Killer Queen

KILLER QUEEN

Chapter One: Heart Of Darkness

Ginny had always been surprised that no one had ever thought there migt be something wrong with the little Weasley girl.
She considered it entirely possible that she was a Bad Seed. She was the only Weasley with a red-head’s temper, even when she was a little girl, but it had always been something more than that.
A little something that she always knew about herself that no one else saw.
Almost no-one.
She was glad the hat had sorted her into Gryffindor; she thought she’d end up in Slytherin for sure.
Then again, circumstances had not conspired to redeem her.
It may have been expedient to cast her affair with Lord Voldemort’s handsome, teenage simulacrum as a rape, but she had been willing. She was attracted to the darkness in him, the power and promise of evil.
It seemed somehow more natural to her to succumb to evil than to try and be good.
A little something that she always knew about herself that no one else saw.
Almost no-one.
But he saw it, didn’t he?
Expedient to call it rape, but it wasn’t rape; he was the Devil and he came to do the Devil’s business and what he left inside her grew and grew, and she gave birth, on moonless nights, to tiny monsters.
Or that was the way it seemed.
Tom betrayed her, and that taught her some unpleasant lessons. She hardened herself against softness and sentiment; she embraced the heart of darkness that beat within her own breast, and turned her back on pity, charity, and mercy.
A lioness, her animagus form reflected both sides of her nature; to her friends she was valiant and loyal and true, but to her enemies she was a ravenous, pitiless beast of prey. She may not have got her nickname until she started leaving unconscious bodies and victories in her wake on the Quidditch pitch, and the rumours began about her being some kind of Black Widow spook for CAULDRON, but she left the Chamber of Secrets the Killer Queen, just the same.
Perhaps if there hadn’t been a war on, voices may have been raised suggesting that something was not quite right about the youngest member of the Weasley clan.
Perhaps if she had used drugs or drank or gotten bad grades, red flags may have popped up. But Ginny was consistently in the top of her class, excelling especially in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts, and was a drug-free teetotaller.
And if she seemed a bit brutal, if her love of ultraviolence was disturbing, if she was ruthless and promiscuous and unsentimental, using her Killer Queen groupies as little more than diversions, well, there was a war going on and she was a good soldier, wasn’t she?
Like a lion, really.
She was fierce, and strong, and hot-tempered, but she had a good and valiant heart.
In part, however, it was a heart of darkness.
They had a nickname for her on the Quidditch pitch, they called her the Killer Queen. It was partially because she played the game with a ferocity that was just this side of illegal, and partially because of the nasty rumour that she combined her two favourite pleasures, sex and violence, working as a spook for CAULDRON. (Central Advanced Unit for Limiting Dark Rites and Orders Nationwide) Her job, the rumour went, was to kill Death Eaters, but, if they were good looking she was always said to seduce them first, and murder them after. According to the more salacious rumours, during, turning into a lioness and tearing them to pieces at the moment they came.
The truth was less spectacular and yet somehow more depraved.
Ginny truly had a brute heart, and was born to her brutality in those moments in the Chamber of Secrets. She didn’t think violence was the solution to every problem. But she never hesitated to use the boot and the fist and the claw when she felt the situation warranted it. Truth to be told, in some situations where magic could have done just as well she resorted to a good, old fashioned belt in the chops. Violence seemed somehow cleaner, neater and more efficient than magic, sometimes. When she did use magic she didn’t throw a hex, she hurled a succession of them, and when she cast a spell or a curse she did it with great force, they sounded like curses exploding from her mouth and from the tip of her wand, in sparks and light.
She often thought that she would have turned into a real psycho, had she not discovered sex in her third year. She found flesh much more entertaining than blood, though, until taking up with Harry and his equally freewheeling approach to what Ginny thought of as “relationshits”, she never really had a steady bloke.
Or wanted one. Her status as Quidditch Hero and general badass brought a stream of male admirers, groupies really, into her life. She drank liberally from that stream, glutting her appetites with sex in a way she never could have done with violence without becoming the sort of person she hated the most.
