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"Oh, don't bother, then. I'll get it myself."

Harry sighs as Pansy flounces, miffed, from the heavy oak table they are working at toward the stacks, and he pushes his chair back and follows reluctantly. He catches up with her in a few quick strides and walks obediently, silently, behind her as she navigates the maze of bookshelves, winding deeper and deeper into an infrequently used section of the great library. She stops short to match the numbers she had scrawled on the bit of parchment in her hand to the catalog plates affixed to the stacks. Unwittingly Harry slams right into her back -- hard.

"Watch it," she says, throwing a piercing glance over her shoulder. "It's just down this way."

She trails her fingers absentmindedly along the spines of the shelved books as she scans for the specific volume they need for their class assignment. Harry is struck by the thought that Pansy has very lovely hands. He does not ever recall finding Hermione's hands interesting when she pulls books from the shelves, and he's seen her do it a thousand times, at least. Harry finds himself feeling inexplicably warm, and his mouth goes dry. It's similar to the way he used to feel when he was around Cho, but it can't possibly be of the same origin, he thinks, because, well, this is Pansy . . .

This is sacrilege.


Straining on her tiptoes, Pansy locates and stretches for the volume in question. Unable to reach, she sighs dramatically and swoops down to grab the stepping stool at the foot of the shelf. She puts one foot on top of it and makes to pop up and claim the book, but Harry gets there first. Reaching up, he easily slides the book from its place in one of the topmost shelves and presents it to her smugly.

A corner of her mouth curls up. "Why, thank you." She accepts the book and pulls it toward her, but Harry does not let go, and she succeeds only in pulling him close to her. Very close. With her foot still on the stool, Harry Potter fits quite nicely against her. The look on his face is difficult to decipher; Pansy sees a mix of trepidation, curiosity, loathing, and . . . lust.

Oh this is just too rich. Wait until I tell Draco about this, is her first thought -- her very obedient, ever loyal, quite expected first thought.


There is the troublesome matter of the dreams she keeps having -- dreams which flash with green eyes, not grey. She feels a warm wave wash through her body and center itself in her groin and it takes her but a split-second to decide; Pansy begins unabashedly cultivating her innermost secret, and most treacherous, desires. If it had been anyone else, she would have laughed in his face, but, as far as she is concerned, there are only two boys worthy of such consideration, and she already loves --- and is loved by --- one of them.

And here stands the other.

With the book clutched between them, Pansy and Harry maintain their impasse, watching each other warily. Pansy instantly knows that Harry Potter has no earthly idea how next to proceed --- and she isn't about to show him. No. He'll have to earn it, just like Draco had.

"What?" she snorts delicately, holding his gaze, recalling how he slammed unceremoniously into her backside only several minute before. "Want to cop another feel?" He swallows and shakes his head. She continues, "Well, what is it I can do for you then?"

"Er . . . what are you offering?"

Pansy chuckles. "Come closer and find out." Harry inches forward minutely. "I said closer. Take it or leave it."

He takes it.

The tip of his tongue flicking nervously against his lips, he leans in. She stops him just as he is about to kiss her; their lips are practically touching. She feels his bottom lip tickling hers as he waits.

"Think very, very carefully about this," she whispers, her own breath rebounding warmly into her mouth, still feeling his lips against hers. "I mean it, Potter."


Harry doesn't move. A hot, sensorial wave washes through his body and he finds himself suddenly, acutely hyper-aware of the situation. He takes everything in -- the feel of her lips brushing against his as she whispers, her sweet breath. He is surprised as his petulant assumption, that all Slytherins likely smell of sewage if one just ventures close enough to verify the fact, is quickly dispelled. Pansy smells marvelously -- human and hot and. . .just so fucking good, and for a fleeting moment he worries whether he smells nicely as well; however, he correctly assumes were he in anyway aesthetically offensive to her, she would have clocked him upside the head with Magnificent Muggles! and left him brained and helpless on the library floor.

On one hand, he wants so badly to kiss her, to taste her mouth fully. On the other, he realises, brushing his lips against hers like this is more erotic than anything Harry has ever imagined. His cock swells in his trousers and his heart begins racing as he gazes into her eyes . . . She has the -darkest- eyes . . . and then he can't see her anymore, for his glasses have fogged.

He can feel her smile as he hardens against her thigh, and she shifts ever-so-slightly, acknowledging him. He moves back against her, tentatively.

"It's nice, isn't it?" she whispers, still mouth to mouth with him. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and his breath quickens. "Draco likes this, too." She brushes her lips just barely back and forth across his before continuing. "Have you been kissed before?"

"Yes . . . I--I don't . . . er, are you kissing me now, exactly?" he whispers, his voice uncertain.

"Kissing is intimate." She emphasises her point, gently fluttering her lips against his, still touching lightly. "It's not something you want to do with any old someone. And be honest! Do you really want to venture where Draco has gone before you, hmm?"

Harry isn't sure why the last bit she says exacerbates his arousal so painfully, but it is all he can do to maintain himself. He is already teetering on the edge of a ferocious orgasm, and it's only been but a minute since this entire episode started. He shifts forward, wanting very badly to go where Malfoy has gone before him, but she has apparently anticipated this. She pulls back as he presses in, giggling.

"Well, if you're quite sure, then . . ." She reaches behind him and cups his arse, pulling him against her, and she moves with practised fluidity against him and Harry knows it will be over in seconds. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the feeling; it's better than anything he's discovered on his own, and he's completely lost in the sensation of grinding his cock against her, when Pansy takes his chin between her thumb and index finger, and flicks her tongue out delicately and licks Harry's bottom lip. Releasing her grip on his backside, she brings her hand back around and deftly nicks the book from his slackened fingers, steps back, and then turns and leaves. This is likely a good thing, as it allows Harry a bit of privacy as he comes with an unstoppable groan, thoroughly astonished, into his trousers, under the occluding folds of his wholesome Gryffindor robes.


