Chapter Text
Chapter 1 — The Boy Who Wasn't Saved
There were no more battles to fight.
And yet, Harry Potter woke up every morning with his fists clenched, lungs burning, heart racing like he was still dodging hexes in the rubble of Hogwarts. The war was two years behind him, but it clung to him like smoke in his clothes — constant, choking, and impossible to wash out.
The Ministry sent him another letter that morning. That was the fourth in three weeks. This one was thicker, lined with urgent red ink and polite threats. “Mr. Potter, your attendance at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement review is not only requested, but required. Failure to comply may result in public inquiry…”
Harry crumpled the parchment with shaking fingers. He didn’t even read past the third line. He tossed it into the growing pile of unopened envelopes on his kitchen table — some from the Ministry, some from Rita Skeeter, one from Ginny, and too many from Ron and Hermione.
He hadn’t answered any of them.
---
The flat in Grimmauld Place was silent, suffocatingly so. Even Kreacher had disappeared into whatever corner he could escape to. Harry had ripped down most of the Black family portraits, but the walls still felt like they watched him — judged him for not saving Sirius, for not doing enough, for surviving.
He dragged himself to the bathroom, stared at his reflection. Green eyes, dull. Shadows under them like bruises. His jaw looked sharper than usual. He hadn’t eaten properly in days.
He pressed trembling hands to the sink.
“You won. You’re supposed to be okay now.”
The words echoed in his head. He didn't know whose voice it was anymore. Dumbledore? Hermione? His own? All he knew was that he wasn’t okay. He hadn’t been okay since the last body dropped.
And maybe — maybe not even then.
---
By noon, he was at the Ministry.
The air was too clean. Too bright. Aurors passed him like he was just another file to move past, barely nodding. Only a few people whispered behind their hands. Harry didn’t care.
He made it to the office of Senior Administrator Linton without hexing anyone. That counted as progress.
Linton was waiting for him, sharp-eyed and brisk. “Potter. Sit. You’ve been reassigned.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“You’ve been transferred to the Department of Magical Archives and Research. Immediate effect.”
“That’s not— I’m not a bloody librarian.”
Linton raised an eyebrow. “No. You’re unstable, insubordinate, and six weeks away from a scandal. You’ve refused therapy. You’ve skipped field training. Your last partner requested removal. You are no longer field-safe. Be grateful you weren’t suspended.”
The silence between them was thick.
Harry’s fingers curled into his sleeves. “What exactly will I be doing?”
Linton leaned back. “Filing, investigating legacy war cases. Cleaning up messes left behind by... people like you.”
Harry didn’t ask what that meant. He already knew.
“And Potter?” Linton added, smirking faintly. “You’ll be partnered with someone who knows a thing or two about making messes. Maybe you’ll get along.”
---
The Archives were cold.
That was Harry’s first thought as he stepped through the heavy iron doors. The whole place felt like it had been forgotten by time — stone shelves stacked high with old spell records, cursed object files, transcripts from trials that nobody wanted to remember.
And standing at the far table, flipping through a faded folder, was Draco Malfoy.
Harry froze.
Malfoy didn’t look up. “You’re late.”
His voice was colder than the room. Sharper than the words warranted.
Harry’s stomach twisted. Malfoy was thinner, too. Paler. Hair pulled back, dark circles beneath grey eyes. There was no arrogance in him anymore. No sneer. Just exhaustion and… something bitter beneath the surface.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” Harry said, stiff.
“I didn’t know you could read,” Malfoy muttered, finally looking up.
The insult was lazy, but it landed like a punch.
Harry took a breath through his nose. “So this is the punishment, then. Stick the ex-Death Eater with the Boy Who Lived and hope they don’t kill each other.”
Malfoy closed the folder. His fingers trembled — barely — but he steadied them. “I don’t particularly care if you’re here. Just stay out of my way.”
---
They worked in silence for hours.
Files about missing wands. Accusations left unresolved. Names that had disappeared in the aftermath of Voldemort’s fall. Harry skimmed through confessions, torture logs, stolen testimonies from terrified children. The war hadn’t ended. It had just been hidden better.
When he reached for a heavy box of sealed pensieve memories, his hand brushed Malfoy’s.
They both jerked back.
Neither said anything.
It was near sunset when Malfoy spoke again. “You’re not sleeping, are you.”
It wasn’t a question.
Harry didn’t answer.
“I see it,” Malfoy said quietly. “You twitch. You blink like someone’s shouting at you even when it’s silent. Your hands shake every few minutes. You haven’t eaten all day.”
Harry looked at him. “You’ve been watching me.”
Malfoy’s mouth twitched — not quite a smirk. “I’m observant. It’s a survival skill.”
“From what?”
Malfoy’s eyes went cold. “From being raised by people who used love like a noose.”
The silence between them shifted. Not warmer — but less sharp.
Harry swallowed. “Me too.”
---
When they left that night, they didn’t speak again.
But when Harry reached his flat, opened the door to the silence and guilt and ghosts, he realized he didn’t feel quite as alone as usual.
And in a cold archive under the Ministry, Draco Malfoy sat in the dark and stared at the parchment Harry had left behind — the corner still smudged with ink and fingerprints.
He didn’t return it.
Not yet.
But he didn’t throw it away either.