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Harry flips through a stack of papers. They’re Ministry case files, both complete and incomplete. He grabs one, skims it, and puts it in an underwhelmingly small stack at the corner of his already cluttered desk. Harry’s been doing a lot of paperwork lately, after his first big mission went up in flames.
He moves aside his World’s Best Murderer of Dark Wizards mug—a gift from Ron—to view his small clock. It reads 11:10am.
Harry glances over another file.
11:11. He closes his eyes and wishes.
*
Harry strolls down Diagon Alley, wandering the cobblestone path in search of Flourish and Blotts. Hermione’s birthday is on the 19th, and he needs to buy her a present. Shops are bustling with students preparing for the start of term. He spots a young witch proudly showing off her black cat to her friends.
Funny, Harry thinks. Black cats are lucky. Or unlucky, depending on who you ask.
Harry stops in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies, where several boys are gazing at the new broomstick displayed in the window.
Nimbus 2010 Elite, the plaque reads. It makes Harry feel rather old. He keeps walking.
“Mister Harry Potter!” A small boy tugs on the hem of his robes. Harry bends down and smiles patiently.
“Mister Harry Potter, you stepped on a crack!” squeals the boy. Harry takes a deep breath.
“So I did. Is there something wrong?”
The boy looks at Harry like he is stupid. It’s annoyingly effective.
“If you step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back!” He informs him. A woman rushes up and grabs the boy’s hand.
“-Oh thank Merlin you’re alright, you can’t just-” she notices Harry standing there. “...Harry Potter, sir. I am so very sorry, he didn’t mean to bother you-”
“It's alright,” Harry waves politely and walks away.
Obviously, his mother is dead. But he doesn’t step on another crack.
*
When Harry was nine, Uncle Vernon shoved a book in his face. It was large and dusty, likely buried in a heap of more relevant books at the public library, and titled Magic: The Impossible Reality. Uncle Vernon hoped that it would douse the flame of hope in Harry, and finally show him what he was; a freak. He—predictably, because Harry’s only evidence his Uncle could even read was that he read the newspaper every morning—did not look into the book’s contents very thoroughly. One chapter of it covered superstition and luck. It detailed the many things muggles (although of course it didn’t say that, it was a muggle book) had deemed lucky or unlucky. Young Harry, clinging to every thread of hope, had internalized every word.
Every day, at 11:11am, Harry makes a wish. Back then, it had been to escape the Dursleys. Nowadays, it’s always the same thing—or rather, the same person.
*
A year and a half ago, right after the war ended, Harry had stumbled into a bar. He was tired of Auror training, sick of third-wheeling Ron and Hermione, and couldn't stand to go ‘home’ to an empty Grimmauld Place.
He wasn’t aware it was a gay bar. In hindsight, it didn’t really matter. Harry believes that Draco Malfoy would’ve been there no matter what, looking elegant and well-dressed and like he belonged there. Harry didn’t feel like he belonged anywhere. Maybe that’s what drew him to Malfoy. Maybe that’s why they kissed.
Fate’s funny like that.
The next morning, Harry woke up in Grimmauld Place with a pounding headache. He still remembered the previous night, for better or worse. That’s why it hurt so much when he found out that Draco Malfoy had vanished that morning without a trace. Harry drove himself mad trying to contact him.
Hermione informed him a week later that Draco had been sent to France for an Unspeakable mission. Indefinitely.
Now Harry wished every day at 11:11. He wished for that annoying blond Slytherin to walk through his door and say something. He didn’t want Draco to say “I’m sorry” or “I secretly love you” or “I missed you.” Harry just wanted to see his stupid face again, to know that it wasn’t his fault he had gone away.
Harry has wished 547 times. Hermione told him to stop counting.
Harry doesn’t know when Draco went from enemy to just being there. He doesn’t know when he fell in love with Draco’s confidence and grey eyes and sharp laugh. Maybe it was during the war. Or after.
All Harry knows is that the night they kissed, everything came crashing down. Every fantasy or hope Harry had disappeared, because now it was real. And Draco had looked…scared.
Harry had only ever seen him scared a few times; in the bathroom in Sixth year, in the Astronomy Tower with his wand raised at Dumbledore, and in the courtyard as Voldemort beckoned him forward.
Draco did not look at all like the young man the Prophet wrote about, who contributed to war funds and hosted galas. He did not look composed and confident. He looked scared.
And the next morning, he was gone. All Harry wanted was to have him back.
*
It’s been a long day already, and it isn’t even half-past ten. Harry gives up on case files and stares at the wall. It’s very unproductive.
Hermione barges in and Harry startles, his mug of coffee spilling slightly down his front. She points to the stack of papers on his desk.
“Please tell me that's not all you’ve done.”
Harry feels a sting of irritation.
“I could tell you that, but I’d be lying.”
Hermione massages her temples.
“Harry, if you can’t do paperwork, Kingsley will never let you go into the field. You have to prove yourself first.”
“You’re Minister, Hermione, can’t you just-”
“No. I convinced Kingsley to let you stay. I’m not putting my job on the line just because you screwed up. If you want to get back in the field, you have to put in the work.”
Harry crosses his arms over his chest but doesn’t argue with her. It’ll be pointless if he tries.
Hermione drops a stack of papers in Harry’s lap.
“Flip through these, I need to check on something.”
She proceeds to grab a book off Harry’s bookshelf—one he doesn’t even recognize. He doesn’t argue, and begins reading the papers.
“Hermione?”
“Mm?” She doesn’t look up. Harry points to a drawing on the file he’s holding.
“What’s this symbol?” he asks.
She examines it, and her eyes soften.
“It’s a constellation, Harry. Draco, the Dragon constellation.”
Draco. Harry rolls the name around in his mouth.
“Don’t think anything of it, please. The article’s about centaur star charts, of course there’d be astronomy.”
“...uh huh,” Harry mumbles. He’s staring at the pattern of stars.
“Harry, please don’t-”
“It’s fine, Hermione. I’m fine.”
She knows he’s lying, but leaves anyway.
*
The next day starts the same. Harry sits down at his desk to a surprisingly small stack—thank Merlin for small miracles. By eleven-o-clock, he’s reviewed half. He’s making good time today.
Soon, though, his eyes drift to the Draco constellation he shoved to the corner of his desk.
11:11.
Please, come back. Please just let him come back-
There’s a knock on the door. Harry is surprised to see Hermione, who he was told is in meetings all day. She’s trying to hide a smile.
“Harry…there’s someone here to- er- meet with you.”
Harry’s gaze sharpens.
Draco Malfoy steps into his office.
His heart stops.
“Merlin, it’s really you,” Draco breaths.
*
There's wishbones and clovers and numbers from Heaven
Shapes in the stars to invent our connection
As much as I act like I want to forget it
I still wish for you at 11:11