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Valentine's Day, 1st year.
Draco Lucius Malfoy comes back from his last class of the day disgruntled, tossing a book bag filled with confectionary hearts that squeaked compliments at him and small stuffed animals on his bed. He is uninterested in the gifts, but he puts them all in a small chest under his bed anyway because he was taught as a child that throwing away gifts was rude and no matter how it looked to others, Malfoys lived and breathed for their public image.
Imagine his surprise when he looks over at his pillow to find a silver-colored quill, the feather appearing softer than silk, laying on the pillow of his private room. Hesitantly, he leans over and snags it from the pillow to discover it's not only silver-colored—it is made of solid silver, though is somehow light to the touch. He smiles a small smile that barely touches his lips and twirls it in his fingers, wondering at the possibilities of magic.
He looks backwards, sideways, searching every nook and cranny of his room, but there isn't anyone but him. He hopes at least to find a note to go with the thoughtful gift, but he discovers none and is disappointed. He is sure that the gift isn't from any of his friends—Blaise had neither the finesse or the mind set to gift Draco for Valentine's Day and Pansy wasn't a fan of the holiday in general. Crabbe and Goyle probably hadn't realized that it even was a holiday, and Nott was broke (likely from his habit of buying books every time he took a visit to Hogsmead).
He brushes it off, knowing himself well enough to realize that refusing gifts—especially as lovely as the one in his slender hand—was not in his nature, telling himself that it had nothing to do with the gift being the single most romantic thing that had happened in the entirety of the day, his using it afterwards. He just didn't want it to go to waste.
Right.
Valentine's Day, 2nd year.
After a year with no leads on his mysterious Valentine's gift-giver, Draco is stunned to find a snitch on his pillow the following Valentine's Day. It's a pretty little thing, silver as opposed to gold, with wings that gently flap as if under a spell. He casts a quick charm that tells him it is in fact spelled to gently flutter above his pillow until he himself does the enchantment.
He does and plucks it out of the air, the wings falling dormant. He could awaken it now as a normal snitch, but he doesn't think he really wants to; it's so pretty and besides which, he has several other practice snitches, anyway. He sets it down on his bedside table and murmurs the spell he vaguely remembered Marcus Flint teaching him his first year on the Quidditch team to ensure he knew everything possible about the game, during a presentation on the general makeup of the little ball. It flutters gently next to a bottle of ink on the table, above a small piece of parchment and confused, he takes up the note and reads it with piqued curiosity.
Draco,
It's nothing big, though it cost a pretty penny. Feel free to do whatever with it. Play with it or just watch it zip around your room if you want. I hope you like it.
Happy Valentines day,
BWL
He touches the toy and it stops fluttering long enough for him to toss it from one hand to the other with a smile on his face. It's beautiful and he murmurs the compliment out loud as if he thinks his admirer will hear it. With a sigh, he sets it down next to the quill which he still uses, a year later. His smile is the first genuine one of the day.
Valentine's Day, 3rd year.
Draco thinks he's much smarter this year by staying his room- feigning being quite ill, though he's almost positive that Professor Snape (who had recently asked him to 'please refrain from calling him 'Uncle Severus' while in school') knows he's not really sick at all. He had mentioned the quill to the man once, as well as the snitch, which is laying on his table, fluttering its wings slow enough to keep him on the solid surface, as if it knows how depressed he is that he has not yet seen a glimpse of his admirer.
Nearly two, far enough after lunch, he manages to fall asleep, dreaming uneasy dreams about green eyes and shaggy black hair. He's been having dreams like that a lot lately, not that he's complaining—they're good dreams, if a bit redundant and likely impossible in real life. When he wakes, he's blushing slightly from the sickly-sweetness of his own imagination and cursing himself for his foolish school-boy crush—at least until he looks over and sees, on the pillow next to the one he normally uses, a glinting silver chain.
Upon closer inspection he realizes it's not just a chain—it has words on it in all capital black letters. First he read "DRACO MALFOY" and snorted because really, who would wear something with their name on it like that besides a girl? Besides that, it was a tacky thing; you couldn't pay him enough. However, he caught sight of the necklace again as the words magically shifted, capturing his full attention. "POTTER STINKS," it now reads and laughs out loud, holding it up to the light and watching it shift back and forth for a while, simply amused.
