Summer 1998
The war had ended on the second of May, in a bloody and violent battle that the newspapers were calling the "Battle of Hogwarts," and everything since had gone by in a horrible, painful blur. Harry Potter was featured in every new edition published in every newspaper across the country, a new article written every day, about him, the war, the battle, even his personal life.
The Death-Eaters, You-Know-Who's other supporters, and the like were being carted off to Azkaban at record speeds -- many of them were given the Dementor's Kiss, forced to live the rest of their lives as shallow husks of the people they once were. Lucius Malfoy was one of these people, given a quick trial and a speedy sentence.
After his father's trial came Draco Malfoy's. Nobody thought much of it -- he was one of the youngest Death-Eaters in recent history, yes, but he was still part of the Dark Lord's inner circle. Nobody expected him to receive anything but the Dementor's Kiss, just like his father, none more than Draco himself.
It came as a great shock when Harry Potter himself testified for him, saying things about the Malfoy boy having no choice, how Voldemort had forced him into compliance by threats of the torture and murder of his family, how he had been unable to finish the one task set for him, how he had lowered his wand on that fateful night on the astronomy tower, how he had lied in front of the Death-Eaters -- his own family -- in Malfoy Manor, how he had saved Potter and his friends.
Draco had tried to catch up with Potter after the trial, to thank him, but was only met with a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders and a, "Don't mention it, Malfoy." Draco stood in a stunned silence, staring at Potter's retreating figure, watching him rejoin his friends. Potter had saved him, yet again, and Draco, yet again, felt indebted to him -- the bloody tosser couldn't even accept Draco's gratitude for keeping him out of Azkaban.
And that's when it all started.
Potter faded from Draco's view, his mop of black hair disappearing behind the corner, and Draco felt a sharp pang in the middle of his chest. The pain subsided and a tickle rose hungrily in his throat -- he cleared it, the itching stopped.
He didn't think much of it, chalking it up to nerves, emotions -- after all, he had just been saved from a terrible, terrible fate. He swallowed thickly, turned away from where Potter had previously stood, and made for the exit.
Draco didn't think much of the sharp pain in his chest, of the odd tickle that had grazed his esophagus, as the summer progressed. Mostly, he kept himself distracted, locked himself in his father's old study and read as many books as could keep him from thinking about the war, about everything that had happened.
He kept his subscription to the Daily Prophet, allowed it to be the one thing keeping him in touch with the world outside the manor. Through one of his morning readings, he discovered the Professor McGonagall had been appointed the position of headmistress, now that both Snape and Dumbledore had passed on.
McGonagall's first order of business, Draco read, was to repair the damage that had been done to the great castle during the battle. Under her excellent new rule, and the generous time donation of the hundreds of witches and wizards that had volunteered to help, it hadn't taken long for Hogwarts to be completely rebuilt and reopened -- by late July, owls bearing acceptance letters flew around the country, swooping in and out of open windows, dropping envelopes in children's cereal bowls during breakfast or on their pillows just as they were falling asleep.
By the time a majority of the Hogwarts letters had been sent out, Draco read in the Daily Prophet that the seventh year students from the prior year, who were unable to finish their schooling due to the war, were being invited back for a chance to complete the N.E.W.T.'s the final battle had taken from them. Draco sighed, casting the newspaper aside, a dull ache setting in his heart as he remembered he could never go back to the school that had raised him -- it came as quite the shock when a common brown owl skidded to a halt on his desk, a beige envelope clutched in its beak.
Startled by the sudden noise, Draco jumped, gasping as he recognized the owl as one of Hogwarts' immediately. He swallowed thickly and, with shaking hands, accepted the letter from the owl's beak. He quietly thanked the bird, watched as it ruffled its feathers in a self-important sort of way and took off, soaring out of the window and high into the sky. He kept his eyes on the retreating owl until it was nothing but a dark speck in the dimming sky, then he finally allowed himself to move his gaze towards the envelope in his hands.
He took a shaky breath, flipped the envelope over in his hands, his trembling fingers struggled to unstick the purple wax seal. His breathing ragged and his eyes prickling with unshed tears, he opened the envelope and slowly withdrew the yellowing parchment that he had grown so familiar with over the last seven years.
September, 1998
After much consideration, Draco had discarded the letter with a heavy sigh, unwilling to put himself, or his classmates, through the turmoil of his return to Hogwarts (though, he felt far too sentimental to throw it away, and it now sat on the corner of his desk, getting yellower by the day). Pansy and Blaise arrived later that day, sat on the stiff leather couch in the corner of the study, told Draco that they would be returning to school, expressed their wishes that he would join them. They had almost swayed him, had almost changed his mind -- but, no, he couldn't do it... he wasn't strong enough.
Then, a week before the start of the new term, his mother had found him in the study. She watched him from the door for several quiet moments, before her tired grey eyes met his dull ones, and she sighed. She conjured up a chair and sat beside him, folding her hands in her lap. The mother and son sat in a mutual silence for a few minutes, before she sighed again and told him that she had spoken to Blaise and Pansy. She expressed her wishes that he would join them at the castle, finish his education, work hard to get all O's on his N.E.W.T.'s -- and, subsequently, find a nice, respectable job.
It ended up taking over an hour of coercion before Draco finally conceded, and they visited Diagon Alley to purchase his new school supplies the very next day. Now, there he sat, at the end of the barren Slytherin table during the annual sorting ceremony. Subconsciously, he knew he wasn't alone -- he had Pansy and Blaise sitting on either side of him and Theo sitting across from him -- but nothing could stop the feeling that they were completely and utterly alone.
From the freshness of the war, there weren't many new students joining Hogwarts this year -- in fact, Draco thought this might be the shortest sorting in the entirety of Hogwarts' history -- and a majority of the previous students had decided to take a break from, or to abandon altogether, their schooling. Of the few Slytherins that had made an effort to come back, nearly all of them had chosen to sit as far from the four oldest as they could, sneaking uncomfortable glances their way all throughout the feast, unwilling to associate themselves with the former Death-Eaters.
Draco avoided looking around the room at any of the other, barely occupied, house tables. He poked and prodded at his food all night, never once raising the fork to his dry lips. Beside him, Pansy and Blaise ate quietly, uncomfortably. Across from him, Theo wolfed down his food as fast as he could, something he had always done when something had made him uncomfortable during mealtimes. With this, the four of them were able to avoid seeing the scathing stares from the younger Slytherins and the other houses, but they didn't get their reprieve until later that night, after the feast had finished and everyone was excused to their common rooms for the night.
Due to the slim amount of previous seventh years that had decided to return to Hogwarts, and to promote a sort of "inter-house unity," as the headmistress had put it, the so-called eighth years were to have their own common room and their own set of dormitories (which, thankfully, were still separated by house to avoid any unnecessary dueling that Draco was sure would be entirely his fault).
Pansy, Blaise, and Theo had decided to stay in the common room for a few hours before bed, awkwardly sitting in a dark corner on a group of squashy orange loveseats. Draco, eyes downcast to avoid the hateful glares of his peers, opted not to join them, instead quietly apologizing and deciding to retire to the dormitory instead.
As he approached the spiral staircase leading up to the boys' dormitories, he caught eyes with Potter. The savior was sandwiched between Granger and Weasley, the three seated on a small turquoise couch by the fireplace. There were a few others around them, close friends of the trio that had fought alongside them in the war; Longbottom sat in a matching turquoise loveseat, chatting quietly with Finnegan and Thomas, who were both seated on the floor. Potter furrowed his eyebrows at Draco, instead turned his gaze towards Hermione.
Draco felt an odd tickle in his throat and was forcibly reminded of that time at the Ministry of Magic only a few months prior. He swallowed thickly, trying to avoid drawing anymore unwanted attention towards himself, and hurried up the stairs. Once he was tucked away in his dormitory, finally alone, he allowed himself to clear his throat.
This time, the itch did not subside.
His throat felt irritated and, without so much as a warning, he coughed. It was a short, dry sort of cough that cleared away the tickle, but left his throat aching. He wondered mildly if he was getting ill.
