Content warning: smut, angst, sad ending

A different version is posted on ao3.

She's straddling me, moving up and down - moving like a star. She's squatting over me, slipping the head in and out, teasing me. The muscles of her thighs and flanks are contracting and releasing under her smooth skin. Suddenly she sinks all the way, slams into me, and the surprise, it feels incredible. I try to close my mouth on the moan, but I can't. I arch my back, and I buck, grab her hips and thrust until I come. She does it again later, does it until it loses its effect. She finds a new game; she squeezes around me. She does everything, everything I've imagined, and she does things to me I've never dreamed of. She shows a string of peals while she rolls her hips. When I exhale, and I don't want to hold back anymore, she looks happy. I jerk up, and she tenses her body in place, so I have something to crash into. When I call out, she smiles at me. When I come deep in her mouth, she smacks her lips like it's the best thing she's ever tasted.

She offers me more, and I want it. I do.

Over and over.

Sometimes she does new things like she's trying them out and practising. She's always at the top of every class.

She keens when I'm inside her. I love it. I love my palm print on her ass.

Her hair whips as she moves, her breasts bounce, the fat of her ass.

I come, and I shudder, and she looks like a cat with a bowl of cream.

When the hallways are empty, she pulls me into broom closets, unlocked classrooms, Myrtle's bathroom. Myrtle never cries when we're there. She's fascinated, she is positively lewd and we try all of her dirty suggestions. Later, when nostalgia takes me over, I'll show Myrtle my hand

Sometimes when she tugs me toward a hidden nook, I say no. Because I can. And there is something in her eyes.

It takes me months of stolen moments, moments she has stolen and offered me before I realize she's never come; she has never asked me for anything.

So, I try; I try to touch her, but when I caress her, she tells me she's too sensitive. When I brush her lightly, she says, I don't think I can come. When I trace her shape, she twists out of my reach; oils my chest, works her way down my stomach, my hips, the insides of my thighs. Hands, fingers circle closer and closer until I'm hard again. Her tongue follows the trail from my navel to the crotch. Soon my cock is twitching, and I have forgotten I want to touch her.

She admires and touches every part of me. She tells me all the ways in which my body is beautiful. And sometimes I wonder who she is practising for.

The day it started, I said something cruel, something about how ugly she was. I stepped into her; I loomed over her, and I squeezed her ass to prove - to scare her - and I wanted her - I wanted her - I wanted her like I wanted to fuck every girl at Hogwarts. Up close, pressed against me, trapped by my arm, looking up at me with her breasts heaving with anger. She was no uglier than any of them.

I couldn't help but think about her ass in my hand, her tits moving. Maybe mudbloods were different, tighter, not that I would have known tight, but I had estimated what it might be like with my hand. "Maybe mudbloods are like monkeys; perhaps they can't get enough, like nymphos." Later, I'd order Nymphomania via owl from a magic friendly muggle book store. After I'd read it I couldn't decide which was more shameful, my ignorance or my foray into the world of muggle mind healing.

Late at night, Slytherin speculated crudely. The common room erupted in whistles and catcalls when Theo imitated Scamander's voice, narrating The Mating Habits of Mudbloods. Some of Theo's performances would reduce Pansy to helpless giggles. We made it a game. We spun a bottle for a narrator, a cur and then again for a bitch. When all the roles were cast, the narrator recounted in detail the filthy mating habits of mudbloods, and the bitch and the cur acted them out. The set-ups got worse from there.

I began a courtship of sorts. When no one but she was looking, I'd scan her body, and I'd brush against her in class. I'd slip into her aisle in the library. At first, she'd slap my hands away, but I got bolder. I'd come up behind her, and she'd let me put my hand up her skirt, pull her knickers aside and slip a finger inside her. Her breath would hitch. I'd pump a few times and walk away.

When I looked at her, there was something in her eyes.

One day after potions, I pulled her into a classroom, pushed my tongue down her throat and fucked her on a desk with her legs wrapped around my waist.

I never go to find her or tug her into hidden places; she always comes to find me. It's always she who wants and when I say no, there is something in her eyes.

And I say no more often. This thing, it's not new anymore - "you have shown me all your tricks" - she stumbles out of reach of my shove - "I don't want you anymore."

I tell her, "I am bored. I know it's perverse, but I just wanted to dip my cock in a mudblood. Now I know, it's like fucking an animal." She doesn't cry or scream; she does nothing. There is some kind of disappointment in her eyes, like she'd hoped for something else, like she'd been hoping for -

For what?

For love? For what -

I shake it off.

