Title: Harvest Gods
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco pre-slash
Content Notes: Slight angst, animal sacrifice, paganism
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3000
Summary: Draco was more than stunned to find Harry Potter, of all people, dancing in the ritual for Lughnasadh.
Author's Notes: Another of my July Celebration fics.

Harvest Gods

"Welcome, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco felt his shoulders relax as he stepped through the wicker gates entwined with golden ribbons. He glanced at the wizard who had spoken, but he stood with the white rod in his hands that apparently determined attendance, his back to Draco, his focus on the wizards and witches streaming towards the gates in small clumps.

I'm welcome here.

Draco managed to take his hand off his wand, and stroll slowly towards the collection of tables, bonfires, and garlanded trees arrayed in front of him. The ground sloped slightly beneath his feet; they were on top of one of the ancient Sidhe mounds that Muggles thought of simply as hills. Once, the Lughnasadh ceremonies had included climbing a hill, but the wizards had changed that centuries ago. Now the climb took place before one passed through the gates.

Draco nodded at a few people he recognized, although the non-pure-bloods tended to turn away, and studied the firstfruits on display, hanging from the garlands and arranged on some of the tables. Gleaming apples in green, red, yellow, and orange mingled with ears of corn and wheat, berries that made Draco's mouth water, potatoes so large they were leaned against each other to keep them from rolling, and carrots as sharp as arrows. The garlands themselves were woven from natural leaves for the most part, but Draco could see threads of golden magic here and there.

Harvest magic, the one kind even Squibs could do. Draco smiled for the first time in what felt like months. He was among his own kind here.

A bellow attracted his attention, and he turned to see a sturdy pen set up near one of the bonfires. A white bull with red ears paced inside it, tossing horns that turned up to a point and were set with tiny gilded rings. A few wizards watched the bull, but most of them were congregated around the bonfires or the booths that, even here, sold amulets, supposed fortunes told in crystal balls, and the like.

Draco raised his eyebrows. He had been unsure they would have a sacrifice here. It was one of the things he'd expected Muggleborns to get upset at and prohibit.

He wandered beyond the pen to the largest bonfire. Pipes were playing, inaudible until he crossed a small circle of wards, and some wizards and witches whirled and stamped around the fire, their heads tossed back and their hands in the air. Most of them were naked from the waist up, shining with sweat.

Draco's breath went out of him entirely when he saw Harry Potter among them, leaping over a flickering flame of the fire and helping a witch who held out her hands to him execute a complicated turn.

Potter caught his eye. He showed none of the stunned surprise that was coursing through Draco. He only nodded and kept moving, tossing the witch in the air and clapping hands with her when she landed.

Draco knew better than to interrupt the dance, and he didn't want to join it. He stepped back just far enough to watch them. Their wild steps never faltered, but then, neither did the pipe, which was played by magic. It ended at last, and several exhausted people tumbled into heaps where they stood.

Potter, ever the hero, gently moved someone who had been about to singe his hair in the fire, and then strode towards Draco. He wore a pair of green silk trousers from the waist down that made complicated reflections trail along with him. Draco blinked and looked up.

He doesn't need the trousers, was the first, inane thing to come to Draco's mind. He has all the green he needs in his eyes.

"Hello, Malfoy," Potter said, and spread his hands, turning in a slow circle. A current of hot wind immediately curled around him, drying the sweat on his skin. Draco blinked again. For Potter to be so in tune with the ritual magic inside the gates… "Is this your first celebration in a while?"

"In a while," Draco echoed. "What—since when do you celebrate Lughnasadh, Potter?"

Potter grinned at him and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Since I realized the reason people got so excited at this time of year didn't have to do just with my birthday."

Draco bristled before he thought. Potter only watched him with a contented expression.

As if he wants me to bristle, Draco thought, and the realization stopped his jaw in mid-opening. So that everything can go back to the way it was before, and nothing has to change.

But no, Draco had made the commitment to change. It was why he had deliberately sought out a few Muggleborn colleagues in the Ministry, and had decided to come to a public celebration instead of holding his own. He clenched his jaw shut and swallowed tightly. "Well, yes. It's nice to see a Potter returning to a sense of tradition. I had the feeling that your recent ancestors wouldn't have approved."

"I don't think my parents lived long enough to celebrate on their own," Potter said thoughtfully as he walked back towards the pen with the bull. Draco followed him for lack of anything else to do right now. "The war happened, which scattered the public celebrations, from what Terry tells me, and then they were in hiding. But it's nice to think they would have."

"Terry?"

"Boot. From Ravenclaw?"

Draco shook his head and managed to reorient himself in a way that shouldn't have shaken him at all. "Of course. Yes, I know him. But I thought you would get your information on the celebrations from Granger."

