Narration Irritation 3: Lemon Bones

Harry drifted into the Great Hall, not quite sure where the whims of fate would take him. Given that each year seemed to up the ante in terms of danger, he really didn't want to spend a whole lot of time considering where that meant his sixth year would take him. After all, he'd faced Voldemort and several death eaters the year before. What would be worse than that?

"Riding a Nundu?" Harry wondered aloud.

However, before he could think too much on it, his eyes caught on the sight of one of the sixth year hufflepuffs.

Harry had to admit, Susan was pretty cute these days. Maybe it was the way her hair was a soft lovely red the same shade as a persistent canker sore.

"Wait... what?!" Harry blurted aloud. "That's how you describe her hair?"

Her mesmerizing eyes seemed to draw him inward, looking like two brown circles with smaller black dots in the center of them.

"..."

And her face! A perfect, sculpted oval; like an egg, except it was less egg-shaped and more circlish. True, she was a bit short for his tastes - she was only about the size of a five-foot, five-inch tree - but her smile lit up the room like a signal flare.

"..."

Susan gently rose from her seat in a graceful motion and sauntered over to the Gryffindor table. Her steps were the exact opposite of an epileptic's: smooth and flowing.

"Hi, Harry," Susan said with a melodious voice; Harry felt his stomach drop like it was the bass to a Skrillex song.

"Uhhhh... Hi, Susan," Harry replied in a nervous voice, not sure whether he trusted the narration not to screw this up.

"I was wondering if we were going to still do the D.A. this year?" she asked.

"And miss a chance to spend some time with a beautiful girl like you?"

Susan laughed; it was a deep, throaty, genuine sound, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up on the carpet.

"I'll see you around, Harry," she said before departing, her butt swaying like a metronome set to 85 beats per minute.

Harry quickly began to conspire. Getting in Susan's robes wouldn't be as easy as getting into Ginny's (that girl was easier than TV Guide Crossword.) Still, after a few minutes, he decided on an idea. The plan was simple, much like Ron; unlike Ron, though, this plan had a decent chance of ending up working.

Susan showed up for the first D.A. meeting... only to find nobody else there. It was just her... and Harry.

She realized that Harry wasn't an 11 year old anymore. Gone were the boyish looks, leaving a man that was as handsome and rugged as a chipmunk. As he stalked towards her, she felt her heart swept away by him, like a helpless dust bunny in the swirling maelstrom of his gas-powered leaf blower.

He confidently leaned in and kissed her, the way a butterfly kisses the windshield of a Porsche on the Autobahn. He was on her like she was a colony of salmonella to her room-temperature canadian beef. And she suddenly realized she was returning the affection, acting like a piranha on a corn dog.

Her hands went to his chest. It was hard and sculpted, like a sculpture of something hard. Ah, his chest - it was suddenly her pillow - and oh, did she drool.

As she began kissing along his torso, she began to feel his Nimbus company stock rising in value.

Harry eyed Susan hungrily, the kind of look you give when you haven't eaten in awhile.

She let her clothes drop to the ground, rustling like a scarab in a bowl of salt. The sight made his lower region swell like week-old roadkill sitting on hot asphalt in the summer sun; it stood firmly at attention, stiff and stony like former prime minister Margaret Thatcher.

A wave of his wand and her bra unsnapped like a Concord taking off; she was unhooked for love. His own clothes were vanished seconds later.

They quickly let their passion unfold before his hand began to explore her womanhood. His fingers, weathered and calloused from years of quidditch, danced in and out of her like a gooey ballerina.

Her back arched a bit and her breathing intensified, causing her chest to heave like a bulimic after Thanksgiving dinner; her breasts heaved like a stormy ocean, her pointed nipples were as hypodermics washed up on the shore.

Her lightly tanned back curved further into a golden arch as he moved his face towards her happy meal. After she climaxed, Harry saw that her body was covered with a sheen of sweat, glistening like a nose hair after a rather violent sneeze.

"My turn," she whispered both happily and seductively, moving to cover his golf club of love with the golf-club-cover that was her mouth.

Harry's eyes closed in bliss, feeling like a kid at a candy store - but instead of a kid, he was 16, and instead of candy, there was sex.

Harry woke up several hours later, a grin on his face from his exploits with the not-so-shy Hufflepuff.

"You know, that was probably the worst narrated lemon I've ever been in," he remarked in a lazy, contented voice.

Author's Note: Tune in for the sequel, 'Narration Irritation 4: Harry Visits the VD Clinic'

"You know," Harry added hastily, "it was actually pretty tasteful. Well presented. Classy. Please... please just let the series end here on a high note?"

To Be Continued.

"... damn it."