(no subject)
Title: My Second Second Chance
Author: Me. a.k.a. mugglerock
Warning(s): Something that resembles angst. HIV/AIDS makes an appearance.
Rating: PG
Pairing: H/D
Category: Drabble/One-shot/POV
Disclaimer: Why, yes! I do happen to own Harry Potter. I also own Disneyland, the Marlboro cigarette company, Playboy, and Big Ben. *relents* Not mine, no money, no sue.
Spoilers: Inadvertant if applied.
Feedback: Please, Sir? May I have some more?
Summary: "I never thought I would have found myself in this exact predicament. Of course, I had been haughty and stupid. The curse of youth. It couldn’t happen to me."
Author's notes: National AIDS Awareness Day. My attempt at recognition. Draco's POV. I hope I did it justice. If you like, gimme <3<3s! Oh! And I should probably have the next part of my drabbleseries up by Sunday at the latest.
I sat in that disgustingly clinical waiting room for what felt like hours.
There was a young couple, no older than myself, sitting across from me. The young man appeared confident overall, whereas the young woman couldn’t quite make eye contact with anyone. I could see the indentations of teeth against a worrying lip. She obviously had a secret that she intended on keeping, the results permitting.
To my left was a solitary man, old enough to be my father, thumbing awkwardly through a pamphlet, too quick to actually be reading it. A distraction for his hands that were itching to rip his hair out. When he looked up and our eyes locked, I found myself giving him a discomfited smile. He reciprocated it before returning his attention to the flipping pages.
To my right was Harry, seemingly calm and ever-the-courageous Gryffindor, apart from the nervous wringing of his hands. I placed my own hand atop one of his and gave a reassuring squeeze. He sighed and turned his palm upward to take my hand and lace our fingers. Connected.
I searched his face for, what, I’m not sure. There should have been anger there. Pain from betrayal. Something vengeful and bitter. A number of emotions that were not at all related to the support those impossibly green eyes emanated. I kissed his cheek and cast my attention downwards.
I never thought I would have found myself in this exact predicament. Of course, I had been haughty and stupid. The curse of youth. It couldn’t happen to me. A little over sixth months ago, after a particularly nasty fight with Harry, I had found myself, in a bar, a bottle of tequila, and the arms of a complete stranger. The lethal combination took me to his flat for a forgettable night of betrayal and lust. I awoke the next morning with a heavy heart and a sticky stomach. To this day, I do not know the stranger’s name.
I had cast the stranger from my thoughts and never uttered a word of my infidelity. When I walked into our flat, Harry embraced me with consoling words of contrition and a slight hint of concern to his tone. I reciprocated the penitence with a guilt-ridden kiss.
About a month following the anonymous encounter, my immune system finally gave way and forced me into my very first flu. Twenty-three years of age and never once having been sick. Not that it concerned me. The droughts for illness were amassed in the wizarding world. Instant cures for any ails. I received a peculiar look of utter bemusement from the caretaker in the apothecary when the light pink substance had no affect on my symptoms.
I was reassured that my body’s lack of response could have been a reaction to one of the ingredients. After three other vials, we gave up the quest. She dissuaded my concern with the admission of several witches and wizards having need of permitting their body to grow accustomed to and then fight the illness on its own. I accepted the answer, albeit begrudgingly.
When my symptoms did not regress after the fourth week, my concern was no longer a figment of my imagination. When I confided in Harry that the potions had no affect, he busied himself with the purchase of every muggle remedy known to man. Their lack of benefit provided no reassurance and I found myself facing a personal medi-wizard for the very first time.
I explained my concerns and the efforts on mine and my lover’s parts to rid myself of this uncomfortable illness. He stunned me to silence when he asked of my sexual history. I queried his interest to evoke a strange series of words from his mouth, “muggle STDs, HIV/AIDS.”
He had informed me that, if contracted, wizarding remedies were void. He explained to me the various diseases, how they were contracted, and any other pertinent information. For the first time since the encounter, I confessed my unprotected sin.
