Hesperides' Apple
Chapter 12
November, 1998
Draco's tortured imagination had been replaying Ginny's kiss to a ghost. Chills ran down his spine at the thought, though they were not of fear but of rage. Who was this man that she would prefer over Draco even in death? His incapacity to track down his wife's lover-- even if momentary, even if ghostly-- was driving him insane.
Ginny lay next to him, comfortably asleep under the heavy, blue blanket. The open curtains enabled a thread of moonlight to bathe the room's polished furniture. Golden mirrors' coils and suns embedded in the wall-paper gleamed softly. Draco hadn't felt this noxious since the night of his father's death. Sadness, guilt, and rage were ill cohabitants. At last, his teeth clenched in resolution, he grabbed his wand from where it lay on his night-table. He pressed its tip to the tender valley between Ginny's breast and hip-bone.
"Prostateo akmazo koilia. (1)"
A yellow light spilled like syrup from the wand and insinuated itself under the covers, glowing for a few seconds like a coiled serpent in Ginny's bowels, then vanishing. Draco placed the wand back on the table. Calculatedly, he slipped himself behind the woman in his bed. He fit his body to match hers, his knees in the crook of hers, her head nested in his chin, her hips impeccably cradled in his. Then, delicately, he slipped his hand below the covers and under her nightie. When his fingers brushed against her nipple, she jerked. He did it again, and her reaction was slower; a small, languorous shudder accompanied by a whimper.
Draco felt her body awaking against his. He smiled smugly. Another caress on her breast and her hand closed around his wrist. She held it there for a few seconds, sighed, but, incapable of ignoring his suggestive touch, she turned around and flattened herself against him. The movement, though he had been hoping for it, caught Draco by surprise. A jolt of desire shot through him. He grabbed her roughly, tangling one hand in her hair and holding her firmly with the other, then began kissing her as if both their lives depended on it.
Theirs didn't, but the new Malfoy heir's did.
***
Blaise Zabini hadn't had a good night's sleep in a week. Night, which he had once welcomed as cool and quieting, was like time stolen from him, hours that stood between him and the repaying of his debt. He had been tossing and turning between his sheets. Darkness was like an additional, smothering blanket. And then, like in a dream, a familiar voice filled his ears….
"Yeah, Zabini, because you're so talented... at posing...." (2)
He woke up with a start. That was when he had heard his last name pronounced like Ginevra Malfoy had at Samhain. By Weasley's sister. By Potter's girlfriend.
Merlin's balls! Could it be?
Regardless of whether it was or wasn't a reasonable possibility,-for everything, as every Slytherin knew, was a possibility-, it was his only lead. He was determined to exploit it. At last, he fell asleep, and for the first time in days, his slumber was unperturbed.
***
Ginny was curled up in a vast armchair by the fire. On her lap lay an original copy of One Thousand and One Nights, its pages of khawi (3) made yellow by time and brown by the old ink. Rich illustrations shone in the margins. Ginny turned each page with great precaution and a delight that reminded her of her childhood, happily spent reading her father's books. Arabic's pitch-black arabesques coiled and shot like living creatures. Narcissa had given her a pair of glasses that, when placed on one's nose, directly translated the text one wished to read.
Narcissa sat in the opposite armchair, her position and reading material-Milton's Paradise Lost-more dignified than her daughter-in-law's. The fire's flames illuminated her face, casting orange and red flares on her increasingly emaciated features. The elder woman lifted her head to peer out the window. She was met with the sight of a desolate landscape, where stripped trees emerged like nails from the frozen ground. Glumly, she reached for her tea-cup, but a tremor shook her hand and she dropped it. The noise of shattered porcelain withdrew Ginny from her reading and caused a house-elf to appear in the act. It tried to scoop up the remains of the tea-cup.
"Go away," Narcissa hissed, holding her head. "There's a reason why you and your lot are confined to the kitchen, elf, and that's because your ugliness makes people sick. Now go!"
