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The first time he gets Draco a birthday present, Harry makes two rookie mistakes — a) not planning ahead and b) leaving it to the last minute. In his defence, they’d only been dating a year at the time and he couldn’t be expected to know, well…what he knows now. Of course, there’s a small, Hermione-like voice in his head (the one that usually pipes up when he’s eaten too many treacle tarts or when he’s forgotten to file his casework again) that points out he can’t really use that excuse because he has known Draco for ten years, give or take, and that’s more than enough time to realise that one’s boyfriend is…well, picky to the point of neurotic.
But Harry didn’t think of that, okay? He just figured it would be an easy run-down-the-street jaunt and that eventually, luck would smile on him and he would find the Right Gift. And he really thought he came close with the silk robes, he did.
Which is why, when Draco opens the clumsily wrapped box and his eyes dull with disappointment, Harry’s heart sinks like a Seeker pulling the old Wronski Feint.
“You don’t like them.” It’s not so much a question as a statement, really. It’s obvious Draco doesn’t like his present. Not if the slight purse of his lips is anything to go by.
“It’s…not that I don’t like them,” Draco replies delicately. His long finger dips under the hem of the robe and he lifts it up. His eyes narrow in assessment and Harry suddenly wishes he’d put more thought into this.
“What’s wrong?” he asks anyway.
Draco makes a curious sound (something in between a tut and a sigh) and lets the silky material slide out of his hands and into the box. He closes it carefully and puts it to one side before turning to Harry.
“It’s just…green really isn’t really my colour,” Draco tells him.
Harry just blinks as he processes this new — and strange — information. “But…you’re a Slytherin,” he blurts before he can stop himself. “You wore green for seven years!”
Draco sighs and gives him a long-suffering look. “That was school, Harry. I don’t know if you’re aware of this but uniforms are compulsory. I didn’t pick the colour scheme, and I certainly wouldn’t have picked potion green if I had had a choice.” He huffs. “I’m more than just a Slytherin, you know. After an entire year, I thought…I thought you got that.”
Oh.
Damn it.
“I always thought you looked good,” Harry mumbles. “In green, I mean.”
Draco manages a half laugh and kisses his cheek. “Thanks for trying,” he whispers in Harry’s ear.
Harry stares at the abandoned box for a long time after Draco leaves.
Not good enough. Not nearly good enough.
His eyes narrow and the Gryffindor in him rises to take up the gauntlet.
Next time, he’ll be ready.
Harry lets out a loud whooping cheer as he bursts into their shared flat.
“Let’s go, Kestrels!” he yells, still on a raging Quidditch high. “Let’s go…”
“Harry, please,” Draco sighs, trudging in behind him and rubbing his temples. “I have a headache.”
Harry turns to his boyfriend, and his smile fades as he takes in Draco’s exhausted state. His boyfriend looks morose and unwell, and those weren’t things Harry normally associated with birthdays. His brow furrows as he tries to assess the situation.
This time, he’d planned well in advance. By a happy coincidence, Draco’s birthday happened to fall right on the semi-final of the Quidditch World Cup. Kenmare Kestrels vs Puddlemere United. The most anticipated match of the season. How did Harry know? Because he’d been checking the listings since January. When the call was announced in the Prophet, he’d done the only sensible thing a man in his situation would do. He splurged on a private box and all the fixings, determined to make Draco’s birthday one for the history books.
Only, Draco didn’t look so great now. Maybe he was tired out? Yeah, Harry decided. That was probably it. He grinned and approached his boyfriend, sliding an arm around Draco’s waist and nuzzling into his neck.
“So,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the shell of Draco’s ear. “Am I getting lucky on your special day or…”
Draco shrugs him off. Harry stares as he hedges out of his grip and makes for the living room. What…what was happening?
“Draco?”
He pads after him, only to find Draco sitting on the sofa with his arms wrapped around himself. He looks kind of miserable, and Harry knows, he just knows, he fucked up again.
How did he fuck up again?
“What did I do?” he asks with a resigned sigh. “Everyone likes Quidditch. I thought I did it right this time.”
Draco’s lip trembles and he immediately turns his face to hide in a cushion.
Harry stares, utterly horrified. He’s not just fucked up, he’s fucked up royally.
“Draco?” he murmurs, stepping forward cautiously. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
Draco mumbles something incoherent and Harry perches on the sofa (not too close in case he breathes wrong and upsets his time-bomb of a boyfriend, of course), straining to hear him.
“I didn’t catch that, Draco,” he murmurs gently. “Do you want to come out of there and tell me what an idiot I am to my face?”
Draco, mercifully, cooperates. He turns to glare at Harry with slightly red eyes. “I said you don’t love me,” he repeats, far more clearer this time.
