hiss. Fawkes left his perch, flew to the arm of the Wizard's chair, and peered at the image.

"He's still breathing," Dumbledore said. "Thank Merlin."

Albus thought rapidly. Snape refused categorically to be treated by Poppy, insisting when he did need care on going to his own private Healer, claiming that a particular condition of his required a Specialist.

Snape had, in his usual paranoid way, refused to discuss it despite Poppy's assurance that she was quite qualified to take care of anything he could possibly have. At Albus' insistence, he had prepared a way for the Healer to be summoned in case of emergency.

The Headmaster remembered quite well how that request had been received. After a great deal of shouting, Severus had locked himself in his quarters for several hours, during which time the Wards showed tremendous Floo activity. He had returned with a long thin ivory box, complete with a list of terse instructions on the use thereof.

In vain the Mediwitch and the Headmaster had pleaded that it would be far easier and safer to simply inform them of his condition, or at the very least give them the Healer's name so he could be summoned by more conventional methods. Severus had put his foot down, claiming that his medical information was by law nobody's business but his own.

Dumbledore had eventually, resignedly, accepted the box, and given his Oath not to use it unless Snape were both unconscious and in serious danger. Hoping against hope that he would never need it, he had stashed it away. Now, however, Severus was both in need of medical attention, and unconscious. It was time.

With a sudden energy Dumbledore leapt to his feet, dislodging Fawkes who fwumped to the desk with a disgruntled squawk.

Crossing the room, Dumbledore pushed a large hourglass and a bottle of Ogden's Old out of the way, reached into the recess of the shelf, and finally pulled out the ivory box.

He set it carefully upon his desk and slid the lid open. Taking a pinch of the dark powder it contained with the fingers of one hand, his wand in the other, he tossed the powder into the air, hitting it with the spell engraved on the lid before it could dissipate.

"Adveniat!"

A beam of golden light erupted from his wand. The powder collected itself in midair, forming a solid core, as the shaft of golden light coalesced into a ball of fire around it.

Albus took an involuntary step backwards as the ball crackled with intense energy. It flared into an enormous pulse of flame before zooming from the room through the window. The glass shattered, and scattered to the floor, in a cascade of glittering light.

"Let's hope to Merlin that works," said Dumbledore, casting a Reparo charm on the window. "Fawkes… do what you can."

Fawkes trilled once, and disappeared.

XXX

Harry Potter stared at the man who had just walked in. "What did you say?" he asked.

Igor Karkaroff stepped in and shut the door behind him with a snap. Here was a dilemma he'd not anticipated. Of all the people to run into while looking for his cousin, the Boy Who Lived was the most problematic save perhaps the Dark Lord, or Dumbledore.

Igor blinked and decided he would brave-face his way through this matter just as done with much more dangerous situations. Carefully not sparing the boy a glance, he brushed passed him and headed for the Supply Cabinet.

"Excuse me."

Harry followed the man across the room with his eyes. He wasn't a teacher, or even one of the Board Members who occasionally visited the school on inspections and the like.

"I beg your pardon," came Potter's voice from behind him, "but the cabinet's warded to give you nasty stings if you take anything from it outside school hours."

Igor turned and glared at the boy, who didn't look particularly fazed. Perhaps his eyes weren't as intimidating in this new face as they were glittering behind Fortescue's mask, or perhaps he was simply used to the far more intense glares of his Potions Master.

"I am looking for Professor Snape," said Igor silkily.

Harry took a deep breath. "He's not available at the moment, sir."

"He said he would be here to see me," lied Igor.

"But he's not," Harry pointed out. "Are you sure you've come a the right time? It is a bit late…"

"Yes," Igor said, rounding on the boy, "quite late. Ten o'clock. Past curfew."

Potter shrugged. "I have been given special permission," he lied.

"I have no way of knowing that," countered Igor. "But I have no time to waste on trivial matters."

He swept from the room and stifled a sigh when he heard the boy following him.