The house-elf stifled a squeak, grabbed the shards, and hugging them tightly against its bleeding chest, disappeared. Ginny gave Narcissa a dark look, but she was more surprised by her appearance than by her outburst. Her face and forearms, the only expanse of her skin exposed, were covered with a thin film of sweat. Shudders coursed through her, spiking the fine hair on her forearms.
"Narcissa," Ginny began, and the woman lifted her face. Her pupils were dilated, eating up her eyes, and her lips were oddly pale. Paradoxically, red blotches appeared on her cheeks.
"It goes away," she whispered. Her voice was strained.
Narcissa closed her eyes and pushed her head back so that it rested on the armchair. Ginny watched as hesitant breaths swelled and deflated her chest. After a few minutes, where the silence was perturbed only by Narcissa's gasps, the elder woman appeared to catch her breath and calm down. Her skin became again pale and lusterless, in a way that was customary to Narcissa but that made Ginny realize something was wrong.
"You're sick, aren't you?" she declared more than asked.
Had she not known the woman, Ginny might have taken for real the pure loathing that filled Narcissa's eyes. As it was, she didn't take the glare as being too personal and merely waited for the elder woman to catch her breath.
"Harpy Pox," Narcissa wheezed at last.
A few deep breaths seemed to stabilize her. She slowly regained her composure, apparently used to the illness's sudden bursts. Sitting up straight in the big armchair, she, more than ever, looked like fine china.
"I suppose it's a trend," she continued, lost in thought. "First the Squib children, now the Harpy Pox… Maybe the Dark Lord's parting gift? He was always a fan of irony… Of bitter irony…."
"What do you mean?" Ginny piped in.
"Did you notice how many children are Squibs? Never before has the wizarding population encountered such rates!"
"Never before has the wizarding population neglected to take into account thousands of Muggle-borns and half-bloods…."
"Beyond that, though," Narcissa waved the objection. "It goes deeper. And now the Harpy Pox, and its dreadful, dreadful, effects."
"Impairing of faculties, death?" Ginny recited from memory, having heard Draco rant more than once about the Harpy Pox and its incurable consequences.
Narcissa's lips quivered as she redressed her head and sat, if possible, straighter still. Her hands clasped around the arms of the chair. Ginny forced herself to hold her icy, periwinkle-blue stare.
"Impairing of faculties," Narcissa said in a sordid monochord, "means that one loses the ability to use magic. Do you understand what this means?"
"Yes. Living like Muggles," Ginny retorted, annoyed at Narcissa for taking the ordeal so much at heart. She wasn't exactly the less tended for in the population touched by the Harpy Pox. "I know it seems hard for a pure-blood witch with your standards, but-"
"My parents' standards and my husband's standards are no longer my own, Ginevra. That said, you have no idea what it feels like, being alive and conscious as the magic seeps out of your cells. You have absolutely no idea…"
"But you just said that you-"
Narcissa's little fist slammed against the chair's armrest.
"Do you know how long Lucius fought the evidence?" she barked.
Ginny was surprised and even a little frightened to see Narcissa losing her calm. Whereas temper tantrums had been frequent in the Weasley household, and therefore, treated as part of the daily life, loss of control in Malfoy Manor could bring the whole house down.
"When Draco was given the information, he didn't know how to tell his father! `Though you have despised Muggles all your life, it appears you will soon be one of them.' And when Lucius found out-" She left the sentence unfinished, but a shudder sped through her.
"I'm sorry," Ginny managed.
She was, of course, far from regretting the racist bastard's ironic fate and subsequent death. Indeed, how could she have felt sorry for this man whose submission had nearly caused her life to end, whose alliances were to blame in great part for Voldemort's success, and whose plotting had resulted in the Laws of Blood Purity. And, lastly, whose passion for an equally egocentric wife had not prevented him from breeding a son, said son being the main responsible of her family's death. No, truly, she did not believe her words, but she wasn't surprised to see that Narcissa took it so lightly. Either she believed her or didn't care enough to point out her lack of solicitude.
