Chapter Text
Several Muggles gathered around the edge of the field, chattering excitedly. He recognized most of them from the village or neighboring farms. He pushed past several of them, garnering some sly looks from the older ladies. As he slid past, he heard them say things like It just appeared overnight and Do you think it was the aliens? No, probably just Joe’s drunken sons playing a prank.
“What’s going on?” He used his authoritative Auror tone.
At the front of the crowd, the farmer stood—looking much like a painting in his overalls and holding a scythe. He turned to Draco. “About twenty-five percent of my harvest ruined, that’s what.”
Then Draco saw it—smack in the middle of the tall barley stalks, there was a gap. The stalks had been bent at a ninety degree angle, but were not snapped. He couldn’t see very far, but it looked like the gap carried on for quite a ways into the field. He’d need to see it from a higher vantage point. He walked closer to the farmer. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Draco Malfoy.”
The farmer gave him a hardy handshake. “Yeah, I see you running past sometimes. Name’s William Jones. I own this farm. Best barley in Wiltshire.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones. So what happened to your field?”
“Hell if I know. Everything was fine last night when I went to bed. Some of the neighbors say they saw some crazy lights in the sky around three AM, but I don’t know if I trust them. It’s likely some kids from the pub decided it would be funny to ruin a man’s crops.”
Draco nodded as if he understood, but he was a little perplexed by how calm everyone seemed. Was this a regular occurrence for them? “Has this, uh—happened before?”
“Not to me, but several years ago Smith’s crops were ruined by one of these… formations. People came from all over to take pictures and his harvest was impacted. Took him a while to recover from the loss. I guess I should consider myself lucky they didn’t go as big this time.”
Draco let Mr. Jones return to his disgruntled rambling as he ran back out onto the road looking for a nearby hill to climb. He spotted one that looked like it might be tall enough and headed that direction. His now damp sweatshirt clung to him as he reached the peak and looked out onto the field. What he saw nearly took his breath away.
A perfect geometrical figure had been pressed into Mr. Jone’s barley. It looked a little like a mandala or some of the alchemical symbols he’d seen in his reading. It was intricate and precise—how could a pair of drunk teenagers create something like this overnight? He looked around to make sure no one was watching before sliding his wand out from his sleeve and summoning his camera. He snapped a few photos and contemplated it for a few moments before beginning the long trek home to shower and get ready for work.