Entry tags:

ginny weasley, ginny/pansy, harry potter, harry/ron, pansy parkinson, ron weasley

[FIC] Ghosts on the Boulevard: Ginny/Pansy, Harry/Ron
Originally Posted Here on 8 August 2006

Title: Ghosts on the Boulevard
Giftee: cinnamon_sins
Author: analytically
Characters/Pairing: Ginny/Pansy; Harry/Ron; vague Ginny/Harry/Ron
Word Count(for fic): 4,661.
Warnings: Slight voyeurism, dubious consent.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is what Parkinson and those types deserve. Though no blood lies resting on the girl's hands, she does not deserve the angle, the easy way out.
Author/Artist's Notes: I wanted to get more fluff into this for the main pairing, but I did not end up having that, so I hope it is okay with the secondary pairing. The title and lyrics at the beginning are from Johnathan Rice's “So Sweet.” Thanks to my beta K.

Your former lover is leaving checking out not coming back
The downtown trains have taken him screaming on down the track
There is a terrible taste on his tongue from the chemicals
He's gonna spit his blood all over the dope white walls

“So Sweet” by Johnathan Rice


The clink-clink of her mother's wand against the side of the pot first alerts Ginny to their condition, for she hasn't noticed the barren pantry or the newly formed ditch in the backyard where the gnomes freely frolic, happily devouring the remains of the ground. But she has noticed that the food made in bulk doubled and dwindled down to nothing. Food doesn't remain eternal for long, and though the Weasleys have always been missing out on the finer things in life, Arthur and Molly Weasley have never let their myriad of children starve. It is not in their natures.

Ginny leaves the kitchen table she and her mother have eaten, slept on, and nearly bathed on for the last three days to move up behind her mother and catch her arm. Her fingers slide around the thinning appendage--though her hands are small and there is a small change, it is astonishing enough and she sits in shock (two, three, four) before jerking herself out and glancing down at the pot.

“There's water, Mum,” she says, voice unsteady. Red strands fall into her eyes like vines slowly creeping in, covering the misty-eyed appearance she immediately gains. “That's all we have left.”

“There should be some mushroom soup ingredients in the--” her mother begins, voice panicked and frantic. Ginny feels her mother pull away from her, feet sliding back against the floor until she drops heavily into the seat her daughter occupied a minute before. She turns to see her mother twist her chair into the table, lower her head, and cry--choked sobs that sound vaguely like the names of her lost children.

This isn't how a saved world is supposed to be, Ginny thinks. She doesn't bother to inform her mother that she's not gone, she's standing right there, and she need not worry about her going anywhere anytime soon. She doesn't correct her about Ron but does think to remind her that Fred and George are just a floo away. There's no certainty at a time like this.

Ginny's isn't even certain if she's really alive.

--

The interior of the bookshop sends chills through her body, but she rests back against the bookshelf and doesn't pay attention to the grinning, smiling, cheerful faces on the myriad of books. Flourish and Blotts is no more; in its place, three new bookstores open up and Ginny picks the most promising.

Her tongue runs over her bottom lip as she picks up the empty box and leaves the section dedicated to Harry Potter. Three hundred books and all released the day after Voldemort died; that is the remains of Harry James Potter, the hero who could have been and still is, or so she imagines, but she doesn't think of him in a very valiant light now. He hides, succumbing to the need of a friend in a time where everyone needed someone else. She doesn't visit Harry, nor does she visit her brother--though they live upstairs in Ron's room, neither of them come down, only Apparating away to get food and living off Harry's fortune, even if Ron's mother can't afford to feed herself. It's selfish, but they're both broken. It seems to be a viable excuse.

“Ginny, can you go get the new shipment in the past? Lockhart's I Taught Harry Potter just came in again. People are buying that up and fast,” her boss, a middle-aged man by the name of Sam who claims he spent the entirety of the war in a Muggle bomb-shelter, tells her with a grunt before opening his cash register and pulling out the galleon section to count through it again. She knows he worries about his business, but she also knows that he takes paranoia to the next level.

“Will do, boss,” she says to him before moving to the back of the store. Ginny's eyes remain on her feet and she only thinks to look up to catch the glimpse of a nose before it disappears around a shelf. The dark hair falls around the image of the girl with dark blue eyes and a penchant for smirking. Instead of moving to the back, she hesitates, but then follows the woman (Pansy Parkinson, but “irritating hag” seems to be the chant moving through Ginny's head at the moment).

Her feet roll against the ground, trainers carefully made to make as little noise as possible, but she gets a sense of satisfaction when Parkinson turns toward her.

