~Chapter 11 of the ‘Freudian Slip’ series immediately following the interlude.~

“GENESIS 22:1 - 19”

Rating: PG-13

*Join my yahoogroup, ‘take_the_slip’ for updates on FS and other writings! http://groups.yahoo.com/group/take_the_slip/

*Visit my web page, http://www.pwillies.com/writing/ “Fluid Thought” for my combined works.

*****

*Draco’s POV*

*****

Christmas is a ridiculous holiday, if you ask me. I’ve never quite understood all the excitement surrounding it. It’s basically an excuse to snog under mistletoe, and outdo loved ones with elaborate gifts that mean nothing.

Of course I know what the season is *really* about, unlike most of my magical counterparts. It’s about the birth of Jesus, the son of a god- which god, I am not sure. He sat in some manger, and was prophesized to die for our sins.

I am not an idiot, I understand organized religion.

Father had a large book all about Jesus called ‘The New Testament’ in his study, and I read nearly every page of it, though I didn’t quite believe most of what was written. Jesus was obviously some kind of Wizard among Muggles, but how he died for *my* sins, I will never truly be able to comprehend.

If anyone’s dying for my sins, it’s going to be me.

I’m sure in a few hundred years Wizards will look back upon Potter’s birth, and proclaim that day as some lame holiday for being our savior. And people will get emotional, and greedy, and of course chock full of false holiday spirit.

I hated Christmas. I loathed it. I dreaded its arrival with the same hatred I carried for my induction ceremony into Voldemort’s inner circle.

Of course, that very year the two things I dreaded most both arrived at the same juncture.

The moment I returned home to the manor, and stepped into the dark and vast foyer, I felt myself slowly slip away. I knew what lay ahead of me, and I couldn’t hide from it. I was going to be a Death Eater, and that was all there was to it.

Jesus didn’t know what he was getting into when he died for my sins.

I spent the first few days at the manor in a surreal state of solitude. My father was away on dark business, and my mother seemed bound to her chambers. She wouldn’t even come down for supper, and the one evening she did, she had a weary look about her.

We ate in a stiff silence, both of us not really touching our plates. Her eyes looked tired, and I could only stare up at her and wish I knew what to say.

I never knew what to say to that woman. She was a stranger to me, and though she bore me, I felt no connection to her as a son should to his mother. She was an empty shell of a human, and I was surprised she breathed at all.

So, when she stopped breathing, so many hours later in a time that is numb to me, I didn’t really mourn for her life. She didn’t have a life to be taken away- at least, one that deserved sorrow.

Yes, she was better off still and cold, lips and eyes closed like drapes over a scene too sinister for mere mortals to bear.

But I did bear it, and I still do.

On Christmas Eve my father returned to the manor, and his eyes betrayed some keen secret within him. He had been to visit the dark council, this I knew. I had been sitting in the drawing room when he came home, and I heard his gruff yells from the foyer. He sounded considerably angry, and he began calling my name loudly.

I felt all the blood inside me freeze up like ice between a crack in the pavement, and I almost fainted from the mere pressure. Surely the induction ceremony wouldn’t take place on Christmas Eve?

It took every ounce of my nerve not to run and hide, and I walked shakily down the large swooping staircase. I found my father at the bottom, his cloak still draped around him as if to keep out the warmth.

“Why didn’t you come when I called?” he demanded, brandishing his cane menacingly, his eyes squinting shut like a beetle closing its hard wings against a turbulent summer storm.

“I did,” I replied, lowering my head in absolute terror. I didn’t dare look around the room to see if any dark figures were lurking in the shadows. Perhaps I could go through the ceremony without even realizing that it happened- in a trance state.

“Don’t be insolent with me, Draco,” he spat out, his hand clutching the cane firmly, his tight fitting leather gloves bunching up around his finger joints. I could only nod, and flinch away, never meeting his eyes. This behavior seemed to anger him, and for a moment I could almost feel the cold, hard crack of his cane against my brow, but then his demeanor softened. He dropped the cane to the floor, and his fingers laced together loosely.

I shrank back even more, his behavior frightening me more so than a cane to the skull.

All I could do was watch as a fat tear rolled down his face, and it occurred to me that I had never seen him cry before. In fact, I thought him too insane to cry. He ushered me away from him with a jerk of his head, and I quickly slunk up the stairs as not to disturb him.

