Who: Albus Dumbledore and Healer Volchineva What: Albus receives a status update on Gellert's condition. When: Tuesday morning Where: Hospital, Berlin Rating: G Status: Complete
Albus hated the way he felt pulled in a dozen different directions, but he threw himself into all of them- into minding the aristocracy, into making sure the administration kept up in Gellert's absence, into maintaining the appearance of worry but not dread, into worrying if Kastra would ever forgive him for keeping her at Hogwarts, into monitoring the barely existent progress of Gellert's condition and care, into cracking down on domestic security, and to turning the Order viciously loose in their investigation. Because the busier he was, the more pressing demands there were on his time, the less energy his mind had to expend on considerations of a funeral. However gently, the Healers looking after Gellert had already told him that making such preparations would be a reasonable precaution. They had tried to say it as though it were nothing more than covering the bases of any eventuality, and some of them even seemed to believe they had succeeded, but the older Healers knew better than to imbue such recommendations with too much genuine optimism.
But Albus couldn't. He simply couldn't stomach the idea. Any time he attempted to, it began enormously difficult to breathe. He'd had thoughts, genuine concerns, of Gellert dying before, the last time someone had attempted to kill Gellert. Albus balked now at how difficult he'd found punishing the last man who'd tried. Over the decades, Albus's patience for such inane stupidity had waned significantly. It didn't trouble him in the slightest, the satisfaction he took in musing over what would follow the completion of the Order's inquiry. They always found these would-be assassins, with or without Cassandra's assistance. This instance would be no different. Albus pined for a lack of difference. He wanted this to be just the same- for Gellert to revive, for justice to be dispensed. Albus would do it himself if it pleased Gellert, or he'd just as happily turn the charge into Gellert's hands.
Either way, it didn't matter. All that seemed significant was to sustain patterns of behaviour that would all be validated with Gellert's recovery- maintaining the legislative agenda of Gellert's office, preserving the strength and menace of Gellert's image, putting Lupin into a convenient proximity. And, of course, keeping up with the affairs of state. He suspected it would have been a bit easier if both his own secretary and Gellert's were not so very new at their jobs, but Albus was well over that particular issue. So long as sometime soon, Gellert was able to bemoan their inefficiency, Albus would be happy. For the moment, however, he refused to sigh as he forced his attention to focus on the security briefing in his hands. Reaching for his tea, which sat on the table of the hospital waiting room, he turned the page and resisted the impulse to count the minutes until he could expect a fresh update from the Healers.
Katja Volchineva had been a Healer for nearly fifteen years, all of which she had spent under the NAA, from her training until reception of her status as Attending Healer in the hospital's private ward. In all those years, she had never met the Federal Chancellor. And loyal though she was, she had never had any particular desire for their unfamiliarity to change. Grindelwald was clever enough, and charming enough when he was at the podium, but even the moving speeches could never outweigh the undercurrent of fear that traveled through the people whenever his name was spoken.
And just a week ago he had come into her ward, fresh from over twenty-four hours of emergency surgery and still in critical condition. Like that, just barely clinging to life, his body still and unmoving on his bed-- There was nothing intimidating about a dead man. And as much as she wished for the Lord Protector's sake that his husband would live, Healer Volchineva had to admit that the likelihood was slim.
She walked down the corridor, Grindelwald's chart in hand, checking over a few of his latest stats. It really was not looking very good, whatever the junior Healers tried to say. They were running out of viable options. There was always young Lupin's suggestion, which had merit, though it was far too risky to use as a first-stop procedure.
Volchineva paused in front of the figure of the Lord Protector, pausing with her head tilted down and the chart held close to her chest, waiting for him to give her permission to speak.
The impulse to stand, to eagerly demand to hear everything she had to say - the current report, any development, her own observations and speculations - was kept sharply in line. Worry was one thing; panic was another thing altogether. Regardless of the circumstance, the government still had to function, and it was difficult enough managing things on his own while his interest wanted so desperately to be applied elsewhere. Albus managed to finish the sentence he was on before looking up expectantly.
"Yes?" he prompted, but not harshly. There was no reason to intimidate, to alarm the medical staff. Fear inclined people to very stupid mistakes, mistakes that simply couldn't be afforded, mistakes that could not be unmade. The Healers had no need to be made aware of the gravity of the situation, and if ever they had the chance to put forth another last-ditch option before Lupin's suggestion had been implemented, now was the time.
