Chapter 229
Under the faint moonlight, the castle stood tall in the darkness, but the inner corridors were filled with an unprecedented sense of dread.
Hagrid advanced with wide, agitated strides, the sound of his heavy boots striking the stone floor with an echo that filled the space. In his arms, he carried Albert; the boy's frail body hung almost lifelessly, and blood flowed down his face like thick, unceasing sweat.
Behind him hurried Harry, Hermione, and Ron, their faces masked with panic, their breaths ragged from running and fear.
Hagrid, who was always a symbol of strength and solidity, seemed this time as if a weight beyond his endurance had broken over his shoulders. His face was grim, and his eyes carried a deep sadness that didn't match his massive stature.
He muttered in a low voice, as if trying to reassure the Albert who was moaning almost inaudibly: "Hold on, my friend... just a little longer... we'll reach Madam Pomfrey now!!"
But inside, he knew time was running out. He felt it with every passing second, with every drop of blood that fell from Albert, leaving a horrific trail on the floor behind them.
"Hagrid, hurry!" Hermione shouted, her voice trembling as she tried to keep up with his giant strides. Ron, whose face seemed to have lost all color, tried to say something but couldn't. As for Harry, he ran silently beside them, his eyes fixed on Albert, who seemed to be fading away in Hagrid's hands.
Finally, they reached the Hospital Wing. Hagrid kicked the door open with force and rushed inside without stopping.
Madam Pomfrey, dressed in her clean white uniform, raised her head immediately upon hearing the door. Her first look at Hagrid and what he carried in his arms was enough for her to understand everything.
"Put him here, immediately!" she said sharply, pointing to the nearest bed.
Her voice was full of firmness, but she couldn't hide the concern that flashed in her eyes; she felt deeply alarmed once she saw Albert's current state.
Hagrid placed Albert on the bed carefully, as if the slightest movement might increase his suffering. When he pulled back, blood had stained his hands and cloak. Albert looked terrifyingly pale, his eyes half-closed, as if he were about to surrender.
Madam Pomfrey bent over him immediately, examining him with extreme care. "This is no ordinary damage..." she said in a low voice, as if talking to herself. She touched his face gently, then looked at the blood still flowing slowly. "This is very powerful magic he was hit with... It is complex."
"Can... can you save him?" Harry asked, his voice full of plea and fear at once.
Madam Pomfrey raised her hand to ask for silence. "I will do everything I can, but this needs more than ordinary healing potions. It needs special spells, and perhaps more time than we have!! First, we must know his blood type!!"
Hermione spoke with lightning speed: "It's B, Ma'am!!"
Upon hearing this, Pomfrey felt even more panicked. "Damn it!! That is a very rare type to obtain!! Right now, you must search for someone who has this blood type and is willing to donate to this boy!! Go, hurry, we have no time!!"
Harry, Ron, and Hermione rushed out of the room, splitting up in hopes of finding someone with that blood type.
Hagrid, standing near the bed, covered his face with his hands for a moment and said in a hoarse voice: "He has to survive... Albert is brave and doesn't deserve what is happening to him."
"I'll need your help," Madam Pomfrey said suddenly, clutching several small bottles filled with different liquids. "Hagrid, bring me this potion from the cabinet there. I will monitor his pulse..."
Hagrid rushed forward, saying: "Alright!!"
After Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the hospital wing, leaving Albert in a deplorable state—his body stretched motionless on the bed, his face turned to a haunting shade of strange purple, evidence of blood loss and lack of life—they walked through the corridors in heavy silence.
After moments of silence, Harry said in a firm voice: "We have to move now. Albert needs blood. We'll split up and search for anyone with blood type B. We can't wait any longer."
Ron looked at him with a worried gaze and said: "But what if we don't find anyone? What if...?"
Hermione interrupted him, determination clear in her voice: "No time for despair. We have to try. Come on, every minute wasted could be Albert's last!"
The three dispersed in the corridors, each carrying a sliver of hope and a mountain of terror. Harry headed quickly to the most crowded parts of the castle. He started with his close friends, running to the Gryffindor common room where he found Seamus, Dean, and Neville.
"Does any of you have blood type B?" Harry asked urgently, as if his life depended on the answer.
Seamus shook his head sadly, and Neville said quietly: "Sorry, Harry... I'm type A." Dean added: "Try the others, maybe someone can help him."
Harry didn't give up. He continued searching and asking everyone he saw, from his Gryffindor peers to Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, but to no avail. Even when he decided to swallow his pride and ask some Slytherin students, whom he couldn't stand, he was met with looks of disdain and mockery from some, while others told him they didn't have the required type.
