Harry lay awake in his bed, the curtains drawn around him, his hands folded loosely on his stomach. He had been up for some time, turning the events of the previous night over and over in his head, his mind buzzing dully from Sirius’s near escape. It had been … different, that was for sure. In the three years he had been attending Hogwarts something big had managed to happen every year, but even to Harry Potter learning that your godfather was an escaped felon convicted of mass murder was rather a lot to take in.

But he had gotten away, and that was good. Perhaps someday Harry would even get to live with him, it was a nice thought.

Another reason Harry couldn’t sleep was because he was not the only person awake, although he was the only one aware of the fact. In the next bed over Ron was awake, too, and wanking off. It wasn’t anything Harry hadn’t heard before but tonight it seemed particularly loud and obscene, the slap of skin on skin, Ron’s short, panting breaths. Harry felt his skin itch all over and no matter how much he swallowed his mouth remained dry.

Harry didn’t even like Ron, in that way. But … well. He was right there, wasn’t he? Sex was slowly becoming a new discovery for Harry, something exotic and alluring. He knew it felt nice to touch himself (and he had, many times, in places where other boys probably hadn’t thought to yet) and he guessed that having someone ELSE touch you was probably loads better. Harry liked to think about snogging in particular, he thought that would be nice: messy mouths and tongues and lips and doing what Fred and George called ‘sucking face’. It was all very appealing to Harry.

Of course, Harry hadn’t exactly done any of those things yet, and he was afraid that when he did it would probably not be as great as he had built it up to be in his own head. Harry had read some books though, to research the subject, both the technical and the romantic aspects of it – and they had actually done more to confuse then enlighten.

What Harry supposed he wanted, really, was someone to just … experiment with. Someone he could practice on without having to worry about not doing it right, or mussing up in some embarrassing way. Just … a friend, maybe.

Harry glanced in the direction of Ron’s bed (although he couldn’t see him due to the closed curtains) where the noises seemed to be speeding up, Ron’s breath getting louder and faster and then … yes. Finished then. Ron sighed and his mattress gave a springy little squeak. He could never ask Ron for such a thing though, the other boy was very much into girls and Harry didn’t want to picture Ron’s face if he ever DID ask.

Well, maybe he did, Ron made some pretty funny faces.

He’d want someone a little more experienced then him, too. Someone who could perhaps guide him or at least show him how it was to be done. That way they BOTH wouldn’t be fumbling around, embarrassed and self-conscious. And it shouldn’t be any sort of regular thing, for fear of it turning into some sort of relationship.

Harry didn’t want any sort of commitments; he just wanted a good shag.

Although he’d be the first to admit he wasn’t really sure what a good shag entailed.

Sighing softly to himself, Harry rolled onto his stomach and realized he was hard, his prick pressing into the mattress. Sodding Ron and his wanking, everyone else had learned to do it quietly by this point.

He squirmed his hips down a little, feeling a jolt of pleasure. Maybe he would …

He was just reaching down for himself when he heard the bed curtains quickly open and close, pale moonlight briefly flooding in before it went pitch dark again. There was a rustle of movement, things happening too fast for Harry to really register, and then someone was straddling his back: a slight, thin body with knobby knees that brushed either side of his hips.

“Ron?” he hissed, trying to squirm away, twisting his head this way and that to get a look at the other boy. “What are you doing? Are you bonkers?”

But his visitor didn’t say a word, merely laid hands down on the backs of his shoulders, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of Harry’s pajamas.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Ron, but I’m tired … “ Harry muttered, just praying that Ron didn’t wrestle him or flip him over, he was still very aroused. “Stop.”

But he didn’t stop, in fact he was doing the very opposite of what stop implied, he was starting to remove clothing.

Harry held his breath as he heard the unmistakable rustle of fabric, the slight, off-centre rocking of a body that was struggling to pull a shirt over one’s head, and then the weight lifted off him briefly as pants disappeared as well. But Harry was too distracted to take this momentary chance of escape, his blood pounding in his ears. When Ron settled back down on top of him, it was obvious that he was aroused as well.

“Ron … “ Harry choked and tried to scuttle away, moving upwards on the bed, but the hands returned, pinning him firmly down and even applying pressure with hips and legs, effectively trapping him. “Ron, what are you – “

The hands started to travel, moving with purpose and determination down Harry’s sides, along his back, feeling the skin and body through the thin pajamas and finally just reaching under the fabric completely to touch –

“Oh fuck,” Harry gasped and thrashed in earnest but he was pushed hard, his chest heaving with the sudden constriction.

Harry was hit with the sudden, cold thought – maybe this wasn’t Ron at all.

