The Breaking Point
(Draco’s POV)
Draco had been so careful.
He had swallowed the petals down. Hidden the coughing. Ignored the weight pressing against his ribs like it was nothing but a minor inconvenience.
But it wasn’t working anymore.
Because Potter knew.
And now—now everything was worse.
________________________________________________
The Problem with Harry Bloody Potter
Harry Potter was like a storm.
Unpredictable. Unstoppable.
And, apparently, impossible to avoid.
Because now that Potter knew, he wouldn’t leave Draco alone.
It wasn’t obvious.
Potter didn’t corner him in the halls and didn’t demand answers in front of everyone.
But he was always there.
Watching.
Not with pity. Not with disgust.
But with something else.
Something heavier.
Something Draco didn’t know how to handle.
And it was making everything so much worse.
_______________________________________________________
The Moment Draco Knew He Was Fucked
It happened in Potions.
Again.
Draco had been fine. (He hadn’t.)
He had been handling it. (He really hadn’t.)
And then—the pain hit.
Sharp. Crushing.
His lungs seized, his ribs tightened, the petals clawed their way up his throat.
Draco barely had time to move.
He coughed—hard.
And this time, he couldn’t stop it.
He barely managed to stifle the sound, shoving a trembling hand to his mouth.
And then—horror.
Because when he pulled his hand away—
It wasn’t just petals.
It was blood.
A lot of it.
More than before.
More than ever.
Draco’s breath hitched.
Too soon.
It was happening too soon.
And then—
“Malfoy?”
Draco froze.
Because Potter’s voice was too close.
Because Potter had seen.
Again.
And this time—
Draco couldn’t hide it.
___________________________________________________________
The Breaking Point
“Malfoy.”
Draco was already moving.
Out of his seat, out of the classroom, down the corridor—
Away.
Away.
He didn’t care where he was going.
He just needed to breathe.
He stumbled into an empty classroom, slamming the door shut behind him. His chest burned, his vision swam, and—
The coughing came again.
Draco pressed a hand to his ribs, gasping.
Too much.
Too much.
His fingers curled against the cold stone wall, gripping it like it could hold him up.
And then—the door opened.
Draco’s stomach dropped.
Because, of course—**of course—**it was Potter.
Draco didn’t have the energy to snap at him.
Didn’t have the energy to run again.
Instead, he turned away, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to stop it.
But Potter was already moving.
Already crossing the room.
And then—Potter grabbed him.
Not roughly. Not forcefully.
But with purpose.
His fingers curled around Draco’s wrist. Firm. Solid.
“Stop,” Potter said. Low. Unshakable.
Draco’s breath shuddered.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
Potter’s grip tightened.
“You’re dying.”
Draco laughed.
A small, bitter sound.
“I know.”
Potter inhaled sharply, like the words had physically hurt him.
Draco let his head fall back against the wall.
He was so tired.
He had spent so long fighting it. Pretending it wasn’t happening. Pretending it didn’t hurt.
But now—now he was too far gone.
Potter was still holding onto him.
Like he could stop this from happening.
Like he could save him.
And that was the cruelest part.
Because there was nothing left to save.
Draco exhaled, soft. Defeated.
“Just let me go, Potter.”
A pause.
Then—
“No.”
Draco’s heart stopped.
His eyes snapped open, meeting Potter’s.
And what he saw there—
Terrified him.
Because Potter wasn’t just angry.
He wasn’t just desperate.
He was determined.
Like he had made a decision.
And Draco wasn’t going to like it.