Tired

Tired

"I don't know," Draco said. "I've just been feeling out of sorts lately."

"You need to be more precise if I'm to help you."

Draco glared at Madam Pomfrey. More precise? That was the problem. He didn't know what was wrong with him, didn't know how to explain exactly what felt bad. It was just... everything...

"I'm always tired," he started hesitantly. "Have been for a long time now..."

"How long?"

"I don't know how long. It's getting worse every day... I think. So how am I supposed to know when it started?"

Madam Pomfrey crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him disapprovingly. Any minute now she would chastise him for using that tone.

"You know what?" Draco said, deciding to save her the trouble. "I'm sure it's nothing serious. I wouldn't even have come here, except we're playing Gryffindor in two weeks and I wanted to make sure I'm in shape until then." He had almost fallen off his broom at practice just a few hours earlier. That was what had made him decide to go to the nurse - well, one of the things - he really didn't want anything like that to happen when they were playing for real. Especially not when they were playing Gryffindor. He had to win this time. "But this... whatever it is will most likely pass by itself, and I'll be fine. So, I'll just leave now." He got up from the chair and started edging his way towards the door. It's nothing serious. It'll go away.

"Sit down again, Mr Malfoy."

"N-No. You probably have lots of important things to do. I don't want to disturb you. I'll just... go."

"Sit," she repeated in a very firm voice. "Tell me how you're feeling."

"But it's nothing serious..." The protest sounded weak even to Draco's own ears.

"I'll determine that. Now, you say you're tired. How are you sleeping?"

Draco sat down in the chair he had just vacated. "I sleep well," he said. "Only much more than usual. And I'm still tired when I wake up."

"And it's getting worse?"

Draco nodded.

"And how about eating?"

"I'm hungry all the time." He was ravenous. "But I don't have much appetite." Just the thought of actually putting food in his mouth made him nauseous. The feeling clashed uncomfortably with the large grumbling hole in his stomach.

Madam Pomfrey kept asking questions. Did anything hurt? Was he more tired at any particular time of the day? Did all kinds of food make him feel equally sick? He answered as honestly and exactly as he could. No, there was no pain. He got more and more tired all the time, but it was usually a little better just after he had slept. Not much, though. Yes, anything edible made him feel sick. Even drinking a glass of water was a chore. Madam Pomfrey nodded thoughtfully at each of his answers and asked more questions.

"So. Is there anything else you can think of?" she said when she seemed to have run out of specific things to ask about.

"No... well..." He hadn't really wanted to bring it up. It probably had nothing to do with the rest of it.

"Anything at all," she urged him.

Well, what the hell. He had already told her more about himself than anyone should know. Why not throw this in too?

He opened his robes and pulled off his shirt. "I noticed them this morning..." he started, but then he just stared down at his chest in bewilderment. What had been a few tiny sparks of light winking in and out of existence beneath his skin now looked like a bunch of fireflies twirling around his heart.

He looked questioningly up at Madam Pomfrey, barely catching a glimpse of something that might have been pure horror on her face, but it disappeared so quickly he thought he might have imagined it, and a second later she was smiling in her usual light-hearted way again.

"What does it mean?"

"You can put your shirt back on," she said, smiling too cheerfully. He didn't think the smile reached her eyes, but he couldn't be sure because she looked down at her desk. Away from him. "I'll need to do a few tests and consult a book or two. But everything will be fine, you'll see."

"What's wrong with me?" Draco's heart was beating fast now, and he felt sweaty and cold at the same time. There was something the nurse wasn't telling him. The sparks meant something. What if he was really sick? "I will be all right, won't I?"

"Like I said, I need to... tests... books..." She fumbled with some papers on her desk.

"But you can cure this, can't you? It's nothing serious, right?"

"Oh, everything will be fine, you'll see," she repeated.

But there was too much sympathy in the eyes that still refused to meet his.

"Tell me!" Draco demanded.

After several excruciating seconds of unmoving silence, she finally looked at him. Her face was blank. "I think you should rest for a while. You seem really tired." It was a dismissal. She picked out pyjamas from a trunk in the corner, and handed them to him. "We can do the tests later, when you're feeling more alert."

He had an awful suspicion that there wouldn't be any tests, that he wouldn't feel more alert. But he really was tired. He barely had strength enough to keep his eyes open, much less to worry about whatever it was Madam Pomfrey didn't want to tell him. He gratefully took the pyjamas, but once she'd shown him to a bed, he didn't bother changing into them. He just crawled under the covers and fell asleep.