But the smell of sex was thick in the curtained off bed now, it filled Harry’s nostrils. The smell of sweat and come, the smell of someone who had just gotten off. Harry whimpered softly and the touches on his back became almost soothing, rubbing up and down in a firm but gentle caress.

“Don’t, don’t do this – you’re, why … “

A hand came down and cupped Harry’s arse, squeezing experimentally and the words got choked off in his throat, his entire body freezing up in shock.

The person on top of him mumbled something, too soft for Harry to hear, and the curtains around them drew taught and stiff – a silencing charm and a ward to keep anyone from coming in. Another mumble of words and Harry’s hands were suddenly tangled and wrapped up in the bed sheets, bound tightly to the headboard.

He was trapped.

Then the hands returned, moving faster now, moving to Harry’s hips and grasping the waistband of Harry’s pajamas. A quick yank and they were down with Harry’s underpants, and as the air hit the cold sweat that had broken out all across his skin – Harry shivered. Oh God, what was happening?

Things were very still for a moment, the person on top of him – who Harry now refused to call or acknowledge as his friend – observing him in an almost thoughtful silence. Harry could feel the eyes on him, staring at his bare arse and he coloured horribly, turning his face to bury it in the pillow. His tremors were rocking the bed slightly but he finally felt his anger rise up as well. He welcomed it gratefully – if he was angry, then he couldn’t be frightened.

“Get off me, you sodding prick. GET OFF ME RIGHT NOW!” A new round of thrashing just seemed to amuse his attacker and he felt the weight on top of him increase as whoever it was just sat full on his thighs, his prick nudging Harry’s arse. That stilled him.

“D – “

Then a kiss, soft and wet, fell on the back of his neck. Harry froze. The mouth moved downwards slightly, then to the side, lips parted and damp as they kissed and nibbled at his skin, tasting him, enjoying him. A sharp nip of teeth on his jugular made Harry yelp and hold his breath, eyes fluttering slightly when a tongue licked, almost skittishly, at his ear.

The mattress squeaked underneath the person’s knees as he shifted position, as he pushed Harry’s top up further to expose his back, and then the tongue returned, licking a wet, damp trail all over.

Harry felt his prick twitch against the mattress, his arse clench at what the mouth was doing. And wasn’t this what he had been thinking about just moments before? But not like this, he was fairly certain he didn’t want it like this.

When the mouth had gotten its full of him, it drew away and Harry released the breath he had been holding, his hands slowly unclenched. His face felt damp with tears or sweat, he wasn’t sure, but his whole body had a very peculiar feeling, as if it were tingling – from the inside and out.

The hands were on his arse again and Harry swallowed, his eyes wide open but not seeing anything but the vaguest of shadows, and there was a sound of a jar opening – something being unscrewed.

“NO!” Harry’s voice seemed to startle them both, it was loud and resounding but no one else would hear, Harry knew. He started to thrash again, kicking his feet, yanking desperately at the binds on his hands but all too no avail. His captor merely waited him out, as if knowing he would stop eventually, and he did – collapsing back limply as he panted.

The smell that invaded Harry’s nostrils next was a familiar one, vanilla and orange – like the hand cream he used to avoid blisters and calluses before and after Quidditch, but Harry took no comfort in this familiar smell. He knew what was coming next.

A finger, damp and oddly small feeling, touched him. Right there. Harry’s shoulders tensed even more and his arse clenched in anticipation of the invasion. But it worked at him, rubbing and probing gently until it pushed in slowly, inch by inch until Harry felt it stop at the knuckle.

He let out a shaky breath that could have been a sob and the person stopped for a moment, his own breath not sounding steady at all – the other hand that held his hip shook just slightly.

There was a moment when no one moved, then the finger moved back slowly, withdrawing, before thrusting in again quick and abrupt. Harry cried out but not because it hurt, more … shock, cold and daunting. He held his breath as the finger started to thrust, rocking against him, pushing in and pulling out and it went on and on until Harry felt to his utter shame and horror his arousal slowly come back to him, his prick growing hard against the mattress.

Then, another finger was added, this one slick as well, stretching him apart, making him moan despite himself and Harry felt sure he would burst from the confliction he was feeling. He should be fighting, shouldn’t he? But if this was Ron then – then he would have said yes, if Ron had just asked.

He would have said yes.

The thought was enough to bring Harry back to reality, this wasn’t right – he didn’t want this, he couldn’t – no matter what he had been thinking about before. He didn’t want –

The fingers withdrew and Harry felt his hips twist slightly, dropping into the mattress. There was more rustling behind him and a familiar sound of skin on skin, the smell of lotion, and a new pressure returned: something bigger, thicker than a finger, and Harry’s eyes were wide and blind in the dark.

