Chapter 62
When Draco awoke, it was always to the fog of medication. It made it hard to know whether he was dreaming. He thought he must not be, because he could feel heaving breath in his chest as he panted for air. That fear, the one of not where he could not breathe, only separated awake from sleep until it carried over into his dreams and then Draco was drowning in blood and unable to get up and stop the monster from killing. This time the monster was black shadows, and it struck down tall, red-headed figures that would not stop jumping between the sword and a dying Draco. Draco couldn’t cough up blood fast enough to tell them to run, save themselves.
Maybe he’d been awake that time. He was fairly certain at some point his real body had coughed up blood.
When the world between reality and darkness became too close to distinguish, Draco knocked the medicine out of Xeno’s hands so he wouldn’t have to drink it. It hurt worse that way, but he knew how to handle physical pain. It still didn’t hurt as bad as that first time. Besides, if he had to die he didn’t plan on doing it in a nightmare.
He must be dying, mustn’t he? It felt an awful lot like he must be dying.
When the pain came his mother talked him through it. She showed Draco how to breathe to keep his calm. She stroked his greasy, stringy hair. Sometimes she sang lullabies, like when he was a child. Draco didn’t know when she slept, since she was always there, calming him through the pain.
Draco was scared. Without the medication the world was suddenly bright and sharp. Draco counted stones on the wall. They were a familiar beige. Must be the castle, not back at Grimmauld Place. Counting made him nauseous and he gave up. The only people he saw were Xeno and his mother. He rather thought again that he was dying.
“Where is everyone?” he asked his mother. It was more of a whine. A pathetic sound that crawled out of his throat while his mom sang him through his pain. She was a godsend, a saint, but he also was terrified she was the only person he’d see again before he died.
A year ago, two maybe, that would have been fine. It had been him and his mother against everything else. She was still his first and truest love.
But he didn’t want to die only having said goodbye to her. He wanted one last hug from Teddy, Molly and Lucy. He wanted Percy to have to get over his sense of propriety and properly cry. He wanted a final wisecrack from George. He wanted Andromeda at his mother’s back, making sure she wouldn’t be all alone when her son was gone. If Draco’s death had to be so long and painful, he should at least get all of that.
His mother cooed, “Hush, love, hush and get better. They are all there waiting for when you are well again.”
They’d given Draco enough water finally that he could sob. “I’m dying,” he cried.
“No, no,” his mother whispered into Draco’s forehead. “My love, you must not think that. Please, hush, love. I’ll get Xeno. He’ll give you more medicine.”
Draco didn’t knock it out of Xeno’s hands this time, and Xeno sent him back into the darkness.
He hated the medicine because it meant he was never cogent enough to tell what state his mother was in. She was always there, waiting for him to wake up. Always holding him in her arms, singing sweetly. Draco was terrified she would drive herself into the grave trying to keep him alive.
There was no time anymore. Only black nothing or grogginess. Sometimes in the grogginess there was pain, but it was less likely if Draco stayed perfectly still. Xeno said Draco was healing, but Draco couldn’t tell. They strapped him to the bed when he was asleep because he might thrash, probably from nightmares. There was not a time Draco’s mother hadn’t been there. How could one stay with him so long? Maybe it had only been a day, maybe only hours. Maybe he was dead already and she was another ghost. Morbid thoughts like these plagued him whether sleeping or awake.
Draco wondered if he was asleep when the woman who wasn’t his mother brushed the sweat-soaked hair from his face. He could have sworn he’d woken up. The world had edges again. He strained to move and felt the straps that kept him still.
“Oh, Draco, are those hurting you?” she said gently. Then her nimble fingers undid the clasps and the straps fell away. “Isn’t that better?” she said, and Draco recognized it was Luna.
Draco licked his lips before he spoke. His mouth was still so dry. “Where’s Mother?” he croaked.
“Sleeping, I hope.” Draco hoped it, too. Even ghosts must need sleep. “You look Thirsty. Can I get you water or will you vomit?”
Draco turned his head to stare and his vision was almost clear enough to see Luna’s crinkled eyebrows. “Haven’t yet,” Draco croaked.
Luna’s answering smile was so brilliant, Draco’s eyes ached. “That’s good. Father thinks you might tear something if you vomited, and it would be quite a shame since he got the infection under control.”
She didn’t speak to Draco as if he was dead, and he thought maybe he wasn’t. What would a living person say? Draco didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. Luna seemed like she might tell him. “Infection is the bad one?”
