Demeter

Some days, Harry thinks, you can see the summer heat. It's a kind of way the sun shines on certain days – brighter, like it's paying more attention to the world than normal. Today is garden day, and, unfortunately, it's also one of those days. Even through the thick, wavy glass of the kitchen's sliding room door, everything outside looks a little too crisp.

Harry has on his dirtiest hand-me-down – a true testimony to its grime – in preparation for the day's gardening. It had been a short-sleeved t-shirt on Dudley, but it so dwarfs Harry's comparatively diminutive form that it falls halfway to his knees, and the sleeves fall past his elbows, knocking swishly against his arms as he reaches up to heave the sliding door open.

Light spills in through the open doorway. Unobscured by the over-thick glass, it stabs at him, and he has to reach up to fist the sunshine out of his eyes, leaving thick, blotchy spots of overstimulation in its wake. In such a state as this, he actually mistakes her for something of a hallucination. He is halfway through the doorway, one foot on either edge of the threshold, when he realizes his mistake and stops short, so caught off guard by what he is seeing that completely forgets for a moment how mad Aunt Petunia will be if she catches him lingering in the doorway. 'You're letting the air out!' he can hear her shrieking in some distant part of his mind. 'More money than you're worth!'

Really, though. Little Harry can't quite help himself. It isn't every day you see a stranger in your garden, bent over at the waist and doing your chores. And dirty chores at that.

She is an older woman, though not so old as Aunt Petunia, and, anyway, she wears it much more gracefully than his Aunt. Umber skin warmly reflects the light of the hot, noonday sun, peeking out from beneath a forest green tank top and a pair of scuffed, well-worn denim jeans, showing of toned arms and a sweaty brow. She looks exactly like the type of woman who has spent the last several hours gardening. Her hair – a warm brunette color edging towards honey on the ends – is a mass of wild, ringlet curls that cluster around her head and shake like wind chimes with every motion of her head.

Unheeding of the dirt, she is crouched on all fours without so much as a pillow or a mat beneath her knees to protect her clothes, and Harry thinks to himself that Aunt Petunia would find even the thought ghastly. Not much of one for denim, Aunt Petunia prefers sundresses, but even her 'work pants' – insofar as she ever gets close to doing any actual work, Harry thinks to himself grouchily – are kept too tidy to ever be mistaken for a gardener's apparel. Harry should know. Fully half of his clothes the dirty, muddied green of grass stains.

This woman's clothes are similarly dirty, but it doesn't look dirty on her. She is bent over, trowel in hand and tending to a particularly ornery – or 'thornery' as Harry likes to snicker to himself when no one is around to hear – bed of roses. Halfway managing to tear his eyes away from the stranger in his Aunt's backyard, Harry sees that she has made similar work of the rest of the garden. Every bed of flowers he can see is completely weed free, and the soil has that soft, freshly churned look that means it's been upturned. Which was exactly what the woman was doing now with the rose bushes and the trowel and the dirty knees and the sweat.

This is weird, Harry thinks, but what he says is a very dumb sounding, "Ummm."

The woman looks up, a serious, if not particularly angry expression on her face. She has a very grown up, stern, face,Harry thinks, but not stern like Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia. It vanishes almost instantly upon seeing him, replaced instead with a pearly white smile. Her face is warm, glowing and golden on the edges in a way that speaks of more time spent outside than in, and her eyes are similarly warm – a deep green, but not green like Harry's own. Harry's eyes are a cold green, sharp like cut glass or emeralds. This woman's eyes are green like a field of windswept grass, all bright and happy beneath a clear sky.

"Hello, Harry," she smiles at him, and Harry's brain stalls again.

She knows his name. That's weird. People – especially grownups – don't know his name outside of school because Harry doesn't go anywhere other than school. Even weirder, she doesn't frown at him when she says it. Harry hasn't ever known an adult to greet him like that except for his teacher, Mrs. Marks, during the open house at school this past year, and a whispered conversation with Aunt Petunia had seen to it that Mrs. Marks had never repeated that gesture.

Unsure of what to do with all of that, Harry's response is shy and stilted, betraying his awkwardness. "Hi," he says meekly. He isn't really sure what to do with his hands so they fidget nervously at his side. He's still hanging between the kitchen and the back yard, and the fear of what Aunt Petunia will do if she discovers him is growing, but he isn't sure how he's supposed to handle this. Even he was told about 'stranger danger', but…she knows his name. Is she a stranger?