He accepted the answer as any medical professional should and continued his examination. After the negative results of the standard wizarding tests, he disclosed that he did not believe that it could be related to any of the muggle diseases, but he’d rather I, “be safe than sorry.” He handed me a pamphlet with the address of a muggle testing clinic and sent me on my way.
It took me three months of self-imposed hell to finally make up my mind. My symptoms had dissipated two days after the visit with the medi-wizard, discarding the man’s advice with them. Two weeks later the symptoms had returned with a vengeance and I battled consistently with panic and dread. Some days I was utterly convinced that I had what the muggles called ‘HIV’. With those thoughts, came the recollection of my treachery and the guilt that was its partner. My insistent symptoms were a physical torture as well as an emotionally draining one. Other days were filled with a bull-headed denial that I found more comforting than anything else. I would convince myself that these symptoms were merely psychosomatic.
When I felt I would go mad with the extreme gear shifts of emotions, I finally confided in Harry of my evening with the stranger. He was angry at first. And feeling as though, the situation probably could not get any worse, I disclosed my deep-rooted fear. If my heart was about to be broken, what harm could an assumed disease really do?
His anger instantly transformed into something akin to worry. He whispered words of forgiveness and embraced me. I have been grateful ever since. I certainly did not deserve that sort of devotion.
“Draco Malfoy.”
I turned my head to the young nurse in the doorway, thankful for the internal musing interruption. Harry gave my hand a reassuring squeeze as I stood and approached the man behind the counter. He handed me an enclosed envelope and a clipboard with paperwork to sign. I clasped the envelope to my chest as I walked outside. My hands trembled as I ripped open the envelope. I read the contents of the letter and was unable to stop the tears from falling.
Harry walked outside and embraced me, his face alight with trepidation and a tinge of despair. He croaked out an almost inaudible, “And?”
I looked into his eyes and sighed, “Negative.”
I smiled appreciatively at the second time I received a second chance.
Fin
Author: Me. a.k.a. mugglerock
Warning(s): Something that resembles angst. HIV/AIDS makes an appearance.
Rating: PG
Pairing: H/D
Category: Drabble/One-shot/POV
Disclaimer: Why, yes! I do happen to own Harry Potter. I also own Disneyland, the Marlboro cigarette company, Playboy, and Big Ben. *relents* Not mine, no money, no sue.
Spoilers: Inadvertant if applied.
Feedback: Please, Sir? May I have some more?
Summary: "I never thought I would have found myself in this exact predicament. Of course, I had been haughty and stupid. The curse of youth. It couldn’t happen to me."
Author's notes: National AIDS Awareness Day. My attempt at recognition. Draco's POV. I hope I did it justice. If you like, gimme <3<3s! Oh! And I should probably have the next part of my drabbleseries up by Sunday at the latest.
I sat in that disgustingly clinical waiting room for what felt like hours.
There was a young couple, no older than myself, sitting across from me. The young man appeared confident overall, whereas the young woman couldn’t quite make eye contact with anyone. I could see the indentations of teeth against a worrying lip. She obviously had a secret that she intended on keeping, the results permitting.
To my left was a solitary man, old enough to be my father, thumbing awkwardly through a pamphlet, too quick to actually be reading it. A distraction for his hands that were itching to rip his hair out. When he looked up and our eyes locked, I found myself giving him a discomfited smile. He reciprocated it before returning his attention to the flipping pages.
To my right was Harry, seemingly calm and ever-the-courageous Gryffindor, apart from the nervous wringing of his hands. I placed my own hand atop one of his and gave a reassuring squeeze. He sighed and turned his palm upward to take my hand and lace our fingers. Connected.
I searched his face for, what, I’m not sure. There should have been anger there. Pain from betrayal. Something vengeful and bitter. A number of emotions that were not at all related to the support those impossibly green eyes emanated. I kissed his cheek and cast my attention downwards.
