Title: Take This Kiss Upon the Brow
Author: Susannah Wilde
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 5k
Warnings: hinted off-screen major character death, discussion of euthanasia, warning for sick-lit, even if I tried not to write one
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Diagnosed with cancer, Draco refuses treatment, both Muggle and magical. If only he could make Harry understand why.
Author Notes: Written for HD Hurt Fest. Thank you to my beta, B, for looking over multiple drafts, even the ones I did not use. A huge thanks to the mods for their patience. Information about the brain cancer in this fic comes from the American Cancer Society. Title comes from an Edgar Allan Poe poem.

Take This Kiss Upon the Brow

Dying is not as easy as I first believed.

At this point, it's almost a reward for the past year that I have had the privilege to live. As I look into the Pensieve, at all the memories that I cannot keep in my deteriorating mind, I believe that everything happens for a reason. I am ready to die. My broken down, weary body tells me so every day when I cannot move and am weaker than the day before. This is quite possibly one of the best decisions that I have certainly ever made, despite what everyone tells me. I should know, because the Dark Mark always reminds me of my worst decision.

After Hogwarts, I became homeless when I decided that I couldn't return to the Manor. The Dark Lord had tainted it beyond what I could bear and I wanted a clean break. Mother mentioned the Black family home and I Apparated to Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Except that the wards rejected me and I had to knock for a few minutes until the door swung open. No one appeared and I took a tentative step inside.

"Malfoy, what are you doing here?" A wand jabbed my chest and Potter stepped outside of the shadows with a surprised look on his face.

I was saved from being hexed by Potter when an old house elf came forward, exclaiming, "Young Master Draco is coming back at last!" The old wrinkled skin and gap toothed grin was the furthest thing from inviting, but Potter smirked at the house elf's words and I used the opportunity to enter the house.

We sat in the parlor, where, after Kreacher had served us tea, we stared at anything but each other. This place seemed as if it would fall down at any moment, with broken windows, walls that had dents and cracks, and a chandelier that was one swing away from falling.

"I've been meaning to get around to fixing this place up, but haven't had the time. So for now, I just place sticking charms and hope it is still standing by the time I get home. I don't think this is a social visit, so what brings you here, Malfoy?"

I turned to look at Potter for the first time and I cringe. Even though there was no accusation in his eyes, I knew better. Potter knew every sordid detail about my role in the war that had been presented as evidence during the war trials. I had nothing to bargain with except the truth.

He listened as I explained that I didn't have a place to live, the Malfoy fortune had been seized for war reparations, and that even if I started with nothing, I was willing to do anything to become a healer. If he needed help with this place, then I would do it in exchange for a place to sleep.

There was a long silence after those words, enough to know that I had overstayed my welcome, but Potter startled me when he levitated my bags out of the room. "You don't have to do that, Malfoy," he said as he motioned me to follow him, "Grimmauld Place is half yours anyway."

Those months after moving in were strange to say the least. I did not see Potter so often during the day because his time was taken up in Auror training. I did learn a little domesticity, quickly acquired after Potter explained that Granger would not allow him a new house elf. I couldn't even ask Kreacher because he was too old to put unnecessary work on him even if he would do it willingly for "Master Draco." Being organised did not bother me, which meant the house was in some sort of semblance, greatly improved from when I first arrived.

What baffled me was the numerous Muggle appliances Potter kept in his kitchen, and upon closer inspection, not those found in a regular household. The thing about Potter, I learned, was that he enjoyed cooking. On the rare occasion when he took a holiday, I would wake up to find him in the kitchen, hunched over a book, every now and then stirring pots and chopping up food. He looked happy doing this, so I decided to give it a try.

I learned to cook, but unlike Potions, it did not come easy to me. I soon knew the smell of burnt food better than the fresh air. However, it was all worth it when Potter, even when he came home exhausted, would wash up and then sit down to eat the simple dinner. I would revise and read textbooks and have a cup of tea while Potter ate, ever so often telling me about his day. More than once, he would fall asleep on the kitchen table and I would have to enlarge the couch in the living room so that he could sleep there. I couldn't enter his room under privacy wards he had cast, but the least I could do was make sure he had a good night's sleep.

It happened so quietly, that even I did not realize that I had developed feelings for Potter, as cliché as it sounded. In spending so much time in his company and in such close quarters, I learned his mannerisms, both good and bad. The way he would bite the inside of his cheeks when trying to control his anger, how he would patiently play with his godson Teddy long past his bedtime, trying not to close his eyes or yawn. Or the fact that he often invited me to the pub with his friends, the frown on his face the only sign of disappointment every time I declined.

