分卷阅读4（1 / 2）

Healer Ross clears his throat. “We were able to complete a full diagnostic exam, and I’m afraid the procedure is out of the question.”

Draco flinches. Harry glares at the back of the Healer’s head. The man could stand to work on his bedside manner, in Harry’s opinion. No call for that kind of bluntness in front of a dying boy, really.

As if thinking along the same lines, Healer Donovan intervenes.

“Out of the question is not entirely correct phrasing, madam,” he says. “If your son consents to the procedure, it would be our duty to abide by his wishes. That being said, I would not recommend it.”

Mrs. Malfoy’s stare is as arresting as a solid wall of ice. Draco’s eyes are downcast. These Healers are talking about him as if he’s not even there, and he seems checked out, though Harry is certain he’s picking up every word.

“And why is that?” Professor McGonagall steps in. The sterner she gets, the more pronounced her brogue. But Madam Pomfrey shakes her head somberly.

“I’ve never treated a case of Hanahaki, and I can’t pretend I know all the details of what those test results indicate,” she says, “but even I could tell that attempting the procedure would put Mr. Malfoy’s life at risk.”

“The proposed treatment is a brand-new experimental procedure that would involve surgically removing the disease,” says Healer Ross, at a clipped pace. “This means, mind you, that we would extract the flowers, roots, and seeds, but in doing so, we would also remove the emotional causes of the disease. That is, your son’s feelings for his beloved would be gone.”

“That was our hope, yes,” says Mrs. Malfoy woodenly, “otherwise, I can only assume, his symptoms would return.”

“Yes,” says Healer Donovan. “For patients coping with a new love, this route might be more viable and might pose less risk. That is not the case with Draco. When the roots of the flowers are so deeply entrenched—when the feelings of affection are a foundational part of the victim’s being—to rip them away would be disastrous. The body collapses much like a tree would if you hacked away at its trunk.”

“Speak plainly,” says Mrs. Malfoy, coolly. “Your lauded breakthrough treatment only works on patients who just got sick?”

Healer Donovan, to his credit, is not cowed.

“Certainly not, but a lasting love is much trickier to extract than, say, an infatuation, regardless of how fast the disease itself manifests or how quickly the symptoms advance to the final stages. Your son has probably loved the individual in question for quite a long time.” He addresses Draco at last. “How old were you when—?”

“Eleven,” Draco mutters.

“Ah,” says the Healer. “That explains it. Childhood affections which blossom into true love are the most difficult to shake. What you love as a child decides who you are, in many cases. In most, I would say.”

“But your symptoms didn’t start until you were sixteen. Less than two years go,” Mrs. Malfoy protests.

“Because that’s when I realized we’d never—that there was no hope,” he says. “There was a point when not even my wildest delusions could have made me believe we’d—it doesn’t matter.”

Mrs. Malfoy opens her mouth to argue, but Draco swings his legs over the side of the bed. His throat works as if he’s trying to hold back a cough, but it escapes him in a puff of air and petals before he bends down and grabs for a small bin someone had left beside the bed. When the flood subsides, the bin is nearly overflowing with lilies. Draco rests his forehead on his knee and takes in a rattling breath. His voice, when he speaks, is hoarse.

“We’re wasting our time,” he says quietly, looking at no one. “They’ve said they can’t do it.”

“I suppose you’re pleased,” Mrs. Malfoy says, with a mixture of anger and worry that makes her sound startlingly like Mrs. Weasley. “You were looking for a reason to say no.”