Under normal conditions, Albus could stay awake for approximately four days and function quite effectively. But Albus hadn't had a decent night's sleep in weeks. He could barely stomach sleeping in his own bed-- in their bed made 'his' bed by Gellert's absence. He refused to sleep there. If he slept, it was at the hospital or in his office. Only Cassandra and Perenelle had taken it upon themselves to do more the worriedly suggest that perhaps Albus ought to rest, which was just as well because he only relented to their insistence half of the time.
Albus had finally gone to sleep only a few hours earlier, yielding to very strong instructions from Perenelle and the throbbing in his head. Not that he'd immediately gone to sleep; beside his rumpled, sleeping form lay his discarded tie and a scattered file of unclassified memos. An empty vial of Sleeping Draught stood atop the nightstand. The potion's tendrils still curled about his mind, sedating his consciousness beneath a muddy haze. The sound of his own name failed to stir him, but what followed sliced through the fog of potion-induced sleep, the effects of which were quickly and roughly shredded by either Albus's force of will or his own magic unconsciously pulling it apart. He was pushing himself up before he was even properly awake, his mind trying to make sense of what he thought he'd heard her say.
"What?" he asked, his voice a bit scratchy with such recent sleep. The room was spinning just a little, but a sharp shake of his head set things steady again. Something in his voice strayed perilously close to hope as he said, "What did you say?" His feet, however, were already carrying him to the door.