The Edge of a Cliff
(Draco’s POV)
Draco Malfoy had always known how to prepare for the worst.
He had grown up expecting disappointment.
Expecting inevitable failure.
Expecting that, in the end, he would always be left with nothing.
So why—why—was it so much harder to accept now?
________________________________________________
The Problem with Harry Bloody Potter
Potter wouldn’t let go.
And Draco didn’t understand why.
He had thought—stupidly, naively—that Potter would find out, demand answers, and then move on.
Because that’s what people did.
They moved on.
They let him fade into the background, into the shadows, into nothing.
But Potter was still here.
Still watching.
Still trying.
Still refusing to let Draco fall apart quietly.
And Draco hated him for it.
Hated that it made something in his chest ache even more.
Hated that it made him want to believe in something impossible.
Hated that it made him feel alive.
Because he wasn’t supposed to feel alive anymore.
__________________________________________________________
The Downward Spiral
The petals were getting worse.
Thicker. Heavier.
They stuck in his throat like thorns, like they had made a home inside him and refused to leave.
He barely slept anymore. His body was exhausted.
He had stopped eating. It hurt too much.
And breathing?
God.
Breathing was a fucking war.
Every inhale felt like shattered glass, every exhale dragged through his ribs like he was trying to force out something that was never meant to be there.
He was dying.
And now—Potter knew it, too.
____________________________________________________
The Moment He Almost Broke
The day started like any other.
Draco woke up feeling like hell.
Got dressed like it mattered.
Went to class like he wasn’t falling apart.
But today, there was one difference.
Today, Potter wasn’t watching from a distance.
Today, Potter confronted him.
Again.
Draco had been leaving Charms when it happened.
He had made it exactly twenty feet down the corridor before—
“Malfoy.”
Draco stopped.
Because Potter’s voice wasn’t demanding this time.
It wasn’t angry.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Draco turned.
Potter was standing there.
Looking at him like he was trying to figure out how to hold something fragile without breaking it.
Draco’s stomach twisted.
“What?” he said.
Potter hesitated.
And then—
“You don’t want to die.”
Draco’s breath caught.
He forced a laugh. “And what makes you so sure?”
Potter took a step forward.
And then another.
Until he was too close, too much, too Potter.
And Draco—Draco couldn’t fucking breathe.
“I know you,” Potter murmured.
Draco froze.
“No, you don’t.”
Potter’s jaw tightened.
“Yes,” he said. Firm. Unyielding. “I do.”
Draco hated him.
Hated how he said it like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Hated how his heart was pounding.
Hated that Potter wasn’t wrong.
Because, God, Draco didn’t want to die.
He was so fucking tired, but he didn’t want this.
Not really.
Not if there was another way.
But there wasn’t.
So, he said nothing.
He turned away.
And he walked.
Because if he stopped—if he let himself believe Potter, even for a second—he would break.
And Draco refused to break.
Not now.
Not yet.