Not everything was perfect and it would be foolish to think so. Potter couldn't resist always trying to prove himself in Auror training by taking on tasks suited for seasoned Aurors. If he was injured, he didn't accept medical help unless absolutely necessary, often arriving at Grimmauld Place bloodied and bruised and looking worse for wear. It became a challenge to see how long it took before he asked for help, but more often than not, instinct would take over and I would react first by casting healing charms.

I no longer saw him as the small boy from Madam Malkin's, but I couldn't quite elevate him to a hero, not by any stretch of the imagination, the way everyone else did. I couldn't do it because then that would put into question what he thought of me now and I knew I could never measure up. That was the only thing preventing me from telling Potter what I felt as I had to be sure of his feelings before I risked mine.

I don't remember how I first became ill, but it came along gradually with headaches and nausea that could easily have been explained away. When I was a child and was sick, Severus would tend to me, giving me potions until I could once again chase after the peacocks. Now as an adult, I would brew my own potions and then continue on without rest, generally putting off any symptoms as fatigue. If I dropped a potion, forgot a spell, or even lost my train of thought, well, there were certainly more important things on my mind in preparation for the healer examinations.

Mother, on one of the occasions that she visited me for tea, advised me to go see a healer after I had lost my appetite that day. Staring at myself in front of the mirror after I had finished vomiting, I couldn't disagree with her. I had lost too much weight and now had sallow skin that stretched tight against my face, disgusting really, but I cast a glamour and hoped she wouldn't ask again. I was accepted in the healer programme as a parole requirement, but I would be a fool to think that I could find a healer that would look past the Dark Mark.

While I could fool Mother, Potter, however, paid attention. I could feel it in the way his gaze would fall on me whenever he thought I was preoccupied during our dinners, and if he saw that he was caught, he didn't look away. Perhaps it was because I had never had his full attention until we lived together, but there were times when I imagined that he would look at me in concern and start to ask me questions, but fall silent at the last moment. Instead, he owled Madame Pomfrey and left me potions to take each morning.

Then came the day when I could no longer ignore that I was ill and push it out of my mind. How could I excuse the coughing up of blood and vomiting that happened each morning? I felt dizzy, disoriented, and would sometimes stumble when I walked. I saw things that weren't there. Glasses did nothing to alleviate the blurred vision I had recently attained. The worst part was being physically drained after a long day of casting spells to diagnose patients. Sometimes I could feel that my wand was not responding to my commands. Truth be told, it frightened me when I looked up symptoms in medical tomes and could not find any case that referenced all of my symptoms.

It was Potter himself who took me to St Mungo's, one of the few places he hated. That morning I was on the couch, shivering, with layers and layers of blankets, even grabbing Potter's old ratty jumper to keep me warm. Despite the sunlight, the fire I had lit, and the heating charms I had cast, it still felt like dementors were keeping me company in the room.

I knew that was impossible, but the memories run deep and it wasn't hard to relive that horrible year when the Dark Lord occupied the Manor. Memories flashed before my eyes: being punished repeatedly with the Cruciatus when I failed in my tasks, Mother looking on in horror when Father used Imperio so that I could torture Muggles, the clink of the chains that kept me prisoner in the Manor dungeons with the threat of being gifted to Greyback always present. There was no escaping that hell.

The room was ice cold and during the brief time when I opened my eyes, everything seemed to run together like a kaleidoscope, too bright and flashing quickly. I heard someone shouting at me and strong hands gripped my shoulders and when I opened my eyes, Potter's green eyes stared back in concern. When I collapsed, I knew no more.

The room I awoke in had a view of the sea, complete with the sounds of waves crashing onto the shore and birds in the distance. It reminded me of my childhood holidays in France. The view accomplished what it was made to do, soothing my fears for at least a few moments until I couldn't ignore Potter pacing in the room. He was livid.

"Don't do that to me again, Draco!" How fitting that the first time he said my first name, it was done in anger.

"I can't apologise for fainting, Harry," I emphasised his name with a slight sneer, "it just happened."

He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me, and if I hadn't considered him a friend, I would have started placing shield charms to block any potential attacks. "Don't lie, you've been doing this to yourself for a long time. You haven't been taking care of yourself, like the way you take care of me. You stay up late, hardly eat properly, and don't leave Grimmauld unless it's to attend classes! And the nightmares. You still have them, don't you?"