I felt his eyes on me all the way up the steps, and only when I reached the top did I dare look down on him.

His hands were still folded together, his eyes downward, and he was muttering to himself.

My father was praying, and the clock struck twelve.

It was Christmas day.

*****

I hadn’t slept that night, for my nerves were tingling with frightened excitement, and I couldn’t relax myself into slumber. I couldn’t even lie down and be still.

It was always so ridiculously quiet in the evenings at the manor, as if the world was pausing to hold its breath just for our sake.

When silence would loom over me so precariously, as if it might burst forth with loud ragged breathing at any given moment from the mere absurdity of it all, I couldn’t sleep. The same held true for that very evening.

It was cold in the room, and cold always seemed such a bosom friend to silence. They are both so still, so rigid, and full of nothing. They hang in the air like desire; the desire to shiver, to whisper, and then to scream.

The cold leaves no place for warmth, such a filling sensation, such a comfortable lulling feeling that washes over the body and eases it into sleep. It was always cold in the manor. I could never sleep there. I could never sleep anywhere.

It was never warm enough.

I could only pace along the hard wooden floor of my room, eyes following the thin horizontal cracks in the varnished oak to the wall, and then back again. Back and forth, back and froth I strode, and it wasn’t until dawn that I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere.

Dawn brought a sliver of hope, for I had made it through the night, arm unscathed.

I changed my clothing quickly, fingers scraping across old scars that meant nothing. I didn’t quite mind the silver marks that morning, and I even allowed my forefinger to ease across the smooth skin of my collarbone in a quick caress.

I had the sudden urge to feel- to touch and not be burned. But to be burned would bring heat, and I was shivering.

No one had ever really touched me without leaving a thin scar as a reminder. I suppose, in a dark corner of my mind, that bothered me. Yet, I didn’t dwell on it as I pulled on my clothing, throwing on a crinkled shirt and the trousers I had left Hogwarts in.

My mind was elsewhere, and I didn’t care how I looked that morning. There would be no family gathering to attend, no presents to open… no Christmas dinner. There would only be silence, as always.

The day crept by slowly, and I hid myself up in the library, sitting in my father’s old leather armchair reading, but not really seeing the words on the pages. Instead, I made up my own stories.

I made up a story about a ceremony with dark men, and dark marks. It wasn’t until early that morning that I realized I hadn’t made the stories up at all.

I was still sitting in the damned armchair when the large doors swung open, and the miniscule flame of warmth was sucked out. The fire, crackling brightly in the fireplace, suddenly died, and I sat in complete darkness, the book dropping to the floor with a muted thud.

It was absolute silence, and my breath hitched inside my chest painfully.

‘Fucking coward,’ I swore to myself, cussing needlessly as I often did. I felt the presence of my father more than I saw it. He was dressed in a hooded black robe, and I felt the cold rush of many behind him.

And I could smell my mother. She wore expensive perfume that smelled cheap, and she would douse it upon her slender throat every morning before breakfast. As a child she would insist upon dressing me, and watching her put the glass vial to her throat and drip out the nauseating perfume became a ritual.

I would wander into her chambers, and she would be there, clutching the perfume bottle tightly, and then she would cry as she dressed me. I never knew why she cried, but perhaps now I did.

I could hear her crying softly as I sat up in the stiff chair, and I tried to block her out.

In a few dark moments the room was lit once more, and I could make out nearly fifty odd people standing about. I tried to keep my eyes down, as not to betray my confidence, but then my mother was before me, her cold fingers pushing up my chin, and her overwhelming scent filling my nostrils.

And then she cried onto my shoes.

Obviously that was my breaking point, and I stood up, walking past her to the large windows in the room. It was snowing out, the sky on the verge of breaking into dawn- warm cheerful colors of the sunrise. Soft flakes were falling lightly to the ground, and I wanted so very much to be out in the cold snow.

“Draco.” It was my father’s voice, though it didn’t sound rough and demanding, as I had imagined it would. I turned to face him. His hood was pulled down, his hands shaking, cupping lightly together as they had only a day prior.

I couldn’t watch him when he looked so vulnerable, so my eyes shifted beyond him to the columns of Death Eaters, standing still and silent.

And that was when I noticed a small girl standing among them; she couldn’t have been more than my age. She looked startled, and cold- her feet were bare, her skin a soft white.