Pansy is dying.

She tears through the dungeons and heads for the stairs to the dormitories

"Oh, there you are Pansy." Daphne has spotted her from across the room. "Millicent and I were just about to go--"

"Whatever it is, go without me." She is pounding up the steps now. "I'm busy."

Daphne wrinkles her brow for a moment at Pansy's strange, determined behaviour, then shrugs. She is sure Pansy will tell her about it later.

Daphne is wrong.


Pansy makes not even the slightest effort to be discreet as she marches determinedly down the hall to the boys' dormitories. Knocking on the boys' door even as she's opening it, she calls out, "Draco? I'm coming in."

Crabbe is lying on his bed in just his shorts and socks, eating Pumpkin Pasties and reading Quidditch for the Masses. As Pansy blasts through the room he sits up abruptly with a squeak and covers his crotch with the magazine.

"Oh, please. As if I'm here to ogle you." Pansy rolls her eyes at the very idea. "Draco? Where are you?"

Goyle, surprised, looks up from his desk, trailing a smudge of ink across the parchment he is working on as he turns in his chair. Draco peeks his head out from inside his bed curtains.

"What are you doing?" Draco is completely bewildered, which actually lends his face a rather endearing quality.

Pansy is pawing through a pile of clothes in the corner of the room, and she throws the nearest set of robes she can find at Crabbe. "Put these on," she orders.

"These are Draco's robes, Pansy..." The hulking boy gets to his feet, a great quivering mound of alabaster bulk, his magazine still strategically placed, the other arm attempting in vain to cover his massive chest.

"I don't care. Put them on!" She trains her gaze on the other boy, as Draco watches, agog. "You! Goyle. Get out."

"What?" Goyle is thoroughly confused.

"I said get out. So, get out already!"

"Pansy, this is my room!" Goyle looks to Draco for help.

Draco shrugs, then forces the issue. "This looks serious, boys. You'd best clear out."

Pansy takes Goyle by the upper arm and leads him toward the door to his own dormitory. On the way, she grabs Crabbe with her other arm, and she pushes them resolutely out the door. The last thing she sees as she's closing them out is Crabbe attempting to pull Draco's too-small robes across his wide girth and Goyle staring, slack-jawed and dense, at her in bewilderment. She smiles sweetly.

"I won't be long."

She clicks the door shut and casts a wicked locking spell. Wheeling, she is on Draco in an instant. She clutches him by his tie.

"Where's Nott?"

"Er . . . out?"


Draco lifts an eyebrown at her, regaining his composure. "Well he's clearly not here, Pansy!"

"Right now."

Draco's eyes widen in surprise and his face splits with a lascivious grin. He knows exactly what she is requesting. He runs his hands up her thighs and under her skirt, and he dips his fingers inside the elastic of her knickers.

"Oh!" he says teasingly, stroking firmly through her wetness. "I see you aren't kidding."


They remain dressed and as far as Pansy is concerned Draco can't get to her fast enough. She helps him unbutton his trousers and eases them down, and she reaches into his shorts to take his cock in her hand. He backs her against the foot of his four-postered bed, kissing her deeply, almost sloppily in his lust. The actual mechanics of sex were not difficult for either of them to master, and they know each thoroughly. As boys his age should be, Draco is instantly hard, and he removes Pansy's hand from his shorts and guides her sideways around the bed, and she knows he intends on reclining her onto the mattress.

Her decision is made before the question itself even has time to be fully blossom in her brain. Pansy deftly inches away, turning from him and folds herself tummy-down over his bed, presenting herself to him this way. She hears him eagerly suck in his breath, for he has asked her to do this for him once before, and she had been too shy. She feels him bunching her skirt up around her waist. He frantically tugs her knickers down around her knees and immediately she feels him pushing his cock against her, and it's totally different. It takes Draco a moment to properly navigate this new angle; however, he finally manages it, tentatively sliding the head of his cock inside her, investigating. He readjusts, spreading his feet further apart, and then thrusts all the way into her, a hiss escaping from him. His thrust bumps a squeak from the back of her throat and she wonders fleetingly if there are any other proper girls in the world who have sex this way, or if she is alone in her debauchery.

He leans over her, clutching at her shoulder. "Ah . . . " he breathes.

It feels very good, though. Different, but good. It feels deeper. Pansy isn't sure if she likes it quite as much as their usual way, but it is sensual in a darkly wanton, animalistic way, and under the circumstances she finds this highly appropriate. Her ultimate preferences, however, quickly become irrelevant. Seeing as she's been desperately wanting to come for more than thirty minutes, since Harry Potter ground his cock against her in the library, it's a perfectly fine means to an end. Throwing a quick glance over her shoulder she sees Draco's face drawn up in abject concentration as he moves. She's already approaching the end and she can tell by the sound of his ragged breathing that he won't last much longer either.

His breath hisses from him once again when he opens his eyes and finds her watching him, "Oh God, Pansy, I like it when you look at me like that..."

"Mmm, don't stop." Thoroughly ashamed, she drops her head to Draco's duvet and clutches frantically at its soft velveteen cover as his movements push her thighs into the side of his mattress, and she welcomes her orgasm as it rolls through her, unwittingly vocalising into the handful of duvet cover she has stuffed into her mouth as she comes. As she relaxes, she exhales, and her heart pounds crazily. "Oh fuck."

He snorts against her ear. "What did you just say?"

Horrified, she claps her hands over her mouth. Draco ruts, and pulls her against his cock, hurting her, and breaths into her ear. "Fuck is right . . ." He comes then, deep inside her, and he holds onto her hips so tightly she's positive she'll have ten perfect marks --- five on each hip --- where he's clenched at her skin.

Pansy is so glad she obeyed her initial impulse to look away, for she knows it wouldn't have been proper of her to look at Draco while she comes resoundingly thinking of someone else. Yes, him. That someone else. Tears prick at her eyes and she considers the horrible unfairness of her situation. She is not proud. Draco loves her.

