Harry Potter and The Boy Who Had No Choice

Casual Touches

Chapter Seventeen

When Harry's eyes fluttered open, he was greeted by a stream of sunlight pouring in from the window adjacent to his bed. The rays fell onto his face, warming his skin and waking him up gently. The next sensation he recalled was the feeling of a large mass, eerily similar to that of an overgrown teenage boy, pouncing onto his bed and tackling him.

"Wake up you great plonker!" Harry left out an "oof" as he shoved Ron off of him.

"Bloody hell Ron! It's Saturday!" Harry groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands before reaching over to his bedside table and pulling his glasses on.

"Yeah, and it's also the first Hogsmeade trip of the school year!" Ron started to bounce on the bed, so Harry reluctantly threw the covers off of himself and sat up. He yawned widely. "Come on, get dressed so we can head down to breakfast, I'm starving!" Ron complained, tugging Harry out of bed.

"You're always starving," Harry teased, now starting to feel slightly more awake. "Why don't you head down without me? I'll join you in a few minutes, but I need a shower first."

"Alright, but if you're not down in fifteen, I'm coming to fetch you."

With that, Ron heaved himself off of Harry's bed and waltzed out the door. Harry briefly debated falling back into bed for just a few more minutes of sleep before quickly deciding against it and heading over to the showers.

When he emerged, freshly showered and dressed, from the bathroom, he ambled towards his trunk, where he rummaged around for a warm scarf. An autumn chill had fallen over the Hogwarts and Hogsmeaded grounds over the past few days, showcasing the change from summer to fall. He was looking through his various scarves when he heard hushed voices from the other side of the room. Glancing over, he saw that the sound was coming from Dean's bed, where the curtains were closed.

"-don't want to wake up," he listened to Dean groan. A laughter emitted from the bed, which Harry immediately recognized as Seamus. Harry chuckled silently and shook his head; after almost eight years of knowing the Chaser, it was impossible to forget his aversion to mornings. It was always a chore to get him out of bed for early Quidditch practices.

"What if I woke you up like this?" Seamus asked, his voice sounding odd. This was followed by a distinct lack of response. "Or this." Harry listened as Dean giggled. He'd never heard the boy giggle before. Was Seamus tickling him? "Or this." This was followed by silence: a silence that made Harry vaguely uncomfortable for reasons that he couldn't quite grasp.

"Are you sure there's no one here?" Dean said, rather breathlessly; why he was out of breath when he was laying in bed, Harry didn't know. He felt an urge to hide, to pretend like he wasn't there, but he quickly shrugged away this feeling: for all Harry knew, nothing had happened. He had as much right to be there as his friends.

So when the curtains were pulled open, Harry didn't duck or run away like he was tempted to. Instead, he shot Seamus a smile and waved. Harry's eyes drifted away from Seamus' face, which was now flushed bright red and towards the bed. With the curtains now yanked apart, he could see that Seamus was leaning over Dean, his hands placed on either side of his body. His gaze lowered to their hands, which were intertwined, tangled with the mess of sheets. Heat crept up Harry's cheeks.

"Morning," Harry said, trying to look anywhere but their interlocked hands.

"Morning Harry," Dean replied when Seamus remained frozen. "Seamus here was just... er-"

"Waking you up?" Harry suggested.

"Yeah," Seamus coughed out suddenly, quickly clamoring off Dean so he stood away from the bed.