For her part, the woman looks unperturbed by his off kilter reaction. Heaving herself up off her hands so that she's standing on just her knees with her hands on her hips. Harry feels the need to cringe for Aunt Petunia at the way her dirty hands rub stains into the soft, silky green fabric of her tank top. "You look ready to work," she says, smiling kindly at him. Harry still isn't sure what to do with that, and he's even less sure of what to do with the way her eyes run up and down the length of his body, lingering long on his oversized work gloves and dirty cargo shorts. Shamefaced, Harry hides his gloves behind his back, but there's no judgment in the woman's gaze or her words. She says the word 'work' like kids at school say 'chocolate'. Like it's a treat, or something to look forward to. It's weird, Harry thought, but adults usually are.

Harry fidgets, self-conscious despite the woman's kind eyes. "I'm supposed to the do the gardening," he mutters, only half looking at her.

If possible, the woman's smile widens even further. Broadly, she gestures to a bed of flowers beside her that are not tilled like the others and that are overgrown with weeds. Hyacinths, Harry recognizes. They're Aunt Petunia's prize winners, her favorites in the garden and, thus, Harry's least favorites. But Harry blinks at them, confused. A moment ago, he could swear that all the gardening had been done already.

"Well, that's good," the woman says with a bubbly kind of energy, buzzing like the way his fingers do at the tips when he's put in a long day in the garden. "I've just this bed left, and I could use a break. Would you do it for me?"

He's supposed to do it all, he feels like saying at first, but it's followed shortly by the thought that it would be quite a rude thing to say. Besides, it isn't as if it's a great loss for him. Gardening is one of the chores he enjoys – at least more than dishwashing and bathroom cleaning and vacuuming – but that doesn't mean it's one he always wants to do. Especially not on days like today, with the sun baking a burn into the back of his neck, and the glare pushing a headache in through his eyes. This way, after he's finished with the only bed of flowers that the woman had left him, he can hide himself in the shade and spend an hour or two away from Aunt Petunia's sharp eyes, pretending like he had done the rest of it as well.

"Yes, ma'am," he nods, finally stepping out into the yard and reaching around to close the sliding door behind him. The last puff of the chilly, air-conditioned air inside wafts against his face, lost immediately to the heavy, humid warmth of the British summer. Harry squints his eyes against the bright glare of the sun as he walks around the woman and plops himself into the soft bed of bright, happy grass. There's a trowel waiting for him – his trowel – sticking out of the dirt beside the hyacinths. He frowns at it, sure that he had put it in the shed when he'd last finished. Aunt Petunia hates when he leaves tools lying around. 'Unsightly', she calls them.

Unconcerned with his concern, the woman favors him with another smile, and he feels his hesitations wash away beneath the buoyancy of her attentions. "Good manners," she compliments him with a wink, and he blushes and turns away, chased by the low sound of her chuckle. Quietly, she reaches down, pats the last of the tilled soil around the roses with her hands, and then sits back to watch him work. Not for the first time, Harry notices that she isn't wearing gloves. He can see dirt caked on the edges of her fingers, staining the edges and stuck up underneath her nails. Aunt Petunia would be throwing a fit but, if anything, this woman seems to be even more comfortable for it. "Do you like gardening, Harry?"

Harry shrugs in that boorish way that only a child can do. "'S alright," he mumbles and begins to carefully pull up the weeds that had sprouted since he'd last been forced outside. Realizing that he's still being a bit rude, he turns his face to her and speaks a touch more clearly, "Thank you for helping me, though."

The woman smiles sweetly. "You are most welcome," she assures him with a smart nod.

Harry turns his attention back to his work, but a thought sticks in his mind. Who is this woman, and why is she helping him? More than that, he thinks, looking back and forth at the myriad of other perfectly tended flower beds, why has she done basically the whole job for him? He hasn't ever seen this woman before in his life – he's certain he'd remember such a woman as she. Actually, come to think of it, why had Aunt Petunia sent him out to garden if she already had this nice lady out doing it?

"She doesn't know I'm here," the woman says suddenly. Harry doesn't turn away from his work – indeed, he freezes in place the moment she speaks – but he can hear the smile in her voice. "She's been inside watching soap operas all day. Ghastly programming if you ask me."

Harry does not voice his opinions of her commentary of daytime soap operas, too preoccupied with the wild, unbelievable thoughts a child is wont to have. For a moment, it had seemed almost like the woman had read his mind.

"I did," she says impishly, and this time Harry does look. Her smile has split into a full-blown grin, good humor lighting up her already lively eyes.

