The Great Hall felt too large when the silence was not broken by the clatter of cutlery or the hum of a thousand voices. Draconia sat on the Slytherin table, her legs crossed at the knee, watching the empty benches stretch out toward the long shadows of the house tables. Harry Potter stood on the floor below her, his boots scuffing the stone, looking up with an expression that hovered between fury and disbelief. The way he gripped his wand suggested he was not ready to surrender the dignity of his position. He was a man who had spent years surviving, yet here he was, caught in the gravity of her whim.
"Again," Draconia said, her voice flat and commanding. She did not move from her perch, but her eyes tracked the movement of his hand.
Harry Potter raised his wand, his knuckles white against the wood. He took a breath to cast, his eyes narrowing as he focused on her. He began the incantation, his voice low and determined. "Expelli—"
Before the word could settle in the air, Draconia flicked her wrist with a bored, elegant precision. The silver light of the spell was a violent streak in the dimness, and his wand flew upward, lurching into her waiting hand. Harry Potter let out a frustrated huff, his shoulders dropping as he reached for the prize.
"You are getting slower," Draconia remarked, turning the wood over in her fingers to feel the grain. She enjoyed the way he looked when he lost, the way his jaw tightened in a way that made him look far more rugged than the boy he had been.
"I was not slow," Harry Potter snapped, stepping closer to the table so he could reach the edge. "You just caught me off guard. One more time. I will not let you do that again."
He lunged forward, his wand a blur of motion, but Draconia was faster. She did not even stand up. She simply shifted her hips, a small movement that brought her wand tip down toward his wrist. The flash was instantaneous, a sharp, bright snap of magic that sent his wand spinning toward the rafters. He stood there, empty-handed, staring at her with a look of sheer, unadulterated irritation.
"That is two," Draconia counted, her voice a soft chime in the hollow hall.
"It is a fluke," Harry Potter said, his voice rising. He reached for his wand on the floor, his fingers brushing the stone as he scrambled to retrieve it. "You are just lucky. You are playing with luck."
"It is not luck, Potter. It is reflex," Draconia told him, leaning forward until her hair brushed her shoulders. She watched the way his chest rose and fell under his robes, the way his breathing became heavy and uneven.
The sequence began to repeat, a rhythmic, repetitive dance of magic and motion. Every time he lunged, she struck. Every time he attempted a spell, she disarmed him before the first syllable could leave his lips. The hall echoed with the sound of his footsteps and the sharp, percussive crack of her spells. He was trying to be aggressive, to force his way back into a position of power, but she was a predator watching a wounded animal.
"Third," she said, her voice bored.
"Fourth," he yelled, his face flushing a dark, angry red as he caught his wand from the floor for the fourth time.
"Fifth," she whispered, her eyes bright with a sudden, sharp hunger.
The air in the hall felt stagnant around them, though the magic was constant. Harry Potter was panting now, the physical exertion of the repeated lunges and the frantic, snapping magic taking its toll. He was sweating, the dampness of his brow catching the faint light of the enchanted ceiling. Draconia watched the way his muscles bunched in his arms as he prepared for the sixth attempt. She wanted to see him break, to see the moment the frustration turned into something more visceral.
"Sixth," she said, her voice dropping an octave.
"Seventh," he grunted, his voice raspy. He was no longer even trying to be subtle with his movements; he was throwing himself at her, desperate to reclaim the wand that she held like a trophy.
"Eighth," she called out, her eyes fixed on the way his hips swayed as he moved.
"Ninth!" Harry Potter shouted, his voice cracking with the sheer force of his irritation. He looked like a man possessed, his hair messy and his eyes wild.
"Tenth," she said, her voice a low, purring sound.
"Eleventh," he gasped, his body trembling from the tension of the repeated strikes.
Then, something changed. The tension in the hall snapped, not with a spell, but with a sound of pure, unbridled amusement. Harry Potter began to laugh. It was a jagged, breathless sound that cut through the silence of the empty hall. He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his head hanging low as the laughter wracked his frame.
Draconia froze, her wand still gripped in her hand. She watched him, the way his shoulders shook, the way his eyes crinkled with a genuine, mocking mirth. The silence of the hall rushed back in around them, but it was different now. The rhythm had been broken. She realized that she had been performing for four pages, a sequence of disarms that had become a spectacle of her own making, a performance of control that he had just turned into a joke.
The laughter died down, leaving a heavy, expectant silence. Harry Potter looked up at her, his face flushed and his eyes bright with a dangerous, knowing look. He did not look humiliated anymore; he looked hungry.
"You think you are so clever, don't you?" Harry Potter asked, his voice low and rough. He stood up straight, his gaze fixed on her mouth.
"I know I am," Draconia said, though her heart hammered against her ribs.
"You are just a girl playing with a toy," Harry Potter said, stepping up onto the first level of the table.
The distance between them vanished. He reached out, his hand closing around her ankle, his fingers warm and firm against her skin. He pulled her closer to the edge of the table, and Draconia felt the heat of him radiating through the air. The wand in her hand felt light, almost useless, as he moved into her space. He did not wait for her to react. He leaned in, his mouth crashing against hers, a hard, demanding kiss that tasted of salt and heat.
"Fuck," he muttered against her lips, his hand sliding up her thigh.
He gripped the hem of her robes, pulling the fabric up until her skin was bare to the cool air of the hall. He moved with a frantic, desperate energy, his hands roaming over her hips and the curve of her arse. Draconia wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
"Do it," she commanded, her voice a jagged edge of desire. "Take it back."
Harry Potter unfastened his trousers with a single, violent tug. His cock was already hard, a thick, pulsing weight that she could feel against her inner thigh. He pushed her back against the wood of the table, his weight pressing her down. He found her center, his fingers sliding into her wet, aching pussy. She gasped, her head tossing back as he worked his fingers into her, stretching her open.
"You want your wand back?" Harry Potter asked, his voice a growl. "I want this."
He drove himself into her, his cock sliding deep into her cunt in one long, punishing stroke. Draconia cried out, her body arching as the fullness of him filled her. He began to fuck her with a brutal, rhythmic intensity, his hips slamming against her pelvis. Each thrust was a heavy, wet