Way Down We Go

Chapter 9

It's actually something of a relief when everyone leaves.

Harry is so used to living alone—admittedly with visits from Malfoy—that suddenly having seven additional moving talking bodies in his usually silent home is a little overwhelming.

Malfoy makes a relieved noise that Harry can fully empathise with once the door has closed behind their exit.

"How are you feeling?" Harry asks.

Malfoy makes another sort of noise, one that says Harry is an idiot. It's a familiar sound.

"Guess that was a stupid question."

"Yes."

Malfoy closes his eyes and Harry moves a few inches closer, using the toe of his Converse to nudge some larger pieces of glass out of the way.

"Can you—" Harry pauses. He considers the pallor of Malfoy's face. The purple-blue veins visible through the parchment of his skin. The fact that he looks close to death does nothing to diminish the strangely pretty, ethereal quality of his pointed features.

If you were into that sort of thing.

"Did you know?" Harry asks. "About all the things that are wrong with you?"

"The food allergies were a surprise," Malfoy says.

Harry notices a clump of peach clinging to Malfoy's hair and pulls it out before it occurs to him that maybe he shouldn't.

Malfoy opens his eyes.

Wide.

Grey.

Harry smears the fruit on the concrete by his knee, face hot. "You've got, er. Some cobbler in your hair. If you want, I can—"

"Fine."

"Alright."

Harry reaches forward and Malfoy closes his eyes again.

"I was diagnosed at St. Mungo's," he says. "A month after my sentencing when I became symptomatic. They released me without a treatment plan and told me I'd have to consult with muggle doctors henceforth since I wasn't, strictly speaking, a Wizard anymore. Part of the punishment, perhaps—dealing with muggle medical practices. Or maybe they just didn't want to have a Malfoy as a patient. It necessitated extra security, then. So soon after the war."

"That's not fair, though," Harry says, and Malfoy laughs, maybe, before it turns into a cough.

"It's not," Harry insists. "You're still a wizard. Just basically a squib for a few years. And then you'll be back to normal."

"You can't be that naive," Malfoy says. He sounds exhausted, rather than angry. "I'm not going to live another year, much less another four. I'll be dead long before my sentence is complete. Which is exactly what the council wanted."

Harry doesn't say anything.

He can't.

Because even though Hermione essentially already told him the same thing, he— he's so angry he's afraid he might shift despite the fact that the full moon is over a week away.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "I'll assume from the stupid look on your face that you didn't actually know you were endorsing my death sentence when you spoke at the trial?"

"No," Harry says.

The word sounds woefully inadequate.

"When I approached them about speaking on your behalf I wanted to get you a lighter sentence. I though losing magic for a few years would be a slap on the wrist compared to Azkaban."