The Blooming Curse
(Draco’s POV)
Draco Malfoy was running out of time.
He could feel it.
It was in the way his lungs felt heavier, the way the petals came easier now, unrelenting and cruel. The coughing fits had started happening at night, deep and wracking, leaving him gasping for air in his dormitory, fingers trembling against the sweat-damp sheets.
And worse—they weren’t just petals anymore.
There was blood.
A red stain at the center of the soft, white things that had begun spilling from his mouth in secret, like some horrible poetry.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew what it meant.
Hanahaki was progressing.
Which meant one of two things.
One—he let it consume him. Let it spread, let it choke him from the inside until his body collapsed under the weight of something he should have never allowed to take root.
Or two—he removed it.
The thought of it made him sick.
The removal of Hanahaki Disease was simple enough—a procedure, magic-infused, designed to cut the sickness from the body. But it came at a cost.
It took the feelings with it.
Surgically removed, ripped from the ribs, from the bones, from the heart—leaving nothing behind but emptiness.
And if there was one thing Draco feared more than pain, it was that.
Because what if that was worse?
What if, after everything—he lost something he didn’t know how to live without?
Draco pressed a trembling hand against his chest.
Not yet.
He could handle it.
He just had to be careful.
_____________________________________________________
Harry Bloody Potter Needs to Stop Watching Him
Draco felt the gaze on him before he even saw Potter.
It was a weight—heavy, constant.
It made his skin itch.
Potter had been watching. Everywhere.
During class. In the Great Hall. Even in the corridors, when Draco thought he had a moment to breathe.
And the worst part?
Draco could tell he wasn’t being subtle about it.
Potter was relentless. Suspicious.
And Draco hated it.
It meant Potter saw too much.
It meant Potter noticed the things Draco worked so damn hard to keep hidden—the coughing, the way his hands sometimes shook, the way he had stopped eating properly because everything hurt too much.
Potter wasn’t supposed to notice.
No one was.
But now, Potter was watching.
And Draco knew—**he knew—**it was only a matter of time before Potter figured it out.
Which meant Draco needed to throw him off.
_______________________________________________________________
The Plan: Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.
Avoiding Harry Potter was supposed to be easy.
For years, Draco had built his life around staying away from him.
Sure, he had spent most of his childhood obsessed with him in the way only rivals could be. Watching, competing, fighting.
But since the war?
He had learned to disappear.
He had learned to let Potter exist on the other side of the castle, the other side of the room, the other side of his fucking thoughts.
But now?
Now Potter was everywhere.
And avoiding him was becoming impossible.
Because Potter wasn’t just watching anymore.
He was following.
Not obviously. Not enough that anyone else would notice.
Draco noticed.
Potter was always close.
He walked slower when Draco did. Sat nearby in the Great Hall. His green eyes flicked to Draco whenever he coughed, whenever his body stiffened, whenever Draco shifted slightly as if trying to hide something.
And then—the worst thing of all.
Potter started trying to talk to him.
___________________________________________________
Draco barely made it three steps out of Defense Against the Dark Arts before Potter was there.
Blocking his path.
Again.
Draco exhaled sharply, already exhausted.
“Potter.”
“Malfoy.”
A pause.
Draco lifted a brow. “Going to keep standing in my way, or do you plan on saying something useful?”
Potter narrowed his eyes.
And that’s when Draco knew.
He knew because Potter’s expression wasn’t the usual annoyance, wasn’t the usual irritation.
It was concern.
And that made something ugly twist in Draco’s stomach.
Because he didn’t need that.
Not from Potter.
Not from anyone.
“You’re sick,” Potter said finally.
Draco stiffened.
He forced his face into neutrality.
“That’s a bold assumption,” he said smoothly.
Potter scoffed. “It’s not an assumption. You’re coughing like you’re dying.”
Draco’s fingers twitched.
He didn’t answer.
Potter took a step forward. Too close.
“Malfoy,” he said, voice low, careful. “What’s wrong?”
Draco lifted his chin. Cool. Calm.
Nothing is wrong.
I’m fine.
He should have said those things.
But he couldn’t.
Because his throat was already burning.
Because the petals were already there.
Because his body was already betraying him.
So, instead, he turned.
And he walked away.
Again.
____________________________________
Draco Needs to Get His Shit Together
By the time he made it back to the Slytherin dormitory, Draco felt like he had run a marathon.
He pressed his hands against the cool stone wall of the bathroom, fingers gripping the edge of the sink as he breathed, breathed, breathed.
His body felt weak.
His chest ached.
His lungs felt like they were full of flowers.
Draco squeezed his eyes shut, willing the feeling away.
It wasn’t real.
It wasn’t.
Except—
He coughed.
Hard.
And when he pulled his hand away—
More petals.
Too many.
Draco stared.
His vision blurred.
He was running out of time.