The little flower petal glares back at him from the bathroom sink, the bright yellow color in sharp contrast against the white porcelain.
A flower petal. Soft and yellow. Innocent, except not. No, because this flower petal came from Harry.
He stares at it for a second before shaking his head in denial. No.
This cannot be happening to him - after everything, after all of it, why him? It had just been a little cough - this wasn't supposed to have come out of him.
"Dinner's ready!" Draco's voice call out from down the hall and Harry's throat aches again.
He stares at himself in the mirror, horror and resignation in his eyes.
Harry glares at the petal once more, as if that would do anything. A part of him is torn between laughing and crying. Of course it would be him, he's Harry Potter, nothing good ever came of that.
A bitter smile creeps onto his lips; love had saved him twice before, but this time it was going to kill him.
"Potter!" Comes the exasperated voice. Harry vanishes the flower petal with a lazy flick.
"Coming," he answers.
-----
The petals keep coming at irregular intervals. Sometimes during the day, sometimes at night.
They're all types of flowers - big and small, bright and pastel, Harry doesn't keep track.
He reads about it - about his illness. Hanahaki disease, a disease affecting less than 5% of the population and as per usual, Harry's just unlucky enough to find himself affected.
Because of course he is.
Obsessively, he searches for cures, potions, spells, charms, anything.
There are two known cures.
The first is surgery.
It will remove the blasted disease and all of Harry's romantic feelings will disappear with it. That's it. Just like that, the affection and adoration Harry's come to feel for a certain blond headed git will vanish. And it won't return.
Or -
Or there's death.
------
Ron is the first to find out.
It's on a night when he and Ron are catching up when it happens.
Ron's just stepped into the kitchen to get some crisps when Harry's throat itches. He's so relaxed that he coughs, unthinking of his current condition.
The dark red rose petal looks like a blood splatter against the wooden surface, and Harry's about to vanish it when,
"Harry," Ron breathes and Harry lets the petal fall. It's no use anyway.
He swallows harshly, forcing his saliva past the lump in his throat.
"It's nothing, Ron."
He can tell that Ron is going to insist, to coax him into talking about it, when the Floo activates and the voice of a very frazzled Hermione Granger wafts through the house.
Ron stares at him for a second longer, blue eyes searching his before he turns to greet his wife. Harry withholds his sigh. He knows Hermione will know soon enough, and it'll all be hell from there.
-------
It's a few weeks later when Draco tells him that he has a date and to not 'wait up.' Harry can only bite his lips to keep from coughing because he knows if he does, he won't stop.
The blood in his mouth is thick and coppery but he doesn't let go. He can't let go.
He watches in silence as Draco goes about, putting the finishing touches on his outfit. He looks beautiful and Harry's heart positively aches because he can't even tell him.
As soon as the door closes, Harry goes to cough but surprises himself by retching.
It's not a few flower petals, no. He throws up a small mountain of petals, red against orange surrounded by yellows and whites, a few pinks and purples scattered throughout. It's a proper mess and Harry knows he's going to have to clean it up, to hide the evidence of his feelings but he can't will himself to move.
He stares at the pile until his eyes start to burn and promptly buries his face into his hands, ignoring the wetness he feels escaping his eyes.
-------
Teddy likes the petals Harry coughs up. He thinks it's another magic trick, another powerful display of Harry's magical prowess and Harry doesn't have the heart to tell him the truth.
His godson is still so young, still looks at the world with so much hope and unbridled curiosity that Harry doesn't want to be the one to inform him just how much love can hurt. He doesn't want to take away Teddy's childlike wonder just yet.
Harry thrives on Teddy's joy, on his smiles and enthusiasm. He's always tried to keep him that way; happy, joyful. It simply wouldn't do to ruin that.
So he lets Teddy play with the pitiful pile of petals, laughs along when the little wizard tries to mimic the colors with his hair.
He smiles dutifully throughout their playtime but a part of him can't help but stare at the scattered petals in dismay. The idea of surgery looms heavily overhead.
That, or... well, Harry isn't exactly keen on thinking about the alternative idea.
When he leaves, Andromeda plies him with food, tutting about his weight. Harry smiles good-naturedly but deep down, he knows that no amount of food will help him now.
-------
Harry stares at the outstretched hand in front of him.
He knows he should do the polite thing and shake it but his arms feel like lead and there's something crawling up his throat, something painful and small, and oh, he's going to be sick.
"Potter," Draco warns and the sound of his voice eases Harry's discomfort minutely. He wills his arm up and goes through the entire ordeal with a strained smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
Draco turns to shoot him a bewildered look before they leave and Harry forces himself to shrug before he turns and flees. He barely makes it to the kitchen before it comes, the coughing painful and long this time. He expects to see a few hundred petals but his heart sinks at the actual sight in front of him.
In the kitchen sink there lie a few white petals, all of them speckled with blood.
