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Lost	By : babygrrl Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 4699 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Lost
- 1
Author's Note: Inspired by the incomparable Ms. Scribe and lovely Lissane. I now sail your dark, dark ship, you evil sinners, you. I hope you are happy.

Lost

"Come find me, Ron!" Ginny shouts. Her chubby cheeks are flushed and her pigtails swing as she bounces up and down. "Come find me!" She scurries off.

Ron is her favorite brother because he patiently counts to twenty and looks in at least ten different places before whipping the quilt off the giggling lump in the center of the bed. "Gotcha!" He growls triumphantly. He tickles her until her sides ache and she is begging him to stop.

Ginny gazes out the window, savoring the silence. It is a rare commodity at the Burrow, where they are all piled on top of one another like a stack of squirming puppies. Summers, when everyone is home, are like that. Crowded and noisy and warm.

She used to hate the quiet. When Ron, the last of her big brothers, left for Hogwarts, and she was alone with her parents, she wondered how she would get through a whole year of it. Loneliness was a strange experience for a Weasley.

She had been so excited to go to Hogwarts when her turn came. She could scarcely breathe. And then she had come downstairs that morning to find Harry Potter eating breakfast with her family! For as long as she could remember, she had tagged along after her brothers, determined to share in their adventures, and Harry Potter seemed to her the personification of all those forbidden and tantalizing things. She was going to Hogwarts! She was finally going to be a part of it all.

Ginny's hand moves slowly across the page. She's telling her secrets. Loneliness is no longer a strange experience for her. The other girls laugh at her hand-me-down robes. Her brothers are too busy to spare her any attention. Harry Potter barely notices her.

In wonder, she watches as the letters form in response. She scribbles a question and wriggles with pleasure when it is answered. She dips the quill into the inkpot and starts to write once more. She won't ever be lonely again.

Restless, Ginny wanders downstairs and into the kitchen. It will be hours before everyone is home. Fred and George are celebrating the opening of their new store and everyone, even Charlie, who is home from Romania, has gone to join in the festivities. She has begged off, pleading a headache, and has been promised a full report and a box full of Fred and George's latest treats and sweets upon their return.

The house is so uncharacteristically still, she can hear her own thoughts — a luxury in a big family. She takes a piece of shortbread from the tin and makes herself a cup of tea. She opens the small leather book she carries with her to a clean page and begins to write. She's telling her secrets again, but no one answers anymore.

It's dark and her head is full of blood and strange, yellow eyes. In class, in the dormitory, at meals — people are moving around her and speaking to her, but she is in a fog. It surrounds her, soft and secret, and it is only when she is alone/together with the book that things are sharp and clear.

Part of her knows she is slipping further and further away, and that maybe someday, she'll be so far away that no one will be able to find her. She doesn't know what to hope for: to be lost or found.

Ginny carefully dries the ink and closes her diary. No one ever comments on the small, worn book that is her constant companion, which makes her smile. Her family, her brothers, are so dear and helpless. Writing had been suggested as a therapy shortly after Harry had rescued her from the Chamber of Secrets. She writes all the time now and is both relieved and sad that no one writes back.

Ron was the only one who dared to joke with her, that first awful summer. Everyone else seemed determined to treat her like a wounded dove, which only made everything more horribly surreal. In his gruff, irreverent way, he brought her back. That was five years ago. An eternity. Or yesterday. She remembers the look in his eyes as he left the house. He hasn't bought the headache excuse. He knows she has good days and bad days, still.

Come find me, Ron . . .

It is wet and cold. She is dreaming of serpents and mocking laughter. Whichever way she turns, the fog surrounds her. Then someone is walking towards her. His cruel, beautiful face is as familiar to her as her own, and his eyes are full of dark promises.

Come find me . . .

She isn't sure who she is asking, or what she is asking for. She's still dreaming.

It's late now, and still they haven't returned. It's been nice, but Ginny has had enough of quiet. She's put away her diary and quill. She's weeded the garden and read a book and watched a movie on the Muggle television set her father has hidden away in the shed.

In her room, in bed, she stares at the ceiling. She's having one of those days when the thoughts in her head keep running like the pictures on the television screen. She closes her eyes and lets herself drift.

When she opens her eyes in the Chamber and sees Harry's anxious green ones peering down at her, she is confused for a second. Ron is the one who always finds her.

Then she remembers and the shame is overwhelming. She stammers out an explanation, an apology, and only she knows she is talking so fast because the voice in her head says, You wanted it. You liked it. She is horrified. Because she knows it is true.

Ron hears the whimpering and is instantly awake. He has the room closest to Ginny's. He is always the first one there when she has a nightmare. In the beginning, right after it happened, her brothers would take it in turns to sleep on the floor in her room, so she wouldn't be alone in the dark. Later, it was Ron who would get up in the middle of the night. She hasn't had a nightmare in a long time, but Ron is always alert to the sound of her voice.

In his bare feet, he pads across the hall and quietly opens the door. What he sees shocks him.

Ginny is lying in the bed, eyes closed, naked. Her hands are sliding languidly over her body in delicate, unhurried movements. Over smooth, white thighs and the flat of her stomach. She reaches up to cup her breasts, her thumbs teasing the nipples into little, rosy peaks and she whimpers again.

