I Know Who I Am

Ron slumped against the cold, stone wall of the boys' room, his heart beating against his rib cage, stomach pinwheeling. Within seconds his knees had given away, and he slid awkwardly onto the damp, mossy, floor.

It was a joke, it was some kind of sick trick, something Malfoy had orchestrated. He ran his fingers through his hair, pressed his hands against his face. Pansy was a decoy - if he did let this happen. He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed heavily.

He couldn't stop the silly grin from spreading across his face, the memory inadvertently playing against his eyelids.

The sun splashed up against the castle like a fiery wave, drawing in a cool breeze to tamper the long, humid day. The end of the term was near and the school buzzed with preparation for finals, OWLs, and NEWTs. Stretched on their splayed robes, Ron and Pansy were hard at work on their History of Magic final project. In assigned pairs the students were to research a specific era in magical history and spend half the class teaching other students about it. Their topic was the effect of the muggle world on the magical world during the tumultuous period between 1930 and 1945.

"I don't think the fact that Hitler's grandmother was the sister of a woman who married a non-practicing warlock is going to be of much interest to the class," Pansy mused, picking though a pile of note cards.

"It'll take at least five minutes to explain it," Ron shrugged, shielding his eyes from the sun and peering at her. "But it's up to you whether or not you want to include it."

"Oh, right then," she said, tossing the card into the trash pile. "If I'm presenting the information, then what's your job?"

"Holding the pictures?" Ron flopped onto his back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "I hardly think it will do us any good if I do the talking."

"You are a positively horrible public speaker, but I do get tickled watching you stammer and blush over your cards."

"I don't stammer," he protested, instantly going red. She didn't answer, gazing at him from over the cards she'd fanned out in her hand. "I don't!"

"Well, we just won't put that theory to test, eh? I don't have a problem with doing all the talking, but I don't think you'll do as well as you think by not participating."

"I guess that's a chance I'm willing to take." He sounded confident but he pushed himself onto his elbows, trying to get a look at the cards from over her shoulder. Deftly, she folded them up with a flick of her wrist.

"No, don't worry about it, we'll do fine."

"Yeah, but just in case he needs to ask me something directly," Ron casually waved his hand in the air. She saw his eyes flicked over her with doubt.

"Sure, okay, but you better make your own, just so you can be really sure you know your stuff." She grinned and pushed a pile of books towards him. "Go on, you'd better get started right away."

"C'mon Pans, just lemme look, for a second. I did copy those down on cards for you, you know." He got to his knees, snatching at the cards. She shook her head, back up coyly, holding them just out of reach.

"You're being difficult on purpose," he snarled playfully, losing his balance and flopping down on his side.

"Anything worth having is going to be a little harder to obtain," she wrinkled her nose and smiled. "Especially what I've got here." She spread the cards in her hands and her hair fell over her eyes, obscuring her face. Her voice was a soft drawl. "C'mon Ron, come and get them."

Something about the way she said 'come' brought the blood rushing to his face. He scrambled to his knees as she scooted out of reach. She smacked him lightly in the face and he grabbed her wrist, sending the cards flying. Pansy had a lazy half smile on her face as she dodged his attempt to ensnare her, rolling easily out of his reach and giggling like mad. It was no mere struggled for cards now, no, this was a true courting dance. She squealed, batting at him as he pinned he arms to her sides, wrapped his legs around hers and leaned heavily on her stomach, forcing her to be still. She pouted, her eyes bright with excitement, he sighed heavily, his insides trembling. They were both out of breath.

"Was it worth it?" He growled, peering down into her face.

"Depends," her voice was low, husky. She was rosy with exertion, her eyes alternately shy and inviting, lips wet. "Now that you've caught me, what are you gonna do with me?"

The moment was heavy, lasting an eternity. She squirmed beneath him, her skirt coming up, over her thighs, inches from the elastic of her cotton panties. All Ron could hear was the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. She was gazing up at him, eyelids heavy, chest heaving slightly with his weight. She repeated, voice like syrup, "What are you gonna do with me?"

