Chapter Three

Denial lasted only as long as it took Draco to take a breath of autumn air.

The world rushed at him, painfully bright and hyper-focused. A Muggle with a briefcase and scuffed brown shoes glanced at him sideways, wary of his damp robes and wild expression. A witch escorting her child missed a step, then stopped entirely, placing herself protectively between them. The faceless mannequin in the St Mungo's window turned toward him slowly, accusingly. Draco heard footsteps pounding down the hidden corridor.

He had to get out, get away, run, escape. Escape before they caught him and tested him and damned him to a miserable, truncated life that would end in his miserable, solitary death.

He turned on the spot, Apparating directly into his private chamber at Malfoy Manor. It was as much of a prison as Mungo's, but better in one way: he was alone. He supposed he should have felt guilty for assaulting his superiors and leaving hospital grounds. He wasn't fit to be in public (Indecent? Indisposed? Infected.) But the thought of other people, with their organs intact and their blood unsullied and their lives stretching long and open before them, made him sick and angry and – worst, unavoidably – envious.

He hadn't spread it. Of this, he was certain. Collier's needed exposure to the inside of the body. Blood, saliva, semen, feces… The virus could be transmitted easily by any of those routes. Whyte was sure to have quarantined everything he'd touched, stepped on, breathed near, or looked at inside the hospital. He hadn't been near enough to the people he'd seen at the entrance to have put them at risk, though Whyte had probably captured them by now, anyway. The house-elves were safe, too, not only barred from his room unless called, but also naturally immune, as the virus had not yet evolved to infect any species but Homo sapiens.

Draco smiled a wry smile. He'd often wished, in his youth, to be someone (anyone), other than himself. This was the first time he could remember wishing that he could anything other than human.

His eyes fell upon the bottle of whiskey Lucius had given him upon his acceptance into Hippocrates' School, and his smile turned sour.

If he had to bear the burden of humanity, at least he could do it while blitzed out of his mind.

He grabbed the bottle by its neck and read the label. It was Blishen's – a nearly priceless vintage from the early nineteenth century that had been aged in an oak barrel. It was famous for its toffee and vanilla notes, and its ability to 'come faster than a virgin in Venus.'

Draco drank until he vomited, just barely making it into an empty cauldron. To wash the taste of bile out of his mouth, he drank the rest. The world twisted and turned, and he cackled as the alcohol simmered through his veins. He lugged the cauldron of vomit onto his balcony and, with a clumsy wave of his wand, set it on fire. He added his shirt, trousers, and underwear to the flames and stood before the acreage of Malfoy Manor with his arms outstretched, naked but for his socks, wondering what it was to burn.

To burn, or to fly.

He heaved one leg over the railing.

This was right. This was perfect. This was the best and most fitting tableau in which to end his life. He would launch himself into the darkness before the fire could bite. He would throw himself into Death's arms with a laugh instead of a whimper. He would be sarcastic and proud and prove that he could commit to something grand without regret or hesitation. He would prove that he was not afraid of oblivion.

A sudden wave of heady pleasure knocked him backwards. He reeled, unbalanced on one leg, and fell without catching himself. His skull cracked against stone, and there was just one moment of fleeting pain before the world went black.

He woke hours later with a pounding headache and a sense of realignment. The irony of his consciousness was not lost upon him: the drinking he'd done last night, which would have killed most people, had unquestionably saved his life.

Draco was not a believer in coincidence. He could not waste any more time.

He stepped into the shower, running it so hot that his skin turned pink and tender. He shaved carefully, trying not to look himself in the eyes, trying not to think about how a bit more pressure, the slightest change of angle, and a quick flick of his wrist could change things.

He dressed in his finest clothes: a pristine white shirt, black slacks, and a well-tailored, slate-grey robe that brought out the darker flecks in his light grey eyes. He polished his dragon hide boots and pulled them on slowly, knowing that, once he finished, he would have no more excuses. As he fastened the final buckle, a cold feeling settled in his chest, unabated by the warmth of his wand in his hand.

