Harry had never been very good at making friends.
Or, maybe he was, but Dudley had never given him the chance to find out. In primary school, any time another child showed any amount of kindness to Harry, there was a one-hundred percent chance Dudley would be right behind them, ready to beat them up and scare them away. Harry's running record had been three days—three days, for the longest friendship he'd ever had, and that was only because Dudley had been home sick with the flu. Over time, he'd gotten used to being lonely.
At Hogwarts, everything changed. For the first time in his life, Harry was allowed to have friends. He realized, after eleven years of believing otherwise, that people actually liked being around him, and that he belonged somewhere after all.
When he went back to Privet Drive each summer, he couldn't help it when the feeling of loneliness crept up on him once again. As much as he tried to keep in contact with his friends through letters (when his uncle would let him), it just wasn't the same. Without them there, with him, where he could feel their presence and hear their voices, it was very easy to forget.
This summer, the only thing keeping Harry sane was the fact that the Dursleys had been keeping a particularly loose leash on him, seeming to actually prefer it if he left the house and stayed out of their hair for most of the day—which he was all too glad to do.
Little Whinging wasn't a particularly exciting town, but it was nice enough to walk outside, visit the couple of parks nearby, sometimes even take a nap in the sun. And—Hermione would be thrilled if she knew—Harry had taken to visiting the little library in town too. He'd spend hours there reading muggle books. He frequented it so often, the librarian had kindly suggested that he sign up for a library card, but he didn't dare take any books home where they could possibly be destroyed by Dudley. (Another plus about spending time in the library—it was the one place Dudley and his friends would never find Harry, as they'd been especially bored this summer and were more ruthless than ever in their crusade to torment him.)
And then he met Michael.
Out of the blue one day, a teenage boy had sat down right next to him during one of his trips to the library and asked about the book he was reading. Harry flashed the cover of Fahrenheit 451 to him, skeptical of any amount of kindness shown to him in Little Whinging, but not immediately recognizing him as anyone he knew from primary school.
"That's a great book," the boy said with a genuine smile. "One of my favorites."
"Yeah," Harry responded tentatively, "I'm liking it a lot so far."
He stuck out a hand. "My name's Michael. I just moved here—my dad got a transfer at work."
That explained it, Harry thought as he shook the proffered hand. He hadn't had his opinion of Harry tarnished by Dudley and his goons during early childhood like the rest of his peers in town had, and thus was actually being nice. Well, that was okay. Harry hadn't had a nice person to talk to since he left Hogwarts for the summer.
He gave a wry smile, "I'm Harry. Sorry about that."
"I dunno, this place seems nice enough. Quaint."
"You mean small and boring," Harry supplied. Michael laughed.
"Well, the summer reading list I've been given isn't small and boring," he said, pulling out a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolding it. "I was wondering, Harry, I don't know anything about this library—would you mind showing me around a bit?"
This library was no different from most other (non-magical) libraries. The books were neatly organized on the shelves according to the Dewey decimal system, and there was a friendly and helpful librarian on duty just behind the front desk to answer any questions one could have. Michael didn't need Harry to show him around.
But for some reason, Harry found himself showing him around anyway.
They ran into each other many more times at the library over the next few weeks—Michael as he worked on his summer reading list, and Harry as he worked on being as far away from the Dursleys as possible. They would have whispered conversations in the corner, hidden away behind the large stacks so the librarian wouldn't be bothered by them. They talked about books, music, current celebrity gossip—mundane Muggle things that Harry hadn't even realized a part of him had missed.
Slowly, they got to know each other better. Harry learned that Michael lived with his father and younger sister, that his mom died from cancer when he was six, that his father worked ridiculously hard to provide his children with good lives, and that Michael loved him a lot. Harry told Michael about his own parents (they died when he was a baby, he said, didn't give a reason, didn't want to lie, but Michael never pushed), told him about living with the Dursleys, revealed some of his most scathing secret nicknames for Dudley, which they both laughed about. Quickly, without even realizing what was happening, Harry had made a friend in Little Whinging for the first time in his entire life.
Until things started to change.
He wouldn't remember what joke he told that one day, as they sat at their usual table in the corner, but Harry would very much remember the flutter he felt in his chest when Michael laughed. It was a new and completely unexpected feeling. But it was nice.
Michael was kind. That's what Harry liked most about him, maybe because he knew how unkind people could be in Little Whinging. Whenever Harry spoke, he seemed to hang off of every word, not just listening to what he had to say but caring about it as well. He'd share the sandwiches and snacks he'd have stashed away in his backpack whenever they took walks outside together, never commenting about how thin Harry became over the summer but understanding all the same. He valued Harry's opinions, asked for his advice, and genuinely seemed to enjoy being around him.
