Work Text:
(I)
St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
Name: Albus Dumbledore
Gender: Male
Bloodline: Mixed
Age: 51
Date of Birth: July 1881
Marital Status: Unmarried
Occupation: Professor at Hogwarts
Address: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Date of History Taken: x/x/1932
Narrator: The patient himself
Reliability: Reliable?
Chief Complaints: blood league destroyed for 1 day.
Present Illness: The patient made a blood pact with another individual 33 years ago by cutting their palm and bleeding. The pact, bound by an unknown spell and magic circle, prevented mutual harm. There were no abnormal magical fluctuations, no discomfort, and the palm wound, approximately 1 inch in length, healed well without infection. One day ago, during combat, the blood pact was destroyed after being struck by an unidentified spell. The patient sustained no other injuries or spell-related harm and reported no discomfort. Mental state was stable. The patient was admitted to our hospital. Magical power assessment showed no abnormalities. Residual blood magic is pending examination.
Past History: no special.
Personal history, family history and physical examination were omitted.
Preliminary diagnosis: [blacked out and unreadable handwriting]
Therapist's signature: Elizabeth Quinn/Pigeon Water
Date: x/x/1932
Attached is a handwritten and signed magical checklist, doctor's orders and prescriptions by Mrs. Dean Quinn.
(II)
One uneventful morning in 1932, everything was running according to the magical wake-up package Dad had set up. The covers automatically lifted to one side, bouncing me out of bed in the process - thank Merlin at least I was still in my pajamas - and the wooden floor lifted and dropped in turn, propelling me like dominoes into the washroom, where a comb and toothbrush had been waiting for some time. With my eyes closed I grabbed the willow wand that sat on the sink and aimed it at my face.
“How many times have I told you not to use Cleanse One New on your face!” The mirror growled.
I shook my hand and the clean spell turned into clear water like a fountain and a little too much water, washing my hair straight away.
Alas, the silent spell still wasn't learned well.
It was my dad who saved me from getting soaked. By the way, my dad is a wizard, but my mom is a muggle, so I didn't know the wizarding world existed until I was eleven when I received my acceptance letter to Hogwarts.
I had been delayed for a while and no longer had time to sit at the table for breakfast, naturally missing the latest issue of The Daily Prophet as well. My trainee healer’s uniform hastily wrapped itself around me, and then my sister shoved a sandwich into my mouth. I appreciated the gesture, but one had to enunciate clearly when using Floo Powder to state a destination.
Holding the bitten sandwich in one hand and grabbing a handful of Flyway powder in the other, I stepped into the fireplace and shouted, “Dean St. Mungo's office!”
Thank goodness the St. Mungo's faculty section assigned me to an internship under the dean this month, and thank goodness the generous dean was willing to open up access to the office fireplace.
And so, on this perfectly ordinary morning, at exactly 7:58 AM, I arrived here right on time—covered in a layer of soot and regretting that my morning wash had been in vain. As I looked up, I noticed that the Head Healer wasn’t alone. Wait a minute—why did that side profile look so much like Professor Dumbledore?
Both of them were startled and turned to look at the fireplace simultaneously. My mind went blank with a loud boom: I’m doomed.
The Headmistress, Mrs. Elizabeth Quinn, is 85 years old and a very kind and amiable lady. Just as I was getting jittery, she glanced at her wristwatch and said to me, as usual, “I'm glad you're not late, Ms. Water. So for today, please go ahead and study with Mr. Kirkland of the Spell Injury Section, and as you can see Albus and I have some business to discuss, okay?”
Before I could reply, Professor Dumbledore suddenly looked at me with a smile and said, “Miss Pigeon Water, I remember you, your talent for Transfiguration is impressive. You're currently an intern at St. Mungo's, aren't you? Mrs. Quinn, I think she can stay here and observe.”
I was flattered to be remembered by name by Professor Dumbledore, and it didn't seem like they minded my sudden appearance interrupting the conversation. With the approval of the two Head Masters, I quickly tucked my sandwich into my pocket and proceeded to move a chair to sit aside before the damned professionalism came uninvited, “May I ask what is wrong with you, Professor Dumbledore?”
“I may have been subjected to some blood magic?” Dumbledore looked as if he was a little haggard, but his tone was relaxed and pleasant, “In fact, I don't feel unwell anywhere, it's just that Minerva and Newt were uneasy and persuaded me to come over for a professional examination.”
I was creeped out and subconsciously looked at Mrs. Quinn.
Blood is often believed to have a deep connection with the soul, and magic involving the soul—at least as far as I know—is mostly classified as forbidden Dark Magic, like the Unforgivable Curses. But for a well-behaved Hogwarts graduate like me, this field is largely uncharted territory. I only had a vague, instinctive sense of unease.
