The Crumbling Foundation
(Draco’s POV)
Draco Malfoy was running out of time.
He could feel it in his bones, in the way his body betrayed him more and more every day.
The sickness was creeping further into his lungs, wrapping itself around his ribs like a curse that refused to loosen its grip.
And the worst part?
Potter knew it.
And Potter wasn’t letting go.
_________________________________________
The Night It All Fell Apart
It started in the library.
Because, of course, it did.
Draco had gone there to breathe.
Not that he could do much of that lately.
But he needed silence. Needed the illusion of control, needed a place where he could sit and pretend he wasn’t choking on flowers.
He sat in the furthest corner, hands trembling as he traced the edges of his parchment, forcing himself to focus on something, anything.
But the pressure in his chest was getting worse.
He ignored it.
He had gotten good at that.
Except—this time, it didn’t work.
This time, the pain hit harder.
Draco’s hand twitched. His lungs seized.
And before he could stop it—
The petals came.
Too many.
Too fast.
His fingers flew to his mouth, muffling the sound, shaking as he felt the familiar silk-soft texture of them against his palm.
But this time, they weren’t just petals.
This time, they were drenched in red.
Draco’s breath hitched.
No.
Not yet.
His stomach twisted violently, panic curling inside him as he tried—desperately, uselessly—to stop it.
But the coughing didn’t stop.
And neither did the blood.
He needed to leave.
Now.
Draco shoved his chair back, stumbling toward the exit.
And then—
“Malfoy.”
Draco froze.
Because he knew that voice.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Not now.
Not him.
___________________________________________
The Breaking Point
Harry was right there.
Standing by the bookshelves, watching him.
Draco barely had the strength to look at him.
But he did anyway.
And the second their eyes met—
Something shifted.
Because Potter wasn’t angry.
He wasn’t demanding answers.
He just looked—
Terrified.
And for some reason, that made Draco’s stomach sink even deeper.
Because Potter had seen.
The way Draco’s hands were still shaking.
The red-streaked petals crushed in his palm.
The way he had barely caught himself against the desk before collapsing.
Potter saw everything.
Draco forced out a breath, steeling himself.
“Don’t.”
Potter tensed.
Draco shook his head, eyes sharp. “Don’t say anything.”
Potter’s hands curled into fists.
“You’re getting worse,” he said.
Draco huffed a bitter laugh. “You don’t say.”
Potter’s jaw locked.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” Draco murmured, voice quiet, almost thoughtful.
And then—
The weight of it all finally hit him.
The realization that he had no way out.
That no matter what he did, he was already too far gone.
That Potter—**bloody, stubborn, infuriating Potter—**would have to watch him fall apart.
And Draco hated that.
He didn’t want to be seen like this.
Didn’t want to be someone else’s tragedy.
Not Potter’s.
Not his.
His fingers clenched tighter around the petals, his chest burning.
“You can’t fix this, Potter,” he whispered.
Potter’s breath shook.
“I’m going to try.”
Draco’s stomach twisted violently.
He let out a sharp exhale.
And then—he broke.
"Why?!" Draco snapped, voice raw, full of something he couldn’t control anymore.
"Why do you care?"
Potter didn’t flinch.
Didn’t back away.
Didn’t look away.
He just stared, gaze steady, voice quiet but unshakable.
"Because I do."
Draco felt it like a blow to the ribs.
Something inside him cracked open, something he had kept locked away for too long.
Because Potter wasn’t lying.
And that—that terrified him.
Draco stepped back.
His pulse was too fast. His head was spinning.
“Stop,” he whispered.
Potter’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
Draco’s vision blurred.
His throat ached.
His lungs were screaming.
Because this wasn’t fair.
Because Potter wasn’t supposed to care.
Because Draco couldn’t afford to believe him.
So he turned.
And he ran.
Because if he stayed any longer, he would let himself believe it.
And if he believed it—if he let himself hope—he wouldn’t survive the fall.