Classes were to start the very next day.
Draco awoke with that infuriating tickle in his throat and lethargy in his bones. He sat up slowly and hacked out a rough, dry cough. With a small grunt of pain, he reached out towards his nightstand, fumbling around for his wand. His fingers curled around the smooth wood and, with a short wave of his wand, he conjured a glass, which he quickly filled with nice, cool water using a silent augamenti . He brought the glass to his lips and drank it down in a few quick gulps. It didn't help with his sore throat.
Sighing, he placed the empty glass on his nightstand and slipped out of bed, the hardwood floor cool on his feet. The dormitory was dark and silent, the only light coming from the rising sun casting streams through the half-closed curtains, the only sounds coming from Blaise's deep snoring and Theo's light sleep-talking. Draco idly wondered if they or Pansy had the smallest dormitory, compared to the other houses...
He pushed that thought to the back of his mind and fetched his uniform out of his trunk, the white button-up a stark contrast to his familiar black-and-green Hogwarts robes. He quietly opened the door and slipped out of the room, unnoticed by either of his sleeping dormmates.
The adjunct bathroom was even quieter. Draco waved his wand tiredly, casting a dim light across the white tiles, a small whirring noise filled the room. He locked the door behind him and stepped towards the shower -- he turned the cold, silver handle and the showerhead shuddered to life.
He didn't know how long he had stayed there for, allowing the scalding stream of water cascade down his body, letting the hot water soothe his aching bones, the steam soothe his scratchy throat.
It wasn't until the water began to run colder and colder that he forced himself to turn off the shower. He wrapped a warm, white towel around himself and bustled to get ready for the day.
It felt like ages before a hard knock sounded against the door, followed by Theo's whiney voice complaining that he needed a wee, so Draco better hurry up. Draco exited the bathroom shortly after, his tie tight around his neck and his robes meticulous. Theo took his place in the bathroom while Draco walked over to his bed, waved his wand in front of his nightstand, vanishing the empty glass from earlier that morning.
"Good morning, Draco." Blaise said, voice deep from exhaustion.
"Morning," Draco replied, his throat fluttering as he spoke. He forced his head into the crook of his arm and let out a rough, involuntary cough. He heard Blaise suck in a breath from behind him.
"Are you feeling alright?" Blaise asked.
"Fine, Blaise." Draco said shortly. When this didn't seem to satisfy his friend, Draco sighed. "I'm having a bit of allergies, that's all. I'm fine. Really."
"Okay," Blaise said skeptically. "Well, maybe you should go see Pomfrey. She'll give you something to fix that right up."
"Yeah, maybe." Draco agreed, though he had no intentions of doing so. It was only a small cough and a sore throat, that was all, nothing he couldn't handle, nothing that wouldn't go away on its own shortly. "I'm going down to breakfast. Care to join me?"
"Yeah, alright," Blaise said with a sigh, and Draco knew that he wasn't pleased about the non sequitur. "Just give me a few minutes, I'll get ready."
The first day of classes came and went, and it was just as awful as Draco had expected it to be. There weren't enough students to have individual classes, so the eighth years were stuck in classes with the seventh years, who sneered at the older Slytherins and kept their distance when they were supposed to be partnering up. In between classes, when he was trying to make it to his next class unscathed, Draco was hexed and jinxed from all angles -- he never spotted who did it, however, as they had disappeared around the corner as soon as he had turned his head.
Other than these unfortunate changes, classes were the same as they had always been: Transfiguration was only interesting when they could turn small, boring objects into bigger, more intricate objects, but this, of course, wasn't going to occur on the first day back; Charms was fun, when Flitwick actually chose to teach them new spells, instead of making them practice spells they had learned in previous years as review; and DADA was entertaining enough, if only because Pansy was absolutely abysmal at the subject.
However, the worst class of all was potions. Like every year prior, the Slytherins were forced into sharing the same room with the Gryffindors. It seemed, since the war, that inter-house unity was at an all-time low, and students from either house were avoiding students from the other house like their lives depended on it. To combat this glaring issue, Slughorn had "randomly" (Draco was certain that he had done this on purpose) assigned table partners that they would be working with for the remainder of the school year. Considering his luck, Draco was paired with the one-and-only Harry Potter, much to the dismay of both parties.
After much arguing with each other and Slughorn, Potter and Draco sat side by side and avoided speaking to each other as much as possible while they prepared ingredients for their first potion of the year. Draco felt that uncomfortable tickle in his throat throughout the entire class, forced down a cough every few minutes. By the time class was dismissed, his throat was aching, and he stepped out into the busy corridors to have a short coughing fit into the sleeve of his robes.
A week passed and nothing showed any signs of improvement. Potions was still a complete disaster and his coughing still hadn't gone away (Draco started to wonder if there was something wrong). To make things even worse, the younger students had grown more comfortable with the new eighth years, and particularly confident students from each house had begun to hex the Slytherins during their free time, not just in the corridors between classes.
During one particular incident, when Pansy and Blaise had been holed up in herbology and Draco was writing a potions essay in the library, he felt a burn crawling up his left arm. He winced and pulled up his sleeve, where a nasty welt was already beginning to form over top of the greying dark mark. Immediately, he recognized the damage as a stinging hex, and took no time in packing up his belongings and hurrying up to the hospital wing.
Madame Pomfrey was busy attending to another student when Draco arrived. He sat down at an empty bed, listening to her as she ranted about how "dangerous brooms" were and how she "ought to get that terrible sport banned," much to the evident horror of the student in the bed.
"No!" The student protested, and Draco recognized Potter's voice immediately, the tickle he was beginning to grow familiar with intensifying. "Eighth years aren't even allowed on the house teams! This was just me and Ron flying around!"
"All the same." Madame Pomfrey tutted. "You have quite the concussion, Mr. Potter, you're going to need to spend the night here."
Potter groaned loudly and mumbled something that sounded like, "but I feel fine!" Madame Pomfrey stepped away from the bed, shaking her head at Potter's words, but apparently satisfied with her mending. She turned away from Potter and gave a jolt upon seeing Draco.
"Oh, dear, Mr. Malfoy, I didn't hear you come in!" Madame Pomfrey exclaimed, a hand to her heart -- Draco heard Potter scoff from his bed. "Is it another hex?" She asked, pretending she hadn't heard the noise.
"Yes, Madame Pomfrey." Draco explained, rolling up his sleeve to show the bubbling welt. "Stinging hex."
Madame Pomfrey tutted, shaking her head as she bustled towards her large cabinet of potions and healing creams. She withdrew a thick, light orange paste and moved to shut the cabinet doors.
A shuffling noise from beside him took Draco's attention away from Madame Pomfrey and the cabinet. He turned just in time to see Potter pulling open his curtains, sitting up with an unreadable expression on his face.
"What do you mean 'another hex?'" He asked, and Draco was met with the familiar urge to cough.
"Nothing for you to worry about, Mr. Potter." Madame Pomfrey placated, turning towards Potter. "Lie back down now, dear, you need your rest."
Potter looked like he wanted to reply, to say something in protest, but his words were cut off by Draco letting out a violent, hacking cough, completely losing control of the buildup of tension in his throat. Potter fell silent and he, along with Madame Pomfrey, turned his attention to Draco, who coughed roughly into his arm.
The violent cough ended a second later and Draco lowered his arm, feeling embarrassment creep up his neck.
"Excuse me," he said, avoiding eye contact.
"Are you feeling quite well, Mr. Malfoy?" Madame Pomfrey asked, one hand clutching the thick paste, the other still wrapped around the bronze knob of the cabinet door.
"Yes, Madame Pomfrey." Draco said. "It's simply allergies."
"That was quite the nasty cough." Madame Pomfrey stated, frowning. "Are you sure you aren't coming down with something? Respiratory diseases are quite common around this time of year."
"I'm quite sure." Draco said, feeling irritated -- Blaise's constant pestering about his new-found cough had been annoying enough. "It's been like this all week, without any other symptoms. I can assure you that I am feeling quite alright."
