There’s no one around when Draco arrives at his workplace.

And there won’t be, as Draco has no coworkers. The Ministry only needs one owl poster, after all.

Overnight, the stack of official letters to send has grown. Mechanically, Draco takes off his outer robe and shrinks it, tucking it into his pocket—there is no place to hang it up—and begins his week-daily grind of transporting them all to the Ministry owlery, tieing them to Ministry owls, and returning to the mailing room for yet more letters.

He doesn’t stop. He works straight through all his shift, trudging up and down the stairs to avoid the Ministry lifts and other workers.

He doesn’t stop, not even for lunch. Not even for a break.

He’s afraid that if he stops, he won’t be able to start again.

He completes his day without speaking. He returns home to small, cramped muggle flat without speaking. He moves about without speaking. He goes to sleep without speaking. He wakes up without speaking. And he repeats.

He’s afraid that if he stops, he won’t be able to get up again.

*

There’s an uptick in letters. Internal post, Draco notices blandly. Ministry workers are not supposed to use Ministry owls for internal post.

But it’s not Draco’s place to question it.

Not even when these letters are addressed to Harry Potter.

He sees Potter from afar. Despite them both working at the Ministry, Potter is further from Draco than ever.

Potter strides around with meaning. Potter’s eyes are bright, and smiles grace his lips. Potter speaks to friends and coworkers, and they speak back, open and avid.

There is an ocean between Potter and Draco.

There is a void in Draco’s heart.

Draco stops looking at Potter. He’s afraid that if he does, he’ll fall and never return.

*

There’s a Potter in the outgoing-post room.

Draco averts his eyes, picks up the letters that need posting and heads to the stairs. He’s afraid. He doesn’t want to fall.

“Wait, Malfoy?”

The sound of his name crushes his chest. Draco stops. He can’t move forward, he can’t turn back.

“You’re the person who’s been sending me all those Valentine letters!” Potter accuses.

Draco half shakes his head. Tries not to think about it, tries to walk forward, away.

It hurts.

“Stop right there,” Potter orders, and footsteps mark Potter getting in front of him. “What are you doing with those letters?”

“Owlery,” Draco says shortly. His voice is dry, croaky. Unfamiliar. It’s been so long. He uses only a handful of spells these days, wordless from long practice.

Potter frowns, looks over Draco. He pulls a face. “Oh. You’re the poor wizard who owls all the official Ministry letters?”

Draco makes one tight nod, and stares somewhere off Potter’s shoulder. Potter is blocking the way to where Draco must go.

Potter’s interruption feels too long. Draco’s afraid that if he doesn’t go now, that the letters will drop from his hands and he’ll drop with them.

“Well, Valentine requests and threats are not official,” Potter scowls. “So stop using Ministry owls to send them to me.”

Draco winces. But at the face of Harry Potter, he has to nod.

Potter relaxes. “Good. See you round, Malfoy.”

Draco quickly heads to the owl room.

He has to follow Auror Potter’s order. He forces himself to discard the clearly non-official post.

*

There are angry witches and wizards at the outgoing post room.

“Why aren’t my letters being posted?” they demand.

Auror Potter ordered me not to, Draco should say.

“You’re supposed to owl them all!”

They give him letters to post.

Draco remembers Potter’s order. Potter, who outranks them.

Draco cannot post them. He can feel himself teetering at the edge.

*

“You’re fired, Malfoy! I knew you couldn’t be trusted even to post a handful of letters—”

Draco locks up the words. He returns to the flat. He lies down in bed.

And he falls.

*

He should get up. He should have one last shower, one last meal, before the Aurors take him to Azkaban for breaking the terms of his parole.

“What the fuck, Malfoy?”

There’s a Potter in his flat.

Draco presses the back of his hand over his eyes.

His eyes are burning.

“I’m not here to take you away,” Potter says in a rush. “I heard you were fired. I’m here to offer you a job.”

Draco stills. He lifts his hand from his face, sits up. “Don’t lie to me, Potter.”

