The library was empty, even quieter than it usually was. You sat on the second level, far back in the corner you'd claimed as yours. It was the furthest from any form of distraction, and the most secluded. Perfect for studying.

You tapped your fingers on the table, reading the same sentence for the third time. The words blurred together. Bombarda Maxima. You'd memorized harder spells before—you knew Defense Against the Dark Arts better than anyone in your year—but tonight, the spell wouldn't stick. Frustration coiled in your chest as you forced your eyes back to the page.

You were about to reread the entire paragraph—footsteps. Footsteps approaching your corner. Your eyes snapped up—and there he was. Remus Lupin. He stood at the edge of your corner, a few books tucked beneath one of his arms, and that stupid smug expression already in place. Not him—not now, not when you were already frustrated. 

Almost instinctively, you rolled your eyes, and a frown took over your face. 

"Bombarda Maxima? I finished studying that weeks ago. Didn't realize the Ravenclaws were still catching up," he said sharply. 

You quickly took note of the textbooks under his arm—Advanced Herbology and Ancient Runes. Two subjects you'd bested him in.

"Still studying Dittany? Didn't realize the Gryffindors were stuck on plants we began learning about in fifth year," you snapped.

His jaw tightened, but the smirk didn't falter. "At least I don't look that confused trying to understand a basic spell."

"I wasn't confused," you shot back, slamming your textbook shut. "I was considering alternative applications—something you'd understand if you ever thought beyond what's written on the page."

"Alternative applications." He let out a low, humorless laugh, stepping closer to your table. "Is that what you're calling it now? I remember you used the same excuse in fourth year when you couldn't figure out the Patronus theory before I did."

Your fingers curled against the edge of the table. Of course he'd bring that up. "I produced a Patronus a full week before you managed more than silver mist. Or did you conveniently forget that part?"

"Only because you spent every night in here obsessing over it." He was right in front of your table now, looking down at you with that insufferable expression. "You always do this—overthink until you're paralyzed. It's why I beat you on the last Defense practical."

You stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. You weren't about to let him literally talk down to you. "You beat me by half a point. One judge's opinion."

"Still counts as beating you." His voice dropped lower, more controlled. Dangerous. "Must be difficult, being second best after all these years of trying so hard."

Heat flared in your chest—anger and something else you refused to name. "Second best? I've had higher marks than you in four subjects this term alone. You can't stand that I'm better than you, can you? That's why you're here—you can't resist trying to knock me down whenever you get the chance."

Something flickered across his face. His eyes darkened, and he moved around the table, closing the distance between you. Even standing, you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. "You think that's why I'm here?"

"Isn't it?" You lifted your chin, refusing to back down even as he stepped closer, his frame casting a shadow over you. "It's what you've done since first year. The second you realized I could actually keep up with you, you've been trying to prove you're smarter. More capable. Better."

"Keep up with me?" His voice was barely above a murmur now, rough around the edges. He was close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides—his hands large enough that they seemed to shrink everything around them. "You've been a thorn in my side for seven years. Every time I think I've finally pulled ahead, there you are—"

"What, existing? Succeeding?" You took a step forward, nearly chest to chest with him now—though your chest barely reached his, forcing you to crane your neck to hold his gaze. Your heart was hammering. "Sorry I'm such an inconvenience to your ego, Lupin."

His eyes dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. His breathing had changed—shorter, more controlled. He loomed over you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. "You have no idea what you are."

The words hung between you, charged with something that made your pulse spike. The air felt too thick, too warm. But you refused to back down—not now, not ever. He didn't deserve to win. 

"I'm better than you," you muttered, your voice cold. "That's all that matters."

You thought that would be the end of it—a verbal slap to the face that would make him back off like it had countless times before. Only this time, it didn't. Instead of backing off like always, he stood still. You watched him inhale a short breath, watched his fingers ball into fists before he dropped his textbooks on to the table. 

His hands were on your robes before you could even react, and your back met the bookshelf harshly. You were about to grab your wand out of your pocket, about to scream for Maddam Pince, when he did something even more unexpected. 

His mouth was on yours before you could process it—hard and demanding, no hesitation. You gasped, and he took the advantage, deepening the kiss. His tongue claimed your mouth while his teeth caught your bottom lip. For a split second, you considered Depulsoing him off you, gaining the upper hand by rejecting him. But that was too simple, too predictable, too safe. That would be losing.

You were not about to be outdone. 

You grabbed his tie, pulling him closer, matching his intensity with your own. There was nothing gentle about it—just frustration and years of tension snapping.

When you broke apart for air, his forehead pressed against yours, breathing ragged. His hands were still fisted in your robes, holding you against the shelf like he was afraid you'd disappear—or worse, push him away and declare victory.

You wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Your hand slid down between your bodies, fingers finding his belt buckle. His breath hitched, eyes snapping to yours—dark and dangerous and surprised. Good. Let him be caught off guard for once.

"What are you—" he started, voice rough.