"Very well," Madame Pomfrey conceded, but she reopened the cabinet and withdrew a silvery potion. "I'm going to give you this cough potion, at the very least. It should soothe your throat within the hour. I'd like you to take a drag of it every six hours, while symptoms last. Understand?"
"Yes," Draco confirmed, accepting the two bottles from the medi-witch, "thank you."
"It is my pleasure, Mr. Malfoy." Madame Pomfrey said, then she turned away. "Now, it's time for you to be heading down to supper. I need to write to the headmistress about that awful sport..."
"No, Madame Pomfrey!" Potter protested again, flopping down on his bed in irritation.
Draco stowed the potions in his bag and hurried out of the hospital wing before they could start another heated dispute over Quidditch. However, he had no intentions of going down to dinner that night -- instead, he returned to the eighth year common room and hurried up the spiral staircase to his dormitory. When he opened the door, he found that Blaise was already there, tucked away in bed and reading some text for herbology.
"Good evening, Draco." Blaise said, tucking his finger in the book to preserve his page. He followed Draco with his eyes as he crossed the room, pulling the potions out of his bag as he approached his bed. "What do you have there?"
"Stinging hex antidote." Draco said, placing the orange cream on his nightstand. "You can borrow some, if you need." He placed the silver bottle beside the orange one. "This one is a cough potion."
"Finally," Blaise said, a smug expression slipping onto his face. "I've only been nagging you like a worried mother for a week now."
"Yeah, yeah," Draco dismissed, waving his hand. "You're more annoying than Pomfrey was when she heard me cough. Merlin, I'm surprised she didn't give me a full work-up with that wand of hers, she just trusted me when I told her it's allergies."
"Well, I think she should have given you a work-up." Blaise said, frowning. "I mean, how are you so sure that it's just allergies?"
"I'm not ill, Blaise, I don't have any other symptoms." Draco said, rolling his eyes. "Besides, it's Autumn. You know how the weather dries my throat."
"I suppose you're right." Blaise said with a sigh. "We're just worried, Draco."
"I know," Draco said. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm fine." He furrowed his eyebrows at the disbelieving look Blaise sent his way. "I mean it, Blaise, I am. Drop it."
"Fine." Blaise said, but Draco knew that he had no intentions of dropping it.
October 1998
September faded into October, and Draco began to wonder if it really was just allergies, if he really was as fine as he tried to convince his friends he was. He had continued to take the cough potion that Madame Pomfrey had given him, but it didn't seem to be helping whatsoever (the first few times he had taken it, it had only soothed his throat for an hour or two, and, as the potion dwindled, the effects only lasted for a few minutes at a time before the familiar tickling set in): In fact, it seemed to Draco, his cough had been steadily declining, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't worried.
He wondered what it was that could be causing this. Somewhere inside of him, he knew that it couldn't be allergies, not at this time of year. Still, with a slim amount of hope, he chose to believe that it was only allergies, for catching any illness this time of year would be detrimental for his grades.
He had no idea how bad it truly was...
The day the cough became truly troubling was a random potions class at the end of October. A couple of week prior, near the beginning of the month, Slughorn had assigned the N.E.W.T.-level potions class their first truly difficult potion of the year: a mandrake restorative potion. It would take several weeks to brew, he had described to them, and both table partners would be taking turns each week stirring the potion during their breaks. Of course, thanks to Slughorn's awful seating chart, Draco was stuck with the worst potions student that he'd ever had the misfortune of knowing.
It was the final week of brewing and it was Draco's turn to check in on their potion. It was six-o-clock sharp, right after dinner, and Draco traipsed down to the dungeons to stir their potion for the final time that night. He stepped up to the cauldron, stirred it three times anticlockwise, and compared the bubbling potion to the photograph in the textbook.
Something had gone wrong, he mused. it was only a slight difference, something that Draco was certain a mediocre potioneer wouldn't have been able to spot it, but Draco was certain that the color was off. Potter had messed up the potion somehow -- Draco wondered if he had mixed up the days, had thought it was his turn to stir the potion... or, perhaps, if he had done it intentionally, wishing to see Draco fail...
The door to the potions classroom creaked open and Draco instinctively looked up to see the newcomer. Potter, his bag loosely slung over his shoulder, stood frozen in the doorway.
"Malfoy?" He spluttered. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm stirring our potion." Draco snarked. "Unfortunately, it appears that someone has forgotten who's turn it was today, and now our potion is ruined."
"I- you!" Potter said.
"No, Potter, today was my turn." Draco said.
"What?" Potter exclaimed. "No, it's not! Friday's have always been my day!"
"It's Thursday." Draco said, crossing his arms.
"Oh." Potter said, his cheeks coloring. "Erm... my bad."
"Yes," Draco agreed, "it is your bad." He scoffed. "I expect you to tell Slughorn first thing tomorrow, and accept your Troll for butchering our potion."
"No need to be such a prat, Malfoy." Potter said with a grimace. "It was an easy mistake! I doubt we're the only ones in class who messed up."
Draco rolled his eyes, scoffing, and pushed past Potter -- and that's when it happened.
The familiar tickle rose in his throat with a newfound vengeance, the urge to cough following instantaneously.
He leaned against the cold dungeon wall, and promptly doubled over with his worst coughing fit yet. He coughed and coughed, feeling unable to breathe as something pushed its way up his esophagus. He stood there for what felt like hours, hacking the contents of his lungs onto the floor.
The cough itself, he knew, had only lasted for a few seconds, but the pain and shock that arrived afterwards wouldn't disappear for a while. He blinked stinging tears from his eyes and focused on the ground where-
Oh, shit.
There on the floor lay a small, white flower petal, frayed with the strain of his coughing, tinged slightly pink near the edges with what Draco was sure was his blood.
Draco had heard of this sort of thing happening before, of wizards and witches coughing up blood and flowers. It wasn't a common disease, something authors barely thought to mention in books. Draco hadn't heard of the disease in years, not since he discovered one of his ancestors had died from it. He had read about it in the Malfoy library back at the manor, trying to find everything he could about his family -- he had been so fascinated by this particular piece of information that he had forced Pansy and Blaise and Theo to read the passage (poor Theo had been so frightened of it that he hadn't stopped crying for half an hour, and Draco hadn't thought to bring it up again).
Panic coursing through him, Draco picked up the frayed petal and pocketed it, waving his wand to vanish the blood and saliva that had surrounded it on the floor. He tucked his wand away in his robes and hurried up the stairs of the dungeons, hoping he could get to the library before it closed for the night.
He arrived at the library in record time, coughing and wheezing into his sleeve as he searched for any book that he believed would have information on this. He could feel Madame Pince's stern gaze as he spluttered and yanked a book on ancient wizarding ailments off of the shelf in the research section. He slammed the book down on a nearby table and opened it, following the table of contents to page one-hundred-fifteen, where the 'H's began.
'Hanahaki,' it was called. Draco remembered that much.
He proceeded down the page, learning that the disease was caused by a deep, unrequited love. That didn't make much sense at all -- this whole thing had started with Potter. Draco was certain that he didn't love Potter...
A small voice in the back of his mind, which sounded suspiciously like Pansy, said, "are you sure about that?"
No, Draco realized, no, he wasn't.
He had known for quite a while that he was bent, since the Yule Ball all those years ago, at least. He had spent the entire dance ignoring Pansy, instead focusing on Cedric Diggory and Viktor Krum and... Potter.
He coughed, startling himself out of his thoughts, and continued to read.
The disease was fatal -- lovely, Draco thought dryly -- and often appeared in three separate stages. The first of these stages was the petals, relatively dormant and lasting anywhere from a couple months to several years. The second stage was the blooming flowers -- this was the apex of the disease, it seemed, and only lasted a few weeks or months. The third, and final, stage was the full flowers, characterized by the full bloom, the stems, the leaves -- this was the stage that would eventually cause the sufferer to succumb to death, usually within only hours or days.
Draco stared at the book, wide eyes absorbing the information. He was ill with a fatal disease, he realized. He would be dying in a few years, if he was lucky, but otherwise... it was quite possible that he only had a few more months to live.
