Chapter 29

Familiar Faces (Angelina Johnson)

The Quidditch storeroom always smelled like sweat, leather, and old wood polish. The lights were dim — just a couple flickering torches mounted on the stone walls — and the shelves were stacked with spare broomsticks, practice hoops, stitched-up Bludgers, and beat-up old team gear.

Harry was in a worn tee and training pants, still a bit damp from the post-practice shower, hair mussed from flying, a towel slung over one shoulder. He’d just finished locking up a crate of practice Snitches when he heard the creak of the door behind him.

He turned, eyebrows raised — and froze for half a second.

Angelina Johnson stood there, arms folded, leaned casually against the frame. Still tall, confident, sharp-eyed, but now in sleek professional robes and a subtle smirk that told him she knew exactly how she looked.

“Well, look who’s all grown up,” she said.

Harry chuckled, tossing the towel over a crate and wiping his hands on his trousers. “Look who’s talking. Last I heard, you were flying for the Harriers?”

“Still am,” she said, stepping into the room, the door clicking shut behind her. “Reserve Chaser for now, but gunning for first-string by next season.”

He grinned. “Of course you are.”

Angelina looked around the cramped, dusty space. “Place hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Nope,” Harry said. “Still smells like Oliver’s socks and regret.”

She snorted. “Too right.”

There was a brief pause. Then her eyes flicked over him — just a glance, nothing too obvious — and her smirk returned.

“I hear from Katie,” she said, voice casual, “that you’ve been a very... hands-on captain.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, that same cocky grin sliding into place. “Did she now?”

“She did.” Angelina stepped a little closer. “Apparently, you run tight drills. Real thorough coaching. Lots of... personal feedback.”

Harry tilted his head, playing right along. “Only way to make sure they really learn.”

“Mmm.” She was in front of him now, close enough to smell the faint clean scent of his soap, to see the smudge of dirt on his jaw he’d missed. “And you think you’d coach me the same way?”

Harry’s smile didn’t waver. “If you’re looking for a refresher,” he said, his voice lower now, rougher, “I’ve got plenty of hands to spare.”

Angelina’s eyes didn’t move from his. Her smile flickered — the smallest shift — and then she was kissing him.

Hot, sudden, confident.

Her hands went to his shoulders, pushing him gently back against the shelf behind him, mouths colliding, lips hungry. Harry responded instantly, hands finding her hips, pulling her closer, kissing her like he’d been waiting for it, like there wasn’t a single reason to hold back.

She bit his bottom lip — just a tease — and he groaned, tightening his grip, turning her slightly so she was the one backed against the shelf now.

They broke for breath, their foreheads pressed together, both grinning, both flushed.

“Guess I should’ve come back to Hogwarts sooner,” Angelina murmured.

There was a beat where neither of them moved — just pressed together, breathing each other in — and then Angelina grabbed the hem of his shirt and started pulling it up.

“You gonna stop me?” she asked.

Harry raised his arms without hesitation. “Not a chance.”

Harry’s shirt hit the floor like it owed someone money.

Angelina didn’t hesitate — her hands were already on his chest, fingers spreading wide, dragging over his skin, down to his stomach, slow but purposeful. She wasn’t feeling him up. She was mapping him out. Like she was studying the new version of the kid she used to boss around on the pitch.

“Shit,” she muttered, not even looking up. “You actually did grow up.”

Harry smirked, breath catching a little. “Trying to sound surprised?”

She glanced up, eyes gleaming. “Trying? No. I am surprised.”

Then she leaned in and kissed him again — and this one hit different. Deeper. Her mouth opened against his like she was done messing around. Her tongue slid against his with heat and hunger, her body pressing full against his like she was trying to fuse them together.

Harry groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding down to the curve of her arse, gripping hard. She pushed her hips forward in response and suddenly he was very, very aware of how wet she was through her trousers.

Angelina broke the kiss with a sharp breath, then reached for her own shirt, yanked it up and over her head, tossed it somewhere she didn’t care about. No bra.

Harry blinked. “That’s not regulation.”

“Neither’s fucking your old captain,” she shot back.

Fair point.

Harry leaned down and took her nipple into his mouth without another word. She gasped — short and sharp — fingers grabbing the back of his neck as he sucked, his tongue circling, flicking.

She tasted like salt and skin and sweat. Real. Not delicate, not shy. Her hips rolled against him, slow and hard, rubbing herself against the shape of him through his joggers.

“Fuck, that feels good,” she muttered, half into his hair, half into nothing.

He switched sides without breaking rhythm, hand sliding down the front of her trousers, under the waistband, past her knickers — and then stopped.

