Work Text:
You’ll do nothing the first time it happens. Just came over all faint, you’ll say. Long day, you’ll insist. You’ll see the worry in Harry’s eyes but you’ll ignore it; as you’ll ignore it the next time you find yourself on the floor — alone, thankfully, this time. You won’t mention it to Harry, no need to worry him, and things will go back to normal until it’ll happen again and again: and then you won’t be able to hide it anymore.
Harry will put two and two together: the reduced appetite, the weight loss, the fainting. You’ll insist, no hospital, and Harry won’t take you to St Mungo’s but he’ll call a Healer home. During all these years together you'll have both learned the art of compromise. The Healer will suggest the hospital anyway. You’ll refuse vehemently, even lose your temper. The exertion will make you flop back on the bed, fatigue wound tight around your bones, and the Healer won't persist. Her tense conversation with Harry will take place in whispers outside the bedroom as if you're not allowed to hear what's wrong with you. But you’ll know. There’ll be something inside you slowly dying, and it’ll be taking you with it.
Harry’ll be different from then on. Determined, focused, wound tight. He’ll buy the recommended potions and he’ll make sure you take them. He’ll stock up on the food you can eat (soups, salads, biscuits) and he’ll buy books — even Muggle ones — about the lucky ones, the patients who have survived. He’ll spend more time at home, finally doing what you’ve always asked him to do: cut down on overtime. Let someone else save the world.
You won’t give a name to what will be eating you inside. Harry won’t utter it out loud either; but you’ll catch him talking through the fire to Hermione, about to whisper it to her. You’ll retreat up the stairs. You won't be willing to hear the word; not yet.
You’ll continue going to work, despite what Harry will say, and you’ll break three different curses in the next two months; one of the curses will have eluded even the formidable Bill Weasley, your mentor. The potions will have helped and, for a moment, watching the curse dissolve under your wand, you’ll feel a thrill — a certainty even — that you can beat this, too. You’ll come through, a survivor. Not unheard of, is it? You’ll grin, elated and happy, and Bill will pat you on the back as the cursed Celtic burial mound opens up, revealing its secrets to the Ministry’s Archaeological and Magical Culture Preservation department, waiting at a safe distance behind you. Bill will invite you for a meal down the pub, and you’ll agree, even though you can’t eat pub fare. You’ll make an excuse about not eating your carbonara, but it won’t matter; you’ll be buoyant, carrying with you the satisfaction of breaking the curse, and everything will seem hopeful.
At home you’ll find Harry reading one of those books he'll secretly borrow from the Muggle library, as if the Muggles can offer anything better than magic can. He’ll hide the book cover quickly and you’ll roll your eyes, but you’ll lean down and kiss him. Done it, you’ll say, proud and happy, flopping on the sofa beside him. Three weeks’ work but I broke the curse; just this afternoon. Harry will offer congratulations peppered with kisses. His face will split in a grin when he notices how pleased you look with yourself. Want dinner? he’ll ask. You’ll shrug. No, I just had some.
It won’t be entirely true, but you won’t wish to worry Harry. Your appetite will have been steadily decreasing and there'll be the occasional vomiting after a meal, but it’ll be the effect of all these potions, nothing more. They must be working. You’ll pull Harry towards you and whisper in his ear, Food isn’t what I want right now, and Harry’s eyes will heat up. He’ll pull you from the sofa, drag you all the way up the stairs and shove you onto the bed while you’ll be laughing at his eagerness, at his transparent need for you. It’s so good to see you like this, he’ll say. I feel stronger, you’ll reply and it won’t be — not entirely — a lie. Now suck my cock like a good boy.
Things will look up. It’ll be a time to celebrate, a time of hope. You’ll inform Harry you want to spend the entire weekend naked with him, and he’ll comply. There’ll be a sense of urgency and desperation in your coupling — in your many couplings during those two days — which will intensify your pleasure. Never will you have experienced orgasms like these ones. Your whole world will be Harry: his thighs and his arms, his lips on yours, his sinful tongue, his green eyes gazing at you, his cock rubbing against yours. You’ll come over his face and his stomach and in his mouth. He’ll come inside you and you’ll hold him tight afterwards, sweaty and exhausted, but oh so happy. Your world will be Harry, and that’s all you ever wanted.
This is the last time you’ll feel well.
