The rain fell in heavy, rhythmic sheets against the Slytherin changing rooms, drumming a relentless beat on the stone roof. Draconia stood by the window, watching the pitch become a blur of grey and green. The match had been a disaster of weather, the kind of downpour that turned the grass into a slick, treacherous bog. She felt the dampness in her bones, a dull ache that settled deep in her joints. Her Quidditch robes were still heavy and sodden, clinging to her skin like a cold second layer of flesh.
Harry was still there, sitting on a wooden bench near the far wall. He looked exhausted, his hair plastered to his forehead in dark, wet clumps. He was staring at his boots, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the damp jersey. The silence in the room was not quiet; it was filled by the roar of the storm outside and the wet slapping of water against the stone.
"You look like a drowned rat, Potter," Draconia said, her voice cutting through the sound of the rain.
Harry looked up, a small, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "That is a compliment coming from you, isn't it?"
"It is an observation," she replied, walking toward him. "The pitch is a swamp. You should have seen your footwork in the second half. You were sliding like a newborn calf."
"I was trying to keep my balance," Harry said, standing up. He moved toward the door, but stopped as a sudden crack of thunder shook the walls. "The wind was catching the broom. It was nearly impossible to stay upright."
"You's always had a problem with the wind," she teased, stepping into his personal space.
The doorframe was narrow, and they were both standing in the small alcove that led toward the storage area. The stone was cold against her back as she leaned into him. The rain was coming in through the open transom above the door, spraying a fine mist over them. They were both soaked through, the water dripping from the ends of their hair and trailing down the curves of their bodies.
"Are you still annoyed about the loss?" Harry asked, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out, his fingers brushing the wet fabric of her sleeve.
"I am not annoyed," she said, looking up at him. "I am merely disappointed in the lack of grip on the pitch."
"You are a terrible liar, Draconia."
"And you are a terrible Seeker when it is raining."
He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek despite the chill of the air. He moved his hand from her sleeve to the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. The sensation of his skin against hers was sharp and electric. The dampness of their clothes made the friction feel heavier, more intense.
"Is that why you're standing here?" he asked, his eyes searching hers. "To tell me how much you hate my technique?"
"Perhaps," she whispered.
"You don't hate it," Harry said, his hand sliding down to the small of her back, pulling her flush against his hips. "You hate that you wanted to see me win."
"Don't be arrogant, Potter."
"It is not arrogance if it is the truth."
He leaned down and captured her mouth in a kiss that tasted of rain and salt. It was a hard, desperate movement, born from the frustration of the match and the storm. Draconia reached up, her fingers tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer. She felt the heat of him through the soaked layers of their clothes.
He pushed her back against the stone doorframe, his body a heavy, solid weight against hers. The rain was lashing harder now, lashing at their faces, but she did not care. She wanted the friction. She wanted the heat.
"Take them off," she commanded, her voice breaking. "The robes. Everything."
Harry did not hesitate. He pulled her damp tunic over her head, her skin glistening with a mixture of rain and sweat. He stripped his own jersey off, throwing it onto the wet floor. He unfast enough of his trousers to get her hands inside his waistband, feeling the hard length of his cock pressing against her palm. It was thick and hot, a stark contrast to the freezing rain that soaked them both.
Draconia reached down, her fingers finding the wet slit of her pussy. She was already dripping, her own juices mixing with the rainwater that trickled down her thighs. She guided his cock to her entrance, rubbing the head of his cock against her clitoris. Harry groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated in his chest. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her skin as he pushed himself into her.
"Fuck," Harry gasped, his head falling back as he buried his cock deep inside her. "Draconia, you are so tight."
"Shut up and fuck me, Potter," she said, her voice a ragged edge.
He moved inside her with long, heavy strokes, his cock sliding through her wet, swollen cunt. The sound of their bodies meeting was a rhythmic, wet slapping, punctuated by the heavy roar of the storm. He pulled her legs up around his waist, pinning her against the cold stone of the doorframe. Every time he thrust, he hit her cervix, sending jolts of pleasure through her abdomen.
"You feel so good," he muttered, his teeth grazing her shoulder. "I can't get enough of you."
He began to move faster, his thrusts becoming shorter and more violent. Draconia felt the tension building in her core, a pressure that demanded release. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he drove himself into her. He was fucking her with a desperate hunger, his cock filling her completely, stretching her walls until they burned.
"Harder," she breathed, her eyes snapping shut. "Don't stop, Harry."
He leaned forward, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat and rain. He reached down, his thumb finding her clitoris and rubbing it in sync with his thrusts. The double sensation was too much. Draconia felt the first wave of her orgasm crash through her, her vaginal muscles clamping tightly around his cock.
"I'm coming," she cried out, her voice lost in the wind.
Harry didn't slow down. He felt her pulsing around him, the heat of her cunt a vacuum that pulled at him. He gave three more heavy, punishing thrusts, his cock sliding through her cream and rain. He let out a choked sound as his own climax hit, his cock twitching inside her as he spilled his cum deep into her womb. He shuddered, his body trembling with the force of the release, before he slumped against her, his forehead resting on her damp shoulder.
They stayed there for a moment, breathing in unison, the only sound the rain hitting the stone. The water dripped from his hair onto her chest, a cool sensation on her heated skin. She felt the warmth of his cum leaking from her, a heavy, wet sensation that made her feel completely undone. She felt a strange sense of satisfaction, a quiet victory over the storm and the match.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, seeing the way his hair was plastered to his face and the way his eyes were still glazed with pleasure. She reached up, brushing a stray, wet lock of hair from his forehead.
"You're a mess, Potter," she said, a small, triumphant smile tugging at her lips.
"You're the one who started it," he countered, his voice thick with exhaustion.
She felt the ache in her muscles, the way her body felt heavy and used. The storm continued to rage around them, but the chill no longer felt biting. It was just a backdrop to the heat they had made. She leaned back into the stone, the sensation of being wet and empty