The Great Hall felt too large for the smallness of her appetite. Draconia watched the way the light caught the golden crust of the bread, a single loaf sliced into uneven pieces on the Slytherin table. Everything about the morning felt too bright and too loud, though she kept her spine straight and her expression neutral. Pansy sat to her left, leaning in to whisper a comment about a Ravenclaw girl's new robes, but Draconia heard only the scratching of forks against porcelain. Her skin felt tight, a lingering sensation from the previous day that she refused to acknowledge in public.
Hunger was a distant concept to her. She picked up a piece of bread, the crust scraping slightly against her teeth, and chewed slowly. It was a mundane task, one she performed with practiced grace so as not to reveal the tremor in her hands. Across the table, a group of boys were laughing at something a Hufflepuff had said, their voices rising in a jagged crescendo that made her head ache. She kept her eyes fixed on her plate, trying to pretend she was as unbothered as she had been at the Manor.
"You are being remarkably quiet today, Draconia," Pansy said, her voice cutting through the chatter. "Did you not sleep well, or is the breakfast simply not to your liking?"
"The breakfast is fine, Pansy," Draconia replied, her tone clipped and elegant. "I am simply not in the mood for a long conversation."
Pansy tilted her head, her dark eyes scanning Draconia's face for a flaw. "It is a lovely morning, though. The sun is actually behaving itself for once."
Draconia did not answer. She watched a boy at the end of the table reach for the juice, his movements clumsy and unrefined. She wondered if he felt the same restlessness that she did, a strange, buzzing energy beneath her skin. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the dark corners of the third-floor classroom, the way the stone felt cool against her heated skin. She wanted to pretend it had been a dream, a trick of the light, but the ghost of his touch was still etched into her memory.
She stood up to move toward the queue for the morning tea, her movements fluid and controlled. The Hall was crowded, the students drifting in lines toward the various stations. As she navigated the narrow gap between two benches, a boy stepped into her path, momentarily blocking her progress. He was moving toward the bread, his shoulder brushing against hers as he passed.
Then it happened. A hand reached out and steadened her arm, a brief, firm pressure that lasted exactly two seconds. It was the same hand from the corridor, the same sensation of warmth and weight that had startled her weeks ago. She froze, her breath hitching in her throat as she looked down at the arm. The hand was gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving her standing there in the middle of the hall, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The sensation of his touch was a physical ache, a reminder of the heat of his body and the way he had moved inside her. The memory of the classroom was not a hazy impression; it was a sharp, vivid reality that demanded her attention. She could almost feel the slickness of him, the way he had filled her until she felt she might break.
She walked toward a more private corner of the room, her mind racing. The queue moved slowly, a sluggish procession of students, and she felt as though she were moving through honey. The heat in her belly was a dull, persistent throb. She needed to find him, or perhaps she needed to find a way to forget him, but the two desires were inextricably linked.
A few minutes later, the sensation of being watched became too much to bear. She turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of a dark head of hair in the crowd. He was there, standing near the edge of the Gryffindor table, looking entirely unremarkable. He looked like a boy who could disappear into a wall if he tried hard enough. Yet, the memory of his cock in her hand, thick and pulsing, made her vision blur for a second.
She remembered the way he had gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her waist. He had been so thorough, so unashamed of the way he took her. He had pushed her down onto the stone floor, and then he had knelt between her thighs, his breath hot against her inner thighs. He had called her beautiful, though he had said it with a roughness that made it sound like a confession rather than a compliment.
The memory of him entering her was the most vivid. He had gripped her wrists, pinning them above her head, and then he had pushed his cock into her. It had been a heavy, blunt sensation, a slow intrusion that made her arch her back and cry out. He had fucked her with a rhythmic, punishing strength, his hips slamming against hers with a sound that echoed in the quiet of the classroom. She remembered the way his skin felt against hers, the sweat slicking their bodies together as he drove himself deeper.
He had reached down to find her clitoris, his thumb rubbing the sensitive nub as he fucked her. The sensation was overwhelming, a jagged spike of pleasure that made her toes curl. He had pushed harder, his cock sliding in and out of her wet, aching cunt, the friction creating a heat that felt like it would consume her. She had wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate to feel the full weight of him.
"Draconia?"
The voice of a nearby Ravenclaw pulled her back to the present. She realized she had been staring at a bowl of fruit for nearly a minute. She cleared her throat, smoothing her robes with a hand that was not as steady as she wished.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice a pitch too high.
"You seemed lost for a moment," the girl said, a small, curious smile playing on her lips.
"Just a momentary lapse of concentration," Draconia replied, her tone returning to its usual frost.
She watched the boy move through the crowd again. He was talking to someone, his expression calm and unreadable. He looked entirely too comfortable in his own skin, as if he were not a person who had spent the previous day ravaging a Malfoy in a dusty classroom. The contrast between his public persona and the man she had felt inside her was jarring.
She felt a sudden, irrational urge to walk up to him and demand to know why he was so quiet, why he was so unassuming. She wanted to grab his collar and pull him into the nearest alcove, to see if he was as hungry as she was. The thought was scandalous, a breach of every rule she had been taught since she was old enough to hold a wand.
The queue moved forward, and she found herself standing near the edge of the table. The boy was close enough now that she could almost smell him, a scent of woodsmoke and something sharp and masculine. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks, a flush that she fought to suppress.
She said nothing at all, and that frightens her more than an insult would have.