"Professor Dumbledore?" The young Healer had come over to where Albus and Poppy were standing. "I'm Galeneus Pye. I'm head of the team that's taking care of … Mrs Dumbledore."
"What's happening? How is she?" Dumbledore asked.
"She's reasonably stable. We've slowed the bleeding and managed to get some Blood-Replenishing Potion into her. It's helping. She's had what's called a placental abruption. That means her—"
"I know what it means."
Pye glanced at Poppy. "Good. The thing is, we need to deliver her immediately. The bleeding won't fully stop until the placenta is out and her arteries are sealed off."
Dumbledore nodded once, his jaw set as if in stone.
"Sir, I need to tell you that the foetus … the baby … has not survived. I'm very sorry."
Albus swiped his brow with the back of his hand. He didn't notice the smear of blood that stained his beard when his saturated sleeve brushed against it.
"When will she wake up?" he asked.
"We want to wake her now, if possible, so she can help deliver the baby. In cases like these, where the baby has already passed, it's safest for the mother to deliver vaginally when she's already lost so much blood. It will be faster if she's able to push."
"What do you mean you'll wake her 'if possible'?"
"Well, sir, she's lost so much blood, it's possible she can't wake up."
The greatest wizard of the age just looked at the Healer as if he couldn't comprehend the words emerging from the young man's mouth. The Healer looked again at Poppy, silently asking her for help.
"Albus," she said, "you need to consent to the immediate delivery."
"Do it," Albus said.
"Thank you, sir," said the Healer, bobbing his head at Poppy in thanks. He hurried back to the group gathered around Minerva.
After a few minutes of bustling activity, there was a weak groan from the exam table. Albus moved to go over to her, but Poppy caught his sleeve.
"Wait, Albus. You've got … I need to …" She took a handkerchief from her pinny pocket and dabbed at the blood smear on his beard.
Albus pulled away from her and went to his wife.
"Minerva."
"Albus?" She sounded far away.
"I'm here, my angel." He stroked her cheek and leant down to touch his forehead to hers.
"What's happening?"
"You got sick. You're in St Mungo's. These people are going to help you."
"The baby—"
"Shh. Don't worry about that now. Just get well."
From the foot of the table, Pye said, "Mrs Dumbledore, we need to deliver the baby now. I'm going to do something to help move things along, and I wanted to warn you so you aren't surprised."
Incredibly, she smiled, her eyes still closed.
"Minerva … ?" said Albus, alarmed at the odd reaction.
"'Mrs Dumbledore.' Nobody calls me that."
Albus looked at Pye, who smiled reassuringly.
"It's your name," Albus said, kissing Minerva's forehead.
"Yes. Ohhh!" Her face contorted in pain, and Albus looked up helplessly at the Healer.
"It's all right, sir. She's just contracting. I used a spell to help things move faster. It should be over shortly." Pye moved around to the side of the table. After conferring briefly with his colleague, he cast another spell.
Minerva cried out again.
Not knowing what else to do, Albus grabbed her hand. "Squeeze my hand, my love, when it hurts." She did, and the strength of her grip surprised him.
It continued for the next ten minutes, Minerva moaning and squeezing, as Pye cast, until he said, "All right, Mrs Dumbledore. At the next pain, I want you to bear down."
Albus beckoned Poppy over. She went to him and looked down at Minerva, who blinked as if trying to clear her vision.
"Poppy?"
"Yes, love, I'm here. You're doing fine."
"How is the baby?"
Poppy's eyes shot up to meet Albus's briefly. He shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Poppy looked back down at Minerva. "You'll see the baby in a few minutes," she said.
Minerva's face contorted with another contraction.
"All right, Mrs Dumbledore, push," said Pye.
Minerva closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and bore down.
"Good, keep going, keep going …" said Pye.
Minerva let out a gasp and opened her eyes, panting.
"Now come right back and give me another, right down here in your bottom … hard," Pye instructed.
Minerva grunted with the effort.
When the contraction waned, Pye said, "Okay, relax. That was very good, Mrs Dumbledore."
Albus lent down to kiss Minerva's hand. Great rivulets of sweat ran down his face and into his beard. He stroked Minerva's forehead, which was damp and cold.
"Oh, gods!" gasped Minerva.
"All right, give me another push, just like the last one," said Pye.
Minerva's moan cut off as she bore down. After a minute, she let her head fall back against the pillow, gasping for breath.
