Hesperides' Apple
Chapter 7
Ginny was awakened by Draco's hands brushing gently against her stomach. She pretended to be sleeping. One hand dipped lower, very softly, while the other flattened against her breast like a bird's wing. She flipped around to face him. His eyes were heavy with desire and remnants of sleep.
"I was sleeping, you know," she muttered.
"But you aren't anymore," he answered, pulling her to him.
"No, that's right," she said brightly. Then, as she began to get up, she added, "I'll just go get ready for the day, then, and-"
Draco caught her before she could leave the bed and pinned her beneath him.
"Actually, let's," he said, kissing her on the forehead, "not-" A kiss on the nose. "-get ready-" A kiss on her chin. "-for the day," he finally murmured, his lips almost touching hers.
Ginny grinned mischievously, as if debating the question, then knotted her feet behind his back and brought him closer to her. Chaos ensued.
When they emerged from each other an hour later, Ginny suggested they went to the beach. Draco, sprawled on the bed, was not particularly enthusiastic.
"Oh come on," she pleaded. "Three of Brazil's most beautiful beaches are on this island, and you don't want to risk getting a sunburn?"
"Who said anything about sunburns?" Draco growled, an amused glint in his eyes. "I would much rather enjoy the cool shadow of this tasteful room-in your company, of course," he added slyly.
"How about we go to the beach this morning and then come back here for, uh-a nap?"
Draco scowled. He wasn't used to his girlfriends not doing exactly as he pleased. Then again, she was his wife now. Did that entitle her to more authority?
He didn't think so. He was about to reply when she snuggled against him and murmured throatily, "Imagine the two of us, roasting in the sun for an hour or two. Imagine our skin, warm and glowing like hot gold. Imagine you pulling me under a coconut tree's shade and then having you way with me…."
Draco shut his mouth. Maybe he would let her make a few decisions, after all.
Fernando do Noronha was a little island off the north-eastern coast of Brazil. High cliffs sprang from the sea, lined with splays of white sand, and a cascade of vegetation that broke into generous hills and snug valleys. Animals of all sorts could be seen, though Ginny eventually found out that those most shunned by Draco were mosquitoes and Muggles. Their hotel was a palace of white marble, with arches and colonnades so elegant and frail they could have been made of paper. In the apartments, the living room merged into a veranda, which, in turn, opened on an individual pool and garden. Yellow, orange, and red sunshades bloomed in every corner, while screens of similar hues separated the rooms.
The beach was barely five minutes away from their hotel, though sedan chairs were available. Ginny refused to take one and pulled Draco away from the chair he was longingly admiring.
"Come on," she urged him again.
She had charmed their belongings into a flat basket that she was trying to balance on her head. The attempt made her laugh like a small child, and Draco was too busy observing the exaggerating swing of her hips, necessary for balance, to care. They walked down a series of stairs that dug deep into the luxuriant flora. Eventually, they reached the beach, a secluded expanse of fine sand amidst the mossy walls formed by the cliffs. The sea was of a deep, translucent blue. Ginny dropped the basket on the ground and began running toward the water. As she did so, their possessions tumbled in the sand; two parasols shot up and opened like flowers, while reclining chairs unfolded themselves and towels flew over to cover them. Ginny had brought fruits, amongst which ample provisions of coconuts, whose juice she adored.
"And where are the Hawaiian dancers?" Draco grumbled, but then he looked up to see Ginny's dress discarded on the sand and his wife already halfway in the water.
He had spent the previous nights memorizing every morsel of her body, discovering as he explored faint trails of freckles along her belly and in the crook of her left scapula, a minuscule scar behind her ear, and more beauty spots than he could count. Yet somehow, seeing her jumping around in her simple black bikini, he didn't feel anywhere close to being satiated.
