Harry stared at the ceiling, covered by a thin, mildewy blanket. His heart was thumping. Half an hour ago he'd been all set to follow Ron and the twins into a snoring, peaceful slumber, but something had awoken inside him. Specifically, down in his borrowed pair of pajama bottoms.

He looked to the side, across the room at where Ron slept. His face felt hot. Everything felt hot. There was something he definitely had to take care of. But he couldn't do it if anyone was up.

Of course, it sounded like Ron was sleeping… his breaths were quiet enough… although it was nowhere near the level of snoring coming from Fred and George at the feet of the bed. Harry took his glasses from the old windowsill and wedged them onto his face, but still couldn't tell anything by Ron's pale, peaceful expression.

He turned back to himself. The fabric in his pants was taut against something thick and solid. He had to risk it. Breath held, Harry gingerly pulled the blanket off and began working the waistline of his pajamas down. He revealed his skinny waistline, the muscles of his pelvic area directing him onward. The pajamas dragged beneath his butt, and he hopped softly to let them slip.

The shaft base came into sight. It was thicker than it had ever been before, moving with his heartbeat. It was trying to stand erect, but the waistline had it stuck. Had the pajama cloth always been so rough, or was it just his swelling?

He looked to the side once more - Ron hadn't moved. Harry didn't even want to think of what he'd say if he saw him now. But he couldn't go back, or he'd never fall asleep at all. With another quick nudge at the taut waistline he came free, springing into the air. It stuck up and twitched like the caught second-hand on an old wristwatch. Transfixed, Harry grasped it.

Keeping his grip relaxed, he slid down, the skin of his fingers and palm brushing over his new flesh. Desire grew, building at the center and glowing to the exterior of his shaft, dropping down and fanning out across the skin of his groin. He brought his hand up, grip tighter, and released another wave. Oh my god, he thought. He stroked again, and again, shame burning on his cheeks at what he was doing - or closer to the point, where he was doing it.

But the sounds he'd heard. Mrs. Weasley's gasps, Mr. Weasley's grunts. Their breaths. He replayed them in his memory, stroking himself. It set his mind on fire.

Though he was hardly accomplishing much. In fact, his soft touch was only making it worse. And if he gripped any tighter, which he sorely needed to do, it was like squeezing one of those tube jelly toys Dudley sometimes brought home from the museum, and no satisfaction came.

He looked at Ron again, holding his breath. Ron was still asleep. But who knew how long that would last, if he went for it as much as he wanted? Harry took air in through his nose, listening to all the breathing in the room, while his solid warmth beat in his hand. He squeezed, gently, but only built is urge further.

Clearly, something had to be done. And it couldn't be done here, that much was obvious. His thoughts went to the bathroom. Yes, that might work… that'd be perfect. Sheathing himself, he carefully got off the mattress and edged his way through the maze of beds that'd been crammed in the room. He stepped with the softness of somebody who'd been locked in a cupboard for twelve years and got yelled at for even putting a toe out of line. He made his way between the twins, holding the rod in his pants tight against his left leg. He got to the doorway - twisted the thick, metal knob - and pulled.

A groan of wood split the air. He froze. But it wasn't nearly enough for him to slip through. He gave it a moment, then opened it a few more inches. It groaned twice more, snapping into the night and making it sound like the door was splitting apart. But nobody moved, nobody awoke - and it was enough.

Easing through (but bumping himself against the door edge), he came out into the cool landing. He took a breath. The nearest bathroom was all the way down the narrow, twisted stairwell at the base of the house, outside Percy's room. He stepped quickly, keeping his footsteps close to the wall where the boards were less likely to warp and creak. Unfortunately, two of them did sound off, but the Burrow was so tall and creaky that he hoped the noises would blend in.

