The corridors of the Manor were not meant for movement after midnight. Every stone seemed to hold its breath, guarding the secrets of the sleeping men in the drawing rooms and the guest suites. Greta moved along the edge of the shadows, her feet finding the softest parts of the rug to muffle her progress. The air in the hallway was still, holding the scent of old wood and damp stone. Somewhere in the distance, a heavy door creaked, but the sound did not wake the sentries.
Harry Potter was waiting in the alcove near the western stair로. He looked out of place in the opulence of the house, a jagged shape of muscle and shadow against the polished wainscoting. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were dark with a fatigue that went deeper than sleep. He did not speak as she approached, but his gaze tracked her every movement. The tension in his shoulders told her he had been waiting for a long time.
"You shouldn't be here," Harry whispered, the sound barely a ripple in the silence.
"Neither should you," Greta replied, stepping into the narrow space between him and the wall.
"If they wake, they will kill us both," Harry said, his voice a low vibration.
"Let them try."
They moved into a smaller, disused corridor where the tapestries hung heavy and dust-laden. The darkness here was absolute, save for the dim glow of a single enchanted sconce. There were no beds in this particular stretch of the hall, only a long, velvet-lined bench that sat against a stone pillar. Harry reached out, his fingers catching her waist, and pulled her into the alcove.
Harry pressed her back against the cool stone, his hands sliding under the hem of her silk slip. The friction of his palms against her skin made her breath hitch in her throat. He did not wait to find a bed or a proper room because the danger of being caught was a sharp, driving force. Harry crowded her body with his, his weight pressing her into the masonry. He fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers, his breathing shallow and controlled so as not to wake the house.
His cock was thick and hot as he freed it from his cloth. Greta reached down, her fingers wrapping around the length of him, feeling the pulse of his blood beneath the skin. She guided him toward her, her own pussy already slick and aching with a desperate, quiet hunger. When he pushed into her, it was a slow, heavy intrusion that made her eyes roll back in her head. Harry entered her with a single, deep thrust, burying his cock deep inside her cunt.
"God, Greta," Harry breathed, his voice a ghost of a sound in her ear.
He began to fuck her there, his movements rhythmic and urgent. He lifted her legs, hooking her thighs over his hips so he could drive himself deeper into her slit. The sound of their bodies meeting was a wet, slapping noise that seemed deafable in the stillness. Every time his pelvis hit her clitoris, a jolt of electricity shot up her spine. He was hard and unrelenting, his cock stretching her walls as he moved.
Greta gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he hammered into her. The sensation of his thick cock sliding in and out of her pussy was all she could feel. She watched his face in the dim light, seeing the way his jaw tightened with every thrust. He was focused on the friction, on the way her cunt gripped him. He leaned down to suck on her breast, his tongue lashing her nipple through the thin silk of her shift.
"Look at me," Harry commanded, his voice a jagged whisper.
She opened her eyes to see him staring at her with a terrifying intensity. He pulled back almost entirely, the tip of his cock teasing her entrance before he plunged back in with a forceful lunge. The sensation of his cock hitting her cervix made her gasp, a sound she had to swallow to keep from crying out. He was fucking her with a singular purpose, his hips working a frantic, driving motion. Her pussy was drenched, the juices of her arousal coating his shaft as he moved.
He shifted his grip, his fingers finding her clitoris and rubbing it even as he continued to pound into her. The dual sensation was too much to bear. Greta felt the build of her orgasm, a tightening in her lower belly that threatened to break her composure. Harry saw it, too; he saw the way her eyes glazed over. He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and faster, his cock slapping hard against her clitoris.
"I'm close," he whispered, his teeth grazing the shell of her ear.
"Do it," she hissed, her voice a strained thread of sound. "Fuck me harder, Harry."
He obeyed, driving himself into her with a primal strength. He pulled her hips closer, seeking the deepest part of her. The friction was intense, a searing heat that made her feel like she was melting into the stone behind her. He was fucking her so hard that her vision blurred. She could feel the weight of his cock, the way it filled her completely, stretching her pussy to its limit.
As the climax hit her, Greta wrapped her legs tight around his waist, pulling him in for the final, desperate inches. She felt her walls convulse around him, milking his cock as she came. Harry followed a moment later, his body stiffening as he let out a silent, shuddering breath. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his thrusts becoming shallow and frantic as he filled her. He came deep inside her, the warmth of his cum spilling from her as he pulsed within her.
They stayed there for a moment, both of them heaving with silent-breath, their hearts thudding in unison. The heat of their joined bodies was a stark contrast to the cold stone of the Manor. Harry pulled back slowly, his cock sliding out of her wet, gaping pussy with a soft, wet sound. He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers in the dark. He looked like a man who had found something in the middle of a wasteland.
"You are mine," Harry whispered, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
The words were a vow, a silent declaration in a house that wanted to tear them apart. Greta reached up, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling his head down so she could press a kiss to his lips. She did not care about the war or the blood on the floor or the shadow of the man at the door. In this corridor, she was not a prize or a piece of a plan.
"Yours," she said, the word a soft, definitive breath against his mouth. "Yours."