Chapter Text
As adults, they told everybody that they had raised each other.
Tina’s mind was the first Queenie ever touched, marvelling at the soft spark of connection that passed between them. It was like reading a storybook that felt both comfortingly familiar, and exciting in its strangeness. Queenie read and read, no matter how often she was told that it was impolite. They were sisters, after all.
Despite their difference in age, they went through puberty together. As children, they had shared socks and sweets and textbooks, now they shared secrets and lipstick and grief. On their bed at Ilvermorny, one would pretend to sleep while the other touched herself. Queenie knew that Tina wanted, more than anything else in the world, to be an Auror for MACUSA. When she saw a room in the MACUSA headquarters in one of Tina’s fantasies the night after a particularly difficult O.W.L, she giggled and decided her sister had gone career-mad.
Then she saw that the room was a torture chamber.
Of course, it made sense. Tina, the girl who stuttered and dropped her textbooks everywhere, the girl who was told by professors that she was too meek to be an Auror, became an avenging angel in that room. The pretty boys from her first fumblings grew into evil men who had done things too terrible to name, and they screamed for mercy and fell to their knees before her. Repent! shouted this other Tina, dark and lovely, as the real Tina slid a hand up her thigh. A lash of the whip; fingers tweaking a nipple. A knife parting skin like velvet; a hand parting her nether lips; the blood welling forth like roses as she sighed and tangled her limbs in her nightgown. The smell of flesh sizzling under a brand prompted her to slide her fingers deeper, and the choked confession heralded white-hot pleasure rocking her body like a flower in a thunderstorm.
It distressed poor principled and honourable Tina greatly. Her fantasies spun in a hellish zoetrope in her head, accompanied by devils screaming shameful! Disgusting! Psychopath! Queenie said nothing, for she knew that it wasn’t polite. But Tina became her own torturer, especially when the dreams started. Dreams that made her gasp and writhe, in which she pointed her wand at the condemned man and uttered that beautiful word: Crucio!
“Teenie, darling,” Queenie told her when she woke up sobbing. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
“I’m sick and evil,” Tina cried, wriggling out of her sister’s embrace. “You know what’s in my head. I’m dangerous! I’ll never work for MACUSA!”
“You’re not,” Queenie said gently, winding a lock of Tina’s hair around her finger. “You couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“I could!”
“Couldn’t, baby. You still cry during The Fountain of Fair Fortune.” This got a smile out of Tina. “In any case, you do realise that people actually do this kind of thing in bed, right?”
That statement left Tina thoroughly confused. But Queenie knew of some seedy no-maj bookstores, and she used her charms to get Tina a pile of rather scandalous novels relevant to her interests. Her poor sister blushed and told her to take them back, but in the months that followed, her fantasies moved out of MACUSA and into four-poster beds lined with fur and silk. Steel combined fetchingly with leather, and the grizzled backs of dark wizards gave way to pale sweaty skin flushing red beneath the flail.
“You just gotta land yourself a British husband someday,” Queenie whispered to her during Potions. “I hear caning is their national pastime!”