A/N: "Go Gentle" is an authorised Remix of "Take This Kiss Upon The Brow" by susannah_wilde - look at my profile to find her fic on AO3.
Content: Illness, character death
Draco is an idiot. Harry has always known it, but this is his worst idiocy yet.
This whole thing isn't just about Draco alone, but he doesn't get it, he's too wrapped up in his stupid idea of dying rather than trying to fight. He doesn't seem to care about anyone else, about what it will do to Harry and to his parents.
Everyone leaves Harry. Everyone dies on him. Soon, Draco will leave him as well. Like his mother and father. Like Sirius. Remus. Tonks. Dumbledore. Fred. Even Professor Snape.
Another name to add to the list. Draco. Idiot.
They're lying in bed, naked, Harry's arms around Draco, Draco's head tucked under Harry's chin.
"I'm tired," Draco whispers into the silence. "Can't you understand that I'm tired of being at war all the time?"
It's then that Harry realises that in a way, he's never known Draco other than sick. First it was Voldemort and his parents' teachings poisoning him. Now it's the cancer eating away at his brain.
Harry gets being tired of fighting. And he had it easier than Draco - his enemy was never himself.
Still. "I'll fight with you. For you."
"This time, you can't."
Harry knows he can't do it.
Already, he feels lost and despairing, torn between anger and grief. This is too much. How can Draco ask it of him? Doesn't he know him at all after two years? When it's clear that there is no Dark Magic at work, Harry is tempted to just turn and leave.
He stays instead, arguing. Draco has to see reason.
"You'll be merciful, Harry, kind, caring, everything this disease, this cancer, won't be."
"I . . ." Harry feels trapped. "I . . . all right."
It's not that Draco doesn't know him. No. It's that Draco knows him too well.
The first time that Draco doesn't recognise Harry is bad. The second and each following time are worse. Harry can't get used to it, the way Draco looks at him, uncomprehending. It's not Draco's fault and Harry feels guilty for resenting him for it.
"It's Harry, your boyfriend. Come, look at the Pensieve." Over and over again.
The day comes when Draco can't climb the stairs anymore. He falls more and more often. He barely eats. One day they realise that he's not got out of bed in a week.
"I can't wait much longer," he tells Harry that night.
There is no one to talk to. No one who could understand.
Some Auror colleagues have killed in the field, and a few of his friends have killed in battle. Enemies, Death Eaters. Never someone they loved.
"How did you do it? How did you find the strength?"
Long grass is swaying in the breeze gently, the sun making the metal plate shimmer. Severus Snape it says on it, on the tombstone next to the one of Harry's parents. Teacher. Friend. Always.
Harry closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He'll have to try and be like him. Be as brave.
It's the middle of the night, but Harry can't sleep. There is a vial in his pocket. Three drops – it will be gentle, peaceful. Draco won't notice a thing.
As Harry reaches for it, Draco draws a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering open. His gaze finds Harry's and he smiles weakly; his lips are cracked, spittle dried in the corners. His searching fingers are trembling and cold in Harry's hand.
Harry leans in to kiss Draco's forehead. Draco smiles again and, just like that, he slips back into sleep.
Harry promised, but he simply can't do it.
He can't. He can't.
He failed.
Draco is gone. First he raged, then he begged – begged with his eyes when he couldn't say the words any longer. Now, when he looks at Harry, there's no recognition. The Pensieve won't help, nothing helps anymore.
Sometimes he screams when the dose of painkillers isn't strong enough anymore. Sometimes he cries when he's frightened of the stranger that is Harry. Sometimes Harry wishes that he'd die already and free them both.
Ron and Hermione come every other day so that Harry can catch some sleep. He never feels rested. His dreams are of Draco.
"Please, Harry. Please."
Harry wakes to sounds from the bedroom that make him hurry and stumble, but he stops dead in the doorway. He can't move, can't breathe.
Draco is wailing, eyes wide in fear and confusion. Ron is bowed over him, murmuring, soothing. When it doesn't help, he lies down next to him in bed. Eventually, Draco falls still in his arms, his eyes closing, his face turning into the warmth of Ron's caressing hand.
"Sleep, Draco," Ron whispers. "Sleep. It's all right."
It's a lie. Nothing has ever been more wrong than this. Harry knows, then, that he can't fail again.
It's almost noon when Hermione finds them. Harry is sitting in bed, hasn't moved an inch since the night. Draco is stiff in his arms, his head on Harry's shoulder. They'd sat like this so often. It had made Draco feel safe.
"You're safe now," Harry had whispered when he'd pulled Draco up against him. "It can't hurt you any longer. Nothing can."
He should feel relieved that it's over. He fulfilled his promise. But the Draco he'd promised to help, the Draco he'd known, has been gone for weeks.
The only one Harry helped in the end was himself.
Harry doesn't know how he'll live with himself. He hates himself for killing the man he loved – and even more for not doing it sooner.
Time heals all wounds, they say. Eventually, his heart will mend, he doesn't doubt it. People lose loved ones and they recover from it, no matter how impossible it seems at first. No, it's not his heart he's worried about.
"What about my soul?" Snape had asked Dumbledore, and it's only now that Harry truly understands.
He's 21. He's got his whole life before him. He's also a murderer.
How do you heal from that?