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Harry wakes up to the harsh sound of the curtains being pulled open, sunlight flooding into his bedroom and stinging his eyes. He squints, both at the blurry figure standing beside the bed and because of the light, and rubs a hand over his face.
“Why are you awake?” he grumbles, voice scratchy. “I thought you liked to sleep in.”
Harry can’t see properly, but he assumes Draco rolls his eyes. It’s a very Draco response to Harry’s mumblings. One he has seen a lot.
“Good morning to you too, love,” Draco replies, bending down to kiss Harry on the lips. Because he’s up close, Harry can see the way his face scrunches up, and, despite the fact that he’s doing it because of him, it’s insufferably adorable. “Your breath stinks.”
“Piss off.” Harry reaches out a hand to fumble about for his glasses, but Draco gets to them first, sliding them onto Harry’s face so his shit eating grin comes into focus. “Thanks, pet. ”
Draco snorts at him. “I’m not above spelling your glasses to the ceiling, you know.”
Sitting up, Harry tries to glare at Draco the best he can. Evidently it doesn't work very well because Draco just laughs at him and crawls on to the bed.
“You wouldn’t dare,” says Harry.
“Oh?” says Draco, raising one eyebrow infuriatingly. Harry can’t do it, no matter how hard he tries. He just ends up raising both, which makes him look surprised when he’s trying to be– well, not. Draco pulls out his wand and points it at Harry’s nose. It’s a testament to the trust Harry has for him that he doesn’t flinch — he would if it was anybody else. With a flick of his wrist, Draco makes the glasses pull away from Harry’s face and zip away to float in mid-air. Harry huffs. “You look like a puppy crup that’s had it’s tail stood on.”
“Ha. Ha. Gimme them.”
“No.”
“Draco.”
“Nope!”
“Stop acting like a 12 year old and give me my glasses.”
“Ah, but Harry,” he says sweetly, “could a 12 year old do this?”
Another flick of his wrist sends the glasses spinning about, and from them comes a trail of glitter, which begins to spell out a word as the glasses fly around the room.
“You’re ridiculous,” Harry gawks.
“Just watch.”
Harry does watch as the copious amounts of gold glitter finish writing out the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY in the centre of their room, his glasses flying back to his face just in time to see the additional 30TH be added in between, this time in silver.
“My god,” Harry says, for lack of anything better, but he can’t stop the smile that’s growing on his face. Draco points his wand at the words which disperse into thin air and thankfully do not rain glitter all over their new carpet, then he turns to face Harry, with a little bit of a blush on his cheeks, like he’s just realised how over the top that was.
“Happy birthday, Harry,” he says almost shyly, and opens his mouth to say something else, but Harry tackles him into a kiss before he can get the words out. Draco’s protests last for about a second before he’s kissing Harry back from where he’s pinned underneath him, morning breath forgotten, and one of his hands winds its way into Harry’s hair, pulling every so slightly because he knows that Harry likes it. Draco’s so warm, the cosy material of his jumper soft against Harry’s bare chest, and he shivers when Draco’s other hand comes up to rub circles into the small of Harry’s back. It’s all so homely and domestic and everything that Harry ever dreamed of.
“I love you,” Harry says against Draco’s lips as grey-silver eyes stare at him fondly. “I know that charm work must’ve been a pain in the arse. And you hate doing stuff like that. So thank you.”
“It wasn’t too bad,” Draco blatantly lies as Harry begins to work his mouth along his jaw. “I just, ah–” He makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan as Harry sucks on a spot on his neck where Draco has a mole, and the hand in Harry’s hair tightens. “–I bought a book called ‘Charms for Parties’ because I thought it’d be about preparing drinks and snacks, but it was all filled with party tricks.”
Harry laughs against Draco’s neck. “You didn’t read it beforehand?”
“No, I was in a rush. And speaking of time–” Draco pulls a little firmer on Harry’s hair to bring him up to meet his eye. “You’ve got an appointment in an hour.”
