Tic, tic, tic.
When the plague hit, Ron and Hermione fought.
Tic, tic, tic.
Harry sat in between them, grimacing as he drank his tea and tried his best to stay silent.
His resolve only held for so long, however. When Ron’s voice reached a shout, he stood up.
“I’m fine, guys,” He slammed down his mug. “I’m not showing any symptoms, I’ve survived this long, just, please, stop arguing.”
Hermione looked at him sympathetically, and Ron looked at him disbelievingly. Pity rang through the silence.
Tic, tic, tic.
Harry just sat back down, sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.
The grandfather clock chimed twelve. Harry’s arm turned to mortal peril.
———————————————
Harry wasn’t fine.
The first symptoms of the curse were drowsiness and erratic bursts of magic.
On Monday, he had sat down with his coffee and some paperwork when the vase next to him broke. He had startled, surprised. He hadn’t had a bout of accidental magic since the war.
On Tuesday, the mirror in his bathroom had shattered, pieces of glass flying everywhere and into his skin. He hissed and stumbled out of the bathroom to grab his wand, levitating out each piece of glass as the blood dripped onto his carpet.
On Wednesday, he sleeps straight through his four alarms, only waking up when Ron’s patronus bursts through his window, running frantically around in circles at the foot of his bed.
“It’s alright, I’m alright,” He says blearily, rubbing his eyes. How had he slept through all of his alarms?
He groans as he slides out of bed, yawning on his way to the closet.
“Tell him I’ll be there in ten.”
The terrier just yips, then bows his head, running off with his small legs and tail wagging.
That evening, he falls asleep on the kitchen island, head in his arms as his Salisbury steak cools beside him. He awakes with a start, his sudden shock causing the nearby plant to shiver and then whither, dying in front of Harry’s eyes.
He stares, frozen for a moment before the realisation hits him.
“Oh, shit.”
———————————————
“I’m afraid there’s not much we can do right now,” The healer says apologetically, “The curse is being studied by some of our best researchers and specialists. They are doing their best; I assure you not to worry.”
Harry looks down, unable to take any more of Hermione’s pacing.
“Will he need to be isolated?” She pauses to ask the question, eyes dim.
“Yes,” The healer says, and Harry’s head jerks up. “The curse doesn’t seem to be contagious by contact. However, it has spread through magic use on another person.”
Hermione hums, resuming her pacing, but Harry remains confused.
“There have been cases,” The healer turns to him. “Where a person with the disease unknowingly performs magic on someone else. Whether it be a dark curse or a generic cleaning charm, the victim on the other end of their magic almost always gets infected as well.”
Harry swallows, trying to remember if he has performed any magic on anyone else within the last few days.
“Therefore, I advise you to isolate yourself. St. Mungo’s has a system set in place for circumstances like these; we will be able to send elves for food delivery and other personal needs.”
“No,” Hermione interrupts. “Ron and I will do it.”
“Mrs Granger, I’m afraid I cannot allow that –”
“All three of us have been by each other’s side for as long as I can remember,” She says firmly.“We’ve fought together, we’ve almost died together. We won’t leave Harry’s side through this.”
“‘Mione, it’s okay,” He interjects. “I don’t want to accidentally cast onto one of you, and then we’ll all be sick.”
“Exactly,” The healer agrees, but Hermione is persistent.
“No, Harry. Ron is not here right now, but I know for a fact that he would agree with me. We are not leaving your side.”
“Hermione, I don’t need to be coddled. I’ll be fine.”
She purses her lips. “I almost lost you once, Harry. I can’t lose you again.”
That makes him go quiet.
“How about this,” The healer attempts to compromise. “You two can visit him. Bring him groceries, medications, etcetera. You will only stay for a short period of time, however, a maximum of an hour a day.”
“Two.”
“One and a half.”
“Fine, one and a half,” Hermione agrees.
“Alright,” The healer clicks her pen. “You’ll head downstairs to grab your prescribed potions. And then you’ll head straight home and get lots of rest.”
Harry nods before Hermione grabs his hand and leads them out.
“Thank you, Healer Reynolds.”
“My pleasure,” She says. “Stay alive, Mr Potter.”
He laughs. “I’ll do my best. They don’t call me the Boy Who Lived for nothing, right?”
———————————————
On his fourth day back from the hospital, he coughs out blood.
