Unlost
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Title: Unlost
Characters: Trio
Rating/Warnings: Threesome. Call it an R, I guess.
A/N: When I was trying to write a trio story the other week, this was my first attempt at it, which I gave up to go in another direction. I came across it yesterday and decided to go ahead and finish it. So yes, it's MORE tulips. But that means I can use the tulip icon again. ♥
They're so lost there isn't any map for where they are. Wizard country's hard to pin down, anyway, half the villages they've come across in the last month aren't on any of the parchments that Harry's got rolled up in his backpack. Hermione scours them anyway every night, trying to make some sense out of the constellations of intersecting lines.
It makes her snappish, not being able to say "We Are Here." In fact, they're all snappish, a nameless frustration lurking under their voices that manifests in complaints and grousing.
When it becomes clear that Ron can't travel any further until his blister heals, and that Hermione is so exhausted she can't think straight, and that Harry doesn't know what exactly to do next anyway, they seek refuge for a few days in a place Hermione can't find on any of the maps. They're directed to an old woman on the outskirts of town, who takes in lodgers, and she'll barter them shelter in exchange for help around her ramshackle property.
Hermione's first impression of the place is that a witch lives here. Not the kind of witch she knows about today, but the kind she read about in fairy books when she was eight.
Mrs. Tarragat, however, is beaming and white-haired and charming.
Harry and Ron are given the barn to sleep in, Hermione's shown to a little attic room with such a slanted ceiling she has to bend over to reach the bed.
She doesn't like being split up from the boys, though she ought to be well used to it by now. They were always going off together one way while she was sent off another, the dormitories at Hogwarts, rooms in the Burrow. She's always envied them their frequent togetherness, the muffled conversations that surely go on after dark between them, while she's alone and saving up all her thoughts to share with them in the morning.
Mrs. Tarragat is frequently gone. Hermione doesn't ask the old woman where she goes, but she can see out the window that the destination is the forest to the north, not the town to the south. A list of chores is always left to divide up how they please. Hermione's given the mending or anything else she can do in the chair by the fire. Ron's set anything that doesn't call for a lot of walking, he fixes the fence around the vegetable garden and weeds out the radishes. Harry takes care of the sway-backed pony in the front garden, and scrubs the algae out of the water fountain.
After a week, the house is in good repair, spirits have been recovered, and Hermione is more than happy to get back on the trail. She prefers sleeping on the ground nestled between Ron and Harry than being alone on a quilted bed. They ponder one of Harry's maps that night at dinner, after Hermione has cleared away the dishes to make room on the table. Mrs. Tarragat suggests they go north, directly through the forest, claiming it to be the quickest route to where they're going. Hermione wonders how she knows where they're going when they don't know themselves, but since they're lost anyway, she guesses it doesn't matter. Harry seems to consider the matter settled, and rolls up the map while Ron reaches to pour everyone another cup of tea.
They meet each other outside at the first light of day. As they prepare to leave, Mrs. Tarragat cuts some of the tulips that are blooming behind the barn, and gives Hermione an armful "for being such a lovely girl."
She's delighted at first, because she's never been given tulips before, but as the three of them head off together into the woods, she starts to feel a little silly, like an underdressed bride walking between two grooms.
"Just what did she think you were supposed to do with those?" Ron wonders aloud, shaking his head a little. "Get rid of them, Hermione."
"No," she insists, clutching her bouquet a little closer to her body in a protective manner that makes Ron give up arguing with her.
"They'll need water, won't they?" Harry asks. "You can't carry a pitcher all day."
"Fine! When they wilt, I'll get rid of them."
They don't wilt. After a while, Harry arranges them in her backpack for her, which frees up both hands again, making it easier to walk. She knows they think it's daft, so she makes a point to walk in front of them whenever possible, so they don't have any choice but be cheered by the bright pink beacons of spring, bobbing over the side of the canvas. Whether they like it or not.
They walk until the shadows lengthen all the trees into a great crosshatching of lines. Every place is like the next, so they pitch camp where they stand. Hermione sighs with relief when she sits down between her friends again, the leaves crunching under the blankets. She thinks about Ron, to her left, Ron who riles her up and makes her stomach flutter, and Harry to her right, Harry who calms her down and keeps her grounded. Between the two of them, she feels like she's always been caught somewhere a few feet in the air.
Harry's making a plait out of her tulips to pass the time while Ron carves bread. She watches his deft hands weave in and out. Watches Ron's.
Ron's the first to kiss her. Harry forgets about tulips and reaches out to slide his rough palm up her knee.
Here in the forest, there is no one to see, no one to split them up, no one to look askance, no one to raise a brow, no one to whisper...
She gives Harry the kisses she's always wanted to press to his cheeks, and Harry's lips are over hers, and open, like he's been hungering for this a long time. Her hand clutches Ron's as he strokes through black hair and leans in to kiss Harry's throat.
They've never touched each other like this, but it seems like nothing could be more familiar, than Harry's hands, and Ron's lips, and Hermione's tongue. They map each other out from freckle to scar with this new gift, this permission to do anything, to touch anywhere, to reach under clothing, to push it off, to yield to inquisitive fingers and curious lips and urgent desires.
When everyone's been sated and cradled and kissed, when they are bare skin to naked limb, when three hearts are falling back into their normal rhythm and they've wrapped themelves in blankets, and fallen back to earth, there is only the sound of breathing.
The morning that they walk out of the forest, they are changed. They went in as three, but are coming out as one. Hermione can feel the difference, she walks between them now, like a wife between two husbands. The tulips wreathe her head like a coronet of promise. The road ahead is unfamiliar, but they are no longer lost.
