He was making his way down a long, dark hallway.
He thought at first he was in the dungeons at Hogwarts, but that couldn't be right because none of the doors would open to him, and he was Headmaster.
Wasn't he?
Actually, he wasn't sure. He knew he was searching for something or someone, but what it was, he couldn't quite recall. It was essential, though, that he find it. Or him. Or her. Yes, her. That felt right. It was a woman he was seeking, then. Or a girl. He wasn't sure which.
He proceeded down the corridor, trying each door, both with his hands and his wand, but none would open until he came to the last. This one was old wood and covered with cobwebs. It would not open to his wand, but when he tried the rusty iron handle, it swung inwards to reveal a dingy room that seemed familiar, although he couldn't quite place it. There was a double bed with a brass frame, covered with a threadbare cotton blanket. Small tables flanked either side, one bearing an old-looking ceramic lantern with a black candle, half-melted. A moth-eaten wool rug covered the dirty wood floor, its pattern almost indecipherable with wear.
He thought he was alone, but a voice made him turn around.
"Albus?"
It was Minerva. She was dressed as she had been at their wedding—her simple dress of white silk overlaid with lace, with a tartan rosette at the shoulder and a sash falling to her hip. Other than her dress, she didn't look as he remembered her from their wedding day. Her face, for example. It was as it had been when he had first loved her: open, fresh, and unlined with care at eighteen, and her long hair was tied back with a green silk ribbon, as it had often been when she was a schoolgirl. As he looked, he realised she was heavily pregnant.
She gestured for him to lie down with her on the bed, so he did. When he took her in his arms, however, he found that she was hard where he remembered softness, and she didn't return his embrace. He lifted his head to look at her and found she was a doll-Minerva. How had he been so mistaken? He sat up and found the doll had vanished. In its place was a spreading pool of blood.
"Clean up your mess, Albus," came another voice, this one male and gruff.
"I didn't mean to …"
"I'll not have her blood in my bed. You made the mess, now clean it up, as Mother taught you," said Aberforth.
Albus tried to Scourgify the stain, but it remained accusingly crimson on the bedclothes.
He turned to his brother. "I can't, I don't know why, but I can't." He was crying now.
"Are ye daft, man?" came yet another voice. He recognised it as Thorfinn McGonagall's, but the face was still Aberforth's and filled with his brother's habitual contempt. "That's not the way."
Thorfinn-Aberforth waved his wand, and the blood disappeared. "Here," he said, holding out a phial to Albus. "She'll be needing this. Take it to her."
Albus took the phial of blood. "I don't know where she is. I've looked and looked, but I can't find her."
But the figure was gone.
He heard Minerva singing.
"Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw,
But to me it's delightless—my Nanie's awa."
"Albus …"
"The snawdrap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn …"
"Albus …"
"They pain my sad bosom sae sweetly they blaw."
"Albus …"
"They mind me o' Nanie …"
"Albus …"
He opened his eyes, and it took him a moment before he recognised the face of Cressida Burgess looking down at him in the dim light of the hospital room.
"I'm sorry to wake you, but I thought you could use something to eat." She motioned to a small table on which sat a sandwich and a glass of milk.
"It's cheese and pickle—not your favourite, as I recall, but I'm afraid that's all that was left in the break room," she said. When he waved his hands, she added, "No arguments. You need to eat."
"Is everything all right? How is she," he asked, his voice papery with recent sleep.
"She's holding her own. The same cannot be said for you, however." She pulled the table over so it sat in front of him and dropped a napkin on his lap.
"Eat."
"Still as bossy as ever, I see," he said.
"More so. Eat."
She sat with him until he had finished most of the sandwich and drank the milk.
"There. I've done what you asked. Now you can do me a favour," he said.
"What is it?"
"Tell me the truth. Will she live?"
Cressida looked at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I hope so … I think so."
He said nothing, just looked back at the figure lying prone on the bed.
"You love her very much," said Cressida.
"Yes."
"She must be an extraordinary woman."
"She is."
"How long have you been together?"
"It will be ten years this December."
"She's a teacher at your school, I believe."
"Yes. Transfiguration."
"I've read a bit of her work—quite brilliant, some of it," Cressida said. "Is that how you met?"
"Yes and no. I met her when she was a student …" He stopped, suddenly self-conscious, and looked back at his interlocutor.
Cressida rubbed her hands together as if she were warming them, a nervous gesture Albus remembered well from their alchemy days. "It's really none of my business," she said.
"No, it's just that I didn't want it to sound like …" He stopped again. Like what? Like what it had, in fact, been?
