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They had shared an office at the Ministry of Magic for three years now.
At first, it had been a cruel joke of fate — Harry Potter, the gilded hero, and Draco Malfoy, a former Death Eater doing his rehabilitation hours. But the years had worn down the edges, turning old enmity into a familiar, almost comfortable routine. They drank tea, argued about paperwork, and grumbled about their superiors together.
And over those three years, Draco had become a witness to the strangest phenomenon he privately called "The Personal Life of Harry Potter."
It was like an endless series of one-act plays, each with the same tragicomic ending. Harry dated women — smart, beautiful, patient women. And without fail, he was terrible to them.
Emma, a junior auditor from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Brilliant, sharp, with a charming smile. Their date was supposed to be on Friday. At a quarter to seven. At six, Draco, buried in reports, looked up to see Harry lacing up his robes.
"Going to hurry up?" Harry asked casually.
"I'm not your date, fortunately," Draco snorted without looking up. "Where are you off to?"
"Date. With Emma. The Moonlight restaurant."
Draco glanced at the clock. The Moonlight was on the other side of London.
"Potter, you won't make it. Send your Patronus, warn her."
Harry waved him off: "I'll make it, don't rush me."
He showed up an hour and a half late. Emma waited. But when he finally burst in, he didn't apologize. Instead, he spent the entire evening talking about a complicated case involving smuggled harpy feathers that he'd been working on. Emma fled after dessert.
Sarah, a Healer from St. Mungo's. Kind, with oceans of patience. She caught a severe case of magical dragon pox and spent three days in bed with a fever. Harry didn't visit her once.
When she returned to the office, pale and weakened, she came to their office.
"Harry, I missed you so much," she whispered.
He looked up from behind his desk. "Oh, Sarah, hey. You look better. Listen, have you seen my report on the dementors? The blue one, in a folder."
Draco, sitting at his desk, rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain. He silently got up and handed her a mug of hot tea with lemon and honey — just what she liked. She left without another word.
And Draco couldn't understand it. Because with him, Harry Potter was perfect.
He never forgot that Draco drank Earl Grey in the mornings and English Breakfast after two. He always brought Draco a second croissant from the cafeteria, knowing Draco was too embarrassed to take two. He remembered that Draco's back ached on Mondays from old scars, and would silently cast a pain-relieving spell without even pausing their conversation.
Once, Draco let it slip in frustration that his favorite ink was "Night Sapphire" from that little shop on Yew Tree Lane, but they were always out of stock. The next morning, a new, elegant bottle sat on his desk. Without a single word.
It was driving Draco insane — and not just him.
"I don't understand!" Emma once sobbed in the break room, caught off guard by Draco's presence. "He's so cold, so distracted! And Malfoy says he always remembers what honey to put in his tea!"
Draco could only spread his hands. He didn't understand it either.
Harry genuinely tried. Draco realized this when Penelope appeared. She was the embodiment of common sense and patience. Harry started a notebook where he meticulously wrote: "Penny's first kiss anniversary — May 12," "Penny's favorite perfume — Moon Dust," "Penny is allergic to ambrosia petals."
He bought her the exact earrings she'd pointed out in a shop window. He booked a table at that trendy restaurant. He did everything by the list. And still, over dinner, his gaze would go distant. Penelope would be telling him about her promotion at the Department of Magical Transportation, and he'd stare somewhere past her and suddenly say:
"I wonder if Malfoy managed that report? He said his head was hurting."
Penelope would freeze, glass in hand.
"What does Malfoy have to do with anything?" she'd ask coldly.
Harry would blink, coming back to reality.
"Nothing. Just thinking out loud."
He took her to the cinema, held her hand, but his fingers were loose. And then the next morning in the office, when their hands accidentally brushed as he passed Draco a folder, Harry's fingers would tighten for an extra second, as if clinging to something familiar.
Susan Bones was simpler — they were old friends, forged in the same war. Susan was warm and straightforward. Harry relaxed around her. He didn't keep notebooks; he was just himself.
He remembered that she loved bergamot in her tea, and bought a special blend for her. But one day, making tea for both of them in the break room, he automatically poured Earl Grey into his own mug and English Breakfast into Susan's. The very tea Draco drank.
"Harry," Susan said quietly, looking at her mug. "I hate English Breakfast. It's too strong. I love Lady Grey. With bergamot."
Harry stared at her with genuine confusion, as if his brain refused to process the information. As if the axiom "this mug gets this tea" was immutable.
"Sorry," he muttered. "I mixed them up."
He tried to be affectionate. He hugged her, kissed the top of her head. But his embraces were carefully measured, correct. And the contrast with how he acted around Malfoy was painfully sharp. One day, Susan caught them in the Ministry corridor: Draco, scowling, arguing about something while waving his hands, and Harry listening, watching him with such soft, almost weary attention that Susan's heart clenched. He never looked at her like that. The way he looked at Draco was like a man who'd finally found somewhere to rest his eyes after a very long time.
