Harry Potter. Tom Riddle/Ginny Weasley. 034. Not Enough.
Title: The Power of High Heels
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Tom Riddle/Ginny Weasley
Prompt: 034. Not Enough
Word Count: 1,542
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ginny wants to relinquish the sandals, the trainers and the boots in favour of high heels, and everything they stand for.
Author's Notes: This was written for the January Cookie Challenge of the S.S. Gin 'n Tonic, over at FictionAlley Park. The title is an amalgamation of Tori Amos's "The Power of Orange Knickers" and one of the story's central themes. The story itself is unbeta'd and more WAFFy than I would normally like, but I just barely made the deadline, so it'll have to do.
My Little Damn Table can be found here.
She looked like a child.
That thought was the only floater in the swamp that had become of Ginny's mind. Even as she tightened her corset, even as she applied her scarlet lipstick and powdered her freckles out of sight, she could not shake off the idea that she looked like a child pretending to be an adult. No adjustment to her apparel could highlight her next-to-nonexistent cleavage (and she hated Harry a little bit, now, for shaping her interest in Quidditch, and through it, her body); whatever allure her pale skin might have possessed was cancelled by the sprinklings of brown all over it; even without her family around, her hair looked common and plain, carroty instead of crimson, lank instead of rich, fit for green woolen jumpers instead of black leather corsets.
Yet, for him...
Her eyes fell on a pair of high-heeled shoes, peeking out of the shadows like crocodilian muzzles. From the way Ginny was looking at them, one would think they also sported crocodilian teeth.
And what an Alexandrian solution that would be... chopping my feet right off to stop them telling me how to straighten my back, correct my posture, balance on those shoes...
Those shoes. When dainty, spoiled, haughty, rich Pansy Parkinson had flaunted them in the Yule Ball, Ginny had told herself that she would rather feel the breeze tickle her skin through a pair of sandals, scrape every part of her leg but her trainer-clad feet climbing on a tree, watch her foot vanish inside her father's enormous boots. So would Bill. So would Harry. So would -- no, she had been proven wrong on that point.
For him, for him...
She put them on.
High heels became her. Clack, clack they went as she strolled around the ballroom, sleek in black like a dark swan, rather than the bat that her enemies made of her. Her time with Tom had done her well; all vestiges of ill-treatment had left her face, to be replaced with spotless skin and striking red lips. She had always been tall, and the high-heels only increased the impression that she was the only woman in a playground of little girls. Her hair --
"At this rate, Rodolphus will ask you to dance just so you cease ogling him, Ginevra," said an annoyed voice beside her.
"Oh! I --" What? 'I wasn’t ogling Rodolphus, I was ogling his wife' -- right, as if she would give that kind of fodder to Tom's X-rated fantasies. "I just can't tear my eyes off that... monolith protruding from his head. Is it supposed to be a top hat, and if so, did we promise to host a Worst-Dressed Death Eater fashion contest along with the ball?"
"Charming," Tom commented, still eyeing her suspiciously. Ginny expected him to call her bluff -- she cared little for fashion, having worn nothing but second-hand clothes for the better part of her life, and Tom knew that -- but he said nothing. He just went on scrutinizing her, until she was forced to look away.
"If you're worried about my extra-curricular activities, you could always cast the Leg-Locker Curse on me," the redhead joked nervously.
To Ginny's horror, Tom pulled out his wand.
And used it to tip her chin up, smirking at her shocked, frantic expression. "That would serve no purpose other than to push your buttons, Ginevra... and there are other things I would much rather do with your buttons. Besides, you still need those legs to dance with the single well-dressed gentleman here..."
He stood up and extended his hand in one fluid movement. What? Ginny stared at it, then higher up, into his eyes, feeling small and undeserving and utterly inadequate.
"...I don't want to."
In the time-span of those three words, the handsome boy before her had transformed into a wild-eyed demon, now clutching the wand with less jovial intentions. And he would have punished her, at the very least informed her that 'it hadn't been a question' -- Ginny did not doubt that for a second -- but the guests had turned curious eyes to them, so he twisted his face into a parody of a smile.
"Suit yourself."