Potter gave him a thin-edged smile that made Draco want to take a step back. But they were in the middle of a public gathering, and it was ridiculous to think Potter would attack him here. He made himself remain still, and Potter's smile softened a little. "No. She wouldn't attend one. She's not interested in them."

"Muggleborn."

"Not particularly. Just that she thinks they're a mingling of traditions that aren't authentic. She says she would like to attend an ancient one, because it would be genuine, but she'd feel silly here." Potter shrugged. "Probably some Muggle traditions have found their way in. I still like it."

"You'll watch the bull's sacrifice?"

"Yes." Potter eyed him again. "You think I'm bothered by a bit of blood, Malfoy?"

"No, that's one stupidity I'm not prey to," Draco answered honestly, and Potter chuckled.

"See you around, Malfoy." And Potter walked towards one of the tables covered with ears of corn and began to examine them raptly. Draco studied his back before he went to find something to eat that wasn't going to be sacrificed.

"We acknowledge the land!"

A glittering handful of bilberries arced into the air, and came down into the nearest bonfire, which snapped and leaped. Draco applauded and cheered with the rest of the crowd, and moved out of the way as other people came towards them with handfuls of apples. Potter was one of them, holding two yellow ones.

Most of the wizards who burned the firstfruits of the harvest said they acknowledged the land, or sometimes, "We acknowledge magic." But Draco knew even before the queue got to Potter that his toast would be something different, and it was.

"We acknowledge that the life that produces apples on the trees also produces us," Potter said. "And centaurs, and house-elves, and merfolk." By now, the vast majority of the crowd was quiet, listening to him, sometimes with their mouths open. Potter ignored all of them, gazing steadily into the fire he had danced around earlier. "And unicorns, thestrals, hippogriffs, and all the animals of the earth and the air and the water. And Muggles." He tossed the two apples high into the air, and wind or a current of magic moved them so they plummeted into the flames.

The applause this time was more hesitant, but not from Draco. He kept his eyes fixed steadily on the side of Potter's face until Potter turned around and acknowledged him with a minute nod.

This time, Draco made sure to be walking at Potter's side as they drifted back towards the center of the gathering. Ahead, bells were shaking, announcing the start of one of the contests of skill that Lughnasadh was also known for.

"Are you taking part in any of them?"

Draco started, then convinced himself that Potter was in fact talking to him, and shook his head. "I haven't had time this year to train. And if I'm going to do something like that, I want to be the best. What about you?"

"The broom race."

Draco snorted spontaneously. "And you think that's going to give a fair chance to the other competitors?"

Potter grinned. "It's not about giving them a fair chance. It's about showing off strong magic to acknowledge the holiday and doing the best you can because that's what a celebration deserves."

In older days, it had also been about showing off strength or skill that might win the attention of a prospective bride, husband, or parents of a young wizard or witch. Draco eyed Potter's naked chest and wondered if he actually had come here with that purpose in mind.

He can't be sure which of the people who would love to date him want him for himself, so he takes the ancient way?

But there were other people walking around with bare chests as well, including people who were married. Draco decided that he could not put stock in the possibility he'd thought of unless Potter said something else concerning it.

"Harry! Are you ready for the broom race?"

That was the witch Potter had been dancing around the Lughnasadh fire with earlier. The relaxed way Potter smiled at her stirred a bolt of jealousy in Draco's brain. He managed to breathe in and out, although audibly enough that Potter gave him a curious glance.

"Yes, I'm coming, Delilah." Potter seemed to Draco to cant his hip out unnecessarily as he turned to look back. "Are you going to watch the broom race?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Draco lied, but he ambled behind Potter towards the course that would be flown, between a great oak at the top of this hill and a distant one on another mound. Both were marked by tied, swinging ears of corn.

"Rules are simple!" shouted a tall wizard who wore purple robes and, it seemed to Draco, studied the bare chests of half the participants in the race disapprovingly. "You will fly to the other tree, touch the other ear of corn with your wand, and fly back, then touch the other ear of corn! Both are enspelled to register your wands, just the way we do at the Ministry! Cheating is not tolerated!"

Potter, standing next to the same Cleansweep broom that everyone in the race was using, on a stretch of shining grass, smiled a little. Draco stepped to the side, and Potter turned that smile on him.

"Ready!" the purple-robed wizard shouted, and all the brooms jumped upwards. "Go!"

Potter leaped off the ground like a phoenix in flight, and was out across the gap between the two hills before half the other wizards were off the ground. He was flying so fast that Draco had trouble making him out. But he was able to see that wide grin as Potter leaned out from his broom and touched his wand to the far ear of corn, hitting it so hard that it wavered back and forth and nearly broke its twine.

