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Harry Potter hates his birthday, or at least he had for the first eighteen years of his life. When he was young, it was the lack of presents, cake and attention that all other little boys seemed lavished with on their birthdays. The Dursleys, if they remembered at all, tended to throw whatever they’d had lying about his way and told him to be grateful for it. When he’d turned eleven, his overall outlook had improved, he’d found out he was a wizard after all…magic at his fingertips and an entire world waiting to be discovered, but that still meant summer birthdays on Privet Drive.
When he’d turned fifteen, he’d learned of the prophecy that had robbed him of his parents. Another point against his birthday. Who wanted to celebrate the day that foretold a lifetime of pain and public scrutiny? Not Harry. No, his birthday was just another reminder that he had no parents. A day that stole away any chance at a normal childhood and left him branded with an ugly scar and a lifetime’s worth of trauma.
And so, the summer after eighth year, when he’d walked into Grimmauld after a particularly grueling day of Auror training…he had tried his best to muster an iota of enthusiasm for the group of very obviously thrilled friends waiting to yell, “Surprise!”
He had smiled at the brightly painted banner, jovially flashing “Happy Birthday Harry and Neville!” The letters were gold and red, and Harry tried not to exhaust further under the reminder of a House he wasn’t sure he really fit into anymore. Hermione’s eyes had been so hopeful, Ron’s own pride at pulling off the surprise so evident. What else could he do but:
“Wow, this is-this is brilliant. You shouldn’t have.” The words slipped easily free, appeasing Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Dean. He wondered if they could see how clearly uncomfortable he was, how his skin was itching with the idea of being in that decorated sitting room for another moment. Still, he took the butterbeer Ron handed him with a smile, eyes scanning the room, mentally calculating just how long he would have to stay before he could make a dash for his bed and a well-placed Muffliato.
His eyes catch on his birthday’s unfortunate bedfellow, one who may have suffered the same if not worse than Harry, another victim of a prophecy. Neville clutches a tumbler full of amber liquid like a lifeline, nodding politely at Luna’s excitable musings. Harry can hear her lilting voice over the Weird Sisters track that is playing from an enchanted radio, floating just over the partygoer’s heads. Neville’s gaze snags his own, and he smiles ruefully, lifting his glass in a silent salute. Harry can almost hear the words Neville must be thinking.
Lucky us, mate. At least we survived, yeah?
The room is hot, sticky with too many moving bodies and flowing drinks. Harry bounces around, trying not to be a bit put out that his friends had obviously been rather drunk before he’d gotten home in the first place. It was good, he was glad to see Ron leaning heavily into George, groaning loudly about the Cannon’s less-than-stellar chances this season. And Hermione, giggling animatedly at something Draco Bloody Malfoy said. He was happy that they were happy. They deserved some normalcy now. Birthday parties were happy things, normal things.
At least that's what he told himself as he set his second–no third–drink aside, breath tight in his chest, and heart heavy in his chest. He can’t go to his rooms, the way is blocked by both Seamus and Dean, both whom would likely make a big to-do about him trying to disappear but maybe the library?
He could just say he was going to the loo, slip into the neglected library and sleep off his few drinks on a lumpy chaise, no one the wiser.
The click of the door has his breath whooshing out, the silence settling over him like a downy blanket. He feels immediately better.
“Oh, shite, sorry. I was-” Harry jumps at Neville’s familiar tone. It seems he was not the only one intent on escaping the festivities.
“Yeah,” Harry interrupts, “Yeah, me too.”
Neville’s mouth quirks in a sad attempt at his usual sunny grin. “At least I knew what I was walking into,” he huffs a laugh. “Hard for it to be a surprise party at another bloke’s house. Seamus just insisted I come to Harry’s for a birthday drink.”
“Ha, yeah, well… I have never really been a fan of my birthday.” Harry slumps down next to Neville on the squashy loveseat, one that he’d seen Padfoot snooze on on more than one occasion.
“No, not me either.” Neville tips back the dregs of his drink, setting it aside. “My gran- she means well, but somehow she always seemed to make my birthday about my dad. It was the same every year, every morning we’d wake up and head to Mungos to visit.”