"Shut up, Lupin," you muttered, working the buckle open with steady fingers despite the way your heart was hammering. "Unless you're going to back down now."

His jaw clenched. "I'm not backing down."

"Then neither am I."

Something shifted in his expression—something feral and possessive that made heat pool low in your stomach. Before you could process it, his hands were on your waist, spinning you around with enough force that you had to brace yourself against the table to keep from stumbling.

Your palms hit the wooden surface, and you felt him press against your back, his body a solid wall of heat. One of his hands slid up your spine, between your shoulder blades, pushing you down until your chest was flush with the table. The other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.

"Still think you're better than me?" he murmured against your ear, his voice low and dangerous.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, refusing to be intimidated even bent over a library table with him looming over you. "Prove me wrong."

His hand fisted in your skirt, shoving it up roughly until the fabric bunched around your waist. The cool air hit your thighs, and you bit back a gasp. You were already wet—had been since he'd crowded you against the bookshelf, maybe even before that, during the argument when his eyes had gone dark and his voice had dropped low.

He made a rough sound in the back of his throat when his fingers hooked into your knickers, feeling the damp fabric. "Fuck."

"Don't let it go to your head," you managed, but your voice came out breathier than you intended.

"Too late." He pulled the fabric aside rather than removing it entirely, and you heard the sound of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he freed himself from his trousers.

You felt the head of his cock press against you—thick and hard and bigger than you'd expected—and your fingers curled against the table. The forgotten Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook was right there. The irony wasn't lost on you.

"Last chance to back out," Remus said, but there was no mercy in his voice. This was a challenge, same as everything else between you.

"I don't back out," you shot back. "Do you?"

He pushed in without warning.

Your hand flew to your mouth, muffling the cry that threatened to escape as he stretched you open. He was big—almost too big—and the burn of the intrusion mixed with pleasure in a way that made your thighs shake. He didn't give you time to adjust, didn't ease in slowly, and you were more than alright with that.

His hand pressed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned to the table as he bottomed out. You could feel him everywhere—thick and deep and overwhelming. Your other hand scrambled for security on the smooth wood, nails scraping uselessly.

"Quiet," he warned, voice strained. "Unless you want Pince to find us like this."

You bit down on your palm, breathing hard through your nose as he pulled back and thrust in again—harder this time, more deliberate. The table creaked beneath you, and you prayed no one was close enough to hear.

He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving you forward against the table. His fingers dug into your hip, holding you in place, controlling the angle and depth. You could feel him hitting something deep inside that made sparks shoot up your spine, made your vision blur at the edges.

"Still think—" he grunted, slamming in particularly hard, "—you're smarter than me?"

You would've laughed if you could breathe properly. Even now, even like this, he couldn't let it go. Neither could you.

"Yes," you gasped against your palm, the word muffled but defiant.

His other hand slid up your back, into your hair, fisting it and pulling your head back just enough to make you arch. The new angle made him sink even deeper, and you had to bite down harder to keep from crying out.

"Liar," he breathed against your ear, and you could hear the satisfaction in his voice.

Your eyes squeezed shut, but when they opened again, they landed on the textbook. The piece of parchment tucked underneath it on Bombarda Maxima. The spell you'd been struggling with while he'd been Merlin knows where, probably studying something else entirely, probably getting perfect marks without even trying like he always did.

The resentment flared even through the haze of pleasure, and you pushed back against him, meeting his next thrust with enough force that he moaned in surprise.

"More," you demanded, voice barely above a whisper. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly. You weren't going to let him half-arse this like it didn't matter.

"Fuck," he muttered, but he complied. His grip tightened in your hair and on your hip, and he drove into you with enough force that the table scraped against the floor.

You both froze for a second, listening. No footsteps. No voices. Just your ragged breathing and the thundering of your pulse in your ears.

The smart idea would've been to cast a silencing charm on the furniture, but something about the risk of being caught only made it better. 

Then he moved again, and coherent thought became impossible.

The rhythm was relentless now—deep, hard thrusts that made your whole body jolt forward with each impact. Your hand was still clamped over your mouth, but small, desperate sounds escaped anyway. His breathing was harsh against your ear, punctuated by low curses and the occasional groan he couldn't quite suppress.

"Touch yourself," he ordered roughly, and you hated how quickly you obeyed.

Your free hand slid down between your legs, fingers finding your clit. The added stimulation made you clench around him, and his hips stuttered.

"Fuck—don't—" He sounded wrecked, his usual composure completely shattered.

Good. You wanted him as undone as you felt.

You circled your clit in tight, quick movements, chasing the building pressure low in your stomach. Your legs were shaking, barely holding you up. If it weren't for his grip on you and the table beneath you, you would've collapsed.

"You're close," he said, and it wasn't a question. He could feel it—the way you were tightening around him, the way your breathing had gone shallow and desperate.

You nodded against the table, not trusting yourself to speak.

His hand left your hair, sliding around to cover your mouth properly. "Then cum," he murmured against your ear. "But quietly. Can you do that, or do I need to spell your mouth shut?"

