Cho Must Die a Horrible, Painful Death

Chapter One: Delusion and Getting to Know "Little Harry"

"Jesus Christ! What the f*ck did she just do with my tongue?" Harry was mid-kiss with Ginny Weasley, who had been surprisingly open to the idea of snog-testing with Harry.

"Dear God... she bit my tongue. Ginny's kinky. Ginny! Bad mental images, bad mental images... Oh wait... kissing. Uhhhhh... mmmmhhnnn.... Weird. Don't open your eyes, don't open your eyes, don't open your eyes...damn it! She's looking at me. Why is she looking at me? Am I supposed to be doing something? Woah! There's her tongue again. What should I do with my tongue? Oh... um... okay, no. That was not good. Tongue definitely not the way to go. This is so... gross. It isn't supposed to be gross. It's supposed to be all... romantic comedy, pent-up attraction good. Gah! Can't breathe... air, air, AIR!!!!" Harry broke from the kiss, out-of-breath and incredibly freaked-out. Dean had told him that Ginny was quite good at this - a "vixen", he had said. But what Harry had just experienced was... weird, in a word. Mind you, it didn't even come close to being as bad as kissing Cho, but it certainly wasn't any better.

"Harry?" Ginny asked, raising her eyebrow slightly as she looked at Harry like he was an escaped mental patient. "You okay?"

"Um, yeah," Harry answered, trying to smile and shuffling his feet slightly. "I just... needed some air," he finished.

"Oh, I... see," Ginny said, still not quite convinced that Harry wasn't suffering from a brain contusion, or something. It certainly couldn't be the other option: that Harry was the first man in history to not respond to her kisses.

"Yeah," Harry continued, "I was never much of a consistent "breather," you know." (Ginny had no idea what the hell he was talking about) The prattling went on. "I, um, tried out for the school swim team once, but I was rubbish at breathing underwater." Harry chuckled uneasily. "Yeah... I've got to, you know, do something. Now. Away from here. Bye!"

Harry left Ginny's room in a rush, desperate to escape her skeptical stare. "Oh well," Ginny thought, "maybe he's gay."

Indeed. Miss Weasley had a point. Not that Harry was clued into it... yet.

***

"Dear Lord, that was terrible," Harry muttered to himself once safely inside his own dormitory. Harry couldn't quite figure out why it was terrible, mind you, but these things aren't exactly cut and paste, so we can hardly blame him. Anyhow, yes: Harry was confused. The kiss had started out fine - Ginny had gingerly pressed her lips against his, whilst pressing one hand against his chest, effectively pushing him up against the wall, as her fingers ran from his stomach over his shoulder to grasp the back of his neck. (Ginny, you see, is a bit... domineering. *teehee*) After a brief moment, Ginny ran her tongue along his lips, urging him to part them. He got the message, and reluctantly concurred. Ginny had started to French Harry, which, theoretically should have thrilled him, but did not.

The lively redhead's oral talents had done absolutely nothing for Harry Potter. Just like with Cho, there were no butterflies flitting about his stomach, he felt no goosebumps, and his thoughts never once wandered upon words such as "yes," "good," or "bloody hell!" (in the good sense). These would have been, Harry figured, appropriate reactions to a kiss. Ron had always described a slight tingling feeling whenever he kissed Hermione. Dean and Seamus were insistent that they went all numb and felt incredibly sated whenever they were snogging (though Harry wasn't sure if they were talking about snogging each other or not). Instead, Harry felt nothing but ambivalent awkwardness. In effect, he felt absolutely nothing.

This worried Harry. He could explain away his misgivings about kissing Cho. She had, after all, been crying over Cedric at the time. Not exactly a libido enhancer. He could not, however justify feeling nothing whilst Ginny was kissing him.

"Maybe I should just try it with another girl" Harry calculated. "Yes. That's it. Another girl... I mean: Ginny is like a sister to me. That's probably why kissing her was so weird."

On the other hand, perhaps Harry was very talented when it came to delusional justifications. But on with the story. In consideration of Harry's "sister-feelings theory" (prat), Harry decided that he should seek to snog-test with someone he hadn't known since he was eleven.

This left very few possibilities. Parvati and Lavander were no-go, as were most of the Hufflepuffs with whom he had always shared Herbology. It also ruled out all of the Slytherin girls. If you're as bad at logical deduction as Harry appears to be, it will take you, say five minutes to figure out that this left only Ravenclaw.

Harry considered an incredibly short list of contenders, considering that he knew very few girls outside of his year who qualified as being 'legal.' Eventually, he settled on Luna Lovegood. He had, afterall, known her for a good time (two years), but had come into her acquaintance after his hormones had begun to rage. Plus, he liked her. She was odd, but very nice. He could certainly relate to her. Surely, he would enjoy kissing her. Harry approached Luna one day after seeing her sitting by the lake, starring off into space. He explained his situation (kind of) and she agreed to snog-test with him.

Kissing Luna was very different from kissing Ginny. Luna may have had her head in the clouds, but when she kissed Harry, her hands were down his pants. And all over him, for that manner. She was a surprisingly tactile person, for someone who was off by themselves reading most of the time.