The breakup with Susan was bitter and quiet.
"You're not a bad person, Harry," she said, packing her things. "You're just... absent. Your body is here, but everything else — it's wherever he is."
She didn't specify who "he" was. She didn't need to.
Harry was left genuinely bewildered. He'd tried! He'd given flowers, remembered dates, gone on dates. Why did everything fall apart?
Meanwhile, in their shared office, life flowed by its own strange rules. Harry grumbled that Draco's quill scratched too loudly against parchment, but he always placed a glass of water on Draco's desk when Draco's autumn cough started. He tore up letters from ex-girlfriends without reading them, yet kept some ridiculous note from Draco demanding the return of a pen as if it were a priceless treasure. He could spend an entire evening whining about boredom, but if Draco suggested going for a drink, Harry agreed instantly, his apathy vanishing.
He didn't realize that his true tenderness, his genuine attention, all his unspent energy — they had long since found their home. They belonged to the pale, acerbic man at the other desk, who hadn't even asked for them. They belonged to Draco by right of silent conquest, and Harry never even thought to contest it. It was the most natural thing in the world.
That evening was supposed to be another attempt by Harry to "be normal." His new companion, a charming Auror named Emily, was enthusiastically telling him about her latest mission. He nodded, inserted the occasional "Really?" and "Incredible" at the right moments, and kept catching himself as his gaze drifted again and again to a familiar silhouette at the bar.
Draco Malfoy was there alone. He sat swirling a glass of firewhisky in his long fingers, his detached, slightly haughty expression so familiar it made Harry's chest ache.
Emily was saying something about a chase on brooms, but Harry was remembering how that afternoon, Draco had gotten so angry at a report that he'd snapped his quill and, growling, thrown the pieces against the wall. And then Harry, without a word, had handed him his spare — just placed it on his desk. And Draco, without thanking him, had taken it, and the corners of his mouth had twitched into almost a smile. Better than any thanks.
"Harry, are you even listening to me?" Emily's voice cut sharply, pulling him back to reality.
He blinked. "Incredible," he repeated automatically.
"I just told you I nearly got knocked off my broom and flew through a flock of wild hippogriffs," she said coldly. "And you said 'incredible.'"
Harry looked at her, then back at Draco. And something clicked. Finally and irrevocably.
He watched a woman approach Draco — bold, smiling. He watched Draco give her a polite, detached smile in return. The same smile Harry had just been giving Emily. And in that moment, Harry understood two things. First: he hated that smile on Draco's face when it was directed at someone else. Second: he couldn't stand it anymore.
"Sorry, Emily," he said, his voice surprisingly firm. "I have to go."
"What? Now? But we just—"
"Yes. Now."
He didn't listen to her indignant protests. He stood and walked across the room, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat. He reached the bar just as the stranger, pouting, was about to leave.
Draco looked up at him. His grey eyes held their usual irritation, but underneath it — fatigue. The same fatigue Harry saw in the mirror every morning.
"Potter?" he said. "What are you doing—"
"Enough," Harry cut him off. He was so close he could see Draco's pupils dilate. "Enough pretending. For me, and for you."
"What are you talking about?" Draco tried to summon his usual sardonic tone, but it faltered. His voice wavered.
"About everything. About them," Harry waved a hand toward the table where his abandoned date sat. "About the ones who approach you. About everyone who isn't us."
He took a deep breath, feeling the last walls crumble.
"I tried. I swear I tried. But I listen to them and I think about what tea you drank today. I look at them and I see how the light falls on your hair when you're bent over paperwork. I buy them gifts and I know the only thing I want to give anyone — is a new mug, because yours broke, and it still hurts."
Draco froze. His mask of composure cracked, revealing pure, unguarded astonishment.
"You..." he tried to find words. "You've always been insufferable."
"I know," Harry smiled, and it was the first truly genuine smile all evening. "And only you can stand it. And only I can stand your grumbling, your broken quills, and the way you stole my croissants while I pretended not to notice."
They stood looking at each other, the noise of the pub fading to a distant hum. The world had shrunk to the space between them.
"And what does this mean, Potter?" Draco whispered, and in his voice was the unspoken hope he'd hidden for so long.
"It means we don't need anyone but each other," Harry said simply, as if stating an obvious truth. Because for him, it was. "And I'm so tired of pretending otherwise."
He reached out his hand — not to shake, not to hand something over. Just placed his palm on the bar beside Draco's hand. Offering. Waiting.
Draco looked at his hand, then back into his eyes. And slowly, as if afraid to scare it away, he covered it with his own. His long, elegant fingers closed around Harry's, and the touch felt like coming home. To the place they'd both been searching for, without even realizing it.
"Fine," Draco said quietly, and the corner of his mouth curved into that real, rare smile Harry had only glimpsed before. "Fine, Harry."
And no more words were needed.