Harry is assigned his absolute last choice of auror partner.
"Malfoy," he says, through gritted teeth—determined to grin and bear it, to be civil, to be the bigger man.
"Don't talk to me," Malfoy snaps, lighting a cigarette in the middle of their shared cubicle.
By 2 p.m. human resources has sent him a memo. Harry plucks it out of the air, perplexed.
"That will be about the complaint," Malfoy says, leather shoes propped up on the desk as he reads through their case notes, looking bored enough to pass away. Maybe that's wishful thinking.
"What are you talking about?" Harry is trying and failing not to be short.
"I filed a complaint. Against you." Malfoy looks up at him, smirking. "You were eight minutes late this morning, and your lunch break went ten minutes over."
Harry gapes at him. Aspirations of civility begin imploding with the force of a nuclear bomb. "Are you fucking serious?!"
"No; he's dead."
Harry punches Malfoy in the face.
"Mr. Potter." The senior witch from human resources, Griselda Mayhawk, sits him down. "We have received six complaints about you."
"Right," he scowls.
"Six complaints—in your first week." She looks sternly over her glasses at him. "Including physically assaulting a colleague. I will be frank with you: if you were anyone else, you would have been fired already, and the only reason I'm not firing you today is because the Department isn't keen to attract that kind of media attention."
Harry's mouth drops open. "Have you not noticed that all the complaints have come from the same fucking psychopath?"
"Each complaint has addressed behaviour that is legitimately against Ministry policy." She looks at him calmly. "Swearing at fellow staff members is also—"
"Sorry. Sorry! I'm just—" Harry runs a hand through his hair. "He's impossible to work with."
"Do you want me to arrange a transfer?"
Of course Harry wants that.
"…No."
But he wants, even more badly, to break Malfoy's spirit, and win this battle of wills.
"Very well." She stands. "But if I receive one more complaint, Mr. Potter, I will have to pursue further action. Do you understand?"
Harry arrives at his desk at 8 a.m. sharp every morning, sets a tempus charm to time his breaks down to the second, and spends many pleasant hours imagining what it would be like to get his hands around Malfoy's neck.
But week two becomes week four, and one month turns into three, then six—and somehow Harry has avoided the sack, they haven't killed each other, and they actually have a good track record on solving cases.
It's infuriating.
What's more infuriating is how many intrusive thoughts Harry's experiencing.
Instead of picturing himself choking Malfoy, now Harry's thoughts drift in the opposite direction: what it would be like to be choked by him.
It's the three piece suits. It's the long legs, the arched brow, his sharp tongue, his even sharper wit. It's the way he smells. Harry hates himself. This is the most embarrassing—no, NO, he refuses to call it a crush—he's ever had, and they've all been fucking embarrassing on some level.
But this? Jesus wept.
"So," Malfoy says, legs spread wide as he swivels his chair side to side in half circles. "The Griffith case."
"Mm," Harry says, chewing on a quill and trying very hard not to stare directly at Malfoy's crotch. "Yeah. Yes."
Swivel. Another swivel. "Eyes up here, Potter."
Harry's gaze snaps up. Fuck. "Sorry, lost in thought."
Malfoy smirks. "Clearly."
And so it continues.
"Here." Malfoy steps into his space, too fucking close, batting Harry's hands away from the straps on his Impervius-fortified vest as they prepare for a raid. "Let me."
"Wait," Malfoy says, stopping Harry with a hand to his chest.
"What's that?" Malfoy grips his wrist, examining a burn on Harry's arm.
The touching. All the fucking touching. Harry's going to EXPLODE.
And then Malfoy goes down in the field.
Curses hurtle through the air. There's chaos and movement all around Harry, but all he can hear is white noise, and all he can see is Malfoy, crumpled on the ground.
Instinct takes over. He pelts through open fire, ignoring the shouts from behind him, not stopping until he's at Malfoy's side, collapsing to his knees and throwing up the strongest shield charm of his life as he grips Malfoy's wrist, checks his pulse, his breath. It takes him three, eon-length seconds, but—fuck, yes, he's alive.
"Rennervate," he breaths, wand shaking in his grip.
Malfoy comes to, coughing, and Harry grips him, almost shakes him. He's so scared, fear ripping through him belatedly.
"Harry," Draco murmurs, covered in dust, eyes half-lidded.
"Don't do that again," Harry says roughly, and kisses him.
Bear 👊 Day 12 of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s prompts. Full collection on ao3.