***

When he woke up, Dumbledore was sitting next to the bed. That couldn't be a good sign. Draco took one look at his sombre face, then turned his back to the old man and curled up in a tight ball.

"It's bad, isn't it?"

"Yes."

It was funny, Draco thought. He had always despised the headmaster, always considered him a doddering old fool who used all his strength to protect those who didn't deserve it. But now Draco was glad to have Dumbledore with him. He knew instinctively that Dumbledore wouldn't make up some sweet fairy tale, or avoid him like Madam Pomfrey had done. He would tell the truth.

"How bad?" Draco asked.

For a long moment, Dumbledore was silent and Draco began to wonder if he had misjudged him after all. When Dumbledore finally spoke his voice was sad and low.

"We don't know much about how magic is inherited. A witch or wizard can be born in a family where no magic has existed before, or a non-magical child can be born in a magical family. At times, it seems completely random. We just don't know enough." He sighed and was silent again for a moment before he continued. "It happens - very rarely, I've only seen it once before, but it happens - that a child in a pure-blood family inherits too much magic, more magic than the body can handle."

"Is that what happened to me?" Draco turned around and immediately regretted it when Dumbledore nodded sadly. He wanted to turn back again, but it felt too embarrassing, too exhausting, so he settled for burying his face in the pillow. "But I'm not that strong. I mean, wouldn't someone have noticed?"

"There is little connection between how much magic you have and how much talent you have for using it. Both are required, but it's the talent that really makes you powerful. And growing up requires a lot of magic. That's why children can't use very much of their magic at first. It's busy, so to speak. But now you're almost grown up, and all that magic inside you is looking for something else to do. Unfortunately, it's started fighting your body."

Draco pulled the covers over his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to pretend that the world outside the bed didn't exist, or that Dumbledore was lying. But he couldn't pretend. He couldn't because he felt the truth of those words, felt the horrible struggle inside his body.

He pushed at one corner of the blanket, opening a small gap to the outside world.

"Will I die?" he asked.

"Yes."

No!

No, he wanted to scream. I can't die! I'm only seventeen. I've barely had a chance to live. I won't die. I refuse.

But he didn't scream. Instead he asked, in a voice that was almost steady, "When?"

"When the sparks show up on your skin it usually happens quite fast. A few weeks, maybe just days."

"And there's nothing anyone can do to stop it?"

"No one can take your magic away. And even if it were possible, I don't believe you would want it."

To live without magic? Like a Muggle? I'd rather die!

And he would.

He would die because of his magic, because of what he was. A pure-blood, strong, born into a powerful family; all he had wanted, valued and been proud of... and now it was killing him.

"Will it hurt? Dying, I mean. Does it hurt?"

"I don't think so. I think it's just like falling asleep."

After that, there didn't seem to be anything else to say. Draco brought his knees up to his chest and hugged himself tightly. He wondered if he should cry, if it was expected of him. But he couldn't, didn't want to. Crying would make it more real, crying would mean it mattered, and he was just too tired to care.

He pushed the blanket away and looked at Dumbledore. "I think I'd like to rest now."

Dumbledore nodded and stood up. "I'll go and contact your parents."

"No!" Draco sat up, suddenly wide awake. "No, please don't... don't tell them until... after..."

"Are you sure, Draco? I really think you should be with your family now."

Draco shook his head. "No... I don't want them to know. I... I'll write a letter. You can give it to them when... I'll explain... they'll understand. Please, don't tell anyone."

"If that's what you want..."

Draco nodded firmly.

"Very well then," Dumbledore said. He paused in the door on his way out. "If there is anything I can do for you, Draco, anything you want, don't hesitate to ask."

Draco didn't answer, and Dumbledore left.

He sank back against the pillow. Suddenly he wanted to sleep, wanted not to wake up again. What was the point, anyway?

His parents...

Should he let Dumbledore tell them anyway?

But no.

He had made the right decision. He couldn't let them see him fade away, grow weaker every minute. His mother would be hysterical. She would scream and cry and make demands and surround him with Healers, and he didn't want their last time together to be like that. He wanted it to be like last autumn when she had been so proud of him, and kissed him on the cheeks, and laughed and told him not to scowl because this was the last time she was sending him off to Hogwarts and the last time she was allowed to treat him like a child, and she intended to make the most of it.

His father wouldn't yell and demand impossible things. He would appear to be angry and disappointed. "Yes," he would tell anyone who dared approach him with condolences, "it's such a shame. We expected much of the boy." The grief would be worse for his father, Draco knew, because he wouldn't be able to show it. It was an unspoken rule, a proverb, almost. A Malfoy does not show his love for his son. But, Draco thought, a Malfoy son knows anyway.