That information was supposed to be kept a secret by the silencing charms I placed around my room each night. As if I needed further proof that my magic was fading. That Potter would be the only other person to hear them, brought up one of my defence mechanisms and the sarcasm slipped out. "Oh, Potter, I didn't know you cared."

"Of course I do! I care about the people who are important to me, my friends and family, and you." He kept talking, making hand gestures grandiose to keep him occupied, but I remained stuck on his last statement. That was no way implied to be a commitment, and Potter probably meant nothing by those words, but hearing them made me question what was I to Potter? I knew what I wanted him to be, dreamed about it really, but that was almost too much to ask for.

Potter stopped talking when the door opened and a stern-looking woman walked into the room. Her lime green robes were lined with silver, ranking her as one of the head of staff.

"Mr Malfoy, I'm Healer Ralston-"

Potter turned to greet her, hand extended, but she interrupted. "Mr Potter, I'm sorry, but you need to leave." It would have delighted me in my younger years to see that being the Saviour did not grant Potter everything, but his expression killed that thought. He had his lips pressed in a thin line, with his forehead creased, and there was almost fire in his eyes as he glared at the healer.

"No."

She didn't back down and said, "I cannot release my patient's information to people who are not his family or his spouse. You are neither so I suggest you leave before I have you removed." She pointed at the door and Potter gripped his wand, his knuckles turning white.

"I'm the one who brought him here after he fainted in our home! He was shivering, pleading to make the pain go away. I want to know what happened- if it's something that could have been prevented!"

"If Mr Malfoy wants to share his information with you, he may do it when he leaves this room. For now, however, I have to ask you to leave-"

"Let him stay," I interrupted and they both looked at me with expressions of disbelief.

"Mr Malfoy, you honestly cannot allow this-" Healer Ralston said as she crossed her arms.

"Knowing Potter, he'll find out anyway. Besides, we live at the same place and he needs to know what's wrong with me in case of an emergency." I wanted someone else to know and who better than Potter, whom I could trust to help me if things went pear-shaped. He gave me grateful smile as he came and sat down on the edge of my bed.

Without a glance my way, she cast diagnostic charms that were a sight to see, as evidenced by Potter's sharp intake of breath. It was a tapestry of colours, different strands that reflected vital signs that rose and fell at different frequencies. Red was for my pulse, which began to settle down after the initial outburst, blue for blood pressure, white for respiratory rate, and yellow for body temperature. All of these were within the normal range, except for the thinnest, a purple strand that represented my magical core and strength.

Healer Ralston cleared her throat. "I'll be taking on your case, Mr Malfoy, though it's different from anything I've ever seen in dealing with magical drains. Tell me, how long have you had seizures?"

I don't look at Potter when I respond. "This is the first I've had one since shortly before the war ended." Healer Ralston scowled and asked why I did not come to St Mungo's sooner and before I could roll up my left shirt sleeve, Potter grabbed my hand and held it in place. Other than shaking his head when I looked, he didn't acknowledge the gesture, choosing to glare at the healer.

How odd and terrifying experience it was to be a patient and now I could understand why Potter disliked any stay at St Mungo's. The endless waiting as healers discussed options, ruling some diseases out because the symptoms didn't match was the most stressful. Unlike others, I understood some of Healer Ralston's medical jargon and all I could do was listen helplessly because the outcome was not in my favour. The healers didn't know what illness I had. Harry's hand tightened around mine as he listened to Healer Ralston, interrupting her with questions as if he were the patient. Potter demanded to know what was wrong with me and when Healer Ralston couldn't provide an answer, he asked Granger to take a look at my case.

For all the shit I gave Granger at Hogwarts, I admired her thirst for knowledge, especially with Potter's look of gratitude when she floo'd to Grimmauld with an answer. As far as diseases went, the cancer I had was common in the Muggle world, but rarely appeared in witches and wizards and thus wasn't mentioned in medical tomes.

I understood her reasoning, but I couldn't accept her answer until I had proof right in front of me. The image of my brain showed two small lumps at the base of my brain stem and one in my hippocampus. As Granger explained, cancer was a rapid division of cells that grew into tumours, often without cause or reason and was dangerous depending on the location. The tumours were pressing against the neurons in my brain, creating intracranial pressure that caused my headaches and seizure. It also didn't help that although the blood supply was feeding the tumours, there was an infusion of dark magic that could create more at a rapid rate. A side effect was that even if all the cancer cells were destroyed, there was no guarantee of not damaging healthy cells that could affect my speech and motor function, as well as memory loss.

