Draconia pulled the leather volume from the shelf, the spine cool against her palms. She did not look back at the Gryffindor who had been loitering near the restricted section. The boy had been a shadow in the corner of her vision, a smudge of red and gold that had ruined the stillness of her morning. Now, she moved toward the Great Hall, her robes-lengthed stride purposeful and tight. The scent of old parchment followed her, though she ignored the sensation of the heavy air. She needed to see the reality of what she had imagined in the library.
The Great Hall was a cacophony of clattering silver and loud, boisterous conversation. Draconia took her seat at the Slytherin table, watching the way the light hit the golden plates. Her eyes drifted toward the Gryffindor table, where the boy from the library sat surrounded by a group of people who all looked suspiciously similar. They all had the same shock of red hair and the same weathered, slightly frayed appearance to their robes. It was a sea of faded-looking cloth and bright, unpolished energy. She watched a woman in a slightly older set of robes lean forward to say something to the boy, her face full of a frantic, maternal sort of warmth.
"It is quite a lot, isn't it?" Pansy asked, leaning closer to Draconia.
"A lot of what?" Draconia asked, though she knew the answer.
"The noise," Pansy said, gesturing vaguely toward the Gryffindor table. "They are particularly loud today."
"It is not just the noise," Draconia murmured, her gaze fixed on a boy who was currently laughing so hard he nearly choked on a piece of toast. "It is the sheer lack of cohesion."
"They are a family, Draconia," Greta added from across the table, her voice amused.
"A family of unfortunate color choices, perhaps," Draconia replied, her voice dry and sharp.
She watched the boy—the one from the library—reach for a pitcher of juice. He moved with a certain ease that she found deeply irritating, a lack of tension in his shoulders that suggested he had nothing to prove. She felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to say something, to pierce through that easy warmth with a single, well-placed strike. She looked at the worn elbows of his robes and the way his hair seemed to defy any semblance of grooming.
"They look as though they have been plucked straight from a dusty cupboard in the Burrow," Draconia said, her voice rising just enough to carry.
The table went quiet for a second, but she did not stop. She leaned back, her eyes sweeping over the group of red-headed people.
"You must be a Weasley," she said, her voice clear and ringing through the immediate vicinity.
The silence that followed was not a heavy one, but a sudden one. Draconia felt a flush of heat in her cheeks, but she did not look away. She watched the boy freeze, his hand still gripping the pitcher. Then, a sound broke the stillness. A laugh erupted from the Gryffindor table, loud and genuine. The whole table laughs, including, unexpectedly, him.
The laughter did not stop. It rolled through the hall like a wave, and Draconia felt a strange, sharp prickle of irritation. She turned back to her plate, staring at a piece of fruit, feeling as though she had lost a game she hadn't realized she was playing. The boy was still laughing, a low, rhythmic sound that seemed to vibrate in her own chest.
Later, the heat of the afternoon sun pressed against the stone walls of the corridor, but the heat inside Draconia was different. It was a concentrated, frustrated warmth that sat in her stomach. She found herself in a secluded alcove near the Charms classroom, the stone cool against her back, but her skin felt too tight for her body. The memory of his laugh was a physical weight. She wanted to erase the way he had looked at her—not with offense, but with a sort of amused pity.
She reached into the waistband of her knickers, her fingers trembling slightly. Her pussy was already wet, a slick, heavy heat spreading between her thighs. She breathed in, the sensation of her own fingers sliding into her cunt making her toes curl against the stone floor. She began to rub herself, her thumb circling her clitoris with a desperate, jagged rhythm. She wanted to lose herself in the friction, to find a way to drown out the sound of that laughter.
A shadow fell over her, and she gasped, her hand jerعةing. The boy was there, leaning against the archway, his eyes dark and unreadable. He did not look surprised to find her there. He looked as though he had been waiting.
"You are still thinking about it," he said, his voice a low rumble.
"Thinking about what?" Draconia asked, trying to regain her composure even as her cunt throbbed with a fresh wave of need.
"The insult," he said, stepping closer. He reached out, his hand sliding over her hip, his fingers dipping beneath the fabric of her skirts to touch the damp skin of her inner thigh.
Draconia let out a jagged breath as his fingers found her clitoris. He pressed hard, and she arched her back against the wall. "It was an observation," she managed to say, her voice trembling.
"It was a lie," he whispered, his eyes fixed on her mouth. He pulled his hand away and unfasted his trousers, his cock springing free, thick and heavy in the dim light.
Draconia stared at him, her breath hitching. His cock was long and blunt, the head a deep, angry red. She reached out, her fingers wrapping around the shaft, feeling the heat of him. She leaned forward, her tongue darting out to lick her lips, and then she took him into her mouth. She sucked him hard, her throat stretching to accommodate the length of him. He groaned, a low, guttural sound, as she slid her mouth down to the base, her nose pressing into his pubic hair.
He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, and guided her to stand. He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist, and he shoved her back against the stone. He entered her in one heavy, driving motion, his cock sliding deep into her soaking pussy. Draconia cried out, the sensation of being filled so completely nearly breaking her. He began to fuck her, his thrusts long and brutal.
"Fuck," he hissed, his voice thick with lust. He drove himself into her, his cock hitting her cervix with every heavy lunge.
Draconia wrapped her arms around his neck, her nails digging into his shoulders. She wanted him to go harder, to break her. She felt the slickness of her own juices coating his shaft as he moved inside her, the sound of their bodies hitting together a wet, rhythmic slapping. He pulled out almost entirely before plunging back in, his cock sliding through her cunt with a friction that made her vision blur.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a command.
She opened her eyes, seeing the intensity in his gaze. He was fucking her with a single-mindedness that left no room for thought. He reached down, his thumb finding her clitoris again, rubbing it in sync with his thrusts. The sensation was too much; she felt the build-up of heat in her lower belly, a tightening that threatened to snap.
"Give it to me," he whispered, his pace increasing. He was driving into her now, his hips slamming against hers with a violent force.
Draconia felt the first swell of her orgasm. Her vaginal walls clamped tight around his cock, milking him as she shuddered. She cried out his name, the sound muffled against his neck, as her cunt pulsed and squeezed. He let out