The First Petal
September, Eighth Year
Draco Malfoy was fine.
He was.
At least, that’s what he told himself every morning when he woke up, when he pulled the duvet tighter around his body in the too-quiet dormitory, when he ignored the ghosts that haunted the corners of his vision.
The war was over. Hogwarts had reopened. Life had resumed in that strange, relentless way it always did, as if expecting everyone to step back into their old routines, as if trauma could be packed away neatly into forgotten corners of the castle.
Draco had returned, like so many others, but he had never truly come back.
It had taken months to convince himself it was the right choice—to ignore the fact that he was loathed by half the student body, that the corridors whispered his name with venom, that his presence at Hogwarts was tolerated, not welcomed.
He didn’t belong here.
But where else was he supposed to go?
So, he walked the halls with his head held high, his posture perfect, his expression carefully blank. He sat in the back of classrooms, hands folded neatly on his desk, speaking only when necessary. He didn’t argue. Didn’t fight. He was a Malfoy, but he was also a traitor to both sides—a Death Eater who hadn’t fought hard enough, a pureblood who had abandoned his cause, a coward who had simply survived.
And so, Draco Malfoy faded into the background.
At least, that had been the plan.
Until the first petal appeared.
It had been a slow afternoon.
The sky outside was dull, blanketed in thick, unmoving clouds. Potions class was uneventful, which in itself was a rarity. The war had thinned the numbers of students, leaving only a small, tense group of Eighth Years who were too tired to bother with the childish rivalries of before.
Draco kept to himself.
He measured ingredients with steady hands, ignoring the low hum of conversation around him. Professor Slughorn droned on at the front of the room, voice warm and indulgent as he gave Potter his usual amount of undeserved attention.
Draco did not look.
He never looked.
It was habit now—something ingrained, something necessary. Looking meant acknowledging and acknowledging meant opening doors Draco had long since locked and bolted shut.
His gaze remained fixed on his cauldron, watching as the potion within turned a perfect shade of violet. He exhaled slowly, reaching for the next ingredient, when it happened.
A cough.
Small. Unremarkable.
But then—another.
Tighter, sharper.
Draco stilled, throat constricting in an unfamiliar way. The air felt suddenly thick, pressing against his lungs with a strange, unfamiliar weight. He clenched his jaw, forcing down whatever itch had formed, but it was too late.
Something shifted inside him.
He coughed once more—harder this time—and brought his hand to his mouth out of reflex.
And when he pulled it away, something soft, pale, and delicate rested against his palm.
Draco’s breath hitched.
A petal.
Small, fragile. White with the faintest tinge of gold.
His stomach dropped.
No.
No, no, no—
He clenched his fist around it instinctively, fingers shaking as he crushed the thing before anyone could see. His heartbeat roared in his ears, drowning out the steady noise of the classroom, the scrape of chairs, the quiet murmurs of conversation.
His lungs burned.
The scent lingered—sweet, floral, wrong.
Draco forced himself to move. Not here. Not now. He was fine. He was fine. He swallowed, shoving his hand beneath the table, willing himself to breathe, to ignore the suffocating weight pressing against his ribs.
It wasn’t real.
It was a mistake.
It was nothing.
“Malfoy?”
The sound of Potter’s voice nearly sent him recoiling.
Draco’s fingers twitched. He didn’t look up. He didn’t breathe.
Potter was right behind him. Too close.
And Draco knew—he knew—that if he turned his head, he would see that familiar, infuriating expression, that furrowed brow, those green eyes that never stopped seeing too much.
He couldn’t.
So, he said nothing.
Potter huffed, muttering something under his breath before turning back to his potion. Draco waited exactly forty-seven seconds before he exhaled.
He shoved the petal into his pocket.
And he did not look at Potter for the rest of the lesson.
That night, Draco sat alone in the Slytherin common room, staring at the fireplace.
The petal was still in his pocket.
He hadn’t thrown it away. He should have. He should have burned it, buried it, destroyed it before it could mean anything.
Instead, he had taken it out, fingers tracing the fragile edges, watching how the dim candlelight made it glow like something sacred.
Hanahaki Disease.
He had read about it before. A sickness born from love unreturned. A poetic, tragic disease that took root in the lungs, blooming until it choked the victim from the inside out.
He had never paid attention to it. It was a foolish affliction. Sentimental. Weak.
But now—
Draco swallowed, his fingers tightening around the petal.
It wasn’t real.
He didn’t love—
He didn’t.
Not Potter.
Not Potter.
Draco burned the petal in the fireplace.
But the scent of flowers lingered long after the flames consumed it.