Unthinkable Thoughts

CHAPTER ONE

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UNEXPECTED USE FOR A WAND

The Fifth Year Boys' Dormitory in Gryffindor tower, a room so magical and peaceful and secure that it had long since been the only place Harry had ever felt at home, was silent.  It was very early in the morning.  The wonderful clock that Sirius had sent him for his latest birthday - a small but perfect sphere in the style of a Snitch that hovered quietly whirring and clicking next to Harry's pillow, whose thousands of intricate working parts could tell him the time in any bedroom in the Wizarding World - informed him politely, and with a natural respect for the hour, that it was just after 4:30am.  Harry did not know why he had woken so early, but it was becoming a regular occurrence since he had come back to Hogwarts for his fifth year.

Perhaps you have something on your mind? Hermione had suggested.  Well done, Herm, thought Harry. When had he ever not had something on his mind? 

Perhaps you are developing insomnia? Ron had suggested.  Ron, who would take forever to rouse himself each morning after so many hours of trouble-free slumber that he could sleep for England, what could he possibly know of insomnia?

Perhaps Madam Pomfrey could make you up a sleeping draught? Neville had suggested. Hmmm, perhaps.  But Harry didn't have any trouble falling asleep; it was waking up that was the problem.  His mind drifted.

Many people mattered deeply to him.  Most of them were in the immediate vicinity of where Harry now lay awake, staring in the darkness at the thick hangings around and above him.  Dear, dear Ron, asleep just feet from where Harry lay, who had made his own family Harry's. Always first to jump to his defence, always first to voice his outrage at the slightest unfairness.  Ron would lay down his life for Harry, and Harry knew it. Harry prayed that he deserved Ron's unconditional friendship, and wondered whether he himself could be as good a friend to Ron if the circumstances were reversed.  He knew how difficult it was for Ron to be always in Harry's shadow, always the guy at Harry's elbow; but never the guy with scar, the guy with the Firebolt, or the guy with the fame. And of course Hermione, who in her own way loved Harry as dearly as her own parents, and who, despite her better judgement, had a thousand times got Harry out of the muck with some evil piece of homework.   Harry understood the differences between Ron and Hermione, but what he loved about them most were their similarities: they gave him - without limit - what they each had to give.

Others crowded his thoughts.  Neville, Dean and Seamus, fellow warriors in the perpetual battle with the Slytherins.   Hagrid and his unquestioned support.  Fred and George with their fierce loyalty.  Ginny and her flattering affection.  Other Weasleys, who had made Harry one of their own.  McGonagall, who worried and cared but couldn't show it.  Dumbledore's wonderful wisdom. 

And Sirius.  Finally, a tangible link with his past, with his parents.

Harry hoped hard that he truly deserved all this love, for surely that's what it was.  Hogwarts was home, in every sense of the word.  And on each of the recent mornings that he had found himself awake at this hour, he had realised that he was now over halfway though his time at the school, and that before he knew it he and the other Gryffindors would have to leave the protective walls and find their way in the world.  That thought was as scary to Harry as any possible scenario involving Voldemort.  In such moments, Harry knew that even the aspects of life at Hogwarts that seemed sent specifically to test him - Snape, Malfoy and all the other Slytherins - appeared less irritating, less important, less significant.  In these silent hours before the Tower awoke, Harry's softened view of his world was a comfort to him, and he realised that actually he enjoyed these moments of solitude and reflection.  Perhaps that was why he continued to wake: this was the only time he got to himself.

It was raining.  Quidditch practice could be messy and dispiriting in the rain, but still he looked forward to it that evening.  He went over the requirements of the day, listing the lessons in his head.  A tedious Transfiguration essay was still due after lunch; his was by no means finished, and he knew Ron hadn't started his yet.  That seemed the only blot on the landscape of the day, and he resolved to get his underway and wake Ron a little later to give him a chance to hash together his own version of Harry's work.  Harry smiled.  Hermione disapproved of copying, like she disapproved of many things, but she often left her scrolls lying conveniently around when she knew the boys were close to missing a deadline.  He had found her Transfiguration scroll on his bed the previous evening, no doubt delivered by her cat Crookshanks, who was always her accomplice in such subtle subterfuge.  That way, Harry surmised, Hermione's own conscience was clear.  Still, he silently thanked her and cast around for his wand.

