St. Mungo’s was quiet at this hour. The usual chaos of mediwitches rushing from room to room, patients groaning in pain, and the sharp scent of antiseptic potions had settled into a hushed calm. The moonlight filtered through the high, enchanted windows, casting a pale glow over the healer’s lounge.
Draco Malfoy sat in his usual chair, a steaming cup of tea between his hands, watching the ghost of a man who wasn’t supposed to be here.
Harry Potter was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his hair a mess like always. There was an amused glint in his green eyes as he regarded Draco.
"You’re staring again," Harry noted, his voice carrying that familiar, teasing lilt.
Draco scoffed, tearing his gaze away, fingers tightening around his cup. "Maybe I’m just wondering how someone can be so utterly incompetent at making tea."
Harry chuckled. "You’re welcome to make it yourself, Malfoy."
But Draco wouldn’t. Because this had become their routine. Their rhythm. The war had ended, and with it, the battle lines had blurred. Draco had spent years trying to figure out where he belonged in a world that had no use for ex-Death Eaters, and somehow, against all odds, he had found himself here. Working alongside Harry Potter. Becoming—what? Friends?
Yes. Friends.
And if anyone had told him years ago that he and Potter would end up side by side at St. Mungo’s, healing people instead of hexing each other, he would have laughed in their face. But here they were.
"I think today was the worst shift we’ve had in a while," Harry muttered, rubbing his temples.
Draco hummed in agreement. Three near-fatal cases, an explosion in the potions ward, and a curse outbreak in the long-term care unit. It had been brutal.
Harry sank into the chair across from him, sighing.
"You should go home," Draco said after a moment. "Get some sleep."
"So should you," Harry countered, raising an eyebrow.
Draco smirked. "I don’t need beauty sleep like you do, Potter."
Harry let out a bark of laughter. "Liar. I’ve seen you in the mornings, Malfoy. It’s horrifying."
Draco rolled his eyes but said nothing. Instead, he let the warmth of this moment settle over him, a quiet kind of peace that he had never expected to find.
For so long, he had been running—from his past, from his guilt, from the weight of his family name. But here, in these late-night conversations, in the quiet understanding that existed between them, he had found something close to belonging.
The next morning, the whispers started again.
Draco heard them in the halls, saw the way people averted their eyes when he passed. He caught Pansy watching him with something unreadable in her expression when they crossed paths in the entrance hall.
"Alright, Malfoy?" she asked casually.
He frowned. "Obviously."
Pansy hesitated, then just shook her head. "Never mind. Just—take care of yourself, alright?"
Draco watched her walk away, a strange unease curling in his stomach.
When he reached the healer’s lounge, Harry was already there, leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed as he looked out over the city.
"Morning," Draco greeted, setting down his bag.
Harry turned to him and grinned. "Thought you’d sleep in for once."
"And let you have all the glory? Not a chance."
Harry snorted, shaking his head.
But something was wrong. Draco didn’t know why, but there was an edge to the air today, something thick and suffocating pressing in around him.
Then, as if summoned by his unease, the head matron, Healer Alden, entered the lounge, her face carefully neutral.
"Malfoy," she said gently.
He frowned. "What is it?"
She hesitated. Then, carefully, she placed a file on the table. A thick file, its edges worn with age.
Draco’s eyes flickered to Harry, who was standing perfectly still, gaze unreadable.
"Malfoy," Healer Alden said again, softer this time. "You need to read this."
Something in Draco resisted. Some deep, primal part of him screamed at him not to open that file.
But his hands moved before he could stop them.
The first page hit him like a hex to the chest.
"Patient Name: Harry James Potter."
His breath caught. The file was old—nearly five years old. His hands trembled as he flipped the page.
"Deceased."
Draco’s vision blurred.
He turned to Harry, shaking his head. "This—this is some sort of mistake."
Harry didn’t say anything.
"Say something, Potter," Draco snapped, his voice raw, desperate.
Harry just looked at him.
And suddenly, memories started unraveling.
Draco remembered the day Harry had refused the Ministry’s offer to become an Auror. He remembered Harry saying he didn’t want to be a weapon anymore. He remembered—
He remembered the headlines.
"Ministry Confirms: Harry Potter’s Tragic Accident in the Alps."
"Hero of the Wizarding World Found Dead—Ministry Promises Investigation."
Draco’s chest tightened. That hadn’t been an accident. He had read between the lines. Everyone had.
Harry had been too powerful. Too unwilling to conform to what the Ministry wanted. He had refused to be their symbol, their soldier. And they had silenced him for it.
"No," Draco whispered.
His hands curled into fists.
He looked up, heart pounding. "This isn’t real. You’re right there."
Harry smiled. But it wasn’t his usual grin. It was sad. Resigned.
Draco’s breath shuddered. "No. No, no, no—"
But the walls of his carefully crafted world were crumbling. The tea. The conversations. The laughter.
It had all been a lie. A fragile illusion spun from grief and denial.
Draco staggered back.
Harry stepped forward as if to steady him, but—
His fingers never touched Draco’s skin.
Draco’s stomach lurched. "Harry—"
Harry tilted his head, that soft, infuriating smile still in place. "You’re happy."
Draco’s breath hitched.
And just like that—Harry was gone.
The lounge was empty. The air was still.
And Draco Malfoy stood there, staring at the place where Harry had never been, grief clawing its way up his throat like a living thing.
His knees gave out.
And for the first time since the war ended, Draco wept.
Because the truth was too much to bear.
And yet, as the silence settled around him, a voice—distant and fond—whispered in the back of his mind.
"You’re happy."
And maybe, just maybe—Draco would keep pretending.
Because in a world without Harry Potter, that was the only way he knew how to survive.