***

Days passed, and Draco didn't die. He wrote the letter to his parents over and over again, never managing to get it perfect, to say all that he wanted to say. Finally he gave up and crammed all the sloppy outlines into a large envelope. It was the best he could do. No amount of words, no matter how well chosen would make his mother understand. And his father... Father wouldn't need any letters to understand. Besides, Draco was too tired to try any more.

He slept much of the time and didn't let anyone but Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey visit him, and he would have chased them away too, if he'd thought there was any chance they would leave. He didn't want to see anyone, couldn't stand the fact that they were alive, and would continue to be so tomorrow, and next week, and next year.

It was late one evening when he decided to break his solitude. He was staring out through the window, watching Harry Potter fly. The Gryffindor Quidditch practice had ended almost an hour ago, but Harry was still in the air.

Draco had argued with himself ever since he saw the other Gryffindors leave, argued back and forth, finding hundreds of reasons not to. And still he knew what he had to do. It was the one thing he felt he needed to do before he died. One thing, and then there would be nothing left to regret.

Slowly, he pulled on his robes and left the hospital wing.

He was sitting on the floor in the entrance hall, exhausted form the walk there, when Harry entered.

"Malfoy." Harry looked vaguely displeased at finding him there. "What are you doing here? They said you have the flu. Shouldn't you be in the hospital wing?"

"I need to talk to you." Draco struggled to get to his feet. Harry watched him suspiciously.

"So talk."

"I'm sorry," Draco said, trying to put as much feeling as possible into the words. He needed Harry to believe, but he knew he didn't have much time to convince him. "I'm sorry for all the things I've said, for the way I treated you, for everything... I'm sorry. I never wanted it to be that way."

Harry stared at him, shock and surprise written all over his face.

Draco sighed. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. He was so tired. Maybe he shouldn't have attempted to walk all the way here. He had no idea how he was going to get back. He just hoped he wouldn't faint in front of Harry.

"Malfoy?" He was surprised at how close Harry's voice sounded, and when he opened his eyes he realised the other boy was standing next to him. Harry looked worried. "You look really pale. Should I go and get someone?"

"No," Draco whimpered. He didn't want Harry to leave. Didn't want anyone else to intrude on their moment. Even if Harry didn't accept his apology, even if he went back to glaring at Draco and telling him what a malicious snob he was, even if he pushed Draco away, this was their moment, the only moment they'd ever have. For the first time, Draco had to struggle to keep the tears away.

"Do you want me to help you to the hospital wing?"

Draco nodded, and Harry put an arm around his waist and took a careful step away from the wall. Draco leaned heavily against him and soaked in the scent of grass and sweat and leather and Quidditch, soaked in the feeling of Harry's body so close to his.

They walked silently, slowly, for a while. When they came to a staircase, Draco stopped.

"Wait," he said, and sat down on the lowest step. His feet just wouldn't carry him any further.

Harry knelt in front of him. "What's wrong with you?" he asked gently.

Draco looked at him, studied his face, like he had done so many times. But now he was closer than he had ever been before. And now nothing else mattered. Harry's hair was messier than usual. For a long time, Draco had thought that Harry didn't care about his appearance, that he didn't bother to comb it. But then he had decided that Harry's hair was just wild, untameable. No matter what he tried to do to it, it would always look messy. Especially now, when the wind had been playing with it. The wind had also touched his face, and a slight flush lingered on the cheeks. Draco wondered if they would feel cold if he touched them. He doubted it. He doubted that anything about Harry could ever be cold. Harry's eyes were filling with genuine worry, and they met Draco's without hesitation or fear. Harry's eyes asked questions Draco didn't know if he was ready to answer. He looked away, downwards, to Harry's mouth. He could stare at those lips for hours. He wanted...

"Can I kiss you?" Draco didn't know he'd actually said the words out loud until he saw Harry jump a little in surprise.

"What?" Harry said, licking his lips self-consciously. "Why?"

"Because I want to. I've wanted to for a long time." Oh God, how he had wanted it. "But I was too scared. It was easier to tell myself I hated you."

"But you don't?"

"No, I don't."

"Why now?"

Draco considered. Harry didn't sound appalled or disgusted. He didn't even sound suspicious anymore. He just sounded like he wanted to know.

"Because it will be too late soon." Draco looked straight into Harry's eyes and said as softly as he could, "I'm dying."

"What?" Harry said again, but this time his voice was hoarse and scared.

