Chapter 14
“I’m so proud of you, Harry,” came from Arthur Weasley, this time. He had his arms wrapped around Harry even though Arthur was growing frail with age and Harry was far broader and hefty. Arthur didn’t need to put in the effort. He still did, every time.
It rankled. Harry had been hearing “I’m proud of you, Harry,” from a lot of people lately. He’d gotten so sick of it that he made the time to drag Marge out to lunch because she’d sooner let another batch of criminals out of Azkaban than be proud of him. But while she was cranky and had nothing nice to say for any auror on her team, in the end she looked at him and said “I’m proud of you” with just her eyes. Because Harry bothering to drag someone out to lunch is what folks considered a huge milestone. That’s how big of a prick Harry had been. She was so proud of this supposed progress she didn’t even offer him a job on the auror squad.
Maybe Harry would go back to Romania and shovel dragon dung some more. Get away from all the baggage he carried with him here at home. There wouldn’t be a warm bed waiting for him this time, but there’d be a cot and plenty of work and no bad feelings about how everything left off. Which is better than all the bad feelings whenever he ran into someone he slept with closer to home.
Ron insisted Ginny didn’t have bad feelings. He said she was that spiky with everyone. She didn’t care that it was sleeping with her that convinced Harry he was definitely, unquestionably, solely interested in men and never wanted to be inside a vagina again. Not that Ron said those words. Harry was fairly sure Ron convinced himself that Ginny was all smooth down there like one of those muggle dolls that didn’t believe in genitalia. Harry wished he could convince himself of that too, but alas. With the help of envisioning other professional quidditch players’ distinctly different genitalia he had managed to get up close and personal with all things Ginny just long enough to perform the least satisfying sex of their lives. Before promptly coming out of the closet. Maybe Ginny was actually the sort of woman who’d have no hard feelings about it. Harry was definitely the sort of man who’d project his insecurities on other people.
Not that he’d admit it. If he admitted it to someone they’d fucking tell him they were proud of him for his fucking personal growth. Unless it was Ron or Hermione, who diligently kept a stiff upper lip and said nothing because they were loyal. Even if Hermione got a little teary eyed when she walked in on Harry reading another one of the fucking self help books she’d once recommended. More teary eyed still when she saw him trying to put it to use.
Maybe Ginny didn’t hold it against him, but she could damn well be counted on not to be so saccharine as to find something in Harry to be proud of. Which is why Harry pulled himself out of his house to join the Weasleys for the annual Holyhead Harpies versus Chudley Cannons quidditch match. That, and, well, it had taken a while, but Harry wasn’t actually put off anymore to be surrounded by his friends. It wasn’t as affirming as a twelve hour day in the auror’s office, but it was nice. Not nice like setting another record in cases closed or the certainty that when he worked himself to the bone he definitely added value to the world. And certainly not nice how Ron thought it was, being the sort of fellow who preferred to leave work on time and spend his evening hours being crawled on by children he then had to clean up after, all while dedicating every Sunday to family brunch. But then, Harry never had a family and no matter how many times people offered to be his family it still felt like wearing the oversized hand-me-downs of his youth. Love and affection only ever fit right when Harry did something to earn it.
He knew, of course, that maybe true friends didn’t value you only for the work you did or how you could sacrifice your life to defeat a dark lord. Maybe they valued you just for being yourself. Maybe his insecurities were the after effects of early childhood trauma and he should be gentle with himself or whatever. Blah blah blah. Harry hated it.
But Arthur’s hugs were nice. Even if Harry kind of hated them, too. Ron said family meant unconditional love and Harry could choose his own family. Sounded like fairy tales. Which, Harry supposed, magic used to be to him. So who knows what was impossible and what was real.
Still. Here Harry was. Everyone was still thrilled when he actually showed up. It had been two years of him putting the effort in (had he, though?) and he’d be offended they still didn’t believe in him if he hadn’t spent a decade building walls between him and everyone else. The walls were thick, but he was trying to knock holes in them one way or another. Hence, the Holyhead Harpies versus Chudley Cannons.
