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Title: The Broken Wall
Molly often used to say that Ginny’s only true fault was that she was far too trusting, and Ginny wonders sometimes if maybe she was right. She trusted Tom Riddle with all the secrets she held in her heart and then watched as he cracked it and painted the walls with her blood. She trusted Draco Malfoy once, too, a long time ago; if she looked hard enough, she could see a Light in his eyes that Lucius lacked. She believed that he would challenge the Dark and win, and then she watched from the sidelines as he drowned in it. One day, she thinks, she will learn to stop trusting Slytherins, for they are devious and dark, and they will always let her down. Ginny once thought that the only pretty thing about Pansy was her nails. They were long and glossy and perfectly filed, so unlike Ginny’s which were short and brittle and bitten till she bled. Pansy’s nails looked prettiest against the skin of Ginny’s arm, tracing nonsense patterns in a sea of pale while she smiled and whispered saccharine words into the red curtain over Ginny’s ear. And Ginny trusted her, because it is the thing she does best and because pretty things cannot lie. Pansy’s nails don’t seem quite so pretty anymore when they are scratching against Ginny’s clit, turning her hidden pink piece of heaven to a swollen red bead of hell, and Ginny moans and wails and begs to her stop. Millicent’s tongue is sharp and wet against her neck, and her hands are strong and bruising against Ginny’s thighs and wrists so she can do nothing but squirm and struggle and make them both smile into her skin like snakes. She closes her eyes, and she thinks of Harry, who faces trolls and slays basilisks and could easily fight both Pansy and Millicent. Harry who would be gentle and loving and not make her hurt at all. Then she thinks of Ron, who protects her from hateful words and the monsters under her bed and who would curl around her like an iron blanket and let no one touch her but him. She thinks of Hermione, even, whose brain is a pit of endless knowledge, who wields words like swords, and who would gently peel back her innocence like a layer of dust on a precious book. But they are not here, and Millicent is moving her, turning her, so that she can bathe Ginny’s breast with her tongue and scrape her teeth across Ginny’s nipple. And Pansy’s fingers are moving downward, then pushing inside of her and opening her, stretching her, and it stings like nothing she has ever felt. Ginny cries out, and her thighs tremble, clench, under Millicent’s fingers. There is a wetness against her back, thick and sticky where Millicent is rocking her hips, scraping course, damp hair across Ginny’s skin until it burns. There is a wetness between her own legs, too, but it is different, thin and light and quickly drying on her thighs. She looks down but sees only a flash of red and the dark of Pansy’s hair moving forward. Sobs escape her throat – pitiful, pleading, high-pitched cries – and hot tears blur her vision as Pansy’s fingers stroke her insides, nudging and rubbing against places that make her head fall back against Millicent’s shoulder and the muscles in her thighs quiver, places that she never dreamed could even exist, and then Pansy’s fingers curve and her nails replace them, scratching and scraping until Ginny screams and jerks and wishes they didn’t exist at all. A tongue nudges against her clit, surrounding it in wetness and stroking it, soothing it. Then Pansy’s lips close around it, and she sucks, swirling the tip of her tongue around the nub, just as Millicent sucks and licks at the peak of her nipple, and Ginny wails as perfectly-filed nails dig into her walls and hot, wet tongues lap at her most sensitive places. It is pure heaven and hell, and she rolls her head from side to side as she tries to separate the two, but it is impossible, and all she knows is that she feels. Ginny is crying when she comes, because it is awful and ugly and painful and yet still the most beautiful thing she has ever felt. Millicent’s fingers replace Pansy’s, and they stroke and scrape her to another orgasm, and Ginny sobs helplessly as she trembles and arches and squeezes her thighs together until it stops. Pansy watches, smirks, and licks Weasley red from her nails.
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This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
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