“What do you want?” Parkinson asks, head tilted back to give her a sense of arrogance (there's no lifting her nose; arrogant tones and haughty looks fit her better, and Ginny imagines she used to play with a mirror when she was younger to figure out how she could condescend to someone).

“If you're looking for the Harry Potter section, I suggest you go to the right,” Ginny responds. “But if you're looking for the Memoirs of Draco Malfoy, we don't carry them. It might be bad for business.” She feels vicious and sure, and though it is her first week in this bookshop, she knows Sam doesn't want to let go of her. Her arms cross over her stomach and she throws her head back, proudly allowing the red hair to skim over her freckled cheeks, the mixture of brown, red, and pink spread out over her cheek bones.

“I don't need your help,” Parkinson returns, tone acid, eyes blinking slowly, as if she needs to learn new ways to act as if Ginny is barely there. Blink enough times and she'll disappear--Ginny vaguely remembers a Muggle story Demelza told her once, detailing the ins and outs of clinking shoes together and ending up where the heart desires.

The book store isn't where her heart desires, but she feels alive, standing there and prepared to egg on Parkinson, ready and willing, wand practically pulled and smug expression in place. “You seemed lost. I work here; I'm supposed to help our customers.”

“I might not be one for very long.” Ginny isn't very surprised. Parkinson likely decided to not shop there the moment she saw the younger girl.

“How awful. You won't be able to spend M--well, it's not Malfoy's money anymore, is it?” Ginny watches in pleasure as Parkinson's eyes narrow. Her lips twitch--bottom lip first, top lip pursed out with the action and tongue coming out to dart against her bottom lip. The rumors of Malfoy dropping her near the end of the war moved through the Wizarding world. Parkinson was found with her knees against her chest in the foyer of the Malfoy Manor when the Order of the Phoenix moved inside to claim it for its usages. Draco was nowhere to be found, but there had been a note in her hand detailing the end of their relationship and how he needed someone more complete.

And despite her own grievances, Ginny does not pity her. She does not feel bad for her. Contrarily, she feels righteous. This is what Parkinson and those types deserve. Though no blood lies resting on the girl's hands, she does not deserve the angle, the easy way out. Down for the count is how she shall remain, even if everyone seems to mimic it.

“Doesn't Potter need his wounds cleaned up? No one's seen him. Where is he now?” Ginny steps back as Parkinson's shoes clink against the tiled floor. She's moving toward the red headed girl now, confidence gained once more. “Did he disappear on you?” Her eyebrows lift--slightly, with ease, as if she already knows the answer.

“No, he's not gone.”

“Just not with you.”

“He doesn't often follow me to work, if that's what you're asking,” Ginny says with newfound strength. “What were you looking for?”

Parkinson shakes her head and releases an annoyed snort. It doesn't take her long to leave the shop.

--

Three times is the charm and on the third visit since her first--the fourth in total, but Ginny imagines that the first barely matters, as it's merely an origin point, an initiation, a point zero and mark of things to come--Parkinson finds ammunition. Her prior visits were desperate attempts. The first marked her entrance in the store and her pacing around until Sam offered her help. He tried to shake her hand and she nearly hexed him. Ginny didn't send the flare up for a hitwizard soon enough, or else Parkinson likely would have been in trouble. The second, she came in and bought six books about Harry--the most popular, including Lockhart's--and sat on the floor and progressively ruined them, complaining about the quality and their inability to remain intact when her magic went against them.

Ginny remembers the second time most vividly: he way Parkinson's eyes locked on her own when she burnt the picture of Harry, as his grinning features faded into black ash before crumpling into nothing on the floor. She's certain she couldn't remain oblivious, blank, even, nothing during this time and it mars her features even the third time, when Parkinson comes in and heads toward the same section.

“Ginny, this is where you are.”

Parkinson and Ginny both freeze. The former turns around and looks toward the door, where Ron has walked in, hair longer and skin paler than ever. Harry moves in behind him, messy black hair an erratic growth on his head. The latter girl, however, drops the basket of books she has in her hands.

“Mum had to be taken to St. Mungo's today,” Ron says as he stuffs his hands into his trousers, but remains close to Harry. His head doesn't turn as he looks around the shop, and he looks unsteady, as if he hasn't been out anywhere since the end of the war. Ginny suspects he hasn't been--locked up in his room has done it and Harry's been the one braving the real world, likely the Muggle world, given the possibilities and the safety and the knowledge. “Harry found her in the kitten trying to transfigure a pumpkin into something. He couldn't figure out what.”