“I…you…wait, what?” Harry can’t help it if his voice rises a bit towards the end, he’s flabbergasted.
“Birthdays are supposed to be personal and intimate,” Draco informs him with an offended sniffle. “People have been throwing expensive presents my way all my life, Harry! If you want to throw money about and make a grand statement, then don’t…don’t do it on my birthday.”
“But…” Harry trails off as Draco falls back into the safe refuge of his cushion. “Draco, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I thought you’d like…”
“You said it yourself,” Draco’s muffled voice informs him. “Everyone likes Quidditch. I should mean more to you than everyone, that’s all I’m saying. And if I don’t, then…then you don’t love me.”
Damn it.
He really did fuck up.
Right, time to fix it.
“Of course I love you.” He puts his heart and soul into his declaration and a good bit of his upper body strength into wrestling the damned cushion away from Draco. It’s a bit of a struggle, but ten minutes later Harry has his unhappy boyfriend snuggled in his warm (and tight; Draco is a squirmy little shit) embrace.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into Draco’s hair. “I didn’t think, sweetheart. That’s all. You’re the most important person to me in the world, you know that. Don’t you?”
It’s a relief when Draco finally hugs him back. “I suppose so,” he mumbles into Harry’s neck.
Harry smiles and presses a kiss to the blond head nestled against him. “I’ll get it right next time,” he promises.
Promise officially broken.
“Do not speak to me,” Draco hisses, stalking into their flat in all his livid glory. “Do not look at me or talk to me or even breathe near me! I swear to Merlin, Harry, I could hex you right now.”
Harry winces. This time, he can’t blame Draco’s pickiness or an unfortunate bout of miscommunication. This one is all on him. “I’m sorry,” he tries, fully aware he’s setting himself up for a long, long fall. “You can’t possibly think I meant for that to happen.”
“I don’t know what you meant to happen!” Draco rages, pacing the length of the living room. He groans and buries his face in his slim hands. “The humiliation,” he moans, a tad dramatically. “The absolute mortification!”
Harry takes the opportunity to pull the smouldering remains of parchment from his pocket. “You said you wanted something personal and intimate,” he argues weakly. “I thought it would…I don’t know, be nice?"
“Poetry, Harry?” Draco spits. “Really? And did you really have to charm the bloody thing to yowl like that?!”
“It was supposed to sing. And I didn’t think it would start off right there,” Harry protests. By right there, of course, he means in Malfoy Manor’s Grand Hall. At a celebration for Draco’s twenty-fifth birthday. In the presence of forty guests. Not to mention Draco’s parents.
At least he managed to cast an Incendio before the parchment proudly yodeled its appreciation of Draco’s pert arse.
“…on and on!” Draco was still ranting. “And by the way? Midnight does not rhyme with strong thighs!”
Harry winces. Okay, so maybe that Incendio wasn’t fast enough.
Draco is still glowering at him when he finally manages a meek apology.
“I’m going to bed,” he hisses. “Make yourself comfortable on the sofa. Or the floor, I don’t really care. Good night.”
And with that, he storms off to the bedroom, taking his strong thighs with him and leaving Harry blinking in the dust.
“Oh, come on!” Harry whines. “I tried, didn’t I? Are you seriously banning birthday sex because of this? I at least deserve a snog for effort!”
“Not for a couplet rhyme scheme, you don’t! Try a chant royal next time, you barbarian!”
The door slams shut, and Harry pouts until sunrise.
Harry admits it. He’s never going to get it right. Not by himself, at least.
So this time around, he’s bringing reinforcements.
“Did I go on about his thighs at the bloody Ball?” Ron mutters mutinously. “Did I give Lucius Malfoy an aneurysm? Did I make the front page of the Prophet’s Society Edition? No. No, I didn’t. Therefore, this is not my fault and I don’t deserve punishment.”
“Ron, please,” Hermione sighs, for possibly the hundredth time. “Harry needs our help.”
Harry, for his part, squeezes his sulky friend’s shoulder. “I appreciate this, mate. I really do.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ron waves him off. “So, what are we looking for?”
Hermione frowns and surveys the magical shopping arcade speculatively. “Something…unique,” she decides. “And horrendously expensive. Something that says I picked this out just for you.”
Harry nods. He’s skimming a bit too close to throwing expensive presents at Draco again, but Hermione’s got the right of it. A unique…something should qualify as personal and intimate, and it should put him in the clear.
Merlin, this was worse than Potions. At least those only had a fifty-fifty chance of blowing up in his face.
Hermione has already drafted a battle-plan. She’s in favour of splitting up to cover more ground. Harry is in no position to argue and Ron’s still sulking about being included in this, so that’s what they do.