Potter looks all haphazard, and says in a rush, “I’m not! Look, I really appreciate you keeping those letters from me. And basically everyone is telling me to get a secretary. So. I have a job for you. To sort my mail. It’s not much, but it’ll keep your parole terms.”

There’s something in Draco’s throat.

It’s hope.

Numbly, Draco nods, and Potter shoots him a big, relieved smile.

*

There’s no one around when Draco arrives at his workplace.

And there will be, dozens and dozens of Aurors, and Harry Potter himself, when the morning reaches a more reasonable time. But Draco prefers to make a head start in sorting through Potter’s mail.

Overnight, the stack of Potter’s letters has grown, on the tiny little in-box on Draco’s tiny little desk that Potter managed to find him in the Auror department, nevermind the possibility of wizard space.

Draco takes off his outer robe and shrinks it, tucking it into his pocket—out of habit—and begins his week-daily grind to sorting out official letters from love letters. The official letters go into a special outbox that links direct with Potter’s in-box.

He stops briefly in the morning, when Potter drops his head in, and they exchange hellos; and later, how-are-yous and good-thanks.

He stops briefly round noon, when Potter drops his head in, and uncomfortably asks if Draco wants to accompany Potter to lunch. Draco always declines, and Potter looks relieved for it.

At the end of the day, he returns home to his small, cramped muggle flat.

And he repeats.

*

There’s an uptick in letters.

Not real letters. Letters for the expressed purpose to make Draco’s job harder. So Draco works harder. He’s not going to slip.

He feels as though he can see Potter from closer. He sees how busy Potter is. It’s nothing for Draco to be busy making sure that Potter doesn’t get swamped.

Potter’s rushing back and forth between Auror missions and meetings. Potter’s eyes are distant, thinking about a past case, a current case, a future case, and pained smiles cross his lips. Potter speaks to friends and coworkers, often rushed, and they speak back with concern and commiseration, respectively.

There is an ocean between Potter and Draco, and a tenuous boat that is Draco’s job sorting Potter’s mail.

Draco is ignoring the emptiness in his heart, looking at Potter at least twice a day every weekday. He tries not to wonder about a different world. He’s afraid that if he does, he’ll realise just how miserable he is.

He isn’t.

He’s just...apathetic.

*

There’s a Potter in Draco’s local Lidl.

Draco averts his eyes, picks up the produce on sale and heads to the checkout. He doesn’t want pity.

“Wait, Malfoy—”

Are people looking? he wonders idly. He stops, turns around before Potter can make a scene.

“Are you free?” Potter asks in a rush.

“Yes.”

“You don’t mind if I hide out in your place for the evening?”

Is this a proposition? he wonders idly. “Very well.”

Potter glances at his basket. In a sudden move, he yanks it from Draco’s hand. “I’ll make something. I haven’t cooked in a while—”

Something hurts.

Draco follows silently as Potter throws in ingredients and foods and snacks. He stays silent as Potter pays for it all.

And of course, Potter knows the way back to Draco’s flat.

*

There’s a Potter in Draco’s flat. There’s a Potter in Draco’s kitchen.

“So, I hope you don’t have any food allergies, I should have asked, woops, but anyway I’m going to make one of my favourite dishes, that I can cook—” Potter babbles on, knives chopping and pots and pans sizzling.

“It’s fine,” Draco says shortly.

Potter pulls a face. “I mean, I know you like chocolate, but we can’t have chocolate for dinner, that’s for dessert. Unless you want an apple, being healthy and all that—”

Draco blinks. It feels as though Potter’s afraid of silence, filling the room with words and noise.

“It’s fine,” Draco repeats. “Chocolate is a special occasion.” And you being here is a very special occasion, Draco doesn’t say.

Inexplicably, Potter flushes. “I mean—well—um—see Hermione and Ron are having their date night thing today too with Valentines and all and I didn't want to sit at home alone and I thought that you would be free—”

“Stop,” Draco says. “I’ll put on some music.” With a wave of his wand, he spells classical piano into the air.

Potter bites his bottom lip and cooks quietly.

*

They eat quietly with charm-duplicated cutlery. Draco lifts his fork for another bite. But then he puts his fork down, and sighs, just a little.

