Raw. If Harry could describe how he felt, the most appropriate word would be raw. Granted, the day had not been too bad, but it had multiple elements that put him in his current primitive state. He liked that definition also, primitive. That's what Pansy had called him after the punch in the tube incident.

He was used to stressful days at work and dangerous situations due to it, but this was different. Right now, he was confronted with his most primal side. The side that had not gotten laid in almost two years. The side that got infuriated and incredibly aroused by his bickering with Pansy Parkinson. The savage part of himself that he kept under wraps, like a magical version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He didn't think of himself as dangerous, but his "Hyde" side resulted from the years that he carried a Horcrux inside his head. After Voldemort's death, his magic had rebelled against the years of repression, demanding that he let go and fulfill his primordial desires in any way he pleased.

So far, that side of himself tended to appear only in his dreams, in the form of elaborated sexual fantasies with faceless partners, causing nothing more than a mess of wet sheets. But since Pansy Parkinson had re-entered his life, the dreams were turning into day fantasies. She represented every impulse that he had been denied as a teenager. Pansy was no longer mean, but she was confrontational, mouthy, and deliciously infuriating. She had to win every argument and was really good at it, the Slytherin Queen. On the other hand, Harry just wanted to prevail by shutting her up. The first couple of times they were again in each other's presence, he couldn't pinpoint what he wanted to do to her, so he assumed it was just a matter of silencing her, but he found himself unable even to do that. Harry didn't want to silence her. He wanted to devour her, to stop her snarky mouth in its tracks by shoving his tongue inside it. His faceless dreams transformed into detailed, explicit scenes of Pansy Parkinson tied up in a dungeon, willingly submitting to his every desire and begging for more.

That was the state he was in right now, standing in the middle of Parkinson's loft, repeating over and over in his head that pinning her on the floor to have his way with her was not appropriate unless she gave her outspoken consent. But how to ask for it? "Hey, Parkinson, I want to rip off your clothes and fuck you so hard that we'll break the floor and fall over your neighbors downstairs" was not a great pick up line.

Pansy's hands were shaking as she poured two glasses of firewhiskey. She didn't want any more liquor, but she also didn't know how else to keep Potter in her loft, hoping that he would make a move. She turned with the glasses and stopped in her tracks. Harry's magic was crackling around him like an aura, beautiful and terrifying. She put down the tumblers and walked toward him like a moth to the flame. When she entered his personal bubble, the magical energy froze her in place. She stared, mesmerized. He looked into her eyes, the reflection of his unusual state mirrored back in them. He leaned in, face very close to hers.

"Say it," he growled.

"Please," she breathed, all semblance of control now lost.

"Please what?"

"Please, make me yours."

He pinned her against the floor to ceiling window, kissing her roughly. The buttons of the oxford shirt hit the glass. She had changed the camisole for the green lingerie set. He ran his fingers over the bra, then undid the fly to pull down her shorts.

"Beautiful. Too bad they have to go," he said, ripping off the combination with a mix of magic and brute force.

"That was very expensive; you savage," she said, jumping to wrap her legs around his waist and nibbling on his lips. He lifted her by the waist in an impressive move until her legs were around his shoulders, back against the glass.

"I'll buy you more. And then rip those off too if I want," Harry said, burying his face in between her legs. She grabbed onto his hair, suddenly unconcerned with the safety of this insane sexual position. He licked and sucked until she screamed like a banshee, losing control of her body. He caught her mid-air and moved them to the bed like she was made of feathers. Harry deposited her on the bed, stepping back to take off all of his clothes. Pansy moved around, her head now hanging backward from the edge of the bed. Fuck yes. This was what he wanted.

"See anything you like?" She teased.

"You are a mouthy little thing, Parkinson. I'm going to have to shut you up."

"You can try," she dared.

He put his fingers in her mouth, caressing the inside of her cheeks. Se relaxed, teasing with her tongue. He replaced the fingers with his hardness and pushed. Her hands went to his buttocks, pulling him in deeper.

"Fuck yes!" he shouted, pounding fast, hands reaching for her boobs. She took him like a champ until he pulled off, turning her around to fuck her properly. Harry pounded like an animal, standing by the bed, her feet tangled behind his neck. His magic crackled more intensely, exploding in a wave that grabbed onto Pansy's magical core and shook her, making them both convulse in orgasms until they lost consciousness.

Harry came to be and freaked out. Pansy was still senseless, so he performed a series of field diagnostic charms, afraid that he might have hurt her. Nothing was broken; she had no concussions and no internal bleeding, as far as he could tell. She seemed deep asleep, her face completely relaxed. Her eyes fluttered open when he moved them to the head of the bead to lie properly on the pillows. When she spoke, she was still in a daze.

"Something is different," she breathed. Then she looked at Harry. "Is this love?" she murmured before falling unconscious again.

Yikes. Something had happened indeed. But Harry's brain had no intention to think right now, so he fell asleep, holding tight to the beautiful witch.