Casting Stones
Rating: R for the moment
Genre: Drama/Action/Adventure
Warnings: Some specifically stylized sex.
Summary: The Wizarding World is certainly archaic in a lot of ways. But that doesn't mean it isn't modern in many others. And prophecy belongs to the past. Yet the past rears up to entangle Harry Potter. And he isn't the last one.
Chapter 1: Touching the Past
The wind whipped Hermione's already tangled curls and she brushed at the impatiently. It was cold and the chill seeped through the thin cotton of her loose dress, crawled up her bare feet and nipped, almost gently, at her nose. She didn't have time for the cold.
Hermione turned around and walked back from the great teeth of stone that stabbed into the darkening sky. The magic of Stonehedge was palpable, almost electric, though she absently found the Muggle association ironic. She certainly didn't have time for Muggle references either.
"I'm ready," she said quietly as she stepped in front of Ron and Harry.
Ron seemed ready to say something but an elbow in the ribs from Harry halted his words. Hermione embraced him, inhaling that elusive scent of home that clung to the redhead, then went onto Harry, matching the hug with a gentle-rough muss of his hair.
Then they disappeared. With a pop of course.
She didn't know where they went and she didn't have time to wonder.
Minerva McGonagall approached her silently, Molly Weasley at her side. Her former professor held a small crown woven of flowers with all the gravity of handling a priceless artifact, the severity in her expression as she carefully laid it on Hermione's head only reinforcing that impression. The deep lines adorning her face seemed more pronounced in the coming darkness and that was fitting.
The Crone brought wisdom. She did not bring youth. That was irony again. Focus, Hermione, focus.
Hermione squeezed out a faint smile. Professor McGonagall supported her choice silently and forcefully, but that didn't mean she didn't worry. The smile elicited a nod and the Crone withdrew to leave place for the Mother, though that certainly was the reversal of the usual turn of the wheel.
Mrs. Weasley opened the small pot she held in her hand, dipping her fingers inside the fragrant oil. With a shaking fingertip and an expression that mirrored her son's, she marked Hermione's skin. Hermione knew every stroke, could picture it in vivid color as she drew it herself the first time on stark parchment.
She waited to feel sanctified.
It didn't come.
But they couldn't stop.
The three women walked silently towards the towering stones, stepping into a triangle pattern that they didn't rehearse but nonetheless created perfectly.
Something snapped.
Hermione was inclined to think it was a branch somewhere. A piece of wood that got caught under something heavy. She knew that wasn't true however.
She could see the truth in the warmth of Mrs. Weasley's stubborn smile and the shadowed depth of Professor McGonagall's narrowed eyes.
They raised their arms.
Somewhere, far far beyond their ken, the turbulent waters that guarded the secret treasure stilled, sensing what was coming. It was something that hadn't come in millennia.
Somewhere, far far within the darkness that multiplied with the advent of years that guarded Britannia's history, an old man stirred in his eternal sleep. He almost smiled. And he slept on.
Minerva began the cycle. She was named well, wisdom building the foundation, words spilling from her lips that were old before her grandparents were born, words that were renewed by her speaking.
Hermione did not recognize them. But she knew them somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Just like she knew the source of the faint, ever so barely audible melody that threaded through the grass beneath her feet.
Molly's name did not suit as her voice joined Minerva's in supplication. She was not bitter, though the Mother's thread was full of pain sometimes just as it colored in joy. She was not simply a housewife, a mother anymore. She was all mothers. And more. She was Woman. Just as Minerva was Woman.
Just as Hermione was Woman.
Just as the Maiden added her plea to those who came before her. Those that she would become.
The sanctity came.
The sun set.
There was no light. Certainly no glimmering interweaving of golden and silver beams. Hermione knew that. But she saw it anyway.
She could feel herself growing distant, far away from the reality of the prickling wind against her skin and the crinkly grass under her feet. Yet she was also somehow closer. Closer to... something.
She was Maiden.
She was Lady.
And she disappeared in something that must have been Apparation. The pop was lost within the... well it was lost. That had to be it.
Her voyage did not seem a voyage to her. She merely blinked out of Stonehedge and appeared... elsewhere.
Blinded.
She could see the light, nothing but see the light and hear the otherworldly melody that spun around her. Everything outside of that was faded, ghostly.
She touched the light and it exploded and she could do nothing but cry for how perfect it felt. The warmth, oh god, the warmth, oh god, god, goddess...
She was the Lady. She was the Eternal and Generous, She who birthed Life and nurtured It. She who destroyed It to birth It again.
Something... something was missing.
The... changing.
The... changing of the seasons. The King who died to become King for He was never less and never more and always Her equal.
Her Consort. Her Horned One.
The cycle had to be complete. So She sought him out, sent out every fibre of silvery Self looking for His golden one. Her everlasting peace to His bright burst of passion, death and rebirth.
The cycle had to be complete.
So there He was.
His hair was sunny by right. His naked form hid behind no false modesty, only Their symbols adorning His golden skin. It was the body of a Hunter, of a god who knew His place in their eternal entanglement, His muscles lean and sinewy, His limbs long and tensed with anticipation.
His face was beautiful in its joy.
"I have never dreamed," He breathed and She shushed Him, Her finger against His lips. Then Her mouth took its place and fire leapt into being.
She held the Land. It was Hers to breathe rebirth into.
But it was His to take. To love. To defend.
Much the way She was.
She rained kisses over His skin as His hands paid worship to every curve of Her form. The aching pleasure made Her empty, moans spilling from Her mouth as Her body demanded everything He could give. He was inflamed with Her pleasure, moving helplessly, His skin rubbing against Hers as He shivered. Or did She shiver?
The Lord took the Lady.
She cried out, rising to meet Him, spilling Her blood to mark the new turning of the season. He sunk in gratefully, the glory driving His pleasure.
The Lord gave to the Lady.
He kissed Her frantically, moving inside Her with a desperation that was surprising and wonderfully familiar, His touch the warmth of Her existence. She voiced Her own pleasure in words that no longer and did not yet exist, words that were no words at all, pure meaning, and He understood as They moved, writhing against each other.
The Lord joined the Lady.
Light was pleasure, pleasure was sound, all was fire. She knew Him. She was within Him. She was touching Him with Her body, Her mind, Her soul. She liquefied, Her body surging upward to sheath His final stroke. She knew it was the last just for She knew He honored the wheel, He gave life to the new turn.
She faded.