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If there’s one person Harry never thought he would be jealous of, it was Draco Malfoy. He was a pointy git with more associates than friends and more dirty family wealth than he knew what to do with, but Harry didn’t care about any of that.
The only thing Harry envied Draco was his family. Sure, his father worshipped a megalomaniac and his mother’s nose was so far in the air she was sniffing God’s asshole, but they stuck together and they doted on Draco, pushed him to be better, even if it was all for the sake of looking superior in the public’s eyes.
Harry preferred the family atmosphere of the Weasleys, of course. They were warm, and loud, and loved generously and openly. They were a unit and they actually liked each other, which Harry wasn’t sure he could say about the Malfoys.
Still, Draco’s family was its own unit and Harry was aware of himself enough to admit that he longed for that—that togetherness, that cohesion.
Harry knew that there was a part of him that was jealous of any real family. The Dursleys didn’t come close, could barely even be called a fake family. Oh, they were a unit unto themselves, but Harry was far removed from their family circle.
And so, he looked on—at the Durselys, at the Weasleys, at the Malfoys—and wanted something he feared he’d never know for himself.