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Sugar	By : Wimp36 Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 6942 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, any of its characters, premises, or related information from either the books or movies. I make no profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-1 - A New Low Point
- 1
1 -- A New Low Point

Shivering in the pre-dawn damp, Ginny stared longingly at the beautiful creation in the shop window. The almost new Firebolt 4 was a thing of pure perfection: sleek and smooth, with a lovely upward curve to the shaft — perfect for the fast maneuvering a Chaser needed — and an overall look of intensity. She sighed and turned away, headed for the Rat and Toad.

The Rat and Toad was probably the grubbiest pub in Knockturn Alley, and the day shift behind its bar was probably the most depressing — and lowest paying — job in the wizarding world, but it was all she had. She tossed her bag — a battered and worn thing that had been the height of fashion when Harry had gifted it to her five years ago — into her cubby and looked at herself in the grimy mirror, not at all happy with what she saw.

At twenty-three, she was slim and pretty. Her hair, cropped short and jagged, was the same vibrant red it had always been, and her body retained most of its well-toned physique, but her eyes were dull and sad, and her face was slightly too thin. Her clothes — a white blouse and grey skirt — were shabby and threadbare. The shirt showed patches of sweat and grease stains that could no longer be magicked away. The skirt had once been part of her school uniform and had been shortened to show quite a lot of leg: anything for a few more tips.

Sighing again, she got to work readying the bar for the day’s business, if there would be any at all worth remarking at.

Twelve hours later, she trudged further into Knockturn Alley, even farther from the respectable streets of Dragon Alley than the Toad. It was only six in the evening, but daylight never seemed to penetrate the warren of tall narrow buildings. Turning into a twisting gap between two buildings, she descended a set of rickety wood stairs to a grubby red door, which she unlocked with a tap of her wand.

Inside was a single dank room. A narrow bed sagged in one corner, covered by a patched quilt. An old, stained armchair sat near the foot of the bed, next to a low shelf which held several battered books and half empty bottles. A piece of cloth hanging from the ceiling hid a shower cubicle and toilet from the rest of the room. The furnishings were completed by a low table and a battered trunk. An old wireless unit sat on the table alongside several mismatched glasses.

Ginny kicked her shoes into a corner and set her bag on the table. She rummaged through the bag and pulled out a grease-stained paper sack, three wine bottles, a foil packet, and a small purse. Unwrapping the foil packet, she drew out a nearly unsmoked cigarette, popped it in her mouth and lit it with her wand. The rest of the packet contained other partially smoked cigarettes. The bottles were full of leavings as well. Any partially empty drink left on the bar went into an empty bottle. One held firewhisky, one held a mix of different wines, and the third was a nearly full bottle that had been ordered by a man who had barely touched his first glass before aurors had arrived to arrest him.

She poured a glass of wine and took a long pull before opening the purse and tipping a handful of coins onto the table. The man who’d been arrested had tipped a galleon, which she’d pocketed before her boss had a chance to see it. Besides that, there were a handful of knuts and seven sickles. She crossed to the bed and knelt on the floor to pry up a loose board, from which she drew a metal box. The galleon and sickles went in the box. With the windfall of the galleon, she would be able to pay her rent for the next month a whole week ahead of schedule. Replacing the box, she returned to the table and sat on the trunk. She opened the paper sack and dug into her dinner: several cheap pasties she had bought on the way home.

Lighting another mostly unsmoked cigarette and pouring another glass of wine, she flicked on the wireless.

“Minister Potter was in France today,” came the crisp voice of an announcer, “accompanied by First Lady Gabrielle Potter and their children for the start of a well-earned holiday at his Riviera estate…”

She flicked to a new channel.

“…and with muggle-born enrollment soaring, Hogwarts Headmistress Hermione Granger…”

Flick.

“…open tryouts for the Hollyhead Harpies reserve squad will be held on the fourteenth. We’re joined by Captain…”

Off.

Ginny took a long drag on the cigarette, trying her best not to cry, or to light her room on fire.

There had been a time when she thought her life would be perfect. She’d graduated at the top of her class, and been immediately drafted to the English National Quidditch team. She’d married Harry — already Head Auror by the time she graduated — and moved with him into a palatial estate in the countryside outside Oxford. Everything had been going perfectly until she’d injured her shoulder in a match and been taken off the squad for the remainder of the season.

