The Race Against Time
(Harry’s POV)
Harry had to find him.
Now.
There wasn’t time to think.
There wasn’t time to process what this meant.
Because Draco was dying.
Because Draco thought Harry didn’t love him.
And that—that wasn’t true.
That had never been true.
Harry just hadn’t realized it fast enough.
But he did now.
And he wasn’t going to lose him.
Harry ran.
Straight out of the Gryffindor common room, down the corridors, past the stunned faces of first-years who had definitely never seen The Chosen One sprinting through the castle like a madman before.
Where the fuck was Malfoy?
The Slytherin common room?
No—he wouldn’t go back there.
Not when he was like this.
Not when he was getting worse.
The library?
No—Harry had just left there.
Which meant—
The Astronomy Tower.
Of course.
Harry’s stomach dropped.
He pushed himself harder.
He didn’t know what he was afraid of.
(He did.)
But if Malfoy was up there—if he was alone, if he was coughing up too many petals, if he thought there was nothing left to hold onto—
Harry had to get to him first.
The tower was silent when Harry reached it.
Too silent.
Harry’s breath was ragged, his heart hammering, his legs shaking from the climb.
And then—
Then he saw him.
Draco was sitting on the floor, back against the stone wall, eyes closed.
His hands were loose at his sides, pale fingers stained with red.
And in front of him—
A pile of petals.
So many petals.
Harry’s chest seized.
“Draco.”
Draco’s head lifted slightly.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
His eyes fluttered open.
And then—a soft, tired laugh.
“Oh,” he murmured. “You again.”
Harry’s throat closed.
Because Draco looked—fragile.
Like a statue about to crumble.
Like he was barely here.
And fuck that.
Absolutely not.
Harry dropped to his knees in front of him, reaching out before he even realized what he was doing.
His hands found **Draco’s shoulders, his arms, his wrists—**trying to steady him, trying to hold him together.
Draco’s lips parted slightly in surprise, but he didn’t pull away.
And that—that scared Harry more than anything.
Because Draco always pulled away.
But now—now he was too exhausted to fight.
Too far gone to even pretend he didn’t care.
And Harry—Harry wanted to scream.
Because he should have realized this sooner.
He should have said something sooner.
He should have done something before it got this bad.
But he could fix it now.
And he would.
Harry swallowed hard, forcing his voice to work.
“I need you to listen to me,” he said.
Draco blinked. Slow. Tired.
“Potter, I don’t—”
“No,” Harry cut in. “Just—shut up and listen.”
Draco’s mouth snapped shut.
Harry took a shaky breath.
His hands were still on Draco’s shoulders.
Holding him. Grounding him.
And fuck it.
Fuck all of it.
Because Harry was done being an idiot.
So he said the only thing that mattered.
“I love you.”
Draco froze.
His breath hitched.
His fingers twitched against the stone.
And Harry—Harry didn’t stop.
He couldn’t.
Because this was it.
This was Draco’s last chance.
Their last chance.
“You’re not dying over me,” Harry said, voice shaking. “Because I fucking love you, Draco. Do you hear me?”
Draco’s lips parted.
His eyes widened.
And Harry leaned in closer, gripping him tighter, forcing him to believe it.
“You’re not leaving me,” Harry whispered. “Because I’m not letting you.”
And then—Draco broke.
A sob tore through him.
Draco’s entire body shook, hands fisting into Harry’s robes like he was holding onto something real for the first time in his life.
His breath was ragged, broken, desperate.
And Harry was right there.
Holding him.
Keeping him here.
Keeping him alive.
And then—
Draco coughed.
Harry’s heart stopped.
Because Draco pulled back slightly, gasping—
And a single, pale petal fell from his lips.
Not red.
Not streaked with blood.
Just soft.
Just white.
Just one.
And then—
No more.
Harry’s chest caved.
Because it worked.
It fucking worked.
Draco wasn’t dying.
Harry let out a shaky, relieved breath.
And Draco?
Draco was just staring at him.
Like Harry was something he didn’t know how to believe in yet.
Like Harry was impossible.
Like Harry had just saved his life.
(Which, honestly, he had.)
And then, finally—
Soft.
Barely a whisper.
Barely anything at all.
“…Say it again.”
Harry smiled.
Because Draco was here.
Because Draco was alive.
Because Draco was his.
So Harry leaned in, forehead resting against his, fingers still gripping too tight.
And he whispered it again.
Just for Draco.
Just for them.
“I love you.”
And this time—Draco believed him.