Ginny let the warm water lap her skin, and then she dove. The water closed around her. When she finally brought her head out of the water again, it was to spot the colorful components of their settlement, but no trace of Draco. Uncertainly, she looked around. Everything was silent. The only movement on the beach was the swaying of the trees. A strong arm flashed across her waist and a desperate scream got stuck in her throat. She tried to disengage herself, but both her arms were securely fastened in her aggressor's grip.
"Shhhh," he murmured in her ear, as his hand began to smoothen the lines of her neck, erring on her throat, then fluttering on to her breast.
She looked down as the long fingers which, having pushed her bandeau down, closed around her nipple, and recognized both Draco's hand and his touch. She sighed with relief, her body immediately much more compliant. He was, at first, surprised by the violence of her resistance. She had exuded such a fierce terror, that he almost felt guilty, holding her scared- senseless form against him. But when she relaxed and trailed her hand, which he still held tightly at the wrist, along his hipbone, he promised himself to worry about her reaction later.
Draco let go of Ginny's hands, which she immediately fastened around his neck. He kissed her shoulder blades softly as his hand, nested between her legs, played a more authoritarian tune. She mewled, hauling herself to rub against his throbbing erection. He carried her to where the beach flattened, licked by the dwindling waves, and gently put her down. He lowered himself to her. She bit her lips with anticipation, until a sudden thought crossed her mind.
"What if people come?" she asked, breathless.
"People? Is that what you're thinking of now?"
"Well, not only," Ginny said, her foot trailing suggestively down his thigh.
"It's a private beach, silly minx."
At this, her eyes shone brightly, and she made a noise between laughter and a sigh as he eased himself inside her. Draco's hips thrust powerfully, his body sinking rhythmically in hers, the two of them locked in movement. She screamed, and as her cry spilled into delighted giggles, Draco gave one final push, his mind blank with pleasure, his limbs electrified beyond measure.
They lay on the sand, the sea washing over their spent bodies.
"I told you it was a good idea," Ginny said.
"Remind me to always, always, go with you wherever you want," he sighed.
"The Musee d'Orsay, in Paris."
"But what if people come?" he mimicked her. "And they will," he added sententiously.
"Not for that," she said. "I want to see the paintin-"
Ginny interrupted her sentence mid-way, got up, and walked hurriedly to where their parasols and food supplies awaited them. Draco hoisted himself up slightly. He saw her, wand in hand, casting a spell toward her stomach. He reclined, and when her shadow extended above him, he asked, "What did you do?"
She kneeled next to him and put a coconut spiked with a straw on his stomach.
"I was thirsty, and I remembered we had coconuts! There's nothing sweeter than fresh juice," she said brightly.
Draco observed her as she sipped contentedly, her eyes closed, the corners of her mouth quirked up. He pressed the issue no further. Ginny put her head on his chest and curled into a ball, humming. Slowly, the humming softened, and soon after, she was breathing regularly. Draco couldn't repress a smirk.
Leave it to me to drain witches of their energy...
He picked her up tenderly and carried her back to the lounging chairs, where he deposited her. Without a second's hesitation, he took his wand, found hers, and, pointing to it, he murmured, "Priori Incantem."
A pinkish red smoke poured from Ginny's wand, curling into many folds that appeared gorged with blood. Within the sanguinary cocoon, a paler shape rested, looking first like a bean, then like a shriveled bean, then more, and more like a fetus. But before it could complete its formation, it turned gray, then black, until it had shrunk into what could have been nothing more than a dead embryo.
"Contraceptio"… Well I suppose we would have had to use it, anyway, Draco convinced himself. He was usually the one who insisted on casting the spell, but the determination with which she had executed it made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. After all, we just got married. It's too early.
He thought of the many wizards born a mere seven months into their parents' wedding, and of Narcissa's desire to be a grandmother. He saw Ginny playing with the Sommers' children as if they had been her own. In a deeper corner of his mind, he also imagined Ginevra with a round belly, and then holding her son, their son, against her engorged breast, but quickly willed the vision away.
Really too early, he added for good measure.
***
"This is so rustic," Draco groaned.