Though her sexual fantasies were largely indiscriminate, her violent fantasies were very much focused on certain people. And of all the wizards in all the world she wanted to do violence to, the greatest object of her plans for bloody vengeance was the man who had placed her feet firmly on the path of blood and iron.
Lucius Steerforth Salazar Malfoy.
Ginny made it her business to know everything there was to know about Lord Malfoy. And not just the information readily available to readers of the Daily Prophet. By fifth year, when she was Harry Potter’s right hand woman in Dumbledore’s Army, she had spend three years painstakingly gathering information, sometimes in places and from sources that would have appalled her parents. She didn’t frequent the dives in Knockturn Alley with Harry just to watch his back when he got legless and hold onto his wallet and wand while he screwed anonymous Potter groupies in the filthy loos. Nor did she go solely for the pleasure and practise of lending a hand when he got to throwing punches around.
She talked to people and found out things. Which led her to more people, who knew more things.
Nasty things.
Dirty things.
Terrible things.
And Ginny knew them all. She had parchments and photographs and secrets and lies. She knew that Tom Riddle had seduced Lucius Malfoy into the Death Eater fold with lofty talk about purity of blood, but that the wicked Dark Lord had other purposes in mind for the handsome boy.
He was sold, over and over again, like a piece of meat to the kind of wealthy, filthy and depraved Sadean monsters that a depraved Sadean monster like Voldemort counted amongst his friends and business associates. Rape, torture and humiliation were the prices he paid, in his own blood, to serve Lord Voldemort. Not to mention sizeable amounts of his family’s fortune. And when the proud young lord was not being pimped off and framed out to the Dark Lord’s loathsome cronies, he was subjected to the monstrous affections and inclinations of Voldemort, himself.
Lucius Malfoy, Tom Riddle’s rent boy and cash cow.
Diabolical.
Ginny’s informants spoke in hushed tones about the depravities that Voldemort visited upon Malfoy in his youth; they were never too specific, and some referred her to the grotesqueries of the Dark Wizard De Sade for a template of the brutal indecencies visited on Malfoy in his youth. She had, in her possession, pictures that she wished she had never seen of horrors she wished never existed to prove these were not just the squalid lies of feverish drunks, junkies and Doom freaks.
In a way, Ginny had learned too much about her enemy. She had discovered his weaknesses, but she had also discovered pity for the man. When Malfoy became a full fledged Death Eater at his majority, and was too old to continue his dark servitude to his dark lord, he was a twisted and broken man, an alcoholic, hopelessly addicted to heroin, the dreaded Purple Doom, and the mixture of both, the Dragon’s Fire.
As a grown man and the Lord of Malfoy Manor, he was reported to have tamed his wild addictions to heroin, Purple Doom, and cheap rotgut firewhiskey, but not his addiction to sex. His tastes ran only to women, and bore no stamp of the sadism or perversion with which he had been tortured as a youth. He was, however, reportedly sexually compulsive and insatiable, a wild and demanding lover, the sort of man who threw himself headlong into an endless sea of faceless partners to glut some wild hunger inside him that wasn’t completely sexual.
Perhaps, like her, his hunger was for vengeance.
Ginny enjoyed the irony that she and her prey were so alike in temperament.
It would make it all the easier for her to snare him.

***
Draco Malfoy sold weed, hash, heroin, cocaine, Purple Doom, speed, acid and Dragon’s Fire to his fellow students at Hogwarts. His supply came from his father, whose supplier was Lord Voldemort, himself. Tom Riddle may have made his reputation on his theories of racial superiority, but he had made his money the old- fashioned way, through drugs, prostitution, and tribute from his pureblood, aristocratic followers.
Harry, whose bad habits were piling up by the day, was a regular customer of Draco’s; he favoured pot and coke but wasn’t above doing a little smack now and again. Ginny offered to be his bagman, but refused to deal with Draco.
She wanted to meet Malfoy, and she wanted to do it at the Horntail’s Lair, a notorious dive in Knockturn Alley.
Draco was surprised that his father agreed, but Ginny wasn’t.
She and Lord Malfoy had a date with destiny.

