The humidity in Greenhouse Three felt heavy against her skin, a damp weight that made her robes cling to the small of her back. Draconia moved through the rows of terracotta pots, her eyes scanning the labels for the Mandrake seedlings. Every movement felt deliberate, a way to pretend she was not hyper-aware of the red-haired boy standing three feet away. Harry was hunched over a workstation, his shoulders tense as he worked a trowel into the dark, rich soil. He was not looking at her, yet she felt his presence like a physical pressure against her side.
"You are doing it wrong," Draconia said, her voice cutting through the wet warmth of the room. She watched him struggle with the delicate root system of a snapping lily.
Harry looked up, wiping a smudge of dirt from his cheek with the back of his hand. "It is a plant, Draconia. It does not require a lecture on technique."
"It requires precision, or it will die before the term is out," she countered, stepping closer to his station.
He snorted, but he did not move away when she reached for the communal trowel sitting between them. The trowel was a single, silver-handled implement, and as she reached for it, his hand clamped firmly around her right wrist. His skin was hot, and the grip was sudden. The world seemed to narrow down to the point where his thumb pressed into her pulse.
"Watch the spill," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
He did not let go of her wrist; instead, he guided her hand toward the ceramic pot. For four seconds, neither of them moved. The silence was not empty; it was a taut, vibrating thing that held her breath in her lungs. She saw the way his eyes tracked the movement of her hand, his gaze dropping to her mouth before returning to the dirt. He released her as quickly as he had caught her, but the heat of his touch lingered on her skin.
The tension did not break after the plant was repotted. It gathered in the corners of the greenhouse, thickening as the afternoon sun hit the glass panes. By the time the lesson ended, the air felt charged with a frantic, unsaid thing. Draconia found herself alone in the back of the greenhouse near the compost bins when he found her.
"You missed a spot on your wrist," Harry said, stepping out from behind a large fern.
He looked disheveled, his tie loosened and his hair a mess, but his eyes were focused entirely on her. He walked toward her, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor. He did not stop until he was inches away, his body a wall of warmth that blocked out the rest of the room.
"I am perfectly fine," Draconia said, though her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
"You are a liar," he whispered, and then he was kissing her.
It was not a gentle kiss; it was a collision. His mouth was hungry, tasting of tea and damp earth. Draconia reached up, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. He groaned into her mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her chest. He pushed her back against the edge of a wooden workbench, the hard wood biting into her thighs.
He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he hiked her skirt up. He was stripping her with a desperate, clumsy efficiency, his hands sliding under her knickers to find the slick heat of her pussy. Draconia gasped as he found her clitoris with a thumb, rubbing the swollen bud with a rhythmic pressure.
"Harry," she breathed, her head falling back against the workbench.
"Tell me to stop," he commanded, his voice thick. He pulled his trousers down, freeing his hard, pulsing cock. It was thick and red-veined, the head glistening with pre-cum.
He guided himself to her opening, the tip of his cock rubbing against her wet cunt. He pushed inside her in one long, punishing thrust. Draconia cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders as her tight walls stretched to accommodate him. He was so large that she felt every inch of him filling her, stretching her wide.
"Fuck, you are so tight," Harry growled, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
He began to pump into her, his hips slamming against her pelvis with a rhythmic, wet sound. Each thrust sent a jolt of electricity through her spine. She could feel his cock sliding in and out of her pussy, the friction creating a searing heat that made her vision blur. He pulled out almost entirely before plunging back in, hitting her cervix with a blunt force that made her hips jerk upward.
"More," she whispered, her voice a broken thing. "Harder, Harry."
He obeyed, his thrusts becoming faster and more violent. He gripped her hips, his fingers bruising her skin as he drove himself into her. The sound of their bodies meeting, the slapping of his pubic bone against her cunt, filled the small space between the compost bins. Draconia felt the tension building in her lower belly, a coil of pressure that demanded release. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to swallow him whole.
Harry’s breathing was ragged, a series of harsh, staccato gasps. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her breasts, his sweat soaking into her skin. He felt the way her pussy pulsed around his cock, the internal muscles squeezing him with every frantic beat of her heart.
"You're going to... you're going to come," he choked out, his pace becoming frantic.
He drove into her one last time, a deep, bruising thrust that seemed to reach the very back of her. Draconia felt the orgasm shatter her. Her walls clamped around his cock in rhythmic, desperate waves. She felt the hot, thick spurt of his cum hitting the back of her throat as he came inside her. He groaned a long, low sound, his body shaking as he emptied himself into her pussy. He stayed buried inside her, his weight heavy and warm, as the aftershocks of her climax slowly ebbed away.
They stayed there for a long time, breathing in unison, the scent of damp soil and sex heavy around them. Eventually, he pulled away, his movements slow and reluctant. He helped her straighten her clothes, his hands trembling slightly as he smoothed her skirt.
"That was not in the lesson plan," he said, a lops lopsided grin tugging at his lips.
"It was an extracurricular activity," she replied, trying to regain her composure despite the flush on her cheeks.
She walked back to her desk in the classroom, her legs feeling slightly unsteady. She sat down and opened her notebook, her fingers tracing the edge of the parchment. The memory of his grip on her wrist was still there, a phantom sensation. She looked down at her notes from the morning, the neat handwriting of her observations. In the margin, near the section on root structures, she wrote *four seconds* and then struck it out.