"You'll pardon me," said Harry, catching up with the man and lying through is teeth, "but you see the corridor you're heading towards is off limits to those not in the student body or the faculty."

"I doubt that shall cause me much trouble," said the stranger unperturbed. "I am expected."

"In the wrong room apparently," Potter pointed out, "and in the wrong potions cabinet."

"Mr. Potter," hissed Igor, whirling to face the boy, "you are in the wrong place, at the wrong time, speaking to the wrong person."

Harry bit his lip. He had done it again, recklessly getting himself into something he knew nothing about.

"I'm sorry, sir," he mumbled, backing up slightly.

With a flash of apprehension, Igor realized that he could not afford to leave a suspicious Boy Who Lived in a corridor. There was no knowing what he would might say, or to whom, and if Snape was in the state Igor suspected, it wouldn't do to have others getting in the way.

"Too late, Mr. Potter," he hissed, grabbing the boy by the collar of his robes. "In for a penny, in for a pound. You will come with me."

"I will not," protested Harry, reaching for his wand.

Igor, however, had his wand out already, and quickly held it to Harry's throat. "You will," he repeated. "And quietly."

Harry wrenched the stranger's wand away from his neck and scrambled away.

"You will," repeated the man again, "or Professor Snape will die."

After a split second of indecision, the boy's shoulders slumped in compliance.

"Quickly," insisted the stranger, grabbing him roughly by the arm and propelling him forward. "March."

Harry obeyed. With a growing sense of guilt he realized that not only was he probably in quite a bit of trouble, but Snape was going to be very angry with him. He had gone and shown the same recklessness he'd promised he would avoid at all costs.

He ought to have retreated at once and gone for help, point-loss for being out after curfew had been a stupid thing to worry about. Worse yet, the stranger seemed to know precisely where Snape's quarters were located, and was heading there with quick, sure steps. If he knew this and had the appointment he claimed, why had he come to the classroom first?

Harry decided he had two choices, either to bolt for help and hope he could get it before the man carried out his threat, or stay and hope the wards made short work of the stranger. Gritting his teeth, he decided that while running to alert the staff was the more active choice, it was far more likely to end in disaster, especially as the man would be presented with Harry's retreating back as an excellent target. Better by far to wait until the wards distracted the man…

XXX

Dumbledore paced his office. Above all he hated feeling helpless, and he could do nothing, as he was bound by his promise not to assist Severus himself or send any Healer other than Severus' own.

Fawkes was not a Healer, a fact Albus had conveniently overlooked when he had given his Oath. It was a loophole that had given him some comfort up to now.

He chanced another glance at the mirror. Fawkes was still crying over Severus, and Severus was still not moving.

Albus itched to do something. To call for Poppy, St. Mungo's to run down and at least make sure the man was still breathing, but he had promised, and he kept his Word.

Suddenly, he broke off his pacing and stared at the mirror. Severus' Floo had flared up and a young man tumbled out onto the Hearth.

The man shouted something and ran to Severus' side, rolling the unconscious man onto his back to check his pulse.

Albus let out a sigh of relief. Help had arrived.

XXX

As they reached Snape's door, the stranger's grip on his arm did not lessen. Without breaking his stride, the man cast several spells in quick succession, then confidently grabbed the handle, and pulled the door open.

Harry gasped, dragging into the room. For the second time that evening, he was treated to the sight of an unconscious Snape, this time being fought over by a flustered young man and an agitated Phoenix.

"Who in the name of the nine Hells are you?" roared Igor.

"The man's personal Healer," snapped the other man, who could not have been older than twenty. "He's got a blood imbalance that - "

"I know," replied Igor, sinking to his knees beside him. "I'm afraid I've poisoned him. Here. I've brought…"

Harry stared at the scene before his eyes disbelievingly. Severus lay on the floor, his hair spread about his face like a fan, limbs splayed. Kneeling beside him was the first man, who looked like a cross between a much older Ron and a hawk, and the second, who resembled Snape, but far better looking, getting out a series of metal pieces and cable, beginning to fit them together frantically. Fawkes shrieking and diving at both men, in a furious flurry of red plumage.

