Written for the Dark Witches Fest 2012 at LJ. Many thanks to my beta H.E. who did such a fab last minute job!
Warnings: Dub-con, physical violence/torture, sexual situations between minors, bad language, psychological cruelty, orgasm control.
This is an M rated fic. If this rating or the any of the above warnings offend, please do not read.
Detention Can Be Torture
Sometimes, Pansy had to admit, extra-curricular activities did have their merits.
When the Inquisitorial Squad had first been re-established under the authority of the Carrows, Pansy had been about as uninterested as she had the time Fletch-Flinch-Huffle-whatsits had asked her out on a Hogsmeade weekend. She had better things to do with her time than spy on the few remaining Gryffindor stragglers and sit through lectures on the virtues of apartheid from the sibling Neanderthals.
She'd quickly changed her mind, however, when the new detention regime had come into force.
Maybe it was twisted, maybe it was a trait of her personality that she really ought to be concerned by, but something that Pansy had always taken exquisite enjoyment from was delivering punishment. And when Amycus Carrow had presented her with her first snivelling second year – caught with an old copy of The Quibbler in the library – her delight had been such that she hadn't even noticed when the seedy Dark Arts professor had ushered her into the dungeons with a lecherous pat on her backside.
It had been the most exhilarating half hour – the relief she needed, in all honesty, after a trying few months.
Draco's departure from the school earlier that year had left Pansy feeling somewhat isolated; he had been her confidante, her outlet for all doubts and frustration, just as she had been his. Blaise, for all his smooth manner and quick-wit, she found to be a poor substitute, and as for Crabbe or Goyle – Sweet Circe! – Pansy had far too much self-respect to even consider anything more than a House alliance with those fools. And whilst suffering in a regal, dignified silence had been enjoyable for a time, the release she had felt uttering that first hesitant Cruciatus had been indescribable.
After that first illuminating evening, Pansy had quickly become the Carrows' most promising student. She soon outgrew the younger detainees, who would cry and beg for reprieve, and had an irritating habit of passing out before she could unleash some of her more imaginative curses. Her talents – of which she had an elegant arsenal up her sleeve – were much better suited to the real trouble-makers, the ones who dedicated every waking hour to defying the new order, with acts of rebellion each more arrogant and poorly executed than the last. The ones who could take a little beating without wailing for their mothers, and who, if she were feeling in a playful mood, would mistake her momentary leniency and sweeten the experience by fighting back.
On that particular Wednesday night, Pansy knew she was in for a treat. She'd heard the whispering across the Great Hall at dinner – somebody had tried to steal the sword of Gryffindor.
Moronic.
A quick sweep of the other tables revealed three missing students: that idiot Longbottom, Loony and the Weaslette. Pansy's excitement was hard to contain, especially when Professor Carrow –she didn't particularly notice which one, found it hard to tell anyway – had appeared in the open doorway and beckoned her from her seat with a nod and a sadistic smile.
Wand twirling between her fingers, endorphins beginning to swim in her veins, Pansy had dutifully followed, winding their way down into the dungeons. Amycus – up close, the pot belly had given him away – was clearly just as thrilled as she was, stumbling as fast as his two short legs would carry him.
"Caught them red-handed, the little cretins," he preened. "Too many of them for us to handle alone. Alecto wants Longbottom, had her eye on him for months. I fancy a piece of the blonde myself, which means you get the blood traitor." He barked out a laugh, "Went as red as her hair when we tied her up. You're in for a long night, Pansy my sweet."
Pansy's breath caught in her throat. He couldn't mean – surely not…? But, Merlin and Morgana, he did! They were giving her Ginny Weasley.
Her wand jerked in her palm, emitting short, red sparks, her very skin tingling with anticipation. Ginny Weasley – the flame-haired Boadicea of their ridiculous youth league, not to mention the 'Chosen One's' girlfriend – was hers for the breaking. How many evenings had Pansy wiled away, imagining ways to make that little chit scream?