I caught myself looking at the Dark Mark on my forearm and wondering if all of this could have been avoided if I had had the courage to refuse the Dark Mark. The Mark no longer hummed with the raw energy of dark magic, burning my skin whenever the Dark Lord was near, but I still had it and thus still tainted me. Short of amputating my arm, I would die with it.

After the initial consultation, I had to return to St Mungo's and present Healer Ralston with the new information. However, this time I wasn't vilified. I was pitied. I never thought I would have that emotion aimed at me, but there wasn't much hope for people who had this disease, not without sacrificing a lot, and that was a concept I was unfamiliar with. Due to the poison running in my blood, I was uncertain of how much time I had left. It certainly wasn't much with magical treatment, but more if I could attempt the Muggle treatment.

Brain surgery was not an option nor was using magic to shrink the tumours. The healers didn't want to risk aggravating the tumours with spells that could cause them to spread to different organs. The explanation of chemotherapy and radiation therapy did nothing to ease my mind. How could something that made a healthy person weak also be used as treatment for a disease?

If a year was all I had, I would take it. I knew when to cut my losses and if this thing inside of me was going to cause me to lose my memories, then I wanted to create new ones using the time I had left. If I stayed at St Mungo's, then it would have been the closest thing to being held prisoner in Azkaban. At least if I refused treatment, I would still have my magic even if I couldn't use my wand to cast spells. By the seventh visit to St Mungo's in three weeks, I told Healer Ralston my decision.

Potter was not pleased.

"This isn't just about you!" he screamed, running his hands through his hair as he often did when he was frustrated.

"Of course not, Potter. Then explain why am I the one whose name is on the medical files, the one who has to endure all the examinations where the healers discuss the disease and treatments as if I weren't right in front of them?" Sometimes, I wanted to borrow Potter's Invisibility Cloak to see if the healers noticed the difference.

"They are trying to help you, but you are being stubborn by not choosing a treatment. You know what the survival rate is." Potter crossed his arms and leaned against the counter where he had been preparing dinner.

"It's not worth it if I lose myself. I won't give up my magic for a treatment that has no guarantee of success." The words of I refuse to be a Squib went unsaid and that set Potter off as he made his own assumptions.

"You think I care about that? Do not leave me, Draco! Everyone important to me does. Everyone I love dies and you cannot be one of them." He immediately closed his mouth and turned away, but was not quick enough to hide his pain. His shoulders trembled and he exhaled heavily and I did not like seeing him this way, not so soon after I finally knew how he felt.

I went to stand by him and turned off the stove before his unexpected bursts of magic burned down the kitchen. He turned to look at me, brushing off the tears that threated to spill.

"I'm still here," I said and he gave a shaky laugh.

"For how long? As long as you refuse treatment, you'll be a victim to your circumstances. What can I do to convince you? I'll do anything." And he would. He already had saved the Wizarding World, had made the ultimate sacrifice, but who would save him from himself?

"Nothing," I said simply and watched his heart break.

"What?"

"I know you, Potter. You won't give up, stressing yourself trying to find a cure! You would be willing to try anything and everything. I can't let you do that. I refuse to."

"I don't understand. I love you! Surely that has to count for something. Why are you so willing to let go? Why won't you agree to the treatment?" The angry energy of his magic sent a sharp pain through my head, but I had to push him away so I could concentrate on my words.

"It's a treatment, not a cure!" There's silence at my outburst and Harry is breathing heavily and has his hands clenched tightly into fists. "Because, Harry, I have this short time left. I don't want to spend it at St Mungo's. I don't want your last memory of me to be lying helpless on my deathbed. I want to spend it with you. Please understand."

We slid down the cabinet to the floor, side by side, and he being the braver one, reached out and entwined his hands with mine. "I understand if you're frightened, but please give it a chance. You won't have to go through this alone."

I shake my head and sigh, before saying what sealed my decision. "I visited them, Harry, the Muggle cancer patients. One day I asked Healer Ralston to see what the chemotherapy treatment did to patients and we met them." The air in my lungs escaped as I remembered going to London and seeing the patients that could represent my future.

The patients seemed caged in their bed. They couldn't function well without the small tubes delivering basic necessities along with the machines that ticked loudly to let them know that they had survived one more minute. The worst were the children, braver and more hopeful than I could ever be, whose one goal seemed to be making their parents happy. I remembered a little bald girl who stood in front of the mirror and with a marker, drew black hair so that her reflection could make her mother smile.

