CHAPTER TWO
But all this cloak and dagger is stoking her heart
Stroking her curiosity
Is plain little Jane
Gonna risk everything
She read the three words over and over again, trying her best to shut out those words she'd just heard from her brother and her friend.
Was she really so boring as they seemed to think?
But I'm not, she thought. I have a secret. That was something Ginny was fairly sure neither Ron nor Hermione would expect. Ginny hadn't been much of a secret keeper, not since-
Tom Riddle. He'd been an enormous secret, one she hadn't really realized she held. Tom Riddle had been her secret, and in the beginning he'd been exciting. In the end he'd been frightening. Thinking so, she cast another glance at the letter.
It had also been exciting, though, to be the center of someone's attention, anyone's attention. To be secretive and have an entire other side that no one knew about.
Now that she was older, now that she was an adult, it had a different feel to it. A seductive sensation intermingled with fear, and she wondered who could want her so much to send such a letter.
Who would be so sly? And in the back of her mind, possibilities began to lurk, began to stir her blood.
"No," she whispered to the room, running her hands up her cheeks as though to stem the tears that hadn't even come yet. Everyone who would send such a letter, whose slyness was matched only by their snobbery, every one of them was gone, dead or as good as dead.
But the blood continued to pump faster through her veins and she gave a stifled, helpless cry. "Don't do this, Gin," she told herself firmly. "Don't think of such things…" Of such people. Of such cruelty.
Of such seduction.
With a half-sob, she shoved the parchment under her pillow and resolved to forget all about it. But when she laid her head on the down-filled pillow, she could all but feel the message burning under it, whispering over and over again in her head in a sick, sadistic rhythm.
Come to me come to me come to me come to me…
~~~
She slept long into the evening, and by the time she awoke, Hermione and Ron were gone and a note had been left on the chalkboard by the door.
"Gone to see Harry," the narrow, feminine script read. "Will be back late."
Of course they would-once they got to Hogwarts to see Harry, there would be more people to catch up with. McGonagall, Hagrid, Dumbledore, and Remus, with whom Harry had been team-teaching DADA for over a year. And Ginny knew just as sure as the sun rose and set that Hermione would insist on stopping by to say hello to Snape, even though she claimed to hate him. That was just the way she was.
"And they think I'm predictable," she snorted, erasing their message and the one beneath it, "Hello, Gin," sprawling in Ron's awkward scrawl across the bottom of the board.
Ginny felt her anger heat once more as she thought of the conversation she'd overheard. Snagging her cloak off the hook by the door, she stormed out. She'd been told more than once that a little fresh air would cool her redhead's temper.
Is she gonna strike the match
That'll surely light the flame
Is she carrying a torch for love in vain
Though it was full night before Ginny returned to the small flat she and Hermione shared, Hermione wasn't back yet. Whatever else it had done, the walk had serviced to do one thing-cool Ginny's anger. In its place was a deep shame, an embarrassment so multi-layered she couldn't put her finger on it.
It was ridiculous to be so upset, she thought. After all, neither her brother nor Hermione had said anything insulting. They'd only been speaking the truth. The letter was doing to her just what the sender had intended, she bet-making her on edge, making her doubt, making her cast her eyes too often all around her.
Making her paranoid and mistrustful.
She was lonely, and whoever had written the letter was banking on that, using that against her. Loneliness was the best way to fire up someone's imagination good and proper.
Coming to that conclusion and not caring for it at all, not caring to be controlled by anyone's idiotic game-playing whims, she went into her room, threw her pillows on the floor, and snatched up the childish, anonymous letter she'd gotten. Without a pause, she went into the bathroom and threw the parchment into the tub. "Incendio!" she shouted, pointing her wand at it.
Flame rose up in the porcelain tub and Ginny crossed her arms over her chest, a self-satisfied smirk crossing her delicate features. The smirk turned to a gape, however, when she saw what was happening. The fire concentrated in one area, revealing the parchment as unharmed. The flames began to thin out, forming again the words "Come to me," before burning down into a low, green flame.
With a wavering moan, Ginny sank to her knees on the tiled floor, never taking her eyes from the parchment.
"Who are you?" she whispered, snaking her hand into the tub and pulling out the letter, smoothing it out on the cool floor. "Why are you doing this to me?"
But the parchment, of course, gave her no answer; weary of fighting, weary of wondering, she folded it up and carried it with her to bed.
She slept almost instantly, the thought of the parchment under her carrying her off into dreams, fitful dreams of strong arms, unyielding arms that confined rather than caressed, surrounded but not supported. Worshipful hands and an irreverent mind, eyes that were coolly amused even in as sparks arced white-hot between them.