On her own, and bitter at being left at home all day, she’d started to drink heavily and, in an unforgivable error, had cheated on Harry with Dean. He’d forgiven her, of course, and they’d moved on, but then she cheated again, this time with several of Harry’s subordinates, wanting to make Harry jealous. When he forgave her again, she made yet another catastrophic error: drunk and angry at an event for Harry’s promotion to Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she’d berated him for his passivity and lack of passion. She then loudly listed the number of men she’d been fucking behind his back. It was the final straw, and he initiated their divorce the next day.

The public, of course, sided with Harry. The press lauded him for his compassion and ability to forgive, and celebrated the stoicism with which he had moved on from her betrayal. The England Squad terminated her contract immediately. Ron, now Head Auror, cleared their ranks of the men who had betrayed his best friend. The rest of her family cut ties, too. When she had returned, tail between her legs, to the Burrow, her mother threw her out. She’d tried turning to Hermione, who had given her a room, and helped her find a job in Hogsmeade, but she couldn’t live under the same roof as Ron, and her notoriety was inescapable in Hogsmeade.

Out of options, she’d sold her brooms and the jewelry Harry had given her and moved into a cheap flat in muggle London, but, without any official ID documents, she’d found it difficult to find work. The only jobs she’d been able to secure were poorly paid menial labor and stripping. After a run-in with Marcus Flint at a strip club — to her great shame, she’d given him a private dance, rather than turning him down — she abandoned that line of work. Unable to afford her rent anymore, she was evicted. Desperate, she went to Luna for money. Luna had given her a place to stay and work for the Quibbler, and things had seemed ready to turn around. Then Harry got remarried.

She’d been furious. Working in a newspaper office, forced to see countless images of the happy couple, she spiraled, and, in a drunken fury, had trashed the printing press and burned a full week’s run of the magazine which had featured a shot of a grinning and shirtless Harry with his arm around a bikini-clad and pregnant Gabrielle Delacour. Luna tried to forgive her, but Ginny was unrepentant.

Her last bridge burned, she had ended up here: at rock bottom. Growling, she finished the last of the wine and poured a glass of firewhisky and lit another cigarette.

The tryouts. It would have to be the tryouts. The scandal of her divorce from Harry had mostly died down now, and reserve players hardly ever got mentioned in the press. She also had her new false identity, and she could easily change her appearance even more than it already was. Unfortunately, as she’d learned six months ago, Quidditch squad tryouts required would-be players to provide their own broom. She had one, but it was an old and rather beat-up Nimbus 2000…she would need a Firebolt 1 or 2, at the very least to stand a chance. She poured another glass of whisky.

She woke the next morning with the taste of ashes in her mouth and her face pressed into the table. Groaning, she stood and stretched. Glancing at the clock on the wireless, she saw that she needed to be at work in forty minutes. Disgustedly, she stripped off her clothes and crossed the room to the shower. She stood beneath the lukewarm and intermittent spray, trying to relax muscles and clear her head. As clean as she was going to get — and more than clean enough for the Rat and Toad — she kicked open the trunk, glaring at the battered broomstick that lay atop her clothes. She pulled on a pair of cotton knickers, ignoring the holes through which wiry red pubic hair protruded, an old, somewhat tattered bra, the cleanest blouse she had, and another old skirt. She finished the last pasty left from the night before, took a shot of firewhisky, and lit the last cigarette stub. She could hear rain drumming against the grimy dormer window above the door, so she collected her umbrella as well, before heading into the downpour.

On her way to the pub, she treated herself to a cup of coffee, a cheese sandwich, and a pack of fresh cigarettes at a cart in the street. With the umbrella charmed to float overhead, she ate her sandwich and drank her coffee. As usual, she paused to stare into the window of Borgin and Burke’s at the Firebolt before finishing her track to work.

As usual, a few drunks remained from the prior night when she arrived. As soon as she lit the lamps behind the bar, muttered demands for beer and sandwiched issued from disheveled forms at the tables. Around seven, a crew of goblins came in, filling the air with smoke from their pipes. A dozen burly laborers came in a little later for some pre-work beer and flirting. None of them knew who she was — she went by Red these days, and her look was different enough that no one ever thought of Ginny Weasley when they saw her — or they might have offered more than a sickle to see her tits. She jokingly turned them down, but did make sure to strut a little when she brought their drinks, and giggled obligingly when one of them patted her rump. After they left it was business (or lack thereof) as usual.

She was startled out of her autopilot when a well-dressed man came in out of the torrential rain around noon. He kept the hood of his cloak up as he crossed the room, but his well-tailored black suit and the silver-tipped cane were certainly out of place. All she could make out of the face was a well-trimmed white beard. He seated himself in a slightly shadowed corner.

