It was a tad past midnight in the Gryffindor Dorms. Wide brown eyes watched two close lids, concealing green diamonds. Across said bed, were those of three others, the occupants sleeping soundly. Trunks could be found at the foot of every bed and on the post, laid out clothes for the day soon to come. Black robes with a proud lion insignia and maroon-red ties to match. A hand, tanned with freckles, reached out in the dark, to stroke a lock of ebony hair.
The fingers froze at the small movement of the bed's host's feet, but quickly resumed their petting. The boy was shoeless, clad in a white tanktop and extremely baggy red pants. His hair was a messy unkept flame on top of his head; the boy was very tall.
Ronald Weasely had an obsession with Harry Potter, and he knew it. Ever since they met in that compartment on the train, six years ago. Sure, he would agree, Hermione was an exceptional catch but something about the Boy Who Lived captured his attention. Every night, Ron tried to narrow it done, what it was exactly. The body, hair, eyes, wit, charm, talent, fame? No one knew about Ron's gay-fetish, in fact, they all believed him to be quiet against queers.
He wanted Harry to notice him, he wanted to be loved by Harry.
So, as his stroked his black hair and let his eyes roam over his still body, Ron decided to make himself known.
"Good morning Harry, can I get that for you Harry?"
The half-asleep hero gladly dumped his bulging backpack onto his best friends empty shoulder.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his fists he muttered, "...Thanks"
And so it continued for the day:
"Let me get the door Harry!"
"Here mate, I'll carry your books!"
"I'll get the ingredients Harry"
"Don't worry Harry, the Quidditch game will be easy! It's Malfoy we're talking about!"
"Okay, we lost and Pansy tripped you into a puddle of mud but you're still beautiful Harry!"
"Should I help you wash Harry?"
In the Prefects bathroom, the Potter boy snapped, "Enough Ronald! What the hell!" he turned and stormed away from the red-haired freak, his towel dangerously low on his hips.
Ron fell back, blushing, "I'm only trying to help Harry...aren't we mates?" He raised a bushy eyebrow, implying his thoughts.
Harry whirled on him, and was actually smirking..."I'm Not Your Boyfriend Baby."
Just then, on cue, long, pale arms encircled his naked waist. Followed by a sharp, blond head on his shoulder.
"I'm his."