Falling

Five months, one week, and three days. That was how long Draco had been working at the Ministry before he finally ran into Harry Potter.

It was March. The snow outside had long turned into mush, forming piles of black and grey ice on the sides of London’s streets. The muggle world had only grown marginally warmer since the beginning of winter, but Draco still took the opportunity to wear a thin, white tee instead of a woolen sweater to work. His robes would keep him warm enough, anyway.

Unfortunately, agonizing over his wardrobe choice had him running late. Richie was often fond of yelling at him, especially for tardiness. It was, in his eyes, a sign of the utmost disrespect. Draco was used to the lectures by now. Nevertheless, he would rather begin his Monday on a more positive note.

This left him sprinting across the Atrium, yet again. Astoria had just purchased something called a treadmill for their apartment, and he was reminded of the infernal machine as he ran. Perhaps he could do with a little exercise on his off-days. 

When he arrived at the lifts, he paid no mind to the usual stares his presence attracted from the other Ministry employees. He concentrated only on the seconds ticking away on his watch like the beat of his heart. He would usually take the stairs, since Mysteries was only one floor down from the Atrium, but he’d hoped the lifts would be faster.

“Hey.”

Draco froze at the voice. Slowly, he looked over at the man standing next to him. 

Harry stared back at him, bemused. 

It took all of Draco’s remaining energy not to openly ogle at the great Saviour. He was dressed casually in dull green robes, his hair - much longer than usual - pulled back into a low ponytail. His overlong bangs covered his lightning scar.

“Oh, um.” Draco cleared his throat. He was hyper-aware that, having sprinted to get there, he was sweating profusely. “Hi.”

Harry smiled. Draco hadn’t seen him smile in ages. At least, not at him.

“Running late?” Harry said.

“What?” Draco (surreptitiously) wiped at his forehead. “What do you mean?”

Harry chuckled, as if they were old friends. “I know the signs,” he said.

Draco felt warm, flustered, utterly unprepared. Of course Harry bloody Potter would show up today, of all days. He glared. 

 “I’m fine,” he said. He glanced back at the lifts. “I’ll make it.”

“Are you working that job in Mysteries now, then?” Harry said.

“How’d you know that?”

Harry shrugged. “Hermione told me,” he said. He smiled. “Congrats.”

“Thank you.” Draco tried not to meet his eyes. There were black rings under them, as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“Of course.”

In that moment, the lift clanked open. Draco started forward, but then noticed that Harry hadn’t moved.

“Aren’t you coming?” he said.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “I’m going up,” he said.

“Oh, right.” Draco felt himself grow redder. “See you later, then.”

“See you.”

Draco entered the lift. He stared resolutely up at the ceiling, as if he found a particularly interesting memo flapping its wings there, as the doors slid closed between them. When the lift started to move, he sighed. 

He should have just worn the sweater.

Richie did, indeed, yell at him for arriving a full three minutes late to work. Draco waited until he ran out of steam, which always occurred around the six minute mark. 

“...absolutely improper and I advise you think long and hard about your conduct today if you’re seeking to pursue a career here, Mr. Malfoy,” Richie said.

Draco nodded. “I will, Mr. Wright,” he said. “I assure you, it won’t happen again.”

“Make sure it doesn’t.”

With that, Richie stalked off into his office. Draco rolled his eyes.

Patricia Williams, a tiny woman with curly red hair, poked her head into his cubicle. “Worse than a howler, that one,” she said.

Draco groaned. “Switch mentors will me, will you, Patty?” he said.

Patty smiled. Her cubicle was right next to Draco’s. They had hit it off after Richie had burst out of his office one day, brandishing a letter from Astoria in his hands and pleading with Draco to convince her to take him back. The man had been prone to lectures before, but they had become particularly insufferable since then.

“No can do,” she said. She joined Draco in his cubicle and leaned against one of the flimsy dividers. “Sorry.”

Draco sighed. “How’s your report coming along, then?” he said.

Patty grimaced. “Absolutely awful,” she said. “Hughes gets to go about, traveling the world and learning about all these different places and cultures, while I’m stuck here reading a mountain of books.”

Draco crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair. “Who’re you on now?” he said. 

“The Mayans.” Patty waved a dainty hand. “They put corn in the mouths of their dead. Believed it would feed them in the afterlife.”

“Strange,” he said. “Is that a common practice? In other cultures, I mean.”

Patty frowned. “I know old Korean death rituals involved putting rice in the mouths of their deceased,” she said. “Most likely indicating a similar belief in an afterlife. One could also place coins or other precious objects in the mouth as well, and they have a similar practice in Vietnamese culture. In east Asia, the period of 49 days after the actual death is especially significant…”

Draco let Patty ramble on, letting himself get swept up in her monologue as he planned out his own tasks for the day.

Patty’s mentor, Jacob Hughes, specialized in death rituals, both muggle and magical, from all around the world. In his view, they were the key to understanding death itself. Richie, however, studied dark artefacts and their magical relationship with death - how they brought it about, in what manner, and their connection with the deceased afterwards, if any. Lately, Richie had become fascinated with a powerful piece of magic called horcruxes. He had asked Draco to read through half of a pile of tomes he had retrieved from deep within an Egyptian pyramid, which he believed could hold key information about how horcruxes first came about. 

So far, Draco had read nearly 4,000 pages of ancient Egyptian text and found nothing. 

Once mid-afternoon rolled around, he shut the book in front of him and added it to his own, slightly smaller, mountain. He stood up from his desk, stretching. He made his way to Patty’s cubicle.

“I’m going for a coffee break,” he said. “Care to join?”

Patty shook her head. She didn’t look up from her parchment. It was five feet long now, and counting. 

