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Standing on the top step of Ron and Hermione’s porch, Harry yet again contemplates his planned speech and wonders whether doing it this way was a good idea after all.
Let’s wait, I’m not ready to share you with anyone else yet.
So, they waited. Waited blissful nine months that were filled with soft tremors in their chests and whispers of desire hidden between the bedsheets, while they carefully explored each other, having no other cares in the world.
But Harry knew that it was time. To face the music.
Surprisingly, it didn’t scare him, the prospects of this. Deep down there was this assurance that he will not identify in his mind for some years, yet still he somehow knew that doing this was the best turn his life could take.
It’s not like he was running straight to the Daily Prophet, mind you, he wasn’t about to give them a field day that they are probably waiting for.
No, this was only Ron and Hermione, the two people, besides them, who’d accept Harry no matter what. And they do say it’s better to first let the family in on the secret.
At last, taking a deep breath in, Harry stepped through the security wards and lightly knocked on the door, knowing that the inhabitants have already been alerted to his presence anyway.
And sure enough, soon he hears a familiar male grumbling from somewhere above and can’t help but chuckle as he imagines Ron stumbling down the staircase while mumbling something about hippogriffs and their backsides.
The door swings open and Harry catches the end of a particular insult directed his way, before Ron properly looks at their unexpected visitor.
“... and you can shove those leaflets up your– Harry?!”
Merlin, Harry thinks with an inner chuckle, it’s been thirteen years, but he is sure that it could be twenty, thirty - even half a century! - and his best friend will still look like a dishevelled owl in the mornings.
Ron Weasley’s neatly trimmed hair are mused in the most ridiculous ways and directions (Harry’s mind dutifully offers a Muggle expression “cows lick”) and his eyes are ogling out onto the presumed intruder of peace with a mix of sleepiness and perpetuated irritation.
Harry smiles openly, trying not to feel guilty for waking his friends up at 8am on a Saturday morning.
“Hi,” he offers peacefully, pointedly looking at the fire iron in Ron’s hand. “I am so sorry for calling on you so early, but... Well, I have to talk to you. And ‘Mione.”
He smiles again, only this time much more nervously. Ron is still visibly stunned, trying to figure out what the heck is going on, however after a couple of seconds his inner system seems to have rebooted, and he replies:
“Oh, erm, sure thing mate, come in.”
He steps to the side, allowing Harry to slip past, and closes the door behind him.
“It’s Harry!” Shouts Ron into the ceiling, presumably in the direction of his and his wife’s bedroom. “He wants to talk to us!”
The “and he couldn’t find a better time to do that” remains unsaid.
Harry shuffles awkwardly in place, while Ron proceeds into the living room, at which point he follows.
“Sorry, you know, for the shouting,” says the red-headed wizard, dumping the fire iron next to the fireplace, where it lands into its holder with a click. “We’ve been getting these obnoxiously cheery volunteers going door to door, wanting money for local charities or whatnot.“
He flopped down onto the wide couch that resided in the middle of the room and patted the place beside him for Harry to sit, which the dark-haired wizard promptly did. “Don’t get me wrong mate, I’m all for the goodwill and community work, but not at 7am on a weekend!”
Harry let out a laugh, watching as Ron, looking just as lanky in his red chequered pajamas as he did back in their school days, ranted about the unexpected enemies of his weekend mornings. His friend looks banally domestic like this, and Harry’s heart swells endlessly at the prospect. Knowing that, merely six years after the War, his friends found the peace and joy they oh so deserved, made him not feel so guilty about the hardships they endured while helping him throughout the hardest of times.
Hearing descending footsteps behind him, Harry turned his head and soon flashes a warm smile to his other best friend, who has taken her time to throw on a fuzzy blue robe and a pair of woollen socks, knitted, undoubtedly, by her mother-in-law.
“Hi Harry,” Hermione’s voice is unusually quiet and is still laced with repose, but he still notes her brown eyes darting across his body, making sure he is alright and safe - a habit she has picked up long ago, ever since she saw him battle the troll in the faithful girls’ bathroom.
The woman of the house proceeds to tiptoe past, until she stands behind the couch, at the spot where Ron is sitting, and lightly leans forward against the back of the furniture, resting her palms on her husband’s shoulders. Ron, in his turn, automatically catches her hands in his larger ones, holding onto them like a lifeline.
Harry suppresses a shudder, instantly remembering how a similar caress felt on his own body, but those hands would travel up, instead pausing on his shoulders where they’d begin to softly rub the tan skin hidden under Harry’s sleep shirt.
