Draconia watched the way the light caught the edges of the broom handles as the Slytherin team gathered on the pitch. The afternoon sun was bright, casting long, sharp shadows across the grass of the Quidditch pitch. Harry stood near the center, his eyes scanning the sky with that familiar, hungry look that usually preceded a Seeker catching the Snitch. He looked far too comfortable in his position, a man who knew he was the centre of the world. A Ravenclaw Seeker, a boy with a crooked smile and a reputation for being far too charming for his own good, drifted closer to him on a broom. The boy laughed at something Harry said, leaning forward in his saddle to touch Harry's shoulder with a gloved hand.
The sight of that hand on Harry’s shoulder made Draconia’s grip tighten on her broomstick. She felt a sudden, irrational urge to fly through the boy’s chest. It was a small, sharp sensation that flickered in her gut, a momentary prick of irritation that she tried to smother with a practiced sneer. She watched the Ravenclaw boy lean in closer, his voice carrying just enough for the wind to bring it to her ears. He was saying something about a theoretical flight pattern, something clever and academic, but his eyes were not on the sky. They were on Harry.
"You're looking distracted today, Draconia," Flint remarked, pulling her attention away from the spectacle. The captain stood beside her, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the practice session. "Is the wind getting to you, or is it the view?"
"The view is predictable, Marcus," she replied, her voice cool and even. She refused to let him see the way her jaw tightened. "The Ravenclaw boy is simply performing a tiresome routine."
"He seems to be performing it quite well," Flint said, a smirk playing on his lips. "He's quite the talker, that one. I hear he's been asking after the Seeker's schedule."
Draconia did not respond to the implication. She knew exactly what Flint was doing, but she would not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She watched as Harry laughed, a genuine, bright sound that felt like a personal affront. The Ravenclaw boy reached out again, this time brushing a stray lock of hair away from Harry’s forehead. It was a bold move, a flirtatious gesture that felt entirely too intimate for a casual practice session. Draconia felt the heat rise in her cheeks, a flush she blamed on the sun.
The tension in her chest did not dissipate as the session ended. Instead, it coiled tighter, a knot of frustration that she carried through the changing rooms and up to the Slytherin table during dinner. The Great Hall was loud, the chatter of hundreds of students filling the space, but she felt strangely isolated. She watched Harry across the hall, talking to a Gryffindor teammate, his expression relaxed and easy. He looked like a man who had never known the sharp edge of a grudge or the heavy weight of a secret.
By the time she reached the entrance to the dungeons, the irritation had fermented into a singular, driving purpose. She did not want to go to her dormitory; she wanted to find him. She wanted to find the source of the unease that had been clawing at her since the afternoon. She found him near the entrance to the corridor, standing by a stone pillar, looking as though he were waiting for someone. When his eyes met hers, the grin he wore was soft, and it was that softness that made her lose her composure.
"You've been quiet all evening," Harry said, stepping toward her. He reached out, his fingers grazing the sleeve of her robes. "Is everything alright?"
"Everything is fine, Potter," she said, though her voice lacked its usual bite. "You're just being loud. It's a trait of yours."
"Is it?" He stepped into her personal space, his warmth radiating through the heavy fabric of her robes. "Or are you just annoyed because the Ravenclaw boy was hovering?"
"I don't care about Ravenclaws," she lied, her voice dropping an octave. "And I certainly don't care about you."
She reached out, grabbing the front of his robes and pulling him into the shadows of a recessed doorway. The air in the corridor was cool, but the heat between them was sudden and fierce. She did not wait for him to speak; she pressed her mouth to his, her lips hard and demanding. He made a low sound in his throat, his hands finding her waist, pulling her flush against him.
"You're a terrible liar," he whispered against her mouth, his breath hot. He lifted her easily, setting her on the edge of a stone plinth so he could stand between her thighs.
Draconia felt the familiar ache in her lower belly, the way her pussy began to ache for his touch. She unfastened his belt with trembling fingers, her movements efficient and hurried. She wanted the friction, the weight, the absolute certainty of him. She pushed his trousers down, freeing his cock, which was already thick and hard from the proximity of her body. She took him into her hand, her thumb tracing the length of his shaft, feeling the velvet heat of him.
"I hate you," she muttered, her eyes fixed on his as she leaned down.
"You don't," he gasped, his head falling back against the stone wall.
She slid her mouth over him, taking the head of his cock into her mouth. She sucked hard, her tongue swirling around the sensitive rim, relishing the way he jumped at the sensation. She used her hand to pump the base of his cock, her fingers slick with her own arousal as she moved her head up and down. The sound of her mouth on him was wet and heavy in the quiet corridor. She wanted to swallow him, to feel every inch of his length against her tongue. She moved faster, her throat constricting around his hardness, driving him toward the edge.
Harry’s hands moved to her hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he groaned. "Draconia, fuck, you're going to... you're going to kill me."
She pulled back, looking up at him with a defiant glare. She reached down, sliding her fingers into her own knickers, finding her wet, swollen cunt. She rubbed her clitoris vigorously, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She wanted him to see her, to see how much he affected her. She slid two fingers deep into her pussy, the sensation of her own slickness making her moan. She was dripping, her juices coating her fingers as she worked herself.
"Don't just watch," she commanded, her voice a jagged edge of desire. "Do something."
Harry didn't need telling twice. He reached down, grabbing her hips and pulling her forward until her pussy was pressed directly against his cock. He guided himself to her opening, the tip of his member probing the entrance of her cunt. He pushed inside, a long, slow thrust that filled her completely. Draconia gasped, her eyes rolling back as her internal muscles clamped around him. He was so large, so thick, and the feeling of him stretching her open was almost too much to bear.
He began to fuck her with a rhythmic, brutal intensity. Each thrust was deep, his cock hitting her cervix and making her vision blur. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper into her, wanting to feel the very bottom of him. The sound of their bodies hitting, the wet, slapping noise of his cock sliding in and out of her pussy, filled the small space. She bit her lip to keep from screaming, her nails digging into his shoulders as he drove into her.
"Tell me," he grunted, his face etched with a mask of pure pleasure. "Tell me you want this."
"I want... you to fuck me," she choked