Harry looked around curiously, surprised at the relatively small dimensions of the room. He was in a modestly-sized bedroom, dominated by a large bed with frilly pink lace. There was a small desk in one corner, a dresser in another, and the walls were covered with moving posters.

Romilda turned and spread her arms in a sweeping gesture, pushing her breasts tightly against her little black dress.

“It’s my room at home,” she smiled coyly. “You’re the first boy who’s ever seen it.”

Harry nodded in wonder at the details that the Room had been able to provide. There were pictures on the desk, stuffed animals on the bed, and suspiciously lacy knickers hanging from an open dresser drawer.

He took a closer look at the walls, and saw that the space above her bed was filled by a huge poster of him. He was on his broom and reaching for the snitch in a photograph that appeared to have been taken last year. Next to it was a smaller picture from his third year, in which he smiled goofily as his teammates held him aloft.

Romilda was quite enamored with his quidditch exploits, it seemed.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s, er…nice,” Harry replied, suddenly feeling a little claustrophobic in the presence of so many moving images of himself. She clearly had a crush on The-Boy-Who-Lived, and he wondered again why he had let her lead him here.

“I’m such a fan of yours, Harry,” she breathed dreamily, and stepped closer to him.

“The way you handle your broom; it’s just so stimulating. It makes me feel all…tingly.”

She stepped even closer, so that their faces were only inches apart. Her dark eyes looked up at him with an expression that made Harry’s heart race. He could feel her breath on his face, and his stomach clenched with anxiety. He was both excited and terrified at Romilda’s obvious innuendoes, and he didn’t know how to proceed.

“I thought it was ever so unfair,” she whispered, leaning in even closer, “when that horrible woman banned you last year.”

“Yeah,” Harry choked out, his mind now far from quidditch as she stared into his eyes.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when she suddenly leaned forward and grabbed the front of his robes, pulling his face to hers. She turned her head and kissed him firmly on the lips as his eyes widened in surprise.

Shocked by her sudden advance, Harry opened his mouth to speak and immediately found his tongue assaulted by Romilda’s. She attacked his mouth hungrily until he woke from his stupor and hesitantly returned her kiss. He wondered if snogging was supposed to feel this violent.

After a few moments of aggressive tongue wrestling, she pulled away and sighed with satisfaction, but not before giving his bum a firm squeeze.

“I knew you would be a fantastic snog,” she whispered huskily, and Harry nodded speechlessly. He hadn’t done much of anything except prevent her from raping his tonsils.

Romilda trailed a finger slowly down the front of his robes, her doe eyes looking up at him coyly through the fringes of her hair.

“You know what I’ve always wanted to wear?”

“Wassat?” Harry murmured, his glasses askew and his eyes glazed over from the recent invasion of his mouth.

“Your quidditch jersey.”

“What?” Harry replied, the apparent non-sequitur pulling him slightly out of his daze.

“Your Gryffindor jersey,” she repeated. “It’s so dreamy looking.”

“Oh.”

Harry frowned and looked around the Room of Requirement, wishing for his jersey to appear. Nothing happened.

“I’m, er, not sure if the Room can provide that.”

When she responded with a cute little pout, he was struck with the kind of inspiration that comes only in the most desperate of circumstances.

“Dobby!”

The little green man popped in the room and looked around curiously. When his eyes fell on Romilda, he smiled in a way that Harry found somewhat disturbing.

“What can Dobby be doing for the great Harry Potter Sir?” he said with exaggerated deference, his tennis ball eyes never leaving Romilda.

“I was hoping that you could retrieve my quidditch jersey from the lo—,” Harry began, but Dobby had already popped away.

Two seconds later he was back, holding the scarlet and gold jersey in his hands and presenting it to Romilda as if he knew why it had been requested.

“Will that be all, Master Harry?”

“Er, yeah, thanks Dobby,” Harry muttered, a little bemused by the elf’s eagerness to fulfill this particular order.