***
Her plan, of course, was to seduce Malfoy, and once they were alone, to kill him. She hadn’t really decided how, yet, preferring to dispose of him in whatever way her fancy took her at the time.
She didn’t have to feign attraction to him.
Rumour had it that the Malfoys were part Elvish and Ginny could believe it; her enemy had some of the otherworldly beauty of an Elf, particularly in his long, fine white-blond hair and his pale blue eyes. He was quite a tall man, and he appeared lithe and strong. He had very large hands that seemed strangely powerful for an aristocrat, and beneath his chilly demeanour the lioness in Ginny could sense the raging heat and turmoil of his boiling rich red blood.
He was always very well-dressed, immaculately so. His robes were made of black velvet with leather trim, his knee boots of fine black leather had intricate silver leaf patterns hand-crafted in them, and even his walking stick was highly polished and shined.
Lord Malfoy wore his money and his power on his sleeve; they suited him well.
Still, he very well could have been ugly as sin and Ginny still would have found herself attracted to this man she so hated. When he walked into the bookshop she hadn't wanted to look at Gilderoy Lockheart anymore. The fires of hell raged inside Lucius Malfoy, threatening to consume him in the molten pits of his own rage and hatred; he was a dark man, with dark desires for vengeance and blood.
In short, Lucius was a man after her own heart, not her good and valiant heart, but her black and bloody heart of darkness.
“Hell’s Horntail. Leave the bottle.” Malfoy told the bartender, placing his walking stick on the table.
“To what, then, do I owe the honour, of being summoned to the presence of the Killer Queen? Please, don’t insult us both with the ruse that you need to make a purchase.” Malfoy asked.
“Maybe I’d like to kiss and make up.” Ginny replied, archly.
Malfoy laughed, sharply. He poured himself a shot of firewhiskey and drank it.
He slammed the shot glass down on the table, and exhaled, smoke wafting out of his nostrils.
That reminded Ginny of Harry. He drank Hell’s Horntail almost exclusively, one shot down, smoke out his nose, another shot to follow.
Malfoy lit a cigarette.
English Ovals, the same brand that Harry smoked.
Uncanny.
Does war make devils of us all?
“Kiss and make up, indeed. Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“May I?”
“Why not?”
Malfoy smoked his cigarette, and had another shot. He bought her a butterbeer, and after she hand drunk it and he had another smoke and another shot, he called the bartender over, and asked to hire a room.
“For the night or by the hour, milord?”
“For the night. And I want something clean, with a working bathroom. If you stick me in some filthy, roach-infested lice ridden flop, I’ll come down here and strangle you where you sit with my bare hands.”
The bartender nodded, vigorously, and a few minutes later a house elf came to conduct Lord Malfoy and Ginny to a much nicer room than she thought a dive like the Horntail’s Lair would ever have.
When they were alone, Malfoy took off his cloak and began undoing the buttons on his robe.
“I know you must think I’m a fool, but I’m not. I know you want my blood, Miss Weasley. And I know why. I had nothing against you, personally, in the past, and I have nothing against you, now. I was directed by my superior to perform a mission and I did it. He wanted you. When you were alittle girl I couldn't see it; I'm not the kind of man who looks at little girls, and I didn't know what Voldemort wnated you for. But I can see it now. Now, you wouldn’t hesitate to do the bidding of your superior, Albus Dumbledore, would you? If you really want to murder someone, try Tom Riddle. He’s the reason we are both here in this filthy dive, tonight.” Malfoy said.
“Tom Riddle isn’t here.” Ginny replied, simply.
“No. He isn’t. And I am. Well, if you want my blood so badly, you can have it. It’s not as if I enjoy my lot in life, slave to the creature who destroyed to me to keep him from destroying my son. Draco is already on your side, Snape has turned him. I can trust my oldest friend to protect my boy. So, I’d just as soon die today as any day, especially at the hands of a beautiful and wicked young witch with hair the colour of a poppy’s blossoms. I’ll put up no resistance in the matter. If I can have you, first.”
Ginny thought about it.