The Healer ducked to avoid Fawkes newest onslaught and shouted, "Get rid of that bloody songbird!"

Suddenly, the scene simplified itself dramatically in Harry's eyes; Snape was lying helpless on the floor, one man had admitted to poisoning him, the other claimed to be his Healer, and Fawkes didn't like either of them.

Harry realized abruptly what to do. "Fawkes," he shouted, "Go back to Dumbledore!"

Fawkes swirled in midair, let out a trill and disappeared.

"First decent thing you've done in your life, Potter," snapped Igor. "And pray shut that door before some idiot decides to pass by."

Harry pulled the door shut, and hoped to Merlin that Fawkes had understood and was going to get Dumbledore.

The Healer, free of distractions, had finally managed to set up a complicated series of small silver gadgets, attached to each other by electric cables.

"Give me a hand here, boy," he said. "Get on his other side."

Harry dropped his bag of books to the floor and joined the supposed Healer.

"What is that?"

"A Diatragnostic P. N.," said the Healer, as though that were obvious, getting out a roll of thin black tape.

"Couldn't you just use a spell?" asked Igor. "We haven't much time."

"You've admitted to poisoning him," snapped the Healer. "Pardon me if I don't care much for your advice. Get out of the way."

Practically shoving the man aside, the Healer grabbed Snape's right wrist, unbuttoned the sleeve, and rolled it up. Setting a small metal disk on the pulse point, he taped it firmly in place.

"You," he said, activating and shoving one of the gleaming silver devices towards Harry, "watch that node, and tell me if it gives a reading."

Harry stared at the machine in his hands. It looked like a cross between an alarm clock and an engine. It was a mess of unrecognizable gleaming metal parts, squeaking and churning, topped with an LCD screen, blinking zeros.

"Yes, sir."

The Healer set the two other devices, and seemed satisfied with whatever it was they told him, before rounding on Igor.

"All right, out with it, who are you and what have you done to him?"

Igor held up his hands in defense. "It was an Antidote," he protested.

"Antidote," repeated the Healer with a dangerous glint in his eye. "What has he been poisoned with?"

"Nothing yet," explained Igor, "it was a preventative measure. It wasn't supposed to have this affect. I had no idea his blood had altered since my last reading."

"You've no business giving him readings," snapped the Healer, pulling out a number of items from the black bag he'd brought with him, causing the others to stare nonplussed.

"And you've no business treating him," countered Igor. "Who authorized you?"

"Russ himself," replied the Healer, rummaging through his pockets, "he told me you were a suspicious lot. Here."

Finding what he was looking for, the young man handed Igor slightly squashed scroll.

Not one to take chances, Igor cast a Detection Charm to be sure the object wasn't a trap, before unsealing it. He skimmed the note, nodded curtly, and handed it back.

"It is well," he said. "You may proceed."

"It's a bit late to allow him to proceed," Harry pointed out, looking up from the screen. "He could have killed the Professor ten times over already. And while you may be satisfied, I'm afraid I still don't know either of you from Adam. For all I know, you could both be trying to kill him."

With a roll of his eyes the Healer passed the note to Harry, who glanced at it. There, in handwriting he recognized from dozens of scathing commentaries on admittedly average work, was Severus' looping scrawl:

To Whom It May Concern:

It is my business whom I choose for my Healer. If you hinder this man, I shall very likely die, in which case I shall never forgive you.

Sincerely,

Severus Snape.

Potter blinked twice, couldn't think of a thing to say, and handed the scroll back. Frankly, he was as confused as he could ever remember being, save for the time he'd first found out about his Wizarding blood and he was at a complete loss as to what to do.

Abruptly, one of the devices began to emit piecing high-pitched beeps. The Healer scrambled into action, pulling out several objects from his pack. One in particular caused Harry's eyes to widen in surprise, and Karkaroff's to narrow in doubt.

Gleaming in the dim light was a hypodermic syringe.

