The Weight of Knowing
(Harry’s POV)
Harry was not handling this well.
Scratch that—Harry was handling this terribly.
Because Draco Malfoy was in love with him.
Him.
And Harry didn’t know what the fuck to do.
________________________________________
Step One: Pretend It’s Not Happening
The morning after The Realization, Harry decided that denial was the best course of action.
Because if he didn’t think about it, then it wasn’t real.
Simple.
Except it wasn’t.
Because everything was different now.
Harry saw it everywhere.
The way Malfoy avoided him—not with his usual indifference, but with something fragile, something careful.
The way Malfoy tensed whenever their eyes met, as if terrified Harry would say something.
The way Malfoy’s coughing was getting worse.
And worst of all?
The way Harry felt about it.
Because now that he knew—he couldn’t stop looking at Malfoy.
And it wasn’t just curiosity.
It was something else.
Something he didn’t want to name.
_________________________________________________________
Step Two: Fail at Pretending It’s Not Happening
It took exactly two days for Harry to crack.
Because watching Malfoy waste away in silence was unbearable.
So, after dinner, Harry found him.
Again.
He didn’t mean to.
(He totally meant to.)
Malfoy was in the courtyard, leaning against the cold stone wall, breathing too carefully.
Harry knew what that meant.
The petals were coming again.
And sure enough—before Harry could say anything, Malfoy turned away, shoulders shaking.
Harry moved without thinking.
He reached forward, fingers curling around Malfoy’s thin wrist, pulling him back.
And Malfoy—Malfoy flinched.
That was new.
That was wrong.
Harry hated it.
“Malfoy.”
Silence.
Harry tightened his grip.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Malfoy’s body locked up.
His fingers curled into fists.
And then—a laugh.
Soft. Bitter.
“Well,” Malfoy murmured. “Congratulations.”
Harry’s chest ached.
Because Malfoy sounded defeated.
Like he had already accepted his fate.
Like he was already gone.
Harry’s grip tightened.
“No,” he said. Firm. Unyielding. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to just—”
“Just what, Potter?” Malfoy cut in. His voice was sharp, too sharp, but it cracked at the edges.
Harry swallowed.
“Just—die.”
Malfoy’s breath hitched.
Harry could feel the tension in his wrist, the way his pulse was too fast beneath his skin.
And for the first time, Malfoy looked at him.
Really looked.
Not with hatred. Not with anger.
But with something small.
Something terrified.
Something aching.
Harry’s stomach twisted.
“Let me help,” he said quietly.
Malfoy laughed again.
But this time, it wasn’t bitter.
It was just broken.
“There’s nothing to help,” Malfoy whispered.
Harry’s chest hurt.
Because that was a lie.
But Malfoy didn’t believe it was.
And that was worse.
________________________________________________
Step Three: Realize That Denial Isn’t an Option Anymore
Malfoy left.
(Again.)
But this time, Harry didn’t let it go.
Because now, it wasn’t just about stopping him from dying.
It was about figuring out why this felt so personal.
Why his stomach twisted every time Malfoy coughed.
Why his chest ached when Malfoy looked at him like he was something untouchable.
Why, when Malfoy had laughed—**soft and broken—**Harry had wanted to reach forward and fix it.
Fix him.
And that?
That was a problem.
Because maybe—**just maybe—**this wasn’t just about saving Malfoy.
Maybe this was about Harry, too.
And maybe—**just maybe—**he was starting to realize something about himself that he wasn’t ready for.