He looks around and doesn't see a note to accompany the gift. He frowns, a bit disappointed, but in the end he just strings the gift around his neck and played with the black letters as the snitch, now far more energized as Draco had come to get used to after charming it to react to his moods, flew around his head happily. He watched it fly with a much brighter look in his grey eyes.
Valentine's Day, 4th year.
Draco sits on the edge of his bed, waiting impatiently for his next present. He is beginning to think they are somehow being charmed to his room instead of being hand-delivered and the thought is daunting. After three hours of endless waiting that is efficiently driving him mad, he leaves the room in a huff and marches down to the kitchen. He doesn't so much tickle the pear as scratches it in his irritation and leaves nearly five minutes later with enough food to last him till morning. He sighs his way back to his room before dropping the food with a half-squeal when he sees the sunlight from the window glinting off of metal on his pillow. He feels like a sap for being more excited to read the note than see his present.
I noticed you liked the last piece of jewelry I gave you; I thought you would perhaps like this one. The subject matter isn't as amusing as the last one, but something tells me you can appreciate beauty when presented with it. If it doesn't please you, just don't wear it.
BWL
His index finger carresses the glimmering emerald set in between a set of snakes. The silver ring reflects light off of it and he picks up the cool metal, sliding it onto his right index finger. Much like his last gift, he is enchanted and bites his lip to avoid breaking out into a smile, failing spectacularly. He grabs his quill and a piece of parchment.
Malfoys don't deal out thanks often, but thank you. The gifts are beautiful.
DM
The next morning his return note is gone.
Valentines Day, 5th year.
Draco is whining to himself, sitting in the Slytherin common room with Blaise after classes. He had skipped them again that day and is now blatantly complaining about the trouble it takes to leave his rooms in fifteen-minute-intervals, just hoping that every time he went back his newest gift would be waiting for him.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" Blaise asks him at one point, scribbling an essay for Professor Binns. Draco pouts at him and his friend chuckles. "No, really, Drake. You're acting like a lovesick girl, and you don't even know who they're from. Maybe they won't leave you a present this year."
"They have to!" he snaps, but he bites his lower lip in sudden worry. "They have every single year so far and if they stop, I'll—" He cuts himself off because he's not sure what he'll do but he's sure it'll be bad. Blaise laughs at him and he's not sure how to follow up his previous statement in a way that will make him seem less like a "lovesick girl" and instead stomps off back to his room, convincing himself that he wasn't.
But that doesn't excuse his squeal of joy as he sees the new pin on his pillow. He rushes over and snags it from the silk, his grin face-splitting, and he watches as it flashes from a picture of a gorgeous green snake to a picture of Harry Potter being blown up by the contents of a cauldron. He laughs as it flashes "SO WHAT IF HE'S THE BOY WHO LIVED? HE CAN'T EVEN PASS POTIONS!"
A twang of guilt hits him as he continues to chuckle, pinning it to his vest proudly. Lately, he's found himself watching the Boy-Who-Lived more than necessary, not that he'll ever admit that out loud. He strokes the pin absently, forcing himself to forget his stupid crush. Besides, the little animated Potter in the pin was cute. Not that he's looking.
Valentine's Day, 6th year.
He lays on his bed, his hands laced behind his head. He watches his snitch flutter around the ceiling, musing to himself. Another year had passed with more presents and no leads and he was getting desperate. If he's being honest with himself, he has a vague idea of what he wants his mystery admirer to be like.
Personally, he prefers the idea of it being a man, with untidy post-shag black hair that falls in his eyes and covers a lightning bolt scar the entirety of the wizarding world knows well. He pictures green eyes, the same shade of green as the emerald in his ring and smiles. Quidditch muscles and tanned skin, warm and delicious…
He brings himself out of his fantasy, a bit put off by the fact that he's caught himself daydreaming about Harry bloody Potter of all stupid heros and though he's not surprised, he's still disappointed that he's still completely infatuated. He knows, in all honesty, that he really wants it to be Potter, but he figures that there isn't any way it could be with all of the Potter-bashing. He thinks sulkily that only in his wildest fantasies would Potter like him enough to send him those things.
After a short food break, he comes back to find a set of cufflinks, silver, with the Malfoy crest on them. They are obviously specially ordered and though he doesn't smile, he feels warmer inside
Draco,
One more year, Draco. I love you.
BWL
This is only going to drive him mad for one more year…
Valentine's Day, 7th year.