Could he be lying? His words made sense. Snape, the wicked old screw was a crafty double agent, and it made sense for him to have some double agents of his own. Who more perfect that his own godson, the son of one of Voldemort’s most loyal supporters?
Could it be that the friend of her enemy was really her friend, that she and Malfoy were united in their hatred, that they both sought vengeance against the same force that had corrupted and destroyed them both?
Or was it all another self-serving Death Eater lie?
If she had some Verisateum, then she’d know the truth.
It didn’t matter. Soon he’d be dead. Violence would be cleaner, neater, more efficient than magic in this situation.
What did it matter, what he said and how he felt? This was the man who was the friend of her enemy, the man who had thrown her under the wheels of Voldemort’s master plan to be crushed, the enemy who had casually plotted her death to appease the cruel master who had brutalised him into being the kind of a twisted, alcoholic, drug-addicted fiend who could casually plot the murder of a child to further his own Machiavellian ends.
However, he was preternaturally handsome, reportedly hung like a stallion with the stamina to match; a better man than any of the silly boys she went through like Kleenex. What if she laid him before she killed him; what difference would it make if the son of a bitch died happy?
Malfoy had unbuttoned his robes far enough to reveal a well-formed chest sprinkled with whorls of hair the colour of sweet, milky honey, and she was sold.
What was the harm in it? If he tried anything she could transform in an instant and maul him to death.
Or, a little magic might be the most efficient solution.
“Fine. Will you swear an oath on it?”
“Of course.”
After they swore the oath, Malfoy pointed his finger at her, and lazily cast “Divesto.”
She was both naked and impressed that he could do wandless magic.
Even at 15, so could she, and returned his spell.
Ginny’s red hair was very long, and fell down as far as Lady Godiva’s. It made a nest, a web in which to ensnare her victim tumbling all around her when she lay down in the bed.
“Gods, you are like the poppy, blood red and milky white and magnificent.” Malfoy breathed.
He climbed into the bed with her, and lay down beside her.
Unlike her callow young lovers, he didn’t just climb on top of her after a few sloppy kisses and start pumping away.
If this was the last fuck he was ever going to have in his life, he wanted to savour it.
He lingered long over Ginny’s slender, coltish figure, coaxing her nipples to the length of the first joint of his finger with his hands and his mouth and his tongue.
She moaned, and undulated on the bed of her hair like a snake, her blue velvet violet eyes opening and closing, fixing greedily on his long, lean body with wild lust.
She twined her legs and her arms around his arms, and his thighs, and his long, slender neck, she buried her face in his fine Elvish hair as he worked untoward miracles on her nipples and wrapped her fingers around and around the fine strands as Malfoy worked even more untoward miracles on her pussy with his prodigious tongue and his nimble fingers.
She purred, he noticed, maddeningly, purred like a great cat and closed her eyes and ripped the sheet in two with her hands, roaring magnificently as she came.
All of her limbs came undone and Ginny swooned, her eyelids drooping and wavering.
When she could focus her vision again she beheld a vision, a vision of a great golden god kneeling between her legs, his immense cock standing proudly at attention, swollen to a most unusual size in preparation of some great glorious copulation, the kind they had at the beginning of time.
It was a ridiculous thing to think, but the words sounded good together, and seemed to slide against one another in her mind as she sat up and leaned forward across Malfoy’s hairy, muscular thighs and slid her mouth completely down the length of his cock, swallowing like a snake until she felt his balls against her chin, and her nose was snuffling in another patch of honey coloured whorls of hair.
Malfoy’s eyes lolled in his head and he moaned at the heavy, obscene pleasure of it. He looked down at the girl, her red hair spread across his thighs, and the bed, and ran his hands over her lovely white body.
This, this was the supreme thrill, like the thrill of the rush, deadly pleasure, a pleasure that might kill him the next time he partook of it, but yet he could not stop.
She was the poppy, and Lucius Malfoy was hooked, again.
Ginny fell back into the pillows, panting, writhing, twining her legs high around Malfoy’s waist.
Gratefully, he drove into her and they both cried out, sharply, Ginny’s back arching up from the mattress.
