Chapter Text
The sheets were twisted like evidence.
Harry sat up too fast and instantly regretted it. A spike of pain bloomed behind his eyes, his mouth dry as ash. Grimmauld’s morning light-- filtered through ancient curtains and dust-- made everything feel half-real, as if the night before had been a dream stitched together from heat, music, and scent.
But she wasn’t there.
The other side of the bed was cool.
His heart stuttered. She was gone.
No note. No scent on the pillow. No glass of water on the nightstand. No name.
Just her laugh in his memory. Just the way she’d looked over her shoulder as she undressed, like she did it for the thrill, not the need. Just the sound of her moans as he fucked into her, her nails digging into his ass, yelling for him to go harder.
He exhaled sharply, dragging himself out of bed. He stumbled slightly as his knee hit the corner of the nightstand. “Fuck.” He pressed his palm to it, then stood still, caught somewhere between awe and dismay.
He’d done it.
He, Harry Bloody Potter--tragic, responsible, faithful-to-a-fault--had had a one-night stand. With a woman he hadn’t even taken on a date. With a woman whose name he still didn’t know.
Just her hands on his shoulders. Her thighs around his hips. Her mouth...
Fuck.
He stood beneath the pulsing water of the shower.
He hadn’t even meant to go out.
Not really.
But after two weeks of silence, solitude, and takeout containers stacked like bricks, the stillness had driven him out of the house.
No one was in London this summer. Not anyone he wanted to hang out with, anyway.
Ron and Lavender were doing Weasley things in Northern Ireland. Seamus and Dean were hiking the Scottish Isles for their honeymoon. Luna and Draco were traipsing across Tuscany, staying in some villa owned by Blaise Zabini’s scandalously rich family. Even Hermione-- Hermione, who he could always count on for a quiet drink and too much analysis--was somewhere in New England, elbow-deep in MACUSA’s magical archives.
He was on his own. And for the first time in months, maybe years, he hadn’t felt lonely.
He’d felt free .
It had taken two shots of whiskey and half an hour of pacing outside the club before he walked in. The place throbbed with energy, packed wall to wall with glitter and skin and pulsing light.
He went straight to the bar, slid a crisp £50 note across the counter, and kept his fingers there for half a second too long, like he wasn’t used to doing this. “Macallan Rare Cask,” he said. “Neat.”
The bartender didn’t blink. Just poured it into cut crystal and slid it over.
“Keep the change,” Harry added, praying his voice sounded more posh and bored than awkward and trying.
He knew he looked good enough to carry it off. He’d looked over his wardrobe earlier and asked himself, What the fuck would Malfoy wear? He was overdressed, but intentionally so--carrying the distinct air of someone with too much disposable income who was exactly where he wanted to be.
So far, he was enjoying the role.
He’d leaned against the bar to watch the crowd, trying to look bored and disinterested, but realizing quickly he couldn’t pull that off. So he went for vaguely curious. He watched the writhing bodies moving with the pulse of the club, the thumping bass reverberating through his chest. The air was thick with perfume, cologne, sweat, and alcohol.
Occasionally a woman would approach the bar, squeeze up next to him to place an order, checking him out surreptitiously. He kept his eyes on the crowd, and one by one, they received their drinks and disappeared.
He hadn’t decided whether he would be on the pull until he saw her.
He noticed her hair first, of course. Multi-hued blue. If they were in a wizarding club, he might’ve guessed she was a Metamorphmagus. But here, in a Muggle club, she was likely just a client of a very hip hairdresser.
Her hair was long, hanging in waves down her back, though part of it was pulled away from her face. She wore a tiny dress with a deep cowl neck that somehow, miraculously, still covered most of her tits. Tattoos curled like vines over her shoulder and down her back. A piercing in her nose caught the light when she turned toward the bar.
Her eyes met his.
Her eyebrows knit together for a moment, like she recognized him. Then her gaze softened into something openly wanting. Her full lips smirked. She tilted her head and watched him for several seconds.
He didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
Vaguely, he registered that she was walking toward him and that he was behaving in a very not-Harry-Potter-like manner, openly appreciating her. Her gaze never wavered. His didn’t either. He didn’t blink until she was standing less than a foot away.
He finally broke the stare and let his eyes rake down her body. God, she was fit. Toned and tanned, with full breasts, hips, and a perfect round ass. Her dress was short--too short, probably. And she was wearing… combat boots?
He grinned at them. She, noticing him noticing, smiled and shrugged.
