The frost clung to the edges of her broomstick as Draconia climbed onto the pitch. Morning was a grey, bruised thing that felt far too cold for her liking. She wanted to be back in her bed, wrapped in heavy blankets, but the need to move was a physical ache in her bones. Training alone at dawn was the only way to ensure she was actually improving, rather than just pretending to be better than the rest of the Slytherin Chasers. She kicked off the ground, the broom lifting her with a sharp, sudden jerk that made her stomach lurch. The wind bit at her cheeks, but the sensation of speed helped drown out the lingering irritation from the previous day. Harry had been too gracious about her victory, and that politeness felt like a personal insult.
The sky was a pale, translucent wash of silver as she banked left. She watched the way the light hit the grass of the pitch, seeing the frost shimmer like scattered diamonds. A sudden movement near the spectator stands caught her eye. It was a dark shape, a silhouette that moved with a familiar, jagged rhythm. Draconia pulled her broom higher, hovering until the shape became clear. It was him. Harry Potter was a dark blot against the morning mist, his broom hovering a few feet above the grass. He was not even looking at the stands; he was focused on a dive, his body leaning forward with a desperate, hungry sort of grace.
She descended slowly, trying to remain unseen, but the wind had a way of telegraphing her arrival. The sound of her broom cutting through the air was a low hum that she could not dampen. Harry looked up, his hair a mess even from this distance, and he grinned. It was that same infuriating, easy grin that had won the match. He did not look tired or cold; he looked revitalised by the early hour. Draconia steered her broom toward the edge of the pitch, landing with a soft thud in the damp grass.
"You are an early bird, Potter," she called out, her voice sounding louder than she intended in the stillness.
Harry landed a moment later, his boots squelching in the mud. "I could say the same for you. I did not think you liked the cold."
"I like winning, which is more important than being warm," she replied, brushing the frost from her robes.
He stepped closer, the scent of damp earth and old leather following him. "You won yesterday. You can afford to sleep in."
"I do not intend to let you catch up," she said, her eyes narrowing.
"Is that a challenge?" he asked, a playful glot in his tone that made her want to hex him.
"It is a fact."
They stood in the middle of the pitch for a moment, the silence between them feeling heavy. There was no way to go back to how things were before the match, not when she had seen the way he looked at her when she scored the winning goal. He was watching her now, his eyes tracing the line of her throat and the way her breath puffed in white clouds before her face. The tension was not just about Quidditch; it was a physical pressure that sat in her chest.
"Do you want to fly?" Harry asked, gesturing to the empty air. "The wind is picking up."
"Always," she said, and she was back on her broom before he could even finish the thought.
The flight was a way to settle the restless energy in her blood. She flew in wide, sweeping arcs, testing the tension of her broom and the strength of her grip. Harry followed her, but he did not try to crowd her. He kept a respectful distance, a shadow that mimoved in tandem with her own silhouette. They drifted over the castle walls, the stone towers looking like sleeping giants in the low light. The air was cool and sharp, stinging her skin as she leaned into every turn.
As they reached the highest point of their flight, a strange, frantic heat began to build in her lower abdomen. It was not just the adrenaline of the speed. She felt a sudden, sharp longing to be near him, to feel the warmth of his skin against hers. She banked hard, diving toward a patch of soft grass near the edge of the forest, and Harry followed. She landed, her legs feeling slightly unsteady, and he landed a moment later.
Before she could stand, he was there, his hands catching her waist. The heat from his palms seeped through her robes, a stark contrast to the freezing morning air. He pulled her in, and her mouth found his in a desperate, uncoordinated collision. It was not a soft kiss; it was a collision of teeth and tongue. She felt his hands slide down to her arse, squeezing the firm muscle through the fabric of her robes.
"I thought you were cold," he murmured against her lips, his breath hot and smelling of mint.
"Shut up," she whispered, pulling him closer.
He moved her toward a thicket of trees, the branches providing a small canopy of shelter. He pushed her back against the rough bark of a tree, his body a heavy, warm weight against hers. He reached down, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings of her robes until he found the skin of her thighs. He slid his hand up, his fingers finding the edge of her knickers. He pushed the fabric aside, his hand cupping her wet pussy. She gasped, her head tilting back as he slid a finger inside her.
"You are so wet," he muttered, his voice a low growl.
"Because you are being a nuisance," she lied, her hips bucking against his hand.
He pulled his robes open, his cock springing free from his trousers. It was thick and hard, the head a dark, blunt shape in the grey light. He guided himself to her entrance, the tip of his cock rubbing against her clitoris. Draconia reached down, her fingers wrapping around his shaft, guiding him inward. He pushed into her, a single, long stroke that filled her completely. She let out a strangled cry, her legs wrapping around his waist as he fucked her.
He moved with a rhythmic, punishing pace, his hips striking her pelvis with audible thuds. Each time he drove into her, the friction of his cock against her pussy sent jolts of electricity through her spine. He was thick and heavy, stretching her wide as he pushed deeper into her. Draconia gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt. She wanted him to go faster, to break her.
"Look at me," he commanded, his eyes dark and focused.
She opened her eyes, seeing the raw hunger in his gaze. He leaned forward, his chest heaving, and began to fuck her with more urgency. His cock slid in and out of her, the wet, slapping sound of their bodies meeting filling the small space between the trees. She could feel the heat of him, a searing warmth that seemed to melt the chill from her bones. He reached down, his thumb finding her clitoris and rubbing it in a circular motion as he continued to thrust.
The sensation was too much. Draconia felt the tension coil tight in her gut, a knot of pleasure that was about to snap. She gripped his hair, pulling his face down to hers, and he let out a low, guttural groan. He drove his cock deep into her, hitting her cervix, and she felt the first wave of her orgasm crash over her. Her pussy clamped around him, the muscles pulsing in a rhythmic squeeze that drove him toward the edge. He groaned again, his movements becoming frantic and uncoordinated as he hammered into her.
"Draconia," he choked out, her name a ragged plea.
He emptied himself inside her, his cock twitching as he released a thick stream of cum deep inside her womb. The heat of his seed felt like a brand inside her. He stayed inside her for a long moment, his forehead resting against hers, both of them panting heavily. The air was