The Hogwarts Express rattled through the countryside, a rhythmic, mechanical pulse that Draconia felt in the soles of her boots. She sat in a private compartment with Pansy Parkinson, watching the greenery blur into a smear of emerald and gold through the glass. Pansy was currently halfway through a detailed retelling of a scandal involving a Ravenclaw girl and a misplaced cauldron, her voice high and sharp. Draconia listened with the practiced stillness of a girl who knew that a Malfoy never appeared too eager to engage. She sat with her spine perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap, feeling the expensive silk of her robes against her skin.
"It is simply a matter of reputation, Draconia," Pansy said, leaning forward to adjust her posture. "One must decide who is worth the breath of a conversation."
"Reputation is a fragile thing," Draconia replied, her tone level and cool. "One must be careful not to let it be tarnished by the wrong associations."
Pansy nodded, as if Draconia had just delivered a profound truth. "Exactly. Like that Potter boy. Everyone is acting as if he is a god, but he looks quite common to me. Hardly a polished edge to him at all."
Draconia did not respond to the jab. She was thinking of the way the boy had looked at her on the platform, a look that felt less like reverence and more like an interrogation. She wanted to pretend he did not exist, yet her mind kept drifting back to the way he had stood, unbothered by the chaos of the crowd. It was a strange sensation to be watched so intently by someone who supposedly had nothing to offer.
The compartment door slid open with a sharp clatter, and a boy with a lanky frame and a crooked tie stepped in. He did not look like he belonged in their circle, yet he moved with a confidence that felt misplaced. He was not a Malfoy, nor a Black, yet he stood there as if he owned the very air of the carriage.
"The prefects are moving through the corridor," the boy said, his voice a low hum that vibrated in Draconia's chest. "They say the tea is being served in the next carriage."
"Is that so?" Pansy asked, her eyes narrowing as she appraised him.
The boy did not look at Pansy. His eyes stayed on Draconia. He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the table, and for a moment, the conversation died. The silence was not heavy, but it was present, a physical thing between them.
"You're the one from the platform," the boy said. He was not asking a question; he was stating a fact.
Draconia felt a sudden, sharp heat in her cheeks. "You have a memory, then. How remarkable."
"It is hard to forget a face like yours," he said. He stepped closer, and the scent of rain and something metallic followed him.
The tension in the compartment shifted. Pansy watched them, her expression unreadable, but she did not interrupt. The boy reached out and took Draconia’s hand. His skin was warm, a startling contrast to the cool air of the carriage. He pulled her toward the door, his grip firm and undeniable.
"Come with me," he whispered. "I want to show you something."
He led her into the corridor, the transition from the quiet compartment to the bustling hallway feeling like a jump between worlds. He pushed open the door to a small, unused compartment at the end of the train, a space that felt cramped and private. The door clicked shut, sealing them in.
He did not wait for her to speak. He pressed her against the cushioned seat, his mouth crashing onto hers. Draconia gasped, the sound lost in his throat. He was not gentle. He tasted of tea and heat, and his tongue was a blunt instrument that searched her mouth with hungry intent.
"Don't flatter yourself, Potter," she breathed against his lips, though her hands were already fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. "You think you can just walk in here and take what you want."
"I do not want to take it," he said, his voice a growl. "I want to claim it."
He stripped her of her robes with a frantic, efficient-handedness. Her knickers were pulled down to her knees, leaving her thighs bare to the cool air of the carriage. He knelt between her legs, his hands sliding up her hips to find her cunt. He found her wet, her pussy swollen and aching for the touch. He rubbed his thumbs over her clitoris, and Draconia threw her head back, a moan escaping her as he worked the soft flesh.
"Fuck, you're so wet," he muttered, his face buried in the crook of her thigh.
He used two fingers to stretch her open, pushing deep into her pussy. Draconia gripped his hair, her knuckles white as she arched her back. The sensation was overwhelming, a blunt, driving heat that made her want to scream. He moved his fingers faster, sliding them in and out of her wet cunt, the sound of his friction loud in the small space.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She opened her eyes, her vision blurred. He was staring at her, his eyes dark and focused. He pulled his trousers down, freeing his thick, hard cock. It was a heavy thing, pulsing with a life of its own. He positioned the head of his cock at the entrance of her pussy, rubbing the tip of it against her sensitive skin.
"Do you want it?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Yes," she whispered, the word a jagged thing in her throat. "Fuck me. Just do it."
He lunged forward, driving his cock deep inside her. Draconia let out a sharp cry as he filled her, his length stretching her pussy to its limit. He began to fuck her with a rhythmic, brutal force. Every thrust was a heavy, solid impact that shook her entire frame. He hit her deep, his cock bottoming out against her cervix with every stroke.
"God, you're so tight," he groaned, his breath hot against her neck.
He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic. Draconia felt the pressure building in her gut, a coil of sensation that she could not control. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper into her. The friction of his cock sliding in and out of her pussy was intense, a constant, driving heat that made her head spin.
"Harder," she choked out, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "Fuck me harder."
He obeyed, his hips slamming against her pelvis with a primal rhythm. The sound of his cock fucking her was a wet, slapping cadence that filled the compartment. Drac-onia felt the climax building, a frantic, desperate need to break. She felt the muscles of her pussy clench around him, squeezing his cock with every throb.
He leaned down, his mouth finding hers again, as he delivered a final, deep thrust. He groaned her name, a low, gutted sound, as he came inside her. Draconia felt the hot, thick spurt of his cum filling her pussy, the sensation of it spreading through her warmth. She collapsed against him, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling from the intensity of the release.
They stayed there for a moment, the heat of their bodies the only thing in the world. He slowly withdrew his cock, the wet sound of him leaving her p-ussy echoing in the small space. He wiped a stray drop of cum from his thigh, his expression unreadable.
"That was... adequate," Draconia said, her voice shaking as she tried to reclaim her composure.
He laughed, a low, dark sound. "Only adequate?"
She did not answer. She watched him as he