It was such a big deal the Weasleys pooled together their resources with the help of a few friends to rent out a fancy box like the posh people who watched the game in style. Harry chipped in, of course, but it was the same even split with everyone else because he knew the Weasleys hated to feel incapable. That was one of the things everyone was fucking proud of him for - recognizing the social dynamics brought on by Harry being unnecessarily rich and still having too much sway with the press, while not being weird about it. By weird, he meant obscenely avoidant towards everyone he knew and loved. Or worse, trying to overcompensate with money or over the top actions to prove he deserved their love. He really, really, really was trying not to do that anymore. Hence the pride they all had in him, which made Harry resentful in no small part because it reminded Harry he had been, and mostly still was, a colossal prick.
Harry had been a bit insecure about a cold welcome from Ginny, so he’d made sure to deck himself out in Chudley orange. Enough that she wouldn’t be able to let him live it down when the Harpies crushed the Cannons once again. It was a great orange wall between him and personal accountability that he’d probably be ready for one day. Far from now. Because as far as he’s come (had it even been that far?) he wasn’t ready to face the people he’s let down hardest.
Harry walked with Arthur up the many stairs between them and their destination. Arthur wasn’t the sort of fellow to remark things like “back in my day,” but he did casually notice details like the new lift and enhanced concession stands with the befuddled amusement of someone with no intention of changing their ways. It calmed Harry to listen to his friend wonder about changing times as they meandered upwards together.
It was a very good box. Not quite the top box directly between the goal posts, but the closest to it. It was filled with plush orange seats emblazoned with the Chudley Cannon logo and ample space for the sort of stadium snacks Arthur remembered from his childhood. Meat pies and broomstick handle sausages. They’d skipped the bar to go all out with the food and party favors. Harry picked up a spare set of omnioculars and turned it over in his hands. He rubbed his fingers over the dial and imagined something might happen tonight that he’d want to slow down and examine. Nostalgia burned bright and sour until he put them down and turned away. He shoved his hands in his pockets and wasn’t tempted to pick up anything else.
The sky was empty but Harry walked to the window anyway to stare out at it. Quidditch referees could be seen walking along the ground, sturdy brooms in hand. The stadium was too crisp and large to resemble his school days, but the size of the pitch was exactly the same. Harry could go out on it now and still know in his bones how to circle above and watch for that golden snitch. A part of him wanted to. There’d be a local league somewhere where hobbists could still enjoy the game they loved so much. Plenty of teams would take him. Harry stayed flying fit as an auror and had used his leave to get in better shape yet.
But then he’d be out there. People would find out. They’d hover. They’d approach. It was one thing to decide Harry actually wanted to be the sort of person who could maintain a friendship, but part of that decision was separating his anxiety over being way too vulnerable in front of the public from what healthy, private relationships made possible. It was so hard to do anything because anything could put Harry back in the limelight where he very much didn’t want to be.
That had been one of the benefits of the aurors that he always knew he was hiding behind. It commanded a privacy for the sake of public safety, and gave the press and the public just enough to chew on to keep them satisfied. Now if he so much as tried to lend a hand at a joke shop people would swarm and expect more of him than the job would demand of anyone else. Again, he wondered about Romania. He was in good shape and could handle the manual labor fine. Especially with the lack of scrutiny benefit. But… but… it was lonely.
The problem with quitting the aurors was Harry had time to think about what it meant to be lonely. He probably would have gone back, blast it all, if… well… he probably wouldn’t have gone back. Marge didn’t need him and he wasn’t any good without someone to clean up after him. Still brash and impulsive and jumping into things he didn’t know how to handle because he’d done it all his life. If he ever stopped he’d have died a dozen times over instead of just that once, and then where would the wizarding world be? It was just like what… well… Harry didn’t need someone else to tell him he’d been bad at the job and the job was bad for him. He closed cases in ways he was sure he’d be ready to face one day. Far, far from now.
Harry’s hands twitched in his pockets, suddenly eager to grab onto something in distraction. Today was about quidditch. There would be friends. He would be social. He’d hold back the worst of his prickishness but not so much that anyone would feel the need to be proud without realizing just how fucking condescending it was to hear it yet again.
