The Great Hall was far too loud for a Tuesday morning. Draconia sat at the Slytherin table, picking at a slice of dry toast while the chatter of the breakfast rush swirled around her. She was supposed to be concentrating on her Charms essay, but her eyes kept drifting toward the Gryffindor table. Granger was there, of course, surrounded by the usual retinue of loud, hungry boys and the ever-present Ron Weasley. Granger was talking, her hands moving in small, precise gestures as she explained a point of theory to a nodding Neville Longbottom.
Draconia felt a prickle of irritation in her throat. She had spent the last week thinking about commas and the way Harry Potter had looked at her in the corridor. It was an inefficient way to spend her mental energy. She wanted to focus on the structural integrity of her argument, but the sight of Granger’s smug, attentive expression pulled her focus away from her parchment.
"He is actually quite astute about the wand-movement than you would think," a voice said beside her.
Draconia turned to see Pansy Parkinson watching her with a knowing, bored expression. Pansy was leaning back on her bench, her robes slightly rumpled from the morning chill.
"He is not astute, Pansy, he is merely loud," Draconia replied, forcing her eyes back to her breakfast.
"You're staring at the Gryffindor table again," Pansy noted, her tone devoid of any real teasing.
"I am observing the chaos, which is a different thing entirely," Draconia said.
The argument began halfway through the morning lecture in Defense Against the Dark Spells. It was a trivial matter regarding the casting of a shielding charm, but Granger had taken a stance that Draconia found fundamentally flawed. The professor had stepped away to consult a textbook, leaving the room to its own devices. Draconia, unable to contain the sharp edge of her correction, had let the words fly.
"It is a matter of precision, not force, which is a distinction you seem to consistently overlook," Draconia said, her voice cutting through the murmur of the classroom.
The room went still. A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward her. Granger did not look offended; she looked disappointed.
"The force is necessary to stabilize the vibration of the charm, Draconia," Granger said, her voice calm and infuriatingly level. "Without the initial burst, the shield remains too thin to hold."
"That is a clumsy simplification of the theory," Draconia snapped, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. "You are treating a complex magical structure as if it were a blunt instrument."
"It is not a simplification if the results are consistent," Granger countered, her eyes flashing.
Draconia felt the sting of the retort. She was losing the argument, and she could feel the weight of the audience. Ron Weasley was smirking behind his hand, and even Seamus Finnigan was leaning forward to see the fallout. Then she saw Harry. He was sitting at the desk behind Granger, his chin resting on his palm. He wasn't laughing. He wasn't even smiling. He was simply watching her with a look of quiet, intense scrutiny.
"You're being pedantic because you can't admit the nuance is lost on you," Granger said, her voice dropping an octave.
The insult landed hard. Draconia felt the blood rush to her face, a hot, pulsing sensation that made her feel exposed. She had no retort. The silence that followed was heavy, and she felt the sting of failure. She had lost. She had lost a debate about a shielding charm, and she had lost it in front of everyone.
"I am not being pedantic, I am being accurate," Draconia whispered, though the defense sounded weak even to her.
Harry didn't say a word. He didn't point out her mistake or even offer a small, triumphant grin. He just kept watching her, his green eyes wide and unblinking, as if he were seeing a version of her that she hadn't quite mastered yet. Not gloating was worse than gloating, and she cannot explain why, and she has never had to explain why.
The tension between them did not dissipate after the lecture. It followed her into the late afternoon, a jagged, uncomfortable thing that lived in the space between her ribs. By the time she found herself in the warmth of the Charms room, she was practically vibrating with the need to vent the frustration. The room was empty, the heavy oak desk pushed to the side of the room, leaving a wide, open space near the back.
Harry was there, sitting on the edge of a desk, looking at a piece of parchment. He looked up as she entered, his expression unreadable.
"You're still thinking about it," he said, not as a question but as a fact.
"I am not thinking about anything," Draconia lied, walking closer to him.
"You are," he insisted, standing up. He moved toward her, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor. "You're thinking about how you lost the argument."
"I didn't lose it. The theory is still debatable," she said, her voice trembling slightly.
He reached out, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing against her lower lip. The contact was electric. Draconia gasped as he pulled her into him, his mouth crashing down onto hers. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a collision. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if she could merge her body with his.
He lifted her easily, setting her on the edge of the heavy desk. Draconia hiked her skirt up, her breath hitching as his hands found the skin of her thighs. He moved with a sudden, desperate hunger. He unbuttoned her blouse, her breasts spilling out into the cool air of the room. Harry groaned, his head dropping to her chest, his tongue swirling around her nipples.
"Harry, please," she breathed, her hips arching off the wood.
He moved his hand down, his fingers finding the slit of her cunt. He pushed two fingers inside her, stretching the tight, wet walls of her pussy. Draconia cried out, her head falling back as he began to fuck her with his fingers, his movements rhythmic and deep. He pulled her knickers aside, his hand working frantically.
He stood up just long enough to shed his robes and trousers, his cock springing free, thick and heavy. It was a dark, pulsing thing that looked intimidating in the dim light. He gripped her hips, pulling her to the very edge of the desk, and then he thrust into her.
"Oh god," Draconia gasped, her fingernails digging into his shoulders.
He drove into her, his cock sliding through her wet pussy with a wet, sliding sound. Every thrust sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated heat through her. He was fucking her hard, his hips slamming against hers with a blunt force that made her vision blur. She could feel his balls slapping against her arse, the friction of his skin against hers.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low growl.
She opened her eyes, seeing the sweat on his brow and the intensity in his gaze. He pushed deeper, his cock hitting the very back of her womb. He was fucking her with a singular focus, his movements becoming faster and more frantic. Draconia felt the pressure building in her lower belly, a tightening coil that was about to snap.
"Harder, Harry, harder," she begged, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.
He obeyed, his thrusts becoming violent and heavy. He gripped her thighs, his knuckles white, as