She was pushed forward suddenly by a pair of large hands, and I realized that the cloaked figure was most likely the girl’s father. I wasn’t the only one to be initiated that morning, and it looked like she would take her vows before me.

My father beckoned me to him, closing his hands around my own, and I never had such gentle physical contact with him before. His hands were warm and soft.

It was something I never knew before. My father’s hands were *warm*.

And then he was praying in my ear, all too familiar words that I had read in the book about Jesus.

“Forgive us of our trespasses,” he repeated over and over, drawing me closer to him, as the girl walked slowly to the middle of the room, her father trailing behind.

“Say it with me, Draco,” he whispered hurriedly, “say it.”

“I don’t know it,” I lied.

And then I found myself chanting along with him.

“Our father who art in heaven.”

Where was heaven? I wasn’t sure.

“Hallowed be thy name.”

A sudden breeze filled the room, and I knew He was there.

“Thy kingdom come.”

Lord Voldemort materialized before us all, in a small anti-climactic fashion, His face hidden from me, but I *knew* it was Him. I could smell the fear and anticipation in the room. I could smell my mother’s perfume. She was praying with us.

“Thy will be done.”

And then He walked up to the girl’s father, his long gnarled hand holding out a thin silver knife, the raw edge of the blade visible and terrifying. I held my breath, and I exhaled it out through prayers I didn’t understand.

“On earth as it is in Heaven.”

I truly doubted God’s presence that evening, even as I chanted the prayer. My mother’s hands found my father’s, and we were bound together. I felt tears on my neck.

And then I saw blood. It was odd how I first found the blood. I looked down and saw a splotch of the warm liquid on my shoe, and then on the floor. My eyes drifted to a few feet in front of me, to the cold child with the bare feet.

She was clinging to her father heavily, and when he let go she fell to the floor with a soft thud, blood pouring from her in the most sickening fashion. I realized then that I couldn’t move- my parents’ arms encircled me.

I kept my eyes on the girl’s father, who was clutching the bloodied knife tightly. His own hands seemed to be bleeding, but there was blood everywhere.

It was then that I knew that there would be no induction. There would be no branding of my arm. There would only be cool metal through my chest.

I couldn’t even cry, because it all seemed like such an easy way out.

“Give us this day our daily bread.”

Voldemort held the knife out to my father, and he took it, his hands leaving my own.

“And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

I felt the knife at my throat, held steadfast by my father, warm child’s blood sliding across my paled flesh.

“And lead us not into temptation.”

I felt the cool blade press against my skin, and I could only let out a small gasp as a last statement, though words were buzzing in my ears.

“But deliver us from evil.”

And evil didn’t come to me then. In a moment of pure madness I felt the blade lifted from my throat and my father’s warm hands once again across my own.

And then a whispered statement, “I won’t do it.” And it wasn’t that he *couldn’t* do it or that he *shouldn’t* do it- my father *wouldn’t* do it.

He was crazier then I had ever thought.

The blade clattered to the floor, and my mother began sobbing, but they were tears of relief. She kissed the top of my head gingerly, and said, “I do not fear him.”

But I did.

He encompassed all that I dreaded for my entire life. And He came forth, holding out His wand like a dagger, placing the pointed tip to my father’s forehead.

I closed my eyes, and pretended to believe in God.

Yells, screams, and muted cries filled my ears as I stood between my parents, and before I knew it, they were lying on the floor in a crumpled heap. They were silent, like the manor had been.

They were dead, and I envied them.

Lord Voldemort stood before me, His wand to my throat, and His face still masked.

“Fools,” He muttered. “What a waste.” I knew what was coming next, and I braced myself for the feeling of death, and yet it never came.

He shouted the death curse at me, and while it threw me considerably far into the air, I could feel my blood running quicker than ever. I had never been so *alive*. My body fell to the floor with a thud, and the room was suddenly illuminated with the most splendid light.

My body tingled with warmth, and the only sound I could hear was a soft rolling. My eyes opened wide, and I saw it.

The small pearly button had rolled out of my pocket and across the floor swiftly. With the last ounce of strength I could muster, I darted my hand out, and let it drop on the small object, stilling it completely in my palm.

And it burned.

It burned my flesh like nothing had ever done before, and I couldn’t budge an inch away from it, my body was that heavy and weak. Seconds passed rapidly, and soon the burning sensation disappeared completely, and the white light suddenly gave way to stinging darkness of morning.

