All disclaimers still stand.
Note: This chapter is more in Poppy Pomfrey's POV. I think I'm going to
play around with the POVs a little. This idea had been running around in my
head a little even before CrashCart9 suggested it, but she cemented it
down. Cheers!
As for all the so-called information . . . well, I'm making some of it up.
I have to be. I'm firstly assuming the rather popular idea that power
grants long life, and running with that. If your personal ideas of the
aging process in the wizarding world clash with mine . . . well, write your
own fic, then! =)
**
The door swung open with an almighty bang, and Poppy swore as Minerva flinched beside her. "Severus!" she exclaimed, upon seeing the Potions Master sweep through it, "Please, gentle!"
Minerva gave a funny little hitched sigh, as she realized that it was Snape. Then, she shrank back a little from the angry look on his face. She pulled her papery hospital robes around her protectively, and said nothing.
Poppy glared at the new arrival, becoming more and more cross as she realized how he had frightened Minerva. "You're going to upset her even more, Severus, stop," she snapped, reaching out a gentle hand to her patient. "Merlin's beard! What's put you in this mood?"
Snape produced a vial filled with a dark blue liquid from somewhere within the folds of his robes. "I've made it, Poppy," he said heavily. "I apologize, Minerva." He handed the vial to Poppy, who took it with a brief nod, though still cross.
She turned the small glass bottle over in her hand, and peered at it. "It's darker than I understood it would be, Severus. Different recipe?"
He seemed surprised at her for the question, as though he had not expected her to notice. "I added some things," he said softly. "To make it easier on her. . . . Half of that amount will suffice."
Poppy gave a little, appreciative smile, the annoyance softening away from her face. "Thank you, Severus," she said. "I will take care of her from here." She waved a hand slightly as a dismissal. Minerva's shoulder was tense beneath her hand, shaking slightly. Severus gave a curt nod, and turned, leaving the hospital wing rather abruptly. Poppy was somewhat more pleased to note that he closed the door behind him rather carefully.
Once he was gone, Minerva spoke. "Poppy, I . . . ." she stammered softly.
The younger mediwitch turned, and looked at Minerva McGonagall, letting her eyes be honest with her. She was seventy years old; though she had the outward appearance a fifty-year-old Muggle might have, with her hair still dark save for a few strands and the lines in her face more defined by worry than by age, Poppy knew that there were some things that magic did not preserve so well. Right then, the woman before her was very, very old; usually she seemed ageless, but now, she had a certain helpless, tired quality to her eyes. Poppy shook her head. "Minerva," she said gently, "I can't make you do this. I won't."
Minerva's breathing was ragged, and she looked as though she were fighting back tears. She shook her head, in a wild, frightened sort of motion. "I can't – oh, Poppy, no, I don't want to, please, no," she begged incoherently.
"It's your choice," Poppy said quietly, and moved to put the vial on a shelf. There was a strained silence for a minute, and then the mediwitch returned to sit next to her colleague. She felt terrible for Minerva; almost as though this were her fault. There were tears perched in the older woman's eyes, and she was shaking her head slowly, pleadingly. "Minerva," Poppy said again, consolingly this time. "This is your choice, Minerva. If you want to try and carry this child to term, you may. I will advise you against it, but you may."
McGonagall gave a choked sound, and buried her head in Poppy's shoulder. She was crying, breathing in little hiccups of air. "What," she whispered, unable to raise her voice, "what will happen to me if I do?"
Poppy was struggling to keep her voice level, and calm. "You have a thirty percent chance of avoiding miscarriage," she said gently, "and a seventy percent chance that you will not. If you make it the nine months, the odds are against you ten to one. If you miscarry, there's a forty percent chance of fatal complications, and only a ten percent chance that you will make it out unharmed. The other fifty percent of women who miscarry at your age suffer consequences that can completely disable them. You would not be able to do the kind of work you do, Minerva. It could become potentially unwise to teach. The more powerful the witch, the more likely to be completely incapacitated or killed. I need not remind you, Minerva, that you are one of the most powerful witches this world has seen in years. There is no gentle way to say this, but that's how my mother died, when she was sixty- five years old. The pregnancy was an accident, but she wanted to keep the baby. I lost them both." The odds were against her, by far. Poppy had another heavy flash of guilt, this time accompanied by fear. She didn't want to lose her colleague; she and Minerva had been friends for years. But this scene was all her fault . . . . when they had retrieved Minerva from the Death Eaters, she could have done this then, instead of waiting for two months . . . but it was notably unlikely for a witch of Minerva's age to become pregnant, so she hadn't thought . . . .if only she had thought . . . if only she had thought . . . .
There was a long silence, broken only by Minerva's sobs. "Oh, Poppy," she murmured at last. "I know I'll do it, I know I have to, but God, I don't want to."