Ginny checked herself in the mirror, finger-combing her hair into an attractive shag. She dug through her bag and found a nub of lipstick, which she applied quickly. She also rolled up the waist of her skirt to show a bit more thigh, and unbuttoned an extra button on her blouse before she crossed the room.

“Mornin’ handsome,” she purred. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Brandy. Your best. Keep the change.” came the voice from under the hood. A well-manicured hand boasting several rings placed two galleons on the table.

“Right away,” said Ginny. She winked and turned away, swaying her hips a little in case he was watching. One galleon more than paid for their best brandy (it definitely didn’t deserve the adjective, but it was better than the rotgut most of their patrons swilled), so the extra galleon went into her bra while the change from the other went into her purse.

She brought the man his brandy, trying again to flirt a little, but he was clearly preoccupied. She kept an eye on him from behind the bar as a met with several men over the course of the afternoon. His hood stayed up, and his brandy went untouched, though the men who met with him drank their fair share. He left around five, leaving another galleon with her at the bar. She thought she saw the hint of a smile beneath the hood, but couldn’t be sure.

When she left that day, it was on a relative high. Goblins always tipped well, and the laborers had liked her flirting, so, in addition to the two-and-a-half galleons from the mystery man, her purse held nearly three galleons worth of silver and brass. She’d also filched nearly a whole bottle of gin — one missed her boss’s inventory — and a prostitute had left behind a whole pack of cigarettes when she left with an over-eager goblin. Deciding to treat herself twice in one day, she made her way to the streets nearer Diagon Alley, where there were a few half decent restaurants. She chose one at random and took a seat at the end of a counter, where she ordered a full meal for the first time in several weeks, as well as a carafe of half-decent wine.

Walking back to her room, she felt almost hopeful. She stopped again in front of Borgin and Burke’s to stare at the Firebolt. She wondered how much she could get for her old Nimbus, and if it might buy her a a decent broom if she added in her scant savings. She was considering skipping out on her rent for the next mont — she was sure to get a spot on the reserve squad, and she could live in team housing — when she saw a figure emerge from the gloom inside the shop to stare back through the window at her. She stepped back quickly and tripped, landing in a filthy puddle. Soaked and blushing at the coarse laughter all around her, she tried to rise, but her leg slipped and she sprawled again. To her increased shame, her skirt rode up to reveal her knickers.

The shop door opened and the figure came out. It was her customer from the Rat and Toad.

“I thought I recognized you earlier,” said the refined and drawling voice, “but now I’m sure.” He extended a hand, which she took hesitantly, letting him lift her to her feet. “The years do not seem to have been kind to you, Miss Weasley.”

Her blush deepened.

“I don’t know who you think I am, but…”
“Oh, I know who you want people to think you are, my dear,” drawled the stranger. “Miss Regina “Red” Cartwright on you papers. I’m sure most of the people you interact with on a daily basis are far too dim, or drunk, or both, to recognize you, but I’m not most people.” He drew his hood back, revealing the familiar face of Lucius Malfoy, disguised only slightly by the new addition of a beard.

“Malfoy,” she hissed.

The Malfoys, largely at Harry’s urging and thanks to their cooperation in rounding up renegade Death Eaters, had been pardoned after the war, but Narcissa and Draco had still denounced Lucius, and abandoned him. Draco had become a barrister and Narcissa, after a speedy divorce from Lucius had married Kingsley Shacklebolt. Lucius had mostly dropped off the radar, bequeathing the Malfoy estates to his son, and vanishing into London. Now here he was, looking as rich and dapper as ever. And looking down with a grin at Ginny’s muddy legs.

“Allow me to freshen your appearance, Miss Weasley,” he said, drawing his wand and giving it several flicks. The mud and water vanished from Ginny’s body and clothes. “I do apologize for startling you. Perhaps I could buy you a drink to make amends?”

Ginny considered briefly. This was a man she had hated for much of her life, but he was also the only person she’d talked to in nearly a year who knew who she was and didn’t seem to care.

“Sure,” she said, shortly.

With a sweep of the arm he gestured for her to follow him. He lead her a short ways away to The Headless Goblin. Despite the name, it was one of the nicer pubs in the area. Seated with drinks, Lucius inquired how she had come to work at the Rat and Toad.

“Everywhere else I’d run into people who knew me,” she answered. “What were you doing there?”

“The same. Doing my best to avoid notice. I own the rights to produce several important potion components and, with Severus dead, am the only one who knows how to produce them, anyways. With my reputation it’s better to deal in the dark. If I trade openly, most buyers feel the need to cheat me at every turn.”

He took a sip of his brandy, staring at her with an inscrutable expression.

