The Slytherin team stood in the corridors, a wall of green and silver, though the victory felt hollowed out by the weight of the empty air. Draconia watched the sunlight hit the silver plating of the cup, her eyes tracking the way the light bounced off the metal. They had won the match, but the victory was a jagged thing, a sharp edge that cut when she tried to hold it too tightly. Harry stood near the end of the line, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above the heads of the younger students. He had played a perfect game, catching the snitch with a speed that made her heart ache with a sudden, sharp frustration.
"You were magnificent, Draconia," Flint said, his voice low and heavy with a satisfaction that felt patronizing. He looked at her as if she were a tool that had finally been sharpened to his exact specifications. "That last goal was the difference."
"It was a standard play," she replied, keeping her voice level and cool.
"Standard? You nearly took his head off with that dodge," Pansy said, stepping closer to her.
"He was in the way," Draconia said, though she knew it was a lie.
"He is always in the way," Pansy muttered, her eyes darting toward Harry.
The group began to move toward the trophy cabinet, the large, glass-fronted structure that stood in the entrance hall like a silent monument to past glories. It was a graveyard of silver and gold, of names etched into plaques and years of dominance. Draconia felt a sudden, irrational urge to reach out and touch the glass, to feel the coldness of it against her skin. She watched as Harry stepped forward to look at the display, his shoulder brushing against the edge of a suit of armor.
"We did it," Harry said, his voice barely a whisper.
"We did," Draconia said, but she did not look at him.
The crowd of students drifted away, leaving a small pocket of silence around the team. The hall was large, and the echoes of footsteps dying away in the distance made the space feel cavernous. Draconia walked toward the cabinet, her fingers tracing the edge of the mahogany frame. There, in the margin of a notebook she had left on a nearby bench, she saw the names. Her name was etched into the silver of the season's achievement, and his name was there too, a few feet away. They were close, yet the distance between the two plaques felt like a canyon.
"You're staring," Harry said, appearing at her side.
"It is a large cabinet," she said, not turning to face him.
"It's a lot of history to look at at once," he added.
"It is just metal and glass, Potter," she said, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
"You're a terrible liar," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
She felt the heat of him, a physical presence that always seemed to pull at her gravity. She wanted to turn around and strike him, or perhaps kiss him, or perhaps simply scream at the way he could stand there and be so effortlessly present. The tension of the season, the exhaustion of the matches, and the sheer, unadulately brilliant way he had played had left her frayed. She needed to feel something more substantial than the hollow triumph of a trophy.
"Do you want to go to the storage room?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave. "The one near the pitch?"
"The one where you always lose your temper?" he asked, stepping closer.
"The one where you lose your mind," she corrected.
They moved through the corridors in a blur of movement, the silence between them stretching and snapping like a taut wire. When they reached the heavy wooden door of the storage room, she did not wait for him to lead. She pushed the door open and pulled him inside, the scent of broomstick polish and old wood greeting them. The door swung shut with a heavy thud, and the darkness of the room felt thick and welcoming.
Draconia reached out, her hands finding the front of his shirt, her fingers curling into the fabric. She pulled him toward her, her mouth crashing against his in a kiss that was more a collision than a greeting. Harry groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding down her back to grip the curve of her hips. He lifted her, her thighs wrapping around his waist, and she felt the hard, thick length of his cock pressing against her pelvis through the layers of their robes.
"I hate you," she whispered against his lips, her breath hitching as he shoved her against the wall.
"You love me," he gasped, his mouth moving to the sensitive skin of her neck.
He stripped her with a frantic, practiced efficiency, his hands rough against her skin. He pushed her skirt up, his fingers searching for the wetness between her legs. Drac most of the tension broke as he knelt before her. She watched him, her head tilted back against the stone wall, as he used his thumbs to spread her lips. He found her clitoris and began to rub, his tongue darting out to lick the sensitive folds of her cunt.
"Harry, please," she choked out, her fingers tangín in his hair.
He didn't stop, his head bobbing as he buried his face in her sex. He used his fingers to stretch her, pushing deep into her pussy while his tongue worked the entrance. The sensation was overwhelming, a rhythmic, pulsing heat that made her vision blur. He sucked on her clitoris, his mouth hot and wet, and she felt her hips bucking against his face. She wanted him to go deeper, to be inside her, to fill the emptiness that the victory had left behind.
He stood up, his breathing heavy and ragged. He unfastened his trousers, his cock springing free, thick and angry. He gripped her thighs, pulling her closer to the edge of a wooden crate, and she felt the blunt head of his cock against her entrance. He pushed forward, the thick muscle sliding into her wet, tight heat.
"Fuck," he breathed, his eyes locking onto hers.
He began to thrust, his hips hitting her with a rhythmic thud. Each stroke was long and deep, driving the air from her lungs. He moved with a violent, singular purpose, his cock stretching her as he drove into her cunt. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her nails digging into the skin of his shoulders. The sensation of him filling her was a sharp, grounding reality. Every time he bottomed out, the base of his cock hit her clitoris, sending jolts of electricity through her nervous system.
"Harder," she commanded, her voice a ragged edge of a sound. "Fuck me harder, Potter."
He obeyed, his pace quickening until his thrusts were rapid and shallow, the sound of his cock slapping against her wetness filling the small room. She felt the build of a climax, a tightening in her lower abdomen that made her muscles quiver. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her breasts, his sweat dripping onto her skin. He pushed himself in one last time, his cock burying itself deep against her cervix, and he let out a low, guttural roar. He pumped into her, his cum filling her, a hot, thick sensation that made her entire body shake.
She felt her own release coming, a volcanic eruption of sensation that tore through her. She squeezed him with her walls, her pussy pulsing around his cock as she came, her voice a broken sob in the dark. They stayed like that for a long time, breathing in the heavy, damp air of the room, the heat of their bodies the only thing that felt real.
When they finally emerged from the room, the cool air of the hallway felt strange against her heated skin. They walked toward the library, the silence between them different now, softer and more dangerous. She sat