Draconia sat in the library, her quill hovering over the margin of her parchment where the lightning bolt remained etched in ink. The ink was dry, but the impulse to scratch at the paper stayed with her. She watched the way the light caught the silver of her inkpot, feeling the strange, restless pull of the season coming to an end. Everything felt suspended, as if the world was waiting for a single movement to break the tension. Harry had been different since the trophy cabinet, less guarded and more present, yet the distance between them remained a physical thing.
The wind began to pick up outside the castle windows, a low moan that signaled the arrival of the late spring storms. She stood up, leaving the lightning bolt behind, and felt the sudden, irrational urge to be above the ground. She did not head for the Slytherin common room, but instead moved toward the pitch. The air was sharp and cold against her face as she stepped out of the castle, the grass damp under her boots. She found her broom leaning against the stone wall near the stands, the wood smooth and familiar in her grip.
She ascended before she could talk herself out of the madness of it. The higher she went, the more the world fell away, leaving only the sound of the wind and the rhythmic beating of her own heart. The clouds were low and bruised, moving fast across the sky. She climbed until the castle looked like a miniature model and the pitch was a green smudge far below. She did not stop until the air grew thin and the wind became a physical force that threatened to tear her from the broom.
"You're dead, Potter!" she shouted into the gale, her voice lost to the roar of the sky.
She saw him then, a dark speck against the grey expanse, banking sharply toward her. Harry was rising, his broom cutting through the wind with an effortless grace that always made her lungs ache. He was looking up at her, his eyes fixed on her silhouette against the clouds. He did not look like a man who was afraid of the height or the storm brewing in the distance. He looked like a man who was coming to claim something.
The gap between them was a wide, yawning chasm of air, a distance of several feet that felt impossible to bridge. They hovered there, two points of life in a vast, empty sky, the wind whipping their hair and the fabric of their robes. The height was dizzy old, the ground a terrifying concept that she chose to ignore. She felt the sudden, sharp ache of wanting him, a hunger that went beyond the petty victories of the season.
He leaned across the gap between brooms and she let the gap close.
The transition from the sky to the heat of him was a blur of motion and breath. They did not land; they simply drifted, the brooms hovering precariously as they tumbled into a frantic, desperate collision of limbs. Harry’s hands were cold from the wind but his skin burned where it touched hers. He pulled her close, his mouth crashing against hers with a hunger that tasted of salt and cold air. The sensation of his tongue in her mouth was a violent, beautiful thing.
He gripped the handle of her broom with one hand while the other slid under her robes, finding the bare skin of her waist. He moved her with a strength that left her breathless, her thighs rubbing against the wood of the broom as he pressed her against him. His hand slid lower, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arse, pulling her tighter against his groin. She could feel the hard, thick length of his cock pressing through the fabric of his trousers, a blunt pressure that made her head spin more than the height.
"Fuck, Draconia," he groaned against her neck, his breath hot against her skin.
He pulled his trousers down with a frantic efficiency, his fingers trembling slightly in the wind. She reached for him too, her hands sliding into his trousers to find his cock. It was heavy and hot and pulsing in her grip. She wrapped her fingers around the shaft, feeling the veins and the heat of him. She slid her hand up and down the length, making him hiss as he shoved her legs wider. He wasn't wearing any knickers, and the air hit her damp cunt, making her gasp as she guided him toward her.
He lifted her slightly, her weight supported by the broom and his arms, and pushed his cock into her. The sensation of him filling her was overwhelming, a thick, blunt intrusion that made her back arch. He pushed deep, his cock sliding into her wet pussy with a heavy, rhythmic friction. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his hips as he began to fuck her. The wind howled around them, but all she could hear was the wet, slapping sound of his pelvis hitting her arse.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, his voice a low grownd of effort.
"Don't talk," she commanded, her voice breaking as he thrust harder. "Just fuck me, Harry."
He obeyed, driving his cock into her with a singular, brutal focus. Every thrust felt like it was reaching deep into her belly, stretching her walls until she felt she might break. She felt the slickness of her own juices coating his shaft as he moved within her, the friction creating a heat that defied the cold wind. He reached up to grab her hair, pulling her head back so he could see the expression on her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth open as she took in the heavy, rhythmic thud of his body against hers.
He pulled out almost entirely, the tip of his cock teasing the entrance of her cunt, before slamming back in with a force that made her scream. The sensation of him filling her so completely was a madness. She felt the buildup of tension in her lower belly, a tightening that she could not control. She began to move her hips in time with his, grinding her pussy against his cock to increase the pressure. The friction was intense, the heat of his thick member a solid, unyielding weight inside her.
"You're so tight," Harry gasped, his eyes wide and dark. "God, Draconia, you're so fucking tight."
He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and faster. She felt the edge approaching, the dizzying sensation of a peak that felt as high as the altitude they occupied. She reached down, her fingers finding the sensitive nub of her clitoris, rubbing it hard as he hammered into her. The combination of his deep, blunt strokes and her own touch sent a jolt of electricity through her. She felt the muscles of her cunt clenching around him, milking his cock with every movement.
"Give it to me," she whispered, her voice a ragged command. "Don't you dare stop."
He let out a guttast sound, a low roar of triumph, as he drove himself into her one last time. He stayed deep, his cock buried to the hilt in her, as he began to come. She felt the hot, thick jets of his cum pulsing inside her, filling her and spilling out to coat her skin. The sensation of his orgasm triggered her own, her walls convulsing around him in a rhythmic, desperate squeeze. She felt the heat of him inside her, a heavy, pulsing warmth that seemed to go on forever.
They stayed like that for a long time, suspended in the air, the wind dying down to a gentle breeze as the tension broke. The world was quiet, save for the sound of their heavy breathing and the distant whistle of the wind. She felt the slickness of his cum and her own juices sliding down her thighs, a warm, messy testament to the moment. They were a mess of tangled limbs and damp skin, floating in the middle of nowhere, perfectly and beautifully lost.