dog-ear (harry potter x reader)
summary: you’re just about tired of leaving late return memos to harry potter; and what’s worse is that he seems to care very little.
warnings: harry’s a bit mean, r works at the Auror’s office, but as a records clerk.
a/n: hihi!!!! thank u @toeoffrog for convincing me to write this. U Rule :3 <3
pairings: auror!harry potter x fem!reader
wc: 1.7k
Lisa Turpin’s left you at the window, again, to talk to that guy from the Sports department. It’s new and real, she insists. He gives her flowers and writes her notes; ones with scribbled hearts and smiley faces. It’s romantic, if it weren’t for the fact that they starved you.
She’d promised to be back in ten, which quickly turned into twenty-five, and now you’re ten minutes into your lunch. If it weren’t for the fact that she wobbles back into the office all dizzy and red-faced; you would’ve talked her ear off.
When the door opens, it feels like all your prayers have been answered, and the thought of the lunch underneath your desk is calling to you finally. Yet, it isn’t Lisa.
It’s Harry Potter. All dark hair, and dressed in a suit, his blazer missing and tie loosened. He pulls at his collar even now, as if someone’s forced him to wear it, and his dark eyelashes kiss as his gaze focuses on you.
You wish he was carrying a larger stack of files than what he’s walked in with, but you’ve seen the small blue memo notes you leave at his desk rumpled around the floor. He’s holding one of the five you had given him since the last time he’s come in, and you know there’s no point in mentioning it.
Harry drops the files at your window, thick and newly dusted. Of the files peeking past the manila, the corners are dog-eared.
It’s a habit you hate. It’s a habit he’ll never shake, no matter how many times you tell him. Today, you decide to make it no different.
“Please, Potter,” you start. “Stop doing that to the files.”
He flicks his wrist, buttoned sleeve rising up as Harry checks his watch. Your eyes follow his movement, and you have to force yourself to look away from the bit of skin that peeks out. He doesn’t say anything, and it makes you want to jump across the table to strangle him. When his eyes flick up to yours, your frown deepens which seems to please him.
“How am I supposed to keep track of what I need?” Harry’s smile only makes the pit in your stomach grow. His hip presses against the side of the window, and he looks at you as if you already know where this is going.
“By— Have you ever heard of a page marker?” Your words are lost to his grunt, low and airy.
“No, love.” He says coolly.
You want to tell him off. Tell him that his arrogance fits what the papers have always written about him. Tell him that you hope his glasses break about fifty more times while out on the field. Tell him that his hair looks like a mess, a mess of his own making.
You settle for roughly straightening the files, lips pulled into a straight line.
When you finally speak again, you have to force yourself to swallow the pit in your throat that might get you fired for yelling at the Ministry’s poster boy.
“You could always wait for Turpin, she’s taking the window in five.” You say; and you know by your tone, you shouldn’t have spoken at all.
Harry’s brows furrow at that and he taps the counter with a finger pointedly. It makes your skin crawl. “I need the files about Rosier’s death. ‘81.”
Your eyes narrow at him, and it only makes him frown deeper.
“Yes?” He says, as if expecting you to turn at his commands, and sweep through files until your fingers are papercut and stinging. You think you hate him.
Or maybe you just want to see Harry grovel, as he does with you.
Your stare continues and Harry scoffs a laugh, turning fully towards the counter. It’s breathy, and his lips quirk up in that boyish grin that makes you unreasonably upset.
“Please, honey,” Harry pleads, words dripped in sarcasm. “No one sorts files like you. Or leaves me as many memos.”
“You’re pushing it, Potter.” You say, but the smile growing on your lips betrays your words.
“How far?” He says, and somehow he laughs at his own joke. It makes your stomach turn, and your arms cross in an attempt to push the warmth rising to your chest down. You hope he thinks you’re upset.
You pull out your wand, the cool of the wood is the only thing that stops your fingers from trembling. Wordlessly, you pull out the drawer, and the file you need flies towards you.