Of course, as the furious beat of her pulse reminded her, there was more to her fascination than the girl's rank amongst the opposition. She blamed Blaise, truth be told, for first bringing the little harlot to her full attention. His casual remark over breakfast one morning, that he considered the girl attractive, had had her head spinning. What on Earth could he see in her? Weasley was all mouth and no finesse, tangled hair and galloping strides
But apparently he wasn't the only one. Rumour in the Slytherin common room was that she was a ferocious tart and Pansy's curiosity had grown.
"Heal what you cut on this one," Amycus broke her from her reverie with a grunted instruction, pointing towards the door deepest in shadow. "McGonagol, the silly bitch, has a soft spot for her."
Pansy nodded, curtly. "Time?"
"Take as long as you need. Consider yourself exempt from curfew," he grinned cruelly, too much gum and no teeth, and disappeared through a second door to the left. Pansy caught a glimpse of a limp, pale haired body strapped to a stone pillar. Her fingers thrummed again with eager magic.
She wasted no time entering her own chamber, her sharp silhouette stretching across the floor, illuminated by the torchlight from the corridor behind. Weasley's position wasn't immediately obvious. Rather than the arching pillars, the girl had been strung up against the far wall, set back from the doorway and partially hidden from view.
In case a sympathizer came snooping, perhaps? Pansy wondered.
Her wrists were both bound, arms pulled out to East and West, and making her body bend uncomfortably, torso straining against the tension in the bonds. Though her fiery hair was down and loose, the girl's eye-line was clear. Pansy returned the furiously defiant, hazel eyed glare, her own sparkling with ill-disguised delight.
She let the door swing shut with a heavy clank. The cell plunged into darkness.
"You know, I'm almost insulted," Pansy hadn't expected Ginny's voice to be so high, so feminine. It seemed at odds with the way she stomped all over the castle. "They've sent their lackey to deal with me."
She stepped slowly, carefully across the room, till she was standing directly in front of her captive. Even at this distance it was still hard to make out the finer details; only the wrinkled, white school shirt stood out against the dank dungeon wall.
"Well, get on with -,"
"Crucio!"
Pansy really didn't like to be rushed.
To her credit, Ginny didn't scream. She jerked against the chains holding her to the wall, body lurching forward involuntarily, her jaw clenched shut to keep in the admission of pain. After a long minute, she lowered her wand. Ginny sagged but still managed to stand on two shaky legs, tossing her long tresses away from her face to fix Pansy with another even glare.
"Bit predictable, if you ask me-,"
"Crucio!" Pansy grinned as she flicked her wand, more violently this time. A startled cry managed to escape Ginny's throat as her body tensed again, fingers clenching into fists and tendons taut.
This time, Pansy took the opportunity to study the other girl in the grip-hold of white hot agony. Her knees, skinny and bare above the white uniform socks, trembled under the strain of keeping herself upright. Ginny's eyes were tightly shut, cheeks prickling pink with the effort it took not to make noise, and she could see her pulse point, leaping violently beneath the stiff and freckled curve of her neck.
Pansy licked her lips, unsubtly.
As she waved off the curse once more, Ginny fell back against the damp stonework. Eyes still closed, Pansy watched her chest rise and fall beneath her blouse, hurriedly trying to get her breathing back under control.
"You'll have to do better than that, Parkinson," she muttered, but her voice sounded tight and strained and waivered in the middle.
Pansy grinned and fingered the end of her wand. "Don't worry that plain little head of yours, Weasley, this is only the opening act. I like to get a feel for a person's weakness and limits, you see. That way, I can tailor our time together; make sure we both have a… truly memorable experience."
Ginny's shoulder twitched reflexively, making the metal restraints clink against the brickwork.
"Now, let's get a proper look at you," Pansy smiled, almost sweetly, and flicked her wand towards a torch above Ginny's head, a solitary blue flame roaring to life. In the unearthly light, the girl's face seemed to lose all contours. Her jaw softened, sneering lips became plump and full and her glare, though still mutinous, seemed to simmer with an energy that made Pansy's navel hum. No tear stains, no quivering chin – just pure, unadulterated defiance.
Gods, this was going to be wonderful, she inhaled deeply.
Ginny seemed to have rediscovered her full voice at last. "So, what happened then? Were you just not Death Eater material? Got turned down by You-Know-Who, so decided to become those idiots' whipping girl, instead?"