"I know," Poppy said softly, stroking the other woman's hair as though she were a child.
"Even though it's their baby, it's their twisted seed growing, oh, damn, Poppy, it's still – it's still . . . ." She put a hand over her abdomen, and lifted her tear-streaked face to face the mediwitch. Her voice changed suddenly. "Get it back before I change my mind," she said flatly, gulping back a sob and trying hard to look resolute.
Poppy obliged, retrieving the vial and pouring half of it into a cup. Minvera held out her hands for it. Her fingers closed around the cup and she pulled it toward her, looking into it, wiping away tears. Poppy said nothing as Minerva's green, tortured eyes stared down into the dark liquid. At last, Minerva swore softly, and drank. The minute she was done, she broke into another choked round of sobbing. This time, she swatted away Poppy's proffered embrace, winding her arms around herself, tearing the papery fabric of her gown. Her fingernails were making little white moon marks on her skin. She looked as though she was in agony, but Poppy knew that this time it was guilt. The potion would need a few hours to take effect, and she trusted Severus' additives to make it a relatively painless process. She gave Minerva a moment to wrench herself apart in sobs, knowing that the woman would not want company immediately, and set off to fetch a Dreamless Sleep potion. Minerva accepted it, and a bed, rather gratefully when she returned, and wiped her tears rather roughly on her bedcovers.
She spoke once more before she fell asleep. The recollection of that moment made Poppy shiver, because McGonagall had looked right into her eyes and said in a strange, almost flat voice, "You know, Poppy, I have never had a child." Then she drifted off.
Poppy was left standing over her bedside, shocked. She had known Minerva was childless, but it had not occurred to her until now that that would torture the older woman. It was too much, really; too much for even Minerva McGonagall. Poppy had seen Minerva struggling to keep her composure in the halls, when the students were watching, but this – even personally, Minerva had always been a strict, rather uptight woman; she had had her lips pursed in disapproval, had her bun twisted up tightly to her head, and had been all business. Watching her fall apart now was like watching a different woman; a jumpy woman, nervous, suspicious, always on the brink of tears, more like a frightened mouse than a cat. Her even control had been shattered that night two months ago, and becoming pregnant from the ordeal had only made it harder. Minerva was childless? Poppy shook her head violently, suddenly wanting to cry herself.
And what could she do? What could any of them do? Minerva was strong, but this had cracked the indomitable witch into quivering pieces.
"I'm going to talk to Dumbledore," she resolved softly. "I don't know how to help her."
The night seemed to stretch very ominously after that. The silence was oppressive; even the black-haired woman on the stark white bed made no sound.
**
The door swung open with an almighty bang, and Poppy swore as Minerva flinched beside her. "Severus!" she exclaimed, upon seeing the Potions Master sweep through it, "Please, gentle!"
Minerva gave a funny little hitched sigh, as she realized that it was Snape. Then, she shrank back a little from the angry look on his face. She pulled her papery hospital robes around her protectively, and said nothing.
Poppy glared at the new arrival, becoming more and more cross as she realized how he had frightened Minerva. "You're going to upset her even more, Severus, stop," she snapped, reaching out a gentle hand to her patient. "Merlin's beard! What's put you in this mood?"
Snape produced a vial filled with a dark blue liquid from somewhere within the folds of his robes. "I've made it, Poppy," he said heavily. "I apologize, Minerva." He handed the vial to Poppy, who took it with a brief nod, though still cross.
She turned the small glass bottle over in her hand, and peered at it. "It's darker than I understood it would be, Severus. Different recipe?"
He seemed surprised at her for the question, as though he had not expected her to notice. "I added some things," he said softly. "To make it easier on her. . . . Half of that amount will suffice."
Poppy gave a little, appreciative smile, the annoyance softening away from her face. "Thank you, Severus," she said. "I will take care of her from here." She waved a hand slightly as a dismissal. Minerva's shoulder was tense beneath her hand, shaking slightly. Severus gave a curt nod, and turned, leaving the hospital wing rather abruptly. Poppy was somewhat more pleased to note that he closed the door behind him rather carefully.
Once he was gone, Minerva spoke. "Poppy, I . . . ." she stammered softly.
The younger mediwitch turned, and looked at Minerva McGonagall, letting her eyes be honest with her. She was seventy years old; though she had the outward appearance a fifty-year-old Muggle might have, with her hair still dark save for a few strands and the lines in her face more defined by worry than by age, Poppy knew that there were some things that magic did not preserve so well. Right then, the woman before her was very, very old; usually she seemed ageless, but now, she had a certain helpless, tired quality to her eyes. Poppy shook her head. "Minerva," she said gently, "I can't make you do this. I won't."
