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Harry bends over the worktable in the bakery’s kitchen, squinting in the shaft of moonlight, breathing as shallowly as he can.
The shaft of moonlight is cut with a bowl shape. Draco’s got a bowl of icing curing overnight, and Harry badly wants to stick his tongue into it.
But he doesn’t. He focuses. He’s got a job to do.
Draco keeps his recipes in a leather-bound book in a chest made of solid oak. Every page is filled with his fancy Victorian script, the words so tiny Harry can barely read them with glasses.
He’s not wearing glasses now. It’s the middle of the night, and he’s snuck out of bed to look at the icing recipe.
To steal it, actually.
Er…borrow it.
To copy it.
That sounds bad. To—to duplicate it. For a bit of subterfuge, yeah, but it’s for a really good cause.
He hears a creak upstairs and freezes, listening hard, his quill hovering above the parchment.
No footsteps, though.
Harry keeps copying.
The icing recipe has more provisions for more contingencies than most potions Harry’s tried to brew in his life. Every phase of the moon has its own provision. So does every phase of the day. There are provisions for seasonal contingencies, holidays, freak weather events, normal weather events, and varying levels of humidity.
Thing is, even though Harry works at the bakery now, he hasn’t memorised the recipes. He couldn’t, like, recite them or anything. So he’s got to take them down by hand.
He’s nearly at the end of a six-month-long project of gathering the recipes one by one and smuggling them to Molly, who’s in charge of the cake.
The cake. For Draco’s birthday. Which is next Thursday.
And the surprise party, which is also next Thursday.
Harry rubs his eyes with his free hand. God, this recipe is so much. It’s, like, a hundred nested recipes. And any one of them could mean total failure and ruin and destruction.
He can’t leave out any of the provisions for the contingencies!
Harry catches sight of his blurred form in a hanging pot and, not for the first time, realises he’s a prat.
“Wizard.” He points at his own reflection. “Magic.”
Then Banishes his quill, lays his fingers gently on the recipe book, and thinks Geminio.
The recipe duplicates.
And then it duplicates again.
And again.
A stack of cut parchment flutters higher on the worktable. A foot high. Two feet. Harry slaps his hand on the top of it. “Not that much fucking Geminio!”
Probably not the right incantation, but the stack seems to get the idea. It shrinks under Harry’s palm until it’s probably only fifty copies of the icing recipe and provisions for contingencies instead of two hundred. Harry Shrinks it more until the whole stack is the size of a deck of cards, then shoves it into the pocket of his shorts. One more quick spell has the recipe book back in its treasure chest.
“Lumos,” says Draco from the kitchen door. Caught in the violent spray of light, Harry nearly has a coronary. He spends his last breath’s worth of energy on slapping his hand into the bowl of icing on the windowsill, then shoving most of his hand into his mouth. The bowl unbalances, tipping loudly against the wooden sill. “Harry, what on earth?”
The icing is so bloody good. Harry turns, blood hot in his cheeks, and pulls his fingers out of his mouth. “Hi!”
Draco’s got a matching dressing gown over his silk button-up pyjamas, and Harry really, really wants to take it all off him. He’s got his hair on the top of his head in a slept-in bun that Harry really wants to take down. He’s got a wide-eyed, sleepy look about him, which Harry really wants to just…look at.
Draco dims his Lumos a bit, glancing from Harry to the windowsill. The bowl finally stops spinning with a thunk. “Mon éclair, you don’t have to sneak. I have nearly unlimited icing. What’s gotten into you?”
“I—” Harry’s still got a lot of icing in his mouth. He wants to savour it, too, since it’s so good. It’s the sort that’s made with moonlight. He cannot think of a single excuse that isn’t the truth. “I’m a creep,” he starts, and then can’t think of the next bit without singing it aloud. “I’m a weirdo,” he sings through the frosting. “What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belooong here.”
Draco rolls his eyes, but he also laughs. “You belong in bed. Come along.”
Harry goes along, careful not to touch the recipes in his pocket.
At the door to the stairs, Draco looks down at him, lips softly pursed. “You’ve got icing all over your face, Potter. What did you do? Scoop it out of the bowl with your fingers like that yellow bear?”
“Yeah,” Harry admits, and lets Draco kiss the icing off. “You’re so fucking special,” he sings softly as Draco gets a streak of icing off Harry’s cheek with the tip of his tongue. “I wish I was special.”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Come to bed.”