'Lumos,' he whispered.

There was some good stuff here, Harry thought.  Hermione was certainly more than just an astonishingly hard worker, she was a very talented Witch deep down.  He read through her scroll and within an hour had cribbed enough of her work to complete his own.  As if on cue, the silent form of Crookshanks landed lightly on his bed next to him, and he nuzzled Harry's neck affectionately.  Harry had long since ceased to be amazed at Crookshanks' ability to get around the castle, the way that closed doors and bed hangings never seemed to pose him any difficulty.  Another ally, thought Harry gratefully, reaching through the hangings to replace his wand on the small cupboard next to his bed.  As he held the hangings open, Harry gave the cat Hermione's scroll and Crookshanks sprang away noiselessly, back to the girls' rooms.  The door to the fifth form boys' dormitory neither opened nor closed.  That was just what Hogwarts was all about, another aspect of his home that he now took completely for granted.  I should take fewer things for granted, resolved Harry.

'Tempus,' he whispered.

The Snitch-clock informed him that it was now just after 6am.  I'll wake Ron at half six, thought Harry.  That will give him easily enough time to cobble together an essay and still get to breakfast before the majority of the school.  Ron didn't appear to understand Harry and Hermione's liking for getting to breakfast early, but most days he grumpily went along with it.  Gives you the psychological advantage, said Hermione.  All those slovenly Slytherins emerging from their sewer of a dungeon at the last moment, when we've been chatting over toast for a good while.  The best start to any day!  Harry smiled as he heard her saying this in his head.  The conversation happened nearly every morning, but he didn't mind.  He was with Hermione on this one completely: anything that set them apart from Malfoy's mob was a good thing.

How would he fill this slack half hour before he would get Ron up? 

It was raining more steadily.  The sound of the rain beating against the small leaded windows was strangely comforting and he snuggled further under the covers, sumptuously comfortable in the warmth of his bed.  Sometimes he dozed back to sleep at about this time, but he knew that morning that it wasn't to be so.  Despite his comfort, or maybe because of it, his mind strayed away from the images of security to those which troubled him.  Big issues like his parents, his battle with Voldemort, his concern for Sirius's safety, they never really went away: a constant dull ache in his stomach and in his heart.  But lately, there had been something else.  Or perhaps it had always been there.

It was pouring with rain now.  The slashing of the rain against the window now seemed distressing rather than reassuring.  Harry allowed himself to consider this latest sick feeling in his chest. 

It absolutely couldn't be.  Please no.  How could he ever tell his friends that? 

He dragged his mind away from it, but he knew from experience that the fight was in vain.  Why?  If he could fight the Imperius curse, if he could summon a Patronus and fight the Dementors, if he could fight Voldemort and win, why couldn't he fight this?  Deep, deep down Harry knew why: because those things were magical, whereas this, this was primal.  Something that would be there even if he weren't a Wizard.  The images and thoughts and feelings wouldn't go away and his mind was racing in full, horrible flow now.  A desire so strong it scared him was welling up inside him.  He could feel his own body responding to the desire, and the state of arousal he was experiencing was more fierce than it had been for some weeks.  Hell, why should he fight it?  He was a sixteen-year-old boy after all.  His hands wandered around his body, tantalisingly avoiding their ultimate goal.

Harry knew his own body.  He had been exploring it for years, behind the screen of the hangings around his bed.  He knew his sensitive spots; he knew where one touch would send him over the edge.  But that had been different, that had been a young boy coming to terms with what his body could do.  Now, that whole innocent exploration was tainted with unthinkable thoughts.  Now, it was like someone else was with him in his bed, sharing this most intimate of moments.  But whose fingers were they that ran tentatively over his chest?  Whose tongue played exquisitely over his lips and neck?  Whose hand ruffled his hair when the pleasure became unbearable? 