He keeps her draped over the bed for several minutes before wrapping his arms around her, sliding them under her armpits; he lays against her breathing heavily, still buried deep within her. Finally he pulls back with a gentle tug, and the spidery, trickling sensation of his come rolling silently down the inside of her thigh tickles at her. Turning, she manages to get her knickers down from around her knees and fitfully kicks them away. She brings him in closer to her and reaches down to grasp him lightly; his cock is still semi-hard, and is slippery and stickily hot to the touch.

"Again," she whispers, hoarsely, drawing her fingers up his underside.

Draco is still breathing heavily, and he winces slightly at her touch. "Ah! I can't . . ." He thrusts lightly into her hand anyway, unable to resist.

"Then kiss me 'til you're ready."

Pansy suspects Draco has absolutely no idea what has possessed her. He doesn't seem to care. He merely obliges.


Harry lies awake on his scarlet bed trimmed with gold, his mind plagued with green and silver thoughts. He is both ashamed and bewildered by his actions in the library this afternoon -- what the right fuck had he been thinking? Moreover, it occurs to him that his first sexual encounter at the hand of another -- hand, pelvis, whatever it was that she had used -- might have at least included the courtesy of being kissed first!

Had she even kissed him? Harry feels cheated. If a person's been kissed, he thinks, it should be bloody fucking obvious!

Dark thoughts fill his mind.

Why he had ever let Hermione talk him into taking Muggle Studies, for the sole purpose of mocking Malfoy's required presence in the class after losing a duel to George Weasley, is now far beyond him. In seven years he has never once given Pansy Parkinson a positive thought -- any thought really, although admittedly that bit with Malfoy and Buckbeak their third year was rather pleasantly drama-queenish -- and he explicitly prefers retaining this option. However, once the first -- pleasant? accepting? curious? Harry is still far too unawares to recognise it for what it really is: sensual -- thought of her wormed its way into his brain he has been completely unable to stop the ensuing onslaught of desire.

He wonders when it happened. When did it happen, anyway? When did she pique his interest in this horrible, inexcusable, traitorous way?

Harry thinks.

Her sneering face floats tauntingly in his mind. Your parents really aren't in the best position to judge now, are they? This is definitely not endearing. Harry thinks further. Potter, kiss my tiara if that's the way you feel about it, and get on with it. I haven't got all night to sit around here, letting you admire me. Harry's lip twitches. He gives her credit for this line; however, it is not the trigger he's looking for. He imagines her holding up a package of boned chicken in the Muggle store in Kingussie. Do you have a problem with fresh breasts, Potter? Harry supposes this is a possibility. Is your Auntie nice, then? He takes great pause. This last bit is the only time he recalls Pansy Parkinson speaking civilly to him by choice; in return he had been viciously impolite to her, and she had shut down instantly. He recalls the curtain falling, the usual closed hardness replacing the rather interesting look of curiosity that had momentarily drifted across her round, cherubic face.

Harry is literally seething. At the very least he is going to claim his kiss.

Determinedly, he swings his feet over the side of his bed and hops down. He goes to his footlocker and fumbles with the lock; throwing back the lid he withdraws his invisibility cloak and dons it. He steals down the spiral stairs leading from the dormitories.

Hermione sits alone at a small table in the corner of the common room; he comes up behind her and whispers into her ear.

"Hermione, which way to the Slytherin dungeons again?" He doesn't remember, although he should from the Polyjuice escapade second year.

Hermione doesn't miss a beat and continues writing neatly across her parchment; she is quite used to a cloaked Harry stealthily hissing questions into her ear as he embarks on yet another Adventure in Invisibility. She replies briskly. "Go down the large staircase in the entrance hall. It's two flights down. Go past the portrait of Salazar Slytherin on the northwest wall opposite the giant yellow statue of Tyr the Norse Warrior. There are two serpent sconces with torches. It's there. Why do you need to go to the Slytherin dungeons?" She dips her quill in her inkpot, shakes it, and then again scratches rhythmically at her parchment.

Because I -need- to stick my tongue in Pansy Parkinson's mouth, and I -need- to wrap my hand around her pretty, nimble fingers and stuff them into my trousers, and I -need- to shove her as hard as I can against the stony castle wall, and then I'm going to take my fingers and...

"Pansy has the book we're using for our Muggle Studies assignment. I need it."

Hermione nods; she lays her quill down and caps her bottle of ink. "I'm just about to head to the library. Do you want me to get another copy for you and bring it back? I won't be long. I just need to check a couple references for Arithmancy..."

"Thanks, Hermione, but I left my notes in the one Pansy has."

Hermione is stuffing her rucksack; she nods. "All right. Watch out for Malfoy."

Indeed he will.


Astrid Lestrange pokes her head into the seventh year girls' dormitory room.

"Pansy? Harry Potter is outside the common room...he's asking for you."

Pansy's heart plunges straight to her feet and she is positive both Daphne and Millicent will instantly know of her treachery; however, the other girls don't even look up -- they know Harry is her Muggle Studies partner. Pansy takes a deep breath and composes herself.

"Thanks, Astrid." She slides from her bed, grateful she had the fortitude to bathe after her strenuous afternoon with Draco.

As she pads in her socks through the common room, Draco lopes over for a word.

"Are you up for the Room of Requirement?" he grins.

A sly smile crosses her face and she feels warm and wet again. "You're insatiable." Draco laughs. "Come and get me at nine," she says, and continues on through the common room.

She steps outside the Slytherin dungeons and the wall seals up behind her. She sees no one.

"Potter?" she calls out quietly. The corridor is still. "What do you want?" She looks around, seeing nobody.


