Not for the first time, Harry Potter lay awake on his four poster in Gryffindor Tower, painfully aware of the throbbing erection straining to escape from his pyjamas. He resisted the urge to take the problem in hand, to provide himself some much needed release, because the ragged breathing and the occasional moan coming from across the room told him someone, probably Neville Longbottom given the direction of the sound, was doing just that. Somehow it seemed too weird, or even a little perverted, that they’d be doing it together; after all, that isn’t something a guy does with just anybody. He wished Neville had thought to use the silencing charm Professor Flitwick had taught them early last year, but Neville probably hadn’t expected anyone else to be awake at that hour.
Harry grinned in spite of his present discomfort. It was quite nice actually to be awakened from a particularly vivid dream and have to deal with an ache in his groin, rather than the usual pain on his forehead and the burn of his scar caused by his frequent nightmares. Instead of the slitted red eyes of Lord Voldemort, his dreams now were often filled with visions of a fiery redhead, and the salty-sweet taste of their first kiss in the common room after the last Quidditch match, or the leisurely afternoons they’d spent down by the lake, bodies pressed together as they snogged.
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