Ava Adore, part 2: The Substitute
Disclaimer: 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.
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures, and neither Ginny Weasley nor Draco Malfoy particularly lack in the despair department. Good soil for an unhealthy relationship that has the potential to give them everything they ever wanted while losing everything everybody else ever wanted for them.
Author's Note: Here's the next chapter. Thanks to everybody who reviewed.
Snape made me scrub the floor this time, and not cauldrons, which was not that big of a change. It wasn't as if I cared. And my mind was not on the task I'd been given anyway, but rather thinking of whether it'd be an idea to pay the library another late-night visit.
I finished close to eleven this time, and was allowed to go to bed with a grunt from a not very interested Professor Snape.
When I pushed the library door open, I winced a little, as my fingers were sore from having scrubbed too much these past couple of days, not used to the strain of hard work. The room was dark and eerily silent, just as I'd expected it to be.
I had lost all sense of time by then, and as I'd forgotten to grab my watch, I had no idea whether I was too late or not, but I ambled over to my 'usual' spot and sat down.
It could have been half an hour, but it might as well have been a minute, but after some indefinite amount of time had passed, I heard steps, again. They sounded like his steps had sounded the day before, and I mentally prepared myself for this next encounter, for he was bound to find me. I positioned my leg in a way so that it was visible around the corner anyway, just to be sure.
When he stopped in front of me, I didn't look at him, as always, and waited patiently for him to chastise me, willing him to grab me again.
When nothing happened for over a minute, I finally looked up to notice him eyeing me with a thoughtful expression.
"It's almost as if you were waiting for me," he finally concluded, his voice cutting the silence like a knife the way he pronounced every syllable sharply and clearly.
I didn't answer, because what was there to say?
"But why would you be doing that, eh, when you know I'd kick you out and give you detention?" he mused, and I wasn't sure whether he was talking to me or himself now.
And even though he was not really doing anything, I felt a pleasant tingle in my stomach, because I was convinced he would do something soon. He couldn't just stand there like that forever.
"Get up," he finally barked, but made no move to force me to do so. I stared back at him defiantly. I would not move without his help, if you wanted to call it that.
"I said, get up, or you will get even more detention than you are going to get anyway."
I stayed put. And then he smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, but rather that of a hunter who has just guessed his prey's next step correctly, and knows that it is in his trap.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Draco said, raising his left eyebrow and the corresponding corner of his mouth a notch, and I figured that this was a sign of amusement. "Who would have thought?"
I sure as hell would have called anyone an idiot, had they told me I'd be doing this only days ago. But not now. Deep down, I knew that the only thing that had changed was my degree of honesty with myself, while I had always been like this.
And even though I knew that I craved for him to punish me, to drag me up and away like he had the day before, and the first time, I knew that I was not the only one who was enjoying these late-night encounters.
As I had observed during breakfast, Draco was a ruler, and what good was a ruler without someone to obey him? He enjoyed bossing me around, handing out detention, taking away those points, but I was almost convinced that he enjoyed the brutality with which he treated me just as much.
I could have reported him when he had bruised my arm, could have ran to Dumbledore, telling him how the prefect had shoved me against the shelf, but I hadn't, and he knew this. I knew he knew, and he knew I knew he knew, and so on, which left us at an impasse, for the moment.
"I'll deduct another twenty points from Gryffindor, Weasley,..." he finally drawled, taking a step closer to me, with a dangerous glint in his eye that made a shiver run down my spine. He looked like he had something in mind.
"...and your detention will be served with me tonight. Right here." With that I was grabbed and hauled upwards once again.
He was so close now that I could smell that he must just have taken a shower, the way his body smelled of clean soap.
He pushed at my shoulders until I was pressed up against the shelf and then tugged at my hair in order for me to bend my head backwards before leaning in slowly until his nose touched my cheek, our lips a hair's width apart.
We stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity before he bit down on my lower lip once and then stepped away quickly, letting go of my hair as well.
I squeaked rather undignifyingly, half from shock, half from pain and brought my hand up to cradle my lip. When I looked down on my fingers I saw that he had actually drawn blood, and I had to note with some disgust that I couldn't remember a time where I'd been more excited than now.
"Stop whining, Weasley," he commanded, and I looked up to see him leaning against the opposite shelf with an air of authority that seemed to affect everything around him. Draco Malfoy, rex libris, for the moment.
He then took his wand that had sticked out from his pocket until now and fastened it between two books so that there'd be some light in the gloom of the room.
"And now, take off your robe," he said, when he'd finished. I blinked. Surely he was not serious?
"I said take. Off. Your. Robe," he repeated, his grey eyes fixed on my own that were probably wide with fear. And so I complied, opening the buttons with trembling fingers, finally letting the garment sink to the floor with a whoosh.
He then raised an eyebrow and tugged at the collar of his shirt twice, as if signalling me to go on with the business of undressing.
With a shaky breath I began to unfasten my Gryffindor tie and then my shirt, trying to hide as much of myself as I could.