"Right back at it, Mrs. Dumbledore, come on …" Pye urged.
"I can't!" she wailed.
The sound struck Albus like a Petrificus Totalus. With all his magical power, all his supposed intellect, he had no idea what to do, how to help her.
Poppy said, "Yes, you can, love … you are." She nudged Albus, breaking his agonised stupor.
He knelt next to Minerva and whispered to her. "You can do this, my angel. You're my Viking warrior queen, after all." It was a reference to a long-ago conversation, one in which he had conceded his weakness to her strength. She had laughed at the epithet then, and agreed to what he had asked of her.
His voice in her ear pierced the veil of pain and confusion that had gripped Minerva since she'd awakened in this cold, strange place. She gritted her teeth and bore down once more. As she did, she released her breath and screamed—a ragged, desperate sound—then something slid from her body, and just like that, most of the pain was blessedly gone.
The baby.
She had a child.
She craned her neck up to see and watched the Healer pass a bloody, towel-wrapped bundle into another pair of hands that whisked it away across the room. Albus looked after them for a moment, as if torn, then turned back to her and caressed her head.
"The baby?" she asked, although the tears in his eyes told her all.
He said nothing, just stroked her hair, as if by staying silent he could undo it all.
"Albus?" Minerva said.
It was Poppy who spoke. "Minerva, love … the baby has died. I'm so, so sorry." Her voice trembled, and tears spilled down her cheeks.
Minerva closed her eyes in order to be alone with this new agony. She had known, of course, from the moment she'd seen the blood pooling on the classroom floor. She was wise—the wisest witch of her age, some said—and had enough experience of life to know that not speaking a thing didn't make it less true.
But now she knew other things, as well. That grief, for instance, was an utterly inadequate word for so complete a void. It was a lesson she would have cause to revisit years later, in the course of two wars. But for now, it was new and raw information.
She felt Albus's beard on her face, felt his kisses alight gently on her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead … heard him murmuring, "Oh, my love … my angel …" as intimate as if they were alone in her bedroom rather than in this cold, sterile room surrounded by strangers who behaved as if wearing green robes stained with her blood were the most normal thing in the world.
She held his head to her, running her fingers through his hair as if to reassure herself that he was still there, still tangible, still hers.
Poppy stepped away, not wanting to intrude on their grief. She saw Pye going towards them with a grim look on his face. She put up a hand to stop him.
"They know," she said.
Pye nodded gratefully, then moved to the foot of the table to examine Minerva.
"Mrs Dumbledore," he said, "I need to make your uterus contract some more to seal off the blood vessels. It may be uncomfortable. I'm sorry."
She didn't react, and Pye looked over at Poppy. She nodded.
Pye waved his wand over Minerva's abdomen, and she screamed, then turned her head and vomited. Albus held her hair out of the way as her stomach emptied itself. A mediwitch cleaned her with a quick swish of her wand as Albus took her head between his hands and kissed her forehead, his eyes squeezed shut, just as hers were.
Sweat trickled down Poppy's chest and back under her robes as Pye repeated the spell several times, Minerva crying out with each violent spasm of her uterus. Pye lowered his wand, his frown chilling Poppy.
Minerva lay back against the pillow, her face a ghastly grey colour. "What is it?" she whispered. "The baby … a boy or a girl?"
"I don't know," Albus said. "I'll find out."
Poppy gestured for him to stay with Minerva and went to where a mediwitch was holding the baby.
"Can you tell me the sex of the baby? The parents would like to know."
"It's a boy," the mediwitch said quietly.
When Poppy had relayed the information, Minerva looked up at Albus. "Oh, Albus … your son …"
"Our son, my love. He's our son." His tears fell on her face and he dabbed them gently away with his thumbs. She took his hand and held it to her chest.
In the corner, the mediwitch was washing the baby. Poppy joined her and wordlessly handed her a clean towel to dry him. The mediwitch gave her a sad smile. Somehow, they both knew without speaking that using magic to tend to this tiny, extinguished life, so recently filled with its own magic, would be wrong. Some things had to be done by the touch of human hands.
When they were finished, the mediwitch asked, "Do the parents want to see him?"
"I'll ask."
Poppy returned to her friends. "Minerva, Albus, would you like to hold him?"