Harry watches Pansy emerge from the Slytherin dungeons. She is wearing her uniform blouse, her uniform skirt, and charcoal knee socks. Her green and silver tie is gone and her hair is down, floating loosely over her shoulders. He finds her incredibly, irresistibly arousing and moves forward. With a rather silly flourish of his cloak, in the style of a Muggle superhero, he covers her, and he does indeed back her up against the stony wall of the castle. She is caught off guard and gives a squeak of surprise.

Harry realises he has the upper hand, but knows it won't be for long. Pansy is too formidable a girl to let him hold the reins, but he doesn't care: he just wants. She stares at him, her eyes wide and surprised, for just a moment before her usual hard facade reclaims her features. Flickering light from the serpent torches filters through the Demiguise folds of Harry's cloak and illuminates both their faces, and Pansy feels Harry's heart hammering against her breast and she can smell his skin. Another moment passes. Then, she grabs his face between her hands and pulls him in, and their teeth knock together as Harry Potter gets his very first Big Boy kiss.

"Open your mouth," she whispers against his lips; he does, and she slides her tongue inside, against his. Harry learns easily, but he's frantic, as if this is the only such opportunity he'll ever have. He pulls her blouse free from the waistband of her skirt and stuffs his hands up inside, fondling her clumsily through her bra.

"God, push it up," Pansy whispers. Harry does so and makes a guttural noise as he grinds against her, his erection hot and painful against her stomach, most assuredly at full attention.


Pansy undoes Harry's belt and trousers with ease, and then plunges her hand into his shorts. She wraps her fingers around him and he moans into her mouth. Harry Potter's cock feels about the same as Draco's, she notes. She touches him carefully and wonders how long he'll last. He likes this apparently, and he thrusts into her fist.

"Take down my knickers," she says breathlessly, and she feels him twitch in her hand. He kisses her deeply, his mouth moving frantically against hers, and his hands find their way under her skirt where he struggles with her knickers. Finally, he manages to pull them down and she steps out of them; she pushes his trousers and shorts down and frees him; she slides her hand around his side, his skin smooth and warm under her fingers, and tucks them into the loosened waistband of his trousers just below the small of his back. She reaches down to take his hand and fumbles with his fingers, pulling them against her, sliding; she is so wet. She rubs herself against his fingers, and her eyes close, her lips parting with silent approval.

For a rube, he's doing an excellent job. "Pansy, please...Please, I want to--" he whispers, in between wet, hot kisses.

"Please what?" Pansy knows exactly what he wants her to let him do. Newly acquainted with the word, and figuring its what he probably expects Slytherin girls to say anyway, she decides she has nothing to lose; she whispers to him, "You want to fuck me, don't you?" She thinks she might lose control right then and there with the knowledge. She twitches in anticipation and pushes his hand away; reaching down she guides his cock toward her, rubbing its full head against her clit.

"Oh God," he whispers; Pansy traces patterns against herself with him.

"Well, I might like that," she teases, "but you'd have to ask me very, very nicely." A thought strikes her, out of the blue. "In Parseltongue."

Harry freezes, his breathing laboured and coarse. He peers at her, his lip curling in disbelief. "What?"

"That's right. If you want to shag me, I want you to ask me in Parseltongue. And politely at that." She nips at his neck softly. "You know, the first time I ever got that oh-so-special girly feeling," she pauses for sardonic effect, "was when you spoke Parseltongue at the duelling club during second year. Harry, it was really rather hot."


With a jolt, Harry feels his orgasm gathering in his balls, shimmering out into his gut. He isn't sure if it's due to the idea that he is actually sexually attractive to her in general, or because she's just called him 'Harry' instead of 'Potter.' Whatever it is, who cares, he thinks, because she is so hot and smooth, and he feels the trail of goosebumps his fingers coax from her skin as he lets them flutter lightly over her belly.

"Okay," he says, his voice breaking slightly, "I'll work on it. I promise."

"Ask me now." Pansy clamps her legs further together; his cock is sheathed between her thighs. "Go ahead. Ask me."

"You don't understand," he pleads, his breath sweet and muggy at her ear. "It--it doesn't work like that. I, ah, can't just speak it whenever I want. I have to actually be face to face with a snake to speak Parseltongue."

She snorts derisively, the corner of her mouth lifting in an amused smirk. "You're rather dense at metaphors."

"Oh God, Pansy!" He rolls his eyes, groaning, and thrusts between her thighs. "Just fucking shut up . . . " She holds him in place by grabbing onto his arse, and she pulls him until their hipbones crash together painfully. She hooks her right leg around his left and again reaches down, finding his cock, and she guides him inside her -- but just. He feels himself barely breaching her --- and oh, is she ever wet, and hot, and slick --- and then she runs her fingers up the rest of his length. Harry groans again and Pansy firmly holds him in this position as he comes shakily, with several short, hot bursts, his voice catching in his throat --- he is inside her, but, then again, not exactly.

They stand together afterward, chests heaving silently.


Harry kisses Pansy quite tenderly and she senses a plaintive longing, which makes her feel wholly uncomfortable; she is not the sort to be soothing. They rearrange their clothing without speaking. "So . . . " She draws the word out. "Now that you know for certain that you've been kissed, I'll leave you to ponder whether or not you're still technically a virgin." She gives him a wicked smile. His brows furrow immediately. He's actually wondering, she thinks, with a silent giggle.

"Pansy, I--"

She steps out from under the Invisibility cloak and leans in to where she believes Harry's head must be. "Thanks, Potter."

Scratched that itch, she thinks, relieved. She files it away.


She is stunned, and not just slightly terrified, when he actually approaches her again within a fortnight, while she is doing research in the library. He draws her into the stacks under the premise of Muggle Studies research. He dips his head next to hers and whispers into her ear. Bloody, sodding Gryffindor. She must think quickly on her feet.

"Oh, Potter," she says dryly, her gaze flat, "you shouldn't have!"

"You asked me to!"

"No. You really shouldn't have . . . because that was not Parseltongue."