“Appointment?” Harry asks, brows furrowed, rolling off Draco to let him sit up. “What for?”
“Theo’s,” Draco says, beaming. He looks a sight with his hair all messed up from the bed and his lips red from Harry’s attack; Harry would spend more time admiring him if he wasn’t confused.
“I’m seeing him in September, I couldn’t get an appointment for my birthday, remember?” he tells Draco, who is still smiling. “He’s so busy because of how good he is.”
Standing up off the bed, Draco takes Harry’s hand and pulls him up, leading him out of the bedroom and down the stairs. “It seems you’re forgetting who my best man was, love. Being thirty is getting to you already.”
“I hate you. You’re older than me by almost two months. You’ve been thirty for two months.”
Draco leads Harry, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, into their kitchen/diner and immediately he’s greeted by the smell of pancakes drifting up his nose. He almost melts. There’s a huge stack of pancakes on a plate on their kitchen island, surrounded by a little jug of syrup, a bowl of berry preserves, a sugar shaker, two empty plates with cutlery, and also two mugs. “Still hate me now?” Draco asks, rubbing his fingers against Harry’s knuckles gently.
“No. Never have, never will.” Harry buries his head in Draco’s chest and wraps his arms around his waist, squeezing tightly. “Draco. My darling. What did I do to deserve you?”
Humming contently, Draco pulls Harry in even tighter and rests his chin on the top of Harry’s head. “Perhaps you saved the world in another life.”
“Something like that,” Harry laughs, pulling back to plant a wet kiss on Draco’s cheek. Draco yelps, pushing Harry’s face away from him. Before Draco can swat at him, Harry dashes over to the counter where the steaming mugs of tea are sitting and takes a seat. The mugs are misshapen, one red with a wonky gold ‘H’ and the other green with a neater silver ‘D’, products of a pottery class from years ago. Draco always calls them ugly and says they should throw them out. They never have. (Never will.)
As Harry starts on his first pancake, Draco takes his own seat across from him, sipping on his tea quietly as Harry eats. They don’t say anything because they don’t need to. The silence is comfortable in the home they’ve spent years making, the bond they share grown from the trust they have in each other. Harry thinks he could die happy here and now, with his man and his pancakes and their dodgy mugs in their overly expensive but cosy kitchen.
And he’s convinced Draco feels the same, because halfway through his second pancake he looks up at him; Draco’s resting his cheek on his fist, watching Harry with a small smile on his face, a private only-for-him smile, and a light dusting of pink on his cheeks as he chews.
“What?” Harry asks, the beginning of a grin pulling at his mouth.
Draco shakes his head and spears another bit of pancake. “Nothing.”
“Uh uh, don’t ‘nothing’ me.” Harry bumps his hand against Draco’s, then links their fingers together just because he can. “What?”
“I’m just–” Draco dips his head, his face flushing. “I’m glad that you’re it, for me,” he mumbles, just loud enough for Harry to hear him, just loud enough for Harry to feel that familiar warmth in his chest he gets when Draco says things like that. He looks up, meeting Harry’s eye as he says, “I’m glad that you’re still here. In one piece.”
Harry laughs, tugging Draco’s hand towards him so that he can kiss it. “Me too. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Draco goes even more red, if that’s actually possible. “Eat your pancakes,” he orders with no real heat behind it, turning his hand from where Harry’s still holding it so it cups his cheek. He runs his thumb across his lips, brushing off a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Theo told me not to let you make us late.”
Harry snorts. “No he didn’t.”
“No, he didn’t. He said something far more explicit.” Draco quirks an eyebrow. “You know Theo.”
Harry does know Theo, and he grins mischievously at Draco. “We have time.”
“We absolutely do not.”
“We need to shower anyways.”
“Potter–”
“Harry. You can’t call me Potter on my birthday.”
“Harry Potter–”
“That’s cheating.”