I think about her eyes when I'm in my bed with the curtains drawn. And I think of what was in her eyes when I was inside her. It was like she wasn't there. Did she like it? Had she? I'm bored, and I don't want to think about her anymore. She's a slag.

She doesn't come to find me.

She doesn't look at me.

I want to beat one out, but I can't get hard.

I catch her eye in the Great Hall, and there is something there like she had wanted, something like she thinks she'll never find it. And I think about her eyes.

I watch her in the Great Hall, careful not to catch her eye again. I watch her in class, careful never to touch her, careful to always be cruel, to make fun of her face, her teeth, her hair, her plain robes.

Potter and the Weasel would be furious if they caught me at it, so I make sure they don't. I think it hits her harder when they're not around, but the look on her face is not as satisfying as it should be. Why do I bother with this?

It will go away once I crush her. She is nothing to me, and she needs to know it.

I keep thinking about her eyes when I was inside her, her eyes when she made me come, her eyes when I followed her into a broom closet - every position - always going down on me. Was she acting something out? I think so, but I don't think she was putting on a show for me. Why am I always thinking about this?

Why can't I jerk off? This isn't normal.

Pansy wants to hang out. She says she wants her first time to be with me. We're making out on the couch in the common room, but I can't; there's nothing. Pansy cries; she thinks I don't love her, and I supposed I don't. She's beautiful. I admire her viciousness. Most of our schemes are hers.

Granger is insufferable. She simply cannot not answer a question, and she can't simply answer the question; she provides context, the entire history, scholarly opinions. The professor has to cut her off with an impatient, "thank you, Miss Granger." If someone asked her yes or no, she'd discuss the philosophy of choice and eventually, tentatively arrive at the uncertainty of the existence of consciousness.

I wonder why she does it. Is the insufferable teacher's pet another role she inhabits? Is she trying to internalize the teacher's pet concept by hammering away at it?

What about her friendship with the Weasel and Potter? Is that real? She does this odd thing where she looks at them like she's looking for clues. Is she trying to reassure herself that they like her, or is she checking if she's play-acting at friendship convincingly enough?

How she was play-acting that she wanted to fuck me. No. No. I think she wanted to. At least I think she wanted to want to -

I am fucking crazy.

The more I look at her, the more cracks I see.

I have to put an end to this.

I find her and follow her and push her down Slughorn's Stairs. She's an attention whore. Just a push, barely a cry, and she's at the bottom of the stairs. There, now she can have the entire school oh and ah. She can bask in all the eyes on her. "Do you want someone who wants you for you?" Looking down at her waiting for her to call out for the weasel or Potter, but she doesn't. Fumbling for her things, she glances at me and tries to stuff her books, quilts, and vials of ink into her bag. It's ripped by the seam; the glass vials break against the cold stones when the books tumble out. As if I had planned it, Crabbe and Goyle come strolling by, and I have to laugh. She's flustered; she keeps trying to put her books in the bag. It's harsh, the laughter. It hurtles down the stairs and crashes into the wall behind her. "Repente." The spell captures every guffaw, every hilarious shriek, and throws them back at the walls; the sound grows and grows, echoes until hundreds of mocking voices fill the staircase. Surely it must be loud enough to reach Dumbledore's office by now.

She's crying, blushing with humiliation. She looks up at me, and I don't have the wherewithal to avoid her eyes. "Finite Incantatem," she mouths and repairs her bag and limps toward the hospital wing. Defiance, I could tell what was in her eyes this time. Goyle is making a beeline for her. I turn and say, "it's quidditch practice; let's go". It's not, but I can fly for an hour to make it true.

I expect consequences. I'm hoping Severus to tell me there are limits. "Do not," I can hear him hiss at me, "cross the line at which I will insist on your expulsion."

But there haven't been consequences so far, have there? She has told no one; she isn't the kind who tells, she won't.

I don't want to do this anymore. After supper, as we're exiting the Great Hall, Crabbe and Goyle make as if to go after her. I say, "Aren't you getting bored with the mudblood hunt. Merlin, you like foxhounds; get over it already." Like it's them.

I turn and head towards the dungeons.

I feel like a fucking freak not being able to get off. There is something wrong with me, and I imagine Madam Pomfrey cackling when I tell her. I don't even feel like wanking. There's no pressure building in my balls. No urgency. I don't feel a fucking thing. I kick the weasel in the nuts for company, and his elongated shrill is worth it even when Gryffindor comes down on me like a ton of bricks after quidditch practice.

It's weird; nothing is interesting anymore. I have to force myself to be me. It's like I am acting now, just like she was with my cock inside her. Is she doing this to me?