ACA: Chapter 9, 10

Chapter Nine

“Always forgive your enemies-nothing annoys them so much.”

~ Oscar Wilde

Since their more than friendly meeting the other day, Draco had managed to avoid the Head Girl for all of Saturday. It wasn’t hard since she spent most of her time in the library, or at the great oaf Hagrid’s, or by the lake with the other two golden magnets.

On Sunday, Draco ventured down for breakfast and lunch to the Great Hall, and having refused Zabini’s invitation to the Slytherin Common Room both times, retreated back to his own dorm without further ado. As glad as he was to have Blaise back as a friend, he wasn’t ready to revert back to their old routines. He knew he never would be.

Draco spent time finishing his Potions essay for the better part of the day. Around one o’clock, he drifted off from exhaustion and then awoke exactly an hour and a half before his detention with Snape was due.

He passed an hour easily enough, lounging in a soothing bath, and then munched on honey and toast as he got ready. He met no one on his way down to the dungeons, although he did have to sneak by a couple busy snogging in a secluded corridor.

The dungeons were ice cold and rightfully deserted. Draco wished he’s bothered to wear a sweater as he shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and clopped down to Snape’s office.

His Head of House greeted him with a cold sneer, bent over his desk as usual, scribbling on a piece of parchment.

“What am I to do Professor?” Draco politely asked when Snape continued to sneer.

“You are to wait until I give you instructions. We have another addition-“ and as he spoke, the door creaked open. Harry Potter stuck his head inside as Snape welcomed him with his trademark glare reserved, it seemed, only for Potter.

“Ah, nice of you to join us, Mr. Potter. I dare say it would do you good to show up on time!”

Potter chose not to reply and stared at Draco instead, who avoided his eyes.

“You and Mr. Malfoy will be cleaning the entire Potions classroom by hand and if I so much as trace residue magic, you will have to do it all over again by hand. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Draco automatically replied. Potter merely glared.

“Scram then.”

They didn’t need to be told twice. Silently, they exited and made their way down to the classroom. Two buckets, a washcloth, and a mop were already waiting for them, courtesy of Argus Filch.

Draco immediately grabbed the mop, leaving Harry with the dirty rag. He scrubbed the floor while Harry resigned himself to cleaning the desks. They worked silently for all of five minutes before Harry’s curiosity overtook him.

“So what did you get in trouble for? It must have been bad for Snape to give you detention.” He hadn’t so much as seen Snape scowl at Malfoy before. Detention seemed very extreme.

Draco merely shrugged. He didn’t want to remember the real reason he was here. If he had succeeded, and blasted Blaise hadn’t come by, he wouldn’t have to face this chagrin.

“What, did you forget to hand in your homework?” Harry egged and was greeted with the famous Malfoy sneer that he hadn’t seen in a long time. He found he oddly missed it.

“Congratulations, Potter. You guessed it,” Draco bit out and shuffled to the far corner of the room where he hoped he would be left in peace.

Harry wanted to push him further, he hadn’t had a fight with Malfoy in a while after all, but something told him to stay put-and Harry never ignored his instincts. They fell back to uncomfortable silence, wrapped in their own thoughts as they worked.

A half hour later, Harry paused to stretch after rubbing clean twenty desks that were practically sparkling. Aunt Petunia would have been proud, he thought as he yawned widely. Between Quidditch practice and homework, he hadn’t had much sleep.

A faint hiss forced his attention to his nemesis, whom he had successfully ignored since their brief conversation. Malfoy stood with his back to him, bending his elbows slowly. He was leaning on the broom as though for support with his other arm. As he watched, Malfoy grabbed the broom wearily and slowly began mopping again, the broom only lightly brushing the floor.

It’s going to take him forever to clean if he keeps that up, Harry thought, and then wondered why he even cared. How many years had he longed to see Malfoy in misery? But now that he had his wish, he wasn’t satisfied. If anything, Hogwarts seemed a little boring without Malfoy stirring things up or being suspicious.

“Malfoy,” he called when the blond winced again. “Why don’t you do the desks? I’m bored of cleaning them.”