“You don’t have to stay, Potter. I’ll pay you back on the ingredients.”

Potter immediately shakes his head. “No. No, it’s fine. It was nice being able to cook.”

“Then why don’t you cook more often?”

“Well, Ron usually cooks. And it’s just been really busy lately. I’ve have long meetings scheduled, and double-scheduled, and I end up working late to catch up. And Eric from Records has had me re-write out my reports. Says my handwriting is too horrible.”

Purposefully nonchalant, Draco says, “I can help. Scheduling. Writing.”

Potter looks at him. “Really?”

“My handwriting is impeccable.”

Potter laughs. “Okay. Are you serious? Then I can look into getting you more clearance for it.”

“I am.”

Potter settles down into a genuine smile. “That would be bloody great. Maybe I could bribe you with some more dinners, hey?”

“That would not be remiss.”

Potter props his chin into one hand. “You know, I think I’m learning how to speak Slytherin.”

“Vous ne réussirez pas,” Draco says archly. You won’t succeed—

Potter reddens, and looks down at his plate. “HMM! Anyway, Boot is being such a dick lately, and I’m glad Valentines is going to be over real soon, though I guess it happens every year. Hermione says it’s technically a Christian secular holiday, but now it’s all commercial, it’s kind of weird, like Christmas. Do you celebrate Christmas? Or maybe the winter solstice or Yule or Saturnalia—”

Potter’s endearing, Draco suddenly realises, blinking. He glares at the food for a brief moment. But he can’t blame potion poisoning for his predicament.

He eats some more food, lets Potter babble on for a little while longer before he finally answers about the Malfoy winter and Yule traditions.

*

There are angry witches and wizards throughout the Ministry.

“Why did Harry have dinner with you?” they demand.

Because he wanted to get away from you, Draco wants to say.

“You’re trying to sidle up into Harry Potter’s good side! Don’t worry, we have our eye on you.”

The unsolicited letters cease, at least. For Draco has moved a new office: or rather, Potter’s office has expanded to include a front desk for Draco, and an inner office for Potter.

He sees Potter multiple times a day. He can feel himself teetering at a different edge.

Coming closer and closer to falling at each greeting, each smile, that Potter gives him.

*

It’s the end of a workday, but Potter’s not yet left. He leans against Draco’s desk. “Hey, Draco, are you free tonight? I want to cook for you again, just the two of us. Hermione and Ron are having their date night.”

Draco raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, please, Draco. I won’t poison you,” Potter says earnestly. Bright eyes looking directly at Draco and seeing him.

Draco falls.

*

He should do something. He should be doing something else, instead of shopping for dinner in Lidl with Harry.

He slaps Harry’s hand away when Harry attempts to reach for a pack of off-brand digestives.

Harry pouts. “What the fuck, Draco?”

“If you must, we can bake our own chocolate-dipped biscuits,” Draco says.

Harry’s eyes light up. “Can you? Can you also make custard creams?”

“I suppose I can,” Draco shrugs. He’s eaten them before. He could recreate it.

Harry ends up hauling a whole bunch of baking ingredients along with whatever he has planned for dinner. They end up back in Draco’s kitchen, sliding around each other in the narrow space as Harry cooks and Draco bakes gourmet custard creams and dark chocolate dipped biscuits.

Every accidental touch leaves Draco’s skin burning.

And he’s not entirely sure those touches are accidental.

He touches the small of Harry’s back lightly, as he moves to use the sink. Harry trembles a little under his touch. Draco drops his hand smoothly, giving Harry a raised eyebrow when he looks at him.

Harry bites his bottom lip. “You finished?” He looks all haphazard, hair pushed back, sleeves roughly pushed up. His bottom lip looks red.

There’s something in Draco’s throat.

Draco breathes in sharply. “I am. Biscuits are a poor dessert, even if gourmet, however. I’ll take them to work tomorrow.”

Harry looks away. “Okay.” His voice is glum.

“I have icecream in the freezer,” Draco says. “Gourmet, treacle tart icecream.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Oh.” He shoots Draco a lovely smile.