"He made me swear," Narcissa continued, and there were tears trailing down her cheeks, "an Unbreakable Vow, that should he… should he lose the magic…" She closed her eyes, pressing her lips tightly together in an attempt to bite back a wave of bitterness.
Ginny's eyes gradually widened in horror as she heard Narcissa's words, though a part of her placidly collected the information for later use. Draco's mother opened her eyes at last. She looked desperately at Ginny, her gazed filled with a need for comfort and approval.
"When he got so weak that he could barely lift his wand, let alone cast spells-in the space of two weeks it was over-I honored my Vow." Narcissa's cheeks were now red from the acridity of her tears. "Eastern hemlock, hellebore, asphodel, belladonna, and aconite. You'd think so many poisons maybe balance each other."
Ginny felt tears well up in her eyes as Narcissa named one poisonous plant after the other, sounding as though each additional plant was like a tooth pulled out of her mouth. The pain of this reminiscence was sketched in the woman's aristocratic features, barely smoothened by the relief caused by confiding in someone.
"They don't," Ginny said softly.
"No, they don't." There was a sour edge to Narcissa's tone. "And that was the way he wanted it."
The room's fire-lit darkness had lost its warmth and coziness in the space of a few confessions. Narcissa waved her hand, and a handkerchief twined around her fingers. She dabbed her eyes gingerly.
"Does Draco know?"
"He knows his father well enough to suspect it, but we never told him about the Vow. It was between Lucius and myself, like so many other things. Who could ever imagine that the hand with the Malfoy ring would be the one pouring poison in the Lord Malfoy's last drink…?"
"At least it's also that same hand that held Lord Malfoy's hand as he died in peace," Ginny offered, unsure of how to bring solace to Narcissa. A harsh laugh indicated that this had not been the right thing to say.
"He wouldn't let me hold his hand," she explained, her voice oddly smooth and high-pitched. Only repressed tears give a voice this quality, and Ginny knew it. "Though we had shared everything since my earliest years at Hogwarts, he did not allow me to hold him. He was afraid I might catch the pox. It was his greater fear after his loss of magic. He would have recovered, you know," she said, eyeing Ginny almost defiantly. It was somewhat uncomfortable to hear reserved Narcissa confiding so earnestly in Ginny's un-innocent ears. "He would have lived, but I won't," she added dismally.
"No, Narcissa-" Ginny began.
"The wizarding community has Draco, Draco has you, and so everything is in place. What would I do as a Muggle amidst all this? I'm tired of having my sleep plagued by memory. Do you know how painful it is to see your worst, guiltiest memories replayed to you, ten-fold, at every hour, night and day? (4) Painful enough to drive the magic out of you. Or even life."
Narcissa had regained her composure. Her words were calm and measured, as if she had been announcing the weather. Ginny, used to drama and emphatic declarations, was chilled to the bone by Narcissa's statements. She had no way of knowing whether she could trust her words or not. Rather than unnecessarily alarming Draco, she decided to wait and see whether the illness progressed without Narcissa's resolution fading.
***
The main hall of Lud Library buzzed with activity. Witches and wizards, their arms spilling with books and parchment, whizzed from one room to the next like a soap bar on bathroom tiles. They completely ignored the slow pace dictated by the enormous clock in the center of the hall, its large copper hand slowly announcing the passage of time. The library's café was niched in a corner of the hall, hidden between two porphyry columns and flights of steps. Marble, pink, brown, and white, was everywhere but barely visible, obscured as it was by the mass of scholars and visitors.
At one of the cafe's small tables sat Ginny, her feet plopped on a chair, buried deep into Steinbeck's East of Eden. Occasionally, she would tear a piece of her brownie and dip it into her cup of warm milk, and determining whether her sighs of contentment were due to the book's genius or the chocolate's flavor was a close call.
"Putting one's feet on a chair is extremely unrefined."
Ginny looked up, outraged at the nerve of the intruder, only to find herself face to face with Draco. He pulled the chair and sat where her feet had rested a few seconds ago.
"Mind if I sit? Of course you don't. What witch in her right mind would?"
