Title: "The Observation"
Author: pre_raphaelite1
Characters/Pairings: Ginny + a bunch of unidentified folks, implied Teddy/Victoire
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Again, all those I'd not used last year in one (actually coherent, I think) fic: massage parlors,mirrors, sexology, snuff films, sex shops,authority figure roleplay, bathing/washing, blindfolding, sounding, pervertibles, breast enhancement, dark wizards/witches, harpaxophilia, begging, body writing, exhibitionism, genital enhancement, - hygrophilia, nipple play, silence, tears/crying, altered state orgasms, life-threatening situations
Other Warnings: dubcon, breathplay
Word Count:3350
Summary/Description: Professionalism, Weasley. Acceptance of people’s sexual interests no matter what your personal opinions are is the best way to help them or to clean up after them when something goes wrong. Like this would.
Author's Notes: I really enjoyed writing this one, and it turned into one of my longer D_D fics. It is dedicated to my beloved thegildedmagpie. And, bedtime nao. Tags in the morning.



“Welcome to Dymphna's. How may I- Oh, Aunt Ginny! I wasn’t expecting you until 2.”

Ginny smiled. “Hello, Victoire. I finished my shift early and thought I could look through the shop for a bit, until things were ready.”

The petite, blonde witch behind the counter returned the smile cheerfully. “Of course, as you want. We did get a few new magazines in that you might find… intriguing.”

“Oh?” Ginny’s eyebrows were making steady progress to her hairline.

“Professionally speaking, of course.” She winked and sashayed her way to a shelf set beneath a rippling banner with “New Arrivals” proudly written in a large, purple font. “Ici, these two. Mind you, they are a bit extreme for some, but I thought I should stock a few more unusual pieces, yes? For educational purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” Ginny echoed, amused, as she took the magazines. She looked over the first and shook her head. Here was something that made its way through St. Mungo’s staff on a regular basis, whispered between shifts and behind curtains: a busty witch, the lime green of her robes straining over breasts that surely were burgeoning with the help of an overly exuberant Enorgio, and a quivering male patient whose twitching cock was being washed very poorly with a sponge. “Honestly, who would use a sponge there? This is why we have flannels.”

“You will want to see the center spread as well. Trust me. It gets better.”

Ginny obligingly flipped forward to the center of the magazine and stared at the moving image before her. Here again, the large breasted “healer” and her “patient,” only it seemed that bathtime was over. Now, instead of washing his cock, the woman was…- Ginny tipped her head, then the magazine, to one side… pushing her wand into it. “That’s-“Professionalism, Weasley. Acceptance of people’s sexual interests no matter what your personal opinions are is the best way to help them or clean up after them when something goes wrong. Like this would. “That’s. Fascinating.”

Victoire laughed- she always delighted in shocking people. “Apparently some men like it very much.”

After a few moments of studious contemplation, wherein she did bother to notice the blindfold and wondered if that was to enhance his enjoyment through restriction of sight or in simply keeping him from seeing what was in his cock, Ginny remarked in relatively even assessment, “I suppose this would require some significant preparation over time to allow the urethra to accept something of that dia-But what if it goes off?”

“Ah, but this is why we have you, is it not? To clean things up?”

“Right. You really need to stop finding this so entertaining, Victoire.”

“Oui, Aunt Ginny,” she said dutifully, but her eyes were too bright with amusement for it to be sincere. “If you are bothered by that, I would caution you about the next. There are some with very dark tastes, yes?”

Ginny frowned and immediately flipped to the next magazine. Its cover depicted a dark alley, dim light flickering from a discarded wand, a blood-soaked heel on its side in the gutter. If it weren’t for the blood which also seemed to flow liberally down the page, she might have taken it as simple rape fantasy…. “Victoire?”

“Some wish to face death. Find a thrill in it, seeing it and walking away.”

“Okay- professionalism aside, dear Merlin’s fucking ball spots.”

“I expect there is someone out there who enjoys that as well.”

She groaned and handed the magazines back. “I really don’t think-“ she sighed- “Having one off to leather and riding crops is one thing, even to dangerous places like alley ways- but to dead people? I think that’s the sign of a disturbed mind.”

