"Muggles have been transfusing blood for more than one hundred years, quite successfully," Jean-Baptiste said in his lightly accented English. "It is only experimental to us because we look down on Muggle medicine, even when it has proved successful."
Poppy admired the calm way he had been explaining the rationale for the procedure she hoped might save Minerva's life. His calmness was one of the things that attracted her to this wizard; he always made her feel that everything was under control, even when all outward signs pointed to the opposite conclusion.
When she and Jean-Baptiste had first suggested blood transfusion to Pye and Burgess—whom Pye had called in to consult once again—the Healers were more than sceptical, but to their credit, Poppy thought, they were willing to listen. Pye, especially, did not seem to hold Muggle medicine in the automatic contempt that so many Healers seemed to.
"Yes, but magical blood has thaumaturgic properties that don't exist in Muggle blood," Healer Burgess said. "We just don't know what negative effects such a procedure might have."
"True," replied Jean-Baptiste. "But those properties are related to the individual's magic, not to the physiological functions of blood. Any effects would probably be limited to the patient's magical abilities."
"That could still have profound effects on the patient," said Pye.
"Dying has even profounder effects," Poppy snapped. She immediately regretted her tone, but she was so drained by the events of the past days that she was having trouble keeping her emotions in check.
Glancing at her, Healer Burgess said, "Perhaps it would be best at this point to bring Albus—Professor Dumbledore—into the discussion. Not only is it his wife we are talking about, but he has more experience of Dark magic than any of us does, and that is, after all, what we are talking about when we talk about the exchange of magical blood."
"I think that's wise," said Poppy.
The group filed quietly into Minerva's room, where they found Albus sitting at his post, holding one of Minerva's hands in his.
Poppy leant down to him and whispered, "Albus, there's something we'd like to discuss with you."
The exhausted wizard got heavily to his feet.
"Professor Dumbledore," Pye said, "Madam Pomfrey and Healer"—he searched for the name for a moment—"Martel have come up with an idea for treating Mrs Dumbledore. It might allow us to bring up her platelets and fibrinogen—which she desperately needs—without overloading her with blood components that could worsen her condition."
"Yes, go on," said Albus, running a weary hand over his face.
"It is somewhat … unorthodox. So we wanted your opinion on the matter before deciding whether or not to proceed."
"My opinion? I am no Healer," said Albus.
"Albus," Cressida said, "we are considering transfusing blood into Minerva from another person."
Albus's brows drew together.
"I'm not sure I understand."
"It is actually quite simple," said the Healer Albus didn't recognise. "We take some blood from one person, separate out the components Mrs Dumbledore needs, and introduce those components into her circulation,"
Albus looked at the stranger for the first time.
"I don't mean to be rude, but who the hell are you?"
"Ah, forgive me, Professor. My name is Jean-Baptiste Martel. I am a Healer. I normally live and practise in Paris, but I am here at St Mungo's on a fellowship. I am studying long-term cell damage in curse victims. Madam Pomfrey is a friend and told me about Mrs. Dumbledore's condition. She thought I might have some ideas."
Albus looked at Poppy, who held his gaze. When he turned it to Galeneus Pye, however, the young Healer wilted under it and looked down at his shoes rather than meeting it. Finally, Albus addressed Cressida Burgess.
"Do you agree with this idea, Cressida?"
She didn't answer immediately, and Albus knew she was turning it over in her formidable mind. Finally, she said, "It has potential. Evidently, Muggles have used it with great success for a century. But I'm concerned that we don't know what kind of side-effects it might have when applied to magical blood."
"Side-effects?"
"I don't need to tell you that blood is used in Dark magic because of the apparent ability of magical blood to strengthen the properties of a spell. We don't know how or why this happens, so we can't predict what the effects will be if we infuse a much larger volume of blood than is used in most Dark rituals directly into a patient."
"What will happen if we don't do this … infusion?" Albus asked.
The three Healers looked around at one another.
It was Pye who spoke. "We can't be sure. She may begin to produce enough clotting factors on her own, or she may not."
