Learning How to Breathe Again
Draco Malfoy was alive.
And he didn’t know what to do with that.
For weeks—months—Draco had been preparing to die.
Every morning, he had woken up knowing he was running out of time.
Every breath had felt like a countdown.
Every cough had brought him closer to the end.
And then—
Harry Potter happened.
Harry had said three words.
And suddenly—Draco was still here.
And now, he had to figure out how to exist again.
How to breathe again.
How to stop waiting for the inevitable.
Because the inevitable wasn’t happening anymore.
And Draco had no idea what to do with that.
Harry wouldn’t leave him alone.
Which—**to be fair—**Draco couldn’t exactly blame him for.
After all, he had almost died in his arms.
And Harry had a hero complex the size of Hogwarts.
So now?
Now Draco had a shadow.
A green-eyed, stubborn, infuriating shadow.
"Are you eating?" Harry asked the next morning.
Draco narrowed his eyes.
He had barely managed to sit down in the Great Hall before Harry was in his face.
He sighed. "Yes, Potter."
Harry did not look convinced.
"Prove it."
Draco stared at him.
Harry stared back.
Draco rolled his eyes, grabbed a piece of toast, and bit into it aggressively.
Harry nodded, satisfied.
"Good."
Draco almost threw the toast at his head.
Harry was always there.
In class. In the hallways. Hovering, watching, checking.
And the worst part?
Draco didn’t even mind.
Which was a problem.
Because Draco wasn’t supposed to get used to this.
He wasn’t supposed to let himself want this.
And yet—every time Harry looked at him like he was something worth saving, something worth holding onto—Draco felt himself slipping.
Falling.
And for the first time, he wasn’t scared of the fall.
It happened at night.
Draco had been trying to sleep.
(He still wasn’t very good at it.)
And then—there was a knock on his door.
Draco frowned.
Then, slowly, he got up and opened it.
Harry was standing there.
Messy-haired. Sleep-rumpled. Wearing a jumper that was too big for him.
Draco’s stomach did something ridiculous.
Harry hesitated.
Then, softly—"Can I come in?"
Draco stepped aside without thinking.
Harry walked in, looking a little unsure.
Draco crossed his arms.
"Potter, what—"
"I just—" Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I didn’t want to leave you alone tonight."
Draco’s heart stopped.
Because Harry wasn’t looking at him like he was fragile.
He wasn’t looking at him like he was something that might break.
He was just looking at him.
Like Draco was here.
Like Draco was real.
Like Draco was his.
And Draco—Draco didn’t know how to handle that.
So he said the only thing that made sense.
"Then stay."
And Harry did.
Draco woke up to warmth.
To steady breathing.
To a hand resting lightly against his wrist, like it had fallen there by accident.
And for the first time in **a long time—**he wasn’t afraid.
For the first time, he wanted tomorrow.
And maybe—just maybe—he wanted Harry, too.