Wilted Silence
(Draco’s POV)
Draco Malfoy had survived a war.
He had survived the Dark Lord, survived his father’s expectations, survived standing in the middle of a battlefield he never wanted to be a part of.
He could survive this.
Couldn’t he?
He had to.
He couldn’t afford to be weak now, not when he had spent so much time proving—to himself, to others—that he was untouchable.
But his body disagreed.
The sickness was getting worse.
He had tried to ignore it—of course, he had. Ignoring things had worked for most of his life. But Hanahaki didn’t listen to logic. It didn’t listen to bloodlines or pride or the way Draco clenched his jaw and pretended not to feel it.
The petals kept coming.
Soft, delicate things—mocking him, taunting him.
They were always the same. Small, white, tinged with gold at the edges, as if kissed by sunlight.
Draco hated them.
He hated that they appeared at night, when the dormitory was silent, when he couldn’t breathe without his lungs trembling beneath the weight of them. He hated that he had to smother his coughing into his pillow, fingers gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles ached.
And he hated—**hated—**that he knew exactly why they had started in the first place.
Harry.
Fucking Potter.
Draco pressed his palm against his chest, feeling the slow, suffocating pull of something unwanted. His lungs felt tight, stretched thin like glass about to crack.
It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be.
He didn’t love Potter.
He didn’t.
He just thought about him too much.
That wasn’t the same thing.
It wasn’t.
_____________________________________
Draco knew someone was watching him.
It had started two days ago. A weight at his back, an unshakable feeling of being observed, studied. At first, he had thought he was imagining it. But no. He could feel it.
And he knew who it was.
Potter.
Draco didn’t have to look to be sure.
It was him—always him.
Watching.
Not with malice, not with anger, but with something else. Something worse.
Something made Draco’s chest tighten, made his fingers twitch against the fabric of his robes, and made his throat burn with the need to cough.
He knew.
Potter knew something was wrong.
That was dangerous.
Draco couldn’t—wouldn’t—let him see.
_________________________________________________________
It happened between classes.
Draco had been fine—as fine as he could be, considering his ribs felt like they were full of dying flowers. He had been focused. Walking toward the library, books in hand, his mind set on ignoring everything that hurt.
And then—it happened.
A cough.
No—not just a cough.
Something worse.
It clawed its way up his throat, sudden and sharp, violent. Draco barely had time to turn away from the crowded hallway before—
Petals.
More than one.
Too many.
He pressed his fist against his lips, his entire body trembling with the effort to contain it. He tried to swallow it down, but the petals kept coming, soft and relentless, pushing past his teeth.
He barely made it to the nearest alcove, hidden just enough from the crowd.
His vision swam. His lungs ached. He coughed again, harder, and—**God—**there was something thicker than petals now.
Blood.
A petal stained red.
Draco stared at it, horror curling deep in his stomach. Too soon. It was happening too soon.
This was supposed to be slow, wasn’t it? Hanahaki took time. It wasn’t supposed to be this bad yet.
Not unless—
Not unless the feelings were stronger than he thought.
No.
No, this wasn’t happening.
Draco forced himself to straighten, forced himself to breathe through the pain. His fingers curled around the ruined petals, crushing them in his fist.
He needed to leave. He needed—
“Malfoy?”
Draco froze.
His heart stopped.
No. No, no, no.
Not him.
Not now.
But of course—**of course—**it was Potter.
Because it was always Potter.
Draco turned too fast, too sharp, shoving the bloodied petals deeper into his pocket before Potter could see.
“What do you want, Potter?” He hated how thin his voice sounded.
Potter frowned, his green eyes too sharp, too knowing. “Are you—?” He hesitated. “Are you sick?”
Draco’s stomach twisted.
He should lie.
He should roll his eyes, scoff, say something cruel. He should sneer, should push past him, should make Potter believe there was nothing wrong.
But he didn’t.
Because for the first time in forever, Draco wasn’t sure he could.
His throat was still raw, his chest still ached, and his fingers were still shaking from the petals in his pocket.
And Potter saw it.
He saw.
His expression changed—**shifted—**just slightly, just enough for Draco to recognize it.
Concern.
Not suspicion. Not irritation.
Concern.
And Draco hated it.
He turned away, shoving past him without a word.
Potter didn’t stop him.
Draco felt his gaze linger long after he was gone.