The owl's tapping wakes me again, insistent and irritating. Another Tuesday. Another April 10th. I groan and roll over, already knowing what awaits me—the same cold flat, the same miserable walk to the Ministry, the same endless paperwork at the Wizengamot Administration Services, and Finchley's inevitable criticism no matter when I arrive.

After feeding the owl and scanning the Prophet—I note the familiar Quidditch headline with detached boredom—I dress quickly, shivering in the drafty flat. The walk to the Ministry feels like a death march, each step heavy with the knowledge of what comes next.

At the office, Finchley doesn't disappoint.

"Cutting it close today, Malfoy," he sneers as I arrive precisely seven minutes early, just like yesterday. And the day before that. And the dozens before that.

I say nothing, merely set my jaw and head to my desk, where yesterday's documents—meticulously filed yesterday—await me, tossed haphazardly in my tray. I'll have to file them again. For the hundredth time.

Lunchtime comes as a welcome distraction. I take my usual seat in the corner of the Ministry cafeteria, behind the large potted fern that provides the perfect hiding spot. From here, I can watch him without being noticed.

Harry Potter. Auror. Hero. Savior of the wizarding world. And, currently, laughing loudly at something Weasley just said, his messy black hair falling across his forehead, his Auror robes slightly askew. There's a smudge on his collar—just like yesterday. And the day before.

The opportunity is there, shimmering in front of me like a forbidden fruit. In this endless loop, consequences don't exist. Whatever I do today will be erased tomorrow. I could... speak to him. Ask him about the smudge on his collar. Tell him what I really think about the Prophet articles that speculate on his love life.

Or I could continue hiding behind this fern, safe in my anonymity, watching from afar like some pathetic voyeur.

My heart races at the thought of approaching him. The risk. The potential embarrassment. But also... the possibility of something real, even if it only lasts a day.

Weasley says something about a reservation at Lègendaire, just like he always does, and Harry responds with that same amused smile that makes something twist deep in my stomach.

Today could be different. Today must be different.

I stand up, my tray suddenly feeling very heavy in my hands.