He looked around his room a final time and then, pointing his wand at his bed, said, "Incendio."

The fabric caught at once, spreading immediately to the wooden frame, then down, across the rug on the stone floor, and up to his wardrobe, which then caught his vanity, bookshelf, and chair. His full-length mirror warped and fell from the wall, striking the floor with a dull crack. Draco shot another spell into the bathroom, making sure that the shower curtain and rug had caught, and then backed out of the French doors and onto his balcony. Finally, he lit the curtains.

He paused for a minute to watch the fire consume what his life had looked like. Scraps of fabric and parchment drifted through the open doors, landing upon and singeing his robe, dusting his shoes with grey, and mottling his scrubbed skin. Darkening smoke billowed toward him. His eyes stung. His lungs fought for oxygen.

It was time to go.

He Apparated to the only un-warded area in St Mungo's, where patrons could come and go as they pleased: the Research Library. But there was something different about his arrival. A gentle, double-push to his chest. It was the signature of a personal ward. A signature he would recognize anywhere.

She had made it so simple. All he had to do was wait.

He was not disappointed. Hermione burst through the double doors mere seconds later, wand in hand. She looked exhausted, with her hair wild on one side and matted on the other and her robe creased in strange places. Her body trembled as she approached, the result of nerves worn close to breaking. He held up his hands before him, his wand in its holster at his waist, and fought the instinct to catch her as when she finally realized what she saw and stumbled. Her knees buckled, and Draco winced as she staggered backwards, catching herself hard against the wall.

"Draco." Her voice was hoarse and throaty, contorted at once by pain, relief, and sorrow.

"Are you okay?" He was surprised at the evenness of his own voice. It wasn't normal – nothing about him was normal now – but it was soft and measured, tamed to reflect his façade of cool control.

Her eyes snapped back to him. The fear that he'd seen in them, a mere shade of the terror that curled between his organs and clutched at his heart, disappeared. It was replaced at once by fury.

"Where the fuck have you been?" She enunciated carefully, hoisting herself mostly upright to better meet his height.

It was astonishing, how quickly her body adapted to change. Her voice was now a rasping hiss, filed to a point by venom and revulsion. Draco understood and was not upset. She had every right to be angry with him.

"The Manor," he answered honestly. "I needed –"

"Do you know where I've been?" she interrupted hotly. "Do you know what I've spent the last twenty-four hours doing?"

He did not get the chance to guess.

"Looking for you," she spat with a sneer. "As was every other member of this damn hospital. Do you even realize the damage you could've done?"

"I'm not a moron," he replied stiffly, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin just slightly. "Those three who saw me outside. Are they –"

"Clean," she said. The relief she must have felt could not find a niche in her tone. "But who knows what other damage you might have done?"

"None." He was confident it was the truth. "I Apparated straight into the Manor. I had no contact with anyone else, and I sealed and burned my room before I left."

"The elves. Your mother."

Draco's anger swelled gently. "Only I had access to my room, and the fire was contained. It will be years before someone even realizes it happened."

She ignored him and pressed her palms into her eyes, trying to regain a modicum of composure. "It was irresponsible, dangerous, unspeakably, inconceivably stupid…" Her anger, which had given her strength, began to fade. Draco could see that she was starting to feel every minute she'd spent awake searching for him.

Her chin quivered, and he felt the first twinge of shame. She dropped her hands and looked at him with tear-filled eyes.

"Your blood work came back," she said softly.

Before he could think to stop it, hope sprouted within him. Inexplicable, unstoppable, and irrational, but present nonetheless. It was possible that her rage and her tears were born from relief that he had returned unharmed, that he hadn't succeeded in doing anything irreversible while out of their control. It was possible that he had beaten the astronomical odds. It was possible that she would tell him that he was safe. It was possible that she would embrace him, and it was assured that he would sob, unashamedly and unreservedly, into her hair. It was possible that he would no longer feel crushed by the weight of imminent death, that he would be given yet another chance to make his life what he wanted and knew it could be.