The kiss began awkwardly enough. Harry stood about foot away from her and held a look of apprehension and terror in his eyes. Luna smiled a half-smile at him before she closed the space between them, suddenly plundering Harry's lips with her own.

Harry found her lips to be slightly slippery, probably from whatever she had on that made them taste of cherries. She was insistent, but not demanding. All the while, her hands roamed all over his body; she particularly keen on easing her hands underneath his clothing and fingering Harry's sweaty but soft skin. It felt weird having another person touching him like that, but it didn't bother him.

Then she loosened his belt buckle and moved her right hand into his trousers. Harry started at her touch, but she held him firm in their kiss by her left hand, which sat at the small of his back.

She found the opening at the front of Harry's boxer shorts, and moved her hand inside to explore. Harry shifted uncomfortably, though he couldn't quite move away from her. She changed the focus of her lips from his mouth to the sensitive area of his earlobes and neck whilst fingering his flaccid member with her fingertips.

Harry gasped as she made contact and awaited the moment where he would respond, but it never came. After a moment, Luna gave up, shrugging her shoulders as she moved her mouth back up to meet his. She placed a few gentle pecks on his lips and pulled away, smiling at him. Instead of saying something, she just continued smiling.

Harry managed a sheepish grin. "Um, thanks," he spouted and he took off towards the castle, buckling his belt as he went.

This raised (well, not exactly) a new issue with Harry: a girl (an attractive girl, no less) had had her hand on his penis, and he hadn't felt the least bit aroused. This problem went way beyond kissing. Harry feared that he might be... sexually dysfunctional. He needed a new plan.

****

Harry was in a weird place mentally as he moved his hand further up his thigh. Masturbating was one thing, but masturbating with a purpose was another. This was Harry's brilliant new plan: wank off and figure out what (or who) did it for him, so to speak. Thus far, he had no clue what the hell he should do. Normally, he would just feel horny and... just do it. He couldn't, for the life of him, recall what he had thought about when he'd done it, so he was scarcely in the position to coax himself into masturbating by "the usual" lurid thought or image.

Harry urged himself to think, furrowing his brow and drumming his fingers on his upper thigh. He tried to come up with 'sexy thoughts.' Starting with what he knew, his mind drifted from Cho's sleek, long hair to her flirtatious eyes, and then to her salty tears as she cried over Cedric. That obviously wasn't going to get him anywhere, so he switched to lurid images of Ginny.

He recalled all the times Ginny had grinned after performing a particularly naughty hex, usually on Fred and George. She was really quite pretty, Ginny, even if she did remind him a bit too much of Ron. His mind almost wandered into the dangerous territory of 'Ron,' but Harry steered himself away from it by thinking back on his kiss with Ginny. Had she really bit his tongue? How odd. He could only imagine what she was like in the bedroom, kinky, wearing leather and spanking Dean... Bad idea.

Luna was probably safer, as he had no mental images of her interacting with anybody other than himself. Not that he had put in a stellar performance with her the day before. She'd touched him in ways he imagined any boy should like, but he hadn't been able to respond. He tried to will himself to, but to no avail. Similarly, at the moment, thinking about Luna touching him was doing nothing. Harry sighed with frustration. He was still down, way down.

"Dammit, Harry! You've only an hour until Quidditch practice, get a move on!" Harry exclaimed to himself. For the most bizarre reason, this began to work for him. "Woah!" He grinned and reckoned that he must have a secret schedule fetish, or something. Schedules made him think of Hermione, and he considered that he should maybe be snogging her. He subsided again. Obviously Hermione was a no-go. He dissected his previous statement bit by bit in his mind. Quidditch practice. In an hour. Schedule. Flying on a broomstick. Finally somewhat at attention, Harry hand snaked down below the waistband of his boxer shorts.

"Mmmnnnn... yes. Much better," he muttered. Harry began to fruitfully stroke himself. Now, Harry wasn't a big boy, so to speak. Contrary to the, um, *images* one gets in fiction that Harry is built like a formidable porn star, in this Potterverse, he's average. Delightfully average, to be specific. He ran about 6 & ½ inches long and a slightly above average 2 inches in girth. So, Harry was a happy boy. Especially at the moment.

"Mmmmmmaaayeeeahhh... ride that broom!" Harry coaxed himself further with his naughty Quidditch. In his mind, he was flying high above the pitch, with random people playing their respective positions below him. Suddenly, Cho was flying at his left. She looked so... sexy riding that broom. Masturbation-fantasy-Cho giggled. Harry grinned as he shifted to a swift pumping motion.

&lquo;The Snitch!" Masturbation-fantasy-Harry went into a sudden dive. He glanced on his right and found himself flying neck and neck with Malfoy, battling it out for the Golden Snitch. "Dammit Malfoy! Get the fuck out of my... aaaaahhhh!"