Title: Unlost
Characters: Trio
Rating/Warnings: Threesome. Call it an R, I guess.
A/N: When I was trying to write a trio story the other week, this was my first attempt at it, which I gave up to go in another direction. I came across it yesterday and decided to go ahead and finish it. So yes, it's MORE tulips. But that means I can use the tulip icon again. ♥
They're so lost there isn't any map for where they are. Wizard country's hard to pin down, anyway, half the villages they've come across in the last month aren't on any of the parchments that Harry's got rolled up in his backpack. Hermione scours them anyway every night, trying to make some sense out of the constellations of intersecting lines.
It makes her snappish, not being able to say "We Are Here." In fact, they're all snappish, a nameless frustration lurking under their voices that manifests in complaints and grousing.
When it becomes clear that Ron can't travel any further until his blister heals, and that Hermione is so exhausted she can't think straight, and that Harry doesn't know what exactly to do next anyway, they seek refuge for a few days in a place Hermione can't find on any of the maps. They're directed to an old woman on the outskirts of town, who takes in lodgers, and she'll barter them shelter in exchange for help around her ramshackle property.
Hermione's first impression of the place is that a witch lives here. Not the kind of witch she knows about today, but the kind she read about in fairy books when she was eight.
Mrs. Tarragat, however, is beaming and white-haired and charming.
Harry and Ron are given the barn to sleep in, Hermione's shown to a little attic room with such a slanted ceiling she has to bend over to reach the bed.
She doesn't like being split up from the boys, though she ought to be well used to it by now. They were always going off together one way while she was sent off another, the dormitories at Hogwarts, rooms in the Burrow. She's always envied them their frequent togetherness, the muffled conversations that surely go on after dark between them, while she's alone and saving up all her thoughts to share with them in the morning.
Mrs. Tarragat is frequently gone. Hermione doesn't ask the old woman where she goes, but she can see out the window that the destination is the forest to the north, not the town to the south. A list of chores is always left to divide up how they please. Hermione's given the mending or anything else she can do in the chair by the fire. Ron's set anything that doesn't call for a lot of walking, he fixes the fence around the vegetable garden and weeds out the radishes. Harry takes care of the sway-backed pony in the front garden, and scrubs the algae out of the water fountain.
After a week, the house is in good repair, spirits have been recovered, and Hermione is more than happy to get back on the trail. She prefers sleeping on the ground nestled between Ron and Harry than being alone on a quilted bed. They ponder one of Harry's maps that night at dinner, after Hermione has cleared away the dishes to make room on the table. Mrs. Tarragat suggests they go north, directly through the forest, claiming it to be the quickest route to where they're going. Hermione wonders how she knows where they're going when they don't know themselves, but since they're lost anyway, she guesses it doesn't matter. Harry seems to consider the matter settled, and rolls up the map while Ron reaches to pour everyone another cup of tea.
They meet each other outside at the first light of day. As they prepare to leave, Mrs. Tarragat cuts some of the tulips that are blooming behind the barn, and gives Hermione an armful "for being such a lovely girl."
She's delighted at first, because she's never been given tulips before, but as the three of them head off together into the woods, she starts to feel a little silly, like an underdressed bride walking between two grooms.
"Just what did she think you were supposed to do with those?" Ron wonders aloud, shaking his head a little. "Get rid of them, Hermione."
"No," she insists, clutching her bouquet a little closer to her body in a protective manner that makes Ron give up arguing with her.
"They'll need water, won't they?" Harry asks. "You can't carry a pitcher all day."
"Fine! When they wilt, I'll get rid of them."
They don't wilt. After a while, Harry arranges them in her backpack for her, which frees up both hands again, making it easier to walk. She knows they think it's daft, so she makes a point to walk in front of them whenever possible, so they don't have any choice but be cheered by the bright pink beacons of spring, bobbing over the side of the canvas. Whether they like it or not.
They walk until the shadows lengthen all the trees into a great crosshatching of lines. Every place is like the next, so they pitch camp where they stand. Hermione sighs with relief when she sits down between her friends again, the leaves crunching under the blankets. She thinks about Ron, to her left, Ron who riles her up and makes her stomach flutter, and Harry to her right, Harry who calms her down and keeps her grounded. Between the two of them, she feels like she's always been caught somewhere a few feet in the air.
Harry's making a plait out of her tulips to pass the time while Ron carves bread. She watches his deft hands weave in and out. Watches Ron's.
Ron's the first to kiss her. Harry forgets about tulips and reaches out to slide his rough palm up her knee.
Here in the forest, there is no one to see, no one to split them up, no one to look askance, no one to raise a brow, no one to whisper...
She gives Harry the kisses she's always wanted to press to his cheeks, and Harry's lips are over hers, and open, like he's been hungering for this a long time. Her hand clutches Ron's as he strokes through black hair and leans in to kiss Harry's throat.
They've never touched each other like this, but it seems like nothing could be more familiar, than Harry's hands, and Ron's lips, and Hermione's tongue. They map each other out from freckle to scar with this new gift, this permission to do anything, to touch anywhere, to reach under clothing, to push it off, to yield to inquisitive fingers and curious lips and urgent desires.
When everyone's been sated and cradled and kissed, when they are bare skin to naked limb, when three hearts are falling back into their normal rhythm and they've wrapped themelves in blankets, and fallen back to earth, there is only the sound of breathing.
The morning that they walk out of the forest, they are changed. They went in as three, but are coming out as one. Hermione can feel the difference, she walks between them now, like a wife between two husbands. The tulips wreathe her head like a coronet of promise. The road ahead is unfamiliar, but they are no longer lost.