The Temptation of Ginny Weasley
by Starrysummer



Challenge: Based on The Temptation of St. Anthony by Martin Schongauer. It's basically inspired by the feelings and themes of that paintings and not a literal interpretation.
Warnings: YES! Incest, bloodplay, masturbation, voyeurism, character death, slight chan (Ginny is sixteen)... um... I *think* that's all the posssible squicks...
Notes: Originally written for the arth_hp (Brushstrokes and Broomsticks) ficathon. Also posted for the hp_bitextual Inopportune Interruption challenge. Thanks for florahart for beta-reading this for me and to lysrouge for reassurance and feedback.


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“Men are weak,” she said as she carved the tiny knife into my skin, piercing red and healing flesh as the blood flowed anew.

“Men are weak,” I repeated, cringing against the tears I kept from her because I knew she loved them.

I did not question her, despite the fact that we were surrounded by men who continually displayed what looked to me to be strength. The wielding of weapons, sculpting of worlds, destruction of enemies. I had been taught what strength was.

“Strength is pain,” she said as she drew the flame across my breast.

“Strength is pain,” I repeated breathlessly.

It was not until later, as she lay naked in bed, tired and vulnerable, that I spoke up, my voice a whimper as I huddled against my knees in the corner.

“Why,” I asked.

She never answered, and, later, when I crawled into bed and leaned over her to blow out the candle, I saw that she’d fallen asleep with her face twisted into a cruel smile.

~~

I did not mean to be here. I used to think that Harry needed me, that I was a fighter and a heroine. Right was right and wrong was wrong and some people had been brought up by awful parents.

I’m sure they whisper about me now and the evil tortures a twisted memory inflicted on my young mind.

It was nothing like that. I was young and stupid and lonely, and by the time I was pulled out of the chamber, I was dirty and contrite, but none the worse for wear.

It was not Tom who scarred me.

~~

Ron always shunted me off to the side, like some insect to be discarded until she flew back, buzzing in his ear again. Percy had no time, and Mum was always so angry.

But Fred and George saw the fire in my eyes.

I’d spend hours making ton-tongue toffees and canary creams with them in their bedroom. When Mum came to ask what they were up to, they sent me into the hallway with a cute little smile, to head her off elsewhere. They never told me I was up past my bedtime. They never told me to buzz of. They knew I was good.

They were older, they were my brothers, for god’s sake, but I couldn’t help but start to develop a bit of a crush on them. I was horribly ashamed and chalked it up to the fact that it’s only natural for a girl to fall for cute older boys who bother to pay attention to her.

Not that it seems so wrong anymore. Not in comparison.

~~

“Men don’t understand,” I murmured as I felt the first rough strokes of Bellatrix’s tongue against my clitoris.

“Men don’t understand,” she whispered, pulling herself up to my ears. She kissed me and I could taste myself on her lips. “I’ve taught you well,” she said as she bit her teeth into my bottom lip and licked the warm trickle of blood.

My blood tinged her teeth a soft orange red and I reached down and touched myself as I watched the orange fade and revive each time she swallowed, and put her lips on mine again.

~~

I wanted them, I’d finally admitted to myself. I lay in bed at night, exploring myself the way any enlightened teenage girl really should, and I pictured their faces, their arms around me telling me how great I was, especially for a girl. I pretended by wetted fingertips were Fred’s lips on my neck, George’s fingers twittering on my nipple, and I came, moaning their names into my pillow.

~~

“All men die,” I whispered to Bella once with a bemused smile as we watched our Lord cast a final killing curse on the torn and soiled body of a traitor.

“All men die,” she repeated, her voice firm as if tinged with a threat.

“But we don’t die.”

“Do not say that yet, Ginny,” her teeth broke skin and I felt the warm wetness of blood—pure, red, hot, shiny blood—dripping down my neck as her fingernails dug into my shoulders. “But, yes, He will make it so.”

“He is not a man,” I said softly.

A tingle coursed through my neckline as she lapped up my blood on the tip of her tongue.

~~

Theirs had been mine and mine theirs as I spent the summer at their shop. Mum doesn’t approve, Dad is about to give in, but I promise promise promised to be good and really, shouldn’t they trust me after everything I’ve done.

I was always a very good liar.

I never had any intention of being good.

I spent day after day selling fake wands and trick candies to children who wanted to terrorize their parents, and late one night, delirious with bliss and exhaustion, I slowly turned the doorknob, hearing the quiet click of the door as it slid off the latch.