“Ah, perhaps, yes. But who can be certain? Perhaps the most average of person likes it because it is not so average?”

“Don’t tell me that you enjoy it, Victoire. Some things I don’t need to know about my niece.”
Victoire shook her head. “Non, not me. I like my Teddy alive. And I do not count myself or him as average. We are both quite extraordinary, yes?”

“So you are. Now- about the observation?”

“Ah, yes. I expect they are ready.”

Ginny followed her through the side door of the shop and into the wide hallway beyond. Victoire briefed her as they walked past the rather unassuming, numbered doors. Ginny knew these first few were typically used for the more mundane types of massages and stress management work, before the ones of a more intimate style of relaxation.

“Today we have a man, between 35 and 45, and a woman, between the ages of 17 and 25. Her parents were involved heavily in the war; both dead now.”

“Which side?”

“A very good question. Do you think it will matter?”

“Everything matters, Victoire, especially if you mention it.”

“Mais oui. But this is more preparation for you, I think, than for diagnosis of her. Do not let what you see alarm you. Too much.”

Ginny was suspicious now, or just being cautious, she told herself. “All right. Anything more?”

“Non. I do not think so. They know they are being watched and he made it very clear this was a benefit to them both. He very much likes to show her off, yes? And she is well worth it, I think, but if you are lucky he will remove his clothes at some point too. He is very beautiful and has the most wonderful tattoos, especially along the back of his left thigh.” Victoire opened the door graced by an elegant metal “9.” “Enjoy the show, Aunt Ginny.”

She stepped inside the now familiar room with the comfortable armchair and wide expansive window. “It’s not about that, Victoire, and you know that.” But the door clicked shut before she had finished her sentence. She flopped down in the chair and muttered, “That’s just a perk.”

Unprofessional, Weasley. The voice in her head chiding her always sounded so much like Percy that she was sometimes tempted to do just the opposite to imagine the look on his bespectacled face. Not here, of course. Not this situation. All professionalism. Studying, note-taking, understan- “Guh.”

The door beyond the two-way mirror had opened and a girl had been pushed inside. Her blouse was snug across full breasts, her skirt long but split on both sides and revealing a pair of fine brown boots. Her hair was black, braided down her back, stopping a few inches above the curve of her arse. Her face was partially covered by a black mask which curved around her eyes, wide and equally dark. No names. No identifications. Confidential. Professional.

Her gaze hit the mirror behind which Ginny sat and her pale cheeks blazed into colour and she immediately looked away, arms wrapping protectively around herself.

The girl circled the room, determinedly looking at everything but the mirror or the piles of oversized pillows on the floor. And considering the emptiness of the room, she must have memorized the lines of the wall in her pacing.

The minutes dragged on and Ginny began to feel her own heart speed up. Where was this man who was so beautiful? Why was she still waiting? What purpose did it have? And just why did Victoire know about his tattoos?

She was trying not to think too much about this last one when he appeared, suddenly materializing in the room in a swirl of angry black to grab the girl from behind.
Ginny saw the girl’s mouth open in a cry, but no sound penetrated beyond the mirror to where she sat. He spun his victim around and shoved her hard against the wall then immediately began pulling at her clothes. She struggled with him, shaking her head, as he managed to get her shirt off her shoulders. She held onto it, pulling back on it in a nearly juvenile tug of war if not for the desperation in her expression, but she was no match for him and the shirt was tossed to the side. A flash of red and her skirt went up in ready licks of flames. They only lasted for a split second, nearly so little as to make Ginny think she may have hallucinated them, and the girl was left quivering and clad only in her boots, bra, knickers, mask, and a heavy blue stone suspended on a silver chain between her breasts.

He seemed to have seen it at the same time Ginny did, for his hand rose up to it a moment later, fingers curling around it. The girl struggled, lips moving, pleading as she tried to pry it from his fingers. Then, abruptly, she slowly lowered her hands down to her side, her lips pressing together as he pulled the necklace from her and pocketed it in the blackness of his swirling clothes. He must have said something, issued an order or a threat, for her to stop fighting him. What sort of threat, though? Ginny wondered what the value of the stone was that she would risk crossing a man who towered nearly a foot over her, but neither had verbal answers to give or that Ginny would hear.