He falters and the look on his face assures Pansy she's thoroughly busted him, and she's deeply offended by his chutzpah. Her eyes narrow.

"My great Aunt Phyllis is a Parselmouth. I owled her right away after our last little tryst, and I asked her outright. Dear Auntie Phyllis, said I," Pansy mocked imperiously, as she recited, "How exactly would a boy ask me to shag him in Parseltongue? A girl needs to keep apprised of such things...Aunt Phyllis owled me back with not only a written translation, but she also sent a recording spell with the exact phrase. I'll know it when I hear it."


Harry is shocked. He cannot imagine under any circumstances posing such a question to Margery Dursley. "You asked your Aunt?"

Pansy crosses her arms over her chest, her chin rising. "Mmhmm. She runs a bordello --- has for years and years. I figured she wouldn't hold the question against me." She cocks an eyebrow at him. "Everyone has one of those relatives, right?"

Harry dies of embarrassment. How could I ever think fake Parseltongue might possibly work? he castigates himself. All I want is to . . . is a . . . is her. That's all. "I--I . . ."

"You don't think I'm worth the effort." This is a statement, not a question. "I guess you'll never know now." Her expression escapes Harry's notice; if it were anyone other than Pansy Parkinson he would have recognised it as hurt; however, it doesn't occur to him to expect this of her. Then she smirks, haughty again. "But, that was good, Potter, I do have to admit. Nice try, Slick."

"Slick?" Harry is positive she is not complimenting him. "What are you talking about?"

"Auntie Phyllis likes to say it. It means you've made a worthy effort." She tilts her head at him. "Worthy of a Slytherin more than a Gryffindor. Are you quite sure you're in the right house?"

His jaw clenches and a vitriolic resolve flows through him. "Don't you ever say that."

Her eyes are cold as she stares at him, and her lip curls. "I'll say whatever I want." She pushes past him.


Alone in her dormitory, Pansy lays on her bed. Restlessly compelled, she pulls one string after another from the fringe on her chenille coverlet as she considers her quandry. Potter has approached her again and now she's terrified. She is eighteen years old and it has never before occurred to her that any boy other than Draco would even remotely garner her interest. This thing with Potter . . . well, it's perfectly fucking wretched, is what it is, she decides. She has been completely blindsided and she is, she knows, in very treacherous waters. Her gut roils with perfidious shame, which is only worsened by the fact Draco has done nothing but unknowingly rub it in -- he holds her hand, and he holds the door for her, and he holds her in his bed when she's naked and mussed and sticky from him.

Yet, the itch has remained. Abandoning her chenille throw, Pansy rolls onto her back and closes her eyes, and she lets her hand wander downward, under the folds of her skirt, and her fingers skate easily into her knickers as she contemplates the current fix she's in.


Harry sits at the desk in his room. He is slouched in his chair, which he has tipped back onto its two rear legs, and his arms are folded across his chest angrily. An enormous, colorful book is propped in front of him: Sultry Snakes and Rascally Reptiles by Horatio Euphestes.

"Snake," Harry finally says, vehemently, to a red corn snake pictured there, "I want to fuck you." As the words escape his mouth, a loud crash comes from behind him and he hears a gasp. Harry whips his head around and, in doing so, loses his balance. He tumbles backward and clocks himself in the back of his head on Seamus's footboards before hitting the floor. His chair comes to rest on top of his crumpled body.

He lays at Ron's enormous feet, his aching head resting on the pile of books Ron has dropped in shock at Harry's amazing announcement. As Harry opens his eyes he finds Ron staring down at him, agog.

"What are you doing here?" Harry accuses. He is mortified.

"What are you talking about? I'm putting my books away!"

"Well, I didn't think you'd be here!" Harry rolls to his side and hauls himself up.

Ron's eyes rake back and forth between his best friend and the encyclopaedia-sized book on Harry's desk. It has fallen forward onto itself, the pages crumpling under its own weight. "Well, that's bloody obvious," he notes, grimacing in distaste. He stares at Harry as if they're meeting for the first time.

Harry burns crimson. "Er . . . well, yes. I suppose this looks rather-- er, well, what I mean to say is . . . don't you bloody well know how to knock?"

"This is my room too, Harry!" He puts his hands up, a gesture of placation. "Look, forget it. I don't even want to know. Having five brothers? If there's one thing I've learned it's that there are times where it's just better not to ask." A smile plays at Ron's lips. "But seriously, man. I can't wait until we're out of here, and wiling away our time in a pub! This will be the best story ever!"

"It--it really isn't what it looked like."

"Harry." Ron is amused. "Go see Madam Pomfrey. You're bleeding."


Madam Pomfrey heals Harry's head wound without prying.


In Potions the next day, Snape's back is turned and Draco leans into Pansy for a covert nuzzle. She tilts her head to allow him access to the hollow of her throat, and as Draco nibbles at her she opens her eyes to find Harry watching them openly. Pansy holds his gaze. After a moment she turns her back on him and snuggles her head protectively under Draco's chin, and she cares not even remotely when Snape sights her and takes points from Slytherin for their unseemly display of public affection.


Harry catches Ernie Macmillan during lunch in the Great Hall.

"Ernie?" he inquires, "I wonder if I might borrow Liz for an hour or two?" Despite his dubious history with the Hufflepuffs, he forces himself to ask.

Ernie has kept a garter snake since their third year. He regards Harry earnestly, his interest piqued. "Sure! Why?"

"I need a snake for some...research I'm doing."

"What are you resear--"

Ernie is cut off by Hannah Abbott. "Ooo, Harry! Are you working on your Parseltongue again? Can I listen in?" she asks effusively, her cheeks pink.

"NO!" Harry blurts this out far too forcefully to be construed as casual; Pansy's confession of the possible effects of Parseltongue on the opposite sex flits briefly through his mind. He clears his throat. "I mean, no, Hannah. Thanks, though. It's nice of you to be interested --- and, hey, maybe another time, okay? I'm kind of rusty."