Draco caught his breath as Potter went madly around the other side of the tree, rolling to the side and nearly banging his head into the nearest branch-crook, and then he was streaming back, first of them all, easily first of them all, and touching his wand to the home ear of corn with a breathless laugh.

The purple-robed wizard insisted on examining the corn to make sure that the magical signatures were correct, but he could have just as easily used his eyes. Potter straightened and stretched, his shoulders shifting back and forth in a display of power that Draco couldn't keep his own eyes from.

And then Potter turned around and caught him staring.

Draco felt his face flush violently, but Potter didn't seem upset, if the slow smile he gave Draco was any indication. But he moved away instead of towards him, and Draco was left to wonder what he wanted to happen next.

When he went to watch the sacrifice of the bull, he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Potter along the side of the pen, and then he knew.

Potter sighed a little as he watched the purple-robed wizard, who seemed to be in charge of most of the activities at this particular Lughnasadh celebration, sharpen the large knife that he would use. "This is the part that Hermione objected to most."

"The sacrifice?" Draco spoke without taking his eyes from the bull. Someone had draped garlands of flowers around the beast's neck. The bull twitched his tail now and again, but seemed more bewildered than anything. Now and then he dipped his head to try and reach the flowers to eat them.

"Yes. She said once that she thought enough blood had been spilled in the wizarding world since she first entered it."

"What did you say back?"

Strangely, given the quickness of his answers today up until that point, Potter stayed silent. Draco turned to look at him. Potter was still watching the bull, but his eyes were narrowed in thought.

"I told her that blood spilled for a greater purpose is different," he finally said.

Draco might have answered, but the bull stamped his forefoot and bellowed then, and he turned hastily back to see a pair of witches, among them Potter's friend Delilah, take hold of the horns. They held the bull steady despite his tossing, and Draco suspected Sticking Charms on their feet.

But it still made a grand spectacle as another witch knelt below the bull with a great golden goblet, and the purple-robed wizard showed all assembled his blade, his face solemn, before he turned back to the beast.

"We thank you for the gift of your life," he told the bull softly. Draco could hear every word despite the bull's stomping and lowing. "We thank you for the gift of your blood, and so does the earth."

He reached around the bull and slit the beast's throat expertly, with a long slash that Draco knew he couldn't have imitated. The great white hide parted, and the blood came sliding out. The bull slid to his knees in much the same motion, and the witches holding his horns softly began to sing songs of mourning; Draco could make out that much from the tone, although he didn't know the languages they were using.

The third witch with the golden goblet carefully caught as much of the bull's blood as possible. She would make a great circle around the site of the gathering, Draco knew, and spill libations of the blood into the fires and on the tables that had held the firstfruits, and at the roots of some of the trees and perhaps into the garlanded well that Draco had spotted in the distance. Wizards hoping for luck in the coming year followed her.

Potter didn't move.

Draco glanced at him. "Think you have all the luck you want?"

"Well. Maybe." Potter gave him the same narrow-eyed, contemplative look he'd used to discuss spilling blood earlier. Beyond him, the witches had released the horns and were bowing to the bull, and experienced butchers moved in to begin the skinning and preparation process. Everything went faster with magic. They would eat the bull in the Lughnasadh feast that night.

"Maybe?"

"Depends on if you'll agree to eat at my table during the feast."

Draco felt himself freeze. Another part of the traditions that correlated with the contests of skill said that someone courting a young witch or wizard would invite them to their table, and make sure they got the choicest food.

Potter gave him a bland smile. He was leaving it open for Draco to back away, Draco realized. He could pretend ignorance of the tradition, or at least ignorance of what Potter was offering. Potter would likewise be polite and kind, and not ask Draco for more than he could give.

But Draco didn't feel like ignoring what Potter had said any more than he'd felt like staying home for Lughnasadh. He took a deep breath and said, "It would be my honor."

Potter blinked once. Then he held out his hand and asked, "Do you think you could lose the shirt? I've been wondering what's under it all day."

Draco stripped slowly, watching the way Potter's eyes widened, enjoying the way Potter's eyes widened. And when Potter's eyes fell on the silvery scars that marred some parts of his chest and always would, he had the good sense not to say anything.

"You realize that going bare-chested obligates me to take part in the dancing later?" Draco asked calmly. His heart was wild with so many beats that it felt strained.

"I know that." Potter gestured to himself. "I owe someone else another dance. And not Delilah, since I already helped her around the fire."

"Then maybe we can help each other." Draco forced the words past dry lips.

Potter's answering smile was sweet this time, still slow, but not calculated. "Maybe we can."

And he led Draco towards a table, and Draco, the scent of blood and fire and fruit in his nostrils, followed.

The End.