Cressida smiled. "I wasn't thinking that you had taken up with a student, Albus. It's been a long time, but I hope I still know you better than that."
"We married the year after she began teaching at Hogwarts."
"That must be nice, to work in the same place. Otherwise it's hard to manage two careers and a marriage."
"It has its benefits," he said. "And its difficulties."
"One of those being that you need to keep it a secret."
"Not a secret, exactly."
"No?"
"We haven't broadcast it, but our friends are aware of it, and our colleagues."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound as if I were accusing you of hiding it. It was just a surprise. Your name is in the Daily Prophet often enough; it's a little odd that they never mention a wife."
"Minerva is a private person," he said. "We both feel it's better for the school if we keep our relationship strictly professional during term. I suppose it just became habit."
"I see. Probably wise." She didn't mention the obvious fact that pregnancy and a baby would have changed that dramatically.
"And you," he said, "are you married? Children?" He wasn't especially interested in small talk, but he wanted to steer the conversation away from his relationship with Minerva.
"Heavens, no. I never found anyone who felt I was worth the bother."
"I doubt that."
"Or maybe they didn't want to compete with my work."
"Too many men do find it a competition, I think," he said. "A wife with an independent career. A very successful career, I might add. It's their loss."
"Maybe."
They were both glad of the interruption when Healer Pye entered the room.
"Oh, hello, Cressida. I didn't realise you were here," he said.
"It's all right, Galeneus. I was just bringing Albus something to eat. We're old acquaintances."
"We studied together for a time," said Albus.
"Well …" said Pye, blinking nervously. "I need to run some tests, if you don't mind."
"Of course," said Albus.
Pye was already looking the under the bedclothes to see if there was any bleeding. He waved his wand over Minerva several times and examined the numbers his wand revealed.
"How is she?" asked Albus anxiously.
"Her bleeding is almost stopped, which is very good news indeed. I'd still like to see some of her clotting factors improve, though. I'll come back in another hour and check them again."
"I'd best be going, too," Cressida said as Pye bustled out. "I won't tell you not to worry, Albus. But she seems a strong witch, and I'd say she's got a better-than-average chance of recovering. Don't wear yourself out. She'll need your strength as she heals."
"Thank you. And thank you for the sandwich."
She patted his hand and left.
When Poppy arrived three hours later, Albus was sitting exactly where she had left him the evening before, simply watching Minerva.
"How was her night?" she asked.
"All right. Pye seems to think she's better. She hasn't woken, though."
"That's probably to be expected." Worry furrowed her brow. She ran a gentle hand down one of Minerva's arms and peered down at it, frowning.
Before he could inquire about what she'd seen, she asked, "Have you slept at all?"
"Yes, actually, I dozed a bit," he said, remembering his disturbing dream. What had it meant? He didn't ordinarily attribute much meaning to dreams, other than as the effluvia of the mind's daily life, but he believed that some revealed hidden truths, if one was prepared to look. This dream seemed important, somehow. Or was it just his heightened emotional state that made it seem so? Whatever the dream had been, it reminded him of something he had to do.
"Poppy, I wonder if you could procure some parchment, some ink, and a quill for me? I don't want to leave her, and only staff are supposed to cast in the wards."
"Of course."
When she'd brought the items he'd requested, she slipped out of the room to give him privacy as he wrote.
20 October 1967
My dear Thorfinn,
It is with a heavy heart and deep regret that I must impart my news to you in writing rather than in person, but I believe you will understand the necessity when you read it.
Yesterday afternoon, Minerva was taken suddenly ill. Our matron was quick to recognise the problem as a complication of her pregnancy and transported her to St Mungo's immediately, where she gave birth to a son. I am very sorry to tell you that the child was stillborn. Minerva is still quite ill, although the Healers in charge of her care are hopeful that she will recover soon.
I am with her and will alert you to any change in her condition, and, of course, I will let you know when she is ready to receive visitors. For the moment, however, I don't believe there is anything to be gained by you coming down to London, although if you feel you must, I will certainly understand.
I'm sorry.
Yours,
Albus
He reread the letter to be sure it was not overly alarming but that it also struck the correct note of gravity. He didn't want to frighten Thorfinn needlessly, but just in case she didn't … .
He shook his head fiercely. He wouldn't think of that.
He hoped Thorfinn would remain in Caithness until Minerva awoke, but he recognised that if the situation were reversed, he himself would not take kindly to an admonition to stay away.
Once he'd folded the note and addressed it, he put it in his pocket. He would ask Poppy to send it by owl post when she returned to Hogwarts.