Harry pulled back just slightly, fingers pausing right at her entrance. “You sure?”

Angelina looked at him, eyes dark, chest rising and falling. “Don’t pretend you care now.”

He grinned. “Good.”

Then he slipped two fingers inside.

She gasped, her forehead thumping against his shoulder as her knees damn near gave out. His fingers curled just right, hitting that spot that made her buck forward and swear under her breath.

“Shit — Harry —”

He moved them slowly at first, rubbing his thumb over her clit with enough pressure to make her twitch, the heel of his palm grinding against her just right. She was soaked, hot and tight and clenching around his fingers like she was already halfway there.

Angelina grabbed at his shoulders, nails dragging down his back. “If you keep that up, I’m gonna come just like that.”

“Not a complaint,” he muttered, kissing along her collarbone, nipping at the spot right under her ear that made her jerk.

“I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction—”

“You already are.”

“Cocky little shit.”

But her breath was catching now, her moans getting rougher, her hips stuttering against his hand. She was right there, and she knew it, and he knew it — so he pressed harder with his thumb and curled his fingers just right and—

“Fuck, yes —”

She came hard, grabbing his arm, grinding against his hand like her body couldn’t stop itself. Her legs trembled, her head dropped forward against his chest, breath hot and shallow, still cursing under her breath.

Harry kissed the top of her head, grinning like he’d just caught the Snitch and no one else saw.

Angelina finally looked up, wiped sweat from her temple. “Trousers off. Now.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Harry’s joggers were down and gone in seconds. She practically tore them off him — no ceremony, no teasing. She wanted access.

His cock sprang free, already hard, already aching, and the sound Angelina made when she saw it — low, sharp, like approval wrapped in hunger — made him twitch.

“Fuck,” she muttered, fingers wrapping around the base, slow stroke, her thumb brushing the tip. “Alright, Potter. Didn’t expect this.”

Harry’s voice came out rough. “Want a moment to recalibrate?”

Angelina looked up, eyes glinting. “I want to ride your cock until you forget what day it is.”

He didn’t have a reply for that. His brain sort of short-circuited.

She shoved her own trousers and underwear down with one motion, stepping out of them like they were a problem she was done with. Then she turned, grabbed the shelf behind her, and bent forward.

Just like that.

Harry stared for a second — just stared. The curve of her back, the swell of her arse, the way she looked over her shoulder at him like what are you waiting for? — it short-circuited something in his brain again.

He stepped forward, hands grabbing her hips, lining himself up. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, and she was so fucking wet, he almost lost it then and there.

He pushed in.

Slow, thick, stretching.

Angelina gasped, loud, one hand slapping the shelf for balance. “Shit — Harry — fuck, that’s—”

He bottomed out and held there, gripping her hips, trying not to lose control.

“Move,” she growled. “Now.”

Harry did.

He pulled back and slammed into her again, hips snapping forward with a wet, filthy sound that filled the tight little storeroom. She met every thrust like she needed it — like this wasn’t new, wasn’t careful, just necessary.

He couldn’t stop.

Couldn’t even think.

The slap of skin on skin, the way she pushed back onto him, her breathless curses — it all blurred. He grunted, jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his chest as he pounded into her, rough and deep and unrelenting.

“Fuck, Angelina,” he rasped, barely recognising his own voice.

“Harder,” she said. Demanded.

So he gave it to her.

Hands locked tight on her hips, fucking her like he meant to knock the air out of her lungs. The shelf shook. One of the old beaters’ bats clattered to the floor. Neither of them gave a shit.

Angelina moaned, voice cracking, cheek pressed to her forearm. “Just like that — fucking hell — don’t stop—”

“I’m not,” Harry growled, bending forward, chest pressed to her back, teeth at her shoulder. “I’m not stopping.”

She was shaking now, whole body trembling with each brutal thrust, her moans getting ragged, breaking apart.

He slipped one hand around, fingers landing on her clit, rubbing hard, fast, ruthless.

She cried out, sharp and raw, legs buckling. “Harry — fuck — I’m gonna —”

“Do it.”

She shattered around him.

Back arching.

Hips jerking.

Her body clamped down on his cock so tight he saw white. He kept thrusting, kept rubbing, kept going through her orgasm, until the tightness inside him finally snapped and he came with a low, broken grunt, spilling deep inside her, hips twitching, pulse thudding in his ears.

They stayed there, breathing heavy, bodies locked together, sweat-soaked and shaking.

Angelina was the first to speak.

“Fuck,” she said into the wood.

Harry grinned, eyes closed. “You’re welcome.”

She snorted. “Cocky little shit.”