He grabbed himself a sausage broom and it was good. He said as much to Arthur, who wasn’t the sort to go off on how “if it was good enough for…” rants but still came close. It brought a smile to Harry’s face, but not as big of one as Harry got when he told Arthur that he was glad he now had the chance to pay for overpriced curry at a quidditch match and he got to watch Arthur go back to befuddlement while also immediately overplaying an attempt to agree everyone should have a choice in refreshments. Harry let the conversation sit there, figuring he’d checked off the box of trying to be open and authentic (shudder to think) without slipping into being a pillock.
The box filled out over time. Ron and the kids were as orange as Harry. Rose and Hugo took up enchanted Chudley Cannon banners and each time they waved them the room filled with notes from the Cannon’s theme. Hermoine and Angelina may have dressed like normal people, but George waltzed in decked out in dark green from head to toe. Half the adult Weasleys booed him, but Molly shushed them all with vigor since technically George was supporting his one and only sister.
“No he’s not,” Harry muttered loud enough no one could miss it, because he did like to remind them he was still an ass and what better moment than when George was trying to get by on one of those technicalities Harry also used to be so fond of.
Besides, everyone laughed and even Molly let it go because it was the honest truth.
Harry settled in after that. Not to, like, talking. But he hovered effectively and chuckled along to the good bits of conversation. People were too eager to say how glad it was they saw him, as if they never saw him (did they still never see him?), but once remarked upon it was like he’d always been there. The best of childhood friends who’d grown into lifelong family.
It didn’t feel like a purpose. Not like sneaking through dark wizard holdouts in constant peril. But it felt nice. Nice like you could relax, certain you weren’t forgetting anything important, and that no one in the room would take an offhand comment and sell you out to the papers with it. Because, oh yes, that still happened. Not here, though. Not with the Weasleys.
The game was starting. They could tell because the real Chudley theme was blasting from the field. At least four Weasleys belted out the words, their voices mingling with the most dedicated of fans who’d never abandon their team, no matter their record. Literally everyone had to make an excuse for why they wouldn’t sit in the front row until Molly and Arthur were bullied into it, and then it was a mad dash among the children to fill out the best spots. George, with the forcefulness of a bludger, got his entire family into the front row while Ron settled for the second.
Harry lingered in the back. He took the time to open up a complementary bottle of butterbeer and swished back the first cool draft. It tasted like that first trip to Diagon each year of his childhood to buy school supplies. It tasted like long nights in the common room with his friends. Back when he had more scars than he could understand, but fewer than he had now. He didn’t know if he should mourn the loss of the kid he’d been or pity him. Maybe both. Except even as an angsty teenager Harry had been better at realizing he wasn’t alone than he was as a depressed, good for nothing adult. Maybe that’s why he fought the nostalgia so fiercely.
Harry took the butterbeer with him anyway. It was sweet and refreshing and tasted of happier times Harry wouldn’t mind rediscovering.
The rows had filled enough that Harry had to grab a back seat to avoid the crowd. He sat two seats in just in case a latecomer needed to grab their own spot quickly. He was in his chair in time to watch the Chudley Cannons fly into the stadium, and hear the walloping cheers for each player announced. They weren’t the best team, but they were beloved, and there was more than one Weasley who could show off their card set of each player on the field tonight.
With one final trill of music, the Cannons flew to their side of the field and held steady so the Harpies could take the field. That round of music signaled the final break for the room before the game began. More than one person got up to grab one more bowl of snacks, beverage, or souvenir if there was a child to keep occupied. People hurried back to their seats as the players were announced. There were no cheers this time, and at least one, “Don’t boo, it’s not sportsmanly,” but for the most part everyone watched in anticipation until finally, finally the one player that you were allowed to abandon the Cannons for took to the pitch. The Wealey’s roared for Ginny even louder than they had for the Cannons’ star player, because that’s what love was to this family. So unconditional it’d make you root for the wrong team.
Right as the sound died down a blur of dark green sank into the chair next to Harry. He was saying, “What do you want, George?” even before he’d fully turned to take the new person in.
It was not George.
Harry’d fully time jumped back to the 1990s, with its quidditch, butterbeer, and shameless Slytherin green rivals all but smacking him in the face.
