Greta spent the morning being an absolute nightmare to anyone who dared speak her name. The Slytherin common room was a place of velvet and quiet, but she made it a place of sharp edges and clipped responses. Pansy tried to ask her about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend, but Greta merely stared at her plate of toast as if it had personally offended her. Her mood was a jagged thing, a reaction to the alcove, the hand on the chest, and the way the air felt like it was vibrating even when she was standing perfectly still.
"Are you actually quite alright, Greta?" Pansy asked, her voice tilting with a hint of genuine concern.
"I am perfectly fine, Pansy, do stop being tedious," Greta replied, not looking up from her breakfast.
The response was brittle, and the rest of the table went silent. She felt the eyes of the other girls on her, watching the way she gripped her silver spoon. It was not that she was actually miserable; it was that she was uncomfortably aware of the sensation of her own skin. She felt too much, and the friction of her robes against her thighs felt like a provocation. She was angry because she had let him close, and she was angry because she had been the one to pull away.
"You are being remarkably difficult today," Astoria mumbled from across the table.
Greta snapped her gaze up, her eyes narrowed. "I am being myself, which is apparently a problem for your delicate sensibilities."
"You've been a terror since the Charms lesson," Astoria said, setting down her goblet.
"Perhaps the lesson was just terribly dull," Greta snapped back, though she knew the Charms lesson was actually the reason for her irritation.
By lunch, she had been rude to a first-year for breathing too loudly near her. By the afternoon, she had managed to offend a prefect by questioning the efficiency of his seating arrangement. She was walking through the corridors with a purposeful stride, her jaw set so tight it ached. She wanted someone to actually say something to her, to challenge her, but everyone seemed to be scurrying out of her way to avoid the blast radius of her temper.
The frustration built in her chest like a physical weight. She was walking toward the library when she saw him. Harry was walking toward her from the opposite direction, looking entirely too calm, entirely too unbothered by the fact that she was currently a walking thunderstorm. He saw her, and he did not look away. He didn't look intimidated by the scowl she wore like a shield.
"You're in a mood," Harry said, stepping into her path.
"Do not presume to diagnose me, Potter," Greta snapped, trying to move around him.
He stepped to the side, forcing her to stop. "Everyone is talking about how you've been biting people's heads off all afternoon."
"Then they can go back to talking, since they seem to have so much free time," Greta said, her voice rising.
"Is it because of the alcove?" Harry asked, his voice dropping to a lower, more serious register.
Greta felt the heat climb up her neck. She was so tired of the tension, of the way he looked at her as if he could see the way her pulse was jumping in her throat. "It is because you are an idiot who thinks he can just stand there and exist in my space," she lied.
"You're the one who stopped your hand, Greta," he said, stepping closer.
"I did you a favour," she said, her voice trembling slightly despite herself. "You were being far too confident."
"You're furious," he stated, his eyes searching hers.
"I am not furious, I am merely unimpressed," she lied again, though the lie was transparent.
They moved toward an empty classroom, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft click. The silence of the room was a vacuum, sucking the breath from her lungs. The anger was still there, but it was transforming, turning from a sharp, biting thing into a heavy, pulsing ache in her stomach. She wanted to hit him, or kiss him, or perhaps just shake him until his teeth rattled.
Harry reached out, his fingers catching her waist, and the contact was like a match hitting dry wood. She didn't pull away this time. Instead, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward her, her anger spilling out in a desperate, hungry way.
"Fuck the politeness," she whispered against his lips, and then she was pulling him down.
He groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding up to cup her face as he kissed her deeply. Greta felt the friction of his tongue against hers, a blunt and heavy sensation that made her head spin. She pushed him back against the edge of a heavy oak table, her hands roaming over the fabric of his robes, desperate to feel the warmth of him. She unbuttoned his shirt with frantic, clumsy fingers, the fabric sliding open to reveal the pale skin of his chest.
"Greta," he breathed, his voice thick with a sudden, sharp need.
"Don't talk, just do it," she commanded, her voice a low growl.
She reached down, her hand sliding into his trousers to find his cock. It was already hard, a thick and pulsing length of heat that throbbed against her palm. She gripped it, sliding her fingers up and down the shaft, watching his eyes blow wide with the sensation. He let out a ragged breath, his head falling back as she worked the skin. He reached for her, his hands fumbling with the fastenings of her skirt and the silk of her knickers.
He pushed the fabric down, exposing her cunt to the cool air of the room before his hand replaced the air with heat. He found her wetness, his fingers sliding into her pocks, finding the soft, swollen lips of her pussy. Greta gasped, her hips arching off the table as he began to rub her, his fingers slick with her own juices. She felt the ache in her lower belly growing into a scream.
"You're so fucking wet," Harry muttered, his thumb circling her clitoris with a heavy, rhythmic pressure.
"Shut up and fuck me," she commanded, her voice breaking.
He stood, unfastening his trousers and freeing his cock completely. It was a heavy, rigid thing, veined and imposing. He positioned himself between her thighs, the head of his cock brushing against her entrance. Greta reached down, guiding him, her fingers trembling as she felt the blunt tip of him pressing against her. She wanted the fullness; she wanted to be stretched until she couldn't think of anything else but him.
He pushed forward, the head of his cock forcing its way into her tight, wet cunt. Greta cried out, the sensation of him filling her so completely that it felt like she was being split in two. He moved slowly at first, sliding the length of his cock into her, the friction of his skin against hers sending sparks through her nerves. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting the bluntness of the act to erase her anger.
He began to thrust, the pace increasing as the sounds of their bodies hitting filled the room. The sound of his cock sliding in and out of her was a wet, rhythmic slapping. Greta gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he drove into her, each stroke deeper and more forceful than the last. She felt the heat of him, the way his weight pressed her down into the hard wood of the table.
"Is this enough?" he gasped, his breath hot against her ear as he picked up the pace. "Is this what you wanted?"
"Yes, fuck, yes," she sobbed, her head tossing back.
He hit her deep, his cock bruising the inside of her, a blunt and heavy sensation that made her vision blur. She felt the build of a climax, a tension that was as much about her temper as