... he thinks I don't know ...
Author: physixxx
Rating: PG-13 for language, perhaps
Characters and/or Pairing(s): Ron, Harry, Harry/? is implied
Challenge: Windy
Summary/Warnings(if applicable): GoF-era/no spoilers/follows my Eyes on the Prize story; Little more than 200 words, sorry.
Disclaimer: If you recognize 'em, I don't own 'em.
He thinks I don’t know.
He thinks I don’t know when he leaves for his midnight rendezvous. He thinks that, in a room full of boys, I don’t notice that he’s gone. He thinks that I sleep so deep - so hard - that I don’t wake when he stirs. He thinks that wearing his invisibility cloak hides his clumsy, shuffling feet from ears as well as eyes.
He’s gone, and I know where he goes; who he sees.
Just like I know his many other secrets: that he loves the attention of being the Boy-Who-Lived; that he loves simultaneously playing the part of victim and hero; that he certainly did put his fucking name in the Goblet.
When he returns, I can hear the door creak open; I can feel air rushing to fill the room; I can hear those shuffling feet, with its rhythm telling on itself - he’s no longer tense, no longer worried, no longer lonely.
I tear open the drapes of my four-poster when he takes off his invisibility cloak. He looks up, surprised to find me awake. His hair is far more tousled and disheveled than usual. His lips are puffy and red. He reeks of fuck.
“It must be windy outside, yeah?” is all I can say when our eyes meet, with far more venom than necessary.
He blushes and looks away as he climbs into his bed, protected now by its coverings.
He thinks I don’t know.
But I’ve always known.
Rating: PG-13 for language, perhaps
Characters and/or Pairing(s): Ron, Harry, Harry/? is implied
Challenge: Windy
Summary/Warnings(if applicable): GoF-era/no spoilers/follows my Eyes on the Prize story; Little more than 200 words, sorry.
Disclaimer: If you recognize 'em, I don't own 'em.
He thinks I don’t know.
He thinks I don’t know when he leaves for his midnight rendezvous. He thinks that, in a room full of boys, I don’t notice that he’s gone. He thinks that I sleep so deep - so hard - that I don’t wake when he stirs. He thinks that wearing his invisibility cloak hides his clumsy, shuffling feet from ears as well as eyes.
He’s gone, and I know where he goes; who he sees.
Just like I know his many other secrets: that he loves the attention of being the Boy-Who-Lived; that he loves simultaneously playing the part of victim and hero; that he certainly did put his fucking name in the Goblet.
When he returns, I can hear the door creak open; I can feel air rushing to fill the room; I can hear those shuffling feet, with its rhythm telling on itself - he’s no longer tense, no longer worried, no longer lonely.
I tear open the drapes of my four-poster when he takes off his invisibility cloak. He looks up, surprised to find me awake. His hair is far more tousled and disheveled than usual. His lips are puffy and red. He reeks of fuck.
“It must be windy outside, yeah?” is all I can say when our eyes meet, with far more venom than necessary.
He blushes and looks away as he climbs into his bed, protected now by its coverings.
He thinks I don’t know.
But I’ve always known.