Tying knots had never been Harry's forté, but he was pleased with his effort: Ron lay splayed across his mattress, his wrists and ankles secured by the cords from his bed curtains to his bed posts, his muscles quiescent. They weren't yet straining as Harry imagined they would be when he removed the sleeping charm from him—which he had no plans to remove from his other dorm mates.
Am I really going to do this? he asked himself, kneeling in between his best friend's thighs.
Staring down at the thick, freckled, half-hard cock—that's half hard?—Harry decided that he was.
After all, Ron had asked him when he was going to stop whining about his carrying on with "Lav-Lav" and "suck it up."
"Fuck . . . Harry . . . that was . . . you were . . . woah."
"I s'pose I don't have to be a tarty piece of work to suit you, then?"
Ron grinned, blowing his sweaty fringe off of his eyes as he leaned up to press his lips against Harry's own. "That was nice work—the best—you're much better at it than she is!"
Harry let Ron kiss him, but decided that he needed to tie the knots harder—next time.