Malfoy gave him the oddest looks, somewhere between suspicion, surprise, and disgust-if it was possible to display all three emotions at once. But having studied him for all of eight years, Harry had become quiet adept at distinguishing his nemesis’ moods. It was disturbing infact, how well he could read them.

“Here-“ he tossed Malfoy the wet rag and held out his hand for the broom.

Draco hesitated for the briefest moment before handing over the mop, glad to be rid of it. His back was killing him and the constant shuffling had his elbows throbbing as well. Without a word, they fell back to their silent tasks again.

Draco could feel Potter’s eyes on him from time to time, studying him. He tried not to cringe or wince as he wiped the desks. Now, on his knees, his legs were starting to protest. He just wanted to lie down and drown his pain in fitful sleep. He absently wondered how much he would hurt tomorrow as he dipped the rag in the soapy water and made his way to the fourth row of desks.

It happened as he bent down to wipe the seat. The horrifying sensation crept up his spine. Draco gasped, dropping the cloth on the floor and planting both hands on the desk lest he fall to his knees. His chest felt incredibly tight and he found it hard to breath. The dungeon floor swirled beneath him and he felt himself slipping.

“Malfoy?” Potter’s frantic voice reached him and he briefly saw his shocked features as he slid to the floor, eyes rolling shut.

“Malfoy?” Harry called again, shaking his shoulder, wanting to move him to a more comfortable position but too scared to try. His face was contorted in pain but he wasn’t making a sound. Harry couldn’t even tell if he was breathing and the unhealthy paleness that had stolen over him in just the few moments was scaring him.

“Malfoy, stay put. I-I’ll be right back!” he instructed, although Malfoy gave no indication that he had heard.

Scrambling to his feet, Harry dashed out the classroom to the first person that came to mind.

“Professor!” he cried as he slid into the office. “Professor, it’s Malfoy-he-Please! Come quick!”

Snape, who was bent over his bubbling cauldron, immediately followed Potter to the classroom. He found Draco Malfoy curled at the foot of a desk, clutching himself and shaking as though he were hypothermic.

Snape’s first thought was that the boys had dueled and Malfoy was paying the consequences again, but both their wands were not drawn and Draco was shivering not from the cold, but pain.

“Mr. Malfoy, what seems to be the problem?” Snape calmly asked as he knelt on the cool tile beside his student.

But Draco couldn’t answer. He was frozen in pain like so many times before. It was Harry who filled in Snape, telling him of the time he had carried the blonde to the Wing and letting slip what Hermione had told him of his nemesis’ pain.

Snape’s eyes narrowed when he took in the information, but not in suspicion.

“Mr. Potter, alert Madam Pompfrey,” he ordered and made to scoop the blonde in his arms.

Even half unconscious, Draco felt the pain that arose from his Professor’s touch, but he was helpless to complain. Like a limp doll, he let his Professor carry him to the Wing. He vaguely heard the nurse’s surprised yelp and the exchange that followed after he had been stretched on a bed, but he couldn’t understand a word of what they said.

His ears were ringing. His mind and body were rigid and numb from the electrifying agony. He couldn’t even will himself to open his eyes. Jaw clenched as though glued with concrete, he lay stiff as a board while the nurse poked and prodded him with the tip of her wand, muttering spells that were doing Merlin knows what to him.

He wished he could pass out like last time, but there was no mercy. They didn’t touch him anymore, Harry having explained that it only escalated the pain, but stood by helplessly as he rode it out. Harry was surprised Snape let him stay, but then he supposed he only wanted to interrogate him later.

He didn’t mind. He would have quite literally done anything to end the pain his nemesis was in. It looked worse than the cruciatus, and Harry had experienced enough of that spell to know a bit of the agony Malfoy was in. But at least the spell was controllable. This…It was pure torture.

For how long Malfoy lay in agony, Harry didn’t know, but soon enough he saw him relax. The nerves that had popped in his neck from the strain, melted again beneath his porcelain skin and his features smoothened as he finally succumbed to the darkness.