Grabbing her by the back of the neck, he dragged the girl away from the wall and turned her to face the two-way mirror. Her hands began to rise again but then stopped then lowered once more.

It was then that Ginny noticed the man’s face. Or rather his lack of it. For few traits of his own face were exposed by the mask he wore: an old, but well-cared for death eater mask. Ginny’s heart stopped, and her hand automatically went to her wand. And she stared.

And he stared back, seeming to not notice the mirror’s barrier, but able to find her beyond it. Or maybe she was only paranoid about it now. About the threat that stood before her, the danger to the girl who squirmed in his hold and who kept looking at, then away from, the mirror. Below the arch of the mask, his lips moved, speaking to one of them, but Ginny wasn’t sure who. The girl shook her head quickly, but she’d hardly stopped since he came in, so that indicated little. He spoke again, this time to her it would seem as one of her hands inched reluctantly between her thighs then drew them away again. Her finger tips glistened with the proof of her arousal. Wetness from being man-handled, from being exposed, from being subject to his taking of her clothing and stealing her jewelry.

Wetness from the Death Eater who held her.

Ginny’s hand was still on her wand, but her grip eased some, not letting go through: that mask signified far too much for that.

Still, the scene before her played on, making no concession for Ginny’s past. The girl brought her own wet fingers to her mouth and licked them, not looking up at the mirror but clearly meant to be giving a show for their audience of one. It certainly had its appeal, the dart of a small pink tongue, deft and quick in its movements over fingers to which that musky taste of arousal must surely cling.

The man’s free hand moved up her side, a light copper caress over palest cream, to cup one breast, fingers stroking over her nipple. From the way she arched in his hold, he must have had no problem to find it beyond the fabric of her bra. His thumb swept in against the fingers and she arched more at the pinch, her lips parted. The other hand moved down from her neck so both hands could cup and stroke and pinch, making her writhe against him
.
Ginny eased back into her chair. This was far more pleasant- despite the mask. She could focus on the girl who faced her, her back to the front of the man behind her, her head pressing back against his shoulder.

His right hand shifted again, rising up to set against the base of her throat. Ginny tensed again, worried of what to come, attention focused on those fingers against the flutter of her rapid heart-rate. “Don’t do it. Don’t do it…”

Just below the edge of the mask, his lips curved into a sinful smile just before he pressed those fingers close in on her, effectively making impossible for the girl to breathe. His fingers dented the skin, an outline of ghostly white on increasingly reddened skin.

She began to struggle, desperate for air, for life, for help.

Ginny drew her wand.

He released her into a gasping slump, held up by the strong hand at her breast. He gave a rather sardonic nod in Ginny’s direction then scooped the girl up and laid her out on the floor, her hand trailing over a green and gold pillow embroidered with running horses. Without word, he knelt next to her and pulled her knickers off and tossed them carelessly to one side before doing the same with her bra. Her breasts, full and dark tipped, into the obvious position that spoke only of natural size, for size she had. Her breasts fit into his hands, but they were generous even under the broad span of his palm and fingers.

As he plucked at one nipple, he spoke to her and she pressed her legs tightly together. His hand snapped down in sharp reprimand against her breast, and a few moments later they opened again, spreading widely apparent and revealing not just the readily willing pussy she expected, but a heavily pierced one. Both her outer lips and inner ones were graced with golden piercings along both sides, the metal shining. Her clit too had metal against it, a small ball visible just at the apex. The amount of metal in her was at once shocking and strangely appealing. Ginny thought of the pain of taking piercings there, the healing length of such a thing, the pain it might cause while it healed. But she was also able to connect to herself as a creature who knew and could see the beauty in alteration, in enhancement, in the body, and in being owned fully in every aspect that even her very body was kept and marked to his wishes.

Or at least she understood it in a strictly professional sense.

From one of his pockets he drew forth an oil pencil and, smirking, wrote across the lower curve of her stomach. She twitched sharply under his touch and pushed herself up onto her knees to read it, but he pushed her back down again, not allowing her to see what he had written upon her. She squirmed again, legs sliding together some, then stretching back open again.