Finally managing to repress the not-unwanted, but distracting memory, the man catches the flicker of relaxation in both of his friends eyes. Like when they touched each other – they finally felt at peace.
He smiled. Yeah, he can definitely do this.
“So, not that we are not thrilled to have you drop by on an early Saturday morning...”
The retort earns Ronald a quick, yet well-aimed, jab on the shoulder.
“I just said that we do! Yeesh, woman,” Ron whips around to glare at Hermione, but she just sticks her tongue out at him, before turning to Harry.
“What Ron means, is that you don’t usually drop by so early unless it’s urgent. Is everything alright, Harry?”
The Savior contemplates his answer.
Oh, it is alright, it is way more than that, only he doesn’t quite know how to put it into words.
He must have been silent for a while, because a soft cough made in Hermione’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts.
“What? Oh, yeah,” replies he absentmindedly. “Everything is alright, ‘Mione, nothing to worry about at all!”
He offers a small yet soft smile, to reassure his friends.
“Actually, it’s more than alright...”
Silence follows, for Harry is still not quite sure how to break his news to them.
“Oh?” Softly prompts Hermione, moving around the couch to sit on the ottoman besides Ron, who follows with “speak out mate, you know we’re right there with you, no matter what.”
Harry nods, but still stays silent. He suddenly realises he never had to do this before.
His relationship, or whatever it was, with Ginny was already as public as it could get, so he didn’t need to come to his friends and announce that “yeah, I’m kind of in a relationship now, I think?”
Plus, it was probably for the best then. He would never have been able to have that conversation with Ron, of all people, not when it would regard his younger sister.
But this was different, in so many ways. This was built out of misunderstandings and careful dialogues, and so many emotional evenings spent together crying over mistakes they made as clueless children. All that to get these past nine months of pure happiness.
“I’m seeing someone,” blurts out of his mouth before Harry really registers it. After several beats, having not gotten any reaction out of the two people in front of him, the man carefully adds, “Have been, for the past nine or so months.”
Their reactions are somewhat opposite to what Harry was expecting. Hermione’s eyes go wide, and with a soft “oh my!” she shifts her position to incline closer to Harry. Ron is just as dumbfounded, but his surprise is far more composed than his wife’s.
“Oh,” he lets out, eyeing Harry. The expression in his gaze is mixed, he doesn’t really know how to feel about his best friend’s sudden revelation. To Ron’s justice, he just about got used to the idea of Harry and Ginny together before the two officially broke up soon after Ginny graduated. And afterwards, well, they just got used to seeing Harry on his own all the time.
“Yeah,” mumbles Harry in an attempt to break the silence that was starting to become a tad awkward. He focuses his gaze on his clutched arms, suddenly very interested in his own fingernails.
He hears a gasp as his palm clutches onto the angled shoulder above him, lightly sinking the nails into the soft, pliant skin.
“H-Harry,” this voice – quavering and breathless – oh, this voice was doing things to him. He inhales sharply, and proceeds to scrape his nails down the bend of their shoulder, leaving pink marks that look blazingly hot even in the twilight.
“That’s great, Harry!” Hermione’s voice drags him out of the memory.
He looks up, and she looks genuinely relieved and happy for him. Small comforts, Harry decides.
“Who is she?” Ah, now that’s the question of a true teenage girl that Hermione never got to be, but still hid deep within her soul. Harry, however, looks at Ron, before replying.
His friend is silent, but his posture only offers genuine interest in Harry’s reply. The Boy Who Lived exhales shakily.
“Erm… It’s not… That is…” He rambles off and ends up not saying anything coherent. Where is the vaunted Gryffindor courage, or at the very least the Slytherin confidence everyone always boasts about?
Harry was so sure he was prepared for this question. The most dreaded question of all. Yet when it comes to it, all of that sureness slips away, leaving him a mumbling mess before his friends.
The young wizard inhales deeply, like he is preparing for a deep dive.
“It’s not…”
The words are quiet on his tongue, but in the silence of the living room he knows Ron and Hermione have definitely heard him. The half-sentence is unfinished, but tells them the needed implications behind it, all the same.
“… It’s not a she.” A statement, rather than a question or an expression of disbelief. Harry lifts his head to look at Hermione, who is as calm as if she had just stated a simple observation about the weather. He stays silent but slowly shakes his head, confirming his friend’s suspicion.
Hermione smiles reassuringly, and the gleam in her warm eyes calms Harry down a whole lot. But then again, she was never the one he was truly worried about.
Don’t take him wrong – he bloody adores his best friend. With all his quirks, weird jokes and loud opinions, Ronald Bilius Weasley was truly the most wonderful man to call a best friend. However, it was the last characteristic of his that Harry felt like he was currently challenging.