It is a burning red, splattering across the pages of paper, the phantom shadow of life and death all the same.
There’s blood when you’re born and blood when you die.
He quietly vanishes the blood with a swish of his wand, setting the book down as he sighs.
The prickly taste of iron is still in his mouth when he suddenly feels the urge to cough again, and he stands up, sprinting to fill a glass of water. For the fifth time that week, the glass shatters, shards littering the floor as the water trickles across the tiles. Harry stares, wincing as he hacks out another cough. When he pulls his hands away from his face, they are covered in crimson.
For the first time in six years, he feels like giving up.
———————————————
“Blood?” Ron exclaims, his face pale. Hermione has her head in her hands. “Harry, why didn’t you tell us earlier?”
“It’s not a big deal,” He insists. Because it wasn’t. He’ll live, right?
“Harry,” Hermione says slowly, “I’ve done some research. Coughing out blood is one of the advanced stages of the curse.”
“So? What comes after it?”
“Rapid blood loss, anaemia. Then a total and absolute depletion of magic. Some then turn comatose, but if you’re lucky, you can skip that step and go straight to death.”
There is silence.
“We’re going to St. Mungos,” Ron determines, face intent. “We’ll get through this, we always do.”
For the first time in six years, Harry isn’t so sure.
———————————————
“Malfoy?” He stops in his tracks, watching as the other man slowly turns around.
“Potter.” He nods subtly, grey eyes looking anywhere but at him.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Malfoy says coldly. “I work here. I’m surprised you didn’t hear so from the thousands of Prophet articles sullying my name.”
Oh, right. Malfoy became a Healer two years ago.
“The only one sullying your name is yourself,” He mutters. “You chose to be a Death Eater, didn’t you?”
He sees Malfoy’s jaw clench, his fingers turning even more pale as he holds his clipboard tighter.
“Harry,” Hermione’s voice starts as she turns the corner. “I have the potions, what’re you – oh.”
“Granger.” Malfoy greets.
“Malfoy. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. And you?”
Harry harrumphs, crossing his arms. Why were they getting along so well but Malfoy could barely look him in the eye?
“I’m doing fine. We should be heading out soon, though.”
“Ah, of course. Apologies,” He tilts his head. Harry stares.
“No need,” Hermione says with a polite smile. She grabs Harry’s hand and tugs him along.
“I’m surprised he didn’t ask why I was here,” He grumbles.
“Patient confidentiality, Harry,” Hermione reminds him. “Plus, it's none of his business.”
“Right,” He snorts. “Like Malfoy would ever follow that. Nosy git.”
Hermione stops, looking stern. “Harry. As much as I am fond of your stubbornness, Malfoy has changed. He is one of the most exemplary healers in his field. You would know this if you even took a second out of your day actually to read the news.”
Harry is momentarily stunned before he quickly recovers himself. “Yes, well, you know I hate the news.”
Hermione rolls her eyes before grabbing his hand again and dragging him forward.
“Of course, Harry. I won’t hold it against you.”
———————————————
The potions helped before they didn’t.
It was an increase, an ever-upward climb, the hope building and building until one day, he was falling down. Free-falling, it felt like. Free-falling to his death, but the cliff was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he didn’t fall, maybe he jumped. Who knows?
When the blood-thickening potions helped his anaemia and he finally, for the first time in weeks, wasn’t constantly shaky, pale, and cold – tripping into bed like some sort of hazy alcoholic – he had stupidly hoped everything was better.
The magic muting potions were also highly effective, so much so that he only managed to break one picture frame throughout the whole week. Sure, it could be an incredible pain, taking a whole host of potions whose names he didn’t even understand and whose ingredients made him retch dry, every day, but it had given him hope.
Hope that he thought he had lost.
Until one day, he had collapsed, shaken and numb from the blood splattered on the crook of his elbow, the first shock of scarlet he had seen in a month.
Tic, tic, tic, the grandfather clock clacked.
He had stared, gasping as every dish on the rack had shattered, one by one. Then went the cabinets, their doors flying off the hinges, salt shakers and condiment bottles falling and flying.
Then, after everything that had happened, after feeling like it couldn’t have gone any worse, he wasn’t gasping in shock anymore, he was gasping because he couldn’t breathe.