In a bizarre coincidence, or perhaps as a result of Legilimency, Tom headed directly towards the Lestranges. Through the thick, oppressive fumes of jealousy, the girl could hear Tom's 'May I cut in?' and the other man’s servile affirmative, see Tom and Bellatrix getting into position.
Tango. They were going to tango.
It was too much.
"Aim for the toenails!" she shouted in their direction. Bellatrix shot a glare at the redhead, which she met coolly, but Tom did not react.
Ginny wished she could tear her eyes off (out). Icarus must have felt like this upon beholding the sun -- dazzled by the radiance, humbled by the beauty, intoxicated by the heat... killed by the fall.
It was as if Bellatrix's body had been molded to Tom's. His shoulder was at the right height for her to rest her head on, and he had but to incline his head to kiss her. Their pale skin was so matching that, dancing with such shameless eroticism, they seemed attached at the hands. His raven hair (shoulder-length these days) grazed hers, so that they formed a sea of ink, and then he dipped her, spilling ink all over white tiles, all over white paper (Ginevra, you would do well to handle your inkstand with more care next time, or we won't be able to talk again -- no, don't cry, sweetling -- just tell me about that secret of yours) and they danced and danced and the stain may never come out --
CRACK.
Ginny's right heel snapped and she crumpled to the floor. For a moment there was silence, like the pause before curtain-call, as Ginny contemplated her position. The floodgates budged.
No. Breathe. Breathe.
"Ginevra?"
The girl swallowed hard, forcing a sob down her throat and composing herself. When her eyes finally locked with his, there was only a light sheen to them -- he would be proud. "Hello, Tom."
He regarded her skeptically -- the broken heel, the clumsy makeover, the constrictive corset -- before asking: "Did the shoes sprout teeth?"
Under the circumstances, it may have been the most comical line ever uttered. Ginny could not stop laughing -- laughter bubbled up her chest, slipped from her lips, burst in peals again and again, until she was hiccupping and shaking -- and then she could not stop crying.
"Ginevra."
"Juh-just go..." she said in a muffled voice.
"Ginevra. Stand up."
"Just go, Tom! You can go now! You've had your fun!" On the verge of hysterics now.
"Stand up, you pathetic, sniveling little brat. And you call yourself my equal?"
"You can't... can't order me --"
"Perhaps not. But I can force you."
With that, Tom grabbed her arms and lifted her upright. Ginny shrugged his hands off in frustration, coming to balance precariously on her single remaining high-heel. Even thus, she was too short to rest her head on his shoulder, much less kiss him without standing on her tiptoes. Her hair was an unkempt, dull orange next to his polished jet-black. Her skin had flushed pink from the frisson, but his remained paper-white and cold; it would not change to accommodate her -- he would not change to accommodate her.
If we were jigsaw pieces, you'd have to break me to make me fit you...
She cried harder, and harder still when he removed her shoe, scourgified her makeup, and peeled off her corset to reveal a green undershirt. He took her by the hand and led her to the balcony, where the moonlight formed a puddle on the floor. In her trance, Ginny could have dipped her toe in it to test its depth -- there was a dreamy quality about the whole setup. In the natural progression of things, Tom placed a hand on her waist, while moving hers to his shoulder.
Waltz. They were going to waltz.
It was not enough.
"Tom, you don't have to do this."
"I do, Ginevra... because if we were jigsaw pieces --"
"You used Legilimency! You promised...!"
"Allow me to finish. If we were jigsaw pieces, I wouldn't need -- nor want -- to break you. Wouldn't you prefer to be cut by one's edges, that you may better appreciate the moments when it's almost a perfect fit, almost like being in -- than to be with one that fits so snugly against you it doesn't leave you room to breathe?"
Tom had reddened slightly, unaccustomed to discussing his emotions, even in such vague metaphors.
"Not that I would mind breaking you..." he added slyly, reclaiming his control.
The redhead nuzzled his chest as she took in his words. Her head felt much more comfortable there than it would on his shoulder, she decided, and the small breasts she had previously incriminated now allowed her to press closer against him. For a while she just swirled with him, scantily-clad, barefoot and imperfect, to Nature's music, in Nature's spotlight.
"I told you that the Daily Prophet called Aquarius and Leo a 'match made in Hell,'" she muttered with a smile.
"You know how the saying goes, precious... Better kings in Hell than servants in Heaven."