Ron is fascinated and appalled. He should go. This is his baby sister, for god's sake. But he can't tear his eyes from the sight. Her eyes are still closed, but her mouth is open now. Her back is arched, so that her breasts thrust upward as she plays with her nipples, now pinching them lightly. In a practiced move, she wets two of her fingers in her mouth before sliding them into the soft triangle of curls between her legs. She moans again, and the sound galvanizes Ron into action.

Abruptly, he turns to leave but before he can close the door again, he hears her saying something. Oh God. Has she seen him? No, her eyes are still closed, her breath coming in pants now and she is whispering.

"Oh yes . . . oh yes . . . Tom . . ."

Tom? The name hits him like a bludger. Tom Riddle? Voldemort? She's laying there fantasizing about that fucker?

Before he knows what he is doing, Ron is next to her bed. He grabs her fragile wrist and drags her hand away. Ginny's eyes fly open. He watches as the expression in them changes from fear to guilt to . . . defiance?

"What the fuck are you doing?" He is speaking quietly, but his voice is vibrating with anger.

"I would think that was obvious."

"Tom Riddle? After everything that . . ." He is sick inside. He can't find the words.

"Go away, Ron. You wouldn't even begin to understand," says Ginny wearily. "And fuck if I owe you an explanation."

Ron thinks of the nights she cried in his arms. "You do owe me. You do. Are you telling me that you wanted . . . that you want . . ." He breaks off. When he speaks again his voice is like shards of glass. "What the hell do you want?"

He's pinning her wrists above her head, in a grip that hurts, but Ginny doesn't care about that, doesn't care about anything. Unreasonably, she wants to hurt him. She's still wet. She looks him in the eye and arches her pelvis slightly. "I want to finish."

Something in him snaps. Still holding her wrists in one of his hands, he shoves the other one between her legs. He just wants to scare her, he tells himself. She's succeeded in hurting him and he wants to hurt her back. His fingers encounter wetness and he groans.

She's moving against him now, never taking her eyes from his. Unable to stop himself, he pushes two fingers inside of her. She is warm and slick.

"This?" He whispers furiously. "Is this what you want?"

She moans, pushing up against him, trying to increase the friction. "Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . ." She winds her arms around his neck and pulls him down for a kiss.

With a shudder, Ron surrenders. Her tongue slips into his mouth and suddenly he is kissing her back, angrily, hungrily. His fingers are still moving inside her and his tongue mimics their motions.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I'm sorry." But he is beyond hearing and beyond caring. "Oh God . . . Ron . . . I'm going to cum. . ." And she does, in long, racking spasms. He feels her squeezing him. His cock is so hard it aches.

She opens her eyes, the blue so like his own, and he is stunned by what he has just done. He is disgusted and angry and betrayed. He is also unbearably aroused and confused. The sound of his name on her lips makes him want to hold her and comfort her. And it makes him want to be inside her. He stands. He has to go, he has to —

"Ron." It is a question. A plea. Her breathing is ragged, her legs splayed in wantonness or supplication.

He hesitates and when she tugs down his pajama bottoms and takes him in her hand, it is too late. "Ginny." Her fin fingers are wrapping around his cock and stroking.

When her tongue reaches out to lick the pre-cum that has oozed from the tip of his cock, he gasps. She takes him in her mouth, all warm wetness and suction, and he threads his hands in her hair. It spills over his fingers and mingles with the red curls between his legs.

She is lying on the bed and he is straddling her face now, fucking her mouth with short, rhythmic strokes. She feeds on him like a starving woman, her hands clasping his buttocks to prevent his retreat.

Finally, he stops her. "I have to . . . I have to . . ." She knows what he wants and wraps her legs around him. "Oh God, Gin." If he doesn't fuck her now, he'll die, but it has to be up to her.

"Please, Ron." The tip of his cock is rubbing her clit. She needs him more than she has ever needed anything in her life. "Please."

Looking into her eyes is like looking into a mirror. He stares into those pools of blue and thrusts home. "Oh, fuck." Being inside her is like dying. He never wants to stop. He feels like God. Over and over again, he drives into her.

"Oooohhhhh . . ." Ginny is cumming and cumming. It seems to go on forever. There aren't any dreams; there aren't any memories. All that matters is her brother's hard, beautiful cock, which batters her, heals her, anchors her to the earth.

Ron can feel her orgasms rippling along the length of him. In, out, harder, faster. He can feel the pressure building in his balls.

"Ron . . ." Ginny moans.

It sends him over the edge. He buries his face in her neck, thrusts into her one last time, and explodes.

*****************

They are lying in the dark, tangled in each other's arms. Ginny's hair is fanned out over his chest like red silk and Ron listens to the sound of her breathing. He can't think about it — can't think about what has just happened.

He promises himself that it won't happen again, and his mouth twists as he acknowledges that part of him finds that idea intolerable. Ginny stirs in her sleep and he tightens his arm around her.

He opens the little leather book on the side table. Reading her diary is a violation, but they've already broken every rule he can think of. What's one more?

It's dark. I'm scared. Come find me, Ron . . .

He has found her, he realizes. And he is lost.
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