“Fine.” Draco sighs, then takes on the same tone when he whines, “Harry.”
“We have time.”
They do have time. Just. Harry eats quicker than he ever has in his life so that they can have time. In the grand scale of things, they have all the time in the world together, but in the Draco will beat his arse if he misses the appointment scale of things, they’ve got about half an hour.
In the shower, Harry savours every second of Draco in his arms, every touch of their hands against each other, every bit of skin that they can press against each other. With very little complaint, Draco responds to Harry’s ministrations with enthusiasm, leaning into him and sighing when Harry goes after the spots he’s learned off by heart that Draco likes. Draco kisses him against the tiles while rubbing shampoo into both Harry’s and his own hair, and Harry returns the favour by massaging Draco with his favourite shower gel. It smells of citrus — Harry loves it (and uses it on himself, too).
By the time they get out, they have about ten minutes. So naturally, Draco panics about what to wear while Harry just throws on something comfortable, because he knows he’ll be taking it off soon anyways. Cuffed jeans and one of those baseball t-shirts Draco thinks his biceps look really good in. He tucks the design of the tattoo into a pocket just as Draco comes back out of the bathroom, having decided to put on black skinny jeans and one of his sheer green shirts that sparkles like stars. Another thing of Draco’s he adores.
As usual, he’s far too overdressed. But that’s another thing about Draco that Harry adores.
“You’re still not going to tell me what you’re getting, are you?” Draco asks, right before they disapparate.
“Nope,” Harry says, whisking them away to Theo’s tattoo shop.
When they finally get into the shop, just a minute or so before their appointment, Theo is waiting for them with bare arms resting on the counter and a smirk on his face. He has two full sleeves of tattoos, both magical and Muggle, twisting vines and winding snakes, shapes and faces and other pieces Harry can’t make out in a multitude of colours. They’re all brilliant, and Harry briefly wonders how many of them he’s done himself before Draco takes his hand and leads him up to the counter.
“Good morning, Theo,” Draco says. “One thirty year old for you to poke needles into. Right on time.”
Theo laughs and notes something down. “Magical needles. Have you got your design with you, Potter?”
“Ah, yeah.” Harry fumbles about in his pocket for a bit, then passes Theo the folded up piece of paper. Nerves are bubbling in his stomach. He’s pretty good with pain, after everything he’s been through, but the idea of getting something permanently etched into your skin is a little scary. Draco knows that better than he does, and Harry unconsciously squeezes his hand. Draco squeezes right back. “There you go.”
Theo unfolds the paper and looks it over for a bit, before raising an eyebrow at Harry, who flushes under his gaze. When he booked his original appointment, he told Theo that the tattoo was a surprise and Draco wasn’t to know what it was or where he was getting it, but he didn’t actually tell Theo what it was either, just that he wanted it over his heart. Theo called him a cheesy bastard, and he has to agree. He’s a bit of a sap when it comes to Draco.
“Alright, loverboy. Sign these and then let’s go get you set up.”
Theo pushes the consent form he mentioned over to Harry and he signs it with a flourish. Draco kisses Harry on the cheek as Theo heads into the back. “Take care. Don’t scream too loud.”
Pulling Draco into a proper kiss, Harry smiles against his mouth and spins him around by the waist. “You’ll love it. I promise.”
Draco pushes Harry away in the direction of the backroom. “Go on. As long as it’s not a realistic portrait of my face, I’m sure I will.”
“Potter! I’m a busy man!”
“And if it’s my face?”
“Theo wouldn’t dare. Go, before you piss him off.”
Once Theo’s finished preparing the skin and transferring the design of the tattoo on to Harry’s chest, his heart is beating so loud he’s a hundred percent sure Theo can hear it. His hands are clammy and he’s sort of regretting not just telling Draco what he’s getting so that he could’ve held his hand, or something. There’s a quiet buzzing noise from beside him, which Harry assumes is the needle, because he currently has his eyes squeezed shut.
