At first, he thought it was just Hermione. She was radiance in itself, all sleepy-eyes and warm sighs in the morning, soft skin and sugary laughter in the evening. He liked her best when she was curled in the ugly floral-printed armchair she'd refused to part with in the corner of the living room, leathery book in her hands as she lost herself to the world.
She made coffee the Muggle way, fumbling with the machine in the corner of the kitchen and filling the flat with the sweet aroma. He usually rose first, the first to see her in such a way where she was this extravagant. She's completely relaxed in her ways, dancing about the tile floor to the sound of the crackling radio on the shelf. She'd pass him his mug with a kind smile, the one decorated with Quidditch symbols that he'd absolutely adored at first sight.
Hermione was lovely, and he understood why he felt deep affection for her. But no, it wasn't just her.
It was Ron, too, with his miraculous baking skills inherited from his mother, mouthwatering buns popped in the oven every other day and delicious desserts whipped up on weekends. Occasionally, they all got takeout from the local spot down the block, but he much preferred Ron's dumplings over the ones from the Chinese place.
It was Ron with his unhealthy Cannons obsession, able to score box seats just because he was a war hero. ("Something I never regret using my status for," he always said.) It was Ron, with his chess games set up in front of the fireplace, whooping arse left and right. It was Ron, with his off-key singing in the shower, and his roaring laughter echoing down the stairs as he tested out George's joke products.
But it was also Ron with a sensitive side, always there to comfort when needed. He got jealous, sometimes, seeing Ron with Hermione. They fit so perfectly, there was hardly any room for him. But yet, Ron managed to find time for him anyways, comforting his nightmares with a good cup of hot cocoa.
It was both of them, there to stand by him at every turn, to be his support, to keep him sane. He couldn't live without them, not one without the other. They were so perfect, and he wanted a place in their hearts that wasn't already filled by each other. He tells them he loves them, but they just smile, they don't understand. Yes, he loves them as friends, but they think that's all. They don't know his fantasies of so much more, his dreams of more than affectionate hugs. He can't bear to tell them. He can only imagine what they'd say.
Freak.
Oh, Harry Potter was so screwed.
GTGTGT
The flat was quite large, just the perfect size for all three of them. They'd convinced Harry not to go it alone in Grimmauld Place, all inviting smiles and coaxing words. He'd given in, of course, how could he tell them no? So, the flat was born, as was the ugly armchair Hermione had fallen in love with at the local antique store. (They'd refused to budge, but so had she, and they knew she wouldn't back down.)
The flat was so them, it was unbelievable. Harry had chosen the room with the large window, as he hated feeling like he was cooped up. He could look outside anytime he wanted, or even charm the view to show something that pleased him. Hermione had chosen the room with large shelves, filled with all her books and still with room. Ron had wanted the room with the high ceilings and roomy space, so different from his room at the Burrow. But it still seemed so cozy despite it's large size, filled with throw pillows and knit blankets.
Harry loved their home, with framed pictures from Hogwarts on the walls and the rug in the hallway that he always seemed to stumble over when getting off of late shifts at the Ministry. He loved the cozy kitchen, with the large oven and the Muggle microwave. But most of all, he loved the nights when they were all home from work, squished together on the sofa with a tub of Neapolitan ice cream and watching a film on the television. The large blanket knitted by Ron's mum as a housewarming present covered them nicely, and Harry often found himself dozing off on Ron's shoulder after a long week.
It was their home, and theirs alone. Sometimes they had guests over, but more often than not, it was just the three of them, like it always should be. Harry wondered why he hadn't realized it sooner, why he'd been so oblivious. But it had suddenly hit him one chilly day in January, when they'd all been snuggled on the couch, drinking hot cocoa and watching reruns.
He loved them. He loved the way Hermione sang when she thought nobody was looking, secretive in her room, or even humming in the kitchen when she tried to prepare scambled eggs. He loved the way Ron snuck glances at Hermione across the room, absolute adoration in his eyes that he'd give to nobody else, whispering sweet nothings in her ear when she needed it most. (Harry wished he was the subject.)
Ron and Hermione were his everything, and he wanted nobody else's company. They were always going to be it for him, and that was the exact reason why he was so screwed.