Just Another Lifetime

Happy birthday, Draco Malfoy.

June 5, 1980

Years later, Draco's mother will say that it was as though he knew what the future held for him when he was born. He doesn't deign to wait for anyone to slap his pink bottom before he begins to wail. Even that is music to Narcissa's ears. He's her firstborn, and she loves him more than she thought possible.

June 5, 1981

Draco is too little to understand the significance of this day, but he certainly likes everyone fawning over him. He goes to bed without having had a single tantrum, and that's a first, too.

June 5, 1982

Draco spends his second birthday sick with a very mild strain of dragon pox. His mother cries a lot and reads him stories in a language he can't understand. His father stands over him for a few moments, then turns to the Mediwizard next to him. "His face isn't going to stay like that, is it?"

June 5, 1983

"This is like Christmas," confides Draco to his mother. "Only better."

Narcissa smoothes her fingers over her son's pale blond hair. "Why is it better?"

"Because everything is for me."

June 5, 1984

His first toy wand. Draco runs around the magnolia orchard, shouting, "Abracadabra!" and waving the wand furiously at every tree and bush in sight.

"What are you doing?" asks his father, chuckling.

Draco gives him a look that's too serious for a boy barely five years old. "I'm killing the evil Muggles," he says. "So they can't take my princess away."

June 5, 1985

His first toy broomstick. Draco streaks up and out into an endless blue expanse -- he's finally found something he loves, really loves. His triumphant cry turns into a shriek as a helicopter passes overhead.

"It's okay, honey," says Narcissa, hugging him close as he hides his tear-stained face in her robes. "It's gone. The Muggles can't hurt you here."

June 5, 1986

His first birthday party. At first, Draco thinks that Crabbe and Goyle are twins; he remains convinced of this until he asks what their surname is. Millicent Bulstrode could be a Crabbe-and-Goyle twin, too, but she's a girl. Pansy Parkinson, who is also a girl, won't shut up about her Kartel™ doll house, and Draco quickly dismisses her as a boring sort. He is most impressed with Blaise Zabini, who has skin and eyes as dark as midnight. Draco thinks he looks like a giant Chocolate Frog, but something tells him Zabini won't like the comparison.

June 5, 1987

Stuffed on lemon cake, Draco and Zabini sit in the shade of a gazebo. "Did Pansy show you, too?" asks Zabini, watching a bee buzz along a drunken arc from blue flower to red.

Draco looks away from the bee and peers at Zabini. "Show me what?"

"Her thing." Zabini's eyes are wide as he points between his legs.

Draco doesn't really want to see Pansy's thing; Goyle said that girls had teeth there. He decides he'd rather to see Zabini's thing instead. "It's my birthday, so you have to," he declares. "When it's your birthday, I'll show you mine."

Zabini's thing turns out to be almost as dark as the rest of him; Draco finds this oddly fascinating.

June 5, 1988

It's the most disappointing birthday in Draco's entire life. All his father gives him is a boring old book on the history of the wizarding world. "You already understand about the Muggles," says Lucius. "Now you must learn some things about other wizards."

Draco is trying not to cry; he had wanted a real broomstick. His mother always gets him dull things for his birthday, and now his father's started to do it, too. Once Draco is safely in his bedroom, he shoves the book onto the highest shelf he can reach and doesn't open it for months.

June 5, 1989

Durmstrang's castle is even bigger than Draco's house, which impresses him so much that he forgets to be excited about his first trip via Portkey. The spindly man named Karkaroff and Draco's father spend more than an hour behind a large wooden door, talking about Draco's future.

"They must be showing off their boy bits to each other," suggests Draco to his mother, who gives a bright, rolling laugh in response. Draco grins back, and wonders when he's going to get his presents.

June 5, 1990

Lucius insists that Draco must see at least some of the world before he goes to school next year. They take trips all over the place, but on Draco's birthday, they're in Cuba. Draco is so in love with the azure vastness of the ocean that he spends all day beneath the scorching sun. When his skin comes off -- like a snake's -- he's terribly excited: now, there is no doubt that he will be in Slytherin when he goes to Hogwarts next year.

June 5, 1991

"Is that my Hogwarts letter?"

