The study table in the library was a wide expanse of dark oak, scarred by decades of ink and quill scratches. Hermione sat on one side, her textbooks arranged in a neat, impenetrable wall of parchment and vellum. Harry sat opposite her, his robes discarded on the chair beside him, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who was supposed to be revising advanced charms. The candlelight flickered, casting long, dancing shapes against the bookshelves, but the focus of the room remained on the small, shared space of their books. Harry was not looking at the text. He was looking at her hands, specifically the way her fingers curled around the edge of her heavy book.
"You are staring, Potter," she said, though she knew he was not Harry. She was not even talking to Harry. She was talking to the man who had spent the last hour watching her every movement with a predatory stillness.
"I am not staring," Harry replied, his voice a low draw anywhere near a murmur. "I am observing."
"Observing is for science, not for social calls," she snapped, pulling her hand back to reach for a fresh sheet of parchment.
"You have a smudge of ink on your thumb," he remarked, leaning forward until the heat of him reached her.
"It is a common occurrence when one actually writes things down," she said, her voice clipped.
He reached across the table, his fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve. He was not wearing his gloves tonight, and the sight of his bare hands, pale and long-fingered, made her stomach tighten. He reached for her hand, his thumb rubbing the dark stain of ink against her skin.
"You are so precise," he whispered, his gaze lifting to meet hers. "Every movement is so calculated."
"It is called discipline," she said, though she felt her breath hitch.
He did not pull away. Instead, he gripped her wrist, pulling her hand toward the center of the table. The books remained open, a barrier of knowledge that felt increasingly useless in the face of his proximity. He leaned in closer, his chest nearly touching the edge of the table, and the scent of him—something sharp and expensive—filled her senses.
"Is it discipline, or are you just afraid to be messy?" he asked.
"I am never messy," she insisted, even as her pulse hammered against her skin where he held her.
He pulled her up from her chair, the legs of the wood scraping harshly against the stone floor. He guided her around the table, her books forgotten and abandoned in their half-read states. The transition from the seat to the edge of the heavy oak was seamless, a practiced movement that left her gasping as he pressed her back against the wood. The surface was hard and cool against her thighs, a stark contrast to the heat of his palms as they slid up her skirt.
"The ink is still wet," he murmured, his mouth hovering just above her collarbone.
"I don't care," she said, her voice breaking as he bunched the fabric of her skirt upward.
He moved with a sudden, brutal efficiency, pushing her skirts up to her waist. He unfastened his trousers, the sound of the heavy fabric hitting the floor a dull thud in the quiet library. When he pushed into her, his cock was hot and thick, a blunt force that made her back arch sharply against the table. He entered her in one long, driving stroke, his cock sliding into her wet cunt with a heavy, rhythmic thud.
"Potter," she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt the stretch of him filling her.
"It is Harry," he corrected, his voice a low growl as he began to fuck her.
He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as he drove his cock into her pussy with a singular, punishing focus. Every thrust sent a jolt of sensation through her, the friction of his cock against her walls making her vision blur. He was not being gentle; he was a man claiming a territory, his movements heavy and unyielding. She felt the slickness of her own juices coating him, the sound of his cock sliding in and out of her cunt a wet, rhythmic slapping that echoed in the alcove.
"Harder," she whispered, the command escaping her before she could think to censor it.
He complied, his hips slamming against her pelvis with a bruising force. He reached down, his hand finding the center of her heat, his thumb rubbing over her clitoris as he continued to fuck her. The dual sensation of his thick cock inside her and his fingers on her clit made her hips buck wildly. She felt her muscles clenching around him, her pussy pulsing in time with his thrusts. He pulled back until he was nearly out, then plunged back in, his cock bottoming out against her cervix.
"You like this, don't you?" he asked, his breath hot against her ear. "You like being a mess for me."
"Shut up," she choked out, her head tossing back.
He moved his hand to her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. He began to fuck her even faster, his cock a relentless engine of heat in her cunt. She felt the tension building in her lower abdomen, a coil of sensation that grew with every heavy stroke. He was deep inside her, his cock rubbing against the sensitive walls of her pussy, driving her toward a precipice. She could feel the heat of him, the sheer mass of his cock filling her until she felt she might break.
"Look at me, Hermione," he commanded, his voice ragged.
She opened her eyes, finding his gaze intense and dark. He was watching her face as he drove his cock into her, his movements becoming shorter and more frantic. The sensation was overwhelming; the way his cock felt as it slid through her cream, the way his weight pressed her into the hard oak. She felt the first wave of her orgasm hit, her pussy clenching around his cock in violent, rhythmic spasms.
"I'm... it's the ink," she cried out, her voice high and breathless as her climax took her.
He did not slow down, his thrusts becoming even more forceful as he felt her walls tighten around him. He let out a low, guttural sound, his own hips snapping forward one last time as he buried his cock as deep as it could go. He felt the hot, thick spurt of his cum erupting inside her, filling her cunt with a searing heat. He held himself there, his cock pulsing within her as the fluid spilled out of her and onto the wood of the table.
She slumped back against the dark oak, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gulps. The silence of the library returned, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the sound of their heavy breathing. She felt the dampness of the ink on her fingers, the stain still dark and wet.
"The inkwell," she whispered, her voice trembling as she looked at the spilled liquid near her hand. "It's the inkwell that made me make that noise."