Chapter 231
Inside the hospital wing, the atmosphere was thick with tension and anticipation. Everyone stood in watchful waiting as Madam Pomfrey began preparing the syringes and necessary tools to deliver the blood she had taken from George into Albert.
Though the procedure seemed routine, the air was heavy as if time itself had stopped. All eyes were fixed on the bed where Albert lay; his body was pale, and his skin was turning a disturbingly dark shade of purple.
Madam Pomfrey, famous for her composure in the most stressful situations, worked with incredible speed and precision. She carefully placed the first bag of blood and began connecting the IV line to Albert's vein. She raised her head and said steadily to everyone: "We must move quickly. Every second counts. The bags we've collected should be enough, but there is no room for delay."
George, sitting in the donation chair, looked exhausted but smiled with satisfaction. He said breathlessly while wiping his sweat: "Make sure it's enough. I gave him everything I have."
Pomfrey looked at him and smiled faintly, then placed her hand on his shoulder and said: "You've done enough, dear. Three bags of blood are more than I thought you were capable of providing. This might be what saves his life."
Everyone watched Albert in silence, as if waiting for a miracle to happen before their eyes. Ron stood beside Harry, gripping his hand tightly, while Hermione clutched her books to her chest, trying to suppress tears she couldn't entirely hide.
After finishing the first bag, she began attaching the second. Her work was swift yet extremely cautious, as if she were working with the thin threads of life and death. Her face was set, but full of determination.
After finishing the third bag, she looked up at everyone in the room. She said in a stern but calm tone: "Alright, that's all we can do for now. I need total focus. I want you all to leave; I don't want any pressure or distractions."
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but he saw in her eyes that she would not back down. Ron grabbed his shoulder and said quietly: "Let her work, Harry. She knows what she's doing."
Harry looked once more at Albert, who was still lying on the bed, his breathing weak and his skin tone alarming. Then he nodded slowly and walked out with Ron and Hermione.
Outside the room, everyone stood in a silence tinged with anxiety. George, barely able to stand after the donation, sat on a chair next to Fred. Fred tried to break the silence: "George, I think you're the real hero here now."
But George didn't smile much; he said quietly: "I just hope it's enough."
Hermione sat beside them, flipping through her book without actually reading a single word, just to distract herself. As for Harry, he paced back and forth in the corridor, unable to sit or stand still.
Time passed very slowly in the corridor outside the hospital wing; it felt as though every minute was an hour. Suddenly, Hermione raised her head and said in a voice riddled with worry: "Twenty minutes have passed... why is it taking this long?"
Harry, who was standing by the door as if ready to burst in at any moment, looked at her and said hesitantly: "What if something happened inside? What if..."
Before he could finish, Madam Pomfrey suddenly opened the door. She stood there, her face tired but wearing a small smile, wiping her hands with a white towel. She said in a voice full of relief: "It finally worked."
Everyone's eyes lit up, and they froze for a moment as if unable to believe what they heard. Pomfrey continued: "You may enter now, but remember—no noise. The boy is in a deep sleep. I gave him a strong sleeping draught so he won't feel any pain from his wounds."
Everyone took a deep breath as if a great weight had been lifted from their chests.
Hermione was the first to enter, followed by Harry and Ron, then the twins George and Fred, whose faces showed relief and joy after all that had happened.
Inside the room, Albert lay on the bed. His face was still pale, but his skin was no longer purple. Magical medical instruments worked quietly around him, and soft light filtered through the windows. He seemed to be in a state of deep peace, far away from all the pain he had suffered for hours.
Hermione approached the bed, watching him silently as her eyes shimmered with emotion. She whispered: "Thank God you're okay, Albert. You're stronger than we imagine."
Harry stood beside her, contemplating his friend. He felt a mixture of relief and regret. "We were so close to losing him..." he said in a voice barely audible.
As for George and Fred, they stood near the end of the bed, exchanging looks of pride. George said with a smile: "If you can hear me, Albert, I'm glad my blood is running through your veins now. Don't forget, this makes us related in a way."
Fred laughed softly and added: "Yes, and I think he should pay us for this new family bond. Maybe he'll increase our investment for the product we're working on."