"One who isn't married to you, and who consequently has no idea how annoying you can be when your wife wants some extra, extra, extra time alone."
Draco didn't appear in the least put out by her words and ordered an espresso. As he sipped it, his inquisitive eyes slid to her face. When she refused to acknowledge his presence, he leaned casually on the table, causing her cup to shiver in its plate. She looked up.
"Aren't you happy I came to pick you up?"
"How did you find me?" she asked, though inwardly she had to admit she was pleased he had left work early to come see her. Knowing him, though, he had something on his mind.
"Insight," he said, shrugging. "You've been tired lately, and nothing calms you like a good book. But you've also been moody, and since only chocolate can remedy that, the only place where you could get both in a pleasant setting was here."
"How did you find me?" she repeated. Was she really that obvious?
"Your beauty is a beacon to those who starve for-"
"Never mind."
Ginny started reading again. He kept staring at her, detailing the faint trail of freckles that dusted her cheeks and the way her lashes cast half-moon shadows on said cheeks. Eventually, she looked up.
"So why, exactly, are you here? Besides to stare at my luminous beauty?"
"Sommers' wife has just opened her art gallery, and I had told Sommers I'd be there."
"Then what are you waiting for?" she said, not tearing her eyes from Steinbeck's magical sentences. "You'll be late."
Draco was surprised by her cutting retort. Though she had been particularly cranky the past few weeks, she had never so blatantly refused him anything. Unfortunately, he knew that claiming the husband's non-contestable power over his wife to drag her to the gallery would fail miserably.
"I was hoping you would accompany me," he said smoothly.
"No."
"What?"
"I said `no', Draco. No as in, `No, I'm not going with you to that silly bint's, probably tasteless, art gallery.'"
"You don't even know if it's tasteless," he countered ineffectually. He couldn't show up there without Ginevra, particularly after the way she had played with their children and charmed Sommers.
"That's hardly the point, though, is it…? I'm not going and that's the end of it."
She expected him to get up angrily and stalk off, as she most certainly would have had she been in his situation. He called for a second espresso and biscotti. Then, patiently, he watched as her eyes flew across the pages of her book in an attempt to prove that she was ignoring him.
"How about you just tell me what's wrong?" he asked at last, his voice low and soothing.
Ginny's control cracked.
"What's wrong?" she hissed, slamming her book shut and leaning across the table. "I'll tell you what's wrong, Draco Malfoy. I haven't had you to myself for more than five minutes in the past three weeks. Business cocktails, dinners, parties, equestrian races, golf, and now gallery openings!" She heard the words spilling from her mouth before she understood what she was saying. Am I giving Draco Malfoy, archenemy of my family since birth, hell because he doesn't spend enough time with me? This is not good… "I am sick and tired of all these people you mingle with! They're always there, every single day of the week, and clearly you're used to that, but I can't take it anymore. Not right now. Not with that Sommers bint. Get back to me in a few days."
Draco looked at her, amused. She was breathing rapidly and her eyes shone like melting gold. He had rarely seen her so peeved, much less about him. It pleased him to no end.
"And wipe that smug look off your face," she grumbled, returning to her book.
It didn't take him long to weigh the pros and cons of gratifying her. He could leave her here, alone and annoyed, or spend some time with her, a rare occurrence these past weeks, and one that he had come to miss. The realization surprised him, but he wasn't one to ignore his instincts, and this one told him to be considerate.
"So what would you want to do?"
"Finish my book and brownie in peace," she gritted out.
"I mean together."
Ginny's head snapped up and she eyed him, amazement and disbelief etched in her features. She stared wordlessly at him for a few seconds, as if testing the seriousness of his words, and eventually concluded that Draco was never in a joking mood. A soft smile hesitated on her lips.
"What about the gallery opening?"
"Mrs. Sommers will have to make do without my extraordinary presence."