He leaned in, heart pounding, mind tossing about questions that he really couldn't stop to answer - she arched beneath him, and he lifted her up a bit, her heavy hair pulling her head down, parting her lips. She closed her eyes as he brought his mouth down to hers.

There was an electricity when he pressed his lips to hers, he lingered, mind reeling at their softness, the easy, wet way in which she yielded to him. He loosened his grip on her arms and she snaked her hands around his back, winding them in handfuls of his shirt. Slowly, the two of them collapsed into the grass, panting and clumsy.

They said nothing, she was blushing furiously, averting his eyes, but made no attempt to disentangle herself from their entwined embrace. He touched her mouth with one finger, she froze, breathless eyes locked on his face. He trailed it down her chin, over her throat where he could see her racing pulse, down, over her collar bone, pushing the edges of her shirt away from the regions of her upper chest and watched the pale, silvery skin rise and fall with her quick breath. She shifted beneath him, her hands still wrapped in his shirt, tugging him closer, pulling them further down in the tall summer grass. He was not brave enough to go groping about beneath her shirt, but slid his hand under her clothes so that it came to rest on her hot, bare stomach.

"Ron," she murmured, her breath a whisper against his burning face. He lifted his gaze to met hers. She wiggled under him, and with a great, unanticipated, shove, she pushed him off, throwing him onto the ground next to her and, legs still bandied together, sat on his waist, grinning at him triumphantly. She leaned down, the silver charm necklace she wore glinted in the sun as it hung over his face like a pendulum. As she rested her forearms in the grass over his head, he felt her breasts pressing into him, where they met his body bursting into fire. She looked at him for a long while, he readily looked back.

He remembered once thinking she'd had the face of a pug, but the years had stolen her childhood features and replaced them with the lean look of young womanhood. Her dark eyes flashed purple in the sun, her bouncy black pigtails had grown into a sweeping cloak of shimmery hair that cast both of them into shadows. The hollows of her cheeks were soft and unblemished, pale rose in a face of translucent bluish, white skin - if she'd once had the face of a pug, she now had the dimensions of an expensive Parisian doll.

Pansy regarded him with equal interest. Here was a boy that had once towered over the rest of his class, with the beak of a hippogriff and an awful home haircut that never did justice to his shocking - even for the Weasely family - red hair. The freckles had faded to a light dusting across his nose and cheeks, the crayon red hair had dimmed to a deep copper tinged with blond. His muddy hazel eyes were rimmed with gold and his face had finally caught up with his nose, like his body had finally filled in with his height. Now he was blushing, his eyes glowing with something Pansy couldn't quite, at fifteen, put her finger on. He did not struggled against her, but relaxed with his hands behind his head. "Well, now what are *you* going to do?"

She passively explored him as he'd done her, hands passing over his upper arms, squeezing lightly finding small but firm muscles there. She bent, kissing his neck, letting her lips traces over his Adam's apple, already she delighted in feeling his skin grow warmer as the blush crept back up into his face. His body was hot under her bare legs, and she was excited and a little frightened by her own body's response to him. Caught in the feeling, with no real sense as to it's meaning, implications, or how to control it, she leaned in, kissing him again, deeper this time, letting the chemistry guide her.

His hands gripped her legs, strong fingers biting into the soft flesh of her upper thighs, bared to the world. She ran her hands through his hair, mildly shocked at it's bouncy softness, and then leaned forward, probing the depth of his mouth with her tongue.

Neither had ever kissed like this before, and the effect was beyond intoxicating. Ron felt the world melt away underneath him, the ground dissolve, nothing above or below him but the smooth flesh of her legs, the heat from where her body met his at the crotch. He couldn't help but buck beneath her, half crazy with the intensity of the kiss.

And then she broke from him, eyes wide on his face, mouth open and glistening. She seemed frozen for an instant, then slowly, her gaze moved up, fixed somewhere above them. He was prostrate under her, sluggish with hormones, and could do nothing but watch her face as it went from shocked to scared, from scared to horrified. Then she was gone, backing away from him, stumbling with exquisite grace. He could only raise himself to his elbows and watch race away, confused, but mostly sick with fear, dread, and something suspiciously like rejection.