Dobby grinned as Harry returned his attention to Romilda and the jersey.

“Dobby is thinking it’s about fucking time, Harry Potter, Sir,” he muttered to himself as he popped away.

Neither of the humans in the room heard the elf’s commentary. Romilda was fingering the cloth between her fingers in a way that could only be described as amorous, and Harry was watching her with some apprehension.

“It’s gorgeous,” she breathed. “Just as I imagined it would feel. I love how big your name is.”

Harry grinned weakly as she ran her hand across the “POTTER” on the back of the jersey. She was clearly living out some kind of fantasy, and he was still unsure whether he wanted to be a part of it.

She looked up abruptly and beamed a dimply smile, holding the jersey to her chest.

“I’m just going to get more comfortable. Don’t you go anywhere.”

She ran to a small door that Harry hadn’t noticed earlier. She jerked it open to reveal a small private bathroom, then winked at him as she backed in and closed the door.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief at her exit.

What the fuck am I doing here? he wondered desperately to himself, looking around the bedroom more attentively in Romilda’s absence. He now noticed that there were traces of his presence everywhere. On her desk, on her dresser, on the walls…

Merlin, this girl is crazy. Should I just go back to the party? Maybe I could hide in a broom closet until this blows over. Dear God—Is…is that a Harry Potter doll on her dresser? I must be insane to be here.

He began pacing in small circles around the room as he pondered a way out of his current predicament.

I’m going to kill McLaggen. That’s all there is to it. Nothing but a grease spot left behind. ‘Handle it, Potter…Railroad the bitch.’ What the hell does that even mean?

Harry had the absurd image of himself pistoning in and out of Romilda as he pumped his arm and screeched “Choo! Choo!” at the top of his lungs. He shook his head and tried desperately to get rid of it. He began running his fingers nervously through his hair as he paced.

Bloody hell, I can’t do this. I don’t have any idea what I’m doing. I’ve never even seen a girl naked, for Merlin’s sake.

The ghostly image of McLaggen’s smirking face reared up in his mind.

“What the fuck, Potter?! Are you sure you’re not a homo? You can handle You-Know-Who, but you can’t lay the pipe to some hot, willing poontang? She’s begging for it! Just go with it, you fucking twinkie.”

“Shut the fuck up, McLaggen!” Harry swore aloud, and then winced when he realized that Romilda could probably hear him. In his desperation he began to wonder if the two had conspired to trap him in this situation. Was all of this part of some evil ploy? Was McLaggen working for Malfoy?

He shook his head furiously, trying to clear it of the panicked, paranoid voices that were assaulting him. His heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest.

“For pity’s sake, don’t you want to get laid, Potter?” he heard McLaggen’s voice echo in his head. “Or would you rather just ask your buddy Weasley for a handjob?”

Harry growled at the voice and stopped pacing. He took a deep breath and tried to relax.

“Just a girl; she’s just a girl,” he murmured softly to himself. “You want this, right? So what if she idolizes The-Boy-Who Lived? You deserve a little break, don’t you? It’s not like you’re abusing your fame; she’s been after you all year.”

Harry’s panicked thoughts stopped abruptly as he heard Romilda emerge from her bathroom. He turned to look at her, and his mouth fell open at the sight before him.

She was wearing only his Gryffindor jersey; it hung just below her hips, barely covering her modesty and emphasizing her shapely, bare legs.

“What do you think?” she smiled playfully, turning and lifting up the edges of the shirt to show off the underside of her bare arse. “It’s just my size, I believe.”

Harry had to agree. His eyes drank in the alluring mounds peeking out from below the jersey, then roved over the jersey itself. He couldn’t help but notice that she filled out its chest in a very satisfying way.

“It’s very comfortable,” she cooed, slowing drawing closer to him. “I wish I could just keep it on forever. But I’ll give it back if you ask nicely.”

Harry could only nod as she came closer, her intentions now obvious even to him. She stopped mere inches away and looked at him with an affected pout.

