He almost laughed at that. Only almost, though, and he was glad for that, because laughing out loud would have made it even harder to brush off. Also, he wasn't entirely sure that he'd be able to stop laughing if he started. There'd been a kind of wild hysteria bubbling under the surface for a full month already, and it was going to be a mess if he actually let it out. He'd come close to it in the Hospital Wing that morning, and it was only the fear of what it might do to Moony that had stopped him - knowing that if Moony saw just how close to the edge he was, it would break the poor guy. But even then, he'd laughed hard enough and tearfully enough that he'd seen something uneasy in Pomfrey's eyes, like she thought he'd broken. Maybe he had.
"Yeah," he said, instead, when he was sure he was under control. It wasn't really a lie, after all. It was the important part of the truth, if anything. "Yeah, you got it. I'm sick." He wasn't sure if he wanted her to think he was joking. Maybe it would be easier if she did - actually, no. Not maybe. It would be easier. It might mean she lost her temper and stormed off. That wasn't something he'd ever wanted her to do before, but it would definitely be easier.
But also... she was concerned for him. She was afraid. It tangled into a thick knot in his chest, and he found he was still talking, his voice low and rapid. "I got sick around Christmas, okay? It's serious. They can't cure it. And I really don't want to..." The lump in his throat was back, strangling his voice a little. He coughed to clear it, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "I'm still getting my head around it. I don't want to talk about it. And I knew if I told you, you'd look at me like that." He hadn't known that. He might have hoped it, a little, despite knowing he needed to let go of love, but he hadn't known she'd even notice. But as long as he was nebulously sick, the truth - I don't want you to get dragged into me being a monster - wasn't going to make any sense to her, so. It would do as an excuse.
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"Yeah," he said, instead, when he was sure he was under control. It wasn't really a lie, after all. It was the important part of the truth, if anything. "Yeah, you got it. I'm sick." He wasn't sure if he wanted her to think he was joking. Maybe it would be easier if she did - actually, no. Not maybe. It would be easier. It might mean she lost her temper and stormed off. That wasn't something he'd ever wanted her to do before, but it would definitely be easier.
But also... she was concerned for him. She was afraid. It tangled into a thick knot in his chest, and he found he was still talking, his voice low and rapid. "I got sick around Christmas, okay? It's serious. They can't cure it. And I really don't want to..." The lump in his throat was back, strangling his voice a little. He coughed to clear it, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "I'm still getting my head around it. I don't want to talk about it. And I knew if I told you, you'd look at me like that." He hadn't known that. He might have hoped it, a little, despite knowing he needed to let go of love, but he hadn't known she'd even notice. But as long as he was nebulously sick, the truth - I don't want you to get dragged into me being a monster - wasn't going to make any sense to her, so. It would do as an excuse.