Pansy paused and tipped her head to the side, black curls brushing at her shoulder. "Not exactly. Why, what happened to you? Dumped by Spec-Head Potter and decided to take on suicide missions to regain his attention? Really, one girl to another, desperation is hardly an attractive quality." Ginny's auburn hair crackled with fury. Pansy smirked coldly, "Now, once more for luck? Crucio!"
She'd moved so quickly that Ginny hadn't been prepared. Arching forward, the red-head gave a strangled shriek of pain, before snapping her jaws shut so tightly that she must have bit down on her tongue. Pansy watched, wide eyed and breathless, as a trickle of blood escaped her lips, streaking down her chin and leaving one perfect drip on her white school shirt. Entranced, she gripped her wand more tightly, only noticing when Ginny's body began to shake under the force of her over-charged curse.
This time, as Pansy expertly snapped off the jet of green light, her captive's legs gave out and Ginny's slender figure swung forward, shoulders almost disjointing as the chains caught her wrists. Pansy allowed the girl a moment to regain her strength – no fun playing with a rag doll, after all – frowning, when she simply hung limp against the wall.
"Get up, Weasley," she muttered boredly, firing off a few red sparks at her feet to encourage some action. Ginny's head lolled uncomfortably to one side. "Weasley?"
Pansy cursed, quickly crossing the distance between them and grabbing the other girl by the collar to hoist her to her feet. Ginny stirred as Pansy braced her against the cold stone wall, legs suddenly kicking out and catching the Slytherin in the shins. With another muffled curse, Pansy pushed back harder against the struggling body, nails digging into the flesh of Ginny's shoulder, wand slipping against her stomach.
"Succendium!" Pansy hissed, flinching as Ginny screamed loudly in her ear and began writhing against her. Holding her position for just a moment too long, Pansy stepped back and eyed the wisp of smoke still lingering at her wand tip. A gaping singe mark in the Gryffindor's shirt revealed the hot, red burn she'd left on her exposed skin.
Pansy's mouth went dry.
In that moment, she was simultaneously aware of two thoughts. The first, that it was incredibly annoying to be friends with someone who was right all of the time. The second, that Blaise's ego was really the least of her concerns right now, because Ginny Weasley was sumptuousness personified.
If she were the kind to admit weakness, Pansy would have to concede that it was a notion she still struggled to reconcile: her attraction to other girls. She'd suspected it for a while, mind you – ever since that first, failed fumble with Draco outside of Snape's office in fourth year. Even the thrill of being discovered by their Head of House had done nothing to excite her and the whole experience had been stiff and dry and painful. And repeated only out of necessity.
Until now, though, she hadn't been wholly convinced of her more unseemly desires, either. A stolen glance at Padma Patil beneath the bubbles of the Prefect Bath had resulted in little more than a hot flush. And that one restrained, drunken kiss with Millicent at her parents' last Solstice banquet had led only to a desperate Obliviate the next morning.
But there was something about Ginny Weasley… in this light and in those chains… with all that heat and rage and a downright attitude problem… And it was stirring something in Pansy that she could neither name nor wanted to supress.
Ginny Weasley wasn't just a fighter, she was practically begging for a beating. And Pansy wanted to give her that and, oh, so much more.
Now upright and trembling against the wall, Ginny's hands were curled into fists – whether out of anger or to help detract from the pain, Pansy could only presume. Something in her attitude had changed as well, her glare loaded with hatred and just enough fear to send a thrill chasing down Pansy's spine. This was just how she liked her playthings: alert, wary and emotionally aroused.
"I've heard them talk, you know, the Carrows," Pansy took a slow step forward, flashing her pearly white teeth in a predatory smile. "About all the horrid things the Dark Lord is going to do to Potter and his friends, when they catch them."
Ginny stood her ground – not that she had anywhere to go, mind you – and boldly turned her nose up.
"I thought your brother's punishment sounded bad," Pansy spun her wand between slender fingers, "that is, until I heard what they have in store for the Mudblood."
Hazel eyes narrowed at the slur. Pansy giggled as she took another step closer.
"Would you like to know what they're going to do to her? Your buck-toothed, know-it-all friend?"
