Sometimes this tent is too small.
Harry’s on watch; Ron thinks I’m asleep.
He thinks I can’t hear him; thinks I don’t know what he’s doing.
I hear his faint grunts, repetitive strokes.
I can’t help my self; my hand dips into my knickers, matches his rhythm.
I consider moaning Harry’s name but I’m not that cruel.
He reaches his climax and I shudder as I hear him groan my name in ecstasy.
I follow quickly with my own release.
“Ron,” I allow myself to softly cry; he doesn’t hear me, he’s already asleep.
Sometimes this tent is too big.