I was alone in the room, save for the bodies of my parents and the little girl, and I was alive.

“For thine is the kingdom and the power, and the glory…forever and ever, Amen.”

And it was 5:20.

******

It was late afternoon when I heard the loud raps on the manor door, and the bustling of feet around the large, vacant rooms. I was still lying face down on the floor, my arms tucked under me, warm and dead to the touch.

I squinted against the heavy sunlight in the room, and sat up wearily. My hand throbbed wildly, and for a moment my mind was a mess of confusion. I could remember nothing but a bright light and shrill screams.

And then I saw the small button on the floor, and the angry red burn on my hand.

I remembered every last detail, and realized that I was lying in a cold, stagnant pool of blood. The bodies lay side by side next to me, and as I touched my mother’s wrist I felt only chilly flesh, still and stiff.

My eyes stung with frightened tears. I collected my button and was about to run from the room when I heard a sharp cough.

Dumbledore was sitting in my father’s leather armchair, arms crossed, and looking quite amiable.

I felt like strangling the life from him.

I fucking wasn’t Harry Potter, and I would *not* take this event in stride, and he would *not* comfort me. I looked up at him with burning eyes, fists clutched tightly by my side.

I walked towards him with complete intent to kill.

And then I found my arms around him in a desperate hug, and I was sobbing into his shoulder like a child. I nearly recoiled when he hugged me back, his arms warm and receiving.

“There, there now,” he whispered gently, his rough whiskers tickling my nose absurdly.

I loathed myself at that moment, my burned hand clutching his robes tightly, and my tears wetting his beard. My feet were planted to the spot, and I couldn’t move even if I had wanted to. If I were to let go, I am sure I would have fallen to the ground; my legs were weak and tired.

“What time is it?” I found myself asking through quiet sobs. He didn’t answer me, only steered me towards the armchair, inspecting my hand thoroughly once I sat. His fingers danced lightly over the oval shaped burn mark, and he shook his head.

“It’s just a burn.”

“This wound will never heal,” he muttered, eyes searching mine for an answer. “Where is it then, the object that wounded you?”

“The button?”

“Yes. Do you have it?” I nodded my head slightly, and pulled the object from my pocket, extending it out for him.

“Very peculiar,” he said, touching it gently, and then placing it back in my palm. “Draco.” I winced as my name rolled off his tongue so smoothly. “I am truly sorry about your parents.”

“Don’t be.” My words came out harshly, and he shook his head.

“And I am sorry that you had to go through such a demonstration.”

“Don’t be.”

“No one deserves such a fate,” he replied, voice gentle and wise.

“Not even a Death Eater?” I asked, anger rising in my chest. What was he doing there? What could he possibly do to help?

“Your father chose your life over his. Such a thing is very noble,” he said, his hand squeezing my shoulder comfortably.

“He considered killing me,” I found myself retorting, and it ripped at my heart. The last person I wanted to be consoled by was Dumbledore, but he was provoking me, and the words just kept coming. “He was *going* to do it, just the fact that he *thought* about it is disgusting. And then he pissed out at the last moment. Some Death Eater he was.”

“He is your father.”

“He’s chicken shit.”

“Perhaps, but death looms above us all,” he answered wisely, readjusting his tiny glasses and turning swiftly around. “Draco, you shall have to come with me to Hogwarts. It isn’t safe for you here; the manor is ten minutes from swarming with Aurors. You will also need to get that wound examined by Poppy.”

I folded my arms across my chest and scoffed.

“This isn’t a request.”

I stood and followed him. It wasn’t that I wanted to comply with his demands, but the sickening smell of blood had become overpowering, and I wanted to leave the scent of death behind. I left the room without another glance at my parents, but the smell remained with me always.

A single thought dwelled in me as we walked through the darkened manor, ‘How did he know about my father?’

We portkeyed back to Hogwarts, and Dumbledore was silent as we walked to the infirmary. My insides were shaking as I attempted to block out the scenes of death that were constantly invading my mind.

I could only picture my father, holding the knife to my throat, and then letting go.

I played it over and over again until reality and skewed memories collided together. Pomfrey checked my wound, wrapped it in a thick cover of gauze, and left us alone.

My hand still throbbed painfully, and a small sob escaped my throat.