Narcissa sighs. "No, Draco, it isn't."

"Why isn't it?" demands Draco.

"It's too early yet."

"That Kraken fellow from Durmstrang was going to take me when I was nine." Draco has mastered the petulant frown by now; it's either going to be a hit with the girls or it's going to get him a cry-baby reputation.

"His name is Karkaroff. And Durmstrang is too far to send my darling boy," says Narcissa, ruffling his hair.

June 5, 1992

"It was a werewolf. Its head was this big," says Draco, spreading his arms out as far as he can reach. He's holding a piece of his birthday cake in one hand; as it crumbles onto the floor, Pansy's pet rat zooms out of nowhere and descends upon the pieces.

"So Potter stayed behind to fight the werewolves?" Daphne Greengrass's mouth is open as she watches Draco tell his tale for the hundredth time.

"Of course not," says Draco with a snort. "He also ran, but the other way. Into harm's way. Gryffindors are stupid like that."

June 5, 1993

"I don't want to hear about Harry Potter and the Flying Hippogriff," snaps Draco irritably, glaring at Pansy. "It's my birthday and the last thing I want is to talk about that speccy git and his wild animal friends and his Invisibility Cloak."

"Jealous, Malfoy?" Zabini stretches out a lean hand and fishes a bottle of Butterbeer from between the sofa cushions. His fingers brush against Draco's thigh, and Draco wonders why it's so hot all of a sudden.

June 5, 1994

"The half-breed French girl has no chance," says Draco with confidence. "She completely botched the Second Task. If you ask me, it'll be Krum."

"Try one of these," urges Pansy, and pushes the Firewhisky-filled chocolates towards him. She's been insufferable since he had taken her to the Yule Ball on a dare from Zabini. Draco rolls his eyes and picks out a chocolate anyway. It's his birthday -- Pansy wouldn't try any of that disgusting kissing on his birthday; she knows how much he doesn't like it.

It's not disgusting when it's Zabini's tongue in his mouth, but Draco doesn't want to think about that on his birthday.

June 5, 1995

"At least I don't have to sit an OWL on my birthday," says Draco glumly as the Slytherins file out of the Charms classroom.

"The reviewing is bad enough," says Goyle. "What if we fail?"

"You'll fail," says Draco. "I won't. Not that it's important anyway."

"Why?" asks Crabbe, falling into step next to him. "Are they going to cancel OWLs?" He looks anxious, yet hopeful.

"Of course not," replies Draco. "But I know something you don't. Something important."

"What is it?" asks Goyle. "Will Professor Umbridge let the Inquisitorial Squad members pass without taking their OWLs?"

"More important than that," says Draco with a mysterious smile. In truth, he doesn't know anything, not really. He just knows he overheard his father talking about doing something for the Dark Lord at the Ministry of Magic.

June 5, 1996

It's ironic, but the best birthday Draco has ever had is today. He lets his bottled-up emotions run free as he capers around the mended Vanishing Cabinet, no longer caring who might hear him from the corridor outside. His birthday present is his family's guaranteed safety. He has never received anything better.

June 5, 1997

The champagne is cheap, but Draco can't bring himself to care; he's drunk on freedom, drunk on lust. Blaise's lower body is covered with a threadbare white sheet, but the swell of his arse makes Draco's heart pound erratically once again.

"Did you ever think," murmurs Blaise, "that we'd be doing this? When we were showing each other our dicks as kids?"

"Not then," says Draco. "Back then, I would have hardly thought I'd be a fugitive from the law."

Blaise flips around and rises up onto his elbows, leaning his head towards Draco's. "It only adds to the sex appeal," he whispers, barely audibly. "Right, birthday boy?"

The door banging open is like a crack of thunder in a clear blue sky. "You're under arrest," says a voice Draco knows all too well, "for-- for--"

For the first time in his life, Draco has done something that left Harry Potter speechless and wide-eyed. As he is shoved into robes and led away, he casts one last look at Blaise, but Blaise has already fled.

June 5, 1998

Azkaban isn't nearly as bad as people say it is. Perhaps it's the lack of Dementors, but it's quite passable, if lonely and mind-numbingly cold. The days all seem to run together; the only reason Draco knows it's his birthday is that the sour-faced turnkey brings a stale cupcake and shoves it into Draco's cell, muttering something about "new humane prison regulations."

