Expectant || Drarry

9

Draco wakes up on June fifth with an obscenely large bouquet of colour-changing roses, delicate and filling the room with a lush sweetness. When he gets out of bed and checks the card, he's barely able to read Potter's illegible scrawl: Happy birthday, Malfoy, initially misreading 'Malfoy' as 'Maltoy'.

Draco squints, lips turned inwards as he tries to stem the wild surges of excitement and warmth that are filling him up as he watches the darling little buds shift from snow white to bright bubblegum pink to pale lilac to a maroon so rich and deep that it's almost wine red before flashing a pretty, butter yellow.

He props the card up on the vanity next to the newly filled bowl of chocolates, which Draco pauses to note, are from La Maison du Chocolat in Paris that he barely just remembers mentioning in passing to Potter a few weeks earlier.

Potter, he thinks, staring at himself in the mirror, lips parted, colour high on his cheeks, eyes unnaturally bright.

"Let me guess," he says lightly as he joins a rather nervous looking Potter for breakfast fifteen minutes later, "You're trying to buy your way back into my pants?"

Potter blushes but is barely able to hold back a smile. "Shut up, Malfoy," he replies just as lightly, nudging a present wrapped elaborately in bright gold paper and dancing ribbons that's sitting beside Draco's plate - upon which sit two crisp, perfectly golden, enormously puffed pain au chocolat, the ends dipped in molten chocolate - towards Draco.

"Merlin," Draco blushes slightly himself, gaze sliding from the chocolatines on his plate to the ostentatious little square box next to it, "is this paper made of real gold, Potter? Do they make it especially for you? Do these ribbons talk as well or just dance?"

Potter rolls his eyes but leans back and crosses his arms with a small smile. "Just open it."

"You shouldn't have," Draco mumbles, tugging at the ribbons so they flutter daintily to the table. "I don't even care about any of my birthdays anymore, really. I don't need anything more from you, Potter. I'm already way too deeply indebted to you."

"First of all, no you're not," Potter says quietly, watching as Draco peels off the fancy golden paper with trembling fingers. "Secondly, it's not even something new, so just shut it."

Draco scoffs the best he can with his heart in his throat as the too familiar, gleaming mahogany box is revealed, instantly making his insides clench painfully. He stares at the bright brass clasp for several beats too long before he's lifting it up and flinging the box open, one hand flying to his mouth as he sees the white gold watch he'd sold off to Garrick and Graeme's in Diagon Alley about a year after moving into that dingy flat when he'd returned from yet another failed job interview.

He doesn't even realise he's crying until suddenly Potter is standing next to him with a hand on his shoulder, the hot weight of it making Draco's chest clench even tighter. He blinks and finally becomes aware of the tiny, stifled sobs sounding from behind the hand still clasped over his mouth. Swallowing hurriedly, he wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand before slowly lifting the watch out with both hands, the metal cool and somehow welcoming in Draco's grasp. When he turns it over, the white-silver lines of the name engraved on the back, Septimus Malfoy, gleam up at him as if in recognition.

"Why?" Draco chokes out, more tears blurring his vision as he stares down at it, throat aching with suppressed emotion. "Potter, you giant arse, why would you..."

Giving his shoulder a little squeeze, Potter goes back to his seat. "That's a family heirloom, Malfoy," he says softly, expression gentle and pleased. "The bloke at the shop - he almost didn't want to sell it to me - said it's a Pureblood relic. I think he was hoping to sell it to the Department of Magical History and Artefacts eventually; or at least he muttered something that sounded like that," Potter says, narrowing his eyes in thoughtful bewilderment.