“She couldn’t do anything for it,” Dumbledore stated, breaking the thick silence in the room. And then he seemed to consider me for a moment, beady black eyes squinting. “You didn’t die.”

“I am terribly sorry,” I said in mock apology, unwrapping the useless gauze, and blowing on the scalding wound.

“He cursed you with Avada Kedavra. You should be dead.”

“Again, my deepest apologies, really.”

“This isn’t a game,” he replied gruffly, his famous composure slipping, revealing hidden bitterness.

“No, this isn’t exploding snap, I am well aware of that, Sir,” I drawled, comfortably slipping back into my character. For I was a character to him, at least. I was Draco Malfoy, resentful progeny of a now expired Death Eater. “I watched three people die. There is no mirth in that.”

His eyes, which previously held a sudden anger, slowly warmed, and he let out a small sigh.

“You were to be a Death Eater,” he replied. “Death is part of that position. I see that perhaps this was never your intention.”

“No. I never wanted to be a Death Eater… and it was never to be. The whole induction was a façade, to prove my father’s loyalty to the council. I understand that now. A mere slip of his grip would’ve sent that blade clean through my throat.”

“How ironic, yet the death curse was powerless.”

“But my hand…”

“Yes, yes. Very unusual. Now, perhaps you should rest. Tomorrow will be a trying day. I haven’t yet notified the press of your whereabouts, so you’re here in secret. If damned Rita Skeeter ever got a hold of you, she would never let go.”

I shuddered at the name. I knew her ruthless strategies.

“I need to discuss a few things with the Ministry, and you will need to get that wound examined by a Mediwizard at St. Mungo’s… so rest up.” He patted my head roughly, and then frowned. “Mr. Potter is also at St. Mungo’s; it has been a rough day indeed.”

“You have *no* idea,” I muttered, sinking back into the mattress, as Dumbledore exited the room. I held my hand to my heart and let out a long sigh, and then buried my face into the fluffy cotton pillow.

‘Potter, at St. Mungo’s? What has he gotten himself into this time?’ I wondered sleepily, and with a low yawn, pushed all thoughts from my mind.

I didn’t even bother to take my shoes off, and they stained the duvet with dried blood.

*******

I dreamt little that evening, and slept clear through to the next afternoon, in which Dumbledore and I portkeyed to St. Mungo’s. He was quiet that day, his eyes holding some severe secret, and I dared not ask him what it was.

I had my own secrets; I understood the wish to keep them.

The entire hospital seemed weary when we entered, and a sharp shiver ran up my spine. Something, besides the obvious, was terribly, terribly off. I was carted off to a small waiting room, and greeted by a tall sleep deprived looking doctor.

He hadn’t seemed to recognize me, and I was secretly glad for it. I didn’t need any more consoling. I needed time.

Dumbledore didn’t give me time, and within five minutes of the examination he had filled the doctor in on the entire situation. The doctor- or Mr. Kosmalski, as he had introduced himself with a firm shake of his hand- looked at me darkly, his eyes drenched with pity.

“I am terribly sorry,” he murmured, looking over the wound on my hand.

“Oh, I’m sure,” I quipped, pulling my hand from him angrily. “Tell me, please, how this wound will never heal.” My voice was dripping with cynicism, and I glared up at Dumbledore, who had the nerve to look surprised.

The doctor had my button in a tiny jar, and with a discerning glance, let go of my arm. He held up the jar, and handed it to me.

“You-Know-Who,” he started, nearly gagging on the name, “cast the killing curse on you, yet you were only wounded when you made contact with the button. Is this correct?”

“You’re the doctor,” I muttered snidely.

He stared at me blankly, and then went on. “For some reason or another, the curse was transformed completely to this button.” He was telling this all to Dumbledore then, turning his back to me completely. “I did some quick tests on it, and the residues of such a curse are still left within the button. It will require more tests to know for sure, but I am completely perplexed as to why the curse was transferred to an inanimate object.”

“It burned my hand,” I said weakly.

“Yes, and you are lucky that is *all* it did,” he stated firmly.

“Yes, I am so lucky,” I growled, “because death is really all just a matter of luck. A game, if you will.”

“Draco,” Dumbledore warned, stepping to my side, and placing a hand on my shoulder.

“We will have to do more tests. On the button, and on Mr. Malfoy,” the doctor said, eyeing me exhaustedly. “This is a very rare occurrence; I don’t have to tell you that. In fact, you are only the second person to have survived such a curse.”

