Harry couldn’t face it—not after the library, not after Draco’s cum drying on her tits while she stuffed paper into her dripping pussy to hide the evidence. The next day, she called in sick, curling up in bed with her phone on silent. Snape fussed over her, bringing tea and kissing her forehead, calling her his “poor angel.” If only he knew she was avoiding her own student, the one who’d turned her into a trembling slut. But Draco? He wasn’t fooled. Mid-morning, her phone buzzed despite the do-not-disturb: “Skipping class, prof? Bet your pink pussy’s still sore from my tongue. Send a pic of it now, spread wide, or I forward yesterday’s titfuck vid to the dean.”

She flushed, ignoring it at first, but more came: “Lazy whore—faking sick to avoid my cock? Touch yourself thinking of me, then. Record it moaning ‘Draco owns this married cunt.’” Her thighs clenched, but she deleted them, heart pounding. Draco smirked in his empty lecture seat, typing away. Run all you want, slut. I’ll have you soon.