He made it to the bathroom. Immediately he closed and locked the door. He then pulled down his pants and resumed stroking himself, body urging, and looked for a lightswitch. But there was no lightswitch. This was a wizard house. The only light came from the small, lumpy-glassed window above the bath, but it did little more than help him make out the shapes of things. There was an oil lamp on the counter, but didn't have his wand to light it, and wasn't allowed to use magic anyway. He felt himself, the desire building, pleasure sluggish and needing to flow. The sweaty padding of his hands was hardly cutting it. There were a bunch of jars around the sink and tub, he saw. One of them had to work…

Single handedly, he scooped each one up and held it to the distorted moonlight, continuing to polish his wand with the other. Auntie Addy's Acne-Away, he read. Madame Manageable's Hair Profoundable. Froggy Slime for the Dry Hind. Diagon Alley Dugout's Skin Foundation and Walltrim Grout.

A surge cascaded over his loins. Harry gasped, doubling over as pleasure mounted. He anchored himself to the counter with one hand and pumped away with the other - harder, faster, jerking himself without regard to how rough he was being. This was working. He could do it here. He was nearly there. And things could be cleaned afterward, and no one would know. His forehead prickled - was he sweating?

The door handle jiggled. He froze. Someone was out in the hallway. Pulse pounding, he grabbed the jar of frog slime - it had to be a clever brand name, didn't it? - but found it nearly empty. Grimacing, he let himself hang for a moment and ran a finger around the walls of the cylinder (accidentally bumping his tender flesh against the frigid, unforgiving counter tile) and dug up a good-sized glob of goo. Then he took up his meat - and after the briefest hesitation - committed, smearing himself with the cold slime.

Bliss.

He twisted and rubbed, applying a thorough coating. He gasped, but kept his throat open wide to keep it inaudible. His hand slid gracefully up and down, the motion sending waves of enjoyment across his groin.

A soft knock sounded on the door, followed by a muffled apology - somebody was definitely there, he hadn't imagined it. And they'd run out of patience.

Clumsily, Harry tugged up his pajamas. He crammed the lid back on the jar and set it on the countertop with a clink. He waddled to the door, trying to keep from rubbing the slime on the inside of his pants, wanting to save as much of it as he could. Then he took a breath, palm sweaty, and untwisted the handle.

"Sorry," mumbled Hermione.

She was still half-asleep.

"It's fine," Harry managed. "All yours."

They squeezed past each other. He became vividly aware of Hermione's body. He smelled the shampoo of her hair and felt her heat. He noticed the proximity of her hips and buttocks. Some brutish part of him wanted to grab her at the arm, to pull her in and feel the realness of her body beneath her soft layer of pajamas.

The door shut. Harry stared into the darkness. Just how much of a fool was he being, he wondered? How much time had passed? How much noise had he made? But most importantly - how, and where, was he supposed to deal with himself?

Burning up, he remembered the chaos of snoring up in Ron's room and thought it would be enough to grant him privacy. He crept up the haphazard, creaking house, one hand locked on his meat and guarding it from the slime-hungry pajama fabric. He re-entered the room. The door groaned shut, but it was a lot more quiet than it'd been before. He then waddled between the sleeping forms of Fred and George and made it to his mattress, where he sank down. Victory.

Ron had shifted in his sleep and was now laying on his back instead of his side, but that was no matter. The snores were as present as ever. A roar of approval surged in Harry's chest, and he looked down at himself, laying back on the bedspread and arching his back. Once more he eased off his pajamas to let his glistening length stand free in the air. It was glorious.

Open-mouthed and breathing, Harry gripped it and began to pump. His hand slid up, his hand slid down. It was perfect. At this point, who cared if the slime belonged to a frog? Witches and wizards used it all the time, so it had to be okay, it had to. He tightened his grip. Pleasure grew, built, throbbed. It was amazing. He held his breath, then took air in deeply and quietly let it out over the span of several seconds, continuing to tug himself. Ecstasy grew. He was getting close, and he tried not to think about where he was or betraying their hospitality. A thought popped in his head - he needed a tissue, or handkerchief or something. Why hadn't he thought to grab any toilet paper? His stroking slowed. What if he did it on the inside of his pajamas? He could wash them later. He resumed pumping - yes, that'd work.

Someone mumbled. Harry's blood went cold.

"Oi, Harry -" said Ron, propping himself up on an elbow. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes. "What you doing, mate?"