The Clock is Running Out
(Harry’s POV)
Harry was losing him.
And he didn’t know how to stop it.
Draco Malfoy had given up.
Harry had seen it happen in real time.
The way his face had closed off, the way his body had pulled away, the way his voice had gone quiet in that way that meant nothing would change his mind.
And now?
Now, Harry couldn’t breathe properly.
Because Malfoy had left, and Harry had let him go.
Because Malfoy thought this was over.
Because Malfoy thought Harry didn’t care.
And that—that wasn’t true.
Harry cared.
God, he cared.
And now—now it was too much.
Too loud. Too heavy. Too everything.
Harry barely made it back to the Gryffindor Tower before he had to sit down.
His legs weren’t working properly.
Neither was his brain.
Because everything felt different now.
He had been so sure—so fucking sure—that Malfoy’s Hanahaki was about someone else.
Some mysterious Slytherin. Some distant, unreachable love.
But no.
No, Malfoy had been dying over him this whole time.
And now—Harry didn’t know what the fuck to do with that.
His stomach was churning.
His chest felt tight.
His hands were shaking.
Because if Malfoy loved him—
If Malfoy had been suffocating under the weight of this for God knows how long—
Then what did that mean for Harry?
Harry needed answers.
Immediately.
So he did what he always did when his brain felt like it was about to explode.
He found Hermione.
It took exactly three minutes of pacing in the Gryffindor common room before she finally looked up from her book, exasperated.
“Alright,” she said, setting her quill down. “What’s wrong with you?”
Harry stopped.
Opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed.
“Harry.”
Harry sat down too fast.
“I need to know more about Hanahaki Disease,” he said.
Hermione’s entire body went still.
She blinked.
Slowly.
Then, carefully:
“…Why?”
Harry hesitated.
And then, because this was Hermione, he exhaled and told her the truth.
When he finished, she just stared at him.
Then she rubbed her temples.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “Draco Malfoy—**our Draco Malfoy—**is dying because he’s in love with you?”
Harry winced.
“Yeah.”
Hermione was silent for a long time.
Then—
“Well,” she said. “That’s horrifying.”
Harry let out a choked laugh.
“You’re telling me.”
She sighed, flipping through the book on her lap.
“Alright,” she muttered. “Let’s go over what we know.”
The Options (According to Hermione Granger, Who Knows Everything)
Hanahaki Disease is fatal if left untreated.
The only cure is for the love to be returned.
The surgical removal option erases the feelings completely.
Harry felt his stomach drop.
Because that wasn’t an option.
The surgery was too dangerous. It didn’t just cut out the disease.
It cut out everything.
The love. The longing. Every feeling Malfoy had ever had for him.
And suddenly—suddenly, that thought made Harry sick.
Because Malfoy wasn’t just in love with him.
Malfoy had been carrying this for years.
And if the feelings were removed?
If they were ripped away?
Malfoy wouldn’t just survive.
He would forget.
And Harry—
Harry didn’t want that.
“Harry.”
Hermione’s voice was too careful.
Harry blinked up at her.
She was watching him like she was piecing something together.
Like she had just realized something he hadn’t.
“Why does that idea bother you?” she asked softly.
Harry froze.
His stomach twisted.
“I—”
Hermione tilted her head.
“Do you want him to lose those feelings?”
The answer was immediate.
“No.”
His voice cracked on the word.
And suddenly—the truth slammed into him like a tidal wave.
Because the thought of Malfoy forgetting?
The thought of Malfoy waking up one day and looking at him like he was nothing?
The thought of Malfoy no longer loving him?
Harry hated it.
Harry hated it.
Harry hated it.
And there was only one reason for that.
His chest tightened violently.
He looked up at Hermione, heart pounding.
And the words fell from his lips before he could stop them.
“Oh, fuck.”
Hermione blinked.
Harry ran a hand over his face.
“Shit,” he whispered.
Because suddenly, everything made sense.
Why he had been watching Malfoy for months without realizing it.
Why he had cared so much.
Why he had chased after him again and again, even when Malfoy begged him not to.
Why the thought of Malfoy dying made his entire chest feel like it was caving in.
Because it wasn’t just Malfoy.
It was Harry, too.
Harry loved him back.
And he was too fucking late.