He looked around, annoyed, at the ring shaped dining room of the restaurant Ginny had chosen. Its floors and furniture were wooden; gnarled trees and vines held the ceiling together, and it was rather crowded. There were no walls or windows, leaving the night to sweep through the restaurant. And because the jungle was so exuberant, it sent leaves and flowers rolling on the floor, usurping the nocturnal air's invitation within. A singer's throaty voice curled its way through songs, barely emerging above the lively chatter.
Ginny, reminded of Hogwarts and Durmstrang's bursting commotion during meals, eyed the moving silhouettes eagerly. Her husband's exasperation could not dampen her mood.
"Apparently, they serve the best seafood here," Ginny said, "and the ambiance is lively, though that much is obvious."
"At least there aren't any Muggles," Draco said, looking around aimlessly.
Ginny knew that picking a fight on their honeymoon was not a good idea, so it was with great softness and humility that she asked, "How can you tell?"
Draco's attention darted back to her.
"They're wearing robes."
"Beyond that," she said, rolling her eyes. "How could you tell if, say, they were all naked? Just looking at them, or even speaking to them of random stuff like the weather or raising children, do you thing you could make out a difference?"
"Sure," he retorted. "Muggles would be confused if I told them that my children will know better than to speak with strangers or, worse, Mudbloods."
"You know what I mean," Ginny snapped, more aggressively than she would have wished. "What makes you so sure that we, as pure-blood wizards, are worth more than them?"
"Power," he said easily. "You could fight off an entire army of Mudbloods with a wand, whereas they'd have a hard time dealing with a single other Mudblood."
Ginny cringed as he employed the term.
"The knowledge accumulated by Wizards makes their encyclopedias and text books look like kids' stories!" he continued. "They are ignorant, weak, worthl-"
"I bet you grew up hearing your father say this," she said bitterly, failing to keep her temper in check.
She saw his eyes narrow ever so slightly and hoped she hadn't gone too far.
"You did not know my father," he said coolly.
"No. How was he?" she asked, prejudiced but curious.
"He was an amazing man. Of course, he had a lot going for him, in the first place. He was a pure-blood, very intelligent, rich, and, luckily enough, handsome. He molded his charm and wisdom to serve his calculating mind, and trust me when I say that he plotted beyond what the average mind can even conceive. The only one ever to beat him to this game was the Dark Lord, and my father paid the price, then. But he always was a master in dealing with people, and that's why he has always been respected."
Ginny looked at Draco as he was saying this, nodding noncommittally while she noted the pride imbuing every word. How could children be raised in such a fashion that their perspective became so warped?
"And no matter what," Draco continued, "everything he did, he did well, and for those whom he loved."
"Who was that?' Ginny said, incredulously.
"My mother, at first. I think he knew it from the moment he saw her placing the Sorting Hat on her head. Of course, by then he was barely thirteen, and she was still a little girl of eleven. But he befriended her, helped her with her homework, and accompanied her to her classes like any older brother would do-"
That's what you think, Ginny thought. Actual brothers never do such things…
"-until she became a dazzling young woman of fifteen, and she stopped seeing him as the brother she'd never had."
"He became the husband she would have?"
"About three years later, when she finished her seventh year at Hogwarts."
"So he loved her, yes. And what about you?" she asked, having grown under the impression that he had been a spoiled heir, deprived from nothing save for parental affection.
"At first my father was too engrossed with my mother to even think of sharing her with a third person. My grandfather had to remind him of his `obligations', and even then, I came along about four years after they were married."
"My eldest brother was born about six months after my parents eloped," Ginny laughed. "They didn't mind sharing the love."
"Well, eventually, my father came around, too. When he saw how handsome I was…" He grinned winsomely.
Ginny snorted and rolled her eyes, but a smile tweaked the corner of her lips. She set her head in her hand, urging him to go on.
"I guess he saw so much of my mother and himself in me that he felt it would be a great achievement if he could raise me to surpass them. In a way, I only became more than simply my parents' son because I was able to be better than that, better than what they had expected me to be. At least, that's the way he saw things."
