The Crazed

Albus Dumbledore dropped wearily into the chair behind his ancient desk in his study. It seemed to him that he was always tired nowadays; if he wasn't trying to run Hogwarts, or rescuing Gryffindors from Professor Snape, he was in endless meetings with Cornelius Fudge, or answering the two hundred and three anxious owls he received every day, or trying to organise the next step in the fight against Voldemort without Fudge accusing him of causing unwarranted mass panic. He never had any free time. Or time to sleep, more importantly.

He sighed and leant back in his chair, running his mind over the past few hours. First a staff meeting, then a brief visit to Madam Pomfrey concerning the welfare of the students in general and Harry Potter in particular, a thoroughly unproductive meeting with Fudge and then, most importantly, a progress report from the New Zealand Ministry of Magic.

It had made interesting reading.

On hearing of Voldemort's return to power, the New Zealanders had not wasted time denying it as Fudge had. They immediately had looked at all evidence, accepted that the odds were in favour of the Dark Lord indeed having risen again, and set about their precautionary measures.

However, they then took things a step further. Their Ministry had carefully combed the country for witches and wizards who "fit a profile", and had set up an extra unit devoted to trying to find if it was even possible to properly dispose of Voldemort. Dumbledore had immediately asked to be kept updated, and he had received the first report just a few hours earlier.

There was little that could be said on paper, however, in case the owls were intercepted, but from what little was actually written Dumbledore gathered that there must have been some kind of new development. Probably nothing confirmed, but some kind of very probable new theory. It suggested hope.

Hope. Now there was something in short supply...

There was a scrabble at the window, and the silver-haired wizard looked up. A European Eagle owl was trying to get in.

Fighting the sudden urge to beat his head against the desk before him, Dumbledore climbed slowly to his feet and crossed the small room to the window. He pushed the glass open, and stood back to admit the bird. Watching it soar to the desk, he glanced casually at the letter on its leg, and then frowned. It didn't look like parchment...in fact, it looked more like Muggle paper...

In the corner, Fawkes the phoenix sang suddenly, one pure note that echoed through the room. Dumbledore froze.

That had been a warning...

Swiftly, he strode to the desk where the owl had landed, and pulled the letter from its leg, slightly roughly in his haste. The owl shrieked in protest. His hands trembling a little, he quickly unfolded the paper, nearly ripping it in the process. Finally, he threw himself back into his chair, all traces of weariness entirely erased, and smoothed the letter out in front of him with age-knotted hands.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I apologise for contacting you at this late hour, but I'm afraid this really cannot wait. My name is Verity Howell, you may remember me; I was a student at Hogwarts not long ago. I have a situation which I would really like your help with.

I am currently working in a Muggle hospital in Brecon, south Wales. A few hours ago, a patient was admitted to us displaying seizure-like symptoms. However, on closer examination, I found her to have no Muggle disease I have ever seen, and she is displaying other symptoms of a magical nature. I believe she is in a trance of some kind, but I am uncertain. However, her condition is worsening, and although she herself is Muggle, she cannot remain in a Muggle hospital in this state. I have written to the Ministry to request a transfer to St. Mungo's, but considering the present climate I'm not sure how reliable they will be at fulfilling my request. I remember you as being a reasonable man who would listen to any problem, and so I am begging you to come and see the girl.

If I am wrong, I do apologise.

Yours,

Verity Howell.

Slowly, Dumbledore leaned back again. He would have been tempted to leave it to the Ministry, but he knew better than that. For one thing, Fawkes had reacted to this information, which in itself was reason enough to take the letter seriously, but he also remembered Verity Howell; a practical girl with a brilliant mind. She wouldn't have disturbed him without reason.

And then there was the fact that she had used Muggle resources to contact him. It must be urgent...

Sighing, Albus Dumbledore climbed to his feet, and pulled on his cloak.

"Fawkes," he murmured, "I might be a while..."

