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Draco knows there is a famous muggle song titled “It’s My Party (I’ll cry if I want to).”
And even if it is /slightly/ dramatic, he does, in fact, want to cry at his party.
Not because his girl was caught with another man like the song suggests — no, his tears will be warranted by frustration, not heartbreak.
He’s spent the evening laughing, drinking, and eating, all good things he presumes, but just weeks before, he told his friends he wanted nothing more than a quiet night.
Alone.
With his wife.
Unfortunately, Pansy, being the extravagant party planner, refused his wishes and organized an over-the-top celebration at his home.
So, for the past few hours on his birthday, he’s watched Hermione play the perfect host, refilling drinks, chatting up guests, and altogether neglecting Draco.
And as the clock ticked later and later, the more he longed to wallow alone in his annoyance.
He manages to sneak away as Hermione says her goodbyes to Harry and makes it just down the hallway toward their bedroom before he hears the familiar sound of heels clicking against the marble floor.
“Hey! Where are you running off to? You haven't opened your present from me yet,” Hermione huffs, jogging along the long hallway to catch up with him.
Draco stops and turns to her. “You are going to grace me with your attention now?”
“You know I was just trying to be a good host.”
“And a good host would have given some regard to the man of the hour.”
“Gods, you're such a prat.”
“So I’ve been told.” He tilts his head to the poster hung on the wall in front of them.
The one of many posters sprawled across their home, a cartoon of a blond man, who, in Draco’s opinion, looked far too childish to actually be a correct representation of himself.
Admittedly, the posters were funny, and even if the cartoon was childish, the characters’ pout was one he’d donned once or twice… a day.
His lips twist into a small half-smile.
“That was my idea. Well, the posters. I saw one of Theo’s doodles of you during a meeting and thought it was cute. The Prince Prat was all Pansy.”
Draco lets out a light chuckle, knowing Pansy was, of course, the brains behind the name-calling.
Hermione waves the tightly wrapped box in the air. “Will you please let me give you your gift now?”
“I suppose.” Draco steps closer to Hermione and grabs her hips, bringing her flush. His annoyance melts away like vapors in the rising sun as their bodies mold together.
“Hi.” She sets one hand on his chest and circles a finger softly over one of the undone buttons of his shirt. “Besides your wife ignoring you all evening, did you at least have a decent time at your party?”
“Decent enough.” He slides a hand across the small of her back, and the subtle hitch in her breath sends his mouth into a mischievous grin.
“Although I enjoyed our party for two from this morning significantly more.” He squeezes her bum firmly, and she lets out a soft squeal of glee.
“As did I,” she says, giggling, “and I promise we will continue, but first, open.”
She pulls back enough to hold out the box. Draco reluctantly takes his hand off her bum and starts tearing through the paper.
Inside the plain cardboard box, he finds a gold-plated replica of a crown. The circular ornament is ostentatious, glowing gold, and full of colored gems.
He rolls his eyes at his wife’s joke. “I thought you said the prince theme wasn’t your idea.”
She shrugs. “It wasn’t. It was Pansy’s after I told her the news. She thought it would be funny.”
“News? Have I become a legitimate Prince, and no one decided to inform me?”
The right side of Hermione's mouth lifts, “Princes don’t wear crowns. Kings do.”
“I’m a little lost here, Granger. If you’d like to fill me in, that would be great.”
“This is the last birthday the theme would work.” She plucks the crown from Draco’s hands and places it on top of his head. “Next year, there will be a little someone who,” she lets out a small sigh. “I can only assume will take your title as Prince /or/ Princess Prat.”
Her cheeks raise, making way for a wide open-mouthed smile.
It takes Draco far too long to realize the sentiment behind her statement and that the welling tears behind her eyes are of joy.
An heir would make him a King.
An heir.
“Granger?” He stops to swallow the emotions rising within him.
A baby.
Hermione nods emphatically, and without another word, he drops the box and lunges toward her.
He wraps his arms around her center, holding her tight, and spins her like kids on a merry-go-round.
A symphony of joyful laughs fills the hall of their home as they cling to each other in celebration. His chest blooms, heart stretching to a size he’s never known before.
Draco lets Hermione's feet drop to the floor softly, and he kisses her hard and fast— a mess of emotions pouring over her lips.
She pulls away, and he tucks a loose curl behind her ear. They stand foreheads together in quiet contentment, letting their breaths go down to a steady pace.
He turns her around, pressing her back into his chest, and snakes his arm around her. He lands his hand on her stomach and runs a thumb over the fabric of her dress. “How dare you call our child a prat,” he says.
They let out a heavy laugh, and a lone tear slides across his cheek, warm and wet.
He did, in fact, cry at his party, and he wanted to.