Draco eats the cupcake. It tastes bitter, like everything else here.

June 5, 1999

Draco decides that he'll never eat another cupcake in his life. Two are more than enough.

June 5, 2000

He's been out of prison for months, but the chill seems to have settled permanently into his bones. The world is different from the way Draco remembers it. For one, there are barely any former Slytherins left in this country. After all, everyone knew that the Dark Lord enjoyed the most support from Slytherin house. The Dark Lord had lost the war, and there's that proverb about spoils and victories that Draco can't quite recall.

Draco would leave, too, but for his mother. "Your father died here," she said to him, brushing away a thick lock of prematurely grey hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

And so Draco stays, too, and spends his first birthday as a free man at the Leaky Cauldron, tossing back undiscriminating shots of Firewhisky and Red Rum and Crafty Calvados.

"How charming," says a voice.

Draco peers at the source of it, but all he can see is a vague sort of face-shaped blob with something dark on top. He knows the voice, though. "Bugger orf, Potter," he slurs. "'S my birfday."

"Is it? How nice for you. Ginny's never going to have another birthday; did you ever think about that?"

Impossibly, Draco sobers up a little. Too little; the effort of glaring at Potter feels like too much. "I don't give a shit about your stupid dead girlfriend, Potter. Most importantly, I didn't kill her. So piss off."

Wonder of wonders, Potter actually does.

Draco puts his head down on the bar for just a moment and wakes two hours later. The Leaky is almost empty; the barman stands in front of him, swiping a rag that's seen better days over a glass that's seen better nights. Draco's mouth tastes like arse, his forehead has a lead counterweight attached to it, and just like that, he's twenty-one.

June 5, 2001

"So tell me, what made you leave the sunny shores of Italy for this foggy dump?" asks Draco as he and Blaise walk arm-in-arm towards Blaise's flat.

"I didn't really leave," says Blaise. "I heard you were out of prison, so I thought I'd give you a nice welcome back."

"I was out of prison last year," Draco points out, and steers Blaise around a puddle.

Blaise's shrug is almost convincing enough to be apologetic. "You know how news travels on the continent. I didn't find out until last month."

"It took you a whole month to come and see me? I'm insulted," says Draco, realising with sudden horror that he actually means it.

Blaise pulls Draco around and kisses him, in full view of a Diagon Alley-ful of people. "I'll make it up to you," Blaise says as they break apart.

"Can't they wait until they get indoors? Pathetic."

Draco turns around and sees Potter walking by, making an obviously deliberate effort not to look at them.

"Oh right," Draco calls after him. "It's not okay for us to hate the Muggles, but it's okay for you to hate the gays?"

Potter turns around. "I don't hate gays," he says, a touch too defensively. "I hate you."

"Well, happy birthday to him, too," whispers Blaise in Draco's ear, and Draco can't help but laugh.

June 5, 2002

Blaise's stay only lasted four short months, but those months helped Draco get some of his old perspective back. Azkaban's icy memory was gone from him almost entirely, and he is looking forward to life, whatever it brings.

"Happy birthday, my darling boy," says Narcissa, and kisses his forehead the way she used to when he was a boy.

But he isn't, not any more, and she's going to have to live with that. "Mother--"

An owl through the window interrupts him. Draco unrolls a thin roll of parchment, reads it, and thinks his eyes will be permanently stuck in goggle-mode from this day forth.

The note reads:

Happy birthday.
HP

June 5, 2003

Potter's still a little too free with the teeth, but there is no better way to start a day than a blow job. Especially if it's your birthday.

June 5, 2004

"Come on, it'll be fun," says Finnigan with a broad grin and a wink reminiscent of a Knockturn Alley Happy Pills peddler. "No one said you're supposed to be bored on your birthday just because Harry's away."

Draco shrugs. "I wasn't planning to sit on my arse and be bored, if you must know."

"Oh yeah? What were you going to do? Sit on your arse and crochet a 'Welcome Home' doormat for when Harry comes back?"