"I just came to give you a status update, my Lord," she said, drawing the chart away from her chest to flip open its cover, glancing through the information contained therein. The first page was primarily personal information about Grindelwald--his age, known allergies, medical and family history, a press photograph clipped to the top of the page (not, Volchineva thought, that anyone would ever need help identifying Gellert Grindelwald on sight).
"Good news first, I think," she said, ignoring the automatic urge to try for a small smile. "The antibiotic potion we have him on seems to be doing a fine job of keeping out infection, so that's one less thing we have to worry about." As the Chancellor was allergic to most common antibiotics, they had been forced to try a lesser-known potion--one that was only effective in 35% of cases. Hardly good odds, but it seemed that fortune had favoured cutting them a break this time. "His system is responding beautifully to it."
And here came the less-good part. The part where she had to remind Dumbledore that the system that responded so beautifully to the antibiotic potion wasn't responding to just about anything else. "And here's the bad news." She took in a shallow breath, not wanting to look like she was trying to hard to prepare herself to speak. "His blood pressure is at an all-time low. It plummeted to 50/32 earlier today, and now we are only just holding steady with 78/44. He's tachycardic--his heart is beating far too quickly--which is only circulating the Dark magic through his body even faster." Volchineva paused, steeling herself into something blank, unemotional, professional. "The laceration on his heart has opened up again, as well. They're taking him back into surgery now."
Had Albus not been to immediately fixated on the bad news that had to be coming second, he might have smiled at the scant bit of good news that there was. But the sort of good news Albus wanted would have been preceded by a veritable swarm of Healers bursting into the room, freshly liberated from concern for their lives. So Albus did no more than attempt and fail to smile before nodding his head.
He dropped his eyes from her as she began to speak. They fell aimlessly to the tabletop before him, his mouth stiffening into a hard line at words like 'again' and 'back' as he tried to fight what he hoped was an irrational fear that progress was never going to be made. He permitted a small corner of the back of his mind to seethe a bit, to wallow in an inability to understand why they simply could not fix the problem. They were the best Healers available, anywhere. It was in that part of his mind that he was able to be furious with himself- why hadn't he been there? Why hadn't he been able to stop it? Why hadn't he ducked out of that bloody meeting? Why, in the near-century he'd been alive, had he never acquired exhaustive training in medical magic? But at least the rest of his mind was more patient, more practical, and less inclined to vent his frustration on the people attempting to rectify the problem.
Clearing his throat to ensure his voice was filtered of any roughness, Albus looked back up to her. "Is there now want of siphoning some of it off, transferring it to a healthy system, perhaps?" As he asked, he'd meant himself. He didn't have critical injuries to contend with, he could endure the magic of it far better than Gellert could in his current state. Even as the idea settled in his mind, he knew using himself for such a venture would be impractical. They couldn't both be in precarious states, not with Kastra - and at first his mind balked, fiercely, at the thought that almost crossed his mind, but just as quickly Albus had control of his senses once again - bent on reform, and perhaps capable of making... productive use of the situation. He hated such considerations; hated the way they crept more and more often into his thoughts. And even more, he hated that they were justified. At any rate, it couldn't be Albus. So it would have to be someone else, if it were even possible. Albus doubted whoever it was would survive. But that's what Nurmengard was for, the service of the greater good. How fitting, he couldn't help thinking it, if those so devoted to subverting the NAA were put to use for the task of saving Gellert's life.
It was only the fact that it was Dumbledore who sat before her that kept Volchineva from arching an incredulous brow. "That would be highly unethical, I'm afraid," she said. "Neither I nor any other Healer could consent to such a procedure." Unfortunately. Who knew what sort of danger her own life would be in when Grindelwald inevitably died? But there were lines. Very clear lines. And this was one that Volchineva refused to cross.
She hesitated only briefly before slipping into the seat next to Albus, lacing her hands together atop the chart in her lap. She leaned forward a bit, trying to look into his eyes. Was there any way that she could get across to him the severity of what they were dealing with right now? She understood denial--it was all too common amongst those whose loved ones were dying--but Dumbledore was the Lord Protector. Unlike most of the other families that came through her ward, he could not afford to let his grief blind him. And though she wanted very much to believe that he could remain emotionally detached through all of this, she also knew--everyone knew--just how much he loved Grindelwald. He was only a man...though a man with great responsibility.
"I don't think he will make it through the week," she said quietly. "If his condition improves at all in the next few days, we could try Private Lupin's suggestion, but right now he is still too unstable and I'm afraid it may merely hasten the process."
