because i've had many similar nights of my own... just no one in particular to fantasize about (at least, that was the case when i wrote it)

Disclaimer:  They belong to Rowling, not me, 'nough said.
 
 
 

Her eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling in the dark.  Her body was unceremoniously splayed across her bed, covers forgotten in a pile at her feet, treacherously threatening to fall to the floor.  It was too hot for blankets.  It was too hot for sleeping.

Ginny groped for her wand in the dark, then her watch:  whispering "Lumos", she squinted against the flash of light, then muttered "Nox" and replaced the items on her nightstand.  It was too late to be awake, she'd be a wreck in the morning, but this did not help sleep come any faster.  She rolled on her side, sighing in frustration, and hugged her pillow to her chest, curling her body into a spooning position.  But there was no one to lay beside her and a pillow was a poor substitute.

It had been like this all summer; she couldn't sleep, couldn't relax, couldn't find peace.  She hated sleeping alone, hated being alone, hated wondering and wanting in the dark. Ginevra Weasley would never admit it to a living soul, but she had one very big problem... well, several really, but this one was the most on her mind at the moment.  Ginny was downright horny.

Yes, that was it, Ginny really, really wanted a good shag.  The unfortunate thing was that she was single and a virgin and her boyfriend had just unceremoniously dumped her in the most noble and excrusiatingly annoying way possible.  She had finally gotten over Harry, or so she told herself, when she had started dating around, having some fun, when the git had finally realized that he had feelings for her and started that old kitten purring in her chest again with frightening ferocity.  But Ginny knew Harry better than any girl save Hermione, and she had known that they would need to take things slow.  While in the past she had never felt inclined to experiment or move a relationship past the kissing stage, with Harry it had been a completely different story.  She trusted him implicitly, had wanted to date him for so long, that not stepping things up to the next level had at times been excrusiatingly difficult.  But even without physical affection being expressed in a sexual way, Ginny had been overwhelmingly happy with Harry.  Being allowed to hold his hand, sit beside him, lean against him, hug him, talk to him, kiss him, had been enough in its own way.  It was heaven filled with the promise of more.

More had never come to fruition, and now she could not close her eyes without all of her senses being overwhelmed with memories of what she had lost.  Harry's smile and laugh, his smell when he leaned past her for marmalade, the feel of his rough hand holding her own smooth one.  Harry's eyes filled with joy, the warmth of his body pressed against her own, the vibrations that ran through her body, full of expectancy and hope, when he was near, at the sound of his voice, at his very proximity.  All of her senses were awake, high on Harry, too revved up to provide any hope of shutting down for something as mundane as sleep.

But being horny had so much more conotation to Ginny than just wanting to have sex.  Ginny had decided to save herself for marriage, a choice she was relieved about but annoyed with.  She was certainly glad that Michael Corner's feeble attempts at getting to (let alone into) her knickers had never been successful, or that she would never have to blush when Dean Thomas passed her in the Common Room, for none of her dating relationships had held a candle to the amount of passion a look from Harry had awoken in her.  She had felt like an adult still stuck in childhood for a long time, had been wanting marriage and children years before she had met Harry, and now he was gone.  No longer would he hold her hand, wrap his arms around her, press his lips....

Ginny groaned in agony, pulling her pillow over her face to stifle the sound of pent up frustration, and rolled back onto her back, her pillow now laying across her lap.  She knew from experience that it would do no good to try to relieve these urges herself, it never had helped and never would.  Trying to find release never provided anything but frustration or perhaps tiding over for the next attempt, and lately had been no help whatsoever.  So here she was, lying in the dark, trying to contain her frustration, trying to sleep, trying not to worry about Harry's mission to defeat Voldemort.

She didn't want to feel this way about Harry.  She didn't want to imagine him kissing her again, or to be unable to stop picturing him pressing every glorious centimeter of his naked body against, over, within her.  No matter how hard she tried, it was useless, the desires came unbid, uncalled for, unwanted.  She could not shut them out, she could not sleep, and so she stared at the ceiling in the dark, praying for release.