As the weeks pass, the vomiting will increase. You won’t be able to hide it from Harry or your boss, who’ll overhear you chundering in the staff loo three days in a row. He’ll call you in his office and demand to know; not because he’ll be annoyed with you for withholding information that could’ve affected your work, but because he’ll care. You’ll have to come clean. He’ll pale but hear you out and then insist on you taking a sabbatical. You’ll protest, feebly. A break might not be a bad idea, you’ll concur in the end, feeling your muscles and bones ache. You'll have been holding yourself together through willpower alone these last couple of weeks.
At home, Harry will view the situation as another Dark Lord he can vanquish. He’ll take action, gather his seemingly infinite reserves of courage and come up with a plan of attack. He’ll call the Healer again, then another one for a second opinion. He’ll sprout terminology that he can only have learned from those bloody books he’ll be reading. The Healers will correct him or agree with him, but both will insist on the same thing: it’ll be time to go to St Mungo’s.
So Harry will take you there on a Saturday morning, very early, when the dawn will be breaking over the rooftops. You’ll spend two days on a hospital bed, tested and examined by a succession of Healers. By then, it’ll be time to tell your parents and Harry’s surrogate family. This — the thing you don’t speak of — won't be something you can hide anymore. Harry will send owls and you’ll receive visitors; some will hide their sadness well, albeit not completely; others won’t manage to hide their emotions. Bill, who always pretends to be tough, will actually tear up; there’ll be a hint of anger in his expression, irrationally blaming you for not being trusted with this information earlier. You won’t mind his anger. Bill won’t mean it. With illnesses such as this, no emotions are rational. They make no sense, because nothing does.
Your parents will arrive almost immediately from whichever part of the Med they'll have been spending their retirement in. The expression on their faces might be close enough to break you; you have never imagined there could be so much pain on someone’s face. They’ll try to be strong and stoic; it’s what you do as a family. But your mother will hug you and she won’t let go, not for a very long time, and your father will put his arms around you both, and despite all their mistakes and everything they put you through as a kid, you’ll wish you never have to leave their embrace. You’ll allow yourself — for once — to cry, and when you do, you’ll worry you might not be able to stop.
After the two days of tests, the Head Healer will bring the results. You’ll be able to tell from her expression that they won’t be good. Not that you'll need her to confirm what you feel inside: something’ll be eating you up, bit by bit, a dark little worm that’ll be getting fatter as it gobbles more and more of you. But you’ll be surprised to realise that you’ve held on to a shred of hope. She’ll describe your chances — not looking great — and you’ll freeze, your brain in shock. This can’t be happening, you’ll think; but it will be.
Harry will inhale sharply at the news, but he’ll clench his fists and organise the attack: which potions, when, what food to eat, anything else we can do to help. There’s still hope, the Healer will say — mainly for Harry’s benefit, you can tell — but it’ll be hard going for a while. The potions can be brutal.
Harry will nod. You’ll be able to tell he’s reeling inside, but he’ll stay strong for you. You’ve never thought you’ll fall more in love with Harry, but you’ll feel shaken by the force of it; you’ll fall for him all over again so deeply, so irrevocably, so unreservedly that you’ll feel you consist of nothing else — not bones or muscles or organs or blood — but love for him.
Love and this. The thing you won’t name. Not out loud.
But you’ll spend your days thinking of it constantly. Harry’ll take time off work to care for you. He’ll administer the potions and read even more books and use terminology that you won’t understand. He’ll fight and fight and fight, because that’s what he does. He’ll keep his pain private, out of sight. And you’ll want to stay strong for him even when your body will make it hard for you to do so. Even when you want to rant or sob or give up. You’ll stay strong for him, because you won’t bear to see him that way.
One day, when Harry is at the shops, you’ll invite Ron over. He’ll leave work immediately, although it’ll be a busy Saturday, and you’ll meet him in the living room, in your dressing gown, but you won’t mind that you’ll look undignified. You’ll be past all that now.