“Borgin says you’ve stopped by the shop every day to look at that broom,” he said, mildly. “May I ask why?”

“I want to try out for the Hollyhead Harpies, but I need a decent broom.”

“Ah. And two thousand galleons is a little beyond your means?”

Ginny hung her head, blushing.

“Well?”

“Yes. My rent is fifteen galleons a month, and I can barely afford that.” Now that she was speaking, it flooded out. “The Rat and Toad barely pays anything. I scrape by on tips, and food and drink that customers leave behind.” She looked into his eyes, glaring. “Happy? Does it make you feel good that Ginny Weasley is living in a hole that makes the Burrow look like a palace? Does it make you feel good to know that I go home and get drunk on backwash from the kind of degenerates who infest that place? That I have nothing? No friends, no money, no prospects?”

His expression had not changed, unless it was in his eyes, which seemed more focused.

“Are you quite done?” He asked. “Of course it pleases me. You and your family — and the Order — took everything from me. My reputation, my wife, my son. But,” he added, raising a finger, “I think I know how you can finish atoning…and I think you can benefit greatly from the process.” He finished his drink. “Finish your whisky.”

She did. She wasn’t sure why, but his intensity and focus were magnetic. It didn’t even cross her mind to call him down for saying that she owed him anything; that it was somehow her fault that he’d lost his family. She simply shot back her whisky and rose, following him into the night.

“Your problem is multifaceted,” said Lucius, lighting a cigar. “You need money for a broom, you need money for a new wardrobe — you can hardly show up for quidditch tryouts in a skirt with holes in it — and you need your identity as “Regina Cartwright” to be official enough to withstand scrutiny. You also need to be able to change your appearance.” He raised his finger again, seeing her ready to protest. “Quidditch teams always cast revealing spells before tryouts and before each game. Any illusion or transfiguration spell will be lifted, and they can test for Polyjuice potion. You need a way to permanently alter your appearance.” He spread his arms. “Fortunately, I can help with all these problems.”

“But you have a price,” growled Ginny.

“Of course I do,” he said, puffing at his cigar. “I want to see your home.”

“What?”

“You heard me. It would please me to see the conditions in which you live. It may amuse me.”

“I show you my room, and you do all that for me?”

“Of course not. You show me your room,” he sneered, “and I’ll take you shopping for clothes. My price for the rest will be higher.”

Ginny glowered, and then relented.

“Follow me.”

She lead him into the slums of Knockturn Alley, her shame growing with each step. Finally, she led him down into her tiny home. To make things perfect, someone had vomited on the top of the stairs leading down to her door, and, even better, the small drain at the bottom of the stairs had clogged in the day’s rain, leaving a pool of muddy water that she was certain had leaked into her apartment. Blushing ferociously, she banished the water, unlocked the door and entered. Luckily, muddy water had only seeped in a few feet, further staining the tattered rug, but not ruining anything more than it already was.

“Well, well. This is disgusting,” said Malfoy, stepping over the threshold. “Quite humiliating.” He sneered at the accumulated rubbish, stains, dirty clothes, and overall squalor. “Well worth a new outfit for you. But perhaps you’d like a full shopping spree? New clothes for work, for a night out?”

Ginny didn’t think she could be any more humiliated, but if she’d gone this far, she might as well go all in.

“And what do I need to do for that?”

Lucius flicked his wand at the wireless, which began to play a slow, instrumental jazz tune. He flicked once more, conjuring a clean, comfortable armchair in which he sat. Ginny gave her own armchair a mournful stare. She’d never been any good at conjuring: no one in her family had that particular talent.

“I heard a fascinating story from Marcus Flint several years back. It seems you had a talent for stripping. I’d like a dance from you, for starters.”

Blushing deeper still, Ginny began to sway her hips in time with the music. She hadn’t danced since that night with Flint, but she was still graceful and knew what she was doing. She began by slowly unbuttoning her blouse, revealing her plain tan bra to Lucius’s hungry eyes. He was still smoking his cigar, ashing it carelessly onto her floor, and had poured himself a drink from a flask in his cloak. Her skirt came next, the button coming off in her trembling fingers. His eyes fixed at once on the wisps of red hair poking through the holes in her knickers and he leered.

“I want the full treatment,” said Lucius. “Come here.”

Ginny obeyed, strutting across the short distance between them and turning to gyrate her small bottom for him. His hand gave her a gentle swat and then cupped her cheek, giving it a squeeze.

“I’d like to see your tits, girl.”

Ginny spun, reaching up behind herself to unclasp the bra, which came away to reveal her small A-cup breasts, each lightly sprinkled with freckles and capped with a tiny red nipple. She bent forward, bringing her breasts close to his face.