He splashed water on his face, then ran his wet fingers over the back of his neck, up, under his shirt where his skin was clammy with extinguished passion. Ron stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, trying to sort the various feelings, urges, and thin trickles of doubt that blurred his vision. It was just a kiss - nothing to it really, he told himself, looking deep in his own eyes, pupils wide as saucers, obscuring the marbled green irises. Yet it did not feel that way. There had been timid experiments with Hermione; advances in the name of experience, based on bits of desire that sprung from the sudden knowledge that they were of different gender. Soft mouths, the gentle knocking of teeth - a silent promise to keep it a secret. He was suddenly red, recalling similar, albeit earlier, accounts involving Harry and late night discussions in the heady isolation of the Burrows. His stomach flipped, and he shook his head, no, what had just happened with Pansy, that was so much more...

He swallowed, a wave of heat engulfing his body. He gripped the sink with closed eyes and let the sensation carry him as far as he dared, feeling the blood collect below in an increasingly familiar fashion. But as soon as it began, it ended, replaced with the odd dread and regret, feeling as though he'd been betrayed or had betrayed someone, plagued by the eerie look of terror that had eclipsed Pansy's exotic beauty and sent her fleeing without explanation.

There were no answers in the vaguely sick expression that gazed, unfocused, from out of the mirror. He shook his head, hard, trying to clear thoughts that were beginning to trumpet expression of undying devotion and affection that he was wise enough to realize were not just ridiculous for his level of maturity, but also possibly unrequited by the object of their attention. He counted to ten, took a deep breath, and wondered what she was doing, right this moment.

II

The first slap caught her off guard, but the second sent her sprawling onto the unforgiving stone floor of the Slytherin common room. Draco swept over her, his robe lashing out as well, it's heavy hem striking, biting into her ankle. She scrambled up against the nearest chair, animal fear calling for some type of shelter. He circled her, face contorted by a grim sneer, eyes sparking dangerously. "A little recreation, eh, Parkinson? A little outside practice?"

She did not answer, following his every movement with her eyes, half concealed beneath her hair.

He spat, the very image of her gently bucking on Weasely with rapt eyes bringing bile into his throat. He gritted his teeth, bearing canines. "Testing that taunt body out on filth? Oh, Pansy-" The sound of her name hissed through his teeth sent sparks of terror through her vision. He could get so awful; her stomach swayed, remembering what he'd done to her at Hogsmeade Station after finding she'd ridden the whole way with Blaise Zambini instead of Millicent and Livia like she'd told him. She'd gone to Snape, who was shockingly unsympathetic when regarding the bruise that bloomed around her eye, the gash on her thigh and the destruction of her clothing. He'd sent her away from his office, pained, ashamed. Guilty for being pretty her only protector tsk-tsking and calling her a tease. This was unacceptable, and she reared against the label like a colt who would not break, using her body to lash out against the stereotype. She would own the label, shiny as a prefect's badge. Draco paced silently, stalked her like prey. This time she did not give in to the urge to close her eyes.

He was moving very slowly, watching her. They gauged each other with a certain amount of thoughtful malevolence that was characterized by only poisonous animals and Slytherin House students. She was acutely aware of his hand, deep inside his robe, absently fingering his wand. He was intent on her face, waiting for his words to unlock the secrets behind her motivation to defy him. "Stand up."

She obeyed, her hands clasped behind her back, eyes unwavering, not leaving his face.

"I could go on for hours," he began slowly, his voice soft and drawling, dangerously commanding. "Weasely, oh Pansy, Ron Weasely." He was struggling within himself, she was unable to decipher what he was feeling, but did not let it sway her vigilance. She was tensing her muscles, watching his progress, waiting for him to lash out so she could defend herself. Something about this was insanely serious; for the first time, Draco's intensity crackled in the air around her, elusive, endless, and deadly. Every hair on her body stood at attention, equally ready, with animal fury, to protect. What really worried her was that for the first time, he seemed unable to find the words.

"Anyone," he said silkily, "anyone in heaven or hell, even Potter. Even that crude darkie Dean, or fat Neville. Pansy, my God." He continued to move around her, giving her a radius of roughly a meter. "I have defended your tendency to seduce, I have held my wand to the throats of boys who would sully your name. I have upheld your obviously nonexistent honor-," his voice broke, and he turned with a small, strangled cry. For the first time ever, he made the mistake of taking his eyes off of her.

