The door to the unused classroom in the east wing clicked shut, the sound sharp and final in the quiet corridor. Harry stood by the heavy oak table, his hands shoved into the pockets of his robes, looking every bit the dispossessed prince. He did not move as she entered the room, but his eyes followed her every step, watching the way she moved with a precision that was entirely too practised. She did not offer a greeting or a polite smile because she did not intend to be polite. Instead, she walked to the centre of the room and turned to face him, her expression a mask of cool, aristocratic boredom.
"You are making a spectacle of yourself, Potter," she said, her voice level and dry. "The duelling club is meant to be a display of skill, not a comedy of errors."
Harry let out a short, huffing breath that was almost a laugh. "I didn't ask for your critique, Harry. I am quite capable of managing my own reputation."
"Clearly," she replied, crossing her arms under her breasts. "The whole school saw you stumble over that last incantation. It was clumsy. It was unrefined. It was entirely beneath you."
"Is that why you are here?" he asked, stepping toward her. "To offer a lecture on decorum?"
"I am here because the Malfoy name has a certain standard to uphold, and you are currently dragging it through the mud of the duelling platform." She paused, watching the way his jaw tightened. "You need drills. Real ones. Not these performative displays of wand-work that you do for the crowd."
"And you think you can provide them?" Harry asked, his voice dropping an octave. "You think you have the authority to teach me?"
"I have the discipline," she said, stepping closer until she could feel the heat radiating from him. "You have the talent, but you have no control. You are too busy looking at the audience to notice the technique."
"I am not looking at the audience," he muttered, though his eyes were fixed entirely on her mouth.
"You are," she insisted. "You want to be seen, but you forget that to be seen, one must first be perfect. If you want to stop being a laughing stock, you will take these lessons from me. Privately. Where no one can see you fail."
Harry studied her for a long moment, his gaze searching her face for a hint of mockery or a hidden agenda. "A private tutor. How very generous of you."
"It is a transaction," she said, her voice firm. "I provide the structure, and you provide the results. We do not need to discuss anything else. There will be no conversation about how we feel or why we are doing this. It is simply a matter of technique."
"And what are the terms?" he asked, his voice a low rasp.
"The terms are simple," she said, moving toward him until she was standing within his personal space. "We practice the movements, we master the wand-work, and we do not let it become anything more than a favour. It is a service, Harry. Nothing more."
She reached out, her fingers brushing the fabric of his sleeve, and he did not flinch. She felt the sudden, sharp tension in his frame as she led him toward the wall, the stone cold against her back a moment later. The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing, which was becoming increasingly uneven.
She pushed his robes aside, her hands moving with a purpose that was entirely devoid of tenderness. She wanted him to feel the friction of her skin against his, the way her palms felt against the hard muscle of his thighs. She grabbed his wrists, pinning them against the wall above his head, and felt his strength as he resisted the hold.
"This is part of the drill," she whispered, her breath hot against his neck. "The control of the body is as important as the control of the wand."
She unbuttoned his trousers with practiced, efficient fingers, her eyes never leaving his. She wanted to see the way his eyes darkened, the way his breath hitched when she pulled his cock free from his underwear. It was thick and heavy, pulsing with a life of its own in the cool air of the room. She reached down, wrapping her fingers around the base of his cock, and felt the heat of him.
"Are you in control yet?" she asked, her voice a low, taunting command.
Harry groaned, his head falling back against the stone wall. "You are a cruel woman, Harry."
"I am a disciplined one," she corrected, sliding her hand up the length of him until her thumb rubbed over the slit of his cock. A bead of pre-cum glistened there, and she smeared it across the head of his member.
She moved to her knees, her movements unhurried and deliberate. She took the head of his cock into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the sensitive tip before she drew him in deep. The sensation of his cock sliding down her throat was intense, a blunt, physical reality that had nothing to do with the grace of a ballroom. She sucked on him, her cheeks hollowing, as she felt his hips lurch forward in a desperate attempt to find more friction.
"Fuck," he gasped, his hands clutching at her shoulders. "You are going to ruin me."
She pulled back, a string of saliva connecting her lip to his cock, and looked up at him with a blank, unreadable expression. She stood up, her legs trembling slightly, and reached for the fastening of her own knickers. She pushed them down, stepping out of them until she stood bare before him. She took his cock in her hand again, sliding it into her wet cunt, the friction of her pussy walls gripping him tightly.
She began to move, a slow, rhythmic grinding that forced him to feel every inch of her. She watched his face, the way his eyes squeezed shut in a pained sort of pleasure. She was not performing for him; she was using him to master the sensation of her own body. She pushed herself down onto him, taking the full length of his cock into her heat, her p lussy stretching to accommodate him.
"Do you feel that?" she asked, her voice steady despite the way her pulse was racing. "That is the control. The ability to take what you want and hold it still."
She began to ride him with a frantic, desperate pace, her hips snapping against his pelvis. The sound of their bodies hitting, the wet slap of her cunt against his pubic bone, filled the small space. She gripped his wrists again, her nails digging into his skin as she felt her orgasm building, a heavy, throbbing weight in her lower belly.
"Harder," he choked out, his hips bucking upward to meet her. "Fuck, Harry, harder."
She did not slow down. She leaned forward, her breasts swaying with the force of her movement, and pressed her mouth against his jaw. She felt the stubble of his skin against her lips, the heat of his skin, and the way his muscles jumped under her touch.
"It is just a favour," she said, her mouth pressed against the line of his jaw, the words a desperate attempt to maintain the distance she had promised. "No feelings. Just a transaction."
She felt the moment he broke, his cock pulsing inside her pussy as he came, the hot, thick cum filling her. She did not stop her movement, riding the sensation of his release until her own walls began to contract in a violent, pulsing rhythm. She came with a sharp, silent intensity, her body shaking as she felt the heat of his cum deep inside her, the blunt reality of him filling her completely.
She stayed there for a moment, her head resting on his shoulder, breathing in the sharp scent of him and the sweat. She had said the no feelings line with her mouth against his jaw, which did not make it true.