He was gasping because the air inside his lungs had vanished, just like that, sucked out of him like everything living had wilted away and died. It was by a miracle that he managed to conjure a proper patronus, then wheeze out Hermione’s name – before everything went black.
The last thing he heard was the explosion of glass as the grandfather clock broke.
———————————————
“Harry? Harry, can you hear me?”
The world slowly blinks to focus. Blurry, white lights and green specks of colour, a brush of bushy hair and big, brown eyes. The sound of a clock ticking in the background irks him, and he groans.
“Harry?” The voice asked again.
“‘Mione,” He breathes. Her hand grips his, tight.
There is another figure beside her, a blur of red and broad shoulders.
“Ron.”
“Thank Merlin you’re awake,” Ron exclaims, voice rough. “You’ve been out for a week.”
“A week?” He stutters, feeling panic rising like the bile in his throat.
“We were so worried you’d be fully comatose. Forever,” Hermione whispers.
“Well,” He attempts a half-hearted smile. “I’m awake now.”
She sniffs before she pulls him into a tight hug. “Oh, Harry, please don’t do that to us ever again.”
“Yeah, mate, that was definitely the worst week of my life,” Ron interjects from the side. His voice is light but he has a death grip on Harry’s arm, something he’s probably unaware of. Harry doesn’t complain.
“Sorry,” He murmurs into Hermione’s hair. “I’ll try better next time. Can someone hand me my glasses so I can actually see?”
Ron snorts and Hermione laughs wetly before handing him his glasses. When the world comes to focus, he sees the two people he loves, the two people who have been with him to Hell and back, the two people his universe would always narrow down to.
“I love you guys,” He murmurs, voice cracking.
“What,” Ron whispers, hoarse, before Hermione is sobbing again, hand covering her mouth.
She runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “You’re not dying, Harry, shut up.”
Ron’s grip is like a vice, clenching his arm so hard his knuckles turn white.
“I’m not dying,” He nods.
But he does not know who he’s trying to convince now.
———————————————
His magic is gone.
It’s like a part of his soul is ripped out of him, leaving him empty and reeling, tripping over the potholes.
There’s a subtle tingling in his fingers, but unlike that of magic, more like that of pins and needles. Like his entire body is numb, falling asleep. His core is throbbing, the magic ripped straight out of him with one tug.
When his magic left, the curtains had fallen, the windows broke, and every pillow in the room had burst into clouds of feathers. Then had come the excruciating pain, the screaming, every cell in him fired up and bursting like a thousand knives digging into his skin.
The ache in his gut never leaves, lingering as a reminder of everything he had lost. Everything. Sirius, Fred. Snape, Dobby. Remus, Tonks, Lily, James. All the voices and all the screams.
The healer just held his hand through it all. He vaguely remembers Hermione begging in the background, her sobs muffled into Ron’s shoulder as his best friend stood, stoic, mouth trembling and eyes wet.
When the last wisp of magic had left him, he had fallen unconscious, too exhausted and upset to do anything but close his eyes. Hermione told him later he had been crying in his sleep.
“I’m not dying,” He mumbles later to Ron.
Tic, tic, tic.
His best friend just sucks in a harsh breath, pulling out a wobbly smile.
“No, you aren’t,” He assures, squeezing his hand. “They’ll fix it, Hermione will find something, she always does…”
His voice trails off into darkness as Harry falls asleep.
———————————————
It’s midnight when he’s awoken by rustling, quiet murmurs and the rolling of wheels.
He blinks blearily, eyes opening a fraction in the dim room. There are multiple people in lime green, the colour of the healers’ robes. There’s another bed next to him now, along with the flash of light blonde hair.
“Hm,” He whispers. “It’s been a long time coming.”
No one hears him. The clock ticks on.
———————————————
“Saviour needs to be saved, ha,” A snobbish voice says, crisp and clear through Harry’s groggy morning.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” He groans, turning to his other side. “Get out of the Gryffindor dorms, you sneaky perv.”
“Idiot, we’re in the damn hospital.”
That wakes Harry up.
“Malfoy?” He jumps, sitting up. “What the Hell?”
Malfoy just shrugs, donned in cornflower blue pyjamas and pale hair a jumbled mess on his head.
“I have the curse.”
Harry gapes. “How? You’re a healer.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” He responds sarcastically. “I’ll let them know they made a mistake.”