Thinking about Malfoy was apparently a real turn on for Harry, because the intense sensations he was experiencing increased, as he became solid as a rock. "Shit! Malfoy? Oooh... yes. For the love of God!" Harry was very confused, but his masturbation fantasy was too far-gone to stop. He and Malfoy were racing towards the Snitch. Harry could almost feel the wind as it blew across his skin and sent his robes billowing out behind him. Glancing at Malfoy, he noticed that his pale blond hair was whipping about; he had obviously skipped his usual application of hair gel. He reminded Harry of a superhero, for some reason.

Harry extended his arm, reaching for the Snitch. Malfoy approached from Harry's side and reached out his hand, brushing Harry's slightly. His touch was soft but the shock of it cut at Harry's skin like a razor blade. Draco looked him straight in the eyes with his ice-blue stare, and caught the Snitch. "Ahhhh.... Yes! Yes!"

Harry calmed down after the last sensation of release washed over him. "Jesus fucking Christ! Malfoy?" He suddenly felt the urge to shower. He felt somewhat... dirty.

"Dirty in a good way?" His inner-voice asked him. "No fucking way!" Harry proclaimed, but aloud. "Get a grip on yourself, Harry. Talking to yourself is not a good sign." Harry's inner-monologue resumed, though he couldn't be sure whether it was his deluded conscious or nagging subconscious mind that was speaking.

Harry grabbed a towel and headed off to the Prefects' bathroom, glad that Ron had given him the password in a moment of guilt (over being chosen Prefect instead of Harry) and intense fear (when Harry threatened to tell Hermione that Ron fancied an erotic evening which consisted of Ron tied to the bed and Hermione with an array of dildos at her disposal). He found the room thankfully unoccupied, rushed inside, and turned on a few taps at random. Peeling his clothes off, Harry wondered about what had just happened. Had he really fantasized about Malfoy? Malfoy and Quidditch, yes, but why had his presence seemed to... urge Harry along?

"Dear God.... What if I'm gay?" Harry exclaimed out loud, dropping his pants on a chair by the tub.

The mermaid on the wall, who had been simpering at Harry and waving, started shuffling towards the edge of her painting and was shooting Harry some awkward and confused glances.

Harry settled into the pleasantly warm water of the bath and took a moment to gather his thoughts. He couldn't like boys... could he? He'd always seemed to like girls, like Cho. Cho was lovely. Well, she was until he got to know her. But he'd certainly liked other girls...

Harry racked his brains for other females after whom he had lusted. Compared to his infatuation with Cho, he didn't reckon he'd ever lusted after another girl. "But just because I haven't liked girls other than Cho, doesn't mean that I like boys," he murmered to himself. The mermaid on the wall snickered. Harry shot her a nasty look and returned to his relaxing bath.

For a half hour, all that could be heard in the Prefects' bathroom was the reverberating 'drip, drip' of one of the faucets. Harry sat in silent contemplation, as he tried to wash his earlier thoughts from his mind, but they had already pervaded his senses too deeply and would not let him be.

"Malfoy." Harry finally spoke. His voice sounded oddly disjointed in the marble bathroom. "Draco Malfoy." Harry furrowed his eyebrows and cried out suddenly, "Arrrghh!" He immersed himself underwater with a splash. At this point, it was not so much that Harry might fancy boys that upset him, but the fact that he appeared to fancy Malfoy in particular. He was a spoiled, cruel, poncy git. One shouldn't fancy a shag with spoiled, cruel, poncy gits, Harry was sure.

Harry shut his eyes and took himself back to the image of Malfoy from earlier. The cold wind had brought a slight blush to Malfoy's otherwise pale cheeks. It made him look almost human. And his hair had looked so soft and touchable. Soft and touchable... like his hand. That was Harry's favorite part of the whole fantasy - touching Malfoy. Harry was sure he had felt sparks when Malfoy's fingers grazed his hand, even though it was all in Harry's head.

Harry had no idea where to go from here. He'd never officially learned sex education, not at Muggle school, not at Hogwarts (in the sense of a class, though he and his dormmates had had more than a few conversations on the subject), and certainly not at the Dursley's. Dudley got the "birds and the bee's" talk when he and Harry were about twelve, but Harry had only heard snippets of it from the landing. Uncle Vernon had noticed him skulking there and shot him a scathing look that told Harry to get back upstairs to his bedroom. And the only opinion of homosexuality that Harry had ever heard was Aunt Petunia's mutterings about "those freaks" when a gay couple had moved into the neighborhood. They didn't stay long.

Moreover, Harry didn't know anyone who was gay, or at least not anyone who had admitted it. He'd heard that Dean and Seamus occasionally snogged, for the sake of experimentation, but Harry had never been so bold as to ask Ron to experiment as well.

How was he supposed to know if he was gay, if he had no idea what being gay meant? Sure, maybe he fancied boys - maybe - but what was he supposed to do about it? He reckoned he should figure out what being gay meant before he jumped to any conclusions. Could you get that kind of information at Hogwarts? Did the library carry those kinds of books? This required research, but Harry was crap at research. Research was something more on Hermione's vein.

"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed. The plan man had a yet another plan: he had to talk to Hermione.

End Chapter One