And one day, Harry came to the realization that his feelings for Michael were much bigger than friendship. He hesitated to call it love, but more and more, the word was starting to feel right.
Then Michael asked him out to get ice cream.
"Y'know, just like, as a friend thing. Because we're friends aren't we?"
"Yeah," Harry said, "We are."
"It's just," a blush came to Michael's cheeks, and he looked more flustered and unsure than Harry had ever seen him in their few short weeks of knowing each other, "I like you…like, a lot. And I also wouldn't mind going as not friends. More than friends! Uh, I mean…"
Impulsively, and with every ounce of the bravery that sorted him into Gryffindor, Harry reached out and took Michael's hand. "I'd like that."
They went out to the ice cream parlor that afternoon and bought extra-large cones, then sat at the most secluded bench they could find in the park and held hands while they ate. It was Harry's favorite day of the entire summer.
They were very cautious with their relationship (and Merlin, they had a relationship, how crazy was that?) moving forward. In a conservative town where gossip spread like wildfire, they knew things wouldn't be good if word got around that they were dating. Especially if the Dursley's found out—Petunia was largely quiet about the topic, fond of pretending that such an "unnatural" behavior didn't exist at all, but Vernon had gotten very vocal about it on more than one occasion, with long, loud rants complete with insults and slurs. Thus, every time Harry and Michael held hands, or hugged, or pecked each other on the cheek, it was in complete secrecy, in places where no one could observe them.
Harry didn't even write to his friends about Michael. Partly because of an irrational fear that the letter would somehow be intercepted by the Dursleys, and partly because he just didn't know how they would view that sort of thing. A small number of same-sex relationships did exist at Hogwarts, but none of them involved people that Harry or his friends were particularly close to, and he'd never heard the subject brought up. He always liked to think the best of his friends, but with the muggle world being so against homosexuality, he couldn't help but fear that the wizarding world was much the same.
But that was fine. It wouldn't matter anyway. Because at the end of the summer, Harry would be going back to Hogwarts, and Michael would be going to muggle secondary school, and that would be that.
Harry had explained to Michael that he went to a boarding school on the other side of the country, that it was very secluded and difficult to get to, so the post was unreliable and he probably wouldn't be able to send him letters (it's not like he could have Hedwig fly up to Michael's bedroom window—it would just be too strange). Blessedly, he seemed to understand, never once questioning Harry on the logic of it. He was very good with that sort of thing.
Harry would be spending the last week of summer at the Burrow, and so, the day that Mr. Weasley was set to pick him up, he met with Michael one last time to say goodbye. As Mr. Weasley was expected to arrive in the early afternoon, Harry had very little time to prepare, so he risked meeting Michael at the playground near Privet Drive. They settled down on the swings, side by side, and just sat. They didn't even talk much, content to enjoy each other's presence despite the melancholic undercurrent of their parting.
"So, this is it," Michael said.
Harry nodded. "I'm going to miss you."
"Me too. The library won't be near as fun without you."
"But at least you'll get some actual reading done for once."
"Hey!" Michael protested playfully, pushing Harry's swing and sending him rocking to the side. When it finally settled back down, he quietly slipped his hand into Harry's.
"LOOK! THE FREAK'S A FAGGOT!"
In an instant, Harry dropped Michael's hand and bolted up from the swing. There, standing by the entrance of the park was Dudley and his gang. He hadn't even heard them coming. They were the least discreet group of idiots in Britain, how hadn't he heard them coming?
"Oh, just wait 'till I tell Dad!" Dudley said gleefully. Despite still being as fat as a whale, joining the wrestling team had given him enough athleticism to finally have the ability to run. With a nasty smile on his face, he put this ability to use as he turned and fled toward home.
"No!" Harry shouted, running after him.
"Where do you think you're goin', Fairy Potter?" snarled Piers Polkiss as he and Malcolm grabbed Harry before he could get out the gate of the park.
"Should grab your boyfriend too. Wouldn't that be cute, a double beatin'?" he taunted, and Harry turned his head, finally realizing that Michael was still standing in front of the swings, frozen in place. Harry shouted at him.
"Run, GO!"
Michael came out of his stupor, and with a final, pained look at Harry, he turned and ran the opposite direction of the thugs, hopping the short fence and disappearing into the neighborhood behind.
While the bullies were distracted by watching Michael go, Harry gathered enough strength to rip himself from their hands, taking off after Dudley. If he had been thinking right, he would have run in the other direction, maybe all the way to France, and would have never faced his uncle again. But in that moment, there was some part of his mind that was deluded into thinking that he could argue against Dudley, deny everything, and make his uncle believe him.
