The Great Hall felt cavernous and hollow without the roar of the student body. Floating candles burned low, casting long streaks of light across the four long tables that sat in the silence. Draconia sat on the Slytherin table, her legs dangling over the edge of the dark wood. She held the Quidditch cup against her hip, the gold of the metal cool against her skin. The trophy felt heavy and solid, a physical manifestation of the year she had endured. Everything felt too large and too quiet, as if the echoes of the cheers were still trapped in the high, vaulted ceiling.
Harry sat on the floor beside her, leaning his back against the table. He looked up at her with a gaze that had seen too much of her life through the lens of a contract. The silence between them was not the heavy, suffocating kind they had shared in the dark room. It was a stillness that had been earned. He had listened to her read the clauses of her father's demands, heard the specificities of her future, and had not moved a single inch.
"You look like you might try to eat it," Harry said, gesturing to the cup.
"It is a trophy, not a feast," Draconia replied, her fingers tracing the etched carvings of the metal. "Though part of me wants to swallow it just to be done with it."
"You earned it," he told her. "The whole school saw you win."
"The whole school saw me win, and yet the person who mattered most was sitting in the wrong stand the entire time," she said. She looked down at him, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw. "You were a very conspicuous distraction, Harry."
"I was not trying to be a distraction," he argued, though a small smile played at his lips. "I was just watching."
"You were watching a girl miss a Quaffle because she was looking for a boy," she said. She shifted her position, sliding further onto the table so she could lean toward him. The movement was fluid, her silk robes rustling against the wood. "It was a very poor display of focus."
"It worked, didn't it?" he asked.
"It did."
She reached down, her hand finding the nape of his neck. The way she looked at him was different now, stripped of the defensive armour she wore in the corridors and the common room. She wanted him to see the truth of the girl behind the name. She wanted him to see the girl who was tired of being a prize and wanted to be a person.
"Do you want to go?" he asked, his voice dropping a semi-tone.
"I want to be somewhere where no one is looking at the cup," she said. "I want to be somewhere where the only thing people see is us."
"The Hall is empty," he reminded her. "There is no one here but us and the ghosts."
"Then let us make it worth the ghosts' time," she murmured.
She slid off the table, her feet hitting the stone floor with a soft thud. She pulled him up, her hands sliding into his hair, pulling his head down toward hers. The kiss was not soft; it was a collision of teeth and tongue. She felt the heat of him against her palms, the familiar strength of his shoulders as he gripped her waist. He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her toward the shadows of the long table.
She sat back on the edge of the wood, pulling him between her thighs. The fabric of her robes bunched up around her hips, exposing the pale skin of her thighs. Harry moved with a sudden, frantic energy, his hands fumbling with the fastenings of her clothes. He pushed her skirt up, his fingers brushing against the damp heat of her pussy. She gasped as he nudged her knickers aside with his thumb, sliding deep into her wetness.
"Fuck, Draconia," he groaned, his breath hot against her neck.
He pulled his cock free from his trousers, the length of it thick and pulsing in the dim light. He pushed the head of his cock against her slit, rubbing the tip against her clitoris. She arched her back, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he pushed inside her. He entered her in one heavy, blunt stroke, his cock filling her completely. She cried out, the sound echoing in the vast, empty space of the Great Hall.
"Yes, just like that," she whispered, her legs tightening around his waist. "Fuck me harder, Harry."
He began to thrust, his hips striking against her pelvis with a rhythmic, wet sound. The friction of his cock sliding in and out of her pussy made her head toss back. He was thick and hard, stretching her as he drove deep into her womb. She could feel the heat of him, the way his skin felt slick with sweat against her thighs. He gripped her hips, his fingers bruising the soft flesh as he pounded into her.
"Your cunt is so tight," he panted, his voice a low growl. "It feels like you're trying to swallow me whole."
"Then don't stop," she commanded, her voice breaking. "I want to feel every inch of you."
He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming faster and more violent. The sound of his cock hitting her pusc of her skin was loud in the silence. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her breasts as he continued to fuck her. Every time he drove into her, she felt the impact in her very bones. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to disappear into the sensation of him.
"You're so wet," he groaned, his eyes blown wide with lust. "God, you're soaking."
He reached down, his thumb finding her clitoris and rubbing it hard as he thrust. The sensation was too much, a sharp, electric spike of pleasure that made her vision blur. She felt the build of her orgasm, a tightening in her lower belly that demanded release. She gripped his hair, her nails catching in the strands as she pulled his head down to her chest.
"Harry, please," she begged, her voice a ragged edge. "I'm close. Fuck, just keep fucking me."
He didn't slow down, his movements becoming more desperate. He drove his cock into her one last time, deep and hard, and she felt the first wave of her orgasm crash over her. Her pussy clutched at him, her muscles pulsing around his length in tight, rhythmic waves. He let out a guttural sound, his own release hitting him as he shoved himself deep into her. He came with a heavy, forceful-thud of his hips, his cum filling her as he emptied himself inside her.
She felt the warmth of his cum spreading inside her, a heavy, satiating weight. She leaned her head back, her eyes closing as the aftershocks of the climax rolled through her. They stayed there for a long time, breathing in unison, the only sound the soft, wet friction of their bodies.
When the tension finally ebbed, she looked up at him. The trophy was still there, glinting on the table behind her, a silent witness to the mess they had made. She felt a sudden, sharp need to reclaim the narrative, to remind him that she was not just a girl who had been won, but a woman who had chosen him.
She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her touch a little more certain than before. She looked at him, her expression unreadable for a moment before the familiar, sharp wit returned to her eyes.
"You know what they say about the Slytherin winner," she said, her voice low and steady, the humor returning to her lilt. "Every Slytherin knows: it's the grip and the thighs."
The joke landed, a small, soft thing in the vastness of the Hall. She saw