*

Perhaps it is not falling. Because when Draco looks at Harry, he feels bouyed. What was fear now feels like exhilaration.

They have dinner. They have icecream. They sit on Draco’s couch and munch biscuits and drink nighttime tea.

“If you could have any job, what would you do?” Harry asks.

“And leave you to suffer?” Draco pokes Harry’s thigh.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I was fine before,” he complains. “C’mon. Your parole doesn’t last forever.” Harry’s face is open, and Draco cannot help but to give an honest reply.

“When I was very young, I wished to be a chocolate maker.”

Harry’s eyes alight. “Really?”

“My chocolates are delicate and perfect.”

Harry laughs. “You’ve never made me any.”

“They are for special occasions,” Draco says. He shifts, turning his body towards Harry.

Harry mirrors the motion, legs overlapping. “Yeah?”

“And for special people.”

Not looking away from Harry’s eyes, holding his breath, Draco slides a hand up Harry’s arm.

Harry’s eyes dip down. Red blooms across his cheeks. A flash of teeth as he bites his bottom lip, a flicker of tongue. Eyes up again. His mouth opens, but for once, he doesn’t say anything.

Draco leaves the silence be. He leans in.

Harry leans in.

Draco pulls off Harry’s glasses, floats them over to the coffee table.

Harry’s eyes blink, wide and green, and his head tilts just so.

Their lips touch.

Draco is flying.

*

There are angry witches and wizards. Looks and words and photographs.

“What does Harry see in you?” they scowl.

Draco smiles back pleasantly. “Perhaps you should ask him.”

“You’ve tricked Harry Potter! The Aurors will investigate, they’ll find out.”

But Harry is frequently around, and the office has expanded so it’s two desks in the same room. He sees Harry constantly.

And the other Aurors have grudgingly warmed up to him, inadvertently charmed by the tea-time treats Draco bakes. Some of them even chat with Draco about mundanes. A small handful happily exchange bake shop talk, and administration commiseration.

He feels a new normal opening up, a new path that he can walk down with purpose, with eyes bright, and smile ready on his lips for those who deserve it.

He finds it a lot easier to smile now. He practices it everyday, looking at Harry. And Harry participates in the exercise right back.

*

Draco is in Harry’s dining room.

Draco carefully meets the gaze of Granger and Weasley. Everyone is making an effort to get along. Draco finds himself talking with Weasley about baking, and the effect of different bake-aid spells.

After dinner, Draco and Weasley end up facing each other across from a chessboard, with Weasley promising to make an edible chessboard for the next time they’ll meet, so that Weasley can eat the killed pieces. Weasley makes a vague threat about putting Draco’s baking to Molly Weasley’s test.

Once Weasley and Granger leave, Harry worries the bottom of his shirt.

“I hope you washed and changed your sheets,” Draco says, his voice low and with an edge of purring. It’s unfamiliar for now, but he’ll become very acquainted with the sound of it soon enough.

Harry flushes red and scampers up the stairs to his bedroom.

Smiling, Draco follows.

*

Harry’s there when Draco arrives at his workplace.

That’s because they arrive together.

Overnight, Draco’s and Harry’s inboxes have grown. Harry takes off Draco’s outer robe for him, and hangs it next to his Auror robes at the back of the door. While Harry goes and makes them tea, Draco starts reviewing Harry’s schedule for the day, and shifting through the more important letters.

He stops to accept his tea. He stops for lunch with Harry. He stops for the mid-afternoon break to chat with some of the other Ministry workers.

Sometimes, he returns to his flat. Sometimes, he returns to Harry’s house. He can see it in Harry’s eyes that Harry wants him to move in. He lets Harry babble on for a while longer. It’s just too endearing.

Working together, living together. Draco sees Harry from up close. Sometimes very close. Skin touching, or eyes meeting, or laughing with a shared in-joke.

Draco’s heart is so, so close to Harry’s. Sometimes, it feels like there is no space between them at all.

Draco’s not lost. Draco’s not falling.

And as he looks at Harry, and as Harry looks back at him, they are soaring.

The End.