“Still a git,” Harry mumbles, crossing his arms. “How did you get the curse? I thought it wasn’t contagious through proximity.”
"That is until a patient decides to hex you.”
“What?” He replies, taken aback.
Malfoy sighs. “It’s been years since something like this has happened. The patient was older, though, and lost children in the war. Decided a Malfoy wasn’t good enough to treat him. He claimed I would inject dark magic into him.”
He chuckles before continuing. “I was performing diagnostic charms when he had enough. Hit me with a stinging hex.”
“A stinging hex,” Harry says slowly. “A stinging hex gave you this wretched curse?”
“Mhm,” Malfoy nods brightly. “I heard your magic got taken away.”
The reminder is like a pang in his gut, and he turns away, eyes burning.
“Yes,” He mumbles quietly, absently rubbing his wrist. “I don’t –”
“I’m sorry,” Malfoy interrupts, and Harry turns to him, surprised.
“It must be hard,” Malfoy continues, voice softer than Harry had ever heard. “Magic is our entire life. It’s what you grow up with, even if you’re muggle-born, it's the entrance key to this whole new world, this whole new life, and now it’s gone.”
Harry nods, still shocked at Malfoy’s apology and apparent empathy. He watches as the other man lowers his head.
“I’m scared for when I’ll lose mine,” He suddenly whispers, hands clenching the bedsheets. “I put up a front for all my patients, tell them everything will be fine. I’ve saved so many people, but I can’t even save myself.”
Harry is quiet for a moment, heart aching with every beat.
“At least you’ll know it left having saved lives,” He finally says. “Your magic has healed so many.”
“It’s hurt just as many.”
Harry winces, now at a loss for words.
“Maybe I deserve it,” Malfoy interjects, looking up. “This is my Hell, this is my repentance.”
“No,” Harry shakes his head. “Nobody deserves this.”
“You sure, Potter?”
“I’m sure,” He murmurs, “no one but Death himself.”
———————————————
“You’re progressing quicker than me,” Harry grimaces, watching as Malfoy coughs scarlet into a kidney tray.
“He hit me with a direct spell,” Malfoy says, wiping his mouth with the handkerchief the mediwitch provides. “It’s more severe than indirect contact through dark magic. Being rash with such can do so.”
He scowls. “I didn’t contract it through dark magic. A suspect must have hit me, or something. Anyway, at least my patient didn’t attack me. You must’ve been extra annoying that day.”
“I’d keep it down with the insults, Mr Potter,” Healer Abbott says cooly, striding in through the sealed doors. “Healer Malfoy has done a great deal for his patients and this hospital. Please keep that in mind.”
“Sorry,” Harry mutters.
“Besides,” The Healer says, turning to him as she flips through her chart, “It has been confirmed that the crime scene was the location of contamination. Traces of the curse have been detected.”
“What? How did it get there?”
“It’s unknown for now. The Health Ministry has advised the DMLE to lay low on fieldwork for now. Cases are increasing rapidly and treatment is limited.”
“So there is treatment,” Harry says, hopeful.
“No, Potter, there isn’t,” Malfoy huffs. “Hannah only means preventative medicine and symptomatic treatment. If there was a proper cure, don’t you think you’d be the first to receive it?”
Harry rolls his eyes. “Oh, shove off, Malfoy.”
“Gladly,” The other man mutters, laying down and turning away from him.
Hannah claps her hands. “Anyway, our team is working around the clock to find an end to this thing. I assure you we are doing our best. Draco, you’re at the top of the list for treatment when it becomes available. Your situation is, unfortunately, becoming increasingly more severe.”
“Whatever,” The other man sighs, sitting up and picking at his blanket. “I’ll provide myself with a second opinion, Hannah. The second opinion is that I wouldn’t mind death.”
“And my advice to you is to not be so suicidal,” Hannah smirks. “The Janus Thickey Ward is available once you get better, which you will, but you’re under quarantine for now.”
She leaves with a flick of Harry’s IV bag and a swish of the door as it seals closed. Harry turns to Malfoy.
“Do you really not mind death?”
Malfoy eyes him. “Do you really fret it that much?”
“I died, you know.”
“I know. It’s in your medical records,” Malfoy deadpans.
“My medical records? You went through my medical records?”
“No, Potter,” Malfoy groans. “It was pasted all over the news for weeks after the war. I’m not able to access your charts if I’m not treating you. We’re bound to patient confidentiality, you blubbering idiot.”
