The Line Between Falling and Letting Go
(Draco’s POV)
Draco ran.
Not far, not fast—he didn’t have it in him anymore.
His legs were weak, his lungs were failing him, and he barely made it to the nearest empty corridor before he collapsed against the wall.
His breathing was shallow, every inhale an uphill battle, every exhale dragging over the sharp edges of something that shouldn’t be inside him.
His hand flew to his mouth just as another wave hit.
Petals.
More than ever.
Soft, white, streaked with crimson.
They spilled from his lips in a rush, falling against his trembling fingers, sticking to his skin like they belonged to him.
Like they were a part of him.
Like they would never leave.
Too much.
Too soon.
Draco’s vision blurred.
His hands shook as he pressed them against the stone behind him, grounding himself, forcing his body to keep going.
Just a little longer.
Just—
“Malfoy.”
Draco flinched.
Because, of course, Potter had followed him.
Because, of course, Potter wasn’t going to let this go.
Draco squeezed his eyes shut.
Not now.
Not like this.
Potter was too close.
He was always too close.
Draco forced his shoulders against the wall, gripping his robes as if he could make himself smaller.
He couldn’t look up.
He wouldn’t.
Because if he did—if he saw Potter looking at him like that—he’d break all over again.
But Potter didn’t care about what Draco could or couldn’t handle.
Because Potter was already reaching for him.
And Draco—Draco didn’t stop him.
Fingers brushed against his wrist.
Light. Careful.
Like Draco might shatter if Potter wasn’t careful.
(Which, honestly, he might.)
And then, softer than anything should ever be:
“Let me help.”
Draco bit down on his tongue so hard he tasted blood.
His throat was burning.
His body was failing.
And Potter was still standing there, refusing to walk away.
Draco couldn’t handle this.
Couldn’t handle Potter’s warmth, his presence, his persistence.
So, he did the only thing he could.
He pulled away.
And whispered, “You can’t.”
Potter exhaled sharply.
Like the words had hit him somewhere deep.
Like he was as tired as Draco was.
But then—Potter did something worse.
Something Draco wasn’t ready for.
Something Draco couldn’t handle.
He didn’t let go.
Potter’s hand stayed.
Not holding, not grabbing—just there.
Like he was trying to remind Draco that he was real.
That he wasn’t going anywhere.
Draco’s chest ached.
Not from the sickness.
Not from the petals.
But from something deeper, something worse.
Something like hope.
Draco forced his body to move.
One last burst of energy, one last retreat.
He pushed away from the wall, away from Potter, away from everything.
And before Potter could stop him, he said, “You should hate me.”
Potter’s eyes flashed.
Draco turned.
And walked away before he could see the answer.
Because if he stayed any longer—if he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, Potter didn’t—
He’d never survive the fall.