The day is horrifically uneventful and he's—unsurprisingly—relieved when he goes to bed that night without anything new to show for it. He had been hoping the whole day that he would be empty handed, for the simple fact that if he was, it would mean that his admirer was no longer at Hogwarts.
He knows himself well enough to know that he hopes it was Potter.
Valentine's Day, 8th year.
He holds a note in familiar handwriting in trembling hands, thinking in the back of his mind that this is his last gift, his last year of being properly wooed. He finds he'll miss it and that somehow, he'd developed serious feelings for someone he didn't know at all. He felt almost pathetic for it.
Draco,
I've been in love with you for seven years by now, and it feels like centuries. It's our last year, Draco, and if I don't tell you now, you and I will likely never speak again. Still, where is the fun in the game if you're told the answer? Here's a hint, and if you don't have it figured out by the last day, then I'll tell you myself.
Here goes: BWL aren't the initials of my name. They're the initals of my nickname.
I love you,
BWL
He blinks in disbelief his eyes going from the letter to the array of gifts he has laid out on his bed. BWL? He can't possibly guess—his eyes land the pin he wears whenever he's feeling particularly vindictive and the pieces slide into place.
BWL?
BWL.
Boy Who Lived.
He finds he's not totally sure what he's doing, just that he has to find Potter—no, Harry. There is no way he can just call him "Potter" like he isn't something more, like he hasn't been completely head-over-heels in love with him consciously for the past three and a half years, and unconsciously for what's probably been longer than that. It's three in the afternoon, but it's Valentine's Day and the Professors of this particular seventh year class have long since given up making them attend classes.
He rushes out of his room, tugging a cloak on and Blaise stops him before he gets to the door, grabbing his arm before he can escape. "You look half-insane, Draco. What's up?" he asks, obviously concerned, but Draco is panting with exersion, trying to get away so he can go find the green-eyed boy wonder.
"Blaise, come on!" he manages and pulls on his arm again. "This is important! I have to find him before curfew and you know how huge this school is—"
"Did the admirer tell you who he-she-it is?" Blaise asks, clearly surprised and Draco shakes his head, clearly tempted to begin whining if that's what it takes to make his friend let him go. "Then how—"
"He hinted at it, please!" He's practically begging and Blaise knows he doesn't do that unless he's really desperate and with a defensive gesture he lets go and Draco dashes toward the common room, still in a pair of black slippers and he pads through the halls, checking all major walkways and hang-out spots.
He's disappointed when he's still out of luck an hour later, tired, and beginning to sweat. He still has no idea where Harry is and everyone he's asked has ignored him, probably assuming that he wants to start a fight despite the fact he'd asked quite clearly in a hopeful voice whether they knew where Harry was.
He sees Professor McGonagal a little ways away, by the entrance to the great hall and he picks up his pace, calling "Professor!" She pauses, giving him the sour look she often sends in the direction of his housemates. It turns to confusion soon enough as she notes the excitement in his eyes. He tries to hide it, feeling almost exposed, in a way, but he continues anyway. "Professor, do you know where Harry is?"
She blinks and Draco is just hoping she'll know… and be willing to tell him. "Why?"
"Because I have to talk to him!"
"You mean start a fight, Mr. Malfoy?" He grimaces at her tone, not quite mocking but certainly not friendly and he wants to tell her the truth—wants to tell someone, make it real. He needs to say it and it's easier than coming up with a cover up story anyway. He prays he's right about it being Harry because if he's not, he's in for a lot of embarrasment. He forces his anxiety away.
"No," he answers quickly. "I just—Harry's been—I found out about these presents he's been leaving me on Valentine's Day, and I want to talk to him about it… that's all!"
He watches as her jaw goes slack before she chuckles and waves him away. "You know what, Mr. Malfoy? I’m not going to ask for the specifics. He's with Professor Flitwick, working on the project for the seventh year presentation for the children in Hogsmead. Just don't cause any trouble."
His answering smile is so wide it hurts his face and he answers in what's almost a cheer—"Thank you so much, Professor!"—and with that said he rushes off toward the classroom in question, walking as quickly as he can.
He bursts into the room some three odd minutes later, effectively startling both their teacher and the three heros, laughing at the look on Harry's face. His expression goes from shocked to mortified—had he not expected Draco to figure it out?—and he looks down, examining a scroll far more intently than he had to.