“Poppy, have you any idea what’s wrong?” Snape asked. He hadn’t once removed his eyes from the boy.

Madam Pompfrey shook her head, her eyes wide with concern. There were tears in them when she looked up.

 “No, Severus, I don’t, but I’ll do anything to stop this-this pain.” And her voice trembled as she spoke.

Severus nodded. “I’m going to inform the Headmaster. Perhaps a pain potion or two-just in case.”

Pompfrey immediately went to her stores and they could hear her fumbling around with the glass vials.

“Potter-“ Harry turned to the Professor. “You may leave.”

It was not a direct order-he knew this Professor only too well to know when he wasn’t wanted. But as Snape’s billowing black robes disappeared through the door, Harry decided he might as well stay. His curiosity wouldn’t let him sleep otherwise.

**

Ron and Hermione are probably wondering where I am, Harry thought as he cast a tempus and noted it was already time for dinner. He was sitting in the same chair Hermione had pulled up, but three days ago next to the bed where lay the still form. Malfoy hadn’t stirred for four hours and neither had Snape returned.

Madam Pompfrey came in every thirty minutes to check on Malfoy’s vitals, still puzzling over what had caused the sudden pain. She didn’t shoo Harry away and when he admitted he would stay till someone else came by, she told him to be her eyes and alert her if he saw any changes.

Strangely enough, Harry found he didn’t mind being in this situation so much, although sitting by a silent Malfoy who was neither scowling nor throwing curses at him was surreal.

But not unusual, he thought, remembering the first time he had met the boy and how he had refused his hand of friendship. If he had accepted back then, Harry wondered if he could have prevented what followed.

He shook his head and sighed. It was no use dwelling in the past. He couldn’t change it either way. He checked the time again and wished Snape would hurry up. His stomach was starting to growl.

When he looked up again, he found cool, grey eyes surveying him.

“Malfoy, are you awake?” Harry whispered.

“No, I sleep with my eyes open,” came the sarcastic reply, although there was no hint of malice in it. “What are you doing here, Potter?”

His voice was weak and he looked tired-too tired for someone who had slept like a log for over four hours.

“Keeping you company,” Harry replied and because that sounded too friendly, quickly added, “Only till Snape or someone comes by. I’m supposed to tell Pompfrey. I’ll be back.” And he hastily slipped away, glad that the dim moonlight from the window masked his embarrassment.

Any other time Draco would have analyzed the conversation and stored Potter’s weaknesses’ for future use, but he was too tired at the moment to do much more than yawn. His limbs felt like lead and his head hurt.

Potter wasn’t gone more than a moment when he returned with the nurse in tow.

“Mr. Malfoy, how do you feel?” she asked, keeping her distance as though even staring at him too hard would instigate the pain.

“My head hurts,” he calmly replied. “Can I have something for it?”

“Oh, of course dear,” she replied and swiftly uncorked a vial that rested on the side table. “Take this for the headache. Is the other pain all gone?”

Draco shook his head as he raised the vial to his lips. Hastily, he gulped down the bitter liquid, trying not to gag, before handing the empty contents back.

“You’re still hurting?” Pompfrey frowned.

It’s now or never, Draco thought, casting a brief glance at Potter who was an uninvited audience. It couldn’t be helped however. Draco had had enough of this torture.

“Not as much as before, but it’s always there.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere, I suppose,” he shrugged, “But my joints hurt the most…and my back.” After a moment’s thought he added, “And I get headaches often. Sometimes, my vision blurs and I have to sleep it off. That’s not common, is it?”

Pompfrey shook her head, still frowning. “This is serious-“

“Very serious indeed.”

They all turned to the doorway where stood Dumbledore, his blue eyes grave behind the gold specs. He surveyed the little gathering before making his way over to the bed. Snape followed in his wake like an overgrown bat.

“I believe this isn’t the first time this has happened?”

Draco nodded, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden under the old man’s wary gaze. “No.”

“Why weren’t we informed of this before?” Snape asked, his voice curt with laced anger.

Draco cringed inwardly from the wrath. “I-I thought it would go away,” he mumbled, avoiding everyone’s eyes and staring at his hands fisted in the blanket.