Draco pulled up his sleeve and Harry recoiled. Draco realised he was thinking of dark tattoos of skulls. Funny how all that seemed so far away. For Draco the arm was just the easiest patch of skin to reach. The sparks were everywhere now, except on his hands and feet and face. Harry stared at the flittering lights under Draco's skin.

"What is it?" he asked.

"My magic." And then he explained, told Harry what Dumbledore had told him.

When Draco finished, they sat in silence for a while, neither of them knowing what to say, neither looking at the other. Then Draco asked his question again:

"So can I kiss you?"

Harry looked up quickly and nodded, and suddenly Draco felt shy and nervous and scared. What if he did it wrong? What if he tilted his head the wrong way and they ended up bumping their noses together? What if Harry didn't like it? What if Harry had only agreed because he was dying? What if Harry really did like it? Suddenly there were too many what ifs and Draco was no longer sure it was a good idea.

Harry seemed to sense his insecurity.

"I'm sorry too," he said, and touched Draco's shoulder. "For everything. It was my fault too." Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Draco's.

Draco closed his eyes and let the sensations wash over him. Harry kissed him gently, carefully, as if Draco was something precious and fragile that might break if handled too roughly. Draco wanted to tell him that if there was anything left inside him to break, it would be the sweetness of Harry's kiss that did it. But he didn't tell him. He parted his lips under Harry's and pretended... and it was so easy to pretend, because when Harry followed his lead and deepened the kiss, it felt like he really meant it.

When they finally had to break apart to breathe, Draco banished his fantasies, expecting Harry to pull away, good deed for the day done. But Harry didn't. He leaned his forehead against Draco's and sighed.

"I don't want to die," Draco said.

Harry stroked Draco's cheek with his fingertips and whispered, "I don't want you to die." Then he wrapped his arms around Draco and held him close. Draco rested his cheek against Harry's shoulder and sank into the embrace. For a second he imagined that if he held on to Harry tightly enough, then maybe he wouldn't die. Maybe Harry wouldn't let him.

But he couldn't allow himself to dream too long. "I need to get back to the hospital wing," he said reluctantly. "I'm going to fall asleep soon."

Harry pulled Draco to his feet, and they started walking. More slowly now than before, and with every step their pace seemed to become slower still. Draco leaned heavily against Harry, and Harry held him up with whispered encouragements and gentle caresses as much as with the arm around his waist.

Fleetingly Draco wondered why Harry was doing it. Why was he being so nice? Why had he kissed him? Was it just because Harry considered it the right thing to do? Part of him was screaming that he didn't want Harry to pity him, but another part, one that he hadn't known existed, was hoping that that was the only reason Harry was doing this. Because if Harry really cared, what would happen to him when Draco died?

It felt strange. Strange that after all these months - or maybe it had even been years - of alternating between denying his feelings and fervently wishing for Harry to return them, he was for the first time thinking about what would be best for Harry.

"Maybe I really do love you," he murmured as Harry helped him to bed and pulled the blanket over him.

Harry tensed. "Draco, I..."

"No," Draco interrupted. "Don't speak." He needed to make Harry understand. "I think that I might love you, because I don't want you to feel the same. I don't want you to hurt when I'm gone." He swallowed and blinked back the tears. "It doesn't really matter anymore what you feel or why you're doing this. So, please don't say anything. Don't tell me the truth, or the lies you think I want to hear. Just let me have my dreams."

Harry nodded. "I'll miss you. Can I say that?" There were tears in his eyes too now.

"Yes."

Draco closed his eyes. He was so tired, and everything was dark, but it was a comforting sort of darkness. He wondered if this was it, if he'd never open his eyes again. Just to be stubborn and prove his fatalistic thoughts wrong he forced his eyes open. The world was blurry, but he could still see Harry clearly.

"Harry..."

"Mm?"

"In the Quidditch game, will you catch the Snitch for me?"

Harry smiled. "Yes. In this game, and the next, in every game I ever play. It has always been because of you. From now on, it will be for you."

And Draco smiled, too, remembering that first flying lesson, remembering all the times they had played against each other. Maybe he really had been important to Harry.

He stretched his hand towards Harry and Harry took it. Draco felt safe.

"Harry. Can I ask you to do me a favour?"

"Yes."

"Could you be here when I die? I think I'd be less scared if you were with me."

"I'll be here," Harry promised, lifting Draco's hand and pressing a gentle kiss on his palm. "I'll stay with you."

"Thank you," Draco whispered, but he wasn't sure if the words actually managed to make it past his lips.

He closed his eyes again, and the darkness was soft and welcoming; he gave in to the tiredness and let himself fall asleep.