Harry tilts his head back to the ceiling, trying to imagine what it was to be Neville Longbottom as a child, waking up on his birthday just to walk into the Janus Thickery Ward.
Neville seems to sink into the sofa, his hands toying at a broken thread on the cuff of his jumper. “And don’t get me wrong, I love my parents Harry, in the ways that I can. I am proud to be theirs, but there were times, times where I just wanted to wake up and eat cake, maybe go to the magical zoo or the botanical gardens. Normal kid things. She always said, ‘This was the best day of their lives Neville.’ and I just- well, you can’t argue with that can ya?”
The mention of the zoo has Harry’s mind wandering to another birthday long ago, of him setting a python on Dudley and speaking his first parseltongue. He hates that he has never seen this side of Neville, of a steadfast friend that has been by his side since the beginning. Why- why doesn’t he know these things about Neville?
“Nev, that’s- well that is shite. Did you go today?”
“Naw mate, today’s your birthday. I went yesterday.” Neville tilts his head back on the couch, his hair longer than usual, pillowing under his head. It looks so soft, golden highlights catching in the filtering moonlight from the windows. “But Gran always makes carrot cake, without fail. It was dad’s favorite, so we all have a slice together every year. It’s nice.”
“Do you like carrot cake?” Harry feels as though he already knows the answer.
“No. No I really don’t.”
Harry wants to hug him.
“Oh- er right. I- The Dursleys, my aunt and uncle, they didn’t really acknowledge my birthday.”
He wants to tell Neville something good, something that will chase the furrow from between his brows away, but he’s coming up short, unable to offer much in the way of comfort. Commiseration will have to do.
“If they did, it was only to give me some of Dudley’s hand-me-downs. One year I did get my own room, but I think that was more because they were terrified of me than an act of generosity. I actually didn’t know when my birthday was until I was like five? There was this wall at primary school where every kid had their name written on a candle…”
He thinks back to that day in class when he’d made the connection, the vibrant pink candle with ‘Harry’ scrawled across it in cheery blue felt-pen, 31st July written directly under his name. It had been a constant distraction, his eyes constantly drawn to it when he should have been doing his best to color inside the lines, practicing his letters. A fixation, proof that there was a day just for him, that one day he would celebrate.
He’d taken it, waited until the sweet Mrs. Dawson and his class were at lunch and then politely asked to use the loo, doubled back and snatched that pink candle off the wall like the treasure it was. It had stayed in the cupboard until he went to Hogwarts, tacked to the wall where he would blow at it every summer after.
“You didn’t have a room?”
The question knocks him from his reverie.
“No, I slept in a cupboard under the stairs.”
Has he ever spoken those words out loud to anyone? Why has he never said the words out loud? Neville’s face tilts to his, his eyes wide in disbelief and then something more like anger? “Wow, that is-” His words trail off into silence, the only sound of their careful breathing and the revelry only a door away. “Fuck them.”
“Yeah.”
Their eyes meet, green and hazel, both of them soft with understanding.
No wonder we are a mess. No wonder we are here. No wonder we hate our fucking birthdays.
And then they are both laughing, the kind of side-clutching mirth that has tears slipping down Harry’s cheeks. Neville’s head is tilted back, his laugh booming and joyful, the column of his throat long and slim.
“Your Gran makes a cake you hate.” Harry clutches at Neville’s forearms, unable to stop his frantic giggles, “Every single year!?”
“Oh fuck off Harry, you slept in a cupboard! ” Neville tilts to the side, leaning heavily on Harry’s lap and wiping at his eyes, only to start all over, his whole body trembling with laughter. “Harry bloody Potter, in a dusty old cupboard, you cannot make that shite up.”
They lean into each other, both hiccoughing and fighting for breath. They’re closer than Harry realized and each moment he notices something new about Neville Longbottom. Like the shadow of stubble across the entirety of his jaw, more facial hair than Harry has ever managed to grow. Like the hard lines of muscle that make up his arms, his chest, the delicate curves between neck and shoulder. Or the thick scar slashing just across his cheekbone, one that had to have come from the year Harry was absent, a year where he hadn’t been there to protect his friends. But Neville had, Neville was the hero that deserved to be recognized, the one who had fought for Hogwarts and killed the snake. Prophecies were fickle, and both of them had suffered for it.