This wasn't what I'd come here for. I had wanted him to do the same as he'd done the night before, and not ask me to undress. It was unnerving, and it made me feel two feet small, especially under his searching and judging gaze. I knew that I had the chest of a fourteen year old and I was not particularly happy about it. And my mother wouldn't let me wear any other underwear than white cotton, to boot, which I not only considered ugly, but also made my skin look rather sallow.
When I finally let the shirt and tie fall to the ground, I looked away from him, not able to take his staring any longer.
"Weasley, you are by far the most scrawny excuse of a girl I've ever seen," he commented flatly, and I had to concentrate on not running away screaming.The thing that amazed me was that, as he was standing at the other side of the corridor, I probably could run away. But I didn't.
"Well, what are you waiting for. Go on, and look at me," Malfoy commanded, and as if some magical force made me do it, I looked up again, his face unreadable, and so I settled to remove the safest article of clothing, namely my shoes, which earned me another lifted eyebrow.
My stockings followed the shoes, and then, with more fuss than necessary, my skirt, until I was standing in front of him wearing nothing but my knickers and bra, barefoot on the cold stone floor.
I stood like that for ages, and he simply looked at me, not saying anything, not commenting on what he was seeing. When I couldn't take his gaze any longer, I closed my eyes again, which finally set him into motion.
I didn't even realize what he'd done at first, only noticing the painful sting in my shoulders until I saw him holding what was left of my bra dangling from his fingers.
I was freezing and shivering like a leaf by now, and when I spoke, it was only a whisper that he wouldn't have caught had it not been so quiet all around us.
"Stop," I breathed. "You're hurting me."
At this, he laughed. Not a genuine laugh, though, because he probably wasn't capable of that. "But you're enjoying it so much, why should I stop?" he whispered right back while easing my knickers down my legs with surprising gentleness.
"I'm not enjoying anything, I just want to go to my bed," I pleaded with him.
"Oh, but you are," he insisted, dangling my knickers in front of my face. And to my horror, but not to my surprise, Draco Malfoy stood with my modest undergarments in his hands, regarding the wet spot on it like a museum exhibit.
Then he flicked it to the side like an empty bottle of butterbeer and placed an icy finger on my cheek, trailing it down my jawline, to my neck and then one collarbone.
I whispered "no" again while he reached one of my nipples that was stretched taut by now, whether from the cold or misplaced excitement, I could not tell.
I watched him in a state of semi-trance as he lowered his head, and even though I knew what was coming, what he was going to do, I did nothing in order to deter him, and even though it should not have come as a surprise that he bit down on my sensitive skin, hard, I started, which only resulted in more pain for me. But I didn't push him away, and let him continue to nibble and suck a trail over my breast that was sure to leave some kind of bite marks in the morning, despite being slightly softer than his initial bite.
I heard him mumble "masochist" against my throat when he reached it, and all I could do in answer was give a semi-snort. I was really too busy to say anything beyond that, too busy with my own thoughts that were running rampant. I hadn't moved, apart from that startled jerk when he'd bitten me, as I had not yet decided on what to do once I would move.
Would I push him away? It would certainly be the prudent thing to do, the right thing. What would Ron think if he saw me like this right now? He would hate me. I did not want my brother to hate me. Caught in my own jumbled thoughts I was only vaguely aware of a hand trailing down my stomach.
What would he do? Would he owl mum and dad? Would he tell them what I'd done, would I be disowned (- not that would make much of a difference in monetary ways, but being disowned held a lot of social stigmas)?
What would Harry say? Would he try to rush in and save me again, like with the Chamber of secrets?
It was hard to ignore the hand now, as it had started sliding between my thighs, where I definitely did not want it to be, did not want it to uncover things best left undiscovered.
With a start I noticed that, while his fingers slowly found their way through the red curls at the apex of my thighs, he was sucking on my neck none to gently. Please, no hickeys! But it was too late for that, and I knew that I would look all bruised come the morrow.
I drew the cold night air in sharply through my nose when his index finger finally slid along my swollen and slick walls, touching me where no-one else had ever touched me before, and being surprisingly gentle about it.
"Who would have thought a good little Gryffindor would enjoy this so much," I heard him drawl in my ear, his voice smelling of danger and dark promises.
"I'm not enjoying this," I ground out very unconvincingly as he slid one long, pale finger into me. And to be completely honest, I wasn't, at least not the way his finger was stroking me now. But something about this whole situation was so unnervingly exciting that I knew I was lying, but on an entirely different level than he thought.
"Don't talk unless I ask you to," he barked sharply and bit my neck again, as if to further emphasize his point. I couldn't help the involuntary jerk of my hips as the pain rushed through my neural cords, obviously taking wrong turns somewhere along the way because it was not possible that I was enjoying this, it just wasn't.
Nobody had ever treated me that way, nobody, except for him. And Gods, I knew I wanted, craved a substitute.
I was startled out of my thoughts when I heard a sound that I hadn't expected, and realized that it was the sound of trousers being unzipped.