“Oh.” He had forgotten about that.
“Yes, oh,” Malfoy mocks, lying down again. “Now shut up and let me sleep. I’m tired.”
Harry goes silent for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his frame.
“You really don’t mind death?”
“No, I don’t,” Malfoy mumbles. “And I said shut up. I’d really like to get a proper nap in before the mediwitches do rounds.”
Harry says nothing as he lays down too, staring at the dotty ceiling of the room. Before long, Malfoy’s breaths slow to a soft pace. Harry falls asleep staring at Malfoy’s back.
———————————————
“I can’t live like this, Pans,” Malfoy murmurs into her shoulder. “I miss my patients, I miss the Manor, I miss my magic.”
“I know,” Pansy murmurs, rubbing his back comfortingly.
Harry tries not to pay attention, but his attempts are futile; Malfoy is all he pays attention to nowadays. Ever since he had lost his magic, he’d realised how dire Malfoy’s situation actually was. Harry lost his magic over the course of three months, but Malfoy had lost his within two weeks.
“I’m not going to get better.”
Malfoy sounds dejected, and quiet as he mutters to Pansy. She shushes him, on the verge of tears herself. Harry clenches his bedsheets in his hands, hating the way he sounds. It’s not normal. He misses their arguments.
Pansy kisses the top of Malfoy’s head as the mediwitches come in to take their vitals and bring their potion doses. She then leaves with a murmured goodbye and a hug, Malfoy watching forlornly as everyone files out.
“You’ll have beaten me in something else, Potter.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When I die,” Malfoy says, turning to him. “And don’t give me that look, I know I’ll die. Everyone’s just hanging onto a false thread of hope when the inevitable is right in front of their faces.”
“You’re not –”
“I know what will happen,” Malfoy cuts him off with a glare. “I’ve been in this industry for years. It’s the same look on their faces when we’re with a dying patient. I’ve read the articles, the news, the journals, Potter. You’ll beat me in one more thing. You’ll beat me in living, in life.”
“I don’t want to,” He says, hating the waver in his voice. “I don’t want to beat you.”
Grey eyes turn on him, sharp in their stare. “You’re stupid and you’re lying. You get another win. Why wouldn’t you want that?”
“Has it ever occurred to you that I don’t want you to die?”
For the first time, Malfoy is silent.
Then, he whispers. “Why did you save me?”
Harry knows what he’s referring to. That night, almost a decade ago, when he had reached out with everything in him, clasping onto Malfoy’s hot, sweaty hand, pulling him onto the broom behind him. Feeling his frantic breathing on the back of his neck, his arms wrapped tight enough around Harry for it to hurt, the bruise remaining days after.
“Because I didn’t want you to die,” Harry replies. He’s not sure why else. “Why did you save me?”
Malfoy looks at him, expression more open than Harry has ever seen. “Same reason as you, I suppose.”
He watches as Malfoy fiddles with his potions, inspecting them one by one, flicking air bubbles and swirling the liquids.
“I wish I could see the stars,” Harry murmurs. “It’s been ages.”
Malfoy hesitates for a moment, before abruptly sliding out of the covers and holding out his hand.
“I’ll take you to the stars.”
“What,” Harry startles, shook. “Why are you out of bed? And no, you can’t we’re in quarantine.”
“The curse isn’t contagious through respiratory or other physical means, Potter. I thought you should know that by now. They’re only keeping us in this room because it’s easier for the patients of a specific curse to be all in one place.”
“Oh,” Harry says. He grabs Malfoy’s hand. “Then, by all means, take me to the stars.”
———————————————
“There’s Draco,” Malfoy murmurs.
They’re on the roof of the hospital, Malfoy having apparated them here, only possible because of his specialised wards access.
“It’s beautiful,” He finds himself whispering, before turning to the man next to him. “Incredible.”
Malfoy turns to him, lips slightly parted in surprise. “You think so?”
“I’ve thought so for a while, now. Just didn’t realise until tonight.”
He watches as Draco swallows, the motion in his smooth, pale throat, ethereal like the rest of him in the moonlight.
“I lied earlier. I don’t want to die.”
“Why did you change your mind?”
“I don’t want to leave you. Not when I’ve just found you.”