* * *

When he finally arrived at the hospital, he found Verity in a small office, talking to an extremely worried-looking Ministry representative. As far as Dumbledore's memories of her stretched, she had barely changed, although she seemed to have an air of something akin to wisdom about her, as though the vulnerability of youth had been shorn away by the realities of living in a world torn at the roots by war. And yet, there was little physically about her that he could put his finger on and cite as being different. She still had the same sunlight-coloured hair, still the same nimble frame, still the same pale, delicate face, although it was currently haunted by the signs of the false energy of an anti-fatigue potion.

As he approached them, he picked up on the tail-end of their conversation.

"...could it be done, though? How do you imagine it could work? St. Mungo's is packed full to bursting as it is, we are in the middle of a war right now, you know - "

"I am aware of the political situation, Mr. Lewis."

"Well then," the wizard snapped irritably. "How can you see it being possible? And the girl's mother is a Muggle, for Merlin's sake, what would we tell her? And what about the other doctors who've already seen her, that red-head has, Cogan, was it - "

"Logan. Jennifer Logan."

"Oh, whatever - "

"Er, perhaps this is a bad time?"

Both of them looked up, the irate Mr Lewis temporarily halted. Verity's flustered expression changed to one of pure relief as she registered who had spoken. The wizard's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"Not at all," Verity said quickly. "Thank you so much for coming, sir - "

"Albus, Verity. You may call me Albus now." Dumbledore twinkled down at her. "I no longer have any authority over you whatsoever. We may think of each other as equals."

Verity smiled. "I won't manage it, but thank you all the same," she replied. Then her manner became serious again.

"I asked you to come because of one of our patients," she began, her official tone slipping into place. "I don't think either her life or the security of the Wizarding World are safe while she's here. It's my considered opinion that she should be transferred to- "

"Considered opinion," Mr Lewis spat, looking contemptuous. "You, my dear, have considered nothing. You have merely jumped in to cover your own inability to treat the girl, and are trying to turn the problem over to somebody else - "

"I believe Verity Howell to be capable of medicine, magical or Muggle, to its highest possible degree," Dumbledore broke in quietly. "And what is more, if Ms. Howell feels it necessary to call in the Ministry, I seriously advise all concerned to look at her proposal very carefully indeed. Please continue, Verity."

The witch gave the old wizard a grateful smile, before passing him a manila folder.

"Her notes are in there, but..." she trailed off, and then shrugged. "I think it would be best if you saw her for yourself," she finished. "I've never seen anything like it."

Dumbledore nodded. "Lead the way," he said simply.

Verity led them to a small private room, barely big enough for the bed, chair and miniature bureaux it contained. Strange pieces of electrical equipment took up most of the remaining space, leaving room enough only for the three of them. Dumbledore cast a swift, piercing look around the room.

"Where is the child's mother?" he asked, eyeing the empty chair.

"She's in the Relative's Room," Verity murmured softly. "Sedated. She was frantic when she first came in."

Dumbledore nodded, and then turned to the child on the bed.

Verity hadn't been exaggerating. He also had never seen anything like it.

Carefully, he moved closer to her, staring intently at her face. "Is that Welsh?" he breathed.

Verity nodded. "Yes. And yet she can barely string a sentence together in Welsh ordinarily. It's like - like she's possessed or something..."

There was a snort from the Ministry official, but the man said nothing. Clearly, he realised that he and Verity had reached a stalemate, and that the final decision would rest with Dumbledore.

The silence continued for a second, and then dissolved. Dumbledore stood and turned to face them both, his normally twinkling blue eyes now serious.

"You were right to call us," he told Verity. "She cannot remain here. I'm afraid St Mungo's will have to prepare for one more tonight."

"But there is no room!" the other man exploded. "We have limited bed space for witches and wizards as it is without admitting Muggles - "

"I'm sorry?" Dumbledore looked straight at the man. "You are going to turn her away on the basis that she is a Muggle?"

"Well, I - "

"Her ailment is magical, Mr. Lewis. She needs magical attention."

The wizard stood there for a moment, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish. "Very well," he said briskly, recovering his voice at last. "I shall make arrangements." And with that he swept from the room.

Verity smiled wearily at Dumbledore. "Thank you," she said. "I was beginning to despair."