"Harry," he says clearly, ignoring how stupefied Granger looks and how angry the Weasel seems to be getting because Harry's cheeks are turning a darker shade of pink than they were before and he grins in success because clearly he was right. Harry looks up at him, green eyes half-weary, though he's obviously fighting the urge to look away again.
"What do you want, Dr—Malfoy?"
"Just to thank you," he says, trying to come off as sly and instead coming off as infatuated. "For all of the gifts you've been leaving me these past—what, seven years?" Harry's lips press together and the color of his cheeks keeps getting darker. He bites his lip, starting to feel a bit self conscious. "Harry-"
Ron interrupts, looking like he's about to explode. "Like you have any right to call him that, you little ferret face!" He snaps at the blonde and Draco feels a sharp crack of doubt settle through him. Surely, if Harry liked him—if he had liked him, for years, than it would be common knowledge between the three of them, wouldn't it? There was always the option that Harry had been keeping it quiet, but something told him the brunette wasn't one for dirty little secrets.
Biting his lip a bit harder, he looks down, feeling shamefaced but looks up again with a hopeful smile when he hears the savior—his savior—snap at his friend.
"Leave him alone, Ron!"
"It… was you, wasn't it, Harry? Who left the presents?" he asks cautiously because he's seriously doubting himself now. He flushes and looks down at his slippers when Hermione speaks up, her gaze calculating, going between the two of them.
"What presents?" she asks and Harry sighs, giving Draco a look that said couldn’t this have waited? But they both know it couldn't have and Draco is praying that Harry knows, that Harry is the one he's been hoping he's been. He'll still have feelings for the savior either way, but even so… this way is just so much easier he can't help but hope.
Then Harry sighs and says, "The first year, there was a quill—"
And Hermione cuts him off, sounding almost arch about the whole thing. "The silver one that I said I wanted?" When he nods, seeming more tired than irritated by her question and Ron is seething next to them. "Figures." She sounds almost amused by this and gestures for him to continue.
"Second year, it was a… a snitch, wasn't it?" Draco nods and let him continue. "Then there was a necklace, and a ring after that… then the pin, I think. Then, sixth year I left him a pair of cufflinks because of course he's the type of person to wear them." Draco blushes and resists the urge to swat him on the arm until the brunette gives him a surprisingly impish grin and he gives in, slapping him lightly.
"You forgot the note," he says softly, feeling a little out of place for smiling the way he is in public, but Harry is smiling back and he feels him slide an arm around his waist, pulling him in closer for the first time and it's so bloody perfect he feels like crying because after all this time, Harry is finally his.
"That doesn't count."
"It counts," he disagrees, looking up at him through blonde eyelashes and Harry's lips twitch into another smile. "Almost more than the rest of the gifts. They're all wonderful, so that's saying something." He tries not to blush, feeling embarrassed for being so open about it and Harry tilts his chin up. He has to force himsel to look away from those gorgeous eyes.
"Draco?" he says softly and he meets brillinat green with bright grey.
"Yes?" Draco replies, melting under the force of his gaze. He feels warm all over and he wishes that he could just kiss him then and there, Malfoy morals and audience aside. He has been waiting so long, after all…
"Shut up," he whispers sweetly, the tone taking the bite out of the words, and Draco figures that Harry can read his mind because his lips are met with the brunette's and he throws his arm around his neck in an attempt to keep him there forever because he really doesn't want to let go. He just knows that Hermione is smirking, can feel her gaze on the and he can hear Ron blubbering his protests in shock, but he doesn't care because Harry is lifting him up into his arms and he feels safe and loved.
Valentine's Day, 10 years later.
Draco gets home to an empty flat, but he doesn't complain because his home is warm and lived-in and it's Valentine's Day besides and if he knows his husband, he has something waiting for him.
He sets the groceries on the kitchen counter and pads into the bedroom, smiling when he sees the note on his green pillow—green, to match his beloved's eyes—and reaches over to grab it. The minute his fingers make contact he is grabbed and the activated portkey whirls him away until he's landing, surprised and slightly confused, in the middle of his favorite restaurant.
The people around them—strangers for the most part—are clapping and he's pulled into Harry's arms, laughing.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Dragon," he hears whispered into his ear and he laughs louder, pulling back to kiss his husband lightly.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he answers and they take their seats, hands still connected over the table.