“Don’t you want to get more comfortable too?”

Harry nodded again, still speechless at what was happening, and she smiled with obvious delight. She put her hands on his robes, and he acquiesced as she slowly removed them. A moment later she had pulled off his shirt, sending his glasses flying, and then eagerly unbuttoned his trousers.

He felt both helpless and aroused as she yanked them to his ankles. He stepped gingerly out of them and looked at the smiling girl before him.

He was now wearing only his boxers, and they were so tented with his arousal that they looked like they might burst at the seams. Romilda looked down at the tent and intentionally wetted her lips before returning her eyes to his.

“That’s so much better,” she giggled. “Aren’t you more comfortable now?”

“Yeah. Comfortable.”

Harry gulped and grinned weakly as she stepped forward and pressed her body against his, pinning his erection against her belly. Her nose rubbed softly against his and she looked into his eyes.

“Touch me, Harry. Please.”

She leaned in to kiss him, and this time he responded eagerly. Her soft, pleading voice had shattered his reservations. Something about the way she said his name made him want to throw her on the bed and ravish her, obsessive fangirl or not.

As their tongues played together, he settled his hands on her hips. She quickly pushed them down until they were resting on the bare flesh of her thighs. Harry was stunned at their softness, and let his hands roam higher.

He cupped both of her arse cheeks hesitantly, and she let out a soft little moan that made his cock ache in anticipation.

“That’s it, Harry,” she whispered. “Don’t be shy. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, and kneaded her soft mounds with his hands as they kissed.

After a few moments of this, she pulled away and looked up at him in feigned shyness. “It’s getting rather warm in here, don’t you think? Will you help me out of your shirt?”

Harry had never heard a better idea in his life.

He held his breath as he slowly slid his jersey up her thighs, over her stomach, and then finally over her head. He dropped the jersey to the floor and stared in awe as he beheld all that Romilda had to offer.

She was a small girl, but her features were perfectly proportioned for her body. Her breasts, he thought, were probably of average size, but looked gloriously large on her petite frame. Her nipples were dark and stood out perkily in arousal.

The dark curtains of hair that framed her face were mirrored by the trim, dark triangle between her legs, but there was a small gap between her thighs from which a pair of smooth pink lips peeked out at him.

“So hot,” he whispered unconsciously, and Romilda giggled and blushed.

“Why, thank you, Harry. Would you like some help too?”

It took him a moment to catch on, but Romilda hadn’t waited for an answer anyway. She stepped forward and gripped his boxers with both hands before slowly kneeling to slide them down his legs.

Harry’s cock sprang out eagerly, directly in front of her nose, and she giggled as it bounced.

“Oh my. What a big boy you are.”

She stood back up and looked him in the face as one of her hands wandered to his cock. It twitched her in hand when she caressed it, and she smiled lustily at him.

Harry breathed out raggedly as she massaged him, and he let his hands wander across the soft firmness of her breasts, teasing her dark nipples until they stood out rigidly against his palms. He squeezed them gently, and Romilda leaned forward to kiss him once again.

Their embrace was now fuelled by lust, and each devoured the other’s mouth hungrily. She ran one hand roughly through his hair and stroked him gently with the other. She broke away after a moment to encourage his wandering hands.

“Lower, Harry.”

He needed no further encouragement. He obliged her enthusiastically, hardly able to believe his luck. His estimation of Cormac McLaggen was suddenly skyrocketing. He owed the hulking boy a massive debt for encouraging this, and wondered why on earth he had ever hesitated.

His hands roamed along her hips and gently cupped her arse before he slipped one of them between her legs. He hesitantly ran his fingers through the black hair that covered her mons, surprised at its softness. It was short and straight, and had been trimmed recently.

He slowly reached further down until he cupped her smooth vulva in his hand; he was stunned at the heat that radiated onto his palm. Romilda moaned into his mouth and Harry gently parted her folds with one finger and explored the wetness of her lips.