"While I admire the healing advances that Muggles have come up with, it's not for me. I refuse to be an empty shell, especially with the high chance of remission." Would it be selfish of me if I said that I didn't want to take that chance?

Potter's bright green eyes stared at me when he asked the next question. "What would you do if the roles were reversed?"

I gave a bitter laugh before I kissed him. "Impossible. You're the Boy Who Lived. The universe already had its chance to ruin you and you're still here."

Telling Mother was a task that I wanted to put off for as long as possible so that I didn't hurt her. However, when Mother owled me to visit her in France, I knew it was time to tell her. Mother had been the voice of reason when I was younger, but this time she let her emotions overtake her as I explained my illness and the decision I had made. She held me close, wrapping her arms around me, and her tears fell in my hair as she comforted me. Before I returned to England, she asked me if I was happy as she had me sit down to be drawn for a portrait to hang in her home.

The correct answer at that moment would have been no since I couldn't do magic, yet that wasn't the truth. Being with Harry, I had a new perspective on life as I began to think of everything as lasts. Funny how everyone remembers their firsts, holds on to them tightly, engrained in memory to reflect upon in unexpected moments. First steps, first words, first spell, first kiss, first fuck, first love. I didn't have that luxury with Harry and had to condense those precious firsts as I couldn't know if it would be the last time to ever experience them, but I would not waste it.

Harry made it harder to live, but I was definitely happy.

A curse struck my chest when I stepped out of Flourish and Blotts one evening. At St Mungo's, after a different healer had tended to me, Healer Ralston projected an image of my brain that glowed wherever the tumours could be found. They had grown, and even more were found pressed against the brain stem, but the worst was that they were spreading. It was a wonder I was still walking.

Healer Ralston told me that very soon, my memories would fade. All the magic in the world had saved me until this moment, but I had reached the tipping point and now it was just a matter of waiting it out until my magic crippled me.

Potter came rushing in, his Auror training robes in disarray as if he were trying to get out of them but hadn't quite managed. He stopped short at the image in front of him and his mouth hung open. Before he could ask questions, I told Healer Ralston to leave the room to give us some privacy.

"What's that?" he asked, stepping closer to the glowing clusters. If it were night time, they would appear to be lightning bugs.

This was the hardest thing I ever asked him and I was afraid that everything good would soon be taken away. Having been raised in the Muggle world and certainly knowing nothing of pureblood traditions, I knew he wouldn't like my decision. It would be the kind of mercy killing my father would have asked for if he had been sentenced to the Kiss. I had to put it bluntly so that there could be no mistaking another one of my cruel decisions.

"Potter," I said, "when the time comes, I want you to be the one to end my life."

"What? No!" He shook his head. "I won't kill you. How could you ask me that?" He then cast a series of spells that I recognized as being used by Aurors to detect the presence of dark magic.

"I'm perfectly sane, Potter. I know what I'm asking and I'd rather it be you, but Mother also knows about this."

The wand dropped to the floor and he stared at me in shock. "She agrees that this is the right decision, the only choice you have?"

"No, it's not the only choice, but given the situation, it is the best choice I have."

"Bullshit! You don't have to do this-"

I waved my arm at the image in front of us. "Harry, this thing I have, it's eating the inside of my body, taking away all my magic until all that's left is a bag of skin and bones. I'll be weak, Harry, and then I'll see you, worrying and not being able to do a damn thing, and you'll die trying to be the hero again."

"Why would this be any better?"

He still didn't understand and I used the truth to convince him. "You'll be merciful, Harry, kind, caring, everything this disease, this cancer, won't be."

I knew I was asking more than I had any right to, and in some sick, twisted way, I was asking him to compromise the future he thought he could have with me, but he reluctantly agreed.

That bittersweet victory marked my descent into madness.

Life continued, as mundane as it may be. Every night, the last thing I saw before I fell asleep was Harry's worried face etched in my mind. Mornings were harder as it took longer each day for the most important memories to return, but Harry was there to help me remember.

In my saner moments, I asked him how he's going to do it and he gave me a sad look before shaking his head.

This morning I woke up with a stranger in my bed. It took a while to calm me down and I needed the memories in the Pensieve as proof, but the haunted look in Harry's eyes told me that we don't have much time left.

Tonight, perhaps. I am not afraid.