In her dreams she wasn't alone, and in her dreams, she wasn't in control.
~~~
"Ginny? Ginny!" The voice was too far away to heed, and Ginny turned on her side, snuggling her face deeper into her pillow. She thrust a hand under the cushion and let her fingers trail over the message beneath it, her body lax with leftover sleep and lingering dreams.
The hand shaking her shoulder, however, was not part of a dream. "Virginia Weasley, you get up this second. Why, just yesterday you were telling me how much you loved your work, and lookit! It's half-past and you're not even awake yet to get ready."
Hermione was a raving lunatic sometimes.
It was that thought that had Ginny sitting up and swatting at Hermione's hands. "Would you shove off, 'Mione? Because just yesterday you were telling me how I should find something else to do. As a result, I'm bloody well sleeping in!"
The look of shock that crossed Hermione's features was well worth the outburst.
"Well, then," Hermione sniffed, her nose rising in the air just a little. "I beg your pardon."
Groaning, Ginny sat up in bed before her flatmate could huff out. "I'm sorry. I'm just not… feeling myself, okay? I thought a bit of rest could help."
Slightly mollified, Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed. "I know a dozen spells that could help perk you up a bit, if you're interested." At Ginny's brief shake of the head, she shrugged. "Your choice, then. I'm off… I'll drop in on Fred and George and let them know you're not feeling well."
Ginny's lips spread in a genuine smile. "Thank you," she said warmly. She was still smiling when she
dropped off to sleep again.
~~~
Flames rose around them, licking at both of their bodies but never quite touching, the bright yellow and gold flames tinged with green, and though she could feel his hair under her fingers, silky and thick, could feel his lips trailing down her stomach, she could not see him.
She craned her neck, peering straight down the planes of her body to try and catch a glimpse of him. A flush suffused her cheeks as her eyes grazed past her breasts, milky-pale, her nipples hard and peaked despite the roaring fires around them.
Her stomach, too, was pale, sheened with a fine dew of perspiration, and she ran a hand down it to cool herself, to try and find him. His lips were on her thighs, his tongue slid hot into her, but flames blocked her vision and she couldn't see who touched her.
Through the flames, two eyes speared hers and his voice rose over the crackling just as long fingers stroked first gently, experimentally, then delved into her with the words.
Come to me.
She awoke with both hands clutched into the pillow behind her head, the thin nightgown she wore clinging to her body with perspiration. Her hips were arched high off the bed, her heels digging into the mattress; the sheets and quilt had long since been discarded. Her head was flung back as her whole body bucked with the remnants of her dream, and her eyes were wide open, fixed on the ceiling above her.
A small, frightened whimper left her lips as the aftershocks of the orgasm trembled through her, and even as her body relaxed flat on the bed, she could feel the muscles deep inside the center of her tightening and relaxing around the now-absent length that had filled her.
Her breath coming in great, unladylike gulps, Ginny unclenched her fists, the fingers stiff, and pressed her hands to her eyes. Her dreams had always been vivid and often erotic, to be certain, but they'd also always had a face attached to them. For a great long while, her naïve fantasies had outlined Harry. When she'd started dating Michael, however, she'd gotten quite an education in what she should be fantasizing about. His Ravenclaw intelligence had made him thorough, if a bit methodical. And Dean-well, bless Dean and his Muggle-born imagination.
But never had her dreams been faceless, nameless.
She was going insane.
~~~
She had no particular destination as she set out for the day. Shopping, she'd told herself, was the best way to clear her mind. She'd not indulged in a great long while, and if ever there were a day for indulgence, she figured this was it.
She wandered around Diagon Alley, unable to really keep her mind on shopping at all. She would look into a window at an array of things, then immediately forget what she'd seen. The first thing to really grab her attention was a display of women's robes in the front window of Madam Malkin's.
They were tailored close about the chest, the bust of the robes fitted all the way down to the waist, where they flared out widely. The bottoms of the robes from the waist down were two-toned, as were the belled sleeves. Ginny's gaze stopped and stayed on one of a deep purple, so dark and rich it was nearly black. Folds of a dark pine green peeked out of the skirt and sleeves, and she sighed a little as she put her fingers to the window.
Every girl had to preen a little, she reckoned.
She'd almost made up her mind to go in and buy the robes with she felt an alarming weight on her shoulder, and the rustle of feathers greeted her ear. Staying perfectly still, she looked back into Madam Malkin's window, seeking this time for her reflection rather than what was inside.
The ebony owl perched on her shoulder, a message clutched in its beak.