"Sure Harry," she says, gazing at him admiringly. "No problem."

"I'll bring Liz to Herbology," Ernie says, and Harry nods his assent.


Harry is on the roof of the Astronomy Tower with Liz, under the protective folds of his invisibility cloak. It's still daytime so he imagines no one will likely bother him. He holds the green snake up to his face; the serpent's tongue flicks gently against the tip of Harry's nose.

"Liz," he says, the subtle buzzing in his belly letting him know he is indeed speaking in Parseltongue, "can I fuck you?"

The snake strikes and bites him sharply on the nose; it's tiny, needle-like teeth cause quite a sting. Startled, Harry drops Liz to his lap and holds his nose. "Ow!" he says, reflexively. There is a small streak of blood across his fingertips when he pulls them away. "Shite!"

"Pig!" Liz hisses, appalled. "We've only just now met! How vulgar a suggestion!"

"Look, I'm very sorry, but . . . but . . . well, it's this girl . . ." Harry says, feeling depressed at his complete and utter incompetence. His shoulders sag forward.

"Ah, yes," Liz commiserates, slithering up Harry's robes and winding around his neck before meeting his gaze. "Women. I feel your pain, mate."

Harry stares inquisitively at the beady creature; Liz gives him another tongue flick. "You do? Do you mean--"

"I'm a male, that's right," Liz informs Harry.

"Why are you called Liz, then?"

"Well, it's not like my bits and pieces are readily distinguishable! I'm sure Macmillan did the best he could." Harry shrugs and the snake continues. "So what kind of girl problem finds you atop the Astronomy Tower cowering under an invisibility cloak, and asking a snake for a shag?"

Despite himself, Harry blurts out the entire horrible tale.

"But, I can't actually ask her to . . . to--"

"To 'fuck you'?" Liz interjects dryly. "Going by your opening remarks, that is."

"All right, fine. That's right. I can't ask her to fu--shag me --- or ask to shag her --- in Parseltongue, because she's not a snake! Well, maybe figuratively she is, but that's beside the point! I can't talk in Parseltongue unless I'm actually speaking with another snake!"

Liz thinks for a minute. "Are you quite certain?" he asks, finally.

"Well, I--I dunno, actually. I just assumed . . . and there was that thing with the book! I tried to talk to the picture of the snake and I couldn't manage Parseltongue."

"Perhaps you need a more realistic prop," Liz suggests. "Something more representative of a snake than a simple photograph."

Harry thinks.

"I'll try it, Liz. Thanks. Oh, and I'm really sorry about the cheesy pick-up line . . ."


Madam Pomfrey heals the snake bite on the tip of Harry's nose without prying.


As Daphne Greengrass contemplates who she wants to date, she lists off the positive attributes of the two boys she is deciding between. Both have asked her out for the coming Saturday. Pansy listens dutifully.

"I wish I were lucky like you, Pansy, and just knew what the rest of my life was going to be like," Daphne says, not unkindly. "You and Draco have always been together. You're just so lucky!"

Pansy nods, avoiding Daphne's gaze. Her friend is right, she realises. The assumption that she and Draco would be together has always been a part of her life. And it's not that Pansy objects to this -- quite the contrary, actually. She alternately wonders if she ought to be grateful for the stability and love of Draco, or if something is extremely wrong with her.

Daphne decides to date both boys on an alternating a.m./p.m. schedule. "That way, at least I'll be able to make an informed choice," she giggles.

Pansy shifts uncomfortably. "But . . . is that really right?" she asks.

Daphne regards her as if she is mental and has suddenly sprouted a Cannons Forever flag from the top of her head. "Of course it is! How am I suppose to know what I want if I don't comparison shop?"

That night Pansy lies awake in her bed for quite a long time, ruminating over the concept of informed choice.


Saturday finds the students in Hogsmeade.

As he, Ron, and Hermione head to the Three Broomsticks for a spot of lunch, Harry accidentally glimpses Malfoy and Pansy together as he stoops to tie his shoe. He takes longer than necessary to retie his laces and he observes the two Slytherins covertly. They are standing halfway down an alley between two shops and their school robes meld together as they kiss, shopping bags piled around their feet. Harry is genuinely shocked that Draco Malfoy has the human capacity necessary for an activity so rawly pleasurable as kissing. He is seethingly jealous, as he considers Malfoy utterly unworthy of the allowance; however, a surprising realisation intrudes, which supercedes his assessment of Malfoy's alleged humanity.

Harry realises he is deliberately setting out to do a despicable thing. He doesn't give two shites about Malfoy. Yet he gives a shite about Pansy, and Pansy gives a shite about Malfoy, and thus he is forced to consider that fucking, fucking arsehole by default.

The voice echoes in his mind. It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are . . .

Harry takes pause. He wonders fleetingly if it is acceptable, as a human being, that is, to be the sum of two parts: bad and good. Who would he let down the most by shagging Pansy Parkinson? Would his innate moral deficiency somehow proove to be leverage for the dark side? Harry wonders exactly how much of himself he owes to the public at large -- the public who gawks at his scar, who celebrates his birthday even though he never has, and who firmly believes his accidental moment of triumph as an infant is some kind of tangible representation of his pure and unadulterated goodness of heart. That somehow, they believe, surviving the death curse must be a moral proclamation. And, by God, they say, Harry will live up to his own, unintentionally established standard. He must.

Well, fuck that, Harry thinks angrily. If it had been different, and it had been Malfoy who had survived Voldemort's attack, would the public think so kindly of him? Would they have automatically applied the same reasoning to Malfoy, as they did to Harry himself? Harry is cynical. No, they would have chalked it up to Dark Magic in Malfoy's case. He would have been shunned.

Harry stands frozen on the dusty road cutting through Hogsmeade, Ron and Hermione's chattering barely filtering into his jumbled mind, and he thoroughly loathes everyone at that moment. Every single fucking person. Wizard and Muggle alike.