"And what do you think? Have you fulfilled your father's expectations?"
He looked weirdly at her, and for a second, she was worried her prodding had been too intimate. Then, for the first time, she saw incertitude; that incertitude that had always pushed him to appear so strong, so certain, so cruel. Until he knew whether he was up to par, he would not cease to be an overachiever-at school, then at work, and eventually at home. Ginny did not want her children to live with constant, nagging doubt of oneself.
My children? she suddenly wondered. What am I thinking…? Not that I'm having any-with him, at least. But the thought made her uneasy. She took his hand and pressed it to her lips.
"Don't answer that," she said. "I've asked too much, and you'll tell me if, and when you want to."
"Thank you," he replied sarcastically, but he slipped his fingers past hers and brushed them on her cheek. "Now, Mrs. Malfoy, enough about me-though I have to admit, it was a very pleasant conversation on a fascinating topic. How about I play reporter now?"
"Fire away," she said, grinning. Draco enquiring about someone other than himself was too rare an occasion to miss.
"Your parents eloped. Why?"
He laughed at the un-dissimulated look of surprise on her face.
"Yes, I have been paying attention. Father always said that listening was essential to figure out people's weaknesses."
"And I bet this became your motto as soon as you could talk, helping you to tease and twist people to your will?"
"Pretty much, yes. I only enjoyed it for a while, during my first years at Hogwarts. I particularly relished exasperating three kids, amongst them Harry Potter, my arch-nemesis at the time."
"Harry Potter?" she whispered admiringly.
A scowl darkened his face. Ginny figured he had never completely outgrown his dislike for the hero of the Wizarding world-neither would she have, had somebody brought opprobrium to her family the way Harry had done in his. Draco looked at her menacingly.
"Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he said. Her breath got stuck in her throat. "Avoiding questions and getting me to talk about myself…." She let out a very discrete sigh. "I'll get back to you in due time. But yes, I attended school with the Boy-Who-Lived, or Perfect Potter as we liked to call him."
Ginny had the good grace to giggle.
"And how was he?" she asked.
"A bloody fame-seeking brat," he snapped. She eyed him questioningly. "Okay, maybe not. He was famous enough without needing to do anything, but he got so caught up in his "fighting evil" gig that he thought he was allowed anything. He and his two sidekicks bent so many rules that they should have been expelled three times over, but only won awards and points for their house instead. Bloody Golden Trio…."
"Surely if they weren't expelled-"
"Yes, they did kill a Basilisk and ward off the Dark Lord's minions quite a few times, if that's what you mean. And for that they were adored. There wasn't a spark of compassion in them, though. Not a hint of understanding."
Well that's rich, coming from you, Ginny thought. But she perceived the hurt in his tone and wondered if perhaps there had been more to the prat of a Malfoy he had been at Hogwarts.
"I-in my sixth year, I was…assigned to a mission by the Dark Lord."
Ginny looked at him, horrified. What was he thinking, speaking of such things in public?
"Don't worry, I was cleared," he waved dismissively, assessing the exact nature of her thoughts. "I had to get rid of Dumbledore, or my parents would be tortured, then killed, in front of my very eyes. I would subsequently undergo a very painful treatment, of course, and my final choice would have been between Dementor and werewolf. When I say choice, I don't mean I would actually have had any say in it."
Ginny sat there, peering into his expressionless, gray eyes. Behind him, people had begun dancing and waiters, like Chinese shadows in the background, slipped from table to table. Yellow and reddish flames lit the tables dimly. Draco could just as well have been talking about his last trip to Guatemala, had it not been for the grave tone of his voice. Ginny said nothing. She knew all of this. She simply had never imagined it to be so-so-dreary and clear.
