Reasons to Be a Slut

Ginny sat slumped against the wall of a dark and barren corridor, her head lolling on her knees and a half-empty bottle of fire-whiskey slipping from her grip. She could only just register the pounding of rain against the weathered stone, slapping at the flag-stoned floor through the hole near the heap that she was. Her face felt numb and she wasn't sure whether her mouth was open or not. Her eyes were somewhere in the back of her head and when she attempted to open a leaden lid the lighting didn't change. She wrenched herself upright and let her head fall against the wall with a thud that she didn't feel. She took a deep breath that reached depths beyond the physical, and let out a whispered moan.

The hall was dark and probably cold. Ginny was passed knowing, passed caring. That was how she liked it. She couldn't think properly, couldn't remember...

Hold on to the memory, it's all you've got.

Unintentionally, the corners of her mouth turned up into a smirk as a thought waded through the mist and into her mind: what would they think of her now? Like this? Perfect Ginny. Pretty Ginny. Promiscuous Ginny.

She frowned and vaguely wandered where that last one had come from, but drowned out that thought with amber poison, her life elixir.

Ginny sat in silence for a while in the heavy turbulence between sleep and unconsciousness, the spectral walls floating serenely around her like ghosts and wisps. They echoed in the susurrus of rain. A thick knot of hair flapped in front of her face, unkempt and useless, damaged and damned. Her arms were too thick and heavy to brush it away. And then a hand appeared from nowhere and gently yanked it from her face. A voice suddenly filled the silence that had formed inside that cage she called a head.

'Slytherin's heir, king of snakes and ----'

Ginny's eyes flew open. She knew that voice, the voice that awakened a realm of terror inside her that nothing could match. A sickly orange light met her vision and she realised with a wretch of horror that she was no longer in her deserted corridor. She wasn't sitting against the wall she detested in love, but was on her back under high arches. She moved her fingers and felt a dirty grit beneath them, beneath her. Her body felt heavy and limp. She tried the turn her head but when it reached a certain point it jolted back into its place. She scanned the ceiling and saw that it was high and crudely arched...and horrifically familiar.

An arrogant chuckle caused her heart to beat against her throat and constrict her breath. She gasped and felt her eyes begin the roll up into her head as a figure came into view. She pulled herself together, determined not to pass out, and focused on the figure. It was tall and dark and had eyes of honey and poison. It grinned and cocked its head. A great hole opened in its face and laced out words like razor blades.

'Don't look so horrified, Ginevra. Your death will not be in vain.' It chuckled like a leopard. Ginny felt a thick cold tear run into the dust beneath her head. The figure extended a gentle arm and clawed through her hair. 'Red as the rose on your coffin door' it whispered in shivers. She felt it come closer, felt its heat against her shivering form. She smelt the perfumed mist radiating as it stared down at her and pressed a sharp knee deep into her stomach.

A wave of pain, the scent of you is bliss.

'I hate you.' It declared in secret whispers. 'I wish that you could live to see me triumph. You know that I love you.' It's words were daggers in silk.

'Is there anyone you would wish me to spare? Or perhaps there is someone you would like me to particularly torture? Your garish brothers. The mother who doesn't care. The Potter boy who shows you no affection. Yes, he will suffer.' The monster bared its teeth. Ginny felt a groan escape like a damn overflowing and managed to speak. 'Please,' she whispered desperately. 'No, please!' she gurgled as tears flowed freely down her grimy, bruised face and mingled with the tainted dust. 'Please,' she whispered over as the knee of the beast dug more deeply in and the face grew bigger.

Holy eyes, I never knew I'd beg down at your feet.

She felt life draining, a feeling she hadn't noticed before now with a stabbing pain in her stomach and eyes of black stealing her. She tried the move her fingers, to claw at the dirt, but she couldn't muster the strength. She could feel a force leaking out of her from every orifice, every pore. It was replaced with a sorrow, a deep disturbance that she couldn't place or lay claim to. Each breath the figure took was a breath lost from her own body.

The more you take, the more that I give in.

It leant even closer, its heinous, handsome face almost touching hers. She whimpered at the pain in her stomach and in her soul. The gaping hole that was left in her hollow chest. The tragic lust she felt for a beautiful monster. The hunger.

The creature breathed slowly and magnificently on her mouth, her cheek, her eyes. It leant in and kissed her softly on her forehead, and suddenly her world was filled with pain as hideous teeth tore her skin and blood spurted down her face and ran red into her eyes.

Ginny gasped and awoke. The corridor was light with the bleakness of dawn now. The flagstones were a dull grey and the walls were weak with colour. She looked around and saw that her bottle had been emptied of its vital fluids. She reached a trembling hand to her forehead and for a moment could have sworn she felt a sharp pain, but it passed quickly. She sat for a few minutes as she had the night before, steadying herself and learning to breathe again. Then she stood suddenly and hurtled to the window. She wretched and felt whiskey and acid and blood and bile spurt up her throat. It felt satisfying. She turned away, disgusted with herself, and glanced at the bottle. She clasped it up with weak fingers and hurled it out of the window as hard as she could. She waited for the sickening crash and looked at her digits. Rubbing them together, she found they felt dirty, gritty even. A flashback came suddenly to her of a boy, a monster. Of deep eyes full of promises and deceit. Of a loving kiss twisted into an odd revenge.

Slut, they called her. He was the reason why.

Hold on to the memories...