After lunch, in Zonko's, Harry waits patiently in the queue to make his purchases, his arms laden with supplies. There's Pansy with Malfoy and Blaise Zabini. Malfoy is holding Pansy's hand and occasionally he presses his palm to the small of her back. Harry can see the curve of her body when Malfoy does this, and, for the eight-millionth time, he is grateful for the safety of his school robes as his cock hardens.

Pansy manages to casually work her way over to where he stands and she pretends to be interested in the comic books by the register; with a flick of her eyes she appraises his items for purchase. She sports a Cheshire smirk.

Harry's had quite enough. "If you say anything at all, I won't ask --- in any language," he lies, laying his tremendous armful of rubber snakes, pop-out gag snakes in nut cans, and package after package of gummy snakes onto the counter with a determined thwump. "I mean it, Pansy . . ."

"All this," she smirks, gazing cheekily at him, "for me?" There is something else there. An undertone. For once, Harry instantly recognises the hint. She's decided. He plucks the clue hanging in the air between them like he might the Snitch. She tilts her head discreetly. "I'll be seeing you, then." She drifts away --- back to Malfoy, who takes her hand, and leaves Harry to skulk back to Gryffindor Tower in his uncomfortably tight trousers, his two giant shopping bags brimming with snake props in tow.


"Try again, Harry," Hermione says, and pulls the lid from the nut can in her hand with a flourish. A large, leopard-spotted, cloth-covered coil snake flies through the air at Harry.

"Stop, snake!" He concentrates ever so hard, and he stretches his hand dramatically toward the flying toy, his fingers splaying slightly. "Don't come any closer!"

The cloth snake lands at his feet with a jiggly sproing, joining the growing pile there.

"Anything?" he asks, lifting his eyes toward Hermione hopefully. Hermione shakes her head, her brown eyes warmly sympathetic. Ron, lounging spread-eagled over a wingback, sports a defeated look, and he eats gummy-snake after gummy-snake. Harry had concluded he would absolutely have to bring Ron and Hermione in on his project --- as Parseltongue doesn't sound different to him from English when he speaks it, he needs confirmation from an outside source. He absolutely refuses to tell either of them why he has embarked on this sudden course of study. He suspects Ron may know a bit more than he lets on, owing to the incident with the reptile encylopaedia, yet he says nothing. Harry is grateful.

Another snake hurtles toward him and the result is the same. A surge of pure anger bubbles up within Harry and he impulsively grabs several of the cloth coil snakes from the pile at his feet and he beats the chesterfield soundly, expletives flying.

"Son of a BITCH!" he yells, at the top of his lungs.

It's very unlike Harry to use foul language openly, not to mention going to town on the furniture. A load of extremely choice words tumble from Harry's lips and careen through the common room like a pinball. Hermione looks at Ron in bewilderment, who in turn is just as befuddled. Together, they watch Harry Potter beat the Gryffindor furniture with a handful of leopard-spotted gag snakes.

Ron suddenly comes to attention and cocks his head. "Hang on . . . do you hear that?"

Hermione claps her hands together and breaks into a brilliant smile. She goes to clutch Harry's arm. "Harry--Harry! You're doing it! I can hear it. You're speaking in Parseltongue!" She is beaming.


Harry practices his Parseltongue every day. Gryffindor Tower overflows with toy and novelty snakes --- they are everywhere.


Hermione grants Harry's very serious request for a personal favour, no questions asked.

"Okay," he says, "no matter what I might say, promise me two things: one, you won't ask any questions and, two, you'll tell me exactly which language you hear."

"Right," Hermione says briskly. "Parseltongue or English. I understand."

Harry's heart swells. He knows he is blessed to have such a true friend. "Okay. Here goes: Hello, Hermione, how are you?"

"Parseltongue, except for my name."

"Do you fancy Ron?"

"Parseltongue, except for 'Ron'."

"Are you the best student in all of Hogwarts?"

"Parseltongue, except for 'Hogwarts'."

"I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts."


"You're a fabulous friend, you know that?"

She smiles. "English."

" fuck me?"


"Could I fuck you, then?"


"Hermione..." Harry's throat feels dry. "I'm going to fuck Pansy Parkinson."

"Harry, you sly dog, you!" Harry's eyes saucer and his jaw drops. Hermione gives him a devilish smirk. "Ah! Fooled you! I'm just joking. It was Parseltongue --- except for 'Pansy Parkinson'." Hermione does not appear suspicious; however, Harry checks his bladder for good measure and proceeds, reminding himself to avoid proper names from now on.

"I think I really, really fancy her."

"Parseltongue. Did you...say something sad that time?"

Harry shakes his head. "Okay, one last time: I'm going to shag her, Hermione. And she's a Slytherin!"

"Parseltongue. Again, except for my name." Harry is surprised that 'Slytherin' apparently sounds different in Parseltongue than in English.

"Hermione," he says, in English, "thanks."


The next day in Care of Magical Creatures, Seamus and Dean are tossing one of Harry's toy rubber snakes at the girls. Hagrid eventually chastises them and Seamus tosses the snake to Harry, and as he makes to put it in his robe pocket he spots Pansy gently stroking the side of a majestic, cotton-candy coloured Pegasus tethered to the split rail fence surrounding Hagrid's hut. Harry sidles alongside her, and states his intentions by dropping the rubber snake at her feet. He walks away.


Harry and Pansy must again reference Magnificent Muggles! for their class assignment, and together they walk silently through the stacks, once again winding into the deep recesses of the library. Harry's heart pounds so fiercely he is certain she must be able to hear it.

He slips the book from the shelf and turns to hand it to her.

She is holding the snake.

She says nothing, just tilts her head at him, and gazes unguardedly at him with her wide, dark eyes.