After an hour and a half of futile searching, he’s running on fumes and desperation. There isn’t one thing, not one thing, in here that says Draco to him. He’s basically panicking now because Draco’s birthday is tomorrow and he doesn’t have a thing to show for it. He doesn’t even see Ron until he runs full-tilt into him.
“Ron!”
Ron blinks as Harry grabs his shoulders and shakes him with pure desperation.
“Did you find something? Tell me you found something!”
“Uh…” Ron shuffles his feet and guiltily holds up a corned beef sandwich. “I got hungry?”
“Ron!” Harry moans and rakes his hands through his hair. “You didn’t even look?! What am I going to do now? Draco needs a present!”
Ron shrugs. “D’you…think he’d like half a corned beef sandwich?”
Harry is still glaring daggers and Ron is still sulking (I’d be fine with a sandwich on my birthday, that’s all I said) when Hermione joins them. Her happy grin brings new hope to Harry’s heart.
“This is it!” she exclaims, holding out a wand holster. Even to Harry’s inexperienced eye, it looks…expensive. The texture is the softest and supple, and it bends beautifully to his touch. It even glistens in the right light.
“…one of a kind,” Hermione reported proudly. “The leather is infused with the scales of the last Antipodean Opaleye! It will last practically forever, and it’s so expensive I could cry. By the way, Harry, you’re definitely going to cry when you see the price-tag.”
He does. But that doesn’t deter him from giving her a grateful hug. Once again, his friends have come through for him. The holster is perfect— unique, heartfelt, practical and elegant enough to appeal to even Draco’s inscrutable sensibilities.
***
Later that night, Hermione rubs her eyes and fumbles to the living room where the fireplace is glowing a bright green.
“Harry?” she mumbles around a yawn. The situation catches up in an instant and she jumps straight to attention. “Wait. Is this about…”
Harry scrubs his hair sheepishly. “He’s allergic to leather.”
Hermione’s jaw drops. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
But…it doesn’t make any sense. She frowns as she puzzles it out. “He played Quidditch for years. With leather gloves and leather boots and…”
“It was some kind of fancy-shmancy faux blend,” Harry reports. “Apparently, I was supposed to know that.”
Hermione sighs. “Did you know that?”
“Now that I think of it, he might have mentioned…”
“Oh, Harry.”
Harry gives her a pathetic look, that makes her lips twitch a bit. “Did he get a rash?” she dares to ask.
“His thigh is the size of the Whomping Willow,” Harry replies with a wince. “Also, I’m not allowed in the bedroom tonight.”
“I’m sorry."
"Meh. At this point, I'm used to it."
"Anything I can do to help?”
“Well, I’m stuck out here so…Exploding Snap?”
Hermione sighs and shakes her head. “I’ll get the cards.”
“Just tell me what you want! Please?”
Harry has officially given up. And he’s not too good for begging. He’s a disaster at this, and it’s not fair. All he wants is to give Draco something nice. Something that won’t embarrass him or make him cry or blow him up like Aunt Marge.
Was that too much to ask?
Draco looks only a tiny bit amused as he slides into bed next to him. “That’s not the point of a present, Harry,” he remarks gently.
Yeah, he knows. The lesson’s been drilled into him five times over and he gets it. A present is supposed to show someone you love them. That you see them. That they matter to you and they make your life special and…and that you love them.
Draco is all that and more for him. He makes Harry smile, his kisses make Harry’s blood sing and his touch sets him on fire every time. Draco is everything to him, and he knows it. But he’s shite at presents and he’s never going to…
Wait.
Wait, just a minute.
Harry’s eyes widen. “I have an idea,” he whispers, half to himself.
He does. And it’s even a good idea. A great one.
Draco looks justifiably suspicious. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Harry grins. This is the one. This one will work, he knows it. “But I’m not going to tell you. That’s not the point of a present.”
Draco’s Birthday aka fucking finally:
“I have to admit it, Harry. It’s perfect. It’s everything I’ve wanted from you. From Day One.”
Draco lounges next to him, naked and satisfied and utterly enthralled with his gift. Harry can’t help a smug grin. What? He’s in his rights to be cocky. It took him five years and just as many failed attempts, but he did it.
He found the Perfect Gift.
“Look,” Draco whispers. He’s just one big smile as he holds the ring up to the light. The opal stone glows, soft and strong, like a small moon set in white gold. “It even goes with my eyes.”
Harry privately disagrees. Draco’s eyes are way, way prettier. But he’s hardly going to say so. His boyfriend — fiancé, actually — is still a mercurial pain in the arse, and Harry isn’t giving him any reason to find fault with his gift. Not if he can help it, at least.
Instead, he just pulls Draco into his arms and leans in for a long, languid kiss. “Happy Birthday.”
Draco smiles and answers with a kiss of his own and Harry pumps a fist in the air in silent victory.
Nailed it.