Harry sucks in a breath, feeling a pulse thrum through him, the way his magic did. But it’s gone now, he knows. Perhaps he could replace it with something else, something that keeps him just as warm, if not more.
“You haven’t just found me. I’ve been here this entire time.”
“Yes,” Draco whispers. “I think you have.”
The clock chimes midnight when their lips meet, bells ringing around him and in his head. They are clear, cutting through the night, the same way he knows that he’s found what he needs. The one thing, the one person that would drag him to Hell and back. The one thing, the one person who would also bring him Heaven, every inch of it, if he only asked.
Draco’s lips move gently against his, but at the same time frantic, like they have all the time in the world and yet none at all. Hands are tangled in his hair, holding him tight, before they move down to his shirt, pulling him close. His grip on Draco’s hips is rough but he can’t find it in himself to let go. He feels something wet on his cheek, rolling down to his lips, and he pulls away, thinking it’s rain.
Instead, it is Draco, whose grey eyes are shining, filled with tears.
“My love,” He suddenly murmurs, holding Harry’s face, before breaking into soft sobs, “my love.”
It hits Harry then, and his lungs are suddenly filling with water, blood, tears, everything – the same pain he had felt weeks ago, when he had fallen, blacked out, now radiates through him. He clutches Draco as he cries, the tears soaking into his shirt, sobs muffling into his shoulder.
“I’m going to lose you,” Harry chokes out as his heart breaks with the realisation, “oh, God, I’m going to lose you. Oh, God, no. Please, no.”
Tic, tic, tic. The second hand on the clock tower moves on.
He pulls Draco closer, vision blurry with tears of his own. Draco just cries harder, hands bunching up Harry’s t-shirt.
“I don’t want to die,” He finally says, looking into Harry’s eyes. “I want to win, for once. Just once.”
———————————————
“What’s happening?” Harry yells, the pounding in his head increasing as he watches the mediwitches and healers gather around Draco’s bed. “Someone tell me what’s going on, now, please.”
He reaches out for Draco’s pale hand, the blue of his veins stark and vivid. A mediwitch shoves his hand away, stepping in front of him and blocking his view.
“We need three more transfusions,” Hannah yells, “Urgent, now! He’s crashing.”
“What,” Harry wheezes out, tripping on sheets as he clambers out of bed. “No, he, what’s happening, please –”
He stumbles to Draco’s side, pushing aside a mediwitch to reveal the view of his lover. Draco’s face is eerily pale, turning grey, his once-pink lips now chapped and blue. There’s blood all over him, on his chest, on his neck, dripping from his mouth to the pink bruise of a love bite Harry had left. There’s crimson all over the sheets, down to his frail wrists and hands, now impaled with syringes and infusion tubes from the potions –
Harry retches all over the floor, spilling out his breakfast and blood. He gasps, keeling.
“No, Draco –”
“Someone get him out of here,” Hannah yells, and Harry feels firm hands grab him, tugging him out of the room.
“Draco!” He screams, sobbing and thrashing in the mediwitch’s hold. “Let me go, Draco’s dying, please, I can’t –”
Silence envelopes him as he’s dragged out into the hall and the doors swish to a close in front of him.
“Shh,” The mediwitch shushes him as she pulls him to a nearby chair. “Breath.”
“I can’t,” He cries, “I can’t, Draco –”
“Draco will be alright.”
“No, he won’t, he’s going to die, he’s gone, I’ve lost him, he’s –”
The world goes black as he faints, and the last thing he feels is the mediwitch gripping his shoulders as he collapses.
———————————————
Tic, tic, tic.
“Harry,” He hears a voice gasp, and he blinks open his eyes to see Hermione and Ron, two blurry figures through the cloud of deja vu.
“Draco,” He rasps. “Where’s Draco?”
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sobs. “Draco is…”
“Draco’s gone,” Ron finishes, and Harry suddenly feels cold to the bone.
“He didn’t – he didn’t make it?” He whispers, numb.
Hermione shakes her head as she cries, hand covering her mouth. Ron looks away.
Tic, tic, tic.
“He’s dead,” Harry mumbles. The edges of his vision are white. Hermione and Ron’s figures begin to waver. “He’s dead.”
He blacks out for the second time that day.
———————————————
“His lungs are closing up,” A faint voice says, waving in and out of his hearing. “Ventilating spell, now.”