When Dudley finally flew through the door of Number Four Privet Drive, Harry was only a few steps behind him.
"DAD! DAD!" Dudley yelled, tearing into the living room where Vernon sat on the sofa, the news playing on the television in front of him.
"What is it, son?" Vernon said, putting the news on mute.
"You're not gonna BELIEVE this—"
"He's lying!" Harry shouted as he entered the room. At the sight of him, Vernon's expression went from one of mildly-interested curiosity to red-faced anger.
"Quiet, boy! Now what's this about, Dudley?"
"The freak's a faggot! He was in the park with another boy, they were holding hands and their heads were close together, I bet they'd been kissing!"
"We weren't—!"
"SHUT UP!" Vernon bellowed, fist flying as he swung around to face Harry, connecting solidly with his face. Pain exploded within him as he heard a crunching sound coming from his nose, and the frames of his glasses cracked as they were shoved backward into his eyes. He stumbled backward, clutching his face in pain. Vernon had never hit him like that before. Smacked him around a couple of times, sure, but nothing that had ever done that much damage.
If Petunia had been there, Harry was sure, he wouldn't have lost control so easily. She always seemed to ground him, if only through her fear of the neighbors noticing anything unusual coming from their house. But she was out grocery shopping, and then again, whether she had been there or not, Harry never had expected Vernon to go that far.
Blood started dripping from his nose at the same time as his left eye, which had taken more of the blow than his right, started to swell. Suddenly Vernon grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him into the wall. Dudley howled with laughter.
"Now listen here, freak: I may have to put up with you and your bloody magic tricks, but I draw the line at this repulsive, unnatural filth…I will not have a fucking fairy in my house, do you hear me?" he shoved him harder into the wall, "I don't care if I have to beat it out of you myself—"
"Get away from him," came a voice, cool, calm, and unbelievably dangerous sounding. Harry turned to see Mr. Weasley at the door, wand raised. Oh god, Mr. Weasley was at the door. Mr. Weasley was at the door and had presumably heard everything Vernon had just said.
Dudley squeaked in fear and fled the room. As Vernon dropped Harry and backed away, Harry couldn't help but focus on the redhead. He was angrier than Harry had ever seen him, angrier than Harry had ever seen anybody, and considering what he had just witnessed, that was saying something.
"Harry, can you walk?" Mr. Weasley said tersely. It was only then that Harry realized he was leaning heavily against the wall. He pushed away from it and stood up straight, then nodded. It hurt.
"Where are your things?" he asked next, eyes and wand never leaving Vernon for an instant. Harry looked down at his toes.
"Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, sir."
A strange look briefly crossed Mr. Weasley's face, something too subtle for Harry's impaired vision to decipher. With the slightest flick of his wand, he unlocked the cupboard instantly, and a second later Harry's trunk could be heard flying through the front door that Mr. Weasley had never bothered to close.
"Wait for me outside," he ordered.
Harry shuffled past him without another word. He couldn't look the man in the eye.
Oh Merlin, what had he done.
He'd ruined everything, that's what he'd done. There's no way Mr. Weasley hadn't heard Vernon, there's no way he didn't know what Harry was. They'd already had to put up with a lot, what with their son being friends with "The Boy Who Lived", there's no way they'd want to be associated with him now that they knew how much more of a freak he was.
And yes, Mr. Weasley had demanded that Vernon back away from him, but that's because he was a good man who would never tolerate the abuse of a child, no matter how repulsive and unnatural that child was.
If he was lucky, Mr. Weasley wouldn't tell Ron. He could come up with some sort of reasonable excuse to no longer be Ron's friend (as much as it would pain him), and Hermione would probably hate him after that too, but at least they wouldn't know the truth. They'd reject him for reasons that he could control, and that was slightly more bearable than the alternative.
Harry wasn't sure what happened inside Number Four Privet Drive in the few minutes he sat musing about his bleak future, but when Mr. Weasley finally came back out, most of the anger on his face had been replaced with a more grim expression. Harry stood up from his perch on top of his trunk, swaying slightly as his vision started swimming.
"Thanks, Mr. Weasley, I really appreciate everything you've done for me," Harry said quickly, "if I could just use your floo, I think the Leaky Cauldron would take me. Tom didn't mind me staying there before, and if I can't get to my vault right away I'm sure he knows I'm good for it—"
His head dropped and his ramblings were silenced when Mr. Weasley put both hands on Harry's shoulders, effectively keeping him in place. "Harry, look at me."
Reluctantly, Harry met his eyes.