He rests his head on the cool countertop and forces himself to inhale. Exhale. Inhale. He lets out a bitter laugh. He's running out of time and he's nowhere closer to an answer.
--------
When the flower petals become whole flowers (sans the stem), Harry cries.
--------
"Please, Harry," Hermione pleads, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "If there's no way he'll return the feelings -"
"But I don't want to lose my feelings, 'Mione," he argues back. It's a weak argument even to his own ears but he can't think of a life without some affection for Draco. He wouldn't be the same person, plain and simple.
He'd rather cough up bloodied flower petals for the rest of his - admittedly short - life than be a shell of his former self.
Harry knows he's getting worse. He's lost weight, his magic is no longer as powerful as it once was, and the flowers are getting plain painful. But still, he refuses. He can't just cut his feelings out of him - literally.
There's too much at risk and for once in his life, Harry is being overtly cautious.
"Mate," Ron tries, picking up his butterbeer from the worn wooden table, "you need to just-"
"I said no -"
"We're just telling you to -"
"No, Ron, I told you -"
"For fuck's sake, Harry, I already buried one brother, I won't bury another," Ron shouts, but his voice is wobbly and his face is flushed.
The bottle he's just picked up trembles in his grasp and it's only Hermione's sob that breaks the silence.
------------
"It's only a week, right?" Draco asks again, leaning against the door frame as Harry continues packing. A new Auror mission, highly exclusive. Harry doesn't want to go.
He knows that it will likely go over the estimated time frame, much like every other time.
"Yep."
He doesn't have to turn to know that Draco's frowning, his lips in a thin white line. The thought that Draco cares both alleviates and worsens his state; his chest feels lighter at the notion but his throat continues to ache.
"When do you leave?"
"Tomorrow morning."
They both fall silent again as Harry continues the methodical process of folding his clothes and putting them away.
"Do you want - oh," Draco stops himself. Harry can hear the distinctive ring tone of Draco's phone, can hear his footsteps getting fainter as he steps away to take the call. He knows what's coming as soon as Draco reappears.
"I've got to - Henry is -" he stumbles over his words and Harry waves him away with a halfhearted gesture.
"It's fine. I should sleep."
"I- yes. Okay. Very good. I'll see you in a week, then." Draco seems to hesitate before he gives a jerky nod and leaves.
Harry forces himself to clamp his mouth shut until the door to their flat slams closed. He forces himself to wait a full minute after that. And then, he runs into the bathroom and coughs up a variety of sad looking flowers.
He's left gasping after the last flower has made its appearance. There are tears in the corners of his eyes but he blinks them away as he flushes the toilet.
There's no use feeling pity for himself so he buries himself beneath the duvet, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. He wills his mind blank, curses away the images of Draco's face, and tries to forget.
Sometime around one - when he realizes Draco won't be coming home - he forces down a draught of dreamless sleep.
--------
At first, he is convinced they are going to kill him. Between the whipping and the starvation, the sleep deprivation and humiliation, Harry's certain he was meant to die.
But they keep him alive for whatever reason. Just when he thinks he'll be able to succumb to eternal darkness, they come in bearing shitty salves and food and they keep him alive. When the older wizard comes in - the one they always send with the supplies - Harry wants to sob.
Rationally, he knows that being alive, no matter how painfully, is better than being dead. But a part of him, the part that seems to grow with each passing second, desperately wishes they'd just put an end to this.
He wishes to take a breath without crying from the pain in his ribs. He wishes he could feel his wrists. He wishes he could eat something other than the vile stew they force down his throat.
And when things get particularly painful, Harry wishes... he wishes he were dead.
It's all torture, plain and simple.
Not for information, or money, no. For fun.
--------
"Look at zat," the man cackles, delivering a heavy blow to Harry's ribs. He clenches his teeth together to keep from crying out; they haven't brought any salves in some time and his scars are scabbing over slowly - too slowly.
The healing flesh opens as Harry tries to squirm away from the steel tipped boot. His attempt to escape from pain only brings him more pain. Searing heat blooms across his back, something that makes the air feel too hot and too cold against his bloodied skin.
"Not even ze person you love, wants you," he laughs, the sound sharp and cruel. Harry forces himself to keep his mouth shut. It's easier to focus on and deal with the physical pain.
The physical pain is something he is accustomed to, something he can learn to live with -
Another kick lands on his stomach and Harry's mouth opens in shock as all the air whooshes out of him. His eyes burn as a few tears escape, but even through the blurry sight, he can make out the sight of whole flowers. All of them are coated in blood, though he's not sure if it's from him or from the disease solely.
Well, he things despairingly, looks like the choice was made for me.
--------
Draco's hands shake as they wait, his previously manicured fingertips ruined and bitten to the quick. They're ugly and mangled and absolutely nothing compared to what Harry looked like when he was rescued.
A healer rushes out into the waiting room, his attire indicating that he rushed from the middle of surgery.