The headmistress sighed and said, “A wizard’s blood pact is no trivial matter. In all these years, I have never seen a bond so deeply entwined with the soul abruptly severed like this. I have no idea what consequences it might bring.”
A bond? With whom? I perked up my ears.
Dumbledore straightened slightly and said, “If this has any adverse effects on me, then the same should apply to Grindelwald. I believe the Ministry need not be overly concerned.”
“I am a healer at St. Mungo’s, Albus, not an incompetent Ministry official.” Her tone softened from stern to mild. “I trust that your knowledge of blood magic surpasses that of most, but caution is always wise when facing the unknown.”
“Of course, Madam Quinn.” Dumbledore smiled. “I still remember when you were my Herbology professor, reminding us that just because plants don’t appear as aggressive as magical creatures doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. After all, danger never announces itself beforehand.”
Now I understood. Dumbledore had been rambling on, skillfully dodging any mention of his own condition. How could Madam Quinn tolerate this? As a healer, dealing with an uncooperative patient like him must be beyond frustrating—even if that patient happened to be a professor I deeply respected.
“Miss Watt, please fetch a bottle of my specially formulated Soothing Potion.” The headmistress handed me a signed prescription.
Caught off guard, I quickly took the thin slip of paper and hurried downstairs to the apothecary.
Humming a Scottish folk tune, I suddenly recalled the unfamiliar name Dumbledore had just mentioned—Grindelwald.
Gellert Grindelwald. The Daily Prophet called him “Durmstrang’s violent delinquent.” Five years ago, the great fire that nearly consumed Paris dominated the front pages for days. Among ordinary wizards, his name was synonymous with “a ruthless and terrifying Dark wizard.” But in truth, Britain remained largely untouched. To someone like me, who paid little attention to politics, the storm he stirred across Europe was nothing more than a series of distant and blurry reports.
When Dumbledore spoke his name, his expression had remained calm, his lake-blue eyes betraying nothing.
But a blood pact? With Grindelwald? And now it was broken, which was why Dumbledore had come to St. Mungo’s?
Merlin’s beard!
I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle the exclamation that nearly escaped. In my distraction, I almost missed a step on the staircase. But instead of worrying about falling, my first thought was regretting that I hadn’t arrived earlier to hear the whole story.
When I returned to the headmistress’s office with the Soothing Potion, hesitation gripped me at the door. Was I really supposed to be listening to their conversation?
The door soon opened from within. Dumbledore took the vial from my hands, smiling as he said, “Miss Water, I wish you all the best. Until we meet again.”
His words were sincere, yet I couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions.
Once the office was empty except for Madam Quinn and me, she tapped her wand against the bookshelf. A worn, ancient tome floated into her hands. Sitting back down, she said, “Take a seat, Miss Water. Today’s lesson is: Blood.”
“In the era before magic was systematized—yes, I know Hogwarts doesn’t teach this—the primitive belief that the soul resided in the blood led to its frequent use as a medium for curses, forever branding it as a hallmark of Dark Magic. These curses were often crude yet potent, the perfect conduit for human malice.”
“However, modern understanding has shown that this belief is not entirely accurate. Blood is both mesmerizing and perilous—complex and delicate. Because of its inseparable link to the soul, any magic involving blood must be approached with the utmost caution.”
“Miss Watt, how much do you know about blood pact?”
I hesitated before answering honestly. “In Muggle legends, Sir Lancelot and three other knights of King Arthur cut their palms and mixed their blood to forge an unbreakable alliance.”
“For Muggles, this was merely a symbolic ritual,” Madam Quinn said. “But a blood pact between wizards truly binds them to honor their vows—irreversibly so. Every surviving record states without exception that such pacts cannot be broken.”
“Isn’t that inherently contradictory?” I asked. “Using something that so easily leads to malice as the medium for an oath of loyalty?”
“You are perceptive.” Madam Quinn sighed. “Research in this area remains incomplete. For now, I can only observe and see what unfolds.”
At last, I could no longer suppress my curiosity. I boldly asked, “So, Professor Dumbledore…?”
At that moment, a snowy owl swooped in through the window. Madam Quinn tore open the letter, skimmed its contents, and immediately stood up. “I have some urgent matters to attend to, Miss Watt. Please complete Dumbledore’s medical report based on the automatic quill’s records. And remember—do not submit it to the archives.”
The carved wooden desk still had an unfolded copy of the Daily Prophet on it. My eyes were instantly drawn to the bold headline:
"Dumbledore’s Narrow Victory Exposes Fatal Flaws, While Grindelwald Remains Majestic in Defeat."