Harry had barely started catching his breath when he felt fingers wrap around his cock.

Still sensitive, still twitching, still half-hard — but that grip lit him up like a hex to the spine.

He jolted a little. Looked down.

Angelina was kneeling in front of him, shirtless, sweat-slick, hair wild. No warning. No slow build-up. Just looking up at him with that same cool focus she had before a game.

“What are you—”

“You didn’t finish,” she said simply.

Harry blinked. “I did, actually.”

She cocked her head. “Not properly.”

His mouth opened. Closed. No argument.

Angelina leaned in, and her tongue was on him before he could string a sentence together.

Harry’s head hit the shelf behind him with a dull thunk. “Fuck—”

She was not playing around. Mouth hot and wet, lips sliding down around him, tongue swirling, slow at first — but firm. Purposeful. Like she wasn’t doing this for his sake. Like this was part of the deal.

Harry’s hands dropped to his sides, gripping the edge of the bench. His thighs tensed. He was still oversensitive, twitching at every pass of her tongue, but it didn’t matter. His body was already responding.

“You don’t—” he tried, voice wrecked. “You don’t have to—”

She pulled off just long enough to say, “Harry. Shut up.” Then she went right back down.

Her hand pumped at the base while her mouth worked the rest, bobbing slow and deep, sucking harder on the way back. He could hear it — hear the wet, filthy sound of her sucking him off like she’d done it a hundred times, like it was personal.

Harry looked down. Big mistake. Her eyes were locked on his, and her mouth was full, cheeks hollowing around him, spit dripping from the corners of her lips.

“Holy—fuck—”

His hips jerked. She took it. Didn’t flinch. Just gripped him harder and sucked deeper, moaning around him like she was the one getting off.

She twisted her wrist as she stroked, tongue teasing under the head with every pull, and Harry was losing it. Legs shaking. Breath stuttering. Vision blurring.

“Angelina—”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t want him to hold it. He could tell. Everything in her body said give it to me.

He did.

He came hard, thighs tensed, breath caught, groaning loud as she took every drop.

And when he was done — really done, spent and twitching and wrecked — she pulled back with a soft pop, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and smirked.

“There,” she said, standing, slipping her shirt back on like nothing had happened. “Now it’s even.”

Harry just sat there, dazed, staring up at her.

She then moved again, although her legs weren’t fully cooperating. She reached for the nearby bench and sat down hard, like gravity had just remembered she existed.

“Okay,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair. “I get it now.”

Harry blinked, still trying to regulate his breathing. “Get what?”

She tilted her head at him. “Why Ginny and Katie told me to come and find you in private.”

Harry chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow with the inside of his elbow. “I’ll thank them later on.”

Angelina gave him a sideways glance. “Me too, Harry, me too.”

He grinned, still a little dazed. “So, uh… that the kind of feedback you were expecting when you came back to help?”

She let out a breathy laugh, head leaning back against the wall. “Honestly? Wasn’t planning on it. But I’m not mad.”

There was a pause. Both of them half-naked, hair a mess, skin shining under the flickering torchlight. The air stank of sex and sweat and something very close to pride.

Harry bent down and grabbed her shirt from the floor, tossed it over with a casual flick. “Think we shook any dust loose?”

Angelina caught it, pulled it into her lap. “Probably cracked a few stones loose from the foundation.”

Another pause. She was watching him again, but this time it was less heat, more curiosity.

“You ever think about going pro?” she asked. “After school, I mean.”

Harry hesitated, sitting down next to her, their shoulders bumping. “Sometimes.”

“You should. You’ve got the talent. You’ve got... other things too.”

He smirked. “What, like fame?”

She laughed again — throatier this time, almost warm. “More like... stamina.”

Harry leaned in, lips brushing her neck. “You saying I’ve got potential?”

“I’m saying,” she said, fingers curling around the back of his neck, “if you don’t, that’s a fucking waste.”

They sat there a bit longer. Quiet. Just the sound of their breathing coming down, the storeroom creaking slightly like it was recovering from the assault.

Eventually, Angelina stood up, tugged her clothes back into place with a few efficient movements, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Just another day. Another victory.

Harry leaned back, watching her. “So what, you gonna coach the team tomorrow then?”

She paused at the door, hand on the latch.

“I’ll be watching,” she said without turning around. “But I think the team’s already in good hands.”

Then she left, just like that — door clicking behind her, leaving Harry there half-dressed, sore, and grinning like a bloody idiot.

He looked around at the wrecked room, at the practice gear scattered on the floor, the scuffed-up shelf, the faint imprint of her arse on the bench.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, still smiling, “solid team meeting.”