The aged wizard chuckled. "My dear girl, you are quite welcome." He twinkled at her. "You seem to be doing very well for yourself now. I suppose working here was your own idea?"

"Yes. I was told that I would have to wait for two years before beginning at St. Mungo's, so I decided to use the time constructively." She smiled, the light of enthusiasm in her eyes. "It's fascinating, it really is! Muggles take longer to diagnose and heal a patient, but they compensate for magic so well."

"Truly, Verity, you haven't changed." Dumbledore looked down at the bed once more, and sighed. "Do you have any idea at all?"

"Only one. I don't know if it's possible, but -" She bit her lip. "I don't know her history properly yet, her mother has been in no shape to tell us anything beyond the basics, so I don't know if anything like this has happened before in her past. So...assuming that it hasn't, could she have come into contact with a magical source of some kind, and then, this is some sort of reaction to it?"

Dumbledore sighed. "It's theoretically possible," he conceded, but I cannot recall a single case of such a reaction ever having been recorded." He broke off, deep in thought.

"I don't suppose she has any other symptoms?" he asked after a while. Verity paused.

"Yes," she said abruptly. "If you touch her bare skin she shouts a sentence or two, something different each time. And she sort of looks at you when she does it."

"Really?" Dumbledore looked back towards the bed again. "May I see?"

At Verity's nod, he didn't hesitate. He stretched out a frail finger and gently brushed it against the child's cheek -

"Merthyr byddi di fod, dyn hen, am y diwedd chwerw iawn."

Dumbledore blinked. "What did she say?" he asked, startled.

But Verity could only shake her head.

* * *

It was several hours and many Memory Charms on the doctors later that Reiko's mother finally came round. Evidently, Verity's hurried charm had been quite efficient.

As the woman woke up, Dumbledore examined her face, carefully. If Verity's descriptions were anything to go by, the woman had been wildly capable of making her presence known before. He watched for any sign of a repeat, but mercifully, the woman seemed collected enough this time.

She had left little of herself in her daughter. Reiko's features were Oriental, the flat, slanted eyes and lightly tanned skin designed for keeping out the sun. Mrs Dafis was dark of complexion, admittedly, but still paler than her daughter; her hair was more nut-brown, although it had a tint of red to it that looked artificial. Her eyes were set closer together than Reiko's, slightly too close for beauty, but not so close as to make her ugly. Her lips were a shade thicker than the girl's, but her mouth itself was no wider. Her nose was straight and unremarkable, whereas Reiko's had the slight ski-jump lift to the end.

And yet there was a similarity. Both had the same heart-shape to their faces, both with the same high bone structure. And to Dumbledore's eyes, both had the same look to them, although it was hard to see in Reiko's glowing eyes. But both looked hauntingly vulnerable.

As the woman looked up, he wordlessly pulled up a chair in front of her and sat down slowly, feeling his joints creak. He smiled his twinkled smile.

"Mrs Dafis," he said gently, "my name is Albus Dumbledore, I'm a neurologist from a hospital named St Mungo's. How are you feeling?"

She focused on him. "Fine," she whispered, her eyes dull.

"Good," he answered, knowing it had been a lie. "Now, you probably wont be feeling up to a long talk laden down with pleasantries right now, so I will get straight to the point." He took a deep breath. "Your daughter's condition is serious, Mrs Dafis, but it may well be curable. Unfortunately, this early on, we don't even know that for sure."

He paused, and watched uncomfortably as the small woman in the chair in front of him closed her eyes against the pain.

"However," he continued, "there is always a chance. Now, this hospital has limited facilities, as I'm sure you're aware, and it is not equipped to deal with Reiko. On the other hand, I work for a hospital called St Mungo's. We have far superior facilities, but what is more, we have an unrivalled unit dedicated to problems with the brain." He paused, and then delivered the final part. "With your permission, we would like to transfer Reiko to St Mungo's."

Mrs Dafis stared at him, eyes wide, saying nothing. For a long time they sat there like that, unmoving, the woman desperately searching the man's face for some trace of hope that she could cling to, the man frozen with baited breath, waiting for an answer. The minutes stretched thin. And then finally, it came.