He blinked the tears from his tingling eyes and swallowed thickly. After several deep breaths, he found the courage to continue reading.
It seemed, most fortunately, that the disease was treatable. Unfortunately, Draco realized as he continued reading, both cures were less than desirable. The first cure involved the sufferer's attraction being reciprocated -- Draco found this highly unlikely. The other cure was a surgery, designed to remove the roots of the flowers before the disease progressed too far -- it was only ever performed before the start of the second stage.
Draco considered the surgery for a few moments, but the benefits were far less than the disadvantages. Apparently, he had read, the surgery removed all affection, and sometimes even memories, for the person of their attraction. As if this wasn't bad enough, if the surgery wasn't performed properly (and, Draco assumed, it likely wouldn't be, as there were less than five confirmed cases per year), the sufferer could end up with no feelings, while still having the flowers embedded in their lungs.
Draco didn't think he would be able to handle the rest of his short life if his surgery was botched so terribly... and, well, he wasn't sure he could survive in a world without Harry Potter.
November 1998
Ever since he had diagnosed himself, he had decided to keep the fact that he was slowly dying of a rare love disease a secret from his friends. He didn't want to unnecessarily worry them with this burden, and he knew that they would try to convince him to get the surgery. He hoped that the disease didn't progress too fast, that he was able to give his friends a few final good years with him.
Unfortunately for Draco, with the near-constant coughing and his newfound interest in reading about Hanahaki, keeping this a secret was proving to be quite difficult. For the most part, he was handling it quite well, but, sometimes, during moments when he thought he had been alone, he would get quite the fright when one of his friends would ask if he was alright after hearing a particularly nasty cough. There were quite a few jarring moments where he had been alone in the dormitory and had to quickly stow a book on Hanahaki under his pillow when Blaise or Theo entered the room. He wasn't able to keep any of the information he had found on Hanahaki in his bag, either, for Pansy would rustle through it whenever she was bored. Whenever he was around other people, be it friend or foe (and, oftentimes, in classes), Draco would cough and heave a bloody flower petal or two into his dark green handkerchief.
Fortunately, despite the near misses of his friends finding out and his violent coughing during classes, he was keeping the fact that he was dying relatively quiet. For the most part, people didn't tend to pay much mind to him -- although, he often received odd glances during classes when he had coughed a few times too many.
He managed to keep it a secret throughout the rest of October, and the beginning of November brought the first Hogsmeade weekend. Originally, he hadn't been planning on going, instead wanting to focus on what he referred to as his studies, which was really just his way of saying he wanted to find more information on Hanahaki. Pansy had had other plans, however, and nearly dragged him out of the turquoise chair near the fireplace -- which, mind you, he almost never got to sit in, as the Gryffindors seemed to love hogging it -- and had forced him to join her, Blaise, and Theo down at the village.
Despite the fact that he hadn't wanted to go, Draco found that he had had a wonderful time with his friends -- it reminded him of old times. They had gone to Honeydukes, where they had bought an assortment of sweets (rich chocolate cauldrons, cherry-flavored licorice wands, light pink fizzing whizbees, the ever classic Bertie Bott's jelly beans, a pack of white and grey sugar quills, and a few tooth-flossing stringmints). Afterwards, they had stopped at Zonko's, at Pansy's request, where she had bought a pack of dungbombs, before they zipped into the Three Broomsticks for a quick spot of warm butterbeer while they talked about classes. Finally, they decided to end the trip with a cheerful walk around the Shrieking Shack.
This is where it all went to shit.
They were over halfway around the eerie building, only a minute or so away from the main pathway back to Hogwarts, when Draco keeled over and began to heave. Startled, his friends turned to him -- Pansy dropped the shopping bags that she had been holding and instead placed a soothing hand on Draco's back, using the other to pull his hair away from his sweaty forehead.
He wheezed and gagged, his entire body shaking, as a raggedy violet petal ripped its way out of his throat and landed on the ground in front of him. Far too preoccupied with his violent hacking fit, he hardly registered Blaise's eyes widening in horror, Theo's alarmed gasp, or Pansy's terrified wail.
When the episode finally passed, Draco straightened himself out and blinked slowly, coming back to his senses. Blaise reached into his pocket and held out a purple handkerchief with trembling hands. Draco quietly thanked him and used it to wipe the blood and saliva off the corners of his mouth.
Everything went silent for a few moments. Pansy, Blaise, and Theo stared at Draco with identical expressions of shock and horror. Theo took a shallow breath and broke the silence.
"Who?" He demanded. It was obvious to Draco that he was attempting to sound firm, but his voice wavered and unshed tears threatened to fall from his eyes.
Draco said nothing.
"Who, Draco?" Pansy piped up, her voice shaking, tears trickling down her face freely.
Draco didn't reply. He placed Blaise's soiled handkerchief in his pocket and retrieved his wand. He recited a hushed incantation and waved his wand over the wretched petal, vanishing it into nothingness. The four stood, suspended in a horrified silence, filled only by Pansy's whimpering and Theo's occasional sniffles as he attempted to stop his tears from falling.
It was Pansy who broke the silence this time.
"Who is it, Draco?" She wept, balling her hands into fists in Draco's light green sweater.
"Pansy..." Blaise spoke up, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder and lightly pulling her away from Draco.
Pansy looked up at him and he eyed the pathway towards Hogwarts, where Potter and his two best friends were walking up the hill, joking and laughing with each other all the way. Once the trio had disappeared from sight, Pansy turned her watery eyes back to Draco.
"No," she whispered, understanding the implications of this. "No!"
"Yes," Draco confirmed, his voice coming out in a shallow whisper.
"Oh, Draco!" Pansy wept, throwing her arms around Draco and squeezing him so tightly he wasn't able to breathe. It wasn't until he let out a feeble cough that she let him go, her frantic brown eyes searching his face for any sign that he was about to hack up another petal.
"How long?" Theo asked.
"I don't know, a few weeks... maybe a couple months, now." Draco said in a subdued voice. "It started after the trial... I thought that... I thought I was just coming down with a cold, or I had allergies, or something... but... I coughed up the first petal that last week of the mandrake potion."
Pansy let out a wet gasp and she sobbed, the tears cascading down her cheeks quicker than ever. Theo took a few deep breaths, attempting to calm himself. It didn't seem to be working, if his glossy eyes were anything to go by, but he found the courage to speak again.
"So... you're still in the first stage, yeah?" He said.
"Yes," Draco confirmed. "I... I'm not sure how much longer I will be, though. I'm hoping for a couple years, but..."
"But you're going to get the surgery, right?" Theo asked. He scanned Draco's face for any sign of confirmation. "Right, Draco?"
Draco sighed, then shook his head.
"No," he said, "it isn't worth it."
"Oh, Draco!" Pansy repeated, burying her head in Draco's chest. He could feel her tears seeping into his sweater.
"It'll be okay, Pansy." Draco said soothingly, rubbing her back. He wasn't sure he agreed with himself.
"Why won't you get the surgery?" Theo demanded.
"I told you," Draco said, "it isn't worth it. There's too many risks."
Theo scoffed.
"You're going to die anyway!" He exclaimed. "You might as well try!"
"No," Draco said. "I can't."
"Why?" Theo asked, and Draco could tell he was getting desperate.
"I..." Draco sighed. "There's too many complications with the surgery."
"There's complications with this disease!" Theo shouted.
"I know," Draco said. "I just..."
"You don't want to lose him." Theo finished. He let out a bitter laugh. "Some bloke is more important to you than yourself? Merlin, think, Draco!"
"I've thought about it." Draco said, frowning. "I have made my decision. I will not be getting the surgery, I'm sorry, Theo."
Theo looked at him, his eyebrows furrowed, before turning on his heel and walking towards the castle.
"He'll come around." Blaise said, putting his hand on Draco's shoulder. "He may not agree with your decision, I doubt any of us do... but he will support you."
"Yeah," Pansy said, wiping her tears away with her sleeve. "We're here for you, Draco."
"I know," Draco said, his throat tightening with emotion. "Thank you."