Magnificent Muggles! slides from his grasp to the floor, and he reaches out and takes hold of the rubber snake and pulls her toward him. They are chest to chest, both clutching the toy reptile, and their fingers brush together. Harry is painfully nervous this time, not lust-driven. He pries the snake from her fingers and drapes it over her shoulders. The snake's head and tail come to rest, respectively, above each of her breasts. He takes his wand and gently taps the rubber toy.

"Suscitatio," he incants, and the snake comes alive, and writhes beautifully -- a seductive, iridescent reptile, shimmering with the colours of a peacock. With a deft figure-eight, the snake winds itself around both their necks, binding them together. Just like the first time they were here, they are lip to lip, brushing against one another's mouths. The splendid reptile raises its head between them and flicks its tongue at Pansy's nose. Harry raises his hand and she fits her palm against his. Their fingers intertwine.

Harry feels her other hand plucking lightly at his robes. Although it is not his style -- not at all -- he does what she's requested. He steadies himself and takes as deep a breath as he can manage, through his nerves. "Pansy . . . please let me fuck you."

Pansy shivers as the hollow, hissing sound of Parseltongue fills her ears. "Ask me again . . ."

Harry does.


The lustrous creature releases its hold on their necks, moving slowly; it wraps itself silently around Pansy's arm, which is now draped lightly over Harry's shoulder. She raises her hand to his face and fingers the cool metal arms of his glasses before moving her hand upward to brush aside his fringe; she runs her fingers over the scar on his forehead. It is white and slightly puckered toward the middle, but a deep reddish-purple tone remains around the edges. A scar this deep takes years and years to heal, she surmises, if ever. She wonders if Harry's scar will ever be completely white before a poignant realisation blossoms in her mind: his scar is purple because it will never heal; it will never heal because he doesn't have much longer on this earth. She brushes her lips against his, an unexpected sadness burning through her.

For quite a while they stay just like this, kissing one another. Harry prompts Pansy to put her foot onto the footstool, which has remained in its place since they were last in this part of the stacks. She follows his lead and he fits himself against her, grinding lightly, and through his trousers she feels how hard he is. He seems calm.

"You're going to have to help me out here," he whispers.

"If you don't shut up and touch me right now, I will be miffed."

Harry snorts and practically attacks her, kissing her deeply. Their tongues tangle together, and he slides his hands under her skirt, and follows the obvious trail of the elastic of her knickers, starting in the joist of her thigh. Tentatively, he brushes his fingers over her, touching her cleft tentatively, and then he rubs at her through the soaked cotton fabric; he presses his fingers against her clit, and Pansy gasps outloud. She opens her leg to allow him access to her, and he moves the elastic aside and slides his fingers into her eagerly, rubbing circles. She puts her hand over his and slows his movements.

"Okay," he says. "Sorry." He is concentrating, she can tell. Soon his fingers are buried inside her and, although she has actually never been especially partial to novice fingers fumbling inside her, she lets him explore. And, although she has never been especially partial to novice fingers fumbling inside her, she is further suprised when it's within moments that she finds herself unable to keep from touching him, too. She reaches for his belt; in seconds his cock, painfully hard, is free from the confines of his trousers, and he thrusts into her fingers. Their robes allow for some degree of privacy, but they are risking much by carrying on like this in the library. Anyone could walk by. "Let's get out of here," Harry says, through their kisses. Pansy runs the pad of her thumb over his cock, spreading the droplet that's formed there over its blunt head; Harry moans and thrusts again.

"No," Pansy says, as he touches her, "I won't make it." She rhythmically strokes the head of his cock, over and over again, her thumb rubbing its underside. Harry's eyes close and his mouth forms a silent 'O', and he nods when she continues, "Just hold my knickers aside." His breath catches in his throat, but he does as he's told. Pansy pulls him closer, guiding him, and takes a selfish moment to rub his cock against her clit, her mouth slackening again as he rolls over her. Breathlessly, she directs, "And you'll have to spread your legs a bit." To emphasise her point, she impatiently pats the inside of his thigh, urging his legs apart. "You're taller than me," she explains, as she adjusts her leg on the stepstool. She slicks up his length, and presses him partially inside her, and looks into his eyes. "That's it. Go ahead."

She expects him to be gentle, tentative, but no. He thrusts right in, his eyes opening in surprise and wonder as her wet, hot tightness surrounds his cock, and he takes no pause -- he fucks her as well as anyone his age can. Beginner's luck, she assumes, but she certainly isn't complaining. She's here because she wants to be.

He whispers, almost as if to himself. "Ah . . . Oh, God . . . I'm sorry . . . ." He buries his tongue in her mouth and comes, groaning into her throat. He immediately tries to pull away.

She clamps a hand to his arse, holding him still. "No. Not yet." She takes his hand and draws it down, and shows him how to touch her exactly the right way; as she's about to come, she instructs him again. "Move. Move!" He's still hard; he rolls his hips against hers and sucks in his breath at the sensation.

"Ah . . ." It hurts him, but it's what she wants.

Pansy comes with a cry, burying her face in his chest to muffle the noise. Finally she lifts her head, resting her chin just above the clasp of his robes, and stares calmly into his eyes.

They look at one another, astonished.


Madam Pince does the final check-through of the stacks before she closes the library for the night. She walks silently through the rows, glancing alternately at each one as she passes. Catching a glimpse of something in the corner of her eye, she stops short and backs up for a closer look.

A stunningly beautiful snake is coiled calmly on a footstool. Fascinated, she goes to it; she's never seen such a creature. Carefully she lifts its thick coils from the footstool and takes it to the main circulation desk where she places it into a canvas sack she keeps in case she has extra books to haul. She will take the snake to Hagrid before retiring for the night. She gives her desk one last once-over, and unnecessarily tidies her quills and ink compulsively. With a practised flick of her wand she dims the lights, and then she is gone, with the canvas bag and the peacock-blue snake in tow.