The Healer gave neither of them time to think, rapidly preparing his equipment, until the sinister needle was ready, grabbing Severus' left arm, and rolling up the sleeve. He stopped and hissed abruptly, running a finger along the scar that ran from the Dark Mark to his wrist.

"No wonder he's anemic," he said, "I'll kill him for this once I've got him healthy again."

"Wouldn't that defeat the purpose?" asked Karkaroff, trying to sound unperturbed. "I've got a blood replenishing draught with me, it'd be easier. I wasn't sure what had caused the imbalance, so I brought something for each conceivable circumstance so that I could use some diagnostic Spells as soon as I arrived…"

"Keep your New Age rubbish to yourself," snapped the Healer, fussing about to find a vein. "He can douse himself with whatever he likes, but not when I'm here. Asphodel… Wormwood… complete tosh. No wonder he gets into these situations."

Taking a pause from his rant to insert the needle and carefully inject. Harry winced, feeling the violent urge to knock the needle out of the man's hand.

"I told him years ago!" continued the Healer. "'Stay away from that alternate healing tripe. If you keep it up don't come crying home to me when you're lying unconscious in somebody's dungeon.' Did he listen? No! And just LOOK what happened!"

Igor coughed. "What've you injected him with?"

"Bit late to be asking that now," returned Harry, his voice a trifle high.

The boy had never taken well to the sight of needles and blood, and had thought that after several years of being in the Infirmary without seeing one, that Wizards simply didn't use them.

"Precisely," snapped the Healer, putting a plaster over the wound. "You. Boy. Run get some water. Cold."

Harry jumped up, thinking he could both get the water and see what on earth was keeping Fawkes from fetching Dumbledore, but got no further than the door; the moment he touched the handle he was thrown back, and barely kept his feet.

"Oh Bendis," cursed Igor, jumping to his feet. "I should have known he didn't only have Wards preventing entry…"

The Healer looked up sharply. "Bendis? You don't just so happen to be an expatriated Bulgarian New Age Witch, too?"

Igor drew himself up to his full height. "I am a Wizard," he hissed. "And, yes, Bulgarian. Though what you mean by new age is beyond me. I'm over thirty five."

The Healer shook his head. "I still need water," he pointed out, "regardless of whether you can open the door or not."

Igor drew his wand and conjured a pitcher of water and a glass, and set it down by the Healer.

"Took you long enough," snapped the Healer. "Handkerchief?"

Harry pulled his out, thankful that it was clean, and handed it over. "Stat."

"Stat? Stat?" replied the Healer, dipping the handkerchief in water and wringing it out. "I'm sure you have no idea what it means. Just saw it in some crazy medical soap opera. It means 'at once', I say it, you respond by doing it at once."

"Medical soap opera," repeated Harry, watching the man dab Professor Snape's forehead. "You aren't a Wizard, are you?"

"Wizard?" repeated the Healer. "Sweet Lord, no. He'll need a jolt. He's not coming to."

"A jolt?" repeated Igor. "Now look here. I'm not going to stand idly by and-"

"Then don't," snapped the Healer. "Give me your hand, lets see if you're compatible."

"It would help if you explained," replied Igor.

"Damnit man, I can't explain," snapped the Healer. "It would take hours- days, considering the fact that you probably never heard of a blood transfusion, much less an Essence… I need you to give him some of your… Energy. Power. Magic. Whatever it is you call it."

"That's impossible!" protested Igor. "By all the laws of Metaphysics!"

"Not by the laws of physics and electrical engineering," returned the Healer.

"Wait," interrupted Harry. "You're talking about something like a blood transfusion, but with Magic, yes?"

"Right," answered the Healer. "But if I can't get him a jolt of it quickly, there shan't be much point."

Gryffindor impulse took over and Harry held out his wrist.

"If I'm compatible."

"There's only a small possibility otherwise," said the Healer, grabbing Harry's hand and pushing up the sleeve, then taping the same type of disk to it as he had to Severus. "It shan't hurt much and there's no chance of draining you."