“Here. Rosier, Evan. ‘81.” The moment is long gone and you know Harry thinks so too because he picks up the folder, yellowed by time and walks out the room.
You listen to his shoes, the click of his soles become a distant hum as he moves away from the archives.
-
When Harry comes back, he’s carrying far more than five folders; and you make a mental note to tell Lisa to check what he’s taken out before letting him utter a word.
“Do you even read the memos I leave you?” You plead.
“When I want,” He hums, dropping the stack.
You have to bite your cheek from spitting a reply that h.r. will definitely hear about.
“Lovely, Potter,” you manage, albeit sharply. “really.”
When you look through the files, you tap on the sign in sheet he hardly ever signs, and smile as passive aggressively as you can.
Harry laughs, and rolls up his sleeves before leaning over the counter. He has a simple silver watch, with a leather band that looks worn to death. It’s hard not to stare, especially as he grips the quill you’ve placed next to his hand. It’s dizzying, especially so when he chews his lip and his thick brows furrow. You distract yourself by organizing the files, pretending to read what they’re about to put them away.
“Looking into Mad-Eye’s cases, are you?” The only response he gives you is a hum.
Harry finishes signing, and drops the quill, leaning against the counter. You wait until he speaks and the silence borders on awkward until you realize he isn’t going to say anything.
“Do you need a file?” You say.
“I can’t just come visit my favourite clerk?” He says sweetly, but you can’t help the frown that slowly sinks into your lips.
“Turpin’s out for lunch.” You try.
“Luckily for me,” he taps the counter with palm before pushing away. “I’ve found exactly who I wanted to see.”
Harry leaves with a bright smile, and you sit in your chair heavily. You don’t get up until Lisa comes back from her break, and she questions why you’ve been staring at a stack of old files. You don’t have the heart to tell her.
-
It’s your lunch break, and you’ve decided that it’s alright for today. Lisa’s been gone for far too long and you don’t think you can stomach another soggy sandwich while waiting for her to sort her romantic affairs. Some breadcrumbs never hurt anyone, you hope.
The door opens, and you already know who’s walking towards your window before you look up.
“Hi, Potter.” You look up at him, but your eyes drag across his face.
Harry all, but stomps in; and he’s got gauze taped to his cheek, a small bruise blooming underneath. It’s been a week since you’ve seen him, and you know you don’t need to ask him where he’s been.
It’s not the worst you’ve seen him, but it’s certainly not the best. The curls that usually fall in front of his eyes are waves, and the latter look even more tired than usual. You want to reach across the window and push his hair back, even more so when he leans against the counter towards you.
“Hi, love.” He murmurs. You’re empathetic, you tell yourself, obviously not upset by the fact he’s upset. You’d feel this bad for any of the Aurors in your office, even one you hated.
When your chest warms, you ignore it this time, nails tapping against the wood. His hard-set frown hardly twitches.
He drops a folder onto your desk, one that’s been taken out and late for three weeks. Harry hardly says a word before he’s stalking out the room, and you catch a glimpse of his partner, Theodore Nott, before the door shuts loudly behind him.
When you pick up the folder, your memo is taped to the front, with a smudged, ‘Sorry. -Harry :)’ and you want to ball it up. You settle for propping it next to your quill basket.
It’s thick, thicker than you remember, but what makes you laugh is seeing small post-it notes peeking from the top; scribbled notes at each header.
You want to be upset that he hadn’t taken them out, but you’re even more grateful he’s listened. You turn to put it away, your smile growing every time you peer at the folder.
You knew that’d you’d be writing more late memos, but not having to un-dog-ear parchment sounded like heaven.
By the time Lisa’s come back, her cheeks are flushed and she’s fanning herself with an empty manila folder.
Her heels click as she pushes open the gate, and her legs cross as she leans against the counter. Lisa’s brown hair is hardly clipped up anymore, and you don’t think you should even let her know with how proudly she smiles down at you.
“Saw Potter stomp out of here,” she hums. “What’d you do this time?”
“Dunno.” You smile, and your eye catches the blue print paper.
You know you’re going to have to leave about four more at his desk.