Dumbledore silenced Snape with a look. “Your malady, Mr. Malfoy, seems very peculiar. You are in pain all the time and that is never a good thing. Poppy, do have any idea?”

“I wish I did Albus, but this is very foreign to me. I’ve cast all the diagnostic spells I know, yet nothing seems to be wrong with him.”

Dumbledore sighed. “I’m afraid then that we have no choice but to take you to St. Mungo’s-“

“No!” Draco cried, wide-eyed. “I won’t go there-you can’t make me!” He was absolutely terrified of that place.

“But how will we learn what’s wrong?”

“I don’t care! Just-please, don’t take me there,” he whined, hardly caring that he was acting like a spoiled child in front of Harry Potter.

Dumbledore glanced at Snape, who was looking sourly at his student’s cowardice, before affording Draco a bright smile.

“Very well. I suppose if you won’t go to St. Mungo’s, then they will have to come here. Rest easy now.” And with a twinkle back in his eyes, Dumbledore left the room, whisking Snape away with him.

Draco gulped, his grey eyes wide as saucers. He was clutching the blanket so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

“Malfoy,” Harry called and his eyes snapped on him so fast that Harry almost took a step back. “They’re not so bad. I’ve been there before. The nurses are pretty friendly.”

If he understood Harry, he didn’t show it.

“I-I hate needles,” he whispered, his lips trembling at the very mention. “Th-they stick things in you-I’ve seen what they did to Mother when she fell ill. I don’t-I don’t want them to-“

“Of course they won’t, dear boy,” Pompfrey cut in before he could work himself into a panic attack. “I won’t let them prod you with any needles if I can help it. The worst they’ll do is give you a nasty potion.”

And Draco visibly relaxed with that assurance.

“Now, aren’t you boys hungry? I believe the feast isn’t yet over, Mr. Potter.”

Harry took the cue and with a good natured “good-night” to his ex-nemesis, led himself out the ward. He was smiling widely by the time he reached the Great Hall.

“Harry! Where have you been?” Hermione cried when he flopped beside her.

“Yeah, mate, we were worried-and why are you smiling like that?” Ron asked.

Still unable to wipe the goofy grin off his face and reeling with what he’d discovered, Harry simply turned to Hermione and replied, “You were right, ‘Mione, he has changed…a lot!”

Chapter Ten

“And as pale sickness does invade/ Your frailer part, the breaches made/  In that fair lodging still more clear/ Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.”
~ Edmund Waller (Romantic Poet)

Draco stared at the old man who sat beside his bed, blinking lazily at him behind thick glasses. He was a researcher from St. Mungo’s-a specialist of some sort by the name of Dr. Heinshaw who had many degrees to back up that bored face.

But Draco wasn’t thinking about any of that. Only one word swam in his thoughts: Sinberger’s Syndrome.  The Dr. said he had it-whatever it was. Draco blinked around the hospital room and saw several pairs of eyes watching him-waiting for his reaction.

Snape, Dumbledore, Pompfrey, even McGonagall…He took a deep breath and faced the Dr. again, trying to look at the stack of thick books he had brought “for his benefit.”

“What is this…disease?” he at last asked.

Dr. Heinshaw reiterated the information almost promptly. “A magical mutation that is, as of yet, incurable. Basically, the wizard’s or witches’ magical core backfires, attacking and spreading throughout the body instead of remaining as a contained cell in the body’s spinal column. The onset of the attack is experienced as immobilizing pain that shoots through the spine and magnifies the nerve cell’s sensitivity to touch, smell, sight, and so on. The attacks are an indication of disease progression and can only be mildly controlled.”

Draco licked his lips nervously, not sure what the hell the Dr. was saying. He knew, however, that it was serious. “Will I die from this disease?”

“It’s possible,” the Dr. didn’t even blink, “-and highly likely. The syndrome affects one in a million wizards and a little over two in a million witches. It’s a very misunderstood disease because most malfunctions dealing with the magical core are manageable if not curable. However, I’m afraid out of all the persons diagnosed with this particular syndrome, every one of them has died prematurely. Miracles are-“

“Ah, Dr. Heinshaw,” Dumbledore interrupted, “Perhaps something a bit more substantial?”