"Not that extraordinary, given the time you spend with them," Ginny observed sourly. He frowned and, remembering the concession he had just made, she quickly added, "Doesn't matter. Hmmm…" She slipped a strand of hair in her mouth, trying to think. Draco wondered why he suddenly wished her hair wasn't so much like his mother's. For a moment, it appeared so unfamiliar on her, and to a certain extent, out of place. "Ice cream," she said at last.
"No, the level of your voice is actually back to normal."
"I want ice cream, Malfoy," she said. "Lord Malfoy," she amended sweetly. "Will you come and get some with me?"
"I'm always up for getting some," he said. A sly grin crept on his thin lips.
Ginny rolled her eyes, then shoved her book and the remaining of the brownie in her orange straw bag. He held out his arm for her, and she complied with a little sigh of contentment, pleased that he was blatantly ignoring one of his duties to go get her ice-cream. His unpredictability was always alarming, but for once, she found herself enjoying it.
"You know what I like about you?" he said flatly as they exited the Lud Library.
"That I'm the only person who can get you to do what you'd rather be caught dead than seen doing?"
"There's that, yes. There's also the fact that in the middle of a rather cold and dreary November day where everyone is wearing gray, black, or brown, you can be seen from about a mile away because you're wearing lime-green robes with an orange bag and a sunflower in your hair."
Ginny shrugged. Retrospectively, she had to admit he was right.
"It makes people happy."
"It makes me happy, which is all you should be worrying about," he said.
"Aren't you quite the self-centered brat…"
"Prince, actually. I got my despicableness degree quite a while ago."
Yell-O-brik Road (5) shot straight before them, a wide, evenly paved street lined with trees and fancy shops. They were in the upper-class district of Stonehenge City, an exclusively wizard village founded after the death of Voldemort to serve as the new capital of wizarding Britain. It had quickly grown into a small city, a process quickened by the relocation of the Ministry of Magic and the railroad line linking Stonehenge City to Hogwarts. Ginny lead Draco slowly toward Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor.
"So, are you trying to put an end to world hunger, one brownie at a time?"
"No, I just don't take food for granted."
"But it is," he said, looking at her as if she had just made some outrageous joke. "Besides, it's a brownie. The elves would have been delighted to build the wall of China with brownies for bricks."
"I don't want the wall of China, though. I want an-ah…" She clapped her hands together like a delighted child.
They had reached the parlor. Its store window was composed of high and pointy glass panels, behind which silver spoons and cones frolicked with spheres of colored ice cream. A tinkle rang when they opened the door. A very small boy with rather pointy ears, blue hair, and freckles immediately ran to them.
"Good evening, miss," he said, bowing slightly to Ginny.
"It's Lady Malfoy to you," Draco drawled.
The boy recognized him and bowed very low, offering his humblest apologies to the Lord and Lady Malfoy, whom he was an imbecile not to have identified immediately, and whom, he hoped, would find the modest ice-cream appreciable. Ginny elbowed Draco. He gave her a satisfied smirk.
"You can't just do that," she whispered, bent over the boxes of ice cream in the showcase.
"Sure I can. I just did."
"Did you see that boy? He was terrified. What did he ever… Excuse me?" she called to the blue-haired kid. "Would you recommend the `Dulce de Leche' or the `Nutella'?"
"Nothing beats either of these," he answered honestly, "but they're not as good frozen as in the regular way. What I would suggest, however, is mango and pear ice cream, topped with a copious amount of warm Nutella."
Stars shone in Ginny's eyes, and Draco stifled a laugh.
"I'll take that, please. Thank you." Turning to Draco, she murmured, "Did you see the language he uses? `Copious', `however'. I wonder how old he is. What was I saying? Oh, yes. What did he ever do to you for you to scare him like that?"
"It's not so much as what he did as what he is. I was born a Malfoy; he wasn't, and that justifies my being as imposing and terrifying as I want to be." He waved his hand dismissively as the boy inquired whether he would like an ice-cream, too.
"Thank you," Ginny purred as her hands closed around the cone. "How much do I-"
"On the house, Lady Malfoy, of course," he stammered as Draco glared at him.