"Many of Dumbledore’s supporters may find this shocking and hard to believe, but the truth is that he lacks both the ability and character to serve as Supreme Mugwump. His beloved student, the magizoologist Newt Scamander, has an undeniable bond with magical creatures—getting a qilin to bow before him is hardly a challenge. As for why Dumbledore ultimately refused? Perhaps even he is aware of his own shortcomings."
I let out a sharp laugh—so this is what passes for published writing now?
Despite recklessly speculating about Dumbledore’s so-called "fatal flaws," the author did not hold back in their sharp critique of Grindelwald’s so-called "majestic presence" either. Clearly well-versed in Muggle history, they wrote:
"Louis XVI’s failed escape only perfected France’s guillotine—what grand contribution will Grindelwald make?"
I rolled my eyes—was this the stance of the radical pure-blood faction? With an exasperated snap, I shut the ridiculous tabloids and pulled out a blank medical record.
At the top, I wrote the first line:
“Name: Albus Dumbledore.”
(III)
In 1938, Grindelwald's war in Europe was barely reported in Britain.
However, the Muggle world was just as turbulent. The British Muggle government, much like the Ministry of Magic, behaved no differently from an ostrich burying its head in the sand.
In 1939, Madam Quinn retired. Her successor was a half-blood wizard, already quite advanced in age.
In 1940, The Daily Prophet's headline read: "Witch Singer Celestina Warbeck: A Rising Star."
In 1941, my father managed to shelter some Muggle relatives from the bombings, but it was merely a drop in the ocean.
In 1942, the Ministry of Magic announced that it had completely eradicated Saint forces’ infiltration in Britain, thanks to a powerful wizard—Albus Dumbledore.
In 1943, it seemed that a turning point had occurred on the distant Soviet-German front, yet Britain was still hiding from air raids. I heard that some wizards had also perished.
In 1944, I was appointed Assistant Head by Madam Quinn’s successor, but two months later, he retired. The new headmaster was a wizard from America named Jones, and we did not get along well.
In 1945, all the newspapers were sensationalizing the fateful duel between two wizards, one in black and one in white, from a few days ago. I flipped through a few pages absentmindedly before tossing them aside in disinterest.
I tucked a few bottles of potions into my pocket, straightened my assistant head’s badge, hesitated for a moment, then grabbed a box of Sherbet Lemons before heading toward Dumbledore’s hospital room.
As I passed the headmaster’s office, I noticed the door was slightly ajar.
“How is Dumbledore’s condition now?”
Peering inside, I recognized the speaker as the current Minister for Magic, Leonard Spencer-Moon.
“…” Jones hesitated before saying, “I’ll fetch his attending healer.”
Then he saw me standing behind the door.
“Miss Water, come in, come in.” With a wave of his wand, Jones swung the door open.
I found it amusing—was the headmaster truly unable to say a word about a patient’s condition? And besides, I wasn’t even Dumbledore’s attending healer.
Minister Moon cast me an inquiring look.
“Professor Dumbledore’s biggest issue right now is severe magical exhaustion, which has slowed his recovery from direct spell-induced injuries to about one-tenth the speed of an average wizard.” I met the Minister’s gaze. “Two days ago, we conducted a full magical scan on him. I believe that even an evenly matched opponent wouldn’t have been able to push him to this extent.”
I thought I heard Jones scoff.
“Indeed,” Moon shook his head. “After the duel, the German Ministry of Magic requested that Dumbledore place a complete restrictive ward over Nurmengard—you know, the prison where Grindelwald will be held in the future.”
“The entire Nurmengard?!” I raised my voice. “Why don’t they just make Dumbledore the prison guard?”
Jones interjected, “I assume no one has forgotten Grindelwald’s history of breaking out of prison.”
“So their plan is to drain every last drop of Dumbledore’s usefulness, is it?”
Realizing I had misspoken, I briefly composed myself.
“Watch your words, Miss Water,” Jones said displeasedly.
Moon looked a bit embarrassed. I knew he was actually a decent Minister—at least he didn’t go through life under a self-imposed Muffliato. He attempted to smooth things over. “Mr. Jones, may I visit Professor Dumbledore?”
“Of course.” Jones nodded, then suddenly sneered, “Guarding Grindelwald is his duty. The Ministry has already been generous by not publicizing his… secret relationship with that prisoner.”
The atmosphere instantly plummeted to freezing temperatures.
Moon’s expression darkened. “Pardon me, but where did you hear that?”
I had no desire to hear another word from Jones. I nearly reached for my wand but ultimately only yanked off my badge and tossed it onto the desk. “Cowards like you, hiding behind Dumbledore, have no right to speak a single word about him.”