It was possible. He only had to ask the question.

"How many days do I have left to live?"

Hermione hesitated, choked on the answer, and that was answer enough. The spark that had kept him whole and standing went out, and the breath he had been holding – for they were numbered now, and each one felt precious – fluttered away, deflating him, making him feel somehow less.

His mind surrendered control to his body, which, though it would soon cease to function, now turned him away from Hermione's hunched and shuddering form. He could hardly hear her gasping sobs over the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

Twenty-seven days.

He had toyed with the idea of a positive diagnosis. It had drifted through his mind as a spirit might drift through a wall – quiet and insignificant, gone before anyone fully realized it was there. But the walls of his mind had since turned impenetrable, and the spirit of truth floated around his consciousness, not yet coalescing or settling, but rather brushing lightly against his every thought, coloring his vision just slightly grey and filling his life with lasts.

This was the last time he would see the entrance to the Alley.

This was the last time he would pass Hermione's laboratory.

This was the last time he would walk up the stairs from the Basement.

It was like the odor of food just beginning to rot, or the smell of a recently deceased animal hidden in a broom shed. There, lingering, but indistinct. Gone if searched for too intently. Only obvious once it was too late and whatever had been decomposing was no more than a puddle of bacterial sludge, festering with maggots and assaulting on the most visceral level.

He did not realize that he had reached the Second Floor until two burly men in white coats and masks yanked him from the stairwell. They held his arms tightly, sandwiching him between them. Draco was momentarily amazed at their stupidity or bravery. Then a wandtip pressed into his back, and Draco knew it was the former. He twisted his arm, straining for the wand at his hip, and the wand at his back jabbed inward suddenly, bringing with it a light stinging jinx.

A warning.

"Unhand me." His voice was smooth and dangerous. Unpredictable.

Why shouldn't he be? With twenty-seven days left to live, he was a man with nothing to lose. What could they do? Incarcerate him? Sentence him to death? He would submit willingly to the former; the latter was downright laughable.

The man at his back jabbed him again, this time prodding him forward.

Draco did not move. It was one thing to be prodded like cattle; it was quite another to respond like one.

A spell flew at him. Draco moved too late to dodge it. His legs snapped together, and he would've fallen over if it weren't for the goons at his sides and back holding him upright.

The caster was a livid Whyte. She stood before him with her hands on her hips and, from what little he could see of her face, a furious expression. She, like the men who had grabbed him, was dressed in a long white coat, disposable blue booties, a hair net, safety glasses, and a mask that covered her nose and mouth.

"New uniform?" Draco asked, arching an eyebrow. "I think I preferred the lime green."

"It's for our own safety." Her voice was surprisingly clear. "I will not put others at risk."

He imagined her snarling and mirrored the expression, his voice full of spite. "Because Collier's can't penetrate Muggle equipment, can it? Once you learned the ACS was worse than useless against it…"

Whyte's sangfroid flickered. "We began testing immediately. The AntiContagion Shield had never failed before. Dragon pox, spattergroit, scrofungulus… All highly contagious diseases, but all unable to infect because of the ACS. We thought Collier's was the same. We thought its magic was defensive only; we didn't even consider that it could play a role in infection, but it does. The virus eats right through the ACS, but it can't get past a physical barrier. We think it needs magic to be magical. If we had known, if we had even guessed, we would never have let you, or anyone, anywhere close to…"

There it was again, the subtle pressure of truth against the barrier of his sanity.

"That's one hell of an oversight," he muttered.

Whyte pursed her lips. "St Mungo's is taking steps to ensure that something like this never happens again. However, we have to deal with what has happened, and though you were a resident here and had nearly finished your stay, I cannot let you escape the consequences of leaving hospital grounds with the knowledge that you could be infected."

The pressure intensified; his barrier trembled. It would all come caving in on him soon.

But not yet.

"Could be?" Draco asked with a sneer. "Haven't you heard? My results came back."