Harry did not know for sure, and he had a dreadful fear of analysing the feelings too closely in case they gave him an answer he couldn't deal with.   But he knew one thing though: this lover who bubbled up from his subconscious in times of great desire, it was not a girl.  It was not Cho, or Ginny, or even Hermione, or any of the other girls who had shown an interest in him.  That in itself was a realisation that he was still coming to terms with.  But please, please, please, Harry thought, don't let it be Ron.  It would be the ultimate betrayal.  Certainly Harry wouldn't deserve his friendship then.  He wouldn't even be able to look Ron in the eye.  So he didn't dare examine his imaginary lover too eagerly; he allowed to him to keep his anonymity.  That delicate, diaphanous veil of secrecy allowed Harry to carry on talking to Ron every day as he had for more than four years now.  It was essential that Harry never looked at the face of whoever it was that tormented him each morning in these dark lonely hours of wakefulness, whoever it was that drove him ever upwards into more intense climaxes, whoever it was that knew Harry's body as well as Harry himself.

Harry was on a collision course with ecstasy.  His body writhed furiously under the covers, and his imaginary lover smashed his tongue deep into Harry's mouth.  Harry gasped out loud at the intensity of the sensations, the reality of the feelings.  He seized his most intimate part and began the final assent.  He was flying!  Like the ultimate airborne freedom of wheeling around on his Firebolt, his body and mind soared beyond the Gryffindors' dormitory.  His breath was ragged and his heart racing, and the delicious warmth of his surroundings was given a fiery edge by the combined body heat of Harry and Whoever-He-Was.  Harry felt them rolling over and over each other, their bodies pitching into the pleasure that felt so profane, yet so right.  The climax rose, unstoppable, inexorable.  Panting and gasping, Harry bucked uncontrollably and his body delivered its blissful gift.  Oh God!  Why did boys ever get out of bed when they could do this?  Elated, exhausted and smiling manically despite himself, Harry flopped his head back on his pillow and tried hard to catch his breath.  Wow!

He looked around in the gloom.  The rain was still heavy.  It was the same every morning: his lover had now vanished, disappearing at the moment of climax, but Harry didn't have quite the same sense of desperation now.  Sure, he keenly felt the loss, and just one morning he would love to find out that the boy was real, tangible, touchable, and that he had a lovely face, and that they could laugh and cuddle together in the afterglow of their shared intimacy. But the absence of Whoever-He-Was, and the realisation that he had never been there at all, were never enough to obliterate completely the immense pleasure he had just experienced.  As he came back down to earth, he heard the Snitch-clock tell him that it was 6:30.  Just a few minutes, Harry thought, then I'll wake Ron.  But as reality clicked back into place, a sniggering from beyond his bed hangings told him that he might not be the only one awake.

'Bloody hell, Harry,' he heard Seamus say, 'that was your noisiest yet!'

Harry bolted upright and shoved his head out of the parting in the hangings. 

'What?' he said, alarmed.

Seamus had pulled back the hanging on his own bed and was laughing. 

'You!' he laughed.  'You make so much noise!  It's a wonder anyone can sleep.  Sounds like you were enjoying yourself though.'

Harry was embarrassed but could not help laughing a little himself. 

'Sorry, Seamus, I sort of get carried away sometimes.'

'Sometimes?' came Dean's voice.  'You're always like that.  Every morning.  It's more reliable than the alarm on your Snitch-clock.'

The conversation disturbed another Gryffindor. 

'What's going on?' came Neville's voice.

'Harry again,' laughed Seamus.  'Playing boys' solitaire as usual.'

'Oh,' Neville stuttered, a little embarrassed.  'Actually he didn't wake me this morning.'

'Do I often wake you up?' asked Harry, blushing a bit.

The other three all laughed. 