The Dr. blinked, as though unsure of what Dumbledore meant, till he followed the blue gaze to the patient, who sat as still as a statue, looking at him with horrified eyes.

“Ah, yes,” he cleared his throat and began anew. “While it is not-say preventable, the progression can be stalled. There are several potions that have been approved for this sort of thing and some have proven to be very effective in soothing the symptoms. However, I must say that this is a very uncertain case.”

“Dr., why do you keep referring to Mr. Malfoy as an ‘uncertain case’?” Pompfrey asked and there was an edge to her voice that did not go unnoticed.

“Ah, because I’m afraid his is a rare case indeed,” the Dr. calmly replied. “There have been forty recorded cases of this syndrome in the last fifty decades and from that short list, Mr. Malfoy appears to be the youngest ever inflicted. The typical ages range from thirty to late fifties, but there is one other case of a witch around twenty-five that I find interesting enough to mention. She seems to have outlived the rest, exceeding the expectancy, and so, I have reason to believe that Mr. Malfoy might defy expectations as well.”

He sighed then, before continuing, “But, as all things go, everyone is different. Even if there is a possibility that Mr. Malfoy will change the face of magical disease prevention, there is also the chance that he may collapse even before the predicated expectancy. There is no way to tell, as this syndrome in particular progresses at different speeds depending on the individual’s genetic makeup and level of magical competency and the sort. It becomes too technical after that-“

“How long?” Draco suddenly croaked and for the first time, the Dr. seemed to regard him quietly for a moment.

He noted the beads of sweat that stood on his brow, the slight tremble in his hands, the look of utter defeat and fear in his stormy grey eyes, and realized that here he faced not a wizard in his prime, but a mere boy who hadn’t so much as tasted the bitter sweetness of life yet. Something seemed to shift in him at this revelation and when he spoke, his voice was almost soft.

“As I said, there is no way to tell exactly how the disease progresses-“

“But you can give me an estimate, can’t you?” his voice was impatient even though his eyes seemed to plead to him to not tell.

“Draco-“ Snape began, but the boy shook his head and stared at the Dr. anxiously.

Dr. Heinshaw sighed again and took off his glasses. Cleaning them on the sleeve of his robe, he answered, “Given the frequency between your attacks, I would venture to guess…ten years. Twelve at most.”

Draco’s heart dropped in his stomach and his breath caught in his throat. Ten years! He wouldn’t even live to be thirty!

“How? Wh-what….?” and Draco struggled to wrap his mind around the sudden predicament.

Dr. Heinshaw regarded his quivering frame for a moment more before rising to his feet. “I would stay and explain every detail to you, Draco, but I think you will find the books more helpful in that regard. I must take your leave.”

Draco hardly heard him as he addressed the professors. He sat in a daze, not comprehending a single thing of what was going on around him. Ten years. Ten years were all he had to live.

And then he wondered, what did it mean to live? Had he ever truly lived? Not for the first time, Draco replied with the only answer he knew,

If it had to come to this, I’d rather not have lived at all.

**

Snape stood watching silently by the door. Pompfrey and McGonagall had left after the Dr., thinking Draco would feel more comfortable in revealing his feelings in the men’s presence then theirs.

But Draco hadn’t moved a muscle since and it had been fifteen long minutes. He sat with his knees drawn to his chest and was staring unseeingly at the space in front of his bare feet, lost in a train of thought Snape couldn’t even begin to guess.

The news was devastating. As much as he loathed the boy for his foolishness and pomp, he would never wish such a predicament on anyone. As he scrutinized the blonde head, Severus thought of the boy’s dead father.

 He had known Lucious for a long time. They used to be friends in their days at Hogwarts, but as they grew older, Severus peeled away from the traditional thoughts whose grip only seemed to tighten on Lucious with every passing day.