"So I tried a few things, but nothing worked, and I was dying because I knew I was sentencing my parents to death. The Amazing Trio, now they were content because my father was in jail, and they felt that, no matter what they did, they were untouchable. Well, I had felt invincible all my life, until Voldemort…" The name was like pain made sound. "…decided I would make up for my father's mistakes. Do you know how it feels to try killing the only person who has a chance to rid you of the man who is threatening your family?" he asked almost desperately.
She shook her head.
"I couldn't do it. When the moment came, and he was at my mercy, I-couldn't-do-it. My Potions Master took care of it, however, though whether to protect me or get the praise, I never knew. Voldemort was glad. Only then, I suppose, did Potter and his friends get a feel for what my life had been since the battle at the Ministry."
Loneliness beyond measure. Fear, incertitude, shock, fear, fear raging in their hearts. Ginny remembered what the death of Dumbledore had meant to them all. Was that what Draco had endured, alone, for a year?
"They sent me back. Said I managed to run away. Potter saw that I couldn't kill Dumbledore and, apparently, he even vouched for me." Draco snorted. He caressed his wine glass listlessly. "The Ministry took me in, to protect me, they said. That was precisely what Voldemort wanted; I was to feed him information. But even then, people didn't trust me. There was nothing I could give him. He grew impatient. He grew angry."
A thought seemed to cross his mind, and he closed his eyes. Lines like spider legs appeared at the corner of his closed eyelids. When he opened his eyes, Ginny felt she was peering into clear, unspoiled metal.
"Harry Potter killed him, eventually. They both died. Few are those who know exactly what happened. They-vanished," he concluded.
Yeah, nobody knew because most of those who did were Muggle-borns or half-bloods, and they were tactfully shoved away, Ginny thought, annoyed. Her anger toward him wasn't nearly as exacerbated as she would have liked it to be.
"So," Draco said smoothly. "Now that I have once again indulged in my anti-Potter ranting, how about you tell me why your parents eloped."
"Are you grateful to him?" she asked.
He nodded serenely, then quirked his eyebrow and mouthed, "elopement".
"They were really young, barely out of school, in fact. And my mother's family didn't really like my dad's. Thought they were all eccentric. I mean, they were, but not in a bad way. Some wizards said they were crazy, others claimed they were genial… I'm more in favor of the latter explanation, of course." Draco smiled. "But that wasn't sufficient to justify a wedding. My mum threw a temper and convinced my dad to kidnap her. They were happily married ever since."
"And had many children?" he teased.
"Actually, yes. Seven, including me."
"All dwarves?" he asked innocently.
She gave him a dark look.
"I'm the shortest of my family, let me inform you. Well, besides my mum. And I'm not that short, anyway."
"No, of course not."
Draco smirked at Ginny who, flustered, stuck her straw into her mouth and drank her cocktail at an alarming speed. He watched her, impassible, a malicious smile on his lips.
"In fact, since you're so tall, I think you could easily stand to finish my drink as well," he said, pushing his glass toward her.
"Draco Malfoy, are you trying to get me drunk?" she asked, the alcohol coursing electrifyingly through her.
"Mmmh, maybe."
"What a silly idea," she said, plucking the cherry from his drink and bringing it slowly to her mouth. He watched as the fruit and her fingers slid enticingly between her lips.
"We'll see about that."
***
Draco was spending the day in New York, where American share-holders expected his annual speech. Ginny, abruptly deprived of Draco's presence, had headed for St. Mungo's to ward off idleness. The receptionist greeted her with a smile and made no objection to her walking over to the fourth floor. She ambled down the lemony yellow walls, nodding to a Medi-witch or a patient here and there. The air smelled like cotton candy, a scent whose sweetness disturbed Ginny ever time she came. Somehow, the sugariness of the entire floor clashed with its inhabitants' misfortunes. The young woman reached the room she was looking for and peered in. Seeing only its two usual occupants, she walked in.
"Hello, Alice, Frank," she said brightly.
Frank looked up softly, responding to her voice rather than to his name.
"And how have you been?" she asked him.