'Don't get a complex, Harry,' said Dean.  'Of course not every day.  But when you get it into your head that you're going for it, nothing seems to stop you!'

'Oh God!  I had no idea my habits were so public!' Harry groaned, surprised that he could still laugh.  'What about Ron?'

'Nothing wakes Ron,' said Seamus.  'You know that.' 

They all laughed again.  Then came Neville's small voice.

'Harry,' he asked curiously, 'have you got two wands?'

'No,' said Harry, bemused.  'Why do you ask?'

'It's just that, well, your wand is still next to your bed on your cupboard.  Don't you, er, use it?'

Dean and Seamus looked suddenly at the wand.  Harry was nonplused.  Er, what do you mean, use it?'

'Blimey!' exploded Dean.  'You don't, do you?'

'Don't what?' said Harry, feeling a bit edgy.  'What are you talking about?'

'Harry,' said Seamus.  'Have you never used your wand when you, er...go for it?'

Harry tried to make light of a situation that he did not understand.  'In what way do you mean 'use', Seamus?  You mean to see what I'm doing?'

'Oh my God, Harry,' said Dean.  'This is unbelievable.  You don't know, do you?'

'So how do you get so, er...worked up, without it?' asked Seamus.

'I haven't any idea what you are all talking about,' replied Harry, now getting irritated.  'How can you use a wand to, erm...you know?'

Seamus got out of bed and sat on the end. 

'Harry,' he said, eyes glinting. 'Bloody hell have we got something to tell you!'

'Tell me what?' Harry had not felt so out of the loop for ages.  It was like he was discovering being a Wizard again.

Dean jumped out of bed too.  'This is weird.  You shouldn't be hearing it from us.  I just can't believe you don't know.  Hasn't Ron ever told you?'

'No he hasn't!  Will you just bloody well tell me?' fumed Harry.  Then he softened.  'Sorry.  But remember that I that I haven't really ever had a family, either Magical or Muggle.  There's probably still loads about Wizarding that I don't know.'

'OK' said Seamus. 'But first, I'm curious: how do you do it?'

Harry was acutely embarrassed.  He got out of bed too, picked up his wand, and sat down on the trunk at the foot of his bed, shuffling his feet. 

'Erm.  Well.  Well, how do we all do it?  I just get myself, you know, worked up...' - he made a halfhearted simulation with his hand along his wand - '...till, you know, till the sap rises.' 

He looked up hopefully.

'My God,' said Neville, slightly in awe.  'He does it all with his hands!'

'Don't you?' said Harry, extremely surprised.  'Doesn't every boy?'

'Every Muggle boy probably does,' said Seamus. 'Who knows?  But, Wizard boys use magic.  Well at least I think we all do.  We've never really discussed it.  It's not the sort of thing you talk about.'

'So how do you all know then, if you don't talk about it?' said Harry.

'Well, I guess it's just instinct,' said Seamus.  'There's no handbook.  Older brothers sometimes tell you stuff of course, but, only jokily.  How many Muggle boys ever need to be told how to do it?  You just, er, discover.'

'So how do you use magic then?' said Harry, intrigued.

There was a funny silence where Dean, Seamus and Neville all giggled a bit. 

'Well,' began Dean slowly, 'it's personal I guess.  I suppose everyone is different.  But, essentially, you just learn a few spells and charms and adapt them just for this, er, very purpose.' 

Harry had never seen Dean blush before.

Seamus was a bit more forthcoming.  'You know, certain hypersensitivity or constricting spells; Exquisitus is a good one, and then there's trusty old Frictia, that certainly, er...increases the blood flow.'  The others all laughed.

'Or you could use an engorgement charm,' chipped in Neville.  Dean and Seamus exploded with laughter.

'You use an engorgement charm, Nev?' choked Dean.

'Yeah, sometimes,' said Neville, a bit embarrassed.

'That's so funny!' spluttered Seamus, 'I've never even thought of that!'

'There you go then,' giggled Harry.  'None of you lot know how to do it either.'

