A Fool’s Hope
(Harry’s POV)
Harry had made a decision.
And Draco Malfoy was not going to die.
Not like this.
Not because of some twisted curse.
Not because he was too stubborn to fight for himself.
Not because he thought he didn’t deserve to be saved.
Not if Harry had anything to do with it.
___________________________________________
The Problem with Malfoy (A Rant, by Harry Potter)
Malfoy was stupidly stubborn.
Malfoy clearly didn’t care about himself.
Malfoy was actively dying and still acting like it was an inconvenience to everyone else.
Malfoy thought no one would care if he was gone.
Malfoy was wrong.
And Harry was going to prove it.
______________________________________________
The Aftermath of the Worst Conversation Ever
After what had happened in that godforsaken classroom, Harry hadn’t been able to think about anything else.
Draco had looked at him—**really looked at him—**with something small and exhausted and so incredibly resigned.
Like he had already made peace with dying.
And Harry hated it.
So he did what any reasonable person would do.
He stormed into the library and demanded answers.
And the results?
Were not great.
Because every book said the same thing.
Hanahaki had two outcomes.
The love is returned, and the flowers disappear.
The flowers are removed, along with the feelings.
There was no cure.
No potion.
No spell.
Just—love or emptiness.
And Harry had no idea what to do with that.
___________________________________________________
Step One: Fix Malfoy (Without a Real Plan)
He found Malfoy the next morning.
Which wasn’t hard.
Because Malfoy was exactly where Harry knew he’d be—hiding in the corner of the courtyard, away from everyone.
He was sitting against the cold stone wall, eyes closed, head tilted back, like the weight of his own body was too much.
Harry didn’t hesitate.
“Hey.”
Malfoy didn’t even flinch.
Just let out a slow breath before cracking one eye open.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“No,” Harry said simply.
Malfoy let out a humorless laugh.
“Of course not.”
Harry sat down next to him.
Malfoy didn’t move away.
Which—okay, weird.
Usually, Malfoy kept at least three feet of space between them at all times.
Harry narrowed his eyes. “You’re worse, aren’t you?”
Malfoy stiffened.
Which was as good as a yes.
Harry exhaled sharply. Frustrated.
“You need help,” he said.
Malfoy let out a soft, bitter sound. “No shit, Potter.”
Harry clenched his fists.
“I mean it.”
Malfoy turned his head slightly, just enough to look at him.
His gray eyes were tired. Too tired.
And Harry felt something in his chest tighten.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Malfoy murmured.
Harry swallowed hard.
Because he didn’t either.
What was he supposed to say?
Tell me who you love so I can fix this?
Tell me how to save you?
Tell me why I can’t stop thinking about you?
Harry let out a breath, running a hand through his hair.
“I just—” He stopped, shaking his head. “I don’t understand why you’re not fighting this.”
Malfoy went still.
And then, after a long pause—
“Because I know how it ends.”
Harry’s stomach twisted.
“You don’t—”
“I do,” Malfoy cut in. “You read the books, Potter. You know the truth.”
Harry hated the way he said that.
So calm.
So certain.
Like he had already accepted it.
Like he had already let go.
“I won’t let you die,” Harry said.
And Malfoy laughed.
Not out of amusement.
Not out of anger.
But because he didn’t believe him.
“Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, shaking his head. “It’s not up to you.”
Harry’s jaw clenched.
He didn’t accept that.
He refused to accept that.
But before he could say anything else—
Malfoy moved.
Slowly. Carefully. Standing up.
And when he turned to face Harry, there was something unreadable in his expression.
Something painful.
Something final.
“I appreciate the concern,” he murmured.
And then—
“But it’s too late.”
Harry felt his chest shatter.
And for the first time, he didn’t know how to fix it.