Frank Longbottom looked at her passively, then curled his fingers to form a fist and stuck it out. He eyed his own hand for a minute while Ginny rearranged his pillows. Then he opened his hand slowly, the stretched-out fingers forming a pink sun. When he could extend the sun no further, he wiggled his fingers and laughed.
"Now that's a neat trick," she said.
"Shrivelfig," he retorted calmly.
Ginny clapped her hands flat against each other, then rotated them, letting her middle fingers spring from the back of her hand like a unique, double-headed finger. Frank let out an appreciative sigh, which degenerated into ecstatic giggles when she jiggled her fingers. His laugh shook Alice Longbottom out of her torpor. She had been sitting on her bed, facing the window, but she turned around and looked at Ginny and her husband with a small, sad smile on her lips. She was often uncertain of how to reach Alice, since offering her sweets was a gesture Ginny would never have stolen from Neville. She was glad to see the wrappings of Carambars, Duvalin and Kerokerokeropi Bubble-Gum (1), proof of Neville's world-traveling and devotion to his parents. Though they represented an undeniable burden to him, Ginny was glad that they had been brought to St. Mungo's in time to be saved. And although their mind hadn't been spared, at least they were still somewhat there.
Ginny knocks against the door, a piece of parchment crumpled in her hand. When no one answers, she hits the door frantically as sobs course through her.
"Open the door! Open the door, Hermione, open the door! It's me, now open, open, oh God, open the door, please,!" Her voice breaks.
The door opens and Hermione is standing there, a somber look on her face. Ginny throws the parchment to her face, walks a few steps into the apartment, and falls to the floor, sobbing.
"He wasn't dead? He wasn't dead?" she sobs.
"No, he wasn't," Hermione replies coolly, not knowing how she will explain the rest.
Ginny,
Percy came to my flat. He is dead. I had to leave. Meet me at 13 Wandsworth High Street, London.
Mione.
The thought that Hermione could have killed him hadn't crossed her mind until the door was between them, a possible barrier between the avenged widow and the confused sister. But now Ginny has lost her brother again. Hermione owed her an explanation.
"How?" Ginny croaks.
"I-He-Out the window. Eight floors. I doubt the Medi-wizards were of much use."
Bitterness streams through Ginny, a mix of bile and tears, incomprehension adding to her grief.
"Come," Hermione says, kneeling by Ginny and pulling the young woman to her.
She has never felt comfortable hugging people, much less weeping ones, but somehow she feels like she is nursing just another one of her own aching wounds. Ginny lets herself be cradled as she cries, cries additional tears wrenched from her already desiccated body. When all she can feel is the desolate silence in her purged body, Ginny asks again, "How?"
Hermione knows Ginny too well to try feeding her some reassuring fable. And so, to pull Ginny from her lethargy, but also to serve the ravenous anger building within her, Hermione helps her sister-in-law get up and leads her to the Pensieve. Ginny is mute and still as they dive into Percy's memory, hand in hand.
"Mr. Weasley?" came a voice from behind Percy.
He turned around and was surprised to see the Prime Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour himself, standing in front of him. He awkwardly got to his feet, shaking Scrimgeour's offered hand.
"I need to have a conversation with you," the elder man said.
Percy nodded, uncertain, flattered by the Minister's attention. He followed the ex-Head of the Auror Office down a series of steps. As they descended, Scrimgeour started to talk.
"Percival, you will, I hope, forgive me for being so blunt. I know you are extremely aware of the happenings in the Wizarding world, however, and that is why I have decided to call on you."A pause. " You see, what with You-Know-Who gaining more and more power as we speak and Harry Potter missing, the Ministry finds itself at a loss for supporters. Men and women across the country are scared, Percival, and like any scared being, they are capable of anything to protect themselves. Unfortunately, that includes disavowing the Ministry. Our supporters' ranks are dwindling; our Aurors are being killed like flies. To tell you the truth, I am running out of ideas to maintain order and authority."