Attaching the disk with a cable to one of the nearby gadgets, he pressed several buttons and seemed satisfied with the "PoSalFi" that blinked in the screen.

"You'll do. Lie down, by his arm…"

Harry complied, thinking that this was perhaps the stupidest thing he had ever done in his life.

The Healer fussed, attaching Harry's disk by one cable to Severus' disk, and with another, to one of the meaner looking devices he hadn't yet used.

"I'll set it on two for now. If that doesn't work, we'll go higher. Ready?"

Harry nodded. "Right, then."

The Healer slammed down a switch, and with a crackle, Harry felt something shoot down his arm. He cried out in surprise. Blue flames shot down the wires into Severus' disk, and a jolt passed through the Professor before he fell limp once more.

"Level three," announced the Healer. "Ready?"

Without waiting for an answer the Healer pressed the switch again. The blue fire shot down Harry's arm again, this time almost painful in intensity. The sparks shot towards Severus, who once again jolted violently, before lying limp once more.

Panting, Harry lifted his head slightly to watch as the Healer concernedly fussed over Severus, checking his pulse, and then each of the gadgets in turn.

"Is it … electricity?" he asked.

The Healer shrugged. "Might as well be considering the way it behaves. I'll have to set it at five… this will hurt. Ready?"

"All right," replied Harry, falling back and screwing his eyes shut.

Igor watched in frank uncertainty and not a little fear as the machine was activated for the third time. Potter's back arched as the blue whatever-it-was sizzled down his arm, crackled over the wires, and stabbed into Severus. Severus jolted, let out a strangled cry, then weakly tried to sit up.

"It's all right, Uncle Russ," said the Healer, arresting the other man's motion and settling Severus back down. "It's me. Now lie still."

"Uncle Russ?" repeated Igor in a shout. "Who in the name of Merlin are you?"

Snape blinked blearily as a strange face swam into view, wearing Igor's Aura. Suddenly Snape realized just what he'd been missing – that mask, that work of art, couldn't have been done by Igor. Not the way it hid everything, while not obstructing the sight or speech of the wearer.

"Cousin?" he asked. "You got my note, I hope?"

"Yes," replied Igor testily. "But this young idiot got in the way of my doing you any good."

"Don't try and talk now," said the Healer, busying himself. "You've lost plenty of Energy, and while I've transferred quite a bit, I couldn't risk raising the-"

"From whom?" Severus asked wildly. "Who's Magic have you-"

Harry coughed.

Severus turned and saw Harry Potter.

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted. "I didn't… I mean, I…"

"He means," interrupted the Healer, "that he's saved your life."

Snape shut his eyes as though to shut them all out.

"You were in very bad condition," the Healer went on. "It was lucky the boy was here at all. I couldn't have done it without a donor. You know I can't-"

Snape took a deep breath and turned to Harry, staring at him with an indecipherable expression.

"Mr. Potter," he said slowly, "why are you here at all? I told you to wait."

"It's eleven o'clock, sir," Harry explained quickly. "I waited for you and when you didn't come, I took the time to practice, but then he arrived, and said he wanted to see you, and then that you'd die and…"

"Your Gryffindor nature naturally took charge," finished Snape.

"I'm sorry, Cousin," said Igor. "I had no idea… the Potion must have been too large a dosage, I had no idea your balance would have gone so far from the norm since my last reading."

The Healer untaped the disks from both Harry and Snape and began to pack his equipment.

"Your condition is now stable, Uncle Russ," he said. "You'll need plenty of sleep, take it easy, and for heaven's sake, don't go drinking herbal remedies without knowing what they are."

"Why is your healer calling you his uncle?" asked Igor in confusion.

"You've got a niece you never told me about," said Snape tiredly. "I trust I'm permitted to have a few relations."

"But you're an only child!" protested Igor.

"So were you," Snape pointed out.

Just then the Floo flared to life, and Albus' head popped into the fireplace. "All right there, Severus, my boy?" he asked. "You gave me a bit of a scare. Why don't the lot of you pop up to my office, have a nightcap, and talk this over?"