"If she does not?"
"Her blood will refuse to clot properly. She could bleed to death."
"And do you have any prediction as to how likely that is to happen?"
Cressida said, "About fifty percent of patients in Mrs Dumbledore's condition die."
Albus looked at her, stricken.
After a moment, he asked, "Have you ever done it before? Among wizards?"
Cressida shook her head. "No."
"Jean-Baptiste saw it done several times when he was in the last Muggle war in France," said Poppy.
"Many times, actually," said Jean-Baptiste.
"You were in the war? The Muggle war?" asked Albus.
"Yes. My mother was a Muggle, and I fought with them to free my country from the tyranny of the Muggle dictator. My mother's family was Jewish."
"I see," said Albus, looking at the man intently. "We are both veterans of war, then."
Martel nodded.
"How does this procedure work?" Albus asked.
"We would simply remove some blood from the donor, separate out the necessary components, and transfer them into Mrs Dumbledore's circulation slowly, over a matter of hours."
"Then do it," said Albus.
Poppy gave a sigh of relief.
"What equipment do you need, Healer Martel?" asked Pye.
"I can find what I need in the laboratory. I'll get it now."
As he turned to go, Albus grabbed him by the upper arm.
"Save my wife, Healer Martel."
Martel gave a solemn nod and disappeared through the door.
Pye cleared his throat, as if to reassert his authority, and said, "We need to decide on a donor."
"We will use my blood," said Albus.
"It might be advisable to use someone younger," Pye said. "We need about a litre of blood, and we don't know what effect the drain will have."
"It must be me," Albus said.
"Healer Pye, Professor Dumbledore is quite healthy and very strong. I assure you he can spare a litre of blood," Poppy said.
"All right." Pye returned to Minerva's bed and passed his wand over her, running more tests.
Albus whispered to Poppy, "Do you believe this is the right thing to do?"
"Yes, Albus. I do."
Albus resumed his post by Minerva's bed. He was a man used to making decisions—often grave decisions—and rarely second-guessed himself. He was thorough in weighing all factors before deciding on a course of action, but once it was taken, he did not tend to re-examine it, except, perhaps, much later, when all the ramifications had become clear.
But the decisions Albus Dumbledore was accustomed to making generally had to do with the Greater Good, even when they involved the lives of individuals. He did not make them easily, but he never wavered in his duty to do so. He now found himself at sea, confronting, as he was, a series of choices that were so personally consequential. The decisions to allow the Healers to remove Minerva's womb, and now, to allow them to put his blood in her veins, were too personal, too specific to his love for her to allow him any sort of comfort at having made them.
He sat again and waited for the consequences of his decision to unfold.
~oOo~
When Healer Martel returned with the equipment they needed, Poppy and Healers Pye and Burgess gathered around him to watch as he began the procedure.
He took a large glass bottle, added a small amount of fluid to it from a phial marked Sodium Citrate, and connected a rubber tube to a valve at the bottle's neck. He then attached a large-bore needle to the other end of the tube.
He said, "Professor Dumbledore, please take up the sleeve of your robe. I need to look at your vessels." Dumbledore did so, and Martel took his arm, gently prodding the ropy, blue veins near the crook of the older wizard's elbow with the pads of his fingers.
"I am going to puncture a vessel with this needle," Martel told him," then I will Stick the needle to your arm. You must keep still. It will speed things along if we Levitate your chair to help the blood to flow down into the bottle."
"Proceed, Healer Martel."
Martel cleaned a spot on Dumbledore's arm with a gauze sponge saturated with a brownish fluid and then held the arm steady with one hand while sliding the needle into the vein with the other. After a moment, blood snaked its way down through the tube to trickle into the bottle in a thin, crimson stream. Martel nodded in satisfaction, then used a Sticking Charm to affix the needle to Dumbledore's arm. He took his wand and Levitated the chair about four feet from the ground.
"How are you feeling, Professor?" he asked.
"Fine, thank you."
"You will let me know if you feel dizzy, yes?"
"I will."