“Heels are a bitch for dancing.”
A flirtatious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He arched a brow and leaned in. “Well, you’re definitely made for dancing,” he said.
Who the fuck was he?
She looked him over again, that same smirk playing on her lips. Then she stepped toward him and took his drink from his hand.
She downed the rest of it in one go, then draped her arms around his neck.
Harry swallowed.
“I dance better with a partner,” she murmured, eyes now on his mouth.
“Mmm…” he replied, also staring at her mouth where the whiskey still clung to her top lip. “We should find you a partner then.”
Her tongue darted out to lick her lip. She looked back into his eyes. “I think I’ve found one,” she said. “Come dance with me.”
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and pulled him into the crowd.
The music shifted.
The bass deepened, slowed, thickened into something primal...something that vibrated in Harry’s bones as much as in the soles of his boots. She pulled him into the center of the floor without hesitation, weaving between bodies like smoke, until they found a pocket of space carved by movement and heat.
And then she turned.
Her back pressed to his front, hips rolling in time with the beat. She didn’t look at him, didn’t say a word. Just let the music guide her body, letting it brush against his in ever-tightening arcs. Her ass rocked into his hips with devastating precision. Her hand found his and dragged it to her waist, holding it there, daring him to move with her.
He did.
Merlin help him, he did.
He fit himself to her like he was made for it--his palm firm on her hip, his other arm looping around her stomach, pulling her in. Their bodies moved as one, each beat winding the tension tighter. She arched like a bow, her shoulder blades pressing into his chest. Her scent--warm, spicy, a little wild--hit him hard, curling around the inside of his head like smoke.
She was a force of nature, unselfconscious, fluid, elemental.
And Harry couldn’t breathe.
She lifted her arms above her head and gathered her hair--messy and blue and brilliant--piling it onto the crown of her head, twisting it up and letting it tumble down again like waves. The strands brushed against his face, his neck. She laughed softly, head tilted back so it rested against his shoulder.
His eyes fluttered shut.
He imagined that hair spilling over her shoulders while she straddled him, knees pressed into the mattress, that same smirk on her lips as she moved like this--slow, relentless, riding him into ruin.
He groaned, low and barely audible.
She heard it. He knew she did.
Song after song passed. He lost count. Time folded in on itself, held together only by rhythm and sweat and the friction of their bodies. She wasn’t there with anyone else. She was here with him . For him.
At some point, he didn’t know when, she swung around to face him, slid one thigh between his legs, and ground her hips down into his. Her fingers gripped his shoulders. She was riding his thigh, breath ragged, lips parted. He could smell her arousal. It was dizzying.
She leaned up to his ear.
“Fuck, you smell good,” she murmured, voice thick with want. She ran her hands up his chest raking her fingernails lightly along it. “You feel better.”
He couldn’t speak.
His mouth found her throat. He kissed just beneath her jaw, then lower, where her pulse thundered. Her hands tangled in his hair. Then she grabbed his face and kissed him like she was claiming something.
He wrapped his arms around her, one hand trailing down her back, the other sliding up, slow, careful, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts through that mercifully thin dress. She arched into him, exhaled against his mouth.
Everything blurred: color, sound, breath.
Only heat remained.
Her lips brushed his ear. “Take me home.”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Harry didn’t even know how they got home.
One moment, they were stumbling out of the club--drunk on each other and the adrenaline of the night--and the next, he was hailing a cab with shaking hands. They tumbled into the backseat, mouths crashing together in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. Her hands roamed greedily under his shirt. His fingers dug into her thighs as she straddled him, grinding into his lap like they had no intention of waiting for a bed.
The ride to Grimmauld was a blur of groping hands and stifled moans. Her teeth grazed his throat. His hand slid up her leg, tugging her impossibly closer, feeling the heat radiating from between her thighs.
By the time the door slammed shut behind them, she shoved him back against the wall and kissed him like he was oxygen. Harry tangled his fingers in her wild blue hair, tugging just enough to make her moan as she bit his lower lip.
She tasted like sin and sweetness and sweat and something uniquely hers, and he couldn’t get enough.
Her fingers made quick work of the buttons on his shirt, ripping them open with a tearing sound that echoed off the hallway stone. Her nails scraped down his chest, dragging heat in their wake.
He groaned into her mouth, hands slipping beneath the cowl of her dress, finding her breasts bare beneath it. No bra. Just soft skin and hardening nipples. He rolled them between his thumbs, and she gasped, arching into him.