He knew the man had no sympathy or patience for children-even his own child.  He viewed his family as his property-they were for him to do as he pleased with them in the name of their family’s honor and Narcissa, who was only too familiar with these old, cultured rules, gave in to her husband like a good wife.

In the end, it was Draco who suffered and paid the price. Still, Severus doubted whether the boy would ever admit to his father being the evil bastard he was. To him, Lucious had always been a strong pillar whom he had looked up to. Even after Lucious’ arrest, when things began to fall apart and wreak havoc in his life, Draco, Severus knew, did not once blame his father.

He truly knew how to put up a front and play the bad, rude bully, but at heart, he was simply a lonely, misunderstood, and in more ways than one, a mistreated boy. Severus felt a sudden pang in his heart when he realized that even he had contributed to the boy’s state. If he had been there for him as much as he had looked over Potter, perhaps things would have turned for the better and his life might have been somewhat normal.

Severus closed his eyes as he remembered the days in Malfoy Manor when that snake-eyed monster had inhabited it. He remembered how lost and scared Draco looked in his own home. The boy’s nerves had constantly been on edge and he remembered hearing him screaming from nightmares more than once in those long nights. He had waited outside the door to his room while Narcissa consoled him, calming his sobs and speaking soothing words to him well into the night.

“Professor,” Draco suddenly spoke and although his voice was hardly more than whisper, both men straightened, giving him his full attention.

Draco raise his head then and looked at them steadily with red rimmed eyes. “I’m fine,” he hoarsely whispered, “I’ll be fine.”

And Severus couldn’t tell whether he was telling them or was trying to convince himself.

“I’m glad to hear that, my boy,” Dumbledore spoke, his old voice soothing and gentle. “Would you like me to inform Narcissa today-“

“No!” he cried, wide-eyed. “She can’t know.”

“But I think she would want to-“

“No…please, don’t tell her,” he begged, almost whining with urgency.

“But why ever not?” and Dumbledore didn’t hide his surprise.

“Because she’s suffered enough,” Draco simply replied. “Mother’s finally able to relax…since the war and…” Lucious’ death, he needn’t add. “-I don’t want to tax her with my worries. I’ll…tell her sometime when I’m…” When I’m ready to face the truth myself.

They understood, how could they not? But Severus was surprised by his consideration. He had thought he would cry for Narcissa first thing-Draco had never confided in anyone else before.

“Very well,” Dumbledore nodded, “You may keep your mother in the dark, but if you wish to continue at Hogwarts, someone will need to know so they can help you if need be. Do you know anyone whom you trust?”

Draco shrugged. Blaise came to mind, but after the war and their fight, he didn’t want to be tied to him anymore. He thought about asking Professor Snape-the man had helped him once despite the threat to his life-but he knew he didn’t stand on favorable ground with him. He had lost the man’s trust once and for all by turning on Dumbledore.

With a sigh, Draco admitted, “No…but it doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine on my own.”

Snape snorted. “Yes, and what will you do on your own when you’re writhing in agony? I don’t think I’ll be conveniently at your disposal whenever you need a lift to the hospital wing.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore warned and Snape shut up, although the scowl remained on his lips.

“Perhaps I have a solution,” Dumbledore offered and Draco sullenly eyed him. “You are the Head Boy, Draco. Why not allow the Head Girl to help you once in a while?”

Draco blanched. “Granger?” he spat, disgust evident on his face. “You want to tell Granger?”

Dumbledore’s features hardened suddenly at his tone. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe she knows quite a lot already and has helped you plenty of times. Am I right?”

Draco frowned, but nodded. “Why would she want to help me? She hates me! And anyways, there’s no way she’ll find the time. You can ask her, but I know she’ll refuse.”

“Then we’ll just have to ask and see, won’t we?” and Dumbledore rose to go. At the door, he stopped and turned around, fixing him with his twinkling gaze once again.

“I believe, Draco that sometimes, it helps to start anew. Life is tricky that way, isn’t it?” and disregarding the angry frown he received, Dumbledore disappeared around the corner, a soft smile on his lips.