All at once they are done, the humor in their situations dampened somewhat. Neville stares back, cataloging Harry in equal measure, gaze watching him knowingly like he can hear every one of Harry’s devastating thoughts.
“We deserved better, yeah?” Tentatively, Neville reaches out, stroking a thumb across the lightning bolt scar that bisects Harry’s eyebrow, tracing the wretched pattern down to the corner of Harry’s eye. Harry doesn’t breathe, afraid to unintentionally chase away the magic in the room. “I always thought that this was so lovely, like proof that something powerful and beautiful could come from something so very sad.”
The touch settles something in Harry, quiets a part of his mind that always seemed so loud. He wants to chase it, to keep it. Neville could easily be speaking of himself and not of Harry. Something powerful and beautiful born from something tragic.
They’re so close, only a whisper apart, both seemingly waiting for the other to decide what the next move is, if this goes any further at all.
“We deserved better.” It’s the last thing he says, before he vanishes the space between them, brushing a soft, uncertain kiss against Neville’s mouth. He’s never kissed a man, though he has been certain for quite some time that he wanted to. He’s never imagined in his wildest dreams that it would be Neville claiming his first.
Neville, deepening the kiss almost immediately, plunges his fingers into Harry’s hair and tilts his face just so.
Neville, pulling him into his lap and clutching at his hip like a life-line and saying the most delicious things.
Harry, been dreaming of this for so long.
Harry, fuck, you’re so beautiful, so good.
Harry.
Harry.
Harry.
Neville fucking Longbottom, rocking up and against him, licking heated kisses against his collarbones and neck, until all Harry can do is whimper and try and hold on because his body is burning up. The firewhisky suddenly making itself known as his mind seems to fog into nothing but unrepentant lust and feeling. He grinds down, thrilling at the hard length of Neville straining at his trousers, the very idea that the wizard beneath him is as affected as he is. They undulate together, both moving on instinct and nothing else.
“I’ve never-I don’t know.” He needs Neville to know, he needs him to know that he’s the only one, something he can give him for his birthday.
“Me either, I don’t care, just keep-” Neville reaches down, sliding his hand over Harry’s own erection, tracing it with his large palm through Harry’s jeans. “Fuck, keep moving, feels so good.”
This is nothing like kissing Ginny, their tongues are clumsy and seeking and Harry has never felt more alive, his enthusiasm met stroke for stroke with Nev’s. Their hands grasp, bruising and gripping, their mouths gasp and groan, open and panting. It’s all feeling and no thought, and for once, Harry finds his mind blissfully emptied.
He’s moments from spilling into his jeans when Neville stills, back bowing and entire body shivering. His moan is long and drawn out and music to Harry’s ears. The sight is enough, Harry presses relentlessly down, crushing their cocks together and topples over the edge after him.
There’s sweat at his temples, a drop sliding down his spine. His chin burns, a soft flare of pulsing warmth, a reminder that he’s had Neville’s five o’clock shadow relentlessly kissing his face. He’ll relish it tomorrow, the red flush that meant that for once, he had a birthday he actually enjoyed.
Neville’s chin is tilted up, his eyes almost defiant, as though he’s waiting for Harry to push him away, to pretend that it hadn’t happened, that they’d both been drunk and out of control.
But he won't, doesn’t want to.
Neville is so brave, so intrinsically good, constant. Harry wonders just how he hasn’t managed to see him in this way before. He’s fit, deliciously so, and maybe prophecies were good for something after all.
Instead, he tilts forward, kissing his request into Neville’s sandpapery cheek, “Let’s go to yours?”
—One year later—
Harry sips at his drink, delighting in the fruity burst of flavor across his tongue.
“Slow down on those or I will be carrying you back to the beach house.” The rumble pillowed under his head only serves to make him smile. Neville’s splayed out on the sand, his toned stomach admittedly not the most comfortable place to lay, but Harry cannot help himself. His boyfriend is the perfect specimen.
It’s his birthday.
Yesterday, they spent Neville’s birthday parasailing and visiting Bali’s magical hedge maze, walking hand in hand and sampling the local fare. Today, Harry has requested nothing but rum and a cabana to themselves.
They hadn’t even told anyone they were leaving.
It’s the second best birthday of his life.