“It had eyes, though,” Harry adds as he eases up behind Ron. His hand slides up over Ron's back and Ginny barely winces at the sight of his fingers brushing over her brother's neck before coming to rest on his shoulder. His ring finger twitches upward--just a little--a little bit--right against Ron's ear and her brother's head twitches to the left and his lips purse forward. It's obvious that this is something Harry has done before, even if his features remain blank and he keeps a small amount of direct space between his torso and the other male's back.

“Eyes,” Ginny remarks blandly.

“Yes,” Parkinson cuts in, “eyes? What is she trying to do, replace your lost brothers? How many stupidly died? Three?” She absolutely glows as she looks toward the two best friends, comforting each other so publicly. Ginny wants to lunge at her and jerk her head in the opposite direction: eyes against a window, walls, or even hers would be better than the eager anticipation she applies to the two.

And Harry thankfully notices, as he steps closer and brushes his hand back, hand tugging a little on the back of Ron's head as his jaw tightens. “There were two. Did you forget how to count when Malfoy dumped you or has that always been a problem? I guess I shouldn't even ask--Malfoy couldn't count very well himself.”

“I'm surprised you can make your way around without that bushy-haired Mudblood. But I suppose we all have to come together to make it on our own,” Parkinson returns. “You are doing quite well together?”

Ginny notes that Harry's hand tightens on Ron's hair. “They're doing very well, Parkinson,” she says. “I'll be along shortly, you two. Go be there with Mum. I've been working here, you see. We needed--the kitchen--”

“--we know, Ginny,” Ron says, somehow maintaining his composure despite the jabs. It seems like he's absorbed in the comfort of his friend. Harry always relied upon him; it seems that now the job goes two ways, knight and his king, protected until the end. Oaths of fealty work that way, she thinks, but she also realizes her loyalty belongs to no one, except perhaps the shimmering boy of fantasies devastated by months of war and sorrow.

“Yeah, we're sorry,” Harry adds. His hand slides out from Ron's hair and drops, but not before it brushes over his friend's shoulder, which rolls slightly into his touch. The miniscule actions, the way they respond to one another, unsettles Ginny, but she does her best to smile faintly. The smile fades, however, as they turn and they're barely out the door before Ron grabs Harry's arm and clings to him, the door closing as their bodies collide with one another.

It's a suffering existence, but they all have to get by.

Ginny spins around quickly and moves toward Parkinson, the cries of Sam warning her not to confront a customer, no matter how violent she is, falling on deaf ears as she pulls her wand and points it against the older girl's throat. “Don't say a word.”

“Must be lonely at home without Hogwarts being open.”

“I said not to say a word.”

“Must be terribly lonely with your mother dying and Potter busy saving your brother.”

“If you don't close your mouth,” Ginny says through gritted teeth. She pulls her wand back and prepares it.

“It's funny how double-standards work in this way, Weasley.”

It doesn't feel as good to hex someone blind now, Ginny later reflects.

--

For the first time in months, she doesn't move to the kitchen when she arrives home, but to her room. Harry and Ron lurk in the living room as she passes by it, and she doesn't nod her greetings, feeling sore, tired, weakened--everything her mother feels, even if her mother is no longer here. The Healers at St. Mungo's say she's going to be all right--it's just exhaustion, depression, but they have the right charms to fix her up.

Ginny regrets telling them that there's no bringing someone back from the dead.

She changes into her nightgown and collapses into her bed and contemplates the entirety of the day. The incident with Parkinson. The physical revelation of her brother. She thinks of the way Parkinson watched their hands and she thinks of how they comfort one another. This is new; Harry has never been fond of touching and she vaguely remembers the awkwardness of her mouth against her neck when she was just fifteen, before the death of Dumbledore and so many others and still a bright eyed youth with an excessive amount of exuberance. The two of them managed to get far despite his hold ups and in the end, it provided them with the strength they needed.

All for a while.

Hermione's death ruined it all. It crushed it and as Ginny rests her head back on her pillow, she remembers why she abandoned her room for the kitchen. There she can't hear the creaks of her brother's bed as Harry joins him in it, the shifting of it against the floor--this is the sound of comforting; this is the sound of them together when they really need to learn how to make it apart.

But perhaps it is all jealousy--she pictures the way Harry's hand brushed over Ron's ear, even closes her mind for the action and purses her lips forward with ease. Her breathing quickens as Harry's hand is replaced with his mouth, biting down against it and giving it an easing pain, giving Ron what he needs. Her hand slides down over her nightgown and brushes against her stomach as she pictures the rest of their actions. Harry's hand over Ron's shoulder, the way he comes up behind him, hesitantly but surely, comforting and practiced.

