Harry doesn’t feel left out. Seriously, he doesn’t. His partners pay him almost too much attention sometimes (which makes him blush like mad), so he likes to sit back and watch them every once and awhile.
He sits at the kitchen table and watches them cook. After finding out about his childhood, slaving over breakfast for the Dursley’s every morning, Cho and Cedric had essentially forbidden him from cooking (that, and the fact he wasn’t very good at making anything other than eggs).
He watches the way they move together, a perfect team as they pass ingredients. Cho’s fuzzy socks slide across the tiled floor as she puts the milk away in the fridge, and she giggles happily, seemingly to herself, as she does so. Harry catches the fond twinkle in Cedric’s grey eyes, and Harry assumes there’s something similar in his own green ones.
He couldn’t feel left out if he tried. Because as Cedric turns and grabs Harry’s hand, pulling him up and spinning him around, and Cho grabs his hips from behind and nuzzles her face into the back of his neck, making him laugh.
He feels like he belongs.
