Red hair slipped slickly over her virginal silk nightgown as she bent over the book. The curtains were drawn all around her bed so that nobody could see her writing. "Let me see your poetry oh you like to write too is that a diary i've kept one for years what do you write about Ginny?" was a bunch of continuous self-exposing babble she did not feel like she would ever be ready for. It was much simpler to just go to bed "early"... and hide from her feelings by withdrawing inside them.
Ginny had been intrigued with the legend of Harry Potter ("The Boy Who Lived") her whole life. She always hoped he would come back to the wizard world in time for her to go to school with him. When he had actually appeared at King's Cross, out of nowhere, human instead of legend, his bright-dark eyes surprisingly more noticeable than the famous scar, her fascination with the story became infatuation with the person.
If she were somebody else, somebody with more charm and less shyness and somebody who didn't love Harry so much that she were afraid of him... then maybe she would have a chance. After all, he was good friends with her brother, and she had plenty of opportunity to see him. Every time she spoke to him she felt stupid, but she had to speak to him or she'd go crazy. She was already scared she was going crazy. She didn't want to think about that now.
Deep breath.
She thought for a few moments about what she wanted to write that night. Earlier that day she had been unable to stop staring at Harry, almost to the point where she felt bewitched. But she knew she wasn't. She knew that she could control herself, but shamefully, there was a dark part of her that didn't want to. He touched her hand accidentally in the hallway, and an electric shock went through her tiny body. She wasn't used to this. This wasn't the faraway fairytale crush she'd had her whole life. This was real, and there was biology involved that had never previously been a factor. Too much biology than she wanted to think about knowing how to handle. These feelings were too new not to be strong even at half the intensity. The desperation that was eating at her skin alternately paralyzed her and seized her with fierce energy.
It was time to talk to Tom.
She opened the book and twiddled the pencil between her thumb and finger. "Dear Tom," she began. "Sometimes I want Harry so much that it hurts my whole body. I feel like that if he never loves me, I'm going to explode. I've never felt this dependant on anything in my life." She paused as prickles ran up and down her back as she thought of Harry's smile. "I think about things that I'd never, ever do... but I can't stop thinking about doing them." She stopped writing, more lost in reverie than waiting for Tom to reply.
"There are ways," invisible Tom wrote back. "There are always ways of which we haven't thought. Your mind is limited by your age and your innocence-- and your good nature."
"Are you talking about putting spells on him?" Ginny wrote. She would be too nervous to even attempt something of that magnitude. What if she were caught and got expelled? "I don't want to get kicked out of school."
"A fine idea, my flickering little Flame," Tom replied, "but there are still other ways that will not put your academic career at such risk."
"What do you suggest?" wrote Ginny, and waited. It was dark within the curtains of the bed, and thoughts of Harry were creeping behind her. She could almost feel his hot breath on the bare skin at the back of her neck. Her head tipped back slightly and her eyelids fluttered as she began to fall into her imagination. She heard him inhale and exhale deeply, and immediately fell backwards into where he would have been kneeling behind her on the bed. His nonpresence did nothing to break the fantasy, but instead drove a pang of pure need and desire into Ginny's heart. She curled into a ball, hugging her knees, writhing in pain, driven to desperation. She was still holding the diary weakly with one hand, and she peered at its open page.
"Fall into a dream," Tom had written. "Think your most vivid thoughts about him as you go to sleep, Flame. Let the unkempt dark hair you have caressed with your eyes slide through your fingers again and again in your mind, and be kissed by the night."
Ginny's eyes were almost closed. She could feel a presence near, if she imagined hard enough. The hot breath was back, this time not as close because she had fallen onto the bed and she had pictured him kneeling. She tried harder. The light was almost too dim to see, so she conjured in her mind a picture of Harry kneeling in front of her. She could barely see even that; his thin body and dark hair were plain enough, but she couldn't see the scar. She was surprised at how efficacious her imagination was, after all. He was looking at her, kneeling, and saying nothing.
