Harry, the Boy Who Lived, becomes your personal nightmare, and you have no idea how to wake up from it.

His favourite pastime is giving Lionhearts a hard time. It would be bearable if he spread his torment across a few students from that house, but, for some reason, he sickly fixates on you. Through it all, he keeps his perfect, heroic, and saintly image intact.

You breathe heavily and quickly, like a little mouse, and Harry is a nasty snake, ready to strike. The dark corridor of the Academy almost hides you both, but you still see his face clearly. His wand is digging through your layers of clothing at your solar plexus⎯a heaviness called fear. His specs glint dangerously in the dim torchlight, and his eyes are cold, like emeralds carved from ice.

“Hush,” the man orders, his grip on his wand tightening, and the shaft pressing harder into your skin. “Found you, lovely,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. He runs his nose along your rosy cheek, and his palm gently covers your frail neck, his touch is soft yet desperate.

“No chance,” Harry's fingers, so dainty, squeeze a bit tighter around your neck, causing you to rise on your tippy toes⎯a feeble attempt to alleviate the growing discomfort.

He puts his wand in his inner pocket, and the Serpent emblem on the student robe flashes with green and silver threads⎯a sight that makes you yap louder. Harry doesn't like it. Slowly, his fingers clench even tighter on your velvety skin, his grip now almost painful. His wide palm begins to spank your cheeks quite noticeably, each slap stinging and forcing more whimpers from you.

“Oy, cheeky birdie, you a right troublemaker, I tell ya shut it now,” the wizard hisses, the breath is hot and laced with annoyance as his dry lips barely brush against yours. “But I adore you to bits. If only ya were a bit more obedient… I'm proper besotted with you, ya know what I mean?”

He rolls his eyes when he hears you snivel again.

“That's what I'm talking about. Easy there, love. I'm not up to any harm.”