“Potter.” The name felt so bitter on my tongue. Fucking Potter. Now we were *both* orphans.

“Yes, and perhaps we were foolish not to look into possible side effects after he faced it so many years ago. Especially now, after all that has happened.” Dumbledore only nodded gravely, and his left eye twitched ever so slightly.

“What do you mean?” I asked irritably, the veiled conversation between the two annoying me greatly.

“Not now,” Dumbledore said stiffly, eye still twitching. “When will you proceed with the testing?”

“In a few hours. I need to do some preliminary work on the button, and then on Mr. Malfoy. It is also imperative that I find out more detailed information pertaining to the button. Perhaps you and Mr. Malfoy can work that out for me.” He looked weary when he finished, eyeing me desperately.

“Of course,” I said, handing him back the jar.

“Yes, of course,” he repeated, and then he left the room.

*******

It didn’t take long for the button’s story to come out. I told Dumbledore about my run in with Weasley, and how he had handed me the button. It seemed suspicious to me, when I thought about it once more.

Dumbledore didn’t seem to think Weasley had anything to do with it, and asked me whose clothing it had come from.

“Why don’t you ask him that yourself?”

He said he would, but in morning, and his eye twitched again.

“Very, very peculiar,” he muttered.

Yes, it was very peculiar that the Weasel’s button had saved my life- in a roundabout way. Irony of ironies, it was. I told Dumbledore this, and how perhaps Weasley would be annoyed that he had ever given it to me in the first place.

He got a wise look on his face again, and told me that I was foolish.

Fucker.

I was probably still in shock, and he was calling me foolish. I decided then and there to blame him for any post-traumatic stress disorder that I might have in the future.

Dumbledore left me then, as he was off to find the doctor. I sat in the room alone for a few long hours, and I thought about my shoes. They were taken from me in the infirmary as evidence, and the worn dirtied, trainers that they had given me in return were pinching my toes together.

Damn Muggle shoes.

I thought about my shoes, to forget about my hand. But then I thought about the blood on my shoes, which quickly led to the source of the blood, and then to Voldemort Himself. This train of thought obviously led back to my hand, and then it burned.

I was sweating all over, and I longed for the chill of the manor. I longed for my creased leather shoes, and my father’s stiff leather chair.

I wondered why hospitals smelled like death, and then I wondered about Harry Potter.

Such thoughts led to a quick state of unconsciousness.

*****

The day sped by quickly after the tests, and though I felt poked and prodded in all the wrong places, I slipped into sleep easily that evening.

They had done hundreds of tests- some magical, some Muggle. It was interesting, and a bit dampening, to realize how many tests were mainly Muggle created. I felt mistrust for such tests, though I felt mistrust for most everything.

The whole experience was aggravating. The doctor seemed piqued by the origin of the button, and explained that he would have to do several more tests because of it. Of course I was completely ignorant on the happenings of late, despite the fact that I was nearly murdered a few nights prior, and I remained silent lest my speech lead him to more tests.

“Completely irrational, but perhaps…” I heard him muttering as he looked over my charts, biting at his pen. “One more test.”

So, he drained my blood again and sent it off to the lab in a frenzied hurry. And then he asked me to sign some papers, allowing for a short medical procedure that would require my consent.

I didn’t even ask him what he was doing, and he seemed to waive my right to know.

I planned to chalk up some of the responsibility of my post-traumatic stress disorder on him as well.

Bastard.

That night I dreamt that I was sitting in a patch of warm grass, my hands splayed out in the dirt, and my eyes tightly closed. There was a rumbling noise emanating from the ground, and I lowered my head to the warm earth to listen. My eyes eased open, and all I saw was pitch.

When I awoke the next morning, I wrote it all down on a crinkled piece of paper.

****

The next day after breakfast, I was visited by the doctor once more. He was carrying a thick folder filled with papers, and his eyes were drooping.

“Sleep well?” I asked cheekily, stretching and yawning loudly.

He ignored me.

“I have your tests results in, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Ah.”

“I am afraid the results are not in our favor.”

“Our?” I let out a quiet chuckle.

And then I almost laughed when he told me that I had cancer.

****

It was 9 PM when I found myself walking mindlessly through the hospital corridors with Dumbledore. He was spewing apologies, and mumbling about connections and coincidences.