I took off my robe off, dropping it silently on the carpet outside their door, and wore only my sheer underclothes. They will not, they cannot resist me. Maybe it was bad and wrong and awful, but they were always bad boys, just like I’m a bad girl. I couldn’t force the denial anymore, I knew what it is I wanted. I wanted.

It occurred to me that I’d never seen their room before, not here, not out of our parents house, and there’s a sense of forbidden excitement as I place my hand flat on the splintered wood and push inwards.

The door swung open behind the faintest of force.

Their bodies were intertwined, red-haired heads between pale, freckled legs. I could not see their faces, only their fervent movements as they twisted together like a knot that needs no other thread, and I couldn’t bring myself to slam the door nor sneak off to my room unseen. I brought my hands instinctively to my chest, rubbing down taut nipples pressing up through white lace, watching in silence as they empty themselves into each others’ waiting mouths.

~~

The last time they brought in another set of broken prisoners, worn out and played beyond usefulness, I heard the hushed shrieks of recognition. “Ginny! Ginny!” as if I were somehow different, as if beneath my hooded cloak lurked some sort of trapped, innocent soul.

I evaded their desperate stares, looking away from their faces as I cast the curse. I heard a gasp and a shriek from the next in line, just another unrecognizable voice of childhood, of before. Another desperate cry of “Ginny!” as if I’m the youngest child stealing Christmas toys. Another hollow thud on the floor. They’re all the same when they’re dead.

“Good girl,” Bellatrix whispered in my ear.

“I am not a girl,” I hissed back as another incantation made the next near-corpse dance with agony.

~~

“Psst,” Fred whispered in George’s ear, that night. “I think Gin wants to play.”

They laughed. Together. At me. I smiled, my sixteen-year-old attempt at seduction, and they laughed again.

“Go play with Harry, Gin. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“That is not what I want.”

They looked at each other and I knew that they were horrified. Not embarrassed for themselves, shamed by their own actions, but embarrassed for me.

The door slammed behind me. I waited out front, in the joke shop, for a few minutes, to see if they would follow me. It was dark and quiet and empty and when they did not, I supposed they must be upstairs, together, again.

Because, for some reason, that’s how they thought it should be.

I, after all, was the innocent one.

~~

My fingers dart in and out of her tonight, her face contorting into a yelp each time a fingernail catches. I keep them long, like the other weapons she has helped me learn to use.

“I am not a girl,” I growl, squeezing a fourth finger into her dry, aging opening.

“Then what are you,” she spits back, laughing.

I am silent as I make her scream. Her breaths are forced and heavy. I used to wonder if she was dying, when she’s like this. Her eyes clenched tight show off her wrinkles and her pale face gains an almost-unnatural pinkness, young and old and violent and peaceful all at one time.

I take my fingers to my lips and lick clean my fingers. Crawling on top of her, slithering body and piercing claws, I am silent until I come face to face with her. My breath, I hope, is hot on her face as I collapse, her body below mine.

“I want to be like Him,” I finally whisper.

She looks younger as she laughs, crueler as she smiles.

“You are too young.”

My anger is almost enough to cast Cruciatus with nothing but my pointed finger. Perhaps if I were truly like Him, I could. I lie beside her, eyes closed, imagining if my name inspired terror instead of condescension.

“Ginny,” she whispers, her hand warm between my legs and voice seductive in my ear, as if in apology. “You are young, but that does not mean you can’t yet be a monster.”

I am about to nod in agreement when her finger rubs against me and I can do nothing but scream.

When she is finished, she turns over, exhausted, and falls asleep. I am awake for hours after that, a restless energy burning within me.

~~

I remember the unlocking charm and mutter it quietly, making my way into the empty shop. A few items have been sold, one or two new displays glitter with the shining metal of some new contraption, but the place is the same. I can hear myself breathing, in and out a slight whistle in each exhalation, as I let myself remember the place. It was not so long ago that I wanted to call this home.

By the barest of light from the streetlamps, their jokes seem much more sinister at night. Switching candies and exploding wands and Weasley Whizbangs… I realize the magic that’s gone into them, what they’d been learning while skiving off their schoolwork. We really never were so different—if only they’d let themselves understand.

I fondle the firecrackers with my fingertips before putting them back exactly where they’d been. Backing out of the store, I cast Incendio, on the entire display.

From across the alleyway, as I watch the flames consume their children’s toys, I catch a glimpse of their entwined silhouettes, as yet unaware, through the window on the second floor.

It’s the last glimpse I get and the last time I miss them.


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