It was over, quick as lightening. In one fluid movement, she sprang from her spot, frozen in front of the chair, and hit his back with the cold fury of a train. He went down like a stalk of spring grass, head cracking hard against the floor. Like a lioness, she ripped him over with one hand, gathered his arms over his head and lodged one thin, tanned knee in his larynx. Her heart was racing and her breath was shallow and ragged. She was surprised to see that his eyes were wet with tears. "You're not going to hit me anymore, Malfoy," her face was ashen, lips a thin line, and her voice trickled down his spine like ice water. "Not anymore. And you're not going to tell me how I am or how anyone else is. Not anymore. Five years I've listened to you, I've obeyed you based on some vague threat of the future. I am not your toy. I am not your toy-" She snarled, pressing her knee harder, relishing the sound of his distress. His icy eyes glowed sapphire with panic, the muscles under his eyes twitched uncontrollably.

The setting sun had sunk low in the sky and now burst into the northern room, flooding the walls with splashes of orange, pink, and magenta. The light caught her eyes and they glittered red in her pale face. "Ron Weasely set me on fire. His very nearness turns my mind to water and my body to jelly. The mention of his name makes me weak. I gave myself to him, Draco, I want him to have me." He was rapt with heat of her fury. "You don't tell me what to do anymore. I know what I want, I know who I am!"

Her voice rang with her furious terror. Draco's eyes were flooded with fear and tears of pain, he gasped and swallowed against the pressure on his throat. She grinned wickedly, some part of her defenses aroused by his absolute helplessness. She leaned down, and he grimaced as her knee dug further into his neck, her lips were centimeters from his, her hair covering them both. One hand slid slowly down the length of his body, her eyes held his, challenging him to look away or close his lids in defeat. He did neither, but groaned in an odd combination of selflessness and excitement. She searched around inside his robe and came away with his wand. Her grin was moments from crazy, she removed her knee and replace it with the wand. Then she leaned in, licking his lips, coaxing him into a depth less kiss. She did not close her eyes. He was horrified to feel himself go hard as she teased his tongue out of his mouth and into hers; she straddled him, much in the same manor she'd rode Weasely, grinding against his uncomfortably tense member. She snatched up his hands from where she'd kept them pinned against the floor. "Your first real kiss Draco," she purred, voice still cool as iron, fingering his hands, rubbing them gently. She pressed them to her breasts, grinding against him again, giving a little gasp of excitement. Without warning, she slipped his hands beneath her shirt, under her worn cotton bra. He moaned despite himself, his hands finding the small, hard buds of her nipples. She gave another small gasp, her rhymthic grinding becoming a steady dry hump.

Draco's mind whirled, he was powerless and the sensation overwhelmed him in ways both desperate and intoxicating. He squeezed her firm breasts, unable to keep from rocking against her in return. He could barely breath for his own wand sticking him in the windpipe. She bent over him again, her lips hot and wet, sucking at his mouth. He was surprised to find he had no control of his body, which responded entirely, wholly without thought. She rocked faster, bouncing slightly, gazing down at him with an expression of detached interest, feeling her sexual power over him. "I know who I am," she murmured hoarsely. He sucked air in between his teeth, his whole body singing against his will.

Then he came, a broken cry tearing itself from the depths of his traumatized throat. He wrenched his hands from her breasts and gripped her hips, bucking against her as his vision went blurry. He could barely make out Pansy, riding his convulsions of pleasure with cold eyes and an expressionless face. He was gasping, body aching, throat nicked by the pressure of the wand and lie there, completely immobile, unable to catch his breath. Within seconds, she lifted herself off him effortlessly, smoothing her skirt over her long legs, slightly bruised with activity, and tucking her shirt in. He tried to make out her expression in the twilight room, but was unable.

She backed towards the door with the small, easy movements of a tense animal. "That's who I am," she whispered, her voice tiny and frightened. "That's who I am, Draco, and I fuck who I want."