The third-floor classroom smelled of old parchment and damp stone. Draconia stood by the tall, arched window, watching the grey light of the afternoon settle over the grounds. She had told herself she was here to retrieve a misplaced book, yet the heavy oak door had shut behind her with a finality that suggested she was not looking for literature. Harry stood in the centre of the room, his silhouette sharp against the dim light. He looked different when he was not being watched by a crowd of cheering students or a professor. He looked tired. He looked human.
"You came," Harry said. His voice was low, devoid of the braviness he wore like armour in the corridors.
"I came to collect the favour," Draconia replied, stepping away from the window. She kept her chin high, though her pulse was a frantic rhythm in her throat. "You promised, Potter. You said you would settle the debt."
"I did," he said. He took a step toward her, his boots scuffing the stone floor. "I didn't think you would actually show up to collect it so soon."
"A Malfoy does not forget a debt," she said. "It is a matter of principle. Or perhaps it is just a matter of being thorough."
Harry reached out, his fingers brushing the silk of her sleeve. He did not pull away. Instead, he gripped her wrist, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin of her inner arm. The contact was warm and firm. Draconia did not flinch. She watched him with a steady gaze, even as her breathing hitched. The silence in the room was not empty; it was a presence that pressed against her skin.
"Is it a matter of principle?" Harry asked. He moved closer, his body heat radiating through the fine fabric of her robes. "Or are you just bored of being perfect?"
"I am never bored," she whispered, though her composure was fraying at the edges. "I am merely precise."
He pulled her toward him, his hands sliding down to her waist. He pushed her back until her spine hit the edge of a heavy wooden desk. The wood was hard against her thighs, but she did not care. Harry leaned in, his mouth hovering just an inch from hers. He tasted of tea and something dark. He kissed her with a sudden, desperate hunger that caught her off guard. It was not a gentle kiss; it was a collision.
Harry lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he sat her on the desk. He fumbled with the fastenings of her robes, his hands moving with a frantic, practiced speed. Draconia helped him, her fingers trembling as she unbuttoned his shirt. She wanted to feel him. She wanted the friction of his skin against hers. She shoved his shirt off his shoulders, wanting to see the breadth of him in the dim light.
He pulled her knickers down, his fingers searching for the wetness between her thighs. Draconia gasped as his fingers found her cunt, sliding into her heat. He was thick and warm, and she felt her pussy clench around his hand. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated in his chest. He pulled his trousers down, freeing his cock. It was heavy and dark, a thick length of muscle that pulsed in the cool air of the classroom.
"Harry," she breathed, her head falling back.
He didn't wait. He positioned himself at her entrance and pushed. He drove his cock deep inside her, filling her until she felt stretched and taut. Draconia wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as he began to fuck her. He moved with a rhythmic, brutal force, his hips striking hers with a wet, slapping sound. Every thrust sent a jolt of lightning through her. She loved the way his cock felt, thick and hot, stretching her walls as he slid in and out of her.
"You're so tight," Harry grunted, his face buried in the crook of her neck. "God, Draconia, you're so fucking tight."
He reached down, his hand finding her clitoris, rubbing the swollen nub as he drove himself into her. The sensation was too much. She felt her pussy twitching around him, her cunt weeping more moisture to lubricate his heavy strokes. He fucked her harder, his movements becoming more frantic. He was a force of nature, a storm of heat and friction. He pulled out almost entirely before slamming back in, his cock bruising her interior with every deep, punishing lunge.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She opened her eyes, her vision blurred by the sheer intensity of the pleasure. He was staring down at her, his eyes dark and intense. He looked like a man possessed. He reached down and gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh to hold her steady as he hammered into her. The sound of their bodies meeting was loud in the empty room. Each time he pushed his cock into her, she felt the air leave her lungs. She was a mess of sensation, a tangle of limbs and gasping breaths.
He shifted, pulling her to the edge of the desk so he could go deeper. He caught her thighs, lifting them higher. He drove into her with a singular focus, his cock sliding through her slick, hot cunt with a sickeningly perfect friction. Draconia felt the build of a climax, a tension that started in her toes and raced up her spine. She felt her cunt pulsing around him, trying to draw him even deeper into her heat.
"Don't stop," she begged, her voice a ragged edge of a sound. "Don't you dare stop."
He let out a jagged breath and increased the pace. He was fucking her with a desperate, unbridled energy. He felt her walls tighten around him, and he knew she was close. He gripped her waist so hard she knew there would be bruises. He lunged forward one last time, burying the full length of his cock inside her, and then he shuddered. He groaned her name, a long, low sound of release, as he came inside her. She felt the hot, thick jet of his cum filling her, the sensation of him pulsing inside her womb making her head spin.
They stayed like that for a long time, tangled together on the desk, the heat of their bodies slowly cooling in the damp air. Harry rested his forehead against hers, his breathing heavy and uneven. The frantic energy had bled out of the room, leaving only the quiet hum of the aftermath.
"There," Harry whispered, his voice rough. "The debt is paid."
Draconia sat up, smoothing her disheveled hair and pulling her robes back into place. She felt hollowed out, yet strangely full. She looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the way his hair was matted and his eyes were still wide with the remnants of his release. She felt a strange, terrifying distance between who she was in this room and who she was expected to be in the corridors.
She stood up, her legs slightly unsteady. She walked toward the door, her movements graceful despite the ache in her hips. She stopped at the threshold, looking back at the empty, shadowed classroom. She wanted to say something meaningful. She wanted to say something that would bridge the gap between a debt and a feeling.
Instead, she spoke the words she thought she should feel.
"No feelings," she said to the empty room to hear how it sounds, and it sounds like somebody else's letter read aloud.