The Room of Requirement had decided to be helpful, which was its primary flaw. It had provided a massive, cavernous space filled with old, heavy furniture, and then, through some trick of magic or whim, it had lifted half of it into the air. Armchairs, small wooden stools, and heavy oak desks drifted lazily through the upper reaches of the room, caught in a slow, weightless current. Draconia watched a velvet chaise longue drift past a high, vaulted ceiling, feeling a strange sense of kinship with the levitating objects. Everything in this room was untethered, much like her own composure when Harry was in the room.
"It is a bit ridiculous, isn't it?" Harry asked, stepping around a floating side table. He looked up at the ceiling where a dozen books were spinning in a slow circle. He was not looking at the furniture, though; he was looking at her, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw.
"It is magnificent," Draconia replied, her voice steady despite the way her pulse jumped. "Most people spend their lives trying to keep things grounded, but there is something to be said for letting the weight go."
Harry moved closer, his shoulder brushing against a stool that was hovering at chest height. "You always want to be the one in control of the gravity, don't you? You hate it when things just float away."
"I hate it when things are unpredictable," she corrected him, stepping into his space. "A floating desk is a nuisance because you cannot rely on it to hold your weight. It is useless."
He laughed, a low sound that vibrated in the small space between them. "Is that what you think of me? That I am a floating desk?"
"You are a very handsome, very frustrating desk," she said, her eyes narrowing. "And right now, you are being incredibly distracting."
The room felt warmer than the corridor outside, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and something sharper, something primal. A heavy wooden chair drifted between them, a silent witness to the tension that had been building for months. Harry reached out, his fingers catching her waist, pulling her flush against him. The friction of his robes against hers sent a jolt through her, and she felt the familiar, heavy ache begin in her lower belly.
"The furniture is drifting, Draconia," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "Does it bother you?"
"The furniture is the least of my problems," she murmured, her hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders.
He pressed her back against a large, stationary wardrobe, his body a solid, unyielding weight against hers. His hands moved down, sliding under the hem of her skirt, finding the silk of her knickers. He didn't hesitate, his fingers sliding into her heat, finding her wet and ready. Draconia gasped, her head falling back against the dark wood of the wardrobe. She felt his fingers probe her, circling the swollen nub of her clitoris before sliding deeper into her pussy.
"You are so wet," Harry muttered, his voice thick with desire. He broke away just enough to unfasten his trousers, his cock springing free from his undergarments. It was thick and heavy, the head already glistening with pre-cum.
Draconia watched him, her breath hitching as he guided himself to her entrance. He pushed into her, his cock sliding into her tight, wet cunt. She cried out, the sound lost in the vastness of the room as he buried his length inside her. He began to fuck her with long, deep strokes, his hips slamming against hers. Each thrust sent a wave of pleasure through her, a violent, beautiful sensation that made her toes curl.
"Tell me to stop," Harry groaned, his muscles corded and taut as he drove himself into her. "Tell me to bring the furniture down, and I will."
"Don't you dare," she gasped, her hands clawing at his back. "Don't you dare stop."
He leaned forward, his mouth catching hers in a bruising kiss as he increased the pace. The sound of their bodies meeting, the wet slap of skin on skin, filled the silence of the room. He pulled out nearly all the way before plunging back in, his cock bottoming out against her cervix. Draconia felt the friction of his hair, the sweat on his brow, and the sheer, unadulterated power of his movement. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper, wanting to feel every inch of him filling her.
"You feel so good," he grunted, his voice a guttural rasp. He reached down, his thumb finding her clitoris and rubbing it in rhythm with his thrusts. The sensation was overwhelming; she felt as though she were dissolving into the air, just like the chairs above them. "Your pussy is so tight, it’s like it's trying to swallow me whole."
"Then let it," she challenged, her voice a ragged edge of a plea. "Fuck me harder, Harry. Fuck me until the whole room crashes down."
He obliged, his thrusts becoming more frantic, more desperate. He was fucking her with a raw, unbridled intensity, his cock sliding through her juices with a heavy, rhythmic sound. Draconia felt the climax building, a tension in her core that was becoming unbearable. She watched a single velvet chair drift past her vision, a blurred shape in the periphery, as she reached the precipice.
"Look at me," he commanded, his eyes burning into hers. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, anchoring her as he hammered into her. "Don't look at the ceiling. Look at me."
She did, her eyes locked onto his, watching the way his face contorted with the effort of his pleasure. She felt the first wave of her orgasm hit, a violent contraction of her pussy walls around his cock. The sensation was electric, a white-hot explosion that made her scream his name. As she peaked, Harry gave a final, powerful thrust, his cock buried deep inside her. He let out a low, primal groan as he came, his cum filling her, the hot liquid pulsing against the walls of her womb.
He stayed inside her, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. They stayed there for a long time, the only sound the heavy rhythm of their breathing and the occasional soft thud of a piece of furniture shifting in the air. The room was still, the magic still holding the heavy objects aloft in a silent, drifting dance.
"Are you going to bring them down now?" she asked softly, her voice trembling with the aftershocks of the sensation.
"Not yet," Harry replied, kissing her temple. "I like it up here. It feels like we're the only two people in the world."
She leaned her head against his shoulder, watching a small wooden stool drift lazily past. The sensation of the floating furniture was a perfect metaphor for the way her heart felt in his arms; heavy and light all at once. They stayed in the middle of the room, the warmth of their bodies the only anchor in a sea of levitating wood and fabric. Neither of them wanted to move, to break the spell or the silence, as the chairs continued to drift overhead.