December 1998
Theo did, in fact, come around. He wasn't happy with Draco's decision, as was evident, but he didn't bring up the idea of the surgery up more than once or twice per day, which Draco was quite grateful for.
He had told Theo, and Pansy and Blaise, that he was trying to find everything the possibly could on the disease, that he hoped there was some lesser-known cure that would solve everything -- he just needed to find it. This information seemed to ease the mind's of the other three Slytherins, and they expressed their interest in wanting to help him.
However, as November ended, bringing with it the cold weather of December, they hadn't found anything that provided any help. They had read almost every library book with information on Hanahaki, but none of the information was new. By mid-December, Draco could tell his friends were losing hope -- he was beginning to come to terms with his death, however, and he realized that, while all this reading was a waste of time, at least his friends would have fond memories of him to look back on after he succumbed to this disease.
By the time Christmas break rolled around, Draco was spending a majority of his time coughing, hiding the bloody petals in his handkerchief during classes. His friends only grew more worried as the disease got worse, more frantic to find a cure that didn't involve surgery.
Unfortunately, the holiday break put a dampener on their plans. Theo, Blaise, and Pansy had decided to go back home for Christmas, wanting to spend more time with their families, with the hopes of repairing some of the damage that the war had done to their relationships. Draco chose not to return home, it would only cause his mother unnecessary worry -- he didn't want her to worry about losing her son when he wasn't even in the second stage yet.
Draco accompanied them to the front doors of Hogwarts, where Pansy proceeded to sob into his shoulder for an excruciating five minutes. Theo patted him on the back as they exited the building, and Blaise gave him a somber smile before they turned the corner.
And, with that, Draco was all alone.
It wasn't the first holiday break that he had stayed at Hogwarts, but it was, by far, the loneliest. The halls were almost completely empty, even emptier than a normal Christmas break. There were only a couple people from each house that had decided to stay at Hogwarts and, to Draco's dismay, Potter was one of them.
On the very first day of the break, Draco and Potter caught each other's eyes from opposite sides of the great hall during lunch. Potter had given him the stink eye, before turning to his eggs and promptly ignoring Draco for the rest of the meal. That was fine, Draco thought to himself, even as his heart tugged uncomfortably and he pulled out his handkerchief.
Christmas came and went, and Draco felt lonelier than ever as he unwrapped the various gifts that his mother and friends had sent him (a new broom cleaning kit and some finely decorated French pastries from his mother, a couple of chocolate frogs and a new silver ring from Pansy, a sharp new owl-feather quill from Theo, and a new Quidditch strategy book partnered with a hastily scribbled note from Blaise).
One night, near the end of the break, after a particularly terrible coughing fit, Draco threw on a warm travelling cloak over his pajamas, grabbed his broom and the book the Blaise had given him, and made his way down to the Quidditch pitch. His previous go-to place when he couldn't sleep was the astronomy tower, but, after the events that had transpired there only a couple of years prior, he no longer felt comfortable taking refuge there... in a way, this was better, he supposed -- flying had always been a sure-fire way to clear his mind.
He sat on the field of the Quidditch pitch, his wand tip lit and pointed at the book that Blaise had gifted to him. For what felt like hours, he sat there and read his way through a significant amount of the book, imagining that he was the one performing all those tricks. Once he had gotten halfway through the book, he set it to the side, pocketed his wand, and grabbed his broom.
He walked to the middle of the Quidditch pitch, his feet sinking into the soft snow. He mounted his broom, bent his knees, ready to kick off the ground --
"Malfoy?"
Draco straightened himself out, dropping his broom in surprise. He whipped around to see Potter, his hair tousled, a cloak draped over his pajamas, his trusty Firebolt at his side. He looked stunned, his green eyes scanning Draco's figure.
"Potter." Draco greeted.
"What are you doing here?" Potter asked.
"The same thing as you, I suppose." Draco said, raising his eyebrows as he gestured towards Potter's broom.
"Oh," Potter said stupidly, "yeah."
They stood in silence for a few moments.
"Erm," Potter said. He screwed up his face and, in what sounded like an awfully painful tone, asked, "Would you like to catch the Snitch with me?"
"No, I was just about to leave." Draco lied, his throat constricting.
"Oh," Potter said, and Draco could tell he was relieved.
"Yeah," Draco said. He picked up his broom and his book and exited the Quidditch pitch, feeling Potter's eyes on him the entire way.
January 1999
After this, Draco's coughing only begun to get worse -- he supposed it was a mixture of sitting in the snow for several hours and having an actual conversation with Potter. From then on, he decided to spend the rest of the break alone, holed up in the barren dormitory -- he only exited for mealtimes, during which he avoided Potter's curious glances, and he always checked to make sure that Potter wasn't at the Quidditch pitch when he needed to go flying. It was an incredibly lonely ordeal, but it kept him safe...
Luckily, Draco's loneliness didn't last much longer. After another week or two had passed, Draco sat in the dormitory, working on some nearly-finished holiday assignments with the quill that Theo had given him. He was startled from the end of his potions essay, leaving a giant blob where a period was supposed to be, when the dormitory door swung open.
It appeared that the holiday break had ended. An ecstatic Pansy entered the room first, followed by the ever-haughty Blaise and the grinning Theo. When brown eyes met grey ones, Pansy broke into a run and came barreling towards Draco, throwing her arms around him as soon as she had crossed the room.
"Draco!" She exclaimed. "Oh, I missed you so much!"
Draco let out a feeble cough as she pulled away, her brown eyes sparkling with worry.
"How are you feeling, darling?"
"I've been better." Draco confirmed with a shrug.
"Has it gotten any worse?" Theo asked.
Draco shrugged again.
"Have you found anything new?" Blaise asked.
"No, every book contains the same information." Draco said with a sigh.
"Pity," Blaise commented.
"It's okay," Draco said. "We'll find something."
He wasn't so sure about that.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Draco's second thought was correct -- now that the holiday had ended, the professors seemed to think that it was time to begin studying for their N.E.W.T.'s, and they were given so much homework that they had barely any time to read about Hanahaki.
During mealtimes, you could spot fifth, sixth, and seventh and eighth years studying hard, their noses hovering over books as they shoveled food into their mouths with the fervor of a hungry pack of werewolves, trying to finish as fast as they could so that they could have some time in the library before classes.
Draco, despite his new-found worry that he might not make it to the end of the school year, was one of these students. Each morning, he woke up hours earlier than normal, stuffed his bag so full of textbooks that he feared the seams would tear, and trudged down to breakfast. At breakfast, he read up on different potions and spells that he was sure they would be tested on, while he shoveled eggs and sausage into his mouth and tried not to choke on the petals that tried to make their way out of his lungs. During classes, he worked as hard as he possibly could to take good notes and to make absolute certain that he understood the material being covered. During breaks, he practiced the spells that they had learned in class, attempting to perfect them before they learned something new. After dinner, where he buried his nose in his books while Theo stole chips off his plate, he would hurry to the library to get some last-minute studying in before bed.
For the first two weeks of January, this went very well. Most students were far too focused on their own studies to hex Draco, which made studying quite easy for him indeed. Then, on one random day in the third week of January, Draco entered the library to find that his usual table was occupied by none other than Granger. He approached the table, but Granger didn't once look up from her ancient runes textbook. He cleared his throat and she spared him a quick glance.
"Yes?" She said, raising an eyebrow in annoyance.
"You're in my spot, Granger." Draco said.
"I wasn't aware the library had assigned seating." Granger said snarkily.
Draco stared at her for a second and she scoffed, rolling her eyes back to her textbook.
"You're welcome to join me, Malfoy, but I don't intend to change my seating because you don't want to find another place to sit." Granger said.
Draco stood there for a moment, quite taken aback. He glanced around the library, where every other table contained at least one other student. He weighed his options -- he didn't quite fancy getting hexed by the younger students trying to focus on their work, but he also didn't want to sit beside Granger in an uncomfortable silence while they worked.
He sniffed haughtily and took a seat across from Granger, who stiffened as though she hadn't expected him to accept her offer. She didn't say anything, however, and the two worked alongside each other in an uncomfortable silence.