“Potter.”
“Mhm?”
“Open your eyes.”
Harry opens one eye. Then the other, when he sees Theo standing there with the needle and a slightly pitiful look on his face. “Yes?” he squeaks, like the brave man who defeated Voldemort does.
“It’s okay to be nervous, you know. I’m not going to just stab you with this mercilessly and watch you cry.”
“Uhm.” He laughs shakily. “Of course not.”
Theo sits down and places the needle next to him on a tray, then puts a pair of gloves on. “Because it’s only line work the pain shouldn’t be too bad. And the fact that we’re doing a magical tattoo makes it less intense, since your magic will react to the magic of the needle and work together to soothe the pain. Other than that, it’ll be a burning or scratching feeling for a little while. Alright?”
Harry stared at him for a moment, and some of the worry eased in his chest. “You’re surprisingly good at making me feel better.”
Theo laughs and picks up a mirror, angling it towards Harry’s chest. “I do this a lot. The position fine?”
“Yeah. Yeah, perfect.”
“Great. Ready? Just take deep breaths and you’ll be fine.”
“Ready,” Harry says definitively.
After the most uncomfortable half hour of Harry’s life, Theo finishes up the tattoo and applies some kind of ointment over it, before wrapping it up and explaining to Harry what the aftercare is like. Since it’s a magical tattoo, the healing time is way shorter than Muggle tattoos, so it should only take about a week to fully heal. And, of course, there’s a potion for everything.
“He’ll appreciate this a lot, Potter,” Theo says to him under his breath as they go back into the front of the shop. With a wink, he adds, “in more ways than one.”
Draco pays for the appointment as Harry attaches himself to his side and tries to hide his red face on Draco's shoulder. They say goodbye to Theo and leave the shop, Draco wrapping an arm around Harry and planting a kiss on the top of his head before they apparate home.
Trying to hide the tattoo from Draco for the next week while it heals is difficult, to say the least, not just because Draco is a nosy twat when he’s not clued in on something, but because they usually get ready together in their ensuite every morning. Harry has to shut Draco out of the bathroom while he changes the dressing and feels bad about it every time, since he sits outside the door like a lost kitten and pouts at Harry for all of a minute before he lets himself be dragged onto the bed and the pout be kissed from his mouth.
Once the tattoo’s fully healed, Harry gives Draco the honour of peeling off the wrapping (and his shirt), his husband practically bouncing with anticipation. Harry takes his bottom lip into his mouth as he watches Draco gape at his chest.
“Like it?” Harry asks quietly from where he’s sat on his knees with his legs under him.
Draco reaches out a hand, flicking his eyes up to Harry; a question. Harry nods, and Draco traces the length of the ink with a finger, mesmerised as the largest stars in the constellation glow silver like they would in the night sky, illuminating the entirety of the Draco constellation over Harry’s heart. The cool press of Draco’s wedding ring against his skin gives Harry butterflies as he rests his other hand on his cheek, while his right palm spreads out against the full size of the tattoo.
When he meets Harry’s eye again, there’s the sparkle of tears threatening to spill over.
“You big softie,” Draco says rather wetly. He runs his fingers over the tattoo again and it lights up under his touch. “You huge, massive, unbelievably endearing softie.”
“That’s me,” Harry laughs, his hands coming to rest on Draco’s hips, thumbs swiping back and forth in a motion that’s become second nature to him. He dips his head to catch Draco’s lips in a kiss, slow and gentle, and Draco leans into him, sighing and sliding the hand poised over Harry’s tattoo to his waist.
“I love you,” Draco breathes, kissing down Harry’s neck, affectionately nipping the point where Harry’s neck meets his shoulder. “So much.” He keeps going, trailing his mouth down to the tattoo, kissing all of the larger stars of the constellation. “I love this.”
“I love you, too,” Harry says, grinning when Draco comes up to meet his lips again. “Happy birthday to me.”