Thing is, Harry’s learnt over the last year that Draco’s weird about pubs and restaurants sometimes. Anyplace with lots of people in it. Harry’s plenty weird about those places, too, which is probably why he didn’t notice at first that it’s purposeful, how Draco never sees anyone when they go in.
Because people are weird about Draco, sometimes. People are arseholes sometimes.
So Draco doesn’t notice them, most of the time.
Which is sort of why, when Pansy yanked Harry forcefully aside in January and hissed start planning, Potter Harry just stared at her for thirty seconds and then said er…what?
“Draco’s birthday,” she said, like that should’ve been obvious. “You’ve got to throw him a party.”
“What?”
“A party is when you—”
“I know what a party is. Draco doesn’t like parties.”
“Nonsense. Draco loves parties. He wouldn’t do anything so gauche as throw himself a birthday party.”
Harry thought about it. “He has people ’round to the flat all the time,” he argued. “He knows about hors-d’oeuvres.”
“That’s entirely different, and you know it.”
“How is it—”
“Birthday,” Pansy said, very close to his face. “Party. Plan one. For Draco. Do it properly, Potter.”
“Or else what?”
Pansy just smiled at him.
Harry got up at six the next morning and started planning.
Waiting for Thursday is torture.
Harry’s time is split between working at Park & Sons, the private investigation and curse-breaking agency he and Pansy started last year, and working as an assistant at Sweet to Your Taste.
Draco wouldn’t let Harry put blowjob assistant in Victorian script on the front of his uniform apron for some reason, but that’s mostly what Harry is. When there aren’t any customers, he flirts shamelessly with Draco. Sometimes when there are customers. Some of them, Harry’s learnt, don’t know that he and Draco live together and think they’re a real-life radio programme or something. Helps a lot that Draco orders Harry to be professional at least thrice a shift, and he’s almost always joking.
Harry is professional. It’s not like he tucks himself into the little space beneath the register and holds Draco’s cock in his mouth when there are customers.
That was only the once.
Harry only does that sometimes, when Draco’s got to stay awake or get up really early for baking.
Waiting is still torture, though, because Harry’s got to choose not to blurt out the surprise every second. He’s got to choose it manually. Every second.
On the bright side, they shag a lot. Harry’s not going to make it, otherwise.
Maybe he is a creep.
On Draco’s birthday, Harry wakes at three in the morning and can’t go back to sleep.
Everything’s in place for the party. Everything. Pansy made him write out a party planning master document in February, and she checked it over weekly after that, so, like, there’s nothing left to do but keep his mouth shut until six.
By five a.m., when Draco turns over, stirring even though they decided he should get to sleep in on his birthday, Harry is about to burst out of his skin.
Draco must sense it, because he jolts upright in the bed and grabs Harry’s chin, pulling him close. “What are you doing?”
“I’m—” Harry takes stock of himself. He is sitting cross-legged on the bed, back straight, a box clutched in his hands. He’s been…well, he’s been staring at Draco while he slept, deciding manually, each passing moment, not to shout Happy Birthday I’ve planned a surprise party for you and I want you to like it. “I’m proposing.”
Draco’s grip tightens on his chin. “Prove to me that you’re awake and un-Cursed.”
“I’m a creep,” Harry sings, his voice wobbling. “I’m a weirdooooo. I want a perfect husband. Please marry me. I’m serious.” Then he pushes the ring box into Draco’s chest. “Happy birthday!”
Draco smiles hugely, his teeth flashing in the new light, his pale skin getting rosier by the second. “Are you mad?”
“Probably. Will you, though?”
Without letting go of Harry’s face, Draco Summons his wand, then Summons something else.
Another ring box.
“Here, you utter weirdo,” he says, and pushes that box into Harry’s chest. “Now I haven’t anything for your birthday.”
“You’ve still got time,” Harry squeaks.
Even the very long and involved shag after that—the one with both of them wearing their new engagement bands and Harry facedown over a stack of pillows, Draco’s hand curled possessively around his nape and horny drool all over the sheets—can’t totally take the edge off Harry’s nerves.
He’s acting like a total weirdo by the time Draco flips the sign to close the bakery and beckons to Harry. “Wash up. We’re going out.”
“What?” Harry wheezes.
“You’ve been out of your mind all day, and I’ve no idea why.” Draco holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers. The silver band glints cheerily. “You proposed. I accepted. And then I also proposed. I can only assume you’re hungry.”
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, hoping it’s convincing. “Can we please go to the Nettle and Lark?”
