In the Morning

It was early morning, and the room was quiet. The sound of steady breathing came from the boys sleeping in four of the beds as Harry tiptoed across the floor and entered the bathroom. Getting into the shower, he quickly finger-combed his tangled hair and reached for the bottle of shampoo. Ten minutes later, he heard the others stirring next door, and got out. Reaching for his towel, he took a few deep breaths. The show was about to begin. Carefully, he wound the towel snugly around his waist, tensing his stomach muscles ever so slightly. Tensely, he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make it lie flat - a lost cause, really, he thought wryly. He pulled his shoulders back. Grace, he reminded himself. Be graceful.

Harry paused briefly in front of the bathroom door, and then entered the dormitory affecting a casual attitude that belied his nervousness. With carefully controlled strides, and acutely aware of his every movement, he crossed the floor to his bed and got out his clothes. Watching out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed that Ron was awake, but hadn't yet got out of bed - he was always the last to get up these days. The others had headed for the showers. Watching Ron, Harry's heart beat just a little faster. Steady, he told himself. He's not even looking in your direction. He pulled on his shirt and buttoned it up slowly. Poise, he thought. The shirt was easy enough, but he defied anyone to look graceful while pulling on a pair of boxers. Trousers, though - buttoning trousers could be done sensually. Slowly, carefully slipping the buttons through the buttonholes, one at a time... Harry was supremely unhurried and got dressed with a certain languidness of movement. With a deceptively casual flourish, he settled his robes around his shoulders and crossed to the door. Ron still hadn't got out of bed. "I'll see you at breakfast, I suppose, sleepyhead," Harry said, flashed him a teasing grin, and left the dormitory. Once out of sight, he leaned against the wall, letting the tension drain away. He never even looked, he thought dejectedly. He never does, and he never will.

Harry spent his nights dreaming that, someday, somehow, Ron would look up and notice him. Every morning was the same. Knowing it was hopeless, Harry nevertheless continued his fruitless attempts at seduction. It's hopeless, it's pointless, he'll never notice... And yet, despite himself, Harry caught himself wishing for the impossible, desperately hoping that things could, somehow, be different.

***

As Harry disappeared from sight, Ron let out the breath he'd been holding. It's wrong of me, he told himself yet again. He's my friend, he'd be horrified if he knew, I shouldn't be doing this. But he couldn't help himself. Every morning, he would linger in bed, waiting. Let the others think it was because he wanted to have the bathroom for himself - he certainly couldn't tell them how he wanted, needed to watch Harry. There was something entrancing about Harry in the morning - Ron didn't think Harry knew how... sensual... his morning routine was. It was like he was off in a world of his own, completely unaware of his surroundings. Everything he did, he did slowly, carefully, precisely. His movements were almost dancelike, unaffected and natural. Graceful. Seductive, he thought, and was immediately swamped with guilt. He's my friend, he thought again. If he knew how I felt... He'd never be comfortable around me again. And those ten minutes of stolen pleasure watching Harry get dressed in the morning would be lost to him. No, he thought, I can never tell him. He can never know. And so Ron continued to watch Harry in the mornings, carefully, surreptiously stealing glances from under lowered lashes, drinking in every moment and re-living them in those precious moments of solitude after Harry left and before the others finished their showers. He must never know... And yet, despite himself, Ron caught himself wishing for the impossible, desperately hoping that things could, somehow, be different.