She had heard, of course, and Draco smirked in satisfaction as her fingers twitched along the shaft of her wand. As far as he knew, Whyte was not a violent person, but he wondered if she had the urge to strike him. He wondered what he could say to make her land the blow. He wondered if he'd be any better off if he succeeded and she was asked to retire.

The moment passed, and Whyte took a deep breath. "You will be held in the Quarantine Ward under twenty-four hour surveillance by three armed MLE officers. Your visitors will be restricted to your Attending Healer and your family."

Neither punishment was a surprise, or even much of a punishment. His isolation was expected; he preferred it that way. And he did not plan to tell his mother until… Until he felt she needed to know.

There was one thing she hadn't mentioned, though, and Draco struggled to keep his voice even and his face impassive as he asked about his equipment.

Whyte's eyes tightened. "Your equipment will stay in your laboratory."

Hearing it was almost a relief. Information like this was easy to process and internalize. He knew how to feel about his inability to continue his research, about his inability to potentially save his own life.

"You can't do that," he said slowly. Blood pounded through his veins and colored his cheeks. He clenched his fists. The men holding him felt him tense and tightened their grip.

"These are the consequences. You shouldn't have left."

Though it nearly choked him, Draco swallowed his anger and his pride. "Please."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. Truly, I am. Guards, take him to his room."

The guards turned him away from Whyte and small crowd that had gathered to watch and towards Stockell, who was waiting for them at the entrance to the Quarantine Ward. The Healer pressed his wand to the sensor and allowed all three of them through. He followed after, then stepped around them to lead them down the hall.

The barrier holding Draco together weakened as he passed Room Four. Hermione had been so concerned for him. She clutched his arm, her eyes begging for caution, but Stockell had sounded so serious and Friska so hopeful. He had felt so confident, so trusted.

He would give anything to take that moment back.

The airlock before Room Twelve, the last on the ward, hissed as Stockell pressed his wand to the sensor. The guards shoved Draco through, barely wrenching their gloved hands back as the doors closed. Draco waited patiently as it coated him with the useless ACS, and then stepped into the room. As soon as the airlock closed, he pressed his wand to the sensor. Under normal circumstances, the airlock would have opened and let him out.

His circumstances were not normal.

"She took away your access rights," Stockell said needlessly.

Draco grimaced. "Had to try."

Stockell nodded, hesitated for a moment as if he wanted to say more, then thought better of it and walked away. The two guards who had brought him took seats on either side of the door, their backs turned to him. The third walked with Stockell up the corridor. Draco leaned against the small window and watched until they disappeared from sight. Then he scowled and turned his back on them, too.

He had worked at St Mungo's for long enough to know the room's layout without having to look. It was a slightly outdated, supremely utilitarian setup. Two chairs flanked a small table, which sat below the room's single window. To the left of that was a modest closet, and then the door to the loo, which was spacious enough for a patient and two aides. The main feature, of course, was the bed. It was a little larger than a twin but not quite a double, with pillows and a mattress that adjusted their firmness automatically and could be contorted into all sorts of shapes by the tap of a wand or, if the patient was too infirm for magic, the lightest touch of a finger to a button. The sheets were stark white, the walls pale blue, and the floor an ugly beige tile.

But Draco was a Junior Healer. He knew there was much so much more to the room than old furniture and dingy paint.

He saw the unevenly bleached look of a floor that had been sanitized and re-sanitized as patients had defecated, bled, and expired upon it, pressing their cheeks to it in a fruitless attempt to escape the pain. He saw bed linens that were ordered in bulk, never used twice, and only changed if the patient had rendered them unusable. He saw the instruments and equipment that would monitor his heartbeat, lung function, brain activity, muscle control, and organ function that, in his case, were not prolongers of life, but trackers of death.

Twenty-seven days.

Draco leaned against the door and sank down slowly until he sat upon the floor.

Finally, the phantom of truth in his mind coalesced, knocking away the last vestiges of his composure. His breathing sped up; his heart hammered in his chest; his fists clenched; his body tingled; the world spun.

Draco was terminal.

This room was little more than a place to die.