At Play in the Fields of Our Lord

by Tourniquette

"Hermione?"

"Mm?"

"What do you think about when you conjure your Patronus?"

A pause of deliberation, to phrase the words correctly even though she'll smile through them anyway. "The orchards at sunset."

"Pardon?"

"When I was little, I played in my best friend's backyard. There were dozens of apple trees lining the path to their house. I first discovered my magic when I stopped an apple from falling on her head."

"This was...Violet?"

"Yes. I'm surprised you remembered her name. When she moved to America, they sold the house, and I was devastated. A year later, when I was about eight, we spent a week-long holiday in the States on Violet's new farm. It was so flat—I couldn't believe how the fields stretched on and on, into what seemed like forever when you're not tall enough to see over the rows.

"It was early June. We picked the first crop of strawberries and made them into pies. My favourite day, though, was when we picked the ripe cherries from the trees in the orchards. The smell of the fruit, the way we had to climb and hand-pick the best ones and lower them down in buckets on ropes, it was fantastic. And the view—you could see for miles, Harry. Right at sunset, we stayed and watched in silence as the fields caught fire.

"We were the queens of the summer. I wanted to stay in our golden throne forever."

It crept upon me slowly, a Muggle-like, leprous presence too sick to waste its breath in gasps of air, singularly bent on reaching the last soul it will ever see merely to infect it. That way we all suffer.

I suppose I should have seen it coming. After all, my hand and I became fuckmates for a solid week after that slap in third year. I nearly didn't recover after seeing her with the foreign dunderhead, Krum. At least, that was what I told myself when I transfigured my scarf into her Yule Ball dress and saved it in my closet. The stains remain unwashed.

Yes, I ought to have known better. The last year in school? Nott engaged and Pucey already married? Mother making insinuations about which bird's family had more galleons and how my cousins had just popped out another ickle lesser Malfoy, and all the portents were good for a repeat performance? Glaring signals.

On a side note, I swear Cousin Iris and her husband reproduce like wild hares. I lost count after twelve. When you're the sole heir to the foremost branch of a family older than the country you inhabit, you inherit more than mere financial obligations, and in this case, I was lucky enough to be born the high roller.

Mother used to drop subtle hints about the survival of our family line. I told her to burn at the stake.

After that, the number of packages sent from home shrank considerably.

But now...now, thanks to that filthy Mudblood and her asinine hallway conversations, all I can think about are cherry trees.

Stupid cherry trees.

A low, purring, feminine voice that sounds more like a hyena than any feline creature grates along my eardrums.

"Draaaaco..."

I groan.

Normally, I don't give Pansy Parkinson the time of day, even when she's accosting me in the middle of the Common Room, trying to suck my cock. Especially when she's trying to suck my cock. Parkinson would take it as a sign we were as good as engaged; the absolute last thing I want to do is encourage her. As much as I need release to calm this hot, grating itch that has settled somewhere in the vicinity of my groin, one does not take a Slytherin witch to bed without consequences. But I'm thinking about her again, her and her damned cherry trees, and Parkinson's fingers are curling into my trousers like talons into their prey.

Suddenly, I have a hard-on the size of Bulstrode's neck, only twice as long.

Well, this is certainly inconvenient.

Parkinson squeals, no doubt congratulating herself for piquing my interest with her subtle feminine wiles. I have to refrain from rolling my eyes as I drag her to my chambers by the arm and slam the door shut.

God, I hate them both so much.

She walks slowly down the rows, weaving between the bushes laden with unspoiled fruit. It is midsummer, and the raspberries begin to bud, but for some reason, the orchards remain full of cherry trees, ripe with fruit. She turns, her hair tangling in the leaves, and watches them hungrily as they tempt her, dangling their branches, laden with sweet divinity just out of reach. Her toes curl in the arid earth as she rises, her skirt bunched at her knees.

I observe with the sun at my back. Then I raise my wand.

Kudzu is not native to Western Europe, but thanks to the Great Kudzu Conspiracy of 1928, in which a vengeful Mongolian warlock transplanted kudzu vines to an exhibition in the States, it now flourishes in the South...

The first vines caress her ankles, tickling her skin as she walks toward the red hanging fruits, and she lifts one foot to scratch it absently. Suddenly, she trips and falls, the gathered berries scattering from the folds of her skirt, tumbling along the ground. She shakes her head to clear it, unsure of the cause of her spill.

Once my prey is low to the ground, they strike.

I emerge from the hedge nearby, strolling around her prone body, spread wide in the care of my spell and held taught on each limb. I lift my arm again as she starts to holler, and a particularly thick vine wraps around her mouth like a gag.