We were going to visit Potter. Apparently, he held the key to all.

As usual.

It had taken me a good few moments of near laughter to realize that the doctor was indeed *not* joking about the test results. I had cancer.

I had Non-hodgkins aggressive Lymphoma. I had cancer in my lymph nodes, and it was also found in the button.

It was so ridiculous that the only thing that ceased my laughter was the sobbing.

I had cancer. *I* had cancer, and we were going to talk to Potter.

Dumbledore said it was peculiar.

I had cancer, and it was *peculiar*. My pure blood wasn’t so pure after all. In fact, it was fighting against me and winning.

The button saved my life, and then dealt out death as an afterthought.

I didn’t want to think about it, but there was nothing left to think of. The only option my mind had was death- or Potter. Yes, Potter’s supposed involvement with this was curious.

I’d rather think about death.

When we entered Potter’s room it was a morose scene. He was lying in a heap under the duvet, and he wasn’t alone. My eyes went wide at the sight before me, and I could hardly suppress of gasp of surprise. Weasley was curled under the blankets with him, their foreheads resting together lightly.

I nearly tripped over my own two feet as I gazed upon the darkened scene. Dumbledore blushed noticeably, which is a hard thing to notice under such a large expanse of facial hair.

But I pride myself in my attention to detail.

Like the tiny detail of how Potter’s hand was curled up in the fringe of Weasley’s hair, and how undeniably close they were under the blanket, their limbs entwined.

Dumbledore ushered me out of the room, and closed the door as he went to wake them.

I sat out in the hallway, and forgot about cancer.

It all seemed to make such brilliant sense to me for a moment- Weasley’s protectiveness in the infirmary after Potter’s accident, his horrified nature when I asked him how Potter was doing, and his sudden calm grace.

They were in love, and it was disgusting.

Love is for those who want to get burned. I looked down at my hand and it throbbed. The button issue seemed to take on new heights of absurdity then, but before I could ponder them Dumbledore opened the door, and beckoned me in. I shook my head and slumped down to the floor.

“Now,” he said roughly, his brows furrowing. A small tremor ran up my spine, and I found myself obeying him again.

When I walked in once more, the two were no longer entwined on the bed. Potter was sitting up, the blankets pulled down to his knees, and Weasley had moved to the chair beside the bed, his eyes on the ground.

I could only gape at the two, and then did the first natural thing I could think of.

I got defensive and angry.

“Whose fucking button was it?” I demanded, rubbing my palms together in a painful collision of slick flesh against charred.

Potter wouldn’t even look at me, and Weasley slouched back in his chair and scoffed.

“What *are* you talking about?” he asked, rubbing his eyes wearily.

“What the fuck do you *think* I am talking about, Weasel.”

“Draco,” Dumbledore said quietly, his hand suddenly tightly around my arm. His squeeze was less than comforting and I pulled away.

“It was mine,” Potter said quietly, finger toying with his dressing gown. “What does it matter?”

“It was yours?” I asked, incredulously. “But how did Weasley…” And then I wished I hadn’t thought at all. I could only picture Weasley looming over him, hand ripping at his shirt until the buttons popped off in every direction. I inwardly shuddered, and then did it outwardly for good measure.

“What does this have to do with anything, Sir?” Weasley asked, hand rubbing his tired eyes. He looked like hell.

Dumbledore sighed, and sat in a chair opposite Weasley’s, motioning for me to sit down as well. I shrugged, and sat down on the cold floor, pressing my palm to it gently.

“Mr. Malfoy’s place of residence was visited by Lord Voldemort two mornings ago,” he said stiffly.

“I am aware of that,” Weasley interjected, motioning to the Daily Prophet which that on the bedside table. “At 5:20, to be exact.”

“So nice of you to remember,” I quipped, leaning into my knees heavily.

“That’s the exact time Harry woke up when his scar hurt,” he continued, ignoring me valiantly. “That’s the only reason why I remembered.”

“I’m shattered,” I said with a scoff.

“Shut up Malfoy,” Potter said icily. “I want to know what this is about. I don’t have time for your petty arguments.” I shot him a look, but kept my mouth shut.

I was curious as well.