I never thought I would have found myself in this exact predicament. Of course, I had been haughty and stupid. The curse of youth. It couldn’t happen to me. A little over sixth months ago, after a particularly nasty fight with Harry, I had found myself, in a bar, a bottle of tequila, and the arms of a complete stranger. The lethal combination took me to his flat for a forgettable night of betrayal and lust. I awoke the next morning with a heavy heart and a sticky stomach. To this day, I do not know the stranger’s name.
I had cast the stranger from my thoughts and never uttered a word of my infidelity. When I walked into our flat, Harry embraced me with consoling words of contrition and a slight hint of concern to his tone. I reciprocated the penitence with a guilt-ridden kiss.
About a month following the anonymous encounter, my immune system finally gave way and forced me into my very first flu. Twenty-three years of age and never once having been sick. Not that it concerned me. The droughts for illness were amassed in the wizarding world. Instant cures for any ails. I received a peculiar look of utter bemusement from the caretaker in the apothecary when the light pink substance had no affect on my symptoms.
I was reassured that my body’s lack of response could have been a reaction to one of the ingredients. After three other vials, we gave up the quest. She dissuaded my concern with the admission of several witches and wizards having need of permitting their body to grow accustomed to and then fight the illness on its own. I accepted the answer, albeit begrudgingly.
When my symptoms did not regress after the fourth week, my concern was no longer a figment of my imagination. When I confided in Harry that the potions had no affect, he busied himself with the purchase of every muggle remedy known to man. Their lack of benefit provided no reassurance and I found myself facing a personal medi-wizard for the very first time.
I explained my concerns and the efforts on mine and my lover’s parts to rid myself of this uncomfortable illness. He stunned me to silence when he asked of my sexual history. I queried his interest to evoke a strange series of words from his mouth, “muggle STDs, HIV/AIDS.”
He had informed me that, if contracted, wizarding remedies were void. He explained to me the various diseases, how they were contracted, and any other pertinent information. For the first time since the encounter, I confessed my unprotected sin.
He accepted the answer as any medical professional should and continued his examination. After the negative results of the standard wizarding tests, he disclosed that he did not believe that it could be related to any of the muggle diseases, but he’d rather I, “be safe than sorry.” He handed me a pamphlet with the address of a muggle testing clinic and sent me on my way.
It took me three months of self-imposed hell to finally make up my mind. My symptoms had dissipated two days after the visit with the medi-wizard, discarding the man’s advice with them. Two weeks later the symptoms had returned with a vengeance and I battled consistently with panic and dread. Some days I was utterly convinced that I had what the muggles called ‘HIV’. With those thoughts, came the recollection of my treachery and the guilt that was its partner. My insistent symptoms were a physical torture as well as an emotionally draining one. Other days were filled with a bull-headed denial that I found more comforting than anything else. I would convince myself that these symptoms were merely psychosomatic.
When I felt I would go mad with the extreme gear shifts of emotions, I finally confided in Harry of my evening with the stranger. He was angry at first. And feeling as though, the situation probably could not get any worse, I disclosed my deep-rooted fear. If my heart was about to be broken, what harm could an assumed disease really do?
His anger instantly transformed into something akin to worry. He whispered words of forgiveness and embraced me. I have been grateful ever since. I certainly did not deserve that sort of devotion.
“Draco Malfoy.”
I turned my head to the young nurse in the doorway, thankful for the internal musing interruption. Harry gave my hand a reassuring squeeze as I stood and approached the man behind the counter. He handed me an enclosed envelope and a clipboard with paperwork to sign. I clasped the envelope to my chest as I walked outside. My hands trembled as I ripped open the envelope. I read the contents of the letter and was unable to stop the tears from falling.
Harry walked outside and embraced me, his face alight with trepidation and a tinge of despair. He croaked out an almost inaudible, “And?”
I looked into his eyes and sighed, “Negative.”
I smiled appreciatively at the second time I received a second chance.
Fin