“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Harry asked before he thought about the words he was saying.
Draco had started off looking as surprised as Harry felt, clearly not having checked who he was sitting next to when he snuck into the box late. Harry’s words had his already narrow face pinching further, his slim brows scrunching together and carving lines of frustration. “Charming as ever, Potter,” Draco sneered. Harry wished it was snobby so he could judge him for it, but more than anything Draco looked and sounded hurt.
Draco’d also called Harry ‘Potter.’ Which, well, Harry had started it with the ‘Malfoy,’ but that didn’t mean it was nice to get in return.
“I mean,” Harry tried, not certain what he meant. “How did you join this group? Did Arthur mention it at work?”
The pinch went away but the brows stayed narrowed and his lips tightened in the sort of expression Harry bit back every time anyone told him they were proud. Like, Malfoy was used to getting comments like this and they didn’t come from the kind place the asker thought they did. It was the face Draco used two years ago at that pub when Harry couldn’t fathom why Draco had been invited out with all Hermione’s friends. Afterwards, Harry recognized he had stepped in it. He was stepping in it again now, wasn’t he?
“I suppose you can say we talked about this at work,” Draco said with the weariness of someone who’d quite like to drop the conversation entirely.
Harry’s own skin felt pinched, all tight around the edges. There was a rock in his stomach steadily growing into a boulder. He’d fortified himself to face Ginny, which was hard enough because she was never happy to see him, but this hadn’t been a consideration. Draco was… well, Draco sort of lived on the periphery of Harry’s mind. A fixture of his past that would be conjured up by the oddest things. A night out dancing or a fizzing whizzbee. Maybe Harry’s lips would quirk up in a fond smile. But they’d always dip down after. Guilt would whirl in his chest and he’d pinch his lips and tell himself one day he’d be ready to face this. Far, far from now.
This wasn’t the way Harry wanted to meet him. Not that there was a way he wanted to, yet. This was Draco. Draco Malfoy. The guy Harry absolutely did not change his entire life for. He thought at first he might have, because all the changes were tangled up with an obsessive, pathetic yearning for connection that he had been convinced Draco could resolve. He’d been hopeful when he transported into Azkaban that Draco would have been yearning back. That everything could have gone different.
Except of course it couldn’t have. Their relationship, if you called it that, had been built on Harry’s lies and manipulation and Draco was clearly yearning for something far away from what Harry could offer. Maybe Harry could have pushed it. They could have had a fling. A tragedy in the making. Harry could hardly manage a casual thing with muggles he meets for one night stands, little less a man he’d known for twenty years. A man who, when Harry had his gay awakening at 19, he could look back and recognize he may have always fancied. In the least healthy of ways. Unhealthy ways that would have played out unhealthily and left Draco even worse for wear, and Harry with larger piles of guilt and self reproach.
What would it even have been like for Draco, who was just starting to build a life for himself out from under the thumb of the ministry, if Harry had been willing to… he didn’t even know what to call it. Be unconsciously selfish (again)? Abuse his power (again)? Destroy any chance of trust between them (was there anything left to destroy)? It’s not like Harry could have offered him anything. Harry was a mess, then. Still a mess, now. Maybe slightly tidied, but not Draco-worthy. Draco who was… considerate, brave, and honest. Who built and valued relationships in ways Harry never dared to.
Harry had spent all month preparing to face Ginny. He was far, far from ready to face up to Draco Malfoy. The sudden proximity was forcing up all these thoughts that he’d set aside years ago. Harry wished Draco would be rude enough and get up to find a different seat, so Harry wouldn’t have to be brave enough to sit still politely.
Instead, the final Holyhead Harpie flew onto the pitch and George let out a final whoop. He turned back to find Draco in the crowd. “That’s your pal on the field, mate!”
Harry’s eyes instantly darted back to lock on a blushing Draco. His face was to the field and he had his own fond little smile, entirely for someone flying around the pitch that Harry didn’t bother to get a look at. Harry licked suddenly dry lips. “He’s your friend?”
Draco spared Harry the briefest of glances. While he was clearly frustrated, it didn’t seem attached to what he said next. “They.”