Her hand pulls up the thin cotton and she brushes it between her thighs, index finger brushing over the outside of her knickers. It's been a long time since she's done this--though she's barely seventeen, she's had enough experience with herself to know her body. Molly Weasley hadn't been fond of telling her much, but the whispers of Victoria Frobisher with Marietta Edgecombe at a quidditch match in her third year had sealed the deal about what she was supposed to do with herself. People gained knowledge in unusual ways, after all.

Ginny pulls the cloth of the knickers to the side and gets another image--Harry grabbing Ron's cock, but Ron barely has a face, just a freckled, trembling body, and a weakened, strangled voice, and she begins to bring her index and middle finger quickly against her clit. She moves her hand quickly while her left hand moves up underneath the nightgown and over her nipple, caressing it as her breathing quickens and sweat begins to form on her cheeks. Her hand moves faster as she imagines Ron's body growing weaker beneath the assault of Harry, the way his hands caress his stomach and the way he continues to bite at the lobe of the ear when he has the opportunity, the shoulder, the neck--and the marks that he leaves.

She gives a harsh moan as she drives three of her fingers into her, thumb still pressing hard against the clit. Ginny sees, practically feels Harry eventually stiffen against her back, and she thinks, for a moment, that it is his mouth on her ear, his comforting body, his way of keeping her at one. The sounds in Ron's room correlate with this and she gives a guttural moan as she feels herself near her climax--one that, thankfully, does not echo in the hollowness of her room.

Both eyes remain closed as she pulls her hand out and awkwardly brushes it over her blanket. A voice echoes in the back of her head: We all can't stand to be alone, can we, Weasley? In her mind, she opens her eyes to Pansy Parkinson, who stands over her with a proud expression. She is without Draco, who has gone off to marry someone of a more reputable standing, and she is without Harry, who thrives to comfort her brother now. But Ginny knows that it's likely more than that.

It's not that we're alone. It's that we're weak for the first time, she thinks to herself. She can live without Harry, of course; she just can't live without anyone there to support her.

Despite the twitch of Ron's bed once more, she falls asleep quickly, the image of Parkinson fading immediately.

--

The Leaky Cauldron serves as their next rendezvous a week later, smoke filled and lonely, but it gives Ginny comfort after her work and before she heads to St. Mungo's. Her life feels very adult, and she figures that it's fitting--she's seventeen-years-old and a rightful adult in the Wizarding world, even if she questions it sometimes. She's lacking her N.E.W.T.s and a complete education, but there's no educational opportunities immediately available (though Beauxbatons offered to take some of Hogwarts' star students and Horace Slughorn recommended Ginny, but she couldn't afford it). Rarely does she dwell on this fact, except when she sits alone at a table with a plate of food before her that she paid for with her own money. She realized the night before that Ron and Harry could likely pay for her to continue her simplified lifestyle; she doesn't ask them. They are too selfish, too involved with one another, too incapable of providing anyone else with their inherent strength.

She doesn't tell herself that she's angry because of it.

Her fork clinks against the plate and she looks across the room at the occupants. Most of them are shady--men who, had they fought in the war, would have acquired peg legs and boats to become pirates. Ginny smirks to herself at the thought, but she stops when she notes a familiar head of black hair that surrounds a face with a funny nose.

“Parkinson,” she says quietly, and instead of deciding to avoid her, she picks up her plate and glass of water with one hand and trails over to where the girl's sitting. Without inviting herself, Ginny lowers herself into the seat and looks across at the girl's horrified expression.

“What do you want, Weasley? I don't want to hear about your brother's pillow talk stories. But I'm certain Potter's section at the bookstore is just waiting to hear about the lover of--”

“It's terrible without Malfoy, isn't it, but it's even worse to have no money. I never expected you to be the type to eat here, Parkinson, but you look comfortable, very comfortable.” Ginny pokes at her food a little and brings a bite of it into her mouth, carefully chewing on it while she examines the annoyed features of the former Slytherin. “I won't come down to your level. Where's your room? Do you have a larger one or a smaller one up stairs?”

Ginny simply continues eating when Parkinson slams her fork into her plate. “I can have the owner remove you. I've been giving him a fair amount of money since I arrived here and I don't have to take this abuse.

“Abuse, Parkinson. I'm certain you've never doled it out in your entire life.”

The young woman rises from her place then, shoving her plate in the direction of the red head. Ginny watches with a smirk, entirely too smug, and she doesn't hesitate to go after her. Though she has a hospital meet to have, she knows Ron and Harry will be there for a while, even if they will be there more for themselves than the weakened form of her mother. But Molly's getting stronger, and this is something Ginny needs to do.