“No,” he choked. “No.”

But the person didn’t listen or care, the hand on his side tightened its grip, keeping a firm hold, and the other guided himself into the tight, waiting hole.

Harry saw his own pain flashing behind his tightly closed eyes, he couldn’t seem to breathe, to move, everything narrowed down to what was being done to him and he whimpered softly unable now to even struggle. It felt like the person was sticking an entire broom up there and it hurt and he wanted it to stop but there wasn’t anything he could do.

His attacker also seemed to be holding his breath for he hardly made a sound, he just kept pushing and pushing, his cock slowly filling Harry up and not stopping until he was completely inside, buried completely in Harry’s arse.

Harry moaned but not from pleasure, he just wanted it to be over.

The thrusting started, but it was slow and almost unsure. The hips that had been pressed to his drew back, taking some of the pain with it, until they eased back down again and Harry felt as if he would burst. He couldn’t breathe, he could hardly make a sound but his knees were being spread apart and he had no choice but to let himself be limply moved.

Another thrust. Then another. Then slowly they picked up speed until Harry was gasping, his breath coming back and hot and damp to his own face as he panted into his pillow. He heard low, restrained moaning and the teeth returned to the back of his neck, biting down and licking, then biting again. It was all frantic and quick and Harry put up as much of a struggle as he could but stopped when one thrust hit something inside him that made him freeze and moan loudly.

Then it did it again and again and Harry couldn’t stop moaning, he found his hips moving back to meet the thrusts and now both hands were on his hips, grasping him tight and holding his wriggling in his place as the person fucked him hard and mercilessly, their moans mingling in the air and Harry hardly noticed when something hit the back of his neck and bounced off onto the mattress by his face.

A few thrusts more and it was over, Harry felt the odd sensation of someone coming inside him, flooding him, and he held his breath, as all movement seemed to stop. He was still hard, unsatisfied, but the person was moving already, drawing out and reaching for clothes.

“Wait,” Harry said weakly, dazed, unsure what had happened. “What … “ His legs didn’t seem to want to move.

But clothes were already being yanked on, the barriers around the bed dropped, then finally – Harry’s own bonds. His arms fell limply to his sides and they ached so Harry didn’t try to move them. A hand swam into his vision and snatched up whatever object had fallen by his head; Harry registered vaguely that they resembled glasses.

The bed curtains opened and Harry couldn’t help but wince as the light hit his eyes, everything felt so sensitive and sore right then, and he felt a trickle down his thigh and hoped it wasn’t blood. Just before the curtains closed again Harry made out a dim, dark silhouette.

Not Ron. Too short to be Ron. Which left, well … everyone else.

Harry lay in bed for a long time afterwards, his pajamas rumpled around his ankles, his prick still hard and painful against the mattress. His stomach swam with nausea and Harry wondered if he should see Pomfrey, but he didn’t want to have to explain this.

He wasn’t going to tell anyone, not ever.

He smelt of sex now, it was everywhere, Harry was sure it even stained the curtains and he made a mental note to perform a cleaning spell before anyone woke up in the morning. But he would have to shower, too.

Getting up, his movements slow and unsteady, Harry sat up, pulling his pajama bottoms on with him. Taking a deep breath and getting out of bed, he felt a little bit better, so he did it again – breathing in and out slowly.

He picked his glasses off the nightstand and put them on his face and the room sharpened into focus. Instinctively his eyes flicked over to the surrounding beds, but they were all still and quiet. A low murmur from some pleasant dream drifted from Ron’s direction but his curtains looked drawn and undisturbed.

Frowning, Harry picked up his wand, just in case his attacker found him on the way to the showers, and headed for the door.

He stopped, wincing; he had stepped on something – something hard and cold on the ground.

Bending down he picked it up and carried it over to the window to study in the light. It was a chain, but the clasp was broken, and hanging on the end of it was the Time Turner. Hermione must have dropped it when she had been in here earlier that day, walking him and Ron back after the three of them had stayed in the Infirmary.

Harry stared at it for a very long time, watching the hourglass rotate slowly, catching moonlight.

His drawer was slightly open and inside he could clearly make out the container of lotion and he picked it up, in his other hand he clasped his wand.

He looked in the direction of his own bed, the sheets rumpled and in disarray.

He looked at the small clock by his bed and held his breath, staring for a very, very long time.

He was still hard.

It was what he had wanted after all, he told himself, and he deserved to get something out of this too.

Two and a half turns, he decided, should do it.