“Can’t,” she said. “Could you get me a latte?”

“Double shot, oatmilk, three pumps of vanilla?”

Patty spared him a quick smile. “Yes,” she said. “You’re the best.”

Draco smirked. “I know.”

He walked past the other apprentices, none of whom called out a coffee order. In all his time there, he hadn’t exchanged two words with the lot of them, though he’d heard them whispering plenty behind his back. He didn’t even know all of their names.

“Let me out,” Draco drawled once he got to the Entrance Chamber.

A door cracked open to his left. He waved to the room. 

“Thanks.”

The hum of people traveling in and out of the Ministry reached him in a sudden burst of sound. Leaving the quiet, cool floor of the Department of Mysteries always left Draco feeling a bit disoriented. The mid-afternoon sunlight shone through the ceiling of the Atrium, which, like Hogwarts, had been bewitched to reflect the sky outside. Looking up, he could just barely make out the daily messages that moved across the glass ceiling in shining, golden symbols. It was an oddly clear day for London.

He grimaced. 

He chose to use the telephone box today, since there was rarely a line to use the decrepit old thing (unlike the Floo and apparition points). Besides, it took him fairly close to his favorite coffee spot in the neighborhood.

He walked over, thinking of his own order for the day. Once he came near the box, however, he stopped in his tracks. Somebody was already inside.

Draco scowled.

Harry noticed him on the other side of the glass door. Inexplicably, he smiled, then waved him over. Draco stared, unmoving, until Harry opened the door.

“Come in!” he said.

He weighed his options. He usually had about half an hour before Richie noticed he was gone. It took three minutes to get to the box, two minutes for it to reach the surface, five to get to the coffee shop, ten to get his and Patty’s orders, then ten again to return to Mysteries. 

Thirty minutes for the journey, in all. 

Draco sighed. He crammed himself into the box with Harry. 

“Hey,” Harry said. 

“Afternoon,” Draco said stiffly. 

The box started to float its way to the surface. An intensely familiar scent filled the cramped space - soap, sweat, and something that always reminded Draco of the Forbidden Forest. Loose strands of Harry’s hair tickled Draco’s nose. 

He started counting down the seconds to the surface.

“This is weird,” Harry said. 

His breath hit Draco’s face. He could detect a hint of mint from the tea Harry usually had in the mornings. 

He rolled his eyes. “Really,” he said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

That was the extent of their conversation until they reached the sun-drenched city of London above the Ministry. Once there, they both stumbled out of the box as quickly as they could without making eye contact. 

Draco blinked at the sudden sunlight. The bright, refreshing sky - combined with the fact that he’d run into his ex two times today after going five months without even a glimpse - all seemed like a bad omen. He cleared his throat.

“Bye, then,” he said, at the same time Harry said, “Where are you going?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you know,” he said. “Off to torture muggles, serve the new Dark Lord, the usual. Care to join?”

Harry frowned. He had shed his robes, leaving him in worn, blue jeans and a t-shirt - an old, frayed thing that advertised some muggle band. Draco had seen him wear that same shirt to bed. Dressed like that, besides looking thoroughly muggle, made him look like Harry instead of Harry Potter, star Auror, Chosen One, Saviour of the Wizarding World. 

Draco wasn’t sure which one he preferred.

Harry brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. It fell back into place a second later. 

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

“Sure you didn’t.”

Draco usually took off his robes as well once entering the muggle world, but he was hesitant to do so with Harry there. He crossed his arms, as if the long sleeves weren’t enough to hide his Dark Mark.

Harry rolled his eyes. “So where are you going?”

“It’s no business of yours where I’m going.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“Feels more like an interrogation.”

“I’m not interrogating you.”

“Then why does it feel like you are?”

“Because you’re being a prat!”

“Good one, I think I’ve heard more colorful insults from a twelve-year-old.”

Harry sighed. He glanced at the telephone box, as if thinking about retreating back into the Ministry. He looked at Draco.

“I thought we agreed not to do this,” he said.

Draco frowned. “Do what?” 

“This?” Harry gestured between them, as if that would elucidate anything. “You know, you being a prick instead of a normal human being?”

“I take offense to that,” Draco said. “I thought we’d been having a pretty pleasant conversation up until now.”

“Draco.”

Draco stiffened. His name, coming out of Harry’s mouth, brought an all-too familiar tingle to the bottom of his stomach. He was reminded, forcefully, of the whisper of his name on Harry’s lips the night of their first kiss. 

“I don’t understand what it is you want from me,” he said, a bit quickly.

“Are you serious?” Harry said. “I just wanted to know where-!”

He cut himself off. He ran a hand over his face. “You know what?” he said. He shook his head, sighing. “Forget it. I don’t even know why I’m…”

Harry trailed off. 

Draco had noticed this earlier, but he seemed exhausted. The rings under his eyes weren’t any better from that morning, and his five o’clock shadow seemed more like a fully grown beard. He hadn’t even looked this terrible back at Hogwarts, in all their nights up at the Astronomy Tower.

Harry looked at him. “Bye,” he said, firmly.

Draco uncrossed his arms. “Bye,” he said.

Harry walked away, and Draco watched him go, feeling an old ache. Memories flashed through him - warm afternoons up in Harry’s four-poster bed at Gryffindor Tower, cold nights flying together at the Quidditch Pitch, the morning after the first and only time they slept together. 

He took a deep breath. He pushed all of this - all of these feelings, all of these damned memories - to the back of his mind. He turned around and started forward. On the way to the coffee shop, he thought only of Patty’s double shot, oatmilk latte with three pumps of vanilla and the pile of books waiting for him back at his cubicle.