~oOo~
Poppy found Healer Pye in the small room off the corridor. The dark circles under his eyes gave away his exhaustion and made his youthful face seem old.
"Healer Pye?"
"Oh, Madam Pomfrey," he said, looking up. "Did you get some rest?"
"Yes, thank you, although I suspect you did not."
"It's part of the job," he said, unable to hide the weariness in his voice. "I grabbed a quick kip in the break room. I expect you'd like an update on Mrs Dumbledore?"
"Yes, please."
Pye told her about what he had found overnight and his ongoing concerns. "The post-partum haemorrhage is resolved, but her platelets and fibrinogen don't seem to be coming up as I'd hoped."
"I was afraid of that. I noticed some petechiae," said Poppy, referring to the little red spots that she'd seen dotting Minerva's arms, indicating that her capillaries were leaking blood. "What can you do about it?"
"Not much, except hope her clotting improves soon," replied Pye. "I don't dare give her more potion at this point; it might overload her volume or red cells, but I don't have any other way of replacing what she needs."
Not much.
Poppy was sick to death of hearing those words. Fatigue, worry, and frustration were building up in her to a boiling point.
Not much.
If she heard those two words again, she might scream aloud. She fought her frustration and managed a tight, "Thank you, Healer Pye."
She returned to Minerva's room—to check on Albus more than Minerva, really—and he asked her to send the letter he had written. She told him about the morning's announcements and about Molly Prewett's message. He did not seem surprised, so Poppy assumed Minerva had told him about Molly.
She Flooed back to Hogwarts and took Albus's letter to the Owlery. As she was walking back to the infirmary, something tickled at the back of her mind. By the time she arrived at her destination, the nagging tickle had grown to a persistent itch.
She decided to look to see if there was anything in her extensive collection of medical texts that could be of use.
Two hours later, she had nearly exhausted her resources on blood, blood clotting, Blood-Replenishing Potions, and haematological spells, and even had even cracked open her book on dealing with Dark magic injuries, Cursed: A Healer's Guide to Dark Spells, Potions, and Other Nasty Things, hoping for something—anything—that might help her help her friend. She had thumbed through the chapter on blood magic and was about to snap the unpleasant book shut when an illustration caught her eye. It was an engraving of a man in medieval dress who was holding a knife over the wrist of another, obviously ailing, man. The knife-wielder held a basin under the other man's arm, presumably to catch the blood.
The caption read:
Muggle Healers (called "doctors") often let blood as part of their "healing" rituals. Wizards and witches should not be alarmed if they encounter this practice in Muggle hospitals, as Muggle blood does not possess the same magical properties as wizarding blood, so Dark Magical effects do not apply.
Poppy as she closed the book.
Silly prejudices.
She yawned and rested her head on her arms.
Muggles haven't used bloodletting as a medical practice in more than a hundred years.
In fact, it seemed to her that some of the Muggle medical practices she had talked about with Jean-Baptiste were more advanced and promising than those typically employed by wizarding Healers.
She sat up straight again, heart pounding.
A conversation she had had with Jean-Baptiste had popped into her head. They had been discussing the differences between Muggle and wizarding approaches to triaging trauma, and Poppy had remarked that Muggles were terribly hampered by the inability to use spells to stanch minor blood flow, close superficial wounds, or employ potions to replace lost blood in the field. Jean-Baptiste had replied that the Muggles did quite well, considering, and that they had come up with the ingenious idea of transfusing blood from one to another as a way of preventing death from blood loss. While initial experiments had not been entirely successful, Jean-Baptiste had told her, once the Muggles had figured out that there were different blood groups with differing antigenic properties, they had become quite adept at using the technique. It was a wonder the wizarding world had not picked it up prior to the advent of Blood-Replenishing Potions, he'd said, as it was actually less complicated than in the Muggle world, since the relatively homogenous wizarding gene pool produced only one unique blood group.
Moreover, Jean-Baptiste had continued admiringly, Muggle scientists had developed the capacity to separate blood components, allowing doctors to tailor treatments to their patients' needs, whereas Blood-Replenishing Potions simply helped the body create more whole blood quickly. Useful, to be sure, but not without drawbacks.
It was this last bit of the conversation that Poppy recalled now. If they could give Minerva just the components with the highest platelet and fibrinogen concentrations, maybe that would stop the overconsumption of clotting factors without risking stroke, heart failure or organ damage from too much fluid or too many red cells in her circulation.
Poppy Banished the many texts she had spread out around her back to their shelves, ran to the fireplace, and Flooed to St Mungo's. She didn't, however, stop at Minerva's room. She headed instead to the basement laboratories to speak with Jean-Baptiste.