Wick

When a thing is wick it has a life about it
Maybe not a life like you and me
But somewhere there's a secret streak of green inside it
Come and let me show you what I mean...

When a thing is wick it has a light around it
Maybe not a light that you can see
But hiding down below a spark's asleep inside it
Waiting for the right time to be seen...

~*~

"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 pushes his chair back and follows. 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, Potter," she says, throwing a piercing look over her shoulder. "It's just down this way."

She trails her fingers absentmindedly along the spines of the books as she scans the shelves for the specific volume they need for the 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 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 the upper 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. 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, always loyal, ever given first thought.

However.

There is this troublesome matter of the dreams she keeps having. The dreams of 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, and Pansy begins unabashedly cultivating her absolute secret and most treacherous desires. If it had been anybody 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.

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. "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, Potter. 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 breath rebounding, still feeling his lips against hers. "I mean it, Potter."

Harry doesn't move. A sensorial wave washes through his body and he is suddenly hyper-aware. Harry takes everything in --- the feel of her lips brushing against his as she whispers, her sweet breath. He is surprised when 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 marvelous. Human and hot and. . .just so good. 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.

He wants so badly to kiss her, to feel her mouth fully. On the other hand, he realises, brushing his lips against hers like this is more erotic than anything Harry has ever imagined. He swells in his trousers and his heart begins racing as he stares into her blue eyes.

He can feel her smile as he hardens against her, and she shifts her pelvis ever so slightly to acknowledge 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. "Have you been kissed before, Potter?"

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

"Kissing is very intimate. It's not something you just do with any old someone. And really, be honest! Do you really want to venture where Draco has gone before you?"

Harry isn't at all sure why this last bit exacerbates his arousal, but it is all he can do to maintain himself. He is already teetering on the edge and it's been but a minute since this entire episode started. He moves 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 moves with practised fluidity against him and Harry knows it will be over any time now. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the feeling. It's better than anything he's discovered on his own. Pansy grabs his chin between her thumb and index finger, and flicks her tongue out delicately and licks Harry Potter's bottom lip thoroughly. Then, she nicks the book from his slackened fingers and backs away, and turns and leaves. This is likely a good thing, as it allows Harry a bit of privacy as he comes, 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." Blaise has spotted her from across the room. "Millicent and I were just about to go--"

"Go without me." She is pounding up the steps now. "I'm busy."

Blaise wrinkles her brow for a moment at Pansy's strangely determined behavior, then shrugs. Whatever it was, she is sure Pansy will tell her about it later.

Blaise 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 fifth year boys' door as she simultaneously opens it, she calls out.

"Draco? I'm coming in."

Crabbe is lying on his bed in his shorts and socks, eating pastries and reading Quidditch for the Masses. As Pansy comes 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 and trails a smudge of ink across the parchment he is working on. Draco peeks his head out from inside his bed curtains.

"What are you doing?" He is completely befuddled, which lends his face a rather endearing quality.

Pansy throws the nearest set of robes she spots at Crabbe. "Put these on," she orders.

"These are Draco's, Pansy..." The hulking boy has gotten 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 at Draco, who 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. She pushes them resolutely out the door. The last thing she sees as she's closing the door on them is Crabbe attempting to pull Draco's too-small robes across his wide girth and Goyle looking slack-jawed 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.

"Right now."

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

"Oh! Hello there," he says teasingly, "I see you aren't kidding."

"No. I'm not. Hurry."

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 away, and reaches into his shorts to take him in her hand. He backs her against the foot of his four-postered bed, kissing her deeply. 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 is going to recline her onto the mattress.

Her decision is made before the question has time to be fully formed in her brain. Pansy deftly inches away, turns from him and folds herself 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 -- and she feels him bunching her skirt up around her waist. He frantically tugs her knickers down around her knees and she feels him pushing against her --- it is totally different. It takes a moment for him to properly navigate the angle; however, he finally manages it. A squeak escapes from the back of her throat and she wonders fleetingly if there are other sixteen-year-olds in the world who have sex this way, or if she is alone in her debauchery.

It feels very good, though. Different, but good. It feels...deeper. Pansy isn't sure if she likes it as much as their usual way, but it is sensual in a darkly wanton and 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 this for more than thirty minutes, it's a 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 fast 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 when he opens his eyes and finds her watching him, "Oh God, Pansy, I like it when you look at me like that . . ."

Thoroughly ashamed, she drops her head to Draco's duvet and clutches frantically at the velveteen cover as his movements push her against the side of his mattress, and she welcomes the inevitable release, unwittingly vocalizing into the handful of duvet cover she has stuffed into her mouth as she explodes. As she relaxes, Draco presses himself as close to her as he can as his own climax rolls over him, and he holds onto her hips so tightly she's sure she'll have ten perfect marks --- five on each hip --- where he clenched her skin.

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

He keeps her draped over the bed for a minute before she finally feels him pull away from her. Turning, she manages to get her knickers off from around her knees and kicks them away. She brings him in closer to her and reaches down to grasp him lightly.

"Again," she whispers, hoarsely. He is still breathing heavily, and he winces slightly at her touch.