It was truly a great glorious copulation, like the kind they had at the beginning of time. She matched his rhythm, meeting him thrust for thrust, they could feel their bones grinding together, working in gasps and sweat and swearing to the finish, a big finish, with Malfoy pulling Ginny up off the mattress, her sitting astride him, her back arching and the long nipples on her small breasts pointing at the ceiling as she came and then he did, the force of her orgasm ushering in his own.
It felt like a sledgehammer to the forehead, a supreme and radical pleasure that broke his brains into atoms and electrons and stardust.
For that one glorious moment, they found peace.
Malfoy fell onto his back, and stretched out his legs and Ginny fell on top of him, across his chest and they both fell into a long, deep nod.
***
Ginny woke up first, stuck to Malfoy with sweat and come and wet.
She pulled herself away from him, and laughed bitterly.
Because she could no more destroy this man than she could slash a Picasso to ribbons.
Besides, he could serve her better in life than in death, couldn't he? Loose lips sink ships, and any bit of information she got from Malfoy she could pass on to Hermione, who would report it back to spymaster Snape.
Her laugh awakened Malfoy, and he smiled, arching his eyebrow.
“You made a Devil’s bargain with me, Malfoy, you Slytherin son-of-a bitch. You’re lucky this time. Next time I may not be in such a forgiving mood.”
“And I intend to stand behind it, my poisonous Poppy. You may kill me when you wish; I place my life in your hands every time I take my pleasure with you, not knowing when will be my last.” Malfoy replied.
Ginny understood his allusion to the poppy, and shook her head as she got up from the bed on unsteady legs.
“Malfoy, you’re a madman. A fucking madman.”
“Certainly I am. And you're no saner than I am. You really must call me Luke, Poppy. Malfoy is so formal. And we can’t have any formalities between us, can we?” he replied.
“You really are mad.” Ginny marvelled.
“No, my dear, I'm just realistic.”
Ginny went into the bathroom, took a shower and got dressed.
“Shall I meet you here next week, same day, same time?”
Malfoy sat up.
“Good Gods, no! This is the sort of dive you fuck some whorey bint in. Not someone like you. I want you to come to Malfoy Manor. We’ll meet at the public apparition point in Diagon Alley. You do know how to illegally apparate, don’t you?”
“Of course. But what about Mrs. Malfoy?”
“She only likes men.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“Oh, I see. Mrs. Malfoy and I have an open marriage. This is her night out and my night in. I have a special room in my house for just these sorts of occasions? Can I expect you, every Thursday?”
“Until I run out of use for you.”
“Then I will expect the undertaker on Friday. I’ll make a standing appointment with him. And if you really must kill me, use the Killing Curse. The Aurors will never prosecute you for disposing of the likes of me, and my family will be able to have an open casket funeral.”
That sounded fair enough to Ginny.
“Will you swear an Oath, Poppy?”
"I will.”
They swore another oath, and Ginny got dressed to leave.
“Wait for me. A witch shouldn’t walk these streets alone at night, not even a witch of your calibre.”
Malfoy saw her right to the Hogsmeade public apparition point, and Ginny made her way back to Hogwarts through the secret passage.
On her way back to Gryffindor Tower, she ran into Professor Snape carrying an unconscious Harry through the hallway.
“What are you doing out of your Common Room at this hour of the night, Miss Weasley?” he demanded.
“I was looking for Harry. Poor Harry, he never gets to his bed if Hermione and I don’t see to him.”
“Mr. Potter’s welfare is not yours or Miss Granger’s responsibility. But, since you are here, I will only take five points from Gryffindor if you will help me arrange him into bed.”
“Professor, shouldn’t something be done about Harry?”
“I am trying, Miss Weasley. I am trying. But no one seems to want to listen to me. You get his feet.”

Oh my! What’s more important to Ginny, secrets and shagging, or revenge? Will she take Malfoy up on his offer, or will she take his life? Will hard-living Harry and tough as nails Ginny find love, or something like it, together? Or will they both end up doing time? You’d better turn in to Killer Queen, Part Two for the answers to these questions, and more!