The stone walls of the Potions storeroom felt closer than usual tonight. Snape sat at the head of the long wooden table, his quill scratching rhythmically against the parchment. Greta sat a few feet away, her hand aching from the repetitive motion of writing lines. They shared a single pot of ink, a dark pool of liquid that caught the flickering candlelight every time she dipped her quill. The scent of dried herbs and old metal hung in the air, but she could only focus on the scrape of her nib.
"You are slowing down, Harry," Snape said without looking up.
"My hand is cramping," she replied, forcing the quill to move across the parchment.
"Excuses are for the unprepared."
"I am not unprepared, I am simply tired."
"The lines are not finished, so you will stay until they are."
Greta stared at the ink pot, watching the black liquid swirl as she dipped her quill again. She wondered if he knew how much she had been thinking about the previous night in the Slytherin common room. He was a man of precision, and his presence in this small, cramped room felt like a deliberate weight. The silence was not empty; it was occupied by the sounds of his breathing and the scratch of his own writing.
"Do you always demand such penance for small mistakes?" she asked, setting the quill down to rub her knuckles.
"I demand perfection, which is a rare thing in this castle."
"It is a very high standard for a single mistake."
"It is the only standard worth having."
Greta leaned back in her chair, watching the way the light hit the edge of his sleeve. He looked up then, his dark eyes fixing on her with a look that was far too perceptive. He did not look like a man who was bored by the task; he looked like a man who was waiting.
"You've been staring at that same sentence for three minutes," Snape observed.
"The ink is thick tonight."
"The ink is fine. You are distracted."
"Perhaps I am just tired of writing."
"Or perhaps you are hiding something."
"I am not hiding anything from you."
"Everyone is hiding something, Harry. It is a survival instinct."
"Is that why you are so successful?" she asked, her voice dropping a register.
He set his quill down with a precise click. "I am successful because I see the things people try to pretend are not there."
"And what am much am I pretending?"
"You are pretending that you are not frustrated."
"I am not frustrated. I am bored."
"Liar."
The word hung between them, heavy and sharp. Greta felt a sudden lurch in her stomach as he stood up and walked toward her. He did not stop until he was standing behind her chair, his hand reaching out to tilt her chin upward. The sensation of his skin against hers was a jolt of electricity. He moved around to the front of the table, pulling her chair toward him until her knees bumped against his thighs.
"Tell me the truth," he whispered, his voice a low command. "Why did you really come that night? Why did you really come to the tower?"
"Is it so hard to believe a girl wanted to see the view?" she asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"The view was not the point. You wanted to be seen."
"Maybe I did."
He reached out, his fingers sliding into her hair to pull her head back. He leaned down, his mouth finding hers in a hard, bruising kiss. Greta groaned into his mouth, her hands flying to his chest to bunch the fabric of his robes. She wanted him closer, wanted the friction of his body against hers to drown out the logic of the room.
He pushed her back from the table, the legs of the chair screeching against the stone floor. He lifted her up, setting her on the edge of the long wooden surface. Her skirts bunched around her thighs as he stepped between her legs, his hands sliding up the insides of her thighs. He was undressing her with a frantic sort-of precision, pulling her knickers down until her cunt was exposed to the cool air of the room.
"Fuck," he breathed, his eyes fixed on her wet pussy. "You are so soaking wet."
He unfastened his trousers, his cock springing free from his underwear. It was thick and heavy, the head of his cock a dark, angry red. He gripped his dick and pushed it against her clitoris, rubbing the length of it against her slit. Greta arched her back, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. She reached down to grab his cock, her fingers curling around the hot, pulsing vein of him.
"More," she gasped, her head falling back. "Just fuck me, Draconia."
He lunged forward, driving his cock into her pussy in one long, heavy stroke. Greta cried out as he filled her, the sensation of him stretching her walls so wide. He began to pump into her, his hips hitting her pubic bone with a rhythmic, wet sound. Every time he shoved himself inside, the sound of his cock sliding against her wet cunt filled the small room. He was fucking her hard, his movements unpolished and desperate.
"You like this, don't you?" he grunted, his teeth catching the skin of her shoulder. "You like being filled by me."
"Yes," she sobbed, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "Harder. Fuck me harder."
He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming violent and shallow. He was hitting her cervix with every lunge, and she felt the pressure building in her lower belly. His cock felt massive inside her, a thick, unyielding weight that made her feel like she might break. She watched his face as he moved, the way his eyes darkened and his jaw tightened with the effort of the friction. He leaned down to lick the sweat from her collarbone, his tongue hot and wet.
"God, your pussy is so tight," he groaned, his voice a guttural rasp. "It’s squeezing my cock so hard."
He pulled out almost entirely, the head of his cock glistening with her juices, before slamming back inside her. The sensation was overwhelming. She felt the heat of him, the way his cock pulsed inside her as he worked to find the perfect angle. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into her heat.
"Don't stop," she pleaded, her eyes fluttering shut. "Don't you dare stop."
He didn't, instead driving himself into her with even more force. He was fucking her with a singular focus, his movements becoming a blur of skin and friction. The sound of their bodies colliding was loud in the quiet storeroom. He was a force of nature, and she was being consumed by him. She felt her muscles begin to twitch, the climax building in waves of white heat.
"I'm going to..." she gasped, her body tensing.
"Do it," he commanded, his own breath hitching. "Cum for me, Greta."
She exploded, her pussy clenching around him in violent, rhythmic spasms. The sensation of her orgasm sent a shock through her entire body, and she felt the muscles of her cunt milking his cock. He let out a low, animalistic sound and shoved himself into her one last time, pinning her against the table. He thrust deep, his hips shuddering as he began to cum. She felt the hot, thick spurt of his cum filling her. It felt like a warm flood inside her, the liquid heat of him coating the walls of her womb. He slumped against her, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. He stayed inside her for a long moment, letting the sensation of his cum dripping inside her settle the frantic energy of the room.