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Calling late at night had become something close to a ritual for Harry and his close friends. Some nights it would only be him, Ron and Hermione, who often called together, having moved in together after school. Some nights, Harry would almost choke on his jealousy. It wasn’t directed to one of them specifically, but rather at the thing they had. Each other. Family. A relationship. He didn’t really specify the source of his misery, mostly because he didn’t want to think about the deep pit in his gut that would open upon being investigated.
Some nights, Ginny and Luna would call as well. They had just finished school and often talked about their further plans, using the word ‘we’ much too often for Harry’s jealous taste. Sometimes even Neville called, Seamus maybe, and rarely Dean.
They all had partners. Futures with them, while he stared at smiling faces each night, feeling like the loneliness was clawing his stomach apart.
He laughed with them all, and sometimes he meant it. Not often, but sometimes was still something he clung to.
This night, though, everything was different. His smile was genuine, his gut calm and his body warm.
His two best friends had called a few minutes ago, and had yet not pointed out his unusually giddy state, though Harry was sure that they had noticed.
They had lightly talked about Ginny’s N.E.W.T. results when Ron suddenly spoke up, changing the topic completely. “So,” He said, drawing out the o for dramatic effect. “How’s your love life looking, Harry?”
The nonchalance of his question and the smug smirk he obviously tried to hide made Harry stop, though he tried not to let it show.
“Dead”, Harry replied instead, laughing quietly. He felt a twinge of guilt at lying to their faces.
“And the article in the Daily Prophet? Did you see that?” Ron added, determined to prove Harry wrong, still grinning.
Right, the article. ‘The saviour and his mystery date, seen today, why would he hide them?’ printed next to his face in thick black letters on the first page of the paper that he’d hated since his fourth year. He was honestly a little taken aback by the fact that Ron and Hermione even read it, though he couldn’t really blame them. The Prophet's copy had sold more than 100,000 copies in just two days.
One could probably walk down a street and have it thrown at them.
“Well, you know what they write.” Harry tried, sighing when Hermione moved the camera over to her. He had no chance against her.
“Harry, come on. They might write things they have dreamt, yes, but you have been sneaking around, haven’t you? You couldn’t call yesterday because of ‘an emergency’, and when we asked if we should come over and help, you sent a paragraph saying we couldn’t and repeated the same argument five times. Same thing last week. Just tell us, Harry.” She listed, and if Harry didn’t know her as well as he did, he would have missed the impatient, almost frustrated tone.
They probably wanted nothing more for him than to be happy and find love like them. He swallowed.
“I- There’s nothing wrong with missing one phone call!” Harry tried to defend himself, whisper-shouting, not missing the fact that he was avoiding the core of Hermione’s statement completely.
“Harry…” She sighed, but before she could continue, the frame shifted, showing Ron’s puzzled face. “Why are you being so quiet, mate? It’s not even that late, you live alone, and-“
The rest of his statement drowned under the sound of a groan coming from Harry’s chest. “Turn down the volume, Potter. People are trying to sleep.” A familiar voice drawled sleepily, and Harry’s heart dropped. Despite his seeming heart failure, he couldn’t stop himself from sinking his hand into the blond strands of the young man lying on top of him, caressing his scalp.
Harry hoped that he would fall asleep again in the next millisecond and that his best friends had not heard him. He hesitantly looked at the screen in his other hand again, and practically felt his hope for that outcome dying.
Ron stared back at him, his jaw practically on the floor, and Hermione’s expression was blatantly confused. “Mate,” Ron gasped. Harry groaned and temporarily lifted his hand to rub his face, to which a pale face on his chest looked up at him impatiently, only settling again when he put his hand back.
Despite everything, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling a small smile.
“Stop looking silly, and start massaging my head again, Potter,” Malfoy demanded, and Harry obeyed sheepishly.
“Harry,” Hermione said sternly. “What is going on?”
“So,” Harry started, drawing out the o similarly to Ron a few minutes earlier. His brain frantically searched for some way to explain this without sounding mad or making someone mad. He guessed he just needed to be honest. “A few months ago, I was shopping for some flowers when I stumbled into a new shop. And behind the counter, there was Dra-Malfoy.”
He avoided looking at anyone, but he still felt three pairs of eyes piercing through him. When no one began to shout, he hesitantly continued.
“At first, I was angry. I guess kind of pissed off, I told you guys how I never got a thank you after sending Malfoy his wand back, right? I actually confronted him-“ Harry's cheeks burned at the memory of the awkward conversation. “It had been a big miscommunication. He had thought that the wand had been found and identified as his and thus sent back. He wouldn’t even have been able to send back something, because he was on house arrest and the Aurors that were there hated him, and forbade him to send messages, which is crazy, but I already had a conversation with-“ He cut himself off, realising he was rambling and that small sounds filled the room.
Draco, Hermione and Ron were all laughing at him.
These fuckers.
“What?” Harry asked helplessly, slight defence in his tone, his eyes jumping from his friends to his boyfriend.
“Harry its- we can see that this is okay. Good. Weird, but good.” Hermione smoothed, Ron nodding in the background. “Though months, Harry? Really?” He added wryly, and Harry blushed.
“I wasn’t sure how you would react, you know… after everything-” He trailed off, hit gut suddenly heavy, and a hand found his, squeezing it softly to ground him. Warmth spread through him, and he squeezed back.
“What we want more than anything is for you to be happy, Harry. And if it’s Malfoy that does that, then we trust you and encourage you. We wouldn’t risk your happiness over our grudge, not after…everything.” Hermione whispered. She repeated his words, probably by accident, but with them, her voice broke slightly. It always did when they talked about the war.
But now he didn’t need to watch Ron caress her, while she started to cry silently, while living in a cold apartment himself. Now, his tears were wiped away by Malfoy’s long fingers, before he moved up to lie down next to Harry’s face, slightly hiding from the camera, and whispered: “I'm proud of you”.
He never felt jealous again after that. Not of his friends, their families or relationships. Because he had everything he’d ever wanted. A loving boyfriend and two best friends who accepted him, called him every night, and whispered when he told them that Draco was already sleeping.
This was why he fought. Why he needed to win. Why he won.
This.