"I can't . . ."

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

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

Why he ever let Hermione talk him into taking Muggle Studies, for the sole purpose of mocking Malfoy's required presence in the class, is now far beyond him. In five years he has never once given Pansy Parkinson a positive thought --- any thought really --- although admittedly that bit with Malfoy and Buckbeak third year was a touch drama-queenish --- and he explicitly prefers retaining this option. However, once the first (pleasant? accepting? curious? Harry is still much 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? When did she pique his interest in this horrible, inexcusable, traitorous way? Harry thinks.

Your parents really aren't in the best position to judge now, are they? This is definitely not endearing. Harry thinks further. Well, 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. Do you have a problem with fresh breasts, Potter? This is a possibility. Is your Auntie nice, then? Harry takes pause. This last bit is the only time he recalls Pansy Parkinson speaking civilly to him by choice; in return he had been quite impolite in his response, and she had shut down instantly.

Harry is now 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 come up behind her and whispers in her ear.

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

Hermione doesn't miss a beat and continues writing neatly on her parchment; she is very used to a cloaked Harry stealthily hissing questions into her ear as he embarks on yet another Adventure in Invisibility. "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?"

Because I need to stick my tongue in Pansy Parkinson's mouth, and I'm going to wrap my hand around her pretty, dexterous fingers and stuff them down my trousers, and I'm going to shove her as hard as I can against the stony castle wall, and 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 caps her bottle of ink. "I'm just about to head to the library right now. 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 pokes her head into the fifth year girls' dorm room.

"Pansy? Harry Potter is outside the common room...he asked me to get you."

Pansy's heart plunges to her feet and she is sure both Blaise and Millicent instantly know of her treachery. But Blaise and Millicent 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.

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

"Are you up for the Astronomy Tower?" he grins.

A sly smile crosses her face and she feels warm and squishy again. "Why, Mr. Malfoy," she says, "you're insatiable." Draco laughs. "Come and get me at nine," she says, and continues on.

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

"Potter?" she calls out quietly.

~*~

Harry watches Pansy emerge from the Slytherin dungeons; she is wearing her uniform blouse, her skirt and her knee socks. Her green and silver tie is gone and her hair is down. He finds her incredibly 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 it won't be for long. Pansy is too formidable a girl to let him hold the reins. He doesn't care. He just wants. She stares at him, her blue eyes wide and surprised, for just a moment before her usual hard facade reclaims her features. Flickering light from the 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. A 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 slips her tongue inside. Harry learns easily, but he's frantic --- like this is the only such opportunity he'll ever have. He pulls her blouse from her skirt and stuffs his hands upward, fondling her through her bra.

"Just push it up," Pansy whispers. Harry does and makes a guttural noise and he grinds against her, most assuredly at full attention.

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

"Harry --- take down my knickers," she says breathlessly. She feels him twitch in response. He kisses her deeply, and his hands find their way under her skirt and he struggles with her undergarments. Finally, he manages to pull them down and she steps out of them; she pushes his trousers and shorts down and frees him, and guides him against her. "Yes --- like that, Harry . . . oh!"

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

"Please what, Potter?" Pansy knows exactly what he wants her to let him do. "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.

"Oh God," he whispers; she 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. He is breathing very heavily. "What?"

"That's right. If you want to shag me, Potter, 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-girl 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. 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 have coaxed across her belly.

"Okay," he says, squeaking slightly, "I'll work on it. I promise."

"Ask me now." Pansy clamps her legs further together around him. "Go ahead. Ask me, Potter."

"You don't understand," he pleads, his breath sweet and muggy at her ear. "It--it doesn't work like that. I 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. "You're rather dense at metaphors."

"Oh God, Pansy!" He rolls his eyes, groaning. "Just shut up . . . " She holds him in place by grabbing his backside and pulling him against her hips. She hooks her right leg around his left and guides him to her -- but just barely. He feels himself just barely breaching her, and oh, is she ever molten to the touch, and then she runs her fingers up his length. Harry groans again and Pansy firmly holds him in this position as he comes shakily, his voice catching in his throat --- in, but, then again, not exactly.

They stand together afterward, chests heaving silently.

Harry kisses Pansy quite tenderly and she senses a plaintive longing. They rearrange their clothing without speaking.

Pansy says, "So, now that you know for certain 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 him 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, "How exactly would a boy ask me to shag him in Parseltongue? A girl needs to keep apprised of these 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. "Mmm hmm. She runs a brothel --- has for years and years. I figured she wouldn't hold the question against me. Everyone has one of those relatives, don't you know?"

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 recognized the 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's an American phrase. She lives in Nevada, you see, in the US. 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 lip curls. "I'll say whatever I want." She pushes past him.

~*~

In her dorm room alone, Pansy lays on her bed. Restlessly compelled, she unconsciously pulls one string after another from the fringe on her chenille coverlet as she considers her quandary. Harry has approached her again and now she's terrified. She is almost seventeen 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. She's been roiling with perfidious shame, which is only worsened by the fact Draco has done nothing but unwittingly rub it in --- he holds her hand, and holds the door, and he holds her naked in his bed when she's all mussed and sticky.

