The candle guttered in its silver holder, a low, orange light that struggled against the vastness of the room. Draconia watched the way the flame licked the wick, a dying thing that refused to go out. Greta had left, her footsteps heavy and decisive on the stone floor of the corridor, leaving the silence to settle like dust. The essay sat on the desk above them, a stack of parchment that held the ugly, unvarnable truth of a Malfoy childhood. Draconia felt the ache in her chest where Greta’s words had landed, sharp and unforgiving.
Harry moved from the shadows near the window, his footsteps silent on the thick, emerald rug. He did not look like a hero or a savior in this light; he looked like a man who was tired of carrying the weight of the world. He sat on the edge of the rug, the fabric soft against his legs, and waited for her to speak. Draconia did not want to speak. She wanted to exist in the stillness of the room, where the only sound was the occasional pop of the melting wax.
"You didn't argue with her," Harry said, his voice a low rasp that broke the quiet.
"There was no point in arguing with the truth," Draconia replied, watching him instead of the candle.
"She was harsh."
"She was honest."
Draconia shifted, the silk of her robes rustically rustling as she moved toward him. The rug felt plush beneath her palms as she sank down to the floor beside him. The scent of the room was nothing but the wax and the cold air, yet she felt the warmth of his body radiating toward her. She reached out, her fingers brushing the rough wool of his jumper, before finding the skin of his hand.
"It is a lot to carry, isn't it?" Harry asked, his eyes searching hers in the dim light.
"I have carried it since I was born," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
He pulled her closer, his movements unhurried and deliberate, until she was tucked against his side. The heat of him was a stark contrast to the chill of the dormitory. Draconia leaned her head back, looking up at the underside of the desk where her essay lay, a testament to everything she could not say aloud. She felt a sudden, sharp urge to destroy it, to tear the parchment into tiny shreds and scatter them to the wind.
"Look at me," Harry whispered, and when she did, he leaned down to kiss her.
The kiss was slow, tasting of nothing but the air and the salt of her own skin. Draconia felt the tension in her stomach coil, a heavy, pulsing weight that grew with every breath. She reached for the buttons of his shirt, her fingers clumsy in the dark, as they moved together on the rug. He pulled his shirt away, his chest bare and warm against her breasts, and she let out a soft, jagged breath.
Harry moved her back until she was lying flat on the rug, the texture of the wool pressing into her spine. He knelt between her legs, his hands sliding up her thighs to find the hem of her skirts. Draconia watched him, her breath hitching as he pushed the fabric up, exposing her pale skin to the flickering candle. He found the edge of her knickers and hooked his fingers into the lace, pulling them down to her ankles.
"You are so beautiful," Harry murmured, his eyes dark and focused on the sight of her.
"Don't be sentimental," she commanded, though her voice lacked any real bite.
He leaned down, his tongue lashing against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and Draconia arched her back. He moved higher, his mouth finding the wet, swollen flesh of her cunt. She gasped, her fingers tang in his hair, as he began to suck on her clitoris. The sensation was a sharp, electric line of heat that raced up her abdomen. She felt the slickness of her own juices coating his lips as he worked his tongue into her slit, teasing the sensitive walls of her pussy.
"Harry," she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut.
He did not stop, his head moving in a rhythmic motion that drove her toward the edge. He slid two fingers deep into her, stretching her open as he continued to lick her, the sound of his wet mouth against her pussy filling the quiet room. Draconia felt the pressure building, a heavy ache that demanded release. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, as he drove his fingers in and out of her, making her cunt ache with a desperate, pulsing need.
Harry pulled back for a moment, his face flushed and damp with sweat. He reached for the fastening of his trousers, his movements urgent now. He freed his cock, the thick, hard length of him standing straight in the dim light. Draconia watched, mesmerized, as he positioned himself at the entrance of her pussy. He leaned forward, his weight pressing her down into the rug, and thrust his cock into her with a single, heavy movement.
"Oh god," she gasped, the fullness of him stretching her wide.
"Is it too much?" he asked, his voice a low groan of exertion.
"It is perfect," she replied, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.
He began to fuck her with long, punishing strokes, his cock sliding in and out of her wet, tight cunt. The friction was intense, the heat of his skin against hers making her head spin. Every time he pushed in, he hit her cervix, sending jolts of pleasure through her entire body. Draconia felt the muscles of her pussy clenching around him, trying to pull him even deeper. She watched his face, the way his jaw tightened with every thrust, the way his eyes stayed locked on hers.
He moved his hand to her breast, squeezing the soft flesh as he hammered into her. The rhythm of his hips was relentless, a steady, driving force that drove the air from her lungs. She felt the build of the climax, a tightening in her lower belly that grew until it was unbearable. She called his name, a soft, breathless sound, as she felt the first waves of her orgasm ripple through her. Her walls spasmed around his cock, milking him as he pushed himself into her one last time.
"Fuck, Draconia," he hissed, his movements becoming faster and more frantic.
He drove himself into her with a final, heavy thrust, his cock pulsing inside her as he came. She felt the warmth of his cum filling her, a hot, thick sensation that made her cry out. He collapsed against her, his chest heaving, as he let out a long, shaky breath. They stayed like that for a long time, tangled together on the rug, the only sound the dying light of the candle and the raggedness of their breathing.
The silence returned, heavier than before. Draconia looked up at the desk, at the essay that sat just inches above them. The ink was still wet in the pot, a dark, silent pool of truth. She felt a sudden, fierce clarity. The truth was a burden, a weight that was too heavy to carry any longer. She reached out a hand, her fingers brushing the edge of the desk.
She gripped the edge of the wooden surface, her knuckles turning white in the low light. She moved with a deliberate, slow intention, her eyes fixed on the inkpot. With a sharp, decisive motion, she knocked the ink over on purpose, because the essay had to go.