The condescension in his voice—even now, even like this—made anger and arousal spike in equal measure. You bit down on his palm in retaliation, and he made a choked sound that might've been a laugh or a groan.

"Brat," he muttered, but his hips snapped forward harder, faster, and you could feel him getting close too.

Your fingers moved frantically over your clit, and the pressure built and built until it was unbearable. Your eyes landed on the textbook again—on the page you'd been struggling with, on the notes in the margins in your own handwriting, on the reminder of why you were here in the first place.

To be better than him. To prove you were smarter, more capable, more deserving of top marks.

And now here you were, bent over a library table with his cock buried inside you and his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.

You should've been furious. You should've hexed him.

Instead, you came.

The orgasm hit you like a Stunning Spell—sudden and overwhelming and all-consuming. Your whole body went rigid, clenching around him so hard he swore viciously against your ear. His hand pressed harder over your mouth, muffling the cry that tore from your throat.

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you, whiting out everything else. Your fingers stilled on your clit, too sensitive to continue, and you could feel yourself pulsing around him, could feel the way it was affecting him—his rhythm faltering, his breathing going even more ragged.

"Fuck—where—" he managed, and you understood the question even through the haze.

You reached back blindly, grabbing his hip, holding him in place. Inside. You wanted him to finish inside you, wanted to feel it, wanted that victory even if it was a twisted one.

He made a sound that was almost pained, and then he was cumming—hips jerking erratically as he spilled inside you. His hand stayed clamped over your mouth, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathing. Just existing in the aftermath.

Then reality crept back in.

The library. The table. The textbook still open beneath your hand. The fact that you'd just gotten fucked by Remus Lupin—your academic rival, the bane of your existence for seven years—in the Hogwarts library where anyone could've walked in.

He pulled out slowly, and you felt his release start to leak out, warm and wet against your inner thigh. His hand left your mouth, and you heard him casting a quick cleaning charm, felt the tingle of magic as it worked.

You pushed yourself up from the table on shaking arms, pulling your skirt down and your knickers back into place. When you turned around, he was already tucking himself back into his trousers, his face flushed and his hair disheveled.

For a second, you just stared at each other. The silence was loaded, dangerous.

Then you grabbed your textbook off the table, holding it against your chest like a shield. "This doesn't change anything," you said, proud of how steady your voice was. "I'm still going to beat you on the next exam."

Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe, or disbelief. "Is that right?"

"That's right."

He stepped closer, and you refused to back away even though your heart was racing again. He reached out, and for a second you thought he was going to kiss you again. Instead, his fingers straightened your collar, fixed your rumpled robes with careful precision.

"We'll see about that," he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. Then he grabbed his own books from where he'd dropped them and walked away, leaving you standing there in the quiet corner of the library, still trembling and trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.

You looked down at the textbook in your hands. Bombarda Maxima. The spell you'd been struggling with.

Somehow, you didn't think you'd have trouble concentrating on it anymore.

The next day, you were minding your own business in the corridor between classes when you heard it—laughter. Loud, unmistakable laughter coming from a cluster of Gryffindors near the staircase.

James Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew were huddled together, and the moment they spotted you, their grins turned absolutely wicked.

"There she is," Sirius called out, his voice carrying down the corridor. "The girl who—"

"Shut up," you said flatly, already walking faster.

"—absolutely destroyed the library last night," James finished, barely containing his smirk. "Heard it was quite the educational experience."

Your face burned. Of course. Of course Remus had told them.

"I'm going to hex you," you muttered, pushing past them.

"Moony said you were very... thorough," Peter added, his voice squeaky with barely suppressed laughter. "Very competitive, even when—"

"I said shut up."

But they were already dissolving into fits of laughter, and you could hear them making increasingly crude jokes as you stormed away. Your hands were clenched so hard your nails were digging into your palms.

You made it exactly three steps before you spotted him.

Remus was leaning against the wall near the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, looking absolutely unbothered. More than unbothered—he looked satisfied. Smug. Like he'd just won something.

When your eyes met his, he smirked. Actually smirked at you, like the whole thing was some kind of victory lap.

That was it.

You changed direction, walking straight toward him. He straightened as you approached, and you grabbed his arm, pulling him into the alcove beside the classroom door where the Marauders couldn't see.

"You told them," you hissed, keeping your voice low.

"I did," he said, completely not sorry. His eyes were still dark, still holding that satisfied gleam. "They were going to find out eventually. Might as well control the narrative."

"Control the—" You took a breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. "You know what? Fine. Tell whoever you want. But next time—" You stepped closer, your voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Next time, you're going to lose."

His smirk faltered for just a second—surprise flickering across his face before it returned, even more infuriating than before.

"Is that a promise?" he asked softly.

You didn't answer. Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, your head held high, already mentally preparing for the next exam. Already planning how you were going to beat him.

Because that's what this was. That's what it had always been.

The library had changed nothing.