Yet, the itch remains. Abandoning her chenille throw, Pansy closes her eyes and lets her hand wander downward as she contemplates how she might relieve it.

Harry sits at the desk in his room. His 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 vibrantly red corn snake pictured there, "I want to fuck you." 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 on 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. I've got five brothers and if there's one thing I've learned it's 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 old enough to get drunk 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 Madame Pomfrey. You're bleeding."

~*~

Madame Pomfrey heals Harry's head wound without prying.

~*~

In Potions the next day, Snape's back is turned when 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 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 her 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 watch?" she asks effusively, her cheeks pink.

"No!" Harry blurts this out much too forcefully to be construed as casual; Pansy's casual confession of the possible effects of Parseltongue on the opposite sex flits briefly through his mind. "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. "Shit!"

"How dare you," Liz says, appalled. "We've only just met!"

"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 cloak and winding around his neck before meeting his gaze. "Women. I feel your pain."

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 it out.

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

"To 'fuck you'?" Liz interjects dryly. "Judging from 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, 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 . . ."

~*~

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

~*~

As Blaise Zabini decides 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," Blaise says, not unkindly. "You and Draco have always been together --- you're just so lucky!"

Pansy nods, avoiding Blaise's gaze. Her friend is right, she realizes. 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.

Blaise 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.

Blaise regards her as if she is insane. "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 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. They are standing halfway down an alley between two shops and their school robes meld together as they kiss. Harry is shocked that Draco Malfoy has the human capacity necessary for an activity so rawly intimate as kissing. He is, naturally, seethingly jealous and he considers Malfoy unworthy of the allowance; however, a surprising realisation intrudes, which supercedes his assessment of Malfoy's alleged humanity.

He is deliberately setting out to do a despicable thing. He doesn't give a shit about Malfoy. Yet he gives a shit about Pansy, and thusly he is forced to consider . . . that fucking, fucking arsehole by default.

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 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, who firmly believes his accidental moment of triumph as an infant is 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, he 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 in through 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 puts his hand 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 his school robes as he hardens.

She 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 underneath her light tone.

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. Hermione shakes her head, her brown eyes warmly sympathetic. Ron, lounging spread eagled over a wingback, sports a defeated look, as 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 the redhead 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! Several extremely choice words 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!"

~*~

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."

"Parseltongue"

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

She smiles. "English."

"Would...you fuck me?"

"Parseltongue."

"Could I fuck you, then?"

"Parseltongue."

"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. He goes 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 states his intentions by dropping the rubber snake at her feet.

~*~

Harry and Pansy must reference Magnificent Muggles! for their class assignment, and together they walk silently through the stack, again into the deeper 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, unguarded, at him with her blue, blue eyes.

Magnificent Muggles! slides from his grasp and he reaches out and takes the rubber snake and pulls her toward him. They are chest to chest, both clutching the toy reptile. 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. The snake winds itself around both their necks, holding them together. Just like the first time they were here, they are lip to lip, brushing against one another. The splendid reptile raises its head between them and flicks its tongue at Pansy's nose. Harry put his hand up and she fits her palm against his, and 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. "Say it again..."

Harry does.

The lustrous creature wraps itself silently around Pansy's arm. She raises her hand to Harry's face and fingers the cool metal arms of his glasses before moving her hand upward to brush 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. She brushes her lips against his.

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 the same place as when they were here before. She follows his lead and he fits himself against her. She feels how ready he is, but he seems calm.

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

"Harry . . . if you don't shut up and touch me right now I will be very miffed."

Harry snorts and practically attacks her as he kisses her and slides his hands under her skirt. He follows the trail of the elastic of her knickers beginning where her thigh joins her pelvis and tentatively rubs at the cotton fabric. She moves her leg slightly to allow him access to her. He moves the elastic aside and dips into her. She puts her hand over his and slows his movement.

"Okay," he says. "Sorry." He is concentrating, she can tell. Soon he's lost in her and, although she has never been particularly partial to this on its own, she lets him explore. After a moment she absolutely must touch him too, and she reaches for his belt. Within seconds he is free from the confines of his trousers. 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.

"No, Harry. I won't make it. Just hold my knickers aside." His breath catches in his throat, but he does as he's told. "And you'll have to bend your legs a bit. You're much taller than me," she says as she adjusts her leg on the stepstool. She guides him to her and looks into his eyes. "That's it, Harry. Go ahead."

She expects him to be gentle, tentative, but no. He slides right in, his eyes opening in surprise and wonder, and he takes no pause --- he does 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 buries his tongue in her mouth as he comes, and groans into her throat, and after he's done she takes his hand and shows him how to touch her exactly the right way, and within moments she joins him.

They look at one another in amazement.

~*~

Madame 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. Suddenly, catching a glimpse of something in the corner of her eye, she stops short and backs up for a closer look. A stunningly beautiful, royal blue snake is coiled calmly on the footstool there. 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 a last once-over, and 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.

~*~ Finite ~*~