Harry gapes at her, desperately disbelieving in spite of proof, and she laughs, a happy, bubbly sound that seems to almost make the world around them go insane. At his feet, the flowers lift up their bulbs as if in offering, and the grass sways back and forth as if dancing to the beat of some tune that Harry can't hear. Even the tree at the edge of the yard seems to creak gleefully, shaking itself free of its previous immovability. Harry gawps – at the grass, the flowers, the tree but most off all at her. "How–"

"My name is Demeter," she breathes, and there is such emphasis on her name that the air seems to quiver in response, moving aside for it as it makes its way to his ears. Something in the world around them seems to shiver gleefully at its utterance, but Harry doesn't know why. The name tickles something in his memory, as if he ought to know it but he can't remember why. Demeter continues, winking slyly at his stupor. "Goddess of the Harvest, Agriculture, and the Seasons." They are simple words, but she says them like they have weight. Like there was power in them in a way that Harry – or, most anyone he suspects – can know. The flowers around him seem to agree with her, twisting and blowing, even though there is no wind.

A few seconds tick by in abject silence as Harry tries to understand exactly what the strange woman – Demeter – is saying. He considers calling boloney and telling her to pull the other one, but something stays his voice. Something deep and very serious in a voice that he recognizes. It's the voice that tells him when he really shouldn't be saying things that may upset Uncle Vernon or annoy Aunt Petunia. That voice is an old, protective friend, and he listens to it when he hears it. And anyway, Demeter says it with complete assurance. She doesn't seem crazy, and it's an awfully weird thing to put effort into making a joke of. And…well, she has done really well with the flowers.

Harry casts a critical eye over them. They're sitting content in their freshly turned beds, wriggling excitedly with every word from Demeter's mouth. He is quick to turn his gaze back to the still serene woman. She is leaning back on her arms now, hands dug into the soft grass. There's no wind blowing – only the barest, faint little breeze that does little more than tease him with the thought of being cool – but the grass seems to blow towards her anyway, bending towards her touch and caressing her skin if it's close enough. "And…gardening?" he asks hesitantly, indicating towards the flowers.

For some reason, this seems to annoy Demeter somewhat, although Harry doesn't think she's annoyed at him. He's gotten very good at knowing when adults are frustrated with him – the better to know when to duck his head and wander off somewhere he won't be a bother. Demeter's face wrinkled up like she's tasting something bad, and her mouth twitches downward towards a frown. "Truth be told, no. My daughter's much better at that. Goddess of Flowers and all that." Demeter's voice is heavier when she says 'flowers', the same way it had been when she'd said stuff like 'harvest' and 'seasons'. He can hear the capital letter in the word, as if it's more important than he thinks it is.

Harry thinks that normal people would be more concerned with how much of a nutter the woman sounds like, casually calling her daughter the goddess of flowers and not how she seems to say certain words. But, he supposes, he's a freak, and it's to be expected that he thinks the wrong way about things.

"Be gentler with your words, Harry," Demeter advised him softly, but very sternly such that Harry sits a bit straighter for hearing it. Her smile has dimmed somewhat, and her eyes are darker. Dark like the leaves of great trees swept up in storm winds, like the long shadows of dark clouds cast over plains. About her, the grass seems to shudder, less inclined to touch her suddenly as it leans away. "They have more power than you know."

Harry blanches. "I'm sorry," he mumbled hastily, stumbling over the words. He doesn't want to upset her. She's nice, and she's helping him with his chores, and she's a goddess. "I didn't mean – uh…flowers?" He tries to emphasize the word the way that Demeter had, but it comes out more like a question, and he doesn't quite think he got it right.

If Demeter's laugh is anything to go by, he had not. The petulant, nine-year-old part of Harry wants to be mad that she's laughing at him, but he is too caught up in the sound of it to try too hard. Like the grass and the flowers and even the tree, her laugh seems to make something inside him want to move, to run, to dance, to live. The world about him shared his opinion. The grass has brightened again, reaching out to caress her skin like a thousand little children trying to hug their mother.Harry can't help the toothy smile that spreads across his face.

"Yes," she chuckles, smiling at him. "That too."

Harry decides that he liked this lady. She's nice! No one's ever nice to him, especially not adults. Certainly, none of them would ever think to try and help him with his chores. Aunt Petunia is very clear that freaks don't get help, and that normal, proper boys like Dudley aren't expected to do the things that he's expected to.

"Harry!" the woman snaps, eyes so darkly green that for a moment, they appear black.