Percy listened to the Minister's tirade, his face a grave mask, fear brewing inside him as he heard a man whom he respected admitting his incapacity to master events. They proceeded along the torch-lined hallway that led to the courtrooms.
"We need dedicated wizards, wizards whom everyone knows and respects, to stand by the Ministry. And I am sure that, clever as you are, you understand the impact your family would have if they agreed to clearly state their approval of the Ministry. Unfortunately," he added, giving Percy a pointed look, "it would appear that the Weasleys have vanished."
Percy stared straight ahead. Scrimgeour opened the door to Courtroom Ten and let Percy in. Deserted rows of seats greeted them. The chair in the center of the barely lit room sent shivers down Percy's spine, but the Ministry, nonplussed, walked down the rows, eventually sitting down.
"If only you could convince them to come out of hiding, we might stand a chance. Surely their siding with us would bring many wizards to our ranks." He motioned for Percy to sit. "Few wizards of your age understand the value of ancient families, but it goes without questioning that such an old and respectable family of powerful wizards could only be an asset."
Percy remained mute, his face like a mask of stone. Scrimgeour gestured to the single, chained chair.
"Do you know how long it has been since a Death Eater sat here? A few hours. Lucius Malfoy sat here and invoked everything he could come up with: his ascendants, his wealth, his family, and his fear, only to justify his having joined the Death Eaters. And you know what? He will walk out of this building a free man."
The young Weasley's head snapped toward Scrimgeour. Surprise and incredulous anger twisted its lines.
"Yes. Wizards understand him because they are afraid. They feel compassionate. After all, there is no actual proof that he ever killed or tortured anyone... `I would have done the same' `Maybe he was just at the wrong place, at the wrong time.' People need to be reminded that there is no such thing. There are cowards, and there are fighters, and you could help everyone by being the link to a group of such fighters."
Percy looked at the Minister, a battle raging in his mind. He pulled a piece of parchment and quill from his pocket. He began writing, "To Rufus Scrimg-" but Scrimgeour stopped him.
"I am not welcome under their roof. I was hoping of sending an Auror, perhaps Shacklebolt, I am not sure yet. Address it to the first reader, and I will make sure one of my Aurors reads it. Percival," he continued as Percy scribbled on the parchment, "there is no way I can adequately express my gratitude. I am sure that, in future times, said gratitude will be shared by the many wizards whose lives you will have contributed to save."
Scrimgeour clapped Percy on the back and slipped the piece of parchment in one of his robe's pockets. Percy, though clearly not entirely convinced by the Minister's last words, looked mildly reassured. In his eyes shone the hope of having done the right thing. They walked out of the courtroom. Hermione pulled Ginny and herself out of the memory.
"So, Scrimgeour is responsible for my entire family's death?" Ginny murmurs, gritting her teeth. "How am I-"
"You didn't see it, did you," Hermione remarks. Ginny eyes her warily.
"What?"
"Let's go back, and look at the pocket where Scrimgeour put the parchment."
They plunged into the Pensieve as Percy and the Prime Minister exited the room. Smoothly, the piece of paper bearing the Burrow's address floated out of Scrimgeour's pocket and hovered toward the center of the room. Ginny followed its progression as the doors closed behind the two men. A long hand with strong fingers wrapped around the parchment. Ginny looked up to see Draco Malfoy's unreadable expression.
"Oh, I'm sorry," came a soft voice from the door.
Ginny looked up to see Neville Longbottom, his face made coppery by the sun, grown rather bulky as a man, though the gentleness in his eyes matched that in his voice.
"Not at all," Ginny retorted, exaggerating her Bulgarian accent and faking annoyance.
She pinched her lips haughtily, then walked out of the room without a second look for Neville. He gazed at her, perplexed but unabashed. Ginny smiled inwardly. She was happy to see he had been doing well.
(1) French, Mexican, and Japanese candy. I'm not sure about the authenticity of the Mexican and Japanese ones, but that was the best I could find on Internet, being no globe-trotter myself.
-->