Not All of Draco's Birthdays Were Good
When he was little, Draco’s birthdays were always extravagant.
His mother would throw huge parties in the garden of the Manor, with Draco's favourite sweets and cakes, and he would ingest chocolate until he felt sick and his mum had to give him a digestive potion so that he could start all over again. He was spoiled rotten, and every year the special room holding all of his birthday presents had to be magically enlarged to welcome new additions.
Draco had absolutely everything a child could dream of.
He had a loving mother, a powerful, influent father, a beautiful house surrounded by a beautiful garden, he had a whole bunch of presents, lots of friends and he had cake.
These were Draco's happiest years.
And then he turned sixteen.
Mother explained that regarding the circumstances, the birthday party had to be postponed and held inside, in a remote room of the east wing. Draco retorted that the room would be too small to hold all of his friends, and presents, and cakes, but Mother gave him an odd look and Draco shut his mouth.
In the end, the small room was large enough to hold the presents, the cakes and Draco's friends, all five of them.
It could have been worse.
He still had a loving mother, a father, a beautiful house surrounded by a beautiful garden, and a few nice presents. He still had friends and he had cake.
He spent his seventeenth birthday in the Room of Requirement, mending the Vanishing Cabinet. He should have been elated when for the first time that day, he managed to make it work properly.
Instead, he sank to the floor, holding his head in his hands.
It could have been worse.
He still had a mother and a father and a beautiful house surrounded by a beautiful garden. Even if the beautiful house now came with a madman carrying an oversized snake and Unforgivable curses.
He turned eighteen without ceremony, waiting to hear about his fate in a cold cell of the Ministry of Magic.
He had a mother on the verge of madness and a father who was the shadow of his old self. His house was empty and ready to be sold.
He had no presents, no friends, no cakes.
Today Draco turns nineteen and his past is burning in his dreams as he opens his eyes to the quiet of his small room, blinking a few times to adjust to the darkness.
It took him months to get over the screams and the smell of death everywhere.
It took him a whole lot of courage -something he didn’t even know he had- to go through the year, the loss of his parents, the loss of his home, of his friends, of all that had been his life until then.
He closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.
He wakes up again to the sound of soft kisses pressed on his chest, raising goose bumps all over his sensitive skin.
His heart fills with joy as he opens his eyes and lifts his head a little and sees the most beautiful smile he ever got to see. He could never get tired of that smile.
Harry trails kisses right up to his neck, to his jawline and the soft spot on his chin before taking his mouth in long, slow kiss that threatens to consume him completely.
Harry's hands all over his body set him on fire, and soon Draco loses himself in sensations that overwhelm him.
He welcomes Harry inside him, welcomes the slight burning that is proof that yes, he is still alive, very much so. As Harry rocks slowly on top of him, gaze focused and intense, putting all he has to make this moment theirs, just theirs, and perfect, oh so perfect, something gives deep inside of him and he allows himself just a tiny bit of hope for the future.
Because when Harry kisses him like that, makes love to him like that, looks at him like that, like he matters, Draco thinks he might be all right after all.
He no longer has parents, the beautiful house surrounded by the beautiful garden has been long sold, and many of his friends are gone.
But Draco has Harry and hopefully many more happy birthdays to come.
And he might even get cake.