The Slytherin table felt too long and too narrow as the morning sun hit the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall. Draconia sat with her spine straight, her silk robes draped perfectly over her shoulders. She watched the steam rise from her tea, a pale, translucent vapour that vanished before it could reach her face. Pansy sat to her left, leaning in close to whisper about a Hufflepuff who had tripped over a footstool during the feast. Pansy was a creature of movement and sharp, jagged edges, always looking for a way to wedge herself into a conversation.
"Did you see the way the Gryffindors were looking at the podium?" Pansy asked, her voice a low rasp. She was already working the room, her eyes darting from the older prefects to the younger years. "They looked positively offended that we were celebrating the arrival of the Potter boy. It is quite pathetic, really."
Draconia took a small, measured sip of her tea. "It is a predictable display of sentiment," she said. Her voice was cool, a stark contrast to Pansy's frantic energy. "They find comfort in the predictable, even when it is unearned."
"He is certainly unexpected," Pansy said, her eyes glinting with the thrill of a new piece of information. "The way the whole hall stood up for him. It was almost vulgar. Like a cult."
"Everything is a performance in this castle," Draconia replied, though she felt a strange prickle of irritation in her chest. She had spent the previous night watching the way the light caught the edges of the silver platters, trying to ignore the way the room had felt lopsided. She was not a girl who felt lopsided. She was a Malfoy, and a Malfoy was a fixed point in a spinning world.
A house-elf appeared at her elbow, placing a small, cream-coloured envelope on the table beside her plate. It was sealed with the heavy, green wax of her family crest. Draconia felt the gaze of the table settle on her for a fraction of a second. Even in Slytherin, the Malfoy name carried a weight that demanded a certain level of respect, or at least a wary distance. She reached for the letter, her fingers brushing the parchment, and felt the coolness of the morning air on her skin.
"Is that from your father?" Pansy asked, her tone shifting into something more pointed. "He seems to be quite the attentive correspondent."
Draconia ignored the question, breaking the seal with a steady hand. She pulled the parchment from the envelope and read the elegant, looping script. The words were brief, a command disguised as a suggestion. The letter says *make the right friends*, and she didn't know which of them it meant.
The breakfast continued with the usual clatter of cutlery and the dull roar of a hundred voices, but Draconia felt as though she were underwater. The ink on the page seemed to pulse. She thought of the Selwyn boy, who had spent the entire feast looking at her with an expression of practiced adoration. Then she thought of the boy who had touched her arm in the corridor, the one whose touch had been a brief, startling heat against her sleeve.
The afternoon sun was higher now, casting long, amber streaks across the stone floors of the dungeons. Draconia found herself in the small, alcove near the Potions classroom, a place where the air felt heavier and the light was stripped of its brightness. She was not supposed to be loitering, but the corridor felt too wide and the social requirements of the Slytherin common room too tight.
He was already there, leaning against the stone wall with a casualness that felt calculated. Harry Potter looked different in the dim light of the corridor. The boyishness of his face was still there, but his eyes held a certain hardness that the others lacked. He did not look at her as if she were a porcelain doll or a piece of the scenery. He looked at her as if he were trying to solve a puzzle.
"You're always standing in the same places," Harry said, his voice low. He stepped toward her, breaking the distance that usually separated them.
"And you are always intruding," Draconia replied, though she did not move back. "It is a common trait among those who do not know their place."
"Is that what this is?" He reached out, his hand catching her wrist. His skin was hot, a jarring sensation against her cool, pale flesh. "Finding a place?"
He pulled her toward him, his movements sudden and certain. He led her into the shadows of a nearby alcove, a small, recessed space where the stone was cool and the light was minimal. He pressed her back against the wall, his body a heavy, solid weight against hers.
"You're very bold for a boy with no standing," she whispered, her breath hitching as his hand slid up the silk of her sleeve.
"I don't care about standing," Harry said, and then he was kissing her. It was not a gentle kiss; it was a claim. His mouth was hungry and hot, tasting of tea and something sharp and masculine.
Draconia felt the heat rise in her cheeks, a desperate, pulsing sensation. She reached up, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer until there was no air left between them. He groaned into her mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrated in her chest. He dropped to his knees, his hands moving with a frantic, uncoordinated grace.
He pulled her robes up, the silk sliding over her hips until her skin was exposed to the cool air. He unfastened his trousers, the sound of the heavy fabric hitting the stone floor loud in the small space. Draconia watched him, her eyes wide, as his cock emerged from his breeches. It was thick and red, a hard, pulsing length of muscle that looked intimidating in the dim light.
"Look at it," he commanded, his voice a rough rasp.
He gripped her thighs, spreading them wide. He leaned forward, his face pressing into the softness of her inner thighs. He found her pussy, the wet, swollen flesh of her cunt, and began to rub his thumb against her clitoris. Draconia gasped, her head hitting the stone wall behind her. The sensation was electric, a sharp, driving ache that made her hips twitch.
He pushed two fingers inside her, sliding them deep into her soaking wet cunt. Draconia arched her back, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. "Harry," she breathed, the name a confession.
"Do you want it?" he asked, his voice thick with want. He withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the tip of his cock. He pushed into her, the head of his member stretching her tight, aching opening.
He began to fuck her, his movements rhythmic and brutal. Each thrust sent a j of white-hot heat through her. He pushed deep, his cock sliding in and out of her pussy with a wet, slapping sound. Draconia wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting the fullness of him to fill the emptiness she hadn't known she carried.
He moved faster, his thrusts becoming shorter and harder. He was driving into her, his balls slapping against her clitoris with every heavy lunge. Draconia felt herself coming apart, the sensation of his hard cock inside her being too much to bear. She felt the build of a climax, a tightening in her lower abdomen that felt like a coiled spring.
"Fuck," he groaned, the word a jagged edge in the silence. He was sweating now, his skin slick against hers. He pushed himself in as far as he could, his cock buried deep inside her cunt. He began to pulse, his movements frantic as he reached his peak.
He let out a low, strangled cry as he began to cum. Draconia felt the hot, thick