"Potter?"
Ron, Hermione, and Draco all jump up and crowd around him, eager for any semblance of news.
"Mr. Potter appears to be entering the last - fatal - stages of the Hanahaki disease. We can remove it now and -"
"No," Ron cuts in. His previously worried blue eyes are shuttered now, hard and cold in the face of the healer. "He doesn't want that."
The words seem to pain him, but no more than they pain Draco. The world seems to spin around him, the words refusing to sink in. Harry? Hanahaki? Who? When?
Why hadn't he told Draco?
--------
Hermione and Ron accompany them to their flat, worried and pained expressions written all over their faces. Harry pretends to be fine for their sake, assuring them that he feels fine, really.
It's not a complete lie. He feels a lot better than he did in that lair they kept him in, especially now that he can move without tearing his skin open.
It's not a complete lie, but it's not the truth either. As soon as they leave, Harry collapses onto the couch, letting the air in his lungs out in a whoosh.
There's a burning in his chest and throat now, and Harry recalls the somber look on his healer's face when he told him he didn't have much time left. He doesn't feel sad, oddly enough.
He's not happy, either, but he's at peace. He loved the best person he possibly could and that would have to be enough for him.
Draco's been quiet the whole time, just shooting Harry quick glances every now and then. There's an awkward tension surrounding them, something strange and foreign that Harry absolutely hates but he's too tired to address it.
Instead, he settles back onto the sofa and tries to sleep.
--------
It's late when he wakes up again.
He's about to get up and drag himself to bed when he catches sight of Draco sitting on the other side of the couch. A question is on the tip of his tongue, maybe about the time, or how long he's been there, or what Draco is doing but it vanishes as soon as Draco starts speaking.
"I watched you die once, you know. I saw you limp and defeated. Lifeless." The blond takes a moment to clear his throat.
Harry finds he wants to do the same. He waits with baited breath.
"I think. No. I know a part of me died when I saw that. But you came back. You jumped up and you saved the world and you were alive," Draco stresses, turning to face Harry.
There's just enough moonlight to see how distraught is, how shiny his eyes are, how wet his cheeks are.
"You saved me."
Harry's breath freezes in his lungs, staying there, thick and heavy as he stares at the man he loves.
"So, now, I need you to do what you did then. Because... because, Harry, I'm not sure I can watch you die a second time. Not when I know you - you won't come back."
The air in the flat seems to have gone still, silence hanging heavily over them. Harry blinks away the tears blurring his vision, wishing he had the words to reassure Draco. What would he even say?
He's saved from coming up with anything by Draco, again.
"Please, just. Tell me who. Tell me and I'll do whatever I can, anything to keep-"
"You," Harry interrupts. He's dying. He knows it. He also knows that Draco doesn't return the sentiment so nothing he does, nothing he tries to do, can change the fact that in a few days - weeks, if he's lucky - he will be dead.
Draco pauses.
The next thing he knows, their lips are pressed together, frantic and wet with tears. Harry forces himself to pull away, and they both watch as blood coated petals fall to the floor.
"Why - why didn't it -"
"It doesn't work that way," Harry mutters bitterly. "I have to believe the feelings for this blasted -"
"You fucking idiot," Draco curses, sounding equal parts terrified and angry. "I love you. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone and more than I will ever love anyone."
"What about Henry?" He can't help but ask. His heart twists in his chest, yelling at him to accept Draco's feelings.
"You mean, the Tesco version of you?" It's probably meant to come across as a joke but it falls flat, making the air around them heavier.
"Look," he forces himself to say, "I appre-"
"No. No, listen to me, Harry Potter." Harry clamps his lips shut, finding the grooves his teeth naturally fit into nowadays.
"After the war, I was broken. And you pieced me back together, painstakingly small piece by piece. And if you - if you dare die on me again, there will be no one - absolutely no one to piece me back together."
"I need you because you keep me whole. You give me hope and patience and happiness, but most of all, you give me l-love," Draco hiccups before dissolving into ugly sobs. "So please, please fucking believe me when I say I love you."
This time, it's Harry who initiates the kiss. It's soft and tentative.
An apology.
A promise.
An "I love you."
It doesn't last long - Harry still has lungfuls of flowers and petals in his chest - but it's enough. He believes Draco, believes the words he speaks and the sincerity he speaks them with.
------------
"I can't tell you when I fell in love with you," Harry whispers later that night, "but I can tell you that I will never stop."
Draco shifts to look at him.
"Not even when I forget to pick up that special milk you like?"
"Nope."
"What about when I'm prissy for no reason?"
"Not even then. Never, Draco." There's a small pause before Draco curls into Harry.
"Good. Because I don't plan on stopping either."
They sleep together that night, arm entertwined like branches of an overgrown rose bush. It's not perfect - they have a lot to talk about - but it's a start, and Harry feels more alive than he has in months.