**

Draco didn’t sleep well that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard his own voice screaming in his ears, begging for release. The number ten swam in his thoughts. Old nightmares resurfaced and paid him a long due visit. He saw his own grave in his dreams-saw his grey corpse being buried.

He woke up five times during the night, screaming bloody murder. Madam Pompfrey finally took pity and gave him a generous dose of sleeping potion. He slept soundly after that, although when dawn broke, he awoke tired and disoriented.

For the longest time, he couldn’t remember what he was doing in the hospital wing. Then the news slowly washed over him, drowning him piece by piece back in misery. As the day wore on, Draco simply lay on the bed, staring out the foggy window, his thoughts reflecting the gloomy atmosphere.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now that he knew what the hell was wrong with him. His eyes roamed over the stack of books lying untouched on the side table. He could start by reading-Dr. Heinshaw had said it would be wise to do so-but Draco didn’t think he could face his future so abruptly.

He didn’t care to know how he was going to end up a cripple and dead by twenty-seven. He didn’t want to think about all the things he was going to have to give up and compromise with. Draco knew his future was bleak after the defeat of Voldemort.

He had aspired to become an Auror once. He liked to think of the thrill of the job-putting your life on the line to catch dark wizards. As a boy, he had indulged in fictional accounts of their exploits and knew exactly what one had to do to get into the exclusive training program prior to starting Hogwarts.

But that was all before Draco learned that he was a dark wizard and came from a whole line of them. It was the cruelest joke life had played on him. A Malfoy…an Auror? His ancestors were probably turning in their graves with the mere shock of the thought.

Draco shuddered to think what his father would have said if he had ever known. They never discussed ‘dreams’ in their house. It was a childish topic-these dreams, aspirations, hopes…All a Malfoy was concerned with was their family honor, prestige, and tradition.

Draco sighed and closed his eyes. The ache was back again, seeping through him like a restless snake. He hadn’t paid it much thought and the distress of the inevitable news had somewhat numbed him to the pain.

But now that he was coming to and Reality was once again tugging at his sleeves, Draco couldn’t fight the pain anymore. Since morning, he had already consumed two pain potions and asked for more-which was promptly refused. By afternoon, his hands were starting to tremble and a wall of fatigue weighed upon him-side effects of intervention.

At least I’m not screaming in pain, Draco thought as he tried to coax his buzzing brain back to sleep. He hadn’t had an ‘attack’ since the time in the dungeons and Draco could do without one for a long, long time to come.

He knew it would happen eventually though, as his body weakened-as his own magic destroyed him from within. For the first time in his entire life, Draco regretted being a wizard. How different would life be if he never possessed this magical core?

Certainly he would be whole and happy and healthy. He would never have had to deal with Voldemort or being shunned by friends or being forced to go through this vile disease. But then…he wouldn’t be Draco, would he?

A sad, bitter smile crossed his lips. You’re one pathetic bloke, Draco Malfoy, he savagely thought. Look at you-you survived the bloody war only to poison yourself!

He chuckled mirthlessly at the irony, the sound echoing like a strangled moan when tears stung his eyes. He couldn’t do this-he didn’t want any more pain. Merlin, wasn’t it bad enough knowing the world hated you?

Why, he wondered, why did he have to hate himself too?

**

Outside the Wing, Hermione paused at the door. She closed her eyes when his distraught cries reached her. She had only seen a boy cry once-when Harry learned about Sirius in their third year-and it had not been a pretty sight.

There was so much anguish-so much anger intermingled with those sad emotions that it sent chills up her spine. Draco’s sobs made her shiver now as she wondered whether to go in.

Dumbledore had told her everything that had transpired after lunch in his office. When he asked her if she would help him, Hermione hadn’t known what to think at first. Of course, she wanted to help him, but would he accept her?

Chuckling, Dumbledore had mused at how Draco had asked the same question. Two people so different…and yet so alike, he had murmured as he stroked Fawkes, his thoughtful gaze resting on Hermione the whole time.

When Draco began to cough, Hermione sucked in her breath and pushed through the doors. When she saw the sorry sight before her, Hermione made her decision. She would help him.

She would help him if it’s the last thing she ever did.