You are holding a pussy in your hand, he thought to himself in awe. You, Harry Potter, the boy who grew up in a cupboard in Surrey, are cupping a pussy that is wet for you.

He almost laughed in glee as he felt his middle finger slip inside her. My finger is inside this girl’s body, he shouted internally, truly in shock at what he was experiencing.

It was so warm and soft and wet that he could barely concentrate on returning her kiss. He wriggled his finger tentatively, and Romilda giggled into his mouth at the soft squelchy sound that was produced.

“That feels good,” she whispered, and gave him a smile that made his cock throb against her hand in desperation. Her gentle caresses were bringing him inevitably closer to orgasm, and he wanted to avoid it as long as possible.

He had no sooner thought that than Romilda reached down with her other hand and gripped him tightly. She began tugging on him with both hands, and the tightness of her squeeze made it impossible for him to resist any longer. His breathed out sharply and opened his mouth to warn her.

“Romilda, I…”

But it was too late. The eroticism of the situation was just too much for his libido, and his orgasm overtook him without warning. His cock bucked in her hands and shot a river of white onto her belly.

“Oh!” she gasped in surprise.

She stopped stroking him, but it hardly mattered. Harry’s cock had a mind of its own, and it continued coating her until his warm spunk dripped down her belly, its rivulets running onto her thighs and into her dark pubic hair.

Harry turned crimson, mortified at the mess he had made.

“Sorry, I…er, tried to warn you.”

“That’s all right,” she giggled, looking down curiously at the white fluid that was covering her midsection. She reached for her wand and waved it across her body, and most of Harry’s mess disappeared.

“Did you like what I did for you?” she purred, and he grinned sheepishly.

“Very much.”

“Now where were we?” she teased, and pressed her body against his again.

She gripped his softening cock in her hand and began stroking it gently, and in very little time he was standing at full mast again.

His fingers sought out the warmth between her legs once more, and this time he added a second finger to his explorations. He pressed them into her as far as he could, delighted at the pulsing heat that surrounded his fingers. He twisted them gently within her, and Romilda hissed in pleasure and closed her eyes. He was enthralled by the look of transport on her face.

He continued pressing his fingers into her walls until she pulled away and regarded him with a triumphant look. She tossed her hair back dramatically and smiled.

“Take me, Harry,” she sighed breathlessly. “Take me now.”

Harry was taken aback for a moment by her theatrics, but decided he just didn’t care. He was now fully in the moment, and couldn’t care less that she was unhealthily obsessed with him. He wanted this. If she was using him to fulfill some sort of storybook fantasy…well, who was he to not play along?

Romilda led him to her childhood bed and lay down on her back. She spread her legs widely for him, and he marveled at the sight of her glistening lips, pink and wet and waiting for him.

He climbed awkwardly onto her, careful not to crush her with his weight, until their faces were inches apart. He looked her in the eye and saw no fear or apprehension there; only desire and something like pride.

“Are you ready?” he asked nervously, not quite sure how to proceed.

He knew that tab A went into slot B, but the mechanics of the act weren’t totally clear from the pictures he had seen in Seamus’ girly mags.

“Make me yours, Harry,” she whispered throatily, and he did his best not to wince at her choice of words. Desperately hoping that he wasn’t making a terrible mistake, he reached between his legs and positioned himself at the edge of her soaking warmth.

When he found the right spot, he pressed forward gently, hoping to ease into her. He was surprised when it didn’t work, his efforts seemingly thwarted by her pelvic bone. He adjusted his angle and tried again, only to be rebuffed once more.

Harry frowned and looked down in confusion, and Romilda helpfully pulled her knees forward, lifting up her pelvis and pulling her arse slightly off the bed.

“Try now.”

Harry tried anew, but was again defeated. Deciding he didn’t have the proper angle of entry, he lifted his hips higher and pushed his cock further down. He rubbed it up and down against her in exploration, seeking a little purchase in her wet folds.