Learned response, previous experience. A long-term relationship. Months, maybe years, of training her to his liking.

His fingers set to work on her clit, rubbing over it as her hips shifted restlessly, eagerly. Always wanting, demanding, begging for more attention, more touch, more of him.

Her movement grew more frantic when his free hand clamped down over her mouth and nose, but the sharp jolt of her body that followed made it quite clear that this fear of hers and control of his was only pleasure and was enough to send her into the throbbing waves of climax.
When his hand released her she convulsed again, gasping and sobbing for breath that was denied her for just long enough. She turned her head to rub her cheek kittenishly against his palm. He laid it momentarily against her cheek before returning his hand to covering the lower, unmasked portion of her face. His fingers began moving on her pussy again, sweeping up the drips of desire from her pierced lips to use for rubbing her clit, easing the stroke of his fingers over it. Her knees drew back toward her chest, muscles straining for orgasm and for breath. Longer he held her, stroked her, and suffocated her.

Ginny’s breath caught too, her chest tightening, aching, straining for air. Just before Ginny drew her wand again, he released her. But only long enough for her to drag in a deep uneven breath, then it was trapped in her once more.

She watched them, unable to tell now what was orgasm and what was the instinct fighting for life, what was pleasure and want and need, and what was fear and resistance and need. One pink pillow slid across the floor as the girl thrashed under the death eater’s hands and came to rest against the lower edge of the mirror. Ginny glanced at it, idly noting that the bird on it was some kind of raptor, before a visible and palpable ripple of magic went through the air. The girl arched sharply, whole body bowing away from the floor, seemingly held there only by his hands. She stayed there, a seemingly impossible arc, as tears streaked down her face. Every muscle in her body was rigid, and the wet spill of climax between her legs dampened the pillows beneath her.

Then, just as abruptly as the magic filled her, it left and the girl dropped bonelessly onto the floor again. The man’s hands stroked softly over her face and chest, a tender caress, before he thumbed over one tear-streaked cheek. Ginny watched him debate for a moment, before apparently deciding on a course of action. He shifted over so he was kneeling over his girl’s head and he pulled his cock free of his trousers. Her eyelids fluttered faintly as he started rubbing himself against her wet cheek, but she didn’t move, didn’t object.

Ginny could only imagine the sound he must have made at the first touch to his cock. For even as she knew from watching that the girl cried out for him any time she had breath, she expected that he would groan, deep and guttural, a sound at once relief and grinding desire. He rocked his hips in shallow thrusts, smearing the dampness of readily spilled tears along his cock and shuddering. It didn’t take him long before he was stroking himself off across her pale, peaceful face, splattering her skin with his come. Ginny could only imagine how long he had been hard; could only consider, study, query it. Was it before they even got here? Was it the possibility of being here? Or was it holding her life in his hands? Seeing her submission? Or maybe it was the mask, the dark and the power of it…

She wondered where her notes had gone. Surely she had taken some, hadn’t she?

“Glad you enjoyed it,” a man’s smug, gruff voice said in the small room. Or was it in her head that she heard it?

“It’s… it’s not like that. It was… enlightening. Professional. Informative. Educational.”

“Right. Sure it was.” He was smirking, she could see, even as he gathered up the girl to his chest, cradling her easily in his muscled arms.

“I- I appreciate your agreement. I am certain I’ll be able to … help more people… understand more…”

“And have a nicer wank. Yeah, I know,” he snorted, his eyes dark and set on hers. “Maybe next time, she can observe and you can perform. I bet she could learn a thing or two.”

Ginny stared, blinked, stared a bit more, before she was able to respond. “Thank you but no. I- that just won’t do. I do appreciate it- both of you. But I really must be going.”

“To wank. I know. Enjoy.”

“To work.” But still she scurried from the room with a bit less dignity than she would have liked and with a bit more awareness of the throb of her pussy. She was starting to reconsider her career goals. She was sure she could put all of this work and knowledge to some other good…

Like a career in porn? Very professional, Weasley.

“Oh shut up, you ponce.”