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. The door wasn’t fully shut, so when I turned around, I saw Dumbledore standing there.
He wasn’t wearing the standard St. Mungo’s hospital gown but instead had draped himself in a purple robe adorned with stars and moons.
For a wizard’s average lifespan, Dumbledore was still in his middle years, though the amount of white in his hair was already notable. His sense of fashion, however, seemed to be gradually shifting toward that of an old man. I was surprised I still had the presence of mind to think about such things.
Dumbledore offered a polite, apologetic smile. “I seem to have interrupted your discussion.”
I wasn’t sure how much he had heard. Even Jones looked slightly embarrassed as he stiffly asked, “What do you need, Mr. Dumbledore?”
“I would like to be discharged, but my healer refuses to approve it,” Dumbledore said with a helpless smile. “So, I came to you, Headmaster.”
“Albus, you should rest a few more days in the hospital,” Moon advised.
Dumbledore shook his head.
Jones, unsurprisingly, approved Dumbledore’s discharge request without hesitation.
I returned to my office, changed into my regular robes, and retrieved all of Dumbledore’s medical records from both of his visits to St. Mungo’s.
Dumbledore was tidying up in his hospital room, seemingly not surprised by my visit.
Seeing the assortment of candies and sweets brought by visitors stacked on his bedside table, I suddenly felt embarrassed—one box of Sherbet Lemons seemed utterly insufficient. But it was all I had in my office.
Dumbledore took the records and the sweets from my hands and said sincerely, “I am very grateful.”
I knew he wasn’t referring solely to these two items, so I forced a lighthearted tone. “I’m planning to resign and travel the world next.”
“If you don’t mind, I could introduce you to some friends in Europe who specialize in Transfiguration,” Dumbledore smiled, then added, “Though I must admit, Mr. Jones wasn’t entirely wrong. If not for my irrational indulgence and negligence, perhaps the wizarding world might have suffered a little less.”
A sudden pang of sorrow rose in my chest. I didn’t understand why Dumbledore still blamed himself, even after winning the duel.
“As for the latter part of his statement,” Dumbledore waved his wand, lifting the privacy charm I had placed on the medical records. The documents from thirteen years ago lay exposed before their owner.
“I actually have little ground to refute it.” A flicker of sadness crossed Dumbledore’s face before he blinked and said, “There’s no point denying the past. At least now, I can make amends for some of it.”
My eyes fell on the yellowed paper. Unable to hold back, I asked, “The Blood Pact… was it very important to you?”
This was a secret Madam Quinn and I had protected together, so the records department had no duplicate copies of this medical file.
“I once considered Grindelwald my only confidant. Perhaps, at the time, he felt the same. Later, he came to resent me for never choosing to stand by his side—but I couldn’t.” Dumbledore’s voice was calm, as if he were merely stating what he had for breakfast. “I always tell my students that impulsiveness is a privilege of youth, but they must never do anything irrevocable. Some things, once broken, can never be mended—not even with a Reparo.”
I remained silent. I had a gut feeling that "broken things" referred to more than just the Blood Pact, but I had no standing to ask further.
Dumbledore reassured me gently, “You needn’t worry about the Ministry’s stance. I’ll have to visit Nurmengard again soon to reinforce the defenses.”
"You need at least a month of recovery!" My professional instincts kicked in, making me a bit anxious.
At that moment, Minerva McGonagall pushed open the door, glanced at us, and sighed helplessly. "Albus, we all hope you'll follow the healer's advice."
"I promise."
(IV)
St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
Name: Albus Dumbledore
Gender: Male
Blood: Mixed
Age: 64
Date of Birth: July 1881
Marital Status: Unmarried
Occupation: Professor at Hogwarts
Address: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Date of History Taken: x/x/1945
Narrator: The patient himself
Reliability: Reliable
Chief Complaints: magical exhaustion for 1 day.
Present Illness: The patient overexerted his magic during a duel one day ago, leading to slow recovery. He reports fatigue, transient blackouts, and difficulty casting spells. He was admitted to our hospital for a full-body magical assessment. The patient is in suboptimal mental condition, with poor sleep and moderate appetite.
Past History: No significant medical conditions. [Red ink annotation] See medical record dated x/x/1932.
Personal history, family history, and physical examination are omitted.
Preliminary diagnosis: magical overdraft (severe)
Therapist's signature: [unsigned]
x/x/1945.
Attachments:
Magical Energy Assessment Report
Consultation Request for the Spell Damage Department
Therapeutic advice:
bed rest;
magic tonic and palliative:
improve relevant examinations and adjust treatment in time.
END.