Minerva's breathing was ragged, and she looked as though she were fighting back tears. She shook her head, in a wild, frightened sort of motion. "I can't – oh, Poppy, no, I don't want to, please, no," she begged incoherently.
"It's your choice," Poppy said quietly, and moved to put the vial on a shelf. There was a strained silence for a minute, and then the mediwitch returned to sit next to her colleague. She felt terrible for Minerva; almost as though this were her fault. There were tears perched in the older woman's eyes, and she was shaking her head slowly, pleadingly. "Minerva," Poppy said again, consolingly this time. "This is your choice, Minerva. If you want to try and carry this child to term, you may. I will advise you against it, but you may."
McGonagall gave a choked sound, and buried her head in Poppy's shoulder. She was crying, breathing in little hiccups of air. "What," she whispered, unable to raise her voice, "what will happen to me if I do?"
Poppy was struggling to keep her voice level, and calm. "You have a thirty percent chance of avoiding miscarriage," she said gently, "and a seventy percent chance that you will not. If you make it the nine months, the odds are against you ten to one. If you miscarry, there's a forty percent chance of fatal complications, and only a ten percent chance that you will make it out unharmed. The other fifty percent of women who miscarry at your age suffer consequences that can completely disable them. You would not be able to do the kind of work you do, Minerva. It could become potentially unwise to teach. The more powerful the witch, the more likely to be completely incapacitated or killed. I need not remind you, Minerva, that you are one of the most powerful witches this world has seen in years. There is no gentle way to say this, but that's how my mother died, when she was sixty- five years old. The pregnancy was an accident, but she wanted to keep the baby. I lost them both." The odds were against her, by far. Poppy had another heavy flash of guilt, this time accompanied by fear. She didn't want to lose her colleague; she and Minerva had been friends for years. But this scene was all her fault . . . . when they had retrieved Minerva from the Death Eaters, she could have done this then, instead of waiting for two months . . . but it was notably unlikely for a witch of Minerva's age to become pregnant, so she hadn't thought . . . .if only she had thought . . . if only she had thought . . . .
There was a long silence, broken only by Minerva's sobs. "Oh, Poppy," she murmured at last. "I know I'll do it, I know I have to, but God, I don't want to."
"I know," Poppy said softly, stroking the other woman's hair as though she were a child.
"Even though it's their baby, it's their twisted seed growing, oh, damn, Poppy, it's still – it's still . . . ." She put a hand over her abdomen, and lifted her tear-streaked face to face the mediwitch. Her voice changed suddenly. "Get it back before I change my mind," she said flatly, gulping back a sob and trying hard to look resolute.
Poppy obliged, retrieving the vial and pouring half of it into a cup. Minvera held out her hands for it. Her fingers closed around the cup and she pulled it toward her, looking into it, wiping away tears. Poppy said nothing as Minerva's green, tortured eyes stared down into the dark liquid. At last, Minerva swore softly, and drank. The minute she was done, she broke into another choked round of sobbing. This time, she swatted away Poppy's proffered embrace, winding her arms around herself, tearing the papery fabric of her gown. Her fingernails were making little white moon marks on her skin. She looked as though she was in agony, but Poppy knew that this time it was guilt. The potion would need a few hours to take effect, and she trusted Severus' additives to make it a relatively painless process. She gave Minerva a moment to wrench herself apart in sobs, knowing that the woman would not want company immediately, and set off to fetch a Dreamless Sleep potion. Minerva accepted it, and a bed, rather gratefully when she returned, and wiped her tears rather roughly on her bedcovers.
She spoke once more before she fell asleep. The recollection of that moment made Poppy shiver, because McGonagall had looked right into her eyes and said in a strange, almost flat voice, "You know, Poppy, I have never had a child." Then she drifted off.
Poppy was left standing over her bedside, shocked. She had known Minerva was childless, but it had not occurred to her until now that that would torture the older woman. It was too much, really; too much for even Minerva McGonagall. Poppy had seen Minerva struggling to keep her composure in the halls, when the students were watching, but this – even personally, Minerva had always been a strict, rather uptight woman; she had had her lips pursed in disapproval, had her bun twisted up tightly to her head, and had been all business. Watching her fall apart now was like watching a different woman; a jumpy woman, nervous, suspicious, always on the brink of tears, more like a frightened mouse than a cat. Her even control had been shattered that night two months ago, and becoming pregnant from the ordeal had only made it harder. Minerva was childless? Poppy shook her head violently, suddenly wanting to cry herself.
And what could she do? What could any of them do? Minerva was strong, but this had cracked the indomitable witch into quivering pieces.
"I'm going to talk to Dumbledore," she resolved softly. "I don't know how to help her."
The night seemed to stretch very ominously after that. The silence was oppressive; even the black-haired woman on the stark white bed made no sound.
