The hospital wing was far too white, and the heavy velvet curtains of her bed felt like a claustrophobic enclosure. Madam Pomfrey had left an hour ago, leaving Draconia alone with the stinging ache in her side where the hex had torn through her robes and skin. Her body felt heavy and bruised, a dull, pulsing throb radiating from the jagged wound that sat just above her hip. Every breath was a calculated effort to avoid the sharp tug of the stitching. The silence of the wing was broken only by the distant, rhythmic sound of a dripping tap and the scratch of a quill from a far corner.
Harry sat in a wooden chair beside her bed, looking entirely too large for the narrow space. He had been there for three hours, watching her with a gaze that was far too perceptive for her comfort. He looked tired, his hair a mess and his glasses slightly askut, but he did not look like he intended to leave. His presence was a constant, heavy pressure against the edges of her resolve.
"You should be sleeping," Harry said, his voice low and rough.
"Sleep is for people who aren't actively dying," Draconia replied, her voice sharper than she intended.
"You aren't dying. You're just being stubborn."
"Stubborn is a compliment in my house, Potter."
He moved closer to the edge of the mattress, leaning forward so that he was within reach of her hand. "Pomfrey said it was a nasty hit. She said the spell was meant for me, but you didn't even hesitate."
Draconia turned her face away, staring at the heavy fabric of the curtain. "It was a tactical repositioning. It is a waste of energy to stand there and take a hex meant for a boy who has no idea how to dodge a single one."
"You're a terrible liar," he muttered, and she could hear the grin in his voice.
"I am a perfect liar; you are just a poor listener."
"I heard everything you said. Including the part where you claimed you weren't hurt."
"The part where I am currently bleeding into my mattress is also a lie, clearly."
He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder before he actually touched her. His fingers were warm against the skin of her arm, and the contact made her stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the wound. He looked at her with an intensity that made her want to hide under the covers, yet she found herself leaning into his touch instead. The pain in her side flared, a sharp, biting heat, but she refused to wince.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.
"Everything hurts, Harry."
"You're so idiotic. You could have just stepped aside."
"And let them think you are a clumsy target? Never."
"You're a fool," he said, and then he was moving, shifting from the chair to the edge of the bed.
His hands were on her now, moving with a desperate, uncoordinated hunger that lacked any of the grace she expected from him. He pulled the heavy duvet back, exposing the pale skin of her midriff where the bandages were wrapped tight. He didn't wait for permission; he simply climbed into the narrow bed, his weight tilting the mattress and sending a jolt of pain through her ribs. He was not being careful, and she found she did not want him to be.
"Harry, the stitches," she gasped, as his hands slid under her chemise.
"I'll be careful," he lied, his breath hot against her neck.
He moved with a frantic, unpolished energy, his hands roaming over her skin as he pushed her back into the pillows. He stripped her of the chemise, leaving her nearly naked in the dim light of the bed. His mouth was on her skin, kissing the line of her hip, his lips clumsy and desperate. He was not a poet; he was a boy with a singular, driving need, and he pressed his weight into her, his thigh sliding between her legs.
"Fuck," he groaned, the word blunt and raw.
He reached down, fumbling with the fastening of his trousers, his movements hurried and uncoordinated. He pushed his trousers down and freed his cock, which was thick and pulsing with heat. Draconia reached for him, her fingers wrapping around the warm, hard length of him, feeling the way he jumped at her touch. She pulled him closer, her legs wrapping around his waist to draw him into the heat of her.
"Harder," she commanded, the word a ragged plea.
He moved into her, his cock sliding into her pussy with a sudden, heavy thrust. She gasped, the sensation of him filling her so completely that it felt like she was being split open. He was not gentle; he was a force of nature, driving into her with a rhythm that was primal and unrefined. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her waist, and he fucked her with a ferza that made the bed creak.
"You're so tight," he grunted, his head falling forward to press his forehead against hers.
"Don't stop," she choked out, her eyes fluttering shut.
He pushed deeper, his cock hitting her cervix with a blunt, heavy thud that made her back arch. He was fucking her with a desperate, singular focus, his movements becoming more frantic as he chased the peak. His skin was hot against hers, the friction of his thighs rubbing against her hips creating a delicious, searing heat. He was sweating, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps as he drove into her cunt, over and over.
"I want to... I want to stay inside you," he panted, his movements becoming even more erratic.
"Then do it," she said, her voice a broken whisper. "Just fuck me, Harry."
He leaned down, his mouth finding hers in a messy, hungry kiss that tasted of salt and heat. He thrust one last time, deep and hard, his cock sliding into her pussy as he spilled his cum deep inside her. She felt the warmth of him flooding her, the pulsing sensation of his release driving her to the edge of her endurance. They collapsed against each other, the sweat and the heat and the heavy, ungraceful weight of their bodies pressing into the mattress.
As the tension began to ebb, the pain in her side flared again, a sharp reminder of the vulnerability she was currently displaying. She reached out, her hand trembling as she touched the skin of her abdomen, where the bandage sat.
"It's ugly, isn't it?" she whispered, the bravado finally slipping.
Harry shifted, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look down at her. His eyes were dark and soft. "It's not ugly. It's just... you."
"It's a mess," she said, her voice small. "The way I look. The way I am."
"You're the most brilliant mess there is," he countered, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
She looked up at him, her eyes bright with a sudden, sharp clarity. She needed to tell him before he could use it to pity her, before he could see the girl behind the armor.
"I'll tell you the story of the scars," she said, her voice steadying as she felt the familiar, cold strength return to her bones. "I'll tell you the story of how they got there, right now, in the middle of this, so you can't use it against me later."