“Like what you see, Lucius?” She asked, getting back into the character she had worn so many nights in that muggle strip club. When he reached up to grab a nipple, she slapped his had away. “No touching yet,” she admonished.

She took a few steps away and resumed her dance, her eyes locked on his. She had the feeling that the tables were turning now. Now, she had the upper hand. She saw the large bulge growing in his trousers and decided to take a risk. She spun in a tight circle and bent at the waist, bringing her legs together. Looking back so she could see his face, she peeled her knickers down her legs, letting him get the briefest glimpse of her arse and her glistening nether lips before she straightened. She tossed him the knickers as she continued her dance. He gave them an appreciative sniff before pocketing them. He spread his legs slightly and she took the hint.

She sashayed to him and hovered over his lap, grinding herself into the impressive appendage stringing against his trousers. She turned, sinking to her knees gracefully, and tugged the crotch of his trousers open, freeing a mammoth erection. Lucius was easily a foot long: bigger than any of the men she’d been with in the past by at least three inches. She began to wank him up and down. Looking up at him wickedly, she licked slowly from the base of his shaft up to the dark purple helmet.

“Like that, Lucius? You like seeing Arthur’s little girl on her knees?”

“Oh, I certainly do,” he said placing a hand on the back of her head. He made eye contact, sneering, again. “Call me ‘Daddy.’” He said, and pulled her mouth onto his cock.

Ginny was no stranger to sucking cock. She’d sucked Dean’s impressive nine-incher at least twice a day while they were together and become quite adept. Harry had usually preferred traditional intercourse, but she’d blown him fairly often, nonetheless. She’d also put her talents to use while cheating on him — something about kissing him after she’d had a cock in her mouth thrilled her — and from time to time after he’d divorced her. All this to say that she knew what she was doing, but nothing prepared her for the monstrosity that was the cock of Lucius Malfoy.

It filled her mouth to bursting, and she found herself gagging long before his insistent tugging brought her lips anywhere near the base of his shaft. She pulled back, gasping for air briefly before he pulled her mouth back onto his cock. This time, he pulled her halfway down and then held her in place while he thrust his hips, driving his cock nearly all the way into her throat. As she gagged, spluttered, and gasped, she felt her pussy start to get wet.

One of the reasons that she’d cheated on Harry had been that he was too nice. Dean had always assumed a dominant role in their relationship, which she had loved. At first, she and Harry had been wrapped in passion and heat — the war did wonders for their sex life. Later, she’d come home from practice or a game on an adrenaline high, and Harry was, like as not, still on fire from taking down another dark wizard, and they’d fuck like beasts. But then she’d been injured, and his work had become more peaceful. He’d dote on her, wooing her with pretty gifts and fine wine, and when they had sex it was tender and loving.

She hated it. She longed for the passion, the power, and the thrill of submission: of being driven to new levels of pleasure by a domineering man. Harry had never been that man. Now, she realized, even Dean hadn’t been that man. Lucius, on the other hand, was.

Finally, her nose touched manicured silver pubic hair and he let her draw back. She collapsed backwards, drool coating her face and chest. She panted heavily.

“Fuck me, Daddy,” she said.

Lucius sneered again and tore off his clothes. For an older man, he was in amazing shape. His hairless chest was chiseled, with only a hint of padding, and covered in a mix of scars and prison tattoos. His arms bulged like those of a weightlifter, and his cock jutted out like a lance. He picked her up as if she weighed nothing at all and slammed her onto his cock.

She shrieked in ecstasy, coming almost immediately. He pumped into her like a jackhammer as he crossed the room. He threw her onto the bed, face down and reentered her, fucking her like a beast. His hands closed around her neck and she whimpered as another orgasm — or was it still a continuation of the first? — tore through her. Her vision started to blur and she let out a choked and gurgling mew. He relaxed his grip long enough for her to draw a breath before he reapplied pressure.

She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but he picked up his pace further still, each thrust slamming into her like a hammer blow. Suddenly, with a great splintering crash, her bed crumpled to the floor. She didn’t care.

“Fuck me! Fuck me! Harder, Daddy! Harder!”

Lucius obliged. When she felt liquid spray into her cunt she nearly lost consciousness.

“You’re a good slut, Weasley,” said Lucius. “I’ll pick you up from work tomorrow.”

There was a crack, and Ginny found herself alone in her dingy room, lying on a broken bed.

One hand drifted down to her pussy, collecting some of the semen that oozed from her. She brought the hand up to her mouth, savoring the taste, before she drifted off to sleep.
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