“Is that going to be a problem?” Harry’s question is blunt, and almost eerie in its vibrations. He tries to voice it as a general inquiry, but his expectant (and totally not terrified) gaze is directed straight at Ron.
The other man sits very still, like he’s been hit with a stray Stupefy enchantment. It’s difficult to decipher his body language, with arms propped with elbows on his knees, palms hanging loosely down. He is looking somewhere through Harry, as if he suddenly became a ghost.
When Ron doesn’t react, Hermione almost moves to put an authoritative hand on his shoulder, but the redhead finally opens his mouth.
“Wait so… is it like, a werewolf? Or a vampire then? Cause I have no idea what kind of specific being– Ow! Oh…”
Hermione does end up having to cuff her husband on the back of his head in a reprimand, before Ron finally catches up with the situation. She then raises her eyes to meet Harry’s gaze in apology, her cheeks tainted with pink embarrassment.
“Honestly, Ronald, this is explicitly rude! Harry comes over here, about to entrust us with a very delicate secret of his, and you act like a buffoon. I would have thought your mother raised you better than this.”
By the time she finishes, Ron is just about as red as the fabric of his pajamas, and his eyes dart from the edge of the sofa to the basket of woollen blankets hidden beside the fireplace – all a clear attempt to avoid looking Harry in the eye.
“I know I know, I’m sorry. I am sorry, Harry.” He finally manages to pull himself to raise his blue eyes to meet the greens of Harry’s. “I never meant… It was just too sudden, you know. But I’d never judge you for who your heart chooses to love, you must know that!”
The dark-haired man smiles warmly and shifts a bit closer to his friend.
“Thanks, Ron,” Harry offers, and reaches out to clasp the other man on the shoulder, squeezing it lightly. Still, he feels himself relax a copious amount.
Ron smiles shakily and pulls on Harry’s outstretched arm to engulf him in a warm hug. Harry splutters in surprise, but after a second returns the gesture, clasping his arms across his protruding shoulder blades.
The moment, however, is ended by a prominent sob coming from the left-out Hermione, which prompts both men to untangle themselves from each other, and Ron to pull his wife into his lap, reaching out to wipe the evident glistening of tears from her right cheek. She half-heartedly swats at his palm but cuddles closer.
“So,” finally manages Hermione, turning to look at Harry, who is still closely pressed to Ron’s other side. “To alter my previous question – who is he then?”
Nervousness washes over Harry again, and he involuntary curls his palms into fists, knuckles whitening slightly. Should he tell them? They probably will be shocked, of course, but he knows that with time they will accept his choice.
I’m not ready to share you with anyone else yet.
Frankly, Harry is not ready for that too. He has had enough added attention on his persona in his life, and the last thing he wants is to unload that attention onto them as well. He knows it’ll have to happen eventually, of course, but before they say they are truly ready to come out, Harry will hold his tongue.
“I... I can’t tell you,” his voice is apologetic but stern, as Harry looks straight at his best friends. Through this gaze he tries to convey that he knows they would accept their choice of partner no matter what, but this particular identity reveal is not his prerogative, and not his secret to share.
Ron stares at him for a moment. Then, carefully asks.
“I'm sure you have a good reason not to, mate, but why?”
Harry flexes his shoulders.
“We’re not ready yet. To go fully public, I mean. They –“ He doesn't get to finish his thought, though.
“Whoah, hold on!” And there is the loudness of opinions Harry was waiting for. Ron splutters over his words, nearly dropping Hermione in the process.
“They? How many people are we speaking about here?”
Hermione, although understands that there is something much deeper afoot here, cannot help but also look curiously at her best friend, confused by this revelation.
“W-What?” For a split-second Harry is perplexed by Ron’s sudden outburst, but then it hits him, and he springs from the sofa, as if the poor furniture suddenly was the vessel of all of his misfortunes. “No… No! It’s not like that!”
Again, he feels the anxiety that was clutching his chest just minutes before, and a swarm of worries takes over his mind. In an attempt to steady and distract himself, Harry walks over to the fireplace, feeling eyes of both Ron and Hermione on his back, burning through the leather jacket he was wearing. Unable to watch their reaction, Harry interested himself with the ornaments etched alongside the countertop above the grate.
“It is only one person, a man, biologically speaking, I guess? But they… Dammit,” Harry exhales, gathering his thoughts. “Well, that’s just it. They’re they.” He doesn’t know how else to explain it without complicating or misinterpreting things. This is not his story to tell and he doesn’t want to be a broken telephone.