“What?”
“They’re gender nonconforming. They go by they/them,” Draco said it so matter of factly.
Harry knew this was one of those moments when Harry was at risk of saying something wrong and sliding way too far into being a prick. So he went with “Right, yeah,” when what he really meant was, “What sort of friend?” or, “Aren’t the Harpies a women only team?” or “Can you date someone gender nonconforming when you’re gay?” So, like, the worst possibly fucking things. Which meant that on top of being at serious risk of retraumatizing someone he’d genuinely hurt in the past, he now had to face the fact he had internalized transphobia or something.
Also, merlin’s balls, the only reason he was even thinking about this was because he didn’t want to look bad in front of Draco sodding Malfoy. But he couldn’t make his personal growth about Draco sodding Malfoy.
That was something Harry had to come to terms with two years ago. Draco may have been there at the right place and right time, but he wasn’t put there for Harry. Harry was just another string in a series of people who did wrong by Draco. Harry was almost inconsequential, if it weren’t for Harry finally, finally putting two and two together to figure out four was bad and he needed to make serious life changes at the exact moment Draco could benefit from his change. The fact that Draco’s fate hinged on the good luck of Harry’s personal development was just royally fucked up. Harry knew that. Harry also knew, if this was all about Draco, then the fact that Draco didn’t really want what Harry wanted meant that… well, Harry would have no reason not to give up on all the change he’d been doing.
Only Harry didn’t want to give up on it. Even if that meant he couldn’t linger around Draco (or anyone else) until Draco (or anyone else) had a vulnerable moment and was willing to sleep with him again, and he had to give up the career that had always made him feel like his existence mattered. Sometimes these things felt like sacrifices, but Harry knew they weren’t. Not if he meant it. Well, maybe he hadn’t known at first but he’d figured it out in his own time. Even if figuring it out was painful and embarrassing and left Harry feeling wrung out without a larger purpose or pathway ahead of him, or like since he wasn’t actively being the savior of wizarding society it was only a matter of time until everyone realized he was worthless and stopped loving him.
It was fine. Harry was fine. His life didn’t have a purpose, but it could be nice. With the nice hugs of people who were capable of unconditional love, and the belief that one day, far, far way, Harry would be willing to face all the people he was still scared to talk to.
People like Draco, who was watching that pal of his, Gerry the keeper said the announcer, with the smallest, dopiest of smiles. Like Gerry was the moon in Draco’s sky.
Harry guessed you could be gay and date a nonbinary person. Or maybe it was all a spectrum and labels were only helpful if they were helpful to you. It didn’t matter. Draco was looking at Gerry in a way he’d never looked at Harry and Harry was adult enough to handle that and all the weight of the boulder in his stomach, where Harry stored his jealousy and guilt.
It was probably nice, though, that Draco had gotten on with his life. His soft smile was nice. His silent cheer at every save Gerry made, so respectful of everyone else even as he punched a celebratory fist in the air, would have been nice if Harry was the quidditch player Draco cheered for.
Merlin, Harry was lonely. All this guilt and longing and loneliness was getting mixed up together inside of him, muddling his thoughts. Truly, he hardly ever thought of Draco anymore. Well, rarely enough. It’s just he looked good tonight. Well nourished and filled out a bit from exercise. Maybe Gerry took him flying. He’d cut his hair back to just above his ears. Just long enough to be a bit wavy. Just long enough that you could sink your hands into it when kissing.
Gerry fended off another would-be-goal from the Cannons. They were really quite good. Nothing was getting through. Even the Weasleys were grudgingly impressed. Harry tried to be impressed. He tried to be happy for them. He tried to parse through his weird tangle of feelings and remind himself none of this was actually about Draco and whoever it was he dated. Healthy people didn’t co-dependently latch on to their high school bullies seeking purpose and affection.