"Mm... dance with me."
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Tom Riddle/Ginny Weasley
Prompt: 034. Not Enough
Word Count: 1,542
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ginny wants to relinquish the sandals, the trainers and the boots in favour of high heels, and everything they stand for.
Author's Notes: This was written for the January Cookie Challenge of the S.S. Gin 'n Tonic, over at FictionAlley Park. The title is an amalgamation of Tori Amos's "The Power of Orange Knickers" and one of the story's central themes. The story itself is unbeta'd and more WAFFy than I would normally like, but I just barely made the deadline, so it'll have to do.
My Little Damn Table can be found here.
She looked like a child.
That thought was the only floater in the swamp that had become of Ginny's mind. Even as she tightened her corset, even as she applied her scarlet lipstick and powdered her freckles out of sight, she could not shake off the idea that she looked like a child pretending to be an adult. No adjustment to her apparel could highlight her next-to-nonexistent cleavage (and she hated Harry a little bit, now, for shaping her interest in Quidditch, and through it, her body); whatever allure her pale skin might have possessed was cancelled by the sprinklings of brown all over it; even without her family around, her hair looked common and plain, carroty instead of crimson, lank instead of rich, fit for green woolen jumpers instead of black leather corsets.
Yet, for him...
Her eyes fell on a pair of high-heeled shoes, peeking out of the shadows like crocodilian muzzles. From the way Ginny was looking at them, one would think they also sported crocodilian teeth.
And what an Alexandrian solution that would be... chopping my feet right off to stop them telling me how to straighten my back, correct my posture, balance on those shoes...
Those shoes. When dainty, spoiled, haughty, rich Pansy Parkinson had flaunted them in the Yule Ball, Ginny had told herself that she would rather feel the breeze tickle her skin through a pair of sandals, scrape every part of her leg but her trainer-clad feet climbing on a tree, watch her foot vanish inside her father's enormous boots. So would Bill. So would Harry. So would -- no, she had been proven wrong on that point.
For him, for him...
She put them on.
High heels became her. Clack, clack they went as she strolled around the ballroom, sleek in black like a dark swan, rather than the bat that her enemies made of her. Her time with Tom had done her well; all vestiges of ill-treatment had left her face, to be replaced with spotless skin and striking red lips. She had always been tall, and the high-heels only increased the impression that she was the only woman in a playground of little girls. Her hair --
"At this rate, Rodolphus will ask you to dance just so you cease ogling him, Ginevra," said an annoyed voice beside her.
"Oh! I --" What? 'I wasn’t ogling Rodolphus, I was ogling his wife' -- right, as if she would give that kind of fodder to Tom's X-rated fantasies. "I just can't tear my eyes off that... monolith protruding from his head. Is it supposed to be a top hat, and if so, did we promise to host a Worst-Dressed Death Eater fashion contest along with the ball?"
"Charming," Tom commented, still eyeing her suspiciously. Ginny expected him to call her bluff -- she cared little for fashion, having worn nothing but second-hand clothes for the better part of her life, and Tom knew that -- but he said nothing. He just went on scrutinizing her, until she was forced to look away.
"If you're worried about my extra-curricular activities, you could always cast the Leg-Locker Curse on me," the redhead joked nervously.
To Ginny's horror, Tom pulled out his wand.
And used it to tip her chin up, smirking at her shocked, frantic expression. "That would serve no purpose other than to push your buttons, Ginevra... and there are other things I would much rather do with your buttons. Besides, you still need those legs to dance with the single well-dressed gentleman here..."
He stood up and extended his hand in one fluid movement. What? Ginny stared at it, then higher up, into his eyes, feeling small and undeserving and utterly inadequate.
"...I don't want to."
In the time-span of those three words, the handsome boy before her had transformed into a wild-eyed demon, now clutching the wand with less jovial intentions. And he would have punished her, at the very least informed her that 'it hadn't been a question' -- Ginny did not doubt that for a second -- but the guests had turned curious eyes to them, so he twisted his face into a parody of a smile.
"Suit yourself."
In a bizarre coincidence, or perhaps as a result of Legilimency, Tom headed directly towards the Lestranges. Through the thick, oppressive fumes of jealousy, the girl could hear Tom's 'May I cut in?' and the other man’s servile affirmative, see Tom and Bellatrix getting into position.