Draco’s face softens. “My darling, you don’t have to go there on my account.”
“No. I really want it.” Because Harry is going to have a stroke if he fucks this up. His eyes fill with tears. “I really want it, Draco. I know it’s your birthday.”
The tiniest hint that Harry might cry has Draco across the bakery in a few strides, and then he’s got Harry up against the wall, less so Draco can kiss him than so Draco can crush him lovingly, with all his strength, until Harry can breathe again.
Harry forcibly pretends there is no party, after that. It’s the only way he’ll survive.
He lets Draco choose his outfit. He lets Draco wash his hair. He lets Draco dress him.
At fifteen minutes to six, they leave for the Nettle and Lark. Harry clutches Draco’s hand extremely normally. Draco chats about recipe provisions. Harry’s floating above his body when they reach the pub. He opens the door for Draco like an automaton.
There’s a bit of green ribbon tied to the handle, which is a secret code from Pansy. It means act normally for once in your bloody life, Potter.
Harry breathes.
“Oh, good!” Draco points. “Our booth is open.”
He likes a certain booth towards the middle of the pub, and he just starts walking over there.
Oh, holy bollocks. Harry’s done it.
Because Draco doesn’t notice.
He doesn’t notice anyone, so he doesn’t notice that every single other table at the pub is full of people. He doesn’t notice that every single one of those people is one of their friends. There are at least five Weasleys. Half of Slytherin house. Dean Thomas has his hand over Seamus Finnigan’s mouth, and Seamus has his eyes closed like he’s got to meditate to get through it.
They get to their booth, and Harry tugs on Draco’s hand.
This is the last part. This is the last bit he’s got to do, and he’ll have made it. He literally defeated Tommy R, but Harry’s sweating like an actual recipe thief.
“Er…Draco?”
Draco arches an eyebrow at him. “You already proposed.”
“I know. I just—er. I wanted to say—”
Harry’s heart hasn’t beat this fast since the first time he died. People are getting quiet all around them, the conversations falling away, and Draco’s got to notice soon. He’s just got to.
“I wanted to say happy birthday.”
Draco opens his mouth.
Everyone in the pub shouts surprise!
Draco spends the next twenty minutes deeply flushed up to the tips of his ears and down to the hollow of his throat. He chivvies Harry around the pub with him, showing off their rings and accepting hugs and smiling so big his dimple shows. Pansy puts party hats on them both. Draco gets a gleaming badge that says birthday boy.
Then, when Harry’s on the verge of screaming from the sheer relief of it all, Draco drags him past the pub kitchen to a supply closet, pops Harry in, and puts him up against the wall.
They kiss furiously for a few minutes, Draco’s hands tight on him, Harry safe between his body and the wall.
Then, when Harry’s on the verge of coming in his trousers, Draco turns him around, pushes his jeans and pants down, and casts all over him.
Thing is, being rimmed enthusiastically is very soothing to Harry’s nervous system.
So he’s feeling very pleased and floaty when Draco stands up and casts a few more spells, then nudges his cock between Harry’s cheeks.
“I’m so impressed,” he murmurs into Harry’s ear. “Six months is such a long time, mon éclair.”
“No,” Harry whinges. “Surprise.”
“Yes. I was surprised. But I knew you were plotting something all along.”
“How?”
“You’re quite transparent.”
To Draco, he probably is.
Draco moves behind his back. There’s a quiet pop, like a jar opening.
Then one of Draco’s hands is on Harry’s waist, easing his hips backwards. Harry braces himself on the wall and lets Draco in and in and in, the perfect stretch and fullness making all his stress melt like sugar.
Draco presses himself tight to Harry’s back. His lips brush Harry’s cheek, and Harry turns his head towards the touch. His party hat tumbles gently askew, falling most of the way off his head.
Which is when Draco slides three of his fingers into Harry’s mouth.
They’re coated in moonlight icing.
Harry moans, because what else is he supposed to do?
“I stole your icing recipe,” he confesses sloppily around Draco’s fingers.
“I know,” Draco murmurs, and pulls out a bit. Thrusts back in. He finds his rhythm easily, and Harry could stay there forever, really. “But it wasn’t for me, was it?”
“No,” Harry double-confesses. “I didn’t want it if it wasn’t your recipe. Even for one night.”
Draco laughs and fucks him a bit harder.
“And it was also for you,” says Harry, pleasure soaring along his newly calmed nerves. “Marry me?”
Draco’s other hand slips around Harry’s throat. “I love you, too.”