It was these thoughts spinning through Harry’s head that made him realize the worst possible thing. He was going to have to make an effort here. He was going to have to prove to himself he could be nice to Draco sodding Malfoy, because it was the sort of thing he simply had to be able to do. The other option was to sulk and brood and ruin the mood. That would mean that Harry did think himself the special savior that the entire world should cater to. He’d be acting like he thought he deserved things - attention, affection - when he was really just a person. Just another person. Someone with feelings, who could be lonely, who could feel bad for their choices, but who, ultimately, no one owed anything to and no one deserved to be hurt by.
Harry could do it, too. He believed he could. He believed it before Arthur wrapped him up in a hug and told Harry he was proud of him for showing up for the people who he was most insecure around. Arthur had been talking about Ginny, but, well…
Three Cannon chasers swooped down suddenly in a perfectly executed Hawkshead Attacking Formation, the quaffle flawlessly tossed between them so that the Harpies keeper would never know who would make the final attack. As one, the crowd leaned forward, the children were cheering the players on, everyone eagerly watched. The ball was thrown to the player furthest to the left. Gerry shifted to guard there just as the chaser tossed the ball back to the far right. It should have been impossible to block the resulting strike. The ball flew straight for the right hoop, fast as could be. But Gerry lurched their broom, turning all its force back where they came from, while leveraging themself up into the stirrups until they were balancing far above his seat, their hand outstretched so precariously that their coaches would have to scold them for recklessness later. They looked about to topple of their broom. But their fingers caught on the tip of the quaffle and it was just enough to push it off course. The quaffle hit the edge of the goal, and bounced back out into the field.
The cheer of the Harpies’ fans was drowned out by the loud groan of the Cannon fans.
“That was incredible,” Harry breathed out in awe. “I’ve never seen a save like that.”
Draco had been biting his fingers the whole lead up to the save, and was now bouncing in his seat with the biggest grin. He turned the full force of it on Harry, thrilled that someone would allow his celebration. “They’re amazing!” Draco crowed. “They’ve only been playing professionally for three years, but they made such a splash in France that the Harpies recruited them to the British and Irish league. That’s why you haven’t heard of them. But by the end of the season, everyone will have!” He looked good, happy.
It didn’t take much effort for Harry to make himself smile. “I believe it. They’re certainly proving themselves today.”
Somehow Draco’s grin got bigger. It made him a little pointy and showed too much teeth, which somehow left him charmingly endearing. Which was when Harry knew Draco hadn’t expected him to be kind. This was Draco relaxing his guard again. He looked good, relaxed.
And that was when something new clicked. Harry may absolutely find Draco attractive and couldn’t help the occasional fantasy reminiscing over what was some of the best sex of his life, but he was pretty sure he liked this more. It had been so rare to see Draco open, happy, and relaxed. There was nearly a warmth to it that Harry could bask in. And it was only possible because Harry had done something that he was working hard to build enough muscles that it might one day come naturally to him. Being kind and generous himself, unconditionally. Like the unconditional love you give your true family. Needing nothing in return for it.
And Harry found that he didn’t need anything in return. It was enough to sit easily next to Draco. Not because draco made it easy, but rather Harry finally felt easy in his skin. Conversation rolled on smoothly after that. They talked about all the quidditch-themed nothing one could. And it was nice.
Until the Cannon chaser took a bludger to the shoulder so hard she lost her seat. She must have been less balanced then Gerry because her broom wobbled, then tipped, and the hit must have been something fierce since she didn’t catch herself after. Everyone was on their feet to watch the poor player fall. Quidditch referees were zooming in, wands already pulled out to cast levitation charms or cushioning spells. Only Ginny was zipping in between the helpers. Her entire body was plastered to her broom to minimize draft and eek out every ounce of speed. Harry saw it before the crowd began shouting. The flickering ball of gold darting about just yards from Ginny. Yards below the falling player, who had tipped over to face down and was now reaching out her own hand for that elusive snitch.
Ginny flew faster than her opponent could fall but she had so much distance to make up. She pulled in tighter for a final burst of speed, swooping in just below the falling player. Two hands reached out for the ball. Then the players collided, and Ginny’s broom went spinning. The snitch spun off with them.
The crowd was shouting. Cries for the safety of the players. Shouts demanding to know who caught the snitch.
