R is for Radiation
AN: This one IS sad, and you can kind of guess why from the title. Also, I'm pretty sure this is the "type" I had in mind, but if it's not somebody please point it out and I'll change it. I'm going off personal experience from a friend here. This one made me cry, especially since I'm listening to Adele's "Someone Like You." :(
Edit: I decided to release this one as a one-shot.
Draco sat in the hallway of the hospital, shoulders slumped, hands hanging loosely between his legs, thinking. Leukemia. Harry had Leukemia. And not just any Leukemia, but stage 4 Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia. Inoperable, quite nearly incurable at this stage and overall hopeless for all parties involved. Draco leaned his head back against the cool wall of the hospital. They could have hours with him, or days, maybe even a few months, but not years. The doctors had made it very clear that this was the end and that it was coming soon with every ticking second. Draco could hardly bring himself to believe that this was happening.
It was only three years after the end of the war. They had survived so much, been through so many dangers, obstacles, pains, faced all of them head-on and now it was all for nothing. They had just had a baby two months ago, a little boy named Cedric Sirius Malfoy with silver-blond hair and Harry's eyes. Draco was going to be a single father at only 21 with what felt like the entire Wizarding World rooting for him to lose. Things had been so good for them these past three years. They had gotten married, bought a small house together, gotten good jobs that they both loved, and had just started a family. Behind the scenes, however, Harry had been hiding things. He hadn't thought it such a big deal. He had been feeling weak lately and would gain a fever every once in a while. He had put it off as repurcussions of his pregnancy and put it out of his mind. Then he'd began sleeping more and more, and he noticed that he was losing weight. He had refused to acknowledge that there was a problem and hid it all from Draco for weeks.
Then, one day Draco came home to Cedric screaming at the top of his lungs in his crib, alone. Then, once he had picked up his son and taken care of him, he went in search of Harry. He found him face-down on the kitchen tiles, hair splayed around him, limbs askew like a murder victim in the muggle soaps his mother had been become fond of. Draco had instantly fire-called St. Mungo's, then once Harry was rushed to the hospital, he dropped Cedric off at the Weasley's briefly explaining the situation to a frazzled Hermione, and rushed to the hospital. After a few hours, a doctor had approached and said that Harry was conscious and he could see him. Draco had sat on the bed and taken one of Harry's hands, asking him what happened. Harry had just shrugged hopelessly. "I fell and I just . . . I couldn't get up." He said, eyes watery and his face flushed from fever. Draco had kissed his forehead and together they waited for the doctor to return with the blood work. Because sometimes, even Wizards had to do things the muggle way.
Words hadn't been spoken when the doctor delivered the news. Even with all their advancement, their superior knowledge, even wizards hadn't been able to wipe out all forms of cancer, only a few. This wasn't one of them. They'd asked the usual questions; is there anything we can do? Is it treatable? What about radiation? Is there any hope? And finally, the big question; how long? The doctor said that it was spreading at an incredibly quick rate since the "blast crisis" that had released all the unhealthy malignant blood cells into Harry's blood stream. That it had been doing so for, maybe, months. He predicted two weeks at the least, five months at the very most. And that was that. The doctor offered his condolences then left the room. Draco had fire-called the news to Hermione and Ron and they had fire-called all the other family friends. He'd fire-called his mother and father, then he'd gone and sat by Harry's side again. The rest of that night was spent in perfect silence.
The rest of that week, a steady stream of friends in and out of the room had continued. And day after day Draco watched Harry grow weaker and weaker, just wasting away in the hospital bed. Holding Cedric every chance he got, holding him close to his heart and speaking to him in low tones. Now here they were, eleven days since Harry collapsed and Draco knew. It was over.
When Draco walked back into the room Harry was awake and conscious. Lately he'd been sleeping hours upon hours, and was only somewhat lucid on the rare moments he awoke. Harry gave him a smile and held his hand out. Draco walked forward slowly, taking the frail hand into his own. "Hold me?" Harry whispered and Draco forced a smile as he climbed into the bed next to Harry. This was one of the rare moments where they were alone. Draco wrapped his arms around the small body lying on top of his, the weight practically non-existant. He stroked Harry's back gently, humming a familiar song to him. "I'm so sleepy Draco. But I don't want to sleep anymore. I want to stay awake and talk to all of you. In my right mind, at the very least." Harry sighed against Draco's chest and Draco swallowed thickly. "Go ahead and sleep however much you want Harry. We'll all be here when you wake up. Then you can talk to us as much as you want." Draco whispered and he felt Harry smile. "Yeah, that'd be nice." He whispered lowly, burrowing deeper into Draco's arms.
They were quiet for a long time, listening to the muffled sounds of the hospital around him. "Draco?" Draco almost missed the call of his name. "Harry?" He questioned quietly. "I'm scared." Harry admitted and Draco almost broke down and started bawling. Throughout this entire ordeal, Harry had never once said those words, made that face, showed that emotion. He had been so strong, so proud. And now here he was, lying in Draco's arms, withered and dying and finally he said it. "I know. I am too Harry." Draco said, petting Harry's hair gently. Draco continued doing so long after Harry had fallen asleep. He stared at the ceiling, not blinking, not making any movements other then the smooth, steady strokes down his husband's ebony hair.
Hermione Granger-Weasley got off work early that day, and decided to visit Harry while she could. She knew that time was limited now, everyone could see it. Harry would die soon, so she had to get every minute she could with him before he left them so young. Hermione felt her shoulders slump as she stepped into the elevator to go to Harry's floor level. All she could think about were Harry, Draco and Cedric. Poor, poor Cedric and Draco. She couldn't even begin to imagine the suffering Draco must be going through, watching the man he loved dying before his eyes and being able to do absolutely nothing about it. And Cedric would only ever have their memories of his "mommy," he was too young to remember Harry now. She stepped out and headed down the hall, to the left, and up the corridor to room 713. The irony was not lost on her at all about this room number.
Quietly opening the door, she stepped in and froze, eyes wide. Lying on the bed were Harry and Draco, chest to chest. Draco lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and stroking Harry's ebony locks tenderly, slowly. His eyes were blank gray orbs, unfocused and distant from his surroundings. He hadn't even flinched when Hermione had walked in, hadn't even glanced her way for the slightest second. He just continued that one, continuous motion. Over, and over, and over. And there Harry lay. So small and tiny, practically engulfed by the bed and Draco's body surrounding his own. His hands holding onto the fabric of Draco's shirt, skinny legs entangled with Draco's, his face peaceful with a small smile gracing his thin, cotton candy pink lips. Hermione covered her mouth, stifling a sob, because she knew. She knew. There were so many things she could do now, she could say. I'm sorry; it's okay; it's going to all right. She could hug Draco; take Harry away, make Draco stop torturing himself. She could fire-call the friends and family, bring Cedric to distract Draco from his grief. Of all the things she could do, she did none. And of all the things she could say, only one slipped out of her mouth. Only two small words.