The tension was as much about her temper as it was about the sheer, exhausting weight of him inside her. Greta lay back against the velvet cushions of the Slytherin common room window seat, her breath hitching as Harry shifted his weight. The lake light was a dull, sickly green outside the glass, but inside the alcove, the heat was singular and suffocating. He moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt like a punishment for every time she had doubted his word. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her skin as he drove himself into her.
"You're being too quiet," Harry murmured, his voice a low rasp against the shell of her ear. He leaned down, pressing his chest against her back, the friction of his skin against hers making her gasp.
"I am busy trying to breathe, Potter," she retorted, though the bite in her voice was softened by a moan as he thrust again. He drove his cock deep into her pussy, the blunt sensation of him hitting her cervix making her toes curl against the rug.
He didn't pull out; instead, he ground his pelvis against her arse, the friction of his pubic bone against her sensitive skin making her vision swim. Greta reached back, her fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer. She wanted to feel the full weight of him, the way he seemed to occupy every inch of the space she had carved out for herself. He was heavy and warm, a solid presence that made the rest of the world feel thin and inconsequential.
"Is that better?" Harry asked, his voice thicker now. He lifted his hips, pulling almost entirely out of her before plunging back in with a heavy, wet sound.
"It's fine," she lied, her head tossing back as he hit the spot that made her entire body tremble. "Don't get cocky."
He laughed, a short, breathless sound, and gripped her thighs to pull them wider. He slid inside her again, the friction of his cock sliding through her wetness creating a rhythmic, slapping sound in the quiet room. He was fucking her with a singular focus, his movements becoming faster and more frantic as he approached his own peak. Greta felt the build of a climax deep in her gut, a pulsing heat that demanded she lose her composure entirely.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a desperate scrape.
She turned her head, her hair a dark halo against the silk, and met his gaze. His eyes were dark, intense, and entirely too honest. He thrust one last time, his cock stretching her wide as he buried himself to the hilt. Greta felt the first wave of her orgasm crash over her, a violent, rhythmic squeezing of her cunt that gripped his shaft tight. She cried out his name, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, as he groaned and spilled his cum deep inside her. The sensation of his hot, thick seed filling her made her feel hollow and full all at once.
They stayed like that for a long time, the only sound the ragged cadence of their breathing. The green light from the lake had shifted to a bruised, watery grey, casting long, indistinct shapes across the floor of the common room. Greta eventually pulled away from him, her skin tacky with sweat and the evidence of their friction. She sat up, smoothing her robes and attempting to reclaim the dignity she had so willingly discarded.
"That was... adequate," she said, her voice regaining its usual sharp edge as she looked at him. She reached for a silk wrap to cover her bare shoulders, her movements precise and practiced.
"Adequate?" Harry repeated, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he sat up, his hair a chaotic mess. He looked unbothered by his disheveled state, which only served to irritate her.
"Don't let it go to your head, Potter," she added, turning her back to him to look out at the dark water. "It was a standard performance."
She began to recount the evening to Pansy the next afternoon, the retelling a vital, necessary piece of work. She sat in the corner of the common room, a cup of tea cooling in her hands, as Pansy watched her with an expression of amused skepticism. Greta did not describe the vulnerability of the moment or the way her breath had caught in her throat when he whispered her name. Instead, she recalibrated the narrative.
"He was clumsy, honestly," Greta said, her voice cool and authoritative as she leaned back in her chair. "He had the technique of a first-year trying to cast a basic Levitation charm. It was all very uncoordinated, really. He kept losing his rhythm, and there was a moment where I actually thought he might stop entirely because he was so distracted by his own ego."
Pansy tilted her head, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "Is that so? Because from where I was sitting, you looked rather occupied."
"I was being polite," Greta snapped, though there was no real heat in it. "A lady has to maintain a certain level of grace, even when the company is... underwhelming. He was desperate, Pansy. He kept trying to impress me, but his spells were sloppy. His movements were too much, too forceful, and he lacked any sense of subtlety. It was a mess, really. A complete and total mess of an encounter."
She described the way she had led him, the way she had dictated the pace of the movement, and the way she had been the one to signal the end. She spoke of his heat and his weight as if they were minor inconvenments rather than the overwhelming forces they had been. She painted a picture of herself as the architect of the chaos, the one in control, the one who had mastered the situation with a bored, practiced hand.
"He was practically begging for direction," Greta continued, her eyes bright with the lie. "I had to practically hold him together. There was no finesse in him at all. It was all just... raw. And quite loud, if we are being honest. It was a very unrefined display of stamina."
Pansy laughed, a bright, sharp sound that echoed in the stone-walled room. "You're a terrible liar, Greta, but you're a very convincing storyteller."
Greta didn't blink. She wouldn't let her composure slip. She kept the story polished and sharp, stripping away the parts that made her feel small or seen. She turned the memory into a trophy, a thing she had conquered and then discarded. She told the story of her own victory, the version where she was the one who held the power, the one who had remained unmoved by his intensity.
As she spoke, she felt the edges of the truth begin to blur, the real sensations of his skin and his scent being overwritten by the neat, clean lines of her description. She watched the way Pansy listened, and she felt a strange, dizzying sense of triumph. She was rewriting history, scrubbing the softness from the edges of the night until it was as hard and bright as a diamond. It was the version she told is the version she starts to believe.