The field of ethics was one Albus increasingly wished was left to philosophers. When this whole mess was over, he was going to see to it that significant portions of the standardized curriculum was revised. There were ethics, and then there were ethics. And there had to be ways around them- of course there were. It was simply a matter of finding them. The real trouble was, Albus had a poor ability to trust his own judgement in this field. It had quite literally been decades since Albus had felt so entirely without his bearings.
Really dealing with the possibility of Gellert's death would have felt far too much like a concession. Albus told himself that the primary reason he was clinging to his refusal because if he didn't, the Healers overseeing the case might, however unconsciously, find the eventuality acceptable. Or at least, acceptable to him. And it wasn't. It couldn't be. Not with everything he'd done to try to insulate them from this. His jaw tightened when she offered her opinion, the beating of his heart suddenly feeling out of sync and discordant. He barred from his mind considerations of funeral processions. Of forests of flowers bearing condolences. Of the sort of music they would-
"Is he-" Albus throat almost tightened, but he started again, "Has he regained consciousness, at all?" It was a pointless question, even if the answer felt completely significant. He knew that he was stalling, giving some scrap of his mind a moment to make himself say words that sounded like a decision. It was all he needed, and all he could grab at- just one more moment.
Volchineva shook her head. "No. We have been keeping him heavily sedated. And even with the sedation, he is still in...a lot of pain." She could not bring herself to describe to Dumbledore the way Grindelwald's pulse would suddenly spike if the sedation abated even the slightest bit, or the way he would cry out and groan even through the unconsciousness that kept his mind mostly still. She drew her eyes away from the Lord Protector, back down to the chart, though her gaze did not focus on it. She tapped her pen against the hinge that held the chart together.
"And that brings me to my next question," she said after several seconds had passed, dragging her attention back to Dumbledore's face. Somehow he looked even more ill than the Chancellor, in this moment. She made a mental note to speak to her nurses, see if someone couldn't find an empty call room in which he could sleep tonight. "There is the option of sedating him further. We could make his last few days virtually painless, with your consent. There is a risk that the potions could cause permanent brain damage, but at this point such risks are a little irrelevant."
There was something vaguely comforting in that. If Gellert had woken up, even for a moment, and it had escaped Albus's notice, or the Healers' reports, Albus would have been something close to furious. But he knew- he knew Gellert hadn't regained consciousness the same way he knew Gellert was still in pain. When Albus lay in their devastatingly empty bed, a bed that now felt so large and so cold that it was practically inhospitable, he could feel Gellert through the threads of his magic contained in Albus's body. They throbbed in Albus's awareness the way the smell of Gellert's hair clung tortuously to the pillows and sheets, quietly but insistently.
"No," Albus said almost immediately. Gellert had never in his life balked from a bit of pain, and Albus wasn't about to let some sentimental desire for comfort tarnish that record, especially at the risk of damaging his mind. For the life of him, it took him several moments to agree to understand why on earth people suggested such things to him. "No, his pain management at present is acceptable." But was anything truly acceptable when the alternatives were so very, very sparse? His tone had fallen back into a precise, clipped formality, in part to make it clear that he was issuing orders, and in part to keep himself properly contained. "The moment he achieves a measure of stability you will begin Private Lupin's suggested course of treatment. And I'm to be informed immediately."
Volchineva nodded, though she knew her surprise showed on her face. Though perhaps she ought not to have been as taken aback as she was. After all, Dumbledore and Grindelwald were more than just politicians. Both of them continued to publish research in several eminent academic journals, presumably things discovered when they were younger, before the management of an empire overtook all of their time, or experiments performed for entertainment's sake whenever there were lulls in the pressures of state affairs. Of course Dumbledore would wish to preserve his husband's mind above all else. Like most of her friends, Volchineva had read the magazines when she was younger. She knew how Grindelwald said the two of them had met. It had been their shared intellect that had brought them together. She felt a stab of sympathy for the man sitting next to her just now, the man who still clung to preserving that genius despite the fact that the man who boasted it would be dead before the week's end. His brilliant mind would be as good as worthless.
But there was no questioning the Lord Protector. Not really. Not on the subject of the Chancellor, at least.
"Of course," she said, pushing herself to standing and closing the chart. "You will be told the moment he regains any ground." An unlikely possibility, but a possibility nonetheless. Volchineva found herself hoping, for the first time in her life, that her expert medical opinion was wildly, wildly wrong.