Now that he was here, even if in a dream, she was once again paralyzed. It took her a good ten minutes to calm down from the sheer fact of being able to picture him so accurately while lying in bed in a very thin nightgown. Then her need drove her, and she reached out her arm to him nervously.
He slowly and liquidly fell upon her body like a velvet curtain. She felt his dream-weight upon her small frame, and gloried in his body heat for a few moments before wrapping her arms around him tightly. Her heart was beating in tribal drumbeats. It sounded like meteors pounding into the moon. He was all over her and around her on top of her, his fingers running endlessly over both sides of her face and her shoulders. Her body had always gone wild around Harry, with all the fury of teenage hormones first set ablaze, but this was a hundred times more strong now that he was here in bed with her.
She tilted her face up to kiss him and found her mouth coaxed open by a wet, snaking tongue. Her physical response to this was to involuntarily grind her pelvis against him, an action which would have shamed her had she been more lucid. She was too far gone at this point, however, and her obvious pleasure pleased Dream-Harry. He sought to drive her further over the edge, and began to let his creeping fingers skitter to more personal places, untouched by nought but soap and water. The exquisite touch of the silk between his fingers and the skin of her chest set the ache below her stomach on fire. They moved together, dancing intimately downward as he caressed her lower and lower.
She had never dreamed of a moment as intense as this. Never had her thoughts flown past this point. She broke the barrier in her mind and yearned for the first time for what he was about to give her. Harry's dark hair swirled like satin over her chest as his fingers pulled flames from her body. He kissed a trail from the base of her neck up over the side of her chin and back to her gasping lips. She held on to him tightly with both hands and both legs as he slowly filled her. This was a dream; there was no pain; only the deliciously strange feeling of something inside a secret, undiscovered place, pushing at her limits, shoving her brain off of a cliff. His fingers continued to strike the match as he stoked the fire.
Faster came his ghostly thrusts, and she rode the dance of passion. She remembered Tom's words, and lifted her hand to touch Harry's soft dark hair. As her fingers ran through the locks, she pushed his bangs out of his face.
The forehead of he who was on top of her, all over her, and inside of her, was pearly pale as a moon reflecting light off her flame. No trace of any scar marred the chilled beauty of his skin. And the eyes that now peered straight into her soul were certainly not green.
"To--!" she started to scream, but his free hand clamped down firmly over her mouth and his other hand coaxed her expertly back into submission. Moans took the place of what little reason she had left; she had no room to wiggle or budge in any direction even if she had wanted to because he surrounded her completely. The bed seemed as big as the night sky and they were both floating in it. Her body seemed careening towards total sensual overload. He drove his tongue back into her mouth as the explosion came, her body quivering out of control. Waves of muscle contractions shook her over and over again and as her body slowly relaxed, she began to awaken from the dream as well. Tom Riddle was not anywhere to be seen.
It took a full minute for the twitching to stop.
Ginny was too scared to turn on her mind for a few minutes afterwards, fearful of the shame she knew she'd feel, and the embarrassment at what was only truly half a violation. Was she now not pure for Harry? Would that ever matter? What was wrong with her for.... liking... what Tom had done?
She looked back down at the diary, which had fallen on the floor in the throes of lust. She was trying to think of something to write to Tom that would preserve her microscopic dignity, when she noticed that he had written something to her already.
"You knew it was me all along, Flame, didn't you."
She didn't really know if she had or not. After this, she supposed it no longer mattered.
"I can show you more of yourself," was the next thing Tom wrote.
Author’s Note:
This story was supposed to take place between Tom and
Ginny within Ginny's head. No actual sex took place (she's 11!); he was only
messing with her mind to make her feel more vulnerable, more damaged, and therefore more
willing to submit to his further manipulation. Picture this story sort of as a female
first-wet-dream sort of experience, only way more dark.