Regardless of this, she moves quickly and the moment that she sees Parkinson try to slam the door in her face, Ginny twitches her wand to hold it open for a second longer before she slips into the room and pushes the door shut with her own hand. “I never ran from you,” she tells her as she slides her wand back into the pocket of her robes. “I wonder why that is.”

“What do you want, Weasley?” Parkinson asks as Ginny steps closer. “I'm not going to support your dying family. How many of you are left? Three?”

“You like the number three, don't you?” she remarks in return before closing off the distance and grabbing Parkinson's robes. “It's probably easy to remember such a low number, right?” Ginny's movement continues as she turns Parkinson against the door, hands pressing against the girl's shoulders and holding her in place. Her nose brushes over her chin, because though she has Parkinson firmly in place, Ginny's still a little shorter--but not by much, so she feels no weaker, no less beneath her.

“It's a hope that there will be less of you,” the brunette returns.

Ginny grins--or perhaps her teeth are merely bared--but only quickly, for her fingers slid up and over Parkinson's shoulders as she tilts her head up and brushes her mouth over the other girl's. This is strength, she tells herself, and when Parkinson jerks up against her to resist, Ginny merely presses her further into the hard surface. Her tongue darts against the other female's lips before the mouth opens--perhaps involuntarily, perhaps not, and it isn't long before she's tilting her head and allowing her hands to pull open Parkinson's robes and drop them to the floor.

Her robes follow, but she doesn't pay attention to the fact, doesn't notice that it's Parkinson's hands that are pushing them off, or that it's Parkinson's mouth biting hard into her neck and forcing a pained sound from her mouth. She only responds to it with a jerk of her head, mouth angrily bucking against mouth, hands angrily pulling open blouses and tugging down skirts and revealing knickers, the process fast, as if each of them are now daring one another.

It's not a battle of wit, but a battle of strength, and Ginny remains in one place as she bites down on Parkinson's lip but doesn't, thankfully, taste blood--she doesn't know if she could handle that. The room feels cooler when Parkinson's hands run over her stomach, a freckled mess and a little scarred from her only battle in the war, but Parkinson doesn't look down, for her face is buried into Ginny's red hair, biting against her ear, and causing her more pain--which is quickly reciprocated with a twist of Parkinson's now bared nipple.

Without an ounce of tenderness, her finger trails down over Parkinson's stomach and dips below the line of her knickers. Though she approaches it with a bit of hesitance, her finger quickly digs into the other girl's clit, prodding against it with a necessary veracity.

“You win,” Parkinson mutters against her ear and then the two are quickly stumbling backward, hair whipping against hair and arms a tangle as they remove the remainder of their clothing. Parkinson falls into the bed first and Ginny eases over her, tongue lashing against her neck before she bites down into it.

“What do I win?” she asks as she pulls back.

“Nothing.”

“I'm stronger,” Ginny declares before kissing Parkinson, tongue darting into her mouth. Her mouth caresses the other girl's neck before it trails down over her torso, drawing both nipples into her mouth before she tongues down and eases her tongue between the other girl's leg, biting down quickly before drawing back and going again, consistently--but then she shifts to prod her tongue inside of Parkinson, thumb brushing over the girl's clit as she continues this action.

Parkinson rocks her hips against Ginny's face, the action urgent, insistent, needy--she needs Ginny to be further inside of her, and when she accomplishes that to some extent, there is a hoarse sound and Parkinson's movement stops. The younger girl doesn't fail to finish her job before moving up and resting beside Parkinson.

“What do you want now?”

Ginny feels jarred by the question and sits in place, staring at the top canopy of the bed. “Nothing,” she replies. “Nothing from you.” Her body shakes a little as she slides off the bed and moves toward her clothing.

Something inside her tells her that she's already gained what she needed.

--

The incidents with Parkinson continue until Ginny's mother leaves the hospital--cheeks in place and arms plump once more, she enters the Burrow with a new sense of accomplishment. She promises her daughter that she won't do that again and even cooks with an awareness for the remaining members of the family. Her father leaves the shed and comes in to join the Weasley family and it is then that Ginny realized she kept her family alive.

Though Ron looks a little pained, Harry doesn't follow him up to the room that night, but when he comes to Ginny, she turns him away. His feature contort with confusion, but she tells him she doesn't need him; he says she never did and it warms her that he knew this was the truth. But she also knows she had to prove it to herself, and now that she has, it doesn't seem to matter.

Two days later, Parkinson enters the book store. It only takes Sam wandering off to stock books about Harry Potter for the two to drift into the backroom, Pansy pressed against the wall and Ginny frantically touching her, holding her, feeling her strength. This isn't permanent, she tells herself as Parkinson's tongue darts inside of her mouth, but it's something to do for now, before the blood and ashes wash away.