'Well, I did say it was personal,' said Dean.  'Anyway Harry, from the sound of it, you don't need magic.  I've tried it a couple of times when I've not got my wand with me, but I've always thought it's a bit boring.'

'Yeah, I reckon it's crap without a wand too,' said Seamus.  'But, Harry, if you've got to age sixteen without ever using one, then maybe you've got more tricks up your sleeve than we can imagine.  We're not saying you've got to use magic; just...we are really surprised it's never occurred to you.  Anyway, it's probably safer without.'

'What do you mean?' said Harry, his mind alive with new possibilities.

'Well, do you remember when we were in the first year and Lee Jordan had to spend a couple of days in the Hospital Wing?  It was supposed to be a secret, but Fred and George couldn't keep the news to themselves.  Apparently Lee had a nasty accident with a new pulsating charm he was experimenting with.' 

Neville, Seamus and Dean were all laughing uncontrollably.

'Last time I went to see her, Madam Pomfrey said she's always having to sort out embarrassed boys who've got carried away trying out new spells,' said Neville, finding some confidence from the conversation.

Dean and Seamus looked at him incredulously and then another burst of laughter rolled over them. 

'What do you mean, "last time you went to see her"?  You've been there, haven't you!' yelled Dean.  'You can only know that if you've been there yourself!  Come on Nev, what happened?'

Neville was crippled by a flush of embarrassment and Harry tried to think of something to say to stop him having to answer the question, but the diversion was unnecessary.

'What the fuck is all this noise?'  A bleary-eyed Ron appeared between his hangings.  'It's only, shit, quarter to seven!' he wailed.

A babble of noise greeted Ron as he made his appearance, everyone speaking at once.

'Ron!' cried Harry. 'Sorry to wake you!'

'Ron!' yelled Seamus. 'Just wait till you hear what Nev's done!'

'Ron!' urged Neville. 'Don't believe anything they tell you!'

'Ron!' laughed Dean, 'you're Harry's best friend, why haven't you told him what Wizard boys need to know?'

Ron was completely overwhelmed by this and sank back into his bed again, ignoring them all.  Amid still lots of laughter, the conversation broke up more or less there and then, and the day proper began, as Dean and Seamus started to sort themselves out for a shower.  Neville made himself scarce back in his bed, and Harry went over to Ron and tried to speak to him softly about McGonagall's Transfiguration essay.

It was moments like this that made Harry appreciate once again how happy and at home he was at Hogwarts.  Most days there was nothing but hilarity and petty worries about schoolwork.  These are good days, he reminded himself.  And even as Ron said 'Sod off, Harry' as Harry tried to stir Ron into action over the essay, Harry found himself smiling.

'What's so funny?' said Ron, smirking, unable to maintain being bad-tempered while Dean and Seamus were fooling around.

'Long story,' said Harry.  'Now do this essay and then we'll go down to breakfast.  And then, Ron, we've got to have a long overdue conversation.  It appears that there's loads you haven't been telling me.'

'Eh?'

About an hour later the five fifth year boys were in the Great Hall having breakfast with Hermione, Ginny, the twins and assorted other Gryffindors.  It was jolly scene and again Harry forced himself to realise that these moments must not be taken for granted.  He would not have them forever.  He sat back and watched his friends discussing Quidditch heatedly over tea and toast, and felt a warm sense of belonging.  His eyes glazed over a bit.

'Harry?  Harry!  You all right?'  Ron's voice cut through his reverie.  'Oh Lord, why does he have to be here?'

Harry cut back to reality and saw Ron throwing an evil look over to the other side of the Great Hall where a group of fifth years were just sitting down at the Slytherin table.  A sudden sense of something chased through Harry's body as he saw Draco Malfoy take his seat, flanked by his ever-present henchmen.  Harry's eyes met Malfoy's for a split second.  There was no outward reaction from either of them, but again Harry felt a charge run through him.

God, how he despised Draco Malfoy.