Sinope's Fiction: Harvest

Title: Harvest
Author: Sinope at (no spam!) gmail dot com
Rating: PG
Pairing: Padma/Parvati
Warning: Non-explicit themes of incest.
Summary: Nothing dies; it only turns into something new.
Author's notes: Written for Switchknife, in honor of hir story Harvest, as part of The Arsenal.
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fan work. No profit was made; no ownership is implied.

The October wind blows your skin as cold and arid as the distant, bare sky, showering you with feather-light leaves in amber and crimson. Parvati carefully plucks each one off your skin as they land, rearranging them in artful lines across your wool-clad body. Her fingertips feel cool and very smooth when they position a five-pointed oak leaf, resting it like a dagger across your neck.

"You're an Autumn, like me," she says, spiraling thin burgundy leaves like a path ascending each of your breasts. "Orange hues bring out the gold in your skin. You should wear them more often - I can lend you my red jumper tomorrow, if you like."

You smile, though not at what she's saying, and you try to decipher the cyan patterns carved out by brown-and-gold tree branches above. All of a sudden, a gust of wind sends the leaves swirling away to the east; you can see Parvati's frown without even turning to see her face, just as she throws herself down beside you on your bed of leaves, propping herself up on one elbow.

"You're really boring when you're pouting, you know," she says finally. "If this was all you wanted to do, you might's well have kept on studying."

"I'm not pouting," you say, not because either of you believe it but because she expects it. "I just - I hate the cold weather. That's all." Up and to the left, you examine the interlocking limbs of two trees, bright red gleaming behind translucent yellow.

"All right then," she replies, and even though you've cast an Obscuring Charm long ago, it still comes as a surprise when she clambers on top of you, kneeling around you and hugging you, smothering your face in familiar scents of rose perfume and thick sweaty wool. You slip your hands around her back and under her sweater, interlacing your fingers and holding her tight against you.

When you finally speak, it's in a voice so quiet that you're not sure whether she can even hear. "I hate autumn," you say. "Everything's dying."

"No," she says firmly, kissing you with a lipstick-moist mouth, "everything's coming to harvest. Nothing dies; it only turns into something new."

You have to remind yourself that this is why you love Parvati so much; everything's so simple, and it doesn't matter that you'll be leaving Hogwarts in eight months, going into a world with no library and no classes and no Parvati resting her head in the curve of your neck when she's sleepy. Leaves are falling, falling into your eyes, but maybe if you can hold her here long enough, you'll become buried so deep together that you'll never have to leave.

finis.