"Why would I send you to the Leaky Cauldron?" His voice held no judgment, no ridicule. He asked the question flatly, like he had an idea of what the answer was but was looking Harry to confirm it.
"Well obviously you can't have me at the Burrow, and I completely understand—"
"Understand what?"
Harry started looking away, but the grip on his shoulders tightened ever so slightly, drawing him back. Why was Mr. Weasley making him spell it out? "You have six sons, sir."
"Yes?"
"You can't have me near them! You heard what my relatives said, I'm…I'm…"
"Gay?"
"A faggot," Harry finished simultaneously, almost choking on the word.
"Harry listen. I don't ever want to hear you using that word again, do you understand me?"
"I'm sorry, sir."
"Don't apologize," he sighed, then pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed at some of the blood still sluggishly dripping down Harry's face, "We need to talk, but you're hurt and that's more important. We are going back to the Burrow, though, okay?"
Harry nodded, fighting back the tears prickling at his eyes. He couldn't. Not now.
With a wave of his wand, Mr. Weasley shrunk down Harry's belongings and slipped them into his pocket. Then, wrapping a firm arm around Harry's shoulders, he apparated them both directly to the Burrow.
Upon arriving, Harry felt the whole world sway around him. His head felt like someone had cast a levitation charm on it, and a surge of nausea very nearly made him vomit. Immediately, though, Arthur sat him down on a kitchen chair, steadying him. Leaving Harry to hold his handkerchief against his nose, he went to rummage through the stock of healing potions stored in a cupboard near the sink.
When he gained slightly more control of his senses, Harry began to wonder if Mr. Weasley had somehow sent a message to Mrs. Weasley in the time between sending Harry outside and seeing him once again. The house was suspiciously empty and quiet, as if everyone was out, despite the fact that Harry's arrival was normally met with multiple enthusiastic redheads. He wasn't sure if their absence was comforting or not.
Soon, Mr. Weasley returned with an armful of supplies, unloading them without ceremony onto the kitchen table. He handed Harry a potion to drink ("For the nausea") and cast a quick episky to set his nose, then directed Harry to remove the handkerchief from his face while he cleaned away the excess blood with a damp flannel.
"Wasn't too severe, luckily. The head just tends to bleed a lot," he reassured softly. Once finished, he cast the now rust-colored flannel aside, then picked up a balm to use on Harry's bruised eye.
Harry couldn't stand it anymore. Mr. Weasley was being so gentle, and so kind, and it didn't make any sense. He had to address the elephant in the room. "Thank you for all of this, sir, but I don't understand…"
Arthur took a moment to recap the balm and clean his hands before sitting back and meeting Harry's eyes. "Harry, I have seven children. Don't you think I've considered the possibility that at least one of them could be gay?"
Harry froze for a moment in shock. That hadn't been what he was expecting Mr. Weasley to say at all. "I didn't…"
"Well, I have," he said, matter-of-factly, "and do you know what I decided?"
Harry shook his head.
"That I'd love them just the same, no matter what. My love for my children is unconditional, and that extends to who they love too. And Harry, I consider you one of my children—do you understand now?"
Harry couldn't stop the tears from falling from his eyes any longer. Without a thought, Arthur reached forward and wrapped Harry in his arms, cradling his head to his chest. "Oh, son…"
Harry cried for what felt like forever, and when he finally pulled away, Mr. Weasley's robes were covered in tears in snot. But the man didn't look bothered by it in the slightest. Instead, he asked, "Do you have your glasses?"
Harry pulled the broken frames out of the pocket he'd stowed them in before apparating, and Mr. Weasley traded him for a newly clean handkerchief, which he used to dry his eyes. A quick reparo had them set to rights, and Mr. Weasley carefully placed them back on Harry's head.
"Your uncle's behavior was entirely unacceptable. Your cousin's too," he said. "I'm sorry you have such horrible people for relatives. I want you to know, though, you'll always have a place with us, whenever you need it. Okay? Any hour, day or night, you're always welcome here."
Harry nodded, not trusting himself to answer out loud lest he started crying again, and Mr. Weasley put a hand on Harry's shoulder.
"Be proud of who you are, Harry. Molly and I are certainly proud of you."
Later, when Harry would finally come out to the rest of the Weasleys, Ron would slap him on the back and Molly would bake him a huge cake to celebrate while Ginny demanded to know about his boyfriend and Fred and George continuously set off rainbow colored fireworks indoors.
And he would sit in the warmth of the Burrow, with the scent of warm chocolate in the air and the sound of Ginny's chattering and Molly's scolding of the twins in his ears, surrounded by a group of people who had become the first real family he'd ever had, and he would know without a doubt in his heart:
He was loved.