Albus closed his eyes. The associations blood had with Dark magic didn't worry him; he knew that intention, not medium, was the deciding factor in whether a spell was Dark or Light, and he hoped the same held true of non-magical arts. All his intention was focussed on strength and healing for Minerva. He visualised her as the bright, vibrant girl she had been when he'd first known her, and as the confident, brilliant woman she had become in the years since. He thought about the power he had sensed in her the first time she'd attempted a complex spell in his Transfiguration class, and the way it had seemed to produce a vibration inside his head as he stood near her while she cast. He willed his vitality into his blood, hoping it would sustain and nourish hers.
Martel removed more than a litre of Albus's blood, divided into two bottles, Poppy and Healer Pye watching Albus carefully for any signs of shock from the loss.
When the donation was finished, Albus was made to lie down on a bed next to Minerva's, and Pye gave him a dose of strong Blood-Replenishing Potion.
Meanwhile, Martel set about separating the blood components Minerva needed from the whole blood. He performed only two spells: the first to enlarge the centrifuge he'd brought from the lab, and the second to make it spin rapidly. Once he was satisfied that the plasma was separated from the red cells, he, Poppy, and Healer Burgess, who were working under his direction, transferred the yellowish fluid from the phials in which it had been contained into two new glass bottles.
When it was done, Healer Martel approached Dumbledore.
"Professor, I am going to begin the infusion now."
Albus rose from his bed and took his previous seat next to Minerva. Martel Transfigured a metal basin into a large pole with a hook at the top and set it on the other side of the bed. He then attached another rubber tube to the flange on the bottle of plasma and clamped it to prevent the precious fluid from leaking out. He removed a small glass syringe from his robe pocket and screwed a large-bore needle to the end, then he nodded at Poppy. She took Minerva's arm and cleaned it with the brown fluid, as she had seen Jean-Baptiste do with Albus. Martel inserted the needle into Minerva's vein and drew back on the plunger of the syringe until he saw the flash of bright-red blood in the chamber. He deftly unscrewed the syringe from the needle and Stuck it to Minerva's arm. Taking the end of the rubber tube, he screwed it onto the needle and hung the bottle of plasma on the pole.
"How long will it be until we know if it has worked?" asked Albus.
"The infusion will take about two hours. After that, it will depend upon how quickly her blood clots properly. We should know in a few hours."
"May I touch her?"
"Of course." Martel gestured to the others. "We will leave you in peace for the moment. I will be back to check on her in fifteen minutes."
Albus nodded, and the four others left the room.
Albus sat, letting Minerva's hand rest on his, his thumb making soft circles on the back of it. He watched as the fluid slowly dripped into her, willing it to provide his beloved with strength and life. He said nothing when Jean-Baptiste and Pye returned periodically to check on her, nor when they changed the first bottle for the second one.
Once the second bottle was empty, Martel removed the needle from Minerva's arm and cast a quick spell to seal the puncture. Pye ran a series of diagnostic spells while Martel worked.
"Her platelets are up, which is excellent news," Pye said. "Hopefully, it will allow her to begin to clot enough to stop the coagulopathy, and she'll continue to produce clotting factors on her own. I'll check again in an hour."
Shortly after that, Poppy came into the room with a tray of food.
"It's steak-and-kidney pie," she said, moving a small table next to Albus's chair. "You need to eat. You also need to rest soon." She put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you have a lie-down on the other bed again. You'll hear Minerva if she wakes, I'm sure."
"Thank you, Poppy," Albus said. "For everything." He added, "Your Mr Martel seems most competent. I should like to get to know him better when all this is over."
"He's quite an extraordinary man. I'm sure he'd welcome the chance to become better acquainted with you and Minerva. He's heard a great deal about you both. I'm going to Floo back to Hogwarts for a bit. I'll check back here in a few hours unless something changes before then. I've asked Healer Pye to have me called if that's the case."
After Poppy left, Albus consumed the pasty she had brought, without really tasting it. When he had finished, he grasped Minerva's hand. He leant down to kiss the pale, cold skin of her forehead and took up his vigil once again.