"As if they'd tell a boot-licker like you!" Ginny snarled, arms jerking against her restraints. Pansy fancied that if she wasn't tied up, the Gryffindor would be gearing up to give her a slap. She had to admit, the idea wasn't wholly unpleasant.
Pansy's grin widened. "They're going to ishare/i her. All of them. Pass her around like a goblet of pumpkin juice till she's empty and stained." She watched as Ginny recoiled slightly into the wall. "I've heard Draco's Aunt Bella is particularly looking forward to it."
"Shut your mouth, Parkinson!"
She laughed. "I dare say they'll have her begging for it, before the end. Imagine that… Your little virgin Mudblood, opening her legs for any old minion that can spare her a glance…"
Ginny lurched forward, fists clenched.
But Pansy was quicker: "Breviarius!"
Immediately, the chain links around her wrists shortened, snapping the red-head backwards so suddenly that she cracked her head against the stonework. She let out a groan of pain that made Pansy's very centre throb.
Taking advantage of Ginny's momentary disorientation, Pansy closed the distance between them. Kicking the other girl's feet apart, she wedged a knee between her legs and, with a sharp shove, had her entire body flush against the wall. As she dragged her wand along the creamy-white curve of her neck, Ginny seemed to register this new and over-powering contact, and immediately brought her feet up to kick out again. But it was no use. Pansy already had her firmly pinned, with her wand emitting a sharp, stinging hex right into Ginny's skin with every flinch.
Lacking any other means of retaliation, Ginny looked her captor dead in the eye and spat in her face. She quickly braced herself for another round of vicious curses, letting out another pained scream of surprise when, instead, Pansy punished her by grabbing a fistful of hair and tearing downward, harshly.
"Maybe, if you're lucky," Pansy snarled into her ear, her breath hot against Ginny's skin, fingers still curled tightly in a clump of red locks, "they'll do the same to you, make you their whore. Maybe your parents will hand you over – their daughter's virtue for their son's life, who knows?" She yanked down on her hair again, making Ginny wail in pain, and pushed herself closer to her warm and straining body. "Personally, though, I'm not sure it's worth the trade."
Scraping her nails over hot skin, Pansy manoeuvred her hand so that it slipped beneath Ginny's blouse. Ginny yelled and thrashed as cold fingers probed the raw, recently burnt flesh, before she suddenly froze – pupils constricting, senses sharpening – as she felt the older girl's hand travel up over the swell and dip of her waist, palm rough and fingers exploring.
"What the bloody Hell do you think you're doing, Parkinson?" she spat, scrabbling back against the wall and away from this new assault.
Pansy merely sneered, "You said Cruciatus was predictable," and forced her hand higher up her torso. "I'm trying a different tactic."
Ginny's heated retort was lost beneath Pansy's sudden gasp of delight, as her hand clawed over the younger girl's chest, finding a nipple already swollen and pressing against the shell of her bra.
"Sweet Circe, Weasley, you little tart," she giggled in excitement, applying firmer pressure to Ginny's waist as the younger girl resumed her struggles with even greater desperation. "Have I got you all hot and bothered, talking about the Mudblood like that? I always knew there was more than met the eye between you two."
Ginny glared at her furiously, cheeks red. "Not nearly as much as there is to you, obviously!"
Pansy quirked an eyebrow – one, seeking finger slipping beneath the material barrier. "There's far more to me than a silly little girl like you could ever imagine, Ginevra."
Her fingers found their target and pinched. Hard. Pansy felt Ginny's knee twitch against hers, felt her shoulders tense and heard the audible squeal of pleasure-pain. She smirked, malevolently.
"T-take your hands off me!" Ginny squeezed her eyes shut as Pansy ghosted her mouth over her ear.
"Tell me, little Weaslette," she cooed, as she cupped her whole breast with one hand, thumb strumming roughly over the hardened areola. Ginny quivered against her thigh, though her face remained steadfastly stoic. "Did Potter ever touch you like this? Did you ever creep into his dormitory and let him pat you down with those ugly, clumsy hands?"
Ginny snapped her head to the side, frantically trying to jerk her wrist free of its iron-clad bonds.