"You can..." Mrs Dafis swallowed. "You might be able to help her?" The voice was frail, and wispy, as though anxiety for her daughter was wearing her away to a husk.

"It's possible, Mrs Dafis," Dumbledore answered. "She would have a better chance, at least."

"You could help her," the woman murmured, her eyes looking blank again. "My Reiko," she whispered.

Dumbledore paused, pity stirring his heart. He wasn't sure if Mrs Dafis was displaying the effects of Verity's sedation charm, or if she was just so numbed by pain she couldn't think straight, but either way, her answer was all important, and it didn't look like it was coming any time soon. Vaguely, he wondered if he should risk more magic. The poor woman clearly needed help.

But then, just as he was forming a conclusion to his musings, Mrs Dafis looked up sharply, straight at him, deep and unflinching into his eyes.

"Yes," she said, and Dumbledore was startled by the sudden ferocity of her gaze. "Yes," she repeated, "You do what you have to. You move my Reiko and you get her healed, bach, because my Reiko is going to live, you hear me?"

He attempted a calming smile. "Of course, Mrs Dafis. I'll make arrangements."

He stood up to leave, and then turned back "Oh, there is just one other thing," he said. "I don't suppose you know of anyone in this area or out of it who speaks Welsh, do you?"

Mrs Dafis shook her head. "No," she whispered. The ferocity had left her once again, as quickly and unexpectedly as it had arrived, and in its place that terrified despairing anxiety was back, making her look older than she most likely was. "No, I don't know anyone, like."

Dumbledore nodded gravely and then left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Outside in the stark corridor, he turned to Verity and Mr Lewis, who were waiting for him.

"Mrs Dafis has consented for her daughter to be transferred to St Mungo's," he told them, "and no, she doesn't know any Welsh speakers. I suspect that I may have to find someone to learn it for us. Are the arrangements made?"

"They are." For all of his venomous speeches, Mr Lewis had turned out to be quite efficient when he had decided to help with Reiko's transfer - within half an hour, there had been a bed ready and waiting for Reiko on a private ward, where they could keep her mother sheltered from the rest of the hospital. "And Ms Howell and I have been around all of the doctors who have treated Reiko so far, each of them have had their memories modified. Now we are only awaiting transportation."

"It'll have to be by ambulance," Verity said thoughtfully. "Anything else would make Mrs Dafis suspicious."

Mr Lewis sighed. "I'll go and sort that out as well then, shall I?" he snapped, and then turned and swept away without waiting for a reply.

There was a pause, and then Verity pulled out Reiko's notes. "Right," she said briskly, "I'll get the missing information for these then. We still need Reiko's history, and we desperately need to know if she's allergic to anything." She sighed, looking tired. Clearly, whatever potion she had taken was now wearing off, but in typical Ravenclaw style she was determined to finish the task she had begun.

Dumbledore smiled his twinkling smile at her. She reminded him of someone else. Admittedly, that someone else was a Gryffindor, not a Ravenclaw, and there was little resemblance physically, but the similarities were there.

"You do that," he told her softly, "but then you get straight home, do you understand? You look like you're about to collapse."

Verity grinned sheepishly at him. "I would, but I'll be needed for a while yet. I'll have to go to St Mungo's with them, it's standard procedure. I'll need to explain her notes to the staff there." She shrugged. "It's going to be a longer night yet."

"Very well, then. Take some more of whatever you took, in that case, it seems to have lasted you a while."

"Andefatigarios. I swear by it." She looked at him, a hand on the door handle. "What are you going to do about the Welsh?" she asked.

"Find someone to learn it for me, I think," Dumbledore answered carefully. "I would do it myself, but I'm afraid I have less and less time nowadays. I'll have to find someone suitably trustworthy. And capable, of course. I'd ask you, but I think you also might be a little busy soon enough." He smiled at her. "Enough for now. Go on, Verity. Discover your missing bits of information. I shall help to arrange for your transport."

And with that, he was gone, sweeping down the corridor and humming a tune, just as Verity remembered him doing.