They stayed there for several hours, neither speaking to the other, the only sounds between them being the flipping of pages and the scratching of quills on parchment -- and the occasional cough from Draco (which earned him odd looks from Granger), which he was doing his best to restrain. By the time the third hour came to an end, Granger stood up and tidied her side of the table, placing her textbooks, quill, and parchment back into her bag.
"Erm," she said awkwardly, one hand holding the strap of her bag, "I'll see you later, Malfoy."
Draco gave a nod of acknowledgement and, without another word, Granger exited the library, leaving Draco in a stunned silence. For a few moments, he stared across the table where Granger had previously been, and he pondered over how odd that interaction had been. He shook the thought from his mind and attempted to focus on studying.
February 1999
After that odd interaction in the library, Draco and Granger began to share the same table whenever they were in the library together. After the first week, their quiet interactions became much less awkward, and they were able to discover that they had some similarities by the end of the second week. By the time the fourth week had passed, Draco wondered if they would be considered friendly -- not quite friends, yet.
It was during the fifth week that Granger found out that Draco was seriously ill. They had been taking a small break from studying, sharing little factoids about themselves and the vastly differing worlds that they had grown up in. It was nearing Valentine's Day, a holiday that didn't bear much importance in the wizarding, or muggle, worlds -- however, with a laugh, Granger brought up that Potter was the talk of the common room, that nearly every girl in the school was planning to ask him on a date for the next Hogsmeade weekend.
The conversation topic had come as a shock and, without any warning, Draco coughed. He wheezed and choked as five or so petals dislodged themselves from his esophagus and landed in a wet bundle on his potions essay. Granger's eyes widened as she stared at the red petals, her lips parting ever-so-slightly.
"Are those..." She whispered, clearing the petals away with her wand. Her brown eyes travelled up to Draco's grey ones, sparkling with fear and wonder. "You have Hanahaki?"
"Don't tell anyone." Draco forced out, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Not Weasley, not Potter. No one."
"I wouldn't." Granger said. She swallowed, a thoughtful frown on her lips. "How long have you had this?"
"A few months." Draco said, picking at the table.
"Wow," Granger breathed out. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know much about Hanahaki... there's not much information out there."
"I know," Draco said. "Every book says the same thing."
"I'll have Professor McGonagall write me a note for the restricted section." Granger promised as she packed up her belongings. "There might be something new in there."
She left the library with a hasty goodbye, and Draco wondered if this meant she was going to try to help him.
A week later, Granger approached him in the corridor after a particularly wonderful transfiguration lesson. Pansy, Blaise, and Theo stared at her as she showed Draco a hastily scribbled note: McGonagall's permission to access the restricted section.
"Brilliant," Draco breathed, and he felt like he could hug her. "Would you care if I joined you?"
"Not at all." Granger said. "How about after dinner?"
"Yes," Draco agreed.
"Perfect," Granger said with a smile. "I'll see you then!"
The four Slytherins watched as she rejoined a stunned looking Weasley and Potter. Pansy turned towards Draco once the bushy-haired girl was out of ear-shot.
"How does she know?"
"We've been studying together." Draco said.
"Are you sure it's a brilliant idea to be mates with the closest person to the thing killing you?" Theo asked.
"I don't know." Draco said.
"I think so!" Pansy spoke up, a grin slipping onto her face. "Maybe she can get him closer to Potter!"
Draco didn't have the heart to tell her that that was never going to happen.
Later that night, after dinner had concluded, Draco joined up with Granger at the entrance to the great hall. Granger bid Potter and Weasley goodbye and greeted Draco with a soft smile.
"Are you ready?"
"As I can be." Draco said.
"We'll find something." Granger said. "I know it."
With that, the two made their way up to the library. Granger presented the headmistress' signature to Madame Pince, who begrudgingly opened the gate for them to enter the restricted section. It was quiet and dim, and Draco suddenly realized that he had never actually been into this part of the library.
"No, no, no," Granger mumbled to herself, fingers sliding over the thick spines of leather-bound books. "Aha!" She exclaimed, pulling out a thin book entitled 'Hanahaki.'
They found a small table in the farthest corner of the restricted section and took a seat. Hermione opened the book and set it on the table, angled so both of them could see. They read silently for an hour, Granger gasping every once in a while as she found something new about Hanahaki that she hadn't read about before. Draco, on the other hand, wasn't surprised by anything they had found in the book -- it all seemed to be the same.
"There's a cure!" Granger exclaimed, pointing to a paragraph in the book.
"I know," Draco said. "I either get a surgery or my love gets requited."
"Easy enough." Granger said sarcastically, Draco almost smiled. "Well, who do you love? Maybe I can talk to them."
"No," Draco said.
"Okay," Granger said, frowning. "Erm, well, what about the surgery?"
"No," Draco said, "it's not worth it."
Granger furrowed her eyebrows and read the passage.
"Is this girl really so important to you that you'd rather die than forget her?" Granger asked. She watched Draco as he shrugged. "Who is it?"
"I can't tell you." Draco said.
"It can't hurt anything!" Granger said. "I can talk to her, maybe she's interested!"
"He's not." Draco said, a short cough escaping his throat.
Granger took a sharp intake of breath.
"It's Harry, isn't it?" She asked.
Draco looked away.
"Oh, Draco..." Granger said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"This has been a waste of time." Draco said, standing up abruptly. "Thank you for your help, Granger. Please, don't tell Potter."
"I won't," he heard Granger reply softly as he walked away.
He was doomed.
March 1999
After that fateful night in the restricted section, Draco tried to remain affable with Granger during their study sessions in the library. However, this proved to be quite difficult, as she sent him looks of pity whenever she thought he wasn't watching. Fortunately, she didn't try to convince him to let her talk to Potter, but she didn't seem like she had given up on him either -- every chance she got, she brought up potential cures, all of which Draco shut down.
As the February weather grew warmer and the snow melted off the Quidditch pitch, it became increasingly difficult to find a time to fly to clear his mind. It seemed that every other student had decided to use their short break times to fly, rather than spending every minute cooped up in the library.
Fortunately, Draco was often able to sneak out of the eighth year common room after everyone else had gone to bed. He would take his broom down to the Quidditch pitch and fly, by himself, for hours, without any care in the world, all responsibility and illness flowing off his shoulders.
During one such night, Draco had kicked off the ground and flown for less than half an hour, when another person had joined him in the sky -- Potter, his green eyes shining, even in the dark sky.
"Malfoy," Potter said, holding a small golden ball in the palm of his hand. "I saw you out here and thought you might want some company."
"Did Granger say something to you?" Draco snarled, his throat tightening.
"What?" Potter said, frowning. "No! Why?"
"Never mind that." Draco said. "Why are you here?"
"I told you," Potter said, "I thought you might want some company."
Draco considered saying something snarky, but he remembered something that Granger had said only a few hours ago. She believed that it would be a good idea to try to befriend Potter -- with a guilty expression on her face, she had told Draco that Potter was bisexual, that he might have a chance to turn this illness around. Draco didn't believe it, but he hoped that he could gain Potter's friendship, could have him in his life, before he died.
"Yeah, that would be nice." Draco decided to say.
"Wicked!" Potter exclaimed. He opened his fist and the tiny Snitch fluttered it's wings. "Want to chase this around with me?"
"Yeah," Draco agreed.
Potter grinned at him and released the Snitch, which hovered in front of their faces for a few moments, before speeding off into the night sky. Potter wished him luck, before zooming far up above -- Draco swiftly followed, shooting his broom straight into the air.
On opposite sides of the pitch, they circled the stadium, eyes constantly scanning for any sign of the ever-eluding ball. They had been flying for ten minutes when Draco finally spotted that first glint of gold. He leaned forward on his broom, trying to gain speed -- a rush of wind sounded as Potter nearly crashed into him.
"Potter!" Draco shouted, losing sight of the Snitch.
"My bad!" Potter said, but he didn't look remotely remorseful -- a big grin had spread across his face. His eyes trailed towards the goalpost across the pitch and he shot off in that direction.