In the background, he thinks he hears Hermione’s sobs and Ron’s yells, but he can’t be so sure.
“Hermione,” He wheezes. He’s not sure if any sound comes out. “Ron.”
There’s a warm hand suddenly grasping his, and it feels like Hermione’s. A familiar musky scent rushes over him. Ron, he realises.
His vision is blurring in and out, and the pain is excruciating, but he forces himself to turn his head.
“Harry,” Hermione cries. Her hand shakes in his grip.
“Harry, please, no,” Ron is begging, and Harry struggles, taking a deep breath.
“I love you guys,” He rasps out. “I love you, really. Thanks for everything.”
“No, stop it, you can't -” Hermione wraps herself around him and mediwitches begin to protest. Ron’s hand is bruising on his shoulder.
Tic, tic, tic.
He knows he’s running out of time.
“Live,” Harry whispers, blinking through the dizziness.
“Yes, live,” Ron yells, blue eyes wide and terrified. “Live, please, Harry.”
“No,” With great effort, Harry manages to shake his head. “You two. Live. You didn’t get to live because of me. Live, now.”
Hermione breaks down even more, sobbing harshly now.
“Oh, Harry, no, no. You think we didn’t live because of you,” She shakes her head fervently, tears streaming down her face. “Harry, you brought us life.”
Harry squeezes her hand. “Then I’ll leave that life with you.”
Tic, tic, tic.
When had he ever had time? He’s always been running a race.
The last thing he hears is Ron’s shout as he blacks out for the third time that day.
This time, it's forever.
———————————————
There’s a meadow. The grass is tall, brushing Harry’s knees and calves as he walks. Flowers bloom for an entirety all around, bursts of red, violet, yellow, and blue. It’s silent, for once. The tic-tic-tic is gone like time has stopped. Maybe there is no time here. The wind picks up as a bee flits past him, but it's gentle, like a soft caress, like the way his mum had run a hand through his baby-soft hair.
Since when did he remember his mother?
He shakes it off and walks on, picking up a crimson flower, the exact shade of blood. It doesn’t bother him now, he supposes. Maybe he had gotten better.
There’s a figure in the distance. It’s by the creek, tall and lean, shadow splayed over the tall grass in the afternoon sun. Harry walks ahead, slowly, smoothly, like he’s walking on clouds. Perhaps he is, his mind seems a little hazy here.
He walks three steps forward when he realises. The person has a shock of pale, blonde hair, with long legs clad in black, standing out in the meadow of pastel and blue sky. The person is someone engrained in every fibre of his being, every breath in his lungs, and every string in his heart.
“Draco,” He stutters.
The figure spins around, and he’s met with clear, grey eyes. They’re framed by long, pale lashes, brushing against pale cheekbones. But his face is filled out again, and his cheeks have a light flush. His lips are pink and soft, the same lips he remembered kissing what felt like lifetimes ago. His Dark Mark is gone.
“Harry?” Draco whispers, blinking. He’s at least a couple of metres away, but somehow, Harry can hear him clearer than ever.
Harry stumbles forward, disbelieving. He reaches Draco and tentatively lifts a hand, placing it on the man’s chest.
There’s a steady beat. One, two. One, two.
Harry crumples to the ground, sobbing.
“Harry,” Draco exclaims, squatting down and pulling him close. “Harry, my love. My love.”
“You’re here,” Harry gasps, holding his face. “You’re here.”
“Yes,” Draco murmurs, leaning forward and kissing him softly. “I’m here.”
“You’ll stay, right? There’s too much I want to do with you.”
Draco just smiles. “Of course. We have time. Forever, I think.”
Harry inhales shakily, breathing in the soft scent of the wildflowers and the taste of the cool wind.
"Yes," he nods. "Forever."
———————————————
“Were they not written in the stars in every aspect of their lives?”
“I don’t know,” Ron replies. He is tired. “They fought too much.”
“But they loved just as hard.”
Ron hums. “Maybe they did. It just didn’t feel like it.”
Hermione smiles, turning towards the sun setting over the graveyard. “Sometimes you don’t have to feel. You just know.”
“Yeah,” He says shakily, taking her hand. “You just know.”
They sat there, huddled together, until the last of the golden rays reflected the carved words on stone.
Until the last of the sun shone. Until they knew, inevitably, in their hearts, that it was time to let go.