Harry shirks away from her, followed quickly by the grass that has now become seemingly desperate to flee from her presence. The blades of green trapped beneath her look desperate to wiggle free, like they might try to pull themselves from the ground if only to be away from Demeter's wrath. She seems to grow – or, perhaps, it is better to say that the world around her seems to shrink. The sky darkens, and the wind and a wind picks up, chilling him.

Harry looks up at her with wide, frightened eyes, trying as best he can to make himself smaller as he scoots back along the grass away from her.

All at once it comes to an end, and the world is as it should be. Demeter seems to flinch at his frightened face, and she visibly calms herself, and the world seemed to calm with her. When her eyes open again, they are again the vibrant, happy green of new life, and a smile lights her face. The sky is light and blue again, and Demeter is no bigger than any other lady he had ever seen. A normal boy might have fancied that he had imagined the whole thing. Grownups always look bigger when they're angry – certainly, Uncle Vernon does – but Harry knows that he had not. Harry never imagines things like this and, besides, he gets the feeling he could never imagine something like this lady. She seems bigger than him in a way that his nine-year-old brain can't properly comprehend.

"I am sorry," she says in a deliberately soft tone, like the budding of spring blossoms. "I did not mean to scare you."

Harry pulls lightly at the grass beneath his hands, uprooting it and releasing it so that it falls like rain back onto the ground. Quietly – with just a hint of petulance – he mumbles, "Wasn't afraid."

Demeter is laughing again, and Harry – despite his earlier fear – can't help the small smile that breaks across his face. It's a softer laugh this time, but the feeling is the same, and in a moment, he's buzzing with that vibrant energy again. "Of course not," she assures him. "You're a brave boy."

Harry beams at her. No one had ever called him brave before! And while Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia almost exclusively refer to him as 'boy' – Harry doesn't notice the way Demeter's face pinches in displeasure – this lady says it like it's a good thing. Harry really does like Demeter.

"Would you like something to eat, Harry?"

Harry pulls more grass. "Aunt Petunia says I gotta–"

Little Harry's voice trails off into nonexistence as Demeter laughs again, louder and more to herself than before, like he's said something that he doesn't realize is funny. He hasn't the time to be upset with her for this as she reaches across to him, still chuckling beneath breath. "Oh," she breathes happily, caressing the side of his cheek with her thumb, "I can see why it's you, little one."

He wants to ask her what she means, but her hand on his face feels so nice, and he loses himself in the touch for a moment longer than necessary. Where her thumb trails across his skin, he buzzes with a pleasant sort of warmth like he's never felt. It lingers long after she pulls away, and by the time he reclaims enough of his thoughts to speak, he's again derailed by the marvelous sight of Demeter reaching into the ground to withdrew an apple from it as if it were a picnic basket. He gawks at it, prompting another lively laugh and gleefully takes it from her extended hand. His little fingers run all over it. It feels like an apple, and it smell like an apple. He fancied that it will probably taste just the same, but Harry is no fool! He looks up at Demeter speculatively, no small amount of shrewdness on his face for a nine-year-old. "Is this clean?" he demands.

Demeter's smile is tremulous, as if she is trying very hard not to laugh in the face of an obviously serious child. "Very." She settles for a simple word, the better to hide her amusement. With a wink, she reaches out to pluck the apple from his hands and bites into it. Harry's ears perk up at the delectable, fresh crunch that fills the air, and his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates when she tosses it back to him. The apple that falls back into his hands is unblemished, lacking any evidence of the bite Demeter had just taken out of it.

Harry looks up, a grin splitting his face, only to frown.

Demeter is gone.

The only evidence of her ever being there is the apple in Harry's hands and the freshly tended flower beds beside him.

In the days to come, Harry will labor long over the mysterious woman who had been so nice and had commanded such a powerful aura. He will wonder at who she had been and where she had gone. He will wish that she would come see him again, even if it was just to talk. Never once did he think that he had imagined her. Harry knew that she was too…well, that she was too much to have been imagined. She never does show up again, but here and there, in places they shouldn't be and away from the eyes of anyone else, Harry will find an apple, and the taste will always remind him of the Goddess of the Harvest.

In the moment, though, he is content to stare at the spot she had occupied, crisscrossed on the ground with the most delicious apple he has ever eaten in his mouth. Aunt Petunia never gets up off the couch to check his work, well aware that he will be outside for some time working the garden, and it gives him all the time he needs to finish Demeter's apple and wish for another one. Close to half an hour after the mysterious, nice lady had left him, Harry turns his attention to the last flower bed she had left.

It is already done.