He fumbled for a few more seconds, desperately wishing that he could see what he was doing, then finally found the opening he was searching for. He pushed in gently, his head engulfed by her tightness, but hesitated when she suddenly stiffened beneath him.

“Harry!” Romilda hissed sharply, and pushed her hands against his chest. “That’s not…that’s the wrong hole!”

He pulled out of her as if he’d been slapped.

“S-sorry,” he stuttered, his face turning a bright crimson again.

If the twins ever got wind of this…he thought in horror, unwilling to consider the potential fallout.

“It’s okay,” Romilda smiled tightly. “Here, let me help you.”

She reached down and guided him in, and a few awkward moments later he felt his crown slip inside her.

“Holy fucking Merlin,” he breathed, in awe of the wet warmth that engulfed him.

Romilda giggled and returned her arms to his neck, draping them lazily over him.

“Now you’re all set, Harry Potter. Just go slow.”

He pushed in slowly, ever so slowly, savoring every millimeter as he went. He could literally feel her walls stretching to accommodate him as he filled her, and the tightness made his head spin.

When he was finally sheathed fully within her, he paused to take stock of himself. It was quite unlike anything he had ever experienced. The sensation of her tight, soft walls gripping his cock so tightly made his abdominal muscles spasm in ecstasy, and he felt another orgasm welling up against his will.

Not yet! Not yet, you bastard! he thought furiously at his cock, and stilled completely to prevent another accident. He was so aroused that his body seemed to be outside of his control.

“Mmmm,” Romilda murmured, her eyes gazing languorously into his, “that feels so good, Harry. So, so good. Just how I imagined you’d feel.”

Harry grinned, a little embarrassed by her praise, and focused on maintaining control of his cock. He pulled out very carefully, releasing half his length, and then pushed back in hesitantly.

Romilda whimpered and dug her fingers into the flesh of his back.

Harry withdrew slowly again, trying to ignore the unbearably sensual little noises that she was making. He thrust into her more forcefully, and knew instantly that he was doomed.

The friction was just too deliciously tight. There was no way he could take much more of this, and he had only just begun.

Ah, well, fuck it, he thought dispiritedly, and focused on enjoying himself.

“Oh, that’s it, Harry; take me!” Romilda hissed, and Harry closed his eyes and fought desperately to hold off his orgasm.

He thrust in and out of her three more times before his inevitable orgasm overtook him. He grimaced and panted as his cock spurted uncontrollably within her.

When he opened his eyes, she was looking at him oddly.

“Did you, er, go again?”

“Yes,” Harry sighed. “Sorry. I just, erm, haven’t really done this before, and…”

He stopped when he saw the expression of disbelief on Romilda’s face.

“This is your first time? Your first time is with me?”

“Er, yeah.”

Her expression turned to one of delight before he could blink. “Oohhh, that’s so sweet! I can’t believe we’re sharing this together!”

She reached up and hugged him tightly, and Harry patted her awkwardly on the back and tried to avoid her death grip.

“I’m really sorry I didn’t last longer.”

“It’s okay,” Romilda sighed and released him. “It felt, er, very good while it lasted, I suppose.”

Harry winced at her words, and his face heated up in shame. He cursed Cormac McLaggen all over again for goading him into this mess. He felt as if he had failed at some important challenge.

He could almost see McLaggen frowning and shaking his head at him in disapproval. “What the fuck, Potter? You better tap that ass for real or I’m going to revoke your hero card. Harry Fuckin’ Poofter it will be.”

Harry gritted his teeth at this internal conversation, wishing he could beat McLaggen to a bloody pulp. I slay basilisks, you fucking wanker. It’s Harry Fuckin’ Potter to you. He could almost hear Cormac’s laughing retort.

“Then why don’t you slay some pussy, then?”

Harry sighed and unconsciously whispered aloud.

“Harry Fuckin’ Potter.”

“What?”

“Give me another chance,” he said earnestly, ignoring her question. “I’ll do better, I swear it.”

She looked at him in confusion for a moment, then glanced down between them.

