The war was over.

Harry was no longer the Chosen One, no longer hunted, no longer defined by prophecy. For the first time in his life, he had the terrifying freedom of peace.

While Hermione climbed the ranks of the Ministry, destined to become Britain’s youngest—and perhaps best—Minister of Magic, Harry chose a different path: the Auror Office.

It wasn’t just about fighting dark magic. It was about purpose. About feeling useful. About following the path once walked by his father and godfather. Some days, it helped him feel close to them. Other days, it only reminded him of everything he'd lost.

He rose quickly, not because he craved power, but because he was good at it. Soon, he became Head of the Auror Office, then the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The money didn’t matter. The mission did.

It was during those long days at the Ministry that he saw you again.

You, who had always been just out of focus at H0gwarts—a quiet sort of friend, someone who understood the chaos but never tried to steal light from it. You worked now in the Department of Mysteries, a place Harry still avoided when he could.

But you ran into each other—coffee lines, elevator rides, late-night reports. Little by little, it became a rhythm. Then a ritual.

At first, it was easy. Physical. Stress relief, mutual comfort, old friends pretending it didn’t mean more. But Harry—whose life had been shaped by love and loss—wasn’t made for pretending.

One afternoon, watching you quietly fix your shirt collar after some good time in his office, laughter still echoing between you… he caught himself wondering:

Was this still just friendship?

Or had he already begun to fall?