Dumbledore continued, “Mr. Malfoy had the death curse cast upon him, and as you can see it was quite unsuccessful.” The room went deadly silent, and I swear Potter stopped breathing. “The only outward effect of the curse is the circular burn on his left palm, which, much like your scar Harry, will never fully heal. It is curious because it is the button that Mr. Malfoy had in his pocket which caused the mark.”

“I don’t understand,” Weasley said, searching me for some sign of a certain hoax. “Why did Voldemort curse *Malfoy*?”

“That’s personal,” I growled out, and sat back against the door.

“No, seriously,” he continued, “why? He doesn’t usually go about killing members of his council, does he?” He set his eyes on me, a heated glare.

“Mr. Malfoy is not, and never was a member of the Dark Council,” Dumbledore explained. “It was his refusal to join such a council that provoke Voldemort.”

The two boys looked at me as if I had grown a second head, and I was grateful that Dumbledore left out the details about my father. I smiled weakly at him and nodded.

“How does the button factor into this?” Potter asked.

“We aren’t certain, we only know that it somehow protected him from the full force of the curse, and left him noticeably unscathed. I believe that it has something to do with the fact that it belonged to you; it was something Voldemort couldn’t fight. Yet, it didn’t only protect him, it cursed him in a way the killing curse never could.”

My eyes darkened and I felt my hand burn.

“I have cancer.”

That time I am *sure* Potter stopped breathing.

“I don’t understand how this figures in with Potter, though,” I added, and Weasley began to shake slightly.

“Draco,” Dumbledore said quietly, “Harry was diagnosed with Lymphoma just yesterday.”

And then *I* stopped breathing.

*****

A/N: As of late I have received quite a few emails, concerning chapter 10 of FS. Now, they were by no means ‘negative’ responses, but a tad frustrating nonetheless. The letters’ content basically concerned Harry’s disease. Instead of writing back directly in great detail to all of the people who sent emails, I thought I would just explain myself here.

The biggest question readers have been asking me is: “How could you give Harry cancer?” Now, the smart ass in me wants to say, “How? I typed it, that’s how.” But, I don’t want to be rude. I am glad people are enjoying the series, and are concerned for Harry, and don’t want him to have this illness… I am overjoyed at the emotional response, and am thankful that so many people are reading my writing.

But the question of “How could I?” is a bit ambiguous. I am not sure if some readers were offended by it, or if they thought it wrong, or if I had just really depressed them. I didn’t give him cancer for the mere hell of it. I feel as if I need to explain myself, which I will try to do now.

Over the summer I worked at “The Lion’s Camp”, which is a worldwide organization supported by the LION’S CLUB. The camp is for disabled and terminally ill patients (‘camp hope’ is sometimes situated within the camp), and I was deeply touched by my time there. I was able to meet wonderful people, all of them struggling through disabilities or illnesses, and their stories inspired me.

One deaf child in a one week session had cancer, and just the image of the brave little child still renders me close to tears. In reality, people have disabilities, diseases, illnesses- and I wanted to share some of their stories, their struggles.  Also, my best friend’s sister developed cancer (Hodgkin’s disease in the lymph nodes), a few years back, so I was able to see how it progressed as the months went on. In addition, my dear uncle died of lung cancer this August. Cancer is a real disease, and why should the literary world be immune to it?

I think some of the most wonderful stories involve the human struggle, and how they work and persevere through problems, and how it changes their character.

Over the summer I know I was changed by what I saw, and it will live with me forever. It was a beautiful time.

Another reason why I wrote Harry as having cancer is because there is usually a lot of false danger in fan fic, and by that I mean, one of the characters may very well be in grave danger...but the solution is usually as easy as a flick of the wand. 

I didn't want 'cancer' to be as easy to kill as a wand swish, and make a mockery out of the 'real' victims fight with the disease.  I also thought it would be terrible if Wizards had found a cure, and hadn't shared it with Muggles.

So there is my reasoning for why I did what I did. I wanted to write something unique, and I think portions of FS are. Now, I am not saying that Harry is going to expire in my fan fic, but I am not saying he isn’t. Hopefully you will stick around and enjoy the ride. And the truth is, is that I am writing this for me… so I am sorry if you wanted a happy story and this is what you got instead.

One last thing- while I did do a generous amount of research concerning Harry’s cancer, I by no means know all of the information regarding cancer and its treatments. So, if anyone out there who reads this is a medical professional, I am sorry for the lack of medical terms, and my ignorance on the topic.

HisH