An Allegory for Lost He and Found She

Kenji

Rating: R
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 18/08/2004
Last Updated: 18/08/2004
Status: completed

His loneliness was like an abandoned lighthouse on a dark and bleary ocean night; nobody could pretend that they weren’t affected but it was one thing to go on affected and another to fix the problem at hand. She didn’t know how to approach the fixation process so she did the only thing that came to mind.

Chapters

1. loneliness was like an abandoned lighthouse on a dark and bl

1. loneliness was like an abandoned lighthouse on a dark and bl

Title: An Allegory for Lost He and Found She
Author name: Kenji
Category: Romance
Sub-Category: Drama
Summary: His loneliness was like an abandoned lighthouse on a dark and bleary ocean night; nobody could pretend that they weren’t affected but it was one thing to go on affected and another to fix the problem at hand. She didn’t know how to approach the fixation process so she did the only thing that came natural to her.

Author Notes: Well, I suppose I really should be working on TP, but well, for some reason I’ve hit a bump in the road and it’s a rather stingy bump. In wake of not being able to really write chapter six of TP, I’ve begun and finished many other stories; stories that probably offer you no solace if you’ve been patiently waiting for chapter six. I only hope that you can hold off a bit longer until I can grind out the kinds that have worked up in that chapter.

Now, about this story. There is a bit of smuttish type writing in it but not enough to garner an NC-17 rating in my opinion. However, don’t say I didn’t warn you, okay? This story is a bit more on the romantic side than anything I’ve written. I suppose I wrote it mainly to see if I really could write it. Well then, I’m sure you’ve wasted enough time reading this, on to the story.

*****

The lay entwined there undiscovered, completely silent, absolutely still and entirely enamored. His heart was beating wildly and her breath was hitching savagely. But their eyes were calm and serene taking in the views of each other’s naked body as if they had seen it thousands of times—no, millions of times. There was a strange comfort in her warm dark dirt brown eyes that he knew he could study for years and there was an unsettled queasy feeling rolling in the pit of his stomach that perhaps his own eyes were masking a false fear; that perhaps his eyes weren’t glowing like hers. Her thoughts were silent however as her lips did not move and her eyes did not lose focus.

She took a moment to admire him. His still body was contusive; scars marred his arm, his forehead and his torso. His joints were sharp and irregular and his skin was sallow and as derelict as a boat left to rot at the dock that housed so many other beautiful boats. He was not beautiful on the outside. His veined arms and red tipped ears were soothing, but not astoundingly attractive. They showed a life however; a life that was more wonderful than even the most angelic beauty. She knew that the greatness that flowed with every pump of his blood was more than anything she deserved—even more than anybody deserved, she thought. Even the uneven veins in the whites of his eyes were a sense of pleasure to those who looked for beauty in its natural state; namely, personality, cunning and love. She knew by the rousing of his eyes that he was making his own conclusions of her body as well but she did not blush.

And indeed he was making his own conclusions. His bright green eyes roamed her awkward body. Her hips were hard and narrow like that of a boy’s. Her breasts were small enough that they could barely fit inside her small wilted palms. She had freckles across her nose and dotted on her face. Her shoulders were speckled with the light brown dots and the valley between her petite breasts were especially blessed with the freckles. Perhaps he was a highly disturbed teenage boy for thinking that the freckles that she had reminded him of his mother. But, perhaps he was a normal teenage boy suffering an ingrained Oedipal complex having viewed the freckles on his mother and loved every single one of them. Either way, the freckles on her body in front of his eyes were the essence of his view of her beauty. He was not so shallow to say that she was ugly but not so humble to say that she was absolutely lovely. Love blinded nobody to the defects of their lovers, he thought, but it certainly helped them look past those defects. Thus, he looked past her too small breasts and into the warm beating heart that lay behind. Even though he knew the heart was no place for emotion, he still loved her heart. He loved her mind as useful as it was but he loved her heart more—or, the part of her mind that was her heart.

A gentle but chilling breeze swept in through the open window and they both stiffened. The same thought crossed both their minds in that single blowing instant. However congruent their thoughts, he said it first.

“I’m not ready yet.”

Her sigh of relief was evident neither to him nor to her. She nodded without saying a word. The amazing shock of reprieve that spread between the two was altogether too much for their silence to take. The fear of getting caught or being discovered was blown behind them and warm, glazed smiles spread across the faces of them both. It was an ingenious grin that they shared; all at the same time knowing and unknowing. If somebody else were to view the grin on either of them, the person would think they were both mad. They knew though, that they were both indeed mad and not necessarily mad in love with each other—more simply put, they knew they were mad about each other rather than for each other. To be mad for each other would imply that that the madness was perhaps unrequited—a terrible fate if they ever knew one—and there were no unrequited feelings in their happiness.

Before either of them knew it, their sickly inbred thoughts were jumping out of their mouths progressed and strengthened by their tongues and lips but at the same time refined and, while still true, different in every way.

“You smell strange,” she said, smelling him for the first time. “Like—”

“Like a badly done magical refreshing charm? You were always better at those than I was. I just didn’t have time to take a shower and I had to do something because…well…you know. I thought this was going to be it.”