Malfoy must have noticed the surprise mirroring in my eyes, as he smirked and said "I don't particularly care for living vicariously, Weasley," before grabbing my hips and pushing me back firmly once again. I hadn't even noticed sagging away from the wall, or that he had removed his fingers.
Deep down, I realized that this was why I had chucked Neville, because I knew he'd never treat me like that, that he'd never call me dirty names or use me or hurt me.
I would have dwelled longer on this while letting him do what he pleased with my very pliant body, had I not been interrupted by a searing pain between my legs that made thinking of anything else impossible.
I knew there must be tears in my eyes, but at least they brought me back to reality, and when my vision cleared again, I wondered how it was that I only ever noticed the painful sensations he brought to me, and not anything else? Again, the answer was so unwanted yet sharply clear that I could have cut him in half with it.
Malfoy had actually managed to manoeuver me so that I was being held up only by his hands on my arse and the bookshelf behind me, and then shoved his cock right into me - which had finally drawn my attention.
"Does that hurt, Weasley?" he asked while drawing back as far as he could and plunging back into me again. Yes, it did hurt, like hell, to be precise. I could feel the tears pricking at my eyes again and I let out a tiny sob while letting my head fall forward to rest on his shoulder unable to hold it up any longer.
He didn't care for the non-verbial answer, and kept on repeating the motion, again and again. And it kept on hurting for a while, but after some time, my tears dried, the pain subsided to a dull aching and my thoughts cleared again for a short time.
Until he noticed that I was not hurting anymore, that is. When that became obvious to him, he shrugged his shoulder in a gesture to make me lift my head, and so I did, surprised to see sweat forming on his brow, his eyes not looking maleficient for once, but concentrated but only for a second, until he noticed my stare and tightened his grip on my buttocks, squeezing them painfully sending another wave of obviously neuron-confusion-induced pleasure through my body that made me tingle from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
I could not help the tiny moan that escaped my lips, and I looked accordingly horrified when he smirked and plunged his cock into me with unsettling force that was too much for somebody who was not used to that kind of activity, like me. He knew that I had never done this before, he must know, and he had done it on purpose. I whimpered and moaned again, a little louder this time.
"Don't fight it Weasley, I know you like it," he - Malfoy - breathed in my ear before biting down on the lobe none to gently, and I could almost see his smirk when I arched my hips again in an upward motion.
I might have replied, said something, reciprocated, had he not started slamming into me with wild force at that exact moment.
Again, I was confronted with a sense of wrongness, and knew that to an onlooker, it would probably look like he was raping me in the most brutal way. I had felt some blood when he had first penetrated me and there had to be some on the floor by now. My neck carried more than one bite mark, and my hips felt like I wouldn't be able to lie on either side tonight after the death grip he had on me.
I fleetingly considered screaming "rape" until someone came and rescued me, but the way the my own treacherous body made me arch into his violent thrusts made it clear that I was not an unwilling participant, at least to myself. I could have fled, could have pushed him away more than once that night. But I didn't.
Instead I let him fuck me up against a shelf of books with teeth rattling force (and indeed, my teeth did rattle) and although it hurt, I hadn't felt this good in a long time.
And the longer he kept pushing into me as if his life depended on it, the more excited I got, not able to think of what anyone would say anymore, letting myself go in the sensations, barely aware that our breathing was laboured as if we were doing hard work, while I felt like someone was winding a spring inside of me, pulling tighter with every single one of his thrusts.
I didn't realize I was screaming until he shoved one hand on my mouth to keep me quiet, not easing his pace one bit, only going harder, if that was even possible. And when I could take it no longer, I arched my back and bit into his hand as I felt the spring I had imagined earlier springing free, shuddering violently as I did so, while he kept plunging into me relentlessly after he had removed his hand from my mouth.
I hang onto him bonelessly while he fought to achieve what I had, and he did so after some time, an uncharacteristic half-sob escaping him as he sank to the floor when his knees could not support our comined weight anymore, resulting in a tangled mess of limbs.
I did not make a move to get away from his uncomfortably wet shirt that my cheek was resting on, not because I wanted to be close to him, but because I was unable to move. It was only when he finally shoved me away that I noticed that the wetness on his chest was a direct result of me having started crying again, or had I ever stopped?
I lay sprawled on the floor, cold and naked, while he dragged his trousers up again and zipped them, rearranging his other clothes that he hadn't taken off.
"The pain makes you feel alive, doesn't it?" he asked with genuine curiosity, and I let my head loll to the side before closing my eyes, choosing not to answer his question.
He didn't bother asking again, and I could hear his retreating footsteps until the sound of a closing door left me to complete silence that was only broken by my occasional sobs.
And when I finally gathered my clothes and trudged up to my dorm, there wasn't a single muscle in my body that didn't scream in protest at some point or other.
Everything about me hurt, and I felt as if I'd betrayed everybody who cared for me and everything they stood for.
I did not give a damn. I was sore and bruised, exhausted, spent, used and tired, but it all didn't matter in the end.
What mattered was that I'd gotten back a touch of what he had been like, and I'd be damned if I let it get away from me again.