The chair sat in the middle of the vast, hollowed space, a wooden island in a sea of stone. Harry sat backwards on it, his stomach pressed against the hard wood of the backrest, his arms draped lazily over the top. He looked up at her, his chin resting on his hands, while she leaned over him. The angle was wrong for a kiss, a lopsely lopsided thing that forced him to tilt his head back until his neck ached. He could see the pale curve of her throat and the way her hair fell in a curtain around her face.
"You look ridiculous," Harry said, his voice echoing against the high, dark ceiling.
"I look commanding," she corrected him. "There is a difference."
"You look like you are waiting for a carriage that is never coming."
"I am waiting for you to stop talking and actually do something."
He laughed, a low sound that felt too loud in the emptiness of the Hall. He reached up to touch her cheek, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. The proximity was dangerous, a sharp edge in a room full of shadows. She leaned down, trying to fix the angle, but her nose bumped against his. They both stumbled, a clumsy collision of teeth and skin that made her huff a breath of frustration.
"That was terrible," she muttered, though her eyes were bright with amusement.
"It was a strategic error," he teased, pulling her closer by the waist. "The height of the chair is a variable we did not account for."
"Shut up, Potter is not here to witness your failure, so just be quiet."
"I am not Potter, Harry. Don't bring him into our mess."
"You are both equally infuriating," she said, before she finally found the right angle.
The kiss was not elegant. It was a collision of mouths, a desperate, hungry thing that tasted of peppermint and late-night tension. She pulled him forward, her fingers tangling in his hair, forcing his head back even further. The chair creaked under the sudden shift in weight as she moved to straddle his lap, her skirts bunching up around her hips. He gripped the sides of the wooden chair, his knuckles white, as she settled herself over him.
"This is highly uncoordinated," he gasped against her lips, the words breaking as she bit his lower lip.
"It is perfect," she insisted, her breath hot against his skin.
She slid her hands down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt with frantic, clumsy fingers. The cool air of the Hall hit his skin, but the heat of her palms was enough to keep the chill away. She moved with a blunt, singular purpose, pushing the fabric aside until he was bare to her. Harry groaned, his hips lifting off the seat as she moved her hand down to the fly of his trousers. He helped her, his hands shaking slightly as he stripped the heavy fabric away, exposing his cock to the dim light of the floating candles.
His cock was thick and hard, pulsing in the air between them. She reached out, wrapping her fingers around the base of his shaft, her thumb stroking the head of his cock. He let out a jagged breath, his head falling back against the wood of the chair. He watched her, mesmerized by the way her pale skin looked against the dark wood. She leaned forward, her hair brushing against his thighs, and she used her tongue to lick the length of him, a slow, wet stroke from base to tip.
"God, Harry," she whispered, her voice thick.
She gripped him tighter, her fingers sliding through the slickness of his pre-cum as she began to fuck him with her hand. The friction was intense, the sensation of her wet, warm palm moving up and down his cock making his vision blur. He reached down to find her, his fingers sliding under the silk of her knickers until he found her pussy. She was soaked, her cunt dripping with moisture that coated his fingers. He pushed two fingers inside her, feeling the tight, pulsing walls of her cunt wrap around him.
"You are so wet," he muttered, his voice a gravelly wreck. "Your pussy is dripping."
"Don't just talk about it, fuck me," she commanded, her hips rolling against his hand.
He shifted his weight, pulling her more firmly onto him so that he could feel the heat of her cunt pressing against his thigh. He guided his cock toward her slit, the tip of his cock brushing against her clitoris. She gasped, her back arching as she felt the blunt-force pressure of him. He pushed, sliding his cock into her pussy with one heavy, determined shove. The sensation was overwhelming, a tight, wet squeeze that made him groan into the crook of her neck.
"Is it too much?" he asked, his voice strained as he began to pump into her.
"It is exactly enough," she said, her eyes squeezed shut.
He fucked her with a rhythmic, heavy pace, his hips hitting the base of the chair with every stroke. The wood groaned under them, a steady percussion to the sound of their skin slapping together. He watched the way her p enough of a tilt to see the way her pussy gripped him, the pink flesh of her cunt swallowing his cock with every deep thrust. He reached up to grab her hips, his thumbs digging into her skin to steady the movement. He wanted to feel the bottom of her, the way she could take all of him.
"You're so tight," he gasped, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "Fuck, you're so tight."
"Keep going," she urged, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "Don't you dare stop."
He picked up the speed, his thrusts becoming more frantic and less controlled. He felt the build of the tension in his gut, the pressure in his cock reaching a breaking point. He could feel her pulsing around him, her cunt contractions squeezing him with every heavy lunge. He leaned forward, capturing her mouth in a messy, desperate kiss as he drove himself deep into her. He wanted to feel the moment she broke.
"Harry, now, please," she cried, her voice high and cracked.
He felt the heat of his cum building, a heavy, throbbing weight at the base of his shaft. He gave a final, powerful thrust, burying his cock as deep as it could go inside her. He groaned, a gutt of pure, unadulterated need, as he came. He felt the hot, thick jets of cum erupting from his cock, filling her cunt and spilling out against her skin. She shuddered violently, her own orgasm hitting her in waves of tight, rhythmic squeezes that drove him to the edge of madness.
They stayed there for a moment, tangled together in the quiet of the Hall, the only sound their heavy, synchronized breathing. The awkwardness of the position—the chair, the angle, the sheer physical mess of it—began to settle over them. He watched a bead of sweat drip from his temple, and she let out a small, breathless laugh at the sight of his disheveled hair.
"That," she said, wiping a stray strand of hair from her face, "wasn't entirely graceful."
"It was a disaster," he agreed, a grin spreading across his face.
They both started to laugh, the tension of the night finally breaking into something lighter, something warm and ridiculous. It was a messy, ungraceful, and perfectly imperfect moment. It was explicit, awkward, both of them laughing, and it was the most romantic chapter in the line so far.