“Yes…” she dangled off. She righted herself, the hard stone below her jutting pain into her skin. As result of her righting herself, she presented him with a provocative view the likes of which would have rendered him instantly hard, had he not been so already. “It’s not a bad smell; magical perhaps but not a bad smell. It masks you though; your real smell.”

“Well I—” he didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know what to say. Do you want me to take it off?” he said, reaching for his wand in his jean’s pocket.

“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I was just pointing it out. Most people don’t know what they smell like but other people can always tell them what they smell like.”

“Oh,” he said distractedly. His hand had unconsciously gone down to stroke himself at the site of her and when he saw that her eyes were following his hand he questioned her silently. Before she said anything however, she clasped her legs together and bent forward on her knees reaching her hand out and grasped him over his own hand. He expected her to say something witty or smart but instead she just kept her gaze avidly locked onto both his and her hand stroking him up and down. His thoughts were slowed obviously for if they hadn’t been he would have taken his hand off sooner. As it were, he let her guide his hand up and down his shaft at a progressively quicker pace. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he muffled a groan into his unused arm and came shooting up into the air and let it fall against the warmed castle stone below them and onto his and her hands. She smiled at him briefly and he blearily nodded in response as he watched her sit back into her previous position.

“You…You’re” he said drowsily.

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” she said without a second thought. When he’d said he wasn’t ready she knew he was actually just saying it for her. She knew he was more than ready but he hadn’t wanted to pressure her into anything at all. Seeing him so want with need, she knew that she couldn’t let him go without satiation. In truth she longed for his touch but couldn’t get past the repercussions of withering to her wants. There was an inbred fear of what might happen in the future that kept her from acting on her impulses. They had already long passed the line of friendship but to absolutely obliterate the line was something in its own league. She wasn’t sure she had the know-how or courage to tackle the new fiends that might come their way should they choose to take that next step.

At the same time she felt his loneliness. It had been the main reason she had initially taken the slow and weary (careful, cautious) trek across the friendship line. His loneliness was like an abandoned lighthouse on a dark and bleary ocean night; nobody could pretend that they weren’t affected but it was one thing to go on affected and another to fix the problem at hand. She didn’t know how to approach the fixation process so she did the only thing that came to mind. She began a relationship with him and forever put the balance of their friendship on the line. She knew that if things did not work out that they might (and probably would) lose what great friendship they had. She also knew that if things did work out that she would have in her hands something more beautiful that she could have imagined. All at the same time however, she did not go into the relationship expecting to love him and have him love her back. Her expectations did not reach that far. She expected to cure him. To heal him and bring back his guiding light; the light that led so many in such a time as theirs so dark already with perversion of the evil forces that surrounded them.

Fully intentional on curing him, she had said to herself in the beginning that she would offer him anything he wanted—anything he needed. However it was much harder to practice what you said than to just say it. She would give him that if he needed it but she knew that she needed to keep her own emotions in mind. She was not ready. That she knew for sure. It wasn’t because it was him; in all honesty she doubted she was ready for anyone. If anything she was more willing to give it to him rather than anybody else. But that still didn’t assuage her feelings of being so unprepared. And unprepared she felt only in a metaphorical sense as she had read any and all books on the subject as she could.

She knew that he felt damaged. She knew that he thought that he wouldn’t make it past the final fight. She also knew that he wanted just one chance to experience it before he thought he would die. Still, she couldn’t blame him for wanting her body for his purposes. He wasn’t being selfish not in her mind. He was just being human. She could have easily assumed that her body was all he wanted because his eyes painted such a descriptive picture of his wants.

But she didn’t think this way because she knew it wasn’t true. Even in all his hurt and pain, he still thought primarily on her. He smothered her with concern when he was the one who needed so much of it. He worried about her when he was the cause of all her worry. He dealt so fitfully with her emotions when his emotions ran amuck and try as she might, she couldn’t bring herself to rein them in.

She wanted to reach out to him and take him inside her. She wanted to give him all of her and in turn she wanted to take all of him. She wanted to see him through the final battle and prove to him that he would live. She wanted to grow old together with him. She wanted to bear his children. She wanted to make love with him even as they reached old age. She wanted everything to do with him.

And yet for now, she was content to lie beside him, her leg placidly over his as his breathing began to slow and as his heart pumped loudly in his chest. For now she was content to wait, if only for that special time when she would be ready—and she would be. Perhaps, she dreamed, they would do it in a bed the first time not on magically warmed castle stone. Perhaps, she dreamed, it would be as wonderful as she always imagined, and not rushed or hurried—pushed or flurried. Perhaps, she dreamed, she could give it to him soon, but not now.

“Do you want to talk?” he asked her without opening his eyes.

“No,” she said.

They did not talk. They did not stir. They fell asleep there, content, naked against each other. Small smiles placed on each of their faces and insatiable feelings pushed aside for serene slumber. There was light in her dream. Coming from a lighthouse far off into the distant and yet it bathed her as if it were right next to her. Yes, it was too far away for now, but soon she would travel up the ocean waters right next to the tower and she would dance in its light; maybe forever or maybe for just one day, right now it did not matter.