That stings, and not just because it isn't true. Draco suddenly realises that that's exactly how other people must see him: famous Harry Potter's faithful little reformed-criminal wife. Never mind that they aren't actually married.

"Where are we going again?" he asks, stepping into his shoes.

The party's in Glasgow; it turns out to be... sexually themed. When people find out that Draco is 'the birthday boy', they all want a go at him; some with no more than a kiss, others with much more, and there is more alcohol than Draco ever knew existed.

A red-haired wizard from Edinburgh is so very skilled at rimming that Draco practically begs to be fucked, even though he can barely talk at this point. He feels free, though, as free as he'd felt on that tatty mattress with Blaise, before Azkaban.

June 5, 2005

Draco opens one eye and sees Harry standing in the doorway to their bedroom. "We're out of coffee," Harry says. "I'll just go and get some. Don't go running off to any sex parties while I'm gone?"

It's a bad joke, and Draco scowls up at him. There is only one way Draco knows how to say sorry, and he's already done that. Twice. "Do we have to bring it up today? It's my birthday."

Something savage flashes in Harry's eyes, and in that instant, his careful mask of cheer crumbles. "I hate your fucking birthday," Harry snarls, and then he's gone.

June 5, 2006

"Happy birthday, Draco," simpers Pansy. Even all these years in Australia haven't changed her, but strangely, Draco's glad to have her here. At least he isn't alone.

Crabbe and Goyle look up from nursing their identically girly drinks. "Happy birthday, Malfoy," they say in unison, very formally.

Draco spies a familiar shock of black hair behind Goyle's enormous head, and cranes his neck to see better. He wishes he hadn't. Harry's with that Quidditch player, what's-his-face, and Draco can't stem the outpouring of rage that overwhelms him.

He knows what Harry must have felt, two years ago.

No, he realises. He doesn't. Draco's adventure in Glasgow meant nothing; he still felt the same way about Harry afterward. Still feels the same way now.

Harry, though. Harry's clearly moved on. Perhaps it is time for Draco to do the same.

June 5, 2007

Draco's "3 years till I'm 30" party is a smashing success. Even his mother is dancing -- with Ludo Bagman, of all people. Draco sits leaning against one of the arches in the Manor's courtyard and scans the crowd for likely prey.

"Hi." That voice. Everything in Draco's life always starts and ends with that voice.

Draco doesn't even look at him. "Glad you made it," he says. "Didn't think you were going to show up."

"I didn't think so, either."

Draco can't help it; he glances over. Harry is alone. "Why didn't you bring-- what's his face?"

"We broke up," says Harry. He doesn't sound particularly broken-up about it.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that," says Draco. Of course, he means not a word of it, but there are rules to this game.

Harry gives him a shrewd look. "Are you really?"

"Were you happy?" asks Draco, raising an eyebrow.

Harry looks away. "No."

"Then I'm not sorry to hear it," says Draco.

"I really just wanted to give you this," mutters Harry after a strained silence. He holds out his hand; it's a thickly rolled sheaf of parchment.

Draco doesn't need to unroll it to see what it is. He wrote that letter right after Harry found out about the sex party. When Harry would refuse to talk to him, refuse to look at him, refuse to touch him. Draco poured everything out into that letter; it was the single most honest thing he has ever done in his life, and right now the idea of Harry having actually read it made him cringe inwardly. He never gave it to Harry; they ended up having raw, angry make-up sex in the shower a week later.

He takes the letter carefully, wishing it would just vanish. When it doesn't, Draco shoves it into his pocket. "Thanks," he mutters.

As though on cue, the song changes to a slow one, and people on the dance floor sort of stand around for a few seconds before they begin to partner up and get closer.

"I like this song," says Harry.

Draco laughs. "Everyone does. Go on, find someone to dance with."

"I already have."

Hours later, after all the guests had gone from downstairs and the house-elves had cleared away the party's remains, Harry bent over Draco's exhausted, sweaty form, and whispered, "Happy birthday."

"It's not been my birthday for at least an hour," mumbles Draco, and finds Harry's hand under the sheets.

Harry plants a careful, slow kiss on Draco's shoulder. "Happy late birthday, then. Was it?"

"Was it what? Late?"

"Happy."

"Yeah."

[end]