The candles had finally died. The Great Hall was a cavern of shadows, stripped of the golden light that usually defined the space. Harry sat on the cold stone floor, his back against the base of the dais, feeling the chill of the castle seep through his robes. Hermione sat beside him, her knee brushing his. The silence was not a weight, but a presence, a hollow space that they both occupied without speaking.
"It is finished," Harry said. He looked at the empty space where the floating candles had been only an hour before. "The candles are out, and the hall is empty."
"Everything is empty," Hermione replied. She sounded tired, but it was a clean sort of tiredness. It was the exhaustion of a person who had spent the night talking until the words ran dry.
"You could have stayed in the dormitory," he said. He watched the way her hair caught the moonlight from the high windows. "You could have pretended to be asleep. You could have pretended the entire night never happened."
"I have never been good at pretending, Harry. You know that."
"You are a terrible liar when you want to be."
"And you are a terrible person when you want to be."
They both let out a small, huffed breath of a laugh. It was a dry sound in the vastness of the hall. Harry reached out and took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. Her skin was cool. They had moved through the ritual of the night, from the chair to the table, and now they were down here, at the very foot of the hall where the stone was smoothest.
"I think the ghosts have all gone to bed," Harry said. "Even the ones who wanted to watch us."
"They are bored of us by now. We have nothing left to say."
"We have said everything. We have exhausted the repertoire of the human soul."
"That is a bit dramatic, even for you."
He pulled her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. The playfulness had vanished from his voice, replaced by a blunt, aching clarity. He wanted to strip her bare, not just her clothes, but the way she held herself together. He wanted to see the mess of her.
"Do you want to go?" he asked.
"Not yet."
"There are no more tables. No more chairs. There is just the floor."
"Then let us use the floor."
He moved first, pulling her toward him until she was straddling his hips. He sat up, bracing his weight on his hands, and pulled her between his legs. The friction of her knickers against his skin made him groan. He reached down and unfastened the drawstring of her trousers, pushing the fabric down past her hips until her thighs were bare. He did the same for himself, his fingers fumbling with his own clothes until his cock sprang free, thick and heavy in the moonlight.
He reached into her knickers, his fingers sliding into the wet heat of her pussy. He found her cunt slick and swollen, her juices coating his fingers as he rubbed her clitoris. She gasped, her head falling back as she arched her spine. He pushed two fingers inside her, stretching her wide, feeling the tight, rhythmic pulses of her walls.
"Fuck," he breathed, watching her face. "You are so wet, Hermione."
"Don't just talk," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Put it in."
He gripped her hips and guided his cock to her opening. He pushed forward, the broad head of his cock forcing its way into her tight, wet pussy. She took him in one long, heavy thrust, her muscles clenching around him. He felt the heat of her everywhere, the way her cunt gripped him like a hand. He began to fuck her, his movements heavy and rhythmic. Every time he slammed his pelvis against hers, the sound of their skin slapping together echoed in the hollow hall.
"God, you feel so good," he groaned, his voice a low rasp. He pulled out almost entirely, leaving only the tip of his cock inside her, before plunging back in with a violent lunge. He wanted to hit the back of her, to fill her until she could hold no more. He fucked her with a blunt, singular focus, his eyes locked on hers.
She was moving with him, her hands digging into his shoulders, her fingernails catching in his skin. He watched her pussy stretch and tighten around his cock, the wetness of her leaking out of her and onto his thighs. He reached down, his thumb finding her clitoris and rubbing it hard as he drove into her. She cried out, a sharp, unpolished sound that wasn't a whisper anymore.
"Yes, just like that," she gasped, her breath hot against his neck. "Harder, Harry. Fuck me harder."
He obliged, his thrusts becoming more frantic, more desperate. He was fucking her with everything he had, his cock sliding in and out of her soaked cunt with a wet, rhythmic suction. He felt the build in his gut, the tension in his thighs, the way her internal muscles were milking him. He shoved himself deep, his balls slapping against her arse, and he felt her begin to shake.
"You're close," he grunted, his teeth clenched. "I can feel you clenching."
"Don't stop," she commanded, her eyes wide and glassy. "Don't you dare stop."
He drove into her one last time, a massive, deep thrust that seemed to reach her very core. He felt his cock swell inside her, the pressure becoming unbearable. He began to fuck her faster, a blur of motion in the dark. He felt the first spasm of her orgasm, her pussy walling around his cock in tight, rhythmic waves. He followed her, his own climax hitting him with the force of a physical blow. He groaned her name, his body jerking as he pumped his cum into her, the hot, thick liquid filling her up.
He collapsed against her, his chest heaving, the two of them slick with sweat and sex and the remains of their spent energy. He stayed there, buried deep inside her, feeling the way her p enough quivered around him.
The silence returned, but it was different now. The heat had settled into a low, steady hum. They lay there for a long time, the cool stone of the floor a sharp contrast to the heat of their bodies. The moon shifted, casting a long, pale light across the floor where they lay.
"That was not a summary," she said eventually, her voice thin and raspy.
"No," he agreed. "It was not."
"Everything is so quiet now."
"It is the quiet of the end."
He lifted his head, looking at the dark rafters of the hall. The feeling of the night was settling into his bones, a sense of finality that he had been dreading and craving all at once. He looked at her, seeing the way she looked in the moonlight, stripped of her defenses and her clever words.
She turned her head to look at him, her expression unreadable. The air was not heavy, but it was certain. She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her touch light and fleeting.
"I have a feeling," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "that we have run out of things to say."
"We have."
"The moon is moving."
"It is."
She sat up, the movement slow and deliberate. She began to dress, her movements methodical and calm, as if the sex had been nothing more than a prelude to the silence. He watched her, feeling the hollow space in his chest grow. She stood up, smoothing her clothes, looking every bit the composed woman she pretended to be.
She turned to him, her eyes bright and clear in the darkness. She looked at him with a terrifying sort of tenderness.