The rolling ladder groaned under their combined weight as Harry steadied her hips, keeping the wood from sliding too far along the floor. Draconia gripped the edge of the shelf, her fingers curling around the spines of ancient, leather-bound volumes to keep herself from toppling backward into his chest. They had been frozen in that precarious position for several minutes, neither of them wanting to admit that the descent would be more difficult than the climb. The top shelf was a narrow ledge of wood and dust, and the way Harry was holding her forced her back against the hard, unyielding surface of the books.
"If you move, we both fall," Draconia whispered, her voice barely a breath.
Harry tightened his grip on her waist, his hands sliding slightly lower to catch the curve of her arse through the thin fabric of her robes. "I have you. Just don't lean too far back."
The silence of the restricted section was not empty, though. It was a heavy, occupied silence, because they were not alone in this corner of the library. Just one row of shelves away, a small light flickered, and the rhythmic scratching of a quill on parchment echoed against the stone walls. Hermione Granger was there, a silent, watchful presence that made the entire act feel like a transgression of a much higher order than mere breaking of curfew.
Draconia felt the heat of Harry's breath against the nape of her neck, his chest pressed firmly against her back. He was not moving, yet she could feel the hard pressure of his cock through his trousers, pushing against the swell of her buttocks. The ladder creaked as he shifted his weight to reach a higher grip, and the sound felt loud enough to wake the dead.
"She can hear us," Draconia hissed, reaching back to press a hand against his thigh.
"She can't hear a thing," Harry replied, his voice low and rough. "She is too busy writing."
He moved his hand from her hip to the underside of her thigh, bunching the fabric of her robes upward. The cool air of the library hit her skin as he hiked the hem of her garment higher, exposing the pale flesh of her upper leg. He leaned forward, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, and she felt the sharp, sudden sting of a kiss.
"Quiet," she commanded, though she was the one leaning back into him, her hips tilting to meet the hard length of him. "If she looks up, we are finished."
Harry did not answer with words. Instead, he gripped her waist and pulled her tighter against the shelf, his fingers digging into her flesh. He began to unfasten the fastening of his trousers, the sound of the metal clicking and the sliding of silk feeling violent in the stillness of the room. Draconia closed her eyes, her breath hitching as she felt his heat against her. She could hear the steady, relentless *scritch-scritch-scritch* of Hermione’s quill, a sound that acted as a metronome for her rising arousal.
Harry eased her down the last few inches of the ladder, but he did not let her stand. He kept her pinned against the shelf, her feet flat on the bottom rung, while he knelt behind her. He pulled her robes up to her waist, exposing her bare arse to the cool air. He reached for her knickers, hooking his fingers into the lace and pulling them down to her knees.
"Harry, the ladder is shaking," she whispered, her eyes wide as she stared at the darkened spines of the books in front of her.
"Stay still," he muttered. He reached down and found her cunt, his fingers sliding into the wetness of her folds.
He began to fuck her with slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers sliding in and out of her pussy to prepare her. Draconia bit her lip, her head falling back against his shoulder to stifle a moan. The quill in the next aisle did not stop; it was a constant, rhythmic sound that made her heart race. She could picture Hermione sitting there, bathed in the light of a single candle, lost in her notes, entirely unaware that she was a mere foot away from a display of naked friction.
Harry pulled his cock out of his trousers, the thick, turged length of him looking dark and heavy in the dim light. He positioned himself behind her, his thighs bracing against the rungs of the ladder. He guided his head to her entrance, rubbing the tip of his cock against her wet slit. He pushed inward, the blunt head of his cock forcing its way into her tight pussy.
"Oh god," she breathed, her hands clutching the edges of the shelf so hard her knuckles turned white.
"Don't make a sound," Harry whispered, his voice thick with want.
He began to thrust, his hips hitting her arse with a soft, fleshy thud that sounded deaf elope in the quiet. He drove himself deep inside her, the friction of his cock against her inner walls making her vision swim. Every time he pushed forward, the ladder groaned, the wood creaking under the weight of their rhythmic motion. Draconia leaned forward, her chest pressing against the spines of the books, trying to hide the way her body was reacting to him.
He reached around to grab her breasts, his thumbs rubbing over the peaks of her nipples through the thin fabric of her chemise. He fucked her harder, his movements becoming more frantic as he felt her walls clamping around his cock. He was deep inside her, his pelvis grinding against her clitoris with every heavy lunge. The sound of his skin slapping against her was muffled by her robes, but the vibration of his thrusts traveled up the wooden ladder, a silent signal of their heat.
"Is she... is she looking?" Draconia gasped, her voice a broken thread as he drove into her.
"No," Harry grunted, his breath hot against her ear. "She is focused on her parchment."
He pulled out almost entirely, the tip of his cock teasing her opening before he plunged back in, bottoming out against her cervix. The sensation was overwhelming. She felt the swell of a climax building in her gut, a tension that demanded release. She gripped the shelf, her fingers digging into the cracks between the books, as he began to fuck her with a punishing speed.
His cock felt massive inside her, stretching her-pussy to the limit as he moved. The friction was intense, the wetness of her cunt coating his shaft as he drove himself in and out of her. He was silent, his breath merely heavy and ragged, keeping his movements controlled enough to avoid a loud, percussive sound, but he was relentless. He gripped her hips, his fingers bruising her skin, and pushed her forward so he could bury himself in her one last time.
As she felt the first wave of her orgasm crash through her, she realized the scratching of the quill had not changed its pace. The light from the next aisle was a steady glow, a reminder of the observer they could not escape.
The act was explicit and completely silent for four pages, and Granger's quill does not stop moving once.