Draco hardened his gaze and leaned forward on his broom, trying to gain speed on Potter. Potter was approaching the goalpost, he had spotted the ball -- Draco reached his hand out and gripped onto the tail of Potter's Firebolt, causing him to sway, and the Snitch disappeared from view.
Potter skidded to a halt, glaring at Draco.
"Come on!" He said. "You're better than that!"
Draco shrugged. Potter smirked and lunged forward, racing off into the night. With only the dim lights from the stands to guide him, Draco sped after him, spotting him on the other end of the pitch, near the left goalpost. He smirked and leaned down on his broom.
Potter saw him coming and shot off towards the other end of the pitch, laughing as Draco did some sort of odd flip to turn himself around and chase after Potter. He spotted it, but Potter hadn't seemed to yet -- beside him was a glint of gold. Draco changed directions, shooting towards the Snitch -- the Snitch changed directory, zipping down below them -- this time, Potter had seen it.
They shared a quick glance, then they were both laying flat on their brooms, racing towards the ground. Their eyes never left the Snitch, glinting gold and fast -- they were neck and neck -- they both stretched out their hands --
Potter's fingers curled around the small golden ball and he pulled out of the dive. Draco followed not long after, and the two of them landed side-by-side, breathing heavily.
"Good game, Malfoy!" Potter exclaimed, pocketing the Snitch. "You almost had it this time!"
"Sod off, Potter." Draco scowled, though he felt no malice. Potter laughed.
"I'm serious," Potter said, "I had a lot of fun. It was like old times... you know, simple."
"Yeah," Draco agreed, his throat fluttering.
"So, erm," Potter said, "a few of the other eighth years come down here from time to time and play some rounds of Quidditch, since we can't play with the rest of our houses." Potter went quiet for a moment, as if he were considering something. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again to speak. "Would you like to join us on Saturday? You could probably play Seeker."
Draco's lips parted and he stared at Potter, who had a hopeful glint in his eyes. It sounded like loads of fun, but Draco knew most of the other eighth years weren't fond of him, he didn't want to spoil their time.
"Maybe," Draco agreed.
"Brilliant!" Potter exclaimed. "Just think about it, alright?"
"I will." Draco said.
"Between you and me," Potter began, lowering his voice to a false whisper, "I need some better Seeker competition."
The two shared a laugh and Draco felt his chest ache.
Smiling, Potter reached out his hand.
"Truce?"
Draco stared at it for a moment, nausea coiling in his stomach. Before he could cough all over Potter, he reached his hand out and clasped it in Potter's.
"Truce."
"Brilliant!" Potter said again, dropping his hand. "I've got to get back to the common room, or Hermione might kill me. She's been really rigid about the importance of sleep."
Draco smiled, that sounded like Granger.
"Goodnight, Malfoy."
"Night, Potter."
Draco's throat constricted and it took everything in his power to hold back his cough. As soon as Potter had disappeared from sight, Draco doubled over, falling to his knees in the cool grass. He was hacking and heaving, more than he ever had, nausea building up in his stomach as something large dislodged itself from his lungs.
Shaking, he vomited into the grass, bile and blood. He hacked several times, choking on the petals making their way up his throat. It felt like the first time he had ever coughed all over again, except this was infinitely more painful.
He wretched violently, sobbing as his esophagus hurled the petals onto the grass.
Fuck, Draco thought, his tear-filled eyes widening as he stared at the blood-tinged flower. A blue hydrangea.
He had reached the second stage.
The symptoms of Hanahaki were doubly worse during the second stage, Draco realized quickly. He found himself coughing more often, unable to breathe while a flower slowly moved its way up his esophagus. Gratitude coursed through him whenever he only coughed up one flower, but he knew that, very soon, he would be choking on multiple flowers at once -- he wondered how long he had before he was coughing up entire bouquets.
When Draco had coughed up the first full flower in front of his friends, they had been horrified. They were studying in the boys' dormitory, quizzing each other on questions they figured would be in the exams. Theo had just asked Draco about the goblin rebellion of 1752. It was an easy enough question, Draco remembered learning all sorts about the different goblin rebellions in first and second year. He opened his mouth to answer Theo's question, but his breath was cut short and he gagged on the flower that made its way up his throat.
Pansy shrieked in terror as the bloody flower fell onto Draco's textbook, and Theo turned so white Draco worried that he was going to faint. Blaise's dark eyes looked from the flower to Draco, and he frowned.
"You're running out of time." He said, his voice shaking.
The second stage of the disease was going by far quicker than the first stage had, Draco noticed, and he began to fear the unknown amount of time he had until he progressed to the third stage. By the time Saturday had rolled around, he was feeling so sickly that he could barely get out of bed -- still, he had approached Potter a couple days before to confirm that he would be joining him and the other eighth years for Quidditch that weekend, and the way that Potter's face had lit up was enough to get Draco to stand. He thought he might be able to die happy, as long as he saw that look on Potter's face again.
Draco slept in until the afternoon on Saturday. He awoke to Theo standing over his bed, his eyebrows drawn together in worry.
"You look like shit." Theo said.
Draco opened his mouth to joke that he still looked better than Theo, but his throat was dry and he could feel a flower dislodging itself from his lungs. He coughed and spluttered until the flower was on his bed, and Theo was handing him a cold glass of water.
"Maybe you shouldn't play today."
"I'm going to." Draco said, forcing his aching body out of bed. "I told Potter I would."
"Potter is killing you!" Theo exclaimed.
"I'm going to die anyway, Theo." Draco said, frowning. "I might as well live while I still can."
Theo didn't respond to that, his lips pinched in a tight frown.
Draco slowly bustled around the room to get ready, fishing his old Quidditch robes out of his trunk and changing into them. Once he was ready, he went down to the great hall, closely followed by a worried Theo, to get a quick early dinner in before the game.
He had barely sat down to eat when it was time for him to head to the pitch -- he grabbed a piece of buttered toast and his broom and made his way to the game. Almost all the students that had returned to Hogwarts were participating in the Quidditch game, even people who hadn't played during any other year.
It was a small group, consisting of just enough people to have one, or maybe two unfair, Quidditch teams. However, several of the stands contained younger students, who were cheering for individual players, rather than a house -- most students, Draco noticed, were hyping up Potter. None of the students cheered for him, but that was alright.
The small group was divided into two small teams, four or five students to a team. Potter looked delighted that Draco was going to be his opponent -- before they kicked off the ground, he grinned at him and wished him good luck.
They were off, eight people soaring through the sky -- Draco hadn't realized how much he had missed Quidditch, the wind blowing through his hair, the crowd cheering, the competition. He hoped he would be able to play once more before he succumbed to his disease.
The match was fun, but very difficult -- there was only one of each player (and, subsequently, one of each ball), which made it quite difficult for either team to score. Draco idly observed the game from above, circling the pitch, eyes scanning for the golden glint of the Snitch.
It happened during the thirty minute mark. The teams were tied, only twenty to twenty, when Draco spotted the Snitch. He adjusted his seating on his broom, sending himself towards the ball fluttering in the middle of the pitch -- out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Potter had seen it too.
The two boys raced, just like old times, towards the Snitch from different sides of the pitch, weaving around different members of their teams, dodging the bludgers, trying to get to the tiny golden ball before the other could. Draco was closest, but Potter was picking up speed -- Draco laid down, flat, on his broom, speeding as fast as he could towards the Snitch -- they were neck and neck -- Draco reached out his hand, Potter was stretching out his arm --
Draco's fingers brushed against Potter's as his hand enclosed the Snitch. Sudden, without warning, Draco coughed, his broom swaying out of control with every heave of his body -- the Snitch fell from his hand as his body dropped to the ground, but he had caught it, the crowd was shouting, for him.
Draco woke up in the hospital wing. He knew he must have been out for hours, if the dark sliver of sky he could see outside the windows was anything to go by. He tried to sit up, a feeble cough escaping his throat.
"Mr. Malfoy!" Madame Pomfrey exclaimed, bustling over to him with a worried expression on her face. "You had us terribly worried!"
