A/N: I hate warnings. Flame me if you must. This one is M for a reason - so if you can't handle adult themes, adult perspectives, or the harshness of the adult world, leave. Now.
Originally for the Beltane Drabble War on Granger Enchanted.
Originally beta'd by AuntieL, or perhaps blueartemis for this one. Either way, said beta turned something dark and decidedly unfluffy into something with even sharper edges, for which I am quite grateful.
Quote Prompt ii) "Every intoxicating delight of early spring was in the air. The breeze that fanned her cheek was laden with subtle perfume and the crisp, fresh odor of unfolding leaves."
― Gene Stratton-Porter, The Song of the Cardinal
Every intoxicating delight of early spring was in the air. The breeze that fanned her cheek was laden with subtle perfume and the crisp, fresh odor of unfolding leaves.
Hermione was not intoxicated. She was terrified.
This was Herimone's third Beltane; third time dancing the fires; third time chanting and laughing to welcome the renewing energies of Spring to the magical world; first after the war and graduation from Hogwarts; first as a candidate for May Queen.
Before, she had danced the maypole and fires, but left with the other "girls," those rejected by the magic of the celebration as unripened. Today, she had been accepted by the magic, drawn with the other virgins into the quiet wood in rural Devon to wait for the call of the Green Man.
The sky was pinking with evening, but she saw no beauty. She wanted someone else to be chosen. Anyone else.
Understanding Beltane was sacred, pure, and right was one thing; being the virgin sacrifice was another. No, she wouldn't be killed, but part of her was at knife-point.
She loved Ron. He returned her feelings. They were handfasting in the morning; one year and one day together, and then they would most likely marry. If there was a child, well, of course they would marry, but... Would the child be Ron's? If she were chosen, would the Green Man get her with child?
The May Queen from the previous Beltane talked with the virgins just after the fires were lit. Hermione learned something yesterday that made her almost hate the rites.
The Green Man was masked. No May Queen ever knew the identity of the man who took her from the innocence of a girl to the knowledge of a woman.
She had gone so far as to offer Ron her body that morning, but she had waited too long, for the fires burned, and virgins were off limits. He had refused, blushing and reminding her that he didn't know any more than she did. By the stars tonight, he would certainly be pulled away by a single or widowed witch to join the rites as an adult wizard. She may be the May Queen, virgin sacrifice under the Green Man.
Let it not be me, Hermione begged.
The sun was gone, the sky steel grey, and the virgins, who had been somewhat clumped together in a clearing, began to wander in separate directions, going further into the wood. Hermione found her feet taking her into the deepening shadows as the scent of flowers and old forest filled her.
She continued walking, almost blind – until a strong arm around her waist stopped her.
Hermione looked up and saw a shadowed figure. She couldn't stop the tears from welling in her eyes and tracking down her cheeks.
The Green Man said nothing. His thumbs smoothed her tears away. He led her to another clearing where the first stars of the night were just visible beyond the treetops. They said nothing to one another. There was no need.
Hermione stood still as his hands slid her simple, thin white dress from her shoulders, moving to cover herself as the only clothes she had been permitted fell from her. Long-fingered hands slid down her arms, baring her to his gaze.
Still, he said nothing. He kissed her gently. Kisses had no effect on her fear, her sorrow. Her shame.
She loved Ron. She was with another man. Beltane may be sacred, but some irrational Muggle part of her thought that her body was sacred, too. Her choice was sacred – yet she had chosen to accept a place among wizardingkind at the Beltane fires, chosen all of her magical heritage.
She was trapped in the Green Man's arms. She was doomed to let him take her body. Blessed to be his for one night.
She would never know his name.
He would have the memory of her body, of taking her virginity, of her face and identity. She would not know him.
Ron, her heart cried out as she was lain down on the sweet grass slowly, carefully. I love you. Forgive me.
He was gentle with her, knowing many things about a woman's body, drawing her into pleasure, into accepting him as easily as she could.
Hermione's heart broke as her hymen tore, her soft cry of pain from the Green Man's intrusion made ragged by the ache in her chest.
Slowly, her body betrayed her. The Green Man knew women too well, knew how to bring pleasure, and she hated him for it even as her body arched and writhed for more, then stilled...and came apart.
Three times he had her in the night; three times her body turned traitor and her heart tore into smaller pieces. Sacred three. Cursèd three.
Morning threatened the sky; the last of the nightbirds sang happily among the slowly opening flowers; the scent of woods and grass and man and sex driving her to wake.
Hermione looked next to her and saw the shadowed form of the Green Man, his body as much a mystery as her identity.
He had not spoken to her.
A tender touch along her cheek drew her lips to his for a kiss.
He took her one last time on the grass, greeting the blushing dawn with the passion-blushing of her body under his.
He kissed her as she trembled in repletion. Held her.
Let her stand. Pull on her shift, the proof of her lost innocence and his seed still on her thighs.
Hermione took her dry eyes, broken heart, and aching body slowly back to the village, hoping she would see no one – knowing it was impossible. Everyone knew the identity of the May Queen the morning after.
No one knew the Green Man.
In the clearing, the shadows faded away. A man knelt on the ground, heart breaking.
This was the tenth time he'd been chosen as the Green Man: magic had an affinity for his proven fertility. He had five Beltane children, all sired in this clearing.
As he watched the young witch walk from the wood and into the clearing, he felt tears tracking down his face. He knew she was with child.
"Let the child have her hair," rasped voice nearly inaudible in the shush of leaves and the bright sound of morning in the wood. Arthur whispered as he wept, "Please, Goddess, if you've any mercy...let the child's hair be brown."