She stumbled backward toward the stairs, tugging him with her.
It didn’t even occur to him to wonder how she knew where to go.
He didn’t care.
In the bedroom, Harry kicked off his shoes, then his pants, his erection straining painfully against his boxers. She dragged her dress higher, revealing the tiniest scrap of black thong beneath. He groaned at the sight, his hand already reaching for her.
He pushed the fabric to the side, sliding two fingers into her heat.
She cried out--sharp and breathless--then shoved him toward the bed.
He fell back with a grunt, and she straddled his thigh, rocking against his hand. He kept his fingers moving, curling deep while his mouth found one perfect breast, sucking a nipple between his lips. She bucked against him, crying out again, and he felt her come apart in his arms.
Before the echoes of her orgasm faded, she was tugging off the rest of his clothes and ripping her knickers down her thighs.
Her dress slipped off her shoulders and pooled to the floor.
She was glorious--tattoos twisting across her ribs and hips, a storm of ink and desire.
Harry barely had time to marvel before she climbed on top of him.
She sank down onto him in one smooth, devastating motion.
Harry’s head dropped back with a groan so guttural it barely sounded human. She was tight, hot, slick , and the way she moved, rolling her hips, bracing her hands on his chest, was deliberate and merciless.
“Fuck,” he gasped, hands flying to her waist.
She rode him like she’d been born for it. No hesitation, no coyness...just rhythm and power and a hunger that matched his own. Every time she ground down against him, the air punched from his lungs. Her hair whipped around her shoulders as she moved, sticking to her skin with sweat, glowing in the dim light like something not quite real.
He sat up and kissed her hard, biting her bottom lip. His arms wrapped around her, his hands splaying across her back, then sliding down to grip her arse as he thrust up into her, meeting her pace, driving into her deeper, harder.
She moaned into his mouth, pulled away just enough to gasp, “Do. not. stop.”
He wasn’t going to. Couldn’t have if he’d tried.
Their bodies slapped together in relentless rhythm, each movement more desperate than the last. The bed creaked beneath them. Her nails dragged down his shoulders. His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breast, wherever he could reach.
She cursed...could it be his name, maybe?...and threw her head back again.
He watched her come undone, her face wild and radiant and feral, and he knew he was seconds behind her.
“Fuck, I’m gonna...”
“Do it,” she breathed. “Come in me.”
His vision went white.
He spilled into her with a groan that sounded like surrender, holding her hips down hard as she rode him through it. His body shook with the force of it. He buried his face in her neck, panting against her skin.
She didn’t move right away.
Just rested her forehead against his and let their breath tangle.
Eventually, she slid off him and collapsed beside him, limbs tangled, her fingers lazily trailing over his chest.
Harry blinked up at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.
The room was still spinning. He had no idea what time it was. No idea who she really was. Just the shape of her body against his, the scent of her skin, the lingering pulse between his legs.
“Nice to meet ya,” he whispered hoarsely, half-laughing into the silence.
She didn’t answer.
But her fingers found his, laced them together, and held tight as sleep overtook them both.
He woke in the dark, skin damp and heartbeat slow, the sheets twisted around his hips like a binding spell.
For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then he heard her sigh and she was climbing on top of him again, but this time slower.
She had ridden him like she had all the time in the world, eyes locked to his, hips rolling in maddening, deliberate circles. His hands had drifted everywhere...her waist, her thighs, the curve of her breasts as she arched forward, teasing herself against his chest. She’d kissed him until he couldn’t see straight, sucked on his bottom lip like it was a promise.
He’d tried to hold still, to savor it. Tried to take in every inch of her with his hands, his mouth, his whole fucking soul.
But then...her voice, low and rough, mouth at his ear. “I want you to fuck me. Hard.”
And he’d lost it.
He’d flipped them, pinned her down, and driven into her until the headboard hit the wall. She dug her fingers into his arse, nails sharp, urging him deeper. “Harder!” she cried, pulling him into her, rising to meet him until she was gasping his name and dragging him closer, until nothing else existed but the rhythm of skin and breath and the wet, obscene sound of her calling him home.
Now he stood staring into the mirror of the bathroom at Grimmauld Place, hair mussed, neck flushed, lips swollen.
He’d just had the kind of nameless, no-strings shag most men brag about for years.
He braced his hands on the sink and stared himself down in the mirror.
And thought...
I’m not sure I’m built for this.