“Oh, well, if you can handle it…”

Harry barked out an involuntary laugh and shook his head at the absurdity of his life. “Oh, I’m going to bloody well handle it, all right.”

He stared down at his cock, still partially within her, willing his erection to return. To his astonishment, he could feel himself grow harder. It certainly didn’t hurt that he had the hormones of a 16-year-old boy, but the near instant return of his arousal made him wonder if his magic weren’t somehow helping him along.

He looked down at Romilda like a man with something to prove, and earned a surprised squeak when he thrust into her again, burying himself completely.

“Okay; do over,” Harry grinned.

She was still warm, wet, and ready, and he began sliding in and out of her gently, focused on not being overwhelmed by the sensations that his cock was sending to his brain.

Romilda let out a pleased sigh and placed her hands on his hips, and he closed his eyes and concentrated on lasting as long as he possibly could. He moved slowly within her, deliberately relaxing his abdominal muscles.

You’re Harry Fuckin’ Potter; you’re Harry Fuckin’ Potter, he repeated to himself in a mantra. You can fucking handle this.

And by Merlin he did. Eight minutes later he was still going strong, and Romilda was cooing and moaning like a porn star beneath him.

He had begun to sweat profusely, his eyes closed in concentration as he thought about everything except what he was doing. Instead of the intoxicating scent of sex that pervaded the room, he thought of the smell of Ron’s dirty socks. Instead of the soft whimpering moans made by the girl beneath him, he thought of the obnoxiously snide voice of Snape when he was ranting. Instead of the delicious tightness that gripped his cock, he thought of Dolores Umbridge’s broad, toad-like visage.

Romilda began softly chanting his name when he filled her, and it was the most glorious sound he had ever heard.

“Harry…Harry…Harry…” she moaned, her voice so lost to passion that it nearly caused him to shoot his load on the spot. He drove into her with determination, desperate to control his body and to return the pleasure that she had given to him.

When she began panting softly and reached down to touch herself, Harry nearly smiled in relief. He couldn’t take much more, but she was going to cum. He, Harry Potter, was going to make a girl cum.

She was so wet now that he could pound into her roughly, and he picked up his pace and did so. Romilda gasped his named loudly and rubbed her clit in small circles, completely lost in the moment. She let out a long continuous moan and then stopped abruptly, and Harry felt her body grow rigid beneath him.

A moment later her walls contracted around his cock and spasmed forcefully.

“Oh, yes, Harry, yes,” she cried out as if in pain, and that was all Harry needed to send him over the edge.

His cock exploded within her, his climax coming just on the heels of hers. His balls ached as he rode out his third orgasm of the evening, but he nearly laughed at the feeling of relief as he filled her. He had done it right this time.

When they were finished, Harry rolled off her and lay on his back next to her. Both sighed and stared at the ceiling in bliss.

“That was—,” Romilda whispered, but seemed not to know how to finish.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, a goofy smile lighting up his face. “It sure was.”

She nuzzled herself into the crook of his arm, and Harry obligingly wrapped an arm around her. He was still astonished that he was lying here in the arms of a naked girl, one whom he had just shagged until she screamed his name.

So much had changed in the last couple hours.

His concern over Draco’s disappearances seemed like a distant and unpleasant memory now. His irritation with Ron and Hermione and their childish war of wills had faded into nothingness.

All that mattered was that, for one night at least, he had been Harry Fuckin’ Potter. And it had been fun. Sure, he had committed a couple false starts, including one that he would never, ever divulge to another living soul, but he had crossed the finish line in the end, hadn’t he?

His general annoyance with Cormac McLaggen was suddenly replaced by a respect generated only when one man procures another man some pussy.

He had misjudged the seventh year badly, he realized. McLaggen did not deserve a bloody, bitter revenge; he deserved a parade in Diagon Alley, or something else equally befitting a god among men.

AN: Written by Hoo’s Your Daddy. Massive thanks for this extraordinary effort.