The couple looked at one another for a moment, then Minerva whispered, "Yes, please." Albus looked at her as if to ask if she were sure, then said, "Yes. I'd like to see my son. Thank you, Poppy."
It was Poppy who brought the tiny bundle to Minerva. She placed him into her friend's arms and left the room to give the family their privacy.
Minerva unwrapped the blanket that concealed her son from her. He was perfect. Tiny and perfect. She held him easily with one hand and gently touched the top of his head, finely dusted with black fuzz. His eyes were closed, so she did not know their colour. She wondered if anyone could tell her. She touched his nose, no larger than a ladybird, and his chest, running her fingers over the nearly translucent skin. He had not yet developed the fat that characterised healthy, full-term infants, and she could see his ribs like delicate piano keys lining his body. She lifted a hand with her index finger—it was so perfectly formed and yet so impossibly small.
She put her nose to his head. He smelt of soap and a deeper, meatier scent she recognised as blood. She kissed him, desperately trying to commit to memory the feel of the soft fuzz on her lips and the waxy texture of his skin against her cheek.
Albus knelt beside them.
"He's beautiful, isn't he?" she said.
"Yes. He has your dark hair."
"They all do at this stage, I think."
Albus stroked a finger along the baby's cheek.
They sat like that, the three of them—Minerva nuzzling the small head, Albus stroking their son's miniature face—until the St Mungo's mediwitch approached.
"Mr and Mrs Dumbledore, I need to take a footprint. I can do it here, if you like, while you hold him." Her voice was kind. "I'll take one for you to keep as well."
Minerva nodded, unable to speak, and the mediwitch Summoned two pieces of parchment and an ink pad.
"May I?" she asked, waiting for Minerva's nod of assent before lifting a tiny foot, pressing the ink pad to it. After making an imprint on each piece of parchment, she Banished the ink pad and parchment to a table, then conjured a damp cloth and tenderly cleaned the baby's foot.
"Would you like a photograph?" she asked.
"I don't know. I …" said Minerva thickly.
"Why don't I take one, and you can decide later if you want it."
"Yes," said Albus.
The mediwitch took a camera she had at the ready from a counter and held it up. "On the count of three: one, two, three …" and the flash went off. "Just so you know, this will be a Muggle-style photo; it won't move. Most parents prefer it that way."
Albus nodded.
The mediwitch left them alone with the baby.
Albus had not fully appreciated what loss meant before this moment, he realised. He'd thought he knew, but he hadn't. His parents, Ariana … they'd been his flesh and blood, he'd loved them, and they'd been torn from him, leaving a void that had taken much of his lifetime to fill, but fill it he had, with work and with Minerva. The scars were still there, but time had worn them to memories that only ached rather than seared.
This baby had been an abstract idea, even after he had felt it moving inside Minerva's body. And now that it had slipped away, the shocking emptiness would never be healed.
As he looked at the tiny being they had made, part of him, part of her, a pang of raw longing seized him.
Perhaps they could …
No.
This fiasco was another demonstration of his unfitness.
He was not like other men, not meant to have what they had. Marrying Minerva had been selfish—he'd known it, but he'd thought maybe … maybe he could have this one thing that he desired above all else, the thing he'd thought had been swept away so long ago with his wicked dreams of power and limitless knowledge … love.
And, against all odds, he'd found it. And they'd been happy, hadn't they?
Until he'd foolishly grasped for more.
He should have taken steps long ago to ensure this could never happen. He'd left it to her, knowing there was a small chance her witch's charm could go wrong, but there were other spells … considered Dark in some quarters, but that didn't matter. Darkness came from within, not from a spell, as Albus knew better than anyone. He could have done it. Saved them this pain.
Minerva's voice pulled him his thoughts.
"You should hold him."
"No, you." He was afraid—absurdly, he knew—of harming the tiny child with his large hands.
They were given a few more minutes until Healer Pye came back into the room, followed by the kind mediwitch.
"It's time," Pye said gently. "We'll take good care of him, I promise."
Minerva looked stricken, and Albus was afraid for a moment that she would refuse to give the child up.
"Come, my love," he said. "Come."
Minerva allowed the mediwitch to take the baby. As soon as the bundle left her arms, she let out a low, keening wail that Albus knew was her heart breaking. His bones ached with it. He put his arms around her as she broke and sobbed into his neck. He stroked her head, crooning, "Now, love … now, love … now, love …" his own tears wetting her hair.