Draconia kept her spine straight throughout the breakfast hour in the Great Hall. Every movement was measured and elegant, a silent rebuke to the heaviness in her chest. She sat beside Pansy, who was busy whispering about the upcoming Quidditch match, but Draconia focused only on her tea. Her eyes drifted to the Gryffindor table where Harry sat. He looked tired, his hair a mess, but he was watching her. She did not look back until she had finished her toast, and then she offered him a nod so slight it was almost imperceptible. It was a polite, distant greeting, the kind one gave to a stranger in a corridor.
The week proceeded with a calculated, chilling grace. In the library, she sat three tables away from him, her eyes never once leaving her parchment. When he approached her to return a book, she stood and curtsied just a fraction too low, her voice a melodic, hollow chime. She thanked him for his kindness with a smile that never reached her eyes. To the rest of the school, she was the picture of untouchable composure. To Harry, she was a fortress of perfect etiquette. She used her manners like a shield, keeping him at an arm's length while her skin still hummed from the memory of his hands on her hips.
"You're being very quiet today, Draconia," Pansy remarked as they walked through the stone corridor toward Transfiguration.
"One must maintain a certain standard of decorum, Pansy," Draconia replied, her voice smooth and cool.
"You're being a bit much, even for you," Pansy added with a laugh.
Draconia merely smiled, a perfect, brittle expression. She felt the heat of his gaze on the back of her neck as he walked a few paces behind them. She knew he was looking for a crack in her armour, a sign that the previous night in her dungeons had changed anything. She gave him nothing but a polite tilt of the head when they passed in the hall. The politeness was a weapon, a way to pretend that the sweat and the gasps and the way she had screamed his name were merely hallucinations.
By the time the sun began to set on Thursday, the tension was a physical weight. They had not spoken a single word of substance all week. Every interaction was a dance of formal pleasantries. She had been a lady, a perfect, distant lady, and it was working. It was working so well that it was killing him. She saw it in the way his jaw tightened when she called him "Mr. Potter" in the courtyard. She saw it in the way he gripped his quill too hard during Charms. She was being so polite that he had no way to reach her.
The confrontation happened in the empty corridor outside the library. The torches were dim, casting long shapes against the stone. Harry stepped into her path, forcing her to halt. She did not flivate or stumble; she simply stood and smoothed her robes, her expression one of mild, polite surprise.
"Draconia," he said, his voice rougher than she remembered.
"Good evening, Harry," she replied, using his given name with a precision that felt like a slap. "Is there something you require?"
"Is that what we're doing now?" He stepped closer, invading her space. "The formal titles? The perfect manners?"
"I am simply being civil," she said, her eyes fixed on his collarbone. "Is there a problem with my behaviour?"
"You're being a ghost," he whispered, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach for her. "You're acting like we didn't spend three hours tangled together in the dark."
"I believe we agreed on the terms, Harry," she said, her voice steady despite the way her heart hammered against her ribs. "I am behaving exactly as a lady should."
"You don't have to be like this," he said, his eyes dark and searching.
She felt a surge of cruel triumph. She leaned in, just an inch, enough to let him smell the peppermint on her breath, and then she pulled back with a look of bored elegance. She was being worse than before. She was being perfect, and it was the most brutal thing she had ever done to him.
The transition from the coldness of the corridor to the heat of the dungeon was a blur of stolen moments and whispered-away-daylight. The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut behind them, the politeness shattered. The politeness was for the portraits; the reality was for the stone floor.
She kicked her shoes off and sat on the edge of the wooden bench, her breath already coming in short, sharp bursts. Harry did not wait for an invitation. He moved toward her, his hands finding the silk of her skirt. He bunched the fabric up, his fingers rough against her thighs, and Draconia let out a low, unladylike moan as he pushed her back.
"Is this polite, Draconia?" he grunted, his face pressing into the crook of her neck.
"Shut up and fuck me," she commanded, her fingers tangling in his hair.
He stripped her with a frantic, desperate speed, his movements devoid of the grace she had worn all day. He pulled her legs wide, spreading her knees so far that she felt the cool air of the room hit her damp skin. His eyes were fixed on her cunt, watching the way the pink flesh glistened with her arousal. He leaned down, his tongue darting out to lick a long, slow stripe from her hip to her centre. Draconia arched her back, her head hitting the bench with a dull thud.
"Your pussy is so wet," Harry muttered, his voice a low growl. He shoved two fingers inside her, stretching her wide, testing the heat of her. He pumped his fingers in and out, the sound of his hand sliding against her wetness filling the quiet room.
"More," she gasped, her hands grasping the edge of the wooden bench. "I want more."
He pulled her upright, his hands gripping her waist as he stood. He fumbled with his trousers, his breathing heavy and ragged. When his cock sprang free, it was thick and angry, the head a deep, bruised red. Draconia reached out, her fingers wrapping around the shaft, feeling the pulse of him. She slid her hand up and down the length, her thumb rubbing over the slit of his glans.
"Put it in," she whispered, her voice a command. "I want to feel you."
He guided himself to her opening, the tip of his cock rubbing against her clitoris. He pushed, and the sensation of him filling her was a blunt, heavy ache. He drove into her, a long, deep thrust that forced the air from her lungs. He began to fuck her with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. Each stroke was a hard, wet slap of skin on skin. He was hitting her deep, his cock bruising her insides with every lunge.
"Fuck, you're so tight," Harry groaned, his hips slamming against her pelvis. He reached around, his thumbs digging into her hips to hold her steady as he hammered into her.
Draconia wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. She wanted the friction to burn. She wanted to feel the way his cock stretched her, the way the head of it bumped against her cervix with every heavy shove. She was no longer a lady; she was a creature of heat and need. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he fucked her harder and faster.
"Look at me," he ordered, his voice a jagged edge.
She opened her eyes, staring at him through the haze of her pleasure. He was sweating, his face contorted with the effort of controlling his pace. He leaned down, his mouth finding hers in a bruising kiss, his tongue lashing against hers even as he continued to drive into her. The sound of his