Sweeping my cloak aside, I crouch next to her and memorize every deliciously exposed or hidden curve on her body. My fingers trace the air above the ground until they rest on a plump berry. Save for the parting of my mouth, I make no sound. I'm so hard that my seams are close to splitting. She knows this. Her eyes are as wide as saucers.

Off comes the skirt. I crawl along the vines until I reach her waist. She is frightened now; her pulse is shallow and racing as I stroke the upturned side of her wrist leisurely with my fingers. What a treat she is.

My fingers, again moving of their own volition, unwrap her like a present, leaving the buttons of her blouse intact. Plain black cotton brassiere. One spell transforms that—and the expression on her face—into something so wickedly shameful that her visage will be burned into my memory forever. The petals, so much lighter than the fabric of their origin, are tickling her ivory skin. Another spell and the gag is gone, replaced by Silencio. She arches her back, either from relief or from agitation, and more black petals slip down the curves of her breasts and into the foliage.

Summoning the fallen berries from the earth around us, I rip her pants from her body. Then I decorate her. Several on her breasts in prefect circles, a trail down her belly, and five nestled between her thighs, where she is wet enough to make the task of forcing them to stay there extremely difficult. Are those her tears? Is she as wet above as she is below? I do not know, nor do I care.

To devour her body is sin enough in itself, but my sweet tooth must be sated, and I burst the little beads of juice on her nipples, suckling and rolling until I know beyond a doubt that she weeps. I spoil more than a few ripe berries on my chest before I can remove my clothes or consume them. Wasteful. Then I taste her, the salt of her sweat and her clit.

One lick for each treat.

She shudders and sobs in a veil of silence. I rise over her, and my mouth crashes down on hers.

"Draco, Draco, Draco, yes, yes, harder, gods..."

It's worse than being thrown in the cold lake with the squid. Pansy's dull hair spread on my pillow, her ankles by her ears, and I'm thrusting into her mercilessly, hard enough to leave bruises on the places I didn't touch. But I'm so close, I can hold her off for a few moments longer...

—Sunlight breaking through her hair like a ghost through the needfire—

Parkinson's bony thighs flexing against mine as my cock disappears inside of her.

—Dancing through her soul as I shove further and my thrusts increase, her cries of ecstasy on stolen terms as I claim her mouth again—

The Pureblood beneath me, moaning like she can sanction this abomination, screaming the sacraments in my ears before they can escape from my mind, wanting more than what I can give because I love nothing and ask everything...

—Because she burns hotter than the sun and I have caged her, plunging in triumph as I hoard her thighs and keep her for myself, lying bound underneath me and the boughs of the cherry trees, mine, MINE—

...And her words from the day before when she turned around and realized I was eavesdropping slam home at that instant, cruel and unrepentant:

"I always knew you would turn out to be that sort, Malfoy. Go and collect fodder for your daddy's friends from someone else and leave us alone."

My cold fury descends on me as I release inside the writhing girl beneath me, and I idly wonder if she would care if I strangled her...

—Granger, the high and mighty Mudblood bitch will pay dearly—

Parkinson screams to wake the dead, and I collapse, sane for one more season.

It is the eve of destruction. I watch Parkinson prepare to let in the Death Eaters through the Shrieking Shack, her turned-up nose pink from the drafty corridors of the dungeons. She kisses my cheek excitedly. I don't watch her go.

My mind wonders if Granger was foolish enough to accept Potter's fake invitation to picnic by the lake. Since I stuffed Weasley's body in Filch's broom closet in the Trophy Room, he's in no position to inform her that Harry has holed himself up in the second-floor toilets, vomiting his insides out thanks to a powder I slipped into his pumpkin juice earlier at breakfast.

It's an experiment of mine—a boldly flirtatious note from her best friend, who she trusts implicitly. Romance would complicate matters in quick order. Will she accept and venture down the crooked path?

Only one way to find out.

My figure casts a long shadow over the scroll on which she writes in that annoyingly perfect fashion. Squinting, her eyes narrow in recognition—or is that the glare of the noonday sun?—and I hear her sharp intake of breath. No matter. The clouds move like lightning here. She'll have her shade soon enough.

"Malfoy?"

The word is tremulous, uncertain. She doesn't ask why I'm there. Her gaze flickers briefly to the aging stone walls that ripple on the echoes of the lake. A mirage on the glass.

Hermione's eyes meet mine. "...Where's Harry?"

I smile.

Fin

Author's Notes:

The fruit orchards in upstate New York have miles of rows of raspberries, cherries, strawberries and blackberries from May to August, and pumpkins in the fall. They really are like personal slices of heaven. Especially if you sample the fare, like I did. Mmm, berries...