"Or maybe since then…" Pansy pressed on, burying her words in the exposed curve of her neck, tongue darting out for a first taste of skin and making Ginny squirm. "Has it been lonely without him? Somebody else keeping you warm at night? Longbottom, perhaps?" she laughed coldly. "Is he the one that gets to touch all of these most private places?"
"Don't you d-dare speak about Neville-," Ginny's heated words died on her lips as she felt a hand close over her thigh.
Still coaxing one abused nipple between thumb and forefinger, Pansy's own chest hammered as she pinched at the coarse material of Ginny's school skirt, inching higher till one manicured nail scratched the frilly outline of matching cotton knickers.
"I wonder, do you make him wash the soil off his hands first? Or do you like it filthy?"
Ginny's shame-filled moan was almost as loud as her own, as Pansy finally moved her hand to press firmly between the red-head's legs. Within seconds, a significant damp spot had soaked through to her fingers.
"Gods, you blood traitors are so loose!" Pansy hissed with delight, fingers moving – circling, stroking – rhythmically over the wet material. Ginny had given up trying to form coherent retorts, and was certainly no longer trying to escape Pansy's grasp. Rather, she seemed to be locked in an internal battle, shaking her head side to side in defiance whilst her hips betrayed her want, canting forward to allow greater access.
Pansy grinned, gleefully. The girl was lost to her. Ginny Weasley was broken.
As if to celebrate the fact, Pansy tore away her mouth from where it was assaulting Ginny's earlobe, and forced it carelessly against the other girl's lips. Without hesitation, Ginny's tongue darted out to meet hers. It was wet, warm and too messy for Pansy – just as she'd expect from a kiss with a Weasley. It was saved, however, by the unburdened groan of pleasure that accompanied it, as Pansy shifted the angle of her fingers and slipped them beneath the elastic of Ginny's knickers.
"So easy…" Pansy sighed with pleasure as her fingers slipped carelessly through wet folds. Like the kiss, it was hot and it was messy. She could feel damp curls sticking to her knuckles, the lace frill of her underwear digging into her hand. But it was glorious. Easily the most erotic, fantastic thing she had ever done and all she knew was that she wanted to touch as much as she could, for as long as she could.
But punishment wasn't about satisfaction, after all. Not even the mutual kind.
Gathering her senses – not an easy task when the air hung heavy with the scent of Weasley arousal – Pansy carefully crooked her thumb to rub against Ginny's clit. The effect was immediate. Abandoning all pretence, the red-head rutted her hips and pushed her chest into Pansy's waiting palm, moaning headily.
Applying insistent pressure, Pansy allowed a finger to slip inside, followed by a second. Ginny gave a jerk, her thigh muscles clenching reflexively as she stumbled nearer and nearer to the brink.
Circling, stroking, twisting – Pansy watched the younger girl's face, waiting for the exact right moment. Her eyes were glazed and heavy-lidded, wide mouth parted, begging to be kissed…
No! She needed focus. Adding a third finger – Gods, the girl felt tight! – Ginny whimpered. Almost there. Almost… Almost…
Without a word, Pansy pushed herself off - detaching her hands from beneath her shirt and between her thighs and hurrying backwards. Ginny, suddenly bereft, slumped forward, knees shaking and moaned in anguish.
"Merlin, no!" her breathing was ragged. "Please… Please Pansy…"
If she were a lesser woman, Pansy imagined she might have come on the spot, just hearing those words.
Instead, she levelled her breathing and critically surveyed her work: the brave and bold Gryffindor sweetheart – shirt dislodged, one nipple poking out from its confines, red and sore, juices shining on her thigh. Begging to be fucked by a Slytherin, no less.
Oh yes, Ginny Weasley had been officially broken. And this time, there'd be no courteous Obliviate to soften the blow.
The fog having lifted and evidently coming to the same realisation, Ginny had curled back into the wall, shaking shoulders betraying a wave of silent tears.
Casually pocketing her wand and straightening her robes, Pansy fixed the girl with an amused stare. "If Potter should happen to survive this war, I'll be sure to let him know the exact date his girlfriend became his enemy's whore."
Ginny's choking sobs echoed throughout the cell.
As reward for a job well done, Pansy allowed herself to lick her fingers clean.
.