Luna shrugged. “It wasn’t doing you any good. So how about just a little water, to start.”
Water was divine. As in, it made Draco regret his lack of religious devotion. Only a higher being could have created something this glorious and shared it with humans on earth. Maybe if Draco had prayed more fervently in his life he’d have been granted the gift of water sooner. That all would have been a lot to say, so Draco settled for croaking, “Thanks.”
Luna carefully brushed the water that had dripped onto Draco’s face from his chin before it could fall further. “Are you in any pain?” she asked. Draco stayed perfectly still and tried to identify the limbs of his body. He risked shaking his head. It didn’t really make things worse. “That’s good, then. I heard it’s been very bad.”
“How long have I been here?” Draco needed to know.
Luna hummed. “Eight days, I think.”
Unfortunately that didn’t shed light on much. “If I move at all it’ll hurt again. Do you know what that means?”
Maybe this time Luna frowned. “Father says if you had internal bleeding or if the poison reached your heart you’d have died by now, and if his antibiotics hadn’t worked the infection would have spread.”
“What are antibiotics?” Fixating on the details helped Draco think less about how the pain was coming back.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. I think they eat the bad blood in you so it doesn’t summon malicious spirits.”
Draco stared straight up at the ceiling. He saw malicious spirits constantly in his dreams, so maybe he was dying after all. “Okay.” He swallowed down a lump. He really, really didn’t want to die. Especially not alone in a beige room. “Could you maybe get other people?”
Luna squeezed Draco’s hand. “Your mother will be back soon,” she promised.
“No, I mean other other people,” Draco asked.
“Ah,” Luna had a way of looking wise and knowing. “Father says they need to give you space so you can heal. Unless, of course, you’re dying. No one has gone far, so if you’re dying we can call them to come say goodbye.”
Draco blinked back sudden tears. “I’m not dying?”
Luna stroked a hand over his forehead soothingly. “I’m sorry, Draco, I really don’t know.” In her melodic voice, it was soothing.
Draco still grimaced. “Alright. But, maybe we can try skipping the medication again. I don’t want to die in my sleep.”
Luna was surprisingly calm when the pain came back. Her sing-song words were soothing. She let Draco grip her hand as tight as he needed to. She made Draco promise he’d make her more hand pies and told him all the food she used to dream about when she had been stuck in the dungeons. Wouldn’t it be grand, when they could eat all their favorite things together? Draco growled out that Kreacher would make it for them, unless Draco died.
Luna must have nerves of steel, because she didn’t call for her father to come back and give Draco any medicine. Not even when he cried and told Luna he was dying. It still didn’t hurt as much as that first time, but Draco was more afraid of what dying would mean. Who would make sure Teddy didn’t have to go to horrible castle parties, or teach Molly and Lucy to make dresses like Walburga Black, or get that grump of a king to laugh? He dug fingernails into Luna, but she could handle it. She stayed with him until his mother woke up and returned.
Draco must be healing, because he didn’t have to take the medication to sleep. It was a happy exchange to take fitful naps over the nightmares Xeno’s tonic gave him. Xeno brought Draco weak broth, then broth-soaked bits of bread. Draco didn’t vomit, and none of the food or liquid seemed to be leaking out of his organs. This, apparently, was an actual fucking concern Xeno did not share until he was certain Draco was in the clear. Xeno was not the sort of healer who shared any of the ways you might be dying with his patients, which was terrifying, because Draco didn’t know what might kill him next.
His mother held him through all his fears. She sang him French lullabies. Most nights, Draco was able to sleep.
One day he woke up and no silver blonde people were there. Draco twisted his head, but didn’t see anyone at all. Without thinking, he tried to lift his head to look further. He’d forgotten so simple a motion would engage his core and he grunted in pain.
“Draco?” A voice from the distance. Someone unexpected. What was Draco supposed to call him?
He didn’t have to say anything for King Harry to get up and walk closer. The king saw Draco blinking groggily in disbelief. He walked around the bed and sat down in the chair Draco’s mother used. One that let him be close enough to hold Draco’s hand or brush over Draco’s brow.
Xeno wanted people to stay away, unless... “Am I dying then?” Draco asked, still in a half-asleep haze.
The king gasped. Almost carelessly, he groped for Draco’s hand. Harry leaned over Draco’s bed so he could hold Draco’s hand close to his chest. Green eyes shone like a beacon. They didn’t rage, like the monster in Dracos’ dream. They did burn, hot and feverish and desperate. “Don’t die, Draco,” the king pleaded, and Draco wondered if this could possibly be real.