The potion required constant attention, a slow-boiling tension that mirrored the frustration in her chest. Harry sat on the bench in her private dungeon room, watching the steam rise from the cauldron while she reached for a jar of dried fluxweed. The room felt smaller than usual, the stone walls pressing in as the evening grew late. Every time she moved, she felt the proximity of his body, a heat that had nothing to do with the brewing liquid. They had been stirring for nearly four hours, and the exhaustion was beginning to make her nerves feel frayed and sharp.
"You missed a step with the valerian root," Harry said, his voice low and rough. He was leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
"I did not miss a step, Potter," Draconia replied, her voice clipped. She turned to the shelf, her back to him, feeling the weight of his gaze on her robes. "The timing was deliberate."
"It was not," he insisted, and she could hear the small smirk in his tone. "You are getting sloppy because you are tired."
"I am never sloppy." She turned around to face him, her eyes flashing. "I am precisely where I intend to be."
"You are a liar," Harry said, and he stood up to close the distance between them. "You pretend to be perfect so you can keep the control, but you are losing it."
"I have lost nothing," she snapped, though she felt the tremor in her hands as she reached for a tin of crushed beetle wings. "I set the terms, remember? I am the one who decides when the lesson is over."
"The terms are a lie," he said, stepping into the narrow space between her and the wall of ingredient jars. "You tell yourself these rules so you can pretend this is just a favour. But you are not as detached as you claim."
"Do not presume to know me," she said, her breath catching as he moved closer. She could smell the heat of him, the scent of skin and sweat and old magic.
"I know you," Harry whispered, and he reached out to steady her as she stumbled slightly against the shelf. "I know you are terrified of being seen."
"I am not terrified of anything," she lied, and she turned her back to him again to hide the flush on her cheeks. She felt the cold glass of the jars against her spine, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his body pressing into her back.
The store cupboard was a tiny, cramped space, a narrow alcove off her main study where she kept the most sensitive ingredients. It was a place for silence and shadows, a place where the world felt very far away. Harry moved with her into the narrowest part of the room, his chest a solid weight against her shoulder blades. He was so close that she could feel the friction of his trousers against her skirt.
"The door is nearly shut," she said, her voice a mere thread of sound.
"It doesn't matter," Harry said, and he reached around to place his hand over her mouth, muffling her startled gasp. "Snape is just on the other side of this wall. He is sorting the essence of nightshade. He can't hear us if you are quiet."
"He will hear the rhythm of your breathing," she whispered against his palm, her eyes widening.
"Then keep me quiet," Harry commanded, his voice a low growl.
He moved her toward the wall, his hands heavy and sure. The sensation of his fingers against her skin was a sharp, delicious ache. He pulled her robes up, the fabric sliding over her hips, and she felt the cool air of the dungeon hit her skin before the heat of his hands replaced it.
"Tell me the prices," he muttered, his breath hot against her ear. "Talk about the ingredients. If you talk, the sound of your voice will hide everything else."
Draconia felt her heart hammering against her ribs as he knelt behind her. She felt his hands finding the entrance to her pussy, his fingers slick and deft. She gasped, and she immediately pressed her hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, her fingers digging into his skin.
"Two sickles for a dram of dragon blood," she said, her voice trembling as he pushed two fingers deep inside her. "Three sickles for the essence of mallowsweet."
Harry groaned, a low, guttural sound that she swallowed with her palm. He was moving his fingers in a rhythmic, driving motion, stretching her cunt wide. She felt the wetness of her own arousal coating his knuckles, the friction of his skin against her sensitive walls.
"Five sickles for the crushed pearl," she choked out, her head lulling back against his shoulder. "Six... six sickles for the powdered unicorn horn."
He shifted, his hand moving from her mouth to her hair, pulling her head back to expose the long line of her throat. He reached down with his other hand, unfastening his trousers with a frantic, clumsy motion. She felt his cock, thick and hot, pressing against the cleft of her arse. It was a blunt, heavy pressure that made her stomach flip.
"More," he breathed, his voice a command. "Tell me more."
"Seven sickles for the dried nettles," she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut. She felt him nudge her legs wider, his knee forcing her thighs apart to give him better access. "Eight... eight sickles for the silvered moonstone."
He slid his cock into her, the blunt head of it forcing its way into her tight, wet pussy. Draconia let out a strangled cry, and she instantly clamped her hand back over his mouth, her fingers trembling with the effort of being silent. She could hear the soft, rhythmic sound of his hips hitting her, the wet slaps of skin on skin.
"Nine sickles," she whispered, her voice a ragged edge of sound. "Nine sickles for the essence of jasmine."
He was fucking her with a desperate, hungry intensity, his thrusts deep and punishing. She felt her walls gripping his cock, the sensation of him filling her so completely that she felt she might break. Every time he drove into her, the jar of ingredients behind her rattled against the stone.
"Ten sickles," she breathed, her voice climbing in pitch as the tension in her lower belly coiled tight. "Ten sickles for the... for the powdered starlight."
He pushed harder, his cock sliding through her juices with a slick, heavy sound. He was moving with a frantic speed now, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts against her neck. She felt the build-up, the intense, crushing pressure of a climax that was seconds away. She kept her hand over his mouth, her palm damp with his sweat, as she fought to keep her voice steady.
"Eleven sickles," she cried out in her mind, though her lips only formed a silent, desperate shape. She felt the heat of him, the way his cock felt massive and hot inside her, stretching her cunt to the limit.
He let out a long, muffled groan as he reached his peak. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as he came. Draconia felt the rhythmic pulses of his cum filling her, the hot, thick liquid flooding her pussy and spilling out onto the floor. She felt her own orgasm shatter through her, a blinding-white explosion that left her shaking and breathless.
She let her hand drop from his mouth, her lungs burning as she took in the air. The silence of the dungeon returned, punctuated only by the distant, muffled sound of a glass vial clinking on the other side of the wall.
"Twelve sickles," she whispered, her voice a broken, exhausted thing. "Twelve sickles for the essence of the end."