"Why, I-" Ginny stopped herself, seeing how pale and pleading the boy was. "Thank you very, very much. Have a lovely evening."
The tip of the boy's hair almost touched the ground as he bowed. Draco held the door open.
"It's Lady Malfoy to you," Ginny mimicked as she stepped out. She pressed her lips against the scoop of mango sorbet.
Draco didn't wait for her to finish her diatribe and kissed her. The sweetness of mango struck his palate. She hummed with pleasure, savoring his mouth as she had the ice cream. He pulled back and licked a spot of Nutella from her lower lip. They walked on, failing to see the sales-boy's face in the display window. It had turned a bright pink.
They ambled down Yell-O-Brik road, which was slowly blushing in the light of the sunset. Peach and prune shadows swelled on the facades of the shops. More than one person turned to stare at them, and a few women clearly gawked. Ginny shot them evil glares.
"You've certainly had this on your mind for quite a while," Draco began.
"What? The ice cream? You?" she wondered, trying to remember what she had been thinking about in the past ten minutes.
"My not being available enough."
"Oh," she laughed, "you're always available. We have dinner together, and breakfast, sometimes. There's always someone there, though. I see enough people during the day that I don't feel like seeing them in the evening. You, on the other hand, are a busy and elusive Houdini."
"Watch your mouth."
"He was a Muggle who pretended to be a magician, you twit," she retorted naturally.
Her choice of vocabulary surprised him. No one had ever dared to call him a twit, except for Blaise Zabini, Vivian Silverspring, and of course, Harry Potter and his miserable side-kicks.
"He specialized in escape," she added.
"Yeah, always was particularly good at that," he muttered darkly, and tightened his grip around her. "But don't you enjoy your days?" he asked to change the topic.
"What kind of question is that? I enjoy some days, others not as much. Not seeing you just makes it harder," she said honestly. "I just wish I could take up Mediwitch studies and-"
"No."
Ginny dared a look to Draco's face and saw his lips firmly pressed against each other in a sign of annoyance. The lampposts began lighting up. The air was damp and cold, and it left a shiny film on the paved street.
"Please?" she added after a few minutes, fighting back the urge to giggle.
"No," he repeated, frowning.
"Just for-"
"I said no, Ginevra," he snapped, turning to her. "Malfoy women don't-"
"Have a job," she finished for him, her eyes filled with merriment. She caressed his cheek and leaned in as if to kiss him. Then, softly, she said, "I know. But change can be good. Besides," she continued, and grinned widely, "it pisses you off so easily, and you're just so funny when you're peeved."
"Witch," he growled as she pulled her head back without kissing him.
"I wouldn't be married to you if I wasn't. And you'd be damn sorry about it, too."
"Now, what is this? Ginevra Malfoy, cursing like a sailor…."
"Oh give it a rest, Draco Malfoy, I've heard you cuss like there's no tomorrow when that wax you use to seal your letters dripped on your fingers."
"I have sensitive skin," he said primly.
"And I have delicate ears."
"And a foul mouth."
"That you enjoy very much."
"Touche. Particularly when it's streaked with Nutella."
"Shoot. Do I still have some on my lips?"
He pretended that she did and used that excuse to thoroughly snog her.
(1) From an attempt at ancient Greek: "prostateo", protect; "akmazo", ripe; "koilia", womb. I have not respected declinations and this is a direct translation. Do not hate me for my ignorance in dead languages.
(2) "Yeah, Zabini, because you're so talented… at posing…" is of course an excerpt from JK Rowling's Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Those are Ginny's actual, canon words.
(3) "Finer than lamb parchment and of yellow color."
(4) Harpies, in Greek mythology, were winged creatures with sharp talons who punished crime on the Earth. They, logically, plagued only the culprits and guilty, though here the Harpy Pox can affect anyone; it is just harsher on people who have committed offenses.
(5) The Yellow Brick Road is not mine! It belongs to whoever came up with the Wizard of Oz world. (Naycit, my dear beta-reader who actually knows her classics, points out that it is L. Frank Baum)
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