It was a good thing the referees were at the ready because it took three of them to gently land the broom that had two players sprawled on top of it while struggling against each other, hands desperately grasping around what must be a tiny ball still trying to escape. The referees zoomed in to make the call.
Silence fell as the entire stadium held their breath.
It was the Cannon seeker who’s fist finally thrust into the air, the golden snitch shining in her hand.
Then the world exploded. The Weasleys were shouting. The stadium roared. The kids jumped on their chairs in excitement waving their Chudley Cannon banners high. George was hugging Ron over the back of his chair, giving up the joke of being a Harpy fan now that the Cannons had pulled it off. Even Draco was laughing and cheering at the absurdity of it. The Cannons had won, 150 to 140, not having gotten a single quaffle score.
When Ginny walked in some time later her family was still celebrating her defeat. But everyone cheered for her anyway. She tried glowering, but it was hard to stick when Molly was hugging her and lavishing her with praise. Ginny might have shrugged it off if it wasn’t all true. She’d flown magnificently. It was only dumb luck that did her in. Near everyone took a turn consoling her, or at least pretending to in Ron and George’s case. It might have been cruel, but the Weasleys had rented out this box for ten years since Ginny made it to the league and she’d gloated plenty when she beat the Cannons each time. Turnabout, fairplay, and the like.
There was so much hubbub that Harry could have avoided her. Likely no one even would remark if he slipped out for the night. It would have been easy. They probably wouldn’t even judge him. It had been a long day and they were in good spirits. Three years ago he never would have shown up at all and in truth they did notice he was trying to be better.
Also there was that pit in his stomach. That wrangled mess of guilt and shame, with a hefty dash of insecurity. He had to admit he didn’t want to talk to her. Only, it wasn’t because he didn’t like Ginny. He liked her plenty. Loved her, still. Not romantically, obviously, but something else. There was strong feeling there. Not as strong as with Ron and Hermione, but big enough that he knew he missed her and all the good things they used to have.
He kept thinking he’d be ready to deal with this one day. A far, far away day. Only… that didn’t feel true right now. Draco came out of nowhere and he’d managed to deal with that. Harry couldn’t say who was scarier, Draco or Ginny, but he was pretty sure that if he could handle Draco than saying he couldn’t handle Ginny was just playing pretend. Just making excuses to still be an asshole. Probably a source of the skepticism that Harry was really back for good. It felt impossible to change, except for all the other ways he’d forced himself to.
Harry wandered over to the crowd around Ginny. It wasn’t hard to spot him coming. He was a blob of orange. Ginny looked him over head to foot and scowled. “You’re such a twat, Harry,” she snapped at him.
It was a harsher greeting than Harry knew how to handle. Except maybe he did know. He could be like Ron and Hermione, or Arthur or Molly. Folks who loved Harry unconditionally, even if was being such an absolute twat. “You flew well out there, would have beat me for sure,” Harry said.
That won him no favors. Ginny started gesticulating with her hands. “You can catch a snitch in your mouth! You’d have probably swallowed the thing before breaking my neck with your fall.”
She looked angry. Harry considered a swift retreat. Only, Ginny had always been tough and gutsy. Harry took a deep breath and stuck with it. Not speaking but making no retreat. He stayed there long enough that George and Angelina started spitballing other pratfalls Harry might use to out maneuver Ginny for the snitch. He could hang upside down or spin out of control and knock over all the other players like bowling pins. Ginny joined in with heated exaggeration. Until it didn’t sound so angry to Harry. It sounded… fun. Then Harry was laughing with them, and Ginny was laughing, too, and none of this felt hard.
He stayed there with his friends late into the evening, until the stadium workers kicked everyone out. It was nice, and he was fine. Well and truly fine. Maybe not as lonely as just hours before.
Even if his stomach did flip once when he saw Draco with his arm around Gerry’s waist. Draco was introducing them to Arthur Weasley. A bit overly formal, but still with the air of bringing someone home to meet the family. And just for a moment, Harry felt lonely again.
He wanted that, he realized. Not with Draco, that’s not what he meant. Just, with someone. Something healthy instead of codependent. Something real, that you didn’t have to part ways with when the stadium shut down all around you. Something where he wouldn’t feel so alone.