Pinnacle

Tic-Tac

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 24/03/2004
Last Updated: 24/03/2004
Status: completed

Lost and disoriented, Harry is brought to the conclusion that only one person can free him of his sorrow. Strange one-shot that I created while listening to my teacher drone on and on about slope-intercept and the equation of a line. Now I don't know how to do it. Oh well (the story has nothing to do with that, I promise. I just felt like sharing, lol)

Chapters

1. Pinnacle

1. Pinnacle

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything, except for my guinea pigs Kandie and Lily. In fact, I really don’t own anything on this page, because I didn’t make up any of these words either. Wow. This is depressing me. Um, okay, so I own Kandie and Lily. Good.

A/N: More strange whims! Yay! Plot bunnies from hell!

I’m having one of those days – I want to write, but I don’t want to add on to any of my - *sigh* - long stories. I felt like, “hey! Let them kiss already! Hee hee!” Uh, yeah. Also I’m high … on life! *laughs loudly and obnoxiously*

Anyway … have fun! :D I sure am!

*Watches everyone slowly back away*

* * *

Once carried through the current
And being swept away
The king is in the closet
He's hiding from today
And though he owns all fortunes
This room is where he'll stay
And his world is filled with darkness, turning gray

Gazing out the window
Of the forty-second floor
He is separate from all others
No one knocks upon his door
And it might as well be raining 'cause the sunlight hurts his eyes
And his ears will never hear the children's cries

Once proud and full of passion
He fought the cause of man
Many people loved his courage
Many followed his command
He changed the old into the new
And the course of things to come
And then one day they noticed he was gone …

Closet Chronicles – written and performed by Kansas

* * *

- Pinnacle -

It was in the din of the morning gloom that he awoke, stretching his tired limbs and shutting his fluttering eyelids. The sky was a swimming cerulean blue, iced purple at both the horizon and where the sky met endless space. A dark shade of graying ebony dotted the northern hemisphere, seeping latently into the depths of the outer rim, straying in front of the many stars and planets. It was black and blue – everything between was hushed.

Perhaps it was the subtle stir of the awakening morning or the wavering, breathless pounding of the rain against the curtained window, but he was tired, as only one with a heavy burden is tired. Because heavy his burden was, rooting him, holding him, binding him. His mind was defeated and he dropped to the earth, melancholy and reminiscent, wanting, needing the world to let him be. They would forget him as time continued its perpetual plunge into the future, shifting irresistibly, molding its course according to the nature of its properties – they would forget eventually. He just needed now a sanctuary, a safe haven … a home.

There was something about that foreboding, eerily shadowed room that held him capture within his mind, unfeeling of anything but physical stimulation, and for that there was none. No one dared dealt with such pressing matters, and the ones important enough to make the news were long since dead. He, the savior, the hero, the messiah, was a mere memory - a shadow of the pre-existence of life without propaganda gorged and plundered by greed and curiosity. Had they been not so concerned, so corrupted by knowledge, they might have, arguably, kept his sanity intact. But they had freed his pent-up emotions, unknowingly, uncaringly, and he wandered aimlessly into a realm without people. It was best, of course, as is everything new and unfamiliar explained by cowards.

Still, it bled. His hurt, his wallowing self-pity – it would be fibbing to say he wanted it all. Everything he wanted was outside this barrier … if only he had the courage – the raw, burning courage – to undergo such a feat as to pursue it.

But to that he was blind to his wants. It was obvious, of course, as all things empirical are, but he was in satisfied denial. He did not need any real persuasion; his mind had taken care of such matters. He need only burrow into his thoughts and retract the answer. It was his tart refusal of the idea that kept him from admitting the obvious, that kept him from opening the door and stepping through into the sunlight. The sad, lonely window at the north corner of his room was his only tie to the tangible world.

It was easy to be indifferent; but it took all of his willpower to forget all that he had known. Desires and hopes plagued his dreams, tainted the air he breathed. He wanted to feel her again, to embrace her fully, hold her against him as though she were his lifeline; he wanted to lower her to the ground, challenge her teasing smile … press his lips to hers to quiet her response. He wanted to hear her soft, melodic voice brush by his ear, her soft brown hair to trickle across her shoulders in shimmering ringlets. He wanted that. But no, as time went on, as he huddled in that dark room, he realized that he needed that. Her. She was intoxicating, enthralling. Everything to him.

He refused to let those strange feelings usurp his better judgment, lest its mediocrity turned to sudden, overwhelming passion – but yet, brooding in the gloom, he could not hold onto lies for long. It always came back to her. A circle. Never ending - a landslide of emotions unknown. And somehow, in the midst of his troubled turmoil, his better judgment became corrupted – a polar opposite to his initial belief. He needed to see her. He needed to touch her. He needed to know of her worries, to comfort her in her sorrow. To romp and enjoy; bask in the jovialness of her smile. He needed to live again.

But to live meant to face the world. The ugliness of it surprised him. The unadulterated venom in which everyone lived so causally, plastering smiles, breathing in the choking fumes as though unaffected. In this room where he lay day after day, he could reside without hurt or pity. Regret was always present, for he regretted locking himself away without her, but otherwise, his life was monotonous. Soothing, of course, in a way … but conclusively boring, dull and dreary.

He pushed himself off the polished wood of the floor and rose proudly - for once certain of his fate. He would not live his life in dulled pain, in dulled pity. He traveled across the landing, pushing through the darkness he had lived in harmony with - the equilibrium between his fading life and the dusk – and reached the door.

It was as sudden as a blunt hit to the chest. His hand turned the doorknob and the fresh morning air wafted forward. His limbs trembled. His eyes watered from the mere feel of it.

Before he knew what he was doing, where his aching body was headed towards her flat, towards the wonder of her home. Her home.

He knocked on her door without hesitation. Heard it reverberating throughout the hallways. It sounded wonderful to his ears, as it was the beginning of his beginning. She would help him – she was that kind of person; the kind of person who would give their all for a stranger. Or even a long-lost friend.

She opened her door. He would never forget the look on her face. Disbelief, wonder, amazement, incredulity. Thankfulness.

Persuasion, the silliness that it was, was not needed. She helped him inside, wrapped him in her arms. She stroked and kissed his windswept hair as he broke down on her shoulder, holding her against him as he did so often in his daydreams. She did not speak, for it was unnecessary and distracting, and buried her face in the recess between his neck and shoulder. Surprised tears of joy slid down her cheeks as she held him as tightly as she could, and he her. Never had she felt so vulnerable as at that moment, so fulfilled and complete.

He was, at that moment, able to free himself from the wrath of his memories. With passion unknown, he covered her mouth with a kiss that scorched them both inside and out and, at the same time, astounded and terrified them. Everywhere his hands touched fabric they burned. He felt restless desire, and as she arched up to meet his determination, he knew she felt it too.

“Hermione …” he whispered hoarsely. She smiled against his mouth.

“Harry.”

Together. Complete. He would be able to forget.

* * *

A/N: Hope you guys liked it. I’m not sure how you want to look at it though. Literally or metaphorically, it really doesn’t matter. Basically, it was about Harry’s final solution (ah! OMG! That sounds lethal … not Hitler, Harry. HARRY) for his problems - to open up and just succumb to Hermione’s kindness. Aw. The wonderfulness of Harry/Hermione romance. It gets to me every time. Hee hee!

Sorry about being so hyper – I’ve been locked in my room all day with these weird fumes (or it might have been the two cans of ginger ale I drank in the last hour – hey, what can I say? It gives me inspiration!). I think they’ve addled my brain. But no matter, I can still write! Yay!

Hee hee. Thanks for reading! ^.~

-Lauren