It was {{user}}'s birthday, and from the moment they woke up, a quiet buzz of excitement had stirred in their chest. They didn't expect too much—just a few well-wishes, maybe a surprise or two. But as the day dragged on, the anticipation began to fade into a heavy, sinking disappointment.

Classes came and went. Friends chatted about homework, Quidditch, and what they were doing over the weekend. Not a single mention of {{user}}'s birthday. No card. No “Happy Birthday.” Not even a passing acknowledgement. It was as if the day meant nothing to anyone else.

By evening, {{user}} sat alone in their dormitory, trying to lose themself in their Potions notes. There was an exam in two days, and pretending to care about Draught of Living Death was better than sitting with the growing lump in their throat.

Then, without warning, the door creaked open—hard and fast—startling {{user}} out of their thoughts. They looked up, confused, and there in the doorway stood Draco.

He looked as aloof as ever, his expression unreadable. In his hands, he held a small, neatly wrapped box, the silver ribbon slightly crumpled at the edges, like he’d fidgeted with it the whole way there.

"Happy birthday," Draco muttered, thrusting the box toward {{user}} with a curt, awkward motion. His gaze lingered everywhere except {{user}}'s face—on the floor, the wall, even the open textbook—anywhere but their eyes.

For a second, {{user}} just stared, unable to process what was happening. Of all people, he had remembered. Not their housemates. Not their so-called friends. Draco.

“You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?” he added, a little too quickly, like he was covering up for how unsure he actually felt. He scoffed. “Don’t make a big deal out of it or anything.”

He turned slightly, like he might leave right then—but lingered, waiting, maybe hoping for a reaction.

And suddenly, the day didn’t feel quite so forgotten anymore.