The Charms classroom felt smaller than it had during the first time. There was no audience of invisible specters and no heavy expectation of a performance to maintain. Harry sat on the edge of the desk, his legs dangling near her knees, and the silence between them was not a joke. Draconia watched him from her seat, her back straight and her expression carefully blank. The cleverness she had used as a shield for the last several months felt brittle and useless now. She had spent so much time measuring him, teasing him about the length of a wand or the strength of a grip, that she had forgotten how to simply exist in the same space as him without a punchline.
"You are being quiet," Harry said, his voice cutting through the stillness of the room. He reached out to touch the edge of her desk, his fingers tracing the wood.
"I am tired of talking," Draconia replied. She did not look away from his eyes. "The jokes are becoming tedious, even for me."
"Is that why you are looking at me like that?" he asked. He moved closer, sliding off the edge of the desk to stand between her knees.
"I am looking at you because you are still here," she said. She reached up to touch his cheek, her fingers trailing down to his jaw. "You stayed for the lines. You wrote them twenty times."
"I would write them twenty times if you asked me to do it again," he whispered. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers.
The air in the room felt still as she pulled him down toward her. There was no clever quip about the size of a wand or the dexterity of a hand. She simply wanted him. She wanted the friction and the heat and the way he looked when he stopped trying to be the hero and just became a man. She reached for the fastening of his trousers, her movements efficient and devoid of the usual theatrical flair. When his cock sprang free from his underwear, she did not make a joke about its length. She simply wrapped her fingers around the warm, hard length of it and felt the pulse of him against her palm.
"Do you want me?" he asked, his voice thick.
"I want to feel you," she said. She moved her hand up to his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt.
She stood up from her chair, her movements slow and deliberate. She walked back to the professor's desk and climbed onto it, just as she had done weeks ago. This time, she did not draw one knee up in a pose of suggestion; she sat with her legs wide, inviting him into the space. She took his hand and placed it against the dampness between her thighs. She was already wet, her pussy aching for the sensation of him.
"Fuck me, Harry," she said, the command blunt and stripped of any charm. "No more pretending."
He moved in, his hands sliding under her knickers to pull the lace aside. He pushed her legs further apart until she was completely open to him. He unbuttoned her skirt and pushed the fabric of her underwear aside, exposing her dripping cunt to the cool air of the classroom before he replaced it with his warmth. He positioned himself at her opening, his eyes fixed on hers. He did not use a wand or a charm; he used his weight and his hands.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, his breath hot against her neck as he pushed his cock into her.
"Yes," she gasped, her head falling back. "Harder."
He drove his cock into her, the thick length filling her-completely. He slid into her pussy with a heavy, rhythmic force, and she wrapped her legs around his waist to pull him deeper. There was no grace in the way she moved, only a desperate need to feel him hit her cervix. He fucked her with a singular focus, his hips striking hers with a wet, rhythmic sound that echoed in the empty classroom. He reached down to grab her hips, his fingers digging into her skin as he drove himself into her.
"You are so tight," he groaned, his face contorting with the effort of the thrusts.
"Don't stop," she told him, her voice a ragged edge of sound. "Just keep fucking me."
He pulled out nearly all the way before plunging back in, the sensation of his cock sliding through her wetness making her toes curl. She watched him, watching the way his muscles bunched in his arms and the way his sweat-slicked skin caught the dim light. He was not a boy playing at magic; he was a man claiming her. He moved faster, his thrusts becoming more violent and shallow as he searched for the perfect angle to make her scream. She felt the pressure building in her abdomen, a heavy, pulsing tension that demanded release.
"Harry, please," she whispered, her hands clenching the edge of the desk.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Don't look away."
He drove himself into her one last time, his cock hitting the back of her womb with a force that made her vision blur. He stayed deep inside her, his body trembling with the effort of holding back his climax. He began to move in shorter, faster stabs, his hips working frantically against her. She felt her own orgasm beginning, a violent contraction of her pussy walls that clamped around his cock. She cried out his name, her body arching off the desk as the sensation peaked.
"I am going to cum," he gasped, his teeth gritted.
He thrust one final time, burying himself to the hilt in her. She felt the hot, thick spurt of his cum filling her, the sensation of him pulsing inside her as he reached his peak. He collapsed against her, his chest heaving as he breathed the same air she did. He did not move away, staying joined to her as the feeling of him slowly settling within her. The silence returned to the room, but it was different now. It was not the silence of a joke or a pause in a conversation. It was the silence of two people who had finally stopped performing.
She reached up to stroke his hair, her fingers trembling slightly. She felt the exhaustion in her limbs and the lingering heat of his cock inside her. She wanted to say something clever, to turn this moment into a witty observation about his stamina or his technique, but the words would not come. She was too tired to be a witch, and she was too honest to be a liar.
"That was not a joke," he whispered, pulling back just enough to look at her.
"No," she said, her voice soft and stripped of its usual iron. "It wasn't."
She felt a sudden, sharp pang of regret as she watched him smile. She had been too vulnerable, too real, and now she would have to find a way to build her walls back up. She was honest for the length of it and hateful about it afterwards.