Both Fred and George laughed, being the only ones who knew about that specific topic.
Hermione laughed gently as well, saying: "You two never stop joking, even in moments like these. But what is this 'product' you're talking about?! And what does it have to do with Albert?"
Fred spoke airily, waving his hand as if to say it wasn't serious: "Hahaha, nothing! Just talking nonsense, right George?!"
George nodded in agreement.
As for Professor McGonagall and Director Dumbledore, they had left only ten minutes earlier. McGonagall had seemed tense as she departed, telling Hermione and Ron: "I can't wait any longer; this is killing me. I'm going to check on a few things. Let me know the moment there is any news."
Now, in the room, silence dominated. They sat quietly, watching Albert rest. It was clear they realized the value of the moment and the importance of staying by each other's side, regardless of the challenges.
On the other side, in the old Riddle House, covered in dust and forgotten, Lord Voldemort sat on a worn sofa, his long black robe flowing on the floor like a terrifying shadow.
His white wand, which resembled human bone, was held in a thin hand, gleaming in the dim candlelight scattered around the place. The atmosphere was cold, as if death itself had settled in the house. Voldemort appeared absorbed in thought, his narrow eyes glowing with a wicked light as he looked at Peter Pettigrew, his loyal servant who stood before him in fear, his small body shrinking under his master's gaze.
Voldemort said in his whispering voice that carried a terrifying power: "Wormtail... you know well that my most loyal followers are not here. They are inside Azkaban prison, bound in iron chains, living in endless misery. Those who fought beside me in the first war, those who sacrificed for me—they must return. They are part of my strength, and without them, I will remain surrounded by traitors and the hesitant."
He paused for a moment, contemplating Peter with eyes as wide as a snake's. Then he continued in a dark tone: "I am thinking, Wormtail... of attacking that place myself. Azkaban... the fortress of terror, the prison from which no one escapes. But for me? Nothing is impossible. Get them out of there. Restore them to my ranks, so my name returns to the top, and my prestige shakes the wizarding world once again."
Peter Pettigrew, standing a few steps away, seemed to be sweating from fear despite the cold. He didn't dare raise his eyes to meet his master's. He knew Voldemort didn't need his advice, only his blind obedience. All he could do was pretend to be brave, though his trembling voice betrayed him.
Peter said in a low voice while looking at the floor: "Whatever you see, my Lord... accords with your wisdom and plans. If you see that attacking Azkaban is the next step, then it will surely be... wonderful... and beautiful."
But even as he spoke, Peter felt fear penetrating the depths of his soul. Azkaban was no ordinary place; it was a fortress surrounded by Dementors—dark creatures that drain happiness from human souls. The thought of approaching that place was enough to make Peter shudder from head to toe. But he knew he had no choice. What his master said must happen, whether he agreed or not.
Voldemort looked at his servant with a cold gaze, as if reading his thoughts. He said in an imposing voice: "I know you are afraid, Wormtail. But fear is no excuse for hesitation. I do not allow hesitation or weakness in my ranks. Azkaban is a dark place, yes, but it will not be dark for me. I will turn it upside down. The Dementors? They will become my allies, as they were in the past. As for the jailers and wizards who think they are safe behind its walls... they will learn their lesson the hard way."
Peter swallowed hard and said in a trembling voice: "Yes, my Lord. You are always right. Your plans are great and cannot fail."
Voldemort did not reply; instead, he held his wand and turned it between his fingers as if thinking about the next step. Then he stood up slowly, his long robe trailing behind him, his footsteps ringing on the hard floor. He looked toward a cracked window overlooking the dark garden and said in an icy tone: "It won't take long, Wormtail. We will rearrange the ranks soon. My followers will return, and I will give them a new reason for loyalty. As for those who hesitate or betray... their fate will be worse than they can imagine. Now, go. I have matters to reflect upon."
Peter bowed quickly and stumbled out of the room. He knew his master would not back down from his plans, and that—like it or not—he would be part of them. As for Voldemort, he stood in place for a long time, contemplating the darkness behind the window, a cold smile forming on his lips. He seemed to see the future before him—a future teeming with destruction and victory.
To be continued...