Look after him, you’ll tell Ron and he’ll nod. Afterwards… but also now. Take him out for a drink. Get him to talk to you. He won’t — he won’t even consider the possibility…
Ron’s eyes will shine. He’ll put the plan in motion soon; in fact, the very next day. Harry’ll refuse at first, and you’ll have to resort to: Do it for me. Hermione will stay over with you when Harry and Ron will head to the pub. She’ll be great to have over; discreet, reading a book and not intruding at all. She won’t sprout the well-meaning but fake (and occasionally infuriating) It’ll be fines that others will do. Not that you'll blame people for coming up with platitudes. Most are scared when faced with the ultimate enemy, because it won't be your illness which will have people searching for the right words, and failing; you won’t carry an illness anymore, you'll carry a death.
It’ll be the first night you’ll be certain of what’s coming. You’ll wait for a few days — Harry will have returned from his time out with Ron looking marginally calmer — but eventually you’ll have to discuss it. You’ll struggle to find a good time for it; how can there be an ideal time to discuss your death?
On Sunday you’ll spend the morning in bed. You’ll have slow and tender sex, and Harry’ll remain touching you for a long time after he comes — you won’t get erections any more — and you’ll stroke his face repeatedly. His cheeks will turn wet with tears and you’ll keep stroking him and you’ll finally say it, It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.
Harry will break down then. He’ll hold you tight, tears running down his cheeks, and he’ll say, No, I won’t. I won’t. I can’t be fine without you.
You have to be, you’ll say when you finally stop crying yourself. You’ll have to be. For me.
Some days you will rage. You’ll stagger out of bed to the bathroom for a bout of vomiting, and when you see your hollowed face in the mirror, you’ll take the soap dish and smash it on the floor. You’ll smash everything, including the mirror, and you’ll go to the bedroom to smash some more things. Harry’ll run up the stairs at the ruckus, but he’ll observe you by the door. He’ll let you break everything: the bedside lamps, the crystal bowl you keep your silver cufflinks, your glass of water, except for the potion vials: they can be hard to replace. You’ll break everything that can break, but you won’t touch the photos of you and Harry on the mantelpiece.
It’s not fair, you’ll shout, and tears will roll down Harry’s eyes as you rail and smash things. It’s not fair, not after everything.
Why me? You’ll ask, knowing there’s no answer.
I want more time with you, you’ll tell Harry, and that phrase alone might be enough to break you. To break you both.
But more often than not, your illness — not illness: the death you carry — will leave you little energy for rage. You’ll eat biscuits and tea in bed and you’ll kiss Harry as often as you can. You’ll talk business-like about the end: here’s my will, I leave my flat and vault to you, here’s what I want my service to look like. You’ll joke about it, sometimes. If you choose a white satin coffin, I’ll come back and haunt you.
Harry won’t find the jokes funny, but he’ll pretend.
You’ll keep talking about the after, as if you can jinx it into not happening. You’ll hope that by talking it’ll seem less terrifying. You’ve always wanted a dog, you’ll tell Harry. You should get a dog.
You’ll also talk about the past. Remember that holiday in Portugal? We spent the day at the beach and then you took me to that seafood restaurant… with the sun setting in front of us…
I remember, Harry will say. I remember it all.
Memories are all you can leave him now. It won’t be near enough.
There will come a time when you’re only little aware of what’s happening. A time when you won’t joke or rage or cry. By that time, you’ll be less Draco and more… it. The death you carry. And Harry will know then, he’ll know you’re slowly fading, and he’ll crack and cry in front of you, hiding his face in his hands, sobs wracking his body. There’ll be more people milling around: Healers giving estimates, maybe a few days; friends whispering as if not to wake you, as if it’ll be sleep that has you in its jaws; your parents by your side, a river of tears rolling down your mother’s face, your father looking ten years older; and in the midst of all this, Harry, ruined by pain. Going from furious to distraught to a shell of himself and vice versa. A hurricane of emotions tossing Harry around, like a twig caught in the gale.
You will so dearly wish you could’ve spared him this.
You’ll find the energy one morning, when dawn breaks, to call Harry to you in a hoarse voice. He’ll sit by your side and take your hand in both of his. You’ll smile, as best you can, and take one good, last look. Green eyes, messy hair, soft mouth, strong fingers, chest, legs, everything; everything that you’ve touched and kissed and held. He’s yours and you are his. You’ll be thirty-six and dying, but at that moment you will only feel gratitude: you will have known what it’s like to have loved Harry. To have been loved by him.
I love you, you’ll tell him. Loved you more than anything. You’ll pretend not to see his eyes glistening.
Love you, too, he’ll say, but by then you’ll be gone.