Tango. They were going to tango.
It was too much.
"Aim for the toenails!" she shouted in their direction. Bellatrix shot a glare at the redhead, which she met coolly, but Tom did not react.
Ginny wished she could tear her eyes off (out). Icarus must have felt like this upon beholding the sun -- dazzled by the radiance, humbled by the beauty, intoxicated by the heat... killed by the fall.
It was as if Bellatrix's body had been molded to Tom's. His shoulder was at the right height for her to rest her head on, and he had but to incline his head to kiss her. Their pale skin was so matching that, dancing with such shameless eroticism, they seemed attached at the hands. His raven hair (shoulder-length these days) grazed hers, so that they formed a sea of ink, and then he dipped her, spilling ink all over white tiles, all over white paper (Ginevra, you would do well to handle your inkstand with more care next time, or we won't be able to talk again -- no, don't cry, sweetling -- just tell me about that secret of yours) and they danced and danced and the stain may never come out --
CRACK.
Ginny's right heel snapped and she crumpled to the floor. For a moment there was silence, like the pause before curtain-call, as Ginny contemplated her position. The floodgates budged.
No. Breathe. Breathe.
"Ginevra?"
The girl swallowed hard, forcing a sob down her throat and composing herself. When her eyes finally locked with his, there was only a light sheen to them -- he would be proud. "Hello, Tom."
He regarded her skeptically -- the broken heel, the clumsy makeover, the constrictive corset -- before asking: "Did the shoes sprout teeth?"
Under the circumstances, it may have been the most comical line ever uttered. Ginny could not stop laughing -- laughter bubbled up her chest, slipped from her lips, burst in peals again and again, until she was hiccupping and shaking -- and then she could not stop crying.
"Ginevra."
"Juh-just go..." she said in a muffled voice.
"Ginevra. Stand up."
"Just go, Tom! You can go now! You've had your fun!" On the verge of hysterics now.
"Stand up, you pathetic, sniveling little brat. And you call yourself my equal?"
"You can't... can't order me --"
"Perhaps not. But I can force you."
With that, Tom grabbed her arms and lifted her upright. Ginny shrugged his hands off in frustration, coming to balance precariously on her single remaining high-heel. Even thus, she was too short to rest her head on his shoulder, much less kiss him without standing on her tiptoes. Her hair was an unkempt, dull orange next to his polished jet-black. Her skin had flushed pink from the frisson, but his remained paper-white and cold; it would not change to accommodate her -- he would not change to accommodate her.
If we were jigsaw pieces, you'd have to break me to make me fit you...
She cried harder, and harder still when he removed her shoe, scourgified her makeup, and peeled off her corset to reveal a green undershirt. He took her by the hand and led her to the balcony, where the moonlight formed a puddle on the floor. In her trance, Ginny could have dipped her toe in it to test its depth -- there was a dreamy quality about the whole setup. In the natural progression of things, Tom placed a hand on her waist, while moving hers to his shoulder.
Waltz. They were going to waltz.
It was not enough.
"Tom, you don't have to do this."
"I do, Ginevra... because if we were jigsaw pieces --"
"You used Legilimency! You promised...!"
"Allow me to finish. If we were jigsaw pieces, I wouldn't need -- nor want -- to break you. Wouldn't you prefer to be cut by one's edges, that you may better appreciate the moments when it's almost a perfect fit, almost like being in -- than to be with one that fits so snugly against you it doesn't leave you room to breathe?"
Tom had reddened slightly, unaccustomed to discussing his emotions, even in such vague metaphors.
"Not that I would mind breaking you..." he added slyly, reclaiming his control.
The redhead nuzzled his chest as she took in his words. Her head felt much more comfortable there than it would on his shoulder, she decided, and the small breasts she had previously incriminated now allowed her to press closer against him. For a while she just swirled with him, scantily-clad, barefoot and imperfect, to Nature's music, in Nature's spotlight.
"I told you that the Daily Prophet called Aquarius and Leo a 'match made in Hell,'" she muttered with a smile.
"You know how the saying goes, precious... Better kings in Hell than servants in Heaven."
"Mm... dance with me."