Draco groaned in response.
"That was quite the nasty fall you took." Madame Pomfrey commented, uncorking a greenish potion and handing it to him.
Draco accepted the potion and drained it in one swig. He swallowed it, grimacing at the bitter taste, and handed Madame Pomfrey the bottle.
"Mr. Malfoy," Madame Pomfrey said quietly, carefully, pulling up a chair. "How long have you had Hanahaki disease?"
Draco inhaled sharply as the memories came flooding back -- he had been choking during his descent, someone had shouted the incantation for the slowing charm, several flowers had fallen from his lips when he hit the ground, and then he blacked out.
"A f- few months." Draco said, his voice hoarse.
"When did it start?" Madame Pomfrey asked, and Draco wondered if he was imagining the tremor in her voice.
"June," Draco said, "I think."
Madame Pomfrey let out a breath.
"Your illness has progressed too far for me to do anything, I'm afraid." Madame Pomfrey explained.
"I know," Draco said. "Stage two. I wouldn't have gotten the surgery anyway."
Madame Pomfrey stood up and Draco noticed her hands shaking. She walked to her potions cabinet and sorted through it.
"I'm sorry, dear." She said, shutting the doors to the cabinet. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to ease your symptoms."
"That's alright," Draco said, leaning back on the pillow. "I've given up hope."
Madame Pomfrey escaped to her office before the tears began to fall, but Draco heard her preemptive sniffles.
Madame Pomfrey discharged Draco from the hospital wing on Monday morning, his concussion cleared and flowers blooming in his lungs. It was still early, just in time for breakfast. Draco's shaking legs carried him to the great hall, where all conversation stopped the second he entered the room.
Rumors spread fast at Hogwarts, he knew -- he had been the one doing most of the spreading in his younger years. As he walked across the room, he heard the faint whispers coming from the house tables, people saying things about him and Hanahaki and death. It felt like hours before he reached the Slytherin table -- he didn't like being on this side of gossip.
He took his place between Pansy and Blaise, who both leaned closer to him in an attempt to shield him from the watchful eyes of everyone in the great hall. Theo leaned forward, passing him a plate.
"Everyone's talking about it." He whispered.
"I know," Draco said.
"People are speculating." Theo continued. "I've seen people checking out books about it in the library. Everyone wants to know what caused it."
"They're trying to figure out who you love." Pansy added. "I've heard people think it's Granger."
Draco put his head in his hands.
April 1999
The gossip followed Draco through the corridors, into each of his classes, to the loo and to the Quidditch pitch. He didn't stop hearing theories about his own illness until he was tucked away in bed, where he was unable to sleep, kept up throughout the night from his coughing, which had begun to occur every few minutes.
Students stared at him in the corridors, whispering to each other words they thought he was unable to hear. Professors had begun to take pity on him, assigning him less homework than his classmates, allowing him to be late to class or to sleep during lessons without getting detention.
As March faded into April, Draco felt more and more sickly. As his sleep schedule became worse and worse and his loss of appetite reached an all-time low, Draco knew that he was approaching the end. He had started feeling pains in his chest a few times a day, and he knew that could only mean one thing.
He didn't have long until he reached the third stage.
Exams were getting closer with each passing day and professors were emphasizing the importance of studying. When Draco entered the library that day, every table was occupied by a group of students studying for their O.W.L.'s or their N.E.W.T.'s. Draco looked around the room, but he was unable to spot Hermione's bushy head of hair. He grimaced, dreading the trek back downstairs -- the library was an awfully long walk.
Draco barely made it to the common room before he passed out. He woke up several hours later on the turquoise couch, a scratchy brown blanket draped over his body. Across from him, the firelight flickered over Harry's face.
Draco tried to sit up, but his body was too weak. Harry noticed and shut the book he was studying.
"Hey," he greeted quietly, placing the book on the coffee table.
"Hello," Draco replied, coughing into his sleeve.
"How are you feeling?" Harry asked, a soft, sad, smile gracing his features.
"I've been better." Draco admitted.
"I figured." Harry said, his smile dropping. He gestured to the book on the table. "I, erm, I was reading about... the thing you have."
Draco heaved dryly -- Harry sprang up from his chair and joined Draco on the couch, where he rubbed comforting circles on his back as three flowers fell into his lap.
"She must be some girl," Harry commented, "if she's worth dying over."
Draco hummed, exhausted, and leaned his head on Harry's shoulder.
"You know," Harry added, "I could try talking to her for you. Maybe she would want to try."
"I doubt it." Draco mumbled.
"Come on," Harry said, "you've... changed, a lot, since the war. I'm sure any girl would be lucky to have you."
Draco didn't reply.
May 1999
The rest of April passed by in a blur. Every class was dedicated to reviewing things that would be featured on the exams and students hardly had the time to look up from their textbooks. Whenever Draco felt too weak to study, which was a majority of the time, Harry would read his textbooks to him, would quiz him on different topics while he attempted to stay awake in the common room. On certain days, he would hold Draco's wand arm for him and help him cast the spells he needed to practice.
The end of May swiftly approached, bringing exams along with it, and Draco hoped that he would have a few days where he didn't feel completely terrible, a few days that he could focus on passing his classes. Before exams began, Draco went to Madame Pomfrey and begged for something, anything, that could relieve some of the symptoms of his disease -- there wasn't anything she believed would work, but she sent him off with a week's worth of Pepperup potion.
It was the last week of May and every day brought two new exams. In the mornings, Draco was able to take a dose of Pepperup potion, which held his cough and malaise back long enough to take his first exam. By the afternoons, the potion had worn off, but it was too early to take another dose. After he was certain he failed his second exam, he spoke to the headmistress and was able to get accommodations -- he was to take both exams in the mornings.
This schedule worked for him and he was able to take all of his exams with barely a tickle in his throat.
June 1999
The first day of June marked the end of the exams, and Draco felt more exhausted than ever. He had consumed the rest of the Pepperup potion, which he was quite grateful for during the exams, but he was certain that his symptoms had only gotten worse.
By the second week of June, the exam results were sent out. While he hadn't received as many O's as he had hoped for, he had passed all of his classes. With nothing but death to worry about, Draco lounged under a large tree near the black lake, watching Harry poke and prod at the water with his wand, playing some sort of game with the giant squid.
Harry noticed him watching and grinned, walking over to him. He plopped down in the grass beside Draco, crossing one ankle over the other. He tilted his head, looking down at Draco.
"Are you sure you don't want me to talk to her?" He asked. "I mean, if she's here at Hogwarts, this might be your last chance before..."
"It won't help." Draco said.
"I can at least try." Harry protested.
"Drop it, Harry." Draco said, and Harry sighed.
"I just want to help you." Harry said, frowning. "I wish I just knew who it was."
"It's you, Harry" Draco confessed. "It's always been you."
Harry froze, his green eyes widening behind his round glasses.
Draco stared at him, his grey eyes tracing every feature of Harry's beautiful face. He smiled softly, and a sharp pain appeared in his chest. His smile dropped, being replaced by fear -- this was it, he realized, he was entering the final stage.
"Draco?" Harry said, his voice muffled in Draco's ears.
Draco's vision was swaying, his breathing ragged. He felt thorns piercing his lungs, flowers blooming all the way up his esophagus. He was choking and gagging on the soft petals tumbling from his mouth.
He tried to speak, to scream, to tell Harry he was scared -- he didn't want to die, he didn't want to die, he didn't want to die. He had thought he had come to terms with the thought, but the experience was so much worse -- he could no longer breathe, his lungs filled with thorns and stems and petals and flowers and --
There was a soft pressure on his lips.
The pain began to fade away, the thorns dislodged themselves from his lungs, the stems shrank into themselves, the flowers wilted, turned to seeds, and disappeared from his throat.
He came back to his senses, all of his pain and exhaustion gone. Harry was grabbing onto his shirt, staring at him with those bright green eyes, filled with tears.
"Don't die, you prat!" Harry exclaimed. "I love you, too!"
Draco brought his hand up, cusped the back of Harry's neck, and pulled him into another kiss.