The corridor was too wide and too quiet for a girl to be wandering alone at midnight. Greta moved with a deliberate, measured pace, trying to ignore the way her heart hammered against her ribs. Every time a torch flickered or a draft stirred the heavy tapestries, she expected to see a ghost or a predator. She was supposed to be heading towards the common room, but her feet felt heavy and her mind was stuck on the trophy room. The memory of the duel was a stinging, hot thing in her gut. She could still feel the phantom sensation of his breath against her skin when they had stood so close to the pedestal.
A sudden, sharp sound echoed from around the corner. Greta froze, her breath catching in her throat as she pressed herself back against a cold, stone-carved pillar. The sound of dragging footsteps was rhythmic and slow. It was the unmistakable scrape of heavy boots on stone, accompanied by the jingle of a key ring. Filch was awake, and he was on the prowl. Panic flared in her chest as she scanned the corridor for a place to hide, but the hallway was empty of any alcoves or doorways.
A suit of armour stood a few feet away, a hulking shape of silvered metal that seemed to swallow the light. Greta lunged for it, her fingers catching the cold edge of a metal greave as she slipped into the narrow gap between the armour and the wall. She felt a sudden, solid warmth hit her back. It was not the stone. It was a man. Harry was there, crouched low in the shadows, his body a sudden, solid heat against her spine.
His hands reached out in the dark, finding her waist and pulling her closer. He didn't just pull her; he tucked her into the fold of his heavy travelling coat, a single pocket of warmth in the freezing hall. She felt the tension in his frame as he kept her pinned against him. His hands were in one single pocket of his coat, and her hand was forced into that same space, her fingers curling around his. The proximity was a physical weight, a crushing, delicious pressure.
The footsteps of the caretaker grew louder, then faded as he moved toward the grand staircase. They did not move. They did not even breathe a word. They stayed caught in that singular, desperate knot of heat.
"Don't move," Harry whispered, his voice a low vibration that she felt in her own spine.
"He's gone," Greta breathed back, though she did not pull away.
"He's not gone yet. He's still in the corridor," he murmured, his chest expanding against her back.
"You're trembling," she said, her voice barely a ghost of a sound.
"Are you?" he replied.
"I am," she admitted, her thumb brushing the back of his hand inside the pocket.
The silence of the corridor was a physical thing, a barrier they were both trying to break. The darkness was absolute around them, save for the dim, orange glow of a distant torch. It made the sensation of his skin against her hand feel sharper, more intense. The friction of his coat against her side was a constant, rhythmic reminder of how close they were.
"His footsteps are gone," Greta said after a long minute.
"Wait," Harry commanded. "Just a moment longer."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because it's easier to pretend we're just hiding," he said.
"Is that what we're doing?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave.
"Are we?" he asked back.
"I think so," she said.
They stayed like that, trapped in the narrow space between the armour and the wall, the silence of the castle pressing in on them. The tension had shifted from the fear of being caught to the heavy, pulsing heat of being touched. The way his hand gripped hers, firm and unyielding, felt like a promise. The footsteps of Filch had vanished, but the footsteps of their own hearts were deaf a thousand times louder.
The heat of him was the only thing that felt real. Greta felt the way his thigh pressed against hers through the fabric of her robes, a hard, unyielding line of muscle. The sensation of his breath, hot and jagged, hitting the nape of her neck made her toes curl in her shoes. She wanted to turn around, to see his face in the dark, to see if his eyes were as hungry as her own. She wanted to feel the way his hands would move if they weren't hiding in a pocket.
She felt the sudden, sharp lurch of her own desire. The way his body felt so solid and so much larger than hers made her feel small and precious. She thought about the way his mouth had moved near her ear just a moment ago, and the thought sent a jolt of heat straight to her cunt. She felt the dampness beginning to pool between her thighs, a heavy, aching sensation that made her want to arch her back against him.
"Harry," she whispered, the name a plea she didn't quite understand.
"I've got you," he said, his voice rougher than before. "Just stay still."
She felt him shift, his hips tilting to press more firmly into her arse. The contact was electric. She could feel the hardness of him through his trousers, a thick, insistent shape that promised more than just a moment of hiding. She wanted to feel him inside her, to feel the weight of him breaking the tension that had been building all night. She imagined his cock sliding into her, stretching her wide, filling the ache that was currently a dull, throbbing weight in her lower belly.
"You're so warm," she muttered, her eyes closing.
"You're the one who's hot," he said, a smirk in his voice that she could feel even in the dark.
"Shut up," she whispered, pressing her head back against his shoulder.
She felt him turn his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. The sensation was a sharp, bright point of heat in the cool, dark corridor. She felt her pussy pulse, a rhythmic, desperate contraction that made her want to groan. She wanted to feel his cock in her hand, to feel the slick, hot length of it as he fucked her right there against the armour. She wanted to feel him lunge into her, to feel the wetness of her cunt meeting the heat of his skin.
The way he held her, so protective and so dominant all at once, made her head spin. She was lost in the sensation of his hand in the pocket, the way his thumb traced the line of her knuckles. It was a small, contained heat, a tiny fragment of the storm that was building inside her. She could feel the urge to reach out, to unfasten his trousers and find the cock that was pressing so hard against her.
She wondered if he could feel her soaking wet, the way her knickers were clinging to her skin. She wondered if he knew how much she wanted him to break the silence. She wanted to hear the sound of him fucking her, the wet, slapping sound of his balls against her thighs, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his body against the metal of the armour.
She stayed perfectly still, her breath held in her lungs, her entire world reduced to the inches of space between them. She was caught in the gravity of him, a singular point of heat in a cold, empty castle. The silence of the corridor was a lie, because inside her, everything was screaming.
She is pressed against him for eleven minutes and thinks about one of them.