Meanwhile, Hermione was walking rapidly through the castle corridors, entering halls and asking students and teachers. Her face was pale, her mind burning with anxiety. As for Ron, he was running randomly, asking everyone without exception—he even entered the kitchen to ask the House-elves if they knew anything about blood types or if they could help.
But all efforts seemed to hit a wall of despair.
Inside the hospital wing, the atmosphere was charged with anxiety. Madam Pomfrey stood by the bed, her hands trying to soothe the bleeding that had stopped with great difficulty. But the situation was still extremely critical.
Suddenly, the door opened forcefully, and Professor McGonagall entered, followed by Headmaster Dumbledore. One look at Albert was enough to make McGonagall intensely tense. Her face turned pale, and her eyes watched Albert as if he were fading before her.
"My goodness..." she whispered, placing her hand over her mouth. "How did his condition reach this point?"
Dumbledore, appearing calm as usual but carrying deep concern in his eyes, approached the bed and said in a low voice: "Tell me, Madam Pomfrey, what is happening now?"
Pomfrey replied in a disturbed tone: "We stopped the bleeding with difficulty, but the problem now is the blood loss. His body can barely endure. If we don't get blood that matches his type as soon as possible, there will be nothing left to do."
McGonagall put her hand to her head, then looked at Dumbledore and said: "Can we use alternative magic? A blood-replenishing potion? Anything?"
But Pomfrey shook her head and said firmly: "This is a complex curse. The wounds he suffered are not ordinary. Alternative magic won't work here. We need real human blood of the same type. And time is running out... if his body doesn't hold on much longer, then..." She stopped talking, but she didn't need to finish the sentence. Everyone understood what she meant.
Dumbledore nodded and said in a deep voice: "There is still hope. We must trust Harry, Ron, and Hermione. If there is anyone who can find what we need, it is them."
But time was passing, and Albert's body seemed to be sliding further toward an abyss from which there is no return. McGonagall, usually a symbol of fortitude, looked as if she were on the verge of collapsing as she looked at the student who was once so full of life and now lay helpless.
"Please, Albert... just hold on a little longer..." she whispered almost inaudibly, while Madam Pomfrey tried with all her skill and experience to keep him alive.
McGonagall stood beside Dumbledore, her eyes fraught with worry. Finally, in a hoarse voice cloaked in tension, she said: "Albus... we must think about informing his father, Sirius Black. If there is anyone who can save him now, it is Sirius. They share the same blood... he is the closest to his type."
Dumbledore, standing unusually still, looked at her with his piercing blue eyes, then said gently but firmly: "I agree with you, Minerva. But let me try first."
Without waiting for an answer, he drew his wand and waved it in a complex motion before vanishing from his spot with a faint sound. McGonagall watched the space where he had just stood, hoping he would return with a solution to end this nightmare.
Only five seconds passed before Dumbledore returned. He appeared calm, but he seemed to carry bad news.
"Unfortunately," he said in a low voice, as if the words weighed heavily on him. "I did not find Sirius at his home. I tried to speak to the family house-elf, but he told me he does not know his whereabouts. It seems Sirius is not at Grimmauld Place. This means he may be somewhere else... a place I cannot determine right now."
McGonagall, who had pinned all her hope on Sirius, felt a shock in her heart. She believed Sirius was the final solution to save Albert, and his being out of reach was like a thunderbolt.
"Albus," she said in a trembling voice, "what do we do now? Everything seems to be closing in on us. We have no time, and every minute makes his condition worse."
Dumbledore looked at her deeply but did not answer immediately. He knew words would change nothing in this situation and that solutions were running out fast.
McGonagall closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to find a way to absorb what was happening. When she opened them again, her tears were on the verge of falling, but she composed herself and said in a low whisper: "Perhaps... perhaps this is his fate. Perhaps we cannot save him."
Silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of Albert's moaning, which seemed to weaken with every breath. McGonagall felt a helplessness she had never felt before, as if she were losing one of her own children without being able to do a thing.
"Albus," she continued hoarsely, "is this all we can do? Will we stand by and watch this boy waste away before us?"
Dumbledore, usually the last resort and the greatest hope for everyone, seemed to feel the weight of the situation. Yet he said in a calm, steady tone: "Minerva, there is still hope. I will not give up until the last moment. We must keep our faith, however hopeless the situation seems."
But for McGonagall, hope seemed to vanish with every passing moment. She felt as if the room were closing in on her, as if the whole world were conspiring against this boy, who lay helpless. Deep down, she feared that the end had already been written and that all efforts made would not be enough to save him.
To be continued....