A quiet moment follows, filled only with shallow breaths of all three, and the blood drumming against Harry’s temples. He can almost sense the silent conversation between his two best friends sitting less than a couple of feet from him, and feels like a prisoner on trial, waiting for the verdict.
“Okay.”
At the sudden sound of Ron’s voice, Harry whips around so fast he almost knocks over one of the wooden figurines that adorned the fireplace’s countertop.
They are still sitting in the same position on the sofa, but Hermione’s gaze is now full of understanding care, supported by a soft reassuring smile, while Ron just gazes straight at him with so much seriousness, Harry thinks he’s never seen his friend look so determined.
“Wait, ‘okay’? Just like this?” He hopes they can forgive him for not quite believing his ears.
“Yeah. I mean, we live in the twenty first century now, times and morals are changing every day.” Ron shrugged. “As I said earlier, Har, I’d never judge the person who makes you happy for petty things such as how they choose to identify themselves. If you are a better person with them by your side – that’s all I care about.”
Harry seriously thinks he is about to break down crying. He tries to cover up the imminent waterfall of tears with a laugh, but that just prompts more emotions to pour out, completely wrecking his posture.
Ron and Hermione are at his sides in an instant, enveloping him in a soft, loving hug. Harry thinks, this is the only other time he ever feels at home in just an embrace. Hermione’s light laugh sounds somewhere behind his left ear, and he thinks he hears her murmur a soft “I’m so proud of you”, although he cannot pinpoint whether it is directed to Ron, to him, or to both of them.
After a moment, Ron detaches from their group hug, yet still keeps close to them.
“Alright mate, you can be as secretive as you wish about your mysterious lover, - for now, mind you! – not that I care,” Ron rolls his eyes, but there is no malice in his retort, which Harry, of course, knows. “But rewinding back to my earlier confusion, tell us at least one thing: are they human?”
Harry can hear Hermione punching him again and starting off into her traditional tirade about emotional ranges of spoons and redhead wizards, but the Savior doesn’t really listen.
Instead, he recalls this morning, just a couple of hours ago, when he woke up with the first light and shifted to stare at the body beside him.
Draco often sleeps on their stomach - something that Harry will never understand, and what in the beginning used to become a source of some of their insignificant bickerings. Their head is conveniently turned to the right, facing Harry, so the dark-haired man can take his time admiring the sculpted features of Draco’s face.
Their pink lips are slightly ajar as they exhale, breath catching warm on their own outstretched arm, tucked underneath the pillow. The eyelashes – stark black against porcelain nude – flutter with every inhale, but Harry knows that they are far away from awakening. It is safe to say that, out of the two of them, he is the early bird.
Malfoy sleeps topless, which gives Harry a wonderful show every morning and night (especially the latter). On this morning, however, the sunlight caught the dip of Draco’s spine, dancing on the pale skin glistened with sweat – a leftover reminder of the passionate night that preceded that moment.
Harry smiles to himself, remembering how he reached out to lightly trace the elegant curve of his lover’s spine, from the edge of the sheets all the way up to their soft cheek that have rounded healthily over the past months. Draco then mumbled something in their sleep and burrowed their face further into the pillow, still visibly revelling in the loving touches of their partner.
Harry remembers that, and suddenly - so much more. All the late evenings shared with a bottle of wine and quiet talks. The way Draco’s laugh is a tinkle of soft sounds that Harry desperately wants to turn into a soft blanket that he could curl up in and never let go.
He knows that, whenever he comes back late from his shift at the Aurors’ division, he’ll find them curled up in the armchair, with a book lying on the floor beside it where Draco dropped it when they fell asleep. Them living together is still brand new, so every time this happens Harry takes his time admiring the view before him, not quite believing he is actually lucky to be able to call this – them! – his home.
Most importantly, he remembers how Draco now looks so healthy and carefree – something that Harry thought was impossible after he met them again for the first time since the post-war trials. His chest pangs when he recalls the pale, almost greyish definition of Draco’s skin, the skeleton-like proportions of their malnourished body; but most painful of all was to see the lifeless eyes, darting around quicker than the gaze of a prey that was caught unawares.
Ever since then, Harry made it his mission to return life into those eyes, no matter the cost, and to see Draco Malfoy being the person they deserved to be.
So, recalling Ron’s question, which Harry thinks, might have even been an in-the-moment joke, the dark-haired